Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky x Medic!Reader
Summary: Bucky and reader are secretly married. Stolen moments and private nights filled with softness Bucky shows no one else, until Yelena starts becoming suspicious.
Warnings/tags: a little smut, mostly plot, afab reader, mild language, very brief descriptions of minor injuries, HYDRA reference, secret relationship, domestic fluff
A/N: I feel like I'm a little late to the party with this one, but I had so much fun writing it! Enjoy! :)
The Thunderbolts Tower had its own rhythm. Not the polished, gleaming precision of Stark's Avengers compound—this was different. Rougher around the edges. Lived in. More like a bunker someone had tried to dress up with half-hearted plants and matching living room sets. Valentina sure does love to keep up appearances.
Still, it functioned. And in its own strange way, it felt like home.
You'd carved out your space in it months ago, when Valentina first tapped you for the position of on-site medic. The team wasn't exactly stable, to put it mildly, and if someone wasn't bleeding, they were probably sulking. That meant your little medical bay was rarely empty.
Today, though, it was. You'd slipped out of it and into the kitchen, still wearing your black scrubs. You'd gotten used to the sounds of the tower—Bob flipping pages on his newest read, Ava drifting in and out of sight, Yelena's music blasting from her room whenever she got bored. Walker and his constant bitching. Alexei and his loud, very loud laughing (or sobbing) at himself on TV.
And then there was Bucky.
He wasn't loud. Not like the others. But you always knew when he was around.
"Coffee?" His voice came from behind you, low, carrying that faint rasp that never quite went away.
You turned, already smiling before you saw him leaning in the doorway. His hair was pulled back, the loose strands falling near his jaw, and he'd swapped his tactical gear for a dark t-shirt that clung just right across his shoulders. Underneath it all was him. Something deeper, steady, and unmistakeable. A mix of cedar wood and warm leather, like his well-worn jacket and late nights tucked into his chest. It wasn't a cologne he wore so much as a presence that surrounded him, grounding, familiar, and achingly intimate.
"You're making it?" you teased, arching a brow. "Brave of you."
His mouth tugged into the faintest smirk. "I can manage a pot of coffee without burning the place down."
"That's debatable," you said, reaching past him to grab the mugs. His arm brushed against yours—just a small thing, the barest touch, but deliberate. He tilted his head, eyes catching yours for a beat too long before he pulled back, the ghost of that smirk still on his lips.
If the others had walked in right then, they probably wouldn't have thought twice. But you knew better. You knew how careful he was with everyone else. How rarely he touched anyone. The way he let the walls down just a fraction when it came to you.
You slid him a mug. "Don't tell me you're going to spend the whole day brooding in the corner again."
His expression softened, just for a second, before his walls snapped back into place. "I don't brood."
"Of course not," you murmured into your coffee, fighting the grin that wanted to spread.
You reached up, fingers brushing lightly along the stubble of his jaw, and for a moment he leaned into the touch. Just barely, but enough to make your chest tighten. The world was still quiet, the tower not yet awake. It was the kind of stolen second you both lived for. Your thumb traced the edge of his mouth before you pressed a fleeting kiss to the corner of his lips, careful and warm. His hand came to rest on the small of your back.
"I should go," you whispered against his skin.
Bucky sighed into your hand, the sound quiet and rough in the stillness, but his eyes lingered on you like he'd rather just stay. Then he forced himself to step back, slipping his hand into his pockets, wearing the blank mask again as he walked down the hall.
That evening, movie night in the common room followed the same chaotic pattern as always: Yelena and Alexei shouting at the screen, Ava pretending not to care but secretly invested, John Walker arguing about plot holes, and Bob shoving fistfuls of popcorn into his mouth like it was a competitive sport.
You sat near the edge of the couch with your legs curled under you, flipping open a med kit to clean up the scrape on Bucky's knuckles.
He didn't flinch when you touched him—he never did—but his eyes stayed locked on your face as you worked. Your fingers were steady, the pads brushing lightly against his skin, and he tilted his hand ever so slightly to make it easier for you.
"Keep this up," Yelena muttered, eyeing the screen, "and your patient is going to miss the big reveal."
Bucky didn't even look at her. "I'll live."
The words were simple. But you caught the faint warmth behind them, the unspoken because she's here.
And maybe you shouldn't have smiled the way you did. Maybe you shouldn't have lingered when you pressed the bandage against his knuckle. But for now, the others were too distracted to notice.
The tower went quiet eventually. It always did, though sometimes it took longer depending on how long Yelena stayed up watching movies or how restless John decided to be. Tonight, the silence fell sometime after midnight, the muffled sounds of footsteps and laughter fading into the walls until the whole place seemed to exhale and settle.
Behind the locked door of your quarters, the quiet was different. Softer. Safe. Bucky was stretched out beside you, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other wrapped loosely around your waist. He hadn't even bothered with a shirt (thank god), just the flannel pants slung low on his hips, and the faint heat radiating from his skin soaked into yours. His hair was loose now, falling around his shoulders in an uncharacteristic mess you secretly loved. For a man who could hold his own in a fight against super soldiers, he looked strangely vulnerable here. His gaze traced lazy patterns across the ceiling, but his thumb was stroking absent circles along your hip as though he needed the grounding.
"They're gonna figure it out eventually," he said quietly. His voice was low, almost swallowed by the dark.
You shifted, propping yourself on one elbow so you could look at him properly. "You think so?"
His lips quirked, but there was no humor in it. "I know so."
You smiled, he was subtler than he gave himself credit for, but you knew what he meant. The little glances, the way he let himself soften around you. He tried to hide it, sure, but the walls weren't as high as they used to be, not when you were in the room.
"You don't like keeping it a secret," you said, reading the tension in his jaw.
"I don't like feeling like I'm sneaking around," he admitted, turning his head to look at you. His eyes were softer in the dark, stripped of that guarded steel he wore in daylight. "Not with you. Not when it comes to this."
You reached out, brushing a strand of hair away from his face, letting your fingers linger along his cheekbone. "We're not sneaking. We're protecting."
For a long moment, he just searched your face, the faintest crease forming between his brows. Then he exhaled, his shoulders relaxing beneath your hand.
"Guess I'm not used to... good things," he said finally, voice rough. "Feels like if I say it out loud, somebody's gonna take it away."
Your chest ached. He rarely let himself be this open, even with you, but when he did, it always unraveled you. You pressed your forehead to his, closing the space between you.
"No one's taking me away from you, Bucky. Not now, not ever."
He hummed softly, then after a beat, said dryly, "Unless Yelena decides to drag me to an interrogation room."
You snorted. "She's not the CIA, James."
"She's worse than the CIA." He muttered, earning a quiet laugh from you.
"She has good instincts." You shrugged, "I told you, you have the face of a man with secrets."
Bucky gave a mock-offended grunt. "I do not have a face."
You raise your eyebrows. "Bucky. You sit stone-faced in corners."
He groaned and dragged a hand over his face. "So what if I do?"
"Mhm..." You poked lightly at his ribs, and he caught your hand easily, metal fingers wrapping around yours.
His arm tightened around you, pulling you flush against him. He kissed you then—slow, lingering, a contrast to the quick pecks you sometimes risked in the hallways. Here, there was no rush. No fear of being caught. Just him, just you, and the vow hanging between your lips like a promise renewed every night.
When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours again, his voice barely a whisper.
"I just... I don't want anyone to look at you differently."
You smiled softly, brushing your thumb over the cool vibranium where his hand rested on your waist. "Let them think whatever they want. At the end of the day, they don't crawl into bed with you."
That earned a laugh from him—quiet and low, the kind that rumbled through his chest and vibrated against your cheek as you pressed closer. "Yeah," he said against your hair, voice still laced with amusement. "Poor bastards."
You nudged him playfully. "They'd be lucky."
"Damn right they would," he said, all mock-gruff, and you could feel his smile against your temple.
Then, in the quiet that followed, his hold tightened around you, the humor softening into something warm and steady. "God, I love you," he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple like a promise.
Wrapped up in his arms, the secret didn't feel like a burden. It felt like a shield.
And for now, that was enough.
The medical bay always smelled faintly of antiseptic and coffee—the two things that kept you sane. Tonight, the air was thick with both, the pot on your desk still steaming as the team trickled in after another mission gone sideways.
"Line up please," you ordered, not unkindly but firmly enough to keep them from scattering. You'd learned quickly that herding Thunderbolts wasn't far off from corralling feral cats. Thankfully, you'd become a friend to each one of them.
Yelena dropped herself onto one of the exam chairs first, a shallow gash cutting across her bicep. "I get to go first because I was most heroic," she announced, her accent thick, her smirk smug.
"You tripped over a crate," John grumbled from the doorway.
"It was tactical tripping," she shot back.
You fought a smile as you cleaned the wound, Yelena continuing to narrate her version of events with dramatic flair. "Hold still," you warned, swabbing antiseptic along her skin.
"Your bedside manner needs work," she muttered, but her grin said otherwise.
Ava was next, silent, though you caught the faintest twitch of her lips when you asked if she was at least planning to phase through the enemy's bullets next time instead of her teammate's.
"Don't take this the wrong way," Ava muttered, "but I think you stab harder than the bullet did."
You huffed a soft laugh. "It's called cleaning a wound, Ava. You should try it sometime."
She rolled her eyes but didn't pull away. "Pretty sure this violates the Geneva Convention."
"Pretty sure you've broken the Geneva Convention."
That got a snort out of her. She tilted her head toward Bucky, who was sitting on the next cot, watching you like he always did when you worked on someone else—quiet, steady, unreadable to everyone but you.
Then came John, who complained through the entire process as you wrapped his bruised ribs. "I don't even know why I'm standing here. You should see the other guy—"
"I don't want to see the other guy," you cut in, taping the bandage firmly enough to make him grunt. "I want you to sit still so I can finish this."
"You're bossy, you know that?"
"Only because you don't listen," you shot back, stepping away to jot notes in the file.
That earned a chuckle from Bob, who was waiting patiently by the door with a cut on his forehead. You patched him quickly, his easy chatter filling the air. He talked about the mess in the hangar bay, how they'd need to clean blood out of the flooring again, and you hummed responses while securing his stitches.
Alexei stomped into the medbay like he hadn't just taken a beating, leaving a faint trail of mud and blood in his wake. "I am fine!" he announced, throwing his arms wide as if the declaration alone could patch him up. "A little bullet, a little blood—pfft. I have had worse papercuts."
"Sit down," you ordered, pointing at the exam table.
He blinked at you, then at the chair, then at you again, like sitting was somehow beneath him.
With an exaggerated groan that could've rivaled a Broadway performance, Alexei flopped down onto the table. "Okay, okay, doctor," he said, rolling his eyes dramatically. "You are scarier than HYDRA."
"You say that every time," you replied dryly, grabbing the antiseptic.
He grinned. "Yes, but every time, it is still true."
The second the alcohol-soaked gauze touched his arm, he let out a roar so loud Bucky actually turned his head from across the room.
"AAAAAAAAAAGHHH! It burns!" Alexei bellowed. "This is cruelty. Cruelty to old super soldiers!"
You didn't even flinch. "It's disinfectant, not lava."
He thumped his chest with his good arm. "I am Russian bear. I do not cry."
"You just screamed like a toddler who dropped his ice cream," John muttered from the cot next to him.
"Lies," Alexei said, glaring dramatically at him. "Russian bear only roars."
"Russian bear is about to get more disinfectant if he doesn't hold still," you warned, pressing another gauze to the wound.
Alexei gasped, affronted. "You are merciless woman. My daughter should take notes."
Yelena, perched on the counter watching the circus, smirked. "I have taken notes."
That earned a bark of laughter from Bucky on the next cot, quiet and low, the kind he tried to hide behind a cough. You caught the edge of it anyway, warmth blooming in your chest at the sound.
Alexei, of course, was still muttering in Russian under his breath as you taped down the final bandage.
"Done," you announced, tossing the bloody gauze into the bin.
He sniffed, offended but proud. "I am picture of health."
"You're a picture of something," Yelena muttered.
And then there was Bucky.
He'd waited until the others were mostly finished before claiming one of the chairs, tugging his shirt up to reveal a graze along his side. It wasn't serious—he could've handled it himself—but he didn't.
"Doesn't look too bad," you murmured, pulling on fresh gloves.
"Hurts like hell," he deadpanned, but the corners of his mouth twitched.
You glanced up at him, lips tugging. "You've had knives through your ribs and you're telling me this little scratch is the one that finally does you in?"
"I'm dramatic," he said, his tone flat, shrugging his shoulders.
You laughed softly, shaking your head as you swabbed the wound. "Next time I'll make sure to keep lollipops in the kit for your bravery."
Something in his face shifted, just the tiniest pull at the corner of his mouth. A smile. Almost.
From her spot across the room, Yelena's head snapped up. She narrowed her eyes, watching the way you leaned in to tape the bandage down, how Bucky's gaze didn't leave you once. She'd seen him grumpy, stoic, cold. She'd seen him snap at Walker, ignore Bob, brush off Ava. But this?
"Alright," you said, stripping the gloves and tossing them into the bin. "All patched. Try not to get shot tomorrow, yeah?"
Bucky huffed through his nose, tugging his shirt back down. "No promises."
Yelena tilted her head, filing away the half-smile she'd caught on his face. She didn't say anything—not yet—but she didn't forget it either.
Dinner at Thunderbolts Tower was always a strange mix of chaos and silence. Half the team shoveled food down like it was their last meal; the other half acted like eating in a group was some kind of foreign concept.
You'd learned to roll with it.
Tonight, Yelena had taken over the kitchen, which meant everything smelled like garlic and butter. She plunked a heavy pan of pasta onto the table with a flourish, announcing, "I am better cook than all of you, so sit down and eat before Walker ruins it with ketchup."
"I wasn't going to—" John started, indignant.
"Yes you were," she shot back, sliding into a chair.
Bob already had two heaping spoonfuls on his plate, and you were still laughing as you reached for a serving spoon.
"Don't take too much," Yelena warned you with mock severity, "or Barnes will starve. He needs the carbs for brooding."
You bit back a smile. "Guess I'll just have to leave some for him, then."
From across the table, Bucky made a quiet sound—not quite a laugh, but close. He ladled pasta onto his plate, then slid the bowl toward you with a little nudge that was casual to anyone else's eyes. But his hand lingered a fraction too long near yours, brushing your fingers as he passed it.
"You eat first," he said, low enough only you caught it.
Your lips tugged as you scooped food onto your plate. "What, afraid I'll waste away before you?"
He gave you a look, something dry and teasing. "You're a lot scarier when you're hungry."
It was subtle. Barely anything, really. But it was more than he gave anyone else.
Yelena noticed. Yelena continued to notice.
She noticed the way you rolled your eyes at him, fighting a smile you didn't let the others see. She noticed the faint softening around his eyes when he looked at you, how it wasn't the same sharp stare he gave Walker or the guarded glance he threw Bob. And when you reached for your glass, Yelena's gaze stopped on your hand. A simple gold band wrapped around your finger, topped with a small diamond. She wouldn't have noticed if the gem hadn't caught the light.
She tilted her head, expression unreadable as she studied the ring, then flicked her gaze back up just in time to catch the smile tugging at Bucky's mouth when you teased him again.
She didn't say a word. Not yet. She twirled pasta onto her fork and leaned back in her chair, watching the two of you from beneath her lashes.
Bucky thought he was subtle.
But Yelena Belova never forgot the details.
Bucky's apartment in the tower wasn't much by anyone else's standards—just a small, squared-off space with worn furniture and a couple of plants you'd talked him into keeping alive. But to you, it was perfect. Quiet. Yours.
The two of you were sprawled across the couch, your legs draped over his lap while he absently traced patterns against your shin with his thumb. A half-empty bowl of popcorn sat on the coffee table, and an old black-and-white movie played softly on the TV.
"You only like these because they make you nostalgic," you teased, tossing a kernel into your mouth.
Bucky smirked faintly, eyes still on the screen. "And you only like them because you pretend you're cultured."
You gasped dramatically, swatting at his arm. "Excuse me, I am cultured. Just because I don't remember who every single actor from the 1940s is—"
"Doesn't mean you aren't hopeless," he finished for you, his lips twitching.
You threw another piece of popcorn at his chest, which he caught effortlessly in his metal hand. "Cheater."
The banter came easily like this, the kind of rhythm that had taken months to build but now fit like a second skin. You leaned your head against the back of the couch, watching the way the light from the screen painted his face softer, younger somehow.
"You know," you said after a moment, "I think Yelena's onto us."
That got his attention. His hand stilled against your leg, and he turned his head slowly toward you. "What makes you say that?"
"She's been watching," you murmured, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve. "She caught you almost smiling in the med bay. And at dinner—she saw the way you passed me the food before yourself. I think she noticed my ring, too."
His jaw tightened, just for a beat, before he exhaled through his nose. "Of course she did. Kid's sharp."
He shook his head, leaning back. "Doesn't matter. She's probably just curious. As long as she keeps it to herself, we're fine."
You studied him, brow furrowed. "Does it bother you? Keeping it quiet like this?"
He met your eyes, and for a second, the weight he carried showed there—the years of hiding, of being hunted, of never letting himself have something wholly his own. Then he reached out, catching your hand in his and rubbing his thumb over the band of your ring.
"No," he said softly. "What we've got... it's ours. Doesn't need to be anyone else's business."
Your chest warmed, and you squeezed his hand. "I just don't want you to feel like you have to hide me."
His expression softened in that way it only ever did when you were alone. "I'm not hiding you. I'm keeping you safe. There's a difference."
You smiled faintly, leaning forward to press your lips against his. It wasn't desperate or hurried—just steady, reassuring. When you pulled back, he was looking at you like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing.
"Besides," he murmured, tugging you closer until you were curled into his chest, "if Yelena thinks she's figured something out, let her. I kinda like watching her squirm when she doesn't know for sure."
You laughed softly against him, and for the rest of the night, the world outside the apartment didn't matter.
Here, he wasn't the grumpy soldier or the reluctant Thunderbolt. He was just Bucky. And he was yours.
It was late, and the team was scattered around the common room. John was nursing a beer and arguing with Bob about which action movie was superior, Ava and Yelena talked about the recent mission, and you sat curled up in one of the oversized chairs, medical journal open on your lap.
Bucky and Alexei were on the couch a few feet away, arms crossed, staring at the TV. To anyone else, Bucky looked as disinterested as ever. But you caught the way his gaze flicked toward you every so often, tracking the way your brow furrowed at the page, the way you absently chewed your lip when you concentrated.
She was sprawled across the other end of the couch, eyes narrowed just slightly as she watched the not-so-subtle softness on his face. And then, with that mischievous tilt of her head, she struck.
It started innocently enough. At least that's how Yelena made it look.
"So, Barnes," she said casually, twirling her spoon in the bowl of ice cream she'd commandeered, "what is it you like in a woman?"
Bucky's eyes snapped to her, flat and unimpressed. "What?"
"You know," she said, shrugging, her voice innocent in a way that wasn't innocent at all. "Tall? Short? Broody like you? Or maybe you like someone who bosses you around when you get shot."
Your head jerked up from your book, pulse kicking.
John snorted. "Barnes doesn't like anyone. Man's a statue."
"Statue who bleeds a lot," Yelena countered, her gaze sharp as she took another bite of ice cream. "But maybe statue has secret taste, hm? Someone who makes him... smile."
Bucky's jaw tightened. Just barely.
"I don't smile," he muttered, eyes fixed firmly on the TV.
"Oh no?" Yelena drawled, leaning forward. "Because I could have sworn I saw you almost do it the other day. In med bay. And at dinner. Very suspicious."
Ava tilted her head from her shadowy corner, curious now. Bob perked up, mid-swig of his beer. Even John paused, grinning like a shark sensing blood.
"Barnes? Smiling?" Walker said with a laugh. "Now that's suspicious."
Heat prickled at the back of your neck, but you forced your expression neutral, fingers tightening on your book.
Bucky didn't move, didn't blink. "You're imagining things."
Yelena's lips curved, triumphant at the flicker of defensiveness in his tone. "Am I?" she asked softly, watching him like a cat with a cornered mouse.
The room held its breath for a beat, waiting for more. But Bucky didn't give her anything else. He just crossed his arms tighter, eyes boring into the television like he could set it on fire. Finally, Yelena leaned back, satisfied... but then her gaze shifted. Straight to you.
"And you," she said, voice deceptively light. "Why do you wear ring on your finger, hm? Pretty little thing like that, you married?"
The room went still. Even Bob stopped chewing his popcorn.
Your heart thudded, but you lifted your chin, slipping into the calm professional tone you always used when patching them up. "Yeah. I'm married."
John's brows shot up. Ava tilted her head again. Yelena's smile sharpened, sensing the opening.
"Really?" she pressed, spoon poised between her fingers. "And who is lucky man? Where is he? Why have we never seen him ever?"
You let yourself smile faintly, soft and careful. "Just a handsome guy from New York. He's not around much. Travels for work."
Bucky shifted in his seat, pretending not to care, but his thumb rubbed absently at the dog tags around his neck. You felt Bucky's gaze burning into the side of your face. You didn't look at him. Not here. Not now. But Yelena... she clocked it.
"Mm," Yelena hummed, leaning back again, her eyes darting between you and Bucky. "Very suspicious indeed. Sergeant Barnes flirts with you like he does not care about the poor husband somewhere out there. It is very bold of him, no?"
Your eyes grew wide and Bucky huffed a quiet, almost exasperated sound, "I don't flirt."
"You were just staring at her like she... what do they say? Hung moon?"
"I don't stare." Bucky insisted.
"You stare like a man who has just seen his first steak after ten years of eating kale." Walker said, full of glee now.
"I think you are reading into this more than you should. I'm friends with all of you, even brooding Sergeant Barnes over there." You jut your thumb towards Bucky, "I fix you all up and then I go about my business."
"Interesting... so why not bring husband by next time he is around?" Yelena suggests, eyes bouncing between you and Bucky.
You laugh, "are you serious?"
"I second that." Ava pipes up.
"Me too. Would we get along?" Bob asks.
"Yes. Bring him for food. We must see if he is worthy." Alexei claims, standing with a giant smile and his arm flexed.
Bucky finally moved, standing with a muttered, "I'm going to bed." He didn't wait for a response, just stalked out of the room, shoulders tense.
Yelena watched him go, her grin sly as she spooned another bite of ice cream. She didn't call him out. She didn't say a word.
"I can do that, but he's gone for a couple more weeks." You shrug, "I'm sure he'd be happy to meet you guys."
The quarters were dim and quiet, the low hum of the tower's heating system the only sound cutting through the stillness. You were curled against the pillows, already in one of Bucky's t-shirts, while he paced the small space in nothing but sweats, his bare feet making soft thuds against the floor.
"She doesn't quit, does she?" he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "Always watching, always poking. Like a damn cat playing with a mouse."
You bit back a smile, folding your legs under you. "To be fair, Yelena's job is noticing things."
His head snapped toward you, a scowl tugging at his mouth. "Noticing things is one thing. Sticking her nose where it doesn't belong is another."
"She asked a couple of questions, James," you said gently.
The name made him pause, his jaw tightening. You rarely used it, only when you needed him to slow down, to listen. He let out a sharp breath through his nose and crossed his arms, glaring at the floor.
"She asked you about your ring," he said, voice low, almost accusing.
"And I told her the truth," you countered evenly. "That I'm married. To a handsome guy from New York."
That earned you a dark look. "Cute."
You tilted your head, eyes soft. "You are handsome, Bucky."
His scowl faltered, just slightly, and you caught the twitch of his lips before he turned away. He sat heavily on the edge of the bed, elbows braced against his knees, his metal hand flexing restlessly.
"I don't like it," he admitted after a moment, voice rough. "The way she looks at you. Like she's already figured it out."
You scooted closer, laying a hand on his back. "So what if she has? Yelena's sharp, but she's not cruel. If she puts it together, she won't use it against us."
"You don't know that," he grumbled.
"I do," you said softly. When he didn't answer, you leaned in, pressing your forehead to his shoulder. "James. Look at me."
Reluctantly, he did. His eyes were darker than usual, stormy with all the things he didn't say out loud—the fear, the instinct to protect, the bone-deep habit of secrecy.
"Nobody can take anything from us even if they find out. So what if they know that we love each other? The most they'll do is make some stupid jokes about you being soft," you whispered.
He stared at you for a long moment, the fight slowly bleeding out of his posture. Finally, he huffed, muttering, "You're too damn calm about this."
You smiled faintly. "That's why you married me."
That broke the scowl, just a little. His hand found yours, lacing your fingers together before tugging you down onto the bed with him. He kissed you, slowly and delicately, then pulled back just enough to murmur against your lips:
"I hate how nosy she is."
You laughed quietly, brushing your nose against his. "She's just curious. And maybe a little too smart for her own good."
"Sounds dangerous," he muttered.
He sighed, pulling you closer until your head rested against his chest. His heartbeat thudded steady beneath your ear, but you could feel the tension still coiled tight in him.
"She's gonna figure it out," you teased, glancing up at him. "If you keep staring at me like that."
His mouth tilted into the kind of grin you only ever saw behind closed doors — small, wicked, a little soft around the edges. "I don't want to be subtle," he rasped, brushing the backs of his fingers down your cheek. "I want to look at my wife."
Your breath caught — not because the word was new, but because he said it like it was a secret he loved keeping.
You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants, tugging him just a little closer. "Bucky..." you whispered, letting the warning slip between your lips even as your hands betrayed you.
"Yeah," he murmured, leaning in until his forehead touched yours. "I know."
And then he kissed you. Slow, like he had all the time in the world. His lips were warm, a little chapped from the cold, and they moved against yours with that familiar, careful pressure — the kind that wasn't just about wanting. It was about knowing. About everything you'd already shared.
Your hands slid up his chest, over the warm skin and the cool plates of vibranium, and into his hair. He shivered when your fingers threaded through it. He always did.
He guided you back against the mattress, lowering himself over you with that quiet, practiced ease, like this was as natural to him as breathing. His weight sank into the bed around you, caging you in without trapping you — his way of showing trust.
When the kiss deepened, so did everything else — the heat between your bodies, the little sound you made when his thumb brushed along your jaw, the way his dog tags swung forward and brushed your collarbone.
That tiny clink always made your heart stutter.
You knew his ring was there too. The things that mattered most to him, next to you.
You helped him peel the shirt over your head, fabric catching briefly against your skin before it was tossed somewhere to the floor. His breath caught; not in surprise, but in that quiet, reverent way he always looked at you — like you were something he never thought he'd be allowed to have.
Bucky's mouth left yours only long enough to trail down the line of your neck. He kissed the sensitive spot below your ear, then lower, leaving soft, unhurried kisses like he was mapping out the places he loved most. You arched into him, fingers clutching at his hair, and he let out a quiet, low sound against your skin — the kind that made heat pool in your stomach.
"Mine," he whispered, not possessive but reverent. It wasn't a claim. It was a promise.
You lie back on the bed, your breath catching as Bucky's warm hands roam over your body. He starts by gently massaging your inner thighs, his fingers tracing circles that send waves of desire coursing through you. His touch is like a flame, igniting your desire and stoking the fire that burns within you.
"You're so beautiful," Bucky whispers, his voice laced with longing. He leans down to place soft kisses along your neck, his fingers venturing closer to your core.
Your body reacts instinctively, arching towards his touch. "Bucky," you moan softly, your voice betraying the pleasure that courses through your veins.
His fingers slip between your thighs, delving into your wet heat. He explores you with a slow and deliberate pace, each movement designed to drive you wild. Your hips buck against his hand, seeking more of his tantalizing touch.
"Tell me what you want," Bucky murmurs, his blue eyes locked on yours as he teases your sensitive flesh.
"I want you," you reply breathlessly, reaching for him. Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as you guide his head towards your aching core.
He obliges with a lustful grin, his lips and tongue working in tandem to devour you. His mouth is a skilled instrument, drawing forth waves of pleasure with each flick and lap. Your body writhes beneath him, lost in the sensations he evokes within you.
As the pleasure builds to an unbearable crescendo, Bucky positions himself between your legs. His throbbing erection hovers at your entrance, teasing the edge before slowly sinking into you. The fullness is overwhelming, stretching and filling you in a way that only he can.
He begins to move, setting a rhythm that matches the pounding of your hearts. Each thrust drives you closer to the edge, the tension coiling tighter within you. Your nails dig into his back, leaving trails of red as you cling to him.
"Bucky..." You moan out his name as you teeter on the brink of release. Your walls clench around him, pulling him deeper into your heat.
His movements become more frantic, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. With a final, powerful thrust, you both reach your climax. Waves of pleasure crash over you as you come undone beneath him.
Bucky moans, too, finishing with you. He gently thrusts a few more times, riding out his high. Then he pulls out and lies next to you, breathing heavy as he pulls you close.
"Still grumpy?" you teased softly.
He gave a low chuckle, pressing a kiss to your hair. "Always. But you make it easier."
The kitchen was loud with clattering forks, the smell of eggs and coffee heavy in the air. Yelena sat at one end of the long table, picking at her plate, her sharp eyes scanning the room. Walker and Ava were arguing over something stupid about who'd carried more weight in the mission, and Bob was trying—and failing—to tell a joke that nobody wanted to hear.
You slipped into the room a few minutes before Bucky, sliding into the seat beside Ava with a warm smile. You greeted her casually, poured yourself some coffee, and tried to keep your heart rate steady.
It was all going according to plan. Until Yelena leaned forward, eyes fixed on you like a predator spotting a rabbit.
"I knocked on your door this morning," she said, her voice deceptively casual. "But you weren't there."
The room went quiet. Forks froze halfway to mouths. Even Walker stopped arguing, looking between the two of you with a raised brow.
You blinked at her, tilting your head as though surprised. "Oh? When?"
"Early," Yelena replied, her accent curling sharp around the word. "I wanted to ask you something. But no answer. Where were you?"
Your pulse jumped, but you forced a sleepy smile, wrapping both hands around your coffee mug for warmth. "I must have been in the shower. Didn't hear you."
Yelena's gaze narrowed slightly, like she was testing the weight of your words. "A long shower, then."
Before you could reply, footsteps echoed against the tile. Bucky walked in, hair damp from his own quick shower, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie. He glanced around the table, then grabbed a plate and sat heavily across from you, muttering something about the eggs being cold.
Yelena's eyes slid from you to him, sharp as a blade. She didn't say anything—not yet—but the corners of her mouth tugged into a knowing smirk.
"Next time," she said softly, almost too soft for the others to catch, "I will knock louder."
Walker frowned, confused. "What the hell does that mean?"
"Nothing," Yelena replied smoothly, spearing a bite of eggs. "Just girl talk."
But her gaze lingered on you a beat longer, then flicked to Bucky—catching, just for a second, the way his jaw had tightened.
Later that morning, after breakfast had broken up and the others scattered through the tower, you slipped back toward Bucky's quarters. He was already waiting inside, pacing like a caged animal, his hands raking through his hair.
The door shut behind you with a quiet click.
"Doll—" His voice was low, a growl edged with frustration. "You've got to be more careful."
Your brows lifted. "Me? James, you're the one who nearly gave us away with that jaw clench across the table."
He scowled, crossing his arms over his chest. "I didn't—" He stopped, exhaling sharply. "Okay, maybe I did. But Yelena was already sniffing around, and then she pulled that stunt in front of everyone..."
You stepped closer, reaching up to touch his arm. "She's just testing us. And we didn't break, did we?"
Bucky muttered something under his breath, grumbling like he always did when he knew you were right. His eyes softened slightly when they met yours, but the worry was still there, etched into the lines of his face.
"She's too damn smart," he said finally. "She notices things the others don't. The way I look at you... the way you—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "One slip and it's over."
You gave him a small smile, brushing your thumb along the seam of his hoodie. "It's not over, James. It's us. And we've hidden bigger things before."
He let out a low chuckle, humorless, and pulled you into his chest. His arms tightened around you, his chin resting in your hair. "Doesn't mean I like it. I hate having to pretend like you're not mine in front of them."
"They have to find out soon anyway, before my husband comes home in a few weeks from his business trip." You laugh lightly.
That finally tugged a small smile from him, a real one, rare and fleeting. He pressed a kiss against your temple. "That is a little funny, having him 'come for dinner' and it's just me."
For a moment, the world outside—the suspicion, the secrets, the games—faded. It was just him, his warmth, and the quiet steadiness of being held by Bucky Barnes.
The common room smelled faintly of coffee and bacon, sunlight slanting across the table where the team had gathered for breakfast. Bucky was slouched on the couch, arms crossed, half-lidded eyes tracking you as you poured yourself a cup of coffee.
You quipped lightly as you reached for the sugar, "Careful, Barnes. You might spill all that brooding before breakfast."
He let out a low, almost inaudible snort, and then... a small, genuine smile tugged at his lips.
The team froze. Forks hovered mid-air. Bob blinked. John's orange juice paused halfway to his mouth. Ava leaned forward, eyebrows shooting up.
"Wait... did he just—smile?" Walker asked, dumbfounded.
Bob shook his head. "He's flirting. With a married woman!"
Bucky's grin faltered into a half-scowl, but he didn't deny it. Instead, his gaze softened as it landed back on you. "I don't flirt," he muttered under his breath.
Yelena, lounging across the table, leaned forward, eyes sharp. "Shall we talk about your husband? Or the wedding?" Her tone was casual, but her gaze pierced. "Where did you get married? What did you wear?"
You set your coffee down, keeping your expression neutral. "He's a soldier," you said evenly. "Not around much, but we make it work."
The team stared, their disbelief palpable. Bob almost choked on his cereal. John muttered something under his breath. Ava leaned back, shaking her head in wonder.
"And the wedding?" Yelena pressed.
"Liberty Warehouse in Brooklyn," you said softly, letting a trace of warmth creep into your voice. "There were lots of people there—friends, family. He wore a black tux. I wore a pink dress. We had music we loved, people we loved, food we loved. My husband is a big dancer so we did a lot of that. It was really perfect for us."
Yelena hummed thoughtfully. "Busy soldier husband, big wedding, lots of people... clever."
Your apartment was nothing like the Tower. Where the compound was sleek, modern, and impersonal, your space was bright and lived-in, bursting with color and warmth. Sunlight spilled across the hardwood floors, catching the leaves of trailing vines that hung from shelves and clay pots perched on the windowsills. Pillows and throws in mismatched colors were scattered across the couch, and framed photos lined the walls in an intentionally chaotic collage: some tilted slightly, some large and some small, all telling the story of a life well-loved.
Bucky lingered there, drawn to one particular cluster of frames. His eyes traced over the wedding photos: mismatched frames filled with frozen laughter, bright lights, soft touches, and stolen glances. His chest tightened in a way he couldn't explain.
He didn't hear you approach until your hand brushed lightly over his back, grounding him. You pressed your head against his shoulder, following his gaze.
"Lost in thought?" you asked softly.
He huffed, but didn't pull away. "Just... remembering."
The picture in the center of the collage was of the ceremony itself. The Liberty Warehouse in Brooklyn stretched out over the water, the red brick patio dressed with rows of white chairs. Overhead, strands of string lights cut across the open air, bulbs glowing faintly against the fading daylight. A wooden chuppah stood at the edge of the pier, draped in sheer fabric and twined with vines and yellow flowers. Beyond it, the harbor opened wide, the Statue of Liberty watching from a distance as if she'd been invited herself.
You tilted your head, smiling faintly. "It was a short ceremony," you said, your voice softened by nostalgia. "Exactly how we wanted it. Straight to the fun."
"You wore that pink dress," Bucky said, lips curving at the memory. "All soft and glittery. Thought you were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen."
You nudged him gently. "You weren't bad yourself. Black tux, sharp as hell... but you had the pink pocket square. That made me cry."
He smirked, eyes flicking to yours. "That was the goal."
You chuckled, then grew quiet as your eyes found another frame. "We didn't even get five minutes before we snuck away," you whispered, recalling the way his hand had stolen yours that night, tugging you into the shadows of the warehouse to steal a moment just for the two of you. "We just wanted to be alone... to celebrate that we were finally husband and wife."
Bucky swallowed, his throat tight. "Worth every second."
The collage told more stories, and together you began to relive them.
"Sam," Bucky muttered, half a laugh escaping. "Man couldn't shut up about being best man. Said he was the best damn choice I'd ever made in my life."
"He was right," you teased.
His eyes softened then, landing on a smaller photo of the front row. A single chair sat empty, a picture of Steve resting on the seat, a tiny tea candle flickering in front of it. Bucky didn't say anything for a long moment, just let the memory pass between you in the silence.
You broke it gently. "He was there in spirit. And I swear... the way the candle didn't go out all night? That was him."
Bucky nodded, jaw tightening before he exhaled. "Yeah. That was him."
The rest of the night had been chaos—music, laughter, voices calling your names from every corner. You had danced until your feet ached, twirling through both modern songs you'd picked together and the old 40s tunes that always pulled Bucky back to a time when life had been simpler. For him, it was nostalgia; for you, it was a way of holding on to every version of him, past and present. Between the greetings and congratulations, you stole quick kisses, whispered I love yous, and laughed at the strange rhythm of it all.
"It wasn't perfect," you said quietly, "but it was perfect for us."
Bucky smiled, leaning down to brush his lips against your temple. "Yeah. Ours. That's what mattered."
The memory didn't end with the last song, though. That night had carried over into your hotel room, where the laughter and music faded into something slower, deeper, more intimate. Where you celebrated in the most private way a husband and wife could.
You slipped your arm around his waist, grounding him in both the memory and the present. "Still the best night of my life," you whispered.
Bucky let himself smile, soft and rare. "Mine too, doll. Mine too."
The kitchen smelled of roasted peppers and cumin, steam rising from the skillet as you carried tray after tray to the table. The Thunderbolts were loud already—chairs scraping, voices overlapping, Walker bitching like always.
"HYDRA again," Ava said, rolling her eyes as she tore into a tortilla chip. "Feels like the universe has run out of villains and is recycling the leftovers."
"Yeah, leftovers that bite back," Walker muttered. "You knock one down and two more pop up. It's like they breed."
"Disgusting visual," Bob said flatly, nursing his beer.
Ava grinned. "Better than your contribution, which is always 'doom and gloom.'"
The banter bounced around the table, but at the far end, Bucky sat quieter, rolling his dog tags between his fingers. The metal clicked softly against his palm, the movement quick and restless. You noticed—of course you did. You always noticed.
You set down a tray in front of him, brushing your fingers across his shoulder in a quick squeeze. His dog tags stilled, his shoulders loosening just enough to show he'd felt it.
That was when Yelena's eyes snapped up, catching everything.
She leaned back in her chair, chewing slowly, her gaze sharp as a blade. "Funny," she said, her accent curling around the word.
Walker squinted at her. "What's funny?"
"You." She gestured between you and Bucky with her fork. "Our medic here knows exactly how to calm Soldier Boy when he starts rattling his chains. Very attentive, hm?"
Ava raised her brows, glancing between you two with open curiosity. Walker smirked. "Hold up. Is Barnes actually flirting with a married woman? Tell me I'm not hallucinating."
Your cheeks heated, but before you could speak, Yelena pressed harder. "So, tell us, what is he like? This husband of yours. Must be very understanding." Her eyes cut to Bucky as she said it, daring him to flinch.
You set the last plate down, carefully keeping your voice steady. "I told you already. He's a soldier. Doesn't get to be around much."
"Mm." Yelena twirled her fork, unimpressed. "And tell us again about this wedding. Where was it again?"
"The Liberty Warehouse," you answered, smoothing your napkin onto your lap.
Yelena tilted her head, studying you like a cat with cornered prey. "Let me guess—white, long veil, traditional vows?"
"Not at all," you said, smiling softly despite the knot in your chest. "It was a pink dress. Short ceremony, lots of dancing."
Walker barked a laugh. "Pink? Damn, Barnes, you hearing this? Guy's wife is way out of your league."
Bucky smirked just faintly, shaking his head. "Yeah. I've heard that before."
Ava narrowed her eyes, suspicion sparking. Yelena didn't let up either, her grin sharp. "And the music? The flowers? The cake?"
You chuckled, trying to deflect. "You sure you don't want to see the photo album while you're at it?"
"Oh, I do," Yelena said sweetly, but her eyes were cold.
The tension at the table was so thick it could be cut with one of Bucky's knives. Everyone's food sat cooling on their plates, untouched, as Yelena leaned forward with that foxlike smile.
"And the cake?" she pressed, her fork clinking against her plate. "You skipped that part."
Your lips parted, but before you could answer, Bucky's hand slammed down on the table. Silverware rattled, Walker cursed, Bob jumped so hard his drink sloshed.
"Enough," Bucky growled, his voice low and sharp.
The room went dead silent.
Yelena didn't flinch, only arched an eyebrow. "What, did I hit a nerve?"
Bucky's jaw worked, his metal hand curling tight against the wood. For a second, he seemed to wrestle with himself, like he could still drag the secret back into the shadows. But then his flesh hand dropped to the chain at his throat, tugging the dog tags out from underneath his shirt where everyone could see.
The tags swung once, clinking together—except they weren't alone.
There, threaded beside the scratched metal, glinted a simple gold band.
The air shifted instantly.
Walker blinked. "Wait. Hold up—" He pointed like he'd just spotted Bigfoot. "That's not just dog tags."
Ava's eyes widened, darting between the ring and Bucky's stony face. "No. Way."
Bob's mouth fell open. "You've been—this whole time—"
Yelena leaned back in her chair, lips curling in triumph. "Ha. I knew it."
Alexei laughs loudly, "Wonderful news!"
You swallowed hard, your heart thundering in your chest. But Bucky beat you to it, his voice rough but certain as he looked across the table—not at them, but at you.
"She's not married to some guy in New York," he said. "She's married to me."
The silence broke in a rush.
Walker threw his hands up. "You've gotta be kidding me. Barnes? Mister sunshine-and-rainbows himself?"
Ava laughed, sharp and disbelieving. "All those looks, all the flirting—oh my god, it makes sense now."
Bob sputtered. "You mean—you've been sneaking around under our noses like teenagers?"
Yelena only smirked, pleased as a cat with cream. "Finally. Now I can sleep at night."
You wanted to melt into the floor, but Bucky kept his eyes steady on you, his thumb brushing over the ring on the chain before tucking it back against his chest.
"Yeah," he said simply, almost daring them to argue. "She's my wife. And I'm not sorry about it."
For a long moment, no one said anything. The words She's my wife still hung in the air, suspended above the table like smoke.
Then Walker barked out a laugh. "Alright. No, seriously. Who put you up to this? Barnes doesn't date. Let alone—" he gestured at you, incredulous, "get married."
Bob leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Wait—you expect us to believe that she—" he waved his fork in your direction, "fell for you? Mister doom-and-gloom? How the hell did that happen?"
Ava smirked, crossing her arms. "Yeah, explain this. Because I have seen you brood at walls for hours, Barnes. Hard to imagine anyone voluntarily signing up for a lifetime of that."
"I love the idea that her husband loves dancing... her husband being Barnes," Walker added, laughing and surprised all at once.
Bucky growled under his breath, but you reached over and rested your hand on his arm. His shoulders dropped just a fraction. You lifted your chin, meeting the team's curious stares head-on.
"We met at the restaurant I was working at," you said simply.
They leaned in as if you'd just dropped the opening line of a thriller.
Walker snorted. "Barnes? In a restaurant? That alone is suspicious."
But your gaze softened as the memory unfolded in your mind.
It had been a quiet night. The dinner rush was over, and the last of the customers were filtering out into the Brooklyn night. You were tired, hair pulled up, apron dusted with flour and grease stains you'd given up trying to scrub out. That was when he walked in.
At first, you didn't recognize him for who he was—the Bucky Barnes, the Winter Soldier, the ghost of a hundred history books. To you, he was just a man who looked like he hadn't smiled in a long time. He sat down at the counter and ordered a coffee, low voice rasping like gravel. You poured it, tried a little joke about how strong he wanted it. To your surprise, the corner of his mouth twitched.
You talked as you worked, cleaning up the counters, restocking silverware. It was small talk at first, but there was something about the way his eyes lingered on you—not sharp and guarded, like the man he was known to be, but curious. Almost... hopeful. You told him your shift would end around ten. He didn't say much then, only nodded, finished his coffee, and left.
But at ten-oh-five, when you walked out the door with your jacket slung over your arm, there he was. Leaning against the brick wall, hands shoved in his pockets like he wasn't sure if he belonged there. You stopped, startled. He looked up at you and said, "Buy you a drink?"
The bar was small, dimly lit, tucked away on a corner that tourists didn't bother with. You both ordered beers, and for hours you talked. Not about missions, not about his past, not about the name that followed him everywhere. Just... life. Favorite songs. How you hated the smell of bleach in the morning. How he liked the sound of the subway because it made the city feel alive. The longer you talked, the more the weight seemed to slip off his shoulders. By the end of the night, you realized he'd smiled more than once. And each time, it made your heart flip.
You came back to yourself, smiling faintly at the memory. "That's how it started. A coffee, a couple beers, and a lot of talking."
"Wait—" Walker slapped the table. "Barnes flirted in public? With strangers around?"
"That's impossible," Bob agreed. "The man doesn't even flirt with us, and we're irresistible."
Ava pointed a fork at Bucky, eyes narrowing. "You actually went back to meet her? Same night? Barnes, that's practically romantic comedy behavior."
Bucky muttered something under his breath that sounded like "shut up," his ears pinking.
Yelena leaned in, her tone softer now but still probing. "So... what then? He just charmed you with brooding silence? Because, I have to admit, I'm still not seeing it."
You smiled gently, your hand brushing Bucky's arm again. "There are parts of him that are just for me. That's all I'll say about that. But I love him very much."
The warmth in your tone silenced the table. Even Yelena didn't have a retort right away.
Bucky ducked his head, a quiet flush creeping into his cheeks. He reached for your hand under the table, squeezing once, and for the first time in front of the Thunderbolts, he didn't pull away.
The tower had finally quieted. The laughter, the teasing, the shock of the Thunderbolts learning the truth had all dissolved into the hush of midnight. The city outside hummed with life, but in your apartment, it was only you and him.
Bucky sat on the couch, elbows on his knees, dog tags slipping through his fingers. The chain caught the light, and you could see the faint glint of his wedding band threaded between them. He hadn't tucked it back under his shirt yet.
You leaned against the doorway, watching him for a moment before speaking. "You know," you said softly, "I always thought it'd be me who slipped first. I never imagined you would be the one to tell them."
He huffed out a dry laugh, shaking his head. "Neither did I." His thumb rolled over the edge of the ring again, back and forth. "Guess I just... couldn't do it anymore. Listening to the grilling and you talking about your husband like it isn't literally me."
You crossed the room, sliding onto the couch beside him. He immediately leaned into you, his weight heavy, grounding, as though he could finally rest.
"So," you murmured, tilting your head to look at him, "how do you feel now that everyone knows?"
For a long moment, he didn't answer. Then he exhaled, deep and shaky, and turned his head toward you. His blue eyes caught the lamplight, open in a way that still startled you sometimes.
"Relieved," he admitted. "So relieved. For once in my life, I don't have to hide the best thing that ever happened to me. They can laugh, they can tease—hell, Walker can choke on his disbelief for all I care. Doesn't matter. Because they know now. They know I've got you."
Your throat tightened, and you reached up to cup his cheek. "James," you whispered, letting the name settle in the air between you. His eyes softened at it, his hand coming up to hold yours in place.
"I love you," you said simply.
He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours, voice low and rough. "I love you too. More than I thought I could love anything again."
A small smile curved your lips. You traced your thumb over his stubble, memorizing the warmth of the moment. "I can't wait to love you out loud."
Bucky closed his eyes, breathing that in like a promise. Then he kissed you—slow, tender, lingering, as if sealing the words into forever.
And for the first time in a long time, James Buchanan Barnes let himself believe he deserved this kind of peace.
