head empty, no thoughts. only cha woomin. cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin
summary: Bucky Barnes, former winter soldier, now lives in a cute and cozy cottage. The only thing missing? The heat and warm and touch of a person to share it with. The people in the little town in the mountains accepted him, but he still struggling with his past. A shadow so big and persistent he had to live with.
Y/N Y/L/N recently ended an engagement with a man so bad she had to escape. So here she is, in her old nana's cabin. A cozy cottage in a little town in the mountain. She likes to read, and she turned her passion in a job. She's a writer, and a pretty good damn one.
warnings: an extremely fluffy and adorable Bucky Barnes | implied smut (very very light) | little (i swear little) angsty themes | mention of the death of a character (not reader or bucky)
divider by me - if you want it take it but credit me pls @imnotjustreadingg
A cat is a small creature in the middle of the food chain that is fully aware that you are a very large thing that could stomp its head in at any moment and yet it chooses to rest its tiny little head on your leg for a nap and spreads out on the floor near you exposing its belly and its most sensitive organs. It brings dead mice and bugs to you to share food.
Don’t you get it? This tiny thing trusts you. It wants to help you too. It licks your leg thinking that it’s helping. It kneads on you to find comfort. It shares its body warmth with you in the cold and gives you your space in the heat. It hisses at other mammals it sees outside including other cats in an effort to protect its family.
Cats love you so so much. But they will keep trying to eat plastic.
Summary: After accidentally slipping through a portal into an alternate Earth, she discovers that this world’s version of herself is dead—and that version of herself had an unexpected, mysterious bond with Bucky Barnes
Word Count: 14k
Warnings: angst; angst-heavy relationship conflict (verbal fighting, yelling, unresolved anger); panic; mentions of past death; slow-burnish; cursing; introspection; bit of an age gap; variants; mentions of different universes
Author’s Note: This was entirely inspired by Peter and Gamora's relationship in GoTG3...but Bucky is Peter and the main female character is Gamora. I loved the idea of Peter loving Gamora, losing her, and still having feelings for the other version of her who had never met him. This female character is not perfect by any means - she's young, impulsive, and indecisive. But that makes her all the more human.
This takes place after the events of the Thunderbolts...for creativity's sake, let's pretend like Sam and the team get along and everything involving interdimmensional travel is up for grabs. I was a bit loose with the rules of Marvel with this one.
The crime scene had been routine—a drug deal gone wrong in the kind of alley where hope went to die. She'd been photographing evidence, documenting the scattered bullet casings and blood spatter, when reality decided to crack open like an egg.
The portal materialized without warning, a wound in the brick wall that bled golden light and hummed with impossible energy. It defied every law of physics she knew, every rational explanation her detective's mind tried to supply. But in a world where superheroes and mutants fought aliens and villains every other week, she'd developed a healthy respect for the inexplicable.
She should have called for backup. Should have cordoned off the area and waited for someone with more expertise and better equipment. Should have done a dozen things that might have saved her from what came next.
Instead, she'd stepped closer, drawn by a curiosity that had kept her alive this long and was about to be her downfall. The portal's edges rippled like water, casting shifting shadows that made her eyes water. She'd reached out—not to touch it, just to test the air around it, to see if she could feel whatever impossible force was tearing through dimensions.
The puddle was small. Insignificant. The kind of thing she'd normally step over without thinking. But positioned exactly where it was, at the precise edge of the portal's influence, it became the pivot point on which her entire world turned.
Her foot slipped. Physics took over. And suddenly she was falling forward, through liquid light and the space between heartbeats, through the golden throat of something that shouldn't exist.
The landing knocked the breath from her lungs and the sense from her head. When the world stopped spinning, she found herself sprawled on familiar concrete, staring up at the same brick walls, breathing the same stale alley air. But the portal was gone, sealed shut like it had never existed, leaving only the faintest afterimage burned into her retinas.
And somewhere in the distance, she heard the murmur of a city—familiar, but not the same. The cadence of traffic sounded off-key, like a song she knew played in the wrong tempo. The low thrum of voices carried different accents, different rhythms. Even the distant wail of a siren seemed to rise and fall in patterns her ears didn't recognize.
The wrongness revealed itself in layers, each one more unsettling than the last.
She discovered the first crack when she went to what should have been her station. At first glance, it looked identical—same brick facade weathered by decades of city grime, same cracked concrete steps where she'd sat during her lunch breaks, same scuffed double doors that stuck in humid weather. But the moment she walked inside, the air felt different. Heavier. Foreign.
The desk sergeant looked up with mild curiosity rather than the usual grunt of acknowledgment. Officer Martinez walked past without his customary nod. Detective Chen emerged from the break room with coffee and didn't so much as glance in her direction.
"Excuse me," she said, approaching the front desk with her badge already in hand. "I need to check in with Chief Barnett."
The sergeant—Henderson, his nameplate read, though she could have sworn his name was different yesterday—looked at her like she'd asked for directions to Mars.
"Ma'am, there's no Chief Barnett at this precinct. Never has been. You might be looking for the 12th? They got a Captain Barrett over there."
Her badge felt suddenly heavy in her palm. She held it up, the shield catching the fluorescent light. "I'm Detective—"
"Ma'am." Henderson's voice sharpened, and she saw his hand drift toward his radio. "I'm going to need you to step back from the desk."
That was when things went bad. Fast.
Within minutes, she was surrounded. Familiar faces wearing unfamiliar expressions of suspicion and confusion. She knew these people—had shared coffee with them, complained about paperwork, celebrated arrests. But they looked at her like she was a stranger wearing a stolen uniform.
"I work here," she insisted, even as they guided her toward the interrogation rooms. "Check my locker—it's number 47. Check my desk. I've been here for six years."
But when they checked, locker 47 belonged to someone else. The desk she thought of as hers was occupied by a detective she'd never seen before. And when they ran her prints—her own goddamn fingerprints—the room fell silent.
"That's impossible," she heard Chen whisper to Martinez. "These prints... they match a woman who died three years ago."
The words hit her like ice water. Died. Three years ago. The version of her that had lived in this world was dead, and now they were staring at her like she was either an imposter or a ghost.
They moved her to Interview Room 2—the one with the broken chair leg that she'd always avoided. The irony wasn't lost on her. Here she was, finally sitting in the damn chair, but as a suspect instead of a detective. She tested the chair before she sat down in it. The broken leg was stable.
The one-way mirror reflected her pale face back at her, and she found herself staring at her own features as if seeing them for the first time. Same eyes, same scar on her chin from falling off her bike at age seven, same stubborn part of her hair that never stayed flat. But somehow, she looked like a stranger to herself.
Detectives came and went—Patterson, who'd taught her how to read blood spatter patterns; Rodriguez, who always brought donuts on Fridays; Williams, who'd been her partner for two years. Each one studied her with the same mixture of confusion and suspicion, as if her very existence was an insult to someone's memory.
She gave them everything—her name, badge number, social security, the names of every case she'd worked, every partner she'd had, every scar and story that made up her life. All of it true, and all of it sounding like elaborate fiction when filtered through their disbelief.
Hours passed. Or maybe days. Time felt fluid in that windowless room, marked only by the steady hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional rattle of the ancient air conditioner. She'd long since stopped pinching herself, accepting that whatever this was, it wasn't a dream.
When the door finally opened again, she expected another detective with the same tired questions and skeptical eyes. Instead, a stranger walked in.
He moved with the careful control of someone accustomed to being watched, though tension coiled in his shoulders like a spring wound too tight. Not a cop—his clothes were too casual, too lived-in. Civilian, but not ordinary. The way the desk sergeant had practically saluted when he'd walked past suggested someone with serious pull.
He was a handsome black man, probably mid-thirties, with intelligent eyes that seemed to catalog everything they saw. When he looked at her, those eyes went soft with something that might have been recognition, or hope, or grief. Maybe all three.
The silence stretched between them like a held breath. She watched him settle into the chair across from her with the careful movements of someone carrying invisible weight. His hands rested on the table, knuckles pale with tension, and she found herself studying the calluses on his palms—the kind that came from gripping something regularly. Reins, maybe. Or rope.
Finally, he spoke. His voice was steady but quiet, like he was afraid of the answer before he asked the question.
"Do you know who I am?"
The hope in his voice was so naked it made her chest tight. She wished she could give him what he was looking for, but honesty was all she had left.
"No," she said, then added more gently, "Should I?"
Something inside him crumbled. She saw it happen—the way his shoulders sagged, how his breath left him like he'd been punctured. The careful composure slipped, revealing grief so raw it made her want to look away. But he held her gaze, managing a smile that was equal parts bitter and fond.
"Maybe not this you," he murmured, and there was a world of loss in those four words. "Was worth a shot, though."
Her brows drew together, frustration sparking hot beneath the confusion. "What do you mean, 'this me'? Look, I don't know what kind of game this is, but I'm a detective. This is my station—or it's supposed to be. I don't know what happened, but one minute I was processing a crime scene and the next there was this... portal, or whatever the hell—"
"Portal?" He leaned forward so fast his chair creaked, urgency replacing the gentle sorrow in his voice. "What did it look like? Exactly where were you when it appeared? Did you feel anything before it opened—heat, electrical charges, any kind of distortion in the air?"
The rapid-fire questions made her head spin. "I don't know! It just... appeared. Like someone had torn a hole in reality and filled it with golden light. It was humming, vibrating the air around it." She shoved back from the table, the legs screeching against linoleum. "Look, I don't know who you are or why you're asking, but I've had enough mystery for one day. Just tell me what the hell is happening to me."
He studied her for a long moment, his jaw working like he was chewing on words too big to swallow. When he finally spoke, his voice was careful, measured—the tone of someone delivering news that would change everything.
"You're not wrong. About this not being your world."
Her heart stuttered. "What?"
"You came through some kind of dimensional rift. It happens—rarely, but it happens. Sometimes the barriers between realities get thin, and things slip through the cracks." He spoke gently, but each word felt like a small betrayal of everything she thought she knew about the universe. "You've crossed into a parallel dimension. A world that's similar to yours, but not the same."
She stared at him like he'd started speaking in tongues. "Parallel dimensions? Are you out of your mind? You expect me to believe I just... fell through a crack in reality like some kind of science fiction nightmare?"
"I know it sounds impossible." His voice remained calm, patient—the way you'd talk to someone standing on a ledge. "But I've seen enough impossible things to know they're usually just improbable. And..." His eyes softened as he looked at her again, really looked, like he was trying to memorize her face. "You're not the first version of you I've met."
The room seemed to tilt. "Excuse me?"
"There was another you. Here, in this world." He paused, choosing his words with surgical precision. "She was... important. To a lot of people. To me. She was a good friend."
Something in his tone—reverent, aching, carefully controlled—made her stomach clench with dread. She swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper.
"What happened to her?"
For the first time since he'd entered the room, he looked away. His hands flexed against the table, tendons standing out like bridge cables. When he spoke, his words were weighted with the kind of grief that never fully heals.
"She died. Three years ago."
The words hung in the air between them like smoke, acrid and choking. She felt the world shift beneath her feet, reality reshuffling itself into patterns she didn't recognize. The fluorescent lights seemed too bright suddenly, the air too thin.
"No." The word came out sharp, defensive. She shot to her feet so fast her chair crashed into the wall behind her. "No, that's not possible. I'm right here. Alive. Breathing. You don't just get to have another version of me conveniently die before I show up. That's—" She barked out a laugh that sounded more like a sob. "That's fucking insane."
He didn't flinch, didn't move, just watched her pace the small room like a caged animal. His patience only made her angrier.
"Do you hear yourself?" She spun to face him, fury and terror warring in her voice. "Parallel dimensions? Different versions of me? That's comic book bullshit. I'm a detective, not some interdimensional traveler. You think you can feed me this story and I'll just... what? Accept it? Stop asking questions?"
She slammed her palms against the table, leaning over him. "Tell me the truth!"
He met her gaze without wavering, and his voice when he spoke was rock-steady, implacable as gravity.
"I am telling you the truth."
The conviction in his tone cut through her spiraling panic like a blade. She froze, chest heaving, studying his face for any sign of deception. But there was none—just bone-deep certainty and a grief so profound it seemed to have worn grooves in his features.
He rose slowly, closing half the distance between them—close enough to be reassuring, far enough to avoid seeming threatening. "I know how insane this sounds. I know every instinct you have is screaming that it's impossible. But I've lived through stranger things than you being here right now. And I'm not trying to trick you or manipulate you. I'm trying to help."
Her jaw clenched, but some of the fight leaked out of her voice. "Why should I believe you?"
He was quiet for a moment, seeming to weigh his words. Then he extended his hand—palm up, an offering rather than a demand.
"Because my name is Sam Wilson. And if you let me, I'll do everything I can to make sure you're safe."
Something in the way he said it—solid as bedrock, unshakeable as sunrise—made her anger waver. There was a quality to his voice that spoke of promises kept, of responsibility accepted and never abandoned. Without meaning to, she found herself believing him.
Sam Wilson was clearly someone important. She could tell by the way the precinct transformed around him. Officers who'd treated her like a curiosity or a threat suddenly straightened when he appeared, their voices taking on the particular tone of respect reserved for true authority. They clapped him on the shoulder, thanked him for unspecified favors, and more than one called him "Cap" as they headed out for patrol.
She studied him as they walked to his car, noting the way he moved—confident but not cocky, alert without being paranoid. Military bearing, but softened by civilian life.
"Cap?" she asked as they settled into his black sedan. "As in Captain?"
Something flickered across his face—amusement mixed with something heavier, more complicated. His smile was warm but tinged with melancholy, like a song played in a minor key.
"Something like that."
She didn't press, but the title lodged itself in her mind like a splinter. Captain. The kind of rank that came with weight, with responsibility, with the expectation that you'd carry other people's burdens as easily as your own.
He drove her through the restless pulse of New York, and she found herself cataloging the differences. The skyline was almost identical, but not quite. A building here that shouldn't exist, a street there that curved the wrong way. Like someone had rebuilt her city from memory but gotten some of the details wrong.
They stopped at a building that seemed to hum with unseen energy, its architecture somehow more alive than the structures around it. The man waiting inside introduced himself as Doctor Stephen Strange, the air around him shimmered with barely contained power.
Strange studied her with eyes that had seen too much, and she caught the flicker of recognition—and pain—when his gaze met hers. Another person haunted by a ghost she was apparently wearing the face of.
His examination was thorough, involving incantations in languages that hurt her ears to hear and geometric patterns of light that made her vision water. When he finally delivered his verdict, his voice carried the weight of cosmic authority.
"She's a dimensional variant. Another world's version of the woman you knew." He paused, his expression growing grave. "And the portal that brought her here... it wasn't random. She was meant to come through. Meant to stay."
The words hit her like a physical blow. "What?" She lurched to her feet, the chair scraping against polished marble. "No. No, I don't belong here! This isn't my world, my life. That portal was an accident. You have to send me back."
Her voice cracked on the last word, desperation bleeding through the careful control she'd maintained all day. She turned to Sam, searching his face for any sign that Strange was wrong.
"You said the other me is dead. But I'm not her. I have my own life, my own world. People who'll miss me. You can't just... you can't just expect me to replace her."
Sam flinched like she'd struck him, his gaze dropping to the floor. The grief carved into his features was so raw it made her chest ache with sympathy she didn't understand.
Strange's voice softened, but his words remained uncompromising. "I'm sorry. If there were a way to send you home, I would. But the forces that brought you here... they don't make mistakes. You're here because this is where you belong now."
The pronouncement settled over her like a funeral shroud. She stood frozen for a moment, every muscle tense with the urge to run, to fight, to somehow undo the cosmic joke that had torn her from everything she knew. Instead, she forced herself to breathe, to think, to survive this moment the way she'd survived every other impossible thing life had thrown at her.
"I need air," she managed, and walked out before either of them could respond.
The hallway beyond was lined with artifacts that seemed to hum with their own inner light. Ancient books, crystalline sculptures, weapons that looked like they'd been forged in other dimensions. She leaned against the cool stone wall, closing her eyes and trying to find her center.
That's when she heard their voices drifting from the chamber she'd just left.
"Have you told Barnes yet?" Strange's voice carried clearly in the empty corridor.
A long pause, then Sam's reply, heavy with reluctance. "No. Not yet. I don't even know how to begin that conversation."
"She's here for a reason," Strange said firmly. "The universe doesn't place people where they don't belong. He'll need to know. The sooner the better."
Another silence, longer this time. When Sam spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper. "Yeah. I just don't know how either of them will handle it."
The conversation ended with the sound of chairs scraping, footsteps moving. She pushed herself off the wall and composed her face just as Sam emerged, looking like he was carrying the weight of the world.
"Let's get out of here," he said gently, as if she hadn't overheard every word.
His brownstone was a refuge from the chaos of the day. Warm wood floors, lived-in furniture, bookshelves that actually held books instead of just decoration. Photographs covered the mantle and side tables: Sam with various people she didn't recognize, group shots that looked like they'd been taken after successful missions, candid moments of laughter and camaraderie.
She sank into his couch, exhaustion finally catching up with her. The adrenaline that had carried her through the day was fading, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness that went beyond physical fatigue.
Sam settled across from her, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together. He studied her for a long moment before speaking.
"I guess it's time I told you who I am. My full story." He took a breath, as if steeling himself. "My name is Sam Wilson. I used to go by the Falcon—had a pair of mechanical wings, worked with the Avengers. But a few years back, Steve Rogers, Captain America, passed the shield to me. So now people call me Captain America."
The revelation should have shocked her, but somehow it fit. The deference at the station, the way Strange had treated him as an equal, the weight he seemed to carry…it all made sense now.
“Yeah, we…had a Steve Rogers in my world,” she murmured, playing with some loose threads between the cushions of the couch. “Had the Avengers. Mutants, too.”
"The version of you that lived here," he continued, his voice growing softer, more careful, "she was part of that world too. An intelligence specialist who helped us track down dangerous people. She fought beside us, bled with us. She was..." He paused, searching for words. "She was family."
Family. The word hung in the air between them, loaded with implications she wasn't ready to unpack.
"And she's gone," she said quietly.
Sam's nod was barely perceptible. "Yeah. She's gone. But you're here now. And maybe—"
"There's no maybe." The words came out harder than she'd intended, sharp with frustration and fear. "There's no cosmic plan or grand design. Sometimes shit just happens. Bad luck, wrong place, wrong time. You're telling me that if you suddenly woke up in a different reality where everyone expected you to be someone else, someone dead, you'd just accept it? Roll over and play the part because strangers called it fate?"
Sam's expression hardened, but not with anger. With understanding that cut too deep. "You think I don't know what it's like to have everything you thought you knew about the world get turned upside down? To lose people who mattered more than your own life?" His voice carried the weight of hard-earned wisdom. "I've wanted to wake up in a different world more times than I can count. One where the people I've lost are still alive, where the choices I made turned out different."
He leaned forward, his gaze intense. "But that's not how it works. We don't get to pick the reality we land in. We just get to decide what we do once we're there. And right now, you're here. That's not negotiable. The only question is what you're going to do about it."
His words hit harder than she'd expected, cutting through her anger to something more vulnerable underneath. She wanted to argue, to maintain her fury because it felt safer than the alternative. Accepting that her old life was truly gone.
"So what, you expect me to just slide into her place? Live in some dead woman's shadow?"
"No one's asking you to replace her." Sam's voice was firm, brooking no argument. "You're not her, and we both know that. But like it or not, you're here now. And pretending this isn't happening won't change that fact."
"I don't belong here," she said, but the words felt hollow even as she spoke them.
"You don't belong there anymore either." The gentleness in his voice made it worse somehow. "If that portal brought you here, maybe it was because this is where you need to be. You can be angry about it—hell, you should be. But anger won't change reality."
The fight drained out of her slowly, like air from a punctured tire. She turned to stare out the front window at the head of the room at the unfamiliar-familiar city beyond, her reflection ghostlike in the glass.
Sam showed her to a small guest room with the same quiet efficiency he'd displayed all day. It was simple but comfortable. Clean sheets, soft pillows, and a window that looked out on a tree-lined street that could have been from her world.
"You can stay here as long as you need," he said, lingering in the doorway. "I'll work on getting you set up with your own place, new identity, whatever you need to build a life here."
The casual way he mentioned building a life here made the reality of the situation crash over her again. This wasn't temporary. This was her new existence, whether she wanted it or not.
"Sam?" Her voice was smaller than she'd intended. "Tell me about her. About... me. The one you knew."
Something in his expression shifted, pain flickering across his features like shadows cast by firelight. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his gaze growing distant.
"She was brilliant," he said finally. "Sharp as hell, with instincts that could cut through any lie or deception. She specialized in intelligence work—tracking people who didn't want to be found, uncovering connections others missed. She came into our world during the hunt for the Winter Soldier, back when he was still... when he was still HYDRA's weapon."
Her stomach clenched at the mention of the Winter Soldier. A killer in her world, same as in this one, it seemed.
"She was the one who helped Steve and Natasha track him down," Sam continued, his voice growing softer. "And when we finally found him, when we realized he could be saved instead of just stopped... she fought for that. Fought to bring him back from the darkness."
The name hit her like a physical blow. Bucky Barnes. The Winter Soldier had a real name, a real identity.
"After that, she stayed close to the team," Sam went on. "Worked missions with us, became part of the family. She was brave, loyal, never hesitated to put herself in harm's way if it meant protecting innocent people or helping the team." His voice caught slightly. "She saved my life more than once. Saved all our lives."
The grief in his voice was palpable, a living thing that filled the space between them. She found herself holding her breath, afraid to disturb the weight of his memories but wanting him to continue.
"She mattered," he said simply. And yet, the effect — the emotion on his face — was devastating.
She didn't ask how the other version of her had died. The pain etched into every line of Sam's expression was answer enough. Some wounds were too fresh to probe, even three years later.
Sam moved to leave, but her voice stopped him at the threshold.
"The Winter Soldier... that's Bucky Barnes, isn't it?"
He went absolutely still, tension radiating from his frame like heat from a furnace.
"In my world," she continued, forcing the words past the tightness in her throat, "the Winter Soldier died. Steve Rogers killed him during the fall of SHIELD. It was the only way to stop him." She hesitated, then added, "I heard you and Strange talking earlier. About... him."
Sam turned slowly, his expression carefully controlled but his eyes dark with something that might have been worry or fear or protective instinct. Maybe all three.
"It's better if you don't know," he said quietly, each word chosen with surgical precision. "Not yet."
The finality in his voice left no room for argument. He left her alone with her questions and the growing certainty that whatever connection existed between her and this world's version of the Winter Soldier, it was going to change everything.
Why did the other version of her help him? What was different about their relationship that Sam seemed so on edge about?
She sat on the edge of the unfamiliar bed in the unfamiliar room, staring out at the unfamiliar-familiar street, and wondered if there was any such thing as fate. Or if the universe was just crueler than she'd ever imagined.
Sam was a good man, that became clear within hours of meeting him. The kind of good that ran bone-deep, expressed not in grand gestures but in small consistencies. He checked in without hovering, offered help without condescension, and by the third day had somehow managed to secure her an apartment only six blocks from his brownstone. When she'd asked how he'd pulled that off so quickly in New York's brutal housing market, he'd just smiled and said he knew people.
She could see why they'd chosen him to carry the shield. His moral compass alone was seemingly larger than life.
Still, living under his roof felt like wearing clothes that didn't quite fit. Not because Sam was unkind. If anything, he was almost painfully considerate, the way people are when they're afraid of breaking something fragile. It was the weight of expectation that pressed against her shoulders, the careful way he sometimes caught himself mid-sentence, as if he'd been about to say something meant for someone else.
Someone who looked exactly like her. Someone who was dead.
She threw herself into research with the desperate focus of someone trying to solve her own existence. Hunched over her laptop at Sam's kitchen table, she devoured everything she could find about this world's history. The Avengers Initiative. The Chitauri invasion. The fall of SHIELD and rise of HYDRA. The Sokovia Accords. Thanos and the Blip—five years when half of all life simply ceased to exist, then returned as suddenly as it had vanished.
The broad strokes matched her world's timeline, but the details were all wrong. Like looking at a painting that had been copied by someone with imperfect memory. Close enough to be familiar, different enough to be deeply unsettling.
What disturbed her most wasn't the differences themselves, but the growing realization that she wore the face of a woman who had lived through these events, who had bled and fought and sacrificed alongside Earth's mightiest heroes. Every record she found mentioned her. Intelligence reports signed with her name, mission debriefs that referenced her tactical assessments, personnel files that listed her as an active associate of the Avengers until three years ago.
And then, abruptly, the records stopped.
Sam's grief haunted the spaces between them like smoke. She'd catch him looking at her sometimes, as if he could will her to be someone else through sheer force of longing. When their eyes met, he'd remember himself and look away, but not before she glimpsed the disappointment that flickered across his features. Brief as lightning, but it left its mark.
She understood. But that didn't make it hurt less.
The day after she'd arrived, Sam's friend Joaquin Torres had shown up with a laptop bag and an easy grin that transformed the heavy atmosphere in the brownstone. Young, maybe mid-twenties, with the kind of boyish charm that made people trust him instinctively. More importantly, he looked at her without the weight of recognition, treating her like a person instead of a ghost wearing familiar skin. He hadn’t known her, the other version of her, Sam had told her. Much to her silent relief — a fresh human interaction was much needed.
"Alright," he'd said, settling at the kitchen table and cracking open his laptop. "Let's get you a new identity. Technically, the old you is listed as deceased, which creates some interesting paperwork challenges. But nothing we can't handle."
His fingers flew across the keyboard with practiced ease, pulling up forms and databases with the casual expertise of someone who'd done this before. She found herself relaxing for the first time since falling through that portal, grateful to be treated like herself…whoever that was now.
By the second day, curiosity got the better of her.
"Did she, the other me, have any family?" she asked, trying to keep her tone casual while her hands twisted together under the table. "Husband, boyfriend, anyone who might be looking for me?"
Joaquin glanced up from his screen, scratching his chin thoughtfully. "Let me check... okay, parents died when she was eleven—" Her stomach clenched. Her parents, the ones in her world, had died around the same time. "—grandparents took her in but passed right before the Blip. No siblings listed." He scrolled further, eyebrows rising. "But damn, look at these connections. Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Sam obviously. Tony Stark had you on his personal payroll after the whole SHIELD thing went sideways in 2014. You ran in some serious circles."
He leaned back, scanning the screen with obvious admiration. "No marriage records, no registered domestic partnerships. But there's some interesting cross-references here..." His grin faltered slightly as his eyes focused on something specific. "Hey, did Sam mention Bucky? Because there's quite a bit of documentation linking you two, and I'm talking—"
He stopped. The words died in his throat as he looked up and saw her expression.
The confusion must have been written across her face in bold letters, because Joaquin's boyish enthusiasm dimmed like someone had turned down his brightness settings. His gaze flicked from her to the laptop screen and back again, and she watched understanding dawn in his eyes with all the subtlety of a freight train.
"Oh." The word came out small, uncertain. "Judging by the look on your face... Sam hasn't talked to you about this yet."
"No," she said carefully, studying his suddenly nervous posture. "He hasn't."
Joaquin shifted in his chair, angling the laptop away from her line of sight with movements that screamed guilt. His cheeks flushed pink, and when he spoke again, his voice had lost all its earlier confidence.
"Listen, if Sam hasn't brought it up, there's probably a good reason. Maybe it's... maybe it's not important right now."
The lie was so transparent she almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
"Something on that screen you don't want me to see, Joaquin?"
"No! Nothing like that," he said too quickly, his voice cracking on the denial. He clutched the laptop closer to his chest like a shield. "It's just... if Sam thinks you're not ready to hear about it yet, then maybe..."
He trailed off, realizing he was only making it worse. She let the silence stretch, watching him squirm, filing away every nervous tic and unconscious gesture. In her experience, people revealed more in their attempts to hide things than they ever did when trying to be honest.
Finally, she nodded slowly, as if accepting his non-explanation. "Okay."
But the damage was done. This was the third time Bucky Barnes's name had surfaced in conversation, always followed by the same pattern—hesitation, deflection, someone changing the subject or ending the conversation entirely. Whatever connection had existed between her dimensional twin and this man, it was significant enough that Sam couldn't even bring himself to discuss it.
The questions multiplied like cancer cells in her mind. Who had Bucky Barnes been to her? An ally? An enemy? Had they worked together, or had she been hunting him? Was he the reason she'd died, or was there something else she wasn’t seeing?
The not-knowing was worse than any answer could be.
When Joaquin packed up his laptop that evening, giving her an awkward yet genuine goodbye, she remained at the kitchen table staring at the stack of files and printouts she'd accumulated. The apartment Sam had found for her was ready—bare bones, but functional. She could move out tomorrow, start building something that resembled a life.
But first, she had research to do.
She waited until she heard Sam's bedroom door close, then fired up her own laptop and got to work. If no one would tell her about Bucky Barnes, she'd find out for herself.
The internet was a treasure trove of declassified documents, survivor testimonies, and conspiracy theories that turned out to be disturbingly accurate. She cross-referenced names, dates, and events, building a timeline that slowly painted a picture of James Buchanan Barnes—friend of Steve Rogers, sergeant in the 107th Infantry, presumed dead in 1945.
Except he hadn't died. HYDRA had found him, broken him, turned him into their perfect weapon. The Winter Soldier had been a man stolen from time and stripped of his identity, programmed to kill without question or memory.
Her hands trembled as she read mission reports that detailed his crimes. Political assassinations spanning decades. Scientists who'd gotten too close to inconvenient truths. Whistleblowers who'd tried to expose corruption. All of them silenced by a ghost with a metal arm and empty eyes.
But the story didn't end there. In 2014, Steve Rogers had found his childhood friend buried beneath layers of programming and torture. Had fought to bring him back, to restore the man HYDRA had tried to erase. The process had taken years of therapy, rehabilitation, deprogramming. But it worked.
Bucky Barnes was no longer the Winter Soldier. He was an Avenger. A former Congressman. He had rewritten his own story.
Her breath caught as she found what she'd been looking for: a digital roster buried in the aftermath of the Sokovia Accords. James Buchanan Barnes – Status: Active. Affiliation: New Avengers Initiative.
He was alive. Reformed. Fighting for the good guys now, apparently.
The knowledge sat in her stomach like a stone. Here, according to Joaquin's nervous reaction, he'd been connected to her in some significant way.
The irony was so sharp it could cut. A brainwashed assassin from the 1940’s connected to her? Were they friends? Had he killed someone she knew? She had no idea. There were no records about his personal life online.
She stared at the screen until her eyes burned, then made a decision that felt both inevitable and insane. If Sam wouldn't tell her the truth, if Joaquin was too loyal or too scared to fill in the gaps, then she'd get her answers from the source.
Her new apartment felt like a train station, a place to exist rather than live between stops. The walls were still institutional white, the floors bare hardwood that echoed with every step. Sam had helped her haul in the essentials: a mattress, a couch from a secondhand store, a small table that wobbled when she put weight on it.
It should have felt like freedom. Instead, it felt like exile.
She didn't linger. Twenty minutes after Sam left, promising to check in tomorrow, she was studying transit maps and plotting her route to the New Avengers facility. The original Stark Tower had been sold, but the team had established a new base of operations in the same building, now deemed as the Watchtower.
The evening commute provided perfect cover. Thousands of people moving with purpose, no one paying attention to one more face in the crowd. She joined the stream of humanity flowing toward the subway, her heart rate steady despite the magnitude of what she was planning.
Breaking into a superhero stronghold probably wasn't her smartest decision, but she'd made a career out of risky choices. This felt like just another case to crack, another locked door that needed opening.
The Watchtower rose thirty stories into the Manhattan sky, its glass facade reflecting the dying light of sunset. Even from the sidewalk, she could see the security measures. Cameras at every angle, discrete guards positioned at key points, biometric scanners flanking the main entrance.
She approached with the confidence of someone who belonged, shoulders back, stride purposeful. Sometimes the best disguise was attitude.
"Ma'am." A security guard stepped into her path before she'd made it halfway to the door. Young, alert, with the kind of bearing that screamed military background. His partner moved to flank her, casual but deliberate. "I'll need to see some identification."
She reached for her wallet, movements slow and non-threatening. "I'm here to see James Barnes. He's expecting me."
That got their attention. Too much attention. She saw the micro-expressions that flashed between them: surprise, confusion. The lead guard's hand drifted toward the radio clipped to his vest.
"You'll need clearance for that, ma'am. And I don't see you on any authorized visitor lists."
Behind them, the building's main doors hissed shut with hydraulic finality. The message was clear — she wasn’t getting in.
She maintained her smile, friendly and understanding. "Of course. My mistake. I'll just call ahead next time."
She turned and walked away, feeling their eyes on her back until she disappeared into the evening crowd.
An hour later, she was back.
The Tower looked different at night. Imposing, fortress-like, its upper floors glowing against the darkness. She'd spent the time walking the perimeter, mapping service entrances and delivery bays, timing guard rotations and identifying blind spots in the surveillance coverage.
The rear of the building faced a narrow alley used for deliveries and maintenance. Less glamorous than the front entrance, but infinitely more accessible. She positioned herself in the shadows between two dumpsters and waited.
Patience was a detective's best friend. After twenty minutes, a catering van rumbled into the alley, its headlights cutting through the gloom. She watched the driver show his credentials to the guard, saw the heavy security door roll up to reveal a loading dock beyond.
As the van backed up to the platform, she moved.
She slipped alongside the van as the driver climbed out, using it as cover while boxes and trays were unloaded. The guard's attention was focused on his clipboard, checking items off a list with mechanical precision.
When he turned to examine a particularly large crate, she made her move. Three quick steps took her to the door, another two got her inside. The loading bay was cavernous and dimly lit, filled with the hum of machinery and the distant echo of voices.
She pressed herself against a concrete pillar, heart hammering as footsteps approached. A maintenance worker in coveralls walked past, whistling tunelessly, his footsteps fading as he disappeared around a corner.
She was in.
The Tower's interior was a maze of corridors and security checkpoints, but she'd navigated worse. She found a service stairwell — no cameras, minimal foot traffic—and began to climb. By the fifteenth floor, her legs burned and her lungs worked like bellows, but she pressed on.
The residential levels had to be near the top. That's where she'd find him.
Twenty-eighth floor. Twenty-ninth. Thirtieth.
The final door was different from the others. Heavier, with a biometric scanner and keypad that spoke of serious security measures. This had to be it. The private residential area where the Avengers lived when they weren't saving the world.
She stood before the scanner, knowing she had no way past it, knowing this was where her amateur breaking-and-entering skills reached their limit. But she'd come too far to turn back now.
"Who are you?"
The voice came from behind her, low and accented and sharp as a blade.
She spun, instinct driving her hand toward a weapon she didn't carry, muscles coiling for a fight that might be her last.
A woman stood at the mouth of the stairwell. Small, compact, with platinum blonde hair that caught the corridor's LED lighting. But it was her eyes that made the breath stick in her throat. Dark, calculating. This wasn't building security. This was someone far more dangerous.
The woman moved with liquid grace, each step deliberate and controlled. She wore dark tactical clothing that seemed to absorb light, and something about her posture—coiled, ready, predatory—set off every alarm bell in her brain.
"I asked you a question," the woman said, stepping closer. "How did you get past security?"
Her mouth had gone desert-dry, but she forced her voice to remain steady. "I could ask you the same thing."
The woman's lips curved in what might charitably be called a smile. It didn't reach her eyes. "Cute. Very cute. But I live here. You, on the other hand, definitely do not." Another step closer. "So let's try this again. Who are you, and what are you doing on a restricted floor?"
The accent was unmistakably Russian now that she heard more of it. Sharp consonants softened by years of speaking English, but the underlying cadence still there. The woman's stance was that of a trained fighter. She was balanced on the balls of her feet, hands loose at her sides but ready to move in any direction. Everything about her screamed potential danger.
"Look," she said, raising her hands in a gesture of surrender, "I'm just trying to find someone. I don't want any trouble."
"Then you came to the wrong place." The woman tilted her head, studying her with a vague intensity. "You look familiar. Have we met?"
The question sent ice through her veins. Another person who might recognize her face, who knew the woman she'd replaced. But this one's recognition carried a different quality. Not grief or longing, but something sharper. More analytical.
She didn’t know her. The old her. Not directly, at least.
"I don't think so," she said carefully.
The blonde's sharp eyes never left her face, cataloging every feature with unsettling precision. "Hmm. You remind me of someone. I cannot place it exactly, but you have a very familiar face." She paused, head tilting further. "Are you a reporter?"
The question was so unexpected she almost laughed. "Do I look like a reporter to you?"
"Yes," the woman answered with complete seriousness. "Actually, you do. You have excellent bone structure. Very photogenic. Strong jawline, well-shaped eyebrows. The kind of face they put on Channel 9 news, no?" She gestured vaguely at her features. "Really quite striking, actually. And we get reporters trying to sneak in here all the time. You would not believe the lengths they go to. But none have made it this far before, which makes you either very skilled or very stupid."
Her mouth opened and closed wordlessly. Was this woman seriously critiquing her facial symmetry in the middle of what felt like a life-or-death situation? "...Thank you? I think? But I'm not a reporter."
The blonde hummed thoughtfully, those dark eyes scanning her from head to toe and back again with predatory interest. "I believe you, strange woman. Somehow, I do. But that makes this worse, doesn't it? Because if you are not a reporter, then why break into a tower full of superhumans and trained killers? Seems very..." She paused, searching for the right word. "Stupid. Or very desperate."
The weight of the moment pressed down on her shoulders. She could lie—make up some story about being lost, about mistaking this for a different building. But something about this woman's piercing gaze told her lies would be spotted immediately and punished accordingly.
So she chose the truth. Raw, unfiltered, desperate truth.
"Because I'm not from this world." The words tumbled out faster than she could stop them. "I know how insane that sounds, but apparently I'm from a parallel dimension—almost identical to this one—and a week ago I fell through some kind of glowing portal that spat me out here in New York. Sam Wilson found me, helped me out, told me I can't go home."
She ran a hand through her hair, exhaustion and frustration bleeding into her voice. "But the version of me that lived here? She's dead. Has been for three years. And everyone keeps looking at me like I'm her ghost, keeps mentioning James Barnes like I should understand what he meant to her. So yeah, I broke in here to find him. To get some goddamn answers about who I was supposed to be."
The confession left her feeling hollow, stripped bare. She'd laid all her cards on the table for a complete stranger who could probably kill her seventeen different ways without breaking a sweat.
Not one of her brightest moments. But somehow, it had felt right.
The woman stared at her for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then something shifted in her features. A flicker of recognition, quickly suppressed but not fast enough.
"What is your name?" she asked softly, and there was something almost gentle in her tone now.
She hesitated for just a beat before giving her real name. Not the fabricated identity Joaquin had helped create, but the name she'd been born with.
The effect was instantaneous. The woman's carefully neutral expression crumbled, revealing shock, disbelief, and something deeper. A profound sadness that seemed to age her years in seconds.
"Bozhe moy," she whispered, the Russian slipping out unbidden. Her shoulders sagged as if an invisible weight had settled on them. "Yes... I know your story. All of it. Oh….this will not be easy. But he needs to know you are here."
She stepped closer, extending her hand with careful deliberation. "My name is Yelena Belova. I am... an associate of Bucky's. A friend. I can take you to him now, if that is what you truly want."
Her throat constricted as she stared at the offered hand. Every instinct screamed warnings, but she'd come too far to turn back now. She reached out, gripping Yelena's fingers.
"It's nice to meet you," she said, her voice barely steady. "Did you... did you know her? The other me?"
Yelena's smile was hollow, haunted. "No. But I know of you. We all do." The words carried the weight of a funeral dirge. "Come. I will take you to him. You’re on the wrong floor."
The elevator ride felt endless, each floor they passed stretching the silence tighter between them. Yelena stood with her arms crossed, staring at her boots with the intensity of someone trying to solve the world's most complex equation. Her bottom lip was caught between her teeth, brow furrowed in deep concentration.
The quiet became unbearable.
"You know," she said, clearing her throat, "everyone who seems to know about this other version of me... you all look at me like I'm some kind of ghost."
That pulled Yelena's gaze up, one eyebrow arching with sharp precision. Her voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "That is because you are a ghost. You are supposed to be dead here. Did you forget that small detail?"
The bluntness hit harder than expected, making her chest tight. "No, I remember. But it feels like more than that. You don't just look at me like I don't belong. You look at me like you're afraid."
Yelena's exhale was long and weary, her shoulders dropping as if she'd been carrying an invisible burden. When she spoke again, her accent thickened with emotion. "We are not afraid of you. We are afraid of what your being here will do to the people we care about."
"What do you—"
"You will see soon enough." Yelena's tone brooked no argument, but her expression softened slightly. She reached out, resting a careful hand on her arm, the touch cautious. "Just... be gentle with him. Please. He has been through enough."
The plea left her speechless, questions multiplying like cancer cells in her mind. All she could manage was a stiff nod.
The elevator chimed softly, doors sliding open with a whisper of hydraulics.
She followed Yelena into what was clearly a common area, all gleaming surfaces and floor-to-ceiling windows that offered breathtaking views of Manhattan. The space was dotted with comfortable seating, state-of-the-art monitors, and a conference table that could seat a dozen people.
Four figures stood around that table, all wearing matching tactical uniforms with red "A" emblems on their chests. Their conversation died the moment they noticed the newcomers.
The tallest of them—a blonde man with the kind of square jaw that belonged on recruitment posters—straightened immediately. His blue eyes narrowed with suspicion as they fixed on her. "Yelena," he said, his voice carrying authority and wariness in equal measure. "Who the hell is this?"
Before Yelena could answer, the large bearded man beside him stepped forward with a booming laugh that filled the entire space. His presence was overwhelming. all warmth and barely contained energy, like a bear-sized golden retriever.
"Ah, look at this! A new face, and such a lovely one!" He spread his arms wide as if preparing to envelope her in a bear hug, his voice thick with Russian accent and unmistakable joy. "Finally, some beauty around here to balance out all these ugly faces. You are... how do Americans say... a sight for sore eyes, da?"
Heat flooded her cheeks. She stood frozen, caught between mortification and the strange urge to smile despite everything.
Yelena groaned audibly, dragging a hand down her face. "Dad, stop."
"What?" The older man looked genuinely confused, then winked at her with shameless charm. "I only speak truth. Your mother, if she were here, she would agree—this one has excellent genetics. Very fine bone structure."
"Stop talking, Alexei," Yelena snapped, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. She turned back to the group, exhaling through her nose like wrangling her father was a full-time occupation. "This is—" She glanced back, seeking silent permission, then said the name quietly, as if she knew what was about to happen.
The effect was immediate and devastating.
The brunette woman—young, maybe mid-twenties, with energy crackling faintly around her fingers—went completely still. The shaggy-haired man in civilian clothes muttered something under his breath and took an unconscious step backward. Even Yelena's father sobered, his jovial expression fading into something more complex.
But it was the blonde man's reaction that made her stomach plummet.
His entire demeanor shifted, professionalism giving way to something colder, more calculating. He stepped closer, hands settling on his hips as he studied her like she was evidence at a crime scene.
Recognition flickered across his features as he processed her name, cross-referencing it with files in his memory. His expression shifted into something caught between a smirk and a sneer—the look of someone who'd just solved an unpleasant puzzle.
"I know that name," he said, his voice taking on a mocking edge. "Wasn't that the name of Barnes' dead girlfriend?"
The revelation hit her like a sledgehammer to the chest.
Dead girlfriend.
The words ricocheted through her skull, each repetition more devastating than the last. Not partner. Not colleague. Not enemy. Girlfriend. The other version of her, the woman whose shadow she was apparently condemned to live in, had been dating James Buchanan Barnes.
The Winter Soldier.
With a known killer.
The irony was so vicious it threatened to tear her apart from the inside. In her world, she'd spent years hunting down monsters, bringing justice to families destroyed by violence. Here, apparently, she'd been sharing a bed with one of the worst monsters of all.
Her vision began to tunnel, darkness creeping in at the edges like spilled ink. Her lungs had forgotten how to function, each breath coming in short, desperate gasps that never seemed to bring enough oxygen. The panic attack was inevitable now—her body's revolt against information too massive, too impossible to process.
Heat flooded her face, a burning flush of shock and shame and something else she couldn't name. Her hands began to shake, trembling at her sides as if her entire nervous system was short-circuiting.
"Hey." Yelena's voice cut through the static filling her head, firm but gentle. Warm fingers wrapped around her arm, anchoring her to reality when everything else felt like it was spinning away. "Breathe with me. Just breathe. In and out."
She shot a murderous glare at Walker, her voice cracking with fury. "Excellent timing, you absolute moron. Really thoughtful approach there."
Walker raised his hands in mock surrender, but his expression remained coldly entertained, like he was watching a fascinating psychological experiment unfold. "What? I figured she already knew! Isn't that the whole reason she's here?"
Alexei, blissfully oblivious to the emotional carnage unfolding around him, chimed in with maddening cheerfulness. "Of course she is the girlfriend! Look at her—she is exact copy of girl in photographs on Winter Soldier's nightstand. Very beautiful, very tragic, like heroine from Dostoyevsky novel." He beamed at her with paternal pride that made her want to scream. "You loved him deeply, da? Was passionate romance? He was good lover?"
"Dad!" Yelena's voice cracked like a whip, her glare hot enough to melt steel. "You are making everything worse!"
But Alexei only shrugged, completely immune to his daughter's homicidal expression. "What? I only speak truth everyone is thinking. And besides, is much better to be remembered as someone's great love than to be forgotten completely, no? It is romantic tragedy, like in great Russian stories."
The words were meant to comfort, but they only drove the knife deeper. Great love. Romantic tragedy. She was standing in a room full of people who remembered a version of her that had been intimately, desperately connected to a man who represented everything she'd spent her life fighting against.
Her hands clenched into fists, nails biting crescents into her palms as she fought to stay upright. The walls seemed to press closer, the ceiling lower, the air thicker. Everyone's stares felt like physical weight pressing down on her shoulders until she thought her knees might buckle.
This was wrong. Fundamentally, cosmically wrong. She shouldn't be here, shouldn't be wearing this face, shouldn't be expected to carry the emotional baggage of a woman who'd made choices that defied everything she believed in.
But she was trapped. Caught between worlds, between identities, between a past that wasn't hers and a future that terrified her beyond reason.
"What the hell are you people talking about?" she whispered, her voice barely audible above the thundering of her own pulse. "Is this some kind of sick joke?"
The pity in their faces was worse than cruelty would have been. At least cruelty would have given her something to fight against. This careful sympathy, these cautious expressions—they made her feel like a wild animal everyone was afraid might bolt or attack without warning.
Everyone except Walker, who continued studying her with clinical detachment, and Alexei, who kept rambling about the beauty of doomed love.
"You need to slow down your breathing," Yelena urged, gripping her shoulders with steady hands and forcing eye contact. "Focus on my voice. Just breathe."
But the command fell flat. The air had turned to concrete in her lungs. The room spun around her like a carnival ride gone wrong, and she could feel herself fragmenting, splitting apart at invisible seams.
She tore herself free from Yelena's grip and stumbled backward, her body moving toward the elevator of its own accord. Her chest heaved with each stuttering breath, vision blurring as tears she refused to acknowledge burned behind her eyes.
"Listen to me," she managed to choke out, every word sharp and desperate. "I don't know what twisted game you think you're playing, but whoever you think I am, I can't be her. I won't be her. I'm my own person, and I'm not from this world, and I've never even met James Barnes—"
Walker's eyebrow arched with infuriating calm. "Well, sweetheart," he drawled, "you're about to."
Behind her, the elevator gave a soft mechanical hiss.
The doors slid open.
She turned, ready to throw herself into whatever escape the elevator offered, ready to run until her legs gave out or her heart exploded—
And froze.
James Barnes stood there.
To her, he should have been nothing more than a name in old files, a face in grainy photographs, a shadow from history books. But in the flesh, he was devastatingly, undeniably real. Taller than she'd expected, broader through the shoulders. Dark hair fell in waves past his collar, shot through with faint silver that caught the light. His beard was neatly trimmed, dusted with gray that spoke of years and battles and sleepless nights. And his eyes — pale blue like a winter sky, sharp and intelligent. And currently wide with shock.
But it wasn't his appearance that stole her breath and left her feeling like she'd been struck by lightning.
It was the way he looked at her.
He'd been stepping out of the elevator, probably heading to some routine meeting or training session, and he'd frozen mid-stride. His hand was still braced against the elevator frame, knuckles white with tension. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths, like someone had just punched all the air out of his lungs.
Those ice-blue eyes locked onto her face with an intensity that felt like being dissected, like he was looking straight through time and death and impossibility to see something that shouldn't exist. The expression on his face — raw disbelief warring with desperate hope, grief colliding with wonder—made something twist violently in her chest.
To her, he was a stranger. A name from her nightmares made flesh.
To him, she must be resurrection walking.
Her name fell from his lips like a prayer, broken and reverent and so full of longing it made her want to run screaming. His voice cracked under the weight of that single word, and his entire body seemed to lean forward, drawn by invisible strings.
He moved toward her slowly, as if afraid she might vanish if he startled her. Every step was careful, measured, like he was approaching something that might disappear any second. She wished she could right now.
His expression was torn wide open, every emotion playing across his features without filter or pretense.
She couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. For one suspended moment, she was caught in the gravitational pull of his gaze, trapped in the way he looked at her like she was the answer to prayers he'd stopped believing would be answered.
His hand twitched at his side, fingers flexing like he wanted to reach for her, to touch her face and confirm she was real and not just another cruel dream.
And then reality crashed back down on her like a tidal wave.
Her chest seized with pure, primal panic. Ice flooded her veins, her body's fight-or-flight response kicking into overdrive. She stumbled backward, shaking her head violently, trying to break whatever invisible connection had snapped taut between them.
"Don't—" Her voice shattered on the word. "Don't come near me."
He stopped immediately, but the damage was done. The anguish that flooded his features was unbearable, like she'd physically struck him. His lips parted, words trembling on his tongue, confusion bleeding through the desperate hope.
"It's okay," he said softly, his voice gentle in a way that made her want to scream. "It's me. It's Bucky. I don't understand what happened, how you're here, but it's going to be okay—"
"I don't know you!" The words exploded out of her, sharp and laced with mounting hysteria. She wrapped her arms around herself like armor, her whole body shaking with the effort of holding herself together. "I don't know who the hell you think I am, but I'm not her!"
He said her name again, softer this time, like he was trying to gentle a frightened animal. The sound of it in his voice, so full of history and intimacy, made her feel like her skin was crawling.
Before she could respond, before she could scream or run or collapse entirely, Yelena stepped forward. She positioned herself subtly between them, one hand raised in a calming gesture that encompassed both of them.
"She's not who you think," Yelena said quietly, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. Her gaze flicked between Bucky's devastated expression and her trembling form. "She's not the woman you knew, Bucky. She's a variant. From another world, another timeline. She's not... she's not her."
The words landed like physical blows. Bucky staggered backward, his face cycling through disbelief, understanding, and a grief so profound it seemed to hollow him out from the inside.
But his eyes never left her face. Never stopped drinking her in like she might disappear at any moment.
She wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole. Wanted to wake up from this nightmare and find herself back in her own world, her own life, where none of this impossible situation existed.
"This is getting incredibly uncomfortable," the young man with shaggy hair muttered from somewhere behind the group.
And it was. The tension in the air was thick enough to choke on. The weight of everyone's stares, the pity and confusion and worry—it was suffocating. Worst of all was the way Bucky kept looking at her, like the sight of her was simultaneously healing and destroying him.
She hated it. Hated this twisted version of fate that had dropped her into someone else's tragedy. Hated being expected to carry someone else's love, someone else's loss. Hated the way this man, this killer she was supposed to believe had been redeemed, was looking at her like she held his heart in her hands.
She'd come here for answers, but the truth was worse than any mystery could have been.
So she did the only thing that made sense anymore.
She ran.
Her detective training had kept her in good shape, years of chasing suspects through back alleys and up fire escapes had given her speed and endurance. She used all of it now, lunging toward the elevator with desperate urgency.
Behind her, she heard voices calling out—Yelena shouting her name, someone cursing in Russian, the sound of movement as superhuman reflexes kicked into gear.
But she was already inside, her finger jabbing frantically at the door close button as if her life depended on it.
The last thing she saw before the doors slid shut was Bucky's face—devastated, lost, reaching a hand out toward her like he was trying to stop her from disappearing all over again.
The moment she was alone, the adrenaline that had been holding her together evaporated. Her knees buckled, and she slid down the elevator wall until she was sitting on the cold metal floor, her head buried in her hands.
And for the first time since that portal had ripped her away from everything she knew, she broke.
The sobs came in waves, ugly and harsh and desperate. They tore out of her chest like they'd been trapped there for days, weeks, a lifetime. She cried for the life she'd lost, for the world she'd never see again, for the impossible situation she'd been thrust into without her consent.
She cried for the woman who'd worn her face and made choices she couldn't understand.
She cried for the man upstairs who'd looked at her like she was his whole world coming back from the dead.
Most of all, she cried because somewhere deep down, in a place she didn't want to acknowledge, she'd felt something when their eyes met. Something that terrified her more than any truth she'd uncovered.
Recognition.
Not of him, but of the way he'd looked at her. Like she was home.
And she had no idea what that meant, or what she was supposed to do with the guilt that had made a home in her heart.
Sam showed up at her apartment a few hours later, and for the first time since she'd met him, he was furious.
"What the hell were you thinking?" The door had barely clicked shut before his voice cracked across the room like a whip, sharp enough to make her spine straighten reflexively. His jaw was clenched so tight she could see the muscle jumping beneath his skin, his shoulders squared and rigid like he'd been holding onto that rage through the entire drive over. She didn’t doubt it. "Sneaking into the Watchtower like that? I told you—I told you—to keep a low profile."
"Oh, so now this is all my fault?" The words launched out of her before she could stop them, her finger jabbing toward his chest like a weapon. Heat flooded her veins, her pulse already wild and erratic, her voice shaking with something deeper than just rage. Desperation, maybe, or the kind of fear that could only be fought with fury. "You expect me to sit here, smile, and nod at every half-assed, vague non-answer you people throw at me? Just twiddle my damn thumbs in a world where the other me is dead?" Her voice cracked on the last word, raw and jagged. "I'm a detective, Sam, not some helpless civilian you can placate with scraps."
For a moment, Sam blinked like she'd blindsided him with a truth he hadn't bothered to consider. The fire in his eyes flickered, uncertainty creeping in around the edges. "Okay. I didn't…" He exhaled slowly, his anger deflating slightly as understanding dawned. "I didn't think about it like that. But when you put it that way, yeah, it makes sense, but—"
"Oh, for God's sake." She groaned, both hands flying to her hair, fingers tangling in the strands and tugging until her scalp burned with the sharp bite of pain. It grounded her, kept her from flying apart completely. Her chest was heaving now, words tearing out faster than she could filter them, like a dam had burst. "Were you seriously not going to tell me that your version of me, that she…was with the Winter Soldier?"
The silence that followed was deafening. Sam's gaze locked on hers, heavy and unblinking, his expression shifting into something guarded and final.
"No," he said finally, the word flat and unyielding as stone. "I wasn't planning on it."
Her stomach plummeted, a cold wash of betrayal flooding through her. Her throat constricted. "What the fuck, Sam? Why wouldn't you tell me that?"
He threw his hands up in exasperation, the sound of his sigh filling the cramped space between them like a punctured tire. "Why would I? What possible good would that do you?" His voice climbed, defensive and sharp. "You never knew him in your world. All it would do is create exactly what's happening now. Chaos, confusion. Pain for everyone involved."
She felt her mouth fall open, the words catching like glass shards on her tongue, but he barreled forward before she could speak.
"And how would it help him?" His voice cracked this time, a raw edge breaking through the frustration like a fault line splitting open. His hands fell back to his sides, limp and defeated, like the weight of everything had finally dragged him down. "It would just rip him apart all over again. You don't understand…he never recovered from losing her. From losing you." Sam shook his head, swallowing hard, his Adam's apple bobbing with the effort. "And now? Seeing your face again, hearing your voice, watching you move like her but not being her…" His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "I can't even imagine what that did to him."
Her breath caught, sharp and ragged, like she'd just taken a sucker punch to the throat. Her anger stuttered and died for one disorienting second, replaced by something she couldn't name. Guilt? Sympathy? The strange, hollow ache of mourning someone she'd never been?
Her voice dropped, barely more than a whisper, fragile as spun glass. "Was he the one who called you? Told you I came to the Tower?"
Sam looked at her then, and there was no anger left in his face. Just a deep tiredness and something that looked disturbingly like pity.
"Of course it was him," he said softly, each word deliberate and weighted. "He's my best friend."
He let that hang in the air between them, heavy and damning, like a confession.
"And I know you didn't know," Sam added, his voice quieter still, almost gentle. "But I was just trying to protect him. I've watched him put himself back together piece by piece, and I couldn't…I won't let him fall apart again."
The fight drained out of her like water through a sieve. All the yelling, the accusations, the righteous fury, it all seemed suddenly hollow and pointless as Sam's words echoed inside her skull like a death knell. She collapsed onto the couch, her knees giving out beneath her, elbows braced on her thighs, hands pressing hard against her forehead as if she could physically hold the spiraling pieces of herself together.
The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.
"Okay," she finally whispered, the word trembling out of her like a prayer or a surrender. "Fine. You didn't tell me before. But you can tell me now." She lifted her eyes to Sam, and the weight of the question sitting heavy in her chest felt like it might crush her ribs. "What happened to her? The… me from here. How did she die?"
Sam froze, his mouth opening like he was going to speak, but no sound came out. His gaze flickered away from hers, darting toward the window, the floor, anywhere but her face. Like the answer was a wound he couldn't bring himself to reopen, a scab he refused to pick.
The silence stretched taut and unbearable, elastic and ready to snap, until a low voice cut through the tension like a blade.
"She died right after the fight against Thanos."
Her head snapped toward the door so fast her neck protested.
Bucky stood there, framed in the dim amber light from the hallway, his broad shoulders rigid as steel beams, his vibranium hand clenched around the doorframe with enough force that she could hear the wood creaking under the pressure. He looked like he was using it as an anchor, the only thing keeping him upright and steady. His eyes were locked on her, storm-blue and unflinching. So intense it felt like he was trying to memorize every detail of her face, as though looking away would destroy him all over again.
"Bucky—" Sam shot to his feet, tension coiling through his frame like a spring wound too tight. "I told you to wait in the car—"
Bucky didn't look at Sam. Didn't even acknowledge he'd spoken at all.
His gaze remained fixed on her, unblinking, burning through her like he could pin her to the floor with nothing but the weight of his stare. His voice, when it finally came, was steady but saturated with grief so thick and suffocating it seemed to bend the very air around them. He was still looking at her like she was a ghost made flesh, a cruel trick of light and shadow.
He stepped further into the apartment—one deliberate step, no more—like crossing that invisible threshold would mean too much, would shatter some fragile equilibrium he'd spent years building. Even this much proximity felt dangerous, charged with electricity that made her skin prickle. His eyes were sharp and hard as cut glass, but she could see the faint tremor of a storm barely restrained beneath the surface.
"It happened after we all came back. From the Blip. Fifteen days later, to be exact. Some nutjob — mad about the Blip and trying to take it out on the Avengers — broke into her apartment and…killed her. But you don't need to know the details," he said finally, his voice clipped and final. His eyes were damn near black. Hollowed out with grief.
The weight of his words hit her chest like a stone dropped from a great height. She stared back at him, her own words tangled in her throat like barbed wire. Sam shifted awkwardly between them, his expression tight and pale, like he was watching history about to repeat itself in the worst possible way. Maybe he was.
Her jaw clenched, forcing her voice out through the sudden tightness in her throat. "So now you get to decide for me?" The quiet venom in her tone surprised even her, cutting and precise. "You don't get to do that. Just because you knew me in another life doesn't give you the right to—"
"Stop." His voice cracked through hers like a whip, cold and brutal and absolutely final. It froze her mid-sentence, the words dying on her tongue. "I didn't know you. You're not her. You're just a woman wearing her face, carrying her voice, moving through the world like some cosmic joke." Each word was delivered like a physical blow, precise and merciless. "So no, you don't get the right to know how she died. You don't get to carry her memories or her pain or her love. All you should be doing is staying the hell away from anything that has to do with her."
Her stomach dropped to her feet, a cold wave of shock and hurt washing over her. She wasn't sure why his words sliced so deep—this man was a stranger, wasn't he? But the raw, bleeding wounds in his voice told her otherwise. Every syllable sounded like it cost him blood to speak.
Her chest burned with indignation and something sharper. Rejection, maybe, or the sting of being reduced to nothing more than a cruel facsimile. "I don't want any part of this world, Barnes," she shot back, watching him flinch—that subtle, involuntary recoil—when his last name hit the air like a curse. "But I'm not wearing anyone's face. This is me. My identity. My body. My life." Her voice rose, shaking with emotion she couldn't contain. "So I'm sorry your girlfriend died, but it's not fair for you to tell me I don't have the right to know what happened when I'm the one who has to live with everyone looking at me like I'm her ghost—"
"Shut up."
The words were a snarl, torn from his throat with a fury so raw and primal it made even Sam take a step back. His voice cracked like thunder, filling every corner of the small room. "Don't fucking say you're sorry. You have no idea who she was…what she meant, what she gave, what she sacrificed. You have no right to even speak her name, let alone wear her face and pretend you understand what any of us lost when she died."
Her chest heaved as white-hot anger surged through her veins like molten metal. "Why are you being such a complete jackass?" she snapped, her voice rising to match his, all pretense of composure abandoned. "You can't take this out on me! This isn't my fault! I didn't ask to be here, I didn't know what I was walking into, I didn't choose to look like her!" The words poured out of her in a torrent, years of frustration and confusion and fear crystallizing into pure rage. "You think I wanted to land in a world where I find out I was apparently dating a mass murderer? In my world, you're a war criminal! A terrorist!"
Something fundamental broke in him then. She could see it happen, the exact moment his carefully constructed composure shattered like glass.
Before she could even draw her next breath, he was there. Impossibly fast, covering the distance between them in a heartbeat. His face was just inches from hers, close enough that she could see the flecks of silver in his blue eyes, could feel the heat radiating off his skin. The air between them vibrated with the force of his fury, electric and dangerous. His eyes had gone nearly black, bottomless and wild, and when he spoke, his voice was molten steel poured over broken glass.
"You need to stop talking. Right now."
But her heart was hammering against her ribs like a caged bird, her throat raw with fury and fear and something else she couldn't name, and she couldn't stop. The words kept coming, sharp and cutting and designed to hurt. "What, does the Winter Soldier not like being reminded of the blood on his hands?" she spat, each word hitting its mark with surgical precision. "You think you get to stand there and act like I'm the monster when it was you? You killed for decades, Barnes. Innocent people. Children, probably. And now you want to be the judge of who deserves answers? That's rich."
His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the skin, his metal hand curling into a fist at his side with a soft mechanical whir.
"You ruined lives," she pressed on relentlessly, her voice shaking with anger and hurt and the desperate need to make him feel even a fraction of the pain he'd inflicted on her. She didn’t know why. She felt horrible doing it, knew it would solve nothing but create more pain. But she was so mad. So frustrated that everyone was treating her like a scar that hadn’t gone away. Couldn’t they see how alone she felt like this? "Entire families. Hundreds, maybe thousands of innocent people who never even knew your name."
She laughed, but it was sharp and bitter, more like a sob than anything resembling humor. "But I'm the problem here? Because I look like some woman you couldn't save? Because I'm a reminder that you failed to protect the one thing that mattered to you?"
"Stop." The word broke from him like something vital tearing, guttural and desperate, but she was too far gone to hear it.
"—at least I never became the boogeyman little kids had nightmares about. At least I never let myself become a weapon pointed at the innocent. You're a murderer, Barnes. A murderer trying to play saint, and you have the audacity to act like—"
"Stop it, babe —"
The word slipped out before he could catch it, automatic and devastating. His face changed instantly—shock and raw, bleeding pain flickering across his features like he'd just ripped open a wound that had barely begun to heal. His lips pressed together hard, his eyes wide with something that looked like horror at his own slip, but it was too late. The word was hanging in the air between them, heavy and intimate and absolutely forbidden.
Her stomach lurched violently. The sound of it hit her like a physical blow. Unfamiliar to her but weighted with an intimacy she didn't share, couldn't claim, had no right to. It was a glimpse into someone else's love story, someone else's heart, and she was nothing but an unwelcome intruder. She stepped back sharply, stumbling slightly, as if the word had burned her.
"Don't," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Don't call me that. I'm not her. I'm not—" But she couldn't finish, couldn't voice what they both knew: that she was a pale imitation, a cosmic mistake like he had said. A walking reminder of everything he'd lost.
Sam was there in a flash, planting a firm hand against Bucky's chest, shoving him back a step before things could escalate further. "That's enough," Sam barked, his voice sharp with authority, his eyes darting between them like he was trying to defuse a bomb. "Both of you. Stop this right now."
Bucky froze, his chest heaving with ragged breaths, but his eyes never left her face. He looked utterly shattered, like he wanted to reach for her. Or maybe like he wanted to run as far away as possible. She couldn't tell which, and that uncertainty made everything worse.
Sam's hand stayed firm against Bucky's chest, even as the soldier's breathing began to even out into something resembling normal. His gaze flicked to her — still standing there rigid and trembling, staring at Bucky like she didn't even know what she was looking at anymore, like he was some dangerous animal that might strike at any moment.
Sam made the executive decision first. "We're leaving," he said flatly, not taking his eyes off Bucky. He gave him a sharp nudge toward the door, and Bucky went without protest, his shoulders tense as steel cables, his jaw locked like stone. He moved like a man in a trance, hollow and mechanical.
Before following, Sam turned back to her one last time. His expression softened fractionally, regret shadowing his dark eyes like storm clouds. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, and she could hear that he meant it. Sorry for bringing Bucky here, sorry for the pain they'd both inflicted, sorry that any of this had to happen at all.
She didn't answer. Couldn't. Her throat was too tight, her chest too full of emotions she didn't have names for. She just stood there, arms wrapped around herself like armor, eyes burning holes in the floor as silence pressed in from all sides.
Sam lingered for a heartbeat longer, waiting for something, anything, from her. Some sign that she was okay, that they could salvage this situation, that the damage wasn't irreparable. But when nothing came, when she remained frozen in her protective shell, he nodded once—heavy and resigned and infinitely tired—and followed Bucky out.
She watched them go through the blur of unshed tears. The door closed behind them with a soft click that echoed louder than it had any right to, final and absolute. Bucky never looked back.
The apartment was suddenly too big and too empty, the silence pressing against her eardrums like deep water. And all she could hear was that single word still echoing in her head carrying a weight that wasn't hers to bear, a love that would never belong to her, and the devastating knowledge that she was nothing more than a cruel reminder of everything this world had lost.
pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader
summary: you think you’re friends who occasionally kiss, but bucky thinks the two of you have been exclusively dating for a while now. it only takes one post-mission debrief for the whole team to realise someone’s missed a memo.
tags: one of you thinks you’re just friends the other thinks you’re dating trope, avenger!reader, friends to lovers, alpine thinks you’re her other parent, everyone is alive and happy because i say so
warning(s): reader wears jeans and a t-shirt, reader wears workout leggings, suggestive content
word count: 5.1k
note: i’m working on a personal challenge to write some shorter/medium length fics for the people who don’t always want to read 9k slow burns, so please let me know if you enjoyed this!!
masterlist
You’d lost count of how many times you and Bucky had ended up like this. Not that you were keeping score. If you were, it would be a very respectable number. Top-ten life decisions, easily.
The couch in his room creaked softly as you shifted higher onto his lap, knees bracketing his hips, the hem of your T-shirt tugging a little higher with every slow drag of movement. His hands, one warm and one pleasantly cool, rested at the small of your back, thumbs rubbing lazy circles through the cotton.
You kissed him again, deep enough that it made your stomach jolt like that weightlessness you feel at the top of a rollercoaster. You felt the familiar brush of his stubble against your jaw.
This was exactly what it looked like. Exactly as uncomplicated as it sounded.
Friends who kissed. Friends who sometimes stayed a little too long in the doorway after a movie night, who sometimes let a conversation dissolve into mouths pressed together until the occasional little sound escaped when Bucky did something particularly good with his tongue.
And why not? Kissing was fun, and fun was the whole point.
Bucky hummed low in his chest. You smiled against his mouth, tilting your head to steal another kiss, slow and deliberate. He tasted faintly of the coffee you’d shared earlier. When his hands slipped under your shirt, flesh and metal fingertips trailing across bare skin, you couldn’t help the moan that escaped you.
You liked kissing Bucky, Bucky liked kissing you, and the world hadn’t ended yet.
Friends, you reminded yourself as he nipped lightly at your lower lip, sending a spark down your spine. Good friends, even. Friends with extraordinary kissing chemistry. It was the kind of arrangement that let you enjoy all the perks without any of the drama; basically, hitting the jackpot.
Bucky’s metal hand shifted to the back of your thigh, cool through the denim of your jeans. The delicious contrast made you shiver and laugh simultaneously. He pulled back just enough to watch you catch your breath, blue eyes bright and a little smug.
“Cold?” he asked, voice rough with amusement. “Or is that just the effect I have on you?”
You grinned, brushing your nose against his. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
Bucky’s smile was small but certain, like he already knew exactly how to make you sigh again, before he leaned in for another kiss.
It all started months ago, back when Bucky officially joined the Avengers.
Not the awkward probationary period when everyone still half-expected him to vanish into the night with a duffel bag and a handgun. This was after he’d settled in, started cracking jokes with Sam, and started trusting people enough to stay for movie nights instead of just lurking in the hallway like a cryptid with perfect hair.
Somewhere in all of that, you and Bucky had landed in the “pretty good friends” category. The kind of friends who could spend an afternoon sparring in the gym and still grab take-out after, sweaty and laughing. The kind who could sit on the roof and trade sarcastic commentary about Tony’s latest gadget, or drop down into a serious conversation about nightmares and past mistakes without it getting weird.
And, apparently, the kind of friends who made out. A lot.
It wasn’t complicated. Sometimes, missions were rough, and adrenaline was high, and you both needed a way to blow off steam. Sometimes a late-night movie ended with you leaning a little too close. Sometimes—like tonight—you just happened to find yourselves kissing because it felt good and you both wanted to, and that was reason enough.
No strategy, no hidden agenda. Just two adults enjoying themselves in a world that rarely handed out simple pleasures.
You were good friends who kissed when the mood struck them. That was it. No strings, no labels, no looming “what are we” talk. A perfectly modern arrangement for a perfectly modern pair of friends.
You liked the way things were. Bucky was warm, solid, and dependable. He had this way of making you feel like the only person in the room, which was a dangerous kind of magic when paired with a mouth that good. But things never got complicated, and in your stressful line of work, you appreciated that.
It was easy, light, and made you feel like the universe could occasionally be kind.
Bucky shifted beneath you, the couch groaning as he settled a hand more firmly at your waist. His metal thumb traced a slow, deliberate circle against your shirt, the cool contrast sending a fresh shiver up your spine.
“Comfortable?” he asked, voice low, rough-edged from kissing.
“Mmhmm.” You didn’t bother opening your eyes, just leaned in for another slow, unhurried kiss.
Bucky smiled against your mouth, a satisfied curve like he’d just confirmed something important. He always kissed slowly and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world and knew you’d give it to him.
You melted a little—fine, a lot—into the steady press of his mouth. “You’re really making me work for it after leg day,” you mumbled against his lips.
Bucky hummed, a warm vibration you felt in your spine. “Maybe I just like having you in my lap, doll.”
You rolled your eyes, managing a smirk. “The feeling’s mutual, Barnes. But I could use a break.”
He chuckled, a low sound that made you want to drag him even closer. The couch groaned as he shifted, metal hand sliding beneath you in a smooth, practised motion. One minute you were sitting on his lap, the next you were stretched out along the cushions, Bucky braced above you.
The world tilted pleasantly, the weight of him sinking into your bones.
“Better?” he asked, breath brushing your cheek.
“Comfier,” you admitted, trying very hard not to sound like someone who had just been given the universe’s best weighted blanket. “You’re heavy. In a solid, heroic kind of way.”
Bucky’s grin flashed, quick and boyish. “Heroic heavy. I’ll take it.”
He dipped his head again before you could muster a comeback, mouth sliding against yours in a kiss that was both careful and possessive. His flesh hand cupped your jaw, tilting you just so, and the combination of soft pressure and cool metal tracing lazy paths along your waist sent heat pooling low in your stomach.
His nose brushed yours as he broke for air. “You taste like that sugar and espresso,” he murmured, voice rough. “My coffee, the one I made for myself.”
“It was a communal coffee,” you protested, fingers finding the hem of his T-shirt and giving it a cheeky tug. “Sharing is caring. Also, I’m a growing woman.”
Bucky smirked, clearly unbothered, and dipped back in. It was the kind of kiss that made you forget the world outside the four walls of his room and forget your own name if you weren’t careful.
His metal hand slid to your waist, tracing a line just under the edge of your shirt and approaching the buttons of your jeans. The cool touch jolted through you, sharp enough to register as a warning and a dare all at once.
“Tell me to stop,” Bucky said quietly, forehead resting against yours. His thumb pressed a slow circle against your bare skin, a gentle reminder that going further would tip past kissing for the first time.
The softness of it made something tighten behind your ribs, but you managed a grin. “You first.”
His mouth found yours again, slower still, and you decided that this was the best friendship upgrade you’d ever signed up for.
You tasted like sweat and a hint of something sweet, somehow.
Bucky let his back hit the wall of the training room with a low thud, the sound swallowed by the rush of your breath against his mouth. You were still in your usual sparring gear, hair sticking to your forehead, T-shirt damp at the collar. He hooked his flesh hand around your waist and pulled you flush against him.
You made a sound—half-laugh, half-sigh—that went straight to his chest. God, that laugh. Low and warm and a little breathless. He’d chased it for months.
His metal palm slid over the small of your back, cool against overheated skin. You shivered and pressed closer, hips tilting just enough to make his breath catch. The thin barrier of fabric did nothing to hide the heat of you.
“Good match,” you managed between kisses, voice bright with the last of the adrenaline.
“Mm.” Bucky’s answer came out rough. Talking felt pointless when he could taste you instead.
You tugged at the collar of his T-shirt, nails grazing the back of his neck. Bucky groaned, deep and quiet, and let his hand drift lower until his fingers brushed the waistband of your leggings. Not pushing. Just there. Asking.
You didn’t pull away. You only shifted closer, thigh sliding between his.
Christ. Bucky angled his head, deepening the kiss. This was new. Closer. The kind of slow grind that carried a promise.
He’d been patient about romancing you—old-fashioned, even. The Bucky treatment, Steve would call it with a grin, which entailed absolutely no funny business until you were exclusive. Dinner after missions, walks back from the market, letting the thing between you build at its own pace.
At first, Bucky worried that it was too slow for you.
After all, you were a modern woman, and dating had escalated into something he barely recognised these days. He’d spent nights lying awake, half convinced you’d get bored and wander off before he figured out the new rules. People swiped left and right now; they didn’t wait weeks to hold someone’s hand.
But you never once pushed. You were happy to linger after movie nights, to kiss until the streetlights clicked off, to let the quiet stretch between you without demanding anything more. Every time you smiled at Bucky across a dinner table or leaned against his arm during a walk, he felt a clean rush of relief—proof that slow wasn’t scaring you away.
Eventually, he’d worked up to what he thought was the big step: exclusivity. He’d asked in what he still considered a perfectly obvious, twenty-first-century way. Over take-out noodles one night, he’d nudged your foot under the table and said, “Guess we’re making this official, huh?” You’d grinned, clinked your chopsticks against his, and said, “Pleasure doing business with you,” before launching into a story about a disastrous mission briefing.
For Bucky, that was it. You were official, exclusive. He’d walked you back to your room that night, floating three inches off the floor, certain the air between you had shifted into something solid. He’d even texted his group chat with Steve and Sam the next morning—asked her to be exclusive. she said yes.
And now, weeks later, the ease of it still steadied him. Because you’d let him take his time, because you’d agreed to be his without hesitation, he could finally let himself imagine the next step.
Not a leap, just a careful slide forward. A hand under your shirt, the warm weight of you against him. Little things that meant trust, not just desire. You knew he was serious; you knew this wasn’t a fling. And because of that, Bucky could touch you like this and know he wasn’t crossing a line.
It was worth every second of taking it slow.
He’d wanted tonight to be a reward. You’d wiped the floor with him in the last sparring round, and he’d loved every second of it. A kiss in the corner of the gym before you both hit the showers. A private victory lap. But the way you moved now—hips rolling, fingers sliding under the edge of his shirt—made the idea of stopping feel cruel.
You broke the kiss just long enough to breathe. “You’re dangerous, Barnes,” you murmured, eyes bright.
Bucky huffed a quiet laugh. “You started it.”
Your grin flashed. “Pretty sure you tackled me first.”
“I’m not the one wearing the sexy workout outfit.” He kissed the corner of your mouth, a small claim that felt bigger than it should. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”
You answered by catching his bottom lip between your teeth.
Every sane thought disappeared from his head.
Bucky had been planning your next date all afternoon. Real food this time, something nicer than the take-out containers you both pretended were meals. Maybe that little place Natasha kept raving about.
Afterwards, he’d walk you back to the Tower, maybe stop by the rooftop garden where you liked to lean on the railing and tell him funny stories. He wanted to see you there again, sweater sleeves pulled over your hands, laughing at his deadpan jokes.
A relationship, exclusive dating after months of doing it casually and slowly. That’s what this was.
Bucky had been careful, giving you space, but the signs were obvious. Movie nights that ended with you asleep against his shoulder. Early morning texts about coffee orders. The way you started wearing one of his hoodies and never gave it back. People didn’t do that if it wasn’t serious.
And now, the way you fit against him, warm and trusting, made the truth feel solid enough to lean on.
You shifted again, a slow drag of hips that sent a jolt of pleasure through him. Bucky tightened his grip, metal fingers spanning your waist, holding you steady while you moved.
“Easy,” he murmured, voice breaking low. Not a warning. More of a plea to give him a second to keep it together.
You only smiled, wicked and sweet, and stole another kiss.
Bucky’s heart hammered a steady backbeat, climbing higher every time you shifted against him. He felt young again, as if the world had tilted toward something good and he was allowed to stand in the middle of it.
He thought of Steve and how he used to talk about simple pleasures, about not waiting too long. Maybe this was what he meant.
You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. Your pupils were blown wide, a question shining there.
Bucky smoothed his thumb along your jaw. “Tell me if I’m pushing,” he said quietly.
Your smile softened. “You’re not.”
He leaned in, forehead against yours, and let the next kiss start slow. A promise disguised as a reward. He’d wait as long as you needed, but tonight felt like the start of something bigger.
His girl, his doll, his future.
Bucky’s room smelled faintly of laundry detergent and cedar, the clean scent that comes from someone who actually follows the instructions on a bottle of fabric softener. Show off.
The lamp on his nightstand was turned low, casting a warm light over the bed where Alpine, a small white cloud with whiskers, was already perched as if she paid rent. You’d been in here enough times to know the lightbulb was the soft kind that made everyone look ten times kinder, which felt on brand for a man who pretended to be grumpy while secretly rescuing cats.
“Movie night with a critic,” Bucky said, toeing off his boots. “She likes to meow at the plot holes.”
“You’re just jealous she’s smarter than you,” you teased, settling cross-legged on the edge of the mattress. The comforter dipped beneath you, soft and heavy. It smelled faintly of clean cotton and something warm—Bucky, probably.
He shot you a look of mock offence while fishing for the remote on his bedside table. “Careful, doll. I can still veto your pick.”
Bucky queued up the movie and slid down beside you, long legs stretched out and arm braced on the mattress, brushing your thigh. A barely-there touch, but enough to make your nerve endings sit up like they’d just had a double espresso. The screen lit up with the opening credits of your favourite movie.
Alpine gave a chirp, turned a slow circle, and then—betrayal of betrayals—padded across Bucky’s lap and plopped squarely into yours.
“Oh, c’mon,” he groaned. “Every time!”
You grinned, scratching behind Alpine’s ears as she head-butted your palm with the force of a tiny, determined marshmallow. “Face it. I’m her favourite.”
Bucky leaned back against the headboard, arms crossed in dramatic suffering. “I rescued her from a busted fire escape. Nursed her back to health. Bought the fancy grain-free food. And this is the thanks I get?”
“Maybe she appreciates quality company,” you said, wiggling your fingers to make Alpine’s tail swish in delight. “I have sparkling conversation and adorable charm. What do you bring to the table?”
“Trauma and good cheekbones,” Bucky deadpanned.
You snorted, nearly startling the cat. “Wow. Irresistible package.”
“She used to sleep on my chest,” he went on, ignoring you. “Now she hears your voice and suddenly I’m chopped liver.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” you said, though you were enjoying every second of his mock sulk. “You’re still her giant food dispenser.”
“Thanks, doll. Real boost to the ego.” Bucky tilted his head toward Alpine, who was now purring loud enough to be heard over the movie. “You hear that, snowball? Dad’s feelings—obliterated.”
Alpine flicked an ear and nestled deeper into your lap like a queen receiving tribute. You gave Bucky a wide, innocent smile. “Maybe she just senses my aura.”
“Your aura?” He arched a brow.
“Yeah. Cats can tell when someone’s a good person. Or at least when someone’s not secretly plotting world domination.”
“Guess I should’ve hidden the plans better,” Bucky said, eyes glinting.
The banter slid back and forth like an old routine—effortless, balanced, as easy as breathing. You’d fallen into this rhythm months ago: Bucky’s dry humour, your quick jabs, both of you quietly delighted whenever you managed to crack the other wide open.
He laughed now, a low, warm sound that vibrated through the mattress and settled somewhere under your ribs. You filed it away with all the other Bucky details you weren’t supposed to notice: the way his laugh always started in his chest, the tiny crinkle at the corner of his eyes, the ridiculous fact that it made you feel lighter every single time.
Halfway through the movie, Alpine stretched a paw across your stomach, claiming more territory. Bucky reached out, fingers brushing yours as he pretended to coax her back.
“Traitor,” he whispered.
“She’s perfect,” you whispered back, though your focus snagged on the tiny graze of his metal knuckles against your skin. Cool and smooth, a contrast sharp enough to send a little electric zing racing up your arm.
Bucky caught the flick of your eyes and smirked like he’d felt it too. “You’re spoiling her.”
“Maybe I just have a magic touch.”
“You don’t say.”
On screen, the hero made a questionable decision that earned a disgusted chirp from Alpine. You and Bucky burst out laughing at the same time, the sound overlapping until you couldn’t tell whose laugh belonged to whom. He nudged your knee with his, just a small bump, but he didn’t move it away.
The rest of the movie blurred in a haze of shared snacks and whispered commentary. Bucky pointed out continuity errors. You defended the cheesy dialogue. Alpine purred as if she were personally invested in the debate.
If happiness had a sound, it might have been this: a cat’s rumble, a soldier’s laugh, and your own heartbeat trying to keep up.
By the time the end credits rolled, Bucky stretched with a satisfied groan, his shoulder brushing yours. “Not bad,” he admitted. “A couple plot holes, but the cat critic seems pleased.”
Alpine yawned and pressed her head into your palm.
“Five stars,” you said, giving the cat a final scratch. “From the only opinion that matters.”
Bucky’s eyes softened as he watched you. He didn’t say anything, just reached over to gently lift Alpine from your lap and set her on the pillow. But his fingers lingered for a beat, like he wasn’t quite ready to break the contact.
With Alpine safely out of the way, Bucky leaned in and kissed you, slow and deep, as if he’d been waiting all night for the chance. It was the kind of kiss that felt inevitable, like the next logical step in a perfect night in.
The debrief wrapped with Steve’s trademark mix of stern professionalism and sweet encouragement. “Good work out there,” he said, setting the file down like it hadn’t just survived three explosions and a questionable landing courtesy of Peter. “Take the night off. Dinner’s on me.”
A chorus of cheers and applause rippled around the conference table. Chairs scraped back, jackets were shrugged on. The post-mission buzz was alive and well in the collective joy of finally getting to sit somewhere that wasn’t a Quinjet.
You stretched, rolling a knot out of your shoulder as Bucky fell into step beside you. His hand brushed the small of your back for half a second.
“Dinner?” Natasha asked, leaning against the table with the confidence of a woman who already knew everyone would say yes. “Pizza? Burgers? Anything that involves carbs and regret?”
“Carbs are a therapeutic necessity,” Steve said dryly.
“Carbs keep me sane,” Kate added, slinging her bow case over one shoulder. “I vote for pizza.”
“Seconded,” Peter said, already halfway to his phone, texting Joaquín. “I’ll find somewhere with those giant garlic knots.”
The group hummed with agreement, overlapping suggestions flying. Ava and John debated deep-dish pizza versus thin-crust pizza with the seriousness of a nuclear treaty. Yelena quietly pilfered the last of the conference room snacks, unwrapping a protein bar like it had wronged her.
Sam’s eyes flicked to Bucky and then to you, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Buck, you bringing your girlfriend or what?”
Yelena snorted so loudly it should have counted as a war crime. “Ha. Good one.”
You blinked. “Wait—what?”
Bucky’s frown was immediate and sharp. “Why is that funny?”
Your laugh came out higher than intended. “Oh, uh… I think she meant—”
“Meant what?” Bucky asked, still frowning. “Why would that be a joke?”
Across the table, Steve froze mid-water bottle sip. Ava’s eyebrows shot up.
“Because it is funny,” Yelena said, pointing to you with a grin. “She is not his girlfriend.”
Sam looked suddenly, violently confused. “But… she is Bucky’s girlfriend?” He turned to you for confirmation. “Aren’t you?”
Your heart jumped. “No,” you exclaimed, while Bucky declared, “Yes.”
A silence followed so heavy you could practically hear your heart drop to your stomach.
“Interesting,” Natasha said, stealing Yelena’s protein bar with the calm of a woman watching a soap opera unfold in real time. “Please, continue.”
Bob’s eyes ping-ponged between you and Bucky like he was watching the world’s most stressful tennis match. “Um. Did we miss something?”
“We’re—” you started.
“We’re dating,” Bucky said, voice firm, like he was reciting mission intel.
You gaped at him. “We are not dating.”
Ava arched one perfect brow. “This is going to be good.”
Bucky turned to you, confusion etched deep. “What do you mean we’re not? We’ve been—” He broke off, gesturing vaguely with both hands, as though the universal sign for making out on couches would help.
Your face went hot. “That’s not dating, that’s us letting out some steam once in a while. Friends with very occasional, very PG-13 benefits!”
Sam’s mouth dropped open. “Occasional? You two are attached at the hip. You leave missions together. You do grocery runs together. Bucky refers to the both of you as a ‘we’ like he can’t bear to do anything alone. I thought that was relationship-level stuff.”
“That’s just… logistics!” you protested, which sounded weak even to you.
Kate leaned forward, delighted. “Okay, but the movie nights?”
“Friends have movie nights,” you said.
“With tongue?” Yelena asked flatly.
You flailed. “Sometimes!”
Bucky stared at you, blue eyes wide and wounded. “You thought this was friends with benefits?”
Your stomach twisted. “You thought we were in a relationship?”
Sam rubbed a hand over his face, muttering, “Unbelievable.”
John was trying not to laugh and failing spectacularly. Natasha wore an expression that suggested she was mentally drafting a memo about emotional communication for the next team briefing.
“Wow,” Ava said, grinning. “This is like watching two different movies at the same time.”
“Alternate universes,” Peter murmured. “One where Bucky’s a committed boyfriend. One where he’s a very dedicated situationship.”
“Okay,” you said, holding up your hands before the word situationship could set the room on fire. “Let’s all just take a breath.”
Bucky’s jaw flexed. “I asked you to be exclusive.”
Your brain replayed the sentence like a faulty recording. “When?”
“That night after we got Chinese food,” he said, voice rising slightly. “I said, ‘I don’t want to share you.’”
You stared. “I thought you were talking to the spring rolls!”
Sam made a strangled sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Bob buried his face in his hoodie to avoid second-hand embarrassment. Natasha bit into Yelena’s protein bar as if it were popcorn and she was at the cinema.
Bucky dragged a hand down his face. “I meant you. And then I asked if we were official, and you said something about being happy to do business with me.”
“Oh.” Your voice squeaked on the single syllable. “That… does clarify things.”
Steve, who had been silently observing like a patient kindergarten teacher, finally cleared his throat. “Maybe the two of you should talk privately.”
“Great idea,” Kate said brightly. “Before Sam combusts.”
“I’m fine,” Sam said, clearly not fine.
The room erupted into overlapping chatter—Sam defending his assumption, Yelena narrating every awkward beat, Peter mumbling something about how communication is key. Through it all, Bucky kept his eyes on you, a mix of hurt and hope twisting behind the blue.
You swallowed hard, heart pounding like it was trying to hammer out a coherent sentence.
So much for perfectly normal friend behaviour.
“Okay,” you said finally, meeting his gaze. “Maybe we do need to talk.”
Bucky nodded once, slow but certain, like a man accepting a mission. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “We do.”
Steve and Natasha began shepherding everyone out of the conference room. When the door clicked shut behind them, the room felt too silent all of a sudden. The scent of burnt coffee and adrenaline clung to the air, a reminder that superhero drama apparently came with office-breakroom ambience.
The rest of the team’s laughter echoed faintly down the hall.
Bucky stood near the table, arms crossed but not in a threatening way. More like he was trying to keep all his pieces inside. Your stomach did a neat little backflip.
“So,” you said, voice wobbling toward cheerful. “That was… fun. Nothing like a room full of superheroes arguing about your love life to keep a mission debrief lively.”
His mouth twitched. “Could’ve been worse. Sam could’ve made a powerpoint.”
You laughed—short, nervous. “He probably has one ready. Charts. Graphs. Pie slices of evidence.”
Silence settled again. Bucky uncrossed his arms, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, doll, I’m sorry. I should’ve— I don’t know. Made things clearer.”
You stepped closer, shaking your head. “No, I should’ve—”
But he ploughed on, words rushing. “I just thought— hell, I assumed. We do everything together. You stay over half the week, Alpine’s basically picked you as her human. I figured you were happy to take things slow for me, but then I assumed we made things official. And tonight—” His voice cracked. “I feel like an idiot. Like I set myself up for this.”
“Bucky—”
“I should’ve said something. I should’ve asked. Instead I’m standing there like a chump while half the team thinks I’m your boyfriend and the other half thinks I’m delusional—”
“Hey!” You caught his sleeve before he could spiral farther. The fabric was warm from his skin; the metal of his arm cold through the seam. The contrast shot straight to your heartbeat, a reminder of how many contradictions made him Bucky. “Bucky, stop. This isn’t a one-sided screw-up, okay? We both failed at communicating what we thought we were.”
Bucky finally looked at you, eyes stormy and searching.
You took a breath, steadying the racing pulse in your throat. “I didn’t think we were dating because we never said we were. But that’s on me too. I never asked, never clarified. I just liked what we had and didn’t want to scare you off.”
His shoulders eased a fraction. “You liked what we had?”
You rolled your eyes affectionately. “Obviously. Have you met you?”
That earned the tiniest smile.
“I like us,” you continued, softer now. “I like movie nights and bad diner coffee and the way you always walk on the street side. I like how easy it is to talk to you, even when you’re grumpy and pretending not to care. And yeah, maybe I wanted more, but I didn’t want to risk losing the friendship that’s basically my favorite thing in the world.”
Bucky’s gaze flicked down, then back up. His voice came out low, careful. “You’re my favourite thing too.”
Your chest squeezed in equal parts terror and relief. Apparently, your ribcage had decided to moonlight as a vice. “So maybe we stop assuming and actually start communicating.”
He stepped closer until the air between you warmed. “Communicating,” he echoed. “Like, I want to be your boyfriend. Present tense. Clear as day.”
You grinned, heart hammering. “Exactly like that. Because I want to be your girlfriend. Also present tense, clear as day.”
The grin softened into something else as Bucky reached up, fingertips brushing your cheek like a question. You answered by leaning in, closing the space. His lips met yours in a slow, careful press, the kind of kiss that asked for trust instead of taking it.
His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, steady and warm, the faint scrape of calloused skin sending a quiet thrill through you. You angled closer, a subtle pull that left you swaying toward him until your chest met the solid line of his.
His thumb traced a small circle against your jaw, patient and deliberate, like he wanted every second to count.
When you pulled back, breathless and a little dizzy, Bucky rested his forehead against yours. His eyes stayed half-lidded, the corners soft with something that made your stomach flip all over again. “Worth the public humiliation,” he murmured.
The door banged open.
“Please tell me I’m not interrupting more feelings,” Tony said, strolling in with a tablet. “Steve just told me you—” he pointed at you “—thought you weren’t dating the Hot Topic Terminator over here. Congratulations, you are officially the least perceptive spy I’ve ever met.”
You groaned. Bucky chuckled against your hair.
Tony smirked, already tapping on his tablet. “Great. Now that the sitcom subplot is resolved, can we schedule the next mission?”
You buried your face in Bucky’s chest, laughing despite yourself.
He was scary, almost never seen smiling. He was the winter soldier after all. Tall and broody, staring daggers at everyone that passed by.
You, his best girl, were the opposite of him. You were the teams sunshine, always smiling and encouraging everyone. People liked you. They also wondered how Bucky managed to pull a girl such as sweet as you.
When you two had first started dating, you werent expecting much. You liked him, of course, but you werent sure if it was gonna work out or not.
Your worries were proven wrong quickly after finding out that bucky barnes was actually a very different man than what the world thinks of him as.
Turns out, the scary winter soldier act was only for the public. He made sure you, and only you were the one to see his soft side.
He would buy you flowers for every single date you’ve had. He would cook for you, do your laundry, he basically worshipped the ground you walked on.
He was also very, very clingy.
He would come up to you and just lie down on top of you, like a cat. He would rest his head on your tits (he claims they are comfier than pillows), and just fall asleep there, while you played with his hair.
The team noticed the way his eyes went soft when he looked at you. And natasha and wanda already knew how sweet he was for you from the stuff you told them at girls nights. But you dont think they would ever believe you if you told them that the winter soldier asks for cuddles. You wouldnt tell them that anyway. Bucky trusted you enough to reveal his vulnerable side to you. You loved him, and he was all yours to have.
try and tell me literally any one of these would not fit above a short story about two wholly random men from the MCU fingering each other, or possibly 12 chapters of one or more characters from a CW show being in high school while having a photogenic but terminal kind of cancer. try.
Summary: Politics is a game that requires secrets, just like love.
Pairing: Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader
Tropes: CampaignStaff!Reader, politics, boss x employee, opposites attract, romance, fluff, idiots in love, pining, age gap (he's over 100 years old), separate warnings in each chapter
Chapter 1 : Working overtime has its surprising moments.
Chapter 2 : Actions have consequences.
Chapter 3 : It’s a skill to remain calm in stressful situations.
Chapter 4 : Everyone has their bad days at work.
Chapter 5 : Crushes can happen out of nowhere.
Chapter 6 : A hug can mean many things.
Chapter 7 : Alcohol leads to honest promises.
Chapter 8 : The first day of work can be stressful.
Chapter 9 : Some lines shouldn't be crossed.
Chapter 10 : Self-doubt can appear out of nowhere.
Chapter 11 : Some dances look more than just friendly.
Chapter 12 : Having a high pressure job has its consequences.
Chapter 13 : Anything can happen at a barbecue.
Chapter 14 : Lying is necessary sometimes.
Chapter 15 : Misunderstandings can create issues.
Chapter 16 : Coworkers are supposed to be professional.
Chapter 17 : Secret relationships come with possessiveness.
a congressman!bucky barnes x f!reader mini-series.
synopsis: after thinking you've met the man of your dreams, you're ready to take things to the next level. one problem: you've never even kissed a guy before. so, you knock on your best friend's door with a proposition, and ask him to teach you everything there is to know about sex. no strings, no feelings, just lessons. but the closer he gets, the harder it is to pretend it's only practice.
warnings/rating: 18+ rated series, minors do not interact, explicit content ahead! ⚠️ p in v, m receiving oral, f receiving oral, fingering, handjobs, pining, dirty talk, masturbation, sexting, literally every dirty thing you can think of... it's probably going to be in this fic. chapter specific warnings will be at the start.
Warnings: Slight jealousy, creepy dude, unwanted flirting, violence, stranger named “Derrick” being very pushy, drinking, Fem reader, use of pet names (doll, My Girl)
Summary: After bringing the team to bar for some much needed time away from your many missions, you end up on the receiving end of some very much unwanted attention, Bucky steps in.
You had practically begged Bucky to let the team all go out to a bar together. Mainly just because you deeply needed a drink but, the last month or so had been nonstop missions and runs and you figured everyone just needed a fun night.
Tonight he had finally caved.
There you all were, the bar was small and somewhat private. Bucky had figured it would be better to find a less popular one to avoid any public attention for one night.
It was definitely a sight to see. Ava and Yelana had gotten absolutely wasted and were now attempting to do Karaoke. Bob stood off to the side just watching, a small smile on his face. Alexi had taken it upon himself to challenge every person in this bar to an arm wrestling match, including the bartender who was definitely not as amused with this as Alexi was.
Bucky had been practically attached to your hip the whole night. The two of you had been sitting together at the bar, Bucky's arm wrapped around waist, your head gently resting on his shoulder while you watched John try to convince Bob to join in on karaoke.
Bucky's phone had started going off, he let out an annoyed sigh staring down at his phone like it had personally offended him.
“Sorry doll, I’ve gotta take this. I’ll be right back.” He spoke, getting up from his seat and quickly placing a kiss to the top of your head and stepping out momentarily.
You turned your chair watching how Yelena and Ava were now damn near wrestling for the microphone. You giggled, completely unaware of the man who had come and taken the seat where Bucky just was.
You had decided that attempting to make small talk with the bartender was infinitely worse than just sitting in silence waiting for you boyfriend to come back so instead you just turned to watch the rest of the team.
Alexi and Yelena were drunkenly yelling the lyrics to American Pie, meanwhile Bob was currently attempting (and unfortunately failing) to mediate some sort of argument between Ava and John.
You smiled to yourself quietly, so wrapped up in this moment that you hadn’t noticed the new presence sitting next to you.
“Are you here with all of ‘em?” A voice questioned beside you. You jumped slightly not expecting someone to be so close to you.
“Holy shit- I didn’t even realize you were there.” You giggled nervously, hand raking through your hair.
“Oh! I’m so sorry ma’am, just saw you sittin’ over here on your own, figured you could use the company.” The man chuckled quietly.
Your nerves calmed slightly, he seemed nice enough so you continued to chat with him. “Also uhm- yeah I am with them, sorry forgot to answer you earlier.” You giggled quietly gesturing over to the team.
The man just smiled politely and nodded. “Oh uhm- I’m Derrick by the way.” He said putting a hand out.
You took it “(Y/N), Nice to meet you.” you replied.
“(Y/N)? Wow that’s a pretty name, it suits you.” He said shooting you a wink. You internally cringed but decided to brush it off.
The two of you sat there in awkward silence. You stared down at your hands, nervously fiddling with the bracelet
Bucky had given you for your One year anniversary. He had your favorite flower engraved on the top of it, the date of your anniversary on the bottom. The memory of that day made you smile to yourself quietly.
“Why don’t I buy you a drink?” The man piped up, breaking the silence between the two of you.
You looked up at Derrick, you questioned if you should accept his offer or not but he ended up making the decision for you before you could answer.
You shifted uncomfortably in your seat not enjoying where this interaction was going. The bartender Passed him the drinks and Derrick handed you yours. You gave him a polite smile and set it down beside you.
You visibly relaxed as you saw Bucky walk back in through the door, his eyes scanned the room finally landing on you. He smiled, and you felt your heart beating faster in your chest.
Bucky's eyes landed on Derrick who was still sitting just a bit too close to you for his own liking. His eyes narrowed and his tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek.
He sat down at the chair on the other side of you, his right arm resting comfortably around your waist. He smirked, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.
Derrick crossed his arms glaring daggers at Bucky. You didn’t notice it but Bucky definitely did.
“Sorry I was gone so long, doll I just had to take care of some shit for our next mission.” He spoke, vibranium hand tilting your chin up slightly, pressing a tender kiss to your lips.
He pulled away, eyes still locked on your lips. Derrick cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Soooo (Y/N)? Who’s your friend?” Derrick questioned shooting Bucky an unamused glare.
You opened your mouth to speak but Bucky answered instead. “Awh did my girl really not tell you about me?” He pulled you closer, arm still in its rightful place around your waist. His Vibranium hand brushing a strand of hair out of your face.
Derrick was visibly annoyed at the nickname Bucky had given you. Suddenly he stood up grabbing your arm, a snarky look on his face. Derrick pulled you towards
“Why don’t we go somewhere more private?” He spoke through clenched teeth. His grip on you was painful as he began pulling you away from Bucky.
Bucky shot up from his seat, his fists clenching. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”
You tried to pull your arm away, but when he didn’t let go you sunk your teeth into his forearm.
He screamed and let go of you. His hand now cradling his bloody arm as he snarled at you. “You fucking bitch!”
His voice rang through the bar and suddenly all eyes were on the three of you.
Bucky put himself between you and the now enraged man. His face had stoned entirely, eyes cold and calculating.
Derrick charged at him, swinging his fist towards Bucky's face.
His face paled as Bucky's vibranium hand closed around his fist. Derrick attempted to pull away, eyes darting towards the door but to no avail.
Bucky grabbed the man’s collar pulling him closer. Derrick stood there cowering in fear.
“you put your hands, or even try to look at my girl again and I will make sure nobody finds your body. Am I clear?” Bucky spoke, his tone unwavering.
Derrick nodded vigorously, visibly shaking. “Y-Yes! Yes s-sir! Please let me go!” he yelped.
Bucky sighed and looked back at you seemingly waiting for you to give him the ok. You nodded and Bucky turned back to face Derrick once more. He shoved him towards the door, arms crossed as he watched him scramble out of the bar.
His vibranium hand reached up, rubbing the back of his neck as he sighed. He turned to face you, his gaze softening.
“I’m sorry you had to see that Doll” Bucky said softly. His hands move to cup your face. His touch was so gentle you could’ve sworn you were made of glass.
His soft blue eyes scanned over you to make sure you were ok. His shoulders relaxed as he pulled you into his chest. A warm hand cradling the back of your head.
Bucky placed a kiss to the top of your head and you finally felt your body relax.
“I’ve got you, you're my girl and I promise you I will never, ever let anybody do anything like that to you again.” He whispered into your hair as his head rested on yours.
You gave him a small smile, looking up to meet his beautiful blue eyes. “Is that a promise Barnes?”
He chuckled softly, his hand tilting your chin up ever so slightly. “That’s a promise, Doll.” He smiled before placing a tentative kiss to your lips.
“Now, how about I buy my girl a drink and then you and I can have a little fun of our own when we get home?” He asked, his voice low in your ear.
“Sounds absolutely perfect.” You smiled.
A/N: Hi my darlings! I’m so sorry this took so long to post i’ve been extremely busy as of late but i’ll hopefully be able to come back to posting now! I hope you enjoy! <3
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ synopsis: it’s been three years since you and Bucky called it quits. you learned to live without him, to stop waiting for a knock that would never come. until tonight, when he shows up at your front door with his team and tired eyes, asking for a place to crash. his presence, bathed in the soft light of your doorstep, stirs feelings long buried—ones you thought had vanished the night he did.
-> pairing: post-thunderbolts!bucky x fem!reader
-> disclaimers: so much angst that it’s sickening, yearning, cursing, minor use of y/n, reader and bucky are exes, the thunderbolts are a found family and i make sure of it, bucky has relationship insecurity, unresolved tension, i got carried away with angst (peep word count), bucky and his beautiful dyson airwrap blowout, happy ending.
-> word count: 10k+ (BYEEEE)
-> song rec: cardigan by taylor swift
-> a/n: first ever fic on this blog and it’s angst. i thrive off of tense silence and painful longing. it’s long but worth it (this deserved length)
The knocks come close to midnight. You’re still awake, folding all of your laundry you’d tackled on your day off. You aren’t tired by any means, however, you definitely weren’t expecting the company behind those three even raps on the wooden door of your apartment.
You approach the door with rightful caution—something your years of fighting crime, aliens and evil villains had taught you—but nothing you’d faced before could have ever prepared you for what was on the other side of that peephole.
You almost didn’t open it, backing away with a heartbeat that pumped too quickly for you to keep up. Your breathing grew heavy, like the weight you’ve spent so long trying to lift off your shoulders came crashing down on you again. Yet, there’s a part of you inside that desperately wants to swing the door open, which only makes you angrier—that after all this time, your heart still fails you in the presence of him.
Despite the voices in your head screaming at you from every angle, your body betrays you. Fingers switch the locks and you’re pulling the door open, a small gust of wind following in its path.
Bucky Barnes looks different from the last time you saw him—in person, at least. You’ve seen the new prince charming hair and scruffy beard plenty of times on your television but after a while, his face grew harder to look at so you stopped paying attention. Something once familiar became foreign and you convinced yourself you accepted that.
But there he stands at your front door. Only he isn’t alone, because behind him are the rest of his team of bandits turned heroes; bruised, bloodied and battered.
For a second, you don’t think you’d be able to speak but then your mouth moves faster than your brain. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
It’s silent, and you’re pissed. The goddam Thunderbolts are at your front door in the middle of the night and none of them have the decency to speak. Not even the man who brought them there.
“Is this a joke?” You say, blinking.
Bucky, as if your words snap him out of some sort of daze, raises his chin. “Hi Y/N.”
His voice was as gruff and deep as you remember and the sound of his name rolling off your tongue triggers something you thought you’d long gotten rid of.
When you don’t respond, out of equal parts shock and anger, Bucky continues, “We’re on a mission and it hasn’t been going well. We need,” He pauses. “We need some place to stay. Just for the night.”
There was no way, you think. Maybe you passed out and hit your head, hard enough for your brain to conjure up this sadistic nightmare.
“Seriously?” You breathe, fingers clutching the door with an effort that makes your knuckles turn white.
Bucky opens his mouth but is unable to come up with any words—shame and guilt flickering in every corner of his eyes.
You use the silence to glance around at the other five strangers standing at your front door. They look like they’ve all gone through the ringer; dirty and exhausted. When your eyes land on hers—Yelena’s—your breath falters.
She looks exactly like Natasha under the harsh fluorescent light of your hallway, with a deep gash on her lip and those same rich blue eyes. She stares back at you, tired in a way that makes your heart hurt.
Suddenly, you felt like shit for contemplating slamming the door right in their faces.
When your eyes meet Bucky’s again, that thumping in your heart is undeniable—the one that reminds you of just how much he’d once meant to you, of how you would’ve pulled him inside without question had he knocked on your door years earlier. It was yelling at you to let him inside. Them.
Because that part of you, the one that once loved him and everything that came with him, wasn’t entirely gone. No matter how much you tried to get rid of her.
With a sharp inhale, you step to the side for them to walk through.
Bucky hadn’t expected you to. Of course, he knew the kind of person you once were but he didn’t know the kind of person you are now—you had every right to turn him away and yet, your apartment door was wide open.
His feet feel frozen in place. After a moment of waiting for him to move, and sharing confused glances when he didn’t, the rest of The Thunderbolts begin walking through your door giving you murmurs of appreciation.
Bucky was the last one to step inside.
He feels the energy shift the second he walks through the threshold of your apartment. He hasn’t been inside since the breakup—since the day he practically ripped your heart out with his hand and tried to move on like nothing had happened.
You hate the way he doesn’t bother to look around like the rest of his teammates because he already knows the apartment like the back of his hand. More so, you hate locking the door behind him because that makes the situation all the more real.
Clearing your throat, you spin around despite the fact that your brain still feels as if it’s melting. “I’m Y/N.” You don’t know why you bother telling them your name when surely he beat you to it.
“Oh, we know who you are.” The big man—Red Guardian, you think—laughs, a smile stretching across his face in admiration. “You are Avenger. I see you fight on television. Big fan.”
You blink. “Well, I’ve seen you all fight on TV too,” Your words are laced with bitterness and you resist the urge to side-eye Bucky in the process. “The New Avengers. That’s taken some getting used to.”
Everyone in the room can feel the tension between you and the man who stands near the archway of the hallway, attempting to remain out of the way.
They know you and Bucky used to be a thing, the whole world does. The details of said separation are unknown to most but people have their theories and the creation of The New Avengers is rumored to be one of them.
“For us too, believe it or not.” The woman with a short brown bob and thick accent steps forward. “Thank you for opening your home to us. I’m Ava.”
You give her a simple nod of acknowledgement before the room falls back into quiet.
Then, John Walker who leans against your wall cockily, clears his throat. Your head shoots towards him and you resist the urge you have to drop kick him out the window of your apartment.
You knew him, of course. You’d been there when Sam and Bucky took down the Flag Smashers, and when the same shield that once belonged to Captain America was dripping with blood on live television at the hands of the very man standing in your living room.
“Ma’am.” He nods, offering a mock salute.
“Right.” Your voice is clipped when you look everywhere but at him, disregarding him sassily.
“Is this,” an unsure voice interrupts. It belongs to the brunette man with the shy face whom you hadn’t heard speak until now. He stands near the side table, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket like he’s afraid of intruding by just asking. “Is this you?”
He’s looking at one of the various picture frames on the table, stopped in front of one in particular—a slightly worn photo in a gold frame. It’s of you, sitting cross legged on a rooftop during golden hour. You were laughing, with your head thrown back happily and wearing his sweatshirt that was slightly too big for you. The city behind you was blurry but glowing, making your smile look radiant.
You swallow. The laugh in the picture still echoes in your head and you remember every second up to that photo being taken.
Years ago, Bucky and you sat on the rooftop of a building in Prague. The two of you had been on a mission, a long and exhausting one where you’d figured you both needed a moment of peace among the chaos. On the roof, you watched the sunset together and you practically begged him to take a photo with you to commemorate the night. He refused nonchalantly, and you teased him that he’s never in any photos. He joked that he can never sit still long enough to take them.
“Gives me cramps.” He smiled.
You’d thought that was the funniest thing you’d heard all day. Your laugh was genuine, pure and sweet sounding in his ears as it bounced off the rooftop of the building. At the sight of your easy smile, Bucky lifted up his phone and snapped the photo. You’d scolded him for taking the candid without giving you a warning, but he absolutely loved it.
“‘M gonna frame this,” He stared at it in admiration between your laughter. “You’re so beautiful.”
“Bucky.” You’d whined, a flush gracing your face.
“Seriously.” He turned to you, eyes softening. “Always so damn beautiful.”
The next time he’d come into your apartment, the first thing he had done was place the framed photo on your table, insisting you keep this version because he’d already printed out one of his own.
Now, the picture sat still and quiet, collecting dust because it hadn’t been appreciated since he left.
“That’s me,” You confirm to the man. “A few years back on a mission. Someone told a joke and I guess I laughed hard enough to be worth remembering.”
He nods, a gentle smile on his face. “It’s a good picture. You look happy.”
You blink, the photo staring back at you almost mockingly. “I was.”
Bucky shifts on his feet where he stands the farthest away in the living room. He knows exactly what photo it is without even having to see it because it’s still the lockscreen on his phone, only he never lets people get close enough to question it.
The younger man’s gaze flickers up to you like he can sense the sadness you feel by looking at the photo. He steps towards you, offering you his hand meekly. “I’m Bob.”
Maybe it’s something about his face, or the attentiveness with which he holds himself, but you smile back—small and sweet. “Nice to meet you, Bob.”
You’re still holding Bob’s hand when another voice speaks from behind you. “You’re a lot quieter than I imagined.”
You twist around and there she is, staring at you with sharp but exhausted eyes.
“Yelena,” She says, stepping forward and offering her hand too. “Belova.”
You take it, her grip steady, and fight the urge to say that you already know who she is. It appears she caught onto the fact that you recognize something in her.
“Y/N.” You nod your head back, taking the moment to analyze her face because it looked so much like the one you’d grown to miss.
She swallows, eyes flickering between your own, like maybe she wishes she knew you like her older sister had. “I like your place. It smells like coffee and books.”
The comment makes you huff, a quiet and gentle laugh. “Thank you.”
When you pull your hand away, you take a moment to scan the room full of standing guests, waiting to be told what was appropriate of them by you, who was now their host. You rarely have people over anymore so you aren’t entirely sure how to do this. Your eyes linger in the direction where Bucky stands for only a second, before you clear your throat and shake him off of you.
“Can I get you guys anything?” You ask no one in particular.
“Change of clothes.” Yelena.
“Water.” John.
“A first aid kit.” Ava.
“Snacks, please.” Bob.
“Tequila.” Alexei.
A small “oh” leaves your mouth as The Thunderbolts speak over each other, staring at you with hesitant grins and eager eyes.
“Yeah,” You nod your head. “Uh, the bathroom's down the hall and the kitchen’s through those doors. I don’t have any tequila but I do have snacks, water, and vodka in the top left cupboard.
Alexei practically threw his fist in the air with a joyous, “Yes!”
Bob almost did too at the mention of free snacks.
“There’s also blankets in that basket right there and the remote for the TV is on the coffee table,” You explain, motioning around with your hands and entirely unaware of the way Bucky’s softened eyes fixate on you and your natural hospitality. “I’ll go get the first aid and clothes, but uhm, help yourself to anything. Except if you’re Walker, which in that case, you can sit on the couch and not speak.”
It was a sarcastic joke—one that earns a snort from Yelena and a soft chuckle from Ava. Even Bucky, who remains behind you at a far enough distance, feels his lips curl up in a grin.
“I deserve that.” John nods, plopping down on the couch with an exhausted huff, ultimately just happy to have somewhere safe and comfortable to rest for a little.
Bob and Alexei remain still, neither man wishing to overstep boundaries, especially yours, though they so desperately want to get into that kitchen. Sensing their eagerness, you nod towards the kitchen once more in reassurance. Both of them immediately set off for it, seemingly racing each other to see who can get to the goodies first.
You blink, shaking your head in what was still disbelief before twisting around on your feet to head towards the hallway. Unlucky for you, Bucky still leaned against the doorway to the hall and when your eyes meet his, you nearly freeze in your spot.
You almost forgot he was there.
After so long of him being gone, you eventually got used to not having his physical being pressed to the couch or sleeping in your bed. However, his presence straggled in every corner of your apartment, haunting you in a way that kept you up at night because of how strongly you felt it—felt him. The fact that he’s back inside feels extremely surreal, but something you’d secretly imagined for years whenever you looked at a photo of him for too long or smelled the lingering scent of his cologne on one of your pillows.
You open your mouth, as if you instinctively want to speak, but shut it equally as quickly. You have nothing to say to him. Not right now.
You can’t pinpoint when it starts to feel normal. Not entirely, but just enough so that the silence in your apartment isn’t uncomfortable anymore. Just enough that their boots by the front door and empty water glasses on the table don’t feel like clutter but rather, signs of life.
Maybe it’s when you toss back a shot with Red Guardian, because he insists it’s his way of saying thank you, and his laugh almost physically shakes the apartment with how happy he is to be “drinking with an actual Avenger!” Or when Ava and John sit on the couch, fighting over the remote and arguing about what movie they should watch for the night.
Maybe it’s when you catch Bob carefully folding up one of your throw blankets into a comfy square, before plopping on the ground to eat a granola bar like it was a five star meal. Or when Yelena clamors all over your kitchen in search of microwave popcorn and shortly gets distracted in a conversation with you about your makeup routines, so the first batch burns. You both laugh about it extensively and even more so when Alexei insists you let him eat it instead of throwing it out.
Or maybe, just maybe, it’s when Bob—sweet, innocent Bob—asks where your glasses are so he can get some water, and before you can even get up from your seat on the couch, Bucky’s already on his feet.
“Bottom cabinet, to the left of the sink.” He says over his shoulder, though he’s already halfway there.
You hesitate, lips parting like maybe you mean to say something but no words are capable of coming out. You merely watch him as he moves with ease–like he still belonged, like nothing has changed.
He doesn’t look at you either, not when he opens the cabinet and pulls out the glass without question. Not when he passes it off to Bob like it’s completely normal. Not when he walks right back to his seat on your arm chair in the corner of the room without so much as glancing in your direction.
Suddenly, you’re angry again–that same heat bubbling up in the middle of your chest and threatening to spew out with every second you spend staring at him.
How dare he? Your brain screams. How dare he float around your apartment after everything that happened? How dare he bring his team to the place where you live and just expect you to let them in? And how dare you be so completely and utterly helpless as to fall for it.
You curse yourself and your stupid heart; the one that still reserved a spot for him despite all that you’d done these past years to try and relinquish him. It was impossible to forget Bucky Barnes and you learned that the hard way. Even more so, it was impossible to unlove him. You realize this the more you look at him sitting, with his idiotically beautiful prince hair and uniform that he hasn’t bothered to change out of yet.
As if he could feel your eyes on him, he glances up from where he fiddles with a ring on his finger and your eyes meet for what feels like one too many times that night.
This time, though, you really can’t find it in yourself to look away. Not yet.
His breath hitches in his throat and you notice the way his body goes still under your gaze. He leans back in his seat, slowly but softly, like he’s tired and no longer wants to hide it from you. His tough, soldier demeanor falters for a second, his eyebrows softening at the distant expression in your face.
It was killing him inside, that he was this close to you physically, but so, so far away from you emotionally.
Bucky had been the one to call off your relationship around three years ago. After the whole ordeal with the Flagsmashers was over and Sam had finally gotten the shield back, you and Bucky had decided to move on together. He’d completed his book of amends, having made peace with all of the people he’d harmed and finally feeling like he’d made peace with himself.
The two of you were good–perfect, even—for months after that. You were settling down, taking things slowly, but beginning to live a life that didn’t always require missions every other day and constantly fighting off evil villains.
He’d practically moved in, falling asleep and waking up beside you in your bed, limbs tangled in the sheets like you could stay forever that way. He’d make you coffee in the morning after you’d smothered his face in kisses to wake him, then you’d spend all day together because you couldn’t bear to be a minute apart. You’d walk around town going to restaurants, or shops, or little book stores where he watched you scan the shelves with such admiration, you thought he might’ve jumped out of a romance novel himself.
He took you on dates and never once forgot flowers, no matter how many times you insisted you didn’t need that many bouquets of lilies. He’d stay up late with you while you binge watched one of your ridiculous reality shows, sitting behind you on the couch and pretending he wasn’t engaged though you knew he secretly loved it. He’d smile whenever you danced around the living room of your apartment while you were cleaning, and complained, but ultimately gave in when you’d tug him by the arm and insisted he slow danced with you too.
That was the life you’d dreamed of and just when the both of you started to get it, things began falling out of reach.
Bucky still struggled, hell, you did too, but adjusting to the simple life was a lot more difficult for him than it was for you. He’d still wake up with frequent nightmares where you’d then hold him until he felt safe enough to fall back to sleep in your arms. Sometimes he’d go silent, leave to get some fresh air and not come back for hours. When he did though, you’d always be waiting with a gentle hug and a warm cup of tea—ears open if he wished to speak about it, which he never really did.
Each time he felt like maybe he was getting better, he always fell back into old habits. You helped, of course. In fact, you were the only thing making him happy in his own life and the knowledge of that made Bucky overwhelmed with guilt.
He knew you wanted to settle down, wanted to slowly begin living a life of peace and quiet, with the occasional ‘saving the world mission’ here and there. Yet, he was worried you would never be able to achieve that tranquil lifestyle with him attached at your side. He was used to the chaos, to the noise and restlessness, so it was only a matter of time before he began feeling like one giant burden to you.
Your kindness, your hope, your ability to love without condition were all things that Bucky felt completely undeserving of—wonderful things that you were wasting on him. He’d felt selfish asking you to wait beside him while he tried to fix himself over and over again, so he convinced himself that letting you go was the most selfless thing he could do.
“Bucky,” You had stepped forward, with a frown and tears that threatened to spill over your waterline. “I just, I want to be here for you.”
“I know,” He nodded, trying his best to make you understand though he didn’t quite understand it himself. “But you shouldn’t have to. I don’t want to hold you back anymore. I don’t want you to keep bending yourself backwards for me, it’s not fair to you.”
“This isn’t fair to me,” You shook your head in disbelief. “I want to be with you. None of it bothers me, not if it means I get to have you, you know that right?”
“And what about the life you want to live?” He hummed, water brimming his own eyes. “I’m not going to be able to give you that–none of the peace or the quiet–not when I can barely go to sleep on my own without waking up from these fucked nightmares. There’s, just, so much more out there for you than this.”
Every word that slipped from his mouth was equivalent to someone taking a knife that was freshly sharpened and lodging it in your chest repeatedly. “So what,” You blinked up at him. “You’re gonna leave? After all of this, you want to leave because you think you’re too difficult?”
“Y/N, you don’t get sleep anymore because of me. You say it yourself, you’re so exhausted and it’s because of me. You stay up, waiting for me to come home and I feel like shit the moment I step through that door and see you still awake on the couch. It kills me that you feel like you have to do that, because you don’t and you shouldn’t. You shouldn’t have to wait for me anymore.” He continued.
“That doesn’t matter to me. I’ll do it, I’ll wait for you no matter what.” Your words come from your gut—genuine and determined. “When we started dating, I told you that I’d be here to take care of you regardless of the circumstances. I meant that because I love you too much to let you do this alone.”
“And I love you too much to drag you down with me.” He blurted, just as a stray tear rained down his cheek.
Your body faltered and you paused at the feeling of your heart crack away in your chest. The reality of the situation had weighed on you, and you needed a moment to catch up—to understand that Bucky was being serious.
Sure you’d argued before, over little things that you resolved with a second of alone time, some communication and a shared kiss. However, this didn’t feel like the sort of conversation that could be fixed with a kiss. The expression on Bucky’s face started to make you think that he had already made up his mind.
“So,” Your voice cracked. “So what, this is it? You’re just gonna leave after everything we've been through, after all the time we’ve spent here? This is your home.”
“And it was your home first.” He breathed. “You opened your door to me and so I came in, with all of my bullshit and problems. I intruded.”
“You did not intrude–”
“I did.” He pressed, sternly. “I don’t want to ruin this for you, I can’t. Not when you’re so bright, and full of life, and good. God, you’re so good, that I don’t want to be the one responsible for taking that away from you. You deserve better than me, better than this.”
Had your knees not locked, you thought you might’ve collapsed right there on the floor of your living room. It was a horrible dream, a sick one even. Except, the more you stared into the depths of his, once, vibrant ocean eyes to find them darkened to a storm blue, you realized just how real this was.
Bucky approached you slowly, his gentle hands finding their places on the sides of your hips, holding you up and simultaneously closer to him. “I’m sorry,” He whispered, it sounded more like a whimper past his devastated lips. “I’m so sorry.”
You sobbed almost immediately, dropping your head and letting it fall against his chest. He didn’t push you away, only wrapped his arms around you and held you like it was the last time he was going to—which in this case, it was.
It didn’t feel the same though. His grip was tight around you but his hold was loose, like he had already checked out by the time he’d placed his chin on top of your head and ran his hand down your back in comfort. Regardless, you savoured the moment, melted into it for as long it took to commit his touch to memory. Unfortunately for you, the feeling of his skin on yours would linger like a tattoo for all the years that he’d be away.
Your sadness was shortly accompanied by anger, a feeling completely foreign to you, especially around the man you loved. You were wiggling out of his grasp, and pushing him by the chest to increase the distance between the two of you.
He watched with knitted eyebrows as you wiped the tears off of your face on the sleeves of the hoodie you wore—one that belonged to him. You tried to regulate your breathing, make it as leveled as you could so you could spit out the words, “Fine. Go.”
This time, it was Bucky who felt like he’d just gotten stabbed in the chest.
“If giving up on our relationship is easier for you than sticking around, there’s no reason for you to be here anymore.” You hiss, sudden resentment dripping off of your tongue.
You had every reason in the world to be upset about this, he knew this. He also knew that it was hypocritical of him to be hurt by your words because this was his doing, after all. He deserved this, he reminded himself, your anger and your hatred as opposed to your patience and love. Because Bucky’s days as The Winter Soldier had trained him to be unloveable–to be cruel, and sad, and lonely. That was all he knew and sometimes, he felt it was all he was made for.
“Go.” You snapped when he couldn't find the dignity to move his legs. “Please. Just, please get the hell out, and don’t come back.”
With an empty void where his heart should be, Bucky left that night, for good this time. He didn’t quietly enter again at two in the morning to be greeted by the love of his life carrying a warm cup of freshly brewed tea. He didn’t climb into your bed with you so you could comb your fingers through his hair and lull him to sleep. As much as he wanted to, he didn’t because he knew the distance was the only thing good for you. It was the only thing that would keep you free from him.
That distance held true for three years. No matter how many times you’d see him on your television, whether it was under the guise of Congressman Barnes or now, New Avenger Bucky, you never once ran back to him. It was something you’d thought about many times because god, you missed him more than you’d missed anything in your life, but you weren’t going to fall victim to your own heart.
Instead, he eventually ran back to you–standing at your front door with his new team, his new friends, his new priorities. None of which involved you. Up until the moment he needed a place to stay for the night.
Your attention finally flickers away as you turn back to the rest of The Thunderbolts that gathered in your living room despite the fact that it was well past midnight. Yelena, who sits beside you on the armrest of the couch, immediately jumps into storytime about what went wrong on their mission that resulted in them camping out at your place.
Alexei however, sprawls out on the floor with a small bowl of trail mix in his lap, tossing back peanuts into his mouth like a sport. His focus seems to be on Bucky. With a curious head tilt, he asks during a pause in Yelena’s story, “What’s up with this guy?”
The room falls into a beat of silence and all eyes flicker over to the super soldier, including yours, but you look away faster than any of them can notice.
“What?” Yelena hums.
“He has not said anything at all for the past hour.” Alexei continues.
“He doesn’t talk much, you know this.” Ava shrugs simply.
“Yeah, but he is talking a lot less than usual.”
Bucky inhales, leaning back in his seat and offering the room a small but sarcastic smile. “Just tired. Long day.”
The Thunderbolts nod in agreement, all except for Alexei who tilts his head between you and Bucky curiously. “Well, there is an elephant in this room and I think it is very big.”
“Dad.” Yelena hisses, nudging him in his foot with her own.
Your body tenses on the spot and you swallow the lump in your throat harshly.
“What? I am just curious,” He says genuinely. “They were a thing, no? Her and Barnes?”
As badly as you want to chuck one of your throw pillows directly at the Red Guardian’s head, it’s clear to tell that he was sincerely asking. He’s horrible at reading the room though, you’d give him that.
“There is a time and place,” Yelena mumbles under her breath. “We talked about this, remember?”
“I think this is the place,” he argues. “It feels so heavy in here, like I am crushed.”
You don’t want to look up to catch Bucky’s reaction to his teammate’s words, though you were sure it mimicked your own. Desperately needing to put an end to whatever this was, you straighten your shoulders in an attempt to be casual.
“It wasn’t really a thing,” You say lightly, like it’s not a carefully crafted lie. “We worked together for a long time, that’s all.”
A beat.
“So it was not anything more?” Alexei continues, in between crunches of trail mix. “Because I watched the news and the news said you were dating. But it can be wrong, the news can be wrong.”
Your stomach was churning quickly, like your ribs were bruising from the inside out. You hated talking about it because the wound was still fresh, like a cut that never scabbed over properly.
“We were partners who got close, but that's it. It was work, ” You respond simply, reaching for your glass of water like it would save you from this confrontation. “That’s all it ever was.”
And it hurts to say it like that—to minimize everything that once was between you, but it was the one thing you learned how to do since he left. It made the loss of him easier to manage.
Alexei, finally seeming to have caught on, frowns into his snack bowl and mutters something under his breath about Americans being too vague. Bob clears his throat, totally uncomfortable by the silence and tension, just like Ava and John who focus their attention on the television screen though it was obvious they were thinking about something else. Yelena gives you a small glance–not pitying, but knowing.
Bucky doesn’t say a word, but his hand is curled tight around the glass he sips from, so much so that his knuckles have gone completely white.
It pains him, so much more than he’d like to show on his face, to hear you diminish your relationship to simply business. Because he remembers it all; the early mornings and late nights, the dates and bouquets of unnecessary flowers, the slow dances in the very same living room you were gathered in. Despite having been the one to walk out, he thought about those moments every day of his life and it killed him to know that it was all just passing to you.
In your peripheral vision, you catch it; the way he gazes at the floor like if he stares at it long enough, he might just be able to sink right into it—the look on his face as if he’s watching the life he could’ve had disappear all over again.
The damage had been done and while it should’ve felt like a weight lifting off of your shoulders to say, it only makes your lungs close up even more. Your breathing begins to feel dense and the longer you sit in the living room, the more it feels like its walls are closing in on you.
You push yourself off of the couch to turn towards Bob on the ground and hold your hand out for his empty glass. “You want a refill, Bob?”
Truthfully, he doesn’t but he notices the desperation in your expression for a way out so he nods his head quickly.
You take his glass and set off towards the kitchen. The second you step inside, you immediately put the cup down to grip the edge of the counter. Dropping your head, you close your eyes and try to regulate your breathing but your chest is so heavy, it almost feels impossible.
You feel ridiculous for letting this bother you as much as it was, but how could it not? You’re trying so hard to fight the collapse of the walls around your heart but, god, they’re shaking. Buckling. Breaking. It’s only a matter of time before they crumble completely under the weight of every memory you’ve tried to keep buried.
Why does it hurt so much? Why does it still hurt so much?
You want to cry, your throat burning with the pressure of holding it all back. You inhale a deep breath, one that rattles on the way down. You keep your palms flat against the countertop, like maybe if you hold onto it hard enough, it might keep you from crashing to the ground.
A creak sounds from the floor behind you, soft and careful, indicating that someone has stepped into the kitchen.
“Are you okay?” Yelena’s raspy voice asks.
You don’t turn around right away, but open your eyes with a heavy breath. “Yeah.”
The lie was weak and perfectly unoriginal. Yelena doesn’t call you out for it. She just waits, unmoving.
Finally glancing over your shoulder, you see her—arms crossed over her chest as she leans against the doorframe, watching you with equal parts sympathy and intrigue.
“I feel like an idiot.” You admit, wearing your feelings right on your sleeve. “When I saw him at that door, it was like everything came rushing back and, and I couldn’t do anything but let him in. God, I’m so pathetic.”
“You are not pathetic.” Yelena tilts her head.
“Yes I am.”
“No,” She steps forward with knitted eyebrows. “You are not.”
The two of you stare at each other for a moment. When you can’t find the words to speak, she exhales a soft breath.
“We were in deep shit on this mission,” She explains. “Bucky told us he knew a friend who might be able to help but I had no idea that it’d be you. I don’t think he was even sure you would be willing, but you were the first person he thought of anyways. You didn’t have to open the door but you did because you’re good. Doesn’t sound pathetic to me.”
The admission makes your head pound and you nearly wince at the ache you feel around your temples.
Yelena watches you lean against the counter, your eyes darting around as if searching for an answer that wasn’t there. She swallows and asks cautiously, “What happened with you two?”
You bite the inside of your cheek, the sensation of lingering tears itching the back of your throat. You hate talking about it, but it’s been so long since anyone bothered to ask, that you think you might be able to get through it this time.
“It was his idea,” You say with a shaky breath. “To end things.”
Yelena doesn’t respond right away, doesn’t push—she just gives you room as your gaze fixates on the tiled floor, like it might offer you some clarity.
“He told me I deserved better,” You continue, the bitterness in your soft voice laced with sadness rather than spite. “That I was too good. Didn’t want to hold me back, or burden me. He said he wanted me to live a life where I wasn’t constantly trying to pull him out of the dark.”
Yelena’s gaze is quiet, unflinching as you move to sit across from her at the table with a sigh.
“The worst part about it is, I don’t even think I fought hard enough. I mean, yeah, I begged and I cried but, then I just got mad,” Your brows furrow as you recall the memory, like it physically pains you to do so. “I let him leave—I made him, and he did it like it was the easiest thing he’s ever done.”
You finally look up to meet her eyes.
“So yeah,” you say. “I’m still so angry. Angry that he left and found a new group of people to rely on, angry that I let him and didn’t fight harder for us, angry that I still—”
You stop yourself short, the words halting in your throat because saying them out loud terrified you.
Yelena blinks, softly nodding her head in understanding. “You still love him.”
Hearing her say the exact thing you were thinking makes the back of your eyes sting with tears that have been hiding themselves all night. You pause for a second, because she’s right, and you can’t stand it.
“I remember everything, Yelena. Every single fucking thing and I hate that I do.”
Yelena leans closer on the table, catching your eyes with sincerity. “He remembers too.”
You pause, breath tight in your throat.
“He never talks about it, but I can tell, we all can.” She continues gently. “There’s this bracelet—gold and braided with a star charm—you made that for him, didn’t you?”
Swallowing, you nod, remembering the one night where Bucky couldn’t sleep and you’d insisted on staying up with him, claiming you could do crafts to pass the time. He taught you how to make little animals out of origami and you taught him how to make friendship bracelets.
“He still wears it. Everyday, on every mission.” She explains. “The other day he forgot his phone on the kitchen counter. I tapped it to check the time and that photo of you, the one Bob saw in your living room, it’s still his wallpaper.”
You think your heart might give out right then and there. A single tear drops from your eyes and you dig your nails so far into the skin on your palm, it’s enough to make you bleed.
“Y/N,” Yelena speaks softly, reaching out to carefully place her hand on top of yours. “I do not think he has ever stopped thinking about you—loving you.”
This time, more tears fall before you have the chance to hold them back. Softly, you let Yelena unclench your fists so she can slip her hand into yours to hold.
“Then why did he leave?” You whisper between a small sob.
Yelena frowns, shaking her head. She didn’t have the answer.
You did though, so it was silly you even had to ask.
The night Bucky left replays in your head like a film reel, and his words echo in every corner of your brain.
“I love you too much to drag you down with me.”
It was ironic, you thought, because you’d only started drowning when you were without him. He was not your anchor but rather your life jacket—pulling you out of the deep end when you got too tired to swim. These last three years without him were the longest moments you’ve ever spent with your head submerged underwater.
When he left, you sank all over again.
The quiet chatter has slowly dissipated to a still, and the only noise comes from the gentle hum of the television.
From where you sit in the corner of the couch, you glance around the room at the silence. On the couch, Yelena lays with her head on your lap and her feet tangled with Ava’s, whose sleeping figure matches Yelena’s on the opposite end. Near your feet on the floor was Bob, resting comfortably on top of one of your throw pillows. The rest of the floor is occupied by Alexei and John, who sprawl out with outstretched limbs—Alexei face down as if he’d just passed out from a three day bender, and John using his backpack to rest his head because he refused when you’d offered him a pillow.
You let yourself glance briefly in Bucky’s direction, where he still sits on the armchair in the dark corner of the room. You can make out the silhouette of his fully clothed figure. His head leans back towards the ceiling, a tell he had to be sleeping.
While you don’t want to risk waking any of them up, you’re beginning to grow uncomfortable squished on the couch.
Gently, you lift up Yelena’s head just enough to tuck a throw pillow beneath it so she doesn't recognize your absence. Slipping off of the couch, you adjust her head atop it, brushing a stray strand of hair out of her face to as she hums in delight before sinking further into the pillow.
Reaching into the wicker basket beside the couch, you unfold a fleece blanket and delicately drape it over Bob who’s curled up like a ball. He, too, makes a soft noise of satisfaction, and you swear he mumbles something under his breath that you can’t make you.
Of course he talks in his sleep. You can’t help but smile to yourself at the observation.
Twisting around, you step over John’s feet and over towards Alexei, whose snores are so deep, he seems to grumble with each step you take. With a hushed chuckle, you pick up the bowl of trial mix beside his body so he doesn’t knock it over in his sleep.
Backing away slightly, you falter in admiration at the scene before you. Your apartment has never been this full and you can’t remember the last time you had people over besides that time you hosted dinner for Joaquin Torres and Sam Wilson. Other than that, you’re always by yourself.
Except for tonight.
The team of heroes occupy so much space in your living room, it makes the walls feel less empty—less sad. Regardless of how you felt about them before they entered the threshold of your apartment, you knew how you feel about them now. They’re chaotic, and messy, and unbelievably new to this whole “working as a team” thing, but in the few hours that they’ve kept you company in your place, they’ve offered you more joy and comfort than you’ve experienced in a while.
Beside you, Bucky shifts in his seat. He’s been wide awake the entire time—enough to see you give Yelena the pillow and Bob the blanket, enough to watch you observe his team with a soft, longing expression. The same one he carried whenever he looked at you for too long.
It was endearing, to say the least. To watch you care for his team like they were your own, despite not knowing any of them at all. You’ve always been that way—sweet, nurturing, and just plain kind. It makes Bucky’s heart swell, knowing that at least you didn’t lose that part of yourself when he left.
At the sound of movement, you glance in his direction and, once again, your body tenses at the sight.
“I didn’t know you were awake.” You say quietly, before your brain really registers you’re speaking to him.
He replies, “I couldn’t sleep.”
Blinking, you nod quickly before moving to carefully pick up the empty water glasses from the table. “Me either.”
You struggle to gather all of the cups so Bucky pushes himself out of the seat and moves to help you—against his inner monologue that tells him you’d likely be much happier if he sat down and didn’t move at all.
“It’s okay,” You stutter. “I’ve got it.”
“No, it’s alright, I’ll help.” He answers, picking up the remaining cups that you can’t.
You try to swallow the lump forming in your throat but it’s nearly impossible as you spin around to walk towards the kitchen, and Bucky follows hot on your trail. It’s silent when you place the glasses in the sink and you hate how natural it feels to watch Bucky do the same.
“I can clean these when I get up tomorrow,” Bucky nods. “Before we leave.”
“No, it’s fine.” You shake your head.
“I’ll just do it real quick so you don’t—”
“Seriously,” You interrupt more sternly this time as you finally look at him. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”
He visibly swallows at your harshness, but nods nonetheless.
Then the two of you fall back into an odd quiet, where neither of you know what to say to each other but both understand that a conversation was inevitable from the moment he walked inside.
Blinking, you motion towards the sleeping bunch in your living room. “They’re, uhm,” You say. “They’re really great.”
Bucky purses his lips at the casualness with which you speak. “Yeah, they try.”
“Even Walker,” You continue, grabbing a towel to wipe down the counter because you so desperately need something to do with your hands. “He seems different.”
“He is.” Bucky nods, watching you intently. “I think we all are.”
His words have double meaning, this you know, and you hate the way you want to press him for details. Instead, you bite the inside of your cheek and focus on the counter you were cleaning.
Bucky knows he has to talk to you—keep the conversation going—because he knows this is the only opportunity he might get. It really is now or never.
“I’m sorry for asking you that favor.” Bucky says suddenly, sincerity laced in his soft but gruffly voice. “For showing up unannounced.”
You nearly pause, your knuckles squeezing the towel in your hand like it was the only force keeping you on earth. “Would you have shown up announced?” You ask, your words holding a hint of hostility.
Bucky stills. “Y/N,” He breathes, his voice just above a whisper, like he can read all of the sarcasm you speak with.
He watches you intently with a burning desire to fix all of the wrong he’d caused that day he left—to mend what was broken between the two of you because he’s not sure he can live anymore knowing you’re angry with him.
You shake your head quickly because not only was it stupid to have this conversation in the kitchen where a few feet away, his entire team slept, but also, you were petrified of the words that were going to leave his mouth once the two of you finally worked up the courage to talk it out.
“Bucky,” You breathe.
He pauses, waiting for you to go on.
Only you don’t. Instead, your eyes flicker down to the uniform he still has on. With a sudden blink and a change of demeanor, you tilt your head. “Do you want to change clothes?”
He pauses. “I didn’t bring any.”
You don’t know why you suddenly cared whether or not he was comfortable in his clothes. A lot of things, you notice, got confusing when you were around him.
“I,” You pause, hating yourself for thinking of what you were. Deciding it would simply be way easier to do instead of say, you twist around on the balls of your feet and begin walking down the hallway towards your room.
Bucky blinks, until you glance over your shoulder at him.
“C’mere.” You say quietly, your suggestion soft in his ears, whether you intend it to be or not.
His feet move faster than his brain can even process. His head gets foggy as he maneuvers through the hallway. He knew exactly where he’s going because he’d been to your room so many times before in the past. It almost made him sick to his stomach when he realizes that’s where you’re taking him.
When you turn that corner into your bedroom, Bucky stops just outside the doorframe. He glances inside, immediately overwhelmed by the familiarity of it all. It’s practically exactly as it was when he’d walked out that day, reminding him of just how much he’d left behind—a happiness he’d pulled out from right under your feet.
He watches you rummage through your closet, reaching high onto a shelf in search of something. You mindlessly glance in his direction, chest clenching at the way he stands frozen outside of the threshold. He's too afraid to step foot inside which is so weird, because the Bucky you knew once took up space in this room like it was his own.
Tugging down two articles of clothing from the shelf, you twist back to him and hold them out. “Here.” You say. “You left these here.”
The navy blue hoodie and black sweats are folded neatly in your outstretched hands in such a way that almost makes them look brand new. Only they aren’t. You wore them for months after he left because it felt better to sleep in his clothes than it did your own.
Bucky looks from your face and back down to the clothes. He doesn’t want to step forward to grab them—feeling entirely undeserving of walking back into your room after all this time. But you aren’t going to him. So you stand frozen in the middle of your room, waiting for the moment he musters up the courage to come inside and retrieve them himself.
Eventually, his feet make their way slowly over to you, taking the clothes with a gentle ease. He can’t figure out what to say so he gives you a small nod of appreciation before turning back around, heading down the rest of the hall towards the bathroom.
Without him in the room, you’re finally able to take a deep breath. It’s shaky and long as it leaves your chest like you've been holding it all night.
You can’t stand it but somewhere deep down, this entire ordeal feels normal. You’re beginning to realize just how much you’ve missed it—missed him, and that thought alone keeps you wide awake because if being awake means more time with him before he leaves all over again, you’d have to take it.
Minutes pass of you bouncing your leg up and down where you sit on the edge of your bed, when the bathroom door clicks open and a newly changed Bucky emerges. It makes your stomach twist into a pretzel, to see him in the same hoodie you wore that day he left.
You press your hands into your knees, hesitating even more at how ridiculously good he looks in it. “Are you,” You hum. “Are you alright?”
Don’t ask that, I don’t deserve it, was what he wanted to say but he merely nods as he lingers in your door’s threshold again. “Why’d you keep them?”
Swallowing, you shrug. “I was gonna set them on fire, but the hoodie was too comfortable.”
For the first time that night, the corners of Bucky’s lips almost twist up into a smile. “Really?”
“Really.” You nod, glancing at him when he leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed. “That and, I guess I always hoped you’d just come back to get them.”
Bucky falters with an expression that you can’t quite read. A silence washes over the two of you before he exhales, “I wanted to.”
“Did you?”
“I did.”
“Okay.” You hum sarcastically.
Bucky purses his mouth shut with a tilt of his head. “Y/N,”
“You know what,” You say with squinted eyes. “I don’t actually believe that, like at all, but it’s fine. Doesn’t matter to me anymore.”
“Why?” Bucky breathes. “Why don’t you believe it?”
“Because you left, Bucky!” You snap, your anger finally cutting through the surface after brewing all night. “You left and we never spoke again. I waited for you for months—to call or to text but you never did, so yeah, maybe I did believe you’d come back at some point but then I just got tired of waiting.”
“You moved on.” Bucky points out. “That’s good, that’s what you were supposed to do.”
“Yeah, except I didn’t.” You huff, pushing yourself off of the bed to glare at him. “You left because you wanted me to be happy but I wasn’t happy, I’m still not. The life you wanted me to live for myself was only possible if I lived it with you.”
Bucky’s face tightens in guilt as you let your words slip from your tongue.
“Then, I have to watch you on my television screen with your new team, the new people you have to take care of, and it kills me inside.” You don’t bother wiping away the stray tear that slides down your cheek. You look up at him, dead in the eyes and ask, “Are you happy?”
The question catches him off guard. He steps into your room with hesitancy, maintaining his distance but needing to be close to you to shake his head.
You nearly wince as you watch his face contort into a sadness much similar to your own.
“Not happy in the way I was when I was with you.”
The words are genuine, making your ears ring in disbelief. You swallow, but the lump in your throat feels like it might be permanently stuck.
“I have never been the same since the moment I walked out that day. I thought I was doing the right thing, I swore I was,” He admits. “I threw myself into work because I believed that somehow it would make up for what I was missing, but I learned right away that none of this could ever fill the gap that you left.”
You don’t seem to notice when you instinctively take a step closer, your body drawn to his as if your hearts were magnetized.
“You followed me everywhere, Y/N,” He exhales a defeated breath. “There were so many times when I just wanted to run back here, back to you, but I couldn’t because I figured you’d be doing better without me—without my burden.”
“You were never a burden.” You add, shaking your head with a furor you hope makes him understand. “Neither were any of your problems or trauma, and I hate that you think you were. I took care of you because that’s what you do when you love someone.”
Bucky takes a step closer too, though neither of you seem to notice with the way your eyes are trained on the other pair.
“Love someone?” He asks, his voice the most quiet and careful you’ve heard it all night.
It took years, and Bucky Barnes standing in front of you again, to finally admit it: you did still love him. What you felt for Bucky had never been surface level affection. You loved him desperately, like he was the air you needed to breathe and the light against all of the darkness that you’d hid from your whole life.
Loving him had never been easy. It came with deeply shared fears and anxiety of vulnerability and closeness. Though, you never desired an easy love anyways. You wanted a love that was complex and passionate, where obstacles were something you could leap over together if your relationship was built on a foundation of sincere care and respect.
Your love for him was so rooted in your veins, you always believed that your souls were destined to merge—surpassing time and change. You knew for a fact that you’d love him no matter how far apart the two of you were; your heart was his across states, countries, planets, timelines.
There was a vast multiverse out there, much bigger than your brain could even comprehend, and you were positive you loved Bucky Barnes in every single one of them.
“Love.” You nod, the most confident you’ve been about anything in years. “I’ve always loved you, James. I’ve never been able to stop.”
The sound of his name on your lips makes his heart swell, desperately wanting to jump out of his chest and towards you—where it knew it’d finally be at home.
Bucky can no longer deny the way he feels either, only he’s never really been able to. He loved you like you were the only thing on this planet of any importance. Sam saw it, Yelena saw it, hell, so did the rest of the goddamn world. He’d never been the same since he left and nothing ever felt right, not until he stepped back into your apartment where the walls remembered him and whispered stories of memories he’d never forgotten.
He lets out a shaky exhale. “I messed up so badly.”
“I did too.” You nod. “I shouldn’t have let you leave, I should’ve tried harder to-”
“No, hey, no,” Bucky shakes his head immediately, stepping forward so you two are the closest you’ve been in years. His fingers brush against yours, and when you don’t flinch away, he links his pinky with your own. “None of this was your fault, don’t blame yourself. I fucked up, I’m the one who left. This is not on you.”
You remain quiet, the small act of physical contact rendering you speechless.
“You were on my mind everyday. Whenever I got up to speak at congress, whenever I did press for the team, on every mission, every late night and early morning,” He whispers, eyes scanning your face like it was the first time he was getting the privilege of looking at you. “I hate myself for making that decision for you, for thinking we’d be better off. You were my world, still are.”
Everything comes flooding back, the walls around your heart breaking like a dam that was doomed to fall from the beginning. You want to cry, want to break down right there in his arms and hope the Bucky you still knew would be there to hold you.
“I can’t change what I did, but I can tell you what I want to do,” He goes on, hand coming up cautiously to cup the side of your face. “I want to love you all over again, the right way this time. I will spend the rest of our lives trying to rebuild what I tore down, if you’ll let me, and I promise to do better this time and give you whatever it is you want—”
“I want you.” You interrupt. “All of you. I want to know how you’re feeling or the things that keep you up at night because I want to be the one to help you through them. Don’t hide yourself from me.”
Bucky swallows at the desperation in your tone. How lucky was he to have your unconditional care once, and then all over again now, even if he still feels like he doesn’t deserve it. You’re still too good—far too good for him—but this time, he’s determined to be just the same for you.
“I promise.” He nods, his thumb rubbing your cheek like you’re a porcelain doll he’s afraid of breaking.
You place your own hand on his hand cupping your face, before running your other hand through his beautifully blown out hair. He grunts out a soft noise of delight, one that makes your stomach twist.
“God, I’ve missed you so much.” He says.
This almost doesn’t feel real; his touch or the words that leave his mouth, but it is—he is. He’s unbelievably real beneath your fingertips and it suddenly feels like you’re falling in love all over again as you stare at him.
“You came to me first.” You hum, your voice just above a whisper. “Yelena told me.”
Bucky lets out a small chuckle but his eyes still hold traces of disbelief, like he can’t fathom you’re running your hands through his hair the way you are. “She did?”
“Mhm.” A smile begins to curl its way onto your lips, one you can’t deny.
“She’s a rat.” He grumbles, his hands dropping to your waist to gently run his palms over your sides.
“She’s sweet,” You correct, reaching down to grab his non-metal arm and gently pull his sleeve up, revealing the bracelet on his wrist. “And she also told me you still wear this.”
Bucky watches your fingers run over the braided material before his eyes flicker back up to you. “I’ve never taken it off.”
Your gaze meets his soft blue eyes where you can read the longing all over them. It’s been so long since you've seen it and yet, it’s still capable of sending a cacophony of butterflies through your stomach like something out of a dream sequence.
“I love you.” He says out of the blue.
The three words have your breath hindering in your throat.
“I’ve loved you every moment I was here and every moment I wasn’t.”
You don’t know what to say, how to express how much you reciprocate that love, so before you have the opportunity to think about it, you stand up on your toes and press your lips against his.
Bucky wastes no time. He wraps his arms further around your waist and tugs you closer to his chest. With your hands placed on the sides of his neck, you sink deeper into the kiss.
Kissing him feels just like it had all those years ago. It’s warm just like you remember it to be but more passionate, if that’s even possible. For Bucky, kissing you is still sweet but delicate in a way that reminds him of just how lucky he was to be able to press his lips against yours.
You kiss each other with a burning desire to make up for all the lost time, to fill the gap of what was once missing between the two of you—not lost but something simply misplaced. The two of you wished to stay forever that way, and maybe now you would.
“I fucking knew it.” A voice whisper shouts from the frame of your open door.
Pulling apart, you and Bucky both turn your heads in the direction of the hallway. Yelena stands with her hands in the pockets of your sweatpants, a knowing smirk stretching across her face.
You look down like you just got caught doing something you shouldn’t have, all while biting back your smile. Bucky’s face turns red and he purses his lips with a small nod. He side-eyes you as you cover your mouth with your hand, suppressing your small hysterical giggles. Your laughter made him grin helplessly, and he squeezed your hand, gently moving closer to your side where he intended to stay for good.
Summary: You agree to a date with another guy to forget about the boy you’ve loved forever, only to acknowledge that your heart keeps finding its way back to him.
Word Count: 8.3k
Warnings: pining; emotional hurt/comfort; unresolved feelings; self-worth worries; perceived unrequited love; jealous!Bucky; sad!Bucky; two idiots in love
Author’s Note: This took me a while to write and post, but now it’s here, so please bear with me. It’s part of my little roommate series A Window Open to the Moon, but can be read as a standalone. And y’all, these two are idiots here, I’m not even exaggerating. But they’re idiots in love, and I’ll be honest, this could be me lmao. Anyway, I hope you’ll enjoy ♡
Series Masterlist | Masterlist
“I’m feedin’ the cat.”
Bucky’s voice sounds like he is announcing something so important it should have come with a press conference.
You’re standing in the doorway of the kitchen, a half-empty iced coffee sweating in your hand, the strap of your bag still hanging off one shoulder. You’re not even sure why you came in here. To tell him, you think. Because you always tell him things. Even the stupid ones. Especially the stupid ones.
And this might be the stupidest thing yet.
“He asked me while I was waiting for my order,” you continue softly. “Said he liked my sweater.”
Bucky still doesn’t look at you. He’s bent over Alpine’s dish as though he is performing surgery, shaking dry kibble into the bowl with intense concentration, as if getting the measurement right might save a life.
The tiny white kitten trots up on quiet feet, tail high, and starts crunching away.
“I’m feedin’ the cat,” he mutters again, scooping out the tiniest bit of pâté as though it is a peace offering.
“You said that already.”
“Still true.”
You chew on your bottom lip, watching his broad back and how his shirt pulls at the shoulders when he moves.
“And, um,” you keep going. “I said yes.”
His hand stills mid-pour.
There is a pause. A second. Maybe two.
Bucky is still crouched there, as though Alpine’s lunch is the most emotionally taxing task of the century. As though he isn’t listening, but you know he is. Bucky always listens, even when he doesn’t want to.
You cross your arms, trying not to feel the cold silence between you. You try to fill it.
“He was nice. Funny. A little awkward, but sweet.”
Nothing.
You blink. A small laugh slips past your lips, a little uncertain. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t make a joke like he usually would. You watch the way his jaw shifts, that muscle in his cheek ticking just barely, and for some reason it makes your stomach flutter in the wrong kind of way.
“Sounds great, doll.” He sounds distant. Bucky gives Alpine a little scratch behind the ears. She mewls softly, nuzzling his fingers as though she tries to reassure him.
“I’m not gonna marry him or anything,” you add with a nervous chuckle, because now you feel ridiculous. You wish you hadn’t said anything.
With a grunt, he scoops another time.
“Buck, I think she’s had enough.”
“Nah,” he says, but his voice is quieter. “She’s small. She’s still growin’.”
He won’t look at you. That’s the part that starts to hurt. Really hurt. Bucky always meets your eyes, always smirks a little, always throws you some teasing quip that makes your chest ache in the most confusing ways. But he’s not doing any of that.
“You okay?” you ask softly.
His head tilts just slightly. Still facing Alpine. He shrugs one shoulder and it seems the movement costs him something. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know,” you answer quietly. “You tell me.”
The sound of Alpine’s chewing seems almost exaggerated now, as though she is mocking you with tiny, delicate crunches.
“He really seemed nice,” you offer, unsure who you’re trying to convince.
“Hm.”
“He has a rescue dog named Harold.”
“A real winner.”
You pause.
“Bucky.”
He stands. Slowly. Still doesn’t look at you.
The kitchen is too quiet, too warm. The sunlight is cutting across the counter in slanted golden lines, hitting the edge of the fridge where you stuck a magnet that says Do not eat my leftovers unless you wanna lose a finger. His handwriting. Sharpie. Bold strokes.
He finally turns, arms folded across his chest, his hair a little messy in the front as though he’s been raking a hand through it. His grey shirt fits him too well and he’s wearing those flattering pajama pants and socks with tiny cartoon bananas on them.
The domesticity of him hurts your feelings.
“So,” he acknowledges, voice too level. “You’re going on a date.”
You try to smile, and it feels crooked on your face. “Yeah.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
He nods. One of those tight, one-second-too-long kind of nods.
“That’s great,” he says, and it is, objectively, the worst lie anyone has ever told.
You tilt your head at him.
He looks down at Alpine’s bowl, which now contains enough for a three-course meal and a snack for later.
He leans down to pick up a kibble Alpine flung on the tile and you watch him fuss with the bowl as though it holds the answer to every question he’s too scared to ask.
She has enough food in her dish to survive at least three mild apocalypses. One more scoop and she might unionize.
You lean your hip against the doorframe, iced coffee sloshing in your hand. “You know, I think she’s good, Buck. Pretty sure she’s full.”
Bucky shrugs again. His favorite gesture when he doesn’t want to tell you something. And he doesn’t. Not always. His silences can be long, sleepy rivers you’re always tempted to wade into, just to see if he’ll pull you under or let you drown in the quiet.
“I’m makin’ sure.”
You raise an eyebrow at him.
Bucky sighs. Scratches the back of his neck as though it itches with something.
You look at him for a long moment. Let yourself really look. He won’t really meet your eyes which means you can see everything else. The way his jaw keeps tightening, loosening. The faint pink blooming high on his cheeks like embarrassment is trying to sneak out of him. The way his fingers twitch as though they want to do something - as though he is trying to put the world back in order but keeps dropping all the pieces.
“I didn’t think you’d say yes,” he remarks eventually, and it comes out too fast. Too quiet. As though maybe he didn’t mean to say it at all.
Your heart gives a little jolt. Stupid thing. Useless thing. Always hoping.
“Why not?”
He shrugs, fiddling with a spoon for no reason at all. “I dunno. Just- Never thought you were into that type.”
You raise a brow. “You don’t even know what type he is.”
“I can guess.”
You keep your arms crossed. “And what do you think my type is?”
And Bucky looks at you. Right into you. And there is something like grief in his expression. As though you dropped a stone in his stomach and now it’s sinking, dragging the rest of him down with it. “Not guys who can’t spell their own name without checking their Instagram bio.”
You snort. “You don’t even know if he’s that kind of guy, Buck.”
“Again,” he repeats flatly. “I can guess.”
You bark out a laugh, mostly because it’s that or burst into tears. “Wow. Harsh.”
He grins, just for a second, and you want to wrap it in tissue paper and tuck it in a drawer. Keep it safe. Look at it later.
There is a pause. Long and soft. The kind where breathing feels like breaking the rules.
You pick at your fingers. “He just asked. I thought - maybe I should say yes. Try something new.”
Bucky nods again. Slower this time. “Yeah,” he states, voice low. “Makes sense.”
He then he watches Alpine - sweet, nosy, manipulative Alpine - as she rubs up against his ankle and then immediately loses interest, padding off to lie dramatically in the sunbeam on the floor as though she is done with both of you. Probably is. Probably thinks you’re idiots.
“She’s gonna get fat if you keep feeding her like this,” you state plainly.
“She’s emotionally complex,” he mutters, but his voice sounds far away.
There is something hanging in the air now. Something heavy and slow, like a fog rolling in off the coast of a conversation you weren’t ready to sail into.
You look down at your coffee cup. Consider how this all feels. How he feels.
Standing, but stiff, his back drawn tight. The sleeves of his soft shirt stretch over his shoulders. He is so present. So here. A permanent thing in your life. Familiar. Necessary. You’ve had him next to you for years, the way you have your favorite hoodie, or the chipped mug you refuse to throw out because it feels like home in your hands.
You take a breath.
“Look,” you start sweetly. “I know you worry, Buck.”
He freezes. Lets out a heavy breath. His shoulders shift.
You assume he knows just how worried he gets. He worries when you get home late and forget to text. He gets all twitchy when you wear that one coat that doesn’t zip right. He always makes sure you walk on the inside of the sidewalk. He kept checking your brakes after you mentioned your car made a weird noise, even though you were sure it was harmless. He drove six blocks looking for you in socks that time you said you were going to walk home from the train station.
He has always been like that. Big feelings, quiet hands. Careful with everything but himself.
“And I know that’s why you’re acting all weird about this.”
“I’m not-”
“You are.”
“I was just feedin-”
“Bucky-”
He exhales again, this time longer. As though maybe he is letting something go. Or trying to hold something in.
“I just-” he starts, then stops. Rubs a hand over his face, as though he can smooth out the thing he doesn’t want to admit.
“You don’t know him,” you begin, before he tries to dodge the conversation again. “But I really think he’s nice. Not like, take-home-to-meet-the-cat nice. Well, yet. But… kind. Polite. Smart, I think. He asked me out in a normal way. Respectfully.”
Bucky makes a face as if respectfully is offensive.
“He told me I had a nice laugh,” you add.
Bucky doesn’t even flinch. He just clears his throat and stands a little straighter. His knee cracks and Alpine bolts across the floor as though someone dropped a vacuum.
You take a few steps into the room and set your coffee down, because your hands feel too warm all of a sudden. “You don’t have to like him, Buck. I just thought… I don’t know. You’d maybe ask what I’m gonna wear. Or tell me to send my location in case he turns out to be a serial killer.”
He is stone in sweats and a shirt, and somehow it breaks your heart.
“I was gonna get there,” Bucky mumbles. “Eventually.”
You can feel your heart sink just a little. Just enough to know you shouldn’t have expected anything. Not from him. Not about this.
You didn’t want him to be protective.
You wanted him to care.
Not because he’s your roommate. Not because he’s your best friend. Not because he worries.
But because he likes you.
Because he’s been pining the same way you have.
You glance down at Alpine who is now sitting next to the counter, licking her paw, uninterested. Maybe even she can’t fix this one.
“I just thought you’d be happy for me,” you tell him. Soft. Small. A little hurting. “It took a lot to say yes, you know? I never say yes. But I thought- maybe- I should try.”
Bucky looks as though he’s been punched.
His eyes are wide, unsure, as though he just realized he made you feel like you’re not worth celebrating. That he let his feelings sit too long in silence, and now they’ve curdled into disappointment instead of support.
He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, cheeks pink, hair falling into his eyes. “Shit, doll. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
You shrug. Try to smile. “It’s fine. I get it. You don’t have to be excited.”
But that’s not what he wants to hear. You can see it in the way his shoulders sag. In the way his mouth opens like he’s going to say something and then closes again like it hurts.
He looks off balance. As though he is trying to stand on something that’s not quite there.
“I just don’t want you to go out with someone who makes you forget what you deserve.” His voice is soft, too soft, and his eyes are tired and deep in that tender way that makes you want to cup his cheek and ask him what’s really wrong.
You blink. “What?”
Another shrug. But it’s heavier now. “Some guys are good at bein’ nice. For, like, a while. ‘Til they get what they want. And then they change.”
“Bucky-”
“I’m not sayin’ he will,” he adds quickly. “I’m just… I dunno. Maybe I’m just being an ass.”
You frown at him a little. “You’re not-”
“I just-” he interrupts, gesturing haphazardly at Alpine, the bowl, the sunlight on the floor. “I like when you’re happy, y’know? That’s all. Even if it’s not ‘cause of me.”
You stare at him.
He is staring at the wall behind you.
Alpine yawns with a little squeak.
Your fingers fiddle with the hem of your sleeve. You don’t want him to know that your heart’s being weird again. That it did that little skip-jump-stumble thing it always does when Bucky says something just a little too soft, a little too close to the line you swore he wouldn’t cross.
He glances down at the kitten, then back at you. “Look, I’m just- I’m not good at this kinda thing, alright? Feelin’ stuff. Sayin’ stuff. Especially when it’s not what I wanna feel.”
“What do you mean?” Your voice is confused. Your mind and body are confused. Because where is he going with this?
He pauses. Runs a hand through his hair as though he tries to rearrange all the thoughts he doesn’t want to have in the first place.
“I mean-” he begins, then shakes his head, not looking at you. “Nothin’. Forget it. Just- don’t go thinkin’ I don’t care. ‘Cause I do. You know that, right?”
You nod slowly. Still not enough.
Bucky shifts on his feet. Alpine meows as though she’s giving him a nudge. Bucky stops, scoops her up in one arm, and meets your eyes with a drawn out sigh.
“You’re right. He’s probably a good guy. Deserves a shot, yeah?” His voice is low, quiet. A little flatter around the edges. “You should go.”
Something in your chest crumbles. Because he means it. He’s trying. Even if it’s killing him. He is working so hard to sound okay even when he’s clearly not.
You want to wrap your arms around him. You want to say forget the date and stay in and watch a bad movie and eat cereal on the couch with your knees touching and your feelings buried under laughter. But you can’t. Because you said yes. Because you have to try. Because he never did.
“Thanks,” you murmur. “But if Alpine throws up, it’s on you.”
His mouth twitches - almost a smile. “Kid’s got an iron stomach.”
Alpine wiggles in his grip and lets out a soft mrrp. You both laugh.
And then - like he flips a switch - Bucky straightens up. Rolls his shoulders. Clears his throat.
“So,” he says, in a voice two notes too cheerful. “You want me to help you pick an outfit, or you wanna go full surprise?”
“What?” You laugh softly.
“I mean, if this guy’s gonna be all respectful and admirin’ your laugh and whatever, he better lose his mind when he sees you, too. That’s basic manners.”
Your eyes narrow. “You’re joking.”
He grins, a little forced. “C’mon. I’ve got taste.”
“Oh yeah? What are your qualifications?”
He leans against the counter next to you, arms still around Alpine, pretending to be cool even though you can see his ears turning red.
“I live with a style icon,” he says, nodding at you. “And a cat with a crown-shaped food bowl. I know fashion.”
You laugh despite yourself. Despite everything.
He smiles too, but quieter now. It is a soft, deflated thing curling up at the edges of his mouth. Something that says he is trying, even though part of him is crumbling like paper in the rain. And the spark in his eyes that always flares when he makes you laugh is gone.
You glance at Alpine. Her tail flicks as though she knows something. She meows as though you’re wasting her time.
Bucky is holding the cat in his arms as though he’s holding onto both of you as best he can.
****
You open the bathroom door with slow fingers, the soft click of the handle echoing into the hallway like the opening chord of a song that might end in heartbreak.
The light spills out behind you, golden and warm, hanging onto your silhouette like some kind of halo.
Your cheeks are warm and flushed from the heat of the curling iron and your heartbeat, and your dress clings just right on the places that matter.
You catch your reflection in the mirror on the wall next to the bathroom door and hope this better be enough to distract a man from looking at his phone every four seconds.
You feel it before you even step out. His eyes.
They’re on you the second you cross the threshold, and you try not to shiver under his attention. Even though you spent the last hour preparing for this - shaving, moisturizing, curling, painting, fluffing, glossing. You did the work. You look good. You know that. You feel the rare glimmer of confidence like a sugar rush in your veins.
But when you look up and meet his eyes it’s like your breath jumped out the window.
Bucky is standing near the living room archway, leaning against the frame as though he didn’t mean to be waiting, as though he just happened to be passing through at the exact moment you emerged, and it’s a poor performance. He is terrible at casual. His arms are crossed, muscles tense, jaw locked up tight, Alpine balanced like a bread loaf on one broad forearm, completely disinterested in the tragedy of the moment.
In his other hand he is holding a glass of water he clearly doesn’t need. Something to do with his hands, maybe.
You fully step into the hallway.
Bucky blinks once.
Twice.
His mouth opens and doesn’t quite recover.
The silence eats a hole right through your stomach.
You stand there for a second, your fingers fiddling with the chain around your neck, your heart in your throat, your entire body one big, glittering question mark.
Bucky is frozen as though someone just hit pause on his thoughts.
“…damn,” he lets out, voice low, hoarse like he forgot how to use it. “You, uh-”
He shifts Alpine as though she’s in the way of his words.
“You look-” He swallows. “You look beautiful, doll.”
Heat curls up your neck so fast you feel dizzy with it.
And then he shakes his head a little, forcing himself to regroup. “But- like, I mean- you don’t even need all that, y’know?” His hand starts gesturing to your entire body and then retreats as though he’s been caught stealing. “You look good, all the time. You didn’t have to do all this. Not for some guy.”
His voice trails off into something smaller, sadder. Something unpolished.
You laugh gently, mostly because you don’t know what else to do with the way your heart is behaving. It’s skipping. Misfiring. Tapping out a beat as though it wants to be caught. And for a second, you wonder what he would have done if you were dressed like this for him.
“Thank you, Bucky,” you say softly. “That’s sweet.”
He doesn’t answer. Just nods. Too fast. As though he’s trying to convince himself it’s fine. Like it’s all good. Nothing tragic happening in his chest at all.
He looks at you as though he wants to say something more and keeps deciding against it.
You are smoothing your dress down, adjusting the hem even though you’ve done it twice already. There is this little flutter of panic in your chest that came out of nowhere, like maybe you went overboard. Like maybe he’s saying it out of politeness.
“Is it too much?” you ask, forcing the question through an anxious breath. You look down at yourself - your hair done, makeup soft and glowing, dress hugging you just right. “I mean- like, the dress, the heels, all of it. I haven’t been on a date in forever, and I don’t know, maybe I should’ve worn jeans and a shirt. He’s just some guy I met at a café and I probably look like I’m trying too hard-”
“Hey, doll. No, no, none of that.” Bucky sets the glass down. He doesn’t even notice it lands crooked on the table, and steps closer, that familiar furrow between his brows. He meets your eyes and something inside of them is splintering. Quietly. Devastatingly.
“Doll, you look stunning, alright? You’re gorgeous.” He shakes his head as if the words won’t land unless he unsticks them from somewhere deep in his chest. His throat bobs. “And not just tonight. Always. You didn’t have to do a damn thing to knock the wind outta me, but here we are anyway.”
His voice breaks a little at the end. Softens. And for a moment there is something in his expression that looks like surrender.
Your heart does complicated things and you look away, biting down on a smile that is equal parts joy and ache. “That’s a bit dramatic, Buck.” But your voice is a little too close to breathless.
He huffs a laugh, but it’s dull. He rubs Alpine behind the ear as a distraction.
“It’s just the truth, doll.” His voice is quieter now. “You could never be too much.”
You smile, but it’s the brittle kind, the one that feels like holding your breath too long.
He is standing close. Close enough to feel him. Inside your body.
“Thanks, Buck,” you say again. And you mean it. But you need to get this conversation out of your head before you start climbing him and forget the other guy.
You walk over to the table to grab your bag, and he follows a few steps behind, like Alpine when she’s pretending not to beg.
You check your earrings in the mirror beside the door, fluffing your hair where it is curled at the ends. You feel his stare like pins on your skin.
“You sure this guy’s okay?” he asks, as if he’s just casually curious. As if he isn’t dying.
You glance at him through the mirror. “I think so. He seemed nice.”
Bucky’s eyes dart away. His fingers are fiddling with the ring on his index finger. “Just sayin’, if he does anything shady, you come home. Immediately. No questions. I’ll make you popcorn. We’ll put on a bad movie. Just us.”
Your chest stings.
“You got pepper spray?”
“Bucky-”
“Does he know you’re allergic to fake cinnamon?”
“I don’t think we’re going to a candle store.”
He breathes out a laugh, but it breaks halfway through.
You hesitate. “Are you going out tonight?”
“Nah.” He waves a hand. “Just hangin' in. With Alp. Probably gonna order takeout. Watch some crime documentaries. Y’know, real cheery stuff.”
You nod slowly. “No Steve? No Sam?”
He shrugs, noncommittal. But it’s like something in his chest caves with the movement. “They got stuff goin’ on. I’m good here,” he declares in a voice too casual. “Gotta be here when you get back, right?” he says, trying to grin. Failing. “Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t trip over your heels comin’ up the stairs.”
You stare at him, at his subtle sadness and twitchy hands and the way he looks at you as though he is memorizing the moment in case he never gets another. As though he is already grieving something that hasn’t happened yet.
The part of you that wanted this date feels smaller now.
Alpine meows.
You don’t know whether to hug him or stay perfectly still or cancel the date and climb into his lap.
You want to curl up with Bucky and Alpine and forget the whole damn date. But instead, you slip your phone into your clutch with hands that suddenly feel too clumsy to belong to you.
“Text me, alright?”
You glance up at him, confused. “Yeah. Of course.”
“I mean it,” he says, stepping forward, Alpine tucked into his arm like a security blanket. “If this guy makes you uncomfortable, if he talks with his mouth full, if he looks at his phone too much- you call me.”
“Bucky-”
“I’ll come get you,” he insists, eyes fierce now, worried. “I’ll walk there and drag you out myself if I have to. Just promise me. You text me. You don’t sit through some crap date because you’re tryin’ to be polite.”
You smile, helpless under the sheer care in his voice. It tugs at your ribcage.
“I promise.”
His jaw ticks as though it’s not enough. As though even your promises aren’t safe anymore. He is still staring at you.
There is a second when he opens his mouth again. And you swear you see it rush over his expression - that he’s right there, teetering on the edge of saying something different. Something deep. Something important. Something sharp and glittering and buried under years of I shouldn’ts and she wouldn’t want me like that and she deserves better.
And you almost find yourself hoping another aching time.
But it doesn’t come.
Instead, he presses his lips together. As though sorrow has already folded itself under his tongue.
His eyes flick toward the door, and it stings.
“I think he’s a good guy,” you reassure quietly, trying to fill the silence with something easier. Safer. “He seemed sweet. You don’t need to worry, Buck.”
He snorts. Humorless. Looks at the kitten in his arms as though she needs all his attention right now. Alpine mewls once as if to agree.
“Yeah. Sweet,” he mumbles, brushing a hand through her fur. “Still- just… be careful, alright?”
You nod. He doesn’t look up.
“If he’s late, or he says anything that makes you feel weird, or you’re not havin’ fun - you let me know. Just give the word, I’ll come swingin’. In sweats and all.”
That earns a small laugh from you. But he still won’t meet your eyes. He scratches Alpine behind the ears while she blinks at you with innocent, unknowing affection.
“I will, okay? Promise. But really, I mean, the date could be great,” you offer, voice a little unsure.
His expression changes so subtly you would miss it if you didn’t know him that well. His shoulders deflate, the corner of his mouth tugs downward as though gravity finally got to him, as though someone popped a balloon in his chest and now he’s trying to remember how to stand.
“Yeah,” he says, too quiet, too distant. “Could be.”
There is a knot forming in your chest. A slow-growing tension that seems half regret and half longing. Bucky is towering over you, but he still seems so small like this. Folded in on himself. As though he is trying not to break in front of you.
You take a step toward him, heart hammering in your throat. You lift up onto your toes, lean in, and press a kiss to his cheek.
Soft. Careful. A brush of lips against faint stubble and skin that smells like cedar soap and him.
He goes still.
You feel his breath hitch. As though you just reset his entire nervous system. You feel the way he sways slightly toward you before catching himself, grounding himself back in the tension he wears.
You pull back and offer him the kind of smile that means everything and nothing at all.
“I’ll text you,” you whisper.
He swallows hard, nods once.
“Have a nice night, Buck,” you add, backing toward the door.
His voice is thick when he finally answers, barely above a rasp. “Yeah. You too, doll. Have fun.” It sounds like he’s underwater.
Alpine yawns as though this is all so exhausting.
You reach the door, one hand on the knob.
“And if he’s a jerk-”
“I call you. And I come home.”
You open the door and as it clicks shut behind you, you swear you can still feel his eyes on your back.
You lean against the door for a beat, heart knocking against your ribs in a pattern you’ve come to recognize.
Bucky doesn’t follow. He doesn’t call after you.
But inside, you know he’s still standing where you left him with Alpine clutched close, staring at the empty space you left behind.
And you want to go back inside. You want to spend your evening with him. You want to cheer him up and ease his mind with staying in.
But he didn’t stop you. So you don’t stop yourself.
****
You don’t remember most of the walk home.
The city buzzes around you in blues and golds, in late-evening puddles and the traffic lights changing colors.
The dark sky is soft and full and sighing, and the moon hangs above, following you home.
You hug your coat tighter around yourself. Your dress itches where it clings to your ribs, and your heels sound like guilt against the sidewalk.
You didn’t text him you were coming back early. You didn’t know how to say it without saying too much. Without exposing yourself for the fraud this entire night has made you feel like.
You tell yourself it’s because it’s not that big of a deal, that the date just ended early, naturally, like the way a song fades out instead of ending with a bang.
You tell yourself a lot of things.
You’re not sure which ones you believe.
Because the truth is - the guy was lovely.
He was kind. He smiled a lot, and asked good questions, and listened when you spoke. He pulled out your chair and paid for dinner and didn’t make weird jokes. He didn’t talk over you. He didn’t get too close too fast. He laughed with you. He was attractive. Safe. Sweet.
He was everything you’re supposed to want.
And still, you spent most of the night nodding at his stories while watching the condensation collect on your glass, wondering if Bucky had remembered to let Alpine sit on the windowsill and watch the city before shutting the blinds. Wondering if he was watching TV with the volume too low again because he gets a headache from the noise. Wondering what he has been eating tonight. Wondering if he was thinking about you the way you were thinking about him - constantly, painfully, like something in your head with no off switch.
Your date had asked you about your weekend plans, and you’d said “Oh, probably just hang out with my roommate.”
And your heart had tripped over the word, knowing it meant so much more than that. As though roommate is short for the boy I’ve loved for years but never touched.
The moment your date leaned across the table to compliment your eyes, you - soft idiot that you are - instantly heard Bucky’s voice instead. The way he always says stuff like that in passing, tossed casually between asking you if you’ve seen the TV remote or if there is leftover pizza in the fridge.
And it sits deeply in your chest. Sinking further with each passing beat - the truth.
You can’t give this guy a chance. Not the way he clearly deserves.
Because your heart is still living in a brownstone apartment with creaky floors and a broken light switch in the kitchen. With soft sweatshirts that aren’t yours but always end up draped over your desk chair. With a man who feeds your kitten as though it might end all the hunger in the world and treats you like you’re his favorite person.
You pull out your phone and reread the messages from Bucky, sent in ten-minute intervals.
“all good? Guy still got both kneecaps?”
“everything okay?”
“he better be treating you right.”
“or I’m showing up in crocs.”
You had smiled. Told him all was well. That the guy was nice. That you weren’t being kidnapped.
He replied with a thumbs-up emoji and then-
“lemme know when that changes.”
“and if he’s a jerk.”
“and if you need me to fake a plumbing emergency or something to get you out of there.”
You didn’t tell him you were already heading home.
Didn’t want to see the dot-dot-dot of typing, and then the silence.
Didn’t want to see hope, or disappointment, or relief.
Didn’t say you were going to try harder. That you’d hit your emotional limit somewhere between dessert and the walk to the subway.
You’re on your street now. The one with the crooked lamp post and the peeling red mailbox and the cat that’s not Alpine but sort of looks like her in bad lighting. You know this street by heart. You could walk it blindfolded, dizzy, drunk of heartache.
And there is your building. Soft lights glowing in the window above.
He’s up. Maybe waiting. Maybe not.
You pause outside the door. Let yourself lean against the brick for a second. Let your breath stay lodged in your throat. Because you’re not ready to walk in. You’re not ready to look at him and feel it again. Having the certainty that you are absolutely screwed, because you’re not able to get over your best friend even when going out with a nearly perfect guy.
But you also can’t stop thinking about the way he acted earlier. The way his voice broke so subtly. The tightness in his jaw, the way he wouldn’t meet your eyes, the tense silence around his body.
And you’re not supposed to hope.
You’ve told yourself that. Too many times to count. But tonight it sits so close to your heart, so deeply embedded, so hushed and burning.
Maybe his reaction wasn’t only about worry. Maybe it wasn’t just protectiveness. Maybe it wasn’t just Bucky being Bucky.
Maybe he was jealous.
You are trying so hard not to let that possibility bloom, trying not to name it or feed it, but it still grows.
Your heels clack against the building’s stairwell as you climb, one by one, pretending you aren’t listening for signs of life. Pretending you aren’t about to see him again after hours of spending your time with another guy but only thinking about him.
You reach the door.
The apartment is quiet on the other side, dim under the light of the single hallway lamp that always flickers twice before it stabilizes.
You slip your key into the lock and step inside on a breath.
You open the door with quiet fingers. The kind of careful that says I’m not sure what I’m walking into even though you know. Even though you always know. Because it’s home. Because it’s him. Because his jacket is still slung over the coat rack the same way it was when you left, and Alpine’s scratching post leans slightly to the left, and the lights in the living room are still on, soft and amber.
And there he is.
Sitting on the couch in sweatpants and a shirt still, one leg pulled up, socked foot balanced on the edge of the cushion. His phone lies screen up and plugged in right in front of him as though he has been waiting for it to light up again. As though he didn’t want to miss anything. As though it has already burned a hole into the cushion with how long he’s been staring at it.
He’s illuminated in the soft light of the TV where a half-hearted commercial flickers across the screen. He’s not really watching. The remote is in one hand, limp.
Alpine is a perfect little loaf on his chest, her head tucked against his sternum. His hand strokes her in slow, nervous passes, more fidget than affection right now.
He looks up the second the door closes behind you.
Not startled, exactly. More like the kind of flinch you feel under your ribs. Eyes sharp. Shoulders tight. As though your return is both a relief and a complication.
Alpine makes a soft, delighted chirp when she sees you, lifting her head and blinking sleepily.
“Hey,” he says. His voice is quieter than usual, as if he has forgotten how to speak at full volume.
You smile timidly. “Hey.”
He shifts his arm as though maybe he’s going to sit up, maybe he’s going to say more, but he just watches you. Not with the smug little smirks or teasing remarks he would usually toss your way. Not even with the tight, overprotective frown he wore earlier.
No, this is worse.
He’s trying so hard not to look like he’s waiting.
The soft clink of your keys in the bowl by the entryway is too loud in your ears.
“You’re back early,” he utters after a pause. His voice is low, rough with something not quite sleep and not quite surprise.
You nod and toe off your shoes slowly. You pretend your heart doesn’t stutter when you see the way his eyes drag over your face as though he’s trying to read your mood.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “Guess I was tired.”
He nods. Swallows. Looks as though he wants to ask something and then immediately regrets it. His hand moves to scratch Alpine between the ears but you beat him to it, crossing the room and crouching in front of the couch.
“Hey, sweetie,” you whisper, burying your fingers in her soft fur and scratching the spot beneath her chin that makes her purr like a lawnmower.
Your hand brushes his against the fur.
He doesn’t move. You don’t either.
When you look up, his eyes are on your face, darting around your expression as though he is searching for bruises that aren’t there. Words that haven’t formed yet. Meaning you haven’t chosen to give.
Alpine meows and you start moving your hand again, not having noticed your hand stopped under his gaze. You reach out to scratch the top of her head and your knuckles brush his chest. He twitches. You both pretend not to notice.
“She missed you,” he says softly, swallowing gruffly as though it might steady the wobble in his voice.
You give him a small smile. “Missed her too.”
Alpine leans into your touch and, because she’s draped over him, your fingers trail briefly over his shoulder when you scratch under her chin. He is warm. Stiff, but warm.
You don’t sit. You hover. You don’t know why. Maybe because sitting means staying and you haven’t decided yet if your heart is capable of holding everything tonight.
“You okay?” Bucky asks. It’s gentle. So careful. Too careful. As though if he speaks to you wrong, you’ll pull away from him forever.
You shrug, eyes on Alpine. “Yeah.”
He nods slowly. Waits. You can tell he’s waiting for you to say more, but you don’t know what more would even look like. It’s a shape you can’t hold yet.
“I mean, he was nice,” you add, because you feel like you have to. Like it’s some sort of requirement. Like you need to prove to yourself and him that you tried. That it mattered. That it didn’t.
“Good,” Bucky replies. He clears his throat. “I mean- I’m glad. I figured he’d, y’know… be decent. Or whatever.”
You shift a little closer. Your knees brush the couch.
“Yeah, he was,” you admit quietly.
Bucky nods, but it seems to be a heavy gesture for him. There is something anxious behind his eyes.
“So…” he starts, then stops. Clears his throat roughly, as though it got stuck somewhere behind his teeth. “…You seein’ him again?”
The question is soft. Uneven. Barely anything. As though he’s asking if the sky plans to rain. But it sounds practiced. In front of a mirror, maybe. Or mouthed to the ceiling between glances at his phone.
You pause. Draw in a breath.
You don’t look at him.
Your fingers drag down Alpine’s soft spine, slow, as though it might stop your thoughts from chewing on themselves.
There is something about the way he asks it. Something that pulls at a string inside you that was already frayed and coming undone the whole way home.
You sigh. A long, slow exhale that sounds like defeat.
You feel his eyes on you.
And then you shake your head. “No. I don’t think so.” And it feels like something falling out of you. Soft and resigned and a little afraid.
You see him in the corner of your eye. He doesn’t speak. Just waits. The quiet stretches, elastic, until it almost snaps. His hands have gone still. He has gone still. Completely.
“I mean, he really was a nice guy,” you affirm, as though the explanation might make the no easier to carry. “He was early. He paid. He even pulled my chair out. Held the door. Laughed at the right moments. He talked about his sister. It was- it was good.”
You stop. Swallow hard. Sigh harder.
You say all this as though you’re reading the bullet points off a recipe for happiness. And still, nothing. No spark. No fire.
“But?” Bucky prompts on a breath, so soft.
You lick your lips. Shake your head.
“I don’t know. He did everything right. But the whole time I just…” You trail off. Look down. His gaze dips, searching your face. “I guess, I wasn’t really there, tonight.”
Bucky says nothing.
You don’t tell him that the reason you couldn’t focus, couldn’t stay present, couldn’t even taste the food properly was because you kept hearing his voice in your head. Kept imagining what he’d say about the music in the restaurant, or how he’d roll his eyes at the way your waiter pronounced gnocchi.
Or that you kept thinking about Alpine knocking Bucky’s cereal bowl over yesterday. And the fact that he always hides the yellow skittles because he knows you hate them. And him laughing at those bad commercials, and the weird humming noise he makes when he brushes his teeth.
You don’t say any of that.
But maybe he hears it anyway. Because he’s still watching you with that sweet, unreadable look. As though he’s trying to figure out which part of you he’s allowed to hold.
“Okay,” he murmurs, after a moment. Not smug. Not satisfied. Just warm. Gentle. The way someone sounds when they’ve been holding their breath and they finally get to exhale. And he does seem to breathe easier. Looser.
His eyes drop. Then rise again, fast. “You look beautiful, by the way. Meant to say that earlier. I mean- I did. I said it. But-”
You smile, small. “Thanks, Buck.”
He clears his throat and shifts on the couch as though he suddenly remembers he has a body.
He looks at his lap, then back at you. “I, uh- I got takeout,” he says, as though he’s trying to move the conversation onto safer ground. “Just in case. Thought maybe you’d be hungry after.”
Your chest tightens. “You didn’t have to-”
He shrugs, looks at Alpine. “Didn’t know what mood you’d be in. Figured it wouldn’t hurt either way.”
“Thank you,” you say, voice softer than you meant for it to be.
“Welcome,” he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck. “And well, you always say you’re not hungry and then you eat half my spring rolls. So.”
That earns him the tiniest giggle from you.
He lights up a little.
You stand slowly, dropping your purse to the floor with a thud. “I’m not hungry,” you admit, sinking down onto the couch beside him. “Just tired.”
And you are. But not just from the night. You’re tired of pretending. Of swallowing how you feel. How he makes you feel. Of dancing around truths that tremble between you two like overfilled cups.
You reach for the remote, brushing against his thigh as you do. He stills as though your touch is a match to his skin.
The screen flashes something mid-scene - some low-budget crime show with horrible lighting and a suspiciously attractive cast.
You shift deeper into the couch, your knee brushing his. The screen continues flickering. Someone’s shouting about getting the suspect and a car explodes a second later with all the realism of a microwaved burrito.
You squint. “What even is this?”
Bucky briefly glances at you when he answers. His voice is half a mumble, half a smirk. “Special Crimes Unit 9. Or maybe 11. They keep changin’ the number every season.”
You turn your head to him. Utterly unimpressed. “Is this the one where the coroner uses a cookie cutter to get evidence out of a corpse?”
He grins. You see it. You feel it. “You remembered.”
You sigh, overly dramatic, because it’s the only appropriate response. “How could I forget? I think about it at least once a week. You owe me therapy for that.”
Bucky chuckles - low and breathy and genuine. You think maybe it’s your favorite sound in the world. You’ve heard it hundreds of times and it still makes your spine sit up a little straighter. It makes your ribs feel too small for your lungs.
You both watch in silence for a moment. There’s a woman on screen wearing six-inch stilettos to a crime scene. You raise an eyebrow. Bucky hums.
“Very practical,” he states dryly.
“So tactical,” you reply, deadpan.
You glance over and find him already looking at you. His smile is quiet, more of a curve than a grin. It reaches his eyes a little bit, just a little, and softens the space between his brows. He looks more relaxed now, eased further into the cushions. You don’t look away, even though you should. You should.
But he’s so close. And he’s warm. And your body always seems to tilt toward him like a sunflower.
Then Alpine, that little traitor of a feline angel, climbs into your lap with all the elegance of a marshmallow being lobbed onto a plate. She settles in, promptly making biscuits on your thigh. Her paws press in soft little patterns and her tail swishes over Bucky’s leg.
“Hi, baby,” you whisper, petting her head. She tips her chin up like a queen receiving tribute. She’s purring loudly.
“She’s so attached to you,” Bucky murmurs, watching as Alpine headbutts your hand almost aggressively while you stroke her fur. “Startin’ to think I’m just the guy who opens her food.”
He’s got that half-smile again. But it’s just a little smaller now. Not the usual smirk. Just soft. Something that doesn’t know it’s been seen.
You smirk, scratching behind her ear. “Well, you do open her food like a pro.”
“That’s my one skill. Impressive, huh?”
You giggle. It tumbles out of your mouth and echoes softly in the living room, bumping into corners and creasing into his smile. “So very impressive, Barnes. I’m proud of you.”
He laughs. And it’s real. And it makes your skin prickle. It makes goosebumps rise.
You glance at him again. He’s still looking at you. Not in the way you sometimes catch people looking at you. Not the idle glance, not the curious sweep. This guy is looking at you as though you’re the whole screen. As though he is memorizing your laugh because he wants to play it back later when it’s quiet and you’re not around and he misses the way your eyes crinkle.
The soft light makes his eyes darker, deeper. His hair is pushed back, messy from fingers you can’t stop imagining in your own hands.
He looks at you as though you already said the thing he’s been waiting to hear.
Your heart trips. But it doesn’t fall. It tries to recover.
He’s closer than before. Not by much, just a few inches maybe. But enough to notice. Enough to make you wonder if it was intentional or if the gravity between you is just inevitable.
There is a beat. A second. A heartbeat in between two breaths.
The TV keeps playing. Sirens and dramatic synth music. But it’s not present in your mind. The real show is here. His eyes snap to your mouth. Just for a second. Just one.
You swallow. Look away.
He blinks. Clears his throat. Shifts again.
“So,” he says, voice a little raspy, nodding at the screen. “You wanna know what happens next or should I save you the trauma and tell you now that the killer’s definitely the janitor?”
You snort. “Always the janitor.”
“Guy’s just tryin’ to mop floors and everyone’s framing him for murder.”
You both laugh, too loud for the scene currently unfolding on TV. Bucky’s hand drapes over the back of the couch and it shifts slightly behind you. Not touching, but there. And you could lean back if you wanted. You could rest against him.
But you don’t.
Because your chest is already too full. Because if you speak, you’re scared you’ll say something you can’t take back.
Instead, you sit with him in the quiet, both of you surrounded by the purring of a small white kitten and the flickering nonsense of a terrible crime show.
And you let the silence say what you’re still too afraid to.
At least for tonight.
“If I had a flower for every time I thought of you, I could walk in my garden forever.”
summary: you and bucky barnes were enemies. always arguing, always getting paired up for missions that ended with yelling and maybe a few broken ribs. but when the rest of the thunderbolts get turned into toddlers by accident, you and bucky are the only ones left to take care of them. suddenly, you're stuck playing mom and dad to five chaotic babies with too much energy and too many opinions. between diaper changes, late-night cuddles, and a few soft moments you didn’t expect, something between you and bucky starts to shift. but when the babies go back to normal, will they remember what happened... and will he?
warnings: slow burn, enemies to reluctant co-parents to something more, emotional whiplash, soft bucky barnes, soft reader but in denial, found family vibes, accidental parenting, hurt/comfort, some angst, a lot of fluff, crying (mostly the reader), bucky calls the toddlers “his kids” once and means it, thunderbolts chaos, baby bob being the favorite, baby walker being loud, baby yelena being feral, baby ava being shy, baby alexei being dramatic, tiny duck plushie slander, and one single dance on the porch that might ruin you.
note: this was supposed to be a joke. it is not a joke anymore. it got feelings. i blame baby bob. thank you to my brain for deciding bucky barnes as a dad is both funny and heartbreaking. this story includes a lot of cuddles, chaos, and emotional damage. thank you for reading and if you cry, good. i did too.
masterlist
The elevator dinged just once before the doors slammed open like they were afraid of the man inside. Bucky Barnes stormed into the Tower lounge with all the grace of a loaded weapon. His boots were thunder, his jaw was a locked trigger, and his eyes were practically glowing with rage. The kind that was cold, quiet, lethal—but held together by the sheer force of “if I talk right now, I will commit a felony.”
The rest of the Thunderbolts froze mid-conversation. Ava paused in her weird halfway-phase through the kitchen counter. Yelena blinked, a Cheeto half-raised to her mouth. John Walker raised an eyebrow like he was about to make it about him. Again.
Only Bob—the sweet, sunshine-soul Bob—visibly recoiled, clutching his comic book like a holy relic and mouthing a silent “oh no.”
Bucky's metal hand slammed onto the kitchen counter hard enough to make everyone jump. “I can’t stand that bitch.”
The room went dead silent.
Except for Alexei, who straightened on the couch like a Soviet mother had just entered the room and slapped him.
“HEY!” he barked. “We do not talk to women like that!”
Bucky didn’t even look at him. He was pacing now, jacket half-off, murder radiating off him like steam. “She acts like she knows everything. She doesn’t follow orders, she pulls blades out of thin air, and then she’s got the nerve to put one to my throat—”
“She did what now?” Yelena asked, suddenly way more interested.
But Bob was frozen. Like actually frozen. Pale, wide-eyed, whispering something that sounded like a prayer—
Because you had just appeared beside him. Not walked in. Not entered through a door.
Teleported. Green shimmer. Quiet spark. Instant chaos. You were sitting way too calmly on the edge of the couch, next to Bob like you'd been there all day. One hand resting lazily on the back cushion, the other pinching a chip from his bowl like you hadn’t just appeared from a different plane of existence.
“Aw, Bucky,” you said sweetly, voice smooth as honey and twice as toxic. “Miss me already?”
Bob made a noise like a dying animal and scooted three inches away without blinking. Bucky stopped pacing. Turned. Saw you. And you smiled. Smug. Glowing. Infuriating.
His nostrils flared. “You—”
“Me,” you said, cocking your head. “The ‘bitch’ in question. Please, go on. I love fan mail.”
“Do you try to be insufferable,” he growled, “or is that just a natural talent?”
You gasped, mock-offended. “Why, Barnes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re obsessed with me.”
He pointed at you. “You put a knife to my throat!”
“You put your hand on mine,” you said, still grinning. “I thought we were playing.”
Alexei stood up now, arms crossed, beard twitching. “I do not approve of violence unless it is mutual, respectful, or in sanctioned combat—preferably against Nazis.”
Yelena popped a chip in her mouth. “Or bad exes.”
“Or him,” Ava added, jerking her thumb at Walker.
“Excuse me?” Walker said, offended. “I was literally just standing here.”
“I’m just saying,” Ava muttered, “you look punchable.”
Meanwhile, Bob—still terrified—whispered, “Do we need to… call someone? Like HR?”
You were still staring at Bucky, your smirk razor sharp. “I didn’t even go for the jugular,” you added, chip between your fingers. “Should I have?”
Bucky’s jaw was locked so tight it looked like he was going to break his own teeth. He stepped toward you—dangerously close—and leaned down, voice low enough to chill bone.
“You really want to see what happens when I stop holding back?”
You tilted your head, lips parting in the softest smile.
“Yes,” you said. “I do.”
BOB ACTUALLY FAINTED.Bob slumped sideways, half sliding off the couch like a fainting goat in a tactical vest. His head lolled against the cushion, eyes fluttering shut as he murmured something unintelligible that might’ve been a prayer. Or a death rattle.
“BOB?!” you yelped, already scrambling to catch him before he hit the floor.
Your whole vibe shifted in an instant—from feral gremlin to panicked older sibling with a protective streak the size of Asgard.
“Oh, my god—Bob?! Hey, hey, don’t you dare pass out on me, sunshine.” You cradled his head like he was made of glass, gently tapping his cheek. “Wake up. Come on. You’re okay. You’re okay, I’m here. Shhh.”
Yelena, from across the room: “He’s rebooting.”
Walker leaned in, squinting. “Should we get like—uh, water? Salt? Exorcist?”
“I swear to god,” you snapped, eyes blazing as you whipped your head toward Bucky, “if he doesn’t wake up in ten seconds I’m shoving your vibranium arm up your emotionally constipated ass.”
Bucky blinked. “My fault?! He passed out because you—you—teleported in like a damn banshee and started running your mouth!”
“Oh no, no no no,” you said, finger in his face, still cradling Bob like a sleepy kitten. “Don’t you DARE try to pin this on me. You’re the one who came in here radiating murder! You slammed a table. You screamed. You scared my baby.”
“Baby?!”
“Yes, Barnes. MY baby. Not yours. Not ours. Mine.”
Alexei, from the background, solemnly nodded. “She has claimed him. It is law now.”
“You yelled,” you continued, full-on mom rage now. “You yelled and Bob immediately shut down like a Windows 98 laptop in a thunderstorm. That’s not dramatic. That’s trauma.”
“I didn’t even touch him!”
“Yeah, well, your aura did!”
Bob stirred weakly, blinking up at you with the slow confusion of someone waking up after anesthesia.
“Wh-what… happened…?” he mumbled.
“Oh, sweetie,” you whispered, brushing his hair back. “You saw raw unfiltered heterosexual conflict. It was too much.”
Walker blinked. “Why’s she treating him like a Victorian woman recovering from a fever?”
“Because Bob,” you hissed, “has never raised his voice. Or his fist. Or hurt anyone. Unlike you, Buck-o, who storms into every room like it owes you money.”
Bucky stared at you. Fuming. Flushed. Entire body tense in a way that made the room feel ten degrees hotter.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “Should I have walked in calmly after you tried to slit my throat earlier?”
“It was a conjured blade! It barely even had weight!”
“IT GLOWED!”
“So do I when I’m mad! Are you scared of me too?!”
“Yes!” Bob croaked weakly from your lap.
Ava covered her mouth to muffle a laugh. Yelena was openly filming now. Walker had pulled up popcorn from somewhere like this was Thursday night drama on live TV.
You stood up slowly, gently setting Bob back on the couch like royalty.
Then you squared up to Bucky again. Face to face. Eye to eye. Breathing hard.
“You owe him an apology.”
“I owe you a—”
“No, no. Don’t even. Apologize. To. Bob.”
Bucky looked like someone had just asked him to punch a puppy. His mouth opened. Closed. Reopened. He stared at Bob, who stared back like a kicked bunny.
“…Sorry?” Bucky grunted.
Bob gave a thumbs up. Then passed out again.
And that was it. That was your breaking point.
You inhaled sharply, stood tall, turned to Bucky—and smiled. Oh, not a nice smile. The kind of smile that came with homicidal intent, the kind you gave people right before throwing hands, flipping tables, or setting their house on fire with your mind.
Bucky looked at you like he could already hear the incoming war drum.
“Don’t,” he warned.
You didn’t even respond.
You punched him.
Hard.
Clean. Right hook. Square to the jaw.
It made a solid crack sound. That perfectly satisfying movie-punch sound. His head actually snapped to the side.
The room went feral.
“OH MY GOD—” Bob murmured mid-faint.
“YOOOOO,” yelled Yelena, who dropped her phone but was already scrambling to hit record again.
“ZAS!” Alexei shouted, absolutely delighted.
“YESSS,” Ava whispered like it was the climax of a soap opera.
Walker gasped like a southern belle at a brunch fight. “Did she just—”
“Yes, she did,” Ava muttered. “Iconic.”
Bucky slowly turned his head back toward you, blinking like he wasn’t sure if he was turned on or concussed.
And you?
You just shrugged.
“That’s for scaring Bob.”
He opened his mouth like he was gonna say something snarky—but too late.
Your hand was already glowing green. A shimmer of chaos energy wrapped around your fingers, licking at the edges of your suit as you crouched down, wrapped an arm under Bob’s knees, and hoisted him bridal-style like he weighed nothing.
“You don't deserve to breathe the same air as my baby,” you muttered.
And with that—
POOF.
Gone. Just like that.
Left behind was a puff of green light and a bunch of emotionally unstable adults who looked like they’d just witnessed the season finale of the messiest relationship in existence.
“…I’ll kill her,” Bucky said under his breath, still touching his jaw.
Yelena choked on her popcorn. “You’re gonna what now?”
Alexei pointed sternly. “You deserved that punch. Also—apologize better next time.”
“She glows when she’s mad,” Bucky muttered again, still dazed. “It’s… not fair.”
Ava glanced at Yelena. “Wanna lock them in a supply closet later?”
“God, yes.”
“HELP!” you shrieked, storming through the automatic doors of the compound’s medical wing like the gates of hell had flung open behind you. “HELP, PLEASE, MY BABY FAINTED, I THINK HE’S DYING!”
Bob Reynolds—six foot two, elite Thunderbolt operative, and literal human marshmallow—was slumped like a tragic sack of potatoes across your shoulders, one arm dangling limply down your back, the other flopping against your hip every time you jogged a step. His glasses were askew. His hair was in disarray. And you looked like a mother raccoon dragging her emotionally fragile child to the vet.
A nurse dropped her tablet. A doctor nearly tripped over a gurney. Chaos bloomed.
“Ma’am—uh—what happened?!” one of them gasped, rushing toward you.
“He fainted!” you cried. “Barnes scared the hell out of him and he fainted! Like actually lost consciousness! Like swoon style! And now he won’t wake up!”
“Is he injured—was there trauma—?”
“YES,” you said, wide-eyed. “EMOTIONAL trauma! He saw his teammates fighting and his nervous system just said no thanks and now he’s DEAD.”
“He’s… he’s breathing,” a medic said gently, placing two fingers at Bob’s neck while you crouched to let his weight slide off your back. You immediately cradled his head like he was a newborn angel who’d been smacked by sin.
“HE’S FRAGILE,” you snapped. “Don’t touch him like that, you’ll bruise his soul.”
Bob groaned softly, blinking once.
You gasped like he’d just come back from the brink.
“Bob! Oh thank god—hi! Can you hear me? Blink twice if you recognize me. Blink once if you want me to punch Bucky again.”
“...what happened?” he murmured.
“You passed out from stress, sweetheart,” you cooed, brushing his bangs back with shaking hands. “Which is totally valid. Honestly, same. But I carried you here because you are precious cargo, and now you are banned from ever hearing emotionally charged arguments again.”
A nurse stifled a laugh. One of the doctors whispered to another, “Is she okay?”
You turned to them, eyes burning.
“I am NOT okay,” you hissed. “That was Barnes’s fault. I told him not to yell. I told him Bob’s nervous system is like a fainting goat on a rollercoaster. And what did he do? Walked in like a drama queen with a vendetta and a jawline and now my cinnamon roll of a teammate is in a goddamn coma!”
“He’s awake now—”
“That’s not the point!”
Bob gave a small thumbs up, still horizontal on the cot, eyes half-closed. “She’s not wrong…”
You leaned down, pressing your forehead to his like he was your baby bird.
“Don’t you ever do that to me again,” you whispered dramatically. “You scared me half to death. You are my emotional support introvert and I can’t lose you. You’re the only normal one on this team.”
He blinked, dazed. “…Ava’s normal.”
“She’s phasing through walls on purpose to avoid Walker’s playlist, Bob. That’s not stable.”
Another nurse walked in. “Hey, someone said there was a—”
“He’s fine now,” the first doctor sighed. “She just needed to panic dramatically for a few minutes.”
“I’m still panicking,” you muttered, grabbing a blanket to tuck around Bob like he was freezing to death. “Bucky traumatized him. Again.”
Bob whispered, “...did you punch him?”
“Oh, honey.” You kissed his forehead like a war widow. “Of course I did.”
You don’t mean to look like someone’s mom.
Okay, that’s a lie. You absolutely mean to.
The tactical harness is half-buckled over your hoodie as you chase Bob around the room with a protein bar in one hand and a sealed serum injector in the other. He’s dodging you with the agility of someone who’s fully trained in combat scenarios but has the emotional age of a kindergartener when it comes to shots and breakfast.
“Bob,” you warn, voice tight but full of affection. “If you don’t hold still, I swear to god I will sedate you and carry your ass onto the Quinjet in a papoose.”
“I hate needles,” he groans, ducking behind the couch.
“You’ve been SHOT before!”
“I was unconscious for that!”
You huff. Dramatically. The way a tired mother might when she’s already had three cups of coffee and not a single one did the job. You mutter a spell under your breath—just a tiny one—and the serum injector floats, slamming itself gently into his upper arm.
Bob yelps. “Hey!”
You pop the protein bar into his mouth before he can whine more. “That’s for stamina. And to shut you up.”
He chews grumpily, cheeks puffed like a cartoon chipmunk. You run your fingers through his hair, smoothing down the chaos. He lets you, grumbling something unintelligible through the granola. You pretend not to hear it.
Across the room, Bucky watches with a scowl sharp enough to cut titanium.
“You gonna do that for everyone on this mission?” he asks, arms crossed.
“Nope,” you say brightly, fixing the collar on Bob’s jacket. “Just my favorite.”
Bucky scoffs under his breath, but you see it—the twitch in his jaw, the flicker of something beneath the surface. He hasn’t spoken to you since the fight. Since the dagger. Since the words you regret and the ones you don’t. And frankly, you’re not ready to rip that scab off just yet.
This morning isn’t about him.
This morning is about Bob, and Yelena, and Ava, and the rest of the team being sent off on a mission you’re not cleared for. Something dimensional. Temporal. Dangerous, probably. But Val insisted. Said they were the only ones who could do it.
You? You’re “still on cooldown,” apparently.
Read: emotionally unstable.
You kiss two fingers and tap them to Bob’s forehead. “No touching weird glowing objects. No speaking to old women with no eyes. No dramatic sacrifices unless you’re being watched by at least two cameras so I can go viral.”
He gives a crooked smile. “You’ll miss me?”
“I’ll cry exactly once if you die. Twice if you forget to bring back snacks.”
You help him strap on the last piece of gear, fingers lingering at the shoulder just a little too long. Like if you hold him together tightly enough, he won’t come back broken.
And then—he’s gone. Off to the jet. Yelena waves. Ava nods. Walker and Red Guardian are already arguing about socks or strategy or both.
The room empties.
You’re left standing in the middle of it, hands on your hips, magic curling at your fingertips like it knows something you don’t.
Beside you, Bucky speaks, low and gruff. “You really think they’ll be okay?”
You don’t look at him. You just whisper, almost to yourself—
“They better be.”
You always forget how quiet it is out here.
The trees murmur softly around you, their summer leaves catching the light in pale flickers as the wind rustles through the branches. The river moves slow, steady. It glides past the edge of the dock with lazy purpose, carving its way through the grass like it’s got nowhere to be but here. It smells like earth and water and peace.
It’s unnatural. Too soft. Too still.
You’re sitting cross-legged at the edge of the wooden dock, hands idle in your lap, chin tucked toward your chest. There’s a fishing rod resting beside you—not that you’re using it. You just like the illusion of a task. Something to explain why you’re here. Something harmless. Normal.
Like you didn’t nearly stab your teammate to death a few days ago. Like you’re not still vibrating with leftover magic under your skin, the kind that crackles too loud in silence. Like you’re not haunted.
You reach down and skim your fingers along the river’s surface. The water’s warm—sun-heated, soft—and it doesn’t flinch when you touch it. That always surprises you. For all the things you’ve broken, the chaos you carry, nature never seems to mind you.
Unlike people. Unlike Bucky. You suck in a breath and tip your head back to the sky.
The clouds are fat and slow-moving. Lazy. Blissfully unaware. The kind of sky that should be seen from a picnic blanket or a hammock or maybe a child’s drawing. You want to hate it for being beautiful. But you don’t. You’re too tired for bitterness today.
This was his house, after all. Tony’s.
You glance behind you toward the rustic, lake-view cabin. It’s still exactly how he left it. The same red roof. The same old porch swing. The same scattered junk in the shed that looks like it shouldn’t be legal or safe. Morgan’s old crayon drawings still decorate the kitchen fridge, faded but defiant. You never asked Pepper for permission to come here. You didn’t have to. She told you once—quietly, and without ceremony—that the lake house was always open for you.
He wanted you to have somewhere to come back to. You curl your knees to your chest, resting your chin there. God, you miss him.
You miss the sound of his voice when it softens for you. You miss the way he’d flick you on the forehead when you got too moody, and then immediately bribe you with fancy lab snacks. You miss the way he’d look at your magic—not with fear, not with awe, but with curiosity. Like you were a puzzle he wanted to solve, not a threat to contain.
No one else ever looked at you like that. Not even Bucky. Not even now.
You close your eyes, swallowing the lump in your throat. It’s stupid. It’s been years. Tony’s been gone longer than he was in your life. And yet, this house feels more like home than anywhere else you’ve lived. More than the Tower. More than the SHIELD bunkers. More than your own childhood bed, which hasn’t existed for a long time now.
It’s because he believed in you.
Even when you didn’t.
You rub at your face, feeling the crusted edges of the healing bruise along your cheekbone. You haven’t done magic since you got here. Haven’t summoned a single blade. You came to this place to breathe. To remember. To not destroy anything.
You wonder if Tony would laugh at all of this. Probably. He’d say something ridiculous like “I always knew Barnes would be the reason you’d snap. Should’ve let me shoot him in the knee back in ’16.”
You smile at that. Just a little. “Miss you, old man,” you whisper.
And for a second—for a breath—you almost think you hear him. Not words. Not a ghost. Just a spark. A flicker in the air. Like the arc reactor still humming through the fabric of the world.
The mission had been simple.
In and out. Grab the relic. No fighting, no magic, no “accidental” body counts. The directive had been clear: retrieve the object, contain it, don’t touch it. So of course, the moment they got back to the Tower, all five of them stood around the thing like it was the last bottle of vodka in Siberia.
It sat dead center on the briefing room table—short, squat, and sealed with a black wax emblem none of them recognized. The bottle was glass, thick and oddly shaped, like something that belonged in a medieval apothecary or a vampire’s liquor cabinet. And inside it?
A deep red fluid. Thick. Slow-moving. Almost… alive.
"Why is it glowing?" Yelena asked flatly, propping her chin on her fist as she squinted at it. “It wasn’t glowing before.”
“It’s not glowing,” John Walker said, arms crossed. “It’s… resonating.”
“That’s worse,” Ava muttered from across the room.
“I think it’s cool,” Alexei said, looming far too close to it. “Very dramatic. Makes a statement.”
“You want to make a statement?” Ava snapped, flinging her hands in his direction. “How about ‘Don’t store interdimensional biohazards on a kitchen table’? Or maybe ‘Let’s call a sorcerer before we accidentally melt into puddles’?”
“It’s not melting anyone,” Walker scoffed. “We didn’t even open it. It’s sealed.”
“Yeah? Well maybe we shouldn’t be breathing near it either.”
“Oh my god,” Yelena groaned. “Can we not do this for once? We got the creepy demon juice, we’re back in one piece, let’s just—I don’t know—wait for Val?”
“Sure,” Ava said coolly. “Let’s all wait. And if one of us starts speaking in ancient tongues or turns into a pigeon, I’ll say ‘I told you so’ through gritted teeth.”
“Guys,” Bob piped up, timid and wide-eyed, “maybe we should move it to a containment unit?”
They all ignored him.
A beat passed. The tension simmered.
And then, like fate herself decided to screw subtlety, Ava threw her arms up in frustration—just as Walker leaned forward to say something else stupid—and someone’s elbow clipped the bottle.
It wobbled. Wobbled again. And fell. The moment it hit the floor, it didn’t shatter like glass.
It burst. A pulse shot out like a heartbeat—silent, red, heavy—and then thick, crimson smoke curled up from the remnants, slithering into the air like it had a mind of its own. The room filled with it instantly—sweet-smelling, cloying, oddly warm—and then it was everywhere.
Ava choked. “What the hell did you do?!”
“I DIDN’T TOUCH IT—”
“YES YOU DID, I SAW YOUR STUPID ARM—”
“EVERYBODY SHUT UP—”
Too late.
The smoke coiled tighter, circling them like a serpent, and then—, Val walked in.
The automatic door hissed open just as the red cloud finished swirling and vanished into thin air like it had never existed.
Val paused. Took one step into the room. Brows furrowed. “...What the fuck?”
No one answered. Not at first.
There was just silence. Stillness. The room looked the same. The table was wet with the remains of the fluid, the bottle pieces scattered like shattered candy. There was no fire. No screaming. No alarms.
And yet. Something was… off.
Val’s heels clicked as she walked further in, eyes narrowed.
“Okay,” she said slowly, taking in their expressions—or lack thereof. “Who broke it?”
Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Just wide, blank eyes staring back at her.
Bob blinked first. Then, he sneezed.
It was a very high-pitched sneeze.
You didn’t speak to each other at first.
The elevator thrummed gently beneath your boots, a soft mechanical hum that did little to settle your nerves. You stood on opposite sides of the lift, backs to the walls, arms crossed like shields. The kind of stance people take when they’re trying very hard not to punch each other again.
The silence dragged.
Bucky was the first to break it, voice low and rough. “You think she’s exaggerating?”
You raised an eyebrow without looking at him. “It’s Val.”
He sighed. Ran a hand through his hair. He looked… worse for wear. Tired. Bruise healing along his jaw. A tiny scratch just beneath his ear that you didn’t want to stare at, but your eyes kept flicking to anyway.
“She sent twenty-seven texts in five minutes,” he muttered. “She doesn’t do that.”
You nodded slowly. “Which means it’s either interdimensional, magical, or something’s exploded.”
“Or all three,” Bucky said darkly.
The elevator pinged. Floor 44.
You shifted your weight, tugging your sleeves down over your wrists, trying not to fidget. You hadn’t spoken since the lake house. Since the fight. Since you’d stabbed him in a training room full of witnesses. And now you were here—reunited by shared emergency, standing side by side in uncomfortable silence like the world hadn’t tilted three inches to the left the last time you were in the same room.
Another beat passed. Bucky cleared his throat. “I, uh—was gonna text. After…”
You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. He fell quiet again.
The elevator slowed as it reached Floor 47—restricted access, Val’s designated “oh-no-no-no” floor where emergencies were dealt with before they spilled into the public. You turned toward the doors, fingers tingling with restrained magic, muscles tensed.
Bucky watched you from the corner of his eye. “You ready?”
“Not even a little.”
The elevator chimed. The doors slid open. And your breath caught in your throat.
You blinked once. Twice. There, in the middle of the hallway, was Val.
She looked like she'd been through a war. Hair disheveled, one heel missing, shirt untucked, and a stain on her blazer that looked suspiciously like applesauce. In her arms was something squirming. No—someone.
A baby.
A small, squishy, extremely furious baby with way-too-familiar dark hair and an itty-bitty SHIELD onesie.
You blinked again.
“Don’t say a word,” Val snapped, eyes bloodshot. “Just… come inside.”
You and Bucky exchanged a look.
Then, slowly—cautiously—you stepped into the madness. And chaos met you like a tidal wave.
You hadn’t even crossed the threshold before your instincts started screaming. Magic—thick and wild—still clung to the air like smoke after a fire. It buzzed faintly against your skin, prickling at the fine hairs on your arms as you stepped deeper into the hallway. Bucky followed close behind, one hand near the knife strapped to his thigh, the other flexing like he was itching to punch the unknown square in the face.
The lights in the corridor flickered ominously, and you had to sidestep what appeared to be a trail of goldfish crackers leading directly into the main conference room. You didn’t ask. You didn’t want to know.
Val stood just inside the doorway, her face an exhausted masterpiece of rage and disbelief. Her dark hair was pulled back into a half-undone ponytail, her mascara was smudged, and she held what looked like a baby in her arms—fat-cheeked, glaring, with a tuft of auburn hair and a scowl that, disturbingly, reminded you of John Walker.
You stopped short. Bucky nearly bumped into you. Val didn’t give either of you time to process.
“Come in,” she said, voice hoarse and tight with a fraying edge of hysteria. “Close the damn door behind you.”
Your boots clicked against the tile as you obeyed. Bucky muttered something under his breath that you couldn’t quite catch, but it sounded like a prayer. The moment the doors sealed shut behind you, a new sound filled the air—high-pitched, chaotic, overlapping.
Crying. Arguing. Giggling. Something heavy crashing to the floor. You turned the corner and froze. All logic stopped.
Five small figures occupied the room like gremlins unleashed from hell itself. One of them—Alexei, you assumed—was trying to climb the window blinds using only his teeth and a wildly ineffective pair of toddler arms. Another, unmistakably Ava, sat cross-legged under the conference table, surrounded by floating pieces of dismantled tech, tiny face screwed up in furious concentration.
Yelena was in a corner, stabbing a juice box with the savagery of someone trying to commit war crimes through a straw.
And in the center of it all, surrounded by a small pile of blankets, was Bob. Tiny. Round.
Wearing one of those ridiculous “I’m the future” shirts that someone must have dug out of a Stark Industries drawer.
He saw you and his entire face lit up like a sunrise.
“Mama!”
You blinked. Bucky swore under his breath, spinning on his heel like he was about to hit the emergency elevator button and vanish from this plane of existence. You grabbed the back of his jacket before he could escape.
Val rubbed at her temples and muttered, “I told you not to touch the bottle. But noooo, someone had to argue about proximity spells and elemental containment and—well, now we have baby assassins, congratulations.”
You stepped forward on unsteady feet, crouching slowly as Bob toddled toward you with his arms outstretched. He tripped once, recovered, and barrelled into you like a chubby missile, wrapping his tiny arms around your neck.
“Mama,” he mumbled again, this time softer, more tired. “You came.” Your throat closed.
You wrapped your arms around his tiny frame, magic flaring silently under your skin as you scanned him for injuries. Nothing broken. No magical burns. Just… small. Vulnerable. And looking at you like you were the only safe thing in the world.
Bucky crouched beside you, eyes flicking over Bob and then around the room like he was still waiting for the real threat to reveal itself. “They’re all like this?”
“All of them,” Val said, sounding like she needed a drink, a nap, and possibly a new career.
You stood up, lifting Bob easily in your arms. He curled against you instantly, one thumb in his mouth, the other hand tangled in the collar of your shirt.
“This is temporary, right?” Bucky asked warily.
Val didn’t answer right away. She just exhaled slowly, like she was bracing herself for an explosion that hadn’t happened yet.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “We’ve got two sorcerers on a call, one is crying, and the other just said something about ‘age-locked soul regression’ and hung up.”
Bucky ran a hand down his face. You just stared at Val.
“So what you’re saying,” you said flatly, “is that you called me back from my grief vacation to run a daycare full of mini war criminals, and you don’t even know how long this lasts.”
Val smiled grimly. “Welcome home.”
Val checked her watch like she wasn’t surrounded by chaos. Like there weren’t juice stains soaking into Stark Tower’s designer rugs or an unconscious Red Guardian face-first on the floor after trying to body slam a beanbag chair. She smoothed her blazer, adjusted the one-heeled shoe still attached to her foot, and—while you cradled a drowsy toddler Bob on your hip and Bucky stared blankly at the wall like his soul had just left his body—said the words that would forever haunt your dreams:
“Well. I gotta go.”
You blinked. Bucky blinked.
Val clapped her hands once, as if trying to shake off crumbs. “I’ve got a crisis call with a coven in Prague, and then there’s a press situation brewing with the UN. Something about unauthorized dimension-hopping and a minor possessed goat.” She waved vaguely toward the ceiling. “Anyway. This—” she gestured broadly at the pint-sized chaos, “—is officially not my problem anymore.”
“Val,” you said slowly, adjusting Bob’s weight in your arms as he yawned and drooled on your shoulder, “you cannot be serious.”
“Oh, I’m very serious,” she replied, already moving toward the exit. “Pepper said not to disturb her unless something was on fire or bleeding, and technically no one is bleeding right now, so.”
“Yelena bit Walker,” Bucky said flatly, arms crossed.
“Baby Yelena,” you clarified. “Bit baby Walker.”
“She also cursed in Russian,” Bucky added. “Twice.”
Val waved that off like it was paperwork. “You’ve both handled worse. I have faith in you. You're a natural leader.”
“You left a literal god in a diaper and called it leadership,” you muttered.
“Correct,” she said cheerfully, already halfway out the door. “And hey—think of it as team-building. Trauma bonding. Therapeutic domestic immersion!”
The door hissed shut behind her before you could hurl something after her.
Silence fell. Well—not silence. There was still the sound of baby Ava stacking StarkPads like building blocks, the rhythmic creaking of toddler Alexei trying to bounce off the walls again, and a very soft, very suspicious splorch noise coming from somewhere behind the couch.
You sighed. Loudly. Bucky exhaled beside you and rubbed a hand down his face, voice low and tired. “What the hell do we do now?”
You looked down at Bob, who had his thumb in his mouth and his other hand tangled in your hair. His eyes were already fluttering shut. He looked so peaceful. So innocent. So unaware of the raging dumpster fire surrounding you.
You adjusted him against your chest and said, “First? We find juice boxes. Then? We pray.”
Bucky nodded, slow and solemn. And for the first time all day, he actually looked at you. Not just a glance. Not a glare. A real look. Soft. Quiet. Maybe even… apologetic. But there wasn’t time for that now.
Because baby Yelena had disappeared. And the emergency sprinklers just turned on.
There is a kind of silence that comes right before everything explodes. A charged, fleeting moment where the universe holds its breath.
And then—
The crying starts.
It begins with Bob. Just a soft whimper, barely a sound, muffled against your chest as he stirs from his nap. He’s warm, flushed, eyes still bleary, but the instant he realizes he’s not in your arms anymore—just lying beside you on a pillow—his mouth opens in a slow, terrible wail that rises like a storm cloud and does not stop.
You reach for him instantly, but you’re too late.
He sets off Ava.
Her screech is sharper. Meaner. Like glass shattering on tile. She’s standing in the middle of the room with her fists clenched, bottom lip trembling, tears welling like twin tidal waves. One second she’s fine. The next she’s full banshee. She throws her spoon. It explodes against the wall.
Alexei joins in before he even knows why. He hears the sound, sees the distress, and promptly throws himself on the ground, legs kicking, wailing like someone just stepped on his dreams. He rolls over, bumps into a cushion, and starts yelling louder.
And Yelena—sweet, violent, unpredictable Yelena—stands up from the laundry basket she was using as a fort, looks around at the descending bedlam, and starts crying out of pure spite.
It’s deafening.
You scramble across the room on your knees, arms outstretched, magic sparking helplessly at your fingertips as you try to gather them. Bob first—his arms are already reaching for you. You scoop him up, kiss his forehead, shush him, bounce gently. He does not care. He screams louder.
“Where is Bucky?” you growl, trying to untangle yourself from Bob’s sticky grip.
“Right here!” he barks from the hallway, rushing back in, hair a mess and his shirt inside-out. Yelena is clinging to the front of him like a spider monkey, her face mashed against his collarbone, screaming directly into his soul.
He looks wild-eyed. Rattled. Afraid.
You want to laugh. You don’t. You don’t have the air to laugh.
“Help me!” you shout, trying to levitate a bottle of formula while Bob beats his tiny fists against your chest and Ava levitates a couch cushion with intent to murder.
“I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO,” Bucky yells, trying to detach Yelena without getting bitten.
“You’ve fought HYDRA death squads, Barnes, just PUT THE BABY DOWN—”
“She’s got my hair—”
“I DON’T CARE—”
A loud thud cuts you off. You whirl around.
Alexei launched himself off the back of the couch and landed flat on his stomach, wailing like a siren. He doesn’t seem hurt. Just… upset. And wet. He’s crying with his whole body, fists pounding the ground like it personally offended him.
Bucky finally peels Yelena off his shoulder and deposits her into the playpen. She immediately tries to scale the mesh wall like she’s in baby prison.
“WE NEED A PLAN,” he pants, hands braced on his knees.
“I NEED SIX PAIRS OF ARMS AND A DAMN EXORCIST,” you snap, trying to keep Bob from kicking his bottle out of your hand.
The noise crescendos. Crying. Screaming. Something electronic explodes in the corner, sparks shooting out from under the TV. You don’t care anymore. You’re soaked. You’re sticky. You’re seconds away from crying with them.
And then—
Silence.
Just for a second. Just long enough for you and Bucky to lock eyes across the battlefield.
You’re both breathing hard. Wide-eyed. Disheveled. You with Bob on your hip and dried applesauce in your hair. Him with baby sock prints on his shirt and Yelena’s pacifier tucked behind his ear like a grenade.
“This,” you breathe, “is hell.”
He nods. Grim. “Actual hell.”
Then someone starts crying again. And the moment shatters.
You were one scream away from combusting.
The lights were flickering. The tower’s temperature regulation had failed—again—and somewhere in the hallway, a fire alarm was going off that no one could reach because it was twelve feet in the air. Ava had levitated two coffee mugs and was currently banging them together like ritual drums. Alexei was naked. You didn’t know when or how, but he’d shed every piece of clothing and was sprinting through the living room like a glittery gremlin on a sugar high. Walker was sobbing into a pile of couch cushions like the world had personally betrayed him. Yelena was sharpening crayons. Sharpening. Crayons.
And Bob, your sweet little Bob, was wrapped around your leg like a weighted anchor, wide-eyed and sniffling, clutching the hem of your shirt like it was a holy relic.
Your eye twitched. Your jaw clenched.
And then, very quietly, you snapped.
Magic flared like a shockwave from your fingertips. Not out of rage, not yet—but out of sheer, unhinged desperation. You waved one hand through the air with a sharp, sweeping motion, and with a flick of your wrist, the living room shifted.
The floor shimmered, glowed, and transformed.
The couch cushions floated gently into the air and reassembled themselves into a playpen fortress, complete with safety barriers, tiny blankets, and soft lights that pulsed like stars. A calming scent of lavender and cocoa drifted through the room. The broken coffee mugs reformed into glowing orbs that danced mid-air, swirling like baby mobiles. The fire alarm shut off. Alexei’s clothes reappeared on his body mid-run, and he skidded to a halt, confused but delighted.
Every child went still.
Ava’s mouth fell open in awe. The mugs dropped to the floor with a soft clink as her eyes tracked the lights like they were fairy spirits. Yelena—tiny, lethal Yelena—sat down cross-legged on the spot, crayons forgotten in her lap. Even Walker, snotty and red-faced, blinked up in wonder.
And Bob?
Bob was glowing.
Not literally—but in the way toddlers do when something lights up their whole world. His eyes sparkled as he stared at you, face round and amazed, mouth opening in a joyful little gasp.
“More!” he chirped, grabbing your hand. “Mama! More pretty!”
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Something in your chest eased. Warmed.
With a softer motion, you conjured a gentle snowfall. It wasn’t cold—just glittering illusion, falling like sugar from the ceiling. Bob reached for the flakes with both hands, giggling in delight, and Ava squealed, chasing them across the carpet.
Alexei threw himself into a pile of conjured pillows with a triumphant yell. Yelena tried to catch a flake on her tongue and grumbled in Russian when it disappeared.
Bucky appeared in the doorway, stunned silent.
He took in the scene—five tiny Thunderbolts sitting peacefully in a glowing, enchanted wonderland, laughter echoing like music—and blinked slowly like his brain had blue-screened.
“What the hell,” he muttered.
“I snapped,” you said, breathless, still holding Bob close. “Magically. Domestically. Emotionally.”
He walked forward slowly, dodging a floating duck-shaped spark of light. “You turned this into a preschool fantasy movie.”
“I saved our lives.”
Bob giggled again, clapping tiny hands against your cheeks and leaning into your chest. “You did magic,” he whispered proudly. “You magic mama.”
You felt your heart split clean down the middle.
Bucky rubbed a hand down his face. “I don’t know if I’m terrified or impressed.”
“Both,” you replied, brushing a curl from Bob’s forehead. “Be both.”
You made the fatal mistake of blinking.
One moment—peace. Quiet giggles. Sparkly fake snow drifting through the air. You were a goddess among toddlers, a mother of dragons with a halo of glitter and cocoa-scented calm. Bob was nestled in your lap, playing with a soft conjured rabbit. Bucky was cautiously sipping cold coffee while keeping one eye on Ava, who had finally stopped trying to rewrite Stark protocols with finger paint.
But peace, as you were learning, was a trap.
Because the second you turned to conjure a new blanket for Walker—who was beginning to sniffle again with the kind of pout that threatened to erupt—the room descended into absolute anarchy.
It started with Alexei. Of course it was Alexei.
You didn’t see him do it, but you heard the crash. The unmistakable sound of a plastic bin full of LEGOs and emergency tools being upended onto the floor. You turned just in time to see his chubby little legs disappear into the hallway, a screwdriver in one hand, glitter still stuck to his forehead, screaming something that sounded vaguely like, “I BUILD NOW!”
And then Ava shrieked.
Not because she was scared—no, no. It was the shriek of competitive bloodlust. She took off after him like a heat-seeking missile, levitating the duck-shaped mobile and hurling it like a weapon.
“GET BACK HERE,” you shouted, scrambling to your feet, Bob tumbling against your chest like a startled kitten.
“Why is she flying?!” Bucky barked, pointing at Ava as she literally lifted off the ground for three seconds before crashing into a beanbag chair.
“I DON’T KNOW, BUCKY, MAYBE BECAUSE SHE’S MADE OF MAGIC AND SPITE.”
Yelena, meanwhile, took advantage of the chaos by climbing the bookshelf.
You didn’t know how she got up there. You didn’t want to know. One second she was scribbling ominous symbols on the wall in red crayon—yes, red, of course—and the next she was crouched like a tiny sniper on the fourth shelf, chewing on the binding of a S.H.I.E.L.D. training manual like it owed her money.
Walker had begun crying again.
Not just crying—screaming. Full-volume toddler meltdown. He crawled under the couch, sobbing “I WANT MY SHIELD” on repeat like a tiny brainwashed Winter Soldier, refusing to come out.
“Bucky,” you yelled, trying to teleport Bob’s toy out of Ava’s war path. “GET YELENA.”
“She’s got a knife!” he hissed back.
“What?!”
He ducked behind the couch, emerging moments later with Yelena wriggling under his arm, a makeshift dagger made from a broken spatula clutched in her tiny fist. She screamed something guttural and kicked him in the ribs.
“I hate this,” Bucky grunted, staggering.
“I told you we should’ve just faked our own deaths!”
Bob, still in your arms, was clapping. “Fun!”
You looked down at him, sweat on your brow, hair in your mouth, glitter somehow in your eyelid.
“Sweetheart,” you panted, “are you… enjoying this?”
He beamed, two teeth showing. “So much fun!”
You groaned and dropped back into the armchair as Yelena shrieked “FREEDOM!” and escaped Bucky’s grip like a feral badger. Walker was still sobbing under the couch. Ava was now levitating herself again. Alexei had returned and was trying to unscrew the floor vent.
Bucky leaned against the wall, disheveled and furious. “They’re going to kill us.”
“Not if I kill myself first,” you muttered.
A bottle flew past your head and exploded against the wall.
Bob clapped again. “Boom!”
It was Bucky’s idea.
You should’ve stopped him. Should’ve tackled him when he opened his mouth and said the now-infamous words: “Okay, who’s hungry?”
Because the second those words left his lips, all five children lost their collective baby minds.
“ME!!” Alexei screamed, punching the air like someone had offered him a fight instead of food.
“Ava hungee!!” Ava shrieked, arms flailing as she levitated a fork from across the room and nearly impaled a couch cushion.
“I wan’ 'ghetti!” Yelena shouted, her voice dangerously close to demonic pitch.
“I wan’ chikkie!” Walker sobbed, still under the couch but apparently motivated enough by processed meat to join the living.
And Bob—precious, sweet Bob, who had been clinging to your side like a sleepy koala—perked up with a sleepy little smile and said, “Nuggy time?”
Bucky looked at you.
You looked at him.
The kitchen door creaked open like the gates of hell.
You set Bob down in his little booster seat at the table and conjured another chair with magic for Yelena, who was already trying to climb onto the counter with one leg and no pants. Bucky was wrestling Walker out from under the couch with one arm while using the other to hold a frozen bag of peas to his forehead. Alexei kept yelling “HUNGEY HUNGEY HUNGEY” while trying to crawl into the fridge.
“Ava,” you said sharply, ducking as a spoon whizzed past your face, “you levitate one more utensil and I will enchant your applesauce to taste like toenails.”
She froze mid-levitate. The spoon dropped.
“Tha’ gross,” she muttered, pouting.
You started plating like your life depended on it—because it did. Bucky had dumped three boxes of frozen chicken nuggets onto a tray and tossed it in the oven while you used your powers to conjure fruit, toast, mini pancakes, and six bowls of mac and cheese.
Alexei was already trying to eat his with his hands.
“No hands! Use fork!” you said, guiding his chubby little fingers toward the utensil.
“Nooooo,” he whined, stuffing noodles into his mouth and onto his forehead. “Me big boy!!”
“Okay, big boy,” Bucky muttered, putting a juice box in front of him. “Try not to stab your brother with that straw.”
Yelena grabbed her plate, glared at her peas, and yeeted them over her shoulder like a war crime. “I wan’ 'ghetti!”
“I told you there’s no spaghetti!” you snapped, catching Bob’s juice before it spilled.
“I WAN’ SPAGHETTI!!” she screeched, slapping the table. Ava screamed in solidarity.
Walker had fallen asleep in his plate of chicken nuggets.
Bob, on the other hand, was being perfect. Bob ate slowly. Neatly. Like the tiny polite prince he was. He chewed each bite thoughtfully, his little feet swinging under the chair, hands slightly sticky but contained.
You wiped his mouth gently and smiled at him.
“Good boy,” you murmured.
“I eat good?” he asked.
“The best,” you whispered.
Then he knocked over his cup of juice with the most gentle swipe of his hand and looked genuinely surprised.
“Oopsie.”
“Of course,” you muttered.
Across the table, Bucky looked done. His hair was a mess. His shirt had a banana smear across the front. He was trying to convince Yelena to sit back down without losing a finger. His soul had left the building.
You handed him a fork with quiet pity.
“Welcome to the dark side,” you said, deadpan.
“I fought a Nazi assassin on a train once,” he muttered. “This is worse.”
Bucky's Side: The Boys’ Bath
Bucky Barnes had survived snipers, bombs, interdimensional threats, and the slow emotional death of Avengers press tours. But none of that—none of it—had prepared him for giving a bath to three superpowered toddlers in a room tiled like a war zone and soaked like a rainstorm.
“Okay,” he muttered to himself as he set the baby shampoo on the edge of the tub, sleeves rolled up and damp already. “We go in fast. No hesitation. No fear.”
He looked down into the tub where Bob, Alexei, and Walker sat, naked, slippery, and foaming.
Bob was the only one sitting still. Bucky could kiss him for that. The kid blinked up at him with big eyes, cheeks rosy from the warmth, clutching a rubber duck like it was sacred.
Walker was chewing on a loofah like it owed him money.
Alexei was trying to stand.
“NOPE,” Bucky barked, yanking him back down just as the kid tried to launch himself out of the tub like a glittery torpedo. “Sit. You’re wet, not aerodynamic.”
“But I fly!” Alexei squealed, giggling.
“You fly after you graduate potty training,” Bucky muttered.
Walker let out a yell and splashed so hard the shampoo bottle went flying. Bob blinked, looked down at his duck, then slowly and methodically bit its head.
Bucky was soaked from the waist down. He grabbed a cup, filled it with warm water, and tried to rinse Alexei’s hair while the kid twisted like an eel.
“You’re getting shampooed whether you like it or not, buddy.”
Alexei screeched in mock betrayal. “BUKY BAD!!!”
Bucky froze. “You—what did you just call me?”
“BUKY BAD MAN!”
Bob gasped. “No! Buky nice! Buky gib nuggies!”
“Damn right I did,” Bucky muttered, pressing a washcloth to his own soaked face. “I earned your loyalty, Bob.”
Walker dunked himself under water without warning and popped back up sputtering, spitting suds and yelling “I’M 'MURICA!!”
Bucky genuinely considered walking out and joining a monastery.
Your Side: The Girls’ Bath
In the other bathroom—smaller, quieter, but somehow more dangerous—you knelt by the edge of a clawfoot tub with Yelena and Ava seated like tiny empresses in a mountain of enchanted bubbles.
You had already reinforced the walls with a low-level barrier charm.
For safety.
For sanity.
“Okay, let’s keep hands to ourselves,” you said, gently running your fingers through Ava’s hair. “No throwing the soap this time.”
“She startit,” Ava muttered, pouting as you combed conditioner through her curls.
“I no!” Yelena snapped, slapping bubbles like she was interrogating them. “She touch me face!”
“You touched mine!” Ava shot back.
“Okay—enough,” you said firmly, placing a floating duck between them like a peace treaty. “Duck is neutral. You hurt the duck, you answer to me.”
Ava nodded solemnly. Yelena squinted like she was planning treason.
You conjured warm water and let it rinse gently over Ava’s head. She relaxed a little, eyes fluttering shut.
Yelena took the moment of distraction to summon a bubble the size of a basketball and smack it into her sister’s face.
Ava screamed. You caught her before she could retaliate with a water whip spell.
“Yelena!” you warned. “What did I just say?”
She crossed her arms. “Duck say nothing.”
You inhaled sharply. Counted to three. Didn’t hex anyone.
“You are both getting clean if I have to freeze time to do it.”
Ava hiccuped and curled closer to you. “I wan’ braid,” she whispered.
You smiled softly, brushing back her hair. “You got it, sweetheart.”
Yelena huffed. “I wan’ dagger.”
“Absolutely not.”
Back in the hallway…
Two bathroom doors opened at the same time.
You and Bucky stared at each other across the wet tile battlefield. You had Ava on your hip and Yelena wrapped in a towel like a burrito. He had Bob cradled like a baby koala and Alexei wrapped in four towels for containment. Walker was dragging a shampoo bottle by the nozzle like it was a trophy.
“Please tell me yours didn’t pee in the tub,” you said.
“I’ll tell you,” Bucky grunted, “when I find out which of them did.”
It had been your idea.
Beds—five of them—spread out in the Tower’s movie room like a makeshift camp, each one layered with thick comforters, soft pillows, and tiny stuffed animals that had magically appeared during the day when no one was looking. The overhead lights were dimmed, the air warm, and fairy lights—actual glowing enchantments—lined the ceiling, flickering like sleepy stars.
You sat cross-legged in the middle of it all, Bob curled up against your chest, his curly hair still damp from the bath and his thumb tucked halfway into his mouth. You cradled him gently, rubbing slow circles against his back.
The movie ended ten minutes ago. And yet—no one was asleep.
Alexei was bouncing from bed to bed like a caffeinated frog, yelling about monsters and bears and how he could defeat them all. Walker had declared war on the pillows, launching them across the room with toddler-like glee and zero aim. Yelena was spinning in slow circles, singing nonsense in Russian and holding a plastic spoon like a sword.
Ava sat quietly in her own bed, arms around her knees, eyes darting from one loud sibling to the next. She wasn’t scared. But she was overwhelmed. You could see it in the way she clutched her blanket tighter every time someone shouted too loud.
Bucky walked in then, holding three bottles and looking like a man on his final life.
“I bribed them,” he muttered, passing you one for Bob. “If they lay down, they get a story.”
“That’s not a bribe,” you said, adjusting Bob so he could sip. “That’s diplomacy.”
Yelena ran toward him and jumped into his arms without warning. He caught her with a grunt, her little limbs wrapping around him like a koala on caffeine.
“Story now!” she barked, thumping her tiny fist against his chest. “Bucky tell good one.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Bucky tells stories?”
“Only the epic kind,” he said gruffly, settling into the big beanbag chair with Yelena curled up in his lap, eyes wide and bright. “Also I’m her favorite now.”
“Bet,” you said, grinning, and kissed the top of Bob’s head.
Walker flopped onto the floor dramatically and yelled, “I wan’ da dragon story!”
“No, bear story!” Alexei shouted, diving under his blanket.
“C’n we have both?” Bob whispered against your collarbone.
Ava peeked out from her bed, voice so small it was barely a whisper. “I wan’ story, too…”
You smiled softly, opened your arms. “Wanna come here, sweetheart?”
She hesitated… then slowly crawled toward you, tucking herself against your side, her little fingers slipping into yours.
You looked across the sea of blankets and stuffed animals at Bucky.
“Ready, soldier?”
He nodded once. “Once upon a time…”
He told the first half.
A story about a brave little girl with golden hair and a mean left hook, who fought off shadow monsters with a spoon and never once cried—not even when she got lost in the woods. Yelena listened with rapt attention, eyes wide, fingers tangled in the hem of Bucky’s sleeve. Walker shouted every time the monsters showed up. Alexei demanded to know when the explosions started.
You watched him—Bucky, the grumpy, growly man who had once refused to hold a puppy on a mission—and your heart ached at the way he tucked a strand of hair behind Yelena’s ear like it was second nature.
Then it was your turn.
You told them about a little boy with curls like clouds and a laugh like thunder, who had a magic duck and a glowing compass that always pointed toward home. A boy who got scared sometimes, but always did the brave thing anyway. Bob’s eyes drifted shut halfway through, his breathing slow and warm against your chest.
Ava stayed quiet, listening. You glanced down to find her still holding your hand, her head on your arm, eyes fluttering closed.
When you finished, silence wrapped around the room like a blanket.
Alexei had passed out face-first into a stuffed tiger. Walker snored with a fist in the air like he’d fallen asleep mid-battle cry. Yelena’s grip on Bucky had loosened, her face soft and peaceful at last.
You didn’t move. Neither did Bucky.
Just a quiet glance exchanged across a battlefield that—for the first time all day—had gone still. He gave you a small smile.
“Not bad,” he murmured.
“You too,” you whispered. “Girl dad.”
His eyes softened. You reached over with your free hand, touched his arm.
“We’re gonna survive this, right?” you asked.
“…Eventually.”
Morning arrived in golden streaks across the curtains, slow and quiet, like the Tower itself was still rubbing sleep from its eyes. The fairy lights overhead had faded to a soft, amber glow. Someone’s lullaby playlist had stopped playing around 3 a.m., leaving only the gentle hum of the heater and the occasional squeak of a plush toy being rolled on in someone’s sleep.
You weren’t awake yet. Not fully.
Your mind stirred before your body did—floating somewhere between dream and waking, wrapped in heavy warmth and a surprisingly steady rhythm of breath that wasn’t your own. Your fingers twitched. Something shifted against your side.
You blinked. And then you froze.
Because your head? Was not on a pillow. It was on a shoulder.
A broad, warm, flannel-covered shoulder.
And your leg? Draped over someone else’s. There was an arm around your waist.
Your heart leapt into your throat as your gaze tilted up—slowly, hesitantly, horrifiedly—to meet the sleeping face of none other than James Buchanan Barnes.
His head was tilted back, mouth slightly open, hair tousled from sleep, stubble thick across his jaw. One hand rested loosely on your side, metal fingers curled like he’d relaxed into it hours ago.
You screamed internally.
Before you could even react, a chorus of chaotic giggles rang through the room.
“Buki an’ mama cuddlin’!!” Bob squealed from his little bed, hands on his cheeks like this was the most romantic moment of his tiny life.
Yelena howled with laughter, rolling back and forth in her blanket pile.
Walker blinked at you both, frowned, then burst into inexplicable tears.
Ava watched from the corner, covering her mouth with both hands as her shoulders shook in quiet delight.
Bucky jolted awake with a grunt, arm tightening around you instinctively before his eyes flew open.
He blinked. Looked at you. Looked at your leg over his. Looked at the chaos around the room.
“Are you—” he started.
“I am not cuddling you,” you snapped, scrambling away so fast you kicked off your own blanket and nearly face-planted into Bob’s pile of duck plushies.
Bucky sat up like he’d been electrocuted. “I don’t cuddle people!”
“Same!!”
Walker sobbed louder. Alexei sat up out of nowhere, disheveled and somehow holding a bag of dry cereal. “Why mama yellin’?”
“I’M NOT YOUR MOM—”
Bob crawled into your lap mid-scream and patted your face gently. “You ‘n Buki had sleep snugs.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Covered your face with both hands. Bucky groaned and dropped his head against the couch behind him.
“Kill me,” he mumbled.
Yelena threw a pillow at him. “Cuddlerrrr,” she sang.
You peeked at him between your fingers. “You drooled on me.”
He didn’t even deny it. “You kicked me in your sleep.”
Bob gasped. “You kick Buki?!”
“Okay, okay, enough,” you muttered, pulling Bob close, cheeks burning. “Everyone up. Let’s get breakfast before I disintegrate into the floor.”
As the kids scrambled to their feet and chaos began its daily resurrection, you caught Bucky’s eye one more time.
He looked away first. And maybe—just maybe—you missed the warmth.
Just a little.
There were two kinds of mornings in the Tower: the usual half-chaotic shuffle of grown adults trying to act like responsible heroes… and then mornings like this—where five pint-sized mayhem goblins were running on toddler fuel, sticky fingers, and leftover glitter from the bath bubbles.
But today? Today felt… soft.
Warm sunlight poured through the tall windows of the Tower kitchen, casting golden rays across the floor where Bob was sitting cross-legged in his duck pajamas, humming to himself and gently rocking a bottle of syrup like it was a baby. Ava leaned against your leg quietly, watching everything with big eyes. Walker had already knocked over a chair and was using it to climb the counter. Yelena was sharpening crayons for no reason again. And Alexei was running laps around the island chanting “PAN-KAKE! PAN-KAKE!” like it was a war cry.
At the stove stood Bucky Barnes.
Flour on his cheek. Hair tied back in a low bun. Wearing a navy-blue apron that read “Kiss the Cook” (you did not question where he found it). One hand expertly flipping pancakes in a skillet, the other steadying the stack already plated next to him. His face was scrunched in deep, world-ending focus.
You leaned on the counter, arms crossed, watching him work.
“Never thought I’d see the Winter Soldier making bunny-shaped pancakes,” you said with a smirk.
“Never thought I’d be this close to snapping over a missing spatula,” he muttered, flipping one like a pro. “We all grow.”
“You’re… good at this,” you admitted.
He looked up, eyebrows raised. “Did you just compliment me?”
“I’ll deny it the moment you bring it up again.”
Yelena skidded into the room, nearly wiping out, then slammed her fists onto the counter. “Buki!! My pancake has no eyes!!”
Bucky blinked. “What?”
“His face!! No eyes!! You forget eyes!!” she said, holding up a bunny pancake like it had been personally insulted.
You stepped in before Bucky short-circuited. “Let’s get some blueberries, yeah? Pancake eyes, coming right up.”
Bob clapped gently from the floor. “Buki is pancake man…”
Bucky exhaled, set another perfect circle on the stack, then crouched to look Bob in the eye.
“I am pancake man,” he said seriously. “Fear me.”
Bob giggled so hard he fell sideways into your leg.
Ava tugged on your shirt. “Can I have butter on mine?”
You scooped her up effortlessly, resting her on your hip. “Butter, syrup, and maybe a little whipped cream if we’re feeling wild.”
Walker climbed onto a stool with absolutely zero grace and yelled, “I WAN’ TOWER PAN-KAKE!!”
Alexei crashed into him. “NO! I WAN’ TOWER PAN-KAKE!!”
“Okay, okay—one Tower Stack coming up,” you said, motioning to Bucky.
He saluted with the spatula like it was a mission. “Ten-layer pancake incoming.”
Within minutes, plates were passed, juice was poured (carefully), and the kitchen fell into that rarest of states: peaceful chewing. You sat with Bob on your lap, Ava pressed against your side, watching them eat like it was a feast fit for baby kings and queens. Walker had syrup in his eyebrows. Yelena had somehow acquired a second fork. Alexei was stacking mini pancake pieces into what looked like a tank.
Bucky sat across from you, sipping coffee like a man who’d seen war and made peace with it.
You caught his eye.
And for one long, quiet second—you smiled at each other.
Like, really smiled.
Then Alexei sneezed into the syrup and Yelena started sword-fighting with forks and Bob whispered, “I love you, pan-kake…” and the moment passed.
But it happened.
And it was enough.
The world, for once, had gone gentle.
No glitter explosions. No screaming for pancakes. No enchanted utensils flying across the room. Just the soft murmur of little voices—Ava humming to herself in the corner as she scribbled stars with a blue crayon, Alexei grunting in concentration as he stacked blocks that kept collapsing, Yelena hissing at Walker because he tried to eat her bear—and beneath it all, the quiet, steady rhythm of Bob breathing against your chest.
He was out cold.
His curls were damp from the bath, cheeks flushed a sleepy rose. One of his hands was balled into your shirt like he thought you might disappear. The other was loosely gripping the tail of his beloved duck plush, already halfway down your lap.
You didn’t dare move.
Bucky was sitting beside you on the couch, arms resting on his thighs, head tilted just enough to watch Bob sleep without looking like he meant to. His metal fingers tapped once against his knee before going still again.
The Tower had never felt this quiet. Not even when it was empty.
You shifted slightly to get comfortable and winced when Bob stirred, letting out a soft baby sigh and curling closer to your heartbeat.
“Sorry,” you whispered, brushing a hand over his hair.
Bucky’s voice was low, just above a murmur. “He’s really out, huh?”
“Long day,” you said, glancing at the chaos still moving across the carpet. “They wore each other out.”
“They wore us out.”
You smiled, leaning back slightly, careful not to wake the sleeping warmth curled against you. “I’m starting to think we’re the ones being trained.”
Bucky huffed a soft laugh. It wasn’t sarcastic this time. It wasn’t bitter. Just... tired. Soft.
You looked over at him.
His eyes were still on Bob.
“You’re good with them,” you said before you could stop yourself.
He blinked. Turned his head slowly, like the compliment confused him.
“You think?”
“I know.” You shifted your gaze back down to Bob. “You made pancakes for six people before sunrise. That’s not ‘good,’ Barnes. That’s heroic.”
He smiled. A real one. Small. Hidden in the corner of his mouth. But there.
For a while, you sat in silence.
Ava brought you a drawing. She didn’t say anything, just placed it gently on your lap before scurrying away. It was a crayon portrait—lopsided and sweet. A stick figure with curly hair holding a tiny blue duck, another with a big metal arm. Both surrounded by stars.
Bucky glanced over your shoulder at it. “Is that supposed to be you and me?”
You nodded. “Apparently.”
He leaned closer, just for a second. Just long enough that your shoulders brushed.
Then—
Bob let out a long, dramatic sigh in his sleep, and you both froze.
“Don’t you dare wake him,” you whispered.
Bucky held up both hands, eyes wide. “I didn’t do anything—”
“You thought too loud.”
“Okay, that’s not a real thing—”
Bob stirred again.
You glared.
Bucky shut his mouth.
And for the next ten minutes, you just sat like that. Side by side. Breathing. Watching. Holding the soft, heavy weight of a sleeping child and somehow, maybe for the first time in a long time, not feeling like the world was on fire.
Just tired.
Just... home.
It happened fast.
One moment, you were sitting on the couch with Bob in your arms and a blanket over your knees, sipping tea while Yelena braided Ava’s hair and Alexei tried to convince Walker that glue was edible. The next, your comm buzzed to life—emergency alert, priority red. No time to argue. No time to prep. Just a look exchanged with Bucky and a whispered, “It’s quick, I promise.”
Bob had started to whimper the second you stood up.
Ava froze halfway through her braid.
“Mama?” she asked, barely audible.
“Just one hour, baby,” you whispered, brushing her cheek. “Be good for Bucky, okay?”
But Bob was already clinging to your shirt. “Nooo gooo,” he whined, voice cracking. “Stayyy here, mamaaa…”
You kissed the top of his head and passed him gently to Bucky, who caught him like someone handling fragile glass.
“I’ll be right back.”
And then you were gone.
The door shut.
The elevator hummed.
The silence cracked.
And five seconds later, all hell broke loose.
Bob began to sob, small hiccupy gasps as he buried his face in Bucky’s chest. Ava’s eyes welled up, and she clutched Yelena’s arm like she might disappear too. Alexei stomped his feet, yelling “NO FAIR!” over and over again like it was a battle cry. Walker threw himself backward onto the carpet and began to scream—not words, just primal, chaotic sadness.
Bucky stood frozen in the middle of it all, holding one trembling, snotty, heartbroken child and looking like he’d just been dropped into battle with no weapons.
“Okay, okay, hey,” he said, trying to bounce Bob gently while his metal arm rubbed slow, awkward circles on the boy’s back. “It’s fine. She’s coming back. You heard her. Just one hour.”
“Mama gone,” Bob whispered against his neck.
“No, no—she’s not gone, she’s just… busy.”
“GONNNNEEEEE,” Alexei wailed from the corner, throwing a block with the force of a javelin.
Yelena’s bottom lip quivered. “Mama always go ‘way,” she said, her tiny voice accusing. “We no want you.”
That one hit harder than Bucky wanted to admit.
He sank down onto the floor, Bob still attached to his chest, and reached his free arm out toward the girls.
“Yeah, I know,” he muttered, eyes softening. “I’m not her. But I’m here. And I’m trying, okay? So… help me out, would ya?”
Ava came first—quiet, hesitant, sitting at his side but not touching. Then Yelena crawled into his lap, curling against his arm with a dramatic huff. Bob had gone quiet now, his face red and puffy, but his breathing slower.
Walker was still howling into the void.
“Kid,” Bucky called. “You good?”
A loud sniffle.
“…No.”
“Fair.”
Alexei marched over and kicked Bucky in the shin.
“OW—what was that for?!”
“You not mama.”
Bucky looked at the four of them—messy, snot-covered, half-dressed, grieving the sudden loss of the woman who had somehow become their whole world.
“I know I’m not mama,” he said softly. “But she trusted me to take care of you. So let’s just… wait together, yeah?”
Walker sniffed again, then crawled up into his lap without asking. Ava rested her cheek on his knee. Yelena reached up and patted his chin like it made her feel better.
And Bob—little Bob—looked up with tear-glassy eyes and whispered, “You stay ‘til she come back?”
Bucky blinked.
Nodded.
“Yeah, buddy. I’m not going anywhere.”
Bucky had never been afraid of noise. Not really. Explosions, screams, the static hiss of war and metal and memory—it was all part of the rhythm he’d learned to move through like a shadow. But this kind of noise? This relentless, high-pitched, emotionally unstable cacophony? This was not battle. This was something far more dangerous.
This was five grieving toddlers, left in the temporary care of a man whose entire emotional toolkit could fit inside a shot glass.
It was only thirty minutes since you left, but it felt like years.
The living room looked like a battlefield. Yelena had overturned the toy chest and was now guarding it like a dragon with a hoard. Bob had cried so hard he’d vomited, then fallen asleep for ten minutes before waking up even more upset. Walker had locked himself in the hallway closet and was screaming about “being brave alone,” and Alexei had somehow shattered one of the tower’s unbreakable vases and was now spinning in slow, guilty circles whispering “uh-oh” like a broken record.
Ava hadn’t spoken in twenty-five minutes. She sat curled up in the corner with a blanket over her head like she was trying to disappear.
Bucky was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, legs sprawled out in front of him as he cradled Bob again—too tightly maybe, too unsure. He was sweating. His hair clung to his temple. His vibranium hand was trembling.
He didn’t know what to do.
He wanted to fix it, but he wasn’t you.
“You not mama,” Yelena had said earlier, and that truth had landed like a knife under the ribs.
He was not you.
And he could feel that fact with every scream, every whimper, every pair of tear-streaked cheeks that looked past him like they were waiting for someone else. Someone better. Someone that made the monsters under the bed go quiet with just a smile.
“Come on, buddy,” he murmured to Bob, who was sobbing again, clutching at Bucky’s flannel shirt with his tiny fists. “I know, I know—she’ll be back soon. Just... breathe, okay?”
But Bob just cried harder. And Bucky cracked. His head dropped to the wall behind him, eyes squeezing shut. His voice was ragged. “I don’t know what to do.”
He didn’t even know who he was talking to. Maybe the ceiling. Maybe the kid in his arms. Maybe you—if the universe had any mercy left in it.
Then the elevator dinged. And everything stopped.
Bob hiccuped. Alexei froze mid-spin. Even Yelena looked up from her pillow fortress like a wild animal catching the scent of home.
And then the doors slid open. You stepped out, windswept and tired, blood on your collar and soot in your hair—but whole, alive, there.
Bob screamed first. “MAMA!!”
And the floodgates burst. He scrambled out of Bucky’s arms like he’d just been released from prison and flung himself into your legs. Yelena was next, then Ava—silent tears this time, clutching your waist. Walker emerged from the closet and ran like he hadn’t been screaming betrayal five seconds ago. Alexei just collapsed in the hallway and sobbed into your ankle.
You dropped to your knees, arms wide, heart splitting in a million soft pieces.
“I’m here, babies, I’m here—I’m so sorry, I’m here.”
They piled onto you. Limbs, snot, sniffles, joy, heartbreak. Bob climbed up into your lap and tucked his face into your neck like he’d been underwater and could finally breathe again.
You held them all. Every single one. Then your eyes flicked up.
And found Bucky still on the floor, frozen in place, his chest heaving, eyes rimmed red. You stood slowly, carefully shifting Bob onto one hip and brushing Yelena’s curls back as you walked toward him.
You crouched. “Buck,” you said softly, your hand brushing his knee.
He didn’t look up. “I couldn’t calm him down. Any of them. I tried—I tried everything. And they just kept asking for you. Because I’m not you.”
His voice cracked, rough and low, choked by something that was too big to name. You took his hand—his metal one, the one that trembled—and pressed it gently into Bob’s back.
“Yeah,” you said. “You’re not me.”
His jaw clenched. “But they still love you.” He looked up then—really looked—and something in him broke.
Bob leaned forward sleepily, still sniffling, and pressed his little hand to Bucky’s cheek.
“Buki no cry,” he whispered, eyes half-lidded. “You ‘kay now. Mama here.”
And in that moment—cluttered, sticky, messy, real—Bucky exhaled. And maybe, just maybe, let go.
It started with a toy hammer. Of course it did.
You were in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, humming while cutting strawberries and pretending like your home hadn’t been taken over by an elite squad of emotionally volatile toddlers. It was unusually quiet for a few minutes—too quiet—and you should’ve known something was brewing. Something diabolical.
From the living room: a sudden shriek.
“IT’S MINE!!” Yelena bellowed, her tiny hands gripping a plastic, glittery hammer like it was Mjölnir itself.
“No it’s NOT!” Walker snapped, eyes blazing as he tugged on the other end. “You had it all day!!”
“YOU TOUCH, YOU DIE!” Yelena shrieked.
“YOU’RE NOT MY MOM!!”
Alexei appeared from behind the couch, eyes wide. “FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!” he chanted like a sports commentator.
Ava sat in the corner looking deeply stressed, clutching her stuffed cat to her chest. Bob was on the beanbag, crying—not because he was hurt, but because someone sat on the red one before he did, and that was apparently a federal offense in toddler law.
Bucky stood in the hallway holding a juice box, watching the chaos unfold like he was witnessing a small civil war.
And then? The hammer snapped in half. Silence.
Walker and Yelena froze, each holding a glitter-smeared piece of plastic, stunned by the consequences of their rage. Bob’s crying reached a new octave. Alexei gasped. Ava covered her eyes.
“...Uh oh,” Walker whispered.
And that’s when Bucky stepped in.
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t throw the juice box.
He just walked—slow, calm, terrifying like a thundercloud rolling in—and crouched between the warring parties, looking each child dead in the eye like they were dangerous operatives.
“Do you know what I see right now?” he asked, voice low and steady.
Yelena crossed her arms, pouting. “A winner?”
Walker squinted. “A loser?”
Bob hiccuped from the beanbag. “...Daddy mad.”
Bucky raised one brow. “I see five very lucky little gremlins who are this close—” he held up two fingers, almost touching “—to spending the rest of the day in separate corners with NO pancakes tomorrow.”
Everyone gasped.
Ava let out a horrified whisper. “No pan-kakes?”
Bucky nodded, solemn. “Not even one blueberry.”
Alexei collapsed in the background. “Nooo… my soul…”
Walker dropped the broken hammer like it burned him. “I—I didn’t mean to!!”
“She broke it!!” Yelena yelled, pointing with all the fury of a betrayed Spartan.
“You both broke it,” Bucky snapped. “And you both need to fix it. Not with glue. With apologies.”
The room was dead quiet.
Then Bob sniffled. “Can I have the red seat now?”
Bucky turned slowly. “Bob. Do you want the red seat, or the high ground?”
Bob blinked. “...Both?”
“Reasonable,” Bucky muttered.
You peeked in from the kitchen, hands still full of strawberries. “What happened—?”
“Communism,” Bucky replied flatly. “They all think the hammer belongs to them.”
You blinked. “So… Yelena and Walker fought?”
“No. They trained for war.”
Yelena shuffled forward, face pink. “Sorry I yelled. I guess we can… share?”
Walker nodded. “Yeah. Sorry I sat on the red chair.”
Bob perked up. “You said it. Now get up.”
“BOB—”
“Okay,” Bucky sighed, rubbing his temples. “That’s it. We’re instituting the Rotation Chart. Everyone gets the red seat for ten minutes. Timer’s on the table. Touch it before it dings, I swear to God—”
“Will we die?” Alexei whispered.
Bucky didn’t answer. Just glared.
You laughed from the kitchen. “Papa Barnes strikes again.”
And somehow, just like that, the living room began to settle. The hammer got placed in the “fix-it” bin. The red seat rotated. Pancakes were saved.
And Bucky? He finally took a seat.
One long breath in. One sip of juice box out.
The day had been long—block tower disasters, spilled juice, at least one suspicious crayon eaten. But night brought a softness to the tower. The overhead lights were dimmed to a warm golden glow, the air was cool with a hint of lavender from someone’s diffuser (Ava, probably), and every tiny toddler was wrapped in soft pajamas like miniature plush marshmallows.
“Okay, Bob,” you said as you handed him the toy DJ keyboard that lit up and made questionably high-energy noises. “You’re on aux.”
Bob’s face lit up like he’d just been handed the nuclear launch codes. He settled in the center of the living room, pressed a few random buttons, and the air was suddenly filled with electronic bubble pop sounds and a woman’s voice yelling, “LET GO LITTLE FRIENDS!”
“YESSS!” Yelena screamed, launching herself into a spin with arms wide, her pajama top flying up over her belly.
Ava did a tiny, shy shimmy in the corner, holding her stuffed cat like a dance partner. Walker was stomping in place like a Viking toddler at a rave, and Alexei? Alexei was doing the worm. Badly. Repeatedly. On the hardwood floor.
Bucky was standing frozen in the doorway.
“Are they… raving?”
“They’re expressing joy through movement,” you said, grinning as you flicked on the glow sticks you’d snuck out earlier. “Come on, Barnes. Don’t make me outdance you.”
“Challenge accepted.”
He stepped forward, took two glow sticks from your hand, cracked them open, and tucked them into his flannel pajama waistband like makeshift swords. And then—dead serious—he moonwalked.
The babies lost their minds.
“GO BUKI!!” Bob yelled, bashing buttons on his keyboard. “GOOOO!!”
“WOOOOOO!” Yelena howled, grabbing Ava and dragging her into a spinning circle of giggles.
Alexei jumped onto the couch. “I IS DJ NOW!!” he yelled and immediately fell off the other side.
You snorted so hard you nearly choked, one hand over your mouth as you joined them all on the floor, wiggling in place with Bob clinging to your back like a sloth.
Bucky twirled past you—twirled, boss—and pointed. “We need strobe lights.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You’re turning into a party dad.”
He didn’t deny it. Just grabbed Yelena by the hands and started hopping in a circle with her while she screamed-laughed. Ava danced near your feet, swaying her cat gently. Bob tapped your shoulder and whispered, “Mama… dance is love.”
You scooped him into your arms. “Yes it is, baby.”
Ten minutes in, Walker collapsed mid-wiggle, gasping. “I… need… juice box…”
Alexei fell asleep on the floor with a glow stick in each hand like he was guarding the gates of Baby Valhalla.
Yelena was lying on Bucky’s chest now, curled in a sleepy tangle, eyes half-lidded.
You looked around at the mess of glowing sticks, soft music still playing, and the warm weight of Bob in your arms.
Bucky caught your gaze. He smiled.
“You think they’ll remember this?” you asked quietly.
He tilted his head, thoughtful. “Maybe not the details. But the feeling? Yeah. I hope so.”
You nodded, brushing a strand of hair from Bob’s forehead as he yawned, melting against you.
“Dance is love,” you murmured.
Bucky’s voice was soft. “And so is this.”
The tower was quiet in that strange, heavy way—where the silence didn’t feel peaceful, but like the universe was holding its breath.
You were sitting on the edge of the playroom couch, a blanket draped across your lap, Bob nestled into your side. He was chewing on the tail of his stuffed duck, eyelids fluttering, but still awake. He didn’t know. None of them did. Not yet.
The letter from Val sat on the table in front of you, its contents burned into your brain:
Formula ready. Reversal confirmed. Administer at 0700. Side effects minimal. Memory retention = 0%.
You’d read it three times. Bucky had read it once, muttered something like “goddammit,” and walked off to fix Bob’s broken toy spaceship in the kitchen with shaking hands.
Now he was standing by the window, arms crossed over his chest, staring out like the skyline held answers it had no right to give.
“They won’t remember us,” you said quietly, voice barely above a whisper.
Bucky didn’t turn. “Yeah.”
“Not the dance parties. Not the pancakes. Not the bath times. Not…” Your voice caught, your eyes stinging. “Not the way Bob says ‘Mama’ like it means everything.”
His jaw flexed.
You glanced down at the boy curled into your side—his lashes long and fluttering, his fingers still gripped around the stuffed duck he insisted on bringing to every room. His chest rose and fell in that slow toddler rhythm, trusting the world around him to stay the same.
He’d woken up this morning and called Bucky Dada.
It hadn’t been a game. It hadn’t been a joke. He’d said it with a sleepy little smile and a stretch of his arms and then asked, “Where Mama go?”
Bucky had frozen. You had blinked. And the whole damn day had folded in on itself like a house of cards hit by wind.
“We knew it wouldn’t last,” Bucky finally said. His voice was tight. Rough. “They’re not really ours.”
“No,” you said. “But… they were. For a little while.”
He looked over his shoulder at you.
Not annoyed. Not detached. Just… broken.
And that’s what undid you.
You pressed your hand to Bob’s back, smoothing his hair. You could feel the tears coming, building behind your eyes, hot and heavy and helpless. “We have one night,” you whispered. “One more night before they forget.”
Bucky crossed the room in slow, quiet steps. He sat beside you, his arms resting on his knees, staring down at Bob like he was memorizing the curve of his cheek, the soft puff of his breath, the innocence they’d both been lucky enough to protect.
“They saved us, too,” Bucky said suddenly. His voice was faraway. “Didn’t they?”
You nodded. “More than they’ll ever know.”
A beat of silence. Then a small voice piped up.
“Mama?”
You blinked, looking down as Bob blinked blearily, his tiny fingers reaching for your sleeve. You caught them in yours.
“I’m here, baby.”
He yawned. “Why you cryin’?”
You smiled through it. “I’m just… gonna miss something.”
He nodded sleepily like he understood, though you knew he couldn’t possibly. “Can I sleep wif you ‘n Dada?”
Bucky made a noise in his throat that might’ve been a laugh—or a sob—and scooped the boy gently into his arms. Bob curled against him like he always belonged there.
You stood slowly and followed them out of the playroom, down the quiet hall, past the nursery that was still strung up with glow sticks from last night’s dance party. One of them was still faintly glowing.
When you reached your room, you pulled back the covers and let Bob crawl into the middle, where he immediately sprawled out like a starfish. His duck tucked under one arm. His other hand found Bucky’s and held on tight. You climbed in beside them.
Bucky didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His arm wrapped around you both, pulling you in close, holding like he might break apart if he let go. You stared at the ceiling for a long, long time, wondering if tomorrow would feel like grief or just a different kind of empty.
Would they wake up scared in grown-up bodies? Would they blink and not know you? Would Bob look at Bucky and call him Mr. Barnes with that stupid sarcastic smirk again?
Would Yelena roll her eyes and call you dramatic instead of curling into your side during movies?
Would Walker complain about rules instead of juice?
Would Alexei stop begging you to help him build his block fortress?
Would Ava forget the way she tucked her tiny hand into yours, without ever saying a word?
Would they all forget how it felt to be this loved?
Would you?
You didn’t sleep much that night. But you held Bob. And Bucky held you. And for one last night… they were yours.
Morning came too fast.
The sunlight spilling through the windows felt wrong, like it had no right to be soft and warm when the weight in your chest was made of stone. You’d barely slept. Bucky hadn’t either. His arm was still around you when the tower lights began to flicker on. Bob was still curled between you both, his tiny fingers locked in the fabric of Bucky’s shirt like if he let go, he’d float away.
You stayed that way longer than you should have.
But eventually… it was time.
The babies were quiet during breakfast. No giggles, no complaints, no pancake-related crimes. Ava clutched her juice cup with both hands and didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Yelena picked at her food with her fork upside down. Walker was practically vibrating in his seat, and Alexei had uncharacteristically asked, “Why today feel weird?”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Bucky was silent beside you, eyes distant, jaw set. Then the door opened. Val.
Black suit. Tablet in hand. Gaze a little softer than usual. “Are they ready?” she asked.
No.
They weren’t. You weren’t. But this wasn’t about you. So you nodded.
The walk to the lab was slow. You carried Ava and held Bob’s hand. Bucky had Yelena on his hip and Walker clinging to his sleeve. Alexei walked between you, unusually quiet, dragging a teddy bear across the floor.
The lab was too bright. Too clean. Too final. The table was prepped. Six tiny syringes. Labeled. Ready.
“Once administered,” Val explained gently, “they’ll begin to age in accelerated time. Physically, they’ll be back to normal in under ten minutes. Mentally… it’ll be as if this week never happened.”
Bob’s grip tightened in your hand.
You crouched beside him, brushing his curls back, whispering, “It’s okay, baby. We’ll be right here the whole time.”
He blinked up at you. His bottom lip trembled. “But… but I don’t wanna be big.”
You froze. His voice was so small, so certain. You glanced at Bucky, whose whole body had gone rigid.
“I wanna stay,” Bob said, tears welling in his eyes. “I wanna stay wif you an’ Dada. We had pancakes. I like pancakes. I like dancin’. I like... cuddles.” His voice cracked. “I don’t wanna f'get…”
Oh God. You pulled him into your arms, sinking to your knees as he sobbed into your neck. “I’m sorry, baby. I know. I know…”
Bucky was beside you in an instant, kneeling, wrapping both of you in his arms.
Bob reached for him blindly, sobbing, “Don’t wanna lose you!”
And then Ava started to cry. And Yelena, from Bucky’s side, shouted, “No! We stay! We live here now!!”
“NO MORE GROWIN’,” Walker declared dramatically.
Val blinked. “Okay, I didn’t plan for this level of resistance—”
Alexei had thrown himself on the floor. “I will die like this!! In pajamas!!!”
It was chaos. Beautiful, heartbreaking chaos. And in the middle of it, you looked at Bucky.
His eyes were red. His hand was shaking as he touched Bob’s curls.
“Can’t we keep them?” he whispered, not to Val. Not even to you. Just to the world. “Just a little longer.”
You swallowed hard, brushing a tear from your cheek. “If we do… if we wait… they’ll remember this.”
He nodded slowly.
“And if we don’t…” you couldn’t finish the sentence. You didn’t have to.
Val sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “We can delay. A few days. Maybe a week. But after that, the effects might… compound.”
You looked at your babies—all five of them. Crying, clinging, choosing love over logic.
And for now? That was enough. You kissed Bob’s forehead.
“Okay,” you whispered. “One more week.”
The van ride to the lakehouse should have been peaceful.
It was not.
Between the trail mix fight (Walker dumped raisins in Bob’s hair and called it “war”), Yelena screaming every time they passed a cow (“THAT ONE LOOKED AT ME WEIRD!”), and Alexei singing a cursed remix of Baby Shark at top volume, you and Bucky were already on the brink by the time you hit the dirt road.
Ava was the only one quiet—head pressed to the window, blinking up at the trees like they were whispering secrets just to her. You’d reached back from the passenger seat to gently rub her knee, and she’d leaned into your touch like a sleepy cat.
Bob had insisted on sitting beside Bucky, who was driving with the patience of a monk and the dead eyes of a man on his fifteenth round of “Are we there yet?”
“We live in New York,” he muttered under his breath. “Why did we think a six-hour road trip with five toddlers was a good idea again?”
You grinned, exhaustion tucked into the corners of your eyes. “Because we’re masochists who cry over bath time hugs.”
He side-eyed you. “Shut up.”
But when Bob giggled from the backseat and whispered, “Dada say bad word,” Bucky smirked and gave your hand a gentle squeeze on the console.
And then you pulled up to the lakehouse.
The second the van doors opened, chaos spilled out like confetti.
“WOAHHHH,” Alexei screamed, racing toward the dock like it personally offended him. “WE GOTS A RIVER???”
“It’s a lake,” you corrected.
He immediately tried to bellyflop into it. Bucky caught him mid-air like a linebacker.
Yelena ran around the yard in circles screaming “MINE MINE MINE” and refusing to explain what she was claiming. Ava curled into the porch swing, sighing like she’d lived a thousand lifetimes. Walker immediately made a sword out of a stick and challenged a tree to a duel.
And Bob? Bob tugged on your shirt and whispered, “Mama… can we live here forever?”
You crouched, brushing his curls back. “We’ve got a week, baby. We’ll make it feel like forever.”
Inside, the lakehouse was still just as Tony left it—warm wood floors, sunlight pouring through the windows, faint memories still caught in the walls. You caught your breath in the kitchen for a moment, fingers brushing over an old photograph on the fridge. Tony, grinning, sunglasses crooked. Your heart twinged.
“Hey,” Bucky said quietly, leaning beside you. “You okay?”
You nodded, blinking fast. “Yeah. Just… feels like he should be here, y’know?”
“He’d like this,” Bucky murmured. “You. The chaos. The kids. The secondhand glitter on your face.”
You snorted, wiping a tear. “Shut up.”
He didn’t. Just leaned in, bumped your shoulder, and whispered, “Let’s give them the best week of their tiny little lives.”
And oh, Lord—you did.
The next days were pure, chaotic magic. You built pillow forts the size of small kingdoms. You baked cupcakes that looked like disaster but tasted like heaven. Ava finally spoke—not a whisper, but a full, soft sentence: “This place feels happy.” You almost cried on the spot.
Yelena learned how to skip rocks and declared herself Queen of the Shore. Walker tried to fish using only his hands. Alexei built a “campfire” out of leaves and made everyone sit around it and “share our truths.”
Bob? Bob followed you everywhere. His tiny feet slapping against the wooden floors, his voice calling “Mama!” a hundred times a day, his laughter echoing into the trees. He slept in your arms every night, curled up like a song.
And Bucky… God. Bucky was the glue. He held them when they cried. He played rough and gentle in equal measure. He let Yelena paint his face, wore a flower crown Alexei made him, and whispered stories to Bob until the boy drifted off mid-giggle.
Every night, after the kids were asleep, you and Bucky would sit on the dock—bare feet in the water, shoulders pressed together—and watch the stars.
“You ever think about…” you’d start, but never finish.
“Yeah,” he always said anyway.
The last night came too fast. Bob climbed into your lap as the sun set pink across the lake. His head tucked under your chin, his little fingers clutching your shirt.
“Tomorrow?” he whispered.
You swallowed. “Yeah, baby.”
His voice shook. “Will I still love you? When I’m big?”
You didn’t answer right away. You just hugged him tighter. Let the tears fall into his hair.
And whispered, “I think so, sweetheart. I think some love is too big to forget.”
The sun was setting slow and syrupy, pouring golden light across the lake like it was trying to hold the day in place. Everything felt slower that evening. Softer. Like even time was taking careful steps.
You had your arms wrapped around a wriggling Alexei, trying to wrestle a jelly stain off his cheek while Yelena screamed, “I get to wear the crown! I am photogenic!”
“YOU MEAN PHOTOGENIUS,” Walker bellowed, slipping on the porch stairs because his socks were too long.
Ava was sitting cross-legged in the grass, gently placing wildflowers into Bob’s curls as he sat still and proud, whispering, “Make me pretty, like Mama.”
You pressed your lips together against the wave of emotion rising in your throat. Bucky was fiddling with the camera stand, grumbling under his breath like an old man in the body of a reluctant dad. “Where’s the damn timer button—why is this blinking red? I swear to God, if this deletes everything—”
“You good, tech support?” you teased gently, coming up beside him.
He looked up at you, squinting against the orange glow. “Do I look like Stark?”
“No. You’re taller and moodier.”
He snorted. “And apparently the father of five gremlins.”
You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. You knew what this was. You both did. One last photo. One last chance to catch the moment before it slipped through your fingers.
“Okay, munchkins!” you called out, rallying the crew. “Group picture time!”
“Group hug!” Alexei screamed.
“Group MURDER!” Yelena added, because she was feral and unstoppable.
“No one is dying in this photo!” Bucky barked.
You gathered them all onto the porch steps. Yelena on Bucky’s shoulders, Ava tucked under your arm, Bob standing between you with both your hands in his, Walker doing finger guns, and Alexei holding up a stick like it was a championship trophy.
Bucky set the timer, sprinted back, and scooped Bob up into his arms right as the camera clicked.
Snap.
The light froze all of it.
Messy curls, painted fingernails, pajama pants with little ducks on them. You. Bucky. Five little lives tucked into the safety of your arms. And behind you, the lake—still and golden—like it, too, was trying to hold on.
“WE ARE A FAMILY,” Bob declared afterward, clutching the photo print like it was sacred.
“You got jelly on it already,” Ava said quietly, but didn’t take it away.
And then came the part you hadn’t prepared for.
Bob’s tiny voice, lifting up with hope too big for his little lungs. “Mama? Papa? Can we dance now?”
You blinked. “W-what?”
“Dance!” Alexei shouted. “Like you do when you think we sleep!”
Yelena gasped. “I KNEW IT! I saw Mama spin!”
Ava whispered, “I saw Papa smile.”
“PLEASE?” Bob begged, holding your hand like it was the only anchor he had. “One more? One more dance?”
You looked at Bucky. He looked at you. And both of you—still holding hands from the photo—felt your chests squeeze with something too big to name.
But no. Not yet. Not yet.
Bucky crouched down. “How about we dance tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow we be big again,” Bob whispered.
And that? That broke you.
You dropped to your knees and pulled him into your chest, hugging him like he might disappear. “Okay,” you whispered, your voice shaking. “Okay. One more dance. Just… not yet. We’re not ready yet.”
None of you were. So you stayed on that porch a little longer, letting the stars come out. Letting the fireflies twirl. Letting the world wait.
Because tomorrow was already breathing down your neck. But tonight? Tonight, they were still yours.
The lake was still when you woke up.
No birdsong. No wind through the trees. Just a kind of sacred quiet that came before big things—storms, endings, or in this case, goodbyes. The sun hadn’t crested over the trees yet, but the sky was beginning to glow pale and gold, the kind of light that made everything look like it was made of memory.
You were already dressed.
Couldn’t sleep. Didn’t want to. You’d laid awake most of the night, Bob curled against your side, his tiny breaths hitching now and then like even in dreams, he didn’t want to let go.
Now, as you stood by the kitchen sink with a chipped mug full of untouched coffee, you watched the soft shapes of the trees sway gently outside and thought, I’m not ready.
Behind you, Bucky’s footsteps creaked on the old wooden floor.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just stepped up beside you, his hand brushing yours. You didn’t pull away.
“How long do we have?” he asked, voice quiet, like he didn’t want to scare the moment off.
“Val said to be in the lab before eight.” You didn’t look at the clock. You didn’t need to. You felt the time running out.
Bucky ran a hand through his hair and nodded, jaw tight. You knew he hadn’t slept either. He’d held Yelena like she was a piece of glass all night, humming lullabies you were pretty sure he didn’t know he remembered.
“Are they still asleep?” he asked.
“For now.”
A beat of silence.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered.
You swallowed hard. “We don’t have to know. We just… do it anyway.”
And so you did.
You packed what little they’d brought. Pajamas. Crayons. A bag full of pinecones Alexei had declared were “important evidence.” Yelena’s crown. Ava’s music box. Bob’s duck.
The sun was higher now. The kitchen glowed like it was made of honey. And then you went upstairs.
The nursery was warm and dim, full of soft breathing and quiet dreams. Five little forms were curled up in makeshift beds, the floor covered in blankets and stuffed animals, limbs tangled together like they couldn’t sleep unless they knew the others were close.
You knelt beside Bob first.
He stirred as soon as your hand brushed his hair, eyes fluttering open. He blinked at you for a moment, then smiled sleepily and whispered, “Hi, Mama.”
Your heart shattered and rebuilt itself in the same breath.
“Hi, baby,” you whispered back. “Time to wake up.”
Downstairs was quiet chaos. Toast and juice, Ava sitting in your lap while Bucky tied Walker’s shoes and Alexei asked why everyone looked “like they cried in their pancakes.” Yelena refused to get dressed unless her crown was on straight. You and Bucky didn’t fight it. You let them win every battle today.
Because it was the last. The drive back to the lab was quiet. Too quiet.
Bucky’s knuckles were white on the wheel. Bob was dozing in your lap again, the duck clutched to his chest. You stared out the window, but you weren’t looking at anything.
The lab was waiting when you arrived. White floors. Bright lights. The same sterile calm. Val was there. She nodded gently. Didn’t speak.
The syringes were ready. Each child got their own room. Monitored. Clean. Clinical.
You and Bucky walked them in one by one. You kissed their foreheads. You held their hands.
Walker went first. Loud until the end, fist-bumping Bucky with a watery grin.
Then Yelena, who tried not to cry and failed, sobbing into Bucky’s chest and whispering, “Don’t let me go.”
Alexei gave you his pinecone, said, “So you don’t forget me.” You told him he was unforgettable.
Ava didn’t speak. Just clung to your shirt until the last possible second, then whispered, “Thank you for letting me be loved.”
And Bob… sweet Bob… looked up at you with tear-filled eyes and said, “Will it still be you… when I wake up?”
You kissed his knuckles. “Always.”
Then it happened.
The serum worked quickly. Their little bodies shimmered with a soft red glow, like time reversing itself in fast-forward. Their limbs stretched. Their faces matured. They blinked up at the bright ceiling, no longer toddlers.
Just soldiers. Adults. Confused.
They didn’t remember. They didn’t know.
And when they filed out into the hallway—grown, sharp, strong again—it was like someone had torn pages out of your book and left you with blank paper.
Bob passed you in the hall. He didn’t even glance. And that was the moment that broke you.
You stood there, back pressed to the cold lab wall, your hands trembling, heart cracked wide and raw. Bucky stood beside you, eyes fixed on the floor, jaw locked, like if he opened his mouth, something sacred might fall out.
No one spoke. No one could.
Later that evening, you returned to the lakehouse. Just the two of you. The rooms were quiet. The toys are untouched. You stepped out onto the porch, the same porch where you danced just the night before. It was empty now. No tiny footprints. No giggles. No bedtime stories.
Just you and Bucky. And silence. You sat down slowly, your hands in your lap, your heart still beating to the rhythm of laughter that was already fading.
“Do you think they’ll remember?” you asked.
He shook his head. “No. But I think… we will.”
You leaned into him. He let you.
And together, as the porch light flickered on, you watched the sun sink into the lake and said goodbye—not with words, but with the quiet ache of two people who had held something golden for just a moment…
Summary: You find out you’re pregnant days before a mission and decide not to tell Bucky. When everything goes wrong in the field, he’s left putting together the pieces.
MCU Timeline Placement: Thunderbolts*
Master List: Find my other stuff here!
Warnings: canon-typical violence, graphic injury, mild body horror (?), medical trauma, hospitalization, pregnancy, accidental(ish) pregnancy, conversations of potential pregnancy loss, miscommunication / lack of communication, lots of angst but promise happy ending, bucky barnes being so painfully in love it hurts
Word Count: 10.8k
Author’s Note: this was supposed to be a one-shot but then my brain said what about no?? anyway here we are. part 2 is already pretty much finished and will be coming TOMORROW! also i don’t want kids and have zero maternal inclinations irl so this was a weirdly intimate thing to write and i hope it feels respectful + emotionally grounded. bucky barnes is the love of my life and i truly do not know why i keep putting him through hell but i won’t stop now. enjoy <3
The detonation hit before the second sweep.
Concrete teeth split from the floor, chewing through steel and glass as the ceiling groaned overhead and then collapsed. You barely cleared the corridor in time. Something grazed your cheek—shrapnel or bone, hard to tell anymore—and heat bloomed across your shoulder where the blast caught you.
You hit the ground hard. There was dirt in your mouth. Fire down your spine.
The outpost had been a decommissioned Soviet weapons vault, long gutted by time and rain just outside of Kozelsk. But that intel was two weeks old, and it sure as hell didn’t account for the tripwire mines rigged beneath the floor tiles or the new signature explosives packed into the shell of the forward lab.
You spit blood and pushed onto your elbows.
Your comm buzzed once, then cracked to life in your ear.
“Detka, tell me you’re not dead,” Yelena snapped, her voice patchy through static but sharp as ever. “I swear to god if you are dead, I am not hauling your body out of here. I’ll leave you for the fucking vultures.”
You could’ve cried at the sound of her voice.
“Still breathing,” you coughed. “Mostly.”
“Good. Because I am three corridors west of wherever that boom came from and it smells like burning piss in here. You see any of those freelancers yet?”
“No visuals,” you groaned. “But I’ve got bodies. Clean kills. Their throats are open but there’s no blood on the floor. No drag marks either.”
Yelena swore under her breath. “That’s not freelancers. That’s extraction protocol. Someone’s clearing the site.”
You already knew. You’d seen enough black ops sanitizations to recognize the signs: no witnesses, no trace. If Valentina had found this place and thought there was something worth salvaging, so had someone else. And someone faster. This wasn’t a recon mission anymore.
This was a cleanup.
And you were on the wrong side of the mop.
And this time, there was more to lose than just intel. More than reputation. Your hand brushed low across your abdomen, barely grazing the fabric there like it might burn you, like maybe ignoring it long enough would make it untrue.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not here. Not now.
You hadn’t even told him yet.
Your chest tightened. Not from pain. From panic. Real and hot and rising up the back of your throat like bile.
A sound echoed down the hall. Boots scraping stone, deliberate and unhurried. You didn’t breathe. Not even when your lungs screamed. You counted the steps. Four sets. Heavy.
“Yelena,” you whispered into your comms. “One o’clock. Not ours.”
Another pause.
“Copy. Backtracking to your location. ETA two minutes. Do not engage.”
Too late.
The boots stopped, pivoted.
You backed into the nearest alcove, just wide enough for shadow to fold around you and let your pulse slow in your throat. Your weapon was warm in your grip. One mag loaded. One spare. Not enough for four if they got close.
Especially not like this.
You took a breath. Then another.
The first one rounded the corner, rifle up. Big. Bulked out in matte armor, but his line of sight was narrow. Tunnel vision.
You waited until he passed you fully, until you could hear the click of his comm mic as he keyed it.
Your elbow slammed into the back of his skull with enough force to make his knees buckle. You twisted, dropped low, and swept his legs as he toppled, dragging him sideways to muffle the sound of his body hitting the ground.
You shoved your knife up under his chin. The blade punched through soft tissue with a wet snap. His body thrashed once, then went still.
The second came running at the subtle noise, catching a glimpse of your crouched silhouette too late. He fired once, the shot ricocheting just inches above your head. You surged forward, used your momentum to jam your shoulder into his gut and drove him into the wall.
Your ribs lit up from the impact, but you gritted your teeth and held.
He swung, catching your cheekbone with the butt of his rifle. The blow made your ears ring. You ducked under his next swing, grabbed the arm of his jacket, and bit hard.
He screamed.
You shoved your thumb into his eye socket before he recovered, using the distraction to snatch his sidearm, flip it in your palm, and shoot him point-blank in the head. Twice, for good measure.
He dropped, still twitching.
You stumbled back, hand instinctively pressed low and flat to your stomach again. You breathed through the sharp pang in your side and steadied your stance again.
There were still two more.
You sprinted toward the third as soon as you saw movement, zig-zagging low as bullets peppered the wall behind you. Sparks flew from the conduit lines as a round hit something vital. Smoke curled in your lungs. The air stung with ozone and copper.
You dove into him feet-first—heel to knee, your full body weight behind the strike. He crumpled with a yell, and you rolled, landed hard on your side, and caught his fallen knife.
But he recovered faster than you anticipated, before you were even on your knees again.
He grinned.
“Не двигайся (Don’t move),” he said, low and rough, the Russian curling sharp off his tongue like he’d said it a thousand times before. Like he had the upper hand. Like you were done.
You hurled the knife, despite your eyesight blurring slightly.
It missed. Barely.
But it made him flinch.
You moved with everything you had left—ducked under his swing, used your shoulder to ram his center of gravity off-balance, and jammed your boot between his legs with such force he let out a choke.
He went down swinging. Caught your bicep with a blade. Hot pain tore across your arm. You didn’t stop. You grabbed the closest thing, a broken pipe that was jagged at one end, and drove it into his neck with a scream.
His blood hit your face in a hot arc.
You staggered back, wild-eyed, panting, blood soaking through your clothes. Smoke still curled from the wrecked conduit. A siren blared somewhere far away.
You fired your last two rounds at the fourth just as he rounded the corner, one round to the knee. He dropped hard, snarling. You aimed for the killshot, but it veered, hitting his shoulder as he went for his weapon. He still managed to return fire.
Fuck.
The wall just beside your head cracked.
You bolted through the next doorway, gun hot in your palm, shoulder still screaming where the blast had torn through muscle. There was blood on your sleeve now, more than before, but your legs still worked. That was enough.
You ducked through a lab corridor, ruined wires dangling from the ceiling like seaweed. A flickering red light pulsed from an old generator in the corner, painting everything in bursts of blood.
It would be enough. You’d make it back. You’d tell him. The right way. With time to breathe. With his hand in yours—No. Not now. Don't think. Focus.
One step—two—and then something gave beneath your boot.
Click.
Then snap.
Pain tore up your leg like lightning through steel, white-hot and blinding, so sudden it didn’t even feel real. Your body flinched before your mind caught up, before you could even look down, before you understood. A crunch. A grind. The jagged burn of something metal sinking deep.
Your vision stuttered.
You hit the ground hard, knees buckling like wet paper, concrete tearing through your palms, breath punching out of your lungs in a single wrecked gasp.
A pressure trap.
You hadn’t seen it—disguised beneath fallen rubble, metal jaws wired to catch from shin to thigh height. It didn’t go off fully. Didn’t explode. But the clamp hit with enough force to break bone.
A scream tore from your throat before you could stop it. The world reeled. You scrambled backward on your elbows, dragging your leg free, gasping as the pain ripped up your side. You couldn’t see straight. Couldn’t focus.
Your hand pressed instinctively to the flat of your abdomen. You hadn’t meant to do it again but—
The comm crackled again.
“Where are you—”
“I’m hit,” you choked. “West wing. Level 2. Trap rigged to the door. I didn’t see it.”
“Stay awake,” Yelena said, sharper now. “I am coming. You don’t move. You hear me? You don’t fucking move.”
But you had to.
Because the sound of boots had returned. The one you shot. Limping, but closer. A soft shuffle, like he was dragging a blade across the tile for your benefit.
Taunting.
You forced yourself up onto one knee, teeth bared. The pain was beyond language now, beyond screaming. Your hand reached for your sidearm. Gone. You must’ve dropped it when you fell.
Your fingers brushed the hilt of your boot knife instead.
The man stepped into view, grinning through blood.
“Милая (Cute),” he said.
Then lunged.
You didn’t have time to think, you just swung.
Your blade hit home right under his ribs. He hissed, dropped low, and drove his elbow into your throat. The air vanished from your lungs. Your head cracked back against the wall. He grabbed for the knife, twisted it out, and slammed it back toward you—
You shoved it down. It missed your stomach by an inch. Sank deep into your thigh instead.
You screamed again, ugly this time. Wordless.
He raised the blade again.
A single gunshot split the air.
He jerked. Stumbled. Collapsed. Blood spilled from the back of his skull like syrup.
Yelena stepped into view behind him, smoke still curling from the barrel of her sidearm.
She didn’t say anything. Just dropped to her knees beside you just as you did, eyes scanning the ruin of your leg and your expression like she was trying to decide which was worse.
You stared up at the broken ceiling above, vision narrowing at the edges. Your lips moved, but nothing came out.
Yelena pressed her hands to one of the puncture wounds. “Hey, hey, hey! Stay with me. Don’t you dare pass out. I don’t have time to carry your dramatic ass out of here—”
You tried to laugh, but it came out broken. Just a dry exhale through cracked lips. Your hands had gone numb—pressure loss, you were sure—but Yelena’s were firm, steady, digging into the torn flesh above your knee with trained precision.
“There’s too much blood, to many entry wounds,” she muttered. “Shit, shit—okay. It’s not arterial. Maybe not. Don’t move. Just don’t move—”
You weren’t planning on it.
The hallway pulsed in and out of clarity, red light still flickering overhead, your own pulse a tidal roar behind your ears. But beneath it, beneath everything, there was a pressure blooming behind your ribs. A wild, animal panic. Not just for you.
Don’t think about it.
You shoved the thought down.
You couldn’t afford to feel anything else.
Not now. Not when the tremor of more boots echoed down the ruined corridor.
Yelena looked up. Went still.
You didn’t have to ask. You knew that sound. Not your team. Too heavy. Too many. Not a rescue. A sweep.
More were coming.
Yelena shifted her weight off your leg, already reaching for your belt—grabbed your spare magazine, tucked it into her own vest. The way her eyes flicked toward the end of the hall made your stomach pitch harder than the blood loss.
“They’ll have to come through me,” she said.
“Don’t be a dumbass,” you croaked. “Go. Take the passage to the furnace room. You can double back—”
“Shut up.”
She pressed her sidearm into your hand. Yours had been lost. She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even glance at it. “You buy me thirty seconds. I’ll clear the rest.”
“I’m not bait.”
“You’re bleeding into the floor. You are already bait.”
Another laugh. Another failed breath.
Something sharp twisted behind your navel, deep and low, and you flinched. It was too much. The pain. The pressure. The screaming throb in your skull and the weight blooming beneath your skin like a second heartbeat. Something primal and new, something that didn’t belong in warzones or kill zones or places like this where people like you died ugly.
Yelena’s eyes locked on your face. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” you croaked, trying not to focus on the pain.
“You grabbed your stomach.”
“No, I—”
“Don’t bullshit me, that's the third time I've seen you do that today,” she snapped.
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
She stared at you for one beat too long, too long to be safe, but you couldn’t give her what she was asking. Couldn’t even say it. Not here. Not with the taste of smoke on your tongue and death pressing in from both sides of the corridor.
You curled your fingers tighter around the sidearm. Your hands were slick. You didn’t know if it was hers or yours.
“Go,” you rasped. “You have to go.”
Yelena didn’t argue this time.
But she hesitated. A blink of something behind her eyes. Not fear. Something heavier. Something sharp.
Then the sound of boots again, closer now.
She shoved a flash grenade into your palm, already armed to detonate in six seconds.
“When you see their boots,” she said, “you throw it. You count to four, then run. Limp. Crawl. I don’t care. But you move, alright?”
You didn’t trust your voice, so you nodded.
Yelena was gone a second later, vanishing into the smoke like a blade into water.
And you were alone.
Alone in a crumbling corridor, leg torn open, lungs full of smoke, blood slicking the floor beneath you like oil. You could feel the weight again, heavy and awful, curling behind your sternum like something waiting. Not just adrenaline. Not just pain.
You didn’t want to die here. Not like this.
You couldn't.
A flicker of guilt followed. A whisper of something like hope.
The shadows moved. Voices barked. Feet thundered.
They were coming fast. A whole squad. You saw the first silhouette appear through the haze—rifle raised, sweeping side to side. You waited, hand wrapped around the grenade like a prayer, heart screaming behind your ribs.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
You threw it.
The flash hit with a scream of light so loud it fractured the hallway.
You didn’t look back.
You dragged your body forward, weight on your elbows, on your left knee, hauling yourself through the broken floor toward the stairwell. Everything screamed. Your thigh. Your ribs. The low, foreign ache in your gut that had nothing to do with war but had everything to do with why you had to live.
Gunfire split the air behind you. Shouting. Movement.
It grew louder behind you, closer now. Shouts tangled through the static still buzzing in your ear, foreign commands barked over comms that weren’t yours.
You barely made it to the stairwell. One hand gripped the banister slick with dust, rust, and your own blood. You hauled yourself up a single step, then another, panting, ears ringing from the flashbang.
That ache behind your navel flared sharp again, twisting deep and low, not like any wound you knew. It slowed you. Staggered you.
But the shout that followed snapped everything else into focus.
You heard it before you saw it: the sharp scrape of metal boots. The crunch of shattered tile. Then a yell.
You turned on instinct. No plan. No thought. Just move.
“Yelena—!”
You half-crawled, half-limped toward the sound, yelling out, but you didn't care, vision tunneling. You reached the edge of the corridor just in time to see her—back against the wall, gun empty, knife in her hand, pressed to the throat of a man easily twice her size. There were two more behind him, closing in. One of them had her in his sights.
You didn’t stop to count bullets.
You didn’t stop at all.
You raised the sidearm Yelena had given you, your hand shaking, and fired.
One shot. Missed.
Second. Hit a shoulder. Not enough.
Your hands were too shaky.
So, you lunged into the open, screaming as your leg nearly buckled beneath you, throwing the full weight of your body toward the second man, the one with the rifle.
Your shoulder slammed into his chest, and the impact sent you both to the ground. The rifle clattered away. He was faster, stronger, barely staggered by your hit, and he recovered first, driving his elbow down hard.
Your vision exploded in white.
You didn’t stop.
Your hand found a jagged piece of rebar on the floor. You drove it upward into the side of his throat.
He gurgled once. Then stopped moving.
But not before he got one last blow in, one savage kick to your stomach that left you gasping, choking, every nerve in your body screaming.
Yelena was beside you a second later.
One clean throw, and her knife lodged in the final attacker’s neck. He dropped before he could even react.
Silence fell like a body.
Then the floor tilted under you. Your arms didn’t work. You couldn’t move.
You were still looking at Yelena, her face flushed and streaked with blood, crouched in front of you. You tried to speak. Nothing came out.
She grabbed your face, her palms rough and shaking. “You fucking idiot. That’s twice now.”
You blinked hard. Everything was blurring. Your fingers curled weakly toward your middle.
“I—I had to,” you whispered.
Yelena’s eyes were wide. She shook her head. “You’re gonna bleed out. Stop talking. Save your breath—”
“Tell Bucky…”
You barely managed it.
She froze. “No.”
Your mouth opened again. “Tell him I’m sor—”
“Shut the fuck up,” she snapped, voice cracking now. “You don’t get to say that.”
Your throat felt tight. The pain was unbearable now. Your vision dimmed at the edges, the world flattening to static and heat and the ghost of her hands holding your face.
“Tell him yourself,” she said. Quieter. Fiercer. “You tell him yourself, do you hear me? You don’t get to leave me with that.”
Your fingers twitched once against your stomach.
Then everything went black.
You weren’t shaking until the timer went off.
Three minutes wasn’t long. You’d sat through debriefs far longer. But in that small, stifling pocket of silence—curled on the edge of the bathtub, cheek pressed to the cool tile wall—it stretched and warped like time did in firefights. Slow. Loud. A countdown with no cover and no escape route.
You didn’t look at first. Just sat there, the plastic stick face-down on the lip of the sink, heartbeat pounding like a warning beneath your ribs. You’d picked it up two nights ago. Tossed it into your basket with toothpaste and Advil like it wasn’t setting your whole life on fire.
No reason to panic yet, you’d told yourself. Your body had been off before. Travel. Stress. Field meds. You’d slept six hours across four days and eaten a protein bar that was months expired. This wasn’t new. Wasn’t unmanageable. You were probably fine.
But your body felt…different.
Not just tired. Not just sore. Not even the nausea that crept in each morning the past few weeks and refused to leave. Something deeper. Heavier. Like your blood was thicker now. Like you were carrying something, and your body had already started rearranging around it.
You’d known.
Before the test. Before the countdown. Before the lines even appeared.
You’d known.
And now that you were staring at the proof—those two lines, faint but unmistakable—you realized that the terror didn’t come from the answer. It came from the silence after.
The front door clicked open just as you turned your face to the towel hanging on the wall after splashing yourself with cold water. You didn’t have time to move, didn’t even wipe your eyes before Bucky’s voice filled the apartment. Low and familiar and worn around the edges with something close to fondness.
“Hey,” he called casually, voice already warmer now that he was inside. “They were out of the egg noodles you like, so I got the fried rice instead. Hope that’s ok.”
His boots scuffed softly against the entryway tile. You heard the rustle of a bag, the crinkle of cardboard.
You swallowed the lump in your throat and stood too fast. The room reeled. You shoved the test into the drawer beneath the sink and slammed it shut with your hip.
“That’s…it’s perfect,” you called back. “Stomach’s still off.”
He didn’t question it. He never did. You’d been off before missions before—hell, usually everyone was. He chalked it up to adrenaline, or the fact that Valentina always held the worst ones just long enough for you all to get twitchy. He never read more into it than that.
You didn’t want him to.
When you stepped out of the bathroom, the living room was already warm with light. Bucky stood at the counter with your favorite takeout in one hand and a bottle of ginger ale in the other. His hair was damp from the rain outside, curling slightly at the ends. He wore one of the soft old hoodies you always tried to steal.
God, he looked tired.
“Still nauseous?” he asked without turning, already reaching into a drawer for a fork. “I told you not to eat the eggs in the tower fridge. John says they’re powdered.”
You managed a tight smile. “I didn’t eat the eggs.”
He glanced at you then, brow furrowed. Not suspicious. Just worried.
“Everything okay?”
You nodded. Too fast.
He didn’t buy it. Of course he didn’t. His gaze dropped for a half-second, scanning you like he always did, like you were a map of terrain he’d memorized too many times to ever get lost in. You wondered if he could see it. If your skin looked different. Paler. Warped. Touched by some invisible shift.
“Come here,” he said. “Sit.”
You did. He placed the container in front of you, still warm. Fried rice and plain steamed chicken. The only thing you could stomach lately. He cracked open the ginger ale with a flick of his thumb and set it down beside the plate.
He didn’t ask why you were shaking.
Didn’t ask why your face was paler than usual, or why your breathing was shallow. Didn’t say a word about how your hands lingered too long against the counter or why your gaze kept drifting toward the bathroom.
He just stood there, leaning on his elbow, watching you pick at the food like he could will you back into being okay.
You loved him so fucking much it made your throat close.
And that was the problem.
You couldn’t tell him. Not yet. Not now. God, maybe not ever.
You weren’t sure if it was even supposed to be possible, not after everything they did to him. Hydra had carved him down to the bone and rebuilt him into something inhuman. Something they thought didn’t need softness. Didn’t need futures or family or hope.
Bucky never said it directly, but he didn’t talk about that kind of life. Not for himself. Not after what he’d done. Not with blood on his hands and weight in his eyes.
You knew that kind of grief. The kind that wrapped around your ankles and whispered, you don’t deserve nice things.
You remembered an offhand comment once—months ago, maybe longer—when Yelena had made a crack about raising tiny assassins and Bucky had gone quiet, the kind of quiet that meant don’t.
He’d said it flat, even: “That ship sailed.” Like it wasn’t just impossible but irrelevant. Like it wasn’t even a thought he let himself have.
You’d shrugged it off. Because you loved him. Not for what he could give you, or not give you. Just for him. The broken, beautiful, brutal truth of him. His silence. His weight. His hands, warm against your lower back when nightmares woke you. His voice when it was three in the morning and the world wouldn’t stop spinning.
But now you were here. With a plastic pregnancy test hiding in the bathroom cabinets and a gut full of something new and terrifying and real.
This tiny, terrifying thing inside you. This unknown. This heartbeat that didn’t exist yet but already made your chest ache.
You looked down at your hands. They didn’t feel like yours.
If you told him now, it wouldn’t be fair. He was one day out from deployment, and you were four days out from a mission you’d just been assigned. He needed clarity. Precision. Control. You couldn’t be the thing that pulled the ground out from under his feet.
You forced down a bite. Swallowed it with effort. Took a sip of ginger ale and smiled like it didn’t feel like your entire life had just split in half.
Bucky leaned across the counter and brushed his fingers along your arm, barely there. His thumb skimmed your elbow like he was grounding himself. Like he always did right before he left for something bad.
“You get the call about Kozelsk?” you asked, voice steadier than it felt.
He nodded slowly, still watching you. “Yeah. Valentina’s already sent me the files. Cut and dry recon. You and Belova should be in and out in less than 24 hours.”
You gripped your fork harder than necessary. Nodded like it meant nothing. Like your body wasn’t already vibrating with a thousand what-ifs. You told yourself it wasn’t a lie. Just a delay. Just time to think.
He set the takeout down without a sound. Didn’t speak. Didn’t rush.
Just moved toward you with that particular kind of caution only he ever seemed to get right—like you were both wild animal and wounded thing, like he knew better than to corner you even if you looked fine on the outside.
“Sweetheart,” he said, voice low. A thread of something softer caught in it. “Come here.”
You didn’t hesitate. You couldn’t. Your body answered before your mouth could.
He caught you as soon as you reached him. One arm warm and solid around your waist, the other colder where the vibranium wrapped your back, a press of protection you hadn’t realized you’d been aching for until you were tucked beneath it. He didn’t squeeze. Didn’t rock or shush or demand. Just held you there in the quiet, nose pressed to your temple like maybe he could breathe for the both of you.
You let your face fall against his chest. Inhaled. Exhaled. Didn’t move.
His thumb brushed the back of your neck, slow and steady, like he could coax the tension out of your spine by touch alone.
“You’ve been quiet today,” he murmured against your hair. Not accusing. Not even curious. Just noticing.
You nodded.
Didn’t lift your head.
Didn’t answer.
“You sure you're alright?”
Another nod. Smaller this time.
You felt his chest rise beneath your cheek. Felt him start to ask more, but stop. Think better of it.
Instead: “Do you want me to run you a bath?” His lips grazed your hairline. “I can put the lavender stuff in. The one you pretend not to like.”
You almost smiled.
Almost.
He waited. A long moment. Then leaned down and pressed a kiss to the side of your head—slow and certain, like a promise. His hand never left your back. His other one shifted just slightly, curling around your hip like it could shield whatever part of you was fraying most.
“Everything’s gonna be okay,” he said finally. Quiet. Firm. Like he meant it. Like saying it made it true.
You didn’t correct him.
Didn’t tell him what your body already knew.
You just nodded again.
And let yourself believe it. If only for a minute. If only because it was him.
The call came through at 03:41.
Not a full report. Not even proper clearance. Just a clipped string of emergency codes dumped through a back channel Bucky hadn’t checked in weeks. The kind of channel they only used when there wasn’t time to waste on protocol.
His comms had lit up in red.
Your name came first.
Then injured.
Then unconscious.
Then medevac.
Then...nothing.
No location. No vitals. No timestamps. Just five fragments, jagged and cold, vibrating through the band on his wrist like a warning shot to the heart.
The silence that followed was worse. Not blank. Hollow. The kind of nothing that meant something had already gone wrong.
Bucky didn’t think. There wasn’t time for it. Thought required oxygen, and that had already drained out of the room the second your name hit the screen. His body moved before his mind caught up—spinning on his heel, breaking into a sprint like he could rewind time with sheer speed alone.
He was still mid-mission, a low-risk sweep on the fringes of Senta with a two-man backup team and half a page of useless intel. They were searching abandoned bunkers for intel that probably didn’t exist, tracing signatures that pinged and vanished like ghosts.
He should’ve called in a full reroute. Should’ve waited for extraction clearance. Should’ve done anything except what he did.
But he didn’t care.
Not when it was you.
He reached the jet in under three minutes. Didn’t speak when the co-pilot tried to block him. Just pushed past and took the seat, fingers already flying through the console, overriding the flight path manually. He wasn’t shouting. Wasn’t panicked. But his voice didn’t sound like his own when he keyed in his name and entered the override code.
He didn’t sit still after that.
Didn’t rest. Didn’t blink.
The jet took off and he paced the length of it like a caged animal, barely registering the turbulence, barely noticing the blood on his knuckles from punching the wall beside the comms station when the outbound call failed to connect.
Everything about those few hours on the jet felt like someone had taken a crowbar to the scaffolding of his brain and just kept hitting until all that was left was your name and the phantom of your voice in his head.
You were supposed to be fine. You’d said as much the night before his mission—half asleep on the couch, wrapped in his hoodie, your fingers brushing his where they met on the blanket between you. Told him not to worry, that your op was routine stuff, nothing he had to lose sleep over.
Then you’d kissed him. Real slow. Like you knew something he didn’t.
He hadn’t pushed. Just smiled into your hair and murmured something soft about taking you on a proper date when he got back.
And then yesterday, on comms, you’d called him on your way out. Clear signal. Short call.
“You’ll beat me home,” you’d said, trying to sound light.
“Don’t do anything stupid before I get back.”
You’d laughed. But there was a hitch in it. A crack he’d almost asked about. Almost.
He didn’t remember landing.
One moment, the jet was still five minutes out—dark sky, shaking frame, the pilot avoiding turbulence. The next, the ramp cracked open and he was already moving. Wind in his face, boots hitting tarmac, lungs half-full of air that felt too thin.
Move. Just fucking move.
He took the stairs four at a time, quicker than the elevator. Through the lower hangar. Past Ops. Some tech tried to call his name and didn’t finish it, he was already gone.
The world narrowed to sharp lines and glaring light. The Tower looked the same as it always did—brushed steel, sterile walls, military-grade silence—but it all felt wrong. Too clean. Too quiet. Like the whole place was holding its breath.
Like it already knew.
He turned the corner. Nearly collided with a figure stepping out of the shadows of the west corridor.
John. Shoulders squared. Dressed down in field gear, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His mouth opened like he’d been waiting there, like he knew this would happen. Like he was stupid enough to try and intercept him.
“Barnes—”
“Where is she.”
No pause. Not a greeting. Just fire.
John took a step back. Not scared. Just reading the room. Reading him.
“She’s in room three,” he said. “Med bay. She's stable.”
The word made Bucky flinch.
“Define stable.” His voice scraped low. Controlled, but only just.
“She’s alive,” John said carefully. “But she’s still under, intubated. Oxygen, fluids. The whole nine yards.”
Bucky blinked once. Hard. His jaw locked so tight it popped.
John took that as agreement and turned, motioning him to follow.
The hallway felt longer than it had any right to be. Bucky’s boots beat a steady rhythm against the tile, but his thoughts outran it, spiraling tighter with each step.
“That mission was supposed to be recon,” he said finally, voice rough. “Clean in, clean out. So what the fuck happened?”
Walker followed beside him, matching his pace, but his voice wasn’t flippant the way it usually was. “We don’t really know yet.”
“Try again.”
“I’m not bullshitting you, Barnes. We had no red flags on the pre-sweep. Site had been cold for months. No chatter, no heat signatures. They went in blind.”
“No backup?”
John’s jaw ticked. “Wasn’t supposed to need any.”
They turned a corner. The lights dimmed slightly overhead, switching into night mode. Everything felt more sterile. More final. Bucky’s skin crawled.
John didn’t stop talking. “They walked into what sounded like a fucking cleanup. Not ours. Not friendly. Belova said the floor was rigged—pressure traps, gas leaks, low-profile explosives. No chatter about it beforehand. Nothing in our intel. They got there and shit was already smoking. Someone was erasing evidence, and they didn’t care who they took with it.”
Bucky’s jaw clicked.
He stopped walking for half a breath. Just long enough for John to notice.
“What am I walking into, Walker?” Bucky’s voice dropped, sharp and cold and coiled like a live wire. “Don’t sugarcoat it.”
John’s gaze flicked toward the medbay doors just ahead, then back. “I told you—she’s stable.”
“I don’t give a fuck about stable,” Bucky snapped. “I’ve been stable on an operating table with my arm missing.”
The hallway was suffocating—every fluorescent hum too loud, every inch of floor stretching like it was trying to keep him from getting to you. He was too hot in his jacket. His shoulder ached. His hands wouldn’t stop twitching. There was a sourness behind his teeth, behind his ribs, building like bile in his throat.
“She was bleeding out when they brought her in,” John started, slowly. “Her leg’s the worst of it. Pressure-triggered trap. She pulled herself out of a hallway on that leg. Didn’t wait. Got Belova clear.”
Bucky’s jaw clenched.
“She’s got a skull fracture. Took a hit from behind—blunt force. Her head was bleeding bad. Ribs too. Maybe internal. I don’t know what the hell happened—”
“Fuck.” Bucky’s voice cut through the space like a blade. “She was walking just last week before I left, she was fine.”
John went quiet.
“You ever see her when she’s really tired?” Bucky kept his eyes ahead, voice clipped, unraveling thread by thread, his mouth moving faster than his brain could keep up. “She hums. Half-conscious, doesn’t even know she’s doing it. When she’s too tired to fight it off, she curls her foot up against the couch cushion and knocks it against the fabric until it leaves a mark. Like a metronome.”
He swallowed hard.
“She did that before I left. Last thing I saw.”
The lights above them flickered.
“And you’re telling me that she is behind a wall right now, not breathing on her own, because no one thought to double-check the fucking floor plan?”
“Bucky—”
“You tell me the name of the analyst who cleared that op,” Bucky said, voice low and cold enough to cut steel. “And you tell Val she better not be in my fucking line of sight when I walk out of that room.”
The edges of the hallway started to warp. Not visually, just something in the way the air bent around him, too loud and too sharp. His pulse had long since abandoned rhythm. He blinked hard, once, like it might shake the tension loose from his spine.
John didn’t argue. Just gave a slow nod, jaw tight. He turned toward the panel, reaching for the override to the medbay doors.
“Hey, man—” His free hand hovered like he meant to touch Bucky’s shoulder, to ground him somehow, but he stopped himself. Let it fall. “She’s strong. You know that. Just…it looks worse than it is.”
Bucky didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He’d already started moving.
He walked the last stretch alone.
The corridor narrowed. Dimmed. Sterile med bay walls that had all started to look the same after too many years of bleeding into them. But this one was different.
The door was marked with a small glowing three in the upper corner, backlit in blue like it meant nothing at all. There was a narrow observation window set into the center of it, sterile glass and reinforced steel, standard issue. He could see through it from halfway down the corridor.
Could see you.
He stopped walking.
Stopped breathing.
Stopped everything.
His boots stilled. His hands curled at his sides, tight enough that the vibranium plates clicked under the skin. One step from the door and his whole body locked. Not because of the security code or the weight of John’s voice behind him, but because he could finally see you now. Not a report. Not a briefing. Not numbers or charts or the sound of someone else’s voice saying you’re stable like that meant anything.
You.
You were unconscious. Intubated. Pale in a way he’d never seen before, chalk white against hospital linens, color stripped from your face like it had been taken. Your lips were slightly parted around the oxygen tube. Your chest lifted just barely under the sheet with every controlled breath the machine gave you.
There was gauze wrapped around your head, dark pink in places where blood had leaked through. Your leg was elevated, casted and braced and still twice the size it should’ve been. A bruise bloomed across your shoulder—deep and rotten-looking under the skin—and there was a fresh cut along your cheekbone, barely stitched, swollen and angry.
You looked like you’d been left to die.
Like they hadn’t meant to bring you back.
And for a moment, Bucky couldn’t move.
The air outside the door felt thin. Not stale, just missing. Like everything had been sucked out of this one corner of the Tower and left hollow. Like he was standing in the vacuum left behind by something sacred cracking open.
This was the thing he never let himself imagine. The image he never let form behind his eyelids, even on the bad nights. Not you. Not like this.
He pressed one hand to the wall beside the door and bowed his head, his palm flat to the cold surface. His chest rose, shuddered once, and held. He counted to five. To ten. He tried to focus on the weight of his own body. The feeling of his boots against the tile. The edge of the wall biting into his palm. Anything to keep himself tethered. Anything but your face behind that glass.
You were alive.
But that fact didn’t settle in his chest like it should have. It didn’t soothe. It didn’t offer relief.
Because all he could see were the places where that truth had almost unraveled. The bandages. The monitors. The thin line between your makeshift breaths.
And where it still could. Not when he could see how close it had been. How much of you was still in danger. How easily this could’ve been the morgue instead of a medbay.
How easily he could’ve lost you without ever hearing your voice again.
Without holding your hand. Without telling you that everything else in his life—every broken, violent, worthless part—meant nothing if you weren’t in it.
He didn’t even remember walking toward the door.
Didn’t remember the first step. Or the second. Or how his hand found the keypad through fingers that didn’t feel like they belonged to him anymore. Just knew that if he stood there a second longer, he’d come apart in the hallway and never make it back.
It wasn’t strength that made him move.
It was desperation.
The kind that stripped a man of pride and breath and sense. The kind that whispered cruel things in his ear and made him believe them. She could’ve died without you. She almost did. And you don’t deserve a second chance.
The door opened with a hiss.
He stepped inside like the floor might collapse under him. Every movement was cautious. Careful. Like you might break if he breathed too loud.
The lights inside were low, adjusted to night levels, soft and indirect. The room smelled like antiseptic and gauze and something faintly metallic. Machines hummed in the background, steady and unrelenting.
He made it halfway to the bed before his knees almost gave out.
His eyes were locked on your hand, the one nearest to him, lying limp on top of the blanket with a thin white IV line threaded into the crook of your elbow. He reached for it, slowly, and didn’t care that his hands were shaking so hard he could barely keep them steady. He just needed to feel your skin again. To know it was real. To know you were still real.
He sat beside you, the chair groaning under his weight. He didn’t lean back. Just folded over his knees, one hand gripping yours and the other braced against the side of the bed. His head hung low, and for a long time, he said nothing. Didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
Then, he lifted his head. Reached for your face.
Some hair had stuck to your temple—damp with sweat, clinging to the edge of the bandage there. He brushed it back gently with two fingers, like he’d done a hundred times when you were half-asleep on the couch or pretending not to cry after watching a sappy movie.
But it looked different now. Smaller. Like everything in this room had shrunk down to one unbearable moment, stretched out across too much time.
His fingers trembled as they pulled back.
“Jesus,” he murmured. The word cracked in the middle.
His throat burned.
Your face was still slack, pulled tight with bruising.
You didn’t stir. Didn’t twitch.
That terrified him more than anything.
He leaned forward again, his elbows digging into the edge of the mattress, and he held your hand in both of his—flesh and metal, warm and cold. He stared down at them like they didn’t belong to him. Like he could squeeze hard enough to push time backward.
He didn’t know how long he sat like that.
Could’ve been twenty minutes. Could’ve been hours. The walls didn’t move. The light didn’t change. It was just the constant, low hum of machines and the slow, glacial rhythm of your pulse ticked out on the monitor. Too slow. Too goddamn quiet. He counted the beats. Every one. Anchoring himself to it like it was the only real thing in the room.
At some point, his legs had gone numb.
His neck ached from the way he’d curled it to rest his forehead against the back of your hand. But he didn’t move. Not really. Not until there was a knock at the door, barely audible.
His body tensed.
The door opened with a soft hiss and a man stepped inside—white coat, small tray in hand, a lanyard with two clipped badges bouncing lightly against his chest. Mid-forties, maybe. Tired eyes. The kind of face that had delivered too much bad news to too many people.
“Ah, Barnes,” the doctor said, voice quiet, respectful. “You got here fast.”
Bucky didn’t answer at first. He just sat back slightly, gaze fixed on the man’s hands as he moved toward the IV line.
It was automatic, the way his muscles coiled, just under the surface. His jaw ticked.
He knew this wasn’t a threat. Knew this man was here to help.
But there was a part of him, something wired into his bones and gut and breath, that didn’t want anyone touching you. Not right now. Not while you were like this. Not while he couldn’t do anything to stop it.
He swallowed heavily and kept his voice flat. “Came as soon as I heard.”
The doctor nodded and glanced at the chart hanging near the bed. He was quiet for a while—replacing one IV vial with another, checking vitals, updating a digital pad with a slow drag of his stylus.
Bucky didn’t take his eyes off your face.
“She’s holding steady,” the doctor offered eventually. “Brain swelling’s gone down since the scan we took this morning. That’s a good sign.”
Bucky blinked once. His throat ached. “When’ll she wake up?”
“Hard to say. Could be hours. Could be another day or two. With blunt trauma to the skull, everyone’s timeline looks different.” A pause. “But the oxygen’s helping. And she’s strong.”
Bucky nodded slightly. He’d heard that too many times now. It wasn’t enough. Not even close.
The doctor hesitated. Then cleared his throat gently. “If it’s okay, I just want to ask you a few questions for her record. While we’ve got a quiet window.”
Bucky exhaled through his nose. “Yeah. Sure.”
“She listed you as her primary in the system,” he continued. “So I’ll walk you through some of the next steps once we get past the acute stage. But just for the chart—are you two… partnered? Cohabitating?”
Bucky glanced over. His brows drew together slightly. “We live together. Yeah.”
“And how long’s the relationship been established, roughly?”
The question was phrased clinically, but something about it made the back of Bucky’s neck prickle.
“Four years and change,” he muttered. “Why?”
“Oh, just part of the standard update,” the doctor said casually. “Especially in cases like this, where stress can impact… well, a number of things.”
Bucky didn’t respond. His grip on your hand shifted slightly. The doctor made a note, eyes still on the screen.
A few more seconds passed.
Then:
“She’s… not on any hormone therapy, correct? No recent adjustments in medications?”
Bucky’s jaw tightened. “No.”
Another pause.
The doctor nodded, looking at something on the screen again, something Bucky couldn’t see. “Right. I thought so, but I wanted to confirm. Her file’s a little sparse on that front. We ran a full tox panel and basic endocrine workup when she came in, just routine, and some of the markers… well.”
That cold feeling crawled back up Bucky’s spine.
“Well what?”
The doctor hesitated this time. Looked up.
“I’m sorry,” he said gently. “Pardon my wording here—I just want to make sure I’m not stepping into anything sensitive. But… had the two of you been trying to conceive?”
Bucky blinked.
The words didn’t land at first.
“What?”
“I only ask,” the doctor continued, slower now, more cautious, “because we noted elevated hCG levels. Not extreme, but consistent with early gestation. Six to eight weeks, give or take. It’s not uncommon for someone in her position to not realize it yet. But based on the labs, it seems likely that she may—”
Bucky stood up.
The chair scraped against the floor, sharp and jarring in the quiet of the room.
“She’s...pregnant?” he said, his voice low. Disbelieving. Barely holding together.
The doctor’s mouth flattened. “We didn’t want to make assumptions until we had context. I assumed you would’ve been aware.”
Bucky stared at you. Stared like he’d never seen you before.
He couldn’t breathe.
Not because he was angry. Not because he was blindsided.
Because he felt like the fucking ground had disappeared beneath his feet.
Because it was you. And it was this. And it was real.
And he hadn’t known.
And now you were lying here with a goddamn tube down your throat and a second heartbeat that wasn’t yours might’ve already—
His hand clenched into a fist at his side, metal creaking softly.
Bucky stood motionless, fists curled at his sides, every muscle wound so tight it hurt. His eyes were locked on you, on the bruising at your ribs just visible beneath the blanket, on the plastic tubing taped to the soft skin above your collarbone. He didn’t blink. Couldn’t.
His voice scraped up through his throat like broken glass. “Are you sure?”
The doctor—still standing a few cautious paces from the bed—shifted his weight and offered a nod, slow and grave. “The labs were repeated three times. Elevated hCG levels. Progesterone consistent with early gestation. We ran hormone panels as a baseline given the trauma….It’s not just a possibility. It’s confirmed.”
Bucky’s mouth opened, then closed. The words didn’t form right. His lips were dry. His chest felt like it had been filled with sand.
“You said six to eight weeks,” he said, barely above a whisper.
The doctor tilted his head slightly, expression softening—not out of pity, but out of clinical care. He knew who he was talking to. Knew Bucky Barnes wasn’t the kind of man who cried wolf.
“Give or take,” the man answered gently. “That’s an estimate based on hormone levels, not ultrasound, but yes. I’d say closer to eight weeks along.”
Eight weeks.
Eight weeks.
That was before this last mission cycle. Before the op outside Madrid. Maybe even before the one before that.
And you hadn’t said a word.
Bucky’s eyes dragged back to you. You were so still. Your hand resting under the blanket, palm turned up, the edges of your fingers bruised like you’d been gripping something hard.
He couldn’t stop seeing it now. Couldn’t unsee it.
You’d been off. He’d chalked it up to nerves, pre-op jitters, the heavy rhythm of one mission bleeding into the next. He’d told you to rest. Offered takeout. Tried to make you laugh the night before he left.
And you had. Smiled. Said thank you. Kissed his cheek. You’d curled into him that night like your ribs ached and your mind was somewhere else, and he’d thought it was just exhaustion.
He’d believed you when you said it was nothing.
God, how fucking stupid could he be?
His voice broke. “She would've known?”
The doctor hesitated. Not from doubt. From restraint.
“There’s no way to say for certain,” he said carefully. “But even as early as four weeks, many people start to notice changes. Nausea. Fatigue. Food aversions. Emotional shifts. Even small things like dizziness or temperature changes. Some miss it entirely. Others…” He paused. “Others don’t.”
Bucky didn’t need a fucking doctor to tell him you knew. He could see it now, clear as a sniper’s scope.
“She didn’t tell me.” Bucky’s voice was hoarse. Raw. Like something was tearing loose inside his chest. “She didn’t say a word.”
“I understand that must be difficult,” the doctor said, not unkindly.
Bucky laughed, just once, sharp and empty. It didn’t sound like anything close to humor.
“She was sick last week. I told her it was nerves. I said she just needed rest.” He blinked, hard. “And she nodded. And let me believe it.”
He felt sick. Hollow. As if someone had cut him open and left the pieces spread out across the room for everyone to examine.
“She made me dinner and couldn’t even taste it. She spit it out. Said it was too salty.” He dragged a hand down his face, breath unsteady.
“I knew. I fucking knew something was off and I didn’t—” He stopped. Pressed his palm into his forehead like he could shut off the noise in his brain. “—I didn’t ask.”
The doctor didn’t respond right away. He didn’t need to. The silence hung there, heavy, just long enough to let Bucky crumble beneath it.
“I would’ve pulled her,” Bucky said, voice low, like it hurt to speak. “If I’d known—I would’ve pulled her off the mission. I would’ve stayed. Christ, I never would’ve let her walk into that hellhole alone.”
“I believe you,” the doctor said softly.
Bucky shook his head. “No, you don’t.” His gaze locked on yours again, like you might open your eyes at any second and tell him it was all a joke, some stupid, sick prank. But your lashes didn’t so much as twitch. “I didn’t even notice. What kind of man misses that? What kind of man lets her go?”
“You trusted her,” the doctor said. “She clearly trusted you too.”
Bucky let out a breath that sounded like it had been clawed from his lungs. “She didn’t tell me.”
“No. She didn’t.” The doctor’s voice was quieter now. “But people keep things for all kinds of reasons. Even from the people they love most.”
Bucky scrubbed a hand down his face, fingers trembling at the edge of his jaw. “You don’t get it. She doesn’t hide things from me. Not like this. Not the big stuff. We—we don’t do that.” He looked up again, eyes wet and sharp. “She was going to tell me. I know she was. I think—shit. I think she was, the morning she left.”
He could hear it now. In the way you’d paused before signing off the comms. He thought you were worried about the mission. About Belova watching your six. About slipping into yet another building you weren’t sure you’d walk back out of.But it hadn’t just been that. It had been this. This had been behind your eyes.
He hadn’t kissed you like he should’ve. Hadn’t said goodbye like it might’ve mattered.
Hadn’t known it wasn’t just your life you were walking into that op with.
He didn’t even realize he was crying until the next breath caught wrong in his throat.
“I let her go,” he repeated. “And now she’s in this bed, and I didn’t even know she—”
He stopped again, unable to finish.
The doctor waited a beat longer. Let the silence settle. Then cleared his throat, careful and slow, trying to guide the conversation back to what had to be said.
“I know it’s not what you want to be thinking about right now,” he said gently, “but we do need to talk through some things. Just to make sure you’re fully informed.”
Bucky didn’t look at him. Just stared at you.
The doctor glanced at the vitals monitor. Back to the chart. His voice shifted—soft, but steady.
“With blunt force trauma to the abdomen,” he said, quieter now, more clinical, “there’s always a risk of complications. Especially in early pregnancy. Her vitals are stable. The fetus hasn’t shown signs of rejection yet—but we’re watching. Closely.”
That was it. The word. Yet.
Bucky turned sharply. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying we’re monitoring her around the clock. Ultrasound will be scheduled once the swelling goes down and her vitals can handle the scan. But we have to be honest about the risk.” A beat. “The trauma she took to the torso—the pressure trap, the fall, and then the blunt impact to the skull—all of it compounds.”
Bucky’s jaw was shaking now.
“So you don’t know,” he said slowly. “You don’t know?”
“We’re doing everything we can.”
Bucky stepped back like he’d been shoved.
You were pregnant.
You were pregnant.
And you were unconscious. Intubated. Hooked to machines in a quiet room with no windows while doctors ran numbers behind glass and he didn’t even know you were carrying his kid.
He couldn’t breathe.
You’d gone into that mission with someone else’s life inside you and hadn’t said a word.
He covered his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes stinging.
You didn’t tell him. You didn’t fucking tell him.
And he almost lost you.
Almost lost both of you.
The thought hit harder than anything he’d felt in months. In years. In decades. And it didn’t come like a scream. It came like a whisper. Like a crack in a wall that’d held for too long.
“How?”
His voice was shredded. Barely audible.
The doctor paused mid-step, halfway to the door. Turned back, cautious. “I’m sorry?”
Bucky looked at him, finally. Really looked. And there was nothing left in his face but disbelief—exhaustion and heartbreak stretched thin over bone.
“How is that possible?” he rasped. “I—” He shook his head once, quick, like he couldn’t believe he even had to say it. “I’ve been tested. Just to know. After everything Hydra did—what they rewired, replaced, burned out of me—they said it wasn’t possible.”
The words felt like rot in his mouth.
The doctor stepped forward slightly, his voice measured now, clinical but not cold. “If you’re referring to chemical sterilization procedures or structural modification, yes, those can have long-term effects. Especially in cases involving trauma at a cellular level, or—”
“Don’t give me the medical lecture,” Bucky snapped, not loud but sharp enough to slice. His hands were trembling again. “Just tell me how the hell this is happening.”
The doctor nodded, slowly. “There are always edge cases. Nothing in reproductive medicine is absolute. The body adapts. Heals. Finds workarounds.” He paused. “Even when we’re told it can’t.”
That didn’t feel like hope. It felt like a gut punch.
“You’re saying it was a fluke.”
“I’m saying biology is unpredictable. And what Hydra did to your body…” The man hesitated again. “No one fully understands the parameters of their enhancements. You weren’t born with a blueprint. You were made in fragments. It’s entirely possible that something shifted. Repaired. Regenerated. Something no one thought to look for.”
Bucky was silent.
A breath dragged into his lungs like it didn’t belong there.
His voice was hollow. “Fuck, why wouldn’t she tell me?”
The doctor hesitated. “That’s not a question I can answer.”
Bucky nodded, barely.
No, of course it wasn’t. Because there was only one person who could answer that, and you were lying there pale and quiet with blood dried at the edge of your mouth and a monitor deciding whether or not you were still alive.
The doctor moved slowly, starting to step back, sensing the unraveling thread beneath Bucky’s words.
“If you have any more questions,” he said quietly, “you can reach me on comms. I’ll be just down the hall for the next few hours. We’re not touching her chart again without looping you in.”
Bucky didn’t answer.
The doctor nodded once more, set the tablet down gently on the small table by the foot of your bed, and slipped out without another word.
The door clicked shut behind him with a soft hiss of pressurized air. It was too quiet. Too polite. Like this was just another room. Just another patient. Just another day.
Bucky stood there for a moment, still. Breathing like it hurt. Hands flexing at his sides, unsure where to go, unsure what they were supposed to do now. The silence didn’t feel sterile anymore, it felt thick. Like it had teeth. Like if he stayed on his feet another second it’d tear him apart.
So he sat.
Not with purpose. Not with control. His knees just buckled, and the chair caught him on the way down. Same place as before. Same cold vinyl digging into the backs of his thighs. But this time, there was no weight steadying his hands. No warmth beneath his palm.
Only you. Still and pale and too fucking quiet. And something else now, tucked deep inside you, something no one had planned for and nothing could prepare him for.
His elbows braced on his knees. Shoulders rounded. His hand dragged across his face like it could scrape away the thoughts already forming. The ones he couldn’t bear. The ones he couldn’t stop.
You were pregnant.
You were pregnant.
And you didn’t tell him.
Not because you didn’t trust him. He didn’t believe that. Not for a second. But because you’d wanted to carry it on your own. Because you didn’t want to burden him. Because something in you—something he should’ve seen, should’ve known—thought maybe he couldn’t handle it.
And maybe you were right.
Because even now, he wasn’t handling it. He was drowning in it.
His throat felt raw. Not from yelling, he hadn’t spoken above a whisper since he walked in, but from the pressure. From everything he was trying to hold back.
A child.
Your child.
His.
It didn’t feel real. Not in the soft, sweet way people talked about in books or in old movies. Nothing about this felt glowing or golden. It felt like being cracked open. Like someone had reached into his chest and handed him something impossibly fragile and said hold this steady while the building burns.
He’d never let himself imagine this. Not seriously. Not in any long-term, Sunday morning kind of way. Not beyond the haze of half-formed thoughts he shoved down when you fell asleep with your hand on his chest and he let himself pretend, just for a second, that maybe he got to keep this. That maybe he got to build something.
But it was never real. Not to someone like him.
Kids were for other people. People who hadn’t been turned into weapons. People who didn’t flinch in crowded hallways or track exits in grocery stores or dream in blood and ash. People who weren’t always calculating how many ways a room could go wrong.
And yet—
There’d been that mission last fall. Rural outskirts of Kashgar, the safe house turned hostage site. He still remembered the layout: three stories, west-facing collapse, no rear exit. Ten children trapped underground. One window for evac. You’d gone in without blinking.
You’d stayed behind to cover the last kid’s exit, barely clearing the detonation radius yourself. He’d screamed in your comm so loud he blew the mic out, but you made it. Coughed through smoke, limped out with soot in your lashes, cradling a little girl in your arms like she was made of glass. And after it was done, after the sirens quieted and the evac crews pulled out, he’d watched you kneel in the dirt and let those kids braid flowers into your hair while you wiped their tears with bare hands.
He’d never forgotten the way you looked that day. Not fierce. Not victorious. Just human. Soft where the world had tried to make you hard. Unshakable. Protective. Gentle in a way he didn’t know how to be, not really.
He’d caught himself watching too long. Something old and aching in his chest pulling tight.
And now that image cut through him like a blade.
Because this wasn’t some faraway fantasy anymore. This wasn’t a brief daydream before falling asleep or a fleeting glance across a wrecked city street.
It was blood.
It was cells dividing inside you.
It was something real, something terrifyingly alive that was already in danger. That he hadn’t known about. That he hadn’t protected.
And what if it was already too late?
His hand curled into a fist. Metal groaned softly under the tension, joints whining from the pressure. He pressed it to his lips like he could hold something back. Like if he kept still enough, quiet enough, maybe it wouldn’t fall apart. Maybe you’d wake up, and this would all just be a nightmare version of a conversation you hadn’t known how to start.
But what if you never woke up?
Bucky looked at you then—really looked. At the pale stretch of your brow, the tiny twitch of the monitor lights reflecting in your lashes. At the loose strands of hair tucked behind your ear, the cut near your temple where the blood had crusted over in dark rust red. He wanted to gather it all. Hold it together with his hands, press his mouth to your skin and promise things he didn’t know how to say.
He would’ve held your hair back every morning if the nausea got bad. Would’ve left saltines by the bed. Would’ve learned every goddamn craving and run halfway across the city to get it. Would’ve kept you off missions. Would’ve made Valentina herself eat glass if she tried to stop him.
He would’ve built the whole world over again just to make it safer for you.
For the baby.
His baby.
Bucky let his head drop into his hands. Breath shuddering. Shoulders heaving once—just once—before he ground it down again. Because he couldn’t break now. Couldn’t afford it.
You needed him.
And he hadn’t been there.
But he was now.
God help anyone who tried to take that away.
no more taglists! tumblr’s @ limit said no 💔 follow @cheekybarnesupdates + turn on notifs for all fic drops!
special wip wednesday tags: @bellemile, @bananaminn, @buckysleftbicep
Single dad!Bucky x Teacher!Reader, enemies to lovers fanfic
64.2k words || completed || domestic fluff || sexual tension || no y/n || f!reader || angst/comfort || smut
Bucky Barnes is a single dad who doesn’t do love.
He’s got everything he needs: a steady job, cozy home, and his whole life wrapped up in one little girl, his daughter Rebecca. No complications, and absolutely no room for romance.
After a rude and not-so-pleasant first encounter, he finds out you’re the elementary school teacher of Rebecca’s class. He would make it his mission to avoid you at all costs and to absolutely not fall in love with you.
I mean, how could he? Especially since you’re a grade-A pain in his ass.
one || two || three || four || five || six || seven || eight || nine || ten || eleven || twelve || thirteen
hi loves <3 I have had such a writer's block lately, so I thought I'd share some of my favorite fics that I have read lately. shout out to all of these amazing writers-- keep doing what you love. you are all unique and thoughtful, putting a little twist into your work that makes it yours. enjoy <3
𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦!𝘣𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘴
obsession @barnesonly 18+ (he's so dreamy)
You don’t even really like Bucky Barnes — he’s grumpy, kinda mean, and totally clueless about how you feel. But damn, he’s so hot it’s driving you crazy. Every time he walks in, all you can think about is what it’d be like if he just took you right there. You try to play it cool… but yeah, that’s not happening.
𝘔𝘰𝘣 𝘉𝘰𝘴𝘴! 𝘉𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘺 𝘉𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘴 (im such a whore for mob!bucky so pls send me fics <3)
sinnerman @aquaticmercy 18+ (OBSESSED W/THIS.)
Bucky Barnes is obsessed with a singer at his favorite jazz club.
sins and silk @magicaloneandmystery 18+ (don't have to force me babe🤭)
under the watchful eyes of his criminal entourage and your unapologetic family, you say your vows to the most powerful man in New York City. despite your doubts, your wedding night surprises you in more ways than one. AKA, Bucky knows how to fuck the reader right.
mad for you @marvelstoriesepic (I cried reading this like deadass)
You are a simple maid who cleans the mansion of the Bucky Barnes, always staying in the background. But when one of his men sees you as a target for assault, and manipulates you into taking the blame for something you didn’t do, you are pushed directly into Bucky’s focus.
𝘉𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘺 𝘉𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘴
something worth holding @cheekybarnes (I just wanna hug him)
You bring Bucky flowers for his birthday—something no one has ever given him before—and what starts as a simple gesture turns into something far more significant.
eating you out @ddejavvu 18+ (spread it open and flick the bean)
Literally just Bucky eating the reader out, and he hikes her up on his shoulders, with her legs wrapped around his head and she's leaned up against the wall.
manchild @houseofhyde 18+ (this might be the best fic I've ever read. like actually.)
bucky can't help but wonder why they always come running to you,, or your living fossil of a roommate disapproves of your taste in men and its totally not because he wants a taste of you.
gentlemen @buckysleftbicep 18+ (im so down bad for this man)
Like so chivalrous and respectful. But with him being feral and obsessed with you at the same time. Being obsessed with pleasuring you and treating pleasuring you like his life’s honor. NEED HIM
where the quiet lives @cursedheartsclub 18+ (this has a special place in my heart)
You were supposed to be on your honeymoon. Instead, you’re crashing at Bucky Barnes’s lake house—with his grumpy cat and no idea who you are without the man who asked you to give it all up. You went to the lake to forget your ex. You didn’t expect to fall for the man who owns the house.
You took the hit meant for Bucky—magic that curls under your skin like a fever, an ache that won’t ease no matter how many times you break. And the only thing that eases the fire is him.
bound to burn @cursedheartsclub 18+ (SO SO GOOD!!!)
You’ve never kissed Bucky Barnes—never even touched. Now you’re in his lap at a club in Romania, panties pushed to the side, grinding on his thigh while a voyeuristic arms dealer watches from the shadows. The mission said do whatever it takes—so you do. You moan for him. You beg for him. You come on his fingers in a mirrored room with someone else on the other side of the glass. And the worst part? None of it feels fake. Not his voice in your ear. Not his mouth between your legs. Not the way he says, “Eyes on me, doll.” And when it’s all over? You still ache for him. And he’s still carrying your panties in his pocket.
Falling/Drifting Series @probablybucky (this writer is so amazing. ily)
When you find yourself falling for Bucky Barnes (literally), you wonder if you can let go of the past enough to trust him. Set post TFATWS.
Drifting apart was never part of the plan—but neither was falling in love with Bucky Barnes. With a looming threat on the horizon, distance becomes a liability neither of you can afford.
high water @cheekybarnes (so angsty and personal love it)
You’ve stopped keeping track of the bruises. Bucky hasn’t—and he doesn’t say anything, not until the patterns start looking too much like his own, and it’s almost too late to pull you back.
have we met before? @aquaticmercy (sighs in cuteness)
America Chavez says that you and Bucky are together in every universe.
𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳!𝘣𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘴
right this time @buckysleftbicep (as he should 😚)
after a disappointing date, bucky decides to show you what a proper date should be like.
creamy or crunchy @marvelstoriesepic (so cute, made my heart ache)
Bucky joins you grocery shopping to everyone’s surprise.
a love letter to stone @cheekybarnes (brb im gonna go cry)
You were Bucky Barnes’ fiancée, a love left unfinished by war, spending decades at his grave, never moving on. But when Bucky finally comes home—broken, free, too late—you’re already gone.
1940'𝘴!𝘣𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘴
his girl @cursedheartsclub 18+ (1940's bucky has my heart)
He called you his girl long before he ever kissed you. Long before he fell off the train. Before Hydra. Before the ice. Before he forgot your name—Bucky Barnes was just a boy who called you his girl. The two of you grew up tangled in the Brooklyn trio with Steve: fists and laughter, scraped knees and stolen glances, slow dances and so many kisses. You were never official. But everyone knew. He made sure of it. And when he left for war, he shouted it across the room for all to hear— “You know I’m gonna marry you when I get back, right?”
birthday boy @bratscave 18+ (<3 <3 <3)
thinking about how he doesn’t even fucking like celebrating it. the whole “another year, another number” bullshit. what’s there to be excited about? but you—oh, you—pretty little thing that you are, batting your lashes and telling him it’s a special day, his special day, and that you wanna make it good for him. real good.
𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥!𝘣𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘺
always been you @bcksgirl 18+ (love it love it love it love it)
you’re fresh out of a break up, and your brother is determined not to let you dwell on your shitty ex. he thinks your annual summer trip with your shared group of friends should do the trick. you think a summer spent staring at his hot best friend will at least lift your spirits a little.
𝘳𝘰𝘺𝘢𝘭 𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘳𝘥!𝘉𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘺 𝘉𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘴
lavender @aquaticmercy 18+ (usually I don't go for stuff like this, but I was like what the hell, why not, and it did not disappoint. very Game of Thrones I love it!!)
The princess is engaged to her childhood best friend, though her true love is her royal guard, James Barnes.
𝘤𝘰𝘸𝘣𝘰𝘺!𝘣𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘺
the cowboy rule @hanaridulsetcheese 18+ (as a Texas girl herself, I love it!! need more cowboy bucky in my life)
no summary, so here is my own! after arriving in Texas, you meet a charming cowboy named Bucky. When he offers to show you around, you can't help but notice how attractive he is. One night at a bar, he puts his cowboy hat on your head, which can only mean one thing..."You wear a man’s hat, you take him for a ride."
𝘋𝘢𝘥'𝘴𝘉𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘍𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥!𝘣𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘺
honey girl. @violentdelightsandviolentends 18+ (this series is a masterpiece.)
The Universe shows you your soulmate when it feels like you need them most. When you least expect it, you're given yours - Bucky Barnes. Your Dad's best friend. You can try to refuse it all you like; but the universe wants what it wants. There's no denying fate.
daddy's best friend @buckysleftbicep 18+ (“Next time, I’m riding you in your truck.” when is this gonna come out because...)
your dad’s best friend has been avoiding your eyes all night, until he’s got you pinned against the laundry room door, hand up your thigh. it’s everything you shouldn’t want, but you always do.
𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘳𝘥!𝘣𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘺
just for tonight, night out, stay for a fortnight @thyme-in-a-bubble 18+ (this series is so amazing--you have to read it. there is something so beautiful about sex meaning more idk)
bodyguard!bucky barnes x reader, ex!peter parker x reader, reader’s mom is the british ambassador to france, age gap (10-15 years), forbidden romance, explicit sexual content, total word count is 10.7k
𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘦!𝘣𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘺
change your mind @marvelstoriesepic (I love baseball boys <3)
Natasha drags you to an NYU baseball game. And despite yourself, one player catches your attention.
supposed distraction @marvelstoriesepic (it's so cute and movie I love it)
It’s Bucky’s birthday and you and your friends are planning a surprise party. That leaves you with the task to distract him while the others prepare.
my masterlist <3
the spookiest rainbow crayon @lethallyprotected - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
snowghoul
kaledo-art
gummygunk
titsay
kianamaiart
andulkaphoto
vaporwave
janainaart
izzy806
theartofmadeline
ellievsbear
baratheonpilled
