Ă RESIDUAL NERVES ÂŚ Bucky meets that new member everyone keeps talking about and praising... and is the moment his eyes land on her when he remembers those words his mom used to tell him. | here | 811 words
Ă I ALMOST DO ÂŚ Bucky loves his best friend. Can't see his life without her. Truth is, he's too scared to share certain feelings until it's too late. | here | 1.3 k words Part 1
Ă HALFWAY ÂŚ He would wait for her to heal, to get better. That's what love does and after all, he's been in love with her for a long time, he could wait more. | here | 1.3 k words Part 2
Ă SUITS ÂŚ She loves his best friend in suits and with his new congressman side job, it's harder to hide her thoughts. It's such a good thing Bucky is an idiot who's too blind and just thinks it's friendly banter. | here | 1.1 k words
Ă NOT ENOUGH RIGHT NOW ÂŚ Bucky has been dating his lovely girlfriend for five months already and even then, he's still too scared to touch her the way he wants because, what if he hurts her? | here | 973 words
Ă RUIN THE FRIENDSHIP ÂŚ Such a clichĂŠ moment. They both say it's way to release the stress after missions but then it was almost every night. Both trying too hide their feelings for a long time until it's hard. | here | 890 words
Ă I JUST WANT YOU ÂŚ There's nothing more that Bucky Barnes loves after making love to his girlfriend... except after care. He loves how soft, secured and loved he feels with her. He always gotta let her know. | here | 1.1 k words
Ă GOT THE WHOLE BLOCK LOOKING LIKE YOU ÂŚ Bucky Barnes never thought he would have normalcy in his life after Hydra. Then, he never thought he would fall in love. And now, he wants everything with her, including many kids. It's just he's shy to share his thoughts. | here | 1.5 k words
Ă RISK ÂŚ Bucky Barnes thinks his neighbor it's the prettiest woman he has ever seen, always a pleasure talking with her and because of that, they gotta stop talking. The last thing he wants is her getting hurt because of him. | here | 983 words
Ă GIGGLING INSIDE ÂŚ There's something everyone knows. Bucky Barnes can't stand her. It's not that he's rude but she's the only teammate he doesn't like interacting with. No one knows Bucky is a mess because of her. Always giggling inside like a teenage girl. | here | 1.8 k words
Ă ENDLESS FEBRUARY ÂŚ Bucky Barnes is finally having some peace in his life. He has a lovely girlfriend, share their world together... so why is that dreadful day from February 1945 still coming around to torment his mind? | here | 1.9 k words
Ă A LOT OF WORK ÂŚ He wasn't looking for her but somehow, Alpine was that match Bucky needed in his life (besides his girlfriend) to feel complete. | here | 1.4 k words
Ă EXCLUSIVE ÂŚ He can't imagine himself with anyone that isn't his girlfriend. Seems imposible. Bucky Barnes is just deeply in love with her. | here | 1.3 k words
Ă HAPPY VALENTINEâS DAY, HONEY ÂŚ A soft day with a very in love Bucky Barnes. He wants to give it all the clichĂŠ things to his girlfriend. | here | 857 words
Ă SIDELINES ÂŚ Bucky rarely gets injured during missions until that day. He thought the injury was the worst thing ever until he founds out who's gonna be his replacement, "taking care" of his best girl. | here | 2.2 k words
Ă SAFE ÂŚ A simple question with his therapist makes Bucky Barnes realize who is his safe place. | here | 1.7 k words
Ă AS SLOW AS YOU NEED ÂŚ Despite all of the trauma, Bucky Barnes decides to see the good in things... especially with you. Not caring if you're a bit grumpy. | here | 3.6 k words
Ă WHEN YOU CALL AGAIN ÂŚ Friends don't kiss. Friends don't miss each other the whole day. Friends don't stay at 2 am talking. Friends don't make love... so why Bucky Barnes insisted on calling her that? | here | 860 words
Ă FORTY-SEVEN SECONDS ÂŚ Mission was supposed to be simple. She was going inside the building. Bucky was gonna be protecting her from another one. Bucky felt something was wrong. He should've know better. | here | 2 k words
Ă AND THE WORLD HAS SOMEHOW SHIFTED ÂŚ Days used to be gray for Bucky Barnes... until he sees the light in her. Now she's here shining in the starlight and it's like the sky is new and it's warm and real and bright. | here | 1.6 k words
Ă YOUR EYES WHISPERED, "HAVE WE MET?" ÂŚ Why is Bucky Barnes constantly dreaming about a woman? Were those scenarios real? Was that truly his past? Why is he feeling like something is missing in his life? | here | 1.7 k words
Ă RUN AWAY ÂŚ +18 ÂŚ Even in moments of happiness, Hydra finds a way to get inside Bucky's head. After an intense, vulnerable moment, some old fears resurface, making him question if heâs done something wrong. | here | 3.1 k words
Ă HOME ÂŚ In a half-unpacked apartment filled with boxes, stray knives, and swing music, Bucky and his girlfriend share a pizza on the floor, some kisses and discover that home isn't about the furniture. Between old habits, new beginnings, and a dance neither expected, they're figuring it outâone reluctant twirl at a time. | here | 1.7 k words
Ă MARCH 10TH ÂŚ No nightmare. No trigger. That's when it was obvious that Hydra didn't just steal Bucky's past. They tried to steal his birthday too. But this year? The clock hits midnight in her arms instead. | here | 3.5 k words
Ă MORE THAN WORDS ÂŚ She thought they were just cleaning out his apartment. Old photos, dusty boxes, memories Bucky never quite sorted through. Then she found a small wooden box and dozens of letters, all in his handwriting, all with your name on top. He never meant for you to read them. Too embarrassing. Too honest. But now? His apartment isn't the only thing getting thoroughly unpacked. | here | 2.6 k words
Ă HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MY LOVE ÂŚ Bucky Barnes doesn't do big speeches. He does quiet mornings, stolen afternoons, and handwritten proof that she's the best thing that's happened to him since he got his life back. Best birthday ever? Yeah. Definitely. | here | 2.2 k words
Ă I'M JUST TOO SOFT FOR ALL OF IT ÂŚ The world is loud. Missions, expectations, voices telling Bucky Barnes he should be more, do better, get fixed already. So he goes to the one place where the noise stops. A home that smells like her. A kitchen with a humming stove. Someone who doesn't ask what's wrong, just offers a mug and a choice: talk about it, or pretend the world doesn't exist for a while. | here | 2.9 k words
Ă WARM IT UP ÂŚ +18 ÂŚ The problem with being a man out of time wasn't the tech or the history. It was the quiet. And Bucky had been drowning in it. Seventy-four years without being touched. Then a cookout, a porch swing, and a woman who owns the calmest eyes he has ever seen asked the right question and changed everything. | here | 3.6 k words
Ă SELFISH ÂŚ She went back to 1943 for a mission. Forty minutes. In and out. Simple. Except she saw him... young, whole, before the train, before Hydra, before everything. He looked at her like she was a miracle. And she walked away. Leaving him. Because saving that Bucky would mean losing hers. Now she's home, drowning in guilt, confessing the worst thing she's ever done. | here | 3.7 k words
Ă ACTUALLY ROMANTIC ÂŚ +18 ÂŚ Three days in a mission that ran long, a shoulder that won't quit aching, and the kind of exhaustion that sleep alone can't fix. He comes home late and finds her still awake, still waiting, still wearing that sleep shirt he loves. What he needs isn't rest. Not yet. It's her. Slow, quiet, the kind of desperate that doesn't need words. Her. Only her. He always needs her. | here | 5 k words
Ă HOLD ON TO THE MEMORIES, THEY WILL HOLD ON TO YOU... AND I WILL HOLD ON TO YOU ÂŚ Bucky Barnes remembers too much about the Hydra days but no one warned him about which things he could forget. And new nightmares are there because he forgets things that happens with her and they're slipping through his fingers. He doesn't want to forget her. | here | 4.2 k words
Ă 'S TOO MUCH ÂŚ +18 ÂŚ There's a small detail between The Winter Soldier and Bucky Barnes. The first one was quiet and stealth was injected in his veins. The second one didn't know how vocal he could be until he had his girlfriend exploring him and his sounds are delicious as hell. | here | 329 words
Ă ONES AND ZEROS (AND YOU) ÂŚ +18 ÂŚ Bucky Barnes can't stand his phone, the way it makes him feel like a man left behind by time. But his girlfriend is patient. She always have been. So he learns. Just a little. Just enough. One night, alone, he figures out something small. Something stupid, probably. Just a picture. Just her face. Turns out, the hardest thing to learn isn't technology. It's letting someone see how much you love them. | here | 7.3 k words
Ă HONEY ÂŚ Bucky Barnes in a suit should be illegal. His girlfriend knows this. She also knows they don't want kids but every time he comes home wesring those suits, tailored perfection, her hormones are out of control. Bucky notices. He's got enhanced senses, way too much love for her and he's about to discover that traitorous biology is a two-way street. It's maybe in their cards anymore? | here | 3.8 k words
CLARK KENT
Ă YOU'RE OKAY. I'VE GOT YOU. ÂŚ Clark Kent is in love with her. So much sometimes it scares him there might be a time he hurts her. It's always such a good thing she's always there to show him her love. | here | 1.1 k words
Note There isn't smut here. Just like, the hint of it but mostly, it's the way Bucky Barnes makes his girlfriend feel by showing up... and dare to, be him. with that buzzcut. I am so sorry for this, like I made her so annoying and in love with Bucky but in my defense, it's all Sebas' fault for looking that good during Cannes' final day. This can be a part two of this fic but you don't necessarily have to read part one even though I would appreciate it very much. I apologize for the typos, the mistakes and the rambling around the same thing.
The gown was a mistake.
Not the gown itselfâthe gown was stunning, a deep emerald thing that pooled at your feet like liquid velvet and made your skin look like it had been kissed by something ancient and expensive. The neckline plunged just enough to be interesting without being scandalous. The back dipped to somewhere in the vicinity of your waist, held together by nothing but faith and a single delicate clasp that you'd made Bucky practice opening and closing three times before you'd deemed him ready for public consumption. No, the gown was perfect.
The mistake was wearing it before seeing him.
You'd had to come early. That was the problem. Some nonsense about being one of the responsable ones from the team, greeting the donors" and "please for the love of god someone needs to make small talk with the ambassador from Sokovia while Tony tries to fix the hologram projector." So you'd kissed Bucky goodbye at the door of your shared apartmentâhe'd been in his boxers, hair still damp from the shower, that morning's trim already blurring the lines of his buzz cut back toward something shaggierâand you'd promised to save him a dance.
That had been two hours and fifteen minutes ago.
More tan two hours of champagne flutes and canapĂŠs and the particular strain of social performance that came with being adjacent to Earth's Mightiest Heroes. Two hours of smiling until your cheeks ached and deflecting questions about your "relationship with the Winter Soldier" and pretending not to notice the way certain guests looked at you like you were either a saint or a fool for loving him.
Two hours of glancing at the door every thirty seconds like a dog waiting for its owner to come home.
Music swelled from somewhereâa string quartet playing something classical and vaguely pretentious, the kind of music that was supposed to make people feel sophisticated while they held champagne flutes and discussed geopolitics in hushed, important tones. Crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceiling like frozen waterfalls, casting prismatic light across the sea of black ties and glittering gowns. Somewhere to your left, Sam Wilson was telling a story that involved a lot of hand gestures and the word "unbelievable," and somewhere to your right, Carol Danvers was laughing at something Tony Stark had said, her teeth impossibly white against her impossibly perfect everything.
You couldn't have told a single person what any of them looked like.
Because your boyfriend had just walked through the door, and the entire room had gone blurry around the edges.
Later, you would try to find the words for what you felt in that moment. You would fail. You would describe it to him in fragmentsâlike being hit by a truck, like the floor dropped out, like someone poured honey into my veins and set it on fireâand he would laugh at you, soft and fond, and kiss the top of your head.
He was late, the bastard. Fashionably late, which was not a thing he usually didâBucky Barnes operated on a schedule that belonged to a man who had spent decades being told exactly when to eat, sleep, and kill. He was the kind of person who showed up fifteen minutes early to everything, who stood outside your apartment building waiting because he'd rather be early than risk making you wait.
All you could do was stare. He was wearing black. All black.
Not the tactical black of his mission gear, not the soft, worn black of his favorite henley, but the deep, dangerous black of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. The jacket was tailored to within an inch of its life, broad shoulders stretching the fabric in a way that made you think about what was underneath. The trousers fit him like they'd been sewn onto his body while he stood perfectly still, which they probably had
But the suit wasn't what destroyed you. The shirt was what destroyed you. It was going to kill you.
Black. Silk. The top two buttons undone.
Black silkâsilk, of all things, since when did Bucky Barnes wear silk?âbuttoned up to his throat, except it wasn't buttoned up to his throat. The first two buttons were undone, just enough to show a sliver of pale skin, just enough to make you ache, and there, barely visible against his chest, was the chain of his dogtags that caught the light, two small discs of metal nestled against his skin, even thought they were hidden beneath the shirt and you watched in real time as his pulse beat a steady rhythm beneath them. The same dogtags you'd held in your hands while he slept, reading the embossed letters by moonlight, tracing the edges with your thumb like they were a prayer. The same dogtags you see each night above you while he makes love to you.
The chain glinted, just a flash of silver in the hollow of his throat, and you wanted to bite him there.
And his head. God, his head.
The buzz cut was freshâyou could tell, could see the clean lines where he'd trimmed it before leaving, the way the short bristles caught the chandelier light and threw it back in soft glints. Without the curtain of hair to soften anything, the suit made him look like something out of a noir film. A hitman. A spy. A man who had done terrible things and would do them again if it meant getting what he wanted.
And what he wanted, you realized, as his gaze swept the ballroom and found you, was apparently you.
His eyes locked onto yours across the crowded room, and something passed between youâsomething hot and electric and entirely inappropriate for a charity gala hosted by the Avengers. His mouth curved. Not a smile, not exactly. Something smaller. Something knowing. The kind of expression that said I know exactly what I'm doing to you right now, and I'm not sorry.
You were going to kill him.
You were going to march across this ballroom and kill him with your bare hands, and then you were going to bring him back to life and kill him again, and then maybe, maybe, you would let him kiss you.
But you didn't march because your feet seemed to have forgotten how to work.
Sam's voice faded into background noise. The champagne flute slipped in your grip, and you barely registered catching it before it shattered on the floor. All you could see was himâthe impossible, infuriating, devastatingly beautiful man who had apparently decided that tonight was the night he would finally push you past the point of no return.
âUh oh,â Natasha said from somewhere to your left, her voice dry as a martini. âShe's gone.â
âCompletely offline,â Sam agreed. âI've seen this before. Total system failure.â
You couldn't even muster the energy to glare at them. Because Bucky was walking toward you, and the crowd seemed to part around him like water around a stone, and the buzz cut caught the chandelier light and gleamed, dark velvet against the sharp planes of his skull, and the suit jacket pulled across his shoulders with every step, and the dogtags swung gently with the rhythm of his movement.
âHi, honey.â
His voice was low. Rough. The kind of rough that came from somewhere deep in his chest, from spending too long wanting something he wasn't sure he deserved. His eyes dragged over youâthe emerald gown, the bare shoulders, the way your hair had been pinned up to expose the line of your neckâand you saw his pupils blow wide. He was so close, close enough that you could smell his cologneâsomething woodsy and warm, a new bottle you'd picked out together last month, the one that made you want to bury your face in his neck and stay there indefinitely.
âHi,â you managed. It came out as a squeak.
Bucky's smile widened, just a fraction. His eyes dropped to your mouth, then back up to your eyes, slow and deliberate and hot.
âYou look...â He trailed off, shook his head slightly, like he couldn't find a word big enough. âJesus. You look so fucking beautiful. I think I said it before you left home but youâre the prettiest here, baby.â
Now you know that the dress you'd spent three hours picking out, was worth it. You'd done your hair up in something complicated that involved approximately forty-seven bobby pins and a prayer. You'd put on the earrings he'd given you for your birthday, the ones that caught the light like captured stars.
âYouââ You stopped. Swallowed. Started again. âYou cannot look like that in public, James Buchanan Barnes. It's indecent. I'm going to have to file a complaint with someone.â
His eyebrows rose. âA complaint?â
âWith HR. Or Tony. Or the President. I don't know, someone.â You reached out and grabbed his lapelsâthe fabric was so soft, expensive wool that slid through your fingers like waterâand pulled him closer. âYou look like something I want to eat with a spoon.â
Beside you, Sam choked on his champagne.
Bucky's flesh hand came up to cover yours where it gripped his jacket, his thumb stroking across your knuckles in a slow, soothing circle. âThat's... a new one.â
âI'm full of new ones. You've undone me. I'm un-done. I'm going to be a puddle on this very expensive floor, and it's your fault, James. Youââ You had to stop, swallow, try again. âYou look like you're about to commit a crime.â
His mouth quirked. âWhat kind of crime?â
âAll of them.â
He laughedâsoft, private, meant only for youâhis metal hand settled on your waist, cool even through the silk of your dress, and he leaned down until his mouth was level with your ear. The buzz cut brushed your templeâthat velvet sensation, that ridiculous texture that you still couldn't get enough ofâand his breath was warm against your skin. âYou're adorable like this, even when I am having some innapropiate thoughts about you in this dressâ he murmured, low enough that only you could hear.and that was when your body finally remembered how to move.
You closed the distance between you in one step, grabbed the front of his suit jacketâthe fabric was obscenely soft under your fingers, expensive in a way that made you want to ask questions you didn't actually care about the answers toâand pulled him down into a kiss.
He made a sound. Something surprised and pleased, something that vibrated against your lips and traveled down your spine like a match striking. His hands found your waistâflesh and metal, warm and cool, familiarâand he pulled you closer, deeper, like he'd been waiting for this all night.
Maybe he had.
The kiss wasn't longâyou were in a ballroom, after all, surrounded by people who were definitely staringâbut it was intentional. It was a statement. It was mine, mine, mine in a language everyone could understand.
When you pulled back, his eyes were dark.
âOkay,â he said, a little breathless. âOkay. So I'm guessing you approve of the suit.â
âThe suit,â you repeated. Your voice was doing something strangeâhigher, thinner, like you were about to laugh or cry or possibly both. âBucky. Bucky. Do you have any idea what you look like right now?â
His brow furrowed. âBased on your reaction so far, I'm gonna go with 'confused and vaguely terrified.'â
You punched him in the chest. Not hard. Just enough to make a point.
âYou look like someone took every single one of my weaknesses and put them in a blender and poured them into the shape of a man,â you said, the words tumbling out too fast, too honest. âYou look like you should be illegal in several countries. You look likeâlike a problem, Bucky Barnes, and I am going to spend this entire evening being a problem right back at you.â
His lips twitched. âYeah?â
âYeah.â
âProve it.â
âI'm not making any promises,â you said and then you let him lead you toward the bar, your hand slipping down from his lapel to twine your fingers through his. His flesh hand was warm, calloused, familiar, and the contrast between that warmth and the cool metal of his other hand on your waist made you shiver.
The bar was a long, gleaming stretch of marble at the far end of the ballroom, staffed by a man in a white jacket who looked like he'd seen everything and was no longer impressed by any of it. Bucky ordered for you bothâold-fashioned for him, something fruity and pink for you that made his lips twitch when the bartender set it downâand you stood together at the end of the bar, shoulders touching, watching the crowd swirl and eddy like a river of wealth and power.
Except you weren't watching the crowd.
You were watching him.
The way his throat moved when he swallowed. The way his fingers curled around his glass, flesh hand and metal hand in perfect symmetry. The way the buzz cut made the line of his jaw look like something carved by a Renaissance sculptor who had known he was creating a masterpiece. The way his dogtags caught the light every time he breathed, that tiny flash of silver in the hollow of his throat, and god, you wanted to put your mouth right there.
âYou're staring,â he said, not looking at you.
âYou're stare-able,â you replied. âIt's not my fault.â
He turned his head then, and the look he gave you was slow and molten and dangerous. âWe're in public, sweetheart.â
âI'm aware.â
âThere are cameras.â
âLet them look.â You set your drink down on the barâuntouched, forgottenâand stepped closer to him, close enough that your chest almost brushed his, close enough that you had to tilt your chin up to meet his eyes. âLet them see. I don't care.â
His breath caught. Just a fraction, just enough that you noticed, and his metal hand came up to rest on your hip, fingers splaying across the silk of your dress like he was claiming you. âWhat's gotten into you tonight?â
You, you wanted to say. You've gotten into me. You've crawled under my skin and made a home there, and every time you look at me like that, I forget how to breathe.
Instead, you reached up and ran your fingers over the short bristles at the back of his head.
His eyes fluttered shut. Just for a second. Just long enough for you to see the effect you were having on him.
âI like your hair, the lack of it,â you said, soft and simple. âI like your suit. I like your everything, Bucky. And I've been watching you, and I can'tââ You paused, swallowed, tried to find words that didn't feel inadequate. âI can't handle it. You're too much. You're too good. And everyone in this room is looking at you like they want to eat you alive, and I just... I want them to know you're mine.â
He opened his eyes.
The grey had gone dark, nearly blue, and there was something burning in them that made your stomach flip over. âSweetheartââ
âI'm not done.â You pressed closer, your free hand coming up to rest on his chest, right over his heart. It was pounding. Good. âYou're wearing silk, Bucky. Silk. Do you know what that does to me? Do you have any idea what I've been thinking about for the past hour?â
His Adam's apple bobbed. âTell me.â
âNo.â You grinned, and it wasn't a nice grin. It was the kind of grin that made him groan and drop his forehead to yours, the kind of grin that meant trouble. âI'll show you later. But right now, I need you to kiss me.â
âWe're in the middle of a gala.â
âI don't care.â
âThere are photographers, sweetheart.â
âLet them get a good angle.â
He stared at you for a long momentâlong enough that you started to worry you'd pushed too far, long enough that the flush on your cheeks started to feel less like desire and more like embarrassmentâand then he moved.
His metal hand slid from your hip to the small of your back, pressing you flush against him. His flesh hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb tilting your chin up, and when he kissed you, it was nothing like the chaste, quick pecks he usually allowed in public.
It was filthy.
Open-mouthed and hungry, his tongue sliding against yours, his teeth grazing your lower lip, his whole body curving around yours like he was trying to absorb you. He tasted like whiskey and something darker, something that was just him, and you made a sound against his mouthâsomething desperate and pleadingâthat you'd be embarrassed about later.
Right now, you didn't care.
You couldn't care. Because his hand was in your hair now, careful of the pins but demanding, tilting your head exactly where he wanted it, and the buzz cut was brushing your forehead, and the dogtags were cool against your collarbone where they'd slipped out of his shirt, and oh, oh, this was what you'd been waiting for.
When he finally pulled backâslowly, reluctantly, like he was physically incapable of putting distance between youâhis lips were reddened and his eyes were dark and his chest was heaving.
âThere,â he said, voice rough. âNow they know.â
You were pretty sure your mascara was ruined. You were also pretty sure you didn't care.
âOne more,â you whispered.
He laughedâthat low, helpless laugh that meant you're going to be the death of meâand kissed you again. Softer this time, almost sweet, but with an undercurrent of promise that made your toes curl in your heels.
âYou're going to be the death of me,â he said, echoing your thoughts exactly.
âGood death,â you managed. âTop ten deaths. Five stars.â
He shook his head, but he was smiling, and the smile reached his eyes, and god, you loved him. You loved him so much it made your chest ache, made your throat tight, made you want to drag him into a closet and keep him there until the end of time.
The next hour was a blur.
You stayed glued to his sideâhand on his arm, fingers threaded through his, palm pressed flat against the small of his back whenever you moved through the crowd. You introduced him to people whose names you forgot immediately, and he was polite and quiet and devastating, and every time he spoke, his voice rumbled through you like thunder.
He ate it up.
You could tell. The way his hand tightened on your waist when you leaned in to whisper something in his ear. The way his breathing changed when you ran your fingers over the short bristles of his buzz cut, just once, just to remind him you were thinking about it. The way his eyes tracked your every movement like he was memorizing you.
At one point, Tony Stark cornered you both near the dessert table.
âBarnes,â Tony said, gesturing with a champagne flute. âBold choice. The all-black. The silk. Theâis that two buttons? That's two buttons. That's a statement. I respect it.â
Bucky's arm slid around your waist, casual and possessive. âWasn't trying to make a statement.â
âOh, you were definitely trying to make a statement.â Tony looked at you, then back at Bucky, then at you again. âIs she okay? She seems... not okay.â
âI'm fine,â you said, and your voice was about an octave too high. âI'm perfectly fine. Why wouldn't I be fine?â
âBecause you've been staring at Barnes's chest for the last three minutes like you're trying to set it on fire with your mind.â
You looked down. Bucky's hand was on your waist. The silk of his shirt was right there, the dog tags gleaming, the hollow of his throat right there, and you realized with a start that Tony was right.
You had been staring.
âI'm going to get some air,â you announced.
âWe're in a ballroom,â Tony said. âThere's no air. It's all recycled.â
âThen I'm going to find some different air.â
You grabbed Bucky's hand and pulled him toward the terrace doors.
He came willinglyâhe always came willinglyâbut you heard the low laugh he tried to hide, felt the way his fingers interlaced with yours like they belonged there.
The garden was quiet.
The terrace led to a small courtyard, hidden from the ballroom by a hedge maze that was probably meant to be romantic and was definitely meant to keep drunk donors from wandering into restricted areas. Fairy lights twinkled in the trees above, casting everything in soft gold. The sounds of the gala faded to a distant murmur, replaced by crickets and the gentle splash of a fountain somewhere out of sight.
You stopped in the middle of the cobblestone path, turned to face him, and looked.
The fairy lights caught the angles of his faceâthe sharp cheekbones, the strong jaw, the way the buzz cut made his eyes seem impossibly large and impossibly blue. His suit jacket was unbuttoned now, hanging open over the silk shirt. The dog tags had shifted slightly, the chain catching the light as he breathed.
He was leaning against a stone pillar, arms crossed over his chest, watching you with an expression you couldn't quite read.
âSo,â he said. âAir?â
âShut up.â
âYou dragged me out here for a reason, sweetheart.â
âI know.â You stepped closer. âThe reason is that I cannot be held responsible for my actions in a room full of people when you look like that. Itâs your fault.â
His eyebrow arched. âMy fault?â
âYour everything.â You were close enough now to touch, close enough to see the way his pulse jumped in his throat. âThe suit. The shirt. The buttons, Bucky. Two buttons. Who do you think you are?â
âYour boyfriend?â
âThat's not an excuse.â
âIt's the only excuse I need.â He chuckles, that sound that makes your knees weak.
You reached up and ran your hand over his headâthe buzz cut, the soft bristles, the warmth of his scalp beneath your palm. He closed his eyes, just for a second, and a sound escaped himâsomething low and wanting, something that made your knees weak.
âYou've been doing this all night,â you said. âWalking around likeâlike that. Letting me touch you. Letting me kiss you. Watching me fall apart in public like some kind ofâof spectacle.â
His eyes opened. The smirk that curved his mouth was lethalâthe one he kept reserved only for you, the one that said I know exactly what I'm doing and I'm not sorry and also you love it.
âMaybe I like watching you fall apart,â he said. âMaybe I like knowing that I can do thisââ He reached up and undid the third button of his shirt, just one more, just enough to expose another inch of skin, the top of his chest, the beginning of the dark trail of hair that disappeared beneath the silk. ââand you forget how to speak.â
You forgot how to speak.
He laughedâlow and satisfiedâand pushed off from the pillar, closing the distance between you until you were chest to chest, his hands on your hips, your hands on his shoulders. The silk of his shirt was warm under your palms, and you could feel the heat of his skin through the fabric, could feel his heart beating steady and strong.
âYou're doing this on purpose,â you accused.
âAbsolutely.â
âYou're evil.â
âI've been told.â
You kissed him.
It wasn't gentleâit was hungry, desperate, the kind of kiss you gave someone when you'd been holding back for hours and your self-control was a thread about to snap. He met you with equal intensity, his metal hand coming up to cup the back of your head, his flesh hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise.
You bit his lower lip. He groaned. The sound went straight between your legs.
âSweetheart,â he breathed against your mouth. âWe're in a garden.â
âI don't care.â
âPeople can see.â
âLet them.â
But even as you said it, you knew he was right. The terrace doors were still visible through the hedge, and you could hear laughter drifting from the ballroom, and neither of you was nearly drunk enough to risk that kind of scandal.
âLater,â you said, pulling back just enough to look at him. âWhen we get home. I'm going toââ
âYeah?â His voice was rough. âWhat are you going to do?â
You ran your hand over his buzz cut again, watched his eyes flutter shut, watched his lips part on a shaky exhale.
âI'm going to take that suit off you,â you said. âVery slowly. Button by button.â
âThere are a lot of buttons.â
âI'm aware.â
âAnd then?â
âAnd then I'm going to kiss every inch of skin you've been torturing me with all night. Your collarbone. Your chest. That place behind your ear that makes you shiver. And then youâll whimper, we know you love when I make you whimper like that.â
His grip tightened on your hip. âYou're trying to kill me.â
âYou started it.â
He kissed you againâsofter this time, deeper, a promise of everything that was waiting for you both at home. When he pulled back, his eyes were soft, the smirk replaced by something more vulnerable. Something that looked like home.
After some time, you didnât know if it was seconds, minutes, it could be hours, Bucky led you down the gravel path, his hand warm in yours, until you reached a small stone bench tucked beneath a sprawling oak. The leaves rustled overhead, and somewhere nearby, a fountain trickled, and the whole place smelled like jasmine and night-blooming flowers and him.
He sat down, then tugged you onto his lap without asking, arranging you so that you were straddling his thighs, your dress pooling around you both like a spill of green silk.
âHi,â he said, looking up at you.
âHi,â you said back.
His hands settled on your waistâflesh and metal, warm and coolâand he leaned back against the bench, watching you with those dark, dark eyes. The fairy lights caught the planes of his face, the sharp cheekbones, the strong jaw, the velvet-soft buzz cut that you still hadn't gotten enough of.
âYou're staring again,â he said.
âI'm appreciating,â you corrected him. âThere's a difference.â
âIs there?â
âYes. Staring is what strangers do. Appreciating is what girlfriends do.â You ran your hands over his shoulders, feeling the expensive wool of his jacket, the warmth of his body beneath. âAnd I am appreciating the hell out of you right now, James.â
He hummed, low in his throat, and his fingers traced idle patterns on your hips. âYou were pretty handsy in there.â
âI was restrained. You should see what I wanted to do.â
âOh yeah?â His voice dropped, went dark and teasing. âWhat did you want to do?â
You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. âI wanted to undo the rest of your buttons. Right there. In front of everyone. I wanted to see how far that silk goes down.â
His breath hitched. âHoneyââ
âI wanted to put my mouth on your dogtags.â You kissed his jaw. âRight here.â His throat. âAnd here.â The hollow of his collarbone, where the chain disappeared beneath his shirt. âAnd here.â
His hands tightened on your hips, fingers digging into the silk, and when you pulled back to look at him, his expression had shifted. The teasing was still there, underneath, but there was something else now. Something hungry.
âYou have no idea,â he said, voice rough, âwhat it does to me. When you look at me like that.â
âLike what?â
âLike I'm the only thing in the room.â His metal hand came up to trace the line of your jaw, cool and smooth. âLike you want to devour me. Like you've never seen anything better in your entire life.â
âI haven't,â you said simply. âI haven't seen anything better. Not ever.â
He made a soundâsomething between a groan and a sighâand pulled you down into a kiss that was nothing like the ones in the ballroom. Those had been for show, for the cameras, for the people watching.
This was for you.
Slow and deep and searching, like he was trying to find something inside you, like he was mapping every corner of your mouth with his tongue, like he was memorizing the way you tasted so he could recall it later, in the dark, when you weren't there.
You melted against him. There was no other word for it. Your hands slid into his hairâthat buzz cut, that velvet, that impossible softnessâand you felt him shiver beneath you, felt his grip tighten, felt his whole body go taut like a wire about to snap.
âI love this,â you breathed against his mouth. âI love you. I love the way this feels. I love that you did this for yourself, because you wanted to, because it makes you comfortable, and I get to touch it anyway.â
His forehead dropped to yours. âYou're going to make me cry at a gala.â
âGood tears or bad tears?â
âGood tears. Overwhelmed tears.â He laughed, a little wetly, and his hands smoothed up your back, pulling you closer. âI don't... I don't know how you do this. How you make me feel like this.â
âLike what?â
âLike I'm enough.â The words were barely a whisper. âLike I don't have to be anything other than what I am. Like thisââ He touched his own head, the short bristles, a self-conscious gesture that had become second nature. ââisn't a mistake. Like I'm not a mistake.â
You kissed him. Hard and fierce and demanding, pouring everything you couldn't say into the press of your lips, the sweep of your tongue, the way your fingers curled against his scalp.
When you finally pulled back, your eyes were burning.
âYou are not a mistake,â you said, and your voice shook. âYou have never been a mistake. You are the best thing that ever happened to me, James Buchanan Barnes, and if you ever doubt that again, I willâI will spank you in front of our team, I swear to god.â
He blinked.
Then he laughedâa real laugh, bright and surprised and so full of joy that it made your heart stutterâand pulled you into his chest, wrapping both arms around you so tightly that you could barely breathe.
âI love you,â he said into your hair. âI love you, I love you, I love you.â
âI love you too,â you said, muffled against his shoulder. âNow stop being insecure about the buzz cut. It's ruining my aesthetic.â
He snorted. âYour aesthetic?â
âMy 'being wildly attracted to my boyfriend' aesthetic. It's very important.â
He pulled back just enough to look at you, and there it wasâthe smirk. The one he reserved only for you. The one that said I know exactly what I'm doing, and I'm going to keep doing it until you combust.
âSo,â he said, slow and deliberate, âjust to be clear. You like the buzz cut.â
âI love the buzz cut.â
âYou like the suit.â
âI want to burn the suit so I can have you naked faster, but yes. I like the suit.â
âYou like the dogtags.â He reached up and pulled the chain out of his shirt, letting the silver tags rest against the black silk, and your mouth went dry.
âBucky.â
âAnd you've been thinking about this all night.â His voice dropped, went dark and sweet like honey and whiskey. âAbout getting your hands on me. About getting your mouth on me.â
âBucky.â
âSo here's what's going to happen.â He shifted beneath you, settling you more firmly on his lap, and his smirk sharpened into something dangerous. âWe're going to stay here for a little while longer. Long enough that people notice we're gone. Long enough that Sam sends someone to check on us.â
âThat'sâthat's notâwhy would weâ?â
âBecause,â he said, and leaned in until his lips brushed the shell of your ear, âI want them to know that I took you out to this garden. I want them to know that we were gone for forty-five minutes. I want them to wonder, sweetheart. Maybe we fuck here, maybe we make out like teenagers or maybe I just have you in my lap while we look at the lights but I want them to look at you tomorrow, with that pretty smile on that beautiful fase and I want them to wonderâ
You shivered. Full-body, no-holding-back shivered, and you felt him smile against your neck.
âYou're evil,â you whispered.
âI'm yours,â he corrected, echoing your words from earlier, and then his mouth was on your throat and you forgot how to think entirely.
The garden became a blur of sensation after that.
His handsâboth of them, flesh and metal, warm and cool, everywhereâsliding up your thighs beneath the silk of your dress. Your fingersâtangled in his hair, in the collar of his shirt, in the chain of his dogtagsâpulling and clutching and begging without words. His mouthâon your jaw, your throat, the place where your pulse beat frantic and wildâleaving marks that would bloom purple by morning.
âTell me,â he murmured against your collarbone. âTell me what you want.â
âYou,â you gasped. âI want you. I've wanted you all night. I've wanted you since you walked through that door looking likeâlike that, like some kind ofâof wet dream in a tailored suitââ
He laughed, low and dark, and his metal hand slid higher, cool fingertips brushing the inside of your thigh. âWet dream?â
âShut up.â
âMake me.â
You kissed him. It was the only way to shut him up, and he knew it, and he wanted it, and god, you loved this man. You loved him so much it felt like drowning, like falling, like the most dangerous and wonderful thing you'd ever done.
When you finally pulled backâbreathless, flushed, your dress rumpled and your hair half-fallen from its pinsâhe was looking at you like you were the answer to a question he'd been asking for a hundred years.
âI love you,â he said, simple and certain. âI love you, and I love the way you look at me, and I love that I get to have this. You. Tonight. Tomorrow. Every day.â
Your eyes burned. âBuckyââ
âI know.â He kissed your forehead, soft and sweet. âI know. We don't have to say it again. I just... I needed you to know.â
You cupped his face in your handsâthe buzz cut, the stubble, the sharp cheekbones, the impossible beauty of himâand kissed him until you couldn't feel the tears anymore.
âForty-five minutes,â you said when you finally let him go.
âWhat?â
âYou said we'd stay here for forty-five minutes.â You glanced at your watchâa small, vintage thing that had belonged to your grandmotherâand raised an eyebrow. âWe've been out here for twelve.â
His smirk returned, slow and lethal. âThen we'd better make the most of the remaining thirty-three.â
He pulled you back down, and the garden swallowed you whole.
âWe should go,â he said. âSay goodbye. Make an excuse.â
âWe've only been here an hour.â
âAn hour too long, baby. Weh ave only kissed and I gripped you around and you maybe roll your hips in that way I love but itâs a garden and I bet my ass that Stark has cameras around because he probably doesnât want another incident like the one in Punta Mita.â
He was right. You knew he was right and the memory makes you chuckle. But you couldn't make yourself move, couldn't make yourself step away from the warmth of him, the solidness of him, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
âOne more minute,â you said.
âWe don't have a minute.â
âThen thirty seconds.â
He smiledâthat real smile, the one that crinkled his eyes and made you feel like the sun had come out. âThirty seconds,â he agreed.
You spent them with your forehead pressed to his, breathing the same air, feeling the same wanting hum between you like a live wire.
When you finally pulled apart, his hand found yours.
âHome?â he said.
âHome.â
The apartment smelled like youâcandle wax and something floral, the remnants of whatever perfume you'd dabbed on your wrists before leaving. The door had barely closed behind you before you had him pressed against it, your mouth on his, your hands fisting in the lapels of his suit jacket.
He laughed against your lipsâbreathless, giddy, young in a way he rarely got to be.
âImpatient,â he murmured.
âYou have no idea.â
âI have some idea.â
You pushed the jacket off his shoulders, let it fall to the floor, and he didn't complainâjust watched you with those dark, dark eyes, his chest rising and falling under the silk shirt. The dog tags had shifted again, resting now against the hollow of his throat, and you bent your head to press a kiss to the spot just below them.
His head fell back against the door. A sound escaped himâlow, wrecked, perfect.
âSweetheart.â
âShh.â You kissed the line of his collarbone, following the chain of the dog tags down to where it disappeared beneath the silk. âI've been thinking about this all night.â
âMe too.â
âThinking about getting you alone. Getting you undressed. Finding out if the rest of you is asââ You kissed the place where his neck met his shoulder, felt him shudder. ââdevastating as the parts you were showing off.â
âJesus.â
âNot Jesus. Just me.â
You pulled back just enough to look at him.
He was beautiful.
The buzz caught the low light of the apartment, the short bristles casting tiny shadows on his scalp. His cheeks were flushed, his lips reddened from kissing, his eyes so dark they were almost black. The silk shirt gaped open, exposing more of his chest than you'd seen all night, and you could see the muscles shifting beneath his skin as he breathed.
âBedroom,â you said.
âBedroom,â he agreed.
He didn't wait for you to lead. Instead, he swept you upâone arm under your knees, the other around your backâand carried you down the hallway like you weighed nothing. You laughed, startled and delighted, and buried your face in his neck.
âYou're going to ruin the gown,â you said.
âIt's your gown.â
âIt's expensive.â
âI'll buy you another one. Five more.â
He laid you down on the bedâyour shared bed, the one with the worn sheets and the pillows that smelled like him, the one where youâd spent countless nights tracing the lines of his face and learning the sounds he made when he was happy, when he was sad, when he was wantingâand for a moment, he just stood there.
Looking at you. Taking you in.
The streetlight filtered through the curtains, throwing the room in soft gold and grey. The fairy lights from the garden had followed you home, apparently, because everything seemed to glowâthe curve of your shoulder where the emerald gown had slipped, the gleam of his metal arm, the dark bristles of his buzz cut catching the dim light like a halo.
âYouâre staring again,â you said, and your voice came out softer than you intended.
âSo are you.â
âFair point.â
He didnât move. Just stood at the edge of the bed, drinking you in, and you watched something shift in his expressionâthe usual guardedness falling away, replaced by something raw and open and almost frightened in its tenderness.
âCan I tell you something?â he asked.
âAnything.â
âI was nervous tonight.â He said it like a confession, like a secret heâd been holding in his chest all evening. âRidiculously nervous. Standing in front of the mirror for twenty minutes, trying to decide if I should undo a third button or if that would be too much.â
You laughedâsoft, disbelieving. âYou were nervous?â
âTerrified.â He climbed onto the bed, slow and deliberate, and when he hovered over youâbraced on his metal arm, his flesh hand coming up to cup your faceâyou felt the weight of him, the warmth of him, the way his thumb stroked your cheek like you were made of something precious. âI kept thinking⌠what if she doesnât like it? What if she thinks I look like a thug? What if she spends the whole night embarrassed to be seen with me?â
âBucky.â
âI know itâs stupid.â His eyes dropped, lashes dark against his cheeks. âI know. Youâve told me a hundred times. But I canât help it. Every time I walk into a room full of people, I hear their thoughts. I see the way they look at me. The Winter Soldier. The assassin. The weapon.â He swallowed hard. âAnd then I see the way you look at me, and I think⌠maybe Iâm not that person anymore. Maybe I get to be someone else. Someone good.â
Your heart cracked open, spilling warmth through your chest, and you reached up to touch his faceâthe sharp line of his jaw, the softness of his lips, the place where his stubble met the smooth skin of his cheek.
âYou are good,â you said. âYou are the best person I know, James Buchanan Barnes. And I am never embarrassed to be seen with you. Do you understand? Never.â
His eyes searched yours, looking for somethingâdoubt, maybe, or pity, or the lie heâd been trained his whole life to expect. He didnât find it. All he found was you, looking back at him, steady and sure.
âOkay,â he said, and his voice was rough. âOkay.â
He hovered over youâbraced on his metal arm, his flesh hand coming up to cup your faceâyou felt like the entire world had narrowed to this single moment.
âI love you,â he said. âIn case I haven't said it enough tonight.â
âYou've said it.â
âI'll say it again.â He kissed your forehead. âI love you.â Your nose. âI love you.â Your chin. âI love you.â
Each kiss was softer than the last, more reverent, like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.
âI love you too,â you whispered. âEven when you show up to galas looking like a war crime.â
He laughedâthat real laugh, the one that shook his shoulders and made your chest ache. âA war crime?â
âA handsome war crime.â
âI'll take it.â
You reached up and ran your hands over his buzz cut, savoring the velvet-soft bristles, the warmth of his scalp, the way his eyes fluttered shut and his whole body seemed to melt into your touch.
âYou have no idea what you do to me,â you said. âWith this. With the suit. With the buttons, Bucky. I'm never going to recover.â
âGood,â he said, and his voice was rough. âThen we're even.â
âEven?â
âBecause I've been wrecked since the moment I saw you in that gown.â His metal hand traced the neckline of the emerald velvet, feather-light, barely touching. âThe way it fits you. The way it moves when you walk. The way everyone in that room was looking at you like they wanted to eat you alive, and I had to stand there and smile and pretend I wasn't imagining all the ways I was going to take you apart the second we got home.â
Your breath caught.
âSo yeah,â he continued, his voice dropping lower, his mouth hovering just above yours. âWe're even.â
He kissed you.
It was different from the kisses in the ballroom, different from the desperate tangle in the garden, different from the frantic hello at the door. This kiss was slow. Deep and searching, the kind of kiss that asked questions and answered them in the same breath. His mouth moved against yours like he had all the time in the world, like there was nowhere else heâd rather be, like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
You let yourself sink into it. Into him.
Your hands found his headâthe buzz cut, the soft bristles, the warmth of his scalp beneath your palmsâand you marveled, not for the first time, at how something so simple could feel so intimate. Without the curtain of hair to hide behind, there was nowhere for him to go. He was here, completely and utterly, and the vulnerability in his expression when you pulled back made your breath catch.
âYou have no idea,â he murmured, âwhat it does to me when you touch me like that.â
âLike what?â
âLike Iâm yours.â
âYou are mine.â
His smile was small and soft and so full of love it made your chest ache. âYeah,â he said. âYeah, I am.â
He kissed your forehead. Your nose. Your chin. The corner of your mouth. Each one a tiny absolution, a thank-you, an I love you in a language that didnât need words.
âCan I take this off?â he asked, his fingers finding the zipper of your gown.
âPlease.â
He drew it down slowly, agonizingly, the whisper of metal on metal the only sound in the room besides your breathing. His eyes stayed on yours the whole time, watching your reaction, making sure you were okay. Even now, even after all this time, he was checking inâbecause that was who he was. That was who heâd always been, under the metal and the memories and the century of pain.
A good man. A sweet man.
The emerald velvet pooled at your waist, and his breath caught.
âSweetheart,â he said, and his voice was wrecked.
âWhat?â
âYouâre so beautiful.â He said it like he couldnât believe it, like he was seeing you for the first time. His hands hovered over your bare skinânot touching, not yet, just revering. âI donât deserve you.â
âDonât start that.â
âI mean it.â
âI donât care what you mean.â You reached up and pulled him down, until his forehead rested against yours, until you were breathing the same air. âI love you. I chose you. Every day, I wake up and choose you. And I will keep choosing you, over and over, until I stop breathing. Do you understand?â
His eyes were bright. His jaw was tight.
âYeah,â he whispered. âYeah, I understand.â
He kissed you againâdeeper this time, hungrier, but still gentle. Always gentle, with you. Even when he was desperate, even when he was wanting, even when his hands shook with the effort of holding back, he was gentle. Because that was who he was. That was who the world had tried to break and failed.
The gown came off the rest of the way, and he made a soundâsomething low and wondering, something that vibrated against your skin and traveled down your spine like a match striking.
âCan I tell you something else?â he asked, his lips brushing your collarbone.
âYou can tell me anything.â
âI love the way you look at me.â He pressed a kiss to the hollow of your throat. âI love the way you say my name.â Another kiss, lower this time, over your heart. âI love the way you touch me, like Iâm not broken, like Iâm notâlike Iâm just me.â
âYou are just you.â
âI know.â He lifted his head, and his eyes were soft, soft, soft. âBecause of you. I know.â
His hands mapped your body like he was memorizing itâthe curve of your waist, the dip of your hip, the place where your pulse beat quick and fragile at your wrist. His touch was feather-light, almost reverent, and every brush of his fingers left a trail of fire in its wake.
âYouâre shaking,â he said.
âYouâre touching me.â
âIs that okay?â
âItâs better than okay.â You reached for him, tugged at his shirt, the silk slipping through your fingers. âBut I need you closer.â
He helped you. Buttons came undone, silk parted, and then his chest was bare above you, and you forgot how to breathe.
He was beautiful. All of him. The broad shoulders, the smooth planes of his chest, the trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his trousers. The metal arm gleamed in the low light, the vibranium plates shifting as he moved, and you reached up to trace the place where flesh met machineryâthe boundary line that heâd once been ashamed of and now wore like armor.
âYouâre doing it again,â he said softly.
âDoing what?â
âLooking at me like Iâm something precious.â
âYou are something precious.â
His throat worked. His eyes, impossibly, went soft.
âSweetheart.â
âI mean it.â You sat up, pushed the silk shirt off his shoulders, let it fall somewhere on the floor. Your hands mapped his chestâthe warm skin, the steady heartbeat, the way his breath hitched every time your fingers brushed over a sensitive spot. âYouâre the most beautiful thing Iâve ever seen. With the buzz cut. Without the buzz cut. In a suit. In your boxers. In nothing at all.â You looked up at him through your lashes. âEspecially in nothing at all.â
He made a soundâhalf laugh, half groanâand captured your mouth with his.
The kiss was everything. Deep and hungry and desperate and tender all at once, the kind of kiss that happened when two people had been wanting each other all night and finally, finally had the privacy to do something about it. His hands were everywhereâyour back, your hips, your thighsâand you arched into his touch like a flower turning toward the sun.
âI want to take my time with you,â he said against your skin. âIs that okay?â
âYes.â The word came out breathless. âGod, yes.â
âI want to learn every inch of you again. The way you look tonight. The way you feel.â His metal hand skimmed down your side, over your ribs, over your hip, leaving goosebumps in its wake. âI want to memorize you.â
âBucky.â
âShh.â He pressed a kiss to the hollow of your throat, right where the dog tags had rested against his skin all night. âLet me.â
You let him.
He was thorough. He was patient. He kissed every inch of skin he could reachâyour shoulders, your arms, the inside of your wrists, the palms of your hands. He traced the line of your spine with his metal fingers, and you arched into his touch like a cat. He murmured your name like a prayer, over and over, until it lost all meaning and became just a sound, just a breath, just the shape of his love for you.
At some point, his trousers followed the shirt. The dog tags stayed onâyouâd asked him to keep them, once, and heâd never taken them off sinceâand they swung between you as he moved, cool metal against your heated skin.
âYouâre so good to me,â he said, and his voice was thick. âYouâre so good, sweetheart. I donât know what I did to deserve you.â
âYou existed,â you said. âThatâs all. You existed, and I found you, and Iâm never letting you go.â
He laughedâwet, almost, like he was crying or close to it. âPromise?â
âPromise.â
He kissed you again, and this time there was nothing slow about it. This was want, pure and simple, the kind of want that had been building all night, all week, all lifetime. His body pressed you into the mattress, and you wrapped your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck and pulled him close, close, close.
His face was inches from yours. The buzz cut brushed against your forehead, soft and warm. His eyes were dark and bright all at once, full of something that looked like wonder.
âI love you,â he said, and his voice broke on the words.
âI love you too.â You kissed the corner of his mouth. âNow show me, Barnes.â
He smiledâthat real smile, the one that crinkled his eyes and made you feel like the sun had come outâand he did.
He showed you with every touch, every kiss, every murmured word against your skin. He showed you in the way he held you, like you were something fragile and precious and worth protecting. He showed you in the way he movedâslow at first, deep, deliberate, drawing out every sensation until you were trembling beneath him, gasping his name into the dark.
His hands found yours, fingers interlacing, pinning them gently to the mattress on either side of your head. The metal hand was cool, the flesh hand warm, and the contrast made you shiver. He pressed his forehead to yours, staying close, staying connected, even as the pace built and the world narrowed to just the two of you.
âLook at me, precious,â he said. âPlease. I need to see you.â
You opened your eyesâyou hadnât realized youâd closed themâand found him watching you. His gaze was intense, burning, but underneath it was something softer. Something that looked like awe.
âThere you are,â he whispered. âThereâs my girl.â
You made a soundâsomething between a laugh and a sobâand pulled him down into a kiss.
He swallowed every noise you made, held you through every tremor, whispered I love you against your lips until the words lost all meaning and became just a rhythm, just a heartbeat, just the truth of him.
And when you finally shatteredâwhen the world went white and bright and everythingâhe was right there with you, holding on, holding together, pressing his face into the curve of your neck and breathing your name like a benediction.
At 3 am, around the time where the city had gone quiet and the streetlight had flickered out and the only light in the room came from the soft glow of the bathroom, where youâd left the door crackedâyou lay with your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
It was steady now. Calm. The frantic thrum from earlier had settled into something slow and rhythmic, a lullaby in B-flat major.
His hand was in your hair, fingers combing through the tangles with absent-minded tenderness. His other armâthe metal oneâwas wrapped around your waist, holding you close even in sleepâs approach. The dog tags rested against his skin, cool and familiar. You traced the outline of them with your fingertip, feeling the stamped letters, the weight of history, the story of a man who had survived things no one should survive and somehow found his way to this.
To you.
âHey,â he said, voice rough with sleep.
âMm?â
âIâm glad I cut my hair.â
You lifted your head, propped your chin on his chest, and looked at him. The buzz cut was already growing outâyou could see it, the faint shadow of length that would need trimming in the morning. But right now, in the dim light, it looked perfect. Soft. His.
âYeah?â
âYeah.â His flesh hand came up to cup your face, his thumb brushing your cheek. âBecause now I know. Even at a fancy gala, even in a suit that costs more than our first apartment combined, even with everyone looking at me like theyâre trying to figure out if Iâm a hero or a weaponâŚâ He paused, swallowed. âYou still look at me the same way.â
âAnd what way is that?â
He was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper.
âLike Iâm worth coming home to.â
You kissed him. Soft. Slow. A promise.
âYouâre worth everything,â you said. âIn a suit. Out of a suit. With a buzz cut that makes me want to do unspeakable things to you in public gardens.â
He snorted. âWe didnât do anything in the garden.â
âBarely.â
He laughedâthat real laugh, the one that made your heart feel too big for your chestâand pulled you back down against him. His arms wrapped around you, flesh and metal, and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.
âYouâre sweet, you know that?â you murmured into his chest.
âMe?â
âYou. The way you touch me. The way you look at me. The way you check in, even when youâreââ You paused, searched for the word. ââeven when youâre lost in it. Youâre always careful with me. Always gentle.â
He was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was thick.
âThatâs because youâre the most important thing in my life,â he said. âAnd I spent a long time being something else. Something hard. Something that broke things.â His arms tightened around you. âI never want to break you.â
âYou couldnât break me,â you said. âEven if you tried.â
âI know.â He pressed another kiss to your hair. âThatâs why I love you.â
You fell asleep like thatâtangled together, heartbeat to heartbeat, the man with the buzz cut and the dog tags and the heart that had learned to love again holding you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
And in the morning, when the sun came streaming through the curtains and you woke to find him already watching you, soft-eyed and sleep-rumpled and more beautiful than any suit or gala or garden could ever make him, you smiled.
âGood morning, James.â
âGood morning, sweetheart.â He ran his hand over his own headâthe new gesture, the one that was already becoming yoursâand grinned. âI love you, did you know that?â
Note There isn't smut here. Just like, the hint of it but mostly, it's the way Bucky Barnes makes his girlfriend feel by showing up... and dare to, be him. with that buzzcut. I am so sorry for this, like I made her so annoying and in love with Bucky but in my defense, it's all Sebas' fault for looking that good during Cannes' final day. This can be a part two of this fic but you don't necessarily have to read part one even though I would appreciate it very much. I apologize for the typos, the mistakes and the rambling around the same thing.
The gown was a mistake.
Not the gown itselfâthe gown was stunning, a deep emerald thing that pooled at your feet like liquid velvet and made your skin look like it had been kissed by something ancient and expensive. The neckline plunged just enough to be interesting without being scandalous. The back dipped to somewhere in the vicinity of your waist, held together by nothing but faith and a single delicate clasp that you'd made Bucky practice opening and closing three times before you'd deemed him ready for public consumption. No, the gown was perfect.
The mistake was wearing it before seeing him.
You'd had to come early. That was the problem. Some nonsense about being one of the responsable ones from the team, greeting the donors" and "please for the love of god someone needs to make small talk with the ambassador from Sokovia while Tony tries to fix the hologram projector." So you'd kissed Bucky goodbye at the door of your shared apartmentâhe'd been in his boxers, hair still damp from the shower, that morning's trim already blurring the lines of his buzz cut back toward something shaggierâand you'd promised to save him a dance.
That had been two hours and fifteen minutes ago.
More tan two hours of champagne flutes and canapĂŠs and the particular strain of social performance that came with being adjacent to Earth's Mightiest Heroes. Two hours of smiling until your cheeks ached and deflecting questions about your "relationship with the Winter Soldier" and pretending not to notice the way certain guests looked at you like you were either a saint or a fool for loving him.
Two hours of glancing at the door every thirty seconds like a dog waiting for its owner to come home.
Music swelled from somewhereâa string quartet playing something classical and vaguely pretentious, the kind of music that was supposed to make people feel sophisticated while they held champagne flutes and discussed geopolitics in hushed, important tones. Crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceiling like frozen waterfalls, casting prismatic light across the sea of black ties and glittering gowns. Somewhere to your left, Sam Wilson was telling a story that involved a lot of hand gestures and the word "unbelievable," and somewhere to your right, Carol Danvers was laughing at something Tony Stark had said, her teeth impossibly white against her impossibly perfect everything.
You couldn't have told a single person what any of them looked like.
Because your boyfriend had just walked through the door, and the entire room had gone blurry around the edges.
Later, you would try to find the words for what you felt in that moment. You would fail. You would describe it to him in fragmentsâlike being hit by a truck, like the floor dropped out, like someone poured honey into my veins and set it on fireâand he would laugh at you, soft and fond, and kiss the top of your head.
He was late, the bastard. Fashionably late, which was not a thing he usually didâBucky Barnes operated on a schedule that belonged to a man who had spent decades being told exactly when to eat, sleep, and kill. He was the kind of person who showed up fifteen minutes early to everything, who stood outside your apartment building waiting because he'd rather be early than risk making you wait.
All you could do was stare. He was wearing black. All black.
Not the tactical black of his mission gear, not the soft, worn black of his favorite henley, but the deep, dangerous black of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. The jacket was tailored to within an inch of its life, broad shoulders stretching the fabric in a way that made you think about what was underneath. The trousers fit him like they'd been sewn onto his body while he stood perfectly still, which they probably had
But the suit wasn't what destroyed you. The shirt was what destroyed you. It was going to kill you.
Black. Silk. The top two buttons undone.
Black silkâsilk, of all things, since when did Bucky Barnes wear silk?âbuttoned up to his throat, except it wasn't buttoned up to his throat. The first two buttons were undone, just enough to show a sliver of pale skin, just enough to make you ache, and there, barely visible against his chest, was the chain of his dogtags that caught the light, two small discs of metal nestled against his skin, even thought they were hidden beneath the shirt and you watched in real time as his pulse beat a steady rhythm beneath them. The same dogtags you'd held in your hands while he slept, reading the embossed letters by moonlight, tracing the edges with your thumb like they were a prayer. The same dogtags you see each night above you while he makes love to you.
The chain glinted, just a flash of silver in the hollow of his throat, and you wanted to bite him there.
And his head. God, his head.
The buzz cut was freshâyou could tell, could see the clean lines where he'd trimmed it before leaving, the way the short bristles caught the chandelier light and threw it back in soft glints. Without the curtain of hair to soften anything, the suit made him look like something out of a noir film. A hitman. A spy. A man who had done terrible things and would do them again if it meant getting what he wanted.
And what he wanted, you realized, as his gaze swept the ballroom and found you, was apparently you.
His eyes locked onto yours across the crowded room, and something passed between youâsomething hot and electric and entirely inappropriate for a charity gala hosted by the Avengers. His mouth curved. Not a smile, not exactly. Something smaller. Something knowing. The kind of expression that said I know exactly what I'm doing to you right now, and I'm not sorry.
You were going to kill him.
You were going to march across this ballroom and kill him with your bare hands, and then you were going to bring him back to life and kill him again, and then maybe, maybe, you would let him kiss you.
But you didn't march because your feet seemed to have forgotten how to work.
Sam's voice faded into background noise. The champagne flute slipped in your grip, and you barely registered catching it before it shattered on the floor. All you could see was himâthe impossible, infuriating, devastatingly beautiful man who had apparently decided that tonight was the night he would finally push you past the point of no return.
âUh oh,â Natasha said from somewhere to your left, her voice dry as a martini. âShe's gone.â
âCompletely offline,â Sam agreed. âI've seen this before. Total system failure.â
You couldn't even muster the energy to glare at them. Because Bucky was walking toward you, and the crowd seemed to part around him like water around a stone, and the buzz cut caught the chandelier light and gleamed, dark velvet against the sharp planes of his skull, and the suit jacket pulled across his shoulders with every step, and the dogtags swung gently with the rhythm of his movement.
âHi, honey.â
His voice was low. Rough. The kind of rough that came from somewhere deep in his chest, from spending too long wanting something he wasn't sure he deserved. His eyes dragged over youâthe emerald gown, the bare shoulders, the way your hair had been pinned up to expose the line of your neckâand you saw his pupils blow wide. He was so close, close enough that you could smell his cologneâsomething woodsy and warm, a new bottle you'd picked out together last month, the one that made you want to bury your face in his neck and stay there indefinitely.
âHi,â you managed. It came out as a squeak.
Bucky's smile widened, just a fraction. His eyes dropped to your mouth, then back up to your eyes, slow and deliberate and hot.
âYou look...â He trailed off, shook his head slightly, like he couldn't find a word big enough. âJesus. You look so fucking beautiful. I think I said it before you left home but youâre the prettiest here, baby.â
Now you know that the dress you'd spent three hours picking out, was worth it. You'd done your hair up in something complicated that involved approximately forty-seven bobby pins and a prayer. You'd put on the earrings he'd given you for your birthday, the ones that caught the light like captured stars.
âYouââ You stopped. Swallowed. Started again. âYou cannot look like that in public, James Buchanan Barnes. It's indecent. I'm going to have to file a complaint with someone.â
His eyebrows rose. âA complaint?â
âWith HR. Or Tony. Or the President. I don't know, someone.â You reached out and grabbed his lapelsâthe fabric was so soft, expensive wool that slid through your fingers like waterâand pulled him closer. âYou look like something I want to eat with a spoon.â
Beside you, Sam choked on his champagne.
Bucky's flesh hand came up to cover yours where it gripped his jacket, his thumb stroking across your knuckles in a slow, soothing circle. âThat's... a new one.â
âI'm full of new ones. You've undone me. I'm un-done. I'm going to be a puddle on this very expensive floor, and it's your fault, James. Youââ You had to stop, swallow, try again. âYou look like you're about to commit a crime.â
His mouth quirked. âWhat kind of crime?â
âAll of them.â
He laughedâsoft, private, meant only for youâhis metal hand settled on your waist, cool even through the silk of your dress, and he leaned down until his mouth was level with your ear. The buzz cut brushed your templeâthat velvet sensation, that ridiculous texture that you still couldn't get enough ofâand his breath was warm against your skin. âYou're adorable like this, even when I am having some innapropiate thoughts about you in this dressâ he murmured, low enough that only you could hear.and that was when your body finally remembered how to move.
You closed the distance between you in one step, grabbed the front of his suit jacketâthe fabric was obscenely soft under your fingers, expensive in a way that made you want to ask questions you didn't actually care about the answers toâand pulled him down into a kiss.
He made a sound. Something surprised and pleased, something that vibrated against your lips and traveled down your spine like a match striking. His hands found your waistâflesh and metal, warm and cool, familiarâand he pulled you closer, deeper, like he'd been waiting for this all night.
Maybe he had.
The kiss wasn't longâyou were in a ballroom, after all, surrounded by people who were definitely staringâbut it was intentional. It was a statement. It was mine, mine, mine in a language everyone could understand.
When you pulled back, his eyes were dark.
âOkay,â he said, a little breathless. âOkay. So I'm guessing you approve of the suit.â
âThe suit,â you repeated. Your voice was doing something strangeâhigher, thinner, like you were about to laugh or cry or possibly both. âBucky. Bucky. Do you have any idea what you look like right now?â
His brow furrowed. âBased on your reaction so far, I'm gonna go with 'confused and vaguely terrified.'â
You punched him in the chest. Not hard. Just enough to make a point.
âYou look like someone took every single one of my weaknesses and put them in a blender and poured them into the shape of a man,â you said, the words tumbling out too fast, too honest. âYou look like you should be illegal in several countries. You look likeâlike a problem, Bucky Barnes, and I am going to spend this entire evening being a problem right back at you.â
His lips twitched. âYeah?â
âYeah.â
âProve it.â
âI'm not making any promises,â you said and then you let him lead you toward the bar, your hand slipping down from his lapel to twine your fingers through his. His flesh hand was warm, calloused, familiar, and the contrast between that warmth and the cool metal of his other hand on your waist made you shiver.
The bar was a long, gleaming stretch of marble at the far end of the ballroom, staffed by a man in a white jacket who looked like he'd seen everything and was no longer impressed by any of it. Bucky ordered for you bothâold-fashioned for him, something fruity and pink for you that made his lips twitch when the bartender set it downâand you stood together at the end of the bar, shoulders touching, watching the crowd swirl and eddy like a river of wealth and power.
Except you weren't watching the crowd.
You were watching him.
The way his throat moved when he swallowed. The way his fingers curled around his glass, flesh hand and metal hand in perfect symmetry. The way the buzz cut made the line of his jaw look like something carved by a Renaissance sculptor who had known he was creating a masterpiece. The way his dogtags caught the light every time he breathed, that tiny flash of silver in the hollow of his throat, and god, you wanted to put your mouth right there.
âYou're staring,â he said, not looking at you.
âYou're stare-able,â you replied. âIt's not my fault.â
He turned his head then, and the look he gave you was slow and molten and dangerous. âWe're in public, sweetheart.â
âI'm aware.â
âThere are cameras.â
âLet them look.â You set your drink down on the barâuntouched, forgottenâand stepped closer to him, close enough that your chest almost brushed his, close enough that you had to tilt your chin up to meet his eyes. âLet them see. I don't care.â
His breath caught. Just a fraction, just enough that you noticed, and his metal hand came up to rest on your hip, fingers splaying across the silk of your dress like he was claiming you. âWhat's gotten into you tonight?â
You, you wanted to say. You've gotten into me. You've crawled under my skin and made a home there, and every time you look at me like that, I forget how to breathe.
Instead, you reached up and ran your fingers over the short bristles at the back of his head.
His eyes fluttered shut. Just for a second. Just long enough for you to see the effect you were having on him.
âI like your hair, the lack of it,â you said, soft and simple. âI like your suit. I like your everything, Bucky. And I've been watching you, and I can'tââ You paused, swallowed, tried to find words that didn't feel inadequate. âI can't handle it. You're too much. You're too good. And everyone in this room is looking at you like they want to eat you alive, and I just... I want them to know you're mine.â
He opened his eyes.
The grey had gone dark, nearly blue, and there was something burning in them that made your stomach flip over. âSweetheartââ
âI'm not done.â You pressed closer, your free hand coming up to rest on his chest, right over his heart. It was pounding. Good. âYou're wearing silk, Bucky. Silk. Do you know what that does to me? Do you have any idea what I've been thinking about for the past hour?â
His Adam's apple bobbed. âTell me.â
âNo.â You grinned, and it wasn't a nice grin. It was the kind of grin that made him groan and drop his forehead to yours, the kind of grin that meant trouble. âI'll show you later. But right now, I need you to kiss me.â
âWe're in the middle of a gala.â
âI don't care.â
âThere are photographers, sweetheart.â
âLet them get a good angle.â
He stared at you for a long momentâlong enough that you started to worry you'd pushed too far, long enough that the flush on your cheeks started to feel less like desire and more like embarrassmentâand then he moved.
His metal hand slid from your hip to the small of your back, pressing you flush against him. His flesh hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb tilting your chin up, and when he kissed you, it was nothing like the chaste, quick pecks he usually allowed in public.
It was filthy.
Open-mouthed and hungry, his tongue sliding against yours, his teeth grazing your lower lip, his whole body curving around yours like he was trying to absorb you. He tasted like whiskey and something darker, something that was just him, and you made a sound against his mouthâsomething desperate and pleadingâthat you'd be embarrassed about later.
Right now, you didn't care.
You couldn't care. Because his hand was in your hair now, careful of the pins but demanding, tilting your head exactly where he wanted it, and the buzz cut was brushing your forehead, and the dogtags were cool against your collarbone where they'd slipped out of his shirt, and oh, oh, this was what you'd been waiting for.
When he finally pulled backâslowly, reluctantly, like he was physically incapable of putting distance between youâhis lips were reddened and his eyes were dark and his chest was heaving.
âThere,â he said, voice rough. âNow they know.â
You were pretty sure your mascara was ruined. You were also pretty sure you didn't care.
âOne more,â you whispered.
He laughedâthat low, helpless laugh that meant you're going to be the death of meâand kissed you again. Softer this time, almost sweet, but with an undercurrent of promise that made your toes curl in your heels.
âYou're going to be the death of me,â he said, echoing your thoughts exactly.
âGood death,â you managed. âTop ten deaths. Five stars.â
He shook his head, but he was smiling, and the smile reached his eyes, and god, you loved him. You loved him so much it made your chest ache, made your throat tight, made you want to drag him into a closet and keep him there until the end of time.
The next hour was a blur.
You stayed glued to his sideâhand on his arm, fingers threaded through his, palm pressed flat against the small of his back whenever you moved through the crowd. You introduced him to people whose names you forgot immediately, and he was polite and quiet and devastating, and every time he spoke, his voice rumbled through you like thunder.
He ate it up.
You could tell. The way his hand tightened on your waist when you leaned in to whisper something in his ear. The way his breathing changed when you ran your fingers over the short bristles of his buzz cut, just once, just to remind him you were thinking about it. The way his eyes tracked your every movement like he was memorizing you.
At one point, Tony Stark cornered you both near the dessert table.
âBarnes,â Tony said, gesturing with a champagne flute. âBold choice. The all-black. The silk. Theâis that two buttons? That's two buttons. That's a statement. I respect it.â
Bucky's arm slid around your waist, casual and possessive. âWasn't trying to make a statement.â
âOh, you were definitely trying to make a statement.â Tony looked at you, then back at Bucky, then at you again. âIs she okay? She seems... not okay.â
âI'm fine,â you said, and your voice was about an octave too high. âI'm perfectly fine. Why wouldn't I be fine?â
âBecause you've been staring at Barnes's chest for the last three minutes like you're trying to set it on fire with your mind.â
You looked down. Bucky's hand was on your waist. The silk of his shirt was right there, the dog tags gleaming, the hollow of his throat right there, and you realized with a start that Tony was right.
You had been staring.
âI'm going to get some air,â you announced.
âWe're in a ballroom,â Tony said. âThere's no air. It's all recycled.â
âThen I'm going to find some different air.â
You grabbed Bucky's hand and pulled him toward the terrace doors.
He came willinglyâhe always came willinglyâbut you heard the low laugh he tried to hide, felt the way his fingers interlaced with yours like they belonged there.
The garden was quiet.
The terrace led to a small courtyard, hidden from the ballroom by a hedge maze that was probably meant to be romantic and was definitely meant to keep drunk donors from wandering into restricted areas. Fairy lights twinkled in the trees above, casting everything in soft gold. The sounds of the gala faded to a distant murmur, replaced by crickets and the gentle splash of a fountain somewhere out of sight.
You stopped in the middle of the cobblestone path, turned to face him, and looked.
The fairy lights caught the angles of his faceâthe sharp cheekbones, the strong jaw, the way the buzz cut made his eyes seem impossibly large and impossibly blue. His suit jacket was unbuttoned now, hanging open over the silk shirt. The dog tags had shifted slightly, the chain catching the light as he breathed.
He was leaning against a stone pillar, arms crossed over his chest, watching you with an expression you couldn't quite read.
âSo,â he said. âAir?â
âShut up.â
âYou dragged me out here for a reason, sweetheart.â
âI know.â You stepped closer. âThe reason is that I cannot be held responsible for my actions in a room full of people when you look like that. Itâs your fault.â
His eyebrow arched. âMy fault?â
âYour everything.â You were close enough now to touch, close enough to see the way his pulse jumped in his throat. âThe suit. The shirt. The buttons, Bucky. Two buttons. Who do you think you are?â
âYour boyfriend?â
âThat's not an excuse.â
âIt's the only excuse I need.â He chuckles, that sound that makes your knees weak.
You reached up and ran your hand over his headâthe buzz cut, the soft bristles, the warmth of his scalp beneath your palm. He closed his eyes, just for a second, and a sound escaped himâsomething low and wanting, something that made your knees weak.
âYou've been doing this all night,â you said. âWalking around likeâlike that. Letting me touch you. Letting me kiss you. Watching me fall apart in public like some kind ofâof spectacle.â
His eyes opened. The smirk that curved his mouth was lethalâthe one he kept reserved only for you, the one that said I know exactly what I'm doing and I'm not sorry and also you love it.
âMaybe I like watching you fall apart,â he said. âMaybe I like knowing that I can do thisââ He reached up and undid the third button of his shirt, just one more, just enough to expose another inch of skin, the top of his chest, the beginning of the dark trail of hair that disappeared beneath the silk. ââand you forget how to speak.â
You forgot how to speak.
He laughedâlow and satisfiedâand pushed off from the pillar, closing the distance between you until you were chest to chest, his hands on your hips, your hands on his shoulders. The silk of his shirt was warm under your palms, and you could feel the heat of his skin through the fabric, could feel his heart beating steady and strong.
âYou're doing this on purpose,â you accused.
âAbsolutely.â
âYou're evil.â
âI've been told.â
You kissed him.
It wasn't gentleâit was hungry, desperate, the kind of kiss you gave someone when you'd been holding back for hours and your self-control was a thread about to snap. He met you with equal intensity, his metal hand coming up to cup the back of your head, his flesh hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise.
You bit his lower lip. He groaned. The sound went straight between your legs.
âSweetheart,â he breathed against your mouth. âWe're in a garden.â
âI don't care.â
âPeople can see.â
âLet them.â
But even as you said it, you knew he was right. The terrace doors were still visible through the hedge, and you could hear laughter drifting from the ballroom, and neither of you was nearly drunk enough to risk that kind of scandal.
âLater,â you said, pulling back just enough to look at him. âWhen we get home. I'm going toââ
âYeah?â His voice was rough. âWhat are you going to do?â
You ran your hand over his buzz cut again, watched his eyes flutter shut, watched his lips part on a shaky exhale.
âI'm going to take that suit off you,â you said. âVery slowly. Button by button.â
âThere are a lot of buttons.â
âI'm aware.â
âAnd then?â
âAnd then I'm going to kiss every inch of skin you've been torturing me with all night. Your collarbone. Your chest. That place behind your ear that makes you shiver. And then youâll whimper, we know you love when I make you whimper like that.â
His grip tightened on your hip. âYou're trying to kill me.â
âYou started it.â
He kissed you againâsofter this time, deeper, a promise of everything that was waiting for you both at home. When he pulled back, his eyes were soft, the smirk replaced by something more vulnerable. Something that looked like home.
After some time, you didnât know if it was seconds, minutes, it could be hours, Bucky led you down the gravel path, his hand warm in yours, until you reached a small stone bench tucked beneath a sprawling oak. The leaves rustled overhead, and somewhere nearby, a fountain trickled, and the whole place smelled like jasmine and night-blooming flowers and him.
He sat down, then tugged you onto his lap without asking, arranging you so that you were straddling his thighs, your dress pooling around you both like a spill of green silk.
âHi,â he said, looking up at you.
âHi,â you said back.
His hands settled on your waistâflesh and metal, warm and coolâand he leaned back against the bench, watching you with those dark, dark eyes. The fairy lights caught the planes of his face, the sharp cheekbones, the strong jaw, the velvet-soft buzz cut that you still hadn't gotten enough of.
âYou're staring again,â he said.
âI'm appreciating,â you corrected him. âThere's a difference.â
âIs there?â
âYes. Staring is what strangers do. Appreciating is what girlfriends do.â You ran your hands over his shoulders, feeling the expensive wool of his jacket, the warmth of his body beneath. âAnd I am appreciating the hell out of you right now, James.â
He hummed, low in his throat, and his fingers traced idle patterns on your hips. âYou were pretty handsy in there.â
âI was restrained. You should see what I wanted to do.â
âOh yeah?â His voice dropped, went dark and teasing. âWhat did you want to do?â
You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. âI wanted to undo the rest of your buttons. Right there. In front of everyone. I wanted to see how far that silk goes down.â
His breath hitched. âHoneyââ
âI wanted to put my mouth on your dogtags.â You kissed his jaw. âRight here.â His throat. âAnd here.â The hollow of his collarbone, where the chain disappeared beneath his shirt. âAnd here.â
His hands tightened on your hips, fingers digging into the silk, and when you pulled back to look at him, his expression had shifted. The teasing was still there, underneath, but there was something else now. Something hungry.
âYou have no idea,â he said, voice rough, âwhat it does to me. When you look at me like that.â
âLike what?â
âLike I'm the only thing in the room.â His metal hand came up to trace the line of your jaw, cool and smooth. âLike you want to devour me. Like you've never seen anything better in your entire life.â
âI haven't,â you said simply. âI haven't seen anything better. Not ever.â
He made a soundâsomething between a groan and a sighâand pulled you down into a kiss that was nothing like the ones in the ballroom. Those had been for show, for the cameras, for the people watching.
This was for you.
Slow and deep and searching, like he was trying to find something inside you, like he was mapping every corner of your mouth with his tongue, like he was memorizing the way you tasted so he could recall it later, in the dark, when you weren't there.
You melted against him. There was no other word for it. Your hands slid into his hairâthat buzz cut, that velvet, that impossible softnessâand you felt him shiver beneath you, felt his grip tighten, felt his whole body go taut like a wire about to snap.
âI love this,â you breathed against his mouth. âI love you. I love the way this feels. I love that you did this for yourself, because you wanted to, because it makes you comfortable, and I get to touch it anyway.â
His forehead dropped to yours. âYou're going to make me cry at a gala.â
âGood tears or bad tears?â
âGood tears. Overwhelmed tears.â He laughed, a little wetly, and his hands smoothed up your back, pulling you closer. âI don't... I don't know how you do this. How you make me feel like this.â
âLike what?â
âLike I'm enough.â The words were barely a whisper. âLike I don't have to be anything other than what I am. Like thisââ He touched his own head, the short bristles, a self-conscious gesture that had become second nature. ââisn't a mistake. Like I'm not a mistake.â
You kissed him. Hard and fierce and demanding, pouring everything you couldn't say into the press of your lips, the sweep of your tongue, the way your fingers curled against his scalp.
When you finally pulled back, your eyes were burning.
âYou are not a mistake,â you said, and your voice shook. âYou have never been a mistake. You are the best thing that ever happened to me, James Buchanan Barnes, and if you ever doubt that again, I willâI will spank you in front of our team, I swear to god.â
He blinked.
Then he laughedâa real laugh, bright and surprised and so full of joy that it made your heart stutterâand pulled you into his chest, wrapping both arms around you so tightly that you could barely breathe.
âI love you,â he said into your hair. âI love you, I love you, I love you.â
âI love you too,â you said, muffled against his shoulder. âNow stop being insecure about the buzz cut. It's ruining my aesthetic.â
He snorted. âYour aesthetic?â
âMy 'being wildly attracted to my boyfriend' aesthetic. It's very important.â
He pulled back just enough to look at you, and there it wasâthe smirk. The one he reserved only for you. The one that said I know exactly what I'm doing, and I'm going to keep doing it until you combust.
âSo,â he said, slow and deliberate, âjust to be clear. You like the buzz cut.â
âI love the buzz cut.â
âYou like the suit.â
âI want to burn the suit so I can have you naked faster, but yes. I like the suit.â
âYou like the dogtags.â He reached up and pulled the chain out of his shirt, letting the silver tags rest against the black silk, and your mouth went dry.
âBucky.â
âAnd you've been thinking about this all night.â His voice dropped, went dark and sweet like honey and whiskey. âAbout getting your hands on me. About getting your mouth on me.â
âBucky.â
âSo here's what's going to happen.â He shifted beneath you, settling you more firmly on his lap, and his smirk sharpened into something dangerous. âWe're going to stay here for a little while longer. Long enough that people notice we're gone. Long enough that Sam sends someone to check on us.â
âThat'sâthat's notâwhy would weâ?â
âBecause,â he said, and leaned in until his lips brushed the shell of your ear, âI want them to know that I took you out to this garden. I want them to know that we were gone for forty-five minutes. I want them to wonder, sweetheart. Maybe we fuck here, maybe we make out like teenagers or maybe I just have you in my lap while we look at the lights but I want them to look at you tomorrow, with that pretty smile on that beautiful fase and I want them to wonderâ
You shivered. Full-body, no-holding-back shivered, and you felt him smile against your neck.
âYou're evil,â you whispered.
âI'm yours,â he corrected, echoing your words from earlier, and then his mouth was on your throat and you forgot how to think entirely.
The garden became a blur of sensation after that.
His handsâboth of them, flesh and metal, warm and cool, everywhereâsliding up your thighs beneath the silk of your dress. Your fingersâtangled in his hair, in the collar of his shirt, in the chain of his dogtagsâpulling and clutching and begging without words. His mouthâon your jaw, your throat, the place where your pulse beat frantic and wildâleaving marks that would bloom purple by morning.
âTell me,â he murmured against your collarbone. âTell me what you want.â
âYou,â you gasped. âI want you. I've wanted you all night. I've wanted you since you walked through that door looking likeâlike that, like some kind ofâof wet dream in a tailored suitââ
He laughed, low and dark, and his metal hand slid higher, cool fingertips brushing the inside of your thigh. âWet dream?â
âShut up.â
âMake me.â
You kissed him. It was the only way to shut him up, and he knew it, and he wanted it, and god, you loved this man. You loved him so much it felt like drowning, like falling, like the most dangerous and wonderful thing you'd ever done.
When you finally pulled backâbreathless, flushed, your dress rumpled and your hair half-fallen from its pinsâhe was looking at you like you were the answer to a question he'd been asking for a hundred years.
âI love you,â he said, simple and certain. âI love you, and I love the way you look at me, and I love that I get to have this. You. Tonight. Tomorrow. Every day.â
Your eyes burned. âBuckyââ
âI know.â He kissed your forehead, soft and sweet. âI know. We don't have to say it again. I just... I needed you to know.â
You cupped his face in your handsâthe buzz cut, the stubble, the sharp cheekbones, the impossible beauty of himâand kissed him until you couldn't feel the tears anymore.
âForty-five minutes,â you said when you finally let him go.
âWhat?â
âYou said we'd stay here for forty-five minutes.â You glanced at your watchâa small, vintage thing that had belonged to your grandmotherâand raised an eyebrow. âWe've been out here for twelve.â
His smirk returned, slow and lethal. âThen we'd better make the most of the remaining thirty-three.â
He pulled you back down, and the garden swallowed you whole.
âWe should go,â he said. âSay goodbye. Make an excuse.â
âWe've only been here an hour.â
âAn hour too long, baby. Weh ave only kissed and I gripped you around and you maybe roll your hips in that way I love but itâs a garden and I bet my ass that Stark has cameras around because he probably doesnât want another incident like the one in Punta Mita.â
He was right. You knew he was right and the memory makes you chuckle. But you couldn't make yourself move, couldn't make yourself step away from the warmth of him, the solidness of him, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
âOne more minute,â you said.
âWe don't have a minute.â
âThen thirty seconds.â
He smiledâthat real smile, the one that crinkled his eyes and made you feel like the sun had come out. âThirty seconds,â he agreed.
You spent them with your forehead pressed to his, breathing the same air, feeling the same wanting hum between you like a live wire.
When you finally pulled apart, his hand found yours.
âHome?â he said.
âHome.â
The apartment smelled like youâcandle wax and something floral, the remnants of whatever perfume you'd dabbed on your wrists before leaving. The door had barely closed behind you before you had him pressed against it, your mouth on his, your hands fisting in the lapels of his suit jacket.
He laughed against your lipsâbreathless, giddy, young in a way he rarely got to be.
âImpatient,â he murmured.
âYou have no idea.â
âI have some idea.â
You pushed the jacket off his shoulders, let it fall to the floor, and he didn't complainâjust watched you with those dark, dark eyes, his chest rising and falling under the silk shirt. The dog tags had shifted again, resting now against the hollow of his throat, and you bent your head to press a kiss to the spot just below them.
His head fell back against the door. A sound escaped himâlow, wrecked, perfect.
âSweetheart.â
âShh.â You kissed the line of his collarbone, following the chain of the dog tags down to where it disappeared beneath the silk. âI've been thinking about this all night.â
âMe too.â
âThinking about getting you alone. Getting you undressed. Finding out if the rest of you is asââ You kissed the place where his neck met his shoulder, felt him shudder. ââdevastating as the parts you were showing off.â
âJesus.â
âNot Jesus. Just me.â
You pulled back just enough to look at him.
He was beautiful.
The buzz caught the low light of the apartment, the short bristles casting tiny shadows on his scalp. His cheeks were flushed, his lips reddened from kissing, his eyes so dark they were almost black. The silk shirt gaped open, exposing more of his chest than you'd seen all night, and you could see the muscles shifting beneath his skin as he breathed.
âBedroom,â you said.
âBedroom,â he agreed.
He didn't wait for you to lead. Instead, he swept you upâone arm under your knees, the other around your backâand carried you down the hallway like you weighed nothing. You laughed, startled and delighted, and buried your face in his neck.
âYou're going to ruin the gown,â you said.
âIt's your gown.â
âIt's expensive.â
âI'll buy you another one. Five more.â
He laid you down on the bedâyour shared bed, the one with the worn sheets and the pillows that smelled like him, the one where youâd spent countless nights tracing the lines of his face and learning the sounds he made when he was happy, when he was sad, when he was wantingâand for a moment, he just stood there.
Looking at you. Taking you in.
The streetlight filtered through the curtains, throwing the room in soft gold and grey. The fairy lights from the garden had followed you home, apparently, because everything seemed to glowâthe curve of your shoulder where the emerald gown had slipped, the gleam of his metal arm, the dark bristles of his buzz cut catching the dim light like a halo.
âYouâre staring again,â you said, and your voice came out softer than you intended.
âSo are you.â
âFair point.â
He didnât move. Just stood at the edge of the bed, drinking you in, and you watched something shift in his expressionâthe usual guardedness falling away, replaced by something raw and open and almost frightened in its tenderness.
âCan I tell you something?â he asked.
âAnything.â
âI was nervous tonight.â He said it like a confession, like a secret heâd been holding in his chest all evening. âRidiculously nervous. Standing in front of the mirror for twenty minutes, trying to decide if I should undo a third button or if that would be too much.â
You laughedâsoft, disbelieving. âYou were nervous?â
âTerrified.â He climbed onto the bed, slow and deliberate, and when he hovered over youâbraced on his metal arm, his flesh hand coming up to cup your faceâyou felt the weight of him, the warmth of him, the way his thumb stroked your cheek like you were made of something precious. âI kept thinking⌠what if she doesnât like it? What if she thinks I look like a thug? What if she spends the whole night embarrassed to be seen with me?â
âBucky.â
âI know itâs stupid.â His eyes dropped, lashes dark against his cheeks. âI know. Youâve told me a hundred times. But I canât help it. Every time I walk into a room full of people, I hear their thoughts. I see the way they look at me. The Winter Soldier. The assassin. The weapon.â He swallowed hard. âAnd then I see the way you look at me, and I think⌠maybe Iâm not that person anymore. Maybe I get to be someone else. Someone good.â
Your heart cracked open, spilling warmth through your chest, and you reached up to touch his faceâthe sharp line of his jaw, the softness of his lips, the place where his stubble met the smooth skin of his cheek.
âYou are good,â you said. âYou are the best person I know, James Buchanan Barnes. And I am never embarrassed to be seen with you. Do you understand? Never.â
His eyes searched yours, looking for somethingâdoubt, maybe, or pity, or the lie heâd been trained his whole life to expect. He didnât find it. All he found was you, looking back at him, steady and sure.
âOkay,â he said, and his voice was rough. âOkay.â
He hovered over youâbraced on his metal arm, his flesh hand coming up to cup your faceâyou felt like the entire world had narrowed to this single moment.
âI love you,â he said. âIn case I haven't said it enough tonight.â
âYou've said it.â
âI'll say it again.â He kissed your forehead. âI love you.â Your nose. âI love you.â Your chin. âI love you.â
Each kiss was softer than the last, more reverent, like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.
âI love you too,â you whispered. âEven when you show up to galas looking like a war crime.â
He laughedâthat real laugh, the one that shook his shoulders and made your chest ache. âA war crime?â
âA handsome war crime.â
âI'll take it.â
You reached up and ran your hands over his buzz cut, savoring the velvet-soft bristles, the warmth of his scalp, the way his eyes fluttered shut and his whole body seemed to melt into your touch.
âYou have no idea what you do to me,â you said. âWith this. With the suit. With the buttons, Bucky. I'm never going to recover.â
âGood,â he said, and his voice was rough. âThen we're even.â
âEven?â
âBecause I've been wrecked since the moment I saw you in that gown.â His metal hand traced the neckline of the emerald velvet, feather-light, barely touching. âThe way it fits you. The way it moves when you walk. The way everyone in that room was looking at you like they wanted to eat you alive, and I had to stand there and smile and pretend I wasn't imagining all the ways I was going to take you apart the second we got home.â
Your breath caught.
âSo yeah,â he continued, his voice dropping lower, his mouth hovering just above yours. âWe're even.â
He kissed you.
It was different from the kisses in the ballroom, different from the desperate tangle in the garden, different from the frantic hello at the door. This kiss was slow. Deep and searching, the kind of kiss that asked questions and answered them in the same breath. His mouth moved against yours like he had all the time in the world, like there was nowhere else heâd rather be, like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
You let yourself sink into it. Into him.
Your hands found his headâthe buzz cut, the soft bristles, the warmth of his scalp beneath your palmsâand you marveled, not for the first time, at how something so simple could feel so intimate. Without the curtain of hair to hide behind, there was nowhere for him to go. He was here, completely and utterly, and the vulnerability in his expression when you pulled back made your breath catch.
âYou have no idea,â he murmured, âwhat it does to me when you touch me like that.â
âLike what?â
âLike Iâm yours.â
âYou are mine.â
His smile was small and soft and so full of love it made your chest ache. âYeah,â he said. âYeah, I am.â
He kissed your forehead. Your nose. Your chin. The corner of your mouth. Each one a tiny absolution, a thank-you, an I love you in a language that didnât need words.
âCan I take this off?â he asked, his fingers finding the zipper of your gown.
âPlease.â
He drew it down slowly, agonizingly, the whisper of metal on metal the only sound in the room besides your breathing. His eyes stayed on yours the whole time, watching your reaction, making sure you were okay. Even now, even after all this time, he was checking inâbecause that was who he was. That was who heâd always been, under the metal and the memories and the century of pain.
A good man. A sweet man.
The emerald velvet pooled at your waist, and his breath caught.
âSweetheart,â he said, and his voice was wrecked.
âWhat?â
âYouâre so beautiful.â He said it like he couldnât believe it, like he was seeing you for the first time. His hands hovered over your bare skinânot touching, not yet, just revering. âI donât deserve you.â
âDonât start that.â
âI mean it.â
âI donât care what you mean.â You reached up and pulled him down, until his forehead rested against yours, until you were breathing the same air. âI love you. I chose you. Every day, I wake up and choose you. And I will keep choosing you, over and over, until I stop breathing. Do you understand?â
His eyes were bright. His jaw was tight.
âYeah,â he whispered. âYeah, I understand.â
He kissed you againâdeeper this time, hungrier, but still gentle. Always gentle, with you. Even when he was desperate, even when he was wanting, even when his hands shook with the effort of holding back, he was gentle. Because that was who he was. That was who the world had tried to break and failed.
The gown came off the rest of the way, and he made a soundâsomething low and wondering, something that vibrated against your skin and traveled down your spine like a match striking.
âCan I tell you something else?â he asked, his lips brushing your collarbone.
âYou can tell me anything.â
âI love the way you look at me.â He pressed a kiss to the hollow of your throat. âI love the way you say my name.â Another kiss, lower this time, over your heart. âI love the way you touch me, like Iâm not broken, like Iâm notâlike Iâm just me.â
âYou are just you.â
âI know.â He lifted his head, and his eyes were soft, soft, soft. âBecause of you. I know.â
His hands mapped your body like he was memorizing itâthe curve of your waist, the dip of your hip, the place where your pulse beat quick and fragile at your wrist. His touch was feather-light, almost reverent, and every brush of his fingers left a trail of fire in its wake.
âYouâre shaking,â he said.
âYouâre touching me.â
âIs that okay?â
âItâs better than okay.â You reached for him, tugged at his shirt, the silk slipping through your fingers. âBut I need you closer.â
He helped you. Buttons came undone, silk parted, and then his chest was bare above you, and you forgot how to breathe.
He was beautiful. All of him. The broad shoulders, the smooth planes of his chest, the trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his trousers. The metal arm gleamed in the low light, the vibranium plates shifting as he moved, and you reached up to trace the place where flesh met machineryâthe boundary line that heâd once been ashamed of and now wore like armor.
âYouâre doing it again,â he said softly.
âDoing what?â
âLooking at me like Iâm something precious.â
âYou are something precious.â
His throat worked. His eyes, impossibly, went soft.
âSweetheart.â
âI mean it.â You sat up, pushed the silk shirt off his shoulders, let it fall somewhere on the floor. Your hands mapped his chestâthe warm skin, the steady heartbeat, the way his breath hitched every time your fingers brushed over a sensitive spot. âYouâre the most beautiful thing Iâve ever seen. With the buzz cut. Without the buzz cut. In a suit. In your boxers. In nothing at all.â You looked up at him through your lashes. âEspecially in nothing at all.â
He made a soundâhalf laugh, half groanâand captured your mouth with his.
The kiss was everything. Deep and hungry and desperate and tender all at once, the kind of kiss that happened when two people had been wanting each other all night and finally, finally had the privacy to do something about it. His hands were everywhereâyour back, your hips, your thighsâand you arched into his touch like a flower turning toward the sun.
âI want to take my time with you,â he said against your skin. âIs that okay?â
âYes.â The word came out breathless. âGod, yes.â
âI want to learn every inch of you again. The way you look tonight. The way you feel.â His metal hand skimmed down your side, over your ribs, over your hip, leaving goosebumps in its wake. âI want to memorize you.â
âBucky.â
âShh.â He pressed a kiss to the hollow of your throat, right where the dog tags had rested against his skin all night. âLet me.â
You let him.
He was thorough. He was patient. He kissed every inch of skin he could reachâyour shoulders, your arms, the inside of your wrists, the palms of your hands. He traced the line of your spine with his metal fingers, and you arched into his touch like a cat. He murmured your name like a prayer, over and over, until it lost all meaning and became just a sound, just a breath, just the shape of his love for you.
At some point, his trousers followed the shirt. The dog tags stayed onâyouâd asked him to keep them, once, and heâd never taken them off sinceâand they swung between you as he moved, cool metal against your heated skin.
âYouâre so good to me,â he said, and his voice was thick. âYouâre so good, sweetheart. I donât know what I did to deserve you.â
âYou existed,â you said. âThatâs all. You existed, and I found you, and Iâm never letting you go.â
He laughedâwet, almost, like he was crying or close to it. âPromise?â
âPromise.â
He kissed you again, and this time there was nothing slow about it. This was want, pure and simple, the kind of want that had been building all night, all week, all lifetime. His body pressed you into the mattress, and you wrapped your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck and pulled him close, close, close.
His face was inches from yours. The buzz cut brushed against your forehead, soft and warm. His eyes were dark and bright all at once, full of something that looked like wonder.
âI love you,â he said, and his voice broke on the words.
âI love you too.â You kissed the corner of his mouth. âNow show me, Barnes.â
He smiledâthat real smile, the one that crinkled his eyes and made you feel like the sun had come outâand he did.
He showed you with every touch, every kiss, every murmured word against your skin. He showed you in the way he held you, like you were something fragile and precious and worth protecting. He showed you in the way he movedâslow at first, deep, deliberate, drawing out every sensation until you were trembling beneath him, gasping his name into the dark.
His hands found yours, fingers interlacing, pinning them gently to the mattress on either side of your head. The metal hand was cool, the flesh hand warm, and the contrast made you shiver. He pressed his forehead to yours, staying close, staying connected, even as the pace built and the world narrowed to just the two of you.
âLook at me, precious,â he said. âPlease. I need to see you.â
You opened your eyesâyou hadnât realized youâd closed themâand found him watching you. His gaze was intense, burning, but underneath it was something softer. Something that looked like awe.
âThere you are,â he whispered. âThereâs my girl.â
You made a soundâsomething between a laugh and a sobâand pulled him down into a kiss.
He swallowed every noise you made, held you through every tremor, whispered I love you against your lips until the words lost all meaning and became just a rhythm, just a heartbeat, just the truth of him.
And when you finally shatteredâwhen the world went white and bright and everythingâhe was right there with you, holding on, holding together, pressing his face into the curve of your neck and breathing your name like a benediction.
At 3 am, around the time where the city had gone quiet and the streetlight had flickered out and the only light in the room came from the soft glow of the bathroom, where youâd left the door crackedâyou lay with your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
It was steady now. Calm. The frantic thrum from earlier had settled into something slow and rhythmic, a lullaby in B-flat major.
His hand was in your hair, fingers combing through the tangles with absent-minded tenderness. His other armâthe metal oneâwas wrapped around your waist, holding you close even in sleepâs approach. The dog tags rested against his skin, cool and familiar. You traced the outline of them with your fingertip, feeling the stamped letters, the weight of history, the story of a man who had survived things no one should survive and somehow found his way to this.
To you.
âHey,â he said, voice rough with sleep.
âMm?â
âIâm glad I cut my hair.â
You lifted your head, propped your chin on his chest, and looked at him. The buzz cut was already growing outâyou could see it, the faint shadow of length that would need trimming in the morning. But right now, in the dim light, it looked perfect. Soft. His.
âYeah?â
âYeah.â His flesh hand came up to cup your face, his thumb brushing your cheek. âBecause now I know. Even at a fancy gala, even in a suit that costs more than our first apartment combined, even with everyone looking at me like theyâre trying to figure out if Iâm a hero or a weaponâŚâ He paused, swallowed. âYou still look at me the same way.â
âAnd what way is that?â
He was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper.
âLike Iâm worth coming home to.â
You kissed him. Soft. Slow. A promise.
âYouâre worth everything,â you said. âIn a suit. Out of a suit. With a buzz cut that makes me want to do unspeakable things to you in public gardens.â
He snorted. âWe didnât do anything in the garden.â
âBarely.â
He laughedâthat real laugh, the one that made your heart feel too big for your chestâand pulled you back down against him. His arms wrapped around you, flesh and metal, and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.
âYouâre sweet, you know that?â you murmured into his chest.
âMe?â
âYou. The way you touch me. The way you look at me. The way you check in, even when youâreââ You paused, searched for the word. ââeven when youâre lost in it. Youâre always careful with me. Always gentle.â
He was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was thick.
âThatâs because youâre the most important thing in my life,â he said. âAnd I spent a long time being something else. Something hard. Something that broke things.â His arms tightened around you. âI never want to break you.â
âYou couldnât break me,â you said. âEven if you tried.â
âI know.â He pressed another kiss to your hair. âThatâs why I love you.â
You fell asleep like thatâtangled together, heartbeat to heartbeat, the man with the buzz cut and the dog tags and the heart that had learned to love again holding you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
And in the morning, when the sun came streaming through the curtains and you woke to find him already watching you, soft-eyed and sleep-rumpled and more beautiful than any suit or gala or garden could ever make him, you smiled.
âGood morning, James.â
âGood morning, sweetheart.â He ran his hand over his own headâthe new gesture, the one that was already becoming yoursâand grinned. âI love you, did you know that?â
Note A very small thing. I apologize for any mistakes and if I am somehow paraphrasing, that's not my intention. As always they're sickly in love it's nauseous as hell.
The safehouse is a shoebox. One room, one bed, one flickering bulb that buzzes like a dying insect. Rain hammers the tin roof, and somewhere in Ajijic, the trail on your target has gone cold. Youâre re-checking the window seal, peering through the gap in the curtains to watch the wet street below, when his hands land on your hipsânot gently, not hesitantly, but with a full, firm claim that pulls you back against his chest like you belong there, like heâs been waiting all day for the excuse to touch you. His body is warm even through the tactical gear, and you feel the steady thump of his heartbeat against your spine, that stubborn rhythm that somehow always manages to stay calm no matter how bad things get.
âEyes on the street,â you murmur, even as your body betrays you by leaning deeper into him, your head tilting just enough to give him access to the curve of your neck.
âStreetâs empty, baby,â he says, and his mouth finds that spot just below your earânot kissing, not yet, just breathing you in like youâre the only real thing in the entire city. His stubble scrapes softly against your skin, and a shiver runs down your spine that has nothing to do with the cold rain outside. âHas been for an hour. Checked five times. One was enough. One because you were distracting me and the other three because you were looking fucking hot in that reflection.â He murmurs, his fingertips tickling you a bit. âEmpty as hell, honey.â
âWe donât know that,â you try, but your voice comes out weaker than you intended, breathier, and he notices because he always notices everything about you. His metal fingers splay across your stomach, cool through the thin fabric of your shirt, and he finally presses a kiss just below your earâslow, deliberate, the kind of kiss that says Iâm not going anywhere.
âI know,â he murmurs against your skin. His flesh hand comes up to turn your face toward him, and you twist properly in his arms to look at him. Rainlight catches the edge of his jaw, the shadow under his eyes, the way his dark hair has come loose from its tie and fallen across his forehead. Bucky, the one that was called by many, either the team or the general public as the grumpiest Avenger, the one who never laughs at Tonyâs jokes, who drinks his coffee black and glowers at anyone who talks before noon, (anyone except you, you could be yapping and he would hear each word with so much interest), who once made an agent uncomfortable just by staring at him across a briefing room tableâis looking at you like you reinvented gravity. Like youâre the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. âScanned the street many times. The building across the way twice. The roof access once for fun.â
âYouâre supposed to be watching our six,â you whisper, but it comes out less like a reprimand and more like an invitation, and you both know it.
âI am watching our six,â he says, and then he kisses the corner of your mouthâlazy, devastating, the kind of kiss that makes your knees feel unreliable. His thumb brushes across your lower lip, tracing the shape of you like heâs memorizing it all over again. âYouâre our six. Youâre our seven, eight, and nine. Youâre the whole damn number line, doll.â You snort and roll your eyes, because that is genuinely the worst line he has ever given you, but he just grins that rare, crooked grin and presses his forehead to yours. âFour days,â he says quietly, and his voice cracks on the last syllable. âFour days of sharing walls, sleeping in not very comfortable ways, not touching you except to pass a scope or a bandage. Four days of watching you through a sniper lens and wanting.â He swallows hard, and you feel the tremor in his hands where they grip your hips. âI miss you. Even when youâre right here. Thatâs pathetic, right?â
No one would believe it. Not the grumpy man who sits in the corner of common room parties and leaves by nine. Not the man who once told Parker to shut up with a single look, just because the teenager was innocently flirting with you, and actually succeeded. Not the guy who glares at anyone who tries to hug him and talks about his space. But here he is, clinging to you like you might evaporate, his broad shoulders curved inward just to fit himself around you, his eyes soft and desperate and so full of love it makes your chest ache. This is the Bucky no one else gets to seeâthe one who falls asleep with his head in your lap, who makes you coffee exactly the way you like it without being asked, who says your name in the dark like itâs a prayer. Itâs the most him thing heâs ever done, and you wouldnât trade it for anything.
You turn fully in his arms, sliding your hands up his chest over the ridges of his tactical vest, and you feel his breath hitch when your fingers curl into the fabric. âThe comms are off?â you ask, even though you already know the answer.
âPulled the battery myself,â he confirms, and his voice has dropped to something lower, rougher, something that makes your stomach flip.
âAnd the target?â
âTwo blocks east, probably asleep.â His hands slide down to your waist, squeezing once, and his eyes are nearly black in the dim light. âAnd right now, I donât give a fuck, baby,â You kiss him first, open-mouthed and a little rough, the way he likes when heâs been holding back for too longâand he makes a sound against your lips that is low and grateful and almost pained, like heâs been starving and you just handed him a meal. He walks you backward until your spine hits the wall with a soft thud, and then his hands are everywhere. Undoing, unclasping, mapping every inch of you like heâs afraid youâll disappear. The metal one is careful at first, his vibranium fingers gentle against your ribs, and then less careful when you tug his hair and say his name the way you do when you mean faster, harder, please. The flesh one slips under your waistband, and he groans against your throat like it physically hurts him to stay quiet.
âYou have no idea,â he breathes, his lips dragging down to your collarbone, teeth grazing the delicate skin there. âWhat you do to me. What Iâd do to keep you.â Your head falls back against the wall, and you can feel him smile against your skin, smug and adoring all at once. âMmhm say it, please,â he murmurs, almost in a whimper, âMy name.â
âJames,â you whisper, and his grip tightens like youâve just given him something precious.
âYeah,â he says, almost to himself. âThatâs it. Thatâs all I need.â And then he drops to his knees.
Just like that, the guy who grumbles about team movie nights and once told Sam Wilson heâd rather eat glass than do a trust fall, the man who acts like affection is a foreign language he never bothered to learnâon his knees on a cracked linoleum floor in a Mexican safehouse, looking up at you like you hung the moon. His flesh hand splays across your hip, thumb stroking small circles through your pants, and his metal one presses flat against the small of your back, steadying you like he knows your legs are about to give out. âPeople think they know me,â he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your stomach through your shirt, and then another one lower, and another one lower still. âThey donât. They get the grump. The whole history. The resting murder face. They donât get this.â
His teeth graze the waistband of your pants, and you gasp, your fingers tangling in his hair. âThey donât get the part of me that stays awake just to watch you sleep,â he continues, his voice muffled against your hip bone. âThey donât get the way I say your name when no one else is listening. They donât get how Iâd burn down every mission, every protocol, every order if it meant keeping you safe.â His eyes meet yours, blown wide and wrecked already, and you feel your heart crack open a little. âYouâre the only mission I never want to complete,â he says softly. âBecause then what? Then Iâd have to stop coming home to you.â
âBucky,â you try, but your voice comes out strangled, and youâre not sure if youâre asking him to stop or to never stop.
âThank you,â he cuts in, and his voice is thick, almost reverent. âFor this. For tonight just being us. No extraction team listening in through the comms. No Nat making that stupid eyebrow thing tomorrow morning. No Steve raising his eyebrows across the breakfast table like he knows exactly what we did.â He presses one more kiss to your stomach, right above your navel, and then he rises slowly, dragging his body up against yours so you feel every inch of himâthe hard planes of his chest, the cool press of his metal arm, the very obvious evidence that he wants you just as badly as you want him. His mouth finds your ear, and his breath is hot against your skin. âJust you and me and this shitty bed with its shitty springs and its shitty scratchy sheets.â
You laugh, breathless. âYou want the bed?â
He grinsâthat rare, crooked thing that still makes your chest ache after all this timeâand his hands slide down to grip your thighs. âI want you on every surface in this room,â he says, low and rough, and the sound of it goes straight between your legs. âStarting with the one that wonât give you splinters. Then the wall again. Then maybe the floor if youâre still standing after all that.â He lifts you like you weigh nothingâlike youâre made of air and starlightâand you wrap your legs around his waist automatically, your arms looped around his neck. He carries you across the room without breaking eye contact, and something about the way he looks at you makes you feel seen in a way no one else has ever managed.
When he lays you down, the ancient springs scream in protest, and he doesnât care. He just lowers himself over you, bracing his weight on his forearms so he doesnât crush you, and for a moment he just looks. His flesh hand comes up to trace your faceâyour brow, your cheek, your lips, the curve of your jaw. Like heâs memorizing you all over again. Like heâs seeing you for the first time. Like heâs praying to a god he doesnât quite believe in and thanking them anyway. âI love you,â he says, and it sounds like a secret heâs been keeping too long, something too big for his chest to hold. âI love you so much it makes me stupid. Makes me sloppy. Makes me forget thereâs a world outside this room and this bed and you.â
You pull him down by the back of the neck, your fingers threading through his dark hair, and you kiss him slow and deep and certain. âThen stop talking about it,â you whisper against his lips.
He laughs against your mouthâa real laugh, bright and broken and so full of something tender it makes your eyes sting. And then he stops talking. He stops thinking about missions and targets and extraction points. He stops being the so called grumpy one, the man with the metal arm and the dark past and the walls built so high no one could ever climb them. He just becomes yoursâevery desperate, clinging, embarrassingly in love inch of him. Every soft whisper and needy sound. Every time he says your name like itâs the only word he hasnât forgotten how to say.
Outside, Ajijic keeps raining, and the target stays two blocks away, and none of it matters. Inside, the grumpiest man you know is tracing the line of your collarbone with his lips, and his hands are shaking slightly, and he keeps pulling back every few seconds just to look at you again like he canât quite believe youâre real.
No one back at the compound would ever believe it. They see the scowl and the silence and the way he keeps everyone at armâs length. They donât see him like thisâsoft and wrecked and so deeply, stupidly in love that he forgets to be anyone but yours.
But you donât have to tell them.
Let them think heâs just the grumpy one. You know better. You know exactly what he sounds like when he falls apart on your name, and you know exactly how he feels tangled around you in a too-small bed in a too-loud city, and you know that tomorrow morning heâll make you coffee and complain about the rain and act like nothing happened.
And youâll smile and drink your coffee and let him pretend.
Because tonight? Tonight he was yours. Just like tomorrow and everyday after that. Every broken, beautiful, desperately in love piece of him.
Note This is pure fluff and like, two people very much in love it's nauseous. A tiny bit of angst but it goes away so quick. It is implied that reader has hair and also, that Bucky is taller than her, could be a few centimeters, could be more, that's up to you. I've been having this since in my head since last april, after the Thunderbolts' premiere but wasn't writing and obviously, didn't have this blog. This weekend gave me the inspiration to finally go back to it and I hooope you like it.
The apartment smelled like himâcedar and gunmetal, something old and something warmâeven before he walked through the door.
You were curled on the couch, knees tucked under a quilt that had no business being on a Brooklyn evening in late May but which you refused to give up even as the first humid whispers of summer crept through the window screens. A dog-eared paperback dangled from your fingers, the ceiling fan spun its lazy circles overhead, and somewhere two floors up someone was playing jazz at a volume that suggested they either had no neighbors or no shame. The city hummed its usual lullaby outside the open windows, the smell of somebody's charcoal grill drifting up from the fire escape three floors down, and you were comfortable. Safe. That particular flavor of domestic stillness that had taken you months to get used to after Bucky had barreled into your life and turned everything you thought you knew about softness on its head.
The lock turned. Three clicksâold habit, military precision, the kind of muscle memory that didn't fade even after decades of being someone else's weapon. The door swung inward and thenâ
âOh,â you said.
Not because you were disappointed. Not because you were horrified. But because your brain had just short-circuited somewhere between your occipital lobe and your mouth, and all that came out was that single, stupid syllable, flat as a stone skipped across still water.
Bucky Barnes stood in the doorway, early summer clinging to the shoulders of his leather jacket, and his hair was gone.
Not all of itâhe wasn't cue-ball bald, thank god, you didn't think you would have survived thatâbut the familiar dark waves that usually fell across his forehead, the ones you tangled your fingers in when he was sleepy, the ones that curled at the nape of his neck and made him look like he'd just rolled out of a 1940s recruitment poster? Gone. Shorn down to a dark, velvety fuzz that hugged the perfect shape of his skull like a second skin, so short you could probably see the pale skin beneath if you stood close enough.
He'd kept the stubble on his jaw but everything else had been sacrificed to whatever demon possessed him between the hours of six and nine tonight.
The door closed behind him with a soft thunk. He didn't move further into the room. Just stood there in the entryway, the warmth of the evening clinging to him, and watched you.
And you watched him back, because holy hell.
He lookedâ
There was no word for it. Not in English, or Spanish, not in the three other languages you spoke passably well, not in the silence that stretched between you like a held breath. He looked dangerous. The buzz cut changed everything. Without the curtain of hair to soften the angles, his cheekbones were knives, his jaw was a cut diamond, and his eyesâthose impossible light blue eyes that had seen a century of horrors and somehow still found room for tendernessâthey seemed bigger somehow. More exposed. More him.
The metal arm gleamed under the overhead light, the vibranium catching the glow and throwing it back in soft golds and silvers, and without the shaggy dark hair to balance it, the contrast was almost obscene. Man and Soldier. Flesh and something other. He looked like something out of a dream you'd wake up from gasping, sweating, sheets twisted around your thighs, heart pounding.
You realized, with a distant sort of horror, that your mouth had fallen slightly open.
Bucky's expression flickered.
It was subtleâa micro-shift in the set of his shoulders, a minute downturn at the corner of his lips. The kind of thing you'd miss if you didn't know him the way you knew him, if you hadn't spent countless nights mapping the topography of his face with your fingertips, learning every crease and shadow and the stories they told.
âIt's that bad, huh?â He said it lightly. Too lightly. The words hung in the air between you, fragile as spun glass.
You blinked. What?
He tugged off his jacketâmovements comical and stoic, almost harshâand draped it over the hook by the door without looking at you. âShould've known. Sam said it was a mistake. 'Barnes,' he said, 'you do not have the bone structure for a buzz cut, put the clippers down and step away from the mirror.' But did I listen? No. I never listen.â He laughed. It didn't reach his eyes. âGuess I should've asked you first, right? That's what normal boyfriends do. They ask. They don't just come home looking like aâa thug.â
âBuckyââ
âIt's fine.â He ran a hand over his headâa gesture that was clearly new, clearly unconscious, his palm skimming over the short bristles like he was surprised to find them there. âIt was just bothering me, you know? The heat. The weight of it. And I swear to god, sweetheart, I sweat like a sinner in church the second the temperature hits seventy-five. The serum doesn't do everything right, apparently.â Another pass of his hand, almost defensive now. âFigured this would be easier. For missions, too. Less to grab onto in a fight. Tactical. Very tactical. That's what I told myself.â
âBuckyââ
âAnd now I look like I just got out of basic training circa 1943, which was not the look I was going for, believe me. I was going for 'cool and collected.' Maybe 'mysterious.' Instead I got ânow give me your lunch money.'â He finally, finally looked at you properly, and what you saw in his expression made something in your chest crack clean in two.
He was nervous.
This man. This impossible, indestructible, century-old super-soldier who had faced down Hydra and aliens and his own personal apocalypse. He was standing in his own apartment, freshly shorn, looking at you like a teenager waiting to be rejected.
âSweetheart,â he said, and his voice had gone rough at the edges, âif you hate it, just say so. I canâI don't know. Wear a hat. That grandpa hat you love making fun of. Or I can grow it back. Whatever you want. I just... I couldn't stand it anymore. The way it stuck to my forehead. The way it felt heavy. You don't understand, it's like wearing a wool blanket on your head when it's eighty degrees out, and I know you liked playing with it, and I should have asked, and I'm sorry, I'mââ
You stood up.
The quilt fell away, pooling on the couch cushions. The paperback hit the floor with a soft thump that neither of you acknowledged. You crossed the room in four steps, bare feet silent on the hardwood, and stopped just close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body.
He was so tall. He was always tall, but without the hair, he seemed taller. Broader. More present. You had to tilt your chin up to meet his eyes, and when you did, you saw the insecurity lurking there, swimming just below the surface like something waiting to breach.
âYou absolute moron,â you said, and your voice came out breathless.
His brow furrowed. âThat's notâis that good or bad? Because I'm getting mixed signals here, and my therapist said I need to work onââ
You grabbed the front of his henleyâsoft grey, worn thin from washing, the collar stretched out because he had a habit of tugging on it when he was thinkingâand yanked him down.
He came willingly, of course. He always came willingly. But there was a moment of confusion in his eyes before your mouths met, a flicker of what is happening that made you want to shake him and kiss him in equal measure.
The kiss was not gentle.
It was hungry, desperate, the kind of kiss you give someone when words have failed you and your body has decided to take over. You bit his lower lipâjust a nip, just enough to make him gaspâand used the distraction to push him backward until his spine hit the wall with a thud that rattled the framed print of the Brooklyn Bridge hanging beside the door.
His hands found your waist. They always found your waist, like they were magnetized there, the flesh hand warm and calloused, the metal hand cool and smooth. He squeezed, a reflex, and you felt the tension in his shoulders start to ease.
âOkay,â he breathed against your mouth. âOkay. So you don't hate it.â
You pulled back just far enough to look at him.
His lips were already reddened, parted slightly, and his pupils were blown wide enough that the blue of his irises was barely visible. The short hair made his face look raw. Vulnerable. Like someone had peeled back a layer of him you'd never seen before, and underneath was something even more beautiful than the version you'd fallen in love with.
âHate it?â you repeated. Your voice was doing something strangeâhigher, thinner, like you were about to laugh or cry or possibly both. âBucky. Bucky. Do you have any idea what you look like right now?â
His Adam's apple bobbed. âBased on your reaction so far, I'm gonna go with 'confused and vaguely terrified.'â
You punched him in the chest. Not hard. Just enough to make a point.
âYou look like a fucking god,â you said. âYou look like someone took every single one of my weaknesses and put them in a blender and poured them into the shape of a man. You lookââ You had to stop, had to breathe, because you could feel your face heating up and your thoughts scattering like startled birds. âI couldn't speak, Bucky. That's why I was quiet. You opened the door and my brain just... stopped. Because you're standing there looking like that, and I'm supposed to just carry on a normal conversation?â
Something shifted in his expression. The insecurity didn't vanishâit never did, not completely, not with everything he'd been throughâbut it receded, pulled back like a tide giving way to sun-warmed sand.
âYeah?â he said. Soft. Almost disbelieving.
âYeah.â You reached up and touched his head.
The sensation was wild. Instead of the familiar silky strands you usually threaded your fingers through, your palm met soft, short bristles that tickled your skin. You made a sound that you're not even going to pretend it was dignified, it was somewhere between a gasp and a moan, and ran your hand over the curve of his skull again, marveling at the way the short hair felt under your palm. Like velvet. Like a peach. Like something you wanted to rub your cheek against like a cat marking its territory.
Bucky's breath hitched.
âThat's...â He trailed off, swallowed hard. âYou're making a face.â
âI'm having a sensory experience,â you corrected him. âThere's a difference.â
His lips twitched. The first real smile of the evening, tentative and a little bit goofy, and it transformed his whole face from heart-stopping to devastating. âA sensory experience.â
âDon't mock me. I'm grieving.â
âGrieving?â Now he just looked confused again.
You dropped your hand, let it fall to his chest, and tried to ignore the way his heartbeat thrummed against your palm. âI can't pull your hair anymore.â
The silence that followed was deafening.
Bucky stared at you. You stared back. And then, slowly, like the sun coming up over a battlefield, he laughed.
Not the hollow laugh from earlier. Not the self-deprecating deflection he used as armor. A real laugh, surprised and warm and so full of relief that it made your chest ache. His head fell back against the wall, exposing the long line of his throat, and you watched the laughter move through him like a wave.
âThat's what you're upset about,â he said when he could breathe again. âNot the hair. The hair-pulling.â
âI had plans for that hair,â you said, and you absolutely did not pout. Bucky loves that lovely pout. âDo you know how many times I've lain awake at night thinking about getting my hands in it again even after I just did it? How many fantasies involved me yanking your head back by those perfect, stupid, gorgeous curls while Iââ
His hand clapped over your mouth.
It was his flesh hand, warm and a little rough, and his eyes had gone dark in a way that made your stomach flip over.
âOkay,â he said, and his voice had dropped about an octave. âOkay, honey. I get it. You're not mad.â
You licked his palm.
He jerked his hand away with a scandalized noise, and you grinned up at him, triumphant.
âI'm not mad,â you confirmed. âI'm furious. There's a difference.â
âYou keep using words that don't mean what you think they mean.â
âShut up and let me admire you.â
You pushed off his chest and took a step backâjust one, just enough to see all of him. The buzz cut. The sharp cheekbones. The way the collar of his henley gaped slightly, showing the pale skin of his clavicle. The metal arm, gleaming, beautiful, his. He stood there under your gaze like a man who had spent decades being looked at and never once seen, and you wanted to wrap him up in something soft and never let the world touch him again.
But firstâ
âTurn around,â you said.
He raised an eyebrow. âWhy?â
âBecause I want to see the back.â
Something vulnerable flickered across his face again, but he obeyed. Turned slowly, deliberately, like he was giving you time to change your mind. And when his back was to you, you saw that the short hair extended all the way down, hugging the strong column of his neck, exposing the place where his skull met his spine in a way that made your mouth water.
The nape of his neck. His nape. There was something about a man's nape, about the vulnerability of it, the way the hair grew in soft whorls and the skin was always a little paler there. It was the part of him that was easiest to kiss when he was sleeping, easiest to touch when he was sad, easiest to nuzzle when he came home exhausted and dropped his head into your lap.
Now it was just... there. Bare and beautiful and waiting.
You stepped forward, go on your tiptoes and pressed your lips to the back of his neck.
He shivered. Full-body, no-holding-back shivered, and his hand came up to grip yours where it rested on his hip.
âThat's not fair,â he said, and his voice was wrecked.
âI'm not trying to be fair.â You kissed him again, higher this time, at the base of his skull where the short bristles gave way to soft skin. âI'm trying to make a point.â
âAnd what point is that?â
You wrapped your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades. He was so warm. Always so warm, the serum running hot in his veins, and you could feel his heart beating steady and strong beneath your palms.
âThe point,â you said into the fabric of his henley, âis that I love you. With hair. Without hair. In a buzz cut that makes you look like a sexy ex-con fresh out of super-soldier prison. I love you, Bucky. Not the packaging. But alsoââ You squeezed him tighter, felt him relax incrementally. ââthe packaging is really fucking good right now, and we're going to have a conversation later about why you didn't warn me before committing an act of aesthetic terrorism on my boyfriend.â
He turned in your arms.
You were chest to chest, nose to nose, and his eyes were soft now. The insecurity had faded to something fainter, something manageable, and in its place was a warmth that made you want to curl up inside it and never leave.
âAn act of aesthetic terrorism,â he repeated, and his mouth curved.
âDon't laugh. I'm serious.â
âI'm not laughing.â
âYour eyes are laughing. I can see them laughing.â
He cupped your face in both handsâflesh and metal, warm and cool, the most beautiful dichotomy you'd ever knownâand tilted your head back gently. âYouâre so precious. And thank you,â he said, and the words were simple but the weight behind them was enormous. âFor... not hating it. For not making me feel stupid. Forââ
You kissed him again. Softer this time. A promise.
âYou could shave your head bald and tattoo 'Property of Hydra' on your forehead, just like you joked about that time when you got drunk on Thorâs liquorâ you said against his lips, âand I would still love you. I would just also be very, very angry about it.â
He laughedâthat real laugh again, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyesâand pulled you into his chest. His chin rested on top of your head, and you felt more than heard the contented sigh that escaped him.
âPromise me something?â he murmured.
âAnything.â
âIf I ever do something stupid againââ
âWhen. When you do something stupid again.â
âWhen I do something stupid again,â he conceded, âdon't let me spiral for three minutes before you tell me you like it. I was this closeââ He held up his flesh hand, thumb and forefinger a millimeter apart. ââto calling Steve and asking if I could crash on his couch.â
âYou were not.â
âI absolutely was.â
You pulled back just enough to look at him, and the image hit you like a freight train, your Bucky, freshly buzzed, standing in the hallway of your apartment building, phone in hand, contemplating whether his best friend would judge him for seeking sanctuary from his girlfriend's prolonged silence.
âI'm sorry,â you said, and you meant it. âI should have said something sooner. I just... you broke me, Barnes. You broke my brain. I was looking at you and thinking things that are probably illegal in several states.â
His eyebrow arched. âIllegal?â
âObscene. Lewd. The kind of thoughts that get people smited.â
He was grinning now, full and bright, and you wanted to bottle the sound he madeâhalf laugh, half groanâand carry it with you forever.
âSmited,â he said. âThat's not a word.â
âIt is now. I invented it. For you.â
He kissed your forehead. Your nose. The corner of your mouth. Each one a tiny absolution, a thank-you, an I love you in a language that didn't need words.
âI have a confession,â he said, and his voice had gone low again, the kind of low that made your toes curl against the hardwood.
âWhat's that?â
He reached up and ran his hand over his own headâthe new gesture, the one you were rapidly becoming obsessed withâand looked at you through his lashes. âI kept a lock of it. The hair I cut off. Sam said it was weird, but I... I remembered how much you liked playing with it. And I thought maybe...â He trailed off, suddenly shy.
âMaybe what?â
âMaybe you'd want it. For... I don't know. A bookmark. Or a weird souvenir. Orââ He stopped, cleared his throat. âForget it. It's stupid.â
You were going to combust. Right there in the entryway of your Brooklyn apartment, wearing a worn out black t-shirt and your favorite pair of fuzzy socks, you were going to spontaneously burst into flames because James Buchanan Barnes had kept a lock of his own hair for you.
âYou kept me your hair, just like a mom would do it with the first hair cut of their baby.â you said, and your voice came out strangled.
âIt's in a Ziploc bag in my jacket pocket. Don't tell Sam.â
âI'm going to frame it.â
âYou are not.â
âI'm going to put it in a locket and wear it around my neck like a Victorian widow mourning her soldier husband.â
âSweetheartââ
âAnd every time someone asks about it, I'm going to tell them it's a relic of the man I loved before he committed an act of aestheticââ
He kissed you.
It was the only way to shut you up, and he knew it, and you let him because his mouth was warm and his hands were steady and the short bristles of his hair tickled your palms when you reached up to touch them.
The kiss deepened.
You weren't sure who moved firstâmaybe both of you, maybe neither, maybe the space between you simply collapsed under the weight of everything unspoken. His back was still against the wall, but now you were pressed flush against him, every line of your body curved into every line of his, and his hands had slid from your waist to your hips, fingers digging in like he was afraid you might disappear.
âMmhm, honeyâ he murmured against your mouth, and the word was barely a breath, barely a sound, but it hit you somewhere deep and aching.
Your hands were on his head again. You couldn't help it. The velvety texture of the buzz cut was addictive, and every time you dragged your palms over the short bristles, Bucky made a soundâa tiny, broken thing that seemed to surprise even him. His eyes fluttered shut. His grip tightened. His whole body seemed to lean into your touch like a plant turning toward the sun.
âJesus,â he whispered. âYou really... you really like it.â
It wasn't a question. Not anymore. But there was still something wondering in his voice, something awed and almost childlike, like he couldn't quite believe what was happening.
You pulled back just enough to look at him, and what you saw stole the breath from your lungs.
His face was open. Not guarded, not careful, not the mask he wore for the world. The buzz cut had stripped away more than just hairâit had stripped away the last of his defenses, the last little hiding place where he could tuck himself away from being seen. And now he was just... Bucky. Your Bucky. With his pink lips and his dark lashes and the way his chest was rising and falling like he'd just run a marathon.
âI don't just like it,â you said, and your voice came out thick. âI love it. I love the way it feels. I love the way it looks. I love that you did it because you were uncomfortable and sweaty and done with dealing with things that annoy you. I love that you're mine, Bucky Barnes. With hair. Without hair. In a Ziploc bag.â
A choked laugh escaped him. âYou're never going to let that go.â
âNever.â
He reached up and cupped the back of your head, flesh hand warm against your scalp, and pulled you back into him. But this kiss was different. Slower. Deeper. Less desperate and more devouring, like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the taste of your breath, the little sound you made when his teeth grazed your lower lip.
âI love you,â he said, and the words were so quiet you almost missed them. âI love you so much it scares me sometimes. Do you know that? Do you have any idea what it's likeâwhat it's been likeâcoming home to you every night? After everything? After all the things I've done and all the things that were done to me?â His forehead dropped to yours, and his breath fanned warm across your lips. âI keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For you to wake up one day and realize you deserve better than a broken super-soldier with a metal arm and a hundred years of nightmares.â
âJamesââ
âBut then you look at me like this.â His thumb traced the line of your jaw, feather-light. âLike I'm something precious. Like I'm worth something. And I think... maybe. Maybe I get to have this. Maybe I get to have you.â
Your heart cracked open, spilling warmth through your chest, and you kissed himânot to silence him, not to distract him, but because there were no words big enough for what you felt. So you poured it into the kiss instead. Into the way your fingers traced the short bristles of his hair. Into the way your body curved against his like it had been made to fit there.
He groanedâa low, helpless soundâand his hands slid down your back, pulling you impossibly closer. The wall was cold against his shoulders but you were warm, so warm, and he could feel your heartbeat racing against his chest, could feel the way your breath hitched every time his metal fingers skimmed the bare skin of your lower back where your shirt had ridden up.
âYou're going to kill me,â he muttered into your neck, where he'd buried his face like he couldn't get close enough. âYou know that, right? Walking around looking at me like that, touching me like that, wanting me like that. I'm a dead man.â
âGood thing you're hard to kill,â you managed, and then his mouth found the spot behind your ear and you forgot how to form words entirely.
He kissed a path down the column of your throat, unhurried, reverent, like he had all the time in the world and intended to use every second of it. His flesh hand tangled in the hair at the nape of your neck; his metal hand pressed flat against your spine, the cool vibranium a delicious shock against your over-warm skin. And every few seconds, he would pull back just enough to look at youâto see you, really see youâand the expression on his face was something you wanted to bottle and keep forever.
Devotion. That was the only word for it. Pure, unfiltered, slightly overwhelmed devotion.
âI was so scared,â he admitted, voice muffled against your collarbone. âWalking up the stairs. Turning the key. I kept thinking... what if she doesn't recognize me? What if she looks at me and sees a stranger? What ifââ
Your fingertips tugged gently on the short bristles at the back of his headânot a pull, not really, just a reminderâand he lifted his face to meet your eyes.
âI would know you anywhere,â you said. âBlindfolded. In the dark. In a crowd of a thousand people. I would know you, Bucky. Hair or no hair. Metal arm orââ You paused, considered. âOkay, the metal arm is kind of distinctive. But you know what I mean.â
He laughedâthat real laugh, the one that crinkled his eyes and shook his shoulders and made you feel like the sun had come out from behind the clouds. âYeah,â he said. âYeah, I know what you mean.â
He kissed you again, softer this time, and when he pulled back, his eyes were bright.
âCome here,â he said, and lifted you.
You yelpedâa completely undignified sound that you would deny to your dying dayâas he hauled you up by the thighs, and suddenly your legs were wrapped around his waist and your arms were locked around his neck and he was carrying you away from the wall, across the living room, past the couch with its abandoned quilt and the coffee table with its ring-stained surface and the bookshelf crammed full of paperbacks and mission reports and a single framed photograph of the two of you at Steve and Natashaâs wedding, your head thrown back in laughter, his eyes soft as he watched you.
The bedroom was dim, the last of the evening light filtering through the curtains, painting everything in shades of gold and grey. He laid you down on the bed like you were something fragileâsomething preciousâand then he just... stopped.
Stood there at the edge of the mattress, looking down at you with an expression you couldn't quite read.
âWhat?â you asked, suddenly self-conscious.
âNothing.â His voice was rough. âJust... looking.â
He reached up and ran his hand over his own head againâthat new gesture, the one that was already becoming yours, the one that meant he was thinking or nervous or overcome. The short bristles caught the fading light, and you watched the way his biceps flexed, the way his jaw tightened, the way his chest rose and fell with each breath.
âYou're staring,â you said.
âSo are you.â
âFair point.â
He climbed onto the bed, slow and deliberate, and when he hovered over youâbraced on his metal arm, his flesh hand coming up to cup your faceâyou felt like the entire world had narrowed to this single moment. To the weight of him. The warmth of him. The way he looked at you like you were the first good thing he'd seen in a hundred years.
âI love you,â he said again, and this time the words came easier, like they'd been waiting to be spoken. âI love you, I love you, I love you.â
Each repetition was a kissâyour forehead, your nose, your chin, the corner of your mouth. Not hurried. Not frantic. Just... certain. Like he was making a promise he intended to keep.
Your hands found his head again, and you marveled at how something so simple could feel so intimate. The buzz cut meant there was nothing to hide behind. No curtain of hair to duck behind when things got too real. Just him. Just Bucky, bare and beautiful and utterly, devastatingly present.
âI love you too,â you whispered. âEven without the hair. Especially without the hair, apparently. Who knew?â
He buried his face in the crook of your neck, and you felt him smile against your skin.
âYou're ridiculous,â he said.
âI'm yours,â you corrected him.
And when he lifted his head to kiss you againâdeep and slow and full of everything he couldn't sayâyou felt something shift between you. Not the desperate hunger from before, but something quieter. Something deeper. The kind of love that didn't need to prove itself, that had nothing to defend and nothing to hide.
The kind that could survive anything, even a haircut like that.
Later, much later, the kind of later where the jazz upstairs had gone quiet and the city had settled into its deepest hour, and the sheets were twisted around your legs and his metal arm was cool against your bare shoulder and his flesh hand was tracing lazy patterns on your hipâyou lay with your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
It was steady now. Calm. The frantic thrum from earlier had settled into something slow and rhythmic, a lullaby in B-flat major.
His hand was in your hair, fingers combing through the tangles with absent-minded tenderness. Fair was fair, after all.
âHey,â he said, voice rough with sleep.
âMm?â
âI'm glad I cut it.â
You tilted your head to look at him, and he was beautiful in the dim light filtering through the blinds. The buzz cut made him look younger, somehow. Less burdened. Like the man he might have been if the 1940s had been kinder. A sheen of sweat still lingered on his foreheadâthe apartment was warm, the summer humidity doing no favorsâand you reached up to brush it away without thinking.
He caught your hand, pressed a kiss to your palm, and smiled.
âBecause now I know,â he continued. âEven without the hair, even without theâwhat did you call it? 'Aesthetic'âyou still look at me the same way.â
âAnd what way is that?â
He was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper.
âLike I'm worth something.â
You lifted your head, cupped his face in your handsâflesh and metal, warm and cool, the most beautiful dichotomy you'd ever knownâand kissed him until you felt the last of the insecurity drain away.
âYou're worth everything,â you said. âWith hair. Without hair. Sweating like a sinner in church. In a Ziploc bag in your jacket pocket. Everything, Bucky Barnes.â
He snorted. âYou're never going to let that go, are you?â
âNever.â
âGood.â
He pulled you back down, tucked you against his side, and pressed one last kiss to your forehead.
âGoodnight, honey.â
âGoodnight, my love.â
And somewhere in the dark, the man with the buzz cut and the metal arm and the heart that had learned to love again smiled, held on tighter, and finally, finally let himself believe he was home.
Note This is angst. I mean, there might be just a tiny bit of fluff in here but it's mostly angst and sadness around and yeah, that. if you know the song, you might know what this is about. There is a mention about death, so yeah, be aware.
The autumn of 1936 was the kind of season that made Brooklyn feel like a promise.
Bucky Barnes was nineteen years old, which meant he was old enough to know better and young enough to ignore it entirely. He had a steady job at the docks, a reputation that followed him down every street in Bay Ridge, and a circle of friends who would've followed him into a fire if he'd asked.
But the only person he wanted to follow anywhere was you.
You, who lived three blocks over and had been his partner-in-crime since he was seven years old and you'd punched Lance Baizen in the nose for calling Bucky a tiny crying baby. You, who showed up at his fire escape at all hours with a stolen pie or a new record or just the weight of whatever was sitting heavy on your chest that day. You, who laughed with your whole body, who knew how to hold a cigarette like a film star, who looked at Bucky like he was something worth looking at.
He'd been in love with you for three years.
He hadn't told a soul.
Not Steve, who would've looked at him with those too-sharp eyes and said something maddeningly perceptive like "So tell her, then." Not his sisters, who would've squealed and plotted and made it into a production because they loved you that much. Not even you, when you'd fallen asleep on his shoulder during a double feature at the cheap cinema theater, your breath warm against his neck and your fingers loosely curled around his sleeve.
He should have kissed you then.
He remembered everything about that night. The scratch of the wool seats. The flicker of the projector. The way your eyelashes cast tiny shadows on your cheeks. He'd sat there, frozen, heart pounding so loud he was sure the whole theater could hear it, and he'd thought, This is it. This is the moment.
And then the film had ended, and you'd woken up, and you'd stretched and smiled at him like nothing had happened, and he'd smiled back like nothing had happened, and nothing had happened.
Nothing ever happened.
Because you were his best friend. Because you were the person he couldn't imagine living without. Because if he kissed you and you didn't want it, if he told you and you didn't feel the same, he wouldn't just lose a potential girlfriend. He'd lose you.
And Bucky Barnes had lost enough in his short life to know that some things weren't worth the risk.
So he didn't kiss you.
He took you to Coney Island instead a couple of times, watched you shriek on the Cyclone, won you a stuffed bear you named after his two named, that sat on your dresser for years. He walked you home in the rain, held his jacket over both your heads, let you steal sips from his flask. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear once, slow and careful, and you'd looked at him with something unreadable in your eyes.
âYou're staring, Barnes,â you'd said, but your voice was soft.
âYou're worth staring at,â he'd replied, and that was true too.
But it wasn't an invitation. It wasn't a confession. It was just another almost, another nearly, another moment that slipped through his fingers like smoke.
The winter of 1941 was cold enough to freeze the East River solid, or so the old men on the corner claimed. Bucky didn't know about that, but he knew his apartment was drafty, his mother was worried about rationing, and every time he looked at you these days, his chest ached like a bruise.
You were twenty-two now. He was twenty-four. You'd both grown up, in all the ways that mattered and some that didn't. You'd gotten a job at the telephone exchange. You'd dated a few boysâ nice ones, mostly, the kind your mother and his mother would approve ofâ but none of them had stuck. You still showed up at his fire escape. You still fell asleep on his shoulder. You still looked at him like he was the only person in the room.
And Bucky still hadn't kissed you.
âYou're an idiot,â Steve said one night, hunched over his sketchbook in Bucky's kitchen. The radio was playing something soft and sad. The window was fogged with steam from the kettle.
âI'm protecting our friendship,â Bucky said, which was the lie he told himself most often.
âYou're just protecting yourself. You know you're being a coward.â
âWatch it, Rogers. I can easily throw you out the window.â
Steve didn't look up from his drawing. âYou've been in love with her since we were almost sixteen. She's been in love with you since she was twelve. Everyone knows this except the two of you, and at this point, I'm starting to think it's intentional.â
Bucky's heart stuttered. âShe's notâshe doesn't "love" me, Steve, you're being an idiot.â
âShe looks at you like you hung the moon, Buck. She remembers everything you've ever told her. She made you a birthday cake last year from scratch, and you know she can't cook to save her life. She burned her hand on the oven and didn't even mention it because she wanted you to have a nice birthday.â Steve finally looked up, and his expression was softened by something that might have been pity. âWhat are you so afraid of?â
Losing her, Bucky thought. I'm afraid of losing her, and I'm afraid of living without her, and I'm afraid that if I say it out loud, it'll become real, and then I'll have to actually do something about it, and I don't know if I'm brave enough for that.
âNothing,â he said. âI'm not afraid of anything.â
Steve snorted. âLiar.â
You came over the next night. It was Friday, which meant you'd bring Chinese food from the place on 4th Avenue and Bucky would complain about the price and you'd eat it anyway, sitting cross-legged on his floor with the cartons spread out between you like offerings.
You looked tired. There were shadows under your eyes, and your usual bright energy was dimmed to something softer, something quieter.
âBad day?â he asked, handing you a pair of chopsticks.
You shrugged, picking at your noodles. âJust long. Mrs. Feldman called nine times to complain about her bill. I think she's lonely. Her husband died last spring, you know.â
âYeah,â Bucky said quietly. âI remember.â
There was a pause. The radiator clanked. Somewhere outside, a car backfired.
âBucky,â you said, and your voice was strange. Fragile in a way he'd never heard before.
âYeah?â
You looked at him. Really looked. Your eyes felt like the sky just before a storm, and right now, they were full of something he couldn't name.
âHave you ever wondered...â you started, then stopped. Shook your head. âNever mind.â
âWhat?â
âNothing. It's stupid.â
âSince when do you get to decide what's stupid? Nothing you say it's stupid. Ever.â He set down his chopsticks, turning to face you fully. âTell me.â
You bit your lip. It was a nervous habit you'd had since childhood, and Bucky had always found it devastating. âHave you ever wondered what it would be like,â you said slowly, âif things were different?â
âDifferent how?â
âI don't know.â You laughed, but it came out wrong. Hollow. âIf we weren't us. If you weren't my best friend and I wasn't yours. If we were just two people who met somewhere, anywhere else. Would it be easier, do you think? To say the things we don't say?â
Bucky's heart was a fist in his chest, pounding against his ribs like it was trying to escape.
âWhat things?â he asked, and his voice came out rougher than he intended.
You stared at him for a long moment. The air between you felt electric, charged with something that had been building for years, decades, a lifetime.
Then the moment passed.
You looked away, reaching for your carton again. âNothing,â you said, and your smile was back in place, bright and false. âForget I said anything. This sesame chicken is getting cold.â
Bucky wanted to reach across the space between you. He wanted to take your face in his hands and make you look at him again. He wanted to kiss you, finally, after all these years of wanting, and find out what it would feel like to stop pretending.
But you were eating your noodles, and the moment was gone, and he was a coward.
So he didn't.
-
The war came like a thief in the night, stealing everything that mattered before anyone had a chance to say goodbye.
Bucky enlisted because it was the right thing to do, because Steve had already tried and been rejected, because the news from Europe got worse every day and he couldn't sit still in Brooklyn while the world burned. He told himself it was patriotism. He told himself it was duty.
But when he knocked on your door that last night, in his brand-new uniform with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder, he knew the truth.
He was running.
Not from the war but from you. From the weight of everything he'd never said. From the unbearable pressure of wanting and wanting and never taking. He thought distance would make it easier. He thought if he couldn't see you, couldn't smell your perfume on his jacket, couldn't hear your laugh echoing through his apartment, maybe the ache would fade.
He was wrong, of course. But he wouldn't figure that out for another eighty years.
âDon't go,â you said, and you were crying. You never cried. You'd punched Lance Baizen. You'd held Bucky's hair back when he'd gotten sick off cheap whiskey at sixteen. You'd stared down your father when he'd called you a disappointment and hadn't flinched.
But you were crying now, tears tracking down your cheeks, and Bucky wanted to die.
âI have to,â he said, and his voice cracked. âYou know I have to.â
âI know.â You wiped your face with the back of your hand. âI know, I just ââ You stepped forward, grabbed the front of his uniform, and pulled. âCome back. Promise me you'll come back.â
âI'll come back,â he said, because it was the only thing he could say. âI always come back,â
âDon't you dare die over there, James Barnes. Don't you dare.â
âI won't, honey.â He gave you that infamous smile that was reserved for his special woman. You.
âYou better not.â You were crying harder now, and he pulled you into his arms, held you so tight he could feel your heartbeat against his chest. You smelled like rain and coffee and something else, something that was just you, and Bucky closed his eyes and tried to memorize it.
Say it, he thought. Tell her now. Before it's too late.
But you were crying, and he was leaving, and it felt cruel somehow, selfish, to burden you with his feelings when you were already hurting. When you might not feel the same. When it might ruin everything.
So he didn't.
âI love you,â he said instead, and it was true â it was absolutely, devastatingly true â but it wasn't the whole truth. It wasn't the I'm in love with you that sat in his chest like a second heart.
âI love you too,â you said, because you always said it, because you'd been saying it since you were children, because it was safe and familiar and meant everything and nothing all at once.
Bucky kissed your forehead. Your hair. The corner of your mouth, almost, nearly, not quite.
Then he let you go, and he walked away, and he didn't look back.
He would regret that for the rest of his life.
The next four years were a blur of mud and blood and men screaming. Bucky lost pieces of himself in the snow of the Ardennes, in the rubble of Naples, in the face of a boy from Ohio who died with his eyes open, asking for his mother.
He wrote you letters. Dozens of them. Hundreds. He told you about the constellations he could see from the front lines, about the terrible food, about the Italian family who'd taken him in for a night and fed him real pasta. He told you about Steve, about the serum, about the impossible things he'd seen.
He never told you he loved you.
Not the way he meant it.
He wrote the words a hundred times, scratched them out, started over.
"Honey, I've been thinking...", "Honey, there's something I should have said...", "Honey, I promise that when I get homeâ"
He never finished the sentence.
Because what if he didn't get home? What if the letter was the last thing you ever heard from him, and it was full of words that would only make it hurt worse? What if he survived and came back and nothing had changed, and he'd put all that weight on your shoulders for nothing?
So he signed every letter the same way.
Yours, Bucky.
And if you read something else into it, if you held the paper a little longer than necessary, if you pressed it to your chest like a promise â well. That was between you and the silence.
-
He fell from the train in early 1945.
He didn't die â not really â but he might as well have.
Everything that made him James Buchanan Barnes â the boy who won you a stuffed bear, the man who walked you home in the rain, the fool who never kissed you when he had the chance â was stripped away, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but the Soldier.
Hydra did not want his memories. Hydra did not want his heart. Hydra wanted a weapon, and a weapon cannot love, cannot regret, cannot sit awake at night wondering what might have been.
So they took it all.
He forgot your name. He forgot your face. He forgot the sound of your laugh, the curve of your smile, the way you looked at him like he was the only person in the room.
He forgot that he'd ever been loved at all.
In Brooklyn, you waited.
For weeks. For months. For years.
You went to his funeral. There was no body, just a flag and a photograph and his familyâs tears. You stood at the back of the church, dry-eyed, because you'd done all your crying in private, and you refused to let anyone see you fall apart.
Steve was gone too couple weeks later. They'd told you about the plane, about the ice, about the heroic sacrifice of Captain America. You'd sat in stunned silence for a very long time, trying to comprehend a world without both of them in it.
They were ghosts now. Both of them. And you were alone.
Not completely. You had Bucky's sisters, who held you like a sister themselves. You had your own family, your mother's worried phone calls, your father's gruff attempts at comfort. But the two people who had known you best â who had seen you at your worst and loved you anyway â were gone.
You didn't date for three years. You couldn't. Every man who looked at you reminded you of what you'd lost. Every hand that reached for yours felt wrong.
Then you met David.
David was a veteran too â he'd served in the Pacific, come home with a limp and a quiet sadness that matched your own. He wasn't handsome in the way Bucky had been. He didn't make your heart race. He didn't look at you like you hung the moon. But he loved you. He was kind. He was steady. He made you laugh, sometimes, and he never asked about the photograph you kept in your nightstand â the one of you and Bucky at Coney Island, his arm around your shoulders, both of you young and beautiful and so unbearably full of hope.
He didn't ask, and you didn't tell.
You married him in 1951. It was a small ceremony, just family and a few friends. You wore a white dress and carried peonies and smiled for the camera. You loved him â not the way you'd loved Bucky, not the consuming, devastating, world-ending way â but you loved him. Enough. In a different way. In a way that was safe. David wasnât the love of your life.
In a way that didn't destroy you when you realized it wasn't enough.
You had three children. Charles, named for no one in particular, just because you liked the sound of it. Joseph, after David's father. And then, when you were thirty-seven and sure you were done, a surprise â a little girl with dark hair and bright blue eyes who looked nothing like you and everything like the ghost you'd never stopped carrying.
You named her Jane. It was the closest you could come to saying his name out loud without breaking.
David never asked why.
The decades passed.
You watched your children grow up, get married, have children of their own. You held your first grandchild in 1978, a squalling boy with his father's nose and his mother's temper, and you loved him with the fierce, protective love that only grandparents understand.
You lost David in 1985. Heart attack. Sudden. He was gone before the ambulance arrived.
You cried at his funeral, but your grief was different from what you'd felt in 1945. It was quieter. More resigned. You'd had almost thirty-seven years with him. You'd built a life. You'd done the best you could.
And still, sometimes, late at night, when the house was quiet and the moon was full, you thought about a fire escape and a rainstorm and a boy who kissed your forehead like it meant something.
You thought about all the words you'd never said.
You told yourself it didn't matter. You told yourself you'd made the right choice. You told yourself that if you'd said something, if you'd been brave, you might have had a few years â a few months â a few days â before the war took him anyway.
You told yourself a lot of things.
Some of them were even true.
-
In 1994, your granddaughter, Sarah, found the letters.
She was seventeen, curious, going through the boxes in your attic. You'd forgotten they were there â the letters Bucky had sent from overseas, tied with a ribbon, yellowed with age.
âGrandma,â Sarah said, coming downstairs with the box in her hands. âWho's Bucky?â
Your heart stopped.
For a moment â just a moment â you were twenty-five again, sitting on your bed with a letter in your hands, tracing the shape of his handwriting like it might bring him back.
âNobody,â you said. âHe was just a friend.â
Sarah looked at you with her motherâs eyes âhis eyesâ and you saw in her face the same sharp intuition that had always made you uncomfortable.
âYou're lying,â she said. Not meanly. Just matter-of-fact. âYou get this look when you lie. Grandpa used to say it was your tell.â
You laughed despite yourself. âYour grandpa said too much.â
âHe also said you never loved him the way you loved someone else.â Sarah sat down on the couch, the box in her lap. âI always thought he was being dramatic. But now I'm wondering.â
You were quiet for a long time.
âHe was from the neighborhood,â you said finally. âBucky. We grew up together. He went to war. He didn't come back.â
âAnd you loved him.â
It wasn't a question.
âYes,â you said, and the word came out like a confession, like a relief, like the first breath after drowning. âI loved him. I loved him, and I never told him, and by the time I was brave enough, it was too late.â
Sarah was quiet for a moment. Then she opened the box, pulled out the first letter, and began to read aloud.
Honey, I saw the most beautiful sunset tonight. It made me think of you. Not because it was beautiful, nothing could ever reach your beauty, but because it was the kind of thing you'd want to see. You always did love the sky.
You closed your eyes and listened to your granddaughter read the words of a dead man, and you let yourself remember.
-
You died in 1999, just as the world was getting ready for a new century.
Lung cancer. You'd smoked for forty years, and you'd known the risks, and you hadn't cared. Some things were worth the cost.
Your children were there â Charles, Joseph, Jane â and your grandchildren, and even a few great-grandchildren, the youngest just a baby, born three weeks before you went into the hospital.
They gathered around your bed, holding your hands, telling you they loved you. And you believed them. You'd done something right, after all. You'd built something that would last.
But just before the end, when the room was quiet and your breathing was shallow, you whispered a name.
Not David's. Not your children's.
Bucky's.
âI should have kissed you,â you said, to no one, to everyone, to the ghost you'd carried for fifty-four years. âI should have kissed you anyway.â
And then you were gone.
-
You were buried in Green-Wood Cemetery, Section 12, under a tree that your husband had planted the year you bought the plot. The inscription on your headstone, chosen by your children, read
Beloved mother, grandmother, and friend. She loved deeply, and she was deeply loved. Always in our hearts.
-
In 2017, Bucky Barnes came home.
Not to Brooklyn â not at first. He went to Wakanda first, to heal, to learn to be a person again. The process was slow and painful, full of setbacks and nightmares and days when he couldn't get out of bed.
But eventually, slowly, he started to remember.
He remembered his mother's voice. His little sisters' annoying pranks. His father's lessons. He remembered Steve's laugh. He remembered the smell of rain on hot pavement, the taste of cheap beer, the feeling of a fire escape under his hands.
He remembered you.
Your face came back to him in fragments â your smile, your eyes, the way you'd looked at him the night before he left for the war. He remembered the letters he'd written, the words he'd never said, the kiss he'd never given.
And he remembered that you were gone.
Steve told him when he was stable enough to hear it. They were sitting on the porch of Bucky's hut, watching the sun set over the Wakandan hills, and Steve's voice was very quiet.
âShe died in '99,â Steve said. âCancer. She was seventy-nine.â
Bucky stared at the horizon. His metal hand was clenched in his lap. His flesh hand was shaking.
âDid she ââ He stopped. Swallowed. âDid she have a good life?â
Steve hesitated. Then he pulled a photograph from his pocket â one he'd found in the archives of the Smithsonian, of all places, donated by a woman named Jane who'd written a note explaining who the people in the picture were.
It was you. Older, grey-haired, laughing at something off-camera. You were standing on a porch, surrounded by children â three of them, grown, with children of their own. A baby was in your arms. Your eyes were bright.
âYeah,â Steve said. âShe had a good life. She got married. Had kids. Grandkids. She was happy.â
Bucky took the photograph. His thumb traced the curve of your smile.
âGood,â he said, and his voice cracked. âThat's good. I'm glad, she deserved nothing less than pure happiness.â
He was lying. He was glad â he was â but there was a part of him, a selfish, ugly part, that wished you'd waited. Wished you'd pined. Wished you'd been as broken as he was.
He hated that part of himself.
âShe wrote you a letter,â Steve said. âAt the end. Her granddaughter found it in her things and sent it to the Smithsonian, along with your letters. Someone there tracked me down after I came out of the ice. Jane said she still don't know why she wrote it, maybe just to finally let go all those feelings, even if she thought you were dead.â
Bucky's head snapped up and Steve handed it to him â old paper, soft with age, your handwriting shaky but recognizable.
Bucky unfolded it with trembling hands.
Dear Bucky,
I hope you remember.
I hope you remember the fire escape, and the rain, and the night we fell asleep in the movie theater. I hope you remember the stuffed bear and the terrible Chinese food and the way you used to walk me home even when it was three blocks and I told you I didn't need an escort. I hope you remember that I loved you.
Not the way I said it, all those years. Not the easy way, the safe way, the friendship way.
I loved you the other way. The big way. The forever way.
And I never told you.
I had a hundred chances. A thousand. Every time you looked at me, I thought: this is it. This is the moment. And every time, I let it pass. I was scared. I was so scared of losing you that I lost you anyway, not all at once, but a little bit every day, until there was nothing left but the ghost of what we could have been.
I should have kissed you, Bucky.
I should have kissed you when we were seventeen and you fell asleep when you were supposed to help me study . I should have kissed you when we were twenty-one and you walked me home in the rain. I should have kissed you the night before you left for the war, when you held me so tight I couldn't breathe, and you looked at me like you were trying to memorize my face.
I should have kissed you anyway.
I know it wasn't an invitation. I know it wasn't convenient. I know there were a million reasons not to, and only one reason to try. But that one reason â you â should have been enough.
I'm dying now. That's the truth of it. I'm old, and I'm tired, and I've spent fifty-four years wishing I'd been brave and Iâve been knowing since I got the news that there's never enough time.
Find someone. Love them. Tell them.
And if you can't â if you're still the same stubborn idiot I fell in love with â then just know this.
Yours (always, always yours),
Honey
P.S. I got married. His name was David. He was a good man, and I loved him, but not the way I loved you. I don't think I was capable of loving anyone that way after you left. My children are beautiful, and my grandchildren are brilliant, and my life was full. But there was always a you-shaped hole in it. I just learned to live around it.
-
Bucky read the letter three times.
Then he folded it carefully, the way he'd been trained to fold maps and orders and things that mattered, and pressed it to his chest.
âShe had kids,â he said. It wasn't a question.
âYeah,â Steve said. âThree. Her oldest, Charles, is in her sixties now. He lives in New Jersey. Her son Joseph passed away a few years back â heart problems â but his kids are still around. And her youngest, Jane â she's in her early sixties. Lives in Brooklyn, actually. Not far from where we grew up.â
Bucky's breath caught. âBrooklyn?â
âShe's been trying to get in touch with you,â Steve admitted. âThrough the Smithsonian. Through me. She wants to meet you.â
âWhy?â
Steve shrugged. âShe said her mother talked about you. Not often, but enough. She said she's got questions. And she saidââ He paused. âShe said you might want to meet them all, maybe.â
Bucky looked down at the photograph again â at you, older and happy and surrounded by the family you'd built. Then he looked at the letter, at the postscript, at the words you-shaped hole.
âWhen?â he asked.
âShe's free Saturday,â Steve said. âI can give her your number.â
Bucky nodded slowly. He tucked the letter into his jacket pocket, next to his heart, and stared out at the Wakandan sunset.
âYeah,â he said. âOkay. Saturday.â
---
Saturday came faster than he expected.
Bucky had spent the intervening days in a strange state of suspension â not quite anxious, not quite calm, just waiting. He'd read your letter so many times he'd memorized it. He'd looked at the photograph until the details were seared into his brain, in the way you held that baby, the laugh lines around your eyes, the strand of grey hair that had fallen across your forehead.
He wondered if you'd thought about him at the end. If you'd regretted it. If you'd wished, just once, that he'd been braver.
He'd certainly wished it. A hundred times. A thousand.
The coffee shop was in Park Slope, a place Jane had chosen because it was quiet and private and had a back room where they wouldn't be disturbed. Bucky arrived early, ordered a coffee he didn't drink, and sat in the corner with his hands flat on the table so they wouldn't shake.
The door opened at 2:03 pm exactly.
A woman walked in â early sixties, grey-streaked dark hair, bright blue eyes, sharp features that reminded him of someone. She was wearing a simple dress and sensible shoes, and she was holding a photograph album under her arm.
âMr. Barnes?â she said, and her voice was firm and kind, very much like yours.
âJust Bucky,â he said. âPlease.â
She sat down across from him. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then she set the album on the table and opened it to the first page.
âThat's my mother,â she said, pointing to a photograph â a wedding picture, you in a white dress, a man he didn't recognize beside you. âShe was thirty-one there. Three years after she gave up waiting.â
Bucky stared at the photograph. You looked beautiful, of course â you always had â but there was something in your eyes that made his chest ache. A sadness, maybe. A resignation.
âShe loved him,â Rebecca said, and her voice was soft. âMy father. She really did. But it wasn't â it wasn't the same.â
Bucky nodded. He couldn't speak.
âShe kept your letters,â Rebecca continued, turning the page. âAll of them. Even after she got married. Even after she moved out of Brooklyn. She kept them in a box in her attic, tied with a ribbon, and she never let anyone touch them.â
She turned another page. More photographs â you holding a baby, you at a birthday party, you at the beach with three small children.
âCharles,â Jane said, pointing to the oldest. âJoseph. And me.â She touched the smallest child, a girl with dark hair and bright eyes. âI'm named after someone, you know. Not from a movie star or something like that. Someone else.â
Bucky's throat tightened. âJane,â he said. âDonât want to overthink but perhaps your mother thought about James? about me?â
âYes,â Rebecca said. âShe told me. When I was fifteen, I asked her why she chose it. She said it was because she wanted to name me after someone brave.â Janeâs eyes glistened. âShe said you were always there trying to protect everyone in the neighborhood from the bullies and all. And your sister, Rebecca, is my godmother. Mom used to say how much Becca used to tease you two all the time.â
Bucky closed his eyes. He remembered those momentsâ sitting on the fire escape, sharing a cigarette, talking about nothing and everything. Becca passing by and making some kissing sounds just to annoy you two and him saying sheâs always a pain in the ass.
âShe loved you,â Rebecca said quietly. âMy whole life, I knew she loved someone. Not my father â not the way she loved him. There was always this â this absence. This ghost. She never talked about it, not really, but we all knew. And when I found the letters, when I read them ââ
She stopped. Swallowed.
âI'm glad you're alive,â she said. âShe would have been, too. She would have been so glad.â
Bucky opened his eyes. He looked at Janeâ at her face, at the small echoes of you he could see in her features, even though he still donât get why she reminds him of himself somehowâ and felt something crack open inside him.
âCan I ââ he started, then stopped. Cleared his throat. âCan I see more?â
Rebecca smiled. It was your smile, the one you'd given him a thousand times, and Bucky had to look away.
âI brought everything,â she said. âThere's a lot.â
---
They spent three hours in that coffee shop.
Jane showed him photograph after photograph â your wedding, your children's births, your grandchildren's graduations. She told him stories: about the time you'd chased a raccoon out of the kitchen with a broom, about the way you'd taught her to make pie crust, about the summer you'd taken all three kids to the beach and lost Joseph in the waves for a terrifying ten minutes before you found him building a sandcastle with a stranger.
âShe never stopped,â Rebecca said. âEven when she was tired. Even when she was sad. She just kept going.â
Bucky thought about the girl he'd known â the one who'd punched Lance Baizen, who'd cried on his shoulder and laughed in his face and looked at him like he was something special. He could see her in all of it. The same stubbornness. The same warmth. The same refusal to give up.
âDid she ever ââ He hesitated. âDid she ever talk about me? Specifically?â
Jane was quiet for a moment. Then she nodded.
âWhen she was dying,â she said. âAt the very end. She was in the hospital, and we were all there, and she was drifting in and out. And at one point, she opened her eyes and looked right at me while I was holding her hand and she said, 'Tell him I should have kissed him.'â
Bucky's breath left him in a rush.
âI didn't know who she was talking about,â Jane continued. âNot then. I thought maybe it was my father. But later, after she died, my Sarah told me about the letters. And I realized.â
She reached across the table and covered Bucky's hand with her own. Her fingers were warm, solid, real.
âShe should have,â Jane said. âAnd so should you. You both should have.â
Bucky looked down at her hand â at the resemblance to yours, at the life that had continued without him â and felt tears prick his eyes.
âI know,â he said. âI know.â
-
He met Charles the next weekend.
He was older than Jane, sixty-four, with grey hair and a kind face and a sharp tongue that made him think of you. He didn't cry when she saw him, which honestly didnât him. Instead, he just looked at him for a long moment, âYou're shorter than I expected.â He said and Bucky laughed. It was the first genuine laugh he'd had in weeks.
âShe said you'd say that,â he said. âIn one of her letters. She said you always told people they were shorter than you expected, even when they weren't.â
Charlesâ expression softened. âShe told you about me?â
âShe told me everything,â Bucky said, and it was true â not in the letters, not explicitly, but in the way you'd written about your children, the pride and love and exhaustion and joy. He'd read between the lines. He'd always been good at that with you.
âShe was a good mom,â Charles said, sitting down across from him. âNot perfect. She had her sad days, her quiet days. But she was good. She loved us.â
âI know she did.â
âShe also loved you.â Charlesâ voice was matter-of-fact. âI figured that out when I was about twelve. She had this photograph of the two of you at Coney Island, and sometimes I'd catch her looking at it when she thought no one was watching. She'd get this look on her face â like she was seeing something we couldn't see.â
Bucky swallowed hard. âI had that same look,â he admitted. âWhen I thought about her. For years. Even after ââ He gestured vaguely at his metal arm, at everything he'd become. âEven when I couldn't remember her name, I remembered the feeling. That missing. That ache.â
Charles studied him for a long moment. Then she nodded, satisfied.
âGood,â she said. âShe deserved to be missed.â
Joseph's children came to see him too.
His son, Marcus, was forty-two, a high school history teacher with a dry sense of humor and his father's kind eyes. He brought his daughter, Elena, who was seventeen and surly and looked at Bucky like he was a museum exhibit.
âYou're really him,â Elena said. âThe Winter Soldier.â
âThat's not something I'm proud of,â Bucky said quietly.
Elena shrugged. âMy dad says you were brainwashed. That it wasn't your fault.â
âIt wasn't,â Marcus said firmly. âAnd it's not something we're going to talk about right now, Elena.â
They sat in a park in Brooklyn, on a bench overlooking a playground. Children were screaming, laughing, running in circles. Bucky watched them with a strange ache in his chest â at all the things he'd never have, at all the moments he'd missed.
âShe talked about you,â Marcus said. âMy grandmother. Not often, but sometimes. On certain days â your birthday, mostly. The anniversary of when you ââ He stopped, cleared his throat. âShe'd get quiet. Distant. My grandfather used to say she was visiting someone in her head.â
âDid that bother him?â Bucky asked. âYour grandfather.â
Marcus considered the question. âI think so,â he said finally. âBut he loved her anyway. He understood, I think, that some loves don't go away just because someone dies. They just â change. Become something else.â
Bucky nodded slowly. He thought about you and David, about the life you'd built together, about the way you'd made room for him even after he was gone.
âYour grandmother was extraordinary,â he said. âShe deserved more than I gave her.â
âShe gave herself plenty,â Marcus said. âShe had a good life. A full one. Don't diminish that by wishing it had been different.â
Bucky looked at him â at this man he'd never known, this descendant of a life he could have had â and felt something shift inside him.
âYou're right,â he said. âI know you're right.â
âOf course I'm right,â Marcus said, and grinned. âI'm a history teacher. It's my job to be right.â
They talked for a long time and then it was Elena who broke him.
Not on purpose. She was just â there. Sitting on the bench next to her father, scrolling through her phone, occasionally glancing up at Bucky with that teenage mix of boredom and curiosity.
And then she looked up at exactly the wrong moment â the sun caught her face, and she tilted her head, and she smiled at something Marcus said, and Bucky's heart stopped.
Because she looked exactly like you.
Not just similar. Not just reminiscent. Exactly.
The same dark hair, the same bright eyes, the same curve of her lips when she smiled. She was fourteen â the same age you'd been when he'd first realized he was in love with you â and the resemblance was so uncanny, so devastating, that Bucky couldn't breathe.
âAre you okay?â Elena asked, frowning. âYou look like you've seen a ghost.â
âI have,â Bucky said, and his voice came out strangled.
Marcus looked between them, understanding dawning on his face. âShe looks like Grandma, doesn't she?â
Bucky nodded. He couldn't speak.
Elena looked confused. âDo I really look like her? I mean, people say that sometimes, but I never really ââ
âYou look exactly like her,â Bucky said. âWhen she was fourteen. I remember ââ He stopped. Swallowed. âI remember her standing in the rain, holding my jacket over her head, laughing at something I said. She looked just like you.â
Elena was quiet for a moment. Then she reached into her bag and pulled out a photograph â one she'd brought with her, maybe, or one she'd been carrying for years.
âThat's her,â she said, handing it to him. âThat's her around that age.â
Bucky took the photograph with shaking hands.
It was you. Young and beautiful and so full of life it hurt to look at. You were standing on a fire escape â his fire escape â in a sundress, your hair blowing across your face, your smile wide and real and his.
He remembered this day. The summer of 1934. You'd come over unexpectedly, and he'd been in a mood, and you'd made him laugh somehow â he couldn't remember how â and you'd said, âTake a picture, Barnes. This is the best I'm ever going to look.â
He'd laughed and told you that was ridiculous. You'd always be beautiful.
He'd been right.
âShe kept this,â he said, his voice barely a whisper. âShe kept this for sixty years.â
âShe kept everything,â Elena said. âWe have boxes of it. Letters, photographs, ticket stubs. My mom says she was a hoarder, but I think she just â she couldn't let go. Of any of it.â
Bucky looked at the photograph again â at your smile, at your eyes, at the ghost of the girl he'd loved and lost and never stopped loving.
âShe couldn't let go of me,â he said. âAnd I couldn't let go of her. And now ââ He looked up at Elena, at the impossible echo of your face in hers. âNow it's too late.â
Elena reached out and touched his hand. Her fingers were warm, light, nothing like yours â but the gesture was the same. The comfort. The solidarity.
âIt's not too late,â she said. âShe's gone, yeah. But you're not. And we're not. You have us now, if you want us.â
Bucky stared at her. At the girl who looked like a ghost, who sounded like an angel, who was offering him something he'd never expected to have.
A family.
âI'd like that,â he said. âI'd like that very much.â
-
He went to Green-Wood Cemetery the next day.
Section 12. The tree. The headstone, weathered by almost twenty years of rain and snow.
He stood in front of it for a long time, just looking. Your name. Your dates. The inscription your children had chosen: Beloved mother, grandmother, and friend. She loved deeply, and she was deeply loved.
Then he walked around to the back of the stone and saw the words Sarah had added â the ones he hadn't known about until Marcus mentioned them in passing.
She should have kissed him anyway.
Bucky Barnes fell to his knees in the grass and wept.
He stayed there all day. He brought flowers, your favorite flowers and a stuffed bear that was looking so much like the ones he used to win for you at Coney Island. He set them against your headstone and sat with his back against the tree and talked.
About the war. About Hydra. About the things he'd done, the things that had been done to him. About the years he'd spent as a ghost, a weapon, a shadow.
About you.
âI met your granddaughter,â he said. âElena. She looks just like you. It's uncanny. It's ââ He laughed, a broken sound. âIt's a little cruel, if I'm being honest. But also beautiful. She's beautiful. Like you were.â
He paused, looking up at the sky. The sun was setting, painting the clouds in shades of orange and pink and gold.
âShe told me I'm not too late,â he continued. âShe said I have them now â your family. And I think â I think I'd like that. If you're okay with it. If David is okay with it. If it wouldn't be â I don't know â weird.â
He pressed his palm flat against the grass, against the earth that covered you.
âI loved you,â he said. âI love you, and I was scared, and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I didn't ââ
He stopped. Swallowed.
âI should have kissed you,â he said. âI should have kissed you anyway.â
The wind blew through the trees. Somewhere, a bird sang.
Bucky closed his eyes and let himself imagine it â the other world, the other timeline, the one where he'd been brave. He saw himself leaning across the couch at the cheap cinema theater, kissing you before the film ended. He saw himself on the fire escape, pulling you close, finally, finally saying the words he'd been holding back for years.
He saw a life â a wedding, a house, children. He saw himself growing old with you, watching the lines appear on your face, holding your hand in a hospital room as you both took your last breaths.
It was beautiful.
It was unbearable.
It wasn't real.
But maybe â maybe it didn't have to be. Maybe the love was real. Maybe the regret was real. Maybe the family he'd found â your children, your grandchildren, your great-grandchildren â was real too.
Maybe that was enough.
He opened his eyes. The sun had set. The stars were coming out.
âYours,â he whispered to the headstone. âAlways, always only yours.â
And somewhere â in the wind, in the stars, in the space between what was and what could have been â he swore he felt you smile.
-
He came back the next day. And the day after that. And the day after that.
He came to holidays at Charlesâ house, where he sat in the corner and watched your family laugh and fight and love each other. He came to Sunday dinners at Jane's, where he learned to make your pie crust recipe and burned it three times before he got it right. He came to Elena's high school graduation, where he sat in the back and cried when she walked across the stage, because she looked so much like you it hurt.
He became part of the family â not replacing anyone, not filling the hole you'd left, but adding something new. A strange, broken, impossible addition who loved you still, after all these years.
Sarah's youngest, a boy named James asked him once why he'd never married.
âI did,â Bucky said. âIn another life. But in this one, I was too late.â
James, who was fifteen and wise beyond his years, nodded thoughtfully.
âThat's sad,â he said.
âYeah,â Bucky agreed. âIt is.â
âBut you're here now,â James said. âThat counts for something, right?â
Bucky looked at the boy â at the echo of you in his eyes, at the future stretching out before him â and smiled.
âYeah,â he said. âIt counts for everything.â
Note I am sorry. This is slightly sad somehow but I can't make Bucky sad all the damn time, I love him too much and he's so pretty to have a sad face. also, I made Winnie call Bucky the way Barry's mom used to call him on The Flash, just a quick, almost unnoticeable little thing I wanted here.
The thing about Bucky Barnes is that he doesn't cry. It's not a point of pride, not some rusted-on remnant of the 1940s masculinity that Steve sometimes still wears like a too-tight suit jacket, though God knows Steve has tried to talk to him about it. It's not that he thinks less of men who do, or that he's swallowed some poison pill about real men not shedding tears. It's simpler than that, and infinitely more devastating. The part of him that knew how to cry has been broken for so long, he's not sure it ever existed in the first place.
Or maybe it did. Maybe once, a very long time ago, in a brownstone in Brooklyn with chipped wallpaper and the smell of his mother's pot roast bleeding through every floorboard, he cried. He has a fragment of a memoryâsharp and strange, like a piece of glass he's afraid to touchâof a lollipop. A green one. Apple-flavored, he thinks. He wanted it at the corner store, the one with the bell on the door that always made him feel like a grown-up when he pushed it open. His mother said no. Her voice was tired, not cruel, but he was four, or maybe five, and the injustice of it had been a burning, cosmic wrongness. He'd cried then. Big, gulping, snotty sobs that had made his father look up from his paper with something like alarm before his mother had scooped him up and laughed, actually laughed, and kissed the top of his head and said, "Oh, my beautiful boy. The world will break your heart so many times. Save your tears for the things that matter."
He doesn't remember if he got the lollipop. He suspects he did. His mother had a soft heart under all that starch.
He didn't cry when the recruiter came to the door. He wasnât a naive young boy but he sure as hell was scared stupid, and his stomach was clenched so tight he thought he might vomit. His mother had stood behind him, her hand a warm, steady pressure on his shoulder blade, and he'd signed the papers with a dry-eyed terror that felt like swallowing broken glass. He didn't cry during the war. Not when Dugan took a bullet to the shoulder, not when the Howlies sang raunchy songs around a fire in some frozen French forest, not even when he held a dying man's handâa kid from Ohio who couldn't have been more than nineteenâand lied to him about the war being almost over. His eyes had burned, his throat had closed up like a fist, but the tears hadn't come. They'd retreated somewhere deep, some subterranean vault where he locked away everything too heavy to carry.
And he certainly didn't cry during the Hydra years.
He doesn't remember much of those decades in a clean, linear way. It's more like a collage of painâelectricity and ice and the particular, soul-flaying horror of watching his own hands do things he would never, in any universe, have chosen to do. He was scared. God, he was so scared. He was scared in a way that went beyond the body, beyond the screaming nerve endings. It was a metaphysical terror, the slow, grinding erasure of himself. But he never cried. He couldn't. They wouldn't have let him, even if he'd tried. The chair didn't care for tears. The chair just wanted compliance.
After Wakanda, after the thawing and the slow, brutal work of untangling the barbed wire in his head, he thought maybe the tears would come. Shuri had told him, gently, that emotional release was part of the healing process. She'd said it like it was a good thing, a sign of progress. And he'd sat in his white-walled room, staring out at the lush, impossible green of the Wakandan forest, and he'd tried. He'd thought about Steve. About the way Steve had looked at him after the whole Thanosâ fiasco, after everything, when they'd finally had a moment alone and Steve had just grabbed him by the back of the neck and held on like Bucky was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. He'd thought about the ice. The fall. The long, silent years of nothing before Hydra fished him out.
Nothing. Not a single drop. His eyes had felt like two stones in his skull.
So he'd stopped trying. He'd accepted it as part of his new shape, the way he'd accepted the metal arm. He was a man who didn't cry. It was a fact, like gravity or the undeniable truth that Steve Rogers still made terrible coffee even after a century of practice. He didn't examine it. He just lived inside it.
Then he moved into the apartment across the hall from you.
The apartment itself was a victory. Not a hard-won oneâthose kinds of victories he was used to. This was a different kind of victory, the quiet, mundane kind that Sam insisted he needed to learn how to celebrate.
"It's got a dishwasher," Sam had said, standing in the middle of the empty living room with his hands on his hips, looking around with an approval that was almost comical. "And in-unit laundry, Buck. Do you understand what a privilege that is in this city? I've been fighting the basement washing machine in my building for three years. THREE YEARS. It eats quarters like they're peanuts and then just... stops. Mid-cycle. With all your clothes inside. You have no idea how good you have it."
Steve had been there too, leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed, that particular softness in his eyes that only ever appeared when he was looking at Bucky in a domestic setting. Like he couldn't quite believe they'd made it here, to a place where Bucky could have his own apartment with a dishwasher and a view of a small courtyard instead of a view of a battlefield.
Natasha had been the one to find it, actually. She had opinions about real estateâstrong, specific opinions that she wielded like weapons. "No basement units," she'd said, scrolling through listings on her tablet while perched on the edge of Bucky's temporary couch. "No ground floors. Nothing with a fire escape that connects to the roof. And for God's sake, Bucky, get a place with decent light. You've spent enough time in the dark."
So he had. The apartment was on the third floor of a solid brick building in a neighborhood that had been quietly up-and-coming for about fifteen years and had finally, grudgingly, arrived. The building wasn't fancyâno doorman, no elevator that worked consistently, no gym or rooftop terrace with a grill. But it was well-maintained, with clean hallways and windows that actually sealed against the winter draft and someone who responded to maintenance requests within forty-eight hours, which Natasha had assured him was practically a miracle.
His apartment had two bedroomsâone for sleeping, one for the punching bag and the small collection of weights that Sam had insisted were 'essential for mental health'âand a bathroom with a shower that had excellent water pressure and heated floors that Bucky still wasn't over. The kitchen was open to the living room, with dark granite countertops and stainless steel appliances that had come with the unit and made him feel vaguely like a person who had his life together. The living room was big enough for a couch and his grandmother's armchairâthe one piece of furniture he'd had shipped from storage, the one that still smelled faintly of her lavender sachets even after all these years. There were windows on two walls, facing south and west, and in the afternoons, the light came in golden and thick, pooling on the hardwood floors like honey.
It was more than he'd ever expected to have. More than he deserved, probably, but Steve had given him that lookâthe one that said don't even startâand Bucky had signed the lease without arguing.
The building was quiet. Respectable. Full of people who had normal jobs and normal lives and no idea that the Winter Soldier lived three floors up from the laundromat. There were young couples with strollers, a retired librarian on the second floor who left baked goods in the hallway during the holidays, a graphic designer on the fourth floor who played video games at full volume until 2 AM but always apologized profusely the next morning.
And there was you. 3A. The one with the coconut shampoo and the terrible singing voice and the inexplicable, devastating lack of fear.
He noticed you the second week. Not in a romantic way, not at first. He noticed you because you were loud. Not aggressively so, but you existed with a kind of cheerful, oblivious volume that grated on his hyper-vigilant nerves. You sang while you cookedâterrible, off-key renditions of pop songs from the last decade that you clearly sing every single word, even the guitar sounds. You watched movies with the bass turned up, and the low thrum of explosions bled through the walls. You had friends over sometimes, and their laughter was a bright, jarring thing that made his jaw clench and his fingers twitch toward a knife he no longer carried.
He told Steve about you, sort of. Not in so many words. They were having dinner at Steve and Natasha's placeâa brownstone in Brooklyn that Natasha had decorated with ruthless efficiency and surprising warmthâand Steve had asked how the new building was treating him.
âIt's fine,â Bucky had said, poking at his pasta. âQuiet.â
Steve had raised an eyebrow. Steve had known him for over a hundred years. Steve could read the lie in his voice the way other people read headlines.
âBut?â Steve had prompted.
Bucky had shrugged. âThere's a woman across the hall. She's... loud.â
Next to Steve, Natasha had smirked into her wine glass. âLoud how?â
âI don't know,â Bucky had said, irritated by the question and by his own inability to answer it. âShe just... exists loudly. She sings. She laughs. She leaves her groceries for quite some time in the hallway like she's not worried someone's going to steal them.â
Steve and Natasha had exchanged a look. A long, meaningful, infuriating look that Bucky had pretended not to see.
âThat sounds terrible,â Natasha had said, deadpan. âA woman who laughs and sings and isn't afraid of her own shadow. How do you survive?â
âShut up,â Bucky had muttered. But he hadn't been able to stop thinking about it. About you. About the way you'd smiled at him that first time in the hallway, holding your too-heavy grocery bag, like he was just a guy and not a weapon.
The first time you talked to him, he almost didn't respond.
You were coming out of your apartment just as he was coming out of his. You were wearing a dress and your hair was down, and you looked so startlingly pretty that he forgot how words worked for a solid five seconds.
âHey,â you'd said, locking your door. âYou're the new guy, right? I heard 3B has a bigger kitchen somehow.â
He'd nodded. His mouth had been dry.
âI'm your neighbor,â you'd said and let him know your name and then you'd laughedâthat bright, unguarded laugh he'd heard through the wallsâand stuck out your hand. âI'd say I'm friendly, but honestly I'm just nosy. I like to know who's living within screaming distance.â
He'd shaken your hand. Your grip had been firm, your palm warm and dry. You hadn't flinched at the metal. You hadn't even glanced at it.
âBucky,â he'd said. His voice had come out rougher than he'd intended.
âJust Bucky?â you'd asked, tilting your head. âOr is there a last name you're holding out on me?â
He'd hesitated. âBarnes.â
You'd nodded, like that was a perfectly normal thing for a man who looked like he'd walked out of a World War II documentary to say. âWell, Bucky Barnes, welcome to the building. Fair warning, the walls are thin, I cook real Mexican food at least three times a week, and I have absolutely no shame about singing along to ABBA at full volume. If any of that is a problem, you should probably request a transfer now.â You were clearly joking.
And then you'd winked at him. Actually winked. And walked off down the hallway toward the stairs, leaving him standing there with his keys in his hand and his heart doing something strange and irregular in his chest.
He'd closed his apartment door, leaned against it, and texted Steve.
Bucky: I think I'm in trouble.
Steve: Define trouble.
Bucky hadn't answered. He hadn't known how.
Over the next few months, you became something he couldn't explain. Not a friend, exactlyânot yet. He kept you at a careful distance, the way he kept everyone, because letting people in meant giving them the power to leave, and he wasn't sure he could survive another goodbye.
But you were persistent. Not in a pushy wayâyou never demanded his time or his attention or his story. You just... existed. You said hello in the hallway. You knocked on his door when you'd made too much food, pressing tupperware containers into his hands with instructions to return the container, not the food, because the food is a gift and gifts don't come back. You invited him to building eventsâthe holiday party in the lobby, the impromptu rooftop gathering when the weather turned warmâand when he declined, you just shrugged and said, "Maybe next time," like you actually believed there would be a next time.
You told him about your life in bits and pieces. Your job at the marketing firm, which you liked well enough but didn't love. Your parents, who lived three hours away and called every Sunday without fail. Your black cat, a grumpy rescue named Anakin Skywalker who had opinions about everything and was currently on a hunger strike because you'd switched his food brand.
âI'm being held hostage by a twelve-pound grumpy baby,â you'd told him once, sitting cross-legged on your kitchen floor while Anakin glared at you from atop the refrigerator. âThis is my life now. I've accepted it.â
He'd laughed. Actually laughedâa real one, not the hollow, automatic sound he usually produced when someone said something vaguely amusing. You'd looked up at him with wide eyes, and for a second, he'd seen something flicker across your face. Surprise. And then something softer. Something that looked like hope.
He'd looked away first. He always looked away first.
Steve noticed. Of course Steve noticed. Steve noticed everything, and he had no compunction about pointing it out.
âYou're different,â Steve said one afternoon. They were at a diner, the kind of place that served breakfast all day and had waitresses who called everyone "hon." Bucky was pushing scrambled eggs around his plate. Steve was watching him with that steady, patient gaze that had always made Bucky feel like he was being X-rayed.
âI'm not different,â Bucky said.
âYou are.â Steve leaned back in the booth, stirring his coffee. âYou're calmer. More present. You actually looked at me when I walked in instead of scanning the room for exits first.â
âI always scan for exits. That's not going to change.â
âNo, but you used to do it like you were expecting someone to come through the door with a gun. Now you do it like you're just... checking. Like it's a habit, not a survival mechanism.â
Bucky put his fork down. âWhat's your point, Steve?â
Steve's mouth twitched. âNo point. Just an observation. I'm allowed to observe things.â
âYou're allowed to mind your own business, too.â
âWhere's the fun in that?â Steve took a sip of his coffee, made a faceâit was too hot, or too bitter, or too something, because Steve's relationship with coffee was complicated and mostly unhappyâand set the cup down. âNatasha thinks you're in love with your neighbor.â
Bucky's hand froze halfway to his water glass. âNatasha doesn't know my neighbor.â
âNatasha knows everything. It's her thing.â Steve shrugged. âShe says you get a certain look on your face when you talk about her. She says it's the same look you used to get when you talked about that girl from the USO. What was her name?â
âThere was no girl from the USOâ
âLorraine. That was it. The brunette with the long legs.â Steve was grinning now, the bastard. âYou were gone for her. Completely gone. And you've got the same look now. Well, Nat says now itâs even worse, you know?â
Bucky stared at him. âI don't have a look.â
âYou have a look. It's a very specific look. Slightly constipated, mostly lovestruck. It's a whole thing.â
âI'm going to kill you.â
âYou've been saying that for a hundred years. I'm still here.â
Bucky picked up his fork again, mostly so he wouldn't throw it at Steve's head. But Steve's words rattled around in his brain for the rest of the day, and the day after that, and the day after that. In love. He wasn't in love. He didn't even know you. Not really. He knew that you took your coffee with oat milk and a splash of vanilla. He knew that you cried at some videos in that app you like a lotânot the sad ones, the happy ones, the ones were kids are adopted or parents teaching their kids to ride bikes or any kind of animal being in a happy home. He knew that you had a birthmark on your left wrist that looked like a tiny heart, and that you always, always knocked three times before opening a door, like some kind of ritual you'd never explained.
He knew that when you smiled at him, the world got quieter. The noise in his headâthe static, the memories, the endless loop of everything he'd done and couldn't undoâit all faded to a low hum, manageable, almost peaceful. You make the world quiet. So quiet.
That wasn't love. That was just... comfort. Safety. The feeling of being seen without being judged.
It was love. Of course it was love. He'd known it for months, probably. He just hadn't been brave enough to name it.
The crying doesn't happen on a significant day. That's the thing about grief, he'll learn later. It doesn't wait for anniversaries or milestones. It doesn't knock. It just shows up, sits down on your couch, and refuses to leave until you've bled out every last drop.
It's a Tuesday. A normal Tuesday, the kind of Tuesday that has no business being the setting for a man's emotional undoing. He's been to therapy that afternoonâa mandatory thing, arranged by the government, with a nice woman named Dr. Simmons who asks him how he's "feeling" as if feelings are something you can just reach into your chest and pull out like loose change. He'd sat in her office for an hour, staring at the framed picture of her and her husband Fitz and their golden retriever on her desk, and he'd told her he was fine. Fine. The word felt like a lie wrapped in a shrug.
He's not fine. He hasn't been fine since 1943. But fine is a language he knows how to speak. Fine keeps people from looking at him with that particular brand of pity that makes him want to put his fist through a wall. So he'd said fine, and she'd nodded, and he'd left her office with the taste of decaff on his tongue and a headache blooming behind his eyes.
He stops at the grocery store on the way home. Not because he needs anythingâhis refrigerator has eggs, yogurt, the sad remnants of a rotisserie chicken he'd bought three days ago and mostly forgotten aboutâbut because the thought of going straight to his empty apartment makes his chest feel like it's caving in. He wanders the aisles like a ghost. He doesn't buy anything. He just looks at thingsâthe bright packages, the gleaming produce, the families picking out cereal together. A little girl, maybe five years old, is crying because her mother won't buy her the sugary cereal with the cartoon mascot. Her face is red and blotchy, her little fists balled up in helpless fury, and her mother is trying not to smile as she kneels down to her level and says something too quiet for Bucky to hear.
He has to leave. He abandons his empty basket by a display of discount Halloween candy and walks out of the store with his hands shaking.
He doesn't remember the walk home. He doesn't remember unlocking the front door of his building or climbing the stairs. He doesn't remember standing in front of his apartment door, key in hand, unable to turn it because the silence on the other side is suddenly too loud, too much, a vacuum that will suck him in and leave him floating in the dark. But heâs a grown man and goes inside.
It's lateâalmost nine. The news has been on in his apartment, some anchor droning about political scandals he can't bring himself to care about. He's been sitting on his floor, back against the wall, staring at nothing, for two hours. The headache has spread to his whole body, a dull, pervasive ache that feels like it's coming from somewhere deeper than his muscles. He's been thinking about Steve. About the bench at the compound, about the quiet conversation they'd had after Thanos, when Steve had looked at him with those old, tired eyes and said, "I'm not going anywhere, Buck. Not ever. We're a package deal, you and me. That's never going to change."
He'd believed Steve. He still believed him. But belief and fear were not mutually exclusive, and somewhere in the deep, dark part of his brain that Hydra had carved out and filled with cement, there was a voice that whispered that "Everyone leaves. Everyone. It's only a matter of time."
He'd pushed the voice down for months. Years, maybe. But tonight, sitting in the dark of his living room with the sound of your muted television bleeding through the wall (a laugh track, then a commercial jingle), he realizes he's been lying to himself. The voice isn't gone. It's just been waiting. Patient. Inevitable. And now it's here, and he's alone, and the apartment that usually feels like a sanctuary suddenly feels like a cage.
He quickly walks out of his apartment and knocks on your door.
You open mere seconds after. You're in sweatpants and an oversized sweater with a photo of your Anakin wearing sunglasses. There's a smear of what looks like tomato sauce on your cheek. Your hair is in a messy bun, and you're holding a wooden spoon, and behind you, he can see the steam rising from a pot on your stove. Anakin is perched on the back of your couch, watching the hallway with the haughty disdain that only felines can truly master.
âBucky?â Your voice is confused but not alarmed. You've learned, over the months, that he shows up at odd hours sometimes. You've stopped asking why. âEverything okay?â
He opens his mouth to say fine. It's right there, on the tip of his tongue, a reflex so ingrained it's practically a tic. Fine. I'm fine. Sorry to bother you. Good night.
What comes out is a sound. Not a word. Just a small, broken thing, a gasp that cracks in the middle like old ice.
Your face changes. The confusion softens into something else, something careful and gentle, and you set the wooden spoon down on the little table by your door. You step back, widening the doorway. âCome in,â you say. Not an invitation. A command, but a kind one. âI'm making soup. It's not good soupâI forgot to buy vegetable and I hate the frozen ones, so it's mostly just water and hopeâbut it's hot. You look like you need something hot.â
He steps inside. His legs feel disconnected from his body, like he's piloting a meat suit from a great distance. Your apartment is warm and lived-in, the kind of space that feels like a hugâbooks stacked on the coffee table, a pink blanket crumpled on the couch, three different mugs with small bouquets on the side table. There are framed photos on the wall, pictures of people he doesn't know but assumes are your family, and a small plant on the windowsill that is either thriving or dead; he can't tell which. It's so aggressively, beautifully normal that it makes his chest ache.
âSit,â you say, pointing at the couch. âI'll get you a bowl.â
He sits. The couch is soft, and it smells like youâcoconut and laundry detergent and something vaguely spicy, like the candles you burn sometimes. He sinks into it like it's swallowing him whole. His hands are still shaking. He folds them together in his lap, metal and flesh, and tries to breathe.
You come back with two bowls of soup. You set one on the coffee table in front of him, then sit on the other end of the couch, tucking your feet under you. You don't say anything. You just start eating your soup, making small, appreciative noises that seem entirely performative, given your earlier description.
He stares at the bowl. The soup is orange-ish, with sad little flecks of parsley floating on top. There are noodles that have gone soft and bloated. It looks terrible. It looks like something his mother would have made on a night when money was tight and the cupboards were bare, and she'd called it "experimental" and made everyone say thank you before they took a bite.
Something hot and horrible rises in his throat. Not the soup. Something else. Something that's been living in his chest for so long he'd forgotten it was there.
âI can't,â he says. His voice is wrecked, scraped raw. âI can't eat.â
You set your bowl down. You don't look at him with pity. You just look at him. Present. Steady. Like you're saying, without words, I'm here. I'll stay here. You don't have to perform for me.
He doesn't know why that's the thing that breaks him. Maybe it's the soup, or the cat, or the way the light from your kitchen turns everything soft and golden. Maybe it's the little girl in the grocery store, crying over cereal. Maybe it's Steve, alive and well and in love with Natasha, living his life without Bucky's demons dragging him down. Maybe it's all of it, seventy years of all of it, finally pressing down on that hairline fracture until the whole vault shatters.
The first tear surprises him. It's hot, almost burning, as it tracks down his cheek. He blinks, and then another one falls, and another, and then he's cryingâreally crying, the way he hasn't cried since he was five years old and the world's greatest injustice was a green, apple-flavored lollipop. His shoulders shake. His breath comes in ragged, ugly hitches. He tries to stop, tries to shove it all back into the vault, but it's too late. The dam has broken, and everything is pouring outâthe war, the fall, the chair, the faces of the people he killed, the names he can't remember, the ones he can't forget, the endless, screaming loneliness of being a man out of time, out of place, out of hope.
He's making sounds now. Actual sobs, raw and animal, tearing out of his chest like they've been clawing to get free for decades. He's hunched over, his face in his hands, and he can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but sit here in this warm, cluttered, impossibly normal apartment and fall apart.
And then you move.
You don't say "It's okay," because it's not okay, and you're smart enough to know that. You don't pat his back awkwardly or offer him a tissue. You just shift closer on the couch, slow and deliberate, and you wrap your arms around him. Not tight. Not confining. Just... there. A solid, warm presence against his side. You rest your head on his shoulder, and your hand finds his flesh hand, and you hold it. He feels your fingers that are very soft, and warm, and so, so gentle.
He cries into the crook of your neck. He cries until his throat is raw and his eyes are swollen and his whole body feels wrung out, empty, like someone has reached inside him and pulled out every organ. He cries for his mother, who died while he was on ice, who never got to see him come home. He cries for his father that probably tried to be strong for his wife that lost his son and his three girls that lost their old brother. He cries for his sisters, Becca and the two younger ones whose names he sometimes forgets on bad days, and then he hates himself for forgetting, and then he cries harder. He cries for Steve, for the friendship that has spanned a century and survived war and ice and brainwashing and time travel, for the fact that he loves Steve like a brother and that love is the only thing that has never been taken from him. He cries for himself, for the boy who wanted a lollipop, for the man who was unmade, for the ghost who is still trying to figure out how to be a person again.
And then, buried under all of that, he cries for Maggie.
The thought comes out of nowhere, sharp as a blade. Maggie. His baby sister. The one who used to follow him around like a shadow, who used to climb into his bed after nightmares and whisper "Jamie, I'm scared" into his shoulder until he woke up and held her. The one with the gap-toothed smile and the endless questions. The one who, by every law of time and nature, should be an old woman now. Or worse.
But she's not. He knows she's not. Because after Wakanda, after the snap, after everything, Sam had done the research. Quietly, carefully, without making a big deal of it. He'd handed Bucky a folder one afternoon, thick with papers and photographs, and said, "Your people, Buck. They're still out there. Some of them, anyway."
And Bucky had opened the folder with shaking hands and learned that Maggie was alive. Ninety-four years old. Widowed twice. Mother of four, grandmother of eleven, great-grandmother of six. Living in a small town in upstate New York, in a house with a porch and a garden that her grandchildren apparently fought over who got to tend. Ruth had passed away in the eightiesâcancer, quick and merciful, according to the obituary. Becca had made it to ninety-one before her heart had given out, surrounded by children and grandchildren and, if the photos were to be believed, an absolutely ridiculous number of cats.
But Maggie was still here. Maggie, who had been almost ten years old when Bucky left for war. Maggie, who had sent him letters covered in crayon drawings of stick figures and hearts. Maggie, who had waited for him to come home, who had probably mourned him, who had lived an entire life without him in it.
He knows where she lives. He knows her phone number. He knows the names of her childrenâJames, and Deborah, and David, and little George who wasn't so little anymore, who was sixty-seven years old with grandchildren of his own. He knows all of it. The information sits in his brain like a stone, heavy and immovable.
And he hasn't done a damn thing about it.
Because what would he say? "Hi, I'm your brother. The one who died eighty years ago. Surprise, I'm actually a brainwashed assassin with a metal arm and a century of trauma. Can I come to Thanksgiving?"
He imagines showing up at her door. He imagines the look on her faceâconfusion first, then recognition, then something else. Something that might be joy or might be terror or might be the particular, gut-wrenching grief of seeing a ghost made flesh. He imagines her children, her grandchildren, all those strangers with his family's blood in their veins, looking at him like he's an intruder. Because that's what he would be. An intruder. A specter from a past that should have stayed buried.
He's seen the photos. Maggie at her wedding, young and radiant in white, standing next to a man with kind eyes and a strong jaw. Maggie holding her first child, her face transformed by a love so fierce it makes his chest ache. Maggie at fifty, at seventy, at ninety, her hair gone silver and her face lined with years he wasn't there for. She looks like their mother. She looks like a stranger.
He doesn't know her. That's the worst part. He loves herâof course he loves her, she's his baby sister, she was born when he was fourteen years old, holding that tiny baby as if his life depended on it, she's the little girl who used to hold his hand when they crossed the streetâbut he doesn't know her. He doesn't know what makes her laugh now, or what she's afraid of, or whether she still hums when she bakes. He doesn't know if she thinks about him. He doesn't know if she's made peace with his death, if she's built a life that doesn't have a space for him in it.
And he's terrified that if he shows up, if he opens that door, he'll find that the space has been filled. That she's moved on. That she's happy, and his return would only complicate things, would only drag up old wounds and old grief and old questions that no one can answer.
So he hasn't gone. He's told himself he will. Someday. When he's less broken. When he has words that make sense. When he can look at her without falling apart.
But someday keeps not coming. And Maggie is ninety-four. And time, which has been his enemy for so long, is running out.
He's sobbing now, harder than before, his whole body shaking. He's not sure if he's said any of this out loud. He's not sure if you can hear the thoughts screaming inside his head. But your arms are still around him, and your hand is still holding his, and you're not going anywhere.
He chokes out your name. Just your name. And then, because he can't hold it in anymore, because it's bursting out of him like everything else, he says, âShe's still alive. Maggie. My baby sister. She's still alive and I haven'tâI can'tââ
He can't finish the sentence. The tears are too thick, the shame too heavy.
But you understand. Of course you understand. You've always understood, even when he didn't give you the words.
âBucky,â you say softly. Not pushing. Just saying his name like it's a lifeline. âHow old is she?â
âNinety-four,â he whispers. âShe's ninety-four and I'm wasting time. I'm wasting the only time I have left with her because I'm scared. Because I feel likeââ He stops. Swallows. Forces the words out. âLike I'm an intruder. Like I'm some stranger showing up at her door, demanding a place in her life when I don't deserve one. She has children. Grandchildren. A whole life she built without me. What right do I have to walk back in andââ
âYou're her brother,â you interrupt. Quietly. Firmly. âYou're not a stranger, Bucky. You're her brother. She grew up with you. She loved you. She probably spent decades wishing you'd come home. And now you can. You can actually go home. And I know it's scary. I know it feels like you're crashing a party you weren't invited to. But you were invited. You were invited the day she was born. That invitation doesn't expire.â
He shakes his head, a jerky, desperate motion. âYou don't understand. I've missed everything. Her wedding. Her children. Her whole life. I wasn't there. I wasn't there for any of it.â
âNo,â you agree. âYou weren't. And that's awful. That's a grief I can't even imagine. But you're here now. And she's still here. And you have a choice, Bucky. You can keep staying away, and you can keep regretting it, or you can go. You can show up. You can let her see you. Even if it's hard. Even if it's messy. Even if you cry the whole time.â
âI will cry the whole time,â he says, and it's almost a laugh, broken and wet.
âThen you'll cry the whole time,â you say simply. âAnd she'll probably cry too. And then you'll hug, and you'll talk, and you'll figure it out. Because that's what family does. They figure it out.â
He looks at you. At the tears on your cheeks, the steadiness in your eyes, the way you're holding him like he's something precious instead of something broken. And he thinks about Maggie. About her gap-toothed smile. About the way she used to say his nameâJamie, Jamie, Jamieâlike it was the most important word in the world.
âI don't know if I can do it alone,â he admits. It's the hardest thing he's said all night. Harder than the crying. Harder than the confession.
You don't hesitate. âThen don't do it alone. I'll go with you. If you want. I'll hold your hand the whole way. I'll sit in the car while you're inside, or I'll come to the door with you, or I'll stay here and make soup and wait for you to come back and tell me everything. Whatever you need. I'm here.â
He closes his eyes. The tears are still coming, but they're different now. Lighter, somehow. Less like drowning and more like rain.
âOkay,â he whispers. âOkay.â
He doesn't say when. He doesn't make a plan. But something shifts in his chest, something loosens, and he knowsâhe knowsâthat he's going to call Maggie. That he's going to drive upstate and knock on her door and let himself be seen. That he's going to meet his nieces and nephews, his great-nieces and great-nephews, the whole sprawling, impossible family that carries his blood and his name.
He's going to do it. Because you're right. Because the invitation doesn't expire and because Maggie is ninety-four, and time is the one enemy even he can't defeat.
He doesn't know how long it lasts. Time has never been a straight line for him; it's a tangle, a knot, a loop that folds back on itself. He cries for a while longer, but the sobs are quieter now, the edges softer. You hold him through all of it, your fingers tracing patterns on his hand, your breath warm against his neck. Anakin has given up on dignity and is curled up at his feet, purring like a tiny motor, and somewhere in the kitchen, the soup has gone cold on the stove. His breathing evens out. He's left with a kind of exhausted stillness, a post-storm calm that feels almost sacred.
He pulls back, just enough to look at you. His face is a messâtears, snot, the whole ugly package. He's never felt more pathetic in his life. Not when he was strapped to a table, not when people looks weird at him, not when he looked in the mirror and didn't recognize the face staring back. Thisâbeing seen, truly seen, at his most brokenâthis is worse. Heâs never felt more exposed in his life. But when he looks at you, youâre not looking at him with pity or discomfort or any of the things he fears.
Youâre looking at him like heâs the only person in the room. Like heâs worth the mess. You don't look away. You look at him with those soft, ordinary, extraordinary eyes, and you don't flinch. You don't recoil. You just wait.
âI'm sorry,â he chokes out. His voice is a ruin. âI'm sorry, I didn't mean toââ
âDon't,â you say. Quietly. Firmly. âDon't apologize for that. Ever.â
He shakes his head, a jerky, desperate motion. âYou shouldn't have to see this. I shouldn'tâI'm notââ He doesn't know what he's trying to say. He's not safe? He's not worth it? He's not human enough to cry without it being a sorry spectacle?
You reach up and wipe a tear from his cheek with your thumb. The gesture is so tender, so achingly intimate, that his breath catches all over again.
âBucky,â you say, and it's the way you say his nameânot like a question, not like a diagnosis, just his name, like it belongs in your mouthâthat finally, finally makes him feel like maybe he's not drowning. âYou're allowed to be sad. You're allowed to be a mess. You've been holding this in for so long, and I can't even imagine what it is you're holding, but you don't have to do it alone. Not with me. Okay? Not with me.â
âIâm sorry,â he repeats, because old habits die hard.
You press a finger to his lips. âWhat did I say about apologizing?â
He huffs out something that might be a laugh. âNot to do it.â
âCorrect.â You pull your hand back, but you don't move away. You stay close, your knee touching his, your shoulder brushing his arm. âSo what are you going to do instead?â
He thinks about it. About Maggie. About you. About the terrifying, exhilarating prospect of a future that includes both.
âI'm going to call my sister,â he says. His voice is still rough, but it's steady. âAnd then I'm going to make you better soup. Because that stuff on the stove is a war crime.â
You burst out laughing. It's bright and loud and so utterly you that his heart clenches. âIt is NOT a war crime. It's rustic.â
âIt's an abomination.â
âIt's innovation, Bucky.â
He shakes his head, but he's smiling. Actually smiling. The tears have stopped, finally, and there's a strange lightness in his chest, like the vault has been cracked open just enough to let in some air. And you just hold him. You don't let go. Your thumb traces small circles on the back of his hand, and your breathing is slow and even, and you smell like coconut and soup and home.
He thinks about his mother. About her hands, which had been rough from washing clothes and scrubbing floors, but had always been so gentle when she touched his face. He thinks about the way she'd hummed when she cooked, off-key and cheerful, and how she'd never once made him feel like his feelings were too much. He thinks about his sisters, about Becca braiding his hair those times his parents let him grow it a bit, about Ruth teaching him to dance on the roof of their building, about little Maggie who used to follow him around like a shadow, asking a million questions he never got tired of answering.
And he thinks about his father. George Barnes. A serious man, by all accounts. Reserved with strangers, stern with salesmen, the kind of father who believed in a firm handshake and a hard day's work. But at home, with his family, he'd been different. He'd laughed at Bucky's terrible jokes. He'd carried Becca on his shoulders through the park. He'd sat up with Bucky one night when he was eleven, after a nightmare, and he hadn't said muchâjust sat there, a heavy, warm presence, and hold him until everything was gone. And when Bucky had apologized, mortified, for being such a baby, his father had just looked at him with those steady, serious eyes and said, "You're my son. You don't have to be anything but yourself in this house."
He'd never said I love you. Not in so many words. But he hadn't needed to. It had been in every action, every quiet moment, every time he'd pulled Bucky aside to teach him somethingâhow to throw a punch, how to tie a tie, how to be a man who wasn't afraid to feel.
Bucky opens his eyes. He's still looking at youâat the small, worried furrow between your brows, at the way your lower lip is caught between your teeth, at the utterly ordinary miracle of your face. And he knows, with a certainty that terrifies and exhilarates him in equal measure, that he loves you. He's been loving you for months, probably, in the quiet, incompetent way that he does everything these days. He loves the way you leave your groceries in the hallway. He loves the way you sing off-key. He loves that you invited him in without hesitation, that you held him while he cried, that you're looking at him right now like he's not a weapon, not a ghost, not a cautionary tale. Just a man. A sad, broken, beautiful man.
âI need to tell you something,â he says. His voice is still wrecked, but it's steadier now. âAnd you don't have to say anything back. I just⌠I need you to know.â
You tilt your head. Waiting.
He wipes his face with the back of his flesh hand. It comes away wet. He doesn't care anymore.
âMy mother,â he says. âShe would have loved you.â
Your eyes widen, just a fraction.
He swallows. The words are coming now, spilling out of him like the tears did, like they've been waiting just as long. âShe was a force of nature. Winnifred Barnes. She didn't take crap from anyone, and she had this laughâthis big, loud, unladylike laugh that she only let out when she was really happy. And she would have taken one look at you, at the way you areâthe way you're so unafraid, the way you just⌠exist, without apologizing for itâand she would have pulled you into a hug so tight you would have felt it in your bones. And then she would have fed you. That's what she did. She fed people she loved. She would have made you her pot roast, the one with the carrots that were always a little too soft, and she would have asked you a million questions and actually listened to the answers, and by the end of the night, she would have been calling you her lost daughter.â
Your eyes are shining now. Not with pity. With something else. Something that looks suspiciously like the way he feels when he looks at you.
âMy sisters too,â he continues, because now that he's started, he can't stop. âBeccaâshe was the oldest, the one closest to me in age. She was smart. Smarter than me, that's for sure. She would have cornered you in the kitchen and gotten all your secrets out of you in ten minutes flat, and then she would have told you every embarrassing story about me from when we were kids. The time I climbed a tree and got stuck. The time I tried to shave for the first time and cut my chin open. The time Iââ He laughs, a wet, broken sound. âThe time I cried because Mom wouldn't buy me a lollipop. She would have told you that one. She never let me live it down even if she wasnât even alive when that shit happened.â
You smile. It's a small, watery thing, but it's real.
âAnd Ruth,â he says. âShe was quieter. She was the one who taught me to dance. She would have liked you because you're not loud about it, but you're steady. You're the kind of person who stays. She would have noticed that immediately, and she would have trusted you for it. And MaggieâGod, Maggie. She was the baby. She would have followed you around like a puppy, asking you to do her hair or play cards or just⌠talk to her. She was lonely, sometimes. The age gap was hard. But she had the biggest heart. She would have loved you because you have a kind face. That's what she always said about people she liked. 'They have a kind face.' And you do. You have the kindest face I've ever seen.â
He pauses. His throat is tight again, but it's a good tight now, a tight that feels like the beginning of something instead of the end.
âAnd my dad,â he says, quieter. âGeorge. He was⌠he was a serious man. That's what everyone said about him. 'George Barnes, he's a serious and somehow scary man.' And he was, to people he didn't know. He had this wall up, this way of looking at strangers like he was measuring them, trying to figure out if they were worth the effort. But once you were in, you were in. He wouldn't have hesitated with you. He would have taken one look at the way you make meââ He stops. Swallows. âThe way you make me feel like I'm not broken. And he would have pulled out a chair for you at the dinner table so fast your head would have spun. He would have made you part of the family. Not because he was softâhe wasn't, not with anyone outside our doorâbut because he could see. He saw things. And he would have seen you, really seen you, and he would have known that you were one of the good ones.â
He's crying again. Not the ugly sobs from before, just a quiet, steady stream of tears that he doesn't bother to wipe away. You're crying tooâhe can see the tracks on your cheeks, the way your lips tremble. But you're still holding his hand. You haven't let go. Beans has jumped down from the couch and is winding between your ankles, meowing plaintively for attention that neither of you is giving him.
âThey're all gone,â he whispers. âMy whole family. Every last one of them. I've outlived everyone I ever loved, and I don'tâI don't know how to do this. I don't know how to keep losing people and still get up in the morning. I don't know how to let new people in when I'm so scared of watching them leave. I don't know how to be anything other than thisâthis broken, pathetic, crying-on-his-neighbor's-couch version of myself. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry that you have to see this. I'm sorry that I'm dumping all of this on you when you never asked for it. I'm sorry that Iââ
You kiss him.
It's not a grand, cinematic kiss. It's soft, almost chaste, just the brief press of your lips against his. It's messy. You pull back after a second, your face inches from his, and you're crying and smiling at the same time, and you look so impossibly, devastatingly beautiful that he forgets how to breathe.
âStop apologizing,â you say. Your voice is shaky, but your eyes are steady. âStop apologizing for being a human being who feels things. You're not broken, Bucky. You're not pathetic. You're a man who has been through hell and back, and you're still here, and you're still trying, and that is the bravest thing I have ever seen. And I don't care if you cry. I don't care if you fall apart. I don't care if you show up at my door at three in the morning and stay until sunrise. I justââ You exhale, a shaky, laughing breath. âI just want to be here. With you. If you'll let me.â
He stares at you. His heart is pounding so hard he can feel it in his throat. Beans, defeated by the lack of attention, has flopped onto his side in the middle of the floor and is washing his face with an air of profound indifference.
âI don't know how to do this,â he says again. But this time, it doesn't sound like a confession. It sounds like a question. Like an outstretched hand.
âMe neither,â you say. And you smileâthat wide, unguarded smile that he fell in love with somewhere between the broken buzzer and the pickle jar. âWe can figure it out together. If you want.â
He thinks about Steve. About the bench at the compound, about the quiet promise that had passed between themânot a promise of forever, because neither of them was naive enough to believe in that, but a promise of now. Of showing up. Of not leaving. He thinks about Natasha, who had pulled him aside after a mission gone wrong and said, "You're not alone anymore, Barnes. I know it feels like you are, but you're not. We've got you." He thinks about Sam, who annoyed him into feeling human again, one sarcastic comment at a time.
He thinks about his mother's hands, his father's steady gaze, his sisters' laughter. He thinks about seventy years of silence, of tears unshed, of a vault so full of grief he didn't think there was room for anything else. He thinks about Maggie, waiting for him upstate, unknowing and beloved, with a porch and a garden and a lifetime of stories he's desperate to hear.
And then he thinks about you.
He thinks about the way you look in the morning, your hair messy and your eyes still heavy with sleep, holding out a cup of coffee like it's a peace offering. He thinks about the way you laugh, bright and unguarded, like you've never learned to be quiet, like the world hasn't taught you to be afraid. He thinks about the way you said his nameâBuckyâlike it was the easiest word in the English language, like it cost you nothing to trust him.
âI want that,â he says. His voice is barely a whisper. âI want to figure it out. With you. If you'll have me.â
You don't answer with words. You just lean forward and kiss him againâlonger this time, softer, your hand coming up to cup his jaw, your thumb brushing over the sharp line of his cheekbone. He kisses you back like a man who's been starving, like a man who's forgotten what it feels like to be held, like a man who's finally, finally allowing himself to want something good.
When you pull back, you're both breathless. Your forehead rests against his, and your breath is warm on his lips, and somewhere in the background, Anakin has given up on dignity and is loudly demanding dinner.
âYour cat is judging us,â Bucky murmurs.
âAnakin is always judging us,â you say. âIt's his primary form of entertainment.â
Bucky laughs. It's a real laugh, full and surprised, and it feels so foreign in his chest that he almost doesn't recognize it. But you're laughing too, and then you're both just sitting there on your couch, crying and laughing and holding onto each other like you're the only two people in the world.
Laterâmuch later, after the soup has gone cold and Anakin has been fed and the two of you have migrated to the kitchen to make new soup, better soup, soup that involves chopping vegetables and standing close enough that your shoulders brushâBucky will think about how strange it is, how impossible, that a Tuesday night in a normal apartment in a normal building could be the start of something new. Not the end of his grief, not the erasure of his past, but something else entirely. Something that looks like hope.
He'll think about calling Steve tomorrow, about telling him that maybe Natasha was right. About the look on Steve's face when he says the words out loud: I think I'm in love with my neighbor.
Heâll think about Maggie. Heâll imagine picking up the phone. Heâll imagine hearing her voiceâold now, probably, weathered by time, but still hers, still the voice of the little girl who used to hold his hand. Heâll imagine driving upstate, knocking on her door, standing on her porch with his heart in his throat. Heâll imagine her opening the door, and the look on her face, and the way sheâll say his nameâJamieâlike sheâs been waiting to say it for eighty years.
Heâll imagine all of it, and his chest will ache, but it wonât be the bad kind of ache. It will be the kind that means something is healing.
And heâll think about his mother, and heâll wonder if sheâs watching, wherever she is. Heâll imagine her smiling that big, unladylike smile, her hands on her hips, saying, Finally. It took you long enough.
And heâll think about you, standing at the stove, stirring the soup with that wooden spoon, your hair falling out of its bun, your feet bare on the heated floor. Youâll turn and catch him looking, and youâll smileâthat smile, the one that undoes him every timeâand youâll say, âWhat?â
And heâll say, "Nothing." And then, because heâs learning, because youâre teaching him, heâll tell the truth. "Iâm just glad youâre here."
And youâll cross the kitchen and wrap your arms around him, and youâll hold on, and heâll hold on back, and for the first time in seventy years, he wonât be afraid of what comes next.
Because youâre here. And heâs here. And maybeâjust maybeâthatâs enough.
Note I know the title might sound dramatic and that this is probably sad but it is not. Not this time, maybe. And yes, this whole thing is based on Guilty as Sin? by Taylor Swift.
Time After Time has been on repeat for forty-seven minutes.
You know this because youâve checked your phone three times, not to see the time, but to watch the timestamp on the song crawl forward like a confession. Cyndi Lauper has been giving you a lovely serenade for quite some time. You hadnât heard it in yearsânot since college, maybe, when you used to play it on cheap headphones while staring out a rain-streaked window, romanticizing your own loneliness like a trophy.
But he sent it to you.
You donât even remember how it started. A stray comment on a mission debrief many months ago. A joke about vibranium and chafing. A late-night text that was supposed to be about logisticsâ"Did you see the intel on the Odessa file?"âthat spiraled into something else entirely. Something that now lives in your chest like a second heartbeat, something that has grown roots so deep youâre not sure anyone could surgically remove it without killing you.
Youâre lying in your bed at your apartment, the sheets tangled around your ankles, one arm thrown over your eyes. The room is dark except for the blue glow of your phone screen. The song swells, that lush, aching synth washing over you like tidewater, and you think⌠am I allowed to cry?
Because your boredom is bone-deep. This cageâthis life of safe houses and sanctioned missions and endless proprietyâwas once just fine. You chose it. You signed the nondisclosure agreements, took the psych evaluations, swore you could handle the gray areas. And you have. For years, you've been a model operative. Steady hands. Clean conscience. A reputation for being the one who doesn't crack under pressure, who doesn't get attached, who can walk away from anything.
But that was before he started looking at you like you were the only soft thing left in a world made of only the purest things allowed here.
The song builds. That gorgeous, aching crescendo. The lyrics drift through your skull like smoke. Maybe youâre seeing vision. Maybe youâre bad. Or mad. Or wise. Yeah, you think. Thatâs the question, isnât it?
Your hand drifts to your thigh. Just below your hip, where the sheet has fallen away. You donât mean to do itâitâs not a sexual thing, not exactlyâitâs just that youâve been thinking about the word mine so often lately that you swear you can feel it branded into your skin. Like heâs already claimed you. Like your body knows something your brain is still too cowardly to admit. Him writing 'mine' on your upper thigh. Not in a possessive, toxic way but in a way of being that exactly. His. You press your palm flat against the spot, and your eyes sting.
You scroll through your messages with him. You tell yourself it's a terrible idea. You do it anyway.
Bucky: Can't sleep.
You: Same.
Bucky: What's keeping you up?
You: Everything. Nothing. You?
Bucky: The usual.
The usual. You know what that means. The dreams. The memories. The faces of people he can't save, even now, even after all the amends and apologies and years of therapy. You know because he's told you. Because somewhere along the way, you became the person he tells at 2 AM when the weight of his own history gets too heavy to carry alone.
Bucky: Do you ever think about how different things would be if we'd met before?
You: Before?
Bucky: Before everything. Before I was... this.
You remember staring at that message for a long time. Your thumbs hovering over the keyboard. All the things you wanted to sayâI like who you are now. I like the person you've chosen to become. I don't want a version of you that hasn't survived the things that made you gentleâbut you donât say them.
You: All the time.
He'd sent a voice message after that. Just a few seconds. When you played it, all you could hear was your name in his voice, the way he was breathing. Slow. Steady. Like he was trying to prove to you that he was still there, still real, still breathing in the same world as you.
You'd saved it. You'd told yourself it was for professional reasonsâin case he needed backup, in case something happened and you needed to verify his voiceâbut you knew the truth. You listened to it when you missed him. Which was always.
Your phone buzzes now, and you nearly drop it.
Bucky: You listening? The song, I mean.
You swallow. Your throat clicks. You press your fingers to your pulse point and feel it rabbiting under your skin, and you think about hedge mazes and ocean rocks and all the ways a person can die without ever touching the thing they want most.
You: Yeah.
Bucky: And?
And what? you think. And I'm drowning. And I've imagined the weight of your metal arm across my ribs approximately six hundred times. And I keep recalling things we never didâmessy top lip kisses, how I long for our trysts without ever touching your skin...
You type, "It's good." and delete it.
You type, "Makes me feel sad." and delete that too.
You type, "I think about you every time I hear it, which has been almost fifty times now." and if course, delete it before your thumb even lifts from the screen.
You: Come over.
The three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. You hold your breath for so long your vision starts to spot.
Bucky: That a good idea?
You laugh, but it comes out wet. You press the heel of your palm to your sternum, like you can physically hold yourself together, like you can keep the cracks from spreading.
You: Probably not.
Bucky: I'll be there in ten.
The complex where you live is quiet at this hour. The kind of quiet that amplifies everythingâthe hum of the HVAC, the creak of floorboards, the frantic rabbit-thump of your own heart. You get up. Pace to the window. Look out at the dark trees swaying in the breeze. The moon is half-full, hanging low and yellow like a bruised fruit. You press your forehead to the cool glass and try to remember how to breathe like a normal person.
Youâre already regretting it. Already rewriting the text in your head, imagining a version of yourself with better judgment, someone who would have typed, "Actually, never mind, Iâm fine, forget I said anything", and rolled over and gone to sleep like a normal person. But youâre not normal. You havenât been normal since the first time heâd brushed past you in a hallway and youâd felt the static jump between you like a live wire, like a warning, like a promise.
You push off from the window and start tidying. It's a nervous habitâstraightening the stack of books on your nightstand, smoothing the already-smooth duvet, fluffing a pillow that doesn't need fluffing. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and wince. Dark circles under your eyes. Hair that looks like you've been running your hands through it all night. Lips chapped from biting them.
You run your fingers through your hair, then immediately mess it up again because you don't want to look like you tried. You pull on an oversized sweatshirtâhis, technically, though he doesn't know you stole it from the time he came over to watch a movie three weeks agoâand wrap your arms around your knees where you settle back on the bed.
The sweatshirt smells like him. Cedar and gunmetal and something underneath that's just Bucky. You've worn it four times. You've washed it twice, but the smell lingers, or maybe you're imagining it, maybe you've imprinted the memory of him so deeply onto the fabric that you can't tell the difference anymore.
The knock comes soft. Two taps. A pause. One more.
Heâs learned to knock like that because you once told him you hate sudden noises. Because he remembers everything. Because heâs a paradoxâall sharp edges and brutal history wrapped around a center thatâs still, impossibly, gentle.
You stand, feeling your legs unsteady, like youâve been asleep for a hundred years and are only just learning to walk again. You walk out of your bedroom, walk in your living room and then put your hand on the doorknob. You close your eyes and think that, once again thereâs a slip and falling back into the hedge maze. Oh, what a way to die.
You open the door.
Bucky stands in the hallway, backlit by the emergency lights, and you forget how to breathe.
Heâs wearing a henley. Gray. Sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and there it is, that difference in flesh and metal, that impossible union of soft and hard that your brain has catalogued like scripture. Heâs been letting his hair grow a bit, curling at the nape of his neck. His jaw is shadowed with stubble. His eyes are the color of a winter sky just before snow, and theyâre looking at you like youâre the only warm thing in a frozen world.
âHey,â he says. His voice is low. Rough with sleeplessness. It scrapes along your skin like a physical thing.
âHey,â you manage. It comes out breathy. Pathetic. You clear your throat.
He shifts his weight. âYou okay? Your text soundedâŚâ
âSad?â you offer.
âYeah.â He searches your face. âThat.â
You step back, letting him in. The door clicks shut behind him, and suddenly the living room feels half its size. He moves like heâs afraid of breaking thingsâa lifetime of restraint baked into his bones. Then starts walking freely towards your bedroom and sits on the edge of your bed, not quite settling, like heâs ready to bolt.
You stay standing. Lean against the dresser. Put furniture between you like a coward.
âIâve been thinking,â you say.
He chuckles. âDangerous.â His wink makes your knees weak.
A laugh escapes you. âYou have no idea.â
He watches you. Patient. Thatâs the thing about Bucky Barnesâheâs learned to wait. Decades of waiting. Whatâs a few more minutes while you try to find the words for something you can barely admit to yourself?
âThe song,â you start. âYou sent it for a reason.â
He looks down at his handsâflesh and metal, both still now. âYeah.â
âWhat reason?â
Heâs quiet for a long moment. Time After Time has ended. Your room is silent except for the sound of two people breathing too carefully, too deliberately, like theyâre both afraid of what might happen if they let their guard down.
âI heard it,â he says finally, âand I thought of you. Thatâs all.â
Thatâs all. As if thatâs not everything. As if thatâs not a declaration of war on the walls youâve both spent months building. As if thatâs not the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to you, and he probably doesnât even realice it.
âJames.â His name comes out wrongâtoo soft, too raw. âI need you to be honest with me.â
His head snaps up. Something flickers behind his eyes. Fear, maybe. Or hope. They look the same on himâa widening of the pupils, a slight parting of the lips, a tension in the shoulders that could go either way.
âIâm always honest with you,â he says. âYouâre the only one I can be honest with. Always honest.â
âAre you?â
He flinches. Just a fraction. But you see it. You see everything when it comes to him. Youâve made a study of his micro-expressions, the way his jaw tightens when heâs lying, the way his metal fingers twitch when heâs nervous, the way he looks at the floor when heâs about to say something heâs afraid of.
You push off the dresser. Take a step closer. Then another. Until youâre standing in front of him, close enough to count the scars on his knuckles, close enough to smell the soap he usesâsomething plain, something military, something that shouldnât make your knees weak but does.
âWhat are we doing?â you whisper.
He looks up at you. Swallows. âI donât know.â
âWe text every day. You send me songs at two in the morning. You remember things I've told youâthings I've never told anyone else.â Your voice cracks on the last word, and you hate yourself for it, hate how needy you sound, hate that he's seeing you like this. âYou look at me like I'm something, and then you leave, and I spend the next three days trying to convince myself it didn't mean anything.â
âIt means something,â he says quickly. Too quickly. Like the words are escaping without permission, like they've been trapped behind his teeth for so long that they've finally broken free.
âThen what?â
He stands.
Now thereâs no furniture between you. Now thereâs just the heat of him, the solid wall of his chest inches from yours, and you have to tilt your head back to hold his gaze. His jaw is tight. His left handâthe vibranium oneâcurls and uncurls at his side, a nervous tic youâve learned to read.
âYou wanna know what I think about?â he says, voice low. âWhen I canât sleep?â
You nod. Because you canât speak.
âI think about your hands.â He says it like an accusation. âThe way you hold your coffee mug. Both hands, like youâre warming them. I think about the sound you make when you laughânot the polite one you do in briefings, the real one, the one thatâs kind of ugly and snorty and makes me feel like Iâve done something right.â
Your eyes sting. You blink rapidly, trying to hold it back.
âI think about what you'd look like in my shirts,â he continues, and now his voice is rougher, scraped raw, like he's pulling each word out of his own chest with a hook. âIn my bed. With my nameââ He stops. Shakes his head. A muscle jumps in his jaw. âDoesn't matter.â
âIt matters,â you echo his own words back at him.
He makes a sound. Something between a laugh and a groan. âJesus.â
âNo,â you say, and youâre crying now, you realize, tears sliding hot and silent down your cheeks. âNot Jesus. Just you. Just me.â A weak smile is plastered in your face.
He reaches up. Slow. So slow. Like he's asking permission with every millimeter, like he's giving you every possible chance to stop him. His flesh hand cups your face, thumb brushing away a tear, and the gentleness of it breaks something inside you. Something you've been holding together with duct tape and denial for months.
âIâve already done it,â you confess. âIn my head. A thousand times.â
âDone what?â
âEverything.â The word comes out shattered. âI've kissed you. I'veâGod, Bucky, I've imagined what you sound like when you fall apart. I've imagined it so many times I can't tell the difference between fantasy and memory anymore.â
His breath catches. You feel itâthe sharp inhale, the way his chest expands against yours.
âIâve imagined your hands on me. Your mouth. The things youâd say.â Youâre sobbing now, ugly and uncontrollable, and you canât stop. âIâve imagined waking up next to you. Making you coffee. Arguing about whose turn it is to do the dishes. Normal things. Things Iâll never have because Iâm too scared to reach out and take them.â
âHey,â he says, and his voice is wrecked. âHey. Stop.â
âI canât. Iâve been keeping these longings locked in lowercase inside a vault, and I canâtâsomeone told me thereâs no such thing as bad thoughts, only your actions talk, but my actions are screaming, Bucky, every time I look at you, every time I donât kiss you, every time I let you walk awayâAnd I keep telling myself itâs wrong,â you go on, the words spilling out now, unstoppable. âThat weâre colleagues. That weâre just friends. That youâre recovering. That I shouldnât want you like this because wanting you like this makes me selfish, makes me bad, makes meââ
He kisses you.
Itâs not gentle. Itâs not tentative. Itâs the kiss of a man whoâs been holding himself back for so long that the dam has finally cracked, and now heâs drowning too. His metal hand comes up to the back of your neck, cool and sure, and he pulls you into him like youâre the only solid thing in a world thatâs been trying to drown him for seventy years.
You make a sound against his mouth. Something desperate. Something that tastes like salt and want and finally.
His lips are softer than you imagined. Thatâs the first thing you notice. Youâd expected them to be rough, chapped, but theyâre notâtheyâre warm and yielding, and he kisses like heâs trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. His flesh hand slides into your hair, tangles there, holds on like you might disappear.
You grab his shirt. Fist the fabric at his chest. Pull him closer, closer, until thereâs no space left, until you can feel the steady thump of his heart against your own racing pulse.
When he pulls back, youâre both breathing hard. His forehead rests against yours. His eyes are closed. His lips are reddened, wet, parted.
âIâve done it too,â he murmurs. âIn my head. You and me. A hundred different ways. A thousand.â
âThen whyââ You canât finish. The words stick in your throat.
âBecause Iâm afraid.â He says it simply. Honestly. Like itâs the most obvious thing in the world. âBecause everyone Iâve ever loved gets hurt. Because youâre the best thing thatâs happened to me in a lifetime of bad things, and I canâtâI canât fuck this up by wanting it too much, wanting you too much, honey.â
You frame his face with your hands. Feel the stubble, the warmth, the solid realness of him. Heâs here. Heâs real. He wants you.
âWhat if,â you say slowly, âthe way you hold me is actually whatâs holy?â
His eyes open. Search yours.
âWhat if all those years of suffering, of propriety, of doing what weâre supposed to doââ you continue, âwhat if it was just keeping us from this? From each other?â
âYou donât believe in those things,â he says, but itâs not a question. He knows you. He knows everything.
âI donât know what I believe in,â you admit. âBut I believe in this. I believe in you.â
Something shifts in his expression. The last wall, maybe. The last lock. The last barrier between the two of you and something that feels terrifyingly close to forever.
He kisses you again. Slower this time. Deeper. His hands find your waist, and he walks you backward until your knees hit the bed, and you go down together in a tangle of limbs and sheets and the sound of your own heartbeat in your ears.
âYou sure?â he asks, pulling back just enough to look at you. His pupils are blown. His lips are wet. He looks like a prayer you forgot you were saying.
âIâve never been more sure of anything in my life,â you say.
And when he smilesâreally smiles, the kind that reaches his eyes and softens every hard line of his faceâyou think, "Oh. This is what they meant. This is what all the songs were about".
Later, you lie in the dark with your head on his chest. His metal arm is cool against your bare shoulder. His flesh hand traces lazy patterns on your spine. Time After Time is playing again, because youâd queued it up on a loop, and neither of you has bothered to turn it off.
The sheets are a disaster. Tangled. Twisted. Half on the floor. Your hair is a ratâs nest, and thereâs a mark on your collarbone that youâre going to have to explain tomorrow, and you donât care. You donât care about any of it.
âHey,â he says.
âMm?â
âThat thing you said. About the way I hold you being holy.â
You tilt your head up and look at him. The moonlight filters through the blinds, striping his face in silver and shadow. He looks younger like this. Softer. Like the weight of the world isnât pressing down on him for once.
âI think youâre right,â he says quietly. âI think Iâve been looking for something sacred my whole life. I just didnât know it had your face.â
You bury your face in his neck. Smile against his skin.
âThatâs the cheesiest thing anyoneâs ever said to me.â
âShut up.â
âMake me.â
He does.
When you come up for air, youâre both laughingâreal laughter, the kind that comes from somewhere deep and surprised. His eyes crinkle at the corners and his nose scrunches. He looks happy, and the sight of it makes your chest ache in a completely different way.
âI have a confession,â you say.
His eyebrows lift. âThat sounds ominous.â
âI stole your sweatshirt. Three weeks ago, when we had that movie night.â
He blinks. Then he looks down at the floorâthe oversized gray sweatshirt, the one that drowns you, the one with the tiny hole in the cuff. His sweatshirt laying there along with your and his clothes.
âI know,â he says.
âYou knew?â
âYou really think I casually forgot that thing here?â Heâs grinning now. Actually grinning. âI wanted something mine here, in your safe space. And then yeah, when I was walking away that night, saw you taking the sweatshirt and simply putting it along with that fluffy blanket you have.â
âThen why didnât you say anything?â
He shrugs, the movement jostling you gently. âLooked better on you anyway.â
You punch his chest. Lightly. He catches your hand, brings it to his mouth, kisses your knuckles one by one.
âI have a confession too,â he says against your skin.
âWhat?â
âIâve been sending you songs for six months. Every single one of them was about you.â
Your heart stutters. âEvery single one?â
âEvery. Single. One.â He meets your eyes. âI just didnât know how to say it out loud.â
âBucky.â
âI know. Iâm an idiot.â
âNo.â You sit up, propping yourself on your elbow so you can look down at him. âYouâre not an idiot. Youâre justââ You search for the word. ââcareful. And I get it. I do. But you donât have to be careful with me. Iâm not going to break.â
His expression flickers. Something raw and vulnerable surfaces before he can hide it.
âI know,â he says. âThatâs what scares me.â
âScares you?â
âBecause if youâre not going to break, then I have no excuse. No reason to keep my distance. No reason not toââ He stops. Swallows.
âNot to what?â
âNot to love you.â
The word hangs in the air between you. Love. Youâve been dancing around it for months, using every synonym, every euphemism, every careful avoidance. But here it is. Naked. Unavoidable.
âToo late,â you whisper.
âWhat?â
âI already love you. Iâve loved you for a while. I just didnât want to say it first.â
He stares at you. For a moment, he doesnât move, doesnât breathe. Then he pulls you down, rolls you both over until youâre underneath him, and kisses you like heâs trying to pour every unsaid word into your mouth.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes are bright. Wet, maybe. Itâs hard to tell in the dark.
âI love you,â he says. Like heâs testing the weight of it. Like heâs amazed itâs true. âI love you. I love you. I love you.â
âYouâre going to wear it out,â you tease, but youâre crying again, and so is he, and it doesnât matter because youâre both laughing and crying and kissing and itâs the most beautiful mess youâve ever been a part of.
You wake to sunlight and the sound of someone moving around your kitchen.
For a disorienting moment, you don't know where you are. The light is wrongâtoo bright, too golden. Then you feel the ache between your thighs, your body covered by your fluffy blanket and everything comes rushing back.
You turn your head and the space beside you is empty, but the sheets are still warm. You sit up, pull on his sweatshirtâyour sweatshirt now, you're never giving it backâand pad barefoot toward the kitchen.
He's standing at your counter, shirtless, hair still sleep-mussed, making coffee with the focus of a man defusing a bomb. His metal arm catches the morning light, the vibranium shimmering like liquid mercury. The scars on his left shoulderâwhere flesh meets metalâare pale and puckered, and you want to kiss every single one of them.
âMorning,â you say.
He looks up. His eyes soften. âMorning, honey.â
âYou made coffee.â
âYou said you can't function without it.â He pours a mug, slides it across the counter toward you. âCream, no sugar.â
You wrap your hands around the mugâboth hands, just like he saidâand take a sip. It's perfect.
âThank you,â you say.
He nods. Leans against the counter. Crosses his arms over his chest, and god, the way his muscles shift when he does that should be illegal.
âWhat?â he asks, catching you staring.
âNothing.â You take another sip. âJust thinking.â
âAbout?â
You set the mug down. Walk around the counter until you're standing in front of him. Reach up and push his hair out of his eyes.
âI'm thinking,â you say slowly, âthat I don't want this to be a one-time thing.â
His hands find your hips. Settle there like they belong.
âGood,â he says. âBecause I was thinking the same thing.â
âYeah?â
âYeah.â He ducks his head, presses a kiss to your forehead. âI was thinking I don't want to sleep in my bed alone ever again. I was thinking I want to wake up next to you every morning. I was thinkingââ He pulls back, meets your eyes. ââthat I'm tired of being afraid.â
âSo don't be.â
âIt's not that simple, baby.â
âIt can be.â You frame his face with your hands. âWe can make it simple. We wake up. We make coffee. We go to work. We come home. We fall asleep. Repeat. That's it. That's all it has to be.â
He searches your face. âYou really think it's that easy?â
âI think,â you say, âthat nothing about us has been easy. And maybe that's why we deserve this. The easy part.â
He's quiet for a long moment. Then he pulls you into his chest, wraps both arms around youâflesh and metal, soft and hard, everything he is and everything he's trying to beâand holds you like you're something precious.
âI love you,â he says into your hair.
âI love you too.â
And somewhere in the distanceâor maybe just in your headâthe song swells one last time. You think about hedge mazes and ocean rocks and all the ways you almost died before you ever got here. You think about locked vaults and lowercase longings and the sheer, terrifying miracle of being seen.
All those nights you spent dreaming about him writing 'mine' on your upper thigh, your waist, your collarbones⌠Theyâre not just in your mind. Not anymore.
You feel him smile against your hair, and you knowâwith absolute, bone-deep certaintyâthat you are not guilty of anything except wanting something good. Something real. Something thatâfinally, impossiblyâwants you back.
Note I know I already wrote a similar thing where Bucky wearing suits are a big deal here but I just can't help it. Sue me. The difference is that here they are together and so in love and he's a fucking menace towards his girlfriend. There's this topic about pregnancy but not wanting babies but... y'know. No smut here tho, only fluff and these two in love.
You were very sure it was the lighting. It was the way your apartment looked. There was something in the air.
It was a Thursday. A grey, drizzly, deeply unremarkable Thursday. Bucky had been home for exactly four hours between a subcommittee hearing on veterans' affairs and a closed-door session about infrastructure spending. He'd stumbled through the door in joggers and a henley, looking less like a century-old super-soldier and more like a very tired, very pretty man in desperate need of coffee.
âHey, honey.â he'd mumbled, dropping a kiss on your forehead before shuffling toward the kitchen.
You'd been on the couch, checking some things from your work and taking some notes and you'd felt the usual warm, placid affection. The same affection you felt when he left his socks on the coffee table or hummed along to 1940s jazz off-key. It was comfortable. It was yours.
Then, two hours later, he'd emerged from the bedroom and the world tilted on its axis.
He was wearing the suit. Not the tactical gear, not the leather jacket, but the suit. A deep charcoal grey, almost black, with a crisp white shirt and a tie the color of a winter sky. The jacket was tailored within an inch of its life, pulling just slightly across his shoulders when he reached for his cufflinks. The trousers fit like they'd been painted on his thighs.
You'd dropped your pen and it rolled under the couch, abandoned.
âWhat?â he'd asked, frowning at his reflection in the hallway mirror as he straightened his collar. His metal fingers gleamed against the silk of his tie. âIs the knot crooked?â
You opened your mouth to say no, it's fine, you look very professional, honey. What came out instead was a strangled, âJesus Christ.â
He'd turned, one eyebrow raised. That familiar, infuriating little smirk that was just for you twitched at the corner of his mouth. âThat bad, huh?â
âNo,â you'd breathed, still staring. Your brain had apparently short-circuited. All the usual dataâwe don't want kids, we've discussed this, we have a plant that's dying because we keep forgetting to water it, we are not parent materialâhad vanished, replaced by a single, primal, deeply embarrassing thought.
I would let him put a baby in me right now.
You'd blinked. Shook your head. The thought had vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by horror.
What the fuck.
âNothing,â you'd said, a little too quickly. âGo. Do your congressman thing. Make bad laws or whatever.â
He'd laughedâa low, warm soundâgave you a profound kiss, âGood to know I still make you so weak at the knees after all these years together, baby,â he whispered against your mouth and left.
You'd spent the next three hours lying face-down on the couch, interrogating your own biology. You didn't want kids. You'd built a life around not wanting kids. You'd had the conversationsâthe long, late-night, wine-soaked conversations about freedom and sleep and money and the fact that you both valued your sanity more than a hypothetical future human. Bucky had been so relieved when you'd said it first. Thank god, he'd said. Not cut for raising someone when I am such a disaster, he'd murmured after.
So why had you, for approximately 2.7 seconds, imagined Bucky holding a tiny, dark-haired baby while wearing that suit?
Hormones, you'd told yourself. It's just hormones. It's the lighting. It's a weird Thursday. You'd resolved to forget it.
Friday was worse.
Bucky had a press conference. You'd made the mistake of watching it on C-SPAN while eating a sad desk lunch in your home office. He was standing at a podium, his posture straight, his expression serious and focused. The suit was different this timeânavy blue, pinstriped, with a pocket square that matched his eyes.
He was talking about clean energy infrastructure. You didn't hear a single word.
You watched his hands instead. The way they gripped the edges of the podium. The way his metal fingers flexed slightly when a reporter asked a pointed question. The way he leaned into the microphone, his jaw set, his voice steady and authoritative.
And that thought was back. Louder this time. More insistent.
I want his babies. I want to have his babies. I want to be pregnant with his child while he wears that suit and talks about appropriations bills.
You'd slammed your laptop shut so hard the screen cracked.
âFuck,â you'd whispered.
Then you'd texted your therapist.
You: Is it normal to have biological clock urges specifically triggered by tailored clothing?
Therapist: Let's discuss in our session on Monday.
Youâll have the weekend to die thanks to your boyfriend in a suit.
By the third week of Bucky's congressional term (which showed no signs of ending, given that he'd just been reelected and seemed, against all odds, to actually enjoy the work), you had gathered enough data to confirm your hypothesis.
It wasn't just the suit. It was everything about the suit.
It was the way he rolled up his sleeves after a long day, revealing those thick, vascular forearms, the metal plates of his left arm gleaming under the warm light of your living room. It was the way he loosened his tie, pulling the knot down with one finger, looking exhausted and powerful and fuckable in a way that felt almost illegal.
It was the way he carried himselfâdifferent from the Bucky who lounged on the couch in sweatpants and ate cereal out of the box. That Bucky was soft, teasing, yours. But Bucky wearing a suit was competent. He answered emails with a furrowed brow. He took phone calls in that low, serious voice. He looked at you over the rim of his reading glasses (he'd started wearing reading glasses, oh god) and said things like, "I'll be in a hearing until six, don't wait up."
And every single time, your uterus staged a mutiny.
You'd started avoiding him when he came home in the suit. Not because you were angry, but because you couldn't trust yourself. You'd hide in the kitchen, chopping vegetables with unnecessary violence, while he wandered in, still in his dress shirt and trousers, and asked what was for dinner.
âYou okay?â he'd ask, leaning against the counter, arms crossed.
âFine,â you'd grit out, not looking at him.
âYou've been 'fine' a lot lately, honey.â
âI'm just very passionate about these carrots.â
He'd watch you for a long moment, his eyes narrowed. Then he'd push off the counter and walk away, and you'd let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.
But Bucky was a super-soldier. He had enhanced senses, enhanced perception, andâmost dangerouslyâenhanced awareness of you. He noticed when your breathing changed. He noticed when your pupils dilated. He noticed when you looked at him like you wanted to climb him like a tree.
He just hadn't figured out why yet but that changed on a Friday night.
It was late. Almost midnight. Bucky had been in back-to-back meetings since seven in the morning, and he'd finally come home looking like he'd been wrung out and hung to dry. His tie was gone. His jacket was draped over his arm. His shirt was untucked, the top two buttons undone, revealing a bit of his collarbone and the edge of his dog tags.
He'd collapsed onto the couch next to you, his head falling back against the cushion, his eyes closed.
âI think I'd rather fight Hydra again,â he muttered.
You'd laughed, closing your laptop. âThat bad?â
âSenator Fowler asked me, with a straight face, if 'wind power is just a liberal conspiracy to sell more wind.'â He opened one eye. âI had to use all my training not to walk out.â
âPoor baby.â You'd reached over and brushed a strand of hair off his forehead, a gesture so automatic, so yours, that you didn't think twice about it.
But then he'd turned his head, caught your wrist, and pressed a kiss to your palm. His lips were warm. His stubble scraped against your skin. And his eyesâthose stupid, beautiful, steel-blue eyesâwere fixed on yours.
âYou've been weird.â he said, not a question.
âI haven't.â
âYou have.â He sat up, still holding your wrist. âYou've been avoiding me. Not all the time. Just when I come home dressed up. You hide in the kitchen. You don't look at me. And you keepââ He paused, searching for the word. âYou keep smelling different.â
You froze. âSmelling?â
âHeightened senses, remember?â His thumb traced a slow circle on the inside of your wrist. âYou smell like⌠honey and something else. Something hot. You smell like that when we're in bed.â
Your face went nuclear.
âI do not,â you hissed.
âYou do.â He was smirking now. That bastard was smirking. âSo I'll ask again, honey. What's going on?â
You could lie. You could deflect. You could say it was nothing, you were just stressed about work, your period was coming, the planets were misaligned.
But you'd been together for almost five years. You'd seen each other at your worstâhim shaking off nightmares, you sobbing over a broken coffee mug at 2 AM for no reason. There was no point in hiding.
You took a deep breath.
âIt's the suit,â you said.
He blinked. âThe suit.â
âThe suits in general, Bucky. The whole⌠thing. The congressman thing. The tailored trousers and the cufflinks and the way you talk to people on the phone like you actually know what you're doing.â You were rambling now, words tumbling out like a dam had broken. âIt makes me want to have your babies.â
Silence.
Absolute, ringing silence.
Bucky's expression cycled through about fifteen emotions in two seconds. Confusion, surprise, dawning comprehension, a flash of pure male smugness, and then something softer, more vulnerable.
âYou want kids?â he asked, his voice quiet.
âNo!â You yanked your wrist back, running both hands through your hair. âI don't want kids. We don't want kids. We agreed. We have a list. We have a spreadsheet of reasons why we don't want kids. Reason number one: we like sleeping in. Reason number two: we like money. Reason number three: we like being able to have sex on the kitchen floor on a Tuesday or Monday or Saturday.â
âThose days are really good,â he murmured.
âBut then you put on those suits,â you continued, ignoring him, âand my brain just⌠short-circuits. I look at you and I can't help but think, that man could fix the infrastructure of this country and also my ovaries. It's not rational. It's not even real. It's justâit's justââ
âHormones?â he offered.
âTraitorous biology,â you corrected.
Bucky was quiet for a long moment. Then he laughedâa real laugh, surprised and delighted, his whole face lighting up. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, and looked at you like you'd just told him the funniest, most endearing thing he'd ever heard.
âMy love,â he said, âyou get horny for my civic duty?â
âThat's notâI'm not hornyââ
âYou said you wanted my babies.â
âI said my brain wants your babies! There's a difference!â
He was grinning now, wide and unrepentant. âSo if I put on the suit right now, you'dâwhat? Drag me to the bedroom? Start picking out crib patterns?â
âI would notââ
âBecause I have a clean one in the closet. The grey one. The one you stared at for a full minute the other day.â
You buried your face in a throw pillow and screamed like a maniac.
Bucky pried the pillow out of your hands, still laughing, and cupped your face in his handsâone warm, one coolâtilting your chin up so you had to look at him.
âHey,â he said softly, all the teasing gone. âI'm not making fun of you. I just⌠I didn't know. You never said anything.â
âBecause it's embarrassing,â you mumbled. âWe have a whole life together. A whole child-free life. And I love that life. I love you. I don't actually want to change anything. But every time you put on that suit, I feel like I'm losing my mind.â
He studied you for a moment, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones. Then he said, very seriously, âDo you want to know something?â
âWhat?â
âWhen I see you in that navy blue dressâthe one with the low backâI think about buying a house in the suburbs. I think about white picket fences and a dog andâand matching Christmas pajamas.â He winced, like the words cost him something. âI don't want those things. I think I know I don't want those things. But for about thirty seconds, when you're wearing that dress, I want to give you everything you've never asked for.â
Your heart stopped.
âYou're lying,â you whispered.
âI'm not.â He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. âWe're both idiots. We have a perfectly good thing, and our brains keep trying to sabotage it withâwhat did you call it? Traitorous biology?â
âTraitorous biology,â you confirmed.
âSo here's what I think.â His breath was warm on your lips. âI think we don't want kids. I think we're happy. I think we're going to keep being happy, and child-free, and we're going to keep having sex on the kitchen floor on random days.â
âOkay,â you breathed.
âBut.â He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and warm. âThe next time I come home in that suit, and you feel like you want to have my babies? You tell me. And I'll remind you, in very explicit detail, why we're probably not having babies. But we'll have a lot of fun in the process.â
Your mouth went dry. âThat'sâthat's a very generous offer, Congressman.â
âI'm a public servant,â he said, deadpan. âIt's my job to serve.â
You burst out laughing, shoving at his chest. He caught your hands, lacing his fingers through yours, and pulled you into his lap. The position was familiarâyou'd sat like this a hundred timesâbut something felt different now. Lighter. Like you'd both been carrying a secret you didn't need to carry anymore.
âSo,â he said, settling his hands on your hips, âjust to be clear. You don't want my babies.â
âNo,â you said. But the word came out smaller than you intended. Quieter.
He noticed. Of course he noticed.
âHoney?â His brow furrowed.
âI do not not want them,â you whispered, the confession scraping its way out of your throat. âI don't know what I want. That's the problem. I thought I knew. I had the spreadsheet. I had the reasons. And then you started wearing that suit and talking about infrastructure andââ You laughed, shaky and raw. âAnd now I don't know anything.â
Bucky was very still. His metal hand had stopped moving on your hip. When he spoke, his voice was careful, almost fragile.
âDo you want to know something else?â
âWhat?â
âSometimes, when I'm standing at that podium, and I see you in the crowdâwhen you come to watch meâI think about what it would be like to have you there. Not just you. Us. A little us. Someone with your nose and my stubbornness.â He swallowed. âAnd then I tell myself I'm being an idiot. Because we have the plant. And the sex on the kitchen floor. And the sleeping in.â
âBut?â you prompted.
He was quiet for a long, long moment. Then he said, so softly it was almost a breath, âBut maybe the plant is dying anyway.â
You stared at him.
He stared back.
And neither of you said anything for a very long time.
A week later, you were in the kitchen, making dinner when you heard the front door open. Then close. Then the familiar rhythm of Bucky's footsteps heavy, deliberate, slightly dragging from exhaustion.
âHey,â you called over your shoulder. âHow was theââ
You turned.
And stopped.
He was wearing the suit. Not just any suitâthe charcoal grey suit. The one with the perfect shoulders and the trousers that made his legs look like they went on forever. His tie was loosened. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows. His hair was slightly disheveled, like he'd been running his fingers through it.
He was holding a folder of papers in one hand. And he was looking at you like he knew exactly what he was doing.
âLong day,â he said, his voice a low rumble. âThe subcommittee on agriculture is trying to kill the farm bill. Again.â
You forgot how to breathe.
No, you told yourself firmly. We don't want kids. We have a spreadsheet. Reason number four: we like being able to travel internationally on short notice. Reason number five: we have a plant that is currently dying because we forgot to water it for three weeks. We are not parent material.
But the spreadsheet felt flimsy now. The reasons felt like sand slipping through your fingers.
And Bucky was leaning against the doorframe, one ankle crossed over the other, the folder tucked under his arm. His metal fingers tapped a slow rhythm against the wood.
âYou're staring,â he said.
âI'm not.â
âYou're holding a wooden spoon like you're about to commit a crime.â
You looked down. You were, in fact, gripping the wooden spoon so hard your knuckles were white.
âI'm fine,â you said.
âYou're not.â He pushed off the doorframe and walked toward you, slow and deliberate, his dress shoes clicking on the hardwood. He stopped when he was close enough that you could smell his cologneâsomething clean and expensive, a gift from you on his last birthday. âYou're thinking about it right now, aren't you?â
âThinking about what?â
âBabies.â He said the word like it was a dirty secret, his voice dropping low. âMy babies. Little dark-haired monsters with my eyes and your stubbornness.â
Your knees went weak.
âI hate you,â you whispered.
âNo, you don't.â He set the folder on the counter, then reached out and took the wooden spoon from your hand, setting it aside. His hands settled on your waist, thumbs brushing the hem of your shirt. âYou love me. You love me so much that my civic duties makes you ovulate.â
âThat's notâyouâre an idiot, thatâs not how ovulation worksââ
âMmhm, honey.â He pulled you closer, until your chest was flush against his, and dipped his head to speak directly into your ear. âI'm going to remind you why we're probably not having kids. Right now. On the kitchen floor. And then I'm going to make you dinner, and we're going to watch that documentary about penguins, and tomorrow morning we're going to sleep in until ten.â
You shivered. âYou and your obsession with that documentary but that'sâthat's a very comprehensive plan.â
âI'm a congressman,â he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. âI'm good at planning.â
âYou're really a congressman now.â
âThen we have time.â He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and searching. âWe have time, sweetheart. To figure it out. To change our minds. Or not. There's no deadline. There's no rush. There's justââ
âUs,â you finished.
âUs,â he agreed. âAnd the suits. And the kitchen floor. And a very confused plant.â
You laughedâa wet, startled soundâand he kissed you. Deep and consuming, his metal hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, his other arm wrapping around your waist. You melted into him, all your rational thoughts scattering like startled birds. The suit jacket was rough under your palms. The tie was silk. The man was everything.
And when he lowered you both to the kitchen floor, his body covering yours, his mouth trailing down your throat, there was just some thoughts running around your brain.
Maybe we don't want kids.
Maybe we do.
Maybe we'll figure it out tomorrow.
Tonight, you had this. The suit and the man and the question mark hanging between you like a promise you weren't ready to makeâbut weren't ready to break, either.
Three months later, there was new more suits, the plant is still dying on the kitchen but someone has started watering it more often. Neither of you has admitted who.
It was late. Almost midnight. You were curled up on the couch, your head in Bucky's lap, his metal fingers playing with your hair. A horror movie that was playing on the TV was now paused halfway through because you'd both gotten distracted.
âHey,â you said.
âHmm?â He didn't look up from his book.
âDo you ever think about what we talked about? The⌠you know.â
He marked his page and set the book aside, giving you his full attention. âThe baby thing?â
âThe maybe baby thing.â
He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, âSometimes.â
âMe too.â
Another silence. Longer this time.
âWhat do you think?â you asked, your voice small. âLike, really really?â
Bucky looked at you for a long, long time. His thumb traced the line of your jaw, back and forth, back and forth. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and careful, like he was handling something fragile.
âI think,â he said slowly, âthat I don't know. And for the first time in a very long time⌠I think that's okay.â
You turned your head, pressing a kiss to his palm. âYeah?â
âYeah.â He smiledâsoft, uncertain, beautiful. âWe have time. Weâre still young. We have each other. And we have a very nice kitchen floor.â
You laughed. âFirst of all, youâre like a thousand years old and the kitchen floor is not a reason to have a baby.â
âNo,â he agreed and chuckled, ignoring your comment about his age. âBut it's a reason to keep talking about it. To keepââ He searched for the word. âTo keep wondering. Together.â
You sat up, twisting to face him, and took his face in your hands. His stubble was rough under your palms. His eyes were the color of winter sky. He was yours. Completely, impossibly yours.
âTogether,â you repeated.
âTogether,â he said.
And when he kissed youâsoft and slow and full of unspoken questionsâyou let yourself sink into it. The horror movie played on, forgotten. The plant sat on the windowsill, slightly less dead than it had been months ago.
Somewhere in your closet, his suits were waiting. Those same ones that started the controversy. And so did the question.
Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe someday.
But not tonight.
Tonight, you had this. The man, the couch, the pause in the conversation. The permission to not know.
And that, you were beginning to realize, was its own kind of answer.
Note I love soft Bucky who does things like, secretly. I love him in love. Plus, I know he's a nerd and loves technology but I like to think phones stress him so much. This has a very short smut scene so please, remember that.
*Don't want you to think he's an idiot here or that I think he's an idiot or that you are babying him somehow. He's just an old man at the end of the day that needs someone explaining how things work.
The first time Bucky Barnes asked you for help with his phone, he looked like a man about to be executed.
It was three months into your relationshipâif you could call it that, back then. You were still in that floaty, uncertain space where every text felt loaded and every accidental brush of fingers sent your heart skittering. He'd shown up at your apartment door with his jaw set, shoulders tense, and the Stark-issued smartphone held out in front of him like a dead fish.
âI need you to do something,â he'd said, flat and miserable.
You'd blinked at him. âOkay. Are you okay?â
âNo.â He shoved the phone into your hands. âThe screen changed. I don't know how. I can't make it go back. I've been trying for three hours.â
You'd looked down at the screen. It was, inexplicably, set to a photo of a cat wearing a tiny sombrero. You had no idea where it had come from, and you were absolutely certain Bucky didn't either. You'd bitten the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted blood, because if you laughed, he would leave. You knew him well enough by then to know that.
âOkay,â you'd said, very seriously. âThis is an easy fix. Come sit down.â
He'd sat on your couch like a soldier awaiting orders, knees apart, hands resting on his thighs, watching your every move with the kind of laser focus he usually reserved for potential threats. You'd talked him through it slowlyâsettings, wallpaper, choose a new photoâand when you'd handed the phone back to him with a plain black screen, he'd let out a breath like you'd just defused a bomb.
âThank you,â he'd said, quiet and gruff. And then, after a long pause: âI hate this thing.â
âI know,â you'd said. âDo you want me to show you again? So you can do it yourself next time?â
He'd looked at you for a long moment. Something soft had passed over his face, there and gone like a shadow. âYeah,â he'd said. âOkay.â
That was the beginning of it. The thing between you. Not love, not yetâbut the roots of it, pushing down through the dark soil of his reluctance and your patience, twining together until you couldn't tell where one stopped and the other started.
Eight months later, Bucky Barnes still hated technology. He just hated it a little less when you were involved.
He had a laptop nowâa basic one, nothing fancy, because he'd refused to let you buy him anything expensive. He used it for emails badly, for video calls with the team reluctantly, and for watching old movies... his secret pleasure, though he'd never admit it. He had a tablet that was gathering dust on his nightstand because he kept forgetting to charge it. He had a smart TV in his apartment that he operated exclusively via the physical buttons on the side because the remote had too many options and he didn't trust anything that listened to him.
But his phoneâthat, he used. Mostly for you.
You texted him throughout the day. Silly things. Photos of your lunch, a weird cloud you saw on your walk, a meme that made you think of him. He didn't always respond, but he always read them. You knew because sometimes he'd show up at your door with the exact snack you'd mentioned craving, or he'd look up at the sky and say, "That's the cloud?" like it was personally offensive to him.
And you called him. Every night, before bed. Not long callsâneither of you were talkers, not in that wayâbut there was something about hearing his voice, low and rough through the speaker, that made the distance between your apartments feel smaller. He'd tell you about his day in short, clipped sentences, and you'd fill in the gaps with your own rambling stories, and somewhere in the middle of it, he'd start to relax. You could hear it in his breathing. The way it slowed. The way he stopped holding himself so tight.
âGoodnight, sweetheart,â he'd say at the end, every time, and you'd curl around your phone like it was him.
You never told him that. It would have embarrassed him. And Bucky Barnes, you were learning, was a man who carried enough embarrassment alreadyâfor the things he'd done, the things he didn't understand, the way the world kept spinning and leaving him behind. You weren't going to add to it.
So you helped him when he asked. You showed him how to clear his notifications, how to download a podcast, how to mute a group chat that Sam had added him to against his will. You never made him feel stupid. You never sighed or rolled your eyes. You just took his hand and placed it over the screen, and guided his fingers where they needed to go.
âSee?â you'd say. âYou're doing it. You're fine.â
And he'd look at you like you'd given him something precious. Something he didn't have a name for.
Bucky was alone in his apartment. You'd gone to bed earlyâa headache, you'd texted, nothing serious, just need to sleep it off. He'd called you anyway, just to hear your voice, and you'd sounded tired but sweet, and he'd told you to drink water and take something and text him when you woke up. You'd promised you would. And then the line had gone dead, and his apartment had felt too big and too quiet all at once.
He sat on his couch for a while, not doing anything. Just sitting. His phone was still in his hand and the screen was dark, and he was thinking about you.
He did that a lot lately. Thought about you. It was annoying, honestly. He'd spent decades learning how to be still, how to empty his mind, how to exist in the space between missions without wanting anything. And then you'd come along with your soft hands and your patient voice and your habit of leaving your tea mugs everywhere, and now he couldn't stop wanting. Wanting to see you. Wanting to hear you. Wanting to touch you.
He looked down at his phone. The lock screen was still that plain black wallpaper he'd set months ago, the one you'd helped him choose. Functional. Boring. Safe.
He pressed the side button. The screen lit up, and he was confronted with his own reflectionâfaint, ghostly, superimposed over the black. He looked tired. He always looked tired.
He thought about your face.
He had photos of you on his phone. You'd taken them yourself, mostly, or sent them to him from your own camera roll. There was one of you at a farmer's market, holding up a ridiculously large zucchini like a trophy. There was one of you asleep on his couch, mouth slightly open, hair everywhere, a throw pillow clutched to your chest. There was one you'd taken in the mirror of his bathroom, making a silly face, and he'd looked at it so many times that he'd accidentally memorized every pixel.
He wanted to see your face when he woke up.
Not just in his mind. Not just in the hazy space between dreaming and waking, where you were always just out of reach. He wanted to press a button and have you there, looking back at him, telling him without words that the day was worth facing.
He opened his settings.
It took him a long time. Longer than it should have. He had to backtrack twice, had to Google something (which he hated doing, because the internet assumed he knew more than he did), had to sit with his frustration and breathe through it the way his therapist had taught him. But he didn't give up. He kept going, one clumsy thumb-press at a time, because this was for you. This was about you. And you never gave up on him.
Finallyâfinallyâhe found it. Wallpaper. Lock screen. Choose photo.
His heart was beating too fast. That was stupid. It was just a phone. It was just a picture. But his hands were shaking as he scrolled through his camera roll, past the blurry shots of nothing, past the screenshots of things you'd sent him, until he found the one he wanted.
It was a photo you'd taken of yourself. Just your face, close to the lens, soft smile, eyes crinkled at the corners. You were wearing his hoodieâthe gray one, the one that smelled like himâand your hair was messy, and there was a smudge of something on your cheek. You'd sent it to him with no caption, just the photo, and he'd stared at it for ten minutes straight before he'd remembered to breathe.
He selected it. Adjusted the crop so your face was centered, so you'd be the first thing he saw every time he woke his phone. Saved it. Locked the screen. Pressed the button.
There you were.
He stared at you for a long time. Your smile. Your eyes. The way you looked at him even in a photo, like he was someone worth looking at. His chest ached. It was a good ache, mostly. The kind that meant something had settled into place.
He didn't text you. It was late, and you were asleep, and your headache was probably gone by now but he didn't want to risk waking you. He just looked at your face one more time, then set his phone on the coffee table and went to bed.
For the first time in a very long time, he didn't dream of falling.
He forgot about it.
Not the photoâhe didn't forget about that. He saw it every time he checked his phone, and every time, something warm and private unfurled in his chest. But he forgot that other people might see it. That other people might notice. He'd been so focused on the act of doing it himself, on the small victory of figuring it out without your help, that he hadn't considered the consequences.
The consequences, as it turned out, had a name. Sam Wilson.
It was three days later. Bucky was at the compound, which he hated, sitting in the common room, which he hated more, waiting for a briefing that had been delayed because someoneâprobably Samâhad lost a file. And he "hated" him even more because of that. He was scrolling through his phone, not really paying attention, when Sam dropped onto the couch next to him with all the grace of a falling piano.
âHey, man. Have you seen theââ Sam stopped. Looked at Bucky's phone. Looked at Bucky. Looked at the phone again.
Bucky looked down. Your face was smiling up at him, soft and happy and completely unmistakable.
âBarnes,â Sam said slowly. âIs thatââ
âNo,â Bucky said, too fast.
âI didn't even say anything.â
âIt's not what you think.â
âBucky. Your lock screen is a picture of your girlfriend.â
Bucky locked his phone. Shoved it in his pocket. Stared straight ahead at the wall, which was beige and boring and mercifully free of Sam's smug face.
âThat's adorable,â Sam said. âThat's genuinely, genuinely adorable. I'm going to tell everyone.â
âYou're not going to tell anyone.â
âYelena is going to lose her mind.â
âSam.â
âYou know how much she adores your woman. She's going to frame it. She's going to make it her own lock screen. She's going toââ
Bucky turned his head. His expression was flat, unreadable, the kind of look that had made men in the forties cross the street to avoid him. âI will throw you off this roof.â
âYou won't,â Sam said, entirely unbothered. âYou like me too much.â
âI don't like you at all.â
âYou changed your lock screen, man. By yourself. For a woman. That's growth. That's character development. I'm proud of you.â
Bucky's jaw tightened. He could feel heat creeping up the back of his neck, and he hated it, hated the way Sam could see right through him, hated that this small private thing was no longer private. He'd wanted to keep it. Just for himself. Just for you. The knowledge that he'd done it alone, that he'd pushed through his frustration and his shame and his fear of looking stupid, and he'd figured it out, and now your face was there every time he woke his phone, telling him without words that he was capable. That he could learn. That he wasn't broken.
And now Sam was going to turn it into a joke.
âLeave it alone,â Bucky said quietly.
Something in his voice must have shifted, because Sam's expression changed. The teasing didn't disappear entirelyâit never did, with Samâbut it softened at the edges. He leaned back against the couch and let out a long breath.
âI'm just messing with you,â he said. âIt's cool. It's good. She's good for you.â
Bucky didn't say anything.
âI mean it,â Sam said. âYou actually smiled the other day. Like, a real smile. I almost called a doctor.â
âI smile.â
âYou grimace. There's a difference.â
Bucky snorted despite himself. âI smile when you're not around. You irritate me.â Sam grinned, and the tension in the room cracked, just a little. They sat in silence for a moment, the way they sometimes didâtwo men who'd been through too much to need words all the time.
âShe doesn't know,â Bucky said finally.
âKnow what?â
âThat I did it myself. She always helps me with the phone stuff. She doesn't... she doesn't know I figured this one out.â
Sam looked at him. Really looked. âSo tell her.â
âIt's stupid.â
âIt's not stupid. It's sweet. It's stupidly sweet. But it's not stupid.â
Bucky pulled his phone out of his pocket again. Unlocked it. Your face appeared, and he felt that same warm ache in his chest, the one he still didn't have a name for.
âMaybe,â he said.
Sam clapped him on the shoulder. âThat's the spirit, Grandpa. Now come on, we've got a briefing. And try not to look at your phone during it, because I will call you out in front of everyone.â
Bucky stood up. Followed Sam toward the conference room. And if he happened to look at his phone one more time before he walked through the doorâif he happened to trace the outline of your smile with his thumb, just for a secondâwell. That was nobody's business but his own.
You found out four hours later, because Yelena Belova had the emotional restraint of a caffeinated ferret and zero concept of privacy.
You were at your apartment, grading papers (you taught part-time at a community college, something Bucky still couldn't quite wrap his head around because you were so smart, why were you wasting your time on nineteen-year-olds who didn't do the reading?), when your phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.
Unknown Number: Hello, Bucky's girlfriend. This is Yelena.
You stared at the message. Then, before you could respond, another one came through.
Unknown Number: I am texting you because Sam is a coward and will not give me your number. So I took it from his phone while he was in the bathroom.
Unknown Number: Do not tell him. It will be funny later.
You were already smiling. You'd met Yelena exactly twice, and both times she'd managed to steal something off your person without you noticingâa hair tie the first time, a pen the second. You liked her. She was terrifying in a way that felt almost familiar, like a cat who might let you pet her belly but might also shred your arm to ribbons.
You: Hi Yelena. What's up?
Yelena: I have information.
Yelena: Important information.
Yelena: About your boyfriend.
Your heart did a little skip. Not a bad skipâBucky wasn't the type to keep bad secrets, at least not from youâbut a curious one. You set down your red pen and gave the conversation your full attention.
You: What kind of information?
Yelena: He changed his lock screen.
You: Okay?
Yelena: To a picture of you.
You: ...oh.
Yelena: OH.
Yelena: That is all you have to say? "Oh"? I expected screaming. Or crying. Or at least a reaction of some kind.
You stared at your phone. Your face was warm. Your chest was warm. Everything was warm, actually, and you weren't entirely sure you were still breathing.
Bucky had changed his lock screen. By himself. To a picture of you.
Bucky, who got frustrated when his voicemail box was full. Bucky, who had once thrown his phone across the room because autocorrect changed 'okay' to 'leaky.' Bucky, who needed your help to download a PDF. That Bucky had sat down, alone, and figured out how to change his lock screen, and he'd chosen a photo of you.
You: Are you sure?
He really doesn't know how to use it.
You: Except for calls.
Yelena: I saw it with my own eyes. Sam saw it too. He is being very annoying about it. He keeps saying "character development" and I do not know what that means in this context but I assume it is teasing.
Yelena: I am not teasing. I am reporting facts. The facts are that your boyfriend is soft and in love and does not know how to hide it.
Yelena: It is disgusting. I love it.
You: He didn't tell me.
Yelena: Of course he didn't tell you. He is a man. They are idiots. You have to go to him and kiss him very hard and make him admit that he did it because he wants to see your face first thing in the morning.
Yelena: That is what I would do. If I had a boyfriend. Which I do not. Because men are idiots. People in general.
Yelena: Except you. I like you. Not like that but you're okay. Fuck, this is why I don't like the "relationships" thing.
Yelena: Anyways. Go. Now. I will track your phone to make sure you are going the right direction.
You laughed out loud. Your apartment was quiet around you, the last of the evening light slanting through the blinds, and you were supposed to be grading ten more papers before bed, and none of that mattered anymore.
You grabbed your keys. Your jacket. Your phone, which was already buzzing again with what looked like a map from Yelenaâshe'd actually sent you a map, with a highlighted route from your apartment to Bucky's, complete with little knife emojis marking potential shortcuts.
You: I'm going now. No need to tell me where he lives. I know that by memory.
Yelena: Good. Send me updates.
Yelena: Not the sexual ones. Just the emotional ones.
You: I'm not going to send you ANY updates.
Yelena: Fine. Be boring. But I will know anyway because I have access to all security cameras within a three-mile radius.
You weren't entirely sure she was joking.
Bucky's apartment was a fifteen-minute walk from yours. You made it in eleven, because you were practically jogging, because your heart was pounding and your palms were sweaty and you felt like you were sixteen again, giddy, idiotic and terrified and hopeful all at once.
You knocked on his door. Waited. Heard his footstepsâheavy, deliberate, the gait of a man who'd spent decades learning how to move silently and now didn't bother because he was home, because he was safe, because he was yours.
The door opened.
He was wearing a faded henley and sweatpants, his hair loose around his face, his vibranium arm catching the low light from the hallway. He looked tired. He looked beautiful. He looked confused.
âHey, honeyâ he said. âWas gonna call you but... I thought you were gradingââ
You kissed him.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It wasn't the kind of kiss you usually gave him, soft and slow and careful, because he was still learning that he deserved softness. This was a kiss with teeth behind it, a kiss that said I know and I'm here and you did that for me all at once. You pushed him backward into the apartment, kicked the door shut behind you, and kept kissing him until his back hit the wall and his hands came up to your waist like he was trying to anchor himself.
âSweetheart,â he breathed against your mouth. "Not that I hate this surprise but whyââ
âYou changed your lock screen,â you said.
He went very still.
âYou changed your lock screen,â you said again, pulling back just enough to look at his face. His eyes were wide, his lips parted, and there was a flush creeping up his neck that made you want to bite him. âBy yourself. To a picture of me.â
"Who told you?" he said flatly.
âLena.â
âOf course it was Yelena.â He closed his eyes. Let his head fall back against the wall. âShe texted you, didn't she? Since she got a phone she's been very into that thing, searching new things.â
âShe sent me a map.â
âA map.â
"With some heart with fire and knife emojis."
He opened his eyes. Looked at you. And despite everythingâdespite the embarrassment and the frustration and the fact that his private little secret was now very much not privateâthe corner of his mouth twitched.
âI'm going to kill her.â he said.
âNo, you're not.â
âI'm going to kill her and then I'm going to kill Sam and then I'm going to move to a country without Wiffy.â
âWi-Fi, baby and no, you're not going to do any of those things.â You stepped closer, pressing your body against his, and his breath hitched. You could feel the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands were still hovering at your waist like he wasn't sure he was allowed to touch. âYou're going to show me.â
âShow you... what?â
He asks and a small grin appears on his face.
âThe lock screen. I want to see it.â
He stared at you for a long moment. Then, slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He didn't look at it as he handed it to you. He looked at you, watching your face, and there was something vulnerable in his expressionâsomething raw and uncertain that made your chest ache.
You pressed the side button and the screen lit up. And there you were.
It was the photo you'd sent him weeks ago. The one in his hoodie, with the messy hair and the smudge on your cheek. You remembered taking itâyou'd been half-asleep, curled up on his couch, and you'd pointed your phone at your face and smiled without thinking, because he'd just kissed your forehead and told you to stay the night, and you'd been so happy you thought you might burst.
You hadn't known he'd kept it.
You hadn't known he'd looked at it.
âBucky,â you whispered.
âIt's stupid,â he said quickly. âI know it's stupid. I justâI wanted to see you. When I wake up. Before I go to sleep. I wantedââ
You kissed him again. Softer this time. Slower. The kind of kiss that said everything you couldn't put into words, the kind that made him melt against you, the kind that made his hands finally settle on your hips, pulling you flush against him.
âIt's not stupid,â you said, pulling back just far enough to speak. âIt's the least stupid thing you've ever done.â
âI didn't ask for help,â he said. His voice was lower now, rougher. His thumbs were tracing circles on your hip bones through the fabric of your jeans. âI figured it out. On my own.â
âI know.â You smiled at him. Your eyes were stinging, which was ridiculous, but you didn't care. âI'm so proud of you.â
He made a sound. A small one, barely audible, like something had caught in his throat. And then he was kissing you again, harder this time, and his hands were no longer hesitant. They were everywhereâyour hips, your back, sliding up under the hem of your shirt to press against the bare skin of your waist.
âTell me,â he said against your neck, his voice rough. His teeth grazed your pulse point, not quite a bite, and you gasped. âTell me again.â
âI'm proud of you,â you said, and he groaned, low and deep, his hips pressing into yours. You could feel him through his sweatpants, already half-hard, and the knowledge that you had done that, just by showing up, just by knowing, just by praising him, sent a thrill down your spine. âI'm so proud of you, Bucky. You did that. You learned something new. You did it for me.â
âEverything,â he said, and the word was muffled against your skin as he kissed a trail down your throat, across your collarbone, his hands sliding lower to grip the backs of your thighs. âI'd do everything for you.â
You pulled his face up so you could look at him. His eyes were dark, blown wide with want, his lips red from kissing, his hair falling over his forehead. He looked younger like this. Softer. Hungry in a way that had nothing to do with food.
âShow me how you did it,â you said.
âWhat?â
âThe lock screen. Show me how you changed it. Walk me through it.â
He blinked at you, clearly thrown. âYou already know how to change a lock screen.â
âI know. I want to watch you do it.â
Something shifted in his expression. Understanding, maybe. Or gratitude. Or loveâthat quiet, steady love that he still didn't know how to name but showed you every day, in every small thing he did. And beneath it, something else. Something hotter. Something that made his hands tighten on your hips.
âYeah,â he said, his voice dropping an octave. âOkay. But not here.â
He took your hand and led you away from the wall, through the living room, toward his bedroom. You followed without hesitation, your heart pounding, your skin tingling where he'd touched you.
His bedroom was dark, lit only by the streetlight filtering through the blinds. His bed was unmade, the sheets rumpled, and there was a book on his nightstand that you'd recommended to him months ago, still marked about a third of the way through. He was trying. He was always trying.
He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled you down beside him. His thigh pressed against yours, solid and warm. He pulled out his phone. Unlocked it. And then, slowly, deliberately, he walked you through the steps.
âSettings,â he said, his thumb moving over the screen. His other hand rested on your thigh, high enough to make your breath catch. âWallpaper. Add new wallpaper.â He glanced at you. âI had to Google that part.â
âYou Googled it?â
âI didn't want to ask you. I wanted to do it myself.â
Your heart did something complicated in your chest. âAnd then?â
âAnd then I went to my photos. And I found the one I wanted.â He pulled up the photo and held the phone so you could see. His thumb traced the edge of the screen, right over your face. âI cropped it so you'd be centered. So I could see your face.â
âBucky.â
âAnd then I saved it. And now...â He locked the screen. Pressed the button. Your face appeared, soft and smiling. He set the phone on the nightstand and turned to face you fully, his hand sliding higher on your thigh. âNow you're there, honey. Every time.â
You stared at the phone for a moment. At your own face, captured in a moment of unthinking happiness. At the way his hand rested on your leg, casual and possessive, like he was holding you even when he wasn't.
Then you looked at him. Really looked. At the man who had survived the unsurvivable, who had crawled through decades of darkness to end up here, on this bed, with his hand on your thigh and your face on his phone.
âI love you.â you said.
The words fell out of you. Unplanned. Unfiltered. You hadn't meant to say them yetâit felt too soon, or maybe too big, or maybe you were just scared of what would happen if you put that kind of weight into the world. But they were out now, hanging in the air between you, and you couldn't take them back.
Bucky went very still.
The phone was forgotten. The world was forgotten. His eyes were locked on your face, wide and dark and unreadable, and for one terrible moment you thought you'd made a mistake. That you'd pushed too far. That he wasn't ready.
Then his hand came up to your face. His flesh hand, warm and calloused, cupping your jaw like you were something precious. His thumb traced your lower lip, tugging it down just slightly, and he was looking at you like he'd never seen anything so beautiful in all his long, long life.
âSay it again,â he whispered.
âI love you.â
âI love you too. I love you so much.â The words came out rough, cracked at the edges, like they'd been buried for a long time and he was still digging them out. âGod, sweetheart. I love you so much. I don't... I don't know how to do any of this. The phone stuff, the feelings stuff, any of it. The only thing I know is that I love you. And I want to learn. I want to learn everything, if you'll teach me.â
You kissed him. What else could you do, with your heart so full it felt like it might split open?
The kiss deepened. Slowed. Became something else entirelyâsomething hungrier, needier, the kind of kiss that had hands wandering and breath hitching and clothes starting to shift. He pulled you into his lap, and you went willingly, straddling his thighs, wrapping your arms around his neck and threading your fingers through his hair.
âI want to show you,â he murmured against your mouth. His hands slid under your shirt, palms flat against the bare skin of your back, and you shivered. âHow much. How much I love you.â
âShow me, please.â you said.
He started with your shirt.
Not fast. Not impatient. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands already at the hem, his eyes asking permission even though he didn't need to. You noddedâa small, breathless thingâand he lifted the fabric slowly, dragging it up over your stomach, your ribs, your chest. The air hit your skin and you shivered again, but not from cold. From the way he was looking at you. Like you were something holy.
The shirt came off over your head, and he tossed it somewhere behind him without looking. His hands came back to you immediately, palms flat on your bare waist, thumbs tracing the line of your bra. He didn't move higher. Didn't push. Just looked.
âSo beautiful,â he said, and his voice was wrecked. âEvery time. I can't believe I get to look at you.â
You reached for the hem of his henley. âYour turn.â
He let you pull it off and then he was bare-chested in front of you, and you took a moment to look back. The scars. The muscle. The place where his left arm met his shoulder, the seam of metal and skin that he still hated but that you had kissed a hundred times. You put your hand there now, right over the join, and he exhaled like you'd touched something raw.
âI love this,â you said. âI love all of it. I love you.â
He kissed you again, and this time there was no softness left in it. This was a kiss that burned. His hands were everywhereâyour back, your ribs, the curve of your assâand you were arching into him, grinding down against his lap, feeling him hard beneath the thin fabric of his sweatpants. He groaned into your mouth, and the sound went straight through you, pooling low in your belly.
âSweetheart,â he said, breaking the kiss to press his forehead against yours. His breathing was ragged. âTell me what you want.â
âYou,â you said. âI just want you.â
âI'm yours,â he said, and the words were so simple, so honest, that your eyes stung. âI've been yours since the very first moment. Tell me what you want me to do, honey.â
You reached between you and pressed your palm against him through his sweatpants. He gaspedâactually gaspedâand his hips bucked into your touch.
âThis,â you said. âI want this. I want you inside me. I want to feel you.â
He made a sound that was almost a whimper. His hands tightened on your hips. âYeah,â he said. âYeah, okay. But slow. I want to go slow.â
âYou always go slow.â You say and smile at him.
âBecause I want to remember it.â He kissed your shoulder, your collarbone, the hollow of your throat. âEvery time. I want to remember every time.â
He laid you back on the bed, slow and careful, like you were something precious. The sheets were cool against your bare back, and then he was over you, warm and solid, his weight pressing you into the mattress in the best possible way. He kissed you againâdeep, languid, the kind of kiss that was meant to take its timeâand his hands started to wander.
He undid your jeans. Button, zipper, the slide of denim down your thighs. You lifted your hips to help him, and he pulled them off, along with your socks, your underwear, everything. He sat back on his heels and looked at youâreally looked, from your flushed face to your parted lips to the way your hands were reaching for him.
âGod,â he said. âYou're perfect. You know that? You're fucking perfect.â He was out of breath.
âI'm not,â you said, laughing a little, that annoying timid tone in your voice for a bit. âI'm really not.â
âYou are to me.â He leaned down and kissed your stomach, just above your navel. Then lower. Then lower still. âYou're everything to me.â
He took his time. He always took his time. But tonight, there was something different in the way he touched youâsomething reverent, something desperate beneath the patience. He learned you with his hands and his mouth, found every place that made you gasp, made you moan, made you say his name like a prayer. And when you were shaking beneath him, when you were so close you could taste it, he stopped.
âBucky,â you begged. âPlease.â
âPlease what?â He was smiling. The bastard was smiling. His lips were wet just like his beard, his eyes dark, and he was smiling like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.
âPlease. I need you. I needââ
He kissed you then, hard and deep, and you felt him smile against your mouth, sharing your taste. âThat's what I wanted to hear.â
He stood up just long enough to shed his sweatpants and his boxers, and then he was back, skin to skin, and the heat of him was almost too much. He settled between your thighs, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, and he looked down at you with an expression so tender it made your chest ache.
âI love you,â he said. âI love you. I love you so fucking much, love.â
âI know,â you said. âI love you too. Now pleaseââ
He pushed inside you, slow and steady, and you both groaned at the same time. The stretch of it, the fullness, the way he filled you completelyâit was almost too much and not enough all at once. He paused when he was fully seated, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
âOkay?â he asked.
âOkay,â you said. âMore than okay. Move. Please move.â
He moved slowly at first, deep strokes that made your toes curl and your fingers dig into his shoulders. His metal forearm was braced beside your head, the plates shifting with every thrust, the hand was tangled in your hair, holding you like he was afraid you'd disappear. His flesh hand started making circles in your bundle of nerves, slow at first, knowing the rhythm you love. You held onto him, your legs locked around his waist, pulling him deeper, wanting more, wanting everything.
âYou feelââ he started, and then broke off with a groan. âYou feel so good. I can'tâI'm not going to lastââ
âThen don't,â you said. âI'm close. I'm so close. Justââ
He changed the angle, shifted his hips, and suddenly he was hitting somewhere new, somewhere that made stars burst behind your eyes. You cried outâloud, too loud, you didn't careâand he covered your mouth with his, swallowing the sound.
âThat's it,â he murmured against your lips. âThat's it, sweetheart. Let go. I've got you."â
And you did. You let go, falling apart beneath him, your body clenching around him as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through you. He followed right after, burying his face in your neck, his hips stuttering, a low, broken sound escaping his throat.
You held each other through it. Through the shaking and the aftershocks and the slow, steady return to reality. He didn't pull away. He stayed inside you, his weight on top of you, his face hidden in your neck, and you stroked his hair and waited for his breathing to even out.
âI love you,â he said again, his voice wrecked. âI love you. I love you.â
âI know,â you said, and kissed his temple. âI know. I love you too.â
You lay there for a long time, tangled up in each other and the rumpled sheets. His head was on your chest, and you could feel his heartbeat slowing, syncing up with yours. His metal arm was cool against your ribs, a familiar weight, and his flesh hand was tracing lazy patterns on your hip.
âSam's going to be insufferable,â he said eventually.
You laughed. The sound was muffled by his hair, but he felt it, and he smiled against your skin.
âYelena's worse,â you said.
âShe's going to want updates.â
âShe already asked for updates. I told her no.â
âGood.â He lifted his head to look at you. His eyes were soft, drowsy, the hard edges smoothed away by exhaustion and satisfaction. âThis is ours. Not theirs.â
âThis love is ours.â you said and smiled at him.
He kissed you, soft and slow, and then settled back down with his head on your chest. His phone was still on the nightstand, its screen dark. But you knew that when he woke it up tomorrow morningâwhen he pressed that button and saw your faceâhe'd smile. And maybe he'd roll his eyes at himself. And maybe he'd feel a little silly, a little soft, a little like the man he used to be before the world broke him.
But he'd smile. And that was enough.
Five days later, Sam walked into the common room to find Bucky Barnes sitting on the couch, staring at his phone with an expression of profound annoyance.
âWhat's wrong with you now?â Sam asked, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge.
âThe wallpaper changed again,â Bucky said flatly.
Sam leaned over his shoulder. The lock screen was no longer a photo of you. Instead, it was a photo of a cat wearing a tiny sombreroâthe exact same photo that had started this whole thing, months ago.
Neither of them said anything for a long moment.
Then Sam burst out laughing. Loud, obnoxious, can't-breathe laughter that doubled him over and made his eyes water.
âI'm going to kill her,â Bucky said, but he was smiling. Just a little. Just enough.
At least in front of Sam.
âShe's going to be your wife someday,â Sam wheezed. âYou know that, right? You're going to marry that woman, and she's going to change your lock screen to a cat wearing a sombrero too big for its body for the rest of your life.â
Bucky looked down at the photo. The cat was cute, he supposed. Stupid, but cute. And he could change it back. He knew how now. He could go into settings, choose a new wallpaper, put your face back where it belonged.
But first, he was going to call you. And you were going to laughâhe could already hear it, that bright, unself-conscious soundâand you were going to say, "Yelena must have gotten into your phone," and he was going to pretend to be annoyed, and then you were going to say something soft and sweet that made his chest ache, and he was going to forget all about the cat.
He unlocked his phone. Ignored Sam's lingering laughter. And called you.
You picked up on the first ring.
âHey, handsome,â you said. âWhat's wrong?â
âNothing,â he said. âWhy would something be wrong, honey? I just wanted to hear your voice.â
And in the background, he heard you smile.
Two years have passed and there was a different apartment. A different phone. A different name on the leaseâboth of yours, now.
Bucky woke up to sunlight streaming through the curtains and your body warm against his side. You were still asleep, your face pressed into his shoulder, your hand resting over his heart. The morning light caught the ring on your fingerâsimple, gold, perfectâand he still wasn't used to it. Still caught himself staring at it like he couldn't believe it was real.
You were his wife and he was your husband.
The thought still made his chest ache in the best possible way.
He didn't move. Didn't want to wake you. Just lay there, breathing, listening to the soft rhythm of your breath, watching the way your lashes fanned against your cheeks. You'd fallen asleep in his arms last night, tangled up and exhausted in the best way, and he'd stayed awake for a while just to watch you. Just to remind himself that this was real. That he was allowed to have this.
His phone was on the nightstand. He reached for it without thinking, pressed the button, and smiled.
The lock screen was a photo from your wedding day.
It was his favorite. The one where you were both laughingâyou in your white dress, him in his suit, your foreheads almost touching, his metal arm wrapped around your waist. Steve had taken it, right after the ceremony, when the two of you had slipped away from the crowd for just a moment. You'd said something funnyâhe couldn't even remember whatâand he'd laughed, really laughed, and you'd looked at him like he was the sun, and the photographer had captured it all.
He'd changed it himself. No help. No Googling. Just his own two hands and his own stubborn determination, because he loved you, and he wanted to see you first thing every morning for the rest of his life.
Now he saw you in white. Saw you laughing. Saw the way you looked at him, like he was someone worth looking at.
You stirred against him. Made a small, sleepy sound. âWhat time is it?â
âEarly,â he said. âGo back to sleep.â
âMmm.â You snuggled closer, your nose brushing his collarbone. âLove you, husband.â
His heart swelled. It was embarrassing, honestly, how much those two words affected him. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. âLove you too, wife.â
You smiled against his skin. He could feel it. And he thought about how far he'd comeâfrom a man who couldn't change his own lock screen to a man who had changed his entire life. From a man who didn't know how to want to a man who wanted nothing more than this. You. Here. Forever.
His phone went dark. He didn't press the button again. He didn't need to.
Your face was already right where he could see it.
Note It's just a silly little thing I wrote on my way back home so... don't expect too much, just expect Bucky Barnes. this is slightly suggestive so i recommend +18 only.
The first time it happened, Bucky didnât recognize himself.
Heâd spent decades as a ghostâsilent, efficient, lethal. The Winter Soldier didnât gasp. Didnât whimper. Didnât beg.
But you werenât a mission. You were his bed, his kitchen, his worn leather couch. You were the first person to look at his metal arm and not flinch. You were his... those were your words, not his.
âBucky,â you whispered, lips brushing the hinge of his jaw. âLet me hear you, honey.â
He tried to stay quiet. He always tried. But your fingers skimmed his hairline, and a sound punched out of himâlow, wrecked, almost pained. His hips jerked against yours.
âOh,â you breathed, delighted. âThere he is.â
His face burned. He buried it in your neck, but you wouldnât let him hide. You tugged his hair gently, tilting his head back.
âPlease,â he choked, not even sure what he was begging for. More. Slower. Everything.
You gave him slow. Torturous. The kind of sweet that made his thighs shake and his metal fingers dent the headboard. Every drag of your body pulled another broken sound from his chestâmoans that pitched high, then dropped into gravel. A sob caught in his throat when you stopped moving.
âWhyâd you stop?â he rasped, eyes wild.
You traced the hard line of his collarbone. âBecause youâre trying to swallow your sounds again.â
âCanât help it.â His voice cracked. ââs too much.â
âGood.â You rolled your hips once, sharp, and he keenedâopen, desperate, nothing like the silent soldier. âThatâs the point.â He could hear the smirk in your voice.
Later, youâd curl around him while he hid his face in your hair, mortified. âI sound like an idiot.â
âYou sound like someone who feels safe,â you said, kissing his vibranium shoulder. âAnd itâs the hottest thing Iâve ever heard.â
He didnât believe you. But when you reached for him again, his mouth fell openâand he let every shaky, shameless moan spill free.
HOLD ON TO THE MEMORIES, THEY WILL HOLD ON TO YOU... AND I WILL HOLD ON TO YOU
Pairing Bucky Barnes x Reader
Word Count 4.2 k
Note I have been thinking about this idea and well, what is Bucky Barnes without a bit of angst? I am sorry, they're so in love and are each other's anchor but sometimes... things happen but I swear they're gonna be okay... maybe.
The thing about Bucky Barnes was that he remembered too much. That was the problem everyone expected. The seventy years of ice and fire, the ghost of a face on a train, the cold whisper of a voice that wasnât his own telling him who he was supposed to be. The weight of it was a physical thing, a granite slab on his chest that made the simple act of drawing breath a conscious effort on the bad days.
You had known about that weight from the start. Youâd seen it in the way heâd sometimes stare at a steaming cup of coffee, his flesh hand frozen halfway to the handle, his eyes seeing not the chipped ceramic but the snows of the Alps. Youâd learned to navigate those moments with a quiet that was louder than any words, a gentle press of your hand to the small of his back, a low hum of a song you knew heâd liked from a time before. You were patient. You were a shoreline, and he was a battered ship, and you let him come to rest against you in his own time.
But what neither of you had anticipated, what the files in Wakanda and the gentle questions from Dr. Raynor hadnât fully prepared you for, was the forgetting.
It wasnât the big, dramatic erasures of his past. It was the small things. The tiny, silverfish moments of the life you were painstakingly building together that would sometimes slip through the cracks of his miraculously repaired but still irrevocably damaged mind.
The first time it happened, youâd been together for eight months. Heâd walked into the kitchen, a threadbare grey henley clinging to his shoulders, his hair still damp from the shower, and heâd opened the refrigerator. Heâd stood there for a long moment, the cold air ghosting over his face, before pulling out a jar of pickles. Not just any picklesâthe brand of spicy bread-and-butter pickles that you had spent three weeks searching for after heâd mentioned, in a rare moment of unguarded nostalgia, that his Ma used to make something like them.
He held the jar up, turning it over in his metal hand, a faint line appearing between his brows. âHey,â he said, his voice still rough with sleep. âSince when do we have these?â
You looked up from the stove where you were scrambling eggs, a spatula frozen mid-air. Your heart gave a strange, lurching stumble. âSince last Tuesday, love,â you said, keeping your voice light, your eyes searching his face. âWe went to that farmerâs market in Park Slope, remember? You said they were the closest youâd found to your momâs.â
He stared at the jar for another beat, then at you. The confusion in his eyes was not the deep, haunted fog of a PTSD episode. It was⌠blank. A tiny, pristine patch of white where a memory should have been. âPark Slope?â he echoed, the words tentative.
You set the spatula down, wiping your hands on your jeans. âYeah,â you said, moving to stand beside him. You didnât touch him, not yet, just leaned a shoulder against the refrigerator. âYou told me about the time you and Steve tried to make her recipe and nearly burned the whole apartment down.â
He looked from your face back to the jar. For a terrifying second, the blankness remained, a void that made your stomach clench. Then, slowly, something flickered in his eyes. A spark, then a glow. He let out a breath that was almost a laugh, a sound that was still too rare. âRight,â he said, the word a quiet exhalation. âThe fire department came. Mrs. OâMalley from downstairs was convinced we were running a bootleg operation.â He put the jar back on the shelf and closed the fridge door, turning to face you. He didnât apologize. Youâd agreed early on; No apologies for the scars the world had carved into him. Instead, he reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his flesh fingers lingering on the curve of it. âScrambled eggs?â he asked, his voice soft, the question a gentle redirection, a way of saying Iâm back.
You leaned into his touch for a second, letting the solid warmth of him reassure the frantic beat of your heart. âWith the good cheese.â you confirmed, and went back to the stove, your movements deliberate.
That was the pattern. It wasnât a deluge; it was a slow, persistent drip. A leak in the foundation of his present.
A month later, you were on the couch, a documentary about deep-sea creatures playing on the TV. He was sprawled out, his head in your lap, your fingers absently carding through his hair, which was getting long enough to curl at the ends. You loved this, these quiet evenings where the world outside your apartment ceased to exist. He was relaxed, a rare and precious state, his vibranium arm a cool, heavy weight across your thighs, his flesh hand resting on your knee, thumb tracing lazy circles on your jeans.
âLook at that,â you murmured, as a bioluminescent jellyfish bloomed across the screen, a cascade of otherworldly light in the abyssal dark. âItâs like a tiny galaxy.â
He hummed in agreement, his eyes half-lidded. âSteve wouldâve hated this,â he said, a hint of old affection in his voice. âToo quiet. Heâd be itching to go fight it.â
You smiled. âNot everything needs to be fought, Buck.â
âTell that to him,â he muttered, but there was a smile tugging at his lips.
A comfortable silence settled over you, broken only by the narratorâs low voice and the crackle of the sea. Your fingers continued their path through his hair, tracing the shell of his ear, the strong line of his jaw. You felt the exact moment it happened. The thumb on your knee stopped its circling. His body, which had been loose-limbed and heavy, went taut, just for a second.
He sat up slowly, his movements careful, as if navigating a room in the dark. He looked at the TV, then around the living roomâat the framed print of a French market youâd hung, at the well-worn copy of The Hobbit on the coffee table heâd been rereading, at the soft throw blanket youâd bought because he was always cold.
He looked at you.
âHey,â he said, and his voice was different. It wasnât panicked, but it was⌠cautious. As if he was testing the ground. âWhat are we watching?â
You felt the familiar lurch in your chest, but youâd learned to hide it, to smooth it over with a calm youâd had to cultivate. âDeep-sea documentary,â you said, keeping your voice as even as the ocean the narrator was describing. âThe one about the Mariana Trench.â
He nodded slowly, his brow furrowed. He looked from your face to the TV and back again. He lifted his metal hand, looking at it as if it might provide answers. âRight,â he said, but it was hollow. He didnât remember.
You didnât reach for him. Youâd learned that, too. Sometimes, touch felt like a trap when his mind was playing tricks on him. âYou picked it,â you said, a gentle prompt. âYou said you wanted to see if theyâd finally found anything weirder than a Hydra science division.â
His gaze sharpened on you, a flicker of the old Buckyâthe one with the sharp wit and the quick grinâcutting through the fog. âThatâs a low bar,â he said, the ghost of a sardonic edge to his voice. He looked at the screen again, where a frilled shark was gliding through the inky water, its prehistoric form eerie and magnificent. âI⌠I remember the shark,â he said slowly, the words coming with effort, like he was pulling them up from a deep well. âThe one with the⌠the frilly teeth.â
You nodded, a small smile on your face, your heart aching. âYou said it looked like something that wouldâve given Steve nightmares.â
A real laugh then, short and rusty, but real. He rubbed a hand over his face, the gesture exhausted. âYeah,â he breathed. âYeah, I did.â He leaned back against the couch, not quite returning to his previous position, but settling his shoulder against yours. He let his head fall back, staring at the ceiling. âItâs gone,â he said, the admission a whisper. âI was watching it. The jellyfish. The pretty ones that look like stars. And then⌠it just⌠wasnât there anymore.â
You turned your head, your cheek almost brushing his arm. You could feel the tension still humming through him, a low-voltage current of frustration and fear. âIt came back,â you said. âThe shark. The joke about Steve.â
âIt did,â he agreed, his jaw tight. He turned his head to look at you, and in the dim light of the TV, he looked younger, and more lost than youâd ever seen him. âBut what if next time it doesnât?â
It was the question that hung between you, unspoken, every time. The fear that one day, the blank spaces wouldnât just be about pickles and documentaries. That heâd look at you and see a stranger. That the life youâd so carefully woven together would unravel in his mind, thread by thread.
You didnât give him platitudes. Youâd never lied to him. âThen weâll build it again,â you said simply. âWeâre good at that.â
He stared at you for a long, breathless moment. Then, slowly, the tension in his jaw eased. He reached for your hand, his flesh fingers intertwining with yours, squeezing tight. He didnât say thank you. He didnât need to. He just pulled your hand to his chest, pressing your palm flat over the steady, sturdy beat of his heart, and turned his attention back to the screen, where the trench was giving way to a coral reef, a riot of color and life in the sunlit shallows.
The worst one, the one that carved a new worry-line beside your mouth, happened on a Sunday.
It was a good day. The best kind. Youâd woken up late, tangled in the sheets, the morning sun painting golden stripes across the bedroom floor. Heâd made breakfastâactual pancakes, from scratch, a recipe he said his sister Rebecca used to makeâand the apartment had smelled of vanilla and maple syrup. Youâd eaten on the small balcony, even though it was October and the air was crisp, huddled together in a thick blanket, sharing a mug of coffee. Heâd been laughing, really laughing, at some story you were telling about your own disastrous attempt to impress a high school crush with homemade pasta, his smile wide and unburdened, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
It was in the afternoon that it slipped.
You were cleaning up. A mundane, domestic task. You were at the sink, washing the pancake-mottled mixing bowl, humming a song that had been stuck in your head all week. He was beside you, drying a plate with a dish towel, the easy rhythm of your bodies moving in the small space a choreography born of months of proximity.
He was telling you about a new training protocol Sam had been developing, something about aerial combat maneuvers that sounded, in his words, "like a recipe for a spectacularly painful face-plant".
You laughed, rinsing the bowl. âIâm sure he knows what heâs doing.â
âYeah, well, âknowingâ and âdoingâ are two very different things when a vibranium wing pack is involved,â he grumbled, but there was no heat in it. He set the plate in the cabinet, his movements easy.
You handed him the now-clean bowl, and as he took it, his fingers brushed yours. A casual, everyday touch. His hand paused on the bowl. He didnât take it.
You looked up, expecting to see him lost in another memory, a distant look in his eyes. But his gaze wasnât distant. It was focused entirely on you, but with an intensity that was new, unsettling. He was looking at your face as if he were seeing it for the first time.
âHey,â he said, his voice soft, questioning. He put the bowl down on the counter without looking. His flesh hand came up, hovering just by your cheek, not quite touching. âYouâve got⌠thereâs flour, honey.â He gestured vaguely. âOn your⌠here.â His fingertip finally made contact, brushing gently over the apple of your cheek.
You smiled, leaning into the touch. âI know. Youâre the one who flicked it at me, remember? When I said the batter was too runny?â
He blinked. His hand dropped back to his side. The flicker of confusion was there, the blank patch spreading across his features like a stain. He looked from your face to the bowl, to the batter-splattered counter, to the sun streaming in from the balcony where youâd been huddled together not two hours ago. It was all there, the evidence of your shared morning, but his eyes said it didnât compute.
âWe⌠made pancakes?â he asked, the question small, uncertain.
Your stomach dropped. This was different. This wasnât a detail from a week ago. This was just couple hours ago. A memory still warm, still fragrant with maple syrup, and it was dissolving in his mind.
âYeah,â you said, keeping your voice steady, though your hand trembled slightly as you reached for the dish towel. âYou made your sister Rebeccaâs recipe. You said she used to make them on Sundays when your parents were at church.â
He stared at you, a war playing out behind his eyes. You could see him reaching, grasping for the thread of it. His jaw worked, a muscle ticking in his temple. He looked at his own hands, the flesh one and the metal one, as if they might hold the answer.
âRebecca,â he repeated, the name grounding him, a rock in the shifting sands. âBecca.â His gaze softened, a memory of the memory taking hold. âMy Becks, sheâshe would always put too many chocolate chips in mine. Ma would get mad at the mess.â
âYou put chocolate chips in mine this morning,â you said, your voice barely a whisper. You took a step closer, closing the small distance between you. You placed your hand on his chest, over his heart, feeling the rapid, anxious beat. âAnd then you flicked flour at me.â
He closed his eyes. His hand came up to cover yours, pressing it harder against his chest. He stood there for a long moment, just breathing, his forehead dipping to rest against yours. You could feel the fine tremor running through him, the sheer force of will it was taking for him to hold onto the present moment.
âIâm sorry,â he finally rasped, the words youâd told him he never had to say.
âDonât,â you said, your own voice thick. âWhat did we say?â
âNo apologies,â he recited, the words automatic, but his voice was strained, cracking at the edges. He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the expression on his face was one of raw, unvarnished terror. âItâs getting worse.â
âItâs not getting worse,â you countered, though a cold tendril of fear coiled in your own gut. âItâs the same. Itâs just⌠itâs a good day, Buck. A really good day. Your brain isâŚâ you searched for the right word, ââŚrelaxed. Sometimes the holes are bigger when youâre relaxed.â
He let out a humorless laugh. âA great system. I have to be on guard against happiness.â
You framed his face with your hands, your thumbs stroking the sharp line of his cheekbones. âNo,â you said firmly. âYou donât. Because Iâm here. And Iâll remember for both of us.â
He looked at you for a long, agonizing moment, the fear slowly receding from his eyes, replaced by something deeper, something that looked like gratitude and love and a bone-deep exhaustion all mixed together. He turned his head, pressing a kiss to your palm.
âThe pancakes were good,â he said, his voice hoarse but steadier now. âBeccaâs recipe. I remember⌠I remember they were good.â
You smiled, and it was watery, but it was real. âThey were perfect.â
He pulled you into his arms then, a full-body embrace, wrapping himself around you like you were the only solid thing in a world made of shifting sand. You held him back just as tightly, your cheek pressed to his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow from its frantic pace to a steady, grounding rhythm.
It became your secret. Yours alone. He didnât tell Sam, who would look at him with that earnest, worried frown and start talking about support groups and neurology specialists. He didnât tell Steve, who was on the moon or in another dimension or whatever it was that retired super-soldiers did, and who would drop everything to come back and try to fix it with a stubborn optimism that Bucky no longer had the energy for. He didnât tell the Wakandans, who would see it as a flaw in their programming, a bug to be fixed, and would whisk him away to a sterile lab.
He told only you.
And you held it for him. You held the memories of the Saturday mornings and the spontaneous walks in the park and the inside jokes that were born and died in the span of a single conversation. You became the archivist of your life together.
You kept a journal. Not a secret one, but one you left on the coffee table, its cover worn, its pages filled with your neat handwriting. Youâd never told him about it, but you knew heâd seen it. Heâd never said anything, but youâd seen the way his eyes would linger on it sometimes, a mix of curiosity and something like relief.
It was a safety net. A map back.
October 14th: Tried to make Beccaâs pancakes. Bucky flicked flour at me. I retaliated with maple syrup. The kitchen is a disaster zone. Worth it.
October 21st: Walked to the pier. Bucky fed the seagulls even though I told him not to. He says theyâre âveterans of the sky.â One of them stole his hat.
November 5th: Movie night. He picked 'Mean Girls' just because. He laughed at all the right parts. He held my hand the whole time. He said Regina Georgehas nothing on him. I said I know.
November 18th: Found him standing in front of the open fridge again, staring at the pickles. He asked if weâd always had them. I said yes. I told him the story about the farmerâs market again, and about Steve and the fire department. He listened like it was the first time heâd ever heard it. When I finished, he said, âYou have a good memory.â I said, âI have to. One of us does.â He didnât laugh. He just pulled me into a hug and held on for a long, long time.
Some nights, heâd find you writing in it. Heâd lean against the doorframe of the living room, arms crossed over his chest, watching the pen move across the page. He never asked what you were writing. He didnât need to.
One night, he walked over and sat on the couch beside you, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours. He was quiet for a long moment, the weight of him a familiar, comforting presence. Then, without a word, he reached for the journal.
You let him take it, your heart suddenly pounding in your chest.
He didnât open it. He just held it in his hands, running his flesh thumb over the worn cover, feeling the impressions your pen had left on the pages beneath. He stared at it for a long, silent minute, the lamplight catching the blue of his eyes, making them look almost translucent.
âIâm scared,â he said, his voice so low it was almost lost in the quiet hum of the apartment. âThat one day Iâll look at you and I wonât just forget the pancakes or the pickles or the damn jellyfish.â He finally looked up, meeting your eyes. âIâm scared Iâll forget⌠this. Us. What it feels like to⌠to be here. With you.â
Your throat tightened. Youâd had this fear too, of course you had, but hearing him say it, hearing the raw, unguarded terror in his voice, made it real in a way youâd been fighting to keep at bay.
You reached out, taking the journal from his hands and setting it aside on the coffee table. Then you took his face in your hands, the same way you had in the kitchen that Sunday, forcing him to look at you.
âThen Iâll remind you,â you said, your voice fierce despite the tears you could feel pricking at your eyes. âEvery single day. Iâll tell you about the first time you let me touch your metal arm. Iâll tell you about the way you look when you laugh at your own jokes, even when theyâre not funny. Iâll tell you about the night you woke up screaming and I held you for three hours and you told me about Steve, about falling, about all of it, and then you fell asleep with your head in my lap and I never moved, not once, because I didnât want you to wake up alone.â
A tear slipped down his cheek. He didnât wipe it away.
âIâll tell you,â you continued, your voice breaking, âabout how you make pancakes on Sundays and flick flour at me. About how you think seagulls are veterans of the sky. About how you hold my hand when we watch old movies. Iâll tell you until my voice gives out, Buck. Iâll tell you until you remember, or Iâll tell you until it becomes a new memory, and then Iâll tell you again. Iâm not going anywhere.â
He made a sound then, something between a sob and a laugh, and he pulled you into him, burying his face in your hair. His arms wrapped around you, the metal arm cool through your shirt, the flesh arm burning hot, and he held you like you were the only thing anchoring him to the earth.
âI love you,â he whispered into your hair, the words muffled but unmistakable. âI donât want to forget that I love you.â
You squeezed your eyes shut, the tears finally falling, soaking into his shirt. âYou wonât,â you said, and you willed it to be true with every fiber of your being. âBecause Iâll be here to remind you. Every day. As many times as you need.â
He held you tighter, and for a long time, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the soft hum of the refrigerator, the distant wail of a siren from the street below, and the steady, synchronizing rhythm of your breathing.
Eventually, he pulled back, just enough to look at you. His eyes were red-rimmed, his cheeks wet, but there was something in his face that hadnât been there before. A loosening. A letting go. He looked at youâreally lookedâand a small, tremulous smile touched his lips.
âYou have flour on your cheek,â he said, his voice rough.
You let out a startled laugh, wiping at your face with the back of your hand. âItâs not flour, itâsââ
âI know,â he said softly. He reached up, his flesh hand cupping your jaw, his thumb brushing away a tear. âIâm just⌠Iâm making a new memory.â
Your breath caught in your throat. You stared at him, at the man who had been broken and rebuilt and broken again, who had more reasons than anyone to give up, and you saw him choosing, in this moment, to hold on. To you. To this. To the life you were building in the spaces between the seconds he lost.
You turned your head, pressing a kiss to his palm. âThatâs a good one,â you whispered. âA really good one.â
He leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours, and for a moment, the world outside the small circle of lamplight ceased to exist. There was no Hydra, no Winter Soldier, no blank spaces or lost memories. There was only him, and you, and the quiet, radical act of staying.
âTell me another one,â he murmured, his eyes falling closed. âFrom the journal. The one about the seagull.â
You smiled, shifting closer, letting your body curve into his. Your fingers found his, intertwining, and you began to speak, your voice a low, steady current in the quiet room.
âOctober 21st,â you said, and you could feel him settle against you, the tension draining from his shoulders, his breath evening out. âWalked to the pier. Bucky fed the seagulls even though I told him not toâŚâ
And as you spoke the memory back into existence, weaving it into the air between you with the patient, practiced ease of someone who had become fluent in the language of remembering, you felt him squeeze your hand.
Note I've been having this idea for a very long, long time and now that it's here... I am not sure, I hope it's not that stupid haha Bucky is not sad this time and that's a win for me.
The quantum tunnel hissed as it powered down, the air in the Avengers compound crackling with residual chroniton particles. You stumbled out, Sam right behind you, both of you looking like youâd just run a marathon through a hurricane.
âStatus?â Steveâs voice was a sharp, worried bark from the control platform.
âWe got it,â Sam wheezed, holding up the inert Tesseract cube in a lead-lined case. âBut man, 1943 is a hell of a vibe. Very⌠sepia.â
You werenât listening. You were standing stock still, your gaze locked on the vault door of the compoundâs hangar where you knew heâd be waiting. He was always waiting. The man youâd painstakingly, lovingly pieced your life together with over the last three years.
Bucky was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, a portrait of stoic relief. His dark hair was pulled back, his metal arm glinting dully under the fluorescent lights. He was all sharp angles, weary eyes, and the quiet, banked intensity of a man who had learned to be still after a century of storms.
You started walking towards him, a tired smile forming, when Steveâs hand on your arm stopped you.
âHey,â Steve said, his voice low, his blue eyes filled with a strange, unreadable emotion. âYou okay? The mission⌠it went smooth, right?â
âSmooth as time-travel gets,â you confirmed, trying to shrug him off. Your heart was already reaching for Bucky. âWe were in and out. Didnât even make a ripple.â
âYou didnât⌠run into anyone you shouldnât have?â Steve pressed, his gaze flickering between you and Bucky.
You finally looked at him, a flicker of confusion in your chest. âWe were in an abandoned warehouse district, Steve. The only people we saw were a couple of patrol officers two blocks away.â
Steveâs jaw tightened, but he nodded, releasing your arm. âOkay. Good. Glad youâre back.â
He let you go, and you closed the distance to Bucky. He unfolded his arms, pulling you into a fierce embrace. His scentâleather, gun oil, and the clean scent of his soapâenveloped you. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, and for a moment, the weird tension Steve had stirred up vanished.
âTold you not to worry, handsome.â you murmured against his skin.
He pulled back, his hands framing your face, his stormy grey eyes scanning every inch of you like he was cataloguing you back into existence. âI always worry,â he said, his voice a low rumble. âDonât go anywhere for a while, alright?â
âWouldnât dream of it,â you said, leaning into his touch.
But you felt it. A subtle shift. A tremor in his fingers that had nothing to do with you. He was looking at you, but his gaze was distant, troubled.
Later that night, in the quiet of your shared quarters, the truth came out. You were curled up on the couch, your head in his lap, when he spoke.
âSteve told me.â
You went rigid. âTold you what?â
âWhere you went. When you went.â His voice was flat, the way it got when he was trying to control a storm inside him. âThe warehouse district in Brooklyn. That specific July night in 1943.â
Your heart plummeted. You sat up, turning to face him. âBucky, it was just a drop-off point. We were there for maybe forty minutes.â
âI was there that night,â he said, not looking at you. He was staring at the metal fingers of his left hand, flexing them one by one. âShipping out for England the next morning. I was⌠I was walking a dame home. A girl Iâd met at a USO dance a few weeks prior. We cut through that district to avoid the rain.â
The air left your lungs. Oh, God.
âSteve said the chroniton trail was faint, but it was there. You and Sam were two blocks away.â He finally met your eyes, and the pain there was so raw it stole your breath. âYou were there. In my world. And I was right there. I could have seen you.â
âYou wouldnât have,â you said, your voice a whisper. âWe were careful. We didnât interact with anyone. We didnât change anything.â
âBut you saw him, didnât you?â he asked, the question sharp, cutting through your defense.
You wanted to lie. The instinct to protect him, to protect this, was overwhelming. But the look on his face demanded the truth.
ââŚYes.â
It had been a fluke. A brief moment of downtime while Sam recalibrated the tunnelâs return coordinates. Youâd stepped out of the abandoned warehouse for some fresh air, pulling your period-appropriate cap down low. The rain had just started, a soft drizzle that slicked the cobblestones.
And then you saw him.
He was on the other side of the street, laughing. His laugh was a sound you knew intimately, but this version was different. It was lighter, freer, untethered from decades of nightmares. He was in his army uniform, the jacket unbuttoned, his hat held over his heart as he said goodnight to a pretty blonde girl on a stoop. He helped her up the steps, tipped his hat, and then turned, jogging back down into the rain.
He was about to cross the street. Your street. He was going to walk right past you.
You should have gone back inside. You knew you should have. But your feet were rooted to the spot. This was Bucky. Your Bucky but it wasnât yours at the same time. His cheeks were fuller, his jaw unclenched, his eyes clear of the ghosts that haunted your lover. He was young, whole, and utterly, devastatingly innocent of the horrors that awaited him.
He spotted you.
His step faltered. For a second, his gaze just⌠held. The rain was falling harder now, plastering strands of his dark hair to his forehead. He didnât leer or catcall. He just looked at you with an expression of such open, guileless wonder that it felt like a physical blow to your chest.
He smiled. It was a small, almost shy thing, a stark contrast to the confident charmer Steve told you about or that you read in some books.
âExcuse me, miss,â he said, his voice carrying over the rain. It was the same voice, but without the gravel. âI know this is forward, but Iâhave we met?â
You shook your head, your voice trapped in your throat.
He took a step closer, his hat now held in front of him like a shield. âAre you lost? Itâs not a good part of town for a dame to be out alone this late.â
You managed a weak smile, forcing the word out. âWaiting for my⌠my brother. Heâll be out in a minute.â
He nodded, but he didnât move to leave. He just stood there, a respectful distance away, letting the rain soak his uniform jacket. He looked at you like you were the only source of light in the entire borough.
âIâm James but my friends call me Bucky. You can call me whatever you want, doll.â he said, and the simple introduction, devoid of any recognition of the Winter Soldier, of Hydra, of a hundred years of pain, almost made you sob. âI was just about to head home. I could wait with you, if youâd like. Make sure you get back safe.â
Your heart was screaming. This was the man you love. Unbroken. Pure. And he was looking at you with the first stirrings of something you recognized instantlyâthe same devotion your Bucky showed you every single day.
You whispered your name and you donât know why it felt like a betrayal.
His smile widened, crinkling the corners of his eyes and he repeated it as if tasting the word. âThatâs a pretty name for a⌠pretty woman who appears out of thin air in the rain.â
He said it as a joke, a charming line, but the way his eyes searched yours said he felt it, too. That cosmic click. The soul-deep recognition that transcended logic.
You saw Samâs silhouette appear in the warehouse doorway. âHey! Weâre good to go!â
Panic seized you. You looked back at young Bucky. âI have to go.â
The light in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a flicker of desperate confusion. âWait,â he said, reaching out a hand but stopping himself. âWill I see you again? Iâm shipping out tomorrow, butâIâll be back. I always come back, no matter what. Just tell me where to find you.â
The words were a knife. I always come back.
âGoodbye, Bucky,â you said, your voice breaking and a painful smile plastered on tour face.
You turned and walked away, forcing yourself not to look back. You heard him call out one more time, saying your name. âPlease! I want to see you one more time.â
Sam had to physically pull you into the warehouse. âWhat the hell were you doing? We canât interact with anyone!â
You didnât answer. You just stood there, trembling, as the quantum tunnel enveloped you, the image of young Buckyâs hopeful, heartbroken face seared into your memory.
Now, back in your quarters, you sat across from your Bucky, the silence between you heavy with the ghost of his past self.
âHe was so... good,â you finally said, the tears youâd been holding back since that night finally spilling over. âHe was kind and sweet and he just looked at me like I was a miracle and he didnât have any of the nightmares yet. He was going to ship out to war and he was happy.â
Buckyâs jaw was a granite line. He didnât speak.
âAnd I wanted to tell him,â you confessed, the words tumbling out in a rush. âI wanted to grab him and scream, âDonât get on that train! Donât go with Steve! Your life won't be the sameââ You took a shuddering breath. âI could have saved him. I could have saved that Bucky. I could have saved you, Bucky but then⌠then youâŚâ
He finished your sentence, his voice hollow. âThen I wouldnât be here.â
You looked at him then, really looked. At the shadows under his eyes. At the way his metal hand was clamped around his flesh wrist like he was holding himself together. At the man who woke up screaming some nights, who flinched at sudden movements, who had spent decades being unmade and had somehow, against all odds, pieced himself back into someone who knew how to love you.
And the guilt youâd been carrying since that night in the rain finally found its voice.
âIâm selfish,â you said, and the words came out broken, ugly, raw. âBucky, Iâm so fucking selfish.â
He frowned, confusion cutting through his pain. âWhat are you talking about?â
âI could have saved him,â you repeated, your voice cracking. âI had the knowledge. I had the chance. I could have told him everythingâHydra, the train, Zola, all of it. I could have changed his trajectory. Maybe he would have deserted. Maybe he would have gone into hiding. Maybe he would have lived some quiet life in some small town, gotten married, had kids, grown old with all his limbs and all his memories intact. He would have been happy, Bucky. Truly happy. Without seventy years of being erased. Without Hydra in his head. Withoutââ your voice broke entirely, ââwithout any of this.â
You gestured at him, at the room, at the life youâd built together.
âBut I didnât,â you whispered. âI walked away. I let him ship out. I let him fall off that train. I let Hydra take him. Because if I saved himâif I saved that Buckyâthen this Bucky wouldnât exist. The one who came back. The one who fought through decades of brainwashing. The one who held me after every bad night. The one who learned to make my coffee exactly how I like it. The one Iââ your voice gave out, a sob catching in your throat.
You looked down at your hands, unable to meet his eyes.
âI looked at that sweet, innocent man in the rain, and I chose you. I chose us. I chose this timeline, this version, thisââ you laughed bitterly, ââthis selfish, comfortable love that only exists because that man got tortured for seventy years. Because he got his arm ripped off. Because he was turned into a weapon. Because he suffered in ways I canât even imagine.â
The tears were streaming down your face now, hot and relentless.
âWhat kind of person does that make me?â you asked, your voice barely a whisper. âWhat kind of person looks at someone she loves and thinks, I know how to save you from hell, but I wonât, because the version of you that comes out of that hell is the one who loves me back?â
You finally looked up at him, and your face was a wreck of grief and shame.
âI saw the life I could have given him,â you said. âA good life. A whole life. And I chose to let him burn so I could keep you. Thatâs not love. Thatâs⌠thatâs consumption. Thatâs me putting my happiness over his entire existence. Over his soul.â
You wrapped your arms around yourself, shaking.
âHe looked at me like I was a miracle,â you choked out. âAnd I was the one who sent him to his death. Because I was too selfish to let him go.â
The silence that followed was deafening. You couldnât bring yourself to look at Bucky. You were afraid of what youâd seeâdisgust, maybe, or worse, that hollow agreement that confirmed everything youâd just said about yourself.
But then his hands were on you.
His flesh hand cupped your face, tilting it up, while his metal hand gripped your hip, anchoring you. His eyes werenât hollow. They were fierce, blazing with an intensity that stole the breath from your lungs.
There was nothing but love and devotion in those blue eyes.
âListen to me,â he said, his voice low and rough. âAnd I need you to hear what Iâm saying, because Iâm only going to say it once.â
You stared at him, trembling.
âYou didnât send anyone to their death,â he said, each word deliberate, precise, like he was loading a weapon. âZola did. Schmidt did. Fucking Hydra did. Not you. You are not responsible for the choices of monsters.â
âBut I could haveââ
âYou could have what?â he cut you off, his grip tightening. âRisked creating a paradox that unravels the entire timeline? Risked stranding yourself in 1943 with no way back? Risked Samâs life? Risked Steveâs existence? Risked the fate of everyone who ever lived because one soldier might get saved?â
You opened your mouth, but he kept going.
âAnd letâs say you did it,â he said, his voice dropping. âLetâs say you told him. Letâs say he believed you. Letâs say he avoided the train. You think that means he gets a happy life? You think Hydra just⌠gives up? You think Zola doesnât find another soldier? You think the war just ends and Bucky Barnes goes home to Brooklyn and lives happily ever after?â
He let out a harsh breath.
âIâve played this game,â he said. âIâve spent a hundred nights lying awake thinking about every moment I could have done something different. Every alley I could have avoided. Every order I could have disobeyed. Itâs a maze with no exit, sweetheart. There is no version of my story that doesnât end in blood. The only difference is whose.â
You were crying harder now, but you couldnât look away from him.
âAnd hereâs the thing youâre not understanding,â he said, his voice cracking for the first time. âThat boy in the rain? The one who looked at you like a miracle? Heâs not gone. Heâs not some separate person I used to be. Heâs in here.â He pressed his flesh hand over his heart. âAs much as I love to say I no longer know him, baby.â
His thumbs were wiping your tears but they still keep coming out.
âHeâs the part of me that trusted Steve enough to follow him into a warzone. Heâs the part of me that pulled me out of the ice when Hydra tried to freeze me for good. Heâs the part of me that saw you years ago, and thought, there she is. Thereâs the face Iâve been looking for since before I knew what looking meant. Felt like a miracle, baby, one of those things I thought I lost after all the shit.â His voice broke on the last words.
âYou didnât choose to let him burn,â he said, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. âYou chose to love the man who crawled out of the fire. Thatâs not selfish. Thatâs the most unselfish thing anyoneâs ever done for me. Because you didnât just take the easy parts. You took all of it. The nightmares, the triggers, the days I canât get out of bed, the nights I wake up screaming. You took the version of me thatâs held together with scars and guilt and whatever pieces I could salvage. And you didnât flinch.â
You shook your head, trying to pull away. âBut I could have saved you from all of thatââ
âNo,â he said, his voice sharp. âYou could have saved a version of me that never knew you. A version of me that went to war and came back different anyway, because war changes people, sweetheart. It always does. A version of me that might have met some other girl, married her, had a life, and died of old age never knowing that somewhere out there, the woman his soul was reaching for was standing in the rain watching him walk away.â
He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes.
âYou think thatâs a better ending?â he asked. âYou think Iâd trade thisâyou, us, the first real happiness Iâve had since 1943âfor a life where I never knew what it felt like to be loved by you?â
âBut the pain you went throughââ
âIs mine,â he said simply. âItâs mine. Itâs part of me. And Iâm not saying Iâm grateful for it, because Iâm not. Iâm not grateful for a single thing Hydra did to me. But I am grateful that I survived it. I am grateful that I found my way back. And I am grateful, every single day, that you looked at the wreckage of what they made me and decided I was worth loving anyway.â
He pressed his lips to your forehead, then to each of your cheeks, tasting the salt of your tears.
âYou didnât send that man to his death,â he murmured against your skin. âYou mourned him. You carried him with you. And then you came home to the man he became. Thatâs not selfish. Thatâs love. Thatâs the kind of love that says, I see all of you. Every version. Every scar. And Iâm not leaving.â
You were sobbing now, your fists clenched in his shirt, and he just held you, his arms wrapped around you so tight it was almost hard to breathe.
âIâm jealous of him,â he admitted quietly after a long moment.
You let out a wet, confused laugh. âYouâre jealous of the man you just told me I shouldnât feel guilty about sacrificing?â
He huffed a soft laugh too, his thumb tracing circles on your back. âHe got to meet you for the first time. He got to feel that lightning strike without any of the baggage. He got to look at you and think, maybe the world isnât so bad after all.â He smiles at you, barely there but you saw it mostly on his eyes. âHe got to see you wearing one of those outfits from those days, honey.â He winks at you.
You pulled back, wiping your face with the back of your hand while a small laugh is finally out of your system. âAnd what do you get?â
He looked at you thenâreally lookedâand the intensity in his eyes made your breath catch.
âI get to keep you,â he said simply. âI get to wake up next to you. I get to fall asleep with your heartbeat under my ear. I get to learn every sound you make, every expression you wear, every way you say my name. I get to love you with all the pieces of me that survived. And that,â he said, his voice dropping to a whisper, âis more than that man in the rain could have ever dreamed of.â
You stared at him, your chest aching with a tangle of grief and relief and love so fierce it almost scared you.
âIâm still selfish,â you said quietly. âI still chose you being here.â
He shook his head slowly. âYou chose us. And sweetheart, thatâs not selfish. Thatâs the only choice thatâs ever mattered.â
He kissed you then, soft and slow, like he had all the time in the world. Like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth all over again. When he pulled back, his eyes were wet too, but he was smilingâthat small, genuine smile that was just for you.
âNow,â he said, his voice rough but warm, âI believe you owe me a night of not leaving this bed. And maybe some of those pancakes you make when youâre trying to apologize for things that arenât your fault.â
You laughed, the sound watery but real. âPancakes at midnight?â
âBest kind,â he said, pulling you toward the kitchen. âAnd then, Iâm gonna show you exactly how not-jealous I am of a version of me who only got to see you for five minutes in the rain.â
He shot you a look over his shoulder, and for a moment, you saw himâthe man in the rain, the soldier, the survivor, the man who had crawled through hell to find his way home.
Your selfishness, you realized, wasnât in choosing him.
It was in thinking you ever had a choice at all.
In the quiet of the compound kitchen, with Buckyâs arms around you and the scent of pancakes filling the air, the ghost of a man in the rain finally, peacefully, let go.
Note WHAT IS GOING ON? WHAT AM I DOING? idk, I just like some sweet and fluffy sex thing, forgive me, I guess. Again, my attempt to smut isn't a very detailed thing but I am trying my best, forgive this soul that used to write really raunchy things when she shouldn't be doing that. Again, this is only +18, so please, please, please, put attention to that.
The apartment was quiet when Bucky finally let himself in, the kind of deep, settling quiet that only exists in the small hours of the night when the rest of the world has long since given up and gone to bed. The lock turned with a soft click that seemed deafening in the silence, and he stood for a moment in the doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. Old habit. The kind that never really went away, no matter how many years put themselves between him and the war, him and the Winter Soldier, him and all the versions of himself that had learned to map a room for exits before he ever learned to breathe easy in one.
The living room was empty, the city lights filtering in through the window and casting long, pale rectangles across the floor. His stupid coffee mug was still on the side table, the one that said "World's Okayest Avenger" that he knew for a fact Yelena had bought him as a joke last Christmas, and a blanket was draped over the back of the couch where he'd left it four nights before. Everything was exactly as it should be. Exactly as he'd left it.
He let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
The mission had run long. What was supposed to be a simple in-and-out, a quick extraction in ConstanČa, had turned into three days of bad coffee, worse intelligence, and a firefight that left his left shoulder aching in that particular way it always did when he'd pushed the arm past its limits. He was running on fumes, his eyes gritty with exhaustion, his hair was a fucking mess and all he wantedâall he wantedâwas to fall into bed and not think about anything for at least eight hours.
He toed off his boots by the door, the thud of them hitting the floorboards louder than he intended, and winced. He stood still for a moment, listening.
The soft glow of a phone screen spilled out from the crack in the bedroom door, just a sliver of blue-white light against the dark hallway. His chest loosened, just a fraction.
You were still up.
He moved through the apartment on instinct, checking the locks even though he'd watched you do it on the security feed three hours ago, making sure the window in the kitchen was latched, running his flesh hand along the edge of the living room curtains the way he always did before he could let himself settle. It wasn't that he didn't trust you to handle things while he was gone. It was that his body didn't know how to stop doing it. The checklist was etched into him, a program running in the background of his operating system that he couldn't figure out how to uninstall.
When he finally pushed open the bedroom door, the sight that greeted him was one he'd been holding in his chest like a talisman for the last three days.
You were sprawled across the bed like you'd tried to wait up and lost the battle somewhere along the way. The covers were a tangled mess around your legs, and you were propped against the headboard with about six pillows stacked behind youâa collection you'd amassed over the months because he'd complained once, just once, that the ones you'd originally bought were too flat, and you'd taken it as a personal mission to turn their bed into a pillow fort. Your sleep shirt had ridden up to mid-thigh and you were scrolling through your phone with the kind of sleepy, unfocused attention that said you weren't really reading anything, just waiting.
You didn't look up when he came in, but he saw the corner of your mouth twitch.
âYou're supposed to be sleeping, baby.â he said, and his voice came out rougher than he intended. He hadn't spoken in nearly four hours, since he'd radioed Sam to let him know they were wheels down, and the words scraped against his throat.
âI was waiting for you.â You still didn't look up, your thumb swiping lazily across the screen. âTook you long enough. What, did you have to stop and check every shadow for the boogeyman?â
He didn't answer. He was too tired for the usual back-and-forth, the easy rhythm of teasing that usually came as naturally to him as breathing. His shoulder was a dull, persistent throb, and there was a ringing in his ears that he knew would fade once he got some sleep, but right now it was making everything feel distant, muffled, like he was moving through water.
He pulled his shirt over his head, the motion sending a fresh spike of pain through his shoulder that he was careful not to let show on his face. The fabric hit the floor, and he unbuckled his belt, let his tactical pants fall, stepped out of them. He was down to his boxers, he didn't have the energy for his pajamas tonight.
The bed dipped under his weight as he crawled in behind you. He didn't go for his usual side, didn't bother with the whole elaborate routine of settling in. He just moved.
His flesh hand found your waist, fingers splaying across the warm skin where your shirt had ridden up, and he pulled. You let out a small, surprised sound as he tugged you back against him, your spine fitting against his chest like it was made to be there. He pressed his face into the curve of your neck, right where your shoulder met your throat, and inhaled.
God.
You smelled like your shampoo, something with vanilla and sandalwood, and underneath that, just you. The scent that meant home, that meant safety, that meant he could let his guard down for the first time in seventy-two hours. His metal arm came around to brace against the mattress in front of you, taking some of his weight, while his flesh arm stayed wrapped around your waist, his hand flat against your stomach, holding you flush against him.
âBuck,â you said, and there was a question in your voice, a soft note of concern. Your phone had gone dark, forgotten on the nightstand. âHey. You okay?â
He didn't answer right away. He just breathed. In through his nose, out through his mouth, letting the rhythm of your pulse against his lips steady something inside him that had been rattling loose for three days.
âTired.â he finally said, and the word was an understatement so vast it was almost laughable. He was tired in ways that sleep couldn't fix. Tired of the missions, tired of the violence, tired of the weight in his chest that never quite went away no matter how many years passed. Tired of coming home with blood under his fingernails and the echo of gunfire in his ears and the need to scrub himself clean before he could let himself touch you.
But he was here now. And you were warm, and soft, and real in a way that the last three days hadn't been.
His hand slid down, just a little, just enough that his thumb brushed the waistband of your shorts. He felt you go still beneath him, your breath catching.
âJames.â you said again, and this time there was something else in your voice. Not concern, not anymore. Something warmer. âYou need to sleep, love.â
âI know.â His lips brushed against your neck as he spoke, his stubble scraping against your skin. He felt you shiver. âNeed this first. Need you.â
You turned your head, trying to look at him, and he lifted his face just enough to meet your eyes. Even in the dim light, he could see the way you were looking at himâthat soft, searching look you got sometimes, like you were trying to read the fine print on a contract written in a language you didn't quite speak. You lifted a hand, your fingers brushing against his jaw, tracing the line of his cheekbone.
âYou're running on empty,â you murmured. âYou know that, right?â
âI know.â He turned his head, pressing a kiss to the palm of your hand. âBut I've been gone three days. Haven't touched you in three days.â His voice dropped, rougher now, something darker bleeding into it. âNeed to feel you. Need to remember what it's like when everything's quiet.â
He kisses each of your fingers. âCan I? Would you let me, honey? Please? It'll be good for you.â He asks in that soft and calm voice.
Something shifted in your expression. Understanding, maybe. Or resignation. Or maybe just the same kind of bone-deep need that was clawing at his chest, the kind that didn't care about exhaustion or the late hour or the fact that he should have been asleep ten minutes ago.
You reached back, your hand finding his thigh, your fingers curling into the muscle there. âOkay,â you said softly. âOkay, Buck.â
That was all the permission he needed.
He moved you gently, rolling you onto your stomach with a hand on your hip, and you went willingly, a soft sound escaping your lips as you settled against the mattress. Your hair was spread across the pillow and he had to pause for a moment just to look. Just to remind himself that this was real. That you were real. That he got to come home to this, to you, to the way your body curved beneath his hands like it was waiting for him.
His metal hand came to rest on the back of your neck, the cool weight of it settling against your skin. He didn't apply pressureânot yetâjust let it rest there, a reminder, a promise. His other hand found the waistband of your shorts, tugging them down along with your panties over the curve of your ass, down your thighs, until you could kick them off somewhere at the foot of the bed. You were left in just your sleep shirt, rucked up around your ribs, and he made a low sound in his chest at the sight of you.
âFuck,â he breathed. âYou have no idea what you do to me.â
You turned your head, your cheek pressed to the pillow, feeling him on the back of your thigh, a sleepy smile playing at your lips. âI think I have some idea.â
He huffed a laugh, the first real one since he'd left, and it loosened something in his chest. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your shoulder blade, then another to the curve of your spine, then another, lower, his lips dragging against your skin, his stubble leaving a faint tingling in its wake. He took his time, even though his body was screaming at him to hurry, even though he was so hard it was almost painful. This part mattered. This partâthe slow, deliberate mapping of your skin, the way you sighed and arched beneath his mouthâthis was what he'd been missing.
âBucky,â you breathed, and his name in your mouth was a prayer, was a benediction, was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
He settled between your legs, his thighs bracketing yours, and the position brought his chest flush against your back, his face pressed into the curve of your neck. He could feel everythingâthe warmth of you, the soft give of your body beneath his, the way your breath hitched when he rolled his hips against yours. He was still in his boxers, you were bare beneath him, and the thin cotton was the only thing separating you.
He reached down, hooking his fingers into the waistband, and pulled back from you just enough to let him push them down. He kicked them away blindly, not caring where they landed, and then he was against you, skin to skin, the heat of you making his eyes flutter shut.
âOkay?â he asked, and his voice was rough, strained, the word barely more than a breath.
âYeah.â Your hand found his, fingers intertwining, and you squeezed. âYeah, Buck. I've got you.â
He pushed inside you with a slow, steady pressure, the kind that let you feel every inch of him, and the sound you madeâa soft, broken little gaspâwent straight through him like a live wire. He had to stop for a moment, his forehead pressed to your shoulder, his breath coming in harsh, uneven bursts. His hand was still wrapped around yours, pinned against the mattress by your hip, and his metal arm was braced beside your head, taking his weight.
âShit,â he breathed. âShit, you feelââ He couldn't finish the sentence. Didn't have the words for what you felt like. Tight and warm and right in a way that nothing else in his life had ever been.
You squeezed his hand again, your thumb brushing against his knuckles. âMove,â you whispered. âPlease.â
He did.
He moved slow, deeper than fast, each thrust a long, rolling press of his hips that drove him as deep as he could go. It wasn't frantic. It wasn't desperate. It was something else entirelyâsomething that felt like coming home after a long war, like setting down a weight he'd been carrying for so long he'd forgotten what it felt like to be without it. He pressed kisses to your neck, your shoulder, the shell of your ear, each one a silent affirmation. I'm here. I'm here, baby. I'm here.
Your breathing changed, your grip on his hand tightening, and he felt you start to tremble beneath him. He knew your body better than he knew his ownâknew the way your hips canted when you were close, the way your thighs tensed, the way your breath caught in your throat right before you fell.
âLet go,â he murmured against your ear. âI've got you. Just let go.â
You did. He felt it in the way your body clenched around him, the way you arched into him with a broken cry, your fingers digging into the back of his hand hard enough to leave marks. The sound you madeâhigh and breathless and desperateâwas the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard.
He followed right after. He couldn't have held back if he'd tried. The feeling of you coming undone around him, the way you said his name like it was the only word you knewâit was too much, too good, too everything. He buried his face in your neck and let go, a deep, shuddering groan tearing out of his chest as he emptied himself into you.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
He was slumped against your back, his full weight pressing you into the mattress, and he knew he should probably roll off, give you room to breathe, but he couldn't make himself move. His heart was pounding against his ribs, his breath coming in harsh, uneven gasps, and he was pretty sure his arms had stopped working entirely.
Your hand was still wrapped around his, your fingers loosely intertwined, and you brought them to your mouth, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.
âThat was...â you started, then trailed off, like you couldn't find the words.
âYeah.â he agreed. Because he couldn't either.
He finally mustered the strength to roll onto his side, taking you with him, keeping your back pressed to his chest. He pulled the covers up with a hand he didn't remember moving, tucking them around both of you, and his arms wrapped around your middle like he was afraid you'd disappear if he let go.
You laughed softly, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his forearm. âYou're heavy, you know that?â
âShould've thought about that before you let me fuck you to sleep, my love.â he mumbled into your hair and chuckled.
You let out a breathless laugh, your fingers lazily stroking the forearm wrapped around your middle. âMmhm thatâs actually romantic.â
He huffed a laugh against your neck, the sound warm and sleepy. âYou know me. A real poet.â
You both lay there in the quiet, his breathing slowly evening out, your heartbeat steady against his palm. The ringing in his ears had faded. The weight in his chest had loosened. His shoulder still ached, and there was a bruise forming on his ribs that he'd have to ice in the morning, but for now, none of it mattered. All that mattered was the warmth of you in his arms, the soft rhythm of your breathing, the way your hand had found his again and was holding it against your chest.
âBuck?â Your voice was soft, half-asleep.
"Hmm?"
"I'm glad you're home."
He closed his eyes. Pressed a kiss to the back of your head. Let the last of the tension drain out of him, let himself sink into the warmth of the bed, the warmth of you, the quiet certainty of this moment.
"Me too, honey. Me too." he said, and meant it more than he'd meant anything in a very long time. He loves this feeling. He was floating.
That was the only way to describe itâthat perfect, weightless place between wakefulness and sleep where nothing hurt and nothing mattered and the only thing anchoring him to the earth was the warm, solid weight of you in his arms. His breathing had evened out into something slow and deep, his heart no longer hammering against his ribs but settled into a quiet, steady rhythm that matched the one he could feel pulsing beneath his palm where his hand was splayed across your chest.
You were soft against him, boneless and pliant, your breathing already taking on that deep, even quality that meant you were halfway to dreaming. Your fingers had gone slack around his, your hand a warm, limp weight where it rested on top of his. He could feel the faint flutter of your eyelashes against his forearm where your face was tucked into the crook of his elbow, and every few seconds a tiny, contented sigh would escape your lips, your body relaxing further into his with each exhale.
Good, he thought, the word slow and terrible sweet in his mind. She's sleeping. She's safe. She's mine.
His eyes were heavy, his limbs hurt a bit, the pull of sleep a physical force dragging him down into the dark. He was right there, teetering on the edge, ready to let go and fall into the first dreamless sleep he'd had in three days.
And then he felt it.
The faint, damp stickiness cooling against his thighs. The way your skin was tacky where your legs were still tangled with his. The evidence of what you two have done, still there, still present, beginning to cool in the night air now that the heat of the moment had faded.
His brow furrowed. His eyes, which had been closed, cracked open again.
No.
He couldn'tâhe wouldn'tâlet you sleep like that. You, who had waited up for him past midnight even though you had work in the morning. You, who had let him take what he needed without question, without hesitation, even though he'd rolled in here like a storm and upended the quiet peace you'd been settled into. You, who had held his hand and whispered his name and let him crush you into the mattress like a man drowning who'd finally found something to hold onto.
He'd disturbed your sleep. He'd come in here with his selfish, desperate need and he'd taken and taken and taken, and you'd given him everything without a single complaint.
The least he could do was clean you up.
He let out a long, slow breath, already mourning the sleep he was about to lose, and forced his eyes all the way open. The room was dark, the only light a faint gray seep of city glow through the curtains, but his eyes adjusted quickly. Old habit. He catalogued the room in a heartbeatâthe tangled sheets, the pillow that had somehow ended up on the floor, the discarded clothes scattered like evidence of a crime scene. Your shorts, his boxers, his shirt still crumpled by the door.
He'd made a mess of things. Literally and figuratively.
You made a soft sound of protest when he started to pull away, your fingers tightening weakly around his, your body trying to follow him like a plant turning toward the sun. âNo,â you mumbled, the word slurred with sleep. âStay.â
âI'm not going anywhere, baby,â he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. His lips lingered there for a moment, feeling the warmth of your skin, the faint pulse beating just beneath the surface. âGonna get a cloth. Be right back.â
You made a sound that might have been agreement or might have been disappointmentâit was hard to tell when you were already three-quarters asleepâand your hand fell away from his, your fingers curling into the pillow instead.
He extracted himself from the tangle of limbs and sheets with the kind of careful, deliberate movements he usually reserved for diffusing bombs. Every shift of his weight, every lift of his arm was calibrated to disturb you as little as possible. When your leg slid against his, he paused, waiting to see if you'd stir. When the sheets rustled as he swung his feet to the floor, he held his breath, listening to the rhythm of your breathing.
It didn't change. Slow. Deep. Even. That was good. Perfect, even.
The floorboards were cold under his bare feet, a shock of cool that woke him up just enough to be annoyed about it. He moved naked through the dark bedroom with the ease of someone who'd mapped every inch of this space a hundred times over, his hand finding the doorframe, then the wall of the hallway, then the bathroom door, which was already half-open because you always left it that way despite his gentle reminders that it was a fire hazard and what if someone broke in and used it as a hiding spot and fuck, listen to himself, he sounded like an old man.
The bathroom light was too bright when he flipped it on. He squinted against the sudden glare, his reflection in the mirror a pale, haggard thing with dark circles under his eyes, his already messy hair was now in an even worse state and a bruise blooming across his shoulder that he didn't remember getting. He looked like hell. He felt like it too. But he was here, standing in the bathroom at one forty-seven in the morning, running a washcloth under warm water because his girlfriend deserved to sleep clean and not wake up sticky and uncomfortable in a few hours.
He wrung out the cloth, tested the temperature against his wrist the way he'd seen nurses do it and decided it was perfect.
On his way back to the bedroom, he grabbed two clean pair of boxers from the drawer in the hallway dresserâthe one that was technically his but that you'd slowly colonized over the months, until now his clothes shared space with your socks and the pile of scrunchies you were always losing, not that he was stealing them and the random receipts you shoved in there because you swore you needed to keep them for tax purposes even though you definitely did not.
The bedroom was still dark, still quiet, still yours. You hadn't moved from the position he'd left you in, curled on your side with your hand tucked under the pillow. The covers had slipped down, exposing the elegant line of your spine, the curve of your hip, your legs tangled in the sheets. Completely bare, he could see the faint marks he'd left on your skinâthe press of his fingers on your hip, the scrape of his stubble on your neck, the places where he'd held on too tight because he'd been afraid of letting go.
He stood there for a moment, just looking at you. The washcloth was warm in his hand, and his chest was doing something complicated that he didn't have the energy to unpack, something that felt a lot like the gratitude he couldn't quite put into words and the awe he'd never get used to and the fierce, protective love that had been growing in his chest since the first night you'd fallen asleep in his arms and he'd realized he would burn the whole world down to keep you safe.
Then he moved.
He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, and he reached out with his free hand to brush your hair away from your face. Your skin was warm, your lips slightly parted, your breathing deep and undisturbed. You were out, the kind of sleep that only came after you'd been waiting up for someone you loved and finally, finally let yourself relax.
He was careful as he pulled the sheets back further, exposing your legs, the place where your thighs were still pressed together, the evidence of him still glistening there. He'd made a mess of you, he realized, and something in his chest tightened at the sightânot with guilt, exactly, but with a kind of tender responsibility. This was his. He'd put it there. And he was going to clean it up.
The washcloth was warm when he pressed it to your inner thigh, and you made a small sound in your sleep, your leg twitching, your brow furrowing for just a moment before you settled again. He worked slowly, methodically, his movements gentle and precise. He started at your knee, drawing the cloth up the inside of your thigh in long, slow strokes, the way he knew you liked when you were awake enough to appreciate it. He didn't rush. There was no point in rushingânot when the damage was already done, not when he'd already sacrificed sleep for this, not when the quiet intimacy of the act was soothing something in him he hadn't even known was frayed.
When he reached the place where your thighs met, he paused, glancing at your face to make sure you were still under. You were. Your breathing hadn't changed, your features slack with the particular boneless peace of someone who'd been thoroughly, completely satisfied.
He cleaned you with the same careful attention he gave to his weapons, the same deliberate precision he used in the field. But where those acts were about destruction, this one was about care. About repair. About making sure that when you woke up in the morningâwhen the sun was streaming through the curtains and you stretched and yawned and turned to him with that sleepy, contented smileâyou wouldn't find anything uncomfortable waiting for you. You'd just be warm, and clean, and safe in his bed, with no memory of the sticky discomfort he'd left behind.
The washcloth came away stained, and he folded it over, using the clean side to make a final pass. Then he took the clean boxers and worked them up your legs, lifting your hips just enough to slide them into place. You stirred at that, a soft murmur of something that might have been his name, and he froze, waiting, until your breathing evened out again.
âThere,â he murmured, more to himself than to you. âAll set, honey.â
He put on the other pair of boxers and then grabbed the washcloth and dropped it in the hamper on his way back from the bathroom, not trusting himself to remember it in the morning when he was running on three hours of sleep and the kind of exhaustion that made him forget his own name sometimes. Then he was back in the bedroom, pulling the covers up over both of you, sliding into the warm hollow his body had left behind.
You turned toward him without waking, your body seeking his out like a compass finding north. Your face pressed into his chest, your hand splaying across his heart, your legs tangling with his, and he wrapped his arms around you and held on.
He was so tired. His eyes were burning, his limbs heavy, his mind already dissolving into the static of approaching sleep. But there was something else there too, something warm and quiet that settled in his chest and made all the exhaustion worth it.
âThank you,â he whispered into your hair, his lips brushing against the soft strands. âFor waiting up. Forââ He swallowed, the words catching in his throat. There was too much to say, too much he'd never be able to put into words, and you were asleep anyway, you couldn't hear him, but he said it anyway because he needed to say it out loud, needed to put it into the universe. âFor everything.â
You didn't answer. Of course you didn't. You were asleep, your breathing slow and even, your body soft and warm and present in a way that made his chest ache.
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, then another to your forehead, then another to the corner of your mouth, each one lighter than the last. Your lips curved, just slightly, like you could feel him even in sleep, like some part of you knew he was there, taking care of you the way you always took care of him.
âGo to sleep, love.â you mumbled, the words barely audible, so slurred they were almost nonsense. But he heard them. He always heard you.
He smiledâa real smile, small and soft and private, the kind he didn't let anyone else seeâand tucked your head under his chin, his arms tightening around you, his legs tangling with yours until there was no telling where he ended and you began.
"Yeah," he breathed, his eyes finally closing, his body finally, finally letting go. âOkay. Okay. I love you.â
Within minutes, his breathing evened out, his grip on you loosening but not letting go. The soldier, the assassin, the man carrying a century of weight on his shouldersâall of them faded away in the dark, leaving only Bucky. Just Bucky. Your Bucky. And he was, finally, peacefully, completely asleep.
Note so... my thing is writing fluff and all but was feeling adventurous, idk anyways, not my best, sorry if something isn't making sense and please, for the love of God, don't have sex hours after you meet someone, even if that someone is Bucky Barnes... or do it, up to you haha no need to say that even if there isn't any deep details, this is +18. this note is too long, i am sorry.
The problem with being a man out of time wasnât the technology, or the history, or even the lack of cultural references that made every conversation feel like you were translating a dead language on the fly. The problem, Bucky Barnes had decided, was the quiet.
In the forties, quiet had been a luxury. A stolen hour with a girl in the back of a borrowed car, the soft hiss of rain on the roof and the distant wail of a saxophone from a nearby club... that was quiet. It was a warm, velvet thing, a prelude to something that thrummed with life and the sheer, pulsing joy of being young and not yet shipped off to die.
Now, quiet was a weapon. It was the sound of his own mind, a vast, empty cathedral echoing with the ghosts of a hundred trigger pulls. In the silence, the Hydra protocols would whisper. In the silence, his flesh hand would start to tremble, searching for a sniper that wasnât there. So he filled the quiet. He took missions with a ferocity that made even Steve wince. He haunted the gym at the compound in his off-days, the clanking of iron and the grunt of exertion a welcome cacophony. He sat in crowded diners at three in the morning, nursing black coffee and listening to the scrape of cutlery and the tired laughter of strangers.
Bucky doesn't like thinking about that if there is that much quiet in his life is because there isn't someone... he hadnât had sex since 1943.
It wasnât for lack of opportunity. In the years since heâd been deprogrammedâa word too clinical for the messy, agonizing process of reclaiming his own mindâthere had been offers. A sharp-eyed agent with a smirk. A bartender in Bucharest whoâd looked at him like he was something other than a monster. Even, once, a tentative, heart-breaking offer from a woman in Wakanda whoâd seen only the man trying to learn to farm, not the ghost of the Winter Soldier. Each time, his body had tensed, a cold sweat breaking out on his palms. The quiet would rush in and then, heâd hear the click of a cryo-chamber sealing, feel the phantom bite of a muzzle being strapped to his face. The desire would curdle into something cold and leaden, and heâd make an excuse that sounded like gravel scraping over a grave, and retreat.
So, no. Not since 1943. Heâd been twenty-six, on a forty-eight-hour leave before shipping out to what would become his last mission as James Buchanan Barnes. Heâd spent it with a red-headed nurse named Eileen whoâd smelled of soap and optimism. It had been frantic and wonderful and achingly human. It was a memory heâd clung to through decades of ice and programming, a tiny, warm ember heâd shielded with the last tatters of his soul.
That was seventy-four years ago.
Now, he was in Sam Wilsonâs home, because Sam had a cookout, and cookouts meant noise. They meant laughter, the sizzle of burgers, Sarahâs boys shrieking as they ran through a sprinkler. It was a wall of beautiful, vibrant, now sound that kept the whispers at bay.
And then there was you.
Heâd seen you around. A friend of Samâs from his VA work, heâd learned. You had a sharp, easy laugh and a way of looking at people that made them feel like they were the only one in the room. Youâd been talking to Sarah, your head tilted back in laughter at something one of the boys had done, the late afternoon sun catching in your hair and turning it into a corona of light. Bucky feels like he knows you too well thanks to Wilson.
When Sam finally had introduced you, youâd stuck out your hand, no hesitation. âSo, youâre the infamous Bucky Barnes.â
Heâd taken it, his flesh hand, feeling the calluses on your palm that spoke of work, of living. â"Infamous"â heâd repeated, the word a familiar, bitter weight on his tongue.
âSamâs words,â youâd said with a shrug, your grip firm and brief. âI prefer âthe guy whoâs been hogging the potato salad.â Move, soldier. I saw you get the last of the red-skinned ones.â
Heâd moved, a surprised laugh escaping him. It had been a rusty, foreign sound. And youâd just grinned, scooped up the last spoonful, and popped it into your mouth with a defiant 'worth it'.
That had been around five hours ago. Now, the sun was a low, molten gold, painting the world in shades of amber and rose. Guests were starting to trickle out, their voices fading into the evening hum of the city. Sarah had taken the boys inside for baths. Sam was at the grill, scraping off the grates, his back to them.
Bucky and you were on the porch swing. It was an old wooden thing that creaked with a gentle rhythm, a sound that was the opposite of silence. You were sitting on the opposite end, one leg tucked under you, a bottle of beer dangling from your fingers. Bucky has been feeling extremely peaceful, haven't feel this connection in a very long time, the most he can handle people around him is ten minutes but with you? God help him. Youâd been quiet for a while, but it wasnât the dangerous quiet. It was the companionable kind, the one heâd almost forgotten existed.
âYouâre staring.â you said, not looking at him, a small smile playing on your lips.
He didnât look away. For once, he didnât feel the urge to. âYouâre worth staring at.â
That made you turn. Your eyes, he noticed for the hundredth time that day, we're so fucking calm. They didnât hold pity. They didnât hold fear. They just⌠literally, saw him. âThatâs a pretty smooth line for a guy whoâs been giving off âdonât touch meâ vibes all afternoon.â
He let out a slow breath. The quiet was there, but it wasnât whispering. It was just⌠waiting. âItâs not a line.â He looked down at his metal hand, resting on his thigh. The vibranium glinted in the fading light, a stark, inhuman thing. âAnd the âdonât touch meâ isnât about you. Itâs⌠a default setting.â
He felt the shift of the swing before he saw you move. You didnât close the entire distance, but you came closer, your shoulder now inches from his. âI know about default settings,â you said softly. âI work with vets, remember? The ones who come back from places they canât un-see. The body learns things. It builds walls to protect whatâs left inside.â
Your words were a key, turning a lock he didnât even know was there. He looked at you, really looked, and saw the faint lines of a tiredness around your eyes that mirrored his own, a shared language of things seen and survived. âWhatâs your default setting?â he asked, his voice lower than he intended.
You met his gaze, unwavering. âTo remind myself that Iâm still alive. Loud music. Strong coffee. The burn of a good tequila.â You paused, and your eyes flickered down to his mouth for a fraction of a second. âOr, occasionally, a very direct question.â
He felt his heart kick against his ribs, a steady, insistent thrum that drowned out everything else. The weight of seventy-four years of denial, of cold and silence and programming, suddenly felt like a chain he could finally, finally let fall. âAsk it.â
You set your beer bottle on the railing of the porch, the soft clink of glass the only sound. You were close enough now that he could smell youâsomething clean like rain and something warm like the sun on skin. âWhenâs the last time someone touched you, Bucky? Not in a fight. Not to strap you to a table or point you at a target. Just⌠touched you. Because they wanted to.â
The question wasnât a shard of glass. It was a balm. He let the silence sit for a moment, not the silence of his mind, but the silence of a man choosing his next words with care. âA woman named Eileen. Seventy-four years ago. In a borrowed car in Brooklyn.â He didnât look away from your eyes. âI havenât⌠I havenât been with anyone since. Can't see myself in that position... yet.â
Your expression didnât flicker with shock or pity. It softened, a warm, gentle thing that made his chest ache. âThatâs a long time to be alone in your own skin.â
âI donât know if I remember how to be any other way.â he admitted, the confession pulled from a place heâd kept locked and guarded.
You reached out then. Your hand, so small compared to his, came to rest on his flesh hand, your fingers intertwining with his. Your skin was warm, your pulse a steady, reassuring rhythm against his. âThen letâs not make it any longer.â
He didn't hear a sign of humor in your voice, not mockery or anything similar. You sound sincere.
He turned his hand over, his fingers closing around yours. The contact was a jolt, a circuit completing. The world narrowed to the point where you touched. He could hear Samâs footsteps on the deck, his voice calling out a goodbye to a departing guest, but it was all background noise, white static against the sharp, clear signal of you.
He lifted your joined hands, his gaze never leaving yours, and pressed his lips to the inside of your wrist. He felt your breath hitch, felt the flutter of your pulse against his mouth. He didnât close his eyes. He wanted to see you. He kissed the center of your palm, then let his lips trace the line of your thumb. You tasted of salt and the faint, sweet tang of the beer.
âBuckyâŚâ you breathed, and the sound of his name on your lips, stripped of all fear or agenda, was its own kind of prayer.
He looked up at Sam, who was now leaning against the doorframe, a dish towel over his shoulder, watching you two with an expression that was half surprise, half profound relief. âWilson,â Bucky said, his voice a low rasp. âWeâre gonna head out.â
Sam just shook his head, a slow smile spreading across his face. He tossed a set of keys through the air. Bucky caught them with his metal hand without looking. âMy place is a mess now, man. You know that.â Sam said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder towards the house. âTake my car. And Barnes?â Bucky paused, helping you to your feet, your hand still clasped in his. âBe a gentleman. Even if she says you donât have to be.â
He led you to Samâs pickup truck, a deep blue Hummer and held the door for you. The drive to your apartment was a blur of city lights and the charged silence between you. It wasnât the silence of ghosts. It was the silence before a storm, heavy with potential. He kept his hand on the gear shift, and you kept your hand on his arm, your thumb tracing absent patterns on the fabric of his sleeve.
Your apartment was on the third floor of a walk-up, the stairs narrow and creaking. He followed you up, his eyes on the nape of your neck, not knowing where else to look at. The quiet here was different. It was intimate, anticipatory. You fumbled with your keys for a moment, and he placed his metal hand over yours, steadying them. The cool metal was a stark contrast to your warmth, and you leaned back against him for just a second, a silent acknowledgment that you felt it too.
The door swung open into a space that was unmistakably yours. Books stacked on every surface, a half-finished painting on an easel by the window, a record player with a sleeve of jazz albums beside it. It was warm, lived-in, a sanctuary. He took it all in as you locked the door behind him, the soft click of the bolt a final, definitive seal on the world outside.
He turned to face you. You were standing in the middle of your living room, the soft glow of a streetlamp filtering through the sheer curtains, painting you in shades of blue and silver. Your arms were wrapped around yourself, a gesture that wasnât defensive, but⌠expectant.
âYouâre nervous.â he observed, his own voice feeling foreign to him. It was stripped bare, all the armor gone.
âIâm not nervous about you,â you said, your voice clear and true. âIâm nervous for you. This is a big deal, Bucky. You donât have to do anything. I don't know what came over me earlier and... we can just⌠sit. Talk. Or we canââ
He took a step toward you, then another, until he was close enough to feel the heat radiating from your skin. He reached out, his flesh hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking the soft skin beneath your eye. âIâve done a lot of things I didnât want to do. For a very long time.â He leaned in, his forehead coming to rest against yours, sharing the same breath. âThis. You. I want this more than Iâve wanted anything I can remember.â
He felt you exhale, a shuddering release of tension, and your arms came up to wrap around his neck. âOkay,â you whispered, the word a gift. âThen show me.â
The first kiss was a question. It was gentle, a brush of his lips against yours, tentative and searching. He was relearning a language heâd once spoken fluently. You answered by tilting your head, parting your lips slightly, your fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck. The kiss deepened, and with it came a flood of sensation heâd thought his body had forgotten. The taste of you, the soft sound of your sigh, the way your body molded against his, soft where he was hard, warm where he was cool.
His hands, both of them, fell to your waist. He could feel the difference, the ghostly feedback of his metal fingers against the fabric of your shirt, the infinitely more nuanced sensation of his flesh hand bunching the cotton, feeling the shift of muscle and bone beneath. You broke the kiss, your breathing ragged, and looked up at him. Your eyes were dark, pupils blown wide.
âTell me what you need,â you said, your hands moving to the hem of his shirt. âTell me if anything is too much.â
He watched you pull his shirt up, exposing the brutal map of scars that crossed his torso, the angry red marks where the flesh met metal at his left shoulder. Heâd seen women, all of them doctor and nurses, look at it before, with horror, with curiosity, with a clinical detachment. You looked at it and then looked at him, and your expression was simply one of fierce, unwavering acceptance. You pressed a kiss to his chest, right over his heart, and he felt something crack open inside him, a wall heâd been reinforcing for decades crumbling to dust.
âThe arm,â he said, his voice thick. âItâs⌠cold.â
You took his left hand, the vibranium one, and instead of pulling away, you guided it to your cheek, holding it there. âThen warm it up.â
He let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-groan, and the last of his hesitation evaporated. He kissed you again, harder this time, with the hunger of a man who had been starved. He walked you backward, his movements sure and controlled, towards what he hoped was your bedroom. He found the doorframe, then the edge of a bed. You fell back onto the mattress, pulling him with you, and the feel of your body beneath his, the full, unbroken length of it, was almost enough to undo him.
He propped himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. Your eyes were on him the whole time, your lips kiss-swollen, your chest rising and falling in a rhythm that matched his own. âI might be⌠I donât know if Iâll beâŚâ he started, the words clumsy. He didnât have the vocabulary for this, not anymore. How to say âIâm terrified Iâm going to shatterâ or âI donât know if my body will remember how to do this without violenceâ?
You reached up, placing a finger over his lips. âWe have all night, Bucky. Thereâs no mission. No one to be except who you are right now.â You moved your finger and replaced it with your lips, a soft, reassuring kiss. âAnd right now, youâre a man in my bed. Thatâs all. Just let me take care of you.â
And you did. With a patience that was nothing short of saintly, you undressed him, piece by piece. You treated each inch of skin you revealed not as a curiosity or a battlefield, but as something precious. You mapped the scars across his body with your fingertips. You kissed the ridges where the metal plate was fused to his shoulder. You whispered his nameâhis real nameâinto the hollow of his throat when he flinched, and the sound anchored him.
When he was bare, he lay back, feeling vulnerable in a way he hadnât since he was a raw recruit, but it wasnât a weakness. It was a choice. You shed your own clothes with a lack of self-consciousness that amazed him, and then you were there, skin to skin, and the heat of you was a revelation. He pulled you to him, wrapping his arms around you, flesh and metal, and for a moment, just held you. He let himself feel the miracle of it. Another person, choosing to be this close to him. Wanting it.
You began to move against him, a slow, undulating rhythm, and the sensation was so acute, so far removed from the sterile, brutal existence heâd known, that his eyes threatened to close. But he forced them to stay open. He wanted to see you. He watched the way your brow furrowed in concentration, the way your lips parted as you guided his hands to your hips, showing him the pace you liked.
âLike this,â you murmured, your voice a low, husky thing that went straight through him. âJust⌠like this, honey.â
He let you lead, his hands gripping your hips, his metal fingers gentle on your skin. The pleasure built slowly, a tide rising, washing away the years of grime and silence. When you finally sank down onto him, your body sheathing his, a sound was torn from his chest, a raw, broken noise that was half-surprise, half-relief. You stilled, your hands flat on his chest, looking down at him with an expression of pure, open wanting.
âOkay?â you asked, your voice a whisper.
He couldnât speak. He could only nod, his jaw clenched, his eyes burning. You began to move, and the world fell away. There was no Hydra. No Winter Soldier. No ice. There was only you, the slick heat of your body, the sound of your breath catching, the rhythm you set that he quickly matched, his hips rising to meet yours. The bed creaked, a sound that was primal and ancient, a counterpoint to the thundering of his heart.
He watched you come undone first, your head falling back, a cry escaping your lips as your inner muscles clenched around him. The sight of you, lost in your own pleasure, was the most beautiful thing heâd ever seen. It was permission. It was absolution.
He flipped you, a swift, fluid motion, and you gasped, your legs wrapping around his waist. He drove into you, not with the cold precision of an assassin, but with the desperate, overwhelming need of a man finally, finally being allowed to feel. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, your scent filling his lungs, your pulse beating against his lips. His moans and whimpers were the only thing that could be heard in your bedroom along the sound of skin against skin. The pressure built, a white-hot coil deep in his belly, threatening to tear him apart.
âBucky,â you breathed, your fingers digging into his back. âCome on. Iâve gotâfuck, I've got you, honey. Let go.â
And he did.
The release was a supernova, a cataclysm that shattered the last of the ice inside him. His vision whited out, his body bowed, a guttural soundâyour name, a curse, a prayerâripped from his throat as he spilled himself inside you, the pleasure so intense it was a form of pain, a beautiful, agonizing rebirth. He collapsed, his weight on you, his face still buried in your neck, his entire body shaking with the aftershocks.
For a long time, there was no sound but the two of you, breathing in tandem, your hearts hammering against each otherâs ribs. The quiet returned, but it was different now. It wasnât a void. It was a fullness. It was the quiet of a deep, dreamless sleep after years of nightmares. It was the quiet of a door finally closed on a past that no longer held dominion.
You stroked his hair, your touch light and soothing. He felt the tension drain from his muscles, a little more with each pass of your fingers. Finally, he lifted his head. His eyes were a little red-rimmed, but clear. Clearer than theyâd been in seventy years. He looked down at you, at the sheen of sweat on your skin, the soft, sated smile on your lips.
âThat,â he said, his voice a hoarse whisper, âwas worth waiting for.â
You laughed, a low, rich sound, and pulled him down for a kiss. âYou know,â you murmured against his mouth, âI think you lied. Someone that apparently hasnât fuck in seventy years wouldnât move like you did.â You wink at him, he could see your smirk in between kisses.
He smiled. A real smile, one that reached his eyes and crinkled the corners. He kissed your forehead, then the tip of your nose, then your lips again, savoring the taste. âMmm no, I'm just a very fast learner, precious.â
He rolled onto his side, pulling you with him, tucking your back against his chest, his metal arm a secure band around your waist. He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, breathing in the scent of youâboth of youâthat now clung to his skin. The city hummed softly outside the window, a lullaby. The ghosts were silent. And in the warm, quiet dark, James Buchanan Barnes finally, finally let himself rest.
Note like am i going to prison if i only write things where Bucky is having his safe space? is that okay?
The world had a way of getting too loud when Bucky Barnes stayed in it for too long.
It wasnât just the missionsâthe gunfire, the shouting over comms, the endless rush of adrenaline that left his hands trembling long after the fight was overâit was everything else layered on top of it. The briefings that turned into arguments, the politicians who spoke about him like he wasnât in the room, the analysts who picked apart every move he made like he was a machine instead of a man trying very hard not to fall apart at the seams. Even the quiet moments at the compound werenât really quiet, not with the constant hum of expectations pressing against his ribs, whispering behind his back that he should be more, do more, be better, be fixed already.
Some days, it sat so heavy on his chest he thought it might cave him in.
Those were the days he found himself leaving before anyone could stop him, shrugging off questions, ignoring Samâs knowing look, brushing past Steveâs careful concern with a muttered "Iâm fine" that fooled no one but bought him enough time to get out the door. He didnât have a destination, not really. His feet just knew where to go, like something deep inside him had memorized the path long before he ever admitted he needed it.
Home.
The apartment wasnât anything flashy, not like the compound or the places Tony used to insist on setting them up in. It was small, a little crooked in places, the kind of place where the floors creaked and the windows didnât quite seal all the way, but it was yours. That mattered more than anything else. It smelled like youâsomething soft and warm and unmistakably comfortingâand Bucky felt the tension in his shoulders loosen before he even closed the door behind him.
The lock clicked softly, a quiet, ordinary sound, and just like that, the noise in his head dimmed.
He paused for a moment, leaning his forehead against the door, eyes closed as he took a slow breath. His fingers curled loosely at his sides, metal hand flexing once like it didnât quite know what to do without a weapon in it. The silence wasnât empty, though. It was filled with something gentler, something that didnât demand anything from him.
Then he heard it.
A faint hum drifting from the kitchen, soft and absentminded, like you werenât even aware you were doing it.
Buckyâs lips twitched into the smallest, softest smile.
He followed the sound without thinking, boots quieter now against the worn wood floor and then going back, taking them off and leaving them beside the entrance door. Then, he walks again towards the kitchen, following that lovely sound until he reached the doorway and stopped there, leaning his shoulder against the frame like he needed the support just to take the scene in. You stood at the counter with your back to him, moving slowly, unhurried, stirring something in a pot while the dim kitchen light cast a warm glow around you. There was a dish towel thrown over your shoulder, a mug sitting on the counter, something warm curling up from it, and a pan on low heat, and youâbarefoot, comfortable, your hair a little messy, like youâd been running your hands through it without noticing, completely unaware that youâve already unraveled every knot in his chest just by existing.
It was such a simple thing and it felt like everything.
Bucky exhales, quiet and shaky, before he pushes himself upright and steps closer. âYou always hum that same song.â he says, voice rough from disuse, but softer than itâs been all day.
You donât startle. You never do anymore. You just turn your head slightly, a small smile already tugging at your lips like you felt him there before you heard him. âYou always notice,â you murmur back, like itâs something fond, something youâve tucked away and kept.
He huffs under his breath, something almost like a laugh, and steps fully into the kitchen, drawn in without thinking. âHard not to.â he says, and thereâs something quieter under it, something he doesnât quite say out loud. Hard not to notice anything about you.
âI can hear you thinking from here.â you said, turning your head back towards the stove, your voice light and teasing in a way that made his chest ache.
Bucky huffed out a quiet breath that mightâve been a laugh. âThat so?â
âMhm,â you hummed, tapping the spoon against the edge of the pot before setting it aside. âHeavy steps, quiet breathing⌠that was a very dramatic entrance. I give it a six out of ten.â
âOnly six?â he repeated, pushing off the doorway and stepping into the kitchen, his voice rough but softer now, worn edges smoothing out just by being near you. âThatâs harsh, honey.â
You finally turned fully to look at him, and whatever you were about to say melted into something gentler the second your eyes landed on his face. The dark circles, the tightness in his jaw, the way his shoulders still carried the weight of a world that asked too much of himâit was all there, plain as day, and you didnât make a big deal out of it. You never did.
Instead, you smiled, soft and knowing, like youâd been expecting him all along.
âHi.â you said simply.
It hit him harder than anything else couldâve.
Bucky swallowed, the tension in his throat catching for a second before he managed, âHey.â
You didnât ask what happened. You didnât ask why he left early, or why his hands were shaking just a little, or why he looked like he hadnât slept in days. You just stepped closer, closing the small distance between you, and reached for him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Your fingers brushed against his wrist first, warm and grounding, before sliding into his handâhis real oneâand squeezing gently.
âYou wanna tell me about it,â you asked quietly, tilting your head just a little, âor you wanna pretend the world doesnât exist for a while?â
Bucky let out a breath that felt like it had been stuck in his lungs for hours.
âThe second one,â he admitted, his voice low, almost sheepish. âIf thatâs okay.â
Your smile softened, something fond and a little bit tender curling at the edges. âLucky for you, thatâs my specialty.â
He almost laughed at that, the sound barely there but real, and it eased something tight in his chest.
You tugged him a little closer, your other hand coming up to rest lightly against his cheek, your thumb brushing just under his eye like you were trying to wipe away the exhaustion sitting there. âYou look tired.â you murmured.
âFeel it.â he replied, leaning into your touch without thinking, his eyes slipping shut for just a second.
âSit.â you said gently, guiding him toward one of the chairs at the small kitchen table. âI made something. Itâs not fancy, butââ
âDonât care,â he cut in softly, dropping into the chair like his body finally gave in now that it knew it was safe. âSmells good.â
You huffed a quiet laugh, turning back to the stove to finish up, your hum picking up again like the conversation had settled something into place. Bucky watched you as you moved around the kitchen, slow and easy, like there was no rush, no pressure, no expectation hanging over either of you.
For a moment, he just sat there, letting it sink in.
The quiet. The warmth. You.
His gaze drifted down absently as he shifted in his seat, his fingers brushing against the pocket of his jacket. Something small and solid pressed against his palm, and he stilled for a second before pulling it out, turning it over between his fingers.
A pebble.
Tiny, smooth, unremarkable to anyone else.
But he remembered.
You had picked it up months ago during a rare stretch of downtime, somewhere green and open and far away from everything that usually surrounded them. Youâd held it up like it was something precious, grinning as you told him it looked like a firefly if you squinted hard enough. Heâd rolled his eyes at the time, teasing you for it, but youâd just laughed and slipped it into his pocket like it belonged there.
Looking at it now, he thought maybe he understood.
âHoney?â he called softly, his voice quieter than before, like he didnât want to break the moment.
âYeah?â you replied, glancing over your shoulder.
He held up the pebble between his fingers. âFound this.â
You blinked, then smiled, something warm and a little bit nostalgic lighting up your face. âYou still have that?â
âForgot it was there,â he admitted, turning it over again. âGuess it didnât forget me, though.â
You hummed at that, turning back to the counter, but your voice carried something softer when you spoke again. âMaybe it just likes you better.â
Bucky let out a quiet breath, his thumb brushing over the smooth surface of the stone before he set it down carefully on the table, like it mattered.
âHey,â he said again after a moment, his tone shifting just slightly, something more vulnerable threading through it now. âCan I tell you somethinâ?â
You didnât even hesitate. âAlways.â
He leaned back in his chair, his gaze dropping to the table for a second before lifting to you again, a little uncertain but steady. âThey keep sayinâ I should be doinâ more,â he started slowly. âBe better, be⌠I donât know. Fixed, I guess.â He let out a humorless huff. âLike thereâs some version of me thatâs gonna wake up one day and just⌠get it right.â
You turned fully this time, your attention entirely on him, your expression open and patient.
âAnd?â you prompted gently.
Bucky hesitated, his jaw tightening for a second before he forced the words out. âI donât think I got that in me,â he admitted, quieter now. âIâm tryinâ, I really am, I swear but⌠itâs loud out there. All the time. Feels like Iâm fallinâ behind somethinâ I donât even understand.â
The kitchen went still for a moment, the only sound the soft simmer of the pot on the stove.
You donât rush to fill the silence after that. You just let it sit there between you, something honest and fragile. You crossed the room, slow and deliberate, until you were standing right in front of him again. You reached out, tilting his chin up just enough to make sure he was looking at you.
âYou know what I think?â you say, glancing down at him, your hands now taking his wrists, calming him that way.
He huffs softly. âThat Iâm being dramatic?â
You smile, a little crooked, a little fond. âI think youâre human and that you donât owe the world a "perfect" version of yourself.â
Your hands slides from his wrists to his palms, lacing your fingers together like itâs the most natural thing in the world. âAnd I think you donât have to be anything else when youâre here.â you said softly, smiling at him and kissing his forehead.
Buckyâs breath caught, just slightly.
âYou donât have to be the fastest or the strongest or the most put together,â you continued, your voice steady, grounding. âYou donât have to keep up with whatever imaginary finish line theyâve decided you should be racing toward.â Your lips curved into a small, gentle smile. âYou just have to come home.â
Something in his chest cracked open at that, quiet and overwhelming all at once, making him swallow, something tight in his throat. âYeah?â he murmurs.
âYeah.â You nudge the mug toward him with your free hand. âDrink. Sit. Exist. Thatâs the only requirement.â
He lets out a quiet laugh at that, shaking his head as he picks up the mug. âHigh standards.â
âMm, I know. Donât know how you keep up.â
He takes a sip, the warmth spreading through him slower than heâd like but steadier than anything else today. His shoulders drop another inch. His breathing evens out. And youâre still there, humming softly, leaning into him like itâs second nature, like this... like he is something you choose every day without question.
âIn our home,â you added, tapping lightly against his chest before letting your hand settle there, warm and steady over his heartbeat, âyou donât have to be anything except exactly who you are. Tired, messy, a little grumpy sometimesââ
âIâm not grumpy, honââ he muttered automatically, even as the corner of his mouth twitched.
You raised an eyebrow. âYou absolutely are.â
âAm not.â
âBuckyââ
âOkay, maybe a little.â he conceded, a faint smile breaking through despite himself.
You smiled back, softer this time, your hand sliding down to lace your fingers with his. âPoint is,â you said quietly, âall Iâve ever wanted from you⌠is this. You. Showing up. Thatâs it.â
He stared at you for a long moment, like he was trying to memorize the way you said it, the way you looked at him when you did.
âNo catch?â he asked, almost hesitant.
âNo catch.â you confirmed. âJust you.â
After a moment, you glance down at him again, eyes curious. âDid you write anything on the way back?â
He blinks. âWhat?â
âYou always do,â you say, nudging him lightly. âIn your head. Little lines. You get that look.â
He scoffs, but thereâs no heat in it. âYouâre making that up.â
âIâm not,â you insist, grinning now. âCome on, love. What was it?â
He hesitates, then sighs, like heâs already lost the argument. âItâs stupid.â
âI like stupid.â
He rolls his eyes, but thereâs something softer in his expression now, something almost shy as he looks away for a second before speaking. âJust⌠a line,â he mutters. âAbout⌠you being louder than everything else, even when youâre quiet.â
You go still for a second, like youâre turning it over in your head, and then your face lights up in a way that hits him right in the chest. âWhat a mind.â you say softly, a little teasing, a little in awe.
Bucky huffs, ducking his head slightly, but thereâs a faint flush creeping up his neck. âYeah, yeah. Donât start.â
âIâm serious,â you insist, squeezing his hand. âYou do that all the time. Justâpull something out of nowhere and make it sound like it matters.â
He glances at you, something steady and searching in his gaze. âIt does matter,â he says quietly. âYou matter.â
Your expression softens, the teasing fading into something warmer, something deeper. You lean into him fully now, resting your head against his shoulder, and for a second, neither of you says anything.
Outside, the world keeps spinning. There are still missions waiting, still voices pushing and pulling, still expectations he canât always meet. Itâs loud out there. Demanding. Endless.
But here, in your home, thereâs the quiet hum of your voice, the warmth of your hand in his, the simple, grounding weight of you against him. Here, he doesnât have to be more.
âYou know,â he murmurs after a while, his thumb brushing absentmindedly over your knuckles, âtheyâd lose their minds if they saw me like this.â
You smile against his shoulder. âGood. Let them.â
He huffs a quiet laugh, pressing his cheek lightly against the top of your head. âAll that noise out there,â he says, voice softer now, almost thoughtful. âAll that⌠pressure.â He pauses, then adds, quieter still, âI donât feel it when Iâm here.â
Your fingers tighten around his just a little. âYouâre not supposed to,â you murmur. âThis is your break from all that.â
He tilts his head slightly, looking up at you, something almost vulnerable flickering across his face. âAnd you donât want anything else?â he asks, like he still doesnât quite believe it. âFrom me, I mean.â
You pull back just enough to meet his eyes, your expression steady, certain. âBucky,â you say softly, âI already said it, baby. All Iâve ever wanted from you is this.â
âThis?â he echoes, a little confused.
You smile, reaching up to cup his cheek, thumb brushing lightly over the faint shadow of a bruise there. âYou coming home,â you say. âYou being here. Thatâs it.â
Something in his chest cracks open at that, quiet but deep. He exhales slowly, leaning into your touch without thinking, eyes slipping shut for just a second like heâs letting it sink in.
All that you ever wanted from him was⌠nothing.
Not nothing in the empty, hollow senseâbut nothing demanding. Nothing that asks him to prove himself, to fight harder, to be more than he is. Just this. Just him, as he is, tired and soft and real.
Bucky opens his eyes again, gaze steady on yours, and thereâs something lighter there now, something unguarded. âI can do that,â he says quietly. âI can come home.â
You grin, bright and easy, like it was never in doubt. âGood,â you murmur. âBecause dinnerâs almost ready, and Iâm not eating alone.â
He lets out a soft laugh, the sound warm and real, and leans down just enough to press a lingering kiss to your temple. âWouldnât dream of it.â he says.
And for once, he means it in the simplest way possible.
Note I am sorry for this but today is my birthday and yeah, maybe this is a tiiiiny bit self-indulgent and so... someone give me my Bucky Barnes, I guess haha only fluff here, I swear.
Morning came slowly, soft warm light slipping through the curtains of the bedroom, the kind that painted everything pale gold and quiet. You woke the way you usually didâhalf tangled in blankets, half tangled in Bucky Barnes. His arm was draped heavily across your waist, metal fingers warm from the blankets where they rested against your stomach, the faint hum of the prosthetic barely audible in the quiet room. He was already awake. You could tell before you even opened your eyes fully, because Bucky had this stillness when he was awake, this careful way of breathing like he didnât want to disturb anything around him. When you shifted slightly, his hand tightened automatically, pulling you closer against his chest, nose brushing the back of your hair.
âMorninâ, honey.â he murmured, voice still rough with sleep but warm in that quiet way that always made your chest feel too full.
You blinked up at him, squinting at the light. âWhy are you awake already?â you mumbled, voice thick and slow. Bucky just watched you for a second like he was memorizing your faceâsomething he did more often than he realized. His thumb brushed lazily over your hip through the fabric of your shirt. Then the corner of his mouth lifted just barely. âHad stuff to do.â
That immediately made you suspicious. âStuff?â
âMmhm.â He leaned down and pressed a slow kiss to your temple, lingering just a second longer than usual. âHappy birthday.â
The realization hit you like warm sunlight. You groaned softly and hid your face in his shoulder. âYou remembered.â
He huffed out a quiet laugh at that, the sound vibrating against your cheek. âHoney,â he said softly, nudging your forehead until you looked up at him again, âI remember everything about you. Every single detail, even the ones you think aren't important.â The words were simple, but the way he said them carried that quiet sincerity he always hadâthe kind that made you believe him immediately. Bucky wasnât good with big speeches or dramatic declarations. But when he spoke, it always meant something.
You stretched lazily, pressing closer to him. âDo we have to get up?â
He hesitated just long enough to make you suspicious again. Then he sighed dramatically, like he was giving up a carefully guarded secret. âWell⌠I mightâve already made breakfast.â
You lifted your head instantly. âYou what?â
âDonât get excited, please,â he muttered, already looking vaguely defensive. âItâs just pancakes.â
âJames Buchanan Barnes.â
âI followed a recipe.â
âYou made pancakes.â
You chuckle, feeling his eyes on you, a silly pout forming on his face.
âYeah.â
You stared at him like heâd just told you heâd wrestled a bear before breakfast. Bucky looked away toward the ceiling like he suddenly found it very interesting. His fingers traced absent patterns along your side. âFigured you shouldnât cook on your birthday,â he added quietly. Then, after a moment, he glanced back at you, a little more serious now. âActually⌠you shouldnât do anything today. If you want to, I can take off your pajamas and put on your comfy jeans.â
Your eyebrows lifted. âOh?â
âYeah.â His metal fingers curled lightly against your hip as if sealing the decision. âYouâre all mine today.â
You snorted softly. âThat sounds slightly possessive.â
He smirks and winks at you. âGood.â
That made you laugh, the sound filling the room in a way that made Buckyâs expression soften almost immediately. âI mean it,â he said, quieter now. âNo missions, no training, no running around doing favors for anyone. Just⌠whatever you wanna do.â He shrugged one shoulder, suddenly looking a little uncertain. âIf thatâs okay.â
âBucky,â you said gently.
He blinked down at you.
âYou planned my whole birthday, didnât you?â
His ears turned pink almost instantly. âI wouldnât say "planned".â
âOh my god.â
âI justââ he started, then stopped, then tried again with a sigh. âYou deserve one day where youâre not taking care of everybody else.â His hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing lightly across your skin. âSo yeah. Today youâre just⌠mine. If you want.â
The look on his face right then was so open and sincere that it made your chest ache. âA whole day just me with my man? Of course I want it.â you said immediately.
He smiles softly at you.
That was how the day unfolded. Soft and unhurried, exactly the way Bucky had promised. Breakfast turned out surprisingly goodâpancakes a little uneven but warm and fluffy, with way too much syrup because Bucky had apparently decided that was the correct birthday portion. He watched you eat like he was waiting for your official review. When you told him they were perfect, he muttered something about the recipe doing all the work but looked quietly pleased anyway. Afterward the day turned into the kind of wandering, lazy adventure Bucky seemed weirdly good at planningâcoffee from a little place off the main street, a walk through the park with his fingers loosely hooked through yours, an old bookstore where he disappeared between the shelves and came back with three books he insisted youâd love. At some point you ended up sitting in a quiet diner booth sharing fries, your foot nudging his under the table while he told you half-remembered stories from the 40s that always made you laugh. And the entire time Bucky stayed closeâhand on your back, fingers brushing yours, small quiet touches that said everything he didnât always know how to put into words.
By the time evening rolled around you were back in the compound, curled up on the couch together while some old movie played in the background. Buckyâs arm was draped over your shoulders, his thumb idly tracing circles against your arm like heâd been doing it for hours. You leaned into him, warm and content in that easy way that came from being with someone who felt like home.
âYou pampered me all day.â you murmured.
He shrugged slightly. âWasnât that hard.â
âLiar.â
He smiled faintly at that, pressing a kiss into your hair. Then he shifted slightly, reaching down beside the couch where something had apparently been hidden the entire time. When he brought his hand back up, there was a small worn notebook in itâdark leather, the kind that looked handled a hundred times already.
Your brow furrowed. âWhatâs that?â
Bucky didnât answer immediately. He turned the notebook over in his hands once, like he was checking something. Then he held it out to you. âYour gift.â he said simply.
You took it carefully, curiosity growing. He already gave you some things through the day but this looked even more personal. The cover was soft from use, the edges of the pages slightly bent. When you opened it, the first thing you saw was a photograph of you laughing in the kitchen one morning, hair messy, flour on your cheek. Beneath it was a line of messy handwriting.
"Sam says you laugh like that, so demonically, when youâre about to beat him at cards.
"
You flipped the page. Another photoâthis one from a mission debrief, you leaning back in your chair with a tired smile.
"Natasha says youâre the bravest person she knows. She also says donât tell you she said that, would ruin her reputation."
Another page.
A picture of you asleep on the couch.
"Steve says the Tower feels quieter when youâre gone."
Your chest tightened slowly with every page. Some had photos. Some had small scribbled notes. Some were longer messages from people who clearly adored you. There were doodles from Peter. A dramatic paragraph from Tony that somehow ended in a joke about cake. Yelena sharing her simple noodles recipe you've been asking for months, along a small note saying how much you mean to her. The deeper you went, the more obvious it became that this had taken timeâreal time, careful effort, Bucky going around quietly asking people what they wanted to say about you.
Your eyes stung slightly by the time you reached the last page. There was a picture of you and Bucky together. Apparently was taken in a movie night though you don't know when they took that. The handwriting there was differentâfamiliar. Careful but a little uneven, like the writer had paused a few times.
"You make the world feel quieter for me.
You make it easier to breathe.
You make me want to stay."
You looked up slowly. Bucky was watching you with that same quiet intensity he always had, one arm resting along the back of the couch behind you.
âThatâs⌠from you.â you said softly.
He nodded once.
You glanced down again. There was one more line beneath the others.
"Youâre the best thing thatâs happened to me since I got my life back."
Your vision blurred slightly. âBuckyâŚâ
He shifted closer, brushing a thumb under your eye before the tear could fall. âHey,â he murmured gently. âNo crying on your birthday, precious.â
âThis is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.â you whispered.
Bucky looked faintly embarrassed by that, glancing away toward the floor before leaning forward and pressing his forehead lightly against yours. His voice dropped into that soft tone he used when he meant every word.
âYou deserve this.â He whispers, butterfly kisses here and there. âHad to make sure you knew.â he said quietly.
âKnew what?â
âHow much youâre loved.â
You reached up, cupping his face in both hands. âI already knew that.â you murmured.
âYeah,â he admitted softly. âBut I figured it wouldnât hurt to remind you.â
For a moment neither of you moved. Then you leaned forward and kissed himâslow and warm and full of everything the day had been. When you finally pulled back, Bucky rested his forehead against yours again, one arm sliding around your waist.
âBest birthday?â he asked quietly, a small smile on his face.
You smiled, still holding the notebook against your chest.
âThe best.â
He watched you for a moment after that, eyes softer than usual, thumb still brushing slow circles against your arm like he wasnât even aware he was doing it. The room was quiet except for the low murmur of the movie playing somewhere behind you, the soft rustle of pages as you absentmindedly flipped through the notebook again. You stopped at a picture Sam had apparently taken of you and Bucky a few weeks ago in the kitchenâhair pulled up messily, sleeves rolled up while you argued with him about something. You hadnât even realized someone had taken the photo.
Bucky noticed where your gaze lingered.
âYou look happy there.â he said quietly.
You didnât answer right away. Your fingers traced the edge of the photograph slowly, the smile in it feeling a little distant now. The past few weeks had been⌠heavy. Long days. Too many late nights. Too many moments where the world felt louder than it should, where everything sat in your chest like a weight you didnât quite know how to shake off. You hadnât said much about it out loud. You hadnât needed to.
Bucky always noticed anyway.
He never pushed. Never demanded explanations or forced conversations you werenât ready for. But sometimes heâd pull you a little closer when you were quiet. Sometimes heâd bring you tea without asking. Sometimes heâd let you talk about nothing at all just so the silence didnât feel so heavy.
And now⌠this.
The pancakes. The wandering through the city. The way heâd kept the whole day slow and easy, like he was deliberately building a little pocket of calm around you. The notebook full of voices reminding you that you mattered.
Bucky didnât say it out loud. That wasnât really his way.
But you knew.
Your chest tightened again, though this time it wasnât sadness. You closed the notebook gently and leaned into him, resting your head against his shoulder. For a moment he stilled, then his arm tightened around you instinctively, pulling you closer until you were practically curled into his side.
âYou didnât have to do all this.â you murmured softly.
He shrugged slightly, chin brushing the top of your head. âWanted to.â
You tilted your face up just enough to look at him. âYouâve been watching me.â
Buckyâs gaze flickered down to yours, a little wary now, like he was trying to figure out if you were upset about that.
âYeah.â he admitted quietly.
You smiled gently instead, reaching up to brush your fingers along his jaw. âYou always do.â
His shoulders relaxed just slightly under your touch.
âComes with the job.â he muttered.
You huffed a quiet laugh, but your hand stayed where it was, thumb tracing the faint line of stubble along his jaw. For a moment neither of you spoke. Then you leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.
âThank you.â you whispered.
Bucky didnât answer with words. He just pulled you closer, pressing his lips against your temple in that familiar, steady way that always made the world feel a little quieter. And as you sat there tucked against him, the notebook resting safely in your lap, you realized something simple and certain. He might never say the exact reason out loud. But you knew. And somehow that made it mean even more.
His hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, keeping you tucked against him for a long moment before he gently tilted your chin up so you were looking at him again.
His expression was soft in that quiet, careful way he only let you see.
âHey?â he murmured.
You hummed softly in response.
A small smile touched the corner of his mouth as he leaned in, brushing his lips gently against yoursâslow, warm, lingering just long enough to make your chest flutter. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours again.
âHappy birthday, my love.â Bucky says, those ocean blue eyes full of love as well, that smile reserved for you was there.
