★ | BUCKY BARNES MASTERLIST | ★
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★ | BUCKY BARNES MASTERLIST | ★
・SERIES;
⊹ THE HUNTERS & THE SOLDIER
↳ Summary: Bucky Barnes is sent on a mission with one of the people he's held a grudge against for the past year, after a series of strange yet familiar incidents begin happening across the States. He doesn't like her, and he's made that perfectly clear since day one. But things shift dramatically when two men, Sam and Dean Winchester, are assigned to join the investigation. They love keeping their nasty little secrets, but as the case grows darker and more sinister than anyone expected… everything is inevitably about to change. • | ongoing | •
⊹ CURIOSITY KILLED THE CAT
↳ Summary: After your boyfriend's death in a mission gone irreversibly wrong, you and your cat Alpine move to what seems like a quiet place: the Pink Palace. It's a decision you quickly realize you never should have made, especially when a far too familiar face shows up again. • | rewriting | •
・ONE-SHOTS;
𝄑 Outgrown
↳ Summary: Seeing you again, that day, was the last thing he expected. Even less did he expect the peace he felt knowing you had moved on.
★ more to come (hopefully) ★
Hey! Just letting you all know I'm still alive lol. For those wondering, I'll update The Hunters & The Soldier soon, as soon as I finish work, which should be in a few days.
For those who haven't read this fic, it's a mix of Marvel (Bucky is the love interest) and Supernatural. Give it a chance if you want! I've spent years on it (mainly because I'm slow as fuck and went with the flow with no real plot when I first started writing it).
It's available here and on Wattpad as well.
Kiss kiss🌷😵💫
beached .ᐟ
bucky barnes x lifeguard!reader | 18.2k
warnings: mdni, forced proximity, exes to lovers, grovelling, minor teasing, vague mentions of sex, kissing, light groping, all plot and feelings my bad, bucky is down astronomically bad, feelings realization, banter carries the first half, player!bucky turned loverboy!bucky, sam and joaquin for comedic relief, fluff, a little bit of angst with a happy ending!
author's note: this is my humble contribution to @artficlly's moodboard event! i ripped my hair out every step of the way!💞this is only about 80% proofread because it's 10pm and i'm tired; i've been working on this for three months. 😩
The air felt sticky. It wasn’t surprising, given the humidity was sky high. But that didn’t make it pleasant. Your thighs stuck together, sunscreen working somewhat like glue from your spot in your chair. The water glistened like a great, vast jewel, the sun overhead making white beams, the foam of the ocean looking like frosting with each crest. Small dots broke up the blue, in various bright colours, beach goers enjoying the gorgeous day. You could just barely make out the floaties of the little kids right on the surf, parents watchful and close by.
A few teenagers were clustered around the rock pool, poking into its depths with a long piece of driftwood. Umbrellas and towels covered the beach like litter. You’d be walking the beach soon, but right now, your post was up here on the chair. You’d only had one encounter so far wherein you’d had to scale the ladder of the chair and sprint through the sand, kicking it up behind you as it scalded your feet, ignoring the shock of cold water as you dove into a forward stroke to get to the little girl who’d gotten a bit too far into the waves. It had been an adrenaline pumping moment, even after you’d brought her back to safety.
You’d been a lifeguard at the local pool in your last year of high school, but this was a step up. Back from college, you’d known immediately how you wanted to pass the time. Though some found the heat stifling, you enjoyed it. You felt like you withered away in the winter, and you’d take all the summer air you could get until you were forced to hide away in the ivy covered buildings on your campus again.
You loved this job, actually. The other lifeguards ranged in age, but the ones you were on shift with the most, Sam and Joaquin, were your favourites. It was never a dull moment with those two, and you’d seen both of them in action. You’d thought you were fast, but you had nothing on either of them. Sam seemed to fly through the sand when he had places to be, Joaquin hot on his heels. It was very clear that they were some of the most perfect people for the job.
It wasn’t like you were always stuck on the chair, up high where only the seagulls could reach. You’d stay on your perch for a couple of hours at the most before coming down, walking a circuit on the beach, and then disappearing into the shack a little ways down. It was a rule, actually, to get into the shade every two hours. What good was a lifeguard with heatstroke? Bruce was normally in there, sitting at the shabby desk with his glasses slipping down his nose. He was always poring over the schedule and checking to see if he needed to order more life jackets, rafts, or anything else that was necessary to function as a busy, popular beach. And you’d sit in one of the rickety chairs, grab one of the paper fans on the side table, and try to remember what ‘room temperature’ felt like.
This job was a dream for you, aside from one glaring issue. It wasn’t something you could easily fix—you couldn’t just ban someone from the beach if they weren’t doing anything wrong except for to get on your last nerve.
Bucky Barnes came to the beach.
Every. Single. Day.
Bucky Barnes, your former high school sweetheart, who broke up with you at your graduation, when the plan had been to stay together. You went to sister schools, after all. It would have actually been quite easy to stay together. But he’d wanted to sow his wild oats, as it were. Starting with head cheerleader Natasha.
It shouldn’t have been a problem. You’d seen him a handful of times—you shared friends, after all—but you hadn’t had to speak to him, or look at him for longer than a minute. You didn’t want to see his stupid perfect face, to remember what it felt like when he kissed you. You would stubbornly say there was no love lost there, only a wound that had been hard to heal. You had cried all night, your first evening in your dorm. The original plan had been for him to help you move in, and for you to help him, and then to tour both of your campuses to see what buildings you would be in, where the best spots to wait for each other would be.
It would have been fine if he was just on the beach because he liked it there. Unfortunately you knew, with a sinking feeling in your gut, that that wasn’t the reason. He was simply there for your attention. The first time you’d been alerted to his presence, you’d been walking the beach, heading to the chair, or Overwatch, as you and the others liked to call it. You’d seen him from the corner of your eye, and started walking more briskly, hoping to get past without him noticing, but he fell into step with you easily.
You’d tried to put all your force into pushing him away from your side, but he just laughed, immovable, keeping your pace. “Will you just talk to me?” he finally said, though he sounded amused at your ire.
“No, fuck you. I’m working.” you said crossly, not bothering to censor your words. You weren’t about to scream and shout at him, but you were very much unimpressed by his lack of contriteness.
“Yeah, I know. I’m here because I know how good you look in a bikini.”
You cut a glare his way, annoyed beyond belief that he was looking you up and down. You were actually wearing a pretty conservative suit, the top a black band around your chest, not unlike a sports bra, the bottoms high waisted and full coverage. You’d worn skimpier for sure.
You ignored his navy blue shorts, his lack of shirt. He was already halfway to a decent tan, sunglasses perched on his head rather than over his eyes. You could see the twinkling, mischievous blue of them even when you weren’t looking directly at him. “What do you want?” you hissed, almost at your destination.
“I think we should talk.” he said simply, reiterating what he’d first claimed. But you knew that it wasn’t as easy a request as he made it sound. Because how could you talk to him while ignoring your shared history?
“I don’t think so.” If he was about to ask you to be friends with him again, something you hadn’t been since you were fifteen years old, when that that word had changed, the prefix of ‘boy’ and ‘girl’ added to the front of it, then he was in for a surprise.
“Come on,” he said, drawing out the words, arms spread wide. “You’re already doing it right now!”
“Fuck off, Bucky, I’m working.” At last, you reached Overwatch. You scaled it with ease, grimacing to yourself all the while, because you just knew he was checking out your ass.
“I’m gonna be here all summer, sweetheart.” he called up to you, cupping his hands around his mouth. You gave him a withering stare. He’d projected his voice loudly enough that a few heads turned in your direction. “Can’t avoid me that easily.”
Then he’d smiled at you, smug, like he thought he’d be able to corner you easily. Well, he was about to find out how wrong he could be.
You hadn’t expected him to actually come to the beach every day. The first two weeks, sure, you guessed. Bucky was one of the most determined people you’d ever met. But you thought that eventually, even someone as tenacious as him would get tired of it.
But no, he rolled up sometime after you, without fail, even going so far as to park in the spot next to yours when it was available.
He’d lay out on a towel, or join whoever was playing a spirited game of volleyball, or try his hand at surfing. You’d begrudgingly watched him, alert as ever, to make sure he didn’t get a lungful of saltwater and drown. You were not looking forward to the prospect of giving him mouth-to-mouth. You thought it would be much more entertaining if one of your male colleagues got that pleasure.
If you weren’t up at Overwatch, he was chasing you down, pestering you to take five minutes to talk, though you still didn’t know what exactly he wanted. You’d already complained to Sam about it at length. Nonplussed, he’d told you, “Just see what he wants, and if he’s being an asshole, I'll throw him in the sea,” to which Bruce had looked up from the desk disapprovingly, and said quietly, “I don’t want to hear about any threats to someone’s life.”
You didn’t want to talk to Bucky, though. You knew that if you did, he could easily swindle you into something in under five minutes. He was very good at that—he’d always excelled at turning your brain into mush with a few carefully persuasive words and a gleaming white smile.
You didn’t think that you had ever affected him nearly so much. If you had, he probably wouldn’t have broken up with you. Regardless, you continued to ignore him to the best of your abilities. Until…
Bruce liked to have meetings every two weeks to make sure everyone was still up to code, and to mention anything important like upcoming events that might make the beach busier, or harsh weather warnings. It was standard procedure, and everyone would trudge into the office, whether they were on shift or not, to listen in.
When you got there, canvas bag hoisted on your shoulder, you stopped short. Joaquin walked into you, not noticing you'd stopped, and let out a soft “oof!” You’d only come to a halt because standing in the middle of the office amidst a handful of the other lifeguards, was Bucky.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” you muttered.
Bucky noticed you right at that time, and his pensive, distant expression melted into a charming grin. “Guess we’re coworkers for the rest of the summer. Isn’t that great?”
“You know that I can’t change the schedule to favour any of you over the other.” Bruce sat at his desk, watching you pace back and forth. There was sand caked into the worn floorboards. “You’ll be on shift with him at one time or another.”
Your hands were fists behind your back, your head down, looking at your flip flops. “But isn’t there some way we can look at it more strategically?”
“Look, I know that you have some kind of history with this guy—”
“Does he even have his certification?” you interrupted, unable to stay neutral any longer.
At this, Bruce frowned. He was very thorough of course, so it had been a silly question to ask. But you were grasping at anything, anything that could bar him from being around you 24/7. “Of course he does. And even if he didn’t, we’re doing the CPR drills on Saturday morning, remember? He would have got it then, if not.”
You stayed silent, trying to refrain from screaming.
Bruce said your name, quiet as always, and you looked over at him. “Did this guy… did he hurt you?”
You could see the concern on his face, and you sighed, defeated. “No, not physically. Just… emotionally.”
You both sat with that for a moment. “I’m sorry about that. But there’s nothing I can do. You know that I don’t tend to double you guys up unless I have to, but I can’t guarantee that you’ll never have to work with him. I know you’re professional, so I’m not worried about you,” he paused, pushing his glasses back up, “but if he goofs around or something, I’ll get rid of him. okay?”
You didn’t allow your shoulders to slump like they so wanted to. “Okay.”
It looked like your nightmare was about to begin.
Something you hadn’t anticipated, something far worse than what you’d imagined, was that Sam and Joaquin got along with Bucky like a house on fire. It had you spitting mad. Those were your friends, your work buddies, not his. At least Joaquin had the sense to look guilty when you caught the three of them laughing it up at the end of a shift.
You stomped to your car, shaking sand from yourself, as you cut past them. You didn’t hear footsteps jogging behind you until you were on the asphalt, just a few feet from the safety you were banking on.
“Hey, wait!” you scrunched your face up at the sound of Bucky’s voice and started to fumble blindly in your bag, looking for your car keys.
He caught up with you right as you fished them out. “Hey, I just wanna talk.”
“Yeah, so I’ve heard.” you said icily.
“Well, can you just hear me out?”
“No.” You unlocked your car, throwing your bag in the backseat. Once you’d slammed the door closed, you turned to face him. He was blocking the driver’s side. “Move.”
“Not until you talk to me.”
You crossed your arms. “Move right now, or I swear, I’ll—”
“I want to get back together.”
“Are you fucking joking?” You were incensed. The fact that he had the balls to say that to you…
His expression was serious, pleading. “Look, I know I made a mistake—”
“A mistake?” you screeched. “You broke up with me right before I took grad photos with my mother!”
You’d made her banish them to a cupboard behind all the other photo albums, unable to bear the sight of your red rimmed eyes and streaky makeup.
He winced. “I know. Shitty timing on my part, I’m sorry. But I regret it. I regret all of it. I miss you. I’ve been missing you.”
“What, Natasha not giving enough in the sack?” you said sarcastically, a vicious bite.
You thought he went a shade paler as you continued on. “Yeah, I know about that. We hadn’t even been broken up 24 hours before you slept with her.” You sounded hysterical, and for good reason. You’d never had the chance to scream and shout at him before. Now seemed to be as good a time as any. You didn’t care if you drew a crowd. Hell, the entire beach should know what a piece of work he was. “I gave you almost three years of my life, Bucky, and you stepped all over it like it was dirt. Why the hell would I take you back?”
“Well, you never dated anyone after me, did you?” he asked, though he knew the answer.
You flushed, your skin hot, and it had nothing to do with the sun beating down on you. “What’s your point? I was pretty busy studying.”
“Now, you and I both know that’s not why.” he said, leaning down and getting close to your face. You could smell his breath, peppermint. You knew he kept Lifesavers in his glove compartment—it seemed that hadn’t changed.
“You haven’t dated anyone because you still love me. And I still love you. And I’m not going to stop fighting for you.”
If he’d said it to you any other time, maybe it would have cracked your exterior, exposed your gooey center. Maybe. But right now, it was only proving to you that he didn’t even get it. That just because he said he still loved you, didn’t mean you’d drop everything. Because if he’d loved you even at all, he never would have broken up with you.
“The only thing you miss is having a girl sneak into your room at night and warm your bed.” you said, disgusted.
At this, he had the audacity to look wounded. “No, I—”
“Move out of my way, or I will scream.”
The wild look in your eyes told him you were serious, and he stepped to the side. You got in the car, shoving your key so hard into the ignition you thought you might have damaged it, and then tugged your seatbelt with enough force that it got stuck. You put the car in reverse and heard tap tap tap against your window. He was still there.
You rolled it down, just a crack. “Back up or I’m gonna run you over, I swear to God, Bucky.”
“I’ll show you how sorry I am. I swear. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll be good to you for the rest of my life.”
“Go fuck yourself, Bucky.” And then you were speeding out of the lot, feeling your eyes burn with unshed tears.
That evening, as you laid in your bed, the window wide open to let in the outside air, you closed your eyes and thought of drowning Bucky in the ocean. You were sure you could lure him out there late at night, with the promise of being understanding. You could play the game, lead him out into the water under the guise of being playful. He was stronger than you, but you thought your rage might be enough to hold him under water for long enough.
You felt a small stab of peace at the idea.
Of course, you couldn’t do it—it would be just your luck that you’d land in jail because of him—but thinking about it was nice.
Instead, you would do the next best thing.
You’d make him regret ever looking in another girl’s direction. If he wanted to play, you could play. He didn’t realize what the game really was. You just had to wait for the right moment.
You had the next day off, and thank God for that. There was no way you could face Bucky so soon after what he’d said to you—you hadn’t calmed down enough yet. But you did spend the day with a couple of girlfriends at the mall. You hoped he was disappointed to pull into the lot and not see your car. After all, he might have gotten the job just to bother you, but it still meant that he had to actually work when he was there, whether or not you were scheduled.
On Saturday morning, you arrived a little after sunrise. You weren’t working that day, either, but the drill was necessary, so there you were in light, loose clothes over your bathing suit, your hair a tousled mess, prepared to spend the next couple of hours in the sand. You weren’t the first one there, but you’d beat Bucky at least, so you had a few minutes of calm before he showed up.
The drills were meant to work as refreshers and to also help team building. After all, in a real crisis, you’d all have to be synchronized with each other well enough to administer help as quickly and efficiently as possible.
As well as standard CPR on the beach, you were being tested on pulling people from the water. It was harder for someone like you, not built like Bucky or Sam, but you still always aced that part of the drill. There were also some drills based on call and response times among yourselves, and when and how a two person job should be administered. It would be a piece of cake, you thought to yourself. You were never worried about tests like these.
Your sunny mood threatened to sour when you saw Bucky, long and lean, loping across the beach to where the rest of you were gathered. Bruce and one of the older lifeguards were off to the side, speaking quietly. The drills would start in the next five minutes, but you wished it would be in the next five seconds.
Taking a deep breath, you willed yourself to be calm when Bucky entered your orbit. You knew that he’d make a beeline for you. He stood by your side, hands on his hips, as he admired the ocean. “Missed you yesterday,” he commented.
“Okay.” You were plain in your response. There was nothing to say, really, and you figured that for now, one word answers were the best you could do.
“I remember you telling me about these types of drills when you still worked at the pool. Is it gonna be similar to that?”
You pursed your lips, eyes to the sea line. You didn’t want to think about last summer, or the one before that. “In the act of saving lives? Yes.” you said drily.
“I got my certification last week,” he admitted.
you bit the inside of your cheek. So he had definitely planned this, not just taken the job up on the fly. It had been his goal all along to force you into his proximity. “Okay.” you repeated, back to the safety of a single worded answer.
“I never told you before, but I think it’s really cool that you care about this sort of stuff.”
If he thought a compliment was going to get him anywhere, he was sorely mistaken. You were saved from saying “okay,” for the third time by Bruce striding forward and clasping his hands in front of him. It had been noiseless, but it may as well have been a clap, because everyone straightened and turned in his direction. “Alright, everyone. We’re going to get started now. You know how to do this, so we’re skipping the demonstration. Just show us that you remember the right protocols, okay?”
And with that, the drills were underway.
It had started out fine. You were quick, and you knew exactly where all the extra equipment was. You knew what you should have on your person, what should be secured at Overwatch, and where any emergency backups were. You knew the best way to get them without leaving your victim. Communication was key in this sort of situation. The walkie-talkies were waterproof, but you tended to know exactly what you were dealing with before you were too far out in the water, able to call and anticipate what you’d need, or if you would require assistance, before reaching your target.
For most drills, you used dummies, though some were with your fellow lifeguards acting as helpless swimmers. So far, you’d been able to keep well away from Bucky.
That was, until it came time for the last one. It was a two person drill, and Sam, despite his newfound friendship with Bucky, was still your number one for group situations when the choice was possible. You high fived each other as you got ready on the presumed start line, right by Overwatch. The idea was that in this particular drill, two people would be needed to bring the person back to land and administer CPR or anything more serious.
The only hitch in this was that you were supposed to be saving Bucky, who had eagerly volunteered to float in the ocean and wait for his rescue. It irked you, but you pushed it to the side, ready to show that you were worth your salt. Bruce stood off to the side with a stopwatch. “Alright, ready…?”
At your determined nod, he clicked the button of the watch. “Go!”
You took off in a dead sprint. You were in only your swimwear by now, your clothes discarded in a pile along with everyone else’s. The water was still cool at this time of morning, though you’d been in and out enough that it didn't slow you down. Sam matched your pace pretty evenly, his legs longer, but you had a killer breaststroke, and got to Bucky first. He grinned at you, flicking water from his eyes. “My hero.”
“Shut up and don’t make things difficult. If you screw this for me, I’ll kill you.”
Sam got to you both right as you finished the threat, and Bucky allowed himself to be pulled to land. Once you got him down on the sand, far enough away from the lapping waves, there was a brief, hesitant pause. You were already on your knees beside him. It had been automatic. The thing was, one of you was supposed to administer CPR while the other went for the first aid kit. You and Sam hadn’t discussed who would be doing what. Inwardly, you cursed. You thought maybe somewhere in your subconscious, you were anticipating mouth-to-mouth. What you wouldn’t have given to let Sam do it instead, to leave Bucky spluttering as you held in a laugh.
But you didn’t have time to switch now, because in a real situation, that wouldn’t be an option. Sam took off towards Overwatch, and Bucky blinked up at you innocently. “Save my life, angel. What are you waiting for?”
“Shut up!” you whispered harshly. “Drowning victims usually don’t talk!” Then you started with chest compressions. You were using a bit more force than you really needed, especially since Bucky could breathe, but you didn’t care if he wheezed a little. He deserved it.
Even still, his eyes seemed to sparkle when you stopped after the count. “Do not enjoy this,” you warned, before pinching his nose and covering his mouth with yours.
You weren’t supposed to actually breathe for him, but mimicking the motions was supposed to do the trick. Why, oh why did you not get to use a dummy for this? It was because all your other compatriots were currently performing the same drill, and there were no more left, but it felt like some cruel twist of fate to you, like the universe was having a laugh at your expense.
To your utter relief, he let you do the first set without issue. Then you went back to the chest compressions, where mercifully, he stayed quiet. It was when you did the second set of mouth-to-mouth that things went south. You felt the barest twitch of his fingers against your knee. Then he was snaking his hand up your thigh and to the dip of your waist. You sucked in a breath, moving to pull away, but not before you felt his tongue breach your lips and touch the inside of your mouth.
You stared at him, stunned by his boldness. How in the world had no one noticed the obvious violation of the drill? Instead, he only smiled at you lazily, head pillowed by sand. “You taste just like I remember.”
“Oh, I’m gonna kill you,” you glowered at him, putting your hands on his chest and pressing down with all your weight. He only looked pleased.
“Hey, don’t break our dummy. He’s not one that we can replace.” Sam’s voice snapped you out of it, the first aid kit dangling from his hand.
You sat back on the sand heavily. “Work away, Wilson. I did my part.”
“And you did it so well,'“ Bucky cooed, ignoring the daggers in your eyes.
You excused yourself as soon as you could, under the plea of a bathroom break. It was a short jog down to the cabanas where the stalls were. The lighting was dingy, the four by four room made up of blue tiles. You stared at yourself in the mirror. The drills were almost done, and it was still early in the day. After this, you could go home and put Bucky out of your head, at least until tomorrow.
You still couldn't believe that he’d kind-of-sort-of kissed you. It shouldn’t have been a shock—he’d made his motivations to win you back somehow very clear—but still, you didn’t think he’d put your job at risk in order to do it. Okay, maybe that was a bit dramatic… the most Bruce would have done would be to give you a deeply disappointed stare. But even still, that wasn’t something you wanted to be on the receiving end of.
When you walked back out, the sky had started to cloud over, just a little. You thought you could smell rain on the horizon. It didn’t matter to you. You’d already been in and out of the water a dozen times. You hoped the sky would open up and pour all over Bucky after you left.
The rest of the drills were a breeze. You stayed far away from him, choosing to stick with Ava instead, though you could feel Bucky’s eyes on you. At the end of the circuit, Bruce, pleased with everyone’s efficiency, began handing out coupons. They were a dollar off for the ice cream stand, redeemable any time during the summer. You usually gave yours to Cassie, the stand owner’s daughter, but you decided to keep it this time. You deserved the treat for dealing with Bucky all morning.
You stuffed it in the pocket of your shorts before throwing your clothes on and stealing away to your car while Bucky was distracted by pats on the back from Sam and Joaquin, glad to be away from him, though you had a feeling the memory of his mouth would plague you for the rest of the day.
You settled, reluctantly, into the routine of seeing Bucky often. If you weren’t filled with bubbling annoyance, you would have felt almost like you had in high school, being in his proximity all the time. From the way he kept finding excuses to be close to you, it really did remind you of high school. Back then, when you’d been surrounded by teachers and other students, he’d had to be subtle with his affections. You remembered your hands being linked together behind your backs, or his shoe touching yours, arm to arm. Him scooting his chair closer, or pulling yours across the tile until your knee knocked into his. Back then, you’d mooned over each other like any other lovesick couple. You’d frequently been told to ‘get a room’ even when all you’d been doing was sitting on the bleachers under his arm, leaned against him, or resting back against his chest under one of the trees outside.
It was different now, of course. He’d get close to you, kicking up sand and disturbing the pecking gulls, and you’d simply move away. You had the excuse of surveying the beach, at least. Being around others didn’t really deter him either—any time you were in the middle of a laugh with Sam and Joaquin, he’d join right in, and you’d abruptly stop your giggling and become stone faced for the remainder of the interaction.
You thought you’d at least get some peace and quiet when you ventured to the ice cream stand on your break. You liked Scott—he and his daughter ran the stand all by themselves, sometimes with a volunteer on really hot, busy days. He was always very silly normally, even more so to the little kids, and there was usually a line about a mile long to get a rocket pop or ice cream sandwich. You were lucky to be the last of a rush of customers, and stuck around as you started in on your vanilla cone. You were half leaned into the window, making conversation with Cassie and enjoying the cold that you could feel blasting from the deep freeze. The stand was really more of a little hut, decorated in a Hawaiian theme. Scott always wore the most goofily patterned shirts he could find.
Your fun was short lived when you felt the heat of a warm body at your side. You felt yourself stiffen, knowing exactly who would be that bold. You barely had to turn your head to see Bucky, looking innocently at Cassie. “Is this where I redeem my coupon?” He held the paper between two fingers, and it waved lazily in the breeze.
She grinned at him and took the coupon, and it was only a matter of seconds before Bucky was mirroring you, ice cream cone in hand. “I should have known this was where you’d be hiding.”
You straightened and pulled away from the stand, offering a half-hearted wave to the Langs. “And now I need to find a new spot.”
As you spoke, you felt the slow drip of vanilla curling over your fingers. It had started an instant melt the second you’d moved away from the window. Without thinking, you licked the offending melt away, grimacing at the stickiness you knew it would leave behind, and glanced back at Bucky.
The look on his face was comical. Eyes wide, mouth slightly open, completely ignoring his own melting ice cream. His eyes had been locked in on your hand, and more specifically the trip your tongue had taken. You snorted. “Oh, grow up.”
He tried and failed to school his expression. “That was hot.”
You wrinkled your nose and resumed eating, trying for bites instead of licks—you were almost down to the cone now, and you didn’t really feel like eating vanilla soup, but his eyes tracked your every move. “You’re so gross.”
“Do you remember that night… at that John kid’s party?” Bucky asked, eyes still on your mouth.
You rolled your eyes. “Seriously—”
“When we stole wine from his dad’s cellar and hid in the pool house, and you started hiccupping so much that you couldn’t breathe, but you kept laughing and laughing and laughing?”
You did remember, though it was fuzzy. You’d drank way too much that night. It had been about two months before graduation, and the nerves had been getting the better of you for weeks. But Bucky had convinced you to go, to try and get your mind off of it. “I remember. But I remember what happened after more than I remember that part,” you admitted.
He gave you a half-smile. “Yeah, me too.” The ‘after’ had been very rushed, very giggly sex, and your ‘B’ necklace had kept smacking you in the chin every time you’d moved. And then Bucky and you had snuck out, slinking behind patio furniture, hands tightly clasped, when another drunk couple had stumbled in there. And he’d taken you to a fast food drive thru, and you’d sat on the hood of his car eating ice cream and looking up at the stars.
You didn’t want to get sentimental. It was a road you’d already travelled far too many times, and you didn’t want to drive the familiar path to your dead relationship again. You didn’t want to eat your ice cream anymore, either. You threw the cone in the trash, felt the stickiness between your fingers, and looked at your hands in distaste. Your break was over soon, anyway. Bucky was still staring at you, with eyes as blue and warm as the Southern sea.
“Well, this was fun and all, but I’m gonna go wash my hands before I get back to Overwatch.” You moved to sidestep around him, but he moved with you, cutting you off.
“I miss hearing you laugh.” His voice was quiet, almost drowned out by the shriek of a gull.
You bit your tongue before saying, “Well, that’s a privilege only my friends get to hear. And you’re not my friend, Bucky.”
You left him there, with ice cream dribbling down his wrist, and a bitter taste in your mouth.
You were subject to moments like this all throughout the week. There were days where you almost reached salvation in the form of not being scheduled with him, but every time you thought you were free from Bucky’s pleading stare, he’d show himself. You really thought he’d have better things to do with his summer, but if you were at the beach, then so was he, without fail.
One of the hottest days of the year had approached. Bruce had scheduled many of your for that weekend, encouraging frequent breaks and eagle eyes on the beach goers to ensure that heatstroke was at a minimum. You’d worked days like this before, the sun no joke. The ocean shimmered like a disco ball. It was almost painful to look at, especially from your vantage point on Overwatch. Your stint up high was almost over, with only a few minutes before someone switched with you. Your little handheld fan was losing the battle with the heat, only serving to blow more hot air your way.
You caught sight of a group of girls around your age, a striped blanket held between them as they squealed at the burn of the sand on their feet. They set up not far from you, before pulling off their beach coverups. Obviously, they were intent on getting their tan on. If that hadn’t been clear already, their bathing suits were little more than floss and scraps of fabric. It left nothing to the imagination, that was for sure. You idly watched them lay out, before scaling Overwatch when one of the other lifeguards came to take over.
You were totally unsurprised to see Joaquin and Sam a little further down the beach, not hiding their ogling in the slightest. Joaquin’s eyes were so huge that they looked like dinner plates. You rolled your eyes. Typical men. You approached and lightly shoved Joaquin’s arm. “How about you look at the rest of the beach too, and not just the hot girls, hmm?”
“But—
“Oh, come on. Lighten up. It’s not every day we get to see girls that hot just laid out like that.” Sam complained, gesturing at them.
You gave him a look. “Actually, it is every day. This is the fucking beach, Sam. Hot girls are kind of a dime a dozen.”
You dragged them both along with you, hands firm on their elbows. “You’re just jealous that no one’s making eyes at you.” Joaquin muttered petulantly.
It wasn’t worth commenting on, so you just sighed and shook your head, but then Sam said, “Well, that’s not true… Bucky’s been checking her out all day.”
Your head whipped to the side to stare at Sam. Today had been a day that you’d mercifully not seen much of your ex. You’d covered up today. The UV was high, and you’d worn your rash guard, not wanting to risk a sunburn. Compared to the group of girls, you might as well have been furniture. Sure, maybe Bucky was doing his standard eye-fucking, but there was no way he’d be checking you out over those girls. You weren’t blind—even you knew they all looked like they belonged on the cover of Sports Illustrated.
You arrived at the cabana and immediately sat down on the floor in front of the dinky little air conditioner, letting it blow in your face. Sam fished in the cooler for some bottles of water and tossed one to you, which you caught with a grateful look before chugging half of it. Joaquin rounded Bruce's desk to look at the schedule, before letting out a whistle. “Well, good luck, because you’re walking the shoreline with Bucky in like, ten minutes.” He said to you.
You grimaced. “I know.”
You’d looked at what the day would bring for you when you’d first arrived. Walking the perimeter wouldn’t be so bad. And if Bucky really got on your nerves, you’d just push him into the surf and keep walking.
“Are you ready to forgive him yet?” Sam asked, slouching in one of the chairs.
You glared at him over your shoulder. “Why on earth would I do that?”
“I don’t know, maybe so we don’t have to hear him pining over you or whatever. Dude’s got a heart boner for you so strong that it makes me nauseous.”
“Shut up, Sam.”
“It’s true,” Joaquin admitted with a shrug of his shoulders. “He won’t shut up about you. I know things that I should never know.”
That gave you pause. “Like what…?” You were afraid of the answer.
“Like for your one month anniversary—lame, by the way—you made him a giant skillet cookie and stuck a sparkler in it. Why do I know that? I didn’t want to know that.”
“Or,” Sam added, “that your yellow sundress with the lemons on it is what shows off your legs the best. Why do I care? It’s gross. You’re like a sister to me. I don’t wanna know that.”
“Oh my God.” You groaned, covering your face with a hand.
“Yeah, think of how we feel.”
“Well maybe you shouldn’t have gotten so buddy-buddy with him, ever think of that?” you snapped, looking between them.
“When he’s not waxing poetic about how your eyes look like the stars, he’s a cool guy. But my God, he’s so down bad for you.” Joaquin laughed at your disgusted stare. “So either forgive him, or put him out of his misery. Seriously.”
But it wasn’t up to your friends to decide whether you should forgive and forget. They weren’t the ones that had had to nurse a broken heart between shifts at your part time job and 8am lectures. You sniffed disdainfully. “Sounds like it’s gonna be a long summer for you two, then.”
You spent the remainder of your inside time sitting back against the wall, finishing your water and reapplying sunscreen to your face and your legs, listening to Sam and Joaquin talk about something or other, before you stood with a sigh. “Off to serve my sentence,” you said, stretching your arms.
“Good luck out there.” Joaquin said with a mock salute.
When you pushed open the cabana’s door, you almost screamed in surprise, your hand flying to your chest to calm your racing heart. Bucky had been standing right outside. “Jesus Christ, Bucky. Were you lurking out here like a feral raccoon the whole time?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “No, only the last two minutes. I saw you guys come inside but I didn’t want to crash the party.” His eyes flicked over your form, before he said, “Are you ready to go?”
“I guess.” You blew hair out of your face, then started walking, not waiting for him to catch up.
You basked in miraculous quiet for all of three minutes, the walk around the shoreline barely started, before you noticed that you were the only one with your head on a swivel, watching the water and the beach. Bucky had been staring at you almost the entire time.
“Ugh, god, Sam was right.”
Bucky met your eyes. “Huh?”
“He said you kept checking me out. How about you check out the beach instead? You know, seeing as it’s your job.”
“I can’t help it,” he held his hands up, giving you puppy eyes. You were pretty sure he was pouting a little, too. “I only have eyes for you.”
You scoffed, turning to look at the sea, the group of kids splashing around nearby. “Yeah, right.”
“It’s true!”
“Pretty sure you’d be singing a different tune if Natasha was here.” You sounded bitter, and you knew it. You hated it. You didn’t want to keep bringing it up, to keep bringing her up, but the whole thing was like a splinter in your palm, one that had gotten so deep under your skin that you couldn’t remove it.
There was a moment of silence between you both. You felt the sand under your feet. You were closer to the water than he was, the waves lapping at your ankles as you walked. Your footprints were washed away after every step.
“What do you want me to do,” Bucky finally said, a heavy breath escaping him, “do you want me to beg?”
And to your embarrassment, he got on his knees right there, stopping you in your tracks in front of a large family, who all turned to stare. You looked left and right, mortified as any other surrounding beach goers started turning your way as well, keen interest in their eyes.
“Oh my God, get up.” You flicked your hands, beckoning him to stand, your voice strangled.
“I’ll beg, I’m not above it. I’ll do whatever it takes. I have no shame. I know how I feel about you.” He said steadily, looking up at you like you were the sun.
Oh, no… you had a terrible feeling that he was about to begin a whole speech. “Bucky—”
“I was a total idiot. I’m gonna be kicking myself for it for the rest of my life. I was stupid and scared and everything was changing, and you were my only constant. And instead of clinging to you like I should have, I did the dumbest thing I could possibly do, and I hurt you. And I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I know forgiveness isn’t easy, but I’m asking you to consider it.”
You weren’t really listening, too focused on the heat under your skin, heat that had nothing to do with the warm weather and everything to do with being in the spotlight of a bunch of strangers.
“If you don’t get up right now, there’s no chance in hell.” You whispered harshly.
To your surprise, he stood immediately, latching on to hope. “So there’s a chance?”
“That’s not what I said.”
Bucky grabbed onto both of your hands, and you fought a shudder. It had been a long time since he’d touched you, and even something as innocent as this sent you into a tailspin. When you looked at his face, your eyes slow to move from where he’d been kneeling, you saw a horrible amount of earnestness there. You pulled your hands away from his, rattled. He didn’t usually let you see his true feelings, not when you were together. It had been pretty rare.
“Can we just… can we just finish the perimeter, please?” you asked. People finally started looking away, disappointed that there hadn’t been more of a spectacle.
“Okay. Whatever you want.” But Bucky stayed standing in front of you for a moment longer, before stepping to the side and falling in line next to you.
The rest of the walk was quiet, but his words kept echoing in your head anyway.
It didn’t take you long to notice, after that, that Bucky had started to switch shifts to see you. Even if he didn’t necessarily get to work with you directly, you had noticed names being scribbled out and switched with his. He was always working when you were, now. He was everywhere. Even for things as unnecessary as helping you down from Overwatch. You’d climbed that chair dozens of times without any need for assistance, but all of a sudden, there he was with an extended hand to help you down. You always ignored it, but he did it anyway.
Frankly, it was unnerving. You had to believe that was it, because if you thought about it further... you were worried a small piece of you would find it sweet.
You could no longer ignore him quite so easily. Not when he was being so nice. You could only be so much of a bitch, and it was getting harder and harder to do when he’d bring you water or a snack, or offer to take over so that you could have a couple of minutes inside. He was certainly doing the most to win you over. And you were just a little bit worried that you’d fold like a house of cards if he pushed some more.
Unfortunately, being around him so constantly also made you aware of things you didn’t really want to be aware of. Like the consistent sunburn between his shoulder blades. Bucky refused to wear a shirt, not on any of the days that he’d worked. He technically wasn’t required to, but you thought it was silly to risk a burn just to show of his Adonis-like figure. It was hard to look at him without remembering what it had been like to trace your fingers over his abs. But eventually, the perpetual red mark between his shoulders and up his neck had you taking pity on him.
The next time you were working together, you saw him wince when Sam clapped him on the back in greeting, before trading off. You’d just arrived yourself, your bag on your shoulder. Suddenly, it felt heavy with the weight of sunscreen. “Bucky, doesn’t that hurt?” You touched your own shoulder for emphasis.
He bit his lip, frowning. “Yeah, but I can’t reach there.”
You hesitated before biting the bullet. “Do you want me to—”
“Yes.” He answered before you could even finish the question, his eyes locked onto you.
You regretted asking. You fumbled with the lid of the sunscreen before squeezing some out onto your hand. Standing behind him like this made you think of all the times he’d given you a piggyback ride, walking you from his car to your house. You’d pepper the side of his face with kisses and he’d dig his fingers more firmly into your thighs, keeping you strapped to him like a backpack. You willed the memories from your head at the first gentle touch of your fingers to his skin. You could feel the heat of the burn and winced, imagining the pain. It only took turning into a lobster one time for you to always slather yourself in sunscreen and light layers of clothes, and you thought he’d do well to remember it too, but you said nothing as you rubbed the lotion in. Bucky let out a soft hiss of discomfort but stayed still otherwise. Even though it was overcast today, it was still worth the protection.
Once you were done, you gingerly patted his shoulder. “Okay, you’re good.”
You went to put the bottle back in your bag when he turned to face you. “Can I… return the favour?”
Your instinct was to say no, absolutely not, he was never getting his hands on you again. But the way he’d asked was so distinctly unlike him, it made you reconsider. There was no bravado, no cockiness. Just that same earnest look from the day he’d gotten on his knees, and a soft undertone of shyness that you’d never heard from him before. Usually, you got one of the other female lifeguards to help you with any spots you missed. But as you observed him now, his lack of flirtatiousness made you believe that he’d be on his best behaviour, for once. No lingering touches of heady stares. “Okay.” The answer left you on an exhale.
You had a racerback one-piece on today, meaning it was really only your shoulders on display. You’d done your arms and legs already. You turned away from him after handing him the bottle.
The first touch of his fingers on your skin had you fighting a shiver. This had been a bad idea. It was impossible for Bucky to touch you without your brain catapulting you to the past. All he was doing was rubbing sunscreen into your skin, and yet it was making you think of when you’d been hunched over textbooks for hours, making flashcards, and he’d sat behind you and massaged your shoulders, pressing kisses between your shoulders and to the side of your neck. You were glad that you weren’t looking at him right now—you were sure that your thoughts would be written all over your face. It was making you feel skittish, too self-aware of where your mind was spiraling. He carefully swept your hair to one side, his hand stroking against the back of your neck. You didn’t like how comfortable you felt, how easy it was to sink into the feeling of his hands on you.
When he was satisfied with his application, he let his hands linger on your shoulders before murmuring, voice close to your ear, “All done.” A flurry of butterflies exploded in your stomach. You didn’t want to turn around. You knew exactly how close he’d be.
“Thanks.”
And you both stood there for a moment longer, him behind you, hands still on your shoulders, and you staring down at your sand-filled sandals, suspended in a single stretch of time where he hadn’t hurt you and you hadn’t refused his apology, before someone called your name in greeting, and then it cracked like glass, and you were hastily shoving the sunscreen in your bag and striding across the beach like you were on fire.
Each time you found yourself alone with Bucky after that, it all felt compromising. He didn’t even have to necessarily be close to you, but you felt some sort of intangible spark between you that kept trying its hardest to flicker to life, despite your attempts to smother it. Keeping your distance wasn’t working, and almost all of Bucky’s earlier bravado seemed to have melted away in favour of more genuine connection. He’d stopped flirting with you like he had at first, stopped trying to take advantage of how he could fluster you. It made it worse when he’d stand right beside you, not touching, but only an inch or so away. The heat on your skin had nothing to do with the weather.
You started to wonder, as you observed him, if your time apart had been… good for him.
Not with the way he’d ended things, no, but he hadn’t had anyone in his corner, you believed, except for his best friend, Steve. You had always been the third person in that friendship, even before you’d started dating. And you had long since known that Steve had been the most studious of the three of you. It made you consider the long nights Bucky would have spent alone, without your company or Steve’s to keep him grounded. Something that Bucky had never done much of was stand alone. And whether you liked it or not, your break up would have forced him to do things by himself.
You found yourself thinking about it every time you saw him when he wasn’t aware of you. When he’d been getting off shift, but he’d stopped to help an elderly couple fold up their beach chairs and take them to the car. When he’d helped a lost kid find their mother, holding their hand and then wiping away their tears when they’d cried, accepting the mother’s profuse thankfulness with nothing more than a smile. The Bucky you’d known before wouldn’t have bothered with going out of his way to help people. He’d been totally absorbed in your bubble, your world with the population of two. Maybe he’d grown up more than you’d originally thought.
It was hard for you to reconcile the fact. The boy you’d loved, who’d been all of your firsts, who’d broken your heart, had changed. You wondered, if you were still together, if he’d have still become who he was now. If you’d love him more than you thought possible. But you’d changed, too. You weren’t so trusting, you weren’t so open to new things, like you’d been with him. When you’d been together, you’d felt utterly fearless. Bucky had always been good at entertaining your every whim. But you’d become a little more guarded in his absence. Your rose-tinted glasses weren’t so pink anymore.
Still, you weren’t quite ready to consider taking any steps towards anything more than a working relationship. You didn’t think you could be friends. It would never be just that, not to you. You’d always be thinking of before, when you’d been more. And he’d already made it clear that he wanted you back. You entertained the idea of telling him you wouldn’t take him back, that you could only be friends in the same capacity that you were friends with Sam or Joaquin. You didn’t know if he’d be able to respect your wishes or not or if he’d cross the line. All you really knew was that it would be too easy for you to fall under his spell if you gave in. That was the real reason for your continued distance. Falling back into Bucky would be as easy as wrapping yourself in an old, well-loved blanket, and snuggling so deeply that you’d fall asleep and never wake up again. And you couldn’t do that to yourself. Not now.
The bonfire happened every year, apparently. It was after hours at the beach, no swimming allowed, just the promise of a fire and food and music. It was always at the beginning of August. Almost everyone from the lifeguard team was going. You felt somewhat nervous at the prospect, like there was some sort of anticipation under your skin, but you couldn’t figure out why. After all, you’d spent most of your summer days with these people. You knew what to expect—Sam had filled you in, having attended these things with a cousin a couple of years in a row—but still, you couldn’t shake the feeling. It was just supposed to be a fun, lighthearted evening.
You’d heard through the grapevine that Bucky wouldn’t be attending. You felt a strange sense of disappointment, though you tried to convince yourself that it was actually relief. But when the night of the bonfire came, and your tires slid smoothly across the sand that had blown over the lot, you noticed that his car wasn’t there. You wiped your palms on your shorts, even though they were dry, a nervous tic that you had, and made eye contact with yourself in the rear view mirror. You were just going to have a nice evening, probably attached to Sam and Joaquin the whole night, indulging on hot dogs and popsicles and drinks, and then you’d go home. It sounded like a perfect summer memory to capture and keep like a firefly in a jar.
When you moseyed on over to the beach, you were greeted warmly by your fellow lifeguards. It was just after eight, the sun low in the sky, setting the entire beach ablaze. The last stragglers that had been out enjoying the day were departing, rolling up towels and gathering toy shovels and buckets into bags. You could just barely make out Bruce standing by Overwatch, having taken over so that the rest of you could start your night. You were handed a lemonade and hustled over to the metal fire pit. Some chairs were scattered about, as well as a wooden bench that had seen better days. One of these years, it would probably serve as kindling. The breeze was subtle, carrying the scent of the burning logs across the open air.
Everything was very relaxed, with no expectations but to have a good time. The stars slowly woke up over the course of the next hour, brightening up the darkening sky in soft blinks. Marshmallows were being roasted over the open flame, but you were content to sit on the bench listening to the idle chatter. The evening carried on lazily, most all of the lifeguards present, each of them weaving between each other. A Bluetooth speaker had been set up on a towel, music pumping steadily, a couple people swaying to the melody. The songs were all popular ones, whatever was trending for the summer. The chorus of one was broken up by the distant slam of a car door. You looked around the beach, but you didn’t think anyone had left yet. It was too soon, you thought.
And then you saw him, on the other side of the flames. First a long shadow, then more concrete, more real. Bucky, in a t-shirt and shorts, swinging the his keychain around his finger as he strolled up to the rest of you. He had a sweatshirt hanging over one arm. He was late, but he was here. You tried to tamp down the feeling spreading through your chest at the sight of him. He didn’t see you right away, sidling over to Sam and accepting a drink. They were hovering around the grill. You saw Bucky laugh, but you were too far away to hear him over the music, the roar of the flames, and the swish of the waves. He clapped Sam on the shoulder before turning to survey the rest of the beach, raising his red solo cup in greeting to whoever waved or shouted in his direction.
Then, predictably, his eyes came to rest on you. He stayed staring at you as he took a sip of his drink, and you broke the contact to stare into the fire. You weren’t surprised when he sat down beside you. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see him resting his cup against his knee. “I thought you weren’t coming,” you said, the words leaving the side of your mouth.
“I was always coming. I just had to drop off Becca at a sleepover first. And you know how long she takes to get ready. She ran back and forth from the car to the house like ten times before she was ready.”
With a pang, you silently agreed that yes, you did know how Becca got. She always forgot something. Dates with bucky had been interrupted dozens of times because she’d called him, begging him to bring her something she’d left behind. And he’d always say yes, and then look at you apologetically, and you’d only smile and kiss the tip of his nose before standing and offering a hand. Becca had sort of been like your little sister, too. You had been the one she’d always come to about boy troubles. You missed her.
“How is she?” you asked. It was easier to talk about someone other than yourselves.
“Oh, you know, same as always. Still taking her dance classes way too seriously.”
You hummed, remembering the recitals you’d attended with Bucky’s family. “She’s got the talent for it. Is she still thinking of going to Julliard?”
“‘Course. It’s on her wall. She made this, uh…” he trailed off, searching for the word, “vision board thing. I don’t know. A bunch of pictures all stuck together?”
You nodded. “Right. It’s supposed to manifest your hopes and dreams, remind you of your goals, that sort of thing.”
He snapped his fingers, pointing at you in confirmation. “Yeah, that. God, can’t believe she’s gonna be applying for universities this year.”
“I remember when she still had frizzy hair and braces,” you said, your voice wistful. If you closed your eyes, you could see her clearly. The summer she’d gotten blonde highlights and cried because she thought they were too chunky, you’d helped her dye her hair back to brown. You used to give her your old clothes, ones you’d outgrown or no longer thought suited you. She would raid your closet and call it thrifting.
“And now she’s got her learner’s permit and a part-time job.” Bucky sounded equally pensive.
It was easy to talk about Becca and the passage of time. Bucky filled you in on what she’d been up to. It was nice to hear. No matter what had happened between you and Nucky, you’d always have a soft spot for his family. “…And then her and my mom called me in tears. I was almost late for my mid-term.” he laughed, looking at you.
You smiled at the tale. It was a classic case of dramatic teenage girl versus worried mother. You tried to ignore the fact that Becca probably would have called you, if you’d been around. Bucky seemed to think of it too. He swallowed, and you watched the line of his throat. “You know, she was uh… she was really mad at me, when we broke up. She didn’t talk to me for two weeks.” You could barely hear him over the crackle of the fire, but the words seeped into your skin, regardless. “She would have picked you over me, if she could have.”
You looked away from him, crossing your arms. You didn’t quite know what to say. “Mom, too, actually.” Bucky added after a moment. “She slapped me upside the head.”
You bit your lip to keep from smiling at the idea. Wilhelmina was one of the gentlest women you knew, who only had to threaten to count to three to get her children to fall in line. The idea of her making Bucky see stars with a smack to the skull was admittedly funny. The words left you before you could consider them. “You know, that was almost the worst part for me. Not only did you break up with me, but I lost my second family because of it.”
He said your name then, and you heard the remorse laced in it, but you cut him off before he could say another word. “I wasn’t gonna be the ex-girlfriend that kept making your life hell by keeping up with your family. You might have deserved it, but any future girlfriends didn’t. But I missed them so much.” Bucky’s family had always been much more hands on than yours. They’d never been upset by your presence, they’d just wanted to know if you were staying for dinner so that they could get an extra plate out.
A cool breeze came in from the shoreline, and it made you shiver as your hair caught on it, blowing across your face. The weight of fabric pressed against your legs a moment later. “Here, take it.”
It was Bucky’s sweatshirt. I was a bad idea to accept it, especially when you were quickly approaching melancholy and introspectiveness, but another gust of wind hand you hastily pulling it over your head. The maroon fabric nearly drowned you, the sleeves hanging past your fingers. It smelled of him. His cologne had always had a little bit of a lavender smell to it. You resisted the urge to pull the hem over your nose, to breathe him in more. You could almost believe it was like old times. You’d constantly stolen his clothes. You liked them more than your own, the way they felt so lived in. The way he always felt close. You’d taken no less than three of his shirts with you when you’d gone to France the year before, away from him for spring break. It had made the time difference bearable.
You pushed your hair back behind your ears even though you knew another billow of wind would send it flying loose around your face again. You wished that someone else would come by, pull you into a more mundane conversation, save you from reliving the past. But it was just you and Bucky on that bench. Everyone else seemed oceans away. When you looked at him again, you regretted it. His eyes were dark in the night, but every time the bonfire flickered, you saw that telltale blue. His mouth was pursed in a line, his forehead creased. He turned to the side, resting his elbow along the back of the bench so that he could look at you with the full force of his gaze. “You know my mom would still love to see you, even if we’re not together, right?”
“I know,” you said softly. “But it’s too hard for me. I can’t… I can’t go into that house anymore. I can’t look at your picture on the wall. Because then I’ll remember that I was there when she took it, and all the others.” You sighed, your eyes fluttering closed for a second. “It’s all just a reminder of before. And I can’t keep looking back on it.”
His fingers touched his mouth as he considered, then nodded. “I understand.” For once, you thought that he actually did.
You both sat in the silence of what had broken you apart, before he nudged your knee with his. “Tell me about school. Straight A’s?” The subject was an abrupt, obvious change, but you grabbed it with both hands.
“Of course. like I'd ever get any less.”
He laughed. “Wish I could say the same. got a D- on a first year seminar.”
At your look of dismay, he held up his hands. “You made all my study guides for me. I tried to recreate them the way you do, but it just didn’t really work.”
“Did you colour code everything?”
“I tried. But orange and red kept getting mixed up.”
You shook your head. “Novice move.”
The smile on his face faded then, his eyes going serious. His hand paused in the air between you, before he followed through, brushing your hair back again from where it had, predictably, come loose. “I want to kiss you right now.”
It was the wrong thing to say. The tentative, easy spell of camaraderie broke, and you shied away, ignoring the sparks on your skin from where he’d touched you. You could see regret swimming in his eyes. You stood suddenly, placing your half-finished lemonade on the bench. “I should go. I wasn’t gonna stay long, anyway.”
You took a stumbling step backward when he tried to reach for you, his lips forming your name. There were no two ways about it, you were shaken. You’d thought for a brief, shining moment, that maybe you could just enjoy the evening as something close to friends. That you could just pretend, for one night. But your feelings had risen in you like an unsteady tide, threatening to spill from your mouth. You felt like you had salt water in your lungs, the way they burned. You patted at your pockets frantically, almost at your car. It was too much, it was too soon. You didn’t know what you wanted. For a second, all you’d wanted was him. You sat in your car for a full moment, both hands on the wheel, staring blankly ahead, before finally shifting into drive and backing out of your spot.
You just hoped you’d get to your room before you started to cry.
The country road ahead was dark, with only your headlights to guide the way. It was a ten minute stretch before you’d reach suburbia again. You drove with no music, only the sound of your breathing and the car rumbling over the road. Your fingers were tight on the wheel.
You supposed you should have expected him to say something like that. It was Bucky, after all. No matter how genuine he seemed, his goal had always been to get back in your pants. Maybe that was cheapening what your relationship had been, but when you had the foundation of your love crumbling because he’d wanted to chase down some tail that wasn’t you, what else were you supposed to think? You were sure it would take nothing at all to re frame every action he’d taken over the course of the summer and twist it into something that hurt.
A flash of lights caught in your rear view mirror. The road had been empty, but there was a car behind you now. If they wanted to overtake, they could. But the lights flashed again, and you could just barely make out the shape of it. it was Bucky’s car. He was following you. “Shit,” you murmured to the air freshener hanging from the mirror.
You couldn’t let him follow you all the way back to the house. Your mom was home, and she’d ask questions. Hell, she’d probably invite him in. He flashed them again, keeping pace. You slapped the indicator with your hand, letting out a resigned sigh, and pulled onto the shoulder. He copied you, pulling in neatly behind you. You parked but stayed in the car, one hand on the wheel, the other clutching at your seatbelt where it rested over your chest. You stared straight ahead, blinking away any glassiness from your eyes.
From the edge of your periphery, you saw him lean down by your window, observing you for the space of three breaths, before he knocked gently on the glass. Your hand left the wheel to push the door open, but you stayed in the car. “I'm sorry,” were the first words out of his mouth. “I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean—I'm sorry.”
You chewed your lip, eyes flicking to him and away. “And to be clear, I don’t mean that I regret the fact that I want to kiss you. I still do. I always do. But I'm sorry for saying it and making you upset. It’s the last thing I wanted to do.”
His hand gripped the top of the car’s door. You wouldn’t even have to extend your arm the entire way to touch him. Belatedly, you realized you were still wearing his sweatshirt. “Do you want this back?” you asked absently, waving the long sleeve at him.
“What? Oh, no. You can keep it. Colour suits you more, anyway.”
“Bucky,” you said on a sigh, turning your head to look at him finally, “I'm not gonna keep it. It’s not mine, and neither are you.”
“You’re wrong. I'll always be yours. Even if you don’t want me.”
The admission left you in stunned silence. He’d already said to you in so many words that he was intent on getting back together. But to hear it like that… to hear him say it with honest eyes and no expectation… Your next breath was shaky. You refused to cry.
“What can I do? I’ll do anything. Anything to make it up to you. To start making it up to you.'“
You didn’t even know how to respond. Your mind had drawn a total, perfect blank, like someone had taken an eraser to the whiteboard that was your brain, any ideas completely gone.
“Do you know why I really failed that class?” A cricket chirped between the words of the question. “Yeah, it was partly because I suck at studying without you. But it was also because I missed you, so damn much. God, I was still so gone for you—I kept a photo of you on my nightstand.”
At this, your eyes went wide, a look he caught. He gave you a grim smile. “Yeah, that’s right. It’s you on that tire swing. You know, the one at my uncle’s lake house? And the sun was in your eyes, but you looked like you were glowing. Same one I keep in my wallet.” He pulled said wallet out of his back pocket and unfolded it, sliding a creased photo from its depths. He flipped it in his fingers to face you.
It had been warm that fall. So warm, unseasonably so, that his family had hosted Thanksgiving at the lake house that year, and you’d come along. The next day had been a complete and utter downpour. You remembered because he’d forgotten to roll up the windows on his car, and the drive back had been extremely soggy. Bucky tucked it back in his wallet. “You were the last thing I saw at night, first thing I saw in the morning. I wasted hours I should have spent studying just thinking of you, trying to remember your voice. Old videos aren’t the same. I was gonna come to your house over winter break, you know. I was gonna beg you to take me back then, but then I heard from Stevie you weren’t comin’ home.”
Yes, you and your parents had flown across the country to spend Christmas with your grandparents, instead. And you’d been relieved. You hadn’t wanted to come back to town, worried you’d bump into Bucky with some new girl on his arm. “I knew that for the last three summers, you’d worked at the pool, so I was planning to just show up there. But then I heard you were being a hero at the beach instead. And the first day I saw you, it took everything I had not to just run across the sand and hold you until you forgave me, until you told me everything was okay.”
His voice broke a little on the last word. “Stop.” you whispered.
He didn’t. “I miss you so much, baby. I miss you when you’re standing right in front of me. I miss when you used to tell me everything you ate in a day. I miss when you’d tell me what dumb thing your dad said. I miss all of it. I was such an idiot. I got cold feet and I didn’t think it through. I didn’t need other girls, or time apart. I just needed you. I'm so sorry.”
You felt his sadness like you were swimming in a sea of it. You felt his regret, his anger at himself. And even though he’d hurt you more than you’d thought he ever could… he wasn’t entirely right. Time apart, whether you liked it or not, had forced you both to grow without the other, instead of tangling your roots together and staying intertwined.
The click of your seatbelt coming undone went unnoticed.
His hands hovered in the air between you again, like they had on the beach. He settled his palms on the sides of your face gingerly, like he was afraid you’d duck away. This time, you didn’t. Looking into his eyes hurt, it burned. But you wanted to ignite, you thought. You wanted to smoke and smolder and disintegrate. “Please,” he whispered, “please give me another chance.”
Each word had brought his face closer to yours. Your head was tilted up to his. He was outlined by the silvery moon, you both were. You didn’t know which one of your closed the gap, only that your hands came to rest over his. You both tasted like lemonade, but underneath it was his distinct flavour, the one that awakened your senses like an ember sparking on dry leaves. Suddenly the forest of your memories was aflame. It was a kiss both delicate and searching as well as frantic and pleading, like Bucky was pouring every single regret and wish into the same shared breath. His forehead knocked against yours. Your teeth grazed his bottom lip. The sound he made, one you thought you’d never hear again was what made you come to your senses. You pulled back, breaking the connection of your mouths, but his hands stayed on your face. His eyes stayed closed for a long moment and you were free to admire the way his lashes embraced his cheeks.
“How do I know you won’t hurt me again?”
“You don’t. but I'll spend every day proving to you that I'm worth your trust.” His eyes were still closed, like if he didn’t open them, he wouldn’t have to see what you’d decided flying across your face.
He looked at you again when your silence became the clear answer. His fingers stroked across your temples. “I have to think about it.” you said honestly.
In truth, you were unsure. You weren’t ready to trust him yet, even though your nervous system was screaming at your to dive off the board and into the deep end without a life vest. You saw his chest deflate on a long exhale, his breath fanning across your lips. “Okay. Okay, take all the time you need. I'm not going anywhere. You know that.” He seemed reluctant to let go of you. “You know that, right?”
You nodded as much as you could with his hands on your face. “I know.”
That was what made him drop his hands. “I love you.”
You didn’t say it back, and you thought you saw a flicker of pain in his eyes, before he shook his head. He knew you weren’t about to reciprocate. “I'm sorry I ruined your night.”
Your laugh was born of nervousness more than humour. “You didn’t ruin it. I really wasn’t planning to stay long. You should go back, though.”
He shook his head again. “I think I got what I came for.”
“And what’s that?”
“A foot in the door.”
He stood up straight then, hand on the door. “Drive home safe, okay? I'll see you tomorrow?” The question was full of unrestrained, naked hope.
“Yeah. I start at 12.”
He moved to close your door, but ducked down at the last moment, leaving a lingering kiss on your forehead. “See you at 12.”
Then he closed your door, and you were alone in the car, the scent of him overwhelming, the taste of him even more so. It took a long time for you to buckle your seatbelt again and start driving.
It took Bucky even longer, staring at the empty space your car had been in, before he got on the road, too.
You didn’t really know what to do with yourself in the morning. You’d been on total autopilot the night before, after you’d gotten home. You didn’t remember crawling into bed, even, but you had woken up still wearing Bucky’s sweater. The faint trace of his scent was still on it. You’d let him kiss you last night, you remembered, but you couldn’t summon the strength to be horrified. You had never, never seen him so emotional before. You couldn’t believe, after that admission, that he was just trying to bed you. He had to be serious. There was no way he wasn’t.
But that didn’t mean you were ready to pick up where you left off. You needed time to wrap your head around it. You supposed you had a month before you were back on campus. You had to decide whether you wanted him haunting the hallways of your dorm or not. You didn’t want to hold onto hope only to be crushed by ‘cold feet’ again.
You didn’t remember getting ready for your shift. You only noticed as you were doing a final check of your bag that you’d gotten dressed and brushed your hair, and your teeth as well judging by the minty taste on your tongue. Somehow, you’d blown through the morning in a total fugue state.
You blacked out on the drive, too, only realizing where you were with sudden clarity as you pulled into your usual spot. Bucky’s car was already there. He’d started before you—your shift only overlapped with his for about an hour. You were nervous to see him. What if last night had actually been a cruel dream?
You drummed your fingers on the strap of your bag where it rested over your shoulder, striding over the sand and heading to the cabana. Bruce glanced up at you from over his glasses and murmured a greeting before turning back to whatever paperwork had graced his desk, and you sat heavily on one of the rickety chairs. You fumbled with your water bottle just for something to do. Even though you were wearing a loose t-shirt over your bathing suit, you felt like the fabric was pressing against you like a second skin. You couldn’t even blame it on the humidity.
You basked in the silence for all of five minutes before slinging your bag on one of the hooks by the door and heading back outside, throwing your hair into a ponytail. It was overcast today, and you had a feeling you’d get rained on at some point, but you found yourself welcoming the possibility. Maybe you needed to get in touch with nature a little more, despite the fact that you’d been spending your days surrounded by it. You were scheduled to walk the perimeter and then cover Overwatch for a while. The beach was fairly empty today. You understood—if you’d had the choice, you would have spent the day inside. Everything was awash in shades of gray, the waves looking choppy and rough.
Bucky was almost right in front of you before you noticed him, too lost in thought, too busy trying not to think of him, because if you did, you’d remember the feeling of his hands on your face and the way he’d kissed you and the sound he’d made, along with a million other tiny things he’d done last night. But then he was there in the light of day, hardly a foot from you. You stopped, narrowly avoiding kicking up sand. “Hi,” you already sounded breathless. You hated it.
“Hey,” he said with a nod. His expression was guarded, like he was afraid you’d come to your senses and decided not to take a chance on him.
You both observed each other. “Was it busy this morning?” you asked. It was a lame, easy out.
He shook his head. “The standard early morning swimmers, but otherwise, no. I’ve actually been bored out of my mind. It gave me too much time to think.” It was a leading statement, but you decided not to pull at that thread.
“It’ll probably be more of the same for you. It’s supposed to rain around three.” he added, glancing skyward.
You mirrored him, taking in the gathering storm clouds. “It’s been a pretty dry summer.”
You knew things were awkward when you were discussing the most basic of topics. You could almost picture an elephant there on the beach, a sign on its neck saying ‘address me!’
You pointed at the shoreline. “Well, I should probably get to it. Are you taking a break?”
“Yeah.” But you both stayed standing there for another few seconds, before you ducked your head and started to move.
Right as you were about to pass him, Bucky snaked a hand around your front, settling it on your hip, and kissed the side of your head. It was a small gesture, a simple one. He let go of you and walked away right after he did it, not keeping you there, but it was enough to send your heart ricocheting around your chest like it was taking a turn in a pinball machine.
For your sake, you hoped it would suddenly get very busy on the beach, just so you would have something else to focus on.
The month continued on in a slow crawl, and all of your interactions with Bucky felt like a tentative, shy dance. Sometimes he’d leave you alone, with nothing more than a cursory hello, a searching look, and a small smile, which you’d return. Other times, he’d hover in your orbit like a little lovesick fly. When you’d gone to check the schedule at one point, he’d stood right behind you as you leaned over the desk, not saying a word. You could feel his body heat radiating in waves. You wouldn’t have had to take even a full step back to lean back against him. You imagined if you did, he would have put his arms around you.
You’d started quietly pulling him to the side with no fanfare, turning him around by the shoulders, and slathering him in sunscreen without saying anything about it, though you’d only let him return the favour once, because he’d trailed his finger down your spine and your shiver had been so obvious, you couldn’t look him in the eye after.
The well of longing that you’d boarded up with nails and plywood had flooded, and it felt like it was pushing against the barrier of your skin with insistent, needy hands, begging to be let loose and consume. You were aware of the grains of sand running down on the hourglass. Your personal benchmark of the end of August was approaching, and you felt it looming over you like a vast shadow.
You were running out of reasons to deny Bucky. He’d continued to show up every day, continued to do his job as if he’d wanted to be a lifeguard all along. He was still coming to the beach on most of the days that you worked, though he’d started to give you a little more space. You’d unblocked his number from your phone, and there were now disjointed strings of texts between you. Short things like confirming each other’s schedules, even though you both new the other’s as well as you knew your own. Messages from him wishing you sweet dreams. But the ones that had you holding your phone to your chest with heated cheeks came in the middle of the night, when Bucky would send you things like, “I can’t sleep so I’m looking at your picture,” and “I think I was dreaming of you. I couldn’t see your face, but it was you. It couldn’t be anyone else.” Sometimes he’d tell you what Becca was up to, and pass on messages from you to her as well.
You had started to entertain what the fall might look like. If you took Bucky back, would it be exactly how you’d envisioned it the year before? Would you stop by each other’s campuses, have lunch and study dates together? Would you sneak him back to your dorm, tugging him along by the strings of his hoodie? Would you be one of those couples lazily making out in the quad? Or would you keep this strange tightrope of distance between you? You could picture it just as easily, telling him you still weren’t ready. Him nodding, swallowing whatever he wanted to say, but asking if he could still visit you. You had a feeling that would be worse. You’d be so distracted by the possibility, wondering if he’d make some sort of grand gesture or if he’d keep down this new path, respecting the distance and the time and your hesitation.
With two weeks to go before you needed to get packed up and head three hours away to your school, a couple of new lifeguards were being trained. The off-season was approaching, but the beach was still bound to be busy on weekends all through September and some of October. The heat loved to linger before the cold snap came closer to Halloween. Your hours had started to scale back, or else you’d be in the company of a newbie. Training Kate was somewhat of a challenge. She was good—quick, sharp, determined—but she was also akin to a dog seeing a new toy with the way her attention would shoot elsewhere. Oftentimes, you’d have to repeat yourself or try to get her to refocus. It left little time for Bucky and you, and whatever was going on there.
It was why you were so caught off-guard by Kate asking you one day, “So is that Bucky guy your boyfriend, or what?”
You dropped the bundle of life preservers that had been looped over your arm. “What?”
She pointed at the cabana. Bucky was outside of it, leaned against the wall. He was talking to Sam, but his eyes were on you. He didn’t look away when you made eye contact, and you felt your heart flutter at his open stare. “There’s something going on there, right?” she probed, crouching to pick up some of the preservers.
You joined her, knees in the sand. “We um, we used to date, yes.” You were doing a piss-poor job of picking the red and white rings up. Your fingers suddenly felt slippery.
“Used to date? How long ago?”
“A year ago, give or take.” you said mildly, hoping she’d drop it.
But Kate latched onto it like it was a bone. “A year? Then why is he looking at you like that? Oh! Are you the one that got away?” she sang the last part with enthusiasm, eyes twinkling as she looked at you.
You bit your lip and dusted sand from one of the preservers, a useless thing to do. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose.”
“Are you getting back together? No one looks at a person like that.”
“I know.”
“No, no, I mean… no one looks at a person like that.” she said, grabbing your arm. “My grandparents have been together sixty years, and I don’t think I’ve ever even seen them look so love struck. He’s looking at you like you’re keeping his heart held hostage in a box or something.” To make matters worse, she pointed at him very obviously, then at you. It couldn’t be clearer what you were talking about if she’d started twirling a baton and carrying a neon sign.
When you meekly looked up at him, he hadn’t taken his eyes off you. And damn it, Kate was completely right. You felt stripped bare under his gaze. “Well, it’s sort of complicated,” you muttered.
“What’s so complicated? He looks like he’d get down on one knee right now. It’s actually sort of gross.” She mimed throwing up. Then she looked at you. “And besides, you look equally struck by cupid.”
“What? No I don’t!” You touched your face as if you could confirm or deny her accusation.
She grinned at you, successfully collecting all the preservers and tying them together with a section of rope—the thing you’d been trying to do when you’d dropped them. “If you say so.”
As the rest of the day went on, you couldn’t help thinking about Kate’s question. What’s so complicated? Yes, you’d been hurt beyond belief when Bucky had broken up with you. Yes, it had also sucked extra hard to know that he’d boned Natasha that same night at one of the grad parties. You’d stuck your fingers to the edges of that seeping wound many times over, feeling it bleed over your hands, feeling the pulse of your veins, the hurt pumping through them. But with some level of surprise, when you put your palms over the wound now, you were met with a scar instead. It was puckered, marred, not pretty and clean. But it had healed over, nonetheless. You were sure you’d always feel the phantom ache of the slice, but you found it wasn’t something you were at risk of bleeding out over.
Did that mean you forgave him? You imagined that if you told the whole sordid tale to a council, there’d be varying levels of both outrage and passiveness. You’d seen how girls got ridiculed for going back to men that had done them wrong. But this was the only wrong thing Bucky had done to you, if you thought about it. Any argument you’d ever had, even at your immature ages, had been smoothed over. You had never been the high school couple that broke up every other week. You’d been solid. And it shouldn’t matter what other people thought of your actions, should it? If things went poorly again, you only had yourself to blame for making the choice. You didn’t want outside influence to muddy the waters of your thoughts.
And, you had to admit that as soon as Bucky realized that trying to be suave and charming in order to win you back wouldn’t work, he’d put a stop to it. Since then, he’d been nothing but sincere. He’d prostrated himself before you. He’d tried to meet you where you were at. Maybe it was something worth considering. If you were honest with yourself, you’d never fallen out of love with him, even when you’d had your heart broken, even when you hadn’t seen him for months. As soon as you had, all those feelings came rushing back in a tsunami.
You’d just stepped inside your house, shaking sand from yourself and throwing your keys on the table. At that moment, like he’d known you’d been thinking of him, Bucky sent you a text.
There was no expectation of anything, just an offer of help. and he was right—you were a serial overpacker. It was one of your more endearing qualities, apparently, or so he’d told you once. You considered the offer, considered him. And miraculously, you came to a decision.
You had a week to go, and four shifts left. You only had two days between your last one and your return date to school. You’d asked for it to be that way—you hadn’t wanted to haunt the house with your overthinking.
You had what was considered a closing shift, though it wasn’t a very long one. Four to nine, and the promise of a gorgeous sunset. You knew that Bucky was closing alongside you. After eight o’clock, you’d be on your own with him.
You managed to keep your distance for most of it—the beach was busy that evening, and you’d had to rescue some kids that had gotten a little too far from shore and started to panic. It had all been fine, nothing except for a few tears, some shaken pride, and some furious parents, but you’d kept a sharp eye on the water regardless. You were here to do a job, after all, not moon over your ex, no matter how great he looked with no shirt and dark red shorts that brought out his tan. You’d had the luxury of other lifeguards at the beginning of the shift, but as time went on, they dropped off one by one.
Ava was the last to leave, a couple minutes after eight. You had an hour to kill. You were staying up on Overwatch and keeping an eye on the dwindling beach goers while Bucky started clean up duty, making sure all the essential gear was in its right place, checking the batteries on the walkie talkies, and making sure none of the off-limits areas had been breached. You tried your best not to watch him, but it was hard when the beach was slowly emptying.
Right at nine, the soft clearing of Bucky’s throat alerted you to his presence. He stood next to Overwatch’s stilts, a hand extended up like he was a knight waiting to assist his princess down from her horse. You accepted his hand when you were low enough, your jump down the last remaining foot of the chair noiseless. “Did you lock up yet?”
“Not yet. I wasn’t sure if you needed anything else from there.” He’d already grabbed your bag and was holding it over one shoulder.
You nodded, waiting for him to pass you your bag, but he seemed utterly content to just follow along, continuing to hold it. “I just want to double check the schedule. I think my next shift is my last one with Joaquin.”
He fell into step with you easily, trudging through the sand in the twilight. The sun was gone but the sky was still a few shades lighter than black. You could see the outline of him from the edge of your sight. At least he’d put on a shirt now. It made him just a fraction easier to deal with. He followed you into the cabana and stayed hovering beside you while you ran a finger down the schedule tacked to one of the walls. The different times of day were highlighted in varying colours. You nodded to yourself. “Yeah, last one with Torres.”
“Mine was Tuesday,” Bucky said.
In the back of your head, you’d known he was going back to school, too, but it still jolted you to be reminded that you’d be drifting apart again if you didn’t do something about it.
You flicked the lights off and ushered him from the cabana, locking it and tucking the key in the mailbox, which latched when you closed it. Bruce would be able to unlock it with the master key in the morning. The walk to the parking lot was quiet. Only yours and Bucky’s cars remained, tucked side by side together. You both stopped at the edge of the lot, and he turned to you. You could see the moths thumping their tiny bodies against the street light above him. He was limned in warm gold as he handed your bag back to you. This wouldn’t be the last time you saw him, and you knew it, but you felt rooted to the spot like your brain was trying to trace his exact shape and height and leave it as an imprint behind your eyelids.
“Well, I guess I’ll see you,” you finally said.
He’d been doing the same as you, twirling his car keys in his hand but otherwise making no move to go. He nodded. “Good night.”
You turned to go, but you only got halfway to your car before stopping. You felt like you’d stepped into a thin pocket of time where only the two of you existed. There was no sound except the crash of the waves and the moth bodies against the street light’s glass. You turned, your flip flops skidding on the asphalt. He was still standing where you’d left him, still watching you. He didn’t say a word as you walked back over, right into his proximity.
It was time to be brave and take a chance, you supposed. You let your bag slip off your shoulder and down to the crook of your arm before letting it fall in a pile by your feet. There was the barest hint of a question in Bucky’s eyes, and they flared wide when you put your hands on his shoulders, before you slid your arms around his neck. This was the closest you’d been to him in over a year, barring the mouth-to-mouth incident. This was real. You rolled up onto your toes. Your vision was overtaken by his eyes, so dark in colour but so bright in a sudden gleam of hope.
“I’m not saying we can pick up where we left off,” you started, your voice hushed, “not like we were before. I’m not even saying I want to dive in headfirst. But I’m… I’m willing to try, if you can take it slow with me.”
There it was, your heart on a platter. You didn’t know if Bucky would readily accept it or if he’d have a counteroffer. He was slow to put his hands on you, like he was afraid that if he did, you’d pop like a bubble and disappear. You thought you felt one single tremor as his fingers landed on your waist, before the full weight of his palms branded you. “I’ll take whatever you give me. Even if it’s just phone calls and texts. I can’t do another year without you in my life.” You shivered under his touch, his words, his gaze.
“Can I just ask for one thing? It’s the only time I will, I swear.”
You tilted your head to the side just a little. “What is it?”
“Please, for the love of God, can I kiss you?”
You felt like you were going to be swallowed whole by those dark blue eyes. “Yes—”
The word wasn’t even fully out before your mouth was claimed by his. Your noses bumped together. The kiss was chaste, demure, even. The first one, at least. But each time his lips parted from yours, he came back, like he wasn’t satisfied with just one taste. Like he was parched and you were a full cup of water and he couldn’t resist chugging you. It wasn’t that you’d forgotten what kissing Bucky—really kissing Bucky—was like, but all your memories seemed to pale in comparison when you got to experience the real thing in full sound and colour again. There was the telltale taste of peppermint in the brush of his tongue. The slow exploration of your mouth felt like he was kissing you for the first time ever, not like he was revisiting an old haunt. It made you feel weightless.
When you really did part, your breaths fanned over each other’s faces, your heads bent together, your foreheads touching with each exhale. “Please don’t let that be the last one before we go back to college,” he muttered. The tiniest hint of the Bucky you’d known and loved before was threaded through the words, the smallest, softest whine of disgruntlement.
You couldn’t hold back your laugh. “Maybe not, we’ll see.”
As silly as it sounded, it felt like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders. You practically floated all the way home, a dreamy smile on your face—you’d seen it when you’d gone to brush your teeth. Your phone had been lighting up almost nonstop after you’d gotten into bed. It was all texts from Bucky, ranging between sweet messages he’d apparently been dying to say all summer and had kept in his notes app, and plans for the future. Those ones were more tentative, more shy. He sent you a couple of links to restaurants between your two schools, mentioned some of the events happening on his campus. He didn’t expressly invite you, but… the implication was there, and it was clear. Now that he had the chance, he wasn’t going to make light of it.
And it continued on, all through the week. He did end up helping you pack your things, throwing your last suitcase and storage box into the trunk of his car and promising to bring them to you sometime in the first week. In between packing and plans, you’d allowed him to steal some sweet, shy kisses. You couldn’t help it. Your resolve had officially crumbled. And you didn’t think you wanted it any other way.
Your days at work were dwindling down. You were right on the finish line. Unfortunately for you, when you got there for your next shift, Sam took one look at you and groaned before fishing out his wallet and slapping twenty bucks to Joaquin’s chest. “God damn it, Torres, you won.”
You’d frowned and cocked your head, confused. Sam had gestured up and down at you. “You forgave Bucky.”
“How do you know?”
“I can just tell. If you could see you right now, you’d know. It’s really obvious.”
You looked down at your clothes, your bag, your lotioned legs. You didn’t seem any different, you thought. You felt different, but that wasn’t visible to the naked eye… was it?
But it became impossible to ignore when Bucky came sauntering across the sand. He wasn’t working, but he held two ice cream floats in his hands, and handed one to you before slinging an arm around your waist. “What’s going on?”
You had been smiling goofily at him as soon as he’d come into your eyeline. And that was when you knew that your happiness was as clear and obvious as a stain on a white shirt. You gave Sam a look. “You placed a bet?”
He snorted. “Of course I did.”
Your last day on shift was bittersweet. Bruce had thanked you for your time, and asked if you’d consider coming back the next year, which had been an easy yes. You’d had one last ice cream at the Langs’ stand, chatted with Cassie and Scott, and joked about how the former would probably look totally different in a year’s time.
Bucky swung by in your last hour. He’d already been reprimanded the previous time when he’d corralled you into the showers. You’d admittedly been playing hard to get that day, revelling in the wild look in his eyes, but you’d ultimately been mortified when he’d pinned you to the shower’s wall, a handful of your ass in his grasp, and heard a small, disapproving, “Ah-hem…” from Bruce. You wouldn’t have been surprised if he hadn’t invited you back next year.
You were still fully intending on taking it slow. You didn’t want to burn too bright, too quick. You thought being on different campuses would help with that. You were doing your very last walk of the perimeter, Bucky in tow, his hand sweaty in yours, but you kept a firm grasp on him anyway. The sun was beating down on your head mercilessly.
You came to a complete, sudden halt, hand loosening from Bucky’s, when you saw a flash of copper ahead of you. Attached to the copper was the body of a model in a black and white striped bikini, doing what could only be described as a Baywatch-eqsue run into the water.
It was Natasha.
You went cold all over, despite the heat. You hadn’t seen her since your graduation. She still looked great, as always. You were fairly sure she could wear a garbage bag and still turn every head on the beach. But then you were pulled back to reality by Bucky tugging on your hand. “Why’d you stop, love?”
You looked between him and Natasha, 50 feet away. “Natasha’s here,” you said limply, gesturing to the waves.
He frowned, a look of genuine surprise on his face. “Huh, you know, I didn’t even notice.”
It seemed crazy—even you had been ogling her. The crazier thing was, you believed him. He really had been looking at you the whole time. As you resumed your walk, his eyes flicked over to her once, as you passed. But then they slid forward, to the next swimmer, and the next, and the next… Just a cursory glance. There was nothing there, no heat, no fire. And then when he looked at you again, he smiled. “Do you want to grab dinner when you’re done? Nothing crazy, just, I don’t know, burgers? At that one place?” Then he lifted your joined hands and kissed the back of yours.
“Okay,” you nodded. “Sounds good.”
And, you thought to yourself, it really did.
TAGLIST;; @blowingbarnes, @superbassbuck, @juniebjonesin, @herejustforbuckybarnes, @stellacherryfairy, @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes, @buckysbunnny, @miraclediviner, @macbaetwo, @star-yawnznn, @kisskittenn, @dolcesaints, @akiyhara, @yourstrulymariii, @sassandscribbles, @emilyswortwellen, @colettebarnes, @starfire-irl, @pinksplace, @lunaskye999, @shackoflove, @bbyanarchist, @venigrantrogers, @idkbeautiful, @randomfanpage
bonus author's note: a special thank you to @pinksplace, who helped me cook up a plot/trope while i was floundering; you threw me the life raft, for real. um, in the end i didn't really work with any of our spicy, rated r for radical think pieces, and it ultimately came out much more yearning-forward and with none of the planned smut... i hope you're not disappointed, the place that is pink.
Bucky Barnes is sent on a mission with Alisa, one of the people he's held a grudge against for the past year, after a series of strange yet
Wildflower [masterlist]
pairing: single dad, farmer!bucky x florist!reader word count: 72.9k warnings: 18+, enemies to lovers, domestic fluff, sexual tension, no y/n, f!reader, angst/comfort, slow burn, smut, sex, divorced parents, daddy kink, found family, mutual pining, grumpy bucky || ao3 || playlist synopsis: After your grandmother's passing, you inherit not only an empty house but also a failing floral shop teetering on the edge of closure. as you settle back in town, your bad day only gets worse after a horrible run-in with none other than the grumpy local farmer and single dad, Bucky Barnes. Immediately off the get-go, you despise eac other. You oth made a silent vow to never cross paths again. But this town is too small for the both of you. Especially after you reluctantly hire a moody teenager named Jamie to help around the shop... not realizing he's Bucky's son.
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Curiosity Killed The Cat
𝐶𝑂𝑅𝐴𝐿𝐼𝑁𝐸: "𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢'𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑑𝑜 𝑖𝑡 𝑎𝑛𝑦𝑤𝑎𝑦, 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡'𝑠 𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑣𝑒."
✰ ; Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader ✰ ; Summary: After your boyfriend's sudden death on a mission gone wrong, you leave your gray life behind with no plan and nowhere to go. You find the Pink Palace by accident: it's cheap, far enough away, and it has a roof - exactly what you need. Little do you know, not everything that shines turns out to be gold. ✰ ; Warnings: Death of a loved one, solitude and self-isolation, mentions of missing children and hints at the possible death of said children, though nothing specific or graphic is described. Some creepy stuff toward the end, and in general the protagonist is very, very sad. Leave if you're a minor. ✰ ; A/N: If you have a feeling you've already read this, you probably have. You all have to know that I start to hate everything I write, and at some point my own work starts to bother me until I do something about it. That's why I decided to rewrite this three-part story. Hope you like it!
-> 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𓃠 ; Masterlist ; 9.1k words ; wattpad ;
You swear you can still hear his voice sometimes.
Most of the time, if you're being brutally honest with yourself. A faint whisper in the back of your mind, curling around your thoughts when the house is too quiet; sometimes it's just your name breathed the way only he ever said it, sometimes it's an entire sentence, clear as day. You've started wondering if you're slowly losing your mind, or if this is just your brain clawing for survival and building a defense mechanism so you can pretend he's still here, still within reach, still yours.
Either way, you're doing a shit job at accepting... the thing. That's what you call it. The thing.
Your first instinct in the morning is still to roll onto your side and stretch your arm across the other half of the bed; the sheets are always cold now. But your body doesn't remember that, your body still expects warmth, still expects muscles and metal and his steady breathing beneath your palm.
Or even sometimes, when something happens with your neighbors - the elderly couple who bicker like hormonal teenagers over the dumbest things - you still feel the urge to grab your phone and call him to tell him they're fighting again. He used to play mediator, leaning against their fence with that crooked half smile, amused and patient, smoothing things over with a charm that never quite left him. The old lady would always bake him an apple pie afterward, pressing it into his hands like a little prize. Every time.
Some other times you just want to call him to ask how he's doing. As if he's on a trip. As if he'll pick up on the first ring as he always did and grumble a sleepy "hey, doll." That's before reality comes crashing through the front door and knocks the air out of your lungs.
You can't do any of that.
Because Bucky didn't leave you. He didn't pack a bag. He didn't wake up one morning and decide he didn't love you anymore.
No.
Bucky is dead.
And you still remember your last day together like it was yesterday, even though four long, suffocating months have somehow crawled by since then.
That morning, you woke up tangled in his arms like you had for the past three years. Bucky had this thing in him, this warmth that felt almost inhuman. Like he radiated heat straight from his bones, like being wrapped around him was the safest place on earth. His chest rose and fell beneath your cheek, slow and steady, and for a few precious seconds you thought nothing in the world could touch you as long as he was there.
From the moment you met, you both understood that perhaps second chances were real and he'd found his in you.
After decades of torture, after years spent being used as a weapon, abandoned by every guardian angel that was supposed to protect him. After more years drowning in guilt for choices that were never his to make. He was tired. Bone deep, soul crushing tired.
So he decided to retire and to stop throwing himself between bullets and causes that were never truly his. To stop bleeding for a world that would keep spinning just fine without him. He didn't want to risk his life anymore, not when he wasn't alone.
Because he had you now.
And he was so fucking happy about that.
You both agreed to buy a house far, far away from where the Avengers lived. Away from the chaos that came with them, miles away from alien invasions that had somehow become routine. Away from blood on pavement and the ever present possibility of ending up six feet under.
It wasn't that you didn't love them, because you both did. They were a second family - dysfunctional as hell depending on who you asked - but he had fought beside them, bled with them. For Bucky, they had been the first real family he'd had in nearly a century, and when he brought you there for the first time, nervous and stiff at his side, they instantly became yours too.
But both of you wanted something that belonged only to you two. A space where you could exist without flinching at every unexpected sound, a place where your biggest problem would be a leaking faucet, not the literal end of the world.
Alpine came into your lives on an ordinary afternoon. Bucky had been coming home from therapy - therapy he chose this time, not something forced on him - and he found her in an alley. A skinny white cat with more attitude than fur, screaming at the top of her tiny lungs like she owned the entire fucking block.
She zeroed in on him immediately.
Bucky didn't hesitate: he scooped her up despite her indignant screeching and sharp little claws, tucked her inside his jacket between layers of leather and hoodie, and walked home with this ridiculous, boyish grin on his face. He had been so proud of himself.
He'd always wanted a cat, but had never allowed himself to actually go and get one. He used to say maybe Alpine found him when they both needed it. From that day on, he declared himself "Dad," chest puffed out in mock seriousness, and insisted you were officially parents now.
It was stupid and domestic and perfect.
And things were going so well. Therapy wasn't an obligation anymore, it was a choice because he wanted to get better, he wanted to heal. He wanted to see the world without the constant filter of guilt telling him he had to throw himself in front of every bullet to make up for sins that were never his and he was slowly getting there.
You were proud of him just as much as he was proud of himself. You could see it in the way his shoulders sat looser, in the way he laughed louder, in the way he started talking about the future without that shadow passing over his face. He even let himself imagine kids.
You never thought you'd hear Bucky Barnes talk about wanting children... but he did. Hesitant at first, voice low, fingers tracing absent patterns over your hip as he admitted it. And when he looked at you, there was fear there, sure - but hope too.
For the first time, he believed he might deserve something like that.
And then Steve called.
It was always Steve.
He had said it was an emergency when he'd called you insistently that Sunday morning. Some kind of secret Russian organization trying to pick up exactly where Hydra had left off, with an army of genetically modified soldiers. And yes, even just hearing it sounded like a tragedy waiting to happen, you knew that much.
What you hadn't understood, though, was what Steve wanted from Bucky, when the Avengers had gods and sorcerers on their team.
Bucky hadn't understood it either; he had retired. Normal people don't call someone who has resigned from their job, so why was it his responsibility to drag himself out of bed and fly all the way to damn Russia?
But on the other hand... it had been Steve asking.
And according to Captain America, what they needed were spies like Bucky, not gods. You had found that reasoning, if not outright foolish, at the very least insufficient. And maybe if it had been someone else calling, if it had been Stark or Romanoff, Bucky wouldn't have felt obligated to say yes. But again... it was Steve.
The man who had fought tooth and nail to pull Bucky out of that hell. A man who had battled harder than anyone else on this earth to give him back his freedom. You would have never known Bucky if it hadn't been for Steve, that much you had to admit.
And so, reluctantly, Bucky packed his bags and boarded a plane. He promised he would be back soon - after all, he had survived worse. He had almost convinced you with those words, even though you kept begging him not to go. It wasn't his fight, you insisted. But he was stubborn, you had always known that, and he left anyway, determined to make it up to you once he stepped back through your door.
But he never came back. Or rather, several days later only his cold and lifeless body did.
You met Steve shortly before the news reached the papers, at least you were granted that cursed mercy. He knocked on your door with a face so pale and bruised with violet shadows that for a fleeting second you almost felt sorry for him. That feeling lasted half a heartbeat, the time it took you to realize Bucky wasn't standing beside him.
He didn't need to say the words, not immediately. It took hours before you stopped sobbing, before grief smothered the urge to add more violet to his face. Because you needed someone to blame before you even knew what had happened, and Steve was right there.
And in your ears, in your judgment... he was guilty.
Because apparently Bucky had taken a bullet to the chest that had been meant for Steve. He was the one who should have died. And from the look on the blond man's face, you knew you weren't the only one thinking it: the anguish etched there mirrored your own.
You had lost the love of your life, yes. But he had lost his brother.
Then he placed a small velvet-covered box into your hands. You didn't need to open it to know there was a ring inside. His voice trembled despite his effort to remain steady as he told you Bucky had planned to propose when he returned.
He had said he wanted to set things right, hadn't he?
There was never a wedding. Only his funeral.
You didn't cry during the service. You cried before and after, but not then. It was as if grief had consumed every inch of space inside your body, and even breathing felt impossible. The only thing you could truly think about was climbing into that grave and letting them bury you with him. Paradoxically, it was perhaps the only thing you still had the strength to do.
Steve stayed by your side the entire time. But every time he tried to speak, you turned away. It was obvious he felt responsible and maybe, selfishly, he wanted you to tell him it wasn't his fault. But you couldn't, because you would have screamed the opposite.
If Steve hadn't called, there wouldn't have been a funeral. Or if he had called someone else, a different body would have been lowered into the earth. And maybe you were the worst person in the world for admitting it even if only in silence, but you were angry because the one rotting down there should have been Steve. That bullet had carried his name, after all.
Afterward came the condolences from people you didn't even know. And with them, the pity. You saw it in their eyes, heard it in their voices, and you wanted them to stop. They never did.
Wanda was the one who showed up most often, despite your reluctance. She had lived through that kind of pain, had drowned in it so deeply she had almost lost herself, and she didn't want the same fate for you. She urged you to eat, to move, to speak about it out loud, because swallowing a loss like that whole would only drive you mad. And she did it gently, impeccably, giving you time, giving you space.
But you had no desire to... exist in general. You only wanted Bucky, and Bucky was gone.
So you made a decision.
You packed your bags, took Alpine, and left without saying a word to anyone because you knew they would follow you, haunt you to the ends of the earth if they could. You didn't even know where you were going once the air inside your home became too toxic to breathe without Bucky's presence. And frankly, it didn't matter, it just had to be far away, that was the only requirement.
You don't even remember how you ended up in front of the Pink Palace.
Maybe you had driven for hours... or days? All you know is that your car died right in front of a sign that read "FOR SALE", with a phone number beneath it. There were no photos of the property, no details whatsoever but you called anyway.
That was the day you met the owner of the pink house, a place that felt strangely mystical at first glance.
Perhaps you should have left when, before even greeting you properly, he mentioned that the last family who had lived there had moved away because their daughter disappeared in the dry, dark woods surrounding the house.
Or perhaps, he had even speculated, she had vanished inside it. Either way, she was never found.
You weren't interested in the details, even though the story sent chills down your spine. The place stood in the middle of nowhere, it was wrapped in nothing but silence and the price was so low that refusing felt almost sinful so macabre history aside... that house was exactly what you needed.
It was nearly the end of November when you moved there. It hadn't taken long since you only brought the essentials with you: some clothes and, of course, Alpine. The house was already furnished with whatever the previous owners had left behind. Perhaps they, like you, had wanted to leave their daughter's disappearance in the past or those very walls would have destroyed them if they'd stayed. You understood them, even though you had never met them.
The inside of the house, though furnished, was stripped of anything that truly makes a place feel like home. Everything was coated in dust, and the air carried that stale odor only long closed houses possess, a kind that lingers, stubborn and persistent. The wallpaper peeled away at the corners and was stained in others. Several floor tiles were uneven, nails rusted and protruding, clearly in need of repair.
It hadn't been dirt cheap for nothing. For all its size and potential, it was practically a dump.
Still, you didn't put much effort into changing it. You didn't clean much, either. A couple of crooked tiles weren't going to kill you, and the smell, as unpleasant as it was, at least distracted your mind from the reality that the love of your life was decaying beneath a distant cypress tree, far from you.
You spent your days in bed, getting up only when Alpine scolded you to refill her bowl or when your own stomach growled so loudly it refused to let you even cry in peace.
Thank God for Alpine.
For the past four months, she had become more loyal than your own shadow: wherever you were, she was. Sometimes she slept beside you. Sometimes she brought her little toy balls and dropped them directly on your head, silently demanding you throw them. Other times she perched on the nightstand, wearing that judgmental expression every cat in the world seems to master.
On the rare occasions she wasn't with you, you went looking for her. Not because you wanted to drag her down into your misery, but because you knew that sometimes she would sit in front of the front door for hours, hoping to see him come home to the two of you. Cats are only indifferent in appearance; you knew she was grieving his absence just as deeply as you were.
Whenever you found her there, you stroked her head and, sometimes, you sat down to wait with her.
You truly believed the move would help you, eventually. Being alone, even though everyone had warned you against it, felt like exactly what you needed. Yet it took precisely one week for you to understand that there was no place in the world, real or imaginary, where you could hide without thinking of him, that immovable ache lodged in your chest.
Each day felt worse than the one before, as if you were walking steadily toward a cliff with no idea how to turn back.
Your phone, which you stubbornly kept on because it held every photo of you and Bucky that you scrolled through until sleep claimed you, rang every ten minutes. Calls and messages, mostly from Wanda and Steve, asking where the hell you had gone, whether something had happened to you.
You never answered. Not a text and surely not a call.
By that point, you had probably lost your voice anyway. The only one you spoke to was Alpine and it's not as though a cat can sustain much of a conversation.
And then there was the house itself.
It was so old and creaky that sometimes it felt as though it were crying with you. The thought first crossed your mind one night - maybe the first, maybe the second - when you heard a sound that almost resembled someone sobbing. Impossible, of course.
Inside those walls there was only you and perhaps a few rats scratching behind them. It had to be strange pipes groaning, or old wood settling. Or maybe a window left open had knocked something over in one of the many rooms you hadn't even bothered to explore yet. The house was full of windows, after all.
And let's not forget that you did have neighbors. An unfortunate detail, certainly, but they were discreet. That's what the owner had told you, and it turned out to be true, since you barely caught a glimpse of them.
There was an old war veteran, Mr Bobinsky, who lived upstairs. A peculiar man, you'd been told, who adored the circus and spoke to mice as if they were his tiny generals. Then there were two women living in the lower apartments, strange women who spoke in riddles and owned an unsettling collection of embalmed dogs.
You made sure Alpine never went outside. She was allowed to watch the world through the windows, nothing more. You never know.
Even though you had never formally met these neighbors and even though they were tolerable, you couldn't quite stomach them. Music sometimes drifted from above or below, never loud enough to truly disturb you - you probably wouldn't even hear it if you turned on the television.
But every sound that didn't belong to your new house was proof that the world outside hadn't stopped just because yours had, and that realization made everything hurt even more.
It was evening when you found yourself sitting at the kitchen table, eating a bowl of cold milk and chocolate cereal. Sweet things were among the few foods you could still force down even without much appetite, which was probably why it felt like you'd been sitting there for hours. Long enough, at least, for the milk carton to begin sweating and dripping where you had left it outside the fridge.
The only sound in the room was the occasional clink of your spoon against the ceramic bowl, and Alpine behind you on the counter, minding her own business. She had a habit of grooming herself obsessively whenever she brushed against something dirty, and the house was far from spotless.
But you could feel her blue eyes fixed on the back of your neck. You knew her too well by now; you could interpret every silence.
"You just ate, Alpine." You said, glancing over your shoulder only to catch her wearing that unmistakable blackmailing stare. "Don't look at me like that, you know I'll give in."
Alpine blinked slowly, then lifted one white paw just to settle it more comfortably on the counter again. The little brat knew exactly what she was doing, you had to admit it.
"Fine. Have it your way." You sighed, reaching out to scratch beneath her chin. She leaned into your hand, beginning to purr. "You don't even speak and you boss me around. Am I pathetic?"
She meowed.
"I am pathetic." You nodded at her meowing confirmation.
You leaned back in your chair, eating your cereal slowly. Your outfit did nothing against the cold, just an old pair of sweatpants that might once have belonged to Bucky, back when everything was new and stealing his clothes had been your favorite habit, and a faded t-shirt that clung to you awkwardly now. You had run out of clean clothes two days ago and hadn't yet found the energy to deal with it. The laundry, like everything else, could wait.
Rationally, you knew the day would come when you'd be forced to take care of the house. If the dust didn't kill you, the garbage might. The sink was overflowing with dirty dishes, likely crusted beyond repair by now. And then there was the laundry basket in the bedroom - the same one you had brought from the house you bought with Bucky. It was so full that at night it almost took on the shape of a person.
You knew there was a washing machine somewhere in the basement, but you had never set foot down there. Every time you considered it and paused at the top of the stairs, your eyes inevitably landed on that unsettling portrait of a blond child crying, melted ice cream dripping from his hand. You had no idea why anyone had left it there since it wasn't exactly something most people enjoyed looking at, but you hadn't moved it either.
It was after you finished dinner that you stood to give Alpine more food. You were bent over, waiting for the gelatinous substance she adored to plop into her bowl - the only thing you consistently bothered to keep clean for her sake - when the doorbell rang.
You didn't even know there was a doorbell.
And it was evening. Not terribly late, but still; after a week of silence, it felt strange that a neighbor would choose this moment, at this hour, to come see the new face that moved in.
You decided not to answer. You didn't want to meet anyone, much less make conversation. And if it was an emergency... it wasn't your problem.
So you set down the cat food, put the leftovers back in the fridge, and just as you were about to return to bed, you heard knocking instead.
That was when everything inside you froze.
Not because of the knocking itself, but because of how it was done: two slow knocks, followed by four quicker ones. It was exactly how Bucky used to knock before letting himself in even though he had keys. It had been his way of announcing himself, a small ritual that had always made you smile.
Now you were staring at the front door like someone who had just heard a ghost announce it had come to devour your soul.
You approached cautiously, careful not to step on the warped sections of the rotting floor, hoping it was him while knowing such a miracle was impossible. And yet, when your sweat-slicked palm touched the doorknob, you heard a breath, almost a huff, from the other side. From outside.
Before your instincts could scream at you to walk away, you opened the door. If it was Bucky's ghost come to visit, you would let him in so you could finally breathe again. But Bucky wasn't standing on the doorstep.
No one was.
You frowned immediately, leaning forward and glancing left and right to make sure you hadn't imagined everything, but there was absolutely nothing. It was nearly dark, but you doubted anyone could have run off that quickly, especially not the elderly neighbors. And there were no children around... not counting the one who had disappeared.
You were about to close the door when your eyes fell on a simple cardboard box placed neatly on the doormat, as if waiting to be picked up. Had it been there for days? Clearly not. It had rained nearly the entire week, and the box was completely dry.
You crouched down just enough to open it, genuinely unsure what to expect. You had no enemies, so it wasn't a bomb. You didn't have friends, at least none who knew where you were, so it couldn't be a gift. And your boyfriend was dead, so... not an early Valentine's present.
There was a doll inside.
It had your same skin tone. It wore the same clothes you had been wearing the day you moved in. The same hair color. Even the length matched yours exactly.
But instead of eyes, it had two buttons.
You shoved it back into the box, kicked it aside, and locked the door. To hell with the idiots who found things like this amusing.
But apparently the house had no intention of giving you peace that night, because just as you were about to head upstairs, you heard another sound, only this time coming from inside the house. And you were certain of it, simply because it was something you had been hearing for days at different hours: the scratching of little claws against the walls, or perhaps the floor.
With an exasperated sigh, you decided to investigate in person for once.
It had to be mice. Mr Bobinsky apparently collected them, and honestly, you found it almost endearing that someone cared so much for creatures that small. But they needed to stay out of your house and clearly, they weren't.
Your frustration seemed to rise with every heavy step you took toward the living room. You stomped so loudly that even Alpine followed you to see what was happening; she was used to your mood swings by now. And what could possibly be in the living room important enough to attract mice? The sofas were still covered with white sheets left behind by the previous owners, the Joneses. There certainly wasn't any food in there.
You switched on the light, and the old bulb overhead flickered twice before settling into a dull, yellow glow. Your eyes scanned the room more than once, but found nothing and the scratching stopped almost immediately.
"Maybe I'm going crazy." You crossed your arms over your chest.
Alpine padded into the room, her small white paws silent against the floor. She stopped a few feet away, tilting her head up at you with an expression that almost resembled curiosity or perhaps even concern, if cats were capable of such a thing. After a moment, she looked around the room herself, eyes sweeping the corners as though checking for intruders.
"Do you see anything?" You asked her.
She meowed softly in response.
"Hmm. Neither do I. Maybe they're inside the walls, not outside. Or maybe I'm imagining everything. What do you think? Do we need friends?" You looked at her with a flicker of concern in your eyes. "Yeah. No, no you're probably right. I did see a black cat around here, you know? If he's not sick or aggressive, I could let him come in and play with you." Your lips curved downward at the thought. Then you shook your head. "But you're the aggressive one, Al. You can't stand a living soul, exactly like Daddy."
Alpine blinked at you slowly, as if to say 'I love you, don't I?' Exactly like dad indeed.
"True." You turned back to the room, which looked more like an abandoned set than your own living space. "Why don't you have some fun and go do cat things? You know... hunt. Isn't that what you do? Maybe you'll figure out where the mice are. Just don't kill them and bring them onto my bed like last time. Dad wasn't thrilled, remember?"
Alpine had clearly stopped listening. With all the nonchalance she possessed, she trotted toward one of the covered sofas, circled twice, and then plopped down as if she owned it.
"Alright, Your Majesty. Message received." You sighed. "Let's sleep on it."
There were no rats around, you would have seen them by now. No strange animals sneaking through the house, aside from the occasional spider in the corner. Sure, spiders were unsettling (spiders were spiders, after all) but they didn't scratch at walls or skitter loudly enough to wake you up.
You were still convinced that one of your neighbor's ridiculous little rodents had somehow found its way into your house, but those creatures were masters at hiding. You didn't own any traps, had no desire to run to a hardware store to buy some, and frankly, you couldn't muster the energy to care enough to hunt them down.
So yes - eventually, you went back to bed.
Your body was nothing but exhaustion, with a huge amount of pain so deep and, unfortunately, not physical that no matter what you wanted, most nights sleep refused to come easily.
It was in that half conscious state, suspended between misery and sobs, that you jolted upright in bed because you heard that sound again, the one that had been slowly driving you out of your mind.
What was it, two or three in the morning?
You tried to ignore those damn mice and lie back down, but God hadn't blessed you with patience. Within seconds you were on your feet, marching downstairs, ready to commit a massacre if it came to that.
And by massacre, you meant yourself because you would never hurt innocent animals, no matter how irritating they were.
You didn't even bother turning on the lights; you could see well enough to know where to step and where not to. Only when you reached the living room again did you slap the light switch, and this time the bulb illuminated the culprits, caught red-handed.
Two mice, each about the size of Alpine's small head, maybe slightly bigger. Their tiny bodies were half hidden beneath one of the white sheets draped over the sofa. You pressed your lips together, unsure for a moment what to do but very aware of what not to do: leave them there undisturbed.
"Don't move." You ordered, pointing a finger at them. "Or I swear to God you'll be my breakfast."
The mice didn't seem particularly frightened. Well. They were mice. It wasn't like they understood you. Still, you headed into the kitchen, maybe you'd find something useful there.
You began opening cabinets and drawers with single minded determination. You weren't entirely sure what you were looking for, perhaps some old non-lethal traps left behind by the previous owners, but so far the only thing you encountered was the smell of mold, making your nose wrinkle as you rummaged through the junk they'd abandoned.
Nothing but garbage. Useless, ridiculous garbage.
It was when you opened a higher drawer beneath the sink that you saw them: keys.
An enormous number of keys. At least twenty, maybe more.
You stared down at them, your hand hovering over the strange collection. They were all different shapes and colors, most looking as old as the house itself. Some were rusted beyond repair, others shiny and newer... but none of them made sense. There weren't enough doors in this house to justify half of these keys, let alone all of them.
One in particular caught your attention; it stood out from the rest because of its unusual design.
It looked heavier, even at first glance. Much shorter than the others, and the part that didn't fit into a lock was shaped like a circle with holes in it. It looked like a button.
"S'there a dollhouse around here?" You muttered, turning it over in your hand.
Maybe it really was just a toy. Some forgotten piece from a playset the previous owner's daughter had lost and never found again, it wouldn't have surprised you.
The entire house was a time capsule of neglected things. Yourself included.
Without stopping to question why, you went back into the living room with nothing but that strange key clutched in your hand. You hadn't found a single thing you could use to lure them outside, and there was nothing in the house except sugary junk food that would probably kill them before it tempted them. Not exactly ideal bait.
When you lifted your eyes to them again, your brows pulled together. Their bellies looked pretty swollen, and it made sense: they already had food in abundance thanks to the man upstairs, so if they weren't scavenging for something to eat... then what the hell was so fascinating about that wall?
They were digging at it like they were trying to reach the other side. That was what unsettled you. Were they after mold? Did rats even care about mold?
You stepped closer despite yourself. "Alright, friends. Let me see, but then you're getting the hell out, because Alpine will actually eat you for breakfast. She looks like a snob, but she's really not."
The moment you approached, the mice scattered. Tiny claws scratched frantically against the wood as they darted away with sharp, panicked squeaks, vanishing into the shadows - well, into the cold mouth of the unlit fireplace, really. Maybe that's how they'd gotten in. You let out a slow breath, shaking your head as irritation prickled beneath your skin, and turned your attention back to the wall.
The couch sat practically glued to it and from where you stood, nothing looked particularly unusual. Just faded wallpaper slapped on with what you would generously call "minimal effort." But compared to the rest of the house, this room had survived better than most. No strange odors lingered in the air and, most importantly, there was no visible mold. Not even water stains, just dust.
That was when the idea struck you: to move the couch. Maybe you were missing something obvious.
The damn thing was a monster. Bulky, awkward, and so dense it felt like it had been stuffed with cement instead of padding. Still, at least it was well made. The wooden legs screeched and dragged against the hardwood floor as you shoved; it took more effort and less grace than you'd care to admit, but eventually it shifted.
And the second it did, you saw it.
Oh, there was definitely something there.
At first you thought it was just your eyes playing tricks on you. The lines in the wallpaper seemed to form a vertical rectangle, so subtle it nearly disappeared into the faded pattern, blending almost seamlessly as if it had never been meant to draw attention. Was that... a door?
"What the fuck..." You whispered under your breath, your brow furrowing as you crouched down. Dust clung to your knees as you reached out, fingertips brushing the surface. It felt solid. Your nails caught faintly against shallow grooves outlining a frame.
It absolutely looked like a door.
A shiver crept down your spine without warning, for some reason. Maybe it was just a tiny storage compartment or omething for pipes. Old houses were full of weird architectural choices; it wouldn't be that strange. There had to be a logical explanation for putting something like this here.
And yet you couldn't look away.
If it was nothing, why was your heart suddenly pounding like you'd just sprinted up a flight of stairs? Maybe it was the sugar you had eaten earlier, you tried to tell yourself, but you didn't believe that bullshit for a second.
It was small. Small enough that maybe a child could slip through, definitely nothing larger. And that thought dragged another one up with it... the missing kid.
What if she'd found it first? What if she'd slipped inside and the door had shut behind her? What if she'd been trapped in there, pounding against the wood until her hands bled, suffocating slowly in the dark? Who would ever think to check inside a hole in the wall that was practically invisible?
The key in your hand suddenly felt heavier. Not physically, but enough that your fingers tightened around it.
Should you call the police? Or should you open it first and see for yourself? Maybe it was just a rat nest, and those little creatures had been trying to get back home. Maybe that was all it was. Or maybe it wasn't.
You looked down at the key, then back at the small, unmistakable keyhole embedded in the door. It took you a good ten minutes, kneeling on that dirty, splintered floor, to convince yourself to at least try. You had a strange door in front of you and a strange key in your palm so maybe fate had decided to shove you in this direction.
And you had always been curious.
That part of you, that relentless need to know, to understand, to dig into things other people barely glanced at, was something Bucky had always loved about you. He'd tease you for it, but there had always been admiration in his voice. That hunger to uncover what hid beneath the surface.
Maybe it was that memory, or maybe it was the faint echo of his voice in your head urging you on, telling you to stop overthinking and just look... but you slid the key into the lock.
When you did, only a small, skeptical part of you expected it to actually work. So when you heard that soft metallic click, the unmistakable sound of something sliding perfectly into place, you just froze. Your eyes widened, breath caught halfway in your throat. For a few seconds, you couldn't do anything except stare at that little door.
If it had been locked... then there couldn't be a body inside. Right? Unless someone had locked it from the outside. Unless her parents had...
You shut that thought down before it could fully form. Jesus Christ. Enough.
Instead, you wrapped your fingers around the edge and pulled the damn door open. Out of all the possibilities you'd run through in your head, a tunnel had not been one of them. And yet, that was exactly what you found staring back at you.
It wasn't made of rock or brick or old warped wood used for crawlspaces and forgotten storage. It wasn't damp or claustrophobic in the way tunnels were supposed to be.
This tunnel glowed.
A soft, shifting light pulsed from within it - blue, violet, magenta, even streaks of pink. The colors moved together in slow, hypnotic swirls, bleeding into one another like ink dropped into water. It looked unreal. Dreamlike. Mystical in a way that didn't belong anywhere near your decrepit living room.
For a split second, you wondered if you'd finally fucking lost it because there was no logical explanation for what your eyes were seeing.
Instinctively, you turned around to check if the living room was still there, half expecting it to have transformed into some enchanted forest or glowing meadow out of a fairytale. But no, it was still lifeless. Still gray, and still stale and suffocating in its dullness, exactly as it had been the day you moved in.
Somehow, that disappointed you. You faced the tunnel again, narrowing your eyes as if squinting might reveal wires, projectors, something mechanical, literally anything that would make this make sense... but nothing. There was nothing of that sort.
You knew you should close the door. You knew it. Hell, you should probably lock it again, take the key, drive to the nearest lake, and throw it as far as your arm could manage and pretend you'd never seen this, because whatever that tunnel was and whatever waited at the other end of it, did not belong to any version of the world you understood.
But the world you understood was shit.
And lately, you would have given anything to escape it. To tear yourself out of it entirely and end up wherever Bucky was in this vast, fucked up universe. You wouldn't have cared about the consequences.
So what could possibly be worse down there? It was strange, sure. But dangerous?
Your friends had been called strange too - if you could still call them that after how you'd practically abandoned them. A witch, a talking raccoon, the god of thunder, a billionaire with a bleeding heart buried under sarcasm and tech. Strange didn't automatically mean evil.
At least that's what you told yourself, and the logic felt solid enough in your head. But your breath still hitched the moment you lowered yourself and started crawling inside.
It was even smaller than it had looked from the outside. The walls pressed close immediately, brushing against your shoulders and hips. The glowing surface wasn't solid in the way you expected; it felt almost smooth and warm beneath your palms, like polished stone that held a pulse of energy under its skin.
Maybe this curiosity was going to kill you one day, although you shoved that thought aside and kept moving.
The deeper you crawled, the stranger it felt. It was as if the further you went, the more the world behind you dissolved to the point that even the sound of your own breathing seemed muffled, swallowed whole by the tunnel.
For a moment, it felt like being suspended in limbo, trapped between a reality that was fading away and something else that hadn't fully formed yet. A world that was shaping itself.
You couldn't even turn around to see how far you'd come because there wasn't enough space to move your head properly. The walls pressed in too tightly and it was in that moment that your pulse began to spike, panic coiling in your chest, the air suddenly feeling thinner.
And just as that panic started clawing up your throat, your forehead slammed into something solid.
"Shit-" The impact rattled your skull. Wood, maybe. It felt like wood.
Adrenaline surged through you, and without thinking, you scrambled forward frantically, wriggling out with all the grace of a worm clawing its way out of the dirt after rain. It didn't even take much force, whatever blocked you gave way easily, another small door swinging open with minimal resistance.
You practically spilled out onto the floor and when you did, the first thing that hit you wasn't sight: it was the smell of cookies.
For one confused second, you wondered if you'd somehow ended up in the downstairs ladies' apartment. That had to be it. As far as you knew, the Pink Palace was just one big house divided into three separate units. Maybe you'd stumbled onto some bizarre hidden passage connecting them.
However, that explanation lasted all of three seconds because when you stood up, you noticed that the room was identical to the one you had just crawled out of. Same wallpaper, only newer. Same wooden floor, but smoother, without cracks or loose nails. Same fireplace, except this one was lit, with flames flickering warmly over stacked logs. Same couches, but clean and with no sheets thrown over them. Even the television was on; so it wasn't abandoned, it was lived in.
Your heart shot straight into your throat and for that reason you genuinely thought you were about to have a heart attack. You pinched your arm hard enough to leave a bruise blooming beneath your fingers, bracing for the sensation of waking up... but you didn't wake up. You were still there.
Your feet moved before your brain caught up, carrying you toward the kitchen, toward the source of that smell that had stirred a hunger you hadn't felt properly in weeks.
That's when you saw him.
It was Bucky.
He was standing with his back to you, apparently chopping something on the kitchen counter... but it was him, you were sure of it. You would have recognized him in any lifetime, in any universe. His shoulders moved in an easy rhythm with whatever he was cutting, and his hair was pulled into that small man bun he always wore when he was home, when he was relaxed.
He was humming absentmindedly under his breath, a tune you recognized immediately: It's Been a Long, Long Time. Your knees nearly buckled at that.
None of this made sense. It couldn't make sense. You had seen him lying cold in a coffin. You had touched his hand and felt nothing but lifeless, stiff skin. And no matter how desperately you had begged the universe and prayed every god that had ever been worshipped to let him breathe again, death wasn't something you could reverse.
Yet he was right there, alive. And this wasn't a dream.
You opened your mouth a couple of times as you tried to say something, literally anything. Ask what the fuck was happening, ask if perhaps this was heaven. Maybe you were the one who had died and hadn't realized it yet; that honestly felt like the most plausible explanation. But nothing came out, your throat refused to cooperate and not even the smallest sound escaped you.
You almost had a heart attack when he spoke first.
"Took you long enough to find me, huh?" He chuckled.
He chuckled. You had to grip the doorframe to keep from collapsing, fingers digging into the wood until they hurt, because his voice was even more perfect than you remembered. Four months of hearing it through old videos hadn't done it justice.
"Bucky?" You finally managed, your voice barely holding together. You needed him to turn around, to see his face. You didn't care anymore if this reality came with a fucking price tag, you wouldn't leave. Not if someone dragged you out kicking and screaming.
"Who else?" He replied lightly.
And then he turned.
The problem was that the second your tear-bright eyes snapped to his - because they were what you had missed most in the world, those stupidly beautiful blue eyes, alive and open and full of warmth - you had to look away immediately.
Because they weren't there.
Where his eyes should have been were two black buttons, sewn over the empty sockets. They were shiny and slightly uneven with thick thread stitched them into his skin; the flesh around them was still red, irritated, not fully healed as if they'd been attached recently.
Your eyes squeezed shut so hard they hurt. The back of your hand flew to your mouth to muffle the violent wave of nausea threatening to tear out of you. You tasted acid at the back of your throat as stomach twisted painfully. Those buttons were the most horrific thing you had ever seen.
"Hey, hey... I know what you're thinking." He murmured gently.
You heard him take a few soft steps toward you. Even with your eyes closed, the sound of his voice almost made your knees give out again. You were that weak.
"And I know it must be hard for you to see me like this." He continued quietly, his tone tender. "Maybe I'm not exactly how you remember me."
You felt his fingers slowly brush your arm as if he was approaching a wounded animal, he didn't grab you and he didn't rush anything. It was just a light touch.
"You are... you have..." You couldn't finish the sentence because another violent gag tried to force its way up, and you swallowed it down with difficulty. Those buttons truly were an atrocity.
"Do you want to know how it's possible that I'm here?" He asked, dragging his knuckles slowly down the length of your arm, unhurried. "I know I'm technically dead... in the other world. But here I've always existed. Can you open those pretty eyes for me?"
His hand slid down until it hovered over yours, but he didn't grab it yet. His fingertips only lingered, brushing against your skin in a silent request for permission, asking to lace themselves with yours instead of taking what wasn't offered.
The hand you'd been holding over your mouth fell to your stomach as if to keep it from twisting itself into knots. Your insides felt like they were writhing in every possible direction, nerves ricocheting through you. And eventually, because he'd asked so gently, you did it. You opened your eyes.
You didn't look at him right away.
First, you focused on the kitchen around you: the warm lighting, the faint hum of the refrigerator, the scent of sweets and cookies freshly baked hanging in the air. The table had been practically buried under homemade food, dishes he used to love making, recipes he'd insisted on perfecting. Your gaze moved slowly, as if delaying the inevitable, then it dropped to his hand, still resting against your skin. Finally, it climbed upward to his mouth, the familiar shape of his lips, the faint scruff along his jaw, the slope of his nose.
And then those damned eyes. Buttons.
"How... is this possible?" You asked, your voice rough, like you had to swallow some sand just to force the words out. "You're d-" The word died in your throat as you weren't unable to say it out loud. So you swallowed hard and tried again. "None of this makes any sense."
"This world has the ability to give you whatever you desire most." He said quietly. "Something that, in the other world, the one you came from, you lost. Or never had. You don't have to understand it right now, I just need you to know that I'm real and that here... if you want to... you can stay. With me."
That was when you let his fingers slide between yours. You tightened your grip almost imperceptibly, afraid that if you didn't, the heat radiating from him would fade. Like he'd dissolve into thin air the second you stopped holding on, and you didn't want that to happen.
"How does it work?" You asked, brows knitting together. "Is this some kind of parallel universe?"
He tilted his head, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "Not exactly. But if that's what you want to call it, go ahead. There aren't any real rules here, I just call it the other world." His gaze softened. "I'm the other Bucky."
You shook your head slowly, choosing your words with care. "So you're not my Bucky? You're not... his soul or something?"
"Not quite." His smile faltered for a fraction of a second before he stepped closer, taking your other hand in his. His grip was firmer now, grounding. "But I have his memories, his habits, his feelings." His voice dipped lower, thick with sincerity. "I'm not the man you lost, but I love you just as much. And here, we can pick up where we left off. Isn't that enough?"
Your throat tightened with every passing second. Tears blurred your vision until you had to blink them away just to see him clearly. You wanted to tell him that no, it wasn't enough. That nothing and no one could ever replace the Bucky you lost - fuck, you didn't want a replacement, you wanted him. The real one.
But that wasn't possible. And maybe having another version of him was better than having nothing at all.
"Do you... do you remember our first Christmas together?" You asked, your voice hesitant. Your thumb traced the back of his hand, an old nervous habit you'd never quite broken. "When I told you I desperately wanted a Christmas tree but the store was closed? You got one by the end of the day."
A soft chuckle escaped him, achingly familiar. The sound punched the air out of your lungs ina good way, and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling too widely. "How could I forget? You were obsessed with making it perfect." He smirked faintly. "I stole it, by the way. From Tony's private collection at the Compound. Hauled that damn thing on my back for miles. Worth it, though."
"I know." You murmured, nodding. "I know you stole it, Tony told me a few days later. He wanted to kill you."
"Yeah, well..." He lifted an eyebrow, that crooked grin flashing. "It was worth it. Even if he chased me around in that stupid suit for weeks, threatening to blow my other arm off."
A small, genuine smile crept onto your face despite yourself. "That sounds exactly like something he'd do." You said softly. Encouraged, you pushed further. You needed to know. "And... do you remember when you brought Alpine home? You bought her that little blanket. Which one was it?"
Something flickered in his eyes, something you couldn't quite name. But his smile never wavered. "The Captain America one." He replied without hesitation. "She hated it at first, but you swore it made her look adorable." His thumb brushed over your knuckles. "I remember everything, doll. Every tiny detail."
Your throat tightened again. The thing was, he wasn't guessing. He knew exactly what he was talking about.
"You're testing me." He said gently, tilting his head. There was no offense in his voice, only understanding.
"No. I-" You dropped your gaze. "Yes, I am."
"That's okay. It really is." He lowered his forehead to yours. "I don't blame you for being shaken. Honestly, I'm surprised you haven't bolted already. You've been through hell, sweetheart, you lost your person." His voice softened further. "And I get why you'd be scared to trust me. But believe it or not, I need you just as much as you need me. I love you as much as you love me. I've loved you in this world and in the other." He pulled back just enough to bring your hand to his lips, pressing a little kiss there on your knuckles.
You didn't pull away, pulling away was the last thing on your mind.
"Stay." He said at last, looking straight into your eyes.
Saying yes would've been the easiest thing you'd done in days, but was it the right choice?
A small voice inside you was screaming, begging you to wake the fuck up and realize that everything in life came with a price tag. The most beautiful things cost the most. And this felt like a divine gift, too perfect, too tailored to your grief. Utopia wrapped in familiar skin, it had to cost something. So yes, maybe you were supposed to run and crawl back through that narrow door and return to the real world, the broken one.
But the real world didn't have him. And he was the only thing you'd ever willingly pay a fortune to get back... and here he was.
You knew this wasn't normal, you knew it in your bones.
But then he smiled at you.
And just like that, you smiled back.
oh mother is about to DELIVER
Curiosity Killed The Cat ☠︎
☾ 𝘽𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙛𝙪𝙡 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙬𝙞𝙨𝙝 𝙛𝙤𝙧
-> 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𓃠
-> 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐖𝐎 𓃠 𓃠
-> 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 𓃠𓃠𓃠
[ Rewriting ] ; [ Masterlist ]
gonna post the first part this week if i don't suddenly die???
THE HUNTERS & THE SOLDIER || 35
PAIRING: Avenger!Bucky Barnes x OC!FemAvenger
SUMMARY: ... what if?
WARNINGS: Mentions of corpses from the last chapter, references to sacrifices, and some vague discussion of medical conditions (nothing accurate, more like mental confusion or a twisted sense of reality). There's also some cursing. I think that's everything (should be?), but let me know if I missed something. This chapter is pretty chill overall.
OTHER: Hey everyone! Work has been slowly killing me, and when I get home all I want to do is rest my brain, so I haven't had much time to update. This chapter and the next were originally meant to be one, but I only had time to finish editing the first half. Since the full version was about 14k words, I decided to split it for everyone's sake. Hope you enjoy it!!! Feedback is always appreciated.
-> Masterlist
-> part thirty four ; part thirty six
-> Once Upon a Dream
Alisa should have realized perhaps a little sooner that the scarecrows had never really been scarecrows stuffed with straw, but corpses hung up there, scattered across the entire field. Along the path from the house to the church, they had seen at least another dozen, and the field likely stretched on for miles. Come to think of it, no one had ever questioned where the bodies were disposed of, considering that by now it was clear that hundreds of people had died in that place.
She simply became more careful not to bump into their ghosts; the woman from earlier hadn't done anything strange, but she wasn't stupid enough to assume all spirits were harmless. She vaguely remembered what Sam had told her, that many lingered due to unfinished business. Murder counted as unfinished business, and many of those spirits were probably seeking revenge.
So Alisa decided to mind her own damn business and try not to think about it while she and Ellen made their way toward the church, which they finally reached after several long, dragging minutes.
Alisa found herself kneeling in the mud, trying not to snap and start cursing at no one in particular every time her already bruised and scraped skin brushed against something sharp, like twigs or small rocks.
From there, she watched what was happening inside the church. Outside, there was barely any light, and the only thing she managed to make out were cars parked in the clearer patches of land. These weren't old, rusted vehicles abandoned years ago - most of them were new and fully functional. A Mercedes, an old pickup truck... you get the idea.
And it became immediately clear why there were so many cars when Alisa saw that inside the church there were, roughly speaking, at least sixty people: all men, all dressed in black. And this time, they were definitely not ghosts. Ellen had already pointed out at least ten she knew personally.
"That one worked at Wonderland for a while." She pointed at a bald man Alisa had completely forgotten about, the same man she and Bucky had run into in the hospital elevator on their way down to Section C.
Ellen, unlike Alisa, had refused to 'roll around in the mud like a pig.' She stood beside the window, arms crossed, positioned carefully so she could only see a small portion of what was happening inside, but remained hidden enough to avoid being spotted.
"Are they all human, or are there demons mixed in?" Alisa asked, clenching her jaw as she tried to pick out at least one familiar face; if not Dean, Bucky, and Sam, then at least Malcom.
But in that crowd of people chatting animatedly, some already seated on the church pews, she didn't recognize a single one. That wasn't a good sign.
"As far as I know, Malcom and Cassandra didn't exactly spread the word that tonight they planned to awaken Spegil." Ellen replied, her jaw tight likely from the cold and the biting wind that occasionally swept through. Still, she refused to show that she wasn't exactly a fan of low temperatures. "Those are just people Malcom trusts, people who've helped him over the years. For instance, that one-eyed man is a close friend of a member of this country's congress. They're all rich and influential men." She sighed. "Never trust the rich."
Alisa raised an eyebrow at her. "I'm well aware of that, trust me." She rolled her eyes.
When she looked back through the filthy window, she noticed someone walking up the steps behind the altar. It was the highest point in the church - which was entirely made of wood, inside and out - and Alisa realized she knew that figure. She got confirmation when he turned around and crouched down on the floor, fiddling with a tangle of wires - wires she couldn't tell where they started or ended, but it didn't seem impossible to figure out.
It was Dylan. He didn't look very comfortable in there, but that hardly mattered. Alisa straightened immediately, though she didn't stand, and her mind flooded with ideas on how to storm in, grab him by the ears, and drag him out... but there were too many people.
More specifically, too many men, and she was still naked under that white robe she was wearing, and she'd rather not take that risk.
"You said they'd be here." Alisa snapped at one point. "And I thought there'd be more demons."
She didn't want to play the idiot and trust Ellen blindly, because quite simply, she didn't trust her and never would. But Ellen knew Malcom's plan, knew how things were supposed to unfold better than whatever Alisa could come up with.
Which was exactly why she had to take the risk of listening to her, at least a little, because she needed to save those three idiots' asses.
"Well, clearly they're not." Ellen said impatiently. "Maybe you should start considering that they actually left without you this time."
"You better hope they didn't." Alisa muttered. "Otherwise I won't have any excuse left to keep you alive."
Alisa had no idea what to do. She didn't have a plan in mind, not even a half-assed one, to be honest. Running a hand under her chin, her mind completely blank, she got back on her feet and quickly moved away from the window so no one inside could spot her.
Her eyes landed on an old white van, its sides dented in several places, and on impulse she decided that if everyone inside that church was a piece of shit and a criminal, then someone had to have weapons. A gun or something else to carve her way through and get Dylan back, whether he wanted it or not.
What she would do after that, she had no clue.
"Where the hell are you going?" Ellen snapped under her breath, trying to grab her as Alisa strode off toward the van, but she missed.
The girl reached it quickly since it was parked just a few meters away from the others, and leaned in close to the closed window, cupping her hands around her eyes to block out the faint light outside and see inside. When she didn't notice anything unusual, she went ahead and opened the door.
"Earlier you said Malcom didn't warn the demons, what does that mean? If they're not here, they'll die when they wake Spegil?" Alisa asked, climbing into the vehicle, knees pressed against the seat as she leaned forward toward the passenger side, opening the glove compartment in search of anything useful.
"Yes." Ellen replied through clenched teeth, glancing around. Out here they were far more exposed than before, when they'd been hidden among the bushes.
Alisa slammed the compartment shut when she found nothing but useless crap and random papers, slipping back out of the van and shoulder-checking Ellen very much on purpose as she passed her to reach the side with the large sliding door instead of back seats.
"And Meg?" Alisa asked, pulling that door open as well. "Why is Meg here, then? Isn't she a demon too? Last I checked, they weren't exactly best friends."
"Meg isn't like the others." Ellen answered, clearly not pleased about the shove from earlier. "She knew the Winchesters, they worked together and were enemies for a while too. She knows Crowley and how he operates, so she's been useful to Malcom."
Alisa barely registered those words, too busy staring at the contents inside: can after can, which judging by the smell were filled with gasoline.
"Hey there, sweetheart." Speak of the devil... "You're the star of the night, what are you doing out here in the cold?" Meg was already smiling by the time Alisa turned to look at her.
For a moment, the so-called star of the night felt completely screwed. The demon had been so quiet that neither she nor Ellen had heard her approach, and considering she had apparently been helping Malcom and Cassandra over the past few months, she could only be on their side.
"Nothing much. Got a lighter on you, by any chance?" Alisa asked, her tone voluntarily innocent. "Maybe we can warm ourselves up a little."
Meg's eyes drifted to the canisters inside the van, and her smirk widened as she bit down on her lower lip. She couldn't have looked more amused. "You're cute." She said, sizing her up from head to toe. "And from what I can tell, you've got quite the temper. You remind me of Dean, so it makes perfect sense that Castiel took you under his wing."
At the mention of Castiel, Alisa's eyes widened slightly. "Castiel?" She shot a sideways glance at Ellen, who had a faint frown on her face just like her daughter - and for a split second, the resemblance between the two became obvious. And quite uncanny.
Ellen narrowed her eyes. "So you know the angel too." She said. Cassandra had probably mentioned him when she was secretly updating her on how things were going. "And you don't look like you're on the warpath, so why haven't you alerted Malcom yet?"
Meg shifted her gaze to the woman standing just to Alisa's right, a step behind. She gave a casual shrug. "Why haven't you?" She shot back. "You're not the only one here looking out for your own interests, Ellen."
So she wasn't actually on their side after all.
Alisa took a step toward Meg. "Have you talked to him?"
Meg shook her head. "I talked to Crowley." She replied. "He and my angel are in the area, but there are sigils set up specifically to keep angels out, so he can't get in - which is why he hasn't stepped in yet, and why Spegil hasn't crawled into your head like I know she usually does. I was actually nearby to remove the last sigil, per Castiel's request." With that, she kept walking past them. "Take care, pretty girl."
"Do you know where the others ended up?" Alisa found herself asking as Meg walked away.
The demon turned while still walking backward, spreading her arms before letting them fall back to her sides. "Knowing the Winchesters, they're either already in trouble or about to be." She turned again and simply walked off.
"We need to get out of here." Ellen grabbed her daughter by the elbow. "If she removes the last sigil, Spegil will be able to find you more easily and you'll drop like a rock for who knows how long. And if you pass out, I won't be able to drag you to safety."
Alisa didn't move. If anything, she dug her heels into the ground. "Spegil is what you're worried about? Because I'd say Crowley is the bigger problem for you. Shitting your pants already?"
Ellen clenched her jaw. "Get in the van."
"No. That wasn't the plan." Alisa yanked herself free, putting distance between them. "I'm going to find them. You stay here. I'll make sure they're not already in deep shit, then we come back for Dylan and get the hell out."
"Maybe you've forgotten you're not the one calling the shots." Ellen snapped through gritted teeth. "We figure out a way to get the kid and we leave immediately, got it? Your friends are grown adults, they can handle themselves." She grabbed her again, this time far more aggressively than before.
"You need me more than I need you, Ellen." Alisa shot back, her gaze steady and unflinching as it locked onto Ellen's. "So shut your mouth and hide until I get back." She wrapped her fingers around the woman's wrist, digging her nails into her skin if only to hurt her, and forced her to let go.
"Oh, little girl." She let out a small, amused sound, as if she wasn't sure whether to laugh or pity her. "One of these days, you're going to get yourself put down if you keep acting like a disobedient dog."
But she was already several steps away before Ellen even finished her sentence, not caring whether she followed or not. Alisa went her own way... wherever that was. She plunged back into the damned field of tall, whispering grass with a fragile hope that things might somehow turn out fine.
Though, to be honest with herself, she doubted it.
With a dramatic and very frustrated roll of her eyes, a simple small gesture that still couldn't even begin to express how completely exhausted she was by this entire situation, she pushed her way back into the tall grass. Now that she was thinking about it, she had watched a movie about something similar not long ago, and she could only hope she wasn't about to run into some crazy man who wanted her to touch a strange, cursed rock.
Considering the things that had already happened out here, an alien stone that drove people mad, eventually, didn't sound so terrible according to her opinion.
Alisa had to walk with her hands practically out in front of her, fingers brushing blindly through the dark, because right now she was navigating by sound and touch alone. There was no longer a single fixed landmark for her to follow now, Malcolm's house was invisible in the darkness ahead of her and, to be completely honest, it was strange that it hadn't caught fire yet. She hoped, in the most affectionate way possible (which wasn't affectionate at all), that the damn wooden shack went up in flames before Sawyer and Cassandra woke.
That would solve two problems at once.
So far, all she had heard was the soft rustling of the grass swaying in the light breeze and the tiny, nocturnal animals calling from somewhere far off, at least giving her ears something to cling to. Other than that, absolutely nothing. And she kept trudging forward, blind and pouting, for several long minutes before even that tiny comfort was snatched away and replaced by an absolute, suffocating silence. So sudden it was hard to miss.
Alisa froze, every muscle locking, and an annoying crawling sensation prickled under her skin, like ants moving beneath the surface. It lasted less than a minute, but it was enough to make her eyes fly wide open, because by now she had learned to associate that kind of oppressive, unnatural silence with her.
She couldn't even hear herself breathe inside it. She was sure she was still in the field, because her hand was still brushing against the tall blades of grass, but the rest of the world had simply... vanished. She lifted herself onto her toes, trying to see if anything around her had changed, and her stomach sank the moment she spotted it; because yes, something had definitely changed.
A few meters ahead of her stood a small house, glowing softly with garden lights, while fireflies drifted lazily around it. Her eyebrow shot up on instinct. It was actually a cute little house: brick, well kept, large enough to hold a family. But it hadn't been there before, which meant there was absolutely no reason to feel reassured by its sudden appearance.
And having learned her lesson from last time, when she had chased that creepy child straight into Spegil's arms, she turned around immediately. Alisa spun on her heel, gave the house her back and a mental middle finger, and walked in the opposite direction, toward where she had left Ellen. Even if this was another vision, another made up little landscape pulled over her eyes, Ellen was probably gone by now. One good thing about all of this, at least.
Alisa certainly didn't expect that simply changing direction would magically fix everything, because escaping this place, this chunk of land literally forgotten by God, was not easy unless Castiel himself dragged her out. And she really hoped he would do that soon. But until she heard that deafening, skull-splitting sound tearing through her eardrums, she was alone.
Which meant she had to think fast about what to do next when, without any logical explanation whatsoever, the sun rose.
The sun rose... yet the sky above her remained pitch black. Right over her head hung a glowing sphere whose rays didn't even warm her skin, but at least it finally illuminated something. But when Alisa looked down again, she realized she was standing in... a field of flowers? What was this, a nightmare?
For a moment, she genuinely wondered if she had died. Why was the scenery suddenly arranged so neatly, so prettily - even if it still looked fake? Why wasn't she in a freezing forest surrounded by carcasses like the previous times? And why the fuck was that damned house now perfectly visible right in front of her, when she was absolutely sure she had left it behind?
Unfortunately, Alisa had been born not only crying, but also with a level of stubbornness nearly impossible to ignore. So she turned around again, hoping for some change in the setting - because one thing was what she knew, no matter how gruesome; another thing entirely was this. Had Spegil gone to confession and then decided to turn Purgatory into a watercolor daydream? A splash of colors which, however pretty, were unmistakably dull and anything but natural?
There was always something sinister about beautiful things. Especially when they kept appearing in front of her every time she turned her back on them, because now that cursed house was right in front of her again. Her patience was nonexistent, and she very nearly yelled at the sky, but she held herself back out of sheer dignity.
It was only when Alisa finally lost her temper over not knowing what the hell any of this meant and decided to march right up to the house and see who lived in it that she noticed something else. Not only was she suddenly wearing shoes... but she was also wearing a sundress. A colorful one.
"No." Alisa whispered dramatically, grabbing the fabric as if it were a sworn enemy. The dress itself wasn't the issue, it was the pattern. It looked as though a unicorn had happily pissed on her, and she was not a big fan of anything with more than one color.
Once she stepped out of that field of flowers, she drew in a deep breath, one so full it stretched her lungs to their limit, before walking toward the house's front door. However, she froze the very moment she heard laughter coming from the other side of it.
A child's laughter. Actually, children - plural. There were at least two, and from what Alisa could hear, their giggles sounded genuine, carefree in the way kids laugh when they're simply having fun. Nothing about it was eerie unless she remembered the fact that her real body was unconscious somewhere in the physical world, and everything here, including those children, was fake.
Swallowing hard, Alisa knocked on the door with the same energy of someone about to commit murder - just to keep things dramatic, of course. Still, the presence of children did absolutely nothing to make the situation feel less unsettling or less macabre. If anything, for her it had the opposite effect. It felt... tacky, in the worst and most ominous way.
No one came to open the door. Instead, with a slow creak, the door eased open on its own, of just an inch.
The first thing Alisa saw was how... deceptively welcoming the place appeared. The walls were painted a warm yellow, while the lower half was lined with white paneling. Light streamed in from the small windows beside the entrance, casting soft patches of brightness over the dark wooden floor. To her right, a set of furniture hugged the wall and on top of it, an assortment of decorative trinkets, framed photographs, and a vase.
Alisa could hear the clock on the wall too, its soft, rhythmic ticking.
There was also an umbrella stand beside the door, holding exactly four umbrellas inside it. Two adult-sized, and two noticeably smaller.
To be fair, to inexperienced eyes the house would have looked comforting, homely even, if not for the details she only noticed after taking two cautious steps inside, a few details that changed everything.
Like the fact that somewhere deeper in the house she could hear music playing. A familiar melody that she couldn't, however, properly recognize, accompanied by a voice that should have been singing actual lyrics, actual words, but was instead uttering nonsense. It sounded like another language, but she was certain it wasn't one.
Or the fact that the picture frames, both the ones hanging from the walls and the ones resting on the furniture she had noticed earlier, were faded. They depicted people in various places: two adults, a man and a woman, and two children.
The vase held dead roses: their heads wilted, lifeless... yet the color remained a deep, vivid red, as if only the life had been drained out of them, not the pigment.
The clock's hands were ticking, yes. But the numbers on its face were upside down, scattered in no proper order whatsoever.
Up until that moment, nothing had sent chills down her spine more than hearing that word addressed to herself.
"Mom!" Alisa heard the voice of a little girl call out, right as she heard her footsteps pounding against the floor. She saw the creature burst out of a room, a wide, genuine smile plastered across her face as she ran toward her with her arms thrown open.
And yeah, Alisa mentally called her a creature because that damn child was anything but new to her; the last time she had seen her, she had been eating a heart. Yet now she didn't look half as disturbing as she had that day... except for the part where she called her mom, which alone was enough to make Alisa want to pack up, leave, and run away from a life that wasn't even hers.
She wore a red headband keeping her bright, flushed face unobscured, and a dress of the same shade, decorated with little ladybugs scattered here and there.
Alisa did not return the hug she gave her for obvious reasons. Instead, she lifted her arms in the same stiff, helpless way someone does when they're being held at gunpoint.
"Why did you take so long at the store? The cookies we made with Dad got cold." She said, looking up at Alisa with complete innocence while the woman stared at her as if she were speaking a language she had never heard before.
But she had heard her. And she had understood her. And she also wondered what fresh circle of Hell this was supposed to be.
With her thumbs and index fingers, Alisa peeled her tiny, fragile arms off her waist as if she carried some highly contagious disease, and she didn't say a single word to her. She moved past her, heading toward the room she had come out of, hoping desperately to find Spegil. At least then something would make sense because this was a fucking nightmare.
But inside that room, there was Bucky.
He was right there in the middle of the strenuous, heroic domestic task of transferring tempting cookies from the baking tray into a bowl. He was dressed stupidly normal, with gray sweatpants, a simple black t-shirt... and he had another little girl in his arms. Identical to the one who had called Alisa mom thirty seconds ago.
"Hey, sweetheart." He said, looking up at Alisa with that casual, easy tone of a man who had zero clue he was standing in a psychological torture chamber. "We didn't burn anything this time." He added with a small laugh.
Alisa was about to faint.
"What..." She began, one hand planted firmly on her hip while the other pointed sharply at the space in front of her. Her tone was anything but ironic, she was pissed and, frankly, she understood absolutely nothing of what was going on. "What d-does all of this mean?"
He looked at her, the little girl's head nestled comfortably against his chest as if he were her designated safe place, and his expression shifted into a puzzled kind of curiosity. Clearly, he had no idea what she was talking about.
"You mean... the fact that the girls and I made cookies while you were out? Alright, fine, I formally apologize, ma'am." He said, before glancing down at the child in his arms. "Next time we'll wait for the boss, how about that? Mommy has to tell us what to do, otherwise we risk repeating the disaster from last time, remember?" His tone was warm and sweet, the kind of tone Alisa might have found adorable under literally any other circumstances.
The girl giggled softly at a memory Alisa didn't possess. "But they turned out good this time, Mom." She said, addressing her with a confidence that made her stomach drop. "Do you want to try one? But-" She sniffled lightly, as if remembering something important. "but Dad said we have to save some for Grandma and Grandpa."
If someone called her that one more time, she was going to explode. She actually missed Purgatory as she knew it, because this was officially a brand-new method of torture. And not because it was violent, but because it was a life she had zero desire to live and she was finding it uncanny. Marriage, in her opinion, was a pointless waste of money and time; and sure, she liked kids when they weren't hers and she could give them back to their parents at the end of the day.
"And Aunt Cassie!" The other girl, the one with the red headband, chimed in with enthusiastic delight.
What the fuck were any of them even talking about.
"If this is some new technique you came up with to make me say yes, I'm sorry to tell you that you picked the wrong person." Alisa snapped at Bucky, fully assuming he was Spegil in disguise.
He set the girl down, still giving her that confused look, letting out a sound somewhere between amused and surprised. "You think baking a couple of cookies is my grand technique to get you to say yes?" He raised a brow. "No, sweetheart. We already talked about this. Having another child has to be a conscious decision."
Oh God.
"Fuck this shit." Alisa muttered, dragging a hand over her face.
She wondered if there was a specific logic behind Spegil's mind games or if she simply acted whenever it suited her. And honestly, it made sense she'd dragged Alisa into this supposedly utopian reality right after she had been left alone in a field of grass. She didn't know what was happening to her real body, but she couldn't react because she was stuck here.
Alisa stepped out of the room to... do something. She didn't even know what. It wasn't like she could run away, she couldn't hide, and she doubted stabbing someone would solve the situation. And she wasn't going to stab two children in the first place even if they weren't real.
"Mom? Where are you going?" The girl asked, trailing after Alisa.
Alisa wandered aimlessly down the hallway until she reached a living room, the entire front wall made of wide windows that gave her a perfect view of the flower field outside. Except it felt more like a film set than a view, if she had to describe it.
"Are you okay? You look pale, sweetheart." Bucky said once he reached her too. She turned just enough to see the worried look on his face as he approached carefully.
The girl, noticing his sudden shift in tone and noticing the way Alisa looked one breath away from lunging at him, took a step back.
"Dad?" She asked, tiny and unsure.
"It's okay, peanut." His voice softened immediately, though his eyes stayed fixed on the woman. "Go to your sister. Close yourselves in the kitchen for a few minutes while Mommy and I talk."
Alisa's gaze followed her. She nodded once, then started walking back the way she came. But right before leaving her field of vision, her steps faltered. Alisa saw her brows knit together into something very close to sadness.
"Will Mommy go back to normal?" She whispered.
"Of course she will." Bucky replied gently, giving her a sincere smile. "She always does."
With one last glance toward 'her mother', the kid disappeared.
"So? Do you want me to clap for the performance, Spegil?" Alisa snapped, practically growling, because she absolutely refused to sit here and be made a fool of. She was done. Done with confusion, done with manipulation, done with being pushed around inside her own head. "Do you really think these shitty little tricks will keep working? Hm? I'll admit you were at least slightly more creative this time in building..." She opened her arms, gesturing broadly at the entire house around them. "This little happy-family set piece. But I'm not buying it. Not this time."
He didn't look offended. At all. In fact, he nodded as though this was exactly what he had expected her to say. As though he'd heard those exact words countless times before. And they weren't enough to crack him open and drop the act like last time. He kept coming closer, moving with the soft caution of someone approaching a person mid-mental breakdown. But Alisa didn't move. Not even an inch.
"Sweetheart." He said, his voice warm and filled with something she didn't immediately recognize. Love, maybe? Or just an angel wearing the face of the man she'd grown to... appreciate. "It's okay. Focus on my voice, alright? You just forgot to take your medication again, Ali. It's - it's going to be fine. Calm down before you do something you'll regret." He spoke to her as if she was the unstable one.
As if she was the one in the wrong. As if she was someone suffering from some temporary amnesia. But he had to be lying.
He had to be lying.
"That's the excuse now?" Alisa asked, breathless from how absurd it sounded. "Medication? That I forgot to take some fucking pills?" She spat. "Do you think I'm stupid?"
"No, no, love. No. Please just listen to me." He stepped closer until only a few centimeters separated them, looking genuinely frightened by how she was reacting, but also like a man who had been through this too many times.
Before he could keep talking, keep filling her head with garbage, she made it clear he wasn't getting far. "I'm listening. I'll listen to whatever bullshit is about to come out of your mouth." Alisa held his stare. "Because we both know that if you managed to get to me, Castiel will too. He always does."
He shook his head. "Castiel isn't real, Ali." His voice held so much conviction that if she had even slightly less faith in what she knew, in who she was, he might have convinced her. "Just like Spegil isn't real. Just like all those... demons or demon hunters who keep confusing your thoughts. And the... those two, Sam and Dean. It's - it's just a tv show, baby. None of that is real."
Alisa shook her head too. Steadfast. Because how could she believe him? Not when she had no memories of this bullshit life that, let's be honest, didn't appeal to her at all. And because she damn well knew what had defined and shaped her in life, and it sure as hell wasn't affection. It couldn't all be a product of her imagination.
He nodded back, as if accepting her silent refusal. "I'm calling the doctor." He said quietly. "He always knows what to do. But - but you need to look at this first." He brought a hand to the front pocket of his sweatpants and pulled out a heart-shaped locket, the kind meant to hold tiny photographs.
"It's yours." He held it, as though it should mean something to her. But all it did was make Alisa raise an eyebrow and let out a tired, half-amused breath. "You gave it to me for moments like this, remember? Here, open it." He reached out and guided her hand gently, placing the locket in her grasp.
And she had to admit, his touch was... comforting. And that stunned her. It made her waver for a second, long enough to open the locket.
Inside, on one side, there was a picture of Alisa and Bucky kissing. On the other, a photo of those twin girls when they were younger.
And the picture wasn't distorted this time, their faces were perfectly clear. The locket felt real in her hand. His voice carried a quiet desperation that felt real, too.
"See? We're real, Ali." His voice strengthened, certainty pouring into each word. "Our family is real. I'm real, and so are our daughters, our home, our life. Those dreams you keep having about angels, demons, superheroes or supervillains... none of what you think you lived is real." His eyes moved between hers intensely, as if praying for her to find even a spark of clarity, one she didn't have, and come back to him.
What if... what if he was right? What if she was the fucked up one? What if she really had forgotten she had a husband and two daughters?
What if this was her real life, and she was suffering from something that made her slip into episodes where nothing made sense?
Because honestly, a normal life made more sense than the plot she had been living, something that sounded like it had been written by someone with too much free time and no supervision.
"Hey, hey. You're coming back to me, aren't you?" Bucky murmured, cupping her cheeks, his thumbs stroking her skin gently. "Good. Do you remember what we did this morning before you went out for groceries? We were thinking about repainting the girls' room, maybe finally giving them each their own separate space."
While he talked, Alisa truly tried - fucking tried - to give him the benefit of the doubt. And a heavy lump rose in her throat at the idea that he might be right. That maybe she was the problem, that maybe she had misunderstood everything up until now. He kept talking about little moments he said they had shared, and her eyes drifted toward the details that had felt wrong earlier.
The roses were alive now: bright, natural red instead of that uncanny preserved color. The photos were clear, and her heart felt like it was about to burst out of her chest. Maybe he really was right.
Once Upon a Dream. That was the song playing in the background, the words were perfectly clear now, and as time passed, while Bucky kept talking, everything around her slowly began to take shape, no longer warped or… or fake.
"Look." Bucky stepped away from her just enough to reach the television. He grabbed the remote from a small cabinet beside it and turned it on.
And Alisa almost felt her legs give out when, after he flipped through a couple of channels, the screen filled with Dean's face, then Sam's, even Castiel's. The show was called Supernatural, and she couldn't help but move closer, searching for some flaw that would prove it was all a trick.
But she didn't find one this time. Not on the screen, not in Bucky's eyes as they silently begged her to come back to herself, and not in the house around her, the house that belonged to them. To their family she had no memory of building.
"You're confused, and that's normal, baby." Bucky spoke again. "It's been happening more often lately, and I don't know why."
"What's been happening more often?" Alisa asked, feeling stupid, still dazed.
Her attention was fixed on the two hunters she had, until now, worked alongside... now hunting fairies in a tv show. She couldn't wrap her head around it.
"These -these episodes." Bucky replied. "And not just that, you're taking longer to come back each time. Why don't you sit down and rest for a bit, okay? You'll see… your mind will sort itself out. It always does."
Alisa looked outside then; the field of flowers rippled with the wind, no longer looking like a cheap backdrop from a theater set. There was depth to it, real depth, a dimension she hadn't noticed before.
And then she saw a reflection - or rather, the absence of one. The central windowpane was fogged, opaque, trembling as if someone were knocking on it from the other side.
Only that one window, while the two on either side reflected everything perfectly.
Her brows furrowed, and she was about to ask for an explanation, but he cut her off.
"You believe me, don't you?" Bucky asked, straightening up. "Say yes, baby. Please come back to me."
And that's when she noticed a faint flicker of yellow in his blue eyes.
That's how Alisa finally came back to herself.
It wasn't sudden, it was more like her mind clawed its way up through murky water and finally broke the surface. Her body reacted first, rejecting the touch of the fake Bucky, then her shoulders snapped back as though something inside her had just finally reconnected. And she took a step away from him, small, sure, but out of instinct, the kind of movement someone makes when they realize too late that they were inches from the edge of a cliff.
Alisa didn't know what to do next, fuck, she didn't even know what she could do. There was no plan, no strategy, just the rising panic and the raw hope that improvisation might save her ass. Her eyes darted around, searching desperately for anything within reach, anything that could buy her a second, and she found it soon enough. Her sanity, what was left of that, depended on it.
Her hand closed around the first object she touched: a small wooden box, smooth under her trembling fingers. Alisa didn't bother to focus on what it contained, not that she cared. She just swung it with all the strength she had left and slammed it right against his head.
Exactly as she feared and expected, not even a flinch.
The box struck him with a dull crack, recoiling from his skull as if it had hit stone. And still, he didn't move, he didn't even acknowledge the impact except for the way he looked at her. That look - shit. Alisa's stomach dropped so fast she nearly folded. It didn't look like anger and it sure as hell wasn't pain. It was ten times worse; he was tired of her resistance.
And even though she knew he couldn't kill her without killing himself - well, herself, really - Alisa felt a sudden, reckless surge of courage... or stupidity, it depended on the outcome. Hard to tell them apart in moments like these, but it pushed her forward, hard enough to make her believe she could still do something useful.
So she ran. Obviously.
Alisa bolted toward the window, the strange one, and she threw herself at the glass. Literally, without thinking, without slowing, without giving herself time to reconsider. She squeezed her eyes shut the moment before impact. The sound of shattering glass exploded around her, and logically she thought she would land on the grass outside; flat on her ass, probably, but at least she would be out of there.
But instead, she fell weightless into a void that gave her a little déjà vu.
It was only after several long, spiraling seconds that something familiar hit her lungs: air. She had been breathing before, technically, but only now did it feel real - real in a way that grounded her, steadied her, reminded her that her body still existed outside that illusion and she was right all along.
This was real enough that she finally felt confident opening her eyes. A shaky breath escaped her lips the moment her gaze met the sky: the wide stretch of darkness, the soft glow of the moon, the countless stars above. Alisa let herself stare for a moment longer than necessary, drinking it in, because no angel could ever recreate a sky God Himself had painted, as much as she hated to admit it, the difference was unmistakable. At least, Spegil had never managed to do it.
And then she saw Castiel.
He stood over her, watching with that same unreadable expression she had grown so painfully fond of, and she felt so blessed, so relieved by his presence that for a split second she genuinely considered falling at his feet just to kiss them. But she didn't, because she had a reputation to maintain.
Alisa pushed herself back onto her feet with all the grace of a drunk pig, ignoring both the pounding headache and the wave of nausea that these episodes gifted her every single damn time. She had noticed someone standing beside Castiel, but at the moment she couldn't have cared less because she was happy, truly happy, to see the angel.
She cupped his cheeks between her hands the way one might with a toddler, but beneath that strange gesture - strange for him, at least - there was a clear reason. She needed to anchor herself to him, to feel his skin, to confirm that he was real and she wasn't still trapped inside the imagination of some centuries-old angel with too much time on her hands, who had recently decided tormenting Alisa was her new favorite hobby.
"Castiel." Alisa said his name with a breathless little laugh, absolutely wrung out at this point. "Oh, fuck, Castiel, please tell me it's really you or I swear to God I will start crying from sheer despair."
Castiel, who had been exchanging confused glances with the person that was now standing behind her, didn't comment on her constant poking and holding of his face. Instead, he cleared his throat. "It is me." The angel said, nodding softly. "We came very close this time. She used what little untouched grace she still possesses to pull your mind into a place that... was difficult for me to locate. But you made it out."
"It was terrifying, Castiel." Alisa said, her hands sliding to cling to his shoulders now. She shook him a little. "It was the most horrible, and - and petty, and - God, I get chills just thinking about it."
And indeed, a shiver ran through her as she said it.
"She tortured you?" Castiel asked, brows pulling together, his voice genuinely worried.
"Worse." Alisa whispered. "I was married to... to Bucky. Which, disturbingly enough, didn't piss me off as much as it should have, and just for that I should gouge my eyes out. But no, listen - I had children. Me. I can barely take care of myself. Poor creatures, thank fuck they weren't real. I'd kill myself if I had me as a mother - okay, I'm talking too much." She forced herself to take a step back, grounding herself again. "Alright, what now? Where are they? Men never survive long when they're not supervised."
"Maybe they finally died." It wasn't Castiel who said that.
And as if the night hadn't already been complicated enough, as if it hadn't been, to say it plainly, absolute shit from start to finish, here came the cherry on top, complete with a name and a black suit he apparently wore to bed. She'd almost forgotten about him, between a nightmare and the other.
"Crowley." Alisa said, spinning around on her heels. And there he was, smiling at her like the smug bastard he was. "Believe it or not, I almost missed you too." She gave him the most obviously fake smile known to mankind.
"Oh, I bet you did, angel." He said with a touch of humor, never losing that half-smile tugging at his mouth.
Honestly, could she really blame that demon for being so pleased with himself? No. She would be just as smug if she had managed to catch two birds with one stone in a single night. Because if things went exactly the way he had planned them, he'd be dragging two souls down to Hell by dawn. And one of them happened to be hers.
But at the moment, Alisa wasn't exactly thrilled about how things would turn out if the deal she had made with him actually succeeded and as far as she knew, deals weren't something that could be easily undone. So yes, maybe she was a little regretful about having sold her soul so quickly, but in her defense, she had done it because she genuinely had no other choice.
And now Ellen claimed she knew how to save Dylan's life. Did Alisa believe her? No. Hell, she would have trusted Loki more even on the days he was trying to conquer New York than she trusted Ellen. But she also didn't want to spend the rest of eternity in Hell torturing herself over the same question: what if Ellen had been telling the truth? What if she really did have a way to save him?
Not that any of it made sense right now, because Crowley was here, and surviving had become significantly harder.
Impossible, she dared to think.
cersei lannister truly the most iconic character of our time. she's the worst. she's considered one of the most beautiful women in the realm yet she wishes she wasn't a woman at all. she fucked one of her brothers and tried to kill the other. she successfully murdered her abusive husband and put her bastard on the throne. her actions started a war that killed thousands and she doesn't give a fuck. ned stark caught her in her plots and instead of deny it she tried to seduce him instead. her daddy issues are so bad they cause her narcissistic delusions. she's a multifaceted and complex character and yet she tries so hard to be the evil stepmother you can only admire the determination. her body dysmorphia is so bad she cosplays as her dead crush. she's doomed by the narrative. she became a murderer at ten years old. she fucked a woman. her right hand is a morally dubious necromancer. tyrion compared her with maegor the cruel, aegon the unworthy and mad aerys. catelyn wanted to torture her. jaime ghosted her. her own plots turned against her. she's even bald. and yet she lives while the rest of her family drop dead. who is doing it like her.
cersei lannister you are so so missed
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Fandom spaces lately are a mess and I’m done pretending it’s normal
Not everything here is for minors. A lot of this space is adults creating for other adults. If that bothers you then scroll, block, curate your space, touch some grass, whatever, just stop acting like you own the place and harassing people
A close friend of mine is getting vile anons just for being open about being a mom with a partner. Apparently having a life means you’re not allowed to write fanfic anymore? That’s actually fucking ridiculous.
Since when are idiots this brave that they just show up in people’s askboxes and say the nastiest shit imaginable? Anonymity really got some of you way too comfortable
You’re out here consuming content made by adults while calling them disgusting for existing. Make that make sense
Creativity doesn’t expire when you grow up. Fandom has always been built by people with jobs, families, actual lives. If that bothers you, AGAIN, then fix your feed and leave people alone.
And to those anons?
fuck you and I hope you have the day you deserve. Since you’re so worried anon, I’ll let you know her kids are happy, her partner is happy and her life is just fine while you’re a sad little nobody bullying people online. Know your fucking place.
I was today years old when I found out that people can't have hobbies anymore if they're married and / or have kids. y'all need to touch some graaaaaaaaass
Hey everyone! This is my Wattpad profile, feel free to follow me if you'd like. Also if you have fic recommendations (Bucky Barnes only plz), I'm open to them! I don't know when I'll be able to read them properly because I'm busy with work, but I'll add them to my reading list and read them as soon as I can. No pressure!
(please ignore my ariana obsession thank u so much)
(yes i changed the cover again)
Hey everyone! I changed the cover of The Hunters & The Soldier AGAIN, because sometimes the more I look at something, the more I start to hate it. Bless PicsArt for existing.
Anyway, this is a story that mixes the MCU and Supernatural, mainly Bucky Barnes, Sam and Dean Winchester because they're three of my favorite fictional men and I wanted a story where they interact. But since I couldn't find one… I made it.
It's long, and it focuses more on the story / plot than romance because, quite simply, I don't know how to write romance in a non-cringey way???? I don't know how even that turned out though. It takes a while for them (Bucky and OC) to even be kind to each other. Sue me.
If you have nothing else to do and some time to spare, I'll leave this here (it's also here on tumblr, so do whatever makes you happiest).
The next chapter should come out this Friday and after that, there are only two chapters left so the story is complete. You don't have to worry about that.
Here's the masterlist. If you decide to give it a chance, I hope you enjoy it. Kisses 💋💋.
You ever have that nagging suspicion that no matter how hard you try you just aren't good enough.
Lethal love ᥫ᭡
main masterlist
pairing: Avenger!Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader
summary: After the mission of returning the infinity stones goes wrong, the power stone leaves you with something you can’t get rid of. You survive the exposure, but now Bucky can only survive you in small doses.
word count: 5.2 k
warnings: angst, hurt/no comfort, implied smut, no happy ending (kind of open), graphic depictions of physical stress, mentions of blood and medical trauma, separation/implied breakup, self-destructive behavior. | english is not my first language so I'm sorry in advance for any mistypo/grammar mistake.
a/n: may I say thank you to the lovely anon who made this request based on Smallville Lara and Clark’s last kiss? Honestly I cried a lot while writing this 🥀 I hope you guys enjoy it and I’m sorry in advance for what you’re about to read.
read in AO3
The quantum tunnel spits you out on Morag in 2014, and the first thing you notice is how quiet it is. Dead quiet. Just wind and ruins and the distant sound of waves.
"We've got forty-five minutes before the window closes," you say, checking th GPS device on your wrist. "The temple's half a klick north."
Steve adjusts his shield. "Stay sharp, we don't know what we're walking into."
Bucky's already scanning the perimeter, rifle raised. "Looks abandoned."
"It is," you confirm. "Quill still unconscious down there. We're early."
The temple is exactly where it should be—a massive structure carved into the cliff face, a fascinating alien architecture. The power stone it's placed in its pedestal, sealed in the orb, pulsing with barely contained energy.
"Okay," Steve says. "Nice and easy. We secure the stone, get back to the platform and—"
The explosion cuts him off.
You're thrown sideways, slamming into one of the temple pillars. Your ears are ringing. Through the smoke, you see them: Sakaraans, maybe a dozen of them, firing indiscriminately. They must have followed you when they saw the quantum tunnel.
"Get the stone!" Steve shouts, shield already deflecting blaster fire.
Bucky's at your side, hauling you up. "You good?"
"Yeah, go—"
Another explosion, closer this time. The temple shudders and you watch in horror as the pedestal cracks, the orb rolls free splitting open on the ston floor.
The power stone tumbles out, raw, uncontained, pulsing with enough enrgy to level a planet.
Everything slows down.
Bucky's moving toward it—he's a super soldier, he might survive the exposure—but you're closer. You're already running. You can hear him screaming your name, but you're faster. Your hands close around the stone, and the universe explodes… at least for you.
Purple lightning crawls up your arms, through your veins, behind your eyes. It's not pain, it's way too big to be pain. It's everything, all at once. Every star being born and dying, every moment that ever was or ever will be, all of it flooding through you at once.
You can hear Bucky screaming but you can't let go. If you let go, the energy discharge will kill everyone. Will crack the planet open.
So you hold on.
Four seconds. Five. Six.
You slam the stone back into what's left of the pedestal and the world snaps back into focus. You're on your knees, your hands are still glowing, purple veins crawling under your skin like lightning scars. Bucky's hands are on your face, he's saying your name over and over, frantic.
"I'm okay," you manage. Your voice sounds wrong, distant. "I'm okay, I'm—"
You pass out in his arms.
You wake up three days later in the med bay. Bruce is there immediately, shining a light in your eyes, checking your vitals. "Welcome back, how do you feel?"
"Like I touched an infinity stone."
"Well, you're not dead, so, that's a good start." He's trying for levity, but you can see the concern in his eyes. "The glowing has mostly faded, you've still got some residual marks, but they should disappear completely in another few days."
You look down at your hands. The purple veins are still there, faint now, like a spiderweb under your skin.
"Where's Bucky?"
"He's been here the whole time, I finally convinced him to go shower about an hour ago." Bruce hesitates. "He was… he didn't handle seeing you like that very well."
You're about to respond, when the door crashes open and Bucky's thre, hair still wet, looking like he's been through hell.
"You're awake." He's across the room in three strides, hands hovering over you like he's afraid to touch. "You're okay, you're—"
"I'm okay," you assure him. "Buck, I'm fine."
He sits on the edge of the bed, and you can see his hands shaking. "You stopped breathing twice. Did Bruce tell you that? Your heart stopped once, I had to watch them—"
"But I'm here now." You catch his hand, lacing your fingers through his. "I'm right here."
He lifts your joined hands to his mouth, kissing your knuckles. "Don't ever do that again."
"No more infinity stones, I promise."
He manages a weak smile before leaning down to kiss you properly. You don't notice the way his hand tightens on yours or the way his breathing picks up.
Twenty minutes later, he's vomiting in the bathroom.
Bruce runs every test he can think of. Bucky insists it's just stress, just the comedown from the mission, but you all know better.
It happens again the next day. You're sitting together in the common room, your head on his shoulder, and after thirty minutes he has to excuse himself. You find him in the hallway, pale and shaking, leaning against the wall.
"This is connected to the stone," you say.
"We don't know that."
"Bucky—"
"We don't know that," he repeats, more firmly. "Could be a hundred things, could be—"
He doesn't get to finish. His knees buckle and you barely catch him.
Bruce's diagnosis is clinical and devastating: you're still emitting radiation from the power stone. Not enough to hurt a normal person, but enough that Bucky's enhanced metabolism reads it as a threat. The serum is trying to fight it, which is tearing him apart from the inside.
"It should fade," Bruce says, but he won't meet your eyes. "In theory."
"How long?" Bucky demands.
"I don't know. The levels are decreasing, but slowly. It could take weeks, maybe months." He pauses. "Maybe longer."
"So what do we do?"
Bruce looks between you both. "You stay apart, minimize exposure until radiation dissipates to safe levels."
The silence is deafining.
"How much exposure is safe?" You ask quietly.
"Based on today's readings?" Bruce checks his tablet. "Five minutes. Maybe ten if he's had time to recover."
Five minutes. You only get five minutes.
After a few weeks, the lab tests proof that you're safe for fifteen minutes.
You measure everything now.
Bucky sets a timer on his phone every time he enters your room. When it goes off, he leaves without arguments or exceptions.
Fifteen minutes isn't enough time for anything meaningful. It's enough for "how was your day" and "I miss you" and one kiss before the alarm sounds and he has to go.
You start writing things down. All the things you want to tell him, but don't have time for. You leave notes in his room, he leaves notes in yours.
Thought about you today when I saw a cat stuck in a tree. It reminded me of that mission in Prague. -B Sam made a joke about your hair, I defended your honor. You're welcome. -You I'm counting down the minutes until tomorrow, always counting. -B
By week four, your time increases to forty five minutes, and it fels like a miracle.
You can have a meal together now… well, most of one. You learn to eat fast, to tlk while chewing, to fit entire conversations into the space between bites.
"Bruce says the decline is steady," Bucky tells you over breakfast. "If it keeps dropping at this rate, we might have a few hours in another month."
"That's good," you say, but you're both thinking the same thing: What if it stops? What if this is as good as it gets?
The timer goes off and Bucky's only eaten half his food.
"I'll finish it tomorrow," he says, kissing your forehead on his way out.
His plate sits on your table for the rest of the day. You can't bring yourself to throw it away.
By the sixth week, you got two hours, and it feels like the cruelest gift.
It's enough time to watch a movie—if you start it the second he walks in and he leaves before the credits roll.
It's enough time to have sex—once, and only if you're efficient about it, and only if you're both okay with him leaving immediately after. You try it once, the alarm goes off while you're still catching your breath. He kisses you and walks out, and you lie there alone in the tangled sheets and cry.
When the eighth week comes, you notice the increase is slowing down. Bruce shows you the charts, the curve is flattening. The rate of decrease is dropping.
"What does that mean?" Bucky asks.
"It means we might be approaching a plateau," Bruce says carefully. "A baseline level that won't decrease further."
"But it's still going down," you argue. "It went up forty seven minutes this week."
"Forty-seven minutes in seven days. Last week it was an hour and twelve minutes. The week before that, ninety minutes." Bruce looks tired. "I'm not saying it's definitely plateaued, but we need to prepare for the possibility."
That night, Bucky comes to your room. You lie together in your narrow bed, fully clothed, his flesh arm wrapped around you.
"We have thirty more minutes," you whisper. "We should talk about something."
"I don't want to talk."
"Then what do you want?"
"This." His voice is rough. "Just this, just you."
You fall asleep like that. Wake up four hours later to Bucky convulsing beside you, blood streaming from his nose and ears.
"You could've died!" You're shouting, pacing, because if you stop moving you'll fall apart. "You could've— do you have any idea what it was like, waking up and seeing you like that?"
Bucky's sitting on the edge of the med bay bed, still pale but recovering. "I fell asleep, it was an accident."
"An accident? You stayed for four hours, Bucky! Four freaking hours! Your timer went off and you turned it off instead of leaving—"
"I didn't—"
"FRIDAY showed me the logs!" Your voice cracks. "You dismissed the alarm six times, six."
The silence stretches between you.
"I wanted more time," he says finly.
"You could've died."
"I wanted more time with you." He looks up, and his eyes are red. "Is that so fucking terrible? That I wanted to fall asleep next to you? That I wanted one night where I didn't have to watch the clock?"
"Yes!" The word tears out of you. "Yes, it's terrible, because you're killing yourself for a few extra hours—"
"Don't you get it? It's not about hours!" He's on his feet now. "It's about us. Us being together… that's the only thing keeping me—"
The nose bleed starts.
You've been here too long. Twenty minutes arguing, and he's already over the limit.
"I'm leaving," you whisper.
"We're not done—"
"I said I'm leaving!" You're crying now, shoving at his chest before walking out.
You sink to the floor of the next room and finish the fight alone, screaming at an empty room.
Bruce calls you both into the lab. You know it before he speaks, he has a terrible poker face.
"The levels have been stbale for two weeks," he says. "No decrease, no increase. I think… I think this is it."
"It could still drop," Bucky argues. "Could just be longer plateau before—"
"It could." Bruce agrees. "But it's been twelve weeks. The radiation signature should've decreased more by now if it was going to." He pulls up a graph. "I think we're looking at a permanent baseline, aproximately three hours of safe exposure per day."
Three hours for the rest of your life. Three fucking hours.
"There has to be something else," you say, but your voice sounds distant. "Another treatment, a way to extract it, something—"
"I've consulted with everyone I can think of. Shuri, Helen Cho, Strange… There's no precedent for this. Infinity stone exposure on this scale…." Bruce shakes his head. "I'm really sorry."
You're aware of Bucky's hand finding yours, holding it tight.
"Three hours," he says. "We can work with three hours."
You don't answer.
That night, you sit in your room and do the math.
Three hours a day is 1,095 hours a year. Divided by 24, that's 45.625 days. You get 45 days a year with him… the rest, you spend alone.
If you live by 80—optimistic, given your line of work— and Bucky lives to be 150 because of the serum, you'll get 58 years together: 2,668 days total out of 21,170.
12.6% of your life together. The other 87.4% alone.
You're still staring at the numbers when Bucky walks in.
"Three hours a day is 1,095 hours a year," he says, and his voice is so carefully controlled it hurts to hear. "That's 45 days, we get 45 days a year together. Some couples do long distance and see each other less than that. We could— we could make this work, right?"
He's standing in the doorway, hasn't crossed the threshold yet. Even now, he's trying to preserve your time.
"Buck—"
"I wake up at 5, come here until 8. Then lunch, 12 to 1. Dinner, 6 to 8. That's three hours, we just split it up throughout theday. It's structured but it's— it's something." He's talking faster now, desperate. "We could meal prep on Sundays so we don't waste time cooking. We could— I don't know, we could read books at the same time so we have something to talk about during—"
"Bucky, stop."
"No." He takes one step into the room, just one. "No, I won't stop. I've done the math every possible way and this— this is what we have, so we make it enough, we make it—"
"It's not a life."
The words land like a physical blow. You watch him flinch.
"It's our life." His voice cracks. "It is what he have, and people leave with worse. People— people do long distance, people have—"
"People don't get poisoned by the person they love."
"Don't—" The word comes out sharp, ragged. "Don't make this about—"
"What if it gets worse?" You're on your feet now, and you can see the exact moment the timer his head starts counting. He's been here for two minutes. You have 178 minutes left today. "What if the plateau is temporary? What if three hours become two, and then one—"
"Then we'll deal with it."
"What if it kills you?"
"Then it kills me!"
The shout echoes in the small room. Bucky's chest is heaving, his flesh hand clenched into a fist, and you can already see it— the slight tremor starting in his fingers, the way his pupils are dilating wrong.
Five minutes. He's been here for five minutes.
"Get out," you whisper.
"No."
"Bucky, please—"
"No." He crosses the room in three strides, and you can see what it costs him. There's already a slight drag to his left leg—the serum's propioception breaking down. "You don't get to decide this alone… you grabbed that stone to save the mission, to save Steve, to save the entire goddamn universe. You think I'm gonna let that sacrifice be for nothing? You think I'm gonna just walk away after—"
He stops and sways.
Seven minutes.
"Sit down." You grab his arm— his flesh arm, careful now— and try to guide him to the bed. His skin is already too warm. "Damn it, James, sit down before you—"
"No," he's shaking his head and the movement seems to cost him. "Not yet. I can't—I'm not ready yet."
"You're already past your limit—"
"I know." His voice drops. "God, I know. I can feel it. It's like fire in my blood, did you know that? It burns. Everything burns when I'm near you."
Your breath hitches. "You never told me—"
"Because I don't care." He cups your face with both hands, and the metal one is whirring wrong, plates shifting and clicking out of sync. "I don't care if it hurts. I don't care if it burns— the only thing I need is you."
His knees buckle. You catch him, barely, and you're both sinking to the floor. His back hits the edge of the bed and you're kneeling between his legs, holding him up.
"I need one more time," he breathes out. "I need to kiss you one more time without the fucking timer, without counting the seconds in my head, without wondering if this is the one that finally—"
He doesn't finish. Can't finish.
"This is cruel," you whisper as your hands frame his face, and you can feel the fever radiating off his skin. "This is so cruel, letting you stay when you—"
"Then be cruel." His eyes lock on yours, and even unfocused with pain, they're still looking at you with so much love it hurts. "Be cruel, let me have this, let me—"
"It's killing you—"
"You think leaving me won't?" His metal had comes up—jerky and malfunctioning— and catches your wrist. The grip is weak. How could it be? His metal arm is never weak. "You think walking away and leaving without you won't kill me just as dead? At least this way I got to…"
His nose starts bleeding.
It's been ten fucking minutes.
"Please, stop." You sob, reaching for something to stop the blood, but he catches your hand.
"No, please, just—" He's pulling you closer, even though every instinct you have is screaming to push him away, to save him. "Just stay, please. I know we're out of time, I know this is it, I know tomorrow you're gonna leave and never come back, so just— god, please just let me have this."
"How did you—"
"I know you." His thumb brushes your cheekbone. "I know that stubborn look in your face… you've already decided. You're planning on disappear and going somewhere I can't find you, because you think that way you'd be saving me. But baby, I'm not gonna survive without you, you understand that?"
He's crying now, and the tears are pink-tinged. There's blood on his tears. That's new.
"I can't lose you again," he chokes out. "I can't be the one left behind again. I can't wake up and find out the person I love the most is gone."
"Then you have to let me go." You're crying too, your forehead pressed against his. "You have to let me be the one that walks away, because I can live knowing you're out there, somewhere, safe and whole and alive. But I can't live watching this kill you. I can't, Bucky, I simply can't."
"One more time," he whispers against your mouth. "Let me have one more time where I'm not counting… where I can just pretend we have forever."
"We don't have forever…"
"I know. And I know I'm past it, I know I'm gonna pay for this, I don't care."
And he kisses you.
It's not gentle nor careful. It's desperate and drowning. His mouth is relentless against yours, like he's trying to memorize the taste, the feeling, the way you feel together. Your hands are on his hair, on his face, feeling the fever burning through him.
The kiss tastes like copper and salt. And somehow you feel it like the one last thing you'll ever have in your life.
His body is shaking violently now. You can feel every tremor, every muscle spasm. His metal arm is now hanging useless at his side, but his flesh hand is still cupped around the back of your neck, still holding you close as his strength fails.
You break the kiss against to breathe and he makes this desperate, broken sound that breaks your heart and chases your mouth. "Not yet, not yet, please—"
"Bucky, you're—"
"I know." He kisses you again, softer this time, gentler. "Just one more time."
Another kiss, this one starts to taste like blood. His hands are sliding down from your neck, he's losing motor control and his eyes are rolling back. You catch him as he slumps forward, his full weight collapsing into you.
"No, no, no…" You're holding him, lowering him down to the floor, cradling his head. "FRIDAY! Get Steve here! Get Bruce! Please someone—"
Bucky slurs something low, barely conscious. You look down at him with tears in your eyes. "Please, please, stay with me—"
But he's out.
You lay down, screaming until your throat hurts for what it feels like forever, even though it only has been two minutes.
You're still holding him when Steve and Sam crash through the door. Bruce arrives a bit later to the med bay. They try to pull him from your arms and you won't let go.
"How long?" Bruce asks quietly, already prepping an IV.
Your voice barely comes out and sounds distant. "Fifteen minutes, maybe more…"
Steve's face go white. "Jesus Christ."
"Get her out of here," Bruce orders and Sam pulls you away gently.
You watch from the doorway as they work in him. Watch as they load him onto a gurney and wheel him past you to medical.
His metal arm is hanging off the side of the gurney, completely loose. Blood is still trickling from his nose. But on his face, even unconscious, there's this ghost of a smile.
Like it was worth it.
You slide down the wall in the empty hallway and sob, praying in silence for him to be okay.
When Steve finds you an hour later, you're still there. Still staring at the same spot where they took him away.
"He's stable," Steve says quietly, sitting down beside you. "He's gonna be okay…"
You don't answer, looking down at your hands.
"Bruce says the exposure set him back weeks, maybe months. He will need time to recover before…" He trails off but you already know what he means.
Before you can see each other again.
"I'm leaving," you say. Your voice is flat, empty. "Tomorrow, somewhere he won't find me…"
"He'll look."
"I know." You finally look at Steve. "That is why I need you to stop him. You need to make him understand that this is— this is the only way I know how to save him."
Steve remains in silence for a long moment. Then: "He's not gonna forgive you for this."
You close your eyes, leaning your head on the wall. "…But at least he'll be alive."
The next morning, you're gone.
You leave a note on his bedside table in medical, anchored down by a small locket with your initials and a picture of you both inside. You took his dog tags in exchange. The paper is covered in your handwriting, and in some places the ink is smudged.
Bucky,
I'm writing this while you're still unconscious, and I'm trying not to look at you, because if I do, I won't be able to leave. So I'm staring at this paper instead, forcing my hand to move and trying to get all of it out before I lose my nerve.
By the time you read this, I'll be gone. And I need you to understand that this isn't me running away from you. This is me running forward the only future where you survive.
I love you. I love you so much it feels like it's burning me from the inside out. I love the way you still sleep on the left side of the bed just because I asked you once to do so because I felt more comfortable sleeping on the right. I love how you pretend you don't like when Sam calls you "Buckaroo" but I can see you trying not to smile. I love that you learned how to braid hair just so you could braid mine on the nights we actually had time together.
I love you for fighting so hard, for pushing your limits for wanting me badly enough to hurt yourself. But that's exactly why I can't stay.
Last night I watched you almost die in my arms just for some extra time with me. I felt your heartbeat falter under my hands, I saw the blood and I saw you smiling unconscious when they were taking you to the medbay. And that's how I know you're never going to stop. You'll never choose yourself over me. You'll push and push until there's nothing left, and I will have to watch you fade.
I can't do that, Buck. I can't let the person I love most in this world destroy himself for stolen moments and rationed hours. I can't live knowing that every kiss might be the one that finally kills you.
So I'm choosing for the both of us. I'm doing the thing you can't do.
I'm leaving. And I need you to let me go.
I know you're probably already planning how to find me. I know Steve is probably going to help you, and if they ever find me Sam is going to yell at me for breaking your heart, and you're going to pull every favor and every resource until you track me down.
Please don't. I'm begging you baby, please don't look for me.
I know it's not fair to ask, I know I don't have the right, but I'm asking anyway because I need you to live. I need you to have a full life without timers and blood and goodbye kisses that might be the last one.
You've spent so much time being a weapon, being used, being told you don't get to choose. So I'm giving you a choice now: you can spend the rest of your life chasing a ghost or you can let me be the one that got away. You can hold on the hurt or you can let it make you strong enough to move forward.
You probably already know which one I'm hoping you'll choose.
Be happy, James Buchanan Barnes. Be reckless and stupid and alive. Get a cat. Let Sam teach you how to use social media, let Steve drag you to those museums you always pretend to hate. Flirt with someone at a coffee shop, have a one night stand, fall in love again.
Live the life I can't give you.
I'm sorry I couldn't be strong enough to stay. I'm sorry for choosing this way. I'm sorry for every fight we won't have and every meal we don't share and every tomorrow we won't get.
But most of all I'm sorry that loving me turned into something that could kill you.
I'm serious, James, don't look for me. This is the only way I know how to save you.
Always yours, even from far away.
When Bucky wakes up, the first thing he see is the letter. The second thing he sees is that his dog tags are gone. The third thing he realizes is that you are gone too.
He reads the letter and the machine monitoring his heart rate starts screaming.
"No." He's already ripping off the IV from his arm, swaying his legs over the side of the bed. "No, no, no—"
Steve's hands land on his shoulders. "Buck, you need to calm down."
"Where is she?!"
The scream echoes through the medbay. Bucky shoves Steve back hard enough that he hits the wall.
"You need to lie back down," Bruce says, trying to use his calm voice. "Your system is still recovering, you can't—"
Bucky's on his feet now. The room spins but he doesn't care. He's moving toward the door and Steve's blocking it and Bucky can feel it rising in his chest—that cold, dark thing he's spent burying.
"Move."
"You're in no condition—"
"I said move!"
His metal fist goes through the wall next to Steve's head. Sam is there too now, both of them trying to corral him back towards the bed, but Bucky's fighting them… really fighting them. There's blood running down his arm from where he tore the IV out and he can feel his body failing, feel the weakness on his legs, but he doesn't care.
"She's gone!" He's shouting, or maybe sobbing, he can't tell anymore at this point. "She's gone, I have to find her, I have to—"
"Bucky, listen to me—" Steve tries.
"No!" Bucky slams his metal arm into a medical cart and sends it crashing across the room. "You don't understand, she thinks—the letter says—"
He can't get the words out, can't even breathe properly. His chest is too tight and the room is spinning. You're gone.
"We need to sedate him," Bruce intervenes.
"Don't you fucking dare!" Bucky spins toward him and Steve has to physically tackle him. They go down hard, Steve pinning him to the floor and Bucky's still fighting, thrashing, his metal arm whirring as he tries to throw Steve down.
"I'm sorry," Steve is saying and he means it, Bucky hears it in his voice. "I'm sorry, Bucky but you're gonna hurt yourself if we don't stop you."
"I don't care!" Bucky's voice cracks. "I don't care, let me go, let me find her—"
He feels the needle slide into his arm.
"No, please, I have to— she doesn't understand—I need to tell her." His vision is blurring, Steve's face above him, both of them looking wrecked. "Find her, please find her…"
The darkness takes him back.
When he wakes again, it's dark outside.
He's restrained now. Steve's asleep in the chair beside the bed, Sam is gone.
Bucky lies there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, his body aches and his head pounds. Underneath it all, there's this hollow space where you used to be.
The letter is folded on the bedside table. They must've picked it up after… after whatever happened. He doesn't remember all of it, just the rage and the panic, the desperate need to move, to chase you and fix everything.
But he's not panicking now, he's thinking.
What if all of it wasn't permanent? What if there was a cure? Bruce said there was no precedent for infinity stone exposure like this. No treatment, no solution. But Bruce doesn't know everything. Bruce couldn't save Tony.
Bucky's mind was starting to work, clicking through possibilities: Carol Danvers got her powers when she was exposed to the space stone. Wanda's powers were the result of an experiment trial with the mind stone. Peter Quill was exposed to the power stone, along with his team, according to what Steve told him.
There were options. Leads. Possibilities.
And if none of them worked, he would find new ones. He'll search every corner of the universe if he has to. He'll make deals with gods and monsters and anyone else who might have answers.
The restraints are loose enough that he could break them. They're meant to slow him down, not stop him. But he doesn't move. He just lies there, breathing steadily, his mind cataloguing resources and contacts and next steps.
He reaches back for the letter and reads it one more time.
I'm serious, James, don't look for me. This is the only way I know how to save you.
He folds it carefully and picks up the locket you left there, a picture of the both of you staring back at him. He closes his hand around it and presses it against his chest.
"I'm going to solve this out," he murmurs quietly, low enough to prevent Steve from waking up. "And then I'm going to find you, and we're going to have forever. I promise."
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