are we gonna get more of bucky and readers secret relationship orrrrrrrrr?? i keep checking your page and i never see an update 😞
i’m sorry :(( it’s been a while since i last wrote about them. tbh, i felt like i was dragging their story on for too long. i didn’t know if it was still as funny and fluffy as the first parts, so i ended up overthinking my own writing and getting stuck. life got in the way too, but still, i didn’t quite have the courage to put an end to it bc i simply adore them too much. i didn’t want to disappoint anyone, but maybe someday i will bring them back. never say never, i guess.
and honestly, i didn’t even know anyone besides me still thought about their story. i genuinely thought i was the only one still thinking about them, so it means a lot to know other people still remember them too 🥹
pairing: bucky barnes x reader
summary: You take a last-minute princess job at Morgan Stark’s birthday party expecting easy money and screaming children. You do not expect a grumpy Beast ruining your life with soft looks.
word count: 6.4k
warnings: fluff, mutual pining, awkward flirting, fairy tale references, mild language, bucky barnes being reluctantly soft.
a/n: not me showing up after months away from this website with the most random idea i’ve ever had. i hope you guys like it :)
“You know,” Sam Wilson says casually from the passenger seat, “most people hear the words free food and say thank you.”
From the backseat, Bucky Barnes stares out the window with the expression of a man being transported directly to his execution.
“I did say thank you,” he mutters.
“No, you grunted.”
“That was a polite grunt.”
Sam snorts.
Beside him, Steve Rogers keeps both hands on the wheel, suspiciously calm for someone participating in what is very clearly an ambush.
The city lights streak across the windows while traffic crawls forward.
Bucky should’ve stayed home.
He had a system at home.
A good system.
Coffee. Silence. Alpine curled beside him on the couch like a tiny judgmental loaf of bread. Maybe a movie he wouldn’t pay attention to. Minimal human interaction.
Peace.
Instead, Sam showed up at his apartment an hour ago carrying cupcakes and bad intentions.
“You can’t stay inside that apartment forever with Alpine,” Sam says now, like he’s continuing an old argument. “That cat is starting to absorb your personality.”
“She likes me.”
“She bites everyone else.”
“That sounds like a them problem.”
Steve hides a smile.
Bucky leans his head back against the seat with a groan. “Why am I even needed at this thing?”
“It’s Morgan’s birthday,” Steve says.
Sam grins. “Family event. It will be good for you.”
Bucky flips him off without looking.
The car goes quiet for a minute.
Not awkward quiet. Just familiar.
The kind built over years of near-death experiences and too many shared memories.
Outside, the city slowly shifts into larger houses, quieter streets, cleaner sidewalks.
Rich people territory.
Bucky already hates it.
“You could try having fun,” Steve says eventually.
Bucky stares at him like he personally insulted his ancestors.
“Why are you saying that like it’s easy?”
Steve glances at him briefly. “Because staying miserable on purpose gets exhausting after a while.”
That lands harder than Bucky wants it to. He crosses his arms, glaring out the window again while they pull through the massive Stark gates.
Lights glow across the property ahead, warm against the dark evening sky.
Music drifts faintly through the air.
Too many people.
Too much noise.
He already wants to leave.
Sam unbuckles first and points at him before he can move. “And no disappearing after ten minutes.”
“I never do that.”
“You vanished through a bathroom window last time.”
“It was efficient.”
“You’re impossible.”
Bucky pushes the car door open. “Yet here you are. Voluntarily spending time with me.”
Sam throws an arm around his shoulders immediately, dragging him toward the house despite his complaints.
“That’s because underneath all the grumpy murder grandpa stuff,” Sam says, “you secretly love us.”
“I could bench press you into traffic.”
“But you won’t.”
Bucky doesn’t answer.
Mostly because Steve opens the front doors right then—
And somewhere inside the house, faint and warm and distant, he hears someone singing.
— 15 minutes earlier —
The dressing room is chaos.
Cheap rhinestones scattered across the counter. Someone in the hallway yelling about balloons. Someone else asking where the cake table went.
And Dylan is pacing.
“No, no, no,” he mutters, tugging at the ridiculous blue Beast jacket stretched across his shoulders. “I can’t do this.”
You pause halfway through putting on your gloves. “Dylan—”
“I’m serious.” He points toward the door like the answer is waiting outside. “Do you know whose house this is?”
“Yes,” you say carefully.
“It’s the Starks.”
You stare at him through the mirror. “Tony Stark is literally paying us to sing to children, not dismantle a bomb.”
“That’s worse.”
You snort despite yourself, adjusting the off-the-shoulder yellow gown. It’s prettier than you expected when the agency shoved the costume bag into your arms this morning. Layers of gold satin spill around your feet, catching the light every time you move.
For one stupid second, you almost feel like Belle.
Dylan doesn’t.
“I think I’m gonna throw up.”
“You’re not gonna throw up.”
“What if the Avengers are there?”
You stop.
Okay. Fair point.
The knot in your stomach tightens instantly.
You need this job. Rent is due in four days, your audition last week went nowhere, and the commercial you filmed still hasn’t paid you. Which means you absolutely cannot afford to panic now.
So you grab Dylan by the shoulders.
“Listen to me,” you say firmly. “You need to calm down. Do you know how much we’re getting paid for this?”
“Yes, but—”
“And if you ruin this for me, I will personally feed you to the Hulk.”
That earns a weak laugh.
“Pretty sure he’s off-world,” Dylan mutters.
“Then I’ll wait.”
Another laugh. Better this time.
You smooth nonexistent wrinkles from his jacket. “We go in there, smile, sing, wave at rich children, and leave with enough money to survive another month. That’s it.”
A knock hits the door before he can answer.
“Princess Belle? They’re ready for you.”
Your stomach flips.
Dylan immediately pales again.
You squeeze his arm once before stepping away. “Breathe.”
Then you lift your chin, paste on a princess smile, and walk out.
The Stark house looks less like a house and more like a museum designed by someone with unlimited money and zero restraint.
Everything gleams.
Soft golden lights wrap around the enormous backyard. Staff members move through the crowd carrying trays of tiny desserts that probably cost more than your electric bill. Children run across the lawn wearing paper crowns and superhero masks.
And near the center of it all—
“Mama! Belle’s here!”
Morgan Stark barrels toward you at full speed.
You barely have time to crouch before she crashes into your arms, giggling wildly.
“Oh my gosh,” you say in your best princess voice, warm and bright. “Princess Morgan! I’ve heard so much about you.”
Her gasp is immediate. “Really?”
“Of course. The castle talks about little else.”
She beams.
And just like that, the nerves disappear.
Because this part—you know this part.
You know how to soften your voice until children lean closer to hear you. You know how to make wonder feel real. You know how to turn exhaustion into magic for two hours at a time.
Morgan takes your hand immediately and drags you toward the other kids.
“Belle, can you sing?”
“Can you dance?”
“Where’s Beast?”
“Oh, he’ll join us later,” you say smoothly, praying Dylan survives the next ten minutes. “But for now…” You straighten dramatically. “Who would like to hear a story?”
A chorus of screams answers you.
Then you start singing.
And the entire party quiets.
Not because you’re loud.
Because you’re good.
Your voice carries softly through the backyard while the kids sit cross-legged around you, completely enchanted. You smile at each of them like they matter individually. Like this isn’t just another exhausting gig at the end of a long week.
Across the lawn, Bucky looks up almost by accident.
And immediately regrets it.
Because now he’s looking at you.
Fairy lights glow softly above your head while children crowd around your skirts, completely enchanted by every word that leaves your mouth. You laugh at something one of them says, bright and easy and real enough that it reaches him even from across the yard.
And for one strange second—
You don’t look like someone pretending to be a princess.
You look like one.
Then your eyes lift suddenly.
Find his across the crowd.
Bucky expects the usual reaction instantly.
The hesitation.
The recognition.
That brief flicker people always get when they realize who he is.
Instead, your expression softens.
Just slightly.
Like seeing him standing there alone somehow matters to you more than it should.
And the smile you give him—
God.
It’s small.
Almost shy.
But warm enough that he actually feels it.
Like sunlight slipping through something cracked open.
You hold his gaze for one tiny, suspended second longer than necessary before turning back to the children beside you.
But now your heartbeat feels different too.
Because there was something unexpectedly gentle in the way he looked at you.
Bucky watches Morgan stare at you like you hung the damn moon.
Watches you stay perfectly in character when another kid spills juice on the hem of your dress.
You don’t even flinch.
“Accidents happen,” you tell the horrified child gently. “Even in castles.”
Something in his chest shifts unpleasantly.
Or pleasantly.
He hasn’t decided yet.
Because normally, people trying too hard to be sweet annoys him.
But you kneel to talk to the children at eye level. You remember every single name they tell you. When Morgan grabs your hand during the story, you squeeze back automatically without breaking character once.
None of it feels fake.
Which is exactly the problem.
Bucky exhales slowly through his nose, already irritated with himself.
You’re midway through teaching Morgan and three other children how to properly curtsy when your phone starts vibrating inside the hidden pocket sewn into your dress.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Your stomach drops instantly.
Because only one person would call you repeatedly during a job.
“Princess Belle,” Morgan says seriously, tugging your glove, “Amelia says princesses aren’t allowed to eat chicken nuggets.”
You crouch slightly. “Amelia has clearly never met a princess after a long day.”
Morgan gasps. “You eat nuggets?”
“In alarming quantities.”
The children dissolve into laughter.
Your phone buzzes again.
Definitely Dylan.
“Excuse me one moment,” you say gently. “The castle may be under attack.”
Morgan grabs your skirt dramatically. “By who?”
You glance at the phone screen.
Dylan: I THINK IM DYING
“…the French.”
You slip away before the kids can ask further questions.
The second you push through the side doors into the hallway, you answer.
“What happened?”
“I threw up.”
You stop walking. “What?”
“I told you I was gonna throw up.”
“Oh my God.”
“Also,” he says weakly, “I think I have a fever.”
You press your fingers to your forehead.
Of course he does.
Of course this happens at Tony Stark’s house.
“Can you still come out for the photos at least?”
A miserable pause.
“…if I move too fast I think I’ll see God.”
“Great.”
“I’m so sorry.”
And the worst part?
He genuinely sounds devastated.
You sigh, leaning against the wall. “It’s okay. Stay in the dressing room. Drink water. Don’t die before I get paid.”
“That’s fair.”
You hang up.
Then immediately turn and nearly collide with Pepper Potts.
“Oh!” she says. “There you are. Morgan’s asking for—” She stops instantly. “What’s wrong?”
You try to smile professionally.
It must fail horribly.
“The Beast actor is sick.”
Pepper blinks once.
“Oh no.”
“Yeah.”
“He can’t come out at all?”
“He’s currently fighting for his life in the dressing room bathroom.”
Pepper’s face cycles rapidly through concern, stress, and the specific exhaustion only rich parents hosting children’s parties can achieve.
Because unfortunately, the timing is terrible.
Kids are already gathering near the photo backdrop.
Morgan keeps asking when Beast is coming.
And somewhere nearby, you hear Tony Stark loudly saying, “I can absolutely do it.”
Pepper turns sharply. “No.”
From the other room: “Why not? I have range.”
“You have an ego.”
“I can roar.”
“You have to greet people.”
“I can greet people as Beast.”
Pepper pinches the bridge of her nose.
You almost laugh despite yourself.
Then another voice joins in.
“…Tony’s right, though.”
You glance toward the doorway and nearly choke on your own heartbeat.
Because standing there casually like this is a completely normal Tuesday are two actual Avengers.
Captain America himself stands beside a man you recognize from the News. Sam Wilson.
You suddenly become intensely aware that you’re dressed as a Disney princess while holding a phone that still has Dylan: I THINK IM DYING on the screen.
This cannot be your life.
Sam leans against the doorway easily, looking far too entertained by the situation already.
But it’s the man beside him that catches your attention.
The same man from earlier.
The one who looked at you across the backyard like he’d forgotten, for a second, where he was.
Dark hair. Tall. Broad shoulders filling out a black Henley. Arms crossed tightly over his chest like he already wants no part in whatever conversation this is.
And yet somehow, standing this close to him now, you still feel that strange little pull from earlier.
Unlike the others, he isn’t smiling. If anything, he looks like he’d rather walk directly back out the door.
Sam’s eyes flick briefly toward you before landing on Pepper.
“All due respect,” he says, “I think we found a better option.”
Bucky narrows his eyes immediately, like he already knows where this is going.
Steve nods slowly, already betraying him. “Actually…”
Pepper looks between them hopefully. “Wait.”
Sam grins.
“Oh, this is perfect.”
Bucky straightens immediately. “Absolutely not.”
“You’re tall,” Sam says helpfully.
“So is Steve.”
Almost on cue, Morgan’s voice suddenly rings through the backyard.
“UNCLE AMERICA!”
Steve barely has time to react before a tiny blur in pink slams into his legs.
“There he is,” Bucky mutters.
Morgan grabs Steve’s hand immediately. “Come see my castle!”
And Steve actually lets himself get dragged away.
“You’re abandoning me?” Bucky calls after him.
Steve only throws him an apologetic smile over his shoulder before disappearing outside with Morgan.
Bucky looks deeply betrayed.
Sam looks delighted.
“You were saying?” Sam asks.
Bucky glares at him. “I hope your wings fall off.”
Pepper is visibly trying not to laugh now.
Meanwhile, you’re standing there clutching your phone like your entire career is collapsing in front of you.
“I really don’t want to cause trouble,” you say quickly. “I can just explain to Morgan that Beast got delayed—”
“Morgan’s seven,” Pepper says softly. “She’s been talking about this dance all week.”
Guilt hits instantly.
Bucky notices.
And unfortunately for him, Sam notices Bucky noticing.
Which means it’s over.
“Buck,” Sam says, suddenly far too smug, “you wouldn’t even have to talk much.”
“No.”
“You’d just stand there looking grumpy.”
“No.”
“You already do that recreationally.”
“Why don’t you do it?” Bucky shoots back immediately.
Sam places a hand dramatically over his chest. “Because I’m beautiful in a completely different genre.”
“I’m gonna kill you.”
“See? Beast energy.”
Bucky looks at you then.
Really looks at you for the first time up close.
The gold dress.
The nervous expression you’re trying to hide.
The way your hands twist together for half a second before you force yourself still again.
You look exhausted.
But somehow you’re still worried about disappointing a little girl.
And that annoying feeling in his chest returns.
Stronger this time.
Pepper steps closer carefully. “Bucky,” she says softly, “could you help us out? Just for a little while.”
He exhales slowly.
Looks toward the backyard where Morgan’s laughter drifts through the open doors.
Then back at you.
“…I hate all of you,” he mutters.
Sam lights up instantly. “That’s not a no.”
“It should be.”
Pepper smiles hopefully. “Bucky?”
He closes his eyes briefly like a man accepting his fate.
“…fine.”
The room goes silent.
You blink. “Wait. Really?”
Bucky points at you immediately. “This doesn’t leave this house.”
Sam nearly folds in half laughing.
And ten minutes later, you’re backstage beside a very grumpy Beast while trying to adjust the dark blue coat around his shoulders.
The costume department clearly did not account for super soldiers.
The fabric pulls tight across his chest every time he moves.
Bucky notices you staring immediately.
You step closer carefully, adjusting the fur near the collar.
“I’m sorry if the costume’s too tight,” you murmur. “The actor who usually plays Beast is… significantly less built.”
Bucky huffs quietly.
“That’s one way to say it.”
Up close, he’s unfairly intimidating.
Dark blue fabric stretched over muscle. Gloves hiding the metal hand completely.
Even the ridiculous Beast mask somehow makes him look dangerous.
Which feels deeply unfair for a Disney prince.
“You know,” you say gently while fixing one of the gold buttons, “you really don’t have to do this.”
Bucky looks down at you.
Then toward the backyard where Morgan’s excited voice carries faintly through the doors.
“…yeah,” he says quietly.
A pause.
“I kinda do.”
Before either of you can say anything else, the dressing room door swings open and Morgan storms in dramatically.
“BEAST!”
The little girl launches herself directly at Bucky.
Every muscle in his body visibly locks.
You almost panic for him.
But then, carefully, awkwardly, he catches her before she can crash face-first into the costume.
Morgan gasps, completely enchanted. “You’re so tall.”
Bucky looks at you, and somehow you know that beneath the mask, he looks completely helpless.
You grin. “That’s Beast.”
Morgan grabs his gloved hand immediately. “Belle said you were late because of a curse.”
Bucky looks down at her.
“…yeah,” he says after a second. “Traffic curse.”
You snort so suddenly you choke on air.
Morgan is already dragging him toward the doors with alarming strength for a seven-year-old.
You smooth your dress quickly before following after them, trying to slip back into character.
But it’s harder now for some reason.
Because this doesn’t feel like part of the performance anymore.
You barely know him.
You know he looks permanently annoyed at the world. You know children somehow trust him instantly despite the terrifying resting expression.
And you know he agreed to wear a giant Beast costume for a little girl he clearly adores.
Which is doing unfortunate things to your brain.
The backyard erupts the second Morgan reappears with him.
“BEAST!”
Children swarm immediately.
Bucky freezes.
Again.
You quickly step beside him before the poor man fully short-circuits.
“Oh dear,” you say brightly in Belle’s voice, slipping naturally into the scene. “The Beast seems overwhelmed.”
“I wonder why,” he mutters under his breath.
You hide another smile.
The next twenty minutes become complete chaos.
Children asking Bucky impossible questions.
“Do you live in the castle?”
“Can you roar?”
“Why are your hands so big?”
One tiny girl stares at him suspiciously before asking, “Are you hairy everywhere?”
You nearly inhale your own tongue trying not to laugh.
Bucky looks ready to walk directly into the ocean.
But somehow he stays.
He does the photos.
Lets kids hold his hands.
Even growls once after Morgan begs him to.
The children lose their minds.
Across the yard, Sam is recording the whole thing while Steve laughs so hard he has to sit down.
You catch Pepper wiping tears from her eyes at one point.
Probably from laughing.
Probably.
Then the music changes.
Soft piano drifting through the speakers.
Your stomach drops instantly.
The dance scene.
Morgan gasps dramatically. “NOW!”
Bucky goes still beside you.
“No.”
“Oh yes,” you say, smiling at him through clenched teeth.
“I don’t dance.”
“You’re literally a prince.”
“I’m literally not.”
Morgan grabs both your hands and shoves them together before either of you can react.
And suddenly—
Oh.
Your gloved hand lands against his.
His hand settles carefully at your waist.
The other wraps around your fingers.
You feel him hesitate.
Not because he doesn’t know how to dance.
Because he’s trying not to hurt you.
The realization hits instantly.
“It’s okay,” you say softly before thinking better of it.
His gaze flicks down to yours through the mask.
The world around you keeps moving, kids laughing, phones taking pictures, Sam yelling something obnoxious in the background, but for one strange second, it narrows into just this.
The warmth of his hand.
The carefulness in the way he’s holding you.
The fact that he smells faintly like coffee under all the costume fabric.
“You trust people too easy,” he says quietly.
You blink.
“That’s a weird thing to say during a Disney dance.”
“You didn’t answer.”
You should probably make a joke.
Instead, your eyes catch briefly on his gloved fingers resting against your waist.
Gentle despite the strength behind them.
Then Morgan yells, “KISS HER!”
Both of you jump apart instantly.
“Nope,” Bucky says immediately.
“Absolutely not,” you add at the exact same time.
The music softens around you, warm piano drifting through the backyard while fairy lights glow overhead.
Bucky Barnes keeps one hand at your waist, the other holding yours carefully as he guides you through the slow steps.
Too carefully.
Like he’s afraid to press too hard.
Like he’s constantly aware of himself.
His hand tightens at your waist without warning, pulling you just a little closer each time. Close enough that you can feel the heat of him even through the heavy costume layers. And whenever he leans down to hear you over the music, a shiver runs all the way down your spine.
The music softens around you, warm piano drifting through the backyard while fairy lights glow overhead.
You glance up at him just as he looks down at your feet.
“…am I doin’ this right?” he asks quietly.
His voice comes out rough and muffled beneath the Beast mask, low enough that you almost don’t hear it over the music.
The question catches you completely off guard.
Because he sounds genuinely unsure.
You blink once. “You know how to dance.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
Something warm twists painfully in your chest.
His grip tightens slightly at your waist.
“Don’t wanna mess this up.”
You smile softly. “You know, most princes are a little more confident during the ballroom scene.”
“Yeah, well.” He exhales quietly. “Pretty sure this prince skipped rehearsal.”
That pulls a laugh out of you.
Bucky’s gaze lifts at the sound immediately.
Not to the children.
Not to the crowd.
Just you.
And for one strange second, the dance stops feeling like part of the performance at all.
Then, quieter this time:
“…seriously, though,” he murmurs, thumb shifting faintly against your waist, “I’m not crushin’ your feet, am I?”
Your heartbeat stumbles embarrassingly hard.
“No,” you whisper. “You’re perfect.”
This is getting dangerous. Because somewhere between the dancing and the quiet way he keeps looking at you, this stopped feeling like part of the job.
You clear your throat quickly and pull back just enough to look over his shoulder.
“Morgan!” you call brightly.
Across the dance floor, Morgan gasps dramatically like she’s been summoned by destiny itself.
“Princess Morgan,” you say sweetly, already stepping away from Bucky before your brain completely melts, “I believe the Beast owes you a dance.”
Morgan screams.
Actually screams.
Bucky looks at you immediately.
You give him your most innocent Belle smile.
His eyes narrow under the mask. “You’re ditching me.”
“I would never.”
“You literally are right now.”
Morgan crashes into him before he can argue further, grabbing both his hands excitedly.
“C’MON BEAST!”
Bucky looks at you one last time over her head.
“You’re trouble,” he says flatly.
Your pulse jumps embarrassingly hard.
Before you can answer, Morgan drags him away into the crowd of children demanding another dance.
The second he’s gone, you exhale.
Hard.
Then across the dance floor, Morgan spins dramatically beneath Bucky’s arm while he awkwardly tries to keep up without stepping on tiny children.
And despite the giant Beast costume and permanent grumpy expression he’s laughing.
You watch him crouch slightly when she talks so he can hear her better through the music. Watch him steady her automatically every time she nearly trips over her dress. Watch one huge gloved hand settle carefully at her back while she spins herself dizzy.
The Beast mask should make him look ridiculous.
Instead, somehow, it only makes the contrast worse.
Big and intimidating and visibly dangerous even under layers of fake fur—
Yet impossibly gentle with her.
Your chest tightens unexpectedly.
“Well,” a voice says beside you, “you’re lookin’ at him exactly the same way the kids are.”
You nearly jump.
Sam Wilson grins knowingly as he reaches for a cupcake from the dessert table.
“I am not.”
“Hm.”
“I don’t even know him.”
“That’s never stopped anybody before.”
You glare at him.
He grins wider.
Somehow, hours later, Morgan Stark still has enough energy to power a small country.
“Belle,” she says for what must be the twentieth time that night, “are you gonna stay forever?”
You smile tiredly, smoothing a hand over her hair. “I don’t think your dad has enough snacks for that.”
Tony points from across the yard. “I absolutely do.”
Pepper immediately says, “No, we don’t.”
Morgan giggles.
And beside her, the Beast exhales dramatically before lowering himself onto one knee with the exhaustion of a war veteran returning from battle.
“I’m old,” he mutters.
You laugh softly. “You danced with children for two hours.”
“I fought in actual wars that were easier than this.”
“You’re doing amazing, sweetie,” Sam calls from somewhere behind him.
The Beast lifts a gloved hand without looking and flips him off.
Morgan gasps.
You gasp louder. “Beast!”
Sam nearly collapses laughing.
“Sorry,” the Beast says flatly. “The curse slipped.”
Morgan thinks this is the funniest thing she’s ever heard in her life.
Honestly?
You do too.
A little later, Pepper gently steals Morgan away, leaving you alone beside the Beast for the first time all evening.
And suddenly the silence feels… different.
Not awkward exactly.
Just noticeable.
You become very aware of the night air against your skin. Of the weight of the wig pinned to your head. Of him sitting beside you with the Beast mask pushed up, revealing his face.
Which turns out to be a mistake.
Because he’s unfairly handsome.
You look away immediately.
“So,” you say, mostly to stop your brain from malfunctioning, “thanks again for saving my job tonight.”
He huffs quietly beside you. “Wasn’t for your job.”
Your eyes flick back to him.
“Morgan?”
“Morgan,” he confirms.
A beat passes.
Then, quieter:
“…you too, I guess.”
Your heart does something deeply irritating.
The corners of his mouth twitch slightly like he regrets admitting it already.
You smile before you can stop yourself.
“Careful,” you murmur. “You’re almost being nice to me.”
“That’s the mask.”
“Oh, right. Of course.”
“The fur changes a man.”
That earns another laugh out of you.
And again, that look crosses his face.
That brief pause like he wasn’t expecting the sound but likes it anyway.
You notice it this time.
From across the yard, Steve walks by carrying three children at once somehow.
“You surviving?” he asks.
The Beast sighs. “Barely.”
Steve grins, eyes flicking briefly between the two of you.
You suddenly get the horrible feeling everyone here knows each other too well.
Including whatever this weird thing currently happening between you and the grumpy fake prince is.
“So,” you say carefully after Steve leaves, “do you always volunteer for emergency Disney prince duty?”
He snorts softly.
“First time.”
“You seemed pretty experienced.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You handled the kids well.”
For a second, he doesn’t answer.
His gaze drifts toward Morgan laughing beside Pepper near the cake table.
Then he shrugs slightly.
“They’re easier than adults.”
You blink.
“…that’s actually the most concerning thing anyone’s said to me tonight.”
That finally gets a real smile out of him. Small. Crooked. Gone almost instantly.
But you saw it.
And unfortunately for your sanity, now you want to see it again.
“Cake!” Morgan announces like a war cry.
The children erupt instantly.
You barely have time to laugh before Morgan grabs both your hand and the Beast’s clawed one at the same time.
“C’mon!”
Bucky visibly braces himself.
Morgan leads you directly toward a tiny plastic table surrounded by miniature pink chairs.
Bucky stops walking immediately.
“No.”
Morgan gasps. “What?”
“I can’t fit in that.”
“You have to sit with Belle!”
Children nearby immediately begin chanting:
“BEAST! BEAST! BEAST!”
Bucky looks personally betrayed by every child present.
You press your lips together hard, trying not to laugh while lowering yourself carefully into one of the tiny chairs.
The skirt of your dress spills around you in soft yellow satin.
Across from you, Bucky stares at the chair like it insulted his family.
“You’re doing great,” you tell him helpfully.
“I hate you.”
“That’s not very princely.”
“That’s because I’m not a prince.”
Morgan points dramatically at the seat.
Bucky sighs like a man moments from death.
Then lowers himself carefully into the tiny chair.
The plastic creaks ominously.
Every child at the table gasps.
You fully choke on a laugh.
Bucky turns toward you slowly through the Beast mask.
Morgan shoves paper plates toward both of you proudly while Pepper begins passing out cake.
And honestly?
It’s cute.
Ridiculously cute.
Children talking over each other excitedly. Frosting everywhere. Morgan sitting between you and Bucky like she personally arranged a royal wedding.
Then Morgan accidentally gets blue frosting across her own cheek.
“Oh no!” she gasps.
You laugh softly, grabbing a napkin. “Hold still, princess.”
While you wipe frosting from Morgan’s face, you completely miss the tiny streak of blue icing that ended up on your own cheek.
Bucky notices immediately.
And unfortunately—
Now he can’t stop looking at it.
You’re talking to Morgan about castles or books or something, but he’s not listening anymore.
Because there’s frosting on your face, near the corner of your mouth.
And somehow that feels more distracting than the dress.
Than the dancing.
Than literally anything else tonight.
“You got somethin’ there,” he says suddenly.
You blink. “What?”
He gestures vaguely toward his own cheek with one giant clawed glove.
“…there.”
You try wiping it away blindly.
“Did I get it?”
“No.”
“Great.”
Bucky stares at the stupid oversized Beast gloves for a second like he’s reconsidering every decision that led him here tonight.
Then, carefully, he reaches across the tiny table.
His claw brushes softly against your cheek.
Warm despite the gloves.
You stop breathing entirely.
He tries wiping the frosting away—
Except the giant fake claw only smears it worse across your skin.
You stare at him.
He stares at the disaster he just created.
Then, very flatly:
“…I made it worse.”
From somewhere behind him, you hear Sam make a noise suspiciously close to choking.
Your laugh slips out before you can stop it.
Soft at first.
Then brighter.
“It’s okay,” you manage between laughs. “You tried.”
And before you can think better of it, you lean forward slightly.
“There,” you murmur.
Your fingers brush gently against the corner of his mouth, wiping away a streak of blue frosting Morgan must’ve gotten on him earlier.
The second you touch him—
He freezes.
Completely.
Your smile falters just slightly.
Because suddenly you’re very aware of how quiet he got.
How still.
How carefully he’s looking at you now.
Like your hand against his face means something bigger than it should.
Morgan looks between both of you while happily shoving cake into her mouth.
“…you guys are weird.”
Sam immediately loses his mind laughing somewhere behind the table.
And Bucky?
Bucky can’t even argue with her.
The party finally begins to quiet down sometime after cake.
Children are asleep on couches inside the house. Half-deflated balloons drift lazily across the backyard. Someone turned the music low enough that it blends into the warm night air instead of filling it.
And Morgan Stark is fully asleep in Bucky Barnes’s arms.
It happens slowly.
One minute she’s still talking sleepily about whether Belle and Beast would survive a zombie apocalypse and the next, her head slips against his shoulder mid-sentence.
Out cold.
You smile before you can stop yourself.
Bucky looks down at her carefully, adjusting his hold automatically so she settles more comfortably against his chest.
The Beast gloves are gone now.
The mask too.
And without them, he somehow looks softer and more dangerous at the same time.
Dark hair messy from wearing the costume all night. Sleeves pushed up slightly. Tired eyes watching Morgan with this quiet kind of patience that makes something ache in your chest.
Pepper appears beside you with the expression of a woman who’s one minor inconvenience away from sleeping for three days.
“Oh no,” she whispers fondly. “She’s done.”
Bucky huffs quietly. “Yeah.”
Pepper reaches for Morgan carefully. “I’ll take her upstairs.”
For a second, Morgan stirs slightly against him.
Then tiny fingers grab weakly at the front of his shirt.
“No,” she mumbles sleepily. “Beast stays.”
Your heart actually hurts.
Bucky goes very still.
Pepper looks dangerously close to emotional already.
And after a tiny pause, Bucky murmurs:
“Alright. I’m stayin’.”
Morgan settles instantly.
You swear Pepper might love him a little for that.
Eventually, between the three of you, Morgan is successfully transferred upstairs without waking again.
And then—
The silence.
Just you and him standing alone beneath strings of warm lights while the last few party guests drift out through the gates.
The yellow skirts of your dress brush softly against your legs every time the wind moves.
Bucky looks at you for a second too long.
Then looks away.
Then back again.
“You know,” he says quietly, voice rougher now without the mask muffling it, “that dress is kinda unfair.”
Your breath catches embarrassingly fast.
Because he says it like it slipped out accidentally.
Like he didn’t mean to say it aloud.
Heat crawls up your neck immediately.
So naturally, you deflect.
“Good thing the costume covered your face then.”
A tiny smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.
Then his gaze shifts briefly past you.
Toward the tables scattered across the backyard.
Most of the candles have burned low by now. Half-empty glasses abandoned beside crumpled napkins. Flower centerpieces beginning to droop after hours in the heat.
And right in the middle of one arrangement there is a single rose.
Bucky tilts his head slightly. “Thought Belle was supposed to have a rose.”
You blink, caught off guard by the comment.
Then laugh softly. “You know the story?”
He gives you a look.
“Steve made me watch animated movies for cultural rehabilitation.”
A laugh slips out of you instantly. “That cannot be a real sentence.”
“It absolutely is.”
“You poor thing.”
“I survived.”
“Barely.”
You laugh again.
One large hand closes around the stem of a red rose tucked between candles and gold ribbon.
And without ceremony he pulls it free.
You stare as he turns back toward you, holding it out casually like this isn’t doing very dangerous things to your heartbeat. You shake your head, smiling as you take the rose carefully from his hand.
His fingers brush yours for half a second.
Warm.
Gentle.
And somehow that tiny touch feels worse than the dancing did.
“You just stole from Tony Stark,” you murmur.
“He’ll survive.”
“You’re a criminal.”
“I’ve been told.”
And for one soft, dangerous second the fairy tale feels a little too real.
And suddenly the air feels too warm.
The fairy lights above you blur softly while your heartbeat pounds hard enough to be embarrassing.
Because there’s something very unfair about the way he looks at you now.
Not like Belle.
Not like part of the performance.
Like you.
And the worst part?
You think maybe he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
A nervous laugh escapes you quietly. “You flirt a lot for someone who looked physically offended to be here earlier.”
“I was physically offended.”
“You’re doing better now.”
“That’s debatable.”
You smile.
His eyes drop briefly to your mouth.
And there it is.
That terrible, dangerous pause.
The kind that changes things.
Your heartbeat stumbles.
One more inch and—
Bucky steps back first.
Like the thought alone startled him. He glances toward the house, jaw tightening once when he realizes he doesn’t know how to do this anymore.
Doesn’t know how to stand in soft light with a beautiful girl dressed like a princess smiling at him like he’s someone safe to be around.
Not after everything.
Not when she still looks at him with warmth instead of caution.
Someone like you should probably meet someone normal.
Someone uncomplicated.
Not a man who spent half the evening hiding behind a Beast mask because it somehow felt easier than being himself.
And maybe that’s why, after a long pause, he just says quietly:
“You should get home. It’s late.”
The words hit harder than they should.
But you still smile softly. “Yeah. Probably.”
Neither of you move right away.
Then finally, you step back.
“Goodnight,” you say gently.
Bucky nods once.
“Goodnight, sweetheart.”
The nickname lands directly in your chest.
And then you leave.
Just like that.
No number exchanged.
No big moment.
Bucky watches until your taillights disappear through the gates.
And something in his chest feels suddenly, violently empty.
“…you are the dumbest man alive.”
Bucky closes his eyes immediately.
Of course Sam Wilson is still here.
“I don’t wanna hear it.”
“You didn’t even ask for her number!”
Bucky drags a hand down his face tiredly. “Sam.”
“No, seriously,” Sam says, horrified. “What was your plan here? Just suffer forever?”
Bucky glares at him. “I’m serious.”
“And I’m devastated for you.”
“I don’t—” He exhales sharply. “She’s sweet.”
Sam blinks once.
“…that’s your argument?”
“She deserves someone normal.”
“None of us are normal.”
“That’s different.”
Sam opens his mouth—
Then pauses suddenly.
His eyes drop toward the patio floor near Bucky’s boots.
“…hold on.”
Bucky frowns. “What.”
Sam points dramatically.
And there, half-hidden beneath one of the chairs, sits a pair of gold heels.
Tiny.
Definitely not his.
Bucky stares at them for a second.
Then something in his expression shifts almost immediately.
Because he remembers you wincing every few steps near the end of the party. Remembers you carrying the shoes in one hand while walking barefoot through the grass. Remembers the yellow dress brushing around your ankles while fairy lights reflected softly against your skin.
A quiet laugh escapes him before he can stop it.
Sam looks deeply offended by the existence of this emotion.
“Oh my God,” he says. “I thought she was Belle, not Cinderella.”
Bucky shoots him a look while bending to pick up the heels carefully.
They’re ridiculously delicate in his hands.
Sam watches the whole thing with growing horror.
“You are gone,” he says.
Bucky ignores him, thumb brushing absently over the gold strap.
Then, before he can think too hard about why he’s doing it, he glances toward the gates one last time.
Like maybe you’ll magically come running back for them.
Sam stares at him for a long moment.
Then slowly reaches into his pocket.
Bucky narrows his eyes immediately. “What’s that.”
Without answering, Sam holds out a small business card.
The princess company logo printed across the front.
A/N: this can be read as a standalone even though it's part of a series called "You Said What". it doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13, part 14, part 15, part 16, part 17, part 18, part 19, part 20, part 21, part 22, part 23, part 24, part 25, part 26. thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)
At precisely 7:42 p.m., you received a text.
Tony: Emergency. Need you in Lounge C. Bring no one.
You frowned.
That was suspicious.
You arrived to find the lights dimmed.
“Tony?” you called cautiously.
The door clicked shut behind you.
You spun around—
—and stopped.
Bucky stood near the window, hands in his pockets, looking like a man bracing for impact.
“Hi,” he said.
You blinked. “Is this an intervention.”
He huffed a soft laugh. “No.”
Your eyes drifted around the room.
The lighting.
The music.
The dessert.
The photos.
Understanding dawned slowly.
“…Bucky.”
He shifted awkwardly. “It’s not a big thing.”
You looked at him.
“It’s Valentine’s Day,” he said, like that explained everything. “I just… wanted to do something.”
EARLIER THAT DAY
Bucky Barnes woke up at 5:12 a.m. with a sense of impending doom.
Not mission doom.
Worse.
Calendar doom.
He stared at the ceiling for a long moment.
February 14th.
He rolled over and checked his phone like the date might have changed overnight.
It had not.
“Great,” he muttered.
He wasn’t anti-Valentine’s Day.
He just… didn’t know how to do it.
You deserved something thoughtful. Something intentional. Something that didn’t look like he panic-bought it at a gas station.
He decided, with the confidence of a man who did not understand what he was about to attempt—
He would handle it alone.
At 8:03 a.m., he ran into you in the hallway.
Literally.
You collided around a corner, coffee in hand.
“Whoa—sorry!” you laughed, steadying yourself against his chest. “Morning.”
He froze.
You smelled like your shampoo and fresh espresso and the kind of calm that made his brain short-circuit.
“Morning,” he said, too quick.
You smiled at him. Warm. Easy.
“You good?” you asked.
“Fine.”
Too fast.
Your eyebrows lifted slightly.
“…Okay.”
You studied him for half a second longer, like you could sense something was off.
He couldn’t let you linger.
If you lingered, he’d fold.
“Late for training,” he blurted, even though he absolutely was not.
You tilted your head. “Since when are you early for anything?”
“New habit.”
You blinked.
He walked away.
He did not look back.
He absolutely wanted to.
Behind him, you stood in the hallway frowning slightly.
By 9:17 a.m., Sam was staring at him across the training mat like he’d just spotted a glitch in the Matrix.
“You’re weird today,” Sam said flatly.
“I’m not.”
“You just dropped your knife.”
“It slipped.”
“You have super-soldier reflexes.” Sam gestured vaguely. “You don’t ‘slip.’”
Bucky bent to retrieve the knife, jaw tight. “You’re dramatic.”
Sam didn’t move. Just watched him.
“I had too much coffee.”
Sam squinted at him. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re twitchy.”
“I am not twitchy.”
“You just adjusted your gloves three times.”
Bucky stopped adjusting his gloves.
Sam’s eyes narrowed further.
“…Does this have anything to do with today?”
Bucky’s expression went blank. Carefully blank.
“Why would it.”
Sam tilted his head. “Oh, I don’t know. Couldn’t possibly be because it’s February fourteenth.”
Bucky blinked once. Slow.
“That’s a date,” he said evenly.
“It’s a date,” Sam agreed. “It’s also Valentine’s Day.”
“You never train this aggressively unless you’re emotionally compromised.”
Bucky threw the knife harder than necessary. It embedded in the target with a sharp thunk.
Sam winced. “See? That one had feelings.”
Bucky exhaled through his nose. “Drop it.”
At 10:02 a.m., Bucky Barnes sat on the edge of his bed, phone in hand, typing:
“good valentine idea not cringe”
The internet responded with violence.
50 GRAND GESTURES THAT WILL MAKE THEM SOB.
Rent a hot air balloon.
Write a 12-page love letter.
Recreate your first date down to the minute.
Bucky stared at his screen like it had personally insulted him.
Hot air balloon.
Absolutely not.
He refined the search.
“simple valentine idea not embarrassing”
This somehow made it worse.
Couples pottery class.
Surprise flash mob.
Scavenger hunt with clues hidden in rose petals.
He pictured himself scattering rose petals around the compound.
He pictured Sam finding them.
He put his phone down immediately.
“Okay,” he muttered to himself. “Keep it small.”
Small meant flowers.
Flowers were safe.
But red roses felt… aggressive.
Pink felt too soft.
White felt like a condolence arrangement.
He squinted.
He imagined handing you twelve red roses.
You’d smile.
You’d thank him.
You’d absolutely know he’d stood in an aisle panicking.
He didn’t want it to feel generic.
You weren’t generic.
He stood up abruptly and dragged a hand down his face.
He wasn’t trying to impress you.
That wasn’t it.
He just—
He just wanted you to feel chosen.
On purpose.
And suddenly every option felt like a performance.
He tried writing something.
That felt safe.
Words, he could do.
He stared at a blank notecard for a full minute.
Then he wrote:
You make things better.
He frowned.
That sounded like he was describing a toaster.
He crossed it out.
I like you.
He stared at it.
He had faced down literal armies. Why was this harder.
He flipped the card over and tried again.
Thank you for—
For what.
For being steady.
For laughing at his terrible jokes.
For never making him feel like he was too much or not enough.
His chest tightened.
He stopped writing.
Because if he kept going, this would turn into a thesis.
And he didn’t want to hand you a thesis.
He wanted—
He didn’t even know.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.
“You don’t need to win Valentine’s Day,” he muttered to himself.
He just needed it to feel like him.
Like you.
Not like a checklist from the internet.
Not like a scene from a movie.
He thought about the way you smiled when you were comfortable.
The way you curled into his side without thinking.
The way you’d once said, offhandedly, that your favorite nights were the quiet ones.
The nights that felt like home.
And something shifted.
It didn’t have to be big.
It just had to be intentional.
He looked back at the half-written card.
He didn’t need to write everything.
You already knew most of it.
He just needed to show it.
He stood up slowly.
Okay.
Maybe he didn’t need the internet.
But he did need lighting.
And maybe better dessert.
And definitely help sneaking around Sam.
At 10:42 a.m., Bucky gave up on handling it alone.
He found Tony in the workshop.
Tony was mid-lecture to a robotic arm.
“You,” Tony said without turning around. “You look romantically compromised.”
Bucky stared. “What.”
“You have the face,” Tony continued. “The one that says ‘I’m about to either confess or combust.’”
Bucky hesitated.
Tony turned slowly, delighted.
“…It’s Valentine’s Day,” Bucky muttered.
Tony gasped like he’d just been handed gossip from the gods.
“Say less.”
“I don’t need a spectacle,” Bucky said quickly. “No drones. No fireworks. No singing.”
Tony deflated slightly. “You’re no fun.”
“I need… something good.”
Tony studied him.
“How good?”
Bucky looked down at his hands.
“Good enough that she knows I see her” he said quietly.
Tony’s expression softened just a fraction.
“That’s annoyingly healthy,” he muttered.
“Can you help or not.”
“Oh, I can help,” Tony grinned. “But first—what’s the budget?”
“There’s a budget?”
Tony blinked. “Oh my god. You’re adorable.”
Natasha found them twenty minutes later surrounded by holographic projections.
“What are we doing,” she asked calmly.
“Barnes needs romance,” Tony announced.
"Oh. Valentine's" Natasha looked at Bucky.
He did not meet her eyes.
Tony pointed at him. “He's panicking."
“I am not.”
“You called three different bakeries,” Tony said.
“I needed options.”
“For the same dessert.”
“It has to be right.”
There it was — the quiet edge under all the chaos.
Natasha stepped closer. “You already know what she loves.”
“Yes.”
“Do you have something planned?"
“Yes.”
“So what’s the problem?”
Bucky hesitated.
“…I don’t want to mess it up.”
Tony blinked at him.
Then, dramatically, he shut off all the holograms.
Everything went quiet.
“Okay,” Tony said, unusually serious for half a second. “We are not adding drones.”
“Thank you.”
“No fireworks.”
“Obviously.”
“But,” Tony continued, pointing at him, “we are tightening execution. Timing. Atmosphere. Containment from Wilson.”
Bucky nodded once.
“So,” Tony said, already scheming again, “walk us through it. From the top. Exactly how you pictured it.”
And this time, when Bucky started explaining, he didn’t look overwhelmed.
He looked certain.
Natasha’s lips curved.
Tony listened.
And somewhere down the hall, Sam sneezed.
All three of them froze.
“…Operation Valentine is compromised,” Tony whispered.
Bucky groaned. “I hate today.”
At 1:14 p.m., you walked into the kitchen and found Bucky abruptly leaving.
“Hey,” you said, amused. “You’re avoiding me.”
“I’m not.”
“You just walked into the pantry and walked out without grabbing anything.”
“…Forgot what I needed.”
You stared at him.
“Are you mad at me?”
His head snapped up. “What? No.”
“Because you’re being weird.”
He hesitated just a fraction too long.
You softened slightly.
“Okay,” you said gently. “If you need space or something—”
“I don’t,” he cut in, too quick.
You blinked.
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“I just have… stuff.”
"Stuff?" You asked but he was already leaving.
By late afternoon, the operation was in full swing.
Tony handled lighting and sound.
Natasha handled logistics.
Bucky handled the details.
He printed the photos.
He arranged them.
He picked the dessert because he remembered the exact way your face lit up the first time you tried it.
Sam, meanwhile, was suspicious.
Not romantically suspicious.
Just generally.
“Why is Lounge C reserved?” Sam asked around 5 p.m.
Tony didn’t look up from his tablet. “Infrastructure check.”
“At 7:30 p.m.”
“Romantic infrastructure.”
Sam blinked. “What.”
Natasha coughed. “He said remote infrastructure.”
Sam squinted.
Bucky walked past without making eye contact.
Sam pointed slowly. “He’s weird today.”
“He’s always weird,” Tony said.
Sam frowned. “Different weird.”
Natasha shrugged. “You’re projecting.”
Sam crossed his arms.
He did not know why.
He just knew something was happening.
At 7:38 p.m., Bucky stood alone in Lounge C.
The lights were low.
The music was soft.
The photos were arranged.
His hands were cold.
He checked his watch.
7:41.
Tony sent the text.
7:42.
Footsteps in the hallway.
The door opened.
7:44
“…Bucky.”
He shifted awkwardly. “It’s not a big thing.”
You looked at him.
“It’s Valentine’s Day,” he said, like that explained everything. “I just… wanted to do something.”
Bucky stood near the window, hands tucked into his pockets like he needed them restrained. The city lights beyond the glass cast him in a soft glow. The room wasn’t just dim. It was warm. Intentional. Golden light instead of overhead fluorescents. Candles—not too many—flickering along the low table.
Soft music played in the background. Not dramatic. Not orchestral.
Familiar.
Your favorite.
Your eyes moved past him.
The table set for two.
The dessert.
And the walls.
Your breath caught.
Photos.
Dozens of them.
Some printed small and scattered along one wall like moments suspended in mid-laugh. Others framed simply along the shelves.
You reached out and touched one of the pictures.
It was the two of you on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, mid-argument over what movie to watch. You were laughing. He was pretending not to.
Another—him asleep, your hand in his hair.
Another—both of you flour-covered in the kitchen.
You blinked.
“How did you get these?” you whispered.
Bucky huffed quietly. “Tony helped.”
You glanced at him. “Helped how.”
He hesitated, just a second.
“…Security footage.”
You blinked. “What.”
“He ran facial recognition,” Bucky admitted. “Filtered for… specific expressions.”
“Specific expressions?”
He shifted, almost embarrassed. “The ones where you’re laughing. Or when you look at me like I just said something dumb but you’re trying not to smile.”
Your heart stuttered.
“And he pulled those?” you asked softly.
“Yeah.”
“That’s mildly terrifying.”
“It’s Stark,” he said. “Baseline terrifying.”
You looked back at the wall, at all those tiny captured seconds — moments you hadn’t even realized someone could see.
“You went through security footage,” you said slowly.
“I didn’t want posed,” he murmured. “I wanted real.”
You turned back to him.
And he looked almost defensive about it. Like he’d fight anyone who suggested it was too much.
You stepped closer.
“That’s… the most you thing you could’ve done.”
He frowned faintly. “That’s not an insult?”
“It’s not.”
You brushed your fingers over one photo again.
“They’re all us just… being.”
“That was the idea.”
You swallowed.
“I love it. I'm keeping them."
He shrugged, almost sheepish. "We’re gonna have to fight over custody.”
“You once said photos were unnecessary,” you murmured.
“They are,” he said. Then, after a beat, quieter, “But you’re not.”
Your heart did something painful and soft all at once.
The air shifted.
You stared at him.
He stepped closer.
“I know I’m not… great at the whole Valentine’s thing,” he admitted. “I almost rented a hot air balloon.”
You blinked. “You what.”
“Long story. Involved Tony. We’re not discussing it.”
A laugh slipped out of you despite everything.
Relief flickered across his face at the sound.
“I didn’t want to do something loud,” he continued. “Or flashy. I just… I wanted you to walk in and see that I pay attention.”
He gestured lightly to the walls.
“To us.”
You looked around again, slower this time.
“You notice everything,” you said softly.
“Only the important stuff. Only you.”
You stepped toward him until there was barely any space left between you.
“The lighting is new,” you murmured.
“Tony.”
“The music?”
“Natasha said it felt like you.”
You smiled faintly. “And the dessert?”
His mouth twitched. “I called three bakeries.”
You laughed again, warmer this time. “You did not.”
“I did.”
“Bucky.”
“It had to be right.”
Your expression shifted.
Softened.
“You didn’t have to do all this.”
“I know,” he said immediately. “That’s the point.”
Silence wrapped around you, but it wasn’t empty.
It was full.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out something small.
Not a velvet box.
Just a folded card.
“I tried writing something long,” he admitted. “It got out of hand.”
You took it carefully.
He looked like he’d rather fight another war than watch you read it.
You opened it.
Inside, in slightly uneven handwriting:
You make things feel like home.
That was it.
No paragraph.
No speech.
Just that.
Your throat tightened.
You looked up at him, eyes glassy.
“That’s not small,” you whispered.
His jaw flexed slightly. “It’s true.”
You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him without another word.
He exhaled into your shoulder like he’d been holding that breath all day.
“You were avoiding me,” you murmured against his chest.
“I was executing.”
You pulled back slightly, studying him. “You were panicking.”
“I was not.”
“You absolutely were.”
He opened his mouth to argue, then stopped when you bit back a smile.
“…You noticed?”
“I’ve known you all day,” you said gently. “You don’t pace unless you’re stressed.”
He exhaled. “I didn’t want to ruin it.”
Your expression softened.
“You didn’t.”
He hesitated. “You thought I was mad.”
“A little,” you admitted. “I even—”
You stopped.
His brows pulled together. “You even what.”
You stepped away from him just enough to reach for your bag, which you’d dropped near the door when you walked in.
“I was going to give this to you earlier,” you said quietly. “But you kept disappearing. And then you were weird. So I thought maybe I’d imagined the whole—”
He was already looking stricken.
You held out a small box. Nothing dramatic. Wrapped carefully, a little unevenly.
“You got me something?” he asked, like that hadn’t occurred to him.
“It’s Valentine’s Day,” you said. “I know you don’t care about it much, but I— I do. A little.”
He took it from you like it might dissolve.
“You were avoiding me too,” he said slowly.
“I was trying not to look desperate,” you muttered.
His mouth twitched.
He opened it carefully.
Inside was something simple.
Not flashy.
A small leather-bound notebook. The cover worn soft on purpose.
He looked up at you, confused for half a second.
“You write things down,” you said softly. “Ideas. Fragments. Stuff you don’t show anyone.”
His throat tightened almost immediately.
He exhales through his nose like he’s bracing for something far more dangerous than paper.
Then he flips it open.
The pages are blank.
Except for the first one.
Two lines. Centered. In your handwriting.
If I have a home in this world, it’s wherever you are. I would choose you in every lifetime.
He stops breathing.
Actually stops.
The room goes very, very quiet.
You watch it happen — the way his eyes lock on the words like they’re trying to rearrange themselves into something less dangerous.
He swallows once.
Then again.
“That’s…” he starts.
Nothing comes out.
He clears his throat.
“That’s bold of you,” he tries instead, voice rougher than he intended. “Making claims like that.”
You don’t look away. “It’s not a claim.”
He huffs softly — the beginning of a joke forming on instinct, armor sliding into place.
“You realize I have a documented history of being—”
“James.”
That stops him.
His jaw tightens.
You step closer, just a little.
His fingers curl against the edge of the page.
He looks down at the words again.
Then at you.
Something shifts.
The joke dissolves.
Because the truth is sitting right there in ink, and he can’t deflect that.
He closes the notebook carefully. Not abruptly. Not dramatically. Just… like it’s something fragile.
“You can’t just say things like that,” he murmurs.
“I just did.”
He studies your face like he’s searching for hesitation.
There isn’t any.
“You really believe that,” he says quietly.
“Yes.”
The answer lands.
Hard.
And that’s when he moves.
It’s not graceful. It’s not planned.
He pulls you into him like the distance between you is suddenly unbearable.
One arm wraps tight around your back. The other comes up to cradle the back of your head, pressing you into his chest.
You feel the way his heart is beating — fast. Unsteady.
His grip tightens.
“You’re dangerous,” he says softly.
“Romantic,” you correct.
He looks at you for one long second — like he’s memorizing the fact that you’re real.
Then he kisses you.
Not careful.
Not tentative.
His hand slides into your hair and tilts your head just enough that the angle deepens without asking permission but somehow still feeling like a question.
It’s not rushed — it’s hungry. Like he’s been restraining himself all day and the dam just broke.
You make a small sound against his mouth and that’s it.
He exhales into the kiss like he needed it to breathe.
His other hand presses firm at your waist, grounding, claiming, pulling you closer until there’s no space left to misinterpret.
When he pulls back, it’s barely an inch.
Forehead resting against yours.
Breath uneven.
“You can’t just say things like that,” he murmurs, voice rough, “and expect me to stand there.”
You smile, just slightly dazed.
“I noticed.”
He kisses you again — slower this time, deliberate — like he physically cannot process the idea that someone sees him that clearly and stays.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.
“I was going to make a joke,” he admits.
“I know.”
“I had a whole line.”
“You always do.”
He exhales shakily.
“…I’m keeping this,” he says, lifting the notebook slightly between you. "And I'm writing about you."
“You better.”
“And if I forget?”
You brush your thumb over his jaw.
“I’ll remind you,” you whisper.
He closes his eyes briefly.
“God,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “I’m so down bad for you.”
You laugh softly.
He doesn’t deny it.
His shoulders loosened in a way that felt earned.
“There’s more,” he said, blinking once, like he’d briefly forgotten his own plan.
“More?”
He nodded toward the far corner.
You hadn’t noticed it before — a small setup near the window. Blankets. Pillows. The old record player you’d once mentioned missing. A stack of your favorite films beside it.
“You said your favorite nights were the quiet ones,” he said. “The ones that feel like home.”
You turned back to him slowly.
“So we’re staying in,” you whispered.
“We’re staying in,” he confirmed. “No one’s allowed in here. Tony owes me. Natasha threatened Sam.”
You laughed through the lingering emotion.
“Did you… coordinate security for Valentine’s Day?”
“Yes.”
“Sergeant Barnes.”
“Don’t.”
You reached for him again, softer this time.
“I didn’t need a grand gesture,” you said gently.
“I know.”
“But I’m really glad you didn’t listen to that part.”
He smiled — small, crooked, real.
“I just wanted you to feel chosen,” he admitted quietly.
Your hands slid up to frame his face.
“I do.”
You kissed him then — slow, unhurried, like there was nowhere else either of you needed to be. Because there wasn't.
The music is still playing softly when you finally separate enough to breathe like normal people.
“Dessert’s going to melt,” you mumble.
He hums against your temple. “Let it.”
You pull back just enough to raise an eyebrow. “You called three bakeries for that dessert.”
“…That’s not the point.”
“It absolutely is.”
You take his hand and tug him toward the table. He lets you, but not before stealing one more quick kiss like he’s addicted.
You both sit on the floor instead of the chairs. The blankets near the window are closer, warmer.
He watches you take the first bite.
Very intensely.
You pause mid-chew. “Why are you staring at me like that.”
“I need to know if I chose correctly.”
You swallow slowly. Consider him. Dramatic.
“It’s good.”
His shoulders relax a full inch.
You smirk. “Not as good as mine would’ve been.”
He narrows his eyes. “You burn toast.”
“That was one time.”
“It was last week.”
You kick him lightly under the blanket.
He smirks — the real one, the dangerous one.
“You’re lucky I like you,” he says.
“You’re lucky I wrote what I wrote.”
That wipes the smirk right off his face.
You grin. “Oh? Too much?”
He leans closer, nudging his knee between yours under the blanket.
“Not enough,” he murmurs.
Your breath catches again — traitor.
You try to recover. “Careful. You’re getting confident.”
He tilts his head. “You said you’d choose me in every lifetime.”
“I did.”
“That sounds like leverage.”
You laugh softly. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re stuck with me.”
“Good,” you say immediately.
That does it again — that soft shift in him.
He reaches for your hand this time, thumb brushing slowly over your knuckles.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Good.”
A beat passes.
Then:
“…Tony absolutely thinks this is going better than expected,” you add.
“He’s probably monitoring audio.”
You freeze.
“James.”
“Kidding.”
“…Are you.”
He grins.
You narrow your eyes.
He pulls you closer again before you can interrogate him further, pressing a kiss to your hair this time.
“Eat your dessert,” he murmurs. “I worked very hard.”
You lean into him willingly.
“You did good,” you say softly.
He doesn’t joke this time.
He just presses his cheek against your temple.
And under the low lights, music humming quietly, sugar and warmth and the city outside the window —
Summary: During a routine training simulation, you and Bucky are paired together under Sam’s close watch, increasingly suspicious of your secret relationship.
A/N: this can be read as a standalone even though it's part of a series called "You Said What". it doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13, part 14, part 15, part 16, part 17, part 18, part 19, part 20, part 21, part 22, part 23, part 24, part 25. thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)
It all started because Sam forgot his water bottle.
You were sparring with Bucky in the gym. Alone. Supposedly. Technically. According to the team schedule, the gym was yours for the next hour.
Which is why Bucky was currently pinning you to the mat.
Again.
Your back met the padding, the impact knocking the breath from your lungs just enough for him to steal the advantage. His knee slid between your thighs before you could recover, anchoring you there, his weight settling in like he knew exactly what he was doing.
“Yield,” he murmured.
Not a command. An invitation.
He leaned down slowly, deliberately, like he was giving you time to stop him—time you absolutely did not take. His metal hand held your wrist above your head, firm but careful, while his other hand rested at your side, thumb brushing your ribs in a way that had nothing to do with combat.
His nose nearly brushed yours.
You glared up at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing how fast your heart was racing. “You’re enjoying this.”
His mouth twitched, eyes darkening just a fraction. “I have no idea what you mean, sweetheart.”
“You’re impossible,” you muttered.
You shifted your hips—just a small movement, testing leverage, testing him. Bucky reacted instantly, grip tightening, knee pressing in more solidly like he wasn’t about to let you go anywhere.
“Careful,” he said softly, breath warm against your cheek now. “That almost looked intentional.”
You swallowed. “Maybe I’m just trying to get free.”
“Sure,” he hummed, unconvinced.
His thumb traced the inside of your wrist again, slow, absentminded, right over your pulse. You hated how he could probably feel it hammering under his touch. You hated even more that he definitely noticed.
“You love it,” he murmured, voice lower now, closer—so close that if you tilted your head even slightly, your lips would brush his.
“Unfortunately,” you whispered.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
The gym felt too quiet. Too empty. The kind of silence that made you aware of every point of contact: the heat of his body, the steady pressure of his knee, the way his breath slowed as his gaze flicked—not to your eyes—but to your mouth.
His head tilted, just barely, like he was considering something reckless.
“Bucky,” you warned, though there was no real warning in it.
His eyes flicked back up to yours, dark and unreadable — but softer than he probably meant them to be.
“You’re the one who tilted your head,” he murmured.
You hadn’t even realized you had.
Slowly, almost experimentally, you did it again — just a fraction. Just enough.
Your lips brushed.
Barely.
It wasn’t even a real kiss. Just the softest graze, a whisper of contact. Warm. Accidental enough to deny. Intentional enough to feel.
His breath caught.
Your fingers tightened in his shirt.
Neither of you pulled away.
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to that single point where your mouths touched — the warmth of him, the faintest pressure, the question hanging between you.
His hand slid from your waist to your jaw, thumb resting there like he was steadying both of you.
“If you keep doing that…” he said quietly.
“You’ll what?” you breathed.
But he didn’t answer.
The space between you vanished to a breath. A heartbeat.
Then—
“Am I interrupting something illegal?”
You both jolted.
Sam stood at the door, arms crossed, eyebrows halfway into his hairline.
“Jesus, Sam—” you shoved Bucky off, nearly kicking him in the ribs.
Bucky rolled smoothly to his feet like he wasn’t just tangled with you like a romantic pretzel.
You sat up, face red, definitely not flustered. “How long were you standing there?”
“Long enough to wonder if this training session comes with a PG-13 rating,” Sam said, squinting suspiciously.
Bucky grabbed a towel. “We’re sparring.”
Sam pointed between you both. “That didn’t look like sparring.”
You shrugged, toweling your face. “It’s called ground work. Ask Nat.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed. “I did. She said you were ‘working out some tension.’ Then winked.”
You coughed into your elbow. “Sounds like Nat.”
“Yeah, well, so does sabotage,” Sam muttered. “Because she also said you two needed the gym to ‘build trust and intimacy under pressure.’ Which, I’m sorry, sounds exactly like foreplay.”
You blinked. “Sam.”
“I’m just saying,” he said, pointing at Bucky now. “There’s grappling and then there’s gazing into each other’s souls while sweaty and straddling each other.”
Bucky tilted his head, entirely too calm. “So what you’re saying is, you’re jealous.”
Sam looked personally offended. “Jealous?! Of what—your intense eye contact and suspiciously synchronized water breaks?”
You turned away so Sam wouldn’t see you smirk.
Big mistake.
“Ah-HAH!” Sam pointed triumphantly. “That! That smile! That’s the smile of someone in a relationship pretending they’re not!”
You spun around, deadpan. “Or it’s the smile of someone who just remembered you once thought Vision and Darcy were secretly dating because they sat next to each other at movie night.”
Sam folded his arms. “They were awfully cozy during Ratatouille.”
Bucky coughed suspiciously.
Sam spun toward him. “And you! You’re too calm. Too unbothered. I once caught you having a meltdown because Tony moved your knives two inches.”
“That was different,” Bucky said mildly. “My knives have a system.”
“You both have a system,” Sam said, voice rising. “A secret couple system! I swear, it’s like the Winter Soldier and the Whisper Queen over here.”
You blinked. “Did… did you just call me the Whisper Queen?”
“It fits! You whisper all the time! Into his shoulder! I’ve seen it!”
Bucky made a valiant effort not to smile. “Maybe you just have good hearing.”
“I do, actually,” Sam snapped. “And I also have eyes. Which saw you both lingering in the hallway for twelve seconds after your last mission.”
Natasha walked into the gym sipping a protein shake.
“God help me,” she said, “are you still trying to catch them?”
Sam turned to her with wild eyes. “I know they’re dating. They just won’t crack. It’s like trying to interrogate two very attractive bricks.”
Natasha raised an eyebrow. “You’re complimenting their symmetry now?”
“I’m complimenting their deception!” Sam spun back toward you and Bucky. “Admit it! You’re in love!”
You blinked. “Okay. One, rude. Two, intense. Three, are you in love with us?”
Sam opened his mouth. Closed it. Squinted. “I plead the fifth.”
Natasha patted him on the back. “You’ll get ‘em next time, champ.”
Bucky tossed you his towel, brushing past Sam with a perfectly casual shoulder-bump that was definitely not a distraction.
“Shower time,” he said, heading toward the locker rooms. “Coming?”
You didn’t look back. “Always.”
Sam flailed. “THAT! RIGHT THERE!”
Natasha handed him her protein shake. “Drink this. You need electrolytes and closure.”
Later at the briefing room you and Bucky sat across from Sam at the debrief table. Professionally. Respectfully. Definitely not playing footsie under the table.
(You absolutely were.)
Natasha leaned against the wall behind Sam, utterly unbothered, munching popcorn out of a tactical pouch.
Sam slapped a file on the table.
“Alright, listen up!” Sam clapped his hands once, far too energetic “Today’s training exercise is a two-person infiltration scenario.”
You crossed your arms. “Training? Sam, we stopped needing mandatory sims like… two world-ending threats ago.”
“Yeah,” Bucky added from his chair, not even looking up. “Pretty sure we’re grandfathered in at this point. Like Avengers tenure or something.”
Sam ignored him. “You and your assigned partner will locate, retrieve, and extract a data core from a hostile compound.”
Bucky frowned. “We do that in real life.”
“Regularly,” you added. “With actual bullets.”
Sam nodded. “True. But this one has lasers.”
Silence.
“…Fine,” you admitted. “Lasers are annoying.”
Sam continued, pacing slowly in front of you like a man savoring every word. “You’ll be evaluated on stealth, teamwork—”
“So far, very boring,” you muttered.
“—communication,” Sam went on, louder now, “decision-making under pressure, and whether or not you’re secretly dating.”
The room went quiet.
Too quiet.
You blinked. Once. Slowly. “That last part’s not in the handbook.”
Bucky turned his head toward Sam. “That’s not protocol.”
Natasha, leaning against the wall, raised an eyebrow. “Is this a new addendum?”
Sam beamed, hands on his hips. “It is now.”
You stared at him. “You cannot seriously evaluate that.”
“Why not?” Sam shrugged. “Team dynamics matter.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened. “This is supposed to be a training sim.”
“And I’m training my observational skills,” Sam shot back. “Win-win.”
You sighed, rubbing your temples. “We save the world. Repeatedly. We do not need pop quizzes about our personal lives.”
Sam tilted his head, studying you. “Relax. If there’s nothing to see, there’s nothing to worry about.”
Natasha smirked. “Good luck, you two.”
You shot her a look. Traitor.
Sam clapped again. “Alright! Partners are already assigned.”
You and Bucky spoke at the exact same time.
“We’re switching.”
Sam smiled wider. “Nope.”
The screen behind him lit up.
TEAM ASSIGNMENT:
WINTER SOLDIER & WHISPER QUEEN
Bucky closed his eyes briefly.
You groaned. “Of course.”
Sam pointed at you both. “Try not to overperform.”
You narrowed your eyes. “What does that even mean?”
“Oh, you’ll figure it out. Simulation starts in sixty minutes.” Sam said cheerfully. “And hey—remember. Stealth.”
His gaze flicked pointedly between the two of you.
You forced a smile. “Always.”
Bucky muttered under his breath, “He’s enjoying this.”
You whispered back, “Way too much.”
From across the room, Sam’s voice carried:
“I heard that.”
The simulated building was standard S.H.I.E.L.D. fare—fake corridors, blinking lights, and strategically placed smoke machines that always smelled vaguely like burnt popcorn.
You and Bucky crouched behind a corner, watching as a security drone zipped past.
“Left hallway’s clear,” you murmured.
Bucky nodded. “You’re leading today.”
“Why?”
“Because I like watching you work,” he said absently—then blinked. “I mean—you're efficient. Tactically.”
You shot him a look. “Nice save, Shakespeare.”
He gave you the smallest smirk. “You inspire me.”
From the control room, Sam’s voice crackled into your earpiece. “Barnes, that better be mission banter and not romantic whispering.”
You both froze.
Natasha’s voice followed, bored. “They’re literally crouching in a fake hallway. What kind of romance do you think happens in tactical goggles?”
“Don’t test me, Romanoff. Love is everywhere.”
You whispered to Bucky, “He’s getting worse.”
“His Google search history is probably just ‘how to tell if coworkers are in love using surveillance footage.’”
You snorted. Unfortunately, so did your comm.
Sam’s voice came through instantly. “I heard that.”
Bucky reached up without looking, thumb brushing your jaw as he adjusted your earpiece.
“You’re crooked,” he murmured.
“Am I?”
“Yeah,” he said. “There.”
The "data core" turned out to be a literal glowing cube sitting on a pedestal in the center of a motion-triggered floor grid.
Of course it was.
“I’ll trigger the decoy alarm to distract the drones,” Bucky said, kneeling beside the wall panel. “You grab the cube.”
You nodded, stretching out your shoulders.
Sam’s voice: “Okay, but if one of you does a cool slow-motion roll and the other looks on like they’re in love with an action movie protagonist, I will KNOW.”
You rolled your eyes.
Then you sprinted across the grid, dove, grabbed the cube—and when you turned back—
Bucky was watching you like you’d just single-handedly saved the galaxy.
“Oh my god,” Sam groaned from above. “That’s the look. The look. You KNOW the one!”
Natasha: “You mean the one where someone respects their competent teammate?”
Sam: “No! The ‘I’d die for you in a soft-lit cinematic explosion’ look!”
You stood, cube in hand. “He always looks like that.”
“Do not help your own case,” Sam snapped.
Fifteen minutes later you were almost out.
Almost.
But as you climbed the ladder to the simulated rooftop exit, the structure glitched. A hard shudder, then darkness. The sim shut down completely.
The emergency lights flickered on a second later, bathing the rooftop in a low red glow.
You and Bucky stood there, half-crouched, instincts coiled tight.
“…This feels like a trap,” you said quietly.
Bucky didn’t argue. He tilted his head, listening—not just to the space around you, but to the absence of sound. No drones. No simulated wind. No Sam’s voice cracking jokes in your ear.
“That’s because it usually is,” he murmured. “Anytime something goes quiet around Wilson.”
You glanced toward the darkened access door. “Do you think he’s watching us right now?”
Bucky huffed a soft laugh. “He’s always watching us.”
You sighed. “Great. So if I say something incriminating—”
“—he’ll rewind it, enhance it, and annotate it,” Bucky finished. “Probably with arrows.”
You snorted, then paused. Something about the air felt… different. Less artificial. Less scripted.
“…But,” Bucky added slowly, lowering his voice, “this doesn’t feel like his usual nonsense.”
You frowned. “Explain.”
“He usually can’t help himself,” Bucky said. “There’d be commentary by now. Accusations. At least one ‘I KNEW IT.’”
As if summoned by spite alone, you both waited.
Nothing.
No comm crackle. No Sam.
You tapped your earpiece. “Control? Sam? Natasha?”
Still nothing.
You and Bucky exchanged a look.
That one.
The we’ve survived worse than this together look.
“…Okay,” you said. “So either—”
“—the system actually failed,” Bucky said, “or—”
“—Sam is hiding in a vent with binoculars.”
Bucky considered. “…Fifty-fifty.”
You walked toward the edge of the rooftop, peering over the simulated cityscape below. The projection screens were frozen mid-loop. Smoke machines idle. Lasers dark.
It was eerily still.
Bucky joined you, close—but not touching. Not yet.
“If this is real downtime,” you murmured, “we’ve got… what. Ten minutes before someone panics?”
“Five,” Bucky said. “Sam panics quickly when he doesn’t have eyes on us.”
You smiled faintly. “Think Nat’s covering for us?”
Bucky’s lips twitched. “Oh, definitely.”
He stepped closer, not in a smooth, calculated way — just drawn to you like it was instinct. Like he always ended up right here.
His hand found yours first, fingers sliding between yours, squeezing gently. Grounding. Certain.
“Y’know,” he murmured, brushing his knuckles along your jaw, “I think she’s enjoying this way too much.”
You huffed a quiet laugh, but it softened when his thumb traced the curve of your cheek. The teasing edge in his expression melted into something warmer — something almost shy.
There was always that shift with him. The soldier fading. The man staying.
“You’re smiling,” you whispered.
“Yeah,” he breathed, like it surprised him too.
He leaned in slowly, giving you time — always giving you time — until his forehead rested against yours. His nose brushed yours, barely there. The kind of closeness that felt like a secret.
His lips met yours gently, tender and unhurried. No heat, no urgency. Just warmth. Just him. The kiss lingered, soft and steady, like he was memorizing the shape of you. Like he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed this.
Your fingers curled into his shirt, and he smiled into the kiss — small, content, utterly gone.
For a second, the world was quiet.
As if on cue, your comm buzzed—once.
Static.
Then Natasha’s voice slipped through, smooth and utterly unconcerned.
“System reboot’s taking longer than expected,” she said. “Unexpected cascade failure. Very tragic.”
Sam’s muffled voice in the background: “How is that even poss—”
“Shh,” Nat continued. “Grown-ups are talking.”
The channel cut.
You stared at your earpiece.
“…She did that on purpose,” you said.
Bucky nodded. “She likes us.”
You laughed quietly, then leaned back against a vent, exhaling. For the first time since the sim started, your shoulders relaxed.
“Well,” you said, glancing at him, “guess we’re off the clock.”
Bucky hesitated. Just a fraction.
Then he stepped closer.
“Just for a minute,” he said. “Before the world ends again.”
The red emergency light caught the edge of his metal arm, warm instead of cold. He rested his shoulder beside yours—not pressing, not claiming. Just there.
You bumped him lightly with your hip. “You know Sam’s going to say this proves his point.”
Bucky smirked. “Sam thinks us breathing in the same room proves his point.”
“True.”
Silence settled—not awkward. Comfortable. Earned.
“…You were incredible back there,” he said quietly.
You tilted your head. “You mean when I didn’t fall through the laser grid and die?”
“That,” he said, “and the part where you didn’t hesitate. You never do.”
You swallowed, suddenly aware of how close he was. “You always notice that.”
“I notice everything about you,” he said—then stopped.
The air shifted.
You raised an eyebrow. “That sounded suspiciously like a confession, Barnes.”
He exhaled through his nose, half a laugh. “Yeah. It did.”
You turned to face him fully now. “Do you want to take it back?”
He looked at you—really looked. No audience. No Sam. No sim scoring teamwork metrics.
“No,” he said softly. “Not even a little.”
For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.
Then you leaned in, resting your forehead against his.
“If Sam is watching us,” you whispered, “this is going to destroy him.”
Bucky smiled, slow and real. “Worth it.”
Somewhere far below, a system alarm finally chirped back to life.
You didn’t pull away just yet.
Then Natasha’s voice, very calm:
“The control system’s rebooting. Could take a minute.”
A long pause.
Then Sam’s voice, crackly and way too pleased with itself.
“This… is not my fault. But while you’re stuck, let’s play a game.”
You groaned. “Please no.”
Bucky closed his eyes briefly, like a man bracing for impact. “I don’t like where this is going.”
Sam ignored you both. “It’s a simple game. Very low stakes. Definitely not designed to psychologically break two stubborn people.”
“That is not reassuring,” you muttered.
“Game is called: Hypotheticals.” Sam continued. “I’ll ask a question. You answer honestly. No overthinking.”
Natasha chimed in, deadpan. “He’s been workshopping this.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Sam, if this is about our—”
“Question one!” he interrupted loudly. “If the building were really collapsing right now and only one parachute deployed—who gets it?”
You blinked.
Bucky answered immediately. “Her.”
You said at the exact same time, “He does."
Silence.
Dead, ringing silence.
Sam inhaled so sharply it crackled through the comms.
“…Interesting.”
You turned slowly to Bucky. “You didn’t even hesitate.”
He frowned. “Neither did you.”
“That’s not the point,” you said. “The point is—”
Sam cut in, delighted. “—the point is you both failed the hypothetical romantically.”
Natasha snorted.
Bucky sighed. “That’s just mission protocol.”
Sam gasped. “Oh my god. He called you ‘mission.’ That’s worse. That’s marriage language.”
“Sam,” you warned.
“Okay, okay, next one!” he rushed on. “You’re both captured. Interrogation room. One of you breaks first. Who is it?”
Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Neither.”
You shrugged. “Me.”
Bucky snapped his head toward you. “No.”
You met his gaze. “Yes.”
“Absolutely not.”
“I would,” you said quietly. “You know I would.”
His voice dropped. “I wouldn’t let you.”
The air between you shifted—heavy now, real.
Even Sam seemed to sense it, his tone softening just a notch.
“…You’re both very bad at pretending you don’t care about each other.”
You looked away. “Next question.”
Sam hesitated, then said, “Alright. Last one.”
You braced.
“If one of you retired tomorrow,” Sam said, slower now, “who would the other follow?”
Bucky didn’t answer right away.
Neither did you.
The red emergency light hummed above you. Somewhere in the walls, the system groaned, still rebooting.
Finally, Bucky spoke. “I would.”
You swallowed.
Another pause.
Natasha cleared her throat gently. “For the record, I’m logging this as ‘excellent team cohesion.’”
Sam exhaled long and slow. “You know what? Fine. Don’t admit anything. I don’t need confessions.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“The system’s back online in ten seconds,” Sam said smugly
The lights flickered.
You and Bucky looked at each other—really looked.
The rooftop lights snapped back to full brightness.
Sam’s voice returned, far too loud.
“SIMULATION COMPLETE! Please step away from each other in a normal coworker fashion.”
You didn’t move right away.
Neither did Bucky.
Natasha’s voice, fond and amused:
“Take your time. I’ll tell him it’s still buffering.”
Sam yelled something unintelligible in the background.
Back in the observation room, Sam paced in front of a whiteboard labeled OPERATION: I’M NOT PARANOID, THEY’RE JUST LYING.
“I was so close. And then they flipped it on me.”
Natasha, sipping her latte. “You’re in too deep. You’re emotionally compromised.”
Sam scowled. “I’m emotionally observant. There’s a difference.”
Outside the glass, you and Bucky were walking down the hall.
Too close.
Sharing earbuds.
Laughing at something too quietly.
Sam gestured wildly. “LOOK AT THEM.”
Natasha nodded, deeply serious. “Best training cohesion I’ve ever seen.”
“Best actors,” Sam muttered, scribbling on his board. “But I’ll get them. I swear.”
Natasha glanced at the monitor where Bucky was slipping something into your hand.
A note.
You unfolded it just out of view, smiling faintly.
You didn’t look at the note right away.
You already knew Sam was watching. Or trying to be.
You waited until you and Bucky turned the corner, the hallway cameras thinning out, the hum of the compound settling into something almost private.
Then you opened it.
Just a few words, written in Bucky’s careful, slightly cramped handwriting.
If you go, I go.
Your chest tightened.
You glanced sideways at him. He was walking like nothing had happened, hands in his pockets, expression neutral—except for the faint tension in his jaw that only you ever noticed.
“You know,” you said lightly, “if Sam ever gets his hands on that board of his again, he’s going to add red string.”
Bucky huffed. “He already has red string.”
“True.”
You folded the note smaller, slipping it into your sleeve. “Nat’s never going to let him live this down.”
“She shouldn’t,” Bucky said. “He asked the questions.”
You stopped walking.
He took two more steps before realizing you weren’t beside him anymore.
He turned.
The hallway was empty. Quiet. A rare thing.
“You okay?” he asked.
You nodded once. “Yeah. I just—”
You held up the note between two fingers.
His expression shifted—guarded now, but open in that way he never was with anyone else.
“You didn’t have to write it down,” you said softly.
“I did,” he replied. “In case you thought I was joking.”
You stepped closer. Close enough that his metal arm brushed your wrist, grounding and warm.
“I didn’t,” you said. “Not for a second.”
His voice dropped. “Good.”
For a moment, it felt like the rooftop again—emergency lights, silence, truth hanging in the air with nowhere to hide.
Then your comm crackled.
Sam’s voice, suspicious and sharp:
“Why did you both stop walking.”
You sighed. “We hit traffic.”
“There is no traffic in the hallway.”
Bucky deadpanned, “Emotional congestion.”
A beat.
Natasha’s laughter cut through the channel. “Let them go, Sam.”
“I am letting them go,” Sam protested. “I’m just… observing.”
“Obsessing,” Nat corrected.
You leaned in just enough that only Bucky could hear you. “He’s never going to drop this.”
“No,” he said again, softer now. “He won’t.”
You smiled, tired in the best way. “Good. I’d miss it if he did.”
Bucky let out a quiet breath, something between a laugh and a surrender. Then, carefully—like the moment itself might spook—he reached out and laced his fingers with yours. Not dramatic. Not secretive. Just… natural.
No one yelled.
No alarms went off.
The world didn’t end.
You stood there for a second longer than necessary, hands joined, the compound humming around you like background noise instead of responsibility.
Eventually, you squeezed his hand once. “C’mon,” you said. “If we don’t keep moving, Sam’s going to assume we’re naming our future dog.”
Bucky snorted. “He already has a shortlist.”
You started walking again, slower this time. Still close. Still yours.
The hallway lights softened as evening settled in, shadows stretching long and calm. Somewhere far away, Sam was probably still pacing, still plotting, still convinced he was one breakthrough away from the truth.
But right now, none of that mattered.
Bucky glanced down at you. “Hey.”
“Yeah?”
His thumb brushed your knuckles, barely there. “Thanks for choosing me.”
You leaned in, resting your shoulder against his arm as you walked. “Always.”
Everytime I see a post from you, I squeal in joy and immediately go read it, keep up the amazing writing
Sincerely,
A specific person on your tag list
That’s so incredibly sweet of you. Im really sorry Im only seeing this now 🤍 It truly means more than I can say, especially because Im always second-guessing myself and overthinking everything I write.
Thank you so much for taking the time to say that and for being so kind. And thank you for reading what I write, it honestly means the world to me.
pairing: pirate!bucky x mermaid!reader
summary: After saving a pirate from drowning, you spend more days together than planned. You grow closer, and what was meant to be a short stay becomes harder to leave.
word count: 7.1k
warnings: angst, slow burn, mutual pining, doomed tenderness, pirates & mermaids, ocean imagery, fantasy elements
a/n: salt & steel playlist, in case you're feeling it
Mermaids were not meant to love the surface.
That was the first law, older than coral, older than language. It was sung into the sea long before ships learned to cut through it — woven into the currents, carved into bone and salt.
Do not bind your heart to those who breathe air.
Do not linger where the moon pulls you upward.
Do not save what the sea has chosen to take.
You had broken all three.
The sea had always been kinder to you than the shore.
Down where the water darkened into a deep, endless blue, nothing demanded answers from you. The currents didn’t ask why you lingered near the surface some nights. The coral didn’t care that your heart beat faster whenever cannons thundered overhead. And the fish — sweet, oblivious creatures — never noticed how you paused whenever ships cut shadows through the moonlit water.
You told yourself it was curiosity.
You told yourself it was boredom.
You told yourself it wasn’t loneliness.
But when the storm broke above you — violent, sudden, cruel — you felt it in your bones.
Wood splintered. Metal screamed. Men shouted prayers they didn’t believe in.
You rose cautiously, silver tail glinting faintly as lightning tore the sky apart. And then you saw him. He fell overboard without ceremony, swallowed by the black water like the sea had been waiting just for him.
You didn’t hesitate.
You swam hard, arms slicing through the water as waves crashed overhead. He was sinking fast — heavy boots, soaked coat, one arm limp at his side. His hair floated around his face like ink in water, and when lightning flashed again, you caught a glimpse of his expression.
Not fear.
Resignation.
That hurt more than the blood blooming from his shoulder.
You wrapped your arms around him, bracing your strength against the pull of the depths. He was heavier than you expected — solid, warm, real — and when his head lolled against your shoulder, you felt the faintest brush of breath against your neck.
Still alive.
“Don’t you dare,” you muttered, voice lost to the water. “Not like this.”
The sea embraced you both, quieting the chaos above until all that remained was the rhythm of your movements and the slow, stubborn beat of his heart.
When Bucky Barnes woke, the first thing he felt was warmth.
Not the suffocating heat of fever or the sting of pain — but something steady. Comforting. A hand brushing his hair back from his forehead with a care he didn’t recognize.
He tried to move and hissed softly instead.
“Easy,” a voice said.
Soft. Low. Not mocking. Not afraid.
His eyes fluttered open.
The cave glowed faintly with bioluminescent algae, painting the stone walls in blues and greens and kneeling beside him was—
He froze.
You watched him carefully, hands still, eyes wide but calm. You were half-submerged, tail curled beneath the surface, iridescent scales catching the light every time you shifted. Your upper half was unmistakably human — bare shoulders, damp hair clinging to your skin — but there was no mistaking what you were.
“Okay,” he rasped. “Either I’m dead… or this is the worst head injury I’ve ever had.”
Despite yourself, you smiled.
“I could say the same,” you replied. “Pirates don’t usually fall out of the sky where I’m from.”
He blinked at you, then let out a soft, humorless chuckle. “The only reason I know I’m not dead,” he said softly, “is that heaven wouldn’t have me. And yet you’re standing right here.”
You hesitated, tracing a ripple in the water with your fingertips, before shaking your head faintly. “You don’t look like someone heaven’s given up on.”
He swallowed, gaze dropping to your hands for a moment before meeting your eyes again “You saved me,” he said, more statement than question.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
You looked away, fingers trailing through the water. “Because you were drowning.”
“…Thank you,” he said quietly and you caught him staring.
Not in the way men sometimes did — not careless, not entitled — but with a curiosity so carefully contained it almost hurt to look at. His gaze wasn’t greedy. Wasn’t cruel. It was like he was trying to memorize something fragile before it vanished.
“You know…” you said gently, fingers brushing the surface of the water, “you can ask.”
He startled, heat rushing to his face. “A–ask?”
He cleared his throat. “Ask what?”
Instead of answering, you leaned back slightly and lifted your tail from the water, scales catching the light as they broke the surface — just enough. Just a glimpse. Not an invitation. A question.
His breath hitched before he could stop it.
“You’re curious,” you said, not unkindly.
“I—” He shook his head quickly. “I don’t want to be rude.”
Something in your expression softened at that.
Most men never bothered to be careful.
“I’d tell you if you were,” you replied. “You’re not.”
He swallowed, eyes flicking away and then back, clearly warring with himself.
“…Does it hurt?” he asked finally, quiet and sincere. “Being out of the water like that.”
Your smile was small. Real.
You blinked. “That’s your question?”
He shrugged helplessly. “Seemed safer than asking if it’s slippery.”
You burst out laughing.
“Okay,” you admitted, wiping at your eyes, “that one would’ve been rude.”
“Good to know,” he said, smiling now — really smiling — like he’d just passed some invisible test.
“But no. It doesn’t hurt.” You sank a little deeper into the water, still amused. “And for what it’s worth, I don’t mind. Not when it’s like this.”
“Like what?”
“Curious,” you said. “Not greedy.”
He nodded, like he’d just agreed to something important. “I can do curious.”
There was a beat.
Then he ruined it.
“So—” he began, too fast, too casual. “Do you… shed?”
Silence.
The sea stilled.
Your eyebrows climbed your forehead. “I’m sorry?”
He froze. Absolutely froze. “I— that came out wrong.”
You crossed your arms, trying very hard not to smile. “Please,” you said. “Explain.”
He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “I meant— like— sharks shed teeth, right? And snakes shed skin. And you have scales, so I just thought maybe—” He stopped himself, mortified. “Okay. I should stop talking.”
You stared at him for a long second.
Then you laughed.
Not a polite laugh. Not a quiet one. The kind that shakes your shoulders and bubbles up uncontrollably until you have to dunk your face into the water to breathe.
“Oh my god,” you managed between laughs. “No. I do not shed.”
He let out a shaky breath. “Thank god.”
“I molt,” you added sweetly.
His eyes widened. “You’re messing with me.”
“Completely.”
He shook his head, finally laughing too, the sound low and warm. “You’re evil.”
“You asked,” you reminded him.
Bucky decided he needed to get back to the ship the second he realized he couldn’t.
The thought arrived fully formed, sharp and urgent, like instinct snapping into place. He pushed himself upright on the stone ledge, shoulder burning, and looked out past the cave mouth. The island stretched away on either side — pale sand, low palms, rock rising farther inland — before giving way to open water in every direction.
Just water. Endless, glittering water.
“…Okay,” he muttered. “That’s fine. Just need to get my bearings.”
You watched him from the water, chin resting on your folded arms, eyes bright with something dangerously close to amusement.
“Looking for something?” you asked.
“My ship,” he said, like it was obvious. “Crew can’t be far. There was a storm, but—” He squinted harder, as if willing a mast to rise from the sea. “They’ll come back.”
You hesitated. Just a fraction.
“The currents here are… tricky,” you said carefully. “They pull wreckage away from the reef.”
He stared at the water again, jaw tightening. The truth settled slowly, heavily. No sails on the horizon. No smoke. No familiar silhouette cutting through the waves.
“So,” he said after a moment. “I’m stranded.”
You winced. “That sounds worse when you say it like that.”
A corner of his mouth twitched despite himself. “I have a gift.”
He tried to stand again, more stubborn this time. “Easy,” you said, firm now. “You’ll reopen the wound.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“I don’t doubt that,” you replied. “But you’re not on a deck with a crew who can stitch you up with rum and bad advice.”
“…I miss the rum,” he sighed.
You laughed and the sound did something strange to him. Settled him. Like the world had tilted into something manageable.
“Well,” you said, tilting your head, “until your ship decides to grow legs and walk back to you, I suppose you’re stuck here.”
He eyed the cave, the glowing water, the very real mermaid in front of him. “Stuck with you.”
You pretended not to notice the way your heart skipped. “I’m excellent company.”
“I’m starting to believe that.”
It didn’t take long for Bucky to make the island his own — the curve of the beach, the rocky cave that became his shelter, the stones that stayed warm in the morning sun. You learned him just as quickly: when he stirred before the dawn, how he flinched at sudden sounds, how he murmured to himself when he thought he was alone, as if the island itself had taught him its secrets.
He kept trying to be useful.
“You don’t need to carry that,” you told him for the third time as he struggled with a bundle of driftwood.
“I’m not helpless.”
“You’re injured.”
He scowled. “Temporary condition.”
You sighed and flicked water at him. “Temporary attitude.”
He spluttered, laughing despite himself. “You did that on purpose.”
“Obviously.”
You drifted closer, resting your arms against the stone as you watched him finally give up and drop the wood with a grunt.
“You should rest,” you said, softer now. “You’re lucky you still have your arm.”
He glanced down at it, rolling his shoulder experimentally. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I guess I am. A hook wouldn’t really match my… charming personality.”
You tilted your head, eyes flicking over him in deliberate consideration.
“A hook?” You smiled — slow, mischievous. “More likely you’d need a whole metal arm.”
“Well,” he said, flexing his fingers, “Let’s hope I never have to.”
The next morning you surfaced just as the sun rose, tail glinting faintly.
“Okay,” he whispered, voice rough but tender, forehead still wet from where the water had splashed. “You’re going to kill me one of these days.”
“I think,” you teased, letting your hair stick to your cheeks, “you secretly like it.”
He laughed softly. “Maybe I do.”
There was a beat, quiet except for the gentle slap of water against stone. Then he cocked his head, curious. “Do… mermaids always do that?”
“Do what?” you asked, letting your tail swirl lazily beneath the surface.
“This… appear out of nowhere, nearly drowning people, and looking completely unbothered about it,” he said, voice low, half-laughing.
“Only the ones who think humans are interesting,” you replied, smirking.
He exhaled, wet hair plastered to his forehead, gaze flicking to your shoulders before back to your eyes. “…You know,” he murmured, voice low, “it’s unfair. You look too fair to be dangerous.”
You laughed, letting your shoulders rise above the water as you splashed him lightly. “And you look too human to be serious.”
He sputtered, shaking his head, and laughed in return, stepping closer until the cold water swirled around both of you. He complains but never once considers leaving.
You felt the weight of the closeness, and something unspoken in the rhythm between your breaths. “Mermaids can be dangerous,” you said softly, almost as if testing him.
“I can handle danger,” he said, eyes locked on yours, voice steady. “Especially when it looks like you.”
He blinked, realization dawning, and his ears—or wherever his pirate pride resided—turned a shade darker than his wet hair. “…I—did I just say that out loud?”
You arched a brow, tail swishing lazily. “Oh, definitely.”
He ran a hand through his hair, flustered, jaw tight. “Great. Mortified already.”
You laughed, low and teasing, letting the sound ripple across the water. “You know, pirates are supposed to be heartless, mean, terrifying…”
“…And I’m none of those things?” he murmured, voice cracking slightly, eyes flicking away.
You swirled closer, enough that the water lapped between you. “Not here.” you said softly. “Not to me.”
The days that followed took on a strange, gentle rhythm.
You didn’t mean to keep surfacing so close — but it was becoming a habit.
One you only noticed after it was too late, after your head broke the surface and your breath caught at how near you were to the shore. To him.
It had become your favorite thing — the look on his face every time he noticed you. The way surprise flashed across his features before he could hide it, eyes widening just slightly like you’d startled him mid-thought. He never expected you to appear so suddenly.
And every time, it pleased you more than it should have.
This time, though, you realized too late that something was… different.
Bucky was standing at the edge of the waterline.
Shirtless.
Water slid down his skin in thin rivulets, catching in the lines of his chest and tracing scars you hadn’t known were there. His hair was damp, pushed back, and for one terrible, endless second, you forgot how to move.
Or blink.
Or look literally anywhere else.
“Oh—” he said at the same time you ducked slightly lower into the water.
“Sorry,” you blurted. “I didn’t mean to— I can— I’ll just—”
You gestured vaguely at the ocean, mortified.
He scrambled just as awkwardly, reaching for the shirt discarded nearby before stopping himself. “No— wait. I mean. It’s fine. You’re fine. I just— usually I hear you first.”
You laughed nervously, the sound bubbling out before you could stop it. “I’m getting sneakier.”
“Clearly,” he said, glancing at you — then very pointedly not glancing at you — like eye contact might make things worse.
Unfortunately, your own eyes had other plans.
You tried to keep them politely on his face. You really did. But they kept drifting — traitorous — down to his chest, following the rise and fall of his breathing before you yanked your gaze away again.
Heat bloomed in your cheeks.
You cleared your throat. “I didn’t know humans… removed so many layers just to bathe.”
He snorted. “You should see laundry day.”
That did it. You laughed — soft and embarrassed — and finally dared to look at him again.
He was smiling now. A little crooked. A little shy.
“I was just rinsing off,” he explained, rubbing the back of his neck. “Salt gets itchy if I don’t.”
You nodded very seriously. “That sounds… uncomfortable.”
“Tragic, really.”
Your eyes dipped again.
You caught yourself this time — barely — and immediately sank a little lower in the water, pretending to inspect something fascinating beneath the surface.
He noticed.
A slow, crooked smile tugged at his mouth. “You know,” he said mildly, “most people usually pretend a little harder.”
Your face felt like it was on fire.
“I am pretending,” you muttered. “Very poorly.”
He laughed — soft, surprised — and instinctively sat down closer to the edge, knees bending so his feet brushed the water, bringing himself closer to your level. Close enough that you could feel his warmth even through the water, close enough that your heart started doing ridiculous things.
“You okay?” he asked gently.
“Yes,” your gaze flickered — chest, shoulders, scars — before settling back on his eyes, flustered and entirely unable to hide it now.
“I didn’t expect you,” he added.
You smiled shyly. “I think that’s my fault.”
That evening Bucky sat at the cave’s edge. You floated nearby, half-submerged, hair drifting lazily around your shoulders.
“You ever get tired of this?” he asked suddenly.
You blinked. “Of what?”
He gestured vaguely. “The sea. The same tides. Same moon. Over and over.”
You considered it. “Sometimes,” you admitted. “But then it changes. Storms. New wrecks. New stories.”
He huffed softly. “Figures. Even the ocean has more variety than my life.”
You studied him, really studied him — the lines etched by sun and hardship, the quiet weight he carried like a second skin.
“You don’t have to be in a hurry,” you said gently. “Your ship will find you when it’s meant to.”
He looked at you then, eyes soft in a way that made your chest ache.
“…I think you’re lying to make me feel better.”
“Maybe,” you said, smiling. “Is it working?”
He nodded. “Yeah. It is.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.
It felt… earned.
You eyed his boots, then tilted your head. “Why do humans wear those?”
He followed your gaze. “Shoes?”
You frowned. “They look like prisons for your feet.”
He laughed. “They protect us.”
“From what?”
“Rocks. Thorns. Sharp things.”
You gestured at the sand and the gentle surf. “Skill issue.”
He snorted, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous.”
Bucky watched you for a moment longer than necessary.
“Doesn’t it get… heavy?” he asked finally.
You blinked. “Heavy?”
He gestured vaguely at the sea. “Living in it all the time. Carrying it around you.”
You laughed — soft, genuine. “It only feels heavy if you fight it.”
He hummed, thoughtful. Then, quieter: “Figures.”
You tilted your head, studying him. “You’re thinking too loud.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
You drifted backward again, the tide easing you away from the shore.
“Hey,” he said before he could stop himself.
You paused, water lapping gently at your waist. “Yes?”
He cleared his throat, suddenly aware of the distance. “You’re… floating off.”
“I do that.”
“Yeah, well,” he muttered “you could warn a guy.”
You smiled, slow and amused, “Or maybe, you could try coming closer.”
“This is a terrible idea,” he said, already crouching to untie his boots.
“Then don’t,” you said lightly.
He didn’t answer. Just stepped into the water, wincing when the cold reached his ankles.
“Cold,” he complained.
“You’re very brave,” you said solemnly.
A wave caught him off balance before he could argue back. He stumbled, cursing, and you laughed—bright and unguarded—as you reached for him.
Your hand found his arm. Steady. Sure.
He went still at the touch, then let out a slow breath.
“Okay,” he admitted. “Maybe this isn’t so bad.”
A small wave rocked you together, your hand brushing his — bare skin to skin.
Neither of you moved away.
“You’re enjoying this,” you accused softly.
He huffed, eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder. “Don’t ruin it.”
Days passed. Or maybe weeks. Time behaved differently when tides ruled the hours.
Bucky healed slowly. You cleaned his wound, fed him fish and fruit he pretended not to enjoy, and listened to his stories when the nights grew long. He spoke of the sea like it was an enemy and a lover both — treacherous, beautiful, impossible to quit.
He never asked you to let him go.
And you never offered.
Sometimes you sat together at the mouth of the cave, just staring at the horizon. You stayed just below the surface, close enough that he could hear your voice without the echo of water distorting it.
“You miss it,” you said one evening.
He scoffed softly. “Being shot at? Starving? Sleeping with one eye open?”
“Yes,” you replied gently. “That.”
He was quiet for a long time.
“…It’s all I know.”
You nodded, understanding more than he realized.
You became friends in the quiet spaces between words. In shared smiles. In the way he learned to recognize the sound of your approach before you surfaced. In the way you learned his moods by the tension in his shoulders.
And somewhere along the way — without meaning to — you started to want more.
But the sea was not kind to impossible things.
It was late when you realized you were spending more time at the shore than in the ocean. Bucky didn’t even know how many rules you were breaking just by being there. You were supposed to tell him.
But how could you? He laughed easily now — quieter than before, but real — and the sound settled into you like a promise you knew better than to make. He sat on the sun-warmed stone at the cave’s edge, boots dangling uselessly in the water, watching you braid shells into your hair.
“Those mean something?” he asked.
You shrugged, forcing lightness into your voice. “Some do. Some are just… pretty.”
He hummed, unconvinced. “You always do that.”
“Do what?”
“Answer the easy question when you don’t want to answer the real one.”
You stilled.
The sea around you shifted, currents tightening like they always did when you were afraid.
“You’re very perceptive for a pirate,” you said.
He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Occupational hazard.”
He waited. Patient. Gentle.
That was the problem.
You exhaled and let your tail sink lower, scales brushing the sand. “Mermaids aren’t supposed to interfere with surface lives.”
His jaw tightened. “And yet—”
“And yet,” you interrupted softly, “we do. Sometimes. Quietly. But never… like this.”
He followed your gaze to where his coat hung drying on a rock. To the bandage you had changed that morning. To the empty place beside him you always filled when the sun dipped low.
“…What happens if you do?” he asked.
You swallowed.
“There are watchers,” you said. “Ancient ones. They listen to the tides the way gods listen to prayer.”
You touched the faint shimmer at your wrist
“They don’t punish curiosity,” you continued. “But love?” Your voice broke. “Love is defiance.”
Bucky stood then, slow, careful not to startle you. He crouched at the water’s edge “Are you saying you’re in danger because of me?”
You didn’t answer.
That was answer enough.
That’s when he saw it.
A faint glow at your wrist.
Not bright. Not constant. Just a subtle shimmer beneath your skin, right where your pulse beat.
He frowned slightly.
“…Does that hurt?”
You stilled.
The water around you shifted, barely perceptible — but he felt it.
“Hurt?” you echoed carefully.
He nodded toward your wrist. “That. It’s… glowing.”
Your fingers curled instinctively, trying to hide it beneath the water.
“It’s nothing,” you said too quickly.
Bucky tilted his head, unconvinced. “You’re bad at lying.”
You huffed a quiet laugh. “I’m not lying. I’m… avoiding.”
“That sounds worse.”
You sighed and let your arm sink lower, the glow dimming but not disappearing.
“It’s a tide-mark,” you said softly. “All mermaids have one.”
“And?”
“It’s meant to stay quiet.”
His brow furrowed. “What makes it… not quiet?”
You hesitated.
Then: “The sea notices patterns. Repetition. Attachment.”
The word sat heavy between you.
Bucky’s voice gentled. “Attachment to what?”
You drew in a slow breath. “To the world above the sea,” you said. “That’s how it’s always taught. It’s meant to remind us when we linger too long. When our hearts start reaching for things that don’t belong to the tides.”
The glow at your wrist brightened — just a fraction.
The mark pulsed once.
Stronger.
He went very still.
“Most mermaids never see it,” you said quietly. “They stay where the sea expects them to.”
You tried to smile. It didn’t hold.
“Some see it once,” you whispered. “And they’re smart enough to leave.”
The light at your wrist flared — brighter now, undeniable.
Bucky watched it pulse beneath your skin, jaw tightening as something settled behind his eyes.
“…You’re not leaving.” He studied the mark again, reverent now. Careful. As if it were sacred. As if you were.
His thumb traced the curve of it once — slow, almost worshipful.
And then, before you could stop him —
He bowed his head.
Pressed his lips to your wrist.
The kiss was soft. Barely there. A whisper of warmth that sent a shock straight through you, sharp and dizzying. Your breath left you in a rush. The mark flared faintly beneath his mouth, glowing just enough for him to notice.
He sucked in a breath against your skin.
“…Oh,” he whispered.
You should have pulled away.
You didn’t.
Your free hand lifted on instinct, fingers brushing his jaw. You felt the roughness of stubble beneath your fingertips, the tension in the muscle there as he leaned into your touch like he’d been starving for it.
Slowly, unbearably slowly, his gaze lifted to meet yours.
Something shattered in his eyes.
“This is real,” he said, like a confession. Like a vow. Like a realization that terrified him.
“Yes,” you breathed.
That was all it took.
He surged forward — not rough, never rough — and kissed you.
It wasn’t chaste. It wasn’t safe.
It was desperate.
His mouth was warm and searching, like he was trying to memorize the shape of you before the world could steal you away. You kissed him back without thinking, without fear, without rules — fingers curling into his shirt, heart breaking open in your chest.
For one perfect, devastating moment, there was nothing else.
The kiss slowed before it ended, like neither of you quite believed in stopping. His forehead stayed pressed to yours, breath uneven, fingers warm where they still cupped your wrist.
For a moment, nothing hurt.
Bucky swallowed. His thumb brushed once over the glowing mark, gentler than the kiss had been. “You feel… real,” he said quietly. Like that was something he hadn’t been sure of before.
You smiled — small, foolish. “I am.”
He huffed a soft, almost-laugh through his nose. “Good.” Then, softer, as if saying it too loud might break it: “Then stay.”
The word settled between you. Stay. Not tonight. Not here. Just — stay.
Your chest tightened, but you didn’t pull away. Not yet. “You say that like it’s easy.”
“I don’t do easy,” he replied. “But I do mean it.”
His hand slid from your wrist to your jaw, steady, anchoring. For one dangerous second, you let yourself imagine it — mornings instead of tides, hands instead of currents, a world where the mark faded instead of flared.
You leaned in again, not for another kiss this time, just close enough to feel the warmth of him. “If I stay,” you whispered, “it won’t stop.”
His brow furrowed. “What won’t?”
You lifted his hand back to your wrist.
The light pulsed — once, then brighter. Hungry.
“This,” you said. “It’s not punishment. It’s a warning. It measures how much of me I give to the world above the sea.”
His jaw set. “Then give it, I can take it.” he said without hesitation. “If it’s a warning, we’ll listen to it together.”
That almost broke you.
You leaned forward before you could stop yourself and pressed a kiss to his knuckles — slow, reverent, aching. When you pulled back, his eyes were dark, wrecked, full of things he hadn’t said yet.
“I don’t want to be careful with you,” he admitted quietly.
Your chest tightened. “That’s why I have to be.”
Silence stretched. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t let go. Just looked at you like he was memorizing the shape of your face, like he already knew remembering would hurt.
You let the tide ease you back, just far enough for the air to cool between you. It wasn’t abrupt. It was worse than that. It was careful. Like you were both pretending this wasn’t goodbye — just a pause.
“Come back,” he said, quieter now. Not a command. A plea.
You nodded, because lying felt kinder than the truth.
Then you let the water take you.
Bucky didn’t move. He stood there like the shore itself had decided to keep his shape, chest tight, fingers curled uselessly at his sides as the sea reclaimed what had never been his to keep.
He stayed there long after the water stilled. The shore felt wrong without you — too solid, too empty — like something vital had been torn out and the world expected him to stand anyway.
He pressed his palm to the damp stone where you had been, as if the sea might still remember the shape of you.
It did.
That night, the sea sang to you.
Not the gentle hum you had grown up with — not the lullaby of currents brushing stone — but a call. Low. Commanding. Ancient.
You woke with a gasp, heart pounding, the water around you glowing faintly red.
They had noticed.
From the depths beyond the reef, a shadow moved. Massive. Patient. A Watcher, its presence pressing against your mind like pressure before a storm.
You linger too long, it sang into your bones.
The human lives because of you.
The bond is forming.
You curled in on yourself, tail wrapping tight as pain bloomed beneath your ribs — sharp, searing, like something trying to tear its way free.
“I’ll fix it,” you whispered. “I’ll let him go.”
The shadow stilled.
Promises are currents, it replied. They pull whether you swim or not.
Bucky noticed the change immediately.
You surfaced less. You laughed less. You stayed farther from him, always just out of reach.
“You’re avoiding me,” he said one morning, blunt as a blade.
“I’m busy.”
“Doing what?” His voice sharpened. “You live in the ocean.”
You flinched.
He softened instantly. “Hey. I didn’t mean—”
“I know,” you said quickly. “I just… can’t be near you like before.”
“Why?”
Because loving you might kill me.
Because saving you might damn us both.
Because the sea does not forgive defiance.
Instead, you said, “Because you’re healing.”
He stared at you like you’d struck him.
“That’s it?” he asked. “You save my life, nurse me back from the brink, and now that I can stand on my own you just— what? Get bored?”
“That’s not fair.”
“Then tell me the truth.”
The truth trembled on your tongue.
“You’re going to leave,” you said instead. “You always were.”
Silence stretched between you, heavy as depth.
“…I didn’t want to,” he admitted.
Your heart cracked.
“But I don’t belong here,” he continued quietly. “And neither do you.”
You looked at him then — really looked — at the man the sea had given back to the world. At the way his eyes softened when he watched you move through the water, like he was memorizing something he wasn’t allowed to keep.
“I know,” you whispered.
That evening, you didn’t come back.
You stayed deep, hiding among the wrecks where the Watchers couldn’t see you clearly. You told yourself it was mercy. You told yourself it was protection.
Above, on the empty shore, Bucky waited until the moon sank and the tide turned cold.
When he finally whispered your name into the dark, the sea carried it to you anyway.
And that — that was how you knew it was already too late.
Bucky didn’t say goodbye.
He told himself that was mercy.
He waited until dawn, until the tide was low and the water near the cave lay still and deceptively calm. His coat was dry. His shoulder ached but held. The ship he’d spotted the night before lingered on the horizon — not his crew, but close enough. Close enough to get him back to the world he understood.
You hadn’t surfaced in two days.
That absence sat in his chest like a bruise he kept pressing just to see if it still hurt.
“She made her choice,” he muttered to himself, tightening the strap across his chest. “So I’ll make mine.”
The sea answered with silence.
He walked the shoreline once. Twice. Paused at the place where you usually surfaced — where you laughed at the way he never quite learned to tread water properly.
“…Coward,” he whispered, unsure if he meant you or himself.
Then he stepped into the water.
The waves were colder than he expected.
They crept up his boots, soaked his trousers, tugged insistently like hands that wanted him back. He waded farther than necessary, eyes fixed on the distant ship, lungs already tight with memory.
You don’t belong here.
Your words echoed in his head.
“Maybe I don’t belong anywhere,” he said aloud.
The water surged suddenly — a sharp pull, stronger than the tide should’ve been. His footing slipped on slick stone, and before he could catch himself, a wave knocked him under.
Salt burned his throat.
He thrashed instinctively, arm screaming in protest, but the sea was merciless when you fought it. His boots dragged him down, coat heavy as an anchor.
This is stupid, he thought dimly. You survived wars. You survived men worse than monsters.
But the sea didn’t care about survival stories.
His lungs burned. Darkness crept in at the edges of his vision.
And just as the fight drained out of him — just as he stopped trying —
He thought of you.
Not your tail. Not the magic. Your voice, soft and stubborn. The way you looked at him like he was worth saving before he believed it himself.
“I didn’t mean to make you leave,” he thought, the water filling his mouth. I just didn’t want to be the thing that broke you.
His body went still.
You felt it like a scream in your blood.
Not sound — never sound — but a violent, tearing pull that yanked you from the wreck you were hiding in. The water around you flared bright, painful blue, every scale on your tail lighting like a warning.
Bond formed, the sea whispered.
Life calling life.
“No,” you gasped. “No no no—”
You swam hard, panic shredding your composure, heart hammering as you broke the surface near the shore.
And there he was.
Floating.
Still.
Time fractured.
You surged forward, grabbing him beneath the arms, hauling his weight against you as waves battered your back. His head lolled forward, lips blue, eyes closed.
“Bucky,” you sobbed. “Don’t you dare. I told you not like this.”
You dragged him under — down, where the water stilled — cradling him against your chest. You pressed your forehead to his, tears dissolving instantly into the sea.
“I’m here,” you whispered. “I’m here. Please.”
Mermaid magic was never meant to be given freely.
It was life for life. Breath for breath.
You pressed your mouth to his.
Air flowed from you into him — not just breath, but warmth, magic, time. Pain lanced through your ribs as the mark at your wrist burned white-hot, scales along your sides dulling as something ancient tore itself loose.
He coughed violently, body convulsing as his lungs fought back to life.
Your vision blurred.
Bucky woke choking.
Hands gripped his shoulders, holding him upright as water rushed from his lungs. He gasped, dragging in air, vision swimming until it cleared enough to see—
You.
Pale. Shaking. Eyes glassy with pain you hadn’t had before.
“You absolute idiot,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Do you have any idea—”
He grabbed your wrists, panic flooding him as he noticed the glow fading from your skin.
“What did you do?” he demanded hoarsely. “What did you give up?”
You tried to pull away. Failed.
“…I couldn’t lose you,” you admitted, tears spilling freely now. “Even if it costs me everything.”
His breath hitched.
“Don’t,” he said, voice breaking. “Don’t say that like it’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,” you cried. “It’s you.”
Something shattered in his chest then — the careful distance, the lie that leaving would save you both.
“I tried to drown,” he confessed quietly. “Because walking away felt worse.”
You froze.
He cupped your face, thumbs trembling against your cheeks, forehead resting against yours.
“I don’t care what the sea says,” he whispered. “I don’t care what it costs. I’m not leaving you again.”
Behind you, far below, the Watchers stirred.
The sea had taken note.
And this time, it would not be satisfied with almost.
The sea did not rage when the Watchers rose.
It went still.
That was the first warning.
The water around you dimmed, color draining until only shadow and faint bioluminescence remained. The current slowed, thickened, like the ocean itself was holding its breath.
You were still cradled against Bucky’s chest, his arms wrapped around you like instinct alone could anchor you to him. His heartbeat thundered beneath your ear — fast, frantic, alive.
Too alive.
The glow in your veins flickered weakly.
“Oh god,” he whispered, feeling it. “You’re cold.”
“I’m fine,” you lied, even as your tail trembled beneath the surface, scales duller than they had ever been. “They’re just… coming.”
The water beneath you split.
Not physically — not like a wound — but spiritually, the way something ancient parts reality just by existing. Shapes emerged from the depths: vast, indistinct, crowned with tendrils of light and darkness. Eyes opened where eyes should not be, glowing with the memory of drowned empires.
The Watchers.
Bucky sucked in a breath. “Those are—”
“Don’t look too long,” you murmured weakly. “They don’t like being… defined.”
Child of the tide, the sea sang, voice layered and endless.
You have broken the covenant.
Pain flared through your chest, sharp enough to steal your breath. You gasped, fingers digging into Bucky’s shirt.
“I saved him,” you said, lifting your chin despite the tremor in your body. “That was my right.”
You saved him twice.
The words slammed into you like a wave.
You gave breath. You gave magic. You gave bond.
Bucky’s grip tightened. “Then take it from me,” he snapped, fury cutting through his fear. “Whatever she gave—take it back.”
The Watchers turned their gaze to him.
The pressure was unbearable.
Human, they echoed. You are already marked.
You felt it then — the truth you’d been too afraid to voice.
The bond wasn’t metaphorical.
It had roots.
They showed you the futures.
Not visions — not dreams — but certainties, laid bare in the water like reflections you couldn’t look away from.
You saw yourself as you were meant to be: ageless, endless, swimming the deep currents long after Bucky’s bones turned to dust. You saw the ache that never dulled. The place in your chest that stayed hollow forever.
You saw the alternative.
Your tail dissolving into light. Scales falling away like dying stars. Legs trembling beneath you, useless and fragile. Time suddenly finite. Every heartbeat a countdown.
You screamed then.
Not from pain — from grief.
“No,” you sobbed. “Please. There has to be another way.”
There is always a balance.
The sea shifted again, darker now.
You saw Bucky bound to land — the ocean rejecting him, water turning hostile, waves rising to force him back every time he tried to sail. The sea he loved becoming the thing that would never love him again.
Bucky shook his head violently. “No. Don’t you dare. I won’t let you—”
You cupped his face, hands shaking. “Listen to me.”
He did. Gods, he always did.
“I was born of the sea,” you whispered. “But I chose you.”
Tears streamed freely down his face now, unguarded, raw. “You don’t get to make that choice alone.”
The Watchers loomed closer.
Choose, they demanded.
What will the sea take?
You closed your eyes.
“I’ll walk,” you said. “Let me walk beside him.”
Bucky let out a broken sound. “No—”
“And let him keep the sea,” you finished. “Please.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
Then—
So it is written.
It didn’t happen all at once.
The pain was merciful in that way — gradual, spreading like frost instead of fire.
Your tail began to ache, deep in the bone, a pressure that made you curl forward with a cry. Light flared beneath your skin, scales loosening, dissolving into motes of blue that drifted upward and vanished.
Bucky caught you as your body convulsed.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered desperately, arms trembling. “I’ve got you, sweetheart, don’t let go—”
Sweetheart.
You laughed weakly through tears. “That’s… new.”
He pressed his forehead to yours. “I’ve been in love with you since i first saw you. I just didn’t think I deserved to say it.”
The words shattered you.
“I love you,” you whispered back, breath hitching as your tail split — pain blinding, all-consuming — legs forming where fins had been.
The sea roared.
And then—
Stillness.
You collapsed against him, unconscious, human and heartbreakingly fragile.
The Watchers receded, their presence fading into the depths.
The debt is paid.
Bucky barely noticed the silence at first.
The roar of the sea had faded, the Watchers gone, the water calm again — too calm. He was on his knees in the shallows, holding you like the world might take you back if he loosened his grip even a fraction.
You were warm.
Warm in a way you hadn’t been before.
His breath stuttered as he looked down.
No tail.
No scales.
Just you — bare and fragile and heartbreakingly human in his arms, legs tangled awkwardly against his thigh like you didn’t yet know how to exist this way.
“Oh god,” he whispered, voice breaking. “You’re… you’re real.”
The word felt too small.
He fumbled with his coat, hands shaking as he shrugged it off and wrapped it around you instinctively, shielding you from the wind, from the world, from his own stunned staring. He tucked it around your shoulders, careful, reverent — like you might shatter if he moved too fast.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, over and over, like a prayer he was afraid to stop saying. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. I won’t— I won’t let anything take you back.”
His forehead pressed to yours, eyes squeezed shut as something hot slid down his cheek and disappeared into your hair.
When you woke, the first thing you felt was warmth.
Then air suddenly burned your lungs — too dry, too sharp — and panic surged until familiar hands grounded you.
He laughed — a broken, hysterical sound — and kissed your knuckles reverently. “Welcome to the surface, love.”
The days that followed were brutal.
Walking hurt. Everything hurt. Your body ached with limitations you’d never known — hunger, exhaustion, pain that didn’t fade with a swim. You bled when your feet blistered. You cried when you couldn’t breathe underwater anymore.
And Bucky was there for all of it.
Bathing you. Carrying you. Holding you when the phantom pain of your tail woke you screaming at night.
Sometimes you caught him staring at the sea with something like mourning. Or guilty.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his breath hitched, barely. “For what you lost. For what you had to give up just to be here.” His eyes stayed on the horizon. “You never should’ve had to choose.”
You shook your head immediately, stepping closer before he could pull back into himself. “Don’t.” Your voice was gentle, but firm. “That’s not how it feels.”
He finally looked at you then, and there was something raw in his expression — not pity, not regret, but fear. Like if he admitted it out loud, you might disappear.
“I didn’t lose anything,” you said softly.
His brow furrowed, like he didn’t understand how that could be true.
You reached for his hand, guiding it to rest over your heart. It was steady. Human. Real. “I didn’t leave the sea behind,” you continued. “I still hear it. I still carry it.”
He swallowed hard.
“But even if I had,” you added, lifting your gaze to his, unflinching, “I would’ve made the same choice.”
Silence stretched between you, thick and trembling.
He lifted a hand as if to touch you, then hesitated — like he was afraid of breaking something fragile. When his fingers finally brushed your hair back, the movement was reverent, almost disbelieving.
“You’re real,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.
Before you could answer, he leaned in and kissed you.
Not hurried. Not desperate.
Just careful. Grateful.
Like a promise neither of you were brave enough to say aloud yet.
His lips lingered on yours for a heartbeat too long, and when he pulled back, his eyes were closed, as if he were memorizing the feeling — the warmth, the weight of you, the fact that you were still here.
You rested your forehead against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, and for a moment the world felt impossibly small. Safe. Like nothing else could reach you.
When Bucky finally found a ship — his ship — he hesitated.
“You don’t have to come,” he said quietly.
You smiled, lacing your fingers with his. “I walked for you. I think I can sail.”
He grinned, eyes bright and wet. “Guess I’m not leaving the sea after all.”
As the ship cut through the waves, you stood at the railing, wind in your hair, heart full and terrified and alive.
The sea watched.
Not angry.
Not kind.
But aware.
And somewhere in the depths, the Watchers turned away.
so i may or may not have watched the little mermaid and now pirate bucky x mermaid reader has been stuck in my head ever since. so… how would we feel if i posted a one-shot about it? (not me saying this like i didn’t already write most of it.) anyway, here’s the intro—please let me know if you’d be interested. thank you, love you guys <33
"Mermaids were not meant to love the surface.
That was the first law, older than coral, older than language. It was sung into the sea long before ships learned to cut through it — woven into the currents, carved into bone and salt.
Do not bind your heart to those who breathe air.
Do not linger where the moon pulls you upward.
Do not save what the sea has chosen to take.
A/N: this can be read as a standalone even though it's part of a series called "You Said What". it doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13, part 14, part 15, part 16, part 17, part 18, part 19, part 20, part 21, part 22, part 23, part 24. thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)
The morning started normal enough.
Which, in your life, should’ve been the first red flag.
The compound kitchen was quiet in that rare, almost sacred way. You were in the middle of making coffee, leaning your hip against the counter, when you heard heavy footsteps behind you. You didn’t even have to look to know it was him.
“Hey,” he said.
You hummed in response, reaching for a mug. “Morning, Sergeant Barnes.”
There was a pause. A long one.
“…Guess what I found in my boot.”
Something in his tone made you stop.
“Please don’t say fungus.” You turned around, slowly.
Bucky stood a few feet away, freshly dressed, holding something small between two fingers. His expression was somewhere between confusion, irritation, and the deeply offended look of a man who had been personally wronged by inanimate objects.
“It’s not fungus,” he said flatly.
You relaxed a fraction. “Okay, good.”
“It’s worse.”
That fraction snapped right back.
He stepped closer and held the object out so you could see it properly.
Small. Circular. Metallic.
Blinking.
You stared at it.
Then at him.
Then back at the tiny, traitorous dot of light.
“…Is that—”
“A tracker,” Bucky said.
Your brain took a second to catch up.
Then: “What.”
“I found it lodged inside my left boot,” he continued, voice tight. “Like someone very carefully hid it there.”
“…How it ended up there?”
Bucky didn’t hesitate. “Sam.”
“Are you sure? How do you know it’s his?”
Bucky lifted a brow. “Maybe because it’s red and has a little wing drawn on it?”
You closed your eyes and inhaled through your nose.
Of course.
“Why,” you asked into the universe, “is he like this.”
Bucky snorted. “Because he thinks he’s subtle.”
“That man has never been subtle a day in his life.”
You laughed despite yourself, then sobered again, eyes drifting back to the tracker resting in his palm.
“So,” you said carefully, “he’s tracking you.”
“Yes.”
“…And he hasn’t said anything.”
“Nope.”
“That’s… concerning.”
“It’s rude,” Bucky corrected. “It’s invasive. And it’s a violation of boot space.”
You nodded solemnly. “Boot space is sacred.”
“Exactly.”
You leaned back against the counter, arms crossing. “Okay. So. Options.”
Bucky tilted his head. “We confront him.”
You grimaced. “He’ll deny it.”
“He’ll lie,” Bucky added.
“And then he’ll make that face,” you said, scrunching your nose, “like he’s disappointed in us for existing near each other.”
Bucky’s lips twitched. “Yeah.”
“Option two,” you continued. “We destroy it.”
His eyes flicked to the tracker. “Very tempting.”
“Like, crushing it under your metal hand tempting.”
“Don’t,” he said softly. “You’re making it worse.”
You sighed. “But if we destroy it, he’ll know we found it.”
“And then he’ll try harder.”
You groaned. “I hate that you’re right.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Bucky frowned.
“…Hey.”
You looked up. “What?”
He glanced toward the door. Toward your tote bag, sitting innocently by the wall.
“Do you think,” he said slowly, “he’d only track me?”
Your stomach dropped.
“Oh.”
“Oh no.”
“No,” you said immediately. “He wouldn’t—”
You trailed off, already walking toward your bag.
Bucky followed, expression darkening with every step.
“Sam wouldn’t put a tracker on me,” you insisted, more to yourself than to him. “That would be—”
You crouched, unzipping the tote.
“—crossing a line,” Bucky finished.
You dug through it quickly. Wallet. Keys. Lip balm. Snacks.
Nothing.
Relief started to bloom.
Then your fingers brushed something unfamiliar.
You froze.
Very slowly, you pulled it out.
Silence crashed down around you.
You held the tracker up between your fingers.
“…He did not,” you whispered.
Bucky swore.
You stared at the tracker like it might explode.
“I feel violated,” you said.
“You should.”
“And offended.”
“Also valid.”
“And slightly impressed,” you admitted. “I didn’t feel a thing.”
Bucky huffed a laugh. “Yeah, he’s good.”
You straightened, walking back to the counter and placing your tracker beside his. They blinked in sync now, like they were mocking you.
Bucky exhaled slowly, “Did we… do something?”
You gave him a look.
You existed. That was enough.
“To be fair,” you said after a beat, “we are dating in secret. Which is, like… espionage adjacent.”
“So is installing a tracker on your teammate’s left boot,” he muttered, holding the thing up to the light.
You crossed the room and plucked the tracker from his fingers. It blinked at you innocently, like it wasn’t a microchip of betrayal.
“This is so Sam-coded,” you muttered, shaking your head. “He probably thinks we’re sneaking off to make out behind enemy lines.”
Bucky raised a brow. “We did do that once.”
“Okay, but it was one time, and the intel was boring.”
“You said the safehouse had ‘kissable lighting.’”
You pointed a finger. “And I stand by it.”
A pause.
The tracker blinked between you.
You crossed your arms. “Okay.”
Bucky looked at you. “Okay.”
“No more confrontation,” you said. “No destruction.”
His brow furrowed. “Then what?”
A slow smile crept across your face.
“We let him track us. But—we curate the entire route.”
“Like a chaos road trip.”
“Exactly,” you said. “Romantic cafes. A bookstore with a couples section. A baby store.”
Bucky choked on his own spit. “A baby store?”
“Let’s give him a psychological breakdown in three easy steps.”
Bucky was silent for a second — then nodded solemnly.
“We open with brunch.”
“End with candles and regret.”
“I’ve never loved you more.”
You raised your hand for a high-five, which he took — then tangled his fingers with yours and kissed your knuckles instead.
“Let’s ruin his day.”
Two hours later, you were sitting in a cozy little café, sharing a croissant and whispering across the table like spies in a rom-com. The tracker — carefully taped under the heel of Bucky’s boot again — was living its best life.
“How long do you think it’ll take him to freak out?” you asked, sipping your drink.
“He’s probably already pacing a hole in the floor,” Bucky said, casually wiping a crumb from your lip with his thumb.
You swatted him playfully. “Don’t flirt while we’re committing war crimes.”
“It’s not a war crime,” he said. “It’s just… strategic inconvenience.”
Bucky took a sip of his coffee, then tilted his head. “You know,” he said casually, “we kind look like spies.”
You grinned, resting your chin on your hand. “Not for so long though.”
Something warm passed between you at that — unspoken, electric.
Bucky reached across the table and laced his fingers with yours, squeezing once. “Soon.”
You squeezed back.
Meanwhile at the compound, Sam’s tablet buzzed.
He checked it casually. Expectant.
Two dots.
Together.
He smiled.
“See?” he said to no one, already opening the tracker app. “I told you something was going on.”
The dots moved in sync.
Same pace. Same direction.
Sam nodded, smug. “They think they’re subtle.”
He leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head.
“Can’t hide from satellites, Barnes.”
The day unfolded like a montage from a rom-com Sam would never admit to watching.
A walk through Central Park where Bucky insisted on carrying your bag even though it weighed nothing.
A bookstore where you sat on the floor together flipping through paperbacks, your head resting on his shoulder.
Back at the farmers market, you were holding up a tiny jar of honey labeled “Lover’s Gold” while Bucky did a double take like it had personally proposed to you.
“This feels illegal,” he said.
“Because it is,” you replied, already dropping it into your tote bag. “Emotional sabotage, honey edition.”
“You’re having too much fun.”
You leaned in close, smiling like sin. “You’re just mad I thought of it first.”
He chuckled, warm and low, and reached to brush a strand of hair behind your ear — deliberately, dramatically. Like you were both being filmed for the most passive-aggressive Hallmark movie in history.
“Let’s hit the baby store next,” he said, deadpan.
You nearly snorted. “You’re serious?”
“Oh, I’m so serious. If we’re doing this, we’re going nuclear.”
Ten minutes later, Sam watched in mute horror as the tracker dot stopped… right in the middle of a boutique called Bundle of Joy.
He dropped his tablet.
“…No.”
He refreshed.
Same place.
Same dots.
Together.
“No, no, no, no—”
He stood up so fast his chair tipped.
“They are not,” he said, voice dropping. “They are not in a baby store.”
The dots didn’t move.
Sam’s brain scrambled.
“…Is Y/N—”
He froze.
“No,” he said immediately. “No. She would tell us.”
He nodded hard. “She would absolutely tell us.”
The dots stayed.
Sam whispered, “She would tell us.”
Back at the store you were both breathless with laughter.
“This is too far,” he said weakly, holding up a tiny pair of socks.
“You suggested it,” you reminded him.
“And I regret nothing.”
Across the compound, Sam made a noise that could only be described as existential dread.
You whispered, “You’re going to kill him.”
“I’m going to haunt him.”
You grinned, slipping your arm around his waist and pulling him closer just as the store clerk wandered over.
“Expecting?” she asked sweetly.
You and Bucky shared a look.
Then you smiled at the clerk, all conspiratorial softness. “We’re just getting ideas.”
The poor woman beamed. “How exciting!”
“Do you think he’s losing his mind already?”
“We can only hope,” Bucky muttered.
You glanced back toward the street. “…He’s definitely escalating.”
He nodded solemnly. “So we escalate harder.”
“Oh yeah?”
Bucky turned to you with dangerous glee. “We’re going ring shopping.”
Your jaw dropped. “You’re kidding.”
“I am not.”
“You’re evil.”
“I am.” He took your hand. “Marry me.”
“Save it for the jewelry counter.”
The jewelry store was quiet in that expensive, intimidating way. All glass cases and soft lighting, like the air itself had been trained not to breathe too loudly.
You stopped just inside the entrance, suddenly hyper-aware of everything — the way Bucky’s hand was still wrapped around yours, the way the sales associate smiled like she already knew something, the way this felt… different.
“This,” you murmured, leaning closer to him, “is either the funniest thing we’ve done all day or the most dangerous.”
Bucky’s mouth tilted. “Both. Definitely both.”
Somewhere in the compound, Sam Wilson realized that curiosity was, in fact, a mistake.
“…Oh my God.”
He made a sound that was not human.
“Nope. Nope. That’s not— that’s not next.”
He stared at the screen like it had personally betrayed him.
“They skipped steps,” he said weakly. “You don’t go baby store to jewelry store.”
He pointed at the phone.
“That’s not the order.”
His thoughts spiraled visibly.
“Unless— no. No rings. No secret engagements.”
He swallowed.
“They would tell us.”
Pause.
“…Right?”
The dots stayed.
Unmoving.
Together.
Sam whispered, “I knew it. I knew something was happening.”
Meanwhile Bucky guided you toward the ring counter, slow and deliberate, like he wasn’t even pretending this was a joke anymore. And maybe it wasn’t. Not really.
The sales associate excused herself to grab a catalog, leaving you alone in front of the glass case.
For a second, neither of you spoke.
Rows of rings sat there under the lights — simple bands, delicate stones, things that looked like promises made solid. Bucky stared at them longer than necessary. You could feel it before you saw it, the way his grip on your hand tightened just a fraction.
“…Hey,” you said softly.
He blinked, like he’d been pulled out of something heavy. “Sorry.”
You leaned your hip against the counter. “Penny for your thoughts, Sergeant Barnes.”
He huffed under his breath, but his eyes went right back to the rings. One in particular — simple, unassuming, quietly perfect.
“We said we were done hiding,” he said, low. Not a joke. Not teasing.
Your chest warmed. “We did.”
“Still not telling Sam,” he added quickly.
You smiled. “Absolutely not.”
“But,” he continued, swallowing, “I keep thinking about how… right this would be.”
You followed his gaze. The ring. Clean lines. No excess. Solid. Steady. Very him.
“And it’s stupid,” he went on, almost defensive. “Because this is supposed to be a prank. And he’s tracking us. And this is not—”
You stepped closer, closing the space between you completely. Your voice softened. “Bucky.”
He finally looked at you.
The way he looked at you in moments like this always knocked the air out of your lungs — like he was seeing a future and being scared of it in the same breath.
“It’s not stupid,” you said. “It’s… honest.”
His jaw flexed. “I don’t want to hide you anymore.”
You smiled, gentle and sure. “I know.”
“We don’t have to rush,” he said, like he needed to hear himself say it. “We don’t have to do anything just because it looks nice in a glass box.”
You squeezed his hand. “I’m not in a rush.”
Something in his shoulders eased at that.
You leaned over the display, scanning the rows of rings, half-smiling like this was still a joke. Like your heart wasn’t doing something weird in your chest.
“These are dangerous,” you murmured.
Bucky hummed beside you. “Yeah.”
You picked one, tilting your head as it caught the light. “This one’s kind of pretty.”
He didn’t answer right away.
When you glanced over, you found him watching you instead of the ring — gaze soft, unreadable, like he was committing something to memory.
“…What,” you asked, warmth creeping into your voice.
He cleared his throat, shifting his weight like he was suddenly very aware of his body. “Which one do you like.”
You blinked. “What?”
“Rings,” he said, nodding toward the case. “If you had to choose. Besides the one you clearly fell for the second we got here.”
His gaze lingered on the ring in your hand, the blue of the stone mirroring something familiar — something he carried with him every day.
You laughed softly. “Why?”
He shrugged, eyes dropping back to the glass. “Just… curious.”
You studied him for a second, then leaned closer, pointing at a ring. Slim silver. Quiet.
“That one,” you said. “Simple. Not too flashy. But… not boring.”
“Yeah,” he said slowly. “That makes sense.”
You nudged him with your shoulder. “You’re acting weird again.”
He smiled — small, almost shy. “For future reference.”
Your breath caught.
You looked back at the ring, then at him. “Future reference for what, Sergeant Barnes?”
He met your eyes, steady and warm, voice low. “For when it’s not a joke.”
Something softened between you — like the store, the city, the whole damn world had stepped back to give you space.
You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to.
Instead, you slid your fingers into his, squeezing once.
“Good to know,” you said quietly.
He squeezed back.
Outside the store, once you were back on the sidewalk, he let out a breath like he’d been holding it the entire time.
“You okay?” you asked.
He nodded. Then looked at you again. Really looked.
“Yeah,” he said. “I am.”
You bumped your shoulder into his. “Good. Because we still have one more stop on this chaos tour.”
He smirked. “Oh?”
You pulled your tote higher onto your shoulder. “Ice cream. Public bench. Holding hands.”
He laughed, low and fond. “You’re ruthless.”
“And you love it.”
He laced his fingers with yours again, no hesitation this time, walking like the world could watch if it wanted to.
Somewhere across the city, Sam stared at a blinking dot near a jewelry store and felt something deep in his soul give up. And for once, you didn’t care.
The ice cream stop was, objectively, unnecessary.
Which is exactly why it happened.
You were sitting on a public bench, legs crossed, sharing a single cup because Bucky “didn’t want his own” and then proceeded to steal half of yours like a criminal. His arm was slung casually along the back of the bench, fingers brushing your shoulder in that way that was definitely not subtle and very much not hidden.
“This is suspiciously domestic,” you said, licking a bit of ice cream from your spoon.
Bucky leaned in and stole the spoon from your hand. “You started it.”
“You stole my dessert.”
“And I’d do it again.”
He handed the spoon back, eyes warm, content. Too content for someone who was still technically undercover.
You caught him staring again. Not at the ice cream. At you.
“What,” you asked, smiling.
He shrugged. “We used to be better at pretending.”
You nudged him with your knee. “We agreed. No more hiding.”
“Right,” he said. “Just… delaying Sam’s mental breakdown.”
“Humanitarian reasons.”
You both laughed, easy and soft.
The compound came back into view far too soon.
Bucky sighed. “End of the road.”
“Think he’s waiting at the door?” you asked.
“Absolutely.”
“And glaring?”
“Like he’s auditioning for a soap opera.”
Sure enough, Sam was leaning against the main entrance when you walked in, arms crossed, tablet in hand, Redwing perched nearby like a smug little witness.
“Well,” Sam said, not bothering to hide the judgment in his voice. “Look who finally decided to come home.”
You and Bucky slowed… but did not separate fast enough.
It was subtle. Almost impressive, really. If Sam hadn’t already been vibrating at a suspicious frequency.
He glanced pointedly at your hands. “Comfortable walk?”
“Very,” Bucky said easily.
You nodded. “Great weather.”
“Where were you,” he demanded.
You tilted your head. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”
That made him pause.
“…Excuse me?”
Bucky let out a short, humorless breath. “You tracked us, Sam.”
The silence that followed was immediate and loud.
Sam straightened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
You reached into your tote and placed the small device on the table by the door.
Clink.
Blink.
Bucky followed suit, dropping the second tracker beside it.
Blink. Blink.
In sync.
Sam stared at them like they’d personally betrayed him.
“You put one in my bag,” you said calmly. “And one in his boot.”
His shoulders sagged just a fraction. “I was trying to figure out what was going on.”
“And this was your plan?” Bucky asked, voice steady but edged. “Spying on us?”
Sam ran a hand over his face. “You’ve been acting weird for ages now.”
“That still doesn’t give you the right to track us.”
Sam nodded, quiet now. “You’re right.”
Natasha chose that moment to stroll in, coffee in hand, taking in the scene in one glance.
“Oof,” she said. “Someone crossed a boundary.”
Sam groaned. “Not you too.”
Bucky stepped closer to you, not touching — but unmistakably choosing your side.
“You don’t get to cross lines because you’re curious,” he said quietly.
Sam looked between you, frustration bleeding into something more conflicted. “If something’s going on, it affects the team.”
“And tracking them was your solution?” Natasha cut in. “That’s adorable. Unhinged, but adorable.”
Sam snapped, “You’re not helping.”
She smirked. “I know.”
Bucky picked up the tracker, crushing it slowly in his metal hand. The blinking light died with a soft crack.
“That doesn’t happen again,” he said.
Sam nodded immediately. “It doesn’t.”
You crushed yours too, less dramatic, more symbolic.
The room stayed quiet for a beat.
Then Sam exhaled slowly and looked back at his tablet, thumb hovering like he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer anymore.
“So,” he said, not looking up, “that means I don’t get an explanation for why you two spent twenty minutes in a baby store.”
You and Bucky exchanged a look.
Not panicked.
Not rushed.
Practiced.
“Gift shopping,” you said.
Sam glanced up. “For who.”
“Susan,” Bucky replied easily. “From R&D.”
You nodded. “She’s pregnant.”
Sam blinked. “…Since when.”
“Recently,” you said. “She didn’t want it to be a big thing.”
“And the bags?” Sam pressed.
“We had everything delivered,” you said. “Didn’t want her to see us carrying half the store back.”
Natasha hummed, approving. “Thoughtful.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed again as he scrolled. “And the jewelry store.”
You sighed, like this was the part that truly exhausted you. “Nat’s birthday is coming up.”
Sam looked up, flat. “It’s in two months.”
“Planning ahead,” Bucky said. “You ruined it.”
“Wow, Sam.” Natasha gasped over the rim of her cup. “I do appreciate the effort though.”
Sam stared at the three of you, jaw tight, clearly replaying the entire day in his head and hating every possible conclusion.
“You’re terrible liars,” he muttered.
“But you still don’t have proof,” Natasha said lightly.
Sam rubbed his face. “I don’t like this.”
You smiled, soft but unyielding. “You don’t have to.”
He pointed at you both. “I’m watching you.”
Bucky’s mouth twitched. “Please don’t.”
Sam walked off, defeated and deeply unsettled.
The second he disappeared down the hall, Natasha turned toward you, eyes sharp and amused. “So… you two are the reason he’s been losing it all day?”
You and Bucky froze. “…Wait. You really didn’t know he was tracking us?”
“I was too busy judging his life choices to ask.” She shrugged, smirking. “Next time,” she said, “give me a heads-up.”
You let out a breath, finally relaxing. “You still would’ve enjoyed this.”
She smirked. “Absolutely.”
Bucky’s arm came around you then — open, unhidden, like the secret was no longer fragile, just… postponed.
“We’re really bad at this,” he murmured.
You leaned into him. “Yeah.”
Later that night, you were half-asleep when you heard the knock.
Not loud.
Not urgent.
Three soft taps — the kind that already knew they’d be welcome.
You opened the door in socks and an old hoodie, hair still damp from your shower, and found Bucky standing there like he’d been arguing with himself for the past hour.
“Hey,” you whispered.
“Hey,” he said back, just as quiet.
He didn’t come in right away. Just stood there, hands tucked behind his back, eyes flicking over your face like he needed to ground himself.
“…Can I come in?”
You stepped aside. “Always.”
Your room was dim, lamp on low, everything calm in that end-of-the-day way that made things feel more honest. He hovered near the door until you turned to face him.
“That was fun today,” you said gently.
He huffed a breath. “Yeah. Fun.”
Then, more serious: “I’ve been thinking.”
You smiled. “That’s usually dangerous.”
He almost smiled back. Almost.
Instead, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a small black velvet box.
Your heart stopped.
Before you could say anything, he rushed out, “This is not what you think it is.”
You laughed weakly. “Bucky—”
“I mean,” he corrected himself, running a hand through his hair, “it is a ring. But it’s not— not that ring. I’m not— I’m not proposing. I just—”
He held it out to you like it was fragile. Like he was.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about earlier,” he said. “About the store. About what you said. About which one you looked at longer.”
You swallowed. “You bought it.”
“Yeah,” he admitted. “And I almost didn’t bring it. And then I almost left it outside your door like a coward.”
That made you smile.
He opened the box.
Inside was the ring you fell for earlier. Quiet in the way meaningful things always were. At its center sat a blue stone —dangerously close to the color of his eyes.
Your breath caught.
“Oh,” you whispered.
His shoulders tensed. “Too much?”
“No,” you said immediately. “It’s… perfect.”
“You already chose it. I just… caught up.”
He let out a breath like he’d been bracing for impact.
“I didn’t want anything obvious, nothing that would make people ask questions. I just— I wanted something that felt like us.” he said softly. “I’m not asking you to wear it. Not like that. Not yet. I just wanted you to have it.”
You reached out, then hesitated. “What if I wanna wear it?”
His eyes snapped back to yours. “You… want to?”
“Yeah,” you said. “But maybe not like—” You lifted your hand, considering. “What if I wear it on my middle finger? So it’s not… obvious.”
Something warm and fond crossed his face. “You already thought about that.”
You smiled. “I overthink. You know this.”
He nodded, then hesitated. “Can I?”
“…Can you what?”
He gestured to your hand. “Put it on.”
You held your hand out without another word.
He picked up the ring carefully, metal hand steady, human one trembling just a little. His thumb brushed the blue stone like he needed to memorize it before he slid it onto your middle finger.
It fit perfectly.
Too perfectly.
Neither of you spoke for a moment.
“It looks right,” he murmured. “Like it knows where it belongs.”
You flexed your fingers slowly, watching the light catch the stone. “What is it, then?”
He met your eyes. No jokes. No deflection.
“It’s a promise,” he said. “That I’m not hiding from the future. And that when we get there—”
he swallowed,
“—it’s you.”
Your chest tightened and tears burned behind your eyes.
You stepped closer, closing the small space between you.
“I love it,” you said softly.
His shoulders dropped like he’d been holding that breath for years.
“Yeah?” he asked.
You nodded. “Yeah. I wanna wear it. Everyday”
He smiled then — soft, real, undone — and pulled you into his arms, forehead resting against yours.
“We don’t have to rush,” he murmured.
“I know.”
“But this?” he said quietly, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “This is real.”
You kissed him slow and warm and sure.
Outside, the compound slept.
No trackers.
No witnesses.
Just a blue stone catching the light — and a future neither of you were running from.
Tony Stark’s New Year’s party is exactly what you expect and somehow worse.
The compound glows—literal lights strung everywhere, holographic countdown clocks floating near the ceiling, music thumping through walls that absolutely did not ask for this kind of bass. Someone has already lost a shoe. Someone else is arguing with a robot over champagne refills.
You stand near the edge of the main room, clutching a glass you’ve barely touched, watching chaos unfold.
Bucky is across the room.
He leans against a column, dressed impossibly well for someone pretending he doesn’t know how good he looks. Dark shirt, sleeves pushed up just enough. Relaxed posture that still manages to scream aware. His eyes flick to you instinctively, then away just as quickly.
A practiced dance.
Natasha glides past you, flawless as ever, red dress catching the light. She pauses just long enough to murmur, “You good?”
You nod. “I think Stark spiked the punch with jet fuel.”
She smirks. “Probably.” Then, softer, pointed, “He’s been looking at you all night.”
You don’t need to look to know who she’s talking about.
“It’s funny,” Natasha continues lightly, “how Barnes never used to show up to these things.”
You glance at her. “Funny how?”
She tilts her head, pretending to consider it. “Well. He used to vanish the second Stark mentioned a party. Claimed crowds made him uncomfortable. Noise. Attention.”
Her lips twitch. “Now he’s here early.”
You swallow, heat creeping into your cheeks. “Maybe he just… changed.”
“Maybe,” she agrees. Then, softer, pointed, “Or maybe someone made it worth it.”
Before you can answer, Tony’s voice booms through the room.
“ATTENTION, BEAUTIFUL DISASTERS,” he announces, raising a glass. “In approximately sixty seconds, we will pretend to reflect on our personal growth and then immediately forget it exists.”
Groans. Cheers. Someone yells ‘I love you, Stark!’
The music shifts—slower now, deliberate. A countdown clock pulses above the dance floor.
Sam appears at your side, suspicious already. “Why aren’t you dancing?”
You shrug. “Didn’t feel like it.”
His eyes flick—just once—toward Bucky. “Funny. Barnes doesn’t look like he feels like it either.”
Across the room, Tony catches your eye and subtly gestures toward the dance floor. Natasha, behind him, lifts her glass in a silent go.
The clock ticks down.
Bucky moves before you decide to.
He doesn’t rush. Just crosses the room like he belongs everywhere he goes, stopping in front of you with that soft, careful expression he only ever lets himself have when it’s just the two of you.
“Dance with me,” he says quietly.
Sam’s head snaps between you. “Oh come on—”
“It’s New Year’s,” Bucky adds, calm, polite, impossible to argue with. “Everyone’s dancing.”
Sam opens his mouth. Closes it. “I’m watching you,” he mutters.
You take Bucky’s hand.
The room swallows you whole—music loud, lights low, bodies moving—but somehow, when his hand settles at your waist, everything else fades. He pulls you in just enough to look convincing. Just enough to keep the secret safe.
Your forehead brushes his shoulder. His breath warms your hair.
“Still okay?” he murmurs.
You nod. “Yeah. You?”
He exhales, slow. “Yeah. Just… counting down.”
The clock flashes 10.
9.
People shout. Glasses clink. Someone screams too early.
Bucky’s thumb presses a little firmer at your back.
“This year,” he says softly, almost lost to the music, “it’s gonna be different.”
You tilt your head up. “Different how?”
His jaw tightens—not nervous. Determined.
“I don’t wanna hide anymore,” he admits. “Not after this. Not after us.”
Your heart stutters. “Bucky—”
“Not tonight,” he adds quickly, eyes searching yours. “Tonight stays ours. But soon.” A faint smile ghosts his lips. “I’m tired of pretending you’re not my favorite thing in every room.”
3.
2.
Fireworks explode on the screens. Cheers erupt. Confetti cannons go off—Tony absolutely planned this.
Bucky leans down, forehead resting against yours, voice barely audible.
“Just… hold my hand until midnight ends.”
You lace your fingers with his, hidden between your bodies.
“Always.”
1.
The room explodes with sound.
Cheers, laughter, music surging back to life. People kiss, hug, cry. Tony shouts something dramatic. Natasha smiles like she won a bet.
Sam stares at the two of you, frowning harder.
Bucky doesn’t kiss you. He doesn’t need to.
He just holds you a second longer than necessary—long enough to promise something without saying it out loud.
When he lets go, it’s slow. Reluctant.
But when he walks away, he glances back once.
And this time, he doesn’t hide the smile.
Not completely.
The party doesn’t end so much as it loosens.
Music fades into background noise, laughter turning quieter, heavier with champagne and the hour. People sprawl across couches, shoes abandoned, glitter tracked through hallways like evidence of joy. Somewhere, Tony is passionately explaining a nonexistent plot hole in a movie no one is watching.
You slip away unnoticed.
Or—almost unnoticed.
Bucky finds you near the balcony doors like he knew exactly where you’d go, jacket already slung over his shoulder. His eyes meet yours, and there’s something bright there now. Lighter. Anticipatory.
“C’mon,” he murmurs, offering his hand. “Before someone starts another countdown.”
You don’t hesitate.
The balcony door closes softly behind you, sealing the noise inside. Cold air rushes in, crisp and clean, carrying the scent of snow and fireworks smoke. Above you, the sky is ink-dark and alive—bursts of color blooming and fading in slow, brilliant echoes.
Moonlight spills across the balcony, silver and calm, like the night itself has gone quiet for you.
Bucky exhales, long and steady, like he’s been holding that breath all evening.
“Okay,” he says softly. “Now I’m ready.”
You smile. “For what?”
He steps closer, hands warm where they settle at your waist. No pretending now. No careful distance. Just you and him and the truth you’ve been carrying all night.
“For this,” he says.
He leans in slowly, like he’s memorizing the moment—like if he goes too fast, it might slip away. His lips brush yours first, tentative, almost reverent, before the kiss deepens into something warmer, fuller. Not rushed. Not desperate.
Just real.
Fireworks burst again behind you, but you barely notice. The cold fades beneath his warmth, beneath the way his thumb traces small, absent circles at your back like he’s anchoring himself.
When you finally pull away, foreheads still touching, you’re both smiling—soft, breathless, a little stunned.
“There,” he murmurs. “Couldn’t let the year start without that.”
You laugh quietly. “Worth sneaking off for.”
“Always,” he agrees.
He presses one more kiss to your temple, then another to your cheek, unhurried, indulgent, like he’s making up for every moment he couldn’t before.
Inside, the party roars on—music, laughter, chaos.
Out here, under the moonlight and falling sparks, it’s just the two of you. Hands linked. Hearts steady. A secret still safe for tonight—but no longer heavy.
“Happy New Year,” he whispers.
You squeeze his hand. “Happy New Year.”
a/n: hi loves 🫶 this is just a small, soft drabble i wrote in my room while getting ready for a new year’s party, because i couldn’t resist putting these feelings somewhere. i really just wanted to leave something sweet.
i hope you’re stepping into the new year feeling loved, safe, and a little hopeful—even if things were messy or overwhelming at times. thank you so much for being incredibly kind about “you said what?” and for every comment, message, and bit of love you shared. truly, you guys made my year lighter and brighter in ways you probably don’t even realize.
thank you for being here, for reading, and for letting me share these little stories with you. i’m sending you all the warmest wishes and the biggest hugs. happy new year 🤍✨ <33
Tony Stark’s New Year’s party is exactly what you expect and somehow worse.
The compound glows—literal lights strung everywhere, holographic countdown clocks floating near the ceiling, music thumping through walls that absolutely did not ask for this kind of bass. Someone has already lost a shoe. Someone else is arguing with a robot over champagne refills.
You stand near the edge of the main room, clutching a glass you’ve barely touched, watching chaos unfold.
Bucky is across the room.
He leans against a column, dressed impossibly well for someone pretending he doesn’t know how good he looks. Dark shirt, sleeves pushed up just enough. Relaxed posture that still manages to scream aware. His eyes flick to you instinctively, then away just as quickly.
A practiced dance.
Natasha glides past you, flawless as ever, red dress catching the light. She pauses just long enough to murmur, “You good?”
You nod. “I think Stark spiked the punch with jet fuel.”
She smirks. “Probably.” Then, softer, pointed, “He’s been looking at you all night.”
You don’t need to look to know who she’s talking about.
“It’s funny,” Natasha continues lightly, “how Barnes never used to show up to these things.”
You glance at her. “Funny how?”
She tilts her head, pretending to consider it. “Well. He used to vanish the second Stark mentioned a party. Claimed crowds made him uncomfortable. Noise. Attention.”
Her lips twitch. “Now he’s here early.”
You swallow, heat creeping into your cheeks. “Maybe he just… changed.”
“Maybe,” she agrees. Then, softer, pointed, “Or maybe someone made it worth it.”
Before you can answer, Tony’s voice booms through the room.
“ATTENTION, BEAUTIFUL DISASTERS,” he announces, raising a glass. “In approximately sixty seconds, we will pretend to reflect on our personal growth and then immediately forget it exists.”
Groans. Cheers. Someone yells ‘I love you, Stark!’
The music shifts—slower now, deliberate. A countdown clock pulses above the dance floor.
Sam appears at your side, suspicious already. “Why aren’t you dancing?”
You shrug. “Didn’t feel like it.”
His eyes flick—just once—toward Bucky. “Funny. Barnes doesn’t look like he feels like it either.”
Across the room, Tony catches your eye and subtly gestures toward the dance floor. Natasha, behind him, lifts her glass in a silent go.
The clock ticks down.
Bucky moves before you decide to.
He doesn’t rush. Just crosses the room like he belongs everywhere he goes, stopping in front of you with that soft, careful expression he only ever lets himself have when it’s just the two of you.
“Dance with me,” he says quietly.
Sam’s head snaps between you. “Oh come on—”
“It’s New Year’s,” Bucky adds, calm, polite, impossible to argue with. “Everyone’s dancing.”
Sam opens his mouth. Closes it. “I’m watching you,” he mutters.
You take Bucky’s hand.
The room swallows you whole—music loud, lights low, bodies moving—but somehow, when his hand settles at your waist, everything else fades. He pulls you in just enough to look convincing. Just enough to keep the secret safe.
Your forehead brushes his shoulder. His breath warms your hair.
“Still okay?” he murmurs.
You nod. “Yeah. You?”
He exhales, slow. “Yeah. Just… counting down.”
The clock flashes 10.
9.
People shout. Glasses clink. Someone screams too early.
Bucky’s thumb presses a little firmer at your back.
“This year,” he says softly, almost lost to the music, “it’s gonna be different.”
You tilt your head up. “Different how?”
His jaw tightens—not nervous. Determined.
“I don’t wanna hide anymore,” he admits. “Not after this. Not after us.”
Your heart stutters. “Bucky—”
“Not tonight,” he adds quickly, eyes searching yours. “Tonight stays ours. But soon.” A faint smile ghosts his lips. “I’m tired of pretending you’re not my favorite thing in every room.”
3.
2.
Fireworks explode on the screens. Cheers erupt. Confetti cannons go off—Tony absolutely planned this.
Bucky leans down, forehead resting against yours, voice barely audible.
“Just… hold my hand until midnight ends.”
You lace your fingers with his, hidden between your bodies.
“Always.”
1.
The room explodes with sound.
Cheers, laughter, music surging back to life. People kiss, hug, cry. Tony shouts something dramatic. Natasha smiles like she won a bet.
Sam stares at the two of you, frowning harder.
Bucky doesn’t kiss you. He doesn’t need to.
He just holds you a second longer than necessary—long enough to promise something without saying it out loud.
When he lets go, it’s slow. Reluctant.
But when he walks away, he glances back once.
And this time, he doesn’t hide the smile.
Not completely.
The party doesn’t end so much as it loosens.
Music fades into background noise, laughter turning quieter, heavier with champagne and the hour. People sprawl across couches, shoes abandoned, glitter tracked through hallways like evidence of joy. Somewhere, Tony is passionately explaining a nonexistent plot hole in a movie no one is watching.
You slip away unnoticed.
Or—almost unnoticed.
Bucky finds you near the balcony doors like he knew exactly where you’d go, jacket already slung over his shoulder. His eyes meet yours, and there’s something bright there now. Lighter. Anticipatory.
“C’mon,” he murmurs, offering his hand. “Before someone starts another countdown.”
You don’t hesitate.
The balcony door closes softly behind you, sealing the noise inside. Cold air rushes in, crisp and clean, carrying the scent of snow and fireworks smoke. Above you, the sky is ink-dark and alive—bursts of color blooming and fading in slow, brilliant echoes.
Moonlight spills across the balcony, silver and calm, like the night itself has gone quiet for you.
Bucky exhales, long and steady, like he’s been holding that breath all evening.
“Okay,” he says softly. “Now I’m ready.”
You smile. “For what?”
He steps closer, hands warm where they settle at your waist. No pretending now. No careful distance. Just you and him and the truth you’ve been carrying all night.
“For this,” he says.
He leans in slowly, like he’s memorizing the moment—like if he goes too fast, it might slip away. His lips brush yours first, tentative, almost reverent, before the kiss deepens into something warmer, fuller. Not rushed. Not desperate.
Just real.
Fireworks burst again behind you, but you barely notice. The cold fades beneath his warmth, beneath the way his thumb traces small, absent circles at your back like he’s anchoring himself.
When you finally pull away, foreheads still touching, you’re both smiling—soft, breathless, a little stunned.
“There,” he murmurs. “Couldn’t let the year start without that.”
You laugh quietly. “Worth sneaking off for.”
“Always,” he agrees.
He presses one more kiss to your temple, then another to your cheek, unhurried, indulgent, like he’s making up for every moment he couldn’t before.
Inside, the party roars on—music, laughter, chaos.
Out here, under the moonlight and falling sparks, it’s just the two of you. Hands linked. Hearts steady. A secret still safe for tonight—but no longer heavy.
“Happy New Year,” he whispers.
You squeeze his hand. “Happy New Year.”
next part
a/n: hi loves 🫶 this is just a small, soft drabble i wrote in my room while getting ready for a new year’s party, because i couldn’t resist putting these feelings somewhere. i really just wanted to leave something sweet.
i hope you’re stepping into the new year feeling loved, safe, and a little hopeful—even if things were messy or overwhelming at times. thank you so much for being incredibly kind about “you said what?” and for every comment, message, and bit of love you shared. truly, you guys made my year lighter and brighter in ways you probably don’t even realize.
thank you for being here, for reading, and for letting me share these little stories with you. i’m sending you all the warmest wishes and the biggest hugs. happy new year 🤍✨ <33
A/N: this can be read as a standalone even though it's part of a series called "You Said What". it doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13, part 14, part 15, part 16, part 17, part 18, part 19, part 20, part 21, part 22. thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)
Christmas Day had dawned quiet and white, the compound wrapped in a pristine hush as fresh snow dusted every ledge and railing.
You press your forehead to the cold glass of the lounge window, breath fogging the pane as flakes drift lazily from the sky, catching the morning light like scattered diamonds.
Bucky appears behind you like a shadow you already know by heart, silent save for the faint crunch of his boots against the carpet. One arm slips around your waist, familiar and steady, the metal hand warm despite the winter chill outside. He rests his chin near your shoulder, breath brushing your ear.
“Thinking about braving the snow?” he murmurs.
You smile before you even turn. “It’s Christmas,” you say softly. “Feels wrong not to.”
His grip tightens just a little, affectionate. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Kinda does.”
For a moment, neither of you moves. Snow continues to fall outside the window, quiet and patient, and Bucky rests his forehead against the side of your head like he’s weighing the idea. His thumb brushes slow, absent circles at your waist.
“Just for a bit,” he adds, voice low. “Before anyone starts asking questions.”
You hum in agreement. “We’ll be quick,” you promise. “In and out. Very sneaky.”
He lets out a soft huff of a laugh. “You say that every time.”
“And every time, we get away with it.”
“Almost,” he echoes, fond.
He releases you reluctantly, fingers trailing down your arm before he steps back. “Go grab a coat,” he says. “I’ll meet you by the stairs.”
You nod, already reaching for your scarf. “If Sam asks, we’re… getting air.”
Bucky smirks. “On the roof.”
“Festive air,” you correct.
He shakes his head, amused, and disappears down the hall just as you slip toward the coat rack, heart light and fluttering in that familiar way.
By the time you tug on boots and heavy coats, scarves hastily wrapped and gloves shoved into pockets, the snow has thickened. Christmas lights strung along the compound’s exterior glow softly beneath the white, and everything feels hushed—like the world itself is holding its breath.
No one notices the two of you slipping down the hall and up the stairwell that leads to the roof.
The door creaks open, and cold air rushes to greet you. The rooftop is quiet, untouched, save for the soft whisper of wind and the crunch of snow beneath your boots. You grab Bucky’s hand as he helps you up the last step, fingers intertwining like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Even here—out in the open, above everything—it feels like a secret. Like your own small pocket of Christmas morning.
His metal hand is warm again, impossibly so, as if the cold simply refuses to touch him when he’s holding you.
You bump his shoulder with yours, grinning. “Think we can build a snowman?”
He arches a brow, pretending to consider it.
“For tradition’s sake,” you insist. “Come on. Just one.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Alright,” he says. “But if it looks bad, that’s on you.”
It takes longer than either of you expect. You roll uneven snowballs, laughing when one collapses and Bucky has to steady it with exaggerated seriousness. Snow dusts his dark hair and clings to the shoulders of his coat, and you brush at it more than necessary, just because you can.
When it’s finally standing—lopsided, cheerful, and undeniably ridiculous—you hold up a knitted beanie you’d swiped from the storage room earlier.
“Think he’ll like a hat?” you ask.
Bucky squints at it, then gives a slow, approving nod. “Needs a scarf too,” he says. “Matching, of course.”
You laugh and toss him a strip of red fabric. He kneels slightly to drape it around the snowman’s neck with almost ceremonial care, adjusting it until it sits just right. When he stands, the two of you step back to admire your work.
It’s silly. It’s imperfect. And it makes your chest feel lighter just looking at it.
Snow begins to fall harder then, big flakes swirling down around you. Bucky reaches for your hand, fingers lacing through yours.
“C’mon,” he says, tugging you gently toward the center of the rooftop.
You blink. “What are you doing?”
“Dancing,” he says, already drawing you closer. “With you.” One hand settles at your waist, the other—metal and warm—guiding yours upward. His smile is soft, almost shy. “Snow doesn’t need a soundtrack.”
Laughter bubbles out of you as he starts to sway, slow and easy. The world narrows to white and quiet and the steady rhythm of him holding you. Snow gathers in your hair, melts against your coat, and you rest your head against his shoulder, the cold fading beneath his warmth.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks. You don’t need to. Fingers brush, breaths mingle, and the compound below feels a thousand miles away. There’s only this—this soft, stolen Christmas morning.
“You always do this,” you murmur eventually, voice muffled against him. “Make everything feel… easy.”
“Easy?” he echoes, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. “I just want it to be right. For us.”
You smile, warmth blooming in your chest. “It is.”
The dance slows until it’s barely movement at all, just shared balance and heartbeats. Snowflakes cling to his lashes, and you reach up without thinking to brush them away. He leans in, forehead resting against yours.
“We should go back inside,” you say softly. “Before someone—” You pause, spotting a familiar figure peeking over the edge of the lower terrace. “—before Sam sees us.”
Bucky lets out a quiet snort, lips brushing the top of your head. “Then let’s go,” he says. “Cocoa’s waiting.”
Inside, the warmth hits you like a hug. You stomp snow from your boots, shaking out your coat, and Bucky does the same. Tiny flakes scatter across the floor, and both of you laugh, breathless and flushed.
Natasha glances up from her seat across the lounge, one brow lifting as her eyes flick between you and Bucky. Her mouth twitches, clearly amused. Tony, hunched over his laptop on the couch, doesn’t even look up.
“Stealth ninjas in love,” he mutters.
You catch the faintest wink, and before you’ve had a chance to get your hot chocolate, Tony’s voice interrupts the moment
“Alright, everyone,” he announces, standing and clapping his hands softly. “Time for Secret Santa. And by Secret Santa, I mean: a few gifts that are absolutely ridiculous—but somehow perfect.”
Sam frowns suspiciously from the corner, folding his arms. “You guys do realize the point is that it’s supposed to be secret, right? Not, ‘I know everything already and I’m going to make snide comments.’”
Before either of you can respond, names are being handed out, gifts shuffled around the room. You and Bucky exchange a quick look—carefully neutral, carefully innocent.
When Bucky opens his gift, the wrapping is loud and unmistakably Sam’s. Inside is a vinyl record, old and well-loved.
“Brooklyn,” Sam says proudly. “Figured it belonged with you.”
Bucky’s expression softens in a way that makes your chest ache. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “It does. Thanks, man.”
Someone cheers over socks that are somehow tactical. Someone else pretends to cry over a novelty mug.
You’re relaxed, warm, content in that quiet way that only happens when you don’t have to guard anything important.
Then Natasha says your name.
You look up as she slides a sleek black envelope across the table toward you, one brow arched. Her mouth curves in that knowing way—subtle, private.
“For you,” she says. “From me.”
You open it slowly.
Inside is a card. Minimal. Elegant. Inside, a reservation confirmation.
A luxury hotel. Downtown. Spa package. Massage. Sauna. Room service.
For two.
Your breath catches. You glance up at her, eyes wide.
Natasha’s smile deepens just a fraction. “You look tense,” she says innocently. “Thought you could use relaxation... And some company”
Tony leans back on the couch, finally looking up from his screen. “Romanoff generosity is terrifying,” he remarks. “But effective.”
You laugh, cheeks warm. “Thank you,” you say, meaning it more than the words can hold.
The spa certificate feels almost too luxurious to be real, but the thoughtfulness behind it makes your chest swell.
Natasha tilts her head, arms crossed, one brow arched. “Of course,” she says smoothly, the faintest trace of amusement in her tone.
Your gaze drifts around the lounge, taking in the soft chaos of the team’s gift exchange. Tony is gesturing wildly over some gadget that makes a tiny whirring noise, Thor is examining it with mock seriousness, and Sam is trying not to grin as he watches Stece unwrap a small, carefully wrapped box, while Clint mutters dry comments from the corner of the room.
Bucky is laughing at something Sam said, the corner of his mouth tugging upward, and in the middle of the crowd you lose him for just a moment—he slips away, subtle as a shadow.
You glance around, but your attention is stolen by the warmth and chaos of the room, and by the gifts strewn across the table, the laughter bouncing off the walls.
You almost don’t notice when Natasha, passing behind you, murmurs just loud enough for you to hear, “Emergency. Your room. Now.”
You blink, confused. “My room?”
She smirks, “Trust me. It’s… urgent. Just go.” Before you can ask questions, she’s gone, melting back into the lounge crowd with that unmistakable knowing glint in her eye.
Curiosity buzzing, you hurry down the hall and up the stairs to your room, wondering what could possibly qualify as an “emergency.” The door swings open, and you freeze—because Bucky is there. Not just standing there, but sitting cross-legged on the bed, a pile of fluffy blankets at his side, and the faint smell of hot cocoa in the air.
“Surprise,” he murmurs, voice soft and warm, a little shy but unmistakably him.
You laugh, breath catching as you take in the cozy scene. Pillows piled just so, a small tray with mugs of steaming cocoa, and snow gently falling outside the window light.
Your lips twitch into a grin. “Nat’s scheming again, huh?”
“She’s good at that.” He chuckles, that deep, warm sound that always seems to make the room lighter. “But this... this is all me.”
You kneel beside him, eyes glued to him. “You didn’t have to…”
Bucky shakes his head, quiet awe in his expression. Then—after a pause long enough for the moment to hang like snowflakes in the air—he reaches behind him. A small box, plain brown, is held out with hands that are steady now, but his pulse, you can feel it, is racing just the same.
“For you,” he says simply.
Inside, you find a delicate locket, silver and polished. When you lift the lid, there’s a tiny, carefully folded picture of the two of you, taken months ago during a rare day off—just the two of you laughing over coffee, messy hair and soft smiles, completely at ease. On the back, etched in tiny letters, is a date. The first time he thought he’d… really fallen.
You blink. Hard. “Bucky…” you murmur, voice thick.
“You like it?” he asks, though the shadow of a smirk plays at the corners of his mouth. “I wasn’t sure if it was cheesy.”
“Cheesy?” You shake your head, laughing despite the lump in your throat. “It’s… perfect.”
He lets out a quiet laugh, low and warm, and then he’s leaning in again, forehead against yours. “Good,” he says simply. “Because it’s for you. Only you.”
The two of you stand there for a moment longer, letting the quiet swell between you like snow piling in a winter drift. Outside, the sky has grown heavier with snow, but inside, the air feels almost electric, full of soft warmth and unspoken love.
You pull back slightly from the warmth of his hug, a mischievous glint in your eyes. “Well… I think I have something for you too.”
Bucky blinks at you, surprised. “You… do?” His metal fingers fidget slightly, betraying the quiet hope in his gaze.
You nod, pulling out a carefully wrapped package from your closet. “Open. It’s yours,” you say, trying to sound casual, though your heart is hammering in your chest.
“Mine?” he echoes, a small smile tugging at his lips as he takes the box from your hands, tilting his head curiously.
He carefully unwraps it, and the soft crinkle of paper fills the otherwise still room. Inside is a folded piece of fabric. He lifts it, unfolding it slowly.
It’s a sweater. Dark gray. Soft. Well-made. The kind he always reaches for first. And tucked into the fold is something small—a set of dog tags.
Not military.
Custom.
No names. Just coordinates.
He stares at them, frozen.
You lean closer, voice low enough that only he can hear. “The place we sat the first time you told me about Brooklyn. By the river.”
His breath leaves him slowly.
“Didn’t think—” he starts, then stops. His jaw tightens. “Didn’t think I’d get anything.”
You shrug lightly, smile gentle. “I can plan surprises too.”
Bucky looks up at you, eyes soft and unreadable for a heartbeat. Then, slowly, the corners of his mouth lift. It’s the kind of smile that starts small—almost secretive—but grows, spreading warmth through his whole face, lighting the winter morning in a way snow never could.
“You didn’t have to,” he murmurs, voice thick, almost breaking. His metal fingers trace the edges of the sweater, then linger on the dog tags, as if afraid to let go.
“I wanted to,” you reply, brushing a thumb lightly across the back of his hand. “You always think you don’t deserve anything nice. Well… you do.”
He exhales, a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, and finally pulls you into a careful, lingering hug. Metal presses against warmth, and it feels as though the world has shrunk to this one perfect moment.
“Coordinates, huh?” he says after a beat, pulling back just enough to look at you, eyes glimmering. “I… I remember that spot.”
“Thought you might,” you whisper, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “It seemed fitting.”
Bucky turns the dog tags over in his hand once more, memorizing the weight of them, the meaning pressed into something so simple. He doesn’t say much after that—he never needs to when something matters this much. Instead, he folds the sweater carefully, setting it beside the locket box on the bed like they belong together.
Night settles gently over the compound, the kind that comes wrapped in snowfall and dimmed lights. Most of the team is still clustered in the common room, half-asleep in front of a holiday movie no one’s really watching.
Bucky stands near the window for a moment, watching the snow fall again, slower now, as if it’s tired too.
The sweater is on him—dark gray, soft, worn like it’s always belonged there. The dog tags rest tucked safely beneath it, close enough to feel without being seen. He touches them absently, not because he needs reassurance, but because he can.
Christmas, he thinks, doesn’t feel heavy tonight.
“You’re thinking again,” you say quietly, stepping up beside him.
He glances over, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “That obvious?”
“Only to me.”
He huffs a soft laugh and turns back to the window. “I was just… noticing how quiet it feels.”
“Good quiet or bad quiet?”
“Good,” he answers immediately. Then, after a beat, adds, “The kind that doesn’t ask for anything.”
You lean your shoulder against his arm. “Christmas did its job, then.”
“Guess it did.” He tilts his head toward you. “You okay? Nat didn’t scare you too badly earlier?”
You smile. “I think she enjoys chaos a little too much.”
“Yeah,” he says fondly. “But she meant well.”
There’s a pause—comfortable, unhurried.
“I keep expecting it to feel temporary,” he admits softly. “Days like this.”
You look up at him. “And does it?”
He shakes his head. “No. That’s the strange part.”
After a moment, you murmur, “Next year, we should build a better snowman.”
He chuckles under his breath. “Hey. Ours had character.”
“It leaned.”
“So do I,” he says, nudging you gently. “Guess we match.”
You laugh quietly, and he smiles—really smiles, the kind that reaches his eyes.
The lights dim one by one until the compound settles into shadow, the hum of generators and distant laughter fading into something barely there.
Bucky doesn’t move away when you turn toward him. Instead, he opens his arm without looking, instinctive, like he already knows where you belong. You tuck yourself against his side, his sweater warm beneath your cheek, the steady rise and fall of his breathing grounding in the quiet.
His metal hand rests over yours, thumb brushing slow, absent strokes across your knuckles.
“You warm?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “You?”
He hums, thoughtful. “I think so.” Then softer, “I always am when you’re here.”
Summary: You and Bucky get the whole compound to yourselves. Being a secretly-in-love couple, you do the obvious thing: decorate the entire place for Christmas.
A/N: this can be read as a standalone even though it's part of a series called "You Said What". it doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13, part 14, part 15, part 16, part 17, part 18, part 19, part 20, part 21. thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)
The compound had been loud yesterday.
Not busy loud—Sam Wilson loud.
“You two are not slick.”
Sam had said it from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, wings jacket draped over one shoulder, eyes bouncing between you and Bucky with open accusation.
Bucky had been leaning against the counter, too close. You’d been handing him a mug, your fingers brushing like they always did. Comfortable. Automatic.
Sam scoffed. “Don’t even try it. I leave for one mission and suddenly you’re making eyes like this is a rom-com.”
Bucky hadn’t even denied it. He’d just taken the mug and said, flat as anything, “You’re dramatic.”
“I’m observant,” Sam shot back. “And I just wanna be clear—while I’m gone? No funny business.”
You raised a brow. “Define funny.”
Sam pointed at you. Then at Bucky. “That. Whatever that is.”
“We’re adults,” Bucky said, taking a sip of his coffee with a casual shrug. “Just two friends... sharing some time off. Nothing to see here.”
Sam groaned. “I don’t care. I will be watching. From the sky. From satellites. Spiritually.”
You laughed. “Sam, you won’t even be in the same time zone.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said seriously. “I’ll know. The vibes will be off.”
Bucky muttered, “He’s ridiculous.”
“I can hear you,” Sam said, grabbing his bag. He paused at the door, then glanced back, pointing a warning finger. “Behave.”
Bucky met his stare evenly. “No promises.”
Sam stared at him for a long second, then shook his head. “I knew it. This is why I don’t like leaving you unsupervised.”
The door had closed behind him with a dramatic slam.
And now—
The compound feels unnaturally quiet.
You wake up to it slowly, surfacing from sleep with the disorienting sense that something is off. No clatter of cutlery from the kitchen. No half-formed argument drifting down the hallway about whose turn it is to take out the trash. No Sam blasting old-school R&B at nine in the morning because he “works best with a beat.”
Nothing.
Just silence so complete it almost rings.
Everyone had left last night—scattershot deployments, emergency recon, Tony somehow being dragged into a holiday conference he called “a bureaucratic nightmare designed by people who hate joy.” You remember him shouting at FRIDAY about jet routes sometime around two in the morning. Steve left early. Even Bruce had been summoned to a lab.
And now… somehow… through logistics, luck, and maybe Natasha’s quiet intervention… you and Bucky are the only two left behind.
You stretch under the covers, half-asleep—
When you feel it.
That prickle.
That presence.
Your eyes snap open.
Bucky Barnes is standing just inside your room, frozen like he’s been caught halfway through an apology he hasn’t decided how to say yet. One hand is braced on the doorframe, the other hanging uselessly at his side. He looks… awkward. Caught. Very aware that you are now awake.
You blink once.
He blinks harder.
“You—” Your voice cracks, still thick with sleep. “Did you just sneak in here?!”
“I knocked,” he says immediately.
“No, you didn’t.”
“I knocked mentally,” he tries again, far too calm.
You push yourself up on your elbows, glaring at him. “That’s not a thing.”
“You didn’t answer.”
“So your solution was to break in?”
He opens his mouth to argue—then stops when his eyes drift, just slightly to the tiny Christmas tree on your nightstand.
You watch the exact moment his focus derails.
His brow furrows. His head tilts. His attention narrows like he’s tracking something important.
“…Is that blinking?” he asks quietly.
“Yes,” you say, suspicious now. “It’s a Christmas tree.”
“Huh.”
He steps closer without seeming to realize he’s doing it, boots silent against the floor. He leans in, studying the lights like they’re a puzzle. One blinks faster than the others. He squints at it.
Then, very carefully, like he’s afraid it might explode—
He picks it up.
You stare at him.
He stares at the tree.
The lights cast soft halos of color across his face—reds, greens, a warm gold shimmer along the edge of his cheekbone. He clears his throat and gently sets the tree back on your nightstand, metal fingers lingering on the little star topper like he’s making sure it’s steady.
You push the blankets aside and sit up, your sweater slipping off one shoulder. Bucky’s eyes flick down—just for a second—before he forces them back to your face.
His gaze lingers on the little tree long after he’s set it back down.
His voice goes soft.
“You like Christmas, huh?” he asks.
You shrug, suddenly self-conscious under the weight of his attention. “It’s cozy.”
He hums quietly, like that answer confirms something for him. His eyes trace the room—not in his usual guarded way, but gently. The extra blanket folded at the foot of the bed. The mug on your nightstand from last night. The tree, slightly crooked now from being handled.
“You should see how your face lights up when you look at it,” he says.
You scoff, heat rushing to your cheeks. “You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m not,” he says immediately, almost offended by the suggestion. “It’s like… the whole room changes.”
That does something dangerous to your chest.
He sits at the edge of your bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. The metal of his left hand catches the glow of the lights as it comes to rest lightly on your knee—not possessive, not tentative either. Just there. Grounding.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
The compound hums faintly around you, all empty corridors and powered-down rooms. Too quiet for a place meant to hold so many people. Bucky seems to notice it too—the way his shoulders shift, the way his jaw tightens just slightly, like he’s listening past the silence.
He exhales through his nose.
“Place feels different when it’s like this,” he says. Not asking. Just stating it.
You nod. He glances toward the doorway, then back at the tree, the blinking lights reflected faintly in his eyes. Something clicks behind them—subtle, but you see it happen.
“You know,” he says slowly, like he’s testing the thought as it forms, “this is the only room that looks lived in right now.”
Your brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
He gestures vaguely with his free hand. “Hallways are dark. Common room’s bare. Kitchen’s… depressing.” A pause. “This though?” His thumb shifts slightly against your knee. “This feels warm.”
You swallow.
“And I keep thinking,” he continues, quieter now, “that it shouldn’t just be in here.”
You look at him. Really look at him.
“…Bucky.”
He turns toward you fully then, pulling his hand back just long enough to stand. His hands slip into the pockets of his sweats, posture casual in the way that never quite fools anyone.
“Everyone else is gone,” he says. “Compound’s too big for two people and a sad little tree.”
You huff a small laugh. “Hey. It’s not sad.”
He gives you a look. “It’s brave. But outnumbered.”
Then, softer—earnest in that way that hits you right in the ribs:
“Thought maybe we could fix that.”
Your heart stutters. “Fix… the compound?”
“Decorate it,” he says, like it’s obvious now that he’s said it out loud. “Lights. Garland. Whatever you want. Make it feel less…” He searches for the word, then shrugs. “Empty.”
“You want to decorate the whole place?”
He nods once.
“I want to do something that makes you happy.”
Your stomach flips.
“You’re being sweet,” you say.
He steps closer, eyes dropping to your mouth for the briefest, most dangerous second. His thumb lifts, brushing along your jaw like he’s committing the feel of you to memory.
“I’m always sweet,” he murmurs. “Just only for you.”
Before you can kiss him—before you can reach up and pull him down by the collar—he presses a soft, deliberate kiss to your forehead.
“Get dressed,” he says, already turning toward the door. “I’ve got a plan.”
You find Bucky in the common room twenty minutes later—barefoot, sleeves bunched at his elbows, and surrounded by more decorations than you even knew Stark kept on-site.
“You raided storage?” you ask, stunned.
He holds up a box of lights like a trophy.
“Tony labeled this ‘emotional support Christmas.’ Seemed important.”
You snort.
He beams.
Then he tosses you a strand of lights.
The two of you spend the next hour stringing lights around the massive windows. Every time you go on your tiptoes, Bucky steadies you by the waist—even when you don’t need it.
“Buck, I’m not gonna fall.”
“I’m ensuring stability,” he argues, hands warm on your hips.
“You’re touching me for no reason.”
He leans down, brushing his lips against your ear.
“There’s always a reason.”
You nearly drop the garland.
He chuckles, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek like that’s not enough to melt bone.
The tree takes longer than it should.
Not because it’s complicated—but because Bucky keeps stopping.
You’re fluffing branches, tugging plastic needles into something that almost passes for real, when you notice he’s gone quiet behind you. You glance over your shoulder.
He’s standing there, one hand bracing the trunk, the other hovering uncertainly over a branch like he’s afraid of doing it wrong.
“You okay?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he says quickly. Then, softer, “Just… wanna do it right.”
That makes your chest ache in the best possible way.
You step closer, guiding his hand to the branch you were fixing. “Just spread it out. Like this.”
He watches you instead of the tree. Watches the way your fingers move, careful and practiced. When he mirrors you, his touch is slow, deliberate—too focused for something as silly as fake pine.
“Looks good,” you murmur.
He nods, lips pressing together in quiet satisfaction.
You start with the lights.
You hand him one end of the tangled string and take the other, circling the tree in opposite directions. Halfway through, the lights flicker on—warm white, soft and steady.
Bucky stops short.
“Oh,” he breathes.
The lights reflect in his eyes, catching on the metal of his arm. He looks… stunned. Like he forgot things could be gentle.
You smile at him. “You like it?”
He nods once. “Yeah. I really do.”
When you move to hang the first ornament, he hesitates again.
“Can I?” he asks, gesturing vaguely.
You hand it to him. “Be my guest.”
He turns it over in his palm—a simple glass bulb, red and gold—then carefully hooks it onto a sturdy branch. He steps back, tilts his head, adjusts it a fraction of an inch.
“There,” he says.
You grin. “You’re taking this very seriously.”
“I know,” he admits. “Feels important.”
One ornament turns into five. Then ten. You pass them back and forth, your hands brushing every time. He insists on spacing them evenly; you deliberately mess it up just to watch him fix it.
“You’re impossible,” he mutters, but he’s smiling.
When you reach for a higher branch, he’s already there.
“I got you,” he says, hands firm at your waist as he lifts you easily. Your breath stutters—not from the height.
“Bucky—”
“Hold still,” he murmurs, steadying you. “Don’t wanna drop you.”
You hang the ornament, fingers shaking just a little.
When he sets you back down, he doesn’t let go right away.
The tree glows behind you now, full and warm, lights humming softly. For a moment, you both just stand there, breathing each other in.
You step back together to look at it.
Bucky exhales, slow and satisfied, like he’s letting go of something he didn’t realize he’d been holding all morning.
“We did good,” he says.
You glance at him, smiling. “You’re proud.”
“Yeah,” he admits, easy and unguarded. “Kinda am.”
He reaches for you automatically, arm sliding around your waist like muscle memory. He tucks you in closer, chin resting on the top of your head.
“Looks right,” he murmurs.
You smile. “High praise from Sergeant Barnes.”
He huffs a soft laugh, the vibration of it warm against you. “Means somethin’ from me.”
You stand there for a while, not rushing anything. The lights hum. The compound is quiet in that late-morning way, peaceful instead of empty.
His thumb traces slow, absent circles at your hip.
“Looks like you,” he murmurs.
You blink. “What?”
“Warm,” he says simply. “Makes the whole place feel better.”
Your chest aches.
He turns, cups your cheek with his metal hand—gentle, familiar now—and presses a soft kiss there. Not playful. Not surprising. Just… natural. Like breathing.
You smile, leaning into his touch. “You did this.”
“We did,” he corrects quietly.
He stays close, arm around your waist as you both stand there a moment longer, watching the lights blink like they’re keeping time with your heartbeats.
“So,” he says gently. “What’s next?”
You grin, already reaching for another box of decorations. “Stockings.”
He groans fondly. “I knew you were gonna say that.”
You decorate stockings for each Avenger. He writes “Mr. Bird (Sam)” on one, biting back a grin.
“It’ll trigger him,” you warn.
“I know,” he says proudly.
You both laugh so much it feels like a real holiday for the first time in years.
He follows you everywhere he doesn’t need to.
Touches your waist every time he passes behind you.
Fixes the ends of your sweater when they flip up.
Steals little kisses whenever you’re close enough.
It feels domestic in a way that’s almost unreal.
At one point, when you’re bent over checking a box, he comes up behind you, rests his chin on your shoulder, and says quietly:
“Y’know… it’s nice. Just us.”
You don’t move. “You like it?”
He makes a tiny approving sound, nudging his nose against your cheek.
“Feels like real life. Like—if things were normal. Like maybe this would be our place.”
Your heart squeezes painfully tight.
You turn your head, brushing your lips against his.
“And what would normal Bucky Barnes do next?”
His smile goes slow and hungry.
“This.”
He kisses you.
Not rushed.
Not secret.
Not stolen between missions or hidden in supply closets.
A real kiss.
A warm one.
The kind that makes your knees soften and your fingertips curl into his shirt.
When he finally pulls away, he whispers into your mouth—
“Think I’m fallin’ for you worse every day.”
You barely have time to breathe before he kisses you again.
When you pull back, your fingers catch something at the bottom of the box. It’s the mistletoe, delicate and forgotten, and for a moment, the world seems to pause—just long enough for your laughter to mingle with his.
It’s ridiculous—plastic, slightly crooked, tied with a red ribbon that’s seen better days.
You shake it gently. “Mistletoe.”
“So if someone stands under it—” He says, his eyes narrowing.
“They’re supposed to kiss.”
“Supposed to,” he repeats, thoughtful.
You step closer, lifting it above his head. “Guess that means—”
He gently catches your wrist.
Not stopping you. Just… steadying.
“Hang on,” he says quietly. “We gotta do this right.”
You blink. “Do what right?”
“We should hang it first. Where d’you want it?” he asks.
You tilt your head, considering. “Somewhere we’ll actually walk under it.”
He hums, already scanning the room like he’s mapping an op. After a second, he stretches up and hooks it just beneath the doorway between the lounge and the hall—low enough that you couldn’t miss it.
He steps back, checks it, adjusts it a fraction of an inch.
“There,” he says. “Perfect.”
You laugh softly. “You’re taking this very seriously.”
“Traditions matter,” he replies easily.
You take two steps without thinking—
And then you’re under it.
You feel it before you see it—his presence, warm and close. He tilts his head up, notices the mistletoe, then looks back at you.
A slow smile spreads across his face.
“Well,” he murmurs. “Would you look at that.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Guess we’re stuck.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, stepping closer. “Real shame.”
His hands come to your waist, thumbs brushing small, absentminded circles. He leans in, forehead touching yours.
He smiles—soft, fond, completely yours—and kisses you.
It’s not rushed. Not hungry. Just warm and slow, like a punctuation mark at the end of a good sentence. His thumb brushes your jaw the way it always does when he’s content.
When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.
“Might need to keep that up all day,” he says quietly.
“You’re such a dork”
“You love it.”
You do.
“But... we need rules,” he says, voice low and very serious.
You glance at him. “Rules?”
“Holiday rules,” he clarifies. “Mistletoe rules. Non-negotiable. Codified. Established centuries ago.”
You grin. “I think you mean ‘made up in the last five minutes.’”
“Wrong,” he says, tilting his head. “Tradition dictates: if two people pass under mistletoe, a kiss is required. No exceptions. No excuses.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “So you’re saying you get to kiss me anytime we walk under it?”
He frowns in faux solemnity. “I’m saying I must. It’s the law. Enforced by the…uh…Holiday Council.”
You bite back a laugh. “The Holiday Council? Is that in your official Bucky Barnes rulebook?”
“Very official,” he assures, nodding like he’s referencing some top-secret document. “Violations result in…uh…additional kisses as penalty.”
You roll your eyes, but your heart is melting. “And what if I just, you know…duck?”
He raises an eyebrow, mock horror on his face. “Attempted evasion? That’s a Class B offense. Minimum sentence: one long, thorough kiss with tongue, optional cheek cuddles afterward.”
You can’t stop the laugh that bursts out of you. “You’re ridiculous.”
He shrugs, grin tugging at his mouth. “Ridiculous? Maybe. But also completely committed to holiday justice.”
You step under the mistletoe on purpose this time. “Alright then, Judge Barnes. Sentence me.”
He doesn’t hesitate. Hands at your waist, lips pressing to yours. Slow, lingering, soft—warm in a way that makes your knees feel weak.
When he finally pulls back, just enough to smirk down at you, he whispers:
“See? Upholding tradition, saving the holidays, making sure no one cheats the system. All in a day’s work.”
You can only laugh and kiss him again, because some rules—especially Bucky Barnes’ holiday rules—are worth breaking…or following, whichever way it works out.
By the end of the day, the tree is fully lit, garland perfectly draped, and the room smells faintly of pine and cinnamon from the tiny candles you’d set out. You’re both tired, limbs sore from untangling lights and balancing on stools, but grinning like idiots.
“I have an idea,” Bucky says, voice low and mischievous.
You look at him, suspicious. “I’m listening.”
He disappears into the storage closet for a moment and returns with every blanket and throw pillow he could find. “Trust me.”
“Should I be worried?”
“Only if you hate fun.”
He starts piling blankets and soon, you have a cozy little fort big enough for both of you, the glow from the tree seeping through the fabric like a soft sunset.
“There,” he says, sitting inside first and patting the space next to him. “Come here, soldier. You earned it.”
You crawl in beside him, the blankets soft around you. He hands you a steaming mug of cocoa, marshmallows bobbing on top. You sip slowly, letting the warmth spread through your fingers and chest.
“Christmas Eve vibes,” Bucky says, sprawled beside you with cocoa in hand.
You laugh. “Feels like we’re twelve.”
He shrugs, grin soft. “Twelve-year-old us would be proud.”
You cuddle close. Warm, quiet, safe. You glance at him, smile tugging at your lips. “I could get used to this.”
“Good,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. “’Cause I plan on making it a tradition.”
The fort is warm, the tree lights blink lazily, and outside, the compound is quiet. Inside, it feels like a little world of your own. Bucky leans down, brushing his lips against yours in a gentle, lingering kiss. Not hurried, not secret, just quiet and real. You sigh against him, letting the weight of the day melt away.
At some point—somewhere between the last sip of cocoa and Bucky absentmindedly tracing circles into your back—you drift off. It isn’t planned. There’s no discussion, no “we should probably—” Just warmth, soft lights bleeding through blankets, and the steady rise and fall of his chest under your cheek.
You shift just a little—and Bucky tightens his arm automatically, pulling you closer with a quiet, unconscious sound in the back of his throat. His chin dips, resting more securely on the top of your head. He’s out. Completely.
You’re still smiling when—
“You know,” a voice says lightly, from far too close, “I leave you two alone for one day…”
Your soul leaves your body.
You jerk upright with a strangled gasp, smacking your head lightly into the fort ceiling. The blankets ripple. Light floods in as a corner shifts.
Bucky startles awake instantly.
His arm tightens reflexively, his body going rigid beneath you as his eyes snap open, sharp and disoriented. “What—?” His gaze darts around, already assessing. “Did something—?”
Natasha is crouched just outside the fort.
Arms folded. Head tilted. Expression somewhere between smug and deeply entertained.
“…Oh my god,” you groan, dropping your face into your hands.
Bucky blinks once.
Twice.
Then his eyes land on Natasha.
There’s a long, silent beat.
“…You could’ve knocked,” he says finally, voice rough with sleep.
She raises an eyebrow. “I did. You didn’t answer. Probably because you were, let me check my notes—” her eyes flick pointedly to the blankets, the pillows, the way you’re very clearly tangled together, “—passed out in a Christmas-themed cuddle bunker.”
You peek through your fingers. “Please don’t call it that.”
“I absolutely will,” she says cheerfully. “This is… aggressively adorable.”
Bucky exhales and scrubs a hand down his face, shoulders loosening as the adrenaline fades. He glances down at you, still half-curled against him, then back at her.
“…We were tired.”
“Mhm.” Natasha’s smile sharpens. “And the fort?”
You mumble, “Morale.”
Natasha’s gaze flicks pointedly to the way Bucky’s hand is splayed over your waist, fingers curved like he fell asleep mid-claim.
“You know,” she continues, taking a sip, “if Fury could see you right now, he’d revoke both your intimidating reputations.”
Bucky squints at her. “It’s early.”
“It’s noon.”
You groan softly into his chest. “Why are you back already?”
Natasha shrugs one shoulder. “Mission wrapped up faster than expected. Turns out the intel was wrong, the target was already gone, and the local Christmas market was tragic.” She shudders dramatically. “I came home to recover emotionally.”
Her eyes flick back to the fort. The blankets. The tree lights still glowing softly. You. Bucky. Tangled together like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Natasha clicks her tongue thoughtfully.
“Mm. But don’t worry,” she says, waving a hand like she’s dismissing a concern that doesn’t exist. “No need to be disappointed. I’m not ruining your Christmas honeymoon.”
You choke on a laugh.
“Our what?” you manage.
Bucky’s head snaps up a little faster this time. “It’s not a—” He glances down at the blankets. At your legs tangled with his. At the way his arm is fully wrapped around you. “…Okay, maybe it looks like one.”
Natasha grins, utterly delighted. “If this isn’t a honeymoon phase, I don’t know what is.”
You bury your face back into Bucky’s chest, mortified and laughing at the same time. “We are not on a honeymoon.”
“Mmhmm,” she hums. “And I’m not judging. I’m supporting.” She gestures to herself.
“By the way” she says casually. “You two gonna tell me why the compound looks like Santa threw up?”
You peek up at her. “Bucky discovered Christmas decorations.”
“Ah,” she nods. “That explains the stockings labeled in his handwriting.”
Bucky grimaces. “You saw those?”
“I saw Mr. Bird (Sam),” she says. “I took pictures.”
You laugh into his chest again. He groans.
“You’re evil.”
“Festively,” she corrects. “Anyway, I’m going to the kitchen. Try not to be too disgustingly in love while I’m gone.”
She stands, stretching, then pauses and looks back at you both.
“…Seriously though,” she adds lightly. “Don’t rush. You look good like this.”
Then she’s gone, boots retreating down the hall, whistling faintly.
The silence settles again—but this time, it’s warm.
“Christmas honeymoon,” he says against your hair. “Kinda like the sound of that.”
You tilt your head just enough to look up at him. “Don’t you dare encourage her.”
Too late.
You can hear Natasha’s voice from the kitchen “To love, domestic bliss, and not making eye contact when things get too cute.”
The tree lights blink softly.
Bucky presses a lazy kiss to your temple.
A few days later, the familiar hum of the Quinjet landing shakes you awake. Peeking out the window, you see Sam hopping out, ridiculously chipper for someone who just returned from a week-long mission. He’s practically bouncing.
Bucky is already up, casually sipping coffee in the kitchen. He glances at you with a sly little smirk that says, Operation Sam Reacts.
The moment Sam steps inside the compound, his jaw drops. “What… the—?”
The lounge is a glittering, over-the-top winter wonderland. Twinkling lights snake across every surface, garlands hang with alarming symmetry, stockings hang with suspicious precision, and the Christmas tree is glowing like it just stepped out of a magazine. There’s even a plate of tiny gingerbread men strategically placed in front of the couch, each wearing a little felt scarf.
Sam freezes, blinking at it all. “Did… Santa explode in here?”
You pop up from behind the counter, hands raised innocently. “Oh! Hey, Sam! Welcome back!”
He spins toward you, eyes wide. “Who… who did this?!”
Bucky strolls into the room casually, stretching like he has no idea what chaos just hit the compound. “Big surprise,” he mutters deadpan, completely nailing the ‘I have no clue’ routine.
Sam narrows his eyes at both of you. “Don’t even think about lying.”
You tilt your head, the picture of innocence. “We didn’t do it,” you say. “Nat did. Totally her idea. She… had a vision, apparently.”
Bucky nods solemnly. “Yep. I think she even brought candy canes from the store. Very serious about the aesthetic.”
Sam squints at you both. “Nat? Really? Natasha Romanoff, the world’s most efficient spy, spent hours decorating the compound, with stockings in every room and a tree that looks like it’s straight out of a department store catalog?”
You shrug innocently. “She’s… very into cozy vibes.”
Bucky leans against the counter, smirking at the mental image of Sam trying to process this. “I guess it was some kinda of morale boosting,”
“Morale boosting?” Sam repeats, incredulous. He slowly circles the room, inspecting every detail like it’s a crime scene. He stops at the stockings. “Mr. Bird? Really?”
Bucky smirks. “I take pride in my work.”
Sam narrows his eyes at both of you. “So you did that?.”
“I helped. Just lending a hand here and there. You know, holiday spirit.”
Sam groans dramatically, “I need a drink. Or twelve. Or maybe just… to leave and never come back.”
You laugh, leaning into Bucky. “Welcome home, Sam. We saved the holidays for you too.”
Sam stalks through the lounge like he’s defusing a bomb. He pokes a Garland and looks at you both, suspicion written all over his face. “I swear, if you two are behind this—”
“We’re not!” you interrupt immediately, spinning on your heel to point at a particularly glittery wreath. “Nat’s masterpiece. All hers.”
“Yeah. Totally. We would never lie about decking the halls.” Bucky raises his coffee cup like a peace offering. “Honestly… it’s pretty impressive. I kinda wish I’d done it myself.”
Sam glares, still unconvinced, but then his lips twitch into a smile. “Fine. But one day, I’m going to find out the truth. And when I do…”
You and Bucky exchange a glance that says we are so going to get away with this forever.
“…You two are in so much trouble,” he finishes.
Sam wanders through the lounge, stopping to sniff the cocoa mugs like a man discovering magic. You and Bucky watch him, hearts a little warmer, smiles a little wider, quietly enjoying your secret victory—and each other.
As Sam finally leaves, laughing to himself, a shadow falls over you. Natasha steps out from behind the counter, arms crossed, a deadly smirk on her face.
“You owe me,” she says, voice low but amused.
Bucky leans into you, whispering with a grin, “Worth it.”
brb thinking about reader and Bucky from the You Said What universe playing the newlywed game (either for a mission or for shits and gigs on game night with the team) and NAILING IT bc duh they know each other so well. Until they miss a couple EASYYYYY ones and they both freeze and are like wtf but then later they’re both kinda mushy about it bc “I love that I get to keep learning things about you, I can’t wait to keep growing and learning about you for the rest of our lives”
omg STOP this is the cutest visual ever 😭💗 you get them SO well it makes my heart ache in the best way. thank you for sharing it with me. btw I’d love to use this in a future chapter if that’s okay!
A/N: this can be read as a standalone even though it's part of a series called "You Said What". it doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13, part 14, part 15, part 16, part 17, part 18, part 19, part 20. thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)
The compound kitchen is already warm when you start cooking in the early afternoon, sunlight spilling through the tall windows and turning the countertops gold. It’s quiet in that heavy, peaceful way you’ve come to adore—like the whole place is holding its breath while you prepare a holiday meant for noise.
You volunteered. Which had immediately earned you three responses:
1. Tony cheering like a man freed from oven duties,
2. Sam asking if you’d lost a bet,
3. Natasha staring at you with quiet, suspicious approval.
And then Bucky had smiled. Softly. Like you’d handed him the whole holiday yourself.
Now, you’ve been chopping, marinating, seasoning, mixing—lost in the rhythm—when a familiar warmth slides against your back, an unmistakable chest pressing flush between your shoulder blades.
“You need help,” Bucky murmurs, voice so low it vibrates through you before it ever reaches your ears.
You don’t turn around at first. You don’t have to.
“I didn’t ask for help.”
“Didn’t say you did.” His hands come around you anyway, both settling on the counter next to yours. “Just said you need it.”
You huff a laugh. “Bucky. You can’t just climb into the kitchen every time I touch a spatula.”
“Yes, I can.”
He says it like a vow.
You try to fight your smile. You fail. Badly. When you finally turn, he’s already leaning down just a little, like your faces have gravity.
You elbowed him lightly. “You were supposed to be distracting Thor so he’d stop asking if he could ‘summon lightning to crisp the turkey.’”
“He left,” Bucky said. “Said something about meditating on the balcony and listening to holiday music. Which was actually AC/DC, if you’re curious.”
Before you could respond, Natasha leaned her shoulder against the doorway, arms crossed, the slyest smile on her face.
“Barnes,” she called casually, “if you’re going to sneak into the kitchen every five seconds, at least put an apron on. You’re shedding emotionally all over the food.”
He rolled his eyes but grabbed the nearest apron anyway.
“The ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron? Very subtle” Natasha says calmly,
Bucky glances at the apron, then at her. “It was the first one I saw.”
Natasha hums, unconvinced and steps forward, stealing a carrot from the chopping board. “Let me know if you need backup.”
Then, with the subtlest wink to the both of you, she’s gone.
You glance at Bucky, grinning. “So… do I have to actually kiss the cook, or is it more of a suggestion?”
Bucky shrugs, looking a little sheepish under the apron. “I mean… the apron does make it sound mandatory.”
You laugh, reaching over to tug gently at the fabric. “Well, I guess I better follow orders then.”
He smirks, leaning in just close enough for his voice to be soft in your ear. “Good. I was hoping you’d volunteer.”
You giggle, leaning into him for just a second, and he chuckles softly, lingering close as if reluctant to pull away.
After a beat, he tilts his head, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear with the most unnecessary gentleness known to mankind. “What are you making?”
“Sweet potato casserole.”
“Sweet potatoes?” He makes a face. “Didn’t we suffer enough in the 40s?”
You smack his chest lightly. “Not everything is a war flashback.”
“Those potatoes were,” he says. Then he leans in—slowly, softly—and kisses you.
The kind of kiss that steals your breath without taking anything else. Gentle, warm, lingering. His hands come to your waist, pulling you flush against him, his thumb tracing circles over your hipbone like he’s memorizing you.
It’s not a rushed, secretive kiss. It’s a devotional one. The kind that makes you melt straight into him.
And because he knows you, because he hears your breath hitch, he deepens it—just a little—his lips moving with such tenderness you feel it behind your ribs.
Your heart does something stupid in your chest.
“Okay,” you say, nudging him away with a grin you can’t hide. “If you’re staying, chop the onions.”
His eyes narrow. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would.”
He sighs dramatically, but he grabs the knife anyway. “Love is a battlefield,” he mutters.
“And onions are the enemy?”
“They always have been.”
He chops; you stir; he occasionally kisses your shoulder under the guise of reaching for spices. It’s domestic in a way that feels almost too good, too soft, too… normal.
And then Tony bursts in.
“Okay,” Tony says, pointing between you with the energy of a man who already knows he’s right. “Which one of you decided the kitchen needed a romantic tension upgrade? Because wow.”
You jump. Bucky doesn’t. He just keeps chopping as if Tony Stark is background noise.
Tony steps closer, waving his hand dramatically through the air. “Look at this atmosphere. This palpable sappy humidity. I’m sweating feelings in here.”
“I’m literally making gravy,” you say.
“Gravy isn’t that sexy,” Tony fires back.
Bucky coughs. “Disagree.”
Tony claps once. “Aha! See? Adorable.”
But he doesn’t interrogate. Doesn’t linger. Instead, he smirks, whispers, “You two owe me for running distraction outside,” and exits the room as loudly as he entered.
But not without shouting over his shoulder:
“By the way, Rogers is asking who keeps humming love songs in the hallway. I didn’t narc, but maybe stop doing that approximately two doors down from where he exists!”
Bucky’s cheeks flushed instantly.
You nudged him. “You hum?”
“I don’t—” His voice cracked. “—okay, maybe sometimes.”
“Cute.”
Hours pass.
The turkey roasts.
The mash fluffs.
The compound fills with warmth and noise.
Steve drifts through the kitchen twice holding a bowl of something he claims is cranberry sauce but looks like a science experiment. Bruce tries to help but gets distracted by a debate with Vision about molecular gastronomy. Clint steals rolls like it’s a competitive sport.
And Sam?
Sam watches the whole kitchen dynamic with narrowed eyes—not suspicious exactly, just… amused. Curious. Like he knows something is happening, but he’s not sure what. Or if it matters.
He leans into the doorway, arms crossed, taking in the bustling chaos.
“You making enough for a small country?” he asks.
You laugh. “You guys eat like one.”
He points at the counter full of pies. “And these?”
“Stress baking,” you say.
Bucky leans close, whispering just loud enough for Sam to hear, “They’re really good pies.”
Sam shrugs. “Hey, I’m not complaining.” He grabs a spoon and steals a dollop of whipped cream.
He doesn’t leave right away.
He lingers in the doorway, still eating the stolen whipped cream off the spoon like he’s contemplating the mysteries of the universe. His eyes keep bouncing between you and Bucky—then the apron Bucky’s wearing—then back to you.
You can practically see the dots connecting in his head, forming a conspiracy board made entirely of vibes.
He squints.
Hard.
“…Why are you smiling like that?” Sam asks Bucky.
“I’m not smiling,” Bucky lies, while visibly smiling.
Sam points the spoon at him. “Mm-hmm. Okay. Sure. And I’m Beyoncé.”
You try to play it cool. “Sam, you’re imagining things.”
“Oh, am I? Am I?” Sam steps into the kitchen like a detective entering a crime scene. “Because last week, Barnes almost bit my head off for asking him to pass me the salt. But today?” He gestures between you two. “I walk in and he’s wearing a ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron looking like a Hallmark love interest.”
Bucky mutters, “It was the first one I saw.”
Sam raises an eyebrow so high it nearly leaves his face. “Uh-huh.”
But then he leaves.
No interrogation.
No theories.
No claims.
Just Sam being Sam—funny, nosy in the harmless way, absolutely thrilled about free food.
Later, they’re all seated at the table, when Steve stands up, clearing his throat.
He taps his glass with a fork.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
On the fourth tap, Tony snatches the fork from his hand.
“Absolutely not,” Tony says. “We are not doing whatever Boy Scout tradition this is.”
Steve gives him a patient, suffering look. “It’s Thanksgiving. We’re supposed to go around the table and say what we’re grateful for.”
Sam groans dramatically. “Here we go. Rogers is gonna thank the Founding Fathers again.”
“I said that one time,” Steve mutters.
“One time too many,” Tony says.
But Thor claps excitedly. “A warrior’s sharing of gratitude! Yes! I shall begin!”
“No— no, please don’t—” Bruce whispers.
Too late.
Thor stands, all six-foot-a-lot of him, raises his mug like he’s declaring war, and booms, “I am thankful for my mighty friends, this mighty feast, and the mightiest of pies—”
Clint whispers, “Take a shot every time he says ‘mighty.’”
Steve tries again. “Okay, maybe shorter answers—”
Tony stands abruptly. “I’m thankful for noise-canceling headphones, modern medicine, and that no one burned down the kitchen today.”
Natasha goes next. “I’m thankful for not being on dish duty.” Then she looks pointedly at Tony. “Yet.”
Tony sits down, horrified.
Clint raises a roll like a microphone. “I’m thankful for carbs and the fact that none of you caught me taking the corner piece of every pie.”
Vision says something poetic and vaguely confusing about gratitude being a “quantum state of the soul.”
Wanda elbows him. “Just say you like the food.”
“Yes,” Vision nods. “That.”
Then it’s Sam’s turn.
He leans back, arms crossed, smirk forming like it’s stretching into place.
“I’m thankful,” he begins, eyes flicking between you and Bucky, “for the fact that apparently love is alive and well in this compound.”
You choke on air.
Sam continues casually, “I’m also thankful for people who wear ‘Kiss the Cook’ aprons without irony.” Bucky glares at him, cheeks pink.
Sam just smirks wider. “Don’t worry, man. It’s a very romantic look.”
Bucky mutters, “I’m going to throw a roll at you.”
“You won’t,” Sam says confidently. “You’re in a good mood.” Then he winks. “A real good mood.”
Steve tries to salvage the moment. “Okay, everyone, maybe we let them speak for themselves—”
Finally, Bucky’s turn. He swallows, voice low, just loud enough for the table.
“I—I’m thankful for… um…” He hesitates, eyes flicking to you, throat tight, the words on the tip of his tongue so personal they’d make the table pause if he said them.
You reach out, gently touch his hand under the table. He blinks at you, hesitation melting into a small, secretive smile.
“—stuff,” he finishes quickly. “I’m thankful for stuff.”
No one questions it. Sam raises an eyebrow suspiciously but decides it’s best to leave it.
You squeeze Bucky’s hand subtly. He gives a tiny squeeze back, a silent acknowledgment that his “stuff” was really about you—but no one else knows. Not yet.
Sam leans back, satisfied. “This is already the best Thanksgiving ever.”
You take a slow breath, letting the warmth of the room and the mess of the day settle around you. When it’s finally your turn, you smile softly, looking at everyone—at the chaos, at the laughter, at Bucky sitting beside you, warm and steady.
“I’m… thankful,” you say quietly, “for this—” you gesture to the table, the friends, the noise, the love that fills the room, “—and for the people who make it feel like home.”
Bucky’s fingers brush yours under the table. You catch the warmth in his gaze and squeeze his hand just a little. The words are simple, but they mean everything.
Then, as plates are finally set and everyone digs in, dinner is chaos in the most Avengers way possible.
Thor accidentally breaks a chair. Clint and Tony argue about who makes the better stuffing.
And Bucky?
Bucky sits beside you like he didn’t plan it, like fate simply put him there.
Under the table, his knee bumps yours.
Then stays there.
Warm. Steady. Quietly yours.
He passes you dishes first. Cuts your turkey with ridiculous precision. Smiles every time you laugh at something dumb Sam says. You don’t have to touch to feel connected; it’s in the small things, the silent ones.
But the kisses?
Those come after dinner.
When the others migrate to the lounge to argue over which movie counts as a “Thanksgiving classic,” you slip back into the kitchen to put away leftovers.
Bucky follows within seconds.
You open the fridge. “If you’re here to steal stuffing, I swear—”
You don’t finish.
He kisses you instead.
Deep, warm, slow.
His hands cradle your face; yours grab fistfuls of his shirt. You gasp into his mouth, and he smiles into the kiss, pulling you closer, backing you gently against the counter. His nose brushes yours; his breath is warm and sweet with cinnamon.
“You’re amazing,” he murmurs against your lips. “This whole dinner? You made today feel like… home.”
Your heart stutters painfully. “Buck—”
He kisses you again before you can finish.
Softer. Longer.
Like he has all the time in the world.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his hands still cradling your jaw.
“We should get back,” you whisper.
He shakes his head. “They’re arguing about movies. We have at least twenty minutes.”
You laugh, pressing one more kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Fine. But if someone walks in—”
“They won’t.”
“You’re very confident.”
“Natasha is watching the door for us.”
You groan into his chest as he laughs, arms wrapping around you and holding you there—safe, warm, loved—while the sound of your team bickering drifts down the hall.
You both stay there for a moment, just breathing each other in… until it hits you.
“Wait,” you murmur, pushing back slightly. “We forgot dessert.”
Bucky’s eyes light up, a grin spreading across his face. “Dessert?”
“Yes. Dessert,” The thought of chocolate ganache, pie, whipped cream—your favorite—suddenly makes room in your stomach.
The chocolate ganache sat in its bowl, glossy and decadent, practically daring you to dig in. You grabbed a spoon, and Bucky immediately mirrored you, eyes sparkling with that same quiet competitiveness he always got when it came to food—or, apparently, you.
“You’re not sneaking the first bite, are you?” you teased.
“Not a chance,” he said, dipping his spoon in slowly, deliberately, like a warrior preparing for battle.
You both took a bite, and then you smear a little on his cheek. He freezes, eyes wide for a second… then grins, wiping it off with his finger—and just like that, it ends up on your lips.
Before you could react, he flicked a small dollop of ganache onto your nose.
You gasped, then laughed, reaching out to wipe it off—only for him to capture your hand and press it to his chest, leaving chocolate streaks across his shirt. He smirked down at you, eyes glinting in the low kitchen light.
“Impressive technique,” you said, leaning closer, trying not to laugh.
“Years of practice,” he replied smoothly, fingers brushing a streak of chocolate from your lip. Your heart stuttered at the gentle pressure of his touch.
You retaliated, smearing whipped cream across his chin this time, and he groaned dramatically, licking it off with exaggerated care. “Fine,” he said, “you win this round.”
He leaned closer, and you could smell the faint trace of cinnamon lingering from earlier, mixed with the chocolate. “You’re too sweet,” he murmured, just brushing his lips against yours—quick, feather-light, impossible to resist. “I like dessert best when it comes with a side of you,” he said, leaning in again, this time pressing a kiss that was soft, lingering, tasting faintly of chocolate and warmth.
You roll your eyes but can’t stop smiling. Soon it becomes a playful little game: whipped cream on noses, chocolate on fingers, fingers brushing against each other, laughter echoing softly in the quiet kitchen.
At one point, you tried to step back to grab a clean napkin—but Bucky was already behind you, hands on your waist, leaning just enough that you felt entirely encased in warmth.
“You’re making it hard to focus on the food,” you whispered, smirking.
“I have… priorities,” he said, pressing a gentle kiss behind your ear that made you shiver.
By the time you finally settle down, you’re a little messy, a little chocolatey, and entirely, completely happy—dessert, laughter, and Bucky all in one perfect moment.
Later, when the kitchen is clean and the team is yelling about whether Die Hard counts as a holiday movie, you and Bucky finally rejoin them.
Sam eyes the two of you, ignoring the chocolate streaks across Bucky's shirt.
Not suspicious this time.
Not skeptical.
Just smiling—easy, entertained, warm.
“You two took long enough,” he says. “Come on. Thor wants team votes.”
And just like that, the world sweeps you both back up. Together. Quietly. Secretly. Perfectly.
Later that night your room is dark except for the soft glow of the moon leaking through the curtains, brushing everything in silver. The compound is finally quiet—no Thor booming at the TV, no Sam yelling about someone eating the last slice of pie, no Clint and Tony arguing over the thermostat.
It’s peaceful.
Almost too peaceful.
You’ve just slipped into bed, warm under the blankets, exhaustion settling into your bones after hours of cooking, laughing, cleaning—and kissing Bucky in a kitchen that smelled like cinnamon and secrets.
You’re stretched out, about to drift off, when you hear it.
A soft click.
Barely audible.
But unmistakable.
Your door.
Opening.
Your heartbeat jumps, then immediately settles—because you know exactly who would dare sneak into your room at 1:17 a.m. with the stealth levels of a mildly polite cat burglar.
“Buck?” you whisper into the dark.
There’s a rustle, a quiet thud, and then—
“Shh,” he whispers back, completely unnecessarily, before promptly tripping over your shoes.
You sit up, biting down a laugh.
“Doing great so far.”
“I’m light on my feet,” he mutters, closing the door behind him with exaggerated care. “Shadow of the night.”
“Shadow of the night doesn’t usually swear that loudly when stepping on a sneaker.”
“It was a tactical miscalculation.”
You giggle, and he freezes at the sound—like it’s the only thing in the room worth hearing.
Then he’s beside your bed, standing over you, entirely too handsome in a black T-shirt, hair loose from its tie, moonlight catching along his jaw like the universe did it on purpose.
“What are you doing here?” you whisper, though your body already leans into him instinctively.
He doesn’t answer right away.
He climbs onto the bed instead—slowly, deliberately—placing one knee, then the other, caging you in with his arms braced on either side of your waist.
You fall back against the pillows as he settles above you, face inches from yours, eyes warm and soft and unbearably blue.
“I missed you,” he says simply.
“You left my side ten minutes ago.”
“Like I said.” He dips down, brushing his nose against yours. “I missed you.”
You open your mouth to argue, but he kisses you before you can.
The kiss is slow—unhurried, warm, tasting faintly like the apple pie he stole after dinner. His lips move over yours with that familiar tenderness that makes your chest ache in the most addictive way.
Then he shifts, lowering himself until he’s half on top of you, half beside you, head tucked into your neck. One arm curls around your waist, metal fingers smoothing down your spine like he’s memorizing every line.
You feel him inhale deeply, like he’s breathing you in.
“You smelled like cinnamon all day,” he murmurs into your skin, voice muffled, sleepy, honest.
“And you still kept kissing me,” you remind him.
“Couldn’t help it.”
His lips brush your collarbone, soft as a secret.
“You looked so… happy. So warm. I don’t know. I wanted to be close.”
Your hand slides into his hair, fingers threading through soft, dark strands. He melts instantly, muscles loosening, breath settling into something slow and content.
“You can’t keep sneaking in here,” you whisper.
“Yes I can.”
“Bucky.”
He lifts his head enough to look at you, expression unreasonably, devastatingly earnest.
“I just want to sleep next to you,” he says.
Your heart stutters.
You pull him down by the back of his neck and kiss him again. Soft. Slow. Grateful.
He smiles into it—small, real, a little shy.
Then he settles against your chest, arm draped across your waist, legs tangled with yours like he has no intention of going anywhere. He presses one last kiss to your shoulder and closes his eyes. Then, very quietly, almost a whisper:
“Don’t tell Tony I tripped over your shoes.”
You snort. “Absolutely telling Tony.”
“Traitor.”
You laugh again, and he squeezes your waist gently like he’s hugging the sound itself.
His fingers trace lazy circles on your hip. You think he’s half-asleep until his voice breaks the silence, low and rough with hesitation.
“Hey,” he murmurs.
You hum back, running your fingers through his hair.
He lifts his head just enough to look at you—eyes soft, expression almost shy. That alone makes your heart squeeze. Bucky Barnes, shy with you.
“It’s Thanksgiving,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.
You smile. “Mm-hmm.”
“And I know it’s stupid, but uh… there’s something I—something I didn’t get the chance to say today.”
You tilt his chin up gently. “Buck. Nothing you say is stupid.”
He swallows, eyes flickering across your face like he’s trying to memorize every detail in the low moonlight.
Then, very quietly—
“Thank you.”
“For what?” you ask, brushing your thumb along his jaw.
He shifts closer, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing you in like the answer is right in your skin.
“For you,” he says simply. “Just… you.”
Your breath catches.
He continues, voice soft, steady, full of that raw sincerity he only lets you see.
“You made today feel like something good. Something normal. I haven’t had a normal holiday in… God, I don’t even know how long.” His fingers curl gently at your waist. “But today felt warm. Like home. And that’s because of you.”
You feel your chest tighten, emotion rising like a tide.
He hesitates again, then whispers even softer:
“You make the world quieter. For me. You make everything… lighter.”
You cup his face, pulling him closer, and he relaxes instantly—like your touch flips a switch that tells his body it’s safe.
“Bucky…”
You don’t even know what to say. Your heart is too full.
He solves that for you.
He kisses you.
Not hungry or heated—just slow. Reverent. Like thanksgiving made into a touch. His lips move against yours with grateful softness, like a promise in every breath.
When he pulls back, his lips brush yours as he whispers:
“Thank you for letting me love you.”
Your heart practically bursts.
You kiss him again—long, deep, gentle—and his hand slides up your back, pulling you even closer, as if he wants to anchor himself in the moment.
You rest your forehead against his, fingers tangled in his hair.
“I’m thankful for you too,” you whisper. “More than you know.”
Bucky smiles—small, genuine, unguarded—the kind he only shows you.
Then he settles back against your chest, kissing your collarbone before closing his eyes, completely at peace.
And you fall asleep like that—wrapped in warmth, wrapped in him, wrapped in a Thanksgiving gratitude sweeter than any pie downstairs.
i’m good!! sorry for being mia, i’m just trying to survive my finals. college has been kicking my ass BUT i’m posting a very late thanksgiving chapter right now if you guys are still interested. anyway, thank you so much for asking <3
A/N: this can be read as a standalone even though it's part of a series called "You Said What". it doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13, part 14, part 15, part 16, part 17, part 18, part 19 thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)
You were halfway through grumbling into your pillow when someone knocked on your door.
Which was surprising — because Bucky Barnes rarely knocked. He usually just appeared, silent and dramatic, like a ghost who hadn’t realized the war was over.
“Busy?” he asked, already stepping inside before you could answer.
You peeked up from the bed, surrounded by the aftermath of your sugar-fueled despair — candy wrappers scattered everywhere, a lollipop stick tangled in your hair, and, if you were being honest, a slight chocolate smudge on your cheek.
“Emotionally, yes,” you said. “Physically, not really.”
His gaze drifted over the mess, and one brow arched. “That’s a lot of candy wrappers for someone who claimed she didn’t get any last night.”
You groaned, flopping backward into your pillow pile. “That’s because I didn’t. I was busy, remember?”
“Busy doing what?”
You cracked an eye open, giving him a pointed look. “Flirting with you in the darker corner of Tony’s party, Barnes. Hard to grab candy when someone’s stealing all your attention.”
He smiled, slow and a little dangerous — the kind that said he knew exactly what you were doing. “Right. Must’ve slipped my mind.”
“Uh-huh,” you muttered, burying your face again. “Meanwhile, Peter made me answer a physics question just to trade for one KitKat. It was humiliating.”
He chuckled softly. “What was the question?”
“Something about velocity and joy,” you mumbled. “I failed both.”
That earned a low laugh from him, quiet but warm. You were about to tell him to stop enjoying your misery when something landed on the bed beside you.
Then another.
Then three more in quick succession.
You sat up just in time to see him dropping mini chocolate bars onto your blanket like he was feeding pigeons.
“What—?” You blinked at the small mountain forming between your knees. “When did you get all that?”
He gave you an innocent shrug. “When you were walking around bragging about winning the costume contest.”
Your jaw dropped. “You stole candy while I was basking in my glory?”
“Correction,” he said, completely deadpan. “I acquired candy while you were basking in your glory.”
You snorted. “Bucky, there were at least thirty different kinds at that table. Don’t tell me you—”
“Thirty-two,” he said without missing a beat. “I counted.”
You stared. “You counted? You don’t even like candy that much.”
“You like candy. I like you” He leaned against your dresser, arms crossed, his grin all lazy confidence. “Had to make sure I got enough of the ones you like.”
Your brain short-circuited somewhere between enough and you like. “You can’t just say things like that.”
He tilted his head. “Why not?”
“Because you— because it’s— unfair.”
He smirked, pushing off the dresser to stand closer to the bed, his voice dropping low enough to make your pulse skip. “I thought you liked unfair.”
You grabbed a mini Snickers and chucked it at him. He caught it one-handed, laughing under his breath.
“Keep this up,” he said, “and I might start thinking you like me more than the candy.”
“Maybe I just like the candy-thief version of you.”
“That’s still me.”
You tried for a glare, but it didn’t quite land — not with him looking at you like that. Like you were both still in that dim corner at Tony’s party, the world soft and slow and warm around you.
He tossed the Snickers back, gentle this time, so it landed in your lap. “C’mon,” he said, his smile small but genuine. “I’ve got a plan.”
"A plan?"
"You want more candy or what?"
You blinked. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
You’re already suspicious the moment Bucky hands you a duffel bag and says, “You’re not allowed to ask questions. Just trust me and bring lip gloss.”
That’s never a good sign.
Or maybe it is.
Because twenty minutes later, you’re in the garage, standing in front of a reflective window in full Halloween regalia: short purple dress, green scarf, bright tights. You look like someone who belongs in a 1969 cartoon.
And Bucky?
Bucky looks like the hottest knockoff Fred Jones in history. Blond wig (that should’t look so sexy, but somehow it does), a crisp white Henley, blue pants, and an orange ascot tied around his neck like it personally offended him.
He walks over, tugging your scarf straight, then looks you up and down with a very un-Fred-like expression.
“You look ridiculous,” he says softly.
You grin. “And you look like a substitute teacher who moonlights as a yacht salesman.”
He leans in, voice low. “I wore this so I could stand next to you in public and no one would guess.”
You blink. “You think no one’s going to notice this?”
“Who’s gonna assume Fred and Daphne are secretly dating? Everyone knows Fred’s definitely into Velma.”
You pause. “…Fair point.”
He drives you forty minutes out of the city to a random warehouse-turned-bar, a Halloween pop-up with glowing pumpkins, cheap fog machines, and a DJ in a skeleton mask. The place is packed with strangers — college kids, young professionals, total randos.
No Avengers. No cameras. No one who’d recognize you.
For once, you and Bucky get to just exist.
“See?” he says as you step inside. “A party where I’m not the weirdest guy in the room.”
“You’re wearing an ascot and a wig, Barnes. You’re still top ten.”
He rolls his eyes but smiles — that soft, secret smile that’s just for you.
Meanwhile in the compound Sam Wilson is pacing the living room like he’s preparing for war.
“Okay. Here’s what we know. Bucky’s gone. So is she. No one saw them leave. No cameras. No car logs. I’ve checked everything short of bloodhounds.”
Natasha’s on the couch, sipping wine, watching the chaos with the vague disinterest of someone who knows exactly how this ends.
Sam turns on her. “Where are they?”
She raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know. Trick-or-treating?”
“They’re adults!”
“Emotionally? Are you sure?”
Sam ignores her. “They were seen by someone, I know it.”
Natasha sips his drink. “Try Grunwald, the maintenance guy. He’s always lurking around with those binoculars, pretending to check the perimeter. Creepy little perv.”
Sam perks up. “You think he saw them?”
“No,” She says. “But I think if you keep this up, you’re gonna start sounding just like him.”
Tony strolls into the room wearing velvet devil horns and sipping from a martini glass shaped like a skull.
“What’s the drama?” he asks cheerfully.
“Barnes and Y/N snuck out,” Sam says. “Together. No explanation. No trail.”
Tony takes a sip. “You mean the couple in costume?”
Sam freezes. “You saw them?! What were they wearing?!”
Tony waves a hand vaguely. “I dunno. That couple from that animated movie.”
Sam frowns. “...Toy Story?”
Tony nods. “Yeah. Totally. Woody and the girl one.”
“Jessie?”
“Sure.”
“Okay,” Sam begins, “I’ve narrowed it down.”
Sam makes a noise of pure disbelief and practically sprints from the room.
A long silence.
Then Natasha casually looks over her wine glass. “You know they’re dressed as Fred and Daphne, right?”
Tony grins. “Obviously. I saw the ascot. Nearly cried.”
You're slow dancing with Bucky in a dim corner lit by orange string lights. Someone put on a Halloween remix of a love song, and it shouldn’t work, but it does. His hand is on your waist, your forehead is against his chest.
“Why Scooby-Doo?” you whisper.
He shrugs. “You love purple. And I like any excuse to call you danger-prone.”
You smack his chest, but your cheeks hurt from smiling.
Bucky leans down, pressing a kiss to your temple.
“This is my favorite Halloween,” he says, voice low. “No press. No parties. Just you. And me. And this stupid ascot.”
You grin. “You love the ascot.”
He groans. “I’m never living this down.”
You kiss him again anyway.
You’re still tucked against Bucky, swaying in your little bubble of orange string lights and synthy love song remixes, when someone bumps into you hard enough to spill your drink.
Bucky steadies you instantly, but his jaw ticks. Too many people. Too much noise. You can already feel the mood shifting.
He leans down, lips brushing your ear. “Come on. Fresh air.”
You nod, grateful.
He grabs your hand — discreet, but firm — and pulls you through the crowd, out a side door, and into the alley behind the warehouse.
The night air hits your skin like a sigh. It’s cooler here, quiet except for the thump of bass leaking through the brick walls and the distant sound of traffic. A string of fairy lights hangs above the back door, flickering like old Christmas decorations.
You both sit on the curb, your knees brushing. Bucky pulls a tiny juice box from his jacket pocket like it’s the most normal thing in the world and offers it to you.
You blink. “Is that apple juice?”
He smirks. “I stole two from the bar. I figured you’d need hydration after all the candy theft.”
You take it, still staring. “You’re such a menace.”
He hums, looking out at the quiet street. The orange glow paints warm shadows across his face. He looks soft. Real.
You nudge his shoulder gently. “You’re doing great.”
He turns to you, eyes soft. “Only 'cause you're here.”
You look down at your juice box like it’s suddenly fascinating.
After a moment, he adds, “I used to hate Halloween.”
You glance up. “Why?”
“Too many masks,” he says. “Too many people pretending to be monsters. I didn’t like being reminded I didn’t have to pretend.”
Your chest aches a little. You shift closer, resting your head on his shoulder.
“You’re not a monster, Bucky.”
“I know,” he says, voice low. “You make sure I remember.”
You’re quiet for a while. Cars go by in the distance. Someone screams inside — probably from the haunted maze. You can still hear the music.
Then Bucky shifts, reaching into his jacket again. He pulls out a tiny packet of candy corn and offers it solemnly.
You take it, trying not to smile.
“This your way of saying thank you?” you ask.
“No,” he says. “That’s my way of saying I sat through a party (again), wore an ascot, and danced in public. I deserve a medal.”
You grin. “You’ll settle for candy corn?”
He looks at you, eyes bright. “I’ll settle for this.”
And he leans in, kissing you slow and soft, the kind of kiss that tastes like sugar and safety.
You pull back from the kiss, grinning against his mouth. “You know,” you murmur, “for a guy dressed as Fred, you kiss nothing like a cartoon.”
He chuckles, forehead still resting against yours. “That a compliment?”
“Depends,” you say, tugging lightly at the edge of his blond wig. “Is this thing regulation Fred hair or did you raid a discount costume bin?”
Bucky groans as you ruffle it. “Careful. That wig cost Stark thirty bucks.”
“Then he got robbed,” you tease, fingers sliding under the cheap elastic band. The thing practically squeaks when you pull it off. His real hair tumbles free, darker, messier, infinitely more him.
You hold the wig up triumphantly. “There. Now you look like Bucky again and not some rejected boy-band member from 1969.”
He blinks through the sudden freedom, shaking his head like a dog after a bath. “I was getting used to it,” he protests weakly.
“Oh really? Planning to go blond full-time? I can see it now—Bucky ‘Frosted Tips’ Barnes.”
He snorts, snatching the wig from your hand and plopping it onto your head instead. “There. You’re Fred now.”
“Excuse you,” you say, doing your best deep voice, “I do not have the range for leadership or ascots.”
He laughs—really laughs, shoulders shaking, the sound spilling out into the quiet alley. You laugh too, the two of you ridiculous under the flickering fairy lights, your borrowed wig slightly askew.
When the laughter fades, he leans forward, still smiling. “You pull it off better than I did.”
You roll your eyes but your chest feels warm. “Of course I do. Daphne always saves the day.”
He tilts his head. “Thought Fred was the one who came up with the plans.”
“Yeah,” you say softly, nudging him with your shoulder. “But Daphne’s the reason he ever followed through.”
He looks at you for a long moment, the corners of his mouth lifting. “Then I guess I’m in good hands.”
You’re both still laughing when the wig finally slides off your head, landing in Bucky’s lap. He catches it, looks at it, then at you, and shakes his head like he can’t quite believe the night you’ve just had.
He stands and offers you a hand. You take it, and he pulls you up easily. The fairy lights buzz overhead, casting a golden halo around the two of you. For a second, everything feels lighter—like the air itself is smiling.
“Ready to head out?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he says, brushing nonexistent dust from your shoulder before his fingers slip naturally into yours. “Let’s go before you crash from that sugar high.”
You grin, squeezing his hand. “You say that like you didn’t eat three mini Snickers.”
“Four,” he corrects, deadpan.
You both laugh again, the kind of quiet laughter that belongs to people who don’t need words anymore. Then you start walking—back through the alley, around the side of the warehouse, the music fading behind you until all that’s left is the sound of your footsteps and the hum of the city.
You’re halfway back to the car, fingers still warm from holding his, when Bucky abruptly veers off course.
“...The car’s that way,” you say, pointing.
“I know,” he replies casually, tugging you down a side street. “We’re making a stop.”
“You said no questions, but I’ve got one,” you mutter, jogging to keep up. “Are you kidnapping me?”
“No,” he says. “I’m making a seasonal memory.”
You blink. “What does that even—”
But then you see it: a tiny, sad-looking 24-hour pop-up pumpkin patch tucked behind a gas station. Half the pumpkins are already gone, the scarecrows are falling over, and there’s a hand-painted sign that says “HALF-OFF AFTER MIDNIGHT” in aggressively glittery letters.
It is — objectively — tragic.
You love it instantly.
Bucky watches your face and smirks. “Knew it.”
“You dragged me to a gas station pumpkin patch,” you say, hands on your hips. “You know this makes you my favorite person, right?”
He shrugs, fake-casual. “It had good Yelp reviews.”
“Liar.”
“You like pumpkins,” he says simply, stepping through the creaky wooden arch.
The place is empty — just you and Bucky under drooping string lights, half-broken scarecrows, and a crooked wooden sign that says “PUMPKIN PALOOZA!” in glitter paint that’s probably haunted.
The air smells like hay and cider. A chilly breeze tugs at your scarf.
You wander through the patch slowly, kicking at loose straw, pointing out the weirdest pumpkins you can find — one shaped like a kidney, one that looks like it’s melting into the earth. A few are just straight-up chaos: bumps, ridges, war wounds. You love them all.
“That one’s haunted,” you whisper, nudging the melty one with your boot.
Bucky hums. “Definitely cursed.”
He stops at the biggest pumpkin in the patch — massive, misshapen, orange in a way that somehow feels threatening — and crouches down dramatically like he’s about to deadlift a car.
“Don’t,” you say instantly.
He grins. “What? It builds character.”
“It builds hernias.”
“I’ve had worse.”
He lifts it anyway — show-off — then stumbles a step and pretends it’s way heavier than it is. You cross your arms, unimpressed.
“Put the pumpkin down, Barnes.”
“But look at it. It’s the alpha pumpkin. The boss.”
“It’s gonna roll you into traffic.”
Still grinning, he sets it down and dusts off his hands. “Fine. What are you looking for?”
You spin in a circle, scanning the rows like you're trying to spot a soulmate in gourd form.
And then you see it.
Squat. Round. A little lopsided. The color of golden caramel and just small enough to fit perfectly in your hands.
You crouch down and pick it up like it’s delicate.
“This one,” you say softly, running your thumb across the stem. “This one’s mine.”
Bucky walks over and peers at it like a suspicious fruit inspector.
“…That’s a runt.”
“She’s got character.”
He snorts under his breath, but something in his face softens — just a little — when he watches you smile down at the pumpkin like it’s something special.
A few minutes later, while you're distracted trying to stack mini-pumpkins into a pyramid (which, tragically, collapses), Bucky quietly picks one for himself. It's smaller than yours — narrow, a bit flat, with one funny-looking bump on the side. But it fits in his hand like it belongs there.
He doesn’t say anything. Just tucks it under his arm like it’s no big deal.
At the folding table “register” — a cracked calculator, a coffee can labeled “TIPS <3” — you both reach for your wallets at the same time.
“Split it,” you offer.
He drops a crumpled five into the tip jar before you can argue, then takes off running like you’re going to tackle him for it.
You almost do.
You catch up to him by the car, both of you breathless and laughing, straw stuck to your sleeves and hair. You can barely see through the fog on your cheeks from smiling so hard.
The pumpkins ride home between you — yours in the cupholder like a co-pilot, his on the dash where it bobs slightly with every turn.
He doesn’t turn the radio on. Doesn’t need to. The silence between you is warm.
After a while, he glances at you. “So, what’s your pumpkin’s name?”
You think. “Ascot.”
He groans. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”
“Not a chance.”
There’s a pause. Then he nods toward the one on the dash. “Mine’s named Purple Tights.”
You grin at him. “That’s the ugliest name I’ve ever heard.”
“You love it.”
“I do.”
He looks over at you, really looks — eyes soft, thumb brushing your pinkie where your hands rest between the seats. It’s a barely-there touch. But it anchors you more than anything else could.
When the familiar outline of the compound comes into view, Bucky slows, pulling the car to a stop just down the road, half-hidden under a line of trees. He lets the engine idle, headlights dimmed.
You glance over at him. “Why are we stopping? We’re home.”
He doesn’t answer right away — just reaches into the backseat, rummaging through your bag until he finds it. The blond Fred wig.
You laugh. “Oh, no. Don’t you dare.”
He looks entirely too serious as he fits it back over his dark hair, the cheap synthetic curls flopping into his eyes. “Can’t walk in there without the disguise,” he says, completely deadpan. “Might blow our cover.”
You bite your lip, trying not to grin. “Right, because everyone’s totally going to mistake you for Fred Jones and not the six-foot-tall supersoldier with a metal arm.”
“Exactly,” he says, adjusting the wig like it’s tactical gear. “They’ll never suspect a thing.”
You’re giggling now, hands covering your mouth. “You look ridiculous.”
He tilts his head, pretending to think about it. “Ridiculous worked out pretty well tonight.”
Before you can respond, he leans across the console. His voice drops, soft and certain. “Besides,” he murmurs, eyes flicking between yours, “I kinda wanna remember the night just like this.”
And then he kisses you — a quiet, lingering thing that tastes like warmth and laughter and every little moment you didn’t know you’d been waiting for.
When he pulls back, the wig is slightly crooked, and you can’t stop smiling.
“You’re keeping that thing forever, aren’t you?” you whisper.
He smirks, still close enough that you can feel his breath on your cheek. “Disguise of a lifetime, sweetheart.”
You laugh again, shaking your head as he starts the car. The compound gates rise in the distance, lights spilling across the pavement.
And beside you, Bucky Barnes drives on with the blond wig still perched proudly on his head.
You step through the compound’s front door together, your pumpkin swinging lightly in one hand, Bucky’s carrying his smaller one. The soft hum of the security system fades behind you, replaced by the familiar quiet of the hall.
Without a word, Bucky falls into step beside you, his hand brushing against yours. You don’t pull away.
“We’re doing this now?”
“Obviously. We have a tradition to start. Halloween’s not over until we commit a low-level gourd crime.”
He blinks. “…What?”
“Pumpkin-related mischief, Barnes. Keep up.”
You end up sitting on the floor of his room, newspaper spread out between you, your pumpkins balanced between your knees while Bucky reads the back of the carving kit like it’s a bomb manual.
“There are stencils,” he says, suspiciously.
You snatch them from him. “We’re free carving. We’re artists.”
“You’re going to cut yourself.”
“Then you’ll have to kiss it better.”
He glances up sharply. You don’t take it back.
You start scooping out the insides of the pumpkin, dramatically gagging every time you pull out a slimy handful of guts.
“I feel like I’m performing surgery on a muppet,” you groan.
Bucky chuckles, fingers brushing yours as he steadies the pumpkin. “You’re the one who insisted on doing this now.”
“Yeah, well. You gave me the best Halloween of my life, so you’re stuck with me until dawn. Suffer.”
He smiles at that — small, genuine. “Deal.”
Eventually, you let him carve while you sit cross-legged and supervise (read: offer unhelpful advice and threaten to bedazzle it). He goes simple — triangle eyes, crooked smile, but surprisingly clean lines.
When he’s done, he pushes it toward you.
“There,” he says. “Your weird little pumpkin lives.”
You inspect it critically. Then you reach into your hoodie pocket, pull out a mini container of purple glitter, and dump it straight into the carved mouth.
Bucky stares. “You didn’t.”
“It’s festive.”
“It’s shedding.”
“You love it.”
He sighs, shaking his head. “You’re insufferable.”
But he doesn’t stop you when you take a Sharpie and draw a lopsided bat on the back.
Or when you prop the pumpkin carefully on his windowsill.
Or when — once he’s turned to toss out the carving scraps — you quickly flip his pumpkin around and draw the smallest, wobbliest heart right near the base.
Small enough that he won’t notice it right away. Big enough that, when he does… he’ll know it was from you.
Or when you curl up next to him afterward, pumpkin guts on your fingers, glitter on your cheek, and say, softly, “Thanks for tonight.”
He leans in, presses a kiss to your temple.
“For what it’s worth,” he murmurs, “this is the best Halloween I’ve had in eighty years.”
You smile against his shoulder.
“Next year,” you whisper, already half-asleep, “we’re getting a bigger pumpkin.”
He laughs quietly, already thinking about it.
Already planning.
Before you can head to your room, he stops you. “Wait.”
He pulls something from his pocket — a tiny pack of Scooby Snacks.
You stare. “Did you steal those from the candy table?”
He grins. “Borrowed. For evidence.”
You roll your eyes, kiss his cheek, and slip into your room.
Later, when you pull back the covers, something rustles. Another pack of Scooby Snacks. And a folded note.
Mystery solved. You’re the best part of my Halloween.
— Fred (Your Ascot-Wearing Disaster)
You fall back on your pillow, grinning like an idiot.
The next day morning sunlight spills through the compound’s kitchen windows, catching the faint glitter still embedded in the rug — evidence of last night’s Pumpkinpalooza. Tony’s in pajama pants and a robe, pouring coffee into a mug that says Genius, Billionaire, Philanthropist, Exhausted. Natasha’s perched on the counter, lazily peeling an orange, looking entirely too awake.
Sam stomps in like a man carrying bad news. He looks… haunted.
Tony doesn’t even glance up. “You look like someone canceled Christmas.”
Nat pops a slice of orange into her mouth. “Or like Bucky replaced your Redwing playlist with whale sounds again.”
Sam slaps a folder on the counter — like it’s a case file. “Neither,” he says darkly. “It’s worse.”
Tony sighs. “Do I need to sit down for this? Because I’m already sitting and I really don’t feel like exerting myself.”
Sam points a dramatic finger. “Mr. Grunwald saw Y/N last night.”
Nat arches a brow. “Our Y/N?”
“The one who lives here, eats my fries, and calls me Grandma when I tell her to wear a jacket,” Sam says grimly. “That Y/N.”
Tony leans forward, intrigued. “And this is shocking because…?”
“She was kissing someone,” Sam says, lowering his voice like it’s state secrets. “In public. Behind the compound.”
There’s a beat of silence. Tony blinks. “...Okay, not seeing the tragedy here.”
Sam throws his hands up. “Because the guy was blond! Blond, Stark!”
Nat tilts her head. “You sure about that?”
“Positive,” Sam says, sitting heavily in a chair. “Grunwald said he couldn’t see his face — too dark, shadows, whatever — but he saw the hair. Long. Blond. Perfectly coiffed, apparently.” He grimaces. “That ain’t Bucky. I’ve seen Bucky’s hair after missions. That man doesn’t even own a comb.”
Tony’s lips twitch. “So, let me get this straight: some mysterious blond guy was making out with Y/N last night?”
“Exactly!” Sam says, stabbing the air. “It just— it doesn’t make sense. I thought she and Bucky had… y’know.” He waves vaguely. “A thing.”
Tony takes a slow sip of his coffee, hiding a smirk behind the mug. “Well, you know what they say — blondes have more fun.”
Natasha rolls her eyes but her smirk matches his. “Maybe she’s expanding her type.”
Sam slumps. “Man, I was so sure Barnes was into her. He is gonna lose it when he finds out. Should I tell him gently? Or just… wait for the screaming?”
Tony glances at Nat over his mug. “What do you think, Romanoff? Should we warn Bucky that Y/N is running around kissing mysterious blond men?”
Nat doesn’t even blink. “Absolutely not.”
Sam frowns suspiciously. “You two are way too calm about this.”
Nat shrugs. “We’ve seen worse.”
Tony smirks. “Yeah. Like the time Steve tried online dating. That was a national disaster.”
Sam groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “You people are no help.”
You and Bucky stand frozen just around the corner, pressed up against the wall like two very guilty teenagers hiding from their parents.
From around the corner, Sam’s voice carries loud and clear:
“Grunwald said this dude had hair like sunshine and shoulders like a Greek statue! Oh, man. Do you think she is with Thor?!”
Bucky’s hand comes up instantly, clapping over his mouth to muffle a laugh. His shoulders are shaking.
You bite your lip hard, whispering, “He thinks I was kissing Thor?”
Bucky’s whisper is strangled with laughter. “You could do worse.”
You elbow him lightly. “You’re impossible.”
Bucky’s laugh bubbles out again — the quiet, breathless kind he never lets anyone hear. You swat his arm, but you’re laughing too, both of you doubled over against the wall.
When you finally catch your breath, Bucky leans close, his mouth brushing your ear.
“Should I tell him?” he murmurs.
You glance toward the kitchen, where Sam is now muttering something about betrayal and “mystery blond gym rats.” Then back at Bucky, mischief glinting in your eyes.
“Not a chance,” you whisper. “Let him suffer.”
He grins — that slow, dangerous grin that makes your stomach do cartwheels. “You’re cruel.”
You shrug innocently. “I learned from the best.”
There’s a loud crash inside the kitchen — probably Sam slamming a cabinet for emphasis — followed by a very distinct:
“WHY IS EVERYTHING UPSIDE DOWN IN HERE?!”
You and Bucky freeze. Then your eyes meet.
You both bolt — sprinting down the hall, laughing so hard you can barely breathe.
You don’t stop until you reach the elevator, backs pressed to the wall, still giggling like kids. Bucky’s hair is a mess, your cheeks hurt from smiling, and he looks at you like you’re the only person in the world who’s ever made him laugh like this.
When the elevator doors slide open, you step in together, still grinning.
He nudges you lightly. “So,” he says, deadpan, “think he’ll ever realize it was me?”
You grin back, eyes bright. “Not unless you dye your hair blond.”
He groans. “Never happening.”
You reach up on your toes and press a quick kiss to his cheek. “Good. I like you better like this.”
He smiles — soft, private, entirely yours — as the elevator doors close.
Somewhere down the hall, Sam’s voice echoes faintly:
“I SWEAR I’M GONNA FIND OUT WHO THAT BLOND GUY IS!”
✧.* fluff ⋆ | ˚꩜｡ series | ⚠︎ angst | ✪ g's star reads | 18+ below the cut
✧.* Creamy or Crunchy? | @marvelstoriesepic
Bucky joins you grocery shopping to everyone’s surprise.
✧. Weakenss by @marvelstoriesepic ✪
You use Bucky’s only weakness to your advantage until it bites you in the ass.
✧. Change your mind | @marvelstoriesepic ✪
Natasha drags you to an NYU baseball game. And despite yourself, one player catches your attention.
⚠︎ One Inch Deeper | @marvelstoriesepic ✪
You can’t stand to watch him get hurt. He can’t stand to watch you risk your life for him. In the end, both of you are right - and both of you are bleeding for it.
Like he means it | @marvelstoriesepic ✪
You can’t take another night of hearing Bucky fuck a girl who isn’t you.
⚠︎ Powdered Sugar | @marvelstoriesepic
Your friend group is having a night out at the local carnival. Bucky is his charming self and you are tired of pretending it doesn’t affect you.
⚠︎ A Thousand Times Before | @marvelstoriesepic
Bucky travels to an alternate universe for the sake of a mission. But he doesn’t expect to come face to face with a version of you that loves him, completely and openly. Back in his own world, he is left with a truth he can’t keep to himself anymore.
⚠︎ Mad for You | @marvelstoriesepic
You are a simple maid who cleans the mansion of the Bucky Barnes, always staying in the background. But when one of his men sees you as a target for assault, and manipulates you into taking the blame for something you didn’t do, you are pushed directly into Bucky’s focus.
⚠︎ One Inch Deeper | @marvelstoriesepic
You can’t stand to watch him get hurt. He can’t stand to watch you risk your life for him. In the end, both of you are right - and both of you are bleeding for it.
⚠︎ Halfway to Saying it | @marvelstoriesepic
You agree to a date with another guy to forget about the boy you’ve loved forever, only to acknowledge that your heart keeps finding its way back to him.
✧. Jackass | @aquaticmercy ✪
Everyone is horrified that Bucky is flirting with a married woman, but then they realize there's a reason why.
✧. Patron of Saint Nightmares | @aquaticmercy ✪
Bucky needs to go on a mission, so he asks the rest of the team to take care of his girl.
✧. More to Love | @aquaticmercy ✪
Bucky marries you, someone who shows love through food. When his body changes, you show him he’s cared for no matter what.
✧. Smitten | @aquaticmercy
Sam finally meets Bucky’s girlfriend, though you’re not who he thinks you are.
✧. Patron of Saint Nightmares | @aquaticmercy ✪
Bucky needs to go on a mission, so he asks the rest of the team to take care of his girl.
✧. Breathe | @aquaticmercy
Bucky tries to quit smoking for your sake.
✧. Lipstick Stains | @aquaticmercy
You leave lipstick marks on Bucky’s face.
✧. Time after time | @aquaticmercy
Your son has a nightmare, and it reminds Bucky of his own bad dreams.
⚠︎ Small Circles | @aquaticmercy
Bucky Barnes is still getting used to modern dating… and hates that you have to work with your exes.
⚠︎ Walls | @aquaticmercy
You never ask for help, even when your boyfriend wants to help you.
✧. let it happen | @flowersforbucky ✪
"So that's all it takes, then? I kiss you one time and you get all possessive over me?"
✧. all we know of heaven, all we need of hell | @flowersforbucky
you fell in love with the man who trained you in the red room. he helped you escape - and made you promise to never look back. years later, when an old friend asks for your help, you find yourself working with a group of anti-heroes. including him.
✧. Dog Tags | @marvelwitchergilmore ✪
Bucky is looking for his Dog Tags, and you just so happen to have them.
✧. State of Denial | @marvelwitchergilmore
When Bucky gets sick, you take care of him.
✧. Friday Night | @ilovolderman ✪
You end up sitting next to Bucky in a casual team dinner.
✧. The Match | @ilovolderman
While secretly dating You, Bucky gets roped into a dating app by Sam.
✧. You Said What? | @ilovolderman ✪
You accidentally call Bucky babe during a mission briefing in front of the whole team.
✧. he was chaos, he was revelry | @mcrdvcks ✪
Bucky tells you to go out and have a day at the mall and get whatever you want. When you only buy a $20 Squishmallow, he has to intervene.
✧. my angel of life | @mcrdvcks ✪
Bucky tries to get your daughter to say 'mama' for the first time.
✧. electric touch | @mcrdvcks
You technically aren't a member of the New Avengers, but you live at the Watchtower and help the team out during missions. The most interesting part? Bucky seems to have a crush on you, the quiet, brooding, mysterious woman.
✧. Soft Shopping Spree | @orellazalonia
Bucky notices you never spend his money or let yourself want anything, so he plans a full day of spoiling you determined to show you what you deserve.
⚠︎ Darling of the Devil | @orellazalonia
You accompany Bucky Barnes to a high-stakes party, where your presence turns heads, raises questions, and quietly shifts power dynamics just by existing at his side
⚠︎ His to Guard | @orellazalonia
After hiding your pregnancy from your husband for a while, Bucky, fiercely territorial and quietly devoted, turns every moment into proof that you and the baby are his entire world.
✧. your name, my dog tags | @imtaashu
It starts with a missing hoodie. Then a vanishing water bottle. Then your name shows up on Bucky’s dog tags. Everyone else sees what’s happening except you two. Until Bucky finally decides... maybe it’s time to make it official.
✧. Everything's Just Perfect | @ama3003
You're Bucky's ex-wife and you always seem to be there whenever he needs you.
✧. Alone in this shitty world | @starktonyx
After Yelena’s sudden outburst, the group scatters around the streets of New York. And, as if this wasn’t already the weirdest day of your life, you find yourself reaching to comfort the last person you ever thought you'd feel sorry for, John Walker. And Bucky is as confused as you are.
✧. drunk call | @munsonify
when you’re in need of a safe way home from the bar, the first person you think of in your drunken haze is bucky, who comes to get you in an instant
✧.* His sweet girl | @brnesblogposts
bucky taking care of his best girl! (drabble)
✧.* wallpaper | @cosmicbucky
bucky finds out how to change the wallpaper on your phone, and takes every opportunity he can to do so. until one day he doesn't have the heart to
✧.* Hold My Girl | @pellucid-constellations
Bucky comes home from a mission and needs time to hold his girl.
✧. Of All Things | @eclipsedechoesofmywords
When Bucky gets a new haircut, you find yourself struggling to keep your composure—and your thoughts—under control.
✧.* Yours, Whether You Know it or Not | @magical-reid
You’ve been running missions with Sam and Bucky for a while now, and everything was fine—until John Walker started showing up and taking an interest in you. Bucky isn’t having it. Not because he’s jealous. Definitely not because he’s jealous. He just doesn’t trust Walker. Right?
⚠︎ From the Start | @byhuenii
They were best friends. She loved him quietly — from the start. But timing was never on her side. Now, between unspoken words, missed chances, and a love that lingers too long, she learns what it means to let go without ever truly doing so.
⚠︎ The Void | @buckybabble
Bucky Barnes rescues you from the Void after you are sucked into your worst traumas.
⚠︎ Only safe with you | @daxisyzz
Bucky Barnes finds himself the sole anchor for a traumatized Y/n after being kidnapped and psychologically tortured by Hydra.
⚠︎ You Drive Me Crazy | @fru1t4fr0gs
The Thunderbolts are used to you and Bucky’s harmless teasing and bickering, but in all of the time the two of you have been together they’ve never seen you fight. However, when an argument breaks out after a mission, they realize that your relationship is a lot more passionate (and entertaining) than they previously thought.
⚠︎ THE RING | @solaceinruin
A fight leaves you and Bucky cold, silent, and avoiding each other. But nightmares don't care about pride.
⚠︎ Oh, my love, side to side | @daddyjackfrost
After a successful yet traumatizing mission, you dream of losing Bucky for the first time in years. In a fit of panic, you call him. He answers. Not the phone, but the call your heart makes to his.
🔞 the quiet side of thunder | @fawniswriting
When a visit to his office leaves you shaken, Bucky is determined to take care of you.
🔞 You're the Glue | @barnes-babydoll
After a mission goes horribly wrong, the team ends up stewing in their own anger on the car ride home. You try to lighten the mood, but instead it makes everyone angrier. When you're down, Bucky’s there to comfort you.
🔞 Don't Touch the Tech Girl | @aquaticmercy
Sam told Bucky that you, his new tech engineer, was off-limits. But that just makes Bucky want you more.
🔞 Wanna Be Yours | @daddyjackfrost
Bucky’s been in love with you for longer than he’ll admit. But when a moment of clarity after a misunderstanding on his part cracks the tension between you wide open, he finally gets to show you just how much.
🔞 Juno | @shortnspidey
Everyone’s drawn to you, it’s part of what makes you so special, and one of the first things Bucky fell in love with. He admires the way you light up every room, the way people naturally gravitate toward you. But it also means he's constantly sharing you with the world. So one weekend, he decides to take you away from it all, just you, him, and the time he's been craving.
🔞 in too deep | @buckysleftbicep
you told bucky it was your ovulation week and he took that as a challenge. you really, really, should’ve kept your mouth shut.
🔞 Knowing you | @marvelwitchergilmore
Bucky knows you better than you know yourself. So, what happened when he starts to notice something is wrong?
🔞 acquainted | @flowersforbucky
(undercover stripper!reader x undercover bodyguard!bucky)
🔞 down bad | | @flowersforbucky
couldn't stop thinking about bucky being able to use his metal hand as a vibrator and therefore this was born.
🔞 love language | @flowersforbucky
snapshots of your relationship with bucky told through the five love languages.
🔞 cowboys and angels | @flowersforbucky
{kinktober prompt: thigh riding}
🔞 half-light | @cheekybarnes
You and Bucky have been together long enough to know each other inside out, but one night in the shower you end up using your safeword for the first time.
🔞 touch and go | @crybabycabin
he's the Winter Soldier, and you're just you. but when your skin touches his, he becomes bucky barnes again.
