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Let me love you a moment more, It’s the last of it after all.
Pairing : Bucky barnes x Reader (Titanic au)
Summary : Trapped in a cruel betrothal aboard the Titanic, you find unexpected freedom in the company of Sergeant Bucky Barnes—a charming stranger who sees the woman you truly are.
In the span of a few stolen days, the stranger becomes your safe haven, your best friend, and the love of your life. But when tragedy strikes in the middle of the Atlantic, you must fight to hold onto each other—and the future you dared to imagine
Word Count : 24k (This might as well be a book lol)
Warnings : 18+ MDNI, angst with happy ending, hurt, comfort, more hurt, domestic violence, bruises, mentions of wounds, use of foul language, cheating (not on bucky), Smut, PinV, PWP, Tit play, Oral (f rec.), mentions of death, actual deaths, terrible fiancé, terrible mother, mentions of hypothermia, water, drowning, darkness, idk what else to put in the TW. But you get the point right? It's titanic au…
A/N : Guys if this doesn't get notes, I'm gonna cry because this took four fucking months and a lot of tears and emotional devastation to write. This is not proofread coz I couldn't physically go through it again. So forgive me for any mistakes you find in there.
Also huge shout out to my girls @singulartoast @phoenix-in-writing @venigrantrogers @buckybsdoll and @buckysdecaflove for hearing me yap endlessly about this fic for months. Without you all I would've gone insane writing this.
The cold air of the Atlantic bit at your skin as you stepped onto the deck.
It slipped beneath the thin fabric of your dress and wrapped around your bruised skin like icy fingers. The night air of the ocean was sharp enough to sting but you welcomed it. It was the first honest feeling you’d had all evening.
Inside, the music still floated faintly through the ship—laughter, clinking glasses, polished shoes gliding across marble floors. The grand world of the first class cabins glittered like something unreal.
Out here, the cold was real.
Your hand curled around the railing as you walked, the metal biting against your palm.
You didn’t even notice the ache in your ribs when you breathed too deeply. You were used to that kind of pain now. The dull throbbing beneath the silk sleeves. The fingerprints blooming purple and blue along your arms.
Your fingers traced your lips gently, You could feel the bruise forming. The makeup must have chipped away by now, the blue of it showing clearly in the glow of the ballroom lights.
The thought passes through your mind like a wave hitting the bow of the ship. You let it splatter away like water. Willing yourself not to care.
The man who adorned you with such grisly marks, didn’t care if it hurt. The mother who asked you to compromise, didn’t care if it stung. The friends who saw the evidence but remained silent, didn’t care if this was your life.
So why must you care?
There’s a burn behind your eyes. But the tears don’t fall. They refuse to, now. After all the times the tears fell, and went unnoticed, they have made their dejection known.
There’s an ache in your skull, that denies to make itself known. There’s a lump in your throat, that abstains the words from flowing out.
So you just stared wordlessly, into the darkness.
The ocean stretched endlessly ahead, black and restless beneath the moonlight. It looked peaceful from far away.
You climbed the railing slowly.
The metal was slick with frost as you lifted one foot up, gripping tightly with your numb fingers. The wind tugged at your hair, whipping strands across your face as the ship carved through the water beneath you.
For the first time in what felt like years, your chest filled with something close to relief.
No expectations.
No suffocating rooms.
No dominating hands.
No one watching you.
Just the wind, the sea… and the quiet promise of freedom waiting below.
You balanced carefully on the railing, your toes gripping the narrow bar, dress fluttering wildly in the wind. The cold air burned in your lungs, but you leaned forward slightly, staring down at the dark water rushing past.
One step.
A little courage.
That was all it would take.
You could surrender yourself to the cold, to the waves below, to the loving embrace of mother nature, and put an end to your misery.
Your eyes closed themselves, body leaning forward before your mind caught up and alarmed you with the consequences.
Just a little more.
Just…..
“Careful there. The water must be cold at this hour.”
The voice startled you. Body jolting in surprise as you gripped the railing harder for balance. You didn’t turn around to see who it was “Go away” your voice came out shaking.
The ocean roared beneath you.
“Ma'am” he tried again, softer this time, breath fogging in the cold “If you jump, I’m gonna have to jump in after you”
You turned around just enough to glare at the man. But the sight of him knocked the breath out of your lungs.
The man standing a few steps behind you looked entirely out of place against the dark ocean and freezing wind.
A soldier.
The sharp lines of a sergeant’s uniform caught the moonlight, the dark wool coat buttoned neatly despite the cold. The brass buttons glinted faintly, the insignia on his sleeve unmistakable even from where you stood. The wind tugged at his hair, a little longer than regulation perhaps, dark strands falling across his forehead.
He looked… warm. Kind.
Real in a way the polished men in the dining hall never were.
Your eyes drifted up before you could stop yourself and then they stopped.
His face.
Strong jaw dusted with stubble, lips curved slightly like he already knew something you didn’t. But it was his eyes that held you—light in the moonlight, sharp and focused entirely on you.
Watching you with a strange mixture of caution and curiosity.
You realized, dimly, that you had been staring at him for far too long.
His mouth curved slowly to one side.
“Well now,” he said, voice warm and rough with a Brooklyn drawl softened by the wind. “That’s a first.”
You blinked. “What is?”
“Usually when a lady’s standing on the railing of a ship in the middle of the Atlantic,” he replied easily, taking one slow step closer, “she’s not lookin’ at me like she’s deciding whether I’m worth interruptin’ the evening for.”
Your fingers tightened around the cold metal bar. “I wasn’t—”
“Because I gotta tell you,” he continued, strolling another step closer like the situation was nothing more serious than a late-night conversation, “I’ve had women look at me plenty of ways before. Annoyed. Amused. Once or twice impressed.”
His eyes flicked deliberately up and down your figure before settling back on your face again. “But that?” he said with a soft chuckle. “That’s a new one.”
“What do you mean?” Your brows furrowed
“The thoughtful look” He cleared “What's that about?” He leaned closer, like asking for a secret “What are you thinking?”
“None of your business” you attempted, but the bite in your voice was swallowed in the cold wind around you.
“Certainly not.” He agreed “But if I'm about to watch a young lady, and a very beautiful one at that, hurl herself into the cold waters of the Atlantic, Only to get mauled by the sharks and die of hypothermia, I guess it becomes some of my business”
“Who tells you I'm not getting mauled by sharks here.” You confessed, voice shaking, as your chest constricted at the agony you tried to swallow down.
His eyes softened, understanding rising beneath the concern. Its only then that he took in the the blue of your lips, the green on your arm, the slight limp in your foot.
He winced, the woman in front of him was the epitome of beauty to him by all means. Her skin glowing in the faint glimmers of moonlight.
Face bright but shadowed by something he recognised as torment. His heart gave a lurch. The only marks on the skin of a woman like this, should be of love. Of passion.
The only expression on her face should be of joy. Of glee. Not the raging dilemma of whether to suffer through or to end it.
“Well,” he tried slowly, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t jump.”
You blinked at him, confused. “And if I do?”
He didn’t need time to consider that. He just shrugged, the answer clear as day in his head. “Well,” he said, “then I gotta jump in after you.”
Your brows drew together. “Why would you do that?”
He gestured vaguely toward the ocean. “Because if I stand here and watch a lady go over the side, someone’s gonna say Sergeant Barnes should’ve done something about it.”
You stared at him. “And that’s the only reason?”
He grinned slightly. “Well,” he admitted, “that and the fact I don’t much like the idea of you freezing to death down there.”
“I wasn't gonna jump” you lied. Still standing on the ship’ stern, gripping the railing for dear life, you lied. You didn't know why. Just something about him made you want to say that.
“That’s a relief,” he replied, sounding entirely unconvinced. “Here I was thinking I’d interrupted something important.”
His gaze drifted casually over the dark ocean below your feet. Black water surged alongside the ship, endless and merciless beneath the moonlight.
He let out a low whistle. “Hell of a view you've picked.” The waves roared past the hull, distant and cold and final.
Your stomach twisted. “It’s quiet,” you murmured.
“Quiet?” he repeated.
“Yes.”
He huffed out a short laugh. “Lady, that water down there is about thirty degrees and meaner than a pack of alley cats,” he said. “Quiet ain’t the word I’d use.”
You glanced back at him. “Then what word would you use?”
He tilted his head, studying you more carefully now. “Cold,” he said.
Another step closer.
“Lonely.” The wind blew harder across the deck.
“And permanent.”
Your breath caught in your throat. The wind whipped your dress around your legs as you tried very hard not to notice how close he was getting.
He was only a few feet away. You could see the faint scar along his jaw. The steady rise and fall of his chest as the cold air fogged his breath.
“You seem awfully calm about this,” you said.
“Oh I’m not calm,” he replied lightly.
“You’re not?”
“No ma’am,” he said. “I’m just buying time.”
You frowned. “For what?”
“For you to keep lookin’ at me like that,” he said, voice turning teasing again, “instead of lookin’ down.”
You rolled your eyes and turned your head away from him feigning annoyance—And that was the moment he moved.
One strong arm shot forward, wrapping firmly around your waist. And before you could even gasp, he pulled you backward off the railing.
Your feet left the metal bar and suddenly you were stumbling against solid deck again, the world tilting as you crashed straight into him.
His other hand steadied your arm, holding you firmly against his chest until you regained your balance.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
The wind rushed across the deck, louder now that your feet were firmly planted on it again. The ocean roared past the hull below, but it sounded farther away somehow—like it belonged to another world entirely.
Your hands were still clutching the front of his coat. You hadn’t even realized you’d grabbed him. The thick wool felt grounding beneath your fingers.
His arm was still around your waist, steadying you as though he didn’t quite trust that you wouldn’t tip backward again the moment he let go.
Your breathing slowly began to calm. So did his.
When you finally looked up, you found him already looking down at you. The teasing expression he’d worn earlier had softened into something quieter now. Concern lingered in his eyes, but he didn’t say anything right away.
He just studied your face like he was trying to memorize it. Or trying to understand it.
The wind pushed a strand of your hair across your cheek. Without thinking, he lifted a hand and brushed it gently aside. The touch was so careful it startled you more than the sudden grab from before.
You weren't used to gentle touches after all. Of course you belonged from a rich family, a noble family. But money doesn't guarantee gentleness. Nor does it guarantee happiness.
“You alright?” he asked quietly, breaking the fragile silence.
You nodded after a moment. “Yes.” You confirmed.
But he didn’t let go just yet. Instead, his gaze drifted past you briefly to the railing you had been standing on moments earlier. The dark water rushed below it endlessly.
When his eyes returned to you, they were firmer. “Listen,” he said, voice low but serious now. “You don’t gotta tell me what put the idea in your head tonight.” The wind tugged at his coat as he spoke.
There was no teasing in his voice this time.
No clever remarks.
Just quiet certainty.
“Just please don't do that again” he requested, as if you were something precious to him, that he was afraid of losing.
“Don’t climb railings,” he added softly. “Don’t stand up there alone thinking nobody would notice if you disappeared.”
The words hung between you.
For a moment you didn’t know what to say. Not because it was true, it wasn't. People would notice your disappearance, just they wouldn't care. Your eyes dropped briefly to the brass buttons of his coat, still gleaming faintly in the moonlight.
“Thank you,” you said finally.
“For what?” He blinked. Like he hadn’t just saved your life
“For pulling me down.” Your voice was soft but steady. “For not… letting me make the mistake.”
He studied you carefully, like he was weighing those words. “You’re welcome,” he said after a moment.
Silence settled again. Not the kind that was uncomfortable. But the kind that felt full.
He tilted his head slightly. Fingers coming up and brushing your lower lip. You winced at the sting that went through the blooming bruise. But even through the pain, you were surprised at the touch. It wasn't sexual in the slightest. Not demanding, not asking, not taking. Just feeling.
“Tell me what happened” he inquired, fingers still skimming against your lips.
You realized a second later that he isn't just talking about the bruise. Or about the railing. You feared he might have already connected the dots.
“What is it?” he insisted. His eyes shone with something similar to care.
You swallowed through the lump in your throat, eyes going glassy. “It’s nothing”
“Please—” he tried again but you shook your head. He didn’t need to know. He must not.
You had realized very quickly that the people around you were vultures. They would tear away at any one who tried to attack their reputation. And somewhere in the dark night and the cold waters, you had realized that this man, this stranger you’ve never met before would fight for your safety.
You had no idea how you knew. Just that you did. Just like you also knew that you'd protect him from those vultures at all costs. His eyes found yours again. waiting. Hoping. But the words that come out of your mouth are anything but.
“Thank you again.” you curtsied “If there’s anything I can do to return the favour, please—”
“Your name” he cut you off
“I’m sorry?”
His cheeks turned rosy as he answered. If it was due to the winter air, or something else, you didn’t let yourself think. “You can give me your name in return”
You hesitated. Part of you didn’t want to answer. Didn’t want to tie this moment—this strange, unexpected kindness—to the world waiting for you inside. But something about the way he stood there… patient, but curious… made it difficult to walk away without saying anything at all.
You finally gave in.
You told him your name.
He repeated it quietly, almost testing the sound of it. A small smile appeared on his face, brightening it up even more than the moonlight in the dark night.
“Nice to meet you,” he said.
You took a step back. Then another. The wind caught your dress again as you turned toward the doors leading inside. “Goodnight, Sergeant,” you said softly.
He straightened slightly. “You know my rank but not my name?”
You glanced back over your shoulder.A faint smile touched your lips. You almost didn't want to put a name on that face. Allowing yourself the only freedom you could by letting your imagination run wild. If you never see him again, you can call him whatever you wanted. In your dreams, he could be whoever you wanted.
“I didn’t ask.” You whispered, smiling faintly.
Before he could answer, you stepped through the doors and disappeared into the warm glow of the ship’s interior.
Out on the deck, Sergeant Barnes stood there a moment longer, the cold wind tugging at his coat. Staring at the place where you had been. And wondering why he already hoped he’d see you again.
Warm air and music rushed over you the moment the doors closed behind you.
The ballroom glittered just as it had before you slipped outside—crystal chandeliers dripping light over polished floors, the orchestra swelling into another lively tune, couples gliding past in perfect circles. Laughter carried across the room, glasses clinked, silk and satin shimmered under the lamps.
It looked untouched by the cold night outside.
Untouched by the ocean.
Untouched by the moment that had almost happened.
You paused just inside the doorway, the warmth rushing painfully back into your skin. Your fingers still trembled faintly from the cold—and from the memory of steady hands pulling you back from the railing.
For a brief second, you considered turning around.
Going back out.
But before you could take another step—
A hand seized your arm.
Hard.
Your breath caught sharply as you were yanked sideways into the shadow of a tall pillar near the edge of the ballroom.
“Where have you been?” John Walker’s voice was low and sharp enough to cut through the music.
You froze.
He stood far too close, towering over you in his immaculate dinner jacket and overpowering cologne. Everything about him looked polished—the pressed lines of his suit jacket, the perfect knot of his tie, the slicked-back hair.
Except for the anger burning in his eyes. His fingers tightened around your arm. Pain shot up your shoulder. “I—” you began quietly. “I was just—”
“Don’t,” he snapped. The word came out through clenched teeth. His grip tightened again, nails digging through the thin fabric of your sleeve until you had to bite down on a small gasp.
“I turned around for one minute,” he said, leaning closer so no one else in the room could hear him, “and my fiancée had vanished. Do you have any idea how that looks?”
“I only stepped out for some air,” you said quickly, your voice small despite your effort to sound calm. “It was warm inside and I—”
“For air?” he repeated sharply. His eyes swept over your face with sudden irritation. Then they narrowed. “What the hell is that?”
Your stomach dropped.
His hand released your arm only to grab your chin, turning your face toward the nearest light.
The bruise.
The one blooming faintly along your lower lip, barely concealed beneath powder that had smudged in the cold wind outside.
Your heart began to pound.
“You couldn’t even manage to cover it properly?” he hissed.
“I tried,” you whispered. “The cold outside must have—”
“You tried?” he scoffed.
His grip on your chin tightened painfully. “You walked into a ballroom full of people looking like this.”
Your gaze dropped immediately to the floor. Not by choice. By habit. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t fix my reputation,” he snapped.
A couple drifted past nearby, laughing together as they crossed the dance floor. No one looked your way. No one noticed the way his fingers dug into your arm again when he released your face.
“Do you have any idea what people will say if they see that?” he went on coldly. “What they’ll assume about me?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“That’s the problem,” he interrupted. “You never mean anything. You just do whatever foolish thing comes into your head without thinking how it reflects on your fiancé.”
His hand clamped firmly around your jaw again. Harder this time. “John,” you said quietly, trying not to wince. “You’re hurting me.”
“Good,” he muttered. “You need to be punished for your foolishness”
And then he started pulling you through the crowd. You stumbled slightly as he dragged you along, trying to keep pace with his long strides. “John, please—” you murmured urgently. “People are watching.”
“That would be a shame, wouldn’t it?” he said bitterly.
The ballroom blurred past in glittering lights and music as he hauled you toward the grand staircase leading to the private cabins. “I was only outside for a moment,” you said again quickly, your voice shaking now. “I just needed some air.”
“Oh I’m sure you did,” he replied coldly. You almost tripped when he jerked your arm again.
“Walking around a ship alone in the middle of the night with your face looking like that,” he continued, his voice low with contempt. “Do you have any idea what conclusions people might draw?”
“I wasn’t speaking to anyone,” you said quickly.
He stopped abruptly at the base of the staircase. Turning to face you. His eyes were sharp and searching. “No?” he asked.
Your heart pounded. “No,” you whispered.
He studied your face for another long moment. Then his hand tightened again around your arm.
“Good,” he said flatly. And without another word, he dragged you up the staircase toward your cabin.
All the while you kept your head lowered. Trying not to cry. Trying not to think about the quiet man standing on the freezing deck outside—The one who had held you carefully. The one who had asked gently. The one who had said please like you mattered.
So very different from the man now pulling you painfully down the corridor.
The music from the ballroom barely reached this far down the hall, softened into a distant murmur behind thick walls and polished doors. The carpet swallowed the sound of footsteps, leaving only the faint rustle of clothing and the tightening grip of John Walker’s hand around your arm.
You tried to keep pace with him. You really did.
But his strides were longer, faster, fueled by anger that made his grip harsher with every step.“John—please,” you whispered once more. “You’re hurting—”
He stopped abruptly. The sudden halt made you stumble straight into him. Before you could regain your balance, he shoved the cabin door open and dragged you inside.
The door slammed shut behind you with a sharp crack that echoed in the small room.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The cabin was dimly lit by a single lamp on the bedside table, its warm glow illuminating polished wood furniture and neatly arranged luggage.
The bedspread remained untouched, perfectly smooth, like the room itself had been waiting patiently for your return.
John finally released your arm. But only so he could pace away a few steps.
You stood where he had left you, hands clasped tightly together in front of you to stop them from shaking.
Your arm throbbed where he had gripped it. “Do you have any idea,” he began slowly, his voice tight with restrained fury, “how humiliating it is to stand in a room full of men who are watching my fiancée wander around looking like that?”
You swallowed. “I didn’t wander—”
“You disappeared.” The word cracked through the room.
“I stepped outside for a moment,” you said softly, trying to keep your voice steady. “I told you it was warm in there and I just needed—”
“You needed, what!” he snapped.
He let out a short, bitter laugh. You needed to parade that bruise around where people could see it?”
“If it bothers you so much, you shouldn't have put it on me in the first place” words tumbled out of you before you could stop them, your brain to mouth filter malfunctioning.
John whipped around. Eyes dark with fury, and regret washed over you like an ice cold bucket of water. His hand came around the back of your neck. Gripping tight enough that you could hear his knuckles crack.
“What did you just say to me?” He hissed through gritted teeth. He reeked of alcohol, making you grimace.
You tried to draw your face back, fighting against the grip. “John, please—” you tried again and his hand loosened slightly, before tightening again.
“I told you,” he snapped sharply, “to stop talking back.” The room seemed to shrink around you. Your hands trembled violently at your sides.
“I’m not talking back,” you said, your voice thinner now but still there. “I’m just saying it isn’t fair that you blame me when you’re the one who—”
“You don’t get to tell me what’s fair.” His voice rose suddenly, sharp and dangerous.
Before he drew his hand back, only to swing it down harder as it met your cheek with a sharp crack. The force caught you completely off guard.
You stumbled backward, your heel catching on the rug as the world tilted violently. Your shoulder slammed into the edge of the small wooden table beside the door before the back of your head struck it.
Pain exploded behind your eyes.
You cried out softly as your body collapsed to the floor.
The table lurched with the impact.
The porcelain vase sitting on top of it crashed down beside you.
It shattered against the floor with a sharp crack.
Fragments scattered across the carpet and polished wood.
You barely had time to lift your hands before one of the larger shards sliced across your palm.
A sharp sting followed by warmth.
Your breath hitched.
For a moment the room spun around you, the dull ache in your head pulsing with every heartbeat.
You stared down at your hand.
A thin line of red welled across your skin where the broken porcelain had caught you.
Across the room, John stood frozen.
His chest rose and fell heavily as he stared at the scene in front of him—the broken vase, the overturned table, you sitting on the floor clutching your hand.
“You see?” he said finally, his voice tight with irritation rather than concern. “You can’t even have a simple conversation without turning it into a disaster.”
You looked up at him, stunned.
Your head throbbed where it had struck the table.
Blood slowly slid down your fingers.“For Fuck’s sake,” he muttered. “Now look at this mess.”
His eyes flicked briefly to your injured hand, but his expression remained cold. “You should remember your place.”
Your throat tightened painfully. Slowly, you pulled your hand closer to your chest, trying to stop the bleeding with the fabric of your sleeve. Your vision blurred slightly—not just from the pain in your head. But from the agony in your heart.
You whimpered, trying to hold the sobs in. Trying not to break down in tears in front of the man who would rather worry about his expensive carpet getting stained from your blood than the anguish he had caused you.
He scoffed at the noise, turning around and storming out of the room like you weren't worth wasting another moment on. The door shut behind him with a firm, irritated click.
His footsteps faded down the corridor a moment later. And then the cabin fell completely silent.
You stayed where you had fallen.
For a long moment you didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t even try to stand. The soft lamp beside the bed cast a warm glow across the room, catching on the shards of porcelain scattered across the floor like tiny pieces of moonlight.
Your head still throbbed where it had struck the table.
When you touched the back of your hair carefully, your fingers came away trembling.
Your other hand hurt worse.
Blood had begun to drip slowly along your wrist, thin red lines slipping between your fingers where the broken vase had cut your palm.
You pressed your sleeve tighter around it.
The sting pulsed steadily.
But the pain barely reached you.
Instead, your mind drifted somewhere else entirely.
Cold wind. Dark ocean. A steady voice saying Don’t move. You could still feel the warmth of strong arms pulling you safely off the railing. Still hear the quiet firmness when he had said, Don’t do that again.
You stared at the floor. For the first time that night, tears blurred your vision, before a soft knock sounded at the door.
You quickly wiped your eyes with the back of your wrist before you could think about it.
The door opened slowly. Your mother stepped inside. She paused immediately when she saw you on the floor. “Oh my goodness,” she breathed. Her heels crossed the carpet quickly as she hurried toward you. “What happened?”
She crouched beside you, carefully lifting your injured hand. “Oh dear,” she murmured when she saw the cut. “You’re bleeding.”
“It’s nothing,” you said quietly.
But she was already rising, moving quickly to the washstand. “I told you to be careful,” she called gently over her shoulder as she fetched a clean cloth and the small tin of antiseptic she always carried while traveling.
You said nothing.
She returned and helped you sit up properly, brushing broken porcelain aside before guiding you to rest against the edge of the bed. “There now,” she said softly, dabbing the cloth against your palm.
The sting made you flinch slightly. “You must be more careful around these things.” Her voice remained calm, practical. As if this were simply another small accident.
You watched her hands as she worked. Precise. Efficient. The way she had done countless times before. “What happened?” she asked again, though her tone suggested she already knew.
“The vase fell,” you murmured. She glanced briefly toward the shattered pieces across the floor. Then back to your face. You saw disappointment flash across the eyes of the woman that had birthed you.
Her gaze lingered for a moment on the bruise along your lips. A small sigh escaped her. “I told you to cover that better before going downstairs.”
Your fingers curled slightly. “The powder came off outside,” you said quietly.
“Outside?” she repeated.
“I stepped out for air.”
She clicked her tongue softly in disapproval. “You shouldn’t wander around alone like that,” she said. “Especially when your fiancé is entertaining important guests.”
You stayed silent.
She wrapped a bandage carefully around your palm. “You must try harder to avoid upsetting him,” she continued gently. “Men like John carry a great deal of pressure.”
Her voice remained patient, almost soothing. But you knew better. “They have expectations placed upon them. Responsibilities.” The cloth tightened around your hand. “And when his fiancée contradicts them or embarrasses them publicly…” she added, tying the knot neatly. Her gaze lifted to yours again. “You must understand how that reflects on him.”
You already knew what she was going to say next.
You had heard it before.
So many times.
“Marriage requires compromise,” she repeated softly. “Adjustment.”
Your eyes drifted toward the floor again.
“You’re very fortunate,” she continued. “John is well respected. Successful. A man with a promising future.” Her hand rested lightly on your arm. “You must try not to provoke him.”
The words slid over you like a familiar script.
You didn’t argue.
Didn’t correct her.
Didn’t mention the slap.
Or the bruise.
Or the way your head still ached from striking the table.
You knew she didn't care.
Instead, your thoughts drifted again to the freezing deck outside.
To a man in a sergeant’s uniform who had spoken to you like you mattered. Who had looked at you with concern instead of irritation. Who had said please.
You could still see the faint scar along his jaw. Still hear the warmth in his voice. Still remember the way he had repeated your name quietly, like it was something worth remembering.
Your mother finished tying the bandage. “There,” she said gently. “All fixed.”
You nodded faintly.
But your mind was far away. Back in the cold night air. Back at the railing. Back with the soldier who had pulled you back from the edge.
And somewhere deep inside, a quiet thought formed before you could stop it.
What might life have been…
…if Sergeant Barnes had been the one waiting for you behind this door instead?
The night was dark out side the cabin. The ship had grown quieter.
Most of the laughter and music had faded into distant murmurs somewhere deep inside the great floating palace. The corridors outside the cabins were dim now, the lamps turned low as passengers retired for the night.
But sleep would not come to you.
Not with your head still aching faintly.
Not with your hand wrapped in fresh bandages.
Not with your mother’s soft, practiced words still echoing in your ears.
Marriage requires compromise.
You must try not to provoke him.
Not with John sleeping peacefully beside you like nothing ever happened.
You laid in bed for nearly an hour staring at the ceiling before finally giving up.
Carefully, quietly, you slipped from the room. The corridor was empty. No one stopped you as you made your way up the staircase again, your steps light against the carpet.
Your heart pounded faster the closer you got to the deck.
You weren’t entirely sure why.
You told yourself it was the air.
The cold that had felt good earlier.
Honest.
But somewhere deep down, another hope stirred quietly beneath the surface.
A ridiculous one.
One that had no business igniting you like this.
You pushed the door open.
The wind greeted you again immediately, colder now that the night had deepened. The vast ocean stretched endlessly under the moon, silver waves rolling against the ship’s hull.
You stepped out slowly.
And then you saw him.
He sat on a floor near the railing, leaning back with one arm stretched along the hardwood floor, the other resting loosely against his knee.
His coat collar was turned up against the cold, his dark hair ruffled by the wind as he looked out across the water.
Or rather—
Up at the sky.
The stars stretched a vast curtain of shimmering crystals above the ship.
For a moment you simply stood there watching him.
Then the deck creaked softly under your step.
His head turned.
Those same sharp eyes found you almost immediately.
For a second he just stared. Before a slow grin spread across his face. “Well now,” he said, pushing himself upright. “Look who it is.”
You felt warmth rise unexpectedly to your cheeks despite the cold air. He tilted his head slightly, studying you with amused curiosity. If he saw the handprint on your cheek, he didn't mention it.
“Don’t tell me,” he continued, standing and brushing invisible dust from his coat. “You changed your mind again.”
You blinked. “About what?”
He nodded casually toward the railing. “The dramatic exit.”
Your lips parted and before you could stop yourself a laugh escaped you. The sound surprising to you in all it's honesty. “No,” you said, shaking your head. “Not tonight.”
He placed a hand over his heart with exaggerated relief. “Well that’s good news,” he said. “I didn’t feel like swimming again.”
You walked a little closer. “Again?” you asked.
“Well if you’d jumped earlier, I would’ve had to,” he said matter-of-factly.
“You’re very sure of that.”
“Oh absolutely.” He gestured to himself with mock seriousness. “Heroic instincts.”
Your smile grew before you could stop it. “I see.”
He looked pleased with himself. But his gaze softened slightly. “You alright?” he asked quietly.
You hesitated before nodding. “Yes.”
His eyes lingered on your face for a moment longer, like he was deciding whether to believe that. But he didn’t push. Instead he leaned back against the railing, crossing his arms.
“So,” he said casually. “What brings you back out here if it’s not the ocean calling your name?”
You tilted your head thoughtfully. “I suppose I was hoping to see the stars.” You said, gazing into his eyes like they held all the constellations you wished to see.
He glanced up at the sky. Then back at you. “Funny,” he said. “That’s exactly what I told myself I was doing.”
You raised a brow. “And what were you actually doing?”
He grinned. “Waiting to see if the mysterious lady from earlier came back.”
Your breath caught slightly. “You were not.” You huffed out a disbelieving laugh.
“Was too.”
You tried to look unimpressed but the hopeful look on his face made you fail miserably. “And what if I hadn’t?”
He shrugged. “Then I’d have sat here looking at the ocean pretending I wasn’t disappointed.”
That made you laugh again.
Softly this time.
He noticed, grin widening.
“Well I’ll be damned,” he said. “She smiles.”
“Of course I smile.” You countered.
“Didn’t see it earlier.”
“That’s because you were too busy insulting my life choices.”
“Try, saving your life,” he corrected.
“Debatable.” You teased
He leaned closer slightly. “Oh I don’t think so.”
The wind shifted again, brushing your hair across your cheek. Without thinking, he reached out and tucked the strand gently behind your ear again.
The same quiet motion as before.
Your breath caught.
For a moment neither of you spoke. You were standing closer now. Close enough that you could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes when he smiled. Close enough that the warmth from his coat reached you in the cold air.
“So,” he said softly.
“So?”
“You got a name,” he reminded you. “Feels a little unfair that I’m still just ‘Sergeant.’”
You smiled faintly, teasing slightly. “You never told me.” You said even though yku were the one who never asked in the first place.
“Well that seems like an oversight.” He straightened slightly. “James Barnes,” he said.
Then he added with a crooked grin— “But most people call me Bucky.”
You repeated it quietly. “Bucky.” The way you said it made something flicker across his face.
“And you,” he said, leaning a little closer again, “are still the most mysterious passenger on this ship.”
You tilted your head. “Is that so?”
“Oh absolutely.”
“Why?”
“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “you appear on a railing in the middle of the night, nearly give me a heart attack, disappear without explanation… then come back smiling like none of it happened.” He leaned slightly closer still. “I’d say that qualifies.”
Your heart fluttered strangely. “You’re very dramatic.”
“Only when necessary.”
The two of you stood there quietly for a moment. The ocean rolled endlessly beside the ship. The stars burned above.
You crossed the deck to lean against the railing. Settling beside him, wordlessly. Letting the moment settle softly around you.
For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt light. Almost giddy. Excited.
And somewhere inside, a quiet voice whispered that this moment—this strange, unexpected night under the stars—might be the beginning of something you had never dared imagine before.
For a while neither of you said anything.
You stood beside him at the railing, the cold wind brushing past you both while the great ship pushed steadily through the dark water. The stars stretched endlessly overhead, brighter than you had ever seen them from land.
Bucky leaned his elbows against the rail, looking out across the ocean.
You followed his gaze.
For once, the quiet didn’t feel heavy. It felt… easy. Like something that belonged there.
He turned around to face you, eyes drifting down, pausing on your hand.
The bandage was wrapped clumsily around your palm. It was impossible to miss in the pale moonlight.
His brow knit slightly.
“Hey,” he said gently, making you look up. “What happened there?”
You glanced down at your hand as if noticing it for the first time. “Oh,” you murmured.
He waited.
The wind tugged softly at your hair again.
“It’s nothing,” you said after a moment. “Just a vase that decided it didn’t like gravity very much.” His eyes flicked back to yours.
A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “Uh huh.”
He didn’t say anything else right away.
But something in his expression changed—something quieter, more thoughtful. Like he understood that the sentence you’d given him wasn’t really the whole story.
You felt his gaze linger on your hand a moment longer. “Vases can be real dangerous like that,” he said lightly, but there was no humour in it.
“I can't really do anything about them” the words tumbles put of you before you could stop them.
“Then maybe you should let someone do it for you” his eyes never left yours as he spoke. Earnest. Willing. The honesty, too much for you. You turned away, willing your eyes to look at the stars and not at him.
The irony wasn't lost on you. “You can't really do much about the vases” you retorted
“Well, you can always throw them away” he shook his head slightly, hair moving with the wind.
“It's not so easy when you're attached to such vases” you looked away, the kindness in his eyes making your voice shake.
The wind shifted again, colder this time. You rubbed your arms slightly without realizing it. Bucky noticed immediately.
“C’mere,” he said softly.
Before you could protest, he guided you toward the bench he’d been sitting on earlier.
You hesitated only a second before sitting beside him.
The wood was cool beneath you.
For a moment you both stared out at the ocean again. Then, slowly, carefully—
His arm slipped around your shoulders.
Not forceful. Not claiming. Just… there.
Warm.
You leaned into him before your mind had time to argue.
The movement felt strangely natural.
Your head rested lightly against his shoulder, the steady rise and fall of his breathing grounding in a way you hadn’t expected. For several quiet minutes neither of you spoke.
The ship hummed beneath you. The waves rolled endlessly beside it. His hand rested loosely against your arm. Then it shifted slightly. His fingers brushed the back of your head. The exact spot where it had struck the table earlier.
Pain flared sharply. You winced before you could stop yourself. He froze. “Whoa,” he said quietly, pulling back just enough to look down at you. “What was that?”
You tried to wave it off. “It’s nothing.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “That didn’t look like nothing.”
You gave a small shrug. “Just a table that didn’t like gravity very much.”
For a second he just stared at you. Then realization flickered across his face. The wind ruffled his hair again. His voice softened slightly. “You hit your head pretty hard?”
You shrugged again. “Tables can be unpredictable.”
“Your furniture doesn't seem to like you very much” His face was grim when he said it. The expression telling you that he wasn't just talking about the furniture.
You tore your gaze away.
Because it really was as simple as that. You don't hurt the person you love. And if John thought hurting you was his right, that it's not love.
“Can't really do anything about it” you said, still looking at the stars.
He sighed letting it go. He must've seen the ache behind your eyes. Must've realised this was the very thing you were trying to escape.
So he dropped it, letting the conversation drift somewhere else. Slowly. Naturally.
You talked about the ocean first. About how endless it felt.
Then about the stars. Bucky pointed out a few constellations he remembered from nights spent camping as a boy.
You admitted you’d never really looked at them before. “You’ve never just… sat somewhere and watched the sky?” he asked.
You shook your head faintly. “There was always somewhere I was supposed to be.”
He looked at you thoughtfully. “That sounds exhausting.”
You smiled slightly. “It is.”
He told you about Brooklyn. Small streets and crowded apartments and summer nights sitting on rooftops with friends.
You listened quietly.
It sounded like another world entirely.
“What about you?” he asked eventually.
“What about me?”
“What did you want to do?” he said. “Before all this.”
You hesitated.
No one had asked you that question in a very long time. “I used to want to travel,” you admitted softly.His brow lifted.
“Yeah?”
“I wanted to see cities,” you continued slowly, the words feeling strange on your tongue. “Different countries. Learn languages.”
His smile was warm. “Sounds like a pretty good plan.”
You looked down at your bandaged hand. “That was a long time ago.”
He didn’t respond right away.
Instead, his arm tightened slightly around your shoulders.“Plans don’t always stay buried forever,” he said quietly.
The words lingered in the cold night air.
You leaned into him again, your head resting against his shoulder.
For the first time in a long while—
You let yourself imagine things. Dreams. Places. A life that felt different from the one waiting behind your cabin door.
And beside you, Bucky Barnes kept talking softly under the stars—About everything. About nothing.
As if the two of you had known each other far longer than a single night on the deck of a ship crossing the Atlantic. Bucky leaned back against the bench, one arm still loosely around your shoulders. His coat was warm where you rested against him, the steady rhythm of his breathing quiet and calm beside you.
Then he glanced down at you. “So,” he said.
You looked up slightly. “So?”
“You told me about wanting to travel.”
You nodded.
He tilted his head, studying you in the soft moonlight.He tilted his head, studying you in the soft moonlight.
“What else?”
You blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” he said simply, “what else do you want?”
You stared at him for a moment. No one had ever asked it that way before. Not like it mattered. Not like the answer might actually interest them. “You mean… in life?” you asked.
“Yeah,” he said easily, smiling a little. “In life.”
You let out a small breath, unsure whether he was teasing you again. But when you looked up at him, his expression wasn’t playful.
He was genuinely waiting.
Curious.
“You really want to know?” you asked.
“Sure I do.”
Your fingers fidgeted lightly with the edge of the bandage on your hand. “Well… I suppose I always thought I’d live somewhere near the water,” you said slowly. “Not on a ship exactly but… somewhere you could hear the waves if you opened the window.”
Bucky nodded thoughtfully. “Good choice.”
“And I’d like a small house,” you continued, the words beginning to come easier. “Not very grand. Just comfortable.”
You paused. “Maybe with a garden.” His mouth curved slightly.
Your voice grew softer as the images formed more clearly in your mind. “There’d be a porch,” you added. “With a swing.”
“Oh yeah?”
You nodded. “So you could sit out there in the evenings.”
“And watch the sunset?” he guessed.
“Exactly.” You turned to look at him, eyes earnest as you talked animatedly about your dreams for the first time ever.
He looked pleased with himself. “See? I’m good at this.” You laughed quietly.
The sound felt lighter this time. More natural.
“And children,” you added after a moment, surprising yourself. His brows lifted slightly. “Oh yeah?”
“I’ve always wanted children.”
“How many?”
You thought about it. “Four.”
He chuckled softly.“Four?”
“Yes.”
“That’s ambitious.”
You nudged his arm slightly. “I think it’s the perfect number.”
He held up a hand in surrender. “Alright, alright. I won’t argue.”
You smiled again. “I’ve even thought of names.”
“Of course you have.”
You tilted your head, resting it on ypur palm as you spoke. “I always thought I'd name one of them James”
“Yeah? you like that name?” There was a slight smirk playing on his lips when your eyes found him again.
“I really do”
“Well what if your husband has the same name” he pretended to think, as if he was trying to find a solution for a problem that didn't even exist yet.
“Well I guess I'd have to find one who goes by his middle name then” you teased back.
“I guess you do” he winked making you laugh.
It was so easy with him. No practised smiles that were meant to appease important people. No ‘Don't laugh to loud’ and ‘Don't smile too wide’ comments from your mother or john every once in a while, when a real smile threatened to outgrow the fake ones.
Here the moment belonged to you and only you. No shouting voices telling you to stay in your limits. No whispered advices asking you to compromise. Just you under the stars with a man who listened like every word mattered
You kept talking.
About books you loved. About the places you’d dreamed of seeing. Paris. Italy.
Little towns along the coast where you imagined walking narrow streets and buying fresh bread in the mornings.
You told him how you loved music, though you’d never been allowed to learn an instrument properly. How you liked drawing when you were younger. How you always thought autumn was the prettiest season.
The words poured out of you before you even realized it was happening. Like something that had been locked away for years suddenly found an open door.
And strangely, none of the stories involved the life waiting behind your cabin door. You didn’t mention your fiancée. Or your mother. Or the expectations that had always surrounded you like invisible walls.
For once, the life you described felt entirely your own.
Just yours.
Just for this night.
Eventually you paused, suddenly aware of how much you had said. You glanced up at him nervously. “I’m talking too much, aren’t I?”
Bucky was quiet for a second. Then he shook his head slowly. “No,” he said softly.
His arm tightened just slightly around your shoulders again. “I think it’s the most beautiful conversation I’ve had in a long time.”
You looked at him. The moonlight catching the faint scar along his jaw. The quiet warmth in his eyes.
And for the first time in your life, the dreams you had just spoken aloud didn’t feel foolish anymore.
They felt possible.
At least here.
On this quiet stretch of deck. In the arms of a man who had asked simply because he wanted to know.
You stood on the front of your mirror dabbing compact powder on your skin with careless concern. Your mind was too preoccupied to care if the application was even.
The applicator kept hitting the same dip of your cheekbones again and again as you let yourself be lost in the thoughts of the night before.
Thoughts of the man who held you like you were precious. Of how much you talked and still had words left inside you. Of the animated look in his eyes when he told you about brooklyn and Steve.
You felt yourself wanting to meet his friends. To see his life and to be a part of it.
“You ready?” John's rough voice cut through your thoughts like knife through silk.
You turned around, adjusting your gown and checking the makeup before nodding. He took your hand without a care to compliment you on your looks or even checking his grip to not hurt your ring clad fingers.
When you reached the main ballroom, it glittered more brightly than the evening before.
Every chandelier blazed with light, scattering gold across polished floors and crystal glasses. Music poured out in practised symphony from the orchestra, elegant and precise, while laughter drifted between carefully measured conversations.
You stood beside John, dressed exactly as expected. Silk draped perfectly. Hair pinned without a strand out of place. Makeup carefully applied—this time thick enough to hide every trace of yesterday.
From the outside, you were flawless.
From the inside, Your chest ached.
“…a remarkable opportunity,” one of the men was saying, his voice rich with importance. “The expansion alone could double returns within the year.”
John nodded, fully engaged, his posture straight and confident. “Exactly my thinking,” he replied smoothly. “It’s simply a matter of timing.”
You stood at his side, quiet, poised, offering the occasional polite smile when expected.
But your mind wasn’t in the room.
It was somewhere else entirely.
Cold air.
Endless stars.
A quiet voice asking, What else do you want?
Your fingers tightened slightly around the stem of your glass.
The morning had arrived way too quickly for your liking and you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him ever since you left.
There was a charm about him that you never could find in the men that belonged to nobility.
There was an ease about being with him. About the way he listened. The way he made space for you in a world that had never done that before.
“…don’t you agree?” one of the men suddenly asked, turning toward you.
You blinked. “I—yes,” you said softly, though you hadn’t heard a word.
John’s hand brushed lightly against your back. A silent warning to pay attention. You straightened slightly. “I think it sounds… promising,” you added carefully.
The men nodded, satisfied enough. The conversation moved on. You exhaled quietly.
And that was when you saw him.
At first, it didn’t make sense.
A server moving through the room with a tray of drinks. Perfectly ordinary.
Except—your breath caught—It was him.
Bucky.
Dressed in a waiter’s uniform that didn’t quite fit him right—too tight across the shoulders, the sleeves rolled just enough to reveal strong forearms. His hair was slightly neater than the night before, but no less unruly under the ballroom lights.
And his eyes, they found you immediately. A slow, familiar grin tugging at his lips.
Your heart nearly stopped.
What is he doing here?
Panic flickered through you.
If anyone noticed—
If John noticed—
You forced yourself to look away quickly. But it was too late. You could feel it. That pull. That awareness of him moving through the room, closer, weaving between guests like he belonged there.
You swallowed hard.
“I’ll just—excuse me,” you murmured suddenly, stepping back from the group before anyone could question it.
John barely glanced at you, too absorbed in conversation.
Relief rushed through you. You moved quickly. Carefully. Trying desperately to not draw attention.
Until you caught sight of him slipping through a side archway near the edge of the ballroom.
Without thinking, you followed.
The corridor beyond was dimmer, quieter, the music softening behind heavy curtains.
You turned the corner—And nearly ran straight into him.
“Careful, doll,” Bucky murmured, catching your arm to steady you. Your eyes widened, both at the nickname and at the way he looked in front of you.
Skin slightly flushed and lips curved upwards into a grin. You told yourself that none of the views you've seen so far travelling around the world could top this one. It will always be the favourite to your eyes.
“What are you doing here?” you whispered urgently.
He looked entirely unbothered. “Well,” he said casually, shifting the tray onto one hand, “I was in the neighborhood.”
“This is not funny,” you hissed, glancing nervously back toward the ballroom. “You can’t be here.”
He leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice. “Funny,” he said, “I seem to be here just fine.”
“Bucky—”
“James, when I’m working,” he corrected with a crooked grin.
You stared at him. “This is serious.”
“I know,” he said lightly. “That’s why I dressed for the occasion.”
You glanced down at the uniform. “This is not dressing for the occasion, this is—this is sneaking into a first-class ballroom!”
“Technically,” he said, “I walked right through the front.”
You pressed a hand to your forehead. “You’re going to get caught.”
“Not if I’m charming enough.”
“This isn’t one of your games!” Your voice came out sharper than you intended.
For a moment, he just looked at you. Then his expression softened slightly. “I just wanted to see you,” he said quietly.
The words hit harder than they should have. Your breath faltered. “You shouldn’t have—” you whispered.
“I know.”
“Then why did you?”
He shrugged lightly, though his eyes stayed on yours. “Didn’t feel right not to.”
Your heart twisted painfully.
You stepped closer, lowering your voice further. “If someone sees you—if they recognize you don’t belong—”
“They won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I got a pretty good track record so far.”
You grabbed his sleeve suddenly, pulling him slightly deeper into the shadowed corner. “You need to leave,” you said, your voice urgent now. “Right now.”
He looked down at your hand gripping him. Then back at your face. “Or what?” he asked softly.
“Or you’ll get in trouble.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Bucky,” you insisted, your voice trembling now, “I’m serious.”
He tilted his head slightly, studying you. “You’re worried about me.”
“Of course I am!” The words slipped out before you could stop them.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then his grin returned—softer this time, but unmistakably there. “Well,” he said quietly, leaning just a little closer, “that makes sneaking in here worth it.”
You stared at him, half exasperated, half… something else entirely. “You are impossible.”
“I’ve been told.”
You shook your head, trying not to smile.
“This isn’t funny,” you repeated, though your voice had lost some of its edge. “You need to go before someone—”
Footsteps echoed faintly from the ballroom. Your grip on his sleeve tightened.
“Please,” you whispered.
This time, he heard it. Really heard it. The worry behind your trembling voice. The concern behind your eyes.
His expression shifted. The teasing faded just enough. “Alright,” he said quietly. But he didn’t move immediately. Instead, his gaze lingered on you for one more second.
“You look…” he started, then stopped himself, a faint smirk returning. “Different,” he finished.
You exhaled shakily. “That’s because I’m supposed to.”
He shook his head slightly. “No,” he said. “Not that.” His voice softened. “You look like you don’t belong in there.”
Your heart stuttered but before you could respond, voices grew closer.
He straightened quickly. “Guess that’s my cue,” he murmured.
You nodded, stepping back. But your eyes stayed on him. “Go,” you whispered.
He took a few steps back before thinking better of it, surging forward and pulling you into his chest. And despite being startled at the suddenness of the hug, your body melted into him all the same.
When he pulled away, you felt him pushing something into the palm of your hand—a note—before he turned, making his way towards the door.
He gave you one last look over his shoulder then turned, disappearing smoothly down the corridor with the ease of someone who had always known how to slip through places he wasn’t meant to be.
You stood there for a moment longer. Hands shaking. Heart racing. Before forcing yourself to return to the ballroom. Back to the lights. The music.
The music swallowed you again. Bright and loud.
You slipped back into your place beside John as if nothing had happened, your posture perfect, your expression composed.
But your hand remained closed.
Tight.
Careful.
It took several long minutes before you found a moment to yourself—just enough to turn slightly away from the crowd, just enough to unfold the small piece of paper hidden in your palm.
Your eyes flicked down quickly.
Third class dance room.
In case this gets too dull.
I’ll make sure you’re entertained proper.
His handwriting was slightly messy. Like his fingers were shaking when he wrote it. It almost seemed like a weak attempt at fine cursive but charming nonetheless.
Your breath caught. You folded the note quickly, hiding it again. Your heart was racing now. You glanced across the room instinctively.
He was nowhere to be seen. Of course he wasn’t. He had already gone. You'd asked him to. Even though you wished anything but that.
The room suddenly felt even more suffocating than it had before. Because now, you knew what it felt like to breathe. The note stayed hidden in your glove.
You didn’t dare read it again.
You didn’t need to.
The words had already carved themselves into your mind.
Third class dance room.
In case this gets too dull.
You stood where you were meant to stand. Beside John. Perfectly composed. Perfectly still.
The ballroom shimmered around you—light catching on glass and silk, music rising and falling in careful rhythm. Everything was exactly as it should be.
And yet—Your fingers kept brushing against the folded paper tucked inside your glove.
A quiet reminder.
A possibility.
You forced yourself to focus. To stay.
To be sensible.
This was your life.
This was what was expected of you.
You could not simply… walk away from it.
“…and of course, discretion is everything,” one of the men was saying.
John nodded, engaged, confident. “Naturally.”
You shifted your weight slightly, your shoes beginning to ache.
No one noticed.
No one ever did.
You told yourself again—
You’re not going.
This is foolish.
You will stay right here.
John’s hand came to rest lightly on your arm. At first, it looked like nothing..A casual gesture. Possessive, but acceptable. Then his fingers tightened. Not enough for anyone else to notice but enough for you to feel it.
You stiffened slightly.
“Smile,” he snarled under his breath, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “You look miserable.”
You forced your lips to curve into the fakes smile imaginable. “There,” he said. “Better.”
The conversation around you continued. Numbers. Names. Opportunities.
You barely heard any of it.
His grip didn’t loosen.
Instead, his thumb pressed deliberately into the inside of your arm, right where the bruise from earlier still ached beneath your sleeve. A sharp sting shot through you making your breath hitched.
John’s smile never faltered as he continued speaking.
But his voice dropped again, quiet and cutting. “Try not to look like you’d rather be anywhere else,” he said. “It’s unbecoming.”
Your chest tightened. “I’m doing my best,” you whispered.
“Your best isn’t very convincing.” His fingers pressed harder for a second before they released as one of the men turned toward you again.
“You must find all this terribly dull,” the man said politely.
You blinked. “No,” you replied quickly. “Not at all.”
John’s hand slid back to your waist. Firm. Holding you in place. “You see?” he said smoothly. “She’s perfectly content.”
You felt it then. Clear. Sharp.
Not just the discomfort. Not just the pressure. But the certainty.
This was your life. This. Standing still. Speaking when spoken to. Smiling on command. Hurting quietly where no one could see.
Your fingers curled inside your glove. The paper crinkled softly.
The orchestra chnaged tunes. Someone laughed too loudly nearby. John’s voice cut through it as he continued speaking with the men, confident and smooth, completely unaware of the storm building quietly beside him.
You tried to focus again. You really did.
You nodded when expected. Smiled when required. But the words around you blurred. The room felt smaller.
Heavier.
The note in your hand seemed to burn against your skin.
Third class.
You shouldn’t go. It was ridiculous and so very dangerous. Completely improper. You knew that. You knew exactly what your mother would say. What John would say. What anyone would say.
So you stayed where you were. Trying to ignore it. Trying to stay calm. Trying to be who you were supposed to be.
But your heart had already resigned itself to the man in sergeant’s uniform at the edge of the ship calling your name in the dark of the night.
His voice had already replaced the voice of John in your dreams, in your late night fantasies where you wondered how it would've been if John were a gentle man.
Now they were about how your life would've been if it was bucky holding your hand through it all.
You let yourself imagine it. The small house, the garden, the kids. And bucky through it all, building swings on the porch. Harvesting tomatoes from the garden. Teaching math to the kids.
You let yourself build the life of your dreams with the man you could never have. How could you? Women like you were born to be married for business.
And what you wanted for your life didn't matter to anyone but him. To him, it did matter. At least that was what you felt. It mattered to him that you smiled and that you were hurt. Or perhaps it was another fantasy of yours.
But you let yourself commit this sin. You let yourself dream and hope and wish and imagine. Because your mind was the only part of you that was still yours, that didn't have to obey someone else. The only part of you that you could still trust with a secret like this.
“…excuse me,” you said quietly.
The urge to see him again suddenly overpowering enough to mask your fears. You should have thought about consequences, about your reputation. But you couldn't bring yourself past the thoughts of how fun it would be to do something reckless for once.
No one paid much attention as you slowly tried to slip out. John barely glanced at you. “Don’t be long,” he muttered. Voice gruff and insolent.
You nodded faintly. But something in you had already shifted. You stepped away, swiftly at first. Then faster once you were out of their immediate sight.
The music grew faint behind you as you moved toward the doors. Your heart began to race.
And for once you didn't think about stopping. Turning back. Rturning and apologising.
You didn't care about being good.
Being proper.
Being—
Your hand tightened around the note. His messy handwriting swimming in your mind waiting to sink in.
You pushed through the doors.
The corridor air hit your face, cooler, and quieter than the ugly screech of tables and chairs of the ballroom.
You didn’t stop walking. Didn’t hesitate this time. Your steps quickened, pulse followed. And the further you went, the lighter something inside you felt.
Like a weight was slowly lifting with every step away from that room. From john. From all of it.
You gathered your gown and started moving faster. Almost running now, ignoring the echo of your footsteps. Ignoring the voice that told you this was wild.
Because another voice—stronger now—answered back. He is not worth it. None of this is worth it.
You reached the lower decks breathless.
The sound of music met you before you even saw the door.
Loud. Unrestrained. Alive in the way rehearsed orchestra could never be.
You slowed just long enough to catch your breath, hand hovering at the door. Your heart pounded wildly in your chest as you pushed the door open.
The moment you stepped into the third-class dance room, warmth crashed into you like a wave.
Not just heat. Life. The room pulsed with it.
Music rang through the crowded space, fiddles playing fast enough to make your heartbeat stumble into rhythm with them. Boots pounded against the wooden floorboards, laughter burst from every corner, people sang loudly and terribly without shame, and somewhere near the back a group of men were arguing over cards while someone else balanced precariously atop a table.
It was chaos. Beautiful in all its liveliness. Nothing matched. Nothing was restrained. Nothing was orchestered in the way the noble people loved to have.
And somehow it felt more real than every polished ballroom upstairs combined.
For a brief moment you lingered near the doorway, suddenly aware of how out of place you looked in your expensive gown and carefully pinned hair.
Several people noticed immediately. Conversations faltered. A few heads turned. A woman carrying drinks nearly stopped mid-step.
You could practically feel the room thinking the same thing, ‘A first-class woman? Here?’
Your eyes scanned the crowd impatiently until you spotted him.
Bucky sat at one of the long wooden tables near the corner of the room, sleeves rolled to his forearms, suspenders slightly crooked now like he’d long since given up trying to look respectable.
He was laughing at something the blonde man beside him had just said. Probably Steve. You remembered him telling you about his best friend.
Then his eyes lifted and immediately found you. You watched his entire face change in real time. Like the room vanished for him. Like you were the only thing he saw.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” the blonde man beside him said, following Bucky’s stare toward the doorway.
Another friend leaned over, a black man. Probably sam. Bucky told you he was the funniest of them all. “No way.”
“Barnes,” someone muttered in disbelief, “you actually got her to come?”
Bucky was already standing before they’d finished talking.
He crossed the room quickly, weaving through dancers and chairs with that same easy confidence he seemed to carry everywhere.
You barely had time to smile before he reached you.
“There she is,” he said warmly. And before you could even think about it—His arms came around you, pulling you into a hug.
It startled you at first. Not because it was unbecoming. But because it was so natural. So genuine. His arms wrapped around you tightly, stroking your back in gentle sweeps of his massive palm, like he was honestly happy you were there.
No hesitation.
No calculation.
Just happiness.
You laughed softly in surprise as he held you for a second longer than necessary before pulling back slightly.
“I hoped you’d come,” he murmured with unmistakable satisfaction.
“You did?”
“Yeah. Would've been a shame if all my charm was wasted.” You rolled your eyes despite the warmth blooming in your chest.
Behind him, you noticed his friends openly staring now. Not rudely. Just… shocked. And rightfully so. It wasn't everyday they saw a person like you in a place like this.
The blonde man blinked at you several times like he still wasn’t convinced you were real.
Bucky glanced back at them with a grin. “Alright, stop gawking,” he called. “You’re embarrassing me.”
“That’s her?” one of them asked.
“You make it sound like he caught a rare animal,” you replied before thinking.
The table erupted into laughter immediately. Bucky looked positively delighted. “Oh she’s funny too,” someone, probably sam, announced proudly.
The blonde man finally stood, recovering enough to offer you a kind smile. “Steve Rogers,” he introduced himself warmly. “Nice to meet you.”
You told him your name.
Steve’s expression softened immediately. “Well,” he said, “any friend of Buck is welcome here.”
He was every bit of the person bucky told you he was. Kind blue eyes. Sweet serene smile. Thin and frail body but voice of iron. Unwavering in a way you rarely ever saw nowadays.
He greeted you like you were one of them. Making you feel wanted in a place where you only knew almost nobody. While the polished men and rich women upstairs, despite them being your fiancée or mother, wouldn't care if you're alive or dead if you went missing for days.
The others quickly followed, introducing themselves one by one, suddenly eager and warm now that the initial shock had passed.
But what struck you most wasn’t just their friendliness. It was how easily they included you. No one cared whether your manners were perfect. No one watched your every movement waiting for you to embarrass yourself. No one seemed interested in your family name or social standing.
They simply… welcomed you. Like it was the easiest thing in the world. One of the women at the table, natasha from what you knew, scooted over immediately to make room for you.
Another handed you a drink with a grin. Someone else asked if you danced. The warmth of it hit you so suddenly it almost hurt. Because it felt so different from the people upstairs.
John’s friends spoke at you.
Bucky’s friends spoke to you.
John’s world felt polished and cold and careful.
Bucky's world felt alive and real.
And before you even fully settled into the feeling, Bucky leaned closer.
“So,” he said, lowering his voice slightly. “You gonna sit here lookin’ pretty all night or you gonna dance with me?”
Your stomach fluttered. “You dance?”
He looked offended. “Lady, I dance beautifully.”
Steve snorted loudly from behind him. “You dance like a drunk sailor.”
Bucky pointed at him immediately. “Don’t listen to him.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself. Bucky’s expression softened instantly at the sound. He watched you for a moment—this woman who was totally out place in his world looking up at him like he was the best thing that happened to her that day.
He held out his hand toward you. “C’mon,” he said. “One dance.”
You looked at his hand. Strong and warm and waiting patiently for yours.
You realised that this was the first time in your life where no one was forcing you.
No expectations.
No obligations.
Just a choice.
Your choice.
Slowly, you placed your hand in his. The grin that spread across his face nearly made your knees weak. “Thank you my lady” he murmured again softly making you giggle.
He pulled you toward the dance floor in a swift motion.
The music was fast. Far faster than the elegant waltzes upstairs. You barely had time to react before Bucky spun you into the crowd.
“Oh my God—” you gasped between laughs as he caught your waist.
“Relax,” he teased. “I got you.”
“That’s exactly what you said before dragging me into this.”
“And was I wrong?”
You opened your mouth to argue but your words came out as startled laughter as the room blurred around you when he spun you again.
He danced like everything else about him—messy, confident, entirely unconcerned with dignity.
And somehow it was perfect.
His hands stayed firm on your waist as he guided you through the crowd, grinning every time you stumbled slightly.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” you accused breathlessly.
“What?”
“Spinning me too fast.”
“Well,” he said solemnly, “A guy’s gotta impress a woman somehow”
You laughed again. It wasn't the small polite sound you used upstairs. But an actual laugh. A real one. Bright enough that even Steve noticed from the table and shook his head with a smile.
Bucky chuckled softly when he heard it. Your heart skipped. He looked so handsome with that amused smile. That joyous laugh. You realised almost immediately that this moment would haunt your dreams for a long long time.
The dance slowed slightly as the music changed. Bucky’s hands settled more carefully at your waist now. You moved closer naturally.
Neither of you seemed to notice it happening. Or maybe you both did. But nobody said anything.
The room around you faded softly into warmth and music and laughter.
And when you looked up at him, he was already watching you. Not your dress. Not your manners.
You.
Like he couldn’t quite believe you were real either.
“You know,” he murmured as you swayed together, “I was worried you wouldn’t come.”
You smiled faintly. “I almost didn’t.”
His brows lifted slightly. “What changed your mind?”
You thought about the ballroom upstairs. John’s hand digging into your arm. The suffocating conversations. The feeling of disappearing piece by piece every time you stepped back into that world.
Then you looked at Bucky. At the warmth in his eyes. At the way he held you like something precious instead of something owned.
And your answer had nothing but honesty in it when you said “I remembered there was somewhere else I’d rather be.”
You saw a flicker of something pass between his eyes. Maybe shock or surprise. Or maybe something else entirely.
You wished to know what that look meant. You wished to ask him. You wanted to talk. Tell him everything you felt. And somehow, you also wanted to saty quiet. Not utter a word and let this moment ingrained itself into your very bones.
Before you could think better of it, you leaned in, nose brushing his as his eyes flicked toward your lips before finding your eyes again.
When your lips met, the kiss wasn't explosive. It was warm. Tenuous in a way new things always are. Both mouths desperate to feel each other. Both tongues itching to explore each other.
He let you savour it. Let you melt into him as his hands found your jaw, tipping it up just enough that his tongue delved deeper into your mouth.
Your eyes shut themselves closed as you forgot all sense of time. Not caring if people saw or if rumors spread.
This was your moment. And for the first time in your life, you were sure, you'd rather die than let it go.
“Take me to your room, bucky” you whispered against his mouth, pulling away, your breath fanning his face.
“What?” his eyes widened, and you repeated, a smile making its way to your face.
“Your room, buck”
He didn’t waste another moment. Didn't give another thought to what people around you would think. What they'd say. He just took your hand in his and guided you out of the dance room.
The hallway to his room was narrow. Very much I like the wide pathways to luxurious first class suites.
When he pushed the door open, his room was small. Very small compared to lavish first class cabins.
It was simple—two narrow bunks, a tiny washbasin, a crooked little mirror hanging against the wall. A jacket was tossed carelessly over one chair and a pair of boots sat near the bed like they’d been kicked off without thought.
It was nothing like rooms you grew up living in but somehow, it felt warmer. More lived in and honest.
And you found yourself willing to spend an eternity in this tiny room instead of palaces that John talked about gifting you.
Mostly because a palace with John would still be a cage while a small brooklyn apartment with bucky would be heaven to you.
“It’s not much compared to your nice rooms. But if you compare it to brooklyn, it's basically luxury” he attempted to joke but you could hear the nervousness behind it.
“I like it better,” you admitted quietly.
Bucky looked at you for a second like he thought you might be teasing him before smiling softly. “Yeah?”
You nodded. “It feels real.” you answered honestly making something in his expression soften at that.
The sounds of the ship hummed faintly around you—the distant rumble of engines, muffled laughter somewhere down the hall, the quiet creak of the ocean beneath everything.
You took his hand in yours walking in and tugging him with you until the back of your knees hit on one of the bunks.
He shut the door with a flick of his arm and your hands found the lapels of his coat the moment the door shut behind him with a conclusive click.
You pulled him closer like he was oxygen you needed to breathe, and before you could overthink it, you pressed your lips on his in a searing, desperate kiss.
It might just have been the most outrageous thing you have ever done in your entire life. If anyone came to know about it, you'd be banished, and tortured, and what not.
But you couldn't bring yourself to care. Your lip trembled against his, making its insecurity known when bucky didn't kiss you back immediately, more out of surprise than anything.
He felt your hands shaking around the lapels of his coat and he gently slid them around his torso, before cupping your face in both hands and kissing you back.
It was slow.
Nothing like the impatient kiss you had started with. You realized he was savoring the feeling of your lips on his, of your face in his hands, of your hands around his body.
He didn’t ask for more, didn't delve deeper into your mouth. Not because he didn't want to. God, he wanted to. But he wanted you to feel comfortable even more. He wanted you to feel cared for. In command of.
Your courage ignited just a little more and you let your tongue dart out to brush at his lower lip in the slightest of a lick.
He let you in immediately. Mouth opening, chasing you, as your tongue explored his mouth with curious adoration of someone having their first real kiss.
His own tongue had found home in your mouth. Sliding against your tongue and licking at your lips before promptly pulling away for air.
His mouth was shiny from the kiss, lips swollen where you had sunk your teeth in them. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, but fond all the same.
His hands didn't leave your cheeks, fingers caressing the soft skin as he finally spoke, “You okay?”
You nodded pulling him furhter into you until the back of your knees hit the bed again and you stumbled down onto the mattress with him on top of you.
He adjusted his weight on his forearms with a low groan, unwilling to move too much and lose the feel of your body under his.
His mouth chased yours with the kind of urgency that only someone who's been waiting too long can have.
His lips trailed down slowly, mouthing at your neck until you whined, tugging at his shirt. He took the bait, pulling it off of him in a swift motion and revealing the planes of his toned chest to you.
It was clear he worked out. He was a sergeant and it showed. Your mouth went dry, hands itching to feel the skin and muscle of him under your palms, your lips.
His hands shook at their resting place on your waist, pawing at the skirt of your gown, pulling at the strings of your corset.
You helped him with a giggle, swiftly peeling each layer off and baring yourself to him. You were flustered in a way someone having a new experience always would be. But the way he looked at you, so adoring, so fond, made you feel respected even though you have never been in a more vulnerable position before.
He kissed every inch of you revealed to him, muttering praises into your skin and making you giggle.
By the time youre both naked and breathless you don't think there's any part of you left unkissed.
Maybe because bucky didn't rush it, he touched you like he was worshipping you. Asking every step of the way if you're okay. Murmuring soft praises as he explored parts of you that no one else ever had.
Which was exactly what he was doing right now. Knelt between your thighs, as his mouth worked slow and teasing on your dripping core.
You shuddered beneath him as he licked a long stripe from your sopping hole to your clit, circling his tongue on the aroused bundle of nerves making your thighs tighten around his head.
He made a pleased sound of approval at that. Working to fast and slow, alternatively, the pleasure building tighter and hotter inside of your until his name was the only thing on your mouth.
“Buck, please—” you whimpered
“You don't gotta beg sweetheart.” He kissed your thigh “C'mon. Come for me”
You broke with a loud cry, white waves of pleasure washing over you completely. Bucky didn't let up, his tongue worked you through your orgasm until you pushed weakly at his shoulders.
He crawled back up your body and you immediately pressed your lips onto his, tasting yourself on his tongue and moaning at the feel of it.
His fingers found you then, stroking slowly, sliding through the slick wetness of you and nudging at your entrance.
He leaned down slightly. Mouth finding your breast and closing over a nipple. Your back arched itself, offering more of you to him, as your mouth opened in a silent gasp.
His fingers slowly slid in, one at first then another. Two thick digits driving in and out of you as his mouth fondled over your breast.
“Need you bucky” you whined, wanting more of him.
“Not yet baby,” His hand replaced his mouth on your chest as he spoke “gotta stretch you out for me.” His fingers scissor inside you and you cry out.
“Can't have you hurting, can we?” he kissed the tip of your nose, fingers ploughing into faster now. “Come for me baby.” He cooed “You want my cock, don’t you?”
“Want it bucky. Need your cock” you whimpered.
“Then come on my fingers first.” His thumb came up to rub tight circles on your clit, making your thighs shake “Come for me sweetheart. Then I'll give you my cock”
The orgasm surged violently through you. And by the time bucky's fingers left you, your chest was heaving.
He waited patiently for you to come down. Ridding himself of the tight constraints of his pants and stroking himself at the sight of you.
There was a faint blush to your cheeks. Face dewy with sweat and mouth open in ecstacy and bucky decided that there was never anything more beautiful than this. Than you.
He stopped the movements of his hand as yours came to wrap around him instead.
Your hand felt soft and warm on his cock. So tiny but so much better than his own calloused hand. You grip wasn't as tight as he'd like but having you like this was already so fortunate of him.
Your thumb swiped across the tip, spreading the wetness there and making him groan.
And before he knew it, you nestled slightly closer still, letting his cock slide through the slick of your core, the tip of him nudging your clit and making you both moan into each other's mouths.
He pushed in slowly. Inch by torturous inch as you fluttered and clenched around him, adjusting to his size.
“Fuck” he cursed “Still so tight, Sweetheart. I can't even move”
You drew your hips up slightly, helping him slide all the way in to the hilt. His body lowered itself onto you with a low grunt. Face finding the crook of your neck and biting down on your shoulder as he began to rock forward slightly.
His thrusts were shallow at first. Barely pulling out before rutting back in.
The pace built slowly, mostly because bucky wanted to take his time with you. His hips stilled every time he felt his restraint snap. He fucked you until your whole body was taut and ready to snap.
“Why are you so tense honey?” He asked driving back in faster now “You can let go. Its just me. Its your bucky.” His hand found your cheek, thumb stroking softly at your cheekbones. “You know I'd never hurt you.” He reassured.
Your eyes found his then, holding his gaze. This man who was so earnest, so painfully reverent even in a moment like this. And in a passing second, you decided that this was the man you wanted to spend the rest of your life with.
Not John.
Not anyone else.
Bucky.
Only bucky.
He saw the burn behind your eyes, kissing your tears away as they swiftly leave your eyes. “I love you” he said, voice shaky but firm all the same. You surge forward in an instant. Hiding your face in his neck, the sudden change in the angle making his cock hit deeper and your sniffle comes out breathy.
“I love you too, bucky.” You sobbed “I love you so much”
He ground down, before pulling back out. Rutting into you with more urgency now. The room was filled with muffled sounds of gasps and moans. It reeked of sweat and sex.
But neither of you could bring yourself to care. All you could think about was bucky on top of you. All you could feel was him inside you, twitching ever so slightly as he held himself back.
His fingers found your clit again, circling faster, tighter, pulling you toward the edge with him. You surrendered yourself to the pleasure as it developed you whole, your mouth parting in a choked gasp and you felt bucky's hips still, burying himself to the hilt and spilling into you with a grunt.
He let the weight of his body fall onto you ever so slightly as he rode out the aftershocks of his orgasm.
When he finally caught his breath, he rolled over, taking his weight off of you and your body immediately protested at the loss of him.
He would've understood it because he tugged you closer to him almost instantl. Pulling you onto him until you were laying on his chest.
His lips found your forehead in a chaste kiss. Hands settling on your back, stroking it slowly and gentle. Occasionally taking q detour anf playing with your hair, twirling it around his fingers.
It should've been soothing, but as you came down from the high the reality of the situation began to dawn on you. You might be here right now, sated and so in love. But when tomorrow you're forced to go back to your old life, your real life, the nightmare that you're trying so desperately to escape, what would you do then?
And as if it was a cruel joke, your brain suddenly reminded you that bucky didn't know about any of it. About John, about you practically cheating on your fiancée.
“What's got you thinking so loud, sweetheart?” He turned your face to meet his eyes.
And yoh realised, he desevred the truth. After what he said to you, after what you did, you owed him honesty. “Bucky, I—um, maybe you don’t know that—I mean, you definitely don't know—You had no idea and I know its my fault. I should've said something before we—”
“Hey, if this is about me not knowing that you have a man in your life, then you don't need to worry. I know”
“You know?” You were shocked to hear that.
“I saw that man with you when I sneaked into that ballroom to meet you” he confessed “And I realised what your relationship was.”
When you didn't show any signs of horror that bucky was worrying about, he went on. “For a moment i thought about pulling away but then i remembered the vase” his fingers found your forearm where the scar from the vase was still fresh.
“And the table” His hand went to the back of your head as if to emphasise what he was talking about.
“And the way your eyes shine when you’re with me.” he whispered. “I saw it in that room, baby. How dead you looked. How miserable. And all I could think about was that you deserved better than that. So much better, sweetheart. You deserve the world.”
His eyes shone with something you didn’t know if you truly understood, he cupped your cheek as he said the next part. “And even though I know I can't give it to you. But I’d sure as he'll die trying.”
“You might have known, bucky. But that doesn't make me less guilty” you confessed
“Maybe not. But I'm no less guilty either. I courted you despite knowing you have a fiancée. I’m at fault too, honey” he said looking into your eyes. “But what we did, what I said—I want you to know that I mean it, every word, every gesture, everything. If you're willing to give me a chance, I want to do this right. Just say yes.”
And for the firsttime that night, you hoped that maybe you could have it all with him.
All you had to do was say yes and the future would be right there. He would be right there. He'd hold your hand and everything would be fine.
You could disappear. John would never find you and you would find everything. The freedom. The joy. The dreams. The future.
Him.
“Yes”
The room had grown quieter as the night passed.
Not silent—never truly silent on a ship this large—but softer somehow.
The distant hum of the engines vibrated faintly beneath the walls while muffled footsteps echoed occasionally through the corridor outside. Somewhere farther down the hall, someone laughed loudly before being immediately shushed.
But inside the little cabin, everything felt warm. Safe.
You lay curled against Bucky’s side on the narrow bunk, your head resting against his shoulder while he absentmindedly played with your fingers.
At some point you had both decided sleep wasn't the priority for your tired bodies and now you both laid awake in each other's arms.
The careful curls that your hair had been arranged in a few hours ago had come apart almost completely.
Bucky seemed very pleased about that.
“You know,” he murmured thoughtfully, twisting one escaped strand around his finger, “I think this is my favorite version of you.”
You glanced up at him suspiciously. “Your favorite version?”
“Mmhm.”
“What happened to the mysterious elegant first-class lady version of me?”
“Oh she’s alright,” he said. “But this one laughs at my jokes.”
“They’re still bad jokes.”
“You keep laughin’ though.”
You rolled your eyes. “That’s pity.”
“Sure it is.” His grin widened when you smiled again.
The warmth in your chest felt almost frightening now. Like you were becoming too attached to this. To him.
But every time you tried to pull back mentally, he’d say something ridiculous and drag you right back in.
At some point the conversation had dragged your consiousness to future again. He talked about wanting a cat. You joked that the cat would hate him.
He pinched your side and you tried to turn away feigning annoyance, only to be pulled back into him. You shook your head, smiling helplessly.
“You think about this often?” You said after some time, when he started talking about building a garden for you in your house.
“Not usually with such a pretty audience.” Your cheeks warmed immediately.
Bucky looked unbearably pleased with himself. Smug in a way that made you feel like you've made the right choice in a man.
“You blush real easy, you know that?”
“You flirt constantly, you know that?”
“Yeah,” he said easily. “Mostly because watching you react is my new favorite hobby.”
You nudged him lightly with your shoulder. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he said softly, “you’re still here.”
Your fingers traced lightly over the fabric of his shirt while the conversation drifted again.
You told him about books you loved as a child.
He admitted he once tried to impress a girl by pretending to understand poetry and accidentally quoted a laundry advertisement instead.
You laughed so hard you nearly fell off the bunk.
He looked deeply offended about it. “You’re never lettin’ that go, are you?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Cruel woman.”
“You deserve it.”
He spoke quietly about wanting a little mechanic shop someday.
Nothing grand.
You listened carefully while he described it.
“You’d hate it,” he warned.
“Why?”
“Grease everywhere.”
“That’s manageable.”
“I’d come home filthy every day.”
“I think I’d survive.”
He smiled softly at that.
You were lost to the dreams of future and into each other when a sudden pounding hit the door. Hard enough to rattle the walls. Both of you jolted upright immediately.
“Buck!” Steve’s voice shouted from the other side. Urgent and panicked. “Buck, open the damn door!”
Bucky frowned instantly, already climbing off the bed. “What the hell—”
Another fist slam against the door.
“BUCKY!”
Something in Steve’s voice made your stomach drop ominously.
Bucky yanked the door open. Making steve practically stumble inside, breathless and pale. Paler than bucky had ever seen him.
“Steve?” Bucky said sharply. “What happened?”
Steve grabbed his arm. “The ship hit something.”
For one second, nobody moved. The information taking it’s time to sink in. “What?” you whispered, breaking out of the trance as you felt the floorboards rattle beneath your feet by the surge of water.
Steve looked between both of you. “It’s bad,” he said quickly. “Real bad. Water’s coming in downstairs already.”
A strange sound groaned through the ship beneath your feet and one of the tile creaked open, giving way to an insistent trickle of water flowing into the room.
Your blood went ice cold. Bucky’s expression changed instantly.
No teasing now. Only sharp focus.
“How bad?” he demanded.
Steve swallowed. “They’re saying it’s sinking.”
The room went utterly still. You could hear the faint voice of people shouting, children crying, feet rushing as groups of guests ran toward the deck, doors slamming open and luggage thudding behind as they dragged whatever they could save, with them.
The ship tilted, just slightly. But enough. Enough to feel it. Your breath caught. “Oh my God.”
Bucky moved immediately. “Coat,” he said sharply, already grabbing his own. “Put your coat on.” Your hands shook as you obeyed.
Outside the corridor, panic was building fast now. Voices overlapped chaotically.
“What’s happening?!”
“Move!”
“Get upstairs!”
The ship groaned again beneath your feet. Louder this time, more insistent. You looked toward the floor instinctively and saw water slipping beneath the corridor door farther down the hall.
Cold seawater rushing inward from the farther side of the hall
Your heart stopped. “Bucky—”
“I see it.” He grabbed your hand immediately. “Stay with me.”
Steve was already moving into the corridor. “C’mon!”
The hallway outside had transformed into chaos. Passengers poured from cabins in various stages of dress, frightened voices echoing against narrow walls while crewmen shouted conflicting instructions.
The ship tilted again. Harder this time. A woman screamed as luggage slid suddenly across the floor. The lights started to flicker like you were in a horror movie. Which, given the situation was an accurate description.
Water rushed visibly now at the far end of the corridor. Fast. Far too fast. Your pulse thundered painfully in your ears.
Bucky tightened his grip around your hand. “Stay with me,” he said firmly. “Whatever happens, you don’t let go of my hand, understood?”
You nodded shakily.
People shoved past desperately. Someone cried openly nearby. A child screamed for their mother. The sound of metal groaning deep within the ship echoed like thunder through the walls.
“Move!” Steve shouted ahead.
You ran.
Your shoes slipped against wet flooring as the ship tilted again beneath you. Bucky kept one arm firmly around your wrist whenever the angle shifted too sharply, practically dragging you upright through the crowd.
Water surged suddenly around your ankles. Ice cold and unforgiving. You gasped sharply.
“Jesus Christ,” Steve muttered ahead.
The hallway behind you erupted into screams as the water rushed faster. People started running in earnest now. Pure panic. The ship groaned violently again.
Lights flickered themselves off, turning the lower deck dark and unsettling.
Someone fell. Bucky immediately pulled you around them before the crowd crushed forward again. “Keep moving,” he said tightly.
Your breathing came in panicked bursts now. The staircases were packed. People shouting and pushing. Trying to get to the lifeboats before the others.
Crewmen tried desperately to direct passengers upward calmly. But calm had gone out of the window the moment ice cold water of the Atlantic touched people’s feet.
“Women and children first!”
“What’s happening?!”
“Is it true?!”
The ship tilted harder.
A chandelier somewhere crashed violently. Glass shattered. You nearly lost your footing entirely before Bucky caught you against him. “I got you,” he said immediately and his voice cut through the panic somehow. Grounding.
You clung tightly to his hand as you climbed higher and higher toward the deck. Toward the freezing night air. Toward whatever waited above the chaos below.
When you reached the deck, it was chaos. The moment you emerged into the freezing night air, the full horror of it crashed into you all at once.
People everywhere.
Shouting.
Crying.
Crewmen yelling orders over one another while passengers pushed desperately across the tilted deck. Steam billowed into the night sky from the great funnels overhead, and the once-beautiful ship now groaned like something wounded beneath your feet.
The cold hit brutally.
Wind tore through your hair and clothes while the Atlantic stretched black and endless around you.
But more merciless than the cold right now was fear. Real and endless and bone deep fear as the reality and graveity of the situation suddenly started to dawn on everybody.
You could see men making calculations as to how to get their wives and kids to the lifeboats, in case they themselves couldn’t make it.
You could see women trying to mask their own fear to console their crying children and worried husbands.
You could see children trying to make sense of the situation and trying to believe as their mothers said “everything will be fine” even though they could visibly see the otherwise.
You clung tightly to Bucky’s hand as he guided you through the crowd, Steve trailing close behind.
“Stay close,” Bucky said sharply over the noise.
You nodded quickly, struggling to keep your footing as the ship started to crack right down the middle.
Women were crying openly now. Children clung to parents. Some people still stood frozen in disbelief while others surged toward the lifeboats in growing panic.
A crewman shouted nearby “Women and children first!”
The words sent a chill through you colder than the wind. Bucky’s grip on your hand tightened. His eyes darted quickly toward the lifeboats. Then toward you.
Something in his face changed.
“No,” you said immediately.
He blinked. “What?”
You shook your head before he could even speak. “No.”
“Sweetheart—”
“No.”
Bucky looked briefly stunned. “You don’t even know what I was gonna say.”
“Yes I do. You were gonna tell me to go.”
Another violent groan echoed through the ship. Somewhere nearby, metal screamed loudly enough to make everyone flinch.
The crowd surged suddenly, people falling through the cracks in the ship into the dark endless abyss beneath.
Bucky immediately steadied you against him. “Listen to me,” he said firmly.
“No.”
“You need get on that boat. You have first class access, now's the time to use it.” Your stomach dropped painfully. “Go sweetheart.”
There it was.
You shook your head harder. “I’m not leaving you.”
“Yes, you are. You have to.”
“No.”
“Hey.” His voice softened slightly despite the chaos around you. “Look at me.”
You did.
And immediately wished you hadn’t. Because there was fear in his eyes now. Not for himself. For you.
“You have a better chance than me,” he said carefully. “You know that.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should.”
“I don’t.”
He huffed out a breath that almost sounded frustrated. “Darlin’, this ain’t the time to be stubborn.”
“And this isn’t the time for you to tell me what to do.”
Despite everything, his mouth almost twitched. “Now’s really when you decide to start talking back?”
You cupped his face in tour freezing hands “You listen to me bucky barnes, you are the omly thing that matters to me now. Don't you see it? How precious you are to me? I can't—” your voice broke “I can't lose you. I won't”
Another lifeboat began lowering nearby, half-full already while people screamed to be let aboard.
Crewmen held them back. “Stand back!”
“I have a child!”
“Please!”
Your heart pounded painfully in your chest. Bucky cupped your face suddenly, forcing your attention fully back to him. Holding in all that he felt for you in the moment because now wasn't the time to say it aloud.
Maybe if he gets another chance at life, he would try. But not now. Now his only priority was to get you on the boat safe and sound.
The world around you blurred for a second.
“I need you to listen,” he said quietly. The seriousness in his voice terrified you more than the sinking ship. “You can survive this.”
“So can you.”
He didn’t answer quickly enough. And you saw it. That flicker of doubt. Tears stung your eyes instantly.
“No,” you whispered shakily. “No, don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Look at me like that.”
His expression broke slightly. “Sweetheart…”
“You don’t get to decide I leave without you.”
His thumb brushed quickly against your cheek, cold from the night air. “I’m trying to keep you safe.”
“I don’t want safe without you.” The words came out before you could stop them.
Bucky went still at that.
Even with the panic raging around you. Even with the ship dying beneath your feet. His eyes searched yours like he was trying to understand whether you really meant it.
You did.
And he knew.
Steve appeared beside you both again, breathless. “Buck, more boats are loading on the port side—”
Then he stopped when he saw your faces. Understanding crossed his expression immediately. “Aw, hell,” he muttered quietly.
Bucky ran a hand through his hair roughly. “She needs to get on a boat.”
“She does,” Steve agreed gently.
You looked between both of them in disbelief. “Oh, absolutely not.”
Bucky almost laughed despite everything.
“See?” Steve said. “She’s scarier than you.”
“Not helping.”
The ship tilted sharply again.
People screamed as several passengers lost their footing and slid directly into the ocean.
Bucky stumbled but you caught his hand instantly in both of yours.
“I got you,” you said automatically.
You realised your hands clutched tightly at his coat even when he found his footing.
And there was a moment where suddenly you realized something with terrifying clarity. You trusted him more than anyone else in the world.
More than your fiancee.
More than your mother.
More than yourself, maybe.
And the thought of stepping into a lifeboat while he stayed behind felt impossible. Like tearing something out of your chest.
“I’m not leaving you,” you repeated quietly.
Bucky shut his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, they were glassy and it nearly undid you.
“You barely know me,” he said softly.
A watery laugh escaped you. “And i’m not losing the only chance I have at knowing you more.”
“Honey—”
“No buck. Don't you know that if I leave we'll never see each other again? They'll take me away bucky. They'll lock me up somewhere and—” you sniffled “and memories of us will all I have for the rest of my life.”
He sighed. Undone by emotion but logic still weighing heavy on the back of his mind. “You will die here” he blurted out the ugly truth.
“Then it'll be kinder than a life with him” you pointed behind you where John would probably be somewhere trying to get into the lifeboats with all his precious jewels and artifacts.
Bucky looked away. He didn't know what to say. He couldn't ask that of you. Your life in return of his love was too high a price.
You pressed your palm on his chest. “I'm choosing this bucky. I’m choosing you. It might be the last and the only thing I get to do with my own will. So, please let me make this choice.”
The lights on the topmost deck flickered and dimmed slightly. A fresh wave of panic ripped across the deck. People began running now.
The bow dipped lower. The reality finally impossible to deny. Bucky looked around once.
At the lifeboats.
At the freezing ocean.
At the terrified crowds.
Then finally back at you. And something in him gave way. A small, helpless smile crossed his face masking his concern for your sake.
“You are unbelievably stubborn,” he murmured.
You nodded shakily. “That’s a first.”
He stared at you one more second. Then pulled you tightly against him.
His arms wrapped around you fiercely enough that you could feel his heartbeat hammering against your chest. And quietly, against your hair, he whispered “Alright.”
Not agreement. Not surrender. Just Alright.
Like he understood now that neither of you was walking away from the other again. And even when he wasn't sure of it, he knew one thing for sure that if it meant keeping you, he'd die trying.
The night had become a nightmare.
The deck was no longer a place of music and laughter. It was screaming and chaos.
The great ship that had seemed unsinkable only hours ago now groaned like a dying thing beneath everyone's feet. The bow was disappearing into the black Atlantic fast and irreversible.
The stern rose higher and higher. People stumbled across tilted decks desperately trying to find safety where none existed.
Steve was ahead of you both, helping clear a path through panicked passengers.
"Over here!" he yelled.
The deck lurched violently. Bucky never left your hand through it all. All around you, people were crying. Praying. Calling for loved ones.
The sound was almost unbearable.
That was until you heard a terrible noise. A deep metallic roar that seemed to shake the entire world. Everyone froze for one horrible second.
Then screaming erupted everywhere.
The ship was breaking apart.
"Oh God," you whispered.
Bucky's face had gone pale. "Run."
Nobody needed telling twice. The deck became a flood of terrified people. The angle grew steeper way too fast. Much steeper.
You found yourselves climbing rather than running now. Clinging to railings. Pulling yourselves upward while the ship rose beneath you.
The ocean seemed impossibly far below. Black. Endless and deadly.
"Buck!" Steve shouted.
A section of deck shifted suddenly beneath you. Metal shrieked. People fell through.
Bucky grabbed your arm and yanked you toward him just as the flooring buckled.
The movement saved you. But not him.
A heavy piece of twisted railing slammed into his left arm. The impact throwing him sideways. You heard him cry out.
"Bucky!"
He hit the deck hard. You stumbled toward him, worried. Hands cupping his face and making him look at you before your mind had caught up with the incident.
For a terrifying second he didn't move.
Then, much to your relief, he opened his eyes. They were glassy and terrified. You helped him as he pushed himself upright.
His face had gone completely white.Left arm hanging awkwardly against his side, bleeding profusely and flesh peeking out from where the skin had given way when the railing struck him.
"Bucky—"
"I'm fine."
He wasn't. He was anything but fine. You tore a piece of fabric from your skirt, wrapping it around the wound in a makeshift bandage.
When you looked up again his jaw was clenched so tightly you thought he might crack a tooth.
Steve saw it too. "Jesus, Buck—"
"I'm fine. We gotta keep going."
The lie was obvious. But there wasn't time. The ship groaned again, deck tilting further. People were already sliding.
Bucky grabbed your hand again with his good arm. "Move."
The stern rose higher and higher.
The freezing wind tore at your clothes. And in a moment, the railing slipped from your hand and the ship disappeared beneath you.
For one impossible second there was only weightlessness. The stars overhead. Bucky's hand in yours as you both tumbled down towards endless nothingness.
The terrified look in Steve's eyes as he watched his best friend fall into the dark abyss.
Then the ocean hit. The cold stole everything.
Your breath.
Your thoughts.
Your voice.
It felt like being struck by lightning. Sudden and all at once. Like every nerve in your body had shattered. You surfaced choking and gasping for air.
The screams around you were worse now. Far worse.
Hundreds of voices crying out in the darkness.
You spun desperately, looking for him, praying, hoping…….
"Bucky!"
There he was. A few feet away. Still alive. Still fighting toward you through the freezing water. Relief crashed through you. "Bucky!"
He reached you moments later. Face pale, Lips blue, Teeth chattering but smiling nonetheless. "There you are."
You almost laughed.
"Steve!" bucky suddenly shouted.
You turned around just enough to hear steve yell, "I'm here!" He must’ve jumped in after you and was now fighting the surgung waves to reach his best frined.
You and bucky tried to cross the short distance toward him the best you could. The three of you fought through floating debris. Broken furniture and pieces of the ship, to reach each other.
The cold was unbearable, every movement feeling harder than the last. At some point a wooden panelling floated toward you, you grabbed it with sheer will power, hands and legs feeling numb in the cold of water.
The three of you held onto it for dear life.
Then another wave struck. The wreckage spun violently making bucky lose his grip. The injured arm failed him completely.
You caught him before he could disappear bemeath the water. Interlocking your fingers with his good arm to keep him afloat as you could visibly see his consiousness fade slowly due to the blood loss.
The cold continued to steal strength from all of you. Minutes felt like hours and hours felt like days.
The lights of the unsinkable had died between all the commotion. Leaving you in nothing but endless darkness. The ocean down below and the sky up ahead.
And somewhere during the darkness and silence, you realised how quiet everyone had gone. Maybe everyone was tired, maybe dead.
Bucky was barely holding on in front of you, eyes drowsy and ice kissed. And steve,….STEVE?
Where was he?
“Buck,” you shook him awake, “Where—Where’s steve?”
You both looked around desperately, one moment he was there.
Holding onto the wreckage.
Talking.
Trying to keep everyone awake.
The next you knew, he’s nowhere to be found.
"Steve!" Bucky yelled.
No answer.
You looked everywhere. Every direction but there was nothing but darkness.
Bodies.
Debris.
And the endless black ocean.
"STEVE!" You shouted too.
Silence.
Only the wind and waves answered.
The realization settled slowly and terribly, like a rock hitting the bottom of a pitt.
The ocean had taken him.
You both kept looking anyway. For minutes. Maybe longer.
Until your voices became too weak.
Until the cold became too much.
Until there was nothing left to do.
The stars blurred overhead. Your body felt impossibly heavy now. Sleep tugged at you. Dangerous sleep. The kind where you know there’s no waking up from.
As the hours passed, the cold became its own world. After a while, it stopped feeling like water. It became something larger than that, something scarier, pulling at your consiousness asking to surrender yourself to it.
Something that wrapped itself around every thought, every movement, every breath. The wreckage beneath you creaked softly with each passing wave. The ocean stretched endlessly in every direction.
Black water.
Black sky.
Only the stars remained bright.
You couldn't feel your feet anymore. Or your hands. You weren't even entirely sure how long it had been.
Minutes.
Hours.
A lifetime.
Beside you, Bucky was still holding on with his good arm. Barely. His injured arm remained limp against his side, hanging uselessly in the freezing water. Every so often his jaw tightened sharply when a wave jostled it.
But he never complained.
Not once.
You hated him for that. Because it made it harder to ignore how badly he was hurt. And you realised with a terrifying certainty, that he was waiting. Waiting for rescue. WAiting for death. Whichever came sooner.
The ocean rose and fell beneath you, slow and endless. As if unaware of the lives it had taken tonight.
"Hey." His voice sounded rough now.
You turned your head. Or at least you tried to. Even that felt difficult.
"What?" His eyes were fixed on the stars.
"You still awake?"
"Unfortunately." A faint smile appeared.
The darkness stretched around you. Somewhere far away voices occasionally echoed across the water. Fainter now. Far fewer than before. The reality of that sat heavily between you. The ocean had become quiet. Too quiet. And you hated it.
"Bucky."
"Hm?"
"I'm scared." The admission slipped out before you could stop it.
He turned his head toward you immediately.
For a moment he looked younger somehow. Not Sergeant Barnes. Not the confident man from the dance floor. Just a frightened young man floating in an impossible ocean.
"Yeah," he admitted quietly. "So am I."
You stared up at the stars again. They seemed cruel now.
Beautiful.
Unreachable.
Uncaring.
"I thought tonight would be different."
Bucky huffed softly. "I'd say it definitely qualifies as different."
You rolled your eyes weakly. How could this man still hold onto his humour. "That's not what I meant."
"I know." His good hand found yours beneath the freezing water. The grip was weak. But present. Grounding. "I know."
Silence settled again.
You listened to the waves. To the wind. To the sound of Bucky breathing beside you.
And gradually a terrible realization began creeping into your thoughts.
No lights. No boats. No rescue. Nothing. Just darkness. And cold. And waiting.
Your throat tightened. "Bucky?"
"Yeah?"
"If..." The word got stuck in your throat. You tried again. “If I don't make it."
Immediately he shook his head. "No."
"Bucky."
"No."
His voice was firmer this time.
You looked at him.
He wasn't looking back. His eyes remained fixed stubbornly on the horizon. As though refusing to acknowledge the possibility made it less real. "Bucky."
His jaw tightened.
Finally he sighed. "Fine." The word sounded reluctant. Painful.
You swallowed. "If I don't make it..."
His grip tightened immediately.
You almost stopped. But the words were already coming. "If I don't make it, I need you to promise me something."
His eyes closed briefly. "What?"
You thought for a moment.
About the little house.
The porch.
The wildflowers.
The future you'd built together in conversations over a handful of hours.
A future that suddenly felt very far away.
"Be happy."
Bucky immediately looked offended.
"What kinda request is that?"
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
Another wave rolled past. The cold dug deeper making you shiver violently.
Bucky shifted closer immediately.
Trying to block some of the wind.
Trying to protect you from an ocean.
The ridiculousness of it almost made you cry.
"You deserve happy," you whispered.
His eyes softened. "So do you."
You looked away.
The stars blurred slightly.
"You know what the worst part is?"
"What?"
"I only got one day."
His brow furrowed. "One day?"
"With you."
The words came out quietly. Truthfully. "I spent years doing what everyone else wanted." You swallowed hard. "And when I finally got something for myself. I only got one day."
Bucky stared at you. His expression breaking a little more with every word. “Hey” His voice was firm. “Look at me”
"We're getting that house."
You smiled sadly. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"The garden too?"
"Especially the garden."
A laugh escaped both of you. Small. Fragile. But real. The only sign of life in this pitt of darkness.
Then silence returned. Longer this time. The cold kept pulling at you. Pulling you downward. Toward sleep. Toward rest. You could feel it.
And judging by the way Bucky's eyes kept drifting closed, he could too.
Eventually he spoke again. "So if I don't make it."
Your chest tightened immediately. "Bucky—"
"Let me say it." His worrds hung heavily between you.
You nodded.
His gaze returned to the stars. "Travel."
You blinked. "What?"
"Everything you told me." His voice had grown soft. Dreamy.
"See Paris." You felt tears sting your eyes.
"See Italy."
"Bucky..."
"Learn those languages."
His smile was faint now. "But don't get one of those tiny dogs."
You laughed through the tears. "Why?"
"They're mean."
"They are not."
"They absolutely are." He stayed quiet for a moment Then; "And name one kid after me."
Your eyes widened. "One?"
"Minimum."
You laughed again. "Bucky Barnes, that is incredibly arrogant."
"I know." His grin appeared briefly before fading again.
The darkness seemed heavier now.
Both of you were drifting.
Fighting it.
Losing.
Winning.
Losing again.
Your head felt strange.
Far away.
The stars blurred into streaks. And for the first time all night, neither of you had a joke. Neither of you had a plan. Just each other.
The ocean rocked gently beneath the wreckage. Peaceful now that it's hunger was quenched.
You rested your forehead against his. Too exhausted to hold it up any longer. And for a moment it felt like maybe this was it. Maybe this was where the story ended.
Not with screaming.
Not with panic.
Just darkness and cold.
And one last quiet moment together.
And when you decided to finally surrender yourself to the current, you heard it.
A sound. Faint and distant but an anchor nevertheless.
The sound came again. Louder now. A voice. Shouting and looking for survivors.
Bucky's eyes widened. "Wait."
"What?" He lifted his head, slightly.
And then a lantern appeared in the darkness. Tiny. Far away. But real.
A boat.
Someone shouting.
Someone searching.
"Bucky..."
His face transformed.
Relief.
Disbelief.
Joy.
All at once.
"Hey!" His voice cracked as he shouted. "HEY!"
You joined him.
Weakly.
Desperately.
The light turned toward you. Toward the wreckage. Toward the two stubborn people who had refused to let go. And as the boat drew closer through the darkness, neither of you said a word. You simply held onto each other.
And watched hope come back across the water.
The first thing you remembered after the rescue was warmth.
Not safety. Not relief. Just warmth.
Blankets piled over your shaking body. Hands helping you sit up. Voices speaking somewhere nearby.
And Bucky.
Even half-conscious, barely awake himself, he kept searching for you. Every time his eyes opened, they found you.
The weeks that followed blurred together.
Hospitals.
Questions.
Officials.
Lists of survivors.
Lists of the missing.
Lists of the dead.
You hated all of them.
Especially the questions.
"What is your name, ma'am?" The man sat behind a desk with a pen poised above a ledger.
You looked down at your hands.
Then at Bucky.
He was sleeping in a bed across the room, pale from surgery and exhaustion. His left arm had been too badly damaged during the sinking. The doctors had done everything they could. In the end, they had been forced to remove what could not be saved.
The loss hung over him quietly. Neither of you spoke about it much. Not yet. The grief was still too fresh.
The official cleared his throat. "Your name?"
For a moment you saw John Walker's face. Your mother's. The life waiting for you if anyone found you. The cage you escaped.
Then you looked at Bucky again. At the man who had pulled you from a railing. Pulled you through a sinking ship. Pulled you through an ocean. And somehow given you back yourself.
You lifted your head.
The words were soft when they came out, yet firm all the same "Mrs. Barnes."
Bucky hated the first months after surgery.
Not because of the pain, though there was plenty of it, but because now suddenly simple things became difficult.
Buttons.
Doors.
Writing.
Even holding a cup.
When the grief got too heavy, you sat beside him and took his hand. The real one. The one that still trembled slightly when he was upset.
"Bucky." you would say.
His eyes remained fixed on the floor. "Buck."
Finally he looked up.
"You’re still you” you said “and you still got me,"
He didn’t say anything. He never did. Just leaned forward until his forehead rested against yours.
Eventually a metal replacement was fitted.
Crude by later standards.
Heavy.
Silver.
Complicated.
The sort of thing people stared at.
Bucky hated that too. At first.
Then one day he accidentally crushed a walnut with it. Then realised he could do stuff that was harder for him to do before the metal arm.
Like pulling doors right off the hinges. Fixing stuff that required heavy lifting. After that he became considerably more enthusiastic.
You found him showing it off to children in grocery aisles at least twice. "Bucky Barnes."
"What?"
"You are using your metal arm to impress six-year-olds."
"They think it's cool."
"They absolutely do." You grinned.
"They got excellent judgment."
And even though the scars of past were slowly healing but through everything, the one subject neither of you could escape was Steve.
For months you hoped. People kept being found. Survivors appeared unexpectedly. Rumors spread. Stories changed.
Every knock at the door made Bucky sit up.
Every newspaper made him look twice.
Every list made your stomach twist.
Maybe Steve had survived.
Maybe he was somewhere else.
Maybe he was recovering.
Maybe…….
Hope can survive a very long time when there is nothing else to hold onto. Until one morning the final list arrived.
Government officials. Recovered remains. Confirmed identities.
You watched bucky pull the paper open with shaky hands. He read it with glassy eyes and the moment you saw Bucky's face, you knew.
You crossed the room slowly. "Bucky?”
He didn't answer. Couldn't. Words had left him the moment he read the paper. The finality kicking in as the hope flickered out like a flame in a stormy night.
He handed the paper to you, wordlessly. Your eyes found the name almost immediately. Steven Rogers.
Recovered.
Identified.
Deceased.
The world stopped around you as you stared and stared at the paper until your vision turned blurry from unshed tears.
You read it again and again. As though repetition might somehow change reality.
It didn't.
The paper slipped from your fingers. And suddenly you couldn't breathe. “Oh God."
The words came out chocked and watery.
Bucky bowed his head. One hand covering his eyes. His shoulders shaking slightly. And for the first time since the ocean, he cried.
Years of friendship and memories gone in an instant.
The grief hit both of you like a wave. You cried until your throat hurt. Until your eyes burned. Until exhaustion finally forced silence where words could not.
That night neither of you slept much.
You sat together on the porch steps watching the stars. Thinking about a blonde boy fromBrooklyn. Thinking about laughter in a third-class dance hall. Thinking about all the futures that the ocean swallowed whole that night.
Life continued anyway. Slowly and reluctantly.
But it did.
Because that's what life does. It goes on even when it's stained with grief and scars.
And that was how you found yourself several months later, standing in front of a small cottage near the water.
The paint needed work. One shutter hung crooked. The garden was mostly weeds. The porch creaked alarmingly.
It was perfect.
You looked at Bucky and found him already looking at you, smiling. "The porch squeaks."
"I know."
"The roof's uneven."
"I know."
"The front gate doesn't close."
"I know." You laughed.
"So we're buying it?"
"We're buying it."
The first year at the cottage chaos. Wonderful chaos.
You planted wildflowers only for half of them to die.
Bucky insisted he could fix the roof himself. He nearly fell off twice.
You learned quickly that neither of you had any idea what you were doing.
That did not stop either of you.
The garden slowly grew.
He built a porch swing one day to surprise you. And day by day, piece by piece, the house became home.
Then one rainy afternoon a scruffy little stray cat wandered into the garden.
She was tiny and grumpy. Covered in mud and entirely unimpressed by humans.
Naturally, Bucky fell in love immediately.
Bucky picked her uo from the graden like she already belinged to him and the moment she curled up in his lap, bucky knew he'd lost his heart.
"We're keeping her." He looked up at you with puppy eyes.
"Obviously." You rolled your eyes but there was no heat in it.
"What are we naming her?"
The answer came almost immediately. "Alpine." The cat yawned. Completely indifferent.
And so Alpine stayed.
The garden grew.
The porch swing creaked.
The house filled with laughter.
And some evenings, when the sun dipped low over the water and painted everything gold, you'd find yourself sitting beside Bucky on the porch.
His metal fingers intertwined with yours.
Alpine sleeping nearby on the way tree her dad had built for her.
Wildflowers swaying in the breeze.
And sometimes you'd look at him and remember a freezing night beneath impossible stars.
A railing.
A dance.
A sinking ship.
An ocean that had nearly taken everything.
And you felt immensely grateful that somehow, against all impossible odds, the two of you had made it home.
Epilogue coming in a different post because tumblr keeps fucking with me
Summary - After bringing their newborn daughter home, Bucky and Reader navigate the emotional first days of parenthood. Between recovery, postpartum tears, and Bucky’s terrible dad jokes, they find comfort in the love they share for their tiny baby girl and the family they’ve created together.
Warnings - fluffy new dad Bucky, postpartum recovery, mention of a c section birth, crazy hormones, mild physical pain/discomfort, newborn bubble, soft bucky, breastfeeding/nursing mentioned, Alpine interaction, healthy relationship, tooth rotting fluff, happy ending
Writers notes - no proof read or word count. Happy first of the month loves! 🫶🏻
The drive home from the hospital was quiet.
Not uncomfortable quiet—just the kind that settled after one of the biggest days of your life.
Your daughter slept peacefully in the backseat, bundled in blankets that looked ridiculously oversized on her tiny five-pound frame.
Bucky drove with one hand on the wheel and the other reaching across the console whenever he could, brushing his fingers against yours.
Every few minutes he’d glance in the mirror.
Checking on her.
Checking on you.
Making sure both his girls were okay.
When the car finally pulled into the driveway, Bucky was out before you could even think about moving.
“Stay there,” he ordered gently.
You rolled your eyes.
“James—”
“Stay.”
The super soldier was already opening your door.
The C-section incision pulled unpleasantly as you shifted, and Bucky immediately slid an arm around your waist.
“Easy.”
You hated feeling fragile.
But today?
Today you were exhausted.
Sore.
Emotional.
And honestly grateful for the support.
His vibranium arm lifted the car seat effortlessly while his flesh hand remained firmly wrapped around yours.
The Winter Soldier carried the diaper bag over one shoulder, a tiny pink car seat in hand, and carefully guided you up the front steps like you might break.
But to Bucky?
Nothing had ever felt more important.
Inside the apartment, he helped lower you carefully onto the couch.
“Comfortable?”
“Yes.”
“Need a pillow?”
“Bucky.”
“A blanket?”
You laughed weakly.
“I’m fine.”
His blue eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“You don’t sound fine.”
“That’s because somebody cut me open three days ago.”
He immediately looked guilty.
“Oh.”
Your expression softened.
“Not your fault, Buck.”
He leaned down and kissed your forehead.
Then his attention shifted to the car seat.
Immediately.
Like a magnet.
Like he physically couldn’t stay away.
His face melted into something impossibly soft as he crouched beside it.
“Hey, peanut.”
Your daughter stirred.
Tiny fists stretching.
Tiny face scrunching.
Then came the newborn scrunch.
Her entire little body curled inward as if she was trying to return to her favorite position.
Bucky’s heart visibly shattered.
“Oh my God.”
Carefully, he slid his hands beneath her.
Lifting her from the carrier as though she were made of glass.
She weighed almost nothing.
A tiny pink onesie swallowed her whole.
Dark hair dusted the top of her head.
And somehow she was even smaller in Bucky’s arms.
The former assassin settled onto the couch beside you.
His broad frame made your daughter look impossibly tiny.
She wriggled slightly.
Making sleepy little noises.
Immediately Bucky lowered his head.
Pressing a kiss against her dark hair.
“It’s okay, sweetheart.”
Another kiss.
“Daddy’s got you.”
Another.
“You’re home.”
His voice cracked.
Just slightly.
But you heard it.
And so did he.
You watched him stare at her.
Completely captivated.
As though nothing else existed.
Then suddenly Alpine appeared, The white cat hopped onto the couch arm, Curious green eyes locked onto the baby.
Bucky immediately tensed.
“Alpine.”
The cat ignored him, Slowly stretching her neck toward the bundle in his arms. Sniff. Sniff. The baby yawned, Alpine blinked then sat down beside Bucky like she’d made her decision.
Accepted.
Family.
You should have been laughing.
It was adorable.
Instead—
A tear slipped down your cheek.
You frowned.
Confused.
Then another followed.
And another.
Bucky looked up instantly.
His eyes widened.
“Baby?”
You wiped your face, Which somehow only made more tears appear.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know.”
The answer came out as a sob.
“Oh no.”
Bucky carefully adjusted the baby against his chest before wrapping an arm around your shoulders.
“Are you hurting?”
You shook your head.
More tears.
“Did I do something?”
“No.”
More tears.
“Do you need something?”
“No.”
“Then why are you crying?”
“I don’t know!”. The words dissolved into another sob.
Bucky looked completely terrified.
The man had fought aliens,Hydra,Assassins,Gods.
But crying postpartum girlfriends?
Absolutely not.
You laughed through your tears.
Which only confused him more.
“I don’t know why I’m crying.”
“Oh.”
A pause.
“Okay.”
You sniffled.
“Okay?”
“Yeah.”
Bucky pressed a kiss against your temple.
Then another.
Then rested his forehead against yours.
“Then we can cry together.”
That finally broke you.
You laughed so hard you started crying even more.
Bucky smiled.
Relieved.
His arm tightened around your shoulders.
His daughter slept peacefully against his chest.
Alpine purred beside him.
And for the first time since everything had gone wrong in the delivery room, since the emergency surgery and fear and pain—
You looked around your home.
At your boyfriend.
At your baby girl.
At your strange little family.
And realized everything had gone right after all.
“She’s perfect,” you whispered.
Bucky looked down at the sleeping newborn.
His entire face softening.
“Yeah.”
He kissed her head once more.
Then reached for your hand.
“She really is.”
⸻
The afternoon sunlight spilled through the apartment windows, casting everything in a warm glow.
Your daughter was curled against your chest now, happily nursing while Bucky sat beside you on the couch.
He couldn’t stop staring.
Every few seconds his eyes flicked from the baby to you and back again, as though he was still trying to process that this was real.
That the tiny little girl in your arms was his daughter.
That you were her mother.
That somehow the two of you had created an entire human being.
His gaze lingered on the baby.
Then on you.
Then back on the baby again.
A grin slowly spread across his face.
“Oh my God.”
“What?” you asked.
Bucky pointed toward your daughter.
“She shows up.”
You immediately knew that look.
The look that meant he was about to say something ridiculous.
“Bucky—”
Then he pointed at you.
“Now you’re making food.”
You burst out laughing.
Unfortunately, laughing after major abdominal surgery wasn’t exactly pleasant.
The moment the sound escaped you, pain tugged at your healing stomach.
“Oh—ow—”
Your hand instantly moved to your abdomen as you winced.
Bucky’s grin vanished.
“Baby?”
“I’m okay.”
“You don’t look okay.”
“I’m fine,” you insisted, despite your face scrunching slightly.
Bucky immediately scooted closer.
“See? This is why I shouldn’t tell jokes.”
“You absolutely shouldn’t.”
“You laughed though.”
“Against my will.”
A smug smile appeared.
“So I’m funny.”
You rolled your eyes.
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
Too late.
His ego was already thriving.
Bucky carefully brushed a hand over your shoulder before glancing down at the baby again.
The tiny girl continued eating completely unbothered by the conversation around her.
“So that’s it?” he asked.
You raised an eyebrow.
“What’s it?”
“She just eats whenever she wants?”
“Pretty much.”
Bucky looked horrified.
“That’s a dangerous amount of power for someone who can’t hold her own head up.”
You laughed again—more carefully this time.
The baby made a tiny contented noise.
Bucky stared.
Then pointed at her once more.
“Look at her.”
“What about her?”
“She’s not paying rent.”
You snorted.
“Bucky.”
“She contributes nothing.”
“She’s three days old.”
“Exactly. Freeloading.”
Your daughter detached for a moment, making a sleepy little face before settling again.
Bucky’s expression immediately softened.
The tough-guy act disappeared in an instant.
“A cute freeloader,” he corrected.
You watched him melt completely as he gently stroked one finger over her tiny dark-haired head.
His blue eyes were full of wonder.
“You know,” he said quietly, “I still can’t believe she’s ours.”
Your heart squeezed.
Even with the pain, the exhaustion, the wild postpartum hormones, moments like this made everything worth it.
You leaned your head against his shoulder.
Bucky immediately kissed the top of your hair.
Then the baby suddenly let out the tiniest milk-drunk sigh.
Bucky froze.
“Oh.”
“What?”
“Did you hear that?”
You smiled.
“Yeah.”
His eyes widened.
“That was adorable.”
“Everything she does is adorable to you.”
“Because she’s perfect.”
His hand found yours, squeezing gently.
“And so are you.”
The hormones nearly had you crying again.
You pointed a warning finger at him.
“Don’t.”
Bucky looked alarmed.
“Don’t what?”
“Be sweet.”
“Oh no.”
He immediately pulled you closer.
“Are we crying again?”
“I might be.”
“Okay.”
He kissed your temple.
And judging by the way his own eyes looked suspiciously shiny while he stared at his daughter, he wasn’t entirely joking.
summary: you’re a runaway and his truck has broken down. the only thing you two have in common is that you’re both staying in a shitty motel. you have three days to try to convince him to take you all the way to california, and three days to decide whether or not you can trust a stranger more than the place you ran from.
pairing: trucker!bucky barnes x fem!runaway!reader
word count: 30.5k................. im so sorry guys it drags a bit
content contains: 18+ content— smut. porn with way too much plot, slowburn(?) not really, age gap (bucky is early fourties, reader is early twenties minimum), strangers to lovers, mentions of an abusive boyfriend, sambucky mention 😛, creepy man, mentions of gun use, pet names (princess, sweetheart, etc), fem!masturbation, dry humping, boobies, fem!oral, unprotected PinV, basic sex stuff
authors note: hi guys ;P i am back. take this monster as a reward for your patience with me. this idea and the plot came to me at 10pm on a friday night. i was staring at the last picture on the moodboards and i was possessed by something evil and a little freaky. i was genuinely in a flow state… imagine jeffree star organising that eyeshadow and then shane dawson saying oh oh oh in the background that was my vibes.
you've never really liked highways.
they were far too big and still so small at the same time. they were barren and isolating, almost metaphorical in a way you can't quite name; but even though you find they take more than they give, you find escape in route 66.
it stretches and stretches, a torn grey ribbon pulled tight against the ground, disappearing against the horizon. every mile looks exactly the same as the last. its the same yellow lines and the same broken guardrails, the same low hills and the same signs that promise towns that you never seem to ever reach.
it all feels like a big circle that you can't escape, and from the passenger seat of a stranger's car, it certainly feels endless.
the window is half-open, just enough for the wind to tangle in your hair and carry in the smell of gasoline and dry asphalt. the car hums beneath you, the steady rhythm you've been enduring for the past seven hours constant enough that it almost lulls you into forgetting where you are or WHY you're really doing this at all.
but you remember. you always remember.
the car you sit in is a rented SUV. it smells faintly of sunscreen, beef jerky, and the sour tang of someone who hasn't showered in a couple of days. the glovebox is full of old batteries, a few maps of america, and fast food wrappers. in the front, a cassette tape rattles quietly in the stereo, the sound of bruce springsteen's voice filling the cab, loud enough to be heard, but still quiet enough that nobody has to yell.
there's one person in the drivers seat and two in the back, their voices overlapping like they've been traveling together long enough to finish each other's sentences. you dont know their names yet, and you don't think you'll ever learn them, but you can tell by the way they talk that they met on the road— friends made at rest stops, gas station restrooms, motels with peeling wallpaper, and— like you— on the side of the road.
they'd seen you on the side of the road in missouri with your thumb stuck out and a bag that fit your entire life slung over your shoulder. they'd picked you up with no hesitation with the simple explanation of 'that was us once', and you fit in the passenger seat like it was made for you.
"dude, seriously, stop singin'." the woman in the back groans, her plea directed to the man driving the car. "you're gonna blow our ears out if you keep tryin' to duet springsteen."
the driver scoffs, "come on. you know you love it. admit it."
"you sound like a dying dog. nothing to love about that." the man in the back seat chimes in, his arms crossed against his chest. "put my mixtape in and we'll see what real music is."
the woman in the backseat narrows her eyes. "sorry, but nobody wants to listen to ten hours of duran duran's best hits either."
"oooh, burn!" the driver snorts from the front seat, glancing into the rear-view mirror to catch a glimpse of his friend's defeated face. "i think that officially made you the least popular person in the car."
you watch them out of the corner of your eye, sometimes finding yourself glancing in the rear-view mirror just to see what they're doing. they're loud and messy and a little corny, but a part of it is comforting. you say nothing and find peace in their noise.
"hey." the man in the back says suddenly, attention diverted towards you now. "is this your first time riding like this? spending hours in the car with people you don't know driving across america?"
you blink a few times before glancing over your shoulder. the attention is a little sudden, and it takes you a moment to gather your thoughts. your thumb brushes against the fabric of your pants, a small and unconscious anchor.
"i only started doing it when i first decided to leave chicago." you tell them, your voice only slightly louder than the hum of the music. "it was more impulsive than anything."
"huh..." the driver tilts his head as he sneaks a glance at you. "you dont look like someone who just throws themselves out there without a plan."
you shrug, keeping your eyes on the dark streaking asphalt outside. "i didn't think i was that type of person either." you mutter.
the man in the backseat hums in acknowledgment, but then leans forwards again like one question wasn't enough. "why are you on the road? whats the story?"
you hear a slap of flesh against leather, and you can only assume that the woman had hit the man on the arm. "what is this, twenty one questions? let the lady breathe!"
"it's fine." you say quickly, almost hesitantly. "i just... needed to get away from home for a while. packed up what i could and i don't plan on going back there anytime soon."
the man in the back leans back with a thoughtful hum. "yeah, i get that. sometimes moving's better than being stuck."
the driver perks up in his seat, eyes wide like he's forgotten his keys at home. "i forgot to ask, but where were you headed?"
you hesitate. for a moment, you consider lying, and then you consider not saying anything at all. you dont know these people and your answer would do nothing but satiate their thirst for stories of the road; but something about the way the car hums beneath you and the way that the wind tunnels down your sleeve makes it easier than usual to let a small piece of yourself slip.
"i'm going west." you finally say. "california."
the woman smiles like you've given her the perfect answer. "that's the spirit. the road likes it when you don't stop movin'."
you manage a small humourless smile as you turn back to the window. california sits in your mind like a red pin on a map of america. its more of a fantasy than anything solid. you dont have an address or a plan that makes much sense when spoken out loud, and with nothing more than the clothes on your back, your duffel bag, and the certainty that if you keep moving west, something has to change eventually.
and almost like a light in the pitch black darkness, a neon glow flickers up ahead. slicing through the amber orange haze of the sunset, a sign that reads 'HOTEL CALIFORNIA' comes into view, and you find yourself following it even as the car passes, your head turning to watch it disappear into the darkness behind you. the letters shine like a signal, a promise, a miracle like an oasis in the desert, and you would be stupid to ignore it.
your hand braces against the car door as you push yourself up in your seat, your other hand tightening around the strap of your duffel almost instinctively. you turn back to the front of the car, brows knitting together as you lean down and zip open your duffel.
"do you think you could drop me off at that hotel california? the sign said it should be about five miles down the road." you ask.
you reach down and riffle through the unorganised mess in your bag and pull out your wallet. its scuffed from years of use and it pops open the moment you press in the buckle. the cards inside rustle around as you count what cash you have, thumb running over the notes just to make sure it's all there.
the driver glances down at you, his eyes scanning over your alarming amount of money you have. "sick of the car life already, drifter?"
you nod as you shove your wallet back into your duffel, a small smile on your face. "i think i need to stand on solid ground for longer than an hour. my body's forgotten what it feels like to be stationary."
the woman smirks. "that's fair. even the best road warriors need a pit stop sometimes. can't be movin' forever. we can spare five miles for our new friend, can't we?"
the driver nods like it's the easiest question he's ever had to answer. "yes ma'am. hotel california, here we come."
and just like that, the road stops stretching endlessly forwards and instead starts narrowing in on a single glowing sign that promised the hope of a new beginning and a moment to rest your feet on solid ground after what felt like a lifetime of running. at least for tonight, the road can wait.
you clutch your duffel bag straps, letting your eyes linger on the motel as it grows larger by the second. the neon light that stands in the front shines against the darkened sky, spitting orange and teal light across the windshield. and after a few minutes, the indicator starts blinking and the SUV swerves to the left, the vehicle shifting as it pulls into the carpark of the motel.
gravel crunches under the tires, and the hum of the engine drops into a softer sigh, like the car itself is exhaling. a few lonely streetlights cover the area in a soft glow and the motel looms just in front of the car— low, wide, and tired-looking, its paint peeling off of the walls and the roof shingles threatening to fall off of the roof.
you hesitate for a moment before opening the door, like you're waiting for permission you don't need. the night air slips in as soon as it clicks open and you hope out, duffel bag following close behind you and your feet finally touching solid ground. it feels strange after hours of motion, but you find comfort in the smell of dust and warm pavement, like the road has finally let you go.
you turn back, glancing at the people in the car— at their messy hair, at their lopsided smiles, at their clothes that haven't been washed in god knows how long— and you can't help but feel grateful. they didn't have to stop for you or give you a seat in their journey across america, but they did it anyways, and that feels bigger than anything you could possibly say.
your hand grips the side of the door like you're unsure of what to say. finally, you settle on "i really appreciate you guys stopping for me. i'm sorry for just... ditching you for a motel—"
"hey, it's all good. don't let us keep you." the man in the backseat tells you with a sincere smile. "if you need a real bed, then i say go for it. after all, seven hours in a car seat isn't the best for your back or for your mind."
the woman smiles, "just take care of yourself, alright?"
"yeah, and if it's anything like the song, just try not to get stuck in the there forever, alright?" the driver jokes, and you meet him with a weak laugh.
you nod, a smile on your face as you manage a small "thanks for everything" before finally closing the door, and the click of it sounds louder than it should. they drive off with a waving hand out of the window, and now you're all alone in the outskirts of glen rio, texas with nothing but the weight of your life on your shoulders.
the night air is warm and dry, carrying the smell of dirt and the sound of vehicles passing by on route 66. the front office glows dimly through the glass windows, the single LED light flickering like it's considering giving up too. a vending machine on the other end of the motel and the ventilations on the rooftop fight for title of loudest noise in the quiet. a rusted water tower stands neglected on the far side of the property, there are no other cars in the parking lot apart from a beat-up pickup truck parked along two spaces, it's paint sun-bleached and chipped, and you can only assume it belongs to the person at the front desk.
somewhere in the distant, there's a bang. a dog barks and the noise echoes in the desert. the world feels thin out here— stretched wide and empty— and you feel so very small inside of it.
you hesitate for a second, eyes lingering on the motel, before you shift your duffel higher up on your shoulder and head towards the office. the concrete is warm beneath your shoes, still holding the heat from the day, and the closer you get, the louder the hum of the lights becomes— a thin, tired buzz that seeps into your bones.
the door squeals as you tug it open, the rubbing lining along the frame sticking before giving way. cool recycled air washes over you as you step into the office, and the sound of the door shutting cuts through the silence of the room.
the office is small. cramped. a long counter runs along one wall, scratched and worn down by years of borrowed keys and elbows. behind it, a lanky middle aged man wearing glasses sits slouched in a swivel chair, his face half-lit by the glow of his ancient monitor. there's a small radio that sits beside him that plays music from the local radio station, a voice and a guitar that blur into the hum of the lights, and you find it incredibly hard to ignore the smell of lemon air freshener and moist carpet.
the man takes a long moment to really register you and your presence— the bag slung over your shoulder, the dust on your shoes and your clothes, the way you're standing just inside of the doorway like you're not sure whether or not you're meant to be there— and he smiles, dental issues on display for you to see.
"evening." he says eventually, head tilting upwards just slightly like he's trying to take you in, "what can i do for ya?"
"hi—" you step towards the desk, your weight shifting as you lean against the counter. you look at the name on his faded name tag, "trevor. i was wondering if you had any rooms available?"
trevor doesn't answer right away. he just looks at you like you're a pretty thing in the wrong place, and his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. his eyes trace over you slowly— your face, your bag, the way your fingers wrap around the straps like you might run— and then he leans back in his chair, hands reaching up to rest on the back of his head.
"yeah." he finally says. "got a few."
you dont like the way he says it.
"okay." you blink. "how much would it be for a week?"
"depends what kinda room you want." trevor makes an odd noise with his mouth as he leans forwards, something like sucking in his teeth and popping his tongue on the roof of his mouth. "you by yourself?"
you hesitate, trying to push down the odd feeling that starts to well in the pit of your stomach, but you nod. "yeah. just me."
his eyes flick over you again, slower this time, and the corner of his mouth lifts into something you'd barely call a smile.
"just you, huh." trevor repeats like he's letting the fact settle. then he sighs and twists in his chair, "alright, give me a sec to pull up the prices."
he turns back to the monitor, fingers moving over the equally as ancient keyboard, and you try to ignore the porn pop-up that he quickly clicks out of and the solitaire match that he's losing. each key he presses fills the silence, loud in the silent office.
click. click. click. then—
blinding headlights sweep through the office, the small room flooding with harsh white light. for a moment, it's so bright that you can't even see a foot in front of you, and you instinctively shield your eyes. when your vision adjusts, you can make out the outline of a massive semi-truck rolling to a stop in the lot, tires crunching into the gravel and engine growling loud enough for you to wonder whether it's meant to be that loud.
it idles near the far end of the motel, headlights still blazing, long shadows cast against the walls. the cab door opens, and you can barely make out the figure of a tall, broad shouldered silhouette stepping out. he pauses for a moment, one hand resting against the cab before he disappears into the darkness of the parking lot.
there's a small, metallic clank, then another, the sound almost hesitant, like he's trying to figure something out or fix something.
but a grating voice brings you out of your head.
"y'know, we don't usually get much foot traffic out here." trevor's lips smack, eyes flicking over to yours in a way that makes your skin crawl. "couple'a hippies and cross country truckers, but nothin' like you."
"who wouldn't want to spend a night in a place like this?" you murmur with a hit of playful sarcasm lacing your voice.
"you don't gotta sugarcoat it, darlin. this place is— and always will be— a shithole." trevor sighs as he rests an elbow on the desk, a cheeky smile growing on his face. "the only thing that makes up for it is the company. if you get lonely and need someone to talk to, i—"
"yeah, i don't think i'll be talking to anyone much tonight." you quickly and bluntly cut him off. you dont really have time to deal with creeps right now.
he chuckles, the noise low and almost wet, like he's amused and disappointed all at once. "we'll see about that, sugar."
trevor goes back to clicking away at his keyboard. you're picking at your nails when you feel the heat on the side of your face cool, and you turn your head to find that the semi truck's headlights are off now. your attention drifts back to the clanking of metal and the tall silhouette that moves around in the dark.
you wonder if you'll see the face that's swallowed by shadow. you wonder if he'll come into the office and save you from the creepy receptionist. you wonder if he'll be equally as creepy and if you'll need to sleep with a weapon in hand.
the squeak of trevor's chair brings you back to reality.
"right. single room's cheapest. one bed, small. got a pull-out sofa if you decide you don't wanna spend the week all alone." trevor drags the word, tongue running along his teeth. "but if you want a bigger bed for your beauty sleep and a bathroom for all of your girly things, then we do have a double."
your brow quirks. "the single room doesn't have a bathroom?"
"nope, so i'm assumin' you're gonna pick the double. it's two-fifty for the week." trevor says, "cash or card, sugar?"
"cash." you reply. "and don't call me sugar."
you ignore the huff trevor lets out. you zip open your bag, riffling through it before pulling out your wallet. you pop it open and pull out exactly two hundred and fifty dollars. you set the cash down on the counter and slide it towards trevor.
trevor's eyes widen just slightly as he does a faint double take. his hand slaps against the counter as he takes the money, counting it. "right on the dot. where'd a lil' thing like you get all this cash?"
"work." you simply reply. a stranger doesn't need to know anything about you or your money, and you're not about to give away more information than needed.
trevor hums. he pops open the register and places the cash into the tray with a small metallic clink. then he turns around in his chair, head cranes towards you like an idea had just popped into his head.
"y'know—" he pauses, brows raising just slightly as he leans closer to you. the closer he gets, the more he smells of tonsil stones and tooth decay, and you swear you can see a thought forming in those bloodshot eyes of his. "if you wanted the room a lil' cheaper, you could come around the desk and show me what that pretty little mouth can do—"
"i'll pay the two-fifty." you cut in, voice firm, eyes meeting his and trying to keep him from crossing the line any further. "and i'll take my key now."
the annoyed groan that leaves the man sends a chill down your spine. trevor reaches under the counter and pulls out a tarnished room key with a small plastic tag. he holds it out for you to grab, but just as you do, he snaps it back like a predator played with cornered prey.
"don't think you can just walk around here with that attitude, lil miss." he mutters, low and rough, head tilted down enough that his eyes bore into yours. "just because you've got a pretty face doesn't mean things always go your way. you pay, but sometimes... you owe."
the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end and the pit in your stomach almost comes up as vomit. you narrow your eyes at the sick grin he has on his face, about to tell the asshole to go to hell, but the squeal of rubber lining and metal screeching stops you.
the office door swings open and slams shut, harsh and sudden, and it catches both your and trevor's attention. the two of you turn your heads towards the figure who had just walked in— a tall, broad shouldered man, no doubt the one you'd seen outside working on his truck in the shadows.
with a shaved head, a thick scruffy beard, and a torn denim jacket, the man moves through the room with quiet confidence. there's grit in his posture, his face tired and rugged, with soft lines on his forehead and a shadowed jawline thats strong but worn. he's the type of man you'd see in a movie and be intimidated by, but this man felt different.
the man doesn't smile, nor does he speak. he simply looks between the two of you like he's figuring out what he's just walked in on. before anyone can react, you lean forwards and snatch the room key from trevor's hand. he awkwardly rubs his hands on his oily shirt like he's suddenly uncomfortable.
the receptionist gives you a fake smile as he ushers you away, voice dropping with false charm. "room one, sugar. best room in the house."
you scoff as you walk off, your shoulder just barely clipping the man's arm as you stomp past. the contact is almost nothing— a brush of denim against your sleeve— but it sends a strange shiver up your spine anyways. you push the door open and the night air hits you instantly, a soothing feeling after being trapped in that stuffy office.
as you cross the lot towards the room, you glance back, and through the office window, you see him.
the man stands exactly where you had left him, broad frame filling out the office, half shadowed by the dim yellow lights, his head slightly tilted as he cranes his neck down to watch you. not in the way trevor had watched you. not hungry or leering, but with curiosity, like he's trying to decide something, and you can feel his eyes boring into your back until you reach your door.
the key sticks in the lock for a moment before you twist the doorknob. you shoulder the door open and step inside.
a single double bed sits pressed against the wall, its blankets thick and vaguely floral in pattern, the colours dulled from years of washing. a small nightstand holds an even smaller table lamp on top, a worn bible sitting on the lower shelf. the bathroom light flickers on the far end of the room, and you wonder how long it's been on for. the carpet feels flat and stiff beneath your shoes, and the air smells of moth balls and fruity room spray that feels like it's trying to cover up the scent of something old and damp.
the room is fine. its nothing special, but it's dry, it's quiet, and it has a door that locks. that's about the nicest thing you can say about it.
you drop your duffel bag at the end of the bed and kick off your shoes. you peel your jacket from your arms and throw it over the backrest of the small dinning set chair before sinking down into the mattress. it creaks under your weight, but it holds. exhaustion settles over you all at once, your eyes feeling heavy now that you've stopped moving.
you dont even bother changing. you just lie back, stare at the stained popcorn ceiling, and then let your eyes fall shut.
sleep comes fast— or at least you think it does.
some time later— you're not sure how long— a sound pulls you back to the edge of consciousness. you think it's a door. it softly opens and closes. your eyes stay shut, but your mind sharpens in on the noise. you hear footsteps, slow and heavy, and then the low murmur of movement through the thin wall next to you in room two.
you frown slightly into the pillow as the noise comes to a slow stop. the trucker, you assume. the man with the shaved head and the quiet eyes. the one who had indirectly saved you from the advances of the creepy receptionist.
you roll onto your side, tuck your legs in a little closer, and tell yourself not to think about it. you're safe, you're inside, and you're not on the road anymore. nobody is going to find you.
eventually, the sounds fade and the motel settles into silence, and when sleep takes you, you welcome the old friend gladly.
the next day, you wake up slowly. not with an alarm or a bad dream, but with a sound— a dull, metallic bang.
your eyes crack open, unfocused and strained in the low light. light bleeds in around the edges of the frilly curtains, brighter than you expect. you place a hand against your eyes, and for a moment, you're disorientated and heavy limbed, your body still weighing on the mattress like it's trying to hold onto sleep.
you blink and the sound comes again— metal against metal, constant and loud as it echoes through the empty parking lot— and your brain catches up to your body.
you groan quietly and roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling before pushing yourself upright. your joints ache in a way that comes with too much rest and your head hurts in a way that comes with not enough. you rub a hand over your face and glance at the blinking alarm clock in the bedside table.
it's late. not morning late; afternoon late. you'd slept through most of the day and woken up with a grogginess that makes it feel like you never really slept at all, but you give yourself a little leeway— you'd been awake for a day and a half beforehand and this was your first proper bed in a while.
your stomach gurgles, void of any proper food. you get up, tug on your shoes, shove your room key into your pocket, and step out into the heat.
the day has already settled over the motel, the texas sun bleaching the colour out of everything. it still smells like dust and hot concrete, but now there's a faint smell of gasoline and soldered metal. you impatiently make your way to the vending machine you'd spotted last night, the humming getting louder as you near it.
the semi truck is still there, the hood up now, the massive front tilted forwards like a jaw. the man from last night is crouched besides it, his hands and shirt darkened with grease and dirt as he works. tools are scattered at his feet— wrenches, screwdrivers, things with long handles and odd contraptions— and a dirty rag is thrown over his knee.
he looks different in the daylight— still intimidating, still broad and still quiet, but you can see the tiredness in him. the set of his shoulders as he tightens a bolt, the slow and careful way he moves like he's trying to conserve energy, the way he huffs out a breath whenever he meets a particularly stubborn piece of metal. he pauses, wipes his hands on the rag, then leans back to look at whatever he's working on with a slight frown like it's not cooperating and hasn't been for a while.
the vending machine beeps obnoxiously loud at you.
its only when he turns his head just slightly to spot the source of the noise and he catches your eye that you realise you're staring. you turn back quickly and begin feeding your coins into the vending machine, awkwardly pressing on the first button you can see, and wait for the dull thud of something half edible to drop.
you're almost disappointed in yourself when a bottle of old fanta makes its way through the machine instead of food, but you pull it out anyways. the cap hisses when you pop it open. you take a sip more out of obligation than enjoyment. its warm, flat, and too sweet. you take another sad sip and let your eyes wander around.
there isn't much to look at.
the motel stretches out in a long line, sun bleached doors, curtains drawn in most windows, and outdated signs as far as the eye can see. you skip over trevor's badly parked car and focus more on the heat waves that hover just above the ground, and just beyond that, there's a hum of cars passing by every so often. you're about to turn around and go back to your room, but your eye catches on a pink sign that says 'pool'.
it hangs haphazardly on a light post on the far end of the property, the arrow beneath it pointing to a pathway between two buildings with cracked pavement. the sign is barely illegible, the paint faded and cracked, but curiosity gets the better of you and you follow it.
the path eventually opens up into a small, fenced in area behind the motel, and you find that there actually is a pool— or at least a poor excuse of one. the water inside is cloudy, a dull bluish green with leaves and a few empty plastic water bottles floating on the surface. the tiles that surround the pool are either cracked or gone completely, and just beyond that, a few plastic lounge chairs are stacked awkwardly on top of one another, sun bleached and warped from age.
you step closer to the edge and peer down into the water. its so murky that you can't even see your own reflection. alas, you try to squint through at the glare of the sun, but then you feel someone behind you, your shoulders tensing before you even turn around.
"thing hasn't been used in years."
you turn. trevor stands there, hands on his hips and squinting at the pool like he owns it. you hadn't even heard him sneaking up on you, and the thought of it happening again makes you queasy.
"i figured." you mutter.
you take a small step backwards just as trevor steps forwards, his head craned down towards the pool like this is the first time he's seen it in years. he kicks a pebble and it lands into the water with a thick splashing noise before he turns to you.
"used to be nice though. families'd come during the summer. kids'd scream and they'd barbecue. used to get a lot of action." his eyes flick to yours, "not like that anymore."
you nod even though you don't really care.
trevor smacks his lips. "what are you doin' round back?" he asks, the question a little pointed and slightly accusatory.
you straighten a bit, gesturing vaguely. "just looking."
"at the pool?"
"at whatever was back here." you say, already turning away from him. "i was bored."
you start walking back towards the front of the motel before he can respond, but the scuff of shoes against pavement behind you tells you that he's close behind and that the conversation is far from over.
"i get that. not much to do round here." he says easily like this is completely casual and like he isn't matching your pace too well. "but we got a little kitchen just beside the front office if you wanna heat up or cook your food. microwave, coffee pot, workin' sink, that kinda stuff."
"okay."
"and you can probably tell, but housekeepin' doesn't run regularly anymore," he continues, "so if you need fresh towels or soap or anything, you just gotta swing by the front desk and ring that little bell. i'll sort it out for ya."
"i'll manage."
"independent type, huh?" he chuckles softly, and then— almost like he has a death wish— he reaches out and places his clammy hand on your shoulder like you're just an old pal. "i like that about you, sugar."
your body reacts before your brain does. your shoulder jerks back, pulling away from his touch, and you turn to him with a glare sharp enough to kill.
"don't touch me and don't call me sugar."
trevor blinks, caught off guard. his hand hangs limply in the air for a moment before it dramatically drops back to his side. he scoffs, hand returning to his hips.
"alright, alright—" he says, lips pursing like you've personally offended him. "no need to get snappy with me."
you don't reply. you just turn and walk away.
trevor stalls for a second, hands on his hips like he's deciding whether he should follow you or just let you go. the clanking from earlier has stopped, but you barely notice it through the ringing in your ears and the crunch of gravel underneath your shoes.
"we also got laundry service if you wanna change outta those rags." trevor calls from behind you, hand cupped around his mouth to make himself louder. "maybe get a new shirt on— it doesn't do much for your figure!"
you ignore the jab, keeping your eyes straight ahead as you reach your room. you reach into your pocket for your keys and pull them out, but your hands shake just enough for you to miss the lock on the first try, the key scraping uselessly against the painted wood. you manage to slip the key in, but then—
"everything alright over there?" a low, calm voice calls out from the far end of the lot.
you pause halfway through turning the key. your shoulders tense before you can fully control it, your breath catching just slightly as the words sink in. you've never heard his voice, but there's only three people here and it's not hard to guess who it belongs to. you glance over your shoulder, half expecting him to be speaking to you, only to realise that his eyes aren't on you at all; they're on trevor.
the trucker has gone still beside the hood of his truck. the rag that once rested on his knee is now thrown over his shoulder and his hands rest on his hips as he takes in the scene in front of him. his posture is calm, almost casual as he glares at trevor like he knows exactly what he's looking at.
"all is good, sir." trevor says quickly, with a thin smile and a weak thumbs up, "jus' helpin' a guest get settled."
the trucker doesn't look away. "doesn't sound like it."
the words aren't loud or aggressive. they're calm in the same way that his posture is calm, and somehow that makes them carry more weight than if he'd raised his voice at all.
trevor shifts in his spot. its subtle and barely noticeable, but you see it anyway— in the way his shoulders drops, in the way his cheeks dimple into an awkward smile, in the way his hands flap around like he's searching for the words.
"everything's fine." he insists with a forced smile. he turns to you and gestures to you like you're supposed to back him up. "isn't that right, lil miss?"
but you don't reply. you twist the key and shoulder the door open, stepping into the room and shutting it behind you. you lean against the door for a second just enough to catch your breath before throwing the fanta bottle onto the bed.
through the thin curtains, the motel parking lot stretches out like a stage. the trucker and trevor are standing in what looks like a stand-off, their bodies still and eyes locked. there's a few words exchanged, but you can barely hear what's being said before trevor flaps his hand once and turns to walk away.
you watch as the trucker shakes his head, and then— just slightly— he tilts his head, and you swear he's looking right at you. your chest tightens and you press yourself a little closer to the wall beside you.
until long, the stranger goes back to working, bending back over the hood of his semi, the metallic clanking noise breaking the tension, and for the first time since you arrived here, you dont feel like you're the first person to realise something is off about this place.
you spend the next three days doing all that you can to bunker down in your motel room and avoid any and all interaction with trevor.
you keep the curtains drawn. you reuse the same towel over and over again just so you don't have to face him. you time your trips to the vending machine with the noises outside of your door. you listen for footsteps, for whistling, for anything that signals his presence before you even think of placing your hand on the door handle.
although it helps, you find that the isolation keeps your mind running rampant with no distraction from it. everything you'd once pushed down floods to the forefront of your mind until they feel like they're echoing— the reason why you'd run from home, the reason why you'd chosen to ditch the travellers, the reason why you're even here at all. its an endless cycle of staring at the roof and spiralling into thoughts that you can't escape from.
and by the third day, your hunger overpowers your caution. the vending machine had stopped offering anything desirable and your stomach has been gnawing at itself for hours by now. later that day just as the sun had set, you find yourself sneaking off to the motel kitchen with the hunger of a man starved, and just like the rest of the motel, you find that it's anything but special.
the fluorescent lights above poorly illuminated the room. the linoleum floor is cracked and sticky with every hesitant step you take. the contact paper on the cupboards is peeling, and they smell of dust and mildew. there's an odd mould stain on the roof in the corner of the kitchen that watches you as you step inside. the refrigerator hums in the corner and the counters are clean apart from a thin layer of dust and— trevor was right— there was a microwave and a coffee pot and a working sink, but theyre so outdated that you aren't even sure whether they function properly.
the first thing you do is inspect the kettle. it's dusty and it's text a little faded, but otherwise useful. you brush the thick layer of dust from the metal and bring it over to the sink, humming softly to yourself as it fills with water. the stove flicks on— surprisingly— with little hesitation, and you waste no time in placing the appliance onto the flames.
you wander towards the kitchen cabinets in hopes of finding something edible. the last proper meal you had was a week ago, and even then, it wasn't much more than something to keep you upright.
most of the shelves are empty or packed with things that have long outlived their usefulness— dusty imploded bean cans, jars of preserves that weren't preserved well, and cardboard boxes full of cereal that were certainly stale by now. your stomach growls anyways as you rifle through the mess, your hand landing on a cup of instant ramen, the kettle whistling as you do so.
the ramen container is slightly dusty and the use-by date had passed a handful of years ago, but it sat like treasure in the palm of your hand. desperate times count for desperate measures, sure, but you really did not want to eat red beans smothered in crystallised strawberry jam anytime soon.
you peel open the foil of the ramen container, empty the sachets, pull the kettle from the stove, and begin filling the container with the boiling water. the faint smell of sauce and dried vegetables mixes with steam, and for a moment, the kitchen feels like its yours; a small refuge in a motel that otherwise reeks of tired paint and decay.
but then the door squeaks open behind you and you freeze, hand hovering over your food as you pray in your mind that it isn't trevor. you tilt your head just enough to glance over your shoulder, and the small breath of relief that leaves you is almost instant.
it's the trucker.
he steps inside the room with the same quiet confidence he's been holding onto ever since he pulled into the lot. he holds a plastic container in one hand and a set of plastic utensils in the other, and for a moment, he takes the time to glance at you. he doesn't say hello or really acknowledge you in any way; he simply moves towards the microwave on the other side of the kitchen like this is his own home and opens the door, sliding in his food, pressing a few buttons, and then leaning back against the counter as he waits, his arms crossing loosely over his chest.
neither of you speak, but you're sure you're both aware of each other. it's a constant battle against your brain to try not to stare at him and watch his every move, not because he's threatening, but because he's unfamiliar— unlike trevor, he's a presence you haven't learnt how to place just yet.
and as you continue trying to make your old ramen soak up the broth, you hear his boots press against the old linoleum as he heads towards the table— the only table in the room— and place his keys and his utensils onto the surface with a soft clink like he hasn't even considered whether or not you might have wanted it. its a small table with only two chairs, but he takes up the space in a way that makes it feel like there's only room for one.
so you stay where you are, hip pressing into the kitchen counter as you stab at your noodles with a fork, watching as the steam lazily curls from the cup, and pretending you're not waiting for him to move.
but he doesn't.
the microwave beeps three times, and the trucker steps forwards and pulls at the handle. the smell of plastic and artificial food spills into the kitchen, and he wastes no time in tearing the plastic seal off and tossing it haphazardly into the trash before setting it down onto the table, pulling a chair out, and sitting down to indulge.
he eats in silence like it's all he knows. his eyes are on his food and his plastic fork scratches at the plastic container, his shoulders loose and his jaw working as he makes quick work of the microwaved slop.
eventually, you turn— just a little, just enough to check whether he's still there. you try not to watch him, but you fail, and thats when your eyes meet his.
he's already looking at you. not in a sharp way, or in a way that feels judgemental, but more like he's observing you. his gaze almost feels the same way as your first night when his semi truck pulled into the motel parking lot and the high beams blinded you, and in a funny way, you almost feel like a deer in headlights.
his gaze flicks from you to the empty chair across from him, then back at you. there's a small shift in his composure— the pause of his jaw as he scavenges for food in his teeth, the scoot of his jean-clad butt in the squeaky metal chair, the cock of his head as he lets out the softest sigh you've ever heard— and then he moves.
he reaches out with his foot and nudges the other chair out by its leg. it scratches against the floor as he pushes it towards you, creating a space where there hadn't been one before. he lifts his chin in a gentle gesture towards it, lip jutting out just slightly.
"i don't bite." he simply says.
you hesitate. your fingers tighten just slightly against the warmth of the cup, your brain running through all the reasons why you shouldn't— all of the ways this could end horribly for you— before you suck in a soft breath, push off of the counter, and move towards the table anyways.
you take the seat across from him. the chair legs shift slightly as you sit, and the sound feels louder than it actually is in the silence of the kitchen. you dont bother tucking in your chair, afraid of invading his space, and the trucker goes back to eating like nothing has changed, his fork stabbing at various vegetables and chunks of artificial meats, eyes on the container in front of him; but not entirely.
every so often, his gaze finds you. he doesn't stare long enough to make it obvious, but his eyes find you frequently enough for you to wonder what he's looking for, and you have to pretend you don't feel it. you believe it's because he's checking on you, like maybe he's trying to figure out what someone like you is doing out in the middle of nowhere.
you shift under the weight of it, not uncomfortable, just hyperaware of it all— of yourself, of him, of the little space there is between you, and of the silence that surrounds you. it's something you didn't necessarily prepare for when you left your room a little while ago.
you continue swirling the noodle around the cup, putting off actually eating them. you dont know whether you should just get it over with and possibly be sick for the rest of the week or if you should just pour it down the sink and live off of stale vending machine chips.
eventually, the table creaks under his arms as the trucker sits back up and sets his fork against the side of his container. you pause at the sudden shift, eyes drifting slowly up to find that he's already looking at you— not in a way that feels invasive or creepy, but thoughtful, like he's trying to piece together the puzzle that is you instead of asking for answers out loud.
"you been on the road long?" he asks like its not even a question he really needs the answer to, but something to fill the silence.
there's a small raise of your brow as you huff out a small breath, the corner of your mouth twitching like you almost find his question funny. you stop stirring your noodles and let the fork sink into the cup.
"not long," you say, head tilting just slightly. "but it feels like it's been forever."
he hums quietly at that like he knows exactly what you're talking about, and you're sure he does. you can see it up close in the lines of his face, in the soft greying of his hair and his stubble, in the freckles surely painted on by the sun through his truck windows, and in the tiredness that sits heavy in his eyes as he nods.
"yeah," he says after a long moment. "roads'll do that to you."
he doesnt say anything after that. he simply shovels food into his mouth, quick but still neat like he hasn't lost interest in eating. a part of you thinks he's only invited you to sit for the company, and you appreciate the gesture for what it is, because you believe you needed it too.
your eyes flick to the dirty curtain-covered window without really meaning to— to where his truck sits out in the parking lot, the hood up more often than not. it sits in the dark, toolbox still on the ground beside it and a half-empty beer bottle laying on the ground next to that.
you decide to ask a question next; something to fill the silence that sits in between the two of you just like he did.
"is there something wrong with your truck?" you ask, trying to seem casual and actually landing somewhere close to it. "i heard you working on it all day."
there's a second where you think you might've crossed an invisible line— asked something too personal or maybe been a little too demanding in your question. his fork pauses over his food, jaw working as he swallows what remains in his mouth. there's a small pause as he follows your eyes out to his truck before he gives you a half shrug.
"somethin' like that." he sighs like the topic is something that stresses him out. "she runs, but not as good as she used to. somethin' in the hood exploded back in shamrock and i've been tryin' to keep her alive long enough to get where i'm goin'."
you blink. "where are you headed?"
he glances at you, just briefly, like he's deciding whether or not the question is worth answering. the corner of his mouth tugs like he's in on some inside joke you aren't aware of.
"california. america's very own golden state."
his words land heavy as they leave his mouth, and your brain moves before any other part of you does.
california. warm. bright. somewhere that isn't here or home. somewhere thats still so, so far.
three days. that's all you have. three days before the cash you have tucked in your duffel bag grows thin, before trevor gets bolder and meaner and before you inevitably have to leave. you can't stay here and you know that. you dont have a car or a plan. you dont even have a general direction, just a need to keep moving; and suddenly, sitting across from you, is a man who is already doing exactly that.
you hesitate.
you shouldn't ask. you know you shouldn't. this is how people get into trouble— they trust sketchy strangers from dingy motels, follow their impulses, mistake a well-time coincidence as opportunity, and end up on the evening news as a missing person. it's something you know all too well and you're not going to leap into it headfirst.
you're smart and you know it. you'll come up with a plan and you'll stick to it. all you have to do is ration, stick to yourself, and try not to think about how three days is so much closer than you think.
so you keep your mouth shut and simply nod. your eyes fall back down to the neglected cup of ramen in your hands. it's gone lukewarm and a thin film has formed over the broth. the noodles finally suck up the liquid, but they swell into something soft and mushy and vaguely unappetising. you wouldnt even feed this to starving a stray animal.
the man's eyes briefly drop to the cup of ramen that sits in your hands. you stare at it like you dread even thinking about it, and he furrows his brows.
"you gonna eat that, or are you just gonna stare at it until it goes cold?"
"oh, it, uh... i was going to, but..." you grimace like watching the corn pieces swimming around in the soup has suddenly made you loose your appetite. "i'm not even sure if it's still edible."
"here," he motions gently for you to come closer, and you're confused for a moment before he points a finger vaguely at your mug of mediocre noodles. you slide it over and he wastes no time shovelling some of his food into yours. vegetables and meat sink into the soup. the gesture is sweet and you feel your stomach growl at the thought of having actual food for once.
he slides your cup back towards you, and you dare yourself to dip your fork back into the soup, stab at a floating piece of meat, and bring it to your mouth. you chew on it and swallow the bite, the warmth of it settling in your stomach like a small comfort.
"young girl like you has to eat food that hasn't been rottin' in a cabinet for god knows how long." he says, and then continues before you can respond, "trust me. i've been on the road long enough to know what malnutrition looks like."
you shovel another forkful of noodles into your mouth, ignoring the way the soup sloshes around in the cup and certainly sending droplets of the liquid into the air. you shake your head, half-amused and half-unnerved by how closely he seems to be watching you.
"thanks, but i'm not young." you manage between bites.
the low laugh that leaves his mouth catches you off guard.
"well, you definitely aren't old. skin's all plump and clean and you've still got all your teeth." he says, his voice low and almost teasing, eyes still glazing over you in a way that makes your stomach twist. "i've probably got tools in my truck older than you."
the way he says it makes all the noise you hear go silent. suddenly the soup that drips from your chin and the noodle hanging out of your mouth doesn't feel all that casual nor does it feel presentable. he's watching you like you're something he's never seen before, eyes steady and intent, and you're unsure what to do with all of the attention.
you hastily wipe at your mouth with the back of your hand, clear your throat, and sit up a little in your chair. maybe a small part of you wants to prove him wrong— show him that you might be young but you're wise beyond your years— and you try to do so by fixing your posture and looking at least somewhat put together even with a cup of reasonable ramen in your hands.
it doesn't go unnoticed. if anything, it seems to catch his attention more.
his gaze lingers, but not in the way that trevor's did— not with hunger or entitlement— but with intrigue, like he's catching the shift in you and filing it away in his head. there's something softer in his expression now, a faint crease in his brows that you've only noticed just now as if you've just become a little more intriguing than he had first assumed.
he gently nods, curiosity trickling into his face. he leans forwards just slightly, elbows digging into the table. "what's your name?"
and the question hits you off guard even though you know it was inevitable.
for a moment, you consider dodging his question— lying, deflecting, keeping yourself small and unremarkable like you've been doing for days. it's not that you don't want to tell him, it's just that answering feels like you're giving this stranger a piece of yourself— a story, something to hold onto, something from your past that you'd been running from this entire time, and the reason you're here.
you turn your head, eyes flicking to the large crack in the middle of the kitchen's linoleum floor that sits split in two. it feels safer to look at something broken that isn't you. he takes your silence as an answer.
"that's alright. you don't owe me anythin'." he says as he leans back in his chair like he's trying to ease the pressure off of you without making a show of it. "my name's james, but you can call me bucky."
hm. he doesnt look like a james, but he sure as hell looks like a bucky.
you turn back to him with a turned lip. "what's bucky short for?"
"full name's james buchanan barnes. it was just a nickname my pa gave me that stuck." he says easily. then, like he's joking, he adds, "now you've got my full name just incase i try to pull somethin' on ya."
you huff softly, "how do i know you aren't lying about your name? i could come up with about fifty fake names right now, and you wouldnt know any better. criminals lie all the time."
he quirks a brow as he pops open the top of his coke bottle, the bubbles popping at the surface as he lifts it to his lips with a sneaky smile. "guess you just gotta trust me then, sweetheart."
you hum softly in acknowledgment, the faintest smile on your lips, fork scrapping at the bottom of the ramen cup for scraps. the food settles warmly in your stomach, and it reminds you that you're tired— really tired.
you stand, the empty ramen cup in your hand, and awkwardly brush your other hand on your pants before vaguely gesturing to the cracked kitchen door.
"i think i'm gonna head back." you tell him like you're unsure of what you should do. you don't know if he even cares, but it feels like the respectful thing to do.
bucky inhales a breath, the sound low and sharp, and it feels like you might've just pulled him from his thoughts. he reaches up and runs a hand over his head before nodding once. "s'pose that's fair. princess needs her beauty sleep."
you hesitate for a second, but a small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth despite yourself. "night, bucky."
he offers you a smile of his own, head tilting just slightly with a soft nod. "sleep tight, sweetheart."
you turn and push the kitchen door open, slipping into the night. the door creaks shut behind you as you tread through the parking lot, unaware of how long bucky sits there after you're gone, or how long he stares at the empty seat across from him like you might come back.
you've never been a great judge of character— you have the scars and the pain to prove it— but this man didn't seem bad, or at least didn't seem like an axe murderer, and unless you want to walk along the edge of route 66 with your thumb stuck out hoping that another car full of non-murderous travellers picks you up to take you to california, your only other bet is trying to hitch a ride with bucky.
and plus, there are worse ways to get to california than riding shotgun with a trucker who calls you princess and sweetheart.
the next morning doesn't come with any great revelation, and you wake with the same boring nothing. there's no obvious sign, no sudden clarity, no omnipresent voice from the universe telling you what to do. theres only the texas heat seeping through your room windows, pressing in in you like it wants you to stay and rot in your room.
the heat is so prevalent that at midday, you've already had about three showers in the dingy bathroom.
it doesnt help much. the water never gets quite cold, the shower head sprays water in every direction but yours, and the humidity clings to your skin before you even step out of the shower. the towel you'd received when you'd checked in had served you well, but now it smelt of dirty laundry and damp cloth, and no amount of air drying or shaking it out seems to fix that.
you stare at it for a second before deciding you're not desperate enough to use it again.
you get dressed into something that could battle the heat yet leave you covered enough when you inevitably have to face trevor and leave your room with your dirty towel tucked underneath your arm.
the lot shimmers in waves under the sun, radiating the kind of heat that you might think will melt the soles of your shoes.
unsurprisingly, bucky's already out there. his truck's hood is up as per usual, his tools scattered all around the front, and he's leaning over the engine with the focus of someone who's been at this for hours, and you could already tell by the metal-against-metal noises that he'd had been up before you'd even opened your eyes.
and the second you shut your door, the noise pulls him from his work.
his head turns to see the cause, and when he noticed it's you, he straightens like he's trying to get a better look at you. for a moment, the truck seems forgotten, his attention caught on the sight of you leaving your room with your little shorts and your towel tucked under your arm. he doesn't rush to get back to what he's doing, and his gaze lingers instead, taking you in like this is a rare pause he doesn't mind stretching out.
sweat darkens the front of his tank top, clinging to his body in a way that makes it clear that the heat is winning. the thin fabric is stretched across his chest, damp and heavy, tracing every muscle earned through years of labour rather than vanity. his jeans are stained with grease and grime from his work, and what little hair he has on his head sticks to his temple in small soft curls.
his tongue darts out and swipes across his bottom lip almost like he's forgotten you can see him, a reflex born from the heat— or maybe something else entirely.
god, he looks good.
after a long moment, he straightens with a soft exhale, grips the hem, and pulls the tank over his head in an attempt to free himself of the wet fabric. the muscles in his arms flex with every move he makes, glistening under the texan sun, and the light catches the sheen of sweat that forms over every inch of his body. the fabric finally slips free and gets tossed over the hood of the truck, leaving him bare to the heat.
you nearly walk straight into the curb. the toe cap of your shoe bumps against the concrete, jolting you from your wandering thoughts. you only barely manage to catch yourself, the towel sliding slightly from your arm, and bucky knows exactly what's happened.
he tilts his head just slightly, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like he knows exactly what's he's doing. his eyes flick briefly to the curb you'd almost stumbled over, then back to you, a mix of amusement and some genuine concern flooding his face.
"you alright, princess?" he calls out, his voice low but carrying easily over the heat-laced lot, and you realise you've been staring like a madman.
"i'm fine." you awkwardly reply, and he hums.
you break eye contact and pick up the pace towards the front office. sweat prickles along your skin, and the warmth of the sun suddenly feels more invasive than it does comforting. you dont even know if youre sweating because of the heat or because of him.
you hadn't expected this when he'd sat in front of you in a baggy denim jacket last night in the kitchen. where had he been hiding all of... that? the broad shoulders? that lean muscle? the six pack? it had all been covered by fabric and shadow, and you almost want to drop to your knees and thank mother nature for deciding to work in perfect harmony to reveal bucky like this.
you skid to a stop in front of the front office door. the handle squeals as you push down on it and shoulder the door open, and a cold blast of air hits you— blessed, if a little stale. it smells faintly of mold, the result of a leaky unit, and of vinegar potato chips.
trevor is there slouched in his chair like he hasn't moved since the first time you met him. his eyes flick up as you step inside, and with a lazy smile and lopsided glasses, he turns to face you like he's excited to see you.
"hey, you." he drawls with a hint of surprise in his voice. "thought you'd never come back 'round to see me."
"you said you handle the laundry and all that stuff?" you recount, your voice stiff and to the point. you place your folded towel onto the counter and slide it towards him, the action swift. "i'd like a new towel, please. maybe two."
trevor smiles, a yellow tooth poking out from his lips. "i do do the laundry. i can fix up a towel or two for you, gorgeous. can't have the little princess walking around here with a dirty towel now, can we?"
you don't reply, nor do you give him the pleasure of seeing you smile. the rhetorical question hangs in the air between you, practically gathering dust as it remained unanswered. the nickname doesnt roll off of his tongue nearly as good as it does when it comes from buckys—
oh my god. stop thinking about that man.
trevor leans back in his chair with his shoulders raised. "c'mon, that was funny. you gotta admit that i'm the best thing about this dump."
"the best thing about this dump is the air conditioning." you quickly retort before crossing your arms against your chest. "how long is this gonna take?"
his grin falters just slightly before twisting into something sharper. "it'll take no time, but it'll cost ya a pretty penny."
something cold settles in your chest. "you said it was FREE."
"boss raised it to ten bucks per piece." trevor stays like it's perfectly reasonable. "but if you wanted to discuss another form of payment, you can always come back after dark and we can see how it goes from there."
your jaw clenches. its one thing to demand ten dollars to wash a singular piece of clothing, but it's another to continuously press down on you with the threat of a good time to see if you'll break.
"i'll figure something out." you grab your towel from the counter and turn towards the door. "thanks anyways."
the word thanks tastes bitter on your tongue, but you don't give him the satisfaction of seeing it. you push open the door, and just before it shuts, you can hear trevor shout out—
"oh come on, sugar! you know you want it!"
the door slams behind you harder than you meant it to.
heat hits you all at once, thick and suffocating as it wraps around you like a punishment. you clutch the towel tighter in your hand as you stomp back out into the parking lot, your pulse ringing in your ears.
metal clanks somewhere to your left, and then stops. you dont look, but you can feel the way the air shifts; the weight of someone's attention.
you risk a glance, and quickly find that bucky's no longer bent over the hood of his truck. he's standing upright now, a hand on his hip and a rag in the other. his expression is unreadable, his lips parted just slightly, his eyes slow and assessing, and whatever he sees on your face makes his grip on his rag tighten.
"you okay?" he asks, breaking the silence like he's testing the ice. his voice is calm like it usually is, but there's something sharper that rests underneath it.
you hesitate. every instinct you've honed over the years tells you to just shrug it off, that this is just another case of a man expecting something, to say its nothing and to keep moving. but you're done holding it in.
you huff, gesturing angrily at the front office where trevor is still sitting like a king. "asshole wanted ten bucks for a new towel. and he keeps—" you pause, the words echoing in your mind, "he keeps making these horrible passes at me and i just—"
you stop yourself and bucky's expression changes almost immediately. its not dramatic, nor is it explosive; it's colder, like something you'd said had rubbed him the wrong way.
you look at him then. "it's fine. i'll figure it out."
he studies you for a moment longer as you stand there soaking up the heat. its silent as his eyes flick from your face to the towel and then back to your face. then he exhaled and reaches into his jean pocket.
"i've got a spare towel in my room that you can take. it's clean." he says as he digs for something before he pulls out a pair of keys with a cheap plastic keychain that you recognise as his room key.
you quickly shake your head, "you don't have to—"
"i wasn't askin'." he tosses his room key to you and you catch it, the metal rattling in your palm. "you can take it."
your jaw tightens as you fidget with the keys. they feel heavy in your hand and still warm from his pocket. "i don't want to owe you anything."
the corner of bucky's mouth lifts just a fraction— not quite a smile, but something softer. "good. wouldnt want you to." then quieter, like he can sense your hesitation and like he doesn't want anyone else to hear it, he adds, "it's just a towel."
you really do want to turn him down, but the heat presses in on all sides and you're sure that if you use your towel one more time, it'd leave you stickier than you'd entered the shower feeling. to top it off, bucky is looking at you like he expects nothing in return.
"...thanks, bucky." you finally say.
he nods once, easy and almost proud of you for accepting his help. "it's folded up on the tv console. you cant miss it."
your fingers curl around the key and you give bucky one last glance before you turn and head towards his room. the walk across feels longer than it should, every step you take heavy with the awareness of bucky's eyes on your back. sweat sticks to your skin and the sun is relentless overhead, but the heat isn't what's bothering you— it's the fact that you're about to walk into the room of a stranger and cross a line you didnt even know you were standing on.
you stop in front of the door, slide the key into the lock, and twist— but it doesn't open. you try again, a little harder this time, but there's still nothing. you glance over your shoulder towards bucky.
"oh, the door sticks." he yells from across the lot. he makes a stranger gesture with his shoulder, "gotta give it a shove."
you hesitate, then brace yourself before shouldering your way into the room. the door pops open with an awkward crack, swinging inward enough for you to slip inside.
the first thing you notice is how lived in it feels. its similar to yours, but it's warmer somehow. the curtains are half drawn, letting in a thin strip of sunlight that cuts across the bed and the worn carpet. the air smells faintly of engine oil and generic dollar store soap— the grit hidden underneath the clean— and something distinctly him, like heat and metal and long hours on the road.
there's very little decoration, but what is there counts. a denim jacket is slung over the small desk chair in the corner and a pair of black jeans sit messily folded on the table, scuffed with red dirt like they've seen more miles than most people. a half empty water bottle sits on the rickety bedside table beside a folded up receipt and an open pocketknife, the blade well-used.
the bed isn't neat, the blankets thrown to the side without much care. an open duffel bag sits on the end of the bag, and you hate how nosy you feel when something in it catches your attention.
you take a few steps forwards until you're able to peek inside, hand brushing against the zipper of the duffel. there's not much; a wallet and folded clothes, a blend of worn and clean fabrics— a flannel, torn blue jeans, crisp white socks— but then something out of place catches your eye.
paper.
it's not loose. it's tucked carefully into a pocket on the inside of the bag. you tell yourself that you're only looking because it's there, and you reach in before you can even think, pulling it out with care. just a glance— that's all.
the edges are worn and it's creased down the middle like it's been folded and unfolded more times than it should've survived, evident by the thin piece of tape that's holding a corner of it together. the colour has faded into something dull, but the frozen memory printed onto the front is anything but.
two men stand in the centre of it, close in a way that feels more personal than anything you'd ever known. you recognise one of the men as bucky— younger, happier, and clean shaven— a bright smile on his face as he stares at the other man. the other man is broad shouldered, his features sharp underneath his stubble, and wearing a smile similar to bucky's, one so wide that it almost looks like world hasn't had the chance to take anything from them yet.
your thumb absentmindedly brushes against the photo where bucky's face is, the finger curling right down the curve of his jaw.
there's no writing on the back, nor is there an explanation. who is this mystery man, a friend? a boyfriend? either way, they look awfully close.
your chest tightens, red hot guilt flaring in your stomach with the awful realisation that this is something extremely personal to bucky and you've probably just crossed hundreds of lines. the open bag seems to stare at you, and for the first time since you stepped foot in the motel room, you've become acutely aware of how much of an invasion of privacy this is.
you look away from the photo like it might burn you, heart thudding as you fold it back up and shove it back into the pocket you found it in. you find the towel folded up on the tv console just as bucky had said— white, clean, and untouched— and you grab it quickly, beelining straight towards the door.
you shut the door behind you and lock it. you cross the lot, quicker this time and with your eyes fixed on bucky like he might see through you if you blink. he's still by the truck, arms deep in the engine system, but he stops what he's doing as soon as he hears your rushed feet heading towards him.
"you find it?" he asks as he steps off of the bumper.
you nod and hand him the key. "yeah. thanks again."
your fingers brush when he takes it— just the briefest touch of his calloused fingers against your soft ones— and he curls it into the palm of his hand, gaze flickering at the clean towel in your hand.
you turn to leave, a half smile on your lip. you're halfway through a step when—
"hey." bucky calls.
you pause and turn back around.
"you busy tonight?" he asks,
"unless you count watching old reruns all night and listening to the rats in the walls, not really." you try to joke, but the humour dies halfway in your throat when you realise it's your reality. "why?"
he shrugs like his suggestion is nothing big. "there's a decent diner about ten miles down the road. thought maybe we could get something in you that isn't shit from a vending machine."
for a split second, you almost say yes immediately. the idea of real food, of leaving this place even if its just for a little while, of just having someone normal to talk to, feels like a god-given grace. but instinct cuts in fast. the logical part of your mind tells you to not get comfortable.
comfortable is how you get stuck. comfortable is how you get hurt.
"yeah, i don't know about that." you gesture vaguely to your room, and then to your empty pocket. "running low on cash."
"don't worry bout it." bucky says almost immediately. "my treat. least i can do after you've kept me company these past few days."
you blink. "we met last night."
then, almost like you'd just told him a joke, a small laugh falls from his mouth, and god, something about it makes you weak in the knees. "maybe, but you sittin' in your room all day staring at me fixin my truck is still better company than listenin' to trevor watchin' cheap cable porn in his office all day."
oh. he noticed that?
you open your mouth but shut it again. there's no point in denying it, and the cheeky grin that sits plastered on bucky's face shows that you can't gaslight your way out of this one.
the texas heat presses in and the motel hums around you, and for once, the idea of staying in your room all night feels worse than the risk of saying yes. you lift your eyes back to him and sigh, the fight leaving your shoulders.
"okay." you say, more to yourself than anyone else, then you nod. "yeah, okay. dinner sounds... dinner sounds nice."
bucky's smile spreads across his face, slow and satisfied like he knew you would accept. "good. i'll knock around seven."
and he does.
the knock comes at 6:58pm, solid knuckles banging against the wood. the sound echoes through your room louder than it needs to, and it sets every nerve in you alight.
you sit up straighter in the edge of your bed, your heart giving a traitorous jump. for a second, you stare at the door like the sound might go away, but it doesn't. there's a soft scuff of boots against concrete on the other side, and then there's a quiet huff of breath, patient and unhurried.
"hey." bucky's voice comes through the door, low and careful, almost like he's giving you an out. "it's me."
you swallow. your hands are clammy and there's a strange heaviness that sits in the pit of your stomach. you can't remember the last time someone knocked on your door for you.
"yeah—" you rub a hand over your face, clearing your throat as you push yourself to your feet. you're too aware of how your clothes fit and how you look. "uh, just... give me a second."
"i'm not goin' anywhere."
you smooth your hands over your shirt, eyes glazing over your reflection in the small hanging mirror, and then you look down at yourself. you're presentable enough. with one final breath, you cross the room and open the door.
the creak of the door catches bucky's attention. he's standing there with his hands shoved into his jean pockets, his boots scuffed and his hair a little wet like he's washed up since the last time you saw him. there's something pleasant about the way he smells— like sandalwood and leather and him, a welcome change from the stale mix of dusty carpet and mouldy insulation.
he looks good. he looks handsome.
"ready?" he asks, and you cant ignore the way his eyes travel down the length of your body like he's taking you in for the first time instead of the girl he's seen coming and going all week. "let's get some food in you."
it isn't scrutinising, but it's thorough enough for warmth to creep up your neck, to make you suddenly aware of where your hands are, how you're standing, how close he feels in the narrow doorway. you haven't felt this way since— never mind.
your brows knit as you glance past him and towards the lot. "wait, are we taking your truck? i thought it was fucked up."
bucky's face relaxes as he turns over to glance over his shoulder, then back at you. "she's fucked, but she can still drive."
"i hope so." you murmur as you lock your door and slide the keys into your pocket. you hear bucky chuckle.
as you walk beside bucky, you manage to sneak a glance at him. he's relaxed, his shoulders loose and his steps casual. he carries himself with the confidence of a man who does this all the time— talking to strangers and helping them out, letting himself form connections that inevitably lead nowhere— meanwhile your pulse is throbbing throughout your body, struggling to differentiate the difference between the first date jitters you feel and your fight or flight response kicking in.
you force yourself to suck in a deep breath. bucky is nice. he's done nothing but help you., and even if he weren't, you aren't helpless. you know how to run and you know how to fight. you've done it before and you'd do it again. the thought settles the restless anxiety in your chest, and that gives you enough clarity as you near the truck.
the first thing you realise is how big the truck is. from afar, it looks just like every other semi you've seen in your life. up close, it's rusted metal and worn paint, scratches and dents adorning the length of it, and it towers over you like a skyscraper.
bucky reaches up and over and pulls open the door. "might be a bit of a climb. you think you can get up there yourself?"
"i think i'll be fine." you quickly reply, already stepping forwards.
you reach up and grab a hold of the support handle and plant your foot on the step, and you immediately realise you have no idea what you're doing. something about the layout of the truck is strange in a way that makes your brain short circuit for a long moment. the step is higher than expect, the handle a little too far back, your arms criss crossed and your leg is suspended for a moment as you try to figure out where to go next.
its not graceful at all.
you drop to the ground in defeat. before you can try and embarrass yourself again, bucky's hands are there, firm and warm on your waist, steadying you without being rough.
"'s alright, princess," he murmurs. "i've gotcha."
he lifts you like you weigh nothing. your hands instinctively brace against his shoulders, solid beneath your palms, and you can feel the heat of his skin through the fabric of his shirt. for a second, all you can feel is his hands. you're painfully aware of how close his face is to your stomach— to that area— and you feel a little breathless as he hoists you up and sets you down into the passenger seat like you belong there.
you look down at him with a tight lipped smile, "sorry."
"don't be." he says gently as he gives you a small pat on the side of your thigh, already stepping back with a small smile and his hand on the door. "truck's old. not exactly built for somethin' little like you."
you blink as he shuts the door for you and circles the truck before clicking open his own door and climbing in with ease. the cab feels smaller when he settles into his seat, filled with the low rumble of the starting engine and bucky's scent.
he glances over as you as he pulls his door shut. he glances over at you, eyes flicking downwards. "seatbelt." he reminds you, and you quickly buckle in. he nods once when it clicks, satisfied.
bucky clicks some switches and tugs at some levers, and the truck lurches forwards with a load groan. gravel crunches under the tires as bucky reverses the truck with ease, manoeuvring the huge vehicle out of the small lot. the headlights sweep across the cracked paint of the motel, illuminating the stretch of route 66 that it sits on.
it feels strange— being here on the road again, moving again after a stagnant period— like your body remembers the rhythm of the road even if your body hasn't quite caught up.
for a few miles, neither of you speaks. the radio hums softly between stations, bucky skipping until it lands on something that vaguely resembles dire straits before he finally leans back, one hand on the wheel and the other resting along the sill of the window, the glass cracked open just enough for wind to funnel into the cab.
you watch the world go by through the windshield. there's desert scrub, flickering neon motel lights, the occasional passing set of headlights that fly past before you even really notice them. it's peaceful in a way you hadn't really expected.
"so," bucky breaks the silence without turning to look at you, his voice just slightly louder than the hum of the radio and the growl of the truck. "california."
your head turns towards him before you can really control it. "california." you echo, the word sitting strange and heavy on your tongue despite it being the goal you'd been trying to reach for so long.
theres another small pause before bucky hums.
"what's so special about california? job? family?" he turns and glances at you for half a second, throat bobbing once before he turns back to the road. "or did you just throw a dart at a map and decide it was good enough?"
a small laugh slips from your mouth before you can stop it— soft, surprised, one that almost catches you off guard— but it fades into something you'd barely call a smile. you glance down at your shorts, fingers picking at the fabric, and although bucky doesn't look over, you get the feeling that he's listening in a lot closer now.
"i don't know." you admit. "i just needed to get the fuck out of chicago."
bucky nods once, slow and understanding. "that's fair. not always good to stay in one place forever."
he doesnt ask you to explain, nor does he pry. he simply adjusts his grip on the wheel and shifts in his seat before he adds, almost absentmindedly, "a lotta people end up on the road for that reason."
"hmm." you softly nod. then your head lulls to the side just slightly, enough that you can gesture to the back of the truck that rumbles behind you. "what about you? what've you got back there in the trailer?"
bucky glances over at you for just a second, his brows furrowed like you'd just recounted a complex math equation. "who taught you that?"
"taught me what?" you ask, "trailer?"
"yeah." bucky's lips curl into a soft smile, and you can see the small crinkle of his eyes in the rear view mirror. "usually pretty girls like you just refer to the back— or they just call it the truck. you knew what you were talking about, and that's not usually something you just know unless you've picked it up from someone."
you ignore the pretty part of the sentence, and instead try to put on a teasing grin. "do you talk to a lot of pretty girls?"
and then, almost like he can sense the playfulness in your tone bucky turns his head just enough for you to catch the smirk that sits on his lips. "only the ones who can tell the different between a cab and a trailer."
your chest flutters in a way that unconsciously makes a smile grow on your face, warmth creeping up your neck until bucky finally turns away from you and back to the road. there's something in the curve of his jaw, in the blue of his eyes, in the quiet confidence he drives, in the faint rush of his scent carried by the wind— it's confusing, but also exciting. you can't help the pull of curiosity or the way your mind lingers on the idea of him for longer than you should.
but something horrible tugs at your heart. it's something familiar, something you've know for so many years, something that's made its home in your body; guilt.
"my, uh..." you scratch the side of your neck, pausing just momentarily to pull your eyes away from the side of bucky's face. "my boyfriend built semis. he taught me all about the parts and the frames and stuff to try and get me into the business to help out but—" a small, self conscious shrug follows. "not a lot of it stuck."
"boyfriend?" bucky asks. "and where's he?"
"far away, i hope." you say. there's a tightness in your chest, and you reach up to fidget with the necklace that hangs around your neck. "he's actually the reason why i left chicago."
you're looking out of your window now, but you can feel the burn of bucky's eyes on the back of your head as he turns to look at you for a moment.
"he an asshole?" he asks, half joking, but his tone is soft and patient like he already knows the answer.
"you could say that." you reply with a soft laugh, a little tight lipped and a little sad, but relieved that he isn't prying for more, and for the first time in days, it feels okay to leave it out in the open and mostly unspoken.
the road ahead stretches into flat darkness. the radio hums quietly. the truck rumbles as it rolls over rocks and asphalt. ahead, a bright pair of headlights glow bright. it's peaceful.
"garden gnomes."
your brows furrow. you turn your head towards bucky, who's eyes are set on the road. you're sure you'd misheard him. "what?"
he glances at you, then back at the road, his voice low like he's confessing a classified secret. "in the back. it's garden gnomes."
you blink, a bubble of a laugh slipping free before you can stop it. "you're hauling gnomes across the country? is that a joke?"
"sounds funny, but apparently those little bastards are worth more than both you and i and this truck." he says, dead serious, but there's a small twitch of a smile on his face. "rich people have nothin' better to spend their money on."
you snort again, laughter bubbling from your chest and breaking the heaviness that had settled there. bucky smiles at the sound— small, satisfied, toothy— like that was exactly the reaction he had hoped for. you press a hand against your mouth to try and suppress your laughter, but it barely works.
"hey— they're gettin' a nicer trip than most people do." he half-heartedly adds with a grin. "they're drivin' with the best trucker in america. not everybody can say that."
"the best trucker in america and the most humble."
"don't start, missy." bucky warns you, but the amusement on his face gives him away. "you're apart of the lucky few who can call themselves a passenger of mine."
you scoff, "whatever you say, buck."
the nickname slips out before you can stop it, and for half a second, you wonder if you've crossed a line. but you watch how bucky's eyes linger on you and the way his knuckles flex against the wheel, turning white just ever so slightly as his grip tightens. there's a slight tick in his jaw before his tongue darts out and swipes across his bottom lip.
a neon light catches your eye. it's bright against the dark of the sky, the singular word DINER illuminated in bright pink and faint blues. it's a simple sign, but it gets the work done. a small building comes into view, small and unassuming yet warm and homey, like it's just waiting for people to stumble in for a feed.
"that must be it." bucky mutters as he squints through the windscreen. he pulls at a few things, and the truck rolls to a slow as you near the building.
"good." you murmur. "i'm starving."
bucky slows the truck, turning off of the highway steering wide and pulling the truck to the far end of the lot where the truck won't block anyone in (even though there's only three or four cars in the lot).
"she's too big to squeeze in there." he adds as he pulls the brakes and shuts the engine off. the rumbling stops, and suddenly it's quiet again. "hope you don't mind the walk."
"it's fine." you tell him as you unbuckle your seatbelt. you click open the door and push it open, almost falling out at the weight of it. you glance down to the step, and then towards the trucker. "uh, bucky... would you be able to—"
before you can finish, bucky's door swings open, the cab groaning at the shift of weight. "i've got it." he says, voice calm but amused before he hopes out and shuts the door behind him.
you watch the top of his head as he circles the front of the truck, and he appears at your door. he reaches a hand out before you can even think about trying to hop down yourself.
"here." he says as you take his hand, the other arm extended just in case you slip.
you let him guide you down, one hand in his and the other on his shoulder. you hop down knowing that bucky would catch you if you fell without hesitation. the gravel crunches beneath your boots when you touch the ground and your hands slip from bucky's.
he takes the time to give you a small smile like it was nothing, and the two of you head towards the diner. the evening air carries the scent of grease and coffee and something faintly like him, and you're not sure if you're smelling him because he's so close or if its because
bucky steps ahead of you to push the door open for you, and the bell overhead dings and echos through the diner. the first thing you notice as you step inside is the clatter of dishes in the kitchen and the soft buzz of the coffee machine on the counter.
although clean and well-kept, the diner looks like it hasn't been updated in decades. the checkered vinyl floor is worn in some places from years of customers, the metal trim around the counter and the stools shine in the bright led light, and the red leather of the booths fray and tear at the corners. there are dozens— if not hundreds— of framed black and white photos on the wall of passing customers, food, and the employees, and next to those are various old school records hung haphazardly.
a few customers are scattered around the diner, all invested in their own world, and don't dream it's over by crowded house plays faintly from the jukebox in the corner, filling the space with music where otherwise would be ambient diner noise. a bell dings and your eyes dart to the kitchen where a chef passes the waitress a plate full of fries and a cheeseburger. the sight makes your stomach growl despite the vending machine snacks you'd had earlier that day.
bucky seems to catch onto your hunger and is quick to place a hand on your lower back and usher you towards an empty booth in the emptier half of the diner. the leather creaks as you both slide in, your hands instantly grabbing for the menu and flipping it open.
the first thing you look at— almost instinctively— are the prices.
"it's a bit expensive for a highway diner." you think out loud as you scan the menu, your thumbnail in between your teeth.
"get whatever you want." bucky says as he watches you. you catch him looking, and through your lashes, you watch his expression soften. "i don't like keeping a bunch of cash on me anyways."
you feel bad, but he's offering. you look down at the menu again, thumb playing with the frayed corner. after a minute, you ask, "so... what are you getting? the BLT looks good."
he shrugs lightly as he leans back against the booth. he gives you a small smile as he shakes his head. "i had somethin' back at the motel."
before you can reply, a waitress appears at the side of your booth. she's older, grey streaks in her brown hair and her eyes kimd but tired. her hair is pulled into a loose bun, and a red apron is tied around her waist. she reaches for her notepad and her pen, and then she smiles.
"evenin'." she greets. "what can i get for you folks?"
you sit up straight and smile, menu in hand. "hi. could i get one classic cheeseburger with fries? and two cokes, please."
the waitress nods and jots down your order on the notepad. you put the menu down thinking you're done, but then you look at bucky, and find that he's already looking at you. you blink at each other before an idea pops into your head.
"actually, sorry, could you make that two cheeseburgers?"
the look at bucky gives you makes you grin.
"of course, sweetheart. so two cheeseburgers with fries?" the waitress recounts, and you nod feeling a little victorious. "alright, it'll be out in no time."
"thank you." you smile.
the waitress leaves, and you lean back in the booth like you hadn't done anything. there's a moment of silence where you're smiling at bucky and he's staring back at you with a perplexed look.
"what was that?" bucky asks after a moment. his brows are raised, and the look on his face turns into amusement.
"what was what?" you reply, feigning innocence.
"that." he gestures vaguely to you. "the— you know... the cheeseburger thing."
you lean forwards. "i'm not gonna sit here and eat a burger while you stare at me, bucky. if we're doing this, we're gonna eat fries and drink out cokes together."
bucky scoffs and shakes his head. "anyone ever told you you don't play fair?"
"once or twice." you grin.
and just like the waitress had said, your cheeseburgers were out in now time. she slides the plates in front of you with practised ease, and you dive in without hesitation.
the bun is soft, the cheese is melted just enough that is droops off of the patty, and the fries are the perfect amount of crispy. you take a bite, one that makes you sigh in relief, and you dont even bother to eat politely. you scarf down half of your burger before bucky's even touched his.
he shoves a fry into his mouth as he watches you chew. "should i be worried you're gonna steal mine too?"
you swallow. "if you dont eat it fast enough, then maybe."
he huffs a laugh through his nose and shakes his head before he finally leans forwards and takes a proper bite of his burger.
the two of you keep eating, but your eyes drift back to bucky every so often. there's something about him that you just can't look away from— the way he holds his burger, the way he chews, the way his eyes watch the other customers behind you, the way his shoulders relax now that he's finally eating— but then, uninvited, your mind slips back to the photo in his duffel bag.
the worn edges. the fading colour. the way bucky looked. the man beside him. everything about it pulls at something in you.
you finish your burger and slow down. you wipe at your mouth with a tissue, your stomach full as you lean back to digest. you watch him for a moment longer before you tilt your head just slightly, reaching for a fry as if to imitate cluelessness.
"what did you do before all of... this?" you start, aiming for casual but landing somewhere more questioning. "the hauling, i mean. the travelling and all that stuff. did you always do this, or was there... someone who got you into it?"
its subtle— something in the way your words trail off, in the way your eyes search his for an answer— and bucky clocks it immediately.
his jaw pauses mid-chew. his eyes flick between yours like he's replaying what you asked word-for-word. he swallows his food, and he squints just slightly.
"you snooped in my bag, didn't you?"
your shoulders tense. for a moment, you think about denying it or telling him that he's crazy, but you respect him too much to lie.
"i swear i didn't mean to. it was just... open, and i just—" you blink, huffing out a small breath. "i'm sorry."
bucky doesn't say anything for a moment. he takes another bite of his burger and continues chewing on his food while you stress the fuck out. you sort of just stare at him as he places his burger back down and takes a breath.
"'s fine. not much in there for you to take anyways." he says as he leans back. he crosses his arms against his chest, eyes flicking towards you. "i'm guessing you wanna know who he is."
"only if you want to tell me." you tell him.
a beat passes. then bucky exhales through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching like he's decided on something.
"alright. i'll tell you about sam—" his gaze sharpens just a bit, more intent now. "but you have to tell me more about your boyfriend."
the proposition sits in front of you heavier than you'd expected. your stomach twists, not with fear, but with the awareness that agreeing means opening a door you've been keeping shut.
but your curiosity— or maybe your resilience, that stubborn part of you that refuses to let your past dictate every choice you make— overcomes your fear.
"okay." you nod. "fine."
bucky leans back in the booth, hands reaching out to rest on the table. his fingers drum slightly on the table, his eyes unfocused for a second like he's replaying a memory in his mind.
"the man in the photo... his name is sam." he begins. "we were... friends. real good friends. we had a truck together once— an old thing, nothin' fancy, but we'd spent hours tinkerin' with it, fixin' whatever broke. sometimes we'd race the damn thing down the road just for somethin' to do. felt like we could do anything' back then."
his lips twitch, not quite into a smile, but into something fleeting. you watch as it passes on his face, brief but visible.
"where's sam now?" you ask softly.
bucky exhales. "i don't know. one day, we got into an argument about... everything and nothing, really. it was stupid. and then we just... went in different directions." he speaks slow like he's trying to remember, or maybe he's trying not to feel. there's something underneath, like he's choosing to trust you even if it costs him a second of discomfort.
"do you ever think of going back? of ever talking to him again?"
"all the time. not a day passes where i wish i could just... call him up and tell him i'm sorry." bucky admits. "i've done a lot of things wrong in my life, but not fixin' that... not tryin' to make it right... it sticks with me."
he pauses, fingers stilling on the table. "no matter what i do or where i go, a part of me stays back there— with him."
its said plainly, but there's something in the way that his jaw works that shows he's already said a lot more than he usually allows himself to. the memory isn't old or something fleeting he thinks about every so often. the memory of sam is still very much alive in bucky, and he carries it with him mile after mile.
bucky reaches over and grabs his coke. he brings the straw to his lips, takes a long sip, and sets it down with a sigh. he crosses his arms again, and his eyes flick back to you, steady now.
"that's all i've got. your turn."
you nod once, then again, like the motion might knock you out of the daze you'd pulled yourself into. there's a small inhale through your nose,
"right. okay, um— where do i start..." you think out loud, eyes focused on the condensation of your glass like it might give you an answer.
"i guess it started back in high school. i didnt have many friends or talked to anyone, so the moment a guy started paying attention to me, i guess i didn't know any better." you swallow, eyes unfocused now. "he was older. he knew how to talk, and he was confident, and i fell head over heels. it felt like it was the first time anyone had ever actually seen me."
"but then we moved in together, and it got bad. he hurt me— a lot." the laugh that leaves your mouth is more uncomfortable than anything humorous. your finger traces the edge of your plate just to try to ground yourself. "he knew how to do it in a way that made sure i'd always somehow come running back to him."
your voice wobbles on the last word, and thats when bucky moves.
its not abrupt or enough to startle you, and you barely even look up. he just leans forwards, forearms resting on the table now, like he's making sure you know he's there and that you don't have to do this alone. his jaw tightens, not angry at you, but in anger at the man who left scars you dont name.
"i didnt realise that the attention started turning into control." "you admit softly. "or how easy it is to mistake the control for love when you don't know any better. i don't know. sometimes i wish i could just... shove it all into a box and throw it from a moving car... and then go to bed and sleep for once."
"but would you be able to rest?" bucky asks.
"no." you shake your head. "no, i don't think i would."
you can hear a small sigh slip from his mouth, and you almost feel pathetic. you hated being pitied, and this was prime pity territory.
but then bucky reaches forwards to hold your shaking hand, his grip warm and steady. his thumb presses against your knuckles, grounding, like he knows exactly how close you're coming to slipping.
a part of you still shivers at the vulnerability you display— at being seen like this— but the tired part, the honest part, of you doesn't mind the contact if bucky is the one pitying you.
"sweetheart, people like that... they're good at makin' it feel like you're the problem. like you're the one who keeps messin' up. but that doesn't mean you were weak or stupid. it means you were young and you were lonely, and someone cruel decided to take advantage of that." his thumb presses into your skin just slightly. "you got out."
you look up for the first time since you started talking. your waterline burns with unshed tears, and there's a quiver in your lip despite your best attempts to keep it steady.
"i did something bad, bucky. i did something really bad."
he doesn't interrupt. he doesnt tense nor does he pull away. his hands stay exactly where they are in yours, his thumb stilling. his eyes search yours, waiting, giving you the space to speak.
"i shot him."
the words hang heavy in the air between you, whispered but still deafening, and for a second you think the world might come crashing down on you. you prepare for bucky to rip his hands away from you, to spit in your face, and leave you here to rot— but it never comes.
if anything, his grip on your hands tightens. bucky exhales through his nose. he's not shocked. he's not angry with you either— he could never be angry at you. his jaw tightens, and you watch as his thoughts pass in his eyes. his thumb resumes the small circular motion on your knuckles like he's trying to calm you down.
"okay." he says quietly, like he's afraid he might shatter something more fragile than you, like anything louder that leaves him might break you. "okay. thats okay."
his hands never leave yours, but you watch his face change like he's distanced himself from you.
"did you mean to?" he asks gently, not prying nor accusing, just trying to understand what happened. and before you can spiral into whatever answer you're forming, he adds, still soft, "you don't gotta justify yourself to me. i just wanna know what you're feelin' right now."
you pull away from his touch. it almost feels like too much. you retreat into yourself, hands holding yourself just for another sense of safety, but even then, you dont feel safe in your own skin. your fingers press into your sides just to remember that you're there and that you exist outside of the memory and the guilt and the fear.
"i don't know. i was just scared, and he was— he was yelling, and it was so loud. and i shot him, and i was— god, i don't even know if he's alive." you spit out all at once. you turn to bucky, "please don't be scared of me—"
"i'm not scared of you, princess."
bucky says it immediately— no pause, no hesitation— like there was never another option. his voice doesn't rise in anger or soften in pity, and he never once looks away from you.
"you were scared and you did what you needed to survive." he adds quietly. "nobody can blame you for that."
and for the first time since you've said it out loud, the word shot doesn't echo as violently in your mind as it once did. its still there, but it isn't screaming at you anymore.
you nod because its all you feel you can do. you wipe at your eyes with the back of your hand, embarrassed by the wetness, the vulnerability, the rawness you feel after admitting it for the first time.
"how about we get this packed up, and we'll head back." bucky suggests like he's offering you an out.
"yeah." you blink and nod, "okay."
and that's exactly what you do. you leave the diner in silence, and you drive back to the motel in the same silence. bucky helps you down from the truck, and he hands you the entire bag of food with the soft assurance that he 'isn't hungry', bidding you a good night at your room door.
in the shower, you stand under the running water until your skin prickles and your fingers prune, letting the water run over your body for what seems like hours, and when you get out of the shower, you lay in bed half under the covers staring at the ceiling and tracing the cracks and bumps for what feels like even longer.
your body is exhausted, but your mind won't follow. every time you blink, it's there again; the yelling, the smell of sweat and metal, how loud is was. god, it was so loud.
you see it in fragments. the way his face had changed, the split second wgere you realised this was going to happen whether you wanted it to or not, the recoil, the ringing in your ears, the sound of him collapsing, and the blood.
you suck in a breath and sharply turn your head to the side.
the alarm clock glows an ugly red. 3:04am. you reach over and click on the table lamp, and before you can overthink it, you swing your legs over the bed and pad over to the dresser where your duffel sits, half open and slumped against the wood.
you kneel in front of it and unzip it the rest of the way. you begin sifting through your belongings, your fingers clumsy but determined as you dig through scraps of your life that you've shoved together without much care.
and then your hand brushes against something heavy and metallic. you reach in and grab the gun by the barrel, pulling it out and watching as the metal glows under the lamp light before you pull it into your lap. a shotgun. it looks smaller there, stripped of context and fear, but your hands still remember the weight of it. your body itches like it's bracing for something you know has already happened.
you stare at it for a long time— the stupid, ugly thing that changed everything.
it'd been the thing you shoved into your boyfriends face when he'd threatened to keep you locked up in that cramped apartment of his. it'd been the reason he'd let you go, and the thing that saved your life; but simultaneously, it'd also been the thing that'd ruined you.
you decide to be rid of it.
one second you're sitting on the carpet with the shotgun on your lap, and the next, you're pulling on a spare hoodie and stepping out of your room, completely barefoot and all sense of rationality thrown out of the window. you dont even lock your room door.
you cross the small space between your room and bucky's. you knock once, twice, and then once more for good measure, knuckles stinging as soon as they make contact with the wood.
there's a pause. there's a shift. then the door opens.
the door creaks open, and from the dark, bucky emerges. the first thing that you notice is that he's shirtless, and the first thing he notices is that you're carrying a shotgun.
"what's wrong?" is the first thing he says. his voice is still gravely with sleep or something close to sleep, and you almost feel bad for dragging him into your drama again. he doesnt sound scared or in fear for his own life, but you can hear the concern laced in the question. "is that—"
"i want to get rid of it." your hands tighten around the barrel of the gun.
bucky doesn't ask why. he just nods once and steps back inside of his room to tug on a shirt and grab his keys.
the truck eats the miles quickly, the headlights carving a thin path through the dust and the scrub of the texas desert. the land opens up the further out you go, and the two of you drive until you can't see anything but the darkness. bucky pulls off of the road where the tires fade into the sand and kills the engine.
the land bucky helps you down onto is bare in a way that only places with nothing to witness can be. you cant see much further than a couple of feet ahead of you, and the silence is almost deafening. nobody is driving past on route 66 at this time, and nobody is there to watch you hide the weapon.
you hold the gun while bucky holds the shovel and a flashlight.
you dont know how far out you walk. the ground shifts under your bare feet, toes digging into the cooling sand and small stones, but you keep going until the heavy metal in your hands starts feeling heavier than your body can hold. when you glance over your shoulder, you can barely see the moonlight silhouette of the truck in the distance.
in front of you, bucky slows, his flashlight scanning the area out of habit, then he nods.
"here should be good." he says quietly, turning back to you just to check on you. "doubt anyone every comes out this far."
you don't reply. you simply nod, the action small, fingers curling tighter around the barrel and the handle. your throat feels thick, your words lodged there with nowhere to go, and maybe it's better that way. you dont know what you'd say even if you tried.
bucky holds the flashlight out for you to grab, and you take it and shine it at the ground. the light cuts a pale circle onto the sand, and your brows furrow when bucky presses the tip of the shovel into the ground, tasting the density.
"maybe i should do it." you interrupt, the words coming out thin, like you're testing out the question more than asking it.
he doesnt even look at you. "i've got it."
but you still feel so guilty. he doesnt even know your name and he here is on the border between new mexico and texas buring evidence for you.
"it's my gun, bucky." your grip tightens around the flashlight, the muzzle of the gun scratching against the ground. there's a quiet guilt and responsibility in it, a quiet belief that this is something you have to carry alone. "you don't have to do this for me—"
bucky sighs as he finally pauses to look at you. he pulls his hands from the handle of the shovel and folds them on top of each other on the handle, his eyes soft and unyielding like he's already made up his mind and he's just waiting for you to catch up.
"you already asked me to bring you out here, sweetheart. i'm not lettin' you do this on your own anymore." bucky says, quieter but no less sure, and his eyes never leave your face. "you've done enough survivin' by yourself. let me do this for you."
you hesitate for half a second longer like you might still argue, but the fight drains out of you instead. the way he's looking at you feels like he's willingly shouldering the weight with you— or maybe for you.
you nod once. "okay."
bucky gives you a short nod back like your compliance is all he needs before he turns to the shovel again. he drives the shovel down, the metal biting into the ground with a dull clang. he pulls the shovel from the ground before slamming it back down again, harder and stiffer this time like he knows exactly how much force to use and when.
you keep the flashlight trained on the growing divot, the beam wobbling just slightly whenever the shovel meets the ground. after a while of staring at bucky, you swallow, your voice low.
"do you think i could go to jail for this?" you ask him. the question had been running rampant in your mind ever since you'd left y the apartment in chicago.
bucky pauses mid-scoop for a second, head tilting upwards towards you. the raise of his brows and the small huffed out laugh he gives you makes the question you just ask feel stupid— and in retrospect, it probably was.
"people go to jail for less serious shit than shooting your ex-boyfriend, princess." he says, not unkind, just honest. he turns back to the ground and stabs into the sand. "if that asshole's still alive and he gives the cops a story about how you left guns a-blazin', you could be set up for attempted murder."
"oh." you mutter as you fight the urge to roll your eyes. "thanks bucky. that really helps. super comforting."
he huffs quietly. "you asked."
you kick at a mound of sand like it had personally wronged you, and it's only then that you realise you're completely barefoot. you're not sure when that happened.
"well—" you pause, flashlight dipping just slightly, "yeah, i asked, but hearing it that way instead of a simple yes or no or maybe just freaks me out."
"sorry." bucky exhales through his nose. "not much point in worryin' about it now. thinkin' that far ahead'll eat at you, and it sounds like it already has been."
"whatever." you grumble. "i at least wanna get to california before i get thrown in a cell to rot."
bucky glances at you. "and you will."
bucky finished digging the hole with a finally jab of his shovel, sand piling up around it in a large mound. he steps back and nods towards it, giving the the go-ahead without saying it out loud. you lean down and place the gun inside, pushing it down as far as it can go, the metal scratching against the sand as it sinks inside. when you stand back up, you cross your arms over your chest.
the weapon you'd used to maim someone now looked so small. stripped of its power and its noise. just a cold, ugly thing sitting in a hole in the ground.
for a long while, the two of you just stare at the gun. there's not much to look at, but there's something about it that just feels different now. it doesn't look like fear or adrenaline anymore. it just looks out of place, almost wrong, like it never belonged in your hands in the first place.
bucky breaks the silence first, his question a little too casual for the context behind it. "was it a good shot at least?"
you turn your head just slightly to look at him, and he does the same. he watches you as you search for the answer, a soft sigh falling from your mouth.
"i got him right in the shoulder." you bluntly reply, your voice quiet even in the silence of the desert. "he was bleeding a lot, though. almost thought his arm was going to fall off."
bucky hums once, his face unreadable, then he steps forwards and starts pushing the gathered sand back into the hole. you watch as the ground swallows the gun, and inadvertently swallows up everything else you'd brought with you— the dread, the panic, the buzzing tension you'd felt for so long.
but you feel a lot better now. of course you still have the topic of being homeless and being arrested on your mind, but at least you aren't carrying around the immediate weight of that cold metal in your hands. the gun is gone, and you can rest a little easier now.
you stand there for a moment longer as bucky finishes up, kicking the sand around so it looks a little less messed with. then, almost wordlessly, the two of you walk back to the truck.
he opens the truck door for you, helps you in, and then he circles around the front and gets in his seat. the engine growls as it comes to life and the headlights blink on like the sun on a bleak morning, and with a few pressed buttons and pulled levers, bucky is pulling the truck back onto the road and back towards the motel.
the road is steady underneath the wheels, and for the first time in a while, you feel a little lighter. neither of you really speak at first. the desert stretches onwards, and your eyes glance to the small analogue clock on the dashboard— 4:17am.
and it's almost like bucky can sense the exhaustion that laces your bones. he glances at you, his own eyes tired although his mind is anything but. "you think you're gonna sleep much tonight?"
you shrug, staring out of the windscreen. "i'll try. there's still a lot on my mind."
your thoughts drift, unbidden and unruly— memories of your boyfriend, the way things had been once and how they are now, and the tension you felt in your body when you left home— but the thought of your him somehow brings you back to trucks, and the thought of trucks and sleep brings you back to the thought of the sleeper cab of a semi truck.
a little impulsively, you twist in your seat and pull at the curtain that sits behind you and you peek inside. the little bed sits neatly against the wall, the blankets neatly made and the singular pillow slightly askew at the head of the bed. it's nothing inherently interesting, but it's something that's always confused you.
bucky glances at you in the rear view mirror, "what are you lookin' for back there?"
"just looking at the bed. i've never seen one in real life." you casually reply, "is it comfy back there? mattress looks thin."
bucky half shrugs, his eyes ahead on the road. "it gets the job done, but its not as good as the real thing."
you pull the curtain back just a little further. it's hard to see in the dark, the shadows making it hard to see any object in real detail, but you can make out the pillows and the blankets, a small shelf with a basket full of miscellaneous items— a couple of batteries, a bottle of painkillers, an empty water bottle, and a couple of magazines. you cant read the words, but even in the dark, you can make out the shape of a... is that a lady wearing a playboy bunny costume?
you turn back to bucky and find that he's already watching you through the rear view mirror like a hawk. his brows are slightly furrowed, his eyes dark and steady, but theres a small, sly tilt of his lips.
"are those... playboy magazines?" you almost laugh, glancing at bucky with your brows raised and a cheeky grin. you tease, "those get the job done too?"
theres a moment where bucky sucks on his teeth and glances at you over his shoulder, and you think you should've probably kept your mouth shut— but then he smirks.
"like i said—" bucky lets the corners of his mouth curl, his voice low as he replies. "not as good as the real thing."
oh.
you blink. you blink again. you blink so much that you think you might actually start crying, or throw up, or do something equally humiliating. heat crawls up the length of your neck, settling in your cheeks. what the hell do you reply to that?
"right." you manage, pushing it out a little too quickly. you slide the curtain shut and turn back in your seat, tugging at your seatbelt to get it adjusted right. "yeah. that— that makes sense."
you clear your throat, forcing yourself to stare forwards at the dark stretch of highway instead of paying any attention to bucky. you can feel him glancing at the side of your face, lingering whenever you feel particularly flustered, and you can hear the soft chuckle he makes at your reaction that he doesn't even try to hide.
it settles somewhere low in your stomach, warm and aggravating and far too effective for how little he's actually doing.
god, that image is gonna be burnt in your mind forever.
the motel sign flickers back into view not long after, and the breath of relief that leaves you is almost instant. the neon lights buzz as bucky pulls into the parking lot, headlights beaming over the building before he kills the engine and opens the doors. you follow, and he circles the front and he helps you down from the truck just like he usually does, your hands on his shoulders while his wrap around your waist. it lasts for only a second, but it lingers on your skin all the same.
you walk side by side towards your rooms, the ground luke-warm under your feet and the air cooler now that the night has deepened. it's quiet now in the way most empty places are— no noises or other people for miles, just the two of you sliding your keys into the locks and pushing open your doors.
and when you're about to step foot into your dark room, that's when bucky clears his throat. you pause, poking your head out of the doorframe.
"hey. i'm, uh..." he pauses, voice slower than usual. "i'm sorry about earlier. in the truck. i didnt mean to make things weird."
you blink before the conversation floods your mind. you take a step back out of the door and put on your best attempt of trying to act nonchalant before swallowing down the butterflies that come with the memory.
"there's nothing to be sorry about. its a normal human function and we're both adults." you reply with a casual smile, but you're not sure if you're actually convincing anyone. "right?"
bucky doesn't answer right away. he just sort of looks at you like he's thinking about something that he hasn't decided how to say yet, his jaw clenching once as if he decides against saying anything at all.
"right." he watches you for a second longer, unreadable eyes falling to the dip of your neck, his gaze tracing your collarbone before he looks up again. he gives you a small nod, "get some sleep, okay?"
"i'll try. thanks again for tonight. i really do appreciate it." you pause with a small, faint smile, then quieter, you add, "goodnight, bucky."
"goodnight, princess." bucky replies, his voice soft and steady, carrying enough warmth to make your chest tighten.
and then you're both retreating into your own rooms, doors closing and keys clicking, the thin motel walls swallowing whatever else might've been said.
you don't bother turning on the lights. you pad towards the bed, feet brushing against the carpet to get rid of the sand that sticks to your toes, drop keys onto the tiny table and crawl into bed like sleep might take pity on you if you lie down fast enough.
minutes pass. you glance at the clock. 4:56am. its only been thirty minutes, but it feels like you've been in bed for hours. you lie there on your back half under the covers, your eyes tracing the cracks and divots in the ceiling like they might lead somewhere else, trying to will your brain to shut up, but it doesn't.
the magazines. the sleeper. the idea of bucky
you had meant what you said earlier about how it is a normal human function and that you're both adults and can joke about this sort of stuff all the time and it shouldn't matter, but the mere thought of bucky getting himself off makes you feel like a pervert.
you roll onto your side with a frustrated huff, pulling the blankets tighter over your body as if it might smother the thoughts that plague you, but you have no such luck.
not as good as the real thing.
your brain is cruel enough to supply you images you definitely don't want— bucky alone in the sleeper cab in low light and the magazine crinkling awkwardly in his hands. his pants pool just above his knees, his hand gliding down his stomach, brushing past his happy trail and the waistband of his underwear, the rough palm of his hand wrapping around the base of his cock, the slow looseness of his jaw as it falls open with every tentative stroke—
oh god. you squeeze your eyes shut, heat blooming under your skin, mortified by how fast your own brain betrayed you. you try to push the thought away before it can fully form, like distance is something you can try to manufacture in your head, but it's difficult.
"jesus," you mutter into the empty room.
this is ridiculous. you're exhausted. you're emotionally wrecked. you're traumatised. you should be asleep, and thats all you want to do; so why do you feel so wet? it's pathetic, really, getting wet over the thought of a handsome stranger after he made one joke, but now you're never going to be able to sleep when the heat between your legs feels inescapable.
your hand— almost like it senses your desperation— trails down the length of your stomach and slides past the band of your underwear, fingers dipping through your folds, and the ragged breath that leaves you is almost shameful.
you slide a finger into your weepy entrance, the rhythm you set is slow, the pads of your fingers brushing against your insides at the same pace you imagine bucky would touch you. you can't stop imagining it's his fingers instead of your own.
"bucky." you whine breathlessly into the air as you glide in another finger, the stretch almost delicious.
you pump in and out of your cunt until youre panting into the side of your pillow, until your hips move on their own, until you feel that familiar heat growing deep in your stomach.
then you catch it. cedarwood. musk. his scent. your shirt still smells like him from all those miles you spent sitting in his truck, and the small whimper that leaves your mouth at the smell brings you closer to the edge.
"faster— god, please." you beg, brows furrowing and mouth falling slack as you speed up the assault on your pussy.
you continue until you feel that tight ball of heat finally in your stomach snap. you barely have time to shove your face into your pillow before a borderline pornographic moan rips from your throat, breath hot into the cotton as you grind into your hand.
you pull your shirt over your nose, inhaling bucky's scent with every breath you take, and you find that sleep washes over you easier that night.
the morning light seeps into your room in thin and warm stripes through the curtains, landing across your legs and the crumbled up sheets. you wake slowly— not startled or filled with dread, just rising with a sense of awareness of things of you'd been too overwhelmed with to notice before.
your body feels lighter than it has in a while, rested in a way that almost surprises you. you're not sure if it's because you'd buried one of your biggest worries under four feet of sand or if it was because of your late night self-love session. either way, it was a win for you.
you sit up in the bed, sleep still fuzzy in your eyes, and you look over at the alarm clock— 2:34pm. you'd slept for a while.
then you hear it. the low rumble of a truck outside. it's definitely bucky's— because who else would pull over into this fuckass motel— but it sounds different, almost steadier, not rattling like it had been the last few times you'd heard it. it idles smoothly and confidently, like it finally wants to be running.
you kick the sheets off, pad across the room, shove your feet into your shoes with half-assed effort, and push the door open without bothering to check yourself in the mirror.
the afternoon suns shoots down at you from the sky, rays burning against your skin as you step outside, door closing behind you as you make yourself towards the scene.
bucky is at his usual spot near the hood, shoulders bend and back hunched over the engine, a dirty rag thrown over his shoulder and his grey tank dark in places, spotted with sweat and oil stains, clinging to his body in a way that makes it very hard for you not to notice how broad he is.
but you try to ignore those thoughts and the fact that you'd fucked yourself to the thought of him last night. you perk up, hands folding in front of you as you put on an award winning smile.
"morning." you greet, your voice still a little scratchy from sleep but still light.
bucky is quick to cock his head to the side, and when he sees it's you, he straightens, hands still leaning against the metal of the vehicle, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as the truck continues to purr under his palms.
"mornin'." he says back, low and easy like it's the easiest thing in the world. his eyes flick over you once— almost habitual— before finally settling on your face. "you look happy."
you grin. "i feel happy. she sounds better than she has all week. did you figure out what was wrong?"
bucky groans as he leans back up, pulling at the rag on his shoulders and wiping off his hands, eyes focused on the newly fixed engine. "yup. figured it out about an hour or two ago. somethin' wrong with the fuel line, but i managed to fix it up. i think she'll be ready for the road tomorrow morning.
he gives the metal of the truck a light tap as you nod before his attention drifts back to you. this time, his eyes dont just flick over you once; they take their time, slow and analysing, like he's reading something you're trying not to show.
his gaze lingers at your face, on your posture, on the way you hold yourself in an unwittingly protective stance in response to his peering eyes. his mouth curls into a smirk, almost amused.
he nods towards you, "how'd you sleep?" he asks, voice even, but now there's something in the way he speaks that makes you wonder if he knows.
"it was fine." you meekly reply with a pathetic smile.
bucky hums under his breath in acknowledgment. his eyes stay on yours, unreadable in nature but not unkind. after a second, he exhaled and rolls his shoulders back like he's trying to release the tension that weaves through his muscles.
"hey, you still got the leftovers from the dinner?" he asks.
you blow out a huff of air through your mouth as you glance back towards your room. "i think so. i can heat it up if you're hungry."
"yeah." he says easily. "that's be great."
so that's exactly what you do— after all, it's the least you could do for bucky after he'd practically sidelined his own mission just for you. you head back to your room, pull out the leftovers, head over to the kitchen.
you pop the lid off of the leftovers and slide it over to the microwave, but when you press the button, but there isn't a beep nor is there any numbers on display. you press it again, harder this time like it might flicker to life, but it doesn't. the microwave sits there dead and useless, smelling faintly of popcorn and disappointment.
"great." you murmur.
after a moment, you snap the lid back onto the container. there's only one other option, and you already dread it— trevor.
you enter the office, the air conditioning hitting you square in the face the moment you open the door. you step forwards and ring the cheap desk bell on the counter, and the back room door opens by the second ding. trevor steps out, glasses askew, a few strands of his dirty blonde hair sticking up in strange directions, and a lit cigarette hanging from his mouth like it's part of his uniform.
you don't bother with pleasantries and are quick to get to the point. "the microwave in the kitchen is broken. is there any way you could fix it or maybe heat this up for me?"
trevor squints at you, unimpressed. "i'm not doin' no favours for you after the attitude you've been givin' me ever since you stepped foot onto the property."
"it's not for me." you tip your head towards the window. "it's for him."
both of you glance towards the parking lot. bucky's by the truck, still working, still sweating, still leaning over the hood in a way that makes his muscles look extra toned in the sun and his body look carved out of heat and hard work. you feel your heart thump against your ribs and trevor lets out a pathetic huff, but you're sure you and trevor both look away for different reasons.
he sucks on his teeth as he looks you up and down once because he holds his hand out and makes a gesture for you to hand it over. "i got one in the back. it'll be a minute."
you hand it over with a shit-eating grin. "i can wait."
trevor murmurs something under his breath as he disappears behind the back door. a few seconds later, the microwave kicks on— a loud, rattling sound that you can hear even through the shut door.
you tap your fingers against the counter, eyes wandering around the offie. there's a popping noise that catches your attention, and you find yourself looking out of the window and watching bucky again.
he wipes his hands on his rag and tosses it back onto his shoulder, unaware of your eyes on him and focused enough that his tongue sticks out against his lower lip in concentration. there's something unusually calming about watching him work like this, like the world is simple under the hood of a truck.
"... authorities are still searching for the suspect responsible for the shooting of a man in central chicago last week.
your fingers curl at the edge of the counter? your eyes darting towards the small red radio in the corner of the room. you lean over and turn the volume knob until you can hear the words clearly over the microwave.
"witnesses describe her as..."
your blood runs cold.
the description never seems to end. your hair colour and texture, your eye colour, your skin colour, your height, your build, your type of clothing. everything is listed. it feels like everything about you is being peeled open and dissected live on air for millions to hear.
"... authorities urge anyone with information on the whereabouts of this individual to come forward..."
you turn to the back room door.
you're not sure if trevor can even hear the broadcast, but you hope that he set the timer for longer than a minute. the microwave whirs loudly behind the door, drowning out the radio, and you go silent as if the broadcaster could hear you if you spoke, like any sound you make would make them aware of where you are.
and then it ends. just like that, the radio clicks, replaced by cherry country music that spills back into the room as if nothing had ever happened. you don't realise how tight you'd been holding the counter until you hwar the beep of the microwave from behind the door, and trevor pushes it open with his foot soon after, the steaming container in his hands.
you swallow your fear as trevor slides the leftovers across the counter towards you, forcing your hands to uncurl from around the table.
"it's hot—" he starts, but your hands wrap around the container anyways and you pull it from him.
you turn and shoulder the door open with little care.
"not like i wanted a thank you or anythin'." trevor shouts behind you as you practically shut the door on his face.
the heat seeps through the container and into your palms as you cross the lot towards bucky. he straightens when he sees you, lips already curling into a smile and his mouth parting like he's about to say something.
"what were you doin' in th—"
you lean down and place the leftovers on the top of his toolbox, catching his wrist and pulling him to the side of the truck all without missing a single step. the shade from the truck's body swallows you both, and you almost bucky's quick to steady you, brows knitting as his free hand comes up almost instinctively to hold you by the upper arm.
his brows furrow at the worry in your face. "woah, what's goin' on?"
"we have to go. we have to leave today or tonight, okay? like right now." you rush out in a singular breath. it almost feels like everything from chicago had come back to bite you in the ass.
"hey— slow down." he says, another arms reaching out to hold you steady by your shoulders. he lowers his head slightly, looking at you through his eye lashes. "what happened, sweetheart?"
your lip quivers, and bucky reaches up to cup your face in one of his hands. his thumb presses firmly into the skin on your cheekbone, and the touch is reassuring enough for you to speak.
"in the office, they were talking about what happened— what i did. they started listing all these things about me. my hair, my eyes, my— just everything."
something ticks in bucky's jaw. he glances past you towards the office for half a second, his expression almost unreadable. his shoulders square like he's bracing himself for a hit he'd been expected but still hated taking.
the hand that cups your cheek falls back to your shoulder. "did they say anythin' about a location?" bucky asks, eyes boring into yours.
you shake your head. "no. it just said that there's a suspect, said my full name, and described exactly how i look." "
"and did he hear anythin'?" he asks again.
"no, he was—" you shake your head, glancing over your shoulder towards the office where you can see the top of trevor's head. "he was in the back room with the door closed and the microwave was way too loud."
bucky exhales long and slow, like he's trying to come up with both a plan and a promise at the same time. it doesnt help that you're watching him like he's the only thing keeping you afloat.
his hands fall from your shoulders and rest on his hips.
"alright," he says at last. "we're okay for now."
your chest tightens. "but bucky—"
"hey." his voice softens, his eyes the calm of the storm in the hurricane of emotions you feel. "if they knew where you were, they wouldn't be broadcastin' it all over the radio. this place'd be locked down and you wouldn't be talkin' to me right now. we're fine."
you nod, hesitant, but you're sure he means it.
"and even if they were here, i wouldn't go done without a fight." he adds, trying to cheer you up. "i've had my fair share of encounters with the law."
the mental image is ridiculous enough to shake a bit of the nerves out of you. you let out a soft scoff, eyes rolling just slightly as some of the tension actually manages to bleed away.
"i'm serious, princess." bucky defends himself, brows raised in complete seriousness even though you can hear the tinge of dry humour in his tone. "i fought the cops before and i'll do it again if i have to. just say the word and i'm goin' in there, fists swingin'."
"you can't fight the cops, bucky." you tell him.
"fine. maybe not, but look... how about you just—" he exhales through his nose, the humour escaping from his voice. he gestures vaguely to the toolbox you'd set the food down on. "sit down while i work, have somethin' to eat, and then we'll figure out a plan."
you nod, the last of the tension seeping out ouf you as you finally let yourself believe him. you both turn, bucky's hand falling to your back to direct you to the large toolbox, the metal still warm from the sun. you grab the food and sit down, appetite slow but present, while bucky turns back to the truck, his hands disappearing back into the engine.
you watch him while you eat. the way his shoulder flex, the occasional mutter of something irrelevant under his breath, the pause he takes every so often to think, his jaw set and his eyes focused. its ordinary— almost domestic— and somehow that normalcy steadies you a lot more than any reassurance could.
every so often, bucky glances over just to make sure you're still there with him, and you always are.
as you continue to eat, you realise you'd practically consumed the entirety of the leftovers. all that's left is a quarter of a cheeseburger and a couple of fries, and you feel a little guilty for taking what was meant to be bucky's food.
"are you going to eat anything?" you ask.
bucky pokes his head out from the hood. "no, i'm good. have what you can and i'll have whatever's left over."
you furrow your brows at the slight smile he has sitting on his face, and then it slowly dawns on you. he never really wanted the food— not for himself, anyway. he just wanted to make sure you ate.
you glance down at what's left, then back up at him. without a word, you extend the container out to him, eyebrows lifting just enough to make your point.
bucky pauses. he looks at the food, then at you.
"bossy." he mutters, but there's no real malice in it.
he reaches out and takes what remains of the cheeseburger and takes a bite out of it like he hasn't eaten all day. then another, and another, and the burger is gone in seconds.
you can't help the smile the spreads across your face.
bucky wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, gives you a quick, almost sheepish look, because he clears his throat and goes back to fixing the fuel line like nothing had happened.
you stay right there, sunlight warm on your skin, the truck humming beside you, bucky working hard, and for now, you decide this is enough.
night comes gently.
the texas heat bleeds out of the day, replaced by silence and the occasional cricket chirp, the low buzz of the motel sign outside ringing softly in your ears as you shuffle around the belongings in your duffel bag, reorganising the mess and ensuring you have everything you left with.
you have less than a day left here. in the morning, you'd have to leave. you dont know how you'll get there, but you've mustered up enough courage to ask bucky if you could hitch a ride to california. after all, you'd basically spent the past three days spilling your deepest darkest secrets to him; you aren't just going to leave him now.
you're in your room in the partial darkness, body enveloped in the shadows while the far corner of the room is covered in light from the table lamp. the curtains stir slightly in the breeze of the rattling air conditioning, and its so quiet that you can almost hear the electricity running through the walls.
you pause mid-movement, fingers brushing against something small and cold at the bottom of your bag. you reach in and pull it out.
a locket.
it's small. easy to forget. you'd ripped it off the moment you'd gotten on a bus to st louis and thrown it into your bag hoping it'd get lost and you'd never see it again.
you turn the locket over in your palm, the snapped chain curling around your fingers as you inspect the scratched piece of jewellery. it doesn't open, at least not anymore. the hinge bent inwards and snapped the last time you'd forced it closed, and you're almost grateful for your harsh treatment of the metal. you dont even try to open it. you already know what's in there: a picture of you and your boyfriend, one where you're forcing a smile and he isn't bothering to even try to look happy.
for a moment, you just stand there. the weight of it heavy against your skin in the same way it'd been heavy around your neck when you still cared for it. then you cross the room and drop it into the trash. it makes a soft, dull thud at it hits the bottom, and you barely flinch as the engraved flowers stare back up at you.
it's gone now, and although a version of you from the past wouldve mourned the cheap locket, the version of you now feels better without it weighing you down.
then comes a knock at the door. it's soft but firm, and you know who it is before you even look over your shoulder. you wipe your hands out of habit as if the locket was filth and cross the room, the lock clicking and the handle squeaking as you open the door.
bucky is standing there. he looks cleaner than he did when the two of you said goodnight a few hours ago, and truth be told, you're not sure why he's here. he's wearing a clean white shirt and a pair of jeans he probably thinks are comfortable but are covered in splashes of paint and dark spots of dried enamel. the shitty LED light that glows overhead bathes him in a glow that almost makes him look angelic, and you almost have to do a double take.
"hey." he says.
you blink. "hey."
the two of you stand there for a moment. bucky rocks on his heels with his hands in his back pockets and your fingers drum against the back of your door, both of you waiting for the other to say something.
"uh," you clear your throat. "did you... need something?"
his brows raise just slightly like you'd pulled him out of a thought, then he shakes his head once, "no, i just... wanted to check in. make sure you were okay."
something soft blooms in your chest at his words, and a part of you is glad that you shot your boyfriend. that asshole wouldnt have bothered to check on you, and he certainly wouldn't have asked if you were okay. if anything, he would've been the reason you were feeling like complete shit.
"you can—" you hesitate, door creaking open a little more as you step to the side, "you can come in. if you want. i could use the company."
"yeah." he nods. "okay."
you step back as he steps inside, his once confident footsteps falling just short of awkward as he steps into your room. you close the door behind him, the lock clicking shut, pushing the night out and sealing the two of you into the silence of your room.
bucky glances around the room, and the poor guy looks like he's never been in a woman's room before. his gaze falls on your shoes messily discarded by the door, then towards the bed and it's mess, and then it lands on your duffel bag. clothes are still thrown everywhere, and he looks like he might combust at the sight of so much... woman.
you smile softly as you walk back over to your bag, glancing over your shoulder just to glance at him. "you can sit down if you want to, bucky. you're not gonna get cooties or anything."
"...right." he mutters with another nod, and yet he hesitates anyways and decides to sit on the edge of your bed, his thigh just barely brushing against the side of your duffel bag, and he glances down at it before looking back at you. "reorganising?"
you huff out a small, tired breath as you go back to digging in your bag. "just trying to see what i brought. it all happened so fast that i forgot how fast i packed up my shit and left."
you pull out a hoodie and hold it up to the light. the logo of one of your favourite bands stares back at you, you haven't worn it in ages because your boyfriend insisted that you listen to 'girlier' bands, and you being naive and compliant, you listened. the small frown that grows on your face doesn't go unnoticed by bucky.
"you should put it on." he suggests, leaning back on the bed with his palms pressed firmly into the mattress.
you "i'm not even sure if it fits—"
"then you should see if it does. no harm in tryin'." he's quick to interrupt.
you blink at him, but he just cocks his head like he wants you to do just as he said. you hesitate, fingers tightening over the worn fabric, then you huff out a breath and tug it over your head.
its a little oversized, but it fits better than you expect it to. the sleeves fall just past your wrists and the hem brushes against your thighs, the fabric warm against your skin, finally yours again in a way it hasn't been in a long time.
you glance down at yourself, then at bucky. "happy?"
"very." he says, a grin pulling easy at his mouth as he tilts his head. he jokes, "suits you. i don't think you should ever take it off."
you roll your eyes at him, already reaching for the hem of the hoodie. "very funny, buck." you say dryly. "it's a million degrees outside. i'd die if i kept it on forever."
you grab the bottom of the hoodie, pulling it upwards to pull it off, the action slow and barely thought through. the cotton slides back over your stomach, the cool air brushing against your skin as it takes your shirt up with it for a couple of inches.
and bucky's eyes drop without meaning to— for a long, gruelling second— just long enough for him to catch the tiniest sliver of black lace peeking out of the waistband of your shorts, the fabric digging into the plush of your hips.
it's practically nothing— barely there— but it's enough.
"shit." he mutters under his breath, the word barely audible but still loud enough for you to catch it as you pull the hoodie over your head.
but just as quick as it had appeared, it vanishes as your shirt falls back down the length of your stomach. his eyes linger for a second longer before flicking back up to your face, hair messy from the hoodie.
"hmm?" you hum as you toss the hoodie somewhere on the bag, brow raised just slightly as you ask him about what he said. "did you say something?"
bucky blinks before he quickly shakes his head, tongue running over his teeth as an involuntary way to distract himself. he sits back up and readjusts himself, digging his elbows into his knees to try and hide the growing tent in his pants, but the faintest amount of tension in his posture has you furrowing your brows.
"nothin' important." he mutters, but there's a tightness in the way he says it. "it was, uh... nothin'."
you brush it off. you lean back into your bag, sifting through clothes and belongings before deciding that you've had enough. you lean over and grab a shirt and shove it back into the bag, not bothering to fold it.
bucky watches you for a second, completely silent. you can feel the weight of his eyes on you as you move, and you try your best to not pay him any attention. finally, he clears his throat.
"your... boyfriend," bucky starts, the title cold and a little accusatory on his tongue, but there's something in his tone that's more careful than it is angry. "you always talk about how he wasn't good to you. talks all big, but inside, he's really just an asshole with a tiny dick."
you sigh, just shy of a laugh. "sounds just like him."
your words come out flat, but there's a crack underneath them that gives you away. you hadn't meant to sound hurt— you tried not to— but the ache sneaks through anyways.
bucky. notices. of course he does. before you can turn back to your things, he reaches out and catches your wrist, his fingers closely gently around your skin, stopping you mid-motion.
"sit." he tells you.
and pathetically enough, you do exactly as he asks. his demands dont fall onto you in the same way your boyfriends did. bucky's are softer and rooted in certainty rather than control, and you're not sure if you could ever disobey him.
you sit on the edge of the bed beside him, your hand settling in your lap while bucky holds the other. your heart thuds against your ribs as your eyes flick between his, never quite brave enough to stay there for long enough. you exhale a small breath, eyes trailing down the curve of his throat, tracing over the bump of his adams apple, and settling on the hollow at the base of his neck where you can see the soft thump of his pulse beating underneath his skin.
bucky swallows when he notices. his thumb just barely shifts against your knuckles, like he's trying to ground himself more than you are.
but god, he smells so good. it's unfair how something so subtle can make your thoughts slow and your pulse speed up. you don't want to think about it, you just want more of it. you almost want to slip his shirt off of him and wear it so the scent lingers even when he moves away.
you want to sit a little closer. you want the bed to be smaller. you want any excuse just for him to touch you more, for him to stop holding onto your hand and touch you in all of the places you'd imagined him touching the night before.
bucky's head dips, eyes focused on where his hand begins to trail down to your fingers, the rough skin on his hands ghosting over your soft knuckles like he's memorising every single joint and every swirl embedded in your skin.
"did he ever pay attention to the little things?" he asks quietly. his thumb brushes gently over your ring finger, pressing into the skin where an expensive ring would sit if he had his way. "like how pretty your hands are. how careful you are with them."
your breath hitches as his hand trails back up your arm, the tips of his fingers climbing up until they're pressed firmly on the skin just under your shirt sleeve, warm and intrusive in all of the right ways.
"or how when you're nervous, there's a little hitch in your breath like you forget how to breathe." his thumb shifts, feeling it happen again as he presses into the plump skin. his eyes lift to yours then, searching your face for something you'd never say out loud. "he ever notice that?"
you whisper, "bucky, what are you talking about—"
"your boyfriend never... took care of you, did he?" the question is innocent, but there's something deeper hidden in the words. this isn't idle curiosity, this is something that wants to claim.
"what do you—" you swallow, your mouth suddenly thick with saliva that makes the words stick half out. "what do you mean?"
bucky doesn't answer immediately. his eyes drop back to where his hand is held against your arm, his other hand sliding slowly up the side of your thigh until he has a firm grip on you. his thumb traces tiny circles into the skin, and he can feel the slight quiver you try to hide so hard.
"never made you feel good? never made you cum?" he murmurs, lips parting just enough for his tongue to dart out and wet his lips. then a small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. "you probably got off better last night than he ever did for all those years."
and just as head observed, your breath hitches ahain, catching in your throat at his words. god, you thought you were quiet. fuck this stupid motel and fuck its stupid thin walls and fuck bucky. fuck him and his stupid deep voice and his stupidly big hands that make you shiver under his touch.
you blink. "you... heard that?"
he shifts in his spot, moving further onto the bed so he can face you completely. his hand moves from your arm and slides up the side of your neck. his hand cups your jaw, thumb digging into the dip of the bone as he tilts your head, eyes glazing over the soft skin and imagining how pretty it'd looked all bitten and bruised.
"the walls are thin. i heard everything, sweetheart." bucky admits, his voice so low and his lips so close to yours that arousal starts pooling low in your stomach. "your breathing when you touched yourself through your panties... that gasp when you finally dipped your fingers into your needy pussy. could practically hear every time you pumped yourself full of those pretty fingers."
the hand that rests on your thigh slides a little higher, just enough that his thumb digs into your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you need him the most.
"bucky." you almost whimper.
"heard you say my name too, just like that. almost burst through the door right then and there." he continues, his voice low and even, but you watch as his brows knit together softly as his thumb digs into your inner thigh. "but no. had to settle for my hand instead and imagine it was yours."
you lean into his hand, the warmth and the roughness of his skin something you'd been craving for far too long.
"tell me." he whispers, close enough that you can feel his breath against your lips. "tell me you want me to stop and i will."
you shake your head. "i don't want you to stop—"
and he doesnt wait any longer. bucky leans in fast, almost crashing into you as he pushes you back onto the bed. his lips find yours, demanding and insistent, and your chest tightens as soon as you meet him halfway, caught off guard with how much heat he's radiating. there's no teasing or testing, just the urgency of him needing to close the space between the two of you.
his tongue parts your lips in a quick and desperate action, pressing against yours like all he wants to do is taste you.
his knee slips up until it presses against your clothed cunt, the denim of his jeans rubbing against the soft cotton of your shorts. you pant into his mouth and he swallows them with ease, pressing his leg harder against you as you press down onto him.
the hand that rests on your throat trails down until he has a firm grip around your neck, pressing gently into the skin. his other hand digs into your hip, dragging your hips against his thigh until you leave a spot of your own arousal on the fabric of your shorts. you grind down on his knee, trying to find friction where you need it the most. your hands rest on his sides, and you barely have time to break away for a breath before he's swallowing your words.
"buck." you manage to whine.
a low groan leaves his mouth, his hands leaving your hips despite the small hesitant 'no' that leaves your lips.
"i like when you call me that." he murmurs before his lips are back on yours, his voice thick with something heavy and almost inhumane— a need to be close, a need to be in you.
his hands trail away from your hip, rough fingertips dipping inside of your shirt and dragging along the soft skin of your stomach, reaching higher and higher until he hits the band of your bra. you reach down and pull the hem of your shirt up until it bunches just below your neck, putting your bra on full display for him.
bucky pulls away from the kiss, his lips all bitten and coated in saliva. almost impatiently, he slides a hand under your back and lifts you up, hand fumbling with the clasp of your bra before it clicks open with a satisfying pop. they spill out as bucky pulls the confining fabric away.
"fuck." he groans, "such pretty tits."
his head dips down before he can even really think, dragging his tongue across the flesh of your breast, lapping up any of the salty sweat that'd gathered in the valley of your chest, his other hand massaging what he can't abuse with his mouth. and when he takes one of your nipples into his mouth, the sound wet and loud in the quiet of your room, you arch into his touch. your hips rut against the air trying to find friction— any friction— but he moves his leg the moment he feels you press against him.
"no, please—"
he detaches from your nipple with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting his lips to the bruised skin. he pushes himself up onto his knees and eagerly tugs his shirt off, throwing it onto the ground beside the bed. he glows in the dim light, catching the dips of his shoulders and his chest, highlighting all the soft scars and burns from his work, and all of the muscle that he'd gained over the years of hard work. it's nothing you haven't seen before, but you're not complaining either.
he tugs at the waistband of your shorts, sliding them off, and you lift your hips to give him easier access. he slides them down the length of your legs and off of the tip of your toes before he discards them just as he did with his shirt, and the site that greets him steals his breath.
you're wearing possibly the laciest panties he's ever seen. there's almost no opaque fabric, thin lace barely covering anything. its more of a thong than actual underwear. his thumb runs along the edge of your panties, tracing the lace like it's a physical manifestation of everything you need and want.
"did you wear these for me?" he asks.
he sounds so sweet— so sure— that he's the reason you're wearing them, and if you entire body wasn't already warm with desire, you're sure it was burning from embarrassment.
"no, they were—" you swallow, almost embarrassed as the truth slips out of your mouth. "they were my only clean pair."
he hums softly, a small smile playing at his face as he lets out the smallest amused huff. "cute."
you smile, and he leans down to press a warm kiss to your lips. you chase his mouth when he pulls away, but let out a soft gasp when he presses a kiss to your cheek, then another onto your jaw. he presses one onto your neck, kisses your collarbone, and continues downwards until his lips find the delicate lining of your panties.
he hooks a hand under your knee and gingerly places it into his shoulder, his hands wrapping around your waist so he can pull you closer to his face. you hold your breath, waiting for what you think is going to happen to happen. your boyfriend could never get this part right.
and then he does it. bucky presses a chaste kiss to the fabric of your panties, lips pressing into the fabric with a delicious pressure. his tongue darts out of his mouth as he licks a long, slow strip across your clothed pussy, soaking what little fabric there is covering you with his saliva and your slick.
you bite down on your hand and he groans at the taste, eyes flicking from your face to the soaked fabric. he reaches forwards, hooking a finger around it and tugging it to the side, and you instinctively clench at the knowledge that you're practically laid out for him and on full display. he's so close that you can feel his breath fanning over your cunt, and you don't think you'd trade this feeling for anything in the world.
he leans in and presses a kiss to your inner thigh before he licks a slow wet stripe from the bottom of your leaking pussy right to your clit.
you let out a moan, biting down on your finger until it burns, but he reaches up and pulls your hand from your mouth. he interlocks his fingers with yours and places your hands firmly against your hips.
"don't be shy, baby." he murmurs into your cunt, not bothering to come up to make sure you can hear it. "wanna hear every noise you make."
he leans in again and laps at what he can, his nose nudging against your swollen clit every time he tries to stick his tongue further into you. you're not sure if you're the one grinding down on his face or if he's doing it himself, but his tongue pokes through your entrance and you find yourself hooking your other leg over his shoulder and holding him there, and bucky gladly accepts his fate.
his tongue plunges in and out of you, pulling away ever so often to suck on the soft skin of your folds. the ball of heat in your stomach in your stomach is so close to snapping and bucky can tell. he lets go of your hand and slides two thick fingers inside of you, pushing until he brushes up against the spongy spot that makes you curl into his touch, and you can't help but slide your fingers through his hair and tugging at the salt and pepper strands.
he continues the rhythm until your legs are clamping around his head and he tastes the sweetness that leaks from your heat.
"fuck—" you cry, your brain fuzzy and your body hot with arousal, "bucky, i'm gonna—"
but just as you're about to spill all over his face, he pulls away. you gasp, your legs instinctively try to tighten around his head to pull him closer, but bucky's stronger. he pries your legs open like it comes naturally to him and rises until he's on his knees.
and then he reaches for his belt buckle. the noise is startling, but it also brings a flurry of butterflies through you. the band of his underwear peeks from his jeans and you can't help but stare up at him as he pulls his belt from his jeans. his eyes bore into yours as he undoes his jeans and slides them down like he knows he's torturing you.
bucky's thumbs slide under the waistband of his underwear and he slides them down, his cock springing out and hits his stomach, the head all flushed and leaking and begging to stretch you open.
his eagerness is barely hidden in the way his hands are back on you, calloused palms running up your sides and cupping your breasts. the blunt tip of his cock presses against your entrance, sliding past your folds and resting there as he leans down for another messy kiss, but you stop him.
"wait, bucky—" you whisper against his lips, hands flat against his chest. you push him away with little resistance. you can feel his breath against your face, and the worry on his face sends a pang of guilt through you.
"am i hurtin' you?" he murmurs with furrowed brows.
youre quick to shake your head. "no, i'm okay, i just... you still don't know my name. you still don't know my name and we're about to—"
bucky's hand slides up from your breast and cups your cheek, his thumb running against your bottom lip. "you don't have to tell me it if you don't want to, princess."
your head shakes the slightest bit, "but if we're gonna do this, i want to tell you."
so you do. your name falls from your lips like a secret you're whispering to him in the dark, and bucky repeats it back to you with such reverence that you've never experienced before, and you find that you never want him to stop saying it.
you lean forwards and kiss him. the kiss is slower than the others you'd shared, and bucky groans into your mouth as he finally pushes into you. the stretch burns, but your hips push against him despite the pain because he feels just like safety.
his cock drags against your soft walls, every second feeling like pure heaven. every sound that slips from your lips is swallowed by bucky and echoed back into your mouth, a chorus of moans and heavy breathes that never seems to end.
he bottoms out with a low groan before he grinds against you like he can't get enough of how you feel, but before you can beg for him to start moving, he pulls out and rams back into you. a yelp jumps out of you, but you try to hold it back.
"be loud, sweetheart. i wanna hear those pretty moans."
"trevor's still— fuck— trevor's still here."
a breathy scoff spills from bucky's mouth, and the shit eating grin that he wears on his face tells you he couldn't care less. "let him hear. the only time that lowlife's gonna get any action is when he hears how good i fuck you."
then bucky's thrusts get harder and sloppier. his chest presses against yours with a welcomed weight, dragging out all of the pathetic bodies you'd been trying to hold back, and your nails dig into the rough skin of his back to try and make them stop. you're embarrassed. your eyes fall shut in a daze, but a growl stops you.
"no, look at me." bucky huffs out, hands coming to grab you by the jaw and redirect your eyes. his thumb digs into your cheek. "look at me, princess. want you to see who's fuckin' you better than that pathetic boyfriend of yours ever could."
and god, you can't do anything but obey. you practically fall limp in his arms as he looks into your eyes and fucks you, every thrust bringing you closer and closer to where bucky wants you. he's brushing against your walls and pressing into spots that you didn't know where there and dragging noises out of you that you didn't know you could make. your name falls from bucky's mouth like he's a sinner begging for forgiveness, like he's been promised that your name is all he needs to be pure again.
all you feel is warm. bucky's skin as your nails carve your presence into his back, your insides as he fucks you better than your stupid boyfriend ever could, your heart as you pull yourself closer to him with every bit of your being— everything is so perfect.
the noise the fills the dingy motel room is wet and filthy, the stickiness between you building, and with a few final thrusts, you cum with a loud moan, and bucky follows soon after, his head tucked into your neck as he fucks his seed into you with a groan.
you're trembling, every small movement wringing out the aftershocks of your orgasm. bucky pulls his head out of your neck and places a chaste kiss to the soft skin below your ear.
"took me so good, baby. just perfect for me," he murmurs.
bucky pulls out of you with a soft breath. his thumb swipes at the liquid that leaks from your weeping cunt before he brings it to his mouth without a second thought, his lips closing around the digit with a soft hum. his thumb pops out of his mouth and he lays beside you, quick to make sure you're tucked into his side, your body pressed against his perfectly like you'd both been shaped from the same mould. your head falls to his chest, a soft tired sigh escaping you.
a while passes. there's no noise coming from the outside world anymore— no cars or trucks, no planes overheard, no game show playing on full volume coming from trevor's office. you're not sure how long it's been quite for, but you know for a fact that the only thing that could've been heard for miles was your moans.
the bedside table lamp buzzes. bucky's heart beats steadily in his chest. there's the faint call of a coyote, and then another, and then silence. it's the kind of quiet that only happens when you're sure everything will be already.
but of course, nothing stays perfect forever. doubt creeps into your mind like a parasite and feasts on the security you feel. bucky is a stranger and you are just another girl. who's to say he won't just abandon you at this motel and leave you for another sketchy trucker to pick up?
"bucky?" you whisper into the silence, unsure if he's awake or if he's simply staring off into space just as you are. your fingers run through the wispy hair on his chest as you try to anchor yourself, but the wave in your tone gives you away.
"hmm?" he hums, his head tilting just slightly towards you.
"can i ask you something?"
"of course, sweetheart."
"this is probably too much to ask, and you can say no if you want." you hesitate. "but can i come with you? to california, at least. and you don't have to say yes, because i know it's sort of your thing to travel alone and everything, but—"
"i was just inside of you, sweetheart. i don't do that with just anybody. thought it was already a given that i'd be takin' you."
you shrug. "you might've changed your mind."
there's a soft silence until bucky shifts. his hand slides up the back of your next and his fingers glide through your hair. you prop your chin up until you're looking straight at him, eyes flicking between his as you await his answer.
"i'd take you around the world if you asked me to." he says.
your breath falls short, replaced by a smile that makes its way onto your face before you can stop it. "thank you, bucky."
"'course." bucky meets you with a similar smile. "now get some sleep. we've got a long drive ahead of us."
morning arrives faster than you'd like. the truck is packed, your duffel bag sitting snugly on the floor of the passenger seat, and the engine rumbles steadily outside in the texan sun. the familiar sputtering and mechanical sounds that had plagued it for days before was finally gone, and you couldn't wait to get the fuck out of this place.
"checking out." you announce as you place both yours and bucky's room keys onto the counter. the metal clatters against the counter, echoing in the silence of the office.
trevor looks up from the magazine in his lap and stops chewing on his piece of strawberry gum, eyebrows lifting from the keys to you, then towards bucky, who stands behind you with his arms crossed.
"hm." trevor sniffs. he eyes the two of you like you'd dropped a suspicious package right in front of him before he puts his magazine down and stands up. "didn't think you'd get your truck fixed. thought you two were never gonna leave."
"tempting." bucky replies dryly.
"right. you're all set. safe travels, sir." trevor grabs the keys from the counter and holds them in his hands for a second before he nods towards you. "you too, sugar."
the word spills from his mouth like he knows it'll be the last time he can piss you off before you disappear into the desert like all of the other visitors. you want to walk away— it's the responsible thing to do— but you're already on the run, so what's the harm?
you pull your fist back and slam it directly into trevor's face. a loud crack fills the office as he yells, his hands flying to his fac to figure out what damage you'd done. red seeps through his bony fingers and curses spill from his mouth, the man too preoccupied with his broken nose to notice that you and bucky are already leaving.
the last thing you hear is "you fuckin' bitch! you'll pay for—" before the office door shuts. his yelling is drowned out by the glass, and even if you could understand what he was yelling, you really couldn't care less.
bucky steps forwards with a smug smile. he reaches up and opens the truck door for you, a hand extended. "you feel better?"
"a little." you sigh, your hand in his as he helps you climb up the steps and hop into the passenger seat. "would've been better if i knocked out a few of his teeth."
"i could go back in there and bring back a few of 'em." bucky suggests with a grin, though you're not entirely convinced he's joking.
you shake your head, "nah, he can keep them. i'm sure i'm not the first person to hit him and i definitely won't be the last. they'll need something to aim for."
bucky sucks in a sharp breath with a playful shake of his head. "i think spending time with lil old me turned you into a monster."
you roll your eyes. "i shot my boyfriend, fled my homestate, and ran from the cops, bucky. i was a monster before you even pulled into this parking lot."
he hums, "touché."
the passenger door shuts behind you. bucky circles the truck and hops into his seat. the truck rolls forward, tires squealing as the vehicle veers into the road and takes off, and for the first time in a while, you finally know where you're going. your final destination? california.
Summary - After five years with the Avengers, you go on a cabin trip wherey your relationship with Bucky Barnes quietly falls apart as it becomes clear he has feelings for Natasha. After a painful breakup and an emotional breakdown he helps you through, you leaves in the middle of the night, lying about work and walking away from both Bucky and the only family you’ve got.
Warnings - heavy angst, breakup,emotional cheating (implied) unrequited feelings, love triangle (bucky/you/natasha) dynamic, panick attack, anxiety, crying, hurt/comfort, alcohol, late night argument, feelings of abandonment, heavy emotional themes, slow emotional deterioration of relationship, miscommunication, jealousy, emotional neglect (perceived), lying for emotional self-protection, found-family separation, Avengers team dynamic, sad ending vibes
Writers notes - no proof read or word count. Grab a snack this is long! 🫶🏻
The cabin was quiet.
Too quiet.
Inside, you could hear faint laughter from the others — Sam arguing with Clint over cards, Thor booming loud enough to shake the walls. Natasha’s softer laugh followed a moment later.
You stared out into the forest from the porch chair, wrapped in one of Bucky’s old sweaters.
Your sweater now, technically.
But maybe not for much longer.
The door creaked behind you.
Heavy boots. Metal fingers brushing the frame.
Bucky.
You closed your eyes briefly before he even spoke.
A shaky breath left your lips. “Took you long enough.”
Silence.
Then the quiet sound of him sitting beside you.
The wood shifted under his weight.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
You could feel him looking at you, probably trying to figure out how to start. Bucky Barnes — former assassin, war hero, feared by half the world — completely terrified of one conversation.
Your chest ached.
Because you already knew.
You’d known for months.
The way his eyes followed Natasha when she walked into a room. The softness in his voice whenever he said her name. The way she understood pieces of him no one else could touch.
Including you.
Especially you.
“I never wanted to hurt you,” he said finally, voice rough like gravel.
You gave a weak laugh that almost broke halfway through. “That’s usually how these conversations start.”
His jaw tightened.
You turned toward him then, really looking at him.
God.
You loved him so much.
The cold had turned his nose pink, dark hair slightly spiked like he done lately keeping it out his eyes. He looked exhausted. Guilty. Heartbroken.
But not enough to stay.
And that hurt worst of all.
Your fingers twisted in the sleeves of the sweater. “Is it Nat?”
He looked down immediately.
That was answer enough.
Something inside you cracked quietly.
Not dramatic. Not loud.
Just… the final splintering of hope.
Tears blurred your vision, but you smiled anyway because you refused to make this harder for him.
“I was hoping you’d choose me” you whispered.
Bucky’s face crumpled.
You reached up before he could speak, cupping his face gently in your hands. The cold from outside clung to his skin, but beneath it he was warm, familiar.
Home.
“I’m not gonna stand between you and Nat,” you said softly. “I won’t do that to either of you.”
“Don’t,” he choked out. “Please don’t make this easier.”
A tear slipped down your cheek.
Then another.
You leaned forward and kissed him.
Softly at first.
One kiss.
Then another.
And another.
Like if you kissed him enough, maybe your heart would memorize him forever.
Bucky made a broken sound against your mouth, his hands gripping your wrists like he was afraid you’d disappear.
Your tears kept falling between kisses.
Salty.
Warm.
Endless.
“I love you,” you whispered against his lips.
His forehead dropped against yours immediately, eyes squeezed shut in pain.
“I love you too.”
And somehow that made it worse.
Because he meant it.
But not enough.
You brushed your thumb along his cheek, memorizing every line of him. “You should go inside.”
He didn’t move.
Neither of you did.
A cold wind drifted around the porch while the world inside the cabin kept going without you.
Finally, Bucky pressed one last trembling kiss to your forehead.
Then he stood.
You watched him hesitate at the door.
Watched him almost turn back.
But Natasha laughed again from somewhere inside, and his expression changed in that tiny, devastating way you’d noticed a hundred times before.
And that was it.
The answer.
He opened the door.
Warm golden light spilled across the porch for one brief moment before disappearing again as the door shut behind him.
Leaving you alone with the cold.
And the echo of goodbye.
—
The cabin was warm with noise.
Music hummed softly through the speakers while everyone crowded around the fire, half-drunk on cheap beer and wine and the unmistakable comfort of being together. Sam and Clint were arguing again, Thor was absolutely demolishing a bowl of popcorn, and Bruce looked one inconvenience away from going to bed.
Normal.
Everything felt horribly, painfully normal.
Which was why you kept smiling.
You sat cross-legged on the rug near Wanda, carefully avoiding looking toward the kitchen island where Bucky leaned with a beer bottle in his hand.
You could feel him anyway.
Like a bruise.
Like gravity.
Natasha stood beside him saying something low enough that no one else could hear. Bucky answered automatically, but his eyes flicked toward you for half a second.
Then away again.
Your stomach twisted.
You stood abruptly before the feeling could swallow you whole. “Wanda?”
She looked up immediately. “Yeah?”
You forced brightness into your voice. “Can I have a sleepover in your room tonight?”
That got everyone’s attention.
Wanda blinked once — then grinned instantly. “Oh, absolutely.”
A few people laughed.
“Sleepover?” Sam repeated. “What are you, twelve?”
“Yes,” you deadpanned. “And if you insult me again, I’ll steal your wings.”
“Fair.”
Wanda scooted closer excitedly. “Wait, wait — are we talking snacks? Movies? Gossip?”
You held up a small bag dramatically. “I brought face masks.”
Wanda gasped like you’d announced free money. “Oh my god.”
“Thought you’d appreciate that.”
“I love you,” she declared instantly.
The room chuckled softly.
Across the cabin, Bucky went very still.
You felt it before you saw it.
When you finally looked over, he was watching you over the rim of his beer bottle, blue eyes unreadable in the firelight.
There was something fragile in his expression.
Almost confused.
As if he didn’t understand how you could still laugh after what happened on the porch.
Truth was, you didn’t understand either.
You just knew if you stopped acting normal, you’d fall apart in front of everyone.
And you refused to give yourself that humiliation tonight.
Natasha said something to Bucky again, nudging his shoulder lightly.
His attention shifted to her automatically.
Your heart clenched so sharply you thought you might actually be sick.
So you turned away first.
“Okay,” Wanda announced, grabbing your arm dramatically. “Girls’ night starts now. Nobody is allowed in my room unless they are hot and emotionally intelligent.”
“Guess that rules out all of us,” Clint called.
“Especially you.”
You laughed softly, grateful for the distraction.
As Wanda dragged you toward the hallway, you risked one final glance behind you.
Bucky was still staring.
Beer loose in his hand.
Eyes heavy with regret.
And for one terrible second, it looked like he wanted to come after you.
But he didn’t.
He just stood there while Wanda pulled you away, disappearing down the hallway with your forced smile and your stupid little bag of face masks.
The last thing you saw before turning the corner was Bucky tipping his head back and finishing the rest of his beer in one swallow.
—
Wanda’s room was quiet in a different way.
Not empty—never empty with her. She’d set up a ridiculous amount of blankets like a fort, face masks lined up on the bedside table like you were preparing for battle instead of heartbreak.
She was halfway through a rant about Sam’s “personality flaws” when your phone lit up beside you.
One new message.
Your stomach tightened before you even looked.
Bucky B
You stared at his name for a second too long.
Then opened it.
The message was simple.
No emojis. No fluff. Just him.
Bucky: Are you coming back to the room tonight?
Your throat went dry.
Wanda kept talking, oblivious, peeling open a face mask packet like it was a sacred ritual.
You typed carefully. Too carefully. Like if you pressed the wrong key, everything would come spilling out.
You: no, gonna sleep beside Wanda tonight. leaving tomorrow, something came up at work.
The lie sat there on your screen for a moment after you sent it.
Heavy.
Final.
Delivered.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Typing.
Stopping.
Typing again.
Your grip tightened on the phone.
Wanda glanced over. “Everything okay?”
You nodded too fast. “Yeah. Just—work stuff.”
She didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t push. Instead, she held out a face mask like it was emotional support. “Put this on. It fixes literally everything.”
You almost laughed.
Almost.
Your phone buzzed again.
You didn’t look right away.
You already knew what it would feel like.
—
The phone buzzed again.
Once.
Then again.
Wanda noticed this time, her eyes flicking toward your screen. “You don’t have to look at it if you don’t want to.”
“I do,” you said automatically.
But you still didn’t move.
Your thumb hovered over the screen like it weighed too much to lift.
Finally, you opened it.
Bucky: That’s a lie.
Your breath caught.
Simple. Direct. No anger in it—worse. Just certainty. Like he knew you too well to be fooled by something that small.
Another message came almost instantly.
Bucky: Can I come talk to you?
You stared at it.
Wanda shifted beside you, quieter now. “Is it him?”
You didn’t answer right away.
Because if you did, you might say yes.
And if you said yes, you might undo everything you were trying so hard to hold together.
Your fingers tightened around the phone.
“No,” you whispered finally, more to yourself than her.
You typed back before you could change your mind.
You: don’t. it’s fine. just tired. goodnight bucky.
You hit send.
The room felt suddenly too small.
Wanda frowned. “That didn’t sound like ‘it’s fine.’”
You gave a weak shrug and reached for one of the face masks, tearing it open just to have something to do with your hands. “I’m just tired.”
But your phone lit up again immediately.
This time, no hesitation.
Bucky: Please don’t shut me out like this.
Your chest tightened so sharply it hurt.
Across the cabin, through walls and distance and everything you’d just tried to build between you, you could almost picture him—standing in that same kitchen light, still holding onto whatever was left of you like it might slip through his fingers.
Wanda watched you carefully now. “Hey… what happened?”
You pressed your lips together, staring at the message until the words blurred.
Because the truth was simple.
Nothing had ended cleanly.
Nothing ever did with him.
You swallowed hard and finally set the phone face-down on the bed like it might stop it from existing.
“I can’t do this tonight,” you said quietly.
Wanda didn’t push. She just shifted closer, bumping her shoulder gently against yours. “Okay. Then don’t.”
The phone lit up again anyway.
And again.
And again.
But you didn’t look.
You just lay back into the pile of blankets, staring at the ceiling while Wanda eventually turned off the lamp, leaving the room in soft darkness.
Somewhere in the cabin, Bucky Barnes was still awake.
Waiting.
And for the first time since the porch, you realized something terrifying—
You weren’t the only one pretending it wasn’t already over.
—
The knock came hard enough to make Wanda pause mid-breath.
Not a casual knock. Not Sam being an idiot knock.
A Bucky knock.
She stared at the door for a second, then at you—curled up under the blankets, face turned into your hand, completely still. You’d fallen asleep like that without even meaning to. Exhaustion, emotion, everything finally catching up and dragging you under.
Wanda sighed softly and got up.
She opened the door just enough at first.
Bucky stood there immediately.
Hair slightly messy, jaw tight, eyes too awake for someone who should’ve been drinking and laughing with the others. He looked like he hadn’t moved since your last text.
“I need to talk to her,” he said quietly.
Wanda didn’t answer right away. She just looked at him—really looked at him—then stepped aside and opened the door wider.
“She’s asleep,” she said simply.
Bucky’s gaze shifted past her instantly.
And froze.
You were right there.
Curled on your side like you always slept, hand tucked under your cheek, lashes resting against your skin. There was nothing dramatic about it. No performance. No hiding.
Just you.
Asleep.
His expression cracked in a way Wanda didn’t miss.
“Is she okay?” he asked, voice lower now.
Wanda nodded. “She’s tired.”
Before anything else could happen, the hallway erupted.
“WHERE’S THE SNACKS—OH MY GOD—”
Sam came stumbling in first, laughing too loudly, followed closely by Steve who looked equally unsteady and equally convinced he was stealthy.
They didn’t even register the tension in the room.
They saw the bed.
And you.
“Ohhh,” Sam whispered like it was a sacred discovery. “There she is.”
And then, with absolutely no sense of survival instinct, he climbed onto the bed and flopped down beside you like a dog finding a warm spot.
You jolted awake instantly.
“Jesus—” you coughed, voice rough as the impact knocked the air out of you. “What the—”
Steve followed, immediately dropping onto the other side like it was a coordinated attack.
“Group nap,” Steve declared seriously.
“I am going to kill both of you,” you muttered, still half-breathless.
Sam, completely unbothered, pulled the blanket over himself and draped an arm over your middle like he belonged there. “Don’t be dramatic. You invited us emotionally.”
“I did not—get off—”
Your voice cracked slightly as you tried to sit up, still recovering from being basically steamrolled.
That was when the temperature in the room changed.
Bucky.
He didn’t move at first.
Just stared.
Then he walked forward.
Slow. Controlled. Dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with fights and everything to do with restraint.
“Get the fuck out,” he said.
Steve blinked. “Huh?”
Sam barely lifted his head. “Dude, she’s fine.”
“I wasn’t talking to her,” Bucky said sharply.
That got Sam to pause.
Wanda, very quietly, stepped back like she knew better than to interfere.
Bucky’s eyes didn’t leave them. “Get off the bed.”
Steve finally noticed his tone. “Whoa, okay—”
“Now.”
It wasn’t loud.
It didn’t need to be.
Sam slowly lifted his arm off you like he suddenly remembered he had self-preservation instincts. Steve followed suit a second later, both of them climbing off the bed with exaggerated care.
Sam held his hands up. “We were just—”
“I don’t care,” Bucky cut in.
You sat up now fully, blinking sleep away, hair a mess, still slightly dazed.
“Bucky,” you said quietly, like a warning and a question all at once.
He finally looked at you.
And whatever he saw there—half-asleep, overwhelmed, real—made something in his expression soften just a fraction.
But not enough to erase the tension still pulling tight between you both.
Steve and Sam backed toward the door.
“Okay, yeah, we’re gonna… go,” Steve muttered.
“Great talk,” Sam added quickly.
Wanda gave them a look that could’ve killed them both on sight and followed them out, shutting the door behind her.
Silence rushed in.
Just you and Bucky.
And the bed still warm from everyone else who didn’t belong in the middle of whatever this was.
—
The room felt too quiet after they left.
Even the cabin outside seemed to hold its breath.
You sat there on the edge of the bed, blanket slipping off your shoulder, trying to get your thoughts to line up properly. They wouldn’t.
Bucky was still standing near the door.
Watching you.
Not moving closer. Not leaving either.
That in-between space hurt the most.
You swallowed hard, swinging your legs off the bed. “I’m just… gonna go now.”
It came out flat. Careful. Like if you said it softly enough, it wouldn’t matter.
Bucky frowned immediately. “It’s nearly 2 a.m.”
You nodded once, too quickly. “Yeah, I know.”
He studied you for a second longer, like he was trying to find the version of you that meant it.
Then his voice dropped. “Where are you going?”
“Back to my room.”
“You don’t have one here,” he said quietly.
That landed harder than it should’ve.
Your throat tightened.
You blinked fast, but it didn’t help. The emotion you’d been holding down all night finally broke through the surface without asking permission.
“No,” you whispered, voice shaking slightly now. “No, I don’t.”
Bucky’s expression shifted instantly. “Hey—”
But that was it.
That was the moment it cracked fully.
Your eyes stung, then spilled over before you could stop it. You turned your face slightly like that would hide it, like he wouldn’t notice.
Except he always noticed.
“I can just go,” you said again, quieter this time, more fragile. “It’s fine. I’m fine. I just—”
Your breath hitched.
You wiped at your cheek quickly, annoyed at yourself more than anything. “I never had a drink anyway. I’m not even tired in that way, so I can just—drive or whatever, I’ll figure it out.”
Bucky stepped forward immediately. “No. No, you’re not driving anywhere.”
You shook your head, still trying to hold onto control that was slipping. “I just don’t want to make this weird.”
His jaw tightened. “It already is weird.”
That made you laugh once, but it broke halfway into a breath that sounded more like a sob.
You pressed your fingers against your eyes, frustrated now. “I didn’t mean for it to—Bucky, I didn’t—”
“I know,” he said softly.
That stopped you.
You lowered your hand slightly.
He was closer now without you noticing. Not touching you yet, just close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, the familiarity you didn’t know how to turn off.
His voice was quieter. “You don’t have to leave.”
You looked at him through blurred vision. “Then what am I supposed to do?”
That question hung there.
Heavy.
Honest.
Bucky didn’t answer right away.
And that silence—just like on the porch, just like in every moment that had led here—told you more than words ever could.
—
It didn’t happen all at once.
It built in layers.
The tight room. The late hour. The mess of emotions still hanging in the air between you and Bucky. The exhaustion you’d been pushing down since the porch. The noise of everything unsaid finally pressing too hard against your ribs.
Your breath started to feel wrong first.
Like it wasn’t reaching far enough.
You tried to steady it, but your chest tightened instead, sharp and sudden, like something had locked around your lungs.
“Hey,” Bucky said immediately, voice changing the moment he noticed. “Hey—look at me.”
You shook your head without meaning to. Your hands curled slightly at your sides like you were trying to anchor yourself in the bed, in the room, in anything.
“I—” you started, but the word caught.
Too many things hit at once.
The breakup. The cabin. Natasha. The kiss on the porch. The texts. The pretending. The laughing downstairs. The weight of being in the same space as him and still not being with him.
Your vision blurred.
“No, no—” you whispered, but it wasn’t clear what you were denying.
Your breathing turned shallow, faster now, panicked.
Wanda’s voice faintly from the hallway—calling Sam something sharp—faded into nothing.
Everything narrowed down to too much and not enough at the same time.
Bucky was in front of you instantly.
“Hey, hey, I’ve got you,” he said, low and steady. Not forcing. Just there.
Your hands lifted slightly like you didn’t know where to put them.
“I can’t—” you gasped, shaking your head. “I can’t—this is—”
“Look at me,” he repeated gently.
Something about his voice cut through just enough.
You tried.
Your eyes found his.
Blue. Steady. Not demanding. Not pushing. Just waiting.
“Breathe with me,” he said.
In.
You tried.
Out.
It didn’t work the first time. Then the second. But his hand hovered near yours—not grabbing, just offering something solid if you needed it.
“Good,” he murmured. “That’s it. You’re safe. You’re in the cabin. No one’s hurting you.”
Your breath stuttered, but it started to slow.
Wanda appeared in the doorway for a second, saw your face, and immediately stopped everyone else from coming in.
Bucky stayed focused on you.
“Stay with me,” he said softly.
And you did.
Bit by bit, your breathing stopped spiraling. The pressure in your chest eased from crushing to painful, then to something manageable. Tears still slipped down your cheeks, but the panic stopped climbing.
Eventually, your shoulders sagged.
Like your body finally remembered it could.
Bucky didn’t move away right away.
Just stayed close until you could sit without shaking.
When you finally spoke, your voice was wrecked.
“I need to go,” you whispered.
His brows pulled together slightly. “It’s still—”
“I need to go,” you repeated, firmer this time, even though your eyes were still red and swollen.
Silence.
He searched your face for a long moment, then nodded once. Slow. Understanding, even if it didn’t make sense to him.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “Okay.”
Downstairs, people were still laughing, still drinking, still not aware of what had just happened upstairs.
Which made everything feel even more surreal.
When you finally came down, suitcase already packed like you’d planned it before anyone noticed, the room shifted.
You forced your voice steady. “Yeah. Something came up at work. I need to be back in New York for first thing tomorrow morning.”
That part wasn’t entirely a lie.
Not entirely the truth either.
“I’ll just drive back and sleep when I get in,” you added quickly, like over-explaining could make it believable.
Steve frowned. “At this hour?”
“It’s fine,” you said.
Bucky stood a little behind you.
Not interrupting.
Just watching.
Sam suddenly crossed the room and pulled you into a tight hug before you could protest.
“Don’t be weird,” he mumbled into your shoulder. “Text me when you get there, okay?”
You let out a small, shaky laugh. “Okay.”
Steve followed immediately after, hugging you just as tightly, careful but firm. “Drive safe.”
“I will.”
Neither of them seemed fully convinced, but alcohol and affection made them less likely to question it further.
When they let go, you looked around the room once.
Wanda gave you a small nod, understanding more than she said.
Natasha’s gaze lingered—sharp, assessing—but she didn’t stop you.
Bucky didn’t move.
But his eyes stayed on you the entire time.
Like he was memorizing the moment you left again.
You adjusted your bag on your shoulder.
“Bye,” you said quietly.
And then you walked out into the cold night air, red-eyed, shaking slightly, trying very hard not to look back.
—
The cold hit you first.
That sharp, clean air outside the cabin that always felt like clarity until it didn’t.
Your car was parked further down the gravel path, half-lit by the porch light spilling out behind you. The woods were silent in that heavy, watchful way they got at night—like everything was listening, even if nothing answered back.
You stood there for a second with your hand on the car door, not opening it yet.
Because leaving wasn’t just leaving a house.
It was leaving them.
Five years.
Five years of missions and injuries and inside jokes shouted across quinjet bays. Five years of shared silence after losses no one else understood. Five years of Sam pretending he hated everyone while showing up anyway. Steve insisting on doing things “the right way” even when no one agreed what that was. Wanda quietly fixing people without asking. Natasha reading rooms like she could see the future. Thor treating Earth like it was both strange and sacred. Clint acting like chaos was a second language. Bucky—always there in the edges of it, even when he didn’t know where he fit.
And you.
Somewhere in the middle of all of them, like you’d been carefully woven into something bigger without noticing the moment it happened.
You swallowed hard.
The cabin lights glowed behind you through the trees. You could hear faint laughter drifting out—someone probably telling a story that would get exaggerated by morning.
Warm.
Alive.
A family, even when it didn’t call itself that.
Your fingers tightened around your keys.
Because the worst part wasn’t that you were leaving Bucky.
It was that you were walking away from all of it at once.
You blinked fast, trying to stop your vision from blurring again. Your chest still felt tender from earlier, like the panic had left bruises no one could see.
“You’re really doing this,” you whispered to yourself.
The words didn’t feel dramatic.
Just true.
Behind you, the door of the cabin opened briefly—warm light spilling out again. You didn’t turn around, but you knew someone was there. You could feel it.
Watching.
Waiting.
But not stopping you.
That mattered too.
You let out a slow breath, the kind that trembled at the end.
Then you opened the car door.
The leather seat was cold when you slid in. Familiar in a way that felt hollow now. You set your bag down carefully like if you made too much noise, the moment might fracture further.
Hands on the wheel.
Still for a second.
Five years of memories didn’t leave quietly. They crowded the inside of your head all at once—laughing, bleeding, arguing, healing, surviving.
And somewhere in the middle of it all, Bucky looking at you like he was still trying to choose correctly.
You pressed your forehead briefly to the steering wheel.
Just once.
A quiet, broken pause no one saw.
Then you started the car.
The engine turned over, soft but real.
And as you pulled away down the gravel road, the cabin shrinking in your rearview mirror, you didn’t look back again.
Not because you didn’t want to.
But because you knew if you did, you might not be able to leave at all.
bucky and reader trying to get pregnant but for some reason they can’t, and both of them individually think it is their fault (without communicating this guilt or sadness to the other). eventually one day late in the evening maybe after another negative pregnancy test, reader feels like she is failing bucky so she quietly confesses that she thinks there is something wrong with her but then bucky’s heart breaks bcuz he thinks there is something wrong with HIM, and they just reassure each other and happy ending pls <3
The bathroom light is too bright for this hour of the evening, sharp and clinical in a way that makes everything feel worse than it already does. It reflects off the tile, off the mirror, off the small white stick sitting on the edge of the sink like it’s something important instead of something that keeps breaking your heart.
Negative.
Again.
You don’t pick it up this time. You don’t flip it over like maybe the answer will change if you look at it from a different angle. You just stare at it, arms wrapped tight around your middle, like if you hold yourself together hard enough you won’t come apart.
The apartment is quiet. Bucky is in the living room—you can hear the faint murmur of the TV through the wall—but he hasn’t come to check on you yet. He never hovers. He gives you space, always, like he’s afraid of crowding you when you’re already hurting.
You know why.
Because every time this happens, he looks at you like it’s his fault.
And every time, you let him.
Just like you let him believe you’re okay.
Your throat tightens, the pressure building until it feels like it might choke you, and you press the heel of your hand against your mouth to keep the sound in. You don’t want him to hear. You don’t want him to come in and see you like this—again, always again—because you’re so tired of the way his face falls, the way guilt settles into his shoulders like something heavy and permanent.
You hate that he carries it.
You hate that you do too.
You close your eyes for a second, breathing through it, counting in your head the way you’ve learned to do when things get overwhelming. One, two, three—
You’re fine.
You’re going to be fine.
You just need a minute.
But the minute stretches, and the silence presses in, and the thought that’s been living in the back of your mind for months now finally pushes its way forward, loud and impossible to ignore.
What if it’s you?
What if there’s something wrong with you?
The idea settles in your chest like a stone, heavy and cold, and suddenly everything makes too much sense. All the negative tests. All the waiting. All the quiet disappointment that never quite gets spoken out loud.
You swallow hard, blinking rapidly, and finally reach for the test just so you can shove it into the trash, like getting rid of it might make the feeling go away too.
It doesn’t.
Nothing does.
When you step out into the hallway, the light from the living room spills toward you, warm and soft in contrast to the harsh brightness you just left behind. Bucky is stretched out on the couch, one arm thrown over his head, the other resting on his stomach, the TV flickering across his face in shades of blue and gold.
He looks up the second he hears you.
“Hey,” he says quietly, voice careful in a way that makes your chest ache. His eyes flick over your face, searching, and you can see the moment he understands. His expression softens, something sad slipping in around the edges. “C’mere.”
You hesitate for half a second, because if you go to him, you’re not sure you’ll be able to keep it together.
But you go anyway.
You always do.
He shifts to make room for you, sitting up just enough to pull you into his side, his arm coming around your shoulders automatically, tucking you in close like you belong there. Like you’re something to be protected.
“Hey,” he murmurs again, softer this time, his hand coming up to cup the back of your head, pressing a kiss into your hair. “It’s okay.”
The words hit something fragile inside you, and before you can stop it, you let out a shaky breath that sounds a little too close to a sob.
It’s okay.
It’s not, though.
It hasn’t been for a while.
You press your face into his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of him, trying to ground yourself in it, but the thought won’t leave you alone now that it’s out in the open, circling and circling until it feels like it’s going to swallow you whole.
“Buck,” you whisper, your voice small against the fabric of his shirt.
His hold tightens immediately. “Yeah, doll?”
You don’t know how to say it.
You don’t know how to put something like this into words without breaking something between you, without confirming the fear that’s been eating at you for months now.
But you can’t keep it in anymore.
“I think…” Your voice catches, and you have to swallow hard before you can keep going. “I think there’s something wrong with me.”
The words hang in the air between you, fragile and terrible all at once.
For a second, everything goes very, very still.
And then Bucky’s hand freezes where it’s been rubbing slow circles against your arm.
“What?” he breathes.
You pull back just enough to look at him, and the expression on his face is enough to make your heart twist painfully in your chest. He looks…stricken. Like you’ve just said something that physically hurts him to hear.
“I just—” you start, your voice wavering despite your best efforts to keep it steady. “We’ve been trying for so long, and it’s just…nothing, and I keep thinking—maybe it’s me. Maybe I can’t—” You cut yourself off, your throat closing up around the rest of the sentence. “I feel like I’m failing you.”
The second the words leave your mouth, Bucky shakes his head hard, like he’s trying to physically reject them.
“No,” he says immediately, too fast, too sharp. “No, don’t—don’t say that.”
“But—”
“It’s not you,” he insists, his hands coming up to frame your face, forcing you to look at him. His eyes are wide, almost frantic. “Jesus, sweetheart, it’s not you.”
You blink at him, confused by the intensity in his voice. “Then what is it?”
His jaw tightens, something conflicted flashing across his expression before he looks away, like he can’t quite meet your eyes anymore.
“I thought…” he starts, then stops, dragging a hand through his hair in a frustrated motion. “I thought it was me.”
You stare at him.
“What?”
He lets out a humorless little huff, shaking his head. “All the stuff I went through. Hydra. The experiments. I figured they probably messed something up.” His voice drops, rough around the edges. “I thought I was the reason we can’t—”
“Bucky,” you breathe, your chest tightening painfully.
“I didn’t want to say anything,” he continues, the words coming faster now like he’s been holding them in for too long. “Didn’t want you to think I was…broken, or that I was the one keeping this from happening for us.”
Something in your chest cracks wide open.
All this time.
All this time, you’ve both been carrying the same fear, the same guilt, just in different directions.
And neither of you said anything.
“Oh my God,” you whisper, your hands coming up to cover his where they’re still holding your face. “Buck…”
His gaze finally meets yours again, and there’s so much vulnerability in it that it makes your heart ache.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I should’ve told you.”
“No,” you shake your head, tears slipping free despite your best efforts to hold them back. “No, I should’ve told you. I’ve been sitting there thinking I’m the problem, and you’ve been thinking the same thing, and we just…never talked about it.”
He exhales slowly, his forehead dropping forward until it rests against yours.
“Guess we’re both a little stubborn,” he murmurs.
You let out a watery laugh, the sound soft and shaky but real.
“Yeah,” you agree. “A little.”
For a moment, you just stay like that, breathing each other in, the weight of everything that’s been unspoken finally starting to lift, piece by piece.
“It’s not your fault,” you say softly, brushing your thumb over his cheek.
“It’s not yours either,” he replies just as gently.
The words settle into something warm and steady between you, replacing the cold uncertainty that’s been there for so long.
“We’ll figure it out,” he adds after a second, his voice firmer now, more certain. “Whatever it is. Together.”
Together.
The word wraps around you like something solid, something you can actually hold onto.
You nod, leaning in to press your lips to his, the kiss soft and lingering, full of something deeper than just comfort. It’s reassurance. It’s promise.
It’s hope.
When you pull back, he nudges his nose against yours, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“No more keeping this stuff from each other, okay?” he says.
“Okay,” you agree, your own smile coming a little easier now.
He presses one more kiss to your lips, then pulls you back into his arms, holding you close like he never plans to let you go.
And for the first time in a long while, the future doesn’t feel quite so heavy.
Walk with me here…. Bucky x reader where the reader suffers from sleep paralysis. Bucky knows this but has never witnessed it. One night she has an episode and it looks like whatever she’s seeing is going to get Bucky. Once she gains control of her body again she throws herself on top of him. He wakes up and is concerned at first and then gets all soft because she was going to protect him.
There's a heaviness in your chest, like something has quietly decided to sit there. A strange awareness creeping in at the edges of your mind while your body refuses to follow. You know the feeling instantly, dread curling cold in your stomach before your eyes have even fully opened.
Not again.
You try to move your fingers first—always the fingers—but they don’t listen. Your breathing stays shallow, trapped, like even your lungs are hesitant to push too hard against whatever has you pinned.
Beside you, Bucky sleeps on, warm and solid and completely unaware, his arm draped loosely over your waist. His presence is usually enough to ground you. Usually enough to make the episodes shorter, quieter.
But tonight—
Tonight is different.
Because the moment your eyes fully open, you see it.
Standing at the edge of the room.
Too tall. Too still. Too wrong.
Your heart lurches violently against your ribs, panic slamming through you in a wave so strong you almost think it should break whatever hold this is. The shape doesn’t move, but you know—you know—it’s looking at you.
Watching.
Waiting.
No, no, no—
You try to speak. To call Bucky’s name. To do anything other than lie there helpless as your brain screams and your body betrays you.
Nothing comes out.
Your throat won’t work. Your jaw won’t move. You’re trapped behind your own eyes, forced to watch as the thing shifts.
It doesn’t walk.
It glides.
Closer.
Your vision blurs at the edges, tears gathering without falling, terror clawing up your spine as it crosses the room in slow, unnatural increments. Every instinct you have is screaming at you to move, to run, to do something—
But you can’t.
You can’t.
You can’t—
It stops at the side of the bed.
And then—
It tilts its head.
Toward Bucky.
Something inside you snaps.
No.
Not him.
Your fear fractures, reshapes, turns sharp and furious in your chest. The panic doesn’t disappear, but it changes—redirects—because whatever this is, whatever your mind is conjuring, it is not touching him.
Not Bucky.
Not yours.
You fight harder.
Every muscle strains, every nerve screaming as you try to force even the smallest movement. Your fingers twitch—barely—but it’s something. You cling to it, push harder, harder, harder—
The thing leans closer to him.
Your vision tunnels.
Your heart feels like it might explode.
Move.
Your arm jerks.
It’s weak, clumsy, but it’s real.
Move.
Your leg follows, then your shoulder, control snapping back into your body all at once like a rubber band finally breaking free—
And you lunge.
There’s no hesitation. No thought.
You throw yourself across Bucky, arms wrapping around him, pressing your body over his like a shield as if you can physically block whatever nightmare still lingers in your vision.
“Don’t—!” your voice finally works, raw and shaking. “Don’t touch him—”
Bucky startles awake beneath you.
Hard.
Years of training kick in instantly—his body tenses, metal arm shifting, ready to react—but it halts the second he registers you.
You.
On top of him.
Clinging.
Shaking.
“Hey—hey, doll—” his voice is rough with sleep and sudden alarm, hands coming up carefully, not pushing you off, just… holding. Grounding. “What’s goin’ on? You okay?”
You’re still half there, half not. Your eyes dart toward the side of the bed, expecting—
Nothing.
The room is empty.
Dark. Quiet. Safe.
Your breath stutters, coming too fast now, your grip on him tightening like you’re afraid if you let go, something will come back.
“It was—” your voice cracks. “It was here, Buck, it—” You swallow hard, shaking your head against his shoulder. “It was gonna hurt you.”
There’s a pause.
A beat where he processes that.
Then everythng about him softens
“Oh, baby…” His arms wrap around you properly now, pulling you closer, one hand cradling the back of your head as he tucks your face into his neck. “Hey, it’s okay. I got you. You’re alright.”
You cling to him harder.
“I couldn’t move,” you whisper, the words small, embarrassed despite everything. “I tried to wake you, I couldn’t—I thought—”
“I know.” His voice is gentler than you’ve ever heard it, steady and warm and there. “I know what it is. You told me, remember? Sleep paralysis.”
You nod against him, breath still uneven.
“It felt real,” you admit quietly. “It looked like it was coming for you.”
He huffs softly, not quite a laugh, pressing a kiss into your hair.
“Yeah?” he murmurs. “And what’d you do about it, huh?”
You hesitate.
Then, quieter, “I tried to protect you.”
That does something to him.
You feel it.
The way his chest rises a little deeper, the way his arms tighten around you—not in fear, not in tension, but something softer. Something fond.
“You threw yourself on top of me,” he says, voice low and almost… amused.
“I didn’t want it to get you,” you mumble.
There’s another pause.
And then he pulls back just enough to look at you, his expression impossibly soft, blue eyes warm even in the dim light.
“Doll,” he says gently, brushing his thumb under your eye where a tear finally escaped, “I’m a hundred years old, got a metal arm, and a body count that would make most people run for the hills.”
You sniff weakly.
“And you still decided you were gonna be my bodyguard?”
Your lips wobble despite yourself.
“I didn’t think about it,” you admit.
“I know you didn’t.”
He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, lingering there.
“That’s what makes it so sweet.”
Your arms loosen slightly around him, the adrenaline finally starting to ebb, leaving you tired and a little shaky. He notices immediately, shifting so you’re not hovering over him anymore, guiding you gently down so you’re tucked against his side instead.
One arm stays wrapped around you.
The other pulls the blanket up higher.
Safe.
“Next time it happens,” he murmurs, voice quiet against your hair, “you don’t gotta protect me, alright?”
You hum faintly, not fully agreeing.
He smiles into your scalp, tightening his hold just a little.
“But…” he adds softly, “I gotta say, I don’t mind knowin’ you would.”
Your eyes finally close, exhaustion pulling you under for real this time, your breathing evening out as you settle into him.
And long after you’ve fallen asleep, Bucky stays awake for a while.
Just holding you.
Just thinking.
Because no one’s ever looked at him and decided, without hesitation, that he was worth protecting.
hi ken!! can you please make something funny and fluffy bucky x reader drable like this video https://vt.tiktok.com/ZSxNj3oJk/ 😭😭
-🐰
It’s almost midnight when the bedroom door creaks open.
You and Bucky both freeze.
He’s half asleep, warm and heavy at your back, one arm slung over your waist like you might vanish if he lets go. The room is dim except for the sliver of hallway light spilling across the floor. You don’t need to look to know who it is.
Small footsteps. A dramatic sigh.
“Mom?”
You push up onto one elbow. “Ivy?”
Your daughter stands in the doorway clutching her stuffed rabbit by one ear, hair mussed from sleep, big green eyes blinking against the dark. She looks so small it makes your chest ache.
“I can’t sleep,” she says, voice serious in that way only five-year-olds can manage. “My room is too dark.”
Bucky groans softly behind you but doesn’t move his arm from around your waist. “Baby doll,” he murmurs, still half buried in the pillow. “You got the nightlight shaped like a unicorn. That thing could guide ships at sea.”
“It flickers,” Ivy says flatly.
You bite back a smile. “It does not flicker.”
“It flickers in a spooky way.”
Bucky lifts his head just enough to squint toward the doorway. “You tryin’ to negotiate, kid?”
Ivy doesn’t blink. “Yes.”
You swing your legs over the side of the bed and pat the mattress. “Come here, honey.”
She pads over, climbs up between you both without asking, immediately burrowing into your side like a tiny determined mole. Bucky’s arm instinctively shifts to accommodate her, draping over both of you like he’s shielding you from something.
You smooth Ivy’s hair back. “Sweetheart, you know we’ve talked about this. You’re getting big. You can’t sleep in our bed every time you get scared. You need to work on your independence.”
She stares up at you, expression unreadable.
Bucky makes a quiet offended sound. “Hey.”
You ignore him. “Remember what we practiced? Deep breaths, turning on your lamp, reminding yourself there’s nothing in your room except your books and your stuffed animals and the laundry you refuse to put away.”
Ivy narrows her eyes. “The laundry is suspicious.”
“It is not suspicious.”
She props herself up on one elbow and studies you with far too much calculation. You can practically see the wheels turning in her head.
“Well,” she says slowly, “what about Dad?”
You blink. “What about him?”
“When is he going to learn his independence and sleep alone?”
Silence.
Then Bucky sputters. “Excuse me?”
Ivy rolls onto her back and gestures vaguely behind her without even looking at him. “He sleeps next to you every night.”
Your lips press together hard as you try not to laugh.
“That’s different,” you say carefully.
“How?”
Bucky pushes himself up onto one elbow now, hair sticking up in every direction, blue eyes narrowed in exaggerated suspicion. “Yeah,” he mutters, “how?”
“You’re my husband,” you say, turning to him.
“And?” Ivy challenges.
“And grown-ups share a bed.”
Ivy tilts her head. “So you don’t need independence?”
Bucky’s mouth opens and closes.
You glance at him and see the exact moment he realizes he’s walked straight into a trap laid by a five-year-old.
“Listen,” he tries. “It’s different for me. I’m big. I can protect Mom.”
Ivy’s gaze sharpens. “From the dark?”
He hesitates. “Well.”
“You said there’s nothing in the dark,” she points out.
You bury your face in your hand.
Bucky looks personally betrayed. “You’re using her words against me.”
Ivy crosses her arms over her tiny chest and gives him the same deadpan expression he uses when Sam annoys him.
“So,” she says calmly, “when are you going to sleep alone to practice?”
You lose it.
A laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it, and Bucky shoots you a wounded look like you’ve sided with the enemy.
“Oh, that’s funny to you?” he mutters.
“She’s got a point,” you say, wiping at your eyes.
He huffs. “Unbelievable. I raise her to be clever and this is what I get.”
Ivy flops back down dramatically. “I think Mom should sleep in my room tonight. To practice independence.”
“That’s not how that works,” you say weakly.
“It is for Dad.”
Bucky leans over you to look at her. “Kid, I earned this spot.”
“Did you?” she asks.
You can’t breathe from laughing now, and Bucky finally cracks, a grin spreading across his face despite himself.
“Alright,” he says, pulling Ivy closer to him with his flesh arm. “You wanna know a secret?”
She squints at him suspiciously.
“I don’t sleep alone,” he admits. “Because I don’t want to.”
She pauses.
“You’re not scared?” she asks.
“Sometimes,” he says honestly, his voice gentler now. “But mostly I just like being close to Mom. Makes me feel better.”
Ivy processes that. “So you don’t have independence?”
“Oh, I do,” he says solemnly. “I just choose not to use it.”
You snort.
Ivy looks between the two of you, then nods like this information has been logged and categorized. “Okay.”
“Okay?” you repeat.
She scoots down under the blankets and wedges herself firmly between you both. “Then I also choose not to use mine.”
Bucky barks out a laugh and collapses back onto the pillow.
You open your mouth to protest—but then Ivy’s small hand slips into yours, warm and trusting, and Bucky’s metal arm settles carefully over both of you.
Your bedroom feels smaller now, but softer. Safer.
“Ivy,” you murmur gently, “we can’t make this a habit.”
“Mhm,” she says, already sounding drowsy.
Bucky leans over and presses a kiss to her messy hair. “Just tonight,” he whispers.
She nods against the pillow.
You glance at him over her head, raising an eyebrow.
He shrugs, sheepish. “I’m practicing not using my independence.”
You roll your eyes but shift closer anyway, tucking yourself against his chest while Ivy stays curled between you like the world’s most stubborn little buffer.
Within minutes, her breathing evens out.
Bucky’s thumb traces slow circles against your arm. “She’s too smart,” he murmurs.
“She learned from you.”
“Yeah?” He smiles softly. “Then she’ll be okay.”
You look down at your daughter, small and fierce and brilliant, wrapped in both of you.
“She will,” you agree.
Bucky tightens his hold just a little, pressing his lips to your temple.
In the dark, surrounded by the quiet hum of the house and the steady rhythm of the two people you love most in the world, independence feels overrated.
Summary: After 5 years of being single, you find your new roommate worming his way into your strictly planned routine. Suddenly, you aren’t the only one pulling all the weight, and you’re not sure what to do about it. The guard you carefully placed around your heart feels close to breaking, and you’re surprised to find you aren't entirely opposed. One romance novel and one rehearsal dinner later… the truth will come out.
warnings/tags: No use of Y/N. Post-college roommate AU. Not canon compliant. Mentions of romanogers or whatever their ship is called. Roommates to lovers. Idiots to lovers. Brief mention of the notebook by Nicholas sparks (cited in APA bc I didn’t know how to cite that in fanfiction lmao). Hyper independent!Reader. Anxious!Reader. Mention of past relationship. Light trauma and attachment styles. Angst because it’s my drug of choice. Smut (I’m scared). Soft!Dom!Bucky. Praise and dirty talk. PinV. Unprotected smut- please do not treat this like a sexEd class. Oral (F! Receiving). Fingering. He has a kink for taking care of you? Idk let me know if I missed anything.
MDNI !!! 18+
wc: 10k
Disclaimer: first time writing smut this detailed. Go easy on me, or don’t. I’ll be anxious about posting this either way lol. Proofread by me and only me (I have no friends to talk abt this with so like we should totally be mutuals tehe)
It really seemed like a no-brainer to you when the topic came up at the engagement dinner. Steve and Natasha weren’t trying to kick him out. In fact, it wasn’t even their idea. He was the one who said it made the most sense, that they needed their space and he should find his own. Sam joked that he just didn’t wanna hear the bed banging on the other side of the wall, if they “knew what he meant.” Bucky’s face, and the red on Steve’s cheeks, told you he wasn’t too far off.
So, when he mentioned to you that he wanted to keep a roommate, you didn’t hesitate to offer that he move into your apartment. After all, Wanda had moved out a year ago when her and Vision found a house on the outskirts of the city. You had the extra room, and you didn’t mind offering him help. You had known him for years throughout college, if only through mutual friends, but you enjoyed his company. He was the type that didn’t expect anything out of you during conversation. It flowed naturally, or if it didn’t then you simply sat in comfortable silence. You had discovered through several discussions that you shared the same taste in literature, and you both preferred the night to the morning.
You knew living together would be easy, and you were nothing if not capable of adapting. If need be, you’d just work around each other's schedules and respect the other’s space. You had never had any expectations of your roommates, not since you became used to your own capability. If you needed something done, you’d figure out how to do it. Wanda had said several times that she often wasn’t even aware you were around, given your nature to tending to yourself. You understood what she meant, because there was a point in time where you had to force the habit. Your last relationship was happy, you really had no right to complain… it was only that he never wanted to do any favor you asked. Something as simple as taking out the trash could turn into a huge argument about you “suffocating” him. Which was fine, you had found in the recent years that you liked your independence more than reliance on others.
So, when you offered, you assured Bucky that you knew how to pull your weight. You were not simply asking him just because you thought it’d be useful to have a man around.
You figured you were on the same page when he gave you an easy smile, a teasing scrunch of his nose, and leaned over to say, “Don’t you worry about a thing, sweetheart.”
Oh, you were wrong.
~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅
It started small, with chivalrous things you hadn’t realized you missed until he did them so easily. There was no show about it, no performance. It wasn’t grand or mind blowing.
He opened your door.
The day he moved in, you had been out grocery shopping, getting home right as he finished up. He had gone back outside to park his car. You beat him up the stairs, grocery bags making red indents in the skin of each of your arms. You didn’t mind, until you came to the door and found you couldn’t even reach it. You mumbled several curses while trying to maneuver for your keys and not drop the bags, this was a weekly occurrence after all.
“Let me,” came that familiar voice from behind you, two hands reaching for the bags on your arms before you had a chance to even respond.
He glanced down at your arms with a frown, looking at you as if disappointed. Then, bags in hand, he reached for his key and opened the door, waiting for you to enter first. You blinked at his steady smile, looking between him and the entrance to the apartment. When you walked in, he followed behind and came to set the bags on the counter.
“You don’t have to do that,” you stopped him as he began taking things out of the bags, “I’m sure you need to unpack.”
He simply scrunched his nose as if you were just being silly, “I am capable of both, you know.”
And you supposed you did know, given his success on the college hockey team. The strength and stamina shared between him and Steve was a highlighting topic among many broadcasting channels. Not that you paid attention, or anything. Still, though it was a helpful gesture, something about it made you uncomfortable enough to stop him again. “It’s just that…” you offered a smile, “I’m kind of crazy about organizing everything.”
He glanced between your eyes and the fidgeting of your fingers, stepping back with an easy smile and a, “Whatever you say,” before retreating to his room to unpack.
It continued like that, small things that you didn’t know how to feel about. After all, opening the door for others was just polite. It spoke to how introverted you were that it was a novelty. The same applied to carrying heavier objects, or offering to do your laundry when he was already putting in a load. You were baffled to have them returned to you perfectly folded.
You supposed you were just good friends who enjoyed each other's company, even if his accommodating attitude set you off balance. You enjoyed how he paid attention. Getting to know each other was a simple exchange of observations, where you learned that you mirrored the other often. Except for a few things.
It was late afternoon on a sunday, you had just stepped out of the shower and thrown on a long shirt and shorts. You stepped out of your room, into the living area where the golden New York sunset seeped through the windows. There was Bucky, haloed by the light, setting a book back on your shelves only to take another off. You stopped and watched as he ran his finger over the spine, then split the pages. His brows drew together, but his lip turned up.
“What is it?” You spoke up.
He looked up to you immediately, only his eyes seemed to drag up from your bare legs to your wet hair. That smile grew into a smirk, his tongue darting out over his bottom lip. He took his time, like he always seemed to. Like he didn’t know what it meant to rush. Yet he never left you hanging, “You’ve annotated every book on this shelf.”
It wasn’t a question, just an observation, lifting the book in his hands as if to prove the point. He was holding Pride and Prejudice. Your eyes widened as you took sight of your neat scribbles in pink ink, taking several steps forward and opening your mouth to respond.
Only, he beat you to it, eyes flickering back to the page, “I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of Mr. Darcy described using the word ‘daddy.’”
Your mouth fell open completely, in fact your jaw might have unhinged itself altogether. The way he read the word aloud with no shame whatsoever? You remembered feeling embarrassed just writing it across the page.
You forced yourself to stand straighter, crossing your arms and clearing your throat.
“Well, you obviously haven’t been on booktok very often, then.” You raised your brow, turning the challenge onto him.
He only took it in stride, leaning a shoulder against the bookshelf and giving you a deliberate once over. “Oh really? You’re telling me there’s an entire community out there for the kinds of things you write in these margins?” He turned his attention back to the flipping pages, muttering more so to himself, “interesting.”
You scoffed, finally reaching out and snatching the book from his hungry eyes, “Oh, give me that!” You turned to place it back where it belonged, next to Emma. “And for your information, no. Not all of them are annotated.”
You expecting more teasing from where he stood, still leaned on the shelves. Like he was right where he wanted to be. Only, his smug expression softened into something closer to curiosity. “Yeah, I was wondering about that…” then he reached a corded arm over you, almost caging you between him and the bookshelf. You lowered your eyes immediately, because seriously, he wasn’t even flexing, were his biceps naturally that large? Was that normal? It felt disrespectful to even look. But he brought it back down soon after, holding in his hand the one book you hadn’t touched with a pen.
When he still didn’t move away, you took it upon yourself, taking a considerable step to the side. He only thumbed through the pages, as if to prove his point, “What’s so different about The Notebook?”
What couldn’t be more different? You wanted to say. You simply turned your eyes to the shelves, exhaling a dissatisfied breath. “It’s unrealistic.”
“Unrealistic?” He laughed, pointing to the top shelf, “More than The Chronicles of Narnia?” Which was littered with your takes on favorite moments and quotes.
You rolled your eyes, “It’s unrealism disguised as realistic.” You shrugged, trying not to sound bitter, “I mean, what kind of man genuinely asks a woman what she wants, and then vows to give her all of it?”
He didn’t miss a beat, “A good one.” His voice was softer then, and you didn’t like the look in his eyes when you met them again. Like he was reading you now, like you were a puzzle he was slowly piecing together. He looked as if he just found another fitted piece.
“Yes, well,” you tried to sound unbothered, because you were unbothered. It didn’t matter. It never had. “Sometimes you have to be ‘a good man’ for yourself.”
The conversation ended there, because you felt exposed under his gaze, and plucked a book before retreating back to your room. The Hobbit this time.
You hadn’t noticed the book was missing until you walked into the apartment a week later and noticed the unbalanced lean of other books on the shelf. Some had fallen over into the empty spot it had left. Your mouth turned into a frown, but you quickly brushed it off. Maybe he wanted to read it. Maybe he’d feel the same way you did in the end, that it was a pointless kind of fantasy, and you would laugh together about it.
When it returned to its spot, however, you felt your palms itch immediately. For what reason, you didn’t know. You asked him if he liked it the following morning, and he gave a simple “yeah,” that somehow made you more antsy. He didn’t give anything else but a shrug, before turning the conversation to teasing you about your inability to get a pancake to the perfect temperature without burning it on one side.
When you were alone in the apartment, you finally groaned in frustration and picked it up. You didn’t know what you expected, because you knew he didn’t so much as highlight his books, and yet…
You found quotes highlighted in marker to match the cover, small annotations written in black at the edge of the pages.
“She would tell him what she wanted in her life--her hopes and dreams for the future--and he would listen intently and then promise to make it all come true.”
“She wanted something else, something different, something more. Passion and romance, perhaps, or maybe quiet conversations in candlelit rooms, or perhaps something as simple as not being second.” (Nicholas Sparks, 2000).
And off to the side: You deserve all of it. Everything.
You shut the book immediately and put it back, stepping away with a hand over your chest. It was as if you actually heard alarms go off in the back of your brain, red sirens flaring. It was unfair of him to plant any idea of that in your head. You wringed your hands and turned away, not liking the chasm that formed in your chest. The ache it created. Within minutes you had your bag and were out of the apartment, trying to get as far from that bookshelf as possible.
Then it became… more. He took notice of your work schedule several weeks in, noting when you would usually come home late and when you usually went without dinner as a result. Suddenly, you were coming home to dinner on the table and a Bucky who only smiled and asked about your day. Suddenly, the dishwasher was emptied before you had a chance to get to it. Suddenly, the washer wasn’t making that horrible noise anymore and the volume on your TV didn’t randomly move up and down. But he never mentioned the bookshelf.
You didn’t let it affect your expectations. He was just being nice, trying to make a good impression. It was sweet. Gentlemanly. You continued your routine as you had before he moved in, only more deliberately. In hindsight, you might not even have noticed yourself doing it. Anything you said you would do, you made sure it got done early. Even if he brushed you off and said he would take out the trash in the morning, you would wake up early and do it, responding innocently when he eyed the new bag in the can.
You worked hard at your HR internship, then came home and worked some more. You liked the space clean and organized, probably more than you even realized. It’s only that you were used to relying on yourself; not even your maintenance men were helpful–
“What are you doing?” Bucky said from somewhere above you, his tone sounding like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.
You slid out from under the sink, wrench in hand, “There’s a leak.”
The crease in his brow was obvious, his mouth opened as if you said something offensive, “Didn’t you just get back from work?”
“Mhm.” You figured you could work and talk, leaning back under the sink.
“And you didn’t think to–hey!” Before you knew it, a hand was wrapped around your ankle, and you were tugged across the tile until you were no longer laying under the sink. Bucky had knelt down, like getting closer would get his point across, “I’m right here.”
Yes, yes he was. Right there. Close enough that you could lean up and you’d be sharing the same breath. You could pick the grey out from the blue in his eyes, the hint of something solemn, yet all you did was look at him with a questioning expression.
He sighed, shaking his head, “You’ve been working all day, let me fix the sink.” He held his hand out for the wrench.
You didn’t give it to him, “You’ve been working too.”
“From home,” he said simply, “You have been on your feet–”
“This doesn’t require me to be on my feet.” You motioned to the fact that you were very much on the floor.
He turned his head away, muttered something that sounded an awful lot like “unbelievable” before taking a deep breath and meeting your eyes again, “Why won’t you let me help?”
You didn’t want to open that topic at the moment, so you decided to hit him with the biggest card you had, “Do you not think I’m capable of fixing the sink?”
The look he gave you told you he was not going to fall for that game, but he only said: “I think you’re incapable of relaxing.”
You shrugged, “I’ll relax when the sink is fixed.”
“Or,” the wrench was plucked from your hand when you least expected it, “You go change, get settled, and I will have this fixed in thirty minutes.”
“Or,” you growled, reaching for the wrench he held high above your head, “you could let me–” you huffed, shifting to reach higher, “just give it–” you didn’t even think before using his shoulder as leverage, and your sentence turned into a squeal as you fell forward. Directly onto him. Your thighs split across his abdomen as you landed, his breath coming out in a rough exhale as he hit the tile. You hadn’t had much time to catch yourself and focus on grabbing the wrench, meaning you fell directly onto his chest.
You were certainly sharing air now.
The look on his face was… you didn’t have time to read the look on his face. You scrambled off him so quickly, muttering several “I’m so sorry”s and “oh my god”s because you were splayed completely across him and you felt way more than you should have and–
You only breathed once you got back to the safety of your room, realizing then that you basically just surrendered the battle. Your pride swelled, scolded you for losing focus all because you forgot what it felt like to be pressed up against…
You shook your head, not the time.
The next morning, you would turn the faucet to find the sink working perfectly. No leak at all. And Bucky wouldn’t mention a thing.
~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅
Somehow, it got worse after that. You noticed the vase on the coffee table, the green one you found thrifting, had a new bouquet every week. Now, when you came home late, he wouldn’t have just made you dinner, but he’d wait to eat his with you. At the table, without a phone in sight. When you went somewhere, found yourself cold halfway through whatever event you were attending, he’d appear with an extra jacket he’d brought, “because you were too stubborn to grab one, doll, even though you always get cold.” It was so… domestic. So unlike the life you had made.
So much so that at times, you panicked. Wanda and Natasha didn’t understand it, no matter how much you tried to explain it. They told you to lean into it, and you didn’t know how to tell them you couldn’t. You had been pretty certain that you were happy as you were. You enjoyed your alone time, your career, and the community you had made. You didn’t need romance. You had once been told that love was a disease to a woman with ambition, and you had believed it wholeheartedly.
Now, you weren’t so sure.
You found yourself conflicted once you realized that no, James Barnes was not going to turn around at some point and resent you for all the helpful things he had done. You weren’t sure when it became such an obvious part of his character. Maybe somewhere between him knocking on the door while you showered to place towels—fresh from the dryer—on your counter and him calling every clinic in town on a Friday night to see who could fit you in when you were sick.
“Fuck—“ he threw the phone down on the couch next to your hip. He was crouching in front of you, hand running over his frustrated face. “Every clinic closed at 5.”
You only hummed in acknowledgment, too achy to care. You had been in and out of sleep the entire evening, going between shivering with a fever and breaking into a cold sweat. You only became more aware when you noticed him standing, reaching for his coat, “What are you—“
“We’re going to the ER.” He said as if he wasn’t, in your opinion, half mad. He shrugged on his coat then did a once over for you, turning to your room to presumably grab your shoes.
“What?” You croaked in the most astonished voice you could muster, sitting up on your elbows, “Buck–no, there’s no reason–”
He looked over his shoulder at you as if you were the crazy one, motioning to your form spread across the couch, “You’ve been like this all day. You can barely walk, you won’t eat, you’re feverish–”
“Listen to me…” You pushed yourself up slowly, your heart thundering like each movement was equivalent to a mile, “It is just a cold, I’m sorry–”
He stepped forward then, “Why are you apologizing?”
“I didn’t mean to take up your day, and I don’t want you to have to spend your evening taking me somewhere or nursing me back to health.” You gave him a kind smile. You appreciated him, so much so that something else was blooming next to that ache in your chest. A sort of… fluttering. But this wasn’t his job, “I’m sorry if I’ve kept you.”
He was silent for the time it took him to close the remaining space, his expression looking as if you had spoken a different language entirely. He crouched next to you, shaking his head and gently wrapping his hands around your shoulders to help you lay back down, “I don’t have anywhere else to be…”
“Still, I–”
“Why do you apologize for existing?” The words seemed to spill out of him, as if he couldn’t quite keep them in.
“What?”
“You’re human,” he whispered your name, absentmindedly checking his watch. It was time for medicine again, he reached for the pain reliever and your water. You had to give it to him, he didn’t look the least bit burdened. “It’s natural to need others.”
You took the medicine, laid your head back down, “I’ve taken care of myself this far, I can handle a common cold.”
He gave you that same look from the engagement party, but this time you read his smile as something akin to pity, or maybe affection? He lifted a hand to slide over your cheek, curling in your hair and smoothing it over your pillow, “I know you have, but now I’m here too.”
It didn’t matter when, just that you knew. This kindness was who he was, only that didn’t make him yours. The sweet words, soft touches, helpful gestures… James Barnes was a good man. Perhaps one of the best you would ever come to know, and that in of itself was more difficult than anything. You couldn’t brush him off as incompetent, or ill-mannered, or drowning in toxic masculinity, which had been so easy when dating up to that point. Only you weren’t dating, he wasn’t yours.
It became apparent when, a year after moving in, he announced, “I’m thinking of looking for my own space.”
You were eating takeout on the couch when he said it, curled up on opposite ends of and talking about nothing in particular prior. Then suddenly every nerve in your body lit, your focus zeroing.
Had you been wrong? Did he think you were taking advantage after all?
All you could say was, “Oh.” You set your carton down, suddenly not hungry. Suddenly the quiet atmosphere of the room felt as if you were suffocating.
He seemed to track the movement, as if assessing. His mouth pulled into a frown, “Yeah.”
You pulled your lips inward, biting down on them as you looked literally anywhere else. Which time had it been? When your laundry was done in the dryer, and you hadn’t noticed because you were knee-deep in paperwork, so he folded all of it for you? You hadn’t known what to think when he handed you a pile of your neatly folded panties with a slight blush across his cheeks. Or was it when he noticed your books were overflowing, so he surprised you on your birthday by building in an entire new section to the shelves?
The apartment was practically screaming his name at this point, filled to the brim with his actions. The flowers, the late night dinners, the shelves, all of it. If he had been trying to worm his way in, he had done it.
“It’s just… I saw some listings go up down the street,” he continued, picking at his chow mein, “figured I’d give them a look. Couldn’t hurt, right?”
Right.
You forced your throat to clear, planting on a supportive smile. This was your best friend, moving onto a new chapter of his life, you should be happy. You nodded eagerly, “Yes, that sounds great… um,” you unraveled your legs from below you, “I think I’m ready for bed actually…”
He furrowed his brows, “Already? We’re not even through the first Scream.”
You scrambled for words, “It’s been a long day.”
“Ah, I see,” bless him and his ability to bounce right back, “Natasha said you’re an easy scare, but I never thought–”
You smacked his shoulder, “I am not! You’re the one who was so focused on your book the other day that you jumped at the sound of the doorbell!”
He waved his finger at you, “Not fair! I was reading Stephen King!”
“And what? You were scared the pages were going to jump out at you?”
His mouth fell open, “Oh, you’re not going anywhere–”
Bucky jumped up at the same time as you, blocking your exit from the living you. You squealed, trying to get around the coffee table, but fuck him for being a goalkeeper. He follows you around, and you resort to trying to step onto the table for a fast exit, only to find his arms wrapping around you from behind. You screamed, the giggle in your throat making you feel like a schoolgirl with a crush.
“Got you!” His voice was rough with laughter, and you felt him step back, easily picking you up completely.
“Oh my god,” you slapped his arm around your waist, “put me down!”
“Nope,” he fell back on the couch, bringing you with him. It was unfair, the way he held you, like your previous conversation never happened. His breath tickled your neck as he promised, “Not until we get through at least the first two movies.”
You did eventually make it back to your room that night, shutting the door and falling against it. Your hand came up to cover your mouth. You weren’t proud of the sobs that followed shortly after, or that chasm in your chest that now felt as if it had doubled in size. You groaned in frustration, pulling at your roots.
“There were rules, I had rules…” you pleaded to the ceiling, as if someone would hear you, as you sank to the floor. “I said I wouldn’t change my expectations… that I wouldn’t let it go too far.”
But at some point… it had. At some point, that fluttering you had felt began to wrap around the discomfort like a balm over your heart. It soothed, forcing your guard down. Letting you dream before you even realized you had been. Thinking about what it would be like to trust someone again. To have… not a man to babysit, but a partner who was equal to you in character and intelligence. You thought the girls who said they wanted a man they could turn their brains off with were naive, stupid even, until you started imagining how easy it would be with him. Not all the time, but like an even exchange. Being able to trust that he had you, just as he would trust that you had him.
It was becoming increasingly obvious what had happened.
“Damnit.” You sobbed, your forehead dropping to your knees.
You were upset, but also so angry. So pissed off at yourself for letting this happen. You were smarter than this, stronger than this. They said the most intelligent women didn’t fall for this bullshit, and here you were.
You let yourself cry quietly for another thirty minutes, then you forced yourself up. Off the floor, away from the door. You got ready for bed, and didn’t let yourself cry again. You had felt this before, and you had overcome this before. Yet, as you laid down, closing your eyes, you had a nagging feeling that one realization wasn’t going to go away.
You didn’t want to be alone forever, not anymore.
~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅
Claps rang out around the room, a few people drying tears on the corner of their napkins. Yelena’s maid of honor speech was funny and lighthearted, and yet still made hearts swell as she recounted childhood dramas and memories (or lack of) of late nights in college. She was even biting her lip at the end, trying to hold in a smile as she explained how Natasha never thought she’d find her person, until she met Steve. The cliche lines earned raised glasses, and knocked back champagne.
It was a gorgeous rehearsal dinner, with a small party. Both families had pitched in on the decorations. The colors were muted, but no less beautiful, with red roses centering each table. Candles lit up the entire room, washing everyone in a romantic, golden light. All of the guests were asked to wear colors while Natasha and Steve sat in white. It was everything Natasha had said was dumb before, and you enjoyed seeing her lean into it.
You enjoyed all of it, so much that it made that ache in your chest feel the size of a canyon. It was the same ache that had been building for a year, and you hated yourself for it. It was their day, and you wanted it to be perfect. But as you watched Steve pull her in, kiss her cheek, and the tension fall from her shoulders… all you could think was that you wanted that. That softness, that intimacy. Falling into someone and not wondering if they’d catch you.
But you’d been doing this for so long on your own, you weren’t even sure how to appeal to someone anymore. You weren’t necessarily flirty, or even playful unless you really knew the person. You also rarely found yourself attracted to strangers, so how would you even pick someone? There were too many variables, you wondered how anyone figured it out.
Bucky rose from the chair next to you a few moments later, after Yelena sat down. You watched him, in his blue suit, go to pick up the mic and smile to the room. He opened with something that made the room laugh, but you found yourself in a daze. There was nothing surprising about him, nor how he was dressed. You had seen him walk out of his room, had driven with him on the way here, had plenty of time to adapt to the way he seemed to take up the entire room, and yet… suddenly it felt as if he was the only one in the room.
You watched his eyes scan the room, “…Folks, I’m just the best man. I can’t speak for Steve or his feelings but, I believe love isn’t about lust or attraction… and yes, it is about friendship. About finding that woman who you want to share everything with, who you can’t get off your mind. But more importantly,” then his eyes landed on yours and he paused. Like it was just him and you and that wide smile, with eyes that matched his suit jacket. Then he found himself, cleared his throat, “it’s about finding the person you want to take care of for the rest of your life. The person that makes effort feel like a privilege…”
His eyes snapped away as he kept speaking, but you felt like you were about to throw up. This was the only variable. Every missing data point combined into one. Everything you wanted, right here.
And he would be leaving soon. Soon, you would be coming home to an empty apartment that still felt like him. You would have to move on and rebuild each wall, knowing all it took from him was a single look to knock them down.
Glasses raised, people cheered, the couple kissed. Bucky found his seat next to yours right as you swallowed a lump in your throat.
“How’d I do?” He leaned into your space, his arm coming around the back of your chair.
You managed a small smile, grateful for the steady and supportive tone of your voice, “Perfect, very romantic.”
Dinner was served, and everyone gathered. It was lovely, every single moment of it. The drunken laughter and kind remarks. Natasha and Steve fawning over each other. Sam teasing everyone in sight. Even Tony stood for a speech towards the end.
You chastised yourself every time the thought popped into your head: I want this. It wasn’t your day. It wasn’t yours to want. Even when your mind felt like it was racing a million miles a minute and you just wished that you had a soft place to land. A place to rest it all. Instead, you had driven away the one person who had been such a driving force in your life the past year. Now he was leaving too.
You tried to distract yourself by moving to the other side of the table with the excuse of visiting with Natasha to discuss bridesmaids plans for the next morning. It helped, for a moment. She was so lively about how she wanted everything done, and you were good with lists. Little boxes to check off, that was your area. The wine was a good call too, because two glasses in you were giggling and successfully avoiding glances from down the table.
It would only last so long though, you supposed, because once dinner was over you were out of options. You hugged every last person, even the family members you didn’t know, taking extra long on your goodbyes. But, finally, you met him back at the door with a tense smile.
Bucky stood with his hands in his pockets, angling his neck to get a better look at you, “You alright?”
You nodded, bouncing on your heels, “Yeah, ready to go?” The valet would be bringing the car back soon.
He only tensed his brows and raised the back of his hand to your cheek, “You sure, you’re flushed?”
“Oh,” you didn’t mean to flinch away, it was only a reflex, “I probably had too much wine.” Which you were regretting, just now remembering that wine did not get you tipsy in the same way vodka or tequila did. You were tired now, and every thought you had from earlier was rushing back. You turned for the doors, not wanting to continue the conversation and knowing he would follow. The valet had, indeed, brought the car around, and you hopped in the passenger side after thanking them.
Bucky took the driver's seat, adjusting his arm behind your head to reverse out of the narrow lot. He was mostly quiet, save for when he made sure you were buckled. You held your breath against the swelling emotions, trying to bat away the voices in your head. You felt at war, like the two different sides of yourself wanted very different things. One screamed it’s better this way, while the other responded it doesn’t have to be. Both had valid arguments.
In the five years you had been single, you had made the most progress in your career and financial independence. You knew yourself better, had built a better routine, and had become comfortable without the opinions of others. However, there had also been nights where all you wanted was a pair of arms wrapped around you. There were times you ate dinner, and wished you had someone across from you to talk about your day with. Someone to dance in the kitchen with… or even the more intimate aspects. Someone who took their time with you, learning every inch of your skin without a selfish expectation. Someone who just wanted to be with you.
That lump in your throat became too much, and you coughed into your elbow, trying to release some of the tension in your chest. You began to feel pins and needles breaking out over your skin, your hands feeling restless and unsure of what to do with themselves.
You felt his eyes glance over at you before focusing back on the road. You were on a backroad now, the dinner having been out of the city. After several moments of quiet traveling, he finally spoke, “I’m not sure if I told you, you look stunning tonight.” It was a soft compliment, his hand slowly reaching over to squeeze your knee, because of course he knew something was wrong. “This dress is lovely.”
It was too much, all of it. You couldn’t even remember the last time a man complimented something specific on you. When it was dangled in front of you like this, you found you enjoyed it too much. You felt greedy with the need for more, like you wanted this to be your normal.
But he was leaving.
The sob tore from your throat before you could stop it, all of it suddenly becoming too much. You brought a hand to cover your mouth, turning away, but it was already too late. Bucky only squeezed your knee one last time before bringing his hand back to the wheel with a pained sigh. You noticed the car slowing, finding him pulling over to the shoulder. You grunted in disapproval, something like an apology. For causing a scene? For being selfish? For having agreed to this in the first place? All of the above?
Once the car stopped, you heard him unbuckle and turn to you. Then, a hand gently pried the one from your mouth, “Sweetheart? Talk to me.”
You only hung your head, your teeth clenching around more sobs. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block everything out.
He was persistent. He moved your hair behind your ear, trying to get a look at you, “What’s going on,” with a plea of your name he said, “please?”
You shook your head, “I-I’m sorry, I don’t know–”
“Don’t apologize,” then he was taking your cheeks in his hands, giving you no choice but to turn to him. He made a pained noise when he saw your tears, his thumbs brushing under your eyes, “Tell me what it is, pretty girl. Tell me, and I’ll fix it.”
That felt like salt on a wound, your breath releasing from your chest broken and cracked. You tried to turn away, but he wouldn’t let you. One hand slid to cup your nape while the other unbuckled you, tugging your knees till you faced him more. It only made you cry harder.
“You gotta talk to me, I can’t do anything if you don’t tell me.”
You finally broke with a, “You don’t need to do anything!”
He wasn’t having it, “Bullshit. You’ve been out of it all night, and now you’re bawling your eyes out. Best believe I’m going to figure out what caused those tears and–”
“I’m tired!” you emphasized the words, trying to give them more meaning than they had on their own.
His brows furrowed, “Of what?”
“Everything! All of it.” You motioned your hands as if that was a good explanation, “I’m so fucking selfish! It’s someone else’s night and all I could think about–all I’ve been thinking about–is how goddamn tired I am of doing everything myself.”
“You don’t have to,” a hand runs through your hair, smoothing it, almost lulling you.
“But I can! I was! For a long time! And-and then suddenly…” you trailed off, shrugging your shoulders and finally forcing yourself to look away from him.
He squeezed your knee again, “Suddenly?”
You shook your head again, but not necessarily to his question. More so, to the tone of his voice, the earnestness of it. He cared so much, and it was as heartbreaking as it was exhilarating to be the center of his attention.
It must have been the exhilarated side that quietly answered: “You.”
“Me?”
“You!” You repeated with more confidence, “You showed me something different and now you’re leaving and… I don’t know…” You searched for the words, “do you ever get tired of being alone?”
Your question seemed to send the car into such thick silence that you couldn’t stand to stare out the front dash anymore. Slowly, you turned to look at him. For the first time, he wasn’t looking at you. His eyes were downcast, his mouth hung as if he had no clue what to say.
Shame spread across your cheeks. You’d really done it this time. In a matter of months, weeks for all you knew, he’d be gone. He wanted to leave, and here you were saying silly things. Embarrassing yourself. This was why you hadn’t dated.
But that was a lie. You hadn’t dated because you hadn’t felt this in a very long time. If ever.
When Bucky finally did move, it was to shift the car back into gear. His other hand moved back to the steering wheel at the same time that you said, “I’m sorry.”
It was his turn to shake his head, “Just…” his voice was rough, pained, “Just let me take you home. I think… I think you need to see something.” He pulled back onto the highway, careful of the speed limit despite the way his fingers drummed restlessly on the steering wheel.
The ride was quiet, save for your sniffles as you tried to quit crying. You had no idea what he meant, no clue what he might want to show you at home that you didn’t already know about. Or maybe it was something else… a lease he’d already signed? His bags packed neatly in his room? Maybe he just wanted out of this car before telling you how tiresome this past year has been for him. Either way, you were determined to pull it together by the time you entered the parking garage.
And you had, for the most part. To his credit, he didn’t seem the least bit angry getting out of the car. You both walked calmly up the stairs to the apartment, and you waited for him to unlock the door. When you walked inside, however, he did not lead you to his room to show you any documents or boxes. He did not turn and give you a piece of his mind.
He walked to the bookshelf.
Your face twisted in confusion as his hands went directly to the spine of the book he was after, not even taking a second to search. Like he knew the exact spot it lived in like the back of his hand. And when he turned, you saw the cover was the same book he had pulled months ago when you had stood against those shelves together. The Notebook. The same book he had annotated for you without a word, that you had put back before even beginning to flip through the pages.
Now, however, he was thumbing through them himself. When he stopped, three fourths through the book, he opened it fully and turned it to you. His eyes met yours again, the first time since you had spoken in the car, as he handed you the book. You took it without question, looking at him for a few moments before finally turning your eyes to the page. And right there, where highlight draws over lines of Noah confessing to Allie what is loving her has meant to him, is the only annotation written in your favorite pink ink:
When I read these love stories, about a man who cares for a woman until his dying breath, I only ever think of one person. Love at first sight might not exist, but I have cared for you from the very first moment. Then again at every party, every class, every dinner, and every night in this little apartment.
Oh.
You blinked several times, reread the words to the point that he probably thought you were illiterate, but you only wanted to make sure they were real. Then you looked up at him, with his bitten lip and puppy-dog eyes. You mouthed wordlessly for several seconds before landing on a single question, “James–”
“I was betting on you getting curious when the book was missing,” he shrugged, “I guess I was wrong.”
You shook your head, “You weren’t, I-I did look. I just didn’t get too far because…”
“You got scared.” He understood.
You finally met his eyes, “You don’t think I’m too much?”
The exhale he let out was soft and full of pity, yet he still stepped forward. “I think,” he said, “that you have been left alone for far too long,” he gently took the book, setting it on the arm of the couch next to you, “and I am sorry that anyone ever made you think you had to do this alone.”
You couldn’t breathe, “I—“
“I love you.” His hands cradled your face once again, tilting your head up so he could look at you properly. He was so close, close enough to do whatever he pleased, and yet he still waited.
Only until you said: “I love you too.”
Then he was kissing you without reprieve. There was no hesitancy in the way he took your purse from your shoulder, dropped it to the floor, and backed you against the door. You took no time in responding, your mouth matching his kiss or kiss. Your hands lifted to his shoulders, sliding down to fist his shirt in your fingers. It was a consuming sort of kiss, and not just for the fact that you hadn’t kissed someone in years. It was him, and it was overwhelming in the way that it felt right.
You forced yourself to pull back before you could melt into him, giggling when his lifts tried to follow yours. “I just…” you leaned against the door, looking up at him, “I thought you wanted to leave?”
His breath was already ragged, and you could practically hear his heart pounding. It didn’t stop him from shaking his head, “No, sweetheart.” The words were breathed against your forehead before his lips dropped to your skin, planting kisses on your forehead before reaching your cheeks, “I never wanted to leave, but being near you and…” his exhale was hungered, full of longing, “and not having you, it’s like torture.”
“I know the feeling…” you replied, voice no more than a whisper.
The groan he let out was like nothing you had heard from any man before, and then his lips were on yours again. There was nothing held back about it. He fisted your hair and tugged your head back, his tongue sliding along yours when you gasped. You didn’t need him to hold you there, you were more than happy to arch into him, and he knew it. His hands slid down next, over the fabric of your butter yellow dress, brushing your thighs right where the hem ends. He mumbled something against your mouth, but you were too focused on the taste and feel of him. His muscles were both hard and soft all in one, and it was the safest place you had ever been. And as you ran your hands down the definition of his abdomen, you found yourself dizzy with more than just love.
He pulled away when it was obvious you hadn’t heard him, and only then did you notice his fingers brushing up under your dress. Your breath hitched, fingers flexing against him. He nudged your nose with his, whispering again, “Will you let me?”
You knew what he was asking without any clarification, because your body was miles ahead. Still, you hesitated. Could you do this? Did you still even know how? What if you messed up? Or couldn’t please him? Or–
Bucky whispered your name, thumb brushing your cheek, “You’re overthinking.”
“It’s just been a long time for me.” You bit your lip, watching his eyes track the movement.
He nodded like he knew, because of course he knew. “I just want you to relax, okay? Let me take care of you.”
You weren't prepared for how easy it would be to listen to the gentle command, to uncurl your fingers from his shirt and let go of the urgency because he had you. One of his arms wrapped around your waist, the other gripping the back of your thigh as he pulled you up to wrap your legs around him. And then he really was against you, and you gasped once again against his mouth. He smiled as he turned to walk down the hall, undoubtedly knowing that you can feel all of him pressed to you. And judging by your perception of size, "all" was a considerable amount.
He entered his room, kicking the door shut behind him, and brought you to his bed. He kissed you once more before laying you down on the white comforter and leaning back to get a better look at you. Your hair fanned across the bed, your dress riding up your thighs. He smirked down at you, his hands coming up to your thighs.
"Gorgeous," he mumbled, more to himself, and ran his hands down to wrap around your ankles. You squealed as he gave a sudden tug, pulling you to the edge of the bed where your thighs fell on either side of him. Your dress was ridden up to your hips by that point, putting the cotton of your ordinary panties on display.
Not that it seemed to make any difference to him, he was still intent on looking his fill. So much so, you felt yourself start to squirm at the attention, letting out a whine.
He only tutted, shrugging off his suit jacket before his hands went to the buttons of his shirt, "Patience, sweetheart." Then he was shirtless, and you couldn't have formed a remark if you wanted to. He was all definition under soft, tanned skin. When he finally brought himself down, his body covering yours, you did not hesitate to run your hands along his chest and shoulders.
You could have stayed there like that for a long while, just feeling him pressed against you. But Bucky was the one losing patience all of the sudden, with his lips against yours and his hands at the hem of your dress. You moaned when he bit down on your bottom lip, pulling it into his mouth, and he used the moment to drag your dress up your sides and over your head. It had been wired, leaving you without the choice of a bra, not that you regretted it when you heard the groan he let out at the sight of you under him.
Then his mouth was on you, leaving nips along your collarbone before dropping down to your breasts. You cursed in response to the sensation, gasping his name as your fingers flew to his hair.
"Fuck," his lips let go of your nipple just to mumble against your skin, "dreamt of this, having you under me," he sucked a hickey onto your skin, "thought I was an awful man for wanting you at my mercy, but look at you," his hips rolled into yours, you arched and pulled at his hair, "you're loving this."
"Please," you breathed as his mouth closed around the other nipple, sucking it into his mouth.
"Please what, baby?" He trailed kisses down your stomach next, before he dropped off the bed. Next thing you knew, he was kneeling in front of you.
You could only squirm, feeling pinned under him, "I-I don't know..."
He hummed, still so pleased with you, "I know, I know what you need. You just lay there and take it, doll."
The very idea made your insides burn, pleasure licking up your spine as his lips ghosted along the seem of your panties. He kissed over them, completely shameless to the eroticism of his actions. You, on the other hand, were speechless. Your thighs were already close to shaking and he had barely touched you. He knew the effect he had too, if his smirk was any clue. He watched for your reaction as he brought his hands to the sides, slowly bringing them down your legs.
You closed your knees on instinct, but he wasn't having it. He pulled them apart with a warning look at you and placed one thigh over his shoulder, his other hand pinning your knee to the bed. You couldn't take your eyes off his expression though, seeing the hunger in his eyes when they finally fell on you. He exhaled, his voice rough, "look at you," then his thumb was pushing through your folds, dragging down the seem of your cunt. "Already so wet for me. I think I deserve a taste, don't you?"
You gasped, not even thinking when you started nodding, your hips already grinding against his thumb.
He hummed, nipping at the inside of your thigh, "So good f'me." Then he was on you, his tongue dragging from your entrance up to your clit before his mouth sucked hard. It was your turn to cry out a curse, your hips coming off the bed. But he adjusted, an arm wrapping under your thigh and coming back up to hold your hips down. "So sweet," his voice vibrated against you, "can't believe you kept this from me."
"Didn't want to," you whined, words barely coherent, "didn't wanna--"
"Mm," he pulled back, thumb replacing his mouth and working your clit while he watched your reaction. "We're gonna make up for all that lost time, yeah baby?"
You nodded incessantly, muttering pleas as his pointer finger found your entrance.
"Gotta get my pretty girl ready," he mumbled, more so to himself, as he pushed the finger in and found immediate resistance. He wasn't discouraged, though. His mouth found your clit again, laving and sucking until your thighs began to shake. Slowly, you began to relax to the point that he was able to move the finger in and out, curving it into the spot that made you let out a needy whine.
"There she is," he smiled against you, and you thought you might have found heaven. When he used a second finger with his tongue, his arm pulling your hips flush against his mouth, you found yourself repeating words over and over. "Please"s and "I love you"s tumbling out. He talked you through all of it. The second your eyes rolled to the back of your head and your mouth opened with a scream, he was encouraging you with "good girl"s and "give it to me"s and "please, baby"s.
He didn't stop until you were tugging on his hair and trying to pull him back up. When he sat up, he was breathing heavily and his pupils were blown wide. And when he brought himself back onto the bed, you could so clearly see the evidence of his arousal. You bit your lip, hard, and looked up at him with an expression you were sure gave away exactly what you wanted. If it didn't, it didn't really matter, because then you were tugging him down over you.
His mouth met yours again, and you tasted yourself on him. It was consuming, but you didn't let it distract you from moving your hands to the zipper of his slacks. You weren't about to waste any time, and with the way he was grinding against you, he wasn't either. He kicked his pants and boxers down the minute you pushed them past his hips, both of you groaning at the feeling of skin on skin.
He kissed you hard once more, taking a moment to admire you, before leaning up on his forearm. Using his other hand, he brought your leg over his hip. His forehead dropping down to yours, he whispered, "You gonna let me take care of you?"
You could only nod, feeling him adjust and run the head of his cock up through your wetness and against your clit. You could barely see straight.
He smiled, pleased, "Breathe for me, okay? Relax." He waited to watch you obey, pulling in a deep breath and melting against him all over again. Then he pushed against you, the tip of him sinking slowly inside. He took the moment to pinch the nipple of one of your breasts, making you cry out and push against him. It made the pleasure of him thrusting into you sharper, better than you ever remember this being.
He cursed once again, moaning your name against your ear as he pulled out only to sink back in. "So tight. Perfect. And just for me, aren't you?"
You nodded, eyes rolling back as he set a rhythm.
But he grasped your chin, made you look at him, "Say it, tell me you're all mine."
It took you a minute to find your words, too focused on the feeling of him dragging inside you. There was no way it had always been like this, there had to be something different about James Barnes. Him and the way his cock pushed inside you, making stars dance in your vision.
"'m yours, Bucky, all yours. Please--"
"That's right," he pushed harder, his thumb dropping back down to press against your clit, "My perfect girl and her tight cunt, all for me." He dropped his mouth to your breast, sucking and biting down gently, "All for me to take care of."
The words mixed with all of the sensations happening in your body were too much. You felt your legs tighten around him, your hips lifting to meet his, mumbling his name and whining into his neck when you began to press kisses into it.
"Mhm, that feel good, doll?" the room was full of the noises of slapping skin and heavy breathing, "You gonna cum for me?"
You cried out, hands grasping at his back and nails dragging across his skin, "Uh huh, please!"
"Don't gotta beg me, I'll give you anything you want. As long as you keep letting me take care of you." He groaned, his thrusts turning sporadic, "Fuck, and letting me spread those legs and ruin this pussy. Please, baby..."
You felt your body tighten around the pleasure, the buildup from your first orgasm to your second feeling ten times more intense. And being pinned down underneath him while he whispered dirty words and promises of love only added to the pleasure as it hit you. You screamed his name so loud he was forced to put a hand over your mouth so the whole apartment wouldn't hear. He didn't last much longer either, his mumbles turning to whimpers of your name as he thrust through his orgasm.
You were both left with ragged breaths and sweaty skin after, letting out quiet laughs as your kisses turned lazy and sweet rather than rough. He ran his hands up and down your sides as you combed yours through his messy hair.
"Are you okay?" You found yourself asking.
He chuckled, "That's my line." Then he slowly began to pull out, watching your reaction as you winced at the soreness. He brought a hand to your hip, rubbing soothing circles into the skin.
You bit your lip, feeling a hint of that worry seep back in as he gave you a once over, "But... are you?"
He met your eyes again, reading you like a book. You watched as it dawned on him what you meant, and he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead, swiping your hair from your cheeks. "I'm not sure I could be better," he pulled back, "I love you. I mean it, I'm not going anywhere."
You sighed, any last bits of tension seeping from your muscles, "I love you too."
He smiled, standing and scooping you up into his arms once more. You squealed again, securing your arms around his neck and bringing your lips to his for one last peck. He then buried his nose into your neck, breathing in your scent as he walked towards the bathroom.
"What are we doing?" You rested your head on his shoulder as you let him take you wherever he pleased.
"Taking care of you," he said simply, "You barely ate at dinner. So, I'm gonna get you cleaned up, then we'll eat something."
You hummed, and for once didn't worry about the where, or why, or how of it all. You let him take the lead, knowing he had you. You were safe. You were loved.
~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅
note: this might have felt a little daydreamy... and that's because it really was just me daydreaming about actually finding a competent man. As a hyper-independent, anxious girly, I won't be putting bets on it. But I sure can dream about Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. :)
Please remember to repost and support your creators!
KENNEDY!! Are you still looking for themes for May?? Because I had a thought for a request that could go with a theme!!
Painter!Bucky needing a model for his life painting class(aka painting nude models) and reader, his childhood best friend, is like “I mean I can do it. You’ve seen me just about naked. I trust you. Paint me like one of your French girls, buck” and jokes about it but when it comes down to it, of course they’re both pretty nervous about it.
Bucky is of course so sweet and he’s like “bug, you really don’t have to do this if you don’t want to” and reader is like “no, no it’s okay. I’m gunna do it. I’m gunna show you my boobs now” bc they’re just constantly joking but the second reader gets naked? Oh it’s over. They were each others first crushes. Secret of course. Those feelings still harbored secretly after all this time. So like usual they try and sweep it under the rug, not wanting to cross the line but after a little while of painting in relative silence(still a few jokes here and there) Bucky steps out from behind the easel and is like “can I just…adjust you really quick?” And when he goes to adjust reader, he lets his fingers skim a little too long, lets reader hear his breath catch when he touches her bare skin, makes the mistake of meeting her eyes, both of their chests heaving and one of them is like “we’re so fucked” before bOOM SMUT. PAINT STREAKED AND SPLATTERED SMUT IN BUCKY’S ART STUDIO and after they’re like “so we’re in love with each other right?” And a good time was had by all lol
This was long like usual sorry bestie lol
-🍎
Bucky swears he doesn’t know why he even mentioned it to you.
You’d been sprawled across the ratty old couch in his studio, legs thrown over the armrest, flipping through one of his art books while he cleaned his brushes in the sink. The late afternoon sun poured in through the tall warehouse windows, dust motes drifting in lazy spirals. His studio always smelled like oil paint and turpentine and something distinctly him—cedarwood soap and coffee.
“I’m screwed,” he’d muttered, more to himself than to you.
“I need a model for my life painting class. Carmen bailed. Again.” He’d sighed, running a hand through his hair, already smudged with ultramarine. “Professor says if I don’t log enough hours with a live figure, I can’t pass.”
You’d closed the book slowly, eyes gleaming in that way that always meant trouble. “Life painting,” you’d repeated, too innocently. “Like… nude?”
He’d groaned. “Yes, like nude.”
There had been a beat of silence. Then you’d sat up, grinning. “I mean, I can do it.”
He’d blinked at you. “What?”
“You’ve seen me just about naked,” you’d said with a shrug. “We practically grew up glued to each other. You trust me. I trust you. Paint me like one of your French girls, Buck.”
He’d rolled his eyes so hard it hurt. “That’s not even the right movie reference.”
But he hadn’t said no.
Now, two days later, you’re standing in the middle of his studio with your heart in your throat.
The space is warmer than usual, the overhead lights angled just right to mimic the setup he’ll use in class. A chaise he borrowed from the theater department sits in the center, draped in soft cream fabric. His easel is positioned a few feet away, canvas already stretched tight.
You’re in his oversized flannel and nothing else.
“Honey,” he says gently from behind the easel, not looking at you yet. “You really don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”
You swallow. You can see the tips of his fingers curled around the edge of the canvas, faintly trembling. “No, no. It’s okay. I’m gonna do it.” You force a grin, even though your stomach is somersaulting. “I’m gonna show you my boobs now.”
He lets out a choked laugh. “Jesus.”
You slide the flannel off your shoulders, letting it pool at your feet. For a split second, you’re tempted to cover yourself, to cross your arms over your chest like some cliché modest statue. But you don’t. You force yourself to breathe. You’ve known him since you were six. He held your hand when you got your ears pierced. He let you cry into his shoulder after your first heartbreak. He is safe.
Still, the air feels electric the moment your skin is bare.
There’s a long pause.
Then you hear his breath hitch.
You lift your chin stubbornly. “You can look, you know. That’s kind of the point.”
He exhales slowly and steps slightly to the side so he can see you fully. The look on his face almost undoes you.
You’ve seen Bucky paint sunsets and strangers and abstract grief that made professors cry. But you’ve never seen him look at anything the way he’s looking at you now.
Reverent.
“Okay,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Sit back. Lean on your left arm. Yeah—like that.”
You lower yourself onto the chaise, shifting until you find something that feels natural. One knee bent, the other leg extended, your spine curved just slightly. Vulnerable and open.
He starts painting.
At first, it’s almost easy. The scratch of bristles on canvas is familiar. You joke about how you expect to look like a lumpy potato. He shoots back that he’s an artist, not a miracle worker. You both laugh, tension bleeding out in small, manageable doses.
But then the silence stretches.
His gaze moves slowly, mapping every line of you. The curve of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the soft slope of your hips. His eyes darken, focus sharpening in a way that makes your skin prickle.
You become acutely aware of everything—the way your nipples tighten under the lights, the way your thighs press together instinctively, the way your breathing grows shallow.
He clears his throat. “Tilt your head a little.”
You do.
“Good. Don’t move.”
You try not to.
Minutes pass. Or maybe hours. Time feels syrup-thick.
Finally, he steps out from behind the easel.
Your pulse spikes immediately.
“Can I just… adjust you really quick?” he asks quietly.
Your mouth goes dry. “Sure.”
He approaches slowly, like you’re something fragile. Something precious.
He kneels in front of you first, lightly nudging your ankle to extend your leg another inch. His fingers are warm. They linger for too long.
You feel it.
He rises to his feet, close enough that you can see the faint stubble along his jaw, the paint smudges on his collarbone. His hand comes up to your shoulder, brushing a strand of hair back.
His fingertips skim your bare skin and your breath catches.
His hand trails down—just barely—along the curve of your arm, then your waist, adjusting the angle of your hip. His thumb presses into the soft flesh there, steadying you.
You look up.
He makes the mistake of meeting your eyes.
Everything unravels.
There’s years in that look. Sleepovers and shared secrets and stolen glances at fifteen. The way he’d once almost kissed you behind the bleachers and then pretended it never happened. The way neither of you ever crossed the line.
“We’re so fucked,” you whisper.
His lips part.
And then he’s kissing you.
It’s messy and desperate and nothing like the slow, careful way he paints. His mouth crashes against yours, paint-stained fingers cupping your jaw. You gasp into him, hands fisting into his shirt, pulling him closer.
He groans, the sound low, and suddenly you’re the one dragging him down onto the chaise.
Somewhere in the chaos, a jar of paint tips over. Something splatters across the hardwood floor.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to breathe. “Tell me to stop.”
“Don’t you dare,” you pant.
That’s all he needs.
He kisses down your neck, teeth grazing your collarbone, paint-smudged hands sliding over your breasts like he’s memorizing them. You arch into him, breath hitching as his thumb brushes your nipple, spreading a streak of cobalt blue across your skin.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re unreal.”
You tug at his shirt, desperate. “Take it off.”
Clothes disappear in frantic handfuls. His jeans hit the floor with a thud. Your laugh dissolves into a moan when he presses you back against the chaise, body covering yours completely.
There’s paint everywhere now—on your hips, on his chest, smeared between you like some abstract masterpiece.
He moves against you slowly at first, like he’s still afraid this might vanish. Like you might change your mind.
You don’t.
Your nails drag down his back. His name falls from your lips in a breathless plea. When he finally sinks into you, the both of you gasp like it’s a revelation.
It’s messy. It’s heated. It’s years of restraint snapping in one explosive moment.
Paint streaks across your thighs as he moves. His forehead presses to yours. You feel him everywhere—warm and solid and yours.
“Baby,” he whispers like it’s a prayer.
You cling to him, breath shaking. “Don’t ever sweep this under the rug again.”
He laughs softly, kissing you harder as everything crashes into something blinding and overwhelming and perfect.
Later, you’re tangled together on the studio floor, half-covered in dried paint and discarded fabric.
The canvas stands abandoned behind you.
You trace lazy patterns over his chest, smearing what’s left of green across his skin. “So,” you murmur.
“So,” he echoes.
You tilt your head, studying him with a small smile. “Are you in as deep as me?”
He snorts softly. “Yeah. Probably.”
“Probably?”
He rolls you beneath him again, grinning in that way that used to make you blush at fourteen. “Definitely.”
You laugh, pulling him down into another kiss, paint-streaked and breathless and finally, finally not pretending anymore.
pairing: scientist!bucky barnes x experiment!reader
warnings: 18+ NSFW, smut, daddy kink, dark!bucky, slight steve x reader, dubcon bordering noncon, stockholm syndrome, emotional manipulation, drugs, masochism and sadism, obsessive and possessive behavior, verbal abuse, mental illness, isolation, self-harm, mentions of the word "rape", angst, fingering, praise kink, innocence kink, medical malpractices, surgical inaccuracies, pet names, spanking
word count: 11.3k
main masterlist
a/n: please read the warnings listed before reading. i am not responsible for your media consumption. thank you to @danysdaughter and @iamthatonefangirl for giving me the courage to write this. clutching my shovel real close tonight ♥️
synopsis:
You are Bucky’s most prized possession. Your mind, body, and soul were crafted by his own hands—he gave you life, and he could just as easily take it away. He never imagined he’d feel threatened by his own creation, until the day you began to have desires of your own.
If you were to ask James Buchanan Barnes for the definition of ‘insanity,’ he would tell you “Insanity is a severely disordered state of the mind.”
If you were to ask him what the cause of insanity is, he would say “It’s triggered by a combination of many things. For example, if one becomes too fascinated—too fixated—on something to the point that it takes a toll on their mental health. It can shift their reality and potentially drive themselves to the very brink. It is a common denominator, I’ve noticed.”
If you were to ask him if insanity was correlated with craziness in any way, he would reply with “That’s exactly what it is.”
If you were to ask James Buchanan Barnes if he was crazy, he would say no.
Bucky never thought he was crazy—as a matter of fact, he was far from it.
From the day he found your corpse and brought you back to life through grueling experimentation, to the long months he kept you tucked away in the shadows of the hospital’s hidden basement laboratory—up until now, as he stood before you with a tray of cold hospital food in his hands.
No, he never thought he was crazy. Not then, and certainly not now.
“Darling? Daddy’s here,” Bucky murmured, knocking gently on the door.
He pressed his ear to the wood, waiting for a sound—that soft, gentle “come in!” he had taught you to say every time he arrived.
There was no sound.
Bucky smiled softly. He figured you were just asleep.
After looking around to ensure the coast was clear, as it always was, he pushed the door open quietly. As it shut softly behind him, a relieved breath escaped his lips at the sight of you.
There you were, lying on the cot on your side with your hands tucked beneath your cheek—sound asleep.
He couldn’t help his smile as he set the tray of food down on the table next to you. He sat at the edge of the cot, running his hand up and down your arm in a hauntingly slow motion. “I brought you dinner,” he whispered.
You only let out a sleepy moan. Bucky ran his hand down your hair, pushing it behind your ear. He frowned at how it felt beneath his fingertips. He had just brushed it this morning, and yet it was already a knotted, tangled mess.
“Come on, baby. Wake up. Your food’s not getting any warmer.”
He nudged you gently, but you still didn’t wake. He was beginning to grow impatient.
“Open your eyes for me,” he commanded, kneeling down as his voice rose.
When you still didn’t stir, his jaw clenched. Both hands found your shoulders, shaking you hard as he yelled in your face, “I told you to wake up!”
You jolted awake with a startled gasp, your eyes hazy with sleep as you stared back at the man in front of you. His grip on your shoulders was so tight it hurt.
He had yelled at you—what had you done wrong? Did you misplace something? Or was it simply because you had slept in?
Your master’s chest was heaving as he glared at you with wide, crazed eyes.
After finally getting your attention, Bucky’s breathing calmed slightly. Your eyes were wide with fear and your body was shaking, curling in on itself as if trying to make yourself as small as possible.
Your eyes—sunken, swollen, and bruised from his experiments a few days ago—were still prominent, and the sight of them made him feel even worse.
Slowly, he let go of your shoulders. “I… fuck,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair as he sat back on his heels. “I’m sorry, doll. I got ahead of myself.”
Your shoulders eased slightly, though not entirely.
“I just had a bad day,” Bucky went on with a sigh. “These idiots at the facility… they’re working me like a dog. They have me running all these labs, all these data sheets…” He rubbed the crease between his brows. “I’m just so tired. And all I wanted was for you to be waiting at the door to greet me.”
You felt your heart thump in your chest. You had to react carefully—otherwise, Bucky’s mood would only sour further.
“I’m sorry,” you said, pulling yourself off the short cot to meet him on the floor with a hug.
Your arms wrapped around his neck, your chest pressed against his. Bucky let out a sigh, his eyes fluttering closed in satisfaction as his large arms wrapped around you. His hands splayed across your back, pulling you in even closer as his nose nuzzled the side of your head, breathing in your scent.
Rubbing alcohol, acetonitrile, and just a slight hint of lavender. His favorite.
“That’s it,” Bucky cooed into your ear. “You can be so forgetful, but at the end of the day, you always know how to make Daddy happy.”
He pulled away slightly to look you in the face. “Look at you, your hair’s a mess.” His frown deepened again as he tucked the stray hairs away from your eyes. “What did you do all day while I was gone?”
“I’ve been reading—or… trying to read the papers you told me to read.”
Bucky smiled, reaching for the hairbrush on your bedside table. His hands found your hair, dragging the bristles through the tangled heap.
“You mean the books?”
You nodded.
He sighed wistfully. “I wish I could hear you read them out loud to me, but I haven’t had much time these days.”
“I know,” you said, sounding a little more solemn than you’d like.
Bucky heard the disappointment in your voice, and his heart broke. “Turn around for me.”
Still sitting on the floor, you scrambled around until your back faced him. His hand bunched your hair from behind as he did his best to fix the mess you created.
“Tell me more,” he prompted, encouraging you to continue.
“The words make my head hurt,” you explained, staring at the floor. “It’s all just… a jumbled mess of text. I don’t even know what half the words mean.” Your finger traced the cold, laboratory tile. “My head has been hurting a lot, and the books just make me feel worse.”
Bucky’s brush went still for a moment.
Every time the headaches came, you would start pulling and tugging at your hair, crying in frustration. You would roll around on the cot, hit your head against the wall, or yank at your own locks—anything to rid yourself of the pain. But you didn’t know that those things only made it worse. All you knew was to hurt the things that hurt you.
“Sorry, darling,” he said gently. “I need to operate on your brain to help fix this problem. Maybe this next experiment will help you remember words better—help you gain some of that reading memory back. I’ll find the time for it, I promise. I’ve just been so—”
“—busy,” you completed the sentence for him, a bitter bite in your tone. “I know.”
He paused again, and it dragged out longer this time. “Excuse me?”
“I already heard how busy you were the first time,” you mumbled. “I don’t need to hear it again.”
Bucky’s eyebrow twitched. He couldn’t believe this was happening. You were talking back to him?
He grabbed your shoulders, roughly spinning you around and making you yelp as you were forced to face him again. Before you could compose yourself, he pressed his face against yours, his hands cupping your cheeks with a hard squeeze.
“Where the fuck did this new attitude come from? Who the hell do you think you’re talking to, huh?” he seethed. “Did you forget your place? Did you forget who brought you here? Who took your sad, cold body from the grave and gave you a new life?”
You winced as he squeezed your face even harder.
“I gave you life. I made your heart beat again. I gave your brain a mind and your body a purpose. And if you disrespect me one more time, I can take it all away just as easily.”
That tone of his made your heart start to race. It was like a trauma response buried deep in your nerves he had rewired. Your vision started to blur as tears began to well up, spilling down your face before you even realized you were crying.
“I’m sorry,” you gasped, the words tumbling over each other. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it! I—I’m sorry, Bucky.”
You were apologizing profusely now, your hands hovering near his, not daring to touch him. You just wanted the pressure on your face to stop.
Bucky’s expression softened, just barely. He loosened his grip, his thumb brushing over your cheeks to wipe away the tears. He let out a long, weary sigh—the sound of a man burdened by… whatever it was you were to him.
He set the brush on the floor and pulled you back into his chest, hugging you once more.
“I’m sorry, doll,” he murmured into your hair. “I’m so sorry I had to do that. I hate when I have to talk to you like that, I really do.” He squeezed you tighter, his chin resting on the top of your head. “But I have to make sure you understand. How else am I supposed to get through to you? You know I only do it because I love you. I can’t have you forgetting who takes care of you.”
You stayed frozen in his arms, hiccuping between sobs.
When Bucky pulled back slightly to look at you, the small gap made you whine. He smiled in satisfaction. Of course—despite everything, you still needed him.
“There’s my girl,” he whispered. “Come here. Give Daddy a kiss.”
You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, pushing yourself up from the floor just enough to press your lips to his in a soft, gentle kiss. That was all you wanted, really—just a kind gesture to remind you that Bucky cared for you as much as he claimed.
But then his hands found your face again, locking you in place before you could pull away. His lips began to explore yours hungrily. He pushed his tongue against the entrance, sliding in to dance against yours.
A moan of satisfaction vibrated in his throat, then to his lips where you felt it.
He always kissed you like he was starving. He kissed you until your lips were swollen and wet, until you were panting and your heart was racing. When he was finally satisfied, he pulled away, catching his own breath as he trailed his thumbs over your bottom lip.
“Beautiful,” he praised breathlessly. “Absolutely beautiful.”
Despite how he had treated you just seconds ago, you couldn’t help but smile. Being praised by him always made the pain worth it.
But your salvation didn’t last. Bucky pushed himself off the floor with a grunt. He extended a hand to help you up, but you remained where you were on the floor.
“W-where are you going?” you asked softly, staring up at him with wide, hopeful eyes.
He checked the watch on his wrist. “It’s getting late, doll. I need to head home and get some sleep. I’ve got a long day tomorrow—gotta be up bright and early for some projects at the facility.”
Your eyes widened. He had left you alone all day, and he was leaving already?
“No,” you protested weakly.
Bucky tilted his head. “No?”
You couldn’t imagine another night of silence. “Please,” you whispered with a voice crack. “Please don’t leave me yet. It’s so quiet and lonely here.”
Bucky’s hand paused halfway through his hair as he let out a sigh. He looked down at you, his eyes looking almost mournful. “You’re breaking my heart, darling,” he murmured. “You know I hate leaving you, but Daddy’s got to work. I do it all for you, remember?”
When he took a step away from you, that’s when panic started to flare in your weak heart and desperation took over completely.
You scrambled across the tile, your fingers digging around the fabric of his trousers as you clutched his leg.
“Don’t go!” you begged, looking up at him through another round of tears. “I’ll be good. I’ll read the books. I’ll do the experiments without crying—just stay. Please, just stay a little longer!”
Bucky froze, eyes widened in surprise. He looked down at your hands wrapped around his leg. A part of him wanted to laugh at this little attempt of yours. You were a just a weak, fragile thing. He could push you off and leave—it’d be so easy.
But instead of doing that, he just stayed put and smiled. He liked this. He liked the way you were anchored to his feet, reduced to a trembling mess at the mere thought of his absence.
Slowly, he sank back down to his knees until he was eye level with you again.
“You really don’t want me to go, do you?” he mused with a taunting purr. He reached out, tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to look at the hunger in his eyes. “You want me to stay here with you? In this cold, dark basement? Keeping you warm?”
You nodded frantically, a sob catching in your throat.
“Tell me then,” he prompted, his thumb tracing your jaw. “How bad do you want it? What are you willing to do to keep me here tonight?”
“Anything,” you admitted desperately. “I’ll do anything.”
“Oh,” Bucky’s smile grew wide. “You shouldn’t have said that.”
You tried to keep a brave face, to hold your ground, but the relief was too great.
Bucky let out a short, amused huff as he reached down, hooking his hands under your arms to haul you up from the floor. “Okay, fine. You win.”
He stood back and reached for his neck, slowly loosening the knot of his tie. You watched, mesmerized and trembling, as he pulled the silk from his collar and draped it over the back of the lone chair in the room. His fingers moved to the top button of his white shirt, then the next, and the next, until they were all unbuttoned.
Then he moved to his belt. The sounds of it making you shiver.
“I’ll stay with you,” he promised, his tone as sweet as honey—designed to make you feel safe, even when you shouldn’t.
He folded the leather belt slowly. Painfully slow, his eyes never leaving yours.
“And before I head to the facility, I’ll do a quick experiment on you tomorrow. We’ll fix those headaches and get your reading memory back on track, okay?”
With one hand still gripping the belt, he stepped closer. His free hand cupped your face, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
“Think of it as my way of apologizing for my little outburst earlier,” he murmured against your skin. “I just want you to be perfect. I want you to be happy.”
He wasn’t leaving.
He was going to fix you.
You leaned into his touch as a small, fragile smile broke across your face. The tears you had shed before were no longer born of frustration—they were tears of relief.
“I love you, Bucky,” you whispered.
Bucky’s hand settled behind your head, rubbing gently to soothe you—the way a master might pet a loyal dog. He nodded towards the small cot in the corner.
“Lay down, doll.”
The light in the basement was always the same—artificial and blinding through the fluorescent tubes. After several blinks, you managed to force your eyes open against the piercing white light.
You let out a garbled groan. Your limbs felt extremely heavy, as if you were trying to move through deep water.
“Easy, doll. Easy.”
A deep, gentle voice cooed nearby. The cot creaked slightly as he sat beside you. As your vision cleared, you saw Bucky. He was already back in his professional attire—white sleeves rolled up his strong forearms. The room already smelled like he had his morning coffee.
He looked refreshed, while you felt like you had been disassembled and put back together again.
Which… in a way, you had.
Your fingers drifted up to the pain that throbbed in the back of your neck. You shuddered at the feel of the surgical tape and the fresh incision.
“The experiment went perfectly,” he said gently, his fingers replacing yours to check the bandage. “Your reading should be much sharper once the grogginess fades.”
You couldn’t even find the energy to be upset about him drugging you in the middle of the night—even if you should have spent those hours cuddling instead. The only thing that mattered was that he actually stayed.
“You’re still here,” you rasped, your throat scratchy and dry. A weak, hazy smile pulled at your lips.
Bucky smiled. He reached for a glass of water on the tray, holding it to your lips so you didn’t have to lift your head.
“I told you I would stay, didn’t I? I’m a man of my word.” He watched you drink, smiling as your dried lips softened from the liquid and the delicate column of your throat bobbed as you swallowed. “I even stayed through the morning to monitor your vitals. I’m going to be a little late to the facility, but for you? My baby? It’s all worth it.”
You leaned your head against his leg with a soft, content sigh. “Thank you for staying with me.”
“Always,” he whispered back, his thumb tracing over your cheek. “I have to go now—but when I’m gone, I want you to go back to reading your books.”
Disappointment settled in your chest, but the chemically induced state you were in made it too straining to fight back.
“I’ll be back soon with your breakfast.”
You didn’t care about food. All you cared about was Bucky. He was your true sustenance.
“How long?” you rasped, blinking up at him.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Alright?”
He leaned down to press a kiss to your temple. The cot creaked again as he stood up, and the sudden loss of his warmth made your heart clench painfully—more painful than the throb in your head.
“I love you, baby,” Bucky said, grabbing his blazer from the chair and heading for the door. “Be a good girl while I’m gone, okay?”
You nodded, and he offered a handsome smile. Then, he pulled the door open and shut it softly. The click of the lock on the other side finalized his goodbye, leaving you alone once again.
Bucky walked quickly from the hospital’s sub-level entrance, hurrying across the grounds toward the main facility. He looked like any other dedicated researcher running late for a briefing, but every time he left you, his mind remained back in the basement.
His mind was always on you.
His fingers fumbled with the middle button of his blazer as he forced his breathing to level out. He couldn’t afford to look ruffled. He turned a sharp corner near the east wing, head down as he adjusted his cuffs, and bumped squarely into another man.
“Woah, easy there, Buck.”
Bucky didn’t need to look up to recognize the voice.
“Steve,” Bucky exhaled, finishing the last button on his blazer with a tug. “Didn’t see you there. You’re up early.”
Steve’s gaze focused on the dark circles under Bucky’s eyes. “The shift change was a while ago,” Steve explained quietly. “I tried to page your office, but you weren’t there.”
Bucky waved a hand dismissively, stepping around Steve to keep moving towards his designated workstation. “Dead battery. I stayed late last night—lost track of time in the mounting data sheets—”
Steve extended his hand, landing on Bucky’s shoulder and forcing him to halt.
“You smell like…” Steve scrunched his nose. “Rubbing alcohol? Acetonitrile? That’s some heavy duty solvent for someone just looking at paperwork.”
Bucky’s heart let out a traitorous little thump. He gave Steve a deadpan look. “It’s a research hospital, Steve. What else am I supposed to smell like?”
Steve let go, but the look he gave his friend was anything but convinced. “You look exhausted. You’ve been spending every spare second in the south wing,” he sighed. “You’re my friend—and I worry about you, is all.”
Bucky averted his gaze. He didn’t have time for small talk. He had to review the latest labs and then fetch your breakfast. The longer he stayed out here, the longer you went hungry. Especially after the surgery, you needed to eat to recover properly.
“If there’s anything I can do to help loosen your load, even just a little bit, you know I’m always here.” Steve stepped closer, his voice lowering. “‘Till the end of the line, right?”
Bucky clenched his jaw. “Thanks, Steve. But I don’t need your help. I’m perfectly fine working alone,” he said, moving past him. Without looking back, he added, “I’ll let you know if my projects call for additional assistance.”
A few hours had passed, and ever since that interaction, it felt as though the universe had cursed Bucky with a jinx.
It was supposed to be a brief meeting—a few papers to peer review, perhaps a few charts to sign off on.
Christ, you were probably starving.
He could already picture it—your stomach curling in on itself, groaning and painful. He imagined your fragile arms wrapped around your belly as you cried in hunger. With the desperation that hunger brought, you might be clawing at your own skin. And since your body wasn’t being supplied with the nutrients it needed to recover, the post surgery throbbing in your head must be unbearable.
You could be pulling your hair or banging your head against the wall at this very second—and he wasn’t there to stop you.
He stared at the man sitting across from him. His boss’s frames kept slipping down his nose. His hair had more grease than the fast food joints across the street. His grimy hands shifted through the pages slowly. Painfully slow.
Bucky sat rigid, his foot tapping impatiently against the floor. He couldn’t dismiss himself—this was his superior, for fuck’s sake. But the longer he sat there, restless and useless, the more his mind spiraled.
His eyes flickered from his boss, to the clock, to the door.
“Is something bothering you, Barnes?”
Bucky swallowed hard. “Just… need to use the restroom.”
The man’s eyes rose sluggishly to meet Bucky’s. He paused—a silence long enough for Bucky to have gone and returned already. “Make it quick.”
Bucky pushed himself out of the chair, the legs let out a loud creak. He lunged for the door. He thought about sprinting to the canteen to fetch you something, but it was all the way across the facility. He didn’t have the time.
“Fuck, fuck!” Bucky hissed to himself, pacing the hall just outside the office.
The sound of approaching footsteps echoed nearby. Then, salvation appeared.
“Bucky? You doing alright?” Steve asked, glancing up from his papers to find his friend in visible distress.
Bucky froze, his breath getting stuck in his throat. Steve. The very man who had been with him through everything. Before he even came to the facility. Before he even made you. Steve was the one person he could trust with his life.
So why not trust him with yours? Just for the time being?
“Steve,” Bucky started with a frantic voice. The words tumbled out in a breathless ramble. “I need—I need your help. I’m stuck in a meeting with that grease trap Henderson, and she’s starving. She hasn’t eaten before the procedure and I can’t leave, but if she doesn’t get nutrients now, the rejection levels will spike and I’ll lose all progress—”
Steve blinked, his brows furrowing in confusion. “Wait, what?” He shook his head. “Who are you talking about? What procedure?”
Bucky stepped closer, grabbing Steve’s forearm with a grip so tight, it made him grunt.
“The south wing, sub-levels. Level four. I have her there, Steve. A woman—” Bucky glanced over his friend’s shoulder, making sure the coast was clear before continuing. “I’ve been… helping her, fixing her. But I have her locked in for her own safety, and I can’t get to the canteen and back without Henderson noticing I’m gone.”
Steve looked at Bucky as if he were seeing a stranger instead of a friend. “Locked in? Bucky, what the hell are you talking about? There are no active patients registered in the sub-levels. If you found someone who needs medical attention, we need to report this to the board immediately—”
“No!” Bucky hissed, eyes wide and wild. “No reports, and absolutely no boards. They’ll take her away, Steve. Please. I need you to help me. You said ‘till the end of the line’, didn’t you?”
Steve stood there, frozen with the papers in his hands.
“A woman,” Steve repeated quietly. “In the basement.”
“She’s my everything,” Bucky pleaded with a vulnerability that Steve has never seen before. “Just get a tray. High protein—soft foods. Use your clearance to bypass the canteen line. She’ll try to talk to you—but don’t entertain her. Just… give her her food, make sure she didn’t hurt herself while I was gone, and then leave quietly, okay?”
Steve let out a long breath.
He looked around the hall, checking for witnesses, before turning back to Bucky with a grim, reluctant nod.
“Fine,” Steve whispered. “I’ll get the food. But Bucky… we are talking about this the second you get out of that meeting. All of it.”
“Thank you,” Bucky exhaled, a sob of relief nearly escaping him.
He quickly shoved the keys to your room in Steve’s hand.
“Thank you, Steve. I knew I could trust you.”
It had been hours since Bucky left. You were curled on the edge of the cot, arms wrapped tightly around your growling stomach, trying to breathe through the nausea of starvation.
The grumbling was unbearable. You couldn’t have slept the hunger away even if you wanted to. It felt as though your stomach were eating itself from the inside out. Had Bucky forgotten you? He had broken his promise—but he said he was a man of his word. So where was he?
The sound of keys and the lock being undone sounded like music. Your heart gave a hopeful leap. Bucky always knocked—three soft, gentle taps that signaled he was coming to take care of you.
Unless you were asleep, he always waited for you to call out “come in!” to let him know you were ready to be his good girl again.
But this time, there was only silence before the door creaked open.
You didn’t care about the lack of a knock. You were too desperate, too hungry, and too lonely. You scrambled off the cot, your legs feeling like jelly as you rushed towards the door.
“Bucky! You’re back, I—”
You stopped.
The man standing in the doorway wasn’t Bucky. But he was as tall as Bucky, dressed in a white button up similar to Bucky’s, but it wasn’t him. He held a tray of food, but the stranger’s presence made you too terrified to reach for it.
Your breath hitched, a panicked wheeze leaving your lips as you scrambled backwards. Your heels dragged against the tile floor until your back hit the corner of the wall.
“Who are you!” you gasped, your bandaged hands coming up to shield your face. “Who are you? Where is he? Where’s Bucky?”
The man froze, his blue eyes widening in horror as he took in the sight of you—the surgical tape on your neck, the oversized gown, and the way you were cowering like a wounded animal.
Steve knew he shouldn’t speak to you, that had been Bucky's direct order. But he couldn’t fight his own instincts.
“Hey, hey… easy,” Steve cooed. He stayed by the door, slowly lowering the tray to a nearby table to show his hands were empty. “I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.”
Despite the man’s kind and gentle tone, you couldn’t help the panic flaring in your heart.
“You shouldn’t be here,” you sobbed, pressing yourself harder into the corner. “He said… he said I’m not supposed to see anyone. He’s going to be so angry.”
“Bucky sent me,” Steve explained softly, taking a cautious step. “My name is Steve. I’m Bucky’s friend. He’s stuck in a meeting and he was worried about you. He told me you needed to eat.”
You sniffled. “… Worried about me?”
He reached for a piece of bread from the tray and held it out toward you, not moving any closer. “I know you’re scared. And I know you’re hurting. But you need to eat, okay? Then I’ll be on my way.”
You swallowed hard, glancing at the bread. He had spoken you so kindly, so soft and gentle, and to you, that felt like salvation in this lonely and cold room. Even if it wasn’t Bucky.
You took a hesitant step forward while Steve stayed still. He didn’t move until you approached him, treating you as if you were a stray cat. You grabbed the loaf with trembling hands, gave him a wary look, and he smiled.
“Not poisoned. Trust me.”
He tried to joke, but you didn’t laugh.
After a few seconds, you bit into the bread, letting the taste linger on your tongue.
Then, you started scarfing it down like a rabid animal.
Steve stood there, staring at you dumbfound as you ate. Without looking at him, you began to ravish everything else on the tray with your bare hands. He could only stumble back and watch in horror.
As you were occupied with the food, he took a mental note of your state. Your legs were marked with rows of stitches. Your skin was tainted with burn marks and various scars. You had bandages wrapped around your hands, wrists, ankles, and neck. Bruises decorated your body.
You looked exactly like a woman who had been plucked from the grave and brought back to life, but you were hardly living.
It didn’t take long for you to finish. When you finally looked up, you stared at Steve, waiting for him to disappear back through the door.
“I know I said I’d be on my way after you ate,” Steve explained slowly. “But Bucky also wanted me to check on your…”
He paused. He didn’t know what Bucky wanted him to check on exactly, but looking at you, it seemed as though everything needed to be checked. For now, he pointed to the freshly wrapped bandage around your neck.
“He just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
When you didn’t respond, he took it as a sign to step closer. You scrambled back immediately, and his gaze softened.
“I know this is scary for you. You haven’t seen or spoken to anyone besides Bucky, isn’t that right?”
You stayed silent.
“Have you ever been outside this room?”
Your eyes flickered to the door, then back to Steve. You slowly shook your head no.
“Well, the outside world is beautiful,” he began, speaking in a gentle tone. “There are lots of trees, flowers… animals. Like squirrels. You’d like the squirrels, they’re just like you—always scurrying around, especially in the courtyards.”
With each word, he moved closer.
Mentally, Steve was cursing himself.
He was a man of honor, yet he was currently violating his best friend’s trust while feeding a captive woman—Bucky’s woman—empty promises he wasn’t sure he could keep. He was falling back on his own medical training, using the standard practices he’d honed over years of patient care, hoping the routine would calm you as it did his other patients.
“Maybe Bucky will let you see it for yourself one day,” he lied. “But right now, your body is in no state for it. You’re fragile.”
He was close enough now to see the faint blossoming of blood staining your bandages.
“That’s why I’m here—to check on you,” he said, reaching out a hand slowly, palm up. “I just want to see how the stitches are holding up. If Bucky’s friend helps you, you’ll get stronger faster. And the stronger you get, the sooner you can go outside. Doesn’t that sound nice?”
You hesitated, your back still pressed against the cold wall.
“Bucky wouldn’t want you to touch me,” you admitted softly. “He always calls me his perfect girl—his good girl. He likes that I’m untainted and untouched by anyone else.”
Steve paused, his eyes widening slightly.
Ah. There it was.
That was how he could get through to you.
Against his better judgment and his friend’s wishes, he brought his hand up to your cheek. It was a gentle, steady touch—the kind of contact you had been waiting for all day.
“Just a quick look,” Steve whispered. “Just so I can tell Bucky you were being a perfect, good girl for him.”
You shuddered under his touch, your eyes closing slowly as you leaned into his palm.
That was all you wanted—to be Bucky’s good girl.
“Okay,” you nodded. “You can check me.”
You reached for the hem of your oversized gown and lifted it, baring yourself to Steve.
To you, this was simply the natural sequence of events. There was no shame in your movements, only the ingrained memory of how your sessions with Bucky always concluded.
The check up was just a prelude. The intimate inspection that followed was the reward.
Steve’s breath hitched, his face turning a bright shade of red when he realized what you were doing.
“No! No, no, no. You don’t have to do that!” he stammered, wrenching his head away. “I just… I just need to see the bandages. Just the neck and wrists. Keep—keep your clothes on, please.”
He was trying so hard to be a gentleman, his movements jerky and awkward.
“Bucky always tells me to undress so he can check me properly,” you said softly.
That concerned Steve. He let out a sigh. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen naked patients before, but this was different. He told himself all he had to do was check your stitches and leave. Quickly.
“Fine,” Steve rasped. His eyes tried his best to stay focused on your neck—not the curve of your breasts or hips, or the innocence of your bare slit between your thighs.
He stepped closer and his fingers traced the stitches of your neck.
His eyes met yours briefly, and his heart raced.
You had such a hazy, expectant look in your eyes.
“Okay,” Steve choked out, his voice cracking as he stepped back to put a safe distance between you. “I’m done. The stitches look... they look clean. I’m going to go now.”
As he turned to grab the empty tray, you moved.
You cupped his face the way Bucky always did with yours and pressed your lips against his.
Steve froze, his eyes nearly bulging out of his skull. His hands found your shoulders, giving you gentle shove that forced you back onto the edge of the cot with a yelp.
“No,” he panted, his chest heaving as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “No, we can’t—I’m his friend, I’m not... why did you do that?”
You tilted your head, your brows furrowing in confusion.
“Because the check up isn’t finished,” you explained softly, your voice small and defensive. “Bucky says the examination isn’t over until he’s had his fill. He says that’s how I show him I'm getting better.”
“His fill?” Steve looked concerned.
“He says it’s part of the treatment,” you added, leaning forward slightly, searching Steve's face for the approval you were used to receiving. “Don’t you want to see if I’m better, Steve? Don’t you want your fill?”
The air left Steve's lungs.
His eyes traced down your body shamelessly this time—but not for the reason you expected. He took note of the faint bruises around your waist and thighs, and he felt sick.
Quickly, he crouched until he was eye level with you from where you were sitting on the cot. He clutched your shoulders, and you winced.
“Tell me,” Steve urged. “What is Bucky doing to you? Why are you in this state? How long have you been here?”
“I—I don’t—”
“Did he rape you?”
Steve expected a reaction—the typical trauma response to a word that heavy. Most victims would never confess it outright, but he could make out the answer from your reaction if you gave him one.
But all you did was blink at him as if he were speaking a foreign tongue.
“What does that mean?”
Steve didn’t know what to say. He let out a breath of exasperation and stood up. He couldn’t help you now, not with the risk of Bucky’s meeting ending at any moment.
“I have to go, but I’ll be back, okay? I’ll be back to get you the professional help you need.” Steve grabbed the tray and hurried to the door, his hand trembling on the handle. “Don’t tell Bucky what I told you. Please.”
The door shut quickly as he left.
But the lock didn’t click.
The hours following Steve’s departure were the longest of your life. You tried to do as Bucky asked—to sit on your cot and lose yourself in the pages of your books—but you couldn’t retain anything.
Your mind kept drifting back to Steve.
You liked the way he touched your cheek. He spoke of squirrels and trees and a world that Bucky never mentioned. Your gaze drifted to the door, and for the first time, it didn’t look like a shield protecting you from the world—as Bucky liked to call it.
It looked like an obstacle.
You knew you needed to stay put and wait for Bucky, but you couldn’t. You stood up and pushed through the door, moving carefully and slowly.
The hallway was bright, and as you wandered out, your bare feet felt freezing against the tiles. You didn’t know where the trees were, but you followed the hall, hoping it would lead to the courtyard Steve had mentioned.
You could already imagine it—running through the grass with Bucky, chasing the squirrels. A smile ghosted over your lips despite the tremor in your heart.
Then, a shadow fell over you.
“Going somewhere?”
You spun around at the familiar voice, a smile on your face so wide it made your cheeks hurt. “Bucky! You’re back! I was looking for the courtyard, I—”
The smile died the moment you saw his face. Bucky wasn’t happy. He had that scowl, the look you recognized whenever he was displeased, except now it was multiplied tenfold. His gaze was harsh enough to kill, and you could only imagine what he would do to you next.
His hand clamped around your upper arm, forcing you to cry out.
“Bucky, you’re hurting me!”
He hauled you back, dragging you down the hall towards where you had come from. He was breathing like an animal, his eyes darting around crazily to ensure the corridors remained empty—no witnesses.
He threw you back into the basement room, the door slamming shut as he locked it from the inside. He approached you as you collapsed onto the cot.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he hissed in your face, his hands tugging at his hair in frustration. “What’s this talk about a courtyard? What was the plan, huh? To just walk out? To show everyone in this facility what I’ve been doing?”
“I just wanted to see—”
“After everything I’ve done for you!” Bucky roared, lunging to grab your shoulders and shaking you once, hard. “I saved you! I rebuilt you! I spent every cent, every hour, every ounce of my goddamn soul making sure you were perfect. And you’re choosing to run? You’re choosing to escape me?”
“No, Bucky, I—”
“You’re ungrateful!” He was spiraling, his eyes glazed with paranoia. “Someone saw you. Someone must have seen you. Who was it? Did you talk to someone? Was it the security feeds? I’ll have to wipe them. I’ll have to start over.”
You flinched at his cruel words. The pain in your arm was unbearable, but his accusations hurt more.
“No one saw me—”
“You can’t be certain!” he screamed in your face.
When he saw the tears welling in your eyes, he backed off slightly. His heart was beating furiously, and he didn’t foresee his temper cooling anytime soon. He let out a heavy sigh, releasing your shoulders. He couldn’t believe Steve had forgotten to lock the door—and now, he had filled your head with stupid ideas of going outside.
“I have to operate on you again,” Bucky said, walking to his desk. He removed his blazer and began rolling up his sleeves. “It’s a shame, really. I didn’t anticipate working on you so soon after your recent experiment.” He reached for the gloves, jerking them on. “I should even lower the dosage of the drugs, just so you could feel just an ounce of the pain I felt when I found you in the hallway.”
He glanced at you quickly before looking back at his tools.
“You did this to yourself, darling.”
You quickly scrambled off the cot, rushing to him and wrapping your arms around his waist from behind. “Please! I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to disobey you, I swear! I—”
“I’ve been gentle with you,” Bucky said, his voice flat as he reached for a needle on the tray. He didn't even turn to look at you. “Maybe even too gentle.”
You held onto him tighter, burying your face into the expanse of his back as the fabric of his shirt dampened with your tears.
“Please, Bucky, please!” you sobbed. “I missed you so much. I was being so good all day. I read the books, just like you told me. I didn’t hurt myself. But it was so cold and so lonely.. and—and you were gone for so long. I just needed you. I just wanted to find you.”
Bucky didn’t move.
The hand reaching for the syringe hovered in the air, his fingers twitching. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your crying. He looked down at the needle, then slowly, he pulled his hand back.
“You broke my heart,” he whispered. “You think your fruitless words mean anything to me now? After I found you wandering those halls like I meant nothing to you?”
“I didn’t—”
“Actions speak louder,” he snapped, still facing away. “What will you do to make up to me?”
“Anything,” you sobbed against his shirt. “Anything, Bucky. Just don’t hurt me. Don’t operate on me—please. I’ll do anything.”
Bucky stared at the wall, then at the needle, as if contemplating. Without turning around, his hands moved to his waist, the belt buckle echoing in the room as he undid the lather strap with slow movements.
“Put your hands over the bed,” he commanded. “Bend over.”
Your breath hitched in anticipation. You wasted no time rushing to the cot, placing your hands over the edge and bending over—exactly as instructed.
Your heart fought in your chest as you heard Bucky’s footsteps approach from behind. You heard the clinking of the belt in his hands, and then the air hit your skin as he lifted your gown, baring your bottom to his gaze.
The cold leather of his belt dragged slowly across your skin, and you shuddered, bracing yourself.
“Are you scared?” he murmured from behind you.
“Yes,” you whispered, your voice trembling so much it was barely heard. “Yes, Bucky. I’m scared.”
He leaned in closer, his chest brushing your back. You could feel the warmth, the scent of his cologne. When he spoke again, his voice was a low rasp against your ear.
“Good,” he breathed. “Fear is the beginning of wisdom, darling. It means you’re finally remembering who I am to you. It means you’re remembering that the world outside is just a fantasy, and this—this room, this bed, and my hand on you—is the only reality you have.”
He paused, the leather belt going still against your thigh.
“I didn’t want to do this,” he lied, smooth and deceptive. “But you forced my hand. I have to drive those silly thoughts out of your head before they ruin you completely. Before they ruin us.”
The belt lifted away from your skin, then came down hard with a whack against your bottom, jolting you and making you yelp.
“You’re so confused now, aren’t you, darling? I have a friend—my best friend come feed you, and suddenly you think you’re free to wander about? He was a fool. And so are you.”
Another whack.
“Ow!”
“It’s disappointing, really. I thought we were further along, doll. I thought you understood that you’re far too fragile for the sun. You’d wither like a flower, my perfect girl.”
Then another, and you let out a soft and shaky moan that was more breath than sound.
He leaned over you, the belt resting lightly against the back of your thighs as he watched the way your body reacted. He was being mean—his words were supposed to make you feel small, stupid, and utterly dependent—but to you, the condescension only felt like a caress.
With every smack, every word, you were arching your back and pressing yourself into him.
“Look at you,” he whispered, his hand reaching down to tickle the inner curve of your thigh. “I’m punishing you for being a bad, ungrateful girl, and yet..”
He paused, his fingers sinking lower and brushing against the wetness between your legs. It was slick, his middle finger gliding right through the folds. You gasped as he poked his finger against the entrance, and he could already feel you clench.
“You’re soaking wet for me,” he voiced in a way that sounded like disgust. “Even when I’m hurting you, you’re begging for me. Is this what you wanted when you walked out that door? To be caught and punished by your Daddy?”
Your face warmed with embarrassment. “No! I swear, I didn’t—”
Your words were replaced by a shameless moan when you felt Bucky’s finger slip into your entrance. He was only halfway in, yet he slid into you so easily. The way you stretched to accommodate his fingers was a testament to how much you needed him.
Bucky snarled against your ear. He was disappointed. He hated your denial—especially when your own body was betraying you, your hips rocking back to sink his finger deeper into your needy cunt.
But more than that, he hated how hard he was getting. He hated how much he wanted to rip his pants down and fuck you so hard that you’d be left crying and begging for his forgiveness.
“You could have it so easy if you just told me the truth,” he taunted. “But you like the struggle, don’t you? You like the attention—whether it’s good or bad. And you especially like it when Daddy’s being mean to you.”
He withdrew his finger slowly, the loss making you whine. His hands settled at your hips, he lifted you until you were standing on your tippy toes.
“Look at how you’re leaking for me,” he mocked, his eyes dark as he examined you. “A little attention from Steve, a little walk in the hall, and you come back to me looking like this. You’re like a little animal, aren’t you? So confused, so easily worked up by the first human who shows you a bit of kindness.”
Bucky grabbed your hands, wrenching them behind your back. He worked quickly, looping the leather belt around your wrists and cinching it tight.
You winced at the pressure as he restrained you, leaving you even more helpless than you were before.
“You’re right,” you whispered, face pressed against the cot. “I’m helpless. I can’t… I can’t function without you, Bucky. Please don’t leave me again. Hurt me. Kiss me. Just do anything so I don’t feel empty.”
Bucky hummed in approval.
He took a step back, and you heard the rustle of fabric and a zipper sliding down from behind. He didn’t utter a single word as he freed himself, but the sudden change in his breathing told you everything.
He began to stroke himself slowly. The sound was agonizing—that silky friction of his palm against his shaft, the shlick shlick noises of him spreading his pre-cum over and around his tip.
Every slide of his hand made you want to turn your head to look, to witness him in this state, but you knew better than to move.
You clenched your thighs together, your cunt pulsing as it reacted to the filthy noises. You were desperate to feel him, but you remained bound and helpless—exactly where he wanted you.
“Fuck,” he cursed, his breathing labored as he jerked himself off faster. “I should just finish right now. Let it all my cum drip to the floor—leave it there for you to stare at while I walk back out that door.”
His breathing grew even heavier. His movements quickening as he fucked his fist.
“But you’re so needy, aren’t you?” he whispered. “You wouldn’t let a single drop go to waste, would you, doll? You’d fall to your knees and lick it right off the tiles like my little pet, just to have a taste of me.”
You shuddered as his footsteps neared, flinching when his hand came up to cup your chin. He forced you to arch your back, making you strain to look up at him from over your shoulder.
“Is that what you are? My little pet?” He pressed the head of his cock against the curve of your ass, subtly rocking his hips forward. “My sweet girl that only functions when I’m inside her?”
“Bucky,” you breathed, squeezing your eyes shut. “Please. I can’t take this anymore.”
“Since you wanted to wander those halls so badly, I’m going to make sure you don’t have the strength to do it again. I’m going to fuck you so hard, doll, that you won’t be able to stand on those pretty legs for a week.”
One heavy hand landed on your hip, squeezing the flesh tight to hold you steady, while the other gripped his length, positioning himself at your entrance.
Then, surprisingly slow, he began to slide in.
The sensation was overwhelming. He was big—far too big. He knew you were fragile, and despite his harsh words, he didn’t want to truly break you just yet. That would ruin all the fun.
The stretch was slow and agonizing, yet perfect. You let out a broken sob, your fingers clawing at the thin mattress of the cot as your body was forced to accommodate him. He was thick, filling every inch of you, stretching you until you felt like you might break, yet your muscles tightened around him desperately—clinging to him like a hug that refused to let go.
“God,” Bucky hissed, his face twisting in both pain and pleasure. “So tight—even after last night…”
He kept pushing until he was completely sheathed inside, his dark curls tickling the curve of your ass when his pelvis finally met your bottom. He stilled there, his chest rising and falling as he waited for your body to accommodate him.
You could feel every ridge, every pulse inside, and in that moment, you wanted to cry.
You were so happy. Moments like this made your heart feel too big for your chest—because, despite everything, you were becoming one with the man you loved so dearly.
“Look at you,” he groaned possessively. “Taking all of it. Built just to hold me. Designed to take every inch... even if it hurts.”
Bucky began to move, his hips rocking violently as he started fucking you like an animal starved—as if he had been starving for this even longer than you had.
His hips slapped vulgarly against yours, and your eyes widened at the sudden, cruel change of pace.
“Oh—my!”
The cot beneath you began to groan, the frame creaking and rattling against the floor and the wall with every thrust Bucky gave you.
He leaned forward until his chest was against your back, his hand reaching around to grip the belt binding your wrists, using it like a handle to wrench your arms higher and force your chest deeper into the flimsy mattress.
“One taste of my cock and you’ve already forgotten everything that fool Steve told you, haven’t you?”
His pace became erratic, using your body like a sex toy. You were cock drunk for him, you were being his perfect, restrained little pet, your face buried in the cot pathetically while he claimed every inch of your body.
“You’re so pathetic, sweetheart,” he whispered affectionately and cruel. “Completely helpless. You can’t even touch yourself while I do this to you. You have to just lie there and take whatever I decide to give you.”
He slammed into you again, his cock rubbing deliciously against your tight, wet walls as they squeezed him for dear life.
“Ah, fuck... maybe if you keep being a good girl, I’ll let you suck on it later. How does that sound, hm?”
You nodded desperately against the cot, and mewling was the only answer you could manage.
The mere idea of being allowed to serve him like that—to have him look at you with something other than disappointment—it was all enough to make your head spin.
Bucky laughed darkly, you could feel his stomach vibrating as he was pushed up against your back.
“That’s it,” he growled. “Good girl. Daddy loves you, baby.”
Tears of overwhelmed pleasure started to spill down your cheeks at his admission.
He loved you.
Those four words were enough to make you fall apart right then and there as his approval was far more intoxicating than the pain and pleasure.
“Really? I—I love you too! I love you so much!” you squealed. Your cunt clenched around his shaft—squeezing him tight as if your body could prove just how much you loved him back. “I love you so much, Bucky. I love you. I love you.”
Bucky drawled out a long, tortured groan at the feel of you squeezing him. Buried deep inside you, he could feel you trembling, your body wound so tight it was nearly unbearable.
“That’s it,” Bucky cooed, his pace losing its rhythm as he fucked into you harder—chasing that delicious, sweet release. “You’re never going to walk away again.”
He leaned down, his pressing against your sweaty shoulder as he poured his devotions into your ear.
“I love you. Do you hear me? I love you more than anything. I’m the only thing you need. Just me and my love. You’re never leaving me again, doll. You’re staying right here where you’re safe—where you’re mine.”
He was chanting it now, a litany of possession that made your eyes roll back as you started to see stars.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.
“Don’t you ever leave me,” he growled, his hand tightening on the belt and jerking your bound wrists one last time. “Tell me you’re staying! Tell me!”
You couldn’t hold back anymore. He was fucking you so thoroughly, telling you exactly how much you meant to him, and you were desperate to show him he was your entire world.
“I’m staying! I’m yours!” you sobbed before you cried out in a pleasure that was so hot—it made you dizzy. Clenching your legs together, your pussy pulsed and convulsed as you let the pleasure wash all over your body.
Your entire frame shook and trembled, but Bucky didn’t let up. Every shake and vibration from you was just a stroke to his own pleasure, and before long, he buried himself as deep as he could go, his cock painting your pussy with his cum.
It was hot. It was too much.
He stilled, remaining plunged inside as he fought for his breath. Silence consumed the room. Then, the sounds of his seed—spilling out of your abused pussy and onto the tile floors took over.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Like a clock.
Bucky shuddered against your neck, the heat of his breath tickling you. He stayed draped over you as he slowly began to press soft kisses to your cheek, then to the curve of your jaw.
“Good girl,” he murmured, his thumb tracing your bare lower back while you warmed his cock with your body.
“My good, sweet girl. You did so well for Daddy. You always do.”
The atmosphere of the following morning was nothing like the night before.
Bucky had stayed the night with you. Again.
You were tucked over his arm, your head resting against his shoulder as you traced idle, wandering patterns across his bare chest. He was snoring peacefully, a soft sound that filled the quiet room.
Your heart felt full as you stared up at him with wide, adoring eyes.
His chest rose and fell in perfect time with his breathing, and you snuggled closer to his side.
“I love you,” you murmured, your finger tracing the outline of his abs. “I love you so much.”
Bucky slowly blinked awake, his eyelashes fluttering before he finally looked down at you. His eyes were clouded with the hazy, peaceful fog of a deep sleep he rarely ever got to enjoy.
“Morning,” he rasped.
A small, tired smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he took you in, his eyes softening at your adoring expression. “My girl.”
He slid his arm further under your neck, hooking his hand around your shoulder to pull you in until you were pressed tight against his side. He tucked his chin over the top of your head, nuzzling into your hair with a contented groan.
“Stay right there,” he murmured, his eyes drifting shut again as he squeezed you against him. “Don’t move. Just let Daddy hold you for a minute.”
And so you did. You both lay there for a long time, soft and snuggled up in each other’s arms.
But the peace, the silence, and the comfort didn’t last long.
The door—the one Bucky always made sure to lock with such clinical precision—was suddenly eclipsed by a violent crash that you made flinch.
Bucky bolted up, his body going rigid as his eyes snapped wide to the door.
“Bucky?” you gasped in fear, clutching his side. “What… what is that?”
“Fuck! Fuck!” Bucky hissed, the panic in his voice only startling you more. He threw his arm across your chest—not in a cuddle, but as a barrier, pinning you firmly behind his large body—as if hiding you.
He turned his head to catch your eye, a look in his blue orbs that you’ve never seen before. “Don’t—don’t say anything, got it? Not even a single breath of a fucking word.”
The door was kicked open, and a blinding flood of tactical lights and shouting turned your once private sanctuary into a war zone.
“He’s here! Target identified! Get him off her!”
Men in dark tactical gear you had never seen before swarmed the room, taking over the space that had once belonged purely to you and Bucky.
Before you could even process the intrusion, several agents tackled the very man who had been protecting you. The cot creaked and groaned as he fought to stay by your side, but even his strength was useless against so many men.
“Get your hands off me! Get away from her!” he roared, his voice louder and more frantic than you had ever heard it. He was terrified. You had never seen him lose control like this.
“She’s mine! You have no right—she’s mine!”
Bucky was going insane, fighting and kicking against the restraints of the officers. Everything happened so fast as the room blurred into chaos.
All you could do was sit there on the edge of the mattress and sob, reaching out for him in a confused daze.
“Bucky—”
Before your fingers could even brush his back, Steve was already there.
He pulled you into his arms, tucking your head against his chest to shield your eyes from the sight of the agents pinning Bucky to the cold tile floor.
“Don’t look,” Steve cooed, using that same comforting tone from the very first day you met. He held you tightly, his hand cupping the back of your head as he rocked you slightly to still your trembling. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, sweetheart. You’re safe now. I promise... he’s never going to touch you again.”
The sound of metal cuffs clicked in the room, accompanied by Bucky’s screams of your name.
“Get your fucking hands off of her!” Bucky seethed from the floor, his face pinned hard against the tile by a set of gloved hands.
“You traitor!” he roared, the word tearing raw from his throat. “You fucking traitor!”
Steve tried his best to ignore his crying friend, clutching your body tighter against his. You began to sob, your fingers clawing at Steve’s arm to let you go—to go back to him.
As the agents hauled Bucky towards the door, his feet scuffed and slid violently against the tile floor.
He twisted his head back, his hair a sweaty mess as his face was twisted in a rage that terrified you. Yet, despite the fear, his eyes stayed locked on yours until the very last second, and you couldn’t bring yourself to look away.
“Don’t listen to a thing Steve tells you, baby!” Bucky screamed, fighting against the agents. “He doesn’t know you! He doesn’t love you like I do! He’s just trying to tear us apart—”
Even with a dozen people there to ‘protect’ you, guilt settled in your chest.
Was this all your fault?
Did this happen because you wandered the halls the other day? Because you had dared to talk to Steve?
“You belong to me—only me!” Bucky continued to roar, forcing you to listen to him instead of your useless train of thought. “Stop ignoring me—say something!”
All you could do was sniffle and sob, muttering broken apologies into Steve’s chest that Bucky couldn’t even hear over everything else that was going on.
“I’ll come back for you,” Bucky promised as they dragged him out. His voice rang through the cold hallways that had once been empty, but were now teeming with strangers. “I swear it—I’ll find you!”
Bucky and the men rounded the corner, and his shouts began to fade. The basement grew quieter. Much quieter.
Everything you’ve known and loved had been stripped away from you within seconds. What were you to do now? Who was going to take care of you? You wanted to hate Steve for doing this—but he said he was protecting you. But Bucky also promised you the same thing countless of times.
You didn’t know what was real—what was right or wrong, and you don’t think you ever will.
With the sudden and unexpected loss of his presence, your mind felt… lost. But deep in your gut, a feeling you tried so hard to suppress out of fear for betraying Bucky, you felt relief.
Steve let out a shaky breath, his shoulders finally dropping.
“He’s gone,” Steve whispered, his voice partnered with a guilt he couldn’t quite hide.
He sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as you.
“He’s gone, sweetheart. He’s never going to hurt you again.”
And for some reason, those very words only hurt you more.
The interrogation light shined directly into Bucky’s face, but he had grown so used to the glare that he no longer flinched.
Heavy cuffs bound his wrists, he only stared lifelessly at the metal biting into his skin. By now, the chains wrapped around his ankles felt as familiar as socks. His eyes were sunken into dark hollows, and his hair had grown out, lank and unkempt. You probably would have thought he looked ugly.
“James Barnes.” The man across from him sat down with a heavy huff.
His glasses were perched precariously on the bridge of his nose, and his pudgy fingers rifled through a thick stack of papers. With his greasy hair and impatient sighs, he looked exactly like Bucky’s previous boss, Henderson.
Bucky hated it.
The interrogator leaned back, watching the man across from him.
“The woman was dead before you found her,” the man began neutrally, his voice echoing off the sterile walls. “You robbed her grave, took her body, and performed several experiments on her—somehow managing to bring her back to life.”
Bucky stayed quiet.
“Where did you expect this experiment to go?” the man pressed, flipping a page in the file with a dismissive snap. “Would you have returned her to her family? To the friends she had before she passed?”
Bucky hadn’t blinked in three minutes, and hadn’t spoken for longer.
“What made you choose her, of all the other freshly buried bodies in that cemetery?”
Nothing. Not even a breath of a word.
“What was she to you?”
Bucky’s eyes remained hollow, his expression indifferent. He might as well already be dead.
“Did you love her?”
Bucky’s head tilted—just slightly.
Slowly, he lifted his eyes to meet the interrogator’s.
“More than anything,” Bucky replied.
He didn’t look away from the interrogator, but his mind was already miles outside the concrete walls of the facility.
Behind his hollow eyes, he was already calculating. He felt the metal around his wrists, but he didn’t feel trapped. He felt like a spring being pushed down, gathering all this tension until he inevitably snaps. He could see it clearly—the precise moment he would finally break free.
It had been years since has been held captive. Since everything was taken away from him.
He wondered what you were doing right now. Without him there to guide your schedule, were you lost?
He imagined you in a park somewhere. He pictured you chasing squirrels, or perhaps laying in the grass and staring at the sun until your eyes ached. Or maybe you were reading one of those books he used to leave by your bed. He hoped you were reading. It kept your mind active. The books were good for you.
He’d find you.
It wasn’t a question of if, only a matter of when. He’d knock on the door of your new home—three times. Then, like the perfect girl you always were for him, you’d reply with “come in!”
The interrogator cleared his throat, leaning in closer.
“James,” he called for him, bringing his attention back. “Would you classify yourself as ‘insane’?”
For the first time in years, Bucky’s lips quirked into a smile.
Insane?
What kind of question was that?
“No.”
anyway how writing this fic found me
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
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warnings: explicit sexual content, oral (m receiving), “happy ending,” praise kink, slight overstimulation, dirty talk (light), body worship
summary: after a long Memorial Day of giving back to vets through your massage studio sale, you convince Bucky to come in after hours—he’s been carrying tension like it’s second nature. what he doesn’t know is you have a very specific plan to help him let go… completely.
authors note: what started as a joke idea a quickly spiraled into this. contrary to what some people had to say in my inbox based off of a 20 word IDEA, this is between consenting adults, they are in an ESTABLISHED RELATIONSHIP, and bucky is not being assaulted in this. calm ur tits next time!
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You lock the front door with a soft click and breathe an exhale.
The streetlights outside your studio cast warm stripes across the frosted glass, the sign in the window flipped to CLOSED even though the air still hums with the day you’ve had—appointments stacked, voices low and grateful, hands shaken with a little too much intensity, eyes that got shiny when you told them, No, truly, it’s my pleasure. Happy Memorial Day. Take care of yourself.
Your back aches in that satisfying way you’ve learned to love, the kind that means you did good work. Your hands smell faintly of eucalyptus and unscented lotion and clean linens. A small pile of folded towels sits on the counter like proof of a mission completed.
You should be heading home.
Instead, you’re waiting.
You glance at the clock that shows 8:47 pm, then at your phone. No new messages. That doesn’t surprise you. Bucky is a man of few words when he’s wound too tight, and lately he’s been…wound.
He isn’t angry or distant, never with you. He’s just tense in the way you recognize in the set of his shoulders, the way he stands like he’s bracing for impact even when he’s in your kitchen, barefoot, reaching for a glass.
His hands will knead bread dough like he’s trying to crush the counter through it. He’ll roll his neck with a wince and pretend it’s nothing. He’ll fall asleep with his jaw clenched.
He’s always carried a lot. You just happen to have learned how to take some of it from him.
The bell above the door jingles softly as the lock turns from the outside—your special key, the one you gave him months ago with a grin and a, For emergencies and for when you miss me.
He steps in and closes the door behind him, and the whole room feels different immediately. Like the air rearranges itself around him.
Bucky shrugs out of his jacket, the movement stiff through his shoulders. His hair is a little damp, like he showered in a hurry. His hoodie hangs loose on him, but there’s no hiding the breadth of him, the weight of muscle under cotton.
His eyes land on you and soften, even with the exhaustion riding them.
“Hey,” he says, low.
“Hey,” you answer, and you can’t help the smile that comes. “You made it.”
He huffs like he’s not sure if that’s an accomplishment or an accusation. “Wouldn’t miss it. You said it was important.”
“It is,” you say, stepping closer. You reach for him, thumb brushing his wrist where it peeks from his sleeve. Even that small touch makes his shoulders dip a fraction, the tiniest surrender.
Your gaze flicks down instinctively—metal at his left, smooth and gleaming where the prosthetic disappears under fabric. You’ve touched every inch of him by now. You’ve memorized the places that feel different, the places he still flinches, the places he trusts you with completely.
“You’re tense,” you murmur.
“Yeah,” he admits, because lying to you is pointless. “Just… a lot.”
“I know.” You tilt your head toward the back hall. “After hours. Lights low. No appointments. No one’s gonna walk in.”
He watches you like he’s trying to figure out what you’re planning. “You gonna make me pay?” he asks, half-joking.
You step closer until your body is almost against his, and you let your voice drop. “You already did. You showed up.”
His throat bobs. “Baby.”
“Shoes off,” you order softly, and the word comes out like a kiss and a command all at once. “Come on.”
He does it without protest, because he knows you. Because he trusts you. He kicks off his boots by the bench, toes flexing against the floor. You catch the way he rolls his shoulders again, trying to loosen them and failing.
You lead him through the dim corridor to the treatment room. You kept it ready—fresh sheet on the table, towel folded just so, warmer turned on low. A small diffuser whispers peppermint into the air.
Bucky pauses in the doorway, looking at the table like it’s a battlefield and a sanctuary at the same time.
“You sure?” he asks quietly, and you know he doesn’t mean about the massage. He means about taking up space. About needing. About being the one cared for.
You cross the room and rest your hands on his chest through the hoodie, feeling his heartbeat under your palms. “I’m more than sure,” you tell him. “I want you on that table. I want you breathing like you can finally let go.”
His eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up. “You’re dangerous.”
You smile, slow. “Only for you.”
His lips twitch like he wants to smile back but his body’s too tired for it. Still, he nods.
“Strip down to your boxers,” you say. “Face down.”
His brows lift. “Bossy tonight.”
“Mm-hm.” You step back and let your eyes roam over him—appreciative, unhurried. “And you love it.”
He makes a quiet sound in his throat that’s half defeat, half agreement. He pulls his hoodie off, then the shirt beneath. Your gaze catches on the lines of him—broad chest, the faint scars you’ve traced with your tongue in gentler moments, the way his stomach tightens when he moves.
When he pushes his pants down, his muscles flex, and you watch the way his back works, the way tension sits like armor between his shoulder blades.
He climbs onto the table and settles face down, cheek turned to the side. His hair falls messily across his forehead. His boxers hug his hips, and your mouth goes a little dry.
You’re professional. Always.
But Bucky is your favorite kind of problem.
You wash your hands, warming oil between your palms, and approach him like you’re approaching something sacred.
“Tell me if anything hurts,” you remind him, even though you’ve said it a hundred times.
“Only thing that hurts is existing,” he murmurs into the face cradle.
You snort softly. “Dramatic.”
He hums, and it vibrates through the table into your fingertips when you rest your hands on his shoulders. You start there with firm, grounding pressure. Your thumbs find the knots like they’ve been waiting for you all day.
Bucky’s breath stutters on the first deep press.
“Oh,” he exhales, voice rough.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “There it is.”
You work slowly, methodically, palms gliding from shoulder to shoulder, down the length of his spine, back up again. You feel him resisting at first—muscles holding, refusing to soften—until you sink your fingers in and give him nowhere to hide.
He makes quiet sounds when you hit the worst of it. A low, involuntary noise that he tries to swallow down.
“Don’t,” you tell him gently.
He goes still. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t try to be quiet for me.” Your hands press into the bands of muscle beside his spine. “You don’t have to perform being okay in here.”
A beat. Then his shoulders shudder, the smallest tremor, like a laugh without humor.
“Yes, ma’am,” he breathes, and there’s something in it—obedience, affection, relief.
You lean closer, lips near his ear. “Good boy.”
The way his breath catches is immediate and unmistakable. Heat curls low in your belly, sharp and pleased.
You continue down his back, thumbs circling his lats, fingers digging into the tightness near his ribs. You drag your hands down over his hips, then back up, spreading oil like you’re painting him with calm.
His metal arm rests along his side, gleaming even in the low light. You run your fingertips over it for a moment—cool, smooth—then press a kiss to the edge where metal meets skin.
Bucky’s voice goes quiet. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” you say simply, and you mean it. You always have.
You shift to his arms, kneading his right bicep, then sliding down to his forearm. His hand flexes in the sheet, fingers curling and uncurling.
When you move to his left, you’re careful without being timid. You treat the prosthetic like what it is—part of him. Your hands glide over the metal, then up to his shoulder where scar tissue and muscle meet, and you work the tightness there with slow, deep strokes.
Bucky’s breath turns heavier, as if every touch is pulling him under.
“That feels… fuck,” he mutters, voice strangled.
“You can swear,” you murmur.
He gives a weak laugh. “Wasn’t askin’ permission.”
You smile to yourself and move to his neck. Your thumbs press into the base of his skull, and the sound he makes then is pure—like pain breaking into pleasure.
“Jesus,” he whispers.
“Breathe,” you coax. “That’s it. Let it go.”
His exhale is long, shaky. When you press again, he practically melts.
You watch him soften under your hands, watch his shoulders drop and his spine stop bracing. It’s subtle, but you know him. You know when he’s finally letting you take some of the weight.
After a while, you slide your hands down his lower back, then over his hips, and you pause there, palms spread wide. You feel his body warm, pliant, receptive.
“Turn over,” you say softly.
He lifts his head, blinking like he’s coming up from deep water. “What?”
“Turn over,” you repeat, gentler this time, and you step back to give him room.
He does, slow and careful, settling on his back with the sheet tucked under his hips, boxers still on. His chest rises and falls with heavier breaths now, his lashes low, his face relaxed in a way you don’t get to see nearly enough.
You move to stand at his side, hands smoothing over his chest, down his sternum. He shivers.
“You okay?” you ask.
He swallows. “Yeah. I didn’t realize how bad I needed this.”
Your heart squeezes. You lean down and press a kiss to the center of his chest. “I know.”
You work his shoulders from the front, thumbs pressing into the muscles near his collarbones. His head tips back. His mouth parts.
“Pretty,” you murmur without thinking, and his eyes flick to yours, startled and soft.
“You’re—” he starts.
“Don’t,” you cut in, because you know he’ll try to turn it back to you, will try to deflect. You want him to take this. “Let me say it. You’re beautiful.”
A flush climbs his throat. “I’m not—”
“You are,” you insist, hands sliding down his chest, tracing the lines of muscle like you’re reading him. “You’re strong and gorgeous and you’ve been carrying too much. And I’m proud of you.”
His breath catches again, and you see it—the way praise lands in him like a warm, unavoidable hit.
His voice comes out rough. “You’re gonna make me cry.”
“Maybe you need to,” you whisper, and you mean it, but your fingers drift lower, down his stomach, and his whole body tenses in a different way.
Anticipating.
He looks down, then back at you, and something charged flickers between you.
“You’re… being sweet,” he says slowly, like he’s trying to puzzle out your angle.
You smile. “I am sweet.”
His eyes narrow a fraction. “And?”
“And I’m taking care of you,” you say, and you slide your hands to his hips, thumbs stroking the bone there. You lean down, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “All of you.”
Bucky goes still.
His voice drops to a rasp. “What does that mean?”
You pull back just enough to meet his eyes. “It means I noticed you’ve been clenching your jaw in your sleep,” you tell him softly. “It means I noticed you haven’t been letting yourself relax, even with me. And it means tonight…”
Your fingers hook into the waistband of his boxers—just barely, a tease. You watch his throat move as he swallows.
“…tonight, you’re gonna let me make you feel good,” you finish.
His breath shudders. “Baby.”
“You trust me?” you ask, and your tone makes it more than a question. It’s a hand offered. It’s a door opened.
His eyes go dark. “Always.”
“Good.” You ease the sheet back and slide his boxers down slowly, giving him time, watching him react. His cock springs free, already half-hard, flushing darker as the cool air hits him.
He curses under his breath, hips twitching.
“Look at you,” you murmur, reverent. “So responsive. So ready for me.”
His eyes squeeze shut. “You talkin’ like that on purpose?”
“Maybe.” You trail your fingertips down his inner thigh, feeling him tense and then loosen. “Maybe I like seeing you lose control a little.”
His hand grips the edge of the table. “Careful.”
You glance up, all innocence. “Or what?”
He gives a broken laugh that turns into a groan when you wrap your hand around him, warm and slick with oil from the massage. His whole body jolts.
“Fuck—”
“Shh.” You stroke him slowly, watching his face, memorizing the way his brows knit, the way his mouth falls open. “That’s it. You can let go.”
He looks like he’s trying to keep himself steady, trying to hold onto something, but every slow drag of your hand pulls him further under.
“You feel good,” you whisper, leaning down to kiss his stomach, then his hip, then the line of his thigh. “You’re so hard for me. So perfect.”
His voice comes out strained. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“No,” you murmur, and you press another kiss to his skin—lower this time, closer. “I’m gonna make you feel alive.”
Then you lower your mouth to him.
Bucky’s inhale is sharp enough to be a gasp when your lips close around the head, warm and wet. You take him slowly at first, tasting him, letting your tongue swirl and lap like you’re savoring.
His hand flies to your hair, like he’s looking for an anchor he needs. His other hand fists in the sheet.
“Oh my God,” he whispers, voice shaking. “Oh—baby—fuck—”
You hum around him, letting the vibration ripple through him, and he makes a sound that’s half a sob, half a moan. His hips lift instinctively, seeking more, and you let him while you set the pace.
You take him deeper, your throat relaxing as you slide down, lips stretched around him. The moment you reach a point that makes him hit the back of your mouth, his whole body goes rigid.
“Holy shit,” he chokes. “You— you’re—”
You pull back, breathing through your nose, eyes on his. Saliva glistens at the corner of your mouth. You stroke him with your hand at the base while your lips keep him wet and slick.
“Use your words,” you tease gently.
Bucky’s eyes look wrecked already. “Feels—” he swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Feels like you’re sucking the soul out of me.”
A rush of heat floods you. “Yeah?” you murmur, and you take him back in, slower, deeper, your tongue flattening along the underside where he’s most sensitive.
His head falls back with a helpless groan. “Yeah. Yeah, fuck—”
You set a rhythm: mouth and hand together, steady and unrelenting. Your lips glide, your tongue flicks, and every time he starts to settle you change something—angle, pressure, speed—keeping him right on the edge where his body doesn’t know whether to relax or break.
“Good,” you whisper between pulls. “That’s it. Let me take care of you.”
Bucky’s hand tightens in your hair. Like he’s drowning in pleasure and you’re the only thing he can grab.
“You’re so good to me,” he rasps like he’s been waiting his whole life to confess it.
You look up at him with your mouth still full and moan softly, letting him feel it. His stomach tightens, hips stuttering.
“Jesus,” he whimpers, and the word sounds almost like prayer.
You pull off him with a wet pop, slick shining on his cock, and you stroke him slowly. His eyes snap to yours, wild.
“Don’t stop,” he pleads, voice raw.
“I’m not,” you promise. “I just want you to look at me.”
His gaze locks in, intense and needy.
“Good,” you whisper, and you sink back down, deeper this time, taking him until your nose brushes the dark hair at his base.
Bucky’s whole body arches. “Oh—fuck—”
You hold him there, throat tight around him, and swallow—just once, slow and deliberate.
He breaks.
The sound he makes is unguarded, a torn, blissed-out moan that vibrates through the room. His eyes roll shut. His hips lift, desperate, and you let him move—small thrusts into your mouth—because you know he’s close, you know he’s been needing this release for days.
You pull back just enough to breathe, hand still working him, and you look up at him.
“Come for me,” you whisper. “You deserve it.”
Bucky’s face crumples like he can’t handle how good it feels to be told that.
“I—” His voice cracks. “I’m gonna—”
“I know,” you soothe, stroking him faster, mouth returning to the head, tongue circling, relentless. “That’s it. Let it happen.”
His whole body goes tense, then shudders violently as he spills—hot and heavy—into your mouth. You take it without hesitation, swallowing what you can, letting the rest spill at your lips, your hand still coaxing him through it.
Bucky’s back lifts off the table with the force of it. His hand in your hair turns into a trembling caress, fingers splayed as if he’s trying to touch without taking.
When the first wave eases, you don’t stop immediately. You slow, but you keep him sensitive, keep him floating in that bright, unbearable place.
His eyes fly open, hazy. “Baby—” he gasps, oversensitive. “Too— too much—”
You ease off, lips dragging gently as you release him, then press soft kisses to his thigh, his hip, his stomach. Your palm rubs soothing circles over his lower abdomen.
“Shh,” you murmur. “I’ve got you.”
Bucky lies there boneless, chest rising and falling, eyes half-lidded like he can’t quite come back to earth. His mouth opens like he wants to speak but the words won’t form.
You wipe your mouth with the back of your wrist, smiling as you watch him.
“There he is,” you whisper fondly. “My sweet boy.”
A sound leaves him that might be a laugh, might be a whine. “You’re… unreal.”
You tug his boxers back up gently, covering him, then smooth the sheet over his hips. You move up to his chest, palms gliding over him like you’re sealing him back together.
He blinks at you, still dazed. “That was… that was a massage?”
You tilt your head, all innocent again. “You said you were tense.”
He stares at you for a second, then his eyes crinkle at the corners. A slow, blissed-out grin spreads across his face like he can’t help it.
“You planned that,” he accuses weakly.
“Maybe,” you admit, leaning down to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Maybe Memorial Day makes me soft.”
He catches your wrist gently, thumb stroking the inside like he’s grounding himself in you. “You always do this,” he murmurs. “You make me feel… taken care of.”
You press your forehead to his. “That’s because you deserve to be.”
Bucky’s eyes close again, and he exhales like his whole body finally believes it.
“Stay,” he whispers.
“I’m right here,” you promise.
As he sinks into the table, heavy and loose and utterly blissed out, you keep your hands on him until the last of his tension finally lets go.
installment list / previous chapter / next chapter
word count: 3,205
story content warnings: 18+ MDNI! war, violence, loss of limb, mental illness, medical talk and treatment, forced drug use, language, drinking, tense family situations, smut, pregnancy stuff, sickness, explosives. there’s fluff too, i swear!
"I'll be back before you know it," Bucky mumbled into your hair as you sleepily clung to him.
It was the early hours of the morning and a small group of agents were going out on a recon mission to find out if Natasha's intel was right about the location in the Middle East that was supplying Walsh with the Serum. The team consisted of Steve, Bucky, Bruce, and Wanda. Steve had planned on the mission taking five days at most to account for getting rid of possible tails, so that was what Bucky had assured you of over and over in the hours leading up to you falling asleep the evening before. The team was solid and the mission would be quick - he'd be back before you knew it.
You were on Bucky's mind the whole flight to Yemen, though. It was something Steve would tease him about constantly, telling him that he had never seen him daydream as much as he had been in the months since he found out you were pregnant and he asked you to marry him. He just couldn't help it. This wasn't the life he was supposed to have. He was never supposed to end up here, with you, working with this team, and yet here he was. And he thanked his lucky stars that it ended up that way.
Bucky was shaken out of his mind when Steve clapped a hand on his shoulder and said, "We're about to land. Let's go over the plan one more time."
Everyone gathered around a small table that displayed a holographic blueprint of the facility they would be entering as Steve began with, "The mission today is simple: locate information on if this facility was the one responsible for creating the Serum used by Walsh and his successor in Afghanistan. Walsh has walled up and isn't speaking, barely even to his lawyer, so it's up to us to find out where they were getting this stuff from. If this is the place, we may also find information on failed cases. We find those, we tack on more charges for that monster."
Bruce piped up, saying, "I've got a mobile lab setup in here for if we need to do testing on the way to the safe house."
"Great," Steve said with a nod. "You'll be on extraction duty if we find anything."
"I've got lookout," Wanda announced, once more earning a nod from Steve.
While Bucky turned introspective thinking of the lives ruined by Walsh, Steve gently nudged him in the ribs as he said, "Buck and I've got file duty. I'll look at digital files and you can find paper ones."
"Got it," Bucky agreed as he felt the jet beginning its descent.
As the four of them began getting ready to head out of the ramp on the back of the jet, Steve reminded the pilot, "Once we're out, keep the deflectors on. Don't move unless provoked or you don't have another choice. We'll meet you back here. Stay safe."
"Yes sir, Cap," the pilot said, a two-finger salute being given before Steve turned his back to the man as he followed the others out into the warm air of Yemen.
When the group approached the discussed entry point, Wanda, with her back to the others informed them, "No sign of anyone watching us. No cameras look active. We're clear."
Her remark was met with a curt nod by Steve before he attached a mechanism to the door. "Stay back," he said, holding up his shield after hitting the button to activate the mechanism. A contained blast blew off the locking mechanisms on the door, small bits of shrapnel ricocheting off of Steve's shield. Mere moments passed before Steve was making a gesture for the others to rush in, closing the door behind him once everyone was inside.
Bucky was immediately on the security panel posted by the door, attaching a device that Tony had made to get JARVIS to disarm security measures put in place in any facility. He heard a sharp gasp after he placed the device, turning and drawing his weapon in an instant, in case his team was in danger. The barrel of the pistol met two mostly decomposed bodies, though, the gasp coming from Wanda, who covered her mouth in shock at the discovery.
If only the walls could talk…
"Did you hear?" came the hushed whisper of Andrew, one of the few scientists HYDRA had recruited to work at the Yemen base.
"Keep your voice down, boy!" one of the older scientists, Marcus, replied in a hushed whisper through gritted teeth.
"Why-?" Andrew asked, but shot pin-straight in his chair when one of the facility's two posted security guards opened the door roughly.
"You four!" came the gruff man's voice as he glared daggers through each of the scientists' backs. "Keep working! Whatever you heard, don't let it impact your work!"
Andrew, with his now sweating and shaking hands, opened his mouth to say something, but stopped when Marcus glared at him out of the side of his eye. HYDRA had been exposed. Nearly every secret was spilled onto the internet, and he was sure that his name was somewhere in those documents. This could totally ruin his life! He was recruited by HYDRA because they promised a good life for his family if he cooperated, but if HYDRA has been exposed and the messages he was getting from other scientists about labs shutting down were-
"We're getting out of here!" came the sharp whisper of Marcus that broke through Andrew's tumultuous thoughts.
"W-what?" Andrew asked, eyes wide as he looked at the older man.
Another one of the scientists, Asami, pulled him out of his chair as she told him, "Marcus has a plan. Let's go!"
"But what about-?"
"Stop your yapping!" Caleb, their lab tech, snipped as he looked out the door to see where the guards had gone.
Marcus began gathering supplies from around the lab, speaking rapidly as he went, telling the others, "I've got a prearranged pickup location for us to meet at in case something horrible happened. All I've got to do is get a message to my brother and we're all out of the country with new passports and identities within the day!" A respirator and goggles were shoved into Andrew's hands as Marcus added, "Once we're to safety, we'll worry about our families. With the chaos that is happening in the organization right now, there's no way they'll go after families before us. We have to move quickly and be smart about this!"
"Let's move!" Caleb whispered when he saw that the coast was clear of the guards. Caleb, Andrew, and Asami made it out of the room and looked both ways to decide which route to take out of there, accompanied by Marcus a few moments later after he finished typing a message into his computer.
The four of them made it halfway down the hallway leading to the exit before they heard the tell-tale sound of the security guards' weapons being readied. "Where do you lot think you're going?" one of the gruff men asked as the scientists froze in their tracks.
"Remember the part when you were recruited saying that you swore allegiance to HYDRA?" the other asked as he approached. "Remember what they said happens if you break that allegiance?"
The barrel of one of the guns was pressed into Andrew and Caleb's backs, sending a chill up Andrew's spine as he held his breath and closed his eyes. He stood there waiting for an end that…didn't come. Instead, after a few tense moments, all Hell broke loose as Marcus shouted, "Masks!" and reached into his pocket to propel his plan into motion. The vials of chemicals were thrown onto the ground like a child's popping firecracker and the plan was a go!
Andrew acted quickly, throwing on the respirator and goggles Marcus had given him, just in time to open his eyes and see a steam-like substance filling the air around them. He recognized it in an instant. It was a chemical that he had created years before when some Commander in Afghanistan was having trouble controlling his charges. Knowing the effects of the chemical, Andrew's eyes snapped over to Marcus, who surely didn't have time to throw the vials and get a mask on in time.
What sight met his eyes, though, was a spray of blood as one of the officers took a shot at Marcus, hitting him square in the shoulder! "Marcus!" Andrew shouted, twisting away from the gun that was still pointed at his back to be by his mentor's side. Looking around desperately, Andrew's eyes darted from spot to spot on the floor and on Marcus's body for his mask and…didn't find one. "We gotta get him outta here!" he shouted, his voice muffled by his own respirator.
Caleb, wary of the guards' ability to harm them with their weapons looked over to the two men and saw them beginning to show symptoms of the chemical making its way through their system. Without another thought, he shouted, "Let's go!" and grabbed Marcus under one arm while Andrew grabbed under the other.
The two of them hauled their mentor down the hall while Asami ran for the door, throwing it open for the two men to drag Marcus into the fresh outside air. With shaking hands, Andrew began holding pressure on the gunshot wound on Marcus's shoulder, his voice also shaking as he said, "We need to rinse him with something! Anything! We can't let the chemicals get to him!"
"I'm going back in," Caleb said as he stood up from the older man's side, setting his jaw before plowing back into the facility.
The trip should have been short. Get back to the lab, get a mobile wash station, and get out to save Marcus. His quick progress was hindered by the two guards in the hall, though. As he sprinted by their collapsed bodies, a hand reached out, grabbing his ankle, nearly making him trip. The guard, who had blue lining his lips choked out a slurred, "Help me…" before the grip on Caleb's ankle loosened as the man lost consciousness.
A few seconds were lost as Caleb stared at the man. He knew as well as the others what the chemical was capable of. He had just watched a man die.
But he couldn't let the same happen to his mentor.
Moving as fast as his body would let him, Caleb make his way back into the lab and began hauling out the emergency field wash station. The equipment usually took two people to carry, but with all the adrenaline running through his veins, he felt like he had the strength of three men combined as he muscled it back through the hall, past the guards, and out to his waiting companions.
The sight before him when he reemerged was grim. Blood had pooled around Marcus and stained Andrew's pants from the knee down through the shin. The younger man was still on his knees, but no longer holding pressure on Marcus's wound, instead staring in shock at his blood soaked hands as they shook. Asami was pale and she started at Marcus in shock, tearing her gaze away from his body as she turned and blocked Andrew's line of sight, holding his head close as she held back her own tears and nausea.
And then there was Marcus. Not only was he in a pool of his own blood, but his entire body was ghostly pale, with patches of blue throughout. His piercing blue eyes fixed at the sky, unmoving and unseeing.
Caleb felt his limbs grow numb as he took in the scene in front of him, the field wash station suddenly feeling a hundred times heavier as it began making its way to the ground. The crash of equipment wasn't even enough to snap the others out of their trance. What did it was the sound of Marcus's phone ringing from inside his lab coat's pocket. The three looked at his body, none of them moving and not wanting to touch his stuff out of respect for their mentor.
But then the phone rang again.
It was Asami who finally brought herself to grab the phone out of Marcus's pocket and answer the call. She said nothing as the person on the other side of the line told her not to, just gave instructions on where to meet and what to say when they got there. When she hung up, she told her two remaining allies, "Marcus got his brother a message before we left. We need to meet him at the bar three towns over. He'll get us a new life."
Steve was the first to speak after the group discovered the bodies, telling everyone, "Keep moving. Stay sharp." As he said this, he stepped between Wanda and the two dead bodies, positioning his shield in a way that would hopefully block her view of them as the group passed by.
It didn't take long to find the main lab area in the small facility, only a couple minutes of careful measured steps that were being taken out of an abundance of caution now that everyone was even more alert than before. The door to the lab was opened by Bucky, with Steve and Bruce following close behind him as he entered the room.
There were no lights on in the darkened room, not even ones of active monitors or security cameras. With a couple more steps into the space, the lights came on and Bucky once again aimed his pistol toward the door, expecting to see someone by the light switch. He was met with no one, though, only a quiet chuckle from Steve as he said, "Automatic lights, Buck."
"Can't blame me for being paranoid, not after what we saw out there…" Bucky mumbled as he holstered his weapon once more.
Now that they could see the room they were in, they noticed a layer of dust coating everything in the lab. Their shoes even left marks on the floor as they stepped in, the air beginning to fill with the small tufts of dust as it was disturbed. Walking over to a lab hood, Bruce studied it for a moment before saying, "I think it's safe to say that this place hasn't been occupied in a while."
"Then that just means it's less likely that someone'll come in here looking for us," Steve said with a nod as he began making his way over to the set of computers on the back wall.
And with that, they began their search. Steve got into the computer and began searching files while Bruce snooped around, hoping to find any vials that had been left behind when the facility was abandoned. Bucky was more hands on, opening drawers and cabinets to flick through papers that could prove that this was the facility they were looking for.
"Can I get a hand real quick, Bucky?" came Bruce's voice as he eyed something on the ground that looked like an area that had been scraped over and over again by something heavy - likely the cabinet right beside it.
"Yeah, sure," Bucky said, abandoning a file on top of the cabinet he had just raided, leaving it open to a page with a picture of a vial of chemical that had an almost silver sheen to it.
"I think this cabinet may be hiding something behind it," Bruce told him, nodding toward the scrapes along the flooring.
Bucky nodded and got to work, moving the heavy cabinet with ease, the loud and grating noise causing Wanda to look in from her post at the door. She returned her gaze to the hallways surrounding her when Bruce gave her a thumb up before turning his attention back to the lab. What was revealed behind the cabinet was an alcove that had a small fridge humming in the quiet of the small space.
"Hey, uh, Steve?" Bruce asked as he poked his head out from the alcove.
"Yeah?" he asked, turning his head from the computer he was hunched over.
"The Serum was blue, right?"
"Yeah, why?" he asked, his attention piqued by the question.
"I think I may just have found it," Bruce told him, jerking his head toward the alcove.
Steve's eyes widened the slightest bit and his eyebrows flicked up for a moment before he said, "Take pictures for evidence and then get it to the bag. We'll figure out what to do with it when we're outta here." After that order, he turned back to his computer, doubling down on how fast he was reading the files before him, muttering, "If the Serum's here, there's gotta be a recipe somewhere. There's gotta be some sort of record on who it was going to…"
Hearing his friend saying this, Bucky decided that the cabinet now in front of him would be the best place to find the recipe, seeing as it was hiding the damn stuff in the first place. When Bucky opened the cabinet, a handful of loose vials came tumbling out, flying toward the ground faster than Bucky could catch them! "Shit!" he whispered sharply as they clattered to the ground, the fine vials cracking as they made contact with the hard floor, the silvery contents forming a small puddle.
From the pool of fluid, a small cloud of fumes began permeating the air in the immediate vicinity, the fine silvery mist taking over the specks of dust that had become a staple in the room as more things were disturbed. One breath in of the cloud made Bucky start clearing his throat as he covered his mouth with his right inner elbow, hoping that the sleeve of his shirt would be enough to keep the offending mist out of his mouth while he looked into the cabinet for his target.
"You okay?" Steve asked, his eyes still focused on the screen in front of him.
In the moments that followed, a wave of dizziness washed over Bucky. Lurching forward, Bucky caught himself on the cabinet with his left arm, the metal on metal causing a loud crash to sound through the room. Looking into the cabinet, Bucky eyed a file that looked like it was labeled "Serum." He couldn't be sure, though, as his vision began to blur and black began to crest the outer corners of his vision. Still, he grabbed for the file. With his strength draining from his body, though, his hand slipped, causing the papers to go fluttering out of the file as he yanked it from the shelf.
"Buck?" Steve asked sharply, concern in his voice as he finally dragged his eyes away from the computer when he heard the crashing sound. "Buck!" he shouted when he saw his friend falling to the ground as his knees buckled.
Bucky forced his eyes open when he heard his name, seeing two blurry images of Steve making his way toward him with urgency in his step before black took over his vision.
a/n: ending it there was a tad cruel, huh? whoopsie! here's to to final angst arc of the series!
as always: likes, comments, re-blogs, etc are greatly appreciated! i love hearing from you guys!
Summary: As it turns out, you can’t outrun a monster in his own home. You can, however, learn to question whether he was ever a monster at all.
Word Count: 17.7k
Warnings: real big emotions and confrontations; secrecy in a relationship; lots of panic/anxiety/fear/insecurities; weapons (guns, knife); minor injury (cut); references to criminal activity and violence; Bucky is possessive and protective and in love; emotional manipulation (perceived/debated)
Author’s Note: Here we are my lovelies, the second part to His Name Was Never Just Bucky. Honestly, I’m so relieved it’s finally done and I can return to other projects. This took me so incredibly long, but it’s rewarding to have it completed and I’m so proud I didn’t end up abandoning it like so many other things before. I truly hope you enjoy where I took the story ♡
Masterlist | part one
This was probably the worst decision you have ever made.
But, hell, now you officially jumped without a parachute, the ledge is gone, the air is passing by quickly, and your only hope is that you’ll somehow learn how to fly on the way down and you’ll be able to land on your feet.
The hallway outside has lost its symmetry, as you have lost your sanity, and now nothing seems to make sense anymore. Everything seems longer and crueler, your panic stretching the hallways into a long, suffocating throat. Each of your hectic footsteps makes you feel too exposed in this big mansion, they seem to echo your exact coordinates throughout the floors. Every hallway hears you, the walls themselves are turning their heads.
You take the first turn on instinct, then another, and another, trying to remember the route, trying to retrace the thread that brought you here, but your terror and all that bottled-up panic smashes sequence, steals direction, leaves you with nothing but speed because you know that if you stop, you’re done.
Your feel your heart everywhere. In your throat, in your ears, behind your eyes, beating against your teeth.
You blow past a side table where a cluster of pale lilies sits, blooming so aggressively, looking so wrong and even ugly in the corner of your eye, you have to take another turn.
You’re no longer thinking, you’re just running.
Your chest is a hollow chamber and all you hear is your own pants when you pass a maid who startles and calls something you don’t catch. You pass a window tall as a church promise and for one insane second consider throwing yourself through it.
Somewhere behind you, from the office, you hear a loud crash. His voice follows. His voice. It sounds so much more blood-curdling now.
He’s calling your name. Loud and baffled and then sharper. He doesn’t sound angry yet, but definitely alarmed in a way that makes every warning bell inside you turn rabid. Because there is something uniquely petrifying about hearing alarm in the voice of a man like him. It means you have disrupted the script. It means he does not understand. It means he is coming.
You run harder, every nerve in your body overflowing with adrenaline.
But, as expected, the house doesn’t simply spit you out. Corridors feed into corridors, archways into alcoves, burnished halls into rooms you have never seen, and every choice you make seems to slide you deeper into the belly of the place instead of toward freedom.
With a ragged and desperate breath, you shove through one swinging door expecting another passage, and stumble instead into a kitchen vast enough to feed a wedding. There is all this gleaming steel and those butcher-block islands and hanging copper, bright under the lights in a way that feels grotesque after the dim severity of the office.
It is wrong, all wrong, too open and yet somehow still a trap, because there is no front hall here, no visible exit, only counters and cabinets and startled staff, and you realize with a sick plunge of your stomach, that you have run yourself into a dead end dressed as luxury.
This is bad, this is so bad.
You stop abruptly, spinning around helplessly. The breath tears in and out of you like it is trying to escape without the rest of your body. The halls behind you are full of pounding footsteps, and you know it’s just one single set, but you also know it’s him.
He’s advancing and you can’t keep escaping.
A woman near the far counter goes still with a mixing bowl in her hands. Another man freezes by the sink with his hands in water. No one speaks. No one moves. The whole room seems to hold itself in suspension around your panic, everyone watching without watching, and then from somewhere behind you in the corridor comes Bucky’s voice sounds again, practically yelling your name—no confusion left now, only alertness, apprehension; and it punches you in the gut. It rings through you, through the kitchen, through the bright metal and tile and silence, and you know it has all been for nothing.
But before there is anything you can do, before the ground can open a portal for you to fall through, Bucky appears in the kitchen doorway, looking like an avalanche with a name. A big name. A dangerous name. A name that will be the end of you.
He doesn’t look raging in the obvious way, but he’s lost a bit of control. And for the man that he is, you don’t know how to survive it. And this intensity with which he came thundering after you is so extremely frightening because it looks expensive on him, tailored to fit, like one of his suits, like one of his watches, like all the impeccable and dangerous things he wears so naturally you once mistook them for elegance instead of that blaring warning sign they actually are.
Why just have you been so stupid, my god.
He’s totally got you wrapped around his finger—and dick, as embarrassing and daunting as it is—or you would have maybe been able to open your eyes for a second, you idiot.
But now they are open, wide, wide open, and you see him. You see him as the man he is. But maybe it’s a little too late now.
He stops the moment he sees you pressed half-backward against the dark island, sees the way your hands have come up slightly as if your body has decided on defense without consulting you, sees the wet shine gathering in your eyes, the terror you are no longer managing to powder over, and something happens to his face that is so brief and so devastating, but all you can do is stare at him so you see that clean strike of realization.
He doesn’t look confused anymore, and it makes him even more menacing.
He knows. He knows that you know. And he probably knows what he’s going to do to you now but you don’t know if you want to know that.
The air seems to cinch around you, seems to wrap itself around your throat, and squeezes. You can’t breathe. You don’t try to.
Bucky—James, your mind insists now with a sick recoil, James Buchanan Barnes, James Buchanan Barnes, biggest crime boss in the city—does not look away from you when he tilts his face to the staff. That, more than anything, makes your blood run strange. His attention stays fixed on you with a steadiness so absolute it feels like a physical thing, a hand at the back of your neck, while his voice turns toward everyone else in the room and comes out low and unquestionable. “Everyone out.”
His command is dropped into the kitchen and nobody argues. The immediate obedience of his people makes you visibly shudder.
A woman near the stove sets down a towel with trembling fingers. The man by the sink lowers his eyes and moves. Another staff member glances at you once with a quick look that seems almost guilty, almost pitying, and you feel the pulse of it pounding all around you, everywhere inside you.
Nobody looks at you too long, nobody does anything besides leaving the fucking room. They won’t meet your fear and they won’t step between it and the source. Nobody here belongs to themselves enough to choose you over him. But it’s clear that they don’t. They’re his people for a reason. Nobody here will be on your side, whatever happens.
A door swings. The kitchen empties in a matter of seconds, everyone slipping out with the furtive speed of people evacuating a room where something dangerous has just unsheathed itself. They leave with the scene in their eyes. They leave you with him. And the silence after the last one goes is so sudden it roars.
You take another step back and only feel the unhelpfully solid press of marble against your spine. There is nowhere else to go unless you want to climb onto the counter like a cornered animal, and for one hysterical beat of a second, the idea does not even seem ridiculous.
You keep your eyes on him because looking away feels somehow more chilling, but your gaze is frantic within that line of sight, darting to the side entrance, to the swinging service door, to the corridor beyond him, to windows that suddenly seem decorative rather than useful, to every possible seam in the room where escape might be hiding in miniature.
There is none. The whole kitchen gleams at you with pitiless order that’s just full of steel and stone and copper, knives in their block and pots all around.
He notices you looking, but you can’t care; all you have to care about is the distance between you and him, the distance between you and anything that might become escape if panic suddenly grew wings.
Could you run past him? Maybe, if he were anyone else. Maybe, if this were some ordinary man with ordinary reflexes and an ordinary body and an ordinary life.
But he is none of those things. You’re in this damn situation because he’s none of those things.
He fills the doorway without even trying. He stands there in the collectedness of his dark clothes and encroaching presence, looking at you as if he can hear your thoughts tripping over each other and your fear has turned you transparent.
His shadow has finally caught up to his skin and you now realize how dark it is.
Even if you got around him, where would you go? The front hall might as well be on another continent. Every corridor in this house has already left you stranded. There is no map in your mind now, only panic. No way out.
The knowledge gathers in your chest until it hurts. Behind your eyes, heat stings. Your throat tightens around a lump and only something choked leaves your lips.
And Bucky sees all of it. You keep trying to shrink back from him because his very outline has now become a threat, and it doesn’t make your situation better, but he already knows, so you don’t have to pretend anymore.
And his face alters. It’s as if the floor has given way under him. As if he had stepped expecting hard tiles and found air.
He does not advance. That should help. It does not. He stays where he is, one hand dropping slowly from the doorframe to his side, as if he understands that any sudden movement from him might send you straight through the nearest pane of glass.
There is a fervor to him now that feels different from the one you knew in bed, at dinner, in the soft-lit luxury of his attention. It has made you feel protected, loved, worshipped.
But there is no feeling of that anymore, none of that, because now it’s stripped of adornment, revealed as what it perhaps always was beneath all that heat and gentleness. It’s focus. Pure and frightening focus.
His eyes are on you in that unwavering, devastating way of his, but the expression in them is nothing easy. There is something dark in there, something grim and braced, something that knows a door has just slammed shut and is already calculating what can still be salvaged from the wreckage.
His mouth is set. His jaw is hard enough to cast shadows. He looks, absurdly, heartbreakingly, like a man who has been struck and is refusing to touch the bruise. But he stands, and he’s still so tall, much taller than you thought he could become, and he is not the man you thought you knew.
He stands there with his hands visible, shoulders squared but not aggressive, and the intensity in him is bridled.
His stare does not feel like a threat in the crude sense, but it’s so full of attention, too much attention, because total attention from a man like him is its own species of fear.
“Sweetheart.”
His voice has changed. It is calm but only in pretense. It is soft, technically, but not the way it was before. Before, his softness had warmth in it, a hand held out in the dark.
But this is lower. Straighter. It has gone cool around the edges. It’s not vicious or unkind in any sense, but your body clocks it instantly. It’s almost formal in its restraint, as though he’s speaking across the lip of something that’s close to breaking and he’s trying not to widen the crack.
And that nickname makes you want to let the tears fall. Whatever he tries to achieve by calling you that, it doesn’t work. It’s just torture how familiar he tries to make it sound.
His gaze falls in fast snaps over your face, your posture, your trembling hands. “This looks bad,” he concedes roughly. His throat works once before he continues. “I know it does. But it isn’t what you think it is.”
The words land in you and do nothing. They just sink. Sit there.
He studies your face, sees he has not reached you at all. “What did you see, baby? What has you—” He breaks off with a crack, shakes his head slowly, and lets out a shuddering breath, eyes still on you. “Tell me what you saw.”
What answer could you possibly give him?
That you are looking at his mouth and thinking of all the times it softened around your name, and your own mind keeps turning traitor and overlaying that tenderness with headlines, with whispers, with ravening rumor?
That the same voice which once coaxed and soothed now sounds capable of making rooms empty and men obey and whole situations forgotten? That the current version of his voice is a masterclass in control and it terrifies you to no end?
That his hands are hanging open at his sides, looking so damn human and ordinary, as though they’ve never done anything wrong?
Which is a lie, you now know, a lie that runs deep and leaves you scarred, because all you can think is that these bare hands are the same hands you’ve had under your chin, lifting your face to his, tucking hair behind your ear, buttoning you up against the cold, and you’ve had them gripping you tight in the dark, moving inside you until you couldn't breathe, wrecking you in the best way possible.
These hands were your favorite things.
But looking at them now, you picture what they are doing when you aren’t around. Doing the dirty work, the ugly work, the unspeakable work, hidden back in the blacked-out corners of a life he kept under lock and key.
Your throat feels too dry to talk and you stay quiet, letting the stillness in the room ripen, letting your lack of words and the fear in your eyes speak for themselves.
A hard, hollow tension knots his face, makes his jaw grind, and look as solid as a piece of rock. His hands ball into fists and when your eyes snap to them immediately, your body already flinching, he flexes them, but it seems forced. There is an almost brute rigidity to his throat, a silent scream of dread choked down only barely.
“What do you know?” he grits out through clenched teeth.
The question is gentle in shape and brutal in substance. It makes your stomach turn. Because it sounds like a test. It sounds like inventory. It sounds like the kind of thing a ruthless man would ask before deciding what to do with the damage.
You let your fingers grip the edge of the counter. You can’t answer him. All you can do is try to breathe. All you can do is stare at the exit behind him, and his body standing between it.
He draws in a slow breath, lets it out. “Look at me, Y/n. Please.”
You didn’t know some part of you would still obey, but you notice too late. Maybe it’s better this way. Your eyes lift fully to his.
And you can actually see the way he has lost his grip. It’s right there in his eyes. If you were to describe it you’d say it looks distraught. As if he’s lost, his entire biography that’s been neatly written on paper now ripped away and he can’t find the next line.
Judging by the way you act and look at him, he knows you know something, he just doesn't know what, and the mystery is eating him alive. Just for one disorienting second he doesn’t look that much like this untouchable figure from all those disturbing rumors, but rather like a simple man who knows that if he tries to force his way out of this, he’s just confirming your worst fears about him.
“My name,” he starts with a little hesitance. The gravelly low timbre of his voice makes you shudder, “is James Buchanan Barnes.”
Something in your face gives you away.
You feel it the moment it happens. Some tiny involuntary flinch. Some helpless widening.
Because something crosses his expression, his throat bobs hard enough to show that everything inside him is suddenly in pieces.
He sees that the name is not new to you. He sees that you are already standing several steps ahead of where he hoped this conversation was.
He goes very still.
“You knew that already,” he acknowledges, and it almost hurts how he tries to sound calm about it all.
Your mouth is dry. Your whole body feels like a struck match. You let out a pitiful small breath.
He takes one careful step forward, and it’s not really a step, not even truly an advance, but you recoil so sharply, you ram your whole body against the wall of marble behind you. Your back stings, but your eyes sting more.
His face changes with your reaction, something like pain flashing through the severe framework of him before he reins it back in.
“How?” he asks, and he’s no longer trying for calm. He ducks his head, pleading eyes on you, and he speaks with a wounded quiet. “Sweetheart, how did you find out?”
Your throat works around the answer. “Your tags.” It comes out so faint it is almost nothing, just a shaking breath that accidentally caught a few letters on the way out.
For a second he shuts his eyes. For just one cut of time.
His head tips back the slightest amount, and he deflates. A breath of air leaves him in a hitching, rattling shudder, like he’s finally run out of things to hold onto.
He looks back at you and seems briefly at a loss. James Buchanan Barnes, man of closed doors and fixed outcomes, with no ready sentence in his hands.
It is strange and unnerving and it makes you talk more, bracing for him to yell and threaten and turn cold.
“And,” you whisper, voice wobbling and blundering around in your mouth, “there was a gun.“
You want to explain, want to urge that you didn’t mean to find it, didn’t mean to come across anything at all. You want him to know you would like to dump your eyes in a container of white paint so your vision is a blank canvas and you can color it with other pictures, but it’s too late, and your words already seem to break across him, differently.
He does not move at first. He almost flinches, but catches it halfway, as if his body forgot for a moment to be disciplined.
His eyes stay on you, and all that’s in there are things you’ve never seen in him before. Or in anyone, really. It is a stricken grief, resulting from the way every new piece of your fear is arriving inside him one by one and finding purchase.
He looks at you like he can see the exact route your mind took from one discovery to the next, and hates every mile of it.
“Baby, I—” he croaks, having to pause. Instead, he starts toward you again, even slower this time, palms open a little, perhaps meaning only to soothe, perhaps meaning only to be nearer, but simply more trepidation triggers in you before thought can intervene. “Please listen to me—”
Your gaze snags on the knife block.
The sleek black handles. The bright clean suggestion of defense. It’s without thought that you run to grab one.
It is graceless and frantic and you don’t brandish it like someone brave in a film. You don’t know how to do this well enough for that and you don’t have the nerve to think about it.
Your hand shakes around the handle almost immediately, and you pull it close to your chest, because fighting this vile man would be ludicrous considering who he is and who you are, knife or not, but you use it to protect yourself with the mere fact of holding something sharp. Hopeful that this thing will keep your horror from spilling out of your body altogether.
The blade catches the light and makes it meaner. You hate that you have done this. You hate more that you had to.
Bucky stops dead.
The whole room seems to stop with him.
His eyes go first to the knife, then back to your face, and what crosses his expression then is so nakedly agonizing it is difficult to bear.
Because he sees that you are not trying to threaten him, unlike how someone in danger might.
You are not foolish enough to think a kitchen knife turns you into his equal. You are holding it because your body needs one small fiction to survive on—the fiction that you are not entirely empty-handed in a room with a man who could ruin you if he chose to. The fiction that you still belong, in some tiny harrowed way, to yourself.
“Hey,” he says, and his voice cracks clean through the middle of the word.
You have never heard that happen to him before. Never heard his composure split like badly fired glass.
His stare stays locked on yours, but now there is no distance in it, no coolness, no stranger’s cadence. Just a visceral, human ache. “Hey,” he says again, softer, but it sounds so incredibly heavy. It’s the way you’d talk to someone who’s just woken up from a nightmare and doesn't know where they are yet. “I’m— I’m not going to hurt you.”
Your grip tightens. The knife trembles visibly. “Don’t come closer.”
He stops breathing for half a beat and nods slowly.
“Okay.” The word is a single rasp. “I won’t.” He swallows. You see the muscle move hard in his throat. “I won’t come any closer.”
You cannot stop shaking, no matter how hard you try, because a man with his power shouldn’t see you be so obviously afraid, but there is nothing you can do.
“Please believe me, sweetheart, when I say that I never intended to hurt you,” he swears, and there is no command in him now, none of that cold-sounding authority from a moment ago when he emptied the room with few syllables.
This is worse, in its own way. This undone version of him, this man trying to hold himself very still because the sight of you recoiling has clearly perturbed something structural inside him. “I have a thousand sins on my head, and it’s no use to claim otherwise now,” he speaks with a vulnerability in his tone that washes past you. “I’ve done a lot of things I can’t take back, but hurting you was never on the table. Okay? It was never even a possibility. You were supposed to be the only thing I didn’t ruin,” he ends with a lacerated wince.
You stare at him and have no idea how you can understand anything at all.
The knife handle bites into your palm. Your chest rises and falls too fast. The kitchen is suddenly too loud with all that humming of the refrigerator, the lights, the distant bloodstream of the mansion; and in the center of it all he stands facing you with that wrecked look in his eyes, as if your fear is not merely inconvenient to him but unbearable, and he’d rather be struck than watched this way by you.
And in a world that wasn't currently collapsing, maybe you’d actually care, maybe you’d actually notice how he would take a bullet to the chest just to stop you from flinching, but all you can think is that you are standing in the house of James Buchanan Barnes, with a knife against your own ribs as much as against him, and the man looking at you like heartbreak has found him at last is still the same man the city says should never be underestimated.
It’s so silent all of a sudden that the kitchen seems to be held in a trance. It feels as if there is a vacuum pressing against the walls and now the molecules of the room are terrified to touch the mess of what’s happening.
The last bit of help you could have possibly still leaned on due to your desperation has vanished, echoes of footsteps now pull back into the depths of this mansion.
The overheads feel hostile, throwing down a flat glare that skims over the stainless steel and floorboards with an inert eye.
And centered in that manufactured peace is him.
James Buchanan Barnes.
The name has already erupted once inside your chest, but it keeps echoing, reverberating through your bones in smaller aftershocks. It feels strange to attach it to the man standing in front of you, when his hands have mapped every part of you—right to the most intimate ones—you’ve come to recognize his voice even in half-sleep and his laugh once wound through the cage of your ribs, vibrating against the bone until you couldn't tell its rhythm from your own heartbeat.
It feels like a wronged ownership. It feels like a glitch, an error in the logic of the world, but who are you to find a way out of it. Surrounded by him, in a mansion that is now suddenly as big as the world itself.
But you see it now. And god, it’s so painfully clear. So agonizingly obvious.
You were delusional, you know that. It’s what hurts so terribly bad. You know exactly how this looks to anyone else. After all, this all started with you dating a guy for over a month and not even knowing his actual, legal name. But when you’re used to being nobody, a little bit of hyper-focused attention feels like a drug. He looked at you as if you were the only person in the room, and you would get this tight, anxious knot in your throat, thinking don’t ruin this. Asking for a last name or a background check felt like a quick way to feel high-maintenance, and you didn’t want to give him a reason to feel uncomfortable and walk away.
It was a habit born of pure insecurity, being so grateful for the crumbs of love that you don’t dare ask who’s baking the bread. He must have picked up on that on day one. He must have realized right away that as long as he kept making you feel special, you’d keep your mouth shut and let him stay hidden.
He used your loneliness, your blind spots. You were so desperately hoping to be seen, that you fell for the most obvious trap. And it’s your own fault, really. But it still makes you feel completely hollow, like someone scooped the air right out of your lungs with a cold spoon.
Now you have to live with the shame of that mistake.
Your jaw aches from clenching it, trying to swallow down the urge to throw up right there on the kitchen floor.
His presence alone seems to pull at the corners of the ceiling, dragging it down to squash you like a grape. He anchors the room to his foundation, consumes it with all he has, and tracks you with a pinpoint focus that has you shivering and sweating, because his gaze is treating the harsh thudding of your pulse as more vital than the massive, blood-stained kingdom currently cooling its heels on the other side of the door.
The roar in your ears turns outwards, seemingly engulfing the whole room with your panicked pulse. Your vision narrows down until the room stops spinning, and for the first time, you actually feel the air in the kitchen
And in the quiet, your awareness gives you the alarm that there is still something jarringly chilling resting just above your heart. It takes you a moment to realize it’s something physical. There is a weight there that now suddenly feels so deeply misplaced.
Your hand moves on its own, your fingers lifting toward your throat to find the source of that cold, sinister pressure.
The tips of your fingers brush pearls.
And for a moment, you stay frozen there, grazing the smooth curve of one luminous bead where the necklace drapes across your throat.
It once made you smile, had your shoulders drop in ease when you made contact with this present of Bucky. But it no longer feels like a present at all, it feels like a bribe, a hook, a trap because its ultimate purpose surely wasn’t meant as a gift but rather to restrict your freedom and keep you bound to him.
This necklace, these shiny pearls, they aren’t about you. Honestly, you don’t think anything is about you. It never was. It’s just a reflection of what he wants you to be, confining you in his version of your identity.
He manipulated you and stole you and wanted to make you believe you’re the luckiest damn girl in the world.
And you had been. But now you’re just the stupidest.
And you keep on being, because your mind just continues jumping back to the evening he gave it to you, how it felt so soft and intimate, something chosen carefully and fastened around your neck with that glint of pride that lived in Bucky’s eyes. And you want to cry and break down at the way he stood there in front of you so awkwardly with the luxurious velvet box in his hand like it was something far more serious than jewelry. The way his voice had gone rough when he said he saw them and thought of you.
And now, sitting against your collarbone all cold, these are no longer gems, but tiny hooks sinking deeper into your skin, reminding you with every little sting, that you walked into this prison willingly.
You let James Buchanan Barnes clasp it around your neck. The man whose name crawls across newspapers like a stain. The man whose stories carry blood and conspiracies and savagery in their wake.
Somehow you manage to close your fingers around the strand despite of their shakiness.
Across the kitchen, Bucky’s gaze drops to your hand the moment it moves.
The necklace feels impossibly smooth beneath your touch, each pearl round and shining like a row of innocent little moons.
A gift.
From a man you didn’t know.
Or maybe a man you knew too well, just not in the way the world did.
Your throat feels hot suddenly and you know it's the cursed pearls burning holes there, pressing into your pulse with every overwhelmed beat of your heart.
You cannot stand it.
Your fingers curl harder.
Bucky's gaze snaps up to your face, then quickly back to your hands, and then he goes still. But still in the way of an animal that sensed the crack of a branch in the forest. Every line of him tightens in subtle increments, his shoulders locking, his breathing halting so abruptly you see the pause ruffle through his chest.
He knows what your heart doesn’t yet.
His attention sharpens and his eyes grow wide. It almost seems like he’s about to move toward you.
“Hey—” he starts softly, though the word is unfinished, frail, fearing the direction your thoughts are taking.
But your brain is no longer interested in choosing to make decisions carefully.
The necklace feels oppressive, every inch of it tied to a truth you did not have when he first placed it there, and so you can’t think or react any differently.
Your hand jerks in one swift motion just as Bucky releases a desperate choking sound.
The strand snaps free from your neck with a sharp little noise, like a thread breaking under too much strain, and now the pearls explode outward from your hand and scatter across the kitchen floor like a sudden spill of tiny white stars. They strike the tile with a bright, haphazard clatter that echoes far too loudly in the empty room.
tik—tik—tik—tik—
Some bounce high, ricocheting against cabinet legs. Others roll wildly across the floor, spinning in spasmodic circles before coming to a stop beneath stainless steel counters and chair legs.
The sound fills the kitchen in poignant, crystalline bursts.
A rain of little impacts.
A beautiful mess.
For a second you don’t even breathe.
You just stare at them—those small, perfect pearls—rolling farther and farther away from each other, punctuating the heartbreak in the air.
Across from you, Bucky doesn’t move. Something is breaking across his face. His breath leaves him in a soft, stunned exhale, and all he can do is stare with his eyes unguarded. It startles you.
He takes a step back. Not a deliberate one. More like his body forgot the floor was there. His boot slides half a pace behind him as though the sound of those pearls hitting the tile physically pushed him away from you.
His mouth parts.
For a moment he looks like he cannot quite process what he just witnessed.
His eyes—those confident, storm-colored eyes that usually hold such controlled intensity—have widened in a way you have never seen before. It doesn’t seem to look like anger, or anything like it.
It looks like hurt. Pure, unhidden hurt.
His gaze falls to the floor, tracking the scattered pearls skittering across the kitchen tiles, watching them roll away from where you stand with that look in his eyes that says he never wished to see them destroyed.
Then his eyes return to you. Slowly. And the expression there is devastating.
Because it is not rage.
It is not even disappointment.
It is heartbreak so unexpected and unfiltered it seems to hollow his chest from the inside.
His jaw tightens as if he tries to speak, but no words come immediately. The muscles along his throat move with a hard swallow, his chest rising and falling once in a slow, unsteady breath.
You realize then that he is looking at your bare throat.
The place where the necklace used to rest, and he stares at the place with sullen eyes.
Then his eyes lift again, meeting yours, and they are still wide, still aching.
For the first time since you’ve known him, Bucky Barnes looks like a man who has just watched something precious fall apart in his hands and realized too late that he cannot gather the pieces fast enough to put it back together.
And in the bright, echoing kitchen, the last pearl finishes rolling.
Tick.
Then silence returns, and your dread turns harrowing and now Bucky doesn’t seem to know where to put his hands, which is such a small, irrational thing to notice in the middle of your terror and yet your mind notices it anyway, because this is a man who has always seemed like a structure that was built out of conviction, who has been a straight line for you to follow in your world of scribbles, a man who enters every room as though the room had the good sense to expect him, and now he stands before you with your fear pointed at him in the shape of a kitchen knife and looks, inarguably, like he has been shoved off-script and dropped into the crack that formed in his foundation and now he is walled in by the very bricks he laid.
His eyes stay on your face, then the knife, then your face again, careful, heartbroken, alert in that frighteningly intense way of his, and you feel yourself shiver as he is tracking every tremor in your fingers, every drag of your breath, every microscopic shift in your balance in case you bolt again or collapse or cut yourself by accident on the trembling edge of your own panic.
“What you think you know about me,” he starts, and his voice is lower now, roughened at the seams, “what you’ve heard… what people say, it isn’t the whole truth. It isn’t even most of it.”
You barely hear the words. They hit the air and fall uselessly to the floor. Because what else would a man like him say, standing in a cathedral-sized kitchen in a house full of people who obey him before he finishes speaking, after you found the gun and the tags and the name that can turn a city’s rumor mill rabid by itself?
No matter what he says, no matter that he looks so unbelievably shattered—the shape of him is wrong now. That is what your body keeps insisting on. Wrong in the doorway, wrong under these lights, wrong with that caution and that gentleness still trying to live in his face as if it is genuine. You cannot make him fit into one meaning anymore. He is split down the middle in your mind—tender and terrible, gentle and catastrophic—and the fracture is making noise inside you.
He takes a breath, slow, as if he is trying not to startle you even with the sound of his lungs working. “I know how this looks.”
A cough breaks in your throat, or maybe it's a huff or a wet laugh, or whatever, but it hurts coming up and out of your throat. Your hand shakes so badly the knife glints in nervous little flashes. “You used me.”
The sentence leaves you wheezy and small and much too true-feeling inside your own head. But they are out, and you take a whimpering breath, and two tears fall. They don’t arrive elegantly, and they sure as hell don’t spill subtly. They feel hot and you feel humiliated and betrayed, so deeply betrayed, and you hate that they are coming in front of him, giving him the satisfaction because your body is not able to choose a fight, to give you steel and armor and an exit and a miracle. All it can provide you with is dread and tears, and a terribly shaking kitchen knife in your unpractical hands. Your whole body has become an argument against calm and there is nothing you can do.
His face changes so sharply it is almost like watching a flame twist drastically in wind.
“No,” he gets out quickly, and his voice trips over itself. It is denial stripped to the bone. Pure and cruel because he’s genuinely the greatest actor on earth. “No,” he chokes out again, softer and somehow more desperate. “No, no, I— It's not— I never—” He swallows, the line of his throat moving hard. He looks like he is about to walk barefoot through broken glass without letting you see the blood. “You matter to me. You— God, shit, that doesn’t even come close to—”
“Stop,” you whimper while a fresh tear slips down. You shake your head because the words feel obscene now, feel almost insulting in their tenderness, like someone laying roses on a crime scene.
“I’m not pretending.”
“Stop.”
His jaw flexes. He looks toward the ceiling for half a second, and it seems like he is trying to gather language before it deserts him entirely, and when his gaze comes back to you there is something naked in it, something grim and pleading and painfully real. He seems to grope for something that keeps him standing.
“I wanted to tell you,” he despairs, voice scratchy. “I was going to.”
You stare at him through your blurred vision. Every instinct in you rejects the sentence on impact. It sounds nonsensical. The knife quivers against your chest with each breath you are somehow able to take, but they are shuddering.
“When?” you choke out. “After what? After I was stupid enough? After I—”
“No.” He takes a step before remembering himself and stopping immediately, hands opening at his sides. “No. When it was safe.”
The word safe almost makes you laugh, except there is nothing funny left in you.
He hears how deranged it sounds in this room, and grief moves across his face in one dark, swift shadow. “Listen to me,” he presses, and his voice cracks, stripped of that expensive control he wears so well. “I know this life is ugly from the outside. I know what my name sounds like to people. I know what kind of stories get told. I knew if I handed you all of it too soon, all at once, you’d run before you ever had the chance to know what was real.”
Your tears keep coming and you don’t have it in you to wipe them away. You fear your heart won’t ever be able to unclench again after this day. If you even make it out of here. “So you thought you’d just let me” —fall in love first— “into your life the way you did?”
He closes his eyes, and you know the sentence hit exactly where it meant to. When he looks at you again there is nothing smooth or seamless about him, and you have never seen him this way. Because you have never really known him. He is no longer buttoned-up and bulletproof. He honestly looks about ready to be hit in the heart one final, fatal time. “I thought I would give you time,” he supplicates quietly, voice husky. “I thought I would let you know me before the rest of it ruined everything.” The breath that follows his words sounds full of sorrow and a deeply seated regret. “Which it seems like it has.”
Yes, it has. Yes, he ruined it. But would you have felt any other way if you found out another way? In another setting, maybe while you were tangled in the sheets together, or while he was holding your hands? You don’t know because it didn’t happen that way and you found out the way you did and now the world is upside down and all wrong-angled, and your mind is spinning in a room with no corners, completely unanchored by a lie you never saw coming, or maybe you have, because a guy like him couldn’t ever want a girl like you, and perhaps first and foremost you’re just mad at yourself.
Your throat has gone tight with crying, with fear, with the dizzying effort of keeping your body upright when your whole nervous system is trying to flee in eight directions at once. He sees you struggling and looks halfway to moving again, then stops himself so hard the restraint shows all over him.
“I’m a patient man,” he keeps going, and you just want to run past him, out of this hell. You don’t hear how there is no pride in his voice, no menace, just a worn sort of honesty, as if this is the one truth he can still offer without it breaking on impact. “I would have waited. As long as I needed to. I was waiting for the right moment, for when you felt safe with me, for when I knew you wouldn’t hear my name and only hear every lie this city tells itself at night.” His voice lowers further. “For when you loved me enough to at least stay in the room while I explained.”
You blink at him as if he has said something in a language your body no longer speaks.
And then, because this nightmare apparently still has room to worsen, he says, very softly, “Because I love you.”
All you can do is stare at this stranger, and it feels like you are looking at him through a broken window.
It is not the first time he has said it, not at all, and you had loved how he had no shame in telling you, how he pressed those very words into your skin night after night, even this early into your relationship.
Gosh, you had cherished it, fallen deeper for him because of it, and now you know it's all been part of his manipulation. So what else should it be now. But at the same time—why should he still be saying it? How can he still say that? How can he say that now, after all of this, after you know who he is, after the room has filled with the bomb of revelation? What kind of man says I love you while being the very thing you are trying to escape from?
You don’t understand him. You have no clue about who this man is and it is making your hands sweat around the handle. You don’t understand how his eyes can look this shattered, how his voice can sound this human, how his face can hold this much pain and still belong to James Buchanan Barnes.
The knife is still trembling against your chest. Your arm aches from holding it so tightly. The tears keep slipping down no matter how furiously you blink. He stands there with grief in his eyes and power in every line of his body, and both things are true at once, and both things are hurting worse because no single version of him will stay still long enough to be hated cleanly.
“I was going to ease you into it,” he explains achingly, as if confession has broken loose now and cannot be coaxed back in. “Slowly. Over time. I was going to tell you what I could, when I could, and let you decide what to do with it piece by piece. I was never going to throw you into the deep end and watch you drown in it.” His throat works. “Y/n, I’m so fucking sorry you had to find out like this.”
But you are not really listening anymore. Or rather, you hear every word and none of them settle. They clatter against your panic and bounce off immediately only to land in a repressed corner of your mind.
Because maybe he means them. Maybe that is the tragedy of it. Maybe he means every single inconceivable word. But meaning them does not open the door. Meaning them does not make this house less of a trap or his name less of a threat or your pulse any less palpitating in your throat. Meaning them does not undo the gun, the tags, the scathingly smooth way everyone in this place disappears when he tells them to. Meaning them does not turn James Buchanan Barnes back into only Bucky, back into the man whose shirt you wanted to pull on because it smelled like him.
All you need now is a way out.
You don’t want justice, or answers, or even the damn truth. You just want a way out of this. You want to get the hell away from him and everything that smells and looks like him. And the room starts reorganizing itself around that instinct. The service door behind him. The hallway to the left. The distance to the far counter. Whether he is standing on the balls of his feet or flat. Whether the island might slow him for a second. Whether dropping the knife would help or harm you. Whether there is any point at all in planning when this is his house, his kingdom, his maze, and you are just a girl crying in the center of it with shaking hands and nowhere good to go.
He sees your eyes move and something in his face folds inward with understanding, with woe, with the excruciating knowledge that while he is pouring his heart out in rough little pieces, all you are doing is looking for exits. He looks completely emptied out, as if his ribs had been pried open and the only soft part of him had been torn away.
“Baby—” And now he just sounds pleading. But he doesn’t get the chance to keep on going with his drama.
The kitchen ignites with noise before you even understand what you are hearing. There was just you with your messy breathing and Bucky standing a few feet away with that awfully gutted look on his face and then the door slams open so hard the plaster cracks and the sound ricochets against your nervous system.
A crowd of men comes flooding through the opening, like a breach in a dam, so fast and threatening and all of them primed for dirtier work than anyone should ever have to do. The floor shudders under their hard slam of boots. Nobody hesitates and nobody asks questions. They all just move on some sick instinct, weapons out and raised in the space of a single heartbeat.
And now all of them are pointed at you.
The sound that hitches in your throat is not at all dignified or brave. You wish you could stare at the end of your life with at least a small sense of bravery, but it doesn’t seem like it. Every weapon these uniformed men hold is fixed on your ribs, your throat, your eyes, and the paring knife you are gripping feels pathetic. It is a useless piece of household metal against a wall of black iron, against men who don’t care that you are small and fearful.
Even so, your knuckles go numb around the handle from how hard you are gripping it. Your fingers lock up, your skin flashing from freezing cold to scorching hot while your heart thrashes against your ribs.
You think, irrationally, that this is how it happens then. There is no big speech, no lightning strike from the sky. It is just going to happen here on the linoleum, next to a bowl of apples on the counter, and a row of clean water glasses that are catching the light of the kitchen while strangers decide to put bullets in you.
Bucky pivots.
It happens so quickly it feels supernatural, like a weather change, like the room altering under the weight of him. He steps in front of you without quite blocking you, but enough that every single man in that doorway seems to remember all at once who exactly they have just disobeyed.
His expression does not merely harden; it shears. Whatever softness had remained in his face a moment ago is gone so completely it is frightening, scraped away until all that remains is authority in its most lethal form.
You feel fused to the counter behind you. You wish you would be.
He fixes his stare on his men and his eyes become glacial, pale and freezing, incandescent with a fury that somehow feels far more menacing than an outburst. He speaks, and the volume is so low that the room has to go completely breathless to catch it.
“Guns down.”
The response isn’t fast enough. No one moves quickly enough. One of the guards hesitates—just a fraction, just long enough to die for it in any other circumstance—and Bucky’s gaze lands on him so heavily, it’s as if he is deciding where to leave the body.
“I said,” he repeats, and his voice comes out with a rough friction, stripped of any emotion except the promise to do harm, “if any one of you ever points a weapon at my girl again, I’ll put you in the ground myself and make sure nobody bothers digging you back up. Do you understand me?”
His words are deadly. It doesn’t even sound like he’s acting at all, he just sounds absolutely lethal. He talks as though he has already buried people before and wouldn’t think twice about doing it again.
Around you, the momentum of the raid falters. The guards look genuinely unnerved, expressions switching so quickly between shame, panic, and obedience in ugly little flashes. Guns lower and now point toward the floorboards. A muted apology gets muttered into the silence and some of them take a step back. But it is too late, far too late, because the last thread inside you has already snapped, and your body no longer cares about reason.
You run.
There is no time for anything else; you simply hurl yourself at the nearest gap in the room, toward the delusive hope of open space, of slipping between bodies, of somehow becoming smoke, becoming speed, becoming anything but this cornered and shaking thing inside your own skin.
You aim for the narrow corridor between Bucky and the island counter, convinced by sheer panic that if you can just get past him this once, just this once, the house might cleft and let you go. Your shoulder twists, your breath catches, your feet slip against tile and then catch again, and the world blurs into motion and noise and the blood-bright animal need to escape.
But Bucky is faster.
His arms hook around your waist in one brutal, seamless movement, and it yanks you backward before you’ve even made it past his shoulder. Suddenly you are no longer running, your feet lose the air, leaving you floating for half a heartbeat, before you are driven hard into the breadth and heat of his chest.
The cry you let out this time actually tears your throat. You thrash on instinct, your body fighting him with the full deranged force of your mind freaking out, and somewhere in that struggle your hand jerks.
The knife you have been using as a means of senseless protection, hits resistance. It slides cleanly, sinking into skin and it makes you gasp sharply, your lungs suddenly jamming. It’s not your skin.
The blade has opened a shallow red line across his forearm.
And that’s gotta be it. You’re now totally and completely fucked.
The knife drops from your hand and clatters to the floor.
For one aghast second you stare at the bead of red welling against his skin, bright as a neon sign, and horror crashes through you so adamantly it almost eclipses your fear.
But Bucky does not let go. He does not even flinch properly or draw back his arms. His wounded arm stiffens only enough to keep you from pitching forward, his other hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, not pinning now so much as containing, as if he is trying to physically keep something from breaking apart right there in his grip.
He seemingly is completely blind to his own bleeding skin, as if the knife you were holding was never a danger to his life and only a threat to yours. Even with his blood on the floorboards, his only instinct is to pull you deeper into his chest.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he calls, and the transformation in his voice makes your head spin, because the man who just threatened death into a roomful of armed soldiers is gone again, folded away, leaving only this hoarse, pleading tenderness that feels almost more agonizing. His mouth is at your temple, right at your hairline, his breath gasping against your skin. “Baby, baby, stop. Please—please, don’t do this, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”
You fight him anyway because your body refuses to do anything else. Your hands shove uselessly at his chest, your shoulders wrench, your whole body convulses with the effort of getting free. But he is built like a locked gate, and every single push only burns through the last of your energy. Tears pour hot and shamefully down your face. Your lungs burn. The room swims at the edges. Somewhere nearby, boots shuffle, and Bucky snarls over your head without releasing you.
“Out.”
It is one word, but every person in the kitchen obeys it instantly. You hear the kitchen staff backing away, hear the door open and shut, feel the room empty until there is no one left but you and him and the sound of your own sobbing.
Bucky’s hold eases just a fraction, softening the pressure so you can actually draw in air even if inhaling right now feels like swallowing water. He presses his cheek against your hair for one heavy second, and when he speaks again his voice is breaking in places you have never heard it break before.
“Listen to me,” he murmurs, each word roughened by strain, by remorse, by something that sounds so heartbreakingly sincere you almost hate him for it. “Hear me out, sweetheart, please. I got you. I got you. Nobody’s gonna touch you, nobody’s gonna lay a hand on you. I won’t! I would never. You hear me? You’re safe.”
Safe.
The word is a total deformity. It is so grotesque in this moment you could probably laugh, except it comes out as a broken cry instead.
You feel the way his body tenses around the sound, how it seems to travel straight through him with his heart as the target. He bows his head, his lips brushing your temple by accident or desperation, you cannot tell which.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and now there is nothing controlled left in him, no command, no careful poise, only a man fraying in real time. “Jesus Christ, I’m so sorry. I wanted you to know, doll, I did, just—not like this. Fuck, not like this. You mean everything to me. You gotta believe that. You are everything.”
You shake your head against his chest, small and uncoordinated, feeling spent. You do not know whether you are denying him, begging him, or simply coming apart. His shirt is damp beneath your face now, whether from your tears or the sweat chilled over your skin or the blood from his arm, whatever it is, it feels symbolic somehow—one more blurred line in a night made of them.
“I wasn’t gonna let anybody hurt you,” he whispers, and even that seems to drag through his throat, hitting the walls of it. “Nobody would ever be able to hurt you. Especially me, my love, especially me! I swear to God.” His forehead grinds into yours until you can taste the heat of his skin. “I’m still the same guy who kissed you this morning. I don't care if I’m a monster to the rest of the world, but not to you, sweetheart, please not to you. I would never—god, I would cut my own hands off before I ever used them to hurt you. You have to believe me, darling, please!”
But your body no longer knows the language of swearing, or soothing, or reason. Your muscles don’t translate his pleading into safety. Your body only knows that he is stronger than you, and that the arms holding you are the same arms that can dismantle a life without raising his pulse. The palm mapped so carefully across the curve of your head is the exact same hand that commands a firing squad, directs the local precincts, and seals fates with a slight tilt of his chin.
Every touch from him now delivers a repulsive duality—a rescue that feels like an arrest, a stroke that resembles a chokehold, an overwhelming affection that wears the exact outline of a cell.
You can feel how easy this is for him, how negligible his effort is in keeping you contained even while he tries his best to appear harmless. That insulting fact finally starves out the last bit of resistance left in your veins. Your nervous system runs out of fuel, leaving your body to go completely toothless against his chest, without actually surrendering or any returning trust. Your body is simply done.
Your fingers drop their useless leverage against his chest, your joints go limp and your knees refuse to carry your weight anymore.
You sag in his hold all at once. The sobs keep coming, but weaker now, thinning out, scraping instead of breaking. Bucky feels the change immediately. His grip loosens just enough to become support instead of restraint, his palm rubbing between your shoulder blades in one of those soothing motions you used to love so much and it makes your chest ache with a fresh wave of grief.
“That’s it,” he coos, though his voice sounds completely mangled by the words. “That’s it, honey. I know. I know.”
You don’t know what he means by that. You’re not sure he does either. Perhaps he simply recognizes that your stamina has bottomed out, that even the sharpest panic has its boundaries, and that the rush of survival instincts always burns hot and fast, leaving behind this full-body collapse.
He holds your dead weight upright anyway. He keeps murmuring into your hair but it doesn’t glue your broken pieces back together or erase the reality of what he is, what this fortress hides, and what you stumbled into. His sliced arm stays locked around your waist. You can feel the sticky warmth of his blood soaking through your clothes. It is startlingly human, and it should probably make him look less like a monster, the simple fact that he can bleed. But it makes every detail about your situation so real and dreadful.
When your body finally ceases its rebellion entirely, it isn't an act of submission. It is pure depletion.
And Bucky, keeping you pinned against the wall of his chest, seems to grasp that exhaustion better than anyone else could. His lungs expand and contract in uneven hitching motions. He drops his chin heavily onto the crown of your head. He closes you in not like a conqueror taking a prize but like a man trying, too late, to keep a catastrophe from widening under his hands.
Beyond the kitchen threshold, the entire estate drops into a dead, listening sort of silence, as if the plaster and timber have cocked an ear to the room.
He keeps holding you as if you are something he has no right to touch anymore and still cannot seem to make himself release, and it’s crazy that even like this, even with your body rigid from all the things you have learned too quickly and too late, he is still somehow heartbreakingly careful, his hand spread wide and warm between your shoulder blades, his hold immovable but never bruising, his mouth close to your temple as though he cannot bear to put distance between you if distance means losing you for good.
It is all just so utterly confusing because this is not entirely what you had expected would happen.
“The way you looked at me,” he continues, and his voice comes out rough as gravel dragged through water, ruined by restraint, by panic, by the sheer effort of trying not to frighten you further with the depth of what is in him. He does not sound like the man in the hallway, not like the man who commands rooms into silence with a glance, not like the man whose name can make other people blanch and step backward and say yes, sir, with their pulse all up in their throats. He sounds flayed open. He sounds like the sight of your fear has gone into him like shrapnel and lodged somewhere vital. “The way you looked at me in there—” He stops, breathes in shallowly, like he has run straight into a blade and is trying not to lean on it harder. “Christ. I’ve taken bullets that didn’t hit like that. To have you look at me like I’m something you need to survive.”
Your face is turned into his chest, your tears soaking through the expensive dark fabric of his shirt, and still your whole body is listening against your will, because his voice is all around you now, low and urgent and splintering in places that make something cold move through you.
His hand slides back up the back of your head, not forcing, only cradling, his fingers threading carefully into your hair as though the gesture itself aches. When he speaks again, there is something almost disbelieving in him, some stunned grief that does not seem feigned, cannot possibly be feigned for this long without becoming madness.
“If I could do it over, I would do every goddamn thing different,” he breathes brokenhearted. “Every part of it. I would tell you sooner. I’d tell you cleaner. Shit, I should’ve just told you. I should’ve given it to you straight before it got this messy and before you had to figure it out by yourself and piece me together out of all the worst parts with nobody there to shield you. I would have died before I let it happen like this. I swear.” He swallows hard enough that you feel it where your cheek presses near his sternum.
The kitchen is too bright and everything is stinging so harshly with those clean counters, the severe gleam of copper pans above the island, the neat little arrangement of knives in their block where one slot is now empty, the overhead lights turning everything brutally visible.
There is nowhere for your agony to hide. It shivers right out in the open, lives in the tightness of your lungs and the salt on your mouth, and the fact that every soft word from him only makes the unreality of this more baffling. Because he sounds sincere. He sounds devastated. He sounds like a man speaking over the body of something precious he helped kill.
He says all of this like he’s offering you his throat, while all around you the evidence of his power still glints and twinkles from every glazed surface, every distant footstep, every forced silence in a house built to keep his secrets and carry out his will.
He is talking with all the gentleness he has. He is nearly breaking with it. And still, inside you, fear sits and it pants and it is unconvinced, because love does not make a cage less locked simply because the hands closing it are shaking.
You make a small sound then—not a word, not even close, just some thin and wrecked little fracture of breath—and he tightens around you reflexively, then instantly checks himself, as if terrified you will read force into even that involuntary movement.
His next words come faster, crowding each other, not panicked exactly but pressed by urgency, by the sense that you are slipping through his hands even while he is still physically holding you.
“I know what I am.” He breaks off again, and this time you feel the tremor that runs through him. “I know what kind of man I’ve been, what people say about me, what they’re right about. I know exactly what it looks like from where you’re standing.” His voice goes raw. “But, darling, I never meant for you to be afraid of me. This was never supposed to happen.”
The words enter you but you just don’t know where to store them. There is something so naked in the way he says them that your mind keeps tripping over it, keeps trying and failing to fit it beside the other truth—the guns, the guards, the coldness in his authority, the name that belongs in whispers, the empire standing tall all around you in all its obedience. Or maybe it’s just loyalty. Respect? What even is it?
It’s hard to acknowledge that he still sounds like himself. James or Bucky, the man who kissed sleep into your skin and tucked blankets around your legs and pressed absent-minded kisses to your shoulder while reading beside you in bed still exists inside this other, larger, more terrible man. He has not vanished cleanly enough to make your fear simple. You give a small whimper.
“I was selfish,” he rasps, and now the confession lands without defense. “That’s the truth. I was selfish as hell. Because I wanted you anyway. I wanted you even knowing I should’ve stayed away from you. I know I should’ve left you out of all this. A girl like you deserves something clean and safe, and I’m neither of those things. I knew that. Fuck, I knew that. And it’s been killing me. I let myself have you and it’s been so fucking selfish.”
His breath hitches around the last word, and the grief in it is so unexpectedly torturous it almost makes you nauseous. His forehead lowers for a second against your hair, and he scarily looks so weary, suddenly too full of feeling to carry it elegantly.
“Because you are...” He exhales a broken laugh with no amusement in it whatsoever. “Christ, sweetheart, you are the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You couldn’t ever imagine what you walking into my life did to it.”
Your eyes squeeze shut and fresh tears slip out anyway. Somewhere inside you, some tired and furious part wants to scream at him for speaking like this now, for laying tenderness over terror as if one can cancel the other out, as if love—even if it is love, even if it is real and not just another instrument in his alluring hands—can unmake what you know. But before you can push any of that into sound, he keeps going, quieter, the words drawn so close to your skin they seem less spoken than confessed into it.
“If you want to go,” he states, and there is a pause before it, the kind that tells you the sentence is costing him blood, “I’ll let you go.”
Your breath snags. You don’t trust it nor believe it instantly, but even imagining the words coming out of him feels like a tectonic event, a mountain bowing. He does not release you yet, but his body changes with the promise, some iron set inside him going rigid with the effort of saying it and meaning it.
“I will,” he says, with more force now, as if he knows you don’t believe him and cannot bear that either. “If that’s what you want, I will. I’m not gonna keep you somewhere you don’t wanna be. I’m not gonna turn into that for you. But, baby—” and here his voice gives way altogether, drops into something so human and stripped down it hardly seems to belong to the same man who froze a room full of armed guards with one look, “—I am begging you not to make that choice before you hear me. I am begging you. Stay this one night, give me one chance to explain it all to you, to answer every possible question you could have. One chance to do this right, even if I already did it all wrong.”
Begging. The word would sound absurd from almost any other man. From him, it sounds cataclysmic. His hand shakes at the back of your head before steadying, his chest rises too sharply under your cheek, and he continues speaking as if silence might kill him.
“I love you too much to let this be the end of it if there’s anything I can do to stop it,” he croaks. “Too much to let you walk out of here thinking none of it was real. It was real. Every second of it was real. Me wanting you, loving you, worrying about you, making room for you in my life in ways I never made room for anybody—none of that was a lie. The only lie was thinking I could hold both worlds apart long enough to protect you from what I am. That was the lie. That was my arrogance. My mistake.”
The mansion remains hushed in that eerie, cathedral-like way that comes after a disturbance, as if everyone occupying this huge mansion is pretending not to hear the aftershocks.
But here in the kitchen, everything feels narrowed to his voice and your breathing and the blood drying on his forearm and the fact that he is speaking to you like a man on his knees, even if he is still standing, even if his arms are still around you, even if his kind of desperation does not know how to unclench fully.
There is a daunting sincerity in him now, not because it is soft but because it is not. Because it is fierce. Because even his tenderness carries the shape of obsession, of decision, of something chosen with his whole irreversible heart.
What can you possible answer here. What can you possibly think.
“I’ll do whatever I have to do.” He sounds so full of conviction. Technically, the words are quiet, but there is a hard core somewhere in his tone, and it glows fiercely. “I’ll do whatever it takes to make you feel safe again. To prove this to you. To earn back one inch of your trust. I don’t care how long it takes, I don’t care what you ask for, I don’t care what I have to lay down at your feet. I’ll do it. I will.” He takes a beat and the next words are so low you almost miss them. “I know I don’t deserve another chance and you have all the best reasons to run, but I’m asking for it anyway, Y/n.“
At that, finally, he leans back just enough to look at you. It’s not much, but the hand at the back of your head can guide your face up with painful gentleness, giving you every opening to pull away if you need to, though you are too wrung out now to do much except tremble.
His eyes find yours and stay there, and the sight of his face nearly brings you to your knees all over again. There is no coldness in him. No cruelty. No mockery. Only a kind of bereft intensity, a ravaged devotion, and beneath it the severe understanding that he is seeing himself reflected in your fear and cannot survive the image.
The whole fact of how broken he sounds starts to mess with your head. It cracks the armor of your panic, if only just a little bit. You’re trying to hate him. Because, honestly, you want to. You want the fear to be this insurmountable wall between you, but his voice keeps crumbling pieces of it.
The worst part is that you can’t just flick a switch and stop loving the guy you were tangled up with this morning. You fell for him so fast, so completely, because his version of happy felt like the safest place on earth. But with all those shocking revelations, that same love feels like a trapdoor that just dropped you into a cellar, and you are so angry at your own heart for still wanting him to hold you.
Underneath the exhaustion, there is a nauseating doubt starting to rot everything you remember about the last few weeks, and you really don’t need your mind going that far, but it does. You start wondering if you ever actually loved him, or if you were just hooked on the way he looked at you.
He treated you like you were the only important thing in the world, and you just hung off that affection, soaking up the protective way he took care of you. Even though he’s standing here right now, bleeding and hollowed out, swearing that every single touch was real, how can you ever be sure? Every memory you have is suddenly poisoned by the thought that it was just a beautifully built illusion, and the whole thing makes you feel completely seasick.
It’s just too much to handle all at once. Your brain is trying to hold two completely different men in the same space—the gentle guy who tucked the blankets around your feet in the dark, and the boss who froze a kitchen full of killers with one word. They are both real. They are both right here in front of you, and the fact that he isn't a cartoon villain makes it a hundred times worse.
If he were just a monster, you could run. But he’s a monster who tells you he loves you with this gut-wrenching, unyielding honesty, and looking at his ruined face, all your willpower just turns to mush.
“I should have asked more questions,” you whisper, and still, your voice breaks, the words tumbling out of you like loose gravel. You aren’t trying to be eloquent anymore, you are just trying to get the noise out of your head before it chokes you. “From the start, I— When you wouldn’t tell me things. I— I don't know, I was scared, I guess.”
Your fingers tighten into the expensive wool of his lapels just to keep your knees from giving out. Letting this mob boss know about your fears is probably a bad idea. But your life consists of you making bad decisions and so your mouth keeps opening. “I think I just liked the way you were to me too much to risk messing it up.”
The words drag themselves out of you like they do not want to be born, like each one has to force its way through the knot in your throat and the salt on your tongue and the simple, mind-numbing fact that nothing in you knows where to place anything anymore—not him, not yourself, not the last weeks, not the hands that held you so tenderly and the empire those same hands command with a flick of the wrist.
Bucky’s gaze is piercing as he looks down at you, listening with his breath visibly held.
“But I— I still don’t understand. I think.“ Your voice comes thin at first, scraped nearly transparent by crying, but it sharpens on pain the way a blade sharpens on a whetstone. “I just— I saw this gun, and—,” you blur out, the memory making your heart do that awful stutter against your ribs again while Bucky nearly flinches. His eyes go wide, pupils shrinking until they look like two dark pinpricks. “It was an accident. I swear it was an accident. I was just— you told me to grab a shirt of yours but I couldn’t reach up your wardrobe and so I was just going to go grab the shirt you've been wearing, but your jacket was there and then it just fell out. And I— I completely lost my mind because I realized I didn’t actually know anything about you, and I’ve been so stupid, and I’m really not good at this. I'm not good at talking things out or figuring out the right things to say. It’s just— this is so much to take in.”
Bucky´s chest hitches, a rough, dry stutter or air that sounds like he just took a fist to the solar plexus. His face looks almost unrecognizable with the pain plastered on it. You feel his hands tremble against you and he slowly takes them away, putting himself at a small distance to perhaps give you some space. His palms stay open, as do his eyes. He looks entirely unhinged by the clumsiness of his own life seeping into yours.
How could anyone understand how a man can kiss your forehead like a saint and still have blood and fear braided into his name. It’s so hard to understand how someone can look at you the way he is looking at you now—like you are both miracle and mortal wound—and still have lied, still have omitted, still have arranged the world around you so skillfully that you walked through it unknowing, barefoot and bright-hearted, straight into the center of his hidden life.
You do not understand what parts were real and what parts were merely curated, and worst of all, there is a terrible little splinter of you that already suspects the answer is not clean enough to save you. That some unbearable amount of it was real.
Your mouth trembles and you know that he can see it.
“You lied to me,” you sob, and although you mean for it to, it doesn’t sound like a weapon you’re throwing at him. It just sounds sad. “You made it so easy. I didn’t even think about it. I just— I just woke up every day and trusted the way you looked at me. And the whole time, I didn’t even know you.”
You look down at his chest so you can stop having to meet those devastatingly sunken eyes. “You let me fall in love with you not knowing who you were.” Your sentence has a shape now, the grief in you finally managing to find a spine. But you still can’t make your words sound all that accusing. Because you got yourself into this situation. You’re supposed to be furious at yourself first.
You haven’t used the word love before. You just dropped it, being the first time it cleared your teeth and the timing of it feels completely disastrous.
And Bucky suddenly undergoes a drastic freeze, as if his nervous system has been struck by lightning. He seems to tip back just a tiny bit but stays in your orbit. He stares down at you, his mouth parted, his chest stalling on an intake of air that he forgets to let back out.
The fact that you love him—and that you are saying it right now, while covered with dread and shivering nearly against his chest—seems to completely break his brain.
There is a dark heat flooding his face, his jaw tight enough to snap a tooth. He looks agonizingly vulnerable like this, the dangerous mob boss utterly gutted by four letters. His fingers twitch where they are now hovering near your neck, desperately wanting to bury themselves in your hair and pull you back into his skin, but he forces his hands down to his sides, his knuckles trembling against his tailored trousers.
“You…,” he starts, eyes burning with a starved intensity that makes the air in the kitchen feel boiling hot. He swallows loudly, taking a moment, staring out into some space behind you, and switching focus back to you. “Don’t call yourself stupid,” he goes on, voice dropping into a rasp that shakes with the failure of his own arrogance. “None of what you told me and none of what you felt makes you stupid.”
His face leans closer to yours and somehow you only shrink back a tiny bit, not really at all. You can feel the wavering rhythm of his breath against your lips. He looks thoroughly undone by his own greed, stuck in the realization that he won the only thing he ever wanted, right at the exact moment he stopped being the man who holds you in the dark and turned into the reason you’re afraid of the dark.
“The love was real,” he sounds so convinced. His face is breaking, but his voice is not. He knows what he is saying. “Every single second of it was real. I am the one who ruined it. But what I feel, and what we have, that isn’t a lie. I swear to you on my life, it was never a lie.” His eyes close briefly, and it looks like he is losing his footing somewhere internal. “I know how it feels from where you’re standing. But I wasn’t playing some game with you. I wasn’t trying to—” He drags a hand over his face, and for an instant he looks older than you have ever seen him, not in years but in burden, in wear. “I wanted more time. That was my sin in it. I wanted time. I wanted to tell you in a way that didn’t make you look at me like this.”
Like this.
The phrase feels unkind. Because yes—there it is again, the damn nucleus of the whole thing. The way your eyes have changed on him. The way he has noticed every flicker of fear in you as if each one were a cut and he keeps taking your terror not as an insult to his pride but as an injury to something much more private and much more vulnerable. And that, more than any fake excuse could have, is so hard to process. 
Because men who only know cruelty do not usually grieve like this over being feared by the woman they supposedly love. Men who are only monstrous do not usually look half-unmade by it.
You don’t want that thought, you honestly don’t, but it does arrive.
Because he has not hurt you. He hasn’t done a single thing to hurt you, and that makes him so much more complicated at the exact moment you most need him to stay simple.
He has had a thousand opportunities by now to become the thing you are bracing against. In the hallway. In the office. In the kitchen. When you ran. When you fought. When you took the knife. When you cut him. At every turn, there has been room for rage, for punishment, for the kind of retaliatory violence your frightened mind keeps expecting from a man like him, and instead he has done nothing but hold himself on a brutal leash, speak softly, plead, bleed, look at you as if your fear is the one thing in this world he has no defenses against.
And it makes you weaker.
Because fear is easier when it is clean. Outrage is easier when there are no counterweights. But now your thoughts begin to buckle under the strain of contradiction, and you feel yourself growing tired in some deeper way, not merely from running or crying or panic, but from the effort of sustaining one total version of him against the evidence of another.
The story you are trying to tell yourself—that he is simply bad, simply dangerous, simply false—keeps snagging on the memory of his hands shaking when he begged, on the way he threw his men out for aiming guns at you, on the heartache in his face now, open and unarmored and miserable with not knowing how to reach you.
None of it erases anything, how could it this fast, but still it matters, and still some fatal hope flares.
Your lungs are burning. You become dimly aware that your body is leaning, not exactly by choice, but because exhaustion is making choices for you now. The kitchen feels too bright and too far away at the same time. Your fingers feel chilled, your knees unreliable, your heart still overworked from all that horror. Even your anger is beginning to lose its clean edges, dissolving into something wetter and more helpless.
“I don’t know what to do,” you admit, and there is no strength in it at all.
The sentence is barely more than breath, but it changes him instantly, makes his misery seem softer, as if your confusion pains him almost as much as your fear did. His gaze searches your face carefully, greedily, looking for any sign that you have not vanished completely from him.
“You don’t have to know right now,” he comforts, and this time his voice is gentler still, worn down to the most tender parts of his body. “You don’t have to decide anything this second. I know I dropped all of this on you in the worst possible way. I know you’re overwhelmed.”
Overwhelmed. The word is so pitifully insufficient you want to cry some more, but the sound catches and turns to another shivery exhale instead.
Overwhelmed is a rainstorm. A bad day. A missed train. This is seismic. This is having the floor beneath your life cleave open and discovering it was built over a fault line all along.
Still, you know what he means.
Because beneath all the fear, and the betrayal and the urgent need to flee, there is now also this leaden, disorienting fatigue, this collapse of certainty.
You cannot keep all your alarms ringing at once forever. The body is not made for it. At some point even terror begins to sag under its own weight, and in that sagging comes the most dangerous thing of all. Maybe not trust or forgiveness yet, but confusion. A human confusion. The realization that if he truly meant to destroy you, perhaps he would have done it already. That if cruelty were the point, he has passed up too many easy chances. That whatever else he is—and God, he is still intimidating, still hidden, still a man with too much power and too many locked rooms in his life—his feelings for you do not look counterfeit. They look catastrophic. They look real enough to have ruined him too.
He had every opportunity to end this argument with force, not even making his hands dirty in a physical sense. But he didn’t, and that roughened sincerity that seems so deeply wounded keeps gnawing at all the things you thought you found out about this man, the stereotype you made him out to be. It makes a guilty stone drop into your belly and land with damaging intentions.
And you do not know what to do with all this honesty and realness, when real arrives dressed as the very thing you were trying to escape.
But you have to acknowledge that your lack of strength is not the only reason why you have stopped fighting him, stopped trying to get away.
Bucky seems to read some fragment of this in your face, because he does not press harder. He does not crowd you with arguments. He simply stays where he is, close enough for warmth, far enough now that his care has space to breathe. His injured arm hangs at his side, blood drying in a dark seam along his skin, ignored. His other hand lifts as if to touch your cheek, then stops halfway and falls again when he sees the flicker in your eyes. That tiny restraint breaks something in you all over again.
“I know I lied by not telling you,” he says quietly. “I know that. I’m not asking you to call it something prettier. I’m just telling you it wasn’t because you meant nothing. It was because you meant too goddamn much, and I was trying to find a way to bring you closer without making you run.”
The honesty of it is so ugly, so naked, so free of self-congratulation that it feels like he just threw a wet sandbag right at your chest, knocking every scrap of air straight out of your lungs. It’s not an excuse, not quite. More like the shape of the selfishness itself, held out in his own hands for you to look at. He wanted you. He kept you. He delayed the truth because he was afraid the truth would cost him the one bright thing he had allowed himself to love. There is no innocence in that. But there is something crushingly human.
Your eyes burn again and your grip on your own certainty loosens another inch.
You hate that, too, because, damnit, it would be easier to stand here shaking and loathing him if he would just become less tender and less heartbreakingly earnest in his regret. But he stays persistently, ruinously genuine, and all at once you feel not only afraid, not only betrayed, but emptied out by the effort of trying to hold every contradiction at once. He is a bad man. He may also love you. He lied. He is also hurting. He hid things from you. He is also standing here looking like your fear is flaying him alive. None of these truths cancels the others. They just crowd together until your thoughts feel waterlogged, too swollen to separate.
So all that is left is the simplest truth again.
You really are overwhelmed.
You are so overwhelmed that language itself seems too heavy to lift.
Your breathing has started to slowly settle in increments, like a storm reluctantly retreating from a coastline it battered too long. It feels like there are bruises left behind in your lungs, but it no longer aches with each inhale.
Your fear has ebbed enough to make you think again, to make you see again, to make you look at him not as the single monstrous shape your panic tried to build, but as the complicated, human contradiction standing in front of you now.
His shoulders are still too tight, drawn up, and perhaps trying to seem smaller. He keeps his hands visible and loose at his sides to perhaps avoid startling you. The cut along his forearm has darkened into a narrow seam of red, drying in flaking lines against his skin and remaining completely ignored by the man attached to it.
His focus hasn’t left your face. And in that focus, there is not an ounce of triumph. Rather, the opposite. There is only pain. Such a grave torment that lives in the corners of his mouth, the prominent crease between his brows, in the cautious way he keeps tracking your movements as though you still might shove him away and try bolting for the door again.
You swallow and feel the ballast of everything press back down on your chest.
“I—” you start, timidly, using every last scrap of your bravery. You don’t meet his eyes, staring at the floor beside him. “I’ve seen them.” Your voice sounds strange to your own ears, small but a little bit more poised now, like glass that hasn’t shattered but still remembers the impact. “I've seen the news, and the headlines. All the stories about you.”
The words suspend themselves in the space between you.
Bucky takes a moment to answer. His gaze drifts downward, just briefly, as if the floor might offer him something easier to look at than the defenselessness sitting in your eyes. The vulnerable questions there. When he exhales it is long and tired, and it sounds like all the versions of himself he has spent years outrunning are catching up to him anyway.
“Yeah,” he mutters out breathily. But a little flat. There is no denial in it or some sort of excuse. He drags a hand across the back of his neck, his jaw flexing slightly before he speaks again. “I figured you probably had.” He takes a shivering breath, his whole chest lifting. “They’re not all lies.”
You hold your breath, but don’t step back, don’t let fear take its seat at the forefront of your mind again.
He lifts his eyes back to yours then, and the seriousness in them deepens, intensifying into something resolute.
“I’m not gonna stand here and tell you I’m a good man,” he says. The words come slowly, and his eyes are searching yours while he talks. He is placing them carefully like he’s building something honest out of wreckage. “I’m not.”
Your heart stumbles in your chest, but you still keep your feet grounded and meet his eyes.
“I’ve done things I’m not proud of. Things most people wouldn’t forgive if they knew the full story.” His voice lowers slightly. His eyes are full of sorrow. Despite the things he’s saying he unexpectedly doesn’t look threatening at all and it makes something startle abruptly in your chest. “And yeah, I’ll probably keep doing some of those things.” He doesn’t force anything into his tone that maybe should be there. He´s not saying those things with pride or arrogance or even threat. He has just accepted the callous contours that make his life the way it is. “But not for the reasons people think.”
His eyes soften then, slightly. And it makes you realize that they’ve actually been soft all along.
“I do what I do because there are people in this world who deserve protection. People who don’t have the power to protect themselves.” His gaze holds yours a little more firmly now. “And sometimes the only way to keep those people safe is to be the guy willing to do the ugly work.”
Your throat tightens.
“I’d do just about anything to protect you, Y/n. Even if it’s me you want protection from.”
The kitchen feels very still.
You don’t know what to say to that. You’re not even sure there is something to say. The statement isn’t a justification so much as a window, and looking through it leaves you with more thoughts to sort through and you’ve already gone through so many. But you hear him. You really do.
And he seems to notice that you’re listening now—maybe not agreeing, not forgiving, but truly listening, hearing him out—and some small measure of relief loosens the tension in his shoulders.
He doesn’t move a single muscle, standing before you like a brick wall, his legs pinned wide on the kitchen tiles, his frame perfectly still except for the anxious heave of his chest. His arms are hanging at his side, and shit, your gaze just has to focus on that bloody trail on his forearm. Because right, you’ve cut James Buchanan Barnes through his expensive suit enough to make him bleed. The redness runs from his wrist to his knuckles and you see some dots on the floor. The fabric of his suit is soaking it up, turning a dark wet black around the tear.
He still doesn’t glance down at it. He’s still so entirely anchored to your face, his broad shoulders squared as if he’s trying to shield you from the very room he owns. The survival instinct that had you clawing at the air drops away and now there is a sudden freezing emptiness in your head. And in that blank space, something takes place.
You look at the knife on the linoleum, then at the wet red tracking down his arm, and your stomach completely plummets through the ground. The panic you felt earlier didn’t protect you, it turned you clumsy and ignorant.
“Oh, no,” you choke out, gaze fixed on his arm, your words hacking up from your chest miserably. “Bucky, I— Your arm, I— I didn’t mean— This is my fault, I swear I didn’t mean to—”
“Hey,” he cuts in, his voice lowering into a rough, immediate hush that clips the words right out of your mouth. “Hey, no, sweetheart. No.” He steps back into your space and his huge palms come up, traveling slowly until they map themselves carefully across your jawline.
His fingers are trembling and the pressure is incredibly light. His skin is warm, smelling of that same familiar soap from upstairs, and his thumbs softly brush the wet tear tracks off your cheekbones, forcing you to look straight into his eyes. He doesn’t even spare a glance at his forearm.
“You don’t ever apologize to me for that,” he whispers hoarsely, his chest hitching against yours as he tries to get his breathing normal. There is so much regret in his voice, it is too much for your heart to handle. “You were scared out of your mind and I did that to you. That?” He tilts his arm toward you, indicating that he is talking about the cut. “That is nothing, sweetheart. Nothing.” The corner of his mouth lifts faintly, but the expression is gentler and definitely much more somber than humorous. “I’ve taken hits that should’ve put me in the ground, and none of them touched me.”
You shake your head in his palms. “But, I—”
“Doll,” he shushes, his arms keeping your chin locked, but not firm at all. His gaze is drilling into yours and it feels like he’s bleeding more from the inside and not the outside. “That little scratch hurts a hell of a lot less than watching you run from me.”
Your hands slowly stop trying to find leverage against his chest. The heat of his palms against your jaw feels like a grounding force, something so familiar but also completely new. It’s not entirely unpleasant in its newness.
You look up into his eyes, seeing the complete lack of the monster he just unleashed on his guards, and you can’t help but feel a little unmoored.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now,” you admit breathily, your voice cracking as your forehead drops forward to rest against his tie.
Bucky lets out a long, ragged exhale, his chin resting against the top of your head as his arms wrap around your shoulders, pulling you into a hold that feels firm but unforced.
“You don’t have to figure it out right now, darling,” he eases, his words spoken with a splintered scrape into your hair. “You don’t have to decide anything today, or tomorrow, or next week. Take all the time you need. Turn it over in your head. Think about everything you saw, everything I am. And whatever you choose to do—if you want to pack your bags, and disappear, if you never want to see my face again—I will let you go. I will make sure you are safe, and I will support whatever choice you make. I swear it.”
He pulls back just an inch, his thumbs gently guiding your face up again so he can look straight into your eyes. There is something desperately begging in his stare, but he keeps his posture completely still, refusing to pressure you.
“But please.“ His knuckles tremble slightly against your cheek. “Just stay the night. Don't run out now while this is all still so new. Stay until morning. As soon as the sun’s up, the car is yours,” he promises sorrowfully, his thumbs catching the last of the dampness on your cheek. “If you want to leave, you leave. You can walk out of here and never look back, and I won’t follow you. I won’t look for you. If that’s what it takes to make you feel safe, I’ll let you go.”
He stops, his jaw clamping tight for a second, a sharp, jumbled hitch in his ribs breaking his breathing.
“But god, I hope you don't,” he shoves the words past the tightness in his throat, his eyes wide and burning into yours so achingly. “I will spend every single day of my life doing whatever it takes to fix this. I’ll earn back an inch of your trust at a time. I’ll show you the rest of me—the real parts—if you just give me the chance to try. I want you to love me again. I want that more than anything.”
He hitches his weight just a fraction closer, his large hands still framing your jaw with agonizingly slow caution.
“But just stay this single night,” he pleads with a strain in his voice, his forehead dropping down to rest lightly against yours. “Just stay until morning. Let me get you out of this kitchen, and you can just sleep. That’s all. Just tonight.”
You stare at the dark red crusting on his wool cuff, then look into that heavy, broken-down look in his eyes. Trying to picture next week or even tomorrow feels like watching a knotted ball of wire and not finding out where to start untying it.
But right now, your muscles are just running on empty, completely flattened and powerless from feeling all that panic. You let out one long shudder of air, asking your awareness for any reasons why you should still try to get the hell away from this guy, and come up with nothing yet. It’s all too fresh to truly give this some thought and right now all you want to do is curl up in those silky sheets and sleep it all off.
You give him a small nod. “Okay. Okay, Bucky, I’ll stay the night.”
Bucky’s shoulders drop with a massive, rattling relief. He doesn't say anything else, he just tucks your head back under his chin, his big arms closing around you to carry your weight out of the quiet kitchen, leaving the knife and the blood behind on the floorboards.
You don’t know what comes when the sun is up. You don’t know what loving a man like him means. You don’t know if the life he lives can ever exist beside the life you thought you wanted.
You don’t know if trust can grow again from the cracked ground beneath your feet, and considering your decision making skills, you shouldn’t let your heart handle things anymore.
But, frighteningly and also not all that much surprisingly after all, when you imagine leaving now—truly leaving, turning your back on him and walking out of this mansion forever—the image doesn’t bring relief.
It brings something bleak.
Because for all the discoveries of tonight and all that fear, all that shock, and the trust that has been abruptly broken, there is a bullheaded part of you that understands something you can’t yet put into words for him to hear.
You could run from this house.
You could run from his name.
But you are not sure you could run from him.
“The truth is rarely pure and never simple”
- Oscar Wilde
A/n: Looking at the word count now, I honestly probably could’ve turned this into a mini series but because this whole thing is essentially one long scene, splitting it up even more just didn’t feel right to me. So I guess I just have to admit that this became an unexpectedly long two-parter lmao.
As always, I would absolutely love to hear your thoughts on this continuation, if it gave you hope, or even if you expected something different to happen. I always enjoy hearing your interpretations and feelings after reading ♡
I also wanted to gently address something else. I’ve received a few critical comments regarding certain reactions, choices, and dynamics in the story, and I truly hope this second part helped answer some questions or at least offered a little more perspective. If it didn’t, that’s completely okay too.
What I want you to know, I genuinely do appreciate helpful criticism, especially when it comes to my writing itself, because I’m always trying to improve and become better at what I do. Constructive feedback that gives me something to work with is always welcome and appreciated. But if something in the story simply wasn’t for you, or you personally disliked a choice I made, then sometimes it’s okay to just move on from it instead of tearing it apart. And if you do choose to criticize something, I just ask that you do it kindly. We’re still a community here, and there’s no reason to be harsh or blunt. Talk to me like a human being.
I put a lot of time, emotion, and effort into these stories, not to be told this makes no sense or this is weird without any real conversation behind it. Sometimes I don’t think through every single detail deeply because at the end of the day, this is still fiction born from messy little ideas in my head, written for comfort, entertainment, and emotion—not perfection!
Still, thank you to everyone who continues to boost me and my work and helped me stay motivated to finish this part ♡
And if you enjoyed my work, please consider supporting me at my ko-fi ♡
Bucky being weirded out by his pregnant wife’s (reader) pregnancy cravings and tries it and he ends up kinda liking it
Bucky had seen a lot of horrifying things in his lifetime.
Hydra experiments. Alien invasions. Gas station sushi at three in the morning.
Even with all those, there is not a thing in the world that could have prepared him for walking into the kitchen at midnight to find his pregnant wife dipping dill pickles into a bowl of melted chocolate ice cream.
He stopped dead in the doorway.
“You’re joking.”
You looked up from your spot perched on the counter, oversized sweatshirt stretched over your rounded stomach. “I’m not.”
Bucky stared at the combination in your hands like it had personally offended him. “Baby, that is a crime.”
“It’s delicious.”
“It’s disgusting.”
You took a loud, deliberate crunch before dragging the pickle through another swirl of chocolate. “You’re just closed-minded.”
“I’m not closed-minded,” he argued. “I’m sane.”
The look you gave him was deeply unimpressed.
Pregnancy cravings had become a regular occurrence over the last few months, but this one might’ve been the worst yet. Earlier that week, you’d cried because the diner down the street stopped serving curly fries after ten. Two nights ago, you’d demanded peanut butter toast with hot sauce at one in the morning. Bucky had made it without complaint because he adored you, but even then he’d looked mildly traumatized.
This though?
This was villain behavior.
“You want some?” you asked sweetly.
“No.”
“You didn’t even think about it.”
“I did think about it,” he said. “I thought absolutely not.”
You shrugged, entirely unbothered, and continued eating while Bucky made himself tea. He kept glancing over his shoulder at you with increasing suspicion.
The worst part was the sound.
Crunch.
Then the soft scrape of pickle against ice cream.
Crunch.
It shouldn’t have smelled good together, but somehow the salty tang mixed with the sweetness in a way that kept making his nose twitch.
Bucky narrowed his eyes.
“You’re doing this on purpose.”
“I literally offered you some.”
“You’re trying to trick me.”
“James Buchanan Barnes,” you gasped dramatically. “I would never.”
“You absolutely would.”
You grinned around another bite.
God, you looked cute.
That was the problem. You could be sitting there eating drywall and he’d still think you were adorable.
Pregnancy looked painfully good on you too, which Bucky tried not to think about too hard unless he wanted to combust on the spot. The softness in your cheeks, the glow in your skin, the way your stomach curved beneath his shirts—it made him emotional in ways he couldn’t explain.
He crossed the kitchen and settled between your spread knees automatically, large hands resting on your hips.
“How’s our girl tonight?” he asked, rubbing your belly gently.
Right on cue, the baby kicked.
Bucky’s entire face softened instantly.
“There she is,” he murmured.
You smiled down at him, carding your fingers through his hair. “She’s been moving all night.”
“Probably trying to escape because of what you’re feeding her.”
“Oh my god.”
“I’m serious,” he said solemnly. “She’s fighting for her life in there.”
You laughed so hard you nearly snorted, and Bucky felt his chest tighten with affection. He loved making you laugh lately. Loved seeing you happy when pregnancy had been exhausting on your body.
Then you held the pickle toward him again.
“One bite.”
“No.”
“One.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You made me try sardines.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“You weren’t pregnant and emotionally unstable.”
Your mouth dropped open in betrayal.
Bucky grinned.
“You’re evil,” you informed him.
“Maybe.”
But you kept staring at him with those big hopeful eyes, and unfortunately for him, Bucky Barnes had never been capable of denying you much of anything.
Especially now.
Especially when you were carrying his child.
With a heavy sigh, he leaned forward.
“One bite,” he warned.
Your face lit up triumphantly.
“Oh my god, yes.”
“This better not ruin my life.”
“It’ll change your life.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
You guided the pickle toward his mouth like you were feeding a wild animal. Bucky took the smallest possible bite, already grimacing before he’d even tasted it.
Sweet chocolate.
Cold vanilla.
Sharp vinegar.
Salty pickle.
His eyebrows furrowed immediately.
You watched him expectantly. “Well?”
Bucky chewed slowly.
Then paused.
Then frowned harder.
Because the horrifying part was—
“…it’s not terrible.”
You gasped like he’d just confessed his love all over again.
“I knew it!”
“No, hold on—”
“I knew it,” you repeated louder.
“It’s weird.”
“But good.”
He hesitated.
“…a little.”
Your victory screech echoed through the apartment.
Before Bucky could defend himself, you shoved another bite toward him and he actually accepted it this time, which was probably his first mistake.
His second mistake was taking a bigger bite.
Because somehow it worked.
The crunch with the creaminess. The salty and sweet together.
Bucky looked deeply disturbed by his own reaction.
“I hate this.”
“You love it.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
He pointed accusingly at you. “You’re not allowed to tell anyone about this.”
“Too late. I’m telling Sam immediately.”
“Baby.”
“I’m putting it in the baby book.”
Bucky groaned, resting his forehead against your stomach while you laughed. He could feel the vibrations of it beneath his cheek, warm and alive and so overwhelmingly you.
After a moment, your laughter softened.
“You really don’t think I’m gross?” you asked quietly.
Bucky looked up immediately.
“What?”
“The cravings. The crying. Me waking you up at weird hours.” You gave a tiny shrug. “I know pregnancy’s kinda… weird.”
His expression melted so fast it made your chest ache.
“Doll,” he said gently, sliding his hands over your thighs. “You’re growing our baby. You could ask me to grill a watermelon at four in the morning and I’d do it.”
You snorted.
“Actually,” he added thoughtfully, “that might be better than the pickle thing.”
You laughed again, and Bucky leaned forward to kiss you softly.
Sweet chocolate still lingered on your lips.
“…Okay,” he muttered against your mouth. “Maybe give me another pickle.”
Your eyes widened in delight.
“Oh, you are SO obsessed with this now.”
“I’m literally not.”
“Sure, honey.”
Bucky sighed dramatically as you handed him another chocolate-covered pickle.
Bucky and reader who have been intimate for a bit now, but he’s always the giver or focusing on her pleasure cause he struggles to accept love. he comes back from a mission really tense so she offers to lend a “helping hand” if you catch my drift… cue spice and emotional intimacy
The apartment door clicked shut harder than necessary.
Bucky stood in the entryway with rigid shoulders, tactical jacket hanging heavy off his frame, the faint scent of gun oil and sweat still clinging to him. His metal arm whirred softly when he flexed his fingers, jaw tight enough to crack stone.
Another mission. Another stretch of being what the Winter Soldier had been built for—violence, precision, detachment.
You’d been waiting on the couch in one of his old henleys, legs tucked beneath you, the fabric skimming your thighs. Three weeks he’d been gone. Three weeks of texts that grew shorter and sharper the longer he stayed away.
You knew that look in his eyes the second he met yours.
Exhaustion wrapped in armor.
“Hey, soldier,” you said softly, standing. “Come here.”
He crossed the room, but he didn’t reach for you the way he usually did. No immediate tug into his chest. No burying his face into your neck like he needed your skin to remember who he was.
Instead, he dropped onto the couch with a heavy exhale, elbows braced on his knees as he stared at the floor.
“Rough one?” you asked quietly, stepping between his spread thighs.
“Too many ghosts,” he muttered. His voice sounded like gravel. “Felt the old programming whispering again. Had to shut it out.”
Your fingers slid through his hair, brushing it back from his forehead. He leaned into the touch for half a second before catching himself and straightening.
“I’m fine,” he said automatically.
“You’re not.”
You cupped his jaw, thumb stroking over the stubble there. “You’re wound so tight I’m worried you’ll snap. Let me help.”
His blue eyes flicked up to yours, wary.
“Doll, I’m not—”
“I know.”
You kissed him slowly, soft and patient. He kissed you back instantly—hungry, desperate, familiar—but when your hand drifted down his chest toward his belt, he caught your wrist.
“You don’t have to,” he said roughly. “I’d rather focus on you. That’s what I need.”
Your chest ached at how practiced the response sounded.
Because lately, every intimate moment had become about you.
His mouth. His hands. His body.
Always making you come apart while he held himself back like pleasure was something dangerous. Like accepting it would mean accepting the love attached to it, too.
Like he still couldn’t separate being wanted from being useful.
“Bucky,” you whispered, kneeling between his legs. “I want this. I want to take care of you for once.”
Conflict flickered across his face immediately.
The tension in him was everywhere—corded neck, clenched fists, the stiffness in his spine. For a moment you thought he’d shut down completely.
Then, finally, he gave the smallest nod.
You undid his belt slowly, deliberately, watching the way his breathing changed with every touch. By the time you freed him from his jeans, he was already half-hard, heavy against his stomach.
Your hand wrapped around him gently.
Bucky’s head tipped back against the couch with a broken groan.
“Fuck… baby.”
You stroked him slowly, twisting your wrist at the head the way you knew he liked. His metal fingers dug into the couch cushion while his flesh hand rested lightly in your hair—not guiding, not controlling.
Just holding on.
Like he needed the reminder that this was real.
You leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of his thigh before taking him into your mouth. The sound he made was wrecked immediately, low and helpless in a way he rarely allowed himself to be.
“Jesus Christ.”
You worked him carefully, slow and warm, letting him feel every ounce of affection behind it. His thighs trembled beneath your hands. His breathing turned uneven.
And still, even now, he tried to hold himself together.
“Slow down,” he rasped. “I’m not gonna last if you keep—”
You pulled back just enough to look up at him, hand still stroking him steadily.
“Good,” you whispered. “I want you to let go.”
That did something to him.
You saw it happen in real time—that final crack in the control he held onto so desperately.
His eyes darkened as he watched you. Vulnerable. Bare. Almost frightened by how badly he wanted this.
Wanted you.
You took him deep again with a soft hum, and his hand tightened carefully in your hair as his thighs shook beneath you.
“Doll—shit—I’m—”
He came with a guttural moan, head falling back against the couch as every bit of tension snapped at once.
When you finally pulled away, wiping your mouth gently, Bucky looked stunned.
Completely wrecked.
His chest heaved beneath the open collar of his shirt, cheeks flushed pink, shoulders finally loose for the first time since he’d walked through the door.
You climbed into his lap immediately, straddling him.
His arms wrapped around you on instinct, pulling you flush against his chest like he couldn’t stand even an inch of distance now.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he whispered into your hair, voice cracking slightly.
“I wanted to.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him properly.
“I love you, Bucky. Not what you can do for me. Not what you can survive. You.”
Something fragile crossed his face at that.
His metal hand lifted to your cheek with impossible gentleness.
“I don’t know how to let somebody love me like that yet,” he admitted quietly. “Spent too long thinking I didn’t deserve it.”
You kissed him slowly, letting him feel every word you didn’t say aloud.
“Then we keep practicing.”
His forehead rested against yours for a moment before the kiss deepened again naturally, heat building slow and sweet between you. His hands slipped beneath the hem of your shirt—his shirt—palming over bare skin like he needed to reassure himself you were still there.
This time, when he laid you down on the couch beneath him, there was no frantic rush to make it about you first.
Bucky settled between your thighs, letting you guide him inside with one smooth thrust while he buried his face in your neck with a shaky exhale.
“Move, baby,” you whispered against his ear. “Let me feel you.”
And he did.
Slow, deep strokes that felt less like sex and more like surrender.
Every sound he let himself make felt like a victory. Every gasp against your skin, every quiet groan, every trembling breath.
You whispered praise into his ear the entire time—how good he felt, how safe he was here, how loved he was—until his rhythm finally broke and he came again with your name breathed against your throat, pulling you apart with him in one warm, rolling wave.
Afterward, wrapped together beneath a throw blanket, Bucky traced lazy patterns along your back with cool metal fingertips.
The tension was gone now.
In its place was something softer.
Quieter.
“I’m still gonna struggle with this,” he admitted eventually. “Old habits die hard.”
You pressed a kiss to his collarbone.
“I know. But I’m not going anywhere.”
His arms tightened around you instantly.
And for the first time in weeks, Bucky Barnes let himself be held.
I saw this video a while back of a boy, probably 18 or so, climbing into his dad's lap to see what he would do, and instead of getting weirded out, the dad immediately started rocking and cradling him as if he were a baby, and the mom put down her phone to lovingly watch them and 🥹🥹☹️☹️☹️☹️ could you maybe do something like that with dad Bucky?
You don’t expect it.
It’s late afternoon, the house washed in that soft golden light that makes everything feel slower, gentler. The dishwasher hums in the kitchen. There’s a baseball game murmuring low on the TV. You’re curled into the corner of the couch, half-scrolling on your phone, half-watching your husband pretend not to care about the score.
Bucky’s stretched out in his usual spot—broad shoulders sunk into the cushions, metal arm hooked over the back of the couch, flesh hand absently rubbing at his jaw. He looks big. Solid. Safe.
And across the room, your son hovers.
Eli is eighteen now. Taller than you by a mile. Taller than Bucky by a fraction of an inch, which Bucky pretends not to notice. All long limbs and shy smiles, with his father’s blue eyes and your softness around the edges.
He lingers in the doorway like he’s arguing with himself.
You glance up from your phone. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” he says quickly. Too quickly. He shoves his hands into the pocket of his hoodie. “Just… tired.”
Bucky snorts softly. “That’s what happens when you stay up until two in the morning playing whatever the hell that game is.”
“It’s not a game,” Eli mutters. “It’s— never mind.”
He drifts closer. Hovers by the arm of the couch. Bucky doesn’t look at him, but you know he’s aware. Always aware.
There’s a beat of silence.
Then, without another word, Eli just… moves.
He drops down onto the couch and, in one awkward, impulsive motion, climbs halfway into his father’s lap.
It’s clumsy. Too-big knees knocking into Bucky’s thigh. One elbow nearly catching him in the chin. He hesitates for a split second like he’s expecting to be laughed at. Like he’s bracing for it to be weird.
Your breath catches.
Bucky doesn’t even blink.
He shifts automatically, like muscle memory from decades ago. His metal arm slides down to brace behind Eli's back. His flesh hand comes up around his son’s shoulders. He adjusts his legs to better support the weight—because Eli isn’t a toddler anymore, isn’t a small bundle he can tuck against his chest.
He’s grown.
But Bucky cradles him anyway.
“C’mere,” he murmurs, voice going soft in a way that only you and your children ever get to hear. He tugs Eli closer, guiding his head down against his chest.
And then he starts rocking.
Slow. Gentle. Back and forth.
Like he used to do when Eli was colicky and refused to sleep. Like he did when nightmares hit at three a.m. and your little boy would crawl into your bed shaking. Like he did after scraped knees and broken hearts and that first brutal rejection letter from his dream college.
Eli goes still.
For a second, his body is tense. Shoulders tight. Breath shallow.
Then he exhales.
It shudders out of him, like something he’s been holding in for weeks.
Bucky presses a kiss into his hair without hesitation. “Hey,” he says quietly. “You’re okay.”
You set your phone down.
Neither of them notice.
Eli's hands curl into the fabric of Bucky’s Henley, fingers bunching it like he’s five years old again. “I just—” His voice cracks, and he swallows hard. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Dad.”
There it is.
College acceptance letters on the counter. Scholarship decisions looming. Friends talking about moving across the country. The weight of almost-adulthood pressing down on him.
Bucky doesn’t offer a lecture. Doesn’t tease him for climbing into his lap like a kid.
He just tightens his hold.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I remember that feeling.”
Eli lets out a shaky laugh. “Did you?”
“Sure did.” Bucky’s chin rests lightly on top of his son’s head. “Only difference is, I didn’t have anyone tell me it was okay to be scared.”
The room feels smaller. Warmer.
You blink back the sudden sting in your eyes.
Bucky keeps rocking him, slow and steady. “You don’t have to have it all figured out,” he continues. “You’re eighteen, not eighty. Hell, I’m a hundred and something and I still don’t know what I’m doing half the time.”
That gets a real laugh out of Eli. Muffled against his father’s chest.
Bucky stills for half a second—just long enough for you to see the flicker of something fierce and protective flash across his face.
Then he tips Eli"s chin up gently.
“Kid,” he says, firm but tender. “You could never disappoint me.”
Eli's eyes shine. So painfully young in that moment.
“I don’t care where you go. I don’t care what you study. I don’t care if you change your mind ten times.” Bucky brushes his thumb under Eli’s eye, catching the tear before it can fall. “You’re my son. That’s it. That’s the whole job. You exist, and I’m proud.”
Silence settles again.
Eli folds in closer, almost instinctively, pressing his face back into his dad’s chest. Bucky resumes the gentle rocking without even thinking about it.
And that’s when Eli whispers, small and vulnerable, “Can you just… hold me for a minute?”
Bucky’s answer is immediate.
“As long as you need.”
You watch them from your spot on the couch, heart so full it aches.
Your giant, battle-scarred super soldier husband, cradling his eighteen-year-old son like he weighs nothing. Metal arm careful and steady. Flesh hand warm and protective. Rocking him in the quiet of your living room like time hasn’t passed at all.
After a while, Eli's breathing evens out.
He doesn’t fall asleep—but he softens. Shoulders loose. Fingers slack in Bucky’s shirt.
Bucky presses another kiss into his hair. “Love you, E.”
There’s no hesitation this time when Eli answers.
“Love you too, Dad.”
You finally move, sliding closer and curling into Bucky’s side, tucking yourself against his shoulder. His metal arm shifts to make space for you without disturbing Eli.
Your boys.
You rest your head against Bucky’s shoulder and look up at him. His eyes meet yours over the top of Eli's head.
There’s something raw there. Grateful. Almost disbelieving.
He never thought he’d get this. A son who feels safe enough to climb into his lap. A home where softness isn’t a weakness.
You reach up and smooth your fingers through Eli's hair.
