grace!

19

[danysdaughter]

✰ The Perfect Nanny

pairing | married!bucky x ghost!reader

word count | 17.8k words

summary | the house was supposed to be a fresh start for him and sharon. then you arrived, all soft smiles and gentle hands… too good to be true.

tags | 18+ (MDNI), EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, unprotected sex, rough sex, fingering, piv, married!bucky barnes, haunted house, ahs: murder house–inspired, cheating, DUB/CON, erotic thriller, infidelity, corruption kink, voyeurism, exhibitionism, masturbation, lesbian sex, scissoring, oral sex (f&m!receiving), nat eats pussy like a champ, ghost!natasha romanoff, ghost sex, natasha x reader, supernatural manipulation, mindfuck, guilt & shame, soft domination, power play, manipulative behavior, innocent act / devil core, corrupting a married man, praise kink, degradation kink (light), begging, breeding kink (implied), creampie, aftercare (manipulative), ghosts can touch you here, mentions of death, haunting as seduction, obsessive love, manipulative reader, slow burn to madness, murder fantasy

a/n | what if you were just a normal man. trying to fix your marriage. and your house is haunted. and the ghost is hot. and she wants you. and your wife doesn’t. and now you're hallucinating lesbian sex and creaming your pants. hypothetically.

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴋɪɴᴋᴛᴏʙᴇʀ ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cursed-carmine

You’d been watching them from the moment they stepped inside.

Leaning against the upstairs railing, chin balanced in your palm, you had a perfect view of the foyer from above—the dark wood banister framing you like a picture. You didn’t bother hiding. People never looked up when they moved into new places. They were too distracted by open floor plans and fireplace mantels to notice the house looking back.

They were a good-looking couple. You could admit that.

He—Bucky? James? You weren’t quite sure which was correct—was the one you couldn’t take your eyes off. The kind of beautiful that didn’t come from effort. Big and broad, hands hanging heavy at his sides like he didn’t quite know what to do with them unless he was working. He moved like someone used to fixing things. Rough around the edges in a way that made your chest tighten.

You noticed the little things first. The faint line between his eyebrows when he looked around, like he didn’t trust the silence. The way he kept glancing at the stairs, like he already felt you.

His wife called him Bucky when she was telling him where to put things.

James, when she was annoyed.

The wife’s name was Sharon.. He called her ‘Shar.’ She was pretty. Blonde, neat, not a hair out of place. But she had that look some women get when they think their prettiness is a punishment—like being admired has always been a nuisance, and she’s never quite forgiven the world for it. You watched her for less than three minutes before you felt your mouth pull into a grimace.

She was cold. The kind of cold that didn’t show up in arguments, but in absence. In how she kept her eyes on her phone while he carried in their things. In how she barely responded when he asked if she wanted water. How she picked at her nails when he complimented the space like he was trying to make her smile.

She didn’t. Not once.

You wondered when she stopped noticing him. And more importantly, how long it would take before he noticed you.

Then came the sound. A faint wail, sharp and high.

Bucky’s—James’—head snapped toward the door instantly.

His wife didn’t move.

He was already halfway down the steps when the back of his shoe caught on the tile. Still carrying boxes. You stepped back into the shadows before he passed, but not in a rush. He didn’t look up.

You heard the front door creak open. Then his footsteps pounding down the porch. Then the soft hush of a baby’s cry being soothed outside.

You stayed upstairs just listening.

The front door opened again. Then came the soft shuffle of footsteps returning inside—he was carrying her now.

Your eyes lit up at the sight. A baby girl.

Tiny and warm in his arms, face scrunched from crying, little fists curled against his chest. She had his eyes, you were pretty sure, though it was hard to tell from up here. He bounced her gently as he walked, one hand cupping the back of her head, the other rubbing her back.

“There we go,” he murmured. “See? Told you it was nice, huh? Big ol’ house. Lemme show you around.”

He held her like she was something delicate, like he was afraid he’d get it wrong. As he walked past the entryway and into the living room, he kept talking to her in that soft, low voice. Pointing things out.

“That’s the kitchen. Where Mama’ll burn toast.”

You smiled.

“And that’s the fireplace. Don’t touch it, though. Dangerous stuff, fire.”

He moved like he was giving her a tour she’d remember. As if she could understand a single word. You liked that. A lot. There was something about it—about a big man talking gently to a baby girl—that felt so good you had to grip the railing a little tighter just to ground yourself.

Then Sharon’s voice cut through it. Flat. Dry. From the far side of the room.

“She doesn’t know what you’re saying, Bucky.”

Just like that, the mood shifted.

He paused mid-sentence. Didn’t say anything. Just kissed the baby’s head once, and turned toward the stairs.

You pulled back into the shadows again, smiling to yourself.

You weren’t worried. That baby girl already had more warmth in her short life from him than Sharon probably ever allowed herself to feel.

And you? You were starting to want them both.

Days passed quietly.

They brought in boxes. Furniture. Settled into routines.

And you watched. From the hallway. From the corners. From the attic vent with the slats just wide enough to see through. You had time, after all. Time and patience.

You learned his name first. James Buchanan Barnes. But he went by Bucky.

You liked James better. It suited him. Solid. Gentle. The kind of name you could sigh into a pillow, soft and warm. But Bucky was what people called him when they liked him. His coworkers. The guy on the phone asking about estimates.

Contractor. That’s what he did. Worked with his hands. Built things. Fixed things. Came home smelling like wood shavings and sweat.

Most days, he looked tired. Not unhappy, not really—just… hollowed out. Like someone had taken everything warm and soft in him and set it aside for later.

His wife barely spoke to him when he came in. Sometimes she was on her laptop. Other times she was on the phone, walking barefoot through the house like it didn’t creak under her. Like the place hadn’t already decided it didn’t like her.

You tilted your head, studying them from the bannister as he came in one evening, pulling off his flannel. She didn’t look up. He said, “Hey.” She didn’t answer.

It made you wonder. Why this house?

Surely they’d heard the stories. The real estate agent must’ve mentioned something. Even if only in hushed tones or vague disclosures. The internet was full of it. The neighbors talked.

The deaths. The disappearances. The things that happened in the walls. From the day it was built in 1922, this house had been hungry.

People didn’t just die here. They clawed. They screamed. They bled through the floors.

You would know. And yet, this family walked in like it was any other house on the block. Like the walls didn’t whisper. Like the attic didn’t have teeth.

Oblivious. Or maybe just desperate.

You smiled, teeth tucked behind your lip as you watched Bucky kneel to unlace his work boots. His shirt stuck to his back with sweat. One hand rubbed the back of his neck like it hurt.

You wondered what his skin tasted like when it was warm like that. You were still watching him, his broad back bent over the boots, the roll of his shoulders under flannel, when she appeared beside you.

No sound. No warning. Just a whisper of red silk and cigarette smoke.

“Thought you didn’t do married men.”

You didn’t look at her. Just let your cheek rest against the bannister, lips pulling into a slow smile.

“She doesn’t want him,” you said softly. “So why can't I?”

Nat huffed, leaning against the opposite railing like she was bored at a party. Her eyes flicked down toward the living room, where Bucky was now scooping up the baby again—cooing under his breath, kissing her temple like she was something made of sugar.

“You’re gonna eat that poor man alive.”

You smiled a little wider, “Maybe he wants to be eaten.”

She let out a low laugh. It scraped the edges—mocking, but not unkind. “You always were good at pretending you’re innocent.”

“I’m not pretending,” you murmured.

Nat rolled her eyes, pushing off the railing. Her red nails tapped lightly against the wall as she walked past you, slow and unhurried. She paused at the top step, glancing back.

“When his wife finds your panties under his pillow, don’t come crying to me.”

“I won’t,” you said sweetly. “She’ll just think they’re hers.”

Nat disappeared with a smirk, heels clicking once before silence swallowed her whole. Downstairs, Bucky was laughing at something the baby did. Soft and low and tired.

You stayed where you were. Thinking about how nice it would feel to cup his face between your hands. To slide into his lap. To be the reason he laughed like that.

It was the crying that did it.

High-pitched. Gasping. That helpless baby wail that came in sharp bursts, like her lungs couldn’t quite keep up with how upset she was.

It echoed through the house, cutting through every wall.

You waited... Listened... Waited some more.

No one came.

Downstairs, Sharon was on the phone. You could hear her through the vents.

“No, you’re supposed to let them cry it out. Self-soothing. That’s what the book said. If you pick them up every time they scream, you’ll just train them to be needy—”

You didn’t listen to the rest. Just turned toward the nursery and started walking.

The crying got louder as you reached the hallway. You knew the rhythm of it now—the breathless hiccups, the desperation in it. She was terrified. You could feel it.

The door was cracked open. And then you saw her.

Small figure. Dark curls. A pillow in her hands. Inching toward the crib.

Your steps didn’t falter, but your voice dropped smooth and slow.

“Morgan,” you said gently, “what are you doing?”

She turned to you like she’d been caught sneaking sweets—wide brown eyes, little hands wrapped tight around the pillow’s edge. Her white dress swayed slightly as she shifted, bare feet making no sound on the hardwood.

“I just wanted her to stop crying,” she said.

Your head tilted. You kept your voice light, even smiled a little. “That’s not how we do that.”

You walked over, plucked the pillow from her grip. She let go without fuss, eyes still big and blinking.

“Then how?” she asked.

You didn’t answer her. Just rolled your eyes, stepping past her toward the crib.

Becca’s face was red, tiny fists thrashing in the air. The moment you leaned in and scooped her up, the crying quieted to soft, broken hiccups.

“Hi, pretty girl,” you whispered. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

You rubbed her back, swaying gently, cooing softly into her hair. Becca quieted quickly in your arms.

You held her close, pressing your cheek to her soft hair as you paced slowly by the window. Her tiny hands still trembled, and every few seconds she let out a shuddery breath, but the worst of it had passed.

“There we go,” you whispered. “That’s better, isn’t it? Just needed someone to hold you, huh?”

She didn’t answer, obviously, but the little way her fingers curled into your blouse made your chest ache. Poor thing. Left to cry herself hoarse in a room full of strangers and ghosts.

You swayed with her a moment longer, then glanced back toward the doorway.

Morgan was still there, arms crossed, lip stuck out in a pout.

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” she said.

“Neither are you.”

She ignored that, “You were gone all morning. I was bored.”

“Then find someone else to play with.”

Morgan narrowed her eyes at you. “I wanted to play with you.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

“You said you’d play dolls with me yesterday.”

“And you tried to smother a baby today,” you said lightly. “So now we’re not on speaking terms.”

Her mouth dropped open in childish offense, “I was only helping.”

You didn’t bother arguing. Becca stirred in your arms, letting out a soft coo, and you shifted her slightly, letting her rest her cheek against your collarbone. Your voice stayed soft.

“Go find one of the others. Maybe Natasha will let you braid her hair.”

Morgan scowled. “She said no last time.”

“Then try harder.”

She stomped one bare foot on the nursery rug, crossing her arms even tighter.

“You’re supposed to be a nanny,” she snapped. “You’re not very good at it.”

You raised your eyebrows at her.

“I’m a nanny for babies. Not spoiled dead five-year-old girls who throw tantrums and try to kill babies.”

Morgan’s glare deepened. She opened her mouth to say something else, then thought better of it. After a beat, she huffed and turned toward the hall, “I’m telling my mommy.”

“Go ahead,” you said, smiling sweetly. “I’ll tell her what you tried to do too.”

She vanished down the hall with an angry little stomp.

You looked down at Becca again, brushing a thumb along her soft cheek. “Don’t worry,” you murmured. “I’m not gonna let anyone hurt you. You’re mine now.”

You caught the raised voices first. Muffled, clipped.

You followed them down the hall and found Peter already crouched behind the staircase wall—eyes wide, grinning.

“You’re gonna get caught,” you whispered.

He didn’t even look at you. Just waved you closer like it was a sold-out show.

“They’re really going at it,” he whispered back. “She didn’t tell him.”

“Tell him what?”

“She got a job.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Isn’t that good?”

Peter glanced at you like you were new, “Not if you don’t tell your husband.”

You both peeked around the corner at the kitchen. Bucky stood near the fridge, hands braced on the counter, jaw clenched. Sharon stood across from him, arms folded tight, expression unmoving.

“You weren’t even gonna mention it?” Bucky asked, voice low, like he was trying not to yell.

“You would’ve made it a thing,” Sharon said, flat. “You always do.”

“It is a thing. You’re going back to work and didn’t think I should know?”

“I’ve been not working for a year,” she snapped. “Since Becca was born. Since my whole goddamn life got put on pause. Just because I’m a mother now doesn’t mean I stop being a person.”

Bucky didn’t move. His hands just tightened against the countertop.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He dragged a hand through his hair, stepping back from the counter like it had burned him.

“Then who’s gonna take care of her, Sharon? I’m on site all day. You’re—what—back in court now? Gone twelve hours a day?”

“We’ll get a nanny,” she said.

And just like that, your stomach turned.

You blinked, once. Nanny. Another woman. Another stranger. Hands on your baby.

“There’s plenty of agencies,” Sharon added. “It’s not hard.”

“You don’t even like people,” Bucky shot back. “You’re gonna leave our daughter with a stranger?”

“Better than being raised by two miserable parents who can’t stand to look at each other.”

That one landed like a slap.

Bucky didn’t respond. Just turned and opened the fridge like the conversation was over, even though it wasn’t. Sharon scoffed and walked off, heels clicking as she moved toward the stairs.

Peter leaned back on his heels, wide-eyed.

“Wow.”

You were still staring into the kitchen. A nanny. They were going to bring someone else in.

You didn’t want that. You wouldn’t let that.

Her name was Jean.

Jean Grey. Vibrant red hair and wide green eyes, the kind of girl who smiled with her whole face and didn’t seem to notice when people talked down to her. She smelled like peonies and dish soap.

You hated her.

Not because she was mean. Or cruel. Or even bad with Becca. No, that was the problem. She was perfect.

She cooed at the baby like she meant it, swayed with her in the living room while Sharon typed away in the dining room. She even brought her own toys—wooden, handmade, "developmentally enriching."

Bucky seemed grateful. Sharon seemed smug.

And you…you could only watch.

From the hallway. The banister. The mirror over the mantel where your reflection didn’t quite show.

“She’s sweet,” Peter had whispered to you one morning as Jean settled Becca down for a nap.

“That’s what makes it worse,” you murmured.

You didn’t like how she spoke to Bucky, either. Too casual. Too friendly. Not flirting—not really. But she had that soft voice. The kind that made men lean in.

And Bucky… well. He didn’t lean. But he listened. Nodded. Gave her that tired little smile, the one that meant thank you and I don’t know what I’m doing but I’m trying.

That was your smile. He was supposed to give you that.

You’d spent the whole week with your arms crossed, hidden behind walls and light fixtures and attic beams. Watching. Listening. Waiting.

By Thursday, you’d had enough.

You were sitting cross-legged in the upstairs hallway when Nat appeared beside you, filing her nails with a bone-handled emery board.

“You look like you’ve been killed again,” she said.

“She doesn’t belong here.”

“She’s a nanny,” Nat shrugged. “A living one. This is literally her job.”

“She touches Becca like she owns her.”

“You sound insane.”

“She touched his shoulder.”

“…so murder, then?”

You didn’t answer. Just stood and brushed invisible dust off your dress. Nat snorted behind you.

“You’re so dramatic.”

You were already halfway down the hall. The idea came to you the same way everything else did in this house—slow, sweet, inevitable.

You needed to stay close to Bucky. You needed to protect Rebecca. And you couldn’t do that with strangers coming and going, smiling too brightly, leaving their scent behind.

So first, you’d get rid of the current one. And then make sure there’d be no others.

Which only meant one thing really. And this is how you found yourself climbing the attic stairs.

The air grew colder the higher you went. Not just temperature, but presence. The house got heavier up here. Thicker. Books lined the walls—some dusty and broken-spined, others fresh as if bought yesterday. Candles flickered on their own. The windows never opened. No matter how hard you tried.

He was already waiting. Of course he was.

Loki sat in an old wingback chair near the back window, bathed in the sickly light that filtered through the stained glass. One leg crossed over the other. Shirt half-unbuttoned. Rings glinting at his fingers.

He looked like a bored prince in exile.

“Well, well,” he drawled as you approached. “Come to scratch that itch again, darling?”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Still, you slid into his lap like you’d done it a hundred times before. Because you had. His hands came to your hips automatically. Possessive. Greedy.

“You only sit here when you want something,” he murmured, voice low against your throat.

“I always want something.”

He laughed, soft and dangerous. “Tell me.”

You leaned in, arms draped lazily around his neck, lips brushing his ear, “There’s a girl downstairs.”

“There are many girls downstairs.”

“This one thinks she belongs here. With the husband. With my baby.”

He hummed thoughtfully, fingers tracing idle circles along your thighs. “You’re jealous.”

“No,” you said sweetly. “I’m just possessive.”

His grin widened. “You want me to scare her?”

You tilted your head, giving him a soft look. “I want her gone. I want all of them gone. Before they even think of showing up.”

“And what do I get in return?”

You sighed, letting your head drop against his shoulder in annoyance, “God, you’re exhausting.”

“And yet,” he murmured, “here you are. On my lap. Coming to me for favors.”

“What do you want?”

He leaned in, lips grazing your cheek. His breath was cool and slow.

“Just a kiss.”

You blinked. “That’s it?”

“For now.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt, “Fine.”

You sat up straighter and leaned in, intending to give him the barest brush of lips—something bored and lazy and over with in a second. But before you could pull away, his hand slid into your hair—fingers curling tight at the nape of your neck—and yanked you in deep.

His mouth crushed against yours, open and greedy, tongue sliding past your lips with practiced ease. He kissed like he wanted to own something, like he was taking back payment owed. He groaned softly into your mouth, low and pleased, like he’d waited all week for this.

You shoved against his chest. Hard.

He let go with a laugh, tongue flicking across his bottom lip like he wanted to savor what was left of you.

You wiped your mouth on your sleeve. “Asshole.”

“You’re welcome.”

You stood, straightened your dress, and glared at him, while Loki lounged in the chair like a man who’d just won something.

“Your wish,” he said with a smile sharp enough to draw blood, “is my command, my darling.”

Jean didn’t last a month.

By the third week, she was sobbing on the porch at two in the morning, suitcase in one hand, cross necklace clenched in the other.

Said she heard whispering in the walls. Said something grabbed her ankle when she was walking to the nursery. Said there were scratches on her mirror that weren’t there when she went to bed.

Sharon told her she was being dramatic. Bucky offered to call her a cab.

You watched from the upstairs landing, chin resting on the banister, a slow little smile curling at your lips.

Loki appeared beside you a second later, smug as hell, as if waiting for praise.

“Whispers and shadows?” you murmured.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said, still watching the scene below. “You should’ve heard her scream.”

Emma came next. Tall, polished, platinum blonde. Said she specialized in newborns. Wore pearls around the baby and refused to eat gluten. You hated her on sight too.

She didn’t even make it two weeks.

Something spooked her so bad after the first week, she locked herself in the guest bathroom and refused to come out until sunrise.

Said the baby monitor crackled with voices. Said she saw red eyes staring at her from the mirror. Said she woke up with bruises on her thighs she couldn’t explain.

She was gone before breakfast.

Then came Raven. Quiet. Kind. Sweet to the baby.

And still? Gone after four days.

Anna Marie lasted just two. Barely.

By the end of it, Bucky and Sharon were stunned. Confused. Exhausted.

Bucky stood in the nursery with Becca in his arms, rocking her gently while Sharon paced the hallway, phone to her ear, trying—again—to get a nanny agency to send someone who wouldn’t leave screaming in the middle of the night.

“That’s the third one, James.”

“Fourth,” he corrected, gently rubbing the baby’s back.

“What the hell is wrong with this house?”

“Nothing,” he said, but he didn’t sound sure.

She turned to him, exasperated.

“We can’t keep doing this. I have to go back to work, and you can’t just drag her to job sites.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just kept rocking the baby, frowning down at her little face.

“It’s like they’re scared of her,” Sharon muttered.

“It’s not her,” Bucky said quietly. “It’s this place.”

Sharon scoffed. “What, you think the house is haunted?”

He didn’t respond.

You watched from the corner of the nursery, unseen, hands folded neatly in front of you.

They were unraveling. Right on schedule.

You waited until the morning sun cut soft through the trees—when the house was half-awake, when Sharon was still distracted with emails and the baby was just starting to fuss.

You picked a pink dress because it made you look sweet. Fresh. The kind of girl who wore lotion that smelled like strawberries and always used please and thank you. You wore your natural hair loose. You dabbed perfume behind your ears—rose and vanilla—and made sure your shoes made a little sound on the porch steps, as you appeared at the front door.

Then you knocked. Twice. Firm, but friendly.

The door opened a moment later. And there he was.

Close up, Bucky was even more handsome. Older, yes, tired around the eyes, jaw scruffed and thick, but beautiful in a way that made your chest ache.

He looked like someone who was trying. A man who used his body every day. A man who didn’t get told he was wanted anymore.

You tilted your head and smiled. Soft and warm.

“Hi,” you said, voice light. “I heard you’re looking for a nanny?”

He blinked. Just for a second.

Eyes dragged over you—your face, your dress, your hands gently clasped in front of you. And then he found himself.

“Uh—yeah. Yeah, we are.” He shifted, opened the door wider. “Come in.”

You stepped inside, letting the scent of your perfume trail behind you.

“I live just a few streets over,” you introduced yourself as he closed the door behind you. “Figured I’d drop off my resume in person. I’ve done a lot of nannying, but I’ve always preferred live-in jobs. It’s easier when the baby’s still so little.”

He nodded, visibly grateful. He looked like a man who’d been wading through a minefield for weeks and had just stumbled on dry land.

“Do you—uh—have your resume?”

“Of course.” You handed him the folded paper.

He took it, glancing it over.

You’d handwritten it, of course. Neat cursive. All made up. But it looked real. And it sounded even better. References that couldn’t be called. Agencies that didn’t exist. Dates that never happened.

But he didn’t know that. He just saw someone who might finally help.

“This is… this looks great,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “You, uh—you want to meet my wife?”

“I’d love to.”

You smiled again—perfectly pleasant—and followed him into the house.

The floor creaked beneath your feet. The walls seemed to breathe a little deeper.

And upstairs, Loki grinned to himself like a cat who’d just watched a trap snap shut.

They sat you down at the kitchen table, sunlight slanting through the windows like butter across the wood.

Sharon was already in business mode. Crisp blouse, hair pinned neatly at the nape of her neck. Her makeup was flawless—like it had been applied by someone angry. She held your resume in one hand, a coffee cup in the other.

Bucky sat beside her. Less polished. Elbows on the table. Watching you with polite curiosity—and something else he probably didn’t realize was there yet.

You folded your hands in your lap and smiled sweetly.

“So,” Sharon said, skimming the page. “You’ve worked with infants before?”

“Yes, ma’am. A few times.” You nodded softly. “Every family’s a little different, but the first year’s always the most delicate.”

Sharon tilted her head, intrigued.

“What made you want to do live-in care again?”

“I like the stability of it,” you said, tone gentle. “It’s easier to form a real bond with the baby when I’m not coming and going. I’ve always felt like that’s important. For them to know I’m there.”

Bucky glanced at Sharon. Just briefly. That had hit something.

“And your last family?” Sharon asked. “Why did that end?”

You smiled again. A little tighter this time. The kind of smile that said there’s a story here, but I’m too polite to tell it.

“It just didn’t work out,” you said softly. “Things got… complicated. And they decided to move.”

You didn’t say, ‘The wife thought I was sleeping with her husband. She waited until he left the house. She had shaky hands, but good aim.’

You didn’t say, ‘The last thing I heard was the baby crying from his highchair. The last thing I felt was tile against the back of my skull.’

And you didn’t say, ‘My bones are buried in the backyard under the gazebo.’

You just smiled. Blinked slow. Kept your voice warm, “I still think about the little one sometimes. He was sweet.”

Sharon nodded, satisfied.

Bucky, meanwhile, was still looking at you. There was a quiet softness in his eyes now. Something not quite affection. Not quite interest. But it was building.

“Well,” Sharon said, glancing at him. “I don’t see any red flags.”

“Me neither,” he said quietly.

You folded your hands neatly on the table and gave them both your best, most grateful smile.

“If you give me the chance, I promise—I’ll take good care of her.”

And just like that, it was done.

It didn’t take long for him to start looking for you.

Little things, at first. You’d be humming in the nursery and he’d stop just outside the door, listening like he didn’t mean to. You’d be folding laundry and he’d lean in the doorway for no real reason, asking questions he already knew the answers to—just to hear your voice. Just to have you talk to him like you saw him.

Not the way Sharon did. Not with exhaustion. Or obligation. Or nothing at all. No—you looked at him like you wanted to be here. Like he was someone worth noticing.

You were always kind to him. Gently teasing sometimes, sure—but always soft. Always careful. You said thank you when he fixed the leaky sink. You smiled when he walked into the room. You greeted him at the end of the day like it meant something that he came home.

And he started smiling back. Started lingering. Started softening.

Even the baby seemed happier. She giggled when he walked in the room—chubby arms lifted for him to hold her. He didn’t say it, but you could see it in his face: he liked that. Liked that she didn’t fuss when he picked her up. Liked that you were always nearby, watching him like he was doing something right.

You were patient. Patient—but starving. You waited until the house was quiet at night, then drifted through the halls like a shadow with purpose.

Sometimes you watched him in the shower.

Just for a few seconds. Maybe more. Always from the corner, always just barely there. The mirror would fog and the water would thunder and he wouldn’t even know you were watching.

But you did.

His body was—God.

All scars and strength. His back was broad, muscle stacked thick and wide beneath wet skin. You watched the soap trace down his spine, down to the slope of his ass. Watched the way his hands worked over his chest, up to his hair. His cock hung heavy, half-hard from the heat, water sliding down it like a promise.

You watched him breathe. You watched him groan.

You imagined slipping in behind him, pressing your lips to the base of his neck. Sliding your hands down his hips. Whimpering into his ear like a thing in heat.

Soon, you thought. Soon.

Sometimes you watched them, too.

Not often. But when it happened, you didn’t look away.

You'd be passing by—drifting quiet down the hallway in the middle of the night—and you’d hear it: the creak of the bed, the faint sigh of sheets moving, the low, rhythmic grunt of Bucky's breath.

You shouldn’t have stopped. Shouldn’t have stayed. But you did.

You stood just outside their doorway, eyes fixed on the half-open crack, and let yourself see.

And what you saw—

It wasn’t even the sex that held you there. It was her.

Sharon, lying stiff on her back, like a woman enduring something. Her hands didn’t move. Her head turned slightly to the side, face angled toward the dark. Her lips parted only once, when Bucky pressed his mouth to her throat. She didn’t kiss him back.

She never kissed him back. And Bucky… he tried. God, he tried.

You watched his hands press into the mattress, shoulders trembling slightly as he moved over her, inside her. He groaned her name once. Tried to nuzzle her jaw. Tried to look her in the eye.

She didn’t meet his gaze.

You couldn’t understand it. How someone so warm could be left so cold.

You watched the muscles in his back flex, scarred hips rolling steady, slow, as he worked himself deeper into a woman who barely made a sound.

Your fingers curled against the wall. Your heart ached with something sick and sticky.

How—

How did she not melt under him? How did she not cling to him, bite his neck, beg him to stay inside?

Didn’t she feel the weight of him? The size of him? The way his hands looked, gripping the sheets like he was trying to hold on to a version of himself that still believed she wanted him?

You would’ve cried. You would’ve screamed. You would’ve clawed your nails down his back and begged him to break you open.

But Sharon just blinked at the ceiling. And when it was over, she turned away from him without a word.

Bucky stared at the ceiling for a long time after that. Long enough for the room to cool. Long enough for his heart to slow. Long enough for you to burn.

You turned from the door and drifted back down the hall, biting your lip, your pulse thrumming hot between your legs.

You were going to ruin him. You were going to make him feel what it was like to be wanted.

Really, truly wanted. Until it made him sick. Until it made him yours.

You made sure to start off small.

A brush of fingers when you passed him a plate. The pads of your fingertips grazing his palm just a little longer than necessary. Always paired with a smile. Always soft. Always innocent.

You never apologized for touching him. Never recoiled like you should’ve. Never treated it like an accident.

And he didn’t flinch either—not at first. Not when you touched his arm to get his attention. Not when you stood a little too close while asking how to work something. Not when your hand steadied on his chest one afternoon as you reached behind him for a glass.

“You’re warm,” you’d said casually, your palm pressed to his heart, “Big guy like you—bet you run hot all the time.”

He’d laughed—awkward, scratchy in the throat, “Guess so. Can be a pain in the ass sometimes.”

You didn’t move right away. Just looked up at him with that soft little smile of yours, “I don’t mind.”

Then you grabbed the glass and turned away like nothing happened.

He didn’t speak after that. Not for a full minute.

The next day, you found him fixing the light above the kitchen sink—arms flexed, white shirt pulled tight across his chest. You stood behind him, rocking Becca gently in your arms.

“You’re so good with your hands,” you said, soft as a breath.

He paused mid-turn of the screwdriver. Looked over his shoulder.

You smiled, like you didn’t even realize what you’d said.

“I meant the light,” you added lightly. “You’re always fixing things. You must be really good at building stuff.”

His jaw clenched a little when he nodded.

You hummed and bounced the baby a bit, “Must be nice. Being able to make things work with your hands.”

He wouldn’t look at you for the rest of the day. Which only made you smile wider.

You knew he was watching before you bent down. You could feel it—that low heat crawling over your skin. That heavy silence, like someone holding their breath.

It was late. The house was quiet. Sharon had taken the car to work. Becca was already asleep. You were downstairs in the laundry room, humming to yourself, folding towels in that little sheer nighty you’d "forgotten" to change out of.

It clung to you in the dim light. The blue one. Soft lace at the hem, loose straps sliding down your shoulders. It barely skimmed the bottom of your thighs when you stood straight. And when you bent down…

You did it slow. Deliberate.

Like you were tired. Like it was just a chore. Like you hadn’t carefully chosen this moment, this outfit, this exact angle.

You reached for a dropped sock—and let your hips tilt just right. Let the nightgown lift. Let the cool air hit your bare skin.

No panties. Not even a thong. Just soft, warm, slick flesh on full display.

And still, you didn’t turn around.

You let the moment stretch. Pretended not to notice. Your head tilted slightly, like you were focused on the laundry basket, like you hadn’t heard that sharp exhale behind you. Like you hadn’t felt him freeze behind the doorframe.

He didn’t move. Didn’t clear his throat. Didn’t make any excuse to leave. He just stood there—still as a man struck dumb.

You reached for another towel, still bent low, and let your thighs part just an inch more. Just enough to glisten. Just enough to catch the light.

But you didn’t straighten.

You let him look. Let him take it. Let the guilt start to fester under his skin. Let the shame build into something wet and sticky and so much worse.

Then, finally—finally—you stood.

Smoothed the hem down over your ass, turned toward the door with a lazy yawn. But by then, of course, he was gone. Too fast to be casual. Too slow to be innocent.

And that night, when you heard the water running in the upstairs bathroom—and the sound of his hand slapping hard against skin—you smiled into your pillow and touched yourself to the rhythm of it.

Tonight you left the door ajar on purpose.

Just a little. Just enough to make it look accidental. The crack wide enough to frame the corner of the mirror. The mirror angled just enough to reflect the bed.

You were laid out like sin incarnate.

Shirt shoved up around your ribs, breasts bare to the warm night air. One hand pinching lazily at your nipple, the other buried between your thighs—fingers gliding slow and sticky, soaked with how long you’d been playing.

You moved like you weren’t in a rush. Like you weren’t even trying to cum.

No, this wasn’t for you. This was a performance. And your audience had just arrived.

You heard him before you saw him. Heavy footfalls down the hall—then pause. Silence.

Your mirror showed you everything. Bucky. Standing outside your room. Just barely in view. Just far enough to pretend he didn’t know better.

He wasn’t moving. But his hand was.

Pressed flat against the front of his pants, fingers curling tight, grinding down on the bulge there like he couldn’t not. Like he couldn’t breathe unless he touched himself.

You moaned. Quiet, but not too quiet. You made sure he saw the way your hips rolled against your hand. Made sure he saw the way your slick coated your knuckles. The way your fingers pumped slow, sloppy, obscene.

You let your head fall back, eyes fluttering shut, “Oh, Bucky…”

It wasn’t loud. But it was clear. The sharp jerk of his shoulders said he heard it.

You peeked through your lashes, heart fluttering at the sight—his hand moving faster now, more urgent, as if his body betrayed him. As if he hated himself for it even while he groaned quietly through clenched teeth.

You smiled. Tilted your hips and let your fingers go even deeper. Let him know exactly how wet you got just thinking about him. And when you came—slow and quiet, back arching just enough to lift off the mattress—you made sure your eyes were on him.

You watched him cum too, just seconds later. Still clothed, still standing in the hall. Gasping like he’d just been stabbed. Shame twisting across his face as he stumbled back into the shadows, breath heavy, laces still undone.

You lay there, breathing slow. Smiling.

After that, he couldn’t even look you in the eye anymore. Not for more than a second or two.

He’d flinch, glance away—pretend he forgot what he was about to say. Pretend he was tired, distracted, sore from work. You’d catch him hovering in the doorway to the kitchen like he’d forgotten why he came in. Or answering you with clipped words, mumbling into his coffee cup like it could hide his mouth.

And you just smiled. You played your part like it was nothing.

Sweet. Gentle. Helpful. That soft, low voice you used whenever you asked him if he wanted more eggs, more sugar in his coffee. That same smile you gave him when Becca squealed in your arms and he lit up like it was the first real joy he’d felt in months.

You, so soft. So clean. You, with your dresses and your pretty hair. You, who couldn’t possibly know the things he’d seen.

What he’d done.

How his hand had been sticky when he went to bed. How your voice echoed in his head like a curse. How shame burned in his chest every time you touched his shoulder or brushed past him in the hallway and he hoped it would happen again.

You didn’t say anything.

Not about the way he fumbled with the newspaper when you came into the room. Not about the way he dropped a plate when your fingers grazed his. Not about the way his jaw clenched when you leaned too close with Becca on your hip, your breath warm on his cheek as you laughed at something small and stupid.

You let him suffer. Sweetly. Silently.

And every time he mumbled your name or avoided your gaze, you bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

Because he thought you didn’t know. He thought you were just a sweet, oblivious girl. He thought he was the sinner, and you were the angel he was ruining.

It was almost adorable.

If only he knew how long you’d been watching him. How many times you’d imagined his hands around your throat. How many times you came to the thought of him begging you to stop—and you whispering, “But I don’t want to stop, Mr. Barnes.”

Now, he couldn’t even sit next to you without shifting in his seat. Couldn’t hear your name without tightening his fists. Couldn’t sleep without dreaming of you, waking up soaked and aching and disgusted with himself.

And all you ever gave him… was that soft smile. “Good morning, Mr. Barnes. Did you sleep well?”

Like you didn’t know he hadn’t. Like you didn’t know exactly why.

He came home looking like the day had tried to wring him out.

Boots heavy on the tile. Shoulders stiff beneath the fabric of his shirt, soaked through at the collar. The front door shut too hard, not quite a slam but just enough to make you pause. Your hand stilled on Becca’s blanket as you tucked her in.

You gave it a minute. Then padded down the hall.

The kitchen lights were dimmed to warm gold. Bucky was sitting at the island, elbows on the counter, face in his hands. He wasn’t doing anything. Just being. That sort of heavy silence that clung to people who’d been carrying too much all day and had no idea how to put it down.

You stepped in, voice soft. “Rough day?”

He exhaled through his nose, sat up a little. His eyes found you—but only for a second, “Yeah. Little bit.” His voice was lower than usual. Scratchy, like he hadn’t spoken in hours.

You moved easily around the kitchen. The kettle on. Mug pulled from the cupboard. You didn’t ask what kind of tea he wanted—you already knew. Honey chamomile. One sugar. No lemon.

“Becca’s down,” you said gently, glancing over your shoulder. “Didn’t even fuss tonight.”

He gave a tired smile. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s good.”

You walked over, setting the mug in front of him, the ceramic warm between his fingers. Your hand brushed his—accidentally. Not really.

He didn’t move.

“Mrs. Barnes not back yet?”

He shook his head. “Work thing.”

There was no emotion behind it. Not anger, not resentment. Just resignation. The quiet kind.

You leaned against the other side of the island, arms resting atop the granite, body close enough to feel the warmth of him radiating in the stillness between you.

“You always come home looking like this when she’s not here,” you said softly.

His brows ticked upward. “Like what?”

You tilted your head, eyes tracing the lines of strain on his face. “Like the world’s sitting on your back. And no one’s ever offered to help carry it.”

He didn’t answer. Just stared into his tea like it held something deeper. A pause stretched between you—comfortable for you, unbearable for him.

You smiled gently. Then pushed the mug a little closer to his hands. “Drink. You look like you need it.”

His fingers wrapped around the mug. Rough, calloused. Hands that built things. Repaired things. Worked themselves to the bone.

He looked up at you again, slower this time. And for a moment—just a second—there was something vulnerable in his eyes. Something tired. Something that made your pulse flutter with heat.

You gave him a small smile, “You work too hard, Mr. Barnes.”

He let out a quiet breath. Almost a laugh. And shook his head. “You don’t always have to call me that.”

“Why not? It suits you.”

Your voice was just on the edge of teasing. Just enough to make him shift in his seat. Not uncomfortable—just… aware.

You could feel it happening. The gentle unraveling.

The way his shoulders lowered. The way his eyes lingered just a bit longer on yours. The way his hand didn’t move when yours brushed his again as you reached to take the sugar spoon.

You didn’t need him to kiss you. Not yet.

You just needed him to need this. This moment. This feeling. You.

You watched the way his shoulders moved when he exhaled—one slow rise, one slower drop. The tea was almost gone now. His calloused fingers tapped idly against the ceramic, like he couldn’t quite unwind no matter how hard he tried.

“You’ve got tension in your neck,” you said gently, rounding the island as you dried your hands on a tea towel. “Can see it from here.”

He huffed a small laugh—just air and exhaustion, “Yeah, well. Comes with the job.”

You gave a tilt of your head, stopping behind him, “Contracting?”

“No,” he murmured. “Being married.”

That made you smile. He didn’t see it. So you moved closer, voice light, teasing—like it was nothing.

“Y’know… you’re not the only one around here who’s good with their hands.”

He turned a little, glancing back at you. You could see the way his brows lifted slightly—half amused, half confused.

“You offering me a massage now?”

“Mhm.” You stepped behind his chair, the towel now slung casually over your shoulder. “What kind of nanny would I be if I didn’t take care of everyone in the house?”

He let out a breath, shaking his head. “That’s—nah, that’s alright. You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to.”

Your hands brushed lightly over the back of the chair, fingers ghosting the fabric just inches from his shoulders. “Come on, Mr. Barnes. Let me help.”

He hesitated. You could feel it in the pause. Hear it in the slight clink of the spoon against his mug as he placed it down carefully on the counter.

“You sure?”

“Course I’m sure,” you said softly. “Now lean forward.”

He did—reluctantly. His forearms resting on the kitchen island as your fingers finally touched his shoulders. And immediately, his whole body tensed. He was warm. Solid. Tight like a wire strung too long and never loosened.

You started slow—thumbs pressing gently into the muscles where his neck met his back. Circling, kneading. You could feel his resistance like static under his skin. Like he didn’t want to give in to how good it felt.

But then he sighed. Deep. Almost involuntary.

“Jesus Christ…”

“Told you,” you murmured, lips curving as you leaned in a little. “Good with my hands.”

His head dipped. Shoulders sagged beneath your touch. And that was all the permission you needed.

You worked your way down slowly—thumbs dragging along the base of his neck, the curve of his spine, the edges of his shoulder blades. Firm pressure, purposeful. Like you were unwinding him thread by thread.

You watched his hands. How they flexed and relaxed. How his fingers twitched like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“You carry so much tension here,” you whispered, fingers pressing just under the blades of his shoulders.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “Just… part of it.”

“Well,” you said softly, leaning close enough for your breath to skim his ear. “You don’t have to carry it all tonight.”

Your hands moved slower, more intentional. No longer just soothing—but searching. Palms dragging along the muscles of his shoulders, the slope of his spine, the tension that pulsed beneath his skin like something alive.

You weren’t doing it to help anymore. You were savoring him.

“There,” you murmured, kneading into a spot that made his hips shift forward a little in the stool. “Feel that?”

He let out a low grunt, biting it back halfway through.

“Yeah—fuck.”

The sound made your stomach flutter. Your core clench. You smiled, sickly sweet, “Language, Mr. Barnes.”

His reply was a breath. A half-laugh. Tired, flustered, “Sorry.”

You hummed, trailing your fingers over the base of his neck. You knew he was trying not to react. You knew what you were doing to him.

His hands gripped the edge of the island. Not to hold himself steady—but to ground himself. You could see the tension in his forearms, the way his head hung forward, chin tucked to his chest like he didn’t trust himself to look at you.

And then another sound slipped out—softer this time. A low, guttural exhale that came from deep in his chest when you pushed your thumbs just beneath his shoulder blades.

God.

Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment. You imagined him above you. Inside you. Making that same sound into your throat as you whispered sweet things in his ear and begged him to give you more.

Your thighs pressed together.

“You’re so tense,” you said, voice dropping slightly. “When was the last time someone did this for you?”

He didn’t answer right away. When he finally did, it was low. Rough, “Long time.”

“That’s a shame.”

Your hands skimmed lower, just above his waist now. Still innocent—but only barely. You leaned in, breath warm against the side of his neck.

“A man like you should be touched more often.”

He stiffened.

You felt it—right under your hands. His body went rigid. His breath caught. His fingers gripped the counter. And still, he said nothing. No protest. No step away. Just… stillness. Like he didn’t trust himself to move.

You let your palms settle on his back, thumbs brushing softly, voice barely a whisper. “All that strength, Mr. Barnes… and no one to take care of you?”

This time, when he exhaled, it shook.

You swallowed your smirk, dragged your nails lightly down the fabric of his shirt—just enough to make him twitch. You pretended not to notice the way his hips shifted. The way he shifted to hide what you already knew was there.

His cock was hard. And he hated it.

“I should…” His voice cracked a little. “I should probably check on Becca—”

“She’s fine,” you murmured. “Sleeping like an angel.”

You rounded the chair slowly, hands brushing the tops of his shoulders as you stepped in front of him. He couldn’t even look at you.

So sweet. So ashamed. So ready.

You smiled, soft and pretty, “Want me to keep going?”

His jaw clenched. His hands were still white-knuckled on the island. He nodded once. Barely. His jaw tight.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low. Hoarse. “Okay.”

So you started with his arms.

You took the left one between your hands—his thick, scarred forearm lined with sinew and years of work—and rubbed your thumbs into the muscles with slow, practiced care.

And still, he wouldn’t look at you. Just stared somewhere past your shoulder. His lips slightly parted.

“Y’know…” you said softly, head tilting, “you never answer me when I compliment you.”

He blinked slowly, eyes drifting to yours like it took effort, “What?”

“When I say nice things to you,” you smiled. “You always act like you didn’t hear.”

His lips twitched. But it wasn’t amusement. It was guilt. Embarrassment. Maybe shame.

“Guess I don’t hear that kind of stuff much anymore.”

Your thumbs worked up his arm, just under the short sleeve of his t-shirt. You pressed into the tension there, soft and deliberate.

“You should.”

His eyes closed. He swallowed.

You moved to the other arm. Slower now. Letting your hands linger on his skin just a moment longer than necessary.

And then they drifted. Lightly. Across his chest. Not a grope. Not overt. Just a gentle press of your palms, circling the center of his chest where the tension was thickest.

You could feel the heat radiating off him. His heart beat strong beneath your hands.

His cock strained visibly against the front of his jeans—and the second your eyes flicked downward, he shifted, thighs squeezing together as if to hide it.

Like it was shameful. Like it was unwelcome.

“Sorry,” he muttered under his breath, eyes squeezing shut. “Fuck—I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t apologize.”

Your voice was barely above a whisper now, “It’s not a bad thing.”

His mouth parted, eyes searching yours like he couldn’t tell if you were mocking him. Or testing him. Or tempting him.

(Spoiler: you were doing all three.)

You let your hands stay on his chest a little longer. You liked the way he breathed under your palms. How his ribs moved. How his throat flexed when he swallowed hard, over and over again.

“You’re really tense here too,” you said, thumb grazing near his collarbone.

He only hummed. A barely-there sound. So dazed. So quiet.

You leaned in a little. Voice softer than ever, “You can let go, Mr. Barnes. I won’t judge you.”

His eyes flicked up to yours again—and there it was. Need. Not desire—not yet. But need. Quiet. Gutted. Heavy. Like he hadn’t been touched or praised or looked at like this in years.

And still, he said nothing. But he didn’t stop you.

Not when your hands dipped just slightly lower. Not when you pressed your thigh subtly between his knees. Not when your fingertips grazed the hem of his shirt like you were testing the weight of that silence.

His breath hitched—and that was it.

That tiny, broken sound cracked through the moment like a fault line.

He stood suddenly, stepping back so fast his thigh bumped the stool leg. It scraped against the tile with a sharp screech.

“I—uh. I should…” he cleared his throat, avoiding your eyes as he ran a hand down his face. “I should go shower. And—get some sleep. Long day tomorrow.”

His voice was tight. Brittle.

“Of course,” you said softly, taking a graceful step back. Hands folding in front of you like you hadn’t just been touching him like a man you wanted to devour. “You’ve earned it.”

He gave you a tight, forced smile. Didn’t quite meet your eyes.

“Thanks for the massage,” he mumbled, then turned.

He was out of the kitchen in a few quick strides, broad shoulders tense beneath his shirt, like they were holding the weight of what he almost let happen.

"Goodnight," you called lightly.

But he didn’t answer. Just disappeared up the stairs, his footsteps thudding quick and uneven against the wood.

You waited a moment. Let the silence settle. It was getting exhausting—watching him pull away just when he was ready to fall into you.

You leaned against the wall, arms crossed lightly as your eyes drifted toward the stairwell.

You were getting impatient. You’d done everything.

The soft smiles. The innocent touches. The vulnerable looks. You’d watched him bite his tongue raw trying not to moan under your hands. You’d watched his eyes drift toward your tits like he was fighting for his life. You’d caught him jerking off in the shower with your name bleeding out of his mouth like a sin.

And still… nothing. No kiss. No stroke of his hand down your back. No whispered invitation to his bed.

He was trying so hard to be good.

But you didn’t want him to be good. You wanted him desperate. You wanted his hands shaking as he gripped your thighs. You wanted him to apologize to God after.

Your nails tapped absently against your arm as you thought.

He was scared, sure. Guilty. Thought of himself as broken and unworthy. Still loyal to a wife who didn’t touch him. Didn’t see him. Didn’t care if he came home most nights.

While you gave him tea. Rubbed the ache out of his shoulders. Giggled at his jokes. Smiled when he walked in the room like he’d brought the sun with him.

And still he couldn’t let himself have you.

But everyone breaks eventually. You just needed to help him along.

You pushed off the wall, mind already moving faster than your feet. New ideas rising like heat under your skin.

Something bolder. Not a touch. Not a glance. Not a whisper behind his chair. Something he couldn’t ignore. Something he couldn’t explain away as accidental.

Maybe you’d walk in on him half-dressed, pretend to be embarrassed, linger just a little too long. Maybe you’d let the straps of your nightgown fall when you “didn’t know he was there.” Or maybe…

Maybe you’d make him jealous.

Let him see you bent over for someone else in the dark, panting and moaning as if he wasn’t the only one you wanted. Let him ache with it. Let him snap.

Your thighs pressed together at the thought.

God, you couldn’t wait anymore.

Your mouth was watering for him. Your cunt slick just from the memory of his voice. The way he’d whispered your name like it was a plea. Like it tasted too good to say out loud.

He wanted you. You knew it.

It was time to give him no choice.

It was cold again. That brittle kind of chill that settled in the floorboards when October came creeping. The kind that pressed into Bucky’s bones even though he’d turned up the heat.

He padded down the stairs in a t-shirt and sweats, bare feet against cool wood, rubbing a hand over his face. The house was silent—Becca fast asleep upstairs. Sharon hadn’t come to bed yet. Or maybe she had and he hadn’t noticed.

He just needed water. That was all. But what he wasn’t expecting was the candlelight. Soft and low, flickering against the far end of the hallway. Orange glow bleeding faintly across the entry rug like a secret.

He stilled.

A sound followed—low. Wet. A breathless, shuddering little ahhh that made his skin prickle instantly.

And then another.

“Oh—God…”

A voice he knew. Yours. He moved without thinking. Slow. Quiet. Stepping past the hall table and toward the living room—heart in his throat, the glass forgotten in his hand.

And there you were. On the floor. Bathed in candlelight like a fucking painting. Your body arched, bare and glowing with sweat, the curve of your breasts rising with every shallow gasp. Head thrown back, lips parted, fingers threaded in hair that didn’t belong to you.

A redhead.

Beautiful. Unfamiliar in a way that made his stomach twist. Pale hands gripping your thighs as her head moved between them—slow, deliberate licks that made your whole body jolt. Her mouth devouring you. Tongue working you open like it was the only thing she’d ever learned how to do.

You were writhing. Helpless. Blissed-out. Moaning so softly it felt like a sin.

“Please, Nat—please—”

He stood frozen. He could’ve left. Could’ve backed away. Should’ve gone back upstairs and pretended he saw nothing. But his feet wouldn’t move. His hands wouldn’t unclench. He couldn’t breathe.

You were so fucking beautiful. Your skin shimmering with sweat. The soft mound of your belly flexing every time she sucked your clit into her mouth. Your thighs trembling like you were about to break apart in her hands.

And worse—

Worse than any of it—

You were smiling right at him.

Eyes half-lidded and heavy, that sweet, familiar look of yours softening into something molten. You weren’t startled. You weren’t scared. You knew he was there. You wanted him to see.

And he did. He watched your lips part as your voice turned high and fragile and perfect—

“F-fuck, I’m gonna—”

—and then you came.

Right in front of him.

Back arched. Toes curled. Moaning like you were begging God himself to spare you. And that woman—Nat—kissed your inner thigh and smirked. Licked you once more for good measure.

Bucky’s hands were fists at his sides. His cock was hard. Hard like it hadn’t been in years. Shame pooled in his gut like bile.

And you just… laughed. Laughed as you reached down to thread your fingers in the redhead’s hair and tilt her chin up. Kissed her slow and lazy and deep, like a reward. Like you had all the time in the world.

Then your eyes flicked back to him. You didn’t stop smiling. Didn’t flinch or pull away or pretend to be startled.

You just stayed right there—naked, flushed, glowing with sweat and pleasure—lounging back against the pillows you’d dragged to the floor. Natasha stretched lazily beside you like a well-fed cat, licking her fingers and watching Bucky like he was the next meal.

But you were the one who spoke first, “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Your voice was soft. Sugar-sweet and teasing, like he was the one acting inappropriate.

Bucky stood there, frozen. He hadn't moved. Couldn't. His throat felt dry, and his fingers twitched at his sides, like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“Didn’t think anyone else was up,” you added, tilting your head.

You shifted, thighs nudging open a little wider, like it was accidental. Like you weren’t dripping onto the carpet, still sensitive and warm and flushed from being eaten out in his living room.

“You look tired, Mr. Barnes.”

The sound of his name in your mouth made something snap in his gut.

He swallowed harshly, “I—I just came down for water.”

“Mm.” You nodded slowly. “You look like you could use something else.”

He blinked, “I—what?”

You gave a little shrug, your lips parted just enough to make him wonder if it was intentional.

“I mean, look at you.” Your gaze dropped—slowly, deliberately—to the outline of his cock pressing against his sweats. “So tense.”

Natasha chuckled low beside you, chin resting in her palm.

“So easy,” she murmured, not looking away from him. “Like clockwork.”

You gave her a little glance, then turned your eyes back to him.

“You could sit,” you offered, gesturing to the empty spot beside you with a lazy tilt of your fingers. “You don’t have to do anything. Just watch. If you want.”

His breath caught. His hands curled.

“Or,” you added sweetly, voice dipping lower, “you could join.”

You saw it in the way his jaw clenched. The way his eyes dropped again to the curve of your bare thigh, the slick sheen between your legs, the redhead still purring beside you like a devil in disguise.

You leaned back on your elbows. Opened your legs wider.

“Come on, baby,” you cooed. “Don’t you want to feel something warm for once?”

You saw the moment it hit him. The realization that he wasn’t going to leave. He should’ve. Any decent man would’ve. But his feet didn’t move. He stayed. And that was enough.

Natasha moved first, brushing her lips across your collarbone, slow and deliberate. Her tongue followed—dragging hot and wet across your skin—as she grazed her nails up the outside of your thigh. Her other hand slid over your stomach, fingers spreading, teasing just above your mound.

You sighed like it was nothing. Like she wasn’t touching you at all. But your legs eased open wider.

Bucky made a choked sound.

Your eyes flicked up to him, soft and coy.

“She likes to watch too,” you whispered, as if that explained anything. “But not as much as you do.”

Natasha bit your shoulder. Not hard—just enough to make you whimper.

You could feel his stare. Fixed right where he shouldn’t be looking. His jaw was clenched, and there was a flicker of motion below his waistband where he’d shifted his stance—adjusting, maybe. Or trying not to show how hard he was.

You tilted your head with mock sympathy. “That bad, huh?”

He didn’t answer. Just stared as Natasha’s fingers slid down and parted your folds. A wet sound filled the space. Slick, obscene.

His throat bobbed.

“I was just telling her,” you went on, breath starting to catch as Natasha toyed with your clit, “how handsome you are when you’re tired. That little crease between your brows, the way your hands look at the end of a work day…”

“They look heavy,” Natasha added. Her voice was velvet. “Like they’d leave bruises.”

You let out a soft whine as her fingers slid lower again—just barely dipping into you before retreating. Teasing. Taunting.

“Do you want to see what she feels like, Mr. Barnes?” she murmured.

You gasped. Half from her fingers, half from the way his name sounded in her mouth. Natasha dragged it out like it was something she owned. Your legs trembled.

“She’s soaked,” Natasha went on, not even looking at him now. “All this for you.”

“N-Nat…” You barely got the word out. “Stop teasing…”

But your hips were rocking, chasing her hand. Eyes locked on Bucky.

“You sure?” she asked you. “Because I think he likes it.”

You blinked up at him, lashes fluttering, “Do you?”

His hand twitched at his side. Then again. You couldn’t tell if he wanted to bolt—or come closer.

You clicked your tongue softly.

“Guess he’s not coming,” you sighed, pouting as you glanced at Natasha. “His loss.”

She smirked like she’d known all along. Didn’t even look at him when her mouth found yours again, hot and open and lazy, tongue sliding against yours.

Your fingers were already threading into her hair. And then you let yourself fall back, slowly, your spine curving against the carpet, tugging her down with you. Your legs parted. And hers followed as her gorgeous body covered yours.

The heat of her skin brushed yours. Chest to chest. Lips to lips. Then lower.

She rolled her hips, and your thighs locked around hers. Wet. Warm. Center to center, slick meeting slick as your bodies found that perfect press. That grind.

You let out a whimper. And then another, “F-fuck, Nat—”

She was panting already, her mouth dragging down your neck, nails digging into your hip as she moved. Slow, tight, steady rolls of her hips, wet friction spreading between you. You could feel her everywhere—tits pressed tight against yours, her thigh sliding against your pussy, her cunt sticky against your own.

You let it all out for him. Every moan. Every gasp. Every desperate whine that you couldn’t hold back. Loud. Messy. Unapologetic.

And he was still there.

You could see the way his chest rose and fell—shallow, ragged. His eyes didn’t blink. Didn’t even flinch when Natasha buried her face in your neck and you cried out from the pressure and the pace.

You moaned again, louder this time.

“Bet he's touching himself,” you breathed.

Natasha smiled against your skin.

“He’s not,” she whispered. “But he wants to.”

You cried out again—she’d changed the rhythm—faster, harder now, and your whole body trembled.

“Come here,” you moaned suddenly, your voice cracking. “Come watch us up close—”

But he didn’t move. Still frozen, still wide-eyed, one hand clenched into a fist at his thigh. And so you didn’t beg.

You just fucked Natasha harder. Writhing. Grinding. Nails clawing into her shoulder, your thighs twitching with every tight, wet rub of cunt on cunt.

The air was thick with it—sweat, sex, candlewax. And you looked up at him the whole time. Smiling. Like you knew something he didn’t.

He was so fucking close.

Your voice was a sweet moan in the candlelight, breathless and fucked-out, as that woman's mouth moved down to your boobs, your hips bucking wildly against hers, soaked and sticky and glistening.

And he—God.

Bucky's jaw clenched, eyes glued to the sight of you two, bodies tangled, writhing. His fists were clenched tight at his sides. His cock pulsed so hard it hurt, and he barely registered the tremble in his thighs, the guttural sound that ripped from his throat as heat built fast and brutal in his gut.

He was cumming. Right there. Just from watching. He didn’t even touch himself—

And then he was awake. Gasping. Back arching off the mattress, damp skin sticking to sheets as he bolted upright in bed with a grunt. His chest rose and fell in short, panicked bursts.

Sharon stirred beside him. Didn’t open her eyes. Didn’t turn toward him. Just let out a sigh and curled deeper into the duvet.

His pulse didn’t calm.

A dream. Just a dream. His heart hammered. And then he looked down—Jesus Christ.

There was a wet patch spreading across the front of his boxers. The kind that bled through the sheets. The kind he hadn’t had since he was a goddamn teenager. His cock still throbbed slightly, twitching against the damp cotton.

He pushed the covers off and sat on the edge of the bed, bracing his elbows on his knees. His hands scrubbed over his face, trying to erase the images still clawing at the back of his eyelids. It had felt so real.

“Fuck…”

The candlelight. The slick sounds. The smell of rose and vanilla. The way your mouth had opened for that redhead—your moans, your body—

It was like he could still feel it. Still smell you.

He lay back down slowly. Didn’t sleep at all after that dream. By the time morning came, his stomach was knotted with guilt.

Sharon had already gone downstairs to take a call, and he barely managed to drag himself out of bed, heart heavy and head spinning.

But it got worse when he stepped into the kitchen. Because there you were.

Sunlight spilling through the windows. Your hair was soft and unstyled, your body wrapped in one of those little dresses you liked to wear around the house—short, cotton, innocent. You were barefoot, moving calmly around the stove like you belonged there.

Like nothing had happened.

You glanced up at him, smiled sweetly.

“Good morning, Mr. Barnes. Did you sleep well?”

He blinked. Cleared his throat. Didn’t answer. Didn’t speak at all, just grunted and dragged a hand through his hair as he slumped into one of the chairs at the kitchen table.

Couldn’t look at you. Not once. Not when you brought him his coffee. Not when you knelt to wipe something off Becca’s tray. Not when you turned around at the stove and the light hit your thighs just right.

Not when his cock twitched, again, already remembering the way your voice sounded when you moaned his name while another woman was fucking you.

Every time he closed his eyes, it was you. Not Sharon. Never Sharon.

You, with that soft voice and warm smile. You, who always touched his arm when you passed behind him. You, who smelled like rose and vanilla and temptation. You, who should not have been the subject of the thoughts that kept him hard through every shower.

It made him sick. No. Worse. It made him ashamed.

He wasn’t some teenage boy with no self-control. He was a married man. He had a daughter. He had a wife, even if—God help him—she hadn’t looked at him with anything close to warmth in over a year.

But you did. You looked at him like he mattered. You laughed at his jokes. You fed his daughter with love. You always listened when he spoke. You saw him.

And now…

Now he was stuck in this disgusting cycle where he’d try not to think about you—really try—only for his mind to spiral into images of your lips wrapped around his cock. Your eyes tear-glazed. Your thighs trembling as he fucked you open.

He hated himself for it.

He hated the way his hand would slide beneath the sheets before he could stop it. And worst of all, how he never lasted long. Because the version of you in his head? You begged him. You begged him to be rougher. You told him to use you. You moaned like a good girl, praised him for being big, for filling you so deep, for ruining you.

It wasn’t just sex. It was filth. And he liked it? He liked how dirty it was. How good it felt to imagine pulling your hair and hearing you cry his name.

And that—that—was what truly made him feel vile.

He was falling in love with a girl he should never touch. A girl who lived in his house, took care of his daughter, called him Mr. Barnes like she didn’t know he’d already fucked you a hundred times in his mind.

So every morning, he’d avoid your gaze. He’d sit at the table, quiet, shame burning in his throat like bile, while you handed him his coffee with a smile. He couldn’t even say your name without remembering how it sounded in his head when you screamed it.

James.

Bucky.

Daddy.

Please.

His cock twitched just thinking about it.

At first, he tried to rationalize it. Said it was because you were pretty. Young. Sweet. Barely mid-twenties, soft around the edges, kind to his daughter. It was natural, wasn’t it? To notice. To appreciate. He was still a man.

But then he started imagining things. Dark things. Depraved things.

You’d lean over to adjust Becca’s straps in the high chair and suddenly he’d picture you kneeling between his legs—eyes wide and innocent, mouth slick with spit as you smiled and waited for his permission to swallow.

In the middle of conversations, he’d zone out—watching the way your tongue flicked the tip of your thumb before turning a page in your book. And his brain would replace it with your lips stretched wide around him, spit and drool running down your chin as you gagged on his length. Eyes watery, proud of yourself.

Sometimes he’d lay next to Sharon, listening to her steady breath, and his mind would conjure you again—naked and whimpering under him, begging him not to stop. Telling him how good it feels. How full you are. How you’ve never taken anyone so big before.

And sometimes—

Sometimes you cried.

Tears down your cheeks, eyes glazed, voice wrecked from screaming his name—but you didn’t stop. You wanted it. Needed it. Told him you’d die if he didn’t fuck you again.

He’d wake up sweating.

Hard as a fucking rock. And ended up biting his fist when Sharon was asleep beside him, pumping his cock in furious silence—fantasizing about you, not his wife.

He didn’t even trust himself to shower anymore. Every time he did, it was like you were there. That perfume. That warmth. The ghost of your hands on his back, your lips at his shoulder, your voice cooing filth like it was a lullaby.

He’d brace his arm on the wall, bite down on his forearm, and pump himself in the shower so quick and quiet it felt like punishment. He didn’t even moan. Didn’t say your name. Just came with a grunt and then leaned his forehead to the tile, full of shame.

He hated how much he wanted you. Hated how it wasn’t just want anymore. It was… need. And it was rotting him alive, while you didn’t even seem to notice.

You kept walking around in those soft, low-cut tanks that didn’t hide a goddamn thing. No bra. No shame. You’d smile up at him with wide, warm eyes like you had no idea how badly you were undoing him.

You’d place your hand on his shoulder when you passed by. Brush your fingers across his palm when handing him Becca’s bottle. Press your chest against his back when reaching around him to grab a dish.

And he started to think… maybe you did know. Because sometimes, you’d look at him a second too long. Smile a second too slow.

And when you hugged Becca goodbye for her nap, you always bent just far enough to show the curve of your ass under those dresses. The sheer fabric clinging to the softness of your thighs.

One day, you’d been washing dishes at the sink. The afternoon light behind you, your nipples visibly tight through your dress. And he imagined walking up behind you, grabbing your hips, and taking you—right there against the counter. No words. No warning. Just you arching, whimpering, crying out as he fucked you rough and ugly until you couldn't stand.

Then he imagined doing it again. And again. And again.

Until your voice was hoarse and your thighs trembled and your handprint was on the glass above the sink.

He shook the image out of his head. But it always came back. Like rot under the floorboards. Like temptation under his skin.

You floated through the house like sunlight, soft hands and soft voice and soft dresses that clung to your hips when the breeze came through the windows. You smiled at him like you didn’t know what you were doing. Like you weren’t undoing him.

And maybe—maybe—you weren’t.

Maybe you really were that sweet. That good. That nurturing, soft-spoken little thing who had Becca asleep in her crib in six minutes flat, who never raised your voice, who left fresh tea in the microwave for him when he got home late from site.

But maybe not.

Maybe you knew exactly what you were doing when you leaned over to get a pan in the low cupboard, ass pushing back in those shorts. Maybe you meant for your shirt to slip off your shoulder when you stretched. Maybe you wanted him to think about you in the shower, fisting his cock like a sinner.

And those sounds had started getting more specific. Too specific.

He could hear you, sometimes. Hear you through the walls. Whimpers. Moans. Wet, lewd little noises. He told himself he was imagining it. But it always came right when he was trying not to think of you. Like something pulling him back in.

He’d catch himself staring. At the curve of your neck. The slope of your thighs. The little gap between your legs when you sat on the couch and crossed your ankles in that silky nightdress.

And the thoughts… they weren’t gentle anymore.

He didn’t just want to hold you, or kiss you. No. He wanted to drag you onto the kitchen table and make you cry. He wanted to tear that dress in half and fuck you until you forgot your own name. He wanted to make you say his name. Over and over again.

He wanted to hear what you’d sound like with his hand on your throat. And that terrified him.

Because he wasn’t that man.

He loved his baby. He tried to love his wife. He wasn’t some perverted old man with a thing for the nanny.

But every time you bent over to kiss Becca’s cheek, he imagined how your mouth would feel on his cock.

Every time you called him “Mr. Barnes” in that voice—soft, low, lilting—he imagined how it would sound breathless, broken, whispered into his ear with his hand buried between your thighs.

You weren’t just sweet anymore. Not just the soft-voiced nanny with a kind smile and a calming touch. No—something darker had started seeping in, curling around you like cigarette smoke.

And it clung to him. No matter how hard he ignored it. No matter how hard he tried to fuck his wife and pretend it wasn’t you he was seeing when he came.

It had been building. And now it was snapping.

Sharon was gone. Becca was napping. The house was quiet, too quiet. And there you were.

In the kitchen. At the sink. Bubbles on your wrists. Hair up in a lazy little knot, neck bare and warm. Wearing his wife’s apron.

And smiling like you didn’t know.

Like you hadn’t been haunting his dreams, like you hadn’t been playing with yourself just down the hall from his marriage bed. Like you weren’t the goddamn devil.

He didn’t even realize he was walking until the glass in his hand banged on the kitchen island.

You turned just as he entered the room.

“Mr. Barnes,” you said sweetly, drying your hands, that same lilting voice you always used. “Want some tea? The honey and chamomile kind you like is—”

“Stop,” he snapped.

You blinked, head tilting just slightly. “Is everything okay?”

His jaw clenched, breath shallow, chest rising in hard bursts.

He stepped closer. “You’ve been toying with me.”

“Me?” You pressed your fingertips to your chest, looking perfectly bewildered. “I—I don’t know what you—”

“Don’t,” he growled. “Don’t lie to me.”

He was close now. Too close. The air shifted. The light seemed to dim as his presence crowded the room, heavy and unrelenting. His hand slammed against the cabinet beside your head, not touching you—but nearly. You didn’t flinch.

His voice dropped to something colder. Rougher.

“You think I don’t see what you’re doing? You think I don’t hear you at night? The way you moan—fuck, the way you whimper my name in the dark—”

You parted your lips, only slightly, as if in protest. But said nothing.

“I’ve been seeing things,” he hissed. “You. In the mirrors. On top of me. Under me. Wearing nothing.” He laughed bitterly. “I wake up hard and ashamed and you’re always here in the kitchen the next morning, smiling like a little fucking saint. You think I don’t know?”

You looked at him for a long moment. Silent. Innocent. Your hands still smelled like soap and lemon.

“I think…” you said softly, with a little pout, “you might be confused, Mr. Barnes.”

His hand slammed against the cabinet again, louder this time.

“You don’t get to pretend anymore,” Bucky snapped.

You blinked up at him, wide-eyed, lips parted. “Pretend what?”

He let out a breath like he could barely hold himself in. His jaw was locked so tight it looked painful.

“That you’re just the fucking nanny.”

You tilted your head. “I am the nanny.”

“Cut the shit.”

His voice cracked around the words—rage barely masking the desperation underneath. You could feel it radiating off him like heat. Months of tension, of teasing glances, of him fucking his fist in the dark thinking about you and hating himself for it. It all hung in the air between you now, sticky and electric.

“You wear those little dresses on purpose,” he hissed. “You bend over when I’m in the room. You look at me like you want me to lose control.”

“I would never—” you started, placing your hand gently over his chest.

He stepped back like your touch burned him.

“I’ve been good,” he snarled, voice trembling. “I’ve kept my distance. I haven’t touched you. I’ve let you stay in this house. With my daughter.”

“And I’ve been good too,” you said softly, lips twitching with something too close to a smile. “I clean. I help with Becca. I’m always quiet when you and Sharon—”

“Don’t.” He flinched. “Don’t talk about her right now.”

You took a slow, careful step forward.

“I just want to make things easier for you, Mr. Barnes,” you whispered. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

He backed up another step.

“You’re not sweet,” he snapped, pointing at you like he needed to convince himself. “You’re not innocent. You’re fucking—you’re the devil.”

“I’m just the nanny,” you said, eyes wide and lips pouty. “You’re scaring me.”

You were lying through your teeth, of course.

Inside, you were thrumming—heart pounding, thighs pressed together, blood roaring in your ears. He looked so unhinged, so wrecked, so close. You swore you could see his cock already hard through the fabric of his sweats, the outline thick and twitching as he tried to fight it. His chest heaved with every breath. His eyes kept flicking to your lips, your throat, the swell of your breasts.

You licked your bottom lip slowly, like you didn’t even know you were doing it. Just a nervous tick.

And that’s what broke him.

Something feral snapped in his chest.

He reached out and grabbed you hard—hands at your waist, yanking you forward so your body collided with his. You let out the softest gasp and blinked up at him, all faux-confusion and perfect submission.

“Is something wrong?” you asked sweetly.

He snarled, “You’re gonna fucking pay for this.”

One second, his hands were gripping your waist—tight, trembling—and the next, he was lifting you like you weighed nothing, your back hitting the edge of the cold marble counter with a thud.

You gasped, but didn’t fight it. Not even close.

His chest pressed to yours, his breath ragged as he hovered over you, eyes wild and unblinking like he barely recognized himself. Or maybe he did—maybe this was who he’d always been underneath.

“You walk around this house like some sweet little thing,” he growled, shoving your knees apart with one hand, the other curling around your jaw. “Smiling at me. Saying please and thank you like you’re fucking innocent.”

You blinked up at him, lips parted, heartbeat fluttering like hummingbird wings, “I just wanted to help…”

His laugh was low. Broken. Cruel.

“Bullshit.”

He shoved your skirt up—rough, fast, no care for fabric or modesty. The soft cotton bunched at your hips as his eyes dragged downward. He groaned when he saw you—no panties.

Of course.

“You’re not innocent,” he hissed. “You’re not sweet. You’re the fucking devil.”

His fingers slid between your thighs and you gasped, a choked sound you didn’t bother hiding. You were soaked. You knew it. You’d been soaked since the second he raised his voice.

“I thought you were an angel,” he muttered, voice husky as he rubbed slow, heavy circles against your clit. “The way you coo at my kid. The way you smile like the sun comes outta your mouth.”

His voice dropped lower. Meaner.

“But you’re not an angel. You’re a goddamn curse.”

You whimpered—quiet, like you didn’t understand. Like this was too much, too sudden.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you whispered.

He growled.

“You know exactly what you’re doing to me.”

He leaned down, lips brushing your ear as his fingers dragged through your slick and then slapped against your cunt, making your thighs jolt and a low moan escape from you.

“You walk around this house with no panties like you’re not begging for this. You leave your bedroom door cracked so I can hear you. Moaning. Playing with yourself. Calling my name.”

He pushed two thick fingers inside you and you gasped—legs jerking, your back arching against the cabinets behind you.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he spat.

You looked up at him, blinking like you were confused, lips parted, chest heaving.

“…I—I just wanted to be helpful.”

He laughed again, teeth bared, and fucked his fingers deeper.

“Liar.”

His fingers worked deeper—thick and wet inside you, the heel of his palm grinding up against your clit with every thrust. Your hips were already starting to twitch, legs falling wider apart on the counter. You looked like a dream. A hallucination. A trap disguised in skin.

Still, you played the part.

Soft moans spilled from your lips, breathy little whimpers like you didn’t know what was happening. Like you didn’t know what you were doing to him. Your hands gripped the edge of the counter behind you, knuckles white, lips parted.

“M-Mr. Barnes…” you gasped, fluttering around his fingers. “That’s not— this isn’t appropriate…”

He snarled under his breath and shoved his fingers deeper, faster, twisting them just right. The wet sounds were obscene in the silence of the kitchen. The marble was cool beneath your thighs. Everything else was fire.

“You’re soaked,” he growled. “Soaked and shaking. You wanna pretend this is some accident?”

You bit your bottom lip. And then—

Your hips rolled down into his hand. Your fingers crept forward and curled in the collar of his shirt. And your voice… oh, your voice turned darker.

“Such a bad husband,” you whispered, the words dripping from your lips like venom in honey. “Neglecting your wife. Fucking the nanny in your kitchen.”

His entire body jolted.

Your lashes fluttered as you looked up at him, all sugar and sin. “What would she say if she saw you like this?” you murmured. “Two fingers deep in the babysitter while your daughter sleeps upstairs.”

His jaw flexed.

You smiled.

“I always thought you were lonely,” you cooed. “Watching me. Wanting me. Touching yourself and pretending it wasn’t me you were thinking about.”

He groaned—low and broken—and crooked his fingers just right, dragging against the spot that made your knees shake.

“Poor thing,” you gasped, still teasing, still sweet. “Didn’t she give you what you needed? Is that why you’re so desperate now?”

He growled and slapped your clit with his slick fingers—once, then again. You cried out, bucking into the sensation, breath caught in your throat.

“Say it,” he demanded. “Say what you are.”

You gasped, eyes locked with his.

“I’m the nanny,” you whispered.

He pulled his fingers out with a wet sound and grabbed your jaw.

You smiled.

“…and your filthy little secret.”

He yanked your face toward him, mouth crushed to yours in a brutal, messy kiss—no sweetness, no hesitation. Just teeth, spit, heat. His fingers were still slick with your arousal as they fisted in your hair, tugging your head back.

“You’ve been begging for this,” he rasped. “Every look. Every little dress. Walking around this house like you fucking own me.”

You gasped against his mouth. “I do.”

That was all it took.

He stepped back just enough to free himself—shoving his sweats down just enough for his cock to spring free, flushed and angry, leaking at the tip. You moaned at the sight of it. Thick. Heavy. Already twitching for you.

“Spread your fucking legs,” he growled.

You did it slow—almost mocking—dragging your heels up onto the edge of the counter, thighs falling open for him like a promise. Your cunt glistened, soaking wet and so ready for him, fluttering around nothing.

“Look at you,” he muttered, staring down at your dripping hole like he hated you for it. “Fucking dripping for me. Goddamn whore.”

And then he lined himself up and slammed into you.

You cried out—head falling back, hands flying to grip the counter as he bottomed out in one punishing thrust. Your walls clamped around him instantly, fluttering, sucking him deeper, and he groaned—loud, guttural, like he’d waited years for this.

“Fuck—fuck, you’re tight,” he gasped. “You’ve been walking around this house like this? With this perfect pussy just waiting to be fucked?”

You moaned, high and helpless. “Mr. Barnes…”

His hips snapped forward, driving into you harder. Rougher. The counter rattled beneath your ass, your body jostling with every thrust.

“What’s my name?” he snarled.

“James,” you gasped.

He growled again—more animal than man—and leaned down, hand wrapped around your throat now as he fucked into you like it was a punishment.

“You think this is what good girls do?” he hissed. “Let married men fuck them in their kitchens while their baby sleeps upstairs?”

You choked out a laugh—broken, breathless.

“Good girls don’t exist,” you moaned. “Not in houses like this.”

You clenched around him and he nearly collapsed forward, forehead dropping to yours.

“You’re sick,” he panted.

“I’m yours.”

His cock throbbed inside you at that, hips stuttering as he buried himself to the hilt again and again, each thrust angrier than the last.

“Tell me I’m better than her,” you whispered, eyes rolling back. “Tell me that I'm a better fuck than she ever was.”

He bit your shoulder. Hard. His grip bruised your hips.

“You fuck me like you hate me,” you breathed. “And it’s so—fucking—good.”

He went rabid.

His thrusts got harder, meaner—hips snapping into yours, cock dragging against the deepest part of you like he wanted to bruise it. Like he wanted to own the shape of your insides.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he growled, voice wrecked. “I should’ve done this the first night. Should’ve bent you over that goddamn crib and—”

“Then why didn’t you?” you gasped, legs trembling around his hips. “Too scared to fuck the nanny, Bucky?”

He slammed into you so hard the entire counter jolted, dishes rattling in the sink.

“Watch your mouth,” he hissed. “You’re fucking lucky I don't tie you up and leave you in the basement for this.”

You let out a soft, breathless moan, hands curling in the front of his shirt.

“Oh, I’d like that,” you whispered. “All alone in the dark with nothing but your cock.”

He groaned like it hurt him.

Your cunt clenched around him as he fucked into you harder, faster, chasing the high with wild eyes and flushed skin. You swore you saw him falter—like he was close—and you smiled, soft and teasing, like it wasn’t ruining you just the same.

“You’re gonna cum,” you murmured, smug and dreamy. “Inside me. While your wife’s name is still on the mail.”

“Shut the fuck up,” he panted, but his voice cracked.

“You’re such a bad husband,” you gasped. “Fucking the nanny in your kitchen. Putting a baby to bed and then stuffing me full. You think Becca’s gonna call me mommy someday?”

He snapped.

One hand flew to your throat, forcing your back down flat to the counter as he bent over you, snarling into your ear, fucking you harder than ever—rough and punishing, each thrust punching the air from your lungs.

“Shut. Up,” he growled. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

You moaned, drooling now, skin sticking to your chin. He was hitting something inside you over and over, and you were shaking—legs trembling, walls fluttering around him.

“I do,” you breathed. “I know everything. I know you think about me more than her. I know your cock’s harder when I’m around. I know you came in your pants the night you caught me in my room—”

He groaned and then he broke.

His hips faltered, one last thrust burying him deep as his whole body seized—cock twitching, thick heat spilling inside you in messy pulses. He came with a shuddering gasp, forehead pressed to your neck, his breath stuttering across your breasts.

And still—you clenched around him. Still trembling, still smiling.

He stayed there, cock softening inside you, the kitchen thick with the scent of sex and sweat and sin. The baby monitor crackled faintly on the counter.

When he collapsed onto you—his chest was heavy on your body, forehead damp where it pressed into your collarbone. His arms wrapped around your waist, trembling slightly, knuckles white from how hard he’d been gripping the counter just moments before.

You could feel him shudder with every breath. Silent. Shaking. Wrecked.

You turned your head slightly, eyes fluttering shut as you exhaled through a dreamy, satisfied sigh.

He’d finally broken.

And it had been so, so beautiful.

You threaded your fingers through his hair—slow and gentle, like you were soothing a feverish child. You stroked the damp strands carefully, tenderly. His breathing was shallow. Disoriented. Like he didn’t know where he was anymore. Or who he was.

“Shhh,” you whispered. “You did so good for me, James.”

No answer. Just his breath ghosting over your skin. Hot. Human. Still inside you. Still twitching.

You shifted your hips slightly—just a tiny, intentional grind—and he groaned softly, like he couldn’t take it. Like it hurt and healed him at the same time.

Your walls fluttered around him again. Slow. Lazy. Wet and warm. You kept moving.

A slow rock, barely noticeable to anyone who wasn’t being milked for every last drop of cum. You clenched, then relaxed, clenching again like your pussy was thanking him.

You smiled to yourself.

He made a sound behind you. Broken. Hoarse.

“I… I can’t—” His voice cracked. “I can’t stop.”

And there it was. The confession. The prayer.

You turned your head just enough to kiss his cheek. Delicate. Final. Your voice was soft enough to damn him.

“You don’t have to.”

He let out a strangled breath—and you felt it. The twitch. The way his cock started to harden inside you again, like his body belonged to yours now.

Like something sacred had been corrupted, and he was already aching to do it again.

You laughed. Quietly. Innocently.

Your hand cupped the back of his neck, your fingers still tangled in his hair, and you pulled him tighter against you.

“I’ll help you,” you whispered. “Every time. Every night.”

He didn’t answer. He just stayed buried in you. Letting himself get hard again. Letting it happen.

You knew he was ashamed of what he did.

You saw it in the way his eyes wouldn’t meet yours in the mornings, the way he kissed his wife’s cheek with trembling lips and unsteady hands. The way he held his daughter a little tighter, like she might disappear too.

You knew he was mourning something. He’d broken every vow that ever mattered.

To his wife. To God. To the man he once thought he was.

Because he used to be a good man. The kind who stood up straight and shook hands. The kind who tucked his daughter in every night and kissed his wife’s cheek with nothing but loyalty in his chest. The kind who would’ve slammed the door in your face the second you smiled too sweetly or reached for something that wasn’t yours.

But you changed that. You took that.

Not a person. Not a loss. But himself.

That man had vanished the second he stepped between your thighs. The moment your cunt clenched around him, wet and wanting, and he heard himself moan like he’d been starving for years—

That man died.

And the one left behind? He kept coming back. But when he did, he didn’t speak the first few times.

Not beyond gritted teeth and filthy words spat into your mouth, not beyond the hoarse way he groaned your name when he came so deep inside you that you felt it for hours. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t make promises, didn’t beg forgiveness.

He just kept fucking you.

Like it was a need. A curse. A habit so deeply embedded in his skin that he didn’t know how to exist without it anymore.

You’d feel him in the morning—standing behind you while you washed a bottle, still in your nightgown. His hand curling around your hip. His cock pressing into your ass. And then you’d be bent over the counter again, your cheek to the marble, his hand in your hair, fucking you full while the baby slept upstairs.

He liked fucking you where it started. Said you looked best bent over the counter. Said the sound of your slick dripping on the tile made him lose his mind.

Sometimes it was the living room—you in one of your cardigans, curled up with a book, pretending not to notice him staring. Until he stalked across the room, took the book from your hands, and dragged you down onto the rug to use you.

Other times it was the laundry room. You were folding Becca’s clothes, sweet and humming, when he walked in and wordlessly lifted you onto the dryer, pushing your panties aside, fucking into you so fast and filthy that the machine rocked beneath your thighs. He kept a hand over your mouth, whispering “Be quiet, baby. Be good. Be good.” You came twice before the cycle finished.

And eventually…

His bed.

Their marital bed.

That was the night Sharon left town for a conference.

You wore nothing but one of his shirts. You’d slipped into their room like you belonged there, curled into the sheets like you wanted to be caught.

He didn’t even turn the light on. He just climbed over you and slid into your body like he was home.

He didn’t say a word as he fucked you into the mattress he used to share with his wife. Didn’t blink when you moaned his name into her pillow. Didn’t flinch when you said, soft as a prayer, “Was I better than her again tonight?”

He never answered.

But you always knew the truth.

Because no matter how ashamed he was… No matter how much he tried to hold onto the man he once was…

He always came back to you. Came in you.

Again and again and again.

It happened one night—just like you'd always known it would.

He left her.

Not for good. Not officially. Not in the way that would cause gossip or divorce papers or screaming matches downstairs. No.

But in the quiet, in the dark—he left her.

The mattress shifted sometime after midnight, and she didn’t stir. Didn’t notice the way his body slipped from beside hers. Didn't notice how he stood at the door, hand on the frame, breath caught in his throat like he already knew where he was going.

He padded down the hallway barefoot. Past the nursery. Past the room with the door always slightly ajar.

And straight to you.

You didn’t say a word when the knob turned. You didn’t need to. You were already awake. You always were when he came to you like this.

You just sat up slowly, your nightgown slipping off one shoulder, the sheet pooling in your lap, eyes sleepy-soft like a woman who was used to being visited. Used.

He didn’t speak. He just came to you, and you opened your arms.

He fucked you slow that night. Not like the others. Not like the countertop or the dryer or the nursery floor.

This wasn’t need. This was seeking.

He moved inside you like he didn’t want to finish—hips grinding, cock heavy and thick inside your soaked cunt as you held him close, your hands in his hair, your thighs around his waist.

And when he started to shake—when his voice broke against your throat and he buried his face between your breasts—you didn’t tease.

You just stroked his back. Whispered sweet nothings into his ear like lullabies.

Like comfort. The kind he never got from her.

“You’re okay,” you whispered. “You’re safe now.”

You felt him tremble. You felt his cock throb inside you. You felt every inch of him that he tried to pretend didn’t need this.

Because you gave him something Sharon never did. Warmth. Softness. Devotion. Greedy devotion, yes—but real all the same. And in return, he gave you everything. His weight. His breath. His brokenness. His love—even if he still couldn’t call it that.

Because he told himself it wasn’t love.

Even as he stayed the night. Even as he kissed your shoulder when he thought you were asleep. Even as he whispered your name like it meant something.

He clung to the lie. That this was just sex. Just release. Just weakness.

But you knew better. You knew it in the way he held you after. Head against your chest like he wanted to disappear inside you. Arms around your waist like he never wanted to leave.

You knew he loved you.

He had loved Sharon once—but never like this. Never with his soul in his throat. Never with tears in his eyes.

He could go back to that bed every night. But this was the only place he ever truly slept.

You liked watching him sleep. Not in that way that meant curiosity. Or affection. Not the kind of watching a wife might do in passing, noting the twitch of his brow or the slow rise of his chest.

No.

You watched him like you were planning.

His mouth slack. His arm draped over your body. His wedding ring still catching the faint silver of the moonlight from the window.

So vulnerable. So trusting. So… yours.

You’d fucked him to sleep. Whispered sweet things while he came inside you, soft and trembling. He’d pressed his face into your neck and moaned your name like a confession.

Now you imagined how you'd kill him.

Maybe it would be slow. A blade. Right between the ribs, angled upward into the heart. He’d wake with your name on his lips, and you’d kiss his forehead while he bled into your hands.

Or maybe it would be soft. Hands around his throat. A gentle press. No struggle. Just your eyes on his as his body relaxed into the truth of it. Into you.

Or quieter still. A pillow, held gently over his face, your body straddling his while you grind down against his cock one last time. He wouldn’t even cry out. He’d just give in.

Because it wouldn’t be murder.

It would be love.

You weren’t taking anything from him. You were giving him forever.

No more sneaking out of his wife’s bed. No more pretending he didn’t need you. No more guilt. No more shame. No more leaving you behind.

Once he was dead, he’d stay. He’d haunt the nursery with you. He’d fuck you against the walls for eternity. He’d hold your undead-body in his arms when the wind howled and the pipes screamed and the new tenants cried that they couldn’t sleep.

You and him. Together. Always.

That wasn’t a curse. It was the purest kind of devotion. The ultimate act of love.

And when he looked at you—just before the final breath, just before the lights dimmed in those beautiful, broken eyes—he’d understand.

Bucky stirred a little in his sleep—tightened his arm around you, nuzzled his face into your chest like a child. You smiled.

Not tonight. But soon.

And when the time came, you’d do it slow. You’d do it right.

You’d bind his soul to the house the same way yours had been bound. Tie him to you with blood and lust and finality.

And he’d never leave you again. Because he couldn’t. Because he wouldn’t want to.

a/n | he still doesn’t know she’s dead. that’s the best part. bucky’s gone full “i fucked the nanny and now I can’t stop” mode. you’re gone. he’s gone. we’re all going to hell. i love Sharon Carter. i swear. i’m just using her as narrative seasoning for ghost smut. she did nothing wrong except marry a man haunted by the sexiest nanny alive. comment your favorite depraved moment below.

kinktober taglist:

@heldbybarnes @stanmarvelous @optimisticchildtyrant @dolcesaints @manly-man-whore @sweetestharley @miraclediviner @arilevinsonwifey @herejustforbuckybarnes @sebastians-love @rrosesandtears @cihua-shen @chemtrails-club @thefactorygirl @cottonkendi @houseofhyde @caplanreblogsfics @blowingbarnes @heldbybarnes @secretxion14wells @ambiguousretrograde @swimmingnightcolor @optimisticchildtyrant

[byhuenii]

When Days Blend to One, act three

Pairing Fake Boyfriend! College! Bucky Barnes x Reader

Synopsis You swore it was just pretend. A contract, a cover story, a way to survive the chaos of family expectations and campus gossip. But somewhere between the fake smiles, the shared hoodies, and the almost-kisses, pretending stopped being easy. Now you’re both caught between what’s real and what was supposed to stay fake, and the only thing scarier than falling for him is realizing he fell first.

Word Count 24.1k (in both act two + three) 11.9k (in act three)

Themes + Warnings Fake dating , "Rent-A-Boyfriend" au , College au , MISSCOMMUNICATION, A MAN WHO YEARNS IS A MAN WHO EARNS™ , Slow Burn , second chances , Jealousy , SMUT SMUT SMUT SMUT , MUTUAL PINNING THAT PHYSICALLY HURTS , so many rom com movie mentions , ANGST , usage of doll (apparently a lot of you hate that just found out sooo....VIEWER DISCRISD)

DISCLAIMER first time writting smut so bare with me. 18+ 18+ 18+. READ

— When Days Blend to One, act three Took a while for me to finally realise. That when I see it, I'll believe it

M. List | Act 1 | Act 2

It works for a few days.

 You bury yourself in homework, eat dinner with Yelena, nod along when she talks about her latest dating disaster. You tell her you’re fine, you tell yourself you’re fine.

Then your mother calls.

Her voice fills the tiny dorm room like a ghost.

 “Your sister’s so happy, sweetheart. The wedding photos came out beautifully. Everyone’s asking when it’s your turn.”

You stare at the carpet, twisting the cord of your hoodie around your finger. “I’m not even seeing anyone, Mom.”

“What about bucky?”

“Its..complicated.”

“So you’re single?”

“No mom, its just complicated. I don’t plan on seeing anyone else”

“Then maybe you should,” she says, too bright. “You and Mark were so sweet together—”

“Mom.” Your voice cracks. “Please don’t.”

There’s a pause on the line, the kind that says you’ve disappointed her again.

 “I just want you to be happy. You’re not getting any younger—”

“I am happy.” You try to laugh, and it sounds hollow. “I’m in school, I have friends—”

“School won’t keep you warm at night.”

The words hit like a slap.

 You press your palm to your forehead, willing the sting behind your eyes to stop. “I just… I need space, okay? Please.”

When the call ends, you sit there for a long time, the silence buzzing. You don’t even realize you’re crying until a knock sounds at the door.

You swipe at your face, try to make your voice normal. “Yeah?”

The door opens and Bucky’s standing there, hands shoved into his pockets, hair still damp from a shower. He freezes when he sees your face. “Hey.” His voice is low, careful. “Everything okay?”

You try for a smile. “Yeah. Just… family stuff.”

He doesn’t move. Just looks at you like he can see straight through the lie. Then, quietly, “Can I come in?”

You nod before you can think about it.

The air between you feels heavy and familiar all at once. He closes the door behind him but doesn’t come any closer until you sink down on the edge of your bed, the phone still lying beside you like proof.

“What happened?” he asks.

You shake your head, blinking fast. “It’s nothing. My mom just—she thinks I should start settling down.” You let out a shaky laugh. “She actually mentioned Mark.”

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “Mark? The guy who—”

“Yeah. That one.” You cut him off, voice small. “She doesn’t care who it is, as long as it looks good.”

You look up and he’s already kneeling in front of you, brow furrowed, eyes soft. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s not new,” you whisper. “I just wish they’d let me figure it out myself.”

He’s quiet for a second, and then his hand finds yours. His thumb runs slow circles against your skin, grounding, steady. “You don’t have to prove anything to them.”

That’s all it takes. The dam breaks.

 Tears slip hot down your cheeks before you can stop them. You try to laugh it off “God, I don’t even know why I’m crying” but the words dissolve.

Bucky doesn’t say anything else. He just moves closer, wrapping his arms around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You press your face into his chest, his shirt damp against your skin. He smells like soap and warmth and safety.

“It’s stupid,” you mumble into him.

“Doesn’t sound stupid,” he murmurs. His hand slides up to the back of your neck, gentle. “Sounds like you’re carrying too much.”

Your fingers clutch his hoodie, desperate, and he just holds you tighter.

 For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The only sound is the steady rhythm of his breathing under your ear.

And when you finally exhale when your body starts to relax against his you feel him do the same. Because for the first time in weeks, neither of you is pretending.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t joke, doesn’t fill the silence with some careless line. He just keeps holding you, his chin resting lightly on top of your head.

And you can feel it in the way his arms tighten that quiet, dangerous truth he’s been fighting for weeks:

 he never wants to let you go.

It happens three nights after he was with you in your dorm.

Bucky’s been pretending he’s fine. He’s been lifting heavier, running longer, anything to keep from thinking. But pretending doesn’t quiet the noise it just turns it into something that follows him home.

Tonight it finally catches up.

He wakes up gasping, the room pitch-dark, his sheets tangled around him like restraints. His chest is slick with sweat, heart pounding so hard he swears the walls can hear it. He blinks, trying to remember where he is the dorm, the soft hum of the radiator, the faint city glow bleeding through the blinds but for a second it’s all wrong. His mind is still trapped somewhere else, in a nightmare that’s already slipping through his fingers but left him shaking.

He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling shakily. “It’s just a dream,” he mutters to himself. “Just a dream.”

 But his voice sounds broken in the quiet.

He’s still sitting there, head in his hands, when a soft knock sounds on his door.

He doesn’t move. Maybe he’s imagining it.

 Then again: another knock. Quieter this time, but real.

He gets up slowly, half expecting it to be Steve checking in, but when he opens the door. You’re standing there.

You. In one of his hoodies, sleeves swallowing your hands, hair a messy halo like you’d run here without thinking. There’s sleep still clinging to the corners of your eyes, but underneath that: worry.

“Bucky?” your voice comes out soft, barely above a whisper. “You okay?”

For a second, he can’t speak. He just stares at you the dim hallway light catching on your face, that mix of fear and tenderness that makes something in his chest ache.

He should lie. Say he’s fine. Say he just couldn’t sleep.

 But the truth slips out before he can catch it.

“Nightmare,” he mutters, voice rough. “Just… old stuff.”

Your expression softens instantly. “Can I—?” You gesture toward his room, like you don’t want to intrude.

He nods before he can think.

You step inside quietly, the door clicking shut behind you. The air between you hums — charged, uncertain, but safe.

You sit down on the edge of his bed, close but not too close. He can still feel the warmth radiating from you, though, and it’s grounding in a way that nothing else has been.

Neither of you speaks at first. The hum of the city outside fills the silence, the occasional car passing below, someone laughing faintly down the hall.

After a minute, you say softly, “Do you want to talk about it?”

He shakes his head. “Not really.” Then, after a beat, more quietly: “But… thanks.”

You nod like you understand. You don’t push. You never push.

A few breaths later, you whisper, “Do you want me to stay?”

It’s such a small question. Just five words. But they hit him like a wave.

He nods. You do. You stay.

You draw your knees up onto the mattress, sitting beside him, the two of you framed by the pale streetlight that slips through the blinds. He’s still breathing hard, but slower now. The sound of your breathing next to his calm, even starts to pull him back down to earth.

You reach for his hand without looking, your fingers brushing his before you finally thread them together. Your skin is warm, steady. He stares down at your joined hands like it’s something he’s not supposed to have but can’t bear to give back.

Neither of you talks. You don’t need to. You’re just there your thumb tracing slow circles over the back of his hand, his chest rising and falling as he matches your rhythm.

The minutes blur.

At some point, you lean your head lightly against his shoulder. He freezes, then exhales slow, careful like even breathing too loudly might break whatever this is. His voice comes out a whisper: “Thank you.”

You don’t lift your head. Just smile softly. “Anytime.”

He turns slightly, eyes catching yours. The light from the window hits your face just enough that he can see the faintest curve of your smile, the way his hoodie swallows you whole, sleeves draped past your fingertips.

And that’s when it hits him.

Not just the affection not just the pull he’s been trying to deny but the full, devastating realization of it.

 He’s in love with you.

So completely, stupidly, terrifyingly in love with you that it feels like his heart’s too big for his chest.

He remembers the hotel room from your sister’s wedding — the way you’d looked at him when he had you pinned on the bed, laughing, breathless. How he’d pulled back, told himself it was better to keep the line between fake and real intact. He’d convinced himself it was restraint. That he didn’t love you, not like that.

But that was a lie.

He’d just been scared scared that if he kissed you then, he’d never be able to stop. That he’d fall for you completely and you’d see him for who he really was and realize he wasn’t worth it.

But here, in the quiet of his room, with your hand in his and your heartbeat echoing steady next to his, he knows it’s already too late.

He’s in love with you.

And for the first time, the truth doesn’t scare him it breaks him. Because you’re already slipping away.

The light hits first. Soft, gold, creeping through the blinds and spilling across the floor like it has no idea how fragile this morning is.

Bucky blinks himself awake, his brain slow to catch up, his body still heavy with leftover sleep. The first thing he registers is warmth someone warm pressed against his side. Then the soft smell of your shampoo, something floral and clean. Then the hand.

Your hand. Resting over his heart.

He looks down, and there you are. Curled against him like you’ve been there forever. Your face tucked against the fabric of his T-shirt, hair spilling over his chest. You’re breathing slow, steady. Peaceful. Like last night hadn’t cracked him open in ways he’s still trying to understand.

For a long, dangerous minute, he just lets himself have it.

 Lets himself believe this could be real.

That you’re here because you want to be, not because you heard him thrashing in a nightmare. That he could wake up like this every morning sunlight, your hair on his pillow, your hand over his heart.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t dare. Every exhale feels like borrowed time.

But then the thought slides in, cold and sharp:

 Fake. Temporary. Expiring soon.

The contract. The act. The timeline that’s always ticking somewhere in the background.

He swallows hard, the spell breaking. Carefully, he shifts out from beneath you, holding his breath as he lifts your hand and sets it gently against the pillow. You make a quiet noise in your sleep a soft, content sigh and it nearly undoes him.

He stands by the edge of the bed for a long time, just looking at you. There’s sunlight on your cheek, catching on the faint line of a tear track from last night. His hoodie is still draped over you, the sleeves hanging long. You look impossibly small in it.

Something tightens in his chest.

He wants to reach out. Wants to brush the hair from your face. Wants to crawl back into bed and pretend for five more minutes that none of this is borrowed.

Instead, he steps back.

By the time the clock hits nine, he’s pacing. Back and forth, over and over, like the movement might shake the noise out of his head. His heartbeat hasn’t slowed since he woke up.

How did she know?

The thought loops on repeat. He hadn’t told anyone about the nightmares. Not Steve. Not Sam. Not even in passing. He’d been careful keeping that part of him locked up tight. So how did you know?

He looks around his room like the walls might answer him.

You’d shown up without hesitation, like you just knew. Like something in you had recognized the sound of his breaking.

That thought scares him more than the nightmare did.

Because if you can see him that clearly if you can hear the cracks in him when he doesn’t even speak what happens when you realize what you’re looking at?

He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, groaning quietly.

 He’s in love with you. He knows it. He’s admitted it if only to himself.

 But you… you’re pulling away. You’ve been distant for weeks, and now you’re asleep in his bed, wearing his hoodie, and he can’t tell if it means anything or everything.

He stops pacing, staring at the floor.

You shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t have let you stay.

He tells himself that over and over, like it might make him believe it.

But every time he closes his eyes, all he sees is your hand resting over his heart. The soft, steady press of your palm against him, like you were reminding his body to keep going.

He runs a hand through his hair, frustration crackling under his skin.

He doesn’t want to pull away.

 He wants to tell you everything that the act stopped being an act weeks ago, that you’ve ruined him for anyone else, that every breath he takes feels heavier without you near.

But he can’t. He doesn’t know how.

So he does what he’s always done when he doesn’t know what to do.

He retreats.

By the time you stir awake, he’s sitting at his desk, pretending to read, heart still beating like he ran a marathon. You stretch, sleepy, a little disoriented.

“Morning,” you mumble, rubbing your eyes.

He looks up. Smiles small, careful. “Hey.”

And just like that, the distance is back.

 Thin, sharp, impossible to ignore.

You don’t notice the way his hands are shaking.

 You don’t notice the way he looks at you, like he’s already losing something he never had.

But he does. And for the rest of the day, the echo of your hand over his heart follows him everywhere.

It’s only been a few days, but they feel longer stretched and strange, like time’s gone soft around the edges.

 You see him in the hallway outside class, head down, hair a little messy, a crease between his brows like he hasn’t slept well again.

You shouldn’t care. You tell yourself you don’t. You tell yourself that giving him coffee is just… habit. Politeness. A leftover reflex from when you were still pretending.

But your hand still shakes when you offer it to him.

“Here.”

He blinks, caught off guard. The paper cup almost slips from his hand before he steadies it, fingers brushing yours for a split second too long. The warmth that jumps between you is ridiculous embarrassing and neither of you says anything about it.

“You didn’t have to,” he murmurs finally, voice low, rough around the edges.

“I wanted to.”

The words come out quiet, softer than you meant.

 He looks at you then, really looks, and something flickers across his face something like disbelief. Or maybe hope. Or maybe both.

You smile, small and tentative, and before he can answer, you’re already turning toward your seat.

He watches you walk away, coffee still warm in his hands, throat tight. Because that that tiny moment feels bigger than it should.

It’s nothing, really. A cup of coffee before class. Except it’s not nothing. Not to him.

And that’s when it hits him again, the way it always does when he least expects it:

 He’s ruined. Completely, irrevocably ruined.

Because the big things the fake dates, the shared jokes, the “pretend” relationship — he could handle those. But it’s the small things that destroy him.

The way you remember his order without asking. The way you say his name like it’s something soft. The way your eyes always find him before he’s ready.The way you still care, even when you’re trying not to.

By the next week, the silence between you has a pulse of its own.

 It follows him everywhere — between lectures, in the gym, even in the stupid cafeteria line where everything feels too bright and too loud.

You’re avoiding him. He’s avoiding you. But somehow you’re always in the same place anyway.

He spots you across the quad, sitting with Nat and Yelena, laughing at something on your phone. It should make him smile. Instead, it feels like someone’s dragging a match down his ribs.

You don’t look his way not once. You used to.

He tells himself it’s fine. That you’re busy. That maybe this is better, cleaner, safer.

But when you pass each other in the hallway and you glance up just once — before looking away so fast it feels like a flinch, it knocks the air right out of him.

Because now he knows why you’ve been distant. You’re scared.

And he gets it god, he does. He’s scared too. But knowing that doesn’t stop it from hurting.

Every time he catches your eye across a crowded room, something in his chest goes tight and hot. Every time you smile at someone else, he feels something sharp twist low in his stomach.

He laughs louder with Steve.

 Trains harder with Sam.

 Pretends he doesn’t see you in the library with your headphones on, pretending not to notice him.

But every night, when the noise of the day finally dies, it hits him again.

 That hollow ache where you used to be.

 That echo of something that was never supposed to feel this real.

He lies on his bed, staring at his phone, thumb hovering over your name.

Miss you.

 Can we talk?

 Please.

He types them, deletes them, types them again.

 He never sends them.

Because he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to anymore.

Because he doesn’t know if you even want him to.

And because the one thing that terrifies him more than losing you is finding out he already has.

It’s late.

 Campus is quiet in that half-asleep way  a few stray voices outside the library, the hum of a vending machine, the flicker of streetlights trying to stay awake.

Bucky isn’t supposed to be here. He told himself he’d go straight back to his dorm after the gym, maybe shower, maybe try to sleep. Instead, his feet carry him toward your building like they’ve learned the route by heart.

He keeps his hands in his pockets, head down, trying to pretend it’s coincidence.

 Just a walk.

 Just air.

 Just not being able to breathe in his own room anymore.

The sidewalk in front of your residence hall glows faintly under the lamps. He slows down without meaning to. He tells himself he’s not looking for your window.

Then he looks anyway.

Second floor, third from the right.

 The curtains are drawn, but the faintest line of yellow light spills through the gap.

You’re awake.

He should keep walking.

 He doesn’t.

He stands there for too long, trying to build a story in his head: maybe you’re studying, maybe you’re listening to music, maybe you’re thinking about anything but him.

 He hopes you are.

 He hopes you aren’t.

Because even now — after the awkward silences, the misread glances, the distance that feels like punishment you’re still the first thought that hits him every morning and the last before he falls asleep.

 You’ve worked yourself into every quiet part of his life. The spaces between things. The coffee runs, the half-songs he hums under his breath, the way he checks his phone before class like it might suddenly light up with your name again.

It’s pathetic, maybe.

 He doesn’t care.

He’s lived through worse things than heartbreak, or so he tells himself.

 But this isn’t heartbreak not yet. It’s the waiting before the fall. The slow recognition that something beautiful is slipping through his fingers and he can’t even name it out loud.

He presses his palm against the cool metal of the stair railing, staring up at that faint light.

 He wants to climb up there, knock on your door, say something  anything — to break whatever this is between you.

But he doesn’t.

 Because what if you open the door and look at him like he’s a stranger? What if the pretending was easier for you?

He lets out a breath, sharp and quiet, fogging the air in front of him.

The truth is simple and awful:

 Bucky Barnes can survive exhaustion, nightmares, loneliness. He can rebuild himself a hundred times over.

But the idea of losing you of never getting to say that he isn’t pretending anymore, that he hasn’t been for a long time

That’s the thing that might finally break him.

He looks up one last time, heart knocking against his ribs, then turns back toward the dark campus.

Tomorrow, he tells himself.

 Tomorrow he’ll fix it.

He doesn’t know that tomorrow is exactly when everything will fall apart.

The hallway outside the student center hums with late-afternoon noise—doors slamming, sneakers squeaking against tile, muffled laughter echoing from the lounge.

 You’re on your way out when you hear his voice.

At first, it’s just background sound. Then you hear your name.

You stop.

The crack of a vending-machine door closing. Then Bucky again, lower this time, talking to Steve.

The words hit like a shove.

You weren’t even trying to listen.

You almost turned to wave, until you caught your name followed by a laugh that didn’t sound like him.

“Man, it’s not real. The whole thing. It was just supposed to be for the wedding…help her out, that’s all.”

The air punched out of your lungs.

 For a second, everything went silent Steve’s soft “you sure about that?” blurred behind the ringing in your ears.

 And Bucky, with that nervous chuckle he used when he didn’t know what else to say, added quietly:

“Yeah. It’s not real.”

You walked away before he could explain. Before he could ruin it further or make it better.

It shouldn’t hurt, because he was right. It wasn’t real.

 But you had gone and made it real anyway.

By the time Bucky leaves the building, you’re gone. And that’s how the silence starts.

You tell yourself you’re just giving him space. But the truth is uglier you’re protecting yourself.

You stop answering his texts right away.

 When he lingers outside your class, you duck out a different door.

 When he sends a meme at 2 a.m., the kind he used to know would make you laugh, you leave him on read.

You skip the coffee place you both like.

When he sits beside you in class, you keep your eyes on your notes, pretend not to notice when he shifts restlessly next to you.

And when you do see him at the gym, across the dining hall you keep your smile polite and short, like he’s just another face.

But he notices.

 He always notices.

At first he doesn’t get it. Then he does and it eats at him.

He’s unraveling.

It starts with the small things your empty seat beside him in lecture, the way your name never lights up his phone anymore.

He tells Steve it’s fine, that you’re just busy, but the words taste like a lie. He can feel it in his chest the ache that sits there like a bruise every time he thinks of you.

And that day by the quad, when he spots you laughing with Yelena, something in him snaps a little.

He crosses the grass before he even decides to.

“Did I do something?”

You blink up, startled. “Bucky..what?”

“You’ve been dodging me all week.” His voice is tight, half-anger, half-fear. “You used to, I don’t know actually talk to me.”

“I’ve just been busy,” you say, the lie trembling at the edges.

“Busy doing what? Avoiding me?”

You flinch. “Why do you even care? I thought this was all fake, remember?”

The words hit him harder than you meant them to. He freezes. The color drains from his face. His expression flickers, shock, then guilt, then the desperate need to fix it without knowing how.

“That’s not what I—” He stops, drags a hand through his hair. “You heard that.”

“Then what did you mean?” you shoot back. “Because it sounded pretty damn clear.”

He runs a hand through his hair, breath coming sharp. “It’s complicated, alright? This. whatever this is, it wasn’t supposed to get messy.”

Your laugh is short, brittle. “Messy? You mean real?”

He looks at you then really looks and you see it, the panic behind his eyes, the way he’s fighting himself.

“It wasn’t like that,” he says finally, voice rough. “I was just…Steve was asking questions. I panicked. I didn’t mean—”

“Didn’t mean what?” you shoot back. “Didn’t mean that every time you touched me was pretend? That every time you looked at me like I was something more, it was just practice?”

His jaw flexes. “You think I could fake that?”

“Then what was it, Bucky?” Your voice breaks. “Because I can’t keep doing this if it’s all one-sided.”

“You weren’t supposed to actually care!” he blurts, louder than he means to. The words hang in the air, harsh and wild.

You stare at him, eyes shining. “But I do.”

It’s barely a whisper, but it lands between you like a thunderclap. Cracked.

 Final.

And suddenly, he looks terrified like you’ve just said the one thing he’s been dying to hear and can’t handle it.

For a heartbeat, no one moves.

 The courtyard noise fades, the air goes thin.

 He looks wrecked like he’s hearing something he’s wanted for weeks but can’t let himself believe.

Then he breaks eye contact. Steps back. Shakes his head, mutters something that sounds like I can’t.

He tries to say your name, but the words die in his throat.

“Forget it,” you whisper, You bite your lip hard enough to taste blood, swallow the rest of what you want to say, and turn before he can see you cry.

He doesn’t stop you.

He wants to. God, he wants to. But all he can do is stand there, jaw clenched, every word he didn’t say burning a hole in his throat.

He stands there long after you’re gone, the world moving around him. People pass, voices echo, and he just stares at the spot where you were standing.

He should run after you. He should tell you that you’re wrong that he meant the opposite, that “it’s not real” was the lie, and you are the only thing that feels real anymore.

But all that comes out is air. He shoves his hands into his hoodie pocket, head down, heart pounding like it’s trying to break through his ribs.

He tells himself he’ll fix it tomorrow. That there’s still time.

But tomorrow never comes the way you think it will.

You lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, the darkness in your room swallowing you whole. Your hands fidget with the edge of your blanket like it could somehow anchor you, keep you grounded, stop your thoughts from spinning.

Why did you say that? Why didn’t you just text him, tell him you were hurt? Your chest feels like it’s being squeezed by invisible hands. Every little thing flashes in your mind: the weight of his gaze, the laugh that caught your heart, the small, perfect ways he always noticed you. And then… the fight.

The words replay like a broken record.

"You weren’t supposed to actually care!"

"But I do!"

You flinch as if you can feel them again. The room feels too quiet. The world outside your window is still. He’s out there, pacing maybe, thinking the same thing. Thinking he lost you.

Your phone buzzes, and for a second you hope it’s him. But it’s Yelena a meme, a joke about your “emotional disaster hours.” You laugh quietly through the sting. It’s not enough. It’s never enough.

Your mind drifts to him. Bucky. James Buchanan Barnes. That stupid, infuriating, perfect boy who’s the reason your heart won’t stop racing, even when he thinks you’re pulling away. You clutch your pillow like it’s him, like it can fill the empty space where he should be.

And as sleep creeps in reluctantly, the last thought before your eyes close is brutal: I think I’m in love with him. I think it’s too late for him to feel the same.

He’s lying on his dorm bed, hands fisted, staring at the ceiling. The fight plays over and over in his head. His jaw aches from clenching it, and his chest feels tight in a way that punches through every rational thought.

"But I do!"

Why didn’t he say anything? Why didn’t he stop her before she left? His mind spirals, torturous. You were upset no, crushed  and he couldn’t stop it. And it’s his fault. Every ounce of it.

He replays small moments: the curve of your smile when you thought no one was looking, the way you leaned into him on the couch, the small laugh that always felt like sunlight. And that kiss… that stupid, impossible kiss in the hot tub.

His chest tightens. He’s not supposed to love you. He can’t. It’s a contract. It’s fake. And yet, every nerve in his body screams that it isn’t fake at all. He feels it in the way his heart races when you’re near. He feels it in the quiet ache when you aren’t.

He wants to text you. He wants to scream your name across campus. He wants to knock on your door and beg for one more moment, one more look. But he can’t. Pride. Fear. Contract. Fake.

And so he lays there, staring at the ceiling, hands trembling slightly. His last thought before sleep teases the edges of consciousness: I don’t want to pretend anymore. I don’t want it to be fake. I love her. God, I’m in love with her.

The week had been a living nightmare. Both of you had been circling each other like moons, close enough to feel the gravity, but never touching, never speaking beyond the bare minimum. The silence, the fake smiles, the cold texts it was exhausting, and everyone around you could see it.

Nat cornered you one evening in the lounge, arms crossed, eyebrows arched so sharply it could’ve been a weapon.

“You are officially the dumbest human I know,” she said, eyes narrowing. “Do you even realize what’s happening?”

“What are you talking about?” you mumbled, trying to sink into the couch as far as possible.

“Don’t play dumb,” she snapped. “You’ve been pining around like a sad little puppy while he’s been sitting there looking like he’s about to implode because he loves you. And you yes, you are pretending it’s all fine!”

You blinked. “I… what?”

Nat threw her hands in the air. “You heard me! He fell first! And you? You’re acting like it’s just a stupid contract!”

Meanwhile, Sam had Bucky pinned in the corner of the gym earlier that day. Arms crossed, smirk plastered on his face, he looked like a general about to deliver battle orders.

“You’re the only one who doesn’t see it,” he said. “Seriously. She’s staring at you all week like she’s auditioning for a rom-com staring role, and you… you’re just here, looking confused and broody.”

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, running a hand through his hair, trying to act casual. “I… what?”

“You heard me,” Sam said, pointing a finger at him. “You’re acting like it’s nothing, but it’s everything. You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”

Bucky froze, throat suddenly dry. “I—uh…”

“Exactly,” Sam said, smirking triumphantly. “I knew it.”

Nat leaned closer to you again, voice dropping. “Look, this is your last chance before you both implode in a terrible, dramatic mess. Just talk to him. For once, don’t be stupid.”

You swallowed hard, heart hammering. Her words had a way of cutting right through your stubborn denial. And she wasn’t wrong you had been pretending it was all just a game, but the week had proven it wasn’t. Your stomach flipped every time he looked at you. Your chest ached every time you realized he’d noticed your distance, your small pullbacks.

Bucky, meanwhile, sat on the edge of the bench, hands clenching, internal panic roaring. He’d been waiting for someone anyone to tell him that he wasn’t alone in this, that you felt the same way. And now… his friends were basically screaming it at him.

He finally muttered, voice low, almost to himself: “I… I can’t keep pretending anymore.”

Nat smirked, triumphant. “Finally. Thank God.”

Sam nodded toward you. “And you. Time to stop acting like it’s all fine. You’re both miserable and everyone can see it.”

The room fell silent for a beat. The words hung between you like sparks. And in that quiet, messy, perfect pause, you both realized that there was no going back. The pretense had cracked. The walls were down. And maybe just maybe the confession that had been simmering under the surface for weeks was ready to finally escape.

The night had a hush to it, quiet as if the campus itself was holding its breath. You were curled up on your dorm couch, hoodie too big, hair in a messy braid falling over your shoulder, scrolling through your phone to distract yourself from the emptiness that had lodged itself in your chest since the fight. The argument still burned fresh: your words, his words, everything unsaid and misunderstood.  headphones in, scrolling through your phone to avoid thinking about him until Nat’s message popped up: “Do it already. Both of you look like sad puppies and it’s killing me.”

And then, a knock hesitant, almost timid.

You froze, heartbeat kicking up like a drum.

Bucky stood outside your dorm, clutching a lopsided bouquet that looked like it had survived a hurricane and a bag of your favorite snacks that was already starting to tear at the corners. He took a deep breath, muttering to himself, “Okay… okay… you can do this.”

He knocked. Awkward. Hesitant.The door creaked, and there he was. Bucky, he looked like he’d just walked through a storm. Hair damp from a rushed shower earlier, his expression raw and awkward in the soft dorm light. In his hands, a crumpled bouquet of flowers that definitely didn’t match and a paper bag bulging with snacks you loved, the kind you always grabbed when no one was watching.

“Hi,” he said. Just… hi. And somehow, that was enough to make your chest ache.

“Hey,” you breathed, suddenly aware of every ridiculous little detail. His hands were trembling slightly. His jacket smelled faintly like him, comforting and electric all at once.

“Can I come in?”  he asked, voice rougher than normal, like he’d been swallowing it down for weeks. 

You blinked. Opened the door anyway. Because… he was here. Really here. And that was all that mattered.

He stepped in, awkwardly kicking off his shoes. He held up the flowers. “I… um… I brought these.” The petals were slightly crushed. “They’re… uh… supposed to be for you.”

You smiled, heart already betraying you. “They’re… perfect.”

“No, wait.” He dropped the flowers on the counter before you could grab them, then reached for the bag of snacks. “And your… uh… favorite snacks. I thought… maybe… you know… for after… or during… or whenever.” His words stumbled over themselves like they were tripping over the weight of his feelings.

You laughed softly. “Bucky… you’re a mess.”

“I’m serious!” He exclaimed, He was leaning against the wall like he needed support, and the bag of snacks landed with a soft thud at your feet. His eyes met yours, and the vulnerability there so unguarded, so real knocked you off balance.. “I mean… I look. I can’t pretend anymore. None of it. The contract, the jokes, theeverything. I’m done pretending, okay?”

You blinked, heart hammering. “Okay…?”

“No! I mean no, listen. I don’t want to pretend. Not with you. Because, God…” He ran a hand through his hair, “Because none of it was pretending for me. None of it.”

You swallowed, chest tight. “Bucky… I—”

He leaned closer, eyes searching yours like he was trying to memorize every inch of your face before reality caught up. “I don’t know what I’m doing right now. I just… I’ve loved you since… since the hotel, since the wedding, since—” He exhaled sharply. “Since forever. And it’s like… I can’t stop, even if I wanted to. And maybe I shouldn’t want to. But the point is—”

The room felt smaller, warmer, the weight of his words pressing into your chest. You couldn’t speak at first. All the tears you’d been holding back  from jealousy, from fear, from months of pretending  pooled in your eyes.

“The point is?” you whispered, breath catching.

“The point is I can’t get you out of my head. I can’t. I… I love you. I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I do. I love you. And I can’t—won’tlet this just end like it was nothing. Because it’s everything. You’re everything.”

There was silence after that. Heavy, electric, like the world had shrunk to just the two of you.

You blinked, breathless, tears pricking your eyes. “Bucky…”

He took a hesitant step closer. “So… the practice kiss? Can we… try again?”

Your laugh was breathless, choked with relief and disbelief. “Try again?”

He smirked softly, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. “Yeah… the practice one. Not… not anything else. Just… to make sure we’re, uh… coordinated?”

And then he leaned in. Tentatively at first, a feather-light brush of lips that made your knees weak. But as soon as your lips met his, everything shifted the weight of the last weeks, the fights, the silence, the almost-kisses, the secret moments it all collapsed into that kiss.

It was messy, imperfect, but perfect in its rawness. His hands framed your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks, fingers tangled in your braid. Your hands curled into his hair, clinging like it might anchor you to him, to this moment.

When you pulled back, breathless, foreheads pressed together, the smile on his face was tentative, scared, hopeful all at once, he whispered, “See? Not pretending. Not anymore. None of it.”

You smiled through your tears. “My idiot.”

He laughed, the sound ragged, joyous, and entirely his. “Your idiot. Forever.”

He laughed softly, brushing his thumb over your cheek, and the moment was quiet, sweet, messy, perfect.

The confession wasn’t neat, it wasn’t timed perfectly, it wasn’t cinematic but it was them. Stupidly devoted to each other, hopelessly in love, and finally, finally, it was real.

He leans down, his lips pressing against yours in a slow, lingering kiss. It's not the hurried, desperate kiss of the hotel.

 this is different. This is the kind of kiss that lasts, that feels like a promise. His hands move to your hair, fingers tangling in the strands, pulling you closer.

 The pressure is gentle, but it's unmistakable it's the kind of kiss that makes you forget everything except the way he tastes, the way his hands feel, the way his heart is beating against yours.

Bucky’s laughter faded on your lips, replaced by a hungry urgency. The next kiss was rougher, his tongue sliding into your mouth, making you gasp. His hands were everywhere cupping your jaw, sliding into your hair, tracing your spine through the thick cotton of your hoodie. You tugged him closer, thighs parting so he could settle between them, the hard line of his sweats pressing right against your center.

You felt his breath stutter when you rocked up against him, desperate for friction. He groaned, low and broken, grinding down against you in a slow, searching roll of his hips. The heat of him through your shorts and his sweats was electric, desperate, everything you’d been aching for since that night in the hotel the night you both pretended you could stop wanting each other.

Now, there was no need to stop. Your hands slipped under his shirt, nails raking lightly over his skin. He caught your bottom lip between his teeth, then soothed it with his tongue, kissing you harder as his hips rolled again, pressing his cock against your clothed core. The friction sent sparks shooting through you, your hips chasing his, breath coming faster.

“God,” he muttered between kisses, “missed this missed youso fucking much.”

You whimpered, fingers fisting in his hair, rolling your hips up to meet his thrust for thrust. Each slow grind stoked the fire inside you higher, your body straining for more. You could feel how hard he was for you, how much he wanted you, and it made you bold.

Your hands slipped down, tugging desperately at his sweats. He broke the kiss, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard.

“Wait let me—” he panted, and then he was tugging at your shorts, sliding them past your hips with shaking hands. His mouth never left yours for long kissing you deep and slow, tongue tangling with yours, until you were dizzy from lack of air and full of nothing but him.

When your shorts were gone and his sweats followed, leaving him in just his boxers and you in your panties and hoodie, he pressed back into you, groaning as your bodies met again bare skin to bare skin, only a thin layer of fabric separating you now.

 He thrust forward, cock rubbing right against your slick heat through the fabric, the pressure intoxicating.

“Fuck, baby,” he gasped, grinding against you in long, slow strokes. “Feel what you do to me? Been wanting you for so long—”

You answered with another roll of your hips, your head falling back as pleasure built between your legs. He ducked down, lips tracing your jaw, your neck, sucking a bruise at the base of your throat that made you cry out. His hands cupped your ass, pulling you tighter against him, grinding his length against your soaked panties.

The air was thick with your moans and his ragged breaths, the wet sound of your bodies grinding together, the urgency building to a fever pitch.

“Bucky,” you moaned, voice trembling. “Please.”

He growled softly, kissing you again before trailing his mouth down along your throat, across your collarbone, then down to your breasts. He shoved your hoodie up, popped the clasp of your bra with fumbling hands, and then his mouth was everywhere licking, sucking, nipping your nipples until you arched off the couch.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” he whispered into your skin.

He started to move lower, kissing a heated path down your stomach, pausing to worship every inch exposed to him. Then he was kneeling on the floor between your legs, big hands gripping your thighs, pushing them apart. He kissed the inside of one, then the other, working slowly up toward where you needed him most.

You shivered as his nose brushed over your panties, hovering right over your clit. He inhaled deeply, eyes flicking up to meet yoursso dark and hungry you almost came right there.

“Already so wet for me,” he murmured, voice wrecked.

He pressed a soft kiss to the damp fabric, letting his nose nudge against your clit just enough to make you gasp. Then he hooked a finger under the waistband and dragged your panties down slow, eyes never leaving yours.

When he finally had you bare, Bucky groaned, gripping your thighs and spreading you open. He didn’t waste any more time. His mouth descended, hot and hungry and desperate, tongue dragging a long stripe from your entrance to your clit. You bucked against him, hands flying to his hair as he licked you again, then closed his lips around your clit and sucked.

“Oh god—Bucky” you sobbed, thighs quivering.

He devoured you like he’d been starving, tongue swirling over your clit, then dipping into your entrance, then back up to suck and flick at the bundle of nerves until your vision blurred. He moaned into you, the sound vibrating through your whole body.

One of his hands slid up, two fingers circling your entrance before pressing inside slowly at first, then deeper. You clenched around him, keening as he curled his fingers just right, finding that spot that made you see stars.

He pumped his fingers in and out while his tongue never stopped working your clit licking, sucking, slurping until you were writhing under him, hips jerking up to meet every thrust.

His fingers move inside you, slow and deliberate, his touch gentle but firm, like he’s trying to make sure he’s not rushing, like he’s taking his time to savor every moment. You feel the way he’s been holding back, the way he’s finally here, the way your bodies are moving together, the way your breaths mingle, the way your moans echo in the quiet of the room.

“Come for me,” he growled against your skin. “Wanna taste you—wanna feel you fall apart on my tongue—”

It was too much; you broke with a cry, body shuddering, clenching around his fingers, his name tumbling from your lips as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you.

Bucky didn’t let up he kept licking you through it, slow and gentle now, easing you down. When you finally relaxed, boneless and panting, he pressed one last kiss to your thigh and looked up at you with a swollen mouth and glassy eyes.

“Still okay?” he asked, voice rough.

You reached down, pulled him up by the front of his boxers, and kissed him hard, tasting yourself on his tongue.

“More than okay,” you whispered.

His grin was wicked as he shed the last of his clothes and reached for you.

You reached for him, tugging him up, needing his mouth on yours again, and he obliged, kissing you deeply, his body pressed to yours, skin slick with heat. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, gasping when you felt him against you, just the thin fabric of his boxers separating you.

He ground against you, slow and delicious, making your nerves spark. You pushed his boxers down, hands shaking, and he helped, finally baring himself. He paused, breath ragged, forehead pressed to yours.

He lined up, pausing, searching your face.

“This okay?” he asked again, voice so gentle it almost broke you.

You cupped his cheek. “Yes. Please, Bucky.”

And then he pushed in, slow and careful. The stretch was delicious, perfect, filling you in a way that made your head spin. He pressed his lips to your forehead, breathing hard.

“God,” he whispered, “you feel—so good—”

You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him closer, wanting all of him. He rocked into you, slow at first, letting you adjust, letting you both feel every inch, every little shift. You moaned, rolling your hips up to meet him, and he groaned, mouth finding yours again.

He picked up the pace, thrusts growing deeper, more desperate. Your bodies moved together, sweat-slicked and frantic, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge. He muttered your name over and over, like a prayer, like a promise.

You clawed at his back, nails digging in just enough to make him gasp, and he buried his face in your neck, teeth scraping over your skin.

“I love you,” he panted. “God, I love you, I love you—”

Bucky's body pressed against yours, every inch of him radiating heat as he captured your gaze, his blue eyes dark with desire. His hands gripped your hips tightly, his fingers digging into your flesh possessively, anchoring you to him as he began to move.

With each thrust, he drove into you with a primal urgency, the sounds of skin slapping against skin echoing in the dimly lit room.

 The rhythm of his hips snapping against yours was intoxicating, a steady drumbeat that sent waves of pleasure coursing through your body. Each deep thrust made you gasp, your breath hitching in your throat as he filled you completely, stretching you just right.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his voice low and gravelly, laced with a mix of pleasure and desperation. Bucky’s breath came in quick bursts, matching the cadence of his movements as he pounded into you, his powerful body dominating yours. The sound of his skin meeting yours was like music a tantalizing symphony of slickness and raw need.

You felt the coil of pleasure tightening within you, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge. He leaned down, his mouth brushing against your ear, sending shivers down your spine. “You like that, don’t you?” he rasped, his hot breath making you clench around him. “You feel so good wrapped around me.”

The filthy words only fueled your desire, and you could only nod in response, lost in the overwhelming sensations. Bucky pulled back slightly, only to thrust deeper, hitting that sweet spot that made you cry out in pleasure. “That’s it,” he urged, his voice thick with lust. “Let me hear you.”

You moaned loudly, the sound echoing around you, unable to contain the ecstasy building within. Bucky grinned at your response, using it as fuel to drive him even harder. Each snap of his hips sent shockwaves of pleasure through you, your body responding eagerly to his every movement.

The heat between you was palpable, and as he quickened his pace, the sounds of your bodies mingled a chorus of heavy breathing, soft whimpers, and the slick noises of him entering you again and again. It was a primal dance, one that spoke of raw need and unrestrained passion.

“God, you’re perfect,” he murmured, his eyes locked onto yours, searching for any sign of discomfort but finding only bliss. He adjusted his angle, hitting deeper and harder, and you cried out, the waves of pleasure crashing over you as he took you higher and higher.

“Come for me,” he commanded, his words a sensual command that you couldn’t resist. The tension coiled tighter within you until finally, with a fierce thrust, he pushed you over the edge.

Your body convulsed around him as pleasure rippled through you, the world fading away as you surrendered to the intensity of the moment.

You tumbled over the edge, crying out, body shaking with release, pleasure ripping through you in waves.

 Bucky followed you into oblivion, his own release spilling inside you as he groaned your name, the sound sending another shiver of pleasure down your spine. He collapsed beside you, both of you breathless and spent, the room still echoing with the remnants of your shared ecstasy.

When it was over, he collapsed against you, both of you breathless and shaking, clinging to each other in the quiet aftermath.

He kissed your cheek, your jaw, your temple, whispering I love you, I love you, I love you until you were smiling through tears, your heart so full it hurt.

And for the first time, it wasn’t pretend. It was real. All of it.

The next morning feels different. Lighter.

You wake tangled in his hoodie and the scent of coffee he clearly tried—and failed—to brew quietly. When he catches you watching him from the couch, he gives a sheepish grin that says yeah, this is real now, isn’t it?

By the time you both walk into the campus café, hand brushing hand, the air already feels different.

 Everyone knows.

Nat’s the first to spot it the way Bucky hovers just a little too close, like he’s not ready to let you out of arm’s reach.

 Her eyes widen, and then she actually chokes on her coffee.

“Oh my god,” she sputters, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “You did it.”

Bucky blinks, clueless. “Did what?”

“Each other!” Nat declares, loud enough that the barista at the counter looks over. “You finally stopped being emotionally constipated!”

You drop your face into your hands. “Natasha—”

Sam leans back in his chair, grinning like the cat who stole the cream. “Nah, let her talk. I’ve been waiting for this since the fake dating contract of doom started.” He gestures between you and Bucky with his spoon. “You, my man, were down bad since week two. Don’t even try to deny it.”

Bucky tries, weakly. “I—what? No, I wasn’t—”

Steve laughs, that low, knowing sound that says I told you so. “You literally asked me one night if it was normal to think about someone twenty-four-seven. What did you think that meant?”

Bucky groans and drops his forehead to the table. “You people are the worst.”

Nat sips her drink, smug. “No, we’re the truth bringers. And for the record, I called it first.”

You’re hiding behind your latte, trying to suppress your smile, but the warmth in your chest gives you away.

 When Bucky finally looks up hair a mess, cheeks pink, eyes soft you catch him smiling too.

Nat, of course, notices.

 “Oh, look at that,” she teases, pulling out her phone. “Our little grump is blushing. This is going straight to the group chat.”

“Nat,” Bucky warns.

“Smile for the scrapbook!”

“Natasha.”

Click.

Sam laughs so hard he almost spills his coffee. “Man, if this doesn’t end in wedding speeches, I’m asking for my emotional investment back.”

Steve raises his cup. “To the world’s slowest burn.”

You roll your eyes but clink your mug anyway, and Bucky still red, still smiling clinks his against yours too.

It’s chaotic, embarrassing, and loud in all the ways your little friend group always is.

 But underneath the teasing, there’s something soft and steady.

 They’re happy for you really happy.

 And for the first time, you don’t feel like you have to hide it.

Later that night, your phone lights up on the coffee table: Mom 💐.

You groan quietly, half tempted to ignore it, but Bucky nudges your knee from where he’s sitting beside you on the couch.

 “Go on,” he murmurs. “Could be important.”

You shoot him a look. “You just want to hear the chaos.”

He grins lazy, smug, completely unbothered. “Maybe.”

You swipe to answer anyway. “Hey, Mom.”

Your mother’s voice bursts through the speaker, bright and already halfway into conversation.

 “Sweetheart, your father and I just got the pictures from your sister’s wedding oh, honey, they’re beautiful!”

You smile a little, shifting so Bucky can’t quite see your face. “Yeah?”

“Oh yes,” she continues, sighing dreamily. “Especially the ones of you and that handsome young man what’s his name again? Oh! Bucky! Such a strong name. He looked so handsome next to you. And those eyes! He has the kindest eyes, dear.”

You can practically feel Bucky freeze beside you.

 When you glance at him, he’s doing a terrible job of pretending not to listen shoulders tense, gaze fixed very intently on the muted TV screen like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. You bite back a laugh.

“Yeah,” you say softly, eyes lingering on the slope of his jaw, the way his hair curls a little where it’s still damp.

 “He really is.”

Your mom hums approvingly. “You two photograph beautifully. Honestly, your aunt thought you were engaged. I told her not yet, but soon, maybe—”

“Mom!” you hiss, mortified.

Bucky’s shoulders start shaking. You elbow him hard, which only makes him laugh harder quietly, behind his hand.

Your mom keeps going, oblivious. “Well, we’d certainly support it if it ever happens. He was so polite, and your father said he has a very good handshake.”

You groan. “Why does that even matter?”

“Character, sweetheart. A firm handshake shows character.”

You glance at Bucky again, who’s now mouthing ‘firm handshake’ at you with a teasing grin. You throw a pillow at him. He catches it effortlessly and hides his laugh behind it.

Your mom’s voice softens then, almost shy.

 “I just want you to be happy, honey. And you seemed… really happy that weekend. Like yourself again.”

Something in your chest loosens. You look over at Bucky, who’s still smiling but this time, it’s softer, smaller.

 Real.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “I was.”

There’s a long pause, the kind that says everything words can’t.

When you finally hang up, Bucky’s still watching you, eyes warm.

 “So…” he says, tilting his head. “Engaged, huh?”

You toss the pillow at him again, cheeks hot. “Don’t start.”

He catches it again and smirks. “Hey, your mom’s got good taste.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart’s doing that fluttery, too-fast thing again.

 And for once, you don’t fight it.

Because this time, it isn’t fake.

One evening, the world feels small in the best way.

Rain whispers against the window steady, rhythmic. The kind of sound that makes everything feel softer, closer. The lights are dim, the room smelling faintly like coffee and laundry detergent. A movie hums on the laptop screen, subtitles rolling because neither of you is really watching it.

You’re sitting cross-legged on his bed, wrapped in one of his hoodies. The sleeves hang past your hands, and the fabric smells like his soap and the faint trace of cedar that clings to all his clothes.

Bucky’s stretched out beside you, leaning back against the headboard, hair still damp from his shower. When you start to shift closer, he automatically opens an arm, wordless invitation. You settle there without thinking, your cheek pressed to his chest, his heart beating slow and steady beneath your ear.

For a while, neither of you speak. The rain fills the silence for you.

He toys absently with the drawstring of your hoodie his hoodie twisting it between his fingers like it’s something precious.

 “You stole this on purpose,” he murmurs, voice low, lazy.

“You left it in my room,” you say, not even bothering to open your eyes.

“Uh-huh.” His tone is pure disbelief. “Sure I did.”

You tilt your head just enough to glance up at him. “You did. And finders keepers, Barnes.”

He smiles crooked, fond, unstoppable. “Guess I’m not getting it back, then.”

“Guess not,” you whisper, smiling into the fabric.

He chuckles quietly, the sound vibrating against your ear. “You know, it’s not fair. You steal all my hoodies, but I can’t steal yours.”

You glance up at him again, grin spreading. “Because you’d stretch them out. Your fault for being built like a linebacker.”

Bucky mock-sighs, dramatic. “Tragic.”

“Devastating,” you reply, voice drowsy.

He laughs again, softer this time, and tugs you a little closer until you’re half sprawled over him. 

For a moment, everything feels impossibly still. Like the whole world’s stopped just to let you breathe.

He brushes a strand of hair away from your face, thumb grazing your cheek. The touch makes your chest ache in the best way gentle, certain, real.

Then he leans down, presses the lightest kiss to your forehead.

 “Guess we’ve been dating for real all along,” he murmurs.

You look up at him, eyes soft, heart full. “Guess so.”

He smiles, that tiny, bashful one that never fails to undo you. “Good. ‘Cause I don’t think I could stop if I tried.”

You nestle back into his chest, listening to the quiet rhythm of his breathing, the soft thud of his heart beneath your palm.

Outside, the rain keeps falling. Inside, everything is calm no pretending, no misunderstandings, no contract.

 Just you, him, and the kind of silence that feels like home.

You’re curled up on his bed, laptop balanced between you, the blue light washing over both of your faces. Bucky’s half-reclined against the wall, sleeves pushed up, hair damp from his shower. You’ve got a blanket thrown across your legs and a bowl of popcorn resting dangerously close to his metal hand.

“Okay,” you say, scrolling through the streaming options. “I’m feeling something classic.”

He raises a brow. “Classic like what?”

You grin, already knowing he’s going to fight you on it. “The Princess Diaries.”

He groans like you’ve just suggested watching paint dry. “No. Absolutely not. I’m not watching a movie about tiaras and makeovers.”

You gasp dramatically. “Excuse me, a cinematic masterpiece about self-discovery and royal lineage, thank you very much.”

“Same difference,” he mutters, reaching for a handful of popcorn. “We’re watching Jaws.”

You stare at him. “Jaws? You want to watch a movie about a shark that eats people?”

“Correction,” he says, grinning now, “a giant shark that eats people. It’s art.”

You throw a piece of popcorn at him. “You’re impossible.”

He catches it, smirks. “You love it.”

You roll your eyes, pretending to scroll again. “You’d rather watch a man get eaten than Mia Thermopolis learn how to rule Genovia?”

“Exactly.”

You narrow your eyes. “You know what? I don’t even believe you. You totally love The Princess Diaries.”

“Do not,” he lies instantly, too fast.

You squint. “You hesitated.”

“I did not!”

You lean forward, suspicious. “You know what, fine. Pick something you think is better.”

He leans back, pretending to think deeply. Then, deadpan:

 “I’d rather watch The Lizzie McGuire Movie.”

You blink at him. “You’d rather watch The Lizzie McGuire Movie? Like, ‘Hey now, hey now, this is what dreams are made of?’ That one?”

He shrugs, trying not to laugh. “Yup.”

“Wow. Didn’t peg you for a Gordo sympathizer.”

He smirks. “Maybe I’ve got range.”

You grin. “Fine. We’ll watch The Lizzie McGuire Movie then.”

His head snaps up. “Wait—what? I was joking.”

You’re already clicking play. “Too late. No take backs.”

“(groans) Doll, come on—”

“Nope,” you sing-song. “You said it yourself.”

He sighs dramatically, muttering something about “the things I do for love,” as the opening credits begin to roll. You settle back against him, the blanket shifting so it covers both of you.

Five minutes in, you catch him humming along to the soundtrack.

You nudge him with your elbow. “You like this.”

He shakes his head, eyes on the screen. “Nope.”

“You’re smiling.”

“That’s just my face.”

You laugh quietly, and when he looks down at you eyes soft, corners of his mouth lifting the movie is suddenly secondary.

Because somehow, between the popcorn and the teasing and the ridiculous soundtrack, this tiny moment feels like home.

The movie ends, but neither of you moves.

The credits roll, washing the room in soft light that flickers across your faces. The rain outside has mellowed to a steady hum, the kind that feels like a heartbeat against the window. The air smells faintly of popcorn and rain and the kind of comfort that only comes when you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

You’re still curled against him, your fingers tangled with his. He’s tracing lazy circles on your arm with his thumb absent, gentle, like he’s memorizing you by touch alone.

“Y’know,” he murmurs after a while, voice low and rough from disuse, “I’ve been thinking…”

You hum against his chest, not even opening your eyes. “Dangerous.”

He laughs softly. “Yeah, yeah. But hear me out.”

You tilt your head just enough to glance up at him. His hair’s a mess, curling a little at the ends, and his hoodie’s half-zipped, collarbone peeking out. He looks relaxed in a way he almost never does like he’s let his guard down completely, just for you.

“That contract of ours,” he says finally, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I think it expired weeks ago.”

You blink up at him, a tiny smile tugging at your lips. “You sure about that?”

He nods once, slow and sure. His hand slides down to rest over yours, fingers tightening just a little. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

For a second, you just look at each other. It’s quiet, but it’s the kind of quiet that says everything. All the almosts, all the things left unsaid, all the “just pretending” that never really was.

And then you laugh soft, warm, a little breathless. “Guess we missed the part where we were supposed to stop.”

He smiles, small but certain. “Guess so.”

You reach up, tucking a piece of hair behind his ear, fingertips brushing his jaw.

 The tension that’s lived between you for months finally breaks, not with fireworks or music, but something simpler relief.

And when you kiss him, it’s slow and sure and real. Not a performance. Not a deal. Not an accident.

Just you and him, choosing each other.

Outside, campus lights flicker through the rain, and somewhere down the hall someone laughs the world carrying on, oblivious.

But in this little room, it’s simple.

 Two idiots, finally on the same page.

 Finally letting themselves be happy.

It starts with a joke.

You’re sprawled across his couch, half-eaten takeout boxes between you, when you say, “So, if we were actually dating which we are now, technically what would our first date be?”

He doesn’t even look up from his carton of noodles. “Easy. Arcade. I’d destroy you at skee-ball.”

You snort. “Please, I’d win you a stuffed shark before you even found the token machine.”

“Alright, fine.” He tilts his head, pretending to think. “Mall date, then. I’d buy you a pretzel.”

“Wow. Dreamy.” You grin. “Maybe a picnic?”

“Too many bugs.”

“Movie night?”

“We do that every night.”

“Then what, Mr. Barnes?”

That’s when he looks at you really looks and something shifts. All teasing fades, replaced by something quiet, deliberate.

“A real date,” he says finally. “The kind with candles. A tablecloth. The kind you deserve.”

You blink. “Like… a restaurant?”

He nods once. “A nice one.”

You laugh, but his expression doesn’t waver. “Wait. You’re serious.”

“Dead serious.” His voice is low, steady. “You deserve to be taken out properly. Not as some favor, or part of some deal. Just… because I want to.”

When he knocks, your heart’s already racing.

You open the door and he just stares.

He’s standing there in a black suit, tie slightly askew, hair brushed back but already threatening to fall forward again. For a second, he forgets how to speak.

“Wow,” he breathes out, barely audible. “You look—” He stops, laughs nervously, shakes his head. “There aren’t enough words.”

You smirk, trying to fight the blush creeping up your neck. “You clean up pretty well yourself, Barnes.”

“Pretty well?” His lips twitch. “I spent fifteen minutes trying to figure out how to tie this thing. Sam had to send me a tutorial.”

You grin, stepping closer to fix his crooked tie. “You did fine, soldier.”

He smiles then soft, helpless. “Yeah, sure. ‘Fine.’”

The place he chose is small but elegant: soft lighting, white tablecloths, the faint hum of a piano in the corner. He pulls out your chair before sitting down himself, trying not to look too nervous but failing spectacularly.

When the waiter leaves, you glance across the table. “You really went all out.”

He shrugs, pretending it’s nothing. “Figured I owed you a real one.”

“Bucky—” you start, but he cuts in gently.

“I missed a lot of chances,” he says. “Wanted to do this right.”

You’re quiet for a moment. Then, smiling, “You already are.”

Halfway through dinner, the stiffness melts.

 He relaxes when you tease him about the way he pronounces gnocchi.

 You laugh until you cry when he tries to sneak you extra dessert.

 And when he brushes your hand beneath the table, it’s small, unspoken, but entirely real.

On the walk back, the air’s cool, streetlights glowing gold against the pavement. You slip your hand into his without a word. He squeezes once, like a promise.

When you reach your building, he turns to you eyes soft, nervous, hopeful.

“So,” he murmurs, “did I do okay for our first real date?”

You grin, leaning in just close enough to whisper, “More than okay.”

And when he kisses you slow, sure, like he’s been waiting a lifetime to get it right  it’s everything a first date should be.

 Messy. Tender. Absolutely, undeniably real.

The night air hums with leftover laughter.

The restaurant’s behind you now, its golden lights fading as you and Bucky walk down the quiet street. The city’s soft muted by the hour, by the rain that’s only a memory now, puddles reflecting the lamplight like spilled stars.

His tie hangs loose around his neck, top button undone. You’re wearing his suit jacket over your shoulders—it swallows you whole, warm and smelling like him. He insisted you take it before you even reached the door.

“It’s cold,” he’d said.

“I’m fine,” you’d replied, shivering anyway.

He just smirked, draping it around you. “Humor me.”

Now, your heels click against the pavement in rhythm with his slower stride.

 Every few steps, your hands brush—once, twice—before he finally takes yours outright. His thumb traces lazy circles over your skin, and it feels like every unspoken thing between you has settled quietly into that touch.

When a car passes, he shifts you to the inside of the sidewalk without even thinking, his hand firm at your waist. You don’t say anything, but your chest goes warm in that way that only comes from being cared for.

“You always do that,” you murmur.

He glances down. “Do what?”

“Move me. Like it’s instinct.”

He smiles—small, almost shy. “Guess it is.”

You walk a few more paces in silence, streetlight spilling gold across his face. His hair’s a little messy, falling into his eyes, and you realize he’s never looked more beautiful—loosened, human, at peace.

He stops beneath one of the lamps, turns toward you.

 There’s no music, no soundtrack—just the hush of night and the faint hum of the city. But you swear you can hear something. Maybe your heartbeat. Maybe his.

His voice drops, barely more than a whisper. “You know, this is the part in the movie where the guy usually messes it up.”

You grin. “Then don’t.”

He doesn’t.

He steps closer—close enough that you can see the tiny scar at the edge of his mouth, the way the light catches in his eyes. One hand comes up, hesitating for half a second before his fingers slip into your hair, pushing it gently back. His palm lingers against your cheek; his thumb grazes the corner of your mouth like he’s memorizing the shape of it.

“Can I—” he starts, but never finishes.

Because you’re already leaning in.

The first touch is barely there—more a breath than a kiss—but it still sends something bright and dizzy through you. He exhales sharply, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, pulling you a little closer. The second kiss is deeper, surer. Slow, like he’s tasting the moment, like he’s afraid to break it.

The world tilts around you: the smell of rain, the soft brush of his tie against your wrist, the quiet sound he makes when he finally lets himself stop pretending.

When you part, you’re both smiling. His forehead rests against yours; his breath is shaky but warm.

 “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he whispers.

You laugh, still catching your breath. “Took you long enough.”

He grins back, thumb tracing your jaw. “Guess I needed the right moment.”

“This one’ll do,” you whisper, and kiss him again—under the lamp glow, with his jacket around your shoulders and his heart in your hands.

(You've got mail!) WHATEVER. WHATEVERRRRRRRRRR I DIDNT CARE THAT THIS HAD TO BE SPLIT INTO THREE PARTS WHATEVER I DONT CARE !!!!!! i absolutely do care and do gaf because now it feels less connected. I HATE YOU TUMBLR !!!! ANYWAYS enjoy my first smut scene i uhm probably will not be writing a lot of these so dont get used to it :D but im backkkkkkkk. school and work still a lot but i will try even more to get fics out.

Tag List (For Mr. James Buchanan is open) @herejustforbuckybarnes @barnesandbouquets @winchestert101 @totallyanxiousart @lovinqbella @starstruckfirecat @beestarsuck @peanutbutt3rcup @piatosniathenie @mysoulbelongstobuckybarnes @star-yawnznn @hzdhrtss @the-salty-asian @stormy-stardust @sebastians-love @bucky4life48 @magnoliamermaid @jarnesbames108 @cherrypie7 @fluorjscent @adalvsseb

[graceechapmann]

saving for later !

[graceechapmann]

me seeing an angsty / dark bucky barnes fic and it being 12k+ words

[graceechapmann]

professor barnes wow

[redemptive-truth]

Right Where You Left Me | Bucky Barnes

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky x Female!Detective

Summary: After accidentally slipping through a portal into an alternate Earth, she discovers that this world’s version of herself is dead—and that version of herself had an unexpected, mysterious bond with Bucky Barnes

Word Count: 14k

Warnings: angst; angst-heavy relationship conflict (verbal fighting, yelling, unresolved anger); panic; mentions of past death; slow-burnish; cursing; introspection; bit of an age gap; variants; mentions of different universes

Author’s Note: This was entirely inspired by Peter and Gamora's relationship in GoTG3...but Bucky is Peter and the main female character is Gamora. I loved the idea of Peter loving Gamora, losing her, and still having feelings for the other version of her who had never met him. This female character is not perfect by any means - she's young, impulsive, and indecisive. But that makes her all the more human.

This takes place after the events of the Thunderbolts...for creativity's sake, let's pretend like Sam and the team get along and everything involving interdimmensional travel is up for grabs. I was a bit loose with the rules of Marvel with this one.

This is a two-part fic! Second part to come soon!

______________________________________________________________

The crime scene had been routine—a drug deal gone wrong in the kind of alley where hope went to die. She'd been photographing evidence, documenting the scattered bullet casings and blood spatter, when reality decided to crack open like an egg.

The portal materialized without warning, a wound in the brick wall that bled golden light and hummed with impossible energy. It defied every law of physics she knew, every rational explanation her detective's mind tried to supply. But in a world where superheroes and mutants fought aliens and villains every other week, she'd developed a healthy respect for the inexplicable.

She should have called for backup. Should have cordoned off the area and waited for someone with more expertise and better equipment. Should have done a dozen things that might have saved her from what came next.

Instead, she'd stepped closer, drawn by a curiosity that had kept her alive this long and was about to be her downfall. The portal's edges rippled like water, casting shifting shadows that made her eyes water. She'd reached out—not to touch it, just to test the air around it, to see if she could feel whatever impossible force was tearing through dimensions.

The puddle was small. Insignificant. The kind of thing she'd normally step over without thinking. But positioned exactly where it was, at the precise edge of the portal's influence, it became the pivot point on which her entire world turned.

Her foot slipped. Physics took over. And suddenly she was falling forward, through liquid light and the space between heartbeats, through the golden throat of something that shouldn't exist.

The landing knocked the breath from her lungs and the sense from her head. When the world stopped spinning, she found herself sprawled on familiar concrete, staring up at the same brick walls, breathing the same stale alley air. But the portal was gone, sealed shut like it had never existed, leaving only the faintest afterimage burned into her retinas.

And somewhere in the distance, she heard the murmur of a city—familiar, but not the same. The cadence of traffic sounded off-key, like a song she knew played in the wrong tempo. The low thrum of voices carried different accents, different rhythms. Even the distant wail of a siren seemed to rise and fall in patterns her ears didn't recognize.

The wrongness revealed itself in layers, each one more unsettling than the last.

She discovered the first crack when she went to what should have been her station. At first glance, it looked identical—same brick facade weathered by decades of city grime, same cracked concrete steps where she'd sat during her lunch breaks, same scuffed double doors that stuck in humid weather. But the moment she walked inside, the air felt different. Heavier. Foreign.

The desk sergeant looked up with mild curiosity rather than the usual grunt of acknowledgment. Officer Martinez walked past without his customary nod. Detective Chen emerged from the break room with coffee and didn't so much as glance in her direction.

"Excuse me," she said, approaching the front desk with her badge already in hand. "I need to check in with Chief Barnett."

The sergeant—Henderson, his nameplate read, though she could have sworn his name was different yesterday—looked at her like she'd asked for directions to Mars.

"Ma'am, there's no Chief Barnett at this precinct. Never has been. You might be looking for the 12th? They got a Captain Barrett over there."

Her badge felt suddenly heavy in her palm. She held it up, the shield catching the fluorescent light. "I'm Detective—"

"Ma'am." Henderson's voice sharpened, and she saw his hand drift toward his radio. "I'm going to need you to step back from the desk."

That was when things went bad. Fast.

Within minutes, she was surrounded. Familiar faces wearing unfamiliar expressions of suspicion and confusion. She knew these people—had shared coffee with them, complained about paperwork, celebrated arrests. But they looked at her like she was a stranger wearing a stolen uniform.

"I work here," she insisted, even as they guided her toward the interrogation rooms. "Check my locker—it's number 47. Check my desk. I've been here for six years."

But when they checked, locker 47 belonged to someone else. The desk she thought of as hers was occupied by a detective she'd never seen before. And when they ran her prints—her own goddamn fingerprints—the room fell silent.

"That's impossible," she heard Chen whisper to Martinez. "These prints... they match a woman who died three years ago."

The words hit her like ice water. Died. Three years ago. The version of her that had lived in this world was dead, and now they were staring at her like she was either an imposter or a ghost.

They moved her to Interview Room 2—the one with the broken chair leg that she'd always avoided. The irony wasn't lost on her. Here she was, finally sitting in the damn chair, but as a suspect instead of a detective. She tested the chair before she sat down in it. The broken leg was stable. 

The one-way mirror reflected her pale face back at her, and she found herself staring at her own features as if seeing them for the first time. Same eyes, same scar on her chin from falling off her bike at age seven, same stubborn part of her hair that never stayed flat. But somehow, she looked like a stranger to herself.

Detectives came and went—Patterson, who'd taught her how to read blood spatter patterns; Rodriguez, who always brought donuts on Fridays; Williams, who'd been her partner for two years. Each one studied her with the same mixture of confusion and suspicion, as if her very existence was an insult to someone's memory.

She gave them everything—her name, badge number, social security, the names of every case she'd worked, every partner she'd had, every scar and story that made up her life. All of it true, and all of it sounding like elaborate fiction when filtered through their disbelief.

Hours passed. Or maybe days. Time felt fluid in that windowless room, marked only by the steady hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional rattle of the ancient air conditioner. She'd long since stopped pinching herself, accepting that whatever this was, it wasn't a dream.

When the door finally opened again, she expected another detective with the same tired questions and skeptical eyes. Instead, a stranger walked in.

He moved with the careful control of someone accustomed to being watched, though tension coiled in his shoulders like a spring wound too tight. Not a cop—his clothes were too casual, too lived-in. Civilian, but not ordinary. The way the desk sergeant had practically saluted when he'd walked past suggested someone with serious pull.

He was a handsome black man, probably mid-thirties, with intelligent eyes that seemed to catalog everything they saw. When he looked at her, those eyes went soft with something that might have been recognition, or hope, or grief. Maybe all three.

The silence stretched between them like a held breath. She watched him settle into the chair across from her with the careful movements of someone carrying invisible weight. His hands rested on the table, knuckles pale with tension, and she found herself studying the calluses on his palms—the kind that came from gripping something regularly. Reins, maybe. Or rope.

Finally, he spoke. His voice was steady but quiet, like he was afraid of the answer before he asked the question.

"Do you know who I am?"

The hope in his voice was so naked it made her chest tight. She wished she could give him what he was looking for, but honesty was all she had left.

"No," she said, then added more gently, "Should I?"

Something inside him crumbled. She saw it happen—the way his shoulders sagged, how his breath left him like he'd been punctured. The careful composure slipped, revealing grief so raw it made her want to look away. But he held her gaze, managing a smile that was equal parts bitter and fond.

"Maybe not this you," he murmured, and there was a world of loss in those four words. "Was worth a shot, though."

Her brows drew together, frustration sparking hot beneath the confusion. "What do you mean, 'this me'? Look, I don't know what kind of game this is, but I'm a detective. This is my station—or it's supposed to be. I don't know what happened, but one minute I was processing a crime scene and the next there was this... portal, or whatever the hell—"

"Portal?" He leaned forward so fast his chair creaked, urgency replacing the gentle sorrow in his voice. "What did it look like? Exactly where were you when it appeared? Did you feel anything before it opened—heat, electrical charges, any kind of distortion in the air?"

The rapid-fire questions made her head spin. "I don't know! It just... appeared. Like someone had torn a hole in reality and filled it with golden light. It was humming, vibrating the air around it." She shoved back from the table, the legs screeching against linoleum. "Look, I don't know who you are or why you're asking, but I've had enough mystery for one day. Just tell me what the hell is happening to me."

He studied her for a long moment, his jaw working like he was chewing on words too big to swallow. When he finally spoke, his voice was careful, measured—the tone of someone delivering news that would change everything.

"You're not wrong. About this not being your world."

Her heart stuttered. "What?"

"You came through some kind of dimensional rift. It happens—rarely, but it happens. Sometimes the barriers between realities get thin, and things slip through the cracks." He spoke gently, but each word felt like a small betrayal of everything she thought she knew about the universe. "You've crossed into a parallel dimension. A world that's similar to yours, but not the same."

She stared at him like he'd started speaking in tongues. "Parallel dimensions? Are you out of your mind? You expect me to believe I just... fell through a crack in reality like some kind of science fiction nightmare?"

"I know it sounds impossible." His voice remained calm, patient—the way you'd talk to someone standing on a ledge. "But I've seen enough impossible things to know they're usually just improbable. And..." His eyes softened as he looked at her again, really looked, like he was trying to memorize her face. "You're not the first version of you I've met."

The room seemed to tilt. "Excuse me?"

"There was another you. Here, in this world." He paused, choosing his words with surgical precision. "She was... important. To a lot of people. To me. She was a good friend."

Something in his tone—reverent, aching, carefully controlled—made her stomach clench with dread. She swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper.

"What happened to her?"

For the first time since he'd entered the room, he looked away. His hands flexed against the table, tendons standing out like bridge cables. When he spoke, his words were weighted with the kind of grief that never fully heals.

"She died. Three years ago."

The words hung in the air between them like smoke, acrid and choking. She felt the world shift beneath her feet, reality reshuffling itself into patterns she didn't recognize. The fluorescent lights seemed too bright suddenly, the air too thin.

"No." The word came out sharp, defensive. She shot to her feet so fast her chair crashed into the wall behind her. "No, that's not possible. I'm right here. Alive. Breathing. You don't just get to have another version of me conveniently die before I show up. That's—" She barked out a laugh that sounded more like a sob. "That's fucking insane."

He didn't flinch, didn't move, just watched her pace the small room like a caged animal. His patience only made her angrier.

"Do you hear yourself?" She spun to face him, fury and terror warring in her voice. "Parallel dimensions? Different versions of me? That's comic book bullshit. I'm a detective, not some interdimensional traveler. You think you can feed me this story and I'll just... what? Accept it? Stop asking questions?"

She slammed her palms against the table, leaning over him. "Tell me the truth!"

He met her gaze without wavering, and his voice when he spoke was rock-steady, implacable as gravity.

"I am telling you the truth."

The conviction in his tone cut through her spiraling panic like a blade. She froze, chest heaving, studying his face for any sign of deception. But there was none—just bone-deep certainty and a grief so profound it seemed to have worn grooves in his features.

He rose slowly, closing half the distance between them—close enough to be reassuring, far enough to avoid seeming threatening. "I know how insane this sounds. I know every instinct you have is screaming that it's impossible. But I've lived through stranger things than you being here right now. And I'm not trying to trick you or manipulate you. I'm trying to help."

Her jaw clenched, but some of the fight leaked out of her voice. "Why should I believe you?"

He was quiet for a moment, seeming to weigh his words. Then he extended his hand—palm up, an offering rather than a demand.

"Because my name is Sam Wilson. And if you let me, I'll do everything I can to make sure you're safe."

Something in the way he said it—solid as bedrock, unshakeable as sunrise—made her anger waver. There was a quality to his voice that spoke of promises kept, of responsibility accepted and never abandoned. Without meaning to, she found herself believing him.

Sam Wilson was clearly someone important. She could tell by the way the precinct transformed around him. Officers who'd treated her like a curiosity or a threat suddenly straightened when he appeared, their voices taking on the particular tone of respect reserved for true authority. They clapped him on the shoulder, thanked him for unspecified favors, and more than one called him "Cap" as they headed out for patrol.

She studied him as they walked to his car, noting the way he moved—confident but not cocky, alert without being paranoid. Military bearing, but softened by civilian life.

"Cap?" she asked as they settled into his black sedan. "As in Captain?"

Something flickered across his face—amusement mixed with something heavier, more complicated. His smile was warm but tinged with melancholy, like a song played in a minor key.

"Something like that."

She didn't press, but the title lodged itself in her mind like a splinter. Captain. The kind of rank that came with weight, with responsibility, with the expectation that you'd carry other people's burdens as easily as your own.

He drove her through the restless pulse of New York, and she found herself cataloging the differences. The skyline was almost identical, but not quite. A building here that shouldn't exist, a street there that curved the wrong way. Like someone had rebuilt her city from memory but gotten some of the details wrong.

They stopped at a building that seemed to hum with unseen energy, its architecture somehow more alive than the structures around it. The man waiting inside introduced himself as Doctor Stephen Strange, the air around him shimmered with barely contained power.

Strange studied her with eyes that had seen too much, and she caught the flicker of recognition—and pain—when his gaze met hers. Another person haunted by a ghost she was apparently wearing the face of.

His examination was thorough, involving incantations in languages that hurt her ears to hear and geometric patterns of light that made her vision water. When he finally delivered his verdict, his voice carried the weight of cosmic authority.

"She's a dimensional variant. Another world's version of the woman you knew." He paused, his expression growing grave. "And the portal that brought her here... it wasn't random. She was meant to come through. Meant to stay."

The words hit her like a physical blow. "What?" She lurched to her feet, the chair scraping against polished marble. "No. No, I don't belong here! This isn't my world, my life. That portal was an accident. You have to send me back."

Her voice cracked on the last word, desperation bleeding through the careful control she'd maintained all day. She turned to Sam, searching his face for any sign that Strange was wrong.

"You said the other me is dead. But I'm not her. I have my own life, my own world. People who'll miss me. You can't just... you can't just expect me to replace her."

Sam flinched like she'd struck him, his gaze dropping to the floor. The grief carved into his features was so raw it made her chest ache with sympathy she didn't understand.

Strange's voice softened, but his words remained uncompromising. "I'm sorry. If there were a way to send you home, I would. But the forces that brought you here... they don't make mistakes. You're here because this is where you belong now."

The pronouncement settled over her like a funeral shroud. She stood frozen for a moment, every muscle tense with the urge to run, to fight, to somehow undo the cosmic joke that had torn her from everything she knew. Instead, she forced herself to breathe, to think, to survive this moment the way she'd survived every other impossible thing life had thrown at her.

"I need air," she managed, and walked out before either of them could respond.

The hallway beyond was lined with artifacts that seemed to hum with their own inner light. Ancient books, crystalline sculptures, weapons that looked like they'd been forged in other dimensions. She leaned against the cool stone wall, closing her eyes and trying to find her center.

That's when she heard their voices drifting from the chamber she'd just left.

"Have you told Barnes yet?" Strange's voice carried clearly in the empty corridor.

A long pause, then Sam's reply, heavy with reluctance. "No. Not yet. I don't even know how to begin that conversation."

"She's here for a reason," Strange said firmly. "The universe doesn't place people where they don't belong. He'll need to know. The sooner the better."

Another silence, longer this time. When Sam spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper. "Yeah. I just don't know how either of them will handle it."

The conversation ended with the sound of chairs scraping, footsteps moving. She pushed herself off the wall and composed her face just as Sam emerged, looking like he was carrying the weight of the world.

"Let's get out of here," he said gently, as if she hadn't overheard every word.

His brownstone was a refuge from the chaos of the day. Warm wood floors, lived-in furniture, bookshelves that actually held books instead of just decoration. Photographs covered the mantle and side tables: Sam with various people she didn't recognize, group shots that looked like they'd been taken after successful missions, candid moments of laughter and camaraderie.

She sank into his couch, exhaustion finally catching up with her. The adrenaline that had carried her through the day was fading, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness that went beyond physical fatigue.

Sam settled across from her, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together. He studied her for a long moment before speaking.

"I guess it's time I told you who I am. My full story." He took a breath, as if steeling himself. "My name is Sam Wilson. I used to go by the Falcon—had a pair of mechanical wings, worked with the Avengers. But a few years back, Steve Rogers, Captain America, passed the shield to me. So now people call me Captain America."

The revelation should have shocked her, but somehow it fit. The deference at the station, the way Strange had treated him as an equal, the weight he seemed to carry…it all made sense now.

“Yeah, we…had a Steve Rogers in my world,” she murmured, playing with some loose threads between the cushions of the couch. “Had the Avengers. Mutants, too.” 

"The version of you that lived here," he continued, his voice growing softer, more careful, "she was part of that world too. An intelligence specialist who helped us track down dangerous people. She fought beside us, bled with us. She was..." He paused, searching for words. "She was family."

Family. The word hung in the air between them, loaded with implications she wasn't ready to unpack.

"And she's gone," she said quietly.

Sam's nod was barely perceptible. "Yeah. She's gone. But you're here now. And maybe—"

"There's no maybe." The words came out harder than she'd intended, sharp with frustration and fear. "There's no cosmic plan or grand design. Sometimes shit just happens. Bad luck, wrong place, wrong time. You're telling me that if you suddenly woke up in a different reality where everyone expected you to be someone else, someone dead, you'd just accept it? Roll over and play the part because strangers called it fate?"

Sam's expression hardened, but not with anger. With understanding that cut too deep. "You think I don't know what it's like to have everything you thought you knew about the world get turned upside down? To lose people who mattered more than your own life?" His voice carried the weight of hard-earned wisdom. "I've wanted to wake up in a different world more times than I can count. One where the people I've lost are still alive, where the choices I made turned out different."

He leaned forward, his gaze intense. "But that's not how it works. We don't get to pick the reality we land in. We just get to decide what we do once we're there. And right now, you're here. That's not negotiable. The only question is what you're going to do about it."

His words hit harder than she'd expected, cutting through her anger to something more vulnerable underneath. She wanted to argue, to maintain her fury because it felt safer than the alternative. Accepting that her old life was truly gone.

"So what, you expect me to just slide into her place? Live in some dead woman's shadow?"

"No one's asking you to replace her." Sam's voice was firm, brooking no argument. "You're not her, and we both know that. But like it or not, you're here now. And pretending this isn't happening won't change that fact."

"I don't belong here," she said, but the words felt hollow even as she spoke them.

"You don't belong there anymore either." The gentleness in his voice made it worse somehow. "If that portal brought you here, maybe it was because this is where you need to be. You can be angry about it—hell, you should be. But anger won't change reality."

The fight drained out of her slowly, like air from a punctured tire. She turned to stare out the front window at the head of the room at the unfamiliar-familiar city beyond, her reflection ghostlike in the glass.

Sam showed her to a small guest room with the same quiet efficiency he'd displayed all day. It was simple but comfortable. Clean sheets, soft pillows, and a window that looked out on a tree-lined street that could have been from her world.

"You can stay here as long as you need," he said, lingering in the doorway. "I'll work on getting you set up with your own place, new identity, whatever you need to build a life here."

The casual way he mentioned building a life here made the reality of the situation crash over her again. This wasn't temporary. This was her new existence, whether she wanted it or not.

"Sam?" Her voice was smaller than she'd intended. "Tell me about her. About... me. The one you knew."

Something in his expression shifted, pain flickering across his features like shadows cast by firelight. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his gaze growing distant.

"She was brilliant," he said finally. "Sharp as hell, with instincts that could cut through any lie or deception. She specialized in intelligence work—tracking people who didn't want to be found, uncovering connections others missed. She came into our world during the hunt for the Winter Soldier, back when he was still... when he was still HYDRA's weapon."

Her stomach clenched at the mention of the Winter Soldier. A killer in her world, same as in this one, it seemed. 

"She was the one who helped Steve and Natasha track him down," Sam continued, his voice growing softer. "And when we finally found him, when we realized he could be saved instead of just stopped... she fought for that. Fought to bring him back from the darkness."

The name hit her like a physical blow. Bucky Barnes. The Winter Soldier had a real name, a real identity. 

"After that, she stayed close to the team," Sam went on. "Worked missions with us, became part of the family. She was brave, loyal, never hesitated to put herself in harm's way if it meant protecting innocent people or helping the team." His voice caught slightly. "She saved my life more than once. Saved all our lives."

The grief in his voice was palpable, a living thing that filled the space between them. She found herself holding her breath, afraid to disturb the weight of his memories but wanting him to continue.

"She mattered," he said simply. And yet, the effect — the emotion on his face — was devastating. 

She didn't ask how the other version of her had died. The pain etched into every line of Sam's expression was answer enough. Some wounds were too fresh to probe, even three years later.

Sam moved to leave, but her voice stopped him at the threshold.

"The Winter Soldier... that's Bucky Barnes, isn't it?"

He went absolutely still, tension radiating from his frame like heat from a furnace.

"In my world," she continued, forcing the words past the tightness in her throat, "the Winter Soldier died. Steve Rogers killed him during the fall of SHIELD. It was the only way to stop him." She hesitated, then added, "I heard you and Strange talking earlier. About... him."

Sam turned slowly, his expression carefully controlled but his eyes dark with something that might have been worry or fear or protective instinct. Maybe all three.

"It's better if you don't know," he said quietly, each word chosen with surgical precision. "Not yet."

The finality in his voice left no room for argument. He left her alone with her questions and the growing certainty that whatever connection existed between her and this world's version of the Winter Soldier, it was going to change everything. 

Why did the other version of her help him? What was different about their relationship that Sam seemed so on edge about? 

She sat on the edge of the unfamiliar bed in the unfamiliar room, staring out at the unfamiliar-familiar street, and wondered if there was any such thing as fate. Or if the universe was just crueler than she'd ever imagined.

______________________________________________________________

Sam was a good man, that became clear within hours of meeting him. The kind of good that ran bone-deep, expressed not in grand gestures but in small consistencies. He checked in without hovering, offered help without condescension, and by the third day had somehow managed to secure her an apartment only six blocks from his brownstone. When she'd asked how he'd pulled that off so quickly in New York's brutal housing market, he'd just smiled and said he knew people.

She could see why they'd chosen him to carry the shield. His moral compass alone was seemingly larger than life.

Still, living under his roof felt like wearing clothes that didn't quite fit. Not because Sam was unkind. If anything, he was almost painfully considerate, the way people are when they're afraid of breaking something fragile. It was the weight of expectation that pressed against her shoulders, the careful way he sometimes caught himself mid-sentence, as if he'd been about to say something meant for someone else.

Someone who looked exactly like her. Someone who was dead.

She threw herself into research with the desperate focus of someone trying to solve her own existence. Hunched over her laptop at Sam's kitchen table, she devoured everything she could find about this world's history. The Avengers Initiative. The Chitauri invasion. The fall of SHIELD and rise of HYDRA. The Sokovia Accords. Thanos and the Blip—five years when half of all life simply ceased to exist, then returned as suddenly as it had vanished.

The broad strokes matched her world's timeline, but the details were all wrong. Like looking at a painting that had been copied by someone with imperfect memory. Close enough to be familiar, different enough to be deeply unsettling.

What disturbed her most wasn't the differences themselves, but the growing realization that she wore the face of a woman who had lived through these events, who had bled and fought and sacrificed alongside Earth's mightiest heroes. Every record she found mentioned her. Intelligence reports signed with her name, mission debriefs that referenced her tactical assessments, personnel files that listed her as an active associate of the Avengers until three years ago.

And then, abruptly, the records stopped.

Sam's grief haunted the spaces between them like smoke. She'd catch him looking at her sometimes, as if he could will her to be someone else through sheer force of longing. When their eyes met, he'd remember himself and look away, but not before she glimpsed the disappointment that flickered across his features. Brief as lightning, but it left its mark.

She understood. But that didn't make it hurt less.

The day after she'd arrived, Sam's friend Joaquin Torres had shown up with a laptop bag and an easy grin that transformed the heavy atmosphere in the brownstone. Young, maybe mid-twenties, with the kind of boyish charm that made people trust him instinctively. More importantly, he looked at her without the weight of recognition, treating her like a person instead of a ghost wearing familiar skin. He hadn’t known her, the other version of her, Sam had told her. Much to her silent relief — a fresh human interaction was much needed. 

"Alright," he'd said, settling at the kitchen table and cracking open his laptop. "Let's get you a new identity. Technically, the old you is listed as deceased, which creates some interesting paperwork challenges. But nothing we can't handle."

His fingers flew across the keyboard with practiced ease, pulling up forms and databases with the casual expertise of someone who'd done this before. She found herself relaxing for the first time since falling through that portal, grateful to be treated like herself…whoever that was now.

By the second day, curiosity got the better of her.

"Did she, the other me, have any family?" she asked, trying to keep her tone casual while her hands twisted together under the table. "Husband, boyfriend, anyone who might be looking for me?"

Joaquin glanced up from his screen, scratching his chin thoughtfully. "Let me check... okay, parents died when she was eleven—" Her stomach clenched. Her parents, the ones in her world, had died around the same time. "—grandparents took her in but passed right before the Blip. No siblings listed." He scrolled further, eyebrows rising. "But damn, look at these connections. Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Sam obviously. Tony Stark had you on his personal payroll after the whole SHIELD thing went sideways in 2014. You ran in some serious circles."

He leaned back, scanning the screen with obvious admiration. "No marriage records, no registered domestic partnerships. But there's some interesting cross-references here..." His grin faltered slightly as his eyes focused on something specific. "Hey, did Sam mention Bucky? Because there's quite a bit of documentation linking you two, and I'm talking—"

He stopped. The words died in his throat as he looked up and saw her expression.

The confusion must have been written across her face in bold letters, because Joaquin's boyish enthusiasm dimmed like someone had turned down his brightness settings. His gaze flicked from her to the laptop screen and back again, and she watched understanding dawn in his eyes with all the subtlety of a freight train.

"Oh." The word came out small, uncertain. "Judging by the look on your face... Sam hasn't talked to you about this yet."

"No," she said carefully, studying his suddenly nervous posture. "He hasn't."

Joaquin shifted in his chair, angling the laptop away from her line of sight with movements that screamed guilt. His cheeks flushed pink, and when he spoke again, his voice had lost all its earlier confidence.

"Listen, if Sam hasn't brought it up, there's probably a good reason. Maybe it's... maybe it's not important right now."

The lie was so transparent she almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

"Something on that screen you don't want me to see, Joaquin?"

"No! Nothing like that," he said too quickly, his voice cracking on the denial. He clutched the laptop closer to his chest like a shield. "It's just... if Sam thinks you're not ready to hear about it yet, then maybe..."

He trailed off, realizing he was only making it worse. She let the silence stretch, watching him squirm, filing away every nervous tic and unconscious gesture. In her experience, people revealed more in their attempts to hide things than they ever did when trying to be honest.

Finally, she nodded slowly, as if accepting his non-explanation. "Okay."

But the damage was done. This was the third time Bucky Barnes's name had surfaced in conversation, always followed by the same pattern—hesitation, deflection, someone changing the subject or ending the conversation entirely. Whatever connection had existed between her dimensional twin and this man, it was significant enough that Sam couldn't even bring himself to discuss it.

The questions multiplied like cancer cells in her mind. Who had Bucky Barnes been to her? An ally? An enemy? Had they worked together, or had she been hunting him? Was he the reason she'd died, or was there something else she wasn’t seeing? 

The not-knowing was worse than any answer could be.

When Joaquin packed up his laptop that evening, giving her an awkward yet genuine goodbye, she remained at the kitchen table staring at the stack of files and printouts she'd accumulated. The apartment Sam had found for her was ready—bare bones, but functional. She could move out tomorrow, start building something that resembled a life.

But first, she had research to do.

She waited until she heard Sam's bedroom door close, then fired up her own laptop and got to work. If no one would tell her about Bucky Barnes, she'd find out for herself.

The internet was a treasure trove of declassified documents, survivor testimonies, and conspiracy theories that turned out to be disturbingly accurate. She cross-referenced names, dates, and events, building a timeline that slowly painted a picture of James Buchanan Barnes—friend of Steve Rogers, sergeant in the 107th Infantry, presumed dead in 1945.

Except he hadn't died. HYDRA had found him, broken him, turned him into their perfect weapon. The Winter Soldier had been a man stolen from time and stripped of his identity, programmed to kill without question or memory.

Her hands trembled as she read mission reports that detailed his crimes. Political assassinations spanning decades. Scientists who'd gotten too close to inconvenient truths. Whistleblowers who'd tried to expose corruption. All of them silenced by a ghost with a metal arm and empty eyes.

But the story didn't end there. In 2014, Steve Rogers had found his childhood friend buried beneath layers of programming and torture. Had fought to bring him back, to restore the man HYDRA had tried to erase. The process had taken years of therapy, rehabilitation, deprogramming. But it worked.

Bucky Barnes was no longer the Winter Soldier. He was an Avenger. A former Congressman. He had rewritten his own story.

Her breath caught as she found what she'd been looking for: a digital roster buried in the aftermath of the Sokovia Accords. James Buchanan Barnes – Status: Active. Affiliation: New Avengers Initiative.

He was alive. Reformed. Fighting for the good guys now, apparently.

The knowledge sat in her stomach like a stone. Here, according to Joaquin's nervous reaction, he'd been connected to her in some significant way.

The irony was so sharp it could cut. A brainwashed assassin from the 1940’s connected to her? Were they friends? Had he killed someone she knew? She had no idea. There were no records about his personal life online. 

She stared at the screen until her eyes burned, then made a decision that felt both inevitable and insane. If Sam wouldn't tell her the truth, if Joaquin was too loyal or too scared to fill in the gaps, then she'd get her answers from the source.

She was going to find Bucky Barnes.

______________________________________________________________

Her new apartment felt like a train station, a place to exist rather than live between stops. The walls were still institutional white, the floors bare hardwood that echoed with every step. Sam had helped her haul in the essentials: a mattress, a couch from a secondhand store, a small table that wobbled when she put weight on it.

It should have felt like freedom. Instead, it felt like exile.

She didn't linger. Twenty minutes after Sam left, promising to check in tomorrow, she was studying transit maps and plotting her route to the New Avengers facility. The original Stark Tower had been sold, but the team had established a new base of operations in the same building, now deemed as the Watchtower. 

The evening commute provided perfect cover. Thousands of people moving with purpose, no one paying attention to one more face in the crowd. She joined the stream of humanity flowing toward the subway, her heart rate steady despite the magnitude of what she was planning.

Breaking into a superhero stronghold probably wasn't her smartest decision, but she'd made a career out of risky choices. This felt like just another case to crack, another locked door that needed opening.

The Watchtower rose thirty stories into the Manhattan sky, its glass facade reflecting the dying light of sunset. Even from the sidewalk, she could see the security measures. Cameras at every angle, discrete guards positioned at key points, biometric scanners flanking the main entrance.

She approached with the confidence of someone who belonged, shoulders back, stride purposeful. Sometimes the best disguise was attitude.

"Ma'am." A security guard stepped into her path before she'd made it halfway to the door. Young, alert, with the kind of bearing that screamed military background. His partner moved to flank her, casual but deliberate. "I'll need to see some identification."

She reached for her wallet, movements slow and non-threatening. "I'm here to see James Barnes. He's expecting me."

That got their attention. Too much attention. She saw the micro-expressions that flashed between them: surprise, confusion. The lead guard's hand drifted toward the radio clipped to his vest.

"You'll need clearance for that, ma'am. And I don't see you on any authorized visitor lists."

Behind them, the building's main doors hissed shut with hydraulic finality. The message was clear — she wasn’t getting in.

She maintained her smile, friendly and understanding. "Of course. My mistake. I'll just call ahead next time."

She turned and walked away, feeling their eyes on her back until she disappeared into the evening crowd. 

An hour later, she was back.

The Tower looked different at night. Imposing, fortress-like, its upper floors glowing against the darkness. She'd spent the time walking the perimeter, mapping service entrances and delivery bays, timing guard rotations and identifying blind spots in the surveillance coverage.

The rear of the building faced a narrow alley used for deliveries and maintenance. Less glamorous than the front entrance, but infinitely more accessible. She positioned herself in the shadows between two dumpsters and waited.

Patience was a detective's best friend. After twenty minutes, a catering van rumbled into the alley, its headlights cutting through the gloom. She watched the driver show his credentials to the guard, saw the heavy security door roll up to reveal a loading dock beyond.

As the van backed up to the platform, she moved.

She slipped alongside the van as the driver climbed out, using it as cover while boxes and trays were unloaded. The guard's attention was focused on his clipboard, checking items off a list with mechanical precision.

When he turned to examine a particularly large crate, she made her move. Three quick steps took her to the door, another two got her inside. The loading bay was cavernous and dimly lit, filled with the hum of machinery and the distant echo of voices.

She pressed herself against a concrete pillar, heart hammering as footsteps approached. A maintenance worker in coveralls walked past, whistling tunelessly, his footsteps fading as he disappeared around a corner.

She was in.

The Tower's interior was a maze of corridors and security checkpoints, but she'd navigated worse. She found a service stairwell — no cameras, minimal foot traffic—and began to climb. By the fifteenth floor, her legs burned and her lungs worked like bellows, but she pressed on.

The residential levels had to be near the top. That's where she'd find him.

Twenty-eighth floor. Twenty-ninth. Thirtieth.

The final door was different from the others. Heavier, with a biometric scanner and keypad that spoke of serious security measures. This had to be it. The private residential area where the Avengers lived when they weren't saving the world.

She stood before the scanner, knowing she had no way past it, knowing this was where her amateur breaking-and-entering skills reached their limit. But she'd come too far to turn back now.

"Who are you?"

The voice came from behind her, low and accented and sharp as a blade.

She spun, instinct driving her hand toward a weapon she didn't carry, muscles coiling for a fight that might be her last.

A woman stood at the mouth of the stairwell. Small, compact, with platinum blonde hair that caught the corridor's LED lighting. But it was her eyes that made the breath stick in her throat. Dark, calculating. This wasn't building security. This was someone far more dangerous.

The woman moved with liquid grace, each step deliberate and controlled. She wore dark tactical clothing that seemed to absorb light, and something about her posture—coiled, ready, predatory—set off every alarm bell in her brain.

"I asked you a question," the woman said, stepping closer. "How did you get past security?"

Her mouth had gone desert-dry, but she forced her voice to remain steady. "I could ask you the same thing."

The woman's lips curved in what might charitably be called a smile. It didn't reach her eyes. "Cute. Very cute. But I live here. You, on the other hand, definitely do not." Another step closer. "So let's try this again. Who are you, and what are you doing on a restricted floor?"

The accent was unmistakably Russian now that she heard more of it. Sharp consonants softened by years of speaking English, but the underlying cadence still there. The woman's stance was that of a trained fighter. She was balanced on the balls of her feet, hands loose at her sides but ready to move in any direction. Everything about her screamed potential danger.

"Look," she said, raising her hands in a gesture of surrender, "I'm just trying to find someone. I don't want any trouble."

"Then you came to the wrong place." The woman tilted her head, studying her with a vague intensity. "You look familiar. Have we met?"

The question sent ice through her veins. Another person who might recognize her face, who knew the woman she'd replaced. But this one's recognition carried a different quality. Not grief or longing, but something sharper. More analytical.

She didn’t know her. The old her. Not directly, at least. 

"I don't think so," she said carefully.

The blonde's sharp eyes never left her face, cataloging every feature with unsettling precision. "Hmm. You remind me of someone. I cannot place it exactly, but you have a very familiar face." She paused, head tilting further. "Are you a reporter?"

The question was so unexpected she almost laughed. "Do I look like a reporter to you?"

"Yes," the woman answered with complete seriousness. "Actually, you do. You have excellent bone structure. Very photogenic. Strong jawline, well-shaped eyebrows. The kind of face they put on Channel 9 news, no?" She gestured vaguely at her features. "Really quite striking, actually. And we get reporters trying to sneak in here all the time. You would not believe the lengths they go to. But none have made it this far before, which makes you either very skilled or very stupid."

Her mouth opened and closed wordlessly. Was this woman seriously critiquing her facial symmetry in the middle of what felt like a life-or-death situation? "...Thank you? I think? But I'm not a reporter."

The blonde hummed thoughtfully, those dark eyes scanning her from head to toe and back again with predatory interest. "I believe you, strange woman. Somehow, I do. But that makes this worse, doesn't it? Because if you are not a reporter, then why break into a tower full of superhumans and trained killers? Seems very..." She paused, searching for the right word. "Stupid. Or very desperate."

The weight of the moment pressed down on her shoulders. She could lie—make up some story about being lost, about mistaking this for a different building. But something about this woman's piercing gaze told her lies would be spotted immediately and punished accordingly.

So she chose the truth. Raw, unfiltered, desperate truth.

"Because I'm not from this world." The words tumbled out faster than she could stop them. "I know how insane that sounds, but apparently I'm from a parallel dimension—almost identical to this one—and a week ago I fell through some kind of glowing portal that spat me out here in New York. Sam Wilson found me, helped me out, told me I can't go home."

She ran a hand through her hair, exhaustion and frustration bleeding into her voice. "But the version of me that lived here? She's dead. Has been for three years. And everyone keeps looking at me like I'm her ghost, keeps mentioning James Barnes like I should understand what he meant to her. So yeah, I broke in here to find him. To get some goddamn answers about who I was supposed to be."

The confession left her feeling hollow, stripped bare. She'd laid all her cards on the table for a complete stranger who could probably kill her seventeen different ways without breaking a sweat.

Not one of her brightest moments. But somehow, it had felt right. 

The woman stared at her for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then something shifted in her features. A flicker of recognition, quickly suppressed but not fast enough.

"What is your name?" she asked softly, and there was something almost gentle in her tone now.

She hesitated for just a beat before giving her real name. Not the fabricated identity Joaquin had helped create, but the name she'd been born with.

The effect was instantaneous. The woman's carefully neutral expression crumbled, revealing shock, disbelief, and something deeper. A profound sadness that seemed to age her years in seconds.

"Bozhe moy," she whispered, the Russian slipping out unbidden. Her shoulders sagged as if an invisible weight had settled on them. "Yes... I know your story. All of it. Oh….this will not be easy. But he needs to know you are here."

She stepped closer, extending her hand with careful deliberation. "My name is Yelena Belova. I am... an associate of Bucky's. A friend. I can take you to him now, if that is what you truly want."

Her throat constricted as she stared at the offered hand. Every instinct screamed warnings, but she'd come too far to turn back now. She reached out, gripping Yelena's fingers.

"It's nice to meet you," she said, her voice barely steady. "Did you... did you know her? The other me?"

Yelena's smile was hollow, haunted. "No. But I know of you. We all do." The words carried the weight of a funeral dirge. "Come. I will take you to him. You’re on the wrong floor."

The elevator ride felt endless, each floor they passed stretching the silence tighter between them. Yelena stood with her arms crossed, staring at her boots with the intensity of someone trying to solve the world's most complex equation. Her bottom lip was caught between her teeth, brow furrowed in deep concentration.

The quiet became unbearable.

"You know," she said, clearing her throat, "everyone who seems to know about this other version of me... you all look at me like I'm some kind of ghost."

That pulled Yelena's gaze up, one eyebrow arching with sharp precision. Her voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "That is because you are a ghost. You are supposed to be dead here. Did you forget that small detail?"

The bluntness hit harder than expected, making her chest tight. "No, I remember. But it feels like more than that. You don't just look at me like I don't belong. You look at me like you're afraid."

Yelena's exhale was long and weary, her shoulders dropping as if she'd been carrying an invisible burden. When she spoke again, her accent thickened with emotion. "We are not afraid of you. We are afraid of what your being here will do to the people we care about."

"What do you—"

"You will see soon enough." Yelena's tone brooked no argument, but her expression softened slightly. She reached out, resting a careful hand on her arm, the touch cautious. "Just... be gentle with him. Please. He has been through enough."

The plea left her speechless, questions multiplying like cancer cells in her mind. All she could manage was a stiff nod.

The elevator chimed softly, doors sliding open with a whisper of hydraulics.

She followed Yelena into what was clearly a common area, all gleaming surfaces and floor-to-ceiling windows that offered breathtaking views of Manhattan. The space was dotted with comfortable seating, state-of-the-art monitors, and a conference table that could seat a dozen people.

Four figures stood around that table, all wearing matching tactical uniforms with red "A" emblems on their chests. Their conversation died the moment they noticed the newcomers.

The tallest of them—a blonde man with the kind of square jaw that belonged on recruitment posters—straightened immediately. His blue eyes narrowed with suspicion as they fixed on her. "Yelena," he said, his voice carrying authority and wariness in equal measure. "Who the hell is this?"

Before Yelena could answer, the large bearded man beside him stepped forward with a booming laugh that filled the entire space. His presence was overwhelming. all warmth and barely contained energy, like a bear-sized golden retriever.

"Ah, look at this! A new face, and such a lovely one!" He spread his arms wide as if preparing to envelope her in a bear hug, his voice thick with Russian accent and unmistakable joy. "Finally, some beauty around here to balance out all these ugly faces. You are... how do Americans say... a sight for sore eyes, da?"

Heat flooded her cheeks. She stood frozen, caught between mortification and the strange urge to smile despite everything.

Yelena groaned audibly, dragging a hand down her face. "Dad, stop."

"What?" The older man looked genuinely confused, then winked at her with shameless charm. "I only speak truth. Your mother, if she were here, she would agree—this one has excellent genetics. Very fine bone structure."

"Stop talking, Alexei," Yelena snapped, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. She turned back to the group, exhaling through her nose like wrangling her father was a full-time occupation. "This is—" She glanced back, seeking silent permission, then said the name quietly, as if she knew what was about to happen.

The effect was immediate and devastating.

The brunette woman—young, maybe mid-twenties, with energy crackling faintly around her fingers—went completely still. The shaggy-haired man in civilian clothes muttered something under his breath and took an unconscious step backward. Even Yelena's father sobered, his jovial expression fading into something more complex.

But it was the blonde man's reaction that made her stomach plummet.

His entire demeanor shifted, professionalism giving way to something colder, more calculating. He stepped closer, hands settling on his hips as he studied her like she was evidence at a crime scene.

Recognition flickered across his features as he processed her name, cross-referencing it with files in his memory. His expression shifted into something caught between a smirk and a sneer—the look of someone who'd just solved an unpleasant puzzle.

"I know that name," he said, his voice taking on a mocking edge. "Wasn't that the name of Barnes' dead girlfriend?"

The revelation hit her like a sledgehammer to the chest.

Dead girlfriend.

The words ricocheted through her skull, each repetition more devastating than the last. Not partner. Not colleague. Not enemy. Girlfriend. The other version of her, the woman whose shadow she was apparently condemned to live in, had been dating James Buchanan Barnes.

The Winter Soldier.

With a known killer.

The irony was so vicious it threatened to tear her apart from the inside. In her world, she'd spent years hunting down monsters, bringing justice to families destroyed by violence. Here, apparently, she'd been sharing a bed with one of the worst monsters of all.

Her vision began to tunnel, darkness creeping in at the edges like spilled ink. Her lungs had forgotten how to function, each breath coming in short, desperate gasps that never seemed to bring enough oxygen. The panic attack was inevitable now—her body's revolt against information too massive, too impossible to process.

Heat flooded her face, a burning flush of shock and shame and something else she couldn't name. Her hands began to shake, trembling at her sides as if her entire nervous system was short-circuiting.

"Hey." Yelena's voice cut through the static filling her head, firm but gentle. Warm fingers wrapped around her arm, anchoring her to reality when everything else felt like it was spinning away. "Breathe with me. Just breathe. In and out."

She shot a murderous glare at Walker, her voice cracking with fury. "Excellent timing, you absolute moron. Really thoughtful approach there."

Walker raised his hands in mock surrender, but his expression remained coldly entertained, like he was watching a fascinating psychological experiment unfold. "What? I figured she already knew! Isn't that the whole reason she's here?"

Alexei, blissfully oblivious to the emotional carnage unfolding around him, chimed in with maddening cheerfulness. "Of course she is the girlfriend! Look at her—she is exact copy of girl in photographs on Winter Soldier's nightstand. Very beautiful, very tragic, like heroine from Dostoyevsky novel." He beamed at her with paternal pride that made her want to scream. "You loved him deeply, da? Was passionate romance? He was good lover?"

"Dad!" Yelena's voice cracked like a whip, her glare hot enough to melt steel. "You are making everything worse!"

But Alexei only shrugged, completely immune to his daughter's homicidal expression. "What? I only speak truth everyone is thinking. And besides, is much better to be remembered as someone's great love than to be forgotten completely, no? It is romantic tragedy, like in great Russian stories."

The words were meant to comfort, but they only drove the knife deeper. Great love. Romantic tragedy. She was standing in a room full of people who remembered a version of her that had been intimately, desperately connected to a man who represented everything she'd spent her life fighting against.

Her hands clenched into fists, nails biting crescents into her palms as she fought to stay upright. The walls seemed to press closer, the ceiling lower, the air thicker. Everyone's stares felt like physical weight pressing down on her shoulders until she thought her knees might buckle.

This was wrong. Fundamentally, cosmically wrong. She shouldn't be here, shouldn't be wearing this face, shouldn't be expected to carry the emotional baggage of a woman who'd made choices that defied everything she believed in.

But she was trapped. Caught between worlds, between identities, between a past that wasn't hers and a future that terrified her beyond reason.

"What the hell are you people talking about?" she whispered, her voice barely audible above the thundering of her own pulse. "Is this some kind of sick joke?"

The pity in their faces was worse than cruelty would have been. At least cruelty would have given her something to fight against. This careful sympathy, these cautious expressions—they made her feel like a wild animal everyone was afraid might bolt or attack without warning.

Everyone except Walker, who continued studying her with clinical detachment, and Alexei, who kept rambling about the beauty of doomed love.

"You need to slow down your breathing," Yelena urged, gripping her shoulders with steady hands and forcing eye contact. "Focus on my voice. Just breathe."

But the command fell flat. The air had turned to concrete in her lungs. The room spun around her like a carnival ride gone wrong, and she could feel herself fragmenting, splitting apart at invisible seams.

She tore herself free from Yelena's grip and stumbled backward, her body moving toward the elevator of its own accord. Her chest heaved with each stuttering breath, vision blurring as tears she refused to acknowledge burned behind her eyes.

"Listen to me," she managed to choke out, every word sharp and desperate. "I don't know what twisted game you think you're playing, but whoever you think I am, I can't be her. I won't be her. I'm my own person, and I'm not from this world, and I've never even met James Barnes—"

Walker's eyebrow arched with infuriating calm. "Well, sweetheart," he drawled, "you're about to."

Behind her, the elevator gave a soft mechanical hiss.

The doors slid open.

She turned, ready to throw herself into whatever escape the elevator offered, ready to run until her legs gave out or her heart exploded—

And froze.

James Barnes stood there.

To her, he should have been nothing more than a name in old files, a face in grainy photographs, a shadow from history books. But in the flesh, he was devastatingly, undeniably real. Taller than she'd expected, broader through the shoulders. Dark hair fell in waves past his collar, shot through with faint silver that caught the light. His beard was neatly trimmed, dusted with gray that spoke of years and battles and sleepless nights. And his eyes — pale blue like a winter sky, sharp and intelligent. And currently wide with shock.

But it wasn't his appearance that stole her breath and left her feeling like she'd been struck by lightning.

It was the way he looked at her.

He'd been stepping out of the elevator, probably heading to some routine meeting or training session, and he'd frozen mid-stride. His hand was still braced against the elevator frame, knuckles white with tension. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths, like someone had just punched all the air out of his lungs.

Those ice-blue eyes locked onto her face with an intensity that felt like being dissected, like he was looking straight through time and death and impossibility to see something that shouldn't exist. The expression on his face — raw disbelief warring with desperate hope, grief colliding with wonder—made something twist violently in her chest.

To her, he was a stranger. A name from her nightmares made flesh.

To him, she must be resurrection walking.

Her name fell from his lips like a prayer, broken and reverent and so full of longing it made her want to run screaming. His voice cracked under the weight of that single word, and his entire body seemed to lean forward, drawn by invisible strings.

He moved toward her slowly, as if afraid she might vanish if he startled her. Every step was careful, measured, like he was approaching something that might disappear any second. She wished she could right now.

His expression was torn wide open, every emotion playing across his features without filter or pretense.

She couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. For one suspended moment, she was caught in the gravitational pull of his gaze, trapped in the way he looked at her like she was the answer to prayers he'd stopped believing would be answered.

His hand twitched at his side, fingers flexing like he wanted to reach for her, to touch her face and confirm she was real and not just another cruel dream.

And then reality crashed back down on her like a tidal wave.

Her chest seized with pure, primal panic. Ice flooded her veins, her body's fight-or-flight response kicking into overdrive. She stumbled backward, shaking her head violently, trying to break whatever invisible connection had snapped taut between them.

"Don't—" Her voice shattered on the word. "Don't come near me."

He stopped immediately, but the damage was done. The anguish that flooded his features was unbearable, like she'd physically struck him. His lips parted, words trembling on his tongue, confusion bleeding through the desperate hope.

"It's okay," he said softly, his voice gentle in a way that made her want to scream. "It's me. It's Bucky. I don't understand what happened, how you're here, but it's going to be okay—"

"I don't know you!" The words exploded out of her, sharp and laced with mounting hysteria. She wrapped her arms around herself like armor, her whole body shaking with the effort of holding herself together. "I don't know who the hell you think I am, but I'm not her!"

He said her name again, softer this time, like he was trying to gentle a frightened animal. The sound of it in his voice, so full of history and intimacy, made her feel like her skin was crawling.

Before she could respond, before she could scream or run or collapse entirely, Yelena stepped forward. She positioned herself subtly between them, one hand raised in a calming gesture that encompassed both of them.

"She's not who you think," Yelena said quietly, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. Her gaze flicked between Bucky's devastated expression and her trembling form. "She's not the woman you knew, Bucky. She's a variant. From another world, another timeline. She's not... she's not her."

The words landed like physical blows. Bucky staggered backward, his face cycling through disbelief, understanding, and a grief so profound it seemed to hollow him out from the inside.

But his eyes never left her face. Never stopped drinking her in like she might disappear at any moment.

She wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole. Wanted to wake up from this nightmare and find herself back in her own world, her own life, where none of this impossible situation existed.

"This is getting incredibly uncomfortable," the young man with shaggy hair muttered from somewhere behind the group.

And it was. The tension in the air was thick enough to choke on. The weight of everyone's stares, the pity and confusion and worry—it was suffocating. Worst of all was the way Bucky kept looking at her, like the sight of her was simultaneously healing and destroying him.

She hated it. Hated this twisted version of fate that had dropped her into someone else's tragedy. Hated being expected to carry someone else's love, someone else's loss. Hated the way this man, this killer she was supposed to believe had been redeemed, was looking at her like she held his heart in her hands.

She'd come here for answers, but the truth was worse than any mystery could have been.

So she did the only thing that made sense anymore.

She ran.

Her detective training had kept her in good shape, years of chasing suspects through back alleys and up fire escapes had given her speed and endurance. She used all of it now, lunging toward the elevator with desperate urgency.

Behind her, she heard voices calling out—Yelena shouting her name, someone cursing in Russian, the sound of movement as superhuman reflexes kicked into gear.

But she was already inside, her finger jabbing frantically at the door close button as if her life depended on it.

The last thing she saw before the doors slid shut was Bucky's face—devastated, lost, reaching a hand out toward her like he was trying to stop her from disappearing all over again.

The moment she was alone, the adrenaline that had been holding her together evaporated. Her knees buckled, and she slid down the elevator wall until she was sitting on the cold metal floor, her head buried in her hands.

And for the first time since that portal had ripped her away from everything she knew, she broke.

The sobs came in waves, ugly and harsh and desperate. They tore out of her chest like they'd been trapped there for days, weeks, a lifetime. She cried for the life she'd lost, for the world she'd never see again, for the impossible situation she'd been thrust into without her consent.

She cried for the woman who'd worn her face and made choices she couldn't understand.

She cried for the man upstairs who'd looked at her like she was his whole world coming back from the dead.

Most of all, she cried because somewhere deep down, in a place she didn't want to acknowledge, she'd felt something when their eyes met. Something that terrified her more than any truth she'd uncovered.

Recognition.

Not of him, but of the way he'd looked at her. Like she was home.

And she had no idea what that meant, or what she was supposed to do with the guilt that had made a home in her heart. 

______________________________________________________________

Sam showed up at her apartment a few hours later, and for the first time since she'd met him, he was furious.

"What the hell were you thinking?" The door had barely clicked shut before his voice cracked across the room like a whip, sharp enough to make her spine straighten reflexively. His jaw was clenched so tight she could see the muscle jumping beneath his skin, his shoulders squared and rigid like he'd been holding onto that rage through the entire drive over. She didn’t doubt it. "Sneaking into the Watchtower like that? I told you—I told you—to keep a low profile."

"Oh, so now this is all my fault?" The words launched out of her before she could stop them, her finger jabbing toward his chest like a weapon. Heat flooded her veins, her pulse already wild and erratic, her voice shaking with something deeper than just rage. Desperation, maybe, or the kind of fear that could only be fought with fury. "You expect me to sit here, smile, and nod at every half-assed, vague non-answer you people throw at me? Just twiddle my damn thumbs in a world where the other me is dead?" Her voice cracked on the last word, raw and jagged. "I'm a detective, Sam, not some helpless civilian you can placate with scraps."

For a moment, Sam blinked like she'd blindsided him with a truth he hadn't bothered to consider. The fire in his eyes flickered, uncertainty creeping in around the edges. "Okay. I didn't…" He exhaled slowly, his anger deflating slightly as understanding dawned. "I didn't think about it like that. But when you put it that way, yeah, it makes sense, but—"

"Oh, for God's sake." She groaned, both hands flying to her hair, fingers tangling in the strands and tugging until her scalp burned with the sharp bite of pain. It grounded her, kept her from flying apart completely. Her chest was heaving now, words tearing out faster than she could filter them, like a dam had burst. "Were you seriously not going to tell me that your version of me, that she…was with the Winter Soldier?"

The silence that followed was deafening. Sam's gaze locked on hers, heavy and unblinking, his expression shifting into something guarded and final.

"No," he said finally, the word flat and unyielding as stone. "I wasn't planning on it."

Her stomach plummeted, a cold wash of betrayal flooding through her. Her throat constricted. "What the fuck, Sam? Why wouldn't you tell me that?"

He threw his hands up in exasperation, the sound of his sigh filling the cramped space between them like a punctured tire. "Why would I? What possible good would that do you?" His voice climbed, defensive and sharp. "You never knew him in your world. All it would do is create exactly what's happening now. Chaos, confusion. Pain for everyone involved."

She felt her mouth fall open, the words catching like glass shards on her tongue, but he barreled forward before she could speak.

"And how would it help him?" His voice cracked this time, a raw edge breaking through the frustration like a fault line splitting open. His hands fell back to his sides, limp and defeated, like the weight of everything had finally dragged him down. "It would just rip him apart all over again. You don't understand…he never recovered from losing her. From losing you." Sam shook his head, swallowing hard, his Adam's apple bobbing with the effort. "And now? Seeing your face again, hearing your voice, watching you move like her but not being her…" His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "I can't even imagine what that did to him."

Her breath caught, sharp and ragged, like she'd just taken a sucker punch to the throat. Her anger stuttered and died for one disorienting second, replaced by something she couldn't name. Guilt? Sympathy? The strange, hollow ache of mourning someone she'd never been?

Her voice dropped, barely more than a whisper, fragile as spun glass. "Was he the one who called you? Told you I came to the Tower?"

Sam looked at her then, and there was no anger left in his face. Just a deep tiredness and something that looked disturbingly like pity.

"Of course it was him," he said softly, each word deliberate and weighted. "He's my best friend."

He let that hang in the air between them, heavy and damning, like a confession.

"And I know you didn't know," Sam added, his voice quieter still, almost gentle. "But I was just trying to protect him. I've watched him put himself back together piece by piece, and I couldn't…I won't let him fall apart again."

The fight drained out of her like water through a sieve. All the yelling, the accusations, the righteous fury, it all seemed suddenly hollow and pointless as Sam's words echoed inside her skull like a death knell. She collapsed onto the couch, her knees giving out beneath her, elbows braced on her thighs, hands pressing hard against her forehead as if she could physically hold the spiraling pieces of herself together.

The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

"Okay," she finally whispered, the word trembling out of her like a prayer or a surrender. "Fine. You didn't tell me before. But you can tell me now." She lifted her eyes to Sam, and the weight of the question sitting heavy in her chest felt like it might crush her ribs. "What happened to her? The… me from here. How did she die?"

Sam froze, his mouth opening like he was going to speak, but no sound came out. His gaze flickered away from hers, darting toward the window, the floor, anywhere but her face. Like the answer was a wound he couldn't bring himself to reopen, a scab he refused to pick.

The silence stretched taut and unbearable, elastic and ready to snap, until a low voice cut through the tension like a blade.

"She died right after the fight against Thanos."

Her head snapped toward the door so fast her neck protested.

Bucky stood there, framed in the dim amber light from the hallway, his broad shoulders rigid as steel beams, his vibranium hand clenched around the doorframe with enough force that she could hear the wood creaking under the pressure. He looked like he was using it as an anchor, the only thing keeping him upright and steady. His eyes were locked on her, storm-blue and unflinching. So intense it felt like he was trying to memorize every detail of her face, as though looking away would destroy him all over again.

"Bucky—" Sam shot to his feet, tension coiling through his frame like a spring wound too tight. "I told you to wait in the car—"

Bucky didn't look at Sam. Didn't even acknowledge he'd spoken at all.

His gaze remained fixed on her, unblinking, burning through her like he could pin her to the floor with nothing but the weight of his stare. His voice, when it finally came, was steady but saturated with grief so thick and suffocating it seemed to bend the very air around them. He was still looking at her like she was a ghost made flesh, a cruel trick of light and shadow.

He stepped further into the apartment—one deliberate step, no more—like crossing that invisible threshold would mean too much, would shatter some fragile equilibrium he'd spent years building. Even this much proximity felt dangerous, charged with electricity that made her skin prickle. His eyes were sharp and hard as cut glass, but she could see the faint tremor of a storm barely restrained beneath the surface.

"It happened after we all came back. From the Blip. Fifteen days later, to be exact. Some nutjob — mad about the Blip and trying to take it out on the Avengers — broke into her apartment and…killed her. But you don't need to know the details," he said finally, his voice clipped and final. His eyes were damn near black. Hollowed out with grief.

The weight of his words hit her chest like a stone dropped from a great height. She stared back at him, her own words tangled in her throat like barbed wire. Sam shifted awkwardly between them, his expression tight and pale, like he was watching history about to repeat itself in the worst possible way. Maybe he was.

Her jaw clenched, forcing her voice out through the sudden tightness in her throat. "So now you get to decide for me?" The quiet venom in her tone surprised even her, cutting and precise. "You don't get to do that. Just because you knew me in another life doesn't give you the right to—"

"Stop." His voice cracked through hers like a whip, cold and brutal and absolutely final. It froze her mid-sentence, the words dying on her tongue. "I didn't know you. You're not her. You're just a woman wearing her face, carrying her voice, moving through the world like some cosmic joke." Each word was delivered like a physical blow, precise and merciless. "So no, you don't get the right to know how she died. You don't get to carry her memories or her pain or her love. All you should be doing is staying the hell away from anything that has to do with her."

Her stomach dropped to her feet, a cold wave of shock and hurt washing over her. She wasn't sure why his words sliced so deep—this man was a stranger, wasn't he? But the raw, bleeding wounds in his voice told her otherwise. Every syllable sounded like it cost him blood to speak.

Her chest burned with indignation and something sharper. Rejection, maybe, or the sting of being reduced to nothing more than a cruel facsimile. "I don't want any part of this world, Barnes," she shot back, watching him flinch—that subtle, involuntary recoil—when his last name hit the air like a curse. "But I'm not wearing anyone's face. This is me. My identity. My body. My life." Her voice rose, shaking with emotion she couldn't contain. "So I'm sorry your girlfriend died, but it's not fair for you to tell me I don't have the right to know what happened when I'm the one who has to live with everyone looking at me like I'm her ghost—"

"Shut up."

The words were a snarl, torn from his throat with a fury so raw and primal it made even Sam take a step back. His voice cracked like thunder, filling every corner of the small room. "Don't fucking say you're sorry. You have no idea who she was…what she meant, what she gave, what she sacrificed. You have no right to even speak her name, let alone wear her face and pretend you understand what any of us lost when she died."

Her chest heaved as white-hot anger surged through her veins like molten metal. "Why are you being such a complete jackass?" she snapped, her voice rising to match his, all pretense of composure abandoned. "You can't take this out on me! This isn't my fault! I didn't ask to be here, I didn't know what I was walking into, I didn't choose to look like her!" The words poured out of her in a torrent, years of frustration and confusion and fear crystallizing into pure rage. "You think I wanted to land in a world where I find out I was apparently dating a mass murderer? In my world, you're a war criminal! A terrorist!"

Something fundamental broke in him then. She could see it happen, the exact moment his carefully constructed composure shattered like glass.

Before she could even draw her next breath, he was there. Impossibly fast, covering the distance between them in a heartbeat. His face was just inches from hers, close enough that she could see the flecks of silver in his blue eyes, could feel the heat radiating off his skin. The air between them vibrated with the force of his fury, electric and dangerous. His eyes had gone nearly black, bottomless and wild, and when he spoke, his voice was molten steel poured over broken glass.

"You need to stop talking. Right now."

But her heart was hammering against her ribs like a caged bird, her throat raw with fury and fear and something else she couldn't name, and she couldn't stop. The words kept coming, sharp and cutting and designed to hurt. "What, does the Winter Soldier not like being reminded of the blood on his hands?" she spat, each word hitting its mark with surgical precision. "You think you get to stand there and act like I'm the monster when it was you? You killed for decades, Barnes. Innocent people. Children, probably. And now you want to be the judge of who deserves answers? That's rich."

His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the skin, his metal hand curling into a fist at his side with a soft mechanical whir.

"You ruined lives," she pressed on relentlessly, her voice shaking with anger and hurt and the desperate need to make him feel even a fraction of the pain he'd inflicted on her. She didn’t know why. She felt horrible doing it, knew it would solve nothing but create more pain. But she was so mad. So frustrated that everyone was treating her like a scar that hadn’t gone away. Couldn’t they see how alone she felt like this? "Entire families. Hundreds, maybe thousands of innocent people who never even knew your name." 

She laughed, but it was sharp and bitter, more like a sob than anything resembling humor. "But I'm the problem here? Because I look like some woman you couldn't save? Because I'm a reminder that you failed to protect the one thing that mattered to you?"

"Stop." The word broke from him like something vital tearing, guttural and desperate, but she was too far gone to hear it.

"—at least I never became the boogeyman little kids had nightmares about. At least I never let myself become a weapon pointed at the innocent. You're a murderer, Barnes. A murderer trying to play saint, and you have the audacity to act like—"

"Stop it, babe —"

The word slipped out before he could catch it, automatic and devastating. His face changed instantly—shock and raw, bleeding pain flickering across his features like he'd just ripped open a wound that had barely begun to heal. His lips pressed together hard, his eyes wide with something that looked like horror at his own slip, but it was too late. The word was hanging in the air between them, heavy and intimate and absolutely forbidden.

Her stomach lurched violently. The sound of it hit her like a physical blow. Unfamiliar to her but weighted with an intimacy she didn't share, couldn't claim, had no right to. It was a glimpse into someone else's love story, someone else's heart, and she was nothing but an unwelcome intruder. She stepped back sharply, stumbling slightly, as if the word had burned her.

"Don't," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Don't call me that. I'm not her. I'm not—" But she couldn't finish, couldn't voice what they both knew: that she was a pale imitation, a cosmic mistake like he had said. A walking reminder of everything he'd lost.

Sam was there in a flash, planting a firm hand against Bucky's chest, shoving him back a step before things could escalate further. "That's enough," Sam barked, his voice sharp with authority, his eyes darting between them like he was trying to defuse a bomb. "Both of you. Stop this right now."

Bucky froze, his chest heaving with ragged breaths, but his eyes never left her face. He looked utterly shattered, like he wanted to reach for her. Or maybe like he wanted to run as far away as possible. She couldn't tell which, and that uncertainty made everything worse.

Sam's hand stayed firm against Bucky's chest, even as the soldier's breathing began to even out into something resembling normal. His gaze flicked to her — still standing there rigid and trembling, staring at Bucky like she didn't even know what she was looking at anymore, like he was some dangerous animal that might strike at any moment.

Sam made the executive decision first. "We're leaving," he said flatly, not taking his eyes off Bucky. He gave him a sharp nudge toward the door, and Bucky went without protest, his shoulders tense as steel cables, his jaw locked like stone. He moved like a man in a trance, hollow and mechanical.

Before following, Sam turned back to her one last time. His expression softened fractionally, regret shadowing his dark eyes like storm clouds. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, and she could hear that he meant it. Sorry for bringing Bucky here, sorry for the pain they'd both inflicted, sorry that any of this had to happen at all.

She didn't answer. Couldn't. Her throat was too tight, her chest too full of emotions she didn't have names for. She just stood there, arms wrapped around herself like armor, eyes burning holes in the floor as silence pressed in from all sides.

Sam lingered for a heartbeat longer, waiting for something, anything, from her. Some sign that she was okay, that they could salvage this situation, that the damage wasn't irreparable. But when nothing came, when she remained frozen in her protective shell, he nodded once—heavy and resigned and infinitely tired—and followed Bucky out.

She watched them go through the blur of unshed tears. The door closed behind them with a soft click that echoed louder than it had any right to, final and absolute. Bucky never looked back.

The apartment was suddenly too big and too empty, the silence pressing against her eardrums like deep water. And all she could hear was that single word still echoing in her head carrying a weight that wasn't hers to bear, a love that would never belong to her, and the devastating knowledge that she was nothing more than a cruel reminder of everything this world had lost.

[graceechapmann]

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[blood-made-deactivated20251226]

terra incognita: the meeting (part i.)- bucky barnes

nerdy!bucky barnes x cheerleader!reader

summary. how does a nerd catch the eye of one of the cheerleaders? easy. don't bat an eye at her. 16k words.

cw. lowkey obsessed!reader, um bullying?? weird nerd... papal edicts.. and stuff. nothing is established in this (what's readers major? who knows. why is bucky taking STEM electives? who knows.) i don't even remember what happens in this part anymore.. no smut but honestly very cute.

a/n. this was sl hard to write?? ive never written a cutesy romcom inspired fic before??? literally kicked me in the butt everyday more than the hare did. how many times did i crash out to james and erin over this?? too much. and it's not even done yet. of all 65k words.. this is the only part i'm confident posting. side eyes self... i hate this.

dt. @54nboo thanks for proofreading and listening to me crash out over this almost everyday! @jamesb444 who i based nerdy!bucky off of. @/plumtartt who unfortunately deactivated but is the reason why i started writing college bucky (which led me to nerdy!bucky) in the first place, thank you plumtartt, i think of you a lot. and @buckyspup the best pup ever!!!

special mentions for my nerdy bucky lovers. @flockoff-featherface @herejustforbuckybarnes @mrgrungusthefrog @s4ge-gre3ns @neechan88 @onlineanyway @blowingbarnes @kiatjuddae @fleurbies @pinksplace @sergeantbarnessdoll @luvyoupxmimi

taglist. @demiebarnes @kararchives @1dluver13xx @devililithh @iownguns @loki-licious-945ad @ruexj283 @henrywinterreincarnate @biggestfangirl @buckybuckybuckysstuff @mrsalexstan @pretty-girl-rock-3 @riot-sounds @ambervanth @hiraethmae @btwbaureidrc @overwintering-soldier @fluorjscent @sweetserendipity65 @icwallittrashmagic @user27386 @buckysbaker @kittieboo @pixviee @moonyxxbarnes @rhythmnobleus @barnesonly @avgdestitute @star-yawnznn @thenedicouncil

masterlist | series masterlist | next part (in progress)

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

the answer to mrs. petrovsky's question in forensics, is simple: water. moving water, specifically.

it disrupts lividity, carries away trace evidence, speeds decomposition, feeds the ecosystem. a weighted body in a deep, fast river?

statistically, it might never surface, or if it does, miles downstream, bloated and unrecognizable, just another piece of driftwood tragedy. the textbook had stated. adipocere formation possible... insect activity differs significantly...

"how do you hide a dead body?" the question hung. the intricate puzzle of it. the logistics. the chemical ballet of decay versus concealment.

you imagined cold, dark water, the silent journey downstream, the efficient recycling by catfish and bacteria. a clean disappearance. almost elegant in its finality. bury it wrong, lividity gives you away. leave it shallow, scavengers scatter the evidence. fire? ash retains secrets.

but water... water swallows. water forgets. you were mentally calculating river depths versus body mass, the ideal current speed, the decomposition timeline factoring in water temperature and dissolved oxygen levels, the sheer, practical efficiency of oblivion by drowning, long after the actual drowning occurred...

"HOLY SHIT, DID YOU SEE THAT?!"

that sentence brings you here, snapping you back to reality.

under the arms of one tyler jones. the name tastes like stale air. golden boy. star... something. quarterback? running back? it doesn't stick. not that it matters.

all that registers is the sheen of his perfectly styled hair catching the awful overhead glare, and his smile – a permanent, practiced accessory, as fixed and meaningless as the plastic trophies lining the display case you shuffle past.

his arm slung casually over your shoulders like you're another trophy. his voice is a stupid confident drone, talking parties, talking about himself.

it's... fine. predictable. like chewing flavourless gum.

his arm isn’t affection; it’s ownership. like a claim staked, anchoring you to his orbit like a moon trapped by a gaudy, self-absorbed planet.

you’re just another thing to display alongside his letterman jacket, the cut of his jaw, the effortless persona that makes the hallway part for him.

his voice washes over you again, yet you barely hear it – parties, scouts, completion percentages, his sixty-yard bomb, his precision, his inevitable glory. words flow like a river you’ve long learned to float upon, detached, numb. you don't swim; you barely drift.

your eyes skim the blur of passing faces – the performative laughter of cliques, the couples fused at the lips, the ghosts hugging the lockers, eyes vacant. it’s all just background noise painted in shades of institutional a beige, exhausting mural.

tyler’s monologue about coach’s drills, his throwing arm, the drooling state scouts… it might as well be static. white noise.

you focus instead on the squeak-squeak of sneakers, the clang of a locker door kicked shut. your mind drifts, a desperate escape pod launching towards the half-finished sketch in your notebook, the haunting melody fragment looping in your head, the vague, persistent ache of being… elsewhere. anywhere but here, pinned under this arm, drowning in the echo chamber of his ego.

"...so coach is running the triple option drill again," tyler's saying, his fingers tap an absent rhythm against your upper arm. "like, we nailed it tuesday. but no, gotta grind it into the ground, right? my throwing arm's gonna fall off before saturday." he chuckles. "not that it matters. state scouts are already practically drooling. saw them talking to coach yesterday after practice. my completion percentage last game? insane. it's pure precision. you saw it, right? that sixty-yard bomb? textbook."

you hum a low vibration in your throat.

tyler's vocabulary includes nothing but scouts, completion percentage, precision. they might as well be in another language.

"...and then after the game, steve's throwing that party at his lake house," tyler continues, oblivious. "gonna be huge. kegs, music, the works. you're coming, obviously. wear that blue dress, the one that– hey." his voice sharpens. the tapping on your arm stops. "you listening?"

the hallway noise seems to recede in your ears. you blink, pulling yourself back from the edge of wherever your mind had wandered. "hmm? yeah, tyler. lake house. sounds... big."

he frowns, a slight crease appearing between his perfect brows. he doesn't like being ignored. not even passively. his hand lifts from your shoulder. for a second, you think he's going to drop the arm entirely. relief is a tiny, fleeting spark.

but then, quick and jarring, he snaps his fingers right in front of your face.

snap.

the sound is intrusive, cutting through the ambient noise like a physical prod. disrespectful. dismissive. like summoning a distracted pet.

"hello?" tyler demands, his voice losing some of its easy charm, gaining impatience. "i'm talking about the party of the semester. pay attention."

you flinch. not embarrassment, exactly. more like irritation simmering under a layer of practiced tolerance.

you force your eyes fully onto his face, meeting his expectant, and annoyed gaze. "sorry," you hum, the word tasting bland. "got lost in thought for a sec. yeah, party. blue dress. i heard."

the tension in his expression eases, replaced by that familiar smile. the arm snakes back around your shoulders. "good. just making sure you're with me. wouldn't want you spacing out when i'm telling you important stuff." he resumes walking, steering you. "anyway, like i was saying, the scouts..."

and then you see him.

tucked against the tide of students surging the other way, a boy with dark hair falling into his eyes like a shield, a physics textbook clutched against his chest. he moves with a strange urgency, head down, shoulders hunched. not slouching, exactly, but... contained. a tightly wound spring compared to tyler's sprawling confidence. unlike the noisy chaos of the hallway, he radiates a quietness, shyness that makes everything around him seem suddenly two-dimensional and flat. his gaze is fixed on the scuffed floor, utterly oblivious to the currents of students, to tyler, to you clinging to him. intriguing.

"...and coach says if i nail that throw saturday, scouts from state are practically guaranteed to offer on the spot–" tyler's voice fades, a distant radio signal lost to static, as you watch the boy.

he's scrambling, weaving through gaps that barely exist between the other students, like he's invisible.

intelligence doesn't just show on him: he reeks of it. you see the worn spine of the textbook – advanced theoretical physics? – the smudges of ink staining his hands, his eyes, visible for a second as he glances up to navigate through the halls. the library ghost. the scholarship kid. the genius, supposedly. or trouble, some whispered.

he doesn't look up. he doesn't register tyler's presence, and he absolutely does not register yours. his world is the dense text and the clearest path ahead. and that path, in his focused haste, is about to intersect yours and tyler's dead-on at a congested locker bay bottleneck.

"whoa, watch it, man!" tyler says, louder than usual, his arm tightening around you.

he collides hard with tyler's shoulder, a solid impact that sends a shockwave through you, making you stumble side against tyler. tyler lurches.

the physics textbook hits the floor with a thwump, pages scattering open like they have wings. pens and pencils spread, rolling in every direction like startled insects.

your breath stops for a moment. this is it. the moment. you brace for that awkward pause, the mumbled pleasantries, tyler's laugh and good-natured clap on the back that would establish his dominance and diffuse the tension.

that doesn't happen.

the boy doesn't even glance at tyler. he doesn't flicker his eyes towards you, standing right there, your shoulder still pressed awkwardly into tyler's side. his entire focus crashes down onto the fallen book, his face draining of color, jaw clenched tight.

he drops to his knees with startling, panicked speed, long, fingers scrabbling across the floor to gather the scattered pens, to scoop up the splayed textbook and snap it shut with a decisive thud. his movements are frantic, efficient, and filled with the desperate need to vanish.

"sorry," his voice is hollow, devoid of inflection. it's not aimed at tyler. not aimed at you. just thrown into the air in the hallway, a meaningless sound to fill the space before escape. his voice is low and rougher than you expected, unused.

tyler regains his footing, the momentary shock replaced by amused condescension. "eyes up next time, yeah?" he chuckles, designed to draw attention. "wouldn't want you calculating the trajectory of your face into a locker. might mess up that big brain of yours."

he flinches. it's almost invisible – just a tiny tightening around his eyes, a fractional stiffening of his shoulders as he crouches. he grabs the last stray pencil, shoves it roughly into the spiral binding of his closed book, and pushes himself up in one motion. he keeps his head resolutely down, the dark hair falling forward as a perfect curtain shielding his eyes.

"sorry," he repeats. but it's emptier than the last time he said it. and he just... walks away with shoulders close together and eyes fixed on the floor. then he melts into the stream of students, like a ripple absorbed by the current.

he doesn't glance back, doesn't acknowledge tyler. he doesn't even spare the silent observer clinging to the quarterback.

not even a single flicker of attention.

nothing. absolute zero.

"fuckin' weirdo," tyler mutters, shaking his head with a mix of annoyance and superiority. his arm settles heavily back around your shoulders again. "always got his head in the clouds or buried in some equation. total space cadet. c'mon, we're gonna be late."

you let tyler steer you forward, but your head stays turned, your eyes tracking the dark head until it disappears around the corner. the predictable drone of tyler's voice – already back to scouts and throws – washes over you like a meaningless static.

but all you hear is the echo of that clipped, hollow sorry. all you see is that world-consuming focus that saw straight through you, the frantic scramble, the utter, complete lack of regard.

tyler's arm feels like dead weight, suffocating. the hallway is loud, drilling into your skull. and the quiet boy who paid you absolutely no attention just carved a strange, unexpected hole right in the center of your predictable, flavorless afternoon.

why? the question hums louder than the people, louder than tyler's ego.

why did that feel... different? why did nothing feel like... something?

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

the relentless drone of other students seems louder in this sterile communications classroom that smells of dust, and the chemical tang of dry erase markers.

tyler's heavy arm isn't around you here – thank god – he's business admin, considers anything beyond basic composition a waste of his valuable time.

you're slumped near the back, idly sketching spirals in the margin of your notebook while professor richards, a man whose enthusiasm for grammar borders on the pathological, drones on.

"...and so, the semicolon," professor richards declares, tapping the whiteboard where the punctuation mark sits, lonely and misunderstood. "not a comma, not a period. a bridge. a delicate connector of independent yet related clauses. who can give me an example of its correct usage? come now, don't go shy on me."

silence. the usual suspects – the english majors who usually jump at any chance to showcase their vocabulary – shift uncomfortably. a pen clicks. nobody volunteers.

professor richards sighs, pushing his glasses up his nose. "seriously? no one? think about it. two complete thoughts. linked by theme or contrast. the semicolon is your friend!"

a hushed debate two rows ahead fizzles out. you glance towards the front left corner, almost reflexively now. him. the boy from the hallway. the one who bumped tyler and barely muttered sorry. the one who sliced through communication theory like butter. hunched over his notebook, same as always. dark hair a curtain. pen moving. not notes on fucking semicolons, you'd bet. probably differential equations or the chemical composition of stardust. the nerdy boy. the one who doesn't see me.

your pencil hovers over a half-finished spiral. you watch the scratch of his pen, the tension in his shoulders as he concentrates.

professor richards paces. "alright, let's try this. imagine: 'the rain fell relentlessly; the streets became rivers.' independent clauses? check. related? absolutely! the semicolon elegantly links cause and effect. now, someone give me another original example. please?"

more crickets. punctuated only by the frantic scratching from the front left. professor richards runs a hand through his hair. "this is foundational, people! how do you expect to write compelling arguments if you can't master basic sentence structure?"

you almost feel sorry for him. almost.

your eyes are glued to that dark head, the brown cardigan stretched across his shoulders. he hasn't flinched or looked up. lost. predictably lost. you start to turn back to your spirals, a disappointment you can't quite name pricking you. maybe the communication theory thing was a fluke.

then, movement. not a frantic scramble like in the hallway. his left hand lifts from the notebook, rising just high enough to be visible. no flourish, no eagerness.

professor richards spots it. immediately. "mr. barnes! thank goodness. enlighten us."

barnes.

barnes doesn't stand. he doesn't even fully look up. he just speaks silently, calm as a matter-of-fact. "the experiment yielded unexpected results; further analysis is required before publication." he pauses, his pen still hovering over whatever complex universe he's mapping. "or, for contrast: 'she loved the chaos of the city; he craved the silence of the mountains.'"

the silence changes. not stunned this time, but... relieved. impressed. professor richards beams, clasping his hands together. "perfect! precisely, mr. barnes. elegant, clear, demonstrates the linking function beautifully. both examples. excellent." he turns back to the board, energized. "you see? independent clauses, intimately related..."

but you're frozen again. pencil forgotten. your head tilts, studying his spine, the way his hand returns immediately to his notebook, resuming its work without pause. no pride. no glance around to see if anyone noticed. he just... knew. instantly. conjured two perfect, contrasting examples off the top of his head while clearly being light-years away in his own thoughts.

tyler's voice echoes, bragging about some meaningless touchdown: 'pure instinct, darling.'

this... this was different. a different kind of instinct. quiet intelligence radiating from that hunched figure.

how does he do that? why doesn't he care that he just saved professor richards lesson?

you stare at the stubborn fall of his dark hair, the set of his jaw just visible in profile.

the frantic, embarrassed boy who dropped his physics book is a distant memory. replaced by this... unsettling competence. this ability to surface, deliver perfection, and submerge again without a ripple. completely self-contained. utterly indifferent.

"hey!"

the sharp poke in your ribs jolts you. it's amelia, leaning so far over the shared desk she's practically in your lap. "seriously? again? are you, like, hypnotized by the nerd's cardigan or something? professor richards is gonna call on you!"

you blink, tearing your gaze away. professor richards is scanning the room, his gaze landing on the back rows. specifically, on you, caught mid-stare. heat floods your cheeks.

his voice calls your name. "since you seem... attentive. perhaps you can build on mr. barnes's excellent examples? give us another sentence demonstrating the semicolon linking two clauses expressing contrast? something original?"

your mouth goes desert-dry. your mind, a perfect, echoing blank. all you hear is that low, rough voice: 'she loved the chaos of the city; he craved the silence of the mountains.' poetry hidden in grammar. your own thoughts feel like sludge. "uh..." you stammer, scrambling. "contrast... right. um... 'the cake looked delicious; it tasted like cardboard?'" it comes out more as a question than a statement.

professor richards sighs, the sound heavy with disappointment. "well, it is contrast. albeit... culinary. and technically correct, if uninspired. please try to engage with the elegance of the construction." he turns back, muttering about foundational skills.

amelia collapses back into her chair, stifling a giggle. "cardboard cake?" she hisses, kicking your ankle lightly under the desk. "what is wrong with you today? you were practically dissecting the back of that nerd's head with your eyeballs. again! seriously. since when does the library ghost get this kind of real estate in your mind?"

"nothing's wrong," you mutter, ducking your head. but your eyes flick up, irresistibly drawn back to the front left corner. to barnes. he hasn't moved a muscle. hasn't shifted. hasn't so much as twitched at your lame attempt. he's still hunched, pen scratching steadily across his paper, absorbed. completely unaware of your burning cheeks, your answer, your stare. completely unaware of you.

the heat in your face is embarrassment and something else, something hotter and more confusing.

he's everywhere. the quiet boy. the nerdy boy. the one who bumped tyler and barely muttered sorry. the one who answers impossible questions like they're nothing.

and he pays you no attention. absolutely none.

the question isn't just humming now; it's a drumbeat in your skull, louder than professor richards, louder than amelia, perfectly timed to the relentless scratch-scratch-scratch of his pen: why him? why does nothing feel like the loudest thing in the room?

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

the library is quiet, broken by the occasional rustle of pages, the tap of keyboards, and the low whispers.

it reeks of old books and dust motes dance in the afternoon sun through windows. you're tucked into an armchair, a history textbook open but mostly ignored on your lap.

your gaze, however, isn't on gothic architecture. it's fixed across the central aisle, near the math and science reference section.

him.

barnes.

perched on a chair at a study table, surrounded by a fortress of towering books. calculus, advanced physics, organic chemistry – spines are thick, you'd never pick up a textbook like that, the titles screaming complexity.

and he's wearing glasses. thin, wire-framed ones that somehow sharpen the focus already etched onto his face. they make him look... older. more serious. unbearably and undeniably smart.

he's leaning forward, elbows resting on the tabletop, explaining something to two nervous-looking freshmen hunched across from him. one points frantically at a page in a massive calculus tome.

"no, see," barnes's voice is quiet and somehow carries without disturbing the library hush. patient. utterly fucking patient.

"you're overcomplicating the substitution. look." his finger, ink-stained, traces a line on the page. "ignore the trig identity for a second. just let u equal the inside of the radical. then du is...?"

the struggling freshman blinks. "uh... the derivative?"

"exactly." a slight nod. no smile, but his tone isn't harsh. "so then the integral simplifies to...?" he waits, letting the kid think. the other freshman scribbles furiously, trying to keep up.

you watch, almot mesmerized. the tension from the hallway is still there in his shoulders, but channeled now. focused entirely on the problem, on guiding these lost kids through the mathematical maze. the embarrassment? gone. replaced by this quiet competence. you steal glances: the way his hair falls over his forehead, just brushing the top rim of his glasses. the leather strap of his overloaded messenger bag slung over the back of the stool. the movements of his hands as he flips pages in another reference book without even looking, finding the exact spot he needs.

how does he do that? he's not just smart; he's... present. completely immersed in helping them understand.

your pencil is forgotten in your hand. you trace the line of his jaw, the concentration in his eyes behind the lenses.

he pushes the glasses up his nose with a knuckle. it's a small, unconscious gesture. interesting.

the sunlight catches the wire frames, glinting for a second. he doesn't fidget, doesn't look around. his world is the table, the books, the two students hanging on his every word. he pays the rest of the library, pays you watching from the shadows of the armchair, absolutely no attention. because he's just so fucking sure of himself.

"so then you integrate that," he continues, "and plug back in. see? the trig identity resolves itself naturally after the substitution. it's cleaner." one freshman lets out a relieved sigh. barnes just nods again, already scanning the next problem. "try the next one. same approach."

the fascination is a physical pull. you lean slightly forward in the armchair, the history text slipping slightly yet you don't even notice.

all you see is the focused curve of his back, the way his brow furrows slightly as he anticipates the students' next stumbling block. the authority. the complete lack of fucking ego. why is he even doing this? tutoring? for money? or just... because he can?

suddenly, the world explodes.

big, warm hands slam over your eyes from behind, plunging you into darkness.

a familiar, overpowering cloud of musky cologne envelops you – axe body spray and disgusting sweat. "guess who, beautiful?" tyler jones's voice booms, shattering the library hush.

laughter follows, not just his, but a couple of his football buddies lurking behind him.

you jerk, a gasp escaping you. your textbook tumbles from your lap, scattering pencils.

panic and intense irritation flood your system. "tyler!" you hiss, wrenching your head, trying to pry his hands away. "let go! what the hell?"

he chuckles as he leans over the chair. he doesn't remove his hands. "aw, missed me that much? knew you'd be hiding out in this dusty old place. c'mon, we're headin' to the quad. steve brought his new speakers, gonna blast some tunes. way better than this tomb." he gives your shoulders a rough shake. "my favorite distraction shouldn't be buried in books."

across the aisle, the low murmur has stopped dead.

you freeze, humiliation burning your neck and ears. you can feel eyes. the two freshmen are staring. and barnes. he's looked up. finally. his gaze, magnified slightly by the glasses are focused now – but not on you. directly at tyler's hands on your shoulders.

his expression is neutral. completely still. no anger, no surprise. just... observation. analytical observation. like you're another problem set.

"tyler, seriously," you grit out, finally managing to shove his hands away from you. you scramble to pick up your fallen textbook, avoiding looking directly at barnes's table but feeling the weight of it anyway. "i'm studying. go away."

tyler straightens, ignoring your protest. his eyes scanning the room dismissively until they land on the study table across the aisle. his smirk widens.

"well, well. look who it is. barnes!" his voice is deliberately loud in the dead silence of the library. "still buried in nerd books, huh? tutoring the fresh meat? hope they're paying you in pocket lint." only his buddies snicker.

barnes doesn't flinch. he just holds tyler's gaze for a beat, his own eyes behind the glasses assessing. then, without a word, he looks back down at the calculus book open in front of one of the freshmen. his finger taps the page. "equation three," he says, utterly unchanged. "apply the same substitution. now." he completely dismisses tyler. erases him.

the freshman jumps, startled back to work. tyler's grin falters for a nanosecond, replaced by a flicker of irritation at being ignored.

he recovers quickly, slinging a heavy arm around your shoulders, pulling you tight against him before you can react. "c'mon," he says, too loud, too close for your liking. "enough hiding. time for some real fun. you look way too hot to waste in here." he starts pulling you bodily out of the armchair.

you stumble, trying to find your feet, your textbook clutched awkwardly to your chest. "tyler, stop. i'm not–"

"nah, you're coming," he insists, steering you firmly away from the armchair. "my treat. maybe get a smoothie after. keep her energized."

as tyler moves you towards the library doors, his arm like an iron bar across your back.

you twist your head, one desperate glance back over your shoulder. barnes is still at the table. head bent over the book again, pointing something out. he hasn't looked up. he hasn't watched tyler drag you away.

his world has already narrowed back down to the integral on the page. the interruption, the spectacle, you... already erased. already forgotten.

the heavy library doors swing shut behind you, cutting off the quiet, the smell of books, the sight of the wire-rimmed glasses catching the light. tyler's loud voice fills the hallway, talking about speakers and smoothies and other shit you don't care about.

but all you feel is the ghost of that analytical gaze. the utter indifference. the way nothing from him felt louder than tyler's entire performance.

the question screams inside your skull, drowning out everything: why does being invisible to him feel like the only thing worth seeing?

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

the next time you see barnes is on a friday afternoon. the sun beats down, like a spotlight on an empty stage. you're propped against the sun-warmed brick of the student union. your lukewarm smoothie's condensation slicks your fingers – tyler's obligatory offering, thrust into your hand twenty minutes ago before he'd peeled off towards the makeshift weightlifting pit near the gym entrance. predictable.

amelia chatters beside you. her voice a buzzing fly around your head, complaining about her bio prof's impossible grading, the unfairness of the lab report deadline. her words register as sounds, shapes, devoid of meaning. "...and then he had the nerve to say my methodology was 'lacking rigor'! lacking rigor? i spent hours on those slides..."

your eyes drift over the quad's frantic energy. a pickup soccer game churns near the oak trees, shouts echoing – "here!" "man on!" a group sprawls on the grass nearby, filled with laughter at something unseen. the sound is grating, and hollow. it all feels... distant. like watching a noisy movie through thick glass.

tyler's loud whoop cuts across the space as he slaps steve's back, muscles flexing under his sleeveless tee. performative. empty. the smoothie tastes like chalky fruit and melting ice. you take another sip, the cold liquid doing nothing to thaw the numb boredom in you.

this is it. the peak of your friday.

leaning against a wall, waiting for tyler to remember you exist so he can parade you around like a shiny accessory at whatever loud, pointless gathering comes next. the brick scrapes your skin again. you shift, feeling lethargic.

why does everything feel so... beige?

amelia elbows you. "are you even listening? this is, like, academic sabotage, i swear..." she trails off, noticing your vacant stare. "hello? earth to... wait, what's that?"

you follow her gaze, something other than apathy finally sparking.

across the sun-drenched quad, near the shadowed entrance to the old science building–a monstrosity of dark red brick and big windows. a small figure, hunched, glasses askew on a pale face.

the kid from the library, the one barnes was tutoring.

he's clutching the physics textbook to his chest. towering over him, filling the narrow space between the wall and a stone planter, is carter mullins. defensive line. tyler's occasional enforcer. built like a fridge stuffed into a too-small tee.

a sneer twists his face as he jabs a thick finger towards the textbook.

"think you're real smart, don'tcha, shrimp?" mullins's voice is a physical blow. "actin' all high and mighty with your fancy tutor?" he shoves the kid's shoulder, not hard enough to topple him, but enough to make him stagger back, his spine hitting the brick.

the textbook slips, thumping to the pavement. "heard you squealed to dr. peterson about the 'disruption' in the library. that true, maggot?"

the kid flinches violently, shrinking in on himself. "n-no, i didn't—" he stammers. "mr. barnes, he just—"

"barnes?" mullins spits the name like it's rancid milk. he barks a harsh laugh. "that freak? figures you'd be sucking up to the library ghost. what'd he teach you? how to be a bigger loser?" he shoves the kid again with a harder push that slams his shoulders against the brick. "pick it up. maybe eat it, might put some meat on those chicken bones." he nudges the fallen book with his sneaker.

amelia gasps beside you. "oh crap," she breathes, her bio woes forgotten. "mullins being a total dick again. seriously, someone should—"

but before she finishes, before the flicker of 'should you do something?' can even fully ignite into action (would you? could you?), he steps into the frame.

barnes.

he materializes from the darkness of the science building's archway, not running, but moving with that same contained urgency you've seen before, only now it's honed. no hesitation. no dramatic entrance. he walks straight up, inserting himself directly between mullins's bulk and the trembling kid pressed against the brick. not aggressively, not puffing up. just... occupying the space. a sudden, immovable wall built of quiet intent.

mullins, startled by the sudden presence, takes an involuntary half-step back, then immediately puffs up, his face flushing an even deeper red.

"well, well," he sneers, recovering. "look what crawled out of the stacks. come to rescue your little nerdling, freak?"

barnes ignores him. completely. utterly. as if mullins were a gnat buzzing near his ear. he bends at the knees, and picks up the fallen physics textbook. he brushes the grit and a stray blade of grass off the cover with a single swipe of his hand.

he turns, not towards mullins, but towards the kid, holding out the book. "go," he says, calm. not a suggestion. a command delivered with finality. "lab starts in five minutes."

the kid scrambles, snatching the book, his eyes wide behind his glasses, darting one last terrified glance at mullins before practically tripping over his own feet to vanish into the dark maw of the science building doorway.

mullins stares, dumbfounded by the sheer audacity of being ignored. then the anger erupts. "hey! i was talkin' to you, barnes!" he steps closer, deliberately invading barnes's personal space, his shadow swallowing the smaller figure.

he's almost a taller, twice as wide of pure muscle. "you think you're tough now? hiding behind books? your little pet squealed, and you're gonna answer for it!" spittle flies from his lips.

barnes finally looks at him. really looks. he doesn't crane his neck; he just levels his gaze, meeting mullins's furious glare head-on.

his hands hang loosely at his sides, but you see the faint, clench of his knuckles, the shift in his stance – not bracing, but grounding.

his voice, when he speaks, is low, but it cuts through mullins.

"he didn't report anything." a simple, factual statement. no embellishment. "you were loud. disruptive. security heard you. not him. leave him alone."

mullins blinks, momentarily thrown by the calm, by the absolute lack of fear, by the directness."or what?" he scoffs, trying to regain the upper hand, shoving barnes's shoulder. hard. "you gonna cry to the librarians? write me a strongly worded equation?"

barnes absorbs the shove. he doesn't stumble. barely rocks back. he doesn't retaliate nor does he doesn't flinch.

his expression remains unchanged. it's the same look he uses on a complex differential equation, dissecting the problem.

mullins isn't a person; he's an obstacle. a variable requiring resolution.

"or," barnes says, "i'll report the harassment. formally. with witnesses." his gaze flicks, just for a fraction of a second, towards your group by the union wall, towards amelia frozen beside you, towards the cluster of students who've stopped their soccer game, watching. then back to mullins, pinning him. "coach riley likes his starting lineup clean. doesn't he? zero tolerance policy. especially for... repeat offenders."

silence. the sneer melts off mullins's face like wax, replaced by shock, then pure, impotent fury with cold, dawning fear. the threat isn't physical bravado. it's precise. barnes knows the rules. he knows the leverage and he knows exactly where to apply pressure. he stands there, quiet, a stillness that feels infinitely more dangerous than anything else.

mullins's fists clench at his sides. he glares, his chest heaves, the veins in his neck standing out. he looks like a bull about to charge, wanting nothing more than to obliterate this presence.

but he hesitates. trapped by the logic, by the witnesses, by the utterly unreadable and calculating look in barnes's eyes. mullins lets out a frustrated, guttural growl, low and animalistic.

"you're dead, freak," he spits. "you and your little nerd squad. dead." needing the last word, needing to assert dominance, he shoves past barnes, slamming his shoulder hard against him, and stalks off, shoving through the small crowd that had gathered.

barnes watches him go for a single second. his expression stays stoic. then, as if flipping a switch, the tension eases, banked and stored away.

he adjusts the strap of his backpack. he doesn't look at the gathered students. he doesn't seek the approval, reassurance, or even acknowledgment. he doesn't offer a nod to anyone.

he just turns. his eyes sweep the pavement near where the kid had been, as if checking for a dropped pen or forgotten paperclip or anything at all. finding nothing, he walks towards the science building entrance. like he'd just finished a particularly satisfying tutoring session, not stared down a human wrecking ball.

you realize you've stopped breathing. the lukewarm smoothie is crushed and leaking cold, sticky liquid over your fingers. you don't feel it.

amelia is staring, open-mouthed, her bio prof woes are forgotten. "holy shit, did... did barnes just...?"

but you're not listening. your heart is a frantic against your ribs. you watch him disappear into the dark archway, swallowed by the shadows of the old building, just like he vanished down the crowded hallway, just like he submerged back into the depths of his notebook.

the quiet boy. the nerdy boy. the one who mumbled a hollow 'sorry' and walked away. the one who answered impossible questions with effortless precision. the one who tutored with unnerving patience.

and now... this. protective, intelligent, utterly fearless, wielding logic like a weapon.

and still... he never looked around. never scanned the quad for reactions beyond that one brief assessment of potential witnesses. never saw you. standing frozen against the sun-warmed brick, watching him with your pulse loud in your ears. your expression caught somewhere between awe and something close to fear.

the sun is hot on your skin. the pop music thumps mindlessly. the group on the grass shrieks again. but you feel cold. deeply shaken.

the image of barnes, standing so still and certain against mullins's towering rage, burns behind your eyes, brighter than the afternoon sun.

the wall of indifference is still there, vast and impenetrable. but behind it... what terrifying depths? what reserves of strength, what razor-sharp focus, what unexpected courage? the fascination isn't just a siren song anymore; it's a seismic shift, cracking open the numb, beige boredom of your existence, pulling you relentlessly towards a mystery wrapped in silence, cardigan and wire-rimmed glasses.

why him?

the question isn't a scream now; it's the only sound left in the hollow silence of your world.

why does the boy who sees nothing make you feel like you're standing on the edge of an abyss, finally seeing something real?

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

sweat rivers carve itchy paths through the grime on your neck, plastering your practice top to your back. your legs feel like overcooked noodles after the fifteenth pyramid run-through. the final pose leaves your arms trembling, the fixed cheer-smile aching on your face like a bad fucking joke.

it reeks with the smell of hot grass, sunscreen, and exhausted bodies. around you, the squad collapses in a groaning heap.

"i swear coach is trying to kill us before homecoming," jenna whines, sprawling face-down on the scratchy turf. "my ankles feel like they're made of glass."

"try being a base," maria retorts, tipping her water bottle over her head, the water mostly missing her mouth and soaking her collar. "samantha, you were leaning so far left i thought you were gonna take us all down. launch up, not sideways."

"i was going up." samantha fires back, wiping sweat from her eyes with the back of her hand. "maybe if you guys actually pushed straight. felt like i was being shoved off a cliff."

"enough!" sarah's captain-voice slices through. she claps her hands. "water. stretch. breathe. we go again in three. save the drama for the judges, not me."

you sink onto the bleached grass beside jenna, pulling your knees up, resting your forehead on them.

the familiar soundtrack plays: maria and samantha's banter fading to grumbles, jenna's complaints about her homework, the thud of football pads from the adjacent field.

predictable. boring.

your mind, seeking escape, flickers back to the image that won't leave: barnes. not big, not imposing, just... there. standing firm against the mullins, then just... walking away. the question nagged, a loose thread in the tapestry of his weirdness.

amelia plops down beside you. she unwraps gum with a crinkle. "earth to space cadet," she chirps, blowing a small bubble. it pops. "still mentally dissecting barnes's thrilling lecture on semicolon usage? riveting stuff." she nudges you with her elbow.

you lift your head. "shut up, ames. just dying. slowly."

"uh huh," amelia is unconvinced. her eyes, perpetually scanning for gossip, dart across the field, past the bleachers, towards the chain-link fence bordering the main walkway.

suddenly, she freezes. her eyes widen, her jaw drops mid-chew. she grabs your arm, nails digging in. "ohmygod," she says. "don't. look. now. seriously. play it cool. but your super-secret nerd crush is doing a perimeter check. like, right now."

you blink, confused. "my... crush? tyler's over there," you gesture vaguely towards the distant football huddle where tyler's hair gleams under a helmet.

"not tyler, you oblivious disaster!" amelia hisses, leaning so close her minty breath hits your ear. she gives the most obvious jerk of her chin towards the walkway. "barnes. your resident library ghost. marching past!"

your head whips around.

and there he is. barnes.

trudging along the paved path outside the chain-link fence, maybe thirty feet away. head down, as always, eyes probably fixed on the cracked concrete. not tall, not broad like the football guys. his overloaded backpack, hangs low, making him seem even more stooped, like he's trying to fold into himself. he's wearing a faded, slightly-too-big maroon t-shirt, and dark pants. his glasses perch precariously on his nose.

he moves silently, utterly oblivious to the cheer squad sprawled nearby.

"huh," jenna murmurs, following your gaze. she squints. "who's the guy with the tragic backpack? looks like he's carrying bricks."

"that's barnes," you murmur. your eyes track his progress. he adjusts his slipping glasses with a push of his knuckle, his head dipping further.

"barnes?" maria wrinkles her nose, taking a swig of water. "that the guy everyone's whispering about? the one who mouthed off to mullins? doesn't look like much."

natasha romanoff, who'd been silently, impossibly holding a stretch nearby – one leg extended perfectly front, the other back, forehead resting calmly on her forward knee – lets out a soft snort. she doesn't lift her head. "that's bucky."

you freeze.

bucky?

the name feels... small. ordinary. completely mismatched with what you witnessed.

natasha slowly, fluidly unfolds herself from the stretch. she brushes invisible dust from her black shorts, her green eyes tracking bucky's hunched figure with an expression of pure, detached amusement.

"bucky barnes. yeah," she confirms. "he walks like that." she gestures vaguely, dismissively – the stooped shoulders, the gait, the backpack. "genius, apparently. full ride scholarship. perfect scores on everything, blah blah."

"genius?" jenna echoes, skepticism heavy in her voice. "doing what? inventing new ways to look stressed?"

"history," natasha says. a small, almost pitying smirk touches her lips.

"history?" you blurt out, the confusion mirroring everyone else’s. "but… the physics book? the tutoring? the equations?"

natasha shrugs. "yep. medieval european history, or something. something about… crusade logistics? treaty negotiations?" she waves a dismissive hand. "point is, he’s got the brain for rocket science but writes papers about, i dunno, grain shipments in the 12th century."

she pushes herself up smoothly from her stretch, brushing grass off her shorts. "and don’t let the whole ‘silent force of nature’ thing fool you." she meets your eyes directly, a knowing glint in hers.

"catch him off guard, actually try to talk to him about something besides decay rates or feudal obligations?" a small, almost pitying smile touches her lips. "kid turns into a total disaster zone. stammers. blushes. trips over his own feet. forgets how to form complete sentences. it’s kind of painful, actually."

you stare at her, then back at barnes – bucky – who’s almost reached the end of the fence line, about to disappear around the corner towards the library.

history? stammers? blushes?

it clashes violently with the image seared into your mind: the calm, logical force facing down mullins; the patient tutor; the boy who answered complex questions without blinking.

"no way," amelia breathes, fascinated. "he looks like he wouldn’t break a sweat defusing a bomb."

"appearances," natasha says simply, grabbing her water bottle. "he’s all sharp edges until you get close. then it’s just… awkward. really, really awkward." she takes a long drink, her gaze following bucky until he rounds the corner and vanishes. "smartest guy on campus, probably. socially? total train wreck. weird combo." she shrugs again, like she’s stated a simple fact about the weather.

"ew," maria makes a face. "seriously? blushes? no thanks. looks like he'd break out in hives if you smiled at him."

"exactly," natasha says, like it's obvious. "all that brainpower and zero chill. zero. weirdest combo." she shrugs again, finality in the gesture. "alright, cap. ready."

sarah blows her whistle. "basket toss sequence! positions! now! look alive, people!"

the squad groans, pushing stiffly to their feet.

you stand slowly, your eyes glued to the spot where bucky barnes had just shuffled around the corner, disappearing from view.

history. genius. scholarship. stammers. blushes. trips over air. the image of him facing mullins – smaller, hunched, but utterly still and certain – clashes violently with natasha's description of a flustered, tongue-tied mess.

the numbness is obliterated, replaced by a mix of confusion and a terrifying curiosity.

why history? why the disconnect?

and the most dangerous question, igniting like a spark in dry grass: what would happen if you tried? the thought sends a shiver through you, unrelated to the whistle or the impending toss. the field, the groans, the heat – fade.

all you see is the ghost of his hunched shoulders vanishing, and natasha's words echoing: human disaster. total nerd.

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

you're tucked into your corner armchair, back safely against shelves of ancient philosophy texts. your textbook lies open before you, but the pages remain untouched. your pen rests idle beside it. because you're not studying. not even pretending very hard.

you're watching him.

bucky barnes. sitting at his table – exactly twenty-seven paces diagonally across the main aisle from you.

you've counted. repeatedly.

he's hunched so far over his book his nose is practically touching the page. glasses perched so low, his hair is a messy curtain, partially obscuring his face. a finger traces a line slowly back and forth.

his entire world is contained within the margins of that massive, leather-bound tome. probably something about medieval irrigation systems or the diplomatic nuances of a 13th-century truce.

history. the word still feels dissonant, wrong, when applied to the boy who dissected communication theory like a surgeon and faced down mullins.

he hasn't moved in forty-five minutes. not even a sigh. just that laser-focused stillness that you couldn't find anywhere else. the kind of focus that erases everything else. including you. especially you.

you shift slightly in your chair. he doesn't flinch. you clear your throat, barely a whisper. nothing. you drop your pen. it clatters on the floor, not even budging his attention. his finger pauses for a second, hovers over the word it was tracing, then continues its path.

utterly absorbed. completely oblivious.

why him? the question pounds in your skull, syncopated with the quiet ticking of the library clock.

why is he the only person on this entire campus who seems immune?

tyler sees you as arm candy. the squad sees you as part of the group. random guys see you as an object to stare at. but bucky barnes? you might as well be one of the dust motes dancing in the sunbeam beside him.

invisible. it's infuriating. it's the only interesting puzzle in your entire beige existence right now.

you trace the line of his hunched shoulders under the stupid cardigan. what's going on in that genius head? logistics? treaties? or maybe he's just thinking about how to make himself even smaller, fold further into the book, vanish entirely?

"earth to stalker. come in, stalker."

the voice, startlingly close, slices through your hyper-focused daze. you jump, your seat scraping loudly on the floor. heat floods your cheeks instantly.

natasha romanoff stands beside your sear, one hip cocked, a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched impossibly high. she holds two steaming paper cups of coffee. she doesn't look amused. she looks... knowing. terrifyingly. her sharp green eyes flick from your burning face to bucky's hunched form across the aisle, then back to you.

"jeez, nat!" you hiss, scrambling to look busy, grabbing your pen and staring blindly at your untouched history notes. "don't sneak up on people! and i'm not stalking!"

"uh huh," natasha drawls, setting one coffee cup down in front of you with a soft thunk. she slides into the chair opposite. she takes a slow sip from her own cup, her gaze never leaving yours. "because sitting perfectly still for an hour, staring holes into the back of barnes's cardigan while your textbook gathers dust is definitely 'studying'. fascinating methodology. very... intense." she gestures vaguely with her cup towards your notes.

you slump, the fight draining out of you under her scrutiny. "i... was taking a mental break," you mutter, picking up the coffee cup just to have something to do with your hands. "observing the... library fauna."

natasha snorts. "library fauna. right." she leans forward slightly, lowering her voice even though the only other person within earshot is barnes, and he's clearly on another planet. "so, barnes. again. what is it this time? trying to decode the secret of his perpetual stoop? charting the frequency of his glasses-pushing? or just mesmerized by the sheer gravitational pull of his nerd vortex?"

you take a gulp of hot coffee, wincing as it hits your tongue. "no! i just..." you flounder, gesturing helplessly towards his table. "look at him! how does he do that? it's been an hour, nat. an hour. he hasn't blinked, i swear. he hasn't moved. he's like... like a statue. a really focused, slightly crumpled statue."

"he's reading," natasha states flatly, taking another sip. "deeply. it's what he does. apparently, papal edicts from 1247 require intense concentration. who knew?"

"but why?" the question bursts out of you, louder than you mean to. "why history? he's got the brain for quantum physics. he tutors calc, nat! he took down mullins with words and a look.. and now he's..." you gesture again, frustration leaking into your whisper, "...immersed in the thrilling world of 13th-century tax law?"

natasha watches you, that small smile playing on her lips again. "still stuck on that, huh? the great bucky barnes contradiction." she sets her cup down, folding her arms on the table. "maybe he just likes old stuff. maybe he finds dead people less annoying than live ones. maybe," she leans in conspiratorially, "it's all a cover. maybe the history degree is just a front for his real work as a time-traveling spy."

you groan, giving her an unamused look. "oh because you'd know so much about spy work?"

"and you," natasha counters smoothly, "are transparent. you're fascinated. by the mystery. by the..." she searches for the word, her eyes flicking back to bucky, "...the disconnect. the guy who can verbally dismantle a linebacker but apparently turns into a puddle if a girl says 'hi'." she shrugs. "it's a puzzle. i get it."

"it's not that!" you protest, with your voice a little too loud. you glance nervously across the aisle. bucky hasn't moved. "i just... i don't get why he doesn't... see anything. anyone."

natasha's gaze softens just a fraction, a flicker of understanding. "some people," she says quietly, "live very deep inside their own heads. the outside world... it's noisy. complicated. messy. maybe books are simpler. maybe equations are cleaner. maybe history is... predictable." she taps a fingernail on your untouched textbook. "unlike people."

you follow her gaze back to bucky. he finally moves. not much. he pushes his glasses up his nose with a familiar knuckle-shove, his brow furrowing slightly. he doesn't look around. he doesn't even stretch. he doesn't notice natasha sitting opposite you, doesn't notice your stare.

the world outside his book simply... doesn't register.

"messy," you echo softly, watching him. the frustration is still there, but it's mixed with something else now. a strange sort of empathy? a deeper curiosity? what's it like in there?

natasha sighs, pushing her chair back with a soft scrape. "well, fascinating as this live dissection of socially awkward geniuses is, i have actual studying to do. for a class that involves, you know, this century." she stands, grabbing her coffee. "try not to accidentally set him on fire, yeah? he might spontaneously combust." she throws you a final look as she walks away, leaving you alone with your coffee and your thoughts.

you turn back to your own book. the words still blur. something about numbers, words whatever. the one coherent thought is: bucky barnes.

you take another sip of coffee. your eyes drift back across the aisle, inevitably, because your eyes are traitorous. he's hunched, still focused, still utterly fucking unaware. a puzzle wrapped in a cardigans, hidden behind glasses and history books. and the quiet, persistent question in your chest asks, louder than before: what would it take to make him look up?

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

you're sprawled face-down on your rumpled sheets, staring unseeingly at the textbook lying beside your pillow. the words bleed together—some dance of power you couldn't care less about right now.

your mind is a tangled knot, miles away, entirely consumed by the enigma of one, bucky barnes.

why? why was he the only one who didn't see you?

it wasn't a lack of attention; it was a total negation.

tyler saw you as arm candy, the football team saw you as an object. random guys in the dining hall tracked your movements, eyes following the curve of your hip, the swing of your hair.

but bucky? nothing. less than nothing. not a flicker of recognition, not a sideways glance. in his presence, you felt like air. like the worn carpet in the library aisle, something to be stepped over without a thought. you could've been shouting, waving sparklers, and he'd still be buried in his 13th-century grain ledger. oblivious. invisible.

you roll onto your back with a frustrated groan, pressing the heels of your hands hard against your closed eyes until coloured spots bloom in the darkness.

what was wrong with you? were you truly that forgettable? that insignificant? or was he just... locked away?

natasha's words echo around your skull: some people live very deep inside their own heads. but what did that fortress look like? was history his moat? were equations his drawbridge? was he simply... uninterested?

an impatient knock on your door – more a pounding than a knock – jolts you violently out of your thoughts.

"yo! you decent? we gotta roll!" tyler's voice, tinged with annoyance, cuts through your room.

tyler.

your stomach plunges like a stone. cold dread washes over you. you'd completely, utterly forgotten. the party. steve's stupid party. you were supposed to be tyler's dazzling accessory tonight, draped on his arm while he held court in your stupid blue dress.

you hadn't texted, called, or given it a single thought past the initial reluctant agreement days ago. every neuron had been hijacked, obsessed with the boy who rendered you invisible.

shit.

panic surges.

you scramble upright, heart hammering against your ribs. a glance in the mirror above your cluttered dresser confirms the perfect sick-day aesthetic: hair, face bare and probably pale from dwelling in the light, wearing an ancient, oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts.

perfect.

you dive back onto the bed, yanking the rumpled duvet up to your chin just as the door swings open without waiting for an answer.

"hey—whoa. jesus." tyler freezes in the doorway, his perfectly sculpted stupid golden brows knitting together in pure distaste. he recoils slightly, as if the air in your room might be contaminated. stupid. "you look like hell took over. the fuck happened?"

you summon every ounce of pathetic energy you possess. a weak, shuddering cough rattles your chest. you press the back of your hand dramatically to your forehead, letting it tremble slightly.

"feel worse," you croak. "fever. chills all day. throat feels like i swallowed glass. think... think i caught that stomach thing going around?" you add another pitiful cough for good measure, turning your face weakly into the pillow. "might be contagious."

tyler takes a step further back into the hallway, staying firmly on the threshold. he's dressed to kill – tight, designer black tee showing off his gym-honed arms, pristine white sneakers that probably cost more than your textbooks. his frown deepens into a scowl.

"seriously? you're sick? now?" he runs a frustrated hand through his hair, messing the careful styling. "steve's gonna be majorly pissed. this party's kinda a big deal, babe. you were supposed to be my plus-one." his tone is accusatory, like your sudden illness is an inconvenience solely aimed at him.

another cough, deeper this time, wracking your shoulders. you let your eyes water slightly for effect.

"sorry," you gasp out, sounding genuinely miserable, which, honestly, you kinda are, just not for the reasons he thinks. "really sorry, ty. wouldn't... wouldn't wanna get anyone else sick. especially not... scouts." you inject a note of self-sacrificing concern.

"yeah, no, totally," tyler agrees quickly, visibly relieved at the out. he glances down the hall, clearly already thinking about the party.

you shake your head weakly against the pillow, keeping your face half-buried. "just... need.. sleep. gallons of sleep. maybe... maybe just text me later?"

"right. sleep." he nods, already shifting his weight towards escape. then he pauses, a thought striking him. his expression clears, replaced by a look of practical solution. "hey, actually... since you're out... you think amelia would wanna go? as my plus-one instead? she's always up for a party, right?"

the question lands like a small pebble in your gut. can he bring amelia? like you're a faulty accessory to be swapped out for a functional one.

you force your muscles to relax, your voice to stay weak and flat. "uh... yeah. sure. ask her. she'd probably love it." the words taste like ash.

"perfect!" tyler's grin is instant, relieved, dazzling. "cool. thanks, babe. feel better, yeah? try not to, like, die or anything." he gives a careless wave, already turning away. "later!" the door clicks shut firmly behind him before you can even muster another cough.

silence crashes back into the room. you wait, counting the frantic beats of your own heart echoing in your ears until his loud footsteps fade completely down the hall. then you bolt upright, kicking the suffocating duvet off with a frustrated scowl.

that was... efficient. cold. transactional.

he hadn't offered to get medicine, hadn't felt your forehead (not that you wanted him to), hadn't even pretended concern beyond the minimum required to absolve himself of guilt.

you were a cancelled plan, easily replaced. amelia was next on the roster. the simplicity of it, the sheer lack of depth, was almost breathtaking.

you flop back against your pillows, staring blankly at the ceiling tiles. tyler's world was so surface-level. predictable. shallow. but bucky..

you squeeze your eyes shut, conjuring him instantly: the intense hunch over his book, the glasses slipping down his nose, the way his entire being seemed focused inward.

why couldn't he see you? was his world so rich, so complex inside his own head, that the outside truly didn't register? or was there something else? the question burned hotter than tyler's indifference.

your phone buzzes violently on the nightstand, shattering the heavy silence. you fumble for it. a text notification from amelia:

okay spill. did u fake a dramatic terminal illness to escape tyler's bro-fest tonight or what? because i just got the weirdest text from him

you groan, giggling and typing back with thumbs that felt clumsy:

yep. full plague performance. complete with death rattle cough. he bought it wholesale. then asked if he could bring you instead. like swapping out a faulty phone charger.

amelia's reply is almost instantaneous, a cascade of texts:

LMAO OMG

ofc he did. tyler's emotional depth is a puddle after a light drizzle

swapping out his accessory! classic!

well, too bad for him i have a hot date with my econ textbook and a pint of ben & jerry's. told him i was 'washing my hair' (code for: not being your stand-in)

but speaking of weird sightings...

guess who i just passed walking into the library. ALONE. at like, 9 pm on a friday night. like a total nerd.

your breath catches in your throat, your heart giving a sudden, hard thump against your ribs. you didn't need to ask. the answer was written in the sudden stillness of your room, in the way your eyes flew back to the shadows dancing on your ceiling.

bucky. at the library. alone. on a friday night.

the numbness, the sting of tyler's dismissal, evaporated. replaced by a surge of something terrifying, and impossibly compelling.

the invisible boy was within reach. and the question wasn't just why anymore. it was how. how to make him see.

your mind is a tangled knot, miles away, entirely consumed by the enigma of bucky barnes.

the library. of course. where else would bucky barnes be on a friday night? buried in papal decrees or lombard league logistics while the rest of campus pulsed with music and cheap beer.

a reckless idea sparks through you, fizzing through the numbness left by tyler's indifference. you shouldn't do it. you know damn well you shoupdn't.

go. there. right now.

catch him off guard. see what happens.

make him see you.

the dare natasha unknowingly issued days ago screams in your head: what would happen if you tried?

you push yourself upright, heart suddenly hammering against your ribs.

it's insane. impulsive. terrifying.

but the alternative – lying here, dissecting your own invisibility while bucky decoded 13th-century tax law – feels infinitely worse.

you scramble off the bed, shedding the oversized sleep shirt like old skin. what do you wear to ambush a library ghost? something... normal.

not tyler-date-night flashy. not cheer-practice casual. you yank on whatever outfit you can that doesn't scream for attention. something that helps you blend in.

you pause at the door, hand on the knob.

what are you doing? this is borderline stalker-ish. he'll probably just ignore you, buried in his book. or worse, stammer and flee like natasha predicted.

but the image of him facing mullins pushes you forward. you need to know which version is real.

that's when you found yourself walking across campus and into the library. it's nearly deserted inside. a lone student near the periodicals, a librarian quietly at the far desk.

and then, there he is.. twenty-seven paces diagonally across the main aisle from your usual fortress, you spot him. bucky.

he's already ensconced at his usual table by himself. head buried so deep it's a wonder he can breathe in that book. the backpack rests on the floor beside him, straps slack.

he's muttering softly, finger tracing a line on the page with concentration. completely absorbed. utterly unaware of the vast and quiet space around him. the sight tugs an absolutely involuntary smile to your lips.

human disaster, natasha called him. yet... there was that... something. which bucky would you meet?

taking a deep, silent breath, you walk towards your usual corner table. not directly to him. that would be too much. you slide into your familiar seat, back to the shelves, facing the main aisle – and him. your own untouched book feels like a flimsy prop.

you open it, stare blankly at feudalism, but your entire focus is locked on the hunched figure across the way.

he hasn't moved, hasn't sensed your presence. he's a world or two away.

minutes tick by, measured by the slow sweep of the second hand on the large wall clock. you pretend to scribble a note. you rub your eyes. you stifle a fake yawn.

he remains a statue, only the slight movement of his tracing finger indicating life. how to start? just walk over? "hey, remember me, the invisible girl you bumped into and ignored?" panic starts to prickle. maybe this was a terrible idea.

then, as if sensing your internal crisis, he moves. not much. he carefully marks his place with a leather bookmark, closes the massive book with a thump, and pushes his chair back. he stands, stretching slightly, his back giving a soft pop. he adjusts his slipping glasses with a familiar knuckle-shove.

and then, instead of heading for the exit or the stacks, he turns. shuffling steps carry him down the main aisle, his head already tilting down, eyes seeking the next book in his hands.

he's heading... straight towards your table. towards the empty chair opposite yours. lost in whatever logistical nightmare of the 12th century demands his immediate attention.

he doesn't look up. not at the tables, not at the lone student, certainly not at you. his trajectory is unerring.

your heart does a funny little flip-flop, lodging itself somewhere in your throat.

this is it. the moment natasha unknowingly prophesied. what would happen if you tried? no more planning. just... reaction.

he bumps the edge of your table with his hip. not hard, but enough to jolt him back to this world. the massive book in his hands slips. it doesn't just fall; it seems to leap, hitting the worn carpet with a thump that sounds like a gunshot in the hush.

bucky freezes.

pure, unadulterated panic floods his face, draining the color only to replace it instantly with a scorching red wave.

his head snaps up, eyes wide and startled behind the skewed glasses, scanning the disaster zone – the fallen book, the table, the legs of the chair he'd bumped.

his gaze finally skitters upwards, landing somewhere near your shoulder, then darts away instantly, fixing on the fallen book like it's personally betrayed him.

"oh god. sorry. so sorry. clumsy. really sorry," he stammers out, the words tumbling over each other in frantic rush, and breathless.

he drops to his knees beside the table, movements jerky with nerves. "didn't see... the table. the book..." he fumbles, fingers suddenly clumsy, trying to gather the pages he'd dropped. "stupid... just... sorry."

you watch him, the frantic, blazing blush climbing past his ears now, the way he refuses to make eye contact, focusing desperately on the leather cover as if it holds the secret to vanishing.

it's not just awkward; it's... painfully, endearingly adorable.

the protector of the quad, reduced to a flustered, stammering mess by a bump into a library table. the contrast is irresistible, dissolving your own nervousness into warm amusement.

natasha, you were absolutely fucking right.

leaning forward slightly, resting your chin on your hand. "hey," you say, cutting through his muttered apologies. "it's okay. really. the table's survived worse, i promise. it's practically battle-scarred."

he flinches slightly at your voice, his head snapping up again. this time, his gaze actually meets yours – startled, blue eyes magnified behind the lenses. filled with pure, undiluted terror.

he looks utterly trapped, like a bunny in headlights. he swallows hard.

"i... uh..." he starts, then stops. he pushes his glasses up his nose with a knuckle, a nervous tic you're already cataloging as endearing. "still. sorry. shouldn't... walk and read. obvious hazard." he gestures vaguely at the book, then winces, biting his lip in nervousness as if the gesture itself was too much.

you chuckle softly. "hazardous reading? sounds like my kind of history." you nod towards the volume he's now clutching protectively to his chest. "that looks... intense. what's sucking you in so hard you forgot tables existed? siege engine maintenance? tax collection disputes?" you raise an eyebrow, leaning into the absurdity natasha had described.

he blinks, surprise momentarily cutting through the panic. he looks down at the book in his arms, then back at you.

"uh... no. not... not siege engines. this time." he takes a shaky breath, but the stammer eases by a fraction as he talks about the book – his safe harbour. "it's... uh... it's about the administrative correspondence between the papacy and the lombard league. mid-13th century. specifically, the logistical challenges of..." he trails off, his blush flaring when he realizes he's rambling about something utterly obscure to someone who probably doesn't care. "it's... boring. probably." he finishes, looking down.

"logistical challenges?" you echo, tilting your head. "like, how many carts of turnips you need to feed an army of diplomats? or how to stop your messenger pigeons from getting eaten by hawks?" you wiggle your eyebrows slightly, pushing the absurdity further, trying to coax out that dry wit.

a strangled sound escapes him. the flush deepens – disbelief? reluctant amusement? "turnips?" he repeats. he pushes his glasses up again, the nervous habit returning. "uh... more like... securing safe passage guarantees across contested alpine passes. and... and ensuring the fidelity of notaries carrying sensitive documents." he pauses.

then, glances down at another quick look at your face, searching for mockery but finding only curiosity, "pigeon theft... was... was actually a documented concern, though."

you grin, delighted. he'd taken the bait. sort of. not really a bait.

"see? not boring. dangerous pigeons and treacherous mountain passes. sounds way more exciting than my feudalism notes." you tap your own much thinner, neglected textbook. "so, bucky barnes, guardian of library aisles and defender against rogue birds..." you pause for effect, enjoying the way his eyes widened slightly at the use of his name. "...are you gonna stand there, or are you gonna sit down? that chair was aiming for you before you assaulted the table."

his eyes widen comically. he stares at you, then at the empty chair, then back at you. the red on his face is now a full-blown crimson from his neck to the tips of his ears. "you... you know my name?" he breathes, sounding utterly bewildered, like the concept of someone knowing his name was alien.

"small campus," you shrug, though your own pulse is doing a salsa. "names get around. especially when someone stands up to carter mullins like it's no big deal." you hold his gaze, letting him see the genuine respect in your eyes. "sit. before you drop the lombard league again. that carpet can only take so much."

he hesitates, looking genuinely torn between running away and the terrifying, scary prospect of sitting. he glances towards the escape route down the aisle, then back at the chair, then at your face – your teasing, the lack of pity, the challenge.

he takes another shaky breath, the book still clutched tightly. slowly, and very awkwardly, he unfolds himself and sinks into the chair opposite you, perching on the very edge like it might eject him.

he carefully places the heavy book on the table, aligning it precisely with the edge, a meticulous act that you immediately pick up.

"uh... thanks," he mumbles, staring fixedly at the book's cover. "for... not minding the... the book assault." he risks another glance at you, then away. "and... you are...?" the question hangs with his palpable nervousness.

"me?" you smile, leaning back slightly in your chair, enjoying the flustered intensity radiating off him, the crack you'd made in his fortress of focus. it was exhilarating. "oh, i'm just the person whose table you almost destroyed with papal politics. you know, trouble." you let the smile turn mischievous.

fuck. fuck. fuck. that was a terrible joke. you almost wince inwardly, letting it all spill and scaring him away but you say, "seems fitting, considering the chaos i seem to cause." that was even worse.

bucky barnes stares at you, his mouth slightly open, painting his entire face a spectacular shade of red. he looks utterly, adorably wrecked. terrified. the silence stretches. the invisible girl had landed. and the quiet boy was finally, and gloriously, looking.

bucky barnes stares at you across the scarred oak table, his mouth still slightly agape. wrecked. like you'd just told him the library was on fire and his precious lombard league correspondence was the kindling.

he seems incapable of speech, of movement, of anything except radiating pure, undiluted panic mixed.

you bite the inside of your cheek to stop the delighted laugh bubbling up again. it's almost too much. the quiet boy who faced down mullins, reduced to a trembling, flustered mess by a little teasing.

natasha's words echo: human disaster. she wasn't wrong. but seeing it firsthand? it's strangely... exhilarating. adorable in its intensity.

he finally manages to snap his mouth shut, swallowing hard enough that you see his adam's apple bob. his gaze finally settles somewhere near your left shoulder, unable to meet your eyes directly. "t-trouble?" he echoes, it's barely above a whisper, cracking on the second syllable. he clears his throat. "that's... uh... that's not... i mean... your actual name? or...?" he trails off, looking mortified he even asked.

you grin, leaning your elbows on the table. "depends who you ask. tyler jones probably has a few choice names for me right about now." you watch his reaction carefully.

his brow furrows slightly behind the glasses. "tyler jones?" he repeats, the name seeming unfamiliar on his tongue. "the... football kid?" there's no recognition in his tone regarding you and tyler, just a vague awareness of the campus golden boy.

he genuinely doesn't know. the invisibility wasn't an act; he simply hadn't registered your existence in tyler's orbit at all.

"the very one," you confirm, your smile turning wry. "stood him up tonight. hence the plague act." you gesture vaguely at your own decidedly non-sick appearance – the complete lack of plague symptoms. "barely glanced my way before asking if he could bring amelia mccann instead."

bucky blinks. "amelia... natasha's friend?" he asks, connecting dots in a way that clearly doesn't involve you. then his eyes widen slightly, as if realizing the implication of tyler swapping dates. "oh. that's... uh... inefficient." he states it plainly, like commenting on a poorly designed logistics route. then he seems to realize how that might sound. "i mean... not that you're... inefficient... just... his method was..." he flounders.

you burst out laughing, a soft, genuine sound that seems too loud in the quiet corner. "inefficient? that's one word for it. 'shallow', 'predictable', 'kind of a jerk' also spring to mind." you shake your head. "don't worry, barnes. i'm not offended. mostly relieved i don't have to pretend to enjoy steve's terrible punch while tyler talks about his throwing arm."

a tiny flicker of... something... crosses his face at your casual use of his last name. amusement? surprise? it's gone too quickly to decipher.

he focuses intently on aligning the corner of his massive history tome perfectly with the wood grain. "steve rogers's punch is notoriously diluted," he murmurs, almost to himself. "statistically likely to contain more fruit flies than actual fruit juice." he risks another glance at you. "so... you... came here? instead? to... study?" his gaze sweeps your conspicuously empty notebook and textbook.

"well," you drawl, tapping your pen against the blank page of your own history book, the one about feudalism that suddenly seems incredibly dull. "i intended to study. truly. crusades. treaties. all that riveting stuff." you sigh dramatically. "but then... papal politics and treacherous pigeons proved far more distracting." you nod pointedly at his book.

he stares at you. blinks. then, incredibly, a small smile touches the corners of his mouth. gone almost before it fully forms, replaced by another blush, but you saw it. a crack in the panic fortress.

"the pigeons were a significant variable," he concedes,

a hint of dry humor warming his voice. "carrier reliability impacted message transmission times by an estimated seventeen percent during the lombard-papal disputes of 1248." he pushes his glasses up again, a gesture that's becoming endearing. "it... uh... complicated the peace negotiations."

you lean forward, resting your chin back on your hands, your own smile wide and genuine. "see? fascinating. way better than my baron so-and-so oppressed his serfs chapter. tell me more about these unreliable pigeons, bucky barnes. did they have favorites? were there rogue hawk factions? pigeon espionage?"

he stares at you, but the sheer terror in his eyes is receding, replaced by a dazed sort of bewilderment.

she's... interested? in lombard league carrier pigeons? she's smiling? at me? he takes a slow, breath, his gaze dropping to his book, then flicking back to your face.

the silence stretches, but it's different now. not with panic, but with something fragile, and incredibly new.

the invisible not-so-invisible girl had not only made the quiet boy see her; she'd made him smile. and maybe, just maybe, she'd found something infinitely more interesting than tyler jones could ever be.

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

saturday morning sunlight streams through the large windows of the campus diner, the 'golden griddle,' casting warm stripes across sticky vinyl booths and the lingering scent of maple syrup and frying bacon.

there's the lazy weekend chatter of students nursing hangovers or fueling up for game day.

you're squeezed into a booth with amelia, jenna, and maria, picking listlessly at a stack of slightly-too-soggy pancakes.

your mind, however, is worlds away, replaying last night's library encounter on a loop: bucky's startled eyes behind his glasses, the blushing, the sound he made when you teased him about pigeons, the way he'd finally, hesitantly, sat down...

amelia kicks your shin under the table. "hello? pancake planet to space cadet. you just stare at those like they hold the secrets of the universe or something?" she chuckles, drowning her own waffles in a lake of syrup.

"huh? oh. yeah. sorry." you spear a piece of pancake, forcing it into your mouth. it tastes like cardboard. all you can taste is the memory of bucky's flustered voice.

jenna sighs dramatically, scrolling through her phone. "tyler posted like, twenty stories from steve's last night. looks like it was actually decent for once. steve must've sprung for the good jungle juice this time. pity you missed it, sickie." she glances at you, not unkindly, just stating a fact.

"yeah," you mumble, pushing syrup around your plate with a fork. "pity."

the thought of tyler's loud party, the sticky floors, the performative energy... it feels like a different lifetime compared to the hushed intensity of the library corner.

the bell over the diner door jingles. natasha slides into the booth beside amelia, effortlessly displacing air. she's wearing dark jeans, a simple black tank top, and an expression that could curdle milk. she doesn't bother with greetings, her sharp green eyes locking onto you like lasers.

"so," natasha says. her voice deceptively calm, the kind that makes you think oh no. "the plague. fascinating recovery. miraculous, even." she flags down a passing waitress. "black coffee. strong."

you freeze, the fork halfway to your mouth. "uh... yeah. lots of sleep. did the trick." you try for a weak smile.

natasha accepts the coffee mug the waitress slams down, takes a slow sip, her gaze never leaving yours. "lots of sleep. right." she sets the mug down with a click.

"see, here's the thing. tyler texted me last night, all pissy because his best shiny accessory was malfunctioning. said you were 'deathly ill'. practically on your deathbed." her tone is flat. "being the concerned friend i am," she lays heavy sarcasm on the word, "i swung by your dorm around... oh, ten? maybe ten-thirty? figured i'd drop off some actual meds, maybe make sure you hadn't actually kicked the bucket tyler was so worried about."

your blood runs cold. you stare at her, the pancake suddenly a lead weight in your stomach. ten-thirty. right around the time you were sitting across from a blushing, stammering bucky barnes in the library.

"imagine my surprise," natasha continues, "when i knocked. no answer. i figured, maybe passed out. so i used my key." she raises an eyebrow. "your room. empty. bed made. no sign of plague victim zero. just... gone. vanished." she leans forward slightly, her eyes narrowing.

"so. care to explain the miraculous resurrection? or the spontaneous dorm-room evaporation act? because the timeline's a little... messy."

amelia's eyes widen over her waffle. jenna and maria stop eating, forks hovering, staring between you and natasha. the diner noise seems to fade.

you swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. "i... uh..." you flounder, your mind racing.

lie? make up an emergency? but natasha's gaze is like an x-ray. she'd see right through it. nobody can lie to her.

"i felt... better. suddenly. needed air. went for a walk." the words sound feeble even to your own ears.

"a walk." natasha deadpans. "at ten-thirty pm. while supposedly dying of the plague. fascinating choice of convalescence." she takes another slow sip of coffee. "where'd this... invigorating walk take you? the quad? the river path? maybe..." she pauses, letting the silence stretch, "...the library?"

you feel the heat creeping up your neck, mirroring bucky's infamous blush. you stare down at your plate, unable to meet her knowing gaze. "maybe," you mutter, pushing a piece of pancake around.

"the library?" maria echoes. "on a friday night? while faking sick to ditch tyler? what the hell for?"

"oh, i think we all know what for," natasha says smoothly, a triumphant smirk plays on her lips. she leans back, crossing her arms. "trouble. details. now. did the library ghost materialize? did he stutter? did he spontaneously combust when you spoke? i need data points."

the nickname 'trouble', the name you'd given bucky last night, hits you. physically. jesus christ.

amelia gasps, slamming her hand on the table. "no way! barnes? you went to the library to stalk barnes?!" her voice is loud enough that a few heads turn towards them.

"shhh!" you say, mortified, shrinking into the vinyl booth. "it wasn't stalking! i just... went to study! and he happened to be there!" the lie is pathetic. even to you.

"study," natasha scoffs. "with your pristine textbook? please. try again. what happened?" her voice is sharp, and demanding.

under the combined weight of their stares, your defenses crumble. you take a breath, the memory flooding back, washing away the panic.

"he... walked into my table," you admit. "dropped his massive history brick. he.. looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole, and blushed so hard i thought his ears might catch fire. he stuttered. a lot. like crazy and apologized about a million times."

"oh my god," amelia chuckles, leaning forward. "classic barnes disaster mode. then what?"

"i... talked to him," you say, "teased him a little. about his book. about papal politics and... messenger pigeons."

natasha's smirk solidifies into a genuine, if slightly predatory, grin. "did he engage? or just short-circuit?"

"he... he did. well he did both. at first," you say, a note of wonder creeping into your voice. "he actually talked back. about alpine passes and... notary fidelity? and pigeon theft being a real historical problem. he even... almost smiled. once."

jenna wrinkles her nose. "pigeon theft? notary fidelity? god, that sounds painfully boring. why would you even—"

"shut up, jenna," natasha cuts her off without looking away from you. "then what? did he run screaming?"

you shake your head, meeting natasha's gaze. "no. i... i told him to sit down. he did. eventually. perched on the edge of the chair like it was electrified." you pause. "he asked who i was. he had no idea. like... genuinely no clue who i was, even though we've bumped into each other, like, a dozen times."

natasha nods, understanding dawning. "the invisibility shield finally dropped. and?"

"and... i told him he could call me trouble. as a joke.. i, um, panicked." you feel your own cheeks warming now. "then he just... stared. like i'd grown a second head. then blushed even harder. and... that was kind of it. we just sat there for a minute. it was... quiet." you shrug, feeling suddenly shy. "then i left. he was still sitting there, looking shell-shocked, when i walked away."

the table is silent.

amelia looks like christmas came early. jenna and maria exchange bewildered glances, clearly unable to comprehend the appeal. natasha just studies you silently, at first. then she lets out a soft huff, almost a laugh.

"trouble," she repeats, shaking her head slightly. "fitting." she takes a final sip of her coffee. "so. the mysterious plague victim wasn't dying. she was launching a covert op on the library cryptid. and apparently," her gaze sharpens again, "it was successful. you cracked the shell. very minimally."

"was it worth ditching tyler and giving me a minor heart attack when i found your room empty?" natasha asks, her tone dry without malice.

you think of bucky's wide, startled eyes, his laugh, the way he'd carefully placed his book on the table. a small, genuine smile spreads across your face, pushing aside the embarrassment.

"yeah," you say, not meeting any of their gaze and playing with your pancakes. "it was worth it." finally taking a real bite of pancake. it still tastes like shit, but you don't care.

your mind is already drifting back to the library, to the empty chair opposite yours, wondering if bucky barnes, history nerd and pigeon theft expert, was lying in his bed right now, thinking about trouble too.

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

you fall into step beside natasha. the late morning sun is warm on your shoulders as you head back towards the dorm quad.

the campus walks are quieter now. the usual weekday is energy replaced by a lazy saturday hum.

groups lounge on the grass, frisbees sail through the air, the distant thump of music drifts from an open window. the awkward interrogation at the diner hangs in the air between you, softened by syrup and natasha's surprising lack of further grilling.

for a few blocks, you walk in comfortable silence, the rhythm of your footsteps syncing on the pavement.

natasha seems content, observing the campus scene with her usual detached amusement. you steal glances at her profile – an absolute mystery. the question has been burning since she dropped that nickname like a grenade in the booth.

"so," you start, trying to sound casual, kicking a loose pebble. it skitters ahead on the path. "the library cryptid. barnes."

natasha doesn't look at you, but a faint smirk touches her lips. "mm. the blushing disaster. what about him?"

"just..." you hesitate, choosing your words carefully. "back at the diner. you called me 'trouble'. that's... that's what i told him to call me. last night. when he asked my name." you glance at her, searching her expression. "how'd you know that before i even told you?"

natasha keeps walking, casually. too casual. "lucky guess? seemed fitting. you caused enough chaos last night, vanishing like a phantom from your deathbed." her tone is teasing.

"come on, nat," you press, a little more insistently this time. "it was really specific. 'trouble'. i literally just made it up on the spot when he looked like he was about to bolt. how could you possibly guess that?"

she shrugs. "maybe i have a sixth sense for the kind of nonsense you'd pull. 'trouble' suits the whole... for reckless library ambush spy." she finally glances at you. "or maybe barnes isn't as tight-lipped as he seems. maybe he talks in his sleep. to his textbooks."

you snort. "highly doubt that. he looked like he'd rather swallow his own tongue than tell anyone about... well, about anything involving another human being, honestly." you pause, remembering his panic. "especially about some random girl accosting him in the library."

"accosting?" natasha raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "strong word. sounded more like you rescued him from a rogue history book and a table."

"semantics," you wave a hand dismissively. the suspicion is coils tighter. "but seriously. how? did you... talk to him? after? did he say something?" the thought of bucky recounting the encounter to anyone, let alone natasha, seems wildly statistically improbable.

natasha laughs a dry sound. "talk to him? about feelings? or social interactions? please." she shakes her head. "bucky barnes communicates in footnotes and historical primary sources. actual conversation? especially about something that probably short-circuited his entire nervous system?" she gives you a sidelong look. "doubtful."

"then how?" you stop walking, forcing her to stop too. you face her on the sun-dappled path. "nat. it's bugging me. it was too spot-on. it felt like... like you knew."

she meets your gaze, her expression unreadable for a long moment. the playful mask is still there. she doesn't look away, but she doesn't offer an explanation either.

"maybe," she says slowly, gaining a touch of something almost... nostalgic? "maybe i just know him better than most people realize. known him a long time. long enough to predict the kind of thing that would leave him stammering and blushing like a schoolboy who just saw his first... well." she catches herself, the nostalgic hint vanishing, replaced by her usual dry wit. "let's just say i've witnessed the barnes disaster protocol in action more times than i care to count. 'trouble' causing him to malfunction? classic barnes reaction. predictable, really." she starts walking again, forcing you to follow.

"known him a long time?" you prompt, falling back into step beside her. longer than college? high school? childhood? "like... how long?"

"long enough," natasha deflects smoothly. "there's a guy who gets flustered way too easily. who trips over air when surprised. who probably spent half the night replaying that library encounter in his head, analyzing every word you said like it was a treaty clause."

the image makes your own cheeks warm slightly. "you make him sound like a lab specimen."

"observational data," natasha corrects breezily. "years of it. lets me make... educated guesses. like 'trouble' being exactly the kind of playful grenade you'd lob into his meticulously ordered world." she glances at you, her smirk widening. "and judging by the ridiculous grin you've been trying to hide all morning, it landed perfectly."

you can't help but smile back. your suspicion still sticks there, but softened by natasha's explanation. it almost made sense.

her observation, her history with him... whatever that history was. she hadn't denied knowing him well. very well. well enough to predict his reactions with unnerving accuracy. well enough to know nicknames given in a private, flustered moment. maybe she'd spoken to him?

"so," you say as your dorm building comes into view, "this 'long time'... does it involve knowing if he actually likes pigeons? or was that just historical fact regurgitation?"

natasha laughs. "oh, he definitely finds carrier pigeons fascinating. logistical marvels, apparently. efficient, for their time. whether he likes them personally?" she shrugs, pushing open the main dorm door.

"doubt he's given it much thought. he probably categorizes them under 'historical transportation assets'." she holds the door for you – a secret knowledge she wasn't quite ready to share. "but ask him yourself, trouble. see if you can get a straight answer out of the walking encyclopedia."

she heads down the hall towards her room, leaving you standing in the lobby, the echo of her laugh and the unspoken weight of that 'long time' hanging in the air.

you knew she knew bucky. intimately. the how and the how long were still locked away, but the suspicion was solid now: natasha romanoff and bucky barnes had a past. a deep one. and it explained everything, and nothing, all at once.

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

the late afternoon sun beats down on the practice field. it's wednesday and sweat stings your eyes as you hit the apex of a basket toss, maria and jenna's hands solid under your boots.

the descent is usually smooth and automatic, but today... your focus snags.

a flash of dark hair glimpsed near the science building fence? a trick of the light, probably.

but the distraction costs you.

your left foot lands slightly off-center on the base's interlaced hands, your ankle twisting inwards with a sickening, sharp pop.

pain, white-hot and immediate, lances up your leg. you bite down hard on the inside of your cheek, swallowing the gasp that wants to escape.

don't show it. don't stop.

you force your landing smile wider, locking your knee, absorbing the impact through sheer willpower.

you hit the turf, stumbling only slightly before throwing your arms up in the final pose. "alright!" sarah calls, oblivious. "good height, samantha! bases, solid catch! reset in two!"

you limp-step back to the starting position, trying to make it look like a casual adjustment. the pain throbs with every heartbeat. jenna frowns. "you okay? landed kinda funny."

"fine," you grit out. "just caught my heel weird. no biggie." you bounce lightly on the balls of your feet, testing the ankle. it screams in protest. you ignore it.

you manage the next few runs through adrenaline and pure stubbornness, masking the limp, channeling the pain into sharper motions.

by the time sarah blows the final whistle, your ankle is a swollen, an angry knot inside your sneaker, sweat dripping on your forehead from the effort of hiding it.

and the blessed coolness of your dorm room feels like sanctuary. you've barely collapsed onto your bed, wrestling with the laces of your sneaker as you finally pry it off, when the door swings open without a knock. natasha.

"heard you took a tumble," she states, her eyes zeroing on your propped-up leg, the sock already damp with sweat, the ankle visibly swollen even through the fabric.

she carries a plastic bag from the campus store – ice packs peeking out the top. "jenna said you 'landed funny'. looked more like you face-planted into awkwardville from where i was watching."

you flinch, both from her sudden appearance and the observation. "watching? since when do you watch cheer practice?" the question comes out sharper than intended, laced with the suspicion that's been simmering since the talk after diner – the 'trouble' nickname, the 'long time' she knew bucky. was she watching him? did she know he sometimes cut through the field perimeter?

natasha drops the bag on your desk. "since i was heading back from the lab and saw a certain someone attempting to defy gravity with a distinct lack of grace." she pulls out a flexible blue ice pack and a thin kitchen towel. "scoot over. let me see the damage you're pretending doesn't exist." her tone is quick, no-nonsense, but there's an underlying thread of... concern? or maybe just clinical interest.

you hesitate, the suspicion warring with the throbbing pain. "it's fine, nat. really. just twisted it a little. i'll ice it." you make a move to take the ice pack.

"don't be an idiot," she snaps, gently but firmly pushing your hand away. "you're favouring it like you've got a peg leg. let me." she doesn't wait for permission. sitting on the edge of the bed, she carefully peels your sock down. you suck in a breath as the air hits the swollen skin. the ankle is already purpling, puffy around the bone.

"yikes," the redhead says, her fingers surprisingly gentle. "definitely sprained. you need to stay off this for a bit, ice it twenty minutes every hour, elevate it." she wraps the ice pack in the thin towel, her movements efficient, practiced. "hold this." she places the cold bundle against the worst of the swelling, your hand instinctively pressing it down as the cold bites through the towel, a welcome counterpoint to the heat.

"thanks," you mumble, leaning back against your pillows, closing your eyes for a second as the cold begins to numb the edges of the pain.

"you need to be more careful," natasha says, she's not looking at you; she's meticulously adjusting the towel around the ice pack. "distracted much? thinking about papal politics and treacherous alpine passes?"

your eyes fly open. she's teasing, but it feels loaded.

is she referencing bucky? implying you were distracted by him?

you watch her profile, focused on her task. absolutely impossible to read. like always. "just... off my game today," you deflect, looking up , studying the cracks in your ceiling plaster.

natasha shifts slightly. "saw tyler earlier," she says casually, changing the subject. "over by the student union."

you grunt. "shocker. tyler exists."

"mm," natasha hums. "existed with a very blonde, very giggly sophomore art history major practically glued to his side. emma, i think? looked like they were sharing a very large, very sugary smoothie." she glances at you sideways, gauging your reaction. "arm candy duties officially reassigned, i see. efficient."

a wave of... nothing washes over you. no jealousy, no anger, not even mild irritation. just a faint sense of relief, like shedding a too-tight jacket.

"good for them," you say, your voice flat. "hope emma enjoys the thrilling discourse on completion percentages and scout evaluations."

natasha raises an eyebrow, a flicker of genuine surprise in her eyes this time. "that's it? no righteous indignation? no lamenting the fickleness of jocks?"

you shrug, wincing slightly as the movement jostles your ankle. "why? he was using me. i was tolerating him. it was... predictable. boring. zero sum game." you adjust the ice pack. "emma's welcome to it. hope she likes being an accessory."

natasha studies you for a long moment. you could never guess what's going on in that big redheaded brain, behind those green eyes.

the suspicion about her and bucky coils in your gut again, making you hyper-aware of her proximity, the efficiency of her movements that felt too practiced for just basic first aid.

was this how she took care of him? did he trip over his own feet often enough for her to become an expert in sprains?

"interesting," natasha finally says. "the great tyler jones, relegated to 'predictable' and 'boring'. quite the downgrade from golden boy status." she leans back slightly. "so, what's upgraded? what's suddenly so... captivating?"

you meet her eyes. the challenge is there. the question hangs in the space bridged by one bucky barnes between you two.

is she asking about your feelings? or fishing for information about bucky?

your own suspicion flares. maybe you're getting defensive. "maybe i just realized there are more interesting things to focus on than inflated egos and cheap cologne," you say, keeping your tone light but firm. "like not destroying my ankle before homecoming."

natasha holds your gaze for a beat longer. not triumphant, not mocking. almost... approving?

"priorities shift," she concedes, standing up smoothly. "keep the ice on. elevate. no heroics tomorrow." she heads for the door. "and trouble?" she throws the nickname over her shoulder, making your heart skip. "try not to let your new 'interesting things' make you quite so clumsy next time. some of us have better things to do than play field medic to lovestruck cheerleaders."

the door clicks shut behind her. you stare at it, the cold from the ice pack seeping deep into your ankle, but it's nothing compared to the chill of uncertainty spreading through you.

lovestruck? did she know? suspect? and that parting shot... was it a dismissal, a warning, or just natasha being natasha?

the mystery of her connection to bucky barnes felt deeper, more tangled, than the ligaments throbbing under the ice. and the only thing more painful than your ankle was not knowing where you stood with either of them.

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

sunday afternoon sunlight streams through the high windows of 'freshmart'.

the only noise is quiet chatter of weekend shoppers, the squeak of cart wheels, the muffled thump of produce being bagged.

you're hovering by the apples, trying to decide between gala and honeycrisp. your mind is blissfully blank for the first time in days. your ankle throbs dully under the supportive brace natasha insisted you wear, a reminder of yesterday's cheer-induced stupidity. you reach for a honeycrisp, testing its firmness.

then you feel it. a prickle on the back of your neck. the distinct, unnerving sensation of being watched. not tyler's possessive stare, not the casual glances of strangers. this feels... focused.

you slowly turn your head.

across the wide aisle, by the towering pyramid of oranges, stands bucky barnes.

he's frozen mid-reach, one long hand suspended over a navel orange.

but he's not looking at the fruit. he's looking straight at you. his glasses catch the light, but behind them, his blue eyes are wide, fixed on yours with an unnerving directness. no book shield. no backpack hunch. just... him. seeing you. truly seeing you. that focus he usually gives to equations or lombard league treaties is now entirely trained on you.

the honeycrisp almost slips from your fingers. you clutch it tighter.

he saw you first. he initiated the eye contact.

the invisible girl was... visible.

an involuntary smile spreads across your face. the nervous flutter in your chest isn't fear; it's pure, giddy anticipation.

game on, barnes.

you don't look away. you hold his gaze, letting your smile widen just a fraction.

you see the exact moment the intensity flips. the observation shatters. pure, unadulterated panic floods his expression. his eyes widen impossibly further behind the lenses. he snatches his hand back from the oranges like they've burned him. the flush starts instantly, a creeping tide of red rising from his neck, staining his cheeks.

he looks like he's been caught defusing a bomb, not selecting citrus.

he tears his gaze away, staring fixedly at the pyramid of oranges as if their perfect spherical geometry holds the secret to his escape.

his hand flexes at his side, and takes a jerky half-step back, bumping his cart. it rattles loudly.

you can't help it. you chuckle softly. pushing your own cart, you steer it towards him, closing the distance. the squeak of the wheels makes him flinch.

"fancy meeting you here, pigeon police," you say, teasing, stopping your cart parallel to his near the oranges. you lean casually against the handlebar, the honeycrisp still in your hand. "researching the agricultural exports of the mediterranean circa 1250? or just stocking up on vitamin c for the next siege?" you raise the apple slightly, giving it a little wiggle.

his head snaps towards you, then away, then back, his gaze skittering like a startled bird. he pushes his glasses up his nose that usual frantic knuckle-shove. "i... uh... no siege. just... oranges." the blush deepens. "vitamin c. important. for... cellular function."

"cellular function," you echo, nodding solemnly as you fight another smile. "crucial stuff. wouldn't want your historical analysis hampered by scurvy." you tilt your head. the way he's practically vibrating with nervous energy. it's adorable. painfully so. "though, you look a little... flushed, barnes. sure you're not coming down with something? maybe caught a draft in the archives?"

he flinches, his hand flexing again. "no! i'm... fine. just... warm. the store is... very... illuminated." he gestures vaguely upwards at the buzzing, bright lights, avoiding your eyes. "bright. lots of... photons."

"photons," you repeat, unable to suppress the grin now. "definitely hazardous. almost as bad as rogue pigeons." you take a small step closer. "speaking of hazards... how's the lombard league holding up? recovered from its close encounter with the library floor?"

he stares at you, momentarily thrown by the shift in topic. "the... the book? it's... structurally sound. minor... page displacement. negligible." he swallows hard, his gaze flickering down to your cart, then to your face, then quickly away.

"you... you're..." he gestures vaguely towards your ankle brace, peeking out below your pants. "injured?"

you glance down, surprised he noticed. "oh. this? cheerleading mishap. tried to defy gravity without proper clearance from the physics department." you shrug. "just a sprain. natasha's playing field medic." you watch his face carefully as you drop natasha's name.

a flicker of something complex crosses his features – recognition, maybe a hint of something old returning, quickly buried under another wave of flustered panic. "natasha? she's... efficient. medically." he pushes his glasses up again, a nervous tic in overdrive. "good. that's... good."

"efficient is one word for her," you agree dryly, still watching him. the way he reacted to natasha's name... the suspicion coils tighter. you decide to push, just a little. "she seems to know you pretty well. predicted you'd be flustered by... well, by trouble."

bucky barnes freezes. completely. the blush doesn't just deepen; it goes supernova. his eyes lock onto yours, wide with sheer, unadulterated terror. "she... she said that?" his voice is a strangled whisper. "she... called you... that?"

"mmhmm," you nod, popping the honeycrisp into your own cart. "right before she accused me of being lovestruck and clumsy." you lean back against your cart handle, enjoying the sheer spectacle of his panic. "seems she has a pretty good read on you. and on me, apparently."

he looks like he's short-circuiting. his mouth opens, closes. he stares at you, then at the oranges, then back at you. "i... uh... natasha... she..." he stammers, utterly lost. "she knows... things. observes. too much. sometimes." he takes a shaky breath, forcing words out. "trouble... it... it fits." the admission comes out in a haste. he looks like he wants to crawl under the orange pyramid.

your heart does a little flip.

he said it. trouble.

the nickname you gave yourself that still makes you want to wince inward, now spoken in his flustered voice. it sounds different. better.

"fits, huh?" you echo. "glad you approve, pigeon police. though, between the two of us, you seem to be generating most of the heat in this particular aisle." you gesture playfully at his crimson face.

a strangled sound escapes him – a nervous laughter. he ducks his head, running a hand through his already messy dark hair, making it stick up wildly. "photons," he mutters again, almost to himself, a desperate grasp at scientific explanation. any other explanation. "and... inefficient air circulation."

you laugh. "right. photons and poor hvac. definitely the culprit." you push your cart forward slightly, stopping right next to his. "so, bucky barnes, expert on citrus, photons, and lombard league logistics..." you pause, meeting his gaze, holding it despite his instinct to look away. "...what other essential supplies does a scholar need? because frankly, watching you panic over oranges is way more entertaining than my grocery list."

he stares at you. terrified. exhilarated. that intensity is gone, replaced by pure, adorable social chaos.

but beneath the panic, in the way his eyes stay locked on yours for that fraction of a second longer, you see it again – that spark. the one from the library. the one that makes the risk, the teasing, the absurdity of flustering bucky barnes in the produce section, completely, utterly worth it.

[graceechapmann]

save

[saltyjoy]

Remember Me Now? - Part 1

Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Your relationship with Bucky Barnes is strange. He seems to know more about you than you know about yourself. It, truthfully, freaked you out. You could never figure out how he knew the smallest details, or why he treated you with a certain hesitancy even during his Winter Soldier days. Then you get sent back to the 1940s.

Word Count: 13.9k

Warnings/Tags: Fighting, Choking (not like that), Reader does not speak Russian or Romanian, Google Translated Russian and Romanian, Reader can kinda fight but general backstory on how they learned is kept vague, Flashbacks, The year jumps around a lot, LOTS OF EXPOSITION, Time Travel

A/N: Feel free to correct me on any of the Russian and Romanian! My first series for Bucky. It’s kinda slow in the beginning but give it a chance this is the first chapter I gotta set stuff up. I hope you guys enjoy!

Masterlist

-

2014

The Winter Soldier.

You had heard the name before, but you knew nothing substantial about him. One thing you knew for certain, however, was that he was dangerous.

You didn’t know how dangerous until your first encounter with him.

You had been running after Natasha. You saw her take cover after taking a shot to the shoulder. Breathing heavily, you force yourself to run after her. She desperately needed backup; you had never seen her afraid before. 

You weren’t sure where Steve was, but you could’ve really used his help. You watched helplessly as she leaned against the car, her body pressed up against the wheel.

“Shit.” Cursing, you pulled out a pistol, ready to defend her. Then you saw him.

He jumped up on a car, aiming his gun in her direction. Raising your pistol, you took a shot at him. She wasn’t in a good position right now. You needed to distract him from her.

The bullet hit his gun, causing him to fumble. His focus immediately snapped to you. You were wide open, an easy shot. You dove for cover behind a car. Glancing to where you had been standing, you catch a glimpse of bullets shooting at the spot you previously stood with unparalleled accuracy.

You looked in every direction frantically. He could appear from anywhere, and you knew if you left your cover, he’d take the opportunity to shoot you.

Suddenly, the car you leaned against bounced, and you looked up to see the Winter Soldier standing up on top of it, his gun pointed at you.

He shot the pistol out of your hand, and you frantically attempted to reach into a pocket to grab any weapon. He never gave you the chance, as he threw himself on top of you, effectively pinning you to the ground. Back against the street, his eyes leered at your own. Your throat seized as his metal hand constricted your airway.

You desperately attempted to get air, but you only ended up coughing, releasing what little air you had. You gazed into his cold, rigid stare. This was it. This was where you would die, looking at the man HYDRA had turned into a weapon.

Then he stopped.

He didn’t let you go, no, but he stopped choking you. You took in every gulp of air you could, your chest rising and falling. Eventually, your breathing slowed, but the cold metal of his hand still lay on your neck.

You didn’t dare to speak. You didn’t dare to move. Body frozen, you remained on the ground, taking deep breaths, staring up at him. You blinked slowly, and to your surprise, he mirrored the action. 

Breath hitching, you tilted your head to the side, and as a result, he tilted his head too. Lowering his weapon, he leaned closer to your face. Unable to move under his unyielding grasp, you watched as he approached. 

“Почему я тебя знаю?” His voice was low, barely above a whisper. It didn’t help that he wore a mask, muffling what few words you could hear.

You didn't respond. You couldn’t. Frozen in your spot, you stared at him. You had no idea what he said. Attempting to formulate a response, you moved your lips, but no words came out.

Suddenly, Steve’s shield threw him off of you, sending the Soldier sprawling on a van’s door. Gasping, you immediately moved your hand to your throat. Feeling the beginnings of a bruise, you had let out a shaky breath. You’re alive. You turned your head back to where the Soldier landed, only to find he had already recovered.

You expected his attention to be on Steve, after all, Steve was the biggest threat to him. 

You felt a chill move up your spine when you realized he was staring at you, almost as if his gaze never left. 

You felt somebody attempt to pull you up. “Shit, we gotta get you out of here. Did he get you?” Natasha pulled you up, and you shook your head. Focus, you aren’t even that injured.

As you walked with Natasha to better cover, you turned back to the fight.

Why didn’t he kill you?

-

You weren’t sure if you should tell anybody about that incident.

You weren’t exactly sure what happened. Perhaps you weren’t his main target? 

Bucky.

That’s the name Steve said belonged to the man. You remember briefly seeing his name at the Smithsonian. Apparently, he was a part of the Howling Commandos, the unit Steve had led during World War II. Steve had insisted that he watched Bucky fall off a train, and that one of his biggest regrets was failing to save him. 

You looked up the name “Bucky Barnes” on Google. Opening the images, you withheld your gasp at seeing the older photos. 

It wasn’t that you didn’t believe Steve, you’ve always had faith in the man. It was just hard to imagine that the Winter Soldier is just a Google search away. Tapping on one of the photos, you noticed that his hair was shorter back then. He looked lighter back then. 

“What are you doing?” Natasha leaned on the couch you were sitting on. 

The instant you heard her voice, you shut the phone off. “Nothing.”

She raised an eyebrow, “Sure, of course.” She walked around the couch to sit next to you. “Did he do something to you?” She whispered, her voice almost sounding concerned.

Your eyes widened slightly, “Sorry?”

“The Soldier. You looked shaken after I pulled you away.” She leaned against the back of the couch. “Did he do something? Say Something?”

“Well, he almost choked me to death.” You deflected dryly.

“No, I’ve seen you almost die. That wasn’t it. You froze.” Natasha pushed, before sighing. “Look, it’s none of my business, I know. Just,” she stood up, looking down at you, “don’t let him get in your head. We can’t let him win, even if he is the long-lost friend of Steve.” She placed a hand on your shoulder, rubbing it slightly before walking away.

“He said something.” The words left your mouth before you could stop them.

Natasha stopped, turning back around to face you. “What’d he say?” 

You shook your head, “I don’t know. It was in Russian.”

Natasha cursed, “Any context clues?”

You tapped your phone absentmindedly, “He almost killed me, I was right there under his arm. I thought that that was it. Then he stopped. He let me breathe.” You brought your hand up to your throat, still remembering the feeling of the cold metal tightening around your airways. 

“I remember looking up at him, scared that any movement would cause him to choke me again.” You shook your head, chuckling. “Then he started mirroring my movement. I blinked slowly, he blinked slowly. I tilted my head, he tilted his head.” You threw your phone down onto the couch. “Then he spoke, and before I had a chance to ask what the hell he just said, he got knocked off of me, courtesy of Steve.” You looked up at Natasha. “When I sat up, I turned toward him, only to find him staring at me.” 

Natasha gave you a conflicted look. “You didn’t tell anybody?” She asked.

You shake your head, “I didn’t know what to say. What can we even do with that information?”

Natasha walked back over to the couch. “He spared you.”

“I mean, yes, he did, but he was distracted. Perhaps, I just wasn’t his target. He might not care about collateral damage.” You shrugged, but Natasha shook her head.

“No, you don’t understand. The Soldier eliminates any collateral. He doesn’t spare people close to his targets. You should’ve died there…” Natasha looked straight forward, contemplative.

“Gee, thanks.” You chuckled humorlessly.

“And you didn’t say anything to him?” Natasha asked, turning towards you.

“No, I was a little busy getting choked to death.” You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. “Seriously, Nat, just drop it. I’m not going to question it, I’m just glad I made it out.”

She looked like she wanted to say something, but she didn't. She stood up slowly. She sighed, giving you an indecipherable look. “Fine, but if it happens again…”

“I’m not exactly searching for him, Nat. I doubt it’d happen again.” You smiled, shaking your head, and grabbing your phone.

She gave a small smirk, “Your search history says otherwise.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but she’s already halfway out of the room. 

“You’re taking that out of context.” You mumbled to yourself, unlocking your phone, which reflects Bucky’s face.

-

You never found out if Steve knew about your little encounter with the Soldier (Bucky?). You considered telling him, but he was already stressed out with everything else going on. Everybody was. There was no point in telling him useless information like that.

Shortly after HYDRA fell, you decided to work with Sam and Steve in order to track down Bucky. You still remember the look Natasha gave you after she handed Steve his file. She didn’t even have to say anything, for you decided to walk over to her anyway.

“I know what you’re going to say.” You sighed. “Then why search for him? You even said it yourself, it could’ve been nothing.” She said, the two of you turning away from Fury’s “grave.”

You shook your head, “I don’t know.” You whispered. 

She stopped, turning to face you. You matched her movement. “I can’t stop you, can I?”

You offered her a remorseful smile, mouthing the word “No.”

She sighed, “Be safe, okay?” 

You grinned at her, “I’ll be with Steve and Sam. I’ll be fine.” You waved a hand back towards them.

“That’s what worries me.” She looked back towards them before turning back to you.

“I’ll see you around.” She nodded at you.

You returned the gesture, “See you around.” You watched as she walked out of the graveyard.

You walked back over to Steve and Sam, “When do we start?”

-

2016

“Sam, I really don’t think it’s a good idea for me to get involved. This sounds like an actual Avengers issue.” You rubbed your temples, phone still held up to your ear.

“You’re an Avenger.” You scoffed, Avenger adjacent maybe. “Come on, we need all the help we can get,” Sam begged. 

“Look, there was a reason I dropped the search for him, and seeing as he is speculated to have killed the King of Wakanda, I might have made the right decision!” You paced around the room.

You heard Sam sigh from the other side of the phone. “Look, we’re desperate. Please at least come over to check out the situation. You don’t have all the facts. Bucky did not kill King T’Chaka.” You remained silent at his words. “I won’t pretend to know your reasons for dropping the search. It’s none of my business, I know. I won’t make you interact with him, but we need help.” Sam pleaded.

You huffed, “You’re really this desperate?”

“Yes,” Sam emphasized. “Look, I will send you the location where and when we will be meeting up. Please consider it.” Sam reiterated.

You paused, damn it. Sam has always been good at persuading you. “I’ll consider it…”

You could practically see his shoulders relax in relief. “Thank you.”

-

2014, Bucharest

“I will let you guys know if I run into anything, don’t worry.” You rolled your eyes as Steve frowned at you. 

“Are you sure you’re okay doing this alone?” Steve asked.

“My answer hasn’t changed since the last time you asked.” You replied confidently.

“Okay, good luck out there.” Steve clasps your shoulder, a strained smile on his face.

“You too.” You nodded at him and Sam before exiting the Quinjet. Stepping out into the sunlight, you took a deep breath before walking into the forest. You turned around one last time as the wind picked up. Hoping Steve and Sam could see you, you waved as the Quinjet took off. 

You sighed before starting your long trek towards the city. 

Truthfully, it didn’t take long. Steve and Sam had given you a quick rundown. It was one of the five cities they narrowed Bucky’s location down to: Bucharest, Florence, Moscow, Athens, or Prague.

You didn’t particularly care where they sent you out to, so you just let them drop you off wherever they thought was right. 

For weeks, you had ambled around the city, looking for any sort of clues. Newspapers were unhelpful, showing no signs of any activity by the Winter Soldier. Nothing on television helped either.

Eventually, a month went by. Frustrated, you almost contacted Steve, saying this place had nothing useful.

Then you heard it.

“Mama! I want a metal arm too!” 

Your head never whipped around so fast. A young boy, no older than six, had his hand latched onto his mother’s long skirt. You watched them pass you by as the young boy proceeded to ask his mom if he could have one.

You immediately felt your heart pound. The three of you had been living off scraps of information for months now. Ever since HYDRA went down, there’s been no sign of him. The only lead you had was the file Natasha gave you.

“Uh, scuze,” You apologized to the mother, turns out learning basic phrases comes in handy. She turned toward you, questioning. “Did you happen to run into a man with a metal arm? We’re old friends, trying to reconnect.” You asked, giving the woman an innocent smile.

Immediately, the boy's eyes lit up, “Yes! It was so cool.” He gasps, “Do you have a metal arm too, ma’am?” The young boy asked.

The mother muttered something to her kid in Romanian, seemingly scolding him for asking such a question. “I’m sorry about him, yes, we saw him down the street by the clothing store.” She turned to point you in the direction.

You nodded thankfully, “I see, mulţumesc mult.” You gave her a small smile, then waved at the kid as he walked away with his mother.

You turned around, slowly heading down the way the mother told you. A lead. A real lead. Of course, it could always just be a coincidence, but this felt right. Metal arms can’t be that common anyway.

You approached the small clothing store. “Buna ziua!” You greet the shopowner, an older woman. She nods in acknowledgement. You slowly approach her, “I am sorry to bother, but have you seen a man with a metal arm recently?” You asked her, giving her your best innocent smile.

She seemed to hesitate, “Can’t say that I have.” 

You frowned, “Look, I’m looking for a friend of mine. I’ve been searching for him for months now—”

“I know why you’re here.” The lady shook her head. You raise an eyebrow at her words. “Ruining a good man’s life like that,” she scoffed.

You blinked, shaking your head. “What? I think there’s been a misunderstanding, ma’am. I don’t want to ruin his life or anything. I just want to talk to him.” 

She chuckled, “Talk to him?” She repeats the words as if they left a foul taste in her mouth.

You moved closer to the stand, placing your arms onto it. “Look, I know this sounds suspicious, but I’m part of the good guys here. I don’t want to hurt him.”

She shook her head disapprovingly, “But you will if you have to.” 

You quickly shook your head, “Woah, I never said that.”

“You implied it.” The woman glared at you. Apparently, she was insistent that you had malicious intentions. Great.

“I did no-” You took a deep breath, looking down at your hands. “Okay, I’m sorry. Look, we only want to help him. Trust me, that man is very capable of defending himself. The situation is very confusing, but I promise.” You looked up at her, pleading, “We only want to help him.”

The woman looked you up and down, her eyes judging your every movement. Resisting the urge to squirm, you met her cold eyes with your pleading ones.

The woman turned away slightly before saying what was probably some curse, muttering a few more phrases in Romanian. “Do not hurt him.” She placed a hand on the counter you’re standing next to.

You nodded eagerly, “I promise.”

She sighed, “A couple of blocks down, there’ll be a fountain. Somewhere near it is a small alley. There should be an abandoned building somewhere in that area.” You nodded at the end of each sentence, eagerly absorbing the information.

“I’d move quickly, from what he’s told me, he moves around often. He won’t like being followed.” She added on. 

“Got it, multumesc.” You thank her frantically before opening your map and attempting to find this fountain.

“Remember! Do not harm him.” The lady repeated, a stern tone in her voice.

You turned around, smiling, “Yes, ma’am!” You waved at her (a gesture which wasn’t returned), before making your way to the fountain. Eventually, you found it. It was not a very large fountain,  but it was pretty cute. You smile as you watch some children chase birds around it. You scanned the area searching for any alleys. After walking in circles a few times, you eventually found one that was hidden by the entrance to a building. 

You slowed down a bit, taking in your location and any potential exits there may be, just in case you need to run. As you walked further and further down, you began to wonder if there were any abandoned buildings here. The alleyway seemed to consist of the back of restaurants and stores. Eventually, however, you stumbled onto a barricaded door.

You hesitated before approaching it. Is this it? Should you have texted Steve? It could still be a false alarm, but with how suspicious the woman was, you doubt it. You tried to peep through the window, but it was impossible to see through.

Just as you thought all hope was lost, you notice another window, albeit much higher up, that’s open. Yeah, you could fit through that. The problem was getting up to reach it. You looked around for anything to stand on. Finding some boxes from the restaurant next door, you pile them up to create a tower you can climb on.

“Come on,” you muttered to yourself, reaching up for the small window. You decided to risk it all, jumping up.

“Yes!” You whispered as you hoisted your upper body through the window, groaning. You looked around the room. There was an inflatable mattress on the floor, and next to it lay a small backpack. You pushed your full body through the window, attempting to quietly make your way through the room.

Cluttered trash lay in every corner, and you tiptoed to avoid it. A coffee table, oldened and scratched up, sits next to a worn-out leather couch. You walked over to it, wincing as the floorboards creaked under each step. A lightly creased newspaper lay upon the coffee table, and next to it, a cup of coffee on a coaster. You uncrumple the newspaper, and your heart drops.

AVENGERS DESTROY GOVERNMENT INTELLIGENCE AGENCY, ARE THESE TRULY THE HEROES WE WANT PROTECTING US?

You read the date: May 23, 2014

May 23rd, 2014

You looked toward the cup of coffee, still steaming. Shit.

“You could’ve knocked.” An unfamiliar voice echoed across the space.

You jumped, immediately throwing the newspaper away and grabbing your pocket knife. As you jumped, you nudged the coffee table, causing the mug on top of it to spill. 

Both of your eyes flickered toward the mug. “Sorry,” you cleared your throat awkwardly, keeping your eyes on Bucky. 

Bucky barely reacted, but his eyes glanced at you in what almost feels like amusement. 

“Don’t worry about it.” He spoke a little louder, his eyes still on you. “Why didn’t you knock?” He repeated.

You slowly lowered your knife. “Sorry?”

He tilted his head to the barricaded door. “The door.”

You narrowed your eyes in confusion, “It was barricaded?”

He shrugged, “I would’ve let you in had you knocked.” 

Your knife, essentially forgotten, lay in your hand at your side. “We’ve been searching for you…” You stated, watching as he casually walked over to you. He gives a hum as if to say “Is that so?” 

“Steve’s been trying to pull every favor he has just to catch a lead on you.” You openly gaped as the Winter Soldier anticlimatically sat down on the couch.

He scoffed, “I’m sure he did.” He had a fond smile on his face, small but present.

You blatantly stared at him as he casually shrugged off a leather jacket from his shoulders, as if this was a normal occurrence. “Who am I talking to right now?”

“James Buchanan Barnes.” He answered.

“Do you always tell everybody your full legal name when they ask?” You raised an eyebrow.

“I read it in a museum.” He ignored your question. You can’t help the laughter that emerges from your chest. It’s such an absurd sentence.

“You found out your name from a museum?” You placed your hands on your hips.

“Well, Steve told me. I just did a background check on myself.” He shrugged.

“Okay, do you remember anything outside of what Google can tell you?” You asked, putting your knife away as you crossed your arms facing him. 

“Here and there,” he picked off lint from the couch, “do you?” He asked, meeting your stare head-on.

You frowned, “Yeah? Why wouldn’t I?”

He looked into your eyes for a bit longer before a disappointed smile crossed his face. “Hm,” he hummed, looking away.

“To answer your question, yes, I remember meeting you. Sorry about choking you by the way.” He looked genuinely upset, a contrite frown on his face. Is this really the same guy who almost killed you?

“It’s okay,” you responded hesitantly, tapping your foot.

His eyes fell to your feet. “You seem confused, perhaps anxious.” He gives you a look. “I know you well enough to know that.” He whispered to himself, chuckling. His eyes didn’t look up at you. He continued to stare at the ground, contemplative.

Despite how soft his words were, the room was quiet. You took a slow deep breath, “What do you mean you know me well enough? How could you possibly know me?” You asked him, beginning to feel uneasy about the situation.

He sat up straighter, tapping his finger on his leg. Sighing, he averted his gaze. He said your name softly before looking back at you. “You really don’t remember?” He whispered. His voice was a low whisper. You almost wonder if you imagined the words.

“What are you talking about?” You asked, attempting to hide your growing panic. Is this some kind of test?

As if sensing your unease, he paused. “I’ve been slowly remembering stuff, you know?” He suddenly changed the subject. He rubbed his thumbs over his hands, looking down. His eyes snapped up to your own, “I believe I figured out what triggered it.” 

“I knew I’d see you again.” He sounded so sure of himself that you began to wonder if you truly had met him before this. “You always said we’d meet again one day.” He gave you a pained, tired smile.

You felt your heart drop, “I never said anything like that.” Perhaps he is still under HYDRA’s control? There’s bound to be some members still lurking. Perhaps they drugged him?

His smile faltered, “I vaguely remember when HYDRA first took me in.” Despite your unease, your heart somehow still managed to ache for him. “I remember thinking that I never wanted to forget you. You had said that we’d meet again, and I wanted to ensure that. You sounded like you knew it would happen, that we’d meet again.” He gave you a soft smile. “I just didn’t expect like this.”

“Bucky,” you began slowly, “did you run into a HYDRA agent before this?” You weren’t sure if they drugged him, but with all this nonsense he was saying, it made sense.

“What?” He sounded angry, perhaps bewildered for the first time. Familiar. It reminds you of his tone the first time he spoke to you (Почему я тебя знаю?). Cautiously, you watched his every move.

“I swear, I know who I am. I am aware. I am not him. I’ve been trying not to be him.” His hand reached out to you, and you flinched back. Immediately, you stood up, creating distance between you two. 

You weren’t sure how to describe what his expression was. On the surface, it looked stoic, calm, unbothered. However, you could see the hurt in his eyes. His eyes seemed to attempt to communicate a silent question, one you couldn’t deduce. You didn’t remember him? Why didn’t you remember him?

He said your name softly, standing up in order to try and go over to you. How does he know your name?

“I… I got to go.” You slowly walked to any exit you could find. Once you got out, you attempted to put as much distance between you two as you could. Bucky didn’t attempt to approach you again, only giving you the look of what almost resembled a lost puppy. That made no sense. This is the Winter Soldier, an assassin who’d been active for decades. Sure, he may not be killing anymore, but that doesn’t make him a cuddle buddy. Even years after this incident, you still can’t burn the image of his expression from your brain.

You ran like a coward. Steve and Sam had been searching for Bucky for months, and you ran.

Emerging out of the alleyway, you pulled your phone out. You turned around once you reached the fountain, dialing Steve’s number.

“Steve,” You were out of breath, checking each direction as if Bucky would magically appear. He didn’t.

“I’m done.” You shook your head, sitting at a bench near the fountain.

“What- Did something happen? Did you find him? Are you hurt?” He asked with growing concern.

“No,” you smacked your lips, still breathing heavily, “no. I just, I just can’t do this mission anymore. I’m sorry.” You leaned over from your seating position.

“Okay, okay, we’ll finish up here and be there within the day. You think you’ll be okay until then?” You heard him picking up the pace of whatever he was doing.

“Yeah,” you exhale, “I’ll be fine. I’ll see you then, thank you.” You said your goodbyes before hanging up.

-

2016

You never told anybody that you found Bucky. You weren’t sure how to. Neither Sam nor Steve questioned why you suddenly dropped “Operation: Search for Barnes.” They were curious, no doubt, but they didn’t pry. All you told them was that some personal information came to light about him, and you couldn’t continue the mission.

After you had time to reflect on the incident, you thought that maybe you overreacted a little bit. Your thoughts were conflicting. On one hand, he didn’t seem to be malicious to any extent. In fact, he seemed quite amiable even though you broke into his residence. On the other hand, he knew your name and had your quirks down to a T. He looked at you as if he knew you better than you knew yourself.

When you got back, you had even done a quick background check on yourself. Yes, on yourself. Perhaps you were missing something. Perhaps you had met him somewhere in the past, but nothing added up to any places he had been. You two, hypothetically, should never have known each other prior to the whole HYDRA incident a couple of years back.

When Sam called, you knew you’d have to face him. The fact that you were able to walk away for two years was a luxury. What made things worse is that you heard things from Steve after Sam contacted you. Steve put his full trust in Bucky. He wasn’t a bad person. 

He just happened to know an eerie amount about you. 

Really, you should’ve told somebody. Steve definitely should’ve known. You essentially turned his manhunt for Bucky into a two-year dead end. The only reason he had been found was because he’d been falsely accused of terrorism.

Even though you didn’t know him, you didn’t. Somehow, you immediately knew Sam was right. Bucky didn’t blow up the United Nations center in Vienna.

Perhaps it was guilt you felt? After all, maybe Bucky was drugged, and he was lying. Maybe it was a misunderstanding. You didn’t know.

And that’s just the problem, isn’t it?

You. Didn’t. Know.

Packing your bags, you set out for Germany. Apparently, they wanted to meet at an airport in Leipzig? You didn’t question it. The Avengers were always extra, but airport meetups were a new thing. 

The flight was long and boring, but eventually you landed. As you exited the airport, you took out your phone to get an Uber when a white van pulled up. You took a step back, thinking it was for another person. The window rolled down.

“Hey,” Clint nodded at you, Wanda seated next to him. She offered you a small smile.

Mouth dropped in awe, you blinked at Clint and Wanda. You don’t know when the last time you saw Clint was. You had met Wanda once or twice in the past, but you never got to know her that well.

“They rope you two into this as well?” You asked, as you slid the van door open, revealing a man who you had definitely not met.

“Oh- Who… Who is this?” You asked, closing the door and stepping into the back of the van, avoiding the unconscious stranger sprawled comfortably on the two seats in the middle.

“Back up.” Clint looked down at him. “Sam said he could like shrink or something? I dunno. His name is Scott.” He shrugged.

“Oh,” you nod slowly, “Alright, I guess. He did sound desperate. Who are we up against anyway?” You leaned against the side of the car as you felt the car move.

“Well,” he paused, “at minimum Tony, Nat, Rhodey, and probably Vision.” He looked toward Wanda, who nodded solemnly. 

“So, hypothetically, we should outnumber them?” You asked hopefully.

“We hope so, but I’m sure Tony has some tricks up his sleeve.” Clint sighed. 

The rest of the car ride consisted of casual conversation. It wasn’t very long until you all pulled up to the location. Clint parked the car, waiting a bit before you saw another car approach. “You stay here with him, make sure he’s still alive. I’ll go talk to Steve first.” He shut the door, going over to greet Steve, Wanda following him.

You unbuckled your seat belt, attempting to maneuver your way to the window. As you passed by Scott, you heard him snore softly. Perfect, he’s still alive. You crawled your way up to the passenger seat, trying to look through the window. From what you could see, it was Steve, Sam, and him in the back. As if sensing you were watching him, Bucky’s eyes fell onto you, his posture immediately straightening once your eyes both met.

Eyes widening and frantically trying to hide, you pushed yourself back, landing awkwardly on the ground with an “Oof!” You attempted to push yourself back up, but there was not much space in the van, and Scott was still asleep on the seats. You tried shifting in a way you could get up without disturbing him, but it was becoming more impossible by the minute.

Then the door slid open.

“He should be good—” Clint turned to look inside the van, “—What are you doing?” Scott jumped awake, and you watched in horror as everybody laid eyes on you two. “Woah, when did you get here? I don’t think we’ve met.” Scott groggily sat up, gesturing at you sprawled beneath him. “Why are you on the floor?” He gives an amused smile at you.

You pushed yourself up, now having the room to stand, “Technical difficulties.” You muttered.

He nodded sympathetically, “Been there.”

Steve gave you a wide-eyed look, his mouth parting in surprise. He turned to Sam, who gave him the most smug smirk imaginable. “I thought you were done with these kinds of missions.” Steve walked over to help you out of the van, giving you a pat on the shoulder.

“Yeah,” you gave him a small smile, “I thought so too.” You gave a pointed look to Sam, shaking your head. He returned it with a smirk and smug nod. You purposefully ignored Bucky’s eyes on you. 

Steve pulled you to the side as Scott greeted Sam. “Are you sure you’re okay with this? Sam did tell you Bucky would be involved, right?” Steve frowned, crossing his arms.

You nodded slowly, “Yeah, I had time to think about it.” You looked up at him, “It’s okay, Steve. I’m here to help you and Sam. You two have done a lot for me over the years.” You glanced back at Sam before turning back to Steve, “I should return the favor.” You smiled at him.

Steve exhaled with a smile on his face, “Alright, I appreciate it, really, but if you want to drop it now, this is your last chance—”

You turned to face him, “Absolutely not. I am not taking it back, come on.” You walk past him, patting his arm and tilting your head to Scott. “You gotta meet the whole team.”

Steve gave you a small smile, walking up to Scott. You followed closely behind Steve, giving Sam a small nod. Hesitantly, you turned your gaze toward Bucky. His attention was focused on Scott fawning over Steve. He looked almost casual, leaning against the car like that.

He met your eyes, catching you staring, and you both stared at each other for a moment before you offered a slow nod in acknowledgement. He straightened his posture, taking his arm off the car as if ready to move, when an announcement blared over the parking garage. He paused his movement, his eyes still resting on you. “They’re evacuating the airport.” His eyes flicker toward Steve.

“Stark.” Sam looked toward Steve, his arms crossed.

“Stark?” Scott repeated incredulously.

Steve shifted, looking between Clint, Wanda, Scott, and you. “Suit up.” His nods, his tone calm and authoritative.

As the team began to suit up, you approached Sam separately, “Hey, so I couldn’t bring any of my weapons cause you know… TSA.” You offered him a sheepish grin. He held up his finger, telling you to wait, before he went to the trunk of his car and pulled out your gear. “Boom.” He dropped your gear into your arms.

“You brought all of this just in case I was coming?” You chuckled, looking up at him. 

“I knew you were gonna show.” He smirked, patting you on the back. “Now, suit up.”

The team decided to send in Steve first, more as a distraction than anything. The main goal was to get Bucky to the Quinjet. Steve decided to split up the team. Wanda and Clint would keep their distance as back up for Steve or Barnes, keeping their main focus on Steve, but easily being able to divert it to Bucky if needed. As Steve talked to Tony, Sam would send Redwing to try to find the optimal path to the Quinjet. 

Of course, you ended up with Sam and Bucky.

You would be used as a backup specifically for Bucky and Sam. You positioned yourself so that you could trail them easily without being seen. As Steve was telling the others their mission, you felt Bucky brush up from beside you.

“You never told them, did you?” He whispered to you, unbeknownst to the others.

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, slowly shaking your head. “No,”

He continued to look at you, “Why?” He asked incredulously. “You said it yourself, Steve was still looking for me at the time. You probably thought I was crazy, too. Why did you not say anything?” His voice was still a low whisper.

You finally turned to face him, and he looked confused. He looked desperate, as if he wanted to understand, but couldn’t.

“I don’t know.” You eventually whispered back.

He sighed, weary, “I’m sorry for that day. It wasn’t my intention to make you comfortable.” He shook his head. “I truly didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable with anything I said…”

You looked at him, his eyes downcast. You slowly reached a hand to put on his shoulder, and he looked startled by the touch, but didn’t move away from it. He stared at your hand as if it would disappear at any moment. “It’s okay, Bucky. Really. I can’t imagine what you were going through. I don’t blame you for any of that. I mean, I probably didn’t look great either. It must have been startling to see a random person creep into your room.” You offered him a small smile. 

You knew that going into this, you’d have to eventually talk to Bucky. He didn’t hold anything against you, and you did not hold anything against him. Sure, you were disconcerted by your first meeting, but you had this gut feeling that you should give him another chance. After all, like you said, he was only starting to live as a regular person again after seventy years. You decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Plus, Steve vouched for him.

He stared at you before blinking away his surprise. “It was a little off-putting.” His lips turned up in amusement.

Out of the corner of your eye, you realized that Steve was watching you two. You nodded at Bucky, who watched as you walked over to Steve. “You two good?” Steve asked softly.

You nod, “Yeah,” you smile, “better than ever. You ready to execute this plan?” You smiled at him.

He smiled, “Let’s get into positions.”

Despite how anxious you felt, you thought you did pretty well. The plan, while not perfect, was satisfactory. You can’t say that you weren’t expecting Tony to bring some new recruits, but the abilities they demonstrated definitely weren’t expected. Dealing with a Spider-person (Spiderman, you think he said) wasn’t exactly in your top three guesses for possible obstacles, but you eventually dealt with him. You managed to distract him for a bit before Redwing was able to carry him out of the building. You looked toward Sam and Bucky, giving them a nod of encouragement.

The team eventually realized that in order for Bucky to have a chance to leave, some of you would have to stay back. You figured it would come to that, and didn’t object to staying behind. Despite running into multiple obstacles, eventually Steve and Bucky were able to escape. 

After the whole Zeno situation, you hadn’t interacted with Bucky. Steve offhandedly mentioned that after everything, Bucky ended up staying in Wakanda. From what you heard, the main goal was to remove the Winter Soldier programming. You were glad he was accepting help after running from Steve for two years.

All things considered, you thought you two parted on decent terms. Friends might have been a bit of a stretch, but you supposed that is the word that fits your partnership.

You didn’t ever consider that you’d meet Bucky again, after all, you were kind of done with the whole “Avengers” thing. You wanted to just move on from that part of your life, and you were ready for something different.

Perhaps you could find somebody? Maybe get a dog or a cat? You could finally have peace.

Obviously, that didn’t happen.

-

2023, Present time

There are no words you can use to explain how you feel. 

After Thanos wiped out half of the universe’s population, you felt defeated. Everyone who remained did. You were one of the lucky few who were left behind. If you consider that “lucky.”

You truly thought all hope was lost, but then Tony came up with the device to go back in time without getting lost in the Quantum Realm. It was brilliant. You had faith in Tony, but you were also afraid of being disappointed. You missed everyone. You missed a time when everyone was alive. 

When everything worked out in humanity’s favor, you couldn’t believe it. It was nothing short of a miracle. You could’ve cried when everybody returned. Optimistically, you thought that maybe everyone could make it by the end of this whole ordeal.

You were proven wrong. Both Natasha's and Tony’s deaths left you heartbroken. You knew that their deaths weren’t in vain. After all, their actions led to humanity persevering, but you couldn’t help but wish you could have your friends back. 

After everything that went down, especially Tony’s funeral, you truthfully forgot about the stones. 

Steve volunteered to go back, and nobody countered it. Hell, initially, you didn’t plan on going back. You didn’t think much of it as you watched him prepare for another trip to the past. It makes sense that he’d do it. Steve is a responsible man. He’s Captain America. He knows what he’s doing. Nobody questioned it as he started setting up the suit's internal GPS. 

“Hey, can we talk?” Nick Fury approaches him. Steve looks down at the suit in his hands before placing it down. His eyes meet yours, and you give a small smile and tilt your head towards Fury. Returning the nod, he follows Fury. 

Slowly, you make your way to the platform, nodding at Bucky and Sam, who are already waiting there. “Where did he go?” Sam asks as you approach, and you shrug. 

“Fury wanted to talk to him. Not sure why.” You shake your head, looking to where he left the suit. 

“Well, make sure he doesn’t just leave the suit there. I don’t exactly like the idea that anybody here can just casually grab it.” Bruce comments from behind his computer. Figuring Steve will eventually return, you grab the suit and bring it back, dropping it onto Bruce’s workspace.

The four of you stand there in silence, waiting for Steve to return. “So… He didn’t say anything?” Sam breaks the silence. 

You shake your head, pursing your lips, “Not a word.”

“Well, he'd better get back soon, I can’t keep powering this for very long.” Bruce gestures toward the platform. “If he doesn’t come back, I might just do it myself.” 

“So is he just returning the stones to the moment they left or their location before we stole them?” You ask, crossing your arms and turning to Bruce.

“He will be returning to the moment they left that point in time, but the circumstances of how the stone was acquired determine where it should be returned to. If Tony grabbed the Tesseract during the 70s at Camp Lehigh, then it’d be odd if there was just a briefcase with the Tesseract sitting out in the open. Additionally, he probably won’t appear at the exact spot it disappeared, just at the same time it disappeared and in the general vicinity.” Bruce explains, tapping the desk.

“Will it really have that big of an effect if it’s left in the wrong spot?” Sam asks, copying your pose. You raise an eyebrow at him, and he returns the gesture.

“Probably not, but it’s best to try and return them close to their original spot. I know that may be a little difficult for some stones, so he’ll just have to try and get as close to the original location as possible.” Bruce gestures in a so-so motion.

“Yeah, if he even shows up at this point.” Sam huffs, causing the four of you to turn toward where he left.

“Okay, yeah, I’m calling it. He is talking too long, I don’t know the next time I’ll have enough power to do this again. Who wants to volunteer?” Bruce turns towards the three of you. You look towards Sam, who is looking towards Bucky, who is looking directly at you.

“I don’t mind doing it if you guys don’t want to.” Sam places a hand on his chest.

“I don’t mind doing it either, I’ve already done it once.” You shrug.

The three of you turn toward Bucky, “You gonna offer yourself too?” Bruce asks jokingly.

Bucky shakes his head, “Nah, you two can have this one.” He doesn’t take his eyes off you. His eyes brighten in understanding as he continues to stare at you, almost as if he’s realizing something at this moment. 

“What are we gonna settle it with rock, paper, scissors?” Sam jokes, turning towards you.

Smiling, you raise your hands, “I’m down.”

“Hey, don't take too long, remember the power won’t last forever before we have to find a new source.” Bruce gestures to the machine.

Waving a hand at the machine, you shrug, “Eh, can’t take longer than Steve.” 

Sam snaps his fingers at you, “True.” 

“Alright, ready? Winner goes back in time.” You put your hands into position.

“Born ready.” Sam mirrors you.

“Rock, paper, scissors, shoot!” The two of you chorus.

Scissors lay in his palm.

Rock lies in yours. From the corner of your eye, you see Bucky shift.

“Whew,” Sam pats you on the back. “Congrats on winning.” He grins at you.

You roll your eyes, nudging his hand off of you, “It almost sounds like you didn’t want to go.”

He puts a hand on his chest in mock offense, “I would never. I’ll have it be known that I volunteered first.” 

Shaking your head in amusement, you roll your eyes before grabbing the suit that Steve left behind. “Whatever you say.” You mumble as you link the suit to your mind.

Stepping onto the platform, you allow it to materialize over your current clothing. You turn around to look at the group. 

Sam gives you a small smile, making you feel more brave than you actually do about this whole idea. At least when you time travelled in the past the first time you weren’t alone. If you mess up now, you will be alone. Bucky crosses his arms, smiling at you before looking down and laughing softly to himself. 

You tilt your head at him, “What’s so funny?”

He shakes his head, the smile stuck onto his face, “Nothing.”

You raise an eyebrow, but you doubt he can see it through the mask covering your face. “Alright, be cryptic like that.” You shake your head at him, smiling.

Bucky returns the smile, “Don’t get stuck anywhere.” He remarks obscurely. “But if you do happen to get stuck in… I dunno… the 40s?” He walks closer to you. “Steve and I will always be there.”

You chuckle at him, slightly concerned, “Why does that sound vaguely threatening?”

He shakes his head, “Think of it as more of a safety net. Just in case.” His eyes meet yours, twinkling with playful amusement.

You shake your head at them before turning toward Bruce. “Ready?” He asks, you nod. “Going quantum in three,” the machine begins powering up, “two,” you look back towards Sam, “one,” you look at Bucky.

Going quantum is a strange feeling. It’s not particularly one you enjoy, but it’s not painful. It feels as if you have a chill running through your spine simultaneously as your body falls asleep. As you traverse the Quantum Realm, you realize that you don’t know the order Steve set it to. 

Stumbling around as you resize back up to normal, you take a look around your surroundings. If you had to guess, this must be Vormir. In the distance, a mountain pans into view. There is nothing else nearby. 

“Oh,” you mutter, looking up at the giant mountain. Nobody mentioned you’d be scaling a mountain to return the stone. Slowly, you make your way over to begin your long hike. While you are sure it takes hours to climb up the mountain, there is no sign of time passing. The sun doesn’t rise or set. About halfway through, you begin to wish you had brought water. 

Eventually, you climb the last step, reaching the top of the mountain. Hesitantly, you walk forward. From the corner of your eye, you see a cloaked figure.

Eyes freezing on the figure, you slowly look around. “I assume you’re the one Clint mentioned? The stonekeeper?” 

Kneeling, you slowly open the briefcase. They don’t respond, but you open the case anyway. Hopefully, this is the right guy, but he seems to fit Clint’s description. Grabbing the Soul Stone, you hold it out in front of you.

With one blink, it disappears from your hand. The figure stares down at you for a moment longer, before turning around and vanishing. 

“Bye, I guess.” You sigh before materializing the suit. You click the button, going quantum once again. The next place you land in is Asgard. Honestly, it was the one you were most excited for. After all, how many people can say they’ve been to Asgard? 

That excitement was quickly diminished. You don’t even get a chance to remove the mask from your face before you see about half a dozen guards standing maybe twenty feet away from you. 

Immediately diving for cover, you hide behind one of the pillars. You hear one of the guards ask, “Did you hear that?” Breathing hitching, you cover your mouth.

Once their conversation quiets down, you open the briefcase. Fishing out the Reality Stone, you close the briefcase, looking around for a safe place to leave it. Maybe on the throne? 

Before you even get the chance to make a move, a loud voice booms across the hall. “I found one of the intruders!” You pick up the briefcase, immediately running down the hall. You don’t bother to turn around and check if they’re following you; you know they are. Making turns whenever you feel like it, you eventually reach a dead end.

“Well, that’s not great.” You look up at the painting on the wall, out of breath. Turning around, you see a large horde of guards charging at you.

“Uh, well, I was gonna place it nicely for you, but I guess this works.” You roll your eyes, sliding the stone over. A small group of guards circles the stone, pointing their spears at it as if it’ll explode, but the rest continue to pursue you.

Reluctantly, you raise your hands in surrender as they point their spears at you. “Got you now, intruder.” One guard sneers at you.

You smile, “Did you?” You push the button down, going quantum. You chuckle to yourself as they vanish from your view. 

The next time you open your eyes, you’re on Morag (at least you think this is Morag, you’ve never actually been there). Stumbling over the uneven terrain, you open the briefcase and grab the Power Stone. It was the only stone that was encapsulated by something. Bruce said it was dangerous to touch it directly.

Jumping over cracks, you vaguely recall that Nebula said that she said the stone was protected by some sort of laser. You aren’t sure if you can place it back in there without burning your arm off, which isn’t ideal.

In the distance, you see an oddly human-shaped object. Cautiously, you approach it, quickly realizing that it is a seemingly unconscious person, before quickly dropping all suspicion. 

“Damn, Quill.” You huff, kneeling to slide the stone into his satchel, giving it a few pats. “Better wake up soon, buddy.” You lightly place the bag on top of him. Chuckling to yourself, you press the button once more. 

The moment you take in your surroundings, you know exactly where you are: New York. You decide to return the Mind Stone first. As you step into the tower, you immediately feel eyes on you. It probably isn’t a good idea to run into anybody you actively know, so you try and avoid the ruckus in the hallway. As you walk by, you notice a random agent. You aren’t sure if they’re all HYDRA agents, but you do know that the stone ends up in HYDRA’s hands after the Battle of New York. 

Finding a room without cameras, you take the stone out of the briefcase. As you exit the room, you bump into a random agent. Both of you immediately stop walking, and their eyes zero in on your hand, which looks like it’s glowing. 

“Is that–”

“Upper management made a mistake. Here, take the stone back.” You shove the stone into the agent's hand. They blink in surprise, sputtering. 

“Where’s the staff?” They ask.

“I dunno. I was just given the stone.” You shrug, picking up the briefcase and adjusting your clothing. “Thanks again.” You walk out of the building, leaving it in the agent's hands. That should be close enough. 

Exiting the tower, you make your way to find the Ancient One. From what you heard, Bruce found her on the roof? Eventually, you find the New York Sanctum, just as you’re about to knock, the door opens.

Blinking, you peep inside before slowly entering. “Hello? I’m here to return the Time Stone. Bruce– Er… the Hulk sent me.”

Looking up, you see the Ancient One staring down at you from the top of the stairs. You watch as she slowly descends. Once she reaches the bottom, she looks at you expectantly.

“Oh,” you snap yourself out of the daze, “here.” You open the briefcase, handing her the Time Stone. She looks at you amused, “Thank you.” She nods at you.

Returning the smile, you nod, “Thank you. We couldn’t have done it without your help.” 

“I guess Strange did have a plan.” She mutters to herself.

You chuckle, “Always seems like he does.” 

She smiles softly, looking down at the stone, “That he does. Good luck on the rest of your journey.” 

“Thanks.” You smile at her, activating the suit. “It’s almost over, though,” you let her see the briefcase with only the Space Stone glimmering.

Her eyes snap up to your own, and she gives you a knowing smile. “Oh, it has only just begun.” She places a hand on your shoulder before brushing past you. Mouth parted in confusion, you watch as she opens a portal and walks through it. That was odd. 

Shrugging it off, you press the button before landing in your final destination. Letting the suit vanish, you straighten your posture before making a move.

From what Steve had said, Tony had met his father when they were picking up the Space Stone (and the Pym Particles). You aren’t sure where exactly the Stone was located, so that leaves you with two options. Peggy Carter and Hank Pym. As long as you can leave the Stone in one of their offices, you figure that’s close enough. They’re both important people, so it wouldn’t be outlandish to think that they ran into the stone at some point in their lives.

As you enter the building, you check every door as you pass by. Eventually, you stumble onto Carter’s door first. Attempting to peep in, you notice that somebody is definitely in there, so there goes that idea. 

Continuing down the hall, you avoid eye contact with all soldiers that pass you by. Eventually, you reach a door that reads Pym’s name. Looking through the blinds, you see that the room is empty. Thank goodness that makes your job easy. 

You slowly open the door, making sure it is silent as you slide inside the room. Casually, you walk over to his desk, placing the stone underneath his notes, before walking out. 

Just as you walk out, you run into a scientist. They look at you, instantly suspicious, “What are you doing in here?” 

“Carter’s orders. Looking for an old file. Came to see if it was in here.” You blatantly lie.

They raise an eyebrow, “File? We don’t have any files in here, Pym’s orders.” The scientist narrows his eyes at you.

Sweating, you shrug, “I don’t know. She just said to check everywhere, so I did.”

“Who was the file for?” They press.

Think of something!

“Barnes?” You blurt.

“Barnes?” They repeat, matching your tone. “I don’t think I’ve heard that name. What’s their first name?”

“Look,” you rub your temples to make it seem like you’re annoyed, “it’s not my job to ask questions. I was doing as Carter told me to do.” You frown at them.

After a moment of silence, they make room for you to walk by them. “Thank you.” You smile at them before making a beeline toward the exit.

The moment you exit, you let out an exhale of relief before finding a good spot to vanish. Finally, you press the button.

You hum softly as you feel yourself moving throughout the Quantum Realm. Mission complete, a successful mission at that. 

“And that should be,” you open your eyes, feeling your feet hit the ground, “it…” You blink, slowly adjusting to your surroundings. This is not the platform you left off at. You don’t see Bruce, Sam, or Bucky either. 

It’s a tent, seemingly for military purposes. You walk around the space, noting the map on the table. The map seems to picture Europe. You sit down in the chair before leaning over to observe it. A year is scrawled on the bottom right corner, 1945. There seems to be a specific spot in Austria circled, the word “HYDRA” in red ink next to it. 

“Alright, let’s see…” Reaching into your pocket, you pull out your remaining Pym Particle. Okay, at least you have an extra. You set it down on the table before checking to see if there’s any left in the suit. To your surprise, you didn’t run out. You had assumed the random time period was a result of running out mid quantum jump. 

“That’s odd.” You rest your thumb on the button. Right as you’re about to grab the Pym Particle you left on the table, somebody storms into the room, causing you to jump and accidentally press down slightly on the button.

Not even having time to process the horror of what just occurred, you feel yourself move throughout the Quantum Realm before stumbling into a wall. You don’t move. Staring blankly at the wall, you don’t dare to look down at your most certainly Pym Particle empty hand. You fucked up. You really fucked up.

Taking in your surroundings, it appears as if you’re in some dingy alleyway, on your right is a large dumpster filled with trash. Wincing at the smell, you attempt to press the suit’s button, hoping that maybe there’s a backup Pym Particle stored in it somewhere.

There is not. You try, multiple times, to tap the button before accepting your fate. You’re stuck, and you don’t even know what time you’re stuck in. Maybe you’re in a time where it’s already invented? You pull up the GPS coordinates on the suit, the numbers displaying themself on the screen. You frown, you aren’t sure how to read time coordinates, but you know for a fact Steve did not set them back to 2023. Was he planning on taking an extra trip?

After you retract the suit, you make your way to the main street. Feeling your eyes widen, you watch as a woman with a cloche and shirtwaist dress walks by you, her heels clicking with each step. You see a few older Cadillac models driving down the street.

“What the…” You mutter to yourself, ignoring some of the odd looks people give as they pass you.

An old crumpled-up newspaper blows past you. You stomp your foot on it, preventing it from going any further.

You pick it up, immediately scanning it for the date.

February 22, 1943

Your grip on the newspaper loosens, allowing it to blow out of your hands. 1943. You stare ahead of yourself, disbelieving. Steve was planning on taking a trip down memory lane. Damn him. Now you’re stuck.

“Shit.” You whisper, feeling a growing pit of horror in your stomach.

You’re stuck in the 1940s.

Wait, no, the date on that map said 1945. The Pym Particle should be sitting on it sometime in 1945. 

Okay, modifying your previous statement: You’re stuck in the 1940s until 1945 (probably).

If you weren’t horrified, you’d laugh. Isn’t this the one thing Bucky warned you not to do? You lean against a wall, sitting down. You probably look homeless to these people, but you can’t bring yourself to try and look presentable. You basically are homeless.

People pass by you, but you barely register it. You aren’t even sure if time passes as you sit there. Maybe this is all one bad dream. Maybe you’ll wake up?

You sit there looking down for what feels like eternity before you look up to scan your surroundings. What are you doing? You’re from the future. You can use that to your advantage. Perhaps you can find somebody you know—

“But if you do happen to get stuck in… I dunno… the 40s? Steve and I will always be there.”

Bucky’s voice rings in your ears, and you repeat the memory in your head. Damn, he really jinxed you. He’s here, though. They’re here. Steve and Bucky were alive during this time. You aren’t sure exactly when HYDRA decided to take Bucky, but you pray it hasn’t happened yet. You haven’t seen any advertisements with Captain America, so you take that as a good sign for now.

Judging by your surroundings, you were definitely in New York. The problem is finding Steve or Bucky. Realistically, you’ll have a better chance of finding Steve. You don’t know when exactly Bucky was sent out to Europe. Steve, though, was only sent after he became Captain America. Where do you even start? You know he was from Brooklyn, that’s about it. Damn, now you regret not asking Steve more about his life during the 40s.

You decide to start moving, you will need shelter before nightfall. Perhaps you can just camp outside of one of the registration sites. Maybe you’ll just happen to find Steve. 

You also need new clothes, you stick out like a sore thumb here. It’s not like you can buy any. Any money you have is made way past this time. You feel a little self-conscious walking by as people very obviously judge you. You try to offer a small smile to anybody who passes you by, but in return, you just receive more stares. 

Eventually, you stumble onto a more up-to-date newspaper. You aren’t sure if February 24th is the exact date, but it’s the latest one you’ve seen. The headline reads “BATTLE OF KASSERINE PASS ENDS.” You skim over the article. It was a battle that started on the 19th and ended on the 24th. It was the Allies' first major battle in Africa. In the beginning, the battle wasn’t looking very promising, with both the Americans and British being pushed back. However, once reinforcements came, the Allies finally put up a real fight. While the battle was a victory for the Allies, the casualty count was devastating, with an estimated loss of ten thousand troops.

You slowly put the newspaper down in horror. Reading that made this situation feel very real.

You decide to keep the newspaper just in case you need to read any info later. You continue to walk further and further down the street until eventually you come across a run-down building. You can’t tell what it used to be, but beggars can’t be choosers. Looking around to make sure nobody is observing you, you head toward the double doors at the entrance. The rickety doors squeak as you pull on them, but other than that, they don’t budge.

Frowning, you turn around to see if there’s a different entrance. You walk around to the back of the building, finding another door. It looks less sturdy than the ones up front. You gently push it to test its integrity before stepping back and kicking it open. It immediately bursts open, and a cloud of dust puffs up in the room. Waving the dust away from your face, you walk in.

It’s definitely abandoned. Cobwebs cover the ceiling of the room. Some floorboards are broken. A layer of dust covers every surface of the room.

You did need shelter, though. You sigh as you begin to explore the building. First, you check the kitchen, not having much hope of finding anything edible. There are no plates or utensils (not that you exactly planned on using them). On the brink of giving up, you open a cabinet to find some canned beans. 

You slowly pick one up, checking for an expiration date. The can doesn’t feel damaged, maybe dusty, but it is unopened. Eventually, you find the expiration date. The exact date is rubbed off, but it says “1946” on it. You kneel to see the rest of the cabinet. Reaching your hand in for more of the cans, you grimace as cobwebs cover your hands. 

Eventually, you pull out all the cans, shaking your hands free of any webs. Guess the food problem is temporarily solved. You decide to check upstairs. Maybe you might be able to find some cash lying around. 

As you walk upstairs, the stairs creak under you. Eventually, you get to the top. There are a few doors left ajar. You decide to check out the biggest one first. You stumble onto abandoned desks, shelves, and nightstands all filled with nothing. 

You search room after room as your disappointment grows. Discouraged, you go back downstairs, finding a somewhat clean spot to lie down on. You walk back over and notice one floorboard in particular is extra creaky. You press your foot on it to test it, and it moves. Kneeling, you slowly move it up. There’s a small bundle of cash there. It’s not more than a few dollars, but it’s cash. You were hoping that maybe you’d be lucky and find some coins strewn around. Actual cash is a blessing.

You look outside the window, noticing the sun is no longer visible. Soon it will be dark, and you don’t feel comfortable enough in this era to roam around at night.

You decide to save the beans for tomorrow, you don’t want to eat all your food just cause you found a few dollars. It’s best to save it for tomorrow. Shrugging off your jacket, you place it on the floor, using it as a makeshift pillow. 

You lie down, pulling out the newspaper. It’s probably worthwhile to catch up on current events.

After you reread it a few times, folding some of the corners of the page out of boredom, you eventually doze off.

The following morning, the sun shines through the fogged-up window, and the newspaper lies flat on your face. You move it off before instantly regretting the decision, the sun’s light directly hits your face. Groaning, you sit up. 

You rub your eyes, forgetting where exactly you were for a moment (and when). You pick your jacket off the ground, dusting any dirt off of it that it may have picked up on the ground. You aren’t sure what time it is, but you can’t imagine it’s late. The sun would’ve woken you up earlier if that were the case.

You crack open one of the cans of beans. It leaves a lot to be desired, but it’s food. Slowly, you watch as the sun continues to rise with a can of beans in hand. 

Today you’re going to try and find Steve. Combing your hair with your fingers, you try to make yourself look somewhat presentable before you leave the building.

Walking out, you see that the sun has barely risen. There is some chatter from across the street, but nowhere near as much as you heard yesterday. Adjusting your jacket, you set off with a mission in mind.

First Objective: Find Steve

Truly, you expected this to be simple. Perhaps you lie to a few locals about him being a distant relative, you thank them, and move on. 

Apparently, Steve was, quite literally, a nobody.

You aren’t sure if he ever mentioned it to you. That’s not exactly something you flaunt, but it would’ve explained the sheer lack of people who had no idea who he was. 

Of course, New York isn’t exactly small, so maybe your expectations were too high. However, that doesn’t make you feel better since you’re actively feeling every ounce of hope evaporate from your body at an increasing rate.

So yeah, everything is going great. 

Every shop owner you asked had not recognized the name. The few who did would say something along the lines of “Steve? I haven’t heard that name in years.” It felt like every time something seemed to go in your favor, the universe would find a way to turn it right back around.

You take a deep breath. This is day one. You can’t lose it on day one. Maybe you are not the luckiest person, but you will find him eventually. Worse case scenario, you wait until he becomes Captain America to find him. 

The sun is setting by the time you decide it’s time to wrap things up for the day, beginning your slow trek back to your little home. You are about halfway back when you hear commotion down an alley. You pause blinking, eh, not your circus, not your monkeys. You don’t want to make enemies in a time you don’t belong.

About to walk past it, you, being nosy, turn to see what is going on. A scrawny man is getting cornered by three guys. You can’t see what the smaller guy’s face looks like, his face angled away from you. You notice his hair is blonde. It might have been neatly combed at one point, but he has a few strands out of place. One of the thugs punches him in the face, causing the smaller guy to lurch to the side. You wince, that looked like it hurt. The smaller guy looks up, and you feel your heart stop as you see his face.

Holy shit, YOUR circus, YOUR monkeys.

Immediately, you run into the alley. “HEY!” You yell out, jumping in front of who you now recognize as Steve Rogers.

One of the thugs, presumably the “leader,” spits on the ground. You grimace, not breaking eye contact with them.

“Oh? Little lady thinks she can—”

You punch him in the face. 

From your peripherals, you notice how one of his sidekicks attempts to tackle you to the ground. Swiftly, you pivot backwards and watch as he ends up tackling his buddy instead. They both yell out, struggling to get up. 

The leader, now recovered, glares down at you. He is definitely bigger than you, but that doesn’t mean defeat. That just means you have to play smarter.

The taller man attempts to punch you again, but you redirect his punch. You may not be able to take a punch from him, but you can certainly guide him in the wrong direction. 

Frustrated, he starts punching more and more without reason. He is tiring himself out. You take a quick look toward his rookies, both of which are standing up again. Grabbing a brick from the ground, you launch it at one of their heads, before tripping the other. 

With two of them down, and one of them panting like a dog, you rush toward Steve. “Hey, man, think you can run?” 

He looks at you in awe, nodding immediately.

“Great!” You help him up with ease (something that was not easy to do with the Steve you know). “Let’s run before they recover.” You pat his shoulder before leading him out of the alley. He trails behind you, noticeably slower. Not wanting to leave him behind, you stay with him the whole time. 

Eventually, once you deem the two of you far enough, you stop running. You hear Steve sigh in relief, catching his breath. “Bend over, it helps you catch your breath.” You suggest. Steve immediately follows the advice.

Glancing down at him, you try not to show your anxiousness. You can’t screw this up. If you mess things up here now, it might make things more difficult later on.

“Sorry about that.” You wince at Steve, who is nearly wheezing at this point.

He waves a hand, still looking down, before holding up his index finger as if to say, “Give me a minute!” 

Patiently, you wait next to him before he pushes himself up. “Thanks,” he huffs, “for fighting them off.”

You snort, “I wouldn’t call it much of a fight. I ran with you.” 

He looks at you, dusting off his sleeve, “You stood up to them though, even if you thought the odds were against you.”

You smile softly, “I don’t like bullies.” You quote the future version of himself. You remember him saying that once. Even before becoming Captain America, he despised bullying. 

He tilts his head slowly, “Haven’t seen you around here.” He comments.

You shake your head, “Doubt you would, just got here yesterday.” 

He hums, “How’s that going for you?”

You shrug, “Eh, struggled finding a place to stay and almost got beat up by some thug.” 

He holds his ribs, standing up straighter. “Ah sounds great.” He offers you a small smile. 

You chuckle softly, “Couldn’t be better.”

He sticks his hand out, “Steve. Steve Rogers.” He introduces himself. You take his hand, introducing yourself to him.

As he takes his hand back, he inhales deeply, wincing as he holds his ribs tighter. “Aw, did they get your ribs?” You wince.

“Eh, it’s fine. I’ll recover.” He grimaces, hunched over. 

You frown, “They might be broken. You live near here?” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he waves you off, “don’t worry. I got it.”

You roll your eyes, still stubborn, “I’ll believe it when you stop wincing every time you move. Come on, I’ll walk you. You never know if those guys will return.” You walk next to him. 

“And what are we gonna do? Run away from them?” He asks, and you roll your eyes. 

“I hold them off while you escape.” You smile, patting him on the shoulder. He winces as you pat him, and you immediately whisper a soft apology, forgetting about the injury.

Now, did you offer to walk him back because you thought it’d be vital to know where he lives? Absolutely. You aren’t going to tell him that, though; you don’t mean it in a creepy way. 

The walk to his place is short. Barely ten minutes go by before you’re pulling up to his door. The apartments look run down, but you aren’t in a place to judge. You’re not exactly living a life of luxury at the moment. After watching him fail to find his key for a minute, you speak up, “You got a spare?” 

He pauses before nodding, “Under the brick.” He gestures towards the sole brick lying on the ground. Not very inconspicuous. You kick it slightly, revealing the key. Grabbing it, you head towards the door and unlock it.

Opening the door, you gesture for him to head in first, following behind him. The apartment looks, well, lived in. It wasn’t very clean, but it wasn’t filthy or anything. It looks like he hadn’t been expecting guests, based on the way he is frantically moving about, attempting to clear dishes.

“Live with anybody?” You ask, offhandedly wondering if you should remove your shoes before walking around. He’s walking with shoes on, so you guess it’s fine?

“Not anymore.” He mutters. 

Damn, way to create conversation. “I’m sorry.”

He offers you a small smile, but there’s no joy in it. “Don’t be,” he shrugs, grabbing a first aid kit. “A friend of mine offered for me to stay with him, but…” he pauses, “I dunno… I just couldn’t bring myself to leave this place.” 

You assume the “friend” he’s talking about is Bucky. Nodding in understanding, you walk over to him. “I get it.” Should you change the subject? You just met him (or so he thinks). Is odd to continue that line of conversation with somebody you just knew?

“So how’ve you dealt with broken ribs?” He changes the subject for you. 

You laugh, shaking your head, “I haven’t broken my ribs before. I just know a lot of people who have. Good news, though, I doubt you’ve actually broken them. You’d be in a lot more pain.”

He frowns, “I am in a lot of pain.”

“Well,” you shrug, “a lot lot more. Like ‘Every time I breathe it feels like my ribs are getting stabbed’ more.” You smile at him. 

“That makes me feel so much better.” He responds dryly.

Laughing, you open his freezer, trying to find something suitable for an ice pack. Grabbing a small bag of mixed vegetables, you give it to him. “Apply for like twenty minutes. Don’t leave it on too long.” You offer him the mixed vegetables.

“Thanks.” He mutters.

You wash your hands before grabbing a clean cloth. “Got any scratches?” He rolls up his sleeve, revealing a couple of cuts on his arm. “Okay, well, run that under water for a little bit.” You direct him, and he nods following your instruction. If current Steve could see you now. After a few minutes, he takes the cloth from you and dries the wounds. 

Walking over to the first aid kit, you open it to see if there’s any ointment. Finding nothing of the sort, you turn towards him. “Have any ointment? Antibiotics?”

He blinks at you slowly, “What?”

“Taking that as a no.” You mutter to yourself. 

“I have honey?” He gestures to a jar next to the fridge.

You look at him, then at the jar, “Alright, I guess.” You grab a couple of Band-Aids before grabbing the jar. Opening the jar, you make your way to him, gesturing for him to roll up his sleeves.

“I’m gonna apply the honey, and then the bandages. Try not to get the band-aid dir–”

Three loud knocks bang on the door.

Both of you jump, and the honey drips along his arm. “Uh, sorry…Expecting a guest?” You ask.

Steve shakes his head, “No… Not today.” 

“Want me to answer it?” You offer. 

He nods, “Yeah, if you could. I can apply the honey.” You nod before standing up to answer the door.

“Hey Steve, I know you’re in there! The key under the brick is gone.” The voice sounds familiar, but there’s something different about it.

Opening the door, it is exactly who you think it is, but nothing could’ve prepared you for how he looks. 

“You aren’t Steve.” Bucky blinks at you, suddenly smirking. “Didn’t realize he had company.”

“I am not.” You confirm dryly. He looks like he belongs in this time. Which sounds kinda stupid when you say it like that, but it’s so unlike how he dresses now. His hair is neatly combed, and he has a suit on. You’ve never seen the Bucky you know in a suit. You dare say he looks dashing. “Don’t mistake this for anything. He got beat up, decided to help him out.” 

“Ah,” he nods understandingly, allowing himself into the apartment. “You know if all it took for you to bring a girl home was to get beat up, I’d have let it happen a lot more.” Bucky chuckles, looking towards Steve. You’re about to close the door when he puts his hand on the handle. “I got it, doll. Don’t worry.” He winks at you.

You can only stare blankly as he smoothly moves you away from the door, closing it behind him, offering you a charming smile. You guess it makes sense. He was raised in the 40s, and chivalry was important during this time. Perhaps Current Bucky acted like this too, and you just didn’t realize it. If he does, he definitely doesn’t act like this with you.

“So,” Bucky begins as you both walk over to Steve, who puts the honey down. Steve introduces the two of you to each other, and Bucky offers you a small smile, repeating your name. You pretend not to know who he is, offering a small smile in return. 

“Alright, what’s the damage?” Bucky asks, looking down at Steve. 

“Bruised ribs, couple cuts.” You sneak a glance at Bucky, who has his hands casually placed in his pockets.

He nods, “Ah, so the regular.”

You chuckle, “This is normal?”

“Yep.” Bucky watches as Steve tries to grab the Band-Aids. After watching him fail to peel the backing off of it, Bucky decides to help him, placing them on the scratches. 

“You from Brooklyn? Haven’t seen ya around here.” Bucky looks over to you. 

You shake your head, “Nope. First time around here.”

“Visiting or moving?” He asks, grabbing the “ice pack” that Steve left on the counter. 

“Uhh, visiting?” You watch as he gives Steve the mixed vegetables.

“Uh huh, and where’re you staying?” He asks, walking back over to you. Both Steve and Bucky are looking at you. 

“Uh, down the street.” You respond vaguely, gesturing in the vague direction of your current residence, but both Bucky and Steve frown.

“‘Down the street?’” Bucky repeats. “There’s nothing but construction and abandoned buildings to be torn down over there.” 

Oh. You turn to Steve, about to say something, when Bucky shoves Steve lightly. Steve winces, glaring up at Bucky. “You were gonna let the lady go homeless?”

“In my defense, I didn’t know until just now,” Steve grumbles.

“Also in his defense, I just told him I ‘struggled to find a place.’” You add on. Steve looks at you gratefully. 

“You know, if I knew, I would’ve offered. You’re free to stay.” Steve looks up at you from his spot on the dining table. 

Your mouth parts in surprise, “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“You helped me escape from getting beaten up,” you and Bucky both look down at the vegetables on his ribs, “well, more beaten up. It’s the least I can offer.” He offers you a gracious smile.

You look towards Bucky, and you don’t know why. It’s not like you need his approval. “You can stay with me too, if you’d prefer.” He smirks suggestively at you. You blink slowly at him, unsure whether to be flattered or appalled.

Steve rolls his eyes, “Ignore him. Please, let me do this. It’s the least I can offer.”

You look between the two of them. Steve is looking up at you, a soft smile on his face. Bucky is looking at you as well, a less innocent smile on his face, but you can’t help but smile at them in return.

“Okay.” You sigh, smiling. Bucky nudges Steve softly, a victorious smile on his face. 

“Why’re you so happy?” You look at Bucky as you decide to put the first aid kit away.

“Well, now I get to see your face every day, sweetheart.” He smirks at you. 

You and Steve both groan.

Translations: Почему я тебя знаю? -  Why do I know you? Scuze - Sorry Mulţumesc mult - Thank you very much Buna ziua - Hello

If you made it to the end, thank you, I love you. I plan on making this series around three MAYBE four parts total. I do have the big idea of the story down, I just need to actually write it. That being said, I did not intend for this part to be this long. Do not expect future chapters to be this long lol. They probably won't... probably. Also, are you proud of me for not making another miscommunication trope fic? It really wasn’t my intention to make so many. I have a lot of ideas in my drafts right now and those just happened to be the ones I tackled first. Anyway, I’ll shut up lol, thank you for any likes, reblogs, comments, and follows. I genuinely can’t believe the support I’ve gotten with JUST three fics posted prior to this. Thank you so much for the support <3. 

[graceechapmann]

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