Summary: It’s been a year since you put storm chasing with the Wranglers on hold in order to take care of your mom. One year filled with heartbreak, fear, regrets, and loss. When things finally start looking up, you start looking to reconnect with old friends. And maybe, maybe see about the subtle something that had been growing between you and Tyler before you left.
Warnings: Past Domestic Abuse, Parental Death, Mentions of Hospitals, Anxiety, PTSD, Friends to Lovers (if somehow that is traumatizing to you), My Poor Writing Skills.
One of the weirdest things about recovering from childhood depression is feeling emotions.
Took years to realize that people had a physical sensation when they felt things.
And you just kinda sit there one day and realize why people act the way they do.
I remember feeling jealous once and being like…”dang, I get it now 😂”
And the funniest thing is that you don’t get access to all the emotions at once. Like, your body just slowly starts giving them back to you one by one.
One of the weirdest things about recovering from childhood depression is feeling emotions.
Took years to realize that people had a physical sensation when they felt things.
And you just kinda sit there one day and realize why people act the way they do.
I remember feeling jealous once and being like…”dang, I get it now 😂”
And the funniest thing is that you don’t get access to all the emotions at once. Like, your body just slowly starts giving them back to you one by one.
One of the weirdest things about recovering from childhood depression is feeling emotions.
Took years to realize that people had a physical sensation when they felt things.
And you just kinda sit there one day and realize why people act the way they do.
I remember feeling jealous once and being like…”dang, I get it now 😂”
And the funniest thing is that you don’t get access to all the emotions at once. Like, your body just slowly starts giving them back to you one by one.
One of the weirdest things about recovering from childhood depression is feeling emotions.
Took years to realize that people had a physical sensation when they felt things.
And you just kinda sit there one day and realize why people act the way they do.
I remember feeling jealous once and being like…”dang, I get it now 😂”
And the funniest thing is that you don’t get access to all the emotions at once. Like, your body just slowly starts giving them back to you one by one.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x FemaleAvenger!Reader x SecretRelationship
Summary: You and Bucky have been secretly dating for almost a year. Stolen glances, quick touches, hidden dates, all of it made you love him more and more as the days went by. You decided not to tell the team because, in your field, loving was dangerous; it made you vulnerable to threats. But no matter what you did to hide yourselves, it didn’t matter when Bucky saw you injured.
A/N: Honesty, I wanted this to be more about the secret relationship, but I got ahead of myself with hurt Bucky, and so it became like barely any of the plot
W/C: 2.3K
You and Bucky had been together for 11 months and 6 days, but it felt like more time than that. The relationship truly started when the two of you met three years ago. You knew immediately he was special, and he knew immediately that he loved you.
After years of tiptoeing around your feelings, he finally cracked and confessed to you. From there, your relationship took off. Dates anytime you were free, sneaking into each other's rooms every night, and quiet moments when the team had their backs turned.
You both decided immediately not to tell anyone. To you, it didn’t matter who knew about it; you and Bucky loved each other no matter what. To Bucky, it was about safety. If people knew you could be used against each other, you could get hurt, and he would give his life for yours without second thought, but he didn’t ever want to be put in a situation where he had to.
For the past 11 months and 6 days, your life has been bliss. You slept better, smiled more, and took better care of yourself. The team had been wondering what’s got you all giggly. As for Bucky, he snarled less, spoke more, and even smiled on occasion, and the team has been teasing him with remarks like “When are we meeting the lucky girl Barnes?” or “Whoever she is she has you whipped bud” Bucky always just rolled his eyes, but they always met your soft smile which he always returned, a little red in the cheeks.
To you, Bucky was home. Not a place, but a person. The second he wrapped his arms around you, everything felt quieter somehow. Safer. You trusted him with your life, and trust had never come easy to you. Being with him made the bad days feel lighter. It wasn’t even big moments that made you love him so much; it was the small things. The warmth of his hand against your back, the sleepy sound of his laugh at two in the morning, the way he looked at you like he was still learning how to believe in something good. Being around him gave you a kind of peace you didn’t think you’d ever have.
To Bucky, you were the world, not just someone he loved, but the reason the world still felt worth staying in. You were the reason he got up in the morning, the reason life didn’t feel so heavy anymore. If it were just the two of you left in the world, he would still be happy, because as long as he had you, he had everything he needed. He needed you in a way that sometimes terrified him. You saved him without even realizing it. Before you, he was drowning in old memories and pain he couldn’t escape, but with you, it all became quieter. When you held him, he didn’t feel broken. He didn’t feel like the Winter Soldier or a broken thing somebody forgot to fix. With you, he felt human again. Loved again. Like maybe there was still something good left in him after all.
Everything the two of you had together was perfect, and it was even better with the feeling of sneaking around. Even when fighting, you two found moments together, which is how you ended up here, behind a wall, your back pinned to it, with Bucky's arm over your head. “Buck-”
“Doll,” he cut you off. His doe eyes looking into yours
“We're fighting a fucking space alien right now, what are you doing!” You giggled as you tried to push him back, but he didn’t budge. Instead, he pulled his mask off.
“You looked so good when you sliced his arm off, I couldn’t help myself. I just need one kiss,” you rolled your eyes, but so softly planted a kiss to his lips.
“Happy?”
“Yes,” he said simply, like there wasn’t a threat 20 feet from you, even worse, the team could see you at any moment. “Now let's kick ass.”
You giggled again, and it made Bucky debate whether to keep you pressed against the wall a little longer. The world was ending outside, alarms screaming through the streets, but all he could think about was the sound of your laugh against his mouth. Still, he forced himself to pull away. The faster he killed this thing, the faster he could get you home and hear that sound all night instead of in stolen seconds between missions.
His hand slipped from yours slowly, like neither of you really wanted to let go.
“Don’t die on me, Barnes,” you teased softly, trying to ignore the tight feeling in your chest that always came before missions.
Bucky’s expression changed instantly. Serious. Almost angry.
“Not funny,” he muttered.
Your smile faded a little at the look in his eyes. Bucky always acted like losing you could actually kill him. Maybe it could.
You leaned up quickly, pressing one last kiss to the corner of his mouth before stepping away. “I’ll be fine.”
He stared at you for a second too long before nodding once. “You better be.”
Then the two of you were running in opposite directions.
You headed left toward Nat while Bucky disappeared toward Tony, gunfire and smoke swallowing him almost instantly. The thing you’d all been fighting had torn through the city since sunrise, leaving wrecked buildings and fires behind like breadcrumbs. Nobody even fully knew what it was yet, only that it wouldn’t die.
Every hit barely slowed it down.
“Son of a bitch,” you muttered when the creature hurled a car toward you. You ducked just in time, the car smashing into the pavement behind you.
“Everyone okay?” Steve’s voice crackled through your earpiece.
“Define okay,” Tony answered breathlessly.
Nat slid beside you, reloading her weapon. “Any bright ideas?”
“Yeah,” you said, staring up at the thing tearing through another building. “I’m thinking we run.”
Nat snorted, but before either of you could move, the creature let out a deafening roar that made the ground tremble beneath your boots. The creature moved faster than before. One second, Nat was beside you, the next she was yelling your name.
You barely had time to look up before part of the building above you gave out.
“Move!” Nat screamed.
You tried, but something slammed into you hard enough to knock the air from your lungs.
Pain exploded through your body as concrete and metal crashed around you. Your head hit the pavement, everything ringing and blurry for a second before the weight settled over you.
Somewhere nearby, people were shouting, and you heard a loud crash. Your vision flickered.
“...shit— she’s down,” Steve said over the comms. You couldn’t speak…you couldn’t move.
Across the battlefield, Bucky’s heart stopped at Steve's words. His body stopped with it. He felt the chaos around him, but couldn’t move to help anyone. He could only think of you as he left Tony to go find you. Tony yelled behind him something about needing to keep fighting, but he couldn’t hear him over the sound of his heartbeat; even if he could, he wouldn’t stop.
When he found you, Nat hovered over you, trying to get you to speak. Your bloody body in her hands. Steve was beside them, looking for help.
Although you couldn’t see, you could hear, Bucky. Horrified.
“No. No, no, no.” You had never heard him sound afraid before.
“Bucky—” Nat tried to warn softly, but Bucky was already dropping to his knees beside you.
Everything around him disappeared. The screaming. The fighting. The comms in his ear.
None of it mattered.
“Hey, hey, hey.” His hands shook as they carefully grabbed yours, almost terrified that touching you would hurt worse. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, sweetheart.”
Blood covered your side. Too much of it.
Bucky felt sick.
You looked so small lying there.
“Look at me,” he begged, voice cracking badly. “C’mon, doll, look at me. You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay, alright? Nothing’s gonna happen to you.”
But the words sounded desperate instead of convincing, and everyone around him could hear it. Steve stared. Nat’s eyes widened slightly. Tony looked between the two of you in confusion.
Because Bucky Barnes looked terrified.
Not teammate terrified.
Not mission terrified.
Terrified like his whole world was bleeding out in front of him.
“Get her some help!” he shouted suddenly, loud enough that his voice nearly broke. “Now!”
Your fingers weakly curled around his metal hand.
“Buck…” you whispered.
His entire face crumbled at hearing your voice.
“I’m here,” he said immediately, tears burning in his eyes now. “I’m right here, baby. Stay with me, okay? Stay with me.” You tried to smile, but it came out weak.
“I love you.”
The words were barely audible. But Bucky heard them. And it destroyed him.
A broken sound left his throat as he leaned closer to you, pressing your joined hands against his chest as if he could somehow keep your heart beating with his own. “No, no, don’t talk like that,” he rambled quickly. “You’re okay. You hear me? I love you too. God, I love you so much. I love you more than anything.”
The battlefield had gone strangely quiet around him. Nobody understood what they were hearing. Bucky didn’t even notice.
“You can’t leave me,” he whispered, tears finally falling now. “Please don’t leave me. I can’t…I can’t do that again.”
“Bucky…” Steve said carefully. Bucky looked up then, eyes red and furious and terrified all at once.
“We’ve been together for a year,” he choked out. “So somebody do something. S-somebody help her! Somebody kill that fucking thing.”
He finally looked back to see that the monster was on the ground. Whatever happened in the two minutes you were on the ground stopped it, at least for the moment.
“You’ve been together for a year?” Tony said, as he looked at Bucky, then at you, Your breathing was uneven now. Weak.
Nat was somewhere behind him, yelling for medical, her voice sounding farther and farther away. Bucky’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He kept rubbing his thumb over your cheek as if he stopped touching you, you’d disappear.
“Yes, but we…we’ve loved each other for longer.”
Then he looked at Steve.
And suddenly, he didn’t look like the Winter Soldier anymore. He looked young. Terrified. Like the skinny kid from Brooklyn begging the world not to take another person from him.
“Please,” he said, voice cracking completely. “Help her.”
Tony dropped beside him quickly, scanning your injuries, but the second Bucky saw the look on his face, something inside him snapped.
“No,” Bucky said immediately.
Tony’s expression only fell further.
“Barnes–”
“No!” Bucky shouted, pulling you closer against him. “No, don’t fucking look at me like that.”
Your eyes fluttered weakly toward him.
“Bucky…” you breathed.
“I’m here,” he said instantly, tears falling freely now. “I’m right here, baby. I got you.”
Your hand twitched in his.
He grabbed it like it was the most important thing in the world.
“You’re gonna be okay,” he kept saying, voice trembling harder each time. “You hear me? We’re gonna go home after this. I’m gonna make you coffee tomorrow morning, and you’re gonna complain it tastes terrible even though you drink the whole thing anyway.”
A tiny smile ghosted across your lips. Bucky looked wrecked seeing it. “I love you,” you whispered.
And God, it sounded like goodbye.
“No,” he said immediately, shaking his head hard enough it looked painful. “No, don’t say it like that. Don’t… please don’t say it like that.”
“I love you,” you repeated softly.
Bucky broke.
A horrible sound left his throat as he pressed his forehead against yours, clutching your hand against his chest.
“I love you too,” he sobbed. “I love you so much. More than anything, sweetheart. Please stay. Please stay with me.”
Your breathing hitched.
Then stopped.
For a second, nobody moved.
Bucky stared at you.
Waiting.
Waiting for another breath.
Another blink.
Anything.
“...Doll?” he whispered.
Silence.
Tony slowly reached forward, fingers brushing against your neck before his face fell completely.
Bucky noticed.
And the denial in his eyes shattered.
“No,” he breathed.
Steve took a step forward carefully. “Buck”
“No!”
Bucky pulled you against him harder, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other desperately held your lifeless hand.
“No, no, no, no, please.” His entire body shook violently now. “You can’t do this to me. Please don’t do this to me.”
Nobody knew what to say.
Nat had tears in her eyes.
Steve looked devastated.
Tony just looked numb.
And Bucky…
Bucky looked like the world had ended.
Because to him, it had.
What's worse is that no one knew how to comfort him. They didn’t even know the two of you were together. Steve put a hand on Bucky’s shoulder.
“S-she wanted to get married in a barn house one day, a-and she wanted Nat to be her maid of honor.” Nat broke behind him, “A-and she was so excited to tell you guys one day.” Bucky looked up. “She was so happy…we were so happy together.”
They didn’t know what to do, so they sat with him over your body, as he spoke about things only he knew about you. “And she loved when no one was home so she and I could watch cheesy movies on the big TV, since I refused to admit to liking them.” Bucky choked on his breath, “I should have admitted I liked them… I-i should have”
No one could look at him, their hearts ached, “And she used to tell you guys she was going to go read, but really she’d come to my room and make me read her favorite books to her.” Bucky put his forehead against yours, “And she wore socks to sleep like a crazy person, but she looked so damn cute in her fuzzy socks.” Tony chuckled behind him.
Bucky closed his eyes, remembering your smile. Even surrounded by the team, he had never felt more alone. The world around him sounded distant, muffled beneath the ringing in his ears. Without you, everything inside him went cold. Numb. Like the part of him that knew how to live had died with you in this moment.
Started getting into Korean culture recently, and I have had people say things like "This isn't you."
Must I only love the things I have already discovered? It is like telling the world it may not love a new flower because it has never been seen before.
I think it would be a miserable thing to only love the things we know about. To never explore and grow new branches of curiosity.
I often wonder about what he would think. The grim reaper who sat at my bed each night, and who held my hand when I nearly gave in. Who watched me scream, and claw, and tear myself apart. He’d accompanied my side for so long.
I think he would smile. A gentle nod of respect and appreciation, to have spared his heart of taking me too soon. One day, when we meet again, I’d like to sit somewhere with him and tell him of the things I’ve done.
The things I have done, and the ones I have loved. How at long last, I finally won.
HI HELLO WERE U THE INDIVIDUAL WHO WROTE “flames and bridges” AND “a new maybe” THOSE BUCKY BARNES FICS BECAUSE IF SO I WILL PAY YOU GOOD MONEY TO POST THOSE AGAIN I THINK IVE MESSAGED 5 SEPARATE STRANGERS TO ASK WHERE U WENT SINCE THEN BECAUSE I WAS SO IN LOVE WITH YOUR WRITING AND IT INSPIRED ME SO MUCH
if this is not you plz disregard i’m so sorry have a good day
Oh my gosh HI!!! YES that was MEEEEEEEEEEE!!! I cannot tell you just how happy seeing this made me!!! I'm so happy I was able to be a positive influence! Lemme dig through my old archives real quick and see if I can pull those works up for you :D
Okayokay so I HAVE "A New Maybe", it is just going to take a minute to get it out again because of all of the individual chapters. BUT I HAVE IT!!! I just gotta go through and set it all back up properly!
A/N: Good heavens, I wrote this FOREVER ago. I considered re-writing it (and I still might o_0) but I kind of wanted to keep the originality of my younger self.
---------------------------------
It had honestly started slow, creeping up on you it almost seemed normal, but as time continued to flow, days turned into weeks, and weeks into months before eventually it became so common you lost all track of how long it had been. At first, it wasn’t so bad, the time your dad spent at work didn’t bother you too much, he is the CEO of a massive company, but it gradually became something that hurt. Something that gnawed in the back of your mind, no matter how hard you tried to ignore it.
The alarm pierces the pleasant dream you were having, shattering sleep like porcelain dolls and your eyes crack open reluctantly, squinting despite the dark nature of the room. With a grunt, the blankets get thrown off your body and feet patter across the oversized bedroom to get ready for the day. Despite the voice lingering in the back of your head, you put faith in the fact your dad will be home, but as you walk around the house, finally settling in the kitchen, he is nowhere to be found, not even a note left to wish you well, and no matter how much you ridicule yourself for it, it still stings. As much as it seems so wrong to feel like you’ve been abandoned, the emptiness and loneliness settle in and make a home, drowning you in isolation as the walls of the mansion relate more to a prison than your home.
After finishing breakfast, you pack for school and as you are leaving, the cleaning lady, Mrs. Jones, offers you a sympathetic smile and wishes you well. It is a decent-sized walk to the bus stop, nothing that is unfamiliar, but today it drags on like molasses. The ache grows in your chest, the hollowness of your skin creating nothing but dread of the fact that Bucky probably forgot. Tears prickle at the edges of your eyes and a lump presses in your throat, amplifying the doubts and disappointments. It isn’t like you believe you are entitled to anything today, but your dad forgetting things all accumulates into a mass of disappointment and for him to have forgotten today, it is as though he has completely severed you from his life.
However, all the feelings pause when you step on the school bus, the entire load of students shouting in unison, “Happy Birthday!”
A smile breaks on your lips and a laugh escapes you as you thank everyone, taking your seat next to your best friend near the back of the bus, “Hey, G.”
She throws an arm around your shoulder, hugging you, “Happy Birthday,” she says and you hum in response, feelings now hitting the play button, “Well, hello, Ms. Glum. What’s got you so down?”
A single look and she understands, a frown etching on her face that looks so wrong for her naturally happy appearance, her long, brown hair pulled up in pigtails and her brightly colored outfit.
“He wasn’t home this morning?” she asks and you shake your head, “Not even a note? —Sorry…but hey, look on the bright side, your party is at my house after school and he promised he’d be there, right?”
The edges of your lips twitch into a smile, “Yeah, he even said he had his assistant clear the afternoon.”
“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about, he’ll be there.”
“You know, you’re pretty good at this whole, making-me-feel-better thing.”
“Well I had better be,” she says and smirks, “I am a Rogers, after all.”
He’s forgetting something. He swears he is forgetting something. That voice in the back of his head is screaming, but no matter how hard he tries to remember, claws the corners of his brain, he can’t recall what is so important. He has asked his assistant probably a dozen times what is on his calendar, but nothing comes up other than the fact that his afternoon is empty.
“Mr. Barnes, you have a meeting scheduled with Mr. Stark at two o’clock. He is here to discuss the progress of the new prosthetics you’ve been working on,” his assistant, Anna, says sweetly, an official tone masking the light-hearted nature of her personality they both know exists underneath.
Bucky repositions himself in his seat, again, the pull of his suit uncomfortable after so long in it and he sighs, rubbing his temples to help ease the growing headache, “Thank you.”
Anna looks at him sympathetically and tucks the Ipad under her arm, “Still can’t figure it out?”
Bucky shakes his head, grateful for the drop of formalities and relaxes in his seat, offering a tight-lipped smile, “No, and it’s driving me insane.”
“I guess that’s why you scheduled the meeting?”
Bucky nods slowly, distress evident in his features, “If I can’t figure out what I’m missing, I’m going to fill the space…But I was supposed to be somewhere, Anna, I know I was and-and it was important, I wouldn’t have cleared my afternoon if it wasn’t.”
Anna nods, but before she gets to say anything, the alarm on her phone beeps and she offers Bucky a tight smile, “Time for your meeting…”
Bucky nods and grabs his files from the desk, leaving his office as he asks about Anna’s son, Alexander, both of them missing the ding of Bucky’s cell phone that was carelessly left behind.
It is nearly seven o’clock by the time Bucky gets the chance to sit and relax for a moment, and with a grunt, he snatches his phone off his desk and plops himself on the couch facing the window wall that overlooks the city. He loosens the tie around his neck that always felt more like a noose than an article of clothing and takes off his suit jacket, relaxing into the cushions to relieve the ache in his back. He was genuinely beginning to hate the long hours he was putting into his work. It has pulled him from common pleasures, friends, and worst of all from his daughter. A smile breaks onto his lips when he realizes that now that he’s finished at the office, he can go home and spend time with you, just hang out and have a conversation that isn’t rushed while he tries to finish work or interrupted by constant barrage of phone calls. It has been a while since he has come home early and—
The breath knocks from Bucky’s lungs and his face pales into a white sheet, regret instantly eating his heart and feasting on his existence, swallowing him whole as he shoots out of his seat and checks his phone. His heart drops when he unlocks his screen and finds dozens of texts from his friends, each one ripping him apart bit by bit.
Steve, 1:47: Don’t forget about the party.
Sam, 1:51: Y.n is going to be at Steve’s right after school.
Natasha, 2:11: Don’t you dare be late, you promised her.
Sam, 3:43: She’s going to be here any minute, where are you?
Steve, 3:57: y.n’s here, you had better be close man.
Peggy, 4:17: James Buchanan Barnes, where are you?
Sam, 4:30: She’s looking for you.
Natasha, 5:20: I swear, Barnes, you promised her.
Steve, 5:36: She keeps pushing back the time to cut the cake, keeps saying you promised you’d be here. Where the hell are you?
Steve, 6:02: We’re cutting the cake. She looks upset, Buck.
Peggy: 6:22: I’m going to kick your ass.
Sam, 6:27: You’re an asshole.
Natasha, 6:34: I’m going to kill you.
Steve, 6:52: You fucked up.
—-
Panic surges through Bucky’s chest, constricting his lungs until he can’t breathe, suffocating him on his mistake. He forgot. He snatches his keys from his desk and barrels down out the door and down the hallway, smashing the arrow for the elevator so hard he almost fears he broke the button. His feet tap anxiously as he waits for the doors to open and jumps inside, pressing for the parking garage and for the first time hating the fact he was on the top floor. His fingers grow numb, energy spiraling under his skin as he continuously ridicules himself, venom spewing in thoughts. He forgot.
Of all the things, appointments, dates, meetings, emails, he forgot his daughter’s birthday. His ray of sunshine in the chaos of his life, and he didn’t even call you. He left nothing for you to wake up to, to surprise you, not a video, a letter, your gift that is still neatly wrapped under his bed with a little bow strung up on top, nothing.
At last the elevator opens and he shoots out, racing to his car and when it finally starts, he is speeding out into the streets. Traffic lights become nothing but a nuisance, each one getting in the way and driving him further insane as each one drags on the time it takes to get to you and his apology. By the time he arrives at Steve’s place, dread seeps in his veins, twisting his stomach painfully and he hesitates as he walks up the front porch, barely making it to the top stair when the door burst open and angry steps pound on wood.
“James Buchanan Barnes, where the hell have you been?” Peggy’s stern voice cuts him deep and her eyes filled with fire, poisonous daggers carving him open with a single glance. However, a worried Steve is right behind her, wrapping an arm around her swollen waist in an attempt to calm his pregnant wife. Not a moment later, Sam and his wife come out followed by Natasha and Bruce, each one steeled over with icy glares and Bucky can’t meet their eyes fully.
“You promised her you would be here, Buck,” Sam speaks up, his tone laced over in anger and disappointment.
Bucky finally lifts his head and they all see the distress written on his features, the conflict etched in the lining of his face, and they know there is nothing they can say that would be worse than what he’s already told himself. Their eyes soften slightly, anger diming into sympathy even though licks of flame still simmer underneath.
“Where is she?” Bucky asks, voice low and dripping with every ounce of shame that heaps in his thoughts.
Just as he finishes speaking, the door opens and you walk out with your backpack thrown over your shoulder, eyes trained on the ground as your friends come out and stand behind you, each one’s face set in silent displeasure. He was hoping for your anger, a cold shoulder for a week until he can make it up to you, maybe a couple verbal slaps that he would let slide only because he messed up so bad, but nothing prepared him for the disappointment resting on your shoulders like the weight of the world was upon them, the sadness lingering in your features like a stab in his gut.
“Hey, Sweetie,” he says hesitantly.
Your head tilts up and you offer him a tight-lipped smile, taking in the fact that he is right in front of you, but it’s like an earthquake has split the ground between the two of you, driving a canyon so wide he looks like a speck in the distance, “Hey, Daddy.”
There is a moment of silence as Bucky tries to find the right words, but you interrupt him the second he starts, “Sweetheart—”
“I guess it’s time to go?”
Bucky freezes, then nods slowly, “Yeah…”
He watches as you hug everyone goodbye and thank them for coming and for putting the party together, then he helps you put your gifts in the car before you both take off for the trip home.
The whole car ride is quiet, your head pressed against the glass as you avoid looking at your dad, a deep rip in your heart that you don’t know how to mend. You stare at your reflection in the window, tracing the drops of rain with your finger as the beginning of the storm drops its tears as your own blend with them on the glass. Out of the corner of your eyes, you see your dad glance to you every few minutes, his knuckles white against the steering wheel as he clenches it tightly and guilt twists in your stomach because you know he didn’t mean to forget. He planned on being there, he said he would and he tried, but the abandonment tightens around your skin relentlessly because he wasn’t. His words and promises amount to nothing and his apologies are so common they’ve lost their meaning. He tries, he promises, but every time you get your heart broken because no matter how many times he says he will be there for you, he isn’t.
~~~
The front door clicks shut behind your dad as you quickly make your way to your bedroom, not wanting to hear the meaningless apology you know is coming, but his voice breaks the tense silence, “Sweetheart?”
Bucky watches as your entire body stiffens then drops from exhaustion, your back facing him and his heart breaks with the shaky tone of your voice, “It’s fine, Dad.”
“No, it’s not. I’m sorry, I left my phone in my office and I had a meeting and I—”
“Forgot,” you interrupt, or rather finish his sentence considering he couldn’t manage to do it himself and Bucky’s shoulders fall, apologies igniting on the tip of his tongue, but not one seeming proper enough to resolve the pain he caused.
“I’m sorry work kept—"
“It’s always work,” you mutter as you spin around to face him and Bucky wishes you were angry, screaming at him, but the tears streaming down your face tell nothing other than fact that he hurt you, “Ceremonies, recitals, performances, daddy-daughter dances, you forget all of it!”
“I know, I’m sorry, I promise I’m going to make it up to you— ”
“I don’t want you to make it up to me,” you say, voice rising in desperation and Bucky stills, shocked and afraid of the damage he’s done as your lip trembles, “I just want you to be there for me,” you whisper and Bucky cracks, “I’ve tried stitching us back together, I’ve given you chance after chance after chance, but you threw them away like I don’t even matter to you.”
The cry that leaves Bucky’s lips twists between a sob and agony as he marches over to you and grips your shoulders firmly, “Don’t you ever doubt that I love you, you know that I do,” he says and his voice softens as he lifts a hand to hold the side of your face and wipe the tears that keep falling from your eyes, “You know that I do.”
His words collide like a plea on your ears as he begs and prays for you to never doubt something as constant as his love, but his world crumbles with the broken whisper of your voice, “Do I?”
Bucky’s heart falters as you slip out of his fingers and walk away, the lump in his throat choking him as he tries to call out to you to come back, but not a sound escapes his lips. He tries to follow you, wrap you in his arms and tell you how much he loves you until you have no other choice but to believe him, but his feet won’t move. He is stuck in place as his heart twists painfully in his chest, regret swelling and drowning him as he collapses on the couch and hangs his head into his hands.
What has he done?
The lump in Bucky’s throat breaks into tears as they burn and glaze over, his heart unable to carry the weight of the fear and abandonment in your eyes. All his success, all his popularity he gained while losing you, what could it do to fix what he had broken? The moments he took when you never noticed, sneaking into your room before he left for work to tell you goodbye without waking you up, a light kiss on the forehead before he tucks you in and leaves. The times he’s called your school just to make sure you are there and doing well. The times he’s called the parents of your friends to ask if they have seen anything different in your behavior when he gets worried about you. He realizes it doesn’t amount to anything because he was never there for you. He wasn’t there for your dance recitals, or the various talent shows at your school, he missed seeing your award ceremony when you got ranked highest in your class along with several other students. He didn’t show up to take you to your father-daughter dance, and when he came home, he found you fast asleep on the couch all dressed up in a 1930’s outfit, dolled up all pretty and he has disappointed you yet again. All his promises that he’s broken he can’t repair. He didn’t even take time to come home and talk to you at night, instead coming in late when you’ve already fallen asleep.
He has abandoned you, broken the trust that should never have been in the situation to question. He’s left you wondering how much he loves you and the weight of it floods over him and suffocates him for a time he can’t even process. Minutes blend together as memories resurface from the years and how much he has changed. The person he used to be and the person he is, one in the same, only with shifted priorities. The life he used to have gnawing at the edges of his heart because he lost it, he lost all of it, and for what?
Time blends together until he rises from his seat and walks to your room, knocking lightly and hesitating before walking in to find you sitting on your bed wrapped up in blankets and surrounded by pillows, eyes still brimmed red with tears. The silence is thick as he steps in slowly, his heart heavy as he glances around the room. When did you grow up? When did dolls get replaced with posters, bows with curls? How could he have missed it? How could he have not seen his baby girl grow up?
When his gaze sets on a once-filled dresser top, his confusion persuades him to speak, “What happened to your trophies and the ribbons?” he asks quietly as he tries to mend the ties between the two of you.
Your knees curl against your chest as you avoid his curious gaze, mumbling softly, “I threw ‘em away…a long time ago.”
“What?” Bucky asks instantly, walking over to you and sitting on the edge of your bed as you keep your gaze on anything but him, guilt settling in your chest, a thread of shame weaving into the mix for feeling so alone, “Why would you do that?”
“I guess I just figured what’s the point?”
“I thought you loved it: violin, piano, volleyball, all of it, you would always talk about it. You’d always get excited when you got to play,” Bucky asks as he scoots closer, moving a couple pillows to get better access to you.
“I mean, yeah, I enjoyed it all, but…” you trail off, biting at your lip and Bucky settles right next to you and places a hand on your knee, his thumb rubbing gentle circles as you fidget with your fingers nervously.
Bucky’s brows furrow slightly, a worried tint in his tone as he speaks, “But, what?”
“But I guess I just thought—I thought that maybe if I was good enough that you’d—that maybe you would show up…”
Bucky’s heart sinks as he immediately starts shaking his head, “Sweetheart, Baby—look at me,” he says quickly, cupping your cheek and directing your eyes to his, “You don’t ever have to earn my love or my attention—”
“But—”
“No buts, you never have to earn that,” he insists and his voice cracks slightly as he continues, “I give that to you freely. I do love you, Sweetheart, I know I’ve been a real shitty dad recently, but I do love you. If nothing else, I need you to believe that.”
Your lower lip trembles slightly as you slowly nod and Bucky presses a lingering kiss to your forehead, “I really miss you,” you whisper and Bucky wraps his arms around you and pulls you against his chest as he holds you tightly, leaning back against the headboard of the bed.
“I miss you too,” he admits as he fights the lump in his throat, kissing the top of your head gently, “I miss you too. I know my word doesn’t count for much right now, but things are going to be different, things are gonna change.”
You remain silent and Bucky’s heart breaks at the way you cling to him, as if he is going to disappear any second and never return. He smooths back your hair a bit before pressing another kiss on your head, “I’m not going anywhere.”
Just as he finishes speaking, his phone rings and Bucky feels every muscle in your body tense in his arms. Your fingers grip him a little tighter, just enough for Bucky to have to swallow the growing lump in his throat at your reaction as he pulled his phone out of his pocket. His hold around you tightens as you try to pull away from him, keeping you in place against his chest as he answers the call.
“Hello?....Hey, Anna, can this wait until tomorrow?...Yeah, I’ll talk to you later, we will get everything arranged, don’t worry,” Bucky finishes as he hangs up the call and looks down to you only to find a set of confused eyes searching his.
“What was that all about?”
“Just Anna wanting to clarify some details, set up a couple things, nothing that can’t wait a bit longer,” he says softly, tucking some of your hair behind your ear as a hint of a smile paints your lips and the weight on his chest lifts slightly at the sight of it, the storm finally starting to clear.
Just then, you yawn, and Bucky chuckles, “You should sleep, it’s getting late,” he says and you shake your head.
“Nope, wanna stay up with you,” you mumble, voice laden with sleep and Bucky smiles.
“I’ll be here when you wake up.”
Your eyes droop as Bucky continues to thread his fingers through your hair, “Promise?”
Pain shoots through Bucky’s heart at the fact that, despite everything, you still want his promise, and he nods, “Yeah, I promise.”
A sleepy smile forms on your lips as you snuggle into him, wrapping your arms around him tighter and he chuckles, “I think you’d sleep better if you laid down.”
You shake your head stubbornly, “No,” you mumble with heavy lips, the tired state of your mind bypassing your natural filter as you continue, “If I let go, you’re gonna leave.”
Bucky frowns and examines your face, your eyes closed and features relaxed, snuggling into him, yet clinging to him tightly. How could he have done this to you? How could he have made you so scared to lose him?
“Stay ‘till I fall asleep?” you ask and Bucky doesn’t hesitate to nod.
“Yeah, of course,” he says and kicks his shoes off over the side of the bed before flicking off the lamp. He pulls you into his lap so you won’t end up with a kink in your neck and pulls the blanket over the two of you, keeping you snug against him as if he could squeeze the fears and insecurities he created out of you.
It doesn’t take long before you drift into sleep, Bucky threading his fingers through your hair as he hums an old tune. Things are going to change. He will fix what he has broken, he will mend the two of you back together. Bucky presses a kiss to your head before he closes his own eyes, relaxing into the pillows against your headboard and letting sleep take over his conscious.
He will fix this.
~~~
The morning casts it’s fateful gaze upon your room as you stir awake, the emptiness of it as you push into your pillow makes your heart sink, and when you crack your eyes open, it is just as you feared: He’s gone. Eyes dim, removing the hopeful spark that had ignited the night before, smothering it into ash and stone. Rivers of ice flow against your skin as you step out of bed, bare feet numb against the hard floor, sliding heavily as you prepare for the day.
Perhaps it was a dream? A pleasing thought conjured by your mind to ease the ache in your chest every time you woke. Only, if that is the case, it only made waking up harder to face. Maybe your dad never actually came and picked you up from Steve’s, and you simply made up the day to give yourself a sense of hope that this family could be put back together?
Nonetheless, you still exit your room, slowly making your way to the kitchen when a whiff of something heavenly catches you off guard. When you exit the hallway and pass into the kitchen, the sight before you has your eyes burning and lips lost for words.
“Dad?”
Bucky’s head snaps in your direction and he smiles brightly, “Hey, you’re up, I was just finishing—wait, hold up, I gotta…” he trails off as he opens the waffle iron and pulls out the fresh waffle, slightly burning his fingers in the process as you look around the counters. Plates of waffles, pancakes, eggs, and bacon scatter around along with a few different types of fruit, a container of whipped cream, and a couple different types of syrup.
Bucky turns back to you with a smile and misinterprets your confused expression, “Yeah, I know, it’s a lot of food, but I wasn’t sure what you wanted, so I guess,” he says and chuckles, cringing slightly at himself, “I guess I made it all?”
As words still get caught in your throat, all you can manage to stutter is, “You’re home?”
Bucky’s smile drops to a more serious expression, “Yeah. I talked to Anna this morning, rearranged my schedule a bit so I can spend more time at home. It’ll be a transition, getting everything organized, but we think we’ve worked some things out. I’ll be dropping you off at the bus stop in the morning before you go to school and I’ll be home before you fall asleep. The weekends too, we were able to get me home on the weekends, I’ll still have to do some work, but I’ll be here instead of the office. I told you things are going to be different…that’s a promise I plan on keeping.”
You stand stiffly and for a moment Bucky fears he, somehow, did something wrong, or perhaps the damage goes deeper than he imagined, but then you blink, and tears fall from your eyes. He moves to hug you, but he barely makes a step before you crash into him, wrapping your arms around him tightly and he holds you, shushing your cries gently.
After a few moments, you pull away, chuckling lightly at yourself and wiping the tears off your face, “Sorry.”
Bucky shakes his head and presses a kiss to your forehead, “No need to be sorry, you’ve done nothing wrong.”
You smile gently, “So, you’ll be home more?”
“Yup.”
Your smile widens, then Bucky’s stomach growls and you both laugh, “Alright, I don’t know about you, but I am starving,” Bucky says and hands you a plate, “Shall we eat?”
“Yes, yes we shall,” you answer and go for the fruit first, plucking a grape off its stem and smiling mischievously to yourself as you look at your unsuspecting father.
Bucky is grabbing a waffle when something bumps his head, and looking up, he sees a grape bouncing on the counter and your playful gaze and he gapes, “You did not.”
Another grape hits his face and his gape turns into an evil smirk. Snatching a handful of blueberries from its case he starts chasing you while pebbling you with the fruit as you run squealing from him, tossing grapes at him as best you can.
Laughter fills the mansion, the prison now becoming a home, the icy rivers thawing, the dead earth coming back to life as seeds begin to sprout.
And across the canyon, where an earthquake once split them in two, a man builds a bridge to mend what had once been violently ripped apart.
HI HELLO WERE U THE INDIVIDUAL WHO WROTE “flames and bridges” AND “a new maybe” THOSE BUCKY BARNES FICS BECAUSE IF SO I WILL PAY YOU GOOD MONEY TO POST THOSE AGAIN I THINK IVE MESSAGED 5 SEPARATE STRANGERS TO ASK WHERE U WENT SINCE THEN BECAUSE I WAS SO IN LOVE WITH YOUR WRITING AND IT INSPIRED ME SO MUCH
if this is not you plz disregard i’m so sorry have a good day
Oh my gosh HI!!! YES that was MEEEEEEEEEEE!!! I cannot tell you just how happy seeing this made me!!! I'm so happy I was able to be a positive influence! Lemme dig through my old archives real quick and see if I can pull those works up for you :D
Summary: Bucky said he’d be gone a few hours. You tried to believe him.
But when 1AM hits and there’s still no sign of him, panic takes over.
You didn’t mean to fall in love with him this much.
He didn’t know anyone would ever stay up for him
The sound of the zipper catches your attention before his voice does.
You look up from the counter just as Bucky finishes pulling on his jacket, that worn black thing with the creases in the elbows and the slight fray at the left cuff. You’ve tried to get him to wear something newer, once. He said he didn’t like how they smelled. Something about the factory scent bothering him. You didn’t push.
Now, he’s shifting his weight like he’s already halfway out the door, one boot planted, the other tapping a quiet rhythm on the tile like he’s measuring time in heartbeats.
“Shouldn’t take long,” he says, without looking at you.
You nod. Your hands are damp—dishwater still clinging to your skin, the scent of soap clashing with the undertone of steel and leather that always lingers when he’s home.
“Just a quick pickup. In, out,” he adds.
You dry your hands on a towel that’s already half-damp and draped over your shoulder. “Don’t forget the part where you come back in one piece.”
That gets a small smile from him. Not teeth. Just that faint twitch at the corner of his mouth that feels like a secret between you.
He steps into the middle of the kitchen, hovering awkwardly, like he wants to say something else but doesn’t have the map for it. His hand finds the back of his neck. He scratches, nervous.
You cross the space before he decides to leave the moment behind.
He meets you halfway, eyes scanning your face like he’s taking a mental picture. You wonder if he always does that before he goes—cataloguing you, just in case.
You rest your hand gently on his chest, above the zipper. The fabric is still cool. You feel the steady thud of his heart through it. He’s calm. But not present.
“Hey,” you say, softer now. “Be safe.”
He leans in like he always does—brief, automatic.
But this time, you don’t let the kiss be brief. You lean into it.
You press your mouth against his like you’re trying to leave something on him. Like maybe if you kiss him hard enough, long enough, he won’t forget to come back. Your fingers curl slightly into his jacket, not pulling, just holding.
He stills.
And for a second—just a second—he kisses you back like he understands. Like he’s afraid too.
When he pulls away, his eyes don’t meet yours.
“You’ll be asleep by the time I’m back,” he says, already halfway toward the door.
You watch him pick up his gloves. The way his shoulders set, not in tension but in distance.
You open your mouth to say something—something stupid, probably. Something like come back to me whole, please, but what comes out is—
“Want me to leave a plate out?”
He hesitates. Then shrugs, voice easy: “Nah. I’ll grab something on the way.”
You nod.
He nods.
The door closes.
You exhale into the quiet.
Not loud. Not sudden. But final, in that way apartment doors sometimes are. Like the soft echo of a line you didn’t realize was being drawn.
You stand there for a moment longer than necessary, towel still in your hand, still folded in your fingers like you don’t remember picking it up. You can feel the heat of his mouth on yours, ghost-warm, already fading. The kiss sits in your chest like something unfinished. Like a thought interrupted.
You finally move.
One step. Then two.
The living room feels bigger when he’s not in it. The silence is different now. Not peaceful. Just… present.
You glance at the clock. Not even 5.
You try to talk yourself down before you start spiraling, because this is normal. You’ve been through this before. He goes. He comes back. You’re dating someone who disappears into black SUVs with government plates and comes back smelling like sweat and blood.
It’s not a surprise anymore.
Still, you catch yourself replaying the moment before he left. The pause at the threshold. The way he turned back—not all the way, just his head—and opened his mouth like he was going to say something.
And then didn’t.
You wonder if he knew you were watching him too closely. If he could feel you reading him like a language you hadn’t fully learned yet.
You could’ve said something. Be careful. I’ll be awake. Don’t make me wait all night again.
But you didn’t.
You’ve been trying to be cool about it lately. Trying to be normal. Civilians don’t cling. Civilians don’t panic when the mission takes longer than expected. Civilians don’t ask where the bruises come from when the report says “routine.”
Instead, you go into the kitchen and pour the rest of the dishwater down the sink. You rinse the plate you were washing. You clean the already-clean counter, like you’re trying to erase something from it.
You don’t even realize you’re still wearing the towel on your shoulder until you sit down.
The clock ticks.
You pull the blanket over your legs, flick on the TV. Something easy. Background noise. Something that doesn’t remind you that you’re not the one he calls when things go wrong. You’re not part of the mission. You’re just… waiting.
It’s there anyway—his soap, the faint trace of his leather jacket, the deeper scent underneath that you only ever notice when he’s gone. Something cold and metal and human. A ghost of him that clings to the air.
You pull the blanket higher over your legs and try to focus on the sitcom playing, the laugh track too loud for how alone you feel. Your phone sits on the coffee table, screen dark. You stare at it, but only in the corner of your eye.
There’s nothing to check. No new messages. No missed calls. Just the echo of a kiss that felt a little too much like goodbye.
You let out a breath and realize your shoulders are tense.
Uncurl them.
Relax.
This isn’t new.
You’ve been here before.
You’ve done the wait.
Still, you’re not sure why this time feels different. Maybe it’s how fast he left. Or how long he looked at you like he was memorizing the shape of your face. Maybe it’s that weird edge in his voice when he said he wouldn’t be long.
Or maybe it’s just you.
You pull your phone into your lap anyway, unlock it, then lock it again. You scroll through your texts. Nothing from him.
You check your clock.
It’s 8:17.
Still normal.
You open your messages to Yelena, hover your thumb over the keyboard. You could say something casual. You could ask where they went, if she’s with him, if they’ve wrapped up.
But that makes it real, doesn’t it?
Like you’re worried.
And you’re not. Not yet.
You lock your phone again and toss it onto the other end of the couch. It lands face-down.
The apartment is so quiet now.
No boots by the door. No jacket draped over the back of a chair. No faint muttering from the bathroom as he brushes his teeth, always forgetting you can hear him talking to himself.
You don’t remember the last five minutes of the episode. You weren’t watching anymore—just staring in the direction of the screen, your eyes blurry and dry.
You check your phone again.
Still nothing.
You tell yourself it’s fine. He said a few hours. Maybe things went sideways, but not in the bad way. Just in the someone got stuck in a hallway way. Or the they had to reroute the exit way.
You’ve heard him and Yelena debrief before. Sometimes the word complication just means boring as hell.
But still.
You pull up his contact. Your thumb hovers. You don’t want to be That Girlfriend.
You press call anyway.
The ring doesn’t even start.
Straight to voicemail.
You hang up before the beep.
And there it is—your stomach twisting.
You stand up before you know why you’re doing it, pacing the small length of the apartment like you’re trying to shake something off. You walk to the window. Look out.
Nothing.
Like you expected him to be down there, casually walking up the steps with that half-smirk and a bad takeout bag in hand.
You close your eyes. Count to five.
Then ten.
Then twenty.
You sit back down.
You stare at the phone.
At 10:12 you call again.
Voicemail.
You don’t leave one.
You chew your bottom lip until the taste of copper hits your tongue, then curse under your breath and get back up. The silence in the apartment has shape now. It’s following you. It’s louder than your footsteps.
You rub your palms against your jeans. You’re not cold, but you’re shivering anyway.
You walk to the kitchen and open a cabinet just to close it again.
10:26PM.
This isn’t normal.
It’s not not normal, but it doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel like a delay. It feels like something else. Something heavier.
You pick up your phone. Tap open your texts.
You:
Hey. All okay?
You hit send before you can overthink it.
You stare at the three little dots at the top of the screen, hoping—stupidly—for the typing bubble.
The silence after it clicks off is louder than the ringing.
You stare at the phone like it’s failed you. Or like it holds the answer and just won’t give it up. Like maybe if you tap the screen hard enough, a message will appear. Or maybe he will.
You sink onto the couch again, phone clutched too tightly in your hand. You pull your knees to your chest, the blanket tangled beneath you. Your heart isn’t racing yet—but it’s not moving normally either. There’s a rhythm to it that’s off, like a song you can’t remember the lyrics to but can’t stop humming.
10:48PM.
You text again.
You:
Just let me know you’re okay. Please.
You watch the message deliver. You check the time again like it’s lying to you.
It isn’t.
You leave the text thread and open his location.
Unavailable.
You close it.
Open it again.
Still nothing.
Your stomach churns.
Maybe his phone died. Maybe it got destroyed. That’s happened before, hasn’t it? You try to remember. Has it?
Or maybe it’s in his pocket and he just didn’t think to check.
You press your fingers to your temple and close your eyes. Don’t do this. Don’t spiral. Don’t be that girl who panics because her boyfriend didn’t text for a few hours.
Except it’s not just a few hours anymore.
And he’s not your boyfriend who works at a boring desk job. He’s a Thunderbolt. Which is just a sanitized way of saying government-approved chaos with body armor and legal kill orders.
You try calling again.
Voicemail.
You call Yelena again.
Voicemail.
You don’t leave one. Again.
Instead, you pace.
Kitchen to couch. Couch to door. Door to window.
You look out again, even though you know he’s not out there. Your arms are crossed, your shoulders tight, your breath shallow.
You open your phone and start to type out another message, then delete it.
Start again.
Delete.
You throw the phone down on the couch and immediately pick it back up.
It’s 11:06.
You sit on the armrest, perched like you’re about to launch into flight. You don’t blink.
You try to reason with yourself.
No news is good news.
They’d call you if something happened.
Wouldn’t they?
You try to imagine the Thunderbolts’ HR department having your number. You try to picture Yelena remembering you exist in the middle of a mess.
And then you try to remember if anyone’s ever called you when things got bad.
They haven’t.
Because they never had to.
Because nothing this bad has ever happened.
Your jaw tightens. Your leg bounces. You stare at the front door like you can will him through it.
Yelena’s name glows at the top of your screen, and for a brief moment, you believe she’s going to pick up. That she’ll say something sarcastic and roll her eyes through the phone and tell you to stop freaking out, Barnes is fine, probably just pouting in the backseat with a busted comms link and a bad attitude.
The screen goes dark.
Voicemail.
This time, you don’t hang up.
You wait.
You listen to the beep.
And your voice comes out so much smaller than you intended.
“Hey. I—sorry. It’s just me. Again.”
You laugh, and it’s hollow and cracked.
“I know I’m probably being stupid. But I haven’t heard from him. He said a few hours and it’s…it’s almost midnight. And I’ve called, and texted, and I just—can you call me back? Please?”
You press your lips together, try to breathe through your nose.
“He didn’t say where they were going. I know he’s not supposed to tell me. I know. But… I just—can you just tell me if he’s okay?”
You stop.
You shouldn’t say more.
But your chest hurts now, and the words are falling out whether you want them to or not.
“I keep thinking I should’ve told him to come back to me. I always say it, and this time I didn’t. I just let him walk out and I don’t—I don’t know why.”
You pause.
Then, very quietly: “I don’t know what I’ll do if something happened to him.”
You hang up before your voice fully breaks.
And then you sit on the floor, knees pulled to your chest, phone balanced on your thigh like it might buzz any second.
It doesn’t.
You don’t cry yet.
You just press your forehead to your knees and start to count in your head, trying to hold the panic at bay with math. With breath. With silence.
You’ve stopped calling. Stopped pacing. Now you just sit on the floor, back against the couch, staring at nothing, letting the stillness throb around you like a bruise you can’t reach.
Then the phone buzzes in your hand.
Incoming Call: Yelena
You don’t breathe as you answer it.
“Yelena?”
She yawns immediately. A scratchy inhale, the sound of a blanket shifting on the other end.
“Mm. Yeah. Hey. Sorry. I just saw your call—what time is it?”
You don’t waste a second. “Have you heard from Bucky?”
She pauses—but not the way you want her to. Not sharply. Not with concern. Just groggy.
“Barnes? Yeah, he’s gone.”
Your heart stops.
Everything stops.
She keeps talking, her voice drifting somewhere in the dark between sleep and apathy.
“I figured someone would’ve told you. The mission ran late.”
Your body isn’t moving.
You aren’t sure it can.
“Anyway, I’m gonna crash. I love you, okay? I’ll swing by tomorrow if I can. G’night.”
The call ends.
Just like that.
You stare at the screen.
It takes a full ten seconds for your brain to catch up.
He’s gone.
Gone.
Gone and no one told you.
Gone and it’s 1AM.
Gone and she sounded like it wasn’t even worth mentioning.
You can’t breathe.
You’re still holding the phone like it weighs nothing. Then, suddenly, it weighs everything. You drop it. It hits the rug without a sound.
You curl forward like your body is trying to protect something inside it, like instinct is trying to shield your heart from what your brain just processed.
Your fingers claw at the hem of your shirt, trying to do something. Trying to anchor yourself.
The word breaks through the noise in your head like light under a locked door.
You lift your head. Just enough to see the outline of him—jacket still on, hair damp from night air, keys still in his hand. He’s squinting, confused, like maybe he left something behind and walked into the wrong apartment.
Your mouth opens.
Nothing comes out but breath.
You push up on shaking hands, trying to move—crawl, stand, anything—but your body doesn’t follow. Your knees fold beneath you, and you crumble back down, all your weight hitting the floor like gravity just remembered you exist.
You reach for him without thinking, fingers outstretched, trembling. You can barely see through the blur in your eyes.
“Are you real?” you choke out.
And it sounds like it’s killing you to ask.
He’s moving before the words are even done.
“Hey—hey—baby, what’s—” His boots hit the floor hard, jacket dropping somewhere behind him as he crosses the space in seconds, kneeling beside you. “What’s wrong? What happened? Are you hurt?”
You can’t answer.
You’re gasping, trying to breathe around the sobs still tearing their way out of your chest. Your hands find his arms, his skin, his stupid metal shoulder—just trying to confirm that he’s here, that he’s solid.
His hands are on your face now, on your back, pulling you into him like he’s trying to hold the pieces of you together.
“I’m here, I’m here,” he murmurs, over and over. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
But you’re not okay.
You shake your head violently, fists curling in his shirt.
“Where were you?” you sob. “Why didn’t you—why didn’t you call? I thought—I thought you were—”
You can’t even say the word.
His whole body stiffens as the reality begins to dawn on him.
“I thought you were dead,” you whisper.
He goes still.
“No one told me. Yelena—she said you were gone—she didn’t mean—” You suck in another ragged breath. “She didn’t know I didn’t know. She just said it, and you weren’t here, and I couldn’t—”
“Shit,” he breathes, his voice breaking for the first time. “Shit. I didn’t—I didn’t think—”
You look up at him through tear-blurred eyes. “How the fuck was I supposed to sleep, James? Not knowing if you needed me? If you were hurt or bleeding out or—”
“I didn’t think to call,” he says hoarsely. “I thought—I figured you’d be asleep. No one’s ever stayed up for me before.”
You flinch.
And that’s when he realizes it.
That’s when it hits him.
You stayed up. You waited. You suffered. For him.
Your chest is still heaving. Your face is wet. But the words push out, broken and fierce.
“I love you,” you whisper. “You fucking idiot. I love you.”
His eyes lock on yours.
And for a second, he looks like he doesn’t believe you’re real.
Then he kisses you.
Hard.
He doesn’t stop kissing you.
Not when your lips go slack from exhaustion.
Not when your hands tremble against his collar.
Not even when your breathing finally starts to slow, hiccuping into his mouth like your lungs are still learning how to work again.
He kisses you like someone trying to undo something—something he knows can’t be undone.
When he finally pulls back, he’s cradling your face in both hands, and he’s looking at you like he doesn’t know what to say. Like he wants to apologize and crawl inside you and make you laugh, all at the same time.
Your eyes flutter open. They’re puffy. Raw. Tired.
But steady now.
And when you speak, your voice is cracked but clear.
“Give me your phone.”
He blinks. “…What?”
“Your phone,” you repeat, breath still shallow. “Right now.”
He hesitates for half a second—then shifts, pulling it out of his pocket without argument. He places it in your palm like it’s some kind of offering.
You unlock it.
You open contacts.
You scroll until you find yourself already saved there—just your first name, no last, no label.
You click edit.
And you add two words.
Emergency Contact.
He watches you do it.
He doesn’t say anything until you press “Done” and hand it back.
“Okay,” you murmur, collapsing again against his chest. “Now if you die, someone has to tell me.”
His arms come around you again. Tight. Unyielding.
You feel him exhale against your temple. It’s shaky.
“I’m sorry,” he says into your hair. “I didn’t think. I should’ve—I should’ve known. I just—I didn’t think anyone would care. Not like that.”
You close your eyes.
“Don’t say that,” you whisper. “Don’t you ever fucking say that again.”
His voice is barely there.
“I don’t deserve you.”
You press your forehead to his shoulder and breathe him in—sweat, metal, leather, skin.
And then you say it again.
“I love you.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you.
His eyes are glassy.
He presses his hand to your cheek, thumb brushing your cheekbone.
Yelena answers the door in mismatched socks and a protein shake in one hand.
“Finally,” she says, grinning. “Did Barnes survive the night or did you bury him in your walls?”
You hit her in the arm.
Hard.
She stumbles back a step—not from pain, but from sheer shock. “Ow?!?”
Bucky raises a hand behind you like yep, fair, but stays wisely out of it.
“You said he’s gone,” you snap, walking past her and into the hallway like you live there. “Do you understand what that sounded like to someone who hadn’t heard from him in over six hours?”
Yelena blinks.
Then: “Oh.”
You spin on her. “Oh?”
She blinks again. “I meant he left the mission. To come home.”
“Yeah, I figured that out between the full-body panic attack and the part where I thought I’d be planning a funeral.”
Her face crumples a little. “Shit.”
“I thought he was dead, Yelena.”
“I didn’t—” she starts, but the words die on her tongue. She puts her protein shake down. “Okay. That one’s on me. Punch me again if it helps.”
You stare at her.
Then you walk over and hug her so hard she makes a noise like a kicked dog.
“I love you,” you mumble into her shoulder.
“I’m so sorry,” she mutters. “You really love him, huh?”
You pull back. “Yeah.”
She looks at Bucky.
Then at you.
Then says, like she’s reporting on the weather, “You’re so soft now. It’s disgusting.”
Behind you, Bucky mutters, “You have no idea.”
You turn to him, ready to jab back, but he’s already pulling you into his side, arm firm around your waist. He kisses the top of your head like he doesn’t even care who’s watching.
“You’re not allowed to love everyone,” he says, gruff. “Just me.”
You smirk. “Is that so?”
“Yes.”
You tilt your face up.
He kisses you—slow, warm, no apology.
Yelena makes a gagging sound in the background, but neither of you hear it.
We laugh at how The Art of War is basically just, "An army can't fight if the soldiers aren't eating," but I'm reading this document about conservation of ancient yew trees and it legitimately says, "You should never fill the center of a hollow yew with concrete," so I think that probably making blatantly obvious statements is just the bane of being a specialist in anything
We have to put “do not eat” on shampoo bottles. I feel like it’s less of a “specialty” issue and more of a “humans are really freakin’ DUMB and so I have to list this ridiculously simple thing as a RULE because SOMEONE is going to try to do it” issue.
