unpopular opinion; the infantilization of women in stories is getting so much worse ugh. i get that artistic freedom exists but youāre writing a sex scene about a woman who doesnāt even know the concept of sex or even the concept of genitalia (i read one where she didnāt even know what a penis was) just to make her seem more innocent while the man literally abuses that innocence. and then she also just speaks and uses the vocabulary of a fucking child.
Have you seen those videos of people wearing clothes from the 40s/50s out in public??
What would Bucky do if heās out one day and sees a fine thang walk by in 1940s attire?
Love you long time! You the bestestestest! š
OH MY GOD YESSSS!
-------
You donāt think much of it when you get dressed.
Itās just a dress. A pretty one, sureāsoft fabric that cinches your waist just right, skirt flaring gently when you turn, the kind of silhouette that feels like it belongs to another time. Youād found it tucked into the back of a vintage shop, all delicate seams and careful tailoring, something that looks like itās lived a life before you ever slipped it on.
You pair it with low heels, swipe on a little lipstickānothing dramatic, just enoughāand twist your hair up in a way youād seen in an old photo once.
You feelā¦ good.
Thatās all it is.
---
Bucky notices you before he realizes why.
Heās halfway down the street, mind somewhere else entirelyāgroceries in one hand, the steady hum of the city grounding him in the presentāwhen something pulls his attention like a thread snagging.
Itās not logical. Not at first.
Just a flicker of movement. The sway of fabric. The unmistakable silhouette of somethingā
Familiar.
His steps slow. His head turns. And then he sees you. But he doesn't just see you, he stares.
Because for one disorienting, breath-stealing second, the world tilts.
The city noise fades. The cars, the chatter, the glow of modern lifeāall of it dulls into the background as his brain scrambles to reconcile what heās looking at.
You walk past him like you belong somewhere else entirely.
Like you stepped out of a memory he didnāt realize he still carried so vividly.
The dress. The shoes. The way your hair is pinned just so. Even the way you moveāthereās a softness to it, a rhythm that feels pulled straight from the 40s, like something he used to see on crowded sidewalks in Brooklyn, back when everything smelled like cigarette smoke and fresh bread and possibility.
And youā
God, you.
Youāre smiling to yourself about something, completely unaware of the effect youāre having, completely unaware that youāve just knocked the air out of a hundred-year-old soldier.
Bucky stops walking entirely.
He just stands there.
Staring.
Because you look like something he lost.
And something he never thought heād get to see again.
And alsoāvery abruptly, very viscerallyālike the most beautiful person heās ever laid eyes on.
āJesus Christ,ā he mutters under his breath.
You donāt hear him.
You keep walking.
And thatās what snaps him out of it.
Because noāno, absolutely not, he is not letting you just walk away like that.
He pivots on his heel so fast he nearly drops his groceries.
āHeyā!ā
It comes out rougher than he intends. Louder, too.
You turn.
And thatās it.
Thatās the moment everything fully clicks into place, because now he can see your face clearlyāmodern, present, undeniably youāpaired with something that looks like it belongs in his past.
It hits him right in the chest.
Hard.
You blink at him, a little surprised, but not alarmed.
āYeah?ā
Your voice is normal. Casual. Grounding.
It helps.
A little.
Bucky drags a hand through his hair, trying to pull himself together, but heās still looking at you like youāve just walked out of a time machine.
āUhāā he starts, then stops.
Great. Smooth.
You tilt your head slightly, the motion making the soft curls near your temple shift just enough to make his brain short-circuit again.
He exhales sharply through his nose.
āWhereād you get that?ā he blurts out.
Your eyes flick down to your dress, then back up to him, amused.
āThis?ā you ask. āVintage shop.ā
Of course.
Of course it is.
He lets out a quiet huff of disbelief, shaking his head a little like heās trying to clear it.
āYouāā he gestures vaguely at you, like words are failing him completely. āYou look likeāā
He cuts himself off.
Because what was he going to say?
You look like every girl I ever noticed in 1943?
You look like something I used to dream about and never thought Iād see again?
You look like you donāt belong here and I donāt know how to deal with that?
Instead, he settles on something far less coherent.
āāyou look incredible,ā he finishes, a little quieter.
You blink.
Then smile.
And itās not a shy smile, not reallyāitās pleased. Warm. A little teasing, even.
āThank you,ā you say. āThat was a lot of buildup for a simple compliment.ā
His mouth twitches despite himself.
āYeah, well,ā he mutters, shifting his weight. āKinda threw me off.ā
āI can tell.ā
Thereās something about the way you say itāllike youāre trying to figure him outāthat makes him straighten slightly.
Because now heās noticing other things.
The way youāre looking at him.
The way you havenāt brushed him off or hurried away.
The way youāre still here.
And suddenly, the disorientation gives way to something else entirely.
Interest.
āDidnāt mean to yell at you on the street,ā he adds, a little more composed now. āJustāhavenāt seen that in a while.ā
You hum softly.
āI figured,ā you say. āYou looked like youād seen a ghost.ā
He lets out a quiet laugh, low and surprised.
āFelt like it,ā he admits.
Thereās a beat of silence before you shift your weight, the skirt of your dress swaying gently with the movement, and he definitely notices that.
āSo,ā you say, glancing at the bag in his hand. āDid I interrupt something, orā?ā
He looks down at his groveries like he forgot they existed.
Then back at you.
And makes a decision.
Fast.
āNah,ā he says, easy. āCan wait.ā
Your brow lifts slightly.
āGroceries can wait?ā
āFor this?ā he shrugs. āYeah.ā
Your lips press together like youāre trying not to smile too much.
āBold.ā
āHonest,ā he corrects.
Another pause.
Then, softer, more intetionalā
āWalk with me?ā
He doesnāt know why he asks it like that.
Doesnāt know why it feels important.
Maybe itās the dress. Maybe itās the way you feel like something out of time. Maybe itās the fact that, for the first time in a long time, something from his past doesnāt hurt to look at.
You glance down the street, then back at him.
āOkay,ā you say.
Just like that.
Simple.
Easy.
When you fall into step beside him, your shoulder brushing his for half a second, Bucky realizes something quietly, steadily, and with surprising certainty.
You donāt look like the past.
Not really.
You just make him feel like maybe it wasnāt all lost.
summary: after a messy divorce, you try to find yourself again in a new townābetween streets smelling of salt and sun, workshops and a pond full of boats slowly mending, life starts showing you that beginnings aren't always loud; sometimes they're just the world asking you to try again.
warnings: +18 MDNI! explicit sexual content/ implied smut ā divorce trauma, PTSD mentions, angst, hurt/comfort, mention of cheating (by ex husband), mentions of grief, slow burn, fluff, domestic fluff, nightmares, panic attacks.
part 1 ā autumn When old things fall away. The season of endings, of letting go, of learning that some chapters must close so others can begin.
part 2 ā winter When the world grows quiet. A season of healing, fragile beginnings, and learning to survive the cold with someone beside you.
part 3 ā spring When everything starts to bloom. New feelings, new roots, and the slow realization that hope can grow again.
part 4 ā summer When everything feels alive. The season of warmth, belonging, and choosing the life youāve built.
a/n: I might eventually come back to the finale because itās bugging me a little + I have some blurbs to be added as well as a special request from my dearest bubu, so hopefully Iāll be updating this soon.
summary: After the mission of returning the infinity stones goes wrong, the power stone leaves you with something you canāt get rid of. You survive the exposure, but now Bucky can only survive you in small doses.
word count: 5.2 k
warnings: angst, hurt/no comfort, implied smut, no happy ending (kind of open), graphic depictions of physical stress, mentions of blood and medical trauma, separation/implied breakup, self-destructive behavior. | english is not my first language so I'm sorry in advance for any mistypo/grammar mistake.
a/n: may I say thank you to the lovely anon who made this request based on Smallville Lara and Clarkās last kiss? Honestly I cried a lot while writing this š„ I hope you guys enjoy it and Iām sorry in advance for what youāre about to read.
read in AO3
The quantum tunnel spits you out on Morag in 2014, and the first thing you notice is how quiet it is. Dead quiet. Just wind and ruins and the distant sound of waves.
"We've got forty-five minutes before the window closes," you say, checking th GPS device on your wrist. "The temple's half a klick north."
Steve adjusts his shield. "Stay sharp, we don't know what we're walking into."
Bucky's already scanning the perimeter, rifle raised. "Looks abandoned."
"It is," you confirm. "Quill still unconscious down there. We're early."
The temple is exactly where it should beāa massive structure carved into the cliff face, a fascinating alien architecture. The power stone it's placed in its pedestal, sealed in the orb, pulsing with barely contained energy.
"Okay," Steve says. "Nice and easy. We secure the stone, get back to the platform andā"
The explosion cuts him off.
You're thrown sideways, slamming into one of the temple pillars. Your ears are ringing. Through the smoke, you see them: Sakaraans, maybe a dozen of them, firing indiscriminately. They must have followed you when they saw the quantum tunnel.
"Get the stone!" Steve shouts, shield already deflecting blaster fire.
Bucky's at your side, hauling you up. "You good?"
"Yeah, goā"
Another explosion, closer this time. The temple shudders and you watch in horror as the pedestal cracks, the orb rolls free splitting open on the ston floor.
The power stone tumbles out, raw, uncontained, pulsing with enough enrgy to level a planet.
Everything slows down.
Bucky's moving toward itāhe's a super soldier, he might survive the exposureābut you're closer. You're already running. You can hear him screaming your name, but you're faster. Your hands close around the stone, and the universe explodesā¦ at least for you.
Purple lightning crawls up your arms, through your veins, behind your eyes. It's not pain, it's way too big to be pain. It's everything, all at once. Every star being born and dying, every moment that ever was or ever will be, all of it flooding through you at once.
You can hear Bucky screaming but you can't let go. If you let go, the energy discharge will kill everyone. Will crack the planet open.
So you hold on.
Four seconds. Five. Six.
You slam the stone back into what's left of the pedestal and the world snaps back into focus. You're on your knees, your hands are still glowing, purple veins crawling under your skin like lightning scars. Bucky's hands are on your face, he's saying your name over and over, frantic.
"I'm okay," you manage. Your voice sounds wrong, distant. "I'm okay, I'mā"
You pass out in his arms.
You wake up three days later in the med bay. Bruce is there immediately, shining a light in your eyes, checking your vitals. "Welcome back, how do you feel?"
"Like I touched an infinity stone."
"Well, you're not dead, so, that's a good start." He's trying for levity, but you can see the concern in his eyes. "The glowing has mostly faded, you've still got some residual marks, but they should disappear completely in another few days."
You look down at your hands. The purple veins are still there, faint now, like a spiderweb under your skin.
"Where's Bucky?"
"He's been here the whole time, I finally convinced him to go shower about an hour ago." Bruce hesitates. "He wasā¦ he didn't handle seeing you like that very well."
You're about to respond, when the door crashes open and Bucky's thre, hair still wet, looking like he's been through hell.
"You're awake." He's across the room in three strides, hands hovering over you like he's afraid to touch. "You're okay, you'reā"
"I'm okay," you assure him. "Buck, I'm fine."
He sits on the edge of the bed, and you can see his hands shaking. "You stopped breathing twice. Did Bruce tell you that? Your heart stopped once, I had to watch themā"
"But I'm here now." You catch his hand, lacing your fingers through his. "I'm right here."
He lifts your joined hands to his mouth, kissing your knuckles. "Don't ever do that again."
"No more infinity stones, I promise."
He manages a weak smile before leaning down to kiss you properly. You don't notice the way his hand tightens on yours or the way his breathing picks up.
Twenty minutes later, he's vomiting in the bathroom.
Bruce runs every test he can think of. Bucky insists it's just stress, just the comedown from the mission, but you all know better.
It happens again the next day. You're sitting together in the common room, your head on his shoulder, and after thirty minutes he has to excuse himself. You find him in the hallway, pale and shaking, leaning against the wall.
"This is connected to the stone," you say.
"We don't know that."
"Buckyā"
"We don't know that," he repeats, more firmly. "Could be a hundred things, could beā"
He doesn't get to finish. His knees buckle and you barely catch him.
Bruce's diagnosis is clinical and devastating: you're still emitting radiation from the power stone. Not enough to hurt a normal person, but enough that Bucky's enhanced metabolism reads it as a threat. The serum is trying to fight it, which is tearing him apart from the inside.
"It should fade," Bruce says, but he won't meet your eyes. "In theory."
"How long?" Bucky demands.
"I don't know. The levels are decreasing, but slowly. It could take weeks, maybe months." He pauses. "Maybe longer."
"So what do we do?"
Bruce looks between you both. "You stay apart, minimize exposure until radiation dissipates to safe levels."
The silence is deafining.
"How much exposure is safe?" You ask quietly.
"Based on today's readings?" Bruce checks his tablet. "Five minutes. Maybe ten if he's had time to recover."
Five minutes. You only get five minutes.
After a few weeks, the lab tests proof that you're safe for fifteen minutes.
You measure everything now.
Bucky sets a timer on his phone every time he enters your room. When it goes off, he leaves without arguments or exceptions.
Fifteen minutes isn't enough time for anything meaningful. It's enough for "how was your day" and "I miss you" and one kiss before the alarm sounds and he has to go.
You start writing things down. All the things you want to tell him, but don't have time for. You leave notes in his room, he leaves notes in yours.
Thought about you today when I saw a cat stuck in a tree. It reminded me of that mission in Prague. -B
Sam made a joke about your hair, I defended your honor. You're welcome. -You
I'm counting down the minutes until tomorrow, always counting. -B
By week four, your time increases to forty five minutes, and it fels like a miracle.
You can have a meal together nowā¦ well, most of one. You learn to eat fast, to tlk while chewing, to fit entire conversations into the space between bites.
"Bruce says the decline is steady," Bucky tells you over breakfast. "If it keeps dropping at this rate, we might have a few hours in another month."
"That's good," you say, but you're both thinking the same thing: What if it stops? What if this is as good as it gets?
The timer goes off and Bucky's only eaten half his food.
"I'll finish it tomorrow," he says, kissing your forehead on his way out.
His plate sits on your table for the rest of the day. You can't bring yourself to throw it away.
By the sixth week, you got two hours, and it feels like the cruelest gift.
It's enough time to watch a movieāif you start it the second he walks in and he leaves before the credits roll.
It's enough time to have sexāonce, and only if you're efficient about it, and only if you're both okay with him leaving immediately after. You try it once, the alarm goes off while you're still catching your breath. He kisses you and walks out, and you lie there alone in the tangled sheets and cry.
When the eighth week comes, you notice the increase is slowing down. Bruce shows you the charts, the curve is flattening. The rate of decrease is dropping.
"What does that mean?" Bucky asks.
"It means we might be approaching a plateau," Bruce says carefully. "A baseline level that won't decrease further."
"But it's still going down," you argue. "It went up forty seven minutes this week."
"Forty-seven minutes in seven days. Last week it was an hour and twelve minutes. The week before that, ninety minutes." Bruce looks tired. "I'm not saying it's definitely plateaued, but we need to prepare for the possibility."
That night, Bucky comes to your room. You lie together in your narrow bed, fully clothed, his flesh arm wrapped around you.
"We have thirty more minutes," you whisper. "We should talk about something."
"I don't want to talk."
"Then what do you want?"
"This." His voice is rough. "Just this, just you."
You fall asleep like that. Wake up four hours later to Bucky convulsing beside you, blood streaming from his nose and ears.
"You could've died!" You're shouting, pacing, because if you stop moving you'll fall apart. "You could'veā do you have any idea what it was like, waking up and seeing you like that?"
Bucky's sitting on the edge of the med bay bed, still pale but recovering. "I fell asleep, it was an accident."
"An accident? You stayed for four hours, Bucky! Four freaking hours! Your timer went off and you turned it off instead of leavingā"
"I didn'tā"
"FRIDAY showed me the logs!" Your voice cracks. "You dismissed the alarm six times, six."
The silence stretches between you.
"I wanted more time," he says finly.
"You could've died."
"I wanted more time with you." He looks up, and his eyes are red. "Is that so fucking terrible? That I wanted to fall asleep next to you? That I wanted one night where I didn't have to watch the clock?"
"Yes!" The word tears out of you. "Yes, it's terrible, because you're killing yourself for a few extra hoursā"
"Don't you get it? It's not about hours!" He's on his feet now. "It's about us. Us being togetherā¦ that's the only thing keeping meā"
The nose bleed starts.
You've been here too long. Twenty minutes arguing, and he's already over the limit.
"I'm leaving," you whisper.
"We're not doneā"
"I said I'm leaving!" You're crying now, shoving at his chest before walking out.
You sink to the floor of the next room and finish the fight alone, screaming at an empty room.
Bruce calls you both into the lab. You know it before he speaks, he has a terrible poker face.
"The levels have been stbale for two weeks," he says. "No decrease, no increase. I thinkā¦ I think this is it."
"It could still drop," Bucky argues. "Could just be longer plateau beforeā"
"It could." Bruce agrees. "But it's been twelve weeks. The radiation signature should've decreased more by now if it was going to." He pulls up a graph. "I think we're looking at a permanent baseline, aproximately three hours of safe exposure per day."
Three hours for the rest of your life. Three fucking hours.
"There has to be something else," you say, but your voice sounds distant. "Another treatment, a way to extract it, somethingā"
"I've consulted with everyone I can think of. Shuri, Helen Cho, Strangeā¦ There's no precedent for this. Infinity stone exposure on this scaleā¦." Bruce shakes his head. "I'm really sorry."
You're aware of Bucky's hand finding yours, holding it tight.
"Three hours," he says. "We can work with three hours."
You don't answer.
That night, you sit in your room and do the math.
Three hours a day is 1,095 hours a year. Divided by 24, that's 45.625 days. You get 45 days a year with himā¦ the rest, you spend alone.
If you live by 80āoptimistic, given your line of workā and Bucky lives to be 150 because of the serum, you'll get 58 years together: 2,668 days total out of 21,170.
12.6% of your life together. The other 87.4% alone.
You're still staring at the numbers when Bucky walks in.
"Three hours a day is 1,095 hours a year," he says, and his voice is so carefully controlled it hurts to hear. "That's 45 days, we get 45 days a year together. Some couples do long distance and see each other less than that. We couldā we could make this work, right?"
He's standing in the doorway, hasn't crossed the threshold yet. Even now, he's trying to preserve your time.
"Buckā"
"I wake up at 5, come here until 8. Then lunch, 12 to 1. Dinner, 6 to 8. That's three hours, we just split it up throughout theday. It's structured but it'sā it's something." He's talking faster now, desperate. "We could meal prep on Sundays so we don't waste time cooking. We couldā I don't know, we could read books at the same time so we have something to talk about duringā"
"Bucky, stop."
"No." He takes one step into the room, just one. "No, I won't stop. I've done the math every possible way and thisā this is what we have, so we make it enough, we make itā"
"It's not a life."
The words land like a physical blow. You watch him flinch.
"It's our life." His voice cracks. "It is what he have, and people leave with worse. Peopleā people do long distance, people haveā"
"People don't get poisoned by the person they love."
"Don'tā" The word comes out sharp, ragged. "Don't make this aboutā"
"What if it gets worse?" You're on your feet now, and you can see the exact moment the timer his head starts counting. He's been here for two minutes. You have 178 minutes left today. "What if the plateau is temporary? What if three hours become two, and then oneā"
"Then we'll deal with it."
"What if it kills you?"
"Then it kills me!"
The shout echoes in the small room. Bucky's chest is heaving, his flesh hand clenched into a fist, and you can already see itā the slight tremor starting in his fingers, the way his pupils are dilating wrong.
Five minutes. He's been here for five minutes.
"Get out," you whisper.
"No."
"Bucky, pleaseā"
"No." He crosses the room in three strides, and you can see what it costs him. There's already a slight drag to his left legāthe serum's propioception breaking down. "You don't get to decide this aloneā¦ you grabbed that stone to save the mission, to save Steve, to save the entire goddamn universe. You think I'm gonna let that sacrifice be for nothing? You think I'm gonna just walk away afterā"
He stops and sways.
Seven minutes.
"Sit down." You grab his armā his flesh arm, careful nowā and try to guide him to the bed. His skin is already too warm. "Damn it, James, sit down before youā"
"No," he's shaking his head and the movement seems to cost him. "Not yet. I can'tāI'm not ready yet."
"You're already past your limitā"
"I know." His voice drops. "God, I know. I can feel it. It's like fire in my blood, did you know that? It burns. Everything burns when I'm near you."
Your breath hitches. "You never told meā"
"Because I don't care." He cups your face with both hands, and the metal one is whirring wrong, plates shifting and clicking out of sync. "I don't care if it hurts. I don't care if it burnsā the only thing I need is you."
His knees buckle. You catch him, barely, and you're both sinking to the floor. His back hits the edge of the bed and you're kneeling between his legs, holding him up.
"I need one more time," he breathes out. "I need to kiss you one more time without the fucking timer, without counting the seconds in my head, without wondering if this is the one that finallyā"
He doesn't finish. Can't finish.
"This is cruel," you whisper as your hands frame his face, and you can feel the fever radiating off his skin. "This is so cruel, letting you stay when youā"
"Then be cruel." His eyes lock on yours, and even unfocused with pain, they're still looking at you with so much love it hurts. "Be cruel, let me have this, let meā"
"It's killing youā"
"You think leaving me won't?" His metal had comes upājerky and malfunctioningā and catches your wrist. The grip is weak. How could it be? His metal arm is never weak. "You think walking away and leaving without you won't kill me just as dead? At least this way I got toā¦"
His nose starts bleeding.
It's been ten fucking minutes.
"Please, stop." You sob, reaching for something to stop the blood, but he catches your hand.
"No, please, justā" He's pulling you closer, even though every instinct you have is screaming to push him away, to save him. "Just stay, please. I know we're out of time, I know this is it, I know tomorrow you're gonna leave and never come back, so justā god, please just let me have this."
"How did youā"
"I know you." His thumb brushes your cheekbone. "I know that stubborn look in your faceā¦ you've already decided. You're planning on disappear and going somewhere I can't find you, because you think that way you'd be saving me. But baby, I'm not gonna survive without you, you understand that?"
He's crying now, and the tears are pink-tinged. There's blood on his tears. That's new.
"I can't lose you again," he chokes out. "I can't be the one left behind again. I can't wake up and find out the person I love the most is gone."
"Then you have to let me go." You're crying too, your forehead pressed against his. "You have to let me be the one that walks away, because I can live knowing you're out there, somewhere, safe and whole and alive. But I can't live watching this kill you. I can't, Bucky, I simply can't."
"One more time," he whispers against your mouth. "Let me have one more time where I'm not countingā¦ where I can just pretend we have forever."
"We don't have foreverā¦"
"I know. And I know I'm past it, I know I'm gonna pay for this, I don't care."
And he kisses you.
It's not gentle nor careful. It's desperate and drowning. His mouth is relentless against yours, like he's trying to memorize the taste, the feeling, the way you feel together. Your hands are on his hair, on his face, feeling the fever burning through him.
The kiss tastes like copper and salt. And somehow you feel it like the one last thing you'll ever have in your life.
His body is shaking violently now. You can feel every tremor, every muscle spasm. His metal arm is now hanging useless at his side, but his flesh hand is still cupped around the back of your neck, still holding you close as his strength fails.
You break the kiss against to breathe and he makes this desperate, broken sound that breaks your heart and chases your mouth. "Not yet, not yet, pleaseā"
"Bucky, you'reā"
"I know." He kisses you again, softer this time, gentler. "Just one more time."
Another kiss, this one starts to taste like blood. His hands are sliding down from your neck, he's losing motor control and his eyes are rolling back. You catch him as he slumps forward, his full weight collapsing into you.
"No, no, noā¦" You're holding him, lowering him down to the floor, cradling his head. "FRIDAY! Get Steve here! Get Bruce! Please someoneā"
Bucky slurs something low, barely conscious. You look down at him with tears in your eyes. "Please, please, stay with meā"
But he's out.
You lay down, screaming until your throat hurts for what it feels like forever, even though it only has been two minutes.
You're still holding him when Steve and Sam crash through the door. Bruce arrives a bit later to the med bay. They try to pull him from your arms and you won't let go.
"How long?" Bruce asks quietly, already prepping an IV.
Your voice barely comes out and sounds distant. "Fifteen minutes, maybe moreā¦"
Steve's face go white. "Jesus Christ."
"Get her out of here," Bruce orders and Sam pulls you away gently.
You watch from the doorway as they work in him. Watch as they load him onto a gurney and wheel him past you to medical.
His metal arm is hanging off the side of the gurney, completely loose. Blood is still trickling from his nose. But on his face, even unconscious, there's this ghost of a smile.
Like it was worth it.
You slide down the wall in the empty hallway and sob, praying in silence for him to be okay.
When Steve finds you an hour later, you're still there. Still staring at the same spot where they took him away.
"He's stable," Steve says quietly, sitting down beside you. "He's gonna be okayā¦"
You don't answer, looking down at your hands.
"Bruce says the exposure set him back weeks, maybe months. He will need time to recover beforeā¦" He trails off but you already know what he means.
Before you can see each other again.
"I'm leaving," you say. Your voice is flat, empty. "Tomorrow, somewhere he won't find meā¦"
"He'll look."
"I know." You finally look at Steve. "That is why I need you to stop him. You need to make him understand that this isā this is the only way I know how to save him."
Steve remains in silence for a long moment. Then: "He's not gonna forgive you for this."
You close your eyes, leaning your head on the wall. "ā¦But at least he'll be alive."
The next morning, you're gone.
You leave a note on his bedside table in medical, anchored down by a small locket with your initials and a picture of you both inside. You took his dog tags in exchange. The paper is covered in your handwriting, and in some places the ink is smudged.
Bucky,
I'm writing this while you're still unconscious, and I'm trying not to look at you, because if I do, I won't be able to leave. So I'm staring at this paper instead, forcing my hand to move and trying to get all of it out before I lose my nerve.
By the time you read this, I'll be gone. And I need you to understand that this isn't me running away from you. This is me running forward the only future where you survive.
I love you. I love you so much it feels like it's burning me from the inside out. I love the way you still sleep on the left side of the bed just because I asked you once to do so because I felt more comfortable sleeping on the right. I love how you pretend you don't like when Sam calls you "Buckaroo" but I can see you trying not to smile. I love that you learned how to braid hair just so you could braid mine on the nights we actually had time together.
I love you for fighting so hard, for pushing your limits for wanting me badly enough to hurt yourself. But that's exactly why I can't stay.
Last night I watched you almost die in my arms just for some extra time with me. I felt your heartbeat falter under my hands, I saw the blood and I saw you smiling unconscious when they were taking you to the medbay. And that's how I know you're never going to stop. You'll never choose yourself over me. You'll push and push until there's nothing left, and I will have to watch you fade.
I can't do that, Buck. I can't let the person I love most in this world destroy himself for stolen moments and rationed hours. I can't live knowing that every kiss might be the one that finally kills you.
So I'm choosing for the both of us. I'm doing the thing you can't do.
I'm leaving. And I need you to let me go.
I know you're probably already planning how to find me. I know Steve is probably going to help you, and if they ever find me Sam is going to yell at me for breaking your heart, and you're going to pull every favor and every resource until you track me down.
Please don't. I'm begging you baby, please don't look for me.
I know it's not fair to ask, I know I don't have the right, but I'm asking anyway because I need you to live. I need you to have a full life without timers and blood and goodbye kisses that might be the last one.
You've spent so much time being a weapon, being used, being told you don't get to choose. So I'm giving you a choice now: you can spend the rest of your life chasing a ghost or you can let me be the one that got away. You can hold on the hurt or you can let it make you strong enough to move forward.
You probably already know which one I'm hoping you'll choose.
Be happy, James Buchanan Barnes. Be reckless and stupid and alive. Get a cat. Let Sam teach you how to use social media, let Steve drag you to those museums you always pretend to hate. Flirt with someone at a coffee shop, have a one night stand, fall in love again.
Live the life I can't give you.
I'm sorry I couldn't be strong enough to stay. I'm sorry for choosing this way. I'm sorry for every fight we won't have and every meal we don't share and every tomorrow we won't get.
But most of all I'm sorry that loving me turned into something that could kill you.
I'm serious, James, don't look for me. This is the only way I know how to save you.
Always yours, even from far away.
When Bucky wakes up, the first thing he see is the letter. The second thing he sees is that his dog tags are gone. The third thing he realizes is that you are gone too.
He reads the letter and the machine monitoring his heart rate starts screaming.
"No." He's already ripping off the IV from his arm, swaying his legs over the side of the bed. "No, no, noā"
Steve's hands land on his shoulders. "Buck, you need to calm down."
"Where is she?!"
The scream echoes through the medbay. Bucky shoves Steve back hard enough that he hits the wall.
"You need to lie back down," Bruce says, trying to use his calm voice. "Your system is still recovering, you can'tā"
Bucky's on his feet now. The room spins but he doesn't care. He's moving toward the door and Steve's blocking it and Bucky can feel it rising in his chestāthat cold, dark thing he's spent burying.
"Move."
"You're in no conditionā"
"I said move!"
His metal fist goes through the wall next to Steve's head. Sam is there too now, both of them trying to corral him back towards the bed, but Bucky's fighting themā¦ really fighting them. There's blood running down his arm from where he tore the IV out and he can feel his body failing, feel the weakness on his legs, but he doesn't care.
"She's gone!" He's shouting, or maybe sobbing, he can't tell anymore at this point. "She's gone, I have to find her, I have toā"
"Bucky, listen to meā" Steve tries.
"No!" Bucky slams his metal arm into a medical cart and sends it crashing across the room. "You don't understand, she thinksāthe letter saysā"
He can't get the words out, can't even breathe properly. His chest is too tight and the room is spinning. You're gone.
"We need to sedate him," Bruce intervenes.
"Don't you fucking dare!" Bucky spins toward him and Steve has to physically tackle him. They go down hard, Steve pinning him to the floor and Bucky's still fighting, thrashing, his metal arm whirring as he tries to throw Steve down.
"I'm sorry," Steve is saying and he means it, Bucky hears it in his voice. "I'm sorry, Bucky but you're gonna hurt yourself if we don't stop you."
"I don't care!" Bucky's voice cracks. "I don't care, let me go, let me find herā"
He feels the needle slide into his arm.
"No, please, I have toā she doesn't understandāI need to tell her." His vision is blurring, Steve's face above him, both of them looking wrecked. "Find her, please find herā¦"
The darkness takes him back.
When he wakes again, it's dark outside.
He's restrained now. Steve's asleep in the chair beside the bed, Sam is gone.
Bucky lies there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, his body aches and his head pounds. Underneath it all, there's this hollow space where you used to be.
The letter is folded on the bedside table. They must've picked it up afterā¦ after whatever happened. He doesn't remember all of it, just the rage and the panic, the desperate need to move, to chase you and fix everything.
But he's not panicking now, he's thinking.
What if all of it wasn't permanent? What if there was a cure? Bruce said there was no precedent for infinity stone exposure like this. No treatment, no solution. But Bruce doesn't know everything. Bruce couldn't save Tony.
Bucky's mind was starting to work, clicking through possibilities: Carol Danvers got her powers when she was exposed to the space stone. Wanda's powers were the result of an experiment trial with the mind stone. Peter Quill was exposed to the power stone, along with his team, according to what Steve told him.
There were options. Leads. Possibilities.
And if none of them worked, he would find new ones. He'll search every corner of the universe if he has to. He'll make deals with gods and monsters and anyone else who might have answers.
The restraints are loose enough that he could break them. They're meant to slow him down, not stop him. But he doesn't move. He just lies there, breathing steadily, his mind cataloguing resources and contacts and next steps.
He reaches back for the letter and reads it one more time.
I'm serious, James, don't look for me. This is the only way I know how to save you.
He folds it carefully and picks up the locket you left there, a picture of the both of you staring back at him. He closes his hand around it and presses it against his chest.
"I'm going to solve this out," he murmurs quietly, low enough to prevent Steve from waking up. "And then I'm going to find you, and we're going to have forever. I promise."
my rating of the boys (based on my characterization)
ąŖāā“Theodore nott (duh)
ik im such a hypocrite for putting him first and matt at last but like hear me out. When it comes to teddy hes the kinda guy who will treat you as an absolute equal to him, i see all these people showing him as this manipulator or cheater or manchild which OMGGGG i can NOTT stress enough, yall are letting nicolo govenders personality from baby bleed into theos by making him this dumb druggie fboy when theo is canonically one of the smartest students in his year and an aloof indifferent boy who didnt like cliquey behaviour. you guys lean too much into the slytherin BOYS aspect and not the SLYTHERIN part, just cause one is a slytherin doesnt mean they NEED to have a bad quality or red flag although ik it add the drama you guys love but personally i hate it.
Theodore notts greatest fear is ending up like his father in even the slightest, he has a genuine reason to put in so much effort to be the best possible person he can be in a relationship and realistically speaking hes the only boy among them all who has motivation to want to be a better person unlike the other boys who are being carried by the 'love fixes everything' trope. also I have a thing for men that are smart and dont mind competent woman. its so lonely being on this side of the fandom where self respect is an actual thing.
He is my BLUEPRINTT of what i want in a guy. plus both of us are intellectuals in different ways meaning we just get each other the best and both enjoy parallel play.
ąŖāā“Blaise Zabini (UNDERRATED FOR WHAT??)
Blaise is SCARILY underrated and i think its pureeeeee rascism, you guys saw a poc thats canonically attractive and went 'hmmm lets make him a twink' and then switched up and made whole new white boys like omg. first off, you'd have ariadne as your mother in law which is ALREADY the best pro to being with him, secondly, blaise is the most secure, king like, provider guy among ALLL of them meaning theres nothing to 'fix' save for the minor trauma of his mom being a murderer and him not believing in love (i can fix him) but also because blaise hes got everything with barely ANYY redflags.
he also strikes me as someone who'd be the typa guy who'd let you do as you please like spend his money, get frustrated at him, beat a bitch and hed only be the most supportive guy. like calm bf x dramatic gf is the only trope i see him in (pansy BAGGED with him)
(theos the same but like + a shit ton of angst to keep life spicy)
ąŖāā“Lorenzo Berkshire
in another life i shifted for him and we were like claire and gibsie. I was so torn when scripting my s/o like i scripted teddy off the bat but i always had this nagging feeling of enz being th eone who got away since we were so alike and we're like enola and Tewkesbury variants. In my dr Lorenzo does NOT have a fucking black book are you KIDDING me?? thats disgusting plus his elder sister Tauria raised him better than that she'd have his actual head. I just think Enzo although being very shrewd is just such a fun and supportive person to be around.
Plus hes a very witty, classy and suave person, thats just hella magnetic and entertaining. dating him reminds me of the song 'Take on me' by A-ha
ąŖāā“Draco Malfoy
not romantically but i see him as a glass prince and personally the delicate yet helpful nature he has despite the attitude is something i can deal with or help with because he just triggers my maternal instincts *they all do*
To me draco is this smart, fragile, loyal, helpful guy and thats something that has its own charm but I would NOT pick him to be my bf, like this whole rating is based on how i would get along with each guy and whether i see romantic potential in them for me. with me and draco i feel it would work out long run if he ended up evolving past being an insecure little brat. if push came to shove id enjoy being with draco more than Matt because its the same thing, even with him I'll get to retain full sovereignity.
ąŖāā“Matteo Riddle(it feels like a sin rating him so low especially since i used to be super in love with him like a year ago)
hes a bit too volatile for my taste and i personally hate the power play trope like i dont wanna date someone who thinks of me as a supordinate or someone to protect because thats just who matt is like hes for the girlies who dont mind being tamed or sum shit, i fear I'd bite a dudes head off if he tried to tell me what to do or play tricks with me. like hes for the dark romance girlies that wanna be fix it felixes. plus in my dr me and matt are often told we were siblings in another life because we're soooo similar (dark brown wavy/curly hair, puppy dog eyes, playful, short temper, hate being told what to do, curse like sailors, etc) Like matt is for someone who either has the capacity to yell and go along with his temper or be so docile he feels like a sinner for yelling at you, i personally would slap a guy right across the face if he tried to put me down or control me out of dominance and not devotion. Thats not to say that i see matt as a red flag or something, i mean he is but its more about the fact that he and I wouldnt mesh well together in a way that could last.
He also doesnt strike me as the kinda guy who entertains a slowburn and is a velcro bf and i can do neither because a) i have alwayssss been a sucker for slowburn, i want the tension that isnt sexual but formative and to know someone as outside of a crush or partner. b) Im very much someone who needs her space and hate being dictated and dont wanna feel like im walking around egg shells cause im not a volatile person with my partner but matt is till you crack him in and show you aren't going anywhere. I just dont have the energy to deal with allat. with matt you'd have to be the goody two shoes or an absolute maniac like there is NO inbetween.
The one bad thing about everlark being one of the best ships of all time and having such an amazing story is that itās hard to find good Peeta ficsš
