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Glasgow 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿 Jaimie 25

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The Space You Left (#25)

Series Summary: Some wounds don’t bleed. They just teach you how to disappear. Before being adopted, you learned early that love had rules: don’t ask, don’t need, don’t take up space. Bucky – your brother in everything but blood – was the only exception. Now you’re an adult, brilliant, controlled, almost untouchable… until one dinner shatters the fragile balance.

Wordcount: 10.7k

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader, mentions of past Steve Rogers x Female Reader (no use of Y/N), Bucky Barnes x Natasha Romanoff

Warnings: childhood trauma, adoption trauma, abandonment issues, orphanage abuse, corporal punishment mentioned, religious trauma-adjacent themes, emotional self-hatred, shame, suicidal ideation / one moment of passive suicidal thought, complicated family dynamics, raised-as-siblings but not blood-related romantic tension, implied non-explicit underage intimacy in the past, emotional aftermath of sex, verbal cruelty, heartbreak, therapy, healing, reconciliation. See the whole exhaustive list on the masterlist post.

A/N: Gentle reminder that this series is heavy on trauma so I beg you to read the whole list of warning on the masterpost. I won't tolerate any complaints about not being warned of something. Beta read by Cassie (@blobfishlol ) as always.

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The morning of your defense felt less like an ending than a threshold. Not a clean one. Not the kind people wrote speeches about, all polished wood and sunlight and achievement arranged neatly into meaning. It felt stranger than that. Quieter. Like standing in front of a door you had spent years building with your own hands, only to realize you still had to be brave enough to open it. Your presentation was ready. The thesis was finished. There was nothing left to rewrite at three in the morning, no paragraph left to tighten because nerves had convinced you commas were life-or-death decisions, no citation left to check for the fifth time. There was only the defense now. The room. The committee. Your voice carrying work that had lived inside you for so long it had become part of your pulse. And somehow, that was worse.

Tony had noticed before you said anything. Of course he had. He had been in your apartment since mid-morning, not hovering exactly, but existing in that very Tony way that made stillness impossible. He had inspected your coffee machine with professional disdain, complained that your kitchen was “a hallway with ambitions,” asked if the radiator had always made that noise, and then fallen silent the moment he saw you standing in the middle of the room with your notes in one hand and your eyes fixed on nothing. “You’re doing the thing,” he said. You blinked. “What thing?” “The thing where your body is in the room but your brain is already ten possible disasters ahead.” You looked down at the printed pages in your hand. “That’s called preparation.” “That’s called anxiety with a bibliography.” Despite yourself, you laughed. It helped. Not enough to erase the pressure sitting under your ribs, but enough to let air move through it. Tony smiled like he knew exactly what he had done and was choosing not to point it out. He had dressed carefully for the day – not extravagantly, not in a way that screamed Tony Stark, which would have been impossible anyway because the man could stand in a plain black shirt and still look like a headline waiting to happen. But he had made an effort to look… restrained. Respectful. Like he understood this was your day. Not his. That mattered more than you had words for.

“You sure you don’t want me to sit in the back with sunglasses and pretend to be mysterious?” he asked after a moment. “Could intimidate the committee. Quietly. Tastefully.” “You are not intimidating my committee.” “I said tastefully.” “Dad.” The word came easier now. It still caught sometimes – not in your mouth, but somewhere deeper. In the place that had spent most of your life refusing to believe you could gain something without losing something else. But you had been calling him Dad for a month now, and each time the word settled more naturally between you. Tony’s expression softened instantly anyway. It always did. “Right,” he said quietly. “No intimidation. Mild moral support only.” You smiled, small but real. “Thank you.” He was about to answer when there was a knock at your door. Your stomach tightened automatically. Not with dread. Not exactly. But with awareness. Steve was early. Of course Steve was early. You had told him the defense wasn’t until early afternoon. You had told him he didn’t need to come before, that Tony was with you, that you were fine. Steve had replied with something mild and completely unconvincing about “being in the neighborhood.” You had known he would show up anyway. Tony looked toward the door, then back at you. “That the museum boy?” You rolled your eyes. “He has a name.”

“I know. I’m building suspense.”

You shook your head and went to open the door.

Steve stood on the other side with two coffees balanced in one hand and a paper bag tucked carefully under his arm. He looked exactly the way Steve always did when he was trying not to look worried: posture straight, mouth composed, eyes already searching your face for cracks.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Hi.” His gaze moved over you quickly – your clothes, your hair, the stack of notes in your hand. Assessing, not judging. The old instinct of someone who had known you through too many versions of yourself. “You okay?” he asked. You gave him a look. Steve’s mouth twitched. “Right. Dumb question.” “Very.” “I brought coffee.” “You’re forgiven.” He stepped inside, still smiling faintly, and then he saw Tony. The change was immediate. Not dramatic in the way someone less controlled might have reacted. Steve didn’t gasp. He didn’t curse. He didn’t drop the coffee. But everything in him stopped. His shoulders locked. His hand tightened around the cardboard tray. His eyes went from Tony’s face to yours and back again, and in the space of one breath, you watched understanding move through him like lightning. First confusion. Then recognition. Then realization. Then…

Oh. Oh, hell. Tony Stark. Your father. Steve’s gaze snapped back to you. You lifted your brows a fraction. Please don’t make this weird. Steve stared at you for another second, and then his mouth opened. Nothing came out. Tony, of course, looked delighted. “Well,” he said, leaning one hip against your tiny kitchen counter. “This is promising.” Steve blinked.

You stepped aside and closed the door behind him. “Steve,” you said carefully, “this is Tony.”

Steve’s eyes flicked to you again, almost incredulous.

Tony. Not Mr. Stark. Not my father. Just Tony. Because you could see his brain doing the math and short-circuiting at the same time. Steve swallowed, then shifted the coffee tray to his other hand and offered his free hand. “Steve Rogers,” he said, voice steady through what had to be an enormous effort. “It’s nice to meet you.” Tony shook his hand, eyes sharp with interest. “Steve Rogers,” Tony repeated. “The Steve.” Steve’s cheeks went faintly pink. You closed your eyes briefly. “Dad.” “What? I’m confirming context.” Steve’s eyebrows lifted at the word Dad. Not because he hadn’t already understood. Because hearing it from you made it real. You saw it hit him in a different place then – not the part of him that recognized a billionaire, not the part that understood the sheer absurdity of Bucky Barnes spending years worshipping Tony Stark while having no idea Tony Stark was tied to you by blood. No. It hit the part of Steve that knew what you had been looking for. The part of Steve that remembered a park bench, your tears, his own voice breaking as he told you he loved you enough to want you free. The part of Steve that had watched you leave New York shattered and return standing straighter. His expression softened. Not with pity. With relief. “You found him,” Steve said quietly.

The room changed.

Tony’s amusement faded into something attentive and protective. He looked between you and Steve, clearly hearing the weight behind the words, clearly understanding there was history there he had only been given in pieces.

You nodded once.

“I did.”

Steve’s throat bobbed.

For a moment, he looked like he wanted to say more. Like there were ten different emotions pressing at the back of his teeth – happiness, grief, pride, regret, the sharp ache of realizing again how much of your life he had witnessed without fully understanding.

Instead, he simply said, “Good.” Your chest tightened. “Yeah,” you whispered. “Good.” Tony watched him closely. Not suspiciously. Not exactly.

But with the careful focus of a man who had been told this person mattered to you and was now measuring why.

Steve seemed to notice, because he straightened a little.

Tony’s mouth curved.

“So,” he said. “You’re the one who changed her sheets.”

Steve froze.

You turned sharply toward Tony. “Dad.”

Tony lifted both hands. “What? That was a nice thing. I approve.”

Steve’s blush deepened, but he recovered quickly, clearing his throat.

“She told you?”

“She told me some things,” Tony said, voice quieter now. “Enough to know you showed up when showing up mattered.”

Steve looked down for a second, visibly uncomfortable with praise. “I should’ve done more.”

The words came too fast.

Too honestly.

They slipped out of him before he could stop them, and you felt the old ache of it – Steve’s guilt, Steve’s instinct to carry responsibility for things that had never belonged entirely to him.

“Steve,” you said softly.

He looked at you.

You shook your head once.

Not today.

Not here.

Not before the defense.

Steve understood.

He always had.

He nodded, accepting the boundary with the kind of grace that still made something in you ache.

Tony saw that too.

You knew he did.

For a few seconds, the three of you stood in your apartment, surrounded by the strange intersection of every life you had lived. Your childhood friend. Your first love. Your father. Your thesis notes on the table. Your coffee cooling in your hands. The city outside your window waiting with its usual indifference.

Then Steve looked at Tony again.

And the second wave of realization hit.

Bucky.

You saw it happen.

Steve’s eyes widened by the smallest degree. His mouth pressed together. His gaze dropped briefly, then lifted to yours again with something almost appalled and almost delighted.

You knew exactly what he was thinking.

Bucky Barnes – who had dreamed of Stark Industries since he was a child.

Bucky Barnes – who had built an entire career path around Tony Stark’s work.

Bucky Barnes – who had no idea that the father you had found, the man standing in your kitchen with one hand wrapped around a coffee mug and the other tapping restlessly against the counter, was Tony Stark himself.

The universe had a cruel sense of humor.

Steve looked away, but not quickly enough.

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t.”

Steve’s mouth twitched.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You thought it very loudly.”

Tony looked between you. “Now I’m interested.”

“No,” you and Steve said at the same time.

Tony’s eyes brightened. “Oh, definitely interested.”

You pointed at Steve. “You are not telling Bucky.”

Steve’s expression shifted immediately.

The humor stayed, but something serious moved underneath it.

“I know,” he said.

You held his gaze. “I mean it.”

“I know,” he repeated, softer. “That’s yours to tell.”

Your shoulders loosened by a fraction.

Steve looked toward Tony once more, then back at you, and this time his smile turned rueful.

“But for the record,” he added carefully, “karma has a really specific sense of timing.”

You let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Steve.”

“I’m just saying.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“I’m not enjoying it,” he said, too quickly.

Tony tilted his head. “He’s enjoying it.”

Steve looked mildly pained. “I’m appreciating the narrative structure.”

You stared at him.

Tony pointed at Steve with his coffee mug. “I like him.”

Steve’s mouth twitched again despite himself.

And you realized, abruptly, that you were smiling.

Not because everything was easy.

Not because the day wasn’t enormous.

But because this – this strange, impossible room full of people who mattered – did not feel like a collision.

It felt like pieces beginning to occupy the same space without destroying one another.

Steve set the coffee down on your small table, then carefully placed the paper bag beside it.

“I brought breakfast too,” he said. “Figured you’d forget to eat.”

“I was going to eat.”

Tony snorted.

You glared at him.

Steve’s expression stayed soft. “You say that like I haven’t known you since we were kids.”

That landed differently with Tony in the room.

You felt it.

So did Steve.

So did Tony.

Known you since we were kids.

Tony’s face changed slightly – not jealousy, not resentment, but that quiet grief he still sometimes carried when your past appeared in front of him and reminded him how much he had missed.

Steve seemed to realize it too.

He looked at Tony, then said, more gently, “She was always like this before big things. Pretended she wasn’t nervous. Got too focused. Forgot food existed.”

Tony’s gaze flicked to you, then back to Steve.

“Yeah,” he said after a second, voice softer. “That tracks.”

There was a silence.

Not uncomfortable.

Just full.

You reached for the coffee because your hands needed something to do.

Steve watched you open the bag and pull out a pastry. Tony watched Steve watching you. You watched both of them and wondered, with a strange flutter in your chest, if this was what people meant when they talked about being supported.

Not rescued.

Not managed.

Not held in place by fear.

Supported.

A structure around you, not a cage.

Steve took one of the coffees and leaned back against the wall near the door, still careful not to occupy too much space. Tony remained near the kitchen, trying and failing to look casual. You stood between them, your printed notes on the table, your defense less than two hours away.

It should have felt overwhelming.

Instead, it grounded you.

Steve cleared his throat after a moment. “So… how are you feeling?”

You looked at your notes.

Then at Tony.

Then at Steve.

“Nervous,” you admitted.

Steve’s face softened immediately, like the honesty mattered more than the answer.

Tony nodded. “Good.”

You blinked. “Good?”

“Nerves mean you care,” Tony said. “Also means your body hasn’t mistaken academia for a hostage situation yet.”

Steve glanced at him. “That’s… one way to put it.”

“I’m very inspiring.”

“You’re very something,” you muttered.

Tony grinned.

Steve smiled into his coffee.

And the tension broke enough that you could breathe again.

For a while, the morning stayed like that. Quiet conversation. Small jokes. Steve asking a few practical questions about the defense room, the timing, who else was coming. Tony asking what kind of committee you were facing, then immediately making a comment about how he could “smell academic politics from three states away.”

Steve, to your surprise, agreed.

“They’ll probably ask one question that sounds simple but is actually a trap,” he said.

You nodded grimly. “Dr. Ellison.”

Tony’s eyes narrowed. “Give me a profile.”

“No,” you said.

“I just want to know the enemy.”

“My committee is not the enemy.”

“That’s what they want you to think.”

Steve huffed a quiet laugh, and you were struck again by the surreal softness of it: Steve Rogers and Tony Stark standing in your apartment, both trying in their own ways to help you survive the morning.

Eventually, though, the conversation lulled.

Steve’s gaze drifted toward you again. More thoughtful now. More careful.

“You really didn’t tell Bucky you were back earlier than for the defense,” he said.

It wasn’t criticism.

It wasn’t even a question.

You shook your head. “No.”

Tony went still beside you, listening.

Steve looked down into his coffee. “You going to?”

“No,” you said.

Your voice was steady enough that you believed it.

Mostly.

Steve nodded slowly. “Okay.”

You knew he had more thoughts. Of course he did. Steve always had thoughts when Bucky was involved – not judgments exactly, but concerns shaped by years of loving both of you and watching both of you wound each other in ways no outsider could fully understand.

He didn’t voice them.

Not yet.

Instead, he said, “He’ll be there?”

Your fingers tightened around your mug.

“Yes.”

Tony’s eyes flicked toward you sharply.

You hadn’t hidden that from him, but saying it now, in front of Steve, made it feel more real.

“I asked him to come,” you continued. “He said yes.”

Steve nodded once.

Tony watched your face. “Do you really want him there?”

You appreciated that he asked it like that.

Not Does he deserve to be there?

Not Are you sure?

Do you really want him there?

You took a breath.

“Yes,” you said. “I do.”

Tony’s jaw flexed, but he nodded. “Then he should be there.”

Steve glanced at him, and something like respect passed quietly across his face.

Maybe for the restraint.

Maybe for the fact that Tony could have made this about his own anger and didn’t.

You looked between them again and felt, unexpectedly, the shape of the future pressing closer.

A few hours from now, Bucky would walk into a room and see Tony Stark sitting there.

Not as a CEO.

Not as the man he admired.

As your father.

The thought made your stomach twist.

Not with dread exactly.

With inevitability.

Steve seemed to read it on your face.

“I won’t warn him,” he said again, quieter.

You nodded.

“I know.”

His expression softened. “And for what it’s worth… I think you’re allowed to have one moment today that’s yours before everyone else starts reacting to it.”

The words landed deep.

Because that was what you had been trying to protect without fully naming it.

Your defense was yours.

Your father being there was yours.

Bucky’s reaction, whenever it came, could not be allowed to become the center of the day.

Not this day.

Not after everything.

Tony’s gaze held yours, and you knew he understood too.

“Exactly,” he said. “Today is about you. Not him. Not me. Not anybody else’s emotional fireworks.”

Steve’s mouth twitched. “Emotional fireworks is accurate.”

Tony shrugged. “I specialize in explosive metaphors.”

You exhaled slowly.

The anxiety was still there.

But underneath it, something steadier had begun to form.

You were going to walk into that room with your work in your hands and your people behind you.

Your mother.

Georges.

Wanda.

Pietro.

Steve.

Bucky.

Tony.

Not all of them knew the same truths. Not all of them carried the same pieces of you. Some of them were still holding secrets they had only just learned. Some of them had hurt you. Some had saved you. Some had done both, depending on the year, the moment, the wound.

But they were coming.

For you.

And for once, you did not have to earn it.

Steve must have seen something change in your face, because his own expression eased.

“You’re going to be brilliant,” he said.

Tony snorted. “Obviously.”

You looked at him.

“What?” he said. “I read the thesis. I have notes, but unfortunately most of them are just insults aimed at people who disagree with you.”

Steve blinked. “You read the whole thing?”

Tony looked offended. “She asked me to.”

Steve looked at you, and something warmed in his face again. “You let him read it?”

You shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “He’s smart.”

Tony placed a hand over his heart. “Finally. Recognition.”

Steve smiled.

But his eyes stayed on you.

There was something there you couldn’t quite name. Pride, maybe. Tenderness. The ache of seeing you let someone new into a place that used to be hard for even him to reach.

It didn’t hurt.

Not the way it might have once.

It felt like acknowledgment.

Like Steve understood that your world had expanded, and instead of mourning his place in it, he was grateful you had more room to stand.

He lifted his coffee slightly, as if in a toast.

“To Dr. Almost,” he said.

Tony immediately lifted his own mug. “To Dr. Inevitable.”

You rolled your eyes, but your throat tightened anyway.

“You’re both impossible.”

“Accurate,” Tony said.

Steve nodded. “Fair.”

And despite the nerves, despite the secrets, despite the fact that the afternoon was waiting with every sharp edge it carried, you laughed.

A real laugh.

Soft, startled, yours.

Tony watched you with a look that made his eyes shine.

Steve looked away for a second, blinking like he needed to compose himself.

And you stood there, in your small apartment in New York, on the morning of your defense, with your father and your first love beside you – one new, one old, both present – and felt something quiet settle inside your chest.

Not certainty.

Not peace.

But readiness.

For the defense.

For the room.

For the truths still waiting to be revealed.

For Bucky, eventually.

But not before.

Not yet.

Today, first, you got to stand in front of the work you had built and claim it.

Today, first, you got to be seen for something other than pain.

The university felt different when you entered it with Tony and Steve beside you.

Not unfamiliar – you knew these corridors too well for that. You knew the scuffed floors, the old doors with nameplates slightly crooked from years of being opened too hard, the faint smell of paper and coffee that seemed permanently embedded into the walls. You knew the rhythm of the place: students walking too fast, professors walking like they had forgotten time applied to them, voices echoing in corners before disappearing behind lecture room doors.

But today, everything looked sharper.

More significant.

As if every hallway had been waiting for you to return not as a student carrying another stack of books, not as a teaching assistant with too many papers to grade, not as someone surviving on caffeine and discipline and the stubborn refusal to collapse – but as someone about to defend the work she had built with her own hands.

All that remained was standing in front of people who had the authority to question it, dismantle it, challenge it – and proving that it held.

Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag.

Steve noticed immediately.

Of course he did.

“You good?” he asked softly, walking on your left.

Tony, on your right, answered before you could.

“She’s about to verbally destroy a room full of academics,” he said. “She’s great.”

You gave him a look. “I am not destroying anyone.”

“Academically.”

“Dad.”

“What? I’m supportive.”

Steve’s mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed on you – warm, steady, familiar in that old way that still made your nervous system settle even after everything you had both survived. He didn’t tease you further. He only shifted the portfolio case in his hand and said, “We’ll get everything set up. Then you can breathe for a minute.”

You nodded.

You were grateful for that.

For him.

For Tony too, even if Tony’s support came wrapped in sarcasm and carefully disguised tenderness.

The defense room was already unlocked when you arrived.

It was smaller than it had looked in your head all week.

That was absurd, because you had been in this room before. You had given student presentations here. You had attended guest lectures, watched other candidates stand at the front with trembling hands and too-bright smiles.

But now the room belonged to you.

Or maybe you belonged to it.

The projector sat waiting at the front. The long table for the committee had been arranged with water bottles and notepads. A small cluster of chairs had been set aside for guests – not too many, because this was not meant to be a spectacle, but enough that the people who mattered could sit there and watch you become something official.

Tony stepped inside and scanned the room with immediate suspicion.

“This projector looks like it has personally ruined lives.”

“It works,” you said.

“Does it, though?”

Steve was already moving toward the front table, setting down the folder with your backup copies, your USB drive, and the printed notes you had refused to admit you might need. “I’ll plug it in.”

“You know how?” Tony asked.

Steve glanced at him mildly. “Yes.”

Tony lifted both hands. “Just checking. I’ve seen very intelligent people lose wars against HDMI cables.”

Despite the knot in your stomach, you almost laughed.

Steve connected your laptop with quiet efficiency. Tony hovered near the projector for approximately ten seconds before visibly deciding he trusted neither the machine nor the universe.

“Backup?” he asked.

You tapped your bag. “USB.”

“Backup to the backup?”

“Email.”

“Backup to the backup to the backup?”

“Dad.”

He turned to Steve. “She thinks I’m being excessive.”

Steve did not look away from the screen as your title slide appeared cleanly on the wall. “She has two backups. She gets it from somewhere.”

Tony looked unbearably pleased.

You rolled your eyes, but there was a warmth beneath it now – a strange, grounding tenderness. The sight of them there, together, preparing the room for you in their different ways, should have felt surreal.

It did.

But it also felt right.

Steve adjusted the angle of the laptop slightly, then looked back at you. “Slides are good.”

Tony stepped closer to the screen, eyes narrowed. “Font choice is excellent.”

You stared at him. “That’s your academic feedback?”

“No, my academic feedback is that chapter three has one paragraph where Dr. Ellison is going to try to act smart and you should let him walk directly into his own trap.”

Steve looked at you. “He’s not wrong.”

You sighed. “You two are not helping.”

Tony softened immediately. “Yes, we are.”

And he was.

That was the worst part.

They were.

Once everything was ready, there was nothing left to do inside.

That was when the nerves came back.

Not violently. Not the kind that made your hands shake. More like a pressure under your ribs, slow and insistent, reminding you that the next time you stepped into this room, you would be standing at the front.

Steve saw the shift in your face.

“You want the hallway?” he asked.

You nodded.

“Yeah.”

Tony’s gaze moved over you, attentive and restrained. He looked like he wanted to say ten things – that you were ready, that he was proud, that if anyone in that committee made you feel small he would buy the building and convert it into something humiliating – but he didn’t.

He only touched your shoulder lightly.

“You’ve got this,” he said.

No joke.

No deflection.

Just certainty.

Your throat tightened.

“Thank you.”

Steve squeezed your arm as he passed. “We’ll be right inside.”

You nodded again, and they entered the room while you stayed in the corridor.

The door remained slightly ajar for a moment. You saw Tony take a seat near the front, because of course he would. You saw Steve sit beside him, posture composed but alert, one ankle crossed over the other, hands folded in his lap. Then the door fell mostly closed, leaving only a sliver of light and muffled voices behind.

You were alone in the hallway.

For approximately twelve seconds.

Then your mother arrived.

You heard her before you saw her – the quick, purposeful rhythm of her heels, the way Georges murmured something low beside her, probably telling her to breathe.

She turned the corner and stopped the moment she saw you.

Her face changed.

It always did when she looked at you in moments like this.

Not dramatically. Not theatrically. But something in her softened and brightened all at once, as if seeing you standing there, grown and brilliant and terrified, brought every version of you back to her at the same time: the quiet four-year-old who didn’t ask for hugs, the child with too-old eyes, the teenager pretending she didn’t need comfort, the young woman who had left New York broken and come back standing.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered.

You barely had time to brace before she crossed the distance and pulled you into her arms.

For once, you didn’t stiffen.

You leaned into her.

Her hand came up to the back of your head, gentle and familiar, and your eyes burned.

“I’m so proud of you,” she murmured. “So proud.”

You swallowed hard. “I haven’t done it yet.”

“You already did the hardest part.”

Georges stood slightly behind her, smiling with quiet affection. He looked proud too, though his pride carried a different shape – quieter, steadier, threaded with the awkward tenderness of a man who had been present for much of your life without always knowing how to name what you were to him.

“You look ready,” he said.

You gave him a faint smile. “I don’t feel ready.”

He tilted his head. “No one ever does.”

Your mother pulled back enough to cup your cheek. Her thumb brushed under your eye before a tear could fall.

“Tony is inside?” she asked softly.

You nodded. “With Steve.”

Something flickered in her expression at that – not discomfort, exactly. Awareness. The strange, delicate reality that your worlds were beginning to overlap in ways no one could fully control anymore.

But she only nodded.

“Good,” she said. “You should have them both here.”

That nearly undid you.

You inhaled slowly.

Before you could answer, Wanda appeared at the end of the hall.

She did not walk.

She charged.

Pietro followed at a more controlled pace behind her, but his eyes were already on you, scanning, checking, softening once he saw you whole and upright and only moderately on the verge of academic collapse.

Wanda reached you first and immediately grabbed your hands.

“Oh my God,” she said. “Look at you.”

You blinked. “I’m wearing normal clothes.”

“You’re defending a doctorate. Nothing about you is normal today.”

Pietro came up beside her, mouth curved in a small, proud smile.

“She means you look terrifyingly competent.”

“I always look competent,” you said.

Pietro gave you a look. “You once spent twenty minutes looking for a pen that you had stuck in your hairbun.”

“That was one time.”

“And yet deeply representative.”

Wanda swatted his arm without looking at him. Her eyes were shining as she looked at you, and when her face softened, your chest tightened again.

“You’re really doing it,” she said quietly.

You nodded.

“I’m really doing it.”

She hugged you then, hard and fierce, her arms wrapping around you like she could hold all your nerves together by force.

“Don’t let them intimidate you,” she whispered.

“They’re my committee, Wanda.”

“I said what I said.”

You huffed a shaky laugh into her shoulder.

When she let go, Pietro stepped forward.

He didn’t hug you immediately. He looked at you first, really looked at you, the way he always did when words mattered less than assessment. His gaze moved over your face, your posture, the tightness in your hands.

Then he nodded once.

“You’re scared,” he said.

You exhaled. “Yes.”

“Good.”

You frowned. “Why is everyone saying that?”

“Because fear means you know it matters.” His expression softened. “But you are not unprepared. You’re not improvising. You’re not hoping they’ll be kind. You know your work.”

Your throat tightened.

Pietro leaned closer, voice lowering.

“And if your brain tries to tell you otherwise in there, tell it to shut up.”

Wanda nodded firmly. “Exactly.”

Your mother made a faint sound that might have been laughter and tears at once.

Pietro finally pulled you into his arms.

His hug was different from everyone else’s.

Your mother’s was love.

Wanda’s was force.

Pietro’s was home.

Steady, familiar, absolute.

You clung to him for one second longer than you meant to, and he held you through it without comment.

“I’m here,” he murmured.

“I know.”

“No.” His arms tightened slightly. “I’m here.”

You understood the difference.

You closed your eyes briefly.

“Thank you.”

When you pulled back, Thor Odinson appeared from around the corner like some mythological figure who had taken a wrong turn into an administrative building.

He was carrying a folder under one arm, hair pulled back, expression bright and composed. The moment he saw your gathered circle, his face warmed.

“Ah,” he said. “The army has assembled.”

Wanda blinked at him.

Pietro muttered, “Subtle.”

Thor smiled as if he had heard that and approved.

He came to stand before you, and for a moment the noise of the hallway seemed to fade. He was your mentor here, your academic anchor, the person who had taken your mind seriously long before you fully trusted yourself to do the same.

He looked at you now not with softness exactly, but with pride sharpened into expectation.

“You are ready,” he said.

Your mouth went dry. “I hope so.”

Thor’s brows lifted.

“No,” he said, gentle but firm. “Not hope. You are ready. I have read your work. I have watched you defend pieces of this argument in seminars against people who were far less prepared than they thought they were.”

Despite everything, Wanda snorted.

Thor’s mouth twitched, but his gaze stayed on you.

“You know what you are saying,” he continued. “More importantly, you know why it matters. That is what they need to see.”

You nodded slowly.

He leaned a fraction closer.

“And remember,” he added, quieter now, “you are not there to ask permission to belong in the room.”

The words hit hard.

Your throat tightened.

“You already belong,” Thor said. “Today, you simply let them catch up.”

For a second, you couldn’t speak.

So you only nodded.

Thor smiled – small, approving – then looked toward the door.

“I will see you inside.”

He entered the room.

The others began to follow.

Your mother kissed your cheek once more. Georges squeezed your shoulder. Wanda pointed two fingers at her own eyes and then toward the defense room in an exaggerated I’m watching them gesture that made you laugh despite yourself. Pietro lingered last.

“You good?” he asked.

You breathed in.

Out.

“Getting there.”

He nodded. “Text me from inside if you need me to fake a fire alarm.”

“Pietro.”

“I’m joking.”

Wanda, already halfway through the door, said, “He’s not.”

Pietro smiled faintly and went in after her.

Then the hallway was quiet again.

Almost.

You stood outside the room, hands clasped in front of you, trying to steady your breathing. Behind the door, your people were gathering. Their voices were muffled, indistinct. Chairs moved. Someone laughed softly – Tony, probably. Or Wanda. Maybe both.

Everyone was there.

Almost everyone.

You told yourself it was fine.

Bucky had said he would come. He had confirmed that morning. He had sent a short message – I’ll be there – and you had believed him because you were trying, slowly, to learn how to believe him again.

But the clock on the wall kept moving.

Minutes gathering.

Your chest tightened before you could stop it.

Not panic.

Not anger.

Something closer to old grief brushing its fingers along a bruise.

You hated that you noticed his absence so sharply.

You hated that even now, even after everything, some part of your body was still waiting for him the way it always had.

Then you heard footsteps.

Fast.

Uneven.

Coming down the corridor with enough urgency that you turned before you decided to.

Bucky appeared around the corner slightly breathless, hair disordered from the wind or from running his hand through it too many times, coat open, tie slightly crooked. His cheeks were flushed from hurrying, and for one wild second he looked younger – not the man who had broken you with one sentence, not the man whose name had made your stomach turn for months, but the boy who used to come barreling down sidewalks like lateness was a personal challenge.

He stopped when he saw you.

Everything in him stilled.

Your breath caught.

There he was.

Real.

In front of you.

Not a message. Not a voice on the phone. Not a face pixelated through a screen. Not memory. Not ache.

Bucky.

And the strangest thing happened.

Relief moved through you before anything else could.

Not forgiveness.

Not surrender.

Not erasure.

Relief.

A weight lifted from your chest so suddenly you realized, with quiet shock, that you had been carrying it all morning. Waiting for him. Wondering if he would make it. Wondering if some part of you would stand in that room and feel the empty space where he should have been.

He was here.

He had come.

Bucky swallowed, still catching his breath.

“Sorry,” he said, voice rough. “The subway screwed me over.”

It was such a normal sentence.

So ordinary.

So absurdly small compared to everything between you that you almost laughed.

Instead, your lips parted on a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

He approached slowly.

Not like before.

Not with the old certainty that proximity to you was his by right. He moved carefully, stopping far enough away that you could choose the rest of the distance yourself.

His eyes searched your face, but not greedily. Not desperately.

He looked terrified.

Hopeful.

Restrained.

Like every part of him wanted to reach for you and every lesson he had learned in the last months was holding him still.

“Hi,” he said.

Your throat tightened.

“Hi.”

For a moment, neither of you moved.

You just looked at each other.

And there was too much in it.

Childhood beds and middle school hallways. Prom nights and kitchen tables. Years of almost. Years of fear. A night neither of you could name without bleeding. A dinner that had shattered the world. Messages sent through silence. Phone calls trembling around words neither of you knew how to hold.

I love you.

I miss you.

I don’t forgive you yet.

I’ll wait.

All of it stood there with you in the corridor.

But so did this; he had come.

He was standing in front of you on the day you defended your life’s work, and he had not asked for anything. He had not pushed. He had not made himself the center.

He was just here.

Your feet moved before your fear could stop them.

One step.

Then another.

Bucky’s eyes widened slightly, like he didn’t trust what he was seeing.

You closed the last distance between you and wrapped your arms around him.

For half a heartbeat, he froze.

Then he broke.

His arms came around you immediately, careful and fierce all at once, pulling you against him like he had been given permission to breathe after months underwater. He didn’t crush you. He didn’t take too much. But he held you with everything he was allowed to hold.

His face dropped toward your hair.

You felt his breath shudder.

Your hands gripped the back of his coat.

For a moment, the hallway disappeared.

There was no committee. No defense room. No Tony waiting inside, no Steve who would understand too much, no Wanda pretending not to cry, no Pietro ready to throw himself between you and anything that hurt.

There was only Bucky.

Warm.

Solid.

Here.

And you, letting yourself hold him because you wanted to.

Because today, of all days, you needed all your pieces in the room.

Even the broken ones.

Especially the broken ones.

Bucky’s voice came low against your hair, barely audible.

“Thank you.”

You closed your eyes.

You didn’t say for what.

You both knew.

For letting me come.

For letting me touch you.

For letting me be here.

For not turning away.

You breathed in slowly, and the scent of him hit you with almost painful familiarity – soap, cold air, something metallic from the city, something unmistakably his.

It hurt.

But not only.

That was the thing you were beginning to understand.

Some hurts could exist beside comfort.

Some wounds could ache and still not be fatal.

Bucky held you like he was afraid the room might take you back if he loosened his arms too soon.

Not tightly enough to trap you.

Just enough to answer.

Enough that the part of you that had been holding its breath since you heard his footsteps finally understood: he came.

He was here.

His jacket smelled faintly of cold air and the subway, something metallic and familiar underneath. His breath left him unsteadily against your hair, and for one suspended second, all the months between you folded down into the size of a heartbeat.

Then he eased back first.

Carefully.

Always carefully now.

His hands lingered for half a second near your arms before falling away, as if he was reminding himself he didn’t get to hold on longer than you allowed.

His eyes searched your face.

“You look good,” he said quietly.

You almost laughed, because it was such a small thing to say after everything.

Instead, your throat tightened.

“So do you.”

He huffed once, barely a sound. “Liar.”

You did smile then.

Small. Nervous. Real enough that his face changed around it.

Behind you, the door to the room opened, and Thor stepped halfway back into the hallway, brows raised with that bright, knowing warmth of his.

“It is time,” he said gently. “And you are more than ready.”

Your stomach dropped anyway.

Because readiness, you had learned, did not prevent fear.

It only meant you walked forward despite it.

Bucky stepped back at once, giving you room. Steve appeared in the doorway behind Thor, his expression softening the moment he saw you and Bucky standing near each other without shattering. Your mother stood just beyond him, one hand pressed to her chest. Georges had his arm around her shoulders. Wanda was already wiping under one eye like she intended to deny it if anyone looked too closely.

Pietro caught your gaze.

He nodded once.

Go.

You inhaled.

Then you walked into the room.

The defense went well.

Better than well, maybe, though you would only be able to admit that later, once your pulse stopped sounding like a drumbeat behind your ears.

At first, all you could feel was the weight of everyone behind you.

Your mother. Georges. Wanda. Pietro. Steve. Bucky.

Tony.

Your father sat near the back, not taking up space, which was probably the strangest miracle of all. Tony Stark, who seemed built to draw attention in any room he entered, had somehow made himself quiet for you. He sat with one ankle crossed over the other, hands folded loosely, gaze fixed on you with an intensity that might have unnerved you if it had not been so openly proud.

Not analytical.

Not judging.

Proud.

That almost undid you before you even began.

Then Thor introduced you, his voice warm and steady, laying out the subject of your research with the kind of careful respect that made your throat tighten. He did not oversell you. He did not make you sound fragile. He simply framed your work like it mattered.

And then it was your turn.

For a second, you saw nothing but the first slide on the screen.

Your title.

Your name.

Years of work condensed into a few clean lines and a university logo.

Then you began to speak.

The first minute was the hardest.

Your voice came out a little too measured, too controlled, the way it did when you were holding yourself by force. You heard yourself explain the scope of your thesis, the methodological framework, the question that had shaped everything. You could feel the old instinct hovering close: don’t stumble, don’t bore them, don’t be too much, don’t take up more time than you have earned.

But then your own work caught you.

The material pulled you in.

The first site plan appeared on the slide. Then the comparative evidence. Then the artifact photographs you had spent months staring at until you knew every crack, every erosion mark, every fragment of context surrounding them.

Your hands stopped trembling.

Your breathing evened.

Your voice changed.

You felt it happen, subtle but certain: you stopped performing competence and simply became competent.

You spoke about layers. About memory. About what cultures buried and preserved, not always intentionally, sometimes in the margins, sometimes in breakage, sometimes in the things no one thought would matter until centuries later.

You explained how absence could become evidence.

How silence could reveal structure.

How what was missing could speak as loudly as what survived.

And somewhere behind you, Bucky went utterly still.

You didn’t see it.

Steve did.

Steve, sitting two seats away, watched Bucky’s expression shift when you said that. Watched the way his jaw tightened, not with defensiveness now, but with recognition. With the painful understanding that you were not just talking about ruins.

Not entirely.

Tony noticed too.

Of course he did.

His gaze flicked once toward Bucky, sharp and unreadable, then returned to you.

You kept going.

By the time you reached your conclusion, the room had changed. Or maybe you had. The air no longer felt like something you had to survive. It felt like something you could hold.

You finished on your final slide, palms resting lightly on either side of the lectern.

“Ultimately,” you said, voice steady, “this thesis argues that archaeological interpretation requires us not only to examine what remains, but to respect what has been lost. Absence is not emptiness. It is evidence of rupture, displacement, choice, violence, preservation, and survival. To read it responsibly, we have to resist the urge to fill it too quickly.”

A silence followed.

Not awkward.

Full.

Then Thor smiled.

The questions came after that.

Some were expected. Some were not. One made your pulse jump because it challenged a central assumption in your second chapter, but you answered it. Not perfectly, maybe. Not with the glittering ease you had imagined in the shower a dozen times. But clearly. Thoughtfully. Honestly.

When you didn’t know, you said so.

When you did know, you stood your ground.

Tony leaned back slightly at one point, mouth curving with visible satisfaction when you pushed back against a question with a calm, devastating correction and three citations from memory.

Pietro looked smug on your behalf.

Wanda looked like she wanted to clap mid-defense and had to physically restrain herself.

Steve looked like he had forgotten how to blink.

Bucky looked like he was watching you become something holy and untouchable in front of him.

And maybe that should have made you nervous.

Instead, it made something in you settle.

Because you were not untouchable.

You were simply yourself.

When the committee finally asked everyone to step out while they deliberated, your knees nearly betrayed you the second the door closed behind you.

“Oh my God,” Wanda breathed immediately, grabbing your hands. “You were terrifying.”

You blinked. “Was I?”

“In the best way,” she said fiercely.

Pietro let out a sharp laugh. “You verbally dismantled Professor Halberg and then thanked him for the question.”

“He asked a fair question,” you said, still dazed.

“He tried to corner you,” Pietro corrected. “And you handed him a map of the corner.”

Steve smiled softly. “You were incredible.”

Your mother couldn’t speak yet.

She simply pulled you into her arms.

The second her hands came around you, the professional composure you had been wearing like armor cracked a little. You tucked your face into her shoulder and closed your eyes.

“I’m so proud of you,” she whispered. “So proud.”

You held her tighter.

Georges hugged you next, a little awkwardly but warmly, his hand firm between your shoulder blades.

“You did good,” he said, voice rougher than usual. “Really good.”

Wanda nearly crushed you. Pietro held you longer than he normally would in public, his mouth close to your ear as he murmured, “I knew you had it.”

Steve came after them.

He did not pull you in immediately. He waited half a breath, giving you the chance to decide.

You stepped into him.

His arms came around you with familiar care.

“You sounded like you belonged up there,” he said quietly.

You smiled against his shoulder. “I think I did.”

“You did.”

Bucky stayed back.

You noticed.

Of course you did.

He stood slightly apart from the others, hands in his pockets, eyes bright in a way he was clearly trying to control. He looked proud. He looked wrecked. He looked like he wanted to hug you and like he would rather cut off his own hands than assume he had the right.

You didn’t go to him yet.

Not because you didn’t want to.

Because the door opened again.

Thor stepped out first.

His face said everything before his mouth did.

The world narrowed.

Your fingers curled once at your sides.

Thor’s smile widened.

“Congratulations,” he said, voice warm and formal in a way that made your chest seize. “Doctor.”

For half a second, no one moved.

Then Wanda screamed.

Actually screamed.

Pietro laughed, loud and breathless. Your mother burst into tears. Steve’s face split into one of the brightest smiles you had ever seen on him. Georges clapped once, hard, then seemed to remember where he was and stopped.

Tony did not say anything immediately.

He just looked at you.

And the look on his face…

You had no defense against it.

Your father looked at you like you had just rewritten the universe and handed him proof.

You barely remembered shaking hands with the committee. Barely remembered the formal congratulations, the last academic remarks, the practical information about paperwork. You responded politely. Correctly. Automatically.

Your body was still catching up with the word.

Doctor.

Doctor.

Doctor.

When the room finally emptied enough for your people to gather around you again, your mother was first.

She took your face in both hands and kissed your forehead.

“My baby,” she said, laughing through tears. “My brilliant girl.”

“Mom,” you murmured, embarrassed and overwhelmed.

“No,” she said firmly. “You don’t get to argue today.”

Wanda hugged you again. Pietro kissed your temple with exaggerated drama, making you swat at him even as you laughed. Steve squeezed your hand, eyes soft. Georges kissed your cheek and muttered something about how he was going to tell everyone at work whether they wanted to hear it or not.

Bucky still stayed back.

You saw the restraint cost him.

His hands were curled in his pockets now. His jaw worked once, like he was swallowing too much at once.

Then Tony stepped forward.

Everyone shifted.

Not because they were uncomfortable with him exactly, but because the shape of the room changed when he entered a moment. It always did. Even here, even quiet, even as your father first and Tony Stark second, he carried a gravity people felt before they understood it.

He stopped in front of you.

For once, he seemed to have no joke ready.

His eyes were suspiciously bright.

“Well,” he said, voice rough, “that was… obnoxiously impressive.”

You laughed, shaky and wet. “Thank you.”

He opened his arms.

You went into them immediately.

Tony held you tightly.

Not too tightly.

But with the force of a man who had missed every childhood report card, every school award, every first step toward this version of you, and was trying very hard not to mourn that loss in the middle of your triumph.

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispered against your hair. “You have no idea.”

Your throat closed.

“Dad,” you whispered, and felt his breath catch.

His arms tightened for half a second.

Then he let you go carefully, clearing his throat and blinking like the overhead lights had personally offended him.

“Okay,” he said, turning toward the group before emotion could completely overtake him. “I’m taking everyone to dinner.”

Wanda’s brows rose.

Pietro crossed his arms. “Everyone?”

Tony pointed at him. “You especially. You look like someone who judges restaurant bread baskets.”

“I do,” Pietro said immediately.

Tony nodded. “Good. I respect standards.”

Your mother laughed softly, wiping her cheeks. Georges looked faintly amused. Steve smiled, but his attention had shifted.

To Bucky.

Because Bucky had gone very still.

The introduction had not happened yet.

Not properly.

He knew now, obviously.

He had seen Tony hold you. Heard you call him Dad. Watched the most famous man in his professional universe look at you like you were the only thing in the room worth seeing.

But knowing and being told were not the same.

You turned toward Bucky.

His eyes met yours instantly.

For a moment, he looked almost young.

You held out a hand slightly, not touching him. Inviting.

“Bucky,” you said softly. “Come here.”

He moved like someone approaching a live wire.

Slowly. Carefully. His gaze flicked once toward Tony, then back to you, as if he needed you to anchor him through the sheer absurdity of what was about to happen.

When he reached you, you stepped aside enough to make room between them.

“Dad,” you said, voice steady despite the way your heart kicked, “this is James Barnes.”

Bucky’s throat moved.

You continued, quieter now.

“Bucky… this is my father. Tony Stark.”

The silence that followed was not empty.

It was loaded with every irony the universe had apparently saved for this exact moment.

Bucky stared at Tony.

Not like a fan, though part of him was certainly trying to short-circuit under the weight of it. Not even like an employee suddenly confronted with the head of the company whose name had shaped half his ambitions.

He stared at Tony like a man who had just realized the person he most admired in the world had every reason to despise him.

Tony looked back.

Calm.

Polished.

Dangerous in a way that did not need to announce itself.

“Barnes,” Tony said.

Bucky swallowed. “Mr. Stark.”

Tony’s mouth twitched faintly. “Usually I’d say Tony.”

Bucky’s face tightened with something like shame.

Tony noticed.

Everyone noticed.

“But,” Tony continued, voice smooth, “we can work up to that.”

Your fingers twitched at your side.

Not fear exactly.

Awareness.

Bucky nodded once. “Yes, sir.”

Tony studied him for one long second.

Then he extended his hand.

Bucky looked at it as if he hadn’t expected that mercy.

He took it.

Their handshake was brief, firm, controlled.

Tony did not crush his hand. He did not perform dominance. He did not make a scene in front of you, in front of your mother, in front of all the people who had come to celebrate your work.

That was its own message.

Bucky seemed to understand it.

His eyes flicked to you afterward, and there was something raw in them.

Not relief.

Not exactly.

Something closer to gratitude that Tony had not turned your triumph into a punishment.

You breathed again.

Tony stepped back and clapped his hands once, tone shifting with deliberate brightness.

“Right. Dinner. I’m thinking somewhere with actual chairs, not one of those places where they pretend discomfort is part of the concept.”

Pietro pointed at him. “I knew I liked you.”

“You threatened me when we met,” Tony said.

“And I liked you while doing it.”

Wanda stared between them. “Why does that make sense?”

Steve murmured, “It really does.”

The tension broke enough for people to move.

Coats were gathered. Bags collected. Your mother started fussing over whether you had eaten enough before the defense, which was an impossible question because you had barely tasted food all day. Georges teased her gently. Wanda asked Tony what kind of restaurant he meant by “actual chairs.” Pietro demanded the right to approve the menu. Steve collected your laptop bag before you could reach for it.

Bucky stayed quiet.

He lingered near the edge of the group, eyes on you without staring too openly.

You felt him there.

You had felt him all afternoon.

And beneath the happiness, beneath the pride, beneath the dizzying reality of your defense being over and your doctorate finally becoming real, there was something else.

A pull.

Not the old, panicked one.

Not the one that made you feel like you were being dragged backward into the worst of it.

This was steadier.

Sad. Tender. Terrifying in a way that did not feel like danger.

You watched everyone begin to move toward the door.

Then you turned back to Bucky.

“Can you stay behind with me for two minutes?”

He froze.

Just for a second.

Then he nodded immediately. “Yeah. Of course.”

Steve heard.

His eyes flicked toward you, then Bucky, and something old and protective moved through his face. He did not interfere.

He only asked, softly, “You okay?”

You nodded. “I am.”

He believed you.

Or trusted you enough to let you decide.

Tony noticed too.

Of course he did.

His gaze sharpened, the easy humor falling away for half a breath. But he did not step in. He looked at you, checking.

You gave him the smallest nod.

I’m okay.

Tony’s jaw tightened once.

Then he looked at Bucky.

No words.

Just a warning wrapped in fatherhood.

Bucky lowered his gaze slightly, accepting it.

“I’ll be right outside,” Tony said to you.

“I know.”

Your mother hesitated longer than anyone.

You smiled gently at her.

“Two minutes,” you promised.

She nodded, though leaving clearly cost her something.

One by one, they stepped out.

Wanda squeezed your hand as she passed.

Pietro paused last.

He looked at Bucky for a long second, expression unreadable but not hostile in the old way. Then he looked at you.

“You know where we are,” he said.

“I know.”

Then he left too.

The door closed.

The room changed immediately.

Not dramatically.

No thunderclap. No cinematic silence.

Just the soft click of the latch, the faint hum of university ventilation, the leftover smell of coffee and paper and dust, and the two of you standing in a room where you had just defended years of work while everyone who loved you watched.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Bucky stood a few feet away, hands loose at his sides now, but still careful. Still holding himself like a man who had been invited into a sacred space and did not want to leave a footprint where he shouldn’t.

You looked at him.

Really looked.

He seemed thinner than you remembered. Not dramatically, not enough that anyone else might notice immediately, but you noticed. His face was sharper. His eyes older. There was a steadiness to him now that had not been there before, or maybe it had been buried under panic and denial for so long that you had never seen it clearly.

He did not fill the silence.

That, more than anything, told you something had changed.

The old Bucky would have spoken first out of fear. Would have made a joke. Would have tried to grab the moment and force it into a shape he understood.

This Bucky waited.

For you.

Your fingers brushed the edge of the lectern.

“I’m glad you came,” you said.

His face shifted.

The smallest break.

“I wouldn’t have missed it,” he replied, voice rough.

You nodded.

“I know the subway was bad,” you said, and almost smiled.

His mouth twitched faintly. “It really was.”

Another silence.

This one softer.

You looked toward the empty seats, then back at him.

“I was nervous you wouldn’t make it.”

Bucky’s throat moved.

“I was terrified I wouldn’t,” he admitted. “I kept thinking… of all the days to be late.”

“You were there.”

“Barely.”

“But you were there,” you repeated.

He nodded slowly, accepting the correction.

“I’m proud of you,” he said.

Your chest tightened.

He seemed to struggle with the next breath, like the words were not hard because they were untrue, but because they were too true.

“I know everyone’s said it already,” he continued. “And I know it probably means more coming from them right now. But I need to say it anyway.” His eyes held yours. “I’m so proud of you.”

You looked down for a second.

Not because you wanted to hide.

Because letting him see how much that mattered still felt like standing too close to an open flame.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

Bucky nodded.

His hands flexed once, then stilled again.

“And Tony Stark,” he said after a beat, almost helplessly.

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Small. Disbelieving. Tired.

“Yeah.”

“Your father is Tony Stark.”

“Yes.”

“My boss is your father.”

“Technically, your boss’s boss’s boss’s–”

“Don’t,” he said, closing his eyes briefly, pained. “Please don’t make it worse.”

You laughed again.

This time, Bucky looked at you like the sound had physically hit him.

Not with pain.

With longing.

Like he had missed that laugh enough to ache from hearing it.

Your laughter faded.

His expression softened into something vulnerable.

“I didn’t know,” he said, then winced. “Obviously. Stupid thing to say.”

“You didn’t know,” you agreed.

He swallowed. “Does he know?”

The question was quiet.

You knew what he meant.

Not about the dinner. Tony knew enough. Not every corner. Not every wound. But enough.

You also knew Bucky was not asking to be protected.

He was asking if he had been seen.

“Yes,” you said.

Bucky’s face paled slightly, but he nodded.

“Okay.”

“He didn’t make today about that,” you added.

Bucky’s eyes lifted to yours.

“No,” he said softly. “He didn’t.”

“He won’t,” you said. “Not unless I ask him to.”

Something like understanding passed over Bucky’s face.

Maybe even respect.

“That sounds like him,” he murmured, and then looked faintly horrified by himself. “I mean, I don’t know him. I just–”

“You’ve admired him since you were ten,” you said.

Bucky looked away, embarrassed. “Yeah.”

“I know.”

His mouth tightened with a sad little smile. “Of course you do.”

You stood there for another moment, letting the strange shape of it settle between you.

Tony.

Bucky.

Stark Industries.

Your past, your father, your future, and the boy who had once made you feel safe enough to sleep all occupying the same room at last.

It should have felt impossible.

Instead, it felt inevitable in the way life sometimes became after the fact.

As if all the lines had been heading here whether you knew it or not.

You drew in a slow breath.

“I wanted to talk to you before dinner because…” You stopped, searching for the right words. “Because seeing you today helped.”

Bucky went still.

You saw him absorb it carefully. Not greedily. Not like he wanted to turn it into more than it was.

Just carefully.

“I didn’t realize how much I needed you there,” you said. “Until you arrived.”

His eyes brightened.

He blinked once, hard.

“I’m glad,” he whispered.

“That doesn’t mean everything is fixed.”

“I know.”

“It doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten.”

“I know.”

“It doesn’t even mean I’m not still angry sometimes.”

Bucky nodded again, faster this time. “You’re allowed to be.”

You studied him.

He meant it.

That was new too.

“I think,” you said slowly, “I’m starting to understand that missing you and being hurt by you can exist at the same time.”

His breath caught.

You continued before you could lose the thread.

“And loving you doesn’t mean I have to rush. Or forgive before I’m ready. Or make this easy for you.”

“No,” he said immediately. “It doesn’t.”

Your throat tightened.

“But I don’t want you outside my life forever,” you admitted.

Bucky closed his eyes for half a second.

When he opened them, there were tears in them.

He did not move toward you.

He did not reach.

He only breathed.

“Okay,” he said, voice barely there.

You smiled faintly, though your eyes burned too.

“Okay?”

He nodded, a little broken. “Okay.”

Then he swallowed and added, “I’ll take whatever you can give me. And if that changes, I’ll listen. If it gets smaller, I’ll listen. If it gets bigger…” His voice cracked. “I’ll still listen.”

You looked at him for a long moment.

Then you stepped forward.

Not all the way into his arms.

Just closer.

Enough that the distance between you became a choice instead of a wound.

Bucky’s gaze dropped briefly, measuring the space, then lifted back to your face.

“You can hug me again,” you said softly.

He exhaled like the words had taken the floor out from under him.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

He came to you slowly.

And when his arms closed around you this time, there was no desperation in it.

No claim.

No panic.

Just Bucky holding you with the kind of care he should have known how to give you years ago, and maybe was finally learning now.

You rested your cheek against his chest.

His heart was beating hard.

So was yours.

“I love you,” he whispered.

You closed your eyes.

“I know.”

His arms tightened once, then eased, remembering.

You stayed there a moment longer.

Then you pulled back first.

He let you.

That mattered too.

Outside, faintly, you heard Wanda’s laugh echo down the hallway, followed by Pietro saying something sharp and Tony replying with something sharper.

The world was waiting.

Dinner. Celebration. Your mother’s tears. Your father’s pride. Your friends pretending not to watch you and Bucky too closely. A life still messy, still unresolved, still full of work.

But for these two minutes, the room held only you and Bucky.

Not healed.

Not finished.

Not back to what you had been.

Something else.

Something beginning carefully, painfully, honestly.

And this time, neither of you tried to pretend it wasn’t real.

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BUCKY taglist: @greatenthusiasttidalwave | @highhopes1008 | @phoenix-in-writing | @mollyherondale | @sassandscribbles | @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog | @pattiemac1 | @buckysdecaflove | @fantasyfootballchampion | @sebbymybaby-21 | @theoryxwaller | @apenny4thots | @mishkatelwarriorgoddess | @allthingswickedpodcast | @vicmc624 | @strangerthing93 | @galaxygoddess30 | @peachiestevie | @evilplansandstuff | @nicobidd | @i-lie-here-charmed | @sebastians-love | @bennyyion

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[jai200700]

Been waiting months to finally read this chapter 🥹the wait was definitely worth it can’t wait to see what happens next 💕

[shisuni]

ᯓ➤ matching for christmas ⊹܀˙

← ʙᴀᴄᴋ. ⋮ ⌞ jason todd ✘ reader ⌝ .ᐟ .ᐟ

ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ You get kidnapped and branded by the joker on christmas. The bat-family sees Jason unravel. word cnt. 14.6k

cw ›››› torture, branding, suicidal language, violence, blood, gore

Something is wrong.

Jason feels it like a pressure change—subtle, almost polite—but it crawls under his helmet and settles behind his eyes. It hasn’t clicked, not cleanly. Not yet. He hasn’t asked. Hasn’t said a word through the harbor sweep, through the cold iron stink of saltwater and oil and Christmas rot. A small job. The kind that should feel easy. The kind that still manages to choke the air out of his lungs anyway.

Everyone’s moving like the night might shatter if they stop.

Tim keeps choosing his words too carefully, syllables slowed and smoothed like he’s sanding down sharp edges. Dick’s doing that thing where he smiles first and speaks second—but the timing’s off, the warmth a fraction too late, like a recording lagging behind the video. Damian watches Jason more than the perimeter, eyes sharp, calculating, guarded. Stephanie hasn’t joked once. Not even a cheap jab to him, not even under her breath. That alone feels wrong enough to tilt the world sideways.

Bruce didn’t come.

That absence is loud. A hollow where a presence should be, echoing through comms and instinct alike. The Cave, he’d said. As if that explained anything. As if Bruce ever sits things out without a reason that claws.

Cassandra says nothing—but she’s closer. Close enough that Jason can feel her awareness like static along his spine. When the group splits, she falls into step beside him without discussion, without a glance. Just there. Solid. Protective in a way that feels less like trust and more like vigilance. As if she’s guarding him.

That’s when unease really sinks its teeth in.

Bruce didn’t need all of them.

Didn’t need six sets of boots scraping concrete, six heartbeats crowding the same dark. Dick alone could’ve dismantled this whole thing with half the effort. Hell, Jason himself could’ve wrapped it up fast and bloody and been home already. Instead, they’re stacked together, overlapping, slowing each other down like they’re afraid to let him out of their sight.

He agreed because no one argued about his presence. Because no one questioned whether he was needed. Because the silence around that decision felt intentional.

That should’ve been his first real warning.

Between two groups of thugs, he had ducked behind a row of shipping containers, Gotham’s lights bleeding gold across the black water. He had pulled out his phone and called you, already rehearsing the apology in his head. Late for presents. Again. You’d tease him, pretend to scold, maybe force him to wrap some gifts for your co-workers. 

You didn't answer.

Probably a bath, he told himself. You’d mentioned one. Candles. The fancy bath salts you bought. Something soft to push the cold out of your bones. The thought settles him, briefly. He sends a text instead—short, careful. An apology. An I love you so much that he doesn’t overthink, because with you, he never has to.

You always know what he means.

The phone stays quiet in his pocket.

No buzz. No vibration brushing against his thigh like it usually does, grounding him, tethering him back to something warm and real. He told himself it’s nothing. That you’re relaxed, distracted, asleep. That the night is just heavy, that Gotham is doing what Gotham always does—making ghosts out of shadows and dread out of coincidence.

Still.

When he looks back at the others, he notices the way Dick avoids his eyes now. The way Tim’s gaze flicks to Jason’s pocket and away again. The way Damian’s jaw tightens when Jason shifts his weight, like he’s bracing for impact. Cassandra meets his eyes once—just once—and there’s something there that twists low and sharp in his chest. Not fear. Not exactly.

Knowing. Jason doesn’t ask. He doesn’t press.

But the harbor feels too quiet, the night stretched thin and listening, and for the first time since he sent that text, a cold, irrational thought curls in his gut—

That whatever is wrong didn’t start here.

And that somewhere far from the water, far from the mission, something precious has already slipped out of reach.

“That was the last of them,” Jason says, voice rough through the helmet, as Tim finishes cinching zip-ties around the final goon and anchors him to a rust-flaked shipping container. The plastic bites down with a sharp click that echoes too loudly across the concrete. The man mumbled insanities through spit.

The harbor exhales around them—cold wind off the water, carrying brine and diesel and something rotten that’s been sitting too long. Sodium lights flicker overhead, casting everything in jaundiced gold and long, distorted shadows that stretch and tangle at their feet. The concrete is damp beneath Jason’s boots, slick with mist and old oil, the kind of surface that never really dries no matter how many ‘sunny’ days Gotham pretends to have.

“We should do another check around the harbor,” Dick says.

He’s already kneeling, already breaking the man's phone in half with practiced efficiency, grinding it into the concrete with his heel until the screen spider webs and dies. He doesn’t look up when he says it. Doesn’t grin. Doesn’t even sound casual about it.

Jason lifts an eyebrow, slow, deliberate. His gaze slides to Damian automatically—because Damian is usually the first to shoot an idea like that down, sharp and impatient and blunt as a blade.

Instead, Damian just mutters, “Tim could be wrong.”

Mumbles it. Like he’s afraid the words might carry.

That alone sends a small, unpleasant chill up Jason’s spine.

Tim doesn’t argue. Doesn’t bristle. He straightens from the goon and dusts his gloves together, eyes flicking—not to Jason—but to Stephanie. The movement is quick, practiced, like muscle memory.

“Do you want to take the gates with me?” Tim says, too smooth. Too rehearsed. “Jason and Dick could go along the—”

“What?” Jason cuts in before he can finish, blinking once. “You two were perched on the gates the entire op. What’re you talking about?”

The wind gusts harder, rattling loose chains and setting a tarp snapping somewhere down the dock. Water slaps against concrete pylons in a slow, hollow rhythm. 

Jason suddenly feels like the sound is counting something down.

“It wouldn’t hurt to double-check,” Tim says, rising to his feet.

He still won’t meet Jason’s eyes.

Jason’s jaw tightens. He shifts his weight, the concrete cold and unforgiving through the thinning soles of his boots, and for a split second his mind drifts—unbidden—to you. To the warmth of your kitchen lights. To the way you’d probably be halfway through setting out plates by now, humming something low and off-key, waiting for him in that way that makes him want to claw his soul out and hand it over to you. 

The thought lands soft, intimate, grounding—and then slips through his fingers when he remembers his phone, silent and heavy in his pocket.

“…You guys don’t need me for that,” Jason says, firmer now. There’s an edge to it, something protective and stubborn. He already has plans. A timeline. A promise he intends to keep. “Seriously. If you want to sweep again, even one person could—”

Dick finally looks up.

It’s just a glance, quick and loaded, the kind Jason’s learned to read over a lifetime of almosts and unsaids. Cassandra shifts closer at the same moment, her shoulder nearly brushing his, her presence steady and deliberate. Jason doesn't think she's ever willingly touched him in his life. Stephanie opens her mouth like she’s about to say something—anything—then closes it again.

The harbor feels tighter suddenly. Smaller. Like the stacks of containers have leaned in, hemming them closer, their corrugated sides looming like silent witnesses. The wind cuts sharper off the water, needling through the seams of Jason’s jacket, and somewhere deep in his chest, that pressure builds again.

Jason turns fully to Damian.

“Kid, I swear to God, tell me what—”

Damian snaps at the exact same moment Cassandra moves. Her hand closes around Jason’s shoulder, firm and sudden, fingers digging in through armor like she’s trying to anchor him to the concrete before he does something irreversible. The contact is intimate in a way that feels wrong, alarmed.

“How the hell should I know? They didn't tell me—” Damian bites back, voice sharp, flaring too fast, too hot.

“Damian!” Dick hisses, the sound cutting through the night like a blade dragged too quickly from its sheath. He’s already moving, stepping between them without quite committing to either side, hands up in a placating gesture that lands closer to panic than calm. He turns to Jason almost immediately, words tumbling over each other. “Come on, dude, let’s just go check the security towers and—”

“That’s going to take another hour,” Jason cuts in.

The words come out flat, but there’s steel underneath. He shrugs Cassandra’s hand off—not rough, but final—and reaches into his pocket. The harbor lights blur for a second as his fingers close around his phone, the familiar shape of something that connects him to you grounding him. It’s 10:20. He knows that without looking but checks anyway. He’s been counting the minutes since the mission dragged past its supposed end.

“I had plans,” he says, quieter now, but more dangerous for it. “Let me at least—”

The batarang whistles through the air.

Jason barely has time to register the movement—Damian’s arm snapping forward, wrist precise, expression tight and furious—before metal slams into his hand. The impact jars up his arm, sharp and biting, and the phone slips free, spinning once before it hits the concrete.

Crack.

The screen fractures instantly, a spiderweb of dead glass blooming beneath the sodium lights before the device skids to a stop near Jason’s boot. The harbor seems to hold its breath. Even the wind falters, the water’s slap against the pylons momentarily muted, as if the night itself is listening.

Jason stares down at it.

At the dark screen. On the way his reflection breaks apart in the shattered glass.

Jason’s gaze lifts slowly from the ruin at his feet.

It settles on Dick.

“Call Bruce.”

The words aren’t loud. They don’t need to be. They cut anyway—clean, controlled, edged with something that’s starting to slip. Dick falters under it, hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck, eyes flicking anywhere but Jason’s face. The harbor lights stutter overhead, one of them buzzing like it’s about to give out, bathing Dick in a sickly gold that makes him look younger. 

Guilty.

“What, you gonna tattle?” Dick says, trying for levity and missing it by miles. His laugh lands wrong, brittle against the cold. “C’mon, Damian's just in a mood. I was going to surprise you with burgers but I thought the kid would spill. I’ll buy you a new phone, okay? Just—”

“Call Bruce,” Jason repeats.

This time it’s a hiss, dragged out through clenched teeth, something feral and fraying around the edges. The wind picks up again, slicing between the containers, rattling loose metal and carrying the sharp tang of rain that never quite falls in Gotham. Jason turns his head, slow and deliberate, until his eyes find Cassandra.

She hasn’t moved. She’s watching him like she’s afraid he might break.

“…He’s busy,” Cass says.

Her voice is barely there. Smaller than usual. Soft enough that Tim, standing a good ten feet away, doesn’t hear it at all. The words dissolve into the night almost as soon as they leave her mouth, swallowed by wind and water and distance—but Jason hears them. Every syllable.

Busy.

Something inside him tightens, winding down to a thin, dangerous thread.

His hand comes up to his comm without conscious thought. He adjusts it once, fingers steady despite the way his pulse thuds too hard, too fast. The harbor seems to lean in again—the stacked containers looming like watchful giants, the river below churning black and endless. 

Gotham breathes around him, damp and unforgiving.

“B,” Jason says.

Sharp. Precise. A single syllable fired into the dark like a flare.

Static answers him. Wind whistling through steel corridors. The distant cry of something alive and miserable echoing off the water. No voice. No correction. No irritation crackling back through the line.

Just silence. It stretches. Pulls thin. Grows teeth.

Jason exhales through his nose, a humorless breath that fogs faintly in the cold air. He thinks of you again—too vividly now. The way your voice softens when you say his name. The way you always pick up, even when he thinks you shouldn’t. The way silence has never belonged between the two of you.

His jaw locks. Fuck this shit, I should be at home with her.

Jason moves before anyone can stop him—before anyone even realizes he’s decided something.

He’s across the concrete in three long strides, boots splashing through shallow puddles that mirror Gotham’s jaundiced lights in broken pieces. Damian doesn’t flinch when Jason grabs his comm. Doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t protest. That, more than anything, makes Jason’s teeth grind.

He clicks the emergency signal to the Batcomputer—once, twice, a break, two clicks hard enough that it hurts his thumb—then rips the comm free. His helmet follows, clattering against the concrete with a hollow, echoing crack that ricochets between the shipping containers. The sound feels too loud, too exposed. Jason presses the comm to his bare ear, cold metal biting into skin.

No one stops him.

Not Dick. Not Tim. Not Stephanie. Cassandra watches with that same quiet intensity, hands flexing like she’s bracing for impact. They stand there and let it happen, like this is how it was always meant to go—like they’ve already accepted that Jason finding out is inevitable, but telling him would be worse. Like this is some twisted test, or penance, or family tradition he never agreed to.

The harbor hums low and restless. Wind slides through steel corridors, rattling chains, carrying the stink of oil and brine and rain-soaked concrete. Gotham feels awake in that way it only does when something bad is already in motion.

“Robin?” Bruce’s voice cuts through the static, sharp and immediate. Too immediate. There’s an edge to it Jason hasn’t heard in years—tight, almost nervous, parental. “Robin, what’s wrong?”

Jason almost laughs.

Instead, his mouth twists.

“I’m going home, old man,” he hisses, already turning away from Damian. “What was this? Ya trying to tire me out, or did you get mind-controlled again? ‘Cause everyone here apparently likes you enough to not tell me the truth.”

“Jason—”

“Red Hood,” Jason snaps, the correction coming fast and mean. He bends, scoops his helmet up by the chin guard, and starts walking toward the exit between the containers where the harbor opens up to the road. “What happened to keeping hero names on comms? Or are you the only one allowed to break rules tonight?”

“Red Hood, just give me—”

“It’s a lousy gang!” Jason shouts, voice tearing loose now, bouncing off steel and concrete and dark water. “They don’t even crack the top twenty. Damian could’ve done this shit by himself.”

He doesn’t look back, but he knows they’re following him. He can feel it—the weight of their footsteps, the way they trail just close enough to intervene if he breaks. Later, it’ll hit him why Tim made sure every single goon was double zip-tied, wrists biting white beneath plastic. Insurance. 

Tim knew Jason would find out. 

Knew none of them would be coming back to clean this up.

“Red Hood—”

“Merry Christmas, B,” Jason cuts in, bitter and sharp as broken glass. “Please don’t call.”

“JASON—”

Bruce’s voice snaps through the comm like a gunshot, dragging Jason straight back into another life, another night, another version of himself that answered to that tone. “She’s in danger. And if you want any chance of seeing her again, get to the Batcave—”

The line goes dead.

Not static. Not interference.

Bruce cut it himself.

Jason stops, because there's only one person he could be talking about to send all five of them with him.

The harbor seems to lurch, the world tilting just enough to make his balance feel theoretical. The wind howls between the containers, louder now, like Gotham exhaling something foul and satisfied. Water slaps hard against concrete pylons below, relentless, counting seconds Jason no longer owns.

Slowly—too slowly—he turns.

He looks at them. At Dick’s pale face. At Tim’s clenched jaw. At Damian’s rigid stillness. At Stephanie, eyes bright with unshed panic. At Cassandra, whose gaze is already on him, steady and mournful, like she’s watching something crack.

They look at him like he’s glass.

Like he’s a bomb they’re waiting to defuse—or clean up after.

Jason doesn’t give them the chance.

“Fuck all of you,” he spits, the words coming out broken and small despite his best efforts.

Then he runs.

Out of the harbor. Out of the sodium lights and rust and the weight of too many eyes. Jason runs like Gotham itself is on his heels, boots striking concrete in a brutal rhythm that drowns out thought—or tries to. The city stretches around him in jagged silhouettes and wet stone, skyscrapers looming like blackened ribs against a low, churning sky. Clouds hang heavy and swollen, bruised purple and gray, threatening rain they never quite release. Gotham loves the anticipation of pain more than the act itself.

His blood is loud in his ears. Too loud. Every heartbeat punches through his ribs, frantic and unforgiving, as if his body already knows something his mind refuses to accept.

Toward the manor. Toward answers.

Toward the awful, creeping certainty settling into his bones that whatever Gotham has taken this time, it didn’t take lightly—and it didn’t take something he can afford to replace.

He takes the shorter way.

Fire escapes. Rooftops slick with mist. Narrow alleys that smell like old rain and older sins. He vaults gaps without slowing, coat snapping behind him like a torn banner, the city blurring into streaks of shadow and light. This route cuts close to your place. Too close. He doesn’t consciously choose it; his body does, muscle memory dragging him along a path his heart has memorized better than any map.

And then—

Mid-leap, suspended between one rooftop and the next, he sees it.

Your building sits quiet against the skyline, dark in a way it never is. Your lights are off. All of them. The windows—your windows—are shattered, glass glittering weakly under the city’s glow like fallen stars. The balcony rail is smeared with something darker than shadow.

Blood.

The word doesn’t form. Not fully. His brain skids around it, refuses to give it weight. At most, he tells himself, you’re hurt. Something small. A cut. A scrape. A stupid accident that looks worse than it is. You’ll laugh it off when he gets there, scold him for worrying, tell him he’s being dramatic again.

Because you’re untouchable.

That’s the rule his mind has always clung to. Gotham can drown him in filth and violence and rot, but you—you—are clean. Untarnished. Something soft the city hasn’t learned how to bruise yet. You exist outside its reach, outside its hunger. Gotham takes things like Jason. It breaks people like him. It doesn’t get to put its hands on you.

It can’t have you.

Because if you’re hurt—if you’re really hurt—then everything Jason has built inside himself caves in at once. Every fragile structure, every careful compromise, every promise he’s made to stay standing for you. There’s no version of the world where you’re broken and he survives it intact.

He lands hard, barely absorbing the impact before he’s running again, lungs burning, throat raw. The manor rises ahead of him through the trees like a dark monument, windows glowing warm and oblivious against the night. Too slow. The gates are too slow. The doors are too slow.

Jason doesn’t bother.

He barrels straight for a ground-floor window and drives his elbow through it without hesitation. Glass explodes inward, sharp and screaming, biting into skin. He doesn’t feel it—not really—until he’s inside, boots skidding onto the polished floor, breath tearing out of him in harsh, uneven pulls.

Blood runs freely down his forearm, drips onto the pale carpet in dark, blooming stains.

It looks wrong there. Violent. Out of place, just like the blood on your balcony.

Jason stares at it for half a second too long, chest heaving, and something in him splinters quietly—because now he knows. The city has already touched you and it has never, not once, let go without breaking something in return.

Jason doesn’t slow down in the Cave.

The platform is still lowering when he’s already moving, boots striking metal too hard, too fast, the sound ricocheting off stone and steel. The Batcave yawns around them—vast and echoing, all cold water and colder rock, computer screens throwing pale blue light across jagged walls. The waterfall roars like it’s trying to drown the night itself, a constant, punishing noise that usually steadies him.

Tonight it only sharpens the edges.

Bruce turns at the last possible second. His eyes flick first to Jason’s face, then to the blood smeared down his arm, dripping steadily onto the pristine metal floor. Bruce’s mouth tightens. Not in anger. In calculation. In fear he refuses to name.

Jason shoves him.

Hard.

Bruce’s back slams into the Batcomputer console, screens rattling, data stuttering for half a heartbeat. A lesser man would’ve been airborne. Bruce Wayne could have thrown Jason across the Cave without effort—could have ended this in a clean, controlled second.

He doesn’t.

Jason knows he won’t.

“Where is she,” Jason spits, the words tearing out of him raw and shaking. His hands fist in Bruce’s cape, knuckles white, trembling despite the strength coiled beneath them. The fabric bunches beneath his grip like it might rip if he pulls any harder. “Where is she?”

Bruce lifts his hands slowly, carefully—not in surrender, but in containment. Like approaching a live wire. His voice, when he speaks, is measured to the point of pain.

“…Jason.”

The name alone is an attempt. An anchor. Bruce is already running scenarios, already gauging angles and exits and how much damage Jason could do if this slips another inch. He knows Jason’s tells. Knows the way his breathing has gone uneven, the way his eyes are too bright, too fixed. Knows this isn’t rage yet.

This is terror.

“Don’t,” Bruce says quietly. Not commanding. Pleading, buried deep beneath control. “Just—listen to me.”

Jason laughs once, short and broken, the sound scraping his throat raw. “No. You don’t get to slow this down. You don’t get to prepare me.”

Bruce swallows. “…Joker—” he begins.

And the world fractures.

The word lands heavy and obscene between them, fouling the air of the cave like poison gas. Joker. The name crawls under Jason’s armor, past muscle and bone, straight into the place where you live inside him.

Suddenly, you’re not untouchable.

You’re not the one clean thing Gotham never got its hands on. Not the soft place Jason runs to when the city claws at him too hard. Not the warmth in his bed, the light in his kitchen, the voice that says his name like it belongs to something human.

You’re not safe.

You’re not distant.

You’re not protected by the simple, impossible belief that the worst things in the world know better than to touch you.

You’re real.

You’re fragile.

You’re reachable.

Jason’s grip tightens without him meaning to, breath hitching violently in his chest. His mind fills with images he refuses to finish forming—broken glass, blood on pale surfaces, your windows shattered open to the night the same way his chest feels split open now. He thinks of your hands. Your laugh. The way you look at him like he’s something worth keeping.

And now—

Now you’re the blood he’s already wearing.

The blood he’s going to feel soaking into his gloves tonight.

Bruce sees it happen. Sees the moment Jason slips past anger and into something far more dangerous. His own heart lurches, sharp and traitorous. This—this is what he’s been afraid of since the second he knew Joker was involved. Not Jason lashing out blindly.

Jason focused.

Emotional.

Unanchored.

“Jason,” Bruce says again, softer now, steady as bedrock despite the fear tightening his chest. “I need you to stay with me. I need you here. Because if you go out there like this—”

Jason’s eyes snap back to him, glassy and feral and devastatingly alive.

“If I don’t go,” Jason says hoarsely, “she dies.”

“If you go,” Bruce says, low and sharp, the words cutting through the roar of the Cave, “you die—and you could lose her at the same time.”

The Batcave hums around them, fluorescent light washing the rock walls in cold blue, computer screens flickering with restless data. The waterfall crashes endlessly behind Bruce, mist clinging to the air, dampening everything it touches. It feels like the Cave is breathing—slow, heavy, watchful.

Bruce moves closer and grips Jason’s jacket with both hands, fingers clutching the leather like it’s the last solid thing in the world. He holds on the way a man holds a ledge he’s already slipping from, hoping friction alone might be enough to keep someone from falling.

It isn’t.

“Where is she,” Jason says.

His voice is flat. Too controlled. His eyes have already left Bruce, already slid to the Batcomputer, to the glowing map littered with red and yellow pings like open wounds across Gotham’s body. Each marker pulses faintly, alive and accusing.

He doesn’t notice his siblings closing in—Dick’s careful steps, Tim’s rigid stillness, Damian hovering sharp and coiled like a drawn blade.

“She’s alive,” Bruce says quickly, desperately. “She wasn’t the only one—at least four other children and three women—”

Jason turns his head.

The look he gives Bruce is devastating in its emptiness. Eyes glassed over, jaw set too tight, brows drawn together like the world has narrowed to a single, unbearable point.

“Do you honestly think I give a damn about them right now?”

The words aren’t shouted. They don’t need to be. They land heavy, obscene in their honesty, and Bruce’s grip tightens reflexively, knuckles whitening against Jason’s jacket.

“I know you don’t,” Bruce snaps back, frustration bleeding through control. “Which is why I didn’t tell you she was taken. Because we need a plan that keeps everyone who was captured safe—”

“At the risk she dies in the process?” Jason cuts in.

Then—he stills.

Something shifts. His hands loosen, falling away from Bruce’s cape as if the fabric has suddenly burned him. His gaze slides, sharp and intentional, and locks onto Tim.

“How long,” Jason says.

The question is steady. Solid. Frighteningly calm.

Tim swallows and flicks a glance at Bruce—a silent check, a plea, a habit Jason has seen a thousand times. Jason shoves Bruce’s hand aside and crosses the distance in two strides, grabbing Tim by the shoulders, fingers digging in through armor.

“Don’t,” Jason hisses, thumbs pressing hard, grounding, painful. “Don’t look at him.”

The words aren’t just for Tim. They’re for Jason too.

He vaguely registers Dick saying his name, Stephanie’s voice tight with panic somewhere behind him, but it all dissolves into a dull ringing as he stares down at Tim. Tim doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. He meets Jason’s gaze head-on.

“How long,” Jason repeats. “Where.”

Tim exhales, slow and controlled, the way he does when delivering bad news. “Two hours,” he says quietly. “Warehouse two blocks from Crime Alley. Behind that busted playground.”

Crime Alley.

The name echoes through the Cave like a curse, sinking into Jason’s chest and blooming outward, cold and malignant. Of course it’s there. Of course Joker chose that place—layers of history piled atop rot, a shrine built from other people’s pain.

Jason releases Tim slowly, hands trembling now, control finally beginning to crack.

Two hours.

Two hours of you alone with the man who taught Gotham how to laugh while it kills.

The Batcomputer hums on, indifferent. Gotham’s skyline glows faintly on the monitors—jagged towers under a bruised sky, rain finally starting to smear the camera feeds, streaking the city in gray. Somewhere out there, windows are broken. Somewhere out there, that cashmere scarf he wrapped and placed under your tree stays un-wrapped.

Jason understands then—with a clarity so sharp it almost feels merciful—that plans are a luxury meant for people who still believe time is something they own.

Time has never belonged to him.

Because you—you—aren’t alone. You’re trapped with seven other people. Four of them children, Bruce had said, like that word didn’t rearrange Jason’s insides completely. His mind does something traitorous then, something he hates himself for even acknowledging: it calculates. It knows how these things go. It knows Joker’s sense of theater, his appetite for cruelty, his fondness for leaving one survivor behind as punctuation.

And the last one standing is never the strongest.

It’s the smallest. 

You would be dying before those kids.

Jason’s breath stutters, just once.

“Jason,” Bruce says from the Batcomputer, voice tight, forced into calm the way it always is when he’s terrified. The blue glow paints him hollow, all sharp angles and restraint. “Don’t make me stop you. The cops are on their way. Joker just wants cash.”

For the first time since the harbor, the noise in Jason’s head goes quiet.

Not peaceful—focused.

Everything narrows down to Bruce. To the way his shoulders are squared like a barricade. To the way his hands hover, uncertain, like he’s trying to decide whether to reach out or brace for impact. Jason’s heart hammers so hard it hurts, louder than the waterfall, louder than any threat Batman could ever make.

“If you even try, Bruce,” Jason says.

He doesn’t look at him when he says it. He can’t. The name comes out wrong in his mouth—too raw, too intimate, scraped down to bone. Instead, he keeps his eyes on Tim, standing rigid in front of him, small in a way Jason suddenly can’t stop seeing. He hopes—distantly, uselessly—that he isn’t glaring at his little brother. Hopes Tim understands this isn’t anger.

Just pure desperation. His last attempt, his last shot.

“Ill fucking shoot myself. I’ll make sure you know it’s your fault,” Jason continues, voice low and shaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “I’ll use my gun. And if you tie me up today, I’ll wait until next week. If you lock me down for a week, I’ll wait a month. I’ll do it.”

He swallows.

Because that’s the only thing that’s ever worked. The only language Bruce Wayne never ignores.

Dick moves fast—too fast—grabbing Jason’s arm where it’s still braced near Tim, fingers digging in hard. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he shouts, panic cracking straight through his anger.

Jason turns on him then, eyes blazing, voice breaking loose at last.

“Would you be this still?” Jason yells back. “If that was me with Joker again? If it was me instead of her—would you have left me there for the police to find? Again?”

The word hangs between them, heavy and damning.

Again.

Jason knows Dick well enough to see it land. To watch his brother’s grip falter, fingers loosening like they’ve forgotten what they were holding onto in the first place. Dick’s face goes pale, mouth parting uselessly, and Jason twists the knife—not because he wants to hurt him, but because he needs them to understand.

“This,” Jason snaps. “This is why none of you fucking knew about her.”

He looks at all of them now—really looks. At Bruce, frozen behind the console like a man staring down a live bomb. At Dick, wrecked with guilt.

“If you can’t even see me beyond a mistake you made,” Jason says, voice hoarse, “there was no way you wouldn’t have seen her as that too. And I love her too much for that.”

The words leave him hollowed out.

Then he’s gone.

The Cave swallows the echo of his footsteps, leaving only the roar of the waterfall and the hum of machines that suddenly feel pointless. No one moves to stop him. No one even tries.

It takes Tim a full minute to cross the platform and reach the Batcomputer, fingers hovering uselessly over keys he knows by heart.

It takes Cassandra four times as long to find a part of Bruce that still moves—some small, human place in his arm or shoulder that isn’t locked rigid like a man bracing for an explosion he knows is already ticking down.

Dick follows Jason’s trail almost immediately. And Damian follows Dick.

You don’t remember the last five hours.

They’re gone—hollowed out—like someone reached into your head and scooped the time away with a careless hand. The last thing you have is small and warm and ordinary: the coffee table between the couch and the window, set for two. Plates aligned just so. The new glasses you bought with Jason on that stupidly perfect thrift-store date, thin and elegant and impractical. You’d laughed about them, about how easy they’d be to break. Jason had pretended to scold you, fingers warm around yours as he tugged you toward the bookshelves, already stacking paperbacks in his arms like treasure.

You’d bought homeware. A vintage mirror with a gold edge, slightly warped, the kind that makes everything look softer than it is.

Jason always said you needed better locks. You realize it numbly.

He always said it gently, like a suggestion instead of a warning. Like he was talking about replacing a lightbulb or buying better coffee. You brushed him off every time, smiling, pressing a kiss into his shoulder, telling him Gotham wasn’t that bad. That you were fine. That you were safe.

And you were right. You always are.

Because an extra lock wouldn’t have stopped the man with the red smile.

It wouldn’t have stopped hands tangling in your hair, fingers tight and merciless as he dragged you across your rug, skin burning where it scraped against the fibers. It wouldn’t have stopped the way your mirror shattered when he slammed you against it, glass singing as it broke, your own reflection splintering into a hundred terrified pieces that stared back at you with wide, unbelieving eyes.

It wouldn’t have stopped the way he looked at you.

He crouched in front of you like this was intimate. Like this was a secret. His smile stretched too far, paint cracked and smeared, eyes bright with something wrong and delighted and ancient. 

Joker tilted his head, studying you the way a child studies an insect pinned to cork.

“Here’s the other lovebird,” he murmured, voice lilting, almost fond. “Ohhh… how cute you are.”

You remember thinking—absurdly, desperately—that Jason would hate that word. That he’d bristle at it, roll his eyes, pull you closer just to prove a point. You remember the ache of missing him hitting harder than the pain at first, your mind reaching for him the way it always does when the world goes wrong.

Jason would know what to do.

Jason would make this stop.

The thought is a comfort even now, curled tight in your chest, fragile but stubborn. You cling to it as the man stands, as one of the shadows behind him passes up an old, rusted crowbar. The metal is pitted and dark, flaking with age and something older still. It smells like iron and damp and rot.

It doesn’t take a lock to stop that.

It doesn’t take a security system to stop the sound your bones make when he brings it down.

The pain comes in blinding flashes—white-hot, nauseating, wrong. Your legs scream before you do, nerves lighting up in protest, your body trying to fold in on itself, trying to protect something already broken. You taste blood, copper and thick, your teeth chattering even as your throat burns raw from crying out.

Through it all, you think of Jason.

Of his hands—gentle despite their strength. Of the way he says your name like it’s something precious, something he’s afraid to drop. You think of his laugh, low and surprised, the way he softens when it’s just the two of you and Gotham can’t see him. You think of the books still stacked on the table, waiting to be read, of the glasses that shattered just like the mirror did.

Of how he warned you.

Of how he would be here already if he knew.

The room feels wrong—tilted, smeared with shadow, the air thick and sour. Blood pools where it shouldn’t, dark against your floor, soaking into the rug you picked out together. The city hums outside your broken windows, indifferent and vast, neon bleeding into the night like nothing is wrong at all.

You breathe when you can. You hold onto Jason’s name like a prayer you’re afraid to say out loud.

Because if he comes—when he comes—you need to believe there will still be something left of you for him to find.

Your consciousness returns in fragments, drifting in and out the same way you remember nights with him. Not clean breaks. Not mercy. Just gaps.

A void of sleep.

Jason easing your window open like the city might hear him, hands raised in mock surrender, voice low and careful. I didn’t mean to wake you… shh… go back to bed. The mattress dips, familiar weight settling beside you, warmth bleeding into your back.

A void of sleep.

Jason in your bathroom, the light too bright, the mirror fogged. Gotham’s blood and grime rinsed down the drain while he rubs his hair dry with one of your soft, ridiculous pink towels. He smiles at you through the doorway, sheepish and fond, promises he’ll be there in a second. He always is.

A void of sleep.

Jason shifting beside you, breath warm against the delicate skin beneath your ear. His arm tightens in his sleep, possessive without knowing it, like even unconscious he’s afraid the world might take you if he lets go. He murmurs your name—broken, reverent.

A void of sleep.

White hands. Cracked paint. Fingers threading through your hair, slick and tangled with blood. The touch is intimate in the worst way, scalp burning as he hums—no, sings—a childish tune about robins, voice lilting and wrong, laughter bubbling beneath it like rot under sugar.

A void of sleep.

Concrete tearing at your skin as you’re dragged, knees bouncing, spine jolting with every crack in the ground. A van door yawns open, metal teeth waiting. A child sobs near your ear, small and hiccuping. A woman screams at the child to shut up—panic sharp and desperate—until a gunshot rings out like punctuation. The woman goes silent. The child doesn’t. The word mommy repeats, thin and broken, drilling into your skull.

A void of sleep.

You wake choking on pain.

Your body is bound to a chair, wrists cinched tight, ankles screaming. Barbed wire coils around you like something alive, biting deep with every involuntary twitch. The metal is rusted, flaking, cruel—tearing skin open in ragged kisses that burn and throb and never quite stop bleeding. Your legs are numb in places, screaming in others. You can feel blood soaking into fabric, sticky and cooling as it trails downward.

He’s in front of you.

Smiling.

Head cocked, eyes bright with interest, like you’re a puzzle he’s just started enjoying. He steps closer, crouches until he’s eye-level with you, hands clasped together as if in prayer.

“You do love your sleep, don’t you?” he says, voice almost gentle.

Your vision swims. The room smells like iron and oil and damp concrete. Somewhere nearby, something drips steadily—water, or blood, or both. The walls feel too close, the shadows stretching and curling like they’re listening.

“The other birdy,” he continues, grinning wider, “wouldn’t even sleep if I cracked his skull. Such a shame.” He sighs theatrically, tapping the barbed wire with one gloved finger, delighted by the way you flinch. “I suppose I’ll have to find a way to keep you awake.”

Through the haze, through the pain, one thought stays stubbornly intact.

Jason is coming.

And you cling to that like a lifeline, even as the horror closes in, even as the night tries to peel you apart—because if you let go of that belief, if you let the void take everything—There will be nothing left for him to save.

You can’t see farther than four feet in front of you.

Anything beyond that dissolves into smears of color and motion, the edges of the room bleeding into one another. When you try to focus, your vision tilts violently, the world pitching sideways as warm blood slips down from your temple, sticky and insistent. It drips into your eye, blurring everything further, each blink making it worse. The ceiling swims. The walls breathe.

He notices.

Of course he does.

He steps into what little clarity you have left, face snapping into focus like a nightmare finally deciding to be seen. His hand comes up fast, fingers prying your jaw open with impatient familiarity. Something chalky presses against your tongue.

You gag immediately.

Your throat spasms around his fingers, saliva thick and useless as panic claws up your chest. Your head jerks instinctively, barbed wire biting deeper in protest, fresh pain flaring white-hot along your wrists and ankles. He doesn’t pull away. He shoves the pill back, past your tongue, past your resistance, until your body betrays you and swallows.

You choke.

Tears spill from your eyes, hot and humiliating, streaking through the grime on your cheeks. Your lungs burn as you suck in air in sharp, broken pulls.

Jason, you think, distantly, desperately. The name is a reflex now. A prayer you don’t dare say out loud.

His hand withdraws at last.

Then—

Smack.

Your head snaps to the side, vision exploding into sparks. Before you can react—

Smack.

The second strike lands harder, ringing through your skull, teeth clacking together as pain blooms anew. The world steadies just enough to be cruel about it.

“That’ll keep you awake, birdy,” he croons, pleased.

Your heart slams against your ribs, frantic and trapped. Already you can feel it—the way the haze pulls back just a little too much, the way your thoughts sharpen against your will. Your eyelids burn, heavy but refusing to close, nerves screaming as the drug seeps in and denies you even the mercy of darkness.

“Now.”

He leans back into his own chair like this is a rehearsal, like he’s bored of waiting for his cue. The legs scrape loudly against the concrete, the sound sharp enough to hurt. He reaches forward and adjusts the camera in front of you with careful precision. A small red light blinks every few seconds—steady, patient. Watching.

“We’re going to make a deal, okay?”

You don’t answer.

Your eyes refuse to cooperate, swimming uselessly as you blink through blood and tears. Every attempt to focus sends a wave of nausea through you, the room tilting, your pulse roaring in your ears louder than his voice. Your jaw trembles. Your tongue feels thick, wrong in your mouth.

“Okay?”

Nothing comes out.

The barbed wire strung cruelly across your throat digs in deeper with every breath you take, a quiet reminder that sound would cost you skin. Air hisses past your teeth in shallow pulls. You can feel your heartbeat there, fluttering and frantic against metal.

His smile thins.

He stands.

The rusty crowbar tightens in his grip as he rises from a stupid, bright orange folding chair—out of place, obscene against the filth of the warehouse. He steps into frame, then closer, until the camera, until you, are all that exist. He hooks two fingers under your chin and lifts your face, forcing your eyes up.

“Answer.”

You try.

Your mouth opens. Nothing happens.

All you can see is him—cracked white makeup creasing around his eyes, green hair greasy and limp, age showing in the lines around his mouth where smiles have lived too long. He smells like oil and metal and something sour beneath it all. The warehouse stinks of rust, damp concrete, old fuel. It crawls into your lungs.

And then—

You hear it.

A sound that doesn’t belong to him.

Crying.

Your head turns slowly, painfully, vertebrae protesting as the wire shifts against your throat. The movement costs you another sharp breath. Your vision blurs again—but this time, shapes resolve.

A cluster of bodies huddled together against a dented equipment container. Two teenage girls with their knees pulled tight to their chests, faces streaked with dirt and tears. Four little boys wedged between them, shaking, hands bound too tight, mouths open in silent sobs like they’ve already learned screaming doesn’t help.

Something in your chest caves in.

You don’t even see the crowbar move.

The impact comes out of nowhere—white-hot, brutal. The hooked end of the bar slams into your shoulder with a wet, tearing sound, metal biting deep as it pierces flesh. Pain detonates through you, ripping the air from your lungs. He yells as he does it, manic and delighted, like the violence startled even him.

Your body jerks against the restraints.

Barbed wire bites deeper. Blood spills warm and fast down your arm, soaking into your sleeve, dripping to the floor in thick, uneven drops. Your vision fractures, stars bursting behind your eyes.

You clamp your teeth down hard on your lip to keep from screaming.

You taste iron immediately—sharp and overwhelming—as skin breaks beneath your bite. Tears spill freely now, blurring everything, mixing with the blood already clinging to your lashes. It burns. It hurts. Your whole body shakes with the effort of staying quiet.

Behind you, the crying gets worse—fractured, panicked.

“Okay,” you choke out.

The word scrapes your throat raw on the way out, barely more than a breath. It tastes like blood and rust and surrender.

Immediately, the pressure is gone.

The crowbar pulls free with a wet sound that makes your vision white out, pain screaming down your arm as the hooked metal tears away from muscle and skin. You shudder hard, a broken gasp ripping out of you despite your best effort to swallow it down.

He steps back like a magician deciding on the next trick.

Then he leans in again—careful, deliberate—and pats at the wound where the bar pierced you. Not gentle. Never gentle. His palm presses just enough to make you flinch, fingers smearing warm blood across your torn clothes.

“See?” he says brightly, turning slightly so the camera gets a better angle. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Your breath comes shallow and fast, chest stuttering against the wire. Every inhale sends a fresh bloom of pain through your shoulder, the edges of it pulsing in time with your heart.

His hands come up next.

Dry. Cracked. Too warm.

He grabs your face, fingers digging into your cheeks, thumbs pressing at your jaw as he tilts your head from side to side. The movement drags the skin of your neck against the barbed wire, a searing, intimate pain that makes your eyes flood instantly.

“What a dumb dumb birdy you are,” he croons, affectionate in the way predators are. “It’s okay. Joker can teach you.”

Your body trembles uncontrollably now. Your fingers spasm uselessly against the wooden arms of the chair, nails scraping shallow grooves into the surface. You can feel blood slicking your palm and you don't even want to think about how you got hurt there too.

He releases your face.

Pats your head once.

The gesture is almost worse than the violence.

“Now,” he says softly, pleasantly, “say thank you.”

Your vision swims. The room feels too loud, too close. Somewhere behind you, one of the children sobs so hard it turns into hiccupping gasps. You swallow around the wire, throat burning.

You look up at him with shaking eyes, lashes heavy with tears and blood. Your mouth opens. Your lips quiver.

“Thank—” Your voice breaks completely. You force it back together, dragging the word out of yourself like it’s being pulled through glass. “Thank you.”

His smile spreads slow and satisfied, stretching the cracks in his makeup wider.

“Good birdy,” he coos, pleased. “So much more compliant than your love bird already!”

“Now—” Joker announces, voice lifting into a theatrical lilt, like he’s stepped beneath a spotlight instead of flickering warehouse fluorescents. He turns toward the camera, gives it a jaunty little nod, then looks back at you, grin splitting wider. “I was gonna let you go for some cash. Thought your little boy bird might get scared shitless—just a fun little bonus, really—buttt—”

He drifts away from you, footsteps light, almost playful. You can’t turn your head far enough to see what he’s doing. The wire bites when you try. Your vision pulses, dark at the edges.

Then—

A scream.

Sharp. High. A girl’s voice.

It cuts off halfway through, collapsing into a thin, broken cry that echoes far too long in the hollow space of the warehouse.

Something in you fractures.

Joker reappears at your side, breath brushing your ear, laughter bubbling out of him like it’s a private joke the two of you share. “Got lucky with a rich bitch on the road,” he cackles, delighted. “Gotham really does keep on givin’.”

Your stomach twists violently. You taste bile. The crying behind you swells again, panicked and animal, and you can feel your own body trying to fold in on itself despite the restraints, like if you curl inward hard enough you might disappear. 

His hands slide to your throat and at the same time your eyes land onto his hands. Diamond earrings.

He ripped her earrings out of her ears. 

Before you can flinch at the sight of pieces of skin in his open hand, he yanks.

The chain snaps free with a sharp tug, metal biting into your skin as the necklace tears away. You gasp, the wire at your neck punishing you for it, and the sudden cold where the chain used to rest feels obscene—too exposed. You feel lucky that you took off your earrings when you were doing your hair.

He dangles it in front of the camera, letting it glint under the harsh light, gemstones smeared faintly red from your blood. “This could go for a couple hundred too!” he sings. “Ohhh, how delightful!”

He leans closer, eyes alight, savoring every tremor that runs through you. “At least one of the birdies knows how to decorate their nest. Found a few rings at your place as well.”

Joker pockets the necklace with a satisfied hum.

“Well, now that I don’t need the money,” he croons, voice lilting, playful, like he’s deciding which joke to tell next, “what should I do with you?”

His fingers drag along your cheek again, slower this time, the pad of his thumb pressing just hard enough to bruise. His touch leaves heat behind, a crawling sensation that makes your stomach revolt. You feel contaminated where he’s touched you, like your skin is remembering something it shouldn’t.

“…I’ll give you more,” you whisper. Your voice fractures around the word, splintering into something pitiful and thin. “However much you want—just—”

“Oh, I don’t need money.”

The change is instant. His tone drops, sharp and venomous, and when he leans in his eyes are blown wide and empty, pupils swallowing the green like oil slicks. A hawk spotting movement. A blade finding flesh.

“I was looking for some fun, love bird,” he hisses. “You can’t give me that?”

You whimper around the grip on your jaw as his fingers tighten, nails biting into your skin. The wire at your throat digs deeper when you gasp, its teeth kissing something vital. Pain blooms hot and bright, stars bursting behind your eyes.

“Jason— Jason will—”

He doesn’t even flinch at the name.

Maybe that’s mercy.

His fingers move higher, rough and invasive, smearing through the makeup you’d put on hours ago with careful hands. The eyeshadow burns as it’s ground into your skin, sweat and blood turning it into a dark, ugly paste. His thumb drags through the faint blush on your cheeks, erasing it like it was a mistake.

“How pretty you are,” he murmurs, almost tender. “I do makeup on myself too, you know.”

Then his hands leave you entirely.

He grabs his own face, fingers digging into the cracked greasepaint, stretching the red grin wider, tearing at the corners until the white creases and flakes. For a second you think you see real skin underneath—white, lined, angry. Horrid.

“Do you like mine?” he asks brightly. “Do you think I’m pretty?”

Your mind blanks.

Your eyes flick helplessly to the camera instead—the blinking red light pulsing steadily, patiently. Recording. Waiting. You try to speak, to say yes or no or anything that might stop what’s coming, but your throat locks around the wire and all that comes out is a wet, useless sound.

Then—

“Very pretty!”

The voice is behind you.

Too young.

A teenage girl, no older than seventeen. Her voice trembles, thin and frantic, the words tumbling over each other. “So—so pretty—”

You feel something inside you tear open.

She’s trying to survive. You can feel that hope radiate off of her. The hope of throwing words into the dark and praying it lands somewhere safe.

Joker’s head snaps toward her.

His eyes narrow, sharp and wrong, smile freezing into something predatory. “You think so?”

There’s a frantic nod you can hear more than see—the quick intake of breath, the shuddering little sob that follows.

Joker bends down.

The crowbar scrapes loudly as he lifts it, metal screaming against concrete. You catch a glimpse of it as he moves past you—rusted, pitted, darkened in places where it’s already been used tonight.

Then he’s gone from your line of sight.

The scream that follows is immediate and unbearable.

It’s not just pain—it’s shock, terror, the sound of someone realizing too late that they were wrong. The metal wall amplifies it, throws it back at itself until it feels like the warehouse is screaming with her.

There’s a wet, sickening crack.

A sound like meat hitting concrete.

“Why don’t we match?” Joker coos from behind you, voice light and delighted. “I did one side, now the other!”

The crowbar hits again.

You hear bone give this time—feel it in your teeth, in your chest. Her scream fractures into something animal, then into choking sobs, then into a raw, bubbling sound that makes bile rush up your throat.

Your own crying breaks free, ugly and uncontrollable. Your body jerks against the restraints, fingers cramping, nails tearing uselessly into the wood of the chair. Hot tears spill down your face, mixing with blood, dripping off your chin in thick, dark drops.

The camera’s red light blinks again.

Once.

Twice.

It taunts you by matching every sound that breaks out of you.

Every gasped sob, every wet, hitching breath. The camera’s red light blinks in time with your chest, like it’s learned your rhythm, like it’s decided to breathe with you instead of for you.

And then the Joker comes back.

You smell him before you see him—iron-thick blood, old rust, sweat gone sour. His hands are slick, red to the wrist, fingers shining under the warehouse lights. The crowbar hangs loose in his grip, darker now, clotted, strands of hair caught cruelly in its curve.

He crouches in front of you, bringing himself eye-level, like he’s talking to a child.

“Well,” he hums thoughtfully. “I can’t give you her look, can I?”

Your vision swims. You can’t stop shaking. Tears slide down your face in hot, unstoppable streams, carving clean paths through blood and grime. Your mouth opens, but nothing coherent comes out—just a broken, animal sound that folds back in on itself.

His smile twitches.

“What should I do with you?” he asks softly. “Hm?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just cry harder, chest stuttering against the wire, throat raw and burning.

That seems to irritate him.

He clicks his tongue, disappointed, and lifts the crowbar. The cold metal taps against your cheek once—tap—just enough to make you flinch violently. He pauses, head tilting.

“Oh—”

His eyes light up.

“Oh yes, that’s wonderful! Oh—” He erupts into laughter, sudden and explosive, clutching his stomach as if the joke is too much to bear. Spit flies from his mouth, warm and disgusting as it lands in your hair, streaking through blood-matted strands. “Oh, isn’t my brain just splendid?”

He straightens, still laughing, wiping his eyes like he’s genuinely amused. “You bats are all poetry, I say—pure poetry!”

Then he turns.

Walks away.

His footsteps fade, echoing hollowly through the warehouse, until there’s only the hum of the lights, the distant crying behind you—and the camera.

You’re alone.

One last sob claws its way out of your throat, wet and choking. Blood follows it, dribbling down your chin, splashing darkly against your chest. You force your eyes open, drag them upward, lock them onto the camera.

You don’t know who’s watching. You don’t know if anyone is.

Your voice comes out steadier than it has any right to be.

“How—”

“Shut up!” someone whisper-yells behind you, frantic and terrified. “There’s other men!”

Your mouth snaps shut.

And the red light keeps blinking.

The metal door slams open with a shriek of abused hinges, the impact shuddering through the warehouse floor and straight up your spine. Dust rains down from the rafters in a thin, dirty veil, catching in your hair and sticking to the blood already drying there.

He’s laughing before you even see him.

Not distant laughter—close. Moving. Each step accompanied by a wet, dragging sound, like something heavy being pulled across concrete. His cackle ricochets off the shipping containers, off the steel beams, off the low ceiling that traps the sound and forces it back into your skull.

A little boy cries out behind you as Joker passes him. A sharp, panicked sound that fractures into a sob and then cuts off abruptly, like someone clamped a hand over his mouth.

The air grows hotter.

Through the warped reflection in the camera lens, you see it clearly now: a long metal bar burning red-hot, so bright it hurts to look at directly. Heat ripples distort the image around it, the glow painting the walls in feverish streaks of crimson. The smell hits you next—burning iron, scorched metal, something faintly organic beneath it that makes bile crawl up your throat.

Joker taps the brand against the concrete behind you.

It doesn’t clang.

It hisses.

The sound is sharp and alive, like meat on a skillet. Tiny sparks spit outward where it kisses the floor, leaving blackened scars in the cement. The red glow doesn’t dull. Doesn’t cool. It stays furious and bright, as if fed by something endless.

Whatever fragile hope you were clutching evaporates in that moment, leaving you hollowed out, lungs burning as you exhale something that feels like your last prayer.

He’s behind you in the next second.

Joker’s hand comes out of nowhere, clamping over your mouth, palm slick and hot. The copper taste floods you as his fingers press into your cheeks, nails digging in just enough to hurt—just enough to remind you that restraint is a choice he’s making. Your head is forced back, neck screaming as the wire saws deeper, the barbs biting into tender skin.

“Would you like to match your birdy?” he murmurs.

His voice is serene. Gentle. Almost affectionate.

He angles the brand around the arm of the chair so you can see it clearly. The letter is unmistakable now, its edges glowing white-hot, heat radiating off it in suffocating waves.

A ‘𝙹’.

Your body reacts before your mind can—your stomach convulses, gagging against his hand, breath stuttering uselessly through your nose. Your skin feels too tight, like it’s already shrinking away from what’s coming.

“We’re going to make the deal now,” he coos.

In the camera’s reflection, you can see his eye—wide, bright, utterly focused on the blinking red dot. Performing. Enjoying the audience if there even is one.

“You either get a matching look…” The brand drifts closer, close enough that the heat kisses your cheek, nerves screaming in anticipation, sweat instantly breaking out along your spine. “…or you tell me who you hate.”

His hand peels away from your mouth.

Air rushes in too fast. You choke on it, coughing hard enough that the wire grinds into your throat, pain blooming hot and blinding. Your voice comes out shredded. “Who… who I hate?”

“Who put you here?” he hums thoughtfully, as if the answer delights him. “It wasn’t me.”

The brand pauses, hovering inches from your skin. You can feel the heat burrowing inward, like it’s already memorizing you.

“Why do you think I found you?” he continues lightly. “Do you know how sloppy he is?”

Silence stretches, thick and oppressive.

You stare at the glowing red letter, your mind drifting somewhere distant and numb to survive. Absurdly, irrationally, you think of Jason’s helmet—the same violent red, the same defiant color. You wonder if he’s thinking of you right now. If he can feel this, somehow.

“Tell me who you hate.”

The words don’t just reach you—they enter you, heavy and cold, sinking past bone and settling somewhere deep and irreversible. They press the air flat, make the warehouse feel smaller, closer, like the walls are leaning in to listen.

He stands before you in all his wrongness, and up close there is nothing theatrical left. The Joker’s makeup has melted into something corpse-like, white cracked and flaking into the grooves of his face as though his skin is trying to shed it. The red smile is no longer a grin so much as a wound, smeared unevenly, darker where blood has mixed in, the corners dragged downward by age and use. His hair hangs limp, green dulled to the color of mold, clinging to his scalp in greasy strands. His eyes are too bright—glass-bright, feverish—never still, never soft, reflecting the warehouse lights like knives.

The space around you hums with misery. The concrete beneath your feet is slick with blood and oil, cold seeping up through the chair and into your bones. Shipping containers loom like coffins, their metal sides scarred and rusted, shadows pooled so thick between them it feels like something could step out at any moment. The air reeks—burnt iron, old sweat, copper, rot—and every breath feels like inhaling something alive and hostile.

You look at the camera.

That red eye blinks steadily, rhythmically, a heart that isn’t yours. It sees the way your chest shudders, the way your fingers twitch uselessly against the bindings, the way your body is already bracing for pain it knows is coming. Your thoughts drift, slow and exhausted, slipping through your hands like water you can’t quite hold.

You think of Jason.

Not the helmet. Not the blood. But his hands—warm, callused, careful when they touch you. The way he looks at you like the world might soften if you stay. The way he says your name like it’s something solid.

You could say his name now.

You could offer it up like a sacrifice and pray that this monster believes in deals, that you might walk out of here broken but breathing. You could lie and hope he lets you go.

Or you could say Jason’s name and watch Joker’s smile vanish as he switches off the camera and kills you quietly, preserving this horror to show your sweet boy later.

Or you could stay silent and take the brand—feel your skin burn, your body marked, watch the ecstasy bloom in Joker’s eyes as he claims you like an object he’s improved.

None of them feel survivable.

Something inside you twists—not courage, not bravery, but love sharpened into something desperate and ugly and defiant. You gather what spit you can in your blood-wet mouth and turn your head as far as the wire allows.

You spit in his face.

It lands wet and unmistakable, dragging a slow line through the cracked white paint, cutting through the red smile like an insult carved in flesh.

For a heartbeat, everything freezes.

The Joker goes utterly still, his expression emptying out in a way that is far more frightening than his laughter. Then his eyes widen, pupils dilating, fury flaring bright and feral—pleased.

You lean forward, neck screaming as the wire bites deeper, and you whisper because your voice will not survive being louder.

“You know,” you murmur, breath shaking despite everything you do to steady it, “he’s never mentioned you before.”

His breath stutters.

“You must not have left quite an impression.”

It’s a lie. A reckless, transparent lie.

You have lived in Gotham long enough to know exactly what he is—his name written in blood across the city’s history—but lies can still cut, and you see it land. You see the way his smile stretches wider, hungry and thrilled.

You’ve given him a reason.

A reason to prove himself.

A reason to keep you alive.

A reason to make you hurt longer.

His hand tangles in your hair and yanks your head back violently. Your neck slams into the barbed wire, spikes tearing in with a wet, intimate sound that makes you sob despite yourself. Warm blood spills down your throat, choking you, slicking your chest.

Then the brand descends.

The heat is indescribable—ancient, total, a pain so vast it consumes thought itself. Your flesh screams as it burns, the smell of seared skin rising thick and sweet, smoke curling upward as the letter is carved into you slowly, deliberately. Your body arches uselessly against the restraints, every nerve on fire, and the sound that leaves you is not a scream so much as something torn out of your soul.

You hate that he hears it. And when that drug denies you the void of sleep you so desperately need, you allow yourself to think numbly as the man pulls it away that at least Jason can't dwindle his appearance anymore.

Your tears stripe down your cheeks, burning as they touch your skin.

We match. You think numbly, Atleast we match.

He strokes over the brand with more delicacy than he has ever had in this whole nightmare, mumbling, “This is going to hurt you a lot more than it hurts me.”

When you wake again, it’s to the weight of tears landing on your face—warm, uneven drops that pull you out of the dark in slow, reluctant pieces. For a moment you don’t know where you are. The world rocks gently, like it can’t decide whether to keep moving or stop altogether. There’s the low hum of an engine beneath you, vibration traveling through bone and bruised muscle, and the smell of old leather surrounds you—worn, familiar, grounding in a way that makes your chest ache.

Leather is good.

Leather is not acid.

Leather does not burn your lungs on the way in.

“Hurts,” you mumble, the word barely surviving the journey out of your throat. You offer it up like an apology, like a peace offering, half-expecting pain to answer you back.

Instead, the crying breaks harder.

It comes undone above you, raw and ugly, and through the haze you realize you aren’t lying flat on concrete, waiting for the Joker to press a cinder block to your stomach. Your body is stretched across someone, your legs draped over another set of knees, your weight distributed carefully, reverently, like something fragile that might shatter if shifted wrong. 

An arm is braced beneath your neck, steady and strong, keeping your head from lolling, and your cheek presses into a leather jacket that smells unmistakably like gun oil, sweat, rain—

Jason.

The knowledge hits softer than it should, cushioned by exhaustion and shock, and when your eyes finally manage to open, everything swims. Light smears at the edges, colors bleeding into one another, but his face is there anyway, hovering close, carved with terror and relief and something so naked it almost scares you more than the warehouse did.

“Am I in heaven?” you mumble.

He lets out a sound that isn’t quite a sob and isn’t quite a laugh, choking on it as his chin trembles. “You don’t even believe in heaven.”

“Well,” you murmur, trying—and failing—to pull your mouth into something that resembles a smile, “what else could you be?”

Your jaw burns when you speak. Everything burns. It feels like your body has been filled with broken glass and lit from the inside, and you’re dimly aware of warm liquid slipping from your mouth, darkening the leather beneath your cheek every time you breathe wrong. You hate that you’re staining him. You hate that you can’t stop.

“I’ll kill him,” Jason whispers, like a prayer he’s been holding onto with both hands. His fingers shake as they brush your hair back, careful to avoid places he knows are hurt. “I’ll kill him. I promise.”

“Can I have hot chocolate first?” you mumble. The words feel distant, like they belong to someone else. “I bought that expensive kind… from Finland. Asshole knocked it all over my carpet…”

Jason’s breath fractures completely at that. He nods too hard, tears spilling freely now, dropping onto your cheeks, your neck, your collarbone. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll buy you hot chocolate. I’ll buy you all of it.”

Somewhere near your feet, another voice cuts in, low and strained with concern. “Hey, Jay—breathe—”

Jason doesn’t hear them. Or maybe he does and simply can’t afford to listen. His chest is rising too fast beneath you, breaths sawing in and out like he’s drowning on dry land, his eyes glassy and unfocused, the green in them shifting with every frantic blink.

Or maybe that’s just your vision still failing you. That would make sense. The powder. The smoke. The way light hurts now.

“Stop crying,” you murmur weakly. “I can’t die with you looking like that.”

That breaks him.

His face crumples completely, grief spilling over into something fierce and desperate as he bends closer, forehead almost touching yours. “Good,” he chokes. “Fuck you. I’ll cry even more, so–so stay with me, yeah?”

“No,” you whisper, your voice scraping raw against your throat. “Wanna sleep.”

“You slept an awful lot,” he snaps, but there’s no anger in it—only terror wearing sharp edges, only love clawing its way out however it can.

“Well,” you murmur, your voice thin but soft, like you’re afraid of startling him, “You show up in my dreams an awful lot.”

That does it.

Whatever fragile control Jason had left fractures clean through. He folds over you instinctively, shoulders caving as he tries—fails—to hide the sound of it. His breath comes apart against your hair, his forehead dipping close to your temple like if he presses himself near enough, he can keep you here by force alone. You feel the tremor of him through your whole body, every hitch of his chest echoing in your ribs.

You smell blood on him then. Copper and iron, sharp beneath the leather and sweat and rain. For a distant, numb second you think it’s yours again—until the scent is too heavy, too layered.

Oh.

Was this—

“Did I interrupt family bonding?” you whisper.

Your lips barely move. The words slip out half-asleep, half-dreaming, and they earn you a startled huff from somewhere behind you. Jason doesn’t answer. He can’t. His arms tighten instead, one hand splayed carefully at your back like he’s afraid even breathing too hard might hurt you more.

A voice comes from the seat behind, dry and unimpressed, because Jason is currently incapable of speech and whoever has your legs resting in their lap is rubbing slow, grounding circles into his back.

“If this is what you think family bonding is, you’ll fit right in.”

“Damian, be quiet,” another voice snaps.

“She’s the one shamelessly flirting with him in front of all of us, Tim” Damian continues anyway, undeterred. “And Father isn’t even saying anything, so—”

“Well she’s the one dying!” Tim blurts, voice cracking sharp with fear.

Jason chokes on the words that come from Tim’s mouth, breath stuttering hard, and a deeper voice cuts in from the front seat—controlled, measured, holding itself together by sheer will.

“She’s not going to die, Tim.”

“I want hoya bellas on my grave,” you interrupt softly.

Jason lets out a broken sound that might have been a laugh in another universe. He shakes his head over you, forehead brushing your hair, and through your blurry vision you think you catch a gloved hand popping up behind him in a solemn thumbs-up.

“Got it.”

Another voice joins in from the front, exasperated and strained. “Cassandra, she’s not being serious.”

“I’m sorry,” Jason whispers, over and over, like a mantra, like something he’s trying to carve into reality. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” His thumb strokes your hair away from your forehead again, impossibly gentle, avoiding the places he knows hurt, the places he doesn’t want to know at all.

“I’m gonna sleep now,” you murmur. It takes effort to shape the words. The dark is getting heavier again, tugging at you, warm and deep. “Can one of you give Jason water?”

“Hey—” Jason breathes, panic flaring sharp as his voice cracks. “Hey, no—no, no, no, stay with me, come on—”

But you’re already slipping.

Your eyes flutter closed despite him, despite the warmth of his arms, despite the way his heart is racing beneath your ear like it’s trying to outrun fate itself. His glove comes off hurriedly and you feel his bare fingers press to your pulse, grounding himself in the steady beat there, in the fact that it’s still happening.

After a few minutes, Dick leans forward and taps Jason’s shoulder gently, offering a water bottle. His uniform is torn and scorched like the rest of them, a thin cut bright against his cheek, but his voice is soft when he speaks.

“Drink.”

Jason doesn’t look up. He doesn’t let go. He just nods once, tight and shaky, eyes fixed on you like if he looks away for even a second, the world might take you again.

He forces himself to take a full gulp of water, the plastic bottle crinkling loudly in the too-quiet car, his throat working like it has to remember how swallowing goes. His hands are still shaking when he passes it off to Tim.

“Hey, I don’t need any—”

Jason looks at him.

Not sharp. Not angry. Just steady in a way that leaves no room for argument, the kind of look that says do this or I will fall apart next.

Tim takes a long swig immediately. Somewhere in the background, Damian lets out a low, satisfied cackle.

The digital clock on the Batmobile reads 4:00 a.m.

The numbers glow cold blue against the dark interior, reflected faintly in the windshield like a second set of eyes staring back at them. Gotham outside is hollow and half-dead at this hour—streetlights flickering, rain-slick asphalt stretching endlessly, buildings slumped together like they’re exhausted too.

Bruce’s voice is calm as he calls Alfred, clipped and precise, already listing supplies like this is something he can control if he names enough of it out loud.

Jason doesn’t listen.

He keeps his focus on you.

On the shallow rise and fall of your chest. The warmth is still clinging stubbornly to your skin. On the way your weight settles into him like it belongs there, like it always has. One hand stays firm at your neck, holding you upright because you need it—because you need him steady, and that knowledge anchors him harder than anything Bruce could ever say.

You need him here. You need him present. You need him not to break.

He knows that, because once—once—that was all he ever wanted too.

And that’s the cruel part of it.

Because the weight of you in his arms has only ever meant safety. Home. Sleep curling warm and heavy in his bones. His body doesn’t know the difference between holding you safe and finally being allowed to rest.

Jason Todd passes out with his forehead dipping gently toward yours, his grip loosening only by a fraction, like even unconscious he’s afraid to let you go.

The last thing he hears before everything goes dark is Tim’s voice, sharp with panic and disbelief.

“Dude—what the fuck—”

“Hold his head up—don’t let him fall on her!” Bruce barks from the front, voice cracking sharp through the Batmobile like a snapped cable.

All at once, everyone moves.

Damian fists the back of Jason’s T‑shirt, knuckles white as he yanks him upright with a strength born of panic he’d never admit to. Dick stretches impossibly from the passenger seat, arm braced awkwardly as he cups the back of Jason’s head, careful, reverent, like he’s afraid one wrong angle will shatter him. Tim presses a steadying hand to Jason’s chest, feeling the uneven rise and fall beneath his palm, grounding him the way he’s learned to do with bombs and brothers alike.

Jason is dead weight. Heavy. Still clinging to you even in unconsciousness, his arm slack but stubborn around your shoulders, like muscle memory alone refuses to let you go.

The Batmobile hums on, tires slicing through wet streets, Gotham blurring past in streaks of sodium light and rain-slick concrete. The city feels distant now, muffled, like it’s holding its breath with them.

“…Did someone check if the Joker was—uh—breathing?” Stephanie asks from the back, her voice small in a way it rarely ever is.

She hadn’t stayed for the end. Her job had been triage—getting the kids out, shouting orders, dragging civilians through blood and broken glass while the rest of them stayed behind in the warehouse with the laughter and the screaming. She’d smelled the aftermath on them when they regrouped. She didn’t need details then but...

Bruce doesn’t look back. His hands tighten on the wheel.

“Jason didn’t hit any vital points,” he says quietly, like he’s reciting a report he’s already memorized. “Just… ah—”

“Carved his face like a jack‑o’‑lantern,” Damian supplies, entirely too calm. “Heated up a crowbar to do it too. Very effective.”

There’s a beat of silence.

The city lights flash over Bruce’s face—old stone and deep eyes that are hollowed by relief he doesn’t let himself feel yet.

“…Yeah,” Bruce exhales, short and rough. “That.”

The Batmobile keeps moving.

Jason breathes.

You breathe.

And for now, that’s enough to keep the night from swallowing them whole.

You wake up in bed.

Not the thin, borrowed kind your body has learned to tolerate at your apartment, but something deep and indulgent—clean sheets tucked tight, the mattress yielding just enough to cradle you instead of swallowing you whole. The pillow beneath your cheek feels stupidly expensive, cool and smooth, smelling faintly of detergent and something old and comforting, like cedar and money and quiet hallways that echo.

For a moment, you think you’re dreaming again.

Then you feel him.

Jason is asleep beside you, solid and unmistakable. You don’t need to move—you can’t really anyways—to know it’s him. The arm wrapped around your waist is heavy with familiar strength, protective even in unconsciousness. His hair brushes against your arm every time he breathes, soft, tickling your skin in a way that makes your chest ache.

He’s breathing.

That fact alone nearly undoes you.

God. You really need to raise your standards, you think hazily. You’re reduced to this—listening to him breathe, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest, and already you want to curl into him and coo like nothing in the world has ever gone wrong.

Then you see Bruce.

He’s standing near the bed, still as a statue, watching you with the careful intensity of someone afraid to spook a wild animal. It takes effort to focus on his face, your vision dragging itself into clarity inch by inch.

When you try to lift your head—manners resurfacing before sense—your body protests sharply.

Bruce moves instantly.

“Hey, hey—no,” he murmurs, hands gentle but firm as he presses you back into the mattress. “Relax. It’s okay. You’re safe.”

Your head sinks back into the pillow, and the moment stretches. You swallow thickly before managing a small, hoarse sound of politeness.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Wayne. Jason—”

“Hasn’t told you much about me,” Bruce finishes for you, a faint, tired chuckle slipping out. “That’s alright. I just need you to sleep right now.”

You glance downward as best you can, feeling something sharp dig into your side.

“…I can’t sleep if your son’s elbow is in my ribs.”

Bruce blinks.

Actually blinks—surprised enough that it breaks through the carefully assembled calm. “Ah—” he starts, then reaches for Jason, trying to rearrange him with the same precision he uses on everything else.

It doesn’t work.

Jason huffs in his sleep, a low, irritated sound, and somehow manages to make it worse—his arm tightening, his leg hooking over yours possessively, like you’re something he’s afraid the world might steal back if he lets go.

Bruce freezes.

You mumble, exhausted but soft, “It’s alright. I’m sure he hasn’t slept… I’ve gotten quite a lot, so…”

Bruce looks like he wants to argue. His jaw tightens, then loosens, the fight draining out of him. He exhales and sits back in the chair by the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly together.

“It’s the 26th,” he says quietly.

Oh.

You missed Christmas.

What a shame.

After a moment, Bruce speaks again, and his voice is heavier now—careful, deliberate, like every word costs him something.

“I… want to apologize to you.” His fingers interlace, knuckles whitening. “I knew you’d been taken. And I didn’t tell him. Possibly… he could have been there sooner. But I needed to make sure the others would be saved as well.”

“Well,” you murmur, the word barely more than breath, “I don’t exactly blame you for that.”

It isn’t forgiveness exactly—nothing so grand—but it’s honest, and it lands heavier than anger ever could.

Bruce doesn’t relax. If anything, his shoulders pull tighter, like he’s bracing for a blow that never quite comes. He’s spent his whole life learning how to de‑escalate men with guns, gods with vendettas, cities with teeth—but you unsettle him in a quieter, more dangerous way. You’re calm. You’re lucid. You’re something Jason had threatened to shoot himself for.

He clears his throat, trying to give you something solid, something measurable. Facts are safer.

“Jason… got him,” Bruce says carefully. “Badly. I think—” He hesitates, eyes flicking once toward Jason like he’s checking for movement. “I think the Joker may be blind now. Or at least permanently impaired.”

“You let him?” you ask.

Still no accusation. Just a soft, stunned curiosity, as if you’re piecing together a story you were never meant to survive.

Bruce nods. Once. The motion costs him. “I did,” he admits. “But I—”

“Then that’s enough,” you whisper, interrupting him gently, like you’re afraid the words themselves might hurt. “Jason will realize that too.” Your lashes flutter; exhaustion tugs at you like a tide. “I mean… he probably won’t. He’ll still try to kill him.” A faint, crooked exhale. “But you did everything you could yesterday.”

Your gaze drifts—not to Bruce, but to Jason. To the way his arm is still locked around you, even in sleep. To the stubborn set of his jaw, the crease between his brows that never fully smooths out anymore.

“Thank you,” you add quietly. “For finding me.”

That’s when Bruce goes still.

Not rigid. Not defensive.

Still.

Because he’s been looking at you, yes—but now you realize he hasn't been looking you in the eye while he speaks. His eyes have been caught in one place, drawn there again and again like a bruise you can’t help but press.

Your cheek.

The skin there is angry beneath the bandage’s edge—raw, faintly swollen, discolored in a way he winced at while he bandaged it. Bruce didn't let anyone else tend to it, not even Alfred. 

Because this was a wound he inflicted, one that he needed to tend to.

“It’s still fresh,” he says, softer now, stripped of the Bat and the rules and the fear. Just a man speaking carefully around something fragile. “I’ll get you better medicine. The pigment should fade.” A pause. His voice lowers. “I can’t promise about the texture.”

You don’t look away. You don’t flinch.

“That’s okay,” you say.

And Bruce doesn’t know if you mean the scar, or the pain, or the fact that you’ll carry this forever—but Jason shifts in his sleep then, brow tightening, arm drawing you closer like he sensed the weight of the moment and refused to let it settle on you alone.

Bruce watches that. Watches how Jason anchors himself to you without waking, how his breathing steadies when yours does, how it pauses even in sleep when yours hitches.

“He loves you a lot.” Bruce mumbles.

“...And you too Mr.Wayne.”

jason peter todd tag-list (check pinned post for info on how to be added .ᐟ ) :@justamarsbar, @peridotnature854, @nayy-a, @that-willowtree,

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[semper-nox]

The Space You Left (#22)

Series Summary: Some wounds don’t bleed. They just teach you how to disappear. Before being adopted, you learned early that love had rules: don’t ask, don’t need, don’t take up space. Bucky – your brother in everything but blood – was the only exception. Now you’re an adult, brilliant, controlled, almost untouchable… until one dinner shatters the fragile balance.

Wordcount: 7.1k

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader, mentions of past Steve Rogers x Female Reader (no use of Y/N), Bucky Barnes x Natasha Romanoff

Warnings: childhood trauma, adoption trauma, abandonment issues, orphanage abuse, corporal punishment mentioned, religious trauma-adjacent themes, emotional self-hatred, shame, suicidal ideation / one moment of passive suicidal thought, complicated family dynamics, raised-as-siblings but not blood-related romantic tension, implied non-explicit underage intimacy in the past, emotional aftermath of sex, verbal cruelty, heartbreak, therapy, healing, reconciliation. See the whole exhaustive list on the masterlist post.

A/N: Gentle reminder that this series is heavy on trauma so I beg you to read the whole list of warning on the masterpost. I won't tolerate any complaints about not being warned of something. Beta read by Cassie (@blobfishlol ) as always.

Masterlist - Series Masterlist - Prev- Next

Another month passed like that.

Not cleanly. Not in one straight line. Not in the kind of gentle progression people liked to imagine when they said healing, as if pain followed instructions and knew how to leave when it was no longer useful.

It passed in fragments.

Five-minute calls with Bucky when you had enough courage and not quite enough time to overthink it.

Longer calls with Wanda, who cried the first time she heard your voice laugh properly and then immediately pretended she had not.

Pietro checking in with clinical precision and brotherly menace, asking if you were eating, sleeping, hydrating, going outside, and then telling you things about New York in the same breath like he was smuggling normal life back to you piece by piece.

Steve calling you from the museum during breaks, lowering his voice when he complained about Sharon and her “aggressively competent” way of disagreeing with him.

And Tony.

Your father.

Dad, now.

The word had stopped catching in your throat every time you used it. Not completely – sometimes it still startled you, still made Maria glance up with soft eyes, still made Tony go briefly still like some part of him needed half a second to absorb the gift again – but it had become yours.

You said it in ordinary moments now.

“Dad, have you seen my notebook?”

“Dad, I’m stealing the last coffee.”

“Dad, if you tell me to take a break one more time, I’m citing you as an obstacle in my acknowledgments.”

Tony always pretended to be offended.

Maria always looked like she was trying not to cry.

And slowly, without you noticing at first, the villa became less like a refuge and more like a place where you lived.

Your thesis was finished. Truly finished. Printed, backed up in three different places because Tony had nearly had a cardiac event when you admitted you were relying on only two, and waiting now for your defense like a quiet animal in the corner of your future.

Athens waited too.

October.

A year-long position. A city you had not yet seen but had already begun to imagine in fragments: stone under sun, dry heat, museum archives, narrow streets, ruins that did not apologize for surviving.

Some days, the thought filled you with excitement so sharp it almost frightened you.

Other days, it made you ache.

Because the first person you had wanted to tell had been Bucky.

And now, sometimes, you did tell him things.

Not everything.

Never too much at once.

But enough.

A photo of an article about Athens with one line circled.

A complaint about administrative paperwork.

A message that said, I keep forgetting October is real.

He never pushed.

He never answered too quickly in a way that felt frantic, even if you suspected he wanted to. His replies came thoughtful, careful, stripped of anything that might feel like a hand closing around your wrist.

It made something in you soften.

Not completely.

But enough.

Enough that sometimes, when your phone rang and his name appeared because you had called him first and he was calling back, your stomach did not turn with fear.

Sometimes it only tightened with memory.

Sometimes, impossibly, it warmed.

You talked to Tony about him more often now.

Not like before, when Bucky’s name had been a shard lodged beneath your ribs and every mention of him made you bleed all over again.

Now it was different.

Still painful.

Still complicated.

But not only pain.

You talked about him as someone who existed in your future as a question, not just in your past as a wound.

You told Tony about Bucky as a child – loud, impossible, protective, too brave in the way boys often were when no one had taught them fear properly yet.

You told him about storms and small beds and the first time you understood safety as a person instead of a rule.

You told him about the years of confusion, about Steve, about the ways love had tangled itself into family until none of you had known how to separate one thread from another without pulling the whole thing apart.

Tony listened the way he always did now, with his full attention disguised badly as casualness.

Sometimes he got angry.

Not loudly.

Tony’s anger, when it was for you, went quiet and sharp.

But he never made it simple.

He never said Bucky was only cruel.

He never said you were foolish for still loving him.

One evening, while you sat outside with him, he leaned back in his chair and said, “You know loving someone who hurt you doesn’t mean you approve of the hurt.”

You looked down at your glass of water, watching condensation gather beneath your fingers. “It feels like it should.”

“It doesn’t,” Tony said. “It means people are inconveniently complicated. Which I would personally like to file a complaint about.”

You huffed a small laugh.

Tony’s mouth curved, but his eyes stayed serious.

“You’re allowed to want him,” he said. “And you’re allowed to be angry. And you’re allowed to take your time deciding whether wanting him is enough.”

That stayed with you.

It followed you into the next days, into calls and messages and quiet mornings.

Wanting him was not a command.

Loving him was not surrender.

You could miss him and still protect yourself.

You could ache for his voice and still end the call when your chest became too tight.

You could rebuild the bridge slowly without promising to cross it.

And then Bucky’s birthday came.

You remembered before your phone reminded you.

Of course you did.

The date lived somewhere old in you, folded into childhood memory – cakes your mother had made, loud laughter in the kitchen, Steve and Pietro trying to outdo each other with terrible gifts, Wanda pretending not to care about birthdays and then somehow always choosing the exact right thing.

You woke up with it already sitting in your chest.

Bucky.

His day.

For most of the morning, you did nothing about it.

You worked. Or tried to.

You reread the same paragraph three times and absorbed none of it. You checked a footnote that had been correct for weeks. You opened an email, closed it, opened it again.

Maria noticed by lunch.

“You’re somewhere else today,” she said gently.

You looked up from your plate. “It’s Bucky’s birthday.”

Maria’s expression softened with immediate understanding. She didn’t make the small, sympathetic sound people sometimes made when they wanted to be kind but only succeeded in making pain feel more exposed.

She only nodded.

“Are you going to call him?”

You stared down at your hands.

“I don’t know.”

Later, Tony found you in the library, sitting in the armchair by the window with your phone face-down on your thigh.

He looked at the phone, then at you.

“Is this a birthday-related staring contest?”

You gave him a tired look. “I’m losing.”

“Phones are undefeated,” he said, crossing the room and sitting opposite you. “Vicious little rectangles.”

You smiled despite yourself, but it faded quickly.

“I want to call him,” you admitted.

Tony’s expression didn’t change, but his attention sharpened.

“Then call him.”

You swallowed. “What if it’s too much?”

“Then you hang up.”

“What if it hurts?”

“It might.”

You looked away.

Tony leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees.

“But you’re not calling because you owe him something,” he said. “Right?”

You shook your head.

“Good. Then ask yourself the better question.”

You glanced back at him.

Tony’s voice softened. “Do you want to hear his voice today?”

The answer was there immediately.

Terrifyingly simple.

“Yes.”

Tony nodded once. “Then that’s enough reason.”

So at eight-forty-seven that evening, after thinking about it for far too long, you sent a message.

Are you available for a call?

You stared at it after sending, your heart beating too fast.

The reply came less than a minute later.

Yes. Always, but yes. Is everything okay?

You closed your eyes briefly.

Everything is okay. I just wanted to call for your birthday. If that’s okay.

The dots appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

That’s more than okay.

Your thumb hovered over the call button.

Then, because some part of you was braver than you felt, you pressed video instead.

In New York, Bucky nearly dropped his phone.

He had been sitting on his couch, not doing much of anything. The room was dim except for the lamp near the window, the city stretching beyond the glass in scattered lights. He had spent the day carefully not expecting anything from you.

That was the thing therapy had begun to teach him – not cleanly, not comfortably, but steadily.

Wanting was not entitlement.

Missing was not permission.

Hope was not a contract.

He had started the morning with his phone in his hand and your thread open, typing three different birthday-adjacent messages before deleting all of them.

Hope you’re having a good day felt absurd. It was his birthday, not yours.

I’m thinking of you felt too heavy.

I love you felt true, but he had already said it and did not want to lay it at your feet like another weight.

So he had sent nothing.

He had gone to work. Let Clint make a terrible joke about birthdays being “just annual performance reviews for survival.” Let his colleagues shove a cupcake onto his desk. Let Steve text him a simple Happy birthday, jerk, which had made him smile for the first time all day.

He had gone to therapy too, because the date of his birth apparently did not exempt him from emotional accountability.

And then, at night, your name had appeared.

A message first.

Then another.

Then the video call.

For half a second, his body forgot how to function.

The phone buzzed in his hand, your name bright on the screen, the little camera icon making his pulse crash hard against his ribs.

He stared at it.

Once.

Twice.

Then answered before the call could disappear.

Your face filled the screen.

And Bucky went completely still.

Not because he had forgotten what you looked like.

Never that.

Your face lived in him with humiliating precision. The shape of your mouth when you were trying not to smile. The particular lift of your brows when he said something stupid. The softness around your eyes when you were tired but listening anyway.

But memory was cruel in its own way.

Memory flattened.

Memory preserved and distorted.

This was not memory.

This was you.

Alive. Moving. Breathing.

Your hair was loose around your shoulders, softer than he remembered, catching the warm light from somewhere offscreen. You looked healthier than the last time he had seen you in person – still thinner than before, still tired in ways he could read too easily, but present. There was color in your face. Light in your eyes. Something steadier beneath the ache.

You were sitting somewhere neutral, a pale wall behind you, maybe your room, maybe somewhere you had chosen because it did not reveal too much.

You looked nervous.

So did he.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then you gave a small, awkward smile.

“Hi.”

Bucky’s throat tightened so hard it took him a second to answer.

“Hi.”

Another silence.

You let out a breath that turned into a quiet, embarrassed laugh. “This is weird.”

Bucky’s mouth twitched, painfully fond. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” he said immediately, then softened his voice when he saw your expression flicker. “Don’t apologize. It’s not bad weird.”

Your eyes lowered for a second, then lifted again.

“Happy birthday,” you said softly.

The words hit him somewhere central.

He had heard them all day. From coworkers. From Steve. From his parents. From Wanda, who had sent a text that was clearly affectionate but still carried the energy of someone who had not decided if she wanted to forgive him on principle.

But from you…

His chest ached.

“Thank you,” he managed.

You shifted slightly, fingers moving near the edge of the frame. He could see only part of your hand, but enough to notice that you were fidgeting.

He wanted to tell you not to be nervous.

He wanted to tell you there was nothing you could do wrong.

But he had learned better than to make declarations that erased the reality of what he had done.

So he only sat there, holding the phone carefully, as if handling something fragile.

“How was your day?” you asked.

Bucky blinked once.

The question was so ordinary it almost hurt.

“It was okay,” he said. “Work. Cupcake. Clint mocked me. Steve called me a jerk.”

Your mouth curved. “So, normal.”

“Pretty much.”

“That sounds nice.”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. It was.”

He hesitated, then added, “Better now.”

Your eyes flicked to his.

Bucky’s breath caught.

For a second, the old instinct rose – to pull back, to make a joke, to soften what he meant so it could not be rejected.

He did not.

He held your gaze instead.

“This is the best gift I got today,” he said quietly.

Your expression changed.

Not dramatically. You did not gasp or melt or smile in that easy movie way.

But something softened in your face, and something sad passed through it too. Like the words had warmed you and hurt you at once.

“Bucky…”

“I mean it,” he said.

“I know.”

The quiet settled differently after that.

Less awkward.

Still fragile, but no longer empty.

You talked for a few minutes about harmless things. The weather in Miami, which Bucky said sounded fake because “warm nights are suspicious”. The fact that Maria had apparently decided you needed clothes for Athens and had made shopping sound like a tactical operation. The defense, coming closer now, no longer a distant idea but a real point on the calendar.

He asked about the thesis only lightly, because he knew you had finished writing it and that the next step was the defense.

“You still feel good about it?” he asked.

You glanced aside, thoughtful. “Mostly. Some days I think it’s solid. Some days I think I should burn the entire thing and become a florist.”

Bucky huffed a laugh before he could stop himself.

Your eyes warmed at the sound.

And God, he had missed making you look like that.

“Please don’t become a florist,” he said. “You’d judge the historical accuracy of every arrangement.”

“I would not.”

“You absolutely would. ‘These flowers were not culturally available in this region during that century’.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “That’s not even how floristry works.”

“I don’t know. I’m not the future doctor.”

The words slipped out naturally.

Future doctor.

You smiled then, small but real, and Bucky felt something in him loosen with such force it was almost painful.

Then the silence came back.

Not bad.

Just full.

You looked at him through the screen, and he could tell you were seeing him too – really seeing him. The faint tiredness under his eyes. The way his hair needed cutting. The way he was trying so hard not to reach through the distance with both hands.

“You look…” he started, then stopped.

Your posture changed immediately. Not a flinch, but a bracing.

Bucky saw it and hated himself for triggering even that small reflex.

He softened everything. His voice. His face. The angle of his shoulders.

“You look beautiful,” he said quietly.

Your breath caught.

The screen flickered slightly with a weak connection, but your face stayed clear enough for him to see the color rise in your cheeks.

Not discomfort exactly.

Not only discomfort.

You looked overwhelmed.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

“I’m not saying it to make you uncomfortable.”

“I know.”

“I just…” He swallowed. “I haven’t seen your face in months.”

Your eyes lowered again.

“I know.”

“And I missed it.”

That one seemed to land deeper.

You pressed your lips together, eyes shining slightly, though no tears fell.

“I missed yours too,” you admitted.

Bucky stopped breathing for a second.

He knew better than to rush into that sentence. Better than to grab it and build a whole future out of it. You had not said I forgive you. You had not said come home. You had not said anything that promised him access.

But you had said it.

You had missed his face.

And for tonight, on his birthday, that was enough to make his chest hurt with gratitude.

He nodded, because he trusted himself less with words.

You both sat in the quiet for a moment.

Then you said, softer, “I’m glad I called.”

Bucky’s eyes burned.

He looked down briefly, blinking hard, then back up at you.

“Me too.”

Your smile trembled a little.

“I wanted to hear your voice today,” you said, and it sounded like a confession.

Bucky’s throat closed.

He had imagined so many things in the weeks since you left. Most of them terrible. Some of them hopeful in ways he refused to indulge.

He had not imagined that.

Not today.

Not like this.

He could feel the words rising in him before he decided to say them. They had been there for years, buried under fear and shame and all the wrong names. He had written them. Texted them. Let them exist on a screen where they could be read without the full danger of his voice behind them.

But he had never given them to you like this.

Out loud.

Face to face.

He took a breath.

Your eyes held his through the screen, wary and warm and scared.

“I love you,” Bucky said.

The words came out quiet.

No drama. No push. No demand.

Just truth.

Your face changed.

For a moment, you looked exactly like you had in childhood when someone offered you something too tender to understand – startled, almost afraid of the shape of it, as if love itself was a bright object placed in your hands.

Bucky did not continue.

He did not add please.

He did not ask you to say it back.

He only let the words stand there between you, steady and bare.

Your eyes filled slowly.

You inhaled once, shaky.

“I know,” you whispered.

Then, after a beat that felt like the whole world balancing on a thread, you added, “I love you too.”

Bucky closed his eyes.

Just for a second.

Because if he kept looking at you, he thought he might break in a way that would make this about him, and he refused to do that.

When he opened them again, you were still there.

Still on the screen.

Still breathing.

Still watching him with tears in your eyes and distance between you and a boundary he would not cross.

“Thank you,” he said, voice rough.

Your brows pulled together faintly. “For what?”

“For calling.”

You looked down, then back up.

“It’s your birthday.”

Bucky smiled, small and wrecked. “Yeah.”

“And I wanted to.”

That was the gift.

Not the call itself.

Not the sight of your face.

Not even the I love you returned in a whisper.

The gift was that you wanted to.

That there was still some part of you that reached for him – carefully, fearfully, on your own terms.

Bucky held that knowledge like something sacred.

The call did not last long after that.

Neither of you had the strength for long.

You told him you should let him sleep. He said he probably would not, but he would try. You gave him a look through the screen, faintly stern, and for half a second it felt so familiar that his heart clenched.

“Goodnight, Bucky,” you said.

“Goodnight,” he answered.

He hesitated.

Then, softly, because he could not help himself but would keep it small, “Thank you for the best birthday.”

Your mouth trembled into something almost like a smile.

“Don’t make it dramatic.”

“I would never.”

“You absolutely would.”

He huffed a quiet laugh.

Then the call ended.

The screen went dark.

Bucky sat there for a long time with the phone still in his hand, staring at his own reflection in the black glass.

He did not feel healed.

He did not feel forgiven.

He did not feel like the damage had vanished because you had called him and let him see your face.

But he felt something.

A thread.

A breath.

A beginning that was not yet safe enough to name.

He pressed the phone lightly against his mouth, closed his eyes, and whispered again into the quiet apartment, softer this time, steadier.

“I love you.”

And this time, somewhere far away, he knew you had heard him.

The rest of the week became practical in the way looming deadlines always made life practical.

Your defense was in a little under three weeks now.

Three weeks.

The number sat in the back of your mind with a strange weight – not panic, exactly, but pressure. A good kind, most of the time. The kind that made you wake up earlier than usual, coffee in hand before the sun had fully warmed the kitchen tiles, laptop open while the rest of the villa still moved quietly around you.

Your thesis itself was finished.

That fact still felt unreal.

The document existed. Complete. Footnotes tightened. Bibliography formatted. Arguments shaped into something that held under scrutiny. Months – years, really – of research, revisions, exhaustion, and stubbornness had become a file sitting neatly on your desktop, waiting to be defended rather than written.

That should have made you feel lighter.

Instead, it made the presentation feel suddenly enormous.

Because now there was no more hiding behind the work.

Now you had to stand in front of people and explain it.

You had done seminars before. Lectures. Discussions. Teaching assistant sections where undergraduates stared at you with varying degrees of panic and boredom. But this was different. This was yours. Your research. Your years. Your voice, carrying all of it into a room where people would listen, question, assess.

The first draft of the slides was competent.

Too competent, maybe.

Clean. Dense. Perfectly structured.

Also, as Tony informed you after staring at the third slide for almost thirty seconds, “academically lethal.”

You looked up from your laptop. “That’s not a real category.”

“It is now,” he said, leaning over the dining table with one hand braced beside your notes. “This slide has nine bullet points.”

“They’re important.”

“They are crimes.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You asked to see the presentation.”

“And I’m seeing it,” Tony replied. “I’m seeing death by citation.”

From the opposite side of the table, Pepper Potts – who had somehow become involved after Tony said the words presentation structure within hearing distance – gave him a very calm look.

“Tony.”

“What?” he said, innocent. “I’m helping.”

“You’re heckling.”

“I’m constructively heckling.”

Pepper ignored him and turned the laptop gently toward herself, scrolling back to the beginning. She was precise in a way that immediately settled something in you. Not cold. Not harsh. Just clear. She had the kind of competence that made a room feel less chaotic by existing in it.

“This is strong,” she said first.

You blinked, thrown by the immediate reassurance.

Pepper glanced at you. “It is. Your structure is solid. Your argument builds well. You know what you’re talking about.”

Tony pointed at her. “See? My assistant agrees with me.”

Pepper didn’t look at him. “I agree with myself.”

“You assist me professionally, which means your help is technically my help.”

“That is not how labor works.”

“It’s how ownership of credit works in this family.”

You looked between them, startled into a laugh before you could stop yourself.

Tony’s face softened the instant he heard it, though he tried to hide it by taking a sip of coffee. Pepper saw anyway. Her expression flickered, almost amused.

Then she returned to your slides.

“What you need,” she said, “is breathing room.”

You glanced down at the screen. “Breathing room?”

“Yes.” She clicked to your second slide. “Your audience will not read while you speak. If you give them too much text, they’ll either listen to you and ignore the slide, or read the slide and lose your voice. Neither helps you.”

Tony nodded solemnly. “Exactly. Less wall of text, more devastating intellectual charisma.”

You gave him a look. “Devastating intellectual charisma.”

“You have it,” he said, too quickly to be joking. Then, a beat later, because sincerity still embarrassed him when it came out too naked: “Obviously. Genetics.”

Pepper’s mouth tightened like she was fighting a smile.

You looked down at your hands, warmth spreading through your chest before you could stop it.

Pepper helped you cut.

Not the content. Never that. She never made you feel like your research needed to be smaller. She just helped you decide what belonged on the screen and what belonged in your voice.

A map instead of a paragraph.

A timeline instead of three dates hidden in text.

A single image where you had written an entire explanatory block.

“Let them look at something,” she told you. “Then you tell them what it means.”

Tony leaned back in his chair. “Public speaking rule one: never make the audience do your job for you.”

You arched an eyebrow. “And how many speeches have you derailed in your life?”

“Professionally or emotionally?”

Pepper didn’t even blink. “Both lists are extensive.”

By the end of the afternoon, your presentation looked different.

Cleaner.

Sharper.

Yours, still – but easier to inhabit.

And when Pepper made you stand in the living room and run through the first seven minutes aloud, you expected your voice to shake.

It did, a little, at first.

Then you found the rhythm.

You knew this. You knew the argument. You knew the evidence, the gaps, the choices you had made. You knew why the work mattered. And once you remembered that, your shoulders lowered.

Tony stood near the doorway with his arms crossed, silent in a way that told you he was taking this seriously. No jokes. No interruptions. No theatrical commentary.

Just listening.

Pepper stopped you twice to adjust pacing.

“Slow down after the first major claim.”

You nodded.

“Pause there. Let that sentence land.”

You nodded again.

Tony tilted his head. “And look up more.”

You glanced at him. “I am looking up.”

“You’re checking that we still exist. That’s not the same thing.”

The observation landed too accurately.

Pepper’s expression softened, but she didn’t rescue you from it. “He’s right.”

You exhaled slowly.

Then you tried again.

This time, when you reached the first major transition, you lifted your eyes properly. Held the room. Let the silence exist instead of rushing to fill it.

Tony’s gaze warmed.

“There,” he said quietly. “That.”

You swallowed.

Pepper smiled. “Exactly.”

After that, the presentation stopped feeling like an obstacle and started feeling like something you could carry.

Not easily.

But honestly.

That night, Tony booked the hotel in New York.

He did it while you were sitting at the kitchen island, eating late because Maria had placed a plate in front of you with the expression of a woman who was not asking. Tony had his tablet propped beside his coffee, scrolling through options with increasing irritation.

“This one says ‘boutique’,” he muttered.

You looked over. “What’s wrong with boutique?”

“Boutique is what hotels call themselves when the elevator is haunted and the rooms are the size of a shoebox.”

“I live in New York,” you reminded him. “Everything is the size of a shoebox.”

“Exactly why I’m not sleeping in your apartment.”

You laughed softly. “I wasn’t going to ask you to.”

“I know,” he said, glancing at you. “But I’m preemptively refusing anyway.”

Maria looked up from her tea. “Antony.”

“What? Her apartment is tiny. She has one bedroom, too many books, and probably a kitchen where two people standing at the same time counts as a fire hazard.”

You tried not to smile. “That’s… not inaccurate.”

Tony pointed at you without looking away from the tablet. “See?”

Maria’s eyes softened over the rim of her cup. “He wants to be close enough to hover without admitting he is hovering.”

Tony made a wounded sound. “I am not hovering. I am logistically positioning myself.”

“For two weeks,” you said.

He looked up then, expression shifting into something quieter.

“Yeah,” he said. “Two weeks.”

The humor thinned, but it didn’t vanish. It just made room for the truth underneath.

He wanted time.

Not just the day of your defense. Not just the ceremony of showing up and being proud in the room.

He wanted New York with you.

The places you had lived. The streets you had walked. The bookstores, museums, coffee shops, campus buildings. The childhood corners that had shaped you before he knew you existed. He wanted to see your world not as a visitor passing through, but as someone trying to understand where you had been.

You had offered it tentatively at first.

“I could show you around,” you had said a few days earlier, voice careful. “Not tourist stuff. Just… my places.”

Tony had gone very still.

Then he had said, “I’d like that.”

And now he was booking a hotel not too far from your apartment, far enough not to crowd you, close enough that you could meet without crossing half the city.

A compromise.

A boundary respected before it even had to be named.

You watched him finalize the reservation, something tender and nervous folding itself under your ribs.

“Dad?”

He looked up immediately.

The word still did that to him. Even after a month. Even now that it came easier from your mouth, even now that you didn’t freeze every time you said it.

His face changed every time.

Not dramatically. Not embarrassingly.

Just enough.

Like a light turning on behind his eyes.

“Yeah?”

You pushed a piece of food around your plate, suddenly shy. “You don’t have to stay that long.”

Tony’s expression softened.

“I know,” he said.

“I mean it. The defense is one day. You could come for that and then–”

“I know,” he repeated.

You looked up.

He held your gaze, steady and warm.

“I’m not staying because I have to,” he said. “I’m staying because I want to.”

Your throat tightened.

Maria reached over and covered your hand briefly with hers.

Tony looked back down at the tablet, tapping the final confirmation with exaggerated casualness.

“There,” he announced. “Hotel acquired. No squatting in your tiny apartment. Everyone wins.”

You managed a small smile. “Thank you.”

He glanced at you again.

“You don’t have to thank me for wanting to be there.”

The sentence hit close enough that you had to look away.

You spent the next days organizing people.

That was its own kind of emotional minefield.

Your mother first, of course.

She already knew the date, had known the second you did, but there was a difference between knowing and planning. She wanted to know when to arrive, whether she should bring anything, whether there would be a reception afterward, whether you wanted dinner at home or somewhere quiet.

“Nothing big,” you said immediately.

“I know,” she replied gently.

“And not too many people.”

“I know.”

“And please don’t–”

“Sweetheart,” she interrupted, voice warm with restrained amusement. “I raised you. I know.”

You closed your eyes briefly, smiling despite yourself.

Wanda was next.

She answered your call with, “Tell me where and when, and I will be there looking devastatingly supportive.”

“You don’t even know what I’m asking yet.”

“You’re organizing your defense.” A pause. “Unless this is about hiding a body, in which case I am still available but need different shoes.”

You laughed properly, the sound loosening something in your chest.

When you gave her the date and time, she went quiet for half a second.

Then, softer, “I’m proud of you.”

You swallowed. “You already said that.”

“And I’ll say it again.” Her voice wavered just slightly. “You finished your thesis. You’re defending it. You’re going to stand in that room and be brilliant and probably terrifying, and I get to be there.”

Your eyes stung.

“You’re going to cry, aren’t you?” you asked.

“I’m going to look elegant and emotionally restrained.”

“Wanda.”

“I’m going to sob like a widow in a period drama.”

You smiled through the ache.

Pietro was easier and harder.

Easier because he already knew everything, because there were fewer gaps with him than with anyone else. Harder because he understood too much.

When you told him the schedule, he made a humming sound.

“I’ll clear the day.”

“You don’t have to cancel patients.”

“I said I’ll clear the day.”

“Pietro–”

“You finished a doctorate thesis after emotionally imploding, fleeing the state, finding your secret billionaire father, and rebuilding half your nervous system in Florida,” he said flatly. “I can move appointments.”

You blinked. “That was… a lot in one sentence.”

“It was a very efficient sentence.”

You pressed a hand over your eyes, laughing softly.

Then he asked, quieter, “Are you inviting him?”

You didn’t pretend not to understand.

Bucky.

His name still did something inside you.

Not the same thing it had done a month ago. Not the immediate collapse, not the sharp urge to retreat into silence. It still hurt. It still made old fear brush cold fingers along your spine.

But now there was something else too.

A door cracked open.

A line of messages. A few short calls. A birthday video call where his face had gone stunned and soft when he saw you. The way he had said you were beautiful like the words had slipped out before fear could stop them.

You had not forgiven him.

Not fully.

But you had started letting him exist near the edges of your life again.

“I think I want to,” you admitted.

Pietro was silent for a moment.

Then he said, “Okay.”

You frowned slightly. “Just okay?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know. Something protective and emotionally inconvenient.”

He huffed. “I can still do that.”

“Please don’t.”

His voice softened. “Do you want him there because you want him there, or because you feel guilty if he isn’t?”

You looked down at your hand, at the faint crescent marks your nails had left in your palm.

You thought about the room where you would defend your work. Your mother. Wanda. Pietro. Steve. Tony.

And Bucky.

Bucky, who had known since you were small that ruins mattered to you before you had language for why. Bucky, who had watched you become the person who wrote this thesis. Bucky, who had wounded you so deeply you had left your entire life behind for a while – and who had still been part of the road that led to this version of you.

You took a slow breath.

“Because I want him there,” you said. “And because if I don’t invite him, I think I’ll keep wondering what it would have felt like if I had.”

Pietro exhaled.

“Then invite him.”

You swallowed. “Are you okay with that?”

“It’s not about whether I’m okay with it.”

“Pietro.”

His tone gentled. “I’ll be okay. I can stand in the same room as him without committing a felony.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“I’m very mature now.”

“You punched him.”

“One time.”

You laughed under your breath, but your chest still felt tight.

Pietro’s voice softened further. “Invite him if you want him there. Just don’t make yourself responsible for how he feels about being invited.”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see it.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

You sighed. “I’m learning.”

“That’ll do.”

Steve was the one who made you pause the longest before calling.

Not because you didn’t want him there.

Because Steve would understand the significance before you fully explained it. He always did. And sometimes being understood too quickly made you feel exposed.

Still, when you called, he answered with warmth in his voice.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

The conversation was easy at first. Easier than it had been months ago. You told him the date of the defense, the time, the building, the room number. He repeated it back like he was writing it down immediately.

“I’ll be there,” he said.

You smiled faintly. “You didn’t check your calendar.”

“I’ll move whatever’s there.”

“Steve.”

“You’re defending your thesis,” he said, as if that settled it.

You looked down at your desk, at the open notebook where you’d written a list of names.

“Thank you.”

There was a brief silence.

Then Steve said, lightly, “Is your father coming?”

You froze for half a second.

Not because he said father.

Because the sentence reminded you how carefully divided your life still was.

“My dad,” you said softly. “Yeah. He’s coming.”

Steve was quiet.

You could almost hear him processing the correction – not father as abstract, not biological father as a concept, but dad. Someone real. Someone you had started to claim.

“That’s good,” Steve said gently. “I’m glad.”

You swallowed. “He’s staying for a couple of weeks. I’m going to show him things.”

“Your places?”

“Yeah.”

Steve’s voice warmed. “He’ll like that.”

You smiled a little. “You don’t even know him.”

“No,” Steve said. “But I know you.”

That landed softly.

Then, because Steve had become Steve again in a way that made your chest ache less, he added, “Sharon says congratulations, by the way.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “Sharon knows I exist?”

“She knows I have a friend finishing a doctorate and making everyone else look lazy.”

You laughed. “Is that how you described me?”

“It was implied.”

“And how is Sharon?”

There was a pause.

A very particular pause.

You sat up straighter, instantly interested. “Steve.”

“What?”

“That pause had a face.”

“It did not.”

“It absolutely did.”

Steve sighed.

“She’s driving me crazy,” he admitted.

You grinned slowly. “Oh?”

“She has opinions about everything.”

“How terrible.”

“And she reorganized part of the prep schedule for the exhibit because she said my system was ‘emotionally attached to inefficiency’.”

You had to cover your mouth to keep from laughing too loudly.

Steve continued, with the aggrieved tone of a man who had been personally attacked by competence, “She just walks in, decides something is wrong, fixes it, and then looks at me like I should thank her.”

“Did she fix it?”

“That is not the point.”

“It sounds like it might be the point.”

Steve was silent.

You smiled wider.

“Oh, Steve.”

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking loudly.”

“I just think it’s interesting,” you said, voice carefully innocent, “how much energy you’re spending complaining about a woman who is apparently competent, direct, and immune to your stubbornness.”

“She’s not immune.”

“Sure.”

“She’s irritating.”

“Of course.”

“And bossy.”

“Mhm.”

“And she has this way of looking at me like she’s already decided I’m wrong before I’ve even finished talking.”

You leaned back in your chair, delighted despite yourself. “Tragic.”

Steve exhaled through his nose. “You’re enjoying this.”

“A little.”

“You’re terrible.”

“I’m insightful.”

“You’re smug.”

“I’m right.”

There was a beat.

Then Steve laughed, soft and reluctant, and the sound warmed something in you.

You were still smiling when the conversation ended.

And then there was Bucky.

You didn’t call him immediately.

You looked at his thread for a long time instead.

Your conversations had become more frequent over the last month, but still careful. Small bridges rather than open roads. A few texts here and there. A call when you felt steady enough. The video call on his birthday that had left you shaky afterward, but not broken.

You knew the defense mattered.

You knew inviting him mattered more.

Because this was not a coffee. Not five minutes on the phone. Not a controlled exchange where you could stop answering and put the phone down if it became too much.

This would be a room.

A shared space.

His face among the others.

His presence attached to one of the most important days of your life.

You opened the text box.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

Then, before you could overthink yourself into paralysis, you typed.

My thesis defense is in a little under three weeks. I’m starting to organize who’ll be there. I’d like you to come, if you can. No pressure. I know it’s… a lot. But I wanted to ask.

You stared at the message until the words stopped looking like words.

Then you sent it.

The response didn’t come immediately.

That was good, you told yourself.

Good meant he was thinking. Good meant he wasn’t reacting on impulse. Good meant he was doing exactly what he’d been trying to learn.

Still, your stomach twisted.

You set the phone down.

Picked it up again.

Set it down.

Tony found you in the kitchen five minutes later, standing in front of the fridge without opening it.

He took one look at you. “You either sent an important text or forgot why you came in here.”

“Both might be true.”

His gaze sharpened slightly. “Bucky?”

You nodded.

“I invited him to the defense.”

Tony didn’t react the way some part of you had braced for. He didn’t tense. Didn’t scoff. Didn’t ask if you were sure in a tone that meant he thought you weren’t.

He just nodded once.

“How do you feel?”

You exhaled slowly. “Terrified.”

“That tracks.”

“And… okay.”

Tony leaned against the counter. “That tracks too.”

You looked at him. “You’re not going to say anything?”

“I’m saying things.”

“You know what I mean.”

His expression softened.

“I think,” Tony said carefully, “that if you want him there, then asking him is brave.” A pause. “And if he comes, he’d better understand what that invitation costs you.”

You swallowed.

“He will,” you said.

Tony’s eyes held yours.

“Good.”

Your phone buzzed on the counter.

You both looked at it.

Your chest tightened.

Tony didn’t move closer. Didn’t try to read. Didn’t ask.

He just stayed there, present but not intrusive, while you reached for the phone with fingers that were suddenly cold.

Bucky’s name lit the screen.

You opened the message.

I can come. I want to come. Thank you for asking me. I know that isn’t small. I’ll be there, and I’ll follow whatever boundaries you need. If you want me to sit far away, I will. If you don’t want to talk after, I won’t push. I’m proud of you. I’ve been proud of you for a long time. And I’m really honored that you want me there.

You read it once.

Then again.

Your throat tightened so quickly you had to press your lips together.

Tony watched your face, quiet.

You typed with hands that trembled only a little.

Thank you. I don’t know yet what I’ll need that day. But I want you in the room.

His reply came faster this time.

Then I’ll be in the room.

You stared at the words until your vision blurred.

Not forgiveness.

Not resolution.

But something.

A place held open.

A future, cautiously making room for all the people you had been before – and the person you were still becoming.

GENERAL taglist: @mellowfurynight | @castielscaplan | @whatisanniedoin | @barewithme02 | @mathcat345 | @overwintering-soldier | @alpinebarnesworld | @alwaysreenie | @iceyyycapsicle | @karlahan

BUCKY taglist: @greatenthusiasttidalwave | @highhopes1008 | @phoenix-in-writing | @mollyherondale | @sassandscribbles | @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog | @pattiemac1 | @buckysdecaflove | @fantasyfootballchampion | @sebbymybaby-21 | @theoryxwaller | @apenny4thots | @mishkatelwarriorgoddess | @allthingswickedpodcast | @vicmc624 | @strangerthing93 | @galaxygoddess30 | @peachiestevie | @evilplansandstuff | @nicobidd | @i-lie-here-charmed | @sebastians-love | @bennyyion

Comment here if you want to be added to a taglist.

[jai200700]

The build up is building 🥹🥹

[semper-nox]

The Space You Left (#20)

Series Summary: Some wounds don’t bleed. They just teach you how to disappear. Before being adopted, you learned early that love had rules: don’t ask, don’t need, don’t take up space. Bucky – your brother in everything but blood – was the only exception. Now you’re an adult, brilliant, controlled, almost untouchable… until one dinner shatters the fragile balance.

Wordcount: 7.4k

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader, mentions of past Steve Rogers x Female Reader (no use of Y/N), Bucky Barnes x Natasha Romanoff

Warnings: childhood trauma, adoption trauma, abandonment issues, orphanage abuse, corporal punishment mentioned, religious trauma-adjacent themes, emotional self-hatred, shame, suicidal ideation / one moment of passive suicidal thought, complicated family dynamics, raised-as-siblings but not blood-related romantic tension, implied non-explicit underage intimacy in the past, emotional aftermath of sex, verbal cruelty, heartbreak, therapy, healing, reconciliation. See the whole exhaustive list on the masterlist post.

A/N: Gentle reminder that this series is heavy on trauma so I beg you to read the whole list of warning on the masterpost. I won't tolerate any complaints about not being warned of something. Beta read by Cassie (@blobfishlol ) as always.

Masterlist - Series Masterlist - Prev- Next

The first thing you saw when you woke was Pietro’s message.

Your room was still dim, the curtains filtering the Miami morning into something soft and gold around the edges. For a moment, you lay still under the sheet, not fully awake yet, your mind hovering in that strange borderland between sleep and consciousness where the world had not quite returned to its full weight.

Then your phone buzzed once on the nightstand.

Not the old phone.

The new one.

The one that no longer felt entirely new anymore.

You reached for it, blinking against the brightness of the screen, and saw Pietro’s name.

Happy birthday, tiny menace. Before you say anything: yes, I remembered. No, I did not need a calendar reminder. Yes, Wanda needed three reminders because she is chaos in eyeliner. I love you. I’m proud of you. I hope today is gentle.

You stared at the message for a long second.

Then, despite the sleep still clinging to you, you smiled.

Tiny menace.

You could hear his voice in the words. Dry, affectionate, pretending not to be emotional and failing just enough that you could see straight through him.

Your birthday had never been uncomplicated.

Not in the dramatic way people expected when they heard that no one knew the exact date. It was not something you thought about every day. It did not haunt you the way other things had. But it had always existed in the background like a small, quiet question mark.

No birth certificate with certainty. No story of the day you arrived. No mother saying, I remember the first time I held you. No father talking about pacing a hospital hallway.

Just a date chosen later.

A date your mother had taken and made yours with stubborn, deliberate love.

The day she decided to celebrate because a child deserved candles, even if the world had failed to write down the right morning.

You rolled onto your back, phone resting against your chest.

Another vibration came before you could answer Pietro.

Wanda.

Of course Wanda’s message was longer.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY. I am not yelling. I am expressing correct emotional volume. I hope you know I am making your soup today even though you are not here to complain about the salt level, because traditions matter and because I miss you and because I refuse to let geography defeat me. I love you so much. I hope this year gives you softness. I hope it gives you doors that open without hurting you. I hope it gives you the kind of happiness you don’t have to explain or justify. Also Pietro is a liar. I did not need three reminders. I needed two. Text me when you wake up. Or don’t. But know I’m hugging you aggressively in spirit.

Your smile trembled a little at the edges.

There it was again.

That strange, aching proof that you had not vanished from people’s lives just because you had stepped away from them.

You typed Pietro back first.

Thank you. I love you too. And I’m older now, so legally I think you have to stop calling me tiny.

His reply came almost instantly.

No.

You huffed a laugh, soft and sleep-rough.

Then you answered Wanda.

Thank you. I love you. Please don’t over-salt the soup out of rebellion.

Her response came in three separate bursts.

No promises. Also you’re loved. Deal with it.

You pressed the phone lightly to your chest again, closing your eyes for a second.

A month ago, you would not have known what to do with that much affection. It would have felt like standing under bright light with nowhere to hide.

Now, it still overwhelmed you.

But it did not make you want to run.

That was something.

The next vibration was not a text.

A call.

Your mother.

Your throat tightened immediately, but not with dread. Not anymore.

You answered before it could ring a second time.

“Hi,” you said softly.

“Oh, sweetheart,” your mother breathed.

And there it was – the same tenderness she had carried for you since you were four years old and sitting in a chair too big for your body, hands folded in your lap, not understanding yet that this woman would become the first real shelter you ever knew.

“Happy birthday,” she said.

Your eyes stung.

“Thank you.”

There was a small pause, the kind filled with everything she did not say because she had learned to love you without cornering you.

Then, with a smile in her voice, she added, “I know you are going to tell me no one is sure it’s the right day.”

Your mouth curved faintly. “No one is sure it’s the right day.”

“And I am going to tell you what I tell you every year.”

You looked toward the pale light at the edge of the curtains.

“That it’s the day I became yours,” you murmured.

Her breath caught.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Exactly.”

You closed your eyes.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then your mother sniffled softly and said, “I was trying not to cry this early.”

“You called me,” you pointed out gently.

“I know. That was my mistake.”

A quiet laugh escaped you, and she laughed too, wet and warm and familiar.

She asked how you had slept. You told her the truth – well enough. She asked if Tony had anything planned, and you froze for half a second because that was when you realized.

Tony did not know.

Your father did not know.

The thought landed with a strange, embarrassed little jolt.

Not because you had hidden it on purpose.

Because somehow, in the middle of thesis work and defense preparation and slowly learning what it meant to have a father, the date had arrived without you thinking to tell him.

“I don’t think I mentioned it,” you admitted.

Your mother went quiet for one beat.

Then, very gently, “You should.”

Your fingers tightened around the phone.

“I know.”

“He’ll want to know.”

“I know,” you repeated, softer this time.

And you did.

That was the terrifying part.

Tony would want to know.

Not because he had to. Not because he was trying to make up for lost time in some loud, overwhelming way.

Because he cared.

Because for the past month, every time you had called him Dad, something in his face had softened like the word still hit him in the chest. He never made a spectacle of it. Never asked you to repeat it. Never drew attention to it in a way that would make you retreat.

But he heard it.

Every time.

And every time, he looked like he was trying to hold something precious without gripping too tightly.

Your mother stayed on the phone with you for a few more minutes, long enough to tell you she loved you, long enough to make you promise you would eat something decent, long enough to remind you – twice – that your birthday did not have to be perfect to matter.

When you hung up, the room felt quieter.

You sat up slowly and pushed your hair away from your face.

For a few minutes, you just sat there, phone in your lap, breathing through the strange tenderness of the morning.

Then you got dressed.

Not formally. Not like you were trying to perform celebration. Just comfortably – soft trousers, a shirt that did not make you feel exposed, your hair clipped back loosely. The little beaded bracelet from the plane still sat on your wrist, ridiculous and bright. You had not taken it off except to shower.

The house was awake when you stepped into the hallway.

You could smell coffee first.

Then toast.

Then the faint, clean scent of Maria’s flowers from the entryway.

You followed the sounds toward the kitchen and found Tony exactly where you had started finding him most mornings: leaning against the counter with a mug in one hand, tablet in the other, wearing the expression of a man pretending he was not already thinking about twelve separate problems.

He looked up the second you entered.

“Morning,” he said.

“Morning.”

His eyes moved over your face with that quick, careful assessment he never quite turned off. Not invasive. Not clinical. Just fatherly in the way you were still learning to recognize.

“You sleep?”

“Mostly.”

“That is an answer,” he said, pointing vaguely with his mug, “but not a good one.”

You stepped further into the kitchen, your fingers curling briefly around the edge of the counter.

He had finished reading your thesis a few days ago.

Not skimming it. Reading it.

Actually reading it.

He had taken notes. Tony Stark had sat with your archaeology thesis and left comments in the margins that ranged from brilliant, painfully precise questions to little exasperated remarks like this sentence is doing push-ups to look stronger than it is. You had pretended to be offended. You had secretly saved every annotated page like evidence of something too tender to name.

He had told you, with unusual seriousness, that your argument held.

That your work was yours.

That you were ready to defend it.

Since then, there had been a lightness under the exhaustion. The thesis was finished. Not done in the cosmic sense – there was still the defense, still the committee, still the strange ritual of standing in a room and proving you understood what you had spent years building – but the writing was complete.

You had reached the end of the thing.

Now there was only the presentation.

Only.

Tony narrowed his eyes slightly. “You’re doing the thing.”

“What thing?”

“The thing where you look like you’re about to say something and apologize for it before you even start.”

You blinked.

Then let out a breath that was almost a laugh.

“I realized something this morning.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It’s not.” You paused, then corrected yourself. “I don’t think it is.”

Tony set his tablet down immediately.

That alone nearly undid you – the speed of it. The way his attention shifted fully to you like nothing else in the world deserved space until he knew what you needed.

You swallowed.

“It’s my birthday,” you said quietly.

Tony went still.

Not dramatically. Not in shock so much as in sudden, complete attention.

“What?”

You rubbed your thumb lightly over the inside of your wrist, over the beads.

“My birthday,” you repeated. “Sort of.”

His expression changed, softening and tightening all at once. “Sort of?”

“No one’s sure of the actual date,” you explained, voice careful. “Because of the records. Or lack of them. But this is the day my mom chose. The day she and everyone else kept celebrating.”

Tony stared at you.

For a second, he looked like he was doing math again. Dates. Years. Missed mornings. Lost candles. All the birthdays that had happened without him knowing there was someone in the world he should have been calling.

You saw the grief before he could hide it.

“Hey,” you said quickly, instinctive. “It’s okay.”

His eyes snapped back to yours.

“No,” he said, but not harshly. “No, don’t do that.”

You froze.

His voice softened immediately.

“Don’t make it easier for me because I’m sad about what I missed,” he said. “That’s mine to carry. Not yours.”

Your throat tightened.

“Oh.”

Tony exhaled and dragged one hand lightly over his mouth, then set his mug down too.

“Okay,” he said, like he was reorienting himself around the new fact. “Birthday. Your birthday. Today.”

You nodded once.

His eyes searched your face, gentler now.

“What do you want to do?” he asked. “And before you answer with something practical, I am warning you, I will be personally offended if your first instinct is to say work.”

Your mouth twitched despite yourself.

“I wasn’t going to say work.”

“Good. Growth. We love to see it.”

You looked down for a second, suddenly shy in a way that made no sense and every sense at once.

“I don’t need anything big,” you said. “I don’t really know how to… do birthdays.”

Tony said nothing.

He just waited.

You took a breath.

“Can we spend the day together Dad?”

The question came out smaller than you wanted.

Tony’s face changed.

It was not the first time you had called him Dad. That had been happening for a month now, naturally and carefully and with less panic each time. But this seemed to strike him differently.

Maybe because you were not asking for something useful.

Not thesis feedback. Not logistical help. Not advice.

Just time.

His eyes went bright for half a second before he blinked it back.

“Yeah,” he said, voice a little rough. Then stronger, “Yeah, of course we can.”

You let out a breath you had not realized you were holding.

He pointed toward the hallway with a small grimace. “Tiny caveat.”

You lifted a brow.

“I do have to stop by headquarters for maybe twenty minutes. Documents. Actual physical documents, because apparently some people enjoy living in the eighteenth century.”

You smiled faintly.

“But after that,” he said, picking up his mug again and then immediately putting it down as if coffee had become irrelevant, “I’m all yours.”

The words landed warm.

All yours.

You nodded.

“Okay.”

Tony leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “And by all yours, I mean I am prepared to be dragged through museums, bookstores, obscure historical sites, or whatever else makes your little academic heart beat faster.”

“My academic heart?”

“It’s very intense. I respect it.”

You laughed then.

A real laugh.

Tony’s expression softened with quiet triumph, like making you laugh on your birthday had already made the day worth something.

The visit to headquarters took longer than twenty minutes.

Tony blamed everyone except himself.

“You see,” he muttered as the private elevator rose, “this is how they get you. They say document, singular. Then suddenly there are folders. Then signatures. Then Pepper materializes with that look.”

“What look?”

“The look that says I have personally disappointed the concept of competence.”

You smiled and stepped a little closer to his side as the elevator chimed.

The building itself should have made you nervous.

Glass, steel, security. The kind of sleek corporate space that announced power without needing to raise its voice. But Tony moved through it with such effortless belonging that you found yourself more curious than afraid.

No one stared openly.

Or if they did, they were smart enough not to make it obvious.

Tony had introduced you only where necessary, with a careful vagueness you appreciated immediately.

“This is my daughter,” he said once, to an older executive who had clearly been about to ask the wrong question and lost all ability to speak for half a second.

Your heart had tripped over itself.

My daughter.

Not my guest. Not a friend. Not a complicated explanation.

My daughter.

And somehow, he said it like it had always been true.

You kept your face composed because you were very good at that.

But Tony glanced at you afterward, caught the slight shine in your eyes, and did not comment.

He simply rested one hand briefly against your upper back as he guided you down the hallway – not pushing, not claiming, just there.

The documents were waiting in his office.

Which, to your surprise, looked less like a monument to wealth and more like the inside of his mind had exploded into furniture.

There were clean architectural lines, yes, and expensive surfaces, and windows that made the city look unreal beneath you. But there were also scattered prototypes, half-open files, a mug with three pens in it instead of coffee, and a small stack of books on a side table that looked suspiciously like the ones you had mentioned two weeks ago.

You touched the spine of one.

Tony noticed.

“I was curious,” he said defensively.

“You bought four books on material culture because I mentioned one article.”

“I said I was curious.”

“You bought a monograph on ceramic typology.”

“Extreme curiosity.”

You laughed again, and the sound filled the office in a way that made the space feel less impossible.

He signed what he needed to sign. Muttered threats at a contract clause. Took one call that lasted exactly ninety seconds because he said, “It’s my daughter’s birthday,” and then hung up before the person on the other end could fully respond.

You stared at him.

He looked back, utterly unrepentant.

“What?”

“You just hung up on them.”

“I gave them context first.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“It does for me.”

By the time you left the building, the sun had shifted higher and the air outside had turned bright and warm.

You stepped onto the sidewalk beside him, still holding the slim folder he had insisted on carrying until you threatened to hide it somewhere “archaeologically inconvenient.”

Tony paused near the entrance and looked down at you.

There was a softness in his face now, quieter than the teasing, deeper than the jokes.

Then he lifted one arm and wrapped it around your shoulders.

Not suddenly.

Not without giving you time to move away.

You did not.

You let yourself be tucked against his side.

The gesture was easy and public and fatherly in a way that made something ache under your ribs.

“Lunch?” he asked.

You leaned into him by a fraction.

“Lunch.”

He smiled.

“Excellent. I know a place.”

“Of course you do.”

“I know many places. It’s one of my more marketable qualities.”

You walked like that down the sidewalk, his arm around your shoulders, your steps matching his.

No cameras this time. No speculative article. No strange strangers trying to turn your life into a headline.

Or maybe there were.

Maybe there always would be.

But Tony had promised he was handling it. That he would keep you out of the center of the storm as much as he could. That if anyone tried to make you into a story before you were ready to tell your own, they would regret it legally, financially, and creatively.

You had believed him.

Today, with his arm warm and steady around you, you believed him even more.

Lunch was quiet and perfect because it did not try too hard.

No candles. No staff singing. No public spectacle.

Just a table near the back, good food, Tony asking questions about places you wanted to see in Athens as if October were not months away but already a fact waiting for you.

“You know,” he said around the time dessert arrived, “I have been informed that birthday cake is traditional.”

“I don’t need cake.”

“That was not what I asked.”

“You didn’t ask anything.”

“Exactly. I made a statement. Very different.”

You rolled your eyes, but when the dessert came – not a full cake, just something small, chocolate and elegant with one candle placed in the center – your throat closed.

Tony did not make a speech.

He just lit the candle, slid the plate gently toward you, and said, “Make a wish.”

For a second, you stared at the flame.

You had spent so much of your life wishing for things in secret.

To be kept. To be chosen. To be safe. To be forgiven for wanting. To understand where you came from. To survive the people you loved.

Now, sitting across from your father on a birthday whose date might not be exact but whose tenderness was real, you realized you did not know how to wish the way you used to.

Your life had not become easy.

But it had become yours in a new way.

So you closed your eyes and wished for courage.

Not happiness. Not certainty.

Courage.

Then you blew out the candle.

Tony watched you with shining eyes and pretended not to.

Later, back at the villa, your phone buzzed while you were sitting outside with your shoes kicked off and your legs tucked under you.

Steve.

You had not expected the message to make your chest tighten so quickly, but it did – not painfully. Just with the weight of old affection.

Happy birthday. I hope today has been kind to you. You deserve that. Also, small life update because I think you’d appreciate the timing: I have a new colleague at the Met. Her name is Sharon. She started this week. She has very strong opinions about exhibition lighting, so naturally I thought of you.

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

Sharon.

You pictured Steve, earnest and patient, standing in some museum corridor while a woman with strong opinions explained exactly why the lighting was wrong. You could practically hear the dry amusement in his voice.

The thought did not hurt.

That surprised you.

It was strange, realizing that pieces of people’s lives could continue shifting while you were away. Steve had a new colleague. Wanda had soup on a stove in New York. Pietro had probably overbooked himself again and would deny it if asked. Your mother was at home, loving you across distance. Bucky was somewhere in the city too – but you did not open that door in your mind. Not today.

Today, you let Steve’s message exist as its own thing.

Gentle.

Friendly.

Safe.

You typed back slowly.

Thank you. Today was kind. And I absolutely do appreciate strong opinions about exhibition lighting. Please tell Sharon she’s probably right.

A minute later, his reply came.

That is exactly what I was afraid you’d say.

You laughed softly.

Tony stepped out onto the terrace then, two glasses of water in hand. He paused when he saw your face.

“Good message?” he asked.

You looked down at the phone, then back at him.

“Yeah,” you said. “Steve.”

Tony nodded. He knew the name. Knew enough of the shape of it. Enough not to press.

“He said happy birthday.”

“Good,” Tony said simply. “People should.”

You accepted the glass he handed you.

For a while, the two of you sat without talking, the evening settling blue and warm around the villa. The day had been quieter than birthdays were supposed to be, maybe. Smaller. Less decorated. Less certain.

But it had been full.

Pietro’s teasing. Wanda’s fierce love. Your mother’s voice. Tony’s arm around your shoulders. A candle. A wish. Steve’s message arriving like a small bridge from the life you had not returned to yet.

You turned the glass slowly in your hands.

“Dad?” you said.

Tony looked at you immediately.

“Yeah?”

You leaned back in your chair, eyes on the darkening sky.

“Thank you for today.”

His expression softened.

“Anytime,” he said.

And because he knew you now – because he had spent the past month learning the shape of your silences – he did not add too much.

He did not say all the birthdays I missed. He did not say I’ll make it up to you. He did not turn the day into grief.

He just sat beside you while the night came down, letting the quiet hold.

And for once, your birthday did not feel like a question mark.

It felt like an answer you were still learning how to believe.

Bucky had spent the morning staring at his phone.

Not continuously.

That would have sounded worse than it was.

He had gotten up. Showered. Made coffee too strong because he still couldn’t be trusted with moderation before seven. He had gone to work. He had answered emails, reviewed two technical reports, sat through a meeting where someone from another department used the phrase “synergy pipeline” three times without apparently feeling shame.

He had functioned.

But every few minutes, his awareness circled back to the device lying face-up beside his keyboard.

Your birthday.

Or the day everyone called your birthday, because nobody had ever known for certain. Because the people who should have written down the first facts of your life had failed you before you were old enough to understand what failure meant. Because your mother had chosen a day and held onto it with both hands until it became real through repetition and cake and candles and Wanda making too much noise in the kitchen.

Bucky remembered so many of them.

Your sixth birthday, when you had sat on the couch with a paper plate balanced carefully in both hands, looking overwhelmed by the number of people in the room but unwilling to admit it.

Your eleventh, when Pietro had managed to get frosting on the ceiling and never convincingly explained how.

Your fifteenth, when Steve had looked at you like he had just realized the world had changed shape, and Bucky had spent the whole evening pretending not to hate him for it.

Your sixteenth, when everyone had been trying too hard to make leaving for college sound exciting and not terrifying.

Your birthdays had always made you quieter.

Not unhappy. Just careful.

Like being celebrated was something you wanted and feared in equal measure.

That was what kept his thumb hovering over the text box now.

He had written the message six times already.

Happy birthday.

Too plain.

Happy birthday. I hope today is good to you.

Too distant.

Happy birthday. I’m thinking of you.

Too much.

Happy birthday. I love you.

Absolutely not. Not today. Not like that. Not when he knew how easily his wanting could turn into pressure if he wasn’t careful.

He locked the screen and set the phone down again.

Then picked it up thirty seconds later.

For the past month, you had been writing to him more often.

Not like before.

Nothing about it was like before.

Before, messages between you had lived in shorthand – complaints, jokes, pictures of stupid things you saw in the city, half-formed thoughts you trusted him to understand without explanation. Before, he could send you a photo of burnt toast and you’d answer with, Tragic. Funeral at noon? Before, he could text you late at night and know you’d answer if you were awake, because your life and his had always overlapped without needing permission.

Now, every message felt like stepping carefully across a frozen lake.

There was warmth, yes. Sometimes even humor. Small pieces of it.

You had told him about Athens. About the one-year position. About October. About how the opportunity connected to your work and to the future you had wanted since the day archaeology had first become more than an idea in your head.

He had told you he was proud.

He had meant it so much it hurt.

You had told him your thesis was finished – really finished, no longer something being dragged toward completion, only waiting to be defended. He had read the sentence three times, smiling at his phone like an idiot in the middle of his apartment because even through everything, some part of him still got to witness your victories.

He had told you about therapy once, carefully, without making it your responsibility. Since then, he had mentioned it only when it came up naturally. Not as proof. Not as currency. Just as fact.

I had an appointment today.

It was difficult.

I think I’m starting to understand some things I didn’t want to understand.

You had never asked him for details.

But you hadn’t pulled away either.

That alone still felt like more grace than he deserved.

And that was exactly why he didn’t want to push today.

Your birthday wasn’t the day for him to insert himself into your life just because the calendar gave him an excuse.

You had said he could write.

But permission was not the same thing as entitlement.

That was one of the things therapy had made painfully clear.

He was learning – slowly, clumsily, not without resistance – that wanting to reach for you did not mean reaching was always right. That missing you did not make his need urgent. That love, if it was love and not fear wearing love’s clothes, sometimes meant keeping his hands to himself.

Even digitally.

Even when every instinct in him screamed.

His therapist had asked him, two sessions ago, what he imagined would happen if he did not act on the impulse immediately.

Bucky had stared at her like the question was ridiculous.

Then he had realized he didn’t know.

Or rather – he did.

Nothing.

Nothing happened.

The feeling rose. Crested. Hurt like hell.

And then, eventually, it passed enough that he could choose.

That was new.

Not pleasant.

But new.

He sat in his car after work with the engine off and the phone in his hand.

Rain tapped lightly against the windshield, turning the streetlights into blurred gold streaks. New York looked tired today. Wet pavement, rushing strangers, taxis cutting too close to the curb. The kind of evening where everyone wanted to get home faster than the city allowed.

Bucky opened your thread again.

The last message was from three days ago.

You had sent him a photo of a stack of printed thesis pages – no face, no context beyond the caption.

It exists in physical form. Horrifying.

He had answered.

That stack looks like it could stop a bullet.

You had replied.

Good. Academic armor.

He had laughed out loud when he read it.

Actually laughed.

Then spent the next ten minutes sitting with the strange ache of missing you and not being destroyed by it.

Now, the text box blinked at him.

He typed.

Happy birthday. I hope today has been gentle with you.

He stared at it.

Gentle was good.

Gentle didn’t demand.

Gentle didn’t say I miss you even though he did. Didn’t say I love you even though he did. Didn’t say please think of me today even though some ruined, selfish part of him wanted exactly that.

He nearly sent it.

Then he imagined your phone lighting up while you were with your mother, or Pietro, or whoever you had chosen to let close today. He imagined your chest tightening because his name appeared when you weren’t ready for it. He imagined ruining even five seconds of a day that had never been simple for you.

He deleted the message.

“Okay,” he muttered to himself, voice rough in the small quiet of the car. “Not about you.”

He set the phone on the passenger seat.

A second later, it rang.

Bucky’s whole body jolted.

He looked down automatically, expecting Steve or Wanda or his mother.

Your name filled the screen.

For half a second, his brain refused to process it.

Then his hand shot out so fast he almost knocked the phone off the seat. He fumbled it, caught it against his thigh, cursed under his breath, and swiped to answer before he could lose the call.

“Hello?”

His voice came out too sharp. Too breathless.

There was a pause.

Not silence exactly.

Your breathing.

Soft. Uneven.

Then, very quietly, you said, “Hi.”

Bucky closed his eyes.

The sound of your voice hit him in the chest with such force that for a second he couldn’t answer. He had read your words for a month. Held onto them. Replayed them. Let them be enough because they had to be.

But your voice…

God.

Your voice was real in a way text could never be.

It crossed distance without asking permission and found every bruised place in him.

“Hi,” he managed.

Another pause.

Awkward. Fragile.

Both of you standing on opposite sides of something neither of you knew how to cross yet.

Bucky forced himself to breathe slowly. To not fill the silence because he was scared of it. To not flood you with questions.

Then he remembered.

His throat tightened.

“Happy birthday,” he said softly.

You let out a small breath.

Not quite a laugh.

Not quite a sob.

“Thank you.”

He stared at the rain-streaked windshield, one hand gripping the phone so tightly his fingers ached.

“I was going to text,” he admitted before he could overthink it. “I just… wasn’t sure if I should.”

“I know.”

His heart stumbled.

Of course you knew.

You always knew more than he expected.

“I didn’t want to impose,” he said.

“I know,” you repeated, softer this time. Then, after a small pause, “That’s why I called.”

Bucky went still.

The rain filled the silence between your words.

He swallowed. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Your voice was careful. Delicate, almost. Like you were admitting something to yourself as much as to him. “I wanted… I wanted to hear your voice today.”

Bucky pressed his free hand hard against his mouth.

For one terrifying second, he thought he might make a sound he couldn’t recover from.

He blinked fast, staring at the distorted lights beyond the glass.

“Okay,” he whispered.

It was the only word he trusted himself with.

You breathed out again, and this time there was the faintest hint of embarrassed humor in it.

“This is awkward.”

Bucky’s laugh surprised him.

Small. Broken at the edges.

But real.

“Yeah,” he said. “A little.”

“A lot.”

“Yeah,” he corrected, because lying felt useless. “A lot.”

The silence that followed was different.

Not easy.

But less sharp.

He could almost picture you wherever you were – not your exact surroundings, because he still did not know and did not ask, but the shape of you. Phone near your ear. Shoulders probably a little tense. Mouth pressed together between sentences. Braver than you thought you were.

“How was your day?” he asked finally.

It felt like too ordinary a question for everything sitting between you.

But maybe ordinary was the only way to begin.

“It was good,” you said.

Bucky’s chest loosened by a fraction.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Quiet. Not… not bad quiet. Just quiet.” A pause. “My mom called this morning. Pietro texted before I was even fully awake. Wanda sent something very Wanda.”

Bucky smiled faintly. “So, dramatic?”

“Emotionally excessive.”

“That tracks.”

You hummed softly. “Steve texted too.”

Something twisted in him, but not the way it used to.

It hurt, yes.

But there was no flare of possessive panic.

No old instinct to measure himself against Steve.

Just a quieter ache, threaded with gratitude, because Steve loved you well. Because Steve had always loved you well, even when Bucky had resented him for it.

“That’s good,” Bucky said, and meant it.

“He told me about a new colleague.”

“Oh?”

“Sharon.”

Bucky blinked.

Then, despite himself, he huffed a laugh. “Steve told you about a woman named Sharon on your birthday?”

Your own laugh came through the line, soft and startled, and Bucky nearly came apart at the sound.

“It wasn’t like that,” you said, but there was warmth in your voice now. “He was telling me about work.”

“Sure.”

“He was.”

“Absolutely.”

“Bucky.”

Hearing you say his name like that – exasperated, almost familiar – made his eyes sting all over again.

He looked down at his lap and smiled helplessly.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “Couldn’t help it.”

“I noticed.”

For a few seconds, it almost felt like before.

Not completely.

Never completely.

But close enough to hurt.

Then the silence returned, gentler but heavier.

Bucky knew better than to chase the laugh. He knew better than to push the door wider just because it had opened a crack.

So he asked carefully, “How are you feeling? With the thesis being done, I mean.”

There.

Safe topic.

A known topic.

Something you had already told him, not something he was discovering or demanding.

You seemed to appreciate that, because your voice steadied.

“Strange,” you admitted. “I keep thinking I forgot something. Like there must be another chapter hiding somewhere.”

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “Knowing you, there probably is. In a drawer. Fully cited.”

“That’s rude.”

“That’s accurate.”

“It’s finished,” you said, and he could hear the quiet pride underneath. “Now I just have to defend it.”

“Just,” he repeated.

You sighed. “Yes. I know.”

“You’re going to destroy them.”

“That’s the hope.”

“No,” Bucky said, the certainty rising before he could stop it. “That’s the fact.”

You went quiet.

For a moment, he worried he had said too much. That the confidence had landed wrong. That maybe his certainty felt like pressure.

Then you said, very softly, “Thank you.”

Bucky’s throat tightened.

“You earned it,” he said. “All of it.”

Another silence.

This one carried more.

Athens, maybe. Your future. The thought of you leaving in October. The thing he had deliberately not mentioned because he refused to make your dream about his fear.

You brought it up first.

“I’ve been looking at apartments in Athens,” you said.

Bucky closed his eyes briefly.

There it was.

The tiny blade under the ribs.

But he breathed through it.

“That’s good,” he said, and was proud of how steady his voice sounded. “Have you found anything?”

“Not really. Mostly listings that look either too expensive or haunted.”

“Haunted by academics?”

“Probably worse.”

“Tourists?”

You made a small sound of amusement. “Exactly.”

He smiled at the windshield, even while his chest ached.

“October gives you time,” he said.

“It does.”

“You’re going to love it there.”

You were quiet for a beat. “You think so?”

Bucky’s answer came without hesitation.

“Yes.”

He let the word settle, then added, because this was something he could give you without making it about him, “You’ve wanted Europe since you were a kid. Since you first realized ruins were… I don’t know. Not dead things to you.”

“They’re not dead things.”

“I know,” he said softly. “That’s why you’re going to love it.”

Your breathing changed slightly on the other end.

He wondered if you were smiling.

He hoped you were.

“I’m scared,” you admitted.

Bucky’s chest tightened.

Not because he wanted to fix it.

Because he wanted, more than anything, to be worthy of hearing the truth in your voice.

“Yeah,” he said. “Makes sense.”

A pause.

Then, “That’s it?”

“What?”

“No big motivational speech?”

Bucky huffed a quiet laugh, then shook his head even though you couldn’t see him.

“I’m learning restraint.”

That earned him another soft laugh.

God, he could live on that sound.

“I’m scared too,” he said after a moment, before he could decide it was too honest.

You went still through the line.

He felt it.

Bucky swallowed.

“Not about you going,” he clarified quickly, because that mattered. “I mean– no, that’s not true. A part of me is scared about that. But that’s not yours to carry.” His thumb pressed against the edge of the phone. “Mostly I’m scared because I know how much it matters. And I want it to be good for you.”

Your voice was very quiet when you answered.

“That’s… a good answer.”

He almost laughed, but it got stuck.

“I’m trying to have more of those.”

“I can tell.”

The words landed gently.

Not forgiveness.

Not absolution.

But recognition.

Bucky stared out at the rain and let himself feel the full weight of it.

You could tell.

You could tell he was trying.

For the first time in months, the effort did not feel invisible.

The line crackled faintly.

Then you said, hesitant again, “How are you?”

Bucky’s fingers tightened around the phone.

No automatic fine.

Not with you.

Not anymore.

“I’m…” He breathed in slowly. “I’m not great.”

“Okay.”

“But I’m better than I was,” he continued. “I think.”

“Therapy?”

“Yeah.” He leaned his head back against the seat. “Still going.”

“Good.”

The word was small.

But it mattered.

“I didn’t think it would…” He stopped, searching for the cleanest truth. “I didn’t think it would make sense to me. Sitting there. Talking to a stranger.”

“And does it?”

“Sometimes.” His mouth twisted. “Sometimes I hate it.”

“That sounds about right.”

“She asks annoying questions.”

“That is generally the job.”

“She makes me answer them.”

“That is also generally the job.”

Bucky smiled faintly. “You sound like Pietro.”

“Don’t insult me on my birthday.”

His laugh came easier this time.

Then faded.

He hesitated, thumb brushing along the side of the phone.

“There’s stuff I’m starting to understand,” he said carefully. “Not stuff that makes what I did better. It doesn’t. But… stuff about why I panic when I feel like I’m losing someone. Why I turn it into anger. Why I’d rather make a mess than admit I’m scared.”

You didn’t say anything.

But you stayed.

That was enough for him to keep going.

“I’m not telling you so you’ll comfort me,” he added. “I just… you asked how I was.”

“I know.”

“I’m trying not to make my fear somebody else’s problem.”

A pause.

Then, softly, “That’s good, Buck.”

Buck.

Not Bucky.

Not James.

Buck.

His eyes burned.

He pressed them shut.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I hope so.”

The silence grew again, but neither of you rushed to fill it.

For the first time, Bucky let himself sit inside it without clawing at the walls.

Then you said, almost shyly, “I’m glad I called.”

His heart twisted so hard it almost hurt.

“Me too,” he said.

“I didn’t know if I should.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I know the feeling.”

You breathed out, and he heard the faintest movement – maybe fabric, maybe you shifting where you sat.

“I don’t know what this means,” you said.

Bucky’s answer came immediately, quiet but steady.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything yet.”

The words surprised him.

Maybe they surprised you too, because you went very still.

He swallowed, then continued. “It can just be a call. On your birthday. Because you wanted to hear my voice.” His own voice roughened. “That’s enough.”

The silence on the other end trembled.

When you spoke again, your voice was thinner.

“Thank you.”

Bucky nodded, even though you couldn’t see.

He looked at the rain, at the blurred world outside his windshield, at the city that kept moving no matter what broke inside people.

Then he knew.

Not because the timing was perfect.

Not because it would fix anything.

Not because he expected you to say it back.

But because he had written the words. Texted them. Confessed them to other people. Let them live in every space except the one that mattered most.

He had never said them to you out loud.

Not once.

Not directly.

His breath caught.

“Can I say something?” he asked.

You inhaled softly.

“Okay.”

He closed his eyes.

No performance.

No plea.

No demand.

Just truth.

“I love you,” Bucky said.

The words came out low. Steady. Bare.

Like something placed carefully between you, not pushed into your hands.

“I know I’ve written it,” he continued, because now that he had started, the rest had to follow. “And I know saying it doesn’t change what happened. It doesn’t ask anything from you. It doesn’t mean you have to say it back.” His voice cracked despite him. “I just needed you to hear it from me. Once. The right way.”

For several seconds, there was no sound but rain.

Bucky didn’t move.

He barely breathed.

Then your voice came through, fragile and full of something he couldn’t name.

“I heard you.”

His eyes opened.

A tear slipped down his face before he could stop it.

He wiped it away quickly, uselessly.

“Okay,” he whispered.

Another pause.

Then, quieter still, you said, “I love you too.”

Bucky bowed forward, phone pressed hard to his ear, one hand covering his mouth as the words hit him.

They didn’t feel like victory.

They didn’t feel like forgiveness.

They felt like grace and grief intertwined so tightly he couldn’t separate them.

They felt like being handed something breakable and being trusted, somehow, not to crush it again.

“I know,” he managed, voice wrecked. “I know.”

“You don’t,” you said, not sharply. Sadly.

Bucky swallowed hard.

“No,” he admitted. “Maybe I don’t.”

“But I do,” you whispered. “Even with everything.”

He closed his eyes again.

“Even with everything,” he repeated.

You were both quiet after that.

Not because there was nothing left to say.

Because there was too much.

Eventually, your voice softened into something tired.

“I should go.”

Bucky’s chest tightened, but he didn’t fight it.

“Okay.”

“I’m glad I heard your voice.”

His throat burned.

“I’m glad you called.”

A small breath.

“Goodnight, Buck.”

His hand tightened around the phone.

“Goodnight,” he whispered. Then, because it was your birthday, because he could say this without asking for anything, because he wanted the last thing you heard from him tonight to be gentle, he added, “Happy birthday.”

You didn’t answer for a second.

Then, softly, “Thank you.”

The call ended.

Bucky stayed in the car long after the screen went dark, rain whispering over the windshield, your voice still alive in the space around him.

He didn’t feel healed.

He didn’t feel forgiven.

He didn’t feel like the road ahead had suddenly become simple.

But his hands were steady when he set the phone down.

And for the first time in a long time, the ache in his chest didn’t feel like punishment.

It felt like something he could carry.

Carefully.

For as long as you needed.

GENERAL taglist: @mellowfurynight | @castielscaplan | @whatisanniedoin | @barewithme02 | @mathcat345 | @overwintering-soldier | @alpinebarnesworld | @alwaysreenie | @iceyyycapsicle | @karlahan

BUCKY taglist: @greatenthusiasttidalwave | @highhopes1008 | @phoenix-in-writing | @mollyherondale | @sassandscribbles | @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog | @pattiemac1 | @buckysdecaflove | @fantasyfootballchampion | @sebbymybaby-21 | @theoryxwaller | @apenny4thots | @mishkatelwarriorgoddess | @allthingswickedpodcast | @vicmc624 | @strangerthing93 | @galaxygoddess30 | @peachiestevie | @evilplansandstuff | @nicobidd | @i-lie-here-charmed | @sebastians-love | @bennyyion

Comment here if you want to be added to a taglist.

[vunblr]

Masterlist

Thanks for stopping by! Enjoy the journey through these stories as much as I enjoyed writing them❤️

Events:

AA Bucky's 108th birthday Bingo

AA Kinky Bingo

Sexy September Scribbles Challenge 2025

Kinktober 2025

January Jumble Scribbles 2026

Writer in a Cryofreeze 2026

Series:

Roots and Branches (Lumberjack AU.) Ended

Summary: Bucky has built a quiet life in the woods, content to keep the world at arm's length. But when a new neighbor moves to town, her presence ignites emotions he’s hesitant to face.

Toy Soldier (Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Smut) Ended.

Summary: She had been the tool Hydra used to keep him operational; he, the weapon manipulated by their tendrils to execute their ambitions. Years after breaking free, fate Sam Wilson brings them together once more. Now, they must navigate the challenges of forging a connection beyond the twisted dynamic that once bound them in the past.

A Hand in the Dark (Angst. Hurt/Comfort.) Ended

Summary: Somewhere in the 1950s, in a brief moment of lucidity, Soldat makes a choice: he saves a stranger's life. Decades later, that stranger's granddaughter finds him bleeding out in an alley, and chooses to save him back.

Foundations (Dad!Bucky AU.) Ended

Summary: Bucky is doing his best to build a stable life for his newfound son, rescued from the guts of a Hydra facility. As he struggles with unexpected fatherhood and his own circumstances, he meets someone who slowly becomes part of their lives, establishing a connection he never saw coming.

Tangled (Cecaelia!Bucky AU.) Ended

Summary: Between fear and fascination, a solitary creature struggles to protect his hidden world -and himself- after an unexpected encounter with a curious human woman makes him question everything he thought he knew about trust, danger, and boundaries.

A Star Without a Sky (Western AU.) Ended

Summary: A wounded Sheriff Barnes seeks shelter in a young widow’s home, and finds himself wrapped in a warmth he no longer believes he deserves, and longing for something he thought long buried.

The Domestic Clause (Congressman!Bucky) Ended

Summary: Bucky agrees to a discreet cleaning service to tend to his apartment while he’s away. He never expected the care of someone he’d never met to become the gentlest part of his daily life.

Prometheus (Frankenstein AU.) Ended

Summary: Forged in darkness and marked by scars, Soldat is freed by chance. Wounded and lost, he follows the hand that touched him without command.

Plump & Ripe Collection. (Chubby! Bucky)

Three Miles to Willow Street (Alpha!Lumberjack!Bucky) Ended

Summary: Three miles from town and a world away from the life she knew, she finds herself relying on a reclusive stranger whose measured distance and iron self-control may not be enough to resist the pull he feels toward her.

The Fifth Kennel (dog-hybrid!Bucky AU) Ended

Summary: She brings home a cynical hybrid no one wanted: a missing limb, a brutal past, and zero interest in making things easy. He didn't ask to be rescued, doesn't want her pity or her stubborn refusal to back down. What begins as an act of conscience becomes a tense dance of boundaries, old instincts, and... unexpected connection.

2A&3B Collection (slice of life) Ongoing

Summary: Bucky is free, depressed, and has no idea what to do with himself. Post-Endgame slice of life oneshots, where his upstairs neighbor keeps showing up at the right -or wrong- times. He's not sure which.

SoftDark! AU (SoftDark! Winter Soldier) Ended

Soldat gets kindness for the first time since it can remember, and it deals with it the best way it can.

Crumb by Crumb (Chubby! Baker! Bucky) Ended

Summary: A fresh start in a small town brings her to a quiet bakery and a man who's built his life around routine and distance. Bucky Barnes doesn't do charm, and certainly doesn't do people, but small towns have a way of pulling strangers into orbit, and something neither of them planned for begins to bloom.

Against Protocol (handler!Reader) Ongoing

Summary: A handler, her Asset, small mercies, and all the lines they shouldn't cross... but do.

Wanted (Western AU) Ended

Summary: She came to White Creek for a teaching position that didn't exist. He needed a wife but never expected to find one like this.

Brown Sugar and Gunmetal (ABO AU) Ended

Summary: Who would have thought that an inconspicuous vent in a bakery alley would be what brought them together: the omega who never felt right with any alpha, and the asset who wasn't supposed to want at all.

Knight of Briars (Time travel AU) On Hold

Summary: A knight from another century crashes -literally- into a florist’s life and turns her world upside down.

Oneshots:

The Weight of Choices (Slight angst. Smut.)

Summary: Torn between his instinct to protect his family and his desire to be a part of their lives, Bucky tries to deal with the reality of his ex-wife going on a date while he stays home caring for their son.

An Unfinished Goodbye (Slight Angst. Side-story of The Weight of Choices.)

Summary: Bucky tells himself he’s only watching over his ex-wife and son for their safety. But when someone threatens to alter the status quo, his quiet vigilance falters.

What If?... (Fluff. Smut.)

Summary: Bucky navigates his insecurities and guilt from his past as he grows closer to his new neighbor, a nurse.

The Memory Remains (Fluff. Smut.)

Summary: An unexpected encounter brings Bucky face-to-face with someone from his past, stirring memories he thought were long buried.

Wounds and Walls (Slight angst. Smut.)

Summary: Bucky starts to walk into his new civilian life but struggles with his painful past, while slowly building a connection with someone who sees through his walls. As the relationship deepens, he must decide if he’s ready for something more, or if he’ll hide and push it all away.

Crumbs of Connection (Fluff.)

Summary: When Bucky wanders into a quirky late-night bakery, he doesn’t expect the warmhearted owner to challenge his defenses.

Spells and Fangs (World of Warcraft AU)

Summary: Bucky, a grumpy worgen warrior, and his sharp-tongued mage partner are sent on a relatively simple quest that quickly spirals into chaos.

A Heart in Hiding (Angst-Hurt/Comfort)

Summary: Caught between the shadows of his past and an unexpected connection, Bucky wrestles with his demons and his growing feelings for a new Avenger.

To Mend a Soldier (Slight angst. Comfort. Fluff.)

Summary: Pressed by a worried Sam, Bucky reluctantly agrees to try an alternative -and, if you ask him, weird- therapy program: rent-a-mom. What starts as an obligation soon turns into something far more meaningful than he ever expected.

The First Star (Slight angst. Comfort. Fluff.)

Summary: Christmas has never been easy for Bucky. But this year, he's trying. When she notices his minimal attempt at holiday cheer, she brings something to make him smile. It's a small gesture, nothing grand. But for someone who has so little, sometimes small is everything. Extra-story for To Mend a Soldier

Terms of Attraction (CEO AU. Fluff. Sexual Tension.)

Summary: Long hours, sharp tongues, and unbreakable trust have defined Industrial Inputs CEO Bucky Barnes and his secretary’s dynamic, always walking a fine line. But some lines aren’t meant to be left uncrossed.

Built to Last (Fluff)

Summary: Bucky took up carpentry to keep himself busy, but didn't expect a hardware clerk to make him want more.

The Price of Silence (Smut. Blue-Collar! Bucky)

A cynical, disenchanted Bucky starts working at construction sites after the Blip. Fetching the guys' lunch at the bakery as an errand, he started to come back for more than garlic bread.

Behind Closed Doors (Slight angst. Mommy Kink)

Summary: Most days, Bucky is a functional, dependable, and even deadly man. Others, when the noise in his head gets too loud, behind closed doors, he becomes Jamie.

The Trouble With Saturdays (Mutual Pining. Fluff)

Summary: Life at the Thunderbolts Tower is loud, chaotic, and full of questionable moral choices. Bucky’s used to keeping to himself, until one night, after one of those questionable moral choices was made, the guys got him high.

The Trouble With Feelings (Mutual Pining. Fluff)

Summary: Bucky wakes up with a hangover and a flood of regrets. Avoidance, assumptions, and one gala set the stage for everything to finally reach the surface.

Christmas Cheers (Smut)

Summary: Who would have thought that Santa helpers were real, not so little, and had a big appetite?

Soft-dark! Bucky (Stalking)

Summary: You think Bucky Barnes is just the quiet tenant from down the street, the one with the terrible apartment and a growing list of repairs. Bucky thinks you are the first good thing the world has put within reach in seventy years. And he has spent far too long with empty hands not to reach back.

If you like what I do, consider buying me a Ko-fi☕️

Dividers by: @/cafekitsune & @/fae-and-wolf

[semper-nox]

The Space You Left (#17)

Series Summary: Some wounds don’t bleed. They just teach you how to disappear. Before being adopted, you learned early that love had rules: don’t ask, don’t need, don’t take up space. Bucky – your brother in everything but blood – was the only exception. Now you’re an adult, brilliant, controlled, almost untouchable… until one dinner shatters the fragile balance.

Wordcount: 7.1k

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader, mentions of past Steve Rogers x Female Reader (no use of Y/N), Bucky Barnes x Natasha Romanoff

Warnings: childhood trauma, adoption trauma, abandonment issues, orphanage abuse, corporal punishment mentioned, religious trauma-adjacent themes, emotional self-hatred, shame, suicidal ideation / one moment of passive suicidal thought, complicated family dynamics, raised-as-siblings but not blood-related romantic tension, implied non-explicit underage intimacy in the past, emotional aftermath of sex, verbal cruelty, heartbreak, therapy, healing, reconciliation. See the whole exhaustive list on the masterlist post.

A/N: Gentle reminder that this series is heavy on trauma so I beg you to read the whole list of warning on the masterpost. I won't tolerate any complaints about not being warned of something. Beta read by Cassie (@blobfishlol ) as always.

Masterlist - Series Masterlist - Prev- Next

The café Pietro chose was small and unremarkable in the kind of way that made it useful.

It sat half a block from his office, tucked between a dry cleaner and a bookstore with sun-faded displays in the window. The bell above the café door gave a thin metallic jingle whenever someone stepped inside, and the smell hit immediately after – burnt espresso, steamed milk, old wood, cinnamon from pastries going stale under glass. It was late enough in the afternoon that the rush had thinned out. A few students hunched over laptops by the window. An older man in a wool coat read a newspaper two tables away. Nobody looked up for longer than a second when Bucky walked in.

That was probably why Pietro had picked it.

Neutral ground. Public enough that nothing could explode too badly. Quiet enough that difficult things could still be said.

Bucky spotted him near the back, already seated at a small round table, one leg crossed over the other, coat folded neatly over the back of the chair. Pietro looked exactly like himself – controlled, put together, annoyingly composed – but there was something watchful in the set of his shoulders that made it clear this wasn’t a casual coffee.

Bucky hesitated for half a beat before crossing the room.

Pietro looked up as he approached, expression unreadable.

“Hey,” Bucky said.

“Hey.”

That was it.

No warmth. No coldness either, not exactly. Just a flat acknowledgment, like Pietro was willing to be here but hadn’t decided yet how much of himself he intended to offer.

Bucky nodded toward the empty chair. “You mind if–”

“I invited you,” Pietro said. “Sit.”

Bucky sat.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The waitress came over with a tired smile and asked what they wanted. Pietro ordered black coffee without looking at the menu. Bucky asked for the same, mostly because he didn’t trust himself to make even a minor decision without overthinking it. When she left, silence settled back over the table, dense and deliberate.

Pietro rested his forearms lightly on the table and looked at him.

Bucky had expected hostility. Maybe not open hostility – Pietro was too controlled for that in public – but the kind of sharpened restraint that made every word feel like it had teeth. Instead, what he found in Pietro’s face was something more complicated.

Exhaustion, mostly.

And beneath it, caution.

Like Pietro had not forgiven him, was not close to forgiving him, but had agreed to hear him out because you had spoken to Bucky again and that fact alone changed the terrain.

Bucky rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. His cheek still ached faintly if he pressed too hard. The skin there had long since faded from bright red to the dull soreness of a bruise that no longer needed to announce itself. He wondered, absurdly, if Pietro noticed that first.

Probably.

Pietro noticed everything.

The waitress set the coffees down with a soft clink. Steam curled up between them. Bucky waited until she stepped away again before he finally spoke.

“Considering what you told us,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on the dark surface of his cup for a second before lifting back to Pietro, “I’m guessing just from that… you know what happened between her and me in high school?”

Pietro didn’t blink.

He just nodded once.

Yes.

Bucky exhaled through his nose, slow and unsteady. Some part of him had still hoped for uncertainty. For maybe. For not all of it. But he should have known better. If there was one person you had ever told the whole truth to, it had always been Pietro.

Of course he knew.

Bucky leaned back slightly in his chair, then forward again, like his body couldn’t decide what position felt least unbearable.

“Right,” he murmured.

He dragged a hand over his face, palm pressing briefly to his eyes. He hadn’t slept much the night before. Not properly. Your message had cracked something open in him and relief had turned into adrenaline, then adrenaline into restless, sick exhaustion. He’d reread your text until he could’ve recited it from memory. The parts that hurt. The parts that let him breathe. The parts that said I still love you and the parts that said I can’t hear your voice.

All of it living under his skin at once.

He dropped his hand and looked at Pietro again.

“I think I need to tell Steve–”

“No.”

Pietro cut across him so quickly, so cleanly, that Bucky actually stopped mid-breath.

It wasn’t loud.

That made it worse.

The word landed flat and final, like a blade laid on the table between them.

Bucky frowned immediately, instinct pushing up through the rawness. “Pietro–”

“No,” Pietro repeated, and this time there was iron in it. “If this is about you wanting to feel honest now, if this is about you wanting to clear your chest out because you’ve finally admitted what happened was fucked up, then no.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “That’s not what I meant.”

Pietro’s gaze sharpened. “Isn’t it?”

Bucky opened his mouth, then shut it again because the answer was messier than he wanted it to be.

Part of it was about Steve. About truth. About the fact that Steve had been in the dark about something enormous, something that had sat inside the architecture of all of their relationships for years without him ever knowing it was there. Bucky hated that. Hated the thought of Steve looking back on his own life, on his own relationship with you, without the full map.

But another part of it – uglier, harder to admit – was absolutely about relief.

About getting it out.

About no longer being the only one carrying the shame of that morning in high school, of the way he had looked at you afterward and chosen silence because he hadn’t known what else to do with the fact that comfort had tipped into something else and he had wanted it too much and then hated himself for that wanting.

Pietro saw the hesitation in his face and let out a quiet breath through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Not quite disbelief. More like, there it is.

“Listen, Bucky,” he said, voice lower now, but no softer. “When you acted like it never happened, it wrecked her.”

The words landed hard.

Bucky went still.

Pietro continued before he could interrupt.

“I’m not saying that to dramatize it. I’m saying it because that’s what it was. It was hard for her in a way you still don’t fully understand.”

Bucky swallowed.

The café noise around them blurred at the edges – the hiss of the espresso machine, a chair scraping somewhere near the window, the murmur of two students arguing over something academic and irrelevant. All of it receded until Pietro’s voice was the only thing that seemed to have any weight.

“She went to you because she was hurting,” Pietro said. “Because you were safe. Because you had always been safe. And then the morning after, you made it feel like even that had been a mistake.”

Bucky’s fingers tightened around his cup even though he hadn’t taken a sip.

Pietro watched him without blinking.

“She thought she’d been wrong to need you,” he said. “Wrong to reach for comfort. Wrong to let herself want something from you.” His mouth tightened. “She felt dirty, alright? She felt ashamed. She thought she’d crossed a line and that your silence was proof of it.”

Bucky’s throat closed.

He looked down because he couldn’t not. Because hearing it in those words made the memory rearrange itself into something even uglier than he’d known.

He had always understood, on some level, that he’d hurt you then. That pretending it had never happened had done damage. But his understanding had been selfish. Centered in his own shame. His own panic. His own inability to bear what it meant about him.

He hadn’t let himself sit long enough with what it had meant for you.

Pietro did not let him escape that now.

“It took time,” Pietro said, and his voice changed on the word time – flattening out, becoming something deliberate and clinical in the way it always did when he was choosing precision over emotion because emotion would burn too fast. “A lot of time. I had to pull her out of that headspace inch by inch.”

Bucky blinked, eyes burning.

Pietro went on.

“She kept calling herself monstrous,” he said quietly.

Bucky’s gaze snapped back up.

Pietro’s expression did not change.

“She said she was disgusting. She said she’d corrupted something. She said she should’ve known better.” A beat. “That didn’t come from nowhere, Bucky. It came from the fact that she needed you, and then you made the aftermath feel like evidence against her.”

Bucky swallowed hard enough it hurt.

His voice, when it came, was rough. “I didn’t– I never thought that about her.”

“I know,” Pietro said immediately.

The certainty of it startled him.

Pietro’s jaw flexed. “That’s not the point.”

He leaned back in his chair by a fraction, not relaxing, just giving the words room.

“The point is that what you intended and what she lived through are not the same thing. You can sit here and tell me until you’re blue in the face that you were scared, ashamed, confused, whatever. I believe you. I do.” His eyes stayed locked on Bucky’s. “It still doesn’t change what it did to her.”

Bucky looked like he’d been hit all over again.

For a second he said nothing. His shoulders had gone rigid, hands clasped too tightly around the paper napkin on the table. He hadn’t even realized he’d picked it up until it started tearing under his fingers.

Pietro noticed that too, of course.

He noticed everything, but he didn’t comment.

Bucky stared at the ripped edge of the napkin and forced himself to breathe.

“So I can’t tell Steve,” he said at last, voice low.

Pietro’s answer came without hesitation.

“No.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened again. “He deserves the truth.”

Pietro’s eyes flashed. “Does he?”

That stopped him.

Pietro leaned forward now, elbows on the table, coffee untouched between his hands.

“Maybe someday,” he said. “Maybe if she decides she wants him to know. Maybe if she decides that part of the story belongs in the open. But that decision is hers.”

He tapped one finger once against the tabletop.

“You do not get to go to Steve with this because it feels morally cleaner now. You do not get to hand him a confession and call it honesty if the real outcome is that she has to live with whatever that opens in him.”

Bucky exhaled shakily. “I’m not trying to dump it on him.”

“I know you don’t think you are,” Pietro said. “That’s exactly why I’m saying no.”

Silence stretched between them.

Bucky looked away toward the front of the café, watching the bell above the door tremble faintly as someone entered and left in the span of a minute. He could feel his own heartbeat in his wrists.

Pietro’s voice softened by a degree – not warm, not forgiving, but less blade, more fact.

“You have no idea what you might reopen,” he said.

Bucky shut his eyes briefly.

He did, though.

Or he was starting to.

The orphanage. The way you’d learned that reaching got punished. The years Pietro had spent teaching you that need did not equal filth, that wanting comfort did not make you dangerous. The way you had finally found language for yourself and then Bucky had dropped that sentence at dinner and sent the whole system into collapse.

He understood now that there were layers beneath layers. That one truth uncovered did not make him master of all the others.

When he opened his eyes again, they were rimmed red.

“I just…” He stopped, swallowed. “I hate that he doesn’t know.”

Pietro’s expression shifted then, just slightly. Enough to show that he understood the sentiment even if he still rejected the action.

“I know,” he said.

And Bucky could tell he did know. Not just in theory. Personally. Because Pietro knew what it was to keep someone else’s story locked behind your teeth because it wasn’t yours to tell. Because Pietro had spent years standing between you and everyone else’s need to know.

Bucky looked down at his hands.

His voice came out quieter than before. “I made her hate herself twice.”

Pietro didn’t soften that with denial.

“Yes,” he said.

The honesty of it hurt more than any comfort would have.

Bucky nodded once, a broken little motion. As if agreement was all he had left.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The waitress came by, asked if they wanted anything else. Pietro said no without looking up. Bucky did the same. Their coffee had gone lukewarm.

At last Pietro exhaled and rubbed one hand over his mouth. The gesture looked tired rather than impatient, like he was feeling the weight of his own role in this too. The one who knew too much. The one everyone came to for answers he often couldn’t ethically give.

“Listen,” he said.

Bucky looked up.

Pietro held his gaze for a second, then said, quieter, “I really think you should see a therapist.”

Bucky blinked.

Not because the suggestion was shocking. Somewhere in him, he’d known it was coming from the moment Pietro asked to meet him. Maybe from before that. Maybe from the first time he realized waiting for you and punishing himself and replaying the worst moments of his life on loop weren’t actually the same thing as accountability.

Still, hearing it aloud landed heavily.

Pietro kept talking before he could react.

“Not me,” he said. “Obviously.”

A faint, humorless twitch hit the corner of his mouth, gone almost as soon as it appeared.

“I’m not saying this because I think you’re unstable,” he continued. “And I’m not saying it because I think therapy is some magical redemption machine that spits out a better man if you pay enough copays.” His eyes narrowed slightly, making sure Bucky was actually listening. “I’m saying it because you have a pattern.”

Bucky frowned faintly.

Pietro counted it off with the kind of infuriating precision only a psychologist and best friend could manage.

“You swallow what you feel until it rots,” he said. “You choose distance over honesty. You mistake repression for control. Then when the pressure gets too high, you don’t regulate– you detonate.”

Each sentence hit with awful accuracy.

Bucky’s mouth tightened.

Pietro wasn’t done.

“You did it with her in high school. You did it with Natasha. You did it at that dinner.” His voice stayed calm, and that calm made it merciless. “You keep waiting until your feelings become unmanageable, and then you make someone else pay for your inability to hold them.”

Bucky looked like he wanted to protest.

Pietro’s gaze sharpened at the first shift in his posture, and Bucky shut his mouth again.

“Therapy won’t fix everything,” Pietro said. “It won’t undo what you said. It won’t get you forgiveness. It won’t make her come back faster.” He leaned back slightly. “What it might do is stop you from ever doing this again.”

That sat between them.

Bucky stared at him for a long moment.

When he finally spoke, his voice had lost most of its edge. All that was left was exhaustion and something close to humility.

“Do you think I’m…” He stopped. Started again. “Do you think I’m that fucked up?”

Pietro didn’t answer immediately. He considered him, and Bucky got the strange, terrible sense of being seen in the most stripped-down way possible – not as villain, not as martyr, not even as friend. Just as a man sitting in the rubble of his own choices.

“I think you’re capable of doing a lot of damage when you’re scared,” Pietro said at last. “And I think you’ve spent years normalizing that in yourself because being charming and loyal and protective in other contexts made it easier to ignore.”

Bucky flinched, because that was the cruelest thing Pietro had said so far precisely because it wasn’t cruel.

It was accurate.

Pietro’s tone shifted again – still firm, but no longer cutting for the sake of impact. More like handing over the map after pointing out the wreckage.

“That doesn’t mean you’re beyond repair,” he said. “It means repair has to be intentional.”

He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a folded receipt, and flattened it on the table. Then he took a pen from inside his jacket and wrote down three names and two numbers in quick, neat strokes.

He slid the paper across the table.

“These are colleagues,” he said. “Not friends. Not people who know her. Not people who know me beyond professional circles. Good clinicians. Different styles.” He tapped one name. “This one’s direct. Doesn’t let people bullshit themselves.” Another. “This one’s better if you need someone less confrontational at the start.” Then the third. “And this one works a lot with shame dynamics and attachment injuries.”

Bucky looked down at the paper as if it might accuse him too.

His fingers hovered over it before he finally took it.

The folded receipt looked absurdly small for something that suddenly felt so large.

“I don’t even know what I’d say,” he admitted.

Pietro’s answer was immediate.

“You say, ‘I loved someone badly and I hurt her because I was ashamed’.” He shrugged. “That’s more insight than half their clients walk in with.”

Against all reason, a breath of laughter almost escaped Bucky.

It didn’t quite make it out, but Pietro saw the attempt and let it pass without comment.

Bucky folded the receipt once, then again, and tucked it into his wallet with an almost ceremonial care.

He nodded once. “Okay.”

Pietro studied him.

“Okay what?”

Bucky lifted his eyes. There was no defiance left in them now. Just tired honesty.

“Okay,” he repeated. “I’ll go.”

Pietro held his gaze a moment longer, as if testing whether the answer had weight or whether it was just something Bucky thought he was supposed to say to end the conversation.

Apparently he found enough truth in it, because he nodded too.

“Good.”

They sat in silence for another minute after that. Not comfortable silence. But not hostile either. Something stranger. A ceasefire, maybe. Or the beginning of one.

Bucky looked down at his coffee and finally took a sip. It had gone bitter and cold.

He grimaced faintly.

Pietro, watching him over the rim of his own cup now, said, “You know what the worst part is?”

Bucky looked up, wary.

Pietro’s eyes were tired.

“The worst part is that she still loves you,” he said.

The sentence knocked the air out of him.

Pietro didn’t let him interrupt.

“That should not make this easier for you,” he said quietly. “It should make it harder.”

Bucky nodded before he could stop himself. Because yes. God, yes. That was exactly it.

Pietro looked away for a second, toward the rain beginning to blur faintly against the front window.

“She’s trying to build a life that doesn’t revolve around surviving the people she loves,” he said. “If you want any place in that life again, someday, then figure out how not to make your feelings her responsibility.”

Bucky sat with that.

With the receipt in his wallet. With the bitter coffee on his tongue. With the image of you somewhere far away, finally steady enough to tell the truth and keep your boundaries intact.

At last he pushed his cup away and stood.

Pietro’s eyes flicked up to him.

“Thank you,” Bucky said.

It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t graceful. It sounded rough as gravel.

Pietro gave a small shrug, but there was weight behind it.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he said. “Book the appointment first.”

Bucky nodded once.

Then, because there was nothing else to say that wouldn’t cheapen the conversation, he turned and walked toward the door.

The bell above it jingled again when he stepped outside. The air was colder than it had been when he came in. Dusk had thickened while they talked, and the city lights were starting to bleed into the wet pavement.

He stood on the sidewalk for a second, hand in his coat pocket, fingers brushing the folded receipt in his wallet through the fabric.

Then he pulled out his phone.

Not your thread. Not Steve. Not Wanda.

He opened a browser, searched the first name Pietro had given him, and pressed call before he could rethink what it meant.

For once, he didn’t wait until he was drowning.

The next morning arrived quietly.

You woke before the house did, the room still washed in that grey-blue hour just before sunrise properly commits. For a few seconds you lay still beneath the light sheet, listening to the unfamiliar quiet of the villa settling around you - distant air-conditioning, the faint rustle of palms outside your window, one early bird testing the morning like it wasn’t sure it had permission yet.

Then memory caught up.

Miami. Tony. Maria. Pietro gone back to New York. Your thesis. Your phone. Bucky’s answer.

Your chest tightened reflexively, but not in the way it had a month ago. It was still there, the ache, the low-grade tenderness of a bruise that hadn’t fully faded. But it no longer swallowed the whole of you the moment you opened your eyes. It existed alongside other things now: tiredness, hunger, the mental to-do list already forming in your head, the vague awareness that today was going to ask something of you.

You rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling for a moment longer before finally sitting up. The room was warm already. Sunlight had begun to leak around the edges of the curtains, painting thin gold lines across the floor.

Your laptop sat on the desk where you’d left it the night before, closed but not put away. Printed pages were stacked in uneven piles beside it, annotated in your handwriting, color-coded tabs sprouting from the edges like little flags staking out hard-won territory. Your life, for the moment, was arranged in citations and chapter drafts and the increasingly urgent sense that your defense was no longer an abstract event in the future but a real thing moving toward you with every passing day.

You showered, dressed, tied your hair back, and went downstairs with your phone in one hand and a knot of half-formed thoughts in your chest.

The kitchen was empty.

Maria must still have been upstairs. Tony, if he was awake, was either pretending to work already or actually working already, which with him could mean almost anything. You made coffee and stood by the counter while it brewed, one hand curled around the cool edge of the marble, your eyes fixed vaguely on the garden through the windows.

The smell helped. So did the ritual.

When the coffee was finally ready, you carried the mug and your phone to the long dining table, opened your laptop, and braced yourself for email.

There were the usual things first.

University notifications. Automated reminders. One professor forwarding an article with an unhelpfully vague note that simply read thought of your work. A student question about office hours from someone who clearly had not read the syllabus. A conference mailing list you meant to unsubscribe from every time it appeared and never actually did.

Then you saw the first subject line.

From: Dr. Thor Odinson Subject: Athens opportunity - read this

Your stomach gave a small, involuntary lurch.

Not fear. Recognition.

You clicked.

His email was characteristically concise for the first paragraph and then increasingly more detailed in the way he got when he was genuinely excited about something and trying, unsuccessfully, to pretend he wasn’t.

He wrote that a colleague of his at the American School of Classical Studies at Athens had forwarded a one-year postdoctoral research position that had immediately made him think of you. The focus was on material culture, urban excavation records, and interdisciplinary archival analysis - right in the overlap between your thesis interests and the larger path you had been sketching in your head for months. There would be access to field material, library resources, and collaborative work with people whose names made your pulse quicken the more you read.

Thor had attached the formal posting beneath his email, but his own message did more damage than the document.

You should apply.

Not “if you have time.” Not “in case it interests you.” Not “this may be beyond your current profile.”

You should apply.

The wording sat there with quiet force.

Then, lower down.

I know you tend to underestimate yourself when something matters deeply to you. Do not do that here.

And beneath that.

You are ready for more than you think.

You stared at the screen for a long moment, coffee cooling in your hand.

Athens.

The word alone did something to you.

Not just because it was Europe. Not just because it was ancient stone and heat and excavation and history pressing up through the earth in visible layers.

Because it was real.

A real opening. A real position. A year. A place. A route forward that wasn’t fantasy or private longing or one more pinned tab in your browser labeled someday.

You opened the attachment.

The formal listing confirmed everything Thor had implied. The qualifications were daunting enough to make your throat tighten and close enough to your work that your brain started matching pieces before you could stop it. Research topic. Language requirements. Writing sample. Letters of recommendation. Timeline.

Athens.

Your pulse beat a little faster.

You were still reading the position for a second time when the notification for another email slid across the top of the screen.

From: Pietro Maximoff Subject: Don’t panic, but read before going outside

You closed your eyes briefly.

That alone was enough to make your stomach drop.

You clicked.

Pietro’s message was shorter, but somehow more destabilizing.

Saw this first thing. I figured you’d rather hear it from me than get blindsided. You can’t really be identified from the image, but it’s circulating enough that I’m sending it. Before you spiral: breathe first. Then talk to Tony.

Below it was a link.

You stared at it for half a second, then clicked.

The article loaded in an entertainment-business hybrid tabloid way that instantly made your skin crawl. Too clean to be entirely trashy, too speculative to be credible in any way that mattered, and still exactly the kind of thing people read and passed around because proximity to famous men had always been treated like a public commodity.

The headline was measured enough to pretend it wasn’t sensational:

Tony Stark seen dining privately with unidentified young woman in Miami

Below it, the photo.

You went cold.

It was from outside the restaurant.

The angle was from across the street, slightly obscured by traffic and distance. Tony was clear. Maria, too. You were half-turned away, your face mostly hidden by the line of your hair and the tilt of your head. No one who didn’t already know you could have confidently identified you from it. And yet that didn’t matter. The article didn’t need certainty. It needed implication.

The body of the piece was exactly what you’d expected and still hated.

Speculation about “a striking young woman” seen in Tony Stark’s company. Questions about whether she was connected to Stark Industries, philanthropy, family, or “something more personal.” Wild, elegant, poisonous little guesses written by someone who had likely never considered that the person in the photo might be a real woman with an actual private life and a very specific horror of being dragged into public narrative.

Your coffee turned to acid in your stomach.

You scrolled too fast, saw the embedded photo again, stopped.

Your own body reacted before thought did.

Your shoulders climbed toward your ears. Your pulse began to hammer. Heat prickled under your skin, followed immediately by cold.

Because it wasn’t just the article itself.

It was what it represented.

Exposure. Attention. The possibility of being looked at by strangers and turned into a story they were entitled to tell. The possibility of your face - however indistinct now - becoming clearer with the next photo, and the next, and the next. The possibility of New York seeing it. Of your mother seeing it. Of Wanda. Of Steve. Of Bucky. Of academia, somehow, absurdly, finding a way to pull it into the same world as your thesis and your defense and all the work you had tried so hard to keep uncontaminated by spectacle.

You became aware that your breathing had gone shallow.

Pietro’s email still sat open in the background.

Before you spiral: breathe first. Then talk to Tony.

You put the phone down. Then picked it up again. Then deliberately set it farther away from you on the table and pressed both palms flat against the wood.

In. Out.

The room was still the same room. The coffee was still there. Sunlight still moved slowly across the floor. No one was shouting your name. No one was banging on the gates outside. No camera flashes were going off beyond the windows.

You were here. You were safe. You were not, yet, on display.

Still, your chest remained tight enough that you didn’t trust yourself to stay seated.

You stood too quickly, the chair scraping softly against the floor, and paced once down the length of the dining room and back.

Tony, you thought.

Tony would know what this meant. Tony would know how to make it smaller. Or at least keep it from becoming bigger.

You found him in his office.

The door was half open. He was inside in shirtsleeves, reading something on a tablet with the kind of hyper-focused irritation that suggested someone, somewhere, had made a bad decision with a large number attached to it.

He looked up the second your shadow crossed the doorway.

And because he had learned your face fast - because he paid attention in the way people always promised they would and almost never actually did - his expression changed immediately.

“What happened?”

Not hello. Not good morning. Just that.

You held up your phone.

“I got an email from Pietro,” you said, and your voice was calmer than you felt. “And… there’s an article.”

Tony’s jaw tightened before you even handed him the screen.

He took the phone, skimmed the headline, clicked through, read the body, and then - slowly, very slowly - exhaled through his nose.

Not surprised. Annoyed.

No. Past annoyed.

Controlled, expensive anger.

He handed the phone back to you with care, as if the object itself had become contaminated.

“I’m already dealing with it,” he said.

The sentence landed so quickly you blinked.

“What?”

Tony leaned back against the edge of his desk, arms crossing over his chest.

“I said I’m already dealing with it,” he repeated, more gently this time because he’d seen the latent panic in your face and adjusted his tone downward on instinct. “You’re not the first person to get photographed near me, and unfortunately the world has made a thriving industry out of pretending that proximity equals access.” His mouth twisted. “I’ve had legal and communications on this sort of thing before breakfast.”

Your pulse was still too fast, but the first edge of panic dulled just slightly.

Tony continued, voice steady.

“You are not going to be pushed into the spotlight because some idiot with a telephoto lens wants a story. That’s not happening.” He uncrossed his arms and moved a little closer, not crowding, just making himself present. “I know this isn’t what you want. I know attention like that feels invasive. So I’m handling it.”

You stared at him.

“What does ‘handling it’ mean?”

Tony’s expression sharpened with professional focus.

“It means no confirmation. No comment. No name. No access.” He ticked the points off lightly with his fingers. “If anything broader starts circulating, it gets buried under three bigger stories by noon. If anyone tries to identify you publicly, they get shut down. If anyone from media tries to approach staff here, they get rerouted into a wall.” A beat. “You are not a spectacle.”

Your throat tightened at the last line.

Not because it was dramatic. Because it was exactly what you needed him to understand.

Tony watched your face soften by fractions and let his own expression ease with it.

“You can still stay here,” he said, reading the next fear before you could give it language. “You can still go out if you want. You do not need to disappear because somebody wrote a stupid article.” His mouth flattened. “That burden is not yours.”

You looked down at the phone in your hand, at your own reflection ghosted faintly in the black edge of the screen.

“I hate this,” you admitted quietly.

“I know,” Tony said.

No platitude. No you’ll get used to it. No it comes with the territory.

Just I know.

And somehow that was better.

You let out a long breath.

“Thank you.”

He shrugged lightly, but there was something more tender beneath it.

“Kid,” he said, “this is one of the few situations in my life where the money and the reputation are actually useful instead of just embarrassing. Let me use them.”

That pulled the smallest, unwilling curve at the corner of your mouth.

Tony smiled faintly back, pleased he’d gotten even that much.

Then he noticed the email still open on your laptop screen in the other hand, the header visible enough for a sharp mind to catch the word Athens.

His brows lifted.

“What’s that?”

You glanced down, then back up.

“Oh.” You swallowed. “Another email. From Dr. Odinson.”

Tony’s expression shifted immediately into curiosity.

“Good or bad?”

You hesitated, then handed him your laptop.

He scanned the message with a focus so intense it was almost funny. His eyes moved quickly. Then he scrolled into the attached posting, read a few lines, and looked back up at you with unmistakable interest.

“Athens.”

You nodded.

“He thinks I should apply,” you said, trying for neutrality and failing slightly. “It’s a one-year position. Research post. Material culture, excavation records, archival work. It’s… kind of exactly in my lane.”

Tony closed the laptop carefully and handed it back to you.

“And?”

You let out a soft, humorless laugh.

“And I haven’t had time to process it yet because five minutes later I became tabloid bait.”

Tony snorted.

“Fair.”

For a second neither of you spoke.

Then he tilted his head and looked at you with that steady, infuriatingly clear way he had when he was trying not to push and still absolutely seeing everything.

“You want my opinion?”

You hugged the laptop a little closer to your chest.

“Yes.”

Tony nodded once.

“My opinion is that you should make the decision based on what you want your life to look like, not based on fear, guilt, me, your mother, New York, or anybody else’s emotional weather.” He paused, then added, more softly, “And whatever that decision is, I am one hundred percent behind it.”

The words hit you with a force you didn’t quite expect.

Because part of you - old, reflexive, watchful - had still been braced for the subtle pull. Stay here. Stay close. Choose the option that lets me keep you in arm’s reach now that I’ve found you.

But Tony didn’t do that.

He didn’t even lean in that direction.

“If you apply and get it,” he said, “I’ll help you figure out logistics. If you decide not to, I’ll still help you figure out whatever comes next.” He gave a small shrug. “Athens, New York, Rome, the moon. Doesn’t matter. My support is not location-dependent.”

A laugh escaped you then, quiet but real.

“The moon?”

Tony’s face remained completely serious for a second longer than necessary.

“Little harder commute,” he admitted. “But I know people.”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself.

Then, more quietly, “You really mean that.”

Tony’s expression gentled.

“Yes,” he said. “I really do.”

Something in your chest loosened.

Not the whole knot. Not the grief, or the unfinished things still waiting for you back in New York.

But enough.

Enough that Athens stopped looking like a betrayal of one life in favor of another and started looking like what it actually was: a possibility you had earned.

That evening the house felt calmer again.

The article hadn’t vanished from existence, but it had already begun to lose oxygen. Tony had clearly meant what he said. By late afternoon, when curiosity got the better of you and you checked again, the story had already been pushed below more urgent, shinier scandals. The speculative framing remained, but no new image had surfaced. No name. No escalation. No exposure blooming beyond the initial, ugly spark.

For now, that was enough.

After dinner, Maria disappeared upstairs with a kiss to your temple and a knowing look that suggested she understood both that you needed quiet and that something was brewing under your ribs.

Tony retreated to answer a call, muttering something about Europe and logistics and people who couldn’t read a calendar.

You stood alone in the kitchen for a moment, one hand resting on the edge of the counter, your phone in the other.

Then you opened your mother’s contact.

She answered on the second ring.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

Just that, and the whole day softened a little around the edges.

“Hi.”

You moved out onto the terrace as you talked, the night warm around you, air damp and soft against your skin. Somewhere in the garden, water moved quietly through some hidden feature Tony had probably never directly chosen but had somehow ended up responsible for anyway.

“How are you?” your mother asked.

You leaned one shoulder against the stone pillar.

“Tired,” you admitted. “But okay.”

A small pause.

“Really okay?”

You smiled faintly.

“Mostly.”

That seemed to satisfy her for now.

She told you something small first - a neighbor update, a grocery store complaint, the kind of ordinary detail she sometimes offered as a gift because it reminded both of you that life still existed outside crisis. You listened, grateful for the familiar cadence of her voice.

Then, when the lull came, you drew in a breath.

“There’s something I wanted to tell you.”

Her tone changed immediately, attentive.

“Okay.”

You looked out into the dark and said it simply, before you could complicate it.

“I’m going to apply for a post in Athens.”

The silence on the other end wasn’t alarmed.

It was full.

Then your mother exhaled softly, and you could hear the smile in her voice before she spoke.

“Oh.”

You closed your eyes briefly.

“Yeah.”

“Athens,” she repeated, like she was turning the word over gently in her mind, seeing how it fit around the shape of you. “That sounds like you.”

Your throat tightened unexpectedly.

“Dr. Odinson sent it this morning,” you said. “He thinks I should do it. It’s only a year, but it’s… it’s the kind of thing I’ve wanted without really letting myself say I wanted it.”

Your mother listened quietly.

“And?” she asked after a beat.

You stared down at your bare feet against the stone.

“And I think if I don’t apply, it’ll be because I’m scared,” you admitted. “Not because I don’t want it.”

There it was.

The truth.

Your mother was quiet for just long enough that you braced unconsciously - old habit, old fear.

Then she said, very gently, “Then apply.”

The words landed like a hand at the center of your back.

“You really think I should?”

“I think,” your mother said, “that you’ve spent too much of your life trimming yourself down to what feels survivable.” Her voice softened. “If there’s something out there that feels like more than survival, I think you owe it to yourself to reach for it.”

Your eyes burned.

You swallowed and tried to answer without your voice cracking.

“I’m scared.”

“I know,” she said. “That doesn’t mean it isn’t right.”

You laughed softly then, watery around the edges.

“That sounds suspiciously wise.”

“I have my moments.”

You smiled into the night.

“Tony supports it too,” you said after a moment. “He said… whatever I decide, he’s behind me one hundred percent.”

Your mother made a quiet sound - not jealousy, not sadness. Something more thoughtful.

“That’s good.”

“It is.”

A pause.

Then, softer, “I still can’t believe sometimes that he wants to come with me when I come back for the defense.”

Your mother breathed in.

“I’m happy he’s being good to you,” she said. “And I meant what I said then. He should come if that’s what you want.” A beat. “And now, if Athens happens, he’ll probably find a way to have opinions about Greek airports.”

You laughed, real this time.

“Oh, definitely.”

The warmth of it stayed in your chest after the sound faded.

You talked a little longer - about paperwork, about deadlines, about whether you had enough polished writing sample material already or whether you needed to adapt a chapter.

Your mother grew animated in that practical way she did when she could transform love into logistics. By the end of the call she had reminded you to check submission requirements twice, told you to update your CV properly, and insisted - with suspicious casualness - that if you needed a second pair of eyes on your materials, she would “happily bully commas on your behalf.”

When you finally said goodnight, the world felt steadier.

You stood on the terrace for a while after the call ended, phone resting warm in your hand.

Behind you, the villa glowed softly. Ahead of you, the garden opened into darkness and warm air and possibility.

Athens.

Tony. Your mother. Your thesis. New York waiting, but no longer holding all of you hostage.

And somewhere beneath the ache that still had Bucky’s name tangled through it, somewhere beneath the unfinished grief and the fragile rebuilding and the constant work of being honest with yourself, there was something else now.

A future.

Not abstract. Not decorative. Not something other people got to have in books and plans and visas and job offers while you stayed still.

Something real enough to apply for.

You looked down at your phone one last time before heading back inside.

No new emergencies. No fresh article. No missed call you were obligated to answer tonight.

Just your own reflection in the dark screen, faint and a little tired and still, somehow, unmistakably there.

You turned the phone off for the night and went back in.

Tomorrow, you would start the application.

Lemme me be honest, I was stuck for a long time before that part came out the way it has. At first I made Bucky confess to Steve, and I hated it because it centered it on their relationship more than on Reader's healing. Which means I erased about 3 chapters of 6k each because I was deeply unhappy with them, and started all over again.

And frankly? I love how it turned out.

GENERAL taglist: @mellowfurynight | @castielscaplan | @whatisanniedoin | @barewithme02 | @mathcat345 | @overwintering-soldier | @alpinebarnesworld | @alwaysreenie | @iceyyycapsicle | @karlahan

BUCKY taglist: @greatenthusiasttidalwave | @highhopes1008 | @phoenix-in-writing | @mollyherondale | @sassandscribbles | @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog | @pattiemac1 | @buckysdecaflove | @fantasyfootballchampion | @sebbymybaby-21 | @theoryxwaller | @apenny4thots | @mishkatelwarriorgoddess | @allthingswickedpodcast | @vicmc624 | @strangerthing93 | @galaxygoddess30 | @peachiestevie | @evilplansandstuff | @nicobidd | @i-lie-here-charmed | @sebastians-love | @bennyyion

Comment here if you want to be added to a taglist.

[semper-nox]

The Space You Left (#16)

Series Summary: Some wounds don’t bleed. They just teach you how to disappear. Before being adopted, you learned early that love had rules: don’t ask, don’t need, don’t take up space. Bucky – your brother in everything but blood – was the only exception. Now you’re an adult, brilliant, controlled, almost untouchable… until one dinner shatters the fragile balance.

Wordcount: 5.3k

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader, mentions of past Steve Rogers x Female Reader (no use of Y/N), Bucky Barnes x Natasha Romanoff

Warnings: childhood trauma, adoption trauma, abandonment issues, orphanage abuse, corporal punishment mentioned, religious trauma-adjacent themes, emotional self-hatred, shame, suicidal ideation / one moment of passive suicidal thought, complicated family dynamics, raised-as-siblings but not blood-related romantic tension, implied non-explicit underage intimacy in the past, emotional aftermath of sex, verbal cruelty, heartbreak, therapy, healing, reconciliation. See the whole exhaustive list on the masterlist post.

A/N: Gentle reminder that this series is heavy on trauma so I beg you to read the whole list of warning on the masterpost. I won't tolerate any complaints about not being warned of something. Beta read by Cassie (@blobfishlol ) as always.

This chapter is shorter, but stuff happen, so it counterbalance.

Masterlist - Series Masterlist - Prev- Next

Bucky was in his kitchen when it happened.

Not doing anything important – just standing there with a glass of water in his hand, staring at nothing in particular like he’d been doing a lot lately. The apartment was quiet in that too-clean way it got when he couldn’t settle. The TV was off. The lights were on, but dimmed. He hadn’t cooked in days. There were dishes in the drying rack that had been washed and rewashing, as if the act of cleaning something was the only way he knew how to keep from coming apart.

His phone sat on the counter.

Face up.

Always face up.

He told himself it was because he didn’t want to miss an emergency call from your mother. Or Wanda. Or Steve. Or Pietro.

That was half true.

The other half was that he checked your message thread like a ritual. Like if he looked often enough, the universe might reward him. Like if he kept his eyes on the door long enough, you might walk back through it.

It had become muscle memory.

Wake up. Check. Shower. Check. Coffee. Check. At a red light. Check. In meetings. Check. In the elevator. Check. Before he fell asleep. Check. When he couldn’t sleep. Check again.

He didn’t even register the movement at first – just the smallest change on the screen, an automatic refresh.

Then his brain caught up.

Read.

A tiny word. A single status change. A subtle shift in a corner of the interface that most people wouldn’t even notice unless they were looking for it with the intensity of an obsession.

Bucky froze.

The glass in his hand tilted slightly, water sloshing against the rim. He steadied it without looking, eyes locked on the screen.

You had opened the thread.

You had seen everything.

The first reaction that tried to rise in him was panic – sharp, familiar, immediate. A surge of adrenaline that told him to do something, to type faster than his thoughts, to call, to prove he was still here, still sorry, still trying.

But he didn’t.

He forced himself to breathe.

In.

Out.

His fingers twitched once toward the phone and then stilled.

Because he understood, in a way he hadn’t that night, that your silence wasn’t a punishment.

It was a boundary.

It was you taking care of yourself.

He set the glass down very carefully. The sound of it touching the counter was quiet, controlled. Like he was afraid of making any sudden movement in case it scared you away again – ridiculous, because you weren’t here, because you were hundreds of miles away, because he had no right to imagine he could scare you with a sound.

But his body didn’t know how to stop being afraid.

He stared at the screen for a long time.

Read.

No typing bubble. No reply. Nothing.

And he felt it anyway – the smallest flare of relief underneath the ache, because you were alive and you were reading, which meant you were here in the world enough to pick up your phone and let the messages in.

It also meant you’d read the worst parts.

The frantic messages from that first night. The apologies. The confession. The love. The fact that he’d told your parents. The end of things with Natasha.

It meant you’d also reread – maybe – what he’d said at dinner.

That was the part that made his stomach turn.

He closed his eyes briefly and leaned a hand on the counter, head bowed like he could physically hold himself upright against the weight of his own words.

Maybe that’s why your real parents didn’t want you.

A sentence he’d aimed like a bullet. A sentence he’d crafted out of every ugly, insecure fear he’d ever had – then fired straight into the place he knew you were most vulnerable.

The fact that you were silent now didn’t surprise him.

If anything, it made sense. It was the consequence he’d earned.

He picked up his phone again, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

And he stopped.

Because the urge wasn’t to soothe you.

The urge was to soothe himself.

To force an answer. To relieve the suspense. To make the silence less unbearable.

He swallowed hard.

No.

Not that.

Not again.

He set the phone down, turned away, tried to move through the rest of his day like a person.

It didn’t work.

His mind kept circling back to that tiny word.

Read.

He wondered what your face had looked like as you read. If you’d cried. If you’d gone numb. If you’d thrown the phone across the room the way Pietro had thrown his mug that day. He wondered if you hated him more now or less. He wondered if reading his love had made it worse, because love didn’t undo harm. Sometimes it just complicated it.

By late afternoon, he found himself back in front of the thread again, thumb hovering.

He didn’t want to add pressure.

But he also didn’t want you to think your silence was going to make him lash out, spiral, punish you for not giving him what he wanted.

You had spent too much of your life around people who responded to distance with violence – emotional or otherwise.

He refused to be another one.

So he typed slowly.

Not a plea. Not an apology loop. Not a dramatic confession.

Just a message that put the choice back where it belonged.

I saw you read the messages.

He stared at the words for a second, then deleted them.

Too direct. Too much like I’m watching you, even though he was, even though he couldn’t stop himself.

He tried again.

You don’t have to reply.

He left that one.

He added more, careful, deliberate, making sure every sentence didn’t ask for something.

I mean it. You don’t owe me anything – not a conversation, not forgiveness, not closure. I know I hurt you. I know I can’t take it back.

His throat tightened. He paused, then kept going.

If you’re not ready, that’s okay. If you’re never ready, that’s also okay.

His fingers hovered over the next line for a long time.

Then he wrote it anyway, because it was still true even if it didn’t buy him anything.

I love you.

He swallowed hard and added, quieter, softer:

I’ll wait as long as it takes. Even if you decide you can’t forgive me. That’s your right.

He stared at the message.

Read it three times, like he was checking for hidden pressure, hidden manipulation, any trace of please come back disguised as something noble.

He found none.

Only truth.

Only consequence.

He hit send.

The message left his phone and disappeared into the void between you like a paper boat on dark water.

Bucky set the phone down again and let his forehead rest against the cool edge of the counter.

He wasn’t calm. Not really.

His heart was still beating too fast. His hands still wanted to shake. His stomach still felt hollow with fear.

But he didn’t chase you.

He didn’t call.

He didn’t demand.

He just… stayed.

For once in his life, he tried to sit in the aftermath without making it your job to fix him.

And in the quiet of his apartment, with only the hum of the fridge and his own breathing to keep him company, he whispered into the empty space, not expecting an answer.

“I’m sorry.”

You started calling your mom again every day.

Not long calls – not at first. Sometimes it was ten minutes while you stood barefoot in the kitchen with your coffee growing cold in your hands. Sometimes it was twenty, curled on your bed with the window open and the Miami air heavy against your skin. Sometimes it was just her voice saying your name and you swallowing hard around the lump in your throat, letting the sound of her breathe on the other end convince your nervous system that you were safe.

But you called.

And that alone felt like rebuilding something brick by brick.

At first, your mother didn’t ask for explanations. She didn’t try to pull the story out of you like she was entitled to it. She simply listened to the tone of your voice, the pauses between your words, the way you’d go quiet when you got too close to something sharp. She filled the silence when you needed it filled. She let it exist when you needed it to exist.

She didn’t make you earn being cared for.

You told her you’d come back for your thesis defense.

It came out on the third day of calling again – casual, almost like you were talking about the weather, because saying it too seriously made it feel too big.

“I’ll be back for the defense,” you said, staring at your laptop screen without really seeing it.

There was a small pause on the other end, the kind that meant she was holding herself still.

Then her voice softened. “Okay,” she said. “Okay, sweetheart. We’ll be here.”

Your throat tightened.

You heard the smile in her voice when she added, “I’m proud of you.”

You swallowed hard and forced a laugh that didn’t sound like yours. “Don’t make me cry before lunch.”

She chuckled softly. “I won’t. Not if I can help it.”

A few days later, you told her about Tony.

Not about him – she already knew you’d found your father, and she’d cried with relief when you said he hadn’t known you existed – but about what was coming next.

“Tony asked if he could come to New York with me,” you said, voice careful. “When I come back for the defense.”

Your mom’s breath hitched slightly.

Not in a bad way.

In the way someone reacts when the world shifts under their feet – surprising but not unwelcome.

“Oh,” she said softly. “He wants to come with you.”

“Yeah,” you murmured, fingers twisting in the hem of your shirt. “I said yes.”

There was another pause, and your heart started to pound – old fear rushing in before you could stop it. Fear of doing something wrong. Fear of being selfish. Fear of hurting her just by needing something she couldn’t give.

Your voice went small without you meaning it to.

“Do you… do you hate me for it?” you asked. “That I… needed to find him.”

The silence that followed was brief, but it felt like your whole chest tightened around it. You stared at the floor, nails digging into your palm.

Then your mother spoke, and her voice was firm.

“No,” she said. “No, honey. I don’t hate you.”

You exhaled shakily.

“I was scared,” she admitted, softer now. “I was scared I’d lose you. And I was scared that you’d find him and he’d hurt you.”

Your throat burned.

“But you didn’t do anything wrong,” she continued, and you could hear the conviction in every syllable. “You are allowed to want answers. You are allowed to want to know where you come from. That doesn’t take anything away from me.”

Your eyes stung.

“You’re my daughter,” she said. “That’s not up for debate. And Tony being your father doesn’t change that.”

Your lips trembled. You swallowed hard.

“Okay,” you whispered.

“And,” your mother added, a faint smile in her voice, “if he wants to show up and support you for your defense, then good. Let him. You deserve people in the room who are proud of you.”

The warmth that flooded your chest was almost painful.

“Thank you,” you managed.

“You don’t have to thank me for loving you,” she said gently. “You never did.”

You didn’t tell her then that those words still felt foreign sometimes. You didn’t tell her how the orphanage had taught you that love was conditional and that asking for it was dangerous.

You just let her love land.

Bucky came up eventually.

He always did, even when you tried to steer the conversation away. Even when you told yourself you couldn’t handle it. Even when you promised you were focusing on the thesis and not on the ache that still lived under your ribs.

The first time your mother mentioned his name, it hit you like a reflex.

Your shoulders drew up. Your stomach twisted. You felt the immediate, irrational urge to hide – as if the sound itself could summon him.

Your mother noticed instantly.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I shouldn’t have–”

“It’s not your fault,” you whispered, eyes squeezed shut. “It’s just… his name still–” You swallowed hard. “Sometimes it makes me want to disappear.”

Your mother’s voice went soft. “I know.”

You heard the crack in her tone, the anger she still carried – not just for what he’d said, but for the way it had echoed the deepest fear you’d spent your life trying to outrun.

You spoke about his confession too. Carefully. Haltingly. Like you were handling something fragile that might cut you if you held it wrong.

“He told you,” your mother said, and the way she said it made it clear she still couldn’t believe he’d let it live in silence for so long.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “That he told you. And George.”

“And you,” she added quietly.

You swallowed. “And me.”

There was a pause.

Your mother’s voice lowered, as if she didn’t want the walls to hear.

“And what do you feel?” she asked. Not accusatory. Not demanding. Just… motherly. Honest.

You stared at the ceiling, chest tight.

“I didn’t lie to you,” you said slowly, the truth scraping on the way out. “When I said his name still scares me.” A breath. “But I also… I love him.”

Your mother didn’t react with shock. She didn’t scold. She didn’t try to talk you out of it.

She simply listened.

“I think I’ve loved him for a long time,” you continued, voice quieter. “Maybe even before high school. Maybe before I understood what love was supposed to look like.”

Your throat tightened.

“And that makes it harder,” you admitted. “Because I can’t just hate him and move on. I can’t just… erase him.”

Your mother sighed softly on the other end. “No,” she said. “You can’t.”

You swallowed. “I don’t know when I’ll answer him.”

Another pause.

Your mother’s voice was gentle, but firm in the way she got when she was protecting you.

“Then don’t answer until you’re ready,” she said. “Not because he’s waiting. Because you’re healing.”

You blinked back tears.

“I’m scared that if I answer,” you whispered, “it’ll pull me back into it.”

“It might,” your mother admitted. “But you don’t have to answer in a way that gives him access to you.”

You frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she said, carefully, “a message is not a door flung wide open. A message can be a boundary. A message can be you saying, ‘I heard you. I’m not ready.’ That’s allowed.”

You let that sit.

You had been taught, your whole life, that communication meant obligation. That if you engaged, you owed the other person comfort, closure, resolution.

But you didn’t.

You were allowed to speak without surrendering.

You exhaled shakily. “Okay,” you whispered.

Your mother’s voice softened again. “I’m proud of you,” she said. “Not because you’re handling it perfectly. But because you’re still here. And you’re still trying.”

You closed your eyes, letting the words settle.

You didn’t know when you would text Bucky.

You didn’t know what you would say.

But you knew, now, that you could return for your defense with Tony at your side and your mother waiting in New York – and you didn’t have to decide everything else before then.

You could take it one breath, one day, one phone call at a time.

You didn’t answer Bucky for several more days.

Partly because you were busy – truly busy, in the way that left you with ink on your fingers and your brain buzzing when you finally crawled into bed. The defense was four months away now, which meant every chapter of your thesis suddenly felt like it had teeth. Footnotes needed tightening. Arguments needed sharpening. You caught yourself rereading paragraphs you’d written months ago with the cold, brutal eye of someone who no longer had the luxury of good enough.

You worked until your wrists ached.

You worked until the sun went down and Maria had to remind you – gently but firmly – that human beings needed to eat.

You worked until Tony knocked on the edge of the table and said, “Okay, Dr. Future Archeologist, you’re going to burn out,” and you’d rolled your eyes and closed your laptop only because you trusted him enough to accept the interruption.

In between thesis work, you started looking at Europe.

Not like a dream anymore – like a plan.

You made lists. Cities. Universities. Museums. Archaeological sites you’d been reading about since you were fifteen. Grants you could apply for. Post-doc opportunities. Temporary positions. Conferences. You opened maps and stared at coastlines you’d never seen in real life.

And when Tony – casually, like it was nothing – mentioned that Stark had European branches he “should probably visit at some point,” you pretended not to notice the way he framed it like you wouldn’t be alone.

Like it would be coincidence, not protection.

You didn’t call him on it.

You just felt something warm settle in your chest and kept scrolling through research programs in Rome.

The other reason you didn’t answer was simpler and harder: you were still digesting what you’d read.

All of it.

The panic from the first night. The guilt. The apology that didn’t try to rewrite history. The confession. The patience in the last message – the one that had landed like a hand held out but not closing around you.

You needed time to let the words sit without immediately turning into action.

You needed time to make sure that if you responded, it would be because you were choosing to – not because the pressure inside you had become unbearable.

So you waited.

You let days pass. You let your nervous system keep learning that nothing bad happened when you didn’t respond. That you could breathe and no one would force a door open. That your world didn’t collapse just because you weren’t managing everyone else’s emotions.

And then, one night, after dinner, after Maria had gone to bed, after Tony had left you alone with your laptop and your thoughts, you found yourself in your room with your phone in your hand again.

The house was quiet. The air-conditioning hummed softly. Outside, palm leaves scraped against each other in the dark like whispered conversation.

You stared at Bucky’s thread.

You didn’t feel ready.

But you felt… steadier.

That was new.

You opened the text box.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, trembling faintly.

You started and stopped three times.

Deleted whole sentences. Rewrote them. Stared at the blinking cursor like it was judging you.

It wasn’t about being perfect.

It was about being honest without bleeding yourself dry.

And when you finally began to write, you didn’t try to make it neat.

You let it be long. Because the truth had been building in you for weeks, and it deserved room.

Hi.

I read everything. A while ago, actually. I just… needed time.

I’m doing better. Not “fine”, not like it didn’t happen, but better. I’m eating. I’m sleeping. I’m working. I’m breathing again.

I need you to understand something, though. You really hurt me.

I know you know that. I know you’ve apologized. I know you didn’t mean it the way you said it. But it still went exactly where it needed to go to break me.

So no, I don’t forgive you right now. Maybe I will someday. Maybe I won’t. I don’t know. And I’m not saying that to punish you. I’m saying it because it’s the truth.

I can’t talk to you on the phone. I can’t hear your voice. I can’t see you. I don’t want to see your face.

Even reading your name sometimes makes my stomach turn. It reopens it. Like I’m back at that table and I can’t breathe.

I’m safe. I’m in Miami. I found my father.

He’s… not what I imagined all those years. He’s better. He didn’t know I existed. And I know that now, for real. Not as a theory I tell myself at 3am, but as something I heard from his mouth while he looked at me like I mattered.

His mother is here too. She’s been kind to me in a way that still catches me off guard. They made space for me. They didn’t make me earn it.

I’m telling you this because you were wrong. About my “genes.” About me being unwanted. You were wrong, and I need you to know you were wrong.

I also need you to know… I still love you.

I hate that I do, sometimes. It would be easier if I didn’t. But I do.

And I’m sorry about Natasha. I’m sorry it ended the way it did. I’m sorry for the pain you caused her and the pain you’re in. Even if part of me feels like you deserve to sit with consequences, I don’t actually want you destroyed.

I miss you.

And I think that might be the worst part. Because I miss you even though I don’t want you near me. I miss you even though I don’t forgive you. I miss you even though I still flinch when I see your name on my screen.

So this is where I am. I’m not coming home yet. I’m finishing my thesis. I’m trying to build something that isn’t built around surviving you.

You don’t have to answer this right away. You don’t have to answer it at all. But I needed you to know that I’m alive, and that I’m not okay with what happened, and that I still love you anyway.

Please don’t call. Text only. If you can respect that, we can… maybe exist in the same world again. Eventually.

When you finished, your hands were shaking.

Not because you were afraid he’d be angry.

Because you’d just done something you’d never been taught you were allowed to do: you’d told the truth and held your boundaries at the same time.

You reread the message once, twice. You almost deleted it. You almost changed half the sentences to soften them, to make them kinder, to make them easier to swallow.

Then you remembered what Tony had said.

This wasn’t about easing his guilt.

This was about you.

So you hit send before you could talk yourself out of it.

The whoosh of the message leaving your phone was quiet, nearly nothing – just a digital ripple.

But your body reacted like you’d stepped off a cliff anyway.

You set the phone down and sat there, breathing hard, palms pressed to your thighs.

Outside, the palm leaves kept whispering.

Inside, your chest hurt.

But it hurt in a way that felt… real.

Honest.

And for the first time since that dinner, you didn’t feel like you were disappearing.

You felt like you were choosing where you stood.

Bucky saw it the way he saw everything now: by checking.

He’d told himself he wouldn’t be obsessive about it anymore. He’d told himself he’d give you space. He’d meant it, too – meant it in the only way he knew how, by not calling, by not driving to your apartment, by not asking Wanda and Pietro for scraps of information like a starving man.

But the thread was still there.

And his thumb still went there without him thinking. Morning. Night. Lunch break. Between meetings. In the elevator. In bed with the lights off, phone glow reflecting in eyes that hadn’t slept properly in weeks.

So when the notification came through, he wasn’t doing anything dramatic.

He was sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like the world might explain itself if he stared long enough.

His phone buzzed against the comforter.

He froze.

The screen lit up with your name and a preview long enough that he couldn’t see the end of it.

His heart kicked so hard it felt like a punch.

For a second – just one – his brain tried to go blank. Tried to protect him from what was about to happen. Tried to convince him it was a glitch, a spam text, anything but you.

Then his fingers moved.

He opened it.

And there it was.

A long message.

Not a single line. Not an emoji. Not a polite “I’m fine.” A real message. Full sentences. Paragraphs.

His throat tightened so hard he couldn’t swallow.

He started reading.

The first lines made his lungs forget what they were supposed to do.

I read everything… I needed time… I’m doing better…

Relief hit first – hot and immediate, a wave so intense it made his eyes sting. You were alive, you were breathing, you were eating, you were sleeping.

He clutched the phone tighter like it might slip away.

Then he kept reading.

And the relief curdled into something heavier.

You really hurt me.

His stomach dropped.

Not because he didn’t know.

Because you were saying it. You were placing it in words that couldn’t be argued with or softened.

I don’t forgive you right now.

He went still.

So still it felt like his body was trying to disappear to make room for the sentence.

A part of him had expected it. Prepared for it. Had even written you that you had the right.

But seeing it in your words made it real in a new way.

His throat burned.

He read on.

I can’t talk to you on the phone… I can’t hear your voice… I can’t see you… I don’t want to see your face.

His hand shook.

He pressed his knuckles to his mouth, breathing through his nose like that would keep him from making a sound.

Because the instinct to call you surged so violently it almost knocked him off the bed. To beg. To explain. To promise. To fix. To be there.

But you had written it clearly.

Please don’t call. Text only.

And Bucky – shaking, sick with fear and grief – forced himself to obey.

He kept reading.

Even reading your name sometimes makes my stomach turn.

His eyes squeezed shut for half a second.

Your name had always felt like home in his mouth. He’d always said it like it mattered, even when he was angry. Even when he was distant. Even when he was trying to pretend you weren’t the axis his world kept turning around.

And now his name – his presence – did this to you.

He read the part about Miami.

About finding your father.

His breath caught.

He knew – logically – that this was what you’d gone to do. Pietro had said as much, in that brutal, exhausted way of his. But seeing you say it, seeing you write I found my father, made his chest tighten in a different way.

Then.

He’s better.

Bucky’s eyes stung again, but this time it wasn’t only pain.

It was something like relief.

A laugh almost escaped him – small, broken – not because it was funny, but because the universe had been cruel enough to make him say what he’d said, and then kind enough to prove him wrong.

He stared at the sentence.

You were wrong.

His vision blurred.

You were wrong, and I need you to know you were wrong.

He nodded to himself without realizing it, like his body had to physically agree.

“I was,” he whispered, voice hoarse in the empty room. “I was wrong.”

And then he read the line that made everything inside him lurch.

I still love you.

For a second, the world tilted.

He reread it. Then again. As if the words might change if he looked too hard. As if it couldn’t possibly be there, not after what he’d done.

His hand trembled so badly he had to set the phone down on his bed and press both palms against his face.

A sound broke out of him – half sob, half breath.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just… the kind of noise a person made when they’d been holding everything back for too long and their body finally let something leak.

He grabbed the phone again and kept reading, because he couldn’t not.

The apology for Natasha hit him like a bruise.

Not because he deserved sympathy – he didn’t think he did – but because you were still you, still capable of compassion even for the wreckage he’d caused, still unable to turn your heart off even when you were protecting yourself.

I miss you. And I think that might be the worst part.

His chest constricted so sharply he had to bend forward, elbows on his knees, phone clutched in both hands like prayer.

Yes, he thought wildly.

Yes.

He wanted to scream it into the world.

Because he missed you too. Because he missed you in ways that made his skin feel wrong without you near. Because he missed you in the quiet moments when he reached for a second coffee mug out of habit. Because he missed you when the elevator doors opened and you weren’t there, and his brain still expected you.

He reached the end of your message.

Please don’t call. Text only. If you can respect that, we can… maybe exist in the same world again. Eventually.

Eventually.

That word was both a lifeline and a punishment.

He stared at it until his eyes burned.

Then he set the phone down, stood up too fast, and paced to his window. He stood there, looking out at the city lights like they could tell him what to do with the fact that you’d spoken to him again.

He didn’t deserve it.

But you’d given it anyway.

Not forgiveness.

Not reconciliation.

Just… proof that he hadn’t completely lost you to silence.

His hands shook as he picked up the phone again.

He opened the text box and stared at it.

A thousand things tried to spill out of him.

I’m sorry. Thank you. I love you. Please don’t leave me. I’ll do anything. Tell me where you are. Let me come. Let me fix it. Let me see you. Let me 

He swallowed hard and forced himself to breathe.

In.

Out.

Your message had been about you. Your pain. Your boundaries.

His response had to be the same: about you, not his need.

He typed slowly, fingers trembling, as if he was carving each word into stone.

Thank you for telling me you’re okay. I’m glad you found him. I’m glad he’s good to you. I’m glad you were wrong about being unwanted.

I hear you. I hear all of it. And you’re right, you don’t owe me forgiveness. You don’t owe me anything.

I won’t call. I won’t show up. Text only, and only if/when you want.

I’m sorry. I know I can’t undo it. I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure I never hurt you like that again, even if you never come back.

I love you. I miss you too. And I’ll wait. As long as it takes.

He read it twice, searching for hidden pressure, hidden selfishness.

Then he deleted one line – I’m going to spend the rest of my life… – because it sounded too dramatic, too much like a performance.

He rewrote it smaller.

I’m going to do better. Whether you’re in my life or not.

He stared at the message again, then hit send before he could overthink it into something worse.

The message went through.

And then there was nothing to do.

No next step.

No fix.

No certainty.

Only waiting.

Bucky sank back onto the edge of his bed, phone still in his hand, and pressed his thumb over your last line as if he could feel you through the glass.

He wasn’t serene.

He wasn’t okay.

But he was… steady.

Because you had spoken.

Because you were alive.

Because you had drawn a line – and he would rather bleed out than cross it again.

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[ginsvault]

𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐢𝐭....✦ ݁˖♡

summary: After a mission goes wrong, you watch Leon protect Ada while you’re left bleeding on the floor, and everything you’ve been swallowing for years finally breaks. The fight that follows is ugly, cruel and full of things neither of you can take back, but by morning, Leon is still outside your door, ready to tell you the truth and prove that you were never second to her.

warnings: re6!Leon Kennedy x fem!reader, established relationship, angst with comfort, jealousy, Ada Wong mentioned heavily, Ada-related insecurity, emotional argument, cruel words said during a fight, miscommunication, reader is injured during a mission, blood/injury mentions, Leon being emotionally constipated, hurt/comfort, crying, brief emotional manipulation, protective Leon, golden retriever as emotional support, reconciliation, explicit smut, MDNI, lotus position, prone bone, unprotected sex, creampie, dirty talk, praise, body worship, curvy reader, belly bulge/body insecurity, large breasts/big ass/soft thighs mentioned, aftercare, fluff ending, English is not the author’s first language.

wc: 8.0k

author’s note: this was requested by @gabithefanwriter 🖤 and honestly it turned into such an emotional mess, but in the best way. this was based on the re6 storyline but it only adds kind of placing to it, it doesn't follow it strictly. i wanted to write leon being painfully flawed here, not cruel for no reason, but still responsible for the damage his words cause. I wanted to become a little more explicit than I usually am on the smut part so tell me what you think. thank you so much for the request and for waiting, i hope the angst, the hurt/comfort and the soft ending make it worth it. no hate on Ada. ♡

tags: @defvia @causeofmykoophoria (first time adding people on my tags hehe i'm excited)🪽

You had been with Leon Kennedy for almost three years, and there were still days when loving him felt like learning how to do it without hurting yourself in the process.

Not because Leon was cold with you, or because your relationship lacked love. If anything, from the outside, the two of you probably looked more stable than anyone would expect, considering the kind of life you led. You had routines no one else knew about, like a drawer full of his shirts that you had been stealing since you started dating or your baby golden retriever named Cooper, whom Leon had sworn he did not want until the puppy climbed onto his boots at the shelter and stared up at him like the decision had already been made.

Leon lasted exactly four minutes.

Since then, Cooper had become an absurdly important part of your life. He was the first to run to the door when Leon came back from a mission, the one who somehow got Leon Kennedy — a man who had faced things most people would not even survive hearing about — to sit on the kitchen floor at midnight and negotiate over a stolen sock.

“That dog has you completely manipulated,” you had told him once, watching him break off a piece of toast and pass it under the table after insisting Cooper was not getting any.

Leon had not even looked up from his coffee.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Leon, you’ve said ‘last one’ four times.”

Cooper rested his chin on Leon’s thigh, eyes wide and shameless.

Leon sighed, broke off another piece, and gave it to him.

“He’s a strategist,” he muttered, as if that explained anything.

Those were the moments that made you think there was a version of Leon only you got to have. Not the agent, but the softer version of him, the one who fell asleep on the couch with one hand buried in Cooper’s fur, made coffee before your alarm rang, and pretended not to notice when you stole the warmer side of the bed.

You had seen things in Leon that no one else saw.

You had patched him up in the kitchen at ungodly hours, cleaning cuts he tried to downplay with tired jokes, holding his hand when pain made him clench his jaw so tightly he stopped speaking altogether.

And Leon loved you. You had never truly doubted that.

The problem was that Leon had a very particular way of loving you, one that sometimes made you feel respected, and other times made you feel terribly alone.

He did not usually intervene for you.

If someone questioned you in a briefing, Leon did not immediately step in. If you made a mistake in the field, he did not try to soften the consequences for you. You argued with a superior? he stayed close, alert, but he did not speak over you. He always told you the same thing: he trusted you, he knew you could handle yourself, he did not want to treat you like you were fragile just because he loved you.

For a long time, that had felt like respect.

At first, you had even been grateful for it. You did not want to be Leon Kennedy’s girlfriend in a way that made people look at you like you were only safe because he was standing behind you. You had never been weak, and Leon knew that better than anyone.

Still, there were moments when his trust hurt, when you wished he would stop respecting your strength long enough to notice your exhaustion.

Sometimes it even sounded childish in your own head, so you swallowed it, the way you swallowed a lot of things when it came to loving Leon.

You swallowed the way his face changed whenever Ada Wong’s name came up.

Then, you were both assigned a mission in China, one tied to Neo-Umbrella and to chaos spilling through the city faster than anyone could contain. You and Leon had been moving through the lower levels of a facility when Chris Redfield’s voice cracked through the radio, rough with fury, saying he had eyes on Ada Wong.

Leon went still.

You were close enough for your shoulder to brush his when the corridor narrowed, close enough to feel the way his focus changed beside you.

The mission went wrong minutes later.

An infected came out of one of the side corridors too fast for its ruined body, slamming into you before Leon could take it down. Your side hit the edge of a metal console with a sickening force, pain bursting hot beneath your ribs and stealing the air from your lungs. You dropped to one knee, one hand pressed against the wound, and when you looked down, blood was already spreading between your fingers.

“Leon—”

He turned instantly.

You saw him see you.

His eyes found yours, and for one brief second there was nothing calm or controlled about him. He looked terrified. He moved toward you as if the rest of the corridor had disappeared.

Then Ada’s voice cut through the alarms.

You only saw her at the end of the hall, pinned against the wall by Chris Redfield, one hand twisted in her jacket, his face wrecked with grief and rage. Ada looked battered but composed, blood at the corner of her mouth, eyes fixed not on Chris, but on Leon.

She said something low. Whatever it was made Leon stop dead.

“She’s lying,” Chris snapped, tightening his grip on her jacket, though you had not heard enough to know what about.

Ada’s gaze stayed on Leon and he only looked back at you once.

And then he turned away.

“Chris, let her go,” Leon said.

Chris stared at him like he could not believe what he was hearing.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Let her go.”

“She killed my men, Kennedy!”

“I said let her go.”

Leon stepped between them before Chris could do anything else, one hand pushing against Chris’s chest, the other hovering close to his own weapon. Ada stood behind him.

And you were still on the floor, blood warm beneath your palm, watching the man you loved put his body between another woman and danger.

“Move,” Chris warned.

“No.”

And something inside you went quiet.

Leon had always let you stand. Leon had always let you fight. He had always said he trusted you, that he would not take your strength away from you, that he would not treat you like something fragile just because you were his.

But with Ada, he did not wait for after.

You did not say anything for the rest of the extraction. You did your job because the world did not stop just because your heart had cracked open. You don't even remember the person who wrapped your side when you came back.

By the time you got home, you were shaking from more than blood loss.

Cooper met you at the door, tail wagging, ears perked up, his whole body moving with excitement. He nudged your hand with his nose, confused by the silence between you and Leon.

“Not now, Coop,” you murmured, brushing your fingers over his head before walking past him.

Leon shut the door behind you.

“We need to talk.”

You did not answer. You left your keys on the table, shrugged out of your jacket with clumsy fingers and went straight to the bathroom. Leon said your name once, quietly, but you closed the door before he could follow.

The shower did not calm you.

The hot water ran over your shoulders, down your back, over bruises already starting to bloom across your skin, but nothing reached the place where the image had burned itself into you. Leon turning away and choosing another woman.

By the time you stepped out, dressed in an old shirt with your damp hair sticking to your neck, your hurt had sharpened into something dangerous.

Leon was waiting in the bedroom.

He had not showered. He was still in his mission clothes, sitting on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped together, staring at the floor. Cooper was lying near his boots, restless, lifting his head the moment you stepped inside.

Leon stood at once.

“Let me explain.”

“No.”

He blinked, exhausted, his eyes red from the mission and from something that looked too much like fear.

“Please.”

“I don’t want to hear another explanation about Ada.”

“It wasn’t about Ada.”

You let out a laugh so dry and bitter it barely sounded like yours.

“Of course it wasn’t. It never is, right? It’s always the mission or something complicated.”

Leon’s jaw tightened.

“Don’t put words in my mouth.”

He took a step toward you, but you moved past him toward the closet, more to keep your hands busy than because you needed anything from it. Your side pulled painfully under the bandage, but you ignored it, grabbing a shirt, folding it, unfolding it, anything so you would not have to look at his face.

“You don’t know what happened,” he said.

“You’re right. I don’t. I don’t know anything, do I? I only know what it looked like when I was bleeding on the floor and you ran to her.”

“I didn’t run to her.” Anxiety rose in his voice. “I had no choice.”

“You never have a choice when it comes to her.”

Leon’s eyes flashed.

“It wasn’t about her.”

Ada had never been just jealousy. She was the part of Leon’s past you could never understand, the name that made his face change before he could hide it. And even though he always came home to you, sometimes her presence made you feel like you had arrived too late to understand him fully, or too late for him to love you more than he had ever loved her.

“Then what was it about?”

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

You nodded once, and it was almost worse than shouting.

“That’s what I thought.”

“No.” Leon moved closer, his voice lowering. “Don’t do that. You saw ten seconds of something and decided you understood all of it. That’s not fair.”

“Neither was leaving me there.”

“I didn’t leave you.”

“Stop saying that!” you shouted, and Cooper lifted his head sharply from the floor. “Stop saying that like I wasn’t there. I remember the floor, Leon. I remember you looking at me and still turning away.”

Leon dragged a hand down his face, breathing hard.

“And I remember having seconds to make a decision you know nothing about.”

“Then maybe you should have made one that didn’t look exactly like choosing her.”

He stared at you, his eyes bright, his mouth pressed into a hard line.

“With her, there’s always something,” you continued, stepping closer despite the pain in your side. “Always a part of the story I’m not allowed to know. And I’m so fucking tired, Leon. I’m tired of standing there like an idiot while you look at her like she still owns some piece of you.”

His expression changed.

“She doesn’t.”

“Sometimes I think you want to find proof,” he added, and his voice had gone colder. “Like you’re waiting for me to fuck up so you can finally say you were right about her and leave me.”

You laughed, but it came out broken.

“You are unbelievable.”

“And you’re exhausting.”

The insult hit fast, and for a second neither of you moved. Leon looked like he regretted it immediately, but the damage had already landed.

“Oh,” you said softly. “There it is.”

“That’s not what I—”

“No, no. Say it. I’m exhausting. My jealousy is exhausting. Me wanting my boyfriend to give a shit when I’m bleeding in front of him is exhausting.”

“You think I don’t give a shit? You really think that little of me?”

“I think you give a shit when it’s convenient, when you can sit beside me and be gentle without actually having to stand up for me.”

“That is bullshit.”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” he snapped. “It’s bullshit, and you know it.”

“Then tell me when.” Your voice cracked, but you forced yourself to keep going. “Tell me when you’ve ever stood between me and someone else like that. Tell me when you’ve ever looked at anyone and made it clear that with me, no. Tell me one time, Leon.”

He said nothing.

Your mouth twisted.

“Exactly.”

“You want me to be the villain so badly tonight.” His eyes hardened.

“No, Leon. I wanted you to be my boyfriend.”

“I am your boyfriend.”

“Then fucking act like it.”

That one hit him. You saw it in his face.

Leon’s voice dropped, colder now.

“That’s low.”

“So was stepping over me to get to her.”

“Jesus Christ.” He laughed once, sharp and humorless. “Do you hear yourself?”

“Do you?”

“Yes. I hear myself trying to talk to someone who has already decided I’m guilty.” His voice rose with every word. “You were ready. The second Ada appeared, you were already waiting for it, waiting for me to do something so you could play the victim.”

You stared at him with tears burning in your eyes.

“Fuck you.”

Leon went still.

“Fuck you for making me feel crazy for reacting to what you show me, for turning your silence into something sacred and my pain into an inconvenience.”

His face twisted.

“You think you’re the only one in pain?”

“Where was Ada when you were shaking so hard I had to sit on the bathroom floor with you until sunrise? Where was she when you woke up choking on air? Where was she when I cleaned blood out of your hair because your hands were too stiff to do it yourself? Where was she when you looked at me like you didn’t even know how to be loved without turning it into a punishment?”

“Stop.”

“No. You don’t get to ask me to stop just because it finally hurts you too, Leon. You let me bleed and dare to call it trust.”

His face went pale.

“That’s not fair.”

“Neither is making me compete with a woman who doesn’t even have to stay to win.”

Leon’s expression hardened again, and this time the anger came from somewhere uglier.

“You’re not competing with her.”

“Then why do I always feel like I’m losing?”

“Because you keep putting yourself in the race.”

Leon seemed to hear himself and still kept going.

“You want the truth? Sometimes it feels like no matter what I do, you’ll find a way to make it about Ada. I come home to you, I sleep beside you, I live with you. I chose a life with you, but the second her name appears, you act like none of it means anything. You spiral, and then I have to stand there proving I love you while you look at me like I already failed. Do you know how suffocating that is?”

You stared at him.

“Suffocating?”

His face shifted.

“Wait, I didn’t mean—”

You nodded slowly, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“So I’m exhausting. I spiral. I suffocate you. Anything else?”

Leon closed his eyes.

“Stop.”

“No. Come on. Finish it. Since we’re finally being honest, tell me what else I am.”

“You’re impossible when it comes to her. You say you don’t want to be jealous, but you punish me for a history I had before I even knew you. You say you want me to let you in, but the second I don’t bleed myself open in exactly the way you want, you act like I’m choosing someone else.”

“I have never asked you to bleed yourself open.”

“No, you just make me feel like a coward when I can’t.”

“I make you feel like a coward?” you repeated, almost laughing through the tears. “Leon, you are the bravest man in every room until the person asking for honesty is me.”

He flinched.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Cooper whimpered softly near the bed. Leon’s chest was rising and falling too fast, his eyes wet, his anger clearly starting to scare even him, but he still had one last terrible thing left in him.

“There are things Ada understands because she was there.”

The words changed the room. Leon’s expression flickered, regret rising immediately, but he was already too deep in it.

“Raccoon, Spain... all of it. There are things I don’t have to translate for her. Things I don’t have to make clean. She knows what kind of world this is.”

“No,” you said, and your voice sounded smaller than you wanted it to. “I wasn’t there at the beginning. I just got what was left of you after.”

Leon went pale.

“That’s cruel.”

“So was what you said.”

“You think it’s easy for me?” His voice cracked. “You think I enjoy knowing there are parts of me you only know because they come out ugly at night? You think I like being loved by someone who has to survive me first?”

Your anger faltered for half a second.

“You think being with you is something I survive?”

Leon looked horrified.

“No. That’s not what I—”

“But it is, isn’t it?” Your voice broke. “That’s what you think. That I keep score. That every time I hold you through something terrible, I’m collecting proof to use against you later.”

“No—”

“You just said I punish you.”

“I was angry,” he said, already regretting it.

“So was I, and somehow I still didn’t tell you that loving you suffocates me.”

That cut him open. His shoulders dropped, his face breaking around the edges, but you were too hurt to stop.

“You know what the worst part is? I don’t even hate Ada. I hate what you become when she’s close, and I hate how quickly I disappear for you.”

Leon’s eyes shone.

“You don’t disappear.”

“I was on the floor,” you repeated, quieter now, and somehow that made it worse. “And you walked away.”

He swallowed hard.

“I had to.”

Leon looked at you like he was one breath away from telling you everything, but he did not. Whatever reason he had, whatever secret he was holding, it stayed locked behind his teeth.

And that was the final cut.

You laughed once, broken and empty.

“You know, maybe that’s the difference between us. Ada gets the truth because she can handle your world. I get protected from it like a child and abandoned in it like an adult.”

Leon flinched.

“That is not true.”

“Then why am I always the last one to know what’s happening in my own relationship?”

Your voice dropped to barely more than a whisper.

“I’m tired, Leon.”

His expression softened.

“I know.”

“No, you don’t. I’m tired of being brave for you, tired of pretending it doesn’t humiliate me when you shut me out and call it protection.”

Leon took a step toward you.

Then he said, low and broken, “And you think you’re easy to love when you’re like this?”

Everything stopped.

Even Leon seemed to stop breathing. Your face went blank, and you felt like you were about to be sick.

There it was. The fear that loving you was work. That your feelings were too much. That your hurt made you ugly. That eventually, Leon would get tired of convincing you that you were enough.

“Baby—”

“No.”

Your voice was small but firm. He took a step toward you and you stepped back.

“No, wait. I didn’t mean that.”

“You did. And honestly? Thank you for finally saying it.”

His face crumpled. Leon’s eyes filled.

“I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, my love. I shouldn’t have—”

“Stop calling me that.”

He went silent immediately.

You turned to the bed and grabbed a pillow with shaking hands. Cooper stood at once, ears pinned back, looking between the two of you like he did not understand why his home suddenly felt unsafe.

Leon’s panic was immediate.

“No.”

“I’m sleeping in the guest room.”

“Please, don’t.”

“I can’t sleep next to you tonight.”

“Please.” His voice cracked. “Yell at me. Tell me I’m an asshole, tell me I’m a coward, tell me I don’t deserve you, but don’t go in there thinking I meant any of that.”

You clutched the pillow to your chest. Cooper hesitated for a second, torn between you both, then pressed himself against your leg, tail low.

Leon looked at him and then at you, destroyed.

You walked out with Cooper, Leon following at a distance, close enough for you to feel his desperation but not close enough to touch.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please, just let me explain.”

You opened the guest room door and closed it behind you.

For a few seconds, you heard nothing. No footsteps, no breathing, no sound of Leon trying to save what could not be saved. Only Cooper behind you, circling beside the bed, unsure whether to climb up, go back to the door or whine loudly enough for one of you to understand that all of this was breaking his spoiled little dog world too.

You sat on the edge of the mattress with the pillow in your arms, still damp beneath your fingers, and finally, the sobs broke out of you for real. They were not pretty, or quiet, or dignified. It was an ugly, exhausted cry, with your throat closing and your chest hurting every time you tried to breathe. You covered your mouth with one hand because you hated that Leon might hear you on the other side, hated that even after what he had said, there was still a part of you that did not want to hurt him.

Cooper set his front paws on your knees, worried.

“Come here, sweetheart,” you murmured, making room for him.

The dog did not take even a second. He climbed onto the bed clumsily, nudged you with his nose until you lay down, and settled against your body with his head on your stomach, just below the place where the bandage pulled at your skin. It hurt a little, but you did not move him. You needed something that did not remind you that your partner had just told you that you would never be like the woman who had made you feel inadequate for years.

On the other side of the door, Leon was still there.

You knew because, after a while, you heard the faint sound of his body sliding down against the wood until he was sitting on the floor. After some time, his voice came low and hoarse, so close to the door it sounded like he was speaking against it.

“I’m sorry,” Leon said. “You don’t have to say anything. I just… needed to say it again.”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

“I’m sorry for what I said.” Your chest tightened, but you did not open the door. Leon breathed slowly on the other side. “And I’m sorry I didn’t know how to protect you without making you feel abandoned.”

That sentence made you cry again. Cooper lifted his head when he heard you, restless, and jumped down from the bed before you could stop him. He went to the door, sniffed under it and let out a soft whine. Leon gave a broken laugh, barely audible.

“Hey, buddy.”

Cooper wagged his tail, thumping it against the wood.

“No, don’t bother her. Mom’s mad at Dad.”

Leon did not know you were still awake, or maybe he did, but he spoke anyway, in that low voice he used with Cooper when he thought no one else could hear.

“And she’s right. Dad’s been an idiot.”

Cooper scratched the door once.

“I know. I want to go in too, but I can’t.” You covered your mouth with your hand, choking back a sob. “Look after her for me, okay?” Leon continued, his voice thinning, breaking. “Don’t let her cry alone. I know she doesn’t like anyone seeing her like that, but you can.”

Cooper whined.

“I don’t know how to fix this, Coop. I don’t know how to tell her it wasn’t Ada, that it wasn’t her, that everything I did was because I thought if I didn’t get Ada out of there, I’d lose her. Your mom. I can’t lose her.”

Your heart lurched so hard that for a second you forgot how to breathe.

“I can’t,” Leon repeated, almost in a whisper, beginning to cry. “Not after being enough of an idiot to make her believe that what she is to me mattered less than anything Ada could ever understand about me.”

Eventually, Cooper came back to bed, curled up beside you, and you stayed awake for a long time, listening to Leon’s breathing on the other side of the door until, little by little, it grew slower and heavier.

The next morning, you woke with a dry mouth, swollen eyes and pain in places you did not even remember hitting. For a few seconds, you did not know where you were, until you saw the guest room, the wrinkled pillow beneath your cheek and Cooper lying by the door with his ears raised as if he had spent the night keeping watch.

Then you remembered everything.

You sat up slowly, clenching your teeth when the bandage pulled at your side, and Cooper got up immediately, approaching you with a soft whine. You stroked his head before walking to the door. You had not expected to find Leon there. Part of you thought he would have gone back to the bedroom at some point, that he would have obeyed, even if only out of exhaustion, that he would have understood you did not want to see him.

But when you opened the door, you found him asleep on the hallway floor.

He was sitting against the wall, one leg stretched out and the other bent, his head tilted to one side, his hair a mess and last night’s clothes ruined. Cooper immediately went out and sniffed his hand, wagging his tail carefully.

Leon woke at the movement. He opened his eyes slowly, lost at first, then fully alert when he saw you standing in front of him. He pushed himself up as quickly as he could.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. His gaze dropped to your side by instinct, but he forced himself to look back into your eyes before saying anything. “Does it hurt?”

You nodded faintly. Silence settled between you. It was strange seeing him like that, sitting on the floor of your house with dark circles under his eyes and redness in them.

“You stayed here,” you said at last.

Leon looked down at his hands.

“I couldn’t leave.”

That hurt you, though not in the same way as before. You leaned a little against the doorframe because your body still felt heavy, and Leon noticed immediately. He moved as if he were going to help you, but stopped before touching you.

“You should sit down.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“It wasn’t an order. You’re pale.”

It annoyed you that he was right.

Without saying anything, you walked toward the living room. Cooper went ahead, happy simply because you were both in the same room, and Leon followed at a distance, as if he no longer knew what space belonged to him in his own house. You sat carefully on the couch, holding your side, and he remained standing in front of you.

“Sit,” you said, tired.

Leon obeyed, but he did not sit beside you. He sat on the coffee table in front of you, elbows on his knees and hands clasped so tightly his knuckles had gone pale, looking at you like every word in his mouth had teeth.

For a few seconds, he said nothing.

Then he took a deep breath.

“They used her.”

You looked up.

Leon swallowed, his eyes fixed on yours even though you could tell it cost him to hold your gaze.

“Ada?” you asked, and even saying her name felt like pressing on a bruise.

His jaw tightened.

“Yes. Well, the woman wearing her face.”

The living room went quiet. Even Cooper, who had been trying to climb onto the couch, froze halfway, one paw still hanging awkwardly in the air.

You stared at Leon.

“What are you talking about?”

“When you hit that console, you weren’t just injured.” His voice came out low, careful, but there was something underneath it that kept threatening to break. “There was something built into it. A trigger. I don’t know exactly what to call it yet. Something tied to the C-virus.”

Your fingers tightened against the couch.

“No…”

“I didn’t know at first,” he said quickly, as if he needed you to understand that part before anything else. “I saw you on the floor and I was going to you. I was already moving toward you.”

Your eyes burned.

“Then she said something.”

Leon nodded once.

“She said you had been exposed. She said if Chris killed her, or if she didn’t reach the terminal in time, the trigger would activate before we got you out of the building.”

The air seemed to leave the room.

You looked at him, trying to fit those words around the memory you had spent all night bleeding from: Leon turning away, stepping in front of Ada and leaving you on the floor.

“I didn’t know if she was lying,” he admitted. “That’s the worst part. I still don’t know how much of it was true and how much was manipulation, but she knew where you were hurt. I couldn’t call her bluff when your life was what she had in her hands.”

You stayed completely still.

The anger was still there, but now there was something else tangled inside it. Horror. Confusion. A sick kind of relief that made you feel almost worse, because it changed the shape of what had happened without making it hurt any less.

“I thought you were choosing her,” you whispered.

“I know.” His eyes were red, exhausted, full of guilt. “And there is nothing I can say that erases how that must have felt. The mission explains why I stepped in front of Chris. It doesn’t excuse what I did after.”

You swallowed hard.

Leon looked at you like he deserved every second of your silence.

“I was scared,” he said, voice rough. “I was terrified. I saw you bleeding, I heard her say those things, and then I saw your face when we got home. I knew exactly what you thought had happened. I knew you thought I had chosen Ada, and instead of taking it, instead of letting you be angry until I could explain it properly, I defended myself like a coward.”

You did not speak.

“It felt like my insecurities disgusted you.”

Leon shook his head immediately.

“They don’t.”

“It felt like you were tired of me.”

“I was tired of myself,” he said, almost desperately, then stopped, forcing himself not to turn it into a plea. “But I threw it at you. And that was wrong.”

You looked at him then. He was sitting right in front of you, close enough to touch and still holding himself back.

“Ada isn’t the woman I want to come home to,” he said, quieter. “Whoever was wearing her face down there isn’t either. You are.”

Cooper finally managed to climb onto the couch, pushing his head against your thigh with a soft huff, as if he had decided both of you were too emotionally useless to handle the moment without him. You lowered a hand to his fur without thinking. Leon watched the gesture, his eyes wet.

“I’ve confused respecting you with leaving you alone too many times,” he said. “I told myself not stepping in was trust, that you didn’t want me treating you like you were fragile, and part of that was true, but another part was cowardice. Because protecting someone also means risking getting it wrong. It means showing up before the damage is already done. And with you, I’ve been so careful not to make you feel weak that sometimes I made you feel abandoned.”

“I didn’t want to be that girlfriend,” you whispered.

Leon’s brow furrowed slightly.

“Which one?”

“The one who compares herself and gets jealous about her partner’s past.”

Leon got up from the coffee table slowly and knelt in front of you, between your legs.

“You’re not that girlfriend,” he said.

“Yesterday I was.”

Tears started falling from your eyes.

“Yesterday you were hurt and scared.” His voice softened. “And I gave you reasons to feel every single one of those things.”

Cooper took advantage of Leon being on the floor and pushed his snout between you, resting his chin on your knee. You let out a sad little laugh as you stroked his head.

“I heard you talking to him last night.”

Leon glanced at the dog, embarrassed.

“I thought you were asleep.”

“I heard you say Mom was mad at Dad.”

Leon looked down, and a tiny, broken smile barely touched his mouth.

“Well. Mom was right.”

Cooper wagged his tail, as if he completely agreed. Another tear escaped you, but this time Leon did not try to wipe it away. He stayed still, waiting, his hands resting on his own thighs.

“I’m going to fight for you in the small things too. Even when you don’t ask me to. Even when I think you can handle it on your own,” Leon said, his blue eyes full of tears as they locked onto yours.

You looked at him for a long second. Then you lifted a hand and touched his face.

Leon closed his eyes instantly, as if the contact hurt with relief. His stubble was rough beneath your fingers, his skin cold, tears finally falling from his eyes.

“Come here,” you whispered.

He rose slowly and sat beside you on the couch, careful not to touch your wound. At first, there was a small distance between you, only a few inches, but it felt enormous. You were the one who broke it, resting your forehead against his shoulder. Leon let out the breath as if he had been holding it all night.

His arms wrapped around you slowly, afraid, not holding you too tightly. He lowered his mouth to your hair and stopped.

“Can I kiss you?”

It took you a second to answer.

“Yes.”

He kissed the top of your head first, then your temple, and then pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were red, his face exhausted, and his guilt was so visible you could almost touch it. You lifted your hand again, brushing his jaw, and Leon went still beneath your fingers.

“Are you afraid to touch me?” you asked.

Leon nodded.

“Why?”

“Because I hurt you yesterday, and I don’t want you to think I’m trying to fix this with my hands.”

You looked at him in silence.

“You can’t fix it with your hands,” you said, searching his eyes. “But you can touch me if I ask you to.”

Leon barely breathed.

“Are you asking me?”

His eyes drifted slowly over your face, your lips, your neck, the oversized shirt you were wearing and the way you were unconsciously protecting your injured side. There was no rush in his gaze, only Leon looking at you as if he had nearly lost the only thing in the world that truly mattered to him.

His voice dropped, softer, more intimate.

“You’re beautiful when you’re angry with me, when you cry even though you hate it, when you try to be strong even when you’re falling apart. You’re beautiful here.” He barely brushed the fabric near your bandage, without pressing. “And here.” His fingers moved up toward your chest, but stopped before truly touching you. “And in every place where you think there’s something to compare.”

The air thickened between you. You looked at his mouth, then his eyes.

“Then prove it to me.”

Leon closed his eyes for a second, as if those words had snapped whatever little control he had left. When he looked at you again, there was no anger, only desire and a devotion so clear it almost hurt to face. He brought his hand to your face slowly, touching your cheek with a tenderness that contrasted too sharply with the brutality of everything you had said to each other hours earlier.

You leaned toward him first. Leon did not rush to kiss you. He stayed still until your mouth brushed his, and only then did he respond. He kissed you slowly, carefully. One of his hands remained on your cheek and the other on the couch, away from your body, though you could feel how much effort it took for him not to touch you more.

When you pulled away, Leon did not open his eyes immediately.

“I don’t know if I deserve this,” he murmured.

Your hand slid down to his wrist and guided it slowly to your waist, away from the wound, where his touch would not hurt. Leon followed the movement without resistance, but when his fingers touched your body over your shirt, he breathed as if that simple gesture had pulled something out of his chest. His forehead fell against yours.

“I love you,” he whispered. Leon glanced down at your mouth.

“Can I kiss you again?”

This time, you did not answer with words. You tugged softly at his shirt and he understood, leaning toward you with a slowness that made you close your eyes before his lips even touched yours. He wanted to touch you to remind you that you were still you, the woman he was finally going to learn how to protect without leaving her alone first, and you were starving for your man to finally reassure his love for you in the rawest way possible. And Leon did too.

Leon leaned in, brushing his nose against yours in a gesture so intimate it made your eyes flutter shut.

“Come here,” he murmured, his voice so soft, so full of love, that you felt like you could melt right there.

He helped you stand carefully, always aware of your injured side. His hands slid over your hips, caressing the soft fullness of your thighs before moving up to your waist. He noticed the way your stomach tensed slightly, that little habit you had whenever you felt too exposed.

“Don’t hide from me,” he whispered against your lips, kissing you. “You’re beautiful. You know that, don’t you?”

“Leon…” you protested weakly, your hands rising on instinct to cover your stomach, that soft belly you were so embarrassed by and that he loved so much.

He took your wrists gently, pressing a kiss to the inside of each one before lowering your hands and keeping them at your sides.

“Look,” he said, his tone firm but tender. “Look how beautiful you are. This body drives me crazy.”

His hands slipped beneath your shirt, stroking the soft skin of your stomach. You felt his fingers trace reverent circles around your navel, his palms spreading over the roundness you always tried so hard to hide.

“I love this,” he confessed, kissing your jaw, your throat, the hollow of your collarbone. “I love every curve, every inch of softness. Please, let me see you.”

His words, spoken in that rough, sincere voice, sent a shiver of desire down your spine. You nodded, feeling emotional tears sting your eyes, and he smiled against your skin as he helped pull the shirt over your head.

When you were left in only your panties, exposed in front of him, Leon took a moment just to admire you. His eyes traveled over your large, heavy breasts, your hips, your thick, soft thighs he had touched so many times in his dreams.

“My God,” he breathed, almost reverent. “You’re perfect.”

He stood and undressed quickly until he was left in only his boxers, revealing his muscular torso and strong arms. Then he lifted you with an ease that stole your breath, one hand under your thighs and the other carefully braced against your back, far from your wound.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, even as he lowered you gently onto the sofa and settled you between the pillows.

“No,” you whispered. “I’m okay.”

Leon sat in front of you on the edge of the sofa and motioned for you to come closer. You moved carefully, feeling him help position you, his strong hands guiding your hips until you were seated in his lap, facing him, your legs wrapped around his waist.

The position made you feel completely open, vulnerable, but also incredibly safe. Leon had one hand on your hip, the other on your lower back, holding you without pressing against your injured side.

He leaned in until your foreheads touched. His eyes, those intense blue eyes, looked at you with a mixture of adoration and desire that made you feel like the most wanted woman in the world.

“I love you,” he said, and it was not just a confession, it was a promise. “Every part of you. This belly you get so shy about…” He kissed your nose. “These hips that drive me insane…” He kissed your cheek. “These perfect breasts…” He kissed the corner of your mouth. “All of it. I love all of you.”

And then he kissed you properly. His lips were soft but insistent, his tongue exploring your mouth with a familiarity that made your body melt against his. You could feel him hard beneath you, pressing against your center, and you moaned into his mouth.

“That’s it,” he murmured against your lips, rolling his hips in slow circles that made sparks burst behind your eyes. “Let me hear you, sweetheart. I want to know what you like.”

His hands moved over your body with adoration. They caressed your thighs, slid up to your hips, traced the curve of your waist. Every touch felt like worship.

“Leon,” you moaned, gripping his shoulders as he kissed down your neck, then lower to the valley between your breasts. “Please…”

“What do you need, baby?” he asked, looking into your eyes while his thumbs brushed the sides of your breasts. “Tell me.”

“You,” you whispered. “I need you. Inside me.”

He groaned, that rough, masculine sound that always made you wetter.

“First,” he said, a teasing smile tugging at his mouth, “I want to taste you.”

He helped you lie back gently, always making sure your side was not pressed uncomfortably against the sofa. He placed pillows carefully beneath your back to keep you supported and safe, then leaned over you.

He started with your breasts, taking them in both hands and kissing every inch of sensitive skin. Your breath caught when he took one nipple into his mouth, sucking softly while his other hand stroked your stomach, the belly he loved so much.

“Beautiful,” he murmured against your skin. “So soft. So perfect.”

He moved lower, kissing your navel and tracing circles with his tongue over your stomach. You felt like you were dying of embarrassment and pleasure at the same time, but he looked up at you with those intense eyes.

“Don’t hide, sweetheart.”

And how could you deny him anything when he asked like that, with that rough voice and those pleading eyes? You let your hands fall to your sides, and he smiled, so full of love that it made your heart overflow.

He moved lower, kissing the inside of your thighs, caressing your softness with reverence. When he finally pulled your panties off and opened you for him, the sound he made was almost one of relief.

“God, look at you,” he whispered, and then his tongue was on you, hot and insistent.

You cried out his name, arching against him, but he immediately noticed the way your body tensed from the movement.

“Shhh,” he soothed, placing a gentle hand over your stomach. “Easy, love. Don’t move. Let me do the work.”

And he did. God, he did. His tongue brought you to the edge over and over, his fingers sliding in and out of you at a torturous pace.

“Leon, I’m going to…” you gasped, gripping the sheets.

“Come for me,” he ordered softly. “I want to feel you. Give it to me, sweetheart.”

And you came with a muffled cry, your body trembling beneath him. When you came back down, he was above you, kissing your forehead, your eyelids, your cheeks.

“I need you,” you said, still breathless, feeling his hardness against your thigh. “Now, Leon. Please. I want to feel you inside… I want you to come inside me.”

He groaned deeply, his eyes darkening with desire.

“Are you sure?” he asked, though he was already positioning himself between your legs. “I want to fill you, sweetheart. I want to feel you around me when I let go.”

“Yes,” you pleaded, wrapping your legs around his waist. “Please, Leon. I want to feel it. I want you to fill me.”

But instead of entering you like that, he helped you sit up again. He wanted to see you, to be close to your heart.

“Come here,” he whispered, lifting you easily with his strong arms and settling you back onto his lap.

He lowered you onto him slowly, guiding your hips with one hand while the other supported your back away from your wound. He pushed into you inch by inch, and you both moaned at the same time when he was fully inside.

“God,” he gasped, resting his forehead against yours. “You feel incredible. So tight, so warm.”

“Move,” you whispered, holding onto his neck. “Please, baby. I want to feel you move inside me.”

He started with slow, deep thrusts, his strong hands lifting your hips and guiding you back down onto him in a rhythm that made you lose your mind. Every movement filled you completely, and you could feel every pulse of him, every inch of his hardness.

“Look at me,” he asked, and when you opened your eyes, he was watching you with an intensity that stole your breath. “I want to see your face when you come with me inside you. I want to see your eyes when I fill you.”

“Leon…” you moaned, feeling pleasure gather again. “I’m close… I’m going to…”

“Me too,” he growled, his hips moving faster while still keeping control, always careful with your side. “God, sweetheart, you feel so good. I’m going to… I’m going to come inside you. I’m going to fill you. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” you whimpered, taking his face in your hands. “Yes, please, do it. I want to feel it. I want all of you.”

He kissed you desperately, tongues tangling, and then he shifted the angle slightly, lifting your hips a little more so every thrust brushed that perfect spot inside you.

“Come with me,” he ordered, his voice rough and tight. “Now, sweetheart. Come with me.”

Your orgasm hit you like a wave, your body clenching around him, your walls pulsing around his cock. Leon groaned deeply, burying his face in your neck, and then you felt the first hot, milky burst inside you.

“God, sweetheart!” he cried out, his thrusts turning erratic as he emptied himself inside you, spilling into you in hot pulses. “I love you… fuck, I love you so much…”

He kept moving, drawing out your orgasm, making sure every drop stayed inside you. You could feel the warmth spreading, the wet, primal sensation of him marking you from within, and it was so intimate, so perfect, that happy tears filled your eyes.

When he finally calmed, he stayed inside you, kissing your neck, your jaw, your lips with endless tenderness.

“Are you okay?” he asked, stroking your side carefully. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” you whispered, stroking his hair. “I’m perfect. I’m… I’m full of you.”

He smiled against your skin, pulling out of you carefully and letting his release stay inside you, warm and physical proof of his love.

“I want another round,” he said softly, kissing your shoulder. “But only if you feel okay. I want to make you come again. I want to feel you around me while I’m still sensitive.”

You nodded, still floating in the haze of pleasure. He helped you lie on your stomach, but not directly against the mattress. He built a small mountain of pillows beneath your hips and chest, raising you in a way that kept your wound completely free of pressure. He angled you slightly to the side so your left side did not touch anything.

“How’s that?” he asked, kneeling between your legs and stroking your back. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” you whispered, feeling exposed, vulnerable, but incredibly cared for.

He entered you from behind, and even though he had already finished, he was still hard, still driven by his desire for you. He leaned over you, holding his weight on one forearm while his other hand stroked your hip, your thigh, your stomach.

“I can feel myself inside you,” he whispered in awe, moving slowly.

“Yours,” you repeated, turning your head to search for his lips.

He kissed you, crooked and deep, while his hips moved against yours in long, sensual thrusts. His hand slipped between your body and the pillows, finding your clit and rubbing it in perfect circles.

“I want to feel you come like this,” he murmured against your skin. “With my cum inside you, with my hand on your belly. I want you to know you’re mine, completely mine.”

“Leon…” you moaned, feeling pleasure build again, slower this time, but deeper.

“Let go,” he insisted, kissing your shoulder, your neck. “I’m here. I’ve got you. And I’m going to fill you again, sweetheart. I want to leave you so full of me.”

The thought of him coming inside you again, filling you for a second time, pushed you toward the edge. You moaned his name over and over like a prayer.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, moving faster, his fingers working your clit with precision. “Come for me, sweetheart. Come with my cock inside you, full of my cum.”

And you came with a sob that he caught with his mouth, your body trembling, your walls clenching tight around him again. He groaned, deep and rough, and then you felt him tense, felt him spill inside you a second time, his thrusts turning deep and desperate as he filled you.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he panted, collapsing gently over you while still careful not to crush your side. “You’re… you’re incredible.”

He stayed inside you for long minutes, kissing your back, whispering sweet words against your sweaty skin. When he finally pulled out, he did it carefully, and you felt the mixture of both of your releases sliding down your thighs, physical proof of his desire.

He wrapped you in the shirt you had been wearing and lifted you into his arms. He carried you, sat down with you in his lap, wrapped you in a soft blanket and tucked you against his chest.

“How do you feel?” he asked, kissing your forehead. “Does your side hurt?”

“No,” you whispered, stroking his chest.

He smiled, that tired, happy smile you loved so much.

“Good,” he said, kissing your temple. “Because you’re mine. And I’m yours. Completely.”

And as the sun was rising outside, painting the sky in warm colors, you fell asleep in his arms, safer and more loved than you had ever been, full of him in every possible way, because now you knew that Leon Kennedy would do anything, even put at stake anybodys lifes if it meant you were going to be safe.

hope you enjoyed it! i'm open to any requests! follow me on ao3 too here

── ginevra ❤︎

[blowingbarnes]

Not That I Miss You

➴ PAIRING: Brother's Best Friend!Bucky x Reader ➴ WC: 7.8k ➴ WARNINGS: college drinking, IT'S HALLOWEEN!, mentions of friends getting high, being at a bar, drunk kissing, drunk!reader (she is not too drunk to not consent — tipsy is the word), SMUT (cowgirl, missionary, couch sex, p in v, pull out method, oral (m receiving)), Bucky actually trying to be good, Dot being a bad friend. ➴ SUMMARY: Your brain is too reliant on technology, so when your phone dies mid-halloween bar crawl, there's only one number you know by heart. Bucky's. +fran: time to get these two idiots through some more. thank you for all the love on their prom night <3, I meant for this to be like 5k, how did it almost get to 8k? idk special thanks to aluri for being the producer to my director/screenwriter @chateaubarnes ⤷ songs for this: snap out of it - arctic monkeys, twilight zone - ariana grande, lying is the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off - panic at the disco

CAN BE READ AS A STANDALONE!

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Manhattan had always been where your heart settled. 

There was just something about stepping off the train at Penn Station or Grand Central that made your lungs seem to work a little easier, like your body had finally realized it could unclench. It was the only place you'd ever been where your mind quieted instead of sped up.

It made your heartbeat slow down, your blood pressure decrease, it triggered your parasympathetic nervous system into calming you down. You felt free.

You'd spent years making your parents stop in the city whenever family trips brought you anywhere remotely close. While Steve wanted Yankees games and Bucky wanted to wander into every record store he could find, you wanted to walk.

The day you got the acceptance letter for Columbia, you squealed, screamed, threw your arms around your brother's neck and then ran down the stairs to jump on the couch and tell your parents. 

You pointed dramatically at the acceptance letter. "I am moving to Manhattan!"

Bucky snorted beside Steve on the couch. "I think even the current Space Mission knows that." He motion to his ear like it hurt from your shriek.

"No, you don't understand." You were already talking too fast. "I get to live there." You looked around the room like someone might still tell you it wasn't real. "I get to wake up there." Another laugh bubbled out of you. "I get to buy groceries there."

Steve chuckled. "Very exciting."

"It is exciting!" You looked back at Bucky. "I get to be one of those people that complains about the subway."

He grinned. "I've never seen anyone so excited about public transportation." He looked at you for a long second. "But I'm happy you are."

Move-in day came faster than anyone was prepared for.

Your entire life somehow fit into cardboard boxes, plastic storage bins, and two very overstuffed suitcases.

When they helped move you into your freshman dorm, Bucky and Steve were there in tow to carry the heavy things, pick on you, and flirt with girls on your floor. Well, Bucky did. Steve politely talked himself out of having to fake an alibi for Natasha if she ever sniffed out freshmen trying to get at him.

The first year had consisted mostly of Steve reading assembly instructions upside down while Bucky silently took the Allen wrench out of his hands and built the entire bookshelf in twenty minutes.

And then they were there at the end of the year to help you unpack. And back at the beginning of the year, at a different dorm building to help move— you get the picture. 

Three years later, Manhattan had become home in the way only a city that exhausts you every day somehow can.

The city moved so quickly that no one noticed if you were having a bad day.

There was something comforting about being able to disappear into eight million people and somehow feel less alone than you ever had anywhere else.

It was loud, and messy, and busy, but it was home. 

Sirens at two in the morning. The rumble of the subway beneath your lecture hall. Street vendors shouting over one another. The smell of roasted nuts mixing with rain-soaked concrete and coffee that somehow tasted better when it cost six dollars.

Steve and Bucky shared a two-bedroom apartment down in the Financial District. It was exactly what anyone would expect from two men in their twenties.

Reasonably clean, lived in, backbacks slung over a chair, smelling of sandalwood and saffron and a Bath and Body Works candle you gifted them, pretty neat. Except for the coffee mugs. There were always coffee mugs.

Everywhere.

You and Bucky never really talked about what happened prom night. It never… came up, per se. 

Neither of you wanted to touch on the subject that could end up ruining a good thing, so you both just moved on with your lives. 

Birthdays.

Christmases.

Sunday breakfasts.

Study sessions.

Phone calls that started with, "Are you busy?" and ended three hours later.

You stayed exactly what you'd always been.

Best friends. Forever. 

23 blocks apart. 

Halloween in Manhattan wasn't a holiday.

It was a competitive sport.

By seven-thirty that evening, the sidewalks of the Lower East Side were overflowing with pirates ordering espresso martinis, sexy astronauts trying not to break ankles on uneven pavement, and at least four different Spider-Men arguing over whose suit was comic accurate.

Your group squeezed out of the subway station laughing, immediately getting swept into the current of people flowing down St. Marks Place.

It felt like the entire city had decided to meet in one neighborhood.

Music poured out of every open doorway, bass vibrating through the pavement beneath your boots. Someone dressed as Frankenstein was arguing with a traffic cop. Two girls dressed as matching angels were taking photos in the middle of the crosswalk while yellow cabs laid on their horns. Somewhere farther down the street, a saxophone player was somehow making Thriller sound like smooth jazz.

You took a deep breath and the air smelled like cigarettes, perfume, street tacos, pumpkin beer, and roasted peanuts.

"I love this city," you sighed happily. 

Kate snorted beside you, eyeing you up and down before chuckling. "You've literally said that every five minutes since we got off the subway."

"Because every five minutes I find another reason."

Yelena, dressed in what she'd proudly called "the least historically accurate vampire ever conceived," adjusted the fake cape hanging off one shoulder. "Personally," she announced, "I think New York should make Halloween a federal holiday."

"It isn't already?" Dot asked.

Ah, sweet Dot. 

She was in your Intro to Statistics class and definitely pursuing an M.R.S. degree with the first Finance guy she could find. Beautiful head of hair, pretty lips that looked sinful in red lipstick, but not a light inside that house.

If there was ever an award for selling your friend out to get a man, she'd get it. 

Somewhere behind you, a group dressed as the entire cast of Scooby-Doo broke into a drunken rendition of "Mr. Brightside."

The first bar was already packed wall to wall, there had to be two hundred people squeezed inside, every inch of brick wall covered in fake cobwebs and orange lights, the bartender was dressed as Beetlejuice, and someone in a Ghostface costume was singing karaoke with alarming confidence.

You squeezed your way to the bar shoulder-first, turning around ready to ask for Kate's order, only to realize she has pulled a Houdini on your Cowgirl Barbie, and disappeared almost immediately.

"Where'd she go?"

Yelena pointed toward the dance floor. "Found a cowboy."

You watched as Kate somehow convinced the poor man to spin her around, huffing. "It's been thirty seconds."

"Devil works fast, but Kate Bishop is faster." She asked the bartender for two Green Tea Shots, and once the glasses were in front of you, they were instantly downed and substituted, your eyes rolling back in grimace as you hissed at the burn of the alcohol in your throat. "Where's your boytoy?"

"His name is Joaquin, Lena." You corrected, lovingly, a chuckle escaping you as you took a sip of your pina colada that you had ordered with the shots. You pointed at the group playing darts, just in time to see Joaquin turn around, find you, and happily make his way over. 

Joaquin and you met during one of the track events, he ran with Pietro, your friend Wanda's brother. Wanda, who you sat next to in Psych 102 and also shared a dorm room with for two years. 

He was cute, nice, polite, smart, and kind of a charmer…

Even with his dumb joke and wanting to be dressed as… slutty Big Bird. Obnoxious, chest-painted-yellow, borrowed your feather boa, easygoing Joaquin. 

Easy to talk to, easy to laugh with, easy to spend an afternoon wandering through Riverside Park with. The kind of guy who remembered to walk on the outside of the sidewalk and always sent a text making sure you got home safely.

"There she is." He smiled, leaning down to kiss your cheek before wrapping an arm loosely around your waist. "Six blocks and you already found rum."

"It found me," you corrected.

"That's what they all say." He reached over and stole your drink without asking, taking a sip through your straw.

You gasped dramatically. "My piña colada!"

"Our piña colada."

"You've known me for four months."

"I feel like that's long enough to establish communal property."

You scoffed. "You sound like a communist."

"I sound thirsty." He grinned before handing the drink back.

Joaquin slipped his hand into yours absentmindedly, thumb brushing across your knuckles as he listened to Kate and Yelena bicker.

It was sweet, throughtful. The kind of unconscious affection that should've made yout stomach flutter. 

Instead your gaze drifted to the Islanders playing on the TV, and without thinking, you wondered if Bucky was watching. He'd probably have his feet kicked up on the coffee table, laptop balanced on one knee, muttering at the television whenever the ref made a bad call.

The thought came so naturally that you almost missed the next thing Dot said.

"Speaking of men," Dot chimed in, sipping the neon-blue cocktail she'd ordered solely because it came with dry ice. "Are Steve and Bucky coming out tonight?"

You looked over, your heart skipping a beat. "No." You sipped your drink. "Steve's out of town with Nat in Budapest with her grandparents. Buck's been working on a contract or something…" You realized you probably knew a little too much about the latter. "Merger something, something…" You shrugged it off. 

Dot pouted dramatically. "That's a shame."

You smiled into your piña colada. "Why?"

She shrugged one shoulder, swirling the straw around her drink. "I think Bucky's cute." Kate's eyes immediately found yours, quick, almost not there at all, then sliding away again. 

"Is he seeing anyone?" The question landed with surprising weight.

You busied yourself adjusting the brim of your pink cowboy hat. "No."

"No girlfriend?"

"Nope."

"No situationship?"

You laughed. "He's not… A situationship kind of guy." 

"I might ask him to coffee."

Kate choked on her vodka soda and Yelena very carefully looked anywhere except your face, trying to change the subject and make conversation with Joaquin. 

You took another sip of your drink before anyone could notice the strange ache settling beneath your ribs.

Beside you, Kate was already looking at Yelena over the rim of her glass. Yelena gave the tiniest shake of her head.

"...I mean, if he's single, I don't really see the harm in asking."

Your attention snapped back. "Hm?"

"Bucky." Dot shrugged. "I think I'm gonna text him. Can I have his number?"

Joaquin looked between all of you. "Who's Bucky?" 

At the same time, you answered Dot with something like "Let me talk to him first before giving his number out, okay?"

Kate answered before anyone else could. "Her brother's best friend." She pointed at you. 

Joaquin nodded. "Oh."

"He practically grew up with us," you added, perhaps a little too quickly. "He's basically family."

The words left your mouth with practiced ease. You'd been saying some version of them for years.

Dot smiled. "Even better."

"Better?"

"That means he's probably already been vetted." Kate's lips pressed into a thin line and Yelena suddenly became intensely interested in the fake cobweb hanging from the ceiling.

Joaquin, blissfully oblivious, laughed. "Honestly, that's a solid endorsement."

You forced a smile. "Yeah."

It was true. Bucky was kind. Patient. Reliable. Funny in that dry, under-his-breath way that snuck up on people.

He remembered birthdays without Facebook reminders. He carried heavy boxes before anyone asked. He made coffee exactly the way everyone liked it. He was, objectively, the sort of man any woman would be more than lucky to date.

You'd always known that.

You just hadn't realized how much it would sting hearing someone else say it out loud.

Kate bumped your shoulder gently.

"So," she announced, loud enough to redirect everyone's attention, "whose terrible idea was it to do a seven-bar crawl?"

One drink became two.

Two became dancing.

Dancing became laughing so hard your stomach hurt because Kate somehow won fifty dollars in a costume contest she hadn't even entered by convincing the DJ she was Barbie and everyone else was simply underdressed.

Joaquin found you every few songs, wrapping an arm around your waist to spin you beneath strings of orange lights before disappearing back toward the dart boards or the beer pong table with Pietro and a growing collection of men dressed as things that had absolutely no business standing next to each other.

At one point he was taking shots with Obi-Wan Kenobi, a banana, and someone whose entire costume was simply a cardboard cutout of the Empire State Building.

You kissed him somewhere between the second and third bar.

Quick.

Easy.

He smiled into it, squeezed your hand, and promised he'd find you after he beat Pietro at pool.

"You won't," Pietro called from behind him.

"I absolutely will."

"You absolutely won't."

Joaquin looked back over his shoulder.

"If I lose, tell my mother I died handsome."

"You'll die dressed like slutty Big Bird."

"A hero's death."

By the fourth bar, your groups had slowly begun to separate without anyone really noticing.

Pietro had made friends with a bachelor party from Boston.

Joaquin disappeared with them after someone challenged him to karaoke.

Kate adopted three girls dressed as the Powerpuff Girls because apparently they all went to Bishop Academy together ten years ago.

Dot vanished every fifteen minutes only to reappear with another free drink she'd sweet-talked out of some finance bro dressed as Patrick Bateman.

You weren't entirely convinced she'd paid for a single cocktail all evening.

Only Yelena remained your constant.

Mostly because she'd decided your level of intoxication required supervision.

"You are doing that thing."

You frowned over the rim of your drink. "What thing?"

She rolled her eyes. "The blink."

"...The blink?"

"You blink slower when you are drunk."

You faked offense. "I do not."

She pointed her hands towards you, case in point. "You just did it."

"I am blinking at a medically appropriate speed."

She hummed. "Mm."

"I am." You shook your head side to side. "Things aren't even slower when I do this like they are when I'm dru-uu-okay, yeah, yeah, I'm drunk." 

You braced yourself on the wall, resting yuor back on the cool tile and sliding all the way down until you sat down on the floor, Yelena crouched in front of you. "Okay, drunkie, time to call your knight in shining armor."

You hiccuped. "He's not dressed as a knight, he's a bird." You pouted, fishing your phone out of your pocket, pressing the button, tapping the screen, and seeing nothing but a black screen staring back at you. 

Dead. 

The pout on your lips deepend, the furrow in between your brows showing. "Here, take my phone." Yelena talked over the music, unlocking her phone and putting it in your hand. "I'll go get you some water." 

She got up from her place on the floor with you and braved the bar crowd as you dialed the all too familiar phone number.

Bucky's Halloween had been considerably less exciting.

And that was exactly how he'd wanted it.

He'd gotten enough texts throughout the week asking if he was going out that he'd eventually stopped answering them altogether.

There had been an invitation from a few guys from work to some rooftop party in Midtown. Another from a college friend involving a warehouse in Brooklyn that, judging from the address, Bucky wasn't entirely convinced was legally allowed to have people inside of it. Steve had called him from the airport to remind him that he was twenty-three and therefore morally obligated to "do something stupid while dressed like something stupid."

Bucky had reminded Steve that he was currently flying across the Atlantic Ocean to spend Halloween with his girlfriend's grandparents.

So, for the first time in what felt like weeks, the apartment was completely his.

And Bucky was having a fucking fantastic night.

He'd changed into sweatpants approximately four minutes after getting home, ordered enough Chinese food for two people with absolutely no intention of sharing it with anyone, cracked open a beer, and claimed the entire couch for himself.

The Islanders were putting up a good fight on TV, his laptop sat open on the coffee table in front of him, illuminating the spreadsheets and financial projections he'd been staring at for the better part of an hour.

SHIELD.

The internship had started that summer, and somewhere along the way, Bucky had gone from fetching coffee and sitting silently in the back of meetings to actually being trusted with things.

Small things, but real things. "Things with numbers attached to them." as you would say. 

"They're important numbers!" He'd whine, nudging your foot off the back of his couch. 

Tonight's particular headache was a contract his team had been going over for the past week.

Merger, acquisition, something involving projected earnings and a frankly offensive number of Excel tabs. He'd explained it to you over coffee two days ago.

You'd listened for approximately thirty seconds before your eyes glazed over. "So, merger something, something?"

Bucky had stared at you. "You didn't understand a single word I just said."

"Not a thing."

That memory made him smile now as he stared at the spreadsheet. A sharp crack from the television pulled his attention away from the smaller screen, his feet, up on the coffee table until this moment, touching the ground so he could sit forward in anticipation. 

"Go, go, go—" The puck was getting closer and closer to the opposing team's goal. "Come on, come on." 

And in true hockey fashion, two guys tackled his player and the puck flew away. "Oh, fuck off." He dropped back against the couch with a groan. "Are you kidding me?" The announcers continued talking like they hadn't personally betrayed him.

Bucky reached for his beer. "Terrible." He took a swing, putting it back on the coffee table and resuming his position with his back on the couch and his feet up, laptop propped on his lap. "Absolutely fucking terrible."

His phone buzzed beside him with pointless notifications from ESPN, a text from Steve with pictures, one of him and Nat ready to deboard the plane, another one of a dish Natasha's grandma made.

you look like shit 💩

Was Bucky's reply.

Steve just hearted it, and sent another picture of Nat flipping him off. He scrolled through his texts, finding ones from you earlier that night. 

You standing in front of a mirror somewhere, dressed head to toe in pink and glitter, one hand on your hip and the other tipping the brim of your cowboy hat.

howdy partner 🤠

Bucky had stared at it for considerably longer than necessary.

nice hat. walker texas ranger called he wants his dignity back ;)

The response from you came with a chuckle. 

you're such a hater

He was about to text Sam, and see what he was up to in D.C. at his law firm internship, when his phone buzzed in his hand.

Unknown Caller ID

He quirked a brow, almost not picking up, and then the call was missed. Just as fast, it rang again. 

Unknown Caller ID

This time he picked up. 

"Hello?" His voice was suspicious, until he heard a soft, muffled sound from the other end of the line. 

"Buck?"

He recognized your voice immediately, even though the bass of the music made it so hard to distinguish your words. He said your name, also confused as to why you didn't call him from your phone. 

Knowing you, you didn't let it charge fully before leaving the house. "What's going on?"

"I don't know." Hiccup. "Everyone's busy. Whatcha doin'?"

He chuckled. You were in the middle of a bar and asking him what he was doing? "I'm watching the game. Home. Where are you?"

"On the floor." You shrugged. 

Bucky sighed in response, so lightly you didn't even notice. "What floor, sweetheart?"

You blew a raspberry to the phone. "A tile one. I don't know. It's the bar with that gigantic golden weiner on the wall—"

"You're at the Brass Rod?" Bucky got up immediately, searching his countertop for his keys, "Why the fuck would people abandon you there?!" He tried his best to keep his voice from raising.

The Brass Rod was a bar most frat boys loved, mostly because they could pay off the bouncers and get away with shit they shouldn't be able to. Which was a problem all in itself. 

"Well, Kate found a cowboy, Dot is—" Hiccup. "With Christian Bale," hiccup. "And Yelena perished in the masses trying to get me the magic cure for these tequila sodas."

"So she got lost in a sea of tall people trying to get you water?" You heard the jingle of his keychain and the sound of a door closing. 

"Precisely." You nodded enthusiastically, even though he couldn't see you, which made you groan at the sudden movement, your stomach complaining. "I don't feel so party rockin', Bucky."

His steps took him to the stairwell, and you heard his voice get echo-y. "I'm coming to get you, Barbie. Think you had enough for one night."

He walked out of the main lobby of his building, soft drops of rain falling onto him as it has just started to sprinkle, waving down a cab almost immediately, getting in after someone in a Batman costume stumbled past him with only one shoe.

"So," he said, keeping his voice light, "tell me what's happening around you."

You looked around, everyone was definitely taller when you're sitting on the floor in the corner. "People are drunk drunk. Someone's riding the mechanical bull." Hiccup. 

"Is anyone there with you?" He asked, pulling the phone away from his face slightly to tell the cab driver where to go. 

"A fairy is crying." You scanned the room more. "And someone dressed like a nun just threw up."

He snorted. "...Great."

"It was not holy."

Bucky laughed under his breath. "Stay near the wall."

"I am the wall." For some reason, just hearing his voice made the room stop spinning quite so violently.

"No, sweetheart. Stay beside the wall."

"Oh." You shifted slightly, crossing your legs so no one would step on your pants either. "There."

Bucky nodded. "Good girl." And looked at his watch, then up to the street. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

When he got to the Brass Rod, whose front entrance looked like every bad decision a twenty-one-year-old man had ever made had been condensed into one sticky doorway, Bucky immediately got annoyed at how many preppy douchebags were waiting to go in. 

So he cut the line. The bouncer immediately looked him up and down, hand on his chest. 

"No cutting."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "I'm not here to drink." And stepped forward again. 

"Everybody says that." The bouncer was still not having it. 

"I'm here to pick someone up." He put his hand up to signify your height. "Yea tall, cowgirl Barbie, probably sitting in a corner trying not to puke on your—" He looked inside the bar. "Prestigious floor."

The bouncer looked behind him to the bar, then back at Bucky. "You the boyfriend?"

Bucky huffed, getting more and more impatient by the second. "I'm—"

And was delightfully interrupted by your voice. "Buckyyyyyy!"

You moved past "not so party rockin'" to your very lovey dovey drunk self, lacing your arms around his neck and letting your weight hang onto him. 

His hands went instinctively to your waist to steady you.

The bouncer looked at both of you, and then proceeded to move a couple people inside the bar as you nuzzled your face into Bucky's neck. "You smell good."

Yelena met you both outside, out of breath from apparetnly running after you. "Oh good you're—" and she realized Bucky was there and not Joaquin. "What are you doing here?"

At the same time you said "I called." Bucky responded. "She called me."

"Oh." Yelena's eyes could've bugged out of her head. "Oh."

You pulled back just enough to look at him. Your cowboy hat gone, your hair had started the night styled perfectly and was now somewhere between tousled and actively rebelling pink glitter shimmered across your collarbones.

Your lipstick had mostly survived, and for that he was grateful. 

"Oh, you're hammered." Bucky snorted and looked over your head at her. "How much did she drink?"

Yelena began counting on her fingers. "I do not know."

"Helpful."

"She was drinking piña coladas, and then someone bought shots, and then Dot found finance men—"

Bucky groaned internally. "Finance men?" 

You lifted your head from his chest. "I had water."

"You had three sips," Yelena corrected.

You pointed at her. "Three more than zero."

Bucky looked down at you while you smiled proudly. "Okay, Barbie." His hand moved from your waist to your back, rubbing once between your shoulder blades. "Think we're done for the night."

Bucky can fix it.

Bucky will know.

Bucky always answers.

And now, watching you cling to him outside the worst bar in Manhattan while your perfectly nice boyfriend was somewhere across the city dressed as a slutty children's television character, Yelena finally understood.

The problem wasn't that you were in love with Bucky Barnes. The issue wasn't even that he very obviously returned those feelings.

The problem was that neither of you could see it. 

It took Dot approximately forty-five minutes to realize you were gone.

Which, considering she'd spent most of the evening disappearing herself, wasn't exactly surprising.

She resurfaced sometime after one in the morning, pushing her way through the crowd with her hair slightly less perfect than it had been when the night started and another drink in her hand that Yelena was almost certain she hadn't paid for. By then, whatever organization your bar crawl had begun with was completely gone. Pietro had been absorbed into a bachelor party, Joaquin had disappeared somewhere in the general direction of karaoke, and Kate's last known whereabouts involved a cowboy and a group of girls she apparently hadn't seen since middle school.

Yelena had given up.

She was standing near the bar, scrolling through her phone and seriously contemplating whether she was morally obligated to locate all of you before going home, when Dot appeared beside her.

"Where is everyone?"

Yelena glanced up. "Excellent question."

Dot laughed, looking around as if any of you might magically materialize from the crowd. "And where's Barbie?"

Yelena looked back down at her phone. "Bucky came to get her."

That caught Dot's attention. "Bucky?"

Yelena glanced at her again. "Yes."

"Like... Bucky Bucky?"

"How many Buckys do you know?"

Dot ignored that, her brows pulling together slightly as she processed the information. "I thought she'd leave with Joaquin."

"Her phone died, she could only remember Bucky's number, so we— well, she called him." Yelena chuckled, flagging the bartender down for another green tea shot. 

Yelena had been unofficially appointed photographer for most of the night, mostly because she was the only person capable of holding her phone straight after the third bar. 

"Can I borrow your phone? Need tonight's pics for my Stories." 

There were dozens of pictures scattered throughout her camera roll—group photos outside bars, blurry bathroom selfies, Kate dancing with her cowboy, you proudly posing in your Cowgirl Barbie costume, and at least six photos Yelena wanted permanently erased from existence.

"You have thirty seconds."

Dot grinned. "You're an angel."

"I know." Yelena turned back toward the bar, trying to get the bartender's attention while Dot opened the call log, and sent herself Bucky's number, promptly deleting the message from Yelena's phone before opening another chat and sending herself the pictures.

"All done." Dot gave the phone back with a smile, ordering another drink herself.

He peeled the Rangers jersey over his head and tossed it toward the laundry basket before disappearing into his bedroom to change.

The game was back on.

Bucky had managed to avoid the score on his phone, which meant he could pick up more or less where he'd left off, the television illuminating the living room with flashes of white and blue.

The volume was turned down, just low enough that the announcers wouldn't make your undoubtedly developing headache any worse.

He'd changed into gray sweatpants and an old black T-shirt, his damp hair pushed back from his forehead after he'd run a towel through it.

The smell of Chinese food graced your nostrils as soon as you got out of the bathroom, padding into the living room to see Bucky sitting on the couch with a beer and reheated lo mein. 

And on the coffee table, a plate of it for you, along with some much needed water. 

His white T-shirt practically swallowed you whole, the collar hanging loosely around your neck. The basketball shorts were tied as tightly as they could possibly go and still sat dangerously low on your hips, the fabric reaching nearly to your knees.

You felt more sober now that time passed and you scrubbed your face clean. 

You dropped down onto the couch beside him, close enough that your thigh pressed against his, Bucky handing you an egg roll without taking his eyes off of the TV. 

You smiled. "You know me so well."

"Unfortunately." He grumbled, with no real bite behind it. You bit into it happily and Bucky's eyes drifted toward you again.

Just briefly, long enough to watch the way your eyes closed when you took the first bite, but not too long that you caught him in the act.

You settled deeper into the couch, folding one leg beneath yourself while the other pressed comfortably against his. Bucky handed you one of the bottles of water, and you obediently took a sip before reaching immediately for his container of sesame chicken.

You'd look over when his attention was fixed on the television, watching the concentration settle across his features whenever the puck moved down the ice.

He'd glance at you whenever you were distracted by the food, his eyes lingering on the way his T-shirt slipped slightly off one shoulder before immediately forcing his attention elsewhere.

The game filled the silence for you, commentators speaking low through the television while rain continued to patter against the windows, and you couldn't bring yourself to pay much attention to the puck.

Your eyes kept drifting to Bucky; tracing his side profile, the furrow in his brow, the slope of his nose, the way he gritted his teeth and hissed when the players missed a goal. "What?" Bucky caught you this time. 

Your eyes immediately returned to the television, "Nothing." Faint blush spreading across your cheeks. 

He waited and you could feel him looking at you. "You keep staring at me."

You rolled your eyes, trying to play it off. "I do not."

"You do." He pressed.

"I'm watching the game." You gestured vaguely towards the TV. 

Bucky pointed. "The TV's over there."

"I'm using my peripheral vision." You motioned beside your eyes, turning your gaze back to him with an endeared smile. 

"You're staring directly at my face."

"Maybe you have a big head." Bucky's mouth dropped open. You immediately started laughing.

He mocked offense, "Wow."

"I'm kidding." You angled your body to fully face him. 

"No, no." He took the container of sesame chicken from your lap. "You insulted me in my own home."

"Give me my chicken."

"My chicken." You reached for it and Bucky lifted it away. "Buck."

"Apologize."

"Never." You reached farther. "You got a big ass head."

He moved it again.

You practically climbed over him trying to get it, one hand braced against his shoulder while the other reached uselessly toward the container he'd extended as far away from you as possible.

Somehow, you ended up straddling him as he held the container away from you. One second your laughs meshed together in the atmosphere, and in the next the room got smaller and smaller, until it narrowed down to just your gaze on his. 

Your index and pointer finger timidly touched the plush skin of his lips, tugging the lower lip down and releasing it, and Bucky felt his throat run dry, too mesmerized by you to do anything but watch you do it. Like if he moved too quickly, whatever spell had settled over the two of you might break.

It felt like light years, the amount of time you spent staring into his eyes, then to his lips, then to his eyes again.

You bit your lip, contemplating what you were gonna do next. If that was the thing that would ruin your friendship forever. 

You could always blame it on the tequila. 

Your hands were on his shoulders, and one of his on your waist while the other still held the food away from you, just out of reach. Your palms cradled his face, and just like that, you were eighteen and making out in his car. 

Bucky made a quiet sound of surprise against your mouth before kissing you back, his hand instinctively settling more securely at your waist after he let the container rest at the side table. 

Your fingers curled on the back of his neck as you let your lips roll against his softly, Bucky broke the kiss after a few seconds, delicately catching your wrist. "You're drunk."

You shook your head. "No, I'm not." Your stomach felt funny for reasons other than alcohol now. 

He looked at you almost pleading. 

Please, don't do this to me again. 

"You have a boyfriend." He reminded you weakily.

Your breath caught in your throat before the words spilled out of your mouth. "I know."

The second kiss was deeper, his hands coming to rest on either side of your jaw as he pulled you closer to him, your hips quickly settling into a rhytm all too familiar and at the same time much too foreign on top of him. 

The thin fabric of the shorts you wore did nothing to dampen the friction between your bodies, his bulge growing harder inside of the grey sweats that hung low on his hips. 

His tongue explored your mouth like it missed it, like he missed you. 

Your nails scraped gently at the nape of his neck before moving down his shoulders, and his arms; your right hand squeezing his bicep while your left rested on his chest.

Bucky's dropped to your waist and your thigh, squeezing the supple flesh under the pads of his fingers. Your fingers traced lower, until you found the skin of his abs under his cotton shirt, scratching lightly making his muscles tense under you. 

You pushed the fabric up and up, and up some more, until Bucky's hands left you momentarily to pull it over his head, exposing the plane of his chest to you fully, shifting his hair into messy strands.

His hands returned to you almost immediately, just as your lips did his. You breathed into his mouth like oxygen from him was the only type you'd ever need to keep on living. 

As Bucky's hands trailed up your back dragging heat up your spine along the way, you pulled his shirt over your head with shaky hands. The cool air hit your skin, making your nipples harden, and Bucky's previously ceil blue eyes were now dilated with lust.

The stare made you self conscious for a split second, arms crossing over your chest in an attempt to hide. 

"Don't." Was softly spoken from Bucky's mouth as his hands pulled your arms down, and he leaned forward to nuzzle your pulse point with his nose.

He kissed your neck where it met your chest, down your collarbone, the swell of your breast, until he tugged one nipple with his teeth, making you hiss lightly. 

"Bucky…"

Your voice was sweet and syrupy in a way that intoxicated him more than any tequila shot ever could. He groaned against you as his hand pushed past the waistband of his shorts you wore, keening at the feel of your slick onto his fingers.

You murmured something under your breath at the feel, like his touch was a balm to long suffering. 

Your hips stuttered into his hand, finding clumsy rhythm that had you grinding your clit over the pads of his fingers, blush creeping up your cheeks along with desire as he kept up his actions onto your chest. 

When he took his hand away you pouted, grinding down on him for more friction and feeling the length of him through your clothes. Your manicured fingers found the waistband of his sweats and pushed them down along with his boxers, freeing his leaking bulge from the men confines of fabric. 

Your hand wrapped around the shaft and Bucky stammered out a breath, hands gripping the couch cushins until his knuckles lost color as your found a slow lazy rhythm that had him grinding his teeth. 

Lips found his neck as you stroked him, sucking and biting at the skin light enough to not leave a mark but hard enough to have shivers run down his spine, goosebumps blooming all over his arms.

It took him an embarrasingly long time to realize your were making your way down his neck and sliding off his lap, aiming for the floor, between his legs. 

He stopped you with a hand on your arm and the other on your jaw, "Y-you don't have to—"

You shook your head, letting your eyes flutter closed as you kissed his palm, still continuing your path, "Want to." You voice was meek, barely above a whisper. "Can I?"

Bucky groaned, letting go of you and allowing you to pull his pants the rest of the way down, licking a thick stripe up his length before fully engulfing it in your mouth.

His right hand found your hair, pushing it out of your face as you found a rhythm that felt comfortable. 

The issue was, you always felt comfortable with Bucky.

Not a single second in your entire sentient life of knowing him had his presence made you feel anything but calm. Serene. Safe and confident in your own way that everything would be okay because he was there, no matter what. 

And in Bucky, you caused the same thing. Except his hands got clammy, his suave lines bled into teasing and playing off the fact that he would do anything for you.

The wet sucking noise pulled him from his trance, making his eyes relax and really look at you. 

Bad idea, since he felt the knot in his stomach tightening by the second, growing closer and closer to the edge.

His hips moved back and away from you, warm hands pulling you up once he pulled you off of him with a soft "pop", helping you back on top of him. 

Your hair fell around both your faces like a curtain, and Bucky brushed a strand behind your ear. "Wasn't done." You murmured, breath fanning across his lips. 

He huffed out a laugh. "Yeah, well," he shifted his hips, pulling you to kneel above his lap so he could pull your shorts down. "I was about to be."

You giggled softly and Bucky could've sworn his heart would've burst right there. Your mouth hovered over his as he lined himself up with your entrance, the weeping head of his cock making contact with the hot slick between your legs. 

"You're dripping." He shot you a side smile, dimple showing up briefly on the side of his mouth. 

You blushed, "Don't— fuck— don't tease."

"'M not…" As he pushed in, inch by inch, a mixture of moans and choked out breaths left both of you, until he was buried in you to the hilt, looking into your eyes, glazed over in pleasure, trying his hardest not to embarrass himself by coming too fast. "… so good, so good."

You gave tentative rolls of your hips above him, suddenly so aware of his presence everywhere, in and around you, that your skin felt too hot to be lived in any longer. 

He kissed you again, afraid of saying something that might make you change your mind, a whimper leaving your lips every time his tip pushed on your cervix, rubbing again and again against the spongy spot inside of you that made you feel fireworks going off in your lungs. 

You switched from moving your hips up and down to a more grinding pace, rolling your eyes when your clit rubbed onto his pelvis.

Bucky felt you flutter around him, and laced his left arm around your waist, pushing you to lay against the couch cushions without pulling out, your hair fanning out behind you.

"Bucky— Jesus!" You yelped in surprise, his hips snapping up to yours at newfound depth. "Oh, my God!"

Bucky groaned in satisfaction, squeezing your right thigh higher and tighter around his waist. "Fuck, that's it."

Your eyes rolled back with new waves of pleasure hitting you, feeling Bucky impossibly deep in you, little shocks up your nerves every time he ground his hips into yours. He moaned your name, face buried into your neck, "Need— need you to come, sweetheart." 

His voice was strained, like it took everything inhim to not come inside of you right then and there. "Need you t'come, can't come in you, don't have a— fuck, fuck—"

"Feel so good, Buck, please—" You didn't even know what you were pleading. Pleading for him to make you come? For him to forget he's fucking you raw and just paint your insides white?

Bucky had that effect on you, to make you feel like you oculd fly if you so wished. 

His hips stuttered against yours, bringing your closer and closer to your climax, walls squeezing around him like you never wanted to let him go. 

And you didn't.

His mouth found yours again in a sloppy encounter one would barely classify as a kiss, neither of you in the right mind to do anything but moan into each other. His hand pushed your leg furhter up and his other thumb found your clit, rubbing fast circles on it.

Your moans got increasingly higher pitched as you tried to muffle them with a whimper, biting your own lip.

Bucky kissed the corner of your mouth and tugged the skin with his teeth. You came around him with a whine, and he gritted his teeth together to starve off his own release until he fucked you through yours. 

When he felt you stopped shaking in his arms and squeezing around him, he pulled out quickly, sitting up on his knees, hand wrapping around his slick shaft. 

He gave himself fast strokes until his eyes fluttered closed, coming with a groan of cuss words, spilling hot ropes of his release over your navel, catching the light from the TV faintly.

Both of you stayed in silence, catching your breaths, Bucky's vision finally coming back to normal from the tunnel vision a few minutes prior. 

He muttered something under his breath, grabbing his shirt from the floor and using it to clean you up.

Morning arrived quietly.

Dark blue that faded into gray light filtered through the gap in Bucky's curtains, turning the bedroom that muted blue-gray color Manhattan seemed to specialize in after a rainy night.

For a few seconds, Bucky didn't move, he wasn't entirely sure what had woken him.

The distant sound of traffic several floors below, the radiator clicking, the faint headache beginning behind his eyes despite the fact that he'd barely had anything to drink.

Then you shifted beside him.

Your back was partially turned toward him, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, the sheets pulled up around you. You looked peaceful.

Bucky felt anything but. He turned his head slightly, looked at you, then immediately looked back at the ceiling.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Before he could spin too much into his own spiral, his phone buzzed against the nightstand.

[phone]: hey!! it's Dot :) hope this isn't weird lol

His brows pulled together.

Dot?

He knew that name, it was one of your friends, the blonde one from South Carolina, he thought. He'd met her once, briefly, when you'd brought a few people over before going out.

[phone]: i got your number and thought i should just text you 🙈

You gave her his number?

Before he could think of waking you up and asking, another message came through. 

[phone]: I was gonna ask you for it myself but figured this was easier lol

Bucky's jaw tightened and suddenly the night before rearranged itself in his head. Something bitter settled in his chest.

He should've known better.

God, he should've known better.

You were drunk, emotional. Nostalgic. You weren't thinking straight and he felt like a fucking creep for taking advantage of you. Being exactly the type of guy he was trying to protect you from. 

It didn't mean what he'd wanted it to mean.

His phone buzzed again.

[phone]: anyway i think you're really cute and if you're free sometime maybe we could grab coffee?

And in the kitchen, Bucky moved around wondering why you kept pushing him toward other people when, for one night, he'd thought maybe you'd finally chosen him.

You woke up feeling like the God of Thunder himself was banging a lightning bold against your head. Someone could've told you you were inside a church bell during mass and you'd believe them. 

However, the first thing you noticed is that you were alone. 

Alone, and very naked in Bucky Barnes' bed. 

Guilt twisted sharply in your stomach, like you swallowed a twelve-pack of razor blades.

Absolutely nothing to do with your tequila intake.

You sat up and called his name a couple of times with no answer, looking beside you at his alarm clock that marked 10:13am. 

You reached for your phone in the nightstand, seeing he had put it on the charger, and found a glass of water and two Ibuprofen. 

When you touched the screen, there was a text from him.

Had to go into work. Your clothes are in the dryer. Coffee and breakfast in the kitchen. :)

No "we should talk", no "about last night", just that. 

You stared at the text as though you could will another sentence to appear. What were you expecting? For him to wake you up with breakfast? For him to confess some decade-long secret? For one drunken night to suddenly change everything between you?

You were being ridiculous.

This was Bucky.

Your Bucky.

As you scrolled down you texts, you opened the groupchat to Dot sending a screenshot of your very Bucky, agreeing to grab coffee. With her. And you wondered why it suddenly made you feel like you'd made the worst mistake of your life.

a little bit of fran in your life: hey y'all.... how are we feeling.... I know, I know, don't quarter me on the town square over this please... my eye was twitching the entire time I had to write Dot. I promise I'll make them even dumber before they actually realize what's right in front of them......

[i reserve all the rights to this fic EXCEPT THE CHARACTERS bc this fic is my baby do nawt make it into a movie without asking me to direct it]

⤷ masterlist

💌 permanent freaks taglist: @chateaubarnes @houseofhyde @heldbybarnes @iamthatonefangirl @superbassbuck @its-in-the-woods @wildflowersandvibranium @unificsation @flockoff-featherface @54nboo @earthsmightiestbenders @winterdecember18 @juniebjonesin @barnesonly @bckyslover @buckyfmd @starfire-irl @tw1sters @pinksplace @artficlly @daddysbitchybaby @globetrotter28 @epiphanyrogers @famoushoshi @avgdestitute @blobfishlol @buckysdecaflove @buckybsdoll @allthingswickedpodcast

fic taglist: @starspangledspanks @mwahforbucky @allofffmypeaches @ryk-mt @bees-library3 @chocolatemilkshakex @squishyfruitloop @thegirlwhowaited5everok @cherrypetals0 @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog @jai200700 @jades-reads @mikonawa @k-d--h @adalvsseb @chuckmademedothis @nonyabusinesswhatmynameis @iyskgd @pennyl4n3 @keigohawks @thatonefandomnerd

[jai200700]

Me lying reading the last part of this chapter 🤣😭the rom com vibes are strong with this series and it’s equally amazing and frustrating

[the-wandering-wonder]

I'll Be Home For Christmas

Sometimes part of loving a spaceman is when they have to be in space...I'm sorryyyyy.

And thanks again to Morg for reading my spaceman content. <3

Pairing: Chris Beck x Reader

Word Count: 7,559

Rating: T (angsty fluff)

Chapter: 1/1

Summary: You knew the holidays would hurt — knew what it meant when the launch date sent him into the stars before they even began. You promised you’d be strong, and he promised to call every day. But space is quiet, Christmas is cruel, and sometimes love feels too far away.

Tag List: @solemnlywickedwolf @mrscarlislecullen @buckys-girl-blog @quantumbarnes

You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, watching him fold another navy-blue NASA shirt into a regulation-issue duffel. It’s one of the soft ones you like — the kind he wears to breakfast on Sundays, rumpled from sleep, warm from you. It disappears into the bag with a quiet zip, and the sound feels like a thread snapping in your chest.

He doesn’t look up.

You don’t ask him to.

The room feels like it’s shrinking — like each neatly-packed item takes a piece of oxygen with it. Flight manual. Crew socks. Medkit. The little brown notebook he always carries, scrawled with checklists and reminders. He hasn’t spoken in a while. Not since “we should get an early night” — which neither of you believed.

You rub your palms against your thighs. Try not to let your breath hitch.

“I could drive you to pre-check,” you say, voice too even.

Chris pauses, hand hovering over a bundle of thermal base layers. “You’ve got an early shift. Your supervisor—”

“I’ll switch. You don’t need your car parked at some NASA parking lot for weeks.”

He finally meets your eyes. Not with surprise. Not even with guilt. Just that look — the one that says he knows. He always knows.

“That’s not why you offered,” he says gently.

You don’t answer. Not right away.

Because no, of course it isn’t.

You want to follow him all the way to the tarmac. To the shuttle. To the stars. You want to stand on the launch pad and scream take me with you until the engines drown you out. But that’s not how this works. Not with your feet on Earth and his set to leave it.

So you force a smile. “I just want to make sure you don’t forget your Chapstick.”

Chris gives a soft laugh — small and frayed around the edges — and sits down beside you. Close, but not touching. He always does that before a mission. Like if he gives in too soon, he’ll lose the strength to leave.

He stares ahead, jaw working. You see it — the flicker in his throat, the faint pink at the corners of his eyes. Still not touching.

“I hate this part,” he says quietly.

You nod. You hate it too. But more than that, you hate how familiar it’s become. The suitcase. The silence. The aching countdown in your ribs as the hours shrink.

“They asked me to do a holiday video for the crew page,” he murmurs. “Say something cheery for the public.”

“Are you going to?”

He shrugs. “Haven’t figured out how to say ‘I’m floating in a tin can while my girl eats takeout alone’ with enough holiday spirit.”

You laugh — too sharp, too fast — and then you’re covering your mouth with both hands, like you can shove the sob back down before it makes it out. Your shoulders shake once. Then again.

Then his arms are around you.

And just like that, you’re folded into him — into fleece and warmth and the steady beat of a heart that’s about to leave the atmosphere.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper against his collarbone. “I’m being selfish.”

“No, you’re not.” His hand slides over your back, slow and sure. “You’re being honest.”

“I don’t want to spend Christmas without you.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to wake up and not see your stupid space socks on the floor.”

He chuckles into your hair. “I’ll leave you a pair.”

“I want you.”

His grip tightens. Not hard. Just enough that you feel him tremble.

“I want you too,” he breathes. “Every second I’m up there. Every day I float past Earth, I’m gonna be looking down wondering what you’re doing. If you’re warm enough. If you’re eating. If you’re singing Mariah Carey in the shower.”

You sniffle. “I only do that in July.”

“Liar.”

You both laugh. Quiet. Bittersweet.

Then the moment tilts again — heavy, aching — and you lift your face, brushing your fingers along the edge of his jaw. He leans into the touch like it’s gravity.

“When do you leave for prep?” you ask.

“0700.”

You nod. “Okay.”

Neither of you moves.

“Stay,” you whisper. You don’t mean the word. Not exactly. Not in the way that counts. You know he can’t. You’ve known for months.

But still.

His forehead presses to yours. Eyes closed. Breath soft.

“I wish I could.”

You nod again. Bite your lip. Then finally, you reach for the zipper of the duffel and slide it closed. Slow. Final.

Chris watches. Quiet. Wrecked.

When you look up again, he’s holding a small silver foil package between his fingers — wrapped clumsily, like he didn’t have time to find tape that wasn’t meant for spacecraft.

“What’s this?” you ask, voice catching.

“Early present,” he says.

You unwrap it slowly. Inside is a keychain — a tiny model of the space station. Cold metal. Beautiful. Yours.

Chris reaches into his pocket and pulls out an identical one.

“Now we both carry each other,” he says.

And this time, when you kiss him, it’s not soft. It’s not slow. It’s the kind of kiss that fills every corner of your chest and still doesn’t feel like enough. The kind that says goodbye, even though your lips are screaming don’t go.

He kisses back like he hears it. Like he knows.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The sky’s still dark when you pull into the restricted lot — that particular shade of pre-dawn blue that looks like it might crack if you touch it. The parking pass shakes slightly in your hand as you press it against the reader, and the gate lifts without ceremony.

Chris exhales beside you. You don’t look at him. Not yet.

You’re not ready.

The drive here was quiet. Too quiet. Like every word either of you wanted to say had already been said — or didn’t feel safe enough to say out loud. He kept reaching over to rest his hand on your knee, thumb drawing slow circles, grounding you. You let him.

Now the van is still, idling faintly. The engine hums. Your chest does too.

You keep your gaze forward, eyes locked on the well-lit entrance to the crew prep building. The place where civilians can’t follow.

“This is it,” Chris says softly, breaking the silence.

You nod.

He leans forward and peers at the windshield like it might reveal something new. Something that’ll give him a reason to stay.

“It’s muggy already,” he mutters.

You laugh under your breath. “It’s Florida.”

He smiles. “Yeah, yeah.”

You turn your head. Finally meet his eyes.

He looks calm. Focused. NASA face. But you see the little cracks — the way his lashes twitch, the slight redness at the tip of his nose, the tight hold he’s got on his travel duffel like it might sprout legs and run if he lets go.

“I’ll call every day,” he says. “Soon as I’m clear for comms.”

You nod. “I know.”

“They’ll let us send short messages too. I’ll spam the hell out of you.”

“I’d like that.”

“And when I get back—”

“Chris.”

He stops.

You bite the inside of your cheek and blink fast. A soft silence swells between you. Not angry. Just fragile.

He reaches over, his hand cupping the side of your neck, thumb brushing the curve of your jaw.

“I’ll come back,” he says. “That’s not a promise. It’s a fact.”

You want to believe him. Gods help you, you do.

You lean into his touch.

“I’ll keep the tree up,” you whisper.

He smiles. “Even the weird silver tinsel I hate?”

“Especially that.”

Chris leans in and presses his forehead to yours. Your eyes flutter shut. He smells like clean cotton and that cinnamon gum he chews when he’s anxious.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. “For everything. For loving me like this.”

You pull back just enough to kiss him. It’s soft. Final. Not desperate like last night. Not yet.

He opens the passenger door before either of you can make it worse.

You step out too, moving on autopilot, walking with him to the side entrance. Security waits there. Two badges. One nod.

Chris turns to you. Shoulders squared. Eyes locked.

“I love you,” he says.

“I love you too. Be safe…”

His mouth twitches — like he wants to say something else. But instead, he steps forward and wraps you in a hug that is somehow both tight and unfinished. Like he wants to press the shape of himself into your memory and carry the shape of you with him.

You squeeze back. Hard.

Then he lets go.

You let him.

And just like that, he’s walking away.

You watch every step. Every muscle movement. Every shift of his bag on his shoulder. You memorize the way the light glints off his boots and the tiny crease at the back of his neck where his collar is slightly wrinkled.

He doesn’t look back. He can’t. You know he can’t.

So you stay rooted, arms crossed, jaw clenched, chest full of needles. You do not cry. You do not run. You do not call out.

You stand there — solid and silent — until the door closes behind him.

Then you’re alone.

And the thick morning air suddenly feels like the vacuum of space.

You get back in the car on legs that barely work. Hands shake on the wheel. Breath catches as the radio turns on and plays some pop ballad, cruelly cheerful, like the world doesn’t know he just left.

You punch the knob and the song cuts off.

Then you grip the steering wheel like it’s the only thing tethering you to Earth.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The apartment smells like him.

That’s the first thing that hits you. The second is the silence. Deep, still, wrong.

No coffee brewing. No pen tapping from the kitchen counter. No low hum of Chris talking to himself while packing a lunch that could feed a small platoon. Just quiet. Like the walls are holding their breath.

You lock the door behind you on instinct, kick your shoes off without thinking. Your body moves, but everything inside it feels miles behind.

The sweater you’re wearing is too thin. The air too sharp. You cross your arms and wander to the kitchen, like maybe he left a note — something scribbled last minute, something warm and stupid like Don’t eat all the cereal, Spaceman needs carbs too.

But there’s nothing.

Just the ghost of routine and the ache that’s starting to bloom behind your ribs.

You make it to the bedroom before it hits.

You were strong at the launch. You smiled for the neighbors who asked if you’d be watching the stream. You nodded through conversations about timelines and mission durations and how exciting! and how brave he is!

But now?

Now you step into the room and everything smells like him again — cedar soap, cinnamon gum, a whiff of that cologne you made fun of but secretly loved. His pillow still bears the shape of his head. The flannel shirt he wore two days ago is still draped over the foot of the bed, sleeves crumpled, collar open.

You walk over and pick it up.

You don’t mean to hold it to your face. You don’t mean to crumble.

The sob comes out strangled, sharp — ripped from your throat like it couldn’t wait anymore. You sink to the floor, shirt clutched in your fists, knees folding until you’re curled up at the side of the bed like someone grieving a ghost.

He’s not dead. He’s not.

But gods, it feels like something’s been amputated.

The sound that escapes you isn’t just a cry. It’s grief. Raw and quiet and enormous. It slips past your defenses and into the fabric of his shirt, muffled against cotton that still holds his warmth.

You press your face to it and whisper his name like a prayer.

“Chris…”

You hate this part.

You hate how you told him to go. How you kissed him and said be safe when what you really meant was please don’t leave me right now.

But he did. Because that’s who he is. Brave. Brilliant. Selfless.

And yours. Still yours. Even now.

So you crawl up into the bed, dragging the shirt with you. You slip it on like armor, sleeves too long, chest baggy — and it swallows you in all the ways you need.

His smell. His shape. The ghost of his body next to yours.

You curl into the space he left and bury your face in the crook of his pillow, fingers tangled in flannel.

And you cry.

Not the neat kind. Not cinematic tears down the cheek. This is the ugly kind. The silent kind that makes your chest shake and your hands go numb. The kind that soaks his shirt with salt and shakes your whole frame like you might come undone at the seams.

Because you miss him.

Because it’s not even Christmas yet, and already it hurts.

Because the only thing in this room holding you is fabric and memory and the smell of someone you’d follow into orbit if they’d let you.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

You’re staring at the laptop like it might betray you.

It’s balanced on the kitchen table — after you pushed aside your untouched dinner, half a cup of cold tea, and a crumpled napkin with something that might have once been a grocery list. You’ve been checking the screen for the last hour, refreshing the comms portal even though you know it won’t make a difference.

The message came through earlier. Brief. Formal.

Scheduled Comms Request – Beck, C.Time: 19:00 ESTDuration: 15 minutes (max)

You whispered okay aloud like he could hear you through the screen.

Now it’s 18:59.

You’re in his flannel shirt — you’ve barely taken it off over the last couple of days — but you’ve taken a shower, run a brush through your hair. It feels stupid. Like dressing up to speak to a ghost. But this ghost is real. This ghost is your person.

And then the screen flickers.

A burst of static.

A loading icon.

Your breath catches — and then, suddenly, there he is.

Chris.

Grainy video. Faint delay. A little off-center in the frame, wearing a headset and a zip-up NASA thermal. His cheeks are a little hollow. Hair flattened by the comms cap. But he’s smiling.

Gods, he’s smiling.

“Hi,” he says.

Your breath shudders out. “Hi.”

For a second, you just stare. Drinking him in. Holding onto the shape of his face, the movement of his lips, the sound of his voice. He looks tired. He always does in the first few days. But he’s still beautiful.

He sees the expression on your face — something between awe and ache — and his smile softens.

“Been counting the hours,” he murmurs.

“You’re late,” you tease, voice trembling. “Fifteen seconds.”

He laughs — a quiet, glitchy sound that fuzzes through the speaker and still manages to feel like home.

“Bad service up here,” he says, grinning. “You should file a complaint.”

You laugh too — and this time, it almost sounds normal.

The first few minutes are updates.

Flight status. Lab work. Crew dynamics. He mentions a new crewmate with a wicked sense of humor and an obsession with Christmas music.

“They played Last Christmas in the galley while I was trying to run diagnostics,” he groans. “You’d have loved it.”

“I do love that song.”

“It’s haunting me. In zero gravity.”

You both laugh again — and for a moment, it’s almost like he’s not thousands of miles above your head.

Then the laughter fades. Gently. Naturally.

He leans a little closer to the screen. His eyes soften.

“I miss you,” he says.

Your throat closes.

“I miss you too.”

“I keep thinking about the way your legs curl under you when you sit on the couch. That little snort when you laugh too hard. The way you stir your coffee. Dumb things. Things I didn’t know I noticed.”

You blink fast.

“I’ve been wearing your shirt,” you whisper.

“I know. I saw it.”

You glance down — realize you’re still wearing it now. Wrinkled, sleeves pushed up, his scent almost gone.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You hesitate.

Then you nod. “Trying to be.”

Chris nods too — slow, like he understands exactly what that means. Like trying to be is all either of you can offer right now.

“I left something in the bedroom closet,” he says suddenly, voice quiet. “Back corner. Under my spare boots.”

Your eyes widen. “What?”

“I meant to tell you earlier. Just…if you’re having a bad day. Open it.”

“Chris—”

“I wanted you to have something. For the days I’m not there.”

Your chest tightens. “You really left a secret surprise in the closet?”

He smiles, boyish and proud. “You think I’d leave you without backup?”

You choke on a laugh-sob. “God, I love you.”

“I love you too,” he says. “So much it hurts.”

You reach out and touch the screen. Fingertips press to glass. His do too — a soft, glitching mimic on the other side of space.

“I don’t want to say goodbye again,” you whisper.

“You’re not,” he says. “This isn’t goodbye. This is just see you tomorrow.”

You nod. The tears come anyway.

He sees them. Smiles sadly.

“Hey. Don’t cry. You’re too beautiful for tears. You’ll short-circuit my feed.”

You sniffle. Wipe your face.

“I love you,” he murmurs. “It’s a crime how much I miss you.”

“Say it again.”

He tilts his head.

“Say you miss me.”

Chris leans in — as close as the video delay allows.

“I miss you more than gravity.”

You laugh again. A real one. This time it comes from the part of your chest that still believes in him. In this. In every second stolen between countdowns and calendars.

“Time’s almost up,” he says, glancing at something offscreen.

“Already?”

He nods. “I’ll call again tomorrow. Same time.”

“I’ll be here.”

His smile flickers. Grows soft. “You always are.”

And then the screen goes black.

No dramatic sign-off. No music. Just gone.

You sit there for a long time, staring at your own reflection in the blank screen. Eyes red. Shirt loose. Still trembling a little.

But your chest feels lighter.

Just a little. Just enough to breathe.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The first two weeks slip by like snow through your fingers — cold, quiet, and gone before you can catch them.

You count time in video calls. Fifteen minutes here. Twelve if the connection’s bad. Sometimes it freezes on his smile and you pretend it's still moving.

Chris calls you every day, just like he promised. Always at 7:00 PM sharp, unless mission tasks push it late. When that happens, he sends a message through the comms portal — short, clipped, but full of love:

Missed the call window. You okay? Dreamt about you. You were singing. God, I miss your voice. Tomorrow. I swear.

Sometimes he leaves voice notes when he can — quiet recordings meant for your ears only. Once, he hums your song. Another, he tells you about the stars he can see out the porthole.

At first, you fill your days with routine.

Laundry. Work. Grocery store. Coffee.

You try to make dinner like you would if he were home, but halfway through cooking, you remember he won’t be walking through the door, and the pasta boils over while you’re trying not to cry on the kitchen floor.

You start drinking your coffee from his mug. Leave one of his hoodies on the back of the couch like he just stepped out of the room. You fall asleep with one of his shirts tucked under your pillow, clinging to the faded scent like it might answer back.

The bed’s too big. The apartment’s too quiet. Even your laugh feels lonelier now.

Still — you find him in the smallest things.

The weather app says “overcast,” and you remember the way he always calls it “good nap weather.” 

You pass the vending machine at work and see that awful powdered donut snack he likes. You almost buy it. 

You wake up from a dream where he kissed you on the nose and told you your hair looked like a science experiment. You cry. Then you laugh. Then you cry again.

Every night, you open the comms window before bed — not always expecting a message, but always hoping. When there is one, your whole body floods with warmth.

Saw your face in a dream. Was the only thing that felt real. You were laughing. Think I was too.

Crew’s watching Elf tonight. It’s not the same without you quoting every line like a lunatic.

Tell me what you’re wearing. Not like that. Just…want to picture you.

You reply with photos sometimes. Nothing sexy. Just your face. Your hand wrapped around his mug. Your feet under a blanket you both picked out last year at Target. You wearing his hoodie with your hair a mess and no makeup, captioned this is what’s waiting for you, spaceman.

He always answers. Even if it’s just a line. Even if it’s delayed.

You’re the most beautiful thing on Earth.

That blanket’s ugly as hell, but I’d sleep under it for the rest of my life if it meant being beside you.

Coming home to you. Promise.

The days blur. The nights ache. But the thread between you never frays.

You think of him when you brush your teeth. When you turn down the covers. When you close your eyes and whisper his name into the dark, like he might whisper it back from orbit.

You know it's only been two weeks. But it feels like forever.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

You don’t mean to open the closet.

It starts as a mindless motion — trying to clean, to distract yourself, to move through space like you aren’t aching in every part of your body. You’re not even sure what you’re looking for.

But then you see them. His boots. Right where he said they’d be.

The pair he doesn’t take on missions anymore. Still speckled with old dirt, one of the laces tied in a loop you’d teased him about a dozen times. “Just tie them properly, Beck, you’re not in a rush to get to Mars.” He’d grinned and kissed you instead of responding.

You crouch down. Slowly reach behind them. Your fingers brush something soft — fabric-wrapped, bundled, tied with what feels like a cord.

You pull it free.

It’s a box. Roughly shoebox sized. Wrapped in one of his old mission T-shirts like a makeshift gift bag. There’s a tag tucked into the fold of the collar.

To my favourite gravity-bound girl —Open when it hurts too much.— C

You press the note to your chest, inhale hard, and carry the bundle to the bed.

You unwrap it slowly.

Inside is a collection — not a gift, but a time capsule. A survival kit.

At the very top is a small notebook, black with fraying edges. His handwriting fills the first page.

I started this the day they gave me my departure date. I know you. You’re gonna try to act fine. You’re gonna be strong. You’re gonna make jokes and work too hard and wear my flannel like it’s armor.

But I also know there are going to be moments. Quiet ones. Empty ones. Ones where it hurts to breathe.

This is for those.

You cover your mouth. You already feel the sob building in your throat, but you keep turning pages.

Each one has something different. A message. A memory. A reason.

Remember that rainy Sunday when the power went out and we played Scrabble by candlelight and you made me cocoa and kicked my ass? That’s one of my favourite days of all time.

There’s a picture in here. It’s from our first trip to the coast. You were holding sea glass and your hair was a mess and I think I knew right then.

Play Track 3 on that sleepy jazz playlist you love. Close your eyes. Pretend I’m slow dancing with you in the kitchen. I’ll be doing the same.

I put a voice note on the flash drive. It’s labeled “For When It’s the Worst.” Don’t listen to it unless it really is.

You flip through tears now.

Tucked in the pages are tiny things.

A mini polaroid of you both, squished together in an airport terminal. A candy wrapper — from the brand he always buys you on long drives. A tiny pressed flower — from the parking lot of your favourite diner. A folded napkin with a terrible sketch of a rocket and a stick-figure couple labeled “Me (Space Idiot)” and “You (Hot Genius).”

And at the very bottom of the box?

A sealed envelope.

December 24th. Do Not Open Early. I Mean It.

Underlined three times.

You press it to your heart.

Then you curl up on the bed with the whole box beside you and cry into the shirt he wrapped it in. Not from pain this time — not entirely.

It’s grief, yes. But also love. So much love it nearly crushes you.

Because even in orbit, even in silence, even miles above your head — Chris Beck is still holding you.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

You don’t even realize the radio is on.

You’re halfway home from the grocery store, bags rustling in the backseat, mind numb in that careful way you’ve learned to cultivate. Milk. Bread. Coffee. Things you need to keep living like this is normal.

The light turns red.

And then the song starts. Soft. Familiar. Almost gentle.

“I’ll be home for Christmas…you can count on me…”

Your hands tighten on the steering wheel.

“No,” you whisper. Not loud enough to matter.

The singer croons on, warm and certain, like the words are a promise instead of a lie. Like home is something guaranteed. Like distance and gravity and mission schedules don’t exist.

Your chest caves in.

The sob punches out of you without warning — sharp, ugly, desperate. You suck in air and it stutters, breaks, refuses to cooperate. Tears blur the road until the red light becomes a smear of colour and memory.

You pull into a side street and park crooked, hazard lights blinking while you fold forward over the wheel.

“It’s not fair,” you choke.

You say it again, louder this time, voice cracking like glass.

“It’s not fair.”

You’re doing everything right. You’re being supportive. Brave. Strong. You kissed him goodbye, you answer his calls, smile when people say you must be so proud.

But none of that changes the empty seat beside you.

None of it puts him back in the kitchen humming while he makes coffee. None of it gives you his arms when the world gets too quiet. None of it makes Christmas songs stop sounding like threats.

“Christmas Eve will find me…where the love light gleams…”

You sob harder, forehead pressed to the steering wheel, shoulders shaking as the song keeps playing like it doesn’t know it’s breaking you in half.

You picture him — floating miles and miles above you, Earth spinning beneath his feet, probably hearing this same song piped through a tinny speaker in the galley. You wonder if it hurts him too. If he clenches his jaw and thinks of you gripping the wheel, crying alone in a car full of groceries you bought for one.

“I just want you home,” you whisper.

The song ends. Silence rushes in.

You wipe your face with the sleeve of his hoodie, breathe until the shaking eases, until you can see straight again. Then you throw the car into drive and pull back onto the road.

Because that’s what you do now. You keep going.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The moment the call connects, you almost forget how to breathe.

Because there he is.

Framed in the glow of overhead station lights, hair a little mussed, face softer than you expected. The feed’s a little grainy, a little delayed — but none of that matters. Because his eyes light up the second he sees you.

“There’s my girl,” Chris murmurs.

You don’t speak at first. You can’t. Your throat’s still raw from earlier — from crying in the car, from letting the song crack something open you’ve been keeping tightly shut.

But you smile. It’s wobbly. Fragile.

Still, Chris beams like it’s the sun.

“You okay?” he asks gently.

You nod too fast. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t press. Not yet. Just watches you — eyes scanning like he’s checking vitals, reading your body language from thousands of miles away. You try to fix your face, blink away the last of the redness, but he tilts his head.

“I know that look,” he says. “That’s the cried in the car look.”

You let out a weak laugh. “How can you tell?”

“I know your looks by now, baby.”

You glance down. “Caught.”

Chris doesn’t tease you for it. Doesn’t say don’t cry or you’re stronger than this. Instead, he leans in — as much as the screen allows — and softens.

“Bad day?”

You nod. Then exhale slowly. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t speak right away. You think maybe the signal glitched — but then he lifts something into view. A little pouch. Black with white stars printed on it.

“What’s that?” you ask.

“Something I smuggled on board,” he grins. “Don’t tell Mission Control.”

You smile, confused. “Chris—”

He unzips it and pulls out a small square of folded paper. It’s crinkled, worn. He holds it up to the camera.

Your handwriting.

“Wait,” you breathe. “That’s the note I left in your sock drawer like two years ago.”

He nods. “Found it while packing. Brought it with me.”

You bite your lip.

“It says,” he reads aloud, “‘You are my favourite place in the whole world. Even if that place is sometimes the kitchen floor during a meltdown.’”

You both laugh. It’s soft. Real.

“Still true,” you whisper.

Chris folds the note carefully, tucks it back in the pouch, then leans his chin on his hand.

“Want to see something?” he asks.

You nod.

He shifts the camera, angles it toward the porthole beside his bunk. At first, it’s just darkness — but then the station rotates slightly, and the Earth comes into view.

Blue. Glowing. Spinning slow and steady beneath the stars.

You gasp.

“It looks…unreal.”

“It is,” he says. “And I stare at it every night. Right before bed. Because somewhere down there, you’re brushing your teeth or putting on one of my shirts or curling up in our blanket — and I get to pretend I’m watching you in real time.”

Your throat tightens. “You’re such a sap.”

He smiles. “Only for you.”

He shifts the camera back.

“I got your picture, by the way,” he says. “The one in the hoodie. You looked like you hadn’t slept.”

“I hadn’t.”

He nods like he expected that.

“I miss you,” you say. Quiet. Barely audible.

Chris’s eyes darken — not with pain, but with that quiet, all-consuming love he wears so well.

“I miss you more than gravity.”

You laugh wetly. “You already used that one.”

“Still true.”

Then he holds something else up.

A tiny paper star.

Folded carefully. The corners aren’t perfect — you can tell he struggled with the microgravity — but it’s still beautiful.

“Made this in the lab today. There’s a tradition here — fold a star, make a wish.”

“What’d you wish for?”

He smiles. Soft. Steady.

“That you won’t feel so alone tonight.”

Your eyes burn. You press your fingers to your lips, like maybe that’ll keep the tears in.

“I don’t,” you whisper. “Not right now.”

His voice drops to something tender. Something sacred.

“Good. Because I’m still with you. Every second. No matter how far up I am, no matter how quiet it gets — I’m yours. Always.”

You nod. Can’t speak. Just stare at him, memorizing every pixel.

“Hey, before they cut the feed…” He shifts forward, lowering his voice like he’s about to share a secret.

“Yeah?”

“Check your inbox after this call.”

“Why?”

He smirks. “Because even in space, I can still send you a Christmas surprise.”

You narrow your eyes. “What kind of surprise?”

“I’m not telling. You’ll see.”

“Chris—”

“Love you,” he cuts in, voice low and warm.

You melt. “Love you more.”

The screen flickers. And then he’s gone again.

You sit there a moment, heart pounding in the silence before you open your inbox.

One new message. From his crew account.

You click. The file opens.

It’s a video. Shot from inside the station, slightly shaky, full of awkward lighting and floating objects.

Chris appears in the frame holding a tiny, hand-drawn sign:

“I’ll Be Home For Christmas (Eventually)”

Then the camera pans.

To a paper Christmas tree. To a floating snowflake made of gauze and lab tape. To his crewmates in the background singing off-key. To Chris, holding up a second sign:

“You’re my favourite star.”

And at the end?

Him, grinning straight into the camera, voice soft.

“Merry almost-Christmas, baby. I’m saving the real one for you.”

You press your hands to your mouth and sob. Then you laugh. Then you play it again.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It’s Christmas Eve.

There’s a half-eaten cookie on the plate by the window, cold tea on the counter, and an entire apartment wrapped in silence.

The lights on the tree blink softly — slow, steady — like a heartbeat. You haven’t turned them off in days. You don’t want to. The glow makes it feel like maybe he’s still here. Like maybe he’s just out grabbing milk. Like maybe this is just a pause, not a wound.

You sit on the couch with your knees tucked to your chest, wearing one of his long-sleeve NASA shirts — the sleeves too big, the fabric stretched out from nights you spent curled up in it — and stare at your laptop screen.

No notifications. No incoming comms.

Three days.

Three days without a call. Without a ping. Without his voice saying your name like a tether.

You were told there were “technical issues.” That sometimes the comms relay gets finicky, especially over the holidays. That bandwidth is limited. That nothing’s wrong.

But that’s the thing about love in space. It doesn’t take much silence to feel like something’s broken.

You wrap your arms tighter around yourself. Breathe slowly. Count the ornaments on the tree, the blinking lights, the seconds since you refreshed the inbox again.

Nothing.

Your phone vibrates — just once — and your heart leaps, but it’s only a calendar alert:

“Christmas Eve with Chris ❤️”

You forgot to delete it. Your throat clenches. You click it off.

The wind howls outside, rattling the windowpane. Somewhere down the hall, a neighbor laughs too loudly. Christmas music filters through the walls — muffled, festive, cruel.

You close your eyes.

You knew it would be hard. You knew the holidays would hurt. But knowing doesn’t soften the sharp edges.

You pull the box out from under the bed.

His box. The one from the closet. The one with polaroids and doodles and the napkin that says HOT GENIUS.

At the very bottom, still unopened:

December 24th. Do Not Open Early. I Mean It.

Your fingers hover over the envelope. You hesitate — just for a moment — then tear it open.

Inside is a letter. His handwriting fills the page, dark and sure.

Hey baby,

If you’re reading this, it’s Christmas Eve — which means I’m not there with you, and we both hate that. But I needed you to have something. So here’s what I want you to know tonight, in case I can’t say it out loud:

You’re my heart. You’re my home. You’re the reason I look out at a planet full of clouds and cities and light and think: “There she is.”

I know you’re probably sitting on the couch, wrapped in my shirt, maybe crying a little. That’s okay. Cry. Feel it. I’m probably doing the same up here.

I miss your laugh. I miss your forehead kisses. I miss how you curl into me when it’s cold. I miss waking up to you singing off-key in the kitchen like you’re auditioning for a musical called Domestic Chaos: The Ballad of Burned Toast.

I miss all of it.

But I also know this — we’re gonna make it through this. Because love like this doesn’t dim in the dark. It glows. It burns. Even across orbit. Even through silence. Even on a night like this.

Merry Christmas Eve, sweetheart. Look at the stars. I’ll be doing the same.

Yours, always —Chris

You fold forward and press the letter to your chest like it’s the only thing keeping you from collapsing. Tears fall, hot and quiet, into the fabric of his shirt.

You can’t hear him. You can’t see him.

But you feel him in every corner of the room.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

You don’t wake up in bed.

You must’ve fallen asleep on the couch again — curled into the corner under your old fleece blanket, his flannel wrapped around your shoulders like a second skin. The tree lights are still on, blinking gently in the grey morning hush.

It’s Christmas.

There’s no music playing. No fireplace crackling. No voice calling your name from the kitchen.

Just you. And the echo of a letter. And the memory of a video file that left you crying for an hour.

You sit up slowly, arms tight around yourself. Everything feels too quiet.

You glance at your phone.

Still nothing.

No missed calls. No new messages. Just silence.

You sigh, dragging your feet beneath you, blanket dragging on the floor. The window is fogged, the sky outside dull and snow-washed. You don’t even remember what’s supposed to be in the fridge. The idea of breakfast feels ridiculous.

You pad toward the kitchen anyway.

The doorknob turns.

You freeze. Dead still. No one’s supposed to be here. Your heart stutters, adrenaline slamming into your chest so fast you don’t even breathe.

You step back and then the door swings open.

And Chris steps inside.

He’s real. Not a memory. Not a flicker on a screen. Real.

Hair mussed. Duffle over his shoulder. Face flushed pink from the cold. Dressed in his favourite grey hoodie, snow melting in his lashes.

“Hi,” he breathes.

You don’t speak. You can’t. Your knees almost give out.

He drops the bag. Shuts the door behind him with a quiet click. And then he moves — fast — crossing the room in seconds.

You collide like gravity’s finally working again.

His arms wrap around you instantly, fiercely, lifting you off your feet as your hands clutch the back of his hoodie like you’re afraid he’ll vanish.

“Chris—” It comes out broken. A whisper choked in disbelief. “You’re not—You’re supposed to be—”

He’s laughing, tears already in his voice. “God, I missed you.”

You bury your face in his neck. “They said you couldn’t call…”

“I was on the return flight,” he murmurs, holding you tighter. “They bumped it up. Quiet mission shift. Last-minute. I begged them not to tell you.”

“You asshole.” You’re crying now, shaking with it. “You fucking asshole, I thought—I thought something happened—”

“I know, I know…I’m sorry…” He cups the back of your head, rocking you gently in his arms. “I wanted to surprise you. I wanted to see your face. To walk in and see you. Not a screen. Not a message. You.”

You pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are shining. His lips are trembling with a smile.

“Hi,” he whispers again.

“You’re really here.”

“I’m really here.”

And then you kiss him.

Hard. Desperate. Shaky. Like you’re still not convinced he’s solid. Like you need the proof of his mouth, his warmth, his heartbeat pounding under your palms.

He kisses you back like he’s been starving for it.

When you finally pull away, you can’t stop touching him — hands on his face, his chest, his arms, as if you have to take inventory of every inch to believe it’s real.

“You came home.”

“I told you I would.”

“On Christmas.”

Chris smiles, sheepish. “Thought it might be a decent gift.”

You punch his arm. “You monster. I was crying in the car.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours. “I know, baby...”

You wrap your arms around him again, tighter this time, grounding yourself in the solid, miraculous weight of him.

“I didn’t get you anything,” you whisper. “Not really. Just made you a playlist and some frozen cookies.”

“You being here,” he says, voice low and raw, “is the only thing I wanted. You’re the best present I could ever ask for, not just this year.”

You laugh, ugly and wet and wonderful.

“Shut up,” you mumble into his chest.

He hums, rocking you gently in place. “Not a chance.”

Outside, the snow keeps falling. The lights blink softly on the tree. And for the first time in weeks, the silence feels right.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The cocoa boils over. You both let it.

Chris is laughing too hard to care — arms around your waist, lips at your neck, his weight slumped against you like he doesn’t trust gravity yet. You’re trying to reach the stove without toppling, swatting at him between giggles and gasps, but he just tightens his grip.

“You’re not helping,” you choke out.

“I’m not trying to,” he mumbles against your skin, grinning. “I’ve been gone for weeks. I’m making up for lost body contact.”

“By gluing yourself to my back while the hot chocolate scorches?”

“Exactly.”

You elbow him gently and finally manage to reach the pot, sliding it off the heat just in time. The smell of chocolate fills the kitchen. Familiar. Sweet.

You turn in his arms and find his face already close — flushed, smiling, utterly lovesick.

“You’re real,” you whisper, fingertips brushing his jaw.

He leans into your touch. “And you’re still wearing my shirt.”

“You’re never getting it back.”

“Didn’t plan to.”

You bite your lip and kiss him again. Softer this time. Slower. He melts into it with a low hum, hands smoothing along your waist like he never wants to let go.

The two of you end up on the couch, bundled under three blankets with hot cocoa and the sad, slightly burnt cookies you tried to make last night when you couldn’t sleep. You offer him one with a sheepish look.

“I forgot the baking powder,” you say. “And also, uh…sugar.”

Chris bites into it anyway. Chews dramatically.

“Ten out of ten,” he says, mouth full. “Tastes like grief and desperation.”

You snort into your mug.

Then he adds, quiet and sincere, “Best cookie I’ve ever had.”

You go still. Then glance over at him.

He’s holding the half-eaten disaster in one hand and your thigh in the other — thumb stroking lazy circles through the blanket. His expression is open. Unguarded.

“This is all I could ever want,” he says softly.

“Cocoa and cookies?”

“You. This room. Your warmth. Your laugh. Your terrible baking.”

You sniffle. “Shut up.”

He shifts closer. Tucks your legs over his lap. Kisses your knee through the fabric.

“I thought about this every night,” he murmurs. “How the lights would look. How your skin would smell. The exact sound of your voice when you say my name.”

You set your mug down and curl into his side. He wraps his arms around you without hesitation, pressing a kiss to your temple like instinct.

“It’s weird,” you whisper. “I got used to missing you. Built my whole day around it. Now that you’re here, I don’t know what to do with all the ache.”

He exhales against your hair.

“Let it rest,” he says. “Just for today. Let it be quiet. Let it be Christmas.”

You nod into his chest.

For a while, neither of you says anything. The cocoa cools. The cookies crumble. Outside, the snow keeps falling. The blinking lights on the tree cast soft glows across the walls. You both stare at them in silence, breathing in sync.

“You know what the worst part was?” you murmur.

Chris tilts his head.

“That damn song.”

“I’ll Be Home For Christmas?”

You nod. “Everywhere. Playing constantly. And all I could think was no, you won’t.”

Chris’s arms tighten around you. He kisses your hair. “I hated that part too.”

You pause.

“But you are home.”

He nods. “I am.”

“Even if it won’t last long.”

Chris turns your face toward his, fingertips light beneath your chin. His gaze is warm and steady.

“It will,” he says. “I’m grounded for a while.”

Your heart stutters.

“What?”

He grins. “Didn’t I tell you? Flight rotation’s over. They’re cycling new crew next quarter. I’m staying planetside.”

You stare.

He laughs softly. “Surprise.”

“You’re not going back?”

“Not for a long while.”

You blink fast. “So you’ll be here for New Years?”

“Yes.”

“For my birthday?”

“Yes.”

“For like…breakfast?”

He laughs harder. “Yes, baby. For breakfast.”

You throw your arms around him again, burrowing into his hoodie, cocoa long forgotten.

“I’m gonna cry again,” you warn him.

“Good,” he whispers, kissing your cheek. “Cry all you want. Just do it here. With me.”

You sniffle and pull the blanket tighter around you both.

“I’ll be the little spoon later,” Chris offers, brushing his nose against yours. “Just in case you’re wondering how I plan to earn back boyfriend points.”

You giggle.

And for the first time in weeks — no ache, no silence, no cold.

Just cocoa. Cookies. Cuddles.

And your spaceman, home at last.

[semper-nox]

The Space You Left (#14)

Series Summary: Some wounds don’t bleed. They just teach you how to disappear. Before being adopted, you learned early that love had rules: don’t ask, don’t need, don’t take up space. Bucky – your brother in everything but blood – was the only exception. Now you’re an adult, brilliant, controlled, almost untouchable… until one dinner shatters the fragile balance.

Wordcount: 11.3k

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader, mentions of past Steve Rogers x Female Reader (no use of Y/N), Bucky Barnes x Natasha Romanoff

Warnings: childhood trauma, adoption trauma, abandonment issues, orphanage abuse, corporal punishment mentioned, religious trauma-adjacent themes, emotional self-hatred, shame, suicidal ideation / one moment of passive suicidal thought, complicated family dynamics, raised-as-siblings but not blood-related romantic tension, implied non-explicit underage intimacy in the past, emotional aftermath of sex, verbal cruelty, heartbreak, therapy, healing, reconciliation. See the whole exhaustive list on the masterlist post.

A/N: Gentle reminder that this series is heavy on trauma so I beg you to read the whole list of warning on the masterpost. I won't tolerate any complaints about not being warned of something. Beta read by Cassie (@blobfishlol ) as always.

I want to thank you all a lot for the engagement with this story. It means a lot to me.

Masterlist - Series Masterlist - Prev- Next

The next morning in New York, Bucky didn’t go straight to your apartment.

He couldn’t.

Not with Steve’s words still ringing in his head. Do it right. Don’t leave her in limbo. Not with the sour taste of cowardice still sitting on his tongue, the knowledge that every day he waited was another day he was letting someone else pay the price for his inability to face what he’d done.

So he went to Natasha.

Her building was the kind of place that tried to look casual about money – clean lobby, polished brass, a doorman who pretended not to notice who came and went. Bucky’s hands were cold by the time the elevator reached her floor. He had rehearsed the first sentence in his head a dozen times and none of them sounded like something a decent person would say.

He knocked anyway.

Natasha opened the door in sweatpants and a T-shirt, hair still damp, mug of coffee in hand. For half a second, her face softened with the familiar sight of him – automatic affection, the assumption of normal.

Then she saw him properly.

The exhaustion. The way he stood like he didn’t know where to put his body.

Her expression sharpened immediately.

“What happened?” she asked, voice already guarded. “And don’t tell me it’s nothing.”

Bucky swallowed hard. “Can I come in?”

Natasha hesitated, then stepped aside.

Her apartment smelled like clean laundry and eucalyptus cleaner, like a life that ran on routines and sharp edges. Everything had a place. Everything made sense. That used to comfort him.

Today it felt like an accusation.

Natasha closed the door behind him. “Okay,” she said, setting her mug down on the counter with deliberate care. “Talk.”

Bucky stared at the floor for a moment, then forced himself to lift his eyes.

“I need to end this,” he said.

The words landed like a slap.

Natasha blinked once. Twice. “What?”

Bucky’s throat tightened. “I can’t– I can’t keep doing this. It’s not fair to you.”

Her face went still in that dangerous way – too calm, too controlled. “You’re breaking up with me,” she said flatly, as if naming it would make it less ridiculous.

“Yes.”

For a heartbeat, there was silence.

Then Natasha’s expression fractured – anger and hurt flashing through in equal measure, her composure cracking at the edges.

“You don’t get to just walk in here and say that,” she snapped, voice rising. “Not after two years. Not after everything we’ve–”

“I know,” Bucky said, too quickly, too raw. “I know.”

Natasha let out a short, sharp laugh that held no humor. “You know?” Her eyes were already wet, but the tears didn’t soften her. They sharpened her. “Do you? Because you’ve been distant for weeks, and now you show up with a bruise on your face and decide you’re done?”

Bucky flinched. “It’s not–”

“Oh, it’s not what?” Natasha cut in, stepping closer, hands curling into fists at her sides. “Not sudden? Not cruel? Not exactly the thing you always do when you can’t handle your own feelings– pull away, shut down, pretend it’s about ‘fairness’ so you don’t have to admit you’re leaving because there’s someone else?”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. His eyes burned.

Natasha saw it.

And because she was Natasha – because she was terrifyingly perceptive even when she didn’t want to be – she followed the thread.

“Is it her?” she demanded.

Bucky didn’t answer fast enough.

Natasha’s face twisted, like the confirmation physically hurt. “Of course,” she breathed, and the tears finally spilled. “Of course it’s her.”

“It’s not like that,” Bucky insisted, voice breaking. “I didn’t– I didn’t cheat on you.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Natasha shot back, stepping even closer now. Her voice cracked on the next words. “I asked if it’s her.”

Bucky swallowed hard, shame heavy in his chest like a stone.

“Yes,” he admitted, barely audible. “It’s… it’s always been her.”

The air between them went tight, electric.

Natasha’s eyes widened, hurt turning instantly into rage. She slapped him.

“You asshole,” she whispered, and then the whisper broke into a shout. “Do you have any idea what you did to me? Two years– two years of me trying to build something with you while you were– what? Practicing? Pretending?”

“I wasn’t pretending,” Bucky said, voice hoarse. “I cared about you. I do care about you.”

Natasha let out a sob that sounded like a laugh. “Caring is not love, Barnes.”

Bucky’s hands flexed helplessly. “I tried. I tried to make it– normal. I tried to want the right things.”

Natasha’s mouth trembled, and for a moment her anger faltered, revealing the devastation underneath. “And I was the right thing,” she said softly, like she couldn’t quite believe she was saying it. “I was the safe choice you could hold without getting burned.”

Bucky couldn’t look at her.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Natasha wiped her cheeks violently, furious at her own tears. “Don’t,” she snapped. “Don’t say you’re sorry like it fixes anything.”

Bucky took a shaky breath. “I know it doesn’t.”

Natasha stared at him, chest heaving, eyes bright and red. For a moment, it looked like she might hit him again.

Then she did something worse.

She stepped back as if he’d become untouchable.

“Get out,” she said, voice low and shaking. “Get out of my apartment.”

Bucky didn’t move immediately. Not because he wanted to argue – because leaving felt like adding another cruelty on top of the ones he’d already done.

Natasha’s voice rose again, raw now. “Get out!”

Bucky nodded once, throat tight. He reached for the door, fingers clumsy.

As he opened it, Natasha threw the words after him like knives.

“I hope she never comes back,” she cried, voice breaking. “I hope you live with what you did.”

Bucky froze in the doorway for half a second.

Then he left.

He didn’t slam the door. He didn’t have the energy for drama.

But when the door clicked shut behind him, the sound echoed in his chest like a verdict.

When Bucky met Steve outside your building later, Steve took one look at him and exhaled through his nose.

“Thought I told you not to make a habit of getting hit,” Steve said.

Bucky’s mouth twitched, the closest thing to a smile he could manage. His cheek was red again – different side this time, faint swelling at the edge of his jaw.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

Steve’s brows lifted. “Natasha?”

Bucky swallowed. “I broke up with her.”

Steve didn’t react immediately. He just stared, like he needed to make sure Bucky wasn’t lying, wasn’t postponing the truth again.

Then he stepped aside toward the entrance.

A silence stretched between them as they went up the stairs – thick, heavy, but not hostile. Steve didn’t fill it. Steve knew when words would only make things worse.

At your door, Steve unlocked it with the key Bucky had given him, pushing it open slowly.

Bucky hesitated on the threshold.

The apartment smelled stale – closed up, unoccupied. Not dirty, exactly, but like a space that hadn’t been lived in for too long. The air had that faint, trapped quality, as if it had been holding its breath since the moment you left.

Bucky stepped in, eyes scanning automatically, instinctively looking for signs of you – your shoes by the door, your bag on the chair, a sweater thrown over the armrest.

Nothing.

And then he saw it.

In the entryway, on the wooden console table, the frame that should have been hanging on the wall was lying flat – placed with deliberate care.

Face-down.

The photograph of you and him pressed against the wood as if it had been too painful to look at, but too meaningful to throw away.

Bucky stopped so abruptly Steve nearly bumped into him.

His throat tightened, hard and immediate, like someone had reached inside him and wrapped a fist around his windpipe.

He stared at the frame, unable to move.

Because the message was clear in the simplest, cruelest way.

You hadn’t destroyed it.

You hadn’t smashed it in anger.

You had just… turned it away.

As if you couldn’t bear the sight of him anymore.

Steve opened his mouth like he was going to say something – something gentle, something careful, the kind of words he’d been rehearsing in his head for weeks. His hand even lifted slightly, as if he might reach for Bucky’s shoulder.

Bucky stopped him with a small shake of his head.

Not sharp. Not angry. Just… final.

“No,” he rasped, staring at the frame on the console table as if it might suddenly turn itself back over. “Don’t.”

Steve’s hand fell back to his side.

For a second, they just stood there in the entryway, the apartment quiet around them. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that didn’t feel peaceful – it felt like it was listening. Like every wall had absorbed the echo of your footsteps leaving and was waiting to see if you’d ever come back.

Bucky swallowed hard and forced his body to move.

He stepped past the entryway without touching anything. Without even looking at the frame again. Because if he did, he wasn’t sure he’d keep breathing.

“Let’s just… do it,” he said, voice low.

Steve nodded once, understanding without asking what it meant. Because they both knew. Cleaning wasn’t about dust. It wasn’t even really about you finding the place neat when you returned.

It was about giving their hands something to do so their minds didn’t destroy them.

They fell into a rhythm almost immediately.

Steve went for the kitchen first, sleeves rolled up, moving with the familiar efficiency of someone who’d spent years making small spaces livable. He opened the trash can, tied the bag, and set it by the door without comment. He gathered stray cups and plates and moved them toward the sink. The clink of ceramic against stainless steel sounded too loud in the quiet apartment.

Bucky grabbed the vacuum.

He didn’t wonder where you kept it. He already knew. He hated that he knew.

The cord slid out with a soft hiss as he pulled it, the plastic wheels bumping lightly against the hardwood as he dragged it into the living room. He pressed the button.

The sudden roar of the motor filled the space, blessedly drowning out the silence.

He started with the rug, pushing the vacuum in slow, deliberate lines like the pattern mattered. Like if he did it neatly enough, if he did it properly enough, he could erase the imprint of that night. The path from the couch to the door. The invisible trail of your pain.

Steve moved through the kitchen, opening cabinets, checking expiration dates. He didn’t ask first. He didn’t need to. He knew you’d hate wasted food, hate mess, hate the idea that something in your life might rot quietly in the background while you were gone.

He pulled out containers from the fridge one by one. Leftovers gone too long. Milk that had soured. A tub of hummus that had turned into something unrecognizable.

He held each item for a moment, reading the dates like they mattered, then tossed them in the trash with a grim, steady motion.

The smell hit him when he opened the produce drawer – faint, sweet rot. He grimaced and muttered something under his breath, then cleaned it out quickly, wiping down the plastic with paper towels and disinfectant from under the sink.

Bucky stayed out of the kitchen entirely.

Not because he didn’t want to help.

Because it felt too intimate. Because the kitchen was where you used to lean against the counter and talk while he pretended he wasn’t watching you. Because it was where you’d sat at your little table with Pietro and Wanda and Steve, laughing softly, alive.

He focused on the floors. The corners. The baseboards.

He moved to the hallway, vacuuming carefully along the edges, picking up little bits of lint and hair and the evidence of life.

He did not go into your bedroom.

He didn’t even let his gaze drift toward the door.

The bedroom was a line he couldn’t cross.

Not today.

Steve noticed.

Of course he did.

Steve didn’t say anything about it. He just finished wiping down the kitchen counters, rinsed the dishes that had been sitting in the sink, loaded them into your dishwasher with quiet efficiency. He ran water over a sponge, scrubbed a stubborn ring out of a mug, then set it carefully in the drying rack.

Then he walked down the hall and paused in front of your bedroom door.

He looked back once, checking Bucky’s position – still in the living room now, vacuuming the same strip of carpet for the second time like he needed the repetition.

Steve pushed the bedroom door open.

The room smelled like you. Or at least it had. Now it smelled like closed air, like fabric that hadn’t moved in weeks. The bed was made, but not tightly. The sheets had a faint crease where you must have sat before leaving. The curtains were half-drawn, letting in a narrow band of daylight that cut across the comforter.

Steve swallowed hard and forced himself to focus.

He stripped the bed quickly, gathering the sheets and pillowcases, folding them into a neat bundle the way you would have. He didn’t linger over the small things – the indentation of your head in the pillow, the way your side of the bed seemed… untouched.

He carried the linens to the laundry hamper, replaced them with clean sheets from your closet, and remade the bed with crisp precision.

Tight corners.

Smooth surface.

A bed that looked ready for someone to come home.

When Steve stepped back into the hallway, he pulled the door closed quietly behind him.

Bucky was still vacuuming.

The sound of the motor filled the apartment, but it couldn’t fill the hole you’d left.

After an hour, maybe two, they were done.

Trash bags by the door. Counters wiped clean. Floors vacuumed. The fridge cleared of anything expired. The apartment didn’t feel lived-in anymore – it felt paused. Like a set waiting for its lead actor to return.

Steve turned off the last light in the living room and stood near the entryway, hands on his hips, surveying the space like he was checking for mistakes.

Bucky unplugged the vacuum and wound the cord around its hooks with meticulous care.

Then he stood there, staring at the hallway.

At the closed bedroom door.

At the frame still lying face-down on the entry table.

His chest tightened again, that familiar constriction.

He couldn’t stay.

Even clean, even orderly, the apartment felt wrong without you. Like a body without a heartbeat. Like a place that had been designed for your presence and was now haunted by the shape of it.

“I can’t,” he said quietly.

Steve looked at him. “Yeah,” he answered, because there was no point pretending otherwise. “I know.”

Bucky grabbed his jacket, hands shaking slightly as he shoved his arms into the sleeves. He didn’t look around again. Didn’t let himself take in any details that might anchor him here.

He headed for the door like it was a lifeline.

Because staying would have meant facing the absence head-on.

And right now, he could barely survive it from the edge.

Bucky asked Steve to keep your spare key.

He did it right outside your apartment door, fingers still smelling faintly of lemon cleaner and dust, eyes fixed on the lock as if he could will it to open for you instead of for them.

“Keep it,” he said, voice low.

Steve held the keyring up between two fingers, brows knitting slightly. “Bucky–”

“Please,” Bucky cut in, the word rawer than he meant it to be. He swallowed, jaw flexing. “Just… keep it. So I don’t do something stupid.”

Steve looked at him for a long moment, understanding settling in. The key wasn’t about access. It was about restraint. About boundaries Bucky didn’t trust himself to hold if panic hit again.

“Okay,” Steve said finally, and slipped it into his pocket. “I’ve got it.”

Bucky nodded once – gratitude without the softness.

Neither of them spoke about the frame in the entryway. About the face-down photograph. About the way the apartment had felt like a held breath.

They just left.

In the hallway, their footsteps echoed quietly. In the street, the city swallowed them whole like it always did.

And then they split, each heading back to their own place with the same heaviness sitting in their chests in different shapes.

Steve’s apartment was dim when he got home.

He hung his jacket on the same hook he always used, kicked off his shoes by the door, and stood there for a moment too long – still hearing the hum of the vacuum in his head, still seeing the too-clean counters in your kitchen, the bed remade tight and crisp like you might walk in at any second.

He sat on the couch without turning on the lights.

The room around him was quiet, familiar, and yet his mind kept drifting back to you. To the way you used to sit on that same couch, knees tucked under you, mug in hand, teasing him for his terrible taste in late-night documentaries. To the way you’d always pretended you were fine – even when he could tell you weren’t.

His phone was on the coffee table.

Steve stared at it for a few seconds, thumb hovering. He didn’t want to intrude. He didn’t want to be another missed call, another pressure, another voice demanding something from you.

But he also couldn’t do nothing.

So he picked it up and typed.

Not a speech. Not a plea. Just the truth, in the simplest words he could manage.

Hey. We went to your apartment today. We didn’t go through anything personal. We just cleaned – dust, trash, kitchen, that kind of stuff. I changed your sheets. I’m holding onto your spare key so Bucky doesn't have it around. I miss you. I hope you’re okay. I hope you found what you were looking for.

He read it once.

Twice.

Then, before he could overthink it, he hit send.

The message disappeared into the void of silence you’d created, and Steve set the phone down like it might burn him. He leaned back, closing his eyes, letting the quiet settle around him again.

It didn’t feel like relief.

It felt like waiting.

Bucky went home and immediately regretted it.

Not because his apartment was unpleasant, but because it was his – because it held him too well, because it was full of reminders he couldn’t outrun. The bowl of green apples by the window. The candle stub still on the table. The faint lingering smell of garlic that had never truly left since that night, as if the place itself refused to forget.

He didn’t turn on the TV.

He didn’t eat.

He went into his bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together like he was trying to keep himself from falling apart. His face still ached – Natasha’s nails had caught his jaw during the breakup, the fight turning ugly and loud and raw. His mother’s slap still burned in memory more than skin.

But none of it hurt like the thought of you.

The thought of you on that bridge.

The thought of you alone in a hotel room for days, sleeping like your body was shutting down to survive.

The thought of you believing – because of him – that you were unwanted.

Bucky picked up his phone and unlocked it.

He opened your contact and stared at your name until his eyes blurred.

He didn’t call.

He didn’t have the right to call.

So he wrote.

At first, it was just one sentence.

Then another.

Then the words started coming out like blood finally finding air.

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know if you’ll read this, but I need you to hear it anyway.

He paused, swallowed hard, and kept going.

I didn’t mean what I said. I didn’t believe it. Not then, not ever. I was hurt and angry and scared and I lashed out in the worst way. I said the cruelest thing I could think of because it felt easier than admitting what I was actually feeling.

His thumbs shook. He had to stop and wipe at his eyes with the heel of his hand, breathing through the tightness in his throat.

I know I can’t take those words back. I know saying sorry doesn’t erase them. I just need you to know that I hate myself for it. I hate that I put that poison in your head. You are not empty. You are not unlovable. You never were.

He stared at the screen for a long moment, chest heaving, then forced himself to write the next part.

Because you deserved the truth – even if you never spoke to him again.

I ended things with Natasha today. I’m not telling you that because I expect anything from you. I’m not telling you so you’ll come back or forgive me or… anything. I’m telling you because you deserve honesty from me, for once.

He swallowed hard, blinking rapidly.

I love you. I don’t know when it started. I think it’s been there longer than I’ve been willing to admit. Maybe always. I told Mom and Dad. I told them the truth about how I feel.

The words looked too big on the screen. Too naked.

He kept going anyway.

Steve and I cleaned your apartment today. We didn’t go through your stuff. We just… cleaned. Your picture… I saw it. I understand. I do.

His breath hitched painfully.

I’m glad you found your dad. I’m glad he accepted you. I’m glad you got an answer that isn’t pain. I’m glad I was wrong.

And then, after everything else, after the apologies and confessions and truths he should have said years ago, he typed the simplest line.

The one that had been sitting in his chest like a bruise for weeks.

I miss you.

Bucky stared at the message until the letters blurred.

His thumb hovered over the send button.

He didn’t know if you’d ever read it. Didn’t know if it would land like comfort or like another intrusion. But the words were already written, already real. Keeping them locked inside him felt like another form of cowardice.

So he closed his eyes and pressed send.

The message whooshed away.

Bucky sat on the edge of his bed in the dim light of his phone screen, staring at nothing, breathing through the ache of missing you – knowing that loving you didn’t mean he was owed anything in return.

Only that you deserved the truth.

Finally.

After a full day of work – real work, the kind that made your brain ache in a satisfying way – you finally closed your laptop and leaned back in the hotel chair, rolling your shoulders until something in your neck popped.

Pietro was sprawled on the other bed with his own phone and calendar open, rescheduling patients with the kind of apologetic efficiency only a psychologist could manage. His voice had been gentle all afternoon, low and steady as he moved appointments and reassured people that yes, he was fine, yes, it was temporary, yes, he’d call them back.

When he hung up the last call, he exhaled long and dramatic and threw his phone onto the pillow like it had personally offended him.

“I hate being responsible,” he announced.

You snorted softly, rubbing your eyes. “Liar.”

He sat up, stretched, then glanced at you with a faint smile that softened almost immediately into something more thoughtful.

“Let’s get out,” he said. “You’ve been staring at your thesis like it’s going to confess something if you glare hard enough.”

You hesitated for half a second – habit, instinct – but then you nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

Outside, Miami was still warm even as evening fell. The air smelled like salt and sunscreen that refused to leave people’s skin, like restaurants and street food and humid pavement cooling down. You and Pietro walked without a real destination, letting the city carry you the way New York used to, except this time there was space around you. Less noise. Different energy.

Pietro walked with his hands in his pockets, shoulders loose, eyes moving constantly the way they always did – reading, assessing, cataloguing.

After a few blocks, he muttered, “Everything feels weird.”

You glanced at him. “Weird how?”

He gestured vaguely at… everything. The palm trees. The open sky. The way the light hit buildings. The fact that people didn’t look like they were always rushing toward the next thing with their teeth clenched.

“Like the city is on vacation,” he said. “Like it doesn’t know what urgency is.”

You let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “It’s just not New York.”

Pietro’s eyes flicked to you. “Yeah.”

You kept walking, your steps matching his. “It’s different,” you added softly.

Not better.

Not worse.

Just different enough that your body didn’t keep waiting for the next hit.

Later, back at the hotel, you stared at the new phone on the nightstand for a few seconds before finally picking it up.

Your thumb hovered over Tony’s contact.

The fear wasn’t the same as before – not the fear of rejection – but something else. The fear of accepting. Of letting something good exist without immediately bracing for it to be taken away.

Pietro didn’t pressure you. He just watched you quietly from the edge of his bed, expression calm and encouraging.

You hit call.

Tony answered on the second ring.

“Hey,” he said immediately, like he’d been hoping it would be you. “You okay?”

You felt your throat tighten a little. “Yeah. I’m… yeah. I wanted to ask something.”

“Anything.”

You exhaled slowly. “My best friend is here.”

A beat. “Okay.”

“He flew down,” you added, as if you needed to justify it. “He’s… he’s my person.”

Tony’s tone warmed instantly. “Then I definitely want to meet him.”

You blinked. “Really? I mean– I know you’re busy.”

“I’m not too busy for you,” he said, like it was obvious. Like it was a fact of physics. “When do you want to do it?”

There was a pause on your end, and then you admitted, quietly, “Tonight? If that’s not insane.”

Tony chuckled. “It’s only insane if you don’t like dinner.”

Pietro raised his brows at you when you lowered the phone, like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard.

You shrugged, a little helpless. “He just… makes space.”

“Hmm,” Pietro hummed, as if filing that away for future judgment. “We’ll see.”

Tony’s house – because of course it was a house and not just an apartment – wasn’t ostentatious the way you’d expected it might be. It was elegant, modern, warm in that curated way that still felt lived-in. Lights glowed softly through large windows. The air smelled like something rich and comforting – garlic and herbs and roasting meat.

Maria greeted you both at the door as if she’d been waiting with her whole heart.

She kissed your cheek, then turned to Pietro with a polite smile that immediately became something more once she looked him in the eye – recognition of importance.

“You must be Pietro,” she said.

Pietro straightened slightly, the way he always did when he met someone he respected. “Yes, ma’am.”

Maria’s smile widened. “Oh, I like you already.”

Pietro flashed his most charming grin. “Most people do.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest was unmistakable.

Tony appeared behind his mother with two glasses of wine in hand, scanning Pietro with open curiosity. His gaze flicked from Pietro to you and back again, clearly trying to map the dynamic.

“You’re… Pietro,” Tony said, offering his hand.

Pietro shook it firmly. “That’s me.”

Tony’s eyes narrowed slightly in amused confusion. “I was expecting…” He stopped himself, then laughed at his own assumption. “Okay, so– my bad. I don’t know why my brain decided best friend meant woman before hearing masculine pronouns.”

Pietro deadpanned. “It’s the hair.”

Tony barked a laugh, genuinely entertained. “Fair.”

Dinner was… surprisingly normal.

Not normal in the sense that this wasn’t your billionaire genius father’s dining room with your grandmother and your best friend, because that was objectively insane. But normal in the sense that the conversation flowed easily. Maria asked Pietro about his work. Pietro explained psychology in a way that made Maria ask more questions, genuinely engaged. Tony kept throwing little comments in, snark and warmth braided together, as if he couldn’t help testing the edges of the room to make sure everyone was comfortable.

You found yourself sitting beside Maria, talking with her as if you’d known her longer than a few days.

She asked about your thesis again – more specifically this time, because she remembered what you’d said at lunch. She asked about your childhood in Brooklyn, about the museum you’d loved as a kid, about whether you still liked the same kinds of books.

It felt like being gently examined – not for flaws, but for familiarity. Like she was trying to place you into her life without forcing you to fit.

At some point, Tony pushed his chair back and nodded at Pietro. “Come on. Drink?”

Pietro stood, shooting you a brief glance – You okay? – and you nodded.

They moved a few steps away, toward a sideboard with whiskey bottles lined up like trophies. You stayed with Maria, but you couldn’t help watching them from the corner of your eye.

Tony poured. Pietro declined at first, then accepted a small amount with a shrug. They stood facing each other, two very different kinds of dangerous – one sharp with intellect, one sharp with instinct.

Pietro didn’t waste time.

He took one sip, then looked Tony straight in the eye and said, casually, like he was asking about the weather, “If you hurt her, I will ruin you.”

Tony blinked.

Then, instead of scoffing, he laughed once – soft and surprised. “Okay.”

Pietro didn’t smile. He held Tony’s gaze, unwavering.

“I’m serious,” Pietro added, voice low. “I don’t care who you are. I don’t care what you can buy. If she ends up destroyed again, I’ll make it my life’s work to make sure you regret waking up every morning.”

There was a beat of silence.

Tony’s laughter faded, not into anger, but into something attentive. He studied Pietro like he was recognizing something – something familiar and deeply important.

Then Tony nodded slowly.

“Good,” Tony said, and there was no sarcasm in it. “Good. She needs someone like that.”

Pietro’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if he hadn’t expected that answer.

Tony took another sip of his drink, then set the glass down with deliberate care.

“I’m not going to hurt her,” he said quietly. “But I appreciate you telling me what the stakes are.”

Pietro’s posture eased by a fraction. “You’d be surprised how many people don’t take the stakes seriously.”

Tony’s mouth twisted. “I take them seriously.”

He glanced over Pietro’s shoulder toward you for half a second, expression softening in a way that looked almost painful.

“She’s my kid,” Tony said simply. “That makes her my priority. Not my accessory.”

Pietro watched him for a long moment, then gave a small, reluctant nod – approval, not trust earned yet, but trust possible.

“Alright,” Pietro said. “We’ll see.”

Tony snorted. “Yeah. I figured you’d say that.”

They returned to the table a minute later, both of them wearing faces that were a little too neutral, a little too composed.

Maria glanced between them with knowing eyes.

You raised a brow at Pietro silently.

Pietro didn’t answer out loud.

He just reached for his fork and said, far too casually, “Dinner’s great.”

Tony sipped his wine and added, equally casual, “Glad you think so.”

And you sat there between Maria’s warmth and Pietro’s presence and Tony’s steady, determined attention, realizing – slowly – that this wasn’t just a moment of comfort.

It was the beginning of something that might actually hold.

By the time dessert arrived, you’d almost forgotten what it felt like to sit at a table without bracing.

Not completely – your body didn’t forget that easily – but enough that you found yourself answering Maria’s questions without rehearsing every sentence three times in your head. Enough that you tasted the food instead of swallowing around a knot. Enough that when Tony refilled your water without asking, it didn’t feel like an intrusion. It felt like… care.

The dessert was set down in front of you with a quiet clink of porcelain. Something warm and sweet – chocolate, maybe – paired with fruit and a little too much elegance to be casual about it. Maria murmured an approving sound. Pietro immediately went for his fork like he hadn’t eaten on the plane at all.

Tony didn’t touch his yet.

He watched you for a moment, expression thoughtful in a way that made you sit up straighter without meaning to.

“So,” he said, carefully casual, like he was trying not to spook you. “What was your childhood like?”

The room didn’t go silent, exactly, but the air shifted. The question was ordinary on the surface – the kind of thing people asked when they wanted to know you – but here, in this context, it felt like stepping onto a floor you weren’t sure would hold your weight.

You had mentioned your adoptive mom already. You’d talked about Brooklyn, about school, about skipping grades, about your thesis and the way you’d built your life like a scaffold around stability.

But he knew you hadn’t grown up with the woman he’d loved.

He knew there was a gap there.

And he was asking gently, without forcing, what filled it.

Your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth.

Your instinct – the reflex honed into you since you were four – was to offer the safe version. The polished version. The one where you said It was fine and smiled and redirected the conversation to something easier.

You glanced at Pietro.

He didn’t speak.

He just lifted his brows once and gave you a small, almost invisible nod.

A quiet encouragement.

Tell the truth. Not the softened one. Not the one you invented to make people comfortable.

Your fingers tightened around your fork for a second. Then you set it down carefully, because your hand had started to shake.

“I…” You inhaled slowly. “I grew up in an orphanage until I was four.”

Tony’s expression changed instantly – surprise first, then something else, sharper. His brows rose, and Maria’s hand paused midair above her plate.

You heard the faintest intake of breath from Maria, controlled but real.

“That’s…” Tony started, then stopped himself, as if he’d realized anything he said too quickly might push you back into silence. “Okay.”

You swallowed. The words were lodged in your throat like stones.

“It wasn’t…” You searched for the language, because you had spent most of your life not giving it any. “It wasn’t a good place.”

Maria’s face tightened in a way that made her look suddenly older. “What do you mean, not a good place?” she asked, voice quiet and edged with restraint.

Under the table, Pietro’s hand found yours.

He didn’t squeeze hard. Just enough to remind you you weren’t alone in this moment. His thumb brushed once over your knuckles – steady, grounding.

You stared at your plate.

Then you made yourself look up, because part of telling the truth was not hiding from it.

“It was a religious orphanage,” you said slowly. “Very strict. They believed… they believed obedience was the same thing as virtue.”

Tony’s jaw clenched, barely perceptible.

Maria’s eyes didn’t leave your face.

You took another breath, and the next words came out more easily once the first ones were spoken.

“If you disobeyed,” you continued, voice flat, almost clinical, as if describing someone else, “you got punished. Not… not like time-out.”

Pietro’s grip tightened slightly.

You forced yourself to keep going before you lost momentum.

“They used… corporal punishment,” you said. “On our backs. Sometimes on our legs. Sometimes just… wherever they could reach.” Your throat burned. “And it wasn’t always for big things. It could be for talking during mass. Or laughing. Or holding someone’s hand.”

Maria’s hand rose to her mouth, fingers pressing briefly against her lips like she was holding back a sound.

Tony’s face had gone very still. The kind of stillness that looked like restraint. Like rage being contained by sheer force of will.

You felt oddly detached as you spoke, like you were watching yourself from above. Like the words were leaving your mouth but not fully touching you yet.

“There were good days,” you added automatically, instinctively trying to balance it, to make it less awful. “But the bad days were…”

You shook your head, unable to finish.

Maria’s voice was soft but firm. “Did they do this to you?”

You hesitated.

Then nodded once.

“Yes.”

The silence that followed was heavy, the kind that felt like the room itself didn’t know what to do with the truth.

Pietro squeezed your hand under the table, steady and present.

You blinked quickly, fighting the sting in your eyes.

“And then,” you said, forcing yourself forward, “my mom adopted me.”

You didn’t say saved me, because you weren’t sure you believed in that kind of simple narrative. But the word hovered in the space anyway.

“She was… good,” you said, voice softer. “She was kind. She didn’t have to be. She chose me.” You swallowed hard. “But I was four. And I was–” You laughed faintly, but there was no humor. “I was smart enough to understand that it could be taken away.”

Tony frowned. “Taken away?”

You nodded, gaze dropping again.

“I thought…” Your fingers curled tighter around Pietro’s hand like it was the only thing keeping you tethered. “I thought that if I asked for too much, she’d change her mind.”

Maria’s eyes filled with tears she didn’t let fall. “Oh, sweetheart…”

You shook your head quickly, because you didn’t want pity. You wanted them to understand.

“So I didn’t,” you said. “I didn’t ask. Not for attention. Not for time. Not for reassurance.” Your voice thinned. “I was terrified of being… inconvenient.”

Tony’s eyes flicked over your face, like he could see the child version of you behind your adult one. Like he was mentally putting pieces together – your control, your politeness, your habit of being “okay.”

“I learned really fast,” you said quietly, “that if you’re easy to have around, people keep you.”

The sentence landed like a bruise.

Maria reached across the table then, slowly, giving you the chance to pull away if you wanted. When you didn’t, she covered your free hand with hers – warm, trembling slightly.

“You were a child,” she whispered. “You should never have had to earn love.”

Tony’s voice was low, careful, but there was a tremor of anger underneath. “Does your mother know? Your adoptive mother?”

You hesitated.

“She knows I was there,” you said. “She knows it was strict.” A pause. “But I never… I never told her the details.”

Tony’s jaw flexed. “Why not?”

You could have lied. You could have given a neat answer.

Instead, you told the truth.

“Because I thought,” you said softly, “that if she knew I had been punished, it meant I had done something wrong.” You inhaled shakily. “And I was scared she’d send me back.”

Maria’s grip tightened, and her eyes finally overflowed – one tear slipping down her cheek as she shook her head slowly, devastated.

Tony’s gaze stayed locked on you, something fierce and protective building behind his eyes.

“You were four,” he said again, like he needed to repeat it until the world understood. “You were four.”

Your throat tightened. You nodded once, unable to speak for a second.

Pietro’s thumb stroked your knuckles under the table, steadying you through the worst of it.

And somehow, even as the story hung in the air – ugly, painful, undeniable – you didn’t feel the old shame swallow you whole.

Because this time, the people listening weren’t recoiling.

They weren’t looking "through" you.

They were staying.

They were seeing you.

And for the first time, telling the truth didn’t feel like asking to be sent away.

For a few seconds after you finished speaking, the room didn’t move.

Even the small sounds – the clink of a fork against porcelain, the soft hum of the air conditioning – felt muted, as if the house itself had decided to hold its breath with you.

Tony’s face was tight, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere past your shoulder like he was trying to see the child you’d been. Maria’s hand still covered yours, warm and steady. Pietro’s fingers were laced with yours under the table, his thumb stroking slow, grounding circles like a metronome.

Then Tony pushed his chair back.

The scrape of wood against the floor sounded too loud.

He stood, breathing through his nose, shoulders tense. He took one step as if he meant to leave the room – then stopped. Hesitated. You saw the conflict in him as clearly as if it had been spoken out loud: the fear of doing the wrong thing, of overwhelming you, of touching a wound that wasn’t his to handle.

His hands flexed at his sides.

He looked at you again.

And then he walked around the table.

He stopped behind your chair, hovering for a heartbeat.

“Can I–” he started, voice rough.

You didn’t answer fast enough, not because you didn’t want it, but because your body always needed a second when something unexpected approached. You felt your shoulders draw in, instinctive. You held your breath without meaning to.

Tony swallowed, and his arms came around you anyway – careful at first, as if he’d be ready to pull back the second you stiffened too much.

You did stiffen.

For a few seconds, your spine went rigid, hands frozen on the edge of the table, the old reflex firing: don’t react wrong, don’t take up space, don’t make it worse.

Then Pietro’s hand squeezed yours under the table, firm and steady.

Maria’s palm pressed gently against your knuckles on the table, reassuring.

And slowly, the tension in your shoulders eased.

You lifted your arms and returned the embrace, tentative at first, then more fully – your cheek resting against Tony’s chest, the fabric of his shirt warm against your skin.

Tony exhaled, the sound shaky.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice low near your ear. “I’m so sorry.”

You blinked hard, the sting in your eyes back again.

“I would’ve stopped it,” he said, and there was grief there – real, raw grief for something he hadn’t known he’d lost. “If I’d known… I would’ve–” He swallowed. “I wish that never happened to you. I wish none of it had.”

Your throat tightened too much to speak, so you just nodded once, small, against him.

He held you a moment longer, then eased back, keeping his hands on your shoulders as if he wasn’t ready to let you slip out of reach completely. His eyes were bright, but he didn’t let the tears fall. His jaw was clenched hard enough you could see it.

Maria wiped her cheek quietly, then gave you a look that was both soft and fierce.

Pietro didn’t move his eyes from yours.

You drew in a breath and did what you always did when emotions threatened to drag you under: you reached for narrative. For structure. For the next piece of the story that made sense.

“I… um,” you started, voice hoarse. “After the orphanage, my mom got married.”

Tony’s gaze sharpened, listening.

“There was… her husband,” you said carefully, “and his son.”

You didn’t say his name.

You kept your tone neutral, brisk, like you were describing a fact on a timeline. You didn’t linger on how that boy had become the safest part of your childhood. You didn’t say how his presence had been a kind of shelter you hadn’t known how to ask for anywhere else.

“It was… complicated,” you added softly, then moved on before the word could open a door you weren’t ready to walk through.

“I skipped two grades,” you said, more firmly, returning to safer territory. “I was always ahead in school, and they didn’t know what to do with me, so they just… pushed me forward.”

Tony blinked once, a faint, incredulous smile tugging at his mouth despite everything. “You skipped two grades?”

You gave a small shrug. “I didn’t have a lot else going on.”

Pietro made a low sound of agreement, as if to say understatement of the century.

“And that’s how I met Steve,” you continued. “He was our neighbor. He lived close by. We… we got close pretty early.”

Tony’s eyes flicked briefly to Pietro, as if silently asking Steve is…? and Pietro responded with a subtle nod – important, safe, not the problem.

“I’ve told you about Wanda,” you added, nodding toward Pietro. “And Pietro. They’ve been in my life for a long time.”

Maria smiled gently at Pietro. “I can see that.”

Pietro’s mouth quirked. “She’s stuck with me.”

You huffed a small laugh, grateful for the tiny release of tension.

Then you went on, because once you started, it felt easier to keep moving than to stop.

“High school happened,” you said. “Steve and I… we dated.”

Tony stilled, then carefully kept his expression open.

“It was my only relationship,” you admitted, a little embarrassed by how simple that sounded on paper.

Maria’s eyes softened. Pietro squeezed your hand again under the table.

“It was… real,” you said, choosing your words. “But it didn’t last. We ended it because…” You paused, then shook your head lightly. “It wasn’t because of him. Not really. And it wasn’t just because of me either.”

Tony watched you closely, as if trying to read between the lines without pushing.

“We’re still friends,” you said. “We love each other. Just not… like that anymore.”

There was quiet understanding in the room. No judgment. No awkwardness. Just acceptance.

You exhaled slowly.

You didn’t talk about the night after Steve. You didn’t talk about how comfort had turned into something you’d never dared name, and how shame had followed like a shadow. You didn’t talk about waking up the next day and feeling like you’d stepped over a line that could never be redrawn. You didn’t talk about the silence that had felt like a guillotine dropping. You didn’t talk about the weeks Pietro had spent putting you back together in small, patient pieces.

You couldn’t.

Not yet.

So you pivoted again, letting the future be a place you could safely stand.

“I chose archaeology,” you said, and this time the words carried a spark of genuine excitement. “I know it sounds… random, compared to everything else, but it made sense to me. Digging. Understanding what’s been buried. Piecing things together.”

Tony’s expression shifted into something softer, proud almost without meaning to be.

“I want to go to Europe when I’m done,” you added. “After my doctorate. I want to–” You smiled faintly. “I want to see the places I’ve been reading about for years. Touch the stones. Walk the sites. Be… somewhere else.”

Maria nodded slowly, eyes shining. “You will.”

“And at university,” you continued, “I lived with Wanda and Pietro at first. We had this tiny apartment in New York. It was awful and perfect.” You glanced at Pietro, remembering. “We could hear the upstairs neighbor sneeze.”

Pietro grinned. “And he sneezed like he was trying to start a war.”

You smiled properly this time – small, but real.

“It was the first time I felt… normal,” you admitted quietly. “Like I belonged somewhere without having to earn it every day.”

Tony’s gaze held yours, steady, intent.

“I want you to have that,” he said softly. “From now on.”

Your chest tightened again, but this time it wasn’t panic.

It was something warmer.

Something frightening in a different way.

Because it felt like hope.

Later that evening, when the dishes had been cleared and Maria had excused herself with a knowing smile and a gentle squeeze of your shoulder, Tony asked if you would walk with him for a bit.

Not talk – walk.

You appreciated the distinction immediately.

The house was quieter now, lights dimmed in the living spaces you weren’t in, the air outside warm and heavy with night-blooming flowers. You followed him out onto the terrace, where the city sounds were distant enough to feel unreal. Tony leaned his forearms against the railing, looking out for a few seconds before speaking, as if choosing where to start.

“She was… brilliant,” he said finally.

You didn’t interrupt. You didn’t rush him. You had learned – painfully well – that some truths needed space to arrive.

“Your mother,” he went on. “She worked in restoration. Ancient materials, old texts, fragments most people would’ve written off as unsalvageable.” A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “She loved impossible things.”

Your chest tightened in a way that felt familiar and strange all at once.

“She was stubborn,” Tony added, fond and exasperated in equal measure. “Uncompromising. Strong in a way that didn’t bend just because someone louder was in the room.”

He glanced at you then, really looked at you, and his expression softened.

“You have her eyes,” he said again, quieter this time. “But it’s not just that. It’s the way you listen. The way you think before you speak. The way you don’t back down once you’ve decided something matters.”

You swallowed. “You make her sound like you.”

He huffed a short laugh. “That was the problem.”

You waited.

“She and I…” He shook his head slowly. “We were too similar. Two immovable objects convinced the other one should yield. The arguments were frequent. Intense. Not about small things either – about values, about priorities, about what kind of life mattered.”

Your fingers curled lightly against the cool stone of the railing.

“And the last one?” you asked, voice careful. “The one after which she left.”

Tony closed his eyes for a moment.

“I said things,” he admitted. “Things meant to wound. Things meant to win instead of understand.” His jaw tightened. “I assumed she’d come back once we cooled off. She always did.”

He opened his eyes again, and there was something raw there.

“She didn’t,” he said simply. “And when she didn’t answer my calls, when the weeks turned into months…” He exhaled slowly. “I told myself she’d chosen to disappear.”

You hesitated, then asked the question that had been sitting heavy in your chest since the moment you’d learned his name.

“Do you think that’s why she left me?” you asked softly. “Because of you?”

Tony didn’t dodge it.

“Yes,” he said. “I do.”

The word landed with weight, but not cruelty.

“I don’t think she abandoned you because she didn’t want you,” he continued immediately. “I think she was hurt. Ashamed. Afraid. I think she believed that cutting everything clean was the only way to survive what we’d done to each other.”

He looked at you then, eyes fierce with certainty.

“And that was her mistake,” he said. “Not you.”

You nodded, the knot in your chest loosening just a fraction.

The days that followed settled into a rhythm you hadn’t known you were craving.

You worked on your thesis during the day, hours slipping by as you lost yourself in texts and annotations and arguments that felt solid and solvable. You worked at the dining table sometimes, sometimes by the pool when the heat was too tempting to ignore.

Tony didn’t hover.

Maria didn’t pry.

They simply… existed around you.

Lunches turned into dinners. Sometimes all three of you. Sometimes just one of them. Sometimes quiet. Sometimes filled with conversation that drifted from history to science to the most mundane things – favorite foods, terrible movies, places you wanted to see.

And slowly, almost imperceptibly, your shoulders stopped living permanently hunched near your ears.

When Pietro finally told you – gently, reluctantly – that he needed to return to New York, you felt the familiar flare of fear spark in your chest.

He noticed instantly.

“Hey,” he said, sitting across from you at the kitchen counter one morning. “I’m not disappearing.”

You huffed. “You better not.”

“I’m serious,” he said. “You’re… different now. Calmer. Still tired, but not… hollow.” His gaze softened. “I can go back knowing you’re okay.”

You nodded, trusting him because you always had.

Tony listened to the conversation quietly, arms crossed, expression thoughtful.

When Pietro left later that day – hugging you hard, whispering that he’d call every day whether you liked it or not – you watched his taxi disappear down the drive with a mix of gratitude and grief.

The house felt larger without him.

That evening, Tony found you standing in the kitchen, staring absently at your laptop screen without actually seeing it.

“You don’t have to rush back,” he said, not unkindly.

You looked up. “I know.”

He hesitated, then cleared his throat.

“Why don’t you stay?” he said. “Here.”

You blinked. “You mean–”

“I mean here,” he clarified. “The villa’s big enough that we won’t be in each other’s way. You’d have space. Privacy. And…” He shrugged, trying for casual and missing slightly. “I’d like it.”

You considered it.

Not just the logistics, but the feeling.

The way you no longer flinched when he entered a room. The way Maria treated you like you’d always belonged at the table. The way this place, improbably, felt safe.

“I think I’d like that,” you said finally.

Tony smiled – not the flashy kind, not the performative one. Just quiet. Relieved.

“Good,” he said. “Then it’s settled.”

And for the first time in a very long while, settling didn’t feel like giving something up.

It felt like arriving.

Pietro had barely had time to drop his bag in the hallway before his apartment started feeling too quiet.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet. The kind that made every creak in the building sound like an accusation. The kind that reminded him – too sharply – that you weren’t on the other side of the wall, that Wanda wasn’t in the kitchen humming while she made tea, that he wasn’t about to hear your voice from the bedroom asking him to read a paragraph of your thesis “just to make sure it made sense.”

He told himself it was fine.

You were in Miami. You were safe. He’d seen you. He’d held you. He’d watched you sit in the sun and breathe like your lungs weren’t fighting you anymore. He’d watched your hands steady on your keyboard, watched the color slowly return to your face.

He’d done what he came to do.

And still, stepping back into New York felt like stepping into a room where the air had been trapped too long.

He kicked his shoes off by the door and dragged his duffel to the bedroom without bothering to unpack. He poured himself a glass of water, drank it in three gulps like his body needed to prove it was still functioning, then dropped onto his couch and stared at his phone.

Wanda had answered his text immediately when he told her he was boarding: a line of hearts, a promise she wouldn’t tell anyone anything you hadn’t permitted.

He’d known – because he knew Wanda – that she would still worry.

He’d known – because he knew Steve – that Steve wouldn’t just sit with worry when he could turn it into action.

He didn’t expect action this fast, though.

Exactly an hour after he closed his apartment door behind him, there was a knock.

Pietro froze for half a second, then groaned out loud as if the universe had personally inconvenienced him.

“Of course,” he muttered, pushing himself off the couch.

He didn’t even bother looking through the peephole. He already knew. His whole body knew.

He yanked the door open.

Wanda stood there, arms folded tight across her chest, eyes red around the edges like she’d been crying at least a little. Beside her was Steve, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, posture rigid in that way it always got when he was trying very hard not to look like he was panicking.

Pietro leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling for a beat, then looked back at them with a long-suffering expression.

“You two,” he said flatly.

Wanda opened her mouth.

Pietro lifted a hand immediately. “Don’t. Don’t start with the ‘we were in the neighborhood’ thing. You were not.”

Steve’s mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly. Wanda rolled her eyes, but her shoulders loosened a fraction.

Pietro stepped aside, gesturing them in with an exaggerated flourish. “Come in. Invade my privacy. Make yourselves at home.”

Wanda brushed past him first, immediately scanning the living room like she expected to find you sitting there on the couch. When she didn’t, something in her expression tightened again. Steve followed, gaze sweeping the space with the same restless, searching energy.

Pietro shut the door behind them and turned.

He didn’t give them time to ask.

He knew why they were here. He knew the questions stuck in their throats. He knew the fear, the hope, the unbearable need for certainty.

So he started talking – fast, blunt, relentless – like if he got it all out in one breath, maybe he could stop them from trying to dig for more.

“She’s fine,” he said.

Wanda’s eyes widened. Steve’s jaw clenched as if the words physically hit him.

Pietro lifted a finger. “She’s not just ‘fine’ as in alive. She’s fine as in – she eats. She sleeps. She’s not wandering the streets at night like a ghost anymore. She’s not crying all the time.”

Wanda exhaled shakily, shoulders sagging.

Pietro kept going, because he’d learned a long time ago that if he stopped, they’d interrupt with a dozen questions and he’d end up reliving everything anyway.

“She works her ass off on her thesis,” he continued. “Like, full academic feral mode. She’s basically been using archaeology as a coping mechanism, which honestly? Good for her. Better than the alternatives.”

Steve’s gaze stayed locked on him, unblinking.

“Her father is…” Pietro paused, as if begrudgingly admitting something surprising. “He’s good. He’s actually good. Sympathetic. He doesn’t push. He listens. He makes time whenever she contacts him. Same with her grandmother. Maria is–” Pietro shook his head, almost in disbelief. “Maria is adorable. Protective in this quiet, terrifying way.”

Wanda’s hand rose to cover her mouth, eyes shining again.

“They made her their priority,” Pietro said, firm. “Like immediately. No hesitation. No weirdness. No ‘prove you belong.’ Just–” He snapped his fingers. “You’re here, we’ve got you.”

Steve’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Is she… staying there?”

“She’s still at the hotel,” Pietro said, then added quickly, “but I think she’s finally going to accept moving into his place. She’s more comfortable now. She doesn’t flinch when he walks into the room. She doesn’t look like she’s waiting to be kicked out.”

Wanda pressed a hand to her chest like that sentence physically hurt.

Pietro’s gaze softened for a second, because he wasn’t made of stone even if he pretended to be.

Then he hardened again, because there was one question he knew they were carrying like dynamite.

“No,” he said before they could ask it. “She doesn’t talk about Bucky. She doesn’t say his name. She doesn’t even come close.”

Steve’s eyes flickered down, then back up. Wanda’s face tightened, anger and sadness warring across her features.

Pietro didn’t let them linger there.

“She did talk about her past,” he said. “Not all of it, not every detail, but enough. With her dad. And he handled it the way he should’ve. Open. Gentle. Paternal. No judgment. No pushing. Just…” He spread his hands, searching for the right word. “Present.”

Steve’s shoulders loosened slightly at that, like the idea of you being met with the right kind of care made something in him unclench.

Pietro finally stopped talking and looked at them both.

He tilted his head, eyes bright with a challenge that wasn’t cruel – just tired.

“Questions?” he asked. “Or did I cover pretty much everything you showed up to pry out of me?”

Wanda blinked.

Steve opened his mouth, closed it again, then let out a long breath through his nose.

Wanda’s voice came out small. “She’s really okay?”

Pietro’s expression softened despite himself.

“Yes,” he said. “She’s really okay.”

Steve nodded once, sharp. “Does she–” He stopped, jaw tightening. He tried again. “Does she want… space from us?”

Pietro studied him for a moment.

“She didn’t say she never wants to see you again,” he said carefully. “She just… can’t hold all of it right now. Not you, not Wanda, not her mom, not–” He didn’t say Bucky’s name. He didn’t need to. “She’s holding the pieces she can manage. That’s all.”

Wanda wiped at her cheek quickly, frustrated with her own tears. “Did she say anything about… coming back?”

Pietro’s mouth tightened. He shrugged, but it wasn’t casual.

“She didn’t talk about timelines,” he admitted. “But she’s planning. Europe after the doctorate. She’s thinking about the future again.” His gaze sharpened. “That’s a good sign.”

Steve’s eyes closed briefly, relief crossing his face like a wave he didn’t want them to see. When he opened them again, he looked at Pietro with a kind of quiet gratitude that made Pietro uncomfortable.

Pietro cleared his throat, immediately defensive. “Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t do anything heroic. I just showed up.”

Steve’s mouth twitched. “Yeah,” he said softly. “You did.”

Wanda stepped forward suddenly and hugged Pietro, surprising him.

He stiffened for half a second – pure reflex – then wrapped his arms around her with a quiet sigh.

“She’s alive,” Wanda whispered, voice shaking. “She’s alive.”

Pietro held her tighter. “Told you.”

When she pulled back, she looked at him with wet eyes and tried to smile. “Thank you.”

Pietro rolled his eyes again, because if he didn’t, he might actually start feeling things. “You’re welcome. Now stop stalking me.”

Steve huffed a faint laugh – small, real – and it was the first time Pietro had heard that sound from him in weeks.

They stood there for a moment longer, the tension in the room shifting from panic to something heavier but more manageable: waiting, hope, the dull ache of missing you.

And Pietro – still holding the boundary you’d asked for – made it clear with his posture, with the set of his shoulders and the sharpness of his gaze, that this was all they were getting for now.

Because for once, the priority wasn’t their need to know. It was you.

Steve’s question came after a lull – after Wanda had stopped wiping at her eyes, after Pietro had made them sit down instead of pacing like anxious ghosts in his living room.

Steve was perched on the edge of the armchair like he didn’t quite trust himself to relax. Wanda sat beside him on the couch, hands clasped together so tightly her knuckles were pale. Pietro remained standing for a moment, leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed, the posture of someone who was very deliberately holding the line.

Steve cleared his throat.

“So… her father,” he said carefully, like he was stepping onto thin ice. “What does he do?”

Pietro’s gaze sharpened immediately. Not defensive exactly – strategic. You had asked him not to tell. Not where you were, not why, not the details that would make anyone else insert themselves into your life before you were ready.

He chose his words with the precision of someone who lived in them.

“He runs his own company,” Pietro said. “Tech.”

Steve’s brows lifted slightly. “Tech?”

Pietro nodded. “Yeah. Big enough that he has people handling most of the day-to-day. But he’s… involved. He’s the kind of guy who’s in charge because he actually built the thing.”

Steve absorbed that in silence. His expression didn’t shift much, but something in his eyes did – understanding, maybe, of what that implied. Power. Reach. Resources. The kind of stability you’d never had to lean on before.

“Okay,” Steve said quietly, and nodded once.

Wanda’s gaze flicked between them, sensing there was more there – something Pietro wasn’t saying. She didn’t push. She knew better.

Pietro exhaled slowly, then added, “He talked to her about her biological mother.”

Steve’s head tilted. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Pietro confirmed, and his voice went a shade more serious. “He told her who she was. What she did. What she was like.” A beat. “He didn’t sugarcoat it. Their story wasn’t… easy.”

Wanda’s lips parted slightly. “Is she–”

“She’s gone,” Pietro said, cutting the question off before it could fully form. Not harshly. Just… firmly. “Not in the picture. And from what he said… she probably won’t ever be.”

The room went quiet again, that particular silence where people rearranged their expectations in their heads – where grief shifted shape.

Steve stared at the floor for a few seconds, jaw tight, then looked back up.

“Bucky broke up with Natasha,” he said.

Pietro’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t look surprised – more like he was checking whether Steve was telling the truth or just hoping it was true.

“When?” Pietro asked.

“Yesterday,” Steve replied. “He went to her place first thing in the morning. It was… bad.” His voice softened for a moment, then steadied again. “But it was the right thing to do.”

Pietro held Steve’s gaze for a long second, then nodded once – approval, but not forgiveness, not yet.

“And we cleaned her apartment,” Steve added, almost like a confession. “Me and him. We didn’t touch her stuff. We just… cleaned. Took out expired food. Changed the sheets. Made it… livable again.”

Pietro’s expression tightened at the mention of the apartment, as if he could picture it too clearly – the place you’d left behind with a door click and a silence like a blade.

“She’d hate coming back to it dirty,” Wanda murmured, voice small.

“Exactly,” Steve said, nodding.

Pietro didn’t comment on the coming back part. He didn’t discourage it either. He simply let it sit in the air like something they all needed.

Then he lifted his chin slightly, eyes moving from Wanda to Steve.

“And before you ask,” Pietro said, tone clipped but not cruel, “she’s still keeping her phone off most of the time.”

Wanda’s face fell. Steve’s shoulders stiffened.

“She hasn’t read any messages,” Pietro continued. “Hasn’t listened to any voicemails. Nothing.”

Steve swallowed. “So she hasn’t–”

“No,” Pietro said simply. “She hasn’t seen what you sent. Or what he sent.”

Wanda let out a shaky breath, fingers twisting together in her lap. “But she called her mom.”

Steve nodded once. “Bucky told me.”

Pietro’s gaze stayed steady. “Yeah. That happened. That’s… something.”

His tone made it clear what he meant: it wasn’t a door flung open, but it was proof you weren’t cutting every tether. Proof you were choosing contact in the places that felt safest. Proof you were still there.

Steve leaned back slightly, as if the information was both relief and heartbreak in equal measure.

“So we just…” Steve started, then trailed off.

Pietro’s expression didn’t soften, but it wasn’t unkind.

“You wait,” he said. “You live your lives. You stop spiraling. And you let her decide when she’s ready.”

Wanda blinked hard, tears threatening again.

Steve’s jaw tightened. “And Bucky?”

Pietro’s eyes flickered – brief, sharp.

“Bucky can wait too,” he said flatly. “He doesn’t get to rush the healing just because he finally decided to be honest.”

Steve nodded slowly, like he couldn’t argue with that even if it hurt.

The three of them sat in the thick quiet of Pietro’s apartment, the city noise muffled outside the windows, each of them holding the same fragile truth in different hands:

You were alive.

You were safe.

You weren’t back.

Not yet.

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[smorgaswhored]

At your back door yellin’

(cause I wanna come in)

pairing: grumpy!trailer park!Bucky x fem!trailer park!reader

warnings/tags: 18+ MDNI, smut (soft dom!Bucky, breeding kink, unprotected p-in-v, oral - f!receiving, fingering, creampie, ass play, multiple positions, dirty talk, squint for daddy kink), age gap (r mid 20s, B late 30s), use of nicknames (ex: “kid”), mechanic!Bucky, semi-slow burn, so much angst, arguing, mentions of troubled pasts (ex: bad parents) mentions of prison, mentions of alcoholism, smoking, drinking, no use of y/n

words: 30.2k (WTF!!!!!!!)

summary: When your neighbor saves you from a tight spot, you go out of your way to thank him. You quickly find out that he doesn’t want your thanks — actually, he doesn’t want anything to do with you. The hurt stings while the curiosity burns, but the cracks begin to show when tensions rise. Is it a classic neighborhood dispute, or is there something bigger hiding beneath the surface?

sammy speaks: celebrating 1k+ followers by taking a trip to angst town. thank you for reading and following my blog, I love all you dearly!🤍 also rip to all the letter g’s that did not make it into this fic, you’ll see what I mean

“That doesn’t sound too good, hun.”

Through the windshield, you spot your neighbor standing in front of the hood with a full laundry basket against her hip. Donna’s eyes sweep suspiciously across your car, as if she thinks the ticking of your engine could double for a time bomb.

You groan, your forehead meeting the steering wheel with a dull thud. “I know.”

“What’s wrong with it? Battery dead?” she asks, coming over to your rolled down window. You crack an eye open at her.

“When I know, I’ll tell ya.”

Her answering look is sympathetic.

“Was never too good with cars myself. Harold did all the fixin’ when he was still around. You got somewhere to be?”

“Job interview,” you mumble, the leather digging into your brow; you’re trying not to focus on the sweat soaking through your best shirt, or your growing anxiety over your fast-approaching interview time. Donna shifts the basket to her other hip.

“Could try callin’ on Bucky. He works at Rogers’ garage down on Miner Street. It’s Sunday, so he should be home.”

Your forehead peels away from the sticky wheel. “Who’s Bucky?”

Donna nods toward the other side of the park. “Bucky Barnes. White trailer with the boots lined up all neat outside the door.”

“Have I met him?”

“Doubt it,” she replies. “He works mean hours, leaves before sun up, comes back when it’s dark. But he’s always ready to help a neighbor out when he’s here. Real sweet guy.”

You blow a stray hair out of your eyes. “You think he can fix whatever’s wrong with my car?” you ask, your doubt as strong as your hope.

Donna smiles like she knows something you don’t. “Bucky can fix anythin’ he gets his hands on.”

You turn in your seat, spotting the white trailer with the boots out front. It looks devoid of life, like it was plopped onto that spot of land by a strong gust of wind rather than by human design. The curtains are drawn, vines creep up the paneling, the gate on the far side of the yard swings in the breeze, but there’s a rusting brown pickup parked in front of it. Promising enough.

“Okay,” you say. “Bucky Barnes. Mechanic. Got it.”

“Good luck,” Donna says with a grin, tapping your arm before walking away.

You step out into the scorching heat of the late July afternoon and make your way across the park, stepping over discarded children’s toys and overgrown flower beds. As you near the trailer, you see the pairs of boots your neighbor spoke about lined up with military precision, all well worn but still taken care of, not a speck of dust or dirt on them, which is rare in a place like this.

You knock three times on the plain brown door before taking a step back, holding your breath. Grasshoppers hum, the wind whips; you don’t hear anything inside the home for an agonizing amount of time, enough time to double the sweat pooling on your lower back. You’re about to try knocking again when the door finally creaks open.

Out steps a mountain of a man.

Big arms and bigger shoulders, broad chest and long, thick legs. He wears boots identical to the ones outside, blue jeans that are in desperate need of a wash, and a black henley that offers an intimidating glimpse into what those arms are capable of. His dark hair is a mess on top of his head, sticking up in all different directions, and underneath it is a face so unexpectedly handsome, you’re not sure how it ended up in a rundown park like this instead of somewhere on a billboard advertising cologne. Sun-kissed, weathered, and deadly serious, but striking in a way you could never forget, triggering a blush on your already flushed cheeks. And then you meet his eyes: electric blue and narrowed at you under furrowed brows, raising the hairs on the back of your sweaty neck.

“Can I help you?” he grunts, voice low and gravely. It scrapes against your spine.

“Hey,” you say quickly with a 1000-watt smile, showing off your nerves. “Hi. Uh, Bucky, right? I’m your neighbor. I live—“ You hook your thumb over your shoulder. “—back that way. The one with the pink door. Um…I was hopin’ you could help me out. My car, it’s — well, it won’t start. Makes a clickin’ noise every time I try turnin’ it over. Donna said you’re a mechanic and might be able to help.”

His expression doesn’t change. He stares unblinkingly at you.

“I, um—,” you can feel yourself faltering, your heart rate rising as the seconds tick by, “I don’t mean to barge in on your Sunday, but I’m pretty desperate. I have an interview in, like, twenty minutes, and I really need this job. Do you think you could take a quick look?”

He eyes you up and down, assessing. You try not to smile wider in case it leans too close to deranged. “You live here?” he demands. You nod.

“Moved in about a month ago. Sorry we’re only meetin’ now, I should’ve introduced myself sooner.”

You offer your name and stick out a hand. Bucky ignores this, staring past you in the direction of your trailer. You watch as his eyes narrow, like he’s weighing the honesty of your words.

“Look, I can pay you, if that hel—“

“Is it the little silver thing?” he cuts you off.

Your lips part. “Uh, yes. Yeah.”

Bucky grunts and turns back inside, shutting the door behind him. The shock of it leaves you frozen in place, reeling, until he reemerges as fast as he left, carrying a toolbox half the size of you; he holds it easily in one hand like it weighs nothing, but you can hear the stock of heavy tools clanking around inside.

“Let’s go,” he mutters, stepping past you. You struggle to keep up with him as he stalks toward your car, like a man on a mission that he’s already running late for. You sneak glances at him while trying not to trip on the cracked walking path, noting the faded scars on the back of his hands, the ticking jaw underneath his beard, and the very tip of a dark tattoo peaking out from beneath his collar. A feeling churns in your gut.

Everything about him screams rough. Rude. Even potentially dangerous — from his imposing figure, to his curt words, he seems like the furthest thing from what you would call ‘sweet.’

But regardless of Donna overselling his altruism, beggars can’t be choosers, and you’ll call him sweet all day long if it gets you to your interview on time.

Bucky lets out a heavy breath when he sets the toolbox down next to your car. He nods at you.

“Try it again,” an order, not a request.

Your limbs twitch into action like a bee flew under your skirt. Sliding into the hot leather seat, you turn the key in the ignition and are met with the same low ticking noise from before. The lights flicker on your dashboard in protest.

“Terminal clamp.”

You jump, finding Bucky almost cheek-to-cheek with you while he leans through the open door. He’s close enough for you to smell dirt, sweat and something heavier on him.

“Shit,” you hiss in surprise, but he’s already pulling away and moving toward the front of the car.

“Pop it,” he calls out.

You exhale slowly and do as you’re told. Sweet, your ass. Bucky lifts the hood and locks it in place before bending over the hot engine, pushing up the sleeves of his shirt.

You step out of the car, hovering near the door but craning your neck to watch. “Terminal clamp?” you repeat.

Bucky takes a moment to respond, long fingers moving deftly through the cables and wires and plugs and bolts. He unscrews something, and steam leaks out.

“On your battery,” he grunts. “The part that connects it to the wires. It’s rusted down. Look.”

He beckons with two oily fingers crooked in your direction. It’s borderline crass, and you find yourself hurrying over without argument. Bucky’s mouth is set into a hard line as he watches you gaze down at the engine, looking without really seeing.

“There,” he points impatiently to a black box near the front. Your eyes catch on the rust growing over the top of it.

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Yeah,” he imitates you, high-pitched and sharp; your eyes snap back to him. He’s clearly not amused by your answer. “When was the last time you had your battery checked?”

“Haven’t had the time lately,” you answer, crossing your arms indignantly over your chest.

“Your daddy don’t check it for ya?” he prods, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans before opening his tool box. Irritation rears up inside fo you. Something about his tone, bitter and mocking, makes you think about hitting him over the head with one of his wrenches.

“My daddy hasn’t been sober enough to tell a battery from a brick since 2009,” you snap.

Bucky pauses while rifling through his tools, but only for a moment. “Batteries need replacin’ every four years. How old’s this one?”

You chew your lip, still thinking about the wrench. Bucky pulls out a small metal plate and a brand new cord, along with a screwdriver that looks like it’s seen better days. When he turns to you, his eyebrows lift expectantly.

“It’s…old,” you relent. Bucky snorts and leans over the car again.

“Define ‘old’ to me, princess.”

A zip of electricity runs down your spine at the pet name, angry and hot. “I don’t know,” you grumble. “It came with the car and I bought it five years ago. And don’t call me princess.”

A ghost of a smirk crosses his face. “Whatever you say, kid.”

You glare at him while he unscrews the rusted plate from the battery. Despite your growing frustration, and the nearing interview time, and the heat pressing down on you from all sides, you quickly become entranced with the way his hands move expertly with the replacement parts. It’s obvious he’s well-versed with the inside of a car.

“This will hold for a few days,” Bucky says, attaching the new cord to the engine. “But you need a new battery. Forget it, and you’ll be needin’ a new car. Am I makin’ myself clear?”

Something about the sternness in his voice creates a pressure on your chest that feels foreign and strange. “Yeah, new battery, got it,” you mumble.

He glances at you but says nothing, screwing in the clean plate. As he finishes up his work, you look back at your trailer, the paint on the front door peeling, the screens torn in most of the windows. You clear your throat. “Donna says you fix a lot of stuff for the folks around here,” you begin. Bucky makes a noise of acknowledgement. “You ever, uh…fix any showers?”

He pauses to look back at you, blue eyes sharp. “That a line?”

“What? No!” you sputter, cheeks on fire. “No, it’s — my shower pressure. It’s shit, it’s…not a pick up line. I’m askin’ if you can fix that, too.”

He grunts, satisfied with his finished product, and closes the hood with a snap. You step back, watching as he tosses the screw driver back into the box and wipes his hands on his jeans again. When he turns to you, his face is closed off, stoic.

“I’m busy,” he says, blunt and to the point. The rejection stings like a child daring to touch the point of a needle for the first time — sharp and surprising and oddly shameful. The embarrassment pulls your eyes away.

“But if I find some time, I’ll let you know.”

His gaze is steady and unreadable when you meet it again. You nod quickly.

“That’d be amazing,” you gush, hands clasped together, “thank you—“

“I haven’t even fixed it yet, save your thanks,” he cuts you off.

“Still,” you reply, taking a step toward him, “I’d owe ya big time. Oh, you’d be doin’ me a huge favor ‘cause I need all the help I can get on this place—“

“What’d I just say, kid?” He glares are you, hands on his hips. “Now go on before you start wastin’ any more of my time,” he snaps, jerking his chin toward the car. You hesitate with your hand on the door, the smile on your face flickering doubtfully.

“Is it…safe?” you ask slowly.

Bucky scowls, mean and dark. “Don’t insult me.”

That gets you scampering into the seat. You twist the key, and after a breathless moment, the engine roars to life, the vents blasting you with hot air, but air nonetheless. You let out a whoop and pat the steering wheel proudly, the hope creeping back in. When you look out the windshield, you see Bucky’s already packed up his tool box and is making his way back to his trailer.

“Hey!” You scramble out of the car. “Hey, wait!”

He doesn’t turn around, just lifts his free hand over his head.

“Thank you!” you call out. He doesn’t respond. You watch him as he rounds his truck and disappears into his home. Then your phone buzzes.

“Shit—“

You’re peeling out of the park in seconds, leaving behind a cloud of dust and two blue eyes that watch you go from the safety of his trailer.

You take the keys out of the ignition and lean back in your seat, the smile on your face still as big as it was when the owner announced you got the job. In that moment, it was like the sun had broken through the clouds after years of rain.

It isn’t anything special, just a serving job at one of the many roadside diners in this small town, but what it stands for is more than you’ve had most of your life. Independence, stability, roots — everything you’ve been chasing after for the last few years now finally within your reach. No longer are you relying on the kindness of so-called friends that kick you out when it becomes inconvenient for them, or the generosity of low-life boyfriends that expect indentured servitude for a bed to sleep in; no longer are you couch surfing your way down highway 70, wondering what your next meal is going to cost you, or if your mother will pick up the phone when you’re too low on cash for gas. Just by getting the job, by finding your own little place to call home, you’ve broken free of the chains that have held your pitiful family lineage captive for years.

That’s worth celebrating.

You grab the six pack off the passenger seat before climbing out of the car. Thankfully, the evening air is much cooler now, and settles gently on your skin. Crickets chirp their congratulations, the breeze pats your back, and the light left on inside your trailer welcomes you home.

You sigh as you take it in, a soft smile on your face. Just this morning, you found the peeling front door, weedy garden and crooked paneling daunting; now it looks like a project you want to dive headfirst into, an opportunity to create something beautiful out of nothing, much like your own life.

You’ve got one foot on the steps when the wind grabs your attention. The large oak tree in the middle of the trailer park groans as it shifts, and you glance back to watch the leaves sway in the dusk, shadowed and haunting in a strangely beautiful way, until your gaze catches on a patch of light just beyond it. The white trailer with the boots out front has its curtains open now, and you watch as a shadow passes across a window.

Bucky.

The pressure returns to your chest tenfold, the same as before. Because of him, you get to cheers to a new life with a cold beer on your ratty little couch, and he walked away without so much as a thank you…

You adjust your grip on the six pack when you make your decision, sudden but resolute, and you’re crossing the park before you can think twice about it. A reward is reaped better with others.

As you approach, the shadows in the windows become clearer; wide shoulders, strong arms, big hands that set a mug on a shelf. Your breath goes a little shallow remembering how he towered over you. Stepping up the path, you watch as he pauses in front of the window, as still as a deer in headlights. Your knuckles just meet the door when the light inside flicks off.

You blink, eyes darting back to the window. The trailer is now dark. You can’t see inside, can’t spot movement — it’s pitch black where his figure was, where he stopped in front of the window right as you walked up…

You knock anyway. The beer bottles are cold against the skin of your leg as you wait, condensation dripping down your ankle. But the light doesn’t turn back on and you don’t hear weight shifting over cheap flooring. The crickets that sounded so nice before start to mock you the longer you stand there. You count to ten before trying again, a light rap on the wood.

Nothing.

Your heart sinks before you can stop it, the feeling painful and confusing. You bite down on your lip hard enough to draw blood, cheeks blazing in the soft light of the moon, then set the six pack in front of his door.

Bucky’s lights do not turn on when you make it back to your trailer, and they’re still not on when you spare one last glance out the window. The beers sit untouched on his front step.

Embarrassment courses through you like a summer fever, hot and alive and consuming. It eats away at all of the previous joy from your new job, and that bothers you more than you care to admit.

With a shake of your head, as if to clear the feeling out, you toss the keys on the counter and move to your tiny bathroom to turn on the shower. The nozzle sputters twice before the bare minimum drizzles out. You’re reminded of how you asked Bucky to fix it, the cryptic response he gave you, and how you nearly melted in response — the heat floods back to your face.

You really wish you kept those beers.

When the dried sweat has been scrubbed from your skin, and you’ve pulled on the softest sleep clothes you own, your mind has officially moved from denial to bargaining.

Donna said Bucky works brutal hours — maybe he has a strict sleep schedule. Like he can’t function unless he gets a full eight hours. Maybe it’s a ‘no visitors, lights off by nine on weeknights’ kind of thing. That makes sense for a fully grown man to have…right?

The reasonings filter through your head long after you’ve crawled into bed, some more believable than others. Eventually you decide that you just caught him at a bad time, and that it had nothing to do with him possibly seeing you through the window.

You’ll run into Bucky and explain the beers left on his door step; he’ll explain that he was tired, or he was busy, or something else completely normal and valid, and whatever lingering feelings you have over the whole thing will dissolve into nothing. Maybe you’ll crack a joke, maybe he’ll actually smile. Maybe the ice breaks and you’ll have another neighbor to call a friend in this new home.

You tell yourself this over and over until your restless mind finally fades to black.

You rise with the sun the next morning for your first shift. Your head is pleasantly empty of last night’s internal discourse, and you take it as a good sign.

Breakfast is pitiful — coffee and toast — but you’re too nervous to fill your uneasy stomach with more. When you pull on your uniform and spin every which way in the cracked bathroom mirror, though, the nervousness begins to fade. The dress is threadbare and half a size too big, but the color compliments your skin and emphasizes how bright and giddy your eyes are, bringing a light to your face that you haven’t seen in years. That tattered hand-me-down is a beautiful gateway opening up to a better future, a real future. You already love it.

When it’s time to go, you step out into a quiet, windless morning that promises to be a scorcher later. As you toss your purse into the passenger seat, you hear the rumbling of an old engine approaching, growing louder by the second. A familiar brown truck with the windows rolled down pulls up to the exit, just a few yards from where you stand.

Bucky sits in the driver’s seat, sporting an off-white t-shirt and dark sunglasses. He adjusts the radio, touches the rearview mirror, and pushes his shades up his nose before glancing up. Even behind the tinted lenses, you know that he sees you, and your heart nearly jumps out of your chest. But you still manage a smile, lifting your hand in a small wave.

He stares at you, an immovable statue except for his fingers white-knuckling over the wheel. A moment passes that feels like both a millisecond and a lifetime. You wonder if you should say something. But before you can, he looks away, the truck roaring once more as he eases out of the lot and into the street like he never saw you.

You watch his taillights drop beyond the horizon, your stomach dropping with them. The blatant dismissal sinks in, heavy and cutting, and it brings back all of the embarrassment from the night before. You fight desperately against a few angry tears stinging your eyes, but the hum of your fully-functioning engine does nothing to drown out the ringing in your ears.

You’re not sure which is worse: him ignoring you, or your reaction to him ignoring you.

You’ve dealt with disregard your entire life. Your childhood is a treasure trove of disappointment and neglect, carelessness and chaos, all of it later contributing to your steel-thick skin and low expectations of others. So you’re not sure why a stranger is affecting you like this — and a surly, intimidating stranger at that.

But something about him actively choosing to pretend you don’t exist presses on a bruise you’ve had covered for years. It rattles you more than anything.

Hands shaking, you put the car into drive.

The journey to the diner passes in a blur as you kick yourself mentally for the weakness. Your biggest mistake is that you went to him when you were too vulnerable — you were practically cracked wide open with need, and all it took was a helping hand for him to slip past your usual defenses. Were the sharp edges and sharper tongue not obvious red flags? What is it about Bucky that made you assume so quickly that he would be your friend? You taught yourself much better than that.

Despite the evidence, at the root of you, you refuse to accept it. Bucky’s lack of reaction was completely out of sorts; you know he’s far from friendly, but to completely ignore you is crazy work. So crazy that it just doesn’t make sense. There has to be some explanation for it, other than the obvious.

But unlike last night, your brain draws a blank on reasons for his behavior.

By the time you make it to the diner, you’re determined to figure this out. You need to see him again, to create an opportunity for an olive branch, and to learn if he’ll take it.

You get your first chance less than a week later, when you’re headed toward the mailboxes before the sun’s fully risen. You see a hulking figure already in front of them that you recognize right away. Bucky’s distracted while rifling through his mail, looking disheveled but still undeniably handsome in the pink light; he even looks relaxed, for once, instead of his usual guarded attitude.

“Good morning,” you say, smiling as you open your mailbox.

He tenses as he turns your way, shoulders taut and face creased. His jaw works as he stares you down, like he’s considering words and biting back the harsher ones. But instead of saying what’s on his mind, he grunts, short and crude, before turning on his heel and walking away. Your eyes follow him as he returns to his trailer and slams the door shut. It scares a flock of birds out of a nearby tree.

You stand there with a hand on the mailbox, jaw agape. The message couldn’t be any clearer. But for some reason, you shut your mouth with a snap and stand straighter, determined. His petulant, teenage antics are not enough to get you to throw in the towel yet.

So you try harder. You learn that you both leave the park around the same time, and when his truck rumbles past you, you wave, even if he isn’t looking at you (in a very obvious way.) You don’t care. You still try. He never waves back or throws you any acknowledgment, although you would bet your life on him seeing you each time, and eventually he starts leaving earlier, truck already missing from its spot when you’re headed to your car.

On the few days you’re both not working, you often see him mowing his lawn, mending his fence or washing his truck, domestic things that may trick passerby into thinking he’s a normal, pleasant guy. You fall victim to it as well, even knowing what you know, and head over with the intention of trapping him in a conversation. But as soon as you get remotely close to Bucky’s property, he mysteriously disappears, leaving you to feel like you just saw a ghost rather than your very alive neighbor.

You still don’t give in, but he continues to make it harder. When your car pulls up next to his at a red light, he’s theoretically interested in the SUV in front of him. When you’re passing out day-old pies from the diner to the neighbors, he doesn’t answer the door even though you can hear the TV on inside. When you’re taking a stroll around the park and he’s headed your way, he turns around and walks in the opposite direction.

Frustrating is the politest way you can describe him, but your mind can’t seem to take the hint.

Until the delusion crumbles when you least expect it. You’re bone-tired after your shift, and even your purse full of tips can’t ease the pain from your back. Pulled up to your trailer, you notice a group of three people slowly making their way across the park. One quick look tells you it’s the Markhams, stooped and gray-haired, shuffling down the pathway, and in between them is none other than Bucky, carrying a dozen grocery bags on each arm that you know aren’t his.

You watch as he leans down toward Mrs. Markham, listening to something she says, and your eyes go wide when he throws his head back in a laugh, pure joy lighting up his face. The sound creeps into your car, oozing warmth and light that is at odds with the Bucky you know. Mr. Markham adds a comment that gets him laughing harder, lines crinkling around his eyes, nose scrunching up in delight. You greedily take in this new side of him while your stomach roils with something bitter and nauseating.

So the sweet side of Bucky does exist. You’re watching it in real time as he helps his elderly neighbors with their groceries, chuckling in amusement as they banter back and forth. He holds the door open for them, too, even with his arms full, making sure they cross the threshold safely before letting the door fall shut behind him.

This must be the Bucky that Donna spoke about. The Bucky that everyone but you, apparently, gets to see.

The realization settles inside of you like an anvil dropping from the sky. So it’s just you that he doesn’t like. It’s just you that he can’t bear to be a neighbor to.

Occam’s Razor strikes again.

You move mechanically out of your car and into your home, your body carrying you through the motions while your brain twists itself up into a painful knot. You comb through everything you did and said that Sunday afternoon when he fixed your car; did you offend him? Did you push an unknown boundary? Did you ask for too much? Did you say too little? Were you too loud or too quiet? Too slow to thank him for his help?

Yes, you snapped a few times, but you only ever matched his energy, and everything about him implied that he can take as good as he gives. So what happened? What did you do? Why is your neighbor so unconcerned with whether you live or die?

Whatever the reason, it’s done its damage. Bucky wants nothing to do with you, and that seems to be the way it is.

Later that night, when sleep evades you, and you’ve tossed and turned for hours on end, a terrible loneliness creeps in for the first time since you arrived at the trailer park. It’s familiar in the worst way, reminding you of all the horrible people you met and all the shitty pit stops you made on your journey here. You thought you left that feeling behind — you thought wrong.

It follows you around for the next few days, leaving you hollow and numb. You’re on autopilot most of the time: you smile at customers and make conversation with the neighbors, you gossip with your coworkers and play with the children next door. But it’s constantly there in the back of your mind, like a memory you can’t erase, and when you’re alone in your little home, you feel it wrap around you like a straight jacket.

You’re lonely. And Bucky’s indifference toward you brought it front and center. For you, companionship had always been fleeting and one-sided, transactional at best. You’d had enough of it to the point that companionship was something you began to avoid, even when it promised a warm bed and a free meal. You thought a place to call your own and a means to support yourself were enough to keep the grass greener on your side. Now a stranger who sees nothing to gain by being your friend has reminded you that you’ve never had anyone in your life that wanted to be there just because.

The grass slowly withers away to a dry, lifeless brown.

You think you’re hiding it well, but Donna asks about it when July has rolled into a rainy August.

“How’ve you been, hun?” she says around her cigarette, pushing back one of the many hairs falling out of her clip. “Feels like I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I’ve been pickin’ up more shifts,” you reply automatically, pulling roughly on the broken piece of siding. Donna watches as you struggle with it, leaning against the far side of the trailer.

“You’re gonna work yourself into an early grave if you keep that up. You leave at dawn and don’t come back ‘til dusk seven days a week. Young thing like you needs time to herself.”

“I’m tryin’ to save up,” you grunt, snapping the siding in half. The part connected to your trailer swings down dejectedly. You look her way. “In case you haven’t noticed, this place is fallin’ apart, and it takes money to put it back together.”

She hums, tapping the ashes from her cigarette. “Why don’t you just ask Bucky for help?”

You pause from picking up the broken pieces of siding in the grass. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t wanna bother him,” you grumble, avoiding her eyes.

“Oh, please — Bucky would be happy to help.”

“Are you sure about that?” A sudden hint of irritation in your tone. Donna stands up straighter.

“Whaddya mean?” she asks, eyebrows raised. “Something happen?”

You shake your head quickly. “No, there’s not — no. He just seems really busy, that’s all. No use askin’ for his time when he doesn’t have any.”

There’s a brief silence as Donna considers your words. “Something happened,” she repeats. You toss your head, eyes narrowing in her direction, but she keeps going. “Did he say no to fixin’ your car? Or was he mean? Like he’d rather be talkin’ to anybody but you?”

You let out an exhale, long and ragged, and debate answering truthfully.

“Well, yeah,” you admit, “but that ain’t nothin’ I’m not used to. He was actually—“ Your jaw clenches. “He was helpful. Ruder than hell — and bossy, but he got it fixed and told me to get a new battery and stuff. But ever since then…” You trail off, Donna waits. “It’s like he regrets doin’ it. I’ll see him walk by and his eyes pass over me like I’m not even there. I try startin’ a conversation and suddenly he’s got somewhere to be. He’s avoidin’ me, and I don’t know why. I’d be fine with it if I knew what it was, but I got no clue.” Knees in the grass, you watch as a caterpillar crawls over a leaf and onto a piece of siding; you pick it up carefully, watching as the insect runs circles over the plastic, nowhere to go, just as confused as you. “Why’s he like that?”

“Oh, hun,” Donna soothes quietly, stepping closer to your crouched position. “Is that what’s been botherin’ ya? Bucky not bein’ welcomin’?”

“Yes — I mean, no. That’s not what’s botherin’ me, it’s just — it’s hard to explain.” You set the caterpillar down and stand, brushing the dirt and grass from your knees. “And it’s a lot more than just not bein’ welcomin’. I could get hit by a semi right here on Pueblo Street and I don’t think he’d even blink.”

“Now I know that’s not true. What’s goin’ on in that head of yours, sugar?” Donna asks patiently, putting her cigarette out on the broken siding.

You watch the ashes drop to the ground, fragile, crumbling, and still smoking. Your eyes scan the park, naturally pausing over the white trailer with the curtains drawn and boots out front; there’s no truck outside, so he must be working. Yet the empty house still stings a little to look at.

“I thought that the job and movin’ here meant I figured everything out,” you mutter. “Instead an old man decidin’ he doesn’t like me for no reason reminded me that I’m still on my own. I’ve dealt with it my whole life, so I get along just fine by myself, but I’m only human. I still want someone to — to care about me.” You fight through the sudden lump in your throat.

“And Bucky doin’ you a favor brought that up,” Donna confirms. You nod reluctantly.

“Guess so. It was just nice to have someone care, even if he was grumpy as hell about it. Now he pretends I don’t exist and I keep rememberin’ all the times I thought I found someone who cared, only for them to just—“ You flick your hand like you’re waving off a bug, inconsequential yet inconvenient.

“Honey, we care.” Donna wraps an arm around your shoulders, warm and tight, holding you to her. “You got all of us now, and we watch out for each other.”

You open your mouth to point out that one of them does not, but she beats you to it.

“Bucky is a special case,” she sighs. You watch as she gazes at the white trailer, too. “It took him a while to come around to us. He was quiet, kept to himself, coming and going at odd hours…but eventually we wore him down. Kept inviting him in even when we knew he wouldn’t come. Kept offering our help even when we knew he wouldn’t take it. But then he did. I think Bucky was gone for a few days when a big storm came through — a tree fell and knocked out the left side of his trailer, crushed the roof. We got together and started patching it up just as he pulled in. Told us he could handle it but we wouldn’t take no for answer and did it with him anyway. He was real grateful, awfully sweet and apologetic, extra kind to everyone that helped out, but we told him it’s what we do for each other. After that, it was like living next door to a whole new person. I think he just needed to see that we cared for him no matter what, and that we’d be there for him even when things were tough.”

You huff, kicking the dirt at your feet. “Doesn’t explain why he’s got a problem with me. What’s his deal?”

Donna’s hesitant to answer, pulling out another cigarette and lighting it thoughtfully. When there’s a cloud of smoke in the air between you, she says slowly, “He did some time at the state pen.”

Your eyes snap to her, but she shakes her head a little.

“He hasn’t said much, but from what I gathered, Bucky lost more than just his freedom when they handed him his sentence. Family don’t bother with him anymore, told him as much when he was paroled, and he had no choice but to make do alone somewhere else. That can mess a person up, make them suspicious of others, make them think bein’ alone’s the only way to go about this life.” She looks at you then, a soft smile on her lips. “Sounds like someone else I know.” Her words feel like a sucker punch to your gut, but she waves a hand at you. “That’s all I’ve got, though, so if you’re curious about it, you’ll need to ask him.”

You chew the inside of your cheek, replaying the story, picturing Bucky in an orange jumpsuit behind bars. For some reason, the image seems wrong, but your curiosity begins to burn.

“I doubt I’ll get the chance,” you mumble.

“Give it some time,” Donna chirps. “He’ll come around. But you—“ She wraps a thin hand around your wrist, squeezing with intention. “—next time you’re feelin’ a little too sorry for yourself, you come find me. By the time I’m done with you, you’re gonna be beggin’ for some alone time.”

A smile reluctantly breaks across your face, the first genuine one in weeks. “Sure, Donna. Thanks.”

You’d think your talk with Donna would help ease Bucky Barnes from your head, but it seems to have the opposite affect.

While your cocktail of emotions towards him has been watered down by Donna’s story, the urge to understand him is stronger than ever.

You still see him occasionally, driving past in his truck, stalking toward the mailbox, trudging around his yard; you pick up where you left off with your routine, waving and smiling and wishing him a good morning even when he’s already halfway across the park. Nothing changes in his attitude toward you, but it only makes you more curious.

Between grueling ten-hour shifts at the diner, you capitalize on a specific tidbit you learned from Donna, how the neighbors’ generosity got Bucky to crack. You know you have better things to do than trying to win over someone who doesn’t want to be won over, but your stubbornness has always gotten the best of you in your weaker moments.

You choose to act when he isn’t home, aiming to lessen the pressure instead of amping it up. You spend an entire day baking ten dozen cookies for the neighbors and make sure to leave a few at his door with a note to come by if he wants more (he doesn’t). You suffer through sunburn and dehydration while sweeping the entire walking path around the park, paying special attention to Bucky’s portion so that the dust doesn’t settle over his boots. You sprint through a downpour to pull his clothes off the line, covering your trailer in his shirts and jeans and — gulp — underwear to air dry before folding them up carefully and delivering them to his front step in your laundry basket once the sky’s cleared up.

It’s waiting for you outside your door the next morning as you’re leaving for work. No note, no sign of a thanks. You blink when you see it, wondering how he knew it was your laundry basket in the first place.

Still, nothing changes. You try really hard not to obsess over it. And life moves on as usual.

One Friday afternoon, you find yourself sitting in a cheap folding chair next to a handful of your neighbors; they caught you after a slow shift when your social battery hadn’t dropped below empty yet, calling you over with wide smiles like they’ve been waiting hours for you to show. The group is converged in a circle next to the oak tree, passing around beer and flasks of whiskey and shooting the shit. You’ve made quick friends with the girl two trailers down, Wanda, who isn’t much older than you but has a lightness to her that feels like a breath of fresh air. Her husband, who she calls Viz, sits with his arm draped around her shoulders and a look on his face like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. They ask you how you’re liking the park, how the repairs to your trailer are coming along, how your job is going. You feel a deep sense of gratitude forming the more you speak with them.

Neighbors filter in and out of the group like clockwork as the afternoon sun fades into the evening sunset. If they can’t stop for a drink, they still join in on the conversation, gossiping and commenting on the goings-on in town, or stirring up good-natured trouble before resuming their chores — Donna comes by to threaten you all with the hose if you don’t pick up after yourselves. You’re convinced you’ve met everyone in the park by this point, and you’ll need to make a list to get their names straight, but they all have one thing in common: they’re all pleased that you’re here.

The beer eventually begins to dwindle, but spirits are still high in the circle. Wanda’s in the middle of telling a story about a squirrel that got into the Markhams’ trailer when you hear the deep rumbling of an engine in the distance. Wanda doesn’t seem to notice it, but you know that sound anywhere. Sure enough, Bucky’s brown truck comes up the hill and pulls into the park as Wanda’s imitating Mrs. Markham’s screams from her standoff with the intruder. While the rest of the group roars with laughter, you watch as Bucky parks the truck in front of his trailer and steps out. That’s when Wanda spots him, too.

“Hey, Buck!” she calls out, hands cupped around her mouth.

Bucky turns toward the group, his eyes sweeping across the faces. You swear they pause on you for a half a heartbeat.

“Come join us! We’ve got beer!” Wanda shouts, waving a hand over her head. A few others in the circle add their agreement, ushering him over and shaking their flasks. Bucky stares for another moment, as still as the trees behind him, before turning around without a word and heading for his trailer. The door shuts with a slam. A few grumbles go up around you, but Wanda just shrugs, smiling lopsidedly. “Eh, if I got off work early, I’d probably want some peace and quiet, too.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, a sense of unease tainting the picturesque scene around you. “Does he…do that often?” you ask as casually as you can.

“Get off work early? Never. He works more than anyone I know—“

“No, I mean…” your finger points vaguely in the direction of the white trailer, “does he usually just ignore you when you ask him to hang out?”

She tilts her head, lips curving. “No, he’s usually at these things when he isn’t workin’. But if he’s home already, it probably means he threw out his back or somethin’. I know Steve threatens to fire him if he doesn’t go home and rest when that happens. Leave it to Bucky to take an order that seriously.” She laughs. “I swear those two were soldiers in a past life.”

You nod, your mind already dissecting the new information. He didn’t look like he was hurt…but you remember his eyes resting on you for a beat too long. The beer and whiskey combo in your stomach churns.

You fidget with your drink for the next half hour, barely hearing the conversations around you. An uncomfortable feeling has settled in your chest, tight and anxious, and your racing thoughts do nothing to help it. Finally, you can’t take it anymore, feeling restless and in pursuit of answers. You excuse yourself and head for your trailer, but when you’re far enough from the group, you take the long way around the park to Bucky’s, your heartbeat growing louder with each step.

You knock on the door before you can convince yourself otherwise, listening to the laughter of the circle as you wait. There’s a shuffling on the other side, then a soft grunt, and the door swings open.

Your lips part.

Bucky stands before you in nothing but his blue jeans. Your eyes jump to the wide expanse of his chest, the hard muscles of his abs. A smattering of dark chest hair tapers off down his stomach and disappears into his pants, right below his belt buckle. You forget how to breathe.

He stares down at you while bringing a beer bottle to his mouth and taking a hard swig. A drop of condensation lands on the dip between his collarbones, and your tongue subconsciously darts out to wet your lips. He shifts his weight to lean against the door frame, expression neutral. “What do you want?”

You realize you look like a fish out of water and shut your mouth with a snap, swallowing thickly as you feel an unwarranted heat bloom in your gut.

“Um,” you start, silently cursing the way your voice shakes. “Not sure if you heard Wanda, but we — uh, we were wonderin’ if you wanted to join us. Patrick’s doin’ a run to the liquor store so there’ll be plenty of beer soon. Or we still have some whiskey. Unless you’ve got plans…” you trail off, eyes flicking to his shirtless chest.

Bucky’s face doesn’t change. “Don’t have plans.”

“Then you should drink with us.”

“Not interested.” You blink.

“…why not?”

He shrugs.

“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company.” He takes another quick sip from his bottle. Your eyes catch on the label and recognize it immediately from your own preferences; when you look back at Bucky, you find him watching you closely, blue eyes hard and unapologetic. You suck in a breath through your teeth, a strange feeling buzzing beneath your skin. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the undeniable thrill of seeing him shirtless, but you feel close to exploding.

“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company, or don’t feel like drinkin’ with me?” you say quietly, eyes ghosting over his frame.

A look crosses his face, something close to bewildered, before he hides it behind his usual expressionless mask. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

You flash him a tight-lipped smile though far from amused. “Sure, like you don’t know.”

“Kid, I don’t have a clue,” he grumbles, though the hand holding the beer bottle twitches.

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” you snap before you can stop yourself, a dangerous flush running through your body, “you know exactly what you’re doin’. What you’ve been doin’ for the last month. Avoidin’ me like I’m the tax man and you’ve got a debt to pay. You don’t like me? Fine. No problem. I don’t need you to be my friend. But I won’t put up with you actin’ like I don’t exist in front of everyone else anymore, and if you keep doin’ it, I’ll make your sad, lonely, little life hell. So just stay away from me and I’ll stay away from you. Got it?”

Your words hang between you for a sour moment, and not even the cheerful sounds of the group can cut through the tension. Your chest heaves as you scowl at Bucky; he scowls right back, though you notice that the tips of his ears have gone a rosy shade of red and his grip on the beer bottle looks close to destructive. Your eyes scan his hardened face one last time before you turn on your heel and kick up a cloud of dust behind you as you march back to your trailer. This time, you slam the door.

Inside the trailer, the urge to throw something, anything, is too strong to ignore. Your vision zeroes in on the laundry basket Bucky returned a few days ago, and you lunge. Taking the cheap plastic in your hands, you hurl it against the floor with all of your strength, gritting your teeth while biting back a scream, watching as it breaks into a hundred different pieces with concerning ease on your linoleum floors. What follows is a silence so bitter, you can taste it in your mouth.

Your temper slowly fizzles out as you absorb the mess you made. You shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t have let him get to you again. Now you’ve got a room full of shame and no laundry basket.

Exhaling heavily, you run a hand through your hair while peeking out the window to see if the circle of neighbors heard your crash out. Nobody’s looking your way, thankfully — instead, they’re cheering on Patrick as he emerges from his car with two new cases of beer. A pang of longing hits your chest, but you know you can’t go back out there now, not after this. So you resign yourself to picking up the remains of your laundry basket, piece by piece on your hands and knees until they ache from the pressure and you’ve cut your fingers on the jagged edges.

Later, when you’re nursing a small hangover with a cup of tea and an ice pack on your head, you wait for the regret to sink in over the heated words you threw at Bucky. But, strangely, it doesn’t. Now that the buzz from the alcohol and the leftover anger have vacated your body, you’re left with an odd sense of calm about it.

Sure, you got something off your chest that’s been weighing you down for weeks, but you had truly convinced yourself that you were optimistic over the Bucky situation. You had been foolishly hopeful that you could get through to him. Your outburst said differently. You should feel embarrassed, defeated, tired, but instead you feel…good. You handled it, just like you’ve handled every other hurdle in your life. Maybe not gracefully, but grace has never been your forte, and you don’t really mind.

You only wish that Bucky had shown some sort of reaction to being called out, a protest, a sigh, anything — but the man is as expressive as a bucket of cement. Knowing him, you wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t listen to half the things you said. He probably thought the whole thing was a waste of time, something to forget about as soon as he shut the door…

Doesn’t matter. You’re not going to lose sleep over your emotionally repressed neighbor anymore. You’re not going to spend another second thinking about him.

This turns out to be easier said than done.

You get to enjoy a peaceful week without seeing or thinking about Bucky, until Sunday rolls around. You’re doing laundry, which proves to be harder than usual without a laundry basket, leaving you to juggle armfuls of clothes while trekking back and forth between the park’s shared washing machines and your trailer. While the last of your wardrobe dries on the line outside, you’re moving around your little home in a faded pink tank top and an old pair of some ex’s boxers. The radio plays rock classics while you prep dinner, and you hum along as you man the stove and chop vegetables.

Then a knock interrupts.

You set down the knife and glance out the window, but whoever’s outside is hovering next to the door out of sight. You think it’s Donna, coming by with eggs after she borrowed some from you the other day, but when you open the door, you’re downright shocked to find who’s on the other side.

Bucky stands with one hand against your door frame, the other holding his toolbox, dressed in dirty jeans and a plain black t-shirt that hugs his body in an ungodly attractive way. You take a step back in surprise when his eyes find yours. They’re bright, but guarded. He nods at you.

“You said your shower’s broken,” he says in greeting, voice low like he doesn’t want to be overheard.

Your mouth falls open. “Huh?”

His lips press together in an impatient line. “Your shower. You asked me to take a look at it the other day.”

Your mind feels like an old computer you had to reboot to get working again. You blink at him as it comes back to you.

“Yeah,” you answer slowly, “but that was before.”

He huffs, looking over his shoulder at the park behind him. “You want your shower fixed or not? I got things to do today.”

“Then go do ‘em.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying your best to look down your nose at him while being completely submerged in his shadow.

“Don’t be stupid,” is his retort, “I’m offerin’ you help.”

“Don’t need it. And don’t call me stupid,” you snap.

“You gonna fix the shower yourself?” Bucky challenges, tilting his head at you. You feel heat rush to your cheeks as his eyes sweep up and down your figure, taking in your thin tank top and rolled up boxers.

“Maybe,” you throw at him, though it lacks the previous bite. The corner of Bucky’s mouth curls up.

“Then at least let me watch.”

Your spine locks as a jolt of something new and strange spreads through your body. Your brain decides now is a good time to remember just how attractive he is beneath the oil and dirt and rough demeanor — especially when shirtless.

“That’s — I don’t — you—“ stammers out of your mouth. Bucky responds by pushing past you into your trailer. You stumble into your couch, still struggling for words as he fills your little kitchen with his wide shoulders and long legs, his hair nearly brushing the ceiling. He sets the toolbox down on your table, briefly glancing at your half-made dinner.

“Smells good.”

His gruff tone is a sharp contrast to his casual words. You shake your head, though you feel like you could use a solid smack to the face. “Do you normally go around bargin’ into your neighbors homes?” you ask, slightly breathless. He looks at you, amused.

“When the neighbors are bein’ dumb, yeah. This the bathroom?” He points to the pocket door on his left.

“I told you not to call me—“

“Stupid, I know. I didn’t call you stupid, though.”

Your jaw clenches hard enough to hurt, watching as Bucky pulls open the bathroom door and squeezes into the tiny room like it’s his house. The sound of the shower turning on comes a second later.

“I thought I told you to stay away from me,” you grit through your teeth. “You got a hearing problem, old man?”

From the bathroom, Bucky chuckles, soft and deep. “Old man,” he mutters to himself before shutting the water off and reappearing, eyes pinning you in place. “I can hear just fine. Heard all of your cute little temper tantrum the other day.“

Your entire body flushes against its will. ”Then why are you here?” you demand. Bucky begins rifling through his toolbox.

“You asked me to fix your shower.”

“Yeah, a month ago,” you scoff. “And before I knew how big of an ass you are.” Bucky’s mouth does that half-smile again as he picks up a wrench. It might be the same one you imagined hitting him over the head with.

“That ain’t very nice,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to you. “You hardly know me.”

Your lip curls. “And you don’t know me, but you already decided I wasn’t worth your time.”

He exhales heavily, swapping the wrench for another one and weighing it in his hands. “This again?” But before you can let out the blood-curdling scream that’s been building up inside of you, he sets down the tool and turns your way, shoulders set and face stony. “Look, if I hurt your feelins by not takin’ your invite, then that’s on you. It ain’t personal, neighborhood bondin’s not really my thing as you could probably tell—“

“Unbelievable,” you mutter bitterly, shaking your head. “First of all, I know you’re lyin’ — Wanda said you’re always around when somethin’ is goin’ on. Second, you’re completely missin’ my point.”

“I was gettin’ to it,” he says louder, pointing a sharp finger at you. “But it seems you have a habit of jumpin’ to conclusions before hearin’ a person out.”

“Hearin’ a person out!” you cry, throwing your hands up; the sarcasm drips thick into your tone. “When would I ever be able to hear you out when you walk the other way when you see me comin’?”

He levels you with a hard look, blue eyes burning into yours. Butterflies erupt in your stomach, unwelcome and distracting, but you hold your ground.

“I don’t do friends,” he grunts, “I’m not good at bein’ one and I’m too busy for ‘em anyway. Fixin’ your car that day, I could tell that’s what you were lookin’ for, and I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea in your head.”

You laugh, dry and harsh. “Well, you certainly got your point across, Bucky.” His hand twitches, a quick clench and unclench of fingers; you observe it coolly, eyebrow cocked. “You know, for a guy who “doesn’t do friends,” there are a lot of people in this park who think you do.”

“That’s different,” he’s quick to say, brushing it off, “I’ve known ‘em for years. Thin line between familiar and friends, not my fault if they pick one and I pick the other.”

You scoff.

“Sure, okay. So what happens in, say, five years — when I’m still livin’ across the park from ya?” you ask, taking a bold step forward. “Will I get grandfathered in to your half-assed friendship, or will we still be goin’ at it like this? ‘cause I’m startin’ to think it’s less about you bein’ anti-friends, and more about you not likin’ me.”

“You won’t be here in five years,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “This place ain’t anythin’ more than a pit stop on your way to somethin’ else. You’re young — real young — still got most of your life ahead of you, some great, big future out there somewhere, but it ain’t here. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends.”

With an inaudible crack, something shifts inside your chest, something heavy and painful as memories of your past flood your thoughts, ruthless and relentless in their intention to hurt. You pull your arms in close to your body, feeling goosebumps on your skin.

“You don’t know anythin’ about me and my future,” you tell him quietly. He shrugs.

“Maybe not, but I know restless when I see it. And I know grit. You’ll want something better eventually, and you’ll go after it.”

The silence that follows is deafening. You look everywhere but him, unwilling to show him just how much his words got to you, but he keeps his eyes steadily on you, unblinking, unwavering, like he’s finally noticed you for the first time and needs to learn everything he can about you in this very moment. Finally, he sighs, running a hand through his thick hair and frowning at the floor.

“But…I think maybe I was…doin’ too much. I didn’t see it that way before, but I do now,” he says, still gruff, but softer now. “Lemme fix your shower. To say sorry for bein’…for bein’ an ass. I know what it’s like to be ignored…and I should’ve realized how things might’ve come across to ya.”

You exhale shakily. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends. You look away, struggling to separate the sting of his words from the peace offering in front of you.

“Alright,” you relent, packing up the pain and setting it aside. He nods before picking through his toolbox again. You shift your weight, feeling awkward and out of place in your own home. Clearing your throat, you bravely add, “Does this mean I can expect a wave in the mornings?”

Bucky makes a noise in the back of his throat that could pass for a laugh. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself now. Just because I’m sayin’ sorry doesn’t mean I take back what I said about bein’ friends.”

“Yeah. You’re a grumpy old man who likes to be alone. Got it.”

He tosses you a look over his shoulder, equal parts irritated and amused, while you bite your lip to stop yourself from acting on the hurt simmering inside of you. As the fight in you deflates, you take a few careful steps into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as Bucky sorts through a handful of knuts and screws. “So…” you start, searching for a stop to the thoughts inside your head, “what’d you end up doin’ that night?”

“What night?” Bucky grunts.

“The night we were drinkin’.”

He hums, pocketing the screws and picking up a screwdriver. “Finished up a couple projects,” he says slowly. “Got some chores done.”

“Really,” you state, brows furrowed. “Didn’t look like you were up to anythin’.”

He looks at you then and his eyes are unreadable. “Why do you say that?”

“Because you answered the door without a shirt. And you were drinkin’ a beer. The beer I left at your door when you were too scared to answer it, by the way.”

Bucky snorts. “You askin’ for a thanks? I had my head under car hoods all day. I think I deserved a cold drink.”

He turns for the bathroom again; this time, you follow, hovering in the doorway as he starts loosening the shower head from the pipe. “Do you always answer your door halfway to nude, or did I just get lucky that day?”

Bucky laughs, really, truly laughs. Whatever burdened expression you were wearing is wiped clean off your face as you bask in the sound of it.

“It’s called laundry, sweetheart. I smelled like a wet dog on an oil rig after workin’ twelve hours in the heat, and I didn’t care to sit in it any longer.”

“Still,” you mutter, watching as he catches the unattached shower head before it drops to the ground, “you could’ve put on a shirt before greetin’ me like that.”

“Like you’re much better,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at you; again, his eyes rake up and down shamelessly, but this time it feels more concentrated, observant. The blue looks a shade darker than before. You gape at him.

“It’s — well, I’m just—“

“Doin’ laundry?” Bucky supplies quietly. You snap out of it when he turns back to the shower, pulling out his screwdriver.

“Whatever,” you grumble, feeling hot, “just let me know when you’re done.”

You leave him in the bathroom to pick up where you left off chopping vegetables. You should probably have a clearer head when handling a knife, but you’re too riled up to sit still and wait for him to finish. What was that look about? He says he doesn’t want to be your friend, then he stares at you like you’ve got something he wants. Is he waiting for you to snap at him again, or is it something else?

You’re silent while you work, just the radio and the sounds of Bucky working on your shower filling the trailer. Every now and then you’ll hear the water run, or a hushed curse under his breath. You’re just turning off the heat on the stove when he steps out of your bathroom and puts his tools away.

“Pressure’s fine now,” he tells you, snapping the toolbox shut. You turn to him, hands on your hips.

“Mind if I check?” Another half-smile from him as he gestures for you to go ahead. You shuffle past him, brushing his shoulder as you go. You’re shocked to feel how warm he runs, almost hot to the touch; your cool skin begs you to step closer. In the bathroom, you turn the handle and are pleasantly surprised to see water shoot out at a mostly normal rate.

“Nice work,” you call out before turning it off. Bucky’s waiting for you in the kitchen, leaning against the table with his arms crossed and a curious look on his face. “What?” you can’t help but ask, stopping in your tracks.

For the first time since meeting him, Bucky looks slightly put off, like a thought’s crossed his mind that he’s wondering if he should voice aloud. “Are you—“ He clears his throat. “Where were you before this?”

You blink. You haven’t heard that question in a while. “La Junta. But I grew up in Dodge City.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Got family there?”

“Maybe,” you shrug. “Couldn’t tell you where my daddy is. Mom’s got a new boyfriend, don’t know if they moved.”

“What about you? You got a boyfriend?” he murmurs, examining his dirty hands.

“I wouldn’t be askin’ you for help if I did,” you answer, blinking, and you turn back to your food to hide the heat crawling up your face. Bucky hums. Then, to your immense surprise, you hear him ease himself into the tiny chair at your table.

“So you’re on your own,” he comments, as if what he did wasn’t completely at odds with your earlier conversation.

Your shoulders tense instinctively. Well, isn’t this just ironic? The man who made you feel lonely wants to know how lonely you are.

“Could say that,” you respond slowly, “but Donna and the others have been real welcoming. They say the door’s always open.”

You hope he catches the barb in your words, the subtle call out, but Bucky just sighs. “Yeah, they’re like that. Would give you the clothes off their back in the middle of a snowstorm if you needed it. Good people — too good, sometimes.”

“Nobody can be too good,” you say, eyeing him over your shoulder. “I think the world could use a few more people like them.” He meets your gaze before dragging it down your figure again, but it’s softer this time, less analytical and not necessarily uncomfortable. You quickly turn back to the stove. “Didn’t take you as the type to chit chat,” you quip.

“Oh, am I bein’ too friendly now?”

“I thought you got things to do today.”

“I do,” he grunts. “I’ll get to them.”

It hits you suddenly that you’re not sure if you want Bucky to leave yet. When you chance another glance at him, you’re struck with how comfortable he looks sitting there. His broad frame takes up a whole side of the table, and he’s slouched down just enough in the chair with his legs spread wide, like he owns the place, like he knows the inside of your trailer well, like he’s familiar with the way you move around the kitchen.

A teasing smile makes its way onto your face. “If I didn’t know better, it sounds like you’re lookin’ for a friend to pass time with—“

“Don’t be difficult,” he mutters, head tilted as he crosses his arms; his biceps bulge, the golden skin stretching like an invitation for you to touch, taste, bite—

“You sure like givin’ orders, huh?” you remark, matching his stance. Those blue eyes find yours and don’t let go.

“Only when it’s needed,” he says, voice lowering to a pitch that could rumble the floors beneath your bare feet. To your chagrin, it goes straight to your gut, settling there with a deep heat that awakens something inside of you. You scramble to push it down, afraid of the truth showing plainly on your face.

“Bossy,” you mutter under your breath, looking away. Bucky chuckles, somehow making it worse.

“Somethin’ tells me you don’t do well listenin’ to others.”

Your hand tightens over the plate you’re pulling from the cupboard. “Yeah, well. Most people tell you to do things ‘cause it’s better for them, not for you.”

He hums. “You listened pretty well to me.”

Your cheeks flush. “Judgment error,” you mumble.

“Did you get the new battery like I told you to?”

“Uh…” You have the grace to look sheepish because, truthfully, you forgot. You close your mouth before telling him that if he hadn’t completely derailed all of your rational thinking with his avoidant behavior, you’d have remembered.

“I stand corrected,” he mutters, pushing out his chair. Bucky only needs to take two steps until he’s looming over you, pulling out a card from his back pocket. He takes your hand in his and places the card there before his fingers slide to your wrist, gripping tight. “Rogers’ garage on Miner Street. I want you in there this week for a battery change. Unless you’re tryin’ to blow that hunk of junk up.”

You gulp, looking down at where he’s holding you. “I have work,” you whisper.

“After work, then. I’ll be there.” He searches your face, waiting for your confirmation. You nod, but he doesn’t let go. A moment passes where it’s just the two of you breathing along to the soft melody of the radio.

“You’re helping me again,” you blurt. His fingers dig a little deeper into your flesh.

“And?”

You take a steadying breath, your brain picking through your words carefully. “Awfully friend-like, if you ask me—“

Bucky groans, pulling away and leaving sparks along your skin. He picks up his toolbox, giving you a quick glance. He looks like he’s about to say something, and you find yourself desperately wanting to know what it is. But he seems to think better of it and makes for the door, opening it up to the heat of the August evening. His eyes meet yours one last time. “Enjoy your dinner.”

He’s a step out of your trailer when you call his name. He stops immediately, looking over his shoulder. “Thank you,” you say in a rush. “For fixin’ the shower.”

A pause, then, “No problem, kid.” The door swings shut. Through the window you see him traipse across the park and to his truck where he tosses the toolbox into the back, then he disappears into his home. Whatever things he had to do seem to be forgotten. Or nonexistent. A smile curls across your face before you can stop it.

The following weeks feel like a fever dream compared to the last month. You find yourself face-to-face with Bucky a number of times, some by coincidence, some by design.

A quick nod as he drives past you in the morning turns into a quick conversation at the mailbox the next day. It’s mostly you talking, but he stands there nonetheless, listening quietly to your unprovoked story of a difficult customer from the other week. Following that, you bump into him on a walk around the park with Wanda, where he manages to crack a smile when you recount how the little kid next door ran you over with his bike earlier that morning. He makes you promise to treat the patch of road rash on your thigh with rubbing alcohol, warning against infection and causing you to blush like a school girl being told off.

A storm rips through the town later that week, ripping off shingles and felling trees, making the lights flicker uncertainly from time to time as the wind batters the side of your trailer. After the worst of it’s passed, you step outside to assess the damage; you think it’s superficial, nothing that threatens the structural integrity of the outbuilding, but you don’t know the first thing about evaluating storm damage.

Luckily, Bucky materializes out of nowhere like he could read your mind from across the park, offering to check for leaks and punctures that could lead to greater troubles down the road. He claims he does it for all of the neighbors, waving off your word vomit of gratitude with a huff and a scowl, but once again, he either forgets about the others, or those intentions never existed, because when he’s finished fortifying your trailer, he sends you a small salute before crossing the park and disappearing back into his home.

A few days later, you find yourself at the mailboxes with Bucky after he came up behind you with a muttered, “mornin’”, and now he’s listening to you talk about your boss’ erratic revamp of the menu. You manage to pull from him that he’s partial to the danish pastries your diner sells, so you knock on his door later that night with a bag full of them and a smile on your face, watching as the tips of his ears glow bright red when you hand them over. He thanks you in that gruff way of his that doesn’t sound grateful at all, but it’s enough for you.

But to your shock, he repays the favor the next evening.

You’re curled up on the couch with a book, listening to the weak clicks of the AC unit in your window, when you feel your trailer give a sudden lurch. Your glass of water topples off the side table, your basil plant spills into the sink. You’re questioning the probability of earthquakes when it happens again — this time more powerful than the last.

When you open your door, the last thing you’re expecting is Bucky — shirtless again — using a hammer to extract the rotting pieces from the walls of your trailer. You call him crazy — it’s ten o’clock at night and he’s just finished a fourteen-hour shift, after all — but he just grunts and tells you that they were an eyesore, that he was getting too impatient not to do something about them. You’d be offended if your body wasn’t humming with a pleased rush of adrenaline from his attention, however workaround it may be.

You spend the remainder of the evening watching from your open door as he fixes up your little home. Despite the cooler night air, he still gleams with sweat from the effort, and you learn to appreciate this quickly; he looks like trouble and heaven wrapped up in the likeness of God’s surliest angel. By no means are you religious, but all other explanations for how a man that looks like that winds up in your yard seem to defy natural laws. Watching the muscles in his arms ripple as he tears the siding off its hinges, you’re convinced a higher power had to have intervened for this moment to happen.

You’re all too eager to offer him a beer when he finally finishes. He takes it before sitting down wordlessly next to you on your stoop. Then it’s silent except for the crickets and the bullfrogs, but you find it peaceful rather than charged like it usually is between you.

Up close, the tattoo that once teased you that fateful day that you met is on full display. It’s an intricate piece that extends across his back from shoulder to shoulder; black ink curls around three names written in elegant calligraphy: James, Winnifred, and Rebecca. The longer you stare at it, the more your fingers itch with the need to touch it, to trace the whorls from point to point.

You take a large sip of beer for courage.

“What’s this?” you murmur, the tip of your pinky barely grazing the ‘a’ at the end of Rebecca. You feel Bucky tense up beneath your touch, and you know right away that you’ve crossed a line, possibly tearing down what little you’ve built since he fixed your shower. You wait for the blow to come, for the other shoe to drop, for him to stand and leave you all alone in the dark.

But he doesn’t. Instead, Bucky slowly relaxes, muscle by muscle. “My family. I don’t…see them much anymore.”

You let that sink in for a moment. “So you’re on your own,” you comment, using his words.

Bucky hears this and turns, unleashing the full force of those big blue eyes on you. Something flashes across them, and it could be anything: pain, recognition, anger, validation. All real emotions for a situation you’re only too familiar with.

“Yeah,” he finally mutters, looking down. Your gut twists.

Just from that one little word, you could glean all of the history behind him, the past that’s riddled with regret and hurt, and you push against the sudden urge to wrap him in a hug. Too much too soon for begrudging acquaintances. You settle instead for soft words in the form of a distraction.

“Well, except for Donna. She doesn’t know how to leave anyone alone.”

Bucky gives a half shrug, sipping on his beer. “You’re not wrong.”

“Y’know, everyone here kind of adores you.”

“I doubt that.”

“You should hear Donna talk about ya.”

The corner of his mouth ticks up as he glances at you. “That bad, huh?”

“She says you’re the sweetest guy,” you share with him conspiratorially. “That you help out a lot, actually. And that you’re quiet, but you’re really kind when you wanna be—“

“Alright, I get it,” he mutters, eyes scanning the park. “Easy to believe the lie when she says it like that.”

There isn’t any venom to his words, just a simple statement around a beer bottle. You tear your eyes away from watching his neck extend on a swallow, dazedly finding the oak tree. “I know it’s not a lie,” you say, picking at the peeling label of your drink. “I saw you the other day, helpin’ out the Markhams. All of you were laughin’, too. It was…sweet.”

Bucky’s quiet for a moment. He leans back until his forearms rest against the step behind him, stretching out his long torso like he’s asking you to count all six abdominals. “Don’t get used to it,” he mutters darkly, and it sounds like a threat more than anything, but the little pout on his face negates whatever abrasiveness he was hoping for. It makes you giggle.

“Uh-huh, sure. I know a big softie when I see one.”

He rolls his eyes before taking a sip of his drink. “Believe what you want, kid, but I’m not the type to give flowers or sweet nothins.”

Your attention sharpens at his words, a spike of curiosity jetting through your bloodstream. “How else do you woo your woman then?” you tease, just enough to hide the neediness in your voice, the urge to know the answer.

Bucky turns to you, brows furrowed. Then — so quick, you almost miss it — his eyes dart to your mouth and back. The wind shifts, your fingers tingle, Bucky pushes up so that he’s brushing shoulders with you again; you feel like they’re fused together by some invisible, magical weld. He stares straight ahead, elbows on his knees, thumb running circles around the rim of the beer bottle. “Don’t have one,” he mutters.

You blink.

“Really?” His face twists into a scowl. “Huh. Guess it’s hard to believe a good lookin’ guy like you doesn’t have a few crawlin’ all over him. Unless it’s by choice.”

Bucky frowns impossibly deeper, it’s almost laughable. “Why would it be by choice?”

“Because apparently you can barely handle havin’ a friend, or so you say,” you point out.

“Doesn’t mean I’m a fuckin’ loner,” he grumbles. “I just don’t…get out that much.”

“I bet you’d do pretty well for yourself if you did, sittin’ all alone on a barstool with the sad guy look you got goin’ on.”

“I got what?”

“Y’know,” you start with a grin, “the sad guy look. When you’re all mysterious and unavailable. Add in broody, quiet and stares a lot, women will think it’s hot.”

Bucky goes so still, even his thumb pauses.

“Oh, yeah?” he asks quietly, looking very thoughtfully at the oak tree. “Is it doin’ somethin’ for you, kid?”

The smile flickers off your face. Oh. Oh no.

“Uh…”

He eyes you sideways, and you know you’re as red as a stop sign. You gave yourself away before you could even go on the defense. You take a big sip to buy you time, but he’s there and leaning into the spot where you skin touches, and all the sudden your thoughts explode in a hundred different directions, because why is he still staring at you, and why is he actively getting closer, and why, for the love of all that’s good and holy, does he still not have a shirt on?

You think he’s never paid closer attention to you before now, and he’s destined to see through your lie when your face is there to direct him to the truth. So you gamble on a half truth.

“I think it’s a pretty universal thing to be attracted to,” you say with a shrug, giving a mediocre performance on playing it cool. He hums.

“But do you like it?” Bucky presses softly, and your stomach drops into a flip. The wind shifts again, and this time, you can feel something mysteriously close to electricity buzzing back and forth between your skin and his. Why does he care? you ask yourself, as if you know the answer.

“I…” your voice wobbles traitorously, but you know there’s no way out of it now, so you’ll go down swinging. You turn to him, and your eyes connect like a head on car crash: dangerous, devastating, impossible to look away from. “Yes,” you whisper.

He smiles faintly. “Thought so.”

“Please don’t,” you groan.

He chuckles but doesn’t look away, and you’ve already developed Stockholm Syndrome from being held hostage by his gaze. His reaches out to brush a hair from your face, natural, instinctive, and you’re holding your breath without even realizing, feeling the zip of chemistry from the tips of his fingers as they touch your cheek. You’re so close, you could lean in and brush noses with him if you had the nerve to. Or more, which you’re starting to think about—

“You might be the prettiest thing this town’s ever seen,” he murmurs, low and rough, and oh, does your heart try to leap out of your chest and drop into his hands.

You feel your cheeks flush, your sense of reality growing hazy, because is this really Bucky Barnes sitting in front of you saying that?

But he pulls back before you can even think of a response, chancing one last glance at your mouth before silently falling back into position next to you.

For a while, he doesn’t say anything. You don’t push him to. And when your finger brushes the ‘a’ again, he leans your way. Your mind is oddly free of thought as you trace the names gently — you’ve probably gone into shock over him letting you touch him like this. You’re not sure what compelled you to do it, nor what convinced Bucky to allow it, but for a few quiet moments, you feel yourself breaking through one of the walls he had up between you. You wonder if he feels it too.

Later, after he calls it a night and you’re lying in bed, watching as the patch of moonlight crawls across your ceiling, you feel like maybe he was right — maybe you weren’t going to be friends. Because maybe you were always meant to be something more.

Saturday arrives with a bang as thunderstorms roll through the county and soak everything in its reach, but by the time your shift ends, the sky has opened up to an endless portrait of oranges and pinks and purples. You take the scenic route home, windows down to let in the smell of earth and rain, and a smile on your face that hurts your cheeks and feels dangerously close to permanent. A stack of pastries sits in your passenger seat, boxed carefully and tied with a string to keep them from sliding.

When you pull up to your little trailer, Donna’s waiting for you outside your door. She descends on you immediately, taking the pastries from your hands and whisking them away to the middle of the park where the neighbors are setting up for a barbecue.

“Thanks, hun!” she calls out. “Now get outta that rag and put on somethin’ cute — we’re dancin’ later!”

By the time you emerge from your trailer, uniform swapped for something lighter that sways in the wind, the park party is in full swing. Donna’s taken up the mantle as the Chief of Staff of the buffet line, Viz is unloading cases of sodas and waters from the back of his truck, little Mrs. Markham tenderly sets up a s’mores station for the children, and Wanda’s tossing strings of lights through the limbs of the oak tree.

You rush forward when she gets tangled up in a line, stopping the threat of a hard tumble by unwinding it from her ankles. Wanda grimaces. “Thanks. Guess I can forget that career in the rodeo.”

Viz perks up from filling a cooler with drinks. “I wouldn’t say that, honey. You’re a hell of a cowgirl to me.”

Wanda blushes as red as her hair while you fight back a laugh. “Viz,” she mumbles, but her husband just sends her a wink before turning back to the cooler. “Sorry,” she says to you, the color slowly fading from her cheeks. “He can be…pretty affectionate when he’s home.”

You shake your head, smiling. “No, don’t be sorry. I think it’s sweet.” Your fingers work with hers to straighten out a knot in the lights. “Is he gone pretty often?”

She nods. “Three weeks of the month, usually. Long-haul truckin’ definitely wasn’t our first choice. It’s dangerous, and the time apart can feel painful. But the pay’s decent and…well…” She looks around cautiously before leaning in. “We’re tryin’ to start a family.”

“Wanda,” you breathe, eyes wide. She hushes you gently, but she’s smiling now.

“I know. But you can’t tell anyone — especially Donna. She’ll make it a whole thing.” She scrunches her nose adorably.

“My lips are sealed,” you vow, miming a zipper closing across your mouth.

“Thank you,” she says, squeezing your hand. “Now let’s get the rest of these figured out.“

After several more attempts at lassoing lights onto branches, the two of you end up abandoning that plan and decide to treat the trunk like a maypole; each of you take hold of a string and run circles around the tree until not an inch of bark is visible. Your side splits from laughter as you try not to trip over the exposed roots, chasing after your newfound friend. You collapse onto the grass after, knocking shoulders and gulping down air as the rest of the neighbors start to mingle around you. The smell of grilled meat and oil lanterns fills the air. Conversation is a constant hum that provides a comforting white noise. Children race across the grass, dragging bubble wands behind them and leaving a whimsical trail for the lightning bugs to follow. You take a look around the park, at your friends and neighbors sending you easy smiles and carefree waves. They don’t know the quiet impact it has on you, what it means to be on the receiving end of their kindness. It’s like they’re standing at the open door, waving you in and welcoming you home.

Viz comes over and hands you both a water. You take it with a muttered thanks, grateful to have something to distract you from the swell of emotions rearing up inside of you.

That’s when you hear it: the sound of an old engine revving up the hill. Your breath hitches as you watch the brown truck pull into the lot, Bucky’s figure shadowed by the setting sun behind him. Your lips part when you notice he isn’t alone.

The truck comes to a stop next to Viz’s. “Ah,” he says, pushing himself up from the ground. “Finally. Bucky’s here with the good stuff.”

Bucky jumps out of the truck with the ease of a seasoned cowboy dismounting from his horse. Dark shades cover his eyes, but he flips them up as Viz approaches; they shake hands, Bucky clapping Viz on the back. “Good to have you back,” you hear him say, a crooked grin on his face. In the back of your mind you know you’re blatantly staring, but this is new material that your curious brain is desperate to consume. His passenger comes around the other side of the truck, a tall, broad man with sandy blonde hair and oily jeans that give Bucky’s a run for their money. His face is weathered and chiseled like the driver’s, but there’s a softness to it that begs you to trust him, like all of your problems could be solved with just a look.

“Steve,” Viz greets, extending a hand. The newcomer shakes it, grinning.

“Good to see you again, Viz.”

You’re drawn back to Bucky as the other two catch up. His blue eyes sweep across the park, intentional and analyzing. When they fall on you and Wanda, he goes still for a moment. A part of you shrinks in fear, your heart racing in your chest when you remember the last time he picked you out of the crowd.

But Bucky’s hand comes up in a simple two-fingered wave. Wanda waves back. “Hey, Buck!”

“Wanda,” he says in that low tone of his, but his eyes never leave you. “Hey, kid.”

“Hi,” you answer, the faintest trace of a squeak in your voice. Bucky nods, an indefinable look on his face, before turning back to the truck and opening the back. Viz gives a whoop of delight when he sees the kegs waiting to be tapped.

“Right on time, Barnes. You did good.” Bucky shakes his head.

“This was all Steve. That red-headed bartender at Bruce’s is sweet on him.” Bucky’s companion chuckles, bashfully ducking his head.

“Nat’s just a friend.”

“Yeah, pal. Be sure to thank her extra nice for us when you’re at her place tonight.”

The party really takes off once the three men drop the kegs near the coolers. The rest of the group crowds around it like bees on honey. Wanda recruits you to set up a table of solo cups and sharpie markers, but you’re not much help for the urgency she needs. You’re finding Bucky lifting 160 pounds of beer like it’s a sack of feathers to be very distracting while trying to un-stack cups.

Viz christens the first keg with a spray of foam that everyone groans at, but his effacing smile tells you there’s very little that could dampen his spirits, including a botched keg. He quickly fills two cups (of mostly foam) for you and Wanda, and you laugh when she cheers you to “the rodeo life.”

You toss it back like medicine, hoping the alcohol clears your mind of the mysterious haze of self-awareness and poor attention span that Bucky brought with his arrival. The beer dribbles down your chin, and as you move to wipe it off, you glance up.

As predicted, your eyes find Bucky standing a few feet away; by all accounts, he’s locked into a conversation with Steve and Patrick that requires all of their heads to be pulled close together. But while Steve and Patrick exchange enthusiastic words, Bucky’s tight-lipped while staring at you.

You blush, an embarrassed smile flashing across your face while you use the back of your hand like a napkin. You expect him to look away, like a normal person does when they accidentally catch eyes with someone, but he doesn’t. He coolly takes a sip of his own drink, a muscle ticking in his jaw while he watches you. A ripple of heat runs down your spine that has nothing to do with the weather; it’s reminiscent of the feeling you had when his hand held tight to your wrist in your trailer, but it’s like it’s been cranked up to level 1000. When he swallows, you can see the tip of his tattoo curling at the base of his neck, and your fingers give an involuntary twitch as they remember the feel of it beneath them. Bucky shifts a half-step in your direction, and for one delusional second, you think he’s going to come over. But Donna wanders into your line of sight before the heat of his gaze can fully brand itself into your skin.

“Can I get your help with the salad? Mary went to get more plates.”

You’re dragged away before you can say a word.

Throughout the rest of the night, Bucky always seems to be on your periphery. Wherever you turn, he’s there, just a few feet away. Not close enough to warrant a conversation, but not far enough to be coincidence. You know the park isn’t big, but the proximity seems constructed, considered, careful, especially when you can feel his eyes on you at all times. When you refill your drink, he’s finishing his. When the line for the food forms, he’s three people behind you. When you pass by with a tray of desserts, he steps out of the way wordlessly, pulling Steve with him before you can excuse yourself. And he watches you go.

As the sunset melts into twilight, and Wanda’s lights begin to steal the show, you find a chair next to the speaker softly playing Fleetwood Mac. Across from you, Viz is coaxing Wanda into being the first ones to dance; she shakes her head, adamantly against it, but allows him to pull her from the chair anyway. Donna has a content look on her face as she oversees cleanup, which she shooed you away from almost immediately. Bucky’s coworker is doubled-over with laughter listening to Mr. Gonzalez’s tale of a fishing trip gone wrong. But Bucky is missing.

Your eyes scan the park instinctively, even delving into the dark corners between trailers or the full parking lot on the other side. You’re halfway out of your chair — to do what, you’re not sure — when you hear something drag across the dirt.

Bucky pulls up a chair and takes a seat beside you before you can blink. He has a fresh beer in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other, which he tucks into the front pocket of his red flannel.

“Enjoyin’ yourself?” he murmurs in greeting, observing the party in front of him. You can smell traces of smoke on him, layered beneath the scent of oil and something that reminds you of the woods behind his trailer.

Your gaze drops to the drink in your hand. “Yeah, this is great. Never been to something like this before.” Bucky settles into the chair, his knees spreading wide until one just barely grazes yours. “Did you guys close up the shop for this?” you ask, nodding toward Steve.

“Have to. Otherwise Donna would have our asses.”

You laugh softly. “Yeah, I got the impression this is pretty important to her when she made me RSVP.”

A ghost of a smirk flits across his face. “Her and Harold used to host this every year. After he died, she dug her heels into keepin’ it a tradition since it meant so much to him. Hard to say no to her when she’s got her mind set on somethin’.”

“I didn’t know that,” you admit. “I just thought she really likes barbecues.” Bucky laughs into his drink, and you nearly preen at the sound. “That’s really sweet, though. I wish I could’ve met him.”

“He was a good man,” Bucky agrees. “Had a lot of strong opinions about things I had no idea about. Most of it sounded crazy to me, but I ended up learnin’ my fair share from him.” He looks sideways at you. “Taught me how to use a lawnmower.”

“Really?” you laugh in disbelief. “When was this?”

“Maybe four years ago,” he says.

“Oh, shut up, you’re just lyin’ now. You build cars from scrap metal for a livin’ — there’s no way you didn’t know how to run a lawnmower.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t have a reason to until I moved here,” he says simply, like that explains the issue.

“Whaddya mean?”

He shifts in his seat before taking a sip of beer, looking past the party at the woods beyond. “There’s no grass where I come from.“

Your head tilts, eyes assessing his profile. The lined planes of his face remain as impassive as ever, but his shoulders don’t meet his ears like you expect. He seems relaxed — or at the very least, prepared — for your inevitable follow up question about his past.

“Where you from, Bucky?” you ask. He opens his mouth, but you quickly point a finger at him with a sudden burst of inspiration. “No, wait. Lemme guess…El Paso.”

The corner of his mouth curls up. “No.”

“Hmm,” you take a sip of your drink, pretending to take your time considering his accent like you don’t already have it memorized and catalogued neatly into a quiet corner of your brain. “Amarillo?”

“Nope — not Texas.”

You pout. “Gimme a hint.”

“East coast.”

You stare.

“Give up already?” he teases, but you wave him off.

“East coast, no grass, bad manners—“ Bucky snorts. “You from Jersey or somethin’?”

“Worse. Brooklyn.”

Your jaw drops. You weren’t expecting that answer. “You’re kidding, right? You’re not from Brooklyn.”

“Born and raised,” he mutters with a grin, amused by your response.

“But how do — where did you — you don’t sound like — what?”

“A story for another time.”

He’s still smiling, but there’s a shuttered look in his eye that doesn’t come from sitting next to you; it comes from revisiting ghosts in your mind while the world moves forward without you. You sit back, occupying yourself with another sip of beer while he comes back to the present.

“For what it’s worth, you can push a lawnmower like a sonofabitch now,” you venture.

He laughs, and your heart swells as you listen to it. It’s surprisingly high-pitched and breathless for a man as big as he is, but it contains something childlike that sounds tragically beautiful to someone who never laughed much as a kid. You count the lines around his eyes, you commit the scrunch of his nose to memory, you hold your breath as his knee knocks into yours and stays there.

“You watchin’ me mow my lawn, kid?” he hums into his drink, eyes flashing.

You balk. “I never said that—“

“You’re implyin’ it.” His husky voice encourages the color in your cheeks to saturate.

“It’s just somethin’ I noticed in passin’,” you plead. He takes mercy on you, for once.

Shaking his head, he mutters, “How’s the diner? It’s Tony’s place, right?”

“Yeah — do you know him?”

He purses his lips in thought, watching as the Markhams begin a slow sway on the makeshift dance floor while Wanda and Viz twirl around them. Several other pairings have joined in on the fun, spinning and dipping and waltzing along to Dire Straits.

“I know him…not very well, though. Friend of a friend, more like,” he adds, nodding at Steve. Then he clears his throat, offering you his drink when he sees that yours is now empty. “He a — he a good boss? He’s not doin’ anything he shouldn’t, right?”

“He’s fine,” you share, accepting his cup with a blink. You’re hyper aware of your lips hugging the rim exactly where his did as you take a sip. “Likes hearin’ the sound of his own voice, but that’s the worst of it.”

Bucky nods. “Good…good.”

Donna marches past then with a firm hand on the shoulder of a young teenage boy. The face beneath the crew cut is fifty shades of red, and his hands are covered in — what you hope is — melted marshmallows. Bucky snickers as Donna hauls the boy up to a group of middle-aged women chatting by the tree; one of them, who you can only assume is his mother, erupts into angry chastising as soon as she spots the teenager.

“Uh oh,” you mumble, watching the scene unfold. You can see how the boy takes after his mother as her face transitions to cherry red the longer she berates him. Bucky‘s still chuckling.

“Nate’s always been a trouble-maker, but he don’t mean much harm by it,” he murmurs in your ear. Donna watches with a sharp eye as the mother points a shaky hand in the direction of their trailer, and Nate slinks away, head bowed. “Oh, he’s gettin’ off easy,” Bucky says. “That’s a lot better than facin’ Donna’s justice.”

You grin. “No kiddin’. She runs this thing like the Navy Seals. I almost dropped the potatoes earlier, thought she was gonna spank me,” you giggle.

Bucky’s head whips around faster than humanly possible, the movement so quick it stops the laughter right in your throat.

“Can’t say stuff like that to me, kid,” he says, voice like silk over gravel.

You stare at him. In the low light of the lanterns, you can just see that the blue irises have changed shades into something darker, heavier; they’re locked on you with an intensity that doesn’t match the lightheartedness of the party. You gulp, he notices.

“Why not?” you whisper. And then his eyes drop to your lips, indisputable and poignant. Your breath hitches as the shape of him changes in front of you, as the delicate foundation of a relationship based on tolerance gets crushed to pieces by just one quick look.

“A man could get ideas,” he rumbles softly.

Your heart begins to pound in your chest, echoing faintly inside of your head. The noise of the barbecue fades. “What kind of ideas?” you push recklessly, and your eyes sink to his own mouth. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as if in answer.

“Ideas he shouldn’t be havin’ about his neighbor…who thinks he’s an ass.”

“I don’t think you’re an ass,” you breathe. He smiles faintly.

“No? All it took was a few weeks of bein’ your friend to change your mind?”

“Thought you didn’t wanna be friends,” you reply quietly. Something makes him pause, taking the time for a slow inhale and exhale to ground him. But underneath it is pure and unadulterated restraint — you can see it clear as day in the lines of his face, a sailor fighting valiantly against the storm.

“No, I don’t wanna be your friend,” he murmurs. But the words are not a rejection, they’re an invitation.

“Then what do you wanna be, Bucky?”

You bite your lip, and his eyes zero in on the tug of your teeth against the flesh. He leans in ever so slightly, like a magnet’s suddenly activated between your mouth and his, and your body hums with a desperate need to know what he tastes like—

“There you are!” Donna’s voice cuts in. She steps in front of you with her hands on her hips, and you jump in your seat like you touched an open wire. “Well, what are you doin’ sittin’? I told ya we’d be dancin’ later, and that dress looks too good on ya not to swing it around.” She looks at Bucky. “And whaddya know, you’ve got a partner right here!”

Your heart stutters in your chest as she points at him, anticipation already squeezing your lungs at the thought of Bucky’s hands holding you close while you sway gently to the music—

“Come on, Donna, you know I can’t dance. I’m not gonna make the poor girl suffer through me steppin’ on her feet,” Bucky answers gruffly.

The dismissal snuffs out the growing heat in your veins like a bucket of ice water on a candle. Your face drops, your eyes finding the dirt beneath your feet.

“That excuse is gettin’ real old, Bucky,” Donna counters, looking suspicious.

“Because it’s true,” he grumbles. “Not my fault you insist on there bein’ dancin’ every time you put somethin’ together.”

Exhaling shakily, you plaster an apologetic smile on your face as you meet Donna’s eye. “Yeah, actually Donna, I think I might turn in. I picked up a shift tomorrow mornin’ and I should at least try to show up sober.”

You see Bucky turn to you out of the corner of your eye. Donna frowns. “The party’s just gettin’ started, sugar, this ain’t the time for sleepin’.”

Chuckling dryly, you push yourself to your feet, the beer catching up to you momentarily as you take an extra step to steady yourself. You feel Bucky’s hand hover near your waist before you see it. You do your best to ignore it.

“I know, and I’m sorry. I should’ve told you sooner. But you know how it is. I got bills to pay and supplies to buy.” You roll your eyes like it’s not physically hurting you to be pulling away from her and the rest of the group, but you can’t be near Bucky right now. Not until you’ve reconciled all of the feelings you’ve felt tonight with the reality of your situation with him. You’ve learned the hard way how logic wins out over emotions, and you’re just sober enough to recognize you need a moment to align yourself with this self-inflicted mentality. You place a quick peck to Donna’s cheek, squeezing her arm. “The party’s beautiful, Donna. Truly, I’m honored to be a part of it. Thank you for hosting.”

She gives you a sad look, one meant to keep you in place, but your feet are carrying you away before you can let it pull you back in. You throw a wave over your shoulder at Wanda, but she’s too busy wrapped up in Viz’s arms to notice. You think some distance between you and Bucky will help to elevate your heart rate, but footsteps behind you put an end to your theory before it can be tested.

“Can I help you?” you ask, struggling to keep your voice light. Bucky’s stride matches yours easily, and he takes a glance at you.

“Thought I’d walk you back.”

You make a face. “It’s thirty feet away, Bucky.”

“Yeah, well, it’s dark out.”

“You can see my door from here.”

“Don’t be difficult,” he rasps like the back and forth is exhausting him. He takes half a step closer to you.

Your jaw clenches, but you say nothing as he walks you to your trailer, just out of reach of the lanterns and music and chatter. You step up to the door but turn sharply toward him when you feel his foot on the little stoop. “Alright, I’m home.”

“What happened back there?” he asks, eyes scrutinizing your face, probably reading right through you. “You were fine and then you weren’t.”

You gulp before bravely sticking your chin in the air. “Nothin’ happened. Just remembered I got work, that’s all.”

“You don’t work Sundays,” he says, shaking his head. Your back meets the door when he leans in. “Why’d you lie to Donna?”

“I didn’t lie, I picked up a shift to help a friend out. And how do you know I don’t work Sundays?” you ask, voice sharper than you intended for it to come out. At least it’s better than cracking on the tsunami of emotions you’re barely holding back.

Bucky blinks at you, going still. You’re not a mind reader, but you can hear the gears turning as his expression evens out into something you can only describe as inescapable resolution. Slowly, so slow you’re wondering if he even knows what he’s doing, he places his hand on the door next to your head; with his arm so close, you can smell how the sun’s baked into his skin, how metal seems to be an undertone all over him. And now his nose is an inch from yours.

“‘cause I watch you,” he murmurs, as soft as the evening breeze. His eyes fall to your mouth, and you can physically feel it, the pressure there, the charge of the unknown next step. Your hands flatten on the door behind you in an effort to hold yourself back.

Your mind plays over the different paths laid before you. Should you lean in? Change the course of this poor excuse of a friendship forever? Should you wait for him to make the move? Let him deal with the consequences of potential bad decisions in the morning? Should you pull away? Give yourself the time to cool off and clean up this mess of emotions following you like a shadow all night?

“You’re thinkin’ too much,” Bucky says. Your eyes refocus on his — his pupils are so wide, you’re afraid you’ll fall into them.

“I’m just tryin’ to figure you out,” you whisper, your breath mingling with his.

“Probably better if you don’t,” he answers, a hint of sadness in his tone. You search his face, but it reveals nothing; only his eyes offer any indication that he’s in control of what’s happening.

“You think that’s enough to stop me?”

Bucky’s mouth curves, but it quickly fades away. “You’re somethin’ else, kid.”

Then, as quick as it was cast, the spell is broken. Bucky leans back, his fingers lingering on the door. “Have a good shift tomorrow,” he says, voice solemn as he steps down from your stoop. And then he’s walking away.

It takes you a minute to gather yourself. The night presses in around you, cool air replacing the heat of Bucky’s closeness from moments before. With a shuddering breath, you slip into your trailer, closing the door on the party, on your friends, on Bucky behind you.

Endless rain floods the countryside the following week. Roads close, streams overflow, leaks and cracks in the trailers are exposed. You unwillingly enter into a war with a certain corner of your roof, and an empty ice cream bucket takes up permanent residence underneath it as your counterattack.

But every time you have the urge to knock on Bucky’s door to ask for help, something stops you. Flashes of the night of the barbecue, of the suggestive pitch of his voice, of his face a breath away from yours, consume your thoughts until you’re frozen in place with indecision paralysis. The ‘almost’ of it all has you twisted up in ways far more complex than when he tormented you with his indifference.

You go over every interaction in your head like a DVD menu on repeat at three in the morning. You think your signals to Bucky couldn’t have been clearer, yet he pulled away, even after giving you every indication that he wanted it, too. Confusion is too simple of a word to sum up how you feel, and you’re still too riled up from Saturday night to dissect it all head on.

Work offers a necessary distraction — at first. The weather brings in a rush of people seeking shelter from the downpour, which means less time for you to think about where you left things with Bucky, and the hours leave you exhausted to the point of collapsing onto your bed and tumbling into sleep as soon as you make it home. Then you wake up and do it all over again.

Eventually your coworkers begin to notice the toll it’s taking on you. You’re still a novice while they’re veterans, fully acclimated to the ebbs and flows of roadside diner foot traffic, so they urge you to take the first cut of the day after already battling through four grueling shifts that week. You don’t have the energy to fight them. You’re ushered out the door with orders to take a hot shower and a nap as soon as you get home. The rain soaks your uniform instantly as you rush to your car, but it’s still warm enough outside to keep your lips from turning blue as you start the journey home.

While the diner had been bustling with activity, the roads are eerily devoid of other people and vehicles. Most likely due to the flood warnings, but unlike them, you don’t have much of a choice.

You haven’t seen another car in ten minutes when the lights on your dashboard flicker. Your eyes snap to it immediately, recognizing the warning signs that nearly derailed you almost two months ago. A soft whine escapes from your chest as you feel the car begin to shake.

“Come on,” you breathe, pressing on the accelerator. The engine whines back. The radio cuts out, your lights turn off, and the car slows to a crawl. It’s with tears in your eyes that you step on the brakes and put the car into park. “No. No, no, no, no, no.”

Your forehead meets the steering wheel. You get a sick sense of dejavú.

Sniffling, you turn off the car and wait before trying it again. You hear a familiar ticking sound over the patter of rain on your roof.

“Fuck,” you whisper as the first tear falls.

Your mind is too sleep-deprived to come up with solutions. Your cell phone died hours ago because you forgot to charge it overnight. Your body aches everywhere from being on your feet all day, and you think if you tried to walk home, you’d pass out in a ditch after fifty yards. You’re stranded — literally stranded on the side of the road.

So you let yourself cry, great heaving sobs that sound warped and hollow in your little car. While the release feels compulsory, it offers no relief, and that makes you cry even more. Outside, the rain persists its assault on the empty county road.

When your cries have turned into hiccups, you’re left shivering in your wet uniform. A chill has crept through the vents as darker clouds roll in. You hug your arms to your chest, breathing deeply to calm yourself down, but your body continues to vibrate past normal human function. You glance at the back seat, where an old sweatshirt lays crumpled and wedged next to the door. You crawl into the back, extracting the fabric with shaking hands and curling up underneath it. It provides some warmth, but not much.

You don’t know how long you lay there, fighting off exhaustion and self-loathing. You have no sense of time since the clock on your dash powered off with the car. The only things you register are the rhythm of raindrops and your slowed breathing.

And then you hear it.

It’s faint, almost like you’re imagining it. But it grows louder and louder the longer your ears strain to catch it. Your head lifts off the seat, and through the side mirror you spot headlights.

A brown truck with an old, rumbling engine drives past your car before slamming on the brakes. The red tail lights blind you momentarily. It quickly backs up a few meters until it’s parked right in front of yours. The driver’s door opens, and out steps Bucky.

You let out a whimper, your eyes squeezing shut. This isn’t real. It can’t be.

But he’s there pounding on your window, calling your name. You shoot up, shaking again, and lock eyes with him through the glass. Bucky’s dark hair is plastered to his forehead, beads of water dripping down his nose and off his beard. You watch as he takes in your wet uniform, your flimsy blanket, your trembling chin.

“Sweetheart,” he says softly, voice muffled through the window. Slowly, you crawl across the seat to open the door. He swoops in before you can say a word; large hands grasp your arms and pull you out of the car. He practically carries you to his, a hand shielding your face from the rain, before setting you down gently on the bench seat of his truck. His touch moves to your shoulders, your throat, then your face, thumbs brushing wet strands of hair from your eyes. “Are you okay?” he demands to know. “Are you hurt?”

You shake your head. “N-no, just c-c-cold. My c-car, it — it d-d-died.”

Bucky’s lips press into a dangerously thin line before he reaches across you to crank up the heat in the truck. “Stay here,” he mutters, then closes the door on you. You whimper again, your eyes following him as he runs to the back of the truck and grabs his toolbox. He reaches inside your car to pop the hood, and then he rolls up the soaked sleeves of his red henley before getting to work.

Burning hot shame floods your body. You don’t need to be a mechanic to know what’s wrong with your car.

Your gaze slides to the empty road past the windshield. The headlights reflect off the puddles of water accumulating on the gravel, creating distorted spots of light in your vision further warped by the sheets of rain. The heat from the vents touches your skin, but does little to permeate the cold that’s seeped into your bones. You slide into the center of the bench, sticking your numb fingers into the slats to warm them up faster. A quick glance in the rearview mirror shows Bucky’s already closed the hood of your car; he stands in the downpour rubbing his face with both hands. You scurry over to the far end of the bench when the door opens a moment later, and he drops into the seat, drenched and silent.

You don’t look at him, he doesn’t look at you. The rain continues to fall.

Bucky inhales. “It won’t start.”

You clench your jaw to keep your teeth from chattering, inching closer to the heat. Your mind is a mess of fragmented responses.

His hand flexes on his thigh, the scars turning white against his skin. He exhales. “I told you to get the damn thing replaced,” he says, voice so low you can barely hear him. He turns to you, burning a hole into the side of your face with his stare. “I told you to come in to the garage.”

Your eyes sting with fresh tears, but whatever resilience is left within you refuses to let them fall. Not in front of him. “I kn-know.”

“But you didn’t.”

The barely suppressed anger in his voice triggers something in you like a fight or flight response. You meet his eyes and see the storm inside of them that rivals the one outside. Passion not so different from the kind you saw Saturday night.

“I didn’t have t-time,” you say, as calmly as you can. Bucky’s hand flexes again.

“Bullshit,” he counters.

“It’s the truth—“

“No, it’s not. I said to come in after your shift. I said I’d be there. And you still didn’t come.”

You shake your head. “I just — I forgot, okay? I was g-grateful for the help, I still am—”

“Kid, you got an odd way of showin’ your appreciation. Do you actually want the help, or did your deadbeat daddy fuck you up so bad that you don’t know how to accept it?”

There’s never been a louder silence than the one that follows his words. He recoils from it before you can, shoulders slumping like the weight of the world’s been dropped on them, a pained look slashing across his face. Your chin wobbles harder than before as the remark echoes in your head.

“Fuck, kid, I didn’t…” Bucky huffs. His hand crosses the distance of the bench, fingers grazing the skin of your thigh. You smack it away on instinct, but it doesn’t go far, dropping to the leather bench inches from you. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I shouldn’t have said that. I went too far.”

A single tear rolls down your cheek. You brush it away quickly like it’s an open wound you need to cover.

“Please look at me,” he whispers. The fight in you balances on a razor-thin wire, one side begging you to explode on him, the other offering peace. You find your car in the side mirror, a lone figure of used and abused metal, struggling desperately to just stay alive.

Bucky lets out a heavy breath when your eyes meet his.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. You see the relief on his face mixed with the regret; it radiates off of him in waves. Slowly, you nod, your body trembling from the cold and something deeper. Bucky notices and draws back, his gaze tracing your figure.

“Come here,” he says gently, opening his palm to you.

You hesitate, the fire still burning in your eyes, and he waits.

But not for long. You slide into his arms with a soft grunt, too willingly, too easily. He catches you and holds you tight against him, hands rubbing along your arms to bring heat back to them while yours land on his chest. Your head fits perfectly into the crook of his neck, your nose skimming the wet skin. He smells like he always does, of oil and metal and pine. You inhale greedily, and it’s like a tonic to your frayed mind, clearing it of the scattered memories of a broken home.

“I didn’t mean it,” he whispers into your hair. Your eyes close.

“I know,” you whisper back.

This silence is softer, easier. You fall into it gratefully as your body slowly begins to relax against him. Bucky’s pure muscle beneath you, but it’s not uncomfortable; you mold to him like you were made to.

He shares his warmth by leaning into you, his nose dragging along your hair; the rhythm of his breaths is stable, even, and yours falls into sync with it naturally. He shifts closer, a hand curling around your waist. Because your history of push and pull dictates an eventual separation, you take the time to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the scratch of his beard on your temple, the wet fabric of his jeans brushing against your legs, and you memorize it all, something to hold you over late at night when the loneliness howls at your window and begs to come in like a stray cat. You sigh as your fingers curl into his shirt with every intention of never letting go. Bucky responds with a deep, measured inhale, stabilizing, grounding, human. You soak in every ticking second of this temporary peace. And then his lips, impossibly warm, find the shell of your ear, and your eyes shoot open.

You wait for him to move, to pull away, to gruffly say he’ll handle your car and take you home. He’s done his job, you’re practically burning up by now, and you know he can feel it, too. But he doesn’t let go of you. If anything, he holds you closer. Your heart begins to race — not from his actions, but from what you’re about to do.

You pull back slowly, just far enough for him to see the silent permission in your eyes, the wordless request for him to close the minimal distance between your lips and his. Bucky’s breath hitches in his chest, that steady rhythm halted.

And then he kisses you.

Softly, tenderly, delicately. Words that have never been tied to Bucky before. This hardened, uncompromising man moves his mouth over yours like it’s a gift from the heavens that could be ripped away from him at any moment. A low sound escapes from deep inside his chest, a strained variation of a sigh of relief.

You echo your relief back to him, a barely there whimper against his lips that reverberates down your spine. His fingers tighten around your waist, dragging you closer, while his tongue swipes across the seam of your lips. You open for him, physically, mentally, emotionally. He tastes faintly of metal, of smoke, of coffee, of days spent eagerly waiting for him to return home, of long nights tangled up in old sheets, of oversized sweatshirts and stolen bites of food and messy toothpaste kisses. Of a gentleness you’ve craved your whole life. You’re instantly addicted to the brief taste of this improbable future.

His tongue caresses yours and he groans, his hands and lips quickly turning rougher, needier; you welcome it eagerly. A fire’s been lit inside of you, and grows with every stroke of his mouth. You pull at his shirt, he tugs at your waist. You follow his hands as they move you across his lap, your legs bending to straddle him in the tight space of the bench seat, your chest pressed to his. Bucky breaks away from your lips to gulp down air, but one look at you hanging breathless over him eradicates his need to breathe. He wraps a large hand around your neck and pulls you back down. Your hips roll on top of his instinctively as he ravages your mouth, earning you a soft grunt when your center meets the stiff bulge beneath his zipper. He greedily presses down on the small of your back, encouraging you to do it again. And again. And again.

The hand around your throat tightens imperceptibly when you drag your heat across his erection, whining as the jeans provide a delicious friction to your core. He thrusts up into it, as if he can feel it through the layers of fabric. He groans like a starving beast that’s just found the only thing that can satiate him.

“Bucky,” you pant against his lips, an implied request for more.

His eyes flutter open. He looks at you. You think he’s about to completely make you his.

And then he gently pushes you off his lap.

Your body goes cold immediately. From the loss of his warmth and from the sudden change in tension. He unhooks your fingers from his shirt and presses himself carefully against the car door, running a hand down his face. “Fuck,” he breathes.

“W-what did I do?” you whisper. He shakes his head, unable to meet your eyes.

“You didn’t—“ He swallows. “You didn’t do anythin’.”

“Then why did you stop?”

He exhales through his nose, lips pressed into a tight white line. He’s mad. Or disappointed. Or something between the two. “Kid, I…I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

You swear you can hear the sound of your heart cracking in two. “But I wanted you to,” you tell him, a tremble in your voice.

“I know. You shouldn’t.”

Your throat tightens. “What do you mean?”

He finally looks at you then, and you see his blue eyes are filled with agony, his face lined with regret.

“I’m no good for you,” he murmurs. Your mouth opens, but he cuts you off before you can say a word. “I’m old, and I’m poor, and I’m goin’ nowhere in this life. I can’t — I can’t be what you need.”

“You don’t know what I need—“ you start, but he shakes his head.

“Yes, I do. You need a man that can give you the kind of future you deserve for pullin’ yourself out of the shit. Gettin’ tangled up with someone like me will only hold you back.”

You have to bite down on the sob threatening to burst from your chest. Through gritted teeth, you say, “That’s not your decision, though. You don’t know the kind of future I want for myself.”

“Kid, I’m an ex-con with one too many skeletons in the closet. I live on the fringes because that’s the only place that’ll take me, and I’ve got no way out of it. There is no future with me.”

“Bucky, you’re not—“ your voice shatters and splits. “I don’t care about any of that, ‘cause that’s not how I see you. You’re more than your past. What you’ve done doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to want more—“

He barks out a humorless laugh.

“Fuck, I know a lot about wantin’ more. It’s all I do these days, and it’ll all your fuckin’ fault.” His eyes flash as they find yours, vicious with pain. “I’ve wanted you ever since you stood at my door yellin’ ‘bout makin’ my sad, lonely, little life hell. Couldn’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout how I wanted you to do it, ‘cause hearin’ you throw a fit at me was the first time I felt excited about somethin’ in years. And when I’m not thinkin’ about it, I’m dreamin’ about it. About comin’ home to your sweet smile waitin’ for me, and I wake up emptier than I ever felt sittin’ in a jail cell because I know it ain’t real. You got your claws in me so deep that I can’t go a minute without thinkin’ ‘bout you. And I can’t do nothin’ about it.”

All the air has left your lungs, and Bucky’s chest heaves like he stole it from you. He looks like he’s on the brink of imploding, or breaking apart, or jumping out of the car and sprinting into the woods. You reach for him, the only thing you can think of to do—

He flinches back, turning to the window. “Don’t,” he mutters. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“But it doesn’t have to be hard, Bucky!” you cry. “I want to be waitin’ for you, I want—“

“You don’t know what you want, but I promise it ain’t me.”

Tears prick your eyes, hot and painful. “Stop,” you whimper. “Stop tellin’ me what I want and don’t want. You’re not bein’ fair — you’re not even givin’ this a chance—“ He shakes his head quickly, meeting your gaze to deliver the death blow.

“You can argue all you want, but I won’t see it any different. I won’t trap you here with me. This can’t…this can’t happen.”

His words sting like a slap to the face; you reel back, pushing distance between you and him. Bucky lowers his eyes, as if he can’t bear to watch the fallout he caused. Another silence settles in the cab of the truck, this one heavier than the others, and thick enough to strangle you. You lean back in your seat, one hand on the door handle, the other pressing down on your chest, keeping you held together.

“I wanna go home now,” you whisper, blindly staring out the windshield.

He obeys instantly. Bucky’s silent as he shifts the car into drive, From the corner of your eye, you see his face is set in stone, a familiar look from the days he wasn’t speaking to you. You know what it means — he’s already shutting down, already pushing you out of his life again.

The drive to the trailer park seems to stretch endlessly; seconds feel like hours, minutes feel like months, ruthlessly challenging your inherent idea of time. When you crest the hill and pull up to your trailer, your body has gone numb from willing time to move faster.

Bucky avoids your eyes once the truck’s in park. “I’ll have your car brought into the shop,” he mutters, voice monotone and clipped. “I’ll drop it off tomorrow.”

Your lips press together to steady the tremble in your chin.

He fidgets in his seat, knuckles going white around the steering wheel. “I’m sorry.”

Your jaw clenches, your heart aches, rejection is a slow-moving poison in your veins. And you’re angry.

“Maybe it’s best if you actually stay away from me this time,” you say, ice embedded in every word. He flinches, but you don’t care. You’re sliding out of the truck and shutting the door on him before he can respond, not daring to look back as you trek through the downpour to your home. When you’re safely inside, you stand very, very still, listening to his car idle listlessly before he slowly drives away, taking your heart with you.

The worst part of it all is that Bucky is right.

Never mind the confusion over how a man that shunned you for your kindness could look at you like you were his last hope. Never mind the embarrassment of making the neediest sounds for someone that refuses to hear them again. Never mind the terrible grief you feel for something that almost existed.

What hurts the most is that he’s right. You’ve felt it in your bones since the day you signed the lease to the trailer — your future wouldn’t stop here. The miles you’ve put behind you don’t exist because you were meant to settle.

Make no mistake, you love the trailer, you love the diner, you love everything they’ve given you and everything they stand for. They bought you freedom from a life condemned to shitty boyfriends and stacked pennies and a lingering taste of resentment at the bottom of every numbing bottle.

But there’s more out there that you ache for; still undefined, still obscure, yet it calls to you in the quiet moments between work and sleep.

And Bucky…

You’ve had enough time to reflect on his words that you can read between the lines of them. His life outside of prison started and ends where he is now, whether he wants it to or not. His future has concrete guardrails that won’t budge for a whim or an opportunity, and most certainly not for a girl lacking direction with a history of going where the wind takes her.

You understand what he saw when you hovered over him in the cab of his truck, that look in your eyes that dared him to follow you into the unknown.

His life is figured out. Your very presence urges him to challenge it.

He’s the rock to your balloon. Better to cut the string now than let you wear yourself thin trying to take him with you.

Your realization makes it easier to avoid Bucky, not that you see much of him anyway. Your car appears in front of your home before your shift the next day. No note, no knock on the door, no indication that it was even Bucky who brought it back. You don’t consider tracking him down to thank him, and you’re not sure how you would: he starts leaving for work before you wake up, returning home only when you’re tucked into bed, like he knows your schedule intimately enough to avoid you completely. Remembering what he once said about watching you, maybe he does.

On Sundays, he’s tucked inside his trailer with the curtains drawn tight, his once-pristine yard slowly becoming overgrown with weeds and disrepair that is so unlike him, it would cause you worry if you didn’t know better. When the probability gods smite you both and you’re walking towards the mailbox at the same time, you stop in your tracks, eyes meeting across the park like magnets drawn together. You turn around and walk the other way before you can do anything stupid — like beg him to reconsider. You’d think it would feel good to turn the tables on him, but it feels like ripping out the stitches on a wound that’s far from healed.

Following the mailbox incident, you both become hermits, which is a hard role to take on in a community as active as this one. Donna’s already forced her way into your home multiple times, demanding your participation in some neighborhood event or another. You think if she asks one more time, it might just kill you to see the look on her face when you tell her no.

You escape to work when you can, picking up enough doubles that Tony pulls you aside and asks in his signature beat-around way if you need a loan. For a moment, you consider taking it and getting the hell out of dodge, setting off in pursuit of whatever it is that you’re chasing. But you wouldn’t know the first place to go — it’s hard to find treasure without a map — and abandoning your boss after taking his money seems like a quick way to put the journey to an end before it even starts.

So you tell him about the repairs to the trailer, and he shrugs to hide his relief before approving your fifth double of the week.

The days roll into nights roll into days. Your brain works through a constant stream of food orders and the future and instant coffee and Bucky. Only in the silence of your room in between wake and sleep do you let yourself remember his charged admission to wanting you, or the fantasized future he dangled in front of your face before snatching it away. Sometimes you can barely breathe for the weight of it all pressing down on you, curling in on yourself like he took a tire iron to your gut instead of telling you it isn’t meant to be.

But you’re a resilient girl. So you carry on, always aware of the option of a next step but never knowing what it is.

You’re coming off a seven day bender of double shifts when the next step becomes clear.

The drive home from the diner is silent — you don’t bother turning on the radio these days, and the views of the mountains and forests that once made you feel alive hardly catch your attention anymore. You’re too tired, too preoccupied, caught between your car and an imagined life where you go home to a trailer that isn’t empty.

But an empty trailer is what you’re expecting when you pull into the trailer park. You tumble out of your car, exhaustion sitting heavy on your eyes.

“Where’ve you been?”

You jump a foot in the air, a tight breath tumbling from your lips as you look around for the source of the voice. Bucky’s sitting on your stoop with his knees bent and a half-empty beer bottle hanging from his hand; illuminated by the moonlight, you can see that his hair is a mess, like he’s been running his fingers through it all night, and his face is severe with apprehension. You breathe deeply to settle your racing heart, but the sight of him has skyrocketed the beat all over again.

“Bucky,” you sigh — you’re surprised you could find your voice so quickly. “What are you doin’ here?”

His gaze rakes over you, from your beat up shoes to your hair falling out of its clip, before he takes a large gulp of his drink. “You’ve been comin’ home late. Later than me.”

You stare back at him, wondering where this is going, and not oblivious to the fact that you’d have to crawl over him to get into your trailer. Casual intention at its finest — he’s making sure you talk to him.

“I’ve been workin’ doubles,” you tell him, glancing at the door.

“What for?”

“Because truck drivers make great conversationalists.”

He rolls his eyes and sets the beer down, unfinished. “Don’t be difficult. Just tell me.”

A rush of anger surges through you at the familiar words. “I think I earned the right to be as difficult as I want.”

Bucky stands, taking a step toward you that feels like more than just him closing the physical distance between you. Your breath gets caught in your chest when you see the storm brewing behind his eyes.

“I know you’re mad at me,” he murmurs. “I get it. You can be as mad as you want. But I’m just tryin’ to make sure you’re okay.”

Your chin lifts. “I’m fine.”

He scans your face, searching for the lie under the surface. “You in some kind of trouble?”

A breathless scoff escapes you. “No, I’m not in trou—”

“You need money?”

“What?” Your expression goes sour. “Bucky, no, what the fuck? I don’t need money, I’m just workin’ more, that’s all—“

“Why?” he presses. You growl at him.

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“It’s none of your business, Barnes.”

“Kid, just tell me why and I’ll leave you be—“

“Because it helps me to not think about you!”

The outburst catches him off guard; he leans back like he’s avoiding the blast radius, a frown creasing his face. He runs a hand through his already-mussed hair, and it sticks up at odd angles that a part of you desperately wants to smooth down.

“I didn’t…” He sighs, hands on his hips. “Okay.” You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly finding interest in the dried coffee stain on your shoes. Bucky shifts his feet in the dirt next to them. Neither of you move, but you can feel his gaze on you again. “You look tired,” he says.

“Gee, thanks.”

“I just meant…maybe a break from the doubles wouldn’t hurt. You look dead on your feet. You gotta take care of yourself.”

“Right, because no one else is gonna,” you shoot at him. “I think I got it handled.”

“Kid…”

“I can take care of myself, Bucky, you don’t need to check on me just ‘cause you feel bad.”

“That’s not why I’m here—“

“Oh, yeah?” you cut him off with a surge of venom in your voice, watching as he fails to meet your eyes. “Why are you here then? ‘cause I thought I made it pretty clear that I want you to stay away this time.”

Bucky stares past you at the oak tree, his jaw clenching and unclenching in time with his breaths. “Yeah,” he mutters quietly, “you did.”

“Obviously not, since you’re here.” You finally have the courage to step around him, taking care not to brush his shoulder as you pass him on your way to the door. “Maybe third time’s the charm—“

Bucky says your name, painful yet reverent, and it cuts through the calm of the evening like a knife.

You turn slowly to face him, the keys forgotten in your hand. You didn’t hear him come up behind you, but suddenly, he’s right there, a foot away and looking like the remaining distance is torturing him.

“It doesn’t matter,” he murmurs. “You could tell me a million times over and it still won’t work.”

You inhale sharply. “What are you sayin’?”

He shakes his head, testing a cautious step forward, and the little gap between you shrinks. “I’m sayin’ I can’t stay away from you.”

Your heart jumps to your throat. “Bucky…”

“I can’t stay away from you,” he repeats, firmer, more certain now. “I hate myself for it, for not bein’ able to do the one thing you asked of me, but I feel like I’m dyin’ every day I don’t see you. And that makes me hate myself even more ‘cause I know I don’t deserve you — and you deserve more than anythin’ I could give you — but I lose all my fuckin’ willpower when it comes to you.”

His words land like a blow to your chest and a kiss to your cheek. Sharp yet sweet, violent yet comforting. You stare at him, lips parted with a hundred questions and a million emotions.

Bucky’s eyes meet yours as he closes the last few inches between you, calloused hands reaching for your face hesitantly, afraid to overstep, afraid to spook you, afraid to worsen the devastation he’s done. You think about the last time he held you, what it cost you to be haunted with that feeling of forever thinking you’d never get it again, and for a moment, every cell within you screams to push him away. Danger, danger, danger, your instincts tell you, reducing him to nothing better than the boys that have come before him, the ones that let your heart go carelessly only to yank it back when it was beneficial for them.

But this is Bucky. Not the pathetic excuses for men that potholed your journey here. Even when he broke your heart, he did it for you.

His fingers are gentle as you let him cradle your face, a passing look of relief turning his eyes a softer blue.

“I know I told you this can’t happen, and you told me to stay away, but I don’t have it in me to see either of those through,” he whispers, thumbs sweeping across your cheeks. “I’ve had enough of my own restraint holdin’ me back. I spent the last seven years convincin’ myself that I don’t deserve a good life because I threw half of it away for people that don’t give a shit about me anymore.”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and his eyes flutter shut at whatever memories haunt him. When he opens them again, his gaze is clearer, steadier, like he quietly made a deal with his demons to leave him be for the night. His eyes drop to your lips, just a brief glance that could easily be missed, but it isn’t, because you can’t take your eyes off him. Not when you can practically hear his heart beat in his chest, can feel the heat of him beneath his top, the rough skin of his hands reminding you that this is very, very real and not some imagined scenario you’re still stuck in on your drive home. His fingers tighten around your jaw and Bucky leans in to press his forehead gently to yours.

“When you said you wanted me,” he begins, voice rough and hushed, “it was like comin’ up for air after bein’ under for too long. You’re a livin’, breathin’ example of going through shit and still comin’ out the other side of it, and for the first time in years I thought maybe that could be me, too. But I panicked — I pushed you away like I already knew you were gonna leave because everyone else did. I’m more sorry than you’ll ever know for hurtin’ you like that. I’m a fuckin’ idiot. I’m a stupid old man.” He holds you closer, his grip on the verge of leaving marks. “But kid, I’ll give you everything I got, all the time I have left on this earth, whatever you want…if you’ll have me.”

The world tilts a little. You might have stumbled if Bucky wasn’t holding you like you’re the last light left before the armageddon. He’s so close that you can taste the beer on his breath, and you inhale deeply, drinking it in like it’s straight from the bottle. But a small voice is there in your head, providing clarity on the point of contention that drove him away in the first place…

“Bucky,” you whisper, pulling back. His eyes frantically dance over your face, brows furrowed. Your heart pounds painfully against your chest. “I think…I think you were right. What you said in your truck.” Your eyes fall shut. “About me wantin’ more than what I have now. There’s something else out there that’s meant for me and I…I realized I can’t leave it be. That I’ll do whatever it takes to have it.”

He inhales sharply, his large frame stilling against yours. You look at him then, and he’s stricken, balancing on a fragile fence between panic and hope. Your heart aches more for him now than it ever did while you kept your distance, for this rough, immovable, larger-than-life man. Despite the tears, despite the wicked words, despite it all, he calls to you. He calls…

You blink. “But it isn’t what you think.”

As you say the words, something aligns inside of you, a shifting of your soul. It settles comfortably, like it was waiting patiently for you to figure it out. What you’ve been chasing after all this time is no longer abstract or vague. It’s clear as day, as bright as a beacon, and it’s right in front of you.

Reaching up to cover his hands with yours, you thread your fingers through Bucky’s, appreciating the warmth and sturdiness of his grasp. He’s still looking at you frantically, like you might pull away at any second and tell him to get lost. You squeeze gently.

“This whole time I thought a better life meant gettin’ out of the cycle of hell back home. Leavin’ it all behind so I wouldn’t have the chance to become another sad statistic in that shit town, and makin’ my own way so I’d never have to rely on others who only saw me for what I could give ‘em.”

You shift closer to him, until your noses brush, until your lips are ghosting each other.

“And then I met you,” you breathe. “And I realized how lonely it is. I don’t know what it’s like to be loved or taken care of or given kindness just because. I wasn’t searchin’ for it when I ran, because I didn’t think it mattered — as long as I could dig myself out of where they tried to bury me. But somewhere along the way with you, it all changed.”

Your hands slide up his arms, slowly, carefully, leaving goosebumps on his skin in their wake. The tension leaks from Bucky as your arms wrap around his neck, a soft sigh escaping from his parted lips.

“The trailer and the job — you’re right, they’re not enough. They aren’t gonna give me the future I want. Because the future I want is a place to call home with someone who can give me what’s been missin’ from my life. And I want it to be you.”

A pause. Heartbeats racing in sync. Your eyes meet.

Bucky’s mouth is on yours before you can register him leaning in, and there’s an urgency to his kiss that you sends a thrill down your spine. One hand tangles in your hair, the other maps your body until it finds your waist and drags you closer as he pushes your lips open with his tongue. He moves differently than before, fueled by an emotion that doesn’t fall under a single name, but his determination is as tangible as ever. He’s taking what he wants now.

You pull away with a gasp, forehead resting against his. “Baby,” he murmurs, soft and husky, “it’s already yours.”

Your fingers find his lips and press lightly into wet skin. “You mean it?” you ask with wide eyes.

“I meant every word,” he promises. His hand tugs lightly at your hair, tilting your chin up just how he wants it. “No more stayin’ away. Couldn’t get me to if you tried.”

He seals it with a kiss, demanding and brutal, yet burning with his adoration. Your body’s pulled flush against his and it feels like coming home. Those hard planes fit against your soft curves like puzzle pieces that pledge a lifetime of coming together like this again and again.

You’re panting by the time you pull apart. Bucky’s eyes are half-lidded and full of dark intentions, but you can feel him holding back, testing his restraint, handing you the controls now.

It’s the easiest decision to make.

You pull at his shirt while slowly backing up the stoop. He follows, scooping up the keys you dropped before placing a gentle kiss to your cheek, your temple, your jaw, and unlocking your door. He pulls you into his arms once you’ve crossed the threshold, mouthing at the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder. Your breath hitches on little gasps and moans as his hands find your ass and massage it with interest.

Bucky walks you deeper into your little trailer like he owns the place, feasting on your skin and stopping only at the bedroom door. He pulls away to meet your gaze, and you see his pupils are blown.

“Kid, I’m not here just for this,” he murmurs, mouth hovering over yours. “I need you to know that.”

“I do,” you whisper while your heart swells from his words. “But I want this. I want you.”

He groans, backing you against the wall as his brow meets your temple, sighing against your ear as his thigh slides between yours. “I’ll be so good to you, baby, I promise. Lemme take care of you…”

Hands guide your hips down onto the rough fabric of his jeans, easing you across his thigh with a drag that sets off fireworks in your stomach. You breathe heavily as each pass of your clit over his muscled leg fuels the building heat within you. Bucky kisses the hinge of your jaw, the shell of your ear, whispering, “Fuck, I can feel you. Soaked already…drivin’ me crazy.”

“B-Buck— more,” you whimper as you roll your hips, searching for more friction. He grabs your jaw, something just short of gentle, and makes you meet his eyes as he presses you further into the wall. The arousal slides hot and sticky out of you, soaking your panties and sure to leave a mark on his jeans, making you glide faster on top of him. He groans when your mouth falls open in a choked gasp.

“You look too good like this, baby, gettin’ yourself off on me,” he breathes. “So goddamn pretty.”

Heat rises to your cheeks. You reach for him as you hit a new angle that makes your body sing, fingers curling in his hair to bring him in for a savage kiss, a lustful mark of new territory in your relationship; his thumbs dig into the crease where your legs meet your hips, and you can just feel the hard outline of his length straining against his jeans as it presses into your stomach, making your head spin. Bucky’s teeth nip at your bottom lip, pulling a whine from you that he swallows whole.

It’s almost too much. Like jumping off the deep end and not knowing how far down it goes. It’s terrifying, it’s disorienting, it’s perilous. But you still want to touch the bottom. You still want to know where this goes. You want more.

“Bucky,” you exhale against his lips. He holds you tighter. “Make me yours.”

His eyes flash with possession, with desire, with an enduring need that is rooted in something deeper than the lust you share for each other. It’s trust in its purest form. An exchange of souls, an agreement of devotion. Bucky gathers you up in his arms until you’re pressed against him.

“All mine,” he swears, rough and low, and carries you into the bedroom.

Bucky tosses you on the bed quickly before kicking the door closed and leaving the moonlight as the only witness to what comes next. When he looks at you, something’s shifted — something that makes the heat in your core rise to dangerous temperatures.

“Off,” he demands, dark eyes falling to your uniform. You push up to a sitting position, fingers trembling in anticipation as you slide the dress down your body until it crumples on the floor in front of him. Bucky kicks it aside, unable to look away from the sight of you in nothing but your thin bra and panties.

“Jesus,” he breathes, voice rough, licking his lips while he gets his uninhibited fill of your body. “Look at you.”

Your self-consciousness is short-lived when he leans over to press a tender kiss to your mouth, cradling your jaw like it’s a priceless treasure.

“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispers.

Your skin is set on fire when a large hand skims your bare thigh, pushing your legs apart until you can feel a cool breeze against the mark your arousal left on your panties. The vulnerability makes you gasp, but his touch is there to keep your legs where he wants them.

Bucky pulls back to watch as his knuckle drags across your center, teasing the ache just on the other side of the fabric that grows more insistent by the second. You’re throbbing for him, failing to hide your wanton moans as your pussy clenches around nothing but air. He moves his fingers gently over the fabric, finding your entrance and circling it expertly.

“This mine now?” he asks you, lips hovering over yours. You nod desperately. You’ve never been so turned on it your entire life. “Say it.”

You gulp. “It’s yours, Bucky. All yours.”

“All mine,” he echoes, “been wantin’ her for too long.” He traces your folds until he finds your clit. You cry out, legs spreading wider for him like he pressed the magic button. He swears under his breath before capturing your lips in another bruising kiss.

“Perfect girl,” he rasps into your mouth. You melt beneath him as he plays with your clit through your panties, a pattern of soft circles and hard presses that makes your toes curl.

But just as the pleasure begins to crest, his hand is gone. A sound rips from your chest, half-growl, half-whine, as you’re edged for a second time with no relief. Bucky just smirks and slowly pulls his shirt over his head, muscles rippling as he reveals his broad chest and tight abdominals, like a curtain being dropped for the grand finale. Immediately, your hands reach out to touch him, the sharp edges of his body, your lips pressing to the center of his stomach before you can help it, and you look at him as your mouth moves lower.

But Bucky cuts the trail off by sinking to his knees in front of you. “You can suck my cock like a good girl another time. Let your man eat first.”

His thumb sweeps across your jaw gently, then pulls at your bottom lip until you suck it into your mouth. He groans as you bite down lightly, tongue swirling its promises for another night. Bucky’s other hand finds the clasp of your bra, popping it open with practiced ease that should frustrate you but instead elevates your heart rate. Your bare chest is eye level with him, and he wastes no time admiring the way your body is illuminated by the moonlight.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and his thumb is tugged from your mouth so that he can cradle both breasts in his hands, the pads of his fingers stroking the delicate skin until goosebumps erupt under his touch and you’re arching into his hold. “Been hidin’ these from me,” he grumbles, thumb flicking your nipple. You whine when his teeth graze the other, soft and gentle, the bark before the bite.

“Bucky,” you whine, “touch me.”

“I am touchin’ you,” he says around your nipple, a smile in his voice as he sucks heavily at the skin. Your hips jerk up, seeking out some sort of friction that he’s not giving yet.

“More, Bucky, please.”

He mouths at your breast, confident, intentional, and mind-blowingly skilled, while his other hand squeezes tightly around the unkissed one.

“You beg so sweet, baby, but be patient f’me,” he mutters, switching sides. You’re inching closer to the edge of the bed, to grind against what, you’re not sure, but your core is dripping with arousal that snakes a heady trail down your thigh while your pussy throbs from the lack of attention. As he laves at your chest, you bury your hands in his hair, and he makes a small noise of satisfaction before moving his kisses lower, down your naval. He pushes you back slowly until your spine brushes the bed, a thin squeak leaving your lips as his hands find the juncture of your thighs and pulls them open wider to settle between them.

His teeth catch on the waistband of your panties. He looks up at you, and you’re outrageously close to coming just from the sight of it alone.

You realize he’s waiting for your permission, so you offer a frantic nod.

“Good girl,” he says through his teeth, pulling the fabric down your legs with swift efficiency until you’re completely naked before him. He sits back on his heels to stare.

“Don’t,” you whimper, eyes squeezing shut as his thumbs rub tiny circles that get closer and closer to your leaking center with each swipe.

“What?” he answers. “Just lookin’ at what’s mine.”

You can feel his gaze like a physical caress on your folds. It makes your back arch, your hips jerk, and he hasn’t even fucking touched you yet. A man who wouldn’t even meet your eye two months ago can’t look away from the most intimate part of you, and it’s making you come apart in ways that should require psychic evaluation.

“Hold still, sugar,” he orders, voice stern and hold unforgiving as he pins you in place.

“But—“

“No.”

You bite your lip, daring to lift your head and meet his eyes. They’re still focused on your aching cunt, watching as it drools so easily for him. And then he leans in.

Bucky presses a kiss to your clit, just a whisper of a touch that has you twitching yet again. But before the first noise of frustration can slip out, his mouth moves an inch lower, then another inch lower, a line of gentle pecks until he reaches your entrance and curls his tongue into you.

Your mind blanks out while your body reacts, thighs clenching around his shoulders, fingers twisting into his hair, every muscle in your body locking up. Oh.

He eats like it’s his livelihood, tongue circling your entrance before digging inside with a precision so intense, it’s like he already knows exactly what you need. His mouth dances there before his tongue revisits your clit, small flicks before heavy strokes of his tongue to get you writhing until the cycle repeats itself. The tell-tale coil in your gut tightens, your orgasm on the horizon.

“Taste so sweet,” Bucky rumbles, his eyes shooting up to find you already watching him. A dark look crosses his face, something you’ll remember for the rest of your life, before he buries himself back into your center. You whine, head falling back against the bed.

“How does it feel, baby?” His beard tickles the skin of your thighs. You pant and grip his hair tighter.

“S-so— so good—“

“Yeah? Can my girl take more?”

“…m-more?”

Bucky’s mouth is teasing your clit when you feel the blunt ends of two fingers circle your entrance. Your eyes pop open, and you manage to pull yourself onto your elbows in time to watch as his long fingers sink inside you, making your jaw fall open on a whimper. The feeling of them sliding against your walls immediately unlocks a new level of pleasure that is different from anything you’ve felt before, a level that you know only Bucky could have reached.

He curls his fingers, moving them in and out at a deviously slow pace while his tongue flicks faster and faster against your clit. A cry rips from your throat. The coil in your stomach grows tighter, hotter.

“Bucky,” you warn.

“Yeah, baby,” he mumbles between licks, meeting your eyes again. “Give it to me.”

A soft moan tumbles out of you. Pressure that is as cruel as it is generous snaps like a thread, and you come apart on his mouth like it’s the first time your body’s allowed you to feel alive.

“That’s it,” Bucky mutters into your core, easing you through it, “just like that, sweet girl.”

The pleasure strips you raw until you’re nothing but a live wire, twitching and moaning at every swipe of his tongue, every curl of his fingers. He sighs deeply into your cunt, contentedly, like your release was his release, too.

“Fuckin’ hell, woman,” he rumbles, forehead dropping to your thigh as his fingers slowly pull out of you. “Those sounds...Could make a man addicted.”

He pushes up from the floor while you struggle to catch your breath, watching you like a bird of prey that just found its next meal.

The golden skin of Bucky’s torso draws the gaze of your sluggish, post-orgasm brain. It grows closer and closer as he crawls over you, and your tongue darts out to wet your lips. Or to lick every inch of him. Either could apply here.

He settles between your legs easily, naturally, and your hands find his arms as they brace himself on either side of you.

“Be a doll and get my belt, yeah?” he murmurs against your ear, brushing a kiss to the shell of it. You shiver, your hazy brain finally registering the feel of his jeans on your thighs, and reach down with trembling fingers to unclasp it slowly, the zipper following with a sound that splits through the tension of the hot night air.

He kisses you deeply then, a strong hand around your jaw, your name whispered against your lips.

Your hands drift up to his shoulders, fingers curling into the ends of his hair as he pushes his jeans down, his boxers with them. Your eyes gravitate toward the hardness now tucked against your leg, and all it takes is a quick glance to realize that Bucky is truly a big man in every way. A whimper slips from you as you catch the shiny red tip twitch with need.

“What is it, sweet girl?” he murmurs, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes. There’s a light in them that suggests he already knows the answer to his own question.

You swallow thickly. “What if it doesn’t…”

He chuckles softly, brushing his lips to your cheek. “It will. You wanna be a good girl for you old man, don’t you?”

“Bucky,” you mumble shyly, cheeks tinted pink as something warm spreads through your stomach.

“I said I’d be good to you, and that’s what I plan on doin’.”

His hands move you effortlessly until you’re flush with him, just enough space for Bucky’s hips to rock with slow, shallow movements, his cock sliding through your folds and coating himself in your dripping arousal. You bite down hard on your lip when it rolls over your clit, and his eyes snap to your face, watching intensely as the mounting pleasure begins to show.

You let out a shaky exhale when he notches his cock at your entrance, lashes fluttering.

“Eyes on me, baby.”

And in an inevitable moment of tenderness, Bucky’s hand finds yours, fingers intertwining as he brings it up over your head. Then he pushes in.

You gasp, Bucky curses softly, a tension leaking from both of your bodies as he finds his sweet relief in your warmth. You’re stretched out right away, and he’s only halfway in, but it’s a fullness that that makes you feel complete, rather than feeling intrusive. You tug at his hair, pulling him closer until he eases through your tightness and slides in to the hilt. Your consequential moan harmonizes with his.

With all the restraint left in him, Bucky holds still, feeling the walls of your pussy spasm around his cock. The pattern of pressure could make him blow his load right now if he eased up even an inch on his self-control, so he grits his teeth and focuses instead on the look on your face as you adjust to him. You’re so beautiful, even with tiny tears slipping down your cheeks, that little crease between your brow. And you’re such a good girl for keeping your eyes on him.

His good girl.

“You okay?” he whispers, kissing away the tear streak on your jaw.

“Yes,” you breathe, blinking. “It feels…you feel so good, Bucky. I didn’t…”

A sound rumbles in his chest as he tests out a soft grind. You squirm instantly, hips rolling to meet his for double the pressure. His cock touches something deep within you that makes the room blur, makes you cry out.

Bucky’s free hand pushes down on your hip. “Sweet girl, if you do that one more time, this is gonna be over before it even starts.”

The pout comes automatically. Bucky kisses it off your face with the eagerness of a teenage boy, sucking your lip and folding your tongue with his as he begins a snail’s pace of little thrusts. Your cunt still pulses around him like it did when he first slid in; it makes him shake as he tries pulling out, only to be sucked back in at the first chance. His hand tightens around yours.

“Oh, God,” you whimper when he gives you a harder thrust.

“Jesus Christ, baby,” he sighs, “so fuckin’ tight, tryin’ to kill me.”

“Keep goin’, Bucky. Harder.”

“Fuuuuuck…” He picks up speed, cock dragging heavily against your walls, hips snapping. You can hear it, the wet slick of your bodies meeting, and it makes your eyes roll back as you picture his cock drenched in you.

“Perfect pussy,” he grunts. “Fuckin’ made for me. Can feel it.”

Bucky’s cock throbs while he pounds into your cunt, and the rhythm transitions into something deep and desperate and almost out of control. All the while, you can’t look away from him; even as your body jolts and moves with every thrust, your eyes are glued to the broken expression on his face, the raw vulnerability of him seeking out his pleasure in you while on a mission to give you yours.

“Fuck, Bucky,” you moan, back arching as he hits your sweet spot suddenly. His mouth descends on your throat, beard scratching at your skin.

The weight on your hip disappears when Bucky grabs your other hand, pulling it up beside the first. His thrusts get impossibly faster as he holds you down, determined to find the sweet spot again, and again, and again, until stars burst in front of your eyes and you’re clawing at his back, drool spilling from your lips while you mouth half-formed words that don’t exist.

Bucky pulls back enough to take it in, eyes roving from your face to where your bodies connect and back. “You look so pretty like this, baby,” he pants between thrusts. “All dumbed out on my cock, like you should be. Takin’ me so well.”

You whimper when you feel your stomach tighten, your muscles beginning to lock up in that way only an earth-shattering amount of pleasure can create.

“Gonna cum,” you whisper, the first coherent sentence you can think of. Bucky groans, pulling you in for a bruising kiss as his hips pummel into yours.

“Do it,” he growls into your mouth. “Wanna feel you.”

Your body trembles as it explodes and puts itself back together just to explode again. The corners of your vision go blurry. Your orgasm crashes into you with a ferocity stronger than the last, your pussy fluttering around Bucky’s cock.

His pace slows as you come back down to earth, but you’re barely given enough time to catch your breath before he’s slipping out of you and turning you over onto your stomach. You whine softly when he pulls your hips up, settling behind you on his knees.

“Goddamn, you’re a dream,” he mutters huskily, and you feel his warm breath fan over your lower back. A soft kiss is pressed to the swell of your ass before he palms roughly at it with a strong hand. “Should’ve taken you sooner.”

His hand slides lower until it cups your folds, fingers exploring and rubbing and circling freely, making you bury your face into the sheets when he brushes your sensitive clit. He learns what touch triggers the neediest sounds from you and capitalizes on it until you’re all but wriggling away from him. He catches your waist and pulls you back.

“No no no,” he soothes. “Lemme take care of you.”

Bucky slides a finger into your hole, then a second, just because he can, curling them up as if to hook you in closer. You cry out and he hums in response before his thumb brushes over your other hole, the one that’s tight and quivering from the pressure of his fingers working your cunt.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, pushing on the muscle enough to get you careening back into him. “You’d let me take you here, too, wouldn’t you? You’d be so sweet to me, so fuckin’ tight around me where no one else has been…ain’t that right, sweet girl?”

All you can do is jerk your head in a nod. He plays with both holes like he owns them, and at this point, he does. The pleasure that hadn’t really died down from your last orgasm is already on the rise again, spiking and cresting in ways you’ve never experienced before the more he circles that second hole.

“Bucky,” you gasp as he presses down on it; not going in, but just enough to break through the rim.

“Next time,” he says wistfully, pulling his fingers out of you. His cock is there to replace them in a heartbeat, and then he’s pushing back into your pussy like he never left.

“Shit—“ you exhale.

Bucky’s length feels different in this position. Longer, bigger, heavier. You don’t have to look to know he’s making your stomach bulge. He lets you adjust for a moment before taking on a pace that’s steady yet intentional. He finds his grip on you, one hand on the back of your neck, the other on your hip, pushing you when he pulls back, pulling you when he pushes in. Smack-smack-smack.

“J-J-Jesus, Bucky, it f-f-feels— t-t-too much—“

“You’re doing so good for me,” he murmurs, grabbing your neck tighter. “Such a good girl.”

He grinds into you, reaching a new depth that has you sputtering on a dry sob, pussy clenching down on him. Bucky groans.

“I know, baby, she’s been waitin’ so long for it. Gonna fill her up…make sure you’re mine for good…keep doin’ it ‘til everyone knows whose bed you’re in…”

His hips jerk suddenly, sporadically, a powerful thrust that bullies the deepest part of you and pushes you up the mattress. A breath expels out of him that could almost be categorized as a whine.

“Fuck,” he pants, “I’ll keep goin’ ‘til it takes. ‘Til you’re mine in every way. Never lettin’ go of ya—“

Your heartbeat thuds in your chest, in your veins, in your ears. You barely hear his words, let alone process them, but they still send a jolt of pleasure straight to your gut. You can’t think of anything but the drag of his cock on your walls, the stretch of your entrance at this new angle, the hold of his hand on your neck that suggests he doesn’t plan no letting you go anytime soon. And why would you want him to?

“Fill me, Buck…please. I want it…” you whisper into the pillows.

Bucky comes almost as soon as the words leave your lips, with a couple of quick, stuttered thrusts before burying himself so deep inside you, you feel him in your chest. His groan is long and ragged as the sticky release leaves his body and enters yours, settling with a finality that leaves more than just a mark on your insides. You sigh deeply as you feel him slowly relax behind you, the last of the shockwaves making his cock twitch as he pulls out. His spend leaks from your entrance and down your thigh, but a quick swipe of Bucky’s thumb returns it to where it belongs.

“Ahh—“ you hiss, but Bucky moves with purpose, gently hauling you up by the neck until you’re cradled against his chest, arms wrapped around your middle. His breathing is heavy in your ear.

“You good?” he mumbles. You only have the capacity to nod, sinking into the sweaty warmth of his skin while he places chaste kisses on your neck. “C’mon, then.”

He picks you up off the bed and carries you to the bathroom, letting you be for a moment to clean yourself up, and you know the image of his bare ass walking away is burned into your retinas for good. He returns with a set of panties and the wifebeater he was wearing before, now dressed in his boxers. He helps the shirt over your head, holds the panties for you to step into, and the act is considerate and intensely intimate, something you weren’t expecting even after the endless devotion you just received from him. His blue eyes watch you closely, softly, still dark from the throes of passion, but free from any haziness and uncertainty. He is where he wants to be, doing what he wants to be doing; there’s no room for doubt, not when you see him look at you like that.

A slow kiss is pressed to your shoulder once you’re dressed. He tugs you back into the bedroom, a possessive hand on the small of your back that guides you beneath the sheets. Bucky slips in behind you, enveloping you in his familiar scent of sweat and metal and evergreen, pulling you to him after so many days of pushing you away.

“Bucky?”

“Yeah?”

You bite your lip. “Was it really me yellin’ at you that did it for ya?”

There’s a small pause before you hear a soft chuckle, just a puff of breath on your skin.

“I’d be lyin’ if I said it wasn’t. But…it was also the before, and the after, too. Still bein’ able to have a smile that big and pretty after all the hell life’s put you through. After all the hell I put you through…it’s hard not to fall for that. You’re a…good person to be around.”

Your stomach erupts with butterflies, your skin zings with electricity wherever he touches you. His words are exactly what your soul craves, so much so that it hurts.

“Careful,” you whisper, “this is startin’ to sound like the sweet nothins you say you don’t give.”

You can feel his smile against your spine. He tugs you closer. “Don’t be difficult.”

“Me? Never.”

A few beats of silence pass, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to lie next to him without saying a word.

“I meant what I said,” he eventually murmurs, absentmindedly stroking your collarbone.

“What part?” you whisper, lips brushing his hand.

His voice is gruff in your ear, low and tentative. “‘bout not lettin’ you go.”

A smile cracks across your face. “Oh, yeah?…what about the other parts?”

He makes a quiet noise in his throat. “Y’heard that?”

You crane your neck to look back at him. He’s focused on a spot on your shoulder, smoldering intensity written across his face dulled only by a touch of sheepishness.

“I heard all of it,” you tell him softly. His eyes meet yours, dark blue storms drowning you in their path.

“Couldn’t help myself,” he says, licking his lips before placing a hot, open-mouthed kiss on the back of your neck. You bend toward him like a flower to the sun. “I want you waitin’ for me when I get home. I want you givin’ me hell for being late for dinner. I want you doin’ laundry in my underwear.” His lips brush your skin again, hands wandering beneath his shirt. “I want you keepin’ me up all night, lovin’ on me ‘til I know nothin’ but you. I wanna show you in every way I know how that I can be what you need.”

Your hand curls in his hair, forcing him to look at you. “You already are,” you whisper.

Bucky slots his mouth over yours with a groan, promising tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, with his kiss.

sammy speaks again: if I told you this took me two months to write would you believe me? 30k words too like I could have shortened it sammy let’s be real, but I think my body physically rejects the idea of not providing an encyclopedia of a build up. which this seriously is, holy introspection and emotions like can I write normally for once? anyway idk what happened to me but I’m just grateful I’ve finally broken through the funk!

good news is I feel way more open and inspired to write my other wips after signing the dotted line on this one. let me get through a couple shorties and then I’ll be back with one of those!

as always I appreciate all the love and feedback, and thank you again for following this blog❣️

[ltbarnes]

My Blood Turns Into Alcohol

Summary: Bucky Barnes doesn’t step out behind his trusted bar counter, no matter what goes on out on the floor. Until you, that is—the town newbie who stumbles inside the lanky old bar and won’t stop showing up in your pretty dresses and with that shy smile. Bucky is infuriated. Maybe that’s why he won’t let you pay for even one of your drinks, or why his coworkers won’t stop bothering him about you.

Pairing: bartender!Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Word count: 11.4k

Warnings: mild violence, alcohol consumption, allusions to sex, assholes named John (seems to be a reoccurring theme in my stories), Bucky being a grump and also mutual pining

A/N: This honestly took me three months to write. It’s not even funny anymore, I have three dozens of wips and this is the first I’ve been able to finish in months. Enjoy whatever this became I had no idea where it was going at any point of the story

Masterlist

James Buchanan Barnes does not leave the bar counter. Under any circumstances. It does not matter what's going on on the other side of the two and a half feet of polished wood, placed between himself and the crowd lingering until the early hours of the morning.

Reasons for his principles are discussed heavily amongst the patrons of the bar. He's scared. He doesn't like people. He doesn't want sticky beer on his precious metal arm. Some things are partially true and other not at all, but the principle remains the same. Bucky Barnes does not step outside of the bar counter.

His hostility towards the openness of the bar never stops him from intervening when needed, of course. Middle aged men who don't know how to control themselves, slurring profanities and stalking the waitress, always get dragged out by the security guard. Bucky makes sure of that, always. So does 19-year old kids who think he won't notice their anxious gazes roaming around to see if someone have noticed their intrusion.

Bucky keeps the place in check, but he rules it all from behind the counter. Have been doing so for years. No matter how rowdy it gets through bar fights and unexpected bursts of college kids. He's been forced to roar out orders and yell at frat guys to not lay another fucking hand on the jukebox, or he will personally see to it that they won't have any fucking dicks left the next day. But then it's most sufficient that way, when he remains quiet and brooding for the most part. Comes as a surprise then—his outbursts.

Mr. Lee, who's been a regular for as long as Bucky has been working at the bar, tells him that he won't ever convince a lady to settle down with him if he continues scowling silently behind his sacred wall of wood. He usually earns a grunt in answer, on occasion a smug smirk, while Bucky throws the towel over his shoulder or wipes down the counter.

The topic of his love life comes up all too often during the long shifts. Wanda, the waitress who never fails to turn down each of her seemingly endless suitors of the bar in the most polite way, loves to discuss it like nothing else. She has indeed reminded him that he is no bad looking man at all, and if he really wanted to he could step outside on the street and be crowded by young ladies. It's all with a glint in her eyes, because thankfully she hasn't tried to set him up with a single woman. Not like Natasha used to do.

Quite frankly, Bucky doesn't care that much about getting a girlfriend or wife or whatever people want him to have. Life is entirely fine on his own. Actually, he prefers it. People are complicated and whiny and attention-seeking brats. Everything is better from a distance.

The bell above the entrance chimes as the door is opened gently. Bucky has had a thought or two of crushing it to pieces during his many shifts at the bar, but the owner insists on having it there. He suspects Tony is so attached to the bell simply because of Bucky's distaste towards it.

He tenses just slightly as you make your way inside. Your knee-length dress sweeps across your legs, light fabric contrasting against the small flowers printed upon it like it's 15 degrees hotter outside and not a rainy night, bordering on stormy. Bucky can't help but think that folks these days, especially you, don't know how to dress properly according to the weather, or time of day, but that's just the old man in him. That's what Steve usually says, like he's not just as bad.

But then you sit down by the counter, hoisting yourself up on the tall chairs while adjusting the cardigan on your shoulders. It unnerves him, the way you always let your eyes wander towards him timidly in wait for service despite having met him one and a half dozens of times already. He lingers by the bearded drunk at the end of the bar a few seconds longer than he should, only to postpone the encounter a bit longer. The past few months since you started showing up has been weird for him.

He wants to roll his eyes for no good reason at all as he forces himself towards your end. It's not intentional, his aversion, acting the way he does around you. Most of the time Bucky is quite closed off, he has plenty of trauma to justify it, but he can't grasp what it is that makes him so unapproachable when you show up in front of him, makes his face become stuck in a constant glare that usually scares away most. Steve always complains that he's too grumpy. Lighten up, jerk. 'S not all bad out in the world.

"Hi, Bucky," you say softly, almost too quietly, and he sees it on you that it came out more quietly than you intended. Your face almost contorts into a wince.

It's a dick move, that he doesn't say hello back. He knows that, and still he plants his hands on the wooden counter and stares you down instead. You gulp, mustering up a half-smile.

"I want a strawberry daiquiri tonight," you tell him, scratching the side of your nose with your nail. “Please.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows, some sort of surprise displaying on his face. "Strawberry daiquiri?" he asks, like your request is some outlandish idea he's never heard the likes of. Sure, he's gotten to know that you prefer colorful drinks over a glass of whiskey, but usually Steve makes them for you.

"Yeah. Strawberry daiquiri. Of course, only if making a drink like that won't taint your masculinity all too much." You look up at him. "Fruity drinks are risky business after all," you whisper to yourself, running your finger over a scratch in the wood.

And maybe, just maybe, Bucky let's the corner of his lip quirk up just slightly. But you don't see that. You're too busy staring down at the tainted countertop, following the path of your fingertip.

"Sure," Bucky mutters, turning around before he gives in to the compulsion of staring at you for too long and calling you sweet pet names that he makes up in his mind for you.

It's not that you're the most beautiful woman he's ever seen, or the most interesting either. Those come into the bar every now and then. But if he's honest, you're not the usual kind of regular the bar has. And he's well aware that it's a popular drink, what you just ordered, it's just that people don't order one very often here.

The rest of the late night patrons seem to share his aversion to your presence, or at least curiosity, even after you've lived here for almost three months. The man who's gulped down a few too many glasses of Jack a few feet away keeps sending long glances your way, letting his eyes wander just a little too much. Bucky had planned to send him away soon anyways. Dum Dum Dugan and his biker gang seem to joke around about you, although it's all friendly. They can get rowdy, but it's never anything malicious.

You're mostly quiet as you sip on your red drink for a good half an hour. Sometimes you interrupt your silence to tell him about something you saw the other day, or a good book you just finished. Bucky serves another two rounds of beer to the bikers, rum and coke to an accountant-looking type, tequila shots to Brunnhilde and Thor in the corner booth. Wanda stays with him behind the counter to talk to you about how her brother and boyfriend get along so well despite their many differences. He checks the stock twice, organizes the bottles, counts the change.

It's nearing closing and you're still in your place, lingering with the same drink in your hand while the only other customer left is the half-passed out drunk. Bucky has no willpower in him to kick the man out. He's quite sure you'll leave whenever he tells you to, but Wanda beats him to it.

"Hey, Y/n, we're closing up in ten," she says with a kind smile, wiping down the counter for the last time. "If you're gonna finish that drink, you better do it soon."

"Oh, okay. Sure will," you reply. "It was good, by the way." Your eyes travel over to Bucky where he stands, leaning against the back with his arms crossed over his chest.

"You sure about that? Been sipping on it for an hour and a half." He nods towards the half-empty glass.

It surprises him when you let out a quiet chuckle, shaking your head to yourself. "I’m just distracted. Little stressed," you confess. "Still trying to settle in."

"Still having troubles with your landlord?" Wanda asks, perking her head up. "I told you to let me know if he gave you anymore problems."

You ignore the way Bucky's stoic face turns into a near scowl along with her words. He always seems to do that when you speak of your many mishaps and small miseries.

"Yeah. It's okay, Wanda. I'll handle it myself," you say. "I'm gonna let you close up." You move off of the chair.

"No worries," Wanda answers with a smile. "Let me know when you've gotten home. And don't be gone for too long until the next visit. I'll have Bucky make you 'nother drink that you'll like more."

You nod, trapping your bottom lip between your teeth for just a mere second, but Bucky can't get the image out of his head. If he were any closer he might have freed it with his thumb. When you reach into the pocket of your cardigan, fishing out a ten dollar bill, he can't control the words tumbling out of his mouth.

"It's on the house," he says, stopping your movements before you have the chance to lay the bill on the bar.

"Oh," you breathe out. "Really? Thank you." The smile on your face is blinding. "Think I'm gonna keep coming here if you give me more free drinks."

"'S not gonna be a regular occurrence," he mutters, face fallen into that brooding frown once more. "Any longer."

You back towards the door, closing your hand around the handle. "I'm not counting on it," you say over your shoulder, before slinking out of the door.

It's not until the bell chimes once more, ringing in aftershocks of the door closing shut, that Bucky feels the intense stare of Wanda on his face.

"What?" he mumbles.

"You know those free drinks you keep giving her are going out of your paycheck, right?"

A grunt is enough of answer for Bucky, who drags himself away from Wanda. She knows he's avoiding talking about the topic. Doesn't mean she'll stop asking.

"She's very nice, you know?" she says after a dozen seconds of silence, sticking her head inside of the storage room.

"Don't even think about it."

You've been here quite a lot lately. More than what your mother would approve of—she'd undoubtedly think you were an alcoholic by now. But you don't drink every time, not even close to it. Instead it's mostly Shirley Temples and sometimes a coffee from the staff room if Wanda's working.

Bucky the brooding bartender isn't here tonight. He's an enigma to you—grumpy and cold and somehow sweet in the moments when he lets his mask slip. But you're not really sure wether or not you like the guy yet. Or you like him, a bit too much, but he's very...interesting in his behavior.

You've noticed how your tab doesn't always include everything you ordered when he's working, and he always listens intently to whatever you have to say, but then he stands there scowling in the corner whenever you talk to Wanda or the other bartenders. Sometimes he tells you a bad joke under his breath, as if he hadn’t intended to, and then he says nothing for an hour. He's balancing on a scale right now, you think. Maybe it's for the best that he's not here. You always say such stupid things around him.

The waitress though, her you certainly like. Actually, you're bordering on loving her for how good of a friend she's been to you since that first night you stumbled in here a few months ago. Honestly, friends have been sparse since you moved to town. It's understandable, considering the small size of it, but it's been lonely besides the sisterly bond you've managed to form with Wanda. You guess that's why you ventured into this bar in the first place, but found yourself too shy to start conversation with anyone.

The fact that it's a Friday night probably gives your loneliness away, though. Perhaps it is so obvious that it's the reason behind why the redheaded waitress joins you in your booth, sliding in opposite of you with a warm smile on her face that forces you to drag your eyes away from the laptop.

"Hi, Wanda," you greet her, taking out the headphones from your ears.

"I like you too much to let you sit here alone on a Friday night. That is just not acceptable, honey," she says, reaching over to close your laptop. The gesture earns an offended gasp that doesn't quite carry the conviction a genuine one would.

"Does it matter if I would have done the same thing at home?" you ask meekly, reaching for the glass of water you've settled with so far. "I'm at least a little more social here..."

"No. That won't do it either," she tells you, already halfway up from her seat. "Put that thing away and join me by the bar counter. I'll have Steve whip you up one of those fruity drinks you like."

A quiet chuckle through a sigh is all the answer Wanda gets before she turns around, heading away from you with her hair swinging from her ponytail.

"No grumpy bartender here tonight?" you ask while sitting down at one of the stools placed by the counter, giving a glance to the tall blonde occupying the space Bucky usually has. "Has he quit of misery after I didn't drink up the Tequila Sunrise he made me the other day?"

Wanda smiles, shaking her head while sharing a knowing glance with the man. "Bucky doesn't get in until ten today, miss. But I'm sure I can occupy your time until then if you wish to see him so desperately."

Heat rushes to your cheeks so quickly that no matter what you say it will most likely come across as a horrible excuse. "No—no. Not like that," you nearly seethe through a whisper, leaning in like your words are somehow a secret. You hear Steve chuckle heartily from a few feet away. "Don't laugh at me, Steve! I just want more free drinks, that's all!"

Your attempts to deflect the attention away from you fails miserably, because there's that eyebrow lift from Wanda and amused shake of head from Steve that tells you they've got it all wrong. You don't actually know why Bucky keeps evading your attempts to pay for your drinks. A groan sounds from your lips while you bury your face in your hands.

"Oh, just give me that drink I was promised. I think I'm gonna need that if I'm gonna spend the next few hours with you two."

Slipping your palms away from your hidden face, you're met with two warm smiles, Steve leaning his hands against the counter and Wanda loading up shots on a tray. And the absolutely infuriating man dares to open his mouth once more, delivering one of those smug lines he always seem to have.

"Sure, sweetheart. Whatever you say."

Four and a half drinks and two hours later, you've relocated to a booth and taken off the sweater previously covering your arms. Wonderfully tipsy, probably drunk but absolutely in denial, and unexpectedly in tears from laughter. Squeezed in between the large and boisterous man who you've come to know is named Dugan and his trusty friend Gabe, you're perfectly content and more happy than you have been since you moved here.

A harmless biker gang consisting of a bunch of old friends in their late-thirties to mid-forties is the last group of people you would've thought you'd end up in conversation with tonight, but god, are they wonderful. Steve sent you here in exile after you started getting too chatty during the third drink, to the point where he had trouble doing his job. Who knew a little bit of alcohol was all you needed to get out of your shell?

Unfortunately, or maybe it is a blessing in disguise, you don't even notice when Bucky turns up behind the bar counter to start his shift for the night. Though he notices you. Oh, it's very first thing he sees—you throwing your head back in laughter, reaching for your glass while Morita gestures wildly through one of his infamous stories. You're drunk. He sees it so clearly, and you're so different.

Bucky almost scowls, because he despises himself for taking note of how you've held yourself, how you talked and grew shy and apprehensive and how you held back during your visits. All of that is gone—now sits a free-spirited woman on the verge of slurring her words, having so much fun that he nearly wants to shake his head.

"What is she doin' there?" he mumbles while making his way to Steve, who's drying his hands on a towel.

"Who?" the blonde asks in return with an amused smile, despite having spotted the way Bucky's eyes drifted to your figure. He only earns a glare in answer. "Sent her away a while ago. Apparently that one is a talker with a few drinks in her blood. Would tell you to keep an eye on her, but seems like you already got that handled."

"Punk."

"Jerk." Steve smiles. "See you tomorrow."

"Yeah, yeah," Bucky mutters dismissively, barely even noticing as his friend slips away.

And no matter how much he trusts Dugan and Morita and everyone else around that table, Bucky keeps an extra eye on the group during the next half an hour. They're good men, but it still unnerves him as you sit there laughing and managing to keep their attention through your questionable attempts at storytelling.

And maybe he spends a bit too much time letting his gaze drift down to how your cleavage looks in that cute little blouse of yours, but he spends just as much time watching the way your eyes light up right before a big laugh escapes your lips, and your hands flying wildly around you while engaging in the conversation. It's not often he wishes to be a part of a large, rowdy group, but in this moment he would rather sit there than stand behind this bar.

It's not until you make your way out of the booth, standing up on wobbly legs and a giggle on your lips, that he forces himself to remain professional and do his goddamn job. You stagger up to the bar counter, hoisting yourself up on a stool despite having no plans to stay very long.

"Bucky. Bucky-boy," you say, smiling up at him while your eyes blink slowly. "I want a shot. Vodka."

"Vodka?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. "Are you sure about that, Y/n?"

"Yes. 100%. It's vodka or nothing."

Bucky turns his head, keeps his smile away from you, before schooling himself and letting the corners of his lips fall once more.

"Think you'd be better off with nothing, huh? You're gonna be sick, Y/n."

"No. I promise I won't, Bucky." You lean your chin in your hands, fluttering your lashes while pleading with your gaze. "Please. Please. Bucky, you know you're my favorite bartender."

"Flattery is not gonna work on me, peach," he says, gulping to rid himself of the nickname he just let slip.

But you barely notice. At least, that's what he reads your wandering gaze that stays anywhere but at him as. And despite his gratefulness for your distant mind he still finds a part of him wishing for you to react.

Against his better judgement, he pours that one last shot for you. It's not that he finds it hard to say no to you. Denying your wishes is something that he does constantly, it seems like, everytime he insists on letting you go without paying. You really have fought back fiercely these last few weeks though.

Bucky is made to regret his decision remarkably a few hours later, just thirty minutes shy of closing and the bar mostly empty. Except for you, Dugan and Morita, that is. He did not expect to find you so mischievous while drunk. How you managed to get a hold of more alcohol without him noticing is a little amusing and slightly disheartening, but mostly concerning.

You're slumped in the corner of the bar, eyes fluttering closed every other second while desperately trying not to throw up. Apologies to the men beside you have been rolling off your tongue repeatedly for the last ten minutes. You do not want them to feel obligated to stay for your sake, but quite frankly you are not fit to be alone either.

The sound of voices speaking softly, probably, buzzes in the background. You let your eyes rest, head leaning against the wall, heavy breaths escaping your nose. Sleep feels like the only sane option in this moment if you are to rid yourself of the horrible feeling coursing through your body.

Hands on your thighs gently shake you awake. The bar is empty. Only the usually grumbling bartender is sitting in front of you, crouched down, brows furrowed into a concerned frown. The image is strange.

"Hey, Y/n," he says, much too indistinguishable for your drunken mind to comprehend. "Y/n, I need you to drink some water. Think you can do that for me?"

All you muster up in answer is a nod. Bucky's quite sure you don't know what you're agreeing to. Despite your less than functioning state you manage to bring the glass to your lips, gulping down the cool liquid with only a few drops spilling down your chin. A calloused thumb wipes away the water from your skin.

"Let's get you home, huh, sweetheart?" Bucky mumbles under his breath, much too quietly for you to hear. He doesn't know if he'll ever have the courage to call you things like that out loud.

He's glad he walked Wanda to work after she'd stayed at your apartment only the week prior. Taking you home to his place would feel both inappropriate and a violation to your safety. He would never do anything to jeopardize it, but you don't know that. You can't possibly trust him like that yet.

"Do you think you will throw up, Y/n?" he asks you while helping you up the staircase, his arm thrown around your waist and yours around his shoulders.

"No. No. 'S better," you mumble, squinting to see through the poorly lit building.

"Are you sure? Do you need me to stay for a moment?" he adds, even though the question is more a request in reality. Leaving you alone in this state feels so fundamentally wrong in his bones. It nearly aches, the thought of his absence during your hardships.

"You trying to get 'nto my bed, Barnes?" you say, cracking a smile while your eyes flutter closed, head lolling onto his shoulder. Bucky doesn't answer. He can't. Not that you'd remember his reaction tomorrow, or anything that was said during the past hour. He's never seen your bad jokes on a roll like this, despite having been properly used to them by now.

Fishing out the keys from your bag is more complicated than expected. Having someone slumped against your side, barely conscious, will inevitably have that effect even for someone like Bucky. Cold gusts of wind from the open windows meet damp skin once he steps inside the apartment, carefully maneuvering you to the dresser you have standing in your hallway. Kneeling down to untie your shoelaces, he finds himself sporting a stupid grin while hearing your giggles.

"It tickles," you say through a hiccup, the muffled thump of your head meeting the wall behind you sounding through the apartment.

"Just a few seconds more," Bucky answers, fingers clasped around your leg while removing the shoe from your foot.

And he makes the mistake of glancing up at you from where he's kneeling, meeting the intense gaze directed at him he haven't quite seen before. Not like that, like you're looking at him now. But you're still drunk. He notices that so clearly as you fall down on top of your sheets, sinking into the soft duvet with a hum on your lips. The presence of him in the room is barely noticed, he believes, until your voice breaks the silence of the cold room.

"You're so nice to me, Buck," you mumble into your sheets. And he thinks that, no, he isn't very nice to you at all. Not in the ways that matter, in the ways that are obvious or straightforward or particularly noticeable at all. Do you really notice?

"Go to sleep, honey," he says, tracing his fingertip just over your cheek. Your lips part, eyes closed.

"Sweet...Buck."

Your breathing evens out only a few seconds later, without the end of your words meeting his ears. Bucky stands in the doorway, turns your lights off, for a whole minute before he gathers himself enough to leave. It's getting too real, too close, doing this. It's not his right to act this domestic with you when he can barely pay you a simple compliment. Constantly watching from afar, listening to your rambles and once in a while offering a piece of himself that can only count as a crumb. What he has with you can surely only exist in his mind.

He manages to lock the door from the inside. Spending the night guarding your door from the outside would piss Steve off, having him sleep-deprived tomorrow at work. Or today, isn't it?

He sees the soft fabric of your dress, white flowers against dark blue, fluttering around your knees before your face comes into view. Only you, only this goddamn girl who comes into this bar with pretty dresses that drive him fucking crazy. He nearly wishes you would stop showing up like that, in case that would hinder him from fucking his own fist on sleepless nights to the thought of unwrapping you from those dresses. But he would never deprive himself like that—no, seeing you so beautiful and soft gifts him enough life to remain calm in even the nastiest of bar fights and disputes with annoying college kids.

Your name lingers at the back of his throat, syllables rolling on his tongue until it nearly slips out. It does halfway, before he witnesses your hand encased in someone else's, a man just behind you with his hands on your skin. Fingers digging into the curve of your waist, scrunching the fabric, a nervous smile on your lips. The glass in Bucky's hand shatters quietly. No one else notices but him when the shards carve into his skin and draw red drops of blood down his palm.

He looks away. He doesn't want to, god knows he wants to always let his gaze travel over your figure, but he has to. Your eyes flicker over towards the bar counter, worriedly searching for Bucky in some grasp of comfort. But then again, if you actually caught eye contact you might have abandoned the whole thing if only for just a small chance to spend the night with Bucky instead. But the guy asked you out, and he's handsome and charming and probably wonderful, and Wanda insisted you try new things now that you're in a new town.

"Hey, you're bleeding," Sam calls out, frowning while eyeing the red liquid dripping down Bucky's hand.

The latter grunts in response, sending one last glare your way before slipping in the back. He comes back with a bandage wrapped around his palm, a scowl deeper than the one before, and a new costumer waiting for him with a face that begs to take his fist. He hates the guy already.

The man orders a drink for you. It bugs you a little that he didn't ask what you wanted, but you make no move to acknowledge it. Leaning your chin in the palm of your hand, you gaze down at the chipped pink polish on your nails and make no move to pay any attention to what's going on at the counter.

"Busy night, huh?" the man asks, leaning against the weathered wood with an arrogant smirk Bucky would just love to wipe out. He really does goddamn hate talking to people.

With a grunt he answers, ignoring the question in favor of concentrating on making the drinks. The punk ordered a fucking martini for you. Did he even ask you what you wanted? Bucky knows damn well that you would spit it out rather than force one of those down.

He casts an eye your way, seeing you peel off your chipped nail polish the way you do when you're nervous. That dress you're wearing—the punk with you tonight doesn't deserve it. Doesn't deserve seeing the way the fabric flows down your legs, sweeps against your knees when you walk. Not when he couldn't even bother asking you what you wanted. A martini? Seriously?

Glasses clink against wood a little too harshly, sweeping near the edge once he sets down the finished drinks. An old-fashioned and a Paloma stands swirling in front of a scowling bartender, hands grasping the counter harshly while glaring at the costumer.

"This is not what I ordered," the man says, eyeing the grapefruit pink liquid in front of him. Sam sends an amused side-eye towards Bucky that he tries to ignore. The man eyes it with distaste, frowning while bringing it up to his nose to smell it. Bucky hopes he spills the drink on his ridiculously crisp shirt.

"She doesn't like martinis," Bucky mutters under his breath, looking over at where you're sitting once more. You're tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, biting down on your lip.

"How the hell would you know?" the man spits out. A small drop of saliva hits Bucky's cheek. It takes every ounce of composure not to flinch. "This is none of your damn business. Do your job."

"She doesn't like martinis," Bucky repeats again, slower, glaring him right in the eyes with teeth grinding against each other. "Should've asked her before you walked up here and ordered."

He scoffs, averting his gaze with a roll of his eyes before taking a hold of the two glasses and walking away. Bucky sees the guy slide into the booth, right opposite you, and the way your eyebrows lift slightly in surprise as you notice your drink. He hears the guy take credit for the choice of drink, act like he just knew you liked it from the beginning. Bucky's pissed off.

"You're gonna kill the guy with that glare," Sam says through an amused grin, taking a swig of his beer.

"Eat shit."

"And you should be nicer to that girl, you know?" Sam says as soon as he sits down at the bar, sporting that everpresent smirk that tells him he knows much more than he lets on.

"What d'ya mean?" Bucky mumbles, a scowl on his face that always seems to be there when Sam shows up. Thank fucking god he loves the punk.

"You're broody. She's trying to talk to you, but you always act like a dick except when you refuse to let her pay for her drinks."

"I'm like this to everyone," he answers.

"No, you're not. I've seen you been nice, and this is not it. The poor girl have been here for six months, doesn't have a lot of friends besides the people in this bar. She doesn't need an asshole of an admirer right now, does she?"

Bucky refrains from sighing out loud, opting to wipe down the counter in silence instead. He knows very well what Sam is saying is true. Too much, probably, but he can't really help it. You're too soft, too nice, too different than what he is used to. Having a conversation with someone who genuinely listens like that, honestly wants to know what his day has been like or what his favorite thing to cook for himself is or what he watches on a Friday night—it's new.

If there's one thing Bucky Barnes has learnt in the countless of hours with Dr. Raynor, it's that he's allergic to vulnerability and would do pretty much anything to avoid it. Including his problem with going out on the bar floor. And treating you less than what you deserve, despite how much you never let it affect you. You keep coming, keep trying to make conversation even if you don't always get an answer. By this point you've told him pretty much everything about yourself just to fill the silences.

"I'm heading out." Sam interrupts his deep train of thought, setting down the glass with a clink. "Lighten up, will you? Be nice."

With an acknowledging nod he sends his friend off, tending to the refills and newly stumbled in costumers while trying to stop himself from glancing over at you every other second.

He fails miserably.

Bucky could feel his temper run away from him, far from where he has any control of his actions or whatever is said from his mouth. No one could blame him if he socked the guy in his eye right now, could they?

He didn't want to hear the conversation going on right outside of the door. Or to say he isn't intentionally listening would be a blatant lie, but he wishes he hadn't heard the words coming out of your date's mouth. It's bordering on astonishing how you've managed to find the biggest jerk there is on the market.

And it's not a complete lie to say that Bucky wished during the evening that you would realize what a prick the guy was, abandon him and come sit with Bucky by the bar counter instead. But for god's sake—this is not what he wished for.

"It was really nice to meet up with you, John, but I don't think we're a good match," you had said. Politely.

That simple sentence earned a two minute sermon on how John goddamn Walker had only asked you out to be nice, to make you feel better about yourself because you are just so 'fucking sad', aren't you? But of course you would be too self-absorbed to accept an invitation back to his place for a night of what probably would have been disappointing sex. And that's fine, you know, because you aren't very pretty anyways and you're also boring and annoying and a fucking bitch.

John had grabbed your waist, pulled you into him, right as he led you out of the bar. And it felt wrong. You hadn't planned on going anywhere with him from the beginning, but the conviction only grew when he put his hands on you. The polite rejection came tumbling out of your mouth before you even knew you were talking. That he would go on to push you down in every possible way for several minutes was unexpected. Shocking, even. Maybe that's the reason behind your tears as you stand alone on the curb in the middle of the night, hands wrapped around yourself and dreading walking inside again. But you force yourself to.

The bell rings as you close the door gently behind you, gently despite the tears gathering in your eyes, gently despite the heated words being thrown at you just a moment prior. You're too gentle for your own good. Bucky has thought that ever since the first day you stepped inside this lanky old bar.

"Hey," he calls out, setting down the bottle of Bacardi he has in his hand, following your trail to your discarded bag in one of the booths with his eyes.

Your steps are hasty, rushed while you ignore his call for you. He goddamn hates it—the tension in your posture and the way you're trying to hide the tears you're furiously wiping away from your face, back facing him. You won't let him see you.

"Y/n, slow down," Bucky calls out once more, reluctantly, because there's a hesitance somewhere along with the vulnerability you bring out in him. None of his other goddamn regulars make him worry like this.

Your hand reaches into the very depth of your bag, scrambling around for a stressed ten seconds before your fingers clasp around the cream wallet with small flowers on that Bucky can't help but think is adorable.

A few steps, heels clinking against the wooden floor, and a fifty dollar bill is smacked onto the newly cleaned counter, still damp with small droplets of water. Bucky's face falls into a deeper frown, if possible, because you know damn well you're not paying for anything you have in this house. Even if it's covering for the punk who walked out on you.

"No."

The word is a grumble, stone cold and gruff and accompanying the nearly incomprehensible sound of the bill sliding back towards you.

"Just keep it," you say, voice breaking even though you try so hard to keep it strong. Your eyes are not looking at him—he needs you to look at him so badly—but he sees the slight wobble of your lower lip and the trace of mascara starting to dissolve from your lashes.

"You know you're not paying," he answers, adamantly keeping his fingers on the money in case you get the idea of sliding it back towards him. He knows you're goddamn stubborn, he's gotten that by now.

Deep breath. Head cast down, a few blinks. "Please, Bucky. Take it," you say, an ounce more of conviction in your words while you bite down on your lip. Your hands are still shaking, legs desperate to carry you out of there before mortification chips away on more of your pride.

"I said no," he repeats with just a hint of an order, a harshness to his words that he didn't mean to use. Never with you.

"Just take it for god's sake!" you yell, unable to keep the tears from spilling down your cheeks with the strain. "Why do you—why do you always have to make it so goddamn hard?!"

Your hands come up to your face, a groan of frustration escaping your lips while turning away from his burning gaze. He's always looking too closely, too much. Even if there's two dozens of patrons in the bar, it always feels like his eyes are on you and you hate it. Especially now. It makes you fidget and worry too much, about the way you look and what kind of expression you're making or if there's a trace of food on your skin.

Bucky doesn't inch back. He would have, hadn't he had such a grip on the counter beneath him. Not once has he heard you speak with such animosity, nor volume.

"Y/n—"

"No. Have a good night, James," you force out of yourself, grabbing your bag before he has a chance to convince you to stay.

Bucky's legs itch. They itch with the urge to drag you into his arms, the urge to stalk down the jerk who made you cry, the urge to get on his knees and beg for you to 'please, sweetheart, look at me for god's sake'.

The door opens, old familiar bell rings, and the eyes of Bucky are pinpointing you so hard that it might as well have been a laser pointer. In your haste, you fail to remember the doorstep several inches too tall which always needs caution unless you plan to trip in front of a dozen drunk men.

It's the last straw. Everything spills out of your bag, scatters over the floor and catches the attention of the few people remaining. You freeze, a shaky breath escaping you before you finally let go of your desperate attempt to hold back the tears. Knees nearly touch the floor as you crouch down, burying your face in your hands along with the sound of your sobs.

And Bucky sees it, of course he does. His heart fucking shatters where he stands, just a few inches from where the counter ends and opens up to the floor of the bar. But he hesitates. You're crying for god's sake and he has the nerve to hesitate, over wether or not he should leave what he has lived after for years to comfort you.

"Shit, fucking—" Bucky breathes out, eyes flickering over the bar in panic with his palm running over his mouth. The sound of your whimpers fills his ears, scrapes against his eardrums and he thinks he's never heard something as painful as your sadness.

But then he hears your soft whine, face falling into the palms of your hands, and Bucky doesn't give a damn about whatever hesitations that have been keeping him rooted in his place. He rounds the corner of the bar, forcing himself to look at you because he thinks that if he even sends a glance any other way he will back out.

Dugan had already begun picking up your things, gathering them into your handbag while you lean against the wall right by the door. Bucky releases a shaky breath, unfurling his fingers from where they've been tightly formed into a fist, kneeling down right in front of your figure on the floor.

Bucky tethers onto a thin thread of restraint, seeing you so devastated. He can't pull you into his chest, keep your teary eyes away from the world facing you outside. That rule he made for himself has been an invisible fucking thing that had no real power to stop him, and still he never felt like he could break it. But he sits here, right now, searching for anything to say that will make it better. Anything.

This goddamn rule—it didn't help him in the least from getting attached to the girl hovering around his bar in the most unexpected times in her pretty dresses and with that smile and her words that infuriate him to the point where he can't even work because you're there. Right there, in a booth a few feet away or just right by the bar counter. It doesn't matter where you sit, or if you're even at the bar, because Bucky constantly finds himself keeping an eye out for you.

"Y/n, hey. Look at me," Bucky says, laying his hands over your shoulder. "Sweetheart, 's alright. Will you stand up for me, please? Come sit down in the booth."

He can't stop staring at you. Not even as the bell clinks again, alerting him of a new visitor despite the late hour and pouring rain outside. It's not until the offending cable-knitted sweater comes into his sight once more that he dares lifting his attention from your crying figure.

"Forgot my fucking phone," John says with a scowl as Bucky pinpoints him with his glare.

The clench of his jaw is sure to shatter his teeth eventually, but the nerve of your goddamn date to show his face here again after he made you cry is out of this world. That's evident on not only Bucky's hold, but the remaining regulars not caught up in comforting you. If looks could kill, as you say.

Picking up his phone in the booth with arrogance radiating from John’s hold, Bucky nearly lets him go until the jerk sends a distasteful glare your way. He loses it.

All inhibitions fly out of the window as Bucky pushes himself up from his kneel, steps out onto the sticky floor, stalking towards John right as he turns around. A puff of air is forced out of him as he's met with Bucky's scowling face, backing him into the edge of a table a few feet behind him with a death grip on the collar of his sweater.

John glances down at the metal encasing his shirt with sudden alarm, trying to shrug out of Bucky's grip to no avail.

"You think you can come back in here and act like nothing?" Bucky's voice rumbles with the effort to keep it on a low enough volume. Despite being in the middle of the fucking bar floor he really doesn't feel too keen on exposing this conversation to your ears. "Like you didn't just insult her in every fucking way?"

"What the fuck, man? Get off of me!" John seethes, thrashing once more without any luck, earning him another harsh shove against the table. But his cheeks are burning with shame, because there's nothing more embarrassing to a man like him than to be stuck under another man's thumb.

"Don't ever come in here again. Send another glance her way and I'll fucking end you."

"This is—this is illegal!"

His shouts catch your attention, drawing you away from the shoulder of Dugan to worryingly stick your head out to see what's going on. You saw him come in again, of course you did, but somehow you managed to escape the notice of whatever confrontation is going on. Most of all the sight of Bucky anywhere else than behind his trusted counter sets your heart pounding a little faster in your rib cage. He went out onto the floor.

"I don't care. Get out of my bar before I make you get on your knees and beg her for forgiveness," Bucky grits out through his teeth, shoving the blonde away from the wall. He stumbles, only catching his balance once a few feet away from the door.

With a shake of his head, Bucky turns around, letting the hardened clench of his jaw turn into a concerned frown once more without a second glance to any of the shocked gazes on his back. The hand on his shoulder catches him off guard. Really, if he believed John had any guts left in him he would have foreseen it, but the fist against his cheek hits him real hard.

Stumbling a few steps back with his hand flying to his now bleeding face, he doesn't even have to stave off any other attack before Dugan and his men come to his aid.

"Fucking asshole!" John shouts as he's dragged out of the bar, in lack of any other more creative insults.

Bucky wipes away the blood from his cheek, lifts his eyebrows in slight amusement, while eyeing the man getting kicked out onto the curb. A few choice words are delivered by Dugan and Morita, muffled but still heard through the glass windows, as John gets up from the ground with spit flying out of his mouth.

Turning around to the bar once more, he leans his hands against the counter while wincing through the newfound throbbing in his face. He remains that way, even when the sound of soft footsteps and heels clinking against the wooden floor fills his ears.

"Bucky?" you nearly whisper, nearing him with caution. He can almost imagine your furrowed brows, your concerned face, perfectly.

Bucky turns his head to the side, only enough for you to make out the profile of his face. A bruise is already developing, drawing a wince from your lips.

"Are you okay?" you ask, reaching your hand out but withdrawing it the second his eyes flicker down towards it. He wishes you wouldn't have.

He finally turns around. Seeing the remnants of tears dampening your skin steals the attention away from the hit he took to his face, if even for just a second. Nearly makes him run out and get a hit in himself, before he remembers the question so softly spoken from your lips.

"Yeah. Yeah, 'm fine." He nods, averts his eyes for just a moment. "Are you alright?" he asks, looking down at you through his lashes like that, like he always does, but with a new kind of softness to his gaze that makes heat travel to your face.

You nod in answer as well, wiping underneath your nose with the back of your hand. "You're bleeding, Bucky," you observe, trailing your eyes over the blooming purple patch of skin, stained with the red liquid dripping from his wound. "I should clean it up."

His eyebrows lift just slightly at the suggestion. Having you touching him like that—he's not sure he can take it. Not when it's him that should be comforting you.

"Can I?" you ask, looking at his bleeding wound so intently that he fears you will combust if he doesn't let you. It's not right denying you like that, he tells himself right before opening his mouth to answer.

"Yeah, yeah. Okay." He nods. "Let me just..." Bucky points behind him towards the counter where a first aid kit is stashed somewhere.

"No. You sit down," you say with conviction, pointing to the padded booths behind you in return. "I'll get it."

Bucky can't do anything else than give you another nod, because that's all the communication he can apparently muster right now, knowing that he'd probably do anything you tell him to. Except taking your money.

He looks over his shoulder as he walks towards the seats, seeing you slip out of your heels in the middle of the floor. The corners of his lips quirk up just slightly, sitting down with a silent puff of air escaping his lips. It's about damn time for you to take off those uncomfortable-looking heels. The thought of you squeezing your poor feet into something for that jerk's sake makes him pissed off.

You disappear behind the counter as if you do it everyday. But then again, you're here often, wether it's to talk to Wanda or work at something on your computer or only to sit with a drink and observe the people of the bar. Unlike you, who always chip away at your nail polish while nervous, Bucky keeps his gaze on your figure as you crouch down away from his sight, waiting for your face to return.

The sound of scrambling through the shelves comes from behind the bar. A cheery 'Oh! Found it!' erupts from your lungs that dissolves the silent tension you held before, puts a goddamn smile on the brooding Bucky Barnes's face, until it disappears just as quickly when you bump your head on the polished wood on your way up.

"Ow!" You wince, rubbing the back of your head as you rise to your full height once more, a first aid kit in hand.

Bucky raises himself from his seat with alarm, a step forward with a frown, but is stopped by your lifted hand.

"It's fine, 's fine. I'm okay," you say, unfurling the furrow of your brows as quickly as it appeared.

It's obvious that you intend to walk past him, access the seat next to where he sat just a few seconds ago, but it's hard to do so when a 220-pound man blocks your way. Somehow he manages to be determined yet hesitant in his movements when he lays his hands on your head, tilts it forward to see where you hit it. His fingers run over the slightly red mark that will be gone in a few hours.

"I'm okay. Happens all the time," you assure him in a near whisper. You're almost sure an amused breath escapes him, but it feels out of character for him to do so. Especially now.

And once again you attempt to move past him, but the sudden presence of his hands on your waist is enough to throw your entire sanity out of your head. You squeal when he lifts you, setting you down on the table in front of him with an ease you can't help but be in awe over.

"Oh," you breathe out, watching him intently while he sets himself down in the booth right next to you.

The front of your shins are pressed against his knees. A seemingly innocent contact, but it doesn't stop your nerves from wreaking havoc and sending shivers all over your limbs. It doesn't help, it really doesn't, that Bucky is looking up at you again with that intense stare that forces you to avert your gaze. It's not that you don't want to look at him—he has the most beautiful and blue eyes you've probably ever seen—but it's too much. You can't do that and also succeed in hiding whatever you're feeling for the man.

Instead you carefully search through the first aid kit, closing your fingers that are just trembling slightly around some disinfectant. Of course you spill some on your dress, but you barely even notice. Bucky does.

"Come here," you whisper, motioning his face closer with your fingers. He listens to you without hesitation, despite knowing that having your faces so close will make it hard for him to keep himself from devouring your lips.

And then your fingers slip under his chin, tilts it upwards, and he nearly groans. Having your hands on him, despite how little contact there actually is between you, is a godsend Bucky has longed for since you first stepped into this bar a few months ago. And then you—god he can barely formulate a thought in that dumb brain of his—you trap your bottom lip between your teeth as you clean away the blood from his cheek. He can't stop himself.

A silent gasp escapes your lips as Bucky's thumb frees the prison your lip was held in, stopping your movements only for the sake of watching him. You can see that it wasn't even nearly intentional on the way his eyes widen just slightly, lips parting in some form of shock. But still his thumb lingers, runs over your lip for a second more before he retracts it.

"Sorry," he mumbles, clenching his fist tightly underneath the table. His lack of self control is laughable.

"It's okay," you tell him, gently grasping his face once more. Returning to your service without commenting on it further. He's thankful for that. You're a little disappointed. The thought of it leading to something more nags at you, tugs at your heartstrings that make your pulse go haywire. He hears it.

The pad of your finger brushes over the small bandaids you place over his wound, smoothing it over his skin while a frown grows on your face. Most likely you would have cried if you got a punch like that. Not only because of the pain, but because it's humiliating letting someone hurt you like that. It's humiliating that you let your date insult you like he did, humiliating that you stood there listening to his words to the point of tears.

"I'm sorry," you say, retracting your touch from his skin and Bucky nearly growls.

"For what?" he asks you. Your gaze is still stuck on his wound.

"What he did to you. If I didn't...I shouldn't have—"

"No." Bucky shakes his head, cutting you off before you even have a chance to finish that goddamn sentence. He won't even hear it.

With a sigh, Bucky gathers the courage to lay his palm over your thigh. Holding you still, keeping you here with him.

"It's not your damn place to apologize for what that fucking jerk did. He ain't got no right to come here and ignore what you want and call you those...things when you're not what he expected. I'm sorry, sweetheart, but I can't let that slide. Not when it comes to you."

Not when it comes to you. With a gulp, you force yourself to take in the other words that came out of his mouth and not just the whole of the last sentence.

"But he hurt you." Your hand comes to cup his cheek, thumb running over the blooming bruise once more. "Because of me."

A gasp escapes you as the cold metal of Bucky's left hand comes to rest against the crook of your waist, right hand around your wrist as he holds your hand to his face. Securing it there, afraid you will slip away. He needs your touch.

"Listen to me, honey," he tells you. "I'm a military vet. My best friend got me into three dozens of fights as a kid. I lost my goddamn arm working in this very bar. A punch is nothing."

You raise an eyebrow. This punch—it's not nothing. Doesn't matter how little it is in comparison to everything else he's been through. Bruises and blood don't belong on his skin.

"I don't care about that, Bucky," you say. "I don't want you to get hurt."

He shakes his head, averting his gaze to the door still unopened since Dugan's men dragged your date out. Squeezing your thigh once more, he catches himself having his hands on you without even thinking about it. He didn't even notice.

"Is this alright?" he asks, nodding down to where his palms lay over your figure. Better late than never.

You nod furiously, more eagerly than what you intended, but it's true nonetheless. It's so goddamn alright that you wish he'd never not have his hands on you. With a deep breath and burst of confidence, your hand slips down from his face to his left arm, running it down gently until you reach his hand.

It's unfamiliar, that kind of soft contact with the limb, Bucky realizes as soon as your fingertips trail over the intricate pattern running along the black.

"You lost it in this bar?" you ask, brows furrowing into a frown that he wants to smooth out.

Bucky nods. "Lost it when I was the new kid around here. We had these jerks come here few times a week—Hydra, they called themselves. The leader, Rumlow, he was a real shitty person. Came in with his gang one night already drunk out of their minds, high too probably, looking to pick a fight."

It's your turn now to squeeze his hand. Fingers trail over his palm, tracing a soft pattern that calms him better than the glass of whiskey he has beside him.

"They started picking on this young kid—Peter, who worked extra shifts on the weekends. Pulled out a knife eventually. I had to step in, safety guards weren't really a thing here back then," Bucky says. You notice the clench of his jaw, the tension he holds, and still he doesn't let any of it bleed out on his hold on you.

"Got ugly real fast. Brock and many of his friends had been serving too, overseas. They knew what they were doing, you know? At the end of the day, there were four of them against one. Had no chance, really."

"I'm sorry that happened to you, Bucky," you whisper. "Is this...you never step out past the bar counter. Wanda told me. Is this why?"

He nods in answer, knowing that he just did so after seven years of keeping this goddamn rule. His nod is answer enough for you, it seems like, because you move on to the next question before you even react.

"Where is Rumlow now?" you ask reluctantly, tightening your hold on his hand. He sees the way your gaze travels to the window for just a second, as if he would appear out of the blue to come for Bucky once more.

It's so goddamn endearing that he can't help himself. His hands travel to your waist, lifting you down from the table, placing you in his lap. The soft pads of your feet cling onto the sides of his thighs, heat rushing to your cheeks so quickly that Bucky can almost feel the temperature radiating from you. But you don't protest in the least. Instead you give him a shy smile, hands ghosting over his skin until they find their place at the nape of his neck.

"He's serving time, sweetheart. Can't get to me or anyone else in a long time," Bucky assures you, running his hand down the small of your back while gazing up at you. His head has fallen back onto the top of the sofa, resting. "You know I wouldn't even let you in this bar if there was a chance he and Hydra could come in?"

"No?" you ask, stopping the slow movements of your hands.

"Absolutely not. If someone laid a hand on you..." Bucky trails his fingers up to your cheek, tucking strands of hair behind your ear. "Don't think I would be able to handle that very well."

A shaky breath escapes your lips, hits the top of his nose with the proximity. He knows he just revealed too much, too much about what he feels for you, but it doesn't really matter anymore. He already has you in his lap, stroking your hair with a softness he's never displayed before. You have to know by now.

"Why did you go out today, Bucky? Why did you do that for me?" you ask him in a near whisper.

He looks down at where you’re pressed against him with a deprecating smile. "Steve told me it was obvious from the second night when I kept giving you free drinks even though I said I wouldn't, that punk," he answers you.

And despite his words, his conviction in your knowledge of how absolutely gone he is for you, your eyes still widen along with your fingers digging into his shoulders tightly enough to bruise. It almost makes him angry, the way you're so used to having real affection kept away from you that you haven't seen his infatuation. But then again, he hasn't been exactly perfect in handling his feelings. Sam gave him a good reminder of that earlier.

"Hell, I don't blame you for missin' it," he speaks up again when your silence remains. "Been a real jerk sometimes. Couldn't even talk to you for real the first few weeks."

And to his surprise, you let a small chuckle slip out between your lips. It's not really the reaction Bucky expected.

"You know, I've been telling myself that Wanda was the reason I came here so often?" you say, tracing the outline of his face with your fingertip. "Thought I could trick myself into liking you less if only my reasoning was something else than staring at you working all night. But I don't think that's possible—not looking at you, I mean."

"Hm?" Bucky smirks up at you, drawing a blinding grin from your lips.

"When something...someone lovely exists in front of you, just like that, you would think it a great disservice to whoever created that thing if you do not look at it. And my god, are you beautiful, Bucky."

"Beautiful?" His eyes flicker down to his arm for just a thousandth of a second—you catch it, the way his smile falters just as quickly as it returns.

"Yeah. Surely you must have noticed. You do own a mirror, do you?" you say, melting under his touch as it draws you closer to him. Chest to chest.

"I do," he answers. But he's not looking at you anymore. Or he is, he is looking at you, but not at your eyes. No, his gaze have flickered down to the swell of your lips. "I don't look at it very much."

"No?"

"No. Been spendin' all my time keeping an eye on the pretty girl hanging around the bar. Listening to her talkin' for hours, watching her get pissed drunk, working even though it's a Friday night. I could watch you breathe for hours and not tear my eyes away."

And that’s just what you do—breathe, shallow breaths that feel warm against Bucky’s skin. By now your gaze isn’t focused on his eyes anymore either. It sits so comfortably on the swell of his pink lips, begging for a touch with your own. Soon that silent plead turns real when his mouth forms after the words coming out through his lips.

“I have to kiss you, Y/n. Please let me,” he breathes out, panting, hands splayed out over your cheeks. Both warm and calloused, cold and hard. Perfectly Bucky.

“You don’t gotta ask,” you whisper, an inch away from him, noses touching.

A minute passes. 30 seconds. An hour. Two weeks? You don’t know and don’t care. Spending half a month having Bucky Barnes’s lips on yours would be a perfectly reasonable amount time, if not much too little. But oh, he lets out small whines when you distance yourself and you can’t help but giggle each time.

The next second he pulls you in again, demands the presence of your lips against his, orders your submission with his tongue. He groans, bucking up against your hips. God, the way he touches you, acts, make you desperate. You think you might be addicted to the sweet bourbon taste of Bucky Barnes.

“I knew it!” a shrill shriek erupts the enclosed space you shared with the man underneath you, tears you away from his lips with a soundless whine.

Wanda stands there, all smiling and giddy with a pouting Steve beside her, just behind the bar. He fishes out his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, plucking out a twenty dollar bill with a scowl. But despite it all, as he makes eye contact with Bucky, there’s a raise of his eyebrow and a small questioning smile on his lips.

You hurry to scramble off of Bucky’s lap, sitting down on your knees right beside him, a grounding metal hand on your waist. The embarrassment must be visible from miles away.

“Thought you’d never have the guts to ask her out,” Steve mutters under his breath. “You just made me lose twenty bucks, you punk.” He holds up the wrinkled bill before Wanda snatches it out of his hands.

The man beside you growls quietly, mumbles a ‘jerk’ under his breath, but you catch the small smirk on his lips anyways.

“Oh, c’mon. It was obvious that these two were gonna combust if they didn’t kiss by the end of the week,” Wanda says.

“Yeah, yeah. You know, Sam was about to ask her out. Said that if Buck didn’t make a move soon he would instead.”

Bucky’s grip on you tightens so much you have to gently loosen it with your fingers. It nearly makes you giggle, the way he’s glaring daggers at his friend sporting a knowing smirk. Steve knows exactly what kind of reaction that would summon out of him.

“That damn pu—“

“Hey,” you call out softly, hands engulfing his face until he’s facing you. “I’m yours, Bucky.”

His scowl softens, blue eyes running over your face for any sign of insincerity that he has never found the trace of in your expressions.

“If you’ll have me,” you add a few seconds later, an abrupt response to the realization that what Bucky is looking for might not be something more than a make-out session.

But then that frown turns into a devious smirk, eyes once more flickering down to your lips while his palms find their way to your hips.

“I’ll have you, darling. On every damn surface in my place, in every damn way I can have you.”

“We can still hear you!” Wanda shouts.

But that mischievous smirk doesn’t falter. No, instead a soft kiss is pressed to your lips, drawing an even bigger smile out of you.

“Good.”

[metal-armed-muse]

babydoll - part 2

pairing: Bucky x fem!reader

word count: 6K

summary: you swore you could keep your two lives separate: medical intern by the day, faceless fantasy online by night. But then Bucky Barnes walks in for a check up... and later logs in to watch you strip. He knows. You don't. And the deeper he falls, the harder it is to keep both worlds from colliding. (in which, Bucky subscribes to your OF page and becomes obsessed)

warnings: age gap (reader is an intern ; probably not more than 25/26), highly suggestive themes, minor injury to reader, switching povs, masturbation, online stalking, slow-ish burn, MDNI, Bucky is kind of a perv, reader is a camgirl. no use of y/n.

a/n: oh god, i am so scared to post this. but here goes. let’s imagine all the OF stuff is accurate because i have no idea how it works. pretty sure the image is of tiktok followers count, but let’s move on. is 11.1k even a considerable amount, who knows?! this one is long, but it doesn’t have much interactions. we spend most of the time inside their sick heads. blame my mind because it tricked me into writing a slow burn. but I swear next part will be banging. also, i’m imagining babydoll!bucky to have the same lore as mcu bucky, minus the trauma. i don’t plan on writing him to the point where he shares his backstory, so you can kinda imagine that he’s an avenger, but he doesn’t have trauma. only after writing so many soldier analogies and the reason for him calling her ‘doll’, and the whole metal arm thing, I wondered about how fucking weird for mcu bucky to be doing these sorts of things. i kinda messed up on the whole history part, i‘m sorry. also apologising for this weird ass rambling.

series masterlist || prev part || next part (coming soon)

The thought had been gnawing at him all night, sharp little teeth worrying away at the edges of his brain. No matter how many times he tried to shove it down, distract himself, tell himself he was being ridiculous—it just kept coming back. That face he couldn’t see, but the words she spoke aloud, the sounds she made, the way none of them could be traced back to her real life.

Babydoll.

And if he was right, you.

Sweet little intern, fresh-faced and neat in your white coat, cheeks pink from rushing through a shift you probably hated, hair tied back in that careful way that screamed both discipline and inexperience. You carried yourself like the weight of the hospital might crush you if you stopped walking for even a second, and yet somehow you made it look easy. He’d been here enough times to recognize the type—those bright-eyed doctors who hadn’t been worn down yet, who hadn’t still faced the wrath of the cruel world, who still held out hope, still full of nervous smiles and that heartbreaking sincerity.

It nearly made him go mad — the impossible overlap of innocence and filth, of the way you looked when you pressed two careful fingers to his wrist with professional precision… versus the way someone with your exact hands (or so he thought) had been dragging slick fingers down her stomach in a poorly lit room. He’d convinced himself it was coincidence. Had to be. No way in hell the too-sweet, too-earnest little girl with her white coat a size too big was the same as babydoll. Except—he hadn’t entirely convinced himself. His cock had been stubbornly unconvinced, twitching awake again every time he pictured you lowering your lashes in the hospital, and then lowering your panties in the video.

He couldn’t let it go. He had to know.

So, here he was, hauling his ass back to the hospital like some creep who actually enjoyed waiting rooms. Which was funny, because usually just the smell of antiseptic and the squeak of rubber soles on polished floors was enough to sour his whole mood. But today? He almost hummed as he leaned against the counter, pretending he was just another patient waiting his turn.

It felt like reconnaissance, but filthier. He used to study weak points on a body to figure out where to land a blow. Now he was cataloguing curves and shadows, imagining how you’d look from angles the hospital lights would never allow. Worse than a mission, really. At least missions had rules.

He repeatedly told himself he just needed to look. Just confirm for himself that he’d lost his mind, that there was no overlap beyond what his filthy head wanted there to be. Except when he stepped into the room, his eyes were tracking you so fast it was almost embarrassing.

And then—you.

Down the hall, clipboard tucked against your chest, lips pressed together in concentration as you read something over. The overhead lights caught on the edges of your hair, made it look softer than it had any right to in this sterile place. And your coat—it wasn’t tight, exactly, but God, it was enough. Enough for him to see the little sway of your hips as you walked, the way your scrubs pulled across your thighs.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. Because he shouldn’t be looking. He knew he shouldn’t. But try telling that to his dick, already throbbing at just the sight of you. Innocent little you, brows furrowed like the most exciting thing in your life was whether you’d written down the right dosage.

How the fuck can someone look like that in a hospital?

You turned, like you felt the weight of his stare, and the moment your eyes landed on him you lit up.

“Oh—Bucky!” you said, quick little smile breaking across your face.

That smile. He wasn’t prepared.

You walked over, fast little steps that made your coat flutter around your knees, and you tilted your head at him. “Back again? You’re gonna make people think you like this place.”

“Maybe I do,” he said, trying to play it off, his voice rougher than it had any right to be. Maybe I like you.

Your laugh was quiet, caught somewhere between shy and polite. You stood close enough now that he could smell the faintest trace of your lotion under the sharp bite of disinfectant. He had to shove his hands in his pockets just to keep from reaching out.

“You remember my name,” he said, because he couldn’t help it.

“You told me to,” you reminded him, ducking your head just a little, like you were embarrassed to admit it. And you added, voice softer now. “You were polite. Not everyone is, you know.”

Polite. That word nearly broke him. If only you knew what was going through his head.

Also, fuck that shyness. It disarmed him completely. Made his chest tight. It has to be the same girl. It has to be. Because no one else could make him feel this feral just standing here talking about nothing.

His gaze flicked down without permission, shamelessly cataloguing: the slope of your hips under the coat, the neat line of your thighs, the way your shoes looked too new for how long you must’ve been on shift. God, you were soft in all the places that made a man ache to grip.

“You look better than last time,” you said kindly, taking in his face with a professional’s eye, though there was a spark of personal warmth there too. “Color’s back.”

Better? He was about two seconds from pitching a tent.

“Guess I’m a quick healer,” he replied lightly, though his gaze snagged on your hands. That was when he noticed—the tiny strip of white gauze wrapped around your middle finger. You were trying not to draw attention to it, but he’d been trained to notice details. Not much can escape his eyes. The stethoscope yesterday, and this bandage today.

He tilted his chin toward it. “What’s that about?”

“Oh—” You flushed, lifting your hand like you hadn’t realized it was obvious. “It’s nothing. Just—uh—slipped while opening an ampoule. Stupid mistake. The glass nicked me.”

He hummed, the sound low in his chest. “Sharp little things, huh?”

“Mm.” You gave a sheepish smile, embarrassed by the small injury, and tucked your hand quickly behind the chart again.

And Christ almighty, his cock gave another twitch. You weren’t even trying. You weren’t doing anything. Just standing there, blushing faintly, explaining a cut like it mattered—and he wanted to pin that hand to the mattress and mouth over your knuckles until you forgot what sterile even meant.

“You should be more careful,” he teased, voice dropping in that way he knew could skate between playful and suggestive. But there was also a certain concern behind it, like he couldn’t stand something hurting your delicate skin.

“I will,” you promised quickly. That pink in your cheeks wasn’t just embarrassment now. He could read the shift, faint as it was.

He let a slow smile curl. “Good girl.”

You blinked, visibly startled, and then laughed nervously. “Good girl? You talk like I’m five.”

“Habit,” he drawled, utterly unrepentant. “Guess it sticks when you’re from my time.”

Your head tilted, curious. “From your time? Is that why—” you hesitated, glanced up through your lashes, “why you call me ‘doll’? You said it last time too.”

“Yeah.” He shrugged with deliberate ease, watching you watch him. “That’s just what we called pretty girls back in my day. It stuck.”

Your lips parted, surprised. “Pretty girls?”

“Mm.” His voice lowered, the sound of it dragging rough and slow, like gravel smoothed by whiskey. “And you fit the bill just fine.”

You flushed deeper this time, and it was so damn pretty. That mix of shy pride and embarrassment, like you didn’t know what to do with the compliment. “Doll,” you repeated softly, like you were tasting the word.

He let the pause hang, savoring it. Then he bent forward a little, enough that his voice lowered.

“It suits you.”

Your lips parted, and he didn’t miss the way your fingers tightened on the chart like you needed the anchor. Professional mask back in place quickly, but the slip had been there. He’d seen it.

And here’s the thing : Bucky—poor, shameless bastard that he was—had to fight not to groan aloud at the heat coiling low in his gut. Because this was the problem: you looked like every ounce of purity, every shade of bright-eyed professionalism, and yet the little details—the way you ducked your head, the way you flushed when he called you doll—made him think of everything else he’d seen. Everything else he wanted and craved.

And fuck, if that wasn’t enough to make a man hard just standing in the goddamn hospital.

The glow of his phone lit up his face, a sudden vibration rattling against the wood of his nightstand. Bucky squinted against the brightness, the notification banner slicing through the darkness like some neon arrow that stabbed him straight in the chest.

babydoll is live.

His thumb hovered over the screen longer than he’d ever admit, like he needed to savor this little ritual of self-destruction. Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it? Masochism disguised as curiosity. He’d spent the entire day trying not to think about her—about you—back in that sterile hospital room, and how you had looked up at him like you didn’t know he was imagining things he absolutely shouldn’t have been imagining. You, all fresh and adorable in your white coat.

And now, there was this—another you.

Two versions of you lived in his head now, clashing like cymbals. One smiled politely under hospital fluorescents, the other spread her thighs in amber lamplight. He couldn’t tell which was worse—the innocence, or the lace. The saint or the siren.

With a muttered curse, he tapped the notification.

The stream opened, and for a moment his breath actually hitched, like he’d just been punched in the ribs. There you were, the glow of some warm lamp catching on your skin, highlighting the curves you were half-covering with delicate lace. Not naked yet but Bucky was sure it didn’t matter. The two-piece clung to you. It was a far cry from scrubs and a stethoscope, and yet, God, it made you even more dangerous, because now he couldn’t separate the images in his head.

“Hey, guys,” your voice lilted through his phone, a little tired around the edges. “I’m… honestly so exhausted tonight, so this is gonna be short. Just wanted to check in with you, though.”

Exhausted. He almost barked a laugh. Yeah, no shit. He’d seen you today, hadn’t he? In person, wide-eyed and earnest, telling him about ampoules like it was the most important thing in the world. You didn’t look exhausted back then, but working way too many hours in a hospital tends to do that, and you were just a measly intern.

But, now you were sprawled somewhere in your apartment, palm grazing over your chest, dragging slow circles around your nipple through the thin lace.

Bucky’s heart raced, and his cock twitched just watching. He told himself to look away, to have an ounce of dignity. His body laughed at the idea. It was ridiculous, really, how fast you could undo him. A stranger—or at least you should’ve been a stranger. Except now, he couldn’t shake the memory of your soft smile and how goddamn innocent you’d looked earlier, like you wouldn’t hurt a fly. Like you had no idea what you were doing to him.

“Fuckin’ liar,” he muttered under his breath, palming himself over his sweatpants. “You know exactly what you’re doin’.”

He deluded himself into thinking it wasn’t you again. Couldn’t be you. Except—

His gaze snagged on it before his brain even registered why. The bandage. Right there, wrapped around your middle finger, the same finger he’d noticed in the hospital earlier when you’d told him you cut yourself. It wasn’t posed; hell, it wasn’t even the focus. Just there, a little strip of white stark against your skin as your hand drifted lazily over your own chest.

“Fuck,” his voice was barely a whisper as he shot forward, his eyes almost popping out of his head.

Cold prickled down his spine. That little strip of white turned his doubts into proof, fantasy into fact. His pulse roared in his ears. It’s you. It’s really you.

Not just probably. Not maybe. Not some convenient coincidence his dick was trying to spin into a fairytale. No. It was you. You in scrubs, you in lace, you on his screen, moaning softly into a microphone, touching yourself for strangers.

“Fuckin’ knew it,” he rasped, grinning even as his stomach knotted.

Victory and dread twisted together, a cocktail that left his mouth dry. He should’ve felt sick, but instead his cock was begging for more. What the fuck was wrong with him?

The chat scrolled fast enough to blur, but then his eyes caught on a question that made his blood run hot for a whole other reason.

hardonharry : what happened to your finger babydoll?

You held your hand up for a second, wiggling your fingers with a soft laugh. “Oh, this? Just cut myself with some glass. Dumb, I know.”

Glass. Ampoule. The stories lined up too well. Bucky’s gut twisted.

But before he could sink too far into that revelation, another message popped up.

richboy123 tipped $100: Take care, babydoll ❤️

“Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” Bucky growled. His cock pulsed in his palm now, angry and hard and jealous all at once. Jealous—over some faceless username tossing money at you through a screen. “He doesn’t care if you’re takin’ care. Bet he’s just sittin’ there with his pants down, huh? Fuckin’ prick.”

You giggled—actually giggled—when the tip notification pinged, and Bucky thought his teeth might crack from clenching his jaw.

“Thank you, that’s so sweet,” you murmured, leaning a little closer to the camera. Your cleavage spilled forward, practically framed for the guy who’d just paid for the privilege.

This was insane. Bucky shouldn’t care. You weren’t his. He wasn’t yours. And yet watching you smile for another man’s money made something raw and violent curl in his chest.

“That should be me, doll,” he muttered, low and possessive. “Should be me makin’ you smile like that. Not some—some fuckin’ ‘richboy.’”

The thought sat heavy in his chest, darker than he wanted to admit. Jealousy over a stranger in a chat room. Rage at an emoji heart. It was madness, but the kind he couldn’t shake.

His hand tightened over his cock, not even stroking anymore, just gripping like he needed to anchor himself. You, on screen, moaning faintly as your hand rubbed circles over your nipple through that delicate lace. You, with your bandaged finger that confirmed everything he’d already suspected. You, making him lose his goddamn mind in the span of ten goddamn minutes.

And Bucky Barnes, once again realized he was completely, utterly, thoroughly fucked.

You were supposed to be sleeping. That was what normal people did at this hour, especially interns who had rounds at seven in the morning and a stack of case notes waiting to be written before then. But the word normal hadn’t fit you for a while now. Not since you’d started balancing two lives that felt stitched together with trembling hands and very thin thread.

On paper, you were the model intern in one of the most prestigious teaching hospitals in the state. You wore your scrubs properly, kept your hair pulled back, smiled politely when seniors barked orders, and worked with steady hands. But reality was harsher—your stipend barely covered rent, and what little was left went to groceries and the monthly money transfer you refused to stop sending back home. There wasn’t much left for you after that. No dinners out, no decent coffee that didn’t taste like ash water, not even proper shoes for all the endless walking up and down sterile corridors.

And so, the side hustle.

It had started as a joke, honestly. A late-night complaint to your friend about how broke you were, how you might start selling feet pics just to make ends meet. She hadn’t laughed. Instead, she’d grinned, propped her chin on her palm, and said, “Why not? It’s fun. Easy money if you’re careful.” You’d rolled your eyes, but later—curiosity had gotten the better of you. You signed up for an OnlyFans account.

At first, you’d had no clue what you were doing. The interface looked like someone had mixed Facebook with the world’s kinkiest Etsy. You googled, you lurked, you watched. The golden rule you’d decided right away was simple: no face. Absolutely not. You weren’t stupid. Your family finding out would be catastrophic. Your med school finding out? Career suicide. License revoked before you’d even been given one. You’d spent years working toward becoming a doctor; you weren’t about to torch that for the sake of flashing your smile on camera.

It wasn’t just about being careful. It was survival. Every time you hit upload, there was that flicker of paranoia in your chest, the quiet terror that someone might recognize the curve of your shoulder, or the bedspread in the background, or even the way you held yourself. You zoomed in on frames until your eyes blurred, cropped ruthlessly, deleted more than you posted. It was obsessive. Maybe neurotic. But that was the cost of keeping your two worlds stitched apart, and you paid it without hesitation.

So, no faces. Never.

Which, in your mind, should’ve meant no followers. Because really, who would pay good money to see a faceless stranger touching herself? You’d laughed at yourself for even trying.

Turns out, a lot of people.

More than you’d ever imagined. The numbers started crawling up faster than you could track them. One month in, you’d passed a thousand. By two months, you were staring at figures that made your stipend look like bus fare. Rent no longer sat on your chest like a lead weight. Groceries didn’t feel like punishment. You even treated yourself—splurging on things you’d never have bought before.

The first was equipment: a proper camera, a couple of ring lights, tripods. Not that your phone hadn’t been doing its best, but damn, the difference a lens and lighting made was unreal. The second was… well, toys. You hadn’t expected to actually like them. They were supposed to be props—plastic stand-ins to make the feed more enticing. But somewhere between the first tentative unboxing and the late nights spent testing “content ideas,” they’d stopped feeling like accessories and started feeling like discoveries. You’d caught yourself blushing more than once, deleting takes not because they weren’t sexy enough, but because they were too real. Too unfiltered. Too much you enjoying it instead of you performing it.

Even though, it was you just testing the waters at first, You’d leaned into it. You’d picked a username that was equal parts ridiculous and cute, the kind of thing that disarmed while still feeling suggestive. And somehow, it had stuck. Babydoll. The kind of name that sounded like bubblegum and lip gloss, like someone who actually knew how to bat her lashes without poking herself in the eye. You couldn’t be further from it if you tried. Half the time you were scrubbing in with too little sleep, living off vending machine granola bars, and praying your deodorant hadn’t failed halfway through a sixteen-hour shift. But maybe that was the trick… no one had to know the real you. They got the stage version, soft-lit and edited. They bought the fantasy. And for a few hours, you got to pretend you were her too.

Tonight, though, lying on your bed with your laptop screen still open, you weren’t thinking about your subscriber count or which bra set might pull more tips tomorrow. You were thinking about him.

Bucky.

The name alone tugged something hot through your stomach. You hadn’t expected to see him again. Not after the first encounter, not after that strange pull in the room where your eyes had lingered on him just a little too long. And yet he’d shown up again, strolling into the hospital like trouble dressed in a leather jacket. The way he looked at you had left your pulse skittering.

You shouldn’t have been thinking about him. But something about him had burned itself into the back of your mind like an afterimage, refusing to fade. Every time the day went quiet, he crept back in. That low, careless voice. The way his eyes caught yours like he had all the time in the world. And above all, the way he called you ‘doll’. That name which was tied to your online persona never bought heat rise to your cheeks, until him. It was infuriating. It was addictive.

And god, he was gorgeous. Not just the kind of handsome that made interns gossip in call rooms, but gorgeous in the kind of way you’d expect carved into marble. His hair fell too carelessly, his jaw could cut glass, and that smile—when he bothered to flash it—had no business being that devastating.

But it wasn’t just the surface. What stuck with you most, replaying now like a loop in your mind, was the way he noticed things.

That tiny bandage wrapped around your finger, for instance. You hadn’t even remembered it was there until he’d pointed it out. None of your seniors had cared enough to ask. They barely noticed if you ate, let alone if you nicked yourself. But he had. He’d looked right at it, asked with genuine curiosity.

And maybe it was nothing. Maybe he was just observant, maybe it was common courtesy. But to you? After weeks of being invisible, of being just another intern in scrubs? It felt like a spotlight.

It left you a little rattled. A little warm, too. Being noticed for the someone who you actually are. Not the staged version but the unfiltered you.

And then there was the arm. That goddamn arm. You hadn’t stopped thinking about it since. The gleam of metal, the way it caught the light when he shifted. Something about it had your imagination running in places it absolutely shouldn’t. You shouldn’t be lying in bed wondering what it would feel like to have cool vibranium fingers pressed against your skin, against your throat. But here you were, rolling onto your stomach, biting your lip against the thought.

You’d wanted to see him again the moment he walked away. Which was both funny and unhinged. You didn’t even know him. You were supposed to be worrying about tomorrow’s patients, not about a man whose smile had managed to wedge itself between your ribs. Still, the thought of him lingered, sticky and sweet as melted candy. You told yourself it was nothing. You didn’t believe it for a second. But desire didn’t care about logic.

You flipped onto your back, staring at the ceiling.

“Get a grip,” you muttered to yourself, smacking a pillow over your face. But all it did was trap the grin you couldn’t quite hold back.

Because you already knew. If he came back? You wouldn’t mind one bit.

And even though it should scare you, it had an entirely opposite effect, something that sent heat to your core, and made your thighs clench.

Bucky hated how familiar the little chime of the app had become. Like some Pavlovian curse, it triggered his pulse before his brain even caught up—live or not, new video or just another faceless picture of you sprawled across sheets, shadows doing half the teasing for you. He told himself he was only checking out of… what, curiosity? Research? Bullshit. He was checking because he couldn’t stop.

It had been a week since the hospital. A week since you’d smiled at him, called him Bucky like it was the most natural thing in the world, like you didn’t know what that did to him. A week of him trying to act like a normal man with a normal routine instead of one spiraling into obsession over a faceless girl on a subscription site.

He wanted to talk to you. God, he wanted to. The thought of sending a message hovered in his chest every night. The damn DM button sat there like temptation incarnate. All it would take was one click, a couple of words—hi, doll—and the wall between the two worlds would splinter.

But still he didn’t press send.

Instead, he lurked. Like a goddamn creep.

Your schedule had become carved into his week without him realizing. Late nights only, three times a week—Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Sometimes, if luck favored him, you showed up on a Sunday, looking tired, murmuring that it’d be short, that you were exhausted. That was the only time he hated seeing you, when you were too exhausted.

The fucked up thing was, he could almost chart your exhaustion like vitals on a monitor. The way your shoulders sagged, the rasp in your voice after spending hours on your feet—he tracked it all. He knew the signs. He knew the toll it had on you. It made his chest ache, watching you push through it for strangers who’d never care the way he did.

On the other nights, you posted pictures or pre-recorded clips. Soon he caught onto the trick—you wearing the same red lace set on Monday and again in a “new” clip Thursday. Filmed ahead, planned. A part of him admired the efficiency. Another part, the darker one, liked imagining you setting aside a day to play dress-up just for him, though he knew that wasn’t true.

He wasn’t special. Just another subscriber.

Yeah, tell that to his cock every time he saw your hands slide beneath lace, or the way you arched for the camera like you knew it would make men stupid. Like you knew it made him stupid.

He thought about messaging you again. But the idea of DMs… that was dangerous. He pictured your inbox clogged with filth, requests, insults, desperate confessions. He imagined you scrolling, rolling your eyes, maybe laughing at the absurdity.

“Coward,” he muttered to himself one night, thumb hovering over the app. He was half sprawled on his couch, beer abandoned, phone bright in the dark. His reflection glared faintly back at him from the black frame. The great James Buchanan Barnes, too chickenshit to text a girl.

Not even text—paid messaging on an adult app. Fuck him.

On nights you weren’t live, he caught himself scrolling too long through old posts, memorizing the curve of your hip in one picture, the arch of your back in another. He noticed details nobody else seemed to—like how you always wore a thin anklet, or how your voice goes down two octaves when you've battled a hard shift. No one else knew you were tired because you’ve spent sixteen hours on foot. No one else but him.

He knew you. Or he told himself he did.

He should message, right? But what the fuck would he even say?

Hey doll, liked your last video. Pathetic.

Hope that cut’s healing okay. Creepy. Also, it’d been a week, it would’ve healed already. And knowing you, you probably cut yourself three more times by now.

You drive me insane, and I think about you every time I close my eyes. Too much. Too fucking much.

Or he could type something simple, something casual—hey. Or, you know, big fan of your work, really respect your… dedication. He winced at the thought. No matter what he wrote, he’d sound like one of the slimy bastards you probably got fifty times a day. The ones offering five hundred bucks for a “private show,” as if you’d drop everything just to spread your legs on command for some greasy loser named ‘user_42069’.

It made his skin crawl. Not because of you—you handled it well, brushed them off with a laugh or ignored them altogether. If anything, your composure made it worse. The way you leaned back, like none of it could touch you. Like you had complete control over what people got to see. He respected it. Admired it, even. But it also made his stomach twist. Because the act was for everyone. It belonged to a faceless audience. And he wanted the part of you that wasn’t for sale. It reminded him of what he really was. Just another man on the other side of the glass, watching, wanting. Pathetic.

And yet here he was, watching, wanting, pathetically.

Bucky let his head tip back against the couch, groaning up at the ceiling like maybe the plaster could give him advice. “What the fuck am I supposed to say, huh?” he muttered. “Nice tits, by the way, saw you at work, loved the bandage on your finger?” His own voice sounded ridiculous in the quiet apartment. The kind of ridiculous that made him laugh, then wince, because the laugh didn’t stop his cock from pressing insistently against his sweats.

And the funny thing? Every time you popped into existence on that screen, Bucky’s first thought wasn’t God, I want to fuck her (don’t get him wrong, it was still there). It was God, I want to talk to her. How the tables have turned.

Talk. Like some idiot schoolboy with a crush.

He dragged his hand over his face, trying to scrub the thought out. He wasn’t sixteen. He wasn’t a blushing virgin sneaking nudie mags under his bed. Still, it felt juvenile as hell. This wasn’t puppy love. This was a man starving, pretending he could live off crumbs. The irony didn’t get lost on him — a grown man debating whether to slide into the DMs of a girl who probably got more attention in an hour than he did in a month.

But you’re not just any girl, his brain whispered unhelpfully.

He groaned again. Louder. His neighbors were gonna think he was dying. Maybe he was. Dying of thirst.

The phone buzzed, snapping him out of his spiral. For half a second, his chest actually leapt—stupid, idiotic delusion that maybe you had messaged first, maybe the universe wasn’t a cruel bitch after all. But no. Just Sam, sending a meme of a cat wearing sunglasses.

“Useless,” Bucky muttered, tossing the phone onto the couch cushion beside him. It bounced, screen flashing back to your profile, that familiar banner still sitting smugly at the top. Last active five hours ago.

Five hours. That meant if his math was right—and it was, because he’d fucking charted this shit like a lunatic—then you’d pop up any minute now. So he waited.

babydoll is live.

He didn’t even try to play it cool this time. His pulse kicked faster, scrambling for the phone, thumb jabbing at the alert before the thought of restraint could even flit through his head. The screen opened, loading bar stuttering for a half-second that felt criminally long. Then—you.

Two-piece tonight. Black lace, with straps that seemed designed to make him sweat. Just sitting there, the glow of soft ring lights painting your skin like honey. Your hand toyed with the hem of your bra, not pulling it down, just teasing, brushing over the swell of your breast. The faintest pressure at your nipple through the lace. Enough to make every subscriber lean forward, he was sure. He definitely did.

And then—your voice.

“You guys really want me to work, huh?” you said with a laugh, breath curling around the mic, the kind of laugh that sounded like you were sharing a secret no one else deserved. “I’m tired tonight. But…” You dragged the word out, thumb toying with the bow at your hip. “…I might give you a little something.”

Bucky’s throat tightened. Fuck. That voice. It was playful, pitched just right between coy and cruel. Dirty talk without ever being crude, teasing without ever giving too much away.

The comments poured in, fast and rabid.

hardforyou : show us babydoll pls

babydollno1fan : take it off!!!

garret23 : lemme taste u

He hated them. Assholes with one hand in their pants and zero imagination. But his eyes didn’t stay on the chat long. They stayed on you.

You shifted closer, letting the camera catch the way your fingers played at the clasp between your breasts. You didn’t undo it, only brushed it, pulling it just enough that the lace tugged against your skin. His teeth clicked together.

And then your voice again. “Bet you’d like it if I took this off, huh? If I let you see… but maybe I don’t feel like being nice tonight.”

The chat exploded. More begging. More tips rolling in, little chimes of currency flashing across the corner of the stream.

Bucky pressed his tongue against his molars. He should be used to this by now. This was the game, wasn’t it? The tease. The build-up. The not giving in immediately. That’s why they all kept coming back—because you didn’t. Because you stayed in control.

And Christ, he couldn’t lie—it worked. Worked so well his skin felt hot just watching you trail a fingertip along the waistband of your panties, never dipping under, just circling, circling, until his dick was straining against denim.

You laughed again. “God, you’re all so desperate.”

He leaned closer, trying to drink in every pixel. The curve of your body, the sway of your hand, the way your thighs parted just slightly before pressing closed again. Teasing. Always teasing. “If you want more, maybe you’ll have to beg harder next time. Because—”

And then the screen went black. Just blank. You didn’t even complete your sentence.

Bucky blinked at the screen, waiting for the feed to pop back up. When it didn’t, he refreshed the page once, then twice. Still nothing. The little red ‘Live’ icon was gone, vanished as if you’d never been there at all. His stomach sank with a sudden heaviness, the kind that made his chest feel hollow. Something inside him sank.

What the fuck—did something happen?

One second you’d been there—laughing, teasing, your voice filling the space around him like it had every right to live in his apartment too. And the next, you were gone. The silence that followed pressed in on him, until he became painfully aware of how quiet everything actually was.

He stared at his phone. At your profile, your last posts, the grayed-out ‘Live ended’ message.

Something ugly twisted in his chest. Concern, sharp and immediate. Not the jealous itch that usually came with watching other guys tip you. This was heavier.

What if something bad happened? What if she passed out? What if someone showed up? What if she—

“Fuck.” His voice cracked through the quiet.

He hovered over the message button, heart thudding. Then, before he could overthink it, he typed:

BrooklynBoy : are you okay?

Simple and nothing else. Not baby or princess or any of the creepy shit he’d seen flood your comments. Just concern. Honest and bare. He hit ‘send’ before his nerves could catch up with him. The screen blinked, the message settled in the thread, glowing faintly against the dark mode background like something waiting to explode. He didn’t expect you to reply, not really. He told himself as much, though his chest ached with the thought anyway. What mattered—what sat in his bones—was the hope that you were alright. That was all.

She’ll come back. She’s probably just showering. Or eating. Something normal. Fuck!

a/n 2: i’m sooo excited about them interacting in the next part. sorry if this part was a little boring.

next part (coming soon)

series masterlist || main masterlist

dividers by @cursed-carmine and @cafekitsune - thank you!

tag list - in reblogs

comment if you want to be added to the tag list!

[blowingbarnes]

salivating on all fours

[wkemeup]

Delicate Edges - Masterlist

summary: Your family’s beloved flower shop was not the only thing you inherited when your parents passed. Trapped under a mountain of debt to the Hydra club, you bear the cost of your father’s desperate bargain. It’s only in moments when the charming Bucky Barnes walks into your shop that you can forget the cruelty of the biker clubs of this town. But a war is brewing. The border is crumbling. You're trapped in the middle. And Bucky will stop at nothing to keep you safe. (Biker!AU) pairing: Bucky x reader series word count: ~70k series warnings: canon level violence, biker gangs, extortion, sexual harassment, smut (18+, will be marked by chapter with *), an exorbitant amount of fluff turns into a shitstorm of angst

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight *

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Epilogue

🖤 series playlist

[wkemeup]

I’m With You - Mini Series Masterlist

summary: When two strangers meet on a layover in the Charlotte Airport, they are sent on a whirlwind weekend filled with cancelled flights, painful questions over giant checkers, an ex-boyfriend’s wedding, and a confrontational graduation. They find that a lifetime can sit in the span of three days and it doesn’t take very long at all to fall in love. pairing: Bucky x Reader, modern!au series word count: 31k warnings: fluff???, some minor angst bc its me, soft!bucky 

part one: the layover

part two: the wedding

part three: the graduation

Drabbles

The Ledge

48 Hours

The First Date

Follow Request

I Love You

Better Options

Headcanons

phone names, date nights, cuddling, holidays

quarantine 

✨series playlist ✨

This series is officially complete 🌸

[herejustforbuckybarnes]

Attention, students! You've been enrolled in a course you didn't sign up for. The program is extensive, the professor is distractingly attractive, and the chances of you dropping this class are zero. Welcome to Midterms & Metal Arms A College AU Marathon, a collab between three friends @herejustforbuckybarnes @w1nter-fairy & @buckysdecaflove

What's on the program?

just friends - @herejustforbuckybarnes

pairing: Nerd Bucky Barnes x Roommate!Reader summary: After finding your roommate in a compromising situation, you volunteer to give him a hand… and a mouth, kickstarting the most tumultuous semester in your friendship with a sexual benefits deal; wisely, some rules were established. But would those rules be enough to keep you just friends?

Not so sudden - @buckysdecaflove

pairing: Prof!Bucky Barnes x Student F!Reader summary: You learn you're pregnant after having something not that casual with your professor, and he then shows you how ready he is to take care of you and your baby.

Academic Probation - @/w1nter-fairy

pairing: Dean Bucky Barnes x grad student!Reader summary: James Buchanan Barnes has spent his entire career believing discipline solves everything. Then a brilliant, chronically late graduate student walks into his office, challenges every opinion he has and somehow turns his carefully ordered life upside down.

salt and pepper - @/herejustforbuckybarnes

pairing: Dean Bucky Barnes x Professor!Reader summary: Dean Barnes had gone into hiding mode weeks after magical weeks together. Curiosity and resentment led you to confront him — nonetheless, you weren't expecting that he was hiding his salt-and-pepper hair. Time to show him you love him no matter what.

The one who calls you baby - @/buckysdecaflove

pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader summary: After a fling before summer’s vacation, Bucky decides you’re the one to settle down with, but your doubts grow bigger until he makes it clear you’re the only one he wants.

Tipsy Truth - @w1nter-fairy

pairing: Tutor!Bucky Barnes x Reader summary: Your phone is at eleven percent, your roommate isn't answering, and going back to your dorm isn't an option. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Unfortunately for you, these desperate measures involve waking Bucky Barnes in the middle of the night.

────────── MORE FICS TO BE ADDED SOON. ──────────

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Add yourself to each of our tag lists! herejustforbuckybarnes | buckysdecaflove | w1nter-fairy