Most of it is writing, but I may tag some art on here
Bucky Barnes:
One Last Drop: a Bucky Barnes Fic
You left your stale, boring life to become an agent for Tony Stark, but the blip happens, and your life gets turned upside down. Running into bucky changes everything, and you discover some unique answers to your past.
Part One
Prev. Version Part One (abandoned)
Dear Bucky princess!reader x duke!bucky (discontinued for now, may restart sometime)
You receive terrible news one day on Bucky's return home from sea, and you have to cope with loss and running a kingdom, facing threats from all sides
Summary: You go radio silent for a day, and Bucky comes to check on you. He doesn't know exactly what you need, but he tries his best to help.
Warnings: Bucky's anxious internal monologue, reader shows symptoms of depression
a/n: Thanks to the anon who requested this-- well, something similar to this. I might've taken it in a different direction than intended, but this felt really nice for me to write. The ending was taken from something I've personally experienced ("Find you a man who..." etc etc. They exist.)
My Masterlist
Find me on ao3: dewystars
You weren’t answering your phone.
Bucky wasn’t worried at first— you had a life outside of him, after all. He had sent his good morning text late that day; he was up before dawn for work, and he didn’t want to wake you. When he finally sent it during a break in training, you didn’t reply— but that was fine. You were well into your workday by now, probably caught up on some conference call.
He didn’t want to seem overbearing, so he only sent a few other texts throughout the day. He nearly called you at lunch, but thought better of it— you were busy, you were fine, and you didn’t need him nervously checking in. But he still hadn’t heard from you by the end of the day, and the worry was starting to creep in. When he did call, the phone rang, and rang, and sent him to voicemail. Bucky tried to tell himself it was just your phone service being shitty, or maybe it was his— but something didn’t feel right, and he didn’t want to wait to find out.
His bike was loud coming down your alley, the sound caged in and amplified by the surrounding buildings. You always gave him hell for it— something about waking the neighbors, but he’d press his lips to yours and the subject would be forgotten. Besides, he liked that you could hear him coming; you always met him at the door.
Bucky parked next to your car and cut the engine. Your car was here, so you were here— there was just something wrong with the phones, that had to be it. You’d be waiting to let him in, standing just inside the door, like you always were. But his pulse quickened when your door didn’t open in front of him— something was wrong.
He knocked on the door softly, but he couldn’t hear any movement inside the apartment. A few seconds later he fished the spare key you gave him— for emergencies, you said— out of his pocket.
Bucky unlocked the door and cracked it open just an inch before his doubt started slipping through. Was this an emergency? Maybe you were busy and he was intruding. Maybe you had guests over. Maybe you just didn’t want to talk to him anymore— he gulped and pushed that thought away.
The apartment was dark, his voice breaking through the silence when he tentatively called your name. Maybe you weren’t here. Maybe you had gone somewhere without your car— a perfectly normal thing to do. So why was he sneaking into your apartment? He was being creepy, he was out of line. This was a bad idea, he should go— but then he noticed the faint flickering light of the TV coming from your bedroom.
Bucky clicked the door shut behind him and took quiet, careful steps down the hall to your room. Your door was half open, and the TV screen alternated between darkness and casting a harsh, artificial glare across your bed. And there you were, tucked almost completely under a blanket, only the very crown of your head visible on the pillows.
Bucky rapped his knuckles gently on the doorframe and said your name again. You stirred slightly but didn’t poke out of your cocoon, so he repeated himself— and you flung the blankets back and looked at him, wide-eyed and panicked. He immediately took a step away from your doorway, backing into the hall.
He scared you, of course he did, breaking into your fucking home like this— he tried to tell himself it wasn’t breaking in, he had a key, for god’s sake, but your expression told him otherwise. He raised his hands in front of him, palms up, instinctively trying to be as small and unthreatening as possible. Which, frankly, was impossible, given his stature—
“It’s just me,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry— I can go—”
You were here. You were alive. You were… avoiding him on purpose? Fuck, why did he think this was a good idea?
You exhaled softly, and alarm bells started in Bucky’s head when you spoke because your voice was almost slow-motion, wavery and weak— “No, no,” you drawled. “It’s okay.” You rubbed your tired eyes and pushed a piece of tousled hair away from your face. “Shit… what time is it?”
Bucky checked his watch. “Almost six. Are you okay?” He glanced around your room. Empty cups and water bottles were piled on your nightstand, and a half-empty bag of popcorn sat next to you on the bed. Dirty clothes littered your floor, just feet away from the hamper where they should’ve landed.
“M’fine,” you said as you flopped back down onto your pillows.
You were clearly not fine. “Can I come in?” he asked. You made a soft sound that he interpreted as a yes, and he walked to your bedside, stepping gingerly over a discarded hoodie.
You threw the crook of your elbow over your eyes, blocking him out completely when you spoke. “To what do I owe the pleasure—” the words seemed to wind you, and you took a deep breath before continuing, “of you showing up in my apartment?” Saying that many words in a row seemed difficult for you, and Bucky sat down carefully on the edge of the bed.
“You didn’t answer your phone,” he mumbled. He wished he could see your eyes; he looked at your messy hair, the indented pillow lines on your cheek instead.
“Ah, fuck,” you said in that same slow voice. You moved your arm off your eyes, but didn’t open them when you pointed at the hoodie on the floor. “S’in there. Thought I heard it going off.”
You heard your phone, but you didn’t get it? “Have you been sleeping all day?”
“Not sleeping,” you said, and Bucky waited for you to explain. You finally looked up at him, and his brow instantly wrinkled with concern. “Just… relaxing.”
You didn’t look very relaxed. Your eyebrows were drawn with permanent worry, and the bags under your red eyes were deep and pronounced. You looked tired. So, so tired.
“I… don’t feel good,” you continued. Bucky knew it. You were ill, you were sick, he needed to call a doctor— he hadn’t been sick in decades, not since the serum, but he remembered what to do. He touched the back of his vibranium hand to your forehead, but you winced at the cold. Right. That wasn’t smart. He wouldn’t be able to tell if you had a fever with that hand, anyway, what with the temperature difference— he moved to swap hands, but you ducked away.
“I’m not sick,” you said, once again avoiding his gaze as you picked at a loose thread on your blanket. “I promise. Just… needed a self-care day, or whatever.”
Bucky pursued his lips into a straight line. Lying awake in the dark, surrounded by a mess, and not answering your phone sure as hell didn’t look like self care. “You’ve been in bed all day,” he stated.
You shrugged, or at least attempted to. “Not all day. I showered. Ran out of hot water, though.” You glanced at his eyes and immediately looked away, but he still noticed— you had tears in your eyes.
Bucky was glad you couldn’t hear his heartbeat like he could hear yours, because he panicked a bit at that— you would’ve talked about it by now if you wanted to, but how was he just supposed to pretend like everything was fine? He wanted to fix it, wanted to make it better, wanted to hold you— ah.
He glanced at the flashing screen. “Can I watch TV with you?”
You moved your bag of popcorn and scooted over to make room for him, and he kicked his shoes off before stretching out alongside you. You took a deep, shaky breath when his arm pressed up against yours. That was good— so he adjusted slightly, touching more of you, and was rewarded with a long, calm exhale.
It helped. He was helping. He rolled to his side and wrapped his arm around you, squeezing lightly. “What’re we watching?”
“No idea,” you said in a small voice. But Bucky shouldn’t have bothered asking— he recognized it, some show about astronauts and space travel. You hadn’t changed away from the sci-fi channel he had put on the last time he was over. You didn’t care for it then, and you didn’t care for it now, but you loved the way Bucky lit up when he watched it. Bucky found the remote and clicked the volume up a bit so you— he— could hear.
You rolled to your side, your back up against Bucky’s front, and he buried his face in your hair. Your shoulders started to shake after a little while, but you still didn’t say anything, so Bucky did the only thing he knew how to do— he held you. He waited it out with you, rubbing your shoulder and pressing soft kisses to your back as the tears spilled. They weren’t because of him, he knew— if anything, having his arms around you made you feel safe enough to finally let them out.
When your sobs had mostly subsided into faint hiccups, he spoke. “Sweetheart?”
“Hmm?”
He glanced at the crumpled snack bag. “…Have you only eaten popcorn today?”
You nodded, and Bucky had an idea— food. That would help. Food always helped.
He rolled over, away from you, and dialed the number to that little hole-in-the-wall spot down the street. You watched him quietly as he ordered your usual, and his, and some extra appetizers for good measure. After he hung up he curled back around you, and you were both quiet until there was a knock on the door.
Bucky sighed. Your breathing had slowed down, you were relaxing— if only the delivery guy could bring the food straight into the bedroom. He climbed up reluctantly and accepted the order. It was nearly pitch black in the apartment, and he flicked on the kitchen light; it was nice out here, he thought. Clean. Bright. Cheery. He set the food on the kitchen table and went back to you.
He flopped on the bed, curling around you again with a kiss on your cheek. “Food’s here,” he murmured. “Come out and eat.”
“Can I eat in here?” Your voice was muffled; you had pulled the blanket back up to cover most of your face.
Bucky shook his head. “You might be capable of eating in bed, but I’m not,” he said against your ear. “Too much red sauce.” You were silent, so he continued. “You like these sheets, don’t you?” You nodded slowly. “Me too. So c’mon, come out to the table.”
You sighed, clearly fighting with yourself. You didn’t want to say no, but you couldn’t say yes, either.
“C’mon,” he repeated, and he glanced at the astronauts on TV. You still didn’t reply, but he had an idea— a dumb idea, but so dumb that it might just work, might make you laugh— he covered his mouth with his hand and made a sound to imitate radio static. “Chh.”
You rolled over and looked at him with scrunched eyebrows, clearly confused by his act. You sniffled. “What are you doing?”
But Bucky’s face was deadly serious. “Preparing for liftoff,” he said against his hand. “Agent Popcorn, do you read me?” One edge of your lip curled up just the tiniest bit, and you nodded tentatively. He spoke into his pretend radio again. “Roger. Cleared for liftoff. Begin countdown.” The other side of your mouth was rising, too— “Chh. Ten… chh. Nine… chh.”
You shoved at him, but you were smiling, and god he was glad to see that smile. He leaned into you and kept going, nosing at your neck, his voice tickling your skin until you were squirming and giggling. “Two… chh. One… aaand, liftoff!” He rolled off the bed, looking at you, because this was the moment— if this didn’t work he might not recover from it, might not be able to look at you after making such a fool of himself— but you huffed out the tiniest laugh. You rolled to the edge of the bed, too, and climbed unsteadily to your feet in front of him. You moved to wipe tears off your cheek, but Bucky’s lips got there first, and he kissed them away while you smiled.
You still looked tired. Your smile still didn’t quite reach your eyes. But you looked hopeful, and that was enough, for now.
“C’mon,” he said. “Let’s eat.”
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Summary : The team thinks Bucky has a crush on the tower’s interior designer. They don’t know that they’re already married.
Pairing : New Avenger!Bucky Barnes x Interior designer!reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Thunderbolts* spoilers!!!!!!! Secret wife trope. Tower fic! Secret-ish baby. Cursing, not-too-detailed descriptions of sex, pregnancy, (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)
Word count : 6.7k
Requested by : two anons! Based on this and this.
Note : I combined two requests, I hope that’s alright, anons! Enjoy!
Bucky only stayed at The Watchtower three days a week.
Officially, those days were for debriefings, strategy syncs, mission prep, and what Alexei affectionately called team bonding.
The rest of the week, he goes off-grid and minimal contact, calling it rest and recuperation.
He spent those days outside the city, tucked away in a modest, two-story house in the suburbs.
The walls were painted in earthy tones. The porch creaked when it rained. The neighbours didn’t ask questions. But most importantly, it was where you, the love of his life, resided full time.
It was home.
Bucky had closed on the house exactly nine months and fourteen days ago. A week later, he’d married you under a willow tree in the backyard with no fanfare, only Sam, Joaquin, and Isaiah Bradley as guests, and a ring you both picked out from a vintage shop in Brooklyn. Sam had joked that it must have been the best day of his overextended, complicated life.
He was right.
Still, not a single member of his newly assembled team had a clue.
They knew Bucky Barnes, the leader of the New Avengers, war-hardened and famously chronically single. They knew the efficient, don’t-ask-me-about-my-weekends version of him. They did not know that the same man kissed his wife’s temple every morning before she left for work, took out the trash without being asked, and spent his evenings slow dancing with you in the kitchen to whatever jazz record was spinning on the old turntable.
That part of him was private.
He didn’t keep you a secret out of shame — Bucky showed how much he loved you in the ways that mattered. But with many of his old enemies still out there, keeping you out of the spotlight was non-negotiable.
It was especially necessary now that the New Avengers were under public scrutiny, the media hounding them with every move, and Val running ops like a government-sponsored reality show.
But, of course, what he least expected happened.
When Val asked Mel to source a top-tier interior designer for the Watchtower’s massive renovation, Bucky didn’t say anything.
He didn’t pull any strings. He didn’t say a word.
But of course, Mel found your firm. It was one of the best in town, after all.
Of course, all he could do was stare blankly when Mel casually dropped your name in a team meeting two weeks later. You, who’d been growing your design firm from the ground up, known for clean lines and warm spaces and zero tolerance for pretentious decor.
And when you told Bucky that you’d accepted the Watchtower job, he’d smiled weakly and said, “We’ll figure it out.”
Which led to this moment.
—
Your first day on the job was a Monday morning.
You stepped into the lobby of the newly renamed Watchtower, hard hat hooked on your hip, leather-bound notebook under one arm, and your chewed up pencil behind your ear.
You, as planned, acted completely unfamiliar with the man you’d kissed goodbye at 7 a.m. over toast.
You approached the cluster of Avengers who’d been haphazardly gathered for your arrival — Ava, John, Yelena, Bob, Alexei, and Bucky. Your husband leaned against a column, arms folded, feigning indifference while silently praying his face didn’t give away his precious little secret.
But then your eyes met.
For one fleeting moment, your smile brightened. But you covered it up and offered him a hand like you hadn’t fallen asleep his bare chest fourteen hours ago, and said, “Nice to meet you. I’m your interior designer.”
Bucky took your hand.
The handshake lasted two seconds too long.
“James Barnes,” he said. “Pleasure.”
Ava raised an eyebrow.
You let go of his hand, nodded politely, and turned to the others to introduce yourself.
Your voice was steady, your posture perfect, but Bucky noticed the way you tapped your thumb against the spine of your notebook — the tiniest nervous habit. He kissed that hand every night.
When you walked off to start your tour, Ava elbowed Bucky in the ribs.
“She is too pretty. If you don’t ask her out, I will.”
“M’ not into her,” Bucky said. It was the worst lie he’d told in years.
“C’mon man,” John chuckled. “That looked like love at first right.”
Bucky just shrugged and turned away, pretending to be interested in a support beam.
—
Six Weeks Later
You were everywhere.
Literally everywhere inside the Watchtower.
You were in hallways, stairwells, and repurposed labs. You were under floorboards to check for old wiring. You were balancing precariously on scaffolding with paint samples in one hand and a clipboard in the other. You had a team, sure, but you were the kind of interior designer who believed that breathing the same dust as your contractors was the only way to truly understand your art.
Within a month, you turned a gutted superhero facility into your battlefield.
And you made it look good.
You had turned bare concrete into well thought out sketches, made a temporary lounge out of broken furniture and vintage rugs, and wrestled the tower’s unmaintained lighting grid into semi-functional compliance. You worked long hours. You cursed openly at bad insulation. You drank your coffee black and your water in gallons, and somewhere along the way, the tower became a passion project, your baby.
And the New Avengers grew fond of you.
They tried to be subtle about it, watching you from doorways or pausing in their sparring sessions whenever you passed through to say hi.
You’d wave a friendly hi back, before going back to being all-business.
At this point, you and Bucky had practiced your we-just-met act to an Oscar-worthy level. You faked polite smiles, formal greetings, and total lack of familiarity, even when you showered together the night before.
But sometimes, it slipped through the cracks.
You can help but steal glances at each other — each one lasting just a little too long. His hand would find your lower back when he leaned over your desk to study a blueprint, fingertips brushing that sensitive spot just beneath your shirt hem. Your voice dropped half an octave whenever you addressed him in front of others, slipping in sergeant under your breath like it wasn’t a private reference from your bedroom.
Sometimes, you’d pass him in the hallway and murmur things quiet enough only he could hear. A reminder of what you’d do to him the moment he got home. Or what he’d done to you the last time he snuck back to the house for the night. You’d say it just loud enough to leave him frozen in place for a second — then he’d look like he needed to punch a wall or take a very cold shower to stay professional.
You made it impossible to concentrate.
So Bucky, for all his practiced stoicism and control, was coming undone.
Which was probably why the team started to notice.
Or, more accurately, why John Walker lost his goddamn mind one Tuesday afternoon.
The makeshift common room — still mid-renovation — was still half-furnished, but they made it work. Yelena was scrolling through her phone while Bob napped on a deflated air mattress. Ava cleaned her knives at the dining table that had mismatched chairs. Alexei was rearranging the fridge after someone messed up his system.
Bucky stood near the large window, arms folded, pretending to be interested in the HVAC schematics you were showing to one of your contractors across the room.
You laughed at something the guy said, and Bucky’s eyes twitched in jealousy.
That was all it took.
John groaned loud enough to echo off the half-installed acoustic panels. Then, on his last straw, he flopped onto the couch dramatically.
“If you like her, Barnes, just ask her out already. Jesus,” John said, dragging a hand down his face. “You’ve been eye-fucking her across the hall for a month.”
Bucky just raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.
“She’s out of my league,” he said coolly. It was a textbook deflection. “Besides, she’s not even my type.”
Yelena immediately snorted. “Liar.”
Ava didn’t look up from her knives. “Liar.”
Even Bob, barely conscious, mumbled. “Liarrrr.”
Alexei only chuckled.
“What is wrong with you?!” John sat up, “You’re literally, like—what? A hundred and ten years old? You can’t still be doing the whole ‘girls don’t like me’ routine.”
Bucky gave a half-shrug, still not looking away from where you were, now climbing a ladder with a pencil behind your ear.
“She’s here to work,” he said. “I respect that.”
“Ah,” Alexei scoffed. “Is that why you follow her around like Roomba?”
Bucky had no answer to that.
—
One Afternoon
Today had been a long day
It was dusty. It was loud. Contractors bickered, blueprints got smudged, and Bucky had looked unreasonably good doing absolutely nothing — just standing around in that damn new uniform with the red star on his right arm.
You hadn’t had more than a couple hours alone where you weren’t sleeping or eating— not at home, and especially not in the Tower, when at least one other team member would be hovering like a nosy, overgrown child.
So when you saw Bucky slipping into the elevator alone, you called out for him.
“Mr. Barnes,” you half-shouted to get his attention, jogging across the hall. “Hold the door.”
He pressed the button with his metal hand, glancing up with a fond smile. “Didn’t know we were doing last names now,” he said, just above a whisper.
“Would you rather I call you Sergeant?” you replied quietly as you slipped inside, brushing past him just enough to make it intentional.
The doors slid shut.
And then, just as the elevator began its slow descent, you heard a mechanical in the belly of the Watchtower. The lights above flickered once—then again—before cutting out entirely.
A single red emergency light buzzed to life.
You stumbled slightly, grabbing onto Bucky’s arm instinctively.
“What was that?” you asked.
“Power’s off,” he confirmed, chuckling when you jumped, kissing your temple to let you know that it was going to be okay, that the elevator was ventilated well enough for you to survive a long time in there.
You slapped the emergency call button, and…. Nothing. Not even a buzz.
You blinked up at the ceiling like divine intervention might come through the grates.
“Bucky,” you pouted, clutching his arm a little tighter, “do something.”
“I am doing something,” he said as he crouched down and nudged at the panel, making no real effort. “It's just not working.”
“Well, pry the door open or—use your metal arm or something!”
He shot you a dry look over his shoulder. “Can’t. This thing was built to withstand the hulk.”
You watched him stand and lean back against the wall like he was settling in. Like… he didn’t mind this.
“You have got to be kidding me,” you sighed, “I’ve got to meet the people installing wallpaper in ten minutes.”
Bucky folded his arms across his broad chest, his eyes maddeningly calm. “Could be worse,” he offered with a shrug.
“Bucky,” you warned, eyes narrowing.
“What?” he replied, too innocently, too calmly.
“We’re technically both on the clock,” you reminded him.
He shrugged. “We’re also stuck. Sounds like PTO to me.”
You rolled your eyes, but can’t help the smile on the corners of your mouth. “You’re impossible.”
That crooked grin formed on his face. “You’re tellin’ me you haven’t missed me, doll?”
“Don’t,” you said, pointing a finger to his chest.
“Don’t what?”
“That voice. That look. You're gonna get us in trouble.”
He pushed off the wall and stepped closer. He was not touching you, but he was near enough that your heart began its traitorous dance, even after all this time. “We’ve barely touched each other. Last time was what— four days ago?”
“Four days is not that long,” you said.
He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “It used to be four hours.”
You swallowed hard, but he was not done yet.
“Used to be I couldn’t walk past you in our house without stopping to touch you.”
You looked away, heat creeping up your neck.
“Used to be I’d wake up with your thighs already wrapped around my face,” his voice dropped an octave lower, “And now I’m lucky if I get a quick kiss before you run off to yell at plumbers.”
“I did give you a kiss this morning,” you looked up at him.
“Not the kind I meant,” he said, eyes glued to your mouth, then back to your eyes.
You choked on a laugh, shoving at his chest weakly. “That’s very inappropriate, Mr. Barnes.”
“I’m your husband.” He bit your earlobe gently. “And I’m tired of pretending we don’t wake up in the same bed.”
“We’ve got… responsibilities.” Your fingers were already in his hair. “People are counting on us.”
“Let them wait,” he muttered, kissing you slow and deep now, mouth moving with that sinful confidence that made your knees buckle. “You’ve been killing me all week, walking around this place like you don’t belong to me.”
“I am yours,” you whispered against his lips, heat coiling in your belly. “But the cameras—”
“Power’s off.” He reminded, hand sliding up your thigh, curling behind your knee and hiking your leg around his hip. “You need this. I know you do.”
“You’re cocky.”
“I’m right,” he said, kissing you again. This time you kissed him back harder.
Your body gave in before your words did. It always did with him.
And as his fingers slipped past the lace of your underwear and his mouth returned to your neck, you forgot entirely about the elevator, the job, the rules.
You weren’t the Watchtower’s interior designer anymore.
You were just his wife.
And he was very, very good at reminding you why.
Neither of you noticed the faint red light in the ceiling blink back to life. Didn’t notice the tiny lens in the far corner of the elevator was still functional.
You had no idea Yelena had rigged a backup battery into the surveillance system.
And you definitely didn’t know the power outage wasn’t an accident.
It was a setup.
—
Later that afternoon
The new Avengers gathered in the security room like kids about to witness an R-rated movie.
And in a way… they were.
Yelena had the footage queued up. She sat with arms folded, boots propped up on the console, a smug grin across her face.
This was her idea, after all— playing matchmaker as a favour to Bucky.
“It’s visual-only,” she said, almost too casually. “No audio. You know—normal CCTV stuff. But we don’t need sound to read body language.”
She hit play.
The plan was simple: trap Bucky Barnes and that absurdly hot interior designer in the Watchtower elevator to see if he finally made a move.
“Ten bucks says he doesn’t even talk to her,” Ava declared, leaning against the wall.
“I say he kisses her,” Bob offered gently, still half-asleep in sweatpants, rubbing his eyes. “Just a little one. He’s always so tense, it would be nice to see him… be sweet.”
John had brought popcorn like it was a movie premiere. “I want to believe he asked her out,” he said.
“Today is the day,” Alexei nodded in agreement, “ I can feel it.”
The screen flickered to life.
Bucky stepped into the elevator first, holding the door for you.
The doors closed.
Nothing out of the ordinary at first. It looked like normal conversation.
Then the elevator stopped.
You pressed the emergency call button. Nothing.
Bucky tried the panel, giving up too quickly.
Yelena’s grin widened. “Showtime.”
And then, Bucky stepped closer, whispering something into your ears.
“Classic,” John said, leaning in. “Here we go. Here comes the kiss on the cheek.”
The kiss landed on your lips instead.
It was not a peck. To everyone’s surprise, it was hungry.
The room went deathly silent.
Ava’s arms slowly uncrossed. “Okay….”
Bob’s mouth parted. “Oh…”
Then— then came the second kiss.
It was longer.
Your hands in his hair. His metal arm was up… your skirt?
Your back hit the elevator wall.
John sat forward slowly. “Wait… wait.”
Then, you climbed him.
It got very explicit very quickly.
John’s popcorn slid from his lap, forgotten.
Alexei was blinking like he’d witnessed a cult ritual.
Ava whispered, “Jesus Christ.”
Bob clutched the arms of his chair. “That’s— that’s not him asking her out on a date.”
“Is the—” Alexei squinted, his voice dry, “—is the camera shaking?”
“No,” Ava said hoarsely. “That’s the elevator shaking.”
“Fuck,” John gasped. “We should— we should stop.”
Yelena stared at the screen, frozen. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
Alexei held up a trembling finger. “He has not taken her to dinner. There was no courtship. There was no honour.”
Ava turned away from the monitor. “Turn it off. Turn it off!”
Yelena did.
The room plunged into an eerie silence.
Bob was still cross-legged on the floor. “I… I think there was a round two. Like… halfway through. I think I counted it. Different positions. Less vertical.”
They were all pale now.
Yelena stood up like she’d survived a car crash. “We are never speaking of this.”
“Delete the footage,” Ava added. “Burn it. Hack the cloud. Scrub the backups.”
“Gone,” Yelena said grimly. “It’s already gone.”
Alexei placed his mug down. “He has not even taken her out on date yet,” he repeated, horrified.
John slumped back into his chair, stunned “I’ll never look at elevators the same way.”
No one—not one of them—suspected marriage. No one suspected long-time commitment.
Not even a little.
They thought they’d witnessed a slip. A one-time break in Barnes’ solitude, a rare show of his desire.
They had no idea he fucked you like that at home every other day.
They just thought Bucky Barnes had the most soul-shattering game any man had ever possessed.
And not a single one of them ever got in that elevator without wincing ever again.
—
Six Weeks Later
It started out like any other off-day in the suburbs.
The early morning was quiet, with pale light spilling across the hardwood floors, the distant hum of a lawn mower down the street, and the smell of Bucky’s burnt-but-endearing attempt at breakfast wafting in from the kitchen.
It was supposed to be peaceful.
But you were in the bathroom, staring at the positive pregnancy test with your hands trembling and your heart threatening to beat out of your chest.
Pregnant.
Three times, all different brands.
It wasn’t planned, not really. You have been talking about it, and even said you’d give it a go by the end of the year.
Hell, you were on even the pill. But the last couple months had been a blur— long hours at the tower and stress-induced forgetfulness.
Somewhere in the chaos of overtime and rushing out the door with a protein bar instead of breakfast, you must’ve slipped up. Maybe once. Maybe twice. Maybe that was enough.
You barely heard your own footsteps as you tiptoed down the hallway in a fog, still holding one of the tests like it might disappear if you blinked. Bucky was at the kitchen counter, humming under his breath, shirtless in his gray sweatpants, a bowl of strawberries in front of him with his dog tags reflecting in the morning sun.
He turned when he heard you come in, and his smile immediately faltered.
He could tell by the look on your face that something was… off.
“Sweetheart?” His brow furrowed as he stepped toward you, eyes looking over as if scanning for wounds. “Are you okay?”
You tried to say something, but nothing came out. You just looked at him with wide eyes, parted lips, and the test clenched tightly in your hand.
His hands gently closed around your arms.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he said, his voice a little rough. “Breathe, doll. Tell me what’s going on. Did something happen?”
You shook your head, lip trembling. “No. Nothing like that. I just… I…”
He ducked his head, trying to catch your eyes. “Look at me,” he said, less demanding but more gentle. “It’s okay. Whatever it is, we can fix it. Just tell me.”
Your breath hitched. You looked down, uncurled your fingers, and held out the test.
Bucky looked at it.
Then up at you.
“…What is this?” he asked, almost cautiously. Like he needed confirmation.
You opened your mouth, but your voice cracked before it even came out. “I think I’m pregnant.”
He blinked twice. “You’re—”
You nodded, tears welling in your eyes. “I—I know. I was on the pill. I swear I was. But with everything going on at the tower and those back-to-back all-nighters and fuck, James, I must’ve messed up, I must’ve missed one or two—”
“Wait. Wait—wait,” he said suddenly. He stepped back just enough to look at you fully, like he needed the whole picture to understand. “You’re serious?”
You nodded again. “I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t joke about this.”
He was completely still, like the words were sinking into him bit by bit.
And then, to your surprise, he let out a shaky breath, laughed a little, and ran a hand through his hair.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “You’re pregnant.”
You looked at him nervously, heart pounding. “I—I mean, it’s early. Like really early. Just a few weeks, I think. We don’t have to freak out. We can talk about it. Think about it. We can—”
But he cut you off, stepping forward again and cupping your face in both hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears on your cheeks. His eyes were glistening.
“Hey,” he said gently. “I’m not freaking out. I’m not freaking out. I’m just—holy shit, baby. I— you’re growing a little version of us in there. We’re doing this... if you… if you want this, too.”
You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding, your arms wrapping around him instinctively.
“We’re doing this,” you whispered back, like saying it out loud made it more real. “I… I do want this.”
He kissed the top of your head, your temple, your cheek. “We were headed here anyway. Maybe I didn’t know it’d happen now, but…” He leaned back to look at you, eyes full of wonder. “I love you so much.”
You sniffled, laughing through it. “I was so scared.”
“You don’t have to be,” he said, “Never with me.”
There was a long moment where the two of you just held each other, breathing in the warmth of the moment. When…
“So, uh. What do we tell the team?”
You chuckled. “About what? The baby or the fact that we’re married?”
He winced. “Shit.”
“Yeah.”
Bucky wanted to share his joy, he really did.
But he still had enemies. The kind who would use anything, anyone, to get to him.
And he would rather die than see your name — and his baby’s— end up on one of their lists.
“You still want to keep it quiet?” you asked quietly.
He didn’t answer right away. He looked at your stomach, his teeth clenching.
“I don’t want anyone knowing if it puts you in danger,” he said finally. “I don’t care what they think of me. I just want you safe. Our family safe.”
You nodded. “Okay. So... in two or three months— the tower renovations’ll be done by then. I can just wear baggy clothes.”
He gave you a wary look. “You already wear baggy clothes.”
You shrugged. “I’ll wear bigger ones.”
Surely, this was a foolproof plan, right?
—
It was successful for all of two weeks. You played your part, showed up to the tower, exchanged the usual small talk with the team, and pretended everything was normal, all while avoiding harmful construction materials and focusing on furnishing.
Then one morning, you looked pale coming out of the toilet, wiping acid from the corner of your mouth with tissue. Bob looked over, eyebrows raised in concern. You waved him off with a smile.
“Fuck morning sickness,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him.
And that was it. You didn’t even think twice. You were too focused on the nausea, the spinning room, the unpleasant taste in your mouth. You didn’t realise you’d said it.
Bob didn’t clock it right away either. You’d already left the room by the time the words caught up with him. He was halfway through his coffee, reading a book, when—
He froze. His eyes widened.
“Wait…”
Morning sickness?
—
Bob didn’t say anything right away.
He sat there for a moment, staring at the spot where you’d stood.
Morning sickness, his brain repeated again, louder now.
He stood up so fast his chair rolled back and hit the wall.
Fifteen minutes later, there was a closed-door meeting in Conference Room 7.
Ava, Yelena, Alexei, and John filed in, curious and worried—it wasn’t often that Bob called a we-need-to-talk-right-now meeting that didn’t involve a breach or a fire drill.
Bob stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, unreadable.
“She’s pregnant,” he said flatly.
Everyone blinked.
“…Who?” Ava asked, tilting her head.
Bob stared at her. “Bucky’s little elevator secret.”
Yelena raised an eyebrow. “How… How do you know?”
“She….” Bob started. “She said something about morning sickness.”
There was a beat of silence.
“Oh,” said Alexei, thoughtfully.
“...Oh,” Ava echoed.
Yelena’s eyes widened. “OH?”
John straightened up in his chair. “Hold on. Do you think—” He looked around the room, dropping his voice to a whisper, “—do you think Bucky could be the dad?”
They all looked at each other. The memory hit them at once like a suppressed group hallucination.
No one’s talked about it since.
Not out of respect, but out of sheer trauma suppression and the fact that, frankly, they weren’t paid enough to bring it up.
“I mean,” Ava said slowly, “Did anyone see him with a condom?”
“Not that I can remember,” Yelena shuddered, brow furrowed. “But I wasn’t exactly memorising it.”
“Elevator baby,” Alexei whispered, stunned.
Bob just nodded grimly.
Then John, who’d been thinking too hard, looked up. “Do you think Bucky knows?”
The room went completely silent.
Ava blinked. “Shit.”
Yelena exhaled through her nose. “He’s either going to marry her in a panic or pass out.”
John rubbed his temples. “Do we… do we tell him?”
Bob looked down nervously. “Better question—who’s going to tell him?”
Everyone looked at each other.
No one volunteered.
So they did it together.
—
They confronted Bucky two hours later. In the gym, of all places.
He was mid-rep when they approached—shirt damp with sweat, and music blaring in his ears. His brows furrowed in concentration as he finished his set and racked the barbell with a clang.
That’s when he noticed them.
Five fully-grown adults in a semicircle, watching him. Staring, like it was going to be a goddamn intervention.
He tilted his head. “...who did you kill and where did you bury the body?”
Bob cleared his throat, stepping forward like a nervous HR rep. “Umm, that’s not why we’re here.”
Bucky pulled out one earbud. “Then what’s going on?”
“We need to talk.”
That phrase never meant anything good, and they all knew it. Ava shifted her weight from foot to foot like she had somewhere more pleasant to be (a landmine field, perhaps). John had his arms crossed and was chewing the inside of his cheek. Alexei was trying to look fatherly and failing spectacularly. And Yelena—oh, Yelena—was vibrating with the kind of energy that suggested she either had bad news or gossip so juicy it came with a side of fries.
Bucky glanced at them, suspicious. “Okay… what is this? Am I getting voted off the team?”
Yelena stepped forward, and just… spat it out. “She’s pregnant.”
That landed like a punch to the solar plexus. His brain buffered.
Oh shit. Oh shit.
They knew. They’d figured it out.
How?
He licked his lips, then attempted to play dumb. “….Who?”
Ava folded her arms. “We have a feeling,” she started, unimpressed, “you might be able to figure it out. Considering you had some… fun… in the elevator a couple months ago.”
Bucky’s eyes twitched.” I—what? You’re saying—how do you even know about that?”
Yelena raised a hand, almost sheepishly. “We, uh… we might’ve set up the elevator failure.”
John immediately smacked the back of her shoulder. “You. Not we. That was your idea.”
“I said might’ve!” she hissed.
“What we’re saying,” Alexei interjected, rubbing a hand down his face like a weary dad at a PTA meeting, “is that there is chance you are going to be dad.”
Bucky tried to laugh. It came out like a goose being strangled. “I’m not ready to move on from the elevator camera. That’s a massive violation of privacy. I—what kind of sick—”
“You did it in public,” Ava interrupted coldly.
“And you’re not denying it,” Bob added.
“I’m just saying,” Bucky snapped, pointing wildly, “you kept it? You still have the tape? Can I see it?”
Everyone groaned in unison.
John pinched the bridge of his nose. “You might have gotten a hook up pregnant, and the first thing you care about is your sex tape? Seriously?”
Bucky didn’t respond, which said a lot.
Bob said plainly, “But we’re pretty sure you didn’t use protection.”
“She was on the pill!” Bucky snapped.
“You still don’t do hookups bare, Bucky!” Ava exclaimed, voice rising.
“She hadn’t had sex with anyone else in years!”
“Anyone… else?” John asked, skeptical.
Bucky opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
And shut up.
Bucky groaned, dragging his hands down his face like he was trying to scrape the stress off his skin.
Then, finally, with a voice so quiet it barely made it through the hum of fluorescent lights, he finally said, “She’s…my wife.”
A beat passed with silence.
Then Ava shrieked, “I’m sorry—WHAT?!”
“When?!” John thundered.
“About a year ago,” Bucky admitted. “We kept it a secret. It wasn’t safe for her. I didn’t want anyone coming after her because of me.”
Alexei frowned, tone softer now. “And now…”
“Now she’s having my baby,” Bucky said. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “And I don’t know how to protect her from this. From all of this.”
“Fuck,” John let out a low whistle. “Is it… is it the elevator baby?”
“We did the math,” Bucky turned beet red, “there is a… pretty good chance that’s the case.”
“Elevator baby,” Yelena echoed, eyes wide.
She sounded almost proud.
Bucky looked at each of them— serious now. “You can’t tell anyone,” he warned, “She’s… she’s everything to me. If this gets out—if she’s hurt, if someone uses her to get to me—I wouldn’t— couldn’t— live with myself.”
And just like that, gone was the teasing.
They stood there, in a loose circle around him, the lights humming overhead, the scent of sweat in the air. A line crossed, and secrets spilled open. This was a line where their friendship was tested—and affirmed.
John, finally, clapped Bucky on the shoulder. “Congrats, man. You’re gonna be a dad.”
“Elevator dad,” Yelena added.
“Don’t,” Bucky warned, but he was smiling, just a little.
—
The shift was subtle at first.
Alexei started carrying things for you.
You’d walk into a room with a stack of sample boards or fabric swatches for a renovation pitch, and before you could even blink, he’d be at your side, snatching half of them away and saying, “You should not be lifting this.”
You tilted your head the first time. “I… I’m okay, Alexei.”
He just stared back, deadpan. “Does not mean you should.” And then walked away before you could argue.
Then there was Ava, who started checking the air quality constantly.
“Gotta keep the air pure,” she’d say, making sure your workstation was well-ventilated from paint fumes.
You started to get suspicious after the third can of air purifier she smuggled into the conference room.
And then came John, who strolled past your desk one morning with a coffee in one hand and a brochure in the other. He stopped like he just happened to remember something.
“Oh hey,” he said, waving the paper around. “That new baby store down the street? Massive sale. Car seats, little shoes, those bib things shaped like bandanas? You know, the cool ones. Just… figured I’d pass it along. Y’know. In case… anyone.”
You squinted. “Anyone?”
He coughed. “Just in case anyone… likes sales.”
Right.
It wasn’t until Yelena hugged you, that the alarm bells started getting harder to ignore.
She pulled away, uncharacteristically gentle, and said, “You’re good at taking care of things.”
“…Okay,” you said cautiously, “Are you dying?”
She just blinked. “No. I just think you are doing great.” She paused. “And you should not wear heels. They’re bad for your ankles.”
That was it.
You came home that night, dumped your bag by the door, and found Bucky on the couch eating mac and cheese he probably stole from the tower.
He looked up, beaming. “Hey, doll. You okay?”
You squinted at him. “Do you know something I don’t?”
He tilted his head. “About what?”
You flopped next to him, sighing. “Yelena hugged me today.”
His eyes widened. “…Oh.”
“And told me I’m good at taking care of things.”
He was dead silent.
“John is talking about baby boutiques to me. Ava keeps purifying the air. And I’m pretty sure Bob gave me vitamin water.”
Bucky looked down.
You gave him a pointed look. “So, I’m just gonna ask: Did you tell them?”
He winced. His whole face did the oh-no-don’t-be-mad-at-me scrunch.
“Umm…” he said.
“Oh my god.”
“I—I didn’t tell them, technically,” he started, clearly floundering. “They figured it out! Bob overheard something, and then there was a meeting, and I got cornered at the gym and they were all standing in a circle like some kind of intervention and they were like ‘we know,’ and I panicked and I didn’t want to lie and—”
“Bucky.”
He stopped, biting his lip.
“I’m not mad,” you said, cutting him off before the ramble could spiral into an apology monologue. “I’m… relieved.”
His brow furrowed. “You are?”
You nodded. “Do you know how exhausting it is trying to hide a whole human and pretend I’m not in love with you?”
“I just wanted you to be safe.” He looked down, a little guilty. “I thought if they didn’t know, there’d be less risk.”
“I know,” you murmured, reaching over to take his hand. “But honey… they’re not strangers. They’re your people. Our people, now.”
He smiled, fingers threading through yours. “Yelena did threaten to murder anyone who so much as looked at you wrong.”
“See?” You leaned in, kissing his cheek. “That’s the kind of prenatal care I’m talking about.”
He chuckled, pulling you close, one hand resting gently against your stomach. “We’ll still keep it quiet outside the tower. For safety.”
“Of course,” you said. “But at least I don’t have to hide there.”
Then Bucky said, “Also… Bob wants to throw you a secret baby shower. In the hangar. With… themed cupcakes.”
—
Eight Months Later
Jamie was six weeks old the first time you brought him to the Watchtower.
He was bundled up in a little blue onesie with a cartoon white wolf on the chest, swaddled like a burrito in a cotton blanket, and blissfully asleep in your arms.
The 87th floor had been converted for the three of you— a secure residential wing with baby gates and blackout curtains and a surprisingly tasteful wallpaper Bucky picked himself. You were here to check it out, and also introduce your baby to the team.
Most days, you would stay at the house in the suburbs, where birds chirped and neighbors waved and no one could hear Bucky singing lullabies off-key at 2 a.m. But it was nice to know you had a home in the Watchtower.
You barely stepped in the common room when the team got up.
“Is that him?” Ava whispered like she was approaching royalty.
“Don’t crowd the baby,” Bucky said, holding out an arm protectively.
John peered over Ava’s shoulder. “He looks like a tiny Bucky. But like, angrier. Is that even possible?”
Jamie yawned.
Yelena, unusually soft-voiced, leaned in “Look at him. So small. So squishy. Like a baby potato with many opinions.”
“He does look judgmental,” Bob offered.
“He is judgmental,” you smiled.
—
There were a couple more visits after that before your first official night at the tower.
They’d been asking for weeks to hold him now.
Every visit, every mission debrief, every team meeting that you attended with Jamie snoozing in a carrier strapped to your chest, someone would inevitably ask:
“Can I hold him?”
The answer had always been not yet.
Not until he had more of an immune system than a fruit fly.
Especially not until Bob stopped referring to his hands as “clean-ish.”
But today, Jamie was twelve weeks old.
Today was the day.
You warned them ahead of time, sending them a group text. Bucky enforced it like a drill sergeant, passing non-alcohol hand sanitiser around like communion.
The baby was clean. The adults were clean. The air smelled faintly of lemon.
Yelena was first, practically vibrating as she took Jamie into her arms like a sacred artifact.
“Bozhe moi,” she whispered, eyes wide.
“He’s real,” Bob said, as Jamie curled his arm around his finger, “we can touch him.”
Then John took a turn, cradling Jamie like he was made of glass. Bucky, perhaps knowing he had some experience and was trying to make amends with his own son, trusted him most. “He’s so… light.“
Eventually, one by one, everyone got their turn.
And then… Alexei.
He stepped forward quietly, hands extended, palms open and ready. There was a certain fondness in his eyes.
You gently handed Jamie over, and Alexei took him with a grace that didn’t match his usual bull-in-a-china-shop aesthetic. He rocked him slightly and began saying something soft in Russian. It sounded like a lullaby.
Jamie adorably blinked up at him.
And then, with the seriousness of a priest delivering a sermon, Alexei slowly walked across the room… and stopped in front of the elevator.
“Little Jamie,” he said in a soothing voice, still swaying, “this, my sweet little cherub, is where you were conceived.”
“Dad!” Yelena whisper-shouted, her hands in the air. “Stop!”
“I’m just telling him the truth!” Alexei protested.
“He’s a baby!” Ava barked.
“He needs context!”
“HE NEEDS A NAP!” John insisted.
Alexei looked down at Jamie, who stared back, completely unbothered.
“I think he gets it,” Alexei said, beaming.
Jamie sneezed.
Bucky buried his face in your shoulder. “I can’t believe we let him hold the baby.”
You, already laughing, said, “At least he didn’t point out the exact panel of the wall.”
Alexei turned around, lifting Jamie like Simba. “And over here, by button 13, that’s where your father’s ass was—”
“OH MY GOD,” Yelena wailed, launching a pillow at him.
Bob hastily caught it. “We shouldn’t throw things when the baby is airborne.”
John held out his arms. “Give him back before you scare him with a detailed retelling.”
Alexei sighed, but passed Jamie over. “You are going to be great warrior like your father, Jamie.”
You settled onto the couch beside Bucky, your body relaxing as you leaned into him. He pressed a kiss to your temple, then let his lips linger in your hair. He never failed to remind you that you were safe. That Jamie was safe.
Your eyes drifted across the room— your strange, chaotic, beautiful little makeshift family in a room that was a labour of your love. Bob was wiping down a clean countertop for the third time. Ava and Yelena were mid-argument about the correct way to swaddle a baby, neither remotely qualified but equally committed.
Jamie, unfazed by the commotion, cooed contentedly in John’s arms, his tiny fingers reaching for the man’s bead as Alexei kept talking to him in russian.
Your heart felt like it might burst.
He had your nose, Bucky’s eyes, and all the love in the world.
In the background, Alexei’s voice rose again, brimming with mischief. “Next time, I’ll show him the armoury.”
“NO!” came the instant chorus from everyone in the room.
You couldn’t help it, so you laughed.
Jamie was loved. Fiercely, ridiculously loved.
And there wasn’t a person in this room who wouldn’t burn the world down for him.
Summary: When a trigger sends Bucky back into the grip of the Winter Soldier, he shadows you with an unyielding protectiveness that leaves the team on edge, though he doesn't harm anyone. After days of tension and careful steps, Bucky finally breaks through the icy barrier, returning to himself in a quiet, tender moment, finding solace in your presence.
You should’ve known something was wrong the moment Bucky went still.
One second, the mission was wrapping up—just another Hydra facility wiped off the map, just another set of goons taken down. The next, something triggered him. A phrase muttered in Russian over a radio, the faintest crackle of a long-dead handler’s voice. You saw the shift in his posture before he even turned around, the telltale tightening of his jaw, the blankness overtaking those usually warm blue eyes.
Bucky Barnes was gone.
The Winter Soldier stood in his place.
And yet—he didn’t hurt you.
Not when he turned to face the team, his body language bristling with danger. Not when Steve hesitated before stepping forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. And certainly not when you cautiously called his name, your voice softer than the others.
Instead, the Soldier moved between you and everyone else.
A shield.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Back at the Tower, you thought the episode would pass. That maybe, after a few hours, after enough familiar sights and sounds, Bucky would shake it off like he always did.
But the Soldier wasn’t leaving. And he had decided you were his mission.
Not to eliminate.
To protect.
At first, it was just hovering. You moved—he followed. You sat—he stood at your back, ever watchful. The others gave him space, exchanging worried glances when they thought you weren’t looking. Steve was tense, obviously trying to figure out how to break through, while Tony was less patient about it.
“This is a problem,” Stark declared after the first few hours, arms crossed as he leaned against the counter. “I mean, I hate to be the one to say it, but we have a fully armed, brainwashed assassin in the Tower again, and we all know how that went last time.”
“He’s not attacking anyone,” Natasha pointed out.
“Yet,” Tony shot back.
You ignored the argument as best you could, focusing instead on cooking something for Bucky—something normal, something familiar, something that might ground him. His eyes tracked you the entire time.
Then you miscalculated the heat on the stove.
The oil in the pan hissed and spat, and a second later, you hissed too as a sharp sting bloomed across your palm. You barely had time to react before there was a sudden blur of motion.
Bucky was on you instantly.
His flesh hand gripped your wrist, his metal one hovering protectively over the stove, as if it had personally attacked you. His face was unreadable, but his grip was firm, his hold gentle as he examined the burn.
“I’m okay,” you assured him, but he wasn’t listening.
Instead, he took the cold pack you hadn’t even reached for yet and pressed it carefully to your palm, his jaw tight, his brows furrowed in focus. You exchanged a look with Steve over Bucky’s shoulder, and the Captain exhaled, something like relief flashing in his eyes.
He was still in there.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The Soldier continued shadowing you for the next two days, much to Tony’s frustration. But as Natasha had pointed out—he wasn’t hurting anyone.
Unless they posed a threat to you.
That was something Steve learned firsthand during a sparring session. You had barely landed a hit before Bucky, watching from the sidelines, had moved. The next thing you knew, Steve was on his ass, blinking up at the ceiling, while Bucky stood between you like a human wall, eyes cold and calculating.
“For the record,” Steve grunted as he sat up, rubbing his ribs, “I was letting her win.”
Bucky wasn’t convinced.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
It wasn’t until you needed a medical checkup that things really came to a head.
“Barnes, I have to actually examine her,” Dr. Cho said patiently, eyeing where Bucky stood between you and the med bay’s equipment.
“No,” he replied flatly.
“Bucky—” you tried.
“The room is secure.”
“That’s not the—”
“She does not require assistance.”
“I do require assistance,” you corrected. “Because I burned my hand and twisted my shoulder thanks to a certain super soldier overreacting in the gym.”
Bucky didn’t move.
You exhaled slowly.
“Okay,” you said, shifting tactics. “Then stay.”
That got his attention.
“If you want to make sure nothing happens to me,” you reasoned, “then you can stay here. But you have to let the doctor check me out.”
His expression was unreadable for a long moment. Then, after what felt like an eternity—
“…Understood.”
Progress.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
When it finally broke, it wasn’t dramatic.
There was no grand trigger, no huge revelation.
Just a moment of quiet.
You had fallen asleep on the couch, exhaustion finally winning after two days of Bucky’s overprotective hovering. When you woke up, it was to warm hands gently brushing over your wrist—both flesh and metal, but softer this time, as if relearning the feeling of touching you.
And then you heard it—his breath hitching.
A tiny, barely-there sound, but one filled with something raw.
You blinked sleepily, looking up.
Bucky was staring at you. Not the Soldier. Bucky.
His face was pale, his jaw tight, his eyes wide—his real eyes.
“…Doll?” His voice cracked over the word, like it had been caught in his throat.
You smiled sleepily, shifting so your fingers curled around his. “Hey, Buck.”
His exhale was shaky. His shoulders sagged. And when you tugged him down to you, he didn’t resist.
He just buried his face in your neck and held on.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
“You scared the hell out of me, you know,” you murmured later, your fingers absentmindedly running through his hair as he rested against you.
I am so pleased at how many notes are some version of “I don’t fear the science, I fear the corporations who control it” because that is EXACTLY the attitude you should have. GMOs can save us. Monsanto will kill us.
what people fear about GMO- ‘theyre gonna make frankencarrots that crave human flesh and cause diarrhea ’
what GMO actually is- ‘we made rice crop that is both drought resistant and flood resistant which will prevent about 20% of major famine disasters, also it now makes vitamin A because vitamin A deficiency in poverty stricken areas is a major killer of kids as most vitamin A rich foods dont grow there’
what people SHOULD be upset about- ‘i made all crops sterile so all farmers have to buy the seed from me in perpetuity and i will sue anyone who tries to go back to crops that produce their own seed’
pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x pregnant!fem!reader
warning: morning sickness, loads of fluff, and team shenanigans
summary: you wanted to surprise bucky with the news—you’re pregnant. the only problem? everyone else on the team found out first. cue the chaos.
word count: 3.5k
author's note: i love writing fics with teeth rotting fluff, genuinely love them so much! i hope you enjoy them, i love ya and stay safe out there!
requests are open!
i love, love, love soft!bucky
The day started like any other.
Morning training. Groggy coffee run. Bucky kissing the top of your head before heading off to spar with Alexei and you trying not to gag at the smell of the protein powder he insisted on putting in his smoothie. Just the usual.
Until it hit you.
The wave of nausea crashed into your gut so suddenly that you barely made it to the compound bathroom in time. Knees on the cold tile, you gripped the toilet bowl and dry-heaved like you were trying to launch a demon from your oesophagus.
It was violent. Loud.
And, unfortunately for you, not private.
Footsteps approached behind you, followed by a dry, unimpressed voice. “If this is your version of The Exorcist, you forgot the head spin. Come on, at least commit to the bit.”
You groaned. “Yelena, for the love of—”
She stepped inside without hesitation, casually grabbing a hair tie from her wrist and gathering your hair like this was a weekly occurrence. “Let me guess. Either Alexei made you try his ‘secret stamina shake’ again, or…” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re pregnant.”
Your blood ran cold.
“Wait,” she said, pausing mid-sentence. Her expression changed, slowly morphing into that wide-eyed look she got when she spotted a new target. “Wait. Wait.”
“Don’t—”
“YOU’RE PREGNANT.”
“Shhh!” You jumped up and flushed the toilet like it would somehow erase the moment. “Keep it down!”
Yelena’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “You are! Oh my god. I knew it. That explains the pickles and peanut butter at two in the morning. Also, the weird crying over that dog food commercial last week.”
“I was hormonal! That golden retriever had abandonment issues!”
“I’m not judging,” she said, clearly enjoying this too much. “I’m just honoured to be the first to know. Or like, second, I guess?”
You bit your lip. “…He doesn’t know yet, does he?”
She froze. “Wait. You haven’t told Bucky yet?”
You winced. “Not yet. I wanted to surprise him. Big surprise. Sweet. Emotional. Crying, maybe him, not me. I’ve cried enough.”
Yelena blinked twice. Then her hand flew to her chest in dramatic horror. “Oh my God. I am in charge of a secret. I’m responsible for withholding information from Barnes. Do you know what this means?”
“That I trust you?”
“That I’m going to be the best fucking godmother in the world.”
You finally breathed again, until she added, “Though… I am tempted to tell the others."
“Yelena.”
“Relax,” she said with a shrug. “Your secret’s safe. For now. But if you die, I get to raise the kid like a tiny assassin. Deal?”
“…Yelena.”
“Deal?”
“…Fine.”
She grinned, already scheming.
You had taken every precaution.
No more sparring. No caffeine. Your prenatal vitamins were hidden behind a bag of trail mix no one ever touched. You kept your hoodie on at all times, avoided combat drills, smiled through nausea, and faked normalcy like your life depended on it.
But Ava wasn’t the type to be fooled by quiet exits and thicker sweatshirts.
She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t need to. She just watched. The way a blade waits in the dark, calculating without moving. You could feel it—her eyes on you during training, her steps falling in line behind yours a little more often than before.
One morning, you reached for your weighted vest only to find it mysteriously lighter. Five pounds missing. No explanation. She said nothing.
Then one night in the rec room, you were curled up on the couch half-watching some movie you’d already forgotten the plot of, when a packet of ginger chews landed softly in your lap. You looked up, startled.
Ava didn’t turn. She was sitting in the armchair across the room, casually typing something on her tablet like she hadn’t just sniped you with snacks.
“You gagged in the elevator this morning,” she said, still not looking at you. “Second time this week.”
You blinked, fingers tightening around the ginger chews. “I—maybe I’m just coming down with something.”
She didn’t answer. Just gave the softest hum. Like she was humoring you. You waited for her to press, to demand answers, to ask what Bucky somehow hadn’t noticed yet.
But she didn’t.
“You’re not gonna say anything?” you asked after a beat, quieter now.
“I don’t care,” she said, voice flat, eyes on her screen. “Unless you get yourself killed. Then it becomes my problem.”
You exhaled through your nose, smiling despite yourself. “So this is you being… concerned?”
“This is me avoiding paperwork.”
You bit your lip to stop yourself from laughing. Ava didn’t do affection, not in the traditional sense. She did proximity. Action. Silence that somehow felt like reassurance. She didn’t say much, but she never missed anything.
“Don’t carry anything heavy,” she added after a moment, her tone just as even, like she was reading off a grocery list.
Over the next week, you noticed the little things.
A decaf coffee cup on your desk, slid across the surface wordlessly while she passed by. Her cutting her own training short to spot you during stretches, silent and watchful, and you were never more grateful.
Once, you opened your locker and found a small bottle of prenatal vitamins tucked neatly beside your usual supplements. The label had been peeled off. There was no note. But you knew exactly where they came from.
Bucky, meanwhile, remained adorably clueless.
He still kissed your cheek every morning, still asked if you wanted spicy noodles, the ramen kind for dinner, still rubbed your back when you sighed too hard without even realising why you were sighing.
“You’ve seemed kinda tired lately,” he said one night, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You okay?”
And just like that, Bucky let it go.
The next morning, there was a new water bottle waiting on your desk. One of those fancy ones with the hours marked on the side like hydration was a full-time job. You didn’t need to guess who left it there.
Ava just knew.
And that was enough.
It was bound to happen.
You were doing your best. Truly. Between Yelena’s feral excitement and Ava’s silent protection, you were managing.
Bucky was still clueless (somehow), not that you were complaining, and the rest of the team had stayed suspiciously uninvolved.
But then came Alexei.
Loud, dramatic, built like a brick wall and absolutely no understanding of what the word subtle meant.
You didn’t mean for him to find out. In fact, you weren’t even in the room when it happened.
It started in the kitchen.
You’d left your tea steeping on the counter—ginger with a splash of lemon, the only thing that didn’t make you want to retch—and stepped out to grab your hoodie from the lounge.
Two minutes.
Maybe less.
And that’s when disaster struck.
Alexei strolled in, whistling some vaguely patriotic tune, spotted the mug, and immediately sniffed it like a bloodhound. You weren’t even there to defend yourself.
“Hm,” he muttered to himself. “This tea… I know this tea. My babushka (russian for grandmother) used to make this for woman in village. When they were… what’s word? With child.”
From across the kitchen island, Yelena looked up from her cereal with mild panic in her eyes.
“Do not do this,” she warned, spoon halfway to her mouth.
Alexei didn’t listen.
Instead, he sniffed the tea again, leaned back with both hands on his hips like some kind of Soviet sommelier, and declared, “It is pregnancy tea! Very good for nausea. Calms stomach. Boosts circulation. Ancient remedy.”
Yelena slowly set her spoon down. “Alexei—”
“WAIT.” His eyes widened. “IS SHE WITH CHILD?!”
You walked in just in time to see him throw both hands into the air and look around like he expected confetti to fall from the ceiling. “IS THERE A BABY? ARE WE HAVING BABY?!”
Yelena let her head thunk against the table. “You absolute moron.”
Alexei turned to her with wild-eyed enthusiasm. “YOU KNOW?!”
“Of course I knew, you donkey. Bucky doesn't, yet."
He gasped like someone had stabbed him—but dramatically, like an actor in a very bad stage play. “You betray me! I am her family. I am her protector. I am baby future grandfather!”
“I’m gonna throw up,” Yelena muttered.
And then he saw you.
Alexei’s expression softened, somehow, impossibly, turning from full-volume chaos to absolute, genuine awe. He crossed the room in two heavy strides, grabbed your hands in his like you were made of glass, and stared at you like you were the eighth wonder of the world.
“You,” he said, lowering his voice like it physically hurt him to be gentle, “are miracle.”
“Okay—”
“No, listen. You are tiny, like small baby rabbit, but you carry powerful legacy. You carry strength. Heart. Warrior blood."
Alexei cupped your face—not quite gently, but at least without crushing your skull—and nodded to himself like he was solving a world crisis. “I will protect this child with everything I have. I will teach them discipline. Honour. How to disarm man in six seconds. Also fishing.”
“Alexei—”
“Shhh.” He tapped your forehead. “Little Starfish, you are busy now. You grow hero. I will build cradle. I have plans already. And foam. And tools. Maybe missile too.”
You stared at him.
“…Please don’t put missiles near the baby.”
“Decorative.”
Yelena snorted.
Alexei turned back to her. “We need banner. And possibly anthem. Something that plays when child enters room.”
You sighed into your palm. “No one is making an anthem for the baby.”
He placed a hand over his chest. “We see.”
You didn’t mean to drag John into it.
Not directly, anyway.
But desperate times called for desperate measures.
You were curled up on the compound couch one afternoon, hoodie pulled over your knees, watching a rerun of Shark Tank and trying your absolute best not to commit murder out of pure hormonal rage when the craving hit, hard, out of nowhere.
You held out for a few minutes—tried breathing, counting backwards, chewing on the inside of your cheek. But by minute five, your resolve crumbled. You pulled out your phone and fired off a text.
you up?
can you get me mango gummies.
and pickles and vanilla yogurt. not greek.
please.
There was a pause. Then:
Walker: you want me to bring you pickles and yogurt?
You: together. in the same container. i'm gonna dip them.
Another pause. Longer.
Walker: that's weird, but I’m on my way.
True to his word, John showed up twenty minutes later, slightly out of breath like he had sprinted through a Costco. He had two grocery bags in hand and a look on his face that said he had seen war—but nothing quite like this.
“Okay,” he said, dropping the bags like they might detonate, “I got four kinds of yogurt because I didn’t know what you meant, three kinds of pickles because apparently there are options, and the mango gummies."
You blinked, mildly overwhelmed. “You're a hero."
He didn’t move. Just stood there, watching as you cracked open the yogurt, dunked a pickle, and took a bite like it was the most normal thing in the world. You let out a blissed-out sigh.
John stared, horrified. “You’re really eating that?"
“Yup.”
“Like... voluntarily?”
“It’s good.”
He sat down beside you slowly, arms crossed like a disappointed gym teacher. “I don’t think that’s how taste buds work.”
You shrugged, popping another pickle. “Maybe not for you.”
There was a long silence. Then John tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling like it held answers. “Okay,” he muttered. “You cried during that dog adoption video last week.”
“So did you,” you pointed out.
“Yeah, but you sobbed. Like, full on ugly cry. For twenty minutes. Over a golden retriever named Meatball.”
“He was alone in the shelter for six years.”
“And then there’s the naps. The weird tea. The fact that Ava’s been hovering. And now you’re eating that.” He gestured vaguely at your snack combo, then narrowed his eyes.
“Wait. You sparred with me the other day and said my voice gave you a headache.”
You didn’t even look up. “Sometimes it does.”
His eyes went wide. “Oh my God. You’re pregnant.”
You froze, mid-bite.
He gasped and stood up so fast the couch groaned. “You’re pregnant, and I gave you a concussion last month!”
“I was already pregnant,” you said flatly. “You just didn’t know it.”
“Oh my God.” He started pacing, one hand on his head. “I told you to lift heavier weights. I told you to jump off that ledge. You had two plates of nachos for breakfast last week and I mocked you.”
“John—”
“I called you a sleepy turtle.”
“John,"
He turned, wild-eyed. “Am I complicit?”
You blinked. “In the pregnancy?”
He looked genuinely uncertain.
You let out a long breath. “No, John. You are not.”
There was a pause. A beat of silence. Then he nodded once and walked to the kitchen like a man on a mission. A minute later, he returned with a glass of orange juice and handed it to you like it was a peace offering from a defeated warrior.
After that, he slumped onto the couch beside you with a dramatic sigh, arms flopping out over the cushions.
“I’m gonna be such a bad uncle,” he muttered.
You nudged him gently with your shoulder. “You’ll be fine.”
“I brought four kinds of yogurt.”
You smiled. “You’ll be great.”
Bob found out by accident.
You were in the mess hall, quietly sipping ginger tea and trying not to vomit over the smell of John’s overly seasoned reheated chili, when Bob slid into the seat across from you with a smile and a soft, “Hey.”
“Hey,” you managed.
He blinked at the tea. Then at the saltines. Then at the way you were ever-so-subtly glaring at the chili across the room like it had personally wronged you.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” you said too fast. “Fine. Just a headache.”
Bob’s brows pinched together. He looked concerned. Thoughtful. And then, as if connecting puzzle pieces like the others had in real time, tilted his head. “Wait. Is this… like a headache-headache or a pregnant and trying not to barf from chili fumes headache?”
You froze.
His eyes widened. “Oh my god. Oh my god. Are you—?”
You sighed, smiling sheepishly. “You weren’t supposed to find out yet.”
He immediately looked horrified. “I wasn’t supposed to find out—oh my god—was this a secret? I didn’t mean to—I just—I saw the tea and the crackers and you’re glowing a little and—"
“Bob,” you laughed, “it’s okay.”
He relaxed slightly, cheeks flushed. “Does Bucky know?”
“Not yet.”
Bob pressed his lips together. Then nodded. “I won’t say a word.”
You smiled. “Thanks, Bob.”
He hesitated. Then softly, genuinely, “Congratulations (y/n), you’re gonna be an amazing mum."
And with that, he stood, walked off quietly, and—ten minutes later—came back and wordlessly slid you a chocolate milkshake with a note taped to the cup that read:
“For when the smell finally clears. – Bob”
You stared after him as he walked off, hands in his jacket pockets, head slightly bowed like he hadn’t just completely melted your heart.
Bucky wasn’t supposed to be back yet.
You had counted on at least two more hours, just enough time to hide the half-built, borderline indestructible crib Alexei had wheeled in, distract John before he could bust out his laminated “Uncle Training Schedule,” and maybe, if the stars aligned, finally scrub the yogurt stain off your hoodie.
But the mission ended early. Debrief went faster than expected. And now your husband stood in the doorway of your shared bedroom, still in half his tactical gear, brow furrowed as he took in the scene before him.
There was a crib on the floor, if you could even call it that. John was crouched beside it, cross-legged, a wrench between his knees. Alexei was hammering something loudly and completely unnecessarily.
You were mid-movement, frozen between hiding a pink baby blanket under the bed and whisper-screaming at Alexei to shut up.
Bucky blinked, stepping forward just slightly. “Why is there… furniture in our room?”
“It’s not furniture. It’s a cradle.” Ava replied, almost flatly.
There was a beat. Bucky’s frown deepened. “Why is there a cradle in our room?”
Alexei perked up immediately, beaming, holding up what might’ve once been a baby mobile, now covered in polished throwing stars. “Because you, my friend are going to be papa!”
Silence.
The kind of silence that settled in your bones. Bucky’s eyes scanned the room slowly, the cradle, the weapons-grade mobile, the glittery “CONGRATULATIONS?” banner that Yelena had duct-taped across the headboard. And then, finally, his gaze landed on you.
He looked confused. Careful. Like he couldn’t quite trust what he was seeing.
His voice came soft, hesitant. “You’re… what?”
Your heart was hammering. You took a breath and straightened slowly, hands behind your back, nerves thrumming through your fingertips. “I was going to tell you,” you said gently. “I had a plan. There were cupcakes. A playlist.”
Bucky blinked, still reeling.
John, who had been trying very hard to fade into the wallpaper, raised a hand slightly and said, “Yelena ruined the cupcakes.”
You turned your head slowly. “John.”
“She punched one!” he said quickly.
“It had a baby face on it." Bob quipped.
Yelena’s voice floated in from the hallway. “It was smiling at me wrong!”
Bucky blinked, trying, and failing, to process any of it. His eyes drifted back to you, still full of questions, still locked somewhere between shock and awe.
And then you reached for his hands.
Everything softened.
You stepped toward him slowly, reaching for his hands. He let you take them without hesitation, but still stared down at them like they didn’t quite belong to him yet.
“I didn’t want to drop this on you before a mission,” you said softly. “I wanted to wait until it felt like our moment. Something small and quiet. Just us.”
Another beat of silence. And then something shifted.
His shoulders dropped. His hands tightened around yours.
Then he looked up, and everything changed.
You watched it all happen in real time. The realisation, the wonder and the warmth. His features softened, lips parting as his eyes filled with something impossibly tender. Awe bloomed like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
“You’re really having my baby,” he whispered, like the words alone could undo him.
Your throat tightened. “I’m really having your baby.”
He moved before you could say another word. One hand came up to cradle your cheek, the other curling around the small of your back as he kissed you—softly at first, then deeper, slower. Like he wanted to memorise the moment through touch, like he was anchoring himself in you.
When he pulled back, his eyes were glassy. His forehead pressed against yours, breath trembling.
“I didn’t know I could love you more than I already did,” he murmured. “But you proved me wrong.”
You smiled through the tears. “That’s my job.”
His hands slipped to your waist, pulling you against him fully. One palm eased down to rest over your stomach, warm and steady, and stayed there.
You could feel it in the way his thumb moved—small, gentle strokes over the fabric. Like he was already in love with the tiny life growing there.
A shaky laugh escaped him, part joy, part disbelief. “We’re gonna be parents.”
“Yeah,” you whispered. “We are.”
He kissed your forehead. Then your nose. Then your cheek. He couldn’t stop touching you, holding you, grounding himself in every tiny, real part of this.
You let yourself lean into it, into him, feeling more whole than you ever had in your life.
"God, I love you". Bucky said softly.
“Even after I’ve eaten yogurt-dipped pickles?” you teased gently, chin tilted up.
He pulled back just enough to raise an eyebrow. “That was you?”
“Still recovering from that." John mumbled.
Alexei cleared his throat dramatically. “I play anthem now?”
Yelena appeared in the doorway, cupcake in one hand, "Come on guys, let them have their moment.”
Bucky glanced around the room, eyes still soft but amused. “Wait. You all knew?”
Every head nodded.
He let out a slow, incredulous laugh and looked down at you again, full of something so warm it made your knees wobble.
“Well, damn,” he whispered. “Guess I’m the last to know.”
You smiled, eyes shimmering. “Yeah, but you’re the first to feel our baby kick.”
And right then, perfect, almost surreal, you felt it.
A flutter beneath his hand.
A tiny, impossible shift.
His breath caught. His gaze snapped to yours. “Was that—?”
You nodded, tears spilling. “Yeah.”
“Oh my god,” he whispered, dropping to his knees in front of you, hand still over your stomach, lips brushing gently against the space just below your navel. “Hi, sweetheart. It’s me. I’m your dad.”
You laughed through your tears, fingers threading through his hair as your team stood quietly in the background, letting the room finally fall into peace.
And in that moment, with his hand on your belly, your heart in his hands, and the promise of forever in the air, Bucky looked up at you like you were his whole future.
summary: You're a simple Brooklyn florist when Bucky Barnes enters your shop and changes your life forever.
word count: 34.1k+
pairing: mafia!bucky barnes x fem!reader
notes: DON'T ASK HOW IT'S 34K WORDS I DON'T KNOW HOW THAT HAPPENEDDDDD
this is technically the prologue to he was chaos, he was revelry, but you do not have to read that to understand this! i merely liked that short fic i wrote and wanted to write more of them
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, mafia au, sweetheart!reader, shy!reader, bucky is the mafia boss and rich, fluff, slow burn - once again i am who i am you can pry slow burn out of my cold dead hands, reader may be shy be she is not someone who bucky can just control or claim as his, mentions of blood but no violence, bucky is soft only for you, possessive!bucky, yearning!bucky, so much fluff
The bell above the shop door chimed, the sound bright and ordinary against the quiet hum of the rain outside. You glanced up from the counter, half-expecting to see one of your regulars—Mrs. Kowalski with her weekly lilies, or the young man who always bought roses on Thursdays.
But instead, a stranger stepped inside. He didn’t look like he belonged here. The small, cozy flower shop was all pastel blooms and the faint scent of lavender soap, but the man at the door was sharp black and steel. Broad shoulders filled out a tailored suit, dark hair slicked back from a face that looked carved from stone. One gloved hand tugged the door shut behind him, the other slipped casually into his coat pocket.
His eyes swept the shop once, quick and assessing, before they landed on you. You froze under the weight of his stare. He wasn’t handsome in the way movie stars were handsome. He was… something heavier. Older. His presence pressed at the air like thunder waiting to break.
“Hi,” you managed, your voice smaller than you wanted it to be. “Welcome.”
For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Just watched you from across the shop with those sharp blue eyes, as if you were the only thing in the room worth noticing. Then, slowly, he stepped forward. The sound of his boots against the wood floor was too loud, even over the rain.
You forced yourself to smile, tucking your hands against your apron. “Looking for anything in particular?”
His gaze flicked to the flowers around him—the rows of tulips, daisies, carnations—but came back to you almost instantly. “No.” His voice was low, rough-edged. “Just looking.”
Something about the way he said it made your stomach flip. You nodded quickly, reaching for the small bouquet you’d put together that morning—bright daisies and sprigs of baby’s breath, wrapped in soft brown paper. You always kept a few by the counter, little gestures for the shy customers. “Here,” you offered, holding it out. “On the house. For the rain.”
He stared at the bouquet like it was a puzzle he couldn’t solve. Then at you. The silence stretched until your hand began to tremble, and you almost pulled it back—when he finally reached out. A black leather glove brushed your fingers as he took the flowers from you, and you had to bite down on a startled gasp. “Thank you,” he said, the words careful, deliberate. He pulled a roll of bills from his coat pocket and slid one across the counter. A hundred-dollar bill for a five-dollar bouquet.
“Oh, no—you don’t have to—”
His gaze cut into yours again, silencing you. Not cruel, not harsh. Just… final. “Take it.”
Your throat tightened, and you nodded, tucking the bill away quickly. “Alright. Thank you.”
He didn’t move for a moment. Just stood there, flowers in hand, watching you like he was committing every detail to memory—the tilt of your head, the nervous twitch of your fingers, the way you couldn’t hold his gaze for long. Finally, he gave a small nod, turned, and left. The bell chimed again, the rain swallowing him whole. You stood frozen for a long time, the shop suddenly too quiet, the hundred-dollar bill burning in your apron pocket. You thought it was a one-time thing. Just a stranger passing through on a rainy afternoon.
---
The bell chimed again the next morning, bright against the quiet rustle of petals you were arranging on the counter. You looked up—and nearly dropped the stems in your hands.
It was him.
The man from yesterday. The one who’d filled the shop with his thunderstorm presence, left with daisies and a hundred-dollar bill. He stepped inside like he owned the space, though he said nothing at first. His suit was different today—charcoal instead of black—but the gloves were the same. His eyes swept the shop in that same quick, assessing way before settling on you. You found yourself smiling automatically, though your voice wobbled. “Hello again.”
He nodded once, moving closer. “Morning.”
You fiddled with the ribbon in your hands. “Back for more flowers?”
His mouth twitched, just barely, like the question amused him. “Something like that.”
The air felt charged. You cleared your throat and reached for a bouquet of tulips. “These are fresh today. Spring colors. They’re lovely.”
He didn’t even glance at them. His eyes stayed on you, steady and unreadable. “I’ll take them,” he said.
You wrapped them quickly, fingers fumbling with the paper under the weight of his stare. He laid another bill on the counter—another hundred—for a bouquet worth maybe fifteen.
Your cheeks burned. “Sir, this is too much—”
“Keep it.” His voice left no room for argument.
You tucked the bill away, heartbeat quickening, and slid the bouquet toward him. “Alright. Thank you.”
For a long moment, he didn’t move. Just stood there, flowers in hand, gaze lingering on you. It was different from yesterday—less curious, more deliberate. As if he’d come here with a purpose, and the tulips were only an excuse. Finally, he asked, “what’s your favorite?”
You blinked. “Favorite?”
“Flower.”
“Oh. Um…” You glanced around the shop, suddenly flustered. “Gardenias, I think. They’re… simple, but beautiful.”
He nodded once, filed it away. You could see it in the set of his jaw. Then he turned and left, the bell chiming in his wake. You stared after him, unsettled but oddly warm. The next morning, there was a box of white gardenias sitting on the shop counter when you arrived, no note. But you already knew who had left them.
---
The gardenias weren’t the end. They were the beginning. The next time he came in, he didn’t go straight for the counter. He lingered. Walked slow between the rows of flowers, hands clasped behind his back like he was inspecting something delicate.
You pretended to be busy, fussing with the stems in a vase, but your eyes kept drifting back to him. He didn’t look like anyone else who came through here—too sharp, too dangerous, too… magnetic. He stopped at the counter at last, resting one gloved hand on the polished wood. “You like gardenias.”
You startled a little. “I do.”
“They suit you.”
Your cheeks warmed. “They’re… simple.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, as though he didn’t agree with the word. But he didn’t argue. Instead, he leaned in just a little, his presence heavy and steady. “What else do you like?”
You blinked. “What else?”
“Food. Music. Where you go when you’re not here.”
Your stomach flipped. The questions weren’t casual, not the way he asked them. His voice was too low, too intent, as though he planned on remembering every answer. You swallowed. “Um… I like reading. I usually just go home after work. I’m… not very exciting.”
Something flickered in his eyes then—something sharp, almost dangerous. “Good.”
You frowned softly. “Good?”
“Means you’re not wasting your time on people who don’t deserve it.” He pushed a bouquet of pale roses toward you. “These. Wrap them.” You obeyed, fingers fumbling with the paper, conscious of his eyes on you the entire time. He paid, again far too much, and lingered a second longer before he finally said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
And he did. The days bled into weeks. He became part of your routine, though you never said it out loud. You’d unlock the shop in the morning, set out the displays, and brace yourself for the moment that bell chimed and he walked in.
Sometimes he bought flowers. Sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes he just stood there, leaning against the counter, asking you quiet questions about your day. And slowly, the questions became instructions.
“Don’t walk home alone tonight.”
“Eat more than just a muffin for lunch.”
“Don’t talk to the men who loiter outside.”
You told yourself he was just being kind. Just looking out for you. But when you spotted his black car parked across the street one night, headlights off, and realized he was watching—waiting until you got safely into your apartment—your chest tightened with something you didn’t want to name. The scariest part wasn’t that he was watching. It was how safe you felt knowing he was there.
---
The office smelled like you. Not you exactly—he wasn’t that lucky—but the flowers you touched every day, the ones you told him you loved. Gardenias, roses, tulips, bundles of wild lavender tied up in neat twine. They crowded the corners of his office, spilling over in vases and pitchers, climbing along windowsills that used to be bare.
It was ridiculous. He knew it. The head of the Barnes Syndicate didn’t decorate with flowers. His men were already whispering, smirking behind their hands when they came in for orders and found the place looking more like a garden than a war room.
But he didn’t care. Every stem reminded him of your hands. The way you handled them so gently, trimming, arranging, never rushing. He’d caught himself staring more than once, smiling faintly as if the flowers were your private secret. He wanted to burn the image into his skull.
“Boss?” Bucky glanced up from the papers on his desk. Natasha stood in the doorway, sunglasses hooked on her shirt, one brow raised. Her eyes flicked over the room—the gardenias on the shelf, the tulips by the window, the roses near his chair. “You planning on opening your own shop?” she asked dryly.
“Shut up.” He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple with his metal hand.
Natasha smirked, stepping inside and dropping a file on his desk. “You’re getting soft. All this for a girl who sells daisies.”
His jaw tightened. “Careful, Romanoff.”
“I’m not saying it’s bad,” she countered, folding her arms. “I’m saying you’re obvious. Half the crew knows you’ve got a flower girl now.”
He stilled. The words hit something sharp in his chest. “She’s not—” He stopped. His voice dropped low, darker. “She’s mine.”
Natasha tilted her head. “Does she know that?”
His eyes narrowed, blue hard as ice. “She will.” The room went quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside.
Bucky reached over, plucked one of the gardenias from the vase, and turned it slowly in his fingers. He remembered the way your face lit up when you told him they were your favorite. That soft smile. The little stammer in your voice when he leaned too close.
The world was chaos, betrayal, blood. He’d spent his whole life building walls of steel and shadow. But you—your shop, your quiet, your kindness—were untouched by it. And he wasn’t about to let anyone, anything, change that.
“Make sure the shop’s covered,” he said finally, voice flat with command. “No one bothers her. Not a single soul.”
Natasha studied him for a long moment before nodding. “Understood.”
When she left, Bucky leaned back in his chair, the flower still turning in his hand. He should’ve felt stupid, surrounded by petals and stems. But all he felt was calmer, steadier, knowing some piece of you was in his world now. He wanted more. He’d take more.
---
The bell chimed, right on time. You were bent over the counter trimming stems when his shadow crossed the shop. You didn’t even need to look up anymore—you knew the weight of his presence, the way the air seemed to shift when he walked in. “Morning,” you said softly, glancing up with a small smile.
His eyes warmed just enough for only you to notice. “Morning, doll.” The nickname slipped out as if it had been waiting on his tongue. You blinked at him, surprised, but didn’t correct him. That alone sent something hot curling in his chest.
He moved toward the display of carnations but didn’t so much as glance at them. He was looking at you—always you. The flowers were a thin excuse by now, and you both knew it. “What’d you eat for breakfast?” he asked suddenly, voice low, casual only on the surface.
You hesitated, trimming another stem. “Just… coffee.”
He frowned, a line cutting between his brows. “That’s not breakfast.”
“It’s fine—”
“No.” His voice had that edge again, quiet steel that brooked no argument. He leaned on the counter, closer than before. “You need more than that.”
You bit your lip, looking down at the stems. “I wasn’t really hungry.”
His jaw flexed. He straightened, pulling out his phone. “What do you like? Pastries? Eggs?”
“Bucky, you don’t have to—”
“I asked what you like.” His tone softened, but it was no less insistent.
You murmured something about croissants before you could stop yourself, and he was already typing. Ten minutes later, a man you’d never seen before slipped inside, dropped off a white bag with a bakery logo, and left without a word. Bucky nudged it toward you. “Eat.”
You blinked. “You… you just had someone bring this—?”
“Of course I did.” His eyes softened again, watching you like you might vanish if he looked away. “You think I’m gonna let you starve?”
Your cheeks burned. You opened the bag and pulled out a still-warm croissant. His gaze followed every movement as you took a shy bite. “Good girl,” he murmured, almost to himself, but you heard it, and the rest of the day, you couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Later, in his office, Natasha raised an unimpressed brow when another delivery came in—this time boxes of delicate pastries stacked beside the flowers. “You feeding her now too?” she asked, smirking.
Bucky didn’t look up from his paperwork. “She doesn’t eat right.”
“You checked?”
“I asked.” His pen stilled. He glanced at the gardenias on the windowsill, the new croissant bag on his desk. His voice dropped, quiet, certain. “She’s mine to take care of.”
Natasha leaned against the doorframe, lips twitching. “You sure it’s not the other way around?”
But Bucky didn’t answer. He was already reaching for his phone again, thumb hovering over your number he hadn’t even asked for—but had anyway.
---
The bell had barely gone silent when you heard it: the click of heavy footsteps against the wet sidewalk. You turned the shop’s sign to closed and reached for your keys, glancing out through the window. He was leaning against a lamppost across the street, hands in his coat pockets, suit jacket darkened slightly at the shoulders from the drizzle. Your breath caught. Bucky didn’t wave. He didn’t call out. He just waited. The way a mountain waits—immovable, unbothered by the storm.
You stepped outside hesitantly, locking the door behind you. “Are you… waiting for someone?”
“For you,” he said simply, pushing off the lamppost.
Your fingers tightened around your keys. “Bucky, you don’t have to—”
“Doll,” he interrupted, falling into step beside you before you could finish. “It’s dark. You think I’m gonna let you walk home alone?”
You opened your mouth to argue, but the weight of his presence swallowed the words. He wasn’t touching you, but somehow he filled the space around you completely. The streets were quiet, rain slicking the pavement. You tried to ignore the way his stride matched yours, the way his eyes scanned every shadowed alley and passing car like they were threats only he could see. “Do you do this often?” you asked softly.
“Do what?”
“Walk women home.”
His jaw tightened. “No. Just you.”
Your heart skipped a beat. At your building, you fumbled with the keys, aware of his eyes on the back of your neck. When you finally got the door open, you turned to him. “Thank you. But really… you don’t need to go out of your way.”
He leaned one hand against the doorframe, caging you in without touching. His gaze held yours, steady and unyielding. “This is my way,” he said quietly. “You’re not out here without me again. Understand?” The words weren’t loud. They weren’t even harsh. But there was no mistaking them for anything but a command. You swallowed hard, nodding before you could think better of it. His eyes softened then, the steel melting to something warmer. He dipped his head, brushing his lips against your temple, a ghost of a kiss. “Good girl.”
And just like that, he stepped back into the rain, leaving you breathless in the doorway, your heart pounding too hard to ignore.
It became a ritual. You didn’t even question it anymore—when the bell above your shop chimed closed for the night, he would be there. Always. A dark figure leaning against the lamppost, waiting to fall into step beside you. He didn’t ask if you wanted the company, and you didn’t ask why he bothered. The silence between you was enough.
That night, the rain had stopped, leaving the streets slick and glowing under the yellow streetlights. You walked side by side, the only sound the steady rhythm of your footsteps and the occasional hiss of tires on wet pavement.
You tried not to look at him too often, but it was impossible not to notice the way his hand would occasionally flex at his side—as if itching to touch you but holding back.
As you passed a small boutique on the corner, something in the window caught your eye. You slowed without meaning to, gaze snagged by the display: a delicate glass lamp, its shade painted with tiny pressed flowers. Soft light glowed inside, warm and golden, spilling petals and stems across the glass like a garden frozen in time.
It was beautiful. For half a second, you let yourself imagine it on your nightstand. The way the light would spill across your room, soft and comforting. The way you could fall asleep beside it, safe. But the thought made your chest ache. You dropped your gaze quickly and kept walking, quickening your pace until you matched him again. He said nothing, just glanced once at the boutique window before his eyes slid back to you.
At your building, he stopped as always, waited until you were safely inside. You whispered a soft “goodnight,” and he lingered a moment longer before vanishing back into the shadows.
You thought nothing more of it. The next morning, when you opened your shop, the lamp was waiting on the counter. The exact same one. You froze in the doorway, keys clutched in your hand. There was no note, no explanation. Just the lamp, plugged in and glowing faintly in the early light, casting warm petals across the shop walls.
Your breath caught, throat tight. The bell chimed, and he walked in. Calm. Steady. Like he hadn’t done anything at all. Your eyes snapped to him. “Bucky… did you—”
He set a paper bag on the counter. You caught the smell before you even peeked inside—croissants, still warm. He leaned one hand on the wood, watching your face. “You liked it,” he said simply. Not a question. A fact.
Your cheeks warmed. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.” His eyes softened, but there was steel in them too—an unwavering certainty that made your heart stutter. “You want something, doll, you get it. That’s how this works.”
You swallowed hard, glancing at the lamp again. Its soft light seemed to fill the whole shop with a kind of warmth you didn’t know how to accept. “I can’t just—”
“Yes, you can.” His voice lowered, a command wrapped in velvet. He reached across the counter, brushing his fingers against yours just long enough to make your pulse trip. “Don’t hide from me. If you want something, I’ll know.”
He left you standing there, the lamp glowing at your side, the croissants still warm in the bag, your heart pounding too loud for the quiet shop. And you realized something terrifying and undeniable, he was watching. Always watching.
---
The lamp glowed soft and golden on the counter, petals painted across its glass shade, when you finally found the courage to speak. He was there again, leaning his weight into the wood as if the whole shop belonged to him. His gloves were off this time, thick hands resting easily against the surface, blue eyes pinned to you in that steady, unblinking way that always left you a little breathless.
But today, the warmth in your chest twisted into something sharper. “You can’t keep doing this.”
His head tilted just slightly. “Doing what, doll?”
“This.” You gestured to the lamp, to the bag of pastries he’d brought without asking. “Showing up every day. Buying things I didn’t ask for. Acting like…” Your voice wavered, but you forced it out. “Like you own me.” Silence dropped between you, heavy and sudden.
No one ever told him no. No one ever raised their voice to him, not his men, not the people who feared his name. He could see your fingers trembling where they gripped the counter, but you still held his stare. The corner of his mouth twitched—something between amusement and disbelief. “Own you?”
“Yes.” Your throat felt tight, but you pushed on. “You don’t ask me out. You don’t… talk to me like a normal person would. You just decide things. You decide to walk me home. You decide I don’t eat enough. You decide I want a lamp. And I—” You swallowed hard. “I didn’t agree to any of it.”
For the first time since he’d stepped into your life, he looked caught off guard. Just for a flicker of a second, his eyes widened, like the ground beneath him had shifted. Then the surprise hardened into something else. His voice dropped, low and even. “You think I don’t know how to ask? You think I don’t know how to take a girl to dinner, buy her flowers, wait for her to say yes?”
You opened your mouth, but he cut you off, leaning closer, his gaze like ice and fire all at once. “I don’t do that with you because I don’t want to give you the option to say no. I don’t want you to walk away. I couldn’t stand it if you did.”
Your breath hitched. He exhaled slowly, raking a hand back through his hair. For a moment, he looked almost… raw. “You don’t get it. You’re already mine. Always were, the second you looked at me with those soft eyes and handed me daisies like I wasn’t a monster.” His gloved hand brushed the lamp, a subtle reminder. “You think I do all this because I don’t know how to court you? I do it because I can’t stand the thought of you needing something and not having it. Because I want to see you safe. Fed. Smiling.” His voice broke on that last word, just barely.
Your heart pounded so hard you swore he could hear it. You should’ve been terrified. And maybe you were. But under the steel in his voice was something else—something aching and desperate. Still, you held your ground, even if your voice shook. “Then ask me. Like a person. Not like… this.”
The room went still again. He studied you for a long, tense beat, and you could see the war in his eyes—control versus obsession, command versus care. Finally, his lips curved into something softer, almost rueful. He leaned in close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek. “Fine, doll. I’ll ask.” His voice was rough, but there was a flicker of something new in it. “Dinner. Tonight. With me.”
The way he said it still didn’t sound like a question, but for the first time, you knew he was trying. And that unsettled you more than anything else.
---
Dinner with Bucky wasn’t what you expected. He came to the shop just before closing, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, his hair combed back, his usual gloves on. He didn’t wait for you to lock up—he did it himself, sliding the key from your fingers with a quiet, “I’ll take care of it.”
The car waiting outside wasn’t the same sleek black one you’d seen lurking near your building before. This one was even darker, windows tinted, the kind of vehicle that made people cross the street when it pulled up. He opened the door for you, and his hand lingered on your lower back as you climbed inside.
The restaurant was one of those places you’d only seen in magazines—low lights, white tablecloths, the quiet murmur of money in every corner. The maître d’ didn’t even ask for a name; he bowed and led you straight to a private table at the back.
You shifted uncomfortably as you sat, smoothing the fabric of your dress. You hadn’t had time to change, still in the simple sundress you wore to work. Compared to the glittering couples around you, you felt out of place. But Bucky leaned back in his chair, eyes on you like there was no one else in the room. “You look perfect.”
Your cheeks warmed. “You didn’t even let me change.”
His mouth curved in that faint, dangerous smile. “Didn’t want to give you the chance to run.”
You frowned, half-playful, half-serious. “You can’t just say things like that.”
“Why not? It’s the truth.” He poured you a glass of wine himself, ignoring the hovering waiter. “If I let you walk away, you’d start thinking too much. You’d talk yourself out of me. And I can’t have that.”
You looked at him, really looked. The way his metal fingers tapped lightly against the stem of his glass. The way his eyes stayed fixed on you, hungry and unblinking. “Bucky…” you whispered. “You don’t even know me.”
His jaw tightened. “I know enough.”
“That’s not the same.”
He leaned forward then, voice dropping. “I know you hate crowds but love little kids buying flowers for their moms. I know you hum to yourself when you sweep up the petals at night. I know you wear that same sundress every Wednesday because it makes you feel put-together.”
You blinked, startled. “You—”
“I pay attention.” His gaze softened, but the edge in his voice stayed. “More than anyone else ever has. Tell me I’m wrong.” You opened your mouth, closed it again. Your pulse raced under your skin. He reached across the table, taking your hand gently but firmly in his, thumb brushing across your knuckles. “I might not have asked the right way before. But I’m asking now. Let me have this. Let me have you.”
Your breath caught once again. The waiter appeared with menus, but Bucky didn’t even look at his. His eyes stayed on you, unwavering, as if the answer was the only thing that mattered. “Order something,” he said, tone clipped, smooth, the way he probably gave orders to his men.
You blinked, lowering your gaze to the menu. “You could say please, you know.”
His brows furrowed slightly. “I just did.”
“No, you told me,” you said quietly, the edge of a shy smile tugging at your mouth. “Telling isn’t asking.” That made him still. His head tilted, studying you as if you’d just spoken in another language. No one corrected him. No one pushed back. Certainly no one teased him. You turned a page in the menu, forcing your shoulders to stay loose, though your pulse hammered. “If you want me to do something, maybe try asking. Like a normal person.”
For a long beat, his eyes stayed locked on you, the muscle in his jaw ticking. You thought you’d pushed too far—until the corner of his mouth curved, slow and dangerous. “Normal, huh?” His voice dropped low, velvet-dark. He leaned across the table just slightly, one hand resting near yours. “Alright, doll. What would please you tonight? Salmon? Steak? Or do you want me to ask sweeter?”
Your cheeks heated instantly. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Sure it is.” His thumb brushed across your knuckles, light but deliberate. “You want me to say the words. ‘Please, sweetheart, pick something so I can watch you enjoy it.’ That what you want?”
You swallowed hard, caught between flustered and indignant. “It wouldn’t kill you to try it.”
For a long moment, he just watched you, silent, eyes burning into yours. Then, softly, deliberately,
“please, doll. Order something. For me.”
Your lips parted in surprise. The weight of the words, the fact that he’d said them—not barked, not commanded—hit you harder than it should have. You ducked your head quickly, hiding your flush in the menu. “Okay,” you murmured, finally pointing to something on the page.
His grin widened, wolfish, triumphant. He sat back in his chair, content now, as if coaxing that small concession from you meant more than anything else on the table. But you caught the way his eyes lingered, sharp and possessive, even when his voice had softened. Like no matter how politely he phrased it, he still thought the end result was the same: you, bending to him. And part of you wondered if you minded as much as you should.
The dinner stretched on in a haze of soft light and low voices. The waiter came and went, but Bucky barely acknowledged him—every ounce of his attention stayed fixed on you. He did try, though. You could see it in the way he caught himself before giving another clipped order, the way he reshaped his words into something that almost sounded like a request. “Try the wine, doll,” he started to say, then stopped himself. His eyes softened, a little sheepish for once. “Would you… please try the wine?”
You bit your lip to hide a smile, lifting the glass to your lips. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”
He chuckled low in his chest, shaking his head. “Don’t get used to it.”
But he kept doing it. Through dinner, through dessert, through the awkward-lovely rhythm of you teasing and him adjusting. He was clumsy at it, but he tried—for you. When the plates were cleared and the check was slipped onto the table, and ignored by him, you expected him to take you straight home. Instead, he offered his hand as you slid from your chair, steady and warm at the small of your back as he guided you out into the cool night. The city hummed around you—cars hissing down wet streets, neon signs buzzing faintly in the dark. You walked together in silence for a while, his stride matching yours, his hand never quite leaving your back.
Finally, you glanced up at him. “You really don’t ask for things, do you?”
He looked down at you, brow furrowing slightly. “I do now.”
“You tell me what I’m eating, what I’m wearing, when I should go home—”
“Because you don’t look after yourself the way you should,” he cut in, voice steady, but softer than usual.
“That’s not the same as asking,” you insisted, your tone gentle but firm. “You keep saying I’m yours. But you never asked me if I wanted to be.”
That stopped him cold. His steps slowed, then stilled entirely. He turned to face you fully, the glow of a nearby streetlamp carving hard shadows across his jaw. No one ever pushed him like this. Not his men. Not his enemies. And yet here you were, standing there in your simple dress, looking at him with those soft eyes that had undone him from the start—and daring to tell him no.
For a moment, he didn’t speak. His jaw worked, his chest rising and falling with controlled breaths. Then, slowly, he reached for your hand. His voice was low, rough-edged, but stripped of command. “Do you?”
You blinked. “Do I what?”
“Want to be mine.”
The words were plain. Honest. Asked, not ordered. Your heart lurched, caught between fear and something warmer, heavier. You didn’t answer right away, and you saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his grip on your hand tightened as if bracing for rejection. But you didn’t pull away. You held on. “I don’t know yet,” you admitted softly. “But if you keep asking instead of telling… maybe I’ll figure it out.”
The silence between you stretched, charged and alive. Then, for the first time in longer than he could remember, Bucky let out a breath that wasn’t weighted with control or calculation. He brought your hand to his lips, kissed your knuckles once, reverent. “Then I’ll ask,” he murmured. “As many times as it takes.” And when he walked you home that night, he didn’t touch your back, didn’t cage you in with his presence. He just walked beside you, his hand holding yours, as though that was enough.
The walk back to your apartment was quieter than usual. His hand stayed in yours, heavy, grounding, but he didn’t say anything more after that promise. The city’s neon glow flickered across the wet pavement, painting the silence in color. At your building, you stopped at the door, fingers brushing the keys in your pocket. He didn’t reach for them this time, didn’t lean against the frame and cage you in. He just stood there, watching you. You hesitated, then looked up at him. “Are you… coming in?”
His jaw worked once. You saw the war in his eyes—possession urging him to say yes, control telling him to wait. For the first time, he looked almost… uncertain. “I want to,” he admitted, voice low, rough. “But I’ll ask. Do you want me to?”
Your chest tightened. The way he said it—like the words were foreign, dragged out of him against instinct—made something inside you ache. You shook your head gently. “Not tonight.”
For a flicker of a second, you thought he’d argue. That steel-blue stare locked on yours, intense enough to burn. But then he nodded once, sharp and deliberate, like it cost him something. “Alright,” he said quietly. “Not tonight.”
You slipped inside, heart pounding, and leaned against the door after you closed it. His shadow lingered on the other side, unmoving, until you heard his footsteps retreat down the hall.
The next morning, the bell chimed right on time. You looked up from the counter and there he was again—sharp suit, gloves, eyes only for you. But there was something different about him. The usual possessive certainty was still there, but now it was tempered, measured. He set a small bundle on the counter—gardenias again, perfectly fresh. But this time, he didn’t say take them. Instead, he watched you closely, voice low. “Do you want them?”
Your lips parted. You blinked, then smiled softly, shy but certain. “Yes.”
His shoulders eased, just barely. He nodded once, satisfied, though the glint in his eyes still promised he’d never stop wanting to give you more than you asked for. And as you placed the gardenias in a vase by the window, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted. He was still the storm hovering over your quiet life—but now he was learning how to ask before he struck.
---
The bell chimed when you left the shop that Sunday morning, keys tucked into your pocket and your bag over your shoulder. The sun was out for once, the kind of warm golden light that made the city feel softer, less sharp around the edges. You’d planned on wandering down to the farmer’s market, picking up fresh bread and maybe some fruit for the week.
You weren’t surprised when you felt him before you saw him. Bucky fell into step beside you like he always did, hands in his coat pockets, eyes scanning the street. He didn’t say he’d been waiting, but he didn’t have to. “Going somewhere?” he asked, voice low and even.
“The farmer’s market,” you said. “Do you… want to come?”
It slipped out before you could stop it. You weren’t sure why you offered—maybe because it felt strange to keep pretending you didn’t see him watching you. Maybe because part of you wanted to see what he was like outside your shop, outside dim restaurants and shadowed sidewalks. His lips twitched, just slightly. “Yeah. I’ll come.”
The market was buzzing with people—kids tugging at their parents’ hands, couples wandering between stalls, vendors calling out prices. The air smelled of warm bread and herbs, the kind of scent that made you feel like the city wasn’t so heavy after all. Bucky stuck close, but not in the looming, possessive way he usually did. Today he just walked beside you, his broad frame making space for you in the crowd. He looked… normal. Or as normal as a man like him could look.
You stopped at a bakery stall, eyeing the fresh loaves stacked high. “These are always gone by the afternoon,” you explained, pulling a bill from your bag. Before you could hand it over, Bucky passed cash to the vendor instead, his gloved hand steady.
“Bucky—”
“Don’t argue,” he said softly, almost smiling. “Consider it me asking.”
You rolled your eyes but accepted the bread, and his smile deepened like he’d won something. At the flower stall—of course there was a flower stall—you noticed his gaze linger on you as you inspected the bouquets. For once, you didn’t feel self-conscious. You just let yourself enjoy it. Then you spotted a row of little jars at another table a few stalls away—local honey, the labels hand-painted with tiny bees. Without thinking, you grabbed his arm, tugging him along. “Come on, look at these—”
You let go as soon as you reached the stall, too focused on the honey jars to notice the way he froze for half a second when your hand touched him. His gaze dropped to where your fingers had been, his jaw tightening. He didn’t comment. Didn’t tease. But the weight of that touch lingered in his chest, hot and heavy, long after you’d pulled away. You picked out a jar, holding it up with a little smile. “Isn’t this cute?”
He nodded slowly, but his eyes weren’t on the honey. They were still on you, watching the way your face lit up in the sunlight, the way you smiled without thinking. And for once, he didn’t feel like the man everyone feared. He just felt like a man walking through a market with a girl who made him want things he’d forgotten he could have.
The market felt different with him beside you. Normally, you drifted through the stalls without much notice—just another face in the crowd—but with Bucky there, people stepped out of the way. Vendors straightened. Conversations dipped quiet for a moment before picking up again. You pretended not to notice, but you did. And so did he. His hand brushed the small of your back once or twice, subtle but guiding, as though keeping you in his orbit. At a food stall, the scent of frying dough pulled you in. You lingered over the handwritten sign—fresh fritters dusted in sugar—and before you could even reach for your bag, Bucky was already paying. “You don’t have to keep buying everything,” you said, exasperated but a little amused.
He handed you the warm paper bag, eyes steady. “I know. I want to.”
You bit into a fritter, the crunch giving way to soft, sweet warmth. A smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it. Bucky’s eyes softened. He didn’t take one for himself—he just watched you, like the sight of your smile was enough. You found a bench near the edge of the market, shaded by a tree. Sitting side by side, you let the crowd blur into background noise. For a while, neither of you spoke. Then you glanced at him, curious. “So… what do you do?”
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Why?”
You shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ve been… spending time together. You know a lot about me, but I don’t know much about you.”
His jaw tightened, as if weighing how much to say. Finally, he leaned back against the bench, gaze fixed on the crowd instead of you. “I run things. Businesses. Keep people in line.”
“That’s… vague,” you said carefully.
He huffed a quiet laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Yeah. Vague’s safer.”
You studied him for a moment, the sharp set of his shoulders, the way he scanned the people moving through the market like he was cataloging threats. “You don’t have to tell me everything. Just… something. Something real.”
His eyes flicked back to you then, and for a beat, the weight of his stare pinned you in place. “Something real?”
“Yes.”
He was quiet for a long time, then finally said, “I don’t sleep much. When I do, I keep the lights on. Always have.”
You blinked, surprised at the intimacy of the admission. He hadn’t given you facts about his work, but he’d given you something raw instead. Something closer to the truth. You nodded softly. “That’s… real.”
His shoulders eased, just slightly. The silence stretched again, but it felt different this time—warmer, less guarded. You shifted, brushing sugar from your fingers, and without thinking, offered him the last fritter from the bag. He didn’t take it right away. He just looked at you, eyes flicking down to your hand, then back to your face. Finally, he reached for it, his fingers brushing yours deliberately. “Thank you.” The words were simple, but they carried weight.
As you sat there together, sharing sugared dough in the sunlight, you realized this felt almost like a normal second date. Almost. And though you didn’t notice it, he did—the way your shoulders leaned just slightly toward him, the way your knee brushed his. To anyone else, it was nothing. But to Bucky, it was everything.
The walk back from the market felt easier than you expected. Maybe it was the sunlight softening the edges of the city, maybe it was the paper bag of warm bread under your arm, or maybe it was simply that Bucky wasn’t looming as much as usual.
He carried most of the weight without asking—jars of honey, bundles of herbs, a carton of fresh eggs balanced in one hand. He hadn’t made a show of it; the moment you’d started to juggle too many things, he’d quietly relieved you of them. “You don’t have to carry everything,” you said, hugging the bread close to your chest.
“I want to,” he answered simply. Then, with the faintest curve of his mouth, “besides, you’re terrible at hiding how heavy it is.”
You ducked your head, a little embarrassed, but the teasing softened the moment instead of sharpening it. The streets thinned as you left the crowded stalls behind. For once, he didn’t rush you. He let you stop to admire the painted mural on a corner building, the stray cat curled in a sunbeam on the stoop. His gaze followed everything you touched with your eyes, memorizing it silently. “You seem… different today,” you said after a while, glancing at him.
“How so?”
“Less…” You searched for the word. “Commanding. More like…” You gestured at the bags in his hands. “This. Normal.”
He was quiet for a beat, then let out a low breath. “Maybe I just wanted to see what it feels like. Doing this with you.”
You blinked. “Feels like what?”
“Like I’m not who I am,” he said, eyes straight ahead. “Like I could just… be a man walking home from the market with his girl.”
Your steps faltered. He noticed immediately, his head turning, sharp blue eyes locking onto you. But he didn’t backtrack. He let the words hang there, bare and heavy. You didn’t know what to say to that, so you didn’t. Instead, you shifted the bread under your arm and kept walking. As you reached your building, you touched the edge of his sleeve lightly, without thinking, to slow him. “Thank you,” you said softly.
“For what?”
“For coming with me. For trying.”
His gaze softened, more than you’d ever seen. He leaned down just slightly, his voice quiet, meant for you alone. “I’d try for you, doll. Always.”
He didn’t kiss you. He didn’t push. He just pressed the bags into your hands and waited until you were inside, standing guard in the shadow of your building until the door closed. And though you couldn’t see him, he stayed there for a long time, staring at the place where your fingers had brushed his arm, replaying it like a man clutching his first breath after drowning.
---
The weeks passed quietly, the rhythm of your little flower shop unchanged in all the familiar ways and altered in one very specific one. The bell still chimed at odd intervals, children still pressed coins into your palm for bouquets for their mothers, and old women still lingered at the counter to gossip. But now, James “Bucky” Barnes was a fixture.
He came every day. Sometimes in the morning, sometimes at closing, sometimes both. At first, he’d only bought flowers. Now, more often than not, he was simply there—watching, asking you questions in that low voice of his, or taking up a quiet corner of the shop where his looming presence managed to make the whole space feel smaller.
What surprised you most was how quickly he adapted to your routines. One evening, as you were dragging a heavy bucket of water toward the back room, you heard a faint scrape. When you looked up, Bucky was already carrying it with one hand, like it weighed nothing. “You’ll hurt yourself,” he said when you frowned at him.
“I’ve been doing this for years,” you reminded him.
“Not anymore,” he replied, setting the bucket down and fixing you with that firm stare that made arguments slip off your tongue.
After that, he just started doing things. Sweeping up petals after closing. Refilling water vases. Straightening displays. The strangest sight of all was him in his immaculate suit, sleeves rolled to his elbows, carefully trimming stems with the clumsy concentration of a man who had never held shears before. You caught yourself smiling one evening when he leaned too hard on the broom and nearly knocked over a pail of carnations. “What’s funny?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at you.
“You’re… bad at this,” you admitted, covering your mouth with your hand.
His lips twitched as though fighting a grin. “Maybe. But I don’t mind being bad at something if it’s for you.”
That made your chest tighten. Later, when he tried to lock up the shop himself, you shook your head. “You can’t just decide things, Bucky. You have to ask.”
He paused with the key in his hand, blue eyes sharp on yours. “Ask?”
“Yes. Like a normal person.”
For a long moment, he just stared at you, silent. Then, with the barest hint of a smile, “may I lock up for you, doll?”
You blinked, heat rising in your cheeks, before nodding slowly. “Yes.”
He turned the key with a satisfied twist, and though he said nothing more, the look in his eyes told you he was storing that moment away, filing it under things he would never forget.
And that became the new pattern. The man everyone else feared—the man you still didn’t fully understand—swept floors and carried buckets in your flower shop. Not because you asked him to, but because he wanted to. Because it meant being near you, being part of your world, even if it meant stumbling through tasks that had nothing to do with his.
---
The idea came to you while restocking vases one quiet afternoon. Bucky had settled himself on the stool by the counter, jacket draped over the backrest, sleeves rolled up as he trimmed stems with more concentration than skill. It was still strange seeing him like that—this man who radiated danger, carefully adjusting the angle of scissors to keep a daisy neat. “You’re free tomorrow, right?” you asked, keeping your tone casual.
His head lifted, blue eyes narrowing slightly. “Why?”
You hesitated, fingers brushing water from your palms. “There’s an exhibit at the museum. I thought… maybe you’d like to go with me.”
Silence. You felt suddenly foolish. Of course a man like him wouldn’t want to wander through quiet halls, looking at paintings. You opened your mouth to take it back, but he spoke first. “When?”
You blinked. “Noon?”
He nodded once, decisive. “I’ll pick you up.”
The museum was quieter than the farmer’s market, but no less alive. Families moved from gallery to gallery, tourists snapped photos, students sat on the floor sketching. You bought tickets at the front desk, and when you glanced over, Bucky was already scanning the lobby like it was a threat he had to neutralize. “You don’t have to look so suspicious,” you teased gently.
“I don’t like crowds,” he admitted, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “Too many hands. Too many eyes.”
You offered him a small smile. “Then just look at me instead.”
Something flickered across his face at that—something raw and unguarded—before his expression smoothed again. He followed you into the first gallery without a word. The space was filled with soft light and framed canvases, oil paintings that stretched from floor to ceiling. You paused before one, studying the brushstrokes, and realized after a moment that he wasn’t looking at the painting. He was watching you. “You’re supposed to look at the art,” you said, glancing at him from the corner of your eye.
“I am,” he replied.
Heat crept up your neck, and you busied yourself reading the plaque beside the painting. As you moved from gallery to gallery, he stayed close, his hand brushing your back whenever the crowd grew too thick. He didn’t say much, but when he did, it surprised you. He had opinions—sharp, quiet observations about color, about shadow, about how one painting seemed “lonely” while another looked like “noise trapped in a frame.” His voice was low, thoughtful, nothing like the clipped commands he usually gave.
You stole glances at him while he studied the paintings. He didn’t fidget, didn’t check his watch or his phone. He looked, really looked, the same way he looked at you in the shop—like he was memorizing every detail.
At one point, you wandered ahead into a side gallery where a massive sculpture stood under a skylight. You stopped, tilting your head, trying to make sense of the twisting stone form. A moment later, his shadow fell across yours. Without thinking, you reached back and caught his hand, tugging him closer. “What do you think this is supposed to be?”
His hand stayed in yours, warm and steady. He didn’t pull away, didn’t tease. He just let you hold him, his gaze dropping briefly to where your fingers curled against his before answering. “Doesn’t matter what it’s supposed to be,” he said quietly. “Matters what you see in it.”
You didn’t even realize you were still holding his hand until you let go to gesture at the sculpture, your cheeks heating. He didn’t comment, though his eyes lingered on you a moment longer than necessary. By the time you stepped back into the sunlight outside, the afternoon was waning. He carried the museum’s little pamphlet in one hand, folded neatly, like it was something precious. “Thank you,” you said, hugging your arms around yourself. “For coming.”
He studied you for a long moment, then nodded. “You ask, I’ll come.” And though his voice was steady, you couldn’t miss the way his fingers twitched at his side—like he was resisting the urge to reach for yours again.
The walk home after the museum felt different than any other evening you’d shared with him. Maybe it was the soft glow of the setting sun bouncing off the buildings, or maybe it was the quiet between you—comfortable, not weighted the way it usually was.
You carried a little bag from the gift shop, a postcard print of your favorite painting tucked inside. He’d insisted on buying it when you lingered too long at the rack, ignoring your protests. Now it swung lightly from your fingers as the two of you turned down your street. He stayed close, as always, scanning shadows and corners. But he wasn’t tense. Not like usual. His shoulders looked looser, his jaw softer, as if he’d finally let himself breathe for once. At your building, you stopped at the door. He reached for the key the way he always did, but this time you didn’t hand it over. Instead, you turned it yourself, then hesitated. When you looked up at him, he was watching you, waiting. “Do you…” You bit your lip, suddenly nervous. “Do you want to come in?”
For a flicker of a moment, something raw crossed his face—surprise, then hunger, then something softer. His eyes searched yours as though trying to find a trick hidden there. “You sure?” His voice was low, almost rough. He was asking, not telling.
You nodded, stepping inside and holding the door open. He followed, quiet as a shadow, and the door clicked shut behind him. Your apartment wasn’t much—small, cozy, smelling faintly of lavender and bread. A few books stacked on the coffee table, a blanket draped over the couch, a vase of flowers by the window. His eyes swept the space once, but not with the sharp calculation you were used to. This time it looked like he was… curious. Taking in the pieces of your life he hadn’t been able to reach until now. You slipped off your shoes and gestured awkwardly. “It’s not much, but… it’s home.”
He stepped further in, silent for a moment, before his gaze found the vase by the window. White gardenias, still fresh, but starting to droop a little. “You kept them,” he murmured.
“Of course,” you said softly.
Something shifted in his expression then, subtle but undeniable. His shoulders eased even more, and when he finally sat down on the couch—careful, as if he didn’t want to disturb anything—he looked almost human. Almost ordinary. You brought him a glass of water, and he accepted it with a quiet, “thank you,” fingers brushing yours deliberately. The lamp he’d given you glowed faintly in the corner, casting its warm petals of light across the room. He noticed, of course. His eyes lingered on it for a long moment before he turned back to you. “Feels like you,” he said.
You tilted your head. “What does?”
“This place. The light. The quiet. All of it.” He leaned back into the couch, watching you with that same intensity he always did, but softer now. “I like it.”
Bucky didn’t sit like a guest. He sat like he belonged there, broad shoulders sinking carefully into your couch, his hand resting heavy on his knee. The lamplight painted him in soft gold, blunting the sharpness of his jaw, but nothing could dull the intensity of his eyes. They tracked you as you moved—setting the bread on the counter, tidying the little bag from the museum gift shop, fussing with nothing at all just to give your hands something to do.
You finally settled across from him, tucking your legs under yourself. He was too large for your space, all dark edges against your quiet home, and yet… he didn’t look out of place. Not anymore. “You’re quiet,” you said softly.
“I like it here,” he answered simply. His gaze flicked around the room again—the flowers on the sill, the stack of books on your table, the blanket folded neatly over the back of a chair. “Feels like you.”
Your lips curved, though you tried to hide it. “That’s because it is me. It’s my space.”
He studied you then, blue eyes sharp but not unkind. “You let me in.”
The weight of those words settled heavy between you. He didn’t sound surprised. More like he was… marveling at it. Testing the shape of the truth on his tongue. “I trust you,” you admitted before you could stop yourself.
His jaw tightened. His hand flexed once on his knee. “You shouldn’t,” he said, voice low, raw. “Not with me.”
The honesty in his tone chilled you, but it also pulled at something deeper. You leaned forward, resting your arms on your knees. “Then tell me why.”
For a moment, he didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on yours, unblinking, like he was deciding whether or not to let you see past the walls he kept so carefully built. Then he shifted, elbows on his thighs, leaning closer. “Because I don’t stop. Once I want something—once I want you—I don’t let go.”
Your breath caught, heat rising to your cheeks. But instead of recoiling, you held his gaze. “Then maybe you should ask me if I mind.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Do you?”
You hesitated, heart pounding, before whispering, “no.”
The silence that followed was thick, humming with unspoken things. He leaned back slowly, the tension in his body still coiled tight, but his expression softened—just barely. “Good,” he murmured.
You didn’t know what possessed you then, but you rose and crossed to the kitchen, pouring him another glass of water, setting it down beside him like it was the most natural thing. He accepted it without breaking eye contact, his metal fingers brushing yours deliberately.
The night stretched longer, the city outside dimming into quiet. At some point, you found yourself curled in the chair across from him, head resting against your hand, listening as he told you little things—not about business, never that, but about the food he liked, the places he couldn’t stand, the way he hated the sound of clocks ticking. Small truths, but truths nonetheless.
When he finally stood to leave, it was later than you realized. He lingered at the door, one hand braced against the frame. “Next time,” he said softly, “I’ll stay.”
You didn’t argue. When the door closed behind him, your apartment still felt full. Heavy with his presence. And when you went to bed, the lamp he’d given you cast its warm glow across the room, reminding you that letting him in once meant you’d never be rid of him again.
The next night, he didn’t wait on the street. You closed up shop, locked the door, and there he was—already leaning against the brick wall, arms folded across his chest. The way he looked at you made the air feel heavy, like he’d been waiting for this moment all day. “Come on,” he said quietly, falling into step beside you.
The walk to your apartment was silent, but not tense. His hand brushed yours once or twice, and though he didn’t take it, you felt the weight of restraint in every step he took. When you unlocked your door and pushed it open, you hesitated. He didn’t ask this time. He didn’t have to. The question was in his eyes, and the answer was already in yours. “Stay,” you said softly.
Something uncoiled in him at that word, something he’d been holding too tightly. He stepped inside without hesitation, shedding his jacket and draping it over the back of your chair like he’d done it a hundred times before.
Your apartment filled with him—his size, his presence, the faint spice of his cologne. You made tea because it gave your hands something to do, and when you handed him a mug, his fingers brushed yours deliberately, lingering just long enough to make your pulse trip. He sat beside you, close enough that your knees touched. He drank the tea like he wasn’t used to it, sipping carefully, his eyes never leaving you. “Feels different,” he murmured after a while.
“What does?”
“This. Here. With you.” His gaze flicked around the apartment, then back to you. “It’s quiet. No one watching. No one waiting on me. Just… you.”
Your chest tightened. “Is that what you want?”
His jaw flexed. He set the mug down, metal fingers tapping once against the porcelain. “Yeah. More than I should.”
The silence stretched. You shifted under his stare, then finally leaned back against the couch, letting your shoulder brush his. He stilled at the contact, then eased, as if the world had just given him permission to breathe. The hours slipped by. You talked about nothing—books, music, the weather—and sometimes you didn’t talk at all. The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy, warm, almost domestic. When the clock ticked past midnight, you stifled a yawn. His head turned instantly, eyes narrowing. “You’re tired.”
“I’m fine,” you said, though your voice was drowsy.
He stood, towering over you, then offered his hand. “Bed,” he said.
You arched a brow, heat rushing to your cheeks. “Excuse me?”
His mouth curved faintly. “To sleep, doll. I’ll take the couch.”
You hesitated, then nodded, leading him toward the small bedroom. He didn’t linger, didn’t push. He just pulled the blanket up to your chin once you were settled, his hand brushing your cheek in a gesture so gentle it made your throat ache. “Sleep,” he murmured.
You closed your eyes, the glow of the lamp warm against the walls, and the last thing you felt was the weight of his presence just outside the door—silent, steady, keeping watch.
The smell of coffee pulled you awake before the sunlight did. For a moment, you thought you were dreaming—the rich, dark aroma, the soft clink of ceramic from your kitchen—but when you sat up, the lamp still glowed faintly on your nightstand, and the blanket tucked under your chin smelled faintly of his cologne.
You padded quietly to the doorway, pausing when you saw him. Bucky stood at the counter, broad shoulders hunched slightly as he poured steaming coffee into your favorite mug. His jacket was still draped over the back of the chair from last night, his sleeves rolled up again. On the counter beside him was a loaf of bread you’d bought at the market, neatly sliced into even pieces, and butter softening in a small dish. It looked… domestic. Almost ordinary. And it made your chest ache in a way you weren’t prepared for. “You don’t have to do that,” you said softly, leaning against the doorframe.
He looked up instantly, sharp as always, but his expression softened when he saw you. “Couldn’t sleep,” he admitted. “Figured I’d make myself useful.”
You smiled faintly, stepping closer. “You’re really bad at pretending this is normal.”
“Maybe,” he said, setting the mug in front of you. His voice lowered. “But I like pretending with you.”
The warmth of the cup seeped into your palms. You took a sip, humming at the taste—it was stronger than you usually made it, but good. He watched your reaction like it mattered more than anything else. “See?” he said, almost smug. “Better than what you usually drink.”
You narrowed your eyes at him playfully. “You think you can just take over my kitchen now?”
His grin widened, wolfish but soft around the edges. “If you let me.” For a long moment, you stood there, sipping your coffee while he leaned against the counter, watching you like the morning belonged to the two of you alone. When you finally set the mug down, he reached past you, brushing your wrist deliberately as he moved the butter closer to the bread. “Eat something,” he murmured.
You rolled your eyes but picked up a slice anyway. “You know, most people say ‘please’ when they want something.”
He chuckled low, the sound warm and rough. “Please, doll. Eat something for me.”
You laughed then, quiet but real, and he looked at you like he’d just won a war without firing a single shot. And as you sat at your tiny kitchen table, him across from you with his coffee, you realized you weren’t just letting him into your apartment. You were letting him into your mornings, your routines, your life. He seemed to realize it too. Because when you reached for another slice of bread, he leaned back in his chair, eyes soft and possessive all at once, and said quietly, “get used to this. I’m not going anywhere.”
You thought he’d leave after breakfast—slip out the way he usually did, shadow heavy but fleeting. Instead, he stayed, long after the last crumb of bread was gone and your coffee had cooled. He didn’t hover, not exactly. He followed you with his eyes as you moved around your apartment, tidying plates, straightening cushions, feeding the little plant on your windowsill. Every small domestic motion seemed to hold his full attention, as if he were cataloging it all for later.
When you bent to pick up a book that had slipped under the table, he was suddenly there, crouched beside you. His metal fingers brushed the spine before yours could reach it. “Got it,” he murmured, handing it over. His eyes lingered on the cover—an old paperback, spine worn soft. “You like this one?”
“It’s a favorite,” you admitted, hugging it to your chest. “I’ve read it more times than I can count.”
He nodded slowly, eyes sharp, as though he were etching the title into his memory. You retreated to the couch, curling into the corner, and he sat at the other end—close enough that your knees brushed when you shifted. He leaned back, stretching an arm along the top of the couch, watching you like you were the only thing worth seeing. “You’re different here,” you said quietly.
“How?”
“Quieter. Softer.” You hesitated. “Like you’re not carrying the whole world on your shoulders.”
For a moment, something flickered across his face—something raw, almost vulnerable. “Maybe it’s because I’m with you.”
Your cheeks warmed. You turned your gaze toward the window, pretending to fuss with the flowers on the sill. “You say things like that too easily.”
“I don’t say anything easily,” he said, voice low, firm. “Not unless I mean it.”
The air grew heavier, thick with unspoken things. To break it, you stood and gathered the empty mugs. “I should wash these.”
“I’ll do it.”
Before you could protest, he was already in your tiny kitchen, sleeves pushed up, broad frame bent over your sink. The sight of him there—dangerous and untouchable to the rest of the city, carefully rinsing soap suds from your favorite mug—sent a strange ache through you. “You really don’t know how to act normal,” you teased gently, leaning against the counter.
He glanced at you, lips curving faintly. “This is normal. For me. If you let it be.”
You swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how easily he was weaving himself into your space, your life. When the mugs were clean and drying on the rack, he returned to the couch, looking far too at ease in your home. As though the line between visitor and resident had already blurred. And when you finally told him, half-awkward, that you needed to open the shop soon, he only nodded, standing slowly. His eyes swept the room one last time before settling on you. “I’ll see you tonight,” he said, not as a command but as a promise.
And when the door clicked shut behind him, your apartment still felt full.
The second time he stayed, it felt less like a choice and more like inevitability. He didn’t even ask if it was alright—he simply slipped off his jacket, folded it neatly over the arm of your couch, and stretched his long frame across it like it was a habit he’d been keeping for years.
You went to bed with the lamplight still spilling warm gold into the hallway, the faint hum of the city outside, and the comforting knowledge that he was only a few steps away. It was deep into the night when you woke. Thirst pulled you from sleep, groggy and heavy-limbed. Padding into the living room, you found him still on the couch, blanket pushed low around his waist, one arm draped over the edge.
For a moment, you thought he was sleeping peacefully. His chest rose and fell, steady. But then you noticed the twitch of his fingers, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, the low, almost inaudible sounds escaping his throat—half-formed words, broken whispers.
You froze. A nightmare. Your first instinct was to leave him be, let him fight his shadows alone. But something in the way his jaw clenched, in the way his breath hitched, made your chest ache. “Bucky,” you whispered, stepping closer. “It’s alright. You’re safe.” You reached out, intending only to brush your fingers across his shoulder, to anchor him in the present. But the instant your skin touched his, his metal arm snapped up, lightning fast, clamping around your wrist.
The pressure was startling, firm enough to hurt, and you gasped softly. His eyes flew open—wild, unmoored, glassy with panic. For a heartbeat, he wasn’t here with you. He was somewhere else. Then recognition hit. His grip loosened instantly, his chest heaving. “God—doll—” His voice cracked. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
You sank down onto the edge of the couch, cradling his arm with your free hand, your voice low and steady. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You didn’t mean to.”
But he was already shaking his head, his flesh hand scrubbing hard over his face. “Shouldn’t—shouldn’t touch you. Not when I don’t know where I am. Could’ve hurt you. Could’ve—”
You caught his wrist before he could pull further away. “You didn’t. You didn’t hurt me.”
His metal fingers trembled against your skin, so different from the usual deliberate steadiness you knew. He kept repeating it, almost under his breath, like a mantra breaking apart. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Hey,” you whispered, sliding closer, resting your other hand lightly against his chest. His heart thundered beneath your palm. “Look at me.” It took a moment, but his eyes finally lifted to yours—blue and raw, stripped of every layer of command and control. “You’re here,” you said softly. “With me. You’re safe.”
The tension in his arm eased by degrees, until his grip was nothing more than a loose circle around your wrist. He swallowed hard, his breathing uneven. “You shouldn’t have to… deal with this.”
“I don’t mind,” you whispered. And you didn’t. Not when it was him.
For a long time, you just sat there, your hand still against his chest, his breath slowly steadying under your touch. When his grip finally fell away completely, it wasn’t because he pushed you—it was because he let go, trusting you not to move. You didn’t. You stayed.
And when he drifted back into sleep, your wrist still tingled from the weight of his arm, but it wasn’t fear that lingered. It was the way his voice had broken on your name, the way he’d clung to your presence like it was the only thing anchoring him in the world.
By the time the apartment grew quiet again, you hadn’t meant to fall asleep. You’d sat there with him, your hand still resting over his chest, listening as his breath evened out beneath your palm. You told yourself you’d move once you were sure he was settled.
But your eyes grew heavy. The couch was warm beneath you, his body warmer still, and before you knew it, you were sliding sideways, cheek pressed against his shirt. His heart was a steady thrum beneath your ear, his arm—flesh, not metal—loosely draped over your back as though even in sleep he couldn’t help but hold you close.
The couch was small, too small for the both of you, but you didn’t notice. Not with the weight of him grounding you, not with the lamp’s glow painting soft gold across the room.
When you woke, morning light was spilling through the curtains, pale and thin. It took a moment to realize where you were—why your pillow was too firm, why your blanket smelled faintly of his cologne. You shifted, groggy, and felt his chest move beneath you. He was awake. His breathing was shallow, controlled, the way he sounded when he was trying not to disturb you. “Morning,” you whispered, voice rough with sleep.
His chest rumbled under your cheek with a low, uncertain sound. “You shouldn’t… have stayed here.”
You lifted your head just enough to meet his eyes. They were sharp, but not cold. There was guilt there, deep and quiet. “Why not?”
“I could’ve hurt you,” he said. His metal hand flexed once against the blanket, as though the memory of gripping your arm was still burning through him. “I did hurt you.”
You shook your head, propping yourself on your elbow. “You didn’t. You scared me for a second, but… you didn’t hurt me.” His jaw worked, but he said nothing. You studied him for a moment—his hair mussed from sleep, the faint shadows under his eyes, the way he looked so much younger like this, stripped of the armor he wore in daylight. “Bucky,” you said softly, “I wouldn’t have fallen asleep here if I didn’t feel safe with you.”
That silenced him. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his eyes flicking away for a moment as though he couldn’t bear the weight of what you’d just given him. Slowly, carefully, he brushed his knuckles across your cheek, his touch light, reverent. “You shouldn’t trust me that much.”
“Maybe not,” you whispered, leaning into his hand. “But I do.”
For the first time in longer than he could probably remember, his mouth curved into something almost fragile, almost grateful. You stayed like that for a long moment, the morning wrapping around you both like a secret. The couch was still too small, your neck was already sore, but you couldn’t bring yourself to move. Because for the first time, you weren’t sure if you were comforting him, or if he was comforting you.
---
The bell chimed as usual when he stepped into your shop, but today felt heavier somehow. Maybe it was the memory of the night before, of waking up in his arms on your too-small couch. Maybe it was the image of his wide, haunted eyes as he whispered apology after apology, and the way your chest had ached to soothe him.
You’d been thinking about that all morning. About how much he gave you—his presence, his protection, his steadiness—even if he never admitted it aloud. And for once, you wanted to give him something back. So you’d worked quietly before he arrived, hands steady even as your heart raced, trimming stems and tying ribbon. Now, as he approached the counter, you wiped your palms on your apron and brought the bouquet out from behind you.
It wasn’t like the ones you usually sold. This one was deliberate, personal. Deep blue delphiniums, soft cornflowers, pale forget-me-nots woven together in layers, all tied with a silver-gray ribbon. The colors matched his eyes perfectly—sharp and striking at the center, softer and gentler around the edges. You held it out shyly. “For you.”
He froze. For a man who seemed to always know what to do, what to say, he looked completely undone in that moment. His eyes flicked from the flowers to your face and back again, as if he couldn’t quite process what he was seeing. “You made this… for me?” His voice was rough, low.
You nodded, your fingers twisting the edge of your apron. “You’ve brought me so much. I just thought—maybe you’d like to have something, too.”
He reached out slowly, almost reverently, and took the bouquet from your hands. His metal fingers brushed the ribbon with surprising gentleness, as though afraid he might crush the delicate stems. For a long moment, he just stared at it. Then his jaw worked, his throat bobbing with a swallow. “No one’s ever…” He trailed off, shaking his head slightly. “No one’s ever given me flowers before.”
Your heart clenched. “Then I’ll just have to make sure it’s not the last time.”
His eyes snapped back to yours, something raw burning in them. He set the bouquet carefully on the counter, then reached across with his flesh hand, curling his fingers around yours. “Thank you, doll,” he said, voice unsteady. “You don’t know what this means to me.” But from the way he held your hand, from the way his thumb brushed slowly across your knuckles like he was memorizing the feel of you, you thought maybe you did.
Bucky carried the bouquet back with him, cradled more carefully than the files his men handed him daily. When he entered his penthouse, the first thing Natasha noticed wasn’t the flowers themselves—it was the way he set them down gently on his desk, like they were priceless.
She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at her mouth. “Boss, if you keep this up, you’re gonna need a bigger office. Between the vases and bouquets, it’s starting to look more like a conservatory than a headquarters.”
He shot her a sharp look, but it lacked real heat. Instead, his gaze drifted back to the bouquet, fingers brushing over the ribbon like he still couldn’t believe it was real. “You got a problem with flowers, Romanoff?” he asked, voice low.
Natasha’s smirk softened into something almost approving. “Not with flowers. Just with you hiding in here behind them.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I’m not hiding.”
“You’ve skipped the last three meetings,” she countered, stepping further into the room. “You can’t keep pushing them off. People are starting to notice. And this next one—you can’t get out of it.”
His eyes darkened, steel sliding back into his expression. “When?”
“Tomorrow night.” Her tone left no room for argument. “Seven o’clock. You’ll be there, and you’ll sit through it, whether you like it or not.”
For a long moment, he said nothing. His metal fingers tapped once against the desk, the sound sharp in the quiet room. Then he let out a slow breath, eyes flicking back to the blue bouquet. “Fine,” he said. “Tomorrow night.”
Natasha tilted her head, studying him. “You’ve got her making bouquets just for you now?”
His lips curved faintly—dangerous, but softer than usual. “Yeah. She did.”
Natasha’s brows lifted. “And you’re going to tell her where you’re going tomorrow?”
His gaze sharpened again, voice dropping low. “No.”
“Bucky—”
“She doesn’t need to know.” His eyes lingered on the flowers, something fierce burning beneath the calm. “Not yet.”
Natasha studied him for a long beat before finally sighing. “One of these days, Barnes, you’re gonna realize she’s not just another thing you can keep in the dark.”
But he didn’t answer. He was already reaching for the bouquet again, his hand steady, his mind already far from the meeting Natasha had chained him to.
The following evening, Bucky was restless. He’d shown up at your shop like he always did, the bell chiming as he stepped in, but his presence felt heavier than usual. He leaned against the counter, silent, eyes fixed on you while you arranged fresh stems in a vase. His gloves were still on—he hadn’t even rolled his sleeves the way he sometimes did when he helped close up. “Long day?” you asked, glancing up.
His jaw flexed once. “Not finished yet.”
Something in his tone told you not to press. But you noticed the way his gaze lingered on you a little too long, as though he were memorizing everything about you—the slope of your shoulders, the curve of your hands as you tied ribbon.
When you locked up for the night, he was there as usual, walking you home. His stride was slower, though, deliberate. Like he didn’t want the walk to end. At your door, instead of leaving with his usual “goodnight,” he lingered. His eyes traced your face with an intensity that made your heart race. “You’ll stay in tonight,” he said softly.
You blinked. “I was planning to, yes. Why?”
He exhaled, the faintest flicker of relief passing across his features. “Good. I need…” He hesitated, words sticking like they were foreign in his mouth. “I need to be somewhere. But I don’t want you worrying.”
Your brows furrowed. “Where?”
His eyes softened, but the steel never left them. “Not a place you need to know about.” It stung, a little, but before you could respond, his flesh hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing lightly along your skin. His touch was warm, but his grip was firm, almost desperate. “Promise me you’ll stay here tonight,” he murmured. “Lock the door. Don’t open it for anyone but me.”
You swallowed hard. “Bucky—”
“Promise me.” His voice was low, commanding, but under it was something raw. Fear.
Your heart twisted. “I promise.”
Only then did his shoulders ease, just slightly. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your temple, lingering there longer than usual. When he pulled back, his eyes burned with something unspoken. “I’ll be back,” he said simply. And then he was gone, melting into the shadows of the city.
You stood in your doorway long after he’d disappeared, the bouquet you’d given him still fresh in your memory. Whatever world he was going back to tonight, it wasn’t one you were part of—not yet. But the way he’d looked at you before he left made you wonder how long he could keep the walls up.
It was late when the knock came—so late the city outside had gone quiet, even the hum of traffic muted. You woke with a start, heart pounding, blinking against the faint glow of the lamp in your bedroom.
For a moment, you thought you’d dreamed it. Then it came again, firmer this time. Three heavy knocks that rattled the wood. You slipped from bed, pulling a sweater over your shoulders, bare feet whispering across the floor. When you peered through the peephole, your stomach dropped. Bucky. He stood close to the door, shoulders squared, hair mussed, suit rumpled. His jaw was tight, his eyes burning with something fierce and unsteady. And his knuckles—flesh and metal both—were streaked with blood.
You unlocked the door quickly and pulled it open. “Bucky.” He exhaled your name like a prayer, his chest rising and falling hard. For a moment, he didn’t move. Then he stepped inside, filling your small apartment with his presence, the door shutting behind him with a dull thud. You reached for his hand automatically, the blood stark against your skin. “What happened?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said roughly, pulling back just enough to keep the mess off you. “It’s done.”
“Bucky—”
“I didn’t want you to see me like this.” His voice cracked low, raw, like he’d used up every ounce of steel at that meeting and had nothing left to shield himself with now.
You guided him toward the couch anyway, ignoring his protest. “Sit.” He hesitated, then obeyed, sinking down heavily. His shoulders were still tight, coiled with tension, his fists flexing and unflexing as though he hadn’t yet come down from whatever storm he’d just walked out of. You fetched a cloth and warm water from the bathroom, kneeling in front of him. He tried to take the rag from your hand, but you shook your head. “Let me,” you said softly.
For once, he didn’t argue. He let you cradle his hand, your smaller fingers working gently over the bloodstains. His skin was rough under your touch, his palm scarred, but you treated it like something fragile, as if the violence hadn’t seeped into the lines of his hand at all. He watched you in silence, blue eyes intent, following every stroke of the cloth. “You shouldn’t…” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “You shouldn’t want to do this for me.”
“Maybe I want to anyway,” you whispered.
The corner of his mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed dark. “You’re gonna ruin yourself, doll. Being close to me.”
You wrung out the cloth, wiping gently at his other hand, this one colder, harder. His metal fingers twitched under your touch, then stilled. “Maybe you don’t get to decide that,” you murmured.
His chest rose sharply, his eyes snapping to yours. The intensity there was almost unbearable—possessive, desperate, aching. “I came here,” he admitted finally, voice hoarse. “Because after it was over, all I wanted was you. Just… you.”
You finished cleaning the last smear of blood from his knuckles, then set the cloth aside. Without thinking, you reached up and pressed your hand against his jaw, tilting his face toward you. “I’m here,” you said simply.
And for the first time that night, his shoulders dropped, the fight bleeding out of him. He leaned into your touch, eyes closing, as though your palm was the only anchor he had left.
You didn’t let go of him right away. Even when his shoulders eased, when the fury and tension in him finally started to drain, you kept your hand at his jaw, kept your body close enough that he could feel your steadiness. When you finally shifted to stand, he caught your wrist—not tight, not desperate, but firm enough to stop you. His eyes opened, and there it was again: that raw, unguarded fear. Fear of you walking away. “Stay,” he murmured.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you said softly. “But you need to rest. You can’t keep carrying all of this on your own.” You tugged gently until he let you go, then stood and gestured toward your bedroom. “Come on. You take the bed tonight.”
His eyes narrowed immediately. “No.”
“Bucky—”
“I’m not putting you on the couch in your own home,” he said sharply, rising to his feet. “I’ll take it. Always.”
The finality in his tone made you hesitate, but then you stepped closer, meeting his intensity with your own. “You came here for comfort, didn’t you? Then let me give it to you. Please.”
The word hung between you. You almost never asked him for anything. His jaw worked. He glanced at the bedroom door, then back at you, his expression caught between resistance and something almost… longing. Finally, he exhaled slowly. “Fine. But only if you stay too.”
Your breath caught. “Bucky—”
“I won’t sleep otherwise,” he admitted, voice low, hoarse. “Not without you.”
The ache in your chest deepened. You nodded once, quietly, and guided him into the bedroom. He moved carefully, stripping off his bloodstained shirt and leaving it folded on the chair before slipping under the covers in just his undershirt and slacks. He looked out of place in your small bed, too large, too coiled with silent tension.
You slid in beside him, the lamp’s glow soft across both of you. At first, he kept to his side, stiff and deliberate, as though terrified of crowding you. But when you reached out—just the lightest brush of your fingers over his wrist—he shifted closer, inch by inch, until his forehead rested against yours. “Sorry,” he whispered again, the word barely audible. “For last night. For tonight. For all of it.”
“You don’t have to be sorry,” you whispered back, eyes closing. “Not with me.”
His breath stuttered against your cheek, and then his arm—warm, heavy, trembling slightly—wrapped around you, pulling you against his chest. It was a long time before his breathing evened out, before the tension bled from his body completely. But when it did, he slept deeper than he had in years, anchored by your presence.
And you stayed there with him, awake for a long while, listening to the steady thrum of his heart and wondering if maybe, just maybe, he was learning how to let someone share the weight he carried.
---
You woke to the sensation of warmth. Not the sunlight—though that was spilling pale and soft through the curtains—but the solid weight of the man beside you. His arm was still around you, heavy and steady, his chest pressed to your back. For a moment you stayed perfectly still, afraid that moving would shatter the fragile quiet that had settled over him in the night.
Eventually, you stirred, stretching carefully. His arm slipped away immediately, as if he’d been awake already, holding himself too tightly so as not to trap you. “Morning,” you murmured, rolling to face him. He was lying on his side, head propped on his hand, blue eyes fixed on you. His hair was a little mussed, his undershirt wrinkled. But his gaze was sharp, searching, as though he were trying to read the truth in your expression. “You slept,” you said softly, surprised by how certain you were.
“Because of you,” he admitted.
Something in your chest squeezed. You brushed your thumb lightly across the back of his hand. “I’m glad.”
But he didn’t relax. His eyes narrowed slightly, his jaw flexing. “You don’t regret this? Letting me stay?”
You blinked, caught off guard. “No. Why would I?”
“Because you saw me last night.” His voice was rough, low, like he hated the words even as he forced them out. “Bloody. Angry. A mess. That’s who I am, doll. That’s what I do when I leave you here. And I don’t…” He trailed off, eyes flicking away for a moment. “I don’t want you to look at me different because of it.”
You pushed yourself up on your elbow, leaning closer, catching his gaze. “Bucky. I saw you. And I still asked you to stay.”
His throat bobbed, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “You shouldn’t have to comfort me.”
“Maybe I want to,” you whispered, echoing the words you’d spoken when you cleaned his bloodied hands.
The silence stretched, heavy but not unbearable. His hand lifted, brushing lightly over your head, fingers catching gently at the nape of your neck. “You’re not afraid of me,” he murmured, almost to himself.
You shook your head. “Not even a little.”
His eyes closed briefly, as though the weight of that truth was too much to hold. When he opened them again, they burned with something softer than you’d ever seen in him, something dangerously close to hope. And though he didn’t say the words, you could feel them in the way he held your gaze, in the way his fingers lingered against your skin.
For once, he wasn’t just the man who haunted your shop, who walked you home, who carried storms in his chest. For once, he was just Bucky.
---
The day had been quiet, the steady hum of your little shop wrapping around you like a familiar blanket. You were working at the counter, arranging fresh lilies into a tall glass vase, humming softly under your breath. Bucky had slipped into the back earlier, muttering something about moving crates that were too heavy for you, though you hadn’t asked him to.
You balanced the vase carefully in your hands—just a little too tall, a little too slick with condensation—and then it happened. The glass slipped. You gasped, a sharp sound breaking the quiet as the vase hit the floor and shattered. Water splashed across your shoes, stems splayed in every direction, and shards of glass glittered in a jagged circle around your feet.
“Doll?” His voice was immediate, sharp, and then he was there, bursting from the back with all the force of a man expecting the worst. His eyes swept the scene in an instant—the water, the flowers, the glinting glass around your shoes—and then locked onto you.
“I’m fine,” you said quickly, holding your hands up like surrender. “I just—”
“Don’t move,” he snapped, the command biting. But his eyes softened a heartbeat later, voice lowering. “Please. Don’t move.” You froze, biting your lip. Shards glittered dangerously close to your ankles, one sliver already catching at your sock. Bucky’s chest rose hard with a deep breath. Then he stepped closer, gaze flicking up to yours. “Do you trust me?”
The question startled you—so direct, so weighted. But your answer came without hesitation. “Yes.”
In one smooth motion, his hands found your waist, strong and steady, and he lifted you up out of the circle of broken glass. You startled, legs instinctively tightening around him as he held you against his chest, the strength in his arms effortless and certain.
Your heart hammered, breath catching as the world tilted. You could feel the hard lines of him through his shirt, the steady thrum of his heartbeat pressed to your chest. For a moment, you were frozen, caught in the intensity of his eyes as he looked at you—so close, so intent, like you were the only thing in the world. Then, before you could stop yourself, a quiet giggle slipped out. You ducked your head against his shoulder, cheeks warm. “You’re… really strong.”
The corner of his mouth curved, slow and dangerous, but softer than you’d ever seen it. His grip tightened just slightly at your waist, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you how easily he held you. “Damn right I am,” he murmured, voice low against your ear. “Strong enough to carry you as long as it takes.”
Your breath caught, the teasing words laced with something heavier, deeper. You clung to him just a little tighter, not because of the glass scattered on the floor, but because of the way he said it—as though he meant more than just this moment.
And when he finally set you down on the counter, out of harm’s way, his hands lingered at your waist, eyes locked on yours like he wasn’t quite ready to let go. His hands lingered at your waist even after he’d set you safely on the counter, his eyes locked on yours like he was trying to convince himself you were unharmed. Only when you shifted slightly—cheeks warm, fingers fiddling with the hem of your apron—did he finally step back. “Stay there,” he ordered softly. It wasn’t harsh, but it brooked no argument.
You opened your mouth to protest, then caught the flash in his eyes, the steel under the softness. You nodded instead, watching as he crouched to gather the scattered stems first, setting them aside with almost comical care before he tackled the glass.
He worked in silence, broad shoulders bent, muscles shifting beneath his shirt as he swept every shard into a neat pile with practiced efficiency. He didn’t let you come near—every time you shifted on the counter as if to hop down, his gaze snapped to you, sharp as a warning. “You’re acting like I nearly lost a limb,” you said lightly, trying to break the tension.
“You could’ve cut yourself,” he muttered, scooping the last of the glass into the dustpan. “Slipped, fallen—”
“Bucky, it was a vase.”
He dumped the shards into the bin and straightened slowly, eyes narrowing. “Doesn’t matter. Anything that touches you—anything that could hurt you—it matters to me.”
The words hung in the air, heavy, possessive. Your heart thudded in your chest. When he finally crossed back to you, he brushed his hands down, metal glinting faintly in the shop’s light. Then, to your surprise, he reached out and gently lifted your ankle, checking your sock, then the other. His touch was careful, almost reverent, like he needed proof with his own eyes that you were unscathed. “I told you I was fine,” you whispered, heat curling in your chest.
“I had to see for myself,” he murmured. His hand lingered at your ankle, thumb brushing lightly against the bone, before he finally let go.
You giggled then, nervous and shy, but unable to hold it back. “You really are strong, you know. Picking me up like that…”
His lips curved into something sharp and slow, a smile that was equal parts dangerous and softened just for you. “You liked that?”
You ducked your head, embarrassed, but nodded faintly. “Maybe.”
His grin widened, eyes darkening as he stepped closer, caging you gently where you sat on the counter. “Good. Because I’m not done showing you how strong I am.”
The words made your breath hitch, your pulse skittering wildly. And though he didn’t touch you again, though he only lingered there in your space, the promise in his voice wrapped around you like a second heartbeat.
The shop closed later than usual that evening—the broken vase had set you behind, and you insisted on mopping every last drop of water yourself while Bucky loomed nearby, pretending to help while really just watching you like a hawk.
By the time you stepped out into the cooling night, the streets were already washed in shadow. He fell into step beside you, as always, but tonight felt different. The air between you was warmer, charged, still echoing with the memory of his hands lifting you clear of the glass, your legs around his waist, your breathless little laugh against his shoulder.
You stole a glance at him as you walked. His jaw was set, his gaze sharp on the street ahead, but there was something softer in the curve of his mouth, something unspoken simmering in his eyes when they flicked toward you. “Thank you,” you said quietly, breaking the silence.
He turned his head slightly. “For what?”
“For earlier. For making sure I didn’t… get hurt.” You smiled faintly, shy. “And for carrying me. Even if it was just across a puddle of glass.”
The corner of his lips curved, slow and wolfish. “I’d carry you farther than that, doll. Anywhere you wanted.”
Your heart thudded, and you ducked your gaze to the pavement. When you reached your building, you turned to face him, suddenly reluctant to let the night end. He stood close, close enough that the heat of him brushed your skin, close enough that the city noise faded into nothing. He studied you for a long moment, blue eyes intent, then lifted his hand. His knuckles brushed along your cheek, light as a whisper, before he leaned down. The kiss wasn’t on your lips. It was at the corner of your mouth, feather-light, lingering just long enough to steal your breath. When he pulled back, his gaze was burning, fierce and possessive but softened in a way you’d never seen before. “Goodnight,” he murmured, voice low and rough.
You managed a quiet, flustered, “goodnight,” before slipping inside, leaning against the door once it clicked shut. Your pulse was still racing. The ghost of his touch still lingered on your cheek. And you knew, with startling clarity, that something between you had shifted again—deeper, closer, and far harder to resist.
---
The last customer had barely left when you flipped the little sign on the door to closed. The shop was quiet, petals scattered on the counter, the air still thick with the mingled perfume of roses and lilies. Bucky was already there, leaning against the wall near the register, sleeves rolled up, watching you sweep the last of the day’s mess into a neat pile.
It was almost habit now—him staying until you locked up, walking you home like a shadow no one could shake. But tonight, as you tied off the trash bag and wiped your hands on your apron, you found yourself blurting something out before you could second-guess it. “Do you… want to come grocery shopping with me?”
His head lifted, eyes narrowing as though you’d just offered him something strange and dangerous. “Grocery shopping?”
You nodded, a little shy. “Yeah. Just the corner store, nothing big.”
For a moment, he just studied you, unreadable. Then his mouth curved, the faintest tug at the corner of his lips. “You’re asking me on a date to a grocery store?”
Your cheeks warmed. “Not a date. Just… normal. Something normal.”
That seemed to strike something in him. The teasing faded, replaced with that sharp, focused look he always gave you when he was paying too much attention. Finally, he pushed off the wall, slipping into his jacket. “Alright. Let’s go.”
The store was half-empty when you arrived, aisles humming faintly under fluorescent lights. You grabbed a basket, but before you could even step forward, Bucky plucked it from your hands, carrying it himself without comment. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” he said, same as he always did when you tried to argue.
You shook your head with a smile and wandered down the first aisle. The ordinary act of choosing bread, fruit, milk felt almost surreal with him beside you. People glanced your way—some because of his presence, some because of his sheer size—but he ignored them, his attention fixed entirely on you. You paused at the shelf of pasta, biting your lip as you compared prices. He frowned. “What’re you doing?”
“Deciding which one to get.”
“Just grab both,” he said flatly.
You laughed under your breath. “That’s not how grocery shopping works.”
He arched a brow. “When I’m here, it does.” And before you could protest, both boxes were dropped into the basket.
A few aisles later, you spotted a display of apples, glossy and red under the lights. You reached for one, but he plucked the apple from your hand. “Too bruised,” he muttered, discarding it for another. Then another. Until finally he chose one and handed it to you, his expression deadly serious.
You bit back a giggle, putting it into the basket. “You’re very picky.”
“I don’t want you eating anything that isn’t good enough for you,” he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Your heart gave a little squeeze.
At the checkout, the clerk gave you both a curious look, eyes flicking from the man built like a soldier to the flowers still faintly clinging to your apron. Bucky ignored it, pulling out a roll of bills before you could reach for your own wallet. “Bucky—”
“Don’t,” he warned softly, sliding the cash across the counter.
You sighed, but your lips curved despite yourself. When you stepped back into the night, bags in hand, he shifted most of them to his own arms, leaving you only one light sack to carry. As you walked back toward your apartment, you realized your chest felt strangely full—like the simple act of buying apples and bread with him meant more than any extravagant gift could. And when you glanced up at him, his eyes already on you, you wondered if he felt the same.
The bags rustled quietly between you as you and Bucky made your way back to your apartment. He carried almost all of them, his broad frame cutting through the dim streetlight glow like a shield. Every so often, you’d catch him glancing down at you, his gaze lingering on your smaller bag as if he were annoyed you had any weight at all to carry.
By the time you reached your door, he was already fishing the key from your pocket—something he’d made a habit of, though tonight he looked at you first, waiting. You smiled faintly and gave him a nod. He unlocked the door, nudging it open with his shoulder, and followed you inside.
The apartment felt warmer with him in it, crowded but not in a way that unsettled you. He set the bags on the counter, already rolling up his sleeves like this was second nature. “You don’t have to help put everything away,” you said, slipping off your shoes.
“Not letting you do this alone,” he countered, already unpacking a bag.
You laughed softly, shaking your head. “You’re terrible at letting me do anything.”
“Only because you deserve better than doing it by yourself.”
The simple certainty in his tone made your chest flutter. You busied yourself with the pantry shelves while he stacked cans and jars, his movements precise, almost military. Every so often, he paused to ask where something went—not in his usual commanding tone, but softer, quieter, like he wanted to get it right. When you turned to find him awkwardly holding up a carton of milk, brows furrowed, you giggled. “That goes in the fridge, Bucky.”
He smirked, shaking his head as he set it inside. “Not my strong suit, doll.”
You tilted your head, teasing. “And here I thought you were strong at everything.”
His eyes flicked to yours, sharp and knowing, but softened quickly. “I am. Especially when it comes to you.” Heat crept up your neck. You ducked back toward the pantry, pretending to fuss with the bags.
When the last of the groceries were tucked away, he leaned against the counter, watching you tie the bags into a neat bundle. His presence filled the small kitchen, his eyes steady and unreadable. “This is…” He paused, exhaling. “Nice.”
You glanced at him, smiling softly. “It is.”
“I could get used to this,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Your heart skipped. You didn’t answer, not with words. Instead, you brushed past him on your way to the sink, your arm grazing his, a tiny, wordless acknowledgment. The evening stretched out lazily, the two of you lingering on the couch after the groceries were tucked away. You’d made tea, steam curling faintly between you, and at some point your head had drifted to the back cushion, eyelids drooping while Bucky sat beside you, quiet and watchful. “You’re falling asleep on me,” he said after a long silence, his voice low and almost amused.
“M’not,” you mumbled, even as your head tilted a little to the side, threatening to nod off completely.
His lips curved, subtle but there. “Doll, go to bed.”
You groaned softly, rubbing your eyes, and gave a small pout. “Don’t wanna move. It’s too far.”
The faintest laugh rumbled from his chest. “Too far? It’s ten steps.”
You cracked one eye open, playful despite your exhaustion. “Then carry me.” You hadn’t expected him to take you seriously. But before you could blink, his hands were at your sides, sliding under you with practiced ease. You let out a startled little gasp as the world tilted, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck. He gathered you up without effort, cradled securely against his chest in a full bridal carry. Your breath caught, a laugh bubbling out as your cheek pressed against his shoulder. “Bucky—”
“Don’t pout at me if you don’t mean it,” he murmured, his voice quiet but edged with satisfaction.
He carried you through the small apartment like you weighed nothing, each step steady and sure. You didn’t protest—you couldn’t, not with the warmth of him surrounding you, not with the way he held you like you were something precious. By the time he set you down gently on the bed, pulling the blanket up over you, your heart was racing too fast for sleep. He lingered at your side for a moment, his eyes soft in a way they rarely were. “Better?” he asked quietly.
You nodded, cheeks warm, your voice a sleepy whisper. “Much.”
He exhaled slowly, almost like relief, before straightening. “Sleep, doll. I’ll be right outside.” And as you drifted off, you could still feel the phantom weight of his arms around you, carrying you like you were the only thing in the world worth holding onto.
---
It started with a lightbulb. You were balancing on the edge of a chair, stretching on tiptoe to reach the fixture above your counter when Bucky walked in. He froze in the doorway, eyes narrowing like he’d caught you dangling off a cliff. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Changing a bulb,” you answered, squinting up at the socket. “It burnt out last night.”
He stalked forward, plucking the box from your hand. “Get down.”
You turned your head, giving him a pointed look. “It’s just a lightbulb, Bucky.”
“Get down,” he repeated, voice soft but firm, like the sound of a lock clicking shut.
You sighed dramatically but stepped down, brushing dust off your apron. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re reckless,” he shot back, climbing onto the chair himself. It creaked under his weight, but he made quick work of the fixture, replacing the bulb in seconds before hopping down. He set the empty box on the counter like he’d just conquered something monumental. “See? No problem,” he said, smug.
You rolled your eyes, though your lips twitched. “You act like you saved me from falling off a building.”
His gaze softened as he brushed a speck of dust from your shoulder. “Doesn’t matter how small it is, doll. I don’t like seeing you in danger.”
The habit stuck after that. A loose hinge on your cabinet? Bucky fixed it before you even realized it needed repairing. A crack in the paint near your window? He brought in supplies and patched it one evening, sleeves rolled and shirt clinging to his back while you tried not to stare too obviously. And it wasn’t just repairs. One night you came home with groceries, and before you could even set the bags down, he was unloading them, stacking cans with soldier-like precision. He held up a carton of tea, frowning. “You drink this?”
“Yes?” you said slowly, tilting your head.
He dropped it into the cupboard. “Not anymore. I’ll bring you something better.”
You crossed your arms, trying to look stern. “You can’t just replace my tea without asking.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Then I’ll ask. May I replace your tea with something that won’t taste like dishwater?”
You laughed, covering your mouth with your hand. “Fine. You win.”
But the moment that stayed with you came later, when you offered something back. You’d picked up a box of his favorite pastries—something you’d noticed he always lingered over when you passed a certain bakery. When you handed it to him shyly at the shop, his expression faltered. He blinked down at the package, then at you, as if the gesture didn’t compute. “For me?” he asked, voice quiet.
“Of course,” you said, suddenly nervous. “You’re always helping me. I thought… you might like them.”
He opened the box, stared at the neat row of pastries, then at you again. His jaw worked, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost reverent. “No one does this for me.”
You reached out, brushing your fingers over his wrist. “They should.” His eyes darkened, burning with something fierce, something hungry—but instead of pulling you closer like you half-expected, he only nodded, as if committing the moment to memory.
---
It happened on an ordinary night, the kind where the city felt half-asleep and the shop was already dark behind you. Bucky walked you home as usual, his hand brushing lightly at your back whenever the sidewalk narrowed. The streets were quiet, the glow of the lamps stretching long shadows across the pavement.
You were telling him about a customer who’d come in earlier, half-laughing at their confusion between carnations and camellias, when your foot caught on an uneven crack in the sidewalk. You stumbled, breath catching as your balance tipped forward.
Before you could even react, his arm was around your waist. It wasn’t just a steadying touch—it was a full, protective pull, yanking you against his chest so hard your breath whooshed out. His other hand splayed across your shoulder, holding you there, shielding you as if the cracked pavement had been a bullet. “Careful,” he rasped, voice rough, too sharp for the small stumble.
Your heart raced, half from the fall, half from the intensity in his eyes when you looked up. He wasn’t just steadying you. He was possessing you, holding you so tightly you couldn’t have slipped away if you tried. “I’m fine,” you whispered, though your voice wavered.
He didn’t let go right away. His grip stayed firm, the muscle in his jaw ticking as though he was fighting some deeper instinct. Finally, slowly, his fingers loosened, but his hand stayed at your waist, lingering even as you stood straight again. “You scared me,” he admitted, voice low. The honesty in it startled you more than the stumble.
You swallowed hard, shy under his gaze. “It was just a crack in the sidewalk.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said, the words sharp but weighted with something else—something you couldn’t quite name. “Anything that could hurt you… I won’t let it.”
You didn’t know what to say to that. The silence stretched, heavy and electric, until you finally let out a small laugh to ease it. “Bucky,” you teased softly, “you act like you’re my personal bodyguard.”
His lips curved faintly, but his eyes never softened. “Maybe I am.” You didn’t argue. Not when your heart was still racing from the feel of his arms around you, not when the memory of his grip lingered like fire on your skin. And for the rest of the walk, his hand stayed at your waist, steady and sure, as if he didn’t trust the world not to trip you again.
---
It was late when you noticed it. The soft scrape of the couch, the low creak of springs shifting—quiet, but not quiet enough. You blinked awake in your bed, the faint glow from the lamp spilling into the hall. For a moment, you thought maybe you’d dreamed it. But then you heard the sound again, the unmistakable weight of someone moving restlessly.
You padded out into the living room, bare feet whispering on the floor. Bucky sat on the couch, shoulders hunched, elbows braced against his knees. His hands were clasped together so tightly the tendons stood out, and his jaw worked as though he was chewing back words. The blanket you’d given him earlier was pushed aside, rumpled like he’d tried to settle under it and failed. He looked up sharply when he heard you. His eyes softened, but only a little. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t,” you whispered. You took a step closer, watching him carefully. “Nightmare?”
His throat bobbed. He didn’t answer, but the silence was loud enough. Your chest ached. You crossed the small space and lowered yourself beside him. For a long moment, you just sat there, shoulder to shoulder, letting the quiet settle. Then, slowly, you leaned into him, resting your head against his arm. He went very still. You could feel the tension thrumming through him, the way his breath hitched, the careful restraint in the way he didn’t move. “You don’t have to do this alone,” you murmured.
He exhaled, a shudder slipping out despite himself. His arm shifted—hesitant at first—then wrapped around your shoulders, drawing you closer. You let him, curling instinctively against his side, your body fitting against his with surprising ease. The silence stretched. His breathing steadied, slow and deep, but you could still feel the echoes of the storm lingering in him. So you stayed, quiet and warm, letting your presence do what words couldn’t.
At some point, your eyes grew heavy again. The steady rhythm of his chest beneath your cheek, the weight of his arm holding you—it was too much comfort to resist. Sleep pulled at you until you gave in, drifting off curled against him.
When you stirred again, it was to the strange awareness of being shifted. His arms were around you, lifting you easily. Your head lolled against his shoulder, and you blinked blearily up at him. “You should be in bed,” he murmured, voice low and rough, though his eyes softened when he saw you awake.
“M’fine here,” you mumbled, not fully conscious of the words.
His lips curved faintly, but he didn’t set you down. Instead, he lowered himself back onto the couch, letting you settle against him, your cheek pressed to his chest this time. His hand brushed down your arm, steady and grounding. You drifted again, half-asleep, your last hazy thought the realization that he was calmer now—his heartbeat steady, his breathing even—as though holding you was the only anchor he needed.
---
The first thing you noticed when you woke was warmth. Not the blanket—you realized quickly it had slipped down in the night—but the steady heat of a chest under your cheek, the quiet rise and fall of someone breathing. It took only a blink to remember where you were, who you were on top of.
The early light from the window cut across the room, spilling soft gold on his face. His head was tipped back against the couch, lashes low, jaw unshaven and rough. He looked younger like this, stripped of the sharp edges he carried in daylight. Vulnerable.
You shifted slightly, the motion enough to stir him. His arm—still heavy across your waist—tightened instinctively, pulling you back before you could move away. His eyes cracked open, blue and still hazy from sleep, but the moment he realized where you were, they sharpened. “Morning,” you whispered, your voice catching at how close you still were.
His gaze searched yours, careful, guarded. “You’re still here.”
You smiled faintly. “Of course I am.”
He swallowed, his throat working, but he didn’t release you. His fingers brushed lightly along your side, almost tentative, as if waiting for you to flinch. “You don’t… mind this?”
Your heart skipped. You shook your head, whispering, “No.” The silence that followed was thick with things neither of you were saying. You could feel his pulse against your palm where it rested on his chest, steady but a little too quick. He was waiting—waiting for a crack, a sign that you’d regret what happened. Instead, you curled closer, nestling against him. “You slept,” you murmured, half teasing. “Didn’t even wake me this time.”
A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. “That’s ‘cause you were here.”
The words landed heavy, unpolished and raw, and for a moment neither of you breathed.
You didn’t say anything, didn’t break it. You just stayed there, your cheek against his chest, his arm secure around you, until the sounds of the waking city crept through the window and the day forced you to move. But even then, when you finally pushed yourself up, he let his hand linger at your wrist, reluctant to let go.
The morning moved slowly, like it didn’t want to let go of the quiet night before. You padded into the kitchen first, hair mussed, blanket still slung around your shoulders. Bucky followed a moment later, barefoot, his undershirt clinging faintly to his chest. He looked out of place and yet so settled, as if he’d been here a hundred mornings before.
You went for the kettle, but his hand slid past yours, already reaching for it. “Sit,” he said simply. You gave him a look, but he was already filling it with water, movements efficient, deliberate. You sank into a chair at the table, hiding a smile as you watched him. His broad shoulders bent under your too-small cupboards, his frown of concentration as he searched through your cabinets until he found the tea. He set it down with a grunt, muttering under his breath about “organizing this better next time.”
By the time he brought you a mug, he’d also sliced a piece of the bread you’d bought together, setting it on a plate with a seriousness that made you bite back a laugh. “You don’t have to take care of me every second,” you teased, wrapping your hands around the warm mug.
“Yes, I do,” he answered without hesitation, pulling out the chair opposite you.
You blinked, heat rising to your cheeks. “That’s not very normal, you know.”
His gaze sharpened, then softened again, and he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I don’t want normal. I want you safe. I want…” He trailed off, jaw tight. “…I want mornings like this.”
The honesty in his voice stilled you. Your throat felt tight, but you smiled anyway, shy and warm. “Then I guess I’ll let you keep making tea.”
For a long while, you just sat together in the small kitchen—the hum of the kettle, the creak of the chair under his weight, the soft sound of his breathing across the table. Ordinary, but not. Intimate in ways that left your chest aching. When you finally stood to rinse your mug, he was there instantly, taking it from your hands. “I said sit,” he reminded, his mouth curving faintly.
You rolled your eyes but went back to the table. Watching him wash the single mug at your sink, sleeves rolled, shoulders filling the space, you thought that maybe—just maybe—this was what he meant when he said he wanted mornings like this. And you thought, maybe, you did too.
--
It was one of those nights where the air felt restless, heavy with the promise of rain. The shop had closed hours ago, but Bucky lingered like always, walking at your side while the streets shimmered under the faint orange glow of the lamps. The first drop landed on your cheek just as you rounded the corner to your street. You brushed it away, glancing up at the dark sky. “Looks like we’re about to get drenched.”
Bucky’s gaze flicked upward, then back to you. “We’ll be fine. It’s not far.”
But by the time you reached the halfway mark, the drizzle had turned steady, cool drops soaking through your clothes. You let out a startled laugh, clutching the bag you carried tighter to your chest. “So much for fine.”
He caught the sound—the way you laughed, bright and unbothered—and something softened in his face. “You think this is funny?”
“A little,” you admitted, tilting your head back to the rain. “Feels kind of… freeing.” He watched you for a long moment, his jaw tight, his shoulders tense. The city blurred around you, people darting for cover, but he stayed rooted, unmoving, his eyes fixed only on you. “Bucky?” you asked, blinking the rain from your lashes.
He stepped closer, slow, deliberate, until his hand lifted—hesitant, almost reverent—and cupped your cheek. The rain beaded across his glove, slid down his wrist, but his palm was warm, steady. You froze, heart hammering. “I shouldn’t…” His voice was low, strained, like he was fighting himself. “But I can’t keep pretending I don’t want this.”
Before you could answer, his mouth was on yours. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t demanding. It was slow, careful, almost cautious, as though he was giving you every chance to pull away. His lips were warm against yours, tasting faintly of rain and something darker, something entirely him.
For a moment, you were too stunned to move. Then you melted into him, your hand curling lightly into his shirt, your body leaning closer without thought. His thumb brushed along your jaw, grounding, steady, while his other arm slipped around your waist, drawing you nearer.
The world narrowed to the rhythm of the rain and the steady thrum of your pulse, the rest of the city fading away. When he finally drew back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath ragged, eyes burning through the thin veil of water between you. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me, doll,” he murmured, voice rough and reverent all at once.
Your lips curved, trembling but sure. “Maybe I do.” He huffed a quiet, disbelieving laugh, brushing another kiss—softer, fleeting—against your lips before tucking you firmly against his chest. The rain poured harder, but you barely noticed. Not with his arms around you, not with the weight of that kiss still lingering between you.
The walk back to your apartment was quieter than usual, but it wasn’t the silence of strangers or awkwardness. It was charged, heavy with something unspoken—like every step still echoed with the kiss you’d just shared.
Bucky kept you tucked firmly against his side, his arm secure around your waist as though the rain or the night itself might try to take you from him. His head bent closer than usual, his hair damp and curling at the edges, his jaw tight with something you couldn’t quite read.
You caught him looking at you more than once. Not in the way he always did—observant, calculating—but softer. Like he couldn’t believe you were real, that you’d kissed him back, that you hadn’t pulled away.
By the time you reached your door, the rain had soaked through your clothes, dripping onto the floor as you fumbled with the lock. His hand covered yours, steadying, guiding the key into place. When the door clicked open, you stepped inside, turning back to him.
For the first time since you’d met him, he hesitated on the threshold. His shoulders were squared, his expression composed, but his eyes betrayed him—something raw flickering there. “You should get dry,” he said at last, his voice low, almost hoarse.
“So should you,” you countered softly. “Come in.” For a beat, he didn’t move. Then he stepped inside, the door shutting behind him with a soft finality.
Inside, the apartment felt smaller than ever, the air thick with rain and warmth and the weight of what had just happened. You peeled off your damp sweater, tossing it over the back of a chair, and glanced up to find him watching you, his own jacket hanging heavy in his hand. Neither of you spoke for a long moment. Finally, you whispered, “Bucky…”
He crossed the space in two strides, his hand lifting again to your cheek. You froze, heart hammering, as his thumb brushed a drop of rain from your skin. “I shouldn’t have kissed you,” he murmured, though his voice betrayed no regret.
You tilted your face toward his palm. “But you did.”
His lips curved faintly, a hint of something dangerous and tender all at once. “And I’ll do it again if you let me.”
You didn’t answer with words. You rose on your toes, closing the small space between you, your lips meeting his once more. This kiss was different—hungrier, deeper, the careful restraint from before crumbling under the weight of what you both had been holding back. His arm wrapped tight around your waist, pulling you flush against him, while his other hand cradled the back of your head like you were something breakable.
When you finally broke apart, both of you breathless, he rested his forehead against yours, murmuring your name like it was a vow. And in that moment, with the rain still dripping outside and his heartbeat thrumming against your chest, you knew something had shifted for good.
The rain had stopped by morning, leaving the city washed clean, the air sharp and cool when you cracked the window above your sink. Your apartment, though, was warm—warmer still with the weight of what had happened the night before. You padded into the kitchen, hair mussed from sleep, still in the oversized shirt you wore to bed. The smell of coffee hit you before you even saw him. Bucky was already there.
He stood at your counter like he owned the space, sleeves rolled, steam curling from the pot he’d set on. His jacket hung neatly on the back of the chair, his damp clothes from the night before draped over the radiator to dry. He glanced up when you entered, and for the first time in all the mornings he’d lingered here, his gaze softened in a way that made your breath catch. “Morning, doll,” he murmured.
You sank into a chair, watching him pour a cup. “You’re getting comfortable.”
He set the mug in front of you, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “Maybe I am.”
You wrapped your hands around the cup, letting the warmth seep into your fingers. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was weighted, thick with everything that had changed between you. Every glance lingered a beat too long, every brush of his hand near yours deliberate. When you finished your coffee, you stood to rinse the mug, but his hand caught your wrist lightly. “I’ll do it.”
“You don’t have to,” you said, smiling.
“I want to,” he countered, voice steady, his thumb brushing once across your skin before he released you.
Later, you opened the shop as usual, but the rhythm of the day felt different with him around. He stayed longer than he usually did, claiming a spot in the back to “keep out of the way” but emerging whenever he thought you needed him—hauling a box, adjusting a display, even holding the ladder steady when you climbed up to reach a high shelf. “You know I’ve done this before,” you teased, glancing down at him.
“Not on my watch,” he muttered, knuckles white on the ladder. By the afternoon, he’d drifted closer, sitting on the counter while you arranged a bouquet for a customer. His eyes tracked every motion of your hands, and when you tied the final ribbon, he murmured, “blue suits you better than those roses.”
You blinked up at him, flustered. “That wasn’t for me.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said, his voice low. “You’d make it look better.” Your cheeks warmed, and you quickly turned back to the flowers.
That evening, after you locked the door, he walked you home again. The air was still damp, the sky clear now, but his hand stayed at your back the entire way. At your door, instead of pulling back like usual, he lingered. “Let me in,” he said softly. Not a command this time, not quite. You hesitated only a moment before opening the door. Inside, you both shed your coats and shoes, the small apartment wrapping around you in its familiar warmth. He stood close, too close, his gaze locked on yours with an intensity that made your heart stutter.
For the first time, you didn’t look away. And though he didn’t kiss you again right then, you both knew it wasn’t because he didn’t want to. It was because the night before had changed everything—and you were both still learning how to live in that new space.
---
The first time he left, it felt strange. Bucky had woven himself into your days without question—closing the shop with you, carrying groceries, claiming the corner of your couch like it was his by right. He didn’t linger on the edges of your world anymore; he stepped directly into it.
But then one morning, he kissed your forehead at the door and said quietly, “I’ve got business I can’t put off any longer.” His eyes lingered on you like he hated the words coming out of his mouth. “I’ll be gone a while.”
You didn’t ask how long. You’d learned by now that some answers weren’t yours to demand. You only nodded, letting him go. When Bucky walked back into his penthouse, the silence struck him like a fist. It was too still, too immaculate, the air faintly cold from being shut up for days. Natasha was already there, perched on the arm of a chair like she’d been waiting. “Thought you’d moved out,” she said dryly, arching a brow.
He shrugged off his coat, dropping it onto the back of the sofa. “Didn’t realize you were keeping tabs.”
She tilted her head, eyes flicking toward the fresh bouquets lined along the window ledge. Some were old—petals curling, stems leaning—but the colors still painted the room in soft life. Your flowers. “Hard not to notice,” she said. “Your fortress looks like a greenhouse.”
Bucky’s gaze lingered on the fading blooms, something tight twisting in his chest. He’d meant to bring them home, to replace them, to keep them fresh—but the shop, the walks, your laugh, your soft hands pressing tea into his grip… it had been easier to stay in your world than return to this empty one. Natasha’s voice pulled him back. “The meeting last week—you missed it. Again.”
He grunted. “Send them my apologies.”
“You don’t have apologies big enough for the people you’re brushing off.” She stood, crossing her arms. “You’re slipping, Barnes.” He shot her a look, sharp enough to silence most. But Natasha only raised a brow, unshaken. “What happened to you?” she asked, quieter now. “You used to live for this. Now I have to drag you back here by the collar.”
Bucky didn’t answer. He poured himself a drink instead, his eyes drifting once more to the flowers. One in particular caught his attention—a small blue bloom tucked into a vase. You’d given it to him, shy and smiling, saying you’d picked it because it matched his eyes. His jaw tightened, fingers curling around the glass. “I’m not slipping.”
“Then what do you call it?” Natasha pressed.
He looked at her then, his expression sharp, dangerous—but his voice was low, certain. “I call it finally having something worth more than this.”
Natasha studied him for a long beat, then huffed a quiet laugh. “God help her if she doesn’t know what she’s getting into.” Bucky said nothing. His eyes lingered on the blue flowers, softer now, before he turned back to the empty penthouse.
Bucky didn’t last the night. He’d tried—sitting in the penthouse office, staring at the stack of reports Natasha had dropped on his desk, the kind of paperwork he used to burn through without blinking. But the silence pressed in, suffocating. The city sprawled below him, restless and alive, but all he could think about was the warmth of your little apartment. The way your voice softened when you teased him, the way your hand lingered on his wrist when you passed him tea, the way you’d kissed him in the rain.
He set the pen down, unfinished page abandoned, and leaned back in his chair. His eyes found the vase on the windowsill again—the flowers you’d given him. The petals were curling now, the blue fading, but the sight of them punched straight through the cold shell he wore in this place. “Fuck this,” he muttered. Ten minutes later, he was gone.
It was well past midnight when the knock came at your door. You blinked awake, heart thudding, but you knew who it was before you even checked. The weight of his presence pressed through the wood like it always did.
You opened the door to find him there—damp from the mist outside, hair mussed, eyes burning with something fierce and restless. He didn’t say a word at first, just looked at you, drinking in the sight of you like he’d been starved. “Bucky?” you whispered, confused but soft. “It’s late.”
“I couldn’t stay away,” he admitted, voice rough. The honesty in it knocked the air right out of you.
You stepped aside without thinking, and he slipped in, shutting the door quietly behind him. He stood in your living room like he was both too big for the space and yet exactly where he belonged. His jacket hung heavy on his shoulders, but his gaze was only on you. “I thought you said you had business,” you murmured.
“I did.” He exhaled, a sharp sound, shaking his head. “But none of it mattered. Not when all I could think about was you.”
Your breath caught, and you wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to hide the warmth creeping up your chest. “You came all this way in the middle of the night… just to see me?”
His jaw tightened, but when he spoke, his voice was steady. “I came because I needed to know you were here. Safe. Real.” The vulnerability under his words left you starstruck. For once, the weight he carried wasn’t hidden behind commands or possessive glares—it was just him, raw and unguarded, standing in your apartment like the man he didn’t show the world. And when you stepped closer, reaching out to brush the damp from his sleeve, his hand caught yours, holding it against his chest like an anchor. “I don’t care how late it is,” he said, voice low. “If you’ll have me, I’ll come back every night.”
The clock on your wall ticked quietly, the only sound filling the space between you. Bucky still hadn’t let go of your hand, his thumb brushing absently against your skin as though he couldn’t stand to stop touching you. His presence was steady, grounding—but you could see the faint lines of exhaustion etched into his face, the way his shoulders slumped despite his stubbornness. You rubbed at your eyes, fighting the pull of sleep. “Bucky,” you whispered, your voice small, rough with drowsiness.
He tilted his head, gaze softening instantly. “Yeah, doll?”
“Carry me back to bed?” The words slipped out before you could second-guess them, half a murmur, half a plea.
For a heartbeat, his expression flickered—surprise, something darker, something warmer. Then his mouth curved, slow and deliberate, into the kind of smile that always made your heart stutter. “You got it.” Before you could say anything more, his arms were around you. He scooped you up easily, strong and certain, bridal style once again. You gave a sleepy little sound of protest, more out of instinct than anything else, your arms looping around his neck as you curled against him. “You like makin’ me do this, don’t you?” he murmured, voice low, almost teasing as he carried you through the dim apartment.
“Maybe,” you whispered, smiling faintly against his shoulder.
The bedroom door creaked open, and he nudged it wider with his foot. The room was still warm from earlier, the blankets rumpled. He lowered you onto the mattress with infinite care, like you were something fragile that might break if he wasn’t gentle enough.
But when you caught his wrist before he could pull back, your voice soft but certain, his entire body stilled. “Stay with me?”
His eyes flicked to yours—blue, burning, conflicted—and then he nodded once. “Always.”
He toed off his boots, shed his jacket, and slid onto the bed beside you. The mattress dipped under his weight, the space between you vanishing when his arm slipped around your waist, pulling you back against his chest.
You sighed, nestling into him, your hand curling around his forearm where it lay heavy across you. His breath was warm against your hair, steady and sure, but you could still feel the tension in him, the way he held you like he was afraid you might disappear. Sleep tugged at you again, and just before you slipped under, you whispered, “feels right… when you’re here.”
He pressed his lips to the back of your head, a kiss so soft you almost missed it. “Good,” he whispered. “’Cause I’m not going anywhere.” And for the first time in a long time—for both of you—you fell asleep without a trace of fear.
The morning crept in soft and unhurried, sunlight spilling across your bedroom in pale strips. You stirred slowly, awareness tugging at you in waves—the warmth pressed against your back, the steady weight of an arm looped around your waist, the faint tickle of breath brushing against your hair. For a moment, you simply lay there, cocooned in the quiet. Bucky’s chest rose and fell against you, solid and reassuring, his arm heavy but comforting, like he couldn’t bear to let you go even in sleep.
When you shifted slightly, he made a low sound in his throat, not quite awake but not fully asleep either. His arm tightened, pulling you closer, his face burying against the curve of your neck. The bristle of his jaw grazed your skin, and you bit back a laugh. “Bucky,” you whispered, your voice still husky from sleep.
“Mm,” he rumbled, voice low, heavy with drowsiness. “Stay still. Too early.” You smiled into the pillow, letting yourself melt into him. But when you wriggled again—just to tease—he huffed, pressing a kiss against your shoulder, lazy and soft. “Thought I told you to stay put,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin again, this time slower.
Your breath caught, warmth spreading through you. “You’re not usually this… affectionate in the morning,” you teased, your voice barely above a whisper.
He gave a faint laugh, the sound vibrating against your back. “Don’t usually get mornings like this.” Another kiss followed, lower along your shoulder. Then another, featherlight at the back of your neck.
You giggled quietly, tucking your chin as if you could hide from the press of his lips. “That tickles.”
“Good,” he murmured, nipping lightly at your skin just enough to make you squeak. His arm tightened again when you shifted, holding you flush against him. “You’re not getting away.”
Your cheeks warmed, but you let out a breathy laugh, turning your head slightly to glance back at him. His eyes were half-lidded, blue softened by sleep but burning with something tender. The sight made your stomach flip. “You’re ridiculous,” you whispered, smiling despite yourself.
“Maybe,” he said easily, brushing his nose against your hair. “But you’re mine.”
The words should’ve sounded possessive, but in his voice—low, almost reverent—they were softer, gentler, like a confession instead of a claim. You didn’t argue. Not when his lips found yours a moment later, lazy and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to kiss you. And for once, maybe he did.
The lazy morning stretched long, unhurried, as though the world outside had decided to pause just for you. Bucky didn’t let you go right away. Every time you shifted like you might get up, his arm cinched tighter, his lips brushing your temple in silent protest. Eventually, though, your stomach growled loud enough to make you both laugh. “Fine,” he muttered, finally loosening his hold. “But only because you’re hungry.”
You padded into the kitchen barefoot, tugging him along behind you by the hand, which he allowed with surprising docility for a man who barked orders at everyone else. He leaned against the counter while you rummaged through the cupboards, watching with that intent gaze that always made you feel both flustered and oddly cherished. “Eggs, toast… maybe fruit?” you mumbled.
“I’ll do it,” he said, already reaching for the pan.
You tried to argue, but he shot you a look over his shoulder—the kind that dared you to push back. You rolled your eyes but smiled, sinking into a chair as he worked. He wasn’t polished, but he was efficient, moving with the kind of quiet precision that said he’d cooked for himself far too many times in silence.
When he set a plate in front of you—scrambled eggs, toast buttered just the way you liked—you blinked, warmth spreading in your chest. “You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to,” he cut in, his voice soft but firm.
The meal wasn’t fancy, but you couldn’t stop smiling as you ate together at your tiny table. He asked about your week, listened with rapt attention as you rambled about flowers and customers, and even smirked when you teased him about hogging the pepper.
The rest of the day unfurled lazily. You cleaned the shop’s ledger at the table while he stretched out on the couch, half-reading, half-watching you. At some point, he disappeared into the kitchen and came back with tea, setting the mug by your elbow without a word. Later, you both ended up tackling laundry, and you laughed when he insisted on folding with military precision. “You’re ridiculous,” you teased, holding up a perfectly squared shirt.
“Efficient,” he corrected, lips twitching.
By mid-afternoon, sunlight spilled through the windows, and you both ended up back on the couch. You leaned into him, your head resting against his chest while his arm draped lazily around your shoulders. He pressed the occasional kiss to your hair, to your temple, slow and lazy, as though he couldn’t help himself. One kiss landed just behind your ear, ticklish enough that you giggled, turning to nudge at him. “Bucky…”
He smirked faintly, kissing you again, this time softer, lips lingering against your skin. “What?”
“You’re… distracting.”
“Good,” he murmured, nuzzling lightly against your hair before kissing you again, this time catching your lips in a slow, lazy press that left your cheeks warm.
You tried to hide your smile against his chest, but he felt it anyway, his thumb brushing lazy circles over your arm. The day melted into evening like that—quiet, ordinary, yet threaded with something so tender it made your chest ache.
Evening settled gently, the last of the sunlight fading from your windows, and for a while it felt like the day might slip into night without disturbance. You and Bucky lingered on the couch, your head nestled on his shoulder, his arm looped comfortably around you. His thumb traced lazy arcs against your arm while your favorite show played faintly in the background.
It was quiet. Too quiet, maybe, because the knock at your door startled both of you. Bucky’s arm tightened around you instantly, his body going taut beneath your cheek. The easy warmth that had colored the whole day dropped from his face, replaced by sharp alertness. “Stay here,” he murmured, voice low, already rising to his feet.
You frowned, but before you could protest, he’d crossed the room. He opened the door a crack, blocking the entrance with his body. Natasha’s voice slipped in, calm but cutting. “You’ve been hard to reach.”
Your brows shot up, but you stayed where you were, listening. Bucky didn’t move aside, didn’t open the door further. “Not an accident.”
“You’re expected tonight,” she said, and though her tone was casual, there was no mistaking the weight behind it. “You’ve dodged the last two. That’s not an option anymore.”
“I said I’d handle it,” Bucky bit out, jaw clenched.
From your angle on the couch, you could see Natasha tilt her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “You can’t handle it from here.”
The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable. For the first time, you realized just how little you knew about what “business” meant in his world. Bucky’s body blocked you from the door, but the tension in his shoulders told you enough. “I’ll come,” he said finally, voice clipped. “Tomorrow night.”
Natasha arched a brow, then glanced past him toward you. Just for a second, her eyes softened with something unreadable before she nodded once. “Tomorrow,” she confirmed, and then she was gone.
Bucky shut the door with a quiet finality, leaning against it for a moment before turning back to you. His expression had softened again, but not all the way. There was still a shadow there, still a reminder of the part of him you didn’t see when he was folding laundry or kissing your shoulder in the morning. You sat up a little, hesitant. “Was that… work?”
He crossed the room, his jaw tight, and sank back onto the couch beside you. His hand found yours almost instinctively, like he needed the contact to ground himself. “Yeah,” he said at last. “Work.”
You studied him, unsure whether to push, but the look in his eyes stopped you. Not because it was cold—but because it wasn’t. It was protective, desperate, like he’d do anything to keep you from the parts of his life that led Natasha to your door.
So instead of asking, you curled against him again, letting your fingers twine with his. “Tomorrow,” you murmured softly, repeating his promise. His arm wrapped around you tightly, his lips brushing your temple. “Tomorrow,” he echoed. But the way he held you, fierce and unwilling to let go, told you that if it were up to him, he’d never leave your apartment again.
The night he finally went, the shift in him was immediate. You’d gotten used to a certain softness around him—the lazy mornings, his arm around your waist as you drifted through the farmer’s market, the way his mouth curved when you teased him. But when he stepped out of your apartment that evening, dressed sharp and dark, there was nothing soft about him. His jaw was set, his eyes hard, his whole body coiled tight like a man walking into battle.
You tried not to worry. He’d promised he would be back. Still, when you finally drifted to sleep on the couch, the clock ticking toward midnight, the sound of a knock at your door jolted you awake. You knew it was him before you even opened it.
Bucky stood in the hall, shoulders broad, coat collar turned up against the chill. His hair was damp with mist, but it wasn’t the weather that made your heart lurch—it was his hands. His knuckles were split raw, streaked with blood, some dried, some fresh. His face was drawn, exhaustion and something darker carved deep into his features. “Bucky,” you whispered, reaching for him before you could stop yourself.
“I’m fine,” he muttered, brushing past you into the warmth of the apartment. But the words rang hollow.
You shut the door quickly and followed him into the living room. He dropped heavily onto the couch, elbows braced against his knees, head bowed. For a moment, he just breathed, the weight of the night settling on him like armor he couldn’t shed. You crouched in front of him, your hand hovering near his without quite touching. “You’re not fine. You’re bleeding.”
His eyes lifted, blue and tired, searching yours. Something in them softened, cracked, and for a moment he looked less like the untouchable man everyone feared and more like the one who’d spent the morning teasing you with kisses. “Doesn’t matter,” he said quietly. “I’m here.”
“It matters to me.”
He closed his eyes, jaw tight, but he didn’t pull away when you reached for his hands. Carefully, gently, you guided them into your lap, your thumbs brushing over the torn skin. You fetched the first aid kit you’d kept tucked away since the first time you’d seen him like this. As you worked, dabbing at the blood, his gaze never left you. His eyes followed every movement of your hands, every soft touch, every careful breath. “You shouldn’t have to do this,” he murmured after a long silence.
You looked up at him, meeting his gaze steadily. “Maybe not. But I want to.”
His breath hitched, something raw flickering across his face. He leaned forward then, his forehead resting against yours, the distance between you vanishing. “Sweetheart…” His voice broke low, rough. “I don’t deserve this. Don’t deserve you.”
Your fingers tightened around his, careful not to hurt him but unwilling to let go. “That’s not your choice to make, Bucky.”
For a long moment, you stayed like that—forehead to forehead, his battered hands in yours, the room hushed around you. And though he never said what had happened out there, the way he clung to you told you enough.
Bucky was quieter than usual after you finished bandaging his knuckles. His eyes tracked every movement you made, like he was memorizing them, but he didn’t speak. Not when you cleaned up the kit, not when you coaxed him toward your bedroom. When you tugged gently at his hand, he followed without resistance. His shoulders looked heavier than they had all week, but the set of his jaw eased the moment you reached the bedroom door.
You crawled into bed first, expecting him to take his usual place at your side, but when you looked back, he was still standing there. His eyes softened, shadows clinging to the edges of his expression. “C’mere,” he said quietly.
You frowned. “I’m already here.”
He shook his head once, low and deliberate. He sat on the mattress, leaning against the headboard, legs stretched out. His hand patted his chest. “Here. Want you here.” Your breath caught, heat rushing to your cheeks. The request was tender, almost vulnerable, but it was also so very him—not asking, but needing, like the idea of you saying no had never crossed his mind. Still, you didn’t hesitate. You climbed up, settling carefully between his legs, your back against his chest at first. But when his arms wrapped firmly around you, pulling you closer, you shifted, turning just enough to lay half across him, your cheek pressed to the solid warmth of his chest. His heartbeat thudded steady beneath your ear, faster than it should’ve been for a man trying to rest. His chin dipped, lips brushing your hair as he murmured, “That’s it. Stay right there.”
You shifted shyly, your fingers curling lightly into his shirt. “You’re comfortable like this?”
His arms tightened, pressing you flush against him. “More than comfortable.”
For a long while, neither of you spoke. You just breathed together, your body melting into his, his warmth sinking into you until you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began. The tension in his frame slowly unwound, his muscles relaxing bit by bit as though your weight anchored him back to the earth.
When you tilted your head slightly, you found his eyes already on you, blue and intent even in the dim light. Without a word, he dipped down, his lips brushing yours in the gentlest, laziest kiss you’d ever felt—more a question than a demand, more a sigh than a claim. You smiled against his mouth, shy and soft, and he kissed you again, this one lingering, his thumb tracing idle circles at your waist. You giggled when his stubble scratched your cheek, and his lips curved faintly against yours.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured, low and rough, “don’t giggle when I’m trying to kiss you.”
You flushed, hiding your face against his chest, and he chuckled quietly, his mouth pressing into your hair instead. It wasn’t long before your breaths synced again, the weight of the day pulling you toward sleep. But this time, when his body stilled beneath you and his chest rose and fell in the deep rhythm of rest, you knew he was holding you not out of fear, but because—for once—he could.
---
The fight started small—like most things between you and Bucky did. It was late afternoon, and you’d decided to run down the block to grab milk before closing the shop. Harmless, ordinary. When you returned, juggling the bag in one hand, Bucky was already waiting at the door, his expression sharp, his shoulders rigid. “Don’t do that again.”
You blinked, startled by the clipped tone. “Do what?”
“Leave without telling me.” His voice was low, edged, the kind that made most people freeze.
You frowned, setting the bag down on the counter. “Bucky, I was gone ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes is long enough for something to happen,” he shot back, stepping closer. “You can’t just walk out without me knowing where you are.”
Your chest tightened—not with fear, but with frustration. You’d had this conversation with him before. The way he framed things like orders, the way he seemed to assume he had the right to tell you what you could and couldn’t do. You drew in a breath, steadying yourself. “You didn’t ask me, Bucky. You told me.”
His brow furrowed, confusion flashing across his face. “So? I don’t want you at risk. I’m not gonna apologize for that.”
“That’s not the point.” You stepped closer too, your voice rising just slightly. “I’ve told you before—I need you to ask me. Not command me like—like I don’t have a choice.” For the first time, he faltered. His mouth opened, then shut again, his jaw tightening. You could see the flicker of surprise in his eyes, like he hadn’t expected you to push back this hard. Your heart hammered, but you pressed on, quieter now, more vulnerable. “If you want me to tell you where I’m going… then ask me. I’ll tell you. Gladly. But don’t bark orders at me, Bucky. That’s not how this works.”
The silence stretched, thick with tension. His hands flexed at his sides, metal fingers clenching once before he exhaled slowly. “No one talks to me like that,” he admitted finally, his voice rough. “No one pushes back.”
You softened, your frustration edged with something gentler. “Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe you need someone who will.”
His eyes locked on yours, something raw flickering there—anger, yes, but also respect. And maybe, just maybe, a trace of relief. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, careful. “…Will you at least tell me next time?”
You bit back a smile, though your cheeks warmed. “See? Was that so hard?”
His lips twitched, not quite a smile, but close. And though the tension didn’t vanish completely, you knew you’d broken through something important—that he’d actually heard you. And Bucky, for all his control, didn’t know what to do with that.
The shop was already locked for the night, the ledger closed, and the soft glow of your single lamp lit the room. You’d expected Bucky to be restless after your argument—brooding, maybe even distant—but instead he lingered in the doorway, watching you curl up on the couch with a book.
When you looked up, you caught that same flicker from earlier—the one that said he’d actually listened. He crossed the room slowly, sitting on the edge of the couch. For a moment he just sat there, silent, his hands flexing once on his knees. Then, in a voice quieter than you were used to hearing from him, he asked, “can I hold you?”
Your breath caught. The simple question, asked instead of commanded, made your chest warm. You set your book aside and smiled softly. “Yes.” Relief flickered in his eyes. He shifted back, opening his arms. You climbed into his lap carefully, your knees bracketing his thighs, your arms looping around his shoulders. He drew you in immediately, strong arms banding around your waist, pulling you flush against him like he’d been starving for this.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You just curled into him, your cheek pressed against the solid warmth of his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. His breath stirred your hair, slow and deep, as though the tension had finally bled from him.
His hand slid up and down your back, not possessive now, but gentle, grounding. When he tilted his head down to press a kiss to your temple, you giggled quietly, shyer than you meant to be. “What?” he murmured, lips brushing against your skin.
“Nothing,” you whispered, though your cheeks warmed. “Just… it tickles.”
His lips curved against your hair. “Good.” He kissed you again, lower this time, at your cheekbone. “You’re sweet when you giggle.”
You hid your face against his shoulder, and his low laugh rumbled through his chest. “Don’t hide from me, doll,” he said softly, shifting to tip your chin up with his finger. His eyes were softer than you’d ever seen them. “I like seeing you happy.”
The moment stretched, warm and quiet, until your lashes fluttered and you leaned forward, brushing a quick kiss against his jaw. His arms tightened, his breath catching, but instead of claiming more, he held you steady, letting you settle against him again. And there, curled in his lap, you realized that maybe—just maybe—he’d heard you after all.
---
It was a quiet afternoon in the shop, the kind where the sun streamed lazily through the front windows and you could hear the faint hum of the city outside. You were trimming stems at the counter when Bucky walked in, his presence filling the room the way it always did—solid, steady, magnetic.
But instead of his usual lean against the counter or wordless offering of help, he paused. His hands slid into his pockets, his eyes scanning the flowers before finally settling on you. There was something different in his gaze—not sharp or commanding, but hesitant. “Doll,” he said quietly, and when you looked up, you noticed the faint tension in his jaw. “Can I ask you something?”
You smiled faintly, setting down the shears. “Of course.”
He shifted, almost like he wasn’t sure how to phrase it. “There’s a gallery opening. Tomorrow night. I was thinking…” He trailed off, then forced the words out, softer now. “Would you come with me?”
The question caught you off guard—not because of the invitation itself, but because of the way he asked. Not a command, not an expectation. A question. You tilted your head, curious. “A gallery?”
“Yeah,” he said, lips twitching faintly. “Art. Paintings. You like that kind of thing, don’t you?”
Your chest warmed. “You remembered.”
“Of course I remembered.” His voice was low, steady, but his eyes flickered away for a moment, almost shy. “It’s… not really my scene. But I figured maybe you’d like it. And I’d like to take you.”
Your heart skipped. For all his power, his control, this moment felt different. Vulnerable. Human. You stepped closer, brushing your fingers lightly against his sleeve. “I’d love to.”
Relief flashed across his face, subtle but undeniable. His hand covered yours, warm and solid, and he exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath. “Good,” he murmured. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow. We’ll make a night of it.”
The promise in his voice lingered long after, and for the first time, you realized this wasn’t just about keeping you safe or close. This was him trying—awkwardly, earnestly—to give you something that felt like a real date. Something normal. Something yours.
---
The night of the gallery opening, the city felt different—brighter, sharper, like it was holding its breath. Bucky picked you up just as he promised. You’d taken care with your appearance—clean lines, a favorite dress, a touch of perfume—but as soon as you stepped out of the car and saw the crowd, you realized it wasn’t the same kind of “dressed up.”
Everyone else glided past in tailored suits, glittering jewelry, gowns that looked like they’d cost more than your entire rent. The women’s heels clicked against the marble entrance, men’s watches caught the light, champagne flutes sparkled in elegant hands. They looked polished, untouchable. A different world entirely. And you? You felt… small. Pretty, yes, but simple.
You faltered just a little at the entrance, but Bucky noticed immediately. His hand slid firmly into yours, anchoring you. “You’re perfect,” he said, low enough that only you could hear. His eyes caught yours, steady and unflinching. “Don’t even think about it, doll. They’ve got nothing on you.”
Heat crept up your neck, but you nodded, letting him lead you inside. The gallery itself was stunning—high ceilings, gilded light fixtures, and walls lined with canvases that demanded silence. The crowd murmured in low, cultured tones, laughter muffled behind polite smiles. It felt like stepping into another universe.
You noticed quickly how people looked at him. Heads dipped in acknowledgment, eyes flicking toward him as he passed. A few men approached with polite greetings, their voices threaded with deference. Women gave him longer looks, curious, measuring.
You didn’t know their names, but you could feel it: he belonged here. Even if he stood a little apart from the crowd, he carried himself with an authority that made people move out of his way without realizing they had.
And then there was you, clinging to his hand. For a moment, you worried you looked out of place—until you caught him watching you. His gaze softened, his thumb brushing across your knuckles. The look in his eyes made you forget the polished crowd, the crystal chandeliers, the undercurrent of wealth and power humming through the room.
“This one,” you whispered after a while, pausing before a painting of blue-gray waves crashing against dark rocks. The colors pulled you in, fierce and haunting, yet strangely calm. “I like it.”
Bucky leaned close, his hand still around yours, his voice a low rumble in your ear. “Because it looks like my eyes?”
You flushed instantly, glancing up at him in surprise. The smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth told you he’d said it on purpose. “Maybe,” you admitted shyly, but your smile gave you away.
He chuckled softly, his arm sliding around your waist. And just like that, the crowded room, the expensive clothes, the stares—they all faded. Because no matter what world he belonged to, in that moment, he was looking at you.
The gallery opening stretched on, the crowd shifting like a tide of silk and crystal. Every so often, someone approached Bucky—men in sharp suits, women draped in jewels, people who clearly knew who he was. Their greetings were subtle, respectful, often accompanied by a dip of the head or the briefest handshake. You noticed how quickly their eyes slid to you afterward, measuring, curious, but no one dared to say much beyond polite murmurs.
Bucky’s arm stayed around your waist through it all, his touch steady, grounding. He answered their greetings in clipped tones, a man who knew he didn’t need to waste words. The difference between how they treated him and how you knew him in the quiet of your apartment made your head spin.
At one point, a server passed with a tray of champagne. You hesitated, unsure if you should take one, but Bucky plucked a glass easily and offered it to you, his lips twitching faintly at your shyness. “Go on, doll. You’re allowed.” You took it, fingers brushing his, and felt oddly proud when you managed a small sip without feeling out of place. He leaned down, his voice low and meant only for you. “You doing okay?”
Your heart fluttered—not just at the words, but at the way he asked them. Quiet, careful, not assuming. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m okay.”
For a while, you walked together through the halls, pausing before a few pieces of art. He didn’t say much about them, but you could feel his eyes on you as you spoke, listening as though your thoughts mattered more than the art itself.
And then, almost before you knew it, he was steering you away from the noise, out onto a balcony strung with soft lights. The city sprawled below, glittering, alive. Out here, the hum of conversation dimmed, replaced by the quiet night air. You set your half-empty glass on the railing, exhaling slowly. “They all know you,” you said softly, more observation than question.
Bucky glanced at you, his expression unreadable. “They know of me.”
The correction made your stomach flip. You turned toward him, searching his face. “And what should I know?”
For a long moment, he didn’t answer. His hand reached for yours instead, fingers lacing with deliberate slowness. “Just that I wanted you here with me. That’s all that matters tonight.”
The way he said it—firm, certain, yet soft enough to make your chest ache—kept you from pressing further. You squeezed his hand, letting the quiet stretch between you, filled only by the glow of the city lights. When you finally left the gallery, his hand never let go of yours.
The car ride home was silent but not heavy. His hand rested over yours the entire drive, his thumb brushing absentminded circles against your skin, and every so often his eyes flicked to you, as if reassuring himself you were still there.
It wasn’t until he walked you upstairs, the city hushed around you, that he finally broke the silence. “You looked beautiful tonight,” he said simply, voice low, the words meant only for you.
Heat flooded your cheeks, but you smiled shyly, your fingers tightening around his. “Thank you for bringing me.” His lips curved faintly, and for once, the powerful, untouchable man from the gallery was gone. It was just Bucky—your Bucky—looking at you like you’d given him more than he’d ever thought to ask for.
---
Bucky’s office was dim, the blinds drawn against the daylight. Papers were stacked neatly on his desk, though a closer look would’ve shown smudges of ink on his knuckles where he’d signed contracts and notes. He’d spent the whole morning hunched over the desk, phone pressed to his ear, voice sharp and clipped as he handled one matter after another. The work never stopped; it simply waited for him to return.
Natasha leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, her gaze steady on him as he hung up the latest call. She’d been patient—quiet even—but her silence was its own kind of weight. When he finally looked up, she pushed off the wall. “You’ve been slipping,” she said, matter-of-fact.
Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I’ve been managing.”
“Managing?” Her brow arched, cool and unimpressed. “You’ve been avoiding meetings. You skipped the last sit-down with the heads. You didn’t show up to the import check. That’s not managing, Bucky. That’s negligence.”
He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under the shift of his weight. “Everything that needed to be handled was handled.”
“Not by you.” Natasha’s tone sharpened. “And people notice. You can’t disappear into that flower shop every other day and expect them not to talk.” At the mention, his eyes flickered, a spark of something softer breaking through. Natasha caught it instantly. “There it is,” she said, quieter now. “You’ve been different. Lighter. Hell, even I noticed. But you can’t keep living in both worlds without one swallowing the other.”
Bucky’s hand curled into a fist against the desk. “She doesn’t know.”
“And she shouldn’t,” Natasha countered. “Not unless you’re ready to bring her in. Because if she stays in the dark, she’s a liability. Not because she’s weak—because she’s unprepared. And unprepared means vulnerable.”
He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. The thought of dragging you into his world, of letting you see the blood and steel behind the quiet moments you shared—it twisted something in his chest. He wanted to keep you untouched. Untouched and his.
Natasha’s voice softened, though it never lost its edge. “You’re at a crossroads, Bucky. Either you pull back, or you let her see who you really are. But you can’t keep her in the middle. That’s where it gets dangerous.”
His eyes narrowed, jaw working, but he didn’t argue. For once, he didn’t have an answer. Because she was right. The silence stretched, heavy as the air between them. Then finally, his voice came out rough, low. “I can’t let her go.”
Natasha tilted her head, unreadable. “Then you’d better figure out how to keep her safe. Before someone else decides she’s the best way to get to you.” The words hung in the room like smoke, impossible to ignore. And for the first time in years, Bucky Barnes felt something he didn’t allow himself often: fear. Not for himself, but for you.
That night, you noticed something was different the moment Bucky walked through your apartment door. Usually, when he came to you after a day of work, there was a rhythm—sometimes tired, sometimes sharp-edged, but always softened the moment he saw you. Tonight, though, he lingered in the doorway longer than usual. His coat stayed on, his posture stiff, his eyes shadowed in a way that made your chest tighten. “Hey,” you said softly, trying to draw him in. “Long day?”
“Yeah,” he muttered, his voice rough. He shut the door quietly, almost too quietly for a man who usually moved with certainty. His gaze flicked over you—like he was making sure you were really there—before he crossed the room.
When he pulled you into his arms, it wasn’t like before. Not just affection, not even just need—it was desperation. His grip was tight, almost crushing, his face buried in your hair. You froze for a moment, startled, before sliding your arms around him, holding on just as firmly. “Bucky,” you whispered, trying to lean back enough to see his face. “What’s wrong?”
He didn’t answer right away. His jaw flexed against your temple, and you could feel his heart hammering through his chest. Finally, in a low rasp, he said, “you don’t understand how dangerous it is.”
Your breath caught. You’d always known, in some quiet corner of yourself, that there was more to him than the man who carried your groceries and folded your laundry with military precision. But hearing it now, in that tone—it was different. “Dangerous… for me?” you asked carefully.
“For you,” he confirmed, his hands tightening on your waist as though to prove his point. “Being with me… it paints a target on you. And if anyone ever—” His words cut off, sharp, like the thought itself was unbearable.
You stayed quiet for a moment, letting his words sink in. Then, softly, you said, “and if you left? If you pulled away?”
He finally lifted his head then, his eyes finding yours. They were raw, unguarded, and the sight of them nearly broke you. “I can’t,” he admitted hoarsely. “I’ve tried to think about it. Tried to imagine it. But I can’t, doll. I can’t stay away from you.”
Something in you cracked open at the confession, equal parts fear and tenderness. You lifted a hand, cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing gently over the stubble there. “Then don’t,” you whispered. “Don’t stay away. Just… let me be here. With you.”
His breath shook, his metal hand lifting to cover yours where it rested against his cheek. He leaned into your touch like a starving man, his eyes shutting for a moment. When he opened them again, his voice was steadier, though still low. “If I do this—if I keep you close—it means you’ll see things. Parts of me, parts of my life… I’ve kept them from you on purpose.”
You swallowed hard but nodded. “Then show me. I’d rather see than be left in the dark.”
For a long moment, he just stared at you, searching, as if weighing the truth of your words. And then, finally, he exhaled, pulling you back against his chest. “Alright,” he whispered into your hair. “But once you’re in, sweetheart… there’s no going back.”
And though his tone carried warning, his arms held you like he already knew you weren’t going anywhere.
---
It started with a question you hadn’t expected. A few days had passed since that night in your apartment—the night Bucky had admitted he couldn’t let you go. He hadn’t said much more about it, but you felt it in the way he hovered a little closer, in how often his hand found yours, in the quiet determination that lingered in his eyes.
So when he showed up at your shop one afternoon, leaning against the counter with that intent look of his, you thought he was there just to keep you company. Instead, he said, “there’s a gala this weekend. I want you to come with me.”
You blinked. “A gala?”
“Big one. Everyone who matters will be there.” He didn’t elaborate who everyone was, but the weight behind his words made it clear. Then, softer, “I want them to see you with me.” The warmth in your chest almost made you forget to breathe. Official. That’s what it sounded like.
He didn’t waste time. The next day, you found yourself swept into a world you’d never touched before. The tailor’s boutique looked more like an art gallery than a store—marble floors, velvet curtains, rows of gowns shimmering under soft lights. You hovered near the entrance at first, your fingers twitching nervously at your sides. The place smelled faintly of leather and perfume, expensive in a way that made you want to keep your hands tucked safely away.
Bucky, on the other hand, looked perfectly at ease. He guided you forward with a hand at the small of your back, his voice steady as he spoke to the attendant. “Something for her. For Saturday night.”
The attendant’s eyes widened just slightly, recognition sparking as she nodded quickly. Within minutes, you were being ushered into a fitting room with armfuls of gowns in every shade and style. The first dress was sleek, dark, clinging in ways that made you self-conscious. You stepped out hesitantly, smoothing your hands over the fabric. Bucky’s eyes lifted instantly. He didn’t blink. He didn’t even breathe for a moment. His gaze swept over you, slow and deliberate, before he finally said, “beautiful.”
Heat flooded your cheeks. “It’s… too much, maybe?”
“Not enough,” he countered smoothly, his voice rougher than usual.
You ducked back into the fitting room, your pulse racing. The next dress was brighter, softer, with delicate embroidery along the bodice. When you stepped out this time, he leaned forward slightly in his chair, his elbow resting on his knee as he looked at you like you were the only thing in the room. “This one’s good,” he said, but his tone wasn’t casual—it was thoughtful, assessing, almost protective. “But I want something that makes them stare.”
You bit your lip, trying not to smile. “That sounds… intimidating.”
“Good,” he murmured, eyes locked on yours. “They should be intimidated.”
By the third dress—a deep navy that shimmered when you moved—you felt the air change. Bucky stood this time, crossing the room in a few strides. His hand lifted, brushing along the fabric at your waist, not quite touching you, but close enough to make your breath catch. “This one,” he said, voice low and certain. “Matches your eyes. And when you walk in with me wearing this, no one’ll dare forget it.”
You giggled softly, nerves twisting with warmth. “Bucky… it probably costs more than my whole apartment.”
His lips curved faintly, but his gaze stayed steady. “You let me worry about that.” And in that moment, as the silk whispered around your legs and his hand hovered at your side, you realized: this wasn’t just a dress. This was a declaration.
The attendant had just whisked the navy gown away to be pressed and boxed when something caught your eye. Off to the side, away from the racks of shimmering evening wear, hung a small collection of lighter dresses—soft fabrics, airy shapes. The kind of thing you’d wear in the shop on a warm day, not at some glittering gala.
One in particular made you pause. A simple sundress, pale with little embroidered details along the hem. It wasn’t dramatic, wasn’t dripping with jewels or stitched with silk. It was… sweet. Something you could actually see yourself wearing, not just trying on for someone else’s world. The attendant followed your gaze. “That’s from a quieter line,” she explained with a professional smile. “Not evening wear, but if you’d like to try it, you can.”
You startled slightly, glancing back at Bucky, who was still flipping idly through a lookbook the attendant had left with him. He looked up at the hesitation in your posture. “Try it,” he said simply. Not a command this time, but a suggestion—an invitation.
You hesitated. “I couldn’t… it’s not—”
His brow arched, the faintest curve of a smirk playing on his lips. “Doll, if you want to try it, you try it.”
So you did. The fabric was soft against your skin, the cut loose but flattering. When you stepped out, you felt lighter somehow, less like you were playing dress-up in someone else’s world and more like yourself. Bucky’s gaze lifted immediately. For once, he didn’t move, didn’t speak right away. His eyes roamed slowly over the dress, then back to your face. You fidgeted under the weight of it, tugging gently at the skirt. “It’s simple. Too simple, probably. Not for…” You gestured vaguely to the opulent boutique around you. “This.”
Still, he didn’t say anything. Just stood, crossing the room with quiet steps until he was right in front of you. His hand reached out, brushing the edge of the fabric at your hip, his thumb pressing lightly into the material. “You look…” He trailed off, shaking his head slightly, almost frustrated with himself. “You look like you.”
Your cheeks warmed. “That’s… good?”
“It’s perfect.” His voice was rougher than usual, sincere in a way that left no room for doubt. “The gala needs the navy gown. But this one? This one’s for me.”
Your heart fluttered, and before you could argue—before you could even tell him you couldn’t possibly afford something like this—he was already glancing over his shoulder at the attendant. “We’ll take both.”
Your mouth fell open. “Bucky—”
His hand lifted, brushing against your cheek, silencing the protest before it could fully form. His eyes softened, that steady, unyielding gaze fixed only on you. “Let me.”
And standing there, wrapped in a simple sundress in a boutique that reeked of money and power, you realized it wasn’t about the price. It was about him wanting you to have something that made you feel yourself, even in his world.
Bucky didn’t let you change out of the sundress. The attendant had neatly packaged the navy gown, slid it into a garment bag, and made a note of the transaction, but Bucky had waved her off when she offered to take the sundress back to the fitting rooms. “She’s keeping it on,” he’d said, casual but with the kind of finality no one ever argued with.
And so you found yourself leaving the boutique hand-in-hand with him, the evening air brushing against your legs as the hem of the simple dress swayed with each step. It felt strange—like you were supposed to be polished and expensive after a store like that, but instead you felt like yourself. More than that, you felt like his.
He opened the car door for you, but instead of giving the driver an address for home, he leaned down and murmured, “let’s take a walk first.”
The driver pulled away a few blocks later, leaving you and Bucky in a quieter part of the city. The streets were lined with little shops and cafés, the kind that glowed warmly in the evening. He guided you toward one tucked between a bookstore and a flower stall, the kind of place you might’ve gone with friends—if you’d had the time.
Inside, the café smelled like coffee and sugar, the hum of conversation gentle and low. No one looked twice at you. No one cared that you weren’t in glittering gowns or pressed suits. And Bucky—your Bucky, who had filled a marble-floored boutique like he owned the world—looked almost out of place here. His broad shoulders crowded the small table, his hands too large around the delicate porcelain cup. But the way he watched you, leaning forward as though you were the only thing that mattered, made the rest fade away. “You like it here?” he asked, his voice softer than the quiet jazz playing in the background.
You smiled, stirring your drink absently. “It feels… normal.”
“Normal,” he repeated, like the word was foreign on his tongue. His lips curved faintly, not quite a smile. “Guess I could get used to that.”
For a while, you sat together in that small café, talking about nothing and everything. He asked you about your favorite flowers—not the ones that sold best, but the ones you secretly kept for yourself. You teased him about how he never drank his coffee until it was practically cold. He listened, his hand finding yours across the table, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in steady circles.
And when you left, walking slowly down the street, he didn’t rush you. He let you stop at the little bookstore window, linger at the flower stall, laugh at the sight of a dog sticking its head out of a taxi. At one point, you tugged his hand without realizing, pulling him closer to something that caught your eye—a display of postcards painted with watercolor scenes of the city.
He didn’t comment on the gesture, but you felt the weight of his gaze as you flipped through them, your fingers brushing over the colors. When you finally slipped back into the car, the sundress soft against your skin and a paper bag of postcards in your lap, Bucky leaned close enough that his breath tickled your ear. “You looked beautiful in the gowns,” he murmured, his tone low, almost possessive. “But this? This is what I’ll remember.”
And you realized it wasn’t the marble floors, or the glittering chandeliers, or the navy silk that made the night feel important. It was him. It was this.
---
The gala was nothing like the gallery. From the moment you stepped into the ballroom, it was clear this was a different level of opulence entirely. Crystal chandeliers spilled golden light across the space, polished marble gleamed beneath your heels, and the air hummed with the low thrum of strings from a live orchestra. Guests glided past in gowns stitched with gemstones, tuxedos pressed to perfection, diamonds glittering at throats and wrists.
You’d taken extra care tonight, wearing the deep navy gown Bucky had chosen for you, the one that shimmered with every movement. It hugged you in ways that made you nervous at first, but when you saw the way his gaze lingered on you before you left your apartment—sharp, reverent, possessive—you knew you didn’t regret saying yes.
At first, you kept to his side, your fingers woven with his, your steps perfectly matched as he led you through the crowd. His presence was magnetic; people parted for him instinctively, their eyes darting toward you with open curiosity. Some smiled, others whispered, but all of them looked.
The first introductions came quickly—men with quick, firm handshakes, women with perfectly painted smiles. They greeted Bucky with respect, almost deference, and then turned their attention to you. The questions came in polite tones—your name, how long you’d been in the city, whether you enjoyed the gala.
You answered as best you could, but each new set of eyes made your chest tighten. You weren’t used to being the center of attention, and in a room like this, the stares felt heavier than silk gowns and diamond necklaces combined.
So you inched closer. It was subtle at first—your hand tightening on Bucky’s, your shoulder brushing his arm as someone else struck up a conversation with him. He didn’t move, didn’t draw you in, just let you settle where you wanted. But as the night stretched on and more people gathered, you found yourself tucking yourself closer and closer into his side.
By the time he was cornered by a trio of older men discussing investments, you were practically pressed to him, your arm sliding around his. His body was solid against yours, steady in a way that kept you grounded. He shifted slightly then, not pulling you in but adjusting just enough that you fit more comfortably against him. You realized you were hiding. And that he was letting you.
Between conversations, he leaned down just once, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmured, “you okay, doll?”
Your breath caught, but you nodded quickly, whispering back, “Just… a lot of people.”
His hand slid down, resting against the small of your back, warm and firm. “Stay close, then.” And you did. Through introductions, through polite laughter, through glasses of champagne that you barely sipped. You stayed tucked into his side, your cheek brushing his shoulder once when you leaned in to whisper something shyly, and his answering smirk told you he didn’t mind in the slightest.
It was overwhelming, yes. But the whole night, Bucky’s presence wrapped around you like armor. You weren’t just there as a guest—you were there as his. And judging by the way people looked at him, then at you, that message was loud and clear.
The gala bled into night, the golden chandeliers giving way to the hush of the city as you and Bucky slipped into the car. The door shut, muting the noise behind you, leaving only the soft hum of the engine and the faint rustle of your gown as you shifted against the seat.
For the first time in hours, you exhaled, your shoulders slumping slightly. You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been holding yourself until now. Bucky’s hand found yours almost immediately, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a steady rhythm. “You did good,” he murmured, his voice quiet but certain.
You smiled faintly, though your cheeks warmed. “I didn’t really do anything.”
His eyes slid to you, blue and intense even in the low light. “You were with me. That’s everything.”
The words settled heavy in your chest, warm and strange, like they meant more than you knew how to hold. The car turned, and instead of heading toward your apartment, you noticed the streets getting sharper, quieter, the buildings taller and glinting under the city lights. You glanced at him, curious. “This isn’t the way home.”
He didn’t look away, didn’t let go of your hand. “No. I want to show you something.” When the car pulled up to a gleaming tower, you felt your breath hitch. This was the kind of place you’d walked past before but never imagined entering. The doorman nodded the instant Bucky stepped out, opening the door like it was second nature. No questions, no hesitation. Just respect.
He offered his hand to help you out of the car, steady and sure, and guided you inside. The lobby was marble and glass, understated yet impossibly expensive. The kind of wealth that didn’t need to shout. The elevator ride was silent except for the low hum of the machinery and the sound of your heartbeat thudding in your ears. His hand stayed at the small of your back, grounding you. When the doors opened, you stepped directly into his penthouse.
It was breathtaking. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across one entire wall, the city sprawled out beneath like a living map of light. The furniture was sleek, dark, carefully chosen—luxury without clutter. A bar lined one side of the space, glassware gleaming faintly under soft recessed lighting. There was a piano, too, its polished surface reflecting the skyline. You turned slowly, taking it all in. “This is… yours?”
“Mine,” he confirmed simply, watching you carefully as you moved further inside.
It felt surreal, like stepping into the part of him he’d kept hidden. The part that wasn’t coffee shops and farmer’s markets, but glass towers and quiet power. You drifted toward the windows, resting a hand against the cool glass as you looked out over the city. Behind you, you heard his steps, deliberate and steady, until his reflection appeared beside yours. “Why tonight?” you asked softly. “Why show me now?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Because after tonight, there’s no pretending. Everyone saw you with me. They’ll keep seeing you. And I don’t want you walking into this blind.”
You turned, looking up at him. The shadows in his eyes were still there, the weight of his world, but so was something else—something softer, rawer. “I told you I’d rather see than be left in the dark,” you whispered.
His hand lifted, brushing lightly against your cheek, his thumb tracing your jaw. “I know,” he murmured. “That’s what scares me.”
And then, before you could answer, he bent his head and kissed you. Not the shy, tentative kisses of your apartment, but something deeper, firmer, threaded with everything he hadn’t said aloud. His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him as though he needed to remind himself you were really there. The city stretched endlessly below, but in that moment, all you could feel was him.
Bucky didn’t stop at the kiss. When he finally drew back, his forehead resting against yours, his hand slid down to lace with your fingers. “C’mere,” he murmured, tugging you gently away from the windows. “Let me show you around.”
The penthouse unfolded like something out of a dream. He guided you first through the living space—sleek lines, soft lighting, and a bar stocked more like a high-end lounge than a home. Past that was a dining area, the table long enough for ten but polished to a shine that suggested it wasn’t often used.
Then he took you down the hall to the master suite. The bedroom was spacious but not ostentatious, anchored by a bed large enough to swallow you whole. It was softened by details you hadn’t expected—heavy curtains, a worn leather chair in the corner, books stacked neatly on a nightstand. Not the kind of impersonal room you imagined in a man like him.
But it was the closet that stopped you cold. The space was larger than your entire bedroom at home, walls lined with dark wood shelves and neatly arranged clothing. His suits, pressed and orderly, filled one side. On the other, though—where you expected emptiness—were rows of neatly folded soft fabrics in your size. Pajamas. Sweaters. Undergarments in delicate lace and cotton, still with tags. Even shoes, flats and slippers and a pair of heels you knew you hadn’t bought. Your steps faltered. “Bucky…”
He watched you carefully, his hands tucked in his pockets, his jaw tight. “I didn’t want you to come here and not have anything.”
You turned slowly, looking at him. “You… bought all this?”
“I had someone pick it up,” he admitted, shrugging one shoulder like it was nothing. But the way his eyes never left your face told you it wasn’t nothing. Not to him.
Your throat tightened. It wasn’t just that he’d thought of it—it was that he’d prepared for the possibility of you being here long before you ever were. You smiled softly, shy but earnest. “Thank you.”
His shoulders eased just slightly, and he stepped closer, brushing his knuckles along your arm. “Just want you comfortable, doll. Always.”
Before you could answer, a voice carried from down the hall, low but sharp. “She’s here, then?”
You turned, startled, as Natasha appeared in the doorway. She was different from how you’d pictured—tall, poised, her red hair a striking curtain around a face that gave nothing away. She leaned casually against the frame, though her eyes, green and assessing, flicked over you in a way that made you straighten unconsciously. Bucky didn’t flinch. “Yeah. She’s here.”
Natasha’s gaze lingered on you another beat before she gave the faintest of nods. “Good. Better she’s here than in the dark.”
You weren’t sure what to say, so you offered a small, polite smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Her lips curved, just barely. “We’ll see if you still think that later.” Then, with a glance at Bucky, “she’ll need to know more. Sooner rather than later.”
Bucky’s jaw worked, but he nodded once. Natasha’s gaze softened—if only slightly—before she slipped away as quietly as she’d come. The silence left behind felt heavier than the closet full of clothes, heavier than the glittering view outside. But when Bucky turned back to you, his eyes softened, grounding you once more. “You okay?” he asked. And this time, he phrased it like a question.
You let out a shaky breath, smiling faintly. “Yeah. I think so.”
Once Natasha’s footsteps faded, he tugged you gently back into the hall, his hand warm and steady around yours. “C’mon,” he said, softer now. “There’s more.”
The penthouse was larger than you’d realized. He showed you the kitchen first—polished stone counters, state-of-the-art appliances, cabinets so tall you wondered if he ever actually used them. But there were signs of him here too: a coffee mug left out near the sink, a half-empty bottle of scotch on the counter, a dish towel folded with military precision.
From there, he led you to a smaller sitting room, tucked away from the sweeping skyline. It felt more lived in than the main space—cozier, with a blanket folded across the back of the couch, a chessboard set up mid-game. You wondered if he played with Natasha, or if the board had been waiting for an opponent he hadn’t found until you.
He showed you a study too, lined with dark shelves and heavy books, the scent of old paper lingering faintly. A few leather-bound journals lay stacked neatly on the desk, a fountain pen resting perfectly parallel beside them. You didn’t ask, but part of you wondered what he wrote in them.
By the time you circled back to the master suite, the nerves that had knotted your stomach earlier had softened into something else—curiosity, warmth, and the quiet awe of realizing this was his space. And now, in some way, yours too. He paused at the bedroom door, his eyes flicking to you. “You should get ready for bed. The pajamas are in the closet.”
You bit your lip, shy but smiling, before disappearing into the walk-in again. The set you chose was simple—soft cotton, a pale color trimmed with delicate lace. It fit perfectly, hugging you without clinging, comfortable in a way that made your breath catch. He hadn’t just guessed. He’d known.
When you padded back into the bedroom, barefoot, tugging self-consciously at the hem of the pajama top, Bucky was already waiting. He sat at the edge of the bed, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up, the city lights spilling across him through the windows. His gaze lifted the moment he heard you. And it lingered.
You froze for a moment under the weight of it, heat rushing to your cheeks. “They… fit,” you murmured.
His lips curved faintly, but his eyes stayed intent, almost reverent. “Told you. I just want you comfortable.”
You crossed the room slowly, and when you stopped in front of him, he reached for your hand, pulling you gently between his knees. His metal thumb brushed over your knuckles, his touch careful, grounding. “Stay here tonight,” he said quietly. Not a command. A request.
You nodded, your chest tight, your heart racing. “Okay.”
He exhaled softly, his hand sliding to your waist as he pressed a kiss against your stomach through the thin cotton. Then he looked up at you, his eyes blue and raw. “You look like you belong here.” And for the first time, standing barefoot in silk-soft pajamas in his penthouse bedroom, you believed him.
---
The bed was cold when you rolled over, your hand brushing against rumpled sheets where Bucky should’ve been. For a moment you thought maybe you’d imagined it—the weight of his arm around your waist, the warmth of his chest pressed to your back—but the faint indentation in the mattress told you he’d only slipped away recently.
You sat up slowly, tugging the pajama top tighter around you, and padded out into the hall. The penthouse was hushed, the city beyond the windows muted in its endless glow. You followed the faintest sound—paper rustling, a pen scratching—to the study.
There he was. Bucky sat behind a heavy desk, sleeves rolled up, a lamp casting sharp shadows across his face. Papers were spread across the surface, neat columns of numbers, ledgers, notes scrawled in his firm hand. He didn’t look up at first, but the moment your bare feet padded against the rug, his gaze lifted. “Doll,” he murmured, his voice softening instantly. He set the pen down and held out a hand. “C’mere.”
You crossed the room, shy but certain, and when you reached him, he tugged you gently onto his lap. You settled sideways across his thighs, your head resting against his shoulder. His hand smoothed along your back, slow and steady, grounding you. “You should’ve eaten first,” he said, brushing his lips against your temple. “I’ll text Natasha, have her send something up.”
You hummed, your voice muffled against his shirt. “I didn’t come looking for food.”
His brow furrowed slightly as he angled his head to see you. “No?”
You shook your head, cheeks warming. “…I missed you. In bed.”
For a moment, the silence stretched. Then his chest rumbled with a low exhale, almost a laugh but not quite. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, voice rough. “You’re gonna kill me saying things like that.”
You smiled shyly against him, and after a moment, curiosity tugged at you. You shifted just enough to glance at the papers scattered across the desk. Numbers, neat rows and totals, some underlined, some circled. “What’s all this?”
“Work,” he said simply, but when you didn’t look away, his mouth softened. “Keeping track of everything. Shipments, money in, money out. Making sure it all balances.”
You blinked, surprised. “You do the books yourself?”
“Trust’s hard to come by,” he said dryly, though his thumb traced idly over your hip. “Don’t like letting anyone else touch the numbers.”
Your lips curved faintly. “I do my shop’s books too. Every night before I close.”
That earned you a glance, one brow raised, a flicker of amusement breaking through his guarded expression. “Yeah?”
You nodded. “Yeah. It’s not as complicated, but… numbers don’t lie. You can see the whole picture if you know where to look.”
His smirk deepened just slightly. “Smart girl.” He tapped one of the ledgers with a calloused finger. “Wanna help me, then?”
You looked at him in surprise, then back at the papers. The idea of being folded into this part of his world, even in something as simple as numbers, made your heart beat faster. Slowly, you nodded. “Alright,” you whispered. “Show me what you’ve got.”
And for the next hour, you sat curled on his lap while he walked you through the ledgers, his voice low and steady, his arm always around you. It was strange—intimate in a way you hadn’t expected. Not just the touch of him, but the trust of it.
Bucky’s voice had become a low murmur in your ear, patient as he explained the rows of numbers. You tried to keep up, scribbling a few notes in the margin of his ledger, but the warmth of his chest and the steady rhythm of his hand tracing circles over your thigh slowly lulled you. Your head grew heavier until it finally settled against his shoulder. He noticed the shift instantly. Your pen slipped from your hand, rolling across the desk. Bucky caught it without looking, setting it aside, his gaze softening when he realized your breaths had evened out. You’d fallen asleep on his lap, curled up like you belonged there.
For a while, he just let you rest, one arm wrapped around you protectively, the other turning pages with a deliberate quiet. Every so often, he brushed his thumb over your side or adjusted the blanket he’d pulled down from the back of the couch. A knock broke the silence. Sharp, precise. He didn’t even raise his voice when he answered, “come in.”
The door opened, and Natasha stepped inside, a tray balanced in her hands. Steam rose from a pot of tea, plates neatly covered. Her sharp gaze flicked over the scene in front of her—you asleep, Bucky’s arm wound firmly around you—and her lips curved just slightly. “She’s out,” she said softly, setting the tray down on the corner of the desk.
“Mm,” Bucky grunted in agreement, his hand still smoothing idly along your back.
Natasha straightened, crossing her arms. “You should put her in bed.”
His jaw tightened, and he shook his head once. “She’s fine here.”
The redhead studied him for a beat longer before nodding. “I’ll leave you two, then.” She turned to go, but paused at the door, glancing back with a raised brow. “You’re softer than I thought you’d be, Barnes.”
Bucky didn’t answer. He just shifted slightly, holding you a little closer, his gaze fixed on your sleeping face. Natasha’s faint chuckle followed her out of the room. The penthouse grew quiet again. He leaned back in his chair, eyes tracing the curve of your cheek against his chest. His hand stilled over your side as he bent to press the gentlest kiss to your hair. “Sweet girl,” he whispered, so quiet you didn’t stir. “I’ll keep you safe. Always.”
The breakfast tray sat untouched on the desk, the tea growing cooler by the minute. But Bucky didn’t care. You were warm, you were breathing steady, and you were here.
Summary : Everyone is horrified that Bucky is flirting with a married woman, but then they realise there's a reason why.
Pairing : Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x florist!reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Secret wife trope. Cursing, Injury. Featuring the Thunderbolts*. Bucky kinda gaslights the entire team. Fluff!!!!
Word count : 3k
Note : The next chapter of spoils of war is almost here, but I just need to go over a couple of paragraphs! In the meantime, enjoy!
The Thunderbolts knew a few undeniable truths about Bucky Barnes.
One: He was grumpy.
Two: He was a private person.
Three: He never, ever let anyone see where he lived.
That last one bothered them the most. They’d pieced together the general area; a quiet neighborhood with old brick buildings, modern cafés, and just enough charm to make it feel… vintage. But no one had ever set foot inside his home, no one had even seen him unlock the door to his sanctuary, since he dodged every casual suggestion to hang out at his place with a variation of “I got plans” or another. And, curiously, every time they stopped for coffee in this part of town, Bucky would mysteriously slip into the tiny flower shop beneath a brick apartment building.
That was odd. No one would’ve guessed that Bucky Barnes even liked flowers.
What was even odder was that this infinitely grumpy, emotionally constipated, “I hate people” supersoldier — would be capable of flirting.
With the florist.
With you.
“Are we seeing this right?” Yelena whispered, elbowing Alexei as they peered through the shop window after Bucky made them wait outside.
They watched as Bucky stood by the counter, leaning in ever so slightly, a charming grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched you wrap a bouquet.
“He’s smiling,” Alexei muttered, horrified.
Inside, Bucky reached for the bouquet you were tying up, his gloved fingers brushing against yours. You playfully smacked his hand away, laughing. He laughed, too, and that was enough to send Yelena spiraling into an existential crisis.
Yelena squinted. “He’s flirting.”
Alexei frowned. “Bucky does not flirt.”
“I know. That’s why I’m freaking out.”
They watched as you handed him the bouquet, and in return, Bucky gave you a wink. And then he turned, walking out like he hadn’t just transformed into a different person.
That was when Yelena, utterly horrified Yelena, caught a flash of gold on your ring finger. She squinted her eyes. It was unmistakable. “Wait a second—”
As soon as he got back to them, Alexei folded his arms. “You were flirting.”
Bucky scoffed. “I was not.”
“She’s married!” Yelena accused, pointing dramatically. “She had a ring! You flirted with a married woman!”
Bucky didn’t even blink. He simply shrugged, tucking the bouquet carefully under his arm. “I didn’t see a ring.”
“She was literally wearing it—”
“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky insisted, tugging absentmindedly at the chain around his neck— the one that held his dog tags, hidden under his shirt.
Yelena and Alexei exchanged a deeply disturbed look.
Bucky Barnes was flirting with a married florist.
What was the world coming to?
—
Bucky knew he’d fucked up the second he stepped back into Thunderbolts HQ.
Alexie had just looked confused, while Yelena had been simmering the entire walk back, her arms crossed so tightly over her chest it was a miracle she hadn’t snapped a rib.
She lasted exactly two seconds before she exploded. “You are jackass, Barnes!”
Bucky barely had time to sigh before she stomped closer.
“What’s so wrong with what I did?” he muttered, placing the bouquet of flowers in an empty vase
Yelena let out an incredulous laugh, pacing in front of him like a caged tiger ready to strike. “What’s wrong?” she echoed, her accent thickening with rage. “You flirted with a married woman! I should punch you in the face on principle!”
From the lounge, John Walker looked up from whatever government-issued nonsense he was pretending to read. His brows immediately furrowed, his eyes twisting into the signature disapproving dad look he’d perfected. “Wait, what?”
Ava, who had been drinking tea in the corner, raised an eyebrow. “This is scandalous,” she murmured, eyes brightening with intrigue.
Alexei, who was now plopped on the couch like some washed-up, Soviet-era king, said, “If a man had flirted with my wife like that, I would have hunt him down and mount his head on wall.” He crossed his arms, nodding to himself in approval. “As is tradition.”
Bucky scowled. “I wasn’t flirting.”
“Oh?” Yelena snorted, “So you were just undressing her with your eyes for fun, then?”
Bucky rolled his eyes. “That’s just how I look at people.”
Alexie shook his head. “So you look at us like that?”
Bucky opened his mouth. Then immediately shut it.
Yelena’s hands curled into fists. “Yeah. Thought so.”
John’s arms crossed over his chest in that holier-than-thou stance that he was so famous for. “Look, man, I’m married. And if someone flirted with my wife, we’d have a problem.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You guys are making a big deal out of nothing.”
“Nothing?” Yelena threw up her hands. “She’s married, Bucky!”
“Okay, even if I was flirting,” Bucky turned to her, exasperated— “I didn’t see a ring.”
Yelena’s hands flew to her head, fingers digging into her scalp like she was resisting the urge to rip out her own hair. “You probably chose to look away!”
John sighed like a disappointed youth pastor. “This is unbelievable.”
“No,” Bucky still insisted, “I didn’t see a ring.”
Yelena’s jaw dropped. “It was a thick gold band, Barnes. How could you not see it?”
Ava, who was clearly enjoying the drama more than anyone, sighed. “That is inappropriate behaviour, Barnes.”
Alexei shook his head again, “You should apologise.”
“I’m not apologising,” Bucky scoffed, “Because I did nothing wrong.”
His fingers toyed absentmindedly with the chain that led to his dog tags, and Yelena immediately locked onto the movement. Every person has a tell, a habit they did when they were nervous. And being a super spy, Yelena knew this was his.
She narrowed her eyes. “You are gaslighting us,” she muttered, pacing again like she was mentally weighing the pros and cons of strangling a super soldier.
“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky repeated, his voice steady.
“You’re lying,” she snapped.
He shrugged, maddeningly casual in all of this chaos. “Guess we’ll never know.”
Ava laughed cynically. “I can’t tell if you’re a complete scumbag or if this is just really fun for you.”
Bucky just popped a beer from the fridge, flicking the cap off with his metal hand. “Why not both?”
He took a long sip of his beer, completely unbothered.
And maybe, he looked a little bit too smug.
—
Three weeks later, Bucky led Yelena and John on a mission to take down a high-scale arms dealer.
And, as always, the mission had gone sideways.
It was too late for any shops to be open, too late for anyone with a shred of common sense to be out on the streets.
Yelena was bleeding, pressing a torn scrap of fabric against a deep gash on her arm. John had a busted lip and a slight limp. Bucky was sporting a few cuts and bruises himself, but nothing he hadn’t shaken off a thousand times before.
“Guys,” Yelena managed a grunt, shifting her grip on her makeshift bandage, “we need to get ourselves patched up before one of us drops dead.”
“We ran out of antiseptics back at HQ,” John reminded them.
Yelena groaned, throwing her head back in despair. “So what are we supposed to do?” She gritted out, “Just bleed out in the street like sad little orphans?”
John scowled. “That’s a little dramatic.”
Yelena turned and glared at him. “Your face is dramatic.”
Bucky let out a deep breath through his nose, running a hand along his damp hair. He glanced around the street, making sure they weren’t being followed before whispering to himself, “Guess we’re doing this now.”
Yelena tilted her head. “Doing what?”
Instead of answering, Bucky turned on his heel and started walking.
John and Yelena gave each other a wary look.
“I don’t like when he does that,” John said.
“No one does,” Yelena agreed, but they both followed anyway.
It didn’t take long for them to recognise the route— It was the neighbourhood where the team usually got coffee.
But Bucky wasn’t heading to the café.
They rounded the corner, and suddenly John stopped dead in his tracks.
It was a closed florist—the very one where Bucky had, allegedly, been trying to charm his way into a married woman’s bed.
To John’s absolute horror, Bucky walked right up to the door and knocked.
“Bucky.” He said, voice strangled. “What the hell is this?”
Yelena blinked. “I don’t think we need to seduce a married florist to get medical supplies.”
Bucky sighed, rubbing his temples like he was already regretting this decision. He turned to them, leveling them both with a look. “Alright, listen up,” he said through gritted teeth. "The secret’s out now, so you two gotta keep your mouths shut.”
John’s brows furrowed. “What secret?”
Before Bucky could answer, the door to the flower shop clicked open.
And there you were, standing in the doorway, wrapped in one of Bucky’s hoodies, looking exactly how he’d expected: exasperated but unsurprised. He knew you’d still be up, cataloguing the latest floral shipment for tomorrow’s arrangements.
The second your eyes landed on a bruised and bloodied Bucky, and flanked by two wounded Thunderbolts, no less—you let out a sigh.
“James,” you said knowingly, your voice laced with fond irritation. “What did you do?”
Yelena and John froze in their tracks.
James?
James?
No one called Bucky by his first name. No one. Not unless they had a death wish.
Bucky, unfazed, just stepped inside. “We ran out of antiseptics, honey.”
Yelena and John exchanged a wide-eyed look.
Honey?
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Again?”
Bucky shrugged like this was a perfectly normal Thursday night occurrence.
You muttered under your breath, “I should’ve known this would happen when I married an ex-assassin.”
Oh.
Yelena’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Married.” she repeated
John blinked rapidly. “This is why we can never go to your place?”
Bucky could only shrug. Of course it was— they would have seen the evidence of how much love in his home was carved out for just you.
John let out a wheeze.
Yelena pointed between you and Bucky, motioning erratically. “Wait. WAIT. So—so she’s your wife? She married you?”
Bucky nodded. “Yup.”
“Like—actually married?”
“Mhm.”
Yelena gasped, clutching her chest like she’d been personally betrayed. In a way, she had. “And no one knows?”
Bucky thought for a second. “Sam does.”
“And Joaquin,” you added, trying to be helpful.
Bucky nodded. “Right. Joaquin.”
“Oh, and Isaiah and Elijah Bradley.”
“Yeah, they were at the wedding.”
“A teenager knew about this,” John’s eye twitched, “—and we didn’t?”
Bucky could only nod again.
Yelena rubbed a hand down her face, “You gaslit us,” she accused, jabbing a finger at Bucky. “You let us believe you were a homewrecker for weeks—when you were married the whole time?!”
You snorted, glancing at Bucky, who had the audacity to look smug. “Yeah, that sounds like my husband.”
Yelena let out a string of very creative Russian curses.
John looked like he was about to have a stroke.
“All secrets aside,” you said, welcoming the two disoriented Thunderbolts in and locking the door behind you, “It’s good to finally meet you both.”
John still looked like he was buffering. Yelena, on the other hand, was vibrating with adrenaline, looking like she was trying to solve a conspiracy theory in real time.
“This is—this is insane,” she muttered, pointing aggressively at Bucky, then at you, then back at Bucky. “You’re—you’re so normal.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “I’d like to think so.”
Bucky just hummed. “She’s perfect.”
Yelena actually sputtered like an old car engine.
John made a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a strangled laugh. This was all too much.
But there wasn’t time to let them spiral further. Bucky, gently nudged you toward the others. “Take care of them first, darling. They’ve got worse injuries.”
You frowned, wanting to protest—because, really, Bucky should always be your first priority—but your husband was nothing if not stubborn. You knew better than to argue when he had that look in his eyes— you knew that fighting him on this would only drag things out longer, and right now, time was precious.
You turned your attention to Yelena and John, motioning for them to follow you deeper into the shop. The scent of lavender, roses, and freshly cut stems—clung to the air as you led them toward the back, where your little work table stood tucked in the corner.
Years of practice had made you quick. You moved with quiet efficiency, gathering supplies from neat shelves: you cut and split an aloe vera plant for burns, grabbed bandages, and a mix of balms you’d perfected over your time tending to Bucky. It wasn’t the kind of sterile, military-grade first aid they were used to, but it would have to do for now.
You started tending to Yelena’s arm, gently dabbing the wound with fresh aloe. She hissed through her teeth before narrowing her eyes at you.
“So how long has this been a thing?” she demanded. Bucky, now leaning lazily against the counter with his arms crossed, barely spared her a glance. “A while.”
John scoffed, “A while?”
You bit back a grin as you smoothed a bandage over Yelena’s arm, “Three years.”
Yelena’s jaw dropped.
“Three—” She turned to Bucky so fast it was a miracle she didn’t give herself whiplash. “You’ve been married for three years?!”
John let out a long, defeated groan,This was simply too much to process. “Fuck’s sake.”
Yelena shook her head. “I thought you were a loner who hated people."
Bucky only shrugged, unbothered.
You chuckled as you pressed the last piece of medical tape into place on Yelena’s arm. “Alright, you’re done.” Then, glancing at John, you motioned for him to sit. “Your turn.”
John sighed but still plopped down. You took his hand gently, turning it over to examine his bruised knuckles before moving to his busted lip.
Meanwhile, they kept peppering you with questions, barely giving you room to breathe.
“How did you meet?”
“How do you put up with Bucky’s brooding?”
“Does he ever actually smile?”
At that last one, you paused, dabbing at John’s lip carefully. “He smiles all the time.”
John let out a scoff. “No, he doesn’t.”
You glanced over at Bucky, knowing he showed that part of him to you and no one else. “Oh, he does.”
And then, finally, it was Bucky’s turn.
You turned to him, your brows knitting together as you studied the little cuts on his cheek, the dried blood near his brows. He looked a little tired, a little worn around the edges.
Your fingers found his chin, tilting his face toward you as you inspected the damage. Your touch was so featherlight, so incredibly careful. There was no missing the way your thumb brushed over his cheekbone— how incredibly gentle it was.
“You should’ve let me do you first,” you murmured, half-scolding, half-concerned.
Bucky’s lips curved into a small smile, a flicker of mischief lighting his tired blue eyes. “That’s exactly what you said last night, sweetheart.”
John choked.
Yelena groaned, grabbing the nearest pillow from the nearest chair and hurling it at Bucky’s head. “You two are disgusting.”
Bucky caught the pillow effortlessly, giving her a smug grin before setting it aside. When his eyes found yours again, his shit-eating grin turned… lovely. The tension in his brows eased as you dabbed gently at his cut.
For all the blood, for all the bruises, you handled him like he was glass.
And then, without thinking, you leaned in.
It was meant to be a brief kiss— a quick reassurance, a way of saying I’ve got you. But the moment your lips brushed his, you couldn’t help but linger.
Your fingers curled instinctively against his chin. His hand found your waist without hesitation, as if he needed you closer. As if the world shrank down to just the two of you.
John and Yelena exchanged a look, the previous horror of their teammate hiding a secret wife momentarily forgotten because this was… weirdly cute.
You giggled as you pulled away, seeing Bucky looking at you like you hung the moon for him.
“Anywhere else?” you asked, brushing your thumb over his lips.
Bucky hesitated just for a second. Then, a little sheepishly, he said, “Got a cut on my ribs.”
You exhaled, shaking your head. Of course he did. Before he could argue, you reached for the hem of his shirt and tugged.
“Off,” you said simply.
Bucky huffed but didn’t fight you. He lifted his arms, letting you strip the fabric from his skin, and goddamn.
Bucky, half-naked, was unfairly, ridiculously beautiful. Even now, even after all this time, seeing him like this still knocked the breath from your lungs. His body was a roadmap of battles fought and survived, scars carved into the expanse of his chest and ribs that told stories only he could say.
John made a strangled sound, somewhere between “Jesus Christ” and “I need to leave the room,” but you ignored him completely. Yelena let out a dramatic sigh and whispered “they are one second away from sucking each other’s face off,” to herself.
You tuned them both out, fingers dragging carefully over Bucky’s ribs, searching for the wound. When you found a thin jagged cut just below his ribs— you sighed softer this time and reached for the aloe.
“You need to stop getting hurt, my love,” you said, smoothing the cool gel over his skin.
Bucky’s voice came quieter. “Lucky I have someone to take care of me, then.”
And that’s when Yelena finally noticed it.
The thin chain around Bucky’s neck—one she’d always assumed was just for his dog tags—held something else, too.
A ring.
A simple wedding band that matched yours, worn from years of resting against his skin.
She blinked, realisation hitting her like a freight train. Oh.
That’s why he always played with it.
Every time Bucky was nervous, every time he was uncertain, his fingers would move to that chain—not just to fiddle with his tags, but to remind himself of you.
Maybe he wasn’t a complete jackass after all.
-end.
Note: Hope this doesn't bite me in the ass when the movie comes out.
pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x abused!fem!reader
warnings: mentions of abuse, domestic violence (not committed by bucky!) mentions of trauma, themes of fear and recovery (please read the warnings)
summary: bucky notices the bruises before you ever say a word. as the truth unravels, he steps in—not just to protect you, he makes sure you're never hurt again.
word count: 5.3k (i went a little overboard)
author's note: i have been wanting to write this for quite a while, and i'm glad i did. enjoy my loves, your feedback and thoughts are always appreciated!
It started small.
A shift in the way you smiled—no longer bright and easy, but tight-lipped and fleeting, like you were trying to convince yourself it still came naturally. A hesitation in your laughter, once the sweetest sound in the Watchtower’s echoing corridors, now muffled, forced, or absent altogether.
The others chalked it up to stress. Missions have been tense lately. The team didn’t exactly operate in peacetime.
But Bucky…Bucky saw more.
You were the team’s secretary. The one constant in a whirlwind of chaos. Efficient, organised, always one step ahead of everyone else. You had memorised every operative’s dietary needs before the kitchen staff had.
You knew how to read between lines of mission reports, handle fallouts with the media, and you were the only person Yelena trusted to refill her coffee exactly right. Your desk, tucked near the central hub, was where people came to decompress, vent, even smile.
You made things work. You made the team work.
You were the light that steadied them all.
But lately… that light had gone out.
Bucky noticed first. He always did. Watching people wasn’t just habit—it was an instinct. A soldier’s reflex, sharpened by a lifetime of reading danger in the twitch of a hand or the flicker of a glance.
He noticed how your shoulders curled inward like you were trying to disappear into yourself, or how your arms folded across your stomach, elbows tucked in tight as if they were armour.
You flinched when anyone passed too closely behind your chair. You stopped walking through the halls with your usual spring—started hugging the walls, choosing longer routes that avoided high-traffic zones.
When Yelena clapped a hand to your shoulder in greeting, a simple, affectionate gesture—your entire body jolted like you’d been hit. Not just startled.
Terrified.
The room had gone quiet at that moment. Even Alexei paused, a half-eaten sandwich frozen in his hand. Ava had gone still beside the mission board, her eyes narrowing slightly.
You recovered too quickly. Smiled too fast. “Sorry, nerves,” you’d said, brushing it off, grabbing the nearest file and practically sprinting from the room. But Bucky had already seen too much.
And then the bruises.
They started subtly. Shadows beneath the cuff of your blouse that could be passed off as bad sleep, maybe a knock against a desk corner.
You were clumsy sometimes—everyone knew that. A walking hurricane in heels, Yelena liked to tease. You once tripped over your own shoelaces in front of Val, and no one had let you live it down for a week.
But these weren’t accidents.
There was a splotch of purple just visible beneath your collarbone, dark and irregular. Faint, yellowing fingerprints on your wrist that looked like they were trying to fade, but kept stubbornly coming back.
A raw, angry mark that peeked out from your hairline one morning, like someone had gripped your jaw too hard—someone tall enough, big enough to loom over you, strong enough to leave a handprint in their wake.
Bucky saw that one when you bent down to pick up a report you’d dropped. Your blouse’s collar dipped slightly, just enough to reveal a line of bruising that trailed from your neck toward your shoulder like a hand had wrapped around you and squeezed.
His hand clenched into a fist on instinct.
He didn’t say anything right away. He knew better. But he watched. Quietly, intensely. Not just because he cared, but because something inside him roared with the need to protect you, something deep and territorial and dangerous.
The same thing that made him stare holes into the security cameras when you left the compound for lunch, or that made him scan every incoming message with a new, sharpened edge.
He began checking your schedule.
Not overtly. Just… looking. Noting when you left the compound. Who signed you out. When you came back, and what your face looked like afterward.
You used to return from errands with little smiles and tiny stories—“The deli guy gave me an extra pickle today,” or “Some lady on the street said I had pretty earrings.” But lately, you came back quieter. Shoulders tighter. And you always avoided his eyes.
One afternoon, he asked you if you were okay.
You smiled—again, that damn smile. So polite, so practiced.
“Yeah. Just tired. Thanks for asking Bucky”
But being tired didn’t leave marks on someone’s throat.
And when you walked away, Bucky watched you disappear down the hallway and felt something cold curl in his gut. Something he hadn’t felt in years.
He knew pain. He’d lived it. Breathed it. Worn it like a second skin. But there was something worse about watching you endure it.
Something far more dangerous.
And whoever had hurt you?
They’d just reminded him exactly what he was willing to protect.
Still, Bucky didn’t act rashly. He waited. Watched. Gathered more than just bruises and broken glances. He needed to be sure—of what you were dealing with, of who was doing this to you, of how to approach without sending you further into yourself.
The wrong move could make you shut down entirely. He knew trauma didn’t unravel with questions—it needed patience.
Stillness.
Safety.
So he waited until the Watchtower cleared out for the evening.
The others had trickled out one by one—Yelena dragging Alexei into a sparring match he didn’t ask for, Ava and John disappearing into the training room, Val locked in her office for a late-night debrief.
The corridors fell quiet, fluorescent lights humming low overhead. Bucky lingered near your office, watching the shadows stretch along the floor, the door slightly ajar with the warm glow of your desk lamp spilling out into the hall.
You were still there. Of course you were.
You always stay late now.
“Hey,” he said softly, stepping into your office once the others had gone.
You didn’t jump—but he saw the way your shoulders stiffened. How your fingers paused on the keyboard, curling slightly as if preparing for something.
Your eyes stayed locked on the screen for a moment too long, and when you did glance up, they were wide and glassy with that familiar, haunted look.
The one he recognised too well.
The one he used to see in the mirror.
“Can I talk to you?” His voice stayed quiet, gentle—like coaxing a wounded animal out of hiding. He stood just inside the door, hands in the pockets of his black jacket, posture non-threatening but steady. He wouldn’t crowd you. He wouldn’t touch you. But the one thing he wouldn’t do is walk away.
You swallowed, throat tight, and gave a small nod.
“Sure.”
But the word was fragile. Like it had been stitched together with effort.
He crossed the room slowly, pulling the door shut behind him—not all the way, just enough to give the illusion of privacy without making you feel trapped. Then he moved to the chair across from your desk and sat, leaving space between you. Letting you decide what came next.
You glanced back at your screen, like you were searching for a reason to stay distracted. Like if you just kept typing, none of this would be real. But your hands didn’t move.
He waited a beat, then spoke, low and careful. “I’ve been noticing some things.”
You didn’t answer.
“I don’t mean to scare you,” he added. “I just… I’m worried about you doll”
Your shoulders tensed again. That flinch. That tell. He saw it before you could mask it. And when your arms folded across your stomach, hiding your bruised wrist, he knew.
You were protecting yourself from more than just a conversation.
“I know something’s going on,” he said. “And I don’t need the details if you’re not ready. But I need you to know that… you don’t have to do this alone.”
Still, silence. But your eyes were starting to shine, tears gathering at the corners as you stared down at your keyboard like it held all the answers.
“You’ve been flinching at every touch,” he went on, his voice nearly breaking. “You don’t smile anymore. You avoid everyone like they’re gonna hurt you. And those bruises—”
“Don’t.” Your voice cracked as the word came out, sharp and desperate.
Bucky’s breath caught. But he didn’t move. “Okay,” he said immediately. “I won’t push. I swear.”
The silence that followed was thick—trembling between confession and collapse.
And then your lip quivered. You shook your head once. “I didn’t mean for anyone to notice,” you whispered, voice so soft it almost didn’t reach him.
“I thought I could handle it.”
Bucky leaned forward, slowly, carefully. “You shouldn’t have to handle it.”
Your chin trembled. “I didn’t want to be a burden. Everyone’s got their shit. Missions. Scars. Who wants to hear about the secretary who made the mistake of falling for the wrong guy?”
His jaw clenched so tightly he thought he might crack a molar. “Who did this to you?”
You didn’t answer.
But your silence was answer enough.
His tone darkened, low and steady like steel cooled in ice. “Tell me who put their hands on you.”
You shook your head again, fast this time, panic blooming across your features. “Bucky—don’t. Please. It’ll just make it worse.”
He stood up, jaw rigid, fists clenched at his sides. The chair scraped quietly behind him, but he didn’t move toward you. Didn’t crowd. Just stood there, vibrating with barely contained rage.
But it wasn’t at you.
“I would never let anyone hurt you again,” he said, his voice rough now, fighting to stay gentle. “But you have to let me help.”
Your eyes met his cerulean irises then.
And something inside you cracked.
Because he didn’t look at you with pity.
He looked at you like you mattered. Like your pain mattered. Like he saw you—really saw you—and it didn’t make him walk away.
And something about the way he said it, like a lifeline broke you.
You told him everything.
From the first time it happened, when your ex shoved you against a wall during an argument over a text message. To the second time, when he slapped you so hard your lip split open. The cycle became normal. You had started covering up bruises like second nature, lying to your friends, flinching at shadows.
Two nights ago, he’d come home drunk, angry. He dragged you by your hair into the bedroom, wrapped a hand too tight around your neck, and left purple thumbprints beneath your jaw.
You had to call in sick the next day. Told Val it was the flu. She didn’t question it.
Tears streamed silently down your cheeks, but Bucky never looked away. His face was tight with rage, his jaw clenched so hard you thought he might break a tooth. His metal hand had curled into a fist again, knuckles whitening where they met synthetic plating.
“I'm gonna kill him,” he said, barely above a whisper.
“No,” you croaked, your hand reaching to grip his wrist. “Just… just get me out of there.”
“You don’t have to ask,” he said.
He helped you out of the office, holding your arm with such care, like you might shatter if he used too much strength. He led you to his motorcycle, the matte black vehicle parked beside the Watchtower’s bay doors.
You hesitated. “I don’t—”
He handed you his helmet and said, “You’re safe with me.”
And you believed him.
The wind was sharp against your face, your arms clinging around his waist as he drove through the dusky streets toward your apartment. Your heart thundered the entire ride—not from fear of falling, but from the feeling of escape.
At your place, you let Bucky in and stood frozen in the doorway. Your keys shaking in your hands.
“Tell me what you need,” he said.
You walked numbly toward your bedroom and began pulling a small duffel from the closet. Bucky followed, surveying the apartment with quiet calculation.
The broken picture frame on the floor.
The hole punched in the hallway drywall.
The cracked phone screen beside your bed.
You gathered clothes, toiletries, your journal, a worn copy of Pride and Prejudice. Bucky packed in silence, folding your shirts neatly, rolling your socks with care.
When you turned to get your toothbrush, your hands were trembling too badly to hold it.
“I can’t…” you whispered, finally falling apart.
Bucky was there in an instant, arms wrapping around you, pulling you into the solid warmth of his chest.
“It’s over,” he murmured into your hair. “You’re not going back there. I won’t let you.”
You sobbed into his shoulder, your body wracked with grief and relief all at once. For the first time in years, you believed it.
You were leaving.
Bucky had decided to take you to his apartment, given how late it was—and how you didn’t want the rest of the team knowing about any of this. You couldn’t bear their questions or the way they might look at you differently if they knew the truth. What you needed right now wasn’t a spotlight—it was safety.
And Bucky, somehow, had understood that without you ever having to say a word.
Tucked away in a quiet corner of Brooklyn, it felt like a sanctuary: minimalistic but lived-in, with dark wood furniture, shelves lined with old books, framed black-and-white photos, a few of them being Steve's, and soft lighting that bathed the space in warm, golden hues.
There were blankets folded over the back of his couch, plants that looked surprisingly healthy, and a record player in the corner with a small stack of vinyls beside it. The scent of sandalwood lingered in the air—warm, masculine, grounding.
“Bathroom’s through there,” Bucky said gently, “and the guest room’s yours for as long as you want it.”
You nodded, wiping your face with your sleeve.
He handed you a folded pile of clothes—one of his blue Henley shirts and a pair of grey boxer briefs that would sit loosely on your frame.
“You can sleep in these,” he said. “I’ll set up fresh towels, and if you need anything—anything—you come get me.”
You changed in the bathroom, staring at yourself in the mirror. The bruises on your neck looked even more vibrant in the soft light. You touched them lightly, then pulled Bucky’s shirt over your head. It was warm from his hands, and it smelled like cedar and something unmistakably him.
You sank into the bed that night with clean sheets, the window cracked open just enough to let in the cool night air. Bucky’s home felt quiet in a way yours never had. Not silent from tension—but peaceful. The kind of quiet that comes with safety.
You curled into the soft mattress, wrapped in a blanket that smelled faintly like him, and for the first time in two years, you slept without fear.
Safe.
Protected.
Free.
You woke up with a gasp.
The remnants of the nightmare clung to you like cobwebs—suffocating and sticky. Flashes of fists in the dark. That voice slithering in your ear, venomous and cruel. The oppressive weight on your chest, the cold dread of being trapped with no way out.
Your heart thundered, breath tearing in and out of your lungs like you were still running, still being chased. Your skin was damp with sweat, your hands shaking uncontrollably as you pushed the covers away and bolted upright in bed.
The room swam around you—familiar and unfamiliar all at once. Dimly lit by the glow of a streetlamp outside, walls painted in shadow. The silence rang too loud.
You couldn’t stay.
Before you even registered the movement, your bare feet found the cool hardwood floor, each step down the hallway echoing softly. You didn’t knock. You didn’t need to.
Bucky’s door was cracked open.
He was awake. Sitting at the edge of his bed, elbows braced on his knees, his metal hand cradling the back of his neck like it ached. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all. The soft light from the city cast silver lines across the sharp angles of his face, tracing the tension in his jaw, the furrow of his brow.
Your voice trembled, more breath than sound. “I had a nightmare.”
His head snapped up immediately, eyes locking onto yours. The shift was instant—soldier to protector. In two strides, he was in front of you.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice low and soothing. “You’re okay. I’m right here.”
His hands came to your shoulders—not forceful, just present. Anchoring. His touch was warm and steady, and it sent a tremor through you that wasn’t from fear this time, but release. Like your body finally allowed itself to feel how shaken you were.
Your lip quivered. “Can I stay?”
He nodded before you even finished the question. “Always.”
You didn’t hesitate. The bed welcomed you like a long-lost memory—soft sheets, a comforting dip in the mattress, the faint scent of his soap clinging to the pillow.
You curled into the center of it, small and tentative, feeling like a ghost of yourself. Like you might disappear if the shadows swallowed you up again.
Bucky moved with care. He didn’t rush. He pulled the blanket up over your trembling frame, tucking it gently around your shoulders. Then he slid into the bed behind you, close but not suffocating, the heat of him already beginning to thaw something frozen inside you.
His arm hovered behind you for a moment. He didn’t assume. Didn’t take. Just waited.
When you shifted ever so slightly—just enough for your back to press lightly against his chest, his arm came around you. A quiet, protective barrier. His metal fingers splayed carefully against your stomach, grounding you in the here and now.
You exhaled a shaky breath, your eyes slipping shut for the first time all night. The tension in your body began to unwind, thread by thread. His scent, clean and faintly earthy filled your nose, mingling with the sound of his heartbeat against your spine and the steady rhythm of his breathing.
And then he whispered it, his voice barely brushing your ear, soft and sure and steady.
“I’ve got you.”
The words sank into your skin like warmth, like truth. No promises he couldn’t keep. No hollow reassurances. Just a vow, solid and unspoken, in the way he held you like you were something worth protecting.
You blinked slowly, a tear slipping free and soaking silently into the pillow.
For the first time in as long as you could remember, you believed it.
You were safe.
Not because the nightmares were gone—but because Bucky was here when they came.
The morning sun filtered gently through the blinds of Bucky’s apartment, casting warm strips of gold across the hardwood floors.
For the first time in over a year, you hadn’t woken up with your heart pounding in fear. No yelling, no slamming doors. Just the subtle hum of city life beyond the window, and the distant sizzle of bacon in a skillet.
You padded out of the bedroom in Bucky’s oversized shirt and boxers, clutching the sleeves around your palms. The faint scent of him lingered in the fabric—cedar-wood, leather, and something warm, like late summer.
Bucky stood by the stove, his hair damp from a quick shower, grey T-shirt clinging to the breadth of his shoulders. When he heard your footsteps, he turned slightly and gave you a soft smile.
“Hey, sweetheart” he murmured, voice low and scratchy from sleep. “Hope you’re hungry.”
You nodded, grateful, eyes stinging. It was in the little things—the way he slid a cup of coffee toward you without asking how you liked it, because he already remembered.
Later that day, the team found out.
Yelena had noticed first. She cornered Bucky in the Watchtower’s armoury after morning briefings. “What’s going on with (y/n)?” she demanded, arms crossed, eyes sharp. “She barely said five words. She jumped when Alexei dropped his water bottle. I know bruises when I see them.”
Bucky hesitated, jaw tightening. But when Yelena added, softer this time, “I care about her too,” he gave her the truth.
Word spread in a ripple. Quiet, but powerful. By the end of the day, the team was different.
It started with your phone. You were sorting through mission reports in the comms room when it buzzed beside you, and you flinched hard enough to drop a pen because without looking, you already knew who it was. Him.
John, usually, cocky caught the look on your face and immediately picked the phone up himself.
“Give me your passcode,” he said steadily.
You hesitated. “Why?”
“Because if this asshole’s still texting you, I’m blocking him. And if he’s tracking you, we’re disabling it right now.”
You blinked at him, lip trembling. John just held your gaze, patient. Protective.
“Okay,” you whispered.
Ten minutes later, your ex was blocked. His number, email—gone. John handed the phone back like it weighed nothing, but you knew it had been a thousand-pound chain.
Bob, quiet and sweet, began programming something on the side—a digital firewall. One you didn't even ask for, but he gave it to you anyway.
“If he tries anything online, you’ll be notified. But he won’t get through. I made sure of it.”
You could’ve cried.
Ava began walking with you more often. No words. Just always there—on your way to the labs, when you stopped by the kitchen, even when you headed out to grab lunch across the street.
“I know what it’s like,” she said one day while the two of you sat on a park bench eating sandwiches. “To feel hunted.”
You looked at her, stunned. Her face was unreadable, but her hand brushed yours for a moment, just enough to remind you that you weren’t alone.
Then there was Alexei. Loud, boisterous, intimidating. He walked into the common area one afternoon with three grocery bags in hand and plopped them dramatically onto the table.
“You like those little orange cracker fish?” he boomed showing you the goldfish crackers he had gotten. “I bought five bags. And some juice. Juice is important.”
You stared at him, stunned.
“I don’t—”
“Shush little one,” he said, winking. “You part of us. Thunderbolts always feed Thunderbolts.”
Your laugh broke out before you could stop it. It felt foreign. Strange.
But real.
Alexei beamed like he’d won a medal.
Slowly but surely, the team wrapped you in something new. Something stronger than fear. Stronger than pain.
When you needed to go to the mall for more clothes—things that weren’t tainted with memories—Yelena and Bob went with you.
Yelena stuck close to your side, pretending to be indifferent but always scanning the crowd. Bob carried all the bags with a goofy grin. He even helped pick out a new hoodie. It was soft and warm and maroon.
“You should feel safe in your skin,” Yelena said simply, handing you a matching beanie. “Even if you’re still growing into it.”
Back at the Watchtower, life began to feel... lighter.
You started laughing again. At Alexei's terrible jokes, at Yelena’s savage sarcasm, at Bob’s quiet mutterings when tech didn’t work. Even John, in all his arrogance, could make you smile.
There was a movie night every Friday now and Bucky always sat next to you, sometimes with a pillow between you both to give space, other times with his shoulder a solid warmth at your side. You’d found yourself leaning into him more. Not because you had to. But because it felt right.
And he never pushed. Never demanded. Just let you exist next to him. Sometimes he’d hand you a blanket without saying a word. Sometimes he’d offer half his popcorn. Sometimes, his fingers would brush yours, warm and careful, and linger just a second longer than necessary.
You slept more. Ate more. Laughed more.
One day, Ava caught you humming in the hallway, arms full of supplies. She stopped in her tracks.
“What?” you asked.
“You’re glowing,” she said quietly.
You blinked. “I—I am?”
She gave a rare, small smile. “Like someone who remembers what sunlight feels like.”
One night, after Yelena dropped you off, you returned to the apartment Bucky always insisted was open to you. You let yourself in with the spare key. It was late, and he was half-asleep on the couch with a book in his lap. He stirred when you closed the door.
“You okay sweetheart?” he mumbled.
“Yeah,” you said.
He nodded, eyes drifting shut again.
You sat beside him, curling your legs up, and rested your head against his shoulder.
He didn’t move. Didn’t ask. Just reached for the blanket draped over the armrest and pulled it gently over you both.
It was the safest you’d ever felt.
It had started out as a good night.
One of those rare moments where the city lights felt warm rather than harsh, where laughter didn’t feel like something you had to fake.
The team had dragged you out—gently, persistently, lovingly.
“C’mon,” Yelena had said, slinging her arm over your shoulder. “Burgers, milkshakes, greasy fries. We deserve it. You deserve it.”
You hesitated. It had been a while since you went to any public diner. Too many memories. Too many shadows. Too much risk of seeing him.
But tonight? You nodded. Just once. Just enough.
The diner was loud with neon buzz and the clatter of plates, the kind of classic joint with red booths and checkered floors. Bucky slid into the booth beside you while Yelena and John sat across. Bob and Ava took the seats at the edge, Alexei immediately requesting the biggest burger they had.
Jokes flew easily. John was ranting about ketchup crimes. Yelena argued that mayonnaise was the superior condiment. Bob kept trying to order fries but the waitress only seemed to hear Alexei’s booming voice.
You were laughing. Honest, soft laughter that made your chest ache.
Then the door jingled.
And just like that, the warmth bled from the room.
Laughter dimmed. The sizzle of the grill and clatter of dishes became distant, muffled by the sudden roar of blood in your ears.
Bucky stilled beside you.
Your ex stood in the doorway, flanked by two men you didn’t recognise—thick-necked, sneering types with clenched fists and hooded eyes. But it was him you saw. Him, with that awful smirk, like nothing had changed.
Like he still owned the air you breathed.
Bucky noticed the way your body tensed, your fingers gripping the edge of the table. “Hey—”
Your ex’s eyes landed on you, and he stepped forward, raising his voice.
“Well, look who it is. Didn’t think you’d crawl this far downtown. Guess word spreads when you’re spreading your legs for every man in New York now, huh?”
The sound of the booth creaking was the only warning before Bucky stood.
Yelena’s fork clattered onto her plate.
John was on his feet in seconds, positioning himself directly between you and your ex.
“Take that back,” Bucky growled.
Your ex only sneered, moving closer. “What, you gonna fight me in front of your new playgroup? Cute. Didn’t think the Winter Soldier was into charity cases.”
You flinched.
Bucky didn’t.
“I know what you did to her,” Bucky said, low and lethal.
Your ex chuckled, but there was unease in his posture now. “What? You mean the bruises? Bitch liked it rough. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”
Yelena stood up behind John, her face carved in steel. “The next time you touch her,” she said flatly, “will be the last time you have hands.”
Your ex stepped forward as if to challenge, but John didn’t move an inch. “Try it,” he warned. “Give me a reason.”
You saw it—the twitch in your ex’s jaw, the way he coiled his fist. He swung at Bucky.
But Bucky didn’t just dodge. He caught the punch mid-air.
With his metal hand.
The crunch of bone was audible and a gasp ran through the diner.
Before anyone could react, Bucky gripped your ex by the front of his jacket, lifting him clean off the floor. The metal arm locked around his throat with frightening precision. The air stilled. Your ex's feet dangled.
“If you ever look at her again,” Bucky snarled, voice sharp and shaking with rage, “if you so much as breathe in her goddamn direction—I will rip your spine out and hang it from the Watchtower gates.”
His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It was full of restrained fury. Of violence barely held back. His eyes had darkened, steel-gray and burning.
Your ex gurgled, his hands clawing at Bucky’s grip.
“Do you understand me?”
A choked nod.
Bucky dropped him like trash.
Alexei stepped forward then, looming over the two henchmen. “You want to try luck?” he asked them casually. “I haven’t punch anything in weeks.”
The men looked at each other, then down at your ex, now coughing on the floor. They backed away.
“You’re not worth it,” one muttered, and the other practically dragged your ex toward the exit.
Your heart was thundering. Your breath short.
Bob slipped into the seat beside you. Ava stood near the door, eyes scanning the street for any lingering threat.
Bucky turned to you, jaw tight, shoulders still trembling with adrenaline. But when he looked at you, his expression softened immediately.
He crouched in front of you, hands open. “You okay?”
You nodded shakily, tears welling.
Yelena handed you a napkin. “He’s gone,” she said quietly. “He’s never coming near you again.”
John was still standing like a human shield, arms crossed.
And Bucky... Bucky cupped your cheek with his hand. It was warm, comforting, his thumb brushing away the tear that escaped.
“He doesn’t get to touch you. Not now. Not ever again.”
You leaned into him, trembling.
“I was so scared,” you whispered, barely audible.
Bucky pressed his forehead to yours. “I know, sweetheart. But it’s over. He can’t hurt you anymore. Not while I’m breathing.”
And for a moment, even in the shattered remains of what should have been a peaceful night, you were wrapped in a shield stronger than steel.
You had them.
You had him.
You were safe.
You didn’t speak on the way home.
No one made you.
Bucky drove, one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally brushing against your thigh—anchoring, grounding. The rest of the team took a second vehicle, giving you space. After what happened, you needed it.
You stared out the window, watching the neon blur into streaks of yellow and red, feeling like you were floating somewhere outside yourself. Somewhere between fear and relief.
The silence between you and Bucky wasn’t heavy—it was steady. Like the calm after a storm. Like quiet waves still curling back from the shore.
When he parked outside the compound, he turned to you slowly.
“Do you want to be alone?”
You shook your head.
He didn’t ask again. Just took your hand gently, led you through the compound, through the hallways, up the stairs. When you reached your room, he hesitated at the door.
“Can I stay?”
You nodded.
Inside, the room felt untouched by the chaos of earlier. Soft lamplight, a rumpled blanket on your bed. Familiar, safe.
You kicked your shoes off and sat on the edge of the bed, fingers twisting in your lap. Bucky crouched in front of you again, like at the diner, his hands resting on your knees.
“You’re not weak for being scared,” he said. “You know that, right?”
Your throat tightened. You nodded.
“But he’s never going to get to you again. I won’t let him. None of us will.”
You looked at him. The way his eyes held yours, soft but strong. The way his presence wrapped around you like armor. The way his touch was always careful, like you were something breakable but worth protecting.
And then you whispered, “I don’t know how to stop being afraid.”
Bucky leaned forward. Pressed his forehead gently to yours.
“You don’t have to. Not right away. But you’re not alone anymore. We’ll fight it together.”
You closed your eyes.
And when he climbed into bed beside you, when his arms wrapped around you and pulled you against the steady thump of his heart, you believed him.
Not because the fear was gone.
But because for the first time in so long, you weren’t carrying it alone.
He pressed a kiss to your temple. Whispered something you didn’t catch—but it didn’t matter.
It sounded like safety.
It felt like home.
a/n: this fic is one i hold close, because i have experienced abuse/dv in my previous relationship, and i had no idea how to leave, and writing this helped, a lot. i do hope that every person that is trapped in this cycle will find their bucky—someone who makes them feel safe and loved. i am grateful i found mine. if you're a victim or know someone who is struggling, please don't be afraid to seek for help. i promise it does get better once you leave. (google dv helpline, your country's hotline should appear)
This is Chapter Eleven of Eleven | Click Here for Masterlist
Summary : Sam Wilson starts a Support Group for Super Soldiers. You and Bucky sit next to each other during the sessions.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader
Warnings/tags : Slow Burn. Trauma. Mentions of death and violence. Just a bunch of Super Soldiers who really wanna get better :)
Word Count : 1.6k
Notes : After a long wait, I’ve finally finished this. Enjoy!
Today was not a normal session.
The folding chairs were folded up at the community center, the smell of potluck dishes filling the air, and familiar faces filled the room—but today wasn’t about talking your heart out, or survival, or coping.
Today was about celebration.
It was the anniversary of the day Sam Wilson officially became Captain America.
He didn’t want a big fuss. Which is exactly why the entire group decided to make it a big fuss.
The Super Soldier Support Group he had run for ten weeks had started with snide remarks and reluctant confessions. Veterans of different wars, different causes, all trying to remember how to live like people again in a body that was no longer completely human.
Sam led every session. He never pretended to have the answers— but he did have space to offer and an ear to listen.
And today, that same group showed up as a family.
You stood near the refreshment table, watching everyone pour in. Bucky stood by your side, his hand brushing against yours now and then. You’d gotten used to him being close, just as gravity pulled you closer to each other.
“You nervous?” you asked, nudging him.
“About Sam’s reaction? No.” Bucky glanced around the room, his lips curving up into a smile. “About Alexei giving a speech again? Little bit.”
You laughed softly. “Fair.”
The room was full. Isaiah Bradley stood with Eli near the windows, the two deep in discussion. John Walker leaned against the wall with Olivia, their kid perched on his shoulders, playing with his hair. Yelena and Alexei were at the snack table, loudly debating over who brought the better dish—spoiler: it wasn’t Alexei.
Pepper Potts chatted with Shuri in the corner, while Morgan Stark darted around the chairs like a tiny whirlwind. Cassie Lang scrolled on her phone like a bored teenager while Scott Lang and Hope van Dyne tried to lecture her about the dangers of being chronically online. Clint Barton was helping Rhodey adjust the projector, arguing about which playlist was more “vibe-appropriate.” Even Everett Ross, your boss, looked slightly less out of place than usual. Sarah and her boys were busy setting up the table, while Joaquin was stuffing his face full of beignets.
Now… you just needed to wait.
—
Sam jogged up the steps of the community center, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, worn and scuffed from years of service. He was running a little late—not enough to cause concern, but just enough to make him scold himself.
“Damn traffic,” he muttered, reaching for the door.
He paused there for a second, hand hovering over the handle, catching a glimpse of himself in the glass.
Captain America.
That still hit different, even now. Some days it felt like he was still borrowing the title— other days, like he was claiming it as his own.
Today was just supposed to be another support session. It was week eleven. Same chairs, same room.
He’d been running this for longer than he thought it would ever last—ever since he told himself he’d try to do this right.
Not the superhero stuff. The people part. The legacy part.
He took a deep breath, turned the handle, and walked inside.
Then stopped cold in his steps.
No circle of folding chairs. No coffee machine sputtering in the corner. No tired super soldier jokes to open the floor.
Instead, there were streamers, balloons, tables filled with food.
There were… people. His people. The whole room was buzzing with life and laughter, a mosaic of faces he’d come to trust.
The banner caught his eye first. Big, hand-painted, uneven letters:
"Happy One Year Anniversary, Cap."
He blinked, wondering if his mind was playing tricks on him. He looked around, catching faces he hadn’t expected to see today.
Alexei raised a solo cup. “There he is! The man of hour!”
Sam stared. “I… What the hell is going on?”
Bucky appeared by his side. “You’re late.”
“You gonna tell me why my support group looks like a block party?”
“It’s not a support group today,” you said, walking up beside Bucky, “Today’s a celebration.”
Sam gave you a skeptical look. “Of what?”
John leaned against the wall, arms crossed, grin crooked. “Of you, Cap.”
Sam’s mouth opened, then shut. He scanned the room again, and it hit him—this wasn’t just some thrown-together thank you. This was a planned event, and what's more impressive was that six super-busy, super-unorganised supersoldiers managed to sit down and talk long enough to plan this.
“I didn’t ask for this,” he said with a proud smile.
“No,” Isaiah replied, handing him a small box. “but you earned it.”
He opened it, and his breath hitched.
A perfect replica of the shield—scaled down, beautifully crafted, gleaming under the overhead lights. On the back, five names etched into the metal: John, Alexei, Bucky, Isaiah, and yours.
And beneath that:
"Thank you for reminding us we’re more than what we were made to be.”
He stared at it for a moment, thumb brushing over the engraving, over your names. His breath hitched.
Then he looked up, eyes sweeping the room again—at all the chaos and color, all the people he’d pulled together without ever really trying to. Not with orders. Not with demands, but just by being there, by showing up, again and again, with strength and compassion most people didn’t expect to come in red, white, and blue.
—
Hours later, a Nina Simone classic boomed through the speakers. Sam stood near the snack table, sipping on a cup of overly sweet punch, still half-expecting someone to jump out and yell "just kidding." But no one did.
This was real.
He watched the room again, soaking it in — and that’s when he saw you.
You were in the corner near the windows, half-shadowed by the afternoon light pouring in. Bucky was with you, of course, always a little closer than necessary, always orbiting like the world didn’t quite spin right unless you were near each other.
You were saying something with a grin, and Bucky chuckled. Then, in one smooth motion, he caught your hand and twirled you to the music, making you laugh as he pulled you back in and kissed you.
It wasn’t flashy or showy, but it was as if you both forgot to hide for the world, as you usually did. As if you thought you didn't need to hide anymore.
Sam smiled.
For a long time, he worried about Bucky— worried if he’d ever feel grounded, worried that he’d never see more than a man made of a million broken pieces in himself. But now, watching the two of you, Sam could see it.
The peace in his eyes, as if you were the first thing in decades that made sense.
Before Sam could even smile fully, Everett Ross sidled up beside you, all business and no fun— probably a light mission briefing. You sighed, gave Bucky’s hand a squeeze, and let Ross lead you to the far side of the room for what looked like a work talk.
Sam shook his head with a grin—figures, the world never really stopped, not even today.
Bucky drifted over to Sam, a solo cup in hand. He leaned beside him against the snack table.
For a moment, they didn’t speak—just watched the drift of conversations and laughter around the room.
“You know,” Bucky broke the silence with a chuckle. “I really thought I’d stop showing up after session two.”
Sam turned his head, raising a brow. He was about to ask him why when his eyes flicked across the room, landing briefly on you, taking notes on whatever intel Ross was sharing with you.
“You stayed ‘cause of her,” he said, convinced, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Bucky shook his head slowly. “No,” he said. “I stayed because of you.”
Sam blinked.
“But,” Bucky added, glancing your way with a small smile, “you did bring us together. So… thank you for that.”
Sam looked at him, the noise of the room faded a little, like the world was letting them have this moment.
“Y’know,” Sam said, “even after I officially picked up the shield… I didn’t think I could be him.”
Bucky turned toward him fully. “You think you’re supposed to be like Steve?” His voice was low now, more serious. “Fuck, Sam—have you ever heard what he was doing during those five years after the blip?”
Sam looked curiously.
“He started a support group,” Bucky said. “Like you did at the VA. Sat in those circles and listened. He helped people. You know why?”
Sam raised an eyebrow, and Bucky answered for him.
“Because he wanted to be like you.”
Sam’s lips parted, eyes wide for a second, as if the words had knocked the wind out of his lungs.
Bucky shrugged. “You think you’re chasing his achievements, but the truth is… he was trying to live up to yours. So this?” He gestured around the room, at all the people he had brought together. “This isn’t Steve’s legacy. It’s yours.”
Sam swallowed hard.
“He’d be proud, you know,” Bucky added, a small smile curling his lips. “I know I am.”
Sam looked away, his eyes glassy. “I’m just trying to do it right.”
“You are,” Bucky said. “In every damn way that matters.”
There was a small pause before Sam chuckled, shaking his head. “I ever tell you you’re not as heartless as you used to be?”
“Don’t tell anyone,” Bucky chuckled, “Ruins my reputation.”
“Too late,” Sam said, grinning. “You’re soft now. Can’t take it back.”
Bucky laughed, and for a second, Sam just looked at him—this man who had been through hell, who had clawed his way back, and who, despite it all, kept showing up in his life.
The two of them stood there, shoulder to shoulder, not as soldiers or symbols, but as people.
And in that moment, Sam didn’t feel like he was borrowing the title anymore.
Summary: Paparazzi have always been the part you hated about fame, but Bucky is there to shield you from the noise.
Word Count: 1.6k
Warnings: Paparazzi; media harassment; sensory overload; anxiety; themes of fame; public scrutiny; loss of privacy; protective Bucky
Author’s Note: As an actress myself, this was so interesting to explore. Thank you so much for the request, my love!! I hope you'll enjoy ♡
2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist
You’re not sure when the crowd doubled in size but the second the venue doors open, it feels like the damn has broken.
Flashes go off like lightning, rapid-fire questions are hurled from all directions, voices overlapping.
You hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t expected the sound of your own name to be swallowed by a hundred voices, spat back out like chewed gum, mangled and glittering and meaningless. You hadn’t expected the bodies to press this close, to squeeze the air out of your lungs with their questions, their cameras, their hunger.
You are smiling because you’re supposed to. Because the dress is perfect and the makeup is flawless and your publicist said just thirty seconds of poses, baby, that’s all they need.
But it’s louder than you thought it’d be.
Hotter, brighter, closer than it should be.
A voice - a thousand voices - explode around you and you can’t tell where they’re coming from. You flinch as someone steps too close, as someone shoves another forward to get the best angle.
But he is here.
“Back up!” Bucky’s voice is suddenly louder than anything else. Firm and sharp. His arm is at your back and you feel the warmth of his hand at your shoulder blades.
A flash pops too close. A mic nearly clips your cheek.
“Hey, back up” Bucky snaps again, voice inpatient.
His hand winds around your waist, his body moving in calculated lines, his face stony and jaw tense.
He maneuvers you expertly, weaving you through the growing knot of bodies with one goal in mind: get you out.
He moves like a storm and a wall and a prayer all at once. He says your name but not like them. Not like a transaction.
You’ve only had him as your bodyguard for a few months now, but somehow, he’s managed to become the only thing in your life that makes sense when the noise gets too loud.
He doesn’t talk much. Doesn’t ask for selfies. Doesn’t try to be your friend in the way most people do.
He just shifted in front of you without a word when you flinched at the flash of a camera the very first day. He noticed the way your hands shook after a press junket and handed you water before you asked. He called you by your name, not your character, not the headline version of you.
“Keep moving, sweetheart,” he now says quietly, calmly. As if he’s not being crushed by a wave of shouting strangers. “Just breathe. I’ve got you.”
You’re walking but you’re not walking - you’re being guided, steered, protected - his body forming a shield against the frenzied press of paparazzi. He’s bigger than you remember. Broader. He plants himself in front of you when the flashes come too fast. He catches your elbow instantly when you wobble in your heels, and you think he might actually tear someone apart if they touch you again.
You wonder if he can feel your heartbeat hammering under your skin.
You wonder if he hears the way your breath hitches in your chest.
“I’ve got you,” he repeats, close to your ear.
You press into his side without thinking, head ducked as he leads you through the mess as though he’s cutting through a warzone.
He’s saying things - short, clipped words to security, to crowd control, to the driver - and then suddenly, miraculously, there’s the car. The door swings open like salvation and Bucky helps you inside, tucking you in with careful hands.
You take a deep breath as if you’ve just broken the surface of the ocean.
Bucky slides in beside you and pulls the door shut. The windows tint. The voices vanish. You feel your heart crashing in your chest, blood singing in your ears, your throat tight and dry and useless.
You’ve always hated this part.
Not the acting. Not the scripts. Not the lights on set or the long rehearsals or the hours spent curled up in a trailer memorizing lines. No. You love that part.
You love disappearing into someone else.
But the moment the cameras turn on you - when it’s your name and your face and your body they want - everything inside you clenches.
Paparazzi have always been the prize of admission. And you’ve never stopped resenting it. They’re everywhere. Always everywhere.
Outside the airport. Outside your home. Outside your life. Their lenses are long-range weapons and their questions are landmines. You can’t move without being watched. Judged. Picked apart as if you’re a crime scene.
It’s not glamorous. It’s not fun. It’s not part of the job like they always say it is.
It’s invasive. Intrusive. Violent, in a way no one talks about.
Bucky is looking at you.
“Hey,” he says, so soft you nearly miss it. “You okay, doll?”
His voice is honey and gravel and everything safe. His brow is furrowed, the lines around his mouth carved deep with concern. He looks as if he’s ready to go back out there and dismantle the crowd with his bare hands.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” you answer in an exhale. “That was just-”
“Too much,” he finishes for you.
You nod. Or maybe you don’t. You’re not sure. You feel out of place for a second.
“I should’ve stayed closer,” he says, jaw tight, voice firm and guilty. “I usually- damn it- I didn’t like the layout tonight. Too many press zones. Too many exits. I should’ve pulled you sooner.”
You shake your head at him, almost confused. “You were perfect Bucky.”
He stills.
You see the glimmer of something behind his eyes, something quiet and careful and maybe a little touched, like he’s not used to being told that. As if he doesn’t know how to believe it.
“I brought your water,” he says, as if needing to change the subject. His voice is rough. “And the bar you like. The one with the chocolate and honey.”
He reaches for the cooler under the seat as if he’s done it a thousand times, as if he knew you wouldn’t have time to eat, as if he made a checklist in his mind and checked it twice before the night began.
You take it from him. “You didn’t have to, Bucky,” you say, voice a little weaker than you’d want. But it sounds thankful.
Bucky exhales. “Nah, I did,” he counters easily.
He nods for you to go ahead and drink, as if he doesn’t want to make a big deal out of it, but you see the way his fingers twitch, the way his shoulders don’t relax until you’ve taken a sip, taken a breath, looked at him as though you really are okay.
And you are. Because of him.
Because you’ve spent so long trying to armor yourself against a world that wants to consume you.
And then this man - this silent, serious, steel-spined man - walked into your life and made it his mission to be there for you. To make those situations as comfortable as they can get.
And maybe you fall a little in those moments.
Maybe you’re still falling now.
“I’m getting you something,” you say suddenly.
He blinks over at you, startled. “What?”
You turn toward him, straightening your back in your seat. “You’re always saving me. Protecting me. I need to thank you properly.”
Bucky’s ears go red almost immediately.
He shakes his head, gruff and sheepish all at once. “Nah, doll. You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to,” you counter fiercely. Fiercely enough that he genuinely looks a little shocked. “You’re the only reason I don’t lose my mind at these things.”
You see the way he swallows, the way he starts to shake his head, so you continue.
“I owe you something. I’m getting you- I don’t know, something big. A car, maybe. Do you need a new one? Or a vacation. You deserve a vacation.”
His eyes go wide. Wide and horrified and - bless him - so bashful.
“No- no, doll, you don’t have to-” he stammers, the words tripping over themselves like newborn deers. His usually so sharp cheeks turn the faintest, most beautiful pink. “You don’t have to do anything. M’ just doing my job.”
You stare at him. At the man who has blocked cameras with his body, shielded you from flying elbows, memorized the foods you like when you’re too stressed to eat.
You lean in, close enough to see the silver flecks in his blue eyes. Close enough to see his breath hitch.
“Let me spoil you a little, okay?” you press softly.
Bucky ducks his head as if he’s embarrassed. Mumbles something under his breath, eyes darting everywhere but to you.
“Come on, Barnes. You know you deserve it.” You smile at him, really smile, for the first time all night as it feels like.
Bucky releases an awkward, breathless laugh. And suddenly he doesn’t look so serious anymore.
Because you know that under all that steel and stubbornness and the wall he can be to shield you against the uncomfortable things of your job you can’t escape, he’s a real ass softy.
And you think, maybe the world outside can keep screaming.
A/N: I KNOW i said i wasnt posting this till Yours, Always was done buuuuuuut before i keep writing it because it is FLOWING for this fic i had to see if anyone was even interested lol soooo lemmeee know if you want me to continue this after Yours, Always
Masterpost
------
There’s something sacred about Saturday mornings in the apartment. The quiet is different, not heavy, not tense. Just still. Like the world finally decided to give you all a break, especially before you all get a little chaotic again…tonight.
Sunlight pours through the dusty windows, catching in the floating particles of last night’s hangover haze. There’s an empty pizza box on the coffee table. Someone, probably Steve, folded a blanket and placed it neatly over the back of the couch like it makes the whole place less of a disaster.
Natasha’s curled in the armchair, black hoodie, hood up, headphones in. She hasn’t spoken to anyone since she woke up, but that’s not weird. That’s just Nat, communication through shrugs, smirks, and sideways glances. You’ve known her long enough to translate.
Steve’s in the kitchen, still making pancakes like they didn’t all come out slightly undercooked last week. He hums when he cooks. It used to annoy you, but now it’s like clockwork. Something solid.
Bucky hasn’t come out of his room yet. But you know he’s awake, the soft glow of his bedroom light slipped under the door before you even stepped into the hallway. You always notice these things when it comes to him. You wish you didn’t.
Most nights, you end up in each other’s beds not for sex, you've never taken anything that far, not even for anything romantic. Just comfort, a habit. A kind of wordless safety you’ve never really been able to explain.
But not last night.
You’re not even sure why. Maybe it had something to do with your father calling in the middle or your usual Friday night hangout. Maybe it was the way you stormed off after, slammed your bedroom door and locked it behind you. You didn’t mean to shut Bucky out, but you did.
He waited outside your door for hours. You found out this morning, Steve mentioned it casually, like it wasn’t a knife to the gut. Said Bucky kept checking the handle, said he looked wrecked.
You passed out before you could let him in.
Now, guilt settles in your chest like cement. But then you remind yourself, he has his own room. His own bed. You’re not together. You don’t owe him everything.
And still… you wish you’d opened the door.
You met Steve and Bucky first. Kids running around the same block with scraped knees and more heart than sense. Bucky was the wild one, fast, sharp, and full of charm even before he knew what to do with it. Steve was smaller back then, but you never saw him that way. He was stubborn as hell and kind to his core. You trusted him before you even knew what trust was.
Natasha came next, around eighth grade. She didn’t talk much at first, just kicked the shit out of a kid who said something about your clothes, and that was that. You were bonded. She didn’t let people in easily but she let you in and that’s never changed.
Sam came in during college. Met Steve in a politics class, argued with him for three weeks straight, and then showed up at your apartment one day with a six-pack and said, “I figured I might as well be friends with the guy who can’t shut up.” You liked him immediately. So did everyone else.
Wanda’s newer. A friend of Nat’s from her job. You’re still getting to know her, but she’s intuitive in a way that’s unsettling. Observant, soft-spoken but never passive. She watches the room like it’s a chessboard and she already knows how it ends.
You wonder what she sees when she looks at you.
You’re guessing it’s a mess.
The thing about your group is: nothing is simple, but somehow it still works.
Everyone’s got their stuff.
Steve can’t stop trying to fix things. He wants everyone to be okay so badly it physically hurts him when they’re not. He’s gotten better at boundaries, but only because Nat threatens him when he forgets to take care of himself.
Nat’s a vault. Loyal, razor-sharp, and terrifying when she’s angry. You love her like a sister. She loves you the same, even if she’ll never say it out loud.
Sam grounds everyone. He’s the calm in the storm, the first one to check in, the last one to judge. You don’t know how he does it, how he holds space for people without ever asking for anything in return. He just does.
And then there’s Bucky. Bucky, who always feels like he’s just on the edge of something. You’ve never known how to categorize him. Not really, he’s like glue, like the anchor holding the ship down.
You’ve tried to shove him into the “best friend” box more times than you can count, but it never quite fits. The way your heart lurches when he laughs, when he looks at you across a room, when he throws his arm across the back of the couch and your skin burns just from being near him, that’s not best friend energy.
But it’s never been the right time or maybe you’ve just never been the right person.
You’re not like him.
Bucky comes from warmth. A single mom who never let the world make him hard. A younger sister he still talks to every week. He knows what love is supposed to feel like.
You don’t, not really, not at all.
Your father was always two drinks too deep and one word too cruel. He didn’t raise you. He happened to you and you learned to flinch first, to run before you could get left behind.
That’s what you do. It’s what you’ve always done. And Bucky? Bucky stays. No matter how many times you’ve pushed him. No matter who else you or he has tried to date. No matter how many fights or false starts or awkward silences or almosts.
He stays and that scares the hell out of you. Because if he stays and you screw it up it’s not just losing a relationship. It’s losing him. Its hurt more because you know it's not a matter of if you lose him, it's a matter of when because you are self aware despite what people thing and that makes you selfish as fuck. And Bucky is good, he is so good.
You are not the glue of the group.
You’re not the leader. You’re not the peacekeeper. You’re not the one people orbit around. You’re the space in between, important, maybe, but not essential. Not the reason this whole thing holds together.
You don’t fit a role the way the others do. Not the way Steve leads, or Nat protects, or Sam balances, or Bucky anchors. You exist somewhere off to the side, shoulder pressed to the wall, watching it all and trying not to feel the slow creep of loneliness that settles in even when you’re surrounded.
That’s the worst part. You’re never really alone. But sometimes it feels like you are. You wonder if they see it. You doubt it. You’ve always been good at hiding things in plain sight.
Your pain’s not loud. It’s not breaking plates or screaming matches. It’s biting your tongue so hard it bleeds. It’s brushing things off with a laugh. It’s slipping out of the room when your chest gets too tight and coming back like nothing happened. It’s saying, “I’m fine,” in a way that sounds almost believable.
They don’t see it because you don’t let them, and you know that’s on you but maybe it’s just what you learned. Because if you say I’m not okay, people start leaving. or worse they stay, but differently, carefully. They stop being honest. They stop touching you the same. They stop looking at you like a person and start looking at you like a project.
Bucky never did that. Not once.
That’s the thing, he knows. Maybe not everything, but enough. Enough to see the cracks. Enough to feel the weight when you start to pull away. Enough to wait outside your door for hours even though you never opened it.
You can still see the way his shadow stayed under the crack. How he didn’t move. How you did.
You always do.
It’s not fair. To him, to anyone. But you don’t know how to stop. You don’t know how to stay without feeling like you’re holding your breath.
How you can be more like him, like Bucky he breathes like it’s easy. He exists like he’s meant to be here. Like love is just something you do. Something you give.
You love him more than you should. More than you can handle. More than you’re ready to admit and it’s not a soft, storybook love. It’s sharp. It’s cracked at the edges. It makes you cruel sometimes. Makes you scared. Makes you push him just to see if he’ll come back.
He always does and you hate yourself for needing that proof so badly. Because he’s good. So fucking good.
You don’t know if you’re capable of being loved like that. Not without ruining it. Not without ruining him. So you just don’t give it, not all the way, never all the way.
You get close. You offer pieces. Just enough to keep him there. Just enough to keep the line from snapping. But not enough to cross it.
You let him hold you when the nightmares come. Let him crawl into bed beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Let him brush the hair from your face when you’re half-asleep, fingers soft, reverent, like you’re something fragile.
But you never say the words. Not the real ones.
Not I love you.
Not I’m yours.
Not I’m scared shitless and you make me want to try anyway.
Because if you say it, really say it you don’t know what happens next. You don’t know how to be fully seen by someone and not flinch. Not run. You know Bucky deserves someone who doesn’t flinch.
He deserves someone who doesn’t carry years of silence under their skin. Someone who wasn’t raised in a house where love sounded like slammed doors and apologies that came too late. That felt like a burning red cheek and smelt like alcohol.
He deserves warmth, ease. A love that says you’re safe here without ever having to prove it. You want to be that person for him. You do.
But wanting and being are not the same thing. So you stay stuck in this middle place.
This half-space.
The almost.
The ache.
The thing that lives between best friends and something else, you tell yourself it’s enough. You tell yourself he’s fine with it too.
But some nights, like last night when he waits outside your locked door, and you can’t bring yourself to open it, you wonder how many times he’ll do that before he stops. Before he decides that you’re not a thing he wants to wait for anymore, you know, deep down, that if that day ever comes, you won’t stop him.
Because maybe that’s what you deserve.
Maybe that’s what love looks like when it’s given to someone who doesn’t know how to hold it without cutting their own hands.
Nat pulls her headphones down and speaks for the first time that morning. “You’re staring into space like you’re watching your own funeral.”
You blink. “I was just thinking.”
“Don’t,” she says, dry. “You’re terrible at it.”
You smirk. “Love you too.”
Steve leans over the counter. “Are we doing anything today or just sitting around wallowing in existential dread?”
Sam walks through the front door with bagels and answers, “Both.”
It's like clockwork again. The laughter, the comfort, the distractions. The quiet place you’ve all built together.
“We gotta get this place cleaned up for tonight,” Steve says as he flips a pancake.
Natasha groans, “Why do we have to drink both Friday and Saturday?”
Sam steals a piece of bacon from Steve’s cooked plate. “We drink tonight to recover from last night, and so Sunday’s brunch is euphoric.”
Steve sighs. “That’s not how hangovers work.”
“Let me have my process, Rogers.”
You don’t laugh, even though they do.
You’re standing by the counter, half-dressed in your sleep shirt and socks, hair pulled back in a lazy knot. You smear peanut butter across your bagel with practiced, robotic movements. The coffee in your cup has already gone lukewarm. You sip it anyway.
You can feel him before you see him.
Bucky steps out of his room, quiet as ever, and you don’t even have to look to know his eyes go straight to you. You can feel the weight of it, soft, searching, familiar.
You don’t look at him.
You just keep working on your bagel like it’s the only thing tethering you to earth. You sit at the island and eat in silence, chewing slowly while the others talk around you about party themes and drink lists and whether anyone remembered to restock the Advil.
He doesn’t say anything either. But he lingers. You don’t know what’s worse when he pretends nothing is wrong, or when he tries to fix it.
You head to your bathroom once your plate’s clean and your coffee cup is empty. You don’t slam the door this time. You don’t lock it either.
You don’t have the energy for drama today. You’re just tired.
You’re standing at the sink, brushing your teeth with a sluggish kind of motion, when you hear the door click open behind you, the one that connects to Bucky’s room.
You glance at him in the mirror.
“Hey,” he says softly.
You nod, not meeting his eyes. “Hey.”
He steps in, closes the door behind him like he’s careful not to scare you off.
“You okay?”
You rinse and spit. “Yeah.”
He leans against the counter, arms crossed loosely. “What’d your dad want last night?”
Your hands still for half a second as you reach for a towel.
“I didn’t answer,” you say. “It rang and I just… freaked. I was being dramatic.”
Bucky’s quiet.
You keep talking, mostly to fill the silence. “I was sore and tired and kind of drunk and definitely didn’t think things through. I just needed everything to stop for a minute.”
He lets out a small breath of a laugh. “Well, you were definitely intoxicated. That’s not up for debate.”
You smile a little, not much.
He steps closer, gentle. Always gentle with you. His hand lifts and brushes a piece of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering just a second too long against your skin.
“I don’t deserve you,” you say, and it comes out smaller than you meant it to.
He doesn’t blink. “Yes, you do.”
You shake your head. “You’re too good of a friend to me.”
Something shifts in his expression just barely. But you catch it, of course you do because you know what you said. The flicker of hurt that dances behind his eyes before he drops his gaze.
“That’s because I’m your best friend.”
It’s quiet, it’s honest and it fucking stings.
You want to say that’s not what I meant. You want to say that’s not all you are. But you don’t.
He steps closer and wraps his arms around you, pulling you into a long, solid hug. His chin rests against the top of your head. Your cheek presses to his chest.
You let your eyes close and breathe him in, for a second, you let yourself imagine that this is enough.
That it could stay like this forever.
Even if you know it can’t.
----------
There’s something about the apartment before a party.
The music hasn’t started yet. The living room’s still half-lit. Nat’s burning incense in the corner to cover the smell of tequila and whatever Steve tried to cook earlier that went sideways. Everything’s in that perfect, golden-hour chaos, lipstick on the bathroom sink, shot glasses lined up on the kitchen counter, Steve yelling at Sam for not helping clean, and Nat refusing to wear anything other than combat boots with her dress.
It’s your favorite kind of storm.
You’re in your room, touching up your eyeliner, when Natasha leans against the doorframe.
She raises a brow. “You’re gonna cause problems in that.”
You glance down at yourself. Short black dress, off the shoulder. Hugs in all the right places.
You paired it with heels you’ll definitely take off halfway through the night, and your hair’s doing that I don’t care but I care thing that always makes you feel a little dangerous.
You smirk. “Good.”
Nat crosses her arms, smirking right back. “Hot and petty. My favorite version of you.”
You roll your eyes but don’t argue. Because she’s right. You are feeling yourself tonight andd just maybe, that has something to do with the fact that Bucky hasn’t left his room since this morning’s bathroom hug.
The thing about Bucky is you’re addicted to him. To the way he looks at you like you hung the moon. To the way he never touches you without meaning it. To the way his voice softens when he says your name like he’s afraid it might break.
You’re addicted to the attention he gives you, even when you pretend not to be and you know, deep down, if you just let it happen, if you gave in, really gave in there wouldn’t be all this tiptoeing. No games, no passive-aggressive flirting. No lines that feel drawn in sand and rewritten every time you both breathe too hard.
If you opened the door, Bucky would walk through it without hesitation. But you’d probably lock it again the second he did.
Because that’s what you do. That’s what you’ve always done. You cross the line, then backpedal like hell, and he stays. Every time.
But tonight, maybe you’re tired of being scared. Maybe you want to cause a little trouble. Just enough to feel something crack.
Nat’s still watching you, arms crossed, that little knowing smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.
“Are we doing the pre-party shots?” she asks, already moving toward the kitchen.
You follow.
Ten minutes later, the four of you are gathered in the kitchen, like you always are before a party. One bottle, five shot glasses, its tradition.
“Just one?” Steve says.
Nat’s already pouring the second round. “Don’t be soft.”
Sam’s first to show up, he practically lives here already. “Oh, we’re starting early, huh?”
You grin. “Fashionably toxic. You know how it goes.”
Bucky finally steps out of his room. T-shirt clinging to his chest, jeans slung low, rings on his fingers. His hair’s pulled back, and he looks good. Too good.
Your heart does that annoying thing it always does when he walks into a room.
He takes his place beside you at the counter, close. Closer than he has to be. You reach for your shot glass. He reaches for his and just like always, you don’t break eye contact.
Not through the first shot.
Not through the second.
Not when Nat bumps Steve’s arm and whispers something about “Jesus, just kiss already.”
An hour in, the apartment is packed. There’s a playlist running, windows cracked open to let out the heat. People are spilling into the hallway, drinks in hand, sweat glistening on collarbones.
You’re laughing with someone you think his name is Ryan or Riley. One of those, you’re not sure. Doesn’t really matter.
He’s charming enough. He leans in too close, says something that’s probably supposed to be funny, and brushes his hand against your arm like he’s testing the waters.
You laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because you know exactly what you’re doing and because you can feel Bucky watching you.
You don’t turn, you don’t need to, you know. You always know and you hate yourself a little more.
Across the room, Bucky leans against the wall, nursing a half-warm beer he’s barely touched. His eyes haven’t left you since the second Riley-whatever walked up to you.
Steve’s next to him, trying to have a conversation, but Bucky’s checked out. Eyes narrowed, jaw tight.
“Earth to Buck,” Steve mutters, nudging his elbow.
Bucky doesn’t respond.
Sam walks up on his other side, clocking the look instantly. “Oh, come on,” he sighs. “You’re really gonna just stand here and watch her flirt with, what is that guy’s name?”
Steve answers. “Ryan, he goes to my gym, good guy.”
“Does it matter?” Bucky mutters, eyes still glued to you.
Steve snorts. “You’ve got that look, man.”
“What look?”
“The one that says you’re two seconds away from throwing the guy out the window.”
Bucky grunts, taking another sip of his beer. “If you two are trying to be helpful, you’re not.”
Sam raises a brow. “Helpful would be you walking over there and saying something that isn’t ‘you okay?’ or 'you need another drink?’”
Bucky doesn’t laugh, doesn’t smile. He’s stuck in it now, in his head. Because the thing is, he’s not mad at you, he’s never been and never will be. He’s mad at himself. For waiting, for hoping. For standing here like he always does, watching you shine for someone else.
“It’s not that simple,” Bucky says, voice low.
Sam rolls his eyes. “It’s exactly that simple. You’re in love with her. She’s in love with you. End of math.”
Steve sighs. “We’ve been telling him for years.”
“No,” Bucky snaps, still not looking away from you. “You don’t get it.”
Sam raises his brow. “Then explain it.”
“She doesn’t trust it. Not the way I do.” He shifts his jaw. “If I say it out loud, it makes it real. That’s the part that’ll scare her.”
Steve softens. “Buck…”
“I’m not mad at her for that,” Bucky says, finally turning to them. “But I know her. If I push too hard, if I ask for all of her…she’ll run.”
Sam studies him for a long second. “And what? You’d rather live in the middle of this forever?”
Bucky looks back toward you. You’re laughing again, the guy leans in closer.
You don’t lean away.
“I’d rather have half of her than none at all.”
Steve exhales slowly, leans back against the wall. “There’s no pushing to do, Buck. You’ve been there since you were kids. Neither of you are going anywhere.”
That’s the problem, because maybe you should have gone somewhere by now. Maybe you both should’ve run when you had the chance.
But here you are still orbiting each other like you don’t know how to stop and he’s still standing there, with a full heart and empty hands, watching someone else reach for what he’s never been brave enough to ask for.
Bucky drains the rest of his beer, jaw clenched tight, then pushes off the wall and disappears into the crowd.
You don’t notice it right away. You’re too busy pretending you’re not watching for him. But eventually, your eyes drift…they always do.
You spot him in the kitchen, leaning back against the counter. He’s talking to some girl, dark curls, low-cut top, pretty in that effortless kind of way. She’s touching his arm, laughing then laughs, too.
Not the forced kind. The real kind, the one you always think is just for you, your stomach twists.
You smile too quickly at something Ryan (or Riley?) says, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. You’re not even sure what he said. Doesn’t matter. None of it does, except Bucky.
It always comes back to him. So you play your part.
You lean in a little closer. Let your fingers graze Ryan’s forearm. Let your laugh ring just a little too loud. You toss your hair over your shoulder like you’re in a movie scene you don’t believe in.
You know what you’re doing.
You’re not the only one.
Across the room, Steve groans under his breath. “Here we go again.”
Sam glances up from his drink. “Already?”
Steve nods toward the kitchen. “He’s doing the flirt-and-deflect.”
Sam squints. “Which one’s she doing?”
Natasha, sliding in beside them with a drink in hand, answers before either of them can. “She’s doing the ‘fuck it, I can flirt too’ thing. It’ll escalate in five minutes. Ten tops.”
Wanda, beside her, blinks. “Is this a regular thing?”
Natasha smirks. “Every time.”
Steve nods, resigned. “They’ve been stuck in this cycle since highschool.”
Sam chuckles. “They invented the cycle.”
Wanda frowns. “So what happens next?”
Steve and Nat answer at the same time.
“Shots.”
Sure enough, twenty minutes later, you’ve ditched Ryan (or Riley, he never stood a chance) and you’re lined up in the kitchen with Sam, laughing as he holds a beer funnel above your head.
Bucky walks over, still warm from the attention he let himself soak in, but his eyes are already back on you. He sees you, head tilted back, mouth open in a wide grin, beer spilling down your wrist as you finish the pour and slam the cup on the counter.
You’re glowing and a little reckless. He hates how much he loves it.
“Jesus,” he mutters to Steve, who hands him another beer. “She’s gonna feel that tomorrow.”
Steve shrugs. “You always do.”
Sam throws an arm around your shoulder, both of you breathless from laughing.
Bucky’s jaw ticks. He walks over, leans on the counter beside you, too close for it to be casual.
“Didn’t know we were reliving college tonight,” he says, looking you over.
You raise your brows, voice syrupy sweet. “Didn’t know we were competing for who could flirt harder.”
His smile is razor-thin. “You winning?”
You take a slow sip of your drink. “Obviously.”
You’re both playing the same game and you’re both losing. But neither of you backs down.
You break eye contact first not because you want to, but because staying in it feels too much like telling the truth.
So you slip away.
Back into the crowd, into the noise and the blur and the bass pounding through your chest. You find someone else, some guy with warm hands and a beer in one of them and a smile that’s trying a little too hard.
You let him talk, let him flirt. Let him touch your leg under the table with fingers that don’t mean anything.
You laugh at something he says and feel his hand drift a little higher, and for a moment, it almost works, you almost forget. Until you glance up and see him.
Bucky’s across the room again. Back with the girl from earlier. Only this time, he’s not leaning. He’s close. His body tilted toward her, head bent low, voice soft. She’s laughing, smiling up at him like he’s hers.
And then he reaches out, slow and deliberate, and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear.
Like it’s nothing.
Like it’s not something he’s only ever done to you.
Your chest tightens.
Something sour blooms in your throat. It feels like bile or heartbreak. You can’t tell the difference anymore.
You stand abruptly, muttering something to the guy that even you don’t hear, and make your way toward the hallway.
You need to breathe.
You need to not cry.
You need to get out before it shows.
You slip into the bathroom, shut the door, and press your back against it. The silence hits you like a wave. You’re not even mad at him. That’s the worst part, you are not even allowed to be.
You started it. You always start it and now you’re here again, locking yourself in a room because the only person who knows how to get under your skin is the one you’re supposed to trust the most.
You stare at yourself in the mirror. Eyes too bright, chest rising too fast.
And before you can even try to pull it together, you hear the door on the other side creak open the one that connects to his room. You don’t even turn. “Seriously?” you say, flat, arms crossed.
Silence, then a sigh. “I could say the same to you.” He steps in, jaw set, closing the door behind him. “You don’t even know him.”
You throw your hands up. “Oh, I’m sorry, are you my keeper now?”
He steps closer. “You’re flirting with some asshole who only cares that you look good in that dress.”
You turn slowly, leaning back against the sink. “So now you care?”
His eyes flicker. “I’ve always cared.”
You laugh, sharp and bitter. “Yeah, until it’s convenient to touch someone else.”
His jaw tenses. “You were letting some guy run his hand up your leg in the middle of the living room.”
“So what?” You raise your brows, daring him. “You didn’t like that?”
“No, I fucking hated it.”
“Right,” you laugh, bitter. “But you? You get to flirt with every warm body in a five-foot radius and I’m supposed to just smile?”
He shakes his head. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to act like you give a damn only when someone else looks at me.”
You scoff. “You think I’m acting?”
There’s a beat of silence, and then he adds, quieter, “I know why you did it.”
You go still.
“You wanted me to see.”
You scoff, look away. “You’re delusional.”
“Don’t do that,” he snaps. “Don’t pretend like we’re not both playing the same goddamn game.”
“I wasn’t playing,” you say, voice hard.
His laugh is humorless. “Bullshit.”
You push off the sink, stepping closer. “And what about you, Bucky? You think you’re innocent in all this?”
“I never claimed to be.” He moves in too, closer, crowding the space. “But at least I own how I feel. You? You keep running, then blaming me for chasing you.”
“I never asked you to chase me.”
“You didn’t have to.” His voice drops. “I want to.”
You stare at him, breathing heavy. Your chest tight, eyes burning, it's quiet, the kind that means too much has been said or not enough.
His hands find your face before you can stop him, thumb brushing under your jaw, eyes searching yours, like gravity, like you’re not even deciding, you kiss him.
It’s messy, desperate. His hands on your waist, your fingers in his hair, his mouth on yours like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your pain.
Your back hits the bathroom wall. His hands are in your hair, your hands gripping his shirt, pulling him closer. He kisses like he’s angry, like he’s trying to prove a point like he’s been holding it back for years.
You bite his bottom lip, he groans against your mouth. His hands slide down, grip your waist like he needs something to hold onto or he’ll fall apart.
You press into him like you’re trying to crawl under his skin. He lets you.
His fingers skim the hem of your dress and you gasp into his mouth and then you both pull back. Breathing like you’ve just run a mile. He rests his forehead against yours. You both say nothing because that’s the rule.
You kiss him like you’re drowning, he kisses you like he doesn’t care if he drowns with you.
But then you hear it.
“Yo! Y/N, you doing another one?!” Sam’s voice, faint from down the hall.
You pull back, breathless, lips swollen, and avoid his eyes as you fix your shirt. Bucky’s chest rises and falls, his hands still half on you.
You force a laugh, one that sounds like it might crack in the middle. “Guess I’m up.”
Bucky grabs your wrist, gently. “Don’t you think that’s enough for tonight?”
You pause. “You’ve never been in my head, Buck.” You try to keep it light, say it like a joke but it lands heavy. “You don’t get to tell me when enough’s enough.”
His eyes soften with hurt. He doesn’t fight you on it.
You stare at Bucky, still breathless from the kiss you weren’t supposed to want but always do. Your lips are swollen, your body still humming.
He steps back, barely. He won’t meet your eyes. His voice is low, unreadable. “Go first.”
You frown. “What?”
He nods toward the door. “Go. So it’s not… obvious.”
You let out a breathy, humorless laugh. “It already is.”
He flinches, just slightly. “Still.”
You linger for a second, but he doesn’t look up. So you leave.
You unlock the bathroom door, step into the hallway, and just like that? You’re back in the noise and the lights and the warmth of the party. You exhale. Fix your hair in the hallway mirror. You’re good at this. Pretending.
When you re-enter the living room, you make a beeline for Sam, who’s standing on a chair holding a funnel like a trophy. “You ready?” he grins.
You smirk and take your place beside him. “Let’s go.”
Bucky stays in the bathroom, staring at the door you just walked through.
He presses the heel of his palm into his chest like that’ll do anything. Like he can stop the familiar ache that’s been there for years, the one with your name carved into it.
He breathes in deep, hands braced against the sink. You’re poison and home all at once and he’d let you break his heart over and over and over again….If it meant he could keep even the smallest piece of you.
This is the part that always gets him, the in-between. The silence after your lips leave his and before you’re laughing with someone else.
The space where he remembers that he’s not yours, not officially, not fully. Not ever. He stares at the door for a long time. You’d live in purgatory forever with him if he let you. If he stayed and he always stays.
When he comes back out, the party’s louder, looser. The guy you were flirting with earlier is now talking to the girl he was talking to earlier, and Bucky actually chuckles at that. Inevitable.
He heads toward the kitchen where Steve and Sam are talking by the drinks.
“You alive?” Sam asks, handing him a beer.
“Barely,” Bucky mutters, taking a swig.
Steve raises a brow. “You good?”
“Great,” Bucky lies.
“You two playing or what?” Sam nods toward the beer pong table.
“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Me and her.”
Beer pong. Teams: You and Bucky vs. Sam and Steve.
You’re two drinks deep, flushed and laughing, heels long since ditched. Bucky stands behind you, guiding your arms. His hands are at your waist. They don’t move, you sink a shot. Turn and grin.
“Nice,” he murmurs, low in your ear.
You spin and wrap your arms around his neck, and he catches you without thinking. When you remove your hands from his beck they slither around his waist, your hand slips just under his shirt, thumb brushing the warmth of his stomach. You don’t even realize it until he tenses slightly. You don’t pull away and he doesn’t want you to.
You’re always like this. All over each other by the end of the night, but never too far and never far enough.
Sam just shakes his head. “Disgusting.”
Across the room, Wanda and Natasha are watching. Wanda takes a slow sip of her drink. “This is… normal?”
“Since we were kids,” Nat replies dryly. “You should’ve seen them at twenty, when we first moved here. Like magnets, messy ones.”
Wanda tilts her head. “So what’s the deal?”
Nat smirks. “There’s a bet.”
Wanda perks up. “A bet?”
“Been running almost ten years.”
Wanda laughs. “Who’s in?”
“Me, Steve, Sam. We all have different takes.”
Wanda glances back at you wrapped around Bucky’s back, squealing with laughter while he spins you through the living room. He’s smiling so big it almost hurts to look at.
“You want in?” Nat asks.
Wanda hums. “What’s the buy-in?”
Nat lifts a brow. “Fifty bucks.”
Wanda watches you a second longer. “Ask me in the morning.”
Nat clinks her glass against hers. “Smart girl.”
--------
You and Bucky vanish from the party somewhere around 2AM.
You’re both giggling, tipsy, bumping into doorframes as you stumble down the hall. You don’t even say goodnight to the others anymore. Everyone knows the drill.
You’re in your room first, slipping out of your dress and into one of Bucky’s old shirts. He knocks once, then opens the door and closes it behind him.
You crawl into bed, he follows. You lay there, back to chest. His arm finds your waist like gravity. Neither of you speaks, until he does.
“I don’t think anyone’s ever felt more like home than you do.”
You don’t breathe, you don’t say anything. You just find his hand under the blanket and hold it a little tighter.
-----------
You wake up slow.
The kind of slow that feels like safety. Like warmth, like something you don’t get to keep, but you can hold onto for a few more minutes if you stay very, very still.
Bucky’s arm is still wrapped around you, his body curled along your back, his breath warm against the side of your neck. His chest rises and falls steady, grounding. You shift just slightly and his grip tightens instinctively.
You don’t move again. You just… take him in.
The weight of his arm. The shape of his hand resting at your waist. The way your legs are tangled under the blankets like they always end up this way.
You shouldn’t feel this way about your best friend, but you do.
You know you love him. Not the way you’re supposed to love your best friend. Not the safe kind, not the platonic kind. The kind that could gut you if it ever turned the wrong way.
And that’s the problem because love, for you, has never been clean. It’s always been a little cruel. It showed up in raised voices. Slammed doors. Silence used like a weapon. It made promises it never kept. It came with strings. With people who said, I’m doing my best as an excuse for not doing better.
So somewhere along the line, you learned not to trust the word at all.
You learned to leave before you could be left. To withhold before anyone could take too much. To build your walls higher than your expectations. To call it strength when really, it was fear.
Bucky makes all of that harder to hold onto.
Because he doesn’t demand anything. Doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t punish you for the days you go quiet, or shut down, or need more space than anyone else would understand.
He just stays and somehow that’s more terrifying than all the people who left. Because you can trust Bucky with your life, you already do.
But trusting him with your heart? That’s something else entirely. That’s the kind of trust you’ve never been brave enough to give. Not because he doesn’t deserve it.
But because deep down, you’re scared that if he ever really saw the mess of you, the parts you hide, the sharp edges, the soft places turned hard from too many years of being let down he’d walk too and that would wreck you in a way nothing else ever has.
Because he’s not just anyone.
He’s Bucky.
He’s home.
You don’t know how to let yourself have something that feels like that. You only know how to ruin it before it can leave on its own.
So instead, you stay here. Pretending you’re not already in it deep, and fully, and hopelessly in love with someone you’ve spent your whole life calling a friend.
You close your eyes.
You try not to want too much.
He shifts behind you, breath catching, arm tightening just a little.
You feel him wake before he says a word.
Your fingers lift on their own, tracing lightly down the line of his cheek. He stirs, blinks. Opens his eyes. His voice is soft. Rough. “Hi.”
You smile. “Hi.”
He tightens his arm around you, pulling you a fraction closer. His thumb rubs a lazy circle into your side.
You just… look at each other. A long, quiet moment. Then your stomach growls, loud.
His lips twitch. “Hungry?”
You close your eyes and laugh into the pillow. “Apparently.”
He grins, voice still low. “All right. Let’s go yell at everyone to get up. Get some brunch.”
You nod. “Okay.”
He repeats it back. “Okay.”
He shifts onto his back, pulling you with him so you’re suddenly straddling him, and his hands land on your hips like muscle memory. His eyes rake over your face, your messy hair, his own t-shirt hanging loose on you.
“What a sight,” he says quietly, like he doesn’t mean for it to come out loud.
You blink once. Then lean down and kiss his cheek. “Yeah. What a sight.”
You climb off of him and he lets you go, head falling back against the pillow with a soft groan as you head into the bathroom.
You’re in the shower when you hear him move around your room. Hear the door shut quietly behind him a few minutes later. You close your eyes and lean your head against the tile, let the water rinse last night off your skin, but not out of your mind.
When you emerge, he’s already dressed, running a towel through his hair. You pass him on the way to your room, trade a glance and a small smile like you’re not both still spinning from whatever the hell you are.
The house is awake now. Loud, chaotic, full of movement and coffee and half-shouted plans.
Sam’s standing in the living room holding a speaker. “I swear to God if someone plays that sad indie playlist again—”
Natasha sips her coffee without looking up. “It’s Bucky’s playlist.”
Steve enters with his phone out. “I found two good spots. One’s a walk, the other has bottomless mimosas.”
You grab a hoodie and slide it on. “Lead the way, Stevie.”
Steve groans, “I told you I’m too close to 30 for that nickname.”
You smirk. “Okay, yeah sure Stevie.”
He rolls his eyes.
Outside, the air is cool and bright.
The six of you fall into formation like you always do. You and Sam walking up front, shoulders bumping, laughing about something dumb. You’ve got your own rhythm, your own jokes, your own language. He sees you in ways the others don’t, and he doesn’t ask about the night before.
You love him for that.
Behind you, Bucky and Steve are deep in some low conversation probably about sports or politics or something overly philosophical because it’s them.
At the back, Wanda’s walking with Natasha, watching all of you like she’s watching a sitcom unfold in real time.
Wanda glances between you and Bucky, her brow creased in quiet disbelief. “So it's a regular thing?” she asks.
Natasha links arms with her. “You’ll get used to it, my friend.”
Wanda shakes her head, stunned. “They sleep in the same bed.”
Nat shrugs. “Mmhm.”
“They kiss.”
“Mmhm.”
“They act like a couple.”
“Exactly.”
Wanda frowns. “So… what are they?”
Natasha sighs. “Stupid.”
Wanda laughs.
Natasha goes on. “So the bet started ever since we all moved here when we were twenty. Steve thinks they’ll figure it out before thirty. I think they’re gonna marry other people first.”
Wanda blinks. “That’s… dark.”
“I’m not wrong.” Natasha shrugs. “Sam said before 25 but that's gone and past, so he had to buy in again but double the price to place a new bet, he now says before 32.”
Wanda hums. “I give it a year.”
Nat nearly chokes on her coffee. “Excuse me?”
“I give it a year.”
Nat raises an eyebrow. “You wanna bet?”
Wanda reaches into her pocket, pulls out a crumpled fifty, and slaps it into Nat’s hand.
Nat grins, holds it up like a flag. Steve and Sam are now walking together, glance back, see the money, and groan.
“Really?” Steve mutters.
Sam just laughs. “They’ll never know.”
But neither of you notice.
You’re too busy jumping on Bucky’s back, laughing in his ear, while he hoists you up with zero effort and carries you the rest of the way to brunch.
Summary: You use Bucky’s only weakness to your advantage until it bites you in the ass.
Word Count: 7.2k
Warnings: feigning injuries; a sprained ankle; bruises; hiding injuries; combat fighting training; sparring sessions; mutual pining; Bucky being a doting sweetheart; Bucky being smug; Bucky being worried
Author’s Notes: This idea has been sitting in my drafts as a rough outline for months lol and I finally got the inspiration to make something out of it. I hope you will enjoy this! ♡
Masterlist
You love sparring with Bucky.
Maybe because you love the man.
But there is so much more to that, honestly.
You have basically sparred with anyone out of the team.
Steve is methodical. Always a teacher, always Captain. He calls out corrections in a way he does orders, his patience long-practiced. His strikes are accurate, economical, as if he calculates the exact amount of force necessary to bring you down and delivers it precisely, nothing wasted. But you always know he is holding back. He does not say it but you feel it in the way he controls every movement, never quite giving you the full weight of his strength. You learn from him, but there is always a ceiling to what he will allow you to take from the fight.
Natasha is sharp. She doesn’t coach you, doesn’t slow down, doesn’t hold back. She fights you like she fights anyone. You feel the sting of a bruise blooming before you even realize she struck you. And yet, when you get a hit in, when you shift fast enough to slip past her guard, her smirk is quicksilver - pleased, challenging, like she has just discovered something worth sinking her teeth into.
Wanda fights like she plays. Some days, she keeps her powers at bay, working only with what her body allows, light on her feet, swaying rather than striking. But she is not used to this. Not using her powers in a fight. So most of the time, she teases, powers tugging at your wrist mid-swing, a flicker of scarlett at the edge of your vision before she is suddenly behind you.
Sam is solid. He fights with his whole body, never wasting energy on anything that doesn’t serve his goal. He takes up space, keeps you on the defenses, his moves seamless. But he is generous too, throwing you a verbal lifeline mid-fight - “too slow, come on,” - challenging you in encouraging you. And when you get him down, he grins, bright and wide, like he wants you to win.
Clint fights like someone who doesn’t need to win, just needs to keep moving. He is slippery, dodging rather than blocking, grinning rather than growling. He makes a game of it, laughing at your frustration, forcing you to loosen up, to adapt, to try something unorthodox. He doesn’t spar to overpower. He spars to frustrate, to outlast, to make you think three steps ahead.
But Bucky.
Bucky watches you. Always. Even when he isn’t facing you directly, even when he’s standing in the shadows at the edge of the gym, you have his attention. It is something you have learned to steady yourself beneath. Because it never really seems to waver.
He is mindful. Of your form. Of your tells. Of how far he can push you. He does not go easy on you. Despite the obvious differences in height and weight and him being a super soldier. But he fights you like an opponent worth fighting. He fights you like himself. Precise. Controlled. Thoughtful. When he corrects you, it is not instruction, just a simple adjustment with the brush of his metal fingers nudging your wrist into a better angle, a small nod when you adapt.
And when you take him down - when you surprise him, when you shift your weight at the last moment and send him to the mat - there is that laugh breaking out. He is not stunned at the way you overpowered him. Not disbelieving. He merely laughs. A short burst of warmth, rare and genuine, something boyish in the way it escapes.
You live for that laugh.
Because Bucky knows your competence. He does not gift you victories because he knows you don’t need them in the first place. He expects you to win. He knows you can. And will. He does not say it outright, but you learned to read the subtle body language in the years of knowing him - the glimmer of something pleased in his eyes, the upturn at the corner of his mouth.
And when he helps you up - fingers gently curling around your wrist to pull you to your feet - he lingers just a little too long.
So yes, you love sparring with Bucky.
Basically, on the first day as an Avenger it was drilled into you that knowing your enemy is everything - know what you are up against, who you are fighting, how they move, what makes them weak.
You are good at this. At observing. You know how to study people, how to pick out patterns, how to find the smallest crack in an otherwise impenetrable wall and press until it splits wide open.
Still, Bucky Barnes is not an easy person to read.
But perhaps it was just a little too much fun figuring out what exactly his weaknesses are.
He doesn’t have many. His body is conditioned for war, his mind sharpened, his instincts too honed to give much away. If he has vulnerabilities, they are subtle. Nearly imperceptible to anyone who isn’t looking closely enough.
But you have been looking closely. For the better part of a year.
And then, about five months ago, something clicked.
Bucky Barnes does have a weakness.
A glaring one, in fact.
One so obvious you nearly laughed out loud when you finally pieced it together.
It’s you.
You are his weakness.
Bucky is a creature of routines.
The kind that keep him grounded in a world that still feels like shifting sand beneath his feet. And somehow, you have become part of them.
You don’t remember when it started, exactly. But you know that when you stumble into the kitchen in the morning, still half-asleep, Bucky is already there. Always. Sometimes with coffee already poured for you, sometimes just sitting at the counter like he’s lost, waiting like he’s been expecting something. You.
You tested it, once. You woke up later than usual, wanting to see if he still lingered. And sure enough, when you finally stepped into the kitchen, he was there, nursing a long-gone cup of coffee that was somehow still halfway filled, gaze fixed on the entryway even before you entered. Like he hadn’t been planning on leaving until he saw you. It’s when he loosened his grip on the poor mug. Flexing his fingers, as if he was close to shattering it.
Bucky is not a fan of crowded spaces.
He likes corners, walls at his back, exits in view. He keeps a respectable distance from most people, moving on silent feet, always aware of what’s around him.
Except when it comes to you.
You began to notice that in the common room. How he lets you sit closer than he does with anyone else, how he doesn’t shift away when his knee bumps his. How, when you walk side by side, he moves to make space for you without thinking. How he stops standing near the door when you are in a room, like some unconscious part of him doesn’t feel the need to watch his six when you are there.
And then there are the small things.
The way his arm comes up instinctively when you reach past him for something, like he is preparing to steady you or get it down for you if it is something you can’t reach. The way he steps in front of you if something startled him, body moving before anything else.
Little things. Automatic things.
And the most endearing part is, that he genuinely does not seem like he knows he is doing all that.
Bucky is strategic on missions.
He follows the plan without a hitch, keeps his cool and executes flawlessly.
Until you are in danger.
Then he gets frantic. He even tends to snap at Steve. He gets tighter, sharper, more lethal. It seems like instinct.
Just last month, you got cut along your thigh that you managed to patch up before the mission was even completely over. But Bucky was stoic and brooding. Frown on his face the whole time. He saw the blood, saw the way you had a limp in your step and something utterly cold settled in his eyes.
Sam later mentioned to you with a weird wiggle of his eyebrow that the man whose knife slashed you never had the chance to land another hit on anyone.
You started testing him in small ways. Seeing if he moves when you move. If he adjusts his strategy to keep you in his line of sight. If he listens to your voice above all others in a debriefing, even when Steve is talking.
And he does. Every time.
Bucky got mad at Clint once because he ate the last donut that was meant for you. Clint was genuinely terrified. He even went out to get you new ones.
Bucky picks up stuff from the common room he knows belong to you and takes it to your room.
Just yesterday, there was a book on your nightstand. One you had mentioned offhand in conversation weeks ago, something you said you wanted to read someday. And you know for a fact that Bucky got dragged into the city by Sam and Steve the day before.
After years as an Avenger, you learn to fool people.
You know how to smile when you need to, how to shake things off, how to deal with missions gone wrong or people unsaved.
But you can’t fool Bucky.
He just knows when something is off. He notices the way your voice shifts, the way your shoulders carry tension differently. You don’t have to say anything. He just knows.
And he never pushes. He lingers. He makes himself available. He sits beside you in silence when you don’t feel like talking. He glares at everyone who wants something unnecessary from you in times like those.
And then he would just go, come on, let’s go do something.
It is basically just watching a movie or cooking a dinner or baking cookies, but everything is more fun with him, and soon enough your smile touches your eyes again.
Bucky does not share.
He does not share his food. He does not share his belongings.
But he does with you.
When you are out and freezing, he shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over your shoulders without a word.
He lets you take fries off his plate and lets you drink from his cup, much to Sam’s surprise and disgruntlement.
Bucky does not talk about his nightmares.
Not to anyone.
But on certain nights, when sleep refuses to hold him and his mind is drowning in things long past but never gone, he finds you.
You were in the common room when it first started. Months ago. Nursing a mug of tea, when he wandered in, looking lost and exhausted.
With a single glance at him, you nodded to the couch, shifting over to make space, and he came sitting down without a word.
He let you talk. He even seemed to relish it. Intertwining his hands at his front and laying his head back against the backside of the couch, closing his eyes and listening to your mocked aggravation at the fact that Sam left a half-eaten sandwich on the counter again.
He stayed until the sun crept in through the windows, slight snoring making you smile.
It happened again. And then again.
After a while, you started recognizing the signs when his nightmares are getting worse again. The way he drifts into whatever room you are in and stays locked in his own when you are gone on a mission or out with the girls. How he leans against the doorway for a second longer than necessary before stepping inside, like he is debating whether he has the right to be there.
Sometimes, he’d pretend he’s just passing through. He would linger in the kitchen, hands wrapped around a cup of coffee he doesn’t drink while you are having your conversation with Wanda and Natasha.
One night, he even came to your room. Knocking and standing there with his hands fidgeting at his sides, eyes shamefully lowered, looking so much like a puppy in search of some love.
He didn’t pretend. He didn’t offer excuses. He just stood there and you saw it in his eyes.
You took him in your arms and then you took him in.
First, he sat down on the floor beside your bed, back against the wall, knees drawn up like he was trying to take up as little space as possible. He didn’t say anything for a long time. You just sat beside him on the ground, laying your head on his shoulder.
Eventually, his breathing evened out, head falling onto yours.
He would fall asleep like that. Until you managed to get him to lie down in your bed beside you. He usually sleeps like a baby when he’s with you.
You are not stupid. Neither are you naive. You have always been good at reading people, at knowing them, at watching them, and deciphering the things they do not say.
And you know what this might mean.
You certainly know what it means to you.
The way your pulse picks up when Bucky walks into a room so casually because you are there. The way your stomach flutters when his gaze lingers on you. The way your chest gets so unbearably full when he does all those smallest things for you.
But you think you also might know what it means to him. He seeks you out for everything, on instinct or not. Smiling seems to come so easily to him when he is with you. You are the only person he lets into his personal space - the only person he doesn’t startle away from when it comes to accidentally touching.
But Bucky Barnes is not a man who allows himself to want things easily.
So, you will not force yourself upon him. You will not push. You will not demand. You will not take what he does not freely offer.
Because you understand that he does not fear pain, or war, or perhaps even death.
But he fears something real, something good, something that cannot be fought off with fists or buried beneath old ghosts.
Because he does not think it is something he deserves yet.
But you are willing to wait. Until he is ready. Until he is sure. Until he knows that this is what he wants.
And if he never is, if he never comes to you with certainty in his hands, if he never crosses the space between you - then you will wait anyway.
Because for him, you would wait forever.
****
“Alright, sweetheart. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
There’s a smug grin on his face as he’s circling you.
And you know why it is there.
Because you are currently three losses deep into a losing streak against Bucky. And that just won’t do. You need a win.
You move first, closing the distance fast, testing his defenses. He blocks. A quick jab - he dodges. A feint - he doesn’t bite.
He knows your patterns, how you move, how you think. But you know him, too.
You go low, aiming for his legs, but he anticipates and shifts out of reach. “Getting predictable there, doll,” he drawls, smirking.
Yeah, you’re gonna wipe that off.
Rolling your eyes, you adjust. A punch goes up that isn’t meant to land, just to see how he reacts. He blocks high, but his balance shifts and there is a brief opening. A second and you are too late.
You strike fast, sweeping low again, and this time, you actually catch him. Not enough to take him down, but a start.
Bucky huffs, rolling his neck. “Not good enough, but better,” he teases, smirk still in place.
“Oh, fuck off,” you laugh, lunging again.
He meets you halfway, and for a moment, it’s just movement - sharp and fast and fluid, but you keep your balance. You duck, weave, block.
You land a hit, but it barely fazes him. He grabs your wrist, twisting - flipping you, but you are prepared, rolling and springing back up.
“That all you got?”
“Come find out.”
He laughs brightly before going in for attack. You block his strike, twisting out of reach.
It’s definitely not all you got.
He is not expecting you to cheat.
Not that you call it cheating anyway.
You decide that it’s time to take advantage of that weakness of his.
After all, it has worked before. And it will work again.
Bucky feints left. You dodge, pivot, but let your foot catch just so against the mat to send you off balance. The stumble isn’t exaggerated - it doesn’t need to be. You land on your side, letting out a sharp breath as if this is not exactly what you were expecting, and grab your ankle, wincing.
Bucky stops immediately. Just like always. It’s the first time you feign your ankle getting hurt but he reacts all the same.
His shift is instant. His whole body tenses. Taking a step toward you with his brows furrowed tightly, he scans you like he’s already running through every possible way to help you. Carrying you to the medical wing, for example.
“Shit, doll. You okay?” His voice is softer now. Concerned. So genuinely worried, you might actually feel bad.
He crouches without hesitation, without a thought, eyes so intensely fixed on you. And that smug grin is as predicted wiped cleanly off his face.
“Lemme see-”
He reaches out to you but that is when you strike.
You twist up, leg sweeping out and knocking his feet from under him. His surprised noise is so satisfying as he goes down, flat on his back, sprawled across the mat.
Silence.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Bucky groans loudly.
You are kneeling beside him, grinning, chest heaving. “Kinda needed that win, Barnes. No bad feelings, yeah?”
Bucky just stares at the ceiling for a long moment, one hand scrubbing down his face. He exhales sharply, muttering something under his breath, something that sounds suspiciously like every goddam time.
The last time you used your little trick on him, you had sold a jab against your side, staggering back and exhaling sharply as if he hit some sensitive point. He froze instantly, eyes wide. And you spun him into a flawless takedown.
The time before that it was your shoulder. All you needed was a slight grimace in fake pain and his whole demeanor changed in an instant. His hands went up slightly, a step in your direction and that was your opening to duck under his arm, and bring him down with a precise twist.
Yeah, alright, people might believe that that technique is a little mean and it certainly wouldn’t help you at all in the open field, but Clint did tell you to try something unorthodox.
You stretch, still smirking, and tilt your head at him. “You know, you’d think after falling for this multiple times, you’d have learned by now.”
Bucky’s head rolls to the side and he glares at you. Not in anger, not even close. Just that specific kind of exasperation that you have come to learn is something only you get to see from him.
He huffs. “Should’ve known you’d pull this shit again.”
“Should have. And here I thought I am predictable.”
He gives you a flat, unimpressed look.
“Can’t believe I was worried.”
“Aww, you were?” you say sarcastically, lightly. Almost in a sly sing-song voice, because is is always worried. That’s the whole point of this.
Another hand drags down his face, but there is a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
****
You exhale deeply, rolling your shoulders, as you make your way down to the gym.
Your muscles are stiff. Everything aches in that dull, stubborn way that promises it will get worse before it gets better.
The bruises that paint your ribs throb with your pulse. You remember the sharp, biting crack when you hit the ground.
It was a mission for Steve, Nat, and you, though you definitely could have used some backup.
You feel terrible.
And you hadn’t told Bucky any of that when you came home yesterday, sometime late.
Instead, you sent him a quick I’m fine. Training tomorrow? and buried yourself in sleep before he could pry. You know how he gets, after all. How his worry manifests, his eyes linger and his mouth tightens when you brush him off. You did not have the energy for it last night. And you don’t have it now. He does not have to know what hits you have taken due to your own recklessness. You already got a lecture from Cap. Don’t need it from his best friend.
So you show up. Because, if you don’t, he will know something is wrong.
Bucky is already waiting for you, standing loose and ready on the mat. His eyes snap up the moment you enter, scanning you the way he always does. Checking.
You ignore his gaze.
“Ready to get your ass kicked?” you say, tossing your water bottle onto the bench, forcing something light into your voice.
He smirks, arms crossed. “That what’s gonna happen?”
You step onto the mat, careful not to wince, careful to keep your breath even despite the sharpness pulling at your ribs. “Don’t sound so doubtful, Barnes. I’ll let you eat the mat.”
He snorts, tilting his head. “I sure like to see you try.”
He raises his hands, shifting into a stance, watching you closely. Too closely. There is something probing in his gaze today.
“How’d the mission go? Steve mentioned you guys ran into some-”
You don’t give him time to finish - time to think.
You move, fast, hoping to catch him off guard.
He sidesteps, but you strike again.
And immediately regret it.
Your ribs scream. Punishing. Your breath stutters, but you grit your teeth and keep going, keep pushing forward and attacking because if you pause, he will most definitely notice.
It goes on for perhaps a minute and you think you might actually be able to bite away the pain your whole body is consumed with, but then you stumble.
It’s a half-second of hesitation, a misstep that normally wouldn’t happen. But it causes you to trip away a few steps. Sharp pain courses through your ribs and a hand instinctively shoots up to your side. A hiss slips past your lips. Loud enough for him to hear.
But instead of reacting the way he always does - immediately stopping, immediately reaching - he just huffs amused, shaking his head.
“Bad time for trying that trick again, sweetheart. Shoulda known better.” There is that smugness in his tone.
His voice is light, teasing. His eyes are sharp, watching.
You grit your teeth, saying nothing.
He thinks you’re faking.
Which - fine. You have done this a few times. But now, with every movement grinding against the ache in your ribs, you wish he would just stop you.
Because it’s getting harder to hide.
It’s getting harder to see.
Bucky seems confused for a second when you don’t react to him at all, but doesn’t have time to act on it as you are going in for the next hit.
And Bucky dodges you too easily like he doesn’t even need to try. You swing again, slower than you should be, weaker than you should be - and he sidesteps, frowning.
“Tryin’ a new strategy?” he asks, but his voice is careful. His eyes are assessing.
You don’t answer. You can’t. You just go again, ignoring the way your body protests, ignoring the way you are moving wrong like you are just a second behind yourself. You hope maybe muscle memory will carry you through.
It doesn’t seem like it.
Bucky stopped throwing punches himself, only staying in defense mode and he won’t stop fucking looking at you.
And then you pivot too fast - twist wrong.
White-hot pain flares through your side so fiercely, it rips the breath from your lungs. A harsh, unsteady sound falls out. You can’t catch it. You stagger, grip tightening into fists, trying to push through.
But Bucky’s expression now definitely shifted. Amusement gone. Smugness gone. His face is hard.
You ignore that and try to go in for the next hit, but Bucky steps in fast, too fast for you to counter in your state, hooking an arm around you, pressing your back against his chest. He doesn’t throw you - he could, easily, he would - but he just halts your movement, stopping you clean in your tracks.
The pain spikes again and you gasp sharply. Your knees nearly buckle and Bucky’s grip on you tightens.
His hands are firm around you. Steady. But his breathing is not. It’s fast, strained, the muscles in his arms locking as he keeps you upright.
“What the hell happened?” His voice is so low, so serious. There is an edge to it, teetering on loosing control.
“It’s not a big deal,” you grit out.
“Bullshit.” Now he sounds harsh.
But his fingers still press so gently into your side, checking you out.
You whimper, flinching.
And Bucky freezes.
“Shit.” He shifts his grip, an arm around your waist, moving you to face him and still trying to support you without making it worse. His heartbeat is fast. You can feel it. Even in his hands on you.
He grabs the hem of your shirt and lifts it enough to see your torso. A breath hitches. It’s not yours.
The bruises are bad. Worse than they were yesterday. Dark and sprawling across your ribs, blooming in ugly purples and reds. You feel the shift in him, the way his whole body goes still.
You watch his tense features in discomfort. His eyes are turbulent, filled with a wildness stemming from something dark that writhes beneath his skin and causes his hands to shake against you. A tremor passes his jaw.
He curses under his breath.
“You didn’t tell me.” His voice drags low.
“I didn’t think it was that bad.”
He lets out a deep and rumbling sigh. Trying to compose himself. “It is bad, Y/n! How come you thought it’s a good idea to train like this, huh?”
He meets your eyes. There is a sternness in his expression. His eyes are heavy.
“I didn’t want you to worry.”
Bucky lets out a humorless breath. Closes his eyes for a moment until he takes a breath in again.
“I was already worried, doll. I always am. You know that, no?” he speaks solemnly. “You think not telling me makes this better?”
You open your mouth, then close it.
He shakes his head, exhaling profoundly through his nose. His grip tightens, but not enough to hurt you. He holds you carefully.
You take in a deep breath. “I- I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t wanna talk about it. I’m sorry, Bucky.”
His jaw is clenched and he bites his bottom lip, staring at the bruises littering your skin for a moment with eyes so dark they make you shiver.
“How did that happen? Who did this?”
You scoff half-heartedly. “Got a little messy. Pretty sure that guy’s not doing that well either.” You aim to get even the tiniest bits of amusement out of him but he might have gotten even more grim.
His touch is slow, a careful sweep of his finger across your skin, studying you for reactions.
He opens his mouth. Something on his tongue he wants to get out, but he hesitates. He swallows. Waits a few seconds. His voice is a rasp. “Don’t do that again.”
“Getting hurt on missions is kind of a normal occurrence, Buck. Not much I can do about that-”
“No, I mean-” he interrupts, voice quieter. “Don’t hide it again. Not from me. I- Just please.”
There is something in his tone that makes you stare for a while longer.
Then, you nod. Just once. But you mean it.
****
It took weeks for you to properly heal.
But finally, earlier today, you got the clearance of Dr. Cho - and Bucky, because he somehow told himself he has a say in that kind of thing - to step onto the mat again and resume training.
There is still a phantom pain in your ribs but it’s locked somewhere in the back of your mind.
But Bucky still would not stop fucking looking at you.
And it never is in a casual way. Bucky always watches you like he is waiting for something. Like his body is ready to move before his mind even has to tell it to. Like he is memorizing you, making sure nothing slips past him.
He is currently standing in front of you on the mat, rolling his shoulders, the stretch of muscle under his shirt shifting with the movement. The tension in his frame hasn’t faded, no matter how much you’ve reassured him. His fingers flex, then curl into loose fists.
Then his eyes find yours.
“Alright,” he says, voice low and edged with something firm, something not up for debate. “Don’t ever pull that shit on me again. You’re good enough as it is. No need for all that, yeah?” There is something heavy in his tone. “I'll even let you win this time if you need it so badly, doll,” he adds with a hint of humor that his voice lacked earlier, bouncing right back into your easy friendship.
You huff out a laugh and stretch your arms over your head, feeling the pull of muscles that have gone a little too long without use. “Trust me Bucky, I’ve learned my lesson.” Your voice is rather light, but it carries an edge as well.
Bucky’s jaw ticks.
There is something like guilt crossing his eyes for a second. Gone as fast as it came but you catch it. His lips are pressed together tightly and he seems to hold back an uncomfortable cough.
You’ve talked about this already. Plenty, in the weeks of your recovery. You told him you wouldn’t have believed him either after the many times you feigned injury during matches. That if anything, it was your own stubbornness that got you hurt and not him.
He only agreed with the stubborn part but he stopped bringing it up.
Still, you see he hasn’t let it go.
He carries too much guilt as it is. You don’t want him to carry more. So, you definitely won’t question his weakness during fights again. It was kind of funny, though, at least you’ll hold onto that.
You roll out your shoulders, shaking off the stiffness, then take your stance. “C’mon Barnes. You gonna fight me or just stand there looking pretty?”
His mouth twitches, a ghost of a smirk, maybe even a ghost of pink at the tip of his ears, but his eyes stay sharp.
He steps in, closing the space, moving with the same impossible control he always does.
You block his first strike, but it shakes through you. The force of it reminds you just how much power he’s holding back.
His eyes snap to your face. He doesn’t stop watching.
Studying.
Testing how you move, how much strain you can handle.
You feel yourself get into it again. The movement, the impact, the swiftness. The gym is filled with the sounds of breaths and footwork against the mat.
Bucky tests you, pushes you.
And you give as good as you get.
Your body remembers even if it’s been weeks. Your muscles adjust, wake up in a way they haven’t in too long. You move on instinct, dodging, striking, thinking, even pulling a move that you copied from Nat. One that Bucky didn’t see coming.
And it honestly looks pretty good for you, until your foot catches.
It’s nothing at first, a simple shift in weight, an uneven pivot that causes your balance to tip slightly off center. But a dizziness suddenly overcomes you and it’s too late to catch you. Your ankle twists, your knees buckle and the floor comes rushing up to you.
You hit the mat hard, landing awkwardly on your side, the jolt of pain snapping through your ankle up your whole leg, sharp enough for you to wince.
Shit.
You suck in a breath, already dreading what this looks like, what Bucky must be thinking. The timing couldn’t be worse. After everything - after the fights weeks ago, after the conversations, after the promise you just made to never feign getting hurt again - what else would he think?
But before you can lift your head, before you can force out some half-hearted quip, Bucky is already there.
Not hesitating. Not wary.
Rushing. Fast and frantic.
He’s at your side, crouching so fast his knees nearly hit the mat.
And you find yourself blinking at him stunned.
You expected him to pause. To hesitate. Maybe even get angry - to assume, even for a second, that you are feigning again, that you had just promised him not to pull that anymore but here you are.
But there is none of that.
Only the same panic from every other time you’ve dropped yourself to the ground on purpose. But this time it is real. There just was no way for him to know that. He still reacts the same.
“Where does it hurt, doll? Talk to me.”
His voice is calm, but his face is tight. His brows are drawn together, tension lining his mouth. The breaths he lets out are just a little too measured.
You blink at him, still baffled at the way with how fast he was there, how fast his reaction was.
“Just my leg,” you say, exhaling slowly. “It’s nothing. I just got dizzy and fell.”
That makes him frown, deeper than before. His hand moves so gently as he lifts the fabric of your training pants to get a look, taking your calve into his other hand. The touch sends a pulse of pain through you but you manage not to let it show on your face. You’ve had worse. You’re an Avenger, after all.
But Bucky’s jaw clenches so tightly at the sight of the swollen bone and the deepening flush of color on your ankle as if it is serious.
“Might have sprained it,” he mutters gruffly, and the displeasure in his voice is so clear.
“Think I’ll live, Buck,” you quip lightly and shift, trying to stand up but his hand doesn’t let up on your leg and he presses just lightly against your shoulders to make you sit back down.
“You still feelin’ dizzy?” he asks, basically ignoring what you said, voice dipping lower. His gaze locks onto yours. Intense.
You shake your head, trying to show him how casual this whole thing is but his eyes won’t stop searching you and it makes your stomach churn.
“I’m fine, Buck.”
His eyes don’t move. He doesn’t let go.
“Why did you even believe me?” You voice it light, but there is something cautious underlining it, you can’t shake. “Could’ve faked again.”
Bucky rakes a hand through his hair with a long breath. He averts his eyes.
“Saw you go down,” he says with a shrug that seems just a little too exaggeratedly indifferent. “S’ enough for my head to go straight to hell.”
That’s certainly not something you expected him to say and you are stunned once again. But you can’t help the way your belly does some delightful flips.
“And you promised me you wouldn’t,” he adds, shoulders straightening, like he is trying to shift your attention from the words he said before. From the admission he made.
“I’m really not going to do it again,” you promise again. But you won’t forget his words.
“I know, sweetheart,” he says sweetly, certainly, but the tension of your current situation lingers.
His touch on you is so damn careful, checking and rechecking, making you tell him what and how something hurts and you almost laugh out loud at his fussing.
“Buck, it’s not like I broke it,” you point out, a laugh in your voice. “I can still-”
“You’re not gonna walk around on that.”
You lift your brow at him, at his tone, an amused smile on your face but he just stares back. Without the smiling part.
Then he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face before standing to his full height, adjusting his stance before crouching slightly again.
“Alright, come on.”
You blink but his hands already settle, one beneath your legs, the other bracing your back, and you barely have time to react before he is lifting you, arms locking as he pulls you against his chest with an ease you could only dream of.
“Bucky-”
“Not a word,” he warns with a grunt.
You sigh, letting your head fall back against his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Don’t care.”
****
A sprained ankle takes anywhere from two to six weeks to heal properly, depending on the severity. You’ve had a few sprained ankles in your career already, so you would know.
But yours sits on the longer end of that spectrum and it frustrates you to no end because what the fuck. You were just done healing and now you got to do it all again.
The first week, Bucky barely lets you breathe without hovering close. He is always there, catching you if you wobble because you are too damn stubborn and rather hop around the compound than use a clutch. Because that would make it too easy, wouldn’t it?
The second week you get snappish. Tony makes sure to leave the room when you enter, Sam gets defensive, Natasha just smirks what frustrates you even more, Vision is a fucking robot only answering in a robotic voice way that drives you up the wall when he gives you a list of stores around New York that sell kettle fries but you only wanted to know where they are in the compounds kitchen. And Bucky endures every tiny bit of it, only that he is entirely unmoved by your attitude. At one point you just taped your ankle and tried to go down to the gym but Bucky stopped you before you could reach the elevator. He already stood there, brow quirked, arms crossed, unimpressed but amused.
By the third week, he sat next to you during team training, watching, studying. You criticized movements, talked about strategies, and laughed at Sam when Nat made him faceplant onto the mat.
Then the fourth week rolled in and you could finally put weight on your foot without wincing. For you, that meant you were good to go train again. But not for Bucky. So that meant another week of waiting.
But now you are back on the mat. Fucking again.
And you promise yourself, you will not fall this time. Not on purpose, not by accident.
Bucky stands across from you, arms loose at his sides, weight balanced, watching as you roll your shoulders and move through your warm-up.
“Got any last words before I kick your ass, Barnes?”
His mouth twitches. That half-smirk, something smug but fond, something that flies through his blue eyes like a spark.
“I dunno, sweetheart. Wouldn’t wanna land you on the sidelines again.”
You scoff, rolling your eyes.
“Bite me, Barnes.”
The moment you move, he matches it.
His reflexes are quicker than yours - always have been, always will be - but your advantage is that you know that. You know him. His patterns, the way he shifts his weight, the way his left shoulder always tenses a fraction of a second before he throws a punch. You don’t need to match his strength to win. You just need to read him.
The first strike comes low, an attempt to test your footing, but you pivot fast, avoiding the sweep of his leg with a practiced step-back. You counter with a jab - not meant to hit, just to distract - but he reads it immediately, catches your wrist, yanks you forward.
You twist, using the momentum, your free hand shooting up - Bucky dodges, barely, but you are already adjusting, using your own imbalance to push into him.
His hands are always steady, whether he’s attacking or defending. He uses his strength not to hurt you, but to push you, to remind you that you can take it.
And you do.
Blow for blow, counter for counter.
You refrain from looking at his face because he looks distractingly hot with his hair falling into his eyes and all, whipping around with his movements.
The moment his weight shifts forward, you are already countering. Stepping out of reach just as his arm sweeps for your waist. Your breath comes sharp as you turn and aim a well-placed jab that he sidesteps.
Bucky’s eyes gleam. Thrilled.
“Not bad,” he calls, already throwing another feint.
“Not trying to be”, you fire back, ducking, moving with him like it’s a dance. Like your bodies know this better than your minds do.
You push - he counters. You feint - he laughs, quick and breathy. You strike - he blocks.
Fuck, you missed this.
But then, he shifts.
And something changes.
It’s in his stance. The way he adjusts - not a mistake, but a decision. And in the half-second, before you react, before you catch on, you realize you don’t know what he is planning.
Your body is moving, a reaction before thought, but he is quicker - and you only feel him wind his arm around your waist, spin you around, and crash his lips against yours.
You stagger, letting out a surprised grunt against his mouth, caught completely fucking blindsided, because - what?
His mouth is firm, demanding - and it sears straight through your skin, your ribs, right into your bones, into your pulse, because Bucky Barnes is kissing you.
It’s not soft.
Not hesitant.
Not careful.
It’s everything it shouldn’t be in the middle of a fight.
It’s so unexpected that you don’t even notice the moment your back hits the mat. Don’t notice the way he takes you down like it’s nothing, like it’s unpredictable, because you weren’t ready.
You didn’t see it coming.
By the time you blink, by the time your brain catches up, he is already above you. Hovering.
His weight is balanced, both arms braced on either side of your head, and he is looking at you like he just won the fucking lottery.
Smirking. So damn smug.
Because Bucky finally found out your weakness. And he used it to his advantage.
Because what else could it be than him?
“You cheated,” you breathe out. Where has all the air gone?
“You kinda started it, sweetheart.” Bucky grins so wide, so proud, so happy. He pants above you. His eyes are shining.
And then he ducks down again.
He kisses you once more.
Slower, this time. Deeper. With something that lingers, something that presses into you as his hand slides along your jaw, something that feels like it has been waiting far too long for this exact moment.
And you don’t fight it.
Because it seems, you no longer have to wait for Bucky Barnes.
“You’ll know… not just in the way they look at you, but in how they’re not looking anywhere else.”
- butterflies rising
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