SSDD

Sometimes even the devil on my shoulder asks, "What the fuck are you doing?" Age 30+

[starlemons]

Coffee and Crime Series Masterlist

Pairing ✦ mafia!bucky x reader

A/N ✦ All the parts of my series Coffee and Crime

THIS IS AN 18+ SERIES, MDNI

Last Updated: 04/30/2026

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

PART FOUR

PART FIVE

PART SIX

PART SEVEN

PART EIGHT

PART NINE

PART TEN

PART ELEVEN

PART TWELVE

PART THIRTEEN

PART FOURTEEN

PART FIFTEEN

PART SIXTEEN COMING SOON

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

TAGLIST IS CLOSED FOR THIS STORY

[paradoxrose]

The Elevator

Summary: A late night at SHIELD goes horribly wrong when an elevator stops between floors. Unfortunately for you, Steve Rogers is also there.

Status: Complete

Words: 2,766

Warnings: Steve Rogers xfem!Reader; Panic Attacks; Stuck in Elevator; Fluff

A/N: I blame a GIF set of Steve in an elevator for this completely. You're welcome. Your author lives on feedback. All errors are mine.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. No copyright infringement intended. This is not written for profit.

It had quickly become a running joke around SHIELD Headquarters that you were Captain America’s favorite analyst. Usually you shut the comments down by pointing out that you could not help it if Steve Rogers appreciated competence. It did not exactly make you any friends, but who was counting?

Steve always came to you first after missions. Debriefs. Updates. Tactical review. Sometimes he needed clarification. Sometimes, you were fairly certain, he just liked lingering around your desk.

Tonight was no exception. By now the tower had mostly emptied out, leaving only you, the captain, and the cleaning crew drifting through the halls. The overhead lights had dimmed automatically an hour ago, washing the office floor in low fluorescent light. Your monitor was the only one still displaying something other than the SHIELD logo.

You were typing steadily as you sorted through the information gathered from Steve’s latest mission. Somewhere behind you came the familiar sound of the break room door swinging shut.

A moment later a coffee appeared beside your keyboard. Two creams. No sugar. Exactly how you liked it.

You glanced up long enough to smile at Steve in thanks before taking it carefully from his hand.

“Thought analysts ran on caffeine and spite,” Steve said as he dragged a folding chair over beside your desk.

“We do,” you replied easily. “This is preventative maintenance.”

Steve huffed a quiet laugh and settled beside you with the mission report you had already reviewed. There was exactly one green sticky note attached to the top page.

Next time you decide to jump out of a quinjet without waiting for backup, at least have the decency to stop alarming me personally.

— Your increasingly hostile analyst

Steve looked up instinctively, but you were already focused back on your screen, typing like you had not just casually admitted concern for his well-being on official SHIELD paperwork. A smile tugged briefly at the corner of his mouth.

Shaking his head to himself — and already knowing Sam was going to give him hell for it later — Steve peeled the sticky note free and folded it carefully before slipping it into his pocket with all the others.

Whenever anyone asked why the inside of his locker was covered in your sticky notes, Steve claimed they were mission corrections. No one believed him.

“Rogers, c’mere. HYDRA writes better mission reports than you.” You still were not looking at him, your attention fixed on the screen as you typed. Steve pushed himself out of the folding chair automatically and moved behind you to look over your shoulder, his arm settling across the back of your office chair without thought.

It was not the first time he had stood this close. Something about tonight felt different anyway.

You kept talking, pointing something out on the screen while Steve’s attention drifted almost immediately away from the report entirely.

As usual, you sat cross-legged in your office chair — something that drove SHIELD HR insane, though you had never seemed particularly concerned about that. There was a faint ink smudge near your wrist, probably from writing before the pen had fully dried. Your eyes looked tired from staring at monitors all day and your voice had gone slightly rough around the edges from exhaustion.

Steve found himself noticing all of it. The way you tucked your hair behind your ear while thinking. The crease between your brows when you concentrated. The quiet warmth of your shoulder pressed near his chest.

“You seeing this pattern or not?” you asked finally, turning toward him when he failed to answer. And abruptly realized how close he actually was. You paused mid-sentence.

Steve had gone too still beside you, close enough now that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your mouth. His eyes were fixed on you with an intensity that immediately sent your pulse stumbling.

Not the file. Not the screen. You.

Your throat tightened slightly as your eyes flicked down instinctively before finding those devastating blue eyes again.

Steve’s gaze dropped to your mouth. The shift was tiny. It still felt catastrophic.

For one terrible second neither of you moved. Then both of you leaned forward slowly, unconsciously, like gravity had changed inside the room.

Your brain caught up first. You nearly launched yourself out of the chair. Smoothing your shirt quickly, you stepped away from the desk and forced your expression into something resembling professionalism.

“You should probably head home,” you managed, your voice only slightly strained.

Steve blinked once like he was pulling himself back into reality before stepping away as well. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “You should too.”

“Good idea.” You saved your work a little too quickly and locked the screen before gathering your things while making a very deliberate effort not to get anywhere near Steve again.

Then you made the mistake of heading for the elevator. You almost made it there alone too. Almost.

The sound of Steve’s footsteps caught up quickly thanks to his stupidly long stride, and by the time the elevator dinged he was beside you again, hands shoved awkwardly into the pockets of his jacket.

You should have taken the stairs.

Instead the two of you stepped into the elevator together, immediately retreating to opposite corners of the small metal box like that would somehow undo the last five minutes.

The only sounds in the elevator were the steady beep counting down floors and the quiet rhythm of both your breathing.

This was absurd. You were both perfectly capable adults. There was no reason to act like two teenagers who had almost gotten caught making out.

Turning toward Steve to say something, your voice caught in your throat as the elevator suddenly jolted to a screeching halt. The lights flickered once overhead.

You froze. Terrible things happened in elevators in this building. Honestly, you had no idea why anyone trusted them anymore. Gripping the handrail tightly, you forced yourself to take a slow breath. “Okay,” you said quickly, looking toward the ceiling lights. “Probably just a temporary power relay issue.”

Steve heard it immediately anyway. The way your voice pitched slightly higher when stressed. The white-knuckled grip you had on the rail. He reached over and pressed the emergency call button before looking back at you. “I’m sure you’re right.”

The elevator shifted abruptly beneath your feet. The lights blinked out completely before the dim emergency lighting kicked in a second later.

You went utterly still. No movement. No breath.

Steve’s attention sharpened instantly. Mission panic he understood. Civilian panic too. But this — this felt older somehow. Automatic. Buried deep enough to bypass logic entirely.

Finally you pulled in a shallow breath. “I don’t like this,” you admitted quietly, so soft even Steve almost missed it.

Instinctively he stepped toward you before stopping himself. Five minutes ago he had almost kissed you and you had practically fled the room. Touching you now without permission felt like a terrible idea.

His eyes flicked briefly toward the elevator doors. He could get them open if he wanted to. Probably in under thirty seconds. He also suspected watching Captain America pry apart steel doors with his bare hands mid-panic attack would make this exponentially worse.

So instead Steve reached for an older instinct. The part of him that had learned how to calm frightened people long before the serum ever made him strong enough to save them physically.

Slowly he crouched down, making himself smaller instead of larger, his voice dropping softer as he leaned back against the wall. “Hey,” he said gently. “Look at me for a second.”

You tried. Really tried. But the second your eyes met his, your breathing hitched again and darted away.

God, this was humiliating. You were a grown woman. A fully trained SHIELD analyst. And you were standing here on the edge of a panic attack because an elevator had stopped between floors. In front of Captain America.

Your breathing broke into short uneven pulls. “This is ridiculous,” you managed weakly.

Steve shook his head immediately. “No,” he said, calm and firm all at once. “You’re scared. That’s different.”

The simple certainty in his voice made your chest ache unexpectedly.

Steve shrugged off his leather jacket before sitting fully on the elevator floor. Then he spread the jacket out beside him and glanced back up at you. “C’mere,” he said softly. Not pushing. Just offering. And stayed still while he waited to see if you would.

A nervous laugh escaped you then. “You say that like stray cats don’t hiss at you.”

A small smirk tugged at Steve’s mouth. “They usually do, yeah.”

Another slow breath worked its way out of you before you rolled your eyes at yourself and finally sat down beside him on the jacket. Your shoulder brushed lightly against his, just enough contact to ground yourself a little.

Beside you, Steve stayed perfectly still, deliberately keeping his breathing slow and even in the hope that yours might unconsciously follow.

It was strangely nerve-racking. This was the closest you had ever willingly let him sit beside you before. He could smell the faint scent of your body wash and whatever subtle perfume you wore beneath the recycled elevator air.

Leaning your head back against the wall behind you, you closed your eyes briefly. “I hate not being able to get out.”

Steve’s expression softened instantly. He closed his eyes for a moment and nodded once. “I know.”

You looked over at him then. Really looked at him.

Oh. Right. Steve Rogers understood being trapped better than almost anyone alive. In the ice. In the war. Inside a symbol people often seemed to value more than the man himself. If anyone should have been panicking in this elevator, it should have been him.

Something in your chest loosened unexpectedly at the realization that he truly understood what you meant. Slowly your breathing began to settle back into something normal.

Then, just as abruptly as it had stopped, the elevator lights flickered fully back on and the car resumed its smooth descent downward.

Neither of you moved. Partially because you were both waiting to see if it actually kept working. Partially because neither of you seemed eager to address the massive unresolved situation currently sitting between you on Steve’s jacket.

The elevator reached the ground floor with a soft ding and the doors slid open.

Steve stood first, brushing dust from his jeans before automatically offering you a hand. Without thinking, you took it.

The moment you were upright both of you paused slightly, your eyes dropping briefly to your joined hands before snapping back to each other’s faces. You let go quickly.

To avoid creating yet another moment, you bent to pick up his jacket instead and held it out to him. Steve took it carefully, your fingers brushing lightly together in the exchange.

Shoulders bumping accidentally, the two of you stepped out into the dimly lit hallway. Your footsteps echoed softly in sync despite your best efforts to maintain some kind of professional distance.

It was nearly midnight and somehow both of you were suddenly acting like normal conversation had become an advanced combat exercise.

Steve moved ahead slightly as you reached the exit doors, automatically pulling one open for you.

“Thanks,” you said softly. You slowed your pace just enough afterward to let him fall back into step beside you again.

Glancing sideways at him, you tried to break the awful silence. “At least we didn’t die.” Your voice came out drier — and slightly shakier — than intended.

He snorted softly. “Yeah.” His blue eyes were already tracking you again. “You okay?”

You shrugged, biting lightly at your lip. “Statistically elevators are extremely safe.”

That nearly made him laugh. It also made him absolutely certain you were deflecting.

As the intersection ahead came into view, Steve realized this was usually where he split off to head home. Instead his brain abruptly started moving a mile a minute.

He did not want you going home alone like this. Not because of the panic attack. Well. Not only because of that. Fine. If he was being honest, he just wanted more time with you.

Beside him, you were still carefully avoiding looking directly at him for more than a second at a time as you checked both sides of the street.

Before you could step off the curb, Steve cleared his throat.

You paused and finally looked at him fully.

Steve immediately looked like he regretted having a functioning nervous system. “Do you—”

He stopped abruptly, frustration flashing across his face before he muttered a curse under his breath.

You nearly laughed. Steve Rogers swore so rarely it still caught you off guard every time. “That’s never a good start,” you pointed out cautiously.

Steve looked at you like he was asking for patience on a spiritual level as he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Right. Okay.”

He squared his shoulders slightly, like he was preparing to charge directly into enemy fire. “I was gonna ask if maybe you wanted to get coffee sometime.”

Then his eyes widened almost immediately. “Not because of the elevator.”

You blinked at him.

Steve pulled both hands from his pockets, holding them up helplessly. “I mean—not not because of the elevator.” He shut his eyes briefly. “Christ, that sounded worse out loud.”

You could not help it. A real laugh escaped you then — clear, warm, helplessly amused. Because somehow the man who fought aliens, HYDRA, and literal gods was visibly panicking over asking you to coffee.

Steve’s shoulders dropped slightly at the sound, some of the tension easing from his expression. “I just meant—” He glanced briefly toward the sky like he was searching for divine intervention before exhaling heavily. “I like talking to you. Outside work.”

Another breath. His eyes found yours again. “And preferably outside small mechanical boxes.”

The sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten unexpectedly. Studying him carefully, you hesitated. You wanted to say yes. That was the problem. The two of you worked together. SHIELD relationships had a reputation for becoming disasters at alarming speeds.

Delicately, you asked: “You’re asking me on a date?”

Steve opened his mouth. Closed it again. Then let out a small huff of laughter. “…Yeah,” he admitted. “I think I am.”

You snickered softly despite yourself. “You know, for a guy who jumps out of planes, this is surprisingly painful to watch.”

Completely serious, Steve answered immediately: “You’re very intimidating.”

That finally broke you completely. You smiled then, because he meant it. Not just the invitation. The nerves too. The fact that this mattered more than either of you quite wanted to admit yet.

“You know this is a horrible idea,” you said softly.

Steve let out another breath, tilting his head slightly. “Probably.” Then, more hesitant this time: “Still wanna do it.”

Your mouth twisted as you tried not to smile too obviously. He looked painfully earnest standing there under the streetlights. “Okay.”

Steve’s entire body relaxed instantly. “Really?”

You nodded, laughing quietly again. “Really.”

His smile turned softer around the edges before he glanced down the street and back at you. “Can I walk you home?”

You tried fighting the smile this time and failed completely. “You’re getting greedy now.”

Steve gave a small helpless shrug. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

Shaking your head, you started walking before glancing back over your shoulder. “You coming?”

Steve fell into step beside you immediately.

The night breeze curled around both of you as moonlight spilled across the sidewalk. Neither of you spoke much on the walk home. You did not really need to.

Your shoulders bumped occasionally. Once, your hands brushed lightly together and neither of you acknowledged it.

At your apartment building Steve stopped automatically at the bottom of the stairs, clearly trying very hard not to push his luck any further tonight.

You turned toward him, smiling despite yourself. “Goodnight, Steve.”

That nearly destroyed him on the spot. It was the first time you had ever called him anything other than Captain.

For one dangerous second Steve considered kissing you anyway. Instead he swallowed hard and managed: “Goodnight.”

Still smiling faintly, you climbed the stairs, unlocked your door, and stepped inside. The second the door shut behind you, you leaned back against it with a helpless smile already spreading across your face like a woman fully aware she had just made a terrible decision.

Outside, Steve stood there another moment staring at the closed door before finally turning back toward his bike. His own smile matched yours almost exactly.

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@catchmeupimgettingoutofhere, @dylansjustme, @thejemersoninferno, @starlit-sith, @castielscaplan, @masterofdumbassery, @thatisamericas-ass

[castielscaplan]

Sweetheart of Mine

Summary: You're adamant about not being with Bucky. You're just friends. [WC 670] [AO3]

Request: @jackys-stuff-blog Hey Caplan 😌👋 I saw that your requests are open and can I please request something with Bucky Barnes where the reader and him are dancing around their feelings for some time and the longing, small "accident" touches and friends who act like a couple (they don't realize it), happens too often. One day Bucky came back from a mission injured and the reader patches him up. She was worried and is now trembling and they start to have a conversation. At the end they confess their feelings to each other ❤️ Maybe with hurt/comfort and with these prompts: "I just want to be yours, I love you" "Oh sweetheart, you're already mine" Thank you so much 🥺 (Sorry, I got carried away)

The thing about loving Bucky Barnes was that it never felt sudden. It felt like erosion. Like water against stone. Small, steady, constant.

It was the way he stood too close when explaining something, his breath ghosting warm against your ear. The way his metal fingers brushed yours when passing you a mug, lingering half a second too long to be accidental — but never long enough to be undeniable.

It was the way everyone at the compound had stopped questioning why the two of you always sat together.

“How long have you two been—”

“We’re not,” you’d both say at the same time.

Every. Time.

You weren’t dating.

You just—

Shared looks that lasted too long. Stood shoulder to shoulder during briefings. Fell asleep on opposite ends of the same couch and somehow woke up tangled. Normal friend things.

Obviously.

The mission went wrong. It always does. When the jet door opened and he stepped out, your stomach dropped. There was blood on his collar. Too much of it. You were already moving before anyone said anything.

“Medbay,” you snapped, grabbing his arm — gently, but firmly.

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

“You’re bleeding through your jacket, Buck. You’re hurt!”

He glanced down like he hadn’t noticed. “Ah.”

You didn’t let go.

The medbay was quiet except for your breathing — and his. You peeled the torn fabric back carefully. A deep gash across his ribs. Not life-threatening. But ugly. Angry.

You cleaned it with steady hands. Until you didn’t. Your fingers started shaking. You didn’t realize you were trembling until he gently caught your wrist.

“Hey.”

“I told you to be careful,” you whispered, and your voice broke in the middle of it.

His eyes softened immediately. “You think I wanted to get sliced open?”

“That’s not what I—” You swallowed. “You scared me.”

There it was. The thing you never said. You scared me because losing you would ruin me. His metal thumb brushed over your knuckles.

“You were shaking when I walked in,” he said quietly.

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

Silence.

Your hands hovered near the bandages. You wouldn’t look at him. “I just…” You exhaled, and it came out uneven. “You matter too much to me.”

The words hung there. Heavy. Dangerous.

He went very still. “How much is too much?” he asked softly.

You laughed — but it wobbled through the air. “Enough that I can’t pretend this is casual anymore, Bucky.”

His heartbeat picked up beneath your hand.

You finally met his eyes.

“I just want to be yours,” you said, voice barely steady. “I love you.”

There it was. No mission. No excuse. No deflection. Just truth.

For a split second he looked stunned — like he’d been bracing for rejection for so long he didn’t know what to do with acceptance.

Then his expression changed. Soft. Certain. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, pulling you gently closer despite the bandages. “You’re already mine.”

Your breath caught.

His forehead rested against yours. “I’ve been trying not to cross a line,” he admitted quietly. “Didn’t want to push you. Didn’t want to ruin what we had.”

“What we had was torture.”

A huff of laughter left him. “Yeah. It was.” His hand slid to your waist — deliberate now. Not accidental. Not hesitant. “I love you,” he said. No stutter. No fear. “Have for a while.”

Relief hit you so hard it made your knees weak. “You absolute idiot,” you whispered.

He smiled, that rare soft one he never gave anyone else. “Guess we both are.”

You leaned in first this time. The kiss was careful — mindful of stitches and bruises — but it was warm and sure and full of every touch you’d both pretended not to mean.

When you pulled back, your hands were still trembling.

He noticed. “I’m okay,” he murmured.

“I know.”

“You still shaking.”

“Shut up.”

He pressed another kiss to your forehead. “You can be scared,” he said softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time since he stepped off that jet — You believed him.

[aquaticmercy]

Get a Hobby

Summary : Bucky’s bored and he needs a hobby. He never expected to find it in you, Val’s personal pilates instructor.

Pairing : New Avengers!Bucky Barnes x Pilates Instructor!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Tower fic!!! Fluff. Very suggestive. Bucky yearns in this one. Cursing. Your activities traumatized Mel. Set after Thunderbolts* (Let me know if I missed anything!)

Word count : 3.6k

Note : As you probably know by now, I love a pining Bucky. enjoy!

Keeping Bucky Barnes in the tower was expensive.

Not in the way most people assumed, definitely not because of tactical errors or catastrophic damage to equipment.

No, he was precise in the field. He didn’t even shoot a bullet if he could handle it with his fists. 

It was everything in between that cost Val, for lack of a better word, a shit ton of money. 

Because Bucky got bored easily. He simply didn’t know how to be still.

See, he could stand motionless for hours if he had to, especially on overwatch, in the shadows, waiting for a signal, but that kind of focus had a purpose and direction.

The downtime between missions didn’t. It was just tired, empty space stretching out in front of him with nothing to anchor to.

And Bucky, left alone with too much time and nowhere to put it, burned through things. The super soldier serum didn’t help, either.

At first, he’d spend hours in the shooting range, shooting into targets with mechanical precision until the air smelled like metal and heat and smoke.

He’d go down there and run drills, but it wasn’t long until it turned into repetition for the sake of filling time.

He was emptying magazine after magazine.

The sharp crack of gunfire echoing off concrete until the sound blurred into white noise with recoil.

He didn’t miss, but that wasn’t the point. He just… kept going.

Empty.

Reload.

Fire.

Again.

Again.

Again.

It got to a point where the range officers started filing reports because the ammo stock was depleting faster than any active rotation justified.

Even Mel had to increase ammunition orders so often that procurement started flagging it.

Then there was the gym.

With him, boxing gloves barely last.

He didn’t train like John did. Even Alexei was appalled by his habit. Bucky had no timed rounds, no structured sets. He just hit until the boredom in his chest loosened just enough to breathe around. Or until the stitching gave out.

Whichever came first.

It wasn’t long till the leather split under impact and the padding warped. After a couple uses, the Velcro would tear loose from repeated, careless yanks.

He’d go through three pairs a month like it was normal. Sometimes four.

There was a week where one didn’t even last five days.

The heavy bags didn’t fare much better.

They weren’t meant for someone who didn’t pace themselves, who didn’t stop when their knuckles started to ache or his shoulders burned.

Bucky didn’t have those problems. So he didn’t stop.

He hit until the chain creaked under the strain. Until the bag swung unevenly. Until seams stretched and finally gave in to a dull, ugly tear that spilled filling across the floor like a gutted animal. 

Mel had to replace it four times in a single quarter.

—

When Val noticed, it wasn’t because she had observed this with her own two eyes. She noticed when she looked at her bank account. 

She would be billed with increasing orders of ammunition with no operational justification. Then, she noticed that equipment replacement requests start stacking faster than they should.

Surprise, surprise, when she looked into it, the maintenance logs flagged with the same name, over and over again: Barnes broke this, Barnes went through that. 

Barnes, Barnes, Barnes.

“Read a book,” she told him one afternoon, not even looking up from her desk as Bucky leaned against the wall like a permanent fixture. He had gone up there to put in yet another order of dumbbells. Unfortunately, both his vibranium and human arms were getting good at accidentally bending perfectly good steel. “Get a hobby. Crochet, knit, or get a punch needle kit, I don't care. At least learn something useful.”

Bucky didn’t respond.

She sighed, pen pausing mid-signature.

“Download a dating app, for god's sake,” she added dryly. “At least make yourself someone else’s problem for a few hours.”

Bucky frowned, “No.”

Val looked up slowly. “…No?”

“You can’t tell me what to do.” There was no attitude in the way he said it. It was just a flat, immovable statement, a reminder that Val was in no position to make any demands.

From the side of the room, Mel made a small, choking sound that might’ve been a laugh.

Val ignored her.

“Then find something,” she said, annoyed now. “Because if I have to approve another ammunition order this week, I will start assigning you tasks purely out of spite.”

Bucky only shrugged.

—

Enter you: Val’s personal Pilates instructor.

You had been her private instructor for a little over three years now. You used to train at her place uptown, but you just moved to midtown. Val offered to do the classes here instead (since she was mostly at the tower anyways), so… now here you were.

Avengers gym was definitely bigger than Val’s home gym.

It felt far more polished, floor-to-ceiling windows, equipment that looked more expensive than most people’s yearly rent. It didn’t feel like a place people worked out so much as a place people trained to survive.

You stood near one of the mats, rolling your shoulders back, easing into a stretch while you waited. Val was late, which wasn’t unusual, but this was your first time coming here, and you couldn’t help the extra awareness pulling on your mind.

You bent forward, palms flat to the mat, breathing into the stretch.

“Don’t remember anyone requesting a personal trainer.”

The voice came from behind you— and… oh. 

You straightened, just a little slower than necessary.

“I’m not a personal trainer,” you said, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “Pilates instructor.”

He stood a few feet away, like he’d been there longer than you realized. His hand loose at his sides, watching, but not in an uncomfortable way. He was just being observant.

As if something clicked into place, he stepped forward slightly and offered his human arm, “Bucky.”

You hugged out a small laugh as you shook his hand. “I figured.”

That earned you a sweet smile, something you didn’t really expect from an ex-brainwashed assassin “Yeah?”

“You have a… reputation,” you said lightly.

“Do you think it’s a good one?”

You tilted your head, considering him in a way that was just teasing enough. “I haven’t decided yet.”

He nodded once, like he respected the answer.

You decided the least you could do was give him your name.

He repeated it, like he was testing how it tasted on his tongue. “Pretty name.”

“Thanks,” you said, looking down.

He gestured toward the mat. “So what, you just… stretch people into shape?”

You raised a brow. “That’s a gross oversimplification of my life’s work.”

“Mm.” He folded his arms loosely. “Convince me.”

“Oh, I don’t need to,” you shot back. “Val already pays me.”

He huffed in amusement. “Fair point.”

You shifted your stance, crossing your arms without really thinking about it. 

A small beat of silence settled before…

“Could probably use it,” he added, almost offhand.

You blinked. “Pilates?”

He shrugged. “It probably helps with… what, control?”

“Control,” you confirmed, "strength, alignment…”

“Yeah,” he cut in lightly, but not rudely. “Could be useful.”

You looked at him, at the tension sitting on his shoulders, the way he held himself like he was always half-ready for threats… or pleasant surprises.

Before you could respond, the door opened.

Val walked in, eyes scanning between the two of you, “I see you’ve met.”

You stepped back just enough to reset the space, professional again. “Just introducing ourselves.”

Bucky nodded once, easy, like nothing had happened at all. “I’ll see you around.”

You nodded in response, biting your lower lip to stop anything from spilling out. 

Val clapped her hands once. “Alright, let’s not waste time.”

—

Mel had come down to the gym thirty minutes after your lesson ended with a tablet in hand, already bracing herself for her weekly inventory.

She had a system: clipboard on her left arm, gel pen on her right hand, headphones in. It was easier that way to ignore whatever chaos the enhanced individuals of the tower decided to unleash on perfectly good equipment. It kept her sane. More importantly, it kept her employed.

So when she stepped into the gym, she was already bracing herself for damage: torn seams, bent, metal. Maybe another report with Barnes stamped all over it.

Surprisingly… everything seemed suspiciously intact. 

She frowned, glancing around as she made her way past the mats you’d been using earlier. Squeaky clean. Where Bucky had been? Not even a single scratch.

“No way….”

Was today her lucky day? Did she not have to order twenty new things that would last six days?

Oh, did she celebrate too soon?

Because that was when she heard a sound, even through her headphones.

It was soft at first, almost like a muffled whine.

Mel froze.

Then, another sound followed, a bit louder this time. It was rhythmic, like a quick series of… claps?

She slowly lowered her clipboard. “What?”

But there it was again, a faint series of plap, plap, plap, echoing just enough off the tile to carry.

It was coming from the locker room.

Mel turned her head, eyes narrowing, like maybe if she looked at it differently the situation would change. It did not. In fact, it got worse.

Because now there were voices.

It was low and overlapping. It wasn’t clear, but unmistakably not gym-related.

She heard a breathy gasp slip through, and she recognised that voice as yours.

She stepped a little closer. Were you in trouble? Did you need help? 

Then, she heard another voice. That was when she stopped. She was close enough now to make out the words.

“You always fuck on the first date, dirty girl?” It was unmistakably Bucky’s voice. She had heard it too many times during briefings. 

Something, probably a motion, cut him off. Then she heard a small startled sound, half laugh, half a lewd curse.

Mel’s eyes widened. “Oh. My. God.”

She heard thud, a deeper breath. Something scraped against the tile (probably the metal arm) as the now obvious sound of skin against skin picked up in pace.  

She heard your voice again, teasing even through the uneven rhythm of your breathing. “I thought—weren’t you… raised in the forties—?”

His response was lower this time, words blending into the, "What's your point, dollface?” He said, followed by a quiet, muffled protest from you that dissolved into a stifled moan, “Takin’ me so good, can’t even form proper sentences, huh?”

“M-my point is,” you managed to gasp out, “shouldn’t you—ah… be a gentleman— hmphhh!”

It sounded as if something had been stuffed in your mouth. 

That was the breaking point. Mel didn’t wait for more. “Nope. Absolutely not.”

She turned on her heel so fast her clipboard nearly slipped, already marching back toward the door like she hadn’t heard a single thing.

Inventory could wait.

Whatever that was? Not her department.

—

Mel thought it was a one night stand.

She realised she was very wrong sometime around week three.

At first, she’d told herself it was just two adults sneaking around. She understood the appeal, it was just so unfortunate that it happened in a building that really should have invested in better soundproofing. 

Besides, from what she saw of you two, it seemed… sweet. At the very least, it was nice to see Bucky smile every time you were around, even when he was just there to patiently wait for Val’s lessons to be finished so he could rearrange your insides. 

By week eight, she had the schedule down to a tee.

If your slot ran from two to three-thirty, Mel simply did not under any circumstances step foot near the locker rooms until at least four-thirty. She valued her sanity. And her ability to make eye contact during staff briefings.

But there was a bright side to needing to bleach her ears weekly.

The ammo orders dropped almost in an instant.

Sure, he still trained, but the frantic, endless burn-through had eased into a leisurely pace. Intentional. Even range officers had stopped filing passive-aggressive reports.

The gym equipment stayed miraculously intact.

There were less split seams and even lesser warped frames. Heavy bags weren’t spilling their insides like crime scenes waiting to happen anymore. Mel hadn’t had to file a replacement request with his name on it in weeks, and that alone felt suspicious enough to warrant investigation.

She didn’t tell Val, though. The last thing she wanted was for her boss to fire you. 

Because whatever this arrangement was, it had somehow done what months of structure, orders, and discipline hadn’t: Barnes wasn’t breaking things anymore.

He wasn’t burning through resources like he was trying to outrun his own mind.

He’d inadvertently taken Val’s advice and found a hobby. A very specific one.

And Mel, for her own peace of mind, decided she would take that as a win.

Still, she noticed that you two weren’t exactly subtle. You’d leave looking composed, professional, like nothing had happened… except for the slight delay before you stepped out. She’d noticed the way your hair was sometimes not quite how it had been tied before. She watched how Bucky would follow ten minutes later, like something under his skin had finally settled.

It wasn’t Mel’s business. And yet…

“Again?” she muttered one afternoon, pausing mid-step just outside the gym doors as a very familiar muffled thump echoed faintly from down the hall.

She closed her eyes briefly, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Every week,” she whispered to herself. “Every single week. I deserve a raise.”

Inside, Bucky laughed, and it was followed by your voice, flirtatious in a way that made Mel immediately turn around.

You both were louder today. 

Nope.

Nope, nope, nope.

She pivoted on her heel and walked straight back the way she came.

—

But sometimes it was actually quite… sweet.

Sometimes Mel walked in expecting the same sinful noises coming from behind a blissful door, and instead found you still there, out in the open.

Mel paused in her steps.

That was weird. You rarely stayed out here after Val’s lessons. Except now, apparently, you did.

She slowed down, clipboard tucked against her side, not meaning to eavesdrop, but then she noticed that Bucky was sitting down on a mat. 

“Relax your shoulders,” you said gently.

Oh. Were you helping him stretch?

“I am relaxed,” Bucky replied stubbornly.

Mel leaned ever so slightly around the corner.

You stood behind him, guiding his human arm back to flex. Your fingers pressed lightly along his shoulder, coaxing instead of commanding.

“James,” you said, and Mel nearly choked because no one called him that, “you’re about as relaxed as a brick.”

“I was on a mission six hours ago,” he countered, but there was no bite in it. “Cut me some slack, sweetheart.”

“You’ve had six hours to stop brooding about it, old man,” you teased. 

“I don’t brood.”

“Sure.” You chuckled, unconvinced, adjusting his posture again. “You just sit in corners and stare into the distance like a tragic war relic.”

Bucky managed to shake his head with a grin. “I am a tragic war relic.”

Mel had to physically bite the inside of her cheek to stop a laugh.

He huffed, but he didn’t pull away when you guided his arm a little further, your touch careful when his expression flickered.

“Easy,” you said, almost reverent now. “I’ve got you.”

Bucky glanced back at you, just slightly. “You always this bossy with your clients?”

“Only the difficult ones.”

“Mm.” His mouth curved up, just barely. “So I’m a problem now?”

You tilted your head sweetly. “You’re my problem.”

Mel looked away for a second, staring very intently at the clipboard like she hadn’t just witnessed that adorable little exchange.

When she glanced back, you were helping him to his feet, fingers on his wrist. He didn’t let you let go right away.

“Better?” you asked.

“Yeah,” He rolled his human shoulder once, testing it. “Thank you.”

It wasn’t the word that caught Mel off guard. It was how he said it— like you painted the sky blue just for him. 

You breathed out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding, like you heard it too. “Anytime.”

And for a moment, neither of you moved.

That was when Mel cleared her throat loudly on purpose as she stepped fully into the room.

Both of you shifted apart, almost looking guilty the second you noticed someone else was there. 

“Inventory,” she announced to no one in particular, already walking past like she hadn’t just interrupted a moment.

You smiled politely. Bucky nodded once.

Mel made it halfway across the gym before shaking her head under her breath.

“I can’t believe this,” she said to herself, making sure you both were out of earshot.

Somehow, against all logic, what started as just blowing off steam had clearly turned into affection. 

As cute as it was, that was way more inconvenient for her scheduling.

Other times, though, when either you or Bucky weren’t in the mood (which was rare), Mel would catch conversations that were somehow more intimate. 

He’d talk in fragments about missions, and you’d meet him there without pushing. “You did what you had to,” you’d say gently, and the loaded silence that followed always felt… lighter.

On different days, it was the complete opposite. Your laughter would slip through the door. “I have this client,” you joked once, “who thinks being late means he can pay half the price.”

“I could take care of him,” Bucky offered dryly, without a second thought 

“No thanks,” Mel heard you laugh reassuringly, “I can handle one stubborn client.” You paused for a second, before dipping your voice into teasing territory. “I’ve already got one stubborn super soldier to deal with.”

Ugh. Romance, Mel would think. But even she had started rooting for the two of you, even if only so you could start having loud sex and heart to hearts in his bedroom instead of a common team space. 

—

The week after that, Mel had come down for inventory, expecting an uneventful day for once.

Instead, she found Bucky standing by the window like someone had just told him the world was ending.

He was just standing there, staring out with his in his pockets, shoulders a little slouched, like all the shared edges he usually carried had been sanded down.

Mel stopped to stand next to him, wondering what he saw in the skyline that was so interesting. She had concluded: nothing. He was just missing you.

“I heard Val’s not doing Pilates today,” she said, as casually as she could manage.

Bucky jumped a little like she’d pulled him out of a daydream.

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes flicking anywhere but at her. “She’s, um… she’s got the day off. She’s family.”

Mel blinked at him as a slow smile started to creep up.

Oh.

Oh, this was bad.

He was down bad. 

“You know,” she said, tapping idly at her clipboard, “you could just ask her out.”

He frowned slightly, like the suggestion didn’t quite compute. “What?”

“You know, on a date,” Mel clarified. She had to remind herself that she was a very simple concept to a very stubborn man. “You ask, she says yes, you go somewhere that is not this building and you can finally see her outside of Val’s classes. Revolutionary concept.”

Bucky shifted, clearly uncomfortable now. “We… already spend time together.”

Mel looked up at him flatly. “Locker room encounters don’t count.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

And there it was… the realization.

It was as if his heart dropped. Best started creeping up his neck, flushing across his cheeks, ears going bright red as he suddenly found the floor deeply interesting.

Bucky dragged a hand over his face. “Okay, I—”

“You didn’t think I knew?” she interrupted, not even trying to hide her amusement now.

He groaned quietly, turning away like if he just faced the window hard enough he could phase through it. “I figured someone would eventually—”

“Eventually?” Mel snorted. “Barnes, I’ve been scheduling my entire inventory checks around not walking into the locker room at the wrong time.”

He made a strangled noise that might’ve been embarrassment, but it was definitely not regret.

“Right,” he whispered.

He hesitated for a second, wondering how much of this was safe with Mel.

“I’ve been wanting to take her to a cafe down the street,” he finally admitted, still not looking at her. “For a while now.”

Oh?

Mel turned fully toward him, her eyes shifting from mischief to sympathy.

“Then do it,” she said simply.

He glanced back at her, a little uncertain. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” she nodded encouragingly. “Ask her properly. I’ll help you! I know the best florist in Manhattan— We’ll even use the company card.”

That managed to pull a small, almost shy smile out of him. It was so brief she almost missed it.

“Yeah,” he said again, shyer this time. “Yeah, that’d be… that’d be great.”

Mel went back to her clipboard, giving him a second to breathe, to process, to exist in whatever strange, new emotional territory he’d found himself in.

After a moment, she added, “I’m really glad you found a hobby.”

Bucky huffed, shaking his head, but there was no edge to it. “Me too.”

But even as he said it, it was clear as day that this wasn’t just a hobby.

This wasn’t something he’d burn through or break or walk away from easily. This was something he truly, deeply wanted.

Finally, Mel admitted it to herself: you two were so ridiculously, painfully adorable it made her want to scream.

And when she found her person, she hoped they looked at her the way Bucky Barnes looked at you.

—end.

[starlemons]

Coffee and Crime Series Masterlist

Pairing ✦ mafia!bucky x reader

A/N ✦ All the parts of my series Coffee and Crime

THIS IS AN 18+ SERIES, MDNI

Last Updated: 04/30/2026

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

PART FOUR

PART FIVE

PART SIX

PART SEVEN

PART EIGHT

PART NINE

PART TEN

PART ELEVEN

PART TWELVE

PART THIRTEEN

PART FOURTEEN

PART FIFTEEN

PART SIXTEEN COMING SOON

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

TAGLIST IS CLOSED FOR THIS STORY

[castielscaplan]

Asset Acquired

Summary: He sets your apartment building on fire to draw you out of hiding once and for all. [WC 770] [AO3]

@0ccvltism Secured in a high-rise apartment as smoke and fire from a wildfire encroach. You’re terrified, paralyzed by fear. They appear, guiding you down crumbling stairs, every step deliberate. The danger was meant to watch you squirm—but also to show you who truly holds your life in their hands. THIS IS GIVING WINTER SOLDIER *GRABBY HANDS*

3K Writing Challenge

Smoke creeps under the apartment door first. Thin. Curious. Almost polite. Then the alarms start. You’re standing in the middle of the living room when the first boom rattles the windows. Something several floors below. Something intentional.

You know that sound. Accelerant. Your stomach drops. Not an accident. Outside, orange light flickers against the skyline. Fire is climbing — controlled, contained to lower levels for now — but designed to trap, to herd.

Your breathing fractures. You told yourself you were done with this life. You left Hydra. You disappeared. You built something small and quiet and yours.

But Hydra doesn’t lose assets. It reclaims them. Smoke thickens. The hallway outside your apartment fills. The sprinklers never activate. Of course they don’t. This is curated.

Your legs won’t move. Your brain knows you need to run, to think tactically, to find an alternate exit — but fear locks you in place.

The door explodes inward. Not from fire. From force. Heavy boots. Tactical precision. And then he’s there. Black combat gear. Mask. Metal arm glinting faintly in the firelight.

The silhouette you know before your mind allows the name. The Winter Soldier. He doesn’t rush to you. He walks. Controlled. Measured. Through smoke and falling embers like it’s just another mission parameter.

Your voice comes out small. “You…”

He tilts his head slightly. Assessing. Alive. That’s what matters. The floor groans beneath you. Something collapses below. Heat pulses upward.

You flinch. He steps forward. One gloved hand grabs your jaw — firm, not brutal — forcing you to focus on him. “Look at me.” His voice is low. Mechanical calm. Programmed reassurance. “Safe.”

The word lands like a command. Your breathing stutters. Because part of you remembers this. Training rooms. Conditioning. Extraction drills. He was always the one who came through the smoke. Always the one who pulled you out. Hydra designed it that way. Create danger. Introduce the savior. Repeat until dependency replaces doubt. You shake your head weakly. “You set this.”

He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t confirm it either. Another explosion somewhere below. The stairwell access buckles. Time is narrowing — intentionally. His metal hand slides to your wrist. Firm grip. “Move.”

It’s not a suggestion. 

You stumble after him into the smoke-choked hallway. The emergency lights flicker red. The air tastes like chemicals, not just wildfire. 

Hydra’s signature. The stairs are partially collapsed. Debris litters the steps. Heat licks up through broken windows.

He goes first. Then reaches back. Not frantic. Certain. You hesitate at the top of the cracked landing.

He looks up at you. And for half a second — just a flicker — you see something almost human behind the mask. Or maybe you imagine it. “Trust me,” he says. That’s the real weapon. Not the fire. Not the height. Trust. 

You take his hand. He guides you down every unstable step. Positions his body between you and falling debris. Shields you from heat bursts. Calculates weight distribution before each shift.

It feels like a rescue. It feels like protection. It feels like the old missions when he’d drag you from simulated ambushes while handlers watched behind mirrored glass.

Your heart pounds. Fear melts into something else. Relief. Gratitude. Dependence. Exactly as intended.

Outside, armored SUVs idle in the alley. No sirens. No firefighters. Just Hydra retrieval. You slow when you see them.

Reality cuts through the smoke. “This isn’t rescue,” you whisper.

He tightens his grip. Not painful. Final. “Extraction,” he corrects.

Your pulse spikes. “I left.”

Silence.

Then his metal hand slides from your wrist to the back of your neck. Firm. Guiding. Controlling trajectory. “You were never cleared.”

The alley glows with reflected firelight. Smoke cloaks everything beyond a few meters. The world feels small. Contained.

Hydra burns your life down. He carries you out. Your knees weaken. Not from heat. From the realization. They didn’t just want you back. They wanted you grateful.

And as he opens the vehicle door and positions you inside like fragile cargo, he leans close enough that his voice bypasses your ears and settles directly in your spine. “You’re safe now.”

The door shuts. The fire keeps climbing. And somewhere beneath the fear and betrayal, something dangerous coils. The part of you that still feels safest when he’s the one holding your wrist.

[caplanbuckybarnes]

Bucky Barnes @mathcat345 @r0segardendr3ams @divadinag @fandom-princess-forevermore @phoenix-rising-starbird-1-reads @nekkiotine @galactusdevourerofworlds @amelia-song-pond @buckets-and-trees @samanddeansannoyingsis @enochsangel @midnight-moonlight-and-mars @nicoline1998enilocin @hallecarey1 @libbymouse @deans-1angel @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @xxqueenofdemonsxx @saiyanprincessswanie @your-wonderful-stargazer @of-apollo @miraclesoflove @goblin-king-of-anarchy67 @multiversefanfics @bellaglover18 @ruckystarnes @thezombieprostitute @massivescissorsthingperson

MCU @spn-fanfic-reblog-writes @death-in-a-tar0t-card  @saiilorstars @princessgriffin1998 @angrykitsune01 @multiversefanfics @hennessy0274 @wildcat116 @saiyanprincessswanie @fandomloverangel @late-to-the-party-81 @nikkitabarnes

[winteryn]

WINTER'S TOUCH

MDNI

PAIRING: the winter soldier x female!reader SUMMARY: in the shadows of hydra’s control, the winter soldier secretly finds refuge in you. in the safe sanctuary that is your apartment, he allows himself to be fed, tended to, and held, while he silently guards the woman who anchors him. every touch, every whispered reassurance, is a rebellion against a cruel world that tries to erase his humanity, and a reminder that even a weapon bred for destruction can crave love and safety.  WARNINGS: non-canon; she/her pronouns for reader; civilian!reader; reader is pierce's personal assistant at shield (didn't know about hydra until she met the soldier); pre-established relationship; angst; self-loathing; wounds & blood; trauma; violence & punishments & complicated relationship with food (fuck hydra); one (1) very brief panic attack; bucky is called winter; bucky uses broken english & short sentences; protective!bucky; size difference (yes he’s beefy and tall); caregiving dynamics (no ageplay; she takes care of him & he lets her be in charge); fluff; showering together; emotional vulnerability & intimacy. WORD COUNT: 14.9k A/N: I don’t even know where to start, this is such an important story for me and I’m really glad it got so much love and support when it was first posted on my other blog. there have been some changes, because I realized some parts didn't really fit the situation. at the very end you'll find a brief explanation about why I removed the smut part. I know it "sells" more than angst/fluff, but I hope you’ll enjoy the story anyway 💛

His hands grab onto the frame of the bedroom window and his weight shifts, but the noise of boots landing on the floor never comes. Endless years of practice have trained him to move like a snake, and just like the strategic reptile, it’s impossible to hear him approaching, unless he wants you to. Blood never stains what it’s not supposed to, his work being too clean, spotless. Methodical. And then, he disappears in the quiet of the night, as if he had never been there in the first place.

This time, he arrives silently for an entirely different—and definitely purer—reason.

You are lying on your side, back to the window, knees slightly drawn in as if looking for comfort. The blanket has slipped down one of your shoulders, just enough for that naked patch of skin to be covered in goosebumps.

The window closes behind him with a soft click he barely allows, leaving outside everything that doesn’t belong here. The cold air, the damp stone, the hum of distant traffic that never quite reaches this street.

The echo of gunfire. An agonizing cry. The sharp, electric snap of orders obeyed too fast.

He perceives the change of air at once. Warm, still. It smells faintly of laundry soap and perfume still lingering from this morning. The aroma of something brewed hours ago and left to cool travels languidly from the open bedroom door. The Soldier feels warmth seeping deep into his bones, and he might not notice it, but his shoulders lower a fraction as he breathes in the familiar mix of scents that with time he has learned to associate with you. With home.

The lamp on the nightstand is off, but the city lights leak in through the glass, thin stripes of amber light crossing the wall and the duvet.

He stands there longer than necessary, allowing himself to just exist in the only place where his mind doesn’t split apart and time doesn’t blur. No shouted derisions, no hands on him that don’t ask first.

They never do.

He moves closer, slowly, but the floorboard creaks under his weight anyway. The sound is barely there, but it’s enough to make you stir in your sleep. When he reaches the side of the bed, your body heat touches him like a hand stopping him from falling into the void. He didn’t know it was possible for something so human to exist, completely different from the artificial warmth of the machines deliberately built to break minds.

One of your hands is tucked under the pillow, the other rests open on top of the sheet. Your breathing is steady, each inhale and exhale measured and unafraid.

Outside, a car passes, distant tires on wet pavement. Somewhere far below, a siren wails and fades, yet you don’t wake up.

Carefully, he lowers himself on his knees, mindful to not touch the covers. He studies your face like he’s afraid it might morph into something else if he looks away. Then, a trembling hand hesitantly reaches out before he can stop himself. Just fingers grazing bare, soft skin.

Your cheek fits beneath his touch in a way that makes his chest tighten, yet the sensation grounds him, pulls him fully into your world.

Then, your eyes open.

You startle awake with a sharp intake of air, but the fear never comes. Recognition settles in instead, relieved and immediate.

“Winter.” You exhale a whisper.

He pulls his hand back at once. “Sorry.” He immediately answers, the word rough and uneven. “I… woke you.”

You sit up, already reaching for him, your fingers brushing his cold wrist. “It’s okay,” your smile makes his stomach somersault. “You’re here.”

That’s enough—being here.

You swing your legs out of the sheets and rub sleep from your eyes before turning the lamp on your nightstand on. Your squinting eyes flick over him automatically, assessing: dirty boots, no weapons, the dark smudge of some dark liquid dried on his sleeve. Worry tightens your mouth.

“Sit.” You murmur, patting the mattress. However, he rigidly stands where he is.

“Winter.” You call out gently.

He shakes his head. “Dirty.”

You give a small nod, understanding. “Okay.”

You stand up and walk to your desk scattered with books and your laptop. “Sit here at least.” You turn the chair so it’s facing the bed. “I’ll get the shower ready.”

That makes him hesitate, and you immediately understand why.

“Or… you can come with me?” He gives you a sharp nod, like he’s afraid you might change your mind.

In the bathroom, the light is a little brighter, but he fights back the instinct to cover his eyes. You lean over to reach for the shower faucet as he follows closely, too close maybe, but you never comment, nor mind.

Standing amongst clean scents and cleaner tiles, dirty, booted feet huge and out of place on your fluffy bath mat, makes him feel momentarily lost, so without much reflection, his hand reaches for the back of your sweater, fingers fisting the fabric hard like a lifeline. It’s hard not to notice how his grip shakes.

“It’s okay,” you repeat, calmly. “I’m right here.”

The water starts to run, and he flinches at the sound, then steadies when it doesn’t change, doesn’t escalate. Steam begins to rise, fogging the mirror, and his head lowers, forehead nearly touching your shoulder blades. You can feel the shake in his entire body now—small, like he’s holding something intense back.

You keep moving, deliberately slow, as you retrieve towels and test the water with your hand, adjusting it until it’s warm but not hot. Yet you never stray far from him.

They might be mundane tasks, but having Winter standing behind you makes them feel like a precious ritual.

Finally turning around, you notice how he keeps his eyes fixed on a random spot on your top, chin tilted down as if too ashamed to meet your gaze.

“Do you want my help to undress?”

His grip on your sweatshirt tightens for a moment.

“Yes. Just… don’t leave. After.” He utters, words uneven.

“Do you want me to help you wash up?” He nods, but you gently coax him to give you permission with words.

“Yes, please.”

It feels like someone has just filled his ears with cotton wool, his mind suddenly feeling fuzzy and his tongue heavy as you carefully start peeling his dirty gear off of him. He finds his head tipping forward to rest on your shoulder as you work on his belt, your hands stopping short as you feel the weight of his head settle, now caressing his back instead.

“I’m not going anywhere.” You don’t seem to care about the filth that covers him. You just hug him closer. “Just keep breathing and let me help you.”

You feel more than hear his sigh, his shoulders slumping as he leans more against you. You hold him for a moment, yet for Winter it feels endless and not enough at the same time. When you slowly start pulling away, he fights the urge to bring you back in his arms.

Unknowingly to you, his cheeks turn rosy as you proceed to kneel down in front of him and help him remove his boots and then his pants. To anyone outside of this little sanctuary you created for him, he might be the mysterious Winter Soldier, the fist of Hydra. A ghost. But here, naked and shaking, standing before you in his rawest, most human form, he’s just a vulnerable man craving love.

It’s been almost a year since the start of this tender relationship, but your breath never fails to hitch when your eyes fall on his freshly bruised body. Your heart breaks all the same for the old scars; they might not sting anymore, but they will forever remain bearers of great suffering.

He knows the sight makes you sad by the way the light in your eyes dim a little and your lips press together at the reminder of how much pain he must endure daily at the hands of those sadistic bastards. He hates himself for being the reason of your sadness, but there’s nothing he can do to prevent new bruises from blooming on his skin.

Another way he keeps failing you.

His blue eyes briefly dart over your body, fingers fidgeting as you remove your own clothes as well, now standing alongside him in your underwear. You offer a small smile as you open the shower door, and his ears turn scorching hot. He likes looking at you, well—he adores it, actually. You are so pretty and your skin is always pleasantly warm under his cold hands.

With a soft hand on his back, you guide him inside. There’s barely enough room to move, with Winter being tall and muscular, yet you always make it work. A small, panicked sound falls from his lips when the hand on his back disappears; abruptly turning around, his eyes frantically fly left and right, until they land on you, bent to retrieve the small white shower stool you bought deliberately for him. For nights like this one.

“Sorry, I forgot to pick it up before.” His shoulders lower at once, and when you finally get inside, you gently guide him to sit down.

“Can you tip your head back a little, baby?” A shiver runs down his spine at the familiar pet name, immediately complying. You hum softly as you start lathering his hair with your shampoo, and his eyes flutter close, prompted by the delicate, circular motions and your low voice. It could be a song by your favorite singer, or a hit from twenty years ago, he wouldn’t know.

You are noticeably tender in the way you scrub at his scalp, before shielding his eyes with one hand so the mix of water and shampoo doesn’t burn them as you rinse all the grime out. You do it twice, just to be thorough. He tried to mimic your actions once… there, but his handler has only ever given him five minutes to clean up. The last time the Soldier went over time, the agent in charge broke his human fingers for having still product in his hair.

The smell of your products is also noticeably better than the unscented shampoo Hydra provides him with. Yours is just… well, you. He has come to associate that scent to your hair and body; as a matter of fact, he loves smelling like you. It allows him to bring a part of you with him when he is forced to go back there.

“Smells good.”

It’s quiet enough to be easily overridden by the water’s noise, if you weren’t always so focused on his reactions.

Your smile is fond. “Yeah? Better than the cherry and almond shampoo?”

“Too sweet.” You chuckle at the instant but subtle grimace appearing on his features, the corners of his mouth twitching at the adorable sound before he can stop it. Your eyes catch it anyway.

“There he is.” You comment quietly, still grinning.

Winter never knows what to do with your praises. His face flushes and he ducks his head, suddenly unsure where to put his eyes.

Letting the conditioner sit in his hair is his favorite part, because that means his body is next. You are even more tender with it, at the beginning he couldn’t understand why, when all his life he’s been used to rough hands and dismissive touches. They made him believe he was unworthy of such gentleness.

Your palms are tender and cautious as they reach every nook, even the marring on his left shoulder. His breathing steadies at your lack of hesitation, as your fingers trace the border where skin ends and metal begins, where the scars are now old, deep lines crossing and overlapping, reminders of a body altered without consent. He rarely looks at them. To him, they are just another proof of his uselessness.

Something in his chest tightens painfully at the distant realization that this might be the only time those scars are touched without nefarious purposes. Not to test. Not to repair. Not to weaponize.

Just… to be cleaned.

When your shower gel and the conditioner have been both washed away completely, Winter’s hands twitch where they rest on top of his thighs. The moment you’re done with his back, he stands up to face you.

“Are you okay?” You instantly ask, mentally retracing your steps. Did you touch something you weren’t supposed to? Did you push too much on a new bruise?

“You do everything.” He starts, sorrow creeping in his voice. “For me.”

You tilt your head, slightly confused.

“I want... to do it.”

“You know, I was sweating under that blanket.” You blurt out with an easy shrug.

That does it. This time, he smiles, small but real. Gone almost as soon as it appears, but it’s there.

“You sit now.” He waits for you to remove your underwear, his eyes taking sudden interest in the wall. It’s adorable how he stoically frowns at it, yet his red ears traitorously give him away.

When you are ready, he gently but firmly guides you to sit on the stool. At that, you have to bite your bottom lip to hide the endeared smile threatening to take over your lips.

Winter takes the bottle of body wash with reverence, his hands trembling, but he doesn’t hesitate. The process is slow, mimicking what you did to him. With eyebrows furrowed in concentration, he cleans all around. You stay quiet, trying to not shudder when he grazes your breasts with the slightest hint of pressure while lathering them in soap. When he gets to your hands, he cleans each finger, one by one, delicately turning your hands several times until he’s satisfied.

He hesitates before moving lower, hands hovering uncertainly over your knees. He glances up at you, checking.

“Okay?” He asks quietly.

You nod with your eyes twinkling in adoration. “I’m alright. Go on.”

So he does. He kneels, the tiles hard on his skin but he barely registers the dull ache. All of his attention narrows to the task in front of him, he needs to do this right. His hands start at your thighs with careful, methodical strokes, completely different from the way he cleans his weapons—thorough, respectful. They are steady now, the shaking reduced to a faint tremor that comes and goes with his breath.

The water runs over his fingers as he works lower, on your calves, rinsing away soap and the weight of the day you’ve carried with you as if he has all the time in the world. There’s no urgency here when he’s in your company. Then, with one hand supporting your ankle, he washes your feet, his touch confident yet tender enough to never startle. His eyebrows twitch in sincere concentration, every motion conveying something akin to reverence.

He rinses thoroughly, ensuring no suds lingers on your body, as if leaving even a trace behind would mean he hasn’t done enough.

When Winter’s finished, he stays where he is, water still dripping from his hair and blue eyes searching your face with quiet intensity. He doesn’t smile, nor speaks.

The waiting is familiar, but this time it isn’t fear driving it. It’s hope.

Hope that he’s done well.

Hope that this, at least, was done right.

You meet his gaze with a soft smile. “You did a perfect job.”

You notice the moment your words settle into him, seeping into his bones and reaching the most visceral part of his soul. On the outside, he simply nods, accepting the praise the only way he knows how: silently, but at least the tension he’s been holding loosens its final grip on his shoulders. As a matter of fact, he rises from the floor without the rigid precision he usually carries, his movements more languid now, less guarded. His naked chest moves gently as he takes your hand, helping you stand up.

“You are clean too.” He utters, quietly proud.

“Thank you.” You smile.

Once you’re out, your hand reaches for his towel, the yellow one. It’s his favorite, worn enough to be soft against his tortured skin, yet still in good conditions. You keep it folded in your vanity cabinet, untouched except for the nights he comes home.

You always start with drying his shoulders, wrapping the towel around him and blotting instead of rubbing, careful with the metal and the scars. Once his body is only slightly damp, you reach for your own towel, but his fingers wrap around your wrist, stopping you from drying yourself.

“I can.” He mumbles, already grasping the white fabric.

You pause, searching his face for any sign of discomfort. When you find none, you simply nod with a knot lodging itself in your throat.

“Alright.”

He dries you the same way he washed you, tenderly and focused, before you wrap yourselves in your respective towels and you guide him back to your bedroom. You open a drawer, and pull out a pair of black underwear and some clothes. They’re soft, well-worn, shaped by time and repeated washing, bought specifically for him after the first time you met.

His chest tightens at the sight: red henley and grey sweatpants. He mentioned it once, how these two items feel familiar, safe, and since then, you’ve been making sure to keep them always clean and ironed, ready for the next visit.

Winter doesn’t comment, but his eyes linger on the fabric, memorizing it anew. He watches you approach with the henley folded over your arm and the sweatpants draped neatly beneath it.

“May I?” You ask once you stop in front of him, and he nods eagerly.

You help him step into the black boxers first, then the sweatpants, letting him steady himself with a hand on your shoulder when his balance wavers. He lifts each foot obediently, movements unhurried, trusting you to guide him. The henley comes next. You chuckle when he bends down to make it easier for you to reach his head, and that makes his lips twitch in amusement. You lift it over him carefully, then his arms raise, fabric sliding down warm skin, familiar and comforting. You adjust the collar and smooth the sleeves, fingers lingering on his broad chest just long enough to ensure nothing pulls or twists wrong.

“There.” You nod satisfied. “Better.” This shade of red softens him; it’s a color that was chosen, not assigned.

He looks down at himself, then back at your form standing before your closet to retrieve your own things.

“I help.” He says suddenly, materializing behind you as you look for a pair of underwear.

You pause with your hand inside the drawer. “Help?”

“With clothes.”

Your reaction is immediate, eyes softening at his eagerness to help you, to take care of you just as you are doing with him. So the fresh pair of pajamas you picked is gently pried from your hands, before he bends down. He holds the fabric open, waits for your cue, helps guide your arms through. His gaze dutifully follows his hands as he smooths your top down; they started trembling again when presented again with your beautiful naked body.

This, too, grounds him. Being useful without being used, helping without being ordered.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” He shivers again as you take his hand, leading him back toward the bed. This time, he doesn’t hesitate: he follows easily, allowing you to decide where he should sit.

Relinquishing control here doesn’t feel like losing it, but like setting it down somewhere safe. He is stepping off a ledge and trusting there will be a soft mattress to land on.

You kneel on the mattress in front of him, this time dabbing water from his hair with patience.

For a moment, he’s here.

Then the stillness stretches.

The task is done, the praise has already happened. There is no next instruction.

His eyes unfocus, the room dulling around the edges, sounds flattening into something far away. His hands curl into themselves while resting on his crossed legs, fingers twitching faintly.

“Hey.” Your voice comes muffled to his ears, his head feeling heavy. “Baby, your feet.”

Your palms press against his knees, grounding him through contact. He flinches just a little, then sluggishly follows your lead, moving to sit on the edge of the bed to plant his feet flat against the floor.

“Good.” You nod. “Can you hold this for me?”

You guide his hand to the blanket you keep on top of the duvet for colder nights like this one. It’s thick, familiar, the weave uneven from years of use. His fingers instantly fidget with it, rubbing the edge between thumb and index finger.

“Alright.” You continue, kneeling between his parted legs. “Stay with me, you are safe. Can you tell me five things you see?”

His mouth opens, then closes.

“… Lamp,” he answers finally, his jaw clenched. “Window. The pictures on the wall. Desk. You.”

“Good. Four things you can touch.”

He tightens his shaky grip on the blanket. “This. The floor. The—” His breath hitches slightly. “The bed.” Then his hand tentatively reaches for yours, and you instantly intertwine your fingers, squeezing it once. “Your skin.”

“Good job, my love. Three things you can hear.”

He swallows. “Water pipes. Fridge, and… your voice.”

You smile. “Excellent. Two things you can smell.”

“Shampoo, and… soup.”

“That’s right, I made it just for you, hoping you would come by.” You nod. “And now, one thing you can taste.”

“I—water… from shower.” He blinks once. “That okay?”

“Of course, baby.” You lean closer, towel forgotten for the moment. “There you are, good job.” Your fingers stroke his knuckles tenderly.

His breath catches. Then quieter, like you’re tasting the word before letting it go, “Winter.”

The way it rolls on your tongue like silk sends a shudder through him, sharp and electric yet not painful at all.

Not Soldier. Not the title carved into him by force.

Just Winter.

Suddenly, he’s taken back to that night, when he met you. Blood crusted into his hair, fingers numb from the snow, barely able to stand. He remembers you asking what you should call him—remembers the blank space where his name should have been.

“Then, I’ll call you Winter.” You stated, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He lowers his head, breath steadying, warmth spreading through his chest, and suddenly the world doesn’t feel like it’s been plunged under water anymore.

“I like…” He gulps shakily. “When you say it.”

Means he is here with you: grounded, wrapped in softness, allowed to be held together by someone else’s careful hands.

The hand caressing his locks stills.

“I know.”

After his hair is mostly dry, you set the towel aside.

“I’m going to fetch the first aid kit, alright?” You explain quietly. “I’ll be right back.”

Winter gives you a faint whimper. “Fast?”

“Of course.”

He lets you go reluctantly, fingers still worrying the edge of the blanket and gaze diligently following you as you bring back your damp towels in the bathroom. He stays still where you left him, heart exposed and body waiting.

When you return, you press a water bottle into his hand.

“Here, drink this first, okay?” He nods, quickly chugging down the fresh liquid without pause. He pulls the bottle away only when his lungs beg for air, sharply gasping as his wide eyes search your face, open and desperate.

“Good boy.” He promptly ducks his chin down, cheeks flushed. You set the red bag on the bed, and open it slowly, as if even the sound might startle him back into a bad memory.

He glances at it, then at you.

“You know… I heal.” He says, not defensive, just factual. “Serum, by morning.”

“Do they hurt?” The left corner of your lip lifts calmly, already reaching for a cotton pad.

His eyes glance down at the wounds on his knuckles. “… A bit.”

“Then we can take care of them so they don’t.” You add, softer now.

He looks taken aback for a moment, surprised at how simple you make everything sound. “Okay.” Then nods, slightly slumping forward.

You start with his face, always warning him about what you’re about to do.

“I’m going to clean the cut on your cheek. It might sting a little.”

He nods and stills, eyes closing. The pad is cool against his skin, the pressure light, but he mainly perceives the careful fingers holding his chin.

“You’re doing great.” You whisper. “How are you feeling?”

He searches for the right answer, words not lining up the way they should. “I’m… here.” He says finally.

Your expression softens. “Good.”

Your moves are sure, cleaning each scrape, each bruise with care. Every time your hands change position, or reach for something new, your voice narrates.

“I’m going to put ointment on your cheek.”

“I’m going to touch your jaw now.”

“I’m almost done.”

The predictability steadies him, causing the rigid line of his spine to soften, inch by inch, like a bow finally unstrung, and it’s enough for his hands to abandon the blanket and clutch your sweater instead. When it’s time to take care of his hand, he tenses again—an old reflex—so you pause immediately.

“Your knuckles,” you start. “I’m going to clean them. Is that okay?”

He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing shakily. “Yes.”

You unhurriedly wrap his fingers, one by one, the bandages snug but not tight, and his wrist eventually goes lax. By the time you finish, he’s slightly leaning forward, without meaning to, exhaustion pulling him downward now that his body feels safe enough.

Your fingers thread slowly through his hair, gently massaging his scalp. “Are you hungry?” Your warm breath tickles his forehead.

He perks up at that, just a small, imperceptible movement before he nods, his eyes still peacefully shut.

“Yes. But…” His fingers clutch the fabric of your top, pulling it slightly, as if your body might dissolve if he lets go.

“That’s okay.” You soothe. “Just come with me.”

You place one hand at his elbow, the other steady at his back. His eyes are now open yet visibly hazy as he rises with your help. His movements are languid, almost boneless, as if the fight has finally drained out of him, completely.

“Alright, let’s go slow, one foot at a time.” You keep mumbling, his steps sluggish and heavy.

The light in the kitchen is not nearly as bright as the bathroom’s since you just turn the one above the stove on.

“Do you want to sit, baby?” He immediately shakes his head, tugging again at your shirt. “Okay. Then you can keep an eye on the soup.”

You move to the fridge, taking out an airtight container. Winter stays behind you, arms wrapped around your waist and fingers still tightly grasping the front of your sweater. You leave the soup in a pot on medium-low heat, while you take care of the grilled cheese. You expertly spread a generous layer of butter on one side of four slices of bread, all the way to the edges, then repeat it with another four. After assembling the sandwich, you gingerly move back to the stove with Winter now pliant against your back, staring at your hands with half-lidded eyes.

The skillet is already hot as you place the first two slices of bread, buttered-side down. His nose digs into the slope of your neck, pinning your body gently against the counter with his weight as you try not to shiver, instead focusing on adding the cheese, then placing the other two slices on top, buttered-side up.

Your hand often picks up a wooden spoon, stirring the soup so it doesn’t scorch. The delicious smell quickly fills the apartment, simple yet familiar, and you gently squeeze his wrist, eliciting a small hum out of him. You also heat some milk, then pour it in a blue mug, the same one that he unofficially claimed as his. You test the temperature before setting it on a tray.

When the stove has been turned off, you scrupulously cut the sandwiches. Not diagonally, or halves, but into smaller, manageable pieces then arranged neatly on the plate beside the bowl of soup.

“Let’s sit on the couch so you can finally eat.” He agrees silently.

After setting the tray on the coffee table in front of the couch, you carefully unwrap his arms from your body, guiding him to sit. His shoulders are still a little rounded and no longer braced for impact.

Winter stares at the mug for a moment, then at the soup, as if recalibrating. You just observe him in silence, patient.

Food is… complicated.

Most of the time, his body is fueled without him even knowing; nutrients are delivered through tubes, systems that don’t require taste or choice. When he’s awake, eating is functional at best, discouraged at worst. Flavors are unfamiliar, overwhelming... something to manage carefully.

That’s why you make sure this is always in your kitchen. Tomato soup, cheese, bread.

Things he knows and trusts by now.

Winter shakily reaches for the plate, balancing it in his lap. He lifts the spoon with measured care, brings it to his mouth. The warmth hits first, then the rich taste. His eyes close in ecstasy.

You relax beside him, close but not crowding, smoothing your hand on his back in long, steady strokes; a rhythm he’s learned to follow.

“Is it good?” He dutifully nods, eating in small bites, pausing between each one. He switches to the sandwich after a few spoonfuls, fingers clumsy but careful around the bandages.

“Hot.” He mutters.

“I know,” you reply softly. “Careful. Don’t burn your mouth.”

Halfway through, he slows.

The spoon lowers, his gaze drifts to the plate, then somewhere far away. You don’t comment, nor try to coax him to eat more. You simply cover the plate with one of the napkins and set it back on the tray, close enough that it can be reached again if needed.

“We can wait.”

A few seconds pass, then a full minute. Winter shifts, all breath shallow and pink cheeks. His eyes flick toward your unoccupied hand resting on your thigh, then up to your face. He swallows, before quietly calling your name.

“Yes?” You perk up, lost in the hypnotic movements you kept going on his back.

“Can you… ?” He doesn’t need to finish the sentence, it’s not the first time he has asked you to feed him.

You smile reassuringly and reach for the plate. “Of course, baby.”

Scooping a modest bite, you wait until he shyly lifts his chin. Then you bring the spoon to his mouth, keeping your other hand cupped under it in case any dribbles.

His lips part, trusting your timing. He swallows, exhales, nods faintly. And you watch him proudly, feeding him slowly, praising him without pressure, alternating between a few spoonfuls of soup and a piece of grilled cheese.

“Just one more bite, sweetheart.” You coo. “You’re doing so good.”

When the bowl is empty and only crumbs linger on the plate, Winter hastily wipes his mouth with the back of his hand while you set everything back on the tray.

“Can I ask you something?” Leaning back, your turn your palm up so it rests on your thigh. An offering. Winter nods, immediately intertwining his fingers with yours.

“Do your muscles hurt today?” Then, more specifically. “Your shoulders—the left one.”

He tries to shake his head. It’s the instinctive denial that comes from habit more than truth. “I’m fine.” He answers a little too quickly.

You never argue, yet you don’t look totally convinced.

“I’d like to help.” You add instead. “If you’ll let me, I can massage it. Just like last month, do you remember?”

Winter hesitates, before nodding at your question. Of course he remembers the first time he allowed you near the metal, near the scars—the way his entire body had locked, every instinct screaming at him to pull away, to fight, and how he had forced himself to stay anyway, breath shallow, heart pounding like he was standing in the middle of a battlefield instead of your quiet room. The memory presses in now, not painful, but almost disorienting in its intensity, because nothing had happened, there was only your hands, warm and mindful.

“… Okay.” He agrees quietly.

The corners of your mouth lift relieved, and your hands promptly reach into the drawer beside the couch for a small bottle: lavender-scented massage oil.

“Can you remove your shirt for me?” Winter eagerly takes the hem, his movements clumsy and fast to please you. Meanwhile, you pour the liquid in your hands to warm it up. He watches the motion, the sweet intention behind it.

“I'm warming it,” you explain. “So it won’t hurt.” Then cup your hands in front of his face “Inhale slowly, please.”

He nods, shoulders raising and lowing deeply. You can already see his muscles relax further.

The smell is nice, yes, just not as good as your scent.

“Can you turn around for me? I’ll be right here behind you.”

Winter does as you ask, a little uncertain but compliant. Shifting closer, you kneel behind him so you can reach his shoulders without pulling him off balance.

“I’m going to start on your right side,” you warn. “Then I’ll move to the left. Tell me if anything feels wrong.”

Your palms settle on his upper back, firm but gentle, spreading warmth through muscle that hasn’t been allowed to rest properly in years. He exhales, a shaky little thing, the sound catching in his chest as distress begins to give way.

When you reach the left shoulder, your touch changes. The marks are still flushed beneath your hands, the skin uneven and textured, a map of something that was never meant to heal cleanly. You slow even further, letting your movements grow lighter, more deliberate, using only the soft pads of your fingers as you begin to trace along the edges.

“I’m here,” you murmur. “Breathe.”

You keep your touch predictable, circling carefully, letting him feel exactly where you are at all times, the warmth sinking deeper rather than forcing it. The muscle beneath your hands is still tight, but no longer braced for impact, and when you finally move closer, it’s with the same patience, the same quiet assurance. He shivers, not from pain, but from being touched there without consequence.

At that point you lean forward and press a soft kiss on one of the scars where skin meets something unyielding—brief, like a benediction rather than a claim.

The next inhale is sharp, hands curling in his lap.

“Okay?” You ask immediately.

“Yes…” he breathes. “Again. Please.”

You continue with a small smile, alternating gentle pressure with small kisses, as if you’re reminding his body that this part of him can exist without being a threat. Your lips are featherlight at first, it almost feels unreal, like they might vanish if either of you breathes too hard. You let them rest on his skin for a heartbeat longer than necessary, sealing the place with care rather than trying to erase what it holds. For once, the metal is simply acknowledged, included. Treated with the same love as the rest of him.

You learned where to touch by trial and error—where his body locked, where it flinched. Learned to listen to the rhythm of his breathing, the subtle hitch that meant too much, the slow exhale that meant stay there.

He doesn’t notice when the massage ends, not at first. When your hands finally still, he only realizes because the warmth leaves him abruptly, and his body reacts before his mind can catch on.

His back straightens. It’s instinctive, brutal in its efficiency. Muscles snap tight as wire while shoulders square as if bracing for brutality. Somewhere deep in him, an alarm shrieks—a wordless signal that something else is about to begin.

He hates that his body betrays him even here.

But nothing happens.

No command, no pain, no hands forcing him down.

Instead, he feels your fingers again, not on his shoulders this time but lighter, hesitant, brushing his nape. Then, fingertips slip into his hair.

Winter lets out a strong gasp that almost hurts his throat.

For half a second, every nerve screams no. Touch near the head is dangerous, hands on the skull mean restraint, cold metal pressing against bone. His body remembers even when his mind refuses to. But your fingers don’t grip, they don’t pull. They simply rest there, sliding gently through the strands.

The rigidity bleeds out of him gradually. Shoulders lower, spine curves again, folding back into the couch, into your space. He lets his weight settle against the cushions underneath him, his head tipped forward just enough to give you better access.

Permission, offered without words.

Your fingers comb through his hair patiently, separating locks, untangling where it knots. He hasn’t let it grow this long on purpose—basic grooming like haircuts is low on Hydra’s priority list as long as it doesn’t interfere with his efficiency. The messy, long hair combined with a mask and goggles helps obscure his features. It makes it easier to change his appearance by eventually cutting it if needed after a mission. The unkemptness, though, bothers him in ways he doesn’t fully examine. It reflects something he isn’t meant to think about—the lack of choice, the absence of ownership over his own body. Yet when you touch it with your usual tenderness, he doesn’t think about how long it’s grown or how uneven it is. He doesn’t think about how easily it could be cut away, reshaped, erased.

Your fingers linger with unhurried patience, treating each strand with reverence. As if it’s not another tool of camouflage, an accident of neglect. With you, it’s just something worth loving.

“Today was… kind of long.” Your voice is low, almost a murmur, as if afraid to bother him.

Your fingers separate a section of hair.

“Mh.”

“I had this meeting that should’ve lasted twenty minutes,” you go on. “It turned into an hour and a half, and no one actually decided anything. They just argued and talked in circles.”

You twist a strand loosely, let it fall.

“That… happen often?” He asks quietly.

“All the time.” You chuckle, a hint of resignation in your voice. “And on my lunch break too.”

Your fingers keep moving, tracing slow paths across his scalp. You gather his hair, twist them loosely, let them fall again. The repetition is hypnotic to the point his eyelids grow heavy, blinking lazily as the world narrows to the pleasant tingling sensation at the back of his head.

“Do you remember that new intern I told you about last month? The one who doesn’t know how emails work? Today he spilled coffee everywhere: papers, desk, his shoes... He swore so loud he scandalized half the floor, it was the first time he said more than one sentence.”

Winter breathes out, something akin to amusement. “Poor papers.”

“Right?” You grin. “A colleague tried to help him clean it up but he stomped around, shrieking that he could do it himself.”

He hums again, his body slightly swaying side to side.

“And then the elevator here got stuck. Again.” You sigh. “Well—not really stuck. It just stopped for a minute, but you know I get anxious in small spaces.”

He nods slightly. “I hear weird metal sounds,” he says. “Now.”

You snort quietly. “Yeah, exactly.”

Your fingers let the braid unravel and start again, patient.

“I passed this shop on the way home, there was a beautiful sundress in the window, but the color… eh. Though I stared at it like I was actually going to buy it.”

“Did you?” He perks up, suddenly interested.

“No.” You huff out a laugh. “I would never wear that shade of yellow. But the thought of buying it crossed my mind for a hot second.”

His mouth twitches. “You… think a lot.”

“Too much.” You agree with a dejected sigh.

You then gather his hair into a loose ponytail, holding it gently at the base of his neck, causing him to exhale, long and slow. The line of his throat lengthens as his head unconsciously tips back, until he accidentally meets the solid warmth of your shoulder. The knot inside his stomach finally loosens, body going lax, trusting that you will support the weight.

When you release his hair, it spills loose again, brushing his neck. Your fingers continue to play with it absentmindedly, combing through the locks.

He could easily fall asleep like this.

The thought never fails to surprise him, because the idea of falling asleep without fear is so foreign it feels almost dangerous. Sleep usually comes to him drugged, forced, or not at all. Here, it tiptoes at the edges,

A gift.

He shifts slightly, just enough to get more comfortable, and your fingers pause for a fraction of a second before resuming their moviments. Always checking, always attentive.

“The city was loud on the way home. Too much traffic for a Thursday.” Your voice is nothing short of a whisper.

“Better now.” He murmurs.

“Yeah.” You look down at his closed eyes. “Better now.”

Your breath tickles his cheek when you sigh.

“I know none of this is important.” You swallow.

His answer is swift. “It is. For me.”

Your hands still in his hair without meaning to, caught mid-motion as the weight of his words settles somewhere low in your chest.

There’s no hesitation in his voice. He means it exactly as it is, and that kind of blunt sincerity hits deeper than you’re prepared for. Your heart doesn’t quite know how to contain it. The idea that your voice, your ordinary life, your presence alone can anchor him like this, can matter this much to someone, feels like a hand squeezing your lungs.

This man, shaped by a life that has taken and taken until there was barely anything left for himself, is offering you four words so simple and yet so impossibly devastating. There’s something unbearably precious in him, in the way he gives without realizing the importance of what he’s placing in your hands. He doesn’t see how his quiet affection unravels you each time, slipping past every defense you have built throughout the years spent here in this big city, alone and far from your family.

He just sits there, unaware, trusting, letting you hold him while you’re the one coming undone.

As soon as you feel the familiar sting behind your eyes, you draw in a slow, entirely too shaky breath, forcing your fingers to move again.

Before you speak, you have to clear your throat.

“Then I’ll keep talking.”

You shift behind him. It’s a small movement, just the subtle change in pressure as your legs tense and your weight begins to lift, but he reacts as if the floor has dropped out from under him.

His eyes snap open.

The world sharpens instantly, his heart slamming hard enough that it steals his breath. His hand shoots back, fingers curling into fabric and gripping your sweater at the hem until his knuckles turn white.

“Don’t—”

The word doesn’t quite make it out. It breaks apart in his throat, unfinished.

You freeze.

“I’m here,” you soothe immediately, not pulling away. Your hand comes down over his, tender and grounding. “I just wanted to get your shirt and the blanket.”

Winter blinks, breath stuttering as panic drains in reluctant waves. His grip loosens, fingers uncurling as shame sharply burns in his veins. After he releases the fabric completely, his hand falls back to his side.

“Sorry.” He mutters.

You don’t correct him, nor say it’s okay or that he shouldn’t apologize. You never frame it like a mistake. Instead, you smile softly and reach for the folded blanket draped over the back of the armchair as he quickly puts his henley on, still avoiding your eyes.

When you return, you wrap him in it. Carefully at first, tucking it around his shoulders, then you pull it tight enough that he can feel the pressure along his arms and chest, the reassuring weight settling over him like an armor made of wool instead of scratchy, rigid cloth.

The blanket faintly smells of your detergent, the scent keeping the edges of him from drifting apart as he grips it reflexively.

You lie back down with him, adjusting until you fit together along the length of the couch. One arm slides beneath his shoulders, the other wraps around his waist, drawing him closer.

He hesitates for half a second, then shifts, turning into you. His head comes to rest on his favorite place, your chest. The position is vulnerable in a way that makes his instincts recoil. Head exposed. Ear pressed against soft, unarmored flesh. Too close. Too open.

But then he feels it.

The rise and fall beneath his cheek. Calm. Steady.

Your breathing.

And beneath that, fainter but unmistakable, the rhythmic thud of your heart.

Alive.

The realization hits him with unexpected force. It tightens his throat, a strange pressure blooming behind his eyes. He focuses on the sensation desperately, like committing coordinates to memory. The warmth of your body, the cadence of your breath… The proof that you are here with him now. Unhurt. Real.

Winter inevitably presses closer, until his ear is aligned perfectly over your left breast. The sound of your heartbeat becomes clearer, more defined. His own beat gradually syncs to it, instinctively matching your breathing.

Meanwhile, you pick the remote and turn on the TV. The volume stays low, barely more than a murmur, but he recognizes the opening notes of the intro immediately.

It’s the show you introduced him to months ago—something simple and predictable. He doesn’t understand every joke, every reference, and language still slides past him sometimes, too fast and cluttered. But he catches enough: the rhythm, the emotion, and he knows the characters. Knows that nothing truly bad happens in it, not really.

It’s safe noise.

“This one… good?”

“It’s your favorite episode.” You reassure him. “The one with the cheesecake.”

He hums in acknowledgment, the sound vibrating against your chest. He likes the cheesecake episode. The characters tell the story of how they came to meet and live together, and even if they bickered at the beginning, they still stayed together, still chose each other. That’s what friends do, apparently.

“I guess I do that too sometimes.” You shake your head as one of the protagonists keeps blabbering. “Instead of just letting things be, I dissect them. Over and over again.” You murmur half-amused.

Winter shifts slightly, his fingers curling into the blanket at your side. “You think a lot.” A pause. “You care. Is good.”

You chuckle softly. “That’s a very nice way to put it.”

You go quiet for a moment, then continue, pensively. You tell him about how you promised yourself to read more literary classics, so you bought a popular one but haven’t finished it because you keep falling asleep halfway through the same chapter. About your favorite coffee shop near the headquarters of S.H.I.E.L.D. that changed management, and now the coffee tastes awful.

“They ruined it.” You whine dramatically. “It was the only good thing about going to work.”

Winter exhales through his nose, close to a laugh. “A crime.”

You chuckle at that, the sound vibrating through your chest and into him. He clings to it, to the way your body moves with the sound. You lapse into companionable quiet again, punctuated by the low dialogue of the show, as your hand drifts slowly up and down his back, a repetitive motion that requires no attention.

Eventually, you speak again.

“Did you like the food?” You wonder. “I think the soup was too salty.”

He nods, then remembers you can’t see him. “Was good.” He states. “Easy.”

“That’s the goal.”

He gathers enough courage to add. “You… make it better. Eating.”

Your arms tighten around him almost imperceptibly. “I’m glad.”

The episode ends and another begins. He doesn’t track the plot as closely now, his focus narrowing again to sensation: your heartbeat, the warmth of your palms, the pressure of the blanket holding him together.

This... This is what matters.

Not the missions, the handlers, the endless commands and resets.

He can feel you alive beneath his cheek, and in doing so, remind himself that he is still here with you, safe.

His eyes flutter shut without he meaning to, sleep pulling at him early. It always does when he’s here, once the tension has been sanded down by love and proximity and the low murmur of the television. His body is heavy, reluctant to move, still, his mind can’t quite settle yet.

The sigh escaping his nostrils is small but purposeful.

“Sleepy?” He nods. “Do you want your journal?” Another nod, suddenly more awake.

You don’t try to stop him, even when his eyes are glassy with exhaustion and his movements lethargic. You know this is not a habit he can skip, not without consequence.

Winter disentangles himself carefully, the loss of your body registering as a faint ache. The blanket slides from his shoulders and he folds it with unsurprising precision before setting it aside, while you slip inside your bedroom. Hidden behind carefully folded sweaters lies a plain, dark-covered diary.

When you come back, he gently takes it from your hands, sitting back on the couch as you keep yourself busy watching the episode where one of the protagonists worries about menopause.

The pen is already there, snug in the black pen loop you bought for him. His hand aches faintly as he writes, yet he ignores it. Fatigue is irrelevant. This is survival.

He writes the date first, slowly. Then, he begins. The sentences are simple, concrete. Things that cannot be argued with.

Drank warm milk. Blue mug. Chip on the rim.

He pauses, considering, then adds.

Did not hurt stomach.

His handwriting is uneven, but each letter is formed with intent, pressed harder than necessary, as if afraid it might fade. Briefly glancing up, his eyes wander across the apartment, collecting details.

Blanket is the one her mother made. Wool. Heavy. Very warm. Smells like her soap.

Her sweater is soft under fingers. Loose. She wears it when too cold.

His grip tightens slightly on the pen. Flipping back a few pages, his eyes scan what he’s written on previous nights, focusing on continuity. Evidence that this has happened before, that it wasn’t a dream. Because if there is something in this world equally terrifying as seeing you hurt, it's forgetting you.

They notice it before he can do something about it.

A second too slow to pull the trigger, the way his gaze drifts instead of snapping back to attention.

Reports flag it as inefficiency, Pierce calls it degradation.

They restrain him in a room that smells like metal and disinfectant, rough hands pull and prod at his skin, clipped and impersonal voices talk about him like an object.

He fights them harder than he ever has before. To remember.

He snarls, limbs thrashing as they drag him forward. Hands close around his arms, his shoulders, his throat. He kicks, feral and wild, teeth bared, a sound tearing out of him that isn't language anymore.

Images flood his mind in sharp, desperate flashes: you asleep on your side; your palms stroking his back; the new set of lamps you bought specifically for him, gentler on his eyes than the bright ones installed in your apartment. And then your voice, whispering that he’s safe, even when he is forced on his knees by gloved fingers.

He can’t lose that.

He can’t lose you.

“I need—” he gasps, straining against their grip. “Please—I can’t—”

They don’t listen.

He twists free for half a second—enough to stumble back, enough for a spark of hope to deceptively ignite in his chest—and then more hands are on him. Too many. He is forced on the looming chair, strapped in, leather biting into his wrists and chest, and a mouth guard forced between his teeth.

Panic explodes.

He screams.

Your name flicks over and over again in his mind, and he clings to it like a lifeline, trying to carve it into himself deep enough that it can’t be burned away.

The warmth. The quiet. The way your eyes light up when he finally comes home.

He begs fiercely for those moments to stay.

Then the world goes black.

A week passes in pieces he can’t track. No missions, no movement. Just pain and foggy fragments. His head feels hollow, like a forgotten room after furniture has been stripped out.

When they finally deploy him again, he follows orders flawlessly. And when it’s over, when the static noise in his brain fades and the city falls asleep… His feet take him somewhere else.

The Soldier stands in the middle of your living room, rigid and uncertain, surrounded by objects that mean nothing and everything at the same time. The couch, the lamp, the faint smell of your lotion.

His head hurts.

Then, the door opens.

You freeze in the doorway, keys still in your hand. Your eyes widen as they find him, but neither of you finds the courage to move.

Something is wrong. He could see it flash in your expression—shock, something like grief—and it makes his chest hurt inexplicably.

“I…” He swallows. Words feel wrong. “I don’t know why…” He says slowly. “But I needed… here.”

Silence stretches between you, fragile as glass. Your vision instantly blurs with tears, because his blue eyes are so... empty, yet he came here. Not by memory. Not by choice. Not in any way that makes sense, but something buried deeper than whatever they took from him still found you.

Crossing the room with measured steps, as if approaching a scared animal, you stop just short of touching him, like you are afraid he might vanish with a single brush of your fingertips.

“Winter.” You whisper.

A flicker, small and disoriented, passes through his expression, like a crack forming beneath the surface. His breathing stutters, just once, and for a second he looks like he’s caught between two places, two versions of himself that don’t quite align.

Then his gaze slips away from you. It drifts unfocused, like he’s trying to escape the weight of the moment, until it catches on something sitting on the coffee table. A notebook, plain and worn, nothing extraordinary, but the sight brings a frown to his face.

Why does that object suddenly feel important enough to be acknowledged?

“That.”

Your breath hitches when you turn around and see what he is pointing at.

“You—” Stopping yourself when your voice breaks, you take a moment to swallow back a sob and clear your throat. “You wrote it for—for moments like this. You told me to read it when I miss you, so…”

You carefully place it in his hands.

Inside, there are endless pages of his own messy handwriting.

She keeps me safe.

Not a weapon here.

I love her.

The words land one by one, heavy... Devastating.

He sinks to the floor, clutching the journal to his chest like it might keep his body from crumbling.

Hydra wiped him. And still, somehow, he found his way home.

Once, he didn’t know what was missing. The emptiness was just his ordinary state of being, another blank space he learned to move through without question. Now he knows the shape of what can be erased.

The memory of that week sits in him like a bruise he can’t stop pressing. The chair and the restraints are almost manageable. What haunts him the most is the look on your face when you realized Winter was gone.

He remembers the fear, that’s what stays with him.

After that night, every time he leaves your apartment he catalogues it more carefully than any mission. From the smell of your hair to the cadence of your soft laugh so you don’t wake your neighbors. He stores these things with the same ruthless precision Hydra engraved into him.

He also starts writing more.

The journal never leaves your apartment, but it grows heavier with pages, dates, details. Small things that wouldn’t matter to anyone else.

Drinks her tea too hot.

Bounces her right knee when nervous.

He writes not because he thinks it will save him, but because the thought of waking up without any memory of you terrifies him more than pain ever has.

The fear also changes how he touches you. His fingers linger longer, like every contact might be the last one. His hands rest on your waist a second too long, and his forehead presses to yours when he thinks you’re asleep.

He never confesses that some nights he’s afraid to close his eyes because he might wake up empty again. That the warmth in his chest could vanish, leaving nothing but orders.

He also becomes more careful with routine.

If he misses a visit, panic coils hot in his gut. If you move something in the apartment, he frantically asks you where it went, and why. If you suggest changing your rituals—a different kind of food, a different chair—he stiffens before he can stop himself.

So you learn to reassure him in new ways.

“If they take it again, we’ll rebuild it together. I promise.”

The desperate urge to believe you is there, but his heart won’t let him forget how close he came to losing everything without even knowing it was gone. And every time he walks back into your apartment, every time the lock clicks behind him, relief floods his bones so hard it nearly hurts.

He is still here.

You are still here.

And for now, that has to be enough.

It all comes to a head the following month. He notices it the exact moment he steps inside.

Your mug is wrong.

For starters, it’s sitting on the counter instead of the table. It’s also a different one—slender, white, unfamiliar weight. The sole sight makes something inside his stomach churn.

You look up from the stove, surprised. “Hey.” Your smile should ease a little bit of the tension in his shoulders, but he’s too busy having a one-sided staring contest with the new mug. “You’re early.”

You weren’t expecting two visits in two days, not that you’re complaining.

Winter nods, still by the window he came in, and you follow his gaze. “Oh! The blue one is still in the dishwasher.”

His throat tightens. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath.

“Okay.” He rushes out. “Okay.”

He moves deeper into the apartment, checking the windows, the lock, the corners. Everything is where it should be. Everything except that small, ordinary change that shouldn’t matter at all.

Your smile fades into a thin line.

Setting the dishcloth down, you call softly. “Winter, can you sit here for a second?” He hesitates.

“Please.” Your eyes are not as sparkly as usual, and that’s what makes him move, perching himself on the edge of his chair, spine straight, hands clasped together so tightly the plates of his metal arm hum faintly.

His eyes stubbornly fix on the floor as you open the dishwasher, pick the right mug, still wet and hot, and set it in front of him. A quiet exhale escapes him before he can stop himself.

“Hey.” You breathe out, crouching in front of him, always careful not to crowd him. “Talk to me.”

“I’m fine.” He answers automatically.

“You panicked.” Not accusing, just stating a fact.

Winter shakes his head. “No. Just—the mug… not here.”

“There was a different mug. It was not in his usual place, and it scared you.”

His jaw tightens, still not looking at you. So you reach out, your hand resting over his knuckles. “Is it happening again?” You whisper. “The fear of forgetting?”

Winter swallows.

“I remember,” he starts, the words coming out rough. “That week.”

Your breath catches.

“Didn’t know…” He quavers. “Didn’t know you.” His voice falters, but his lips press together, forcing the rest out. “I can’t forget this, I can’t forget you.”

Your other hand tentatively comes up to cradle his cheek, soft but firm enough to turn his face toward yours. He regards you with distress, almost close to bursting into tears.

“Baby,” your voice is surprisingly even. “You found me without your memories.”

He shakes his head, breath coming out dangerously fast. “What if I don’t?” The words spill out like a waterfall. “What if I walk here but don’t stop and—and don’t see you again?”

You pull him into your arms before the demons can take him. His body stiffens for half a second, then collapses into the embrace. His forehead presses into your shoulder hard, almost as if trying to fuse together your bodies. His hands clutch the back of your shirt, desperate and grounding all at once, tears already wetting your collarbones.

“They can hurt you,” you murmur into his hair. “They can take pieces, but they will never get this.” Your hand presses over his chest, right on his heart. “They don’t get what you choose.”

“I’m scared.” He chokes on a sob, barely audible.

“I know, sweetheart. I am too.” You chin wobbles. “But I trust you to always come back to me. Whatever happens.”

You lean back just enough to look at him, hands cradling his jaw as your thumbs brush his stubble. “We’ll make more anchors,” you continue with a sniffle. “More than the journal, more than routines. You won’t have to carry this alone.”

Winter searches your face with a lonely tear sliding down his cheek.

“But you need to tell me when it gets bad, my love.” You add. “You can’t just carry it alone.”

He nods, a small, shy movement. “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I’m asking.”

You rest your forehead against his, his body still trembling under your palms. Gradually, his shoulders lower, the panic ebbing vertiginously, leaving him utterly drained and hollow against the warmth of your chest.

That day, the Soldier learns that being seen in his fear makes it hurt less.

On the bookshelf nearby, something colorful catches his peripheral vision. A photograph. His eyes squint faintly, not remembering having ever written about it. Walking with military precision, he retrieves it to study it under the low light. You look younger, standing with a group of people, all smiling too wide, holding papers.

Graduation.

He sits back on the couch.

Photo on shelf. Her graduation. She is smiling, with friends. I forgot.

He underlines the last sentence once, not hard enough to tear the page. Still, he frowns at it, then adds one more line, smaller.

Watched show. Cheesecake episode is my favorite.

Winter finally closes the journal with care. The cover makes a soft, final sound as it meets itself, and for a moment his palm rests flat against it, as if sealing what he’s written inside. The facts are there now. Anchored and secured.

He then hands it to you with a single word. “Wait.”

It’s never shaped as a command, yet you nod and stay on the couch, blanket pooled on your crossed legs and journal protectively pressed against your chest as your gaze follows him discretely. Winter rises, and his posture changes immediately: spine straightening, eyes narrowing and breath recalibrating.

This is another version of him. Not the one who blushes when you call him sweetheart, not the Winter who closes his eyes and asks for snuggles against your chest.

He moves through the apartment without sound, bare feet finding the places that won’t creak. The living room comes first, then the narrow hallway. He checks the front door, fingers testing the lock once, twice... because certainty matters. You deserve to sleep behind a door that he knows, without question, is secure.

The deadbolt is firm, the chain untouched.

That’s when he stops to listen. The building has a specific rhythm at night, he learned it in his second month here, the same way he memorizes terrain. The movement of pipes at predictable hours. The distant hum of traffic softened by elevation. The occasional elevator cable groaning faintly through the walls.

Tonight, everything matches, so he moves on.

The windows come next. He just checks the latches, presses gently against the glass, notes how the frames sit in their tracks. One latch feels a little too loose when he tests it, so he tries again and again, toying with it a little until he hears the click seat properly.

Good.

There are things you don’t notice. The way footsteps in the stairwell sometimes echo wrong, too light. Pondered. The way a door should never close without sound in this building. The suspicious absence of noise where there should be some. When something doesn’t fit, his body knows before his mind names it.

Each night Winter spends here, he positions himself between you and the door. It’s not conscious anymore, his body simply arranges itself that way, a barrier of muscle and metal laid instinctively in the path of danger.

Only on certain nights he lets you take that place, when sleep turns against him and memories surface uninvited, too vivid and sharp. His body reacts accordingly, with a hand curling at his side as if looking for weapons that aren’t there.

You know the signs, and you talk him back every time, unfailingly.

Your hand presses flat between his shoulder blades as your voice tenderly tells him where he is, the date, his name. Your name. You remind him that the walls are painted a certain color, that there is a tile by the window that creaks and every single time he visits, he promptly forgets and steps right on it. That here, he doesn’t have to worry about loud voices and aggressive hands. That you love him.

You stay awake until his breathing evens out. Sometimes, when it’s especially bad, you convince him to let you sleep on the side of the bed closest to the door, as if daring the world to come through you first. He hates that, yet his eyes wet at your refusal to let him carry everything alone, at the way you fiercely fight to give him some respite.

It still takes him everything to not pull you back.

Winter’s not only good at spotting things out of place, but also all your little tells. The way your hands get cold when you’re tired, how you push yourself through chores even when your shoulders slump because your lower back hurts, your hands faintly shaking when you’re anxious. When he sees it, he doesn’t comment—he just intervenes. Gently guides you to sit. Takes the dish from your hands. Finishes folding the laundry while you observe him with half-lidded eyes, beaming as he lines the edges up with meticulous precision. He cleans up before you can see the mess: broken glass swept away silently, coffee wiped from the counter before it can stain. You can handle it, yes, but he wants your world intact, even in small ways.

He never tells you everything and because of that, his stomach often twists with guilt.

You ask sometimes, careful not to pry. His answers tiptoe around the truth, the sharp edges trimmed to not worry you more than he has already done. He leaves out the blood, the parts that would keep you awake at night, and when memories surface, too dark to contain, he removes himself, stepping away so the weight of them won’t taint your peace.

When you apologize with a small voice and unshed tears for constantly worrying about him, he shakes his head, strong arms already cocooning you in his warmth.

Winter also keeps supplies stocked without telling you: batteries replaced before they die, water bottles cycled so the oldest are used first, first-aid replenished. He memorizes alternate exits in your building, calculates the fastest routes away, times his arrivals and departures so no one sees patterns forming.

He teaches you safety in pieces small enough to not frighten you. A suggestion here, a quiet reminder there, a careful demonstration of how to free yourself from unwelcome hands.

“Always look peephole first. Even if you wait for someone.”

“Leave lights on when not home too.”

“Don’t say you live alone.”

If you mention having to go somewhere for work, or with your friends, he warns.

“Too crowded.”

“Only one emergency exit.”

And you prepare accordingly.

On rare days when he can stay longer—when missions are short or delayed—he sits with you through work phone calls, holding your hand beneath the table, his head resting on your shoulder when voices on the other end get too insolent.

Despite the danger of being caught, he stays nearby whenever you’re sick, just enough to assess the building from a distance. He always makes sure to check on you in his own ways.

So even if he’s gone, part of him still lingers in every precaution, every habit you follow, like an unspoken promise: he will always try to keep you safe, whether or not you can see him.

By the time Winter finishes with his safety rounds, the edges of his vision have blurred with unavoidable exhaustion. You are now curled at one end of the couch, knees tucked up and eyes glued on the screen. The television is still on, low volume, but your full attention instantly shifts on him when he sits beside you.

“There you are.” You mumble. His hand reaches out before he’s aware of it, fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeve. “Everything okay?”

He nods once. “Good.”

“Do you want to go to bed?” He hums, promptly following you as you rise. He stays half a step behind you, like a shadow that isn’t meant to be threatening, his fingers still hooked into your shirt. When you reach the bedroom doorway, he hesitates.

There’s something else he wants to do.

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, searching for the right words without imposing. His brows knit, and his grip tightens slightly in hesitation.

“Uh,” he starts. Gapes. Then tries again. “We… do face thing?”

You turn, already beaming. “Skincare?”

“Yes.” He nods quickly, hopeful. “Skincare night.”

There’s something almost boyish in the way he says it, his eyes studying your face with a smile.

“If you’re not too tired.”

His answer is immediate, punctuated by a firm shake of his head. “Not tired.”

It isn’t a lie. His body is drained, but this doesn’t cost him anything; on the contrary, he loves spending time with you, doing what you like.

The corners of your lips lift in amusement. “Okay. Come on, then.”

The first time you introduced him to skincare, it was nothing short of endearing.

Big blue eyes full of confusion follow your movements as you adjust the fuzzy Shrek headband on his head. It was yours, a gag birthday gift from your best friend.

“What?” Winter frowns over your shoulder, staring down at the two colorful face mask packets.

“These are face masks. The pink one is a moisturizing and soothing mask with chamomile. The yellow one is supposed to give your skin a glowing boost. And…” You explain, opening the first one. “They feel nice on your face.”

Winter’s eyebrows rise in interest, slightly leaning in to tentatively sniff the foreign object. “Warm?”

“Nope, they’re a little cold.” You carefully unravel the mask sheet.

“Pretty?” You hum in confusion. “My skin pretty like yours with… this mask?”

Oh.

You look up at him then, your chest suddenly tightening at the way his eyes blink down at you, curious and innocent.

“Oh baby, your skin is already pretty.” The apples of his cheeks gain a beautiful rosy shade. “Now bend down a little please, this is for you.”

He tries his best to stay still as you set it on his face, a chuckle falling from your lips at his grimace when one hem briefly gets caught on his lips. You carefully smooth the mask on his features, before pulling away to admire your work.

Pierce would probably have an aneurysm if he saw the menacing Winter Soldier wearing a Shrek headband and a pink face mask.

“Alright?”

“So wet.” Winter mutters.

You tear open the other pack, giggling. “Just let it sit for a few minutes, I promise you’ll get used to it.”

He does in fact not get used to it. It is slimy, and it actually forces him to keep his chin up, worried it might suddenly lose its grip and slide right off his face. But he loves the way you dote on him with your little products. He also can’t deny the normalcy of it all. And when you cup his cheeks to check for any left over cream? He melts into your hold like ice cream under the sun. And then you kiss him at the end… well, he promises himself to never skip skincare.

You reach under the sink and pull out his headband.

“Wolf?”

You nod. “Wolf.”

He bends without being asked, lowering his head so you can slip it over his hair. The fabric brushes his temples as your fingers adjust it, the fuzzy feeling prompting him to close his eyes and hum under his breath.

You bought it on a whim, and then hesitantly showed it to him on his following visit, shyly explaining how you had seen it at the store and thought of him. He nodded at the time, unsure how to respond. But that night, he held it in his hands for hours after you fell asleep, committing the feel of it to memory.

You brush your teeth first, side by side at the sink. He observes you in the mirror while pretending not to, drinking all your details in: from the way you unconsciously lean forward to examine your skin, to the small crease between your brows when you floss. The domestic normalcy of it all makes his chest ache. This is what other men do, he thinks. They stand in their bathroom with the people they love, arguing about the correct way to squeeze toothpaste. Just existing in these quiet spaces without fear.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been staring before you glance up and catch his eye in the reflection.

“Okay?”

He nods a little embarrassed. “I like this.”

Your smile softens. “Me too.”

Afterward, you reach for the cleanser. He turns toward you automatically, chin lowering just slightly in invitation.

“Do you remember what this does?” You pump a small amount on your palm.

“Cleans skin?”

“Correct.” You smile brightly, working it on his face carefully, narrating the motions. He focuses on the sensation of your thumbs circling his cheekbones, and the mild, clean scent that causes his nostrils to flare.

The mask comes next, he recognizes it by the packaging.

“This is funny.” He murmurs when you unfold the pattern of a panda.

You snort, carefully smoothing it on his face. “You say that every time.”

He shrugs, lips twitching. “Animals are cute.”

You put on yours while he starts examining all the other products, humming after reading each label. His flesh hand is still gripping your shirt.

“Serum.” Winter mentions suddenly. “What do?”

“Serum helps with a lot of things. Let’s say it gives skin the support it needs.”

He hums absentmindedly, absorbing the sound of your voice more than the information itself.

“Sunscreen?”

“Protects your skin from the sun’s aggressive radiations, and prevents aging.”

He frowns indignantly. “You are not old.”

You laugh at his offended tone. “It’s preventative.”

With a huff, he goes back to the next product. “Retinol?”

“It stimulates the production of collagen. Basically it smoothes wrinkles and fine lines.” You explain patiently. “But it can be harsh, so I don’t use it every night.”

He nods solemnly, as if this knowledge is vital. In a way, it is. It’s part of you, part of the world you exist in that doesn’t involve violence.

He studies your face while you talk, his heart beating a little faster when your eyes light up at his curiosity. He loves this version of you—relaxed and smiling. Because this is what you look like everyday, in the moments he’s not allowed to be part of.

When it’s time to remove the masks, he sits on the closed toilet lid as instructed and closes his eyes without being asked. This is the part he likes best.

“Mh, moisturizer...” You mumble absently. “Now where did I put that?”

Your fingers are gentle when you finally smooth the cream into his skin, the movement unhurried, almost reverent. The texture melts beneath your touch, and you take your time with it, tracing along the lines of his face, easing it especially into his forehead and nose, where the skin looks particularly dry.

He leans forward slightly without seeming to realize it, naturally drawn toward the contact. When you finish, Winter doesn’t move.

He waits expectantly, holding completely still. Finally, his patience is rewarded.

The press of your lips is a chaste, little thing, but his entire body locks for a fraction of a second, a slow, unmistakable wave of heat rising through him, creeping up his neck and into his face before he can regain control of it. The kiss ends too soon, yet when his eyelids flutter open, he pushes down the need to caress his lips, still tingling with the memory of your mouth. They part slightly enough for the tip of his tongue to lick them to try and taste you again.

For a moment, he just sits uselessly, gaping as his heart does some embarrassing cartwheel in his ribcage. Then he swallows, mustering all his courage. “My turn now.”

Your smile is radiant when his hands carefully grasp your shoulders, leading you to sit down. He frowns in concentration as he applies the moisturizer on your face with precise movements, not caring about the way his eyes linger too much on your features now that your eyes are closed and he can admire your beauty all he wants without the urge to hide out of embarrassment.

When Winter hums satisfied, you know he’s finished. Once your eyes open, you instantly catch his expectant eyes.

“You did good. Thank you, baby.” You chirp warmly.

His eyes twinkle with something unspoken yet very evident. He simply allows himself to give you a nod, unable to speak, before he clumsily leans in and kisses you—quick, shy, barely there.

You bite your bottom lip to hide a grin. “Ready for bed?”

He reaches for your hand with a nod, fingers threading through yours.

The mattress dips under your weight, sheets rustling softly and pillows shifting as you settle into them. You move around a little until you’re comfortable, your arms relaxed at your sides.

Winter stands at the edge of the bed, hands hanging motionless at his sides for a moment before one of them finds your outstretched arm, closing around your palm. The lamp casts your face in warm light, softening every line, the room now feeling like a little, cozy haven where the rest of the world doesn’t exist. Like time itself has slowed just to savor this moment.

“How do you want to sleep?”

Some nights, he knows immediately; the answer rises up in him like instinct. Other nights, like this one, the want is there but tangled in hesitation, in the lingering belief that wanting too much might be a burden.

He swallows, shifting forward, movements clumsy enough that they would shock anyone who’s ever seen him in action elsewhere. Precision isn’t what he needs right now, nor is control. So he awkwardly climbs onto the soft bed, knees sinking into the mattress between your legs, before hovering for half a second and checking your face for any sign of discomfort.

“Come here.” You encourage him softly, immediately understanding and opening your arms.

Winter lowers himself with meticulous care so you don’t have to bear the full weight of him. He’s acutely aware of the difference between you two, of his strength. He would never forgive himself for hurting you, even by accident.

When he’s comfortable enough, his head finally rests on your chest, fingers shakily clutching the fabric of your sweater to further anchor himself.

The effect is immediate.

Your heartbeat meets his ear, constant and reliable. He exhales, a long breath that feels like it’s been waiting in his lungs all night.

His body exists in a world that is often abstract—rooms blur together, nights collapse into each other, days are measured in objectives rather than hours. But here, your heart gives shape to time, each beat a proof of continuity.

He adjusts his head again, angling his cheek so his lips are directly brushing the fabric of your shirt. The movement of your chest is calming and deep, and without thinking, he begins to match it. He’s learned, over time, that when he listens to your breathing long enough, his own stops being sharp, like something he has to monitor. His body sinks further when your palm settles between his shoulders, while your other hand finds his hair almost immediately, fingers threading through it in slow, patient strokes.

“Are you comfortable, baby?” With a simple nod, the fluttering in your stomach eases, and you wish him a good night, punctuated by a soft peck on his forehead.

His breath gradually evens out, and just when you think he’s fallen asleep, you hear a deep mumble. Your name.

“Thank you.” 

“Rest, my love. Tonight, I’ll keep everything else far away from you.”

You keep stroking his back until you eventually drift off as well.

The first pale light of dawn slips across your bedroom timidly. Winter would have slept longer, lulled by your warmth, listening to the steady reassurance of your breathing, but some parts of him never fully shut down. Awareness rises abruptly, and he forces to stay still for a long moment, before shifting carefully, yet your eyes flutter open even before he can fully get up.

“Don’t.” He whispers. “Sleep.”

“I can’t.” You mumble, voice tight. “Not today.” 

It’s always like this, the moment you both have to face the harsh reality again. And without failing, that devious, gnawing realization that this might be the last time you see him forms a knot in your throat. You don’t let him see it, never, even if he notices it in the way your hands tremble as you set up the table for breakfast. He notices it in your eyes, when you pretend to not stare at him, trying to memorize every single detail of his face; in the way you help him dress up, glaring at his gear as if it’s its fault he has to go. In the way your voice chokes when he hugs you by the door. 

And then he hears it as he hesitantly walks away, when you fall to your knees and cry your eyes out, shivering and alone.

Under different circumstances, you’d probably try to bribe Winter to stay under the covers with you, ignore your responsibilities and spend the entire day lazing away and making love. But your situation is not normal, and your body hurts as if a million needles are pricking your skin; the urge to move, to do something to exorcise your heartbreak claws restlessly under your ribs.

You help him to the bathroom, guiding him under the shower. You ask if he needs help, as usual, but his answer is always the same, without fail. 

“No, or I never leave.” 

You don’t even know where you find the strength to giggle. Maybe it’s because you are so desperate to see that little satisfied smile of his when he realizes he is the one and only to elicit such a melodious sound out of you. 

You then sit side by side at the kitchen table, knees occasionally bumping as he basks in your care. Winter eats his eggs and toast sluggishly, tasting each bite and savoring every second of you asking him if he wants more eggs, or if he’d like some juice beside the usual cup of warm milk. 

Next comes the tactical gear. He stands still while you help him, letting you guide his arms into sleeves, fastening straps, adjusting the fit. All the while he grasps your waist with white knuckles. Your lips stay in a thin line and your gaze lingers a fraction too long on each buckle, each seam. He swallows when your fingers deliberately brush his arms and shoulders, as if trying to memorize his body one last time.

Once you secure the final strap, your hand finds its place on his chest. You pause, just for a heartbeat, then smooths the fabric flat before leaving a kiss on his cheek.

He wants to say something, anything to make this easier… but the truth is, nothing can.

When time comes, you reach for a plastic container on the counter. Winter already knows what’s inside: neatly cut fruit—apple slices, grapes, something bright and citrusy. He promptly takes it, and something in his chest fractures open.

Tears burn the back of his eyes before he can stop them. He blinks hard, jaw tightening, but they come anyway, blurring the edges of the room. He stares down at the fruit, a small parting gift, something you quietly added to your rituals so he wouldn’t have to go back alone. Something that reminds him of you.

His blue eyes firmly fix on yours as he momentarily places the container on the console table, before hurriedly stepping forward to tug you into his arms. His face presses into the slope of your neck, desperately clinging to the familiar shape of your body like it’s the only real thing left.

This is what he hates the most. How good it feels to hold you, how natural.

And how wrong it seems to walk away from it.

Your arms come up around him instantly, holding him just as tightly, forehead pressed to his chest.

Maybe if he stays like this long enough, the world will forget to pull him back.

When Winter looks at you, he lifts a shaky hand to hold your cheek, leaving a gentle kiss on your forehead. Then another on your lips. 

“Can pretend I’m normal man.” He rasps out. “Going to normal work.”

Your breath hitches for a moment. A quick, cruel image of you sending him off to an ordinary job crosses your mind. Maybe in a different lifetime, when you are a wife kissing her husband goodbye. Or a girlfriend giggling in her boyfriend’s arms at the promise of a romantic date. A world where he gets to live his life without vicious control. 

Yet you manage a small smile, for him, thumb brushing his wrist. “And I can pretend you’ll come back to me at the end of the day.”

The Soldier can only gulp through another fresh set of tears. It hurts too much to say more.

You hold each other’s gaze for a moment, something unspoken passing between you—an understanding carved out of repetition and trust.

“Remember me.” You choke out.

“Always.” He breathes out, hands clutching the back of your sweater.

“I love you.”

Your lips quiver. “I love you too.”

Winter reluctantly pulls back. It’s a slow, torturing process that leaves the both of you terrifyingly cold. He picks up the plastic container, tucks it safely under his arm, and turns to open the front door. 

The first step forward makes his jaw clench, then, because the hundreds of swords piercing through his bleeding heart are not excruciating enough, he decides to look over his shoulder.

You stand framed in the doorway, arms crossed tightly around yourself as if trying to prevent your body from shattering into a million pieces. Your wet eyes desperately wander all over his form, lips contorting in various shapes to keep your trembling chin at bay. Still, you force a small smile, because you know how important it is for him to remember you like this—serene, safe. 

He commits the image to memory with ruthless precision, before fully walking into the silent hallway. He doesn’t look back once he steps onto the emergency stairwell, the door cautiously closing behind him to not alert your neighbors.

To you, it sounds like thunder cracking the sky open.

By the time the city truly wakes, the Winter Soldier has already vanished.

END NOTES: some of you may know that I’m not a big fan of the daddy/mommy kink, I discussed it briefly in a post a few months ago. I still insert it some rare times, because I believe it fits naturally in some stories, but I wasn't really sure about this one. as a matter of fact, I kept re-reading it after posting it and eventually I came to dislike it. I decided to remove it and with it, there have been some changes concerning the smut part. the reason is very simple: the focus of this story is taking care of the winter soldier, studying a different side of him, and yet at some point I felt like the smut became somehow the main protagonist. in the end, I decided to scrap it completely. I kept re-writing it, but then I just realized that a sexual scene didn’t fit all this.

he feels comfortable enough to interact with the reader sexually, which shows a deep level of trust. he feels safe enough to be this vulnerable in a context so fragile and emotionally charged... but I wanted it to happen differently, to convey something different. I already have the scene outlined in my mind, it just wasn't right for the situation. and I guess this opens the possibility for a part 2.

thank you so much for reading 💛

[bucksangel]

neighborly behavior

pairing: lumberjack!alpha!stucky x omega!reader (poly)

word count: 8.6k

summary: Needing a change, you take a risk by moving out of California to a cottage in upstate New York that your great-grandfather built for your great-grandmother when they first got married. What you didn’t know was that the house was going to need more work than you originally thought, more than what you could handle. Luckily, your very attractive and handy neighbors offer their help – free of charge, of course. The only problem is that they’re mated to each other. So, why does it feel like they’re flirting with you?

warnings: modern!au, omegaverse, this is just full of absolute fluff, miscommunication/obliviousness, teasing and flirting, also Steve is a little bit of a slut (it’s already canon), reader is a little clumsy, stucky are extremely smitten, public displays of affection, poly relationship, stucky are tall and beefy, pet names (bambi), true mates, love at first sight, stigma around two Alpha’s dating, alternating pov’s 

a/n: thank you so much to @toocrazyunsexycool for this idea (from forever ago)!

masterlist | tip jar | ao3

It’s quite a beautiful day for it being well into fall. It’s not freezing cold thanks to the sun shining high in the sky, but the light breeze keeps it pleasantly cool. The leaves are orange and falling, crunching underneath your boots as you make your way up the cobblestone path to your new house. Stopping just in front of the porch, you look up at it – a beautiful one-story cottage with a broken board on the porch and a busted window. It’s a light-yellow color with trees surrounding the backyard and a decent space in the front for a vegetable garden.

It was hand-built by your great-grandfather in the mid-thirties for his wife after they first got married, and it’s been passed down in your family with each new generation. And despite the house’s dilapidated state, you can tell there’s a lot of love that went into the foundation. You’ve heard stories of your great-grandparents' love and happiness, and the fact that your great-grandfather built his wife a house with his own hands is just proof of their everlasting bond.

It’s a bond you want for yourself.

Shaking yourself out of your thoughts, you carefully step up the porch and push through the front door – making a mental note to pick something up from the store to fix the creaky hinges. Immediately upon entering, the kitchen is placed to the right, with the dining room directly across, off to the left, and the living room straight ahead. The bedroom and bathroom are down a hallway near the back of the house, and the open plan allows you to see almost the entire living area, making the environment inviting and comforting.

Setting down the box you were holding by the dining table, you take a quick glance over all the other boxes scattered around, and already anxiety is forming, wondering how you’re going to unpack all of your things by yourself. But you decide to tackle that later and go back out to your truck for the last of your things.

You stop as soon as you get back to the porch, finding two men standing at the end of the driveway, motioning to the moving truck and talking to themselves. You’re not sure where they came from, but their athletic clothes let you know they were probably exercising before they stopped here.

“Um… Hello?” You wrap your arms around yourself to shield yourself from the wind picking up, and walk carefully down the porch. “Can I help you guys?”

“Oh!” The men turn to you; the blonde’s eyes are wide as though he wasn’t expecting you. The brunette man smiles at you and waves, looking sheepish.

“Hey,” He says, nudging his elbow into his friend’s side and walking towards you. “Sorry, we were on a run and saw you driving by, so we wanted to come and say hello to our new neighbor. No one’s lived here since we moved in a couple of years ago.”

His explanation puts you at ease, and when the men stop in front of you, your knees almost buckle. The wind carries their scent directly into you, their Alpha scent. Potent due to their run, but not unpleasant, not at all. And the men must take note of your scent because their nostrils flare and their eyes darken a little bit before the brunette man shakes himself out of his trance.

“I’m Bucky, and this is Steve.” You give them your name before you can forget to think, and you have to shake yourself out of your own reverie.

“My great-grandfather built this house in the thirties, and it’s been in my family ever since. I lived in California for a bit but wanted a change, so my mom gave me the keys,” You say as you motion to the house behind you. You take a quick glance at its deteriorated state and cringe a little. “I obviously didn’t know it would be in this condition, but now that I’ve seen it, I want to fix it up again. I don’t want my great-grandfather’s effort to go to waste, you know?”

You’re not sure why you’re telling them this, but their smiles are understanding, and they quickly glance at each other before Steve speaks up.

“Well, we’re lumberjacks, so we’re pretty handy. We’d be happy to help you with some of the dirty work.” Steve sounds hopeful, and Bucky nods in agreement, his eyes shining with nervousness, and it tugs at your heart. You’ve heard of true mates. It’s not super common, but it does exist, and you can’t help but feel like this might be that.

Stop it. You just met them. You’re getting ahead of yourself.

“Oh, oh no, I couldn’t ask you to do that. It’s a lot of work, and I don’t want to put you guys through that. Plus, I–I really can’t afford to hire people to help right now.” You smile awkwardly, and while you would love the help, it’s true that you’re limited on funds. You’d spent a lot of money moving all of your things across the country, and you’re seriously rethinking taking time off work to adjust to the move.

“Oh, no,” Bucky says, turning your attention to him, and he’s shaking his head. “You’re our neighbor; we’re not going to charge you a thing.” Maybe he can sense your hesitation because he holds up a placating hand. “Plus, like you said, it’s a lot of work. We’re not trying to undermine you, we swear, but we’d feel bad if you had to do all of this yourself.”

Biting your lip, you weigh the pros and cons. On the one hand, you just met them; they could have an ulterior motive just to try and get into your pants. Or steal your things. On the other hand, you really do need help. When you first saw the cabin, you figured that you would start small and slowly fix things over time, but it would be very nice to get everything done faster. Plus, even though you’re an Omega, you’re strong-willed; you know how to set boundaries and are firm in them.

“Okay, but I’ll still feel really bad if I can’t pay you. Um… I could buy you guys food whenever you come over? After all, I wouldn’t be a good host if I made you work without eating.”

Steve and Bucky glance at each other with smiles, seemingly having a silent conversation before they nod and look back at you.

“I’m sure you’d be a great host even if you didn’t feed us, but we’ll take the compromise.” Steve smiles at you, and you momentarily get lost in his ocean-blue eyes. They pull you in, but Bucky’s soft laugh pulls your focus to him. And, you want to be ashamed of yourself for so clearly ogling him, but Bucky doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seems rather amused, especially when you shuffle awkwardly and fiddle with your fingers.

Plus, you’re pretty sure Bucky’s laugh is the best sound you’ve ever heard; it’s deep and filled with a sort of mischief that doesn’t put you off. Instead, it flusters you, and you can even tell your scent is sweetening at all the attention and kindness. It’s not that you don’t receive positive attention from Alphas, it’s just never been these Alphas. And, well, it’s fucking with your brain because you don’t know how to process these feelings.

Your great-grandparents were true mates, so you do you believe in them, you’re just positive you’re not supposed to feel like that for two people. To your knowledge, it’s never been documented as a possibility, so your conflicted emotions send you spiraling a little.

“Okay,” You say, somehow able to speak while also having an internal crisis. “Um… when would you be able to start? I still have a few boxes to bring in, but other than unpacking, I have a lot of free time, so you’re welcome to come over whenever.”

“How about now?” Bucky asks, maybe a little too quickly. But you don’t mind; it just makes you smile at his eagerness to help. “We can take a look at the house now, and then we’ll be able to see what we need to focus on first.”

You can hear your mother’s voice in your head chastising you for letting strangers into your home, but you’re going to ignore that. Because there’s a feeling deep in your bones that lets you know that this is a good idea.

“Okay.”

With your permission, Bucky and Steve make their way inside, and Bucky pulls out his phone so he can start taking notes. Within the first thirty seconds, he’s already got a few problems jotted down. The broken board on the porch, creaky door hinge, broken windows, the dining table looks like it’ll collapse if anything is placed on it, and a few of the cabinets in the kitchen are completely gone.

Bucky wants to get to work immediately, and with the way Steve is fidgeting as they walk further into the house, he wants to as well.

“Babe,” Steve says quietly after he notices the long list on Bucky’s phone. And they haven’t even made it past the living room. “We need to get her new furniture too; the springs are busting out of the couch.”

“I know,” Bucky says, eyebrows furrowing in concern, not necessarily for the house, but for you. The work needed will take at least a month, and both he and Steve can already tell the heater is busted. They haven’t seen your room, but if the couch is anything to go by, both Alphas just know it’s old as well. But he also knows that they’ll do whatever they need to do to help you.

“Let's focus on the big things right now, like the windows and the porch.”

At the mention, they hear a thud and your shout of pain behind them, and they whip around and see that you’ve tripped over the broken board. They rush over to you, Steve moving the box you were holding while Bucky helps you sit so he can crouch down and inspect the damage. There’s a pretty nasty cut on your shin, and you whimper when he touches your ankle.

“How bad does it hurt?”

“Um – ah!” You shout again when he gently moves your ankle to test the pain, and he immediately lets it go in favor of worming his arm under your bent knees, and his other arm wraps itself around your back. He hears you whimper, and he has the suddenly irrational feeling of wanting to absorb your pain, getting agitated that you’re hurting, and knowing he can’t really stop it.

Steve has already taken to laying a blanket on the old couch and placed a pillow on the arm of it. While Bucky gently sets you down so you’re propped up against the pillow and your leg is out straight, Steve rushes to the kitchen, then comes back with a frozen bag of vegetables that were put in the freezer thanks to your foresight of grocery shopping before you started unpacking the moving truck. He also has a towel, which he places over your hurt ankle before resting the make-shift ice pack on it.

“Where’s your first-aid stuff?” Bucky asks in a calming tone despite feeling nearly frantic with the overwhelming need to help, to show you that he can be useful.

“I – I don’t have one,” You say sheepishly, and Bucky wants to sigh and lightly scold you, but knows it’s not his place to.

“Steve –”

“I’ll go get our kit!” Steve interrupts as he jogs out of the door and back to their house. When Bucky sees your eyes widen slightly, he knows you’re about to protest.

“The cut might get infected if we don’t clean it up soon, plus, I’m pretty sure we have a wrap we can use for your ankle. You shouldn’t walk on it for a little anyway, so Steve and I can finish bringing in your boxes. And –” Bucky’s rambling is cut off when you place your hand atop his that’s now on your knee.

“Thank you, Bucky,” You say softly, and Bucky just melts. It’s a little unnerving, these feelings swirling in his chest. He knows them well; he’s grown accustomed to them ever since he can remember, because this is almost exactly how he feels about Steve. He grew up with Steve, has known Steve was his mate since they were young, even when they both presented as Alphas. It’s a little different because he knows Steve intimately in ways no one else does, and he doesn’t know much about you other than the red string of fate telling him that you’re theirs. But, it’s strong enough that he genuinely believes he could love you just as much.

He knows it’s not common for two Alphas to be mated to each other; the dirty and confused looks, coupled with the fact that they were practically shunned out of their neighborhood when they decided to come out, were the main reasons why they moved up here. They wanted to get away from prying eyes and hateful comments, and they’d managed to find friends up here, ones that accepted and supported them.

Bucky briefly wonders how they’d react if they found out about you.

“O-Of course,” Bucky clears his throat, squeezing your knee affectionately. His heart rate is increasing slightly, and he hates feeling off kilter, but your grateful smile settles his worries. “Besides, Stevie and I would never let a pretty Omega be in pain by herself.” He doesn’t know where he got the gall, but it’s worth it when you awkwardly giggle and look away, clearly flustered.

Bucky wants to rumble pleasantly when your scent sweetens, and he can’t deny that his ego gets a little boost when he realizes that he is the reason for it. For a moment, he stares at you while you mindlessly fiddle with the threaded edges of the blanket you’re sitting on. When you look back up at him, you open your mouth to speak, but then immediately shut it when Steve comes rushing back through the door.

“Alright! I got the kit,” Steve says as he kneels down beside Bucky. They work in sync, cleaning your wound and rubbing antibiotic ointment before carefully bandaging it, and are gentle when they have to adjust your foot so they can wrap your ankle.

It doesn’t take long, but Steve talks and asks you questions to distract you from the pain. Apparently, your favorite color is yellow, you have a cat that’s currently at your mother’s house, you’re planning on getting her back after you’ve finished moving and unpacked at least half of the boxes, and you work as a freelance copywriter for various art-centric blogs and articles.

That last fact had Steve perking up, and Bucky wants to playfully roll his eyes because his Stevie will take any chance he gets to discuss art history and different painting techniques for hours. Bucky wants to, but he won’t, because you get excited too when Steve reveals his passion for art, and he would never discourage that.

Eventually, Steve and Bucky go back to searching for more problems with the house, though they check on you every few minutes. Time flies by, and Bucky’s phone is filled with issue after issue, things that need to be fixed, and things that need to be replaced altogether. But, they’re both worried about leaving you so soon after your fall, so they take it upon themselves to order pizza – your insistence on paying for it falling on deaf ears.

And they spend most of the day with you, talking and laughing as though you’ve known each other for decades. It’s surprising, while at the same time not, that all of you just instantly click. You have a lot of the same hobbies they do – reading, hiking, and the occasional baking if you’ve found a particular recipe on pinterest that you think you can make without fucking it up too bad given that you’re actually quite horrible at baking in general.

It’s not until Steve glances at his phone later in the day that he groans.

“What is it, Steve?” You ask, your eyebrows furrowing.

“It’s almost six-thirty, we need to feed Alpine,” Steve says remorsefully, glancing at Bucky, who hums in agreement.

“Alpine?”

“Our cat,” Bucky explains, smiling when you perk up. He pulls out his phone and scrolls through it until he finally holds it up so you can see the white fur ball curled up on what looks like a sweatshirt. “She loves stealing Stevie’s sweaters.”

“And our blankets, sweatpants, and basically anything that has our scent on it.” Steve looks down at Bucky’s phone lovingly; they both love Alpine, doting on her like she were their child.

Bucky smiles widely when you laugh, nodding along and saying, “I wish my cat did that; Maggie prefers my socks.”

Both Alphas laugh, and Bucky can’t help but want Alpine to meet Maggie and see how they’d react to each other. Alpine is very particular about humans, but relatively friendly with other animals as long as they’re not loud and rambunctious; she likes peace and quiet.

“Well, I guess we have to go,” Bucky says sadly, slowly standing because he really, really doesn’t want to leave, but also knows that their cat is probably missing them and their attention. “Are you going to be okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” You assure him with a smile, gently lifting your leg and rolling your ankle in a small circle to test the pain. “It still hurts a little, but not as bad; I’ll be able to walk.” Suddenly, Steve takes both of your hands in his and helps you stand, not letting go until you rest more of your weight on your injured ankle and nod.

“Go get some rest, we’ll be back tomorrow morning with some tools and get to work,” Bucky says, smiling, admittedly a little dazedly, when you look up at him with a smile of your own.

“Okay, I’ll have food ready when you get here.” Steve opens his mouth to protest before you start speaking again. “I promised you food, and I’m not taking it back just because I hurt my ankle by being clumsy.”

Bucky and Steve look at each other hesitantly, but eventually agree when they realize you won't back down.

“Alright, but please don’t overwork yourself,” Steve says, taking your hand again so he can squeeze it.

“I promise,” You say with a chuckle, squeezing back. “Now, go give some love to Alpine for me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bucky says, laughing along with Steve. As they walk to the door, Bucky can’t help but look back at you, smiling when he finds you looking back at them with what Bucky thinks (hopes) is fondness. With a final wave, they leave and make the short trek back home.

It’s nine in the morning when you hear a few knocks on your front door, and you have to remind yourself not to hurt your ankle further by rushing to answer. When you do, you see both Alphas holding bags presumably filled with tools to fix up your rundown cottage. Bucky sets his down on the porch next to the broken board while Steve brings his inside, and you step aside to let them in.

“Good morning, guys! I didn’t know what you liked to eat, so I just made pancakes and bacon; I hope that’s alright.” Suddenly, you’re hit with a mild wave of regret for not asking them yesterday what they preferred, but Steve’s stomach growls almost as soon as you finish talking, causing all of you to laugh.

“Sounds perfect to me,” Steve says with a wide smile, and it fills your stomach with butterflies, even more so when Bucky nods in agreement.

“We’ll eat anything you make us, Bambi. I’m sure it’s going to be delicious.”

“Bambi?” You ask, your eyebrows furrowing a little. When Bucky nods to your hurt ankle, you huff out a laugh and roll your eyes. “Oh, because I’m clumsy?”

“You said it,” Bucky says and shrugs, his eyes twinkling with amusement when you playfully glare at him.

“Well, I guess I can’t argue against it. But just for that comment, I’m making you clean up the dishes.” You meant it playfully; you’re not actually going to make them clean, so you’re surprised when Bucky nods easily and shrugs.

“I’m fine with that.”

“Oh, no, I was just -”

“Alright!” Bucky interrupts you, giving you a wink. “Let’s get eating, Stevie, and then we’ll get to work.”

They scarf down the food quickly, but not before making sure you’ve already eaten because they’d feel bad about not leaving any for you. And when they finish, Bucky shoos you out of the kitchen so he can work on the dishes while Steve sets up in the front yard.

“Is, um. Is it okay if I stay out here with you guys? I won’t get in your way; I’ll just sit on the swing over there and read.” Fiddling with the book in your hands, you chew on your lip nervously. You’d hate to disrupt them in any way, but your concerningly overwhelming need to be around them outweighs any of that trepidation.

“It’s your house, Bambi,” Steve says, now kneeling and emptying his tool bag. “You can sit wherever you’d like. Plus, Buck’s always happy to show off.”

“Shut up, punk,” Bucky grumbles, giving an admonishing tap on the back of Steve’s head. “Besides, you know your shirt size yet still refuse to wear the correct one.”

“It’s all for you, babe,” Steve laughs, jabbing Bucky in the side when he kneels as well.

“Babe?” You don’t mean to question it aloud, but you’re a little confused. Sure, they smell like each other, but you figured that it’s because they live together. You didn’t question why they do, based on yesterday, you assume it’s because they’re such close friends. And, you’re pretty sure Bucky was flirting with you yesterday with that ‘pretty Omega’ comment. They couldn’t possibly be -

“We’re mates,” Bucky explains, but he seems a little hesitant to do so. They give each other a brief and nervous look before turning back to you. “We know it’s not… common for Alphas to be mated together, and if you’re not comfortable with us being here -”

“Oh, no!” You say quickly, now worried about upsetting them. You don’t want to upset them, but you can't deny that now you’re a little sad knowing that they’re taken. But then you have to remind yourself that just because you might think you’ve found your true mates, they’re probably too enamored with each other to even consider you. “I’m not uncomfortable with it, I promise! Like you said, it’s not common for Alphas to be mated to each other, so I just didn’t assume. But I don’t care what other people do as long as they’re not hurting anyone.”

“Well, we’ll treat you right, we promise.” Steve’s words and smile do little to ease the ache in your heart, but you plaster on a smile and nod.

With that, you make your way to the porch swing and open your book. And you really do try to read it, but the Alphas’ grunts as they work to fix the wood, coupled with their scent growing more and more potent the longer they’re out in the sun, makes your head spin.

It also confuses you because they keep sending glances your way – which you’re aware of, considering you keep glancing at them. You’re not sure what it means, but you try to focus on your book and put it out of your mind. That is, until an unknown amount of time later, Steve comes up to you holding a glass of lemonade.

“I hope you don’t mind,” He says, smiling awkwardly down at you as he offers you the drink. “Buck and I were thirsty and raided your fridge.”

You’re momentarily frozen because Steve apparently took off his shirt at some point, leaving him in only a white tank top. His muscles glisten with a thin layer of sweat, his pecs are bulging through the fabric, and you’re definitely not proud of the way your mouth waters at the sight. And if he notices how flushed you are, you hope he assumes it’s because of the abnormally warm Fall day and not the fact that he looks and smells like sin.

“Oh, no it - it’s okay! Help yourself to whatever.” Your voice cracks a little in the middle of the sentence, causing you to cringe slightly. “Thank you for bringing me some.”

“Of course,” Steve says easily, looking relieved that you’re not mad. “We’re almost done out here, then we’re going to move inside.”

Nodding, you set your book aside and stand, but you soon regret it because you’re now almost pressed to Steve’s chest because he didn’t move back. You have to crane your neck a little to look up at him, and his large stature makes you feel safe and protected. It also makes your hindbrain go a little insane – an innate feeling that he can provide for you, that he – and Bucky – can be the perfect Alphas for you.

It’s not until Bucky calls for Steve that you break out of your trance.

“I’ll, uh, go make us some food.” You give him a smile and one to Bucky as you pass him on your way into the house.

Cooking gives you a little break from your inner turmoil, having something to hone in on that’s not the confusing swirling of emotions in your heart. It feels like they’re flirting with you, but that can’t be true because they’re mated together for fucks sake.

And these feelings continue throughout the day, sitting on your sofa and constantly stealing glances at them, and feeling their eyes on you whenever they pass through the living room. They have the heater fixed within two hours, and you’re grateful for that because it was freezing last night, and you’d hate to have to deal with that for another night.

It’s just the beginning of sunset when they decide to leave for the day, promising to return tomorrow around the same time to look at the few broken windows. You wave them goodbye with a smile and a promise of your own to get breakfast ready.

It’s when you’re finally lying in your uncomfortable bed that you internally curse whatever higher power there is for teasing you like this, dangling the two most perfect men right in front of your face, only to pull them away within the blink of an eye.

The next three weeks practically fly by. Steve and Bucky go to your house three days a week to help with renovations in between doing their actual jobs. They’re efficient in fixing up your house, but both of them will admit that even though it’s taking less time than they originally thought, they’re taking a little longer than necessary because, despite Steve and Bucky’s hints, you don’t seem to catch on to their flirting.

Which is why Steve decided that today would be a good idea to take you to the market in town to do some decor shopping, figuring that maybe taking you out would give you a better taste of what it would be like to be with them.

And it’s quite a beautiful day; the sun is out and shining bright, the birds are chirping happily, and the leaves are more colorful than ever, giving that true autumn effect. It’s made even better when you step out of your house and make your way down the walkway to Steve and Bucky’s truck. You’re wearing a simple long-sleeved sweater and jeans, but Steve thinks you’re the most beautiful Omega ever. And Steve doesn’t even have to be mated to Bucky to know that he feels the same, because he immediately starts trying to adjust his own sweater despite the seat belt being in the way, always wanting to look his best for you.

“Hey, Bambi,” Steve says as he steps out of the car when you’re closer, giving you a wide smile that matches your own and opening his arms for a hug.

“Hi Stevie,” You say, and Steve rumbles a little when he hears your tiny squeak whenever he squeezes you to his chest.

“Get her in here, punk!” Bucky calls, and Steve lets you go so he can help you into the middle seat of the truck.

“Aw, are you feeling left out, Buck?” You tease, and Steve settles in beside you once you’re buckled. You lean into Bucky’s shoulder, wrapping an arm around his neck and giving him a side hug.

“Of course not, I know I’m your favorite.” Bucky winks at you, and both Alphas can smell when your scent sweetens at the action.

Bucky loves flustering you.

“That’s a lie and you know it,” Steve says, knocking his arm against yours. “I’m her favorite. She said so just last week.”

“That’s just because you gave her your vintage art magazine she’s been searching for, but I am going to be her favorite today because I’m getting her the good hot chocolate from Clint’s shop.” Bucky sticks his tongue out at Steve, causing you both to laugh.

“Well, I will –”

“Who said either of you guys are my favorite?” You ask in a teasing voice. “If Clint’s hot chocolate is as good as you’ve been saying, then maybe he’ll be my favorite. Now, let’s go. I want to look for new blankets.”

Bucky grumbles playfully about how he’s not getting you the drink now as he backs out of the driveway, and Steve smiles to himself when you laugh. And Steve really can’t be blamed for getting hit with a wave of fondness at the sound. He and Bucky just want you so badly; they want to make you laugh every day, they want to provide for you, and love you like they’re sure no one else can. They want to make you happy and support you in everything you do.

It’s a fairly small town, so it doesn’t take long to get to the outside market, and your eyes widen when you step out and get a good look at a few of the stalls. There’s food, wall art, pottery, and the Alphas know that there are a few book stands towards the back that you’ll probably be most excited about.

“Ready?” Steve asks with a laugh, already knowing the answer because you’re practically vibrating in place.

Instead of answering him, you hook your arm through his and do the same to Bucky when he rounds the corner holding a basket. You practically drag them to the entrance, and your excitement is contagious because neither Alpha can keep the smiles off their faces when they see the wonder in your eyes.

They know you haven’t experienced a true Fall season in a while due to you living in southern California for a few years, and they’re already a bit happy with themselves for this date idea, even though it’s not technically a date. To you, anyway.

The three of you spend hours walking around and visiting all the shops, picking up knick-knacks and spices that they refuse to let you pay for. They also encouraged you to pick out vegetable seeds since you’ve mentioned wanting to start gardening. And the entire time, you’ve only let go of their arms to pick items up and inspect them, but as soon as they’re put back or paid for, you wrap your arms around theirs again, and Steve feels like he’s walking on clouds the entire time. And, based on the fond smile that hasn’t left Bucky’s face since they first picked you up, he feels it too.

It’s when you finally make your rounds to Clint’s setup that your eyes really light up.

“Hey guys!” Clint calls when he sees you all, one arm high in the air and waving to gain your attention.

“Hey Clint!” Bucky says when you get closer, and you’re able to see all that he’s selling: hot chocolate, coffee, and various pastries that Steve already knows you’re going to want.

“And hello to you, pretty lady.” Clint’s comment makes you smile, and you greet him with a small wave. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, we promised Bambi here that we’d get her some of your famous hot cocoa, so we came by to see if you had any left.” Steve smiles down at you and fights the urge to puff out his chest when you lean your head on his arm affectionately.

“Of course I do,” Clint says easily, pulling out three cups to get started. “And I stole one of Nat’s peppermint chocolate bars earlier that your Bambi can have.”

Now, you get flustered easily. Or, at least you do around Steve and Bucky, so it doesn’t surprise them when you start shuffling nervously and awkwardly chuckling. And Steve would be worried about the ‘your’ part of Clint’s comment upsetting you if not for your scent getting noticeably sweeter. Steve looks at Bucky over your head, and he can see the light flush on his mate’s face as well as the fact that he’s clearly trying not to smile.

“O-Oh, um, thank you,” You say, extracting your arms from the Alphas’ so you can grab your cup and hold it close to your chest, letting the steam waft up into your face and warming you up. As soon as you take a sip, Steve has to stop himself from shivering at your pleased hum, and he aches to taste the chocolate straight from your lips.

He doesn't kiss you, though. No matter how badly he wants to. What he does is wrap an arm around your shoulder, smiling down at you when you look up at him, your eyes wide and sparkling.

"You like it?"

"It's delicious," You respond, leaning into his side. But, unable to leave Bucky out, you once again loop your arm through his.

"I'm glad," Clint says, breaking you both out of your moment. When Steve looks at him, Clint has a mischievous glint in his eyes, a smirk forming on his face. Immediately, he knows his friend is going to say something to embarrass him and Bucky, probably to point out how stupid they look whenever they're so much as near you.

"Why don't we look for those blankets you've been wanting?" Steve asks, interrupting whatever Clint is about to say.

"Okay!" You perk up almost immediately, smiling widely at him and Bucky, then turning to Clint. "Thanks for the hot chocolate. How much do I owe you?"

"Not a single penny, sweetheart," Clint responds, shaking his head. "It's on the house. After all, I’ve never seen these two idiots more in lo–”

“Alright!” Bucky exclaims nervously, glaring at Clint when he’s sure you’re not looking at him. “I think there are more stalls this way.”

Before you even have a chance to question anything, both Alphas are ushering you along the walkway to a booth further away, not caring what they’re selling as long as they get you away from Clint. When Steve looks back at his friend, he sees the cheeky smirk plastered on his face, and Steve knows he should probably be upset about his friend almost spilling their secret, but he and Bucky have been trying to tell you for so long that he’s anxious for you to know, no matter how you find out.

Still, Steve reasons that you probably shouldn’t find out in public when they are your transportation, and they’d hate for the drive home to be awkward in case you don’t feel the same way they do. So, they spend the rest of the day showing you around, buying whatever you look at for more than five seconds, and relishing in the feeling of having you so close to them.

When they finally take you back home, they insist on bringing in your things, never wanting not to be useful to your needs and wants. And, if they linger in the doorway a little longer, if they hug you a little tighter, if they take a few inhales of your scent before pulling away, well, who can blame them? When it comes to you, they’ll take whatever they can get.

It’s almost four in the afternoon, and your entire body is thrumming with nerves. Steve and Bucky came by around nine this morning, only to kick you out of your own house under the guise of Natasha, another one of their friends and Clint’s fiancée, wanting to hang out with you. You don’t doubt that she genuinely did want to go shopping together, after all, you’ve become pretty good friends ever since you met her shortly after the farmer’s market. But the looks on everyone’s faces when you hesitantly said yes to the girl’s date had your mind racing.

What could they possibly be planning?

Steve only texted you once since you left: a blurry picture of Bucky falling down your porch steps. It had you cackling and texting back that maybe Bucky’s nickname should be ‘Bambi’, but there wasn’t a response, so you were left to rack your brain over what the hell is going on at your house for the rest of the day.

“Don’t worry,” Natasha says as you both get back in her car, your bags in the trunk and your stomachs filled with delicious food from the bakery not too far from your cottage. “I promise that they’re not breaking your house.”

“Wait.” You turn in your seat, giving her a quizzical look. “Do you know what they’re doing?” She smirks, and confusion settles in your chest, now even more desperate to know what they’re up to now that you know she definitely knows.

“Not everything,” She says easily, shrugging one of her shoulders, and you’re momentarily jealous of how soft her hair looks as it bounces with the movement. “I can just tell you’re a little worried. And they may be idiots sometimes, but they’d never do anything to mess this up.”

That causes you to pause. Mess what up? It may seem a little silly, but you’ve come to trust them over the last few months you’ve known them. They’ve shown endless amounts of patience, not just with you, but with your house as well. They’ve proved over and over that you can trust them, so you don’t doubt that they’re not fucking up your place again, but you do know that they can cause trouble if they want to.

So, again, what are they planning?

“Natasha,” You sigh, biting your lip nervously. “What is going on?”

“I can’t tell you.” Natasha sighs too, and looks over at you with a soft smile, placing her hand over yours. “I can just see how nervous you are, and I feel the need to tell you that you’re going to love what they’re doing. They care about you, Bambi.”

For a moment, you almost tell her that you love them, that you trust them more than anyone, but you feel like that would give away too much. Besides, just because they care about you doesn’t mean they love you like you love them. With how they are, you know they care about all of their friends, so you try to remind yourself that you’re not their mate.

“I… I care about them too,” You say softly, settling into your seat.

“I know,” She says, a hint of a smile on her lips as she puts the car in drive. You don’t bother asking how she knows, over the time you’ve known her you have come to realize that she knows a lot. And what she doesn’t know, she’ll find out some other way. “Now, let’s get going.”

Even though the drive back to your cottage is not even ten minutes, it still gives you enough time to think over the million possibilities of what could be happening, what they could have waiting for you. The anxiety in your chest is growing slowly, but you try to remind yourself that the Alphas would never do anything to harm you, even if they are goofballs with tendencies to play pranks.

As you get closer to your cottage, driving out of the town and passing Steve and Bucky’s own house, you notice something weird. In the driveway are more cars, but they block your view of the entrance of your house, and Natasha parks far enough away that you can’t make out who is on the porch. You’re only more confused when you see Sam, another friend of Steve and Bucky, jog down the path to Natasha’s car with a wide smile and a piece of cloth.

“Hello, Bambi!” Sam says excitedly, opening the door for you and helping you out.

“Hey, Sam - oh!” You’re cut off by Sam turning you around and placing the cloth over your eyes and tying it around your head, using it as a blindfold. “What the hell is up with everyone today?”

“You’ll see!” Sam exclaims, and even though you’re even more curious now, Sam’s excitement is contagious, and you can feel your heart beating a little quicker in anticipation. “And you’ll love it.”

Sighing, though playfully, you let Sam turn you around to presumably face your cottage, and you feel one of his hands on your back while his other takes hold of you arm as he urges you forward, occasionally guiding you left or right to avoid any obstacles in your path. And, despite feeling overwhelmingly perplexed, you can’t deny that you know you’ll love whatever the Alphas have planned for you.

After a minute of walking, slowly since you’re basically blind right now, you feel Sam step behind you and start untying the blindfold.

“Okay, Bambi. Are you ready to see what your Alphas did?”

Your face immediately goes hot, because, while they’re not technically your Alphas, no matter how much you want them to be, it does feel nice to hear it, especially from one of Steve and Bucky’s closest friends.

“God, yes,” You say exasperatedly, laughing a little to show him that you’re not actually upset over the fact that you’ve only been given cryptic clues throughout the day, left to wait to see what they could have done to warrant this type of energy from their friends.

“Okay then. Three, two, one!” The cloth falls away from your face, and you have to blink and squint your eyes for a moment to adjust to the light.

Once you’re able to focus your eyes on what is in front of you, your mouth drops open, your heart nearly stopping. Because in front of you stand Steve, Bucky, and Clint, all with wide smiles on their faces. Natasha moves to stand beside you, shopping bags in hand, and you can see her smiling out of the corner of your eyes.

It takes you a moment to gather your bearings, but finally you notice something that wasn’t there this morning: fairy lights dangling from the roof of the porch, a new porch swing with what looks like the softest pillows perched on it, and potted plants on either side of the front door. In the simplest of terms, it’s beautiful. Ethereal, even. It’s almost like Steve and Bucky dove into your brain to figure out how you want to decorate your place.

“Wha - How did you…” You’re unable to finish your sentence because you’re just at a loss for words. Obviously, it wouldn’t have taken all day just to decorate the porch, so you have a sneaking suspicion that they must have also added some finishing touches on the inside as well.

“Your mother helped a lot,” Steve says, a soft and endearing smile on his face.

“My mother?”

At the mention, the front door opens and your mom steps out, also smiling, with her arms open for a hug. You haven’t had the chance to see her since the first day you moved out here, so you can’t really be blamed for rushing up the steps and practically throwing yourself at her, a laugh bubbling up in your chest as she squeezes you to her chest.

“I may or may not have found your Pinterest account and sent them the link,” She explains, and you pull away to look at her with a raised eyebrow. “Don’t look at me like that. These handsome Alphas wanted to help you get officially settled in, and you deserve to have people in your life that want you to be happy.” She then leans in closer to whisper in your ear, but just loud enough that you know she wants the others to hear, “And even though I just met them, I know they make you happier than you’ve ever been.”

Your face flushes even more at her comment, and tears want to spring to your eyes. Even though you lived in California for years, and you had several friends that you were reluctant to say goodbye to, you never really realized how much you needed people like Steve and Bucky in your corner, not to mention their friends that have welcomed you into their little circle. It sends a surge of love all throughout your body, and when you finally step back from the hug, you turn to see both Alphas looking at you nervously, both fiddling with their clothes as though they’re stopping themselves from hugging you as well.

“Thank you guys, I – I mean it. You didn’t have to go through all this trouble.” Your voice is small, and you take a risk by slowly walking towards them, your bottom lip caught between your teeth. “But I’m so grateful that you did.”

Before you can stop to think, you surge forward, wrapping one arm around Steve’s waist, and the other around Bucky’s, pulling them close to hug both of them. You can feel them sigh in what sounds like relief, both of them encasing you in their arms as well. For a moment, you forget that there are people watching you, you just hug the Alphas as tight as you can to show your gratitude. And it seems to last forever, neither of you wanting the hug to end. That is, until you hear someone clear their throat, and that’s when you remember that you’re not alone.

You pull away from them, turning your head and looking at the group with an almost embarrassed smile.

“Oh, don’t mind us,” Sam says with a smirk, looping his arms around Clint and Natasha’s shoulders. “Why don’t we give these three a little privacy.”

“Come inside everyone, I’ll make us some tea,” Your mother says, and when you look at her, you see a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Not you,” She says while pointing at you, “You guys take all the time you need out here.”

With that, the gang follows your mom inside the house, leaving you to stand in front of Steve and Bucky, shuffling nervously. Finally, when you’re alone, you look up at the Alphas, both of them glancing at each other before turning their gaze back to you.

“We, um…” Bucky trails off, breathing deeply. “We wanted to talk to you about something.”

Immediately, your heart starts beating faster, and you have the smallest suspicion of what they’re going to tell you. You know it’s probably wishful thinking, but you can’t help but hope and pray it’s what you’re wanting to hear.

“About what?” For a moment, everything is quiet except for the pounding of your heart in your ears, but then, both Alphas reach forward to take your hands in each of their own.

“Bambi,” Steve sighs, looking over at Bucky anxiously. When his mate nods, they both once again turn back to you. “We care about you. A lot. And – And it’s more than just how we care about our friends. We…” When Steve stops, Bucky picks up for him.

“We love you, Bambi,” Bucky says, and you can smell how anxious they are, it’s potent. “We’re pretty sure you’re our mate.”

“And we know it’s rarely heard of for people to have two mates,” Steve continues, squeezing your hand. “But from the moment we met you, we knew you were different than any other Omega we’ve ever met. We’ve been trying to drop hints here and there, but you’ve never responded to them. And we didn’t know whether it’s because you truly didn’t know or you’re just too kind to say anything about it, but now that the house is finished, we couldn’t wait any longer.”

“It’s okay if you don’t feel the same way.” Bucky chews on his bottom lip for a moment, and you want to stop them, you want to scream from the rooftop that you love them too, you want to kiss the worry off their faces. But, you don’t, because he keeps talking. “And if you don’t, then that’s perfectly fine. We don’t expect you to love us back just because we helped you with the cottage, and we’re still not going to charge you for any of the work. And we’d love to still be friends, but it’s totally understandable if you’d be too uncomfortable with that. We just…”

“We just needed you to know how we feel,” Steve says softly, smiling at you, his eyes filled with uncertainty. “But –”

“Guys,” You say quickly, squeezing both of their hands and stopping them in their tracks. “I… To be honest, I did kind of suspect that you were flirting with me. I just didn’t know if it was wishful thinking, though, because you’re mated to each other. But…” Taking a deep and steadying breath, you glance between them, happy tears in your eyes.

“But, I do love you. More than I’ve ever loved anyone. I just never said anything because I didn’t want to ruin our friendship. I couldn’t handle not having you both in my life, so I was content with what we had. However, if you’re serious, then I’d love to be with both of you. Like, mates.”

“Thank god,” Both Alphas say, laughing from the sheer joy of finally having what you’ve all apparently wanted for months. The three of you fall into a bout of silence, relishing in your newfound relationship, Bucky’s free hand coming up to wipe away a stray tear with his thumb.

“Oh come on!” Someone exclaims, and all of your heads snap up to see the whole gang staring at you through the slightly opened window.

“Kiss already!” Your mom says happily, and you would be scandalized at her watching, but you know she just wants the best for you, so you’re not that upset that they’ve been snooping.

“Yes, ma’am,” Steve says, smirking down at you, leaning in close and pressing a lingering kiss on your lips. It’s not an intense kiss, but the emotions you feel certainly are. It’s almost like the world has tilted, righting itself, and leaving you breathless when he pulls away.

Bucky follows soon after, pulling you in by the hold he has on your hand so he can kiss you too. It’s a little hard to kiss when you’re both smiling, but it’s just as perfect as your kiss with Steve.

Now that you think about it, you never thought you’d ever have a true mate, let alone two, and it may be a little cliche, but right now you feel as though you’ve been missing something for your entire life, and you’ve finally found it in the form of two perfect Alphas.

tags: @buckysprettybaby | @lilyalone | @goldylions | @yeehawbrothers | @buckyssweetheart | @ozwriterchick | @pxgeturner | @gentlelimerence | @justsebstan | @toocrazyunsexycool | @calzone-d

[bluecandya28]

Snapshots

Pairing: James "Bucky" Barnes x Steve Rogers x Female Reader

Summary: When a raw confession, past trauma and unyielding devotion collide. A memory is born. A snapshot of tenderness. Frozen in time.

Word Count 4.7K

Notes: AO3 Link - https://archiveofourown.org/works/74033491

A hiss—as razor-sharp as the combat knife now embedded deep within your thigh—burst out.  

“Doll?” Bucky ground out, his unruly locks whipping against his face when his penetrating gaze met yours.  

“I'm fine,” the words were strained, your palm firmly gripping on the hilt of the blade when you spied yet another HYDRA agent barreling in your direction. With a flinch, you yanked on the weapon, expelling a grunt as you thrust it at the approaching assailant.  

Your enemy dropped like a hot potato, hitting the graveled roof with a mighty thwack. Dazedly, you watched as the setting sun reflected in the rapidly growing puddle of blood. The blade had caught his carotid artery; his hands fumbling weakly at the wound, the grisly scene twisting your features into a grimace. 

“Doll, put pressure on that,” your companion barked. There was an urgency in his tone. Why? Vacantly, you wiped at the beads of sweat that had gathered on your temple, a shiver running through your swaying form. 

Smack—the echo of metal pounding against flesh sliced through your senses. Lips slightly ajar, you gawped at Bucky, his steel arm swinging at faceless agents with fluid precision.  

“Put pressure on what?” The captain’s voice was a gentle caress in your ear. 

“S-Steve,” you slurred, tongue heavy in your mouth. “I—I can’t see you.”  

“What? Sweetheart, what do you mean? Are you hurt?” 

“Oh—” your fingers brushed against your comms. “Silly me. It’s okay. I—”  

With trembling fingers, you pressed against the gaping puncture, your words halting at the contact. Your back arched, the throbbing in your thigh momentarily stealing your breath. “Did someone turn out the light?” 

“Like hell it's okay! Steve, haul your ass up here now.” Bucky emphasized, sending one of his attackers sprawling with a brutal uppercut. “Not only is our girl losing blood, but I think the knife might've been laced with something. She’s drifting too fast.” 

“That’s America's ass,” you croaked, chest wheezing with the effort. “Wait... Your girl?” 

“Manchurian Candidate, what’s going on up there?” Tony interjected, his question reverberating against your skull.  

“Don't call him that,” you snapped feebly. “Hang on, how are you in my head right now?”  

“Bluebird?” Tony’s affectionate moniker always elicited a warm smile. Yet on this occasion your slick brow furrowed, his frantic tone pricking at your gut. 

You hummed, the action tickling your throat and sparking a hacking cough. “Stark, your intel sucks.” 

Tony replied with a hearty chuckle. “I’ll be sure to pass that along. You just hang in there, okay? Capsicle's comin’.” 

“He s-shouldn’t. I-It’s c-cold up here. Wet, too. Why are my hands painted red? I knew I should never have gifted Steve that art set for Christmas.” You had long since ceased the vise-like grip on your leg, no more certain why you’d even begun. A thick fog settled deep within your mind. 

“Gonna t-take a nap. Don’t let me miss d-dinner. I was promised pizza, right, Stevie? Not—not...” Your whispers tapered off. 

A chorus of “no” cut through your stupor.  

“Sweetheart,” Steve pleaded, his voice shaking. “I’m less than a minute away, but you’ve gotta keep talking, all right?” 

“What ‘bout?” 

“Anything,” the captain murmured. 

“I messed up, didn’t I?” A keen cry escaped your lips, the sound piercing through the air. “I—I got distracted... Lost my knife. It was the one that Bucky gave me.” 

“That’s okay. Buck or I will get you another.” 

“No. You don’t—don't understand. I can’t feel my legs. Wh—” you swallowed, “What’s happening?” 

Fingers tapping your cheeks forced your leaden lids open. When did they close? “Shit,” Steve cursed. “Come on, sweetheart.” 

“Language, Stevie,” you rasped, reaching out to press your palm against his jaw. The gentle touch left a trail of crimson on his neck. “I’ve gotta tell you somethin’.” 

“We’ve gotta get you to the jet, darling. You can tell me when you’re safe, yeah?” 

“You. Bucky. You’re the perfect couple— Ahh!” you sobbed, clasping onto Steve’s wrist while he twisted his utility belt taut around your thigh, the makeshift tourniquet digging into your flesh. 

“I know. I know. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. But we gotta stem the bleeding.”  

Blinking through the rush of nausea, you thrust his comforts aside. “I'm not—I don’t measure up. But I’m so in love with you. With Bucky. I—” 

“Hey!” the blond cradled your cheeks with both hands. “You’re the best of us all. We should’ve told you long ago that our heart is yours, but we were too fearful—” 

“Too stupid, more like.” 

“Yes, thank you for interrupting the moment, Nat,” Steve groused, his rough voice at war with the fingertip now lightly probing your pulse point. 

“Stevie? You’ll tell, Buck, won’t you?” Your mouth barely moved, the words spoken so quietly, they drifted with the breeze. 

Warmth beneath your knees. A sturdy weight enveloping your shoulder blades, drawing you close. 

“Hey. No, sweetheart. Don’t fall asleep.” But your eyes were fluttering shut despite Steve's warnings. “Shit! Buck, we’ve gotta go. Now.”

Your eyes briefly cracked open as your head lolled against a rugged chest. 

Steve called your name, jostling you gently when you reached out, purposely grazing his torso with your palm. Your lids felt weighted now though, curtaining your eyes as darkness settled all around. 

*** 

A groan rumbled deep within your throat as the metallic odor of blood assaulted your nostrils. 

“Hi, honey.” The greeting was scarcely audible, but you prized your eyes open, wincing at the strain, and blinking into the garish fluorescent lighting.  

“Wanda?” you breathed. Mouth dry. Voice hoarse with lack of use.  

“Welcome back.” She offered a sunny smile before tiptoeing toward a steel cart that sat opposite the bed. “How are you feeling?”  

Fighting off a wave of vertigo, you hummed, watching with glassy eyes as she poured water into a plastic cup. 

“It’s been three days; those two haven’t left your side since we got back.” Wanda set the glass pitcher back on the cart, nodding at the two super soldiers, both snoring softly, their heads lying against your uninjured leg. 

“Do—” You cleared your aching throat. “They hate me?” 

“Did you hit your head? Why on earth would they hate you?”  

“I ruined everything, I—” muffling the sound in the crook of your elbow, you let out a dry cough. 

“Drink this first, then we’ll talk.”  

Drawing nearer, Wanda's leather boots clacked on the vinyl flooring. “Hush, traitors,” she hissed at her feet, scowling at the offending leather with purpose. 

A giggle sprung out; your palm flew across your mouth in an effort to stifle it. “I sound like a herd of elephants in these things,” she teased, eyes flicking toward the boys’ slumped form as she crept forward. 

“Here.” Mindful of the cannula inserted into the back of your hand, she looped an arm around your shoulders. “Hopefully Bruce can remove the IV now that you’re awake.” Leaning into your friend's warmth, you let out a long, breathy exhale.  

“This should help ease your throat. Go steady, though, only small sips.” Holding the cup against your lips, she supported your weight as you drank—gently rubbing your back when your greedy gulps morphed into the occasional splutter.   

“Thank you, Wanda.” 

With a flick of her wrist, she waved off your thanks. “I’m just happy that you’re okay. It was—” She abruptly turned away. But the slight hitch in her breath cut through the hush. “Do you need anything else? Perhaps an extra blanket?”  

“We both know that I don't need an extra blanket. Come sit,” you coaxed, tapping your fingers weakly against the edge of the bed. 

A few beats passed. You held your breath, lips scarcely parting, and muttered, “please.” Yet, when Wanda's silence stretched on, you tilted your head and took notice of the slight tremor in her fingers as she dropped the empty cup into the trash can.

“Wanda?”  

“I’m gonna go find Bruce. He should check you over, make sure that you’re okay.” Her voice had taken on a stoic edge, but instead of heading for the door, she remained in place, swiping at her eyes.

“No, I’m fine. You said that we’d talk, so talk.” She ducked her chin at your reply—the wavy locks that you envied so much falling like a curtain across her face.  

“Hey. Unlike you, I wasn't gifted with mind-reading abilities. What are you thinking?” You reached out, interlacing your fingers with her own. “What’s wrong?” 

“It’s been really tough.” Wanda admitted, shoulders bowing like a branch heavily burdened with fruit. “The blade was laced with rat poison... we almost lost you. When I shut my eyes, I see the blood—” she swayed, staring down at her palm as though it was still splattered with crimson.  

“I’m okay, Wan.”  

She shook her head though, dismissing your reassurance. “You didn’t see—you were completely ashen. We tried stemming the bleeding, but you slipped into hypovolemic shock on the jet. Your heart—it just stopped.” Her legs buckled; using your joined hands you tugged her onto the mattress.  

“Wanda, you haven’t lost me. I’m right here.” 

“But that solitary, high-pitch beep of the heart monitor still echoes through my skull.” She then inclined her head toward the sleeping super soldiers, “It haunts them, too.” With a single fingertip, she tapped on her temple. “I see it.” 

Following Wanda's gaze, you hesitantly stretched out your arm, tracing the bruise-like shadows beneath Bucky's eyes with the tip of your thumb. Had they slept or gotten any rest at all?  

“No,” Wanda murmured, a flush creeping across her cheekbones as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Their bodies gave out a couple of hours ago, but they hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep since the mission. I’m sorry though, I know that I shouldn't listen in on your thoughts.” 

You clicked your tongue against your teeth, tutting at the apology. “Don’t be silly, you can’t control it.”

“Yeah, you’re telling me.” Wanda puffed out a ragged breath, the whoosh of air faintly tickling your forehead. 

“Wan.” You faltered for a beat, your bottom lip stinging as you scraped it with your incisors. “Aside from my near-death experience, are you all right?”  

With a half-hearted twitch of her lips, she gave your hand a brief pat. “Y-you know that my emotions affect what I can do? That I have no control over what I hear?” Though rhetorical, you nodded firmly, arching your eyebrows as she continued. “Well... Steve and Bucky's thoughts haven’t only been super loud. They’ve been really dark.”  

“Dark?” your head flinched back slightly. “What do you mean?” 

“If you hadn’t pulled through, I'm not sure that they would have survived. And honestly—” Now picking at an invisible blemish on her stonewash jeans, she paused for a moment, her wet eyes meeting yours.  

“After Pietro... I don’t think that I would have survived it either.” 

At her confession, an ache bloomed deep within your soul, the pang so pronounced that you immediately drew her into your embrace.  

“I've heard your thoughts often enough.” You soothed her hair while she spoke, ignoring the tug of the cannula as you gently untangled a knot with your fingers. “I know that you can’t imagine it, but you’re the superglue that bonds this family together, especially for Bucky and Steve. And—a-and—” 

“Ssh. It’s okay. You’re okay,” you whispered into Wanda's ear, your neck muffling her labored gasps.  

“I-I’m so sorry. I’m being really silly. After all, I should be the one offering y-you comfort right now.” Her shoulders shook with each stutter, hot tears dampening your shirt, and in spite of the burn in your thigh, you tightened your hold. 

“Nonsense! We all need a big bear hug at least once a day, right? You haven’t had any for a whole three days. I’d be upset, too.”  

Wanda let out a scoff, brushing a soft kiss against your temple as she slowly withdrew. “You’re such a dork,” she ribbed while roughly scrubbing at her red, splotchy cheeks. 

“You already knew that. Though, please don’t tell those two,” you emphasized, jerking a thumb at the sleeping figures, “about my collection of Captain America merchandise; I’ll never live it down.” You threw your head back against the pillow with a chuckle. 

“Oh, they know,” she snickered, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively “Cap's positively thirsting to catch a glimpse of you wearing those Captain America pajamas you've stashed in your closet.”  

Snorting, you gave Wanda a playful shove. “Oh, stop. I really don’t think that—” with wide eyes, you propped yourself up on one elbow. “Hold up! Does he...” you bopped your head sideways. “Y’know...?” 

Wanda momentarily pressed a fist against her mouth. The corners of her lips visibly twitching upwards. “You are adorable,” she chortled, eyes alight with mischief. “And yeah... PJs or not, they both think about you a lot,” she finished with an exaggerated wink.  

Clearing your throat, you twisted your features into a smile. 

“Oh, that’s n-nice,” you eventually fumbled out, resting a palm on your clenching stomach. “But... are you sure? Perhaps you’re reading their thoughts wrong? Or—” 

“Stop!” She cocked her head. Then shook it.  

The hand holding your midriff tightened, fingernails biting into your flesh as you forced out an apology.  

“No, don’t apologize,” she murmured, grasping your hand and unfurling your clenched fingers. “I often catch flashes of your thoughts—and sometimes the occasional childhood memory leaks out.” Prying your hand away from her solid grip, you felt a wave of nausea wash over you. 

She winced at the loss of contact. “Please, don’t be upset with me. It’s not deliberate.” 

“I know.” You reached out, clutching at her wrist. “I’m not upset with you. I promise.” 

“What I’m getting at is... I-I’ve felt the whip of your father's tongue. Watched his belt lash against your skin. Your screams. I’ve heard them. So I know—” She squeezed her eyes shut for a beat, then met yours. “I know where that seed of self-doubt stems from, but please believe that without you, they really are fractured. You hold their heart.”

Though your eyes prickled, the hush after Wanda’s confession was the echo of Stevie's sketchbook. A fresh page, smooth beneath the weight of your palm—the ache of your jagged scars ebbing with each scratch of his pencil. 

“Stevie, what ya working on?” You shuffled your chair toward him, neck craning as you peered over the open sketch pad. 

The scritch of graphite halted at the interruption, your arm now reaching out, fingertips tracing the contour of a bird’s wing. “It’s—”  

“Beautiful,” Bucky interjected, sneaking up on you both and greeting Steve with a kiss against his hairline. 

You shot Bucky a fleeting, pointed stare. “It’s rude to eavesdrop,” you chided. “And yes, it is beautiful, though I was gonna say breathtaking.” Studying the sketch once more, you leaned closer, resting your chin on Steve's shoulder. “Stevie, is—is it a bluebird?” 

Steve bounced his knee, his leg vibrating against yours, but offered no reply. With every tick of the clock, you tugged on a loose strand of cotton at the edge of your shirt. The thread unraveling along with the calm in your belly. 

“Yeah,” Steve eventually affirmed, rubbing his palm against the nape of his neck. “It’s for you actually.” 

“For... me?” Threading your forearm through Steve's bicep, your voice cracked. Heat blooming within your chest as Steve nuzzled your hair with his nose.  

“Thank you, Stevie.” You withdrew slowly, your eyes glistening as you caressed his cheek with your lips.  

Bucky let out a low whistle.  

The tips of Steve's ears flushed pink.  

“You know, I was an excellent art assistant,” the brunet declared, sidling into the seat beside you, his metal prosthetic winding around your middle. “Fetched his pencils and everything. Do I get a kiss?”  

Puckering your mouth against the tips of your fingers, you blew Bucky a smooch.  

“Come ‘ere, you.” Bucky grumbled, sticking out his bottom lip before coaxing you into his embrace. The scruff of his beard prickling your flesh as his lips grazed your temple. 

The pressure of Steve's arms followed, his throaty mewl rumbling in your ear as his chin nestled atop your head.  

Sagging into their stalwart grasp, your eyes fluttered closed. The image of Steve's artwork dancing behind the curtain of your lids. Mapping each layer, every smudge, his use of tonal blending; until its beauty was perfectly anchored within your mind’s eye.  

Each detail of the sketch becoming an echo of their unspoken vow, one that resounded throughout the hush—A lonely tear slipped from beneath your lashes. “Do you see it, now?” Wanda breathed, her warm fingers massaging your chilled hands.   

“Maybe...” Yet, as you sank further into the mattress, your quivering chin belied the uncertainty. 

“Honey, are you all right? Do you need to rest awhile?” You lifted your heavy lids, your glazed eyes barely grasping the words as she momentarily set a hand upon your clammy forehead.  

Holding the heel of your palms against your brow, you sluggishly shook your head. “I just took a three-day nap—” Voice trailing off, your arms slackened, sliding limply onto the pillow.  

You jerked, your heart stuttering. “Wha—” Wanda was easing your limbs into a more comfortable position. “Don’t you think I’ve rested enough?”  

“Absolutely not. You’ve been through a lot.” A hum, rich and resonant, vibrated within your chest as Wanda's thumbs began kneading the pressure point on each of your temples. “Your body is still recovering, y’know?”  

“’Kay... W-Wan?” 

She released a soft snort, though it was distant, like static cutting through your comms. “Yeah, honey.” 

“When—when I’m back on my feet. You think Tony'll let me renovate the med bay? The decor in here totally sucks.”  

A tinkling laugh floated into the air, the melodic sound dragging you further under. “Yeah, it really does suck. And truthfully, I’m pretty sure that Tony would let you do anything.”  

“That’s... s-sweet. TV, too. Stay...” 

*** 

“She woke up?” Your eyes squeezed tightly, features contorting into a grimace. The voice was gruff. Sonorous. An image of Bucky fisting at his messy locks flashed behind your lids.   

“Did you at least fetch Banner, so he could check her over?” Stevie joined in, the words rapidly stumbling out of his mouth.  

“No, she asked me not to get Bruce, and I didn’t want to go against her wishes. She—” Wanda whispered, sniffling a little as she broke off. 

Who's drilling? You asked yourself. Was the compound undergoing construction?  

“Of course she did, she’s as stubborn as hell, but you should have woken us.” Bucky fired back, clipped.  

No, the rat-tat-tat of a jackhammer was the pounding in your skull.  

A scoff rang out. The shuffle of clothing brushing against flesh followed; Wanda undoubtedly folding her arms across her breast. “You were out cold. Perhaps if you had both gotten some sleep a couple of days ago—like I suggested,” she hissed. “Then you wouldn’t have missed her.” 

“That’s a low blow, you of all people know—”  

“Stop.” Your protest was a feeble one, yet the petty squabbling halted within an instant. 

“Doll?”  

Fingers cupping your chin. A coarse thumb trailing along your cheek. The weight of a hand lightly pressing on your shin.  

Swallowing the bile rising in your throat, you cracked one eye open, the jackhammer intensifying into a dah-dah-dah. “Lights,” you ground out through clenched teeth. 

“F.R.I.D.A.Y. dim the lights in the medical bay, then send for Bruce.” The captain spoke with authority, his command brooking no argument.  

Though—panting with the effort—you chipped in with, “F.R.I.D.A.Y. please dim the lights, but do not bother Bruce.”  

“I apologize, Agent Bluebird.” The brightness softened. Your nose scrunched; that knocking in your skull screamed in protest. When had Tony altered your name in the system? “I cannot override Captain Rogers' order,” the AI continued. “Dr. Banner has already been updated on your vitals. He's also requested I inform you that he’ll be along in a few minutes.” 

Steve straightened his posture. “Thank you, F.R.I.D.A.Y.” the blond announced, his voice full of bluster. 

“That’s not a flattering trait, Stevie. Don’t fret too much though, I still love you.” 

“Where's my lovin’, doll?” 

You raised a quaking hand toward Bucky's brow attempting to smooth out the lines that had formed there. “If these set in permanently, I’m gonna start calling you Grumpy Barnes.” 

Puffing out a wobbly laugh, Bucky knelt over you, nuzzling his nose against yours. “As long as I’m your Grumpy Barnes.” 

“Aaaaand that’s my cue. I can already sense the three of you are gonna be exceptionally nauseating. Heaven help poor Bruce when he shows up.” With a conspiratorial flicker of an eyelid, Wanda tagged on, “Shall I fetch your ‘special’ pajamas?” 

“Wan!” you exclaimed, burrowing your face into the pillow. The plastic coating—cool against your cheek—rustling beneath the movement.  

A collective chuckle resonated throughout the room.  

“Oh, honey.” The delicate whiff of citrus tickled your nose as Wanda's lips met the crown of your head. “I’ll pop back in later, okay?” 

Anticipating the click of boots, you gave a paltry nod. Yet, she leaned in closer, murmuring in your ear, “Please remember that they love you.” Though Wanda didn’t linger, a trail of zesty lemon—the scent of laundry detergent that always clung faintly onto her clothes—hung on her heels.  

“I’m so sorry,” you blurted out upon Wanda's exit. The words stifled as you hid further into the pillow.  

“Doll?” — Bucky. 

“Sweetheart?” — Stevie. 

Both super soldiers spoke in unison.  

Hands gently tugged on your shoulders. Metal fingers lifted you away from the cold plastic. The rigid prosthetic fully supporting the weight of your head as it lulled against it.  

“What are you sorry for?” Bucky gently perched on the edge of the mattress, his usual gravelly voice taking on a silvery lilt. 

Standing tall, his torso shielding your view of the door, Steve began rubbing light circular motions into the curve of your shoulder. 

Like a candle guttering in the wind, your gaze flit between Bucky and Steve. Both peering down at you, the skin surrounding their eyes no longer pinched, but smooth. And the words poured out in one continuous breath, “Everything. I’m sorry for everything. Losing my knife. Getting stabbed. Coming between you both. Though most of all, I’m so sorry for being me.” 

“Woah, wait. What?” Bucky’s deft fingers reached out, his flesh grazing the shell of your ear as he swept back a few loose tresses.  

A tear. A sob. Your quivering hand grappled at your aching throat—the lump lodged there constricting with each harsh inhale.  

“Sweetheart, unless you want Bruce charging through here quicker than when he storms into battle, you need to settle down.”  

“Steve.” Bucky threw the blond an imperceptible jerk of his head, his voice scarcely audible above the roaring in your ears. 

“No, Buck! Her breathing is far too erratic.” Grabbing your hand, Steve dropped a kiss upon your knuckles before placing your flat palm against his sternum. “Feel that, blue?” Two fingers rhythmically tapped yours, harmonizing with the steady beat of his heart. “Concentrate. Inhale. One, two. Exhale. One, two, three, four.” Steve repeated the mantra. The words looping in your brain until your quick pants subsided. 

“I’m sorry,” you rasped. Voice raw. Chest burning with the strain.  

“No. No, apologies.” Steve huffed out a breath, dragging his fingers across his jaw.  

Tightly clamping your lips together, yet another apology on the tip of your tongue, your eyes met Bucky's. Tears that wouldn’t fall coruscating in his baby blues. 

“Doll, I’m not sure if you really understand this, but we're in love with you. Always have been. The knife.” The brunet let out a low growl. “Replaceable. You—” He drew you into his thewy chest. “You're irreplaceable.” 

“But I only had one assignment. The data—I never should have led them onto the roof—”  

“Don’t. Don’t do that,” Steve cut in. A tingle fluttering along your spine as his forearm coiled around your middle. “The mission was an absolute bust. Stark's intel was phoney.” 

“But I should have—”  

“No. There is no but.” At Steve's words, you tried burrowing deeper into Bucky's breast, but the brunet wouldn’t allow it.  

Flesh and steel cupped your chin, tilting your neck upwards until your gaze met his. “This isn’t really about the mission though, is it, doll?” You watched with wide eyes as Bucky swiped his thumbs across your wet cheeks.  

“Wha—” you moistened your dry lips. “What?”  

It was quiet for several beats. The super soldiers sharing a glance as you clutched at Bucky's wrist.  

“Blue,” It was Stevie who broke the silence. “When we reached the jet.” The blond paused, scraping his tongue against his teeth. “Bruce asked us... Your tactical gear needed removing.” Steve clenched his jaw, briefly squeezing his eyes shut. “My fingers accidentally traced that jagged, criss-cross pattern across your back.” 

You froze. Ice coursing through your veins, and seeping into your marrow.  

“Stay with us, doll.” Bucky nudged his nose against yours. “What Stevie's saying, is you’re beautiful. The brunet's chest thrummed as he blew out a faint laugh. “The day that you shook my vibranium hand, you changed me. People gawped, the weight of their stares often burning into my core, but until you, nobody would touch it.” 

Bucky lifted his artificial limb, the metal winking beneath the warm lights. “Fear. Loss. Pain. That’s what this steel arm represented. Yet, when I look into your eyes, I don’t see a monster reflecting back.” 

“You’re not a monster, Buck.” Reaching out, your gaze steady. Unwavering. You tugged his prosthetic toward you, brushing your lips against each vibranium finger.  

“Exactly. That’s it.” Bucky shot out, his voice so loud, your head feebly jerked back. “When our eyes meet, I see the man that you believe I am. And—” The brunet broke off, his Adam's apple bobbing.  

“And,” Steve interjected. “It’s our hope that one day, when you gaze into our eyes, you see this...” Clearing his throat, his fingers began fishing inside his jeans pocket.  

“Stevie?” Leaning toward him, you stretched your neck, ignoring the throbbing in your thigh as you tweaked one of your stitches.  

The blond cocked his head in reply, his cheeks reddening as he peeked at his partner.  

“Show her,” Bucky whispered. 

Plucking out a crumpled piece of paper, Steve pushed it into your palm. It was well fingered, a splatter of crimson marring one of the dog-eared corners. Unfolding each layer, your fingers mapped out every crease until it lay flat against your knee.  

A gasp sliced through the air. With your fingers pressing on your mouth, you drank in every detail. A droplet of moisture bled onto the picture. Then another. A cry leaving your lips shortly after. The sketch had captured a moment in time. A snapshot. One as vivid as any photograph. Your head was tilted back with laughter, eyes alight with an inner glow. Enveloped within the embrace of two super soldiers, their gaze was anchored solely upon you. The image was beautiful. You were beautiful. 

Tingling hands. Numb feet. Your throat thick as you clasped your palms across your breast. “Y-you both love me.” You sniffled, swiping your nose with the edge of your wrist. “As much as I love you. In spite of who I am.” It wasn’t a question, but a declaration. 

“You’re ours!” They spoke in unison. Their voices loud. Unyielding.  

“And we love you because of who you are,” Stevie added, his lips caressing your cheeks. Your nose. Your eyelids. Your mouth.  

“You’re mine,” you murmured, resting a palm on each sternum. “I guess, I’ll be digging out those pajamas.”  

Laughter echoed. Another snapshot. Frozen in time.  

[castielscaplan]

Sweetheart of Mine

Summary: You're adamant about not being with Bucky. You're just friends. [WC 670] [AO3]

Request: @jackys-stuff-blog Hey Caplan 😌👋 I saw that your requests are open and can I please request something with Bucky Barnes where the reader and him are dancing around their feelings for some time and the longing, small "accident" touches and friends who act like a couple (they don't realize it), happens too often. One day Bucky came back from a mission injured and the reader patches him up. She was worried and is now trembling and they start to have a conversation. At the end they confess their feelings to each other ❤️ Maybe with hurt/comfort and with these prompts: "I just want to be yours, I love you" "Oh sweetheart, you're already mine" Thank you so much 🥺 (Sorry, I got carried away)

The thing about loving Bucky Barnes was that it never felt sudden. It felt like erosion. Like water against stone. Small, steady, constant.

It was the way he stood too close when explaining something, his breath ghosting warm against your ear. The way his metal fingers brushed yours when passing you a mug, lingering half a second too long to be accidental — but never long enough to be undeniable.

It was the way everyone at the compound had stopped questioning why the two of you always sat together.

“How long have you two been—”

“We’re not,” you’d both say at the same time.

Every. Time.

You weren’t dating.

You just—

Shared looks that lasted too long. Stood shoulder to shoulder during briefings. Fell asleep on opposite ends of the same couch and somehow woke up tangled. Normal friend things.

Obviously.

The mission went wrong. It always does. When the jet door opened and he stepped out, your stomach dropped. There was blood on his collar. Too much of it. You were already moving before anyone said anything.

“Medbay,” you snapped, grabbing his arm — gently, but firmly.

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

“You’re bleeding through your jacket, Buck. You’re hurt!”

He glanced down like he hadn’t noticed. “Ah.”

You didn’t let go.

The medbay was quiet except for your breathing — and his. You peeled the torn fabric back carefully. A deep gash across his ribs. Not life-threatening. But ugly. Angry.

You cleaned it with steady hands. Until you didn’t. Your fingers started shaking. You didn’t realize you were trembling until he gently caught your wrist.

“Hey.”

“I told you to be careful,” you whispered, and your voice broke in the middle of it.

His eyes softened immediately. “You think I wanted to get sliced open?”

“That’s not what I—” You swallowed. “You scared me.”

There it was. The thing you never said. You scared me because losing you would ruin me. His metal thumb brushed over your knuckles.

“You were shaking when I walked in,” he said quietly.

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

Silence.

Your hands hovered near the bandages. You wouldn’t look at him. “I just…” You exhaled, and it came out uneven. “You matter too much to me.”

The words hung there. Heavy. Dangerous.

He went very still. “How much is too much?” he asked softly.

You laughed — but it wobbled through the air. “Enough that I can’t pretend this is casual anymore, Bucky.”

His heartbeat picked up beneath your hand.

You finally met his eyes.

“I just want to be yours,” you said, voice barely steady. “I love you.”

There it was. No mission. No excuse. No deflection. Just truth.

For a split second he looked stunned — like he’d been bracing for rejection for so long he didn’t know what to do with acceptance.

Then his expression changed. Soft. Certain. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, pulling you gently closer despite the bandages. “You’re already mine.”

Your breath caught.

His forehead rested against yours. “I’ve been trying not to cross a line,” he admitted quietly. “Didn’t want to push you. Didn’t want to ruin what we had.”

“What we had was torture.”

A huff of laughter left him. “Yeah. It was.” His hand slid to your waist — deliberate now. Not accidental. Not hesitant. “I love you,” he said. No stutter. No fear. “Have for a while.”

Relief hit you so hard it made your knees weak. “You absolute idiot,” you whispered.

He smiled, that rare soft one he never gave anyone else. “Guess we both are.”

You leaned in first this time. The kiss was careful — mindful of stitches and bruises — but it was warm and sure and full of every touch you’d both pretended not to mean.

When you pulled back, your hands were still trembling.

He noticed. “I’m okay,” he murmured.

“I know.”

“You still shaking.”

“Shut up.”

He pressed another kiss to your forehead. “You can be scared,” he said softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time since he stepped off that jet — You believed him.

[wkemeup]

Canyons and Valleys

summary: Bucky’s violent history is written upon his body like a map; scars he cannot bear to look at in fear of the monster in his reflection. When Bucky is forced to put his scars on display, he’s certain you’ll take one look at him and run. pairing: bucky x reader word count: 5k warnings: descriptions of past torture, violence, touch starved!bucky, lots of self loathing, mega angst (with a happy ending) to start off 2022 lol a/n: this was a request by @buckygeek! See my FAQ for more info on requests

A tattered sheet once hung over the mirror in Bucky’s bathroom. He’d taken it off his bed, forgone the thin layer on cold winter nights. Anything to spare himself of the monster that had taken root within his reflection. The steam of a scalding hot shower hadn’t been enough to erase the image; he could still see his outline amongst the fog, could still see the faint discoloration of red on his shoulder before it morphed into the jarring, bright silver down his arm.

It had been a small comfort then – the thin, ragged sheet. His therapist would have called it avoidance, but it had kept him from shattering the glass under his fist most days so he didn’t much care what it was called. He found that even when jagged, broken lines ran through his reflection and warped his mirrored image, it did not lessen the coil of shame burned deep into his stomach. The sheet had been his only reprieve.

But that was in Bucharest. Now, living at the tower and surrounded by superheroes and gods and science projects a hell of a lot more well-adjusted than he’d ever be, avoiding the mirrors was not exactly a convenient option.

Stark was notoriously self-obsessed. He built his monument to the sky with floor to ceiling windows and metal appliances shiny enough to see the flecks of silver in Bucky’s irises. It was nearly impossible to avoid his own reflection in a tower designed by a genius with an ego bigger than the name plastered outside, but he did his best. He kept his eyes down whenever he left his room and wore layers of clothing thick enough to hide the ugliness underneath.

But it didn’t protect him from the mirror in his bathroom. The damn thing took up nearly half the wall and had him missing the tiny, cracked reflection in his run-down apartment in Bucharest. He hadn’t realized how faded the glass had been then, how stained and scratched it was. It would have been a relief to study his reflection in that mirror.

Now, he could see every crevice, every valley and canyon burrowed into his skin. Red mountains rising from his shoulder, rivers and streams made of splintered veins spilling out into his collar, down his shoulder blades, over his chest. It was like he was standing under a microscope. Exposed. Vulnerable. He’d never seen his body on such display as he did within that mirror.

He’d thought about covering it up, but Steve would have taken one look at the Egyptian cotton sheets draped over every reflective surface in the room and staged an intervention. Never mind the fact that these damn sheets probably cost Stark a fortune, Bucky wasn’t looking to give Steve any additional reason to look at him like he was about shatter at any second. It was like he was waiting for Bucky to crumble under the weight of Hydra, of public opinion, of his own guilt – waiting for the next splinter to rush up Bucky’s spine until he fell apart completely.

Steve meant well. Bucky knew that. His worry was born of the moment Bucky fell from the train – Steve's hand outstretched as if he could catch him if only he’d reached a little further. It was made of the decades believing he was dead, the moment he found Bucky on the bridge again with no memory of who he was. Worry made of the assassin Hydra had forced him to become, the free will stripped from Bucky’s bones.

Steve had reason to worry. Bucky just wasn’t sure how to get better if everyone was waiting for him to snap.

***

The skin on Bucky’s chest was numbed under the scalding water; bright red and flushed with warmth. He’d finished cleaning himself twenty minutes earlier, but still he stood planted under the stream. Mind drifting into the steam, focus blurred to the tiles on the wall. Centering nothingness. It was only when a faint chime rang from his phone on the sink, that he finally jarred himself back into his body.

It was too quiet without the sound of the shower. He knew better than to keep the fan on – letting the steam accumulate in the room and build up against the mirror was all that he could do to avoid a glimpse of his reflection. He’d learned to look down and to the left when he entered, keeping his back to the mirror as he changed. There was a routine – a purpose behind every movement. Careful precision in his avoidance, though it made his therapist frown.

But as he towel-dried his body and shook out the damp ends of his hair, Bucky realized his mistake. He hadn’t closed the door all the way, leaving a sizable crack into his bedroom. It had allowed most of the steam to escape; his protective layer of fog missing. He couldn’t stop himself before his gaze caught the crystalline reflection in the mirror.

He’d hoped once he would just be able to turn away from it, to steal a painful glance and simply move on – close his eyes or turn his head and keep moving. But he’d never learned to hold such kindness for himself, because once his eyes fell to the scars littering his body, he could not look away. Drawn to them as if they’d dug their talons into his eyes and held onto him until he bled.

The serum in his blood was what allowed the majority of his injuries to heal as though they’d never laid ruin to his body. He figured he wouldn’t have remembered much of those scars anyway. It was only the worst that remained on his skin, the ones that had caused the most pain, the ones that had been cut open again and again before they were ever given a chance to heal.

The mess of tissue on his shoulder where metal fused to flesh – his body’s desperate effort to reject the intrusion of such violence to his body. Nerves that had fused together by force, sharp edges of metal that had dug into his skin and ripped and shredded until there was little softness remaining.

The burn marks of a taser strong enough to bring down a wild beast crawling like spider veins from his right shoulder blade. A parting gift from the nameless men who had done their best to keep the Winter Soldier sedated and in line.

A long, jagged cut along his ribs where a knife had slid between the bones on a mission were he hardly remembered the objective. But he could still see the black of the assailant's eyes as they dove the blade into his stomach, as the serrated edges sawed at his skin until he doubled over. He still remembered his first concern had been for his failed mission, for the handler he’d disappointed, not for the pool of blood spilling between his fingers.

Bucky’s phone chimed again, shattering his trance. A reprieve, almost. It was enough to tear his eyes from the monster in the mirror. He released an exhale deep in his chest, his lungs tight as if he’d been holding it for minutes. On the screen was a text message from you.

The muscles in his shoulders eased, the coil loosening in his stomach. He ran his thumb over the text of your name as if it were an extension of you, as if touching you might calm the racing swell in his chest. He wasn’t surprised as he fell his heart begin to even, his breathing slowing to its normal pace. Bucky picked up the phone and left the bathroom without another glance at the mirror.

Cap wants us out on the next jet. Heard a rumor it could be the about the art heist in Vienna! Get a move on or we’ll leave without you!

Bucky couldn’t help the smile as it tugged at his cheeks. You’d been talking about the heist non-stop since you were caught eavesdropping outside Fury’s office the evening he met with the Austrian president. A group of highly skilled thieves and hackers had turned their attention away from mining intelligence and breaking into bank vaults in order to steal priceless paintings. It wasn’t their typical MO, but that’s what made it interesting, you’d told him.

Sam had teased there must have been a map on the back of one of the paintings and that someone should alert Nic Cage – whoever that was – and you’d all but burst with excitement. Bucky had never seen your eyes light up as bright.

Give me five minutes, Bucky texted back. He tossed his phone on the bed and grabbed the tac suit from mountain of clothes piled on the chair in the corner of his bedroom – fresh laundry he had yet to put away days later. It still smelled like your detergent.

You’ve got two, came your reply as he fastened the final clips on his jacket. Bucky chuckled to himself, biting at the edge of his lip as he studied the small winking emoji at the tail end of your message.  He rushed to the landing bay with only moments to spare to find you waiting eagerly for him on the quinjet ramp, bouncing on your toes, grinning ear to ear. He could hardly remember what had held him up in the first place.

“Art thieves, Bucky!” you reminded him, giddy with excitement.

He chuckled, a lightness returning to his chest the longer you smiled at him. “Yeah, doll. You said.”

Steve was waiting in the cockpit for debrief. It was a pretty straightforward mission. SHIELD had enough intel to discern the next target, so it would only be a matter of intervening before they got their hands on an old painting Bucky had already forgotten the name of.

“We’ll need to take them alive for interrogation,” Steve pressed with an added glance in Bucky’s direction. It was subtle, no longer than a momentary hesitation, but it was enough. Shame curdled in Bucky’s stomach, but he knew would take more than a few successful missions to undo the damage of the Winter Soldier, even to his oldest friend. He’d be proving himself for another century before anyone felt safe around him again.

Through the tension in his muscle, Bucky hardly noticed your hand had slid along his spine. Starting at the base in the small of his back and gingerly crawling up to his shoulder blades. Bucky held his breath, his head growing dizzy as you rubbed slow, gentle circles between his shoulders. He could hardly feel it through the layers of Kevlar, but the light pressure forced a shiver down his back.

Steve was still talking, of that Bucky was certain, but he couldn’t hear much beyond the low hum of his voice. Not as your hand moved to the crux of Bucky’s left shoulder, pressing on the taunt strain along his neck, ghosting over the myriad of scars where the metal fused to his flesh. Bucky closed his eyes, swallowing back the bitter taste of bile, hoping you could not feel the ugly raised edges through the thick material of his jacket.

“Are we clear on the assignment?” Steve said. His gaze lingering a little longer on Bucky, concern written into the pale blue of his eyes. He’d noticed how easily Bucky fell distracted when you were near, how quickly he could melt under your touch. You had an uncanny ability to both ground him and send him floating ten inches above his own body.

He nodded.

“Come on, Cap,” you grinned, letting your hand fall back to your side. Bucky ignored the cold chill that followed. “It’s an art heist. It’ll be fun!”

***

Bucky clutched his left hand to his ribs, gritting his teeth as blood slipped between his fingers and into the cracks of metal in his joints. Tiny droplets of red followed in his wake as he rushed down the quinjet ramp, shoving stray agents out of his way in hopes of locking himself to his room before the med team could grab a hold of him.

“Bucky! Bucky, stop!” you called after him, an awful mesh of anger and panic in your voice. Each of your footsteps echoed as you chased him down, all of his senses focused in on you – from the faint scent of your floral shampoo, to the beads of sweat on your forehead, to the dirt caked under your nails, and the singe of burnt Kevlar on your vest where a bullet had grazed your side.

Bucky kept pressing forward, determined to outpace you.

“You’re literally leaving a trail of blood behind you, Barnes! You’re not going to lose me!” you shouted, a slight edge of impatience breaking through. Still, you followed him through the crowd. Agents started to part as he approached, leaving a wide-open path for the Winter Soldier and the speckles of blood lining the tile floors in his wake.

Bucky’s escape plan was thwarted by the goddamn elevator of all things. The stairs were blocked by a bunch of rookies running drills. He was effectively trapped.

“Are you insane?” you grunted as you caught up to him. Blood was still splattered on your face from the art thief who had pulled a knife on you the moment you’d attempted to restraining his wrists. It didn’t end well for him.

Your gaze slipped down to Bucky’s side where his left hand was coated in the deep red thick of his blood. It pooled down at his boots and soaked into his jacket. Whatever anger remained in your eyes was quickly displaced by something much worse: fear. You might as well have barreled a fist to his stomach when your lower lip began to quiver, your hands gingerly reaching out to touch him before you held yourself back, unsure if it would cause him any additional pain.

“It’s nothing,” Bucky said slowly, trying to reassure you. “It’ll heal.”

But your jaw was clenched so tightly, Bucky was sure you were trying to hold back tears. It didn’t seem to matter to you that he carried a serum in his veins that would heal him quicker than he deserved, that an injury like this wouldn’t kill him even if it left him with another nasty scar he wished he could carve out of his skin. Every injury he sustained seemed to shatter you.

“Bucky, please.” Your voice broke on his name and that was what made him cave.

He let you walk him to the medical wing, avoiding the stares of fellow agents who could not wrap their heads around the close proximity you held to him. You were known for the lightness you carried; the sunshine born straight into your bones. Joy and laughter and kindness despite your accuracy and skill in the field. To associate yourself to the Winter Soldier, to wrap your hand around the crook of his elbow and touch him – hold him – as if the connection was all that was keeping you steady made for curious stares.

Because why would anyone want to be near him? Why tarnish the goodness you carried with the black soot in his soul, with the violence etched into every plate of metal on his arm? Bucky could hardly understand it himself. He didn’t fault the SHEILD agents for wondering the same.

Helen was waiting in an empty exam room by the time he arrived. She was seated on the edge of the cot, a clipboard in her hands. She glanced up at him from over the edge of her glasses.

“Captain Rogers sent word to expect you. Took you a while to find your way,” she said sternly, not missing for a moment how quickly Bucky had attempted to escape following his arrival back on base. Your position behind him blocking the door didn’t pass her notice either.

“It’s barely a scratch,” was all Bucky said in return, though blood still oozed between his fingers.

“Sit down,” Helen instructed pointing to the cot where she left the clipboard hanging from the edge of the frame. “Remove your jacket and unzip the top of your tac suit so I can get a better look.”

Bucky swallowed, unwilling to glance over his shoulder to you as he said, “can’t you cut around it?”

Helen paused, her brows narrowing. “It would be much easier to assess the damage if you take off your shirt, Sergeant Barnes.”

“Here, Buck, I’ll help you,” you offered graciously, likely assuming his hesitation had to do with the pain in his torso. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling, but it wasn’t what he was worried about. There were too many scars you hadn’t seen, too much damage to his body he wasn’t ready for you to witness. The idea of adding yet another unhealing wound was already forcing bile up his throat.

Still, Bucky sat on the edge of the bed as instructed and allowed you to work your nimble fingers down the clasps on his jacket. Each brush of your knuckles through the thick layers of Kevlar rose goosebumps on his forearm – even the smallest of touches, little more than pressure alone, and he was reduced to tremors. You slid the vest over his shoulders and set it carefully on the bed.

Then, you grasped the fabric of his shirt as it bunched at his waist. It was soaked red in blood around the wound and he could tell you had been holding your breath the moment your fingertips touched the damp material. He tried not to shiver at the feeling of your nails gently skimming his exposed skin; how good it felt to be touched, how agonizing to was to be known. You began to tug the shirt upward.

Bucky swallowed, though his throat was coarse as sandpaper. He kept his gaze centered on the trim at the base of the wall as you helped him out of the last protective layer he had left. He didn’t dare look at see your reaction at the mess littering his body, but he could see how quickly you stilled, how your hands gripped tight to his shirt as if you could tear the material in the palm of your hand.

Perhaps the worst of it was the short gasp you couldn’t contain as you looked at him. Shame curdled deep into his stomach, his cheeks burning hot. He should have known the history etched to his skin would scare you off. He should have known and still, he’d been foolish enough to indulge in hope. It was too soon – too early into whatever he shared with you – to expose the demons clinging to his body.

These ugly, vicious scars.

Bucky kept his focus burrowed into the wall as if he could burn a hole through the plaster itself. He did not move an inch until Helen had finished stitching the entirety of the wound, didn’t even wince as the needle punctured his skin or as the alcohol disinfected the open tissue. He could hardly breathe knowing you could see every inch of violence upon his body – the violence he endured and the violence he initiated.

The very moment Helen had finished the final stitch, Bucky shot up from the bed. You rushed towards him, moving to grab a hold of his arm to help him steady himself, but he pulled himself from your reach before you could. You froze, hands outstretched. Slowly, you let them fall back to your sides.

“Thanks, Doc,” Bucky murmured, looking at Helen’s shoes. He didn’t want to see the disappointment in your eyes, the pity. He rushed out of the room without another word.

When you called after him, he did his best to ignore the hurt in your voice. He did not turn back.

***

Bucky winced as he pulled away the bandage on his ribs. Two days had passed since he’d caught the sharp edge of a machete in the gut and it still wasn’t healing as fast as the rest of his scars usually did. It wouldn’t fade into his skin enough to allow him to forget in a few months' time. No – this one would find a permanent home on his body. A twin scar to the one left on his ribs from his time as the Winter Soldier.

Another fucking scar. Another reason to avoid the monster in the mirror.

The door to his bedroom swung open and Bucky flinched as you walked in the room. A scowl was etched into your features as you closed the door behind you, your arms quickly folding over your chest. Bucky glanced down in horror to realize he was without a shirt, his scars on agonizing display. Again.

“What are you doing here?” Bucky managed to get out, though his voice was low.

“You’ve been avoiding me.” The intensity of your gaze remained on his eyes as Bucky slowly set the mangled gauze on the edge of the bed. It wasn’t until the cool breeze of the air conditioner brushed against the exposed wound that Bucky winced and your eye line dropped to the fresh scar. Your shoulders sank.

“It hasn’t healed yet?” you asked quietly, any trace of annoyance removed from your voice. “I thought with the serum...”

Bucky shook his head. “Takes a while when they’re bad like this. It... It will leave a scar.”

You sighed, sinking down on the bed beside him. The mattress dipped slightly, only enough that his weight tugged you closer. He barely noticed the feeling of your thigh against his as you reached for his wound. Ginger fingertips brushed against the red in his skin – so soft he could have imagined it.

He swallowed back the lump in his throat and turned his head away. He did not want you to notice how easily you affected him, how his jaw clenched tight enough to snap whenever you touched him – touch that was both craved as if the need for it was etched into his bones and feared from decades of knowing only violence at the hands of vile men.

It was his mistake when he caught a glimpse of himself in the dark window by his bed. Even faint and distant, he could still make out the reflection of silver of his arm and the ugly mess of scars on his shoulder. Constant reminders of the monster he was made to be. He couldn’t escape it. He’d never escape it. And he was still adding to the mosaic of tough, pink tissue on his body.

“Bucky?” you called gently. “What is it? What are you looking at?”

He shook his head, trying to tear his eyes away, but once he was locked on it was as if the universe was punishing him all over again. Bear witness to your crimes, Soldat, it seemed to taunt. Remember the monster they turned you into.

Your hands ghosted up his arms, shivers crawling in the wake. Unbothered by the raised edges as you brushed over scars older than you, as you touched the healed wounds he’d once hoped would have killed him instead. You touched him and you did not recoil. Instead, you traced his body with such tenderness, Bucky could not hope to stall the tears burning behind his eyes. One slipped past as you coaxed your hands over his left shoulder, gingering gracing both metal and tarnished flesh.

“Bucky?” you tried again; your voice kinder than he ever deserved. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong? Please, talk to me.”

Bucky held his breath, and still, the words spilled out. “How can you stand it?”

Your brows furrowed. “Stand what?”

“Touching me,” he choked out, his right-hand trembling enough that he’d gripped the edge of the mattress, and still, it did not stop the shaking. “The... the scars... how are you not disgusted by—”

“Don’t,” you whispered achingly. You leaned down and pressed a kiss to his right shoulder over clean skin. Your hands did not leave the myriad of scars on his left. “Please, don’t say those things.”

“I know what you must have thought when you first saw them,” Bucky gritted his teeth, each word more painful than the last. “You didn’t know how bad they were, did you? I saw you freeze up. I know they’re awful to look at. You... you didn’t sign up for... for this.”

You were quiet for a moment. Only Bucky’s heavy, shallow breathing filling the room. Still, your hands did not leave the surface of his body, your thumbs did not stop gently brushing over the crux of valleys and mountains on his shoulder, over hardened tissue that had never once been touched with such tender care.

“Is that what you think happened in the med wing?” you asked slowly, a terrible break in your voice. Bucky nodded and your breath hitched. “Bucky, I was scared for you. You were in pain and brushing it aside like it was nothing. You’d been stabbed. Badly. You were bleeding everywhere and you had tried to rush off to your room like nothing happened. You said it was a scratch! Of course, I was scared. Of course, I froze. You were hurt. That is always going to be hard for me to watch.”

A tear slipped along Bucky’s jaw and dropped to his knee.

“Sweetheart, look at me.” Kindness laced into the request and slowly, Bucky turned away from the window. He’d do anything you asked of him, he realized. Your hands moved along his collar, to his neck, and slid up to the sides of his face, holding his gaze gently.

“You’re beautiful,” you whispered and Bucky nearly scoffed. You held him tighter, the determination hardening on your face. “I’m serious, Bucky. These scars are proof you survived. After every horrid thing that was done to you, you survived. You made it home again, okay? You found Steve again. This road you endured, it... it gave me you. And perhaps that’s a horrid, selfish thing to be grateful for, but I won’t apologize for the certainty that my life is better with you in it. Every day, I am better for knowing you.”

Tears were swelling in your eyes as you held him, your thumbs tracing lines over his cheekbones. He couldn’t have looked away from you if he tried.

"Your scars don’t frighten me, Bucky,” you told him, the sincerity in your voice puncturing the lead in his stomach. “You’ve been fighting your whole life. These scars are only proof of that. They are a part of you. The way I feel for you is not in spite of them, Bucky. Every part of you is beautiful to me. Even this.”

Bucky couldn’t suppress the chill under his skin as your hand swept along the line torn flesh upon his shoulder. Cascading over each ugly red line, soothing the tension in the muscle, gingerly gracing over the metal plates he had spent decades despising. Delicacy he did not understand, a kindness he did not deserve. You touched him as if he were something to behold, something to love.

“Please give yourself this kindness,” you whispered, your lips drawing close to the scars on his shoulder; warmth of your breath ghosting over his skin. “Let go of this fear, Bucky. Your scars will not turn me away. I am not going anywhere. You already have me, sweetheart. You have me.”

Bucky did not blindly follow anything in this world. He had learned the consequences of faithless belief enough to know it would not comfort him when the knife burrowed into his back. He knew better.

And still – he trusted you implicitly.

Even if he could not believe the words you spoke, even if he could not yet understand how you could speak with such unbridled sincerity – he trusted you. It did not matter whether Bucky found himself deserving of your kindness, whether he could grant himself the same grace you offered so willingly. He trusted you.

Slowly, Bucky nodded and you drew him into your arms. You eased your back against the bed, carefully pulling him along with you until the full of his weight rested against you, sinking you into the mattress. Bucky’s head laid over your chest, listening intently to the steady rhythm of your heart – reliable, constant, even.

He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window under the cast of midnight stars. Your hands coaxing through his hair and down his spine. Through the blur, he could still see the traces of discoloration on his shoulder – the scars he’d wished he could dig out with the sharp edge of the blade – and for the first time in decades, his stomach did not tighten to knots, his heart did not clench until it could hardly beat.

As he watched the reflection, all he could feel was your fingertips tracing sweetly along the raised edges, over the dips of the mountains and the current of the rivers. Through the canyons carved to his body and the valleys made of torn and withered flesh. Something he believed to be so vile and you touched it with grace.

Memories of the operating room, of the icy chill of the first plunge to the ravine, of the metal fusing to his skin felt far away under your touch. Memories of the horrors inflicted upon his body, certainties that the trauma would follow him for the rest of his life, assumptions you would not be willing to lend a hand to the enormous weight of his baggage – all faded to the comforting darkness in the furthest reach of his mind.

Because you touched him. Touched his scars and the memories wrapped inside them and you did not run from them. No – you only held him tighter.

So Bucky did as you asked – he granted himself a moment of kindness – and for the first time since the scars were born to his body, he allowed himself to look away. He did not curse the reflection he had once called a monster.

Thank you so much for reading! ❤️ If you enjoyed this fic, please consider supporting me at my ko-fi account ✨

[angrythingstarlight]

https://www.instagram.com/reel/DVzHo_CDzOd/?igsh=MTRwMWgycDluZ3ZlbQ==

Bee asking to see actual bees 🐝 and then waddling around in an XL beekeeper uniform 🥺

She would love that. The oversized suit dragging behind her as she learns about the honey bees—how they talk through dance, can recognize faces, their favorite flowers and how they make honey.

She runs around the beehive trying to get a glimpse of the mama bee.

As she makes another turn, she trips over her suit and lands in a little pile of flowers.

And the beekeeper is wondering why Mal and Bucky are watching Bee struggle to get off the ground. Its strange because they're so attentive to the sweet little girl. After her third attempt, he goes to help her, only to be stopped by her affronted little huff "I gots it."

He looks at her parents and they shrug.

"She'll figure it out."

Behind her mask, Bee beams. Yes, yes she will. "Tank you Papa."

Bee eventually makes her way back to her feet and she immediately takes off towards the bee hives. Completely fearless. And in awe of her tiny little namesakes. "Mommy lookit! So cute. And—and they gots honey. You wants honey? I gonna gets ones for Pooh bear and ones for you and ones for me."

Bucky buys out the beekeeper's entire stock for her.

[needmorereading]

[alyofababwa]

Love Will Bring You Back To Me 7

Summary: You and Bucky Barnes share more than one thing in common, but the most prevailing thing is your lack of luck in love. After years of friendship, you both thought perhaps luck will find you...with each other. Will it finally be a happy ending or just another mistake?

Warning(s): HEAVY and PAINFUL ANGST, Graphic depiction of terroristic activity/s, Blood & Injury

Link to Masterlist

It must have been just your anxiety. You were not certain. But you were also not that stupid to notice that Bucky has not paid you any attention. The worst part of your brain told you he was deliberately ignoring you. The better part coaxed you that perhaps he was just busy. After almost two weeks of idle time, the team finally had a mission. Two. Both directives were given by Fury.

You stood as you kept your arms draped around your middle. You were beside Nat and across you was Wanda. Sam and Clint were on the other side, with Bucky in the middle. You wanted him to sit beside you, not because of anxiety itself, but because he always sat next to you. In everything. And now he was far away. Distant. He was just right there, but absent.

The glass-cornered room was filled with the rustling of papers and opening of boxes. Your eyes had been fixated on a mugshot but it did not register. The opening of the double doors took you out of your reverie. It was Tony.

“Cap is holed inside Fury’s office, don’t ask me why,” he said, sliding next to Sam, “your guess is as good as mine. Anyway. Two different missions. Two locations. Same old problem—HYDRA tech. We have Tel Aviv and Sweden. Sam and Clint and I will be in Sweden, it’s a large-scale arms dealing ring. And,” Tony hummed, then pointed at you, “you and Romanoff and Bucky and the witch to Tel Aviv. Bomb stuff, showtime for you.”

Everyone nodded. After a brief pause, Bucky spoke, “That won’t be necessary. Maximoff is already assigned to Tel Aviv with Romanoff. I can go with Barton and Sam. I know these dealers and how they operate. I think I’m a better help at that.”

“Well,” Tony clapped, “that’s great. Who said we needed Steve?”

You blinked. Your chest tightened. You could not help but look at him. For almost five years of working together on missions, that was the first time he reassigned himself. Bucky never complained nor chose another location without you. You were always together. You rubbed your neck and looked away. What happened? What did you do wrong?

Your team of three left first. The thought of confronting Bucky left your mind as the mission to Tel Aviv was declared urgent and a classified nationwide-threat at the last minute. After the briefing, you left the compound two hours later. You barely had time to pack essentials, only your arsenal and equipment. A couple of hours later, the jet landed on a secured military installation near the city. The sun was high up and sweltering. You could see officers heading in and out of their vehicles and other personnel running around the base. 

Your scalp itched as you put your glasses down to your eyes. You were all met by their internal security agency director. A few ‘good afternoons’ were exchanged, but you could see the shock marring their faces as they led you three to their quarters. There were teams of officials inside, counter-terrorist unit, bomb disposal, and the air force. Your attention diverted to the stack of papers and blueprints on the table. 

Your feet walked on their own accord and you took the photo of a familiar tech—it was steel-framed, massive. The hexagon was unmissable. The voices overlapping became inaudible. Your heartbeat quickened and there was a pulse in each of your temples. You turned to everyone and inhaled sharply.

“I know this one.” Your voice brought everyone to a halt. There was an obvious question and hope on their faces. “This tech… is not armed alone. If you look at it, on each side of the frame there is this red button. Each carries the signal the other satellites receive when the main detonates.”

The director, from what your fractured attention earlier heard, was Captain Shalev, stepped forward and dropped other sets of photos on the table before you. “How did you know?”

“Well, that’s what we’re here for.” You shrugged. Everyone had their brows arched and you swallowed. Talking was not your best suit. “It’s HYDRA. I detonated something very similar to this in Berlin, almost a decade ago. It was during the Winter Soldier assassinations.”

You touched the other grainy ones. There were six of them. You felt the tremor on your fingers. The photos reminded you of Bucky. You had known two sides of him. The merciless and brutal killing machine and your lover. Supposed. He would have recognized it first if he were there.

“We just need the location of the main.” Natasha said after you fell quiet. “If we’re already here, I suppose you’re running out of time.”

All three of you left the quarters and were directed to the chopper on stand-by. As you boarded the chopper, you grabbed Captain Shalev’s arm. You shouted through the loud whirring noise. “You have to tell your men not to touch anything! One bomb is enough to detonate the rest. I am not certain if it’s the same, but the others are triggers. You have to inform everyone on site to back off!”

He nodded and stepped away as the chopper rose. You saw him run to one of their vehicles and it drove as your ride sliced its way into the air. Natasha and you locked eyes and your breath shuddered. Wanda met yours, too. Each of you could tell something was wrong. 

Ten minutes passed and you found yourself being escorted by the SWAT and local bomb unit into the area. The bomb was situated in the basement of the fifty-storey media conglomerate building. It was as towering as you remembered it. Your head swam as you recalled shadowed figures in your mind—your comrades, units—all wasted. You took a deep breath, your chest hurting and throat dry. 

Your eyes roved over the tech. The centerframe was carbon fiber. You paused. Wait. “This is different.” Natasha observed you as you went around and studied the lack of wirings. The steel frame ran sturdy on the back to the sides. There should be boxes for each of the buttons. But as you ran your hands through the frame, you found none. Your heart hammered against your chest. “There should be a… mechanism. Like… a box. Or a vault.”

“Can you fix it or not?” An officer shouted a few meters back. 

Wanda turned to their direction. “Let us wait. Please. This is not the time to shout.”

Natasha neared you and looked at the frame. “But is it triggered? Is it about to blow?”

You shook your head. “No. It’s not. It’s dormant.” You scratched your brow as you bypassed her, walking back to the front. Your hands traced the sides. Left and right. You felt a solid base beneath your fingers, the shape embedded on the fiber. There was a dull thrumming and you turned to the officials. “I think I found it—”

A loud booming noise shook the entirety of the building. Your feet slipped from under you and hit your back hard. You grunted at the ache that shot up your spine. Your ears rang in static as you looked at the people around, all on the floor. A blaring siren rose from the tech infront of you. You looked up and saw how each button rang red. You blinked and caught your breath. No.

“What happened?” The voices synced in different languages. You grunted as you leaned on the frame. Garbled comms came alive from the officers’ earpiece. You did not understand their dialect but the horror in their voices confirmed your suspicion. They touched one of the six.

“How long until it explodes?” Wanda shuddered. 

You looked up the tech again and saw no numbers. Nothing that indicated a countdown. 

“Oh my god,” Nat resigned, “Is it gonna blow?”

You turned to her, your head heavy and heartbeat in your throat. You trembled at the realization. “Evacuate everyone. Hurry!”

The high-pitched alarm locked you in a trance-like state. You grabbed your tools from the box they brought and penetrated through but the carbon fiber was unmoving. You took your knife and stabbed through the material. You struck over and over until you saw filaments loose. The squared box was visible. The footsteps thundered past your ears but you focused on tearing through it. Your eyes widened as soon as a bigger portion of the fail-safe was exposed. 

You saw Wanda and Natasha moved through your peripherals. Your sweat beaded and ran down around your eyes. You took a screwdriver but noticed that the box was welded shut. You clenched your eyes shut and exhaled. Think, think, damn it. Another round of sirens pierced and you opened your eyes. You closed your fist and aimed it at the box.

The adrenaline coursing through your veins kept you from feeling the split of your skin. You struck the box again. And a third. The metal crumpled against your fist. You did not stop even as you saw your blood staining the creased box. You caught your breath and stood back, your hand shaking violently. Blood dripped along the noise. You took the rifle left behind on the floor. You snarled as the white-hot pain braced up your shoulder. You held it with both hands. Bloodied and trembling, you aimed the plate on the box, smashing the rifle again and again until the cover tore in. 

“We have to go!” Wanda shouted as she appeared on your side. “I cannot contain the blast from the inside!”

Her voice droned through your ears, already numb from the earsplitting shrill. You grabbed the wires hidden inside the box. The jagged metal scratched your skin open. With a pull, you yanked it out from the compartment. The wires arced and a quivering flick with your knife cut all flow at once. The alarms stopped. You blinked and staggered. Natasha ran to you as you stepped on the pool of your own blood. Your feet slipped on the thick fluid. You landed hard on your side.

“My hand,” you heaved, “I can’t feel it.”

Natasha said something but you did not catch it. You could feel the darkness pulling you in. Your head lulled. Your tongue was thick inside your mouth and your eyes fluttered close.

                                                                 * * * * *

“One hundred fifty-eight casualties.” Fury’s voice boomed inside the four corners. Both teams were seated, all back from their respective missions—except you. “I expect a call from the UN. The Secretary of Justice was just as productive when he heard it was you in Tel Aviv. He phoned right away.”

“It wasn’t her or our fault, Nick,” Natasha countered, “it was theirs. She warned them. Was that redacted, too?”

Her eyes rolled. Fury walked to the screen and hit play. “I know. I saw the reports. And I saw this.”

The body cam footage played and they immediately recognized your voice. Your point-of-view of the events were laid bare. Panic at the impending doom. You shouted something about evacuating the building. They heard and saw your desperation. The moment your fist landed on the metal almost all of them winced. Bucky did not. His eyes stared at the screen at a distance. He heard how your bones broke. He saw the blood coating your glove and gear. He blinked as the view of your camera fell as you slipped and fell on your own blood.

He could feel Natasha looking at him. Wanda held her head down. Clint sniffled and blinked. Sam was quiet. Tony pinched the bridge of his nose. He knew that they knew him reassigning himself to Sweden was a bad idea. No one dared speak.

Fury paused the footage. “I’ll do the talking. You figure yourselves out. Dismissed.”

Everyone stood and dispersed. Natasha found herself headed to the medical bay where you were transported after the tech was seized. It had been a day since. Tony was beside her and both refused to talk. They had seen enough. Tony left first after he saw your state. You were still asleep. Heavily sedated. You wore a brace on your shattered hand. The doctors said the physical rehab would take a year or so. 

Natasha left after an hour. She tucked your blanket and closed your door as she did. She was the last to visit.

                                                                 * * * * *

Four days and you were out of the bay. You were labeled unfit for the field so you wasted your hours inside the compound. Days turned to weeks and before you knew it, you had been suspended for two weeks. It was unsettling and new territory for you as even training recruits, you were still deemed unfit. You still had your other hand. And you did not fracture your mouth.

For two weeks, you did not see even a flicker of his shadow. After a week of wondering, you stopped. What you did or did not do wrong was irrelevant. The hole in your chest was enough reason to throw your hopes. You had just come back from a mission that almost ended your life and he was radio silent. Even the visitor’s log of the medical bay was void of his name. You stopped trying because it was clear he did. 

The darkness limned the corners of the kitchen as you opened the fridge. You took your cold water bottle and anchored it on the crook of your arm. As you turned and closed the fridge, a familiar figure stood before you. It was Bucky.

You sighed and moved to pass him. His body turned to you and he spoke, “I am sorry.”

You scoffed. Looking back to him, you chewed on your lip and nodded. “You always are, James.”

“I did not mean not to… talk,” he added, “I just… I saw what happened and the guilt I guess kept me from reaching out—”

“So you thought it would be so much better to reach out two weeks later when I’m finally done?” You narrowed your eyes at him. His mouth parted and closed. He paused and caught his breath.

“Wait,” his shoulders slacked, “you’re done?”

You wanted to laugh. You wanted to hit him. Yet you knew the only one to blame was yourself. Why did you hope? The man before you was a blood-decorated and broken former assassin. He told you many times how he wanted normalcy but could not give it. How he wanted you but was afraid of the lifetime he saw. He showed you time and again—the failed kiss, the repeated silence—you just did not want to believe him. You approached his quiet like you did as his friend but you were not his friend the last few months. You were the girl stupid enough to love him.

“I cannot go on like this.” You sniffled. “I cannot keep hurting myself, Buck. I cannot bear it.”

He went still and his breath stuttered. His throat bobbed, “You said you loved me. I heard you talk to Nat.” You stared at his eyes and saw the shift in them. “I got scared. I did not know what to do.”

“I know.” You chuckled bitterly. “But I know what to do. I know that I should save myself and stop waiting around for you. Unfortunately, I am not the girl who’s gonna be there at the end of the movie. And yes, I love you. I love you, James. I really do. But that love is… destroying me. So what difference does it really make?”

Your brace was heavy and it strained your shoulder. Bucky’s eyes went on your arm. You looked away. 

“You made me promise.” His voice broke. “On our first date. You made me promise that however this ends… I’ll still be your friend. That no matter where it’ll take us, we’ll still have each other.”

You remembered. That was stupid. “Well I changed my mind. Forget I ever said that.”

He called your name but you turned and walked away from him. There was a squeeze in your chest as your tears ran down your cheeks. It took every force in your body to keep you walking. You knew you did not want to leave. But it was either your love worked or none at all. 

There was nothing at all.

[kosmogrl]

[jkl-fff]

No, seriously, do NOT.

Feeling dirty and grimy for extended periods of time is extremely draining on the mental well-being of humans. Psychological studies prove it is detrimental to our self-esteem and contentment. And no wonder; we are animals--homo sapiens, a kind of ape--that instinctively places high importance on personal grooming. Like monkeys and cats and birds in a zoo, one of the best ways to make us feel sad ... is to make us feel gross to ourselves.

So here's an easy saying from my therapist/zookeeper:

"If you feel like you hate the world, eat something.

If you feel like the world hates you, get some sleep.

If you feel like you hate yourself, take a shower.

You will probably feel much better."

[bees-official]

Do all three at once to become the perfect life form

[remanence-of-love]

[jul-27]

e.

[thewintermuse]

where i find you

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Pairing: Pining!Bucky Barnes x Sunshine!Reader

Warnings/Tags: Great Gatsby Inspired, Everyone’s Alive Because I Said So, Female Reader POV, Slow Burn, Pining, He’s So In Love It’s Actually Painful, Gatsby-Level Devotion, Quiet Yearning, Soft Angst, Fluff, Soft Bucky Barnes

Word count: 4.3k

Music: 

Invisible String - Taylor Swift

Like Real People Do - Hozier

Ruin The Friendship - Taylor Swift

Young And Beautiful - Lana Del Ray

Blood Sport - Sleep Token

The Night We Met - Lord Huron

Notes: hi hello!! I had a lot of fun writing this one (I know I say that a lot but I really do mean it). I’ve always loved The Great Gatsby and couldn’t help but find inspiration from it recently. Had to make it happy though. :) anyways, hope you all enjoy!!

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Bucky saw you for the first time in the glow of a neon “OPEN” sign and the soft hum of a cheap espresso machine.

It was a narrow Brooklyn coffee shop that smelled like burnt beans and sugary syrup, the kind of place he ducked into on bad days when the city felt too loud. Late afternoon, sun slanting through the front windows, dust caught in the light like slow snow.

He was standing in line, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched up around his ears, trying to be as small as a man like him could possibly be.

You were in front of him.

Yellow sundress, loosely tied at the waist. A pencil tucked behind one ear, hair pulled up like you’d done it without a mirror and hadn’t bothered to fix it. You were balancing a textbook with one hand, your phone wedged between your cheek and shoulder, laughing at something someone said on the other end of the line.

The laugh got him first.

It was bright. Not loud, not obnoxious, just full. Like you hadn’t learned yet that the world could make you quieter.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m bringing cupcakes, you absolute tyrant,” you said into the phone, rolling your eyes fondly. “No, they won’t be store bought. I have standards. Okay, love you, bye.”

You hung up, finally looked up at the chalkboard menu, and groaned.

“Why are there twelve different kinds of latte?” You muttered. “Just pick a personality and commit.”

Bucky’s mouth almost twitched.

The barista smiled and called your name. “Same as always?”

“Please,” you said, slapping your card onto the counter. “Large vanilla latte, extra shot, no whip, and one of those—” you pointed at the display of muffins, “—the blueberry one that’s probably past its prime but still pretending.”

He watched you. He didn’t mean to. It was just… easy.

The girl in front of him who ordered like you’d known the barista your whole life, who joked about stale muffins and tyrant siblings, who waited off to the side and leaned against the counter, eyes drifting out the window as if you were always looking toward something bright.

He shouldn’t have remembered your name.

But he did anyway. 

You turned as you waited, scanning the menu again, and your gaze brushed over him, just for a second. Your eyes flicked to his dog tags, to his metal fingers where they peeked out of his glove, to the lines of tension around his mouth.

You smiled at him.

Not pitying. Not nervous.

Just… warm. Simple.

“Hey,” you said, like you knew each other.

His throat closed up. “Hey.”

He thought about you for the rest of the week.

He came back the next day, and the next, and the next, and you weren’t there. Life spun out: missions, nightmares, therapy appointments, Tony’s sarcastic commentary, Sam’s relentless needling. Years layered themselves over that moment like dust over a favorite book.

But he never forgot the way your name sounded when the barista said it.

Never forgot the flash of yellow and sunlight and easy laughter.

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When he heard your name again, it was in the Avengers’ kitchen, and Tony was talking with his hands.

“—so she’s this ridiculous genius, and if you break her, I’m not getting another one,” Tony said, pointing a spatula at Bruce. “She could be working anywhere and she said yes to us, so everyone be on your best behavior. No trauma, no explosions in her lab, no—”

“Who is this?” Sam asked, leaning against the island, nursing his coffee.

Tony opened his mouth, but the answer came from the doorway as you said your name lightly. “Ridiculous genius, at your service. Hi.”

Bucky turned.

The mug in his hand went weightless.

It was you. 

No yellow sundress this time. Instead, worn jeans, white sneakers, an oversized sweatshirt with the logo of some hospital he vaguely recognized. Hair pulled half up, half down. Same pencil behind your ear.

Same eyes.

Same laugh, when Tony dramatically clutched his chest like you’d wounded him by parroting his words.

“That’s my line,” Tony said. “You can’t just steal my material on day one. It’s rude.”

“I’m setting expectations,” you said, moving into the room with an easy confidence that made his chest ache. You held out your hand to Bruce, then Sam, casually introducing yourself. “I brought donuts because I heard you people respond well to sugar and chaos.”

Bucky stayed still.

The world narrowed to the shape of you as you crossed the kitchen. You smelled like coffee and something sweet, something floral and bright. Not heavy perfume, more like a lotion you’d slapped on without thinking.

You turned to him last.

“Hi,” you said again, softer this time, as if you’d noticed the way quiet clung to him. “You must be Bucky.”

His prosthetic buzzed faintly as his nerves spiked.

“Yeah,” he managed. “That’s me.”

You smiled. “Nice to finally meet you. Tony won’t shut up about you.”

He glanced at Stark, who was very pointedly biting into a donut and looking anywhere but at them.

“Good things?” Bucky asked, before his brain could tackle his mouth and drag it down.

Your smile tilted, slow and fond and secret. “The best things.”

He fell in love with you in that moment all over again and this time… he knew it.

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It wasn’t sudden, not really.

It was a thousand small things stacked on top of that first memory.

Bucky learned your schedule without meaning to. When you liked to work late in the lab. When you went for runs around the compound trails. When you’d come into the common room and flop down on the couch with a groan, complaining about stubborn data and overprotective attending physicians at your old hospital.

He learned that you hated black coffee and loved tea: chamomile to sleep, peppermint when you were nauseous, and a particular jasmine blend when you needed to focus. He stocked every flavor you liked in the kitchen cabinet, restocking quietly when it ran low.

He learned that thunderstorms scared you a little, not the sound, but the sudden power outages. So he made sure the backup generator checks near your labs were always up to date. Every test run. No exceptions.

He learned that you called your mom every Sunday evening, that your little brother was in college out west, that you’d wanted to be a singer once but decided you could help people more as a nurse, then a researcher.

He learned that you liked fairy lights.

He filed it all away, a catalog of brightness.

If Gatsby had his green light across the bay, Bucky had the soft glow of your desk lamp bleeding under your half-open door in the dead of night, the sound of you humming along to some playlist as you typed. He’d walk past, coffee in hand, pretending he was just stretching his legs.

He’d always glance in, just once.

Just to make sure you were okay.

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The party was Tony’s idea, but Bucky made it good.

“End-of-quarter team bonding,” Tony had declared. “There will be food, there will be music, there will be questionable decisions and even more questionable karaoke. Attendance is mandatory. That means you, Barnes.”

Bucky had rolled his eyes, but he’d been at every planning meeting.

Casual, he told himself.

Not casual at all.

You had a rough month. Long hours, failed trial runs, a near-miss incident in the lab that left you shaking for hours afterward. Bucky had sat with you in the med bay, your fingers curled warm and tight around his flesh hand, eyes glossy but stubborn.

“I’m okay,” you’d said, voice wobbling. “Just… scared myself, that’s all.”

“You’re allowed to be scared, sunshine,” he’d said, the nickname slipping out before he could stop it. “Doesn’t make you weak.”

You had looked at him like he’d handed you something important. “Stay?”

He’d stayed until you fell asleep.

So when Tony said party, Bucky thought: She needs a night where everything feels easy.

He suggested the string lights out by the lake. He helped Steve set up the bonfire pit. He talked Sam into handling the playlist because apparently Bucky’s taste was “old man tragic,” but he still slipped a few songs he knew you liked onto the list.

He made sure there were non-alcoholic options for when you decided you didn’t feel like drinking… and your favorite cider for when you did.

By the time sunset rolled around, the lawn behind the compound glowed with soft light. Fairy lights draped between trees, paper lanterns bobbing gently in the breeze, long tables set with mismatched chairs. The lake reflected the sky, streaked with pink and gold.

Bucky stood at the edge of it all, hands in his pockets, watching the horizon swallow the sun.

“Hey.”

He’d know your voice anywhere.

He turned.

You stood a few feet away, barefoot in the grass, heels dangling from one hand. Your dress was a soft blue that made you look like you’d stepped out of dusk itself. The color made his chest hurt.

“You okay?” You asked, tipping your head. “You look like a man about to bolt.”

He huffed a laugh. “Just thinkin’.”

“Dangerous hobby,” you teased, then moved to stand beside him, toes curling in the cool grass. You followed his gaze out toward the water. “This looks… really beautiful, Buck.”

He swallowed. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You bumped your shoulder softly against his. “Thank you for convincing Tony to go full Pinterest wedding out here.”

He blinked. “How do you know that was me?”

You smiled. “Because Tony’s idea of a party is neon lights and EDM that makes your ears bleed. This is…” you looked around, eyes tracing the fairy lights reflected on the lake. “Soft.”

Soft, he thought, looking at your profile. Yeah. That’s about right.

He didn’t say, I did all of this because I wanted you to have one perfect night.

He didn’t say, I’ve been building around you for years and you don’t even know.

Instead, he said, “You deserve it.”

Your eyes flicked to his, something warm and startled moving through them. Before either of them could say more, Sam called your name, waving a skewered marshmallow like a flag.

“Sunshine! Come save me from Stark’s attempts at s’mores!”

You laughed. “Duty calls.” You squeezed Bucky’s arm once, fingers lingering just long enough to burn. “Come join us when you’re done thinking dangerous thoughts, okay?”

He watched you go, light barefoot steps through the grass, the hem of your dress swaying around your knees.

Sam slung an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into the circle around the fire. Your laughter floated back across the lawn. You looked like you belonged there, at the heart of everything, lit from within.

Bucky stayed where he was, a shadow at the edge of the glow.

He was content to orbit you. 

He’d convinced himself that was enough.

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You found the box by accident.

It was a few weeks after the party, during one of those cold snaps that made the compound’s ventilation system work overtime. The heating in your room was glitchy again and FRIDAY regrettably informed you that maintenance would get to it “first thing in the morning.”

Which left you freezing, in fuzzy socks and an oversized sweatshirt, standing in the middle of your room and scowling at the thermostat.

You thought about toughing it out.

Then you thought about Bucky.

His room was just down the hall. He was on a late mission with Sam and Natasha, not due back until dawn. He’d told you before that you could borrow movies, books, “whatever you want, sunshine, make yourself at home”, and you assumed that extended to warm clothing in an emergency.

You padded out into the hallway, hugging your arms around yourself, and knocked lightly on his door even though you knew he wasn’t there.

“Sorry, Barnes,” you muttered as you let yourself in. “Desperate times.”

His room was neat in a way that felt deliberate rather than obsessive. Bed made, corners sharp. A stack of books on the nightstand. A small plant on the windowsill that you definitely guilted him into keeping alive.

His closet yielded one of his henleys, soft with age, smelling faintly of detergent and something that was just him. You pulled it on over your sweatshirt, reveling in the instant warmth.

As you turned to leave, your foot caught on something under the bed.

“Oof—” you stumbled, catching yourself on the edge of the mattress.

You crouched, frowning, and reached under.

Your fingers brushed cardboard.

You dragged the box out, thinking it might be weapons, extra gear, or something you should not be snooping in. You fully intended to shove it back and pretend you’d never seen it.

Then you saw your own name written in careful, looping script on the lid.

Your stomach dipped.

“That’s—okay,” you told the empty room under your breath. “That’s not weird at all.”

It was probably something practical, you told yourself. Mission files that involved you. Medical notes you’d given him. Something boring and clinical.

Your fingers trembled anyway as you lifted the lid.

It wasn’t clinical.

On top lay a folded napkin from the Brooklyn coffee shop where you used to study years ago, the logo smudged. Tucked into the napkin was a crinkled receipt you recognized by layout alone.

Your name – Lg. Vanilla Latte, Extra Shot / Blueberry Muffin.

The date was from three years before you’d ever set foot in the compound.

Your breath caught.

Beneath that was a photo, one you didn’t know existed. Taken from across the compound lawn during movie night. You were on a blanket, head tipped back as you laughed at something Sam had said, plastic cup in hand. Fireflies glowed in the background.

You looked… happy.

On the back, in Bucky’s uneven scrawl, was written: June 18 – she laughed so hard she cried.

Your heart thudded.

There were more.

Ticket stubs from the outdoor concert you’d dragged the team to last summer. A small, flat stone from the lake shore, painted with a tiny yellow sun, one of those crafts you did on anxious nights and left scattered, thinking no one noticed.

A dried daisy pressed between two pieces of wax paper. You’d worn that flower behind your ear to a mission briefing once as a joke after Sam told you you were “too sunshiney for 0600 meetings.”

Taped to the inside of the lid was a scrap of paper in Tony’s handwriting: DR. SUNSHINE – PROJECT LEAD. It was from the time Tony had made nametags for the lab and accidentally grabbed the wrong pen.

Below that, in Bucky’s handwriting, circled: sunshine.

You sank onto the edge of the bed, the box in your lap, throat tight.

This wasn’t casual.

This wasn’t a crush that came and went.

This was years. Layers. A quiet, steady devotion built in the spaces you hadn’t been looking.

You reached deeper and found a small notebook. The cover was worn at the edges.

Your fingers hesitated, then slipped it open.

Inside were lists.

What she likes:

– jasmine tea when stressed

– thunderstorms, but not blackouts

– fairy lights

– that stupid song Sam hates (I don’t hate it)

– calling home on Sundays, even when she’s tired

– when people remember her coffee order

What she hates:

– being talked over

– people touching her patients without asking

– cold hallways

There were notes from missions:

– Hands shook after the explosion but she pretended they didn’t. Stayed in the med tent anyway. Brave.

– Laughed for the first time in three days when I told her about the cat on the rooftop. Worth it.

There were… words scattered between the lists, like he’d tried to start sentences and abandoned them.

She’s—

I don’t know how to—

If this was another life—

Your vision blurred.

The air felt too thick.

You hadn’t been wrong, then. About the way he watched you sometimes, like you were something he was afraid to touch and couldn’t stop reaching for. About the softness in the way he said your name.

He’d never pushed. Never angled for more. Just… placed himself in your orbit and quietly shaped his world around you. 

Like Gatsby and his damn green light, you thought, breath hitching.

Except Gatsby had built his life around a fantasy of a girl he no longer knew.

Bucky had been there for every bruise, every panic attack, every bad day. He knew the ugliest parts of you and still…

Still.

The door clicked.

You jolted, snapping the notebook shut.

Bucky stepped inside, shoulders sagging with exhaustion, hair mussed from the wind, tactical jacket hanging open. He froze the second he saw you. 

For a heartbeat, everything was still.

His gaze dropped to the box in your lap, the open lid, the spill of mementos. You watched the color drain from his face.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough.

You swallowed. “Hey.”

He shut the door slowly behind him, as if sudden movement might cause the whole room to collapse.

“How long’ve you been in here?” he asked and you could hear the effort he put into keeping his tone even.

“Not long,” you said. “Your heating’s working. Mine’s being dramatic.”

He huffed a humorless sound. “Figures.”

Silence stretched between them, humming.

You glanced down at the box, then back up at him. “You labeled it,” you said softly. “You know that’s the part that’s really incriminating, right?”

The corner of his mouth twitched, but his eyes were still wide, bright with something like panic. “Yeah. Didn’t really think that one through.”

You shifted the box to the side, turning to face him fully on the bed. “Bucky… what is this?”

He stayed where he was, just inside the door, like crossing the room might be crossing a line he couldn’t uncross.

“It’s nothing,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “It’s just… stuff. I keep things. Helps me remember—”

“Me,” you said. Not a question.

His jaw flexed.

“Yeah,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Helps me remember you.”

Your chest went sore and sweet all at once.

“How long?” You asked.

He laughed then, a broken little sound as he scrubbed a hand over his face.

“Since before I knew your last name,” he said. “Since that coffee shop in Brooklyn, with the stale blueberry muffins and the barista who kept spelling your name wrong.”

Your breath left you. 

“You… remember that?” You whispered.

“Remember?” His eyes finally met yours, and the sheer weight of feeling in them hit you like a wave. “Doll, that moment got me through some of the worst nights of my life. You stood there in front of me in this yellow dress, laughing like the world hadn’t tried to chew you up yet, and you smiled at me like I wasn’t some… monster hiding in plain sight.” His throat worked. “Yeah. I remember.”

Your vision blurred again, this time with tears that burned hot.

He took a shaky breath, words spilling like they’d been held back for years and now the dam had cracked.

“I saw you again here and I thought… god, I don’t know what I thought. That maybe the universe was screwing with me. That maybe it was a second chance I had no business wanting. I told myself I’d keep it quiet, that I’d just… be your friend. Make sure you had what you needed. Keep the heating working in your room and stock your tea and walk you back from the lab and… that it would be enough.” His hands curled at his sides. “Because you deserve someone whose whole life isn’t a patchwork of broken pieces. Someone who isn’t constantly scared of what he might do if he loses control.”

“Bucky—”

“I built all this around you in my head,” he said, voice cracking. “This idea of what your life could be if you wanted me in it. Not because I felt entitled to you, but because… it made it easier to breathe. To have something good to hold on to.” He laughed again, bitter. “Pathetic, huh?”

You stared at him, heart pounding.

“You kept your distance,” you said slowly, trying to reconcile the contents of the box with the reality of the man in front of you. “You never… pushed. You never made me feel like I owed you anything.”

“I promised myself I wouldn’t,” he said. “Last thing I ever want is for you to feel trapped. So I stayed in the shadows, where I’m used to being. Thought maybe if I loved you quiet enough, it wouldn’t spill over.” He gestured helplessly at the box. “Guess I’m not as subtle as I hoped.”

You looked down at the notebook again, at the care in each item, each line. It wasn’t obsessive in the way that made your skin crawl. It was… reverent. Careful. Like he was afraid to touch and even more afraid not to.

You thought about the nights he’d sat with you through panic attacks, wordless and steady. About the way he remembered your mom’s name, your brother’s exams, the dates that were hard for you and always made sure you weren’t alone for them.

You thought about the way your pulse tripped whenever he walked into a room. About the way safety and want had blurred together in your chest months ago and never untangled.

“Do you really think I don’t get a say?” You asked softly.

He blinked. “What?”

“You keep talking like… like you decided the whole story already. Like you loving me is something that has to stay in your head because that’s safer for me.” You rose from the bed, the hem of his borrowed henley brushing your thighs. “You never asked what I wanted, Buck.”

He went very still.

“What do you want?” he asked, voice raw.

You crossed the small space between the two of you until you were chest to chest, his breath stirring the wisps of hair at your temple. Up close, you could see every line of strain around his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way his hands trembled faintly where they hung at his sides.

You reached for one, threading your fingers through his, metal cool against your palm. His hand tightened instinctively around yours, afraid you might disappear.

“I want you,” you said simply.

His eyes searched yours, like he was sure he was mishearing. 

“I have for a while,” you went on, words tumbling out now that you’d started. “I just… I thought I was reading into things. I thought you were being kind, and protective, and that if I pushed for more I’d ruin the best thing in my life. I kept telling myself we were better off as we are than not at all.”

He made a sound then, punched out of him. His free hand came up to cup the side of your neck, thumb brushing the hinge of your jaw like he was afraid you’d shatter under his touch.

“You’re not—” He swallowed hard. “You’re not scared?”

“Of you?” Your lips tilted. “No, Bucky. Of losing you? Constantly.”

His forehead dropped gently to yours, eyes squeezed shut.

“I don’t know how to do this without loving you like it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered,” he confessed, voice shaking. “I won’t know how to… dial it back. I don’t think there’s a version where I’m not all in.”

You smiled through the tears, lifting your free hand to smooth a stray piece of hair back from his face.

“Good,” you whispered. “Because I don’t want half of you. I want all of it. The quiet devotion. The serial killer box of mementos. The way you plan parties to make sure I smile.” Your thumb brushed the corner of his mouth. “Be as Gatsby-level devoted as you want, Buck. Just… don’t stand on the other side of the bay and watch. Come inside. Be in it with me.”

His eyes opened, blue and flooded and disbelieving.

“You sure?” he asked. “Because once I step over that line, sweetheart, I’m not crossing back. I’m not good at loving halfway.”

You rose onto your toes, closing the last whisper of space between you. 

“James,” you murmured, using his first name like a vow, “I’m counting on it.”

He kissed you like a man who’d spent years rehearsing the moment in his head and was terrified of getting it wrong, and then forgot to be scared at all.

His mouth was warm and desperate, reverent and hungry all at once. One hand splayed at the small of your back, pulling you in, the other cradling the back of your head like you were breakable. You curled your fingers into the front of his jacket, holding on as the world tilted and righted itself around them.

When you finally broke apart, breaths mingling, he rested his forehead against yours again, laughing softly, incredulously.

“Okay,” he said, sounding wrecked and radiant all at once. “Okay. You asked for it.”

You smiled, cheeks flushed, eyes shining. “Gatsby?”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe don’t die in a pool over me,” you teased gently. “We can just… build a life. Together. No tragic literary ending required.”

He huffed a laugh that turned into something painfully tender.

“Deal,” he said. “I’ll just spend the rest of my days making sure you never have to doubt for a second how loved you are. How about that?”

Your chest ached in the best way.

“That,” you said, tugging him down for another kiss, “sounds perfect.”

Outside, the compound hummed on. Missions, headlines, the chaos of the world.

Inside Bucky’s room, under the soft glow of the bedside lamp, a box of carefully hoarded memories sat open on the floor, no longer a shrine to a love he’d only dared to hold in secret, but the first chapter of something real.

He’d still keep the napkin from the coffee shop. The ticket stubs. The painted stone.

He’d just start filling the box with new things too.

Not as a man watching from a distance, asking the universe for a second chance he didn’t think he deserved.

But as someone standing next to the woman he loved, hand in hand, finally stepping out of the shadows and into the light you’d carried with you all along. 

[miraclediviner]

ᯓ★Thinking about The Winter Soldier!…

The Winter Soldier! who is built of stone and steel. The pupils of his eyes dilated tenfold at any given time as he stands still as a giant. He takes orders as they are given, silence enveloping his every move.

The Winter Soldier! whose eyes speak in tongues, his mind so disconnected from his body that only his eyes are left to tell the story. When he has spent too much time away from the lab, his eyes speak of Brooklyn brownstones, snow-covered lamp posts, the warm touch of those he loves and those who love him back. When he has said too much, when he knows the scramble lies ahead, his eyes speak of the war-torn trenches. They speak of losing comrades, cold fingers, wet socks, soups with flour and potatoes. After long hours in the chair, they are dark; only the small sparks of discontent remain.

The Winter Soldier! whose lips choose stillness. Every phrase that leaks from his mouth is poignant and stark: he leaves little to the imagination.

"Твой фокус слабый." (Your focus is weak.)

"У тебя дрожат руки." (Your hands are shaking.)

"Сопротивление создает обиду." (Resistance creates resentment.)

"Мы должны быстро двигаться." (We must move quickly.)

"Готовы к выполнению." (Ready to comply.)

The Winter Soldier! that you're tasked with handling. At the height of your career, you were known by many names and many faces. Now you are tasked with keeping rowdy assets in check. The latest being Hydra's top operative with seventy years under his belt.

The Winter Soldier! who acts as cool water, still and calm. Ripples running through him at any given moment, but when the waves come, the tide is pulled in by the moon of his mind. Explosive night terrors plague him as he rests, taking him back to his time during the war. An uncontrollable sense of aggression, phantom limb syndrome, hallucinations, restless legs, and arms due to the copious amount of drugs they keep him on.

The Winter Soldier! who still has someone in there. During missions, without the eyes of the hydra watching his every move, he's different. Still stoic, easily controlled by the little red book that sits against your hip during every encounter, but there is something coldly considerate about him. The way he pulls you out of artillery fire, offers you the first rations of food, and takes the first night's watch. Everything he does has a cold and calculated edge, but with each mission you go on together, those clean edges start to disintegrate.

The Winter Soldier! who lets you slip through the cracks. After years of working together, a thin line of trust builds. You allow him to work freely, no commands or brainwashing under your watch, as long as your objective is met. Soon, parts of his past begin to slip through. The lively young man who strolled concrete streets, the man who climbed rusty fire escapes and crawled his way around smoky dance halls. Like a dog, he comes crawling back to you, licking his wounds and baring his teeth in an attempt to gain some semblance of comfort when this version of him peeks through the misty clouds and somber alleyways of his mind.

The Winter Soldier! who comes to you after his night terrors, tail tucked in between his legs, looking for something he can't quite place. He sits beside your bed, head against the exposed box spring, as he listens to your slow breathing. He imagines what things would be like if you weren't trapped here, a master and its puppet. A fractured vision of you surrounded by bodies all moving in tandem, large skirts and shiny shoes glistening against the freshly shined dance hall floor. How would you wear your hair? What color lipstick marks would you leave on his cheek after he asked you to dance for the first time? These somber thoughts allow him to slip into a plush sleep, void of terror. Without fail, he always wakes up covered in a thin gauze sheet, the room void of your presence.

The Winter Soldier! who is tasked with assassinating Nick Fury. The drop is quiet; you arrive in D.C. Under the guise of night. You are tasked with tracking Fury, while Soldat is tasked with the actual hit. With your cords being correct and the asset having the upper hand, you're able to take out Fury with ease. In his attempt to escape, Soldat makes unnecessary contact with Steve Rodgers, marking your first strike. Your Second Strike comes when you both are sent with a group of operatives to eliminate Steve and his teammates. The mission ends in a retreat from your team. When you make it back to your safehouse, you're separated. Soldat is 'cleansed' and you're grilled. Your higher-ups tell you that you have no more chances; they can't risk losing their top agent due to your negligence.

The Winter Soldier! who goes missing after the battle above Washington, presumably killed by Steve Rodgers during their battle on the helicarriers. The death of the asset and the unrecoverable body mark your third strike. Knowing this, you disappear, only leaving a broken earpiece and weapons behind.

Bucky Barnes! who adds you to his list of amends. He searches for you after the blip, soon assuming that you had been taken, like a large majority of the population. He thinks of you often during this time, thinking about who you had become, what he would say to you, if you would even recognize the man he was now rather than the thing Hydra had made him out to be. But you were gone, a snowflake on the frosty winds of time. Gone before he could apologize for all of those cold nights shared on hard concrete floors. Gone before he could know who you really were, not the woman clad in leather who held the key to his mind's deepest memories.

Bucky Barnes! who passes by you sitting in a small local cafe. You sit content and honey dipped under the warm lights of the little shop, wrapped in wool and serene bliss like a doll in a dollhouse. For a moment, he thinks the hallucinations are back, popping a handful of small blue pills prescribed to him by Raynor. Even after the effects swiftly kick in, you are still sitting quiet and quaint, unaware of his presence right outside of the big glass display window.

Bucky Barnes! who begins to see you everywhere. When he gets dinner with Yori. As he goes down the block to pick up his dry cleaning. Even at the end of the grocery store aisle, while you decide which pasta shape would hold the red sauce in your cart better.

Bucky Barnes! who shows up at your apartment door on a breezy spring evening, small leather-bound book in one hand and a large bouquet of white lilies in the other. You let him into your home, quickly pinning his large frame to the door as you question him thoroughly.

"Кто тебя послал?" (Who sent you?)

"I'm not him, at least anymore," he says, eyes shifting around your small apartment.

"Стремление, ржавчивость, семнадцать-" (Longing, rusted, seventeen-)

He stands still, eyes looking into yours as he stays still allowing you to finish the string of words that once haunted his every thought. You finish, bracing for impact but nothing happens. He stands still as he did before, a melancholic look spread across his face.

"How did they fix you, who fixed you?"

"Can you let me go? I wanna talk to you like a normal person for once."

Bucky Barnes! who meets you for breakfast once a week. At first, he has you order for him, not knowing his way around a breakfast menu the way you do. Eventually, after working your way through the menu together, he starts to pick up on his favorites, likes and dislikes, how he takes his coffee.

Bucky Barnes! who joins in on laundry day down at the local coin laundry. He meets you at your place, hauling both of your laundry baskets as you make casual conversation. It's clear that both of you are new to this being normal thing. You stumble together like freshly born doe through a flower field.

Bucky Barnes! who calls you when his night terrors begin. You sit on speaker phone with him as you watch early morning reruns, your inability to sleep through the night catching up to you.

Bucky Barnes! who struggles with his memory. You notice his lists, his favorite foods, books he plans on picking up at the local second-hand store, the last episode of Star Trek he left off on.

Bucky Barnes! who fits himself into your life in a similar fashion as he had before. This time, instead of thin cots and bloody lips, you are both greeted with a softness foreign to you. As you attempt to wrap each other in cotton and wool, you end up more entangled than you had left each other.

Bucky Barnes! who shows up in your life, licking closed wounds, still baring his teeth on occasion out of habit, but now he understands that comfort is given. Not earned.

Mecca’s Notes ⭑.ᐟ YOU MADE IT!! Coming out of my week long hiatus as fuck work has been kicking my ass!!!! I finished this draft while listening to I want By Mk.gee and I think it fits de theme so if ur interested pls take a listen :} If you enjoyed this work or any others let me know!! Leave a comment or a reblog I would love to read ur thoughts

Mecca’s Taglist ⭑.ᐟ @sunday-bug @gremlin-girly @wherewinterblooms @wint3rbarnes @bucksbby @stanmarvelous @barnes-babydoll @wintersoldiersgfie @galactict3a @phoenix-in-writing @wint3rbarnes @sunshine-daydreams0809 @winter-soldier-vibes @dolcesaints @buckybarnes82 @buckytakethewheel @overwintering-soldier @hyunjinvoid

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