Bucky and reader match on a dating app. He’s the first guy in forever that reader is excited about and they spend a few days chatting. She thinks it’s going great but then Bucky gets in his head and panics and ghosts her. Fast forward a few months and reader is working as a nurse in the ER when Bucky is brought in for stitches or something. She recognizes him instantly and is mortified, but THEN WHAT, KENNEDY?!
this hurt my soul tf
--------
You match with him on a random Monday night.
You almost swipe past him.
His profile is simple—too simple, honestly. No shirtless gym selfies. No fish. Just one slightly awkward photo of him in a henley, hair a little too long, looking like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Bio reads:
James. 106. Old-fashioned. Coffee > bars.
Don’t waste my time, I won’t waste yours.
You snort at the 106 thing. Swipe right anyway.
It’s a match instantly.
He messages first.
James:
“Hi. I’m not very good at this.”
You grin at your phone like an idiot.
You spend hours that first night talking. Then the next. Then the next. He’s dry in that sarcastic way that makes you laugh out loud in bed at midnight. He asks actual questions. Remembers your answers. Sends you a photo of the coffee shop he swears has the best cannoli in the city. Tells you about his “weird job with weird hours” without getting specific.
You find yourself checking your phone at work.
Smiling for no reason.
Telling your coworkers, “No, he’s actually different.”
He asks if you’d want to meet up. You type yes before he can second guess it. He suggests Saturday. You pick the coffee shop.
Friday night he sends, “Looking forward to tomorrow.”
You go to bed excited in a way you haven’t been in years.
And then Saturday morning?
Nothing.
You send a casual “Still on for today?” around ten.
It stays on delivered.
By noon you know.
By three you’ve deleted the thread.
By Sunday you’ve convinced yourself you were stupid for getting your hopes up.
You don’t cry. You’re too used to disappointment for that. But something about him lingers. The way he’d typed slow and careful. The way he’d said he didn’t waste time.
Apparently he did.
Months pass.
You stop checking your phone.
You stop thinking about James.
Mostly.
---
The ER is chaos the night he walks back into your life.
You’re three hours into a twelve-hour shift. There’s a drunk college kid vomiting in triage and someone in bay four screaming about a possible fracture. You’re gloved up, hair in a messy bun, scrubs wrinkled and coffee-stained.
“Incoming,” someone calls. “Laceration. Bar fight.”
You roll your eyes. Of course it is.
The gurney wheels in and you’re already reaching for gauze when you look up.
And your entire body goes still.
It’s him.
Same hair. A little shorter now. Same eyes—startling blue. Same stupidly handsome face.
Except there’s blood dripping down from his eyebrow and his lip is split open.
He looks dazed. Irritated. Sexy in a reckless way that makes your stomach flip against your will.
Then his eyes focus.
They land on you.
And widen.
You feel heat crawl up your neck.
Mortification hits you like a truck.
Of all the ERs in the city.
Of all the nurses on shift.
He gets you.
You swallow hard, professional mask snapping into place. “What happened?”
His voice is rough. Lower than you remember through text.
“Guy had bad aim.”
You nod curtly. “Sit still.”
You clean the blood with steady hands even though your pulse is racing. He’s solid beneath your touch. Warm. Real. Not a ghost in your inbox.
He doesn’t look away from you.
Not once.
“You’re a nurse,” he says quietly.
You don’t answer that.
You inject the local anesthetic near his eyebrow. “This will sting.”
He doesn’t flinch.
Of course he doesn’t.
The silence stretches.
You tie the first stitch.
“You ghosted me,” you hear yourself say.
You don’t know why you say it. Maybe because months of embarrassment deserve to be acknowledged. Maybe because seeing him like this cracks something open.
His jaw tightens.
“I know.”
Oh.
You weren’t expecting that.
You tie another stitch. “That was… kind of a dick move.”
“Yeah.” No defensiveness. No excuse. Just quiet agreement.
You risk a glance up.
He looks ashamed.
Not annoyed. Not dismissive.
Ashamed.
You set your instruments down. “Why?”
He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. His hands flex against his thighs like he’s bracing for impact.
“I panicked.”
You blink. “About… coffee?”
A humorless huff leaves him. “About wanting it too much.”
That knocks the air from your lungs more effectively than any punch.
He keeps going, words slow and deliberate like they cost him something.
“I haven’t dated in a long time. Thought I could. Thought I was ready.” His eyes lift to yours, raw. “You were the first person in years I was actually excited to meet. And that scared the hell out of me.”
Your heart stutters traitorously.
“So you just… disappeared?” you whisper.
He nods once. “Didn’t think I’d be good for you.”
“That wasn’t your decision to make.”
“I know that now.”
The ER noise fades into background static. It’s just you and him and the faint antiseptic smell between you.
You finish the final stitch. Snip the thread. Clean the area gently.
“You could’ve just said that,” you murmur. “You could’ve told me you were scared.”
His voice softens. “Didn’t think you’d understand.”
You give him a pointed look. “I work in an ER. I’ve seen worse than emotional vulnerability.”
That actually makes him smile. Small. Careful. But real.
It does something dangerous to your insides.
You step back, peeling off your gloves. “Three stitches. Keep it clean. Come back if it opens.”
He slides off the gurney slowly, like he’s hesitant to leave.
There’s a beat.
Then he says, “I thought about you.”
Your pulse jumps.
“You don’t get to say that casually,” you warn.
“I’m not.” He steps closer. Not enough to crowd you. Just enough that you feel his warmth. “I tried not to. But I did. Every time I passed that coffee shop.”
You hate that your eyes sting.
“I almost showed up anyway,” he continues. “Sat in my truck for twenty minutes. Couldn’t do it.”
You search his face for insincerity.
You don’t find any.
“What changed?” you ask quietly.
He gestures vaguely at his stitched eyebrow. “Got tired of running from things.”
You fold your arms, protecting yourself. “And what? You get punched in a bar and decide that means you’re suddenly emotionally available?”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Something like that.”
You shake your head, but you’re smiling despite yourself. Damn him.
“I’m not that girl,” you say softly. “I’m not the one who waits around hoping the guy who ghosted her had a good reason.”
“I’m not asking you to,” he replies immediately. “Just asking for a second chance.”
You study him for a long moment.
This isn’t texting at midnight. This is real. Messy. Vulnerable. Stitches and antiseptic and heartbeats.
You sigh.
“There’s a coffee shop,” you say carefully, “that claims to have the best cannoli in the city.”
His breath catches. “Yeah?”
“You owe me one.”
Relief floods his face so openly it almost makes you laugh.
“Saturday?” he asks.
You pretend to consider it.
“Text me,” you say. “And don’t disappear.”
His gaze is steady now. Certain.
“I won’t.”
As he walks out of the ER, hand pressed lightly to his bandage, you realize something terrifying.
i see grey hair, and children that look like you | bucky barnes x reader
AO3 | Word Count: 2.8k
Bucky is at a desperate crossroads. The life he is leading is unsustainable and any sense of purpose or direction still eludes him. When he enters The Void, he is resigned to his fate. But what if, instead of just seeing his nightmares…he also catches a glimpse of his future?
Tags: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Canon Divergence, Time Travel, Domestic Fluff, Married Couple, Slice of Life, Married Life, The Void Shame Rooms, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Thunderbolts!Bucky
Memories plague his senses one after the other.
Of torture. Of demons. Of iron on his tongue and fury crowding his lungs. Bucky charges through them all like a bull.
But he lands in a room he doesn’t recall. His former self is nowhere to be found.
A bedroom. The bed is made, more pillows than blankets. Piled on top of the blues and seafoam greens of the comforter, the fabric lays wrinkled like it knows it will just be mussed again in a handful of hours. Matching bedside tables flank the headboard, littered with personal effects and a novel each, one in near perfect condition, the other weathered and worn with its cover detaching at the spine.
There are photographs. Some faces he knows, some he can’t identify. He finds himself in many. Candids he doesn’t remember being taken. Achievements he has yet to attain. In the centre of them all, wearing a tuxedo, holding a woman draped in white. Hair shorter, grayer, his beard more salt than pepper. His smile lines deeper.
The space is tidy, but lived in. A sock or two left on the rug from a missed toss to the hamper, the closet door left slightly ajar. The rocking chair in the corner with the handmade blanket draped over the back still smells of pine, a bassinet tucked close to the side of the bed. The top of a dresser pushed against the far wall has mostly been converted into a changing table, diapers and wipes stacked next to a jewelry box and some fragrances.
A perfume bottle sits next to his usual cologne.
Bucky tears open the drapes and recognizes nothing of what he sees. A backyard on a rolling hill that sweeps down to an inlet, water sparkling where it laps lazily against the rocky shore. Garden boxes overflowing with flowers, sweet potato vines spilling over the edges, their bright green heart-shaped foliage bringing the world outside further into technicolor. If he craned his neck, he could just see the arm of a porch swing, just hear the chains creaking in the gentle breeze and the wind-chimes hanging from the rafters.
Not a soul in sight. Just the silence of open land and old bones.
Until he hears a voice.
A soft humming coming from somewhere else in the house.
The words are muffled, the accent one he can’t quite place. It’s a voice he swears he’s never heard before, but it settles into his bones like it belongs there, his pounding heart rate slowing to near-resting.
The sound draws closer with the groan of the floorboards until it is right on the other side of the door and he freezes, head snapping to watch as the brass knob turns and the woman from the photographs materializes in front of him.
Bucky’s heart hasn’t skipped a beat like that since 1942.
She wears faded blue jeans and a ratty old t-shirt with a baby nestled into her hip, barefaced and hair messy. There are bags under her eyes, but she smiles brightly.
She is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.
“Oh, honey! You startled me! You must have snuck past, I didn’t even hear you come in!” She slips past him into the bedroom, and as she does, places a kiss on his stunned shoulder. “I had no idea you had a half-day today. I would have booked us a sitter…” She was talking more to herself than to him as she dug through one of the drawers of the dresser, paying no mind to the gaping hole in the drywall where he had crashed through, pulling out another old shirt that looked suspiciously like one in his wardrobe at home.
Her bare feet planted, Bucky follows with his eyes as she looks him over from head to toe and back again, then sets the baby in the cradle and rounds the bed to the ensuite bathroom. “Keep an eye on her for a minute, please? Just going to change, that girl’s spit-up is no joke.”
And she vanishes again behind the rumble of a barn door, like all of the skeletons he kept locked away so tightly hadn’t just been ripped from the closet moments before.
She reemerges in seconds, hair loose and…yup, that is definitely his shirt. “Well, this is a treat. You look weary, love. It’s good you’re taking a break. I just put a fresh pot of coffee on, so you have perfect timing. Isn’t that right, little one?” she coos, tracing her pointer finger down the bridge of the baby’s nose before scooping her up again and resting her against her clavicle.
Against his better judgement, Bucky follows her like a rip current down the picture-lined hall, through a door that leads, not into another nightmare, but further into the house.
“I hope Bob didn’t give you too much trouble trying to get here,” she rambles, rounding the kitchen island and pouring a cup of coffee onehanded. “He’s a really sweet boy. Still got some things to work through, I think, but he has a good heart. They all do.”
Bucky blanches. “…How do you know about that?”His fingernails bite into his palm, shoulders creeping up toward his ears.
Her mouth curls into a lowercase ‘o’ in a flash of panic. “It’s alright, James. You’re safe here. This isn’t one of your bad memories.”
“No, this…This isn’t my memory at all, it’s…”he breathes. “I’m not supposed to be here. I’m sorry, but I don’t know you.”
She just smiles expectantly. “You will someday. Not long now.” She presses the mug into his palms, prying open his clenched fingers and wrapping them one after the other over the porcelain. Bucky’s brow tightens. It was made just like he always drank it: a heap of sugar and just a dribble of cream.
Bucky looks down at his trembling hands for the first time since he got here. Really looks. The skin around his fingernails isn’t inflamed and peeling where he usually picks at them from the compounding stress. His knuckles aren’t bruised or cracking. Etched right into the vibranium is a wide gold band that’s new, tucked up against the joint of his fourth finger.
“Those…The pictures…This can’t...”
A gust of wind in his general direction could have bowled him over as the pieces come together. Bucky braces himself on the closest chair back. His head swims, heartbeat in his ears and thoughts dying on his tongue. He shakes his head, drilling his eyes shut to make sense of what he is seeing, whether it would all disappear when he opens them.
It doesn’t.
A hand finds hold of his wrist. Featherlight. Steadying. He can feel her pulse hammering through her fingertips.
“Breathe, James,” she appeases. “Come sit down, alright? I’ll explain. Answer as many questions as you have.”
She manages to coax him into the open living room and places the infant into a baby swing, colourful rings and things dangling from the top bar. The little girl snuggles into the cushion beneath her without a fuss and shakes her soft toy contentedly, cooing to herself as it rattles in her miniature fist. The woman then settles at the far end of the couch with her legs tucked beneath her, inviting but granting him distance.
Bucky still hesitates.
The sofa looks like it will swallow him whole, the cushions plush and deep. Another blanket is bundled in a heap on the armrest (there were blankets everywhere in this house it seemed). He reaches out to run the fringed edge between his fingers.
“This is all very strange, I know,” she breaks the silence. “We’re not sure how this happened, just that it did. It took you a long time to believe even that much. I wish I had a more satisfying answer for you. Bob is still getting a handle on his powers, but even now he has no idea.”
Finally. The first thing she’s said that’s made any sense. Bucky tries to rationalize it, but he’s grasping at straws. Time travel is not a new concept to him. He knows the consequences, that the past can change the future. Knowing too much alters the course of history or leaves it shattered in its wake. One small deviation and the world shifts on its axis. His head spins instead.
“There’s probably nothing I can say that will prove it to you, but you are supposed to be here, James. I was starting to wonder when you’d come around, but time’s been a little relative to me these days. Jamie asked me not to spook you when you arrived, though I think I kind of failed at that. It took me a second to realize that you weren’t…you.”
Jamie. He’s hung up on that. Nobody has called him that name in decades, and he can’t help but like the way it sounds when she says it.
“You knew I was coming?”
“Eventually. You and I talked about it not long after we met; what you saw, what it changed for you. Could never pin down what the date was so it was always going to be a waiting game, but I’m glad you’re here now. You look like you could use something peaceful.”
He continues to tread carefully. “Where is this?”
“Our house. Upstate New York. We bought this old fixer-upper on the bay and did all the fixing ourselves. Well, mainly you. I picked paint colours, watched you tear down walls and told you when you screwed cabinet doors on upside-down.”
The room they occupy has a wide bay window that spans almost from floor to ceiling, flooding the space with light. Houseplants thrive in every corner, nook and cranny. A cat tree is set up overlooking the front yard, a fluffy white tail swishing over the edge of the highest perch, unfazed by whoever this strange visitor is in the feline’s house. Bookcases are built into one wall, filled with sci-fi and fantasy and romance novels. More photos are displayed in small frames dotted across the shelving, between alphabetized authors and mementos. His turntable, the only real luxury he owns in his bare-bones DC apartment, sits proud on its shelf, worn by years of use but otherwise exactly the same. A collection of vinyls he could only dream of occupies its own shelf below.
“You built those bookshelves from scratch. I always tell people that we were sold on the house when we saw that wall because it was the perfect place for them, where we could start our library. Felt like we looked at dozens of houses but this place just felt right. Perfectly imperfect.”
“I’m reading again?”
“When you have the time. Right over there,” she points with her sightline to an armchair with a floor lamp curving over it, “with a cup of tea and your little old man reading glasses.”
Bucky huffs out a laugh through the fog.
Oh, her smile. “It’s a good life. Quiet. Your favourite thing to do is take a nap on the couch in the sun with the baby scrunched up on your chest. I want to say that we sleep through the night, but that’s kind of changed as of late. We smile. Laugh a lot.” The list keeps growing. Going to farmers markets on the weekends. Board game nights. Beach days in the summertime. “We try a new recipe every week for dinner and dance in the kitchen. I still step on your toes sometimes. We’re working on finishing the nursery for when this big girl grows out of her bassinet.”
“What’s her name?” he nearly pleads, voice so soft.
“That would ruin the surprise, Bucky!”
“How old is she, then?”
The woman absolutely illuminates with pride. “Almost 3 months now. Runs this whole house. You cried when you held her for the first time. She’s had you wrapped around her finger from the day she was born.”
“…Wasn’t sure if…they did something to me. Never knew if I’d even be able to have kids.”
“Neither did I. She’s our little miracle.”
His daughter’s bright blue, undeniably-Barnes eyes peer up at him without an ounce of fear for the man crusted in dirt and dust. Bucky doesn’t need to know her name to know that he’ll adore her, can’t take his eyes off of her. Something so small, so fragile, yet trusts him completely. To his daughter, he isn’t a soldier or a vigilante. He’ll just be Dad, when the only thing he’ll have to fight is the monster under the bed.
Bucky swears he sees her smile at him, and his ribs cave in.
“She just started doing that last week. All gums, smiling up atcha like you’re her whole world. I hope she never grows out of that.”
Neither does he.
Bucky marvels in it, this place, this safe haven that he had supposedly helped build, helped make warm and comforting and whole. Someone wanted him. For all the hurdles he crossed, all the evils he fought, someone saw this shell of a man and chose him. Built a life with him. Had a child with him.
But the more he looks around, he sombers. Shrinks.
“Hey, I know that look. What is it, James?”
“…I feel like I don’t deserve this.”
“Hey, none of that. You’re wrong. You have earned this and so, so much more, but for now this is what makes you happy. I’ll remind you as many times as you need me to.”
Tears begins to leech into his five-o’clock shadow as his shoulders begin to quiver.
This woman, this incredible woman, had been trying to keep her distance not to spook him. He saw how her fingers twitched, how she wanted to reach out and stopped herself. This time she couldn’t. The couch cushion to his side sinks as she gathers him in her arms.
And he lets her.
Bucky lets out a whimper like a wounded animal into her neck, his hands finding solace loosely on her hips. “I want to stay,” he whispers, any louder and his voice would begin to crackle. “I want to hit fast-forward. It’s selfish, I know, but I’ve spent so many nights wishin’ for a life like this.”
Her hold tightens around him. “And I would let you stay here forever if I could. You’ll have the rest of your life to enjoy this, but I can’t keep you right now. Your ragtag team of hellions still needs you. Yelena would never forgive me.”
He turns away from her, cheek pressed into her shoulder so she can’t see the contorted expression he makes to prevent a sob from leeching out, nose scrunched and teeth gritted, his hair falling into his face.
“You have more memories to go through to get to the others. Be brave, just a little longer.”
Bucky wants to get on his knees, to beg, plead and pray to any god he could conjure that this would in fact be real someday, that his life would turn out just like this. That all the pain, suffering, blood and sweat wouldn’t have been for naught. “What do I have to do to see you again? To make it real?” he croaks.
“Look at me, James.” She is so tender as she guides him to meet her gaze, pressing her forehead to his. “It’s already real. It’s already set in motion, just be patient. Keep doing what you feel is right. Until then, you’ll dream. Of what you want to call her, what she’ll call you one day. Of what you want to plant in the spring and what new project you’ll tinker with. Of me,” she titters, “if you want. Whatever it takes. And when it’s time, we’ll find each other. Don’t forget about us, okay? About this.”
He takes deep cycled breaths, in through his nose, out through his mouth to the rhythm of her hand skating between his shoulders. “…They really need me?” he murmurs.
“They do.”
Bucky flicks away the lingering tears with his thumb, pulling back enough to just…look at her. Memorize the curve of her lips and cheeks, the colour of her eyes, the texture of her hair. Taking the moment to lock it away where no one could ever take it from him. His wife.
“…Okay.”
“You will be,” she assures him.
It takes every ounce of strength he has left to pry himself from her steadiness, but the floor feels solid beneath his boots.
The front door remains the only obstacle.
She hugs her torso and trails a few steps behind as he stalks up to it, whatever horror that waits on the other side suddenly not as daunting. The oak is solid, but the doorknob threatens to crumble under the vibranium. Bucky turns back for one last glimpse and inhales with a shudder.
“Thank you.”
With glassy eyes, she blows him a kiss.
He rolls his shoulder. Readjusts his grip. Turns his wrist a beat after the exhale…and puts one foot in front of the other.
A/N: Had to release this before Doomsday ruins me…Started writing this before the new trailers, but in light of the parallels, why not include a Chris Evans-inspired title anyway?
Series Summary | “A chance encounter in a broken elevator ties together the lives of a hardened , emotionally closed off CEO James Barnes and a struggling single mother balancing her daughter , her new job , healing old wounds , and building something neither of them expected , a family."
Content | Fluff - Teasing - Some insecurity- Single Parent Themes - Quick speaking of different language - past references of angst - food mentions - TENSION you could cut with a knife - very fluffy tame chapter - baby fever be aware lol
Word Count | 5.8k+
Series Masterlist
<- previous chapter - next chapter in progress
"Mommy! Mr. Barnes?! Are we going to Mr. Batman Buckys house?"
Madelyn’s voice, a joyful, high-pitched query, snapped you out of your spiraling thoughts. Your daughter bounced into the bathroom, a whirlwind of pink pajamas and a half undid braid more of a knot now with a plastic tiara perched precariously on her head. She was ecstatic.
"Yes, sweet pea, we are," You replied, forcing a smile you hoped looked more genuine than it felt. You knelt down, pushing the tiara up more to the center of her head. "But first, we need to get you ready to go. No pajamas when we're going out, especially to someone's house. Also…girlie what did I say about calling him “Batman”."
Madelyn’s eyes twinkled then widened, alight with anticipation. "Will he have sugar cookies? And will a dog be there? You said he has a dog right?"
You gently removed the tiara from her head, grabbing the comb. "Mr. Barnes doesn't have a dog, honey. And we'll see about some cookies, but we need to remember our manners, okay? We're his guests."
You steered Madelyn into her bedroom, an explosion of pinks and purples lined with the plushest toys. (Thank you new job). The clock on the bedside table read five minutes before the driver Bucky had sent would be here any minute. Panic began to claw at your throat. You needed to move you and your girl quickly.
"Okay, stinky, operation 'no mac and cheese stains' is a go!" You announced in a cheery voice, trying to inject some much-needed energy into the situation. You rummaged through Madelyn’s dresser, pulling out clothes, tossing some to the floor, her bed. You were going a little crazy.
The usual items appeared: a bright yellow t-shirt with a suspicious orange blotch, a pair of leggings decorated with what appeared to be dried finger paint, a denim dress that had seen better days (and several playground mishaps).
"Hmm, no, no, and definitely no, girl how did you even…" You muttered, tossing them aside. You needed something presentable, something that wouldn't scream “hi, we just rolled out of a mud pit, how are you,” Finally, tucked away at the veryyyy back, you found it: a little navy blue dress with tiny white embroidered flowers along the hem, a gift from Madelyn’s fathers-mother last Easter. It was pristine, blessedly free of any stains or rips.
"Aha!" You held it up triumphantly flashing a grin at your daughter. "Perfect! Now, let's get you in this, and then we'll do your hair."
Madelyn, surprisingly compliant, lifted her chubby arms, allowing you to easy pull the soft cotton over her head. "Will Mr. Barnes think I look pretty, Mommy?" she asked, smoothing the dress of any wrinkles with small hands.
Your heart ached with a familiar mix of pride and then…protectiveness. "Of course he will, sweetheart. You always look so beautiful. But we're not just going to look pretty; we're going to be polite and well-behaved, too."
This was you chance to instill the crucial “pre-outing manners lecture.” You needed a better name for it.
You sat Madelyn on a small stool in front of you, pulling out a soft brush and yellow plastic hair ties. Madelyn’s hair, a riot of fine, goldeny-brown strands, often had a mind of its own. You began to carefully separate the hair, starting the process/attempt of a French braid.
"Now, listen very carefully, honey," You began, fingers weaving strands together. "When we go to Mr. Barnes's house, what's the first thing we say?"
"Hello, Mr. Bwarnes!" Madelyn chimed, eyes wide, watching her mother's reflection through the mirror.
"Exactly! And then we say 'thank you for inviting us.' You made your voice high and smiley. “It's very important to say thank you when someone lets us into their home and serves us dinner."
"Will I get to see his big TV?"
You sighed. "Maybe, but we don't ask to watch TV right away. And we don't touch things unless Mr. Barnes says it's okay. His house isn't like our house, Madelyn. There are lots of expensive grown-up things, and we need to be very gentle and respectful."
"Why not? Is his house very deli- de- del-?" Madelyn pondered, tilting her head.
Delicate. That was one word for it. You imagined what his home would be. Bucky’s minimalist, art-filled penthouse. It wasn't delicate so much as expensive. And certainly not a playground for a curious four-almost five-year-old. "It's just different, sweetie. And when we're at someone else's house, we follow their rules. No running inside, no shouting, and we use our indoor voices."
Madelyn nodded earnestly, though you knew from experience that a four-year-old's earnestness had a shelf life of about five minutes once excitement took over. The braid was coming along nicely, a neat plait cascading down Madelyn's neck, keeping the wisps of hair out of her face. It was a small victory.
As you tied off the braid with a small elastic, Your mind drifted back to Bucky. "Complicated." That was the word you kept coming back to. It wasn't just the professional boundary. It was the way he looked at you sometimes, a flicker of something you couldn't quite decipher, a vulnerability you didn't expect from a man so guarded. It was the shared, knowing glances when a particularly tedious board member droned on, the almost imperceptible smirk he'd offer when you delivered a scathing but politely worded refusal.
And then there were the bumps. The time you’d accidentally overheard him on a personal call, a strained conversation that had left you feeling an unwelcome pang of empathy. The time he'd found you crying quietly in your office after a particularly rough call with your mother, and instead of leaving, he'd pulled up a chair and simply sat with you in silence until you had composed yourself. Then there was Tiffany and the fight…
But like always, No questions, no judgments, just presence. That had been the moment the "complicated" had truly begun to bloom, a thorny, confusing flower. You were the assistant; he was the boss. This shouldn't be happening. This couldn't be happening.
"All done, my little superstar!" You announced, giving Madelyn a gentle hug and kiss from behind. She hopped off the stool, twirling around, the navy dress flaring slightly.
"I look like a pwincess!" she declared.
You smiled, a genuine one this time. "You certainly do, bug. Now, let’s pack your bag. What do you want to bring?"
You grabbed Madelyn’s small Minnie Mouse backpack. Inside went a well-loved copy of "Goodnight Moon," a stuffed elephant Felicity from floor 2 gifted her, and a small box of crayons (though you made a mental note to keep a close eye on those). You also threw in a small pouch of emergency snacks – a mom was always prepared – and a spare change of clothes, juuust in case.
You mentally went down the checklist as Madelyn began feeding Flopsy some hay.
A buzz vibrated your phone. A text message.
“The driver is here. – Mikey”
Your breath hitched. Right on time. Just like Bucky. Always punctual, always precise. Always—
"Okay, Mads, ready to go?" You asked, voice a little too high-pitched.
"Ready!" She cheered back, grabbing your hand, her small fingers squeezing, unknowingly reassuring you.
You took a deep belly breath, trying to calm the butterflies doing acrobatics in your stomach. You grabbed your handbag, Madelyn’s backpack, and the spare jacket. One last look around the apartment, making sure the lights were off, the door locked. Flopsy settled. The familiar comfort of your home was about to be exchanged for the intimidating elegance of your CEO’s penthouse.
-
As you stepped into the hallway of his penthouse lobby, Madelyn skipped a little, humming a made-up tune, oblivious to the storm of anxiety brewing within her mother. You pressed the elevator button, the faint metallic ding echoing in the quiet hallway, closing your eyes for a fleeting second, trying to conjure a semblance of professional composure. This was just a late night dinner. A gesture of kindness from a boss. Nothing more. You repeated it like a mantra, though a tiny, rebellious part of you refused to believe it.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft sigh, revealing the polished interior. You took Madelyn’s hand firmer, offering a squeeze, trying to convey a serenity you certainly didn't feel.
Bucky was seated on a low sitting, charcoal sofa that offered no actual comfort, but he no longer noticed the coldness anymore. He only noticed the slow tick of the stainless-steel clock mounted above the fireplace. He was waiting for his girls. Umm. His employee and her daughter. What the hell why did he—KNOCK. KNOCK.
Bucky strode across the floor, his socks silent on the marble, and keyed the intercom. "Come on up." His head flung over to where Anya was washing an onion, as he mouthed. “They’re here!” She rolled her eyes at his boyish ways and nodded, going back to the vegetable in her hands.
He was dressed in soft, light gray linen pants and an equally cozy linen baby blue sweater, his large feet tucked into thick LV wool socks. It was a purely domestic outfit, comfortable and unassuming, and he was profoundly glad no one he currently worked with higher up was there to witness it.
He pulled open the heavy, matte-black door, stopping dead, his breath catching in his throat.
You stood there, a quiet blend of warmth against the sterile backdrop of his foyer. You were dressed in soft, perfectly fitted jeans and a chunky, cream-colored knitted sweater that seemed to radiate light and sweetness. Your hair was pulled back in a neat, slightly messy braid that looked practical and effortless. You looked utterly, breathtakingly gorgeous.
Beside you, Madelyn, a small whirlwind of pink flushed cheeks and focused determination, looked equally as soft. She was as adorable with her perfectly white ruffle socks scrunched above tiny boots.
Bucky hadn’t realized until that exact moment that the apartment felt incomplete. Now, faced with your arrival, he was momentarily dumbstruck.
"Bucky," you said, offering a small, slightly nervous smile. "Thank you for sending the driver. That was very kind of you."
Madelyn, however, was less professional. She was dragging two very large, very well-loved stuffed animals across the highly polished concrete floors. The sight and sound of the worn fabric scuffing the expensive marble was jarring in the quiet space.
Madelyn released the hold on your hand put her fists on her hips, and looked up at the vast, high ceilings and empty walls with undisguised confusion. Brows furrowed as tight as they could.
“Where are all the toys, mama?” she asked, voice echoing slightly. “Is this a museum?”
The blunt, innocent question hit Bucky harder than any bullet ever could. He watched the child wait for an answer, utterly unimpressed by the architecture round her. The sheer, honest normalcy of her complaint—the demand for clutter and life—was a welcoming balm. He felt the tension that had been locked in his shoulders and neck for maybe the last decade visibly loosen, his posture softening around the toddlers presence.
You caught the subtle, quick change, observing him closely with slightly squinted eyes.
He looked different. It wasn’t just the relaxing shoulders. It was the clothes—the texture of the linen, the cozy of the socks. This man, notoriously famous for his sharp focus and sharper edges, looked... domestic. He looked like a man waiting to spend Saturday morning watching cartoons and drinking lukewarm coffee.
Before Bucky could formulate a coherent greeting that didn’t involve him simply staring at the gentle curve of your hips and face, chaos arrived.
The kitchen door, which Bucky had left ajar, suddenly burst inward, causing a gust of cold air and the sound of heavy footsteps scraping the floor.
"James Buchanan Barnes! Don't tell me you forgot to tell me to get the basil, you useless boy!"
Anya, a woman so tiny but like an unstoppable tank in a floral apron, barreled around the corner gesturing wildly to the air then at her boy then back to the air.
Bucky snapped instantly out of his state, blue eyes widening. "Anya, I was just waiting—"
"I don't care what you were waiting for, move!"
He abandoned the door entirely, dropping his polite facade, and moved with efficiency. He marched to the stainless-steel island toward the refrigerator, his movement a precise blur as he hastily took out all his glass jarred spices.
Anya adjusted her stance, finally noticing the two colorful figures standing politely in the immaculate foyer. Her face, stern just a moment before, melted into a look of overwhelming maternal joy.
"Oh! Well, hello there, darling!"
Anya dropped her hands and rushed toward you, arms wide, enveloping both you and Madelyn in a hug so massive and fierce it nearly lifted the small girl off the ground.
Madelyn, who had been stiff and confused only moments before, let out a squeal of surprised delight and then dissolved into a fit of infectious giggles, her skirt swishing as she hugged the loud, wonderful warmth of Anya back.
“Here Auntie I knew I hadn’t forgot it—OW!” As Bucky lifted from the cabinet he whacked his head on the counter's edge. A laugh bubbled out of yours and your daughters mouths making you slap a hand over her mouth til she poked out her little tongue and liiiicked. “Ew! You squirt!”
He continued arranging the newly found basil neatly on the counter, paused in his task. The space of his penthouse was suddenly filled with the sound of laughter, the smell of fresh herbs, and the overwhelming, glorious sight of life. He leaned against the counter, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching the corner of his mouth beneath the glare of the kitchen's lighting.
This was going to be an interesting dinner.
-
After Anya plated the table, Bucky finished the dinner, you and Madekyn came back from her needing to potty as he gestured to the dining table. Anya began picking up the scraps of food and cooking dishes as she had taken one more look at Madelyn and her face had creased into a thousand welcoming wrinkles.
"So, this is the little one!" she exclaimed, rinsing off a cutting board. "James, you didn't tell me she was so beautiful! I am Anya. You can call me Auntie or Mama Anya whatever you like my loves.”
Madelyn giggled at again at Anya as Bucky had served the food himself. A large ivory ceramic bowl held a glistening, fresh salad of arugula, cherry tomatoes, and shaved parmesan, tossed in a simple vinaigrette. Next to it was a dish of creamy, fettuccine Alfredo, the sauce topped perfectly to the pasta. And beside that, a basket overflowing with warm, buttery garlic bread, its crust toasted to a perfect golden-brown. It was simple, classic comfort food, but it looked and smelled like it had been made with incredible care fresh from Italy.
"You made all this?" You peered at Buck, voice laced with disbelief as you took the seat Bucky pulled out for you. Madelyn was already seated, her little legs swinging happily under the chair, eyes wide at the feast before her.
"I had help," he admitted, gesturing with his head toward his aunt, who was wiping her hands on her apron by the kitchen island. "Anya is the best. I'm just the…sous-chef."
"Nonsense!" Anya called over, her voice booming good-naturedly. "He does everything I tell him, that is all. Now, eat! Both of you. Madelyn, you must tell me if it is good, yes?"
Madelyn nodded solemnly, her gaze fixed on Bucky. “Je to tvoja hiša?” F
You looked up immediately and whispered. “English baby, we aren’t at home.” You chuckled a little under your breath.
"Is this your house?" she asked, voice small but clear.
Bucky paused, a piece of garlic bread halfway to his parted lips. "Yes," he said slowly. "It is.” Then he glanced at you. “You guys speak?…”
“Slovenian. We have extended family from there. We speak it at home with family.” You finished his words.
He just nodded, a mix of shock and pride in his eyes.
"It's very big," Madelyn declared, as if passing a final judgment and look around.
Anya laughed, a deep, hearty sound. "She is an observant one! Alright, my work is done here. I will leave you to it. Hun, you know how to clean up. It was lovely to meet you both." She gave Bucky a loud smacking kiss on the cheek and a look, and then she was gone, her small heels clicking on the hardwood floor before the heavy door clicked shut behind her, leaving them in a sudden silence.
For a moment, the only sounds were the gentle clinking of silverware against ceramic and Madelyn’s happy hums as she twirled pasta around her fork.
The Alfredo was incredible—creamy, peppery, with a depth of flavor that took patience and knowledgeable. The garlic bread was perfect too. You felt the tension of the week slowly slipping out of you, replaced by a warm, contented fullness.
You watched Bucky carefully across the table. In the soft glow of the overhead light, the hard lines of his face seemed to soften. He looked less and less like the CEO and more like a man who took pride in the meal he’d just served. He caught you looking and raised an eyebrow in silent question. But you just shook your head, a small smile playing on your lips as you looked down to the food again.
The moment of peace was cutoff by your daughter’s innocent, four-year-old voice.
"Mommy says you're grumpy but also nice."
The words hung in the air, suspended and terrible. Your fork clattered against the plate accidentally. A red hot blush crept up your neck and flooded your cheeks, turning your face.
Your heart hammered against your ribs. You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole. You shot a panicked look at Bucky, whose expression was momentarily blank with surprise, before a slow, dangerous-looking smirk began to curve the corner of his mouth.
"Madelyn Alice!" You hissed, leaning forward, voice a strained whisper. "That is not—We do not talk about—Oh my god." You put a hand over your face, utterly mortified as you remembered the conversation perfectly. It had been a late night at the office a few days ago, and your mother had been on the phone, complaining about...something. You weren’t listening or really cared.
Your daughter, who had been coloring on the floor, had also apparently been listening far more intently than you’d realized.
To your thankful and utter shock, Bucky didn't look offended. He didn't look angry. He let out a low, genuine laugh, a rumbling sound that seemed to vibrate in the quiet room. His blue eyes, usually so serious, crinkled at the corners. He took a slow sip of his lemon water, gaze meeting yours over the rim of the glass. He could see the sheer panic in your eyes, the apology blooming on your tongue. He held the gaze for a beat, then deliberately, slowly, mouthed the words to you: It’s okay.
He was amused and you let out a shaky breath you hadn't realized you were holding and gently nudged Madelyn’s shoulder. "Sweetheart, eat your dinner," your voice still a little tight, but softer now.
Madelyn, oblivious to what he’d just dropped, happily resumed eating her pasta, swinging her legs.
After dinner, they migrated to the living room. It was even more impressive up close. A massive, deep-gray sectional sofa dominated the space, facing a wall-mounted TV that was currently off. A plush, white fur rug lay on the floor, and against one wall stood a tall grand piano, its polished white lacquer gleaming under the windows moonlight. It was the only object in the room that felt truly personal, a piece of grandeur that wasn't just expensive but held a different kind of weight.
"Wow," Madelyn breathed, her eyes as wide as saucers. She broke away from your side and padded across the rug, small hand reaching out but stopping just short of touching the gleaming white surface. "What's…?"
"It's a grabs piano, Maddy," you answered, coming to stand behind her.
"Can you play it?" Madelyn asked, turning her big, hopeful doe eyes toward Bucky.
He was leaning against the doorframe leading back to the kitchen, watching them. He looked at the piano, then back at Madelyn, and a flicker of something passed over his features. "I can," he said, his voice quiet.
"Please?" Madelyn pleaded, her voice taking on that sing-song quality that usually got her what she wanted. "Please, please, please?"
Bucky pushed off the doorframe and walked toward the instrument. He ran a hand along the smooth, cool lid before lifting it, revealing the intricate strings and hammers within. He sat down on the long, quilted bench. He looked large and out of place perched there, a man of action momentarily stilled.
You watched, fascinated. "I didn't know you played," you cooed softly. It seemed impossible. This man who negotiated hostile takeovers and managed an empire of millions also knew how to coax beauty from this complicated ivory.
He positioned his long, capable fingers over the keys. "My mom taught me," he said, the words simple, but they landed with a quiet gravity. He didn't elaborate, and you didn't ask him to. You just nodded, understanding that this was a piece of him he was offering up for display. Raw, vulnerable.
Then he began to play.
The first notes were hesitant, a simple, searching melody that seemed to test the air. But then the music bloomed. It was a classical piece, something achingly beautiful. The notes flowed from his hands, filling the room with a sound that was both powerful and profoundly beautiful. He played with his eyes closed, his head slightly bowed, as if the music was a memory he was channeling through his fingertips. The grumpy, intimidating boss was gone. In his place was a man revealing a hidden, tender part of his soul.
Madelyn was mesmerized. She stood perfectly still, her forgotten stuffed animals dangling from one hand. As the music swelled, a soft, melody began to emerge, a hint of a lullaby hidden within the chords. Slowly, caught by the rhythm, Madelyn began to sway, her small body moving in a gentle, unselfconscious dance. She twirled, her little dress fanning out, her feet barely making a sound on the thick rug.
Your heart ached with a swell of emotion. The scene was so unexpected, so perfect. Bucky, playing a song that felt like a storybook, and your daughter, dancing to it with the pure, unbridled joy of a child.
Your phone was in your hand before you even thought about it, the motion instinctual. You swiped to the camera, zooming in quietly. You recorded a clip of Bucky’s focused profile, the light catching the silver at his temples. Then panned to Madelyn, a tiny, blissful girl lost in the music. You captured the image, preserving this foreign, magical moment. A secret you could keep.
The song faded out on a long, lingering note that seemed to hang in the air for a moment before dissolving into silence. Bucky’s hands rested on the keys. Madelyn stopped dancing and applauded, a huge, delighted grin on her face.
"That was so pwetty!" she squealed, rushing over to him. "Can you teach me?"
Bucky looked from her eager face to yours, a question in his eyes. "She'll probably just smash the keys," you warned, worried about the price of the piano, a smile tugging at your lips nonetheless.
"That’s how my ma taught me," he said, his voice still holding some of the music's softness. "Is it okay if I...?" He gestured, indicating that he wanted to lift her onto his lap.
You nodded. "Honey, do you want to sit on Mr. Bucky's lap?"
Madelyn’s answer was to scramble up onto the bench. Bucky lifted her with an easy strength, settling her sideways across his thighs. She was tiny against his large frame, her head barely reaching his shoulder. He positioned her small hands on the keys. You would be lying to yourself if you said your ovaries didn’t scream at the sight.
"Okay," he said gently. "This is C." He guided her tiny index finger to press a key. "And this is D." He moved her next finger. He showed her a simple five-note scale, his large, calloused hand enveloping hers, guiding the pressure, the timing. Madelyn was surprisingly focused for a few minutes, her brow furrowed in concentration as she produced a clumsy, clattering succession of notes. She giggled at the sound, a pure, tinkling laugh that seemed to echo in the room.
But the novelty of the keys soon gave way to the lateness of the hour and the fullness of her stomach. Her playing grew slower, her head began to nod, and within five minutes, she was slumped against Bucky’s chest, her breathing evening out into the deep, steady snores of sleep.
Bucky looked down at the top of her head, a strange, soft expression on his face. He didn't move, seemingly content to just sit there, the weight of her a comforting presence but he also had a flash of worry he would hurt or wake her.
You watched them, the two most important people in your world in a scene you never could have imagined fir yourself. The silence stretched out. Then—
"I should..." you finally whispered, standing up. "I'll clean up the kitchen. You've done enough."
"No, really, Y/N, it's fine," he started to protest, making as if to stand.
"I insist," your voice firm but quiet, not wanting to wake Madelyn. "You cooked. You played. You've been more than generous."
He hesitated, then gave a slow nod, conceding the point. You moved through the dining room, gathering the plates, your movements quiet and efficient.
In the kitchen, you rinsed the dishes and loaded them into the dishwasher, wiping down the counters where Anya had been working. The task was grounding, a simple act of gratitude in the face of such overwhelming hospitality.
You found a container and carefully packed the remaining salad and pasta, leaving it in the fridge. When you returned to the living room, Bucky was still on the bench, Madelyn now deeply asleep in his arms. He had managed to pull a soft cashmere throw from the back of the sofa and had draped it over her. She was drooling a bit on his sweater.
"I'll carry her down," he murmured, rising to his feet with a surprising grace, cradling her as if she weighed nothing at all.
He led the way to the private elevator that went down to the garage level. The ride down was silent, save for the soft hum of the machinery and the sniff of your daughter sleepy sniffles.
The garage was like something out of a movie—a pristine, well-lit space containing a sleek, black Rolls Royce. He opened the back door for you, as you slid in, arranging yourself so you could cradle Madelyn. He gently transferred the sleeping girl into your arms, his hands lingering for a second longer than necessary on where your neck and shoulder meet. He then walked around to the driver's side and got in, starting the car with a quiet purr.
The drive to your apartment was quiet. The city lights blurred past the tinted windows. It was a different world from the quiet, isolatedness of his penthouse. It was, safe, loving. He pulled up smoothly in front of the building, turned off the engine and twisted in his seat to look at you girls.
"Thank you, Bucky," you whispered, voice sincere. "For dinner. For... all of this. It was... it was really wonderful."
"You're welcome," he said. His eyes flickered to the sleeping form in your arms and then back to your face. "Let me know you two got in safe," he said, his tone a low murmur.
"I will."
He hesitated, as if he wanted to say more, but the words didn't come. He seemed to be wrestling with something, a foreign language he hadn't yet learned. Maybe Madelyn was teaching him slowly.
"Bye, Maddy," he whispered, voice so quiet it was almost lost in the car.
As if on cue, a sleepy, muffled sound came from the bundle of deadweight in your arms. "Bye, Bucky," Madelyn slurred, not even opening her eyes.
A flicker of a smile touched Bucky’s lips. You gave him one last, grateful look before you opened the door and carefully maneuvered yourself and your daughter out of the car. You didn't look back as you walked to the door of your building, fumbling for your keys. You knew he was waiting, watching, until you were safely inside.
- To Bucky: In safe and sound. Thank you.
Later, after you had tucked Madelyn into her small bed and stood under the hot spray of the shower, letting the week’s stress wash away, you thought about the night. You thought about the mortifying dinner comment and Bucky’s forgiving laugh. You thought about the sad, beautiful music and the sight of your daughter dancing. You thought about the quiet man who cooked and played piano and held your sleeping child with such unexpected gentleness and safety.
In his car, driving back toward the stark silence of his penthouse, Bucky was thinking too. The house had been quiet before. He had been used to it. He’d thought he preferred it. But now, the silence felt different. It felt... empty. The sound of a small child’s laughter, the sight of a little girl dancing to his music, the way your nervous energy had filled the space—it had all left a mark.
The house felt hollow now, the echo of your presence making the quiet unbearable. He liked it. He liked how you had filled the silence in his life and in his house. But as he pulled into his garage, he was faced with the unfamiliar, unsettling truth: he had no idea what to do with that feeling. He didn't know how to ask you to come back, didn't know what to do with the warmth that had bloomed and grew green in his chest. The silence he was returning to was no longer a comfort; it was a question he didn't yet know how to answer.
next part coming soon! >>>
-
series tags 🧸 re-opened! if you were tagged please comment so I know to keep you on as I’m restarting the series tags! | @justyna4a @muchwita @ozwriterchick @starstruckfirecat @florie1 @borkybawnes @bingbongsupremacy @taintedstranger @liaverse37 @littlemissmarvelous @sophham @greatenthusiasttidalwave @avengersfan25 @peanutbutt3rcup @alicetesser @violet-loves-to-write @ilovetaquitosmmmm @butterflies-on-my-ashes @raniatsala @flockoff-featherface @greatenthusiasttidalwave @camie18 @whisperingwillowxox @vicmc624 @avivarougestan @whorteshawsx @fallen-w1ngs @cupids-mf-arroww @otterlycanadian @shellsbae00 @quelina0 @happyballoonheart@xamapolax @elfypineapple @anaso12 @butterflies-on-my-ashes @raniatsala @happyballoonheart @savanahc @mirrorball-6 @awesompawsum @danzer8705 @dcmanster @daisynotquake @stupendousfarmsludgepaper @calmgloomyday @scatteredstardust @billieatusn-blog @counterstr1ke @gloriousmiraclecupcake @globetrotter28 @bubble-guppies08 @itsmadamehydra @shelbyteller @jorileychan @star-yawnznn @crazyunsexycool
A.N: My loves, you're absolutely amazing, thank you so so much for your wonderful support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 kisses! 🩷
Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader
Summary: Cultural differences can cause misunderstandings.
Word Count: 10k (I have no idea how that happened either)
Warnings: Explicit language, MDNI.
Series Masterlist
Robb’s chest felt way too tight.
Grey Wind was howling outside again, and Robb was sure that if he looked out into the courtyard, he would’ve seen the direwolf pacing there much like himself within the castle walls. He turned the corner into the familiar hallway and slammed open the door when he reached Jon’s bedchambers, causing Jon to spring up and pull a dagger out from under his pillow, Ghost jumping up from his sleep with a growl. Jon squinted his eyes to see him better.
“Robb?”
“I may have done something.”
Jon let out a whine like a pup and fell back on the bed, tucking the dagger back under his pillow. “By the Gods, go to sleep!”
Ghost tilted his head at them, then curled up in front of the fireplace again as Robb slapped Jon’s leg.
“Get up,” he told him. “We’re brothers, if I’m suffering, you’re suffering.”
“I have been suffering for nearly two moons since you got the news of your betrothal!”
“Up, I said!”
“I have a dagger under my pillow, Stark.”
“Want me to demonstrate where I’m gonna shove that dagger if you don’t get up, Snow?”
Jon heaved a sigh and ran a hand over his eyes. “You’re not going away, are you?”
“No. Sit up, I must tell you something—” He looked around the room. “Gods, Jon, what is this mess? Did you forbid the maids from coming in?”
Jon grumbled something under his breath, then pulled himself to sit up in the bed, resting his back against the bedframe with a yawn.
“Robb,” he said patiently. “It’ll be fine. You’ll meet your betrothed tomorrow and she’s going to swoon just like all those ladies—”
“I’ve just met her.”
Jon blinked a couple of times and motioned at the window. “In the middle of the night?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve darkened the poor girl’s door at this hour because you couldn’t wait until tomorrow morning?”
“It’s more complicated than that,” Robb said and took a deep breath. “So we may have an issue.”
Jon leaned forward with a frown. “Seven hells, is she ugly?”
“Not at all.” Robb shook his head fervently. “The opposite.”
“What?”
“She’s too beautiful.”
“What?”
“She—” Robb threw his hands up in the air in frustration. “She looks like she belongs in one of those ballads Sansa sings, rather than the real world!”
“How is that an issue?”
“Just seeing her made me stupid!” Robb pointed at him when he saw him grin. “Shut it.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“I can hear your thoughts.”
“I doubt that, you can’t even hear your thoughts,” Jon retorted. “So you were the one swooning?”
“I was not swooning!” Robb shot back with a frown. “I don’t swoon. I was just taken aback momentarily.”
“So, swooning.” Jon let out a laugh when Robb flipped him. “Listen, it’s fine then! Having heirs with her will not be an issue at all, Bran will be happy, and Sansa. You find your betrothed beautiful, she finds you handsome I’m sure…”
“Right.” Robb ran a hand through his hair. “Right. Except that, she doesn’t know I’m her betrothed.”
Jon raised her brows. “Huh?”
“She asked me my name,” Robb said. “I…didn’t know what to say.”
“I’m just pulling this idea out of thin air,” Jon mused, “but mayhaps you could’ve said Robb.”
“I said Benjen.”
Jon’s jaw dropped. “Like Uncle Benjen?”
“Yes.”
“Uncle Benjen who very much exists and is defending the realm in the Night’s Watch as we speak?”
“It was the first name that came to my mind!” Robb defended himself and Jon tried to control his expression, then cleared his throat.
“Well, I suppose you’ll have to take the black and go to the Wall starting tomorrow,” he said with a sigh. “An honorable thing, to forgo your title and inheritance to join the Night’s Watch.”
“Jon.”
“Bran will be Lord of Winterfell when father—”
“Are you having fun?”
“Very much so,” Jon said. “It’s almost worth being woken up at this hour.”
Robb threw his head back with a groan and started pacing in the room, almost tripping over Jon’s boots before he cussed and stepped over them.
“I’ve seen tidier stables.”
“No one told you to come in,” Jon pointed out. “So your betrothed thinks your name is Benjen?”
“And I may have led her to believe I was a servant.”
Jon gawked at him in silence for a couple of seconds. “Sorry, what did you just say?”
“I may have…” Rob gestured at his clothes. “We changed clothes to sneak into the town, so when she assumed, I did not correct her.”
“You’ve got to be jesting—”
“It just sounded like a good idea at that time!” Robb hissed, and Jon clicked his tongue.
“Uh huh,” he said. “Just one question. What are you planning to do when you two meet tomorrow and she sees that you are in fact Robb Stark, her betrothed?”
“That’s why I’m here, brother.”
Jon’s eyes widened. “Oh no, I’m not getting involved in this.”
“Yes you are,” Robb told him, making him whine. “It’s just like the old times! When we get in trouble—”
“When you get in trouble, you mean. I was here sleeping, this was not a collective decision.”
“That’s an unimportant detail.” Robb waved a hand dismissively and sat back on the windowsill, crossing his arms. “What do I do tomorrow?”
“Apologize.”
“What, start with that?” Robb asked with a scoff. “I cannot do that. I cannot start our union with an apology, I’ll look like a pathetic pup rather than a man.”
Jon shot him a look.
“You’re right, because starting your union with a lie about your true identity sounds like the better option.”
“She won’t respect me if I start apologizing left and right,” Robb argued. “Girls don’t like that.”
“And they’re famously known to like being lied to.”
Robb glared at him. “You’re not helping.”
“Wait, so…” Jon pressed his palms on his eyes before dropping his hands. “What is she like? Aside from pretty enough to make you stupid?”
“She says please and thank you a lot.”
“To servants?”
“Mm hm.”
“That’s interesting,” Jon commented. “Not that coddled and spoiled, then?”
“Oh, more coddled than I thought,” Rob said. “She did not even hesitate to let me in when she thought I was a servant in the middle of the night. Do you realize what that means? She has never felt like anyone around her could have ill intentions, including strangers.”
Jon let out a whistle. “Raised in a cage, alright.”
“And she smells like flowers,” Robb couldn’t help but mutter, and Jon tilted his head.
“Hold on, you smelled her?”
“No, I—I was sitting next to her!”
“You totally smelled her.”
“No!” Robb insisted and paused for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders. “…Maybe.”
Jon pressed his lips into a thin line with a frown, but just like when they were children, one look at Robb was enough to make his straight expression break. A chortle escaped him, triggering Robb’s chuckle, and before they knew it, the sound of their laughter was echoing over the walls with Robb clutching at his stomach and Jon falling back on the bed, throwing a pillow in his direction.
It was fine. It was going to be fine.
Surely she wasn’t going to mind that much once he explained himself. He just needed to find a good explanation first.
Besides, now to think of it, it was good that he had seen her last night, because otherwise he would’ve stood there gaping at her like a fish in front of the whole court this morning, which would not leave a good first impression on not only her and her family, but on the Northerners in the court as well.
He was going to be smooth and calm and completely in control of the situation. He was the heir to House Stark, he knew how to school his expression no matter what.
He had met his betrothed’s oldest brother and his wife in the hallway, and his father was already in the Great Hall speaking with who Robb assumed to be Lord Greensted when he entered the hall. Winterfell had never been a deserted castle, that was for sure, but something told Robb that this many people in the Great Hall this early in the morning were only there for the spectacle. Bran, Arya and Rickon were running around as usual, and Sansa made her way to him the moment she saw him walk in.
“Good morning!” she said with a wide smile. “Are you excited?”
“No,” Robb lied through his teeth. “Where’s mother?”
“She just had to check on the dining hall, she’ll be back,” Sansa said. “What do you mean, you’re not excited? You’ll spend your whole life with her, this is to be your first impression.”
“It’s my duty, Sansa—”
“Oh don’t even start with that,” his sister insisted. “I wonder what she’ll be wearing. Everyone says she dresses really well.”
“Everyone says?” Robb pulled his brows together. “No one has seen her yet.”
“No I mean back in the Reach. And they say she brought her own maids and seamstress here, can you imagine that? That was the first thing I learned about her.”
“You and I have really different priorities—” Robb picked Rickon up like a troublesome cat when he slammed into his legs at full speed, then he tossed him back to his feet, Rickon rushing to catch up to Arya while giggling like crazy. “You’d think we’re holding the wedding right here right now, what is all this crowd?”
“Well, everyone is curious,” Sansa said. “Besides, the whole North and the Reach will come to the wedding, you’ll wish it were just this many people.”
“What are we talking about?” Jon asked as he stepped closer to them and Sansa grinned.
“How excited Robb is.”
“I’m not excited.”
“My wolf wasn’t the one howling outside whole night last night,” Sansa pointed out silkily and Robb shot her a look.
“Don’t.”
“He is allowed to be excited,” Jon said. “First impressions are important, and this will be the first time they see each other, right Robb?”
“Very funny.” Robb pushed at his shoulder. “Where’s Theon?”
“Still trying to sober up,” Jon said while Sansa rolled her eyes. “Sent him to wash his face.”
“What time did you three go to bed last night?”
Jon and Robb exchanged glances. “Early.”
“As if I believe that—hello mother.”
His mother eyed Robb up and down as if trying to make sure he looked appropriate, then smiled at him.
“You look good,” she said. “How do you feel, Robb?”
“He’s excited!”
“I am not,” Robb insisted, noticing at the last second her mother glaring at Jon who averted his eyes.
“I’m going to find Theon,” he muttered and Robb opened his mouth to argue, but Jon had already walked away from them. Robb raised his brows.
“Mother.”
“Do not start that today of all days.”
“I will start that because—”
“Father is silently asking for you,” Sansa cut him off, nodding in the direction of their father and Robb turned his head, then took a deep breath and made his way to his father and Lord Greensted who looked to be in a deep conversation.
“Lord Greensted,” Robb greeted him, clasping his hands behind him with his back straight. “Father.”
“Oh hello son!” Lord Greensted said and clasped a hand over his shoulder. “Let me have a look at you! A true Northerner, eh?”
Lord Greensted seemed to be a good man, if not a little too Southerner, but at least unlike many fathers Robb had seen, he seemed to genuinely want the best for his daughter. One look at her proved that she had a much happier childhood than any other lady in the realm, except for maybe his own sisters.
“How do you find Winterfell, Lord Greensted?” Robb asked and Lord Greensted looked around.
“It is very impressive,” he said. “I’m looking forward to exploring more of it, and considering how much time we have until the wedding, by the time we leave, I’ll be ready to make a map of the North!”
The wedding.
Right. There was to be a wedding, of course.
“If you like hunting, Lord Greensted,” his father said, “we go hunting every week.”
“Oh that’s such good news, I love hunting,” Lord Greensted said. “I even brought my own bolt in case the occasion would rise. And please my friend, call me Garmund. We’re to be family soon, sharing grandchildren.”
Grandch—
He was fine. It was going to be fine.
“Then you must call me Ned,” his father said and Robb looked between them.
Well, at least their fathers were going to get along.
“I was just telling your father how I met my lady wife, may the Gods give her rest,” Lord Greensted told Robb. “Tell you what, son. You could forget your own name day, but you don’t forget today.”
“And how did you meet your lady wife, my lord?”
“Oh, there’s this feast we have in the Reach,” Lord Greensted said. “I’m not sure if you have it here, or any version of it, it’s so that the ladies and the knights and future lords can meet—”
“Dance of Flowers,” Robb said before he could stop himself and Lord Greensted snapped his fingers.
“That’s the one, yes!”
His father gave him a quizzical look and Robb shifted his weight.
“I’ve…” He waved a hand vaguely. “I’ve heard someone talk about it sometime.”
Lord Greensted nodded.
“We danced once,” he said. “By the end of the dance, I was completely in love but unfortunately she was not—later on she told me it was because I stepped on her foot so she decided, and I quote, I was not good enough of a dancer to make a good husband!”
His father let out a laugh. “They have the same thought in the Vale,” he said. “A dance is life or death of one’s potential marriage.”
“It really is!” Lord Greensted said. “But she didn’t tell me that, so I was very confused when she walked away from me, I tried to follow her in the castle but I ended up getting lost. Took me a good half an hour to find my way out!”
“Well, that’s one less thing to worry about for me then, Lord Greensted,” Robb said, running a hand through his curls. “I may get confused by your daughter, but at least I know Winterfell too well to get lost.”
That made both his father and Lord Greensted chuckle.
“Oh trust me,” Lord Greensted said. “You won’t have that problem. My daughter is many things, but she does not walk away from people before making sure they know exactly how she feels about them, you would not be confused.”
In the South, maybe. He had a feeling that in the North, they had a different understanding of making sure people knew how they felt about them.
“It’s actually—” Lord Greensted stopped talking as he caught the sight of something over Robb’s shoulder, and it was only when someone cleared their throat behind them that moment Robb realized the whole hall had gone quiet.
“Robb, allow me to introduce you to my sister,” Silas’ voice came from behind him and Robb turned around, catching the shock in her eyes as the lovely smell of flowers surrounded him like he was standing in a summer garden.
He was beginning to think he was never going to get used to it.
“Sister,” Silas said. “Lord Robb Stark of Winterfell. Your betrothed.”
Moonlight hadn’t tricked him last night, she really was beautiful enough to make his mind halt to a stop, and it was once again he was glad for last night, though it made things rather complicated.
He would’ve been speechless like a damn idiot if this was the first time he was meeting her.
A look of realization dawned on her face and Robb felt a smile curl his lips at the sight, then he reached out to take her soft hand in his to press a kiss on the back of it.
“My lady,” he said. “What a pleasure to finally meet you.”
He had to give it to her, though he knew very well that she was surprised, if not astonished, she managed to pull herself together much more than he could by the mere sight of her. She swallowed thickly and blinked a couple of times, then managed to smile.
“My lord,” she said, pulling her hand back to clasp them in front of her. “It’s such a bright day to meet you for the first time.”
…Ah.
She wasn’t happy.
What she had said last night shot through Robb’s mind like lightning by some miracle and he turned to her father, hoping to get on her good side with his jest.
“Lord Greensted,” he said. “Your daughter is true beauty personified.”
That did not seem to have the effect he wanted, at least on her. Although both his family and hers looked happy, the only clue of what she felt about his remark was the momentary clench of her jaw.
“Well, I’m glad everyone is satisfied with this arrangement,” Lord Greensted announced, earning multiple chuckles from the rest of the hall, reminding Robb that they were surrounded by other people. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Silas narrowing his eyes as he looked between them like trying to find out what was happening, but thankfully his mother stepped closer.
“Breakfast is ready in the dining room,” she said. “I’m sure everyone is hungry. Shall we?”
At least the dining room was going to be less crowded, now that people had seen what they had come to see.
“Follow me please,” his mother said and started walking to the dining room with Arya following her. Bran took Rickon’s hand –no doubt per his mother’s request—to walk behind Arya, and even though Robb could tell Sansa was excited to come and talk to his betrothed, apparently their mother had given all of them strict instructions because she lingered only for a moment before walking out of the Great Hall as well.
Robb stole a look at his betrothed as Silas gently touched the small of her back to move her forward to mutter something in her ear, and she stepped just a little to the side with brush of her hand on his arm, as if signaling him to wait. His father moved past him, squeezing his shoulder as he did, and Theon and Jon caught up to Robb while he followed the rest of the crowd, his betrothed’s sister-in-law approaching her to mutter something into her ear.
“You lucky prick,” Theon whispered. “Shall I tell Bran he’s getting a niece or a nephew in nine moons time?”
Jon raised his brows at him. “You were not joking last night, huh?”
Theon looked between them. “Last night?”
“Long story.”
“Wait, what did I miss?”
“Later,” Robb muttered. “She’s angry I think.”
“I wonder why that sounds familiar—oh wait,” Jon mused. “Because I told you she would be.”
“Wait, why is she angry?”
“Jon can tell you about that later, Theon,” Robb said quietly, running a hand through his curls. “I don’t understand.”
“What is there to not understand?” Jon hissed in a breath. “You tricked the poor girl, and now she’s angry at you.”
“Tricked?”
“Theon, I swear on the gods if you don’t catch up with the conversation instead of repeating words…”
“Neither of you are saying anything to me!”
“Robb met her last night and said he was a servant to get into her bedchambers so that he could smell her.”
“This is such a wrong way to describe what happened,” Robb grumbled as they all entered the dining hall. “What do I do?”
“Apologize!”
“No, don’t apologize,” Theon told him quickly. “No matter what happened. What are you, a lovesick boy? She cannot see any weakness like that, you are to be her lord husband.”
“You’re following Theon’s advice,” Jon told him with a wave in Theon’s direction. “I doubt I have to say anything else to show you just how wrong of a path you’re on.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Snow?”
“Whatever the fuck you think it means, Greyjoy.”
Robb ignored them as he walked to the High Table, now realizing he had forgotten to talk to his mother to insist on Jon sitting with them. His mother, naturally, had seated his betrothed next to him in the far corner, no doubt to give them some privacy as they got to know each other, and Sansa seemed to be in a deep conversation with her already –something about gowns or something equally trivial, Robb assumed—before she took her seat as well. By the time Robb walked past the kids’ table to ruffle Arya’s hair on his way to the High Table and took his seat next to his lady, everyone was already talking to each other; his father, Lord Greensted about hunting, his mother and his lady’s sister-in-law about the court, Sansa and Silas about the Reach.
The sweet smell of flowers filled Robb’s lungs as he sat down, straining his mind to find what to say. He had never found himself in such state before; at the feasts, at the weddings, in any social situation, he had never had to guess what to say to get on a lady’s good graces, it just happened without him showing too much of an effort.
And the Gods had chosen his betrothed to break that habit.
“My lady, I—” He started the sentence without having any clue about where to go from there, “I want to welcome you again, to Winterfell. I hope it is to your liking.”
What in the Seven Hells?
Great start.
“It is, my lord.” Her voice was perfectly polite. “Thank you for such warm welcome.”
Not that he was fluent in the elaborate ways of hiding displeasure in compliments the Southerners were so fond of, but he had a feeling that warmth comment was a subtle dig at last night.
He stole a look at Jon and Theon who were watching him from their table, and Theon gave him a thumbs up as if he had any clue what he was saying while Jon pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Was the road troublesome?”
“The contrary,” she said. “Very open and clear. Much like the people of my destination, I’ve been told.”
Alright, that cleared any possible misunderstandings.
As far as the strict Southern manners went, Robb was certain that he was being told to go fuck himself.
It didn’t escape his attention that she was only pushing the food around her plate with her wrist resting on the table, but it was only when she reached out to grab her water that he realized her hand was trembling slightly. Robb had to give it to her, for someone who was shaking with anger, she managed to keep a completely calm façade, but the same façade wasn’t enough to keep his chest from tightening like a fist squeezing his heart.
It was his duty as her husband to soothe her, and yet he was the source of her very frustration and he had no idea how to approach the issue at the breakfast table where everyone seemed more than ready to eavesdrop.
He cleared his throat, leaning in slightly.
“My lady, can we talk?”
“Depends, my lord,” she answered without so much as a glance in his direction. “Who will I be talking to?”
The Reach had sent the North a dagger wrapped in silk, it seemed.
“Your betrothed,” Robb answered, “alone.”
That did the trick because she turned to him, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on flashing in her eyes for a mere moment, but it was enough to make his stomach sink. She swallowed thickly, then stuck her nose in the air.
“You will have to wait. Even if my father were to allow it, we’re in the middle of breakfast, it would be awfully rude.”
“He’ll allow it,” Robb pointed out without any hesitation and straightened up. “Lord Greensted?”
He hadn’t meant to, but his voice had cut the conversation around the table like a swinging sword. Lord Greensted turned to look at him, along with everyone else.
“I was hoping to show my betrothed the Glass Gardens,” Robb stated, “with your permission, of course.”
“Now?” Silas asked, stealing a peek at his sister’s untouched plate and she shot him a glance, no doubt telling him not to query longer.
“Robb, we’re having breakfast,” Sansa whispered like it could somehow escape his attention while Lord Greensted looked between them with a frown.
“Do you want to go see the Glass Gardens now, my blossom?”
His betrothed didn’t even hesitate one second; “Sounds very beautiful father, I’d be delighted.”
Lord Greensted nodded at Silas who got the message in a second and pushed his seat back.
“I can accompany you—”
“No need Silas,” Robb cut him off. “You enjoy your breakfast.”
Lord Greensted gave him a knowing smile. “Robb, not that we don’t trust you of course, but it’s not very common for betrothed couples to wander off without someone to accompany them back in the Reach.”
“In here either,” his father said as if trying to remind him of his manners. “Robb knows that.”
“I do know that,” Robb stated. “My brother can accompany us.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Jon’s head snapping up before he slid a little in his seat like he was trying to disappear from Robb’s sight while Theon pressed his fist on his lips, trying to hide his laugh. His mother widened her eyes to give him that silent warning glare he and his siblings were very familiar with, and Lord Greensted turned to chuckle at Bran in a fatherly manner.
“Let the little man finish his breakfast, I’d say.”
“My half-brother, Lord Greensted,” Robb said, intentionally avoiding his mother’s glare as he motioned at Jon and Theon’s table. “Jon Snow.”
Jon shut his eyes for a second like he was being called to the executioner’s sword before he pushed his seat back and approached the table to bow his head.
“My lord,” he said before turning to his betrothed. “My lady.”
She gave him a kind smile to greet him back which awakened warmth in Robb’s chest; he didn’t know much about how they perceived bastards in the Reach, but that was a good sign.
He really wanted her to get along well with Jon.
Lord Greensted raised his brows in surprise while Silas leaned back like he was watching a play with a smirk on his face, eyeing Jon up and down.
“Ah,” Lord Greensted said after a pause. “I uh—I don’t see why not.”
“Great.” Robb held out his hand for her and she paused only for a second before she placed her soft hand in his and stood up from her seat. Though Robb was hoping that she’d let him hold her hand longer, she slipped it out of his grasp and went down the raised platform the table was placed on, and walked beside him out of the dining hall with Jon trailing after them at a little further distance than any other chaperone would.
Robb ran a hand through his hair and stole a look at Jon behind them before he turned to her and took a deep breath.
“My lady—”
“I’d appreciate it if you waited until we’re alone, my lord,” she cut him off and that was when Robb realized all the eyes on the hallway watching them walk, despite pretending to be in deep conversation.
By the Gods, why was it so crowded here today? Surely not all of these people had cleared off their whole day to watch his betrothed walk from one place to another?
When they got to the Glass Gardens and Robb opened the door for her, the familiar moist air mixed with the earthy scent of the greenhouse hit his face, the memory of him and Jon sneaking in here to pick flowers for Sansa whenever she got sick flashing through his mind, but he was soon distracted by the warmth of his lady as she walked past him to step inside. Jon shot him a warning glare and Robb shrugged his shoulders, then closed the door behind him, leaving Jon outside to play the guard in case anyone happened to get close.
He found her looking up at the ceiling before she approached the infamous blue winter roses to see them better, the sunrays coming through the yellow and green glass of the windows showering her in light. For a couple of seconds, the only thing he could do was watch her stand there among the roses, luring him into a pleasant daze.
She belongs here, Robb thought. Not the Blossom of the Reach, but the Flower of Winterfell, standing in soft pink among the winter roses, bathed in balmy light.
She turned her head when she noticed his gaze, and straightened her back, her jaw clenching as if she was bracing herself. Robb tried to pull himself together and think through the daze that was clouding his mind, then cleared his throat.
“My lady, I…” He paused for a moment, chewing on his lip. “I owe you an explanation.”
A sad smile curled her lips. “Oh?”
“I must assure you firstly that I had no ill intentions last night,” he added quickly. “I—when I saw you—”
You made me dumb didn’t sound like something she would want to hear from her future husband, so Robb decided to go with a different explanation.
“Me and my brother and my best friend, we went out last night, that’s why I was in servant clothes,” he ended up saying. “And when you assumed I was one, I didn’t correct you because I—”
“Wanted to put me through a test.”
“No.” Robb shook his head. “Not even close, my lady.”
Disbelief was written all over her face. “No?”
“No,” Robb insisted. “Trust me. That was not my intention.”
She scoffed. “And what was your intention, if I may be so bold to ask?”
“To get to know you,” Robb said. “The real you, without the burden of all the expectations placed upon us.”
“A luxury I was not granted,” she pointed out. “Only you, my lord. Doesn’t seem fair, does it?”
It wasn’t that he did not expect her to be angry, yet, Robb couldn’t help but wonder how on earth the girl from last night managed to hold this much restrained fury in her voice. The mellow fire that played in her eyes last night was taken over by a snowstorm today, rage spiking her soft voice like poison dripped in honey.
“…No,” Robb admitted. “No, it does not.”
“I was told that Northerners did not partake in court intrigue,” she spat. “Looked down on such tricks, even.”
Great, so not only had he made a bad impression as her future lord husband, he had also dragged down the whole North with him.
Also, what in Seven Hells was the right answer to that? Yes we look down on you and your tricks because your side of the realm treats oaths like jests and honor like an option?
Before he could stop himself, the words had already escaped his mouth. “And I was told Southerners looked down on honesty.”
Fuck.
“Is that why you decided to deprive me of it?” she snarked back, then closed her eyes for a second and shook her head as if trying to keep her anger at bay. “I did not come here to argue.”
“Me neither,” Robb said quickly. “My lady—”
“I’d appreciate it if you could grant me a week so that I can come up with a believable excuse with my brother in order to explain the situation to my father, that’s it.”
Robb’s apology died in his throat as confusion pinched his brows. “Hm?”
“A week sounds appropriate,” she said, her nose stuck in the air. “Everything taken into account, that is. I do not know what you will tell your own family but—”
“A week for what?”
She shot him a look. “To announce you’re breaking off our betrothal, of course.”
Robb prided himself in being not easily surprised, a trait that was surely an outcome of his upbringing, but that right there was enough to render him speechless as he gawked at her for a couple of seconds in pure silence.
“…I’m what?” he managed to ask when he could find his voice. “You want me to break our betrothal?”
“No,” she said, “you want to break our betrothal.”
This had to be what true shock felt like, because nothing that crossed his mind made sense other than the fact that he would not, in a million winters or summers, would ever break this betrothal. The most beautiful woman he had ever laid his eyes on just came to Winterfell, mesmerized him in mere seconds and now he was expected to let her go?
No. Absolutely not—
Granted, there was also duty. It was a matter of honor, and he couldn’t think of a less honorable thing than breaking off a betrothal that he had promised, and he tried to convince himself it was more about duty and honor than the sudden twist in his gut at the thought of her slipping through his fingers.
“What are you talking about?”
She pouted her lips in the most adorable way, glaring up at him. “If this is yet another trick—”
“It’s not,” Robb cut her off, impatience laced in his tone. “Tell me why you are under the deception that I would ever want such a thing.”
That seemed to have confused her in return, her brows furrowing deep in thought.
“Um,” she trailed off. “Because you saw me last night.”
“That’s how eyes work,” Robb deadpanned, “ideally.”
“No! No, I mean—” She huffed out an impatient breath. “You saw me in a less than appealing state.”
Oh.
It wasn’t anger.
He had been an idiot; it wasn’t anger that trembled her hands or sharpened her glare, it was fear. She actually thought he would put her through such humiliation, announce the breaking of their betrothal at the breakfast table in front of everyone, that he had dragged her here because—
The idea was so ridiculous that he had to say it out loud to understand:
“You think…” he started slowly. “You think I want to break our betrothal because I saw you before they could adorn you in jewelry and put you in some flimsy silk gown?”
Her lips parted in surprise and she looked down at her gown with a frown as if she was trying to see a flaw in it, and it was in that moment Robb realized Grey Wind wasn’t the only one he had a mind connection with.
He could quite literally hear Sansa’s shrill screech in his head.
“Not that—not that your gown is not beautiful!” he added in a haste, making her head snap up, confusion etched on her face. “But if you think that I’d want to break our betrothal because of that—”
“No, I think you want to break our betrothal because of disappointment.”
A laughter of astonishment spilled from his lips before he could stop it, but that seemed to be his one hundredth mistake this morning; her eyes narrowed in displeasure before she took a step toward the door and he stepped in the same direction to block her path in a haste, desperate to explain himself.
“My lady—”
“I wish to leave please.”
“I’m not breaking our betrothal—”
“Consider me pleased with your actions of the late in that case,” she deadpanned, glaring up at him. “I wish to leave, I said.”
“If I could explain—” he started but was cut off when Jon knocked on the door before he opened it.
“My apologies,” he said. “Maester Luwin is around.”
His betrothed licked her lips, fiddling with her bracelet around her wrist.
“I’m afraid the excitement of the day has gotten to me,” she said, her voice distant. “I’d appreciate it if you could tell your family I will have to excuse myself from breakfast to rest until dinner, my lord. Good day.”
“But…” Robb trailed off while she walked past him and Jon, then whirled around on her heels in a haste like she’d remembered something and made Robb’s heart skip a beat, but she didn’t even look his way.
“It was nice to meet you ser,” she told Jon as if it was imperative he knew that. “Thank you for your company.”
With that, she walked away from them and made her way across the yard to enter the castle, and Robb let out a breath, slumping back against the counter filled with plants.
“She called me ser,” Jon said and Robb hummed.
“She does that.”
“And you fucked up?”
Robb ran a hand through his hair and threw his head back, closing his eyes.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Yeah, I fucked up.”
Robb was in no mood to make explanations to many questions that were sure to come from his family so he didn’t go back to dining room, instead he and Jon were soon joined by Theon at the corner of the courtyard away from the Great Keep. Theon was lying on his back on the bench and nibbling on an apple while Jon sharpened his sword, and Robb caressed Grey Wind’s fur who sighed dramatically.
“I just don’t understand,” Robb announced. “What am I to do now? Do I just go to her bedchambers to explain myself?”
“Considering the whole issue was caused by you going to her bedchambers in the first place, I’d say no,” Jon murmured, his whole attention on his sword while Theon pointed at him with his apple.
“You can just demand she listen to you.”
“How is every single word out of your mouth is such bad advice?” Jon asked Theon who bit into his apple.
“He could.”
“I won’t demand she does anything,” Robb told him with a grimace. “Jon is right. That’s terrible advice.”
Jon made a noise of agreement while Theon chewed on his bite.
“It was as if everything I said somehow sounded wrong,” Robb muttered. “Like we speak two different languages.”
“You do,” Jon said. “Southerners’ words have one hundred meanings. Ours have only one.”
“I spoke to multiple Southern girls,” Robb defended himself. “In Riverrun. None of them confused me such.”
“That’s because those girls wanted to marry you.”
Robb frowned. “Are you saying my lady wife does not?”
“I’m saying you don’t have a lady wife,” Jon stated helpfully and shook his head when Robb pointed in the direction of the Great Keep. “That’s your betrothed.”
“She is to be my lady wife.”
“Not yet.”
“I gave my word when I accepted the betrothal,” Robb insisted. “That’s as binding as making an oath in front of the weirwood tree.”
“Not as binding,” Theon said. “If it were, you could’ve gone to her bedchambers at night without having to lie about your name. And yet…”
Jon repressed a laugh while Robb glared at him.
“You two have been no help at all, it’s almost admirable.”
“Hey, I wasn’t the one who lied about who I was, dragged my betrothed to the Glass Gardens to insult her gown—”
“I didn’t insult her gown!”
“Snow’s got a point, flimsy silk gown is not a compliment.”
“When was the last time you’ve ever given a compliment to a dressed woman, Greyjoy?”
“Robb, my boy!” A familiar voice cut through their argument and all three of them turned to look at the merry figure of Lord Cassel making his way to them with his wife. Lord Cassel was one of the most loyal bannermen of House Stark. He had made sure to join most of Robb’s and his siblings’ name day celebrations, and at this point, he was more of an uncle than a banner man, hence the lack of titles on his end.
“Lord Cassel,” he greeted him back as Theon sat up straighter. “Lady Cassel. Good afternoon.”
Lady Cassel curtsied.
“We wanted to congratulate you,” Lord Cassel told Robb and pointed at his wife with his thumb. “My lady wife has woken me up early just so that we could see your betrothed.”
“It wasn’t just me, everyone was curious!” Lady Cassel said. “We’ve all heard what they call her in the South. The Blossom of the Reach.”
“And Robb calls her his lady wife in the North.”
Robb kicked Theon’s boot and Lady Cassel raised her brows.
“Well, no one can deny your betrothed is a beauty, my lord, but are you sure she is going to be able to adapt here?”
“Why would she not?” Robb asked, defensive all of a sudden while Lady Cassel hummed.
“There was some observation among the ladies that her gown is too Southern, that’s all. Is she not going to get cold in such silks? It’s almost as if she doesn’t know the North.”
Lord Cassel squeezed her hand on his arm. “Now my dear, perhaps wait a little to make your assumptions?”
“She knows the North and she will adapt just fine, Lady Cassel,” Robb said sternly. “I appreciate your concern.”
Lord Cassel gave him a small smile and bowed his head, then walked away from them with his wife, muttering something to her while Jon scoffed.
“Concern? More like criticism,” he muttered. “The girl hasn’t so much as breathed in their direction yet, and they’re ready to tear her apart.”
“That didn’t sound like criticism,” Theon said. “That’s a valid concern. Robb is to be the Lord of Winterfell, his betrothed—”
“My lady wife.”
“Your betrothed!” Jon and Theon said at the same time, making Robb roll his eyes.
“His betrothed was supposed to be a Northerner,” Theon told Jon. “Or act that way, at least. You can put furs on the flimsy gowns but is she going to be able to…”
The rest of his sentence and Jon’s retort got muffled in Robb’s ears as his head shot up, the idea striking like lightning in his mind.
A fur.
His father had told him to make his betrothed a pelt as a gift, and Robb had hunted the animal that very day, it was somewhere in his bedchambers. The events of last night and this morning had made him forget it but he was supposed to gift her that to—
To make her feel welcomed.
“Father is a genius,” he muttered more to himself as he stood up, Jon tilting his head.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ll be back—Grey Wind, stay here!” he called out, already running in the direction of the Glass Gardens. He burst through the door and grabbed the nearest blue rose to pluck it, then darted for the castle. He jumped over several steps on his way upstairs and turned to the hallway, every noble he ran past bowing or greeting him but he was in too much of a haste to—
“Robb!”
His father’s voice stopped him dead in his tracks like he was stuck with an arrow and he scrunched up his face to curse under his breath, then held the rose behind him to take several steps back to look at his parents and Sansa in his father's solar.
“Father?” he said, trying to appear as composed as he could while his father ran a hand over his face like he was tired.
“Come here please.”
“…Now?”
“Yes, now.”
His mother shook her head fondly as Sansa giggled, and Robb entered the solar to approach them.
“Yes?” he asked, still holding the rose behind him and his father leaned back to the table, crossing his arms.
“How’s your day going so far?”
Robb cleared his throat and shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. “Usual.”
“Nothing out of the ordinary?”
“No, mother.”
His father and mother exchanged glances, then turned to him at the same time.
“We didn’t have the chance to speak after breakfast,” his father said. “How do you find your betrothed?”
By the Gods, he did not have time for this.
“She seems…” Robb motioned vaguely with one hand. “Pleasant.”
Sansa narrowed her eyes and tilted her head, the simple gesture identical to Jon’s whenever he was confused.
“Ah.” His mother smiled. “Pleasant?”
“Mm hm.”
“You got along well then?”
“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” Robb said. “Whether we get along well or not, it’s my duty to—”
“Get her flowers?” Sansa finished his sentence for him in a smug manner, earning a glare from him.
Traitor.
“Sansa, would you give us a moment?” his mother said and Sansa grinned, then walked past him, grabbing the rose from him on her way.
“Very dutiful,” she snarked and walked out of the room with the rose in her hand while Robb rolled his eyes.
“Great.”
“Well,” his mother said. “The rose is a nice gesture, but is there a reason why your betrothed didn’t come back to breakfast other than excitement of the day?”
His mother was way too attentive in matters like these.
“But I didn’t have any ill-intentions,” he added quickly when they saw their confusion. “I’d never offend her on purpose and I’m to fix that, I was just on my way there. I figured since she’s from the Reach and she likes flowers...”
He trailed off with a shrug and his mother hummed, then stepped closer to him to fix the metal wolf head clasps on his cloak.
“I’m sure that misunderstanding can be solved when you explain your intentions.”
“Did you two also spoke two different languages when you first met?” Robb couldn’t help but ask when his mother stepped back, seemingly satisfied with his cloak. “It’s as if I say one thing and she hears another, and what she says I miss the actual meaning.”
The question made both of them chuckle, and his mother turned to give his father a look that shared an inside joke while he clasped his hand over her shoulder to squeeze it.
“More than you’d think, my dearest,” his mother said. “That’s something you both will need to be patient about, learning each other’s language even though you seem to speak the same one.”
Robb scoffed a small laugh, running a hand through his hair.
“And if my lady wife continues to misunderstand me?”
“Your lady wife?” his father repeated with a surprised smile flashing over his face. “Am I to understand you went to Godswood and not Glass Gardens?”
Why did everyone focus on that detail?
“No, we went to Glass Gardens,” Robb muttered. “But I already gave my word when we said yes to the betrothal, that’s binding.”
“And you’re very eager for it to be binding,” his mother observed, making him shift his weight.
“Keeping promises is a matter of honor and duty.”
For some reason, his mother didn’t seem convinced that it was about honor and duty.
“Son,” his father said with a sigh. “I’m glad she is to your liking. However, the heir of Winterfell cannot be running in the hallways after his betrothed—your word is binding and it is a matter of honor and duty, but she is still your betrothed right now,” he added when Robb opened his mouth to argue and his mother repressed a smile.
“She will be your lady wife,” she pointed out. “No one is taking her away whether you run after her in the hallways or not.”
“And I meant what I said before,” his father said. “You cannot rush things, especially when it comes to your expectations. That girl doesn’t know you yet, give her time.”
“Uh huh.” Robb stole a look at the doorway, his hands clasped behind him. “I know.”
“And I need you to come with me,” his father told him, making his head shoot up. “I’ll have to talk to Lord Umber and you know how he gets. We might have to skip dinner, he has much to discuss.”
He had to be jesting.
Today of all days, now of all moments?
“And the guests?” Robb asked, earning a shrug from his father.
“They can have one dinner without us present, I’m sure.”
“Father—” He paused. “Is my presence needed? Lord Umber gets along better with you.”
“It is very much needed,” his father stated in a serious manner, but his mother elbowed him.
“Let him go, Ned,” she said with a laugh as his father broke into a slight grin. “He looks tormented.”
Oh thank the Gods, he was indeed jesting.
“Thank you mother,” Robb said and pressed a kiss on top of her head, then bowed his head at his father. “Father.”
“Walk slow!” his father called out as Robb made his way out the door as fast as he could without running, then raised his brows at Sansa who was waiting for him in the hallway. She rolled her eyes at him and held out the rose she had stolen from him.
“I had to make sure it had no flaws,” she said airily. “Gods know you can’t be trusted on that, considering the roses you and Jon would steal for me when I was a child whenever I got sick.”
Robb hummed and took it from her.
“I seem to remember you pretending to be sick for us to do that.”
“Shut up.” Sansa giggled. “I believe you have a betrothed to run in the hallways for, no?”
Robb pretended not to hear her as he made his way to his bedchambers and shuffled through the chest at the foot of his bed, then pulled out the pelt.
“Alright,” he muttered to himself and placed the rose on top of it, then walked out of his bedchambers and down the hallway. He felt his chest tighten again when he turned the corner to approach her door, his fist freezing halfway in the air when he heard the familiar voice.
“I don’t want it, I said!”
“You’re acting like a—”
“Eadith, you can have it.”
“You honor me my lady, but I don’t have anywhere to wear a silk gown.”
“You’re acting like a spoiled child—”
“No one asked you, Elinor.”
“Silas, you’re pushing it today.”
“Oh I’m pushing it? You’re the one who came to my sister’s bedchambers uninvited.”
“I want it out of my sight!”
“I don’t even know why we’re arguing about this. Eadith, get it out of her sight.”
“Of course my lord.”
“No, she has to learn she can’t just—”
“Robb Stark has let me know very subtly that he despises this gown, alright? I don’t want to wear it again, so I simply won’t wear it again, so there’s no reason for me to keep seeing it!”
He had to clear out that misunderstanding as well.
He turned the folded pelt in his hand so that he could cover the rose with it, knocked on the door and stepped back, his heart pacing in his chest as her maid opened the door and curtsied. His betrothed’s lips parted in surprise as her eyes fell on him, and he gave her a small smile.
“My lady,” he said. “I was wondering if I could have a word?”
She exchanged glances with Silas, then nodded and stepped out of her bedchambers into the hallway, closing the door behind her. It didn’t escape his notice that she had changed her gown from light pink to soft green, perhaps because of—
Because of the ridiculous idea of him disliking the former.
Robb had to force himself to focus, stepping closer to the window she was watching the moon from last night, and she followed him with a curt glance back to the closed door of her bedchambers.
“My lady,” Robb said, clearing his throat and willing himself to take a deep breath. “It’s come to my attention that I owe you an apology, rather than an explanation.”
She crossed her arms, still pouting.
“But before I get to that,” Robb said and held out the folded pelt. “It would be my honor for you to accept this as a welcome gift to Winterfell and…and into my life.”
The defiant look on her face melted like snowflakes under the summer sun as she stared at him for a few seconds before taking the pelt from him. The rose made her smile and she took it to her nose, then buried her fingers into the pelt to curl them.
“I made it, my lady,” Robb said and her eyes snapped up to his.
“It’s beautiful,” she said softly. “You must give my compliments to the craftsman who made it.”
“…You made it?” she asked after a beat. “How? Surely you yourself didn’t hunt for it?”
He had no idea why she sounded that confused but he answered anyway. “Both hunted for it and made it.”
She blinked a couple of times.
“For me?” she asked as if she wanted to make sure, a bright smile lighting up her face when Robb nodded his head. “Thank you!”
Ah.
This right here was it.
This was why everyone around her bent over backwards to make her happy. The excited lilt in her voice, the genuine joy shining in her eyes, the small bounce she couldn’t help but make on the balls of her feet like she was too thrilled to stay still, the way she was looking up at him like he had just brought her the moon itself rather than just a pelt; those were the reason. Robb had criticized her family and friends for coddling her based on what he had heard of her upbringing before he even met her, but it was at that moment that he decided he’d spend the rest of his life chasing this very delight—
…Within duty, of course.
That was his duty as her husband.
The way his heart leaped to his throat when she was happy was a mere coincidence.
“Of course,” Robb said, pride making him lightheaded. “I’m glad it is to your liking.”
She nodded fervently, hugging the pelt to her chest.
“And my lady, earlier today,” he said. “I’m aware that you do not know me yet, but in order to avoid any future misunderstandings; what I say is what I mean.”
There was a playful twitch to her lips. “Except your name?”
Robb hummed, trying to control his expression. “Except my name, when my betrothed is in dire need of help.”
“I shall keep that in mind.”
“And,” he said, “there were many things in my mind last night upon meeting you, but disappointment was not, nor could ever be, one of them. Same as breaking our betrothal.”
She opened her mouth in defiance, no doubt to fire yet another sharp arrow made of words, then closed it and thought for a moment before taking a deep breath.
“But you laughed at me—”
“Not at you,” he cut her off with a shake of his head. “At the notion of you thinking that I could ever want such a thing.”
She furrowed her brows, deep in thought. “The idea never crossed your mind?”
“Never,” he said. “I swear by the old gods and the new.”
“But my sister-in-law says she saw you disappointed while we were going to the dining hall.”
Robb frowned.
“Your sister-in-law,” he repeated. “The one who looks like she constantly smells a dead rat?”
That seemed to make her giggle, the pleasant sound like music to his ears.
“Sounds like her.”
“Your sister-in-law doesn’t know me well enough to know how I feel,” he said. “And she doesn’t seem like the type of person whom I’d be interested in getting to know in the future either.”
“Do trust your instincts on that,” she muttered, fixing the skirt of her gown as if she was restless, and what she had said about her gown shot through Robb’s mind.
“And I think you look beautiful in any gown,” he added, making her head whip up. “Earlier today and now. How you look in your nightgown just happens to be my favorite, that’s all.”
A look of surprise flashed over her face before she looked down like she was nervous all of a sudden, curling her fingers in the pelt again.
“How strange,” she commented. “My betrothed did wake up blind today, it seems.”
His fingers twitched to tilt her chin up for her to meet his gaze, but instead he dipped his head so that she could hear his murmur even though she didn’t look up at him, her sweet scent luring him into a pleasant daze.
“Only a blind man would think the things my betrothed accused me of today,” he said like giving her a secret, “so I see why you’d think that.”
A breath of a laughter escaped her and she raised her glances at him, nibbling on her lip.
“And what happens,” she asked, “if you do wake up blind one day?”
A fond smile curled his lips. “And dislike your gown? My lady—”
“Do not claim it impossible,” she said like she could hear his thoughts. “You’ve said it yourself, we do not know each other yet. If you’ve decided something is to your dislike, small as it may seem—”
“I continue to be at your service,” he completed her sentence. “In the privacy of your bedchambers or outside. It’s the least I can do as I get to know my lady wife.”
He half-expected her to correct him as many had today but she didn’t even hesitate, mischief shining in her eyes.
“And what is the least I can do,” she asked, “as I get to know my lord husband?”
The way she used the simple term to reference him wasn’t supposed to have this much of an impact on him; but Robb could swear the sunlight coming from the window sunk itself into his chest, filling it with the most pleasant warmth as his heart hammered against his ribcage.
“Take my words as they are?” he suggested when he could find his breath again. “They hold no hidden intent, or falsities.”
“Very well,” she said with a smile. “Sounds simple enough to try.”
He smiled back and bowed.
“I should leave you to your peace,” he said. “See you at dinner, my lady.”
She swept a well-trained curtsy.
“I’ll see you then, my lord,” she said and made her way into her bedchambers, then closed the door behind her. A smile he couldn’t stop curled his lips and his hand shot up to his hair so that he could run his fingers through his curls with an exhale. He started walking away from her door, but—
Her door opened again. “My lord?”
He spun around immediately, clasping his hands behind him, his back straight. “My lady?”
“My, um…” She turned her head to steal a look in the direction of her open door, the sunlight coming from the window across the hallway bathing her in gold, making his heart pace. “My brother wants to know if you will be accompanying me to dinner or if he should.”
“Me,” Robb said and raised his voice a little so that Silas could hear him from inside her bedchambers. “I will, Silas.”
“Wonderful,” Silas’s drawl reached the hallway. “Could you make sure to compliment her gown for my own sanity? I fear the taverns of the North will be made aware of my presence much sooner than expected otherwise.”
“Silas!” she hissed and Robb let out a chuckle.
“It’d be my pleasure.”
She pouted her lips and dropped another curtsy, then stomped her way into her bedchambers.
“Silas, have you ever considered humor is not your—” she started but Robb didn’t get to hear the rest of her reprimand when the door closed again. He lingered in the doorway for a moment, painfully aware of his smile before he made his way down the hallway, a sudden burst of excitement rushing through his veins, making him feel lightheaded as he sped up—
“Robb, what did I just say?” His father’s exasperated voice came out of his solar the moment he strode past there, and Robb threw his head back, cussing under his breath.
“Walking slow!” he called out and rolled his shoulders back, his mother’s laugh reaching the hallway while he kept walking. “Right. Slow and solemn as a Stark.”
A/N: this can be read as a standalone even though it's part of a series called "You Said What". it doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13, part 14, part 15, part 16, part 17, part 18, part 19, part 20. thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)
The compound kitchen is already warm when you start cooking in the early afternoon, sunlight spilling through the tall windows and turning the countertops gold. It’s quiet in that heavy, peaceful way you’ve come to adore—like the whole place is holding its breath while you prepare a holiday meant for noise.
You volunteered. Which had immediately earned you three responses:
1. Tony cheering like a man freed from oven duties,
2. Sam asking if you’d lost a bet,
3. Natasha staring at you with quiet, suspicious approval.
And then Bucky had smiled. Softly. Like you’d handed him the whole holiday yourself.
Now, you’ve been chopping, marinating, seasoning, mixing—lost in the rhythm—when a familiar warmth slides against your back, an unmistakable chest pressing flush between your shoulder blades.
“You need help,” Bucky murmurs, voice so low it vibrates through you before it ever reaches your ears.
You don’t turn around at first. You don’t have to.
“I didn’t ask for help.”
“Didn’t say you did.” His hands come around you anyway, both settling on the counter next to yours. “Just said you need it.”
You huff a laugh. “Bucky. You can’t just climb into the kitchen every time I touch a spatula.”
“Yes, I can.”
He says it like a vow.
You try to fight your smile. You fail. Badly. When you finally turn, he’s already leaning down just a little, like your faces have gravity.
You elbowed him lightly. “You were supposed to be distracting Thor so he’d stop asking if he could ‘summon lightning to crisp the turkey.’”
“He left,” Bucky said. “Said something about meditating on the balcony and listening to holiday music. Which was actually AC/DC, if you’re curious.”
Before you could respond, Natasha leaned her shoulder against the doorway, arms crossed, the slyest smile on her face.
“Barnes,” she called casually, “if you’re going to sneak into the kitchen every five seconds, at least put an apron on. You’re shedding emotionally all over the food.”
He rolled his eyes but grabbed the nearest apron anyway.
“The ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron? Very subtle” Natasha says calmly,
Bucky glances at the apron, then at her. “It was the first one I saw.”
Natasha hums, unconvinced and steps forward, stealing a carrot from the chopping board. “Let me know if you need backup.”
Then, with the subtlest wink to the both of you, she’s gone.
You glance at Bucky, grinning. “So… do I have to actually kiss the cook, or is it more of a suggestion?”
Bucky shrugs, looking a little sheepish under the apron. “I mean… the apron does make it sound mandatory.”
You laugh, reaching over to tug gently at the fabric. “Well, I guess I better follow orders then.”
He smirks, leaning in just close enough for his voice to be soft in your ear. “Good. I was hoping you’d volunteer.”
You giggle, leaning into him for just a second, and he chuckles softly, lingering close as if reluctant to pull away.
After a beat, he tilts his head, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear with the most unnecessary gentleness known to mankind. “What are you making?”
“Sweet potato casserole.”
“Sweet potatoes?” He makes a face. “Didn’t we suffer enough in the 40s?”
You smack his chest lightly. “Not everything is a war flashback.”
“Those potatoes were,” he says. Then he leans in—slowly, softly—and kisses you.
The kind of kiss that steals your breath without taking anything else. Gentle, warm, lingering. His hands come to your waist, pulling you flush against him, his thumb tracing circles over your hipbone like he’s memorizing you.
It’s not a rushed, secretive kiss. It’s a devotional one. The kind that makes you melt straight into him.
And because he knows you, because he hears your breath hitch, he deepens it—just a little—his lips moving with such tenderness you feel it behind your ribs.
Your heart does something stupid in your chest.
“Okay,” you say, nudging him away with a grin you can’t hide. “If you’re staying, chop the onions.”
His eyes narrow. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would.”
He sighs dramatically, but he grabs the knife anyway. “Love is a battlefield,” he mutters.
“And onions are the enemy?”
“They always have been.”
He chops; you stir; he occasionally kisses your shoulder under the guise of reaching for spices. It’s domestic in a way that feels almost too good, too soft, too… normal.
And then Tony bursts in.
“Okay,” Tony says, pointing between you with the energy of a man who already knows he’s right. “Which one of you decided the kitchen needed a romantic tension upgrade? Because wow.”
You jump. Bucky doesn’t. He just keeps chopping as if Tony Stark is background noise.
Tony steps closer, waving his hand dramatically through the air. “Look at this atmosphere. This palpable sappy humidity. I’m sweating feelings in here.”
“I’m literally making gravy,” you say.
“Gravy isn’t that sexy,” Tony fires back.
Bucky coughs. “Disagree.”
Tony claps once. “Aha! See? Adorable.”
But he doesn’t interrogate. Doesn’t linger. Instead, he smirks, whispers, “You two owe me for running distraction outside,” and exits the room as loudly as he entered.
But not without shouting over his shoulder:
“By the way, Rogers is asking who keeps humming love songs in the hallway. I didn’t narc, but maybe stop doing that approximately two doors down from where he exists!”
Bucky’s cheeks flushed instantly.
You nudged him. “You hum?”
“I don’t—” His voice cracked. “—okay, maybe sometimes.”
“Cute.”
Hours pass.
The turkey roasts.
The mash fluffs.
The compound fills with warmth and noise.
Steve drifts through the kitchen twice holding a bowl of something he claims is cranberry sauce but looks like a science experiment. Bruce tries to help but gets distracted by a debate with Vision about molecular gastronomy. Clint steals rolls like it’s a competitive sport.
And Sam?
Sam watches the whole kitchen dynamic with narrowed eyes—not suspicious exactly, just… amused. Curious. Like he knows something is happening, but he’s not sure what. Or if it matters.
He leans into the doorway, arms crossed, taking in the bustling chaos.
“You making enough for a small country?” he asks.
You laugh. “You guys eat like one.”
He points at the counter full of pies. “And these?”
“Stress baking,” you say.
Bucky leans close, whispering just loud enough for Sam to hear, “They’re really good pies.”
Sam shrugs. “Hey, I’m not complaining.” He grabs a spoon and steals a dollop of whipped cream.
He doesn’t leave right away.
He lingers in the doorway, still eating the stolen whipped cream off the spoon like he’s contemplating the mysteries of the universe. His eyes keep bouncing between you and Bucky—then the apron Bucky’s wearing—then back to you.
You can practically see the dots connecting in his head, forming a conspiracy board made entirely of vibes.
He squints.
Hard.
“…Why are you smiling like that?” Sam asks Bucky.
“I’m not smiling,” Bucky lies, while visibly smiling.
Sam points the spoon at him. “Mm-hmm. Okay. Sure. And I’m Beyoncé.”
You try to play it cool. “Sam, you’re imagining things.”
“Oh, am I? Am I?” Sam steps into the kitchen like a detective entering a crime scene. “Because last week, Barnes almost bit my head off for asking him to pass me the salt. But today?” He gestures between you two. “I walk in and he’s wearing a ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron looking like a Hallmark love interest.”
Bucky mutters, “It was the first one I saw.”
Sam raises an eyebrow so high it nearly leaves his face. “Uh-huh.”
But then he leaves.
No interrogation.
No theories.
No claims.
Just Sam being Sam—funny, nosy in the harmless way, absolutely thrilled about free food.
Later, they’re all seated at the table, when Steve stands up, clearing his throat.
He taps his glass with a fork.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
On the fourth tap, Tony snatches the fork from his hand.
“Absolutely not,” Tony says. “We are not doing whatever Boy Scout tradition this is.”
Steve gives him a patient, suffering look. “It’s Thanksgiving. We’re supposed to go around the table and say what we’re grateful for.”
Sam groans dramatically. “Here we go. Rogers is gonna thank the Founding Fathers again.”
“I said that one time,” Steve mutters.
“One time too many,” Tony says.
But Thor claps excitedly. “A warrior’s sharing of gratitude! Yes! I shall begin!”
“No— no, please don’t—” Bruce whispers.
Too late.
Thor stands, all six-foot-a-lot of him, raises his mug like he’s declaring war, and booms, “I am thankful for my mighty friends, this mighty feast, and the mightiest of pies—”
Clint whispers, “Take a shot every time he says ‘mighty.’”
Steve tries again. “Okay, maybe shorter answers—”
Tony stands abruptly. “I’m thankful for noise-canceling headphones, modern medicine, and that no one burned down the kitchen today.”
Natasha goes next. “I’m thankful for not being on dish duty.” Then she looks pointedly at Tony. “Yet.”
Tony sits down, horrified.
Clint raises a roll like a microphone. “I’m thankful for carbs and the fact that none of you caught me taking the corner piece of every pie.”
Vision says something poetic and vaguely confusing about gratitude being a “quantum state of the soul.”
Wanda elbows him. “Just say you like the food.”
“Yes,” Vision nods. “That.”
Then it’s Sam’s turn.
He leans back, arms crossed, smirk forming like it’s stretching into place.
“I’m thankful,” he begins, eyes flicking between you and Bucky, “for the fact that apparently love is alive and well in this compound.”
You choke on air.
Sam continues casually, “I’m also thankful for people who wear ‘Kiss the Cook’ aprons without irony.” Bucky glares at him, cheeks pink.
Sam just smirks wider. “Don’t worry, man. It’s a very romantic look.”
Bucky mutters, “I’m going to throw a roll at you.”
“You won’t,” Sam says confidently. “You’re in a good mood.” Then he winks. “A real good mood.”
Steve tries to salvage the moment. “Okay, everyone, maybe we let them speak for themselves—”
Finally, Bucky’s turn. He swallows, voice low, just loud enough for the table.
“I—I’m thankful for… um…” He hesitates, eyes flicking to you, throat tight, the words on the tip of his tongue so personal they’d make the table pause if he said them.
You reach out, gently touch his hand under the table. He blinks at you, hesitation melting into a small, secretive smile.
“—stuff,” he finishes quickly. “I’m thankful for stuff.”
No one questions it. Sam raises an eyebrow suspiciously but decides it’s best to leave it.
You squeeze Bucky’s hand subtly. He gives a tiny squeeze back, a silent acknowledgment that his “stuff” was really about you—but no one else knows. Not yet.
Sam leans back, satisfied. “This is already the best Thanksgiving ever.”
You take a slow breath, letting the warmth of the room and the mess of the day settle around you. When it’s finally your turn, you smile softly, looking at everyone—at the chaos, at the laughter, at Bucky sitting beside you, warm and steady.
“I’m… thankful,” you say quietly, “for this—” you gesture to the table, the friends, the noise, the love that fills the room, “—and for the people who make it feel like home.”
Bucky’s fingers brush yours under the table. You catch the warmth in his gaze and squeeze his hand just a little. The words are simple, but they mean everything.
Then, as plates are finally set and everyone digs in, dinner is chaos in the most Avengers way possible.
Thor accidentally breaks a chair. Clint and Tony argue about who makes the better stuffing.
And Bucky?
Bucky sits beside you like he didn’t plan it, like fate simply put him there.
Under the table, his knee bumps yours.
Then stays there.
Warm. Steady. Quietly yours.
He passes you dishes first. Cuts your turkey with ridiculous precision. Smiles every time you laugh at something dumb Sam says. You don’t have to touch to feel connected; it’s in the small things, the silent ones.
But the kisses?
Those come after dinner.
When the others migrate to the lounge to argue over which movie counts as a “Thanksgiving classic,” you slip back into the kitchen to put away leftovers.
Bucky follows within seconds.
You open the fridge. “If you’re here to steal stuffing, I swear—”
You don’t finish.
He kisses you instead.
Deep, warm, slow.
His hands cradle your face; yours grab fistfuls of his shirt. You gasp into his mouth, and he smiles into the kiss, pulling you closer, backing you gently against the counter. His nose brushes yours; his breath is warm and sweet with cinnamon.
“You’re amazing,” he murmurs against your lips. “This whole dinner? You made today feel like… home.”
Your heart stutters painfully. “Buck—”
He kisses you again before you can finish.
Softer. Longer.
Like he has all the time in the world.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his hands still cradling your jaw.
“We should get back,” you whisper.
He shakes his head. “They’re arguing about movies. We have at least twenty minutes.”
You laugh, pressing one more kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Fine. But if someone walks in—”
“They won’t.”
“You’re very confident.”
“Natasha is watching the door for us.”
You groan into his chest as he laughs, arms wrapping around you and holding you there—safe, warm, loved—while the sound of your team bickering drifts down the hall.
You both stay there for a moment, just breathing each other in… until it hits you.
“Wait,” you murmur, pushing back slightly. “We forgot dessert.”
Bucky’s eyes light up, a grin spreading across his face. “Dessert?”
“Yes. Dessert,” The thought of chocolate ganache, pie, whipped cream—your favorite—suddenly makes room in your stomach.
The chocolate ganache sat in its bowl, glossy and decadent, practically daring you to dig in. You grabbed a spoon, and Bucky immediately mirrored you, eyes sparkling with that same quiet competitiveness he always got when it came to food—or, apparently, you.
“You’re not sneaking the first bite, are you?” you teased.
“Not a chance,” he said, dipping his spoon in slowly, deliberately, like a warrior preparing for battle.
You both took a bite, and then you smear a little on his cheek. He freezes, eyes wide for a second… then grins, wiping it off with his finger—and just like that, it ends up on your lips.
Before you could react, he flicked a small dollop of ganache onto your nose.
You gasped, then laughed, reaching out to wipe it off—only for him to capture your hand and press it to his chest, leaving chocolate streaks across his shirt. He smirked down at you, eyes glinting in the low kitchen light.
“Impressive technique,” you said, leaning closer, trying not to laugh.
“Years of practice,” he replied smoothly, fingers brushing a streak of chocolate from your lip. Your heart stuttered at the gentle pressure of his touch.
You retaliated, smearing whipped cream across his chin this time, and he groaned dramatically, licking it off with exaggerated care. “Fine,” he said, “you win this round.”
He leaned closer, and you could smell the faint trace of cinnamon lingering from earlier, mixed with the chocolate. “You’re too sweet,” he murmured, just brushing his lips against yours—quick, feather-light, impossible to resist. “I like dessert best when it comes with a side of you,” he said, leaning in again, this time pressing a kiss that was soft, lingering, tasting faintly of chocolate and warmth.
You roll your eyes but can’t stop smiling. Soon it becomes a playful little game: whipped cream on noses, chocolate on fingers, fingers brushing against each other, laughter echoing softly in the quiet kitchen.
At one point, you tried to step back to grab a clean napkin—but Bucky was already behind you, hands on your waist, leaning just enough that you felt entirely encased in warmth.
“You’re making it hard to focus on the food,” you whispered, smirking.
“I have… priorities,” he said, pressing a gentle kiss behind your ear that made you shiver.
By the time you finally settle down, you’re a little messy, a little chocolatey, and entirely, completely happy—dessert, laughter, and Bucky all in one perfect moment.
Later, when the kitchen is clean and the team is yelling about whether Die Hard counts as a holiday movie, you and Bucky finally rejoin them.
Sam eyes the two of you, ignoring the chocolate streaks across Bucky's shirt.
Not suspicious this time.
Not skeptical.
Just smiling—easy, entertained, warm.
“You two took long enough,” he says. “Come on. Thor wants team votes.”
And just like that, the world sweeps you both back up. Together. Quietly. Secretly. Perfectly.
Later that night your room is dark except for the soft glow of the moon leaking through the curtains, brushing everything in silver. The compound is finally quiet—no Thor booming at the TV, no Sam yelling about someone eating the last slice of pie, no Clint and Tony arguing over the thermostat.
It’s peaceful.
Almost too peaceful.
You’ve just slipped into bed, warm under the blankets, exhaustion settling into your bones after hours of cooking, laughing, cleaning—and kissing Bucky in a kitchen that smelled like cinnamon and secrets.
You’re stretched out, about to drift off, when you hear it.
A soft click.
Barely audible.
But unmistakable.
Your door.
Opening.
Your heartbeat jumps, then immediately settles—because you know exactly who would dare sneak into your room at 1:17 a.m. with the stealth levels of a mildly polite cat burglar.
“Buck?” you whisper into the dark.
There’s a rustle, a quiet thud, and then—
“Shh,” he whispers back, completely unnecessarily, before promptly tripping over your shoes.
You sit up, biting down a laugh.
“Doing great so far.”
“I’m light on my feet,” he mutters, closing the door behind him with exaggerated care. “Shadow of the night.”
“Shadow of the night doesn’t usually swear that loudly when stepping on a sneaker.”
“It was a tactical miscalculation.”
You giggle, and he freezes at the sound—like it’s the only thing in the room worth hearing.
Then he’s beside your bed, standing over you, entirely too handsome in a black T-shirt, hair loose from its tie, moonlight catching along his jaw like the universe did it on purpose.
“What are you doing here?” you whisper, though your body already leans into him instinctively.
He doesn’t answer right away.
He climbs onto the bed instead—slowly, deliberately—placing one knee, then the other, caging you in with his arms braced on either side of your waist.
You fall back against the pillows as he settles above you, face inches from yours, eyes warm and soft and unbearably blue.
“I missed you,” he says simply.
“You left my side ten minutes ago.”
“Like I said.” He dips down, brushing his nose against yours. “I missed you.”
You open your mouth to argue, but he kisses you before you can.
The kiss is slow—unhurried, warm, tasting faintly like the apple pie he stole after dinner. His lips move over yours with that familiar tenderness that makes your chest ache in the most addictive way.
Then he shifts, lowering himself until he’s half on top of you, half beside you, head tucked into your neck. One arm curls around your waist, metal fingers smoothing down your spine like he’s memorizing every line.
You feel him inhale deeply, like he’s breathing you in.
“You smelled like cinnamon all day,” he murmurs into your skin, voice muffled, sleepy, honest.
“And you still kept kissing me,” you remind him.
“Couldn’t help it.”
His lips brush your collarbone, soft as a secret.
“You looked so… happy. So warm. I don’t know. I wanted to be close.”
Your hand slides into his hair, fingers threading through soft, dark strands. He melts instantly, muscles loosening, breath settling into something slow and content.
“You can’t keep sneaking in here,” you whisper.
“Yes I can.”
“Bucky.”
He lifts his head enough to look at you, expression unreasonably, devastatingly earnest.
“I just want to sleep next to you,” he says.
Your heart stutters.
You pull him down by the back of his neck and kiss him again. Soft. Slow. Grateful.
He smiles into it—small, real, a little shy.
Then he settles against your chest, arm draped across your waist, legs tangled with yours like he has no intention of going anywhere. He presses one last kiss to your shoulder and closes his eyes. Then, very quietly, almost a whisper:
“Don’t tell Tony I tripped over your shoes.”
You snort. “Absolutely telling Tony.”
“Traitor.”
You laugh again, and he squeezes your waist gently like he’s hugging the sound itself.
His fingers trace lazy circles on your hip. You think he’s half-asleep until his voice breaks the silence, low and rough with hesitation.
“Hey,” he murmurs.
You hum back, running your fingers through his hair.
He lifts his head just enough to look at you—eyes soft, expression almost shy. That alone makes your heart squeeze. Bucky Barnes, shy with you.
“It’s Thanksgiving,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.
You smile. “Mm-hmm.”
“And I know it’s stupid, but uh… there’s something I—something I didn’t get the chance to say today.”
You tilt his chin up gently. “Buck. Nothing you say is stupid.”
He swallows, eyes flickering across your face like he’s trying to memorize every detail in the low moonlight.
Then, very quietly—
“Thank you.”
“For what?” you ask, brushing your thumb along his jaw.
He shifts closer, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing you in like the answer is right in your skin.
“For you,” he says simply. “Just… you.”
Your breath catches.
He continues, voice soft, steady, full of that raw sincerity he only lets you see.
“You made today feel like something good. Something normal. I haven’t had a normal holiday in… God, I don’t even know how long.” His fingers curl gently at your waist. “But today felt warm. Like home. And that’s because of you.”
You feel your chest tighten, emotion rising like a tide.
He hesitates again, then whispers even softer:
“You make the world quieter. For me. You make everything… lighter.”
You cup his face, pulling him closer, and he relaxes instantly—like your touch flips a switch that tells his body it’s safe.
“Bucky…”
You don’t even know what to say. Your heart is too full.
He solves that for you.
He kisses you.
Not hungry or heated—just slow. Reverent. Like thanksgiving made into a touch. His lips move against yours with grateful softness, like a promise in every breath.
When he pulls back, his lips brush yours as he whispers:
“Thank you for letting me love you.”
Your heart practically bursts.
You kiss him again—long, deep, gentle—and his hand slides up your back, pulling you even closer, as if he wants to anchor himself in the moment.
You rest your forehead against his, fingers tangled in his hair.
“I’m thankful for you too,” you whisper. “More than you know.”
Bucky smiles—small, genuine, unguarded—the kind he only shows you.
Then he settles back against your chest, kissing your collarbone before closing his eyes, completely at peace.
And you fall asleep like that—wrapped in warmth, wrapped in him, wrapped in a Thanksgiving gratitude sweeter than any pie downstairs.
A.N: Thank you so so much for your incredible support my loves, you've made me so happy! Here's the first chapter, I hope you'll like it! 🥰 Robb and the reader and all their entourage and friends are in their 20s, and I'm not following the canon, so no worries if you haven't watched the show, the parts that are from the show will be explained within the fic, and please let me know what you think, kisses! 🩷
Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader
Summary: Big plans require unexpected moves.
Word Count: 7.8
If everyone in Westeros agreed on one thing, it was that one’s family determined one’s fortune.
Especially for women.
So it was no wonder why you heard how lucky you were more than you heard lullabies when you were a mere child. The Gods had decided to exchange your mother’s life for yours on her birth bed after your six older brothers, and though you had always envied children who got to have mothers, your father had made it his life goal to make your mother’s dying wish come true; you were to be happy.
And happy you were kept.
Growing up as the youngest child and the only daughter of a wealthy lord of the Reach, you were sheltered from most of the challenges your friends faced. You were not betrothed to a terrible lord because your father was incredibly picky—which led the lords of Westeros to see convincing him and earning your favor as a challenge for some reason— you were not put in any situation where your safety was threatened thanks to your father’s guards who accompanied you everywhere and watched you like a hawk, even the people you could make friends with were handpicked by your father and your siblings.
Which had left you quite sheltered and coddled, as you were told multiple times by multiple people.
Like now.
“I honestly think you’re making a fuss over nothing.”
“I’m not!” You heaved a sigh and fell back on your best friend’s bed in a dramatic manner. “I’m just asking a very logical question, considering father has turned down one hundred proposals.”
“Just ninety, I’d say.”
“I’m not jesting.” you muttered, holding up a piece of silk fabric to the sunlight spilling through the window, showering you in gold. “Margaery, I think I like this one better.”
“Better than lighter blue?”
“Yes.”
Margaery tilted her head and motioned at one of the maids who was working on the skirts of her gown to bring the silk fabric to her. She was standing in the middle of her room while the seamstresses and the maids worked fast to get her sizing for new gowns, and though you had expected her to be more excited to meet her possible betrothed, she looked calm as ever.
“As I was saying, what if I end up being the only one left?” you insisted as she hissed in a breath when one of the seamstresses pricked her accidentally. “Everyone is getting married, you’re getting married—”
“I’m not getting married yet,” she said. “Knowing my family, it’ll take them a year or two to smooth everything out. I’m just getting betrothed. Besides, unlike what you seem to believe, marriage is not going to be all fun and games.”
You sat up straighter in bed and grabbed a ribbon to wrap it around your finger.
“Father has ordered his guards to not let me ride at full speed, because he thinks I might get hurt,” you grumbled. “When I marry, I’ll go horse riding every day, and ride at full speed all I want.”
“That’s nothing new, you’ve been coddled your whole life—”
“I’m not coddled!” you protested, your voice going high-pitched. “I’m just…um, well taken care of. Besides, you’re the one standing there in silks and sapphires, that’s not being coddled?”
She winked at you. “I’m just well taken care of.”
You threw the ribbon at her and reached over the edge of the bed to grab a slice of apple from the plate.
“You have no reason to worry, I’ve planned it, remember?” she asked you. “The moment I am married, I’ll convince your father to marry you into whichever family I married into. I’ll even ask my grandmother to support me.”
“And if my father still says no?”
“I’ll explain to him what kind of a danger he’s putting you in.”
Your brows furrowed. “What danger is that?”
“When he dies, your brother will be the head of your house, and his wife hates you.”
“Oh trust me, the feeling is mutual,” you retorted. “I can count with one hand the times Elinor actually said something nice to me, I suppose they raised her in a cave. Would explain her lack of sense in fashion as well, but I suppose I cannot expect otherwise from a Wensington. I’m actually surprised she didn’t show up to the feast wearing—”
“She will manipulate your brother as wives do,” Margaery cut you off. “And she will make your life a living hell, and then use your brother to make you marry someone you don’t even want. Your father will have to—ouch!”
“I’m sorry my lady,” the seamstress who pricked her said, and Margaery paused for a second, then forced herself to smile at her. You had to remind yourself to keep a straight face; that expression was way too familiar.
You had seen it on yourself on different occasions; being annoyed, but hiding it behind a perfect smile.
“It’s alright, please be more careful,” she said and turned to you. “Anyways, he will have to agree.”
You pouted your lips and heaved a deep sigh.
“I suppose,” you said sulkily. “Meanwhile I’ll get bored here. You’ll be away how long? Months and months?”
“You can make use of the time.”
“How?”
She arched a brow at you, then cleared her throat, making the seamstresses stop and look up at her.
“I’d like to have the room for a moment,” she said and they bowed, then walked out with Margaery’s maids following them. Margaery fixed the skirts of her half-made gown, then came to sit at the edge of the bed.
“I keep telling you,” she said, “you need to learn what to do to make a man do what you wish for future use.”
“I know what to do!” you protested, your cheeks burning. “I’ve heard my maids talking. And you. And Elinor as well, I’m certain it wouldn’t be difficult.”
“And that’s why you’ve never tried it?”
You flailed your arms. “My father’s guards follow me everywhere, it’s not as if I’ve had the opportunity to be alone with a lot of people!”
She held your gaze in hers for a moment, that infamous smirk of hers curling her lips.
“Shall I offer myself, then?” she asked airily, motioning at the empty room. “I’m afraid I’d want to drag you to King’s Landing with me afterwards.”
“Very funny.” You pouted as you got up from the bed, coaxing a sigh out of her. You walked to her vanity to rummage through her jewelry so that you could busy yourself with something, the drawing her little cousin had made on a parchment making you smile before you lifted your head to find her watching you in the mirror with a wistful look on her beautiful face.
“You don’t have the luxury to be clueless, sweeting.”
“I’m not clueless, I know things!” You paused. “In theory.”
“Not in practice,” she insisted. “Every skill needs honing, and that is no different. What about that squire you have been making eyes at?”
You gasped, the fire on your face growing even hotter as you whirled around on your heels. “I haven’t been making eyes at anyone! I just thought he looked pleasant, that’s all.”
“Mm hm. And did you talk to him?”
“No,” you admitted and took a step forward when she rolled her eyes. “No, listen! I was going to talk to him, but then I got—then I got scared.”
She stifled a laugh. “You got scared of a squire?”
“Well, not of him, but…” You threw your head back as she got up from the bed as well to approach you. “What if he thought me a fool?”
“Who cares what he thinks? His opinion holds no weight.”
“What if he thought me ugly?”
The glint in her eyes softened and she tilted her head.
“No one in the entire realm would ever think of you anything less than beautiful.” She cupped your cheek to trail her thumb over your cheekbone, her voice low. “They do call you the Blossom of the Reach, in case you forgot. The bards and the knights.”
“Elinor says it’s because my father refuses to let me marry, so they think of me as more beautiful than I am,” you mumbled as her hand slipped from your cheek. “I shouldn’t let it mislead me and overestimate myself, she says.”
“And I say Elinor is a bitter, jealous bitch,” she replied, her melodic voice a complete contrast to her insult. “So who are you going to believe? Me or your brother’s idiot of a wife?”
You bit back a laugh. “You, of course. I’d trust you with my life, but Margaery—”
“Your beauty is a weapon but as my grandmother always says, a lady needs more than just beauty to survive.”
“I can win hearts with words,” you said, then huffed out. “That is if my father lets me marry, ever!”
“He will. I’ll make sure of that, just be patient.”
You clicked your tongue, then reached out to touch the embroidered bodice of her gown, narrowing your eyes.
“I’m still not sure about this gown,” you admitted, making her scoff. “I mean, roses and tulips?”
“Those are crocuses!”
“Well they don’t look it—Margaery, I’m serious, have you considered maybe that’s why your seamstress keeps pricking you?” you asked, coaxing a laugh out of her. “I’m telling you, it’s a sign from the Gods against this pattern!”
That wasn’t a sign. You would remember it way later, in the middle of the night, miles away from Highgarden.
The real sign was the squiggly drawing of a wolf chasing a lamb that Margaery’s little cousin had left on her vanity, but you were too busy giggling with Margaery to notice that.
.❄️.
It hadn’t been that difficult to push your worries to the back of your mind as usual. Your father’s castle had many things that you could busy yourself with, and for the rest of the week, you had managed to distract yourself with other things; your father didn’t look like he would deem anyone suitable for you anytime soon as usual, not to mention he was too busy strengthening your house’s influence on others to even consider any kind of marriage for you.
Surprisingly, you would soon find out all of those lines would cross in one specific point.
“My lady, your father is asking for you.”
You looked up from the bouquet you were gathering in your arms, then got off your knees and held the flowers out for her.
“Here, Alyn,” you said. “Would you please give these to Eadith? She has been sad lately, maybe these will cheer her up.”
“Of course, my lady.”
You put the flowers into her arms, then made your way through the gardens to enter the castle. You hummed a song to yourself, dragging your fingertips over the walls and nodded at the guards at the entrance of the dining room before stepping inside to find your father and your oldest brother Alton sitting at the table.
“Hello father,” you chirped and went to kiss him on the cheek, then smiled at Alton. “You sent for me?”
“Yes my blossom,” your father said, pinching your cheek. “Please sit down. Were you in the garden?”
“I was!” you said, taking a seat. “My maid Eadith, you know her, she has been rather upset lately, so I figured some flowers could help her feel better. I always feel better when I have flowers in my room—”
“Sister, congratulations are in order,” Alton cut you off as if he didn’t want to waste any time listening to you. “Father has found you a suitable match.”
Your head snapped up, your breath catching in your throat.
…Married.
You were to be married.
You could feel your heart slamming against your ribcage as you stared at them. “W—who?”
“Robb Stark of Winterfell,” your father said, clasping his hands on the table. “Heir to Lord Ned Stark.”
Disbelief crashed down on you like a ton of bricks, making you swallow thickly. You opened your mouth, closed it again when you couldn’t find your voice, then cleared your throat and tried it again.
“Starks of Winterfell?” you rasped out. “As in—as in the North?”
“I’m told he is an honorable young man,” your father said, oblivious to your reaction. “and if he’s anything like his father, I’m certain you are going to be well respected and kept safe as the future Lady Stark.”
“Elinor will help you with choosing your gowns,” your brother added while you shook your head, your eyes wide. “We are to leave in—”
“But the Starks are in the North!”
Your father heaved a sigh, running a hand over his face. “My dearest…”
“The North is so far away from here,” you insisted. “And I heard all kinds of things about there, father! You cannot—”
“Sorry, am I late?” Your second oldest brother Silas’ voice cut you off, and you heard the familiar footsteps before he tugged your arm to pull you up. “If you’ll excuse us, father.”
“Father please, you must listen—”
Silas all but dragged you into the hallway, nearly deaf to your protests until he pushed you into your room and closed the door.
“No!” you exclaimed. “No! Tell them I’m not going!”
“Sister—”
“Has everyone lost their mind?” you asked, stomping on your foot. “The Starks are in the North!”
Silas took off his gloves and undid the forearm braces of his shiny, spotless armor before he put them down on the table, then filled a cup of wine for himself and you. In addition to being one of the most sought after knights in the Reach, he had also always been your favorite among your brothers. When you were a mere child, he would always sneak into the kitchens to bring you cakes whenever you begged him to do so after bedtime, he would explore the castle grounds with you—even the cellars that were forbidden to you—, and he would play knight and princess with you to ‘save’ you from your other brothers who pretended to be monsters.
Alton never took any part in any of that, saying he had no time for your silly play pretend.
“Good to see you were paying attention to the Septa while she was teaching you the families.” Silas handed you the goblet and sat down. “The Starks are in the North.”
“I’ve heard people eat people in the North!”
He let out a laugh. “That’s the other side of the Wall.”
“So you claim.”
“So I know. I’ve met Northerners, you haven’t.”
“I’ve heard about them!”
“To repeat, I’ve met them. I assure you, they do not eat people.” He took a sip of his wine. “Do you honestly think father would send you off to the North to get eaten?”
“I didn’t think he would ever send me there to begin with!” You put your goblet down and gestured at the door. “No. I’m not going. I’ll cry for days and days if he insists, and then it’ll make me ugly, and then no man will want to marry me, including the Stark heir.”
He rolled his eyes. “Blossom…”
“I’m not going, I said!”
Silas took another sip of his wine, completely calm opposed to your anger.
“What do you know about Starks?”
“They were the Kings of Winter for eight hundred years, until Aegon’s Conquest,” you said, impatience laced in your voice as you stomped on your foot. “Silas, Margaery is going to King’s Landing, tell father—”
“Don’t get distracted,” he told you. “What else do you know?”
“Wolves of Winterfell. They follow the old gods. Um—Winter is coming.” you recited, looking up at the ceiling to remember everything the Septa taught you. “The head of their family is the Warden of the North, its been that way since Aegon the Conqueror.”
“And ever since then, there’s never been a Stark who broke their oath.”
“Good for them, I’m still not going,” you growled. “Tyrells are sending Margaery to King’s Landing, did you hear me? And I’m supposed to go to the North?”
“You are going to the North,” he said, ignoring your pitiful whine. “No matter how much you yell and scream. But if you calm down and listen to me for one moment…”
“I barely know anything about them, or their customs or—or—”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” he said. “Want me to start with your betrothed? Robb Stark is around your age, tall and very handsome.”
That managed to distract you from your fuss for a moment, but then you chided yourself in your head, sticking your nose up in the air.
“Has one of your hundred lovers told you that?”
“Do you wish to snark at me or know more about your betrothed?”
“What I wish to know about my betrothed is a list, and at the top of that list resides the question where on earth has North come from?” you asked, pacing in the room. “Father has never mentioned it as a possibility, neither has Alton!”
“That’s because neither of them thought of it,” he said silkily. “Until I told them to.”
You stopped dead in your tracks and gawked at him in silence for a couple of seconds.
“You’d betray me like that?” you asked, your voice trembling as he heaved a sigh, then got up from his chair to come to hold you by the shoulders.
“Sister,” he said, his gaze locked in yours, “I know that you do not see it now, but I’m doing you the biggest favor anyone in our family could ever do. Including father.”
You shoved him back so that you could glare at him, anger coursing through your veins like wildfire.
“You’re doing me a favor by sending me off to marry a Northerner?”
He wiggled his brows. “A good looking Northerner. Don’t think I didn’t see you making eyes at that squire, apparently looks do play a part in your interest.”
“I’m not jesting, nor am I laughing.”
“Fine,” he said with a groan. “Why do you think I’ve been volunteering going to all these banquets and weddings and everything in father’s name?”
“So that you can find numerous lovers of course.”
“So that I can find a man who’s suitable for you,” he corrected you. “Even I did not think it’d serve our house’s future this much, but the Gods have been good.”
You threw your hands up in the air in frustration. “What are you talking about?!”
“Sit down.” He put your goblet into your hand before pushing you into the chair by the desk, then took his own seat as well. “And listen to me, alright?”
You pouted your lips, but kept quiet.
“Father will not live forever,” he told you. “And I’m the second son, so my influence will be none. Alton will be the head of our house, and he already thinks of you as a tool to be used, to entice whatever lord that will serve the future of our house the most. Unfortunately, most of those lords are also vile creatures, and I do not want to have to kill whatever lord he plans to marry you off. I will if I have to, but then that’s going to be a political mess.”
You tried to keep your expression flat despite the twitch of your lips. “You’d kill a lord if he treated me poorly?”
“Obviously,” he said with a small smile. “But to repeat, that’ll be a political mess, and I hate Alton but not that much. I’d say the Gods punished him enough with that wretched wife of his, who by the way, hates you and wants nothing more than to see you suffer.”
“That’s not my fault!”
He made a noise of disbelief, then reached out to pluck a grape out of its stem from the plate on the table. “You forget I was present at the dinner when that enmity began.”
“Yes, and do you remember what she said? She said father spoiled me rotten and that my future husband would have a hard time undoing that!”
“I remember that, and I remember you saying, and I quote, It’s not my fault your lord father sold you off to my brother like a prized cow, my lord father loves me more than that.”
“I was a child!” you insisted, your voice going high-pitched. “I was one and ten! And father made me apologize even though I was not at fault. I cannot be blamed if she cannot forgive and forget.”
“Either way, the moment Alton takes over, she will make sure he sells you off to the wealthiest lord like a prized cow just to take revenge,” he told you. “I need to get you out of the Reach by then. As I’ve said, that’s why I’ve been meeting so many lords and heirs, and Robb Stark might just be the only decent heir left in Westeros, which is why father is agreeing to this match.”
“And Alton?” you asked. “If he didn’t think there was something to gain—”
“Oh there’s a lot to gain.”
You pulled back slightly to raise your brows at him. “What’s there to gain?”
He sipped his wine and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk.
“Tell me,” he said. “Who’s our biggest rival in the Reach?”
“Tyrells,” you said. “But we get along well now. Margaery is my best friend, you know that.”
“And where are the Tyrells most focused on right now? Where are they sending Margaery?”
“King’s Landing. South.”
“Who’s more powerful? The king and his family in the South, or the Starks in the North?”
“The king rules the realm,” you said as he shook his head. “Of course he and his family are more—”
“Wrong answer. The king, his army, and his lords’ armies are nothing compared to the Northern army. All those banner men Starks have? If they wanted, really wanted, they could wipe out all the King’s Landing with it.”
You tilted your head in confusion. “But Silas, the South—”
“Is nothing without the North,” he finished your sentence. “Let Tyrells marry their way into King’s Landing. Our family must do the unexpected and unite with Winterfell, because the moment there’s a war, and so many people say it’s coming, the one with the biggest army will be the most powerful. And with so much as the threat of the Northern army on our side, we could rule the Reach—and before you say Margaery.” He held up a hand when you opened your mouth. “She’ll be married and away from here, no direct harm will come to her. I’m saying the threat of the Northern army, not actual war, Tyrells would surrender without bloodshed. They’re too smart.”
Your brows furrowed as you tried to wrap your mind around the idea.
“Even if that were to work, Northerners don’t marry anyone from the Reach,” you said slowly. “We’re too different. They see us as too polished, we see them as…” You searched your mind for a polite way to put it. “As discourteous.”
“And yet, Lord Stark said yes to this union,” he said. “Maybe it has something to do with our endless livestock and crops, or maybe he sees more than others do, like me.”
You turned your rings around your fingers to keep your mind and hands busy. “Father has made this arrangement with Lord Stark only?”
Silas could tell what you really meant from your tone ever since you were children, and from the soft smile on his face, this was no exception.
“Lord Stark loves his children as far as I can tell, he wouldn’t have agreed to it without asking his heir as well.”
“He—” You licked your lips. “Robb Stark said yes to this union though he never met me?”
“I will not pretend to know what he thinks, but he’s a young man, so it probably has something to do with your reputation as the…” He grinned. “As the Blossom of the Reach.”
You scoffed and reached for the plate of fruit on the table to pluck a grape out of its stem to throw it at him, and he caught it mid-air.
“That title means nothing, and Northerners have a completely different understanding of beauty than the Reach,” you told him, your stomach doing a painful flip. “If it played any part in his decision, he’s bound for disappointment upon seeing me.”
“Come on.” He gave you a look of disbelief. “You cannot possibly believe any man would be disappointed upon seeing you as their bride.”
You could feel your cheeks burning before you pressed your palms on them to soothe the fire, then dropped your hands, still pouting.
“…So you’ve met this Robb Stark?”
“Five moons ago, at a Tully wedding,” he said. “One of his cousins was getting married, he was there with his mother and father.”
You nibbled on your lip. “And he—he’s not terrible?”
“Not even close. His mother’s Tully charm and his father’s Stark honor made a pretty impressive combination.”
You stole a look at him and cleared your throat, trying to appear nonchalant.
“And when you say good looking…?”
“Oh I was beginning to fear you’d never ask,” he said with a chuckle. “Yes, sister. He’s very good looking, and trust me, every lady in that ballroom was tripping over themselves to get his attention. All the lords set their daughters loose on him like archers with their bolts.”
“And he wasn’t mean?”
“Not at all, he even complimented them. Which was even more heartbreaking for them, I suppose.”
“And he wouldn’t be—” You paused for a moment, thousands of horror stories about husbands and wedding nights and afterward echoing in your ears. “When we wed, he won’t be cruel to me?”
The look in his eyes softened as he heaved a sigh, then got up from his seat to approach you and knelt down in front of you to hold your hands.
“I do not believe so,” he said. “And if he is, you will send me a raven, I’ll kill him, smuggle you out of Winterfell, and we’ll move to Dorne to enjoy the sun and the scenery for the rest of our lives. Away from Starks and our family.”
A small giggle escaped you. “We cannot do that, Silas.”
“I can,” he said. “Northern lord and his huge army or not, I will not let anybody hurt you and get away with it.”
You squeezed his hands. “Thank you.”
“Just promise me something.”
“Of course.”
“Now that your safety is ensured and that your husband will be to your liking, you must keep in mind that you’re getting married for our family,” he said. “I don’t know what you and Margaery have been talking about or what kind of expectations she put in your head, but if the subject of falling in love came up, you must know it cannot—”
“Oh, of course I do not expect to fall in love,” you said with a laugh. “I am to mesmerize my husband and make him love me, not the other way around. I’m aware, everyone has been telling me that for years and years. I couldn’t forget it if I tried.”
“You’ve been throwing a fit over not being married lately, so I figured maybe you started believing you’re missing out on love.”
“Believe that—what am I, a child?”
“You always will be in my eyes,” he muttered more to himself. “So, what are your expectations of marriage then? Just a good looking husband?”
“Well, that and I want to have fun!” you said, bouncing on your feet. “It’s less to do with the husband and more to do with me, to be honest. I want—I want to go to feasts, see new places, wear pretty stuff and go horse riding and feel free without father’s guards watching my every move.”
“You make marriage sound like a game, it’s not—”
“And I want people to admire and praise me,” you added, counting with your fingers, ignoring him rolling his eyes. “And later on have babies so that I can dress them up and admire how cute they are. Marriage is the only way I can get all of that.”
“And our family to get to where we want,” Silas reminded you and you nodded fervently.
“Of course.”
“Do not forget that love is the death of duty,” he told you. “And our duty is to elevate our family, so your loyalty must lie with us, not your husband’s. Even if he thinks otherwise.”
“I know.” You shifted your weight. “But mayhaps I can make friends with my husband. I hope.”
“Mayhaps, but if someone is going to fall in love, it’s not going to be you,” he told you, his tone stern. “Ever. It’s going to be Stark, so that he does what you want. By extension, what we want.”
You swallowed thickly as the familiar insecurity hit you out of nowhere but you raised your chin, trying to look more confident than you felt.
“Silas?”
“Hm?”
“Do you think I can?” you asked. “Be honest. Do you think I can make him love me?”
A gentle smile curled his lips as if he was astonished by your naivety.
“Oh my sweet sister,” he said, heaving a sigh. “Trust me. You’re going to bring the North to his knees.”
.❄️.
Winterfell – A moon later
Robb hadn’t been able to find air in any corner of the courtyard the whole day.
His mother had insisted all of them to look their best, which meant him, Jon and Theon all paying a visit to the barber. Though he was sure his mother had one hundred other things for him to do so that he could look ‘appropriate’, he and Jon and Theon didn’t go back into the Keep, instead they decided to hang around the yard and watch the rest of his household to prepare for the guests.
And his lady wife to be.
He took a deep breath, willing the air into his lungs before he motioned for the flask of ale Theon had brought with him. This was yet another reason why he had dragged them to the far corner of the inner ward; he had a feeling neither his mother nor his father wanted to risk him going overboard especially today.
Not that he would. He didn’t think he could get drunk even if he wanted to.
“Robb, are you listening?”
He took a huge sip of the ale, absentmindedly petting Grey Wind who laid at his feet and watched Jon’s direwolf Ghost prancing in the yard. “Hm?”
“You look frightened,” Jon said with a grin and he shot him a glare.
“I’m not frightened,” he said. “I’m thinking.”
Theon stifled a laugh. “Of your impending marriage?”
“No Theon, I’m thinking of the grain stocks for winter,” Robb deadpanned. “Of course I’m thinking of my impending marriage—can we not call it impending? It sounds…”
“Close?”
“Frightening?”
He shook his head slightly while Jon leaned forward, a rare, playful glint shining in his eyes.
“Are you worried she’s going to be ugly?”
At least his half-brother was having fun and not brooding for once, all thanks to Robb’s misery.
“No way,” Theon answered before Robb could retort. “Come on, this lucky prick got the prettiest girl of the Reach.”
“She could still be ugly,” Jon pointed out. “Mayhaps they’ve been lying.”
“Good point, Snow,” Theon teased him. “Robb, have you thought about what you will do if she turns out to be ugly?”
“I will do my duty no matter how she looks,” Robb said sternly, then paused for a moment. “Obviously I’d prefer it if she…if she isn’t ugly but I’ll honor our marriage and be faithful either way, as my father has.”
Jon shifted his weight upon the mention of their father being faithful, and Robb shot him an apologetic look, but couldn’t say anything to change the subject before Theon intervened again.
“Hey, maybe we’re worried about the wrong thing. Maybe she won’t find you pretty.”
That made his head whip around. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“She’s from the South, no?” Theon asked. “Knights and lordlings from the South are all delicate. And flowery.”
Robb made a face. “Flowery?”
“They can come up with love poems on the spot.”
Jon smirked at Robb. “Do you know any love poems?”
“Do you?” Robb shot back and Jon raised his hands, signaling surrender.
“I’m not the one marrying the Blossom of the Reach,” he said. “She probably expects that of you, and a lot of chivalry.”
“I am chivalrous,” Robb defended himself and Theon made a noise of disagreement.
“Not chivalrous like that. Southern folk think Northern folk are too blunt, especially in the Reach.”
“And how have you gained this infinite knowledge of the Reach overnight, Greyjoy?” Robb gestured at him. “Did it come to you in a dream?”
“Hey, I’ve acquainted myself with a bunch of Reach girls,” he said with a wiggle of his brows. “They like it slow and gentle.”
Jon grimaced while Robb shook his head.
“I always assumed my lady wife would be someone from the North,” he muttered. “Someone who…who understands it here.”
“And yet, you said yes when your father asked you.”
“Because mother and father both want it.” He ran a hand through his curls. “Even if they don’t tell me. Greensteds are the second biggest family in the Reach, they have an endless supply of crops and livestock. We’re going to need that in the upcoming winter, it’s more beneficial than me marrying any other Northern house.”
“But you know nothing about her other than that?”
“I met her brother a couple moons ago,” Robb said. “He’s a lot of fun despite being from the Reach, and if she is anything like—wait, I take that back. That’d be like me and Sansa being similar.”
A silence fell upon them before Jon took a deep breath.
“It’ll be a bit strange,” he mused. “I can’t imagine you as someone’s husband.”
“You don’t need to imagine it Snow, we’ll see it soon enough,” Theon said, squeezing Robb on the shoulder. “Once she and all the other guests are here, there’s the wedding. Tying them together, forever.”
Robb let out a nervous laugh and took another sip of his ale, then turned his head when he heard a familiar voice.
“Mother said I can sit with you.”
He suppressed an exasperated groan. “We’re talking of grown men things, Bran. Go practice archery.”
“I can’t!” Bran protested. “They moved my targets to make the yard more beautiful for the guests.”
“They put them in the crypts,” Jon muttered, and Robb shrugged his shoulders.
“Fine. Go sit with Sansa.”
“Sansa is stitching something for your betrothed.”
Robb frowned. “Stitching what?”
“How should I know?” Bran plopped down next to him and made a grab for the flask in Robb’s hand. “Can I try that?”
“You cannot,” Robb said, holding it out of his reach with one hand and pushing his head back with the other to keep him at arm’s length, making Bran yelp in frustration like a pup. “Mother would kill me. Go play with Arya.”
“Mother made her sit with Sansa.” Bran said sulkily. “And all Arya does is boast about how better she is at archery than me anyway.”
Robb ruffled his hair. “You’ll get better.”
“It takes some practice, Bran,” Jon assured him. “That’s all. We will help you.”
Bran turned to Robb when he lifted the flask to his lips again.
“Robb, will you make heirs right away?”
The simple question sent the ale up his nose, and he started coughing while Jon smacked him on the back, ignoring Theon’s bark of laughter. Bran dangled his legs back and forth as he waited patiently until Robb found his breath again, then cleared his throat.
“Who told you that?”
Bran nodded in the direction of the castle.
“Sansa was talking about how she likes taking care of babies and can’t wait for you to have heirs with your betrothed.”
“And do you even know where babies come from, little lord?” Theon asked with a grin and Bran nodded, then pointed afar in the yard.
“They come from the Godswood, father said. Under the weirwood tree, when a husband and wife go there and ask for an heir.”
Husband to a Southern girl he did not even know yet, and siring heirs with her.
…By the Gods, he needed some peace and quiet.
“I’ll be back.” He handed Theon the flask before he got on his feet, Grey Wind lifting his head with a whine. “Grey Wind, stay. Bran, you’re not drinking that, you hear me?”
Bran frowned at him.
“Are you going to the Godswood? You cannot have an heir by yourself, father says one needs a wife for that.”
“Stop talking about heirs, Bran!” Robb called out without sparing him a glance and ascended the stairs, went past Arya who was sitting in a dark corner and—
Why was Arya sitting in a dark corner?
“Arya?”
Her gray eyes snapped up to his and she flailed her arms. “Shush! I don’t want Septa Mordane to hear you.”
Robb had to give it to her, even though his whole life was about to change, he could at least rely on his little sister hating the Septa as a permanent issue.
“Let me guess,” he said, “you’re hiding from her.”
“From all of them, her and Sansa and mother,” she said as he crouched down to her eye level.
“All of them? Why?”
Arya scrunched up her face, took out a folded piece of fabric from her pocket, and handed it to him.
“Here.”
Robb unfolded it and tilted his head. “Uh…what is this?”
“Mother said Sansa and I should stitch something for your betrothed, and Sansa said her house sigil would be a good idea. So there you go, your betrothed’s house sigil.”
Rob tried to control his expression, biting back a smile. “Arya, her house sigil is not a lamb, it’s a goat.”
Arya glared at him. “That is a goat!”
“Where are the horns?”
“There!” Arya insisted, pointing at the little dots above the stitch and Robb raised his brows.
“Ah. Right.”
“It’s stupid! I only made it because mother forced me, and Sansa’s is prettier as always—”
“No!” Robb said quickly, shaking his head. “I’ll give it to her when she gets here, I’m sure she’ll love it.”
Maybe he could ask her to pretend to love it for Arya’s sake. She had older brothers, she’d understand.
Or not.
“Robb?” Arya’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. “Are you worried about getting married?”
“I…” Robb held up his pinkie. “Promise not to tell anyone?”
She grinned wide and hooked her pinkie with his. “Promise.”
“I am, a little.”
She nibbled on her lip as he unhooked his finger from hers. “Sansa says your betrothed is a great beauty.”
“That’s what everyone says, yeah.”
“Like Aunt Lyanna?”
“I don’t know, I haven’t seen her yet.”
She made a face. “What if you hate her?”
“I’m not going to hate her,” Robb said with a small smile and Arya rolled her eyes.
“Because she’s beautiful?”
“Because I don’t know her,” he said. “Seems unfair to her if I walked into this expecting to hate her, no?”
Arya thought for a moment, then shrugged her shoulders.
“I suppose,” she mumbled. “What if she hates you?”
That was a good question; what if she hated him?
His parents had been blessed with a happy marriage, building their love in time, but Robb knew they were the exception to the rule. Most of the time, royal marriages were based on tolerance and benefits only; a couple of heirs and a lifetime of ignoring each other except official gatherings and celebrations.
He knew that he couldn’t expect her to walk into it smitten with him especially considering they hadn’t even met yet, but he was hoping she was less like the image of the spoiled Southern girl he had conjured up in his mind and more like—
More like someone he could get along with.
…And pleasant to look at, at least. In case the gods were listening.
“If she hates me,” he told Arya, “I’ll ask you to put in good word for me and convince her not to. Would you do that?”
“Yes!”
“See? Then I have nothing to worry about.”
Arya’s smile lit up her face. “I could threaten her to like you if you want!”
“I stand corrected,” Robb muttered to himself and stood up, then pressed a kiss on top of her head. “No one is threatening anyone. If mother asks, I didn’t see you here and I have no idea where you are, alright?”
“Alright!” Arya chirped as he chuckled and made his way into the Great Keep, but as soon as he walked past the dining hall, he heard his mother’s voice calling his name.
By the Gods, he wasn’t going to reach his bedchambers at this rate.
He peeked his head around the doorway. “Mother. Father.”
“Come here please.” His mother motioned at him, and he entered the dining hall to approach her in long strides. She narrowed her eyes, then reached up to touch his curls as he lowered his head to make it easier for her.
“Maybe we should cut it shorter—”
“Mother, no.” Robb shook his head like Grey Wind always did whenever he was annoyed, then straightened his back again and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not a sheep to be sheared, it looks good like this.”
“Are you sure? It still looks a little messy.” his mother fussed, fixing his leather surcoat. “And where’s your cloak?”
“Let him be, Cat,” his father said with a smile. “How do you feel, son?”
Robb swallowed the nervous lump in his throat, clasping his hands behind him and standing tall.
“I feel fine.”
“Do you?”
“Of course,” he lied through his teeth while his mother and father exchanged knowing looks. “I will perform my duty for our house and our family. And the North.”
“Robb, here you are!” Sansa’s voice chimed from the doorway and she happily hopped on her steps to him before she extended her hand to hold out a small piece of cloth. “Here. For your betrothed. Do you wish to give it to her when she gets here, or shall I?”
Robb took the piece of cloth from her. “We’re going to decorate the poor girl, it seems.”
“Hm?”
“Nothing,” he said quickly upon seeing his mother’s warning glare. “Thank you, Sansa. It looks beautiful, I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.”
The goat looked like a goat, at least.
His mother mouthed something to his father before turning to Sansa. “Sansa, would you come with me to check on the guest chambers?”
“Of course!”
“Robb, have you seen Arya?”
Robb pretended to think for a second and shook his head. “I haven’t, mother.”
“Never mind, I’ll find her,” his mother said, already walking to the door. “Sansa?”
“Coming!” Sansa said and followed her out of the dining hall, leaving Robb with his father who cleared his throat.
“It’s natural to be nervous.”
“I’m not nervous,” Robb defended himself perhaps too fast to be convincing, and his father repressed a smile.
“I was,” he said. “When it was time to meet your mother.”
Robb blinked a couple of times in confusion. “Were you?”
“Absolutely,” his father said. “I was younger than you when I met her, you know. Felt more intimidating than battle.”
“Mother can be more intimidating than a sword,” Robb pointed out, making him chuckle.
“But,” he said. “We built a family together. We loved each other more and more every day as we got to know one another, and I’m sure you and your betrothed will too.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.” A scoff of dry laughter climbed Robb’s throat. “Mother was from the Riverlands.”
“And?”
“It’s different, but not that different from the North,” Robb said, chewing on his lip. “She—my betrothed is from the Reach. Grew up in a golden cage in a pretty garden, everyone says. The Reach is the opposite of the North, father.”
“It is.”
“What will happen if she’s some coddled Southern girl who faints at the sight of blood?” Robb couldn’t help but ask. “I can’t hold her hand through everything, I have responsibilities to Winterfell and to the North. As my lady wife, so will she. If it is too different than what she’s used to—”
“Then you guide her through those responsibilities,” his father completed his sentence for him. “Your duty is not only to Winterfell and to the North. It’s also to your lady wife, and she holds no less importance.”
Robb ran a hand through his curls again, letting out a breath while his father’s lips twitched.
“Robb.”
“Hm?”
“You do realize that girl is probably more worried than you are?”
That made him pause, his gaze snapping to his father’s gray eyes; Arya’s eyes, he couldn’t help but note for the millionth time, and Jon’s. Unlike the rest of us.
“She’s going to be away from her family whom, as you’ve said, has probably coddled her,” his father said. “At least you’re home. She’s the one coming here, and she has no idea what kind of a man you are, or whether you’ll treat her with respect.”
“Of course I will treat her with respect—”
“But she doesn’t know that,” his father stated. “So even if she is some coddled Southern girl who faints at the sight of blood as you think she is, it’s your duty to be patient with her. You two will be on this long journey together, do not damage it from the start by rushing anything, or expecting her to adapt immediately.”
Robb frowned in deep thought. “I won’t.”
“And,” his father added. “Keep an open mind.”
“Easier said than—” Robb started, but was cut off by Maester Luwin.
“My lord, Lady Stark asks for you.”
His father clasped Robb’s shoulder to squeeze it. “Go outside, get some fresh air. And don’t wander off near the guests’ arrival, you know your mother.”
With that, he walked out of the hall, and Robb threw his head back with a groan, then ran a hand over his face.
“Very well,” he muttered. “Fresh air. Open mind. And whatever else there is.”
authors note | happy thanksgiving bbys! Not proof read and the ending is rushed *cry* but who cares. Also I’ve done an ending just like this for a fic before and…who cares! <3 dt: @opheliabbarnes @pinksplace for the hype up @barnes-babydoll I think you would like it idk lolll and my bby @bckyslover
The early morning silence in your house was a thick, comforting thing, broken only by the chirp of the kettle and the rhythmic ticking of the antique grandfather clock in the hallway. Sunlight, still riding and tentative, angled through the kitchen window, bathing the counters in a cool glow.
You stirred first, pulling the comforter tighter around your shoulders, realizing instantly that Bucky was already awake. He laid beside you, propped up on an elbow, watching you with that soft, entirely unguarded expression you were still getting used to.
“Mornin’, sleepyhead,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble.
“G’Morning,” you whispered back, leaning up to press a quick, sleepy kiss against his jaw. His beard was scruffy, smelling faintly of the sandalwood soap he preferred over your sweet warm vanilla one.
But the domestic peace wasn't the only thing swimming in your minds. Today was the day. Today, you were driving across the state line to meet the Barnes’.
Bucky smiled, but his eyes, usually so clear and steady, held a flicker of apprehension. “We’re still doing this today, right? You didn’t decide to fake a sudden illness on me overnight?”
You laughed, sitting up fully, resting a hand on his bicep giving it a playful squeeze. “Absolutely not. I want to meet them. But if I break an heirloom china or…something, you have to promise you’ll still claim me.”
He reached out and stroked the curve of your cheek, his thumb dragging gently over the bone. “They’re gonna be focusing on how much better I am since I met you. They love me. They’re just protective. And they’re gonna love you too, doll.”
He used the term ‘doll’ sparingly, reserving it for moments of deep affection or serious reassurance, and hearing it now sent a needed jolt of confidence through you.
“I know,” You swung your legs out of bed. “But confidence doesn’t make an impression. A perfect, deeply flavorful culinary contribution does.”
Your chosen weapon for the afternoon’s dinner was a classic Apple Pie—a double-crust masterpiece, infused with cinnamon, nutmeg, and a dash of bourbon, designed to enjoy without being overly fussy.
The kitchen soon transformed into a highly focused, moderately chaotic workshop. You, despite nerves, were comfortable in this space as you tied your apron— already with flour—and set about the crucial task of the crust.
Bucky hovered. He had dressed in soft, worn denim and a thick thermal shirt, looking like the ideal poster boy for rustic, holiday life. He stood watching your every precise movements as you cut the butter and scooping it into the flour blend.
“You sure I can’t help with that?” he asked, leaning over, resting his chin on your shoulder.
“You can help by staying clean,” Y/ou instructed, tapping his nose lightly with the back of your floured hand. “And by not contaminating the integrity of the pastry. It has to be cold and unforgivingly dry. Step one is flaky perfection. It doesn’t appreciate warmth.”
“But I’m inherently warm,” he protested, his breath tickling your earlobe.
“Okay. You can peel the apples. But be warned: you steal one slice, and you lose your kitchen privileges.”
Bucky took the peeler with a nod, his metallic hand surprisingly delicate and efficient against the round, crisp red apples. He worked in focused silence for a few minutes, the peels spiraling off neatly onto the paper towel.
But… trouble started when you moved onto the filling.
You had just managed to toss the slices with brown sugar, spices, and the crucial splash of bourbon, the aroma instantly filling the kitchen air. You tasted it carefully with a small spoon, adjusting the nutmeg.
Bucky suddenly appeared at your elbow, his eyes wide and eager, looking less like a grown man and more like a five-year-old at the candy aisle.
“Just a little taste, darlin’. I have to ensure the bourbon-to-cinnamon ratio is correct.”
“It’s raw, Bucky. It’s just spices and apples,” you said, trying to push him away gently while still holding the heavy bowl.
He was fast. Before you could react, the metal fingertips of his left arm dipped into the bowl and snaked out a small, sticky apple slice. He popped it into his mouth and chewed slowly, his eyes closing in exaggerated appreciation.
“Perfection. This pie is going to solve all my problems through sheer flavor alone.”
“Get out of my workspace!” You mock-shrieked, trying to wipe the sugary residue off the lip of the bowl with a clean towel. “You just contaminated the whole batch with your enormous, handsome, highly…germs!”
He just chuckled, backing up a single step and leaning against the counter, watching you begin to roll out the first layer of dough.
“I’m just observing the process, sweetheart. It’s fascinating. You’re like a surgeon.”
“I’m focused,” you insisted, carefully lining the pie and trimming the edges. “I’m trying to make a good impression on your very sweet, very traditional family. My reputation as a girlfriend starts with this.”
The thought, spoken out loud, brought a tiny spike of genuine anxiety. Bucky caught it instantly, the teasing fading from his expression.
He walked up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your head this time, effectively trapping you between him and the counter.
“Hey. Look at me,” he instructed softly.
You turned your head slightly, meeting his gaze.
“They are going to judge you on two things only: how happy you make me, and whether or not you treat me right. That’s it. And since you manage to do both of those things better than anyone I have ever met, and keep me safe and loved…the pie is just extra credit.”
He tapped your hip affectionately. “But seriously, that crust looks incredible. Did you do lard or use the all-butter method?”
“All butter, you heathen.” You picked the corner of his mouth. “Lard is for savory things. Now, let go, I have to fill this and construct the weaving on top before I lose the coolness.”
He sighed dramatically, dropping his forehead to your chest and released you, returning to his post as ‘observer.’
The next hour passed in a haze of flour, apple skins, and shared anticipation. You diligently wove the strips of dough over the filling, crimping the edges almost professionally. Bucky, true to form, tried to sneak a piece of the buttery dough scrap, resulting in him getting flicked on the ear.
“You’re hopeless,” You muttered, but couldn’t help the small, fond smile that curved your lips. This was your life: him being endearingly messy, you trying to maintain order, both utterly relaxed in the presence of the other.
Finally, the pie was dusted with an egg wash and sprinkled with coarse sugar, as you slid it gently into the awaiting, preheated oven.
Bucky immediately came over, leaning down to peer through the glass door, watching the pale crust begin to bloom and brown.
“Okay,” he said, straightening up and clapping his hands together softly. “Now what? We sit here and stare at the oven until it’s perfect, or do we get to have some free time?” He wagged his brows already reaching for you.
“We get ready. We’ve got maybe two, two and a half hours, even if we hit traffic. We need to look presentable.” You patted his chest walking past to the bedroom.
Dressing for the occasion was its own minor hurdle. You wanted to look respectful and warm—no sharp edges, nothing too trying hard. Ultimately settling on a soft, deep burgundy sweater and dark pants, comfortable yet nice.
Bucky watched from the doorway of the bedroom, already looking impeccable and ready. Men.
“You look great,” he said simply.
“I hope so.’” You replied, adjusting your necklace.
Bucky walked over, his boots silent on the rug. He took the necklace gently in his hand. “You don’t have to try this hard, honey. They know I’m hard to impress. If you made it this far, they’re just thankful someone survived the vetting process.”
He pulled you close, pressing you right against his chest. The nerves, which had been momentarily shelved during the focused task of the pie, returned sharply as you buried your face in the soft wool of his jacket, inhaling the scent of him—and a hint of the coffee he’d just finished.
“I just really want them to like what they see,” you confessed, her voice muffled against his sternum.
Bucky’s grip tightened, firm. He understood the subtext: you wanted them to approve of his choice, to see that you recognized the real, fragile miracle of the man standing before you.
He pulled back just enough to tilt your face up, his gaze intense and unwavering.
He lowered his head and pressed a firm, slow kiss to the crease in your brow, letting his lips linger on the soft skin there.
“They’re gonna love you, doll. Promise.” His voice was low, imbued with all the certainty he had ever felt. “They’ll see how you make me smile like no other, and that’ll be enough. Trust me.”
He collected the perfectly cooled, gloriously golden pie, now sitting securely in its carrier, and walked to the door.
“Ready to face the family?”
You took a deep breath, smoothing her sweater one last time. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
The drive was long, tracing the curves of the rolling hills of Upstate New York. The late afternoon light was beginning to fade, turning the stands of maple and oak into blazing tapestries of russet and gold.
Bucky drove his sturdy, slightly worn truck easily, navigating the merging traffic with practiced nostalgic ease.
You had talked for the first twenty minutes, confirming the names of the family members you were about to meet, and reviewing the brief, essential history Bucky had managed to piece together about them. But soon, the conversation lulled, settling into a comfortable, necessary silence.
Bucky, however, never let go.
From the moment you had pulled out of the driveway, his left hand had found and secured yours, resting your intertwined fingers on the center console.
You felt a sense of grounding in that touch. It was a clear, physical manifestation of your bond, a silent declaration that they were facing this together.
You let your thumb trace the intricate metalwork on the back of his hand, noting the cool temperature of the vibranium against your own warm skin from the trucks heater.
Bucky steered mostly with his right hand, occasionally adjusting his grip on yours before resting it back down. Every few minutes, he would shift his weight and momentarily turn his head, glancing over at you.
The glances were short, lasting only a fraction of a second, but they held such depth that you felt an answering pang in your chest every time.
It wasn't just a check to see if you were bored or nervous. It was a look of slight disbelief, a quiet awe that you were actually there, sitting next to him, driving toward his whole world.
You're real, the glance said. We’re doing this. We have a life.
The fifth time he did it, you squeezed his hand in return, offering a soft, smile.
“Stop checking to see if I’ve melted, Barnes,” you teased softly.
He immediately turned his attention back to the road, but the corner of his mouth quirked up. “I just… the sun lit up your eyes, and I got distracted.”
“By my perfect hair and my impeccable pie contribution, I hope.”
“By the fact that you decided to stick around,” he corrected quietly, his eyes focused on the winding road ahead. “This whole thing, this whole… family thing, it feels fragile. Like if I breathe too hard, it’ll shatter. And you make it feel real. Solid.”
You lifted your joined hands and pressed the back of his knuckles to you lips. “It’s solid, Bucky. It’s not going anywhere. Neither am I.”
He exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing noticeably.
The last leg of the drive took you off the main road and onto narrower, tree-lined lanes, the houses growing larger, more spread out, and older.
“Okay, five minutes out,” Bucky announced, his voice regaining its usual confident chirp. “Remember, Aunt Rose is the hugger. My cousin Mark is the skeptic, but he’ll thaw if you mention the Dodgers or hockey. And Grandpa just wants to know if you can keep me in line.”
“I’m bringing the pie, and the most prized grandson and son,” You confirmed, straightening up. “I’ve got this.”
You rounded a final curve, and the Barnes family home came into view. It was a traditional Colonial, its wide porch strung with warm, yellow lights. Smoke curled warmly from the chimney, and the sounds of distant laughter and chatter could already be heard. The driveway was already full of cars.
Bucky killed the engine, and the silence rushed in, thick with the scent of pine and burning wood.
He turned to you, his silvery eyes dark and luminous in the dimming light. He didn’t offer a quip or joke this time. He just reached up with his free hand and gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear.
“Ready?” he asked, a serious, hopeful question.
You took a deep breath. “Ready,”
Bucky returned the smile you flashed as he opened his door, retrieved the pie, and then walked around the truck to open your door for you.
He offered his hand. You took it, stepping out onto the gravel drive, ready to meet the people who shared his name, ready to solidify the future you were building, one perfectly spiced apple pie at a time. Together, you walked toward the porch and the symphony of his past.
Bucky chuckled, reaching over to lace your hand, his thumb tracing soothing circles on skin. "They're gonna love you."
You offered a shaky smile, tightening your grip a little. "I hope so. You've made them sound like saints… or a small army."
He laughed. "A little of both, maybe. Mostly, they're just… them."
As you stepped inside, the noise level instantly amplified – a delightful boom of laughter, overlapping conversations, and a distant clatter of pots. The walls were painted in soft, welcoming tones, adorned with a mix of family photos, framed artwork, and children's drawings. A sprawling, comfortable-looking sofa dominated the living room to their left, already occupied by a few figures.
Before Bucky could even properly utter, "Ma, Dad, this is her," a blur of motion emerged from what you presumed was the kitchen. A woman with kind greenish blue eyes, a dusting of flour on her cheek, and her silver hair pulled back in a loose bun, launched herself at you.
"Finally!" Winnifred exclaimed, her embrace surprisingly firm and incredibly welcoming. She smelled of cinnamon and whatever candle was currently burning. "I’ve heard so much about you, darling! Bucky, you took your sweet time bringing her around." She pulled back, her hands still resting on your arms, her eyes sparkling with genuine warmth.
Bucky, caught off guard by his mother's characteristic speed, just grinned, a familiar flushed pink creeping up his neck. "Mom, you didn't even let me introduce her."
"Nonsense, I've already introduced myself!" Winnifred declared, before turning back to you. "Come in, come in! Don't just stand in the doorway."
A tall, broad-shouldered man with a gentle face and Bucky's same piercing blue eyes stepped forward, extending a hand to you. "George Barnes," his grip was tight but very friendly. "And don't mind Winnie. She gets a little overexcited when Bucky finally does something right." He winked at his son, then added, "But seriously, it's a pleasure to finally meet you Dear. Bucky's talked our ears off. I was beginning to think you were a figment of his imagination, he's said way too many good things about you." His smile was infectious, instantly dissolving another layer of nerves.
Before you could respond, another figure burst from the kitchen, a whirlwind of energy. This was Rebecca. Her round, pregnant belly leading her. Her dark hair, a shade lighter than Bucky's, was swept up in a long braid, and her eyes, full of familial mischief, darted straight to you.
"Y/N!" she shrieked, her voice full of delight, completely bypassing Bucky as he dropped his opened arms laughing at his sister.
She enveloped you in a hug that was both fierce and surprisingly gentle, given her condition. "It's so good to finally put a face to the name! James never shuts up about you. I swear, it's just 'Y/N this' and 'Y/N that'—"
"Okay, Becca, that's enough," Bucky interjected, a blush spreading across his cheeks as he tried to pry his sister off you.
Rebecca ignored him, pulling back just enough to beam at you. "I feel like I've known you for years! Welcome, welcome!"
Behind Rebecca, a quieter man with thick glasses and a sweet grin stepped forward. "Vince," he offered, shaking your hand warmly. "Rebecca's husband. Don't worry, she's always like this. Especially when she's..." He made an exaggerated gesture of a round stomach, earning a playful shove from Rebecca.
Suddenly, two tiny heads peeked out from behind Vince's legs, wide, curious eyes fixed on you. A small girl with pigtails and a boy with a mop of sandy hair, both clutching well-loved stuffed animals. They were shy, clinging to their father's slacks.
Bucky, noticing them, dropped to one knee with a practiced ease you had seen him use with kids before. "Hey, guys! Come say hi." He opened his arms, and the initial shyness melted away instantly. With identical squeals of "Uncle Bucky!" they launched themselves into his embrace, giggling as he swept them up, one under each arm, like he was made of steel and they were feathers.
"Hi guys," You whispered softly, offering a wave. "It's nice to meet you."
The little girl, who Bucky introduced as Lily, buried her face in Bucky’s shoulder, but the little boy, Leo, peeked out, a shy smile gracing his lips. "Are you Uncle Bucky's new friend?" he whispered.
"I am," You confirmed, a genuine smile forming. "A very good friend."
Bucky, still holding the children, stood up, his gaze sweeping over you. There was a softness in his eyes, a subtle lift at the corner of his lips that you had come to recognize. He watched you blend in, not just tolerating the chaos, but embracing it. It was the look of a man whose expectations had been not just met, but gloriously exceeded.
"Alright, enough of this standing around!" Winnifred clapped her hands. "Dinner's almost ready. Y/N, you look like a capable young woman. Care to help Rebecca and me with the last-minute preparations? Bucky, you can entertain the kiddos."
Before Bucky could protest, You readily agreed. "I'd love to! Do you need anything chopped, peeled, or stirred?"
"Perfect!" Winnifred beamed, already ushering you towards the kitchen, Rebecca trailing, wobbling—behind.
The kitchen was a hive of activity, smelling even more divine up close. A large island dominated the center, covered with bowls of colorful vegetables, herbs, and spices. Holiday jazz music played softly from a speaker in the corner, mingling with the sizzle of something on the stovetop.
"Okay, hon, you're officially deputized," Rebecca announced, handing her an apron adorned with embroidered turkeys and en scripted on the top “Barnes”. In orange cursive, you would be lying if you said it didn’t give you butterflies.
"Winnifred's in charge of the main course, I'm on sides. You look like you can handle potatoes?" She gestured to a large bowl of potatoes. "Mashing, please. Extra butter, please. It's a family tradition to clog arteries efficiently."
You laughed, tying the apron. "My pleasure. I take my mashing very seriously."
As you began to mash the potatoes, Rebecca leaned in a playful smirk dancing on her lips. "Soooo," she began, her voice a low, teasing murmur, "tell me everything. What's it really like dating Jimmy? Does he still talk in nerdy voices about vintage comics and 'the good old days'?"
You almost wheezed at the name, expertly working the masher. "He does occasionally reminisce. Especially if there's a good ol’ movie playing."
"And the arm?" Rebecca gestured vaguely. "Is it as cool to you in real life as he makes it sound? Does it come with any…special features? Can he, like, hmm, open jars super easily?"
"It is very cool," you grinned. "And yes, he's quite good at…opening jars. Also, he gives excellent back rubs."
Rebecca snorted. "Oh, you are perfect for him. I swear, he's needed someone to keep him on his toes for ages. He's so intense sometimes, he needs a little light." She paused, her gaze softening. "He really does talk about you a lot, you know. Like, a lot. My kids even know your name. He's utterly gone for you."
Just then, Bucky sauntered into the kitchen to "check on things." He leaned against the doorframe, a casual posture that belied the real reason for his visit.
"Everything alright in here?" he asked, though his gaze was fixed on just you.
Rebecca raised an eyebrow, a knowing glint in her eyes. "Oh, everything's perfectly fine, little brother. We were just sharing some family secrets."
Bucky rolled his eyes, then moved closer, leaning over your shoulder to steal a perfectly mashed potato off the spoon. "Mmm, tastes perfect. Just checking on quality control." He used the opportunity to brush a quick, feather-light kiss against your jaw, making your cheeks warm.
"Oh, quality control, is it?" Rebecca teased, loving seeing you two together. "Sure, Buck. Just don't let Dad catch you raiding the snacks. You know how he gets.
Bucky just winked, stealing another quick kiss, this time on your lips, before retreating towards the fridge for a drink, but not without lingering to watch you for just a moment longer.
The scent of roasted turkey, sage and thyme, mingled with the sharper notes of cranberry sauce and the aroma of the pies.
The dining room now was pulsing with controlled chaos as Rebecca guided the kids to their shorter table and Bucky pulling out your chair before rounding the larger table.
The long expanse of polished mahogany as he made his way to its head, there sat the turkey. Bucky—as he saw it, had the most important, job of the evening, carving.
The family all insisted. It was a tradition he’d perfected over the years. Tonight, however, it felt a little different. He was acutely aware of you, seated across the table, your gaze a steady, quiet anchor in the boisterous room.
He picked up the carving knife, its silver gleam catching the tabletop candle light. With a grin, he spun it between his fingers. He imagined he was a young gunslinger in an old western film, all swagger and practiced ease, trying to catch the eye of the prettiest dame in saloon. He risked a peek at you, his lips twitching into a half-smile.
“James!” His mother’s voice, sharp but laced with affection, cut through his bravado. She stood by the side, a crisp white dishtowel draped over her arm, eyes narrowing in mock disapproval.
He caught your eye again, offering a sly wink. The knife moved with practiced precision, each slice falling away with a satisfying flip. He carved with grace that took over his usual clumsy charm.
After all was cut, sliced and dished out, he plopped down next to you.
Under the table, his hand, found you. First, a brief, firm squeeze of your thigh, then his fingers wandered and laced with yours.
The meal was a blur of good food and even better company. Plates were cleared, coffee was poured, and then dessert began. Pies – apple, pumpkin, pecan – were sliced and served, each crumb a moment of pure indulgence.
The television, flickered to life with Chiefs vs 49rs. Lily and Leo, fueled by sugar and the freedom of break, chased each other through the house, their squeals of delight a counterpoint to the playful barks of the family dogs.
“Hey Bec’s imma’ go look for extra napkins!” Bucky yelled.
You snapped your head to him when hearing his voice but startled as he was already leaning close, his voice a low against the shell of your ear. “Wanna hide with me for a minute?”
The invitation hung in the air. You nodded and he squeezed your hip as he steered you away from the main gathering.
You both moved down the hallway, the sounds of the party receding with each step. Bucky’s childhood bedroom came into view as he pushed the door open.
The room was a mash-up of posters of faded jazz bands adorned the walls alongside framed photographs of college awards and memorabilia. A dusty collection of video games sat on a shelf, a stark contrast to the space and text books piled on his bedside table. A worn baseball glove lay on the floor, next to a pair of brand-new dress shoes. It was so utterly him, so endearingly Bucky, that a giggle escaped your lips.
He turned to face you, the warm glow from the hallway casting long shadows across his stumbled face. The playful glint in his eyes was replaced by something deeper, more intense. He closed the door behind you, the soft click sealing you in your own private bubble.
He didn’t say a word, instead immediately closed the distance between you, his hands finding your waist. He pressed you gently against the door, the wood cool against your back, his body warm, solid against your front. The kiss, when it came, was slow, deliberate, and incredibly deep. It wasn’t the hurried peck of a stolen moment, but allowing himself exploration, a re-discovery of your taste. His hands, firm and tender, moved up your sides, caressing your skin through your sweater and lower to your jeans.
Whispers, soft and breathless, punctuated the kiss. “Couldn’t go the whole day without you to myself for a minute,” he murmured, his breath warm against your lips. Each word was a declaration of his desire. You responded with a soft sigh, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the scratchy feeling there. He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his own filled with a raw, vulnerable affection. A forehead kiss, lingering and soft, followed, then a shared giggle as your lips brushed against each other’s again.
Just as the moment threatened to deepen, to stretch into something even more loving, a voice, bright and sharp, sliced through the quiet. “James? Mom wants to know if you’ve seen the ziploc bags.”
Rebecca.
Bucky flinched, pulling back as if caught in an graphic act. He straightened his shirt, his face flushing a deep crimson. You quickly pulled your hands away, a nervous flutter starting in your stomach.
“Uh, no, Becca, haven’t seen em’,” he stammered, voice a little too high.
You both emerged from the bedroom, a picture of forced casualness. Bucky ran a hand through his hair, trying his best to appear nonchalant. You smoothed down your sweater, your heart still thrumming from the encounter.
Rebecca stood at the end of the hallway, arms crossed over her belly, a knowing smirk plastered across her face. She took in your flushed cheeks, Bucky’s swollen lips, and the faint scent of something more than just holiday cheer clinging to the air between you.
“Uh-huh,” she drawled, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “Sure. You were definitely just looking for extra napkins.”
Bucky’s blush deepened, spreading to his neck. He looked like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. You, mortified but also trying to suppress a smile, hid your face in his shoulder. The warmth of his shirt, still carrying the faint scent of him, offered a comforting, if slightly incriminating, embrace.
“C’mon Becs, just look at her and tell me…” You swatted his hip before he could finish and walked away to get a much needed drink.
After a few glasses of wine you were now nestled deep into the plush cushions of the sofa, your side pressed against Bucky’s. His arm, was wrapped around you, thumb gently dipping under your sweater, brushing the delicate skin of her shoulder.
Winnie came to settle onto the ottoman in front of you, a blanket draped over her knees.
"Y/N," she began, her gaze warm and direct, as you turned to face her "I’m so glad my son brought you today." She reached out, her hand covering yours where it rested on Bucky’s thigh. "He hasn’t been this genuinely happy in a long time. It’s good to see."
A flush of warmth spread through Y/N, deeper than the heat from the crackling fireplace. "Thank you, Winnifred," you managed, your voice thick with emotion. "It was a wonderful day. You have a kind, beautiful family."
She squeezed your hand once more, a knowing softness in her eyes, before rising and moving to check on the youngest of her grandchildren, who was already starting to nod off on the far end of the couch, a half-eaten cookie abandoned on the plate beside him.
As the evening wore on, the hum of activity began to slowly wind down. The kids, thoroughly exhausted from a day of sugar-fueled excitement and chasing each other through the house, fell asleep on the couch, tangled like puppies under a heap of blankets.
Rebecca, leaned her head against her husbands shoulder, her eyes already fluttering shut, a peaceful smile gracing her lips. The house, once alive with the joyful cacophony of the Barnes’ family holiday, now breathed with a quiet, full stillness.
Bucky shifted, slightly leaning down, he gently kissed the top of your head. Speaking, only meant for you. "Thanks for coming with me," he whispered, his lips lingering against her hair. "You made today perfect."
Your heart swelled. You turned to him, throwing your legs over his lap, just enough to press kiss against the crinkle of his smile lines. "I wouldn't have missed it for the world," you whispered back. You truly meant it. The day, filled with laughter, good food, and the overwhelming sense of belonging you’d found with Bucky and his family, had been nothing short of magical. It was a glimpse into a future you hadn't dared to fully imagine until now. The kids, the trading. All of it.
The goodbyes were gentle. Hugs were exchanged, promises of future visits made, and the tease of Bucky finally putting a ring on your finger as you stepped out into the crisp, cold night. The air was still and sharp.
Bucky held your hand firmly as you walked across the gravel driveway to his car. He opened the passenger door of course kissing you dizzy once you hopped inside.
Once Bucky was behind the wheel, the gentle rumble of the engine melted as he spoke up.
"I really can’t wait for future holidays with you," he said, his fingers gently stroking her arm. "Christmas, Thanksgiving…all of them." He paused, and you felt a smile spread across your face, even though your eyes were still closed in rest. "Maybe," he added, his voice dropping another notch, laced with a hopeful tenderness that made her heart flutter, "maybe even in a home of our own."
The words hung in the quiet space of the car, potent and full of promise. A home of their own. It was a future she’d only allowed herself to glimpse in fleeting, private moments. Now, hearing it from him, so casually yet so meaningfully, made it feel real, tangible. It wasn't just a fantasy anymore; it was a shared possibility, a path they were charting together.
You snuggled closer against him, your own answer unnecessary. Your quiet contentment was your reply, a silent "yes" to the future he was so eloquently sketching out. The thought of decorating a Christmas tree together, of hosting their own New Years with the family, of waking up beside him on a snowy holiday morning, filled you with a warmth that chased away the last of the late night’s chill.
"We're home, sweet girl" Bucky whispered, his voice soft, as if afraid to break your sleep.
You stirred, blinking slowly, reluctant to leave the warmth of the car.
You felt herself being carried, the gentle sway of his steps, up the stairs and into the bedroom. The soft give of the mattress creaked as he carefully lowered you, the cool silk of the sheets brushed against your skin. A moment later, the weight of him settled beside, his arm was around you once more, pulling you close. His lips brushing your forehead.
"Sleep well, sweetheart" he whispered, his voice rough with love and exhaustion. “Thank you for everything.” He clicked the lamps light off, digging in the bedside table for his sleep mask, pushing the small velvet box to the side, sighing in contentment.
-end
Comments , Reblogs , Likes and Requests are always loved!
(although if you liked this fic please consider reblogging so it can reach a wider audience)
They let me know that you are enjoying what I'm publishing and gives me motivation to write more and more! :33
Summary: Your boyfriend Bucky protects an agent from gunfire who isn't you. You leave to recover and regroup, only for Bucky to follow you and set up camp (literally) outside of where you're staying until you talk to him.
Content warning: Language, mentions of gunfire/fighting/missions, reader is shot, slight groveling from Bucky, little fluff if you squint?
A/N – This would be the 'unofficial' start to my holiday/Christmas stories up until New Year's Eve. I say 'unofficial' since there's mention of the upcoming holidays and snow/cold weather so I guess this story kicks it all off. Also, since I adore Christmas and the holidays, there could be surprise updates here and there that are not my usual Tuesday's. Enjoy.
Images found here, here, here, and here.
You stood in the living room of your childhood home and sighed.
"How long are you going to stay?" Your mom asked.
"Until after the holidays."
"That long?"
"It's another month or so and I haven't had a vacation in a long time." You shrugged one shoulder.
"Hmm..."
"What?" You turned and looked at her.
"No reason. Just wondering why you ran away instead of facing things head on like you usually do." She sat down and sipped her tea.
You thought about her words, and she was right. You always faced things head on, never running from your problems or issues. You were honest and transparent with friends and co-workers, you job, and life in general. This was the first time in forever you had walked away from talking about things. You were just exhausted and hurt, and you needed a break. You needed to get your head straight before you made any further decisions.
Time spent with your mom would do you some good.
"So, want to tell me what happened?" Your mom placed her mug on the coffee table and leaned back in her reading chair. You sighed and flopped on the couch across from her.
"Fine." Knowing this was going to be a long night for you.
Flashback...
"So, is everyone ready?" Steve looked at everyone in the group.
You placed some knives and daggers in their sheaths and strapped them to your thighs and side.
"Yup." You smiled and looked over at your boyfriend Bucky.
You had been dating for almost four months and things have been going well...until recently. He smiled at you and loaded a few more guns, strapping them to his vest and thigh.
"We go in, get the intel, release the hostages, and leave."
Everyone nodded.
"Ok, let's move out."
Steve grabbed his shield and walked out of the jet with the team following. You walked alongside Bucky, Sam took off to scan the area, and Nat walked behind you with three agents from the bravo team.
You were a little uneasy at having them along for the mission.
You were always cautious of the agents on that team since one of them, always preferred to have Bucky train her or demand he was her partner out on missions. It grated on your nerves seeing as how you were dating each other, and Bucky never said anything to her or made any attempt to disassociate himself from her.
He always said he was just being polite and didn't want to cause issues for the team when he would stay with her an hour at the gym or help her with mission reports.
You told him a few times you thought it was weird she wanted his attention and asked him to stop, but he said Steve would make him do it to and tell him it would help the team.
You wanted to punch Steve in the face a few times since this was causing your new relationship unwarranted stress, but Bucky always came back to you, took you out on dates, and gave you his full attention whenever he could.
You had even introduced him to your mom over facetime a few months prior to this mission, and they hit it off immediately.
When it was announced the bravo team would be helping on this mission, you had told Steve you felt uneasy about it, but he insisted the help was needed because of the size of the location and possible threats. In the end, you agreed with him but that didn't mean you were happy about it.
"I'll get your back Bucky." The agent, Nora, stepped closer to Bucky.
He looked at you first before he looked over at her and nodded. You were backing up Nat and glared at Nora before you rolled your eyes and walked in time with Nat.
"You, ok?" She whispered.
"Fine." You gritted out.
"Liar." Nat knew of your issues with the perky Bravo agent, but her hands were tied on this particular mission.
"Let's just get this over with."
You grabbed a gun from your holster and aggressively loaded it when you got to the abandoned compound in question.
🚙🔫
"Guys, there's more people than we anticipated." Sam's voice sounded over the coms.
"Oh?"
"A few SUV's pulled up, probably about 15 or so more people than what we anticipated."
"We can handle them." Nat shrugged and got her gun ready.
"Bucky, are you going to be ok?" Nora asked.
He looked at her with a confused look on his face but nodded, then looked over at you and smiled.
Ugh, gag.
"Let's go." Steve said as you stormed the compound.
🚙🔫
Gunfire, bombs, and smoke bellowed out at your surprise ambush, taking as many people out as possible. You and Nat had managed to get into the office and were busy loading some information on your portable drives when you saw Bucky run into the room, breathing heavy.
"Where's your backup?" You snorted.
Nora appeared and whipped her long black braid off her shoulder.
"You're fast." She looked up at Bucky who was reloading.
"Are you finished yet?" He asked you and Nat, ignoring Nora.
"Almost."
He went back into the hall and started shooting. Nat took the drive and put it into a new computer.
"Last one."
"Guys, we can't hold them for much longer." Bucky said after firing some rounds into the hallway.
"I've got the hostages secure." Steve said as the Charlie team took them from the drop point.
"Good. That means we can go anytime." You looked over at Nat who was frantically typing on the keyboard.
"One minute."
Explosions and smoke littered the hall as Bucky and Nora stood at the entrance to the room you were in.
"Got it!" Nat snagged the drives and tucked them safely into her vest.
"Let's get out of here."
You left the room with Bucky and Nora following, heading to your meetup point with Steve and the other agents.
"Are we ready?" Steve asked.
He was breathing heavy and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Yeah." You and Nat both said.
Just as you put your gun in your holster, a new barrage of bullets started firing at you.
In the blink of an eye, you dove for cover, shielding yourself from the stray bullets with your arms tucked tight to your head.
You looked over and what you saw made your heart sink.
Amongst the chaos, Bucky laid over top of Nora, protecting her while you were left to defend yourself in the open, alone.
Steve shielded Nat as best as he could, and the other bravo agents who were ahead of you, were hidden under a broken table.
You were left alone and exposed as Bucky shielded someone else, who was not you, his own girlfriend.
You saw him protect her, cover her head with his hands while the bullets were firing and she was screaming. Your heart sunk seeing him on her, whispering words to her into her ear while you were left in the open.
The bullets finally stopped thanks to Sam and Redwing, but the damage was done.
You uncoiled yourself from the ball you were in and got up, brushing dust and dirt from you. You saw Bucky help Nora up and check her over, then he turned to face you. You stood glaring at him and Nora who only smirked since she stood behind him. He stepped towards you.
"Are you ok?" His voice was breathless.
"I-I'm fine." You managed to say.
Bucky reached out to hug you, but you stepped away.
"Don't." You cautioned him.
He looked like you kicked his puppy.
"Y/n..."
You ignored him and turned to face Nat.
"Are we good?"
She saw what had happened and cleared her throat.
"All good."
"Let's get out of here then."
"I can't walk." Nora yelled.
Of course she can't.
Steve was helping one of the other agents and you and Nat couldn't carry her yourselves.
"Bucky, help me!" Nora cried out.
He walked over and hoisted her in his arms. Your heart sunk to the bottom of the earth at seeing him carry her.
She snuggled herself in his arms and closed her eyes.
What the actual fuck?
The building you stood in was in ruin and Sam warned over coms that it could collapse and to get out of there, so you all took off and ran out of the compound towards the jet.
🚙🔫
Bucky trailed you and kept trying to talk to you on your way to the jet.
"Please leave me alone." You said, brushing your hair from your face.
"Y/n...I...I..."
"Shut up Barnes." Nat spat as she walked in-between you.
"Bucky!" Nora looked up into your boyfriend's face.
"Better help your girlfriend Barnes."
Bucky looked at you with a confused look on his face.
"The other one."
Nat snorted before she took you to the jet.
"Besides, I've gotta get Y/n looked at."
Nat pointed to your side making you look confused, and that's when you felt it.
You looked down and almost passed out at what you saw. The adrenaline from the flight was wearing off. Your grey shirt had a red stain at your side that was quickly growing.
"I've been shot." You said in a daze, and that's when your eyes fluttered shut and darkness consumed you.
🚙🔫
You heard voices at first, distant and a little muffled.
"I don't care; you were a dick to her Barnes."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it! I just reacted!"
You mumbled some nonsense, then you felt someone squeeze your hand.
"Y/n?"
Your eyes fluttered open at hearing your name.
You were on the moving jet but lying down on one of the medical beds.
"Y/n? You passed out. You were struck by a bullet; we got it out. It doesn't look like it pierced anything, but Bruce and the team are waiting for you when we land." Nat gently said.
"Thanks." You mumbled.
You felt your hand being squeezed again so you looked down at it and saw Bucky was holding it. You quickly pulled it away and glared at him.
"Is Y/n awake? I should get checked now..."
Your heard Nora's voice from behind Nat.
"Y/n needs this more than you do. I suggest you stay where you are." Nat glared at the bravo agent who instantly put her head down and looked away. She was no match for Nat in skill and rank. You looked at Nat and smiled faintly at her to which she nodded at you.
"Y/n..." Bucky's voice cut through the awkward tension.
"What?" You spat at him.
"Are you ok?" he asked.
You snorted and snarkily said, "do I LOOK ok to you Barnes?"
He winced at you saying his last name, then looked down and cleared his throat.
"Thanks to your heroics, or should I say lack of heroics, I'm here. In this bed. With a new hole in me. While you were busy protecting HER, I was left in the open and pierced with a fucking bullet, so no, I'm not ok at the moment." You glared at Bucky.
"I-I'm feeling lightheaded." Nora called from her seat.
"Shove your head between your legs until it passes." Nat said. "And if I were you, leave Barnes alone or you'll be answering to me," you heard Nat angrily whisper to Nora as she passed, heading to the cockpit.
Nora humphed and crossed her arms over her chest and looked down at her feet. Steve was in the cockpit with Sam as Nat headed up to ask about the landing time.
Y/n, I-I'm sorry." Bucky quietly said.
"Whatever Barnes." You looked away and stared at the grey walls until you landed.
🚙🔫
Bucky looked down at his hands and fiddled with them. He knows he fucked up, but in all honestly, he jumped and covered the first person he could, and that happened to be Nora and not you. He only sees her as an agent, a basic colleague and nothing else. He adores you, and if he's being honest with himself, he loves you. He just wanted to give his help with the agent and nothing more. He leaned his head back and sighed, wondering how he was going to fix this. You were hurt not only by the bullet but by his actions, and he wants to desperately make things right with you.
🚙🔫
The jet landed and you were immediately taken to Bruce and his medical team. A few stitches, an all-clear x-ray, and a cleaner wound dressed in new bandages later, you were released with a minimum of seven days rest. No training or mission briefings were in your future, so you headed back to your dorm.
Bucky seemed to appear out of thin air when he came around the corner and stood in front of you.
"I-I want to talk...about the mission and what happened?" He asked.
"No."
You were not in any shape to talk to him. All you wanted to do was shower, rest, and sleep.
"Y/n...let me help you..."
"Help me? Pfft, yeah right. I'm sure your mission partner needs her paperwork signed off on or for you to watch her work out for the 1000th time in her little skimpy gym outfits. Go 'help' her." You growled out and took a few steps away.
"Y/n, wait, it's not like that!"
You stopped and glared at Bucky.
"How is it like then? Bucky, I've told you numerous times I don't like her hanging around you and it makes me uncomfortable, but you never do anything about it. You always claim you're' just being nice' knowing I don't like it. I have to see her fawning all over you, touching you, smiling at you, all while you bask in her praise."
"Are you jealous?"
"OH MY GOD!" You glared at him. "You did NOT just ask me that."
"I'm sorry." He sighed and rubbed his eyes with his fingers.
"What if it was a male agent doing that to me?"
Bucky's head snapped to you, and he scowled in thought.
"Bucky...YOU made the choice to protect her over me on that mission. YOU covered her with your body, shielding her from the bullets, not me. I was the one who was left in the open and got hit. I was the one who had to watch MY BOYFRIEND protect another agent and not me. How do you think that makes me feel?"
"It wasn't like that...I-I just reacted. The bullets started and I went down, grabbing whoever was by me!"
You narrowed your eyes on him and shook your head.
Was I being overdramatic about this? Probably, but who cares. He needs to know I am serious about this.
"Whatever. I need a break Bucky."
"From me?"
"From everything." You whispered.
His face fell at your words. You got to your room and slammed the door closed, locking it tight.
"I'm not done with you." You heard Bucky's muffled voice through the door.
"You can't avoid me forever."
"Watch me." You muttered and leaned against the door and sighed.
You were exhausted from missions, being shot, Bucky's behaviour, and were desperately looking to escape for a little while, to get your mind right. You took your phone out, cleared Bucky's texts he was flooding you with, and sent a message to your mom.
You needed to get out of the compound and a visit home was just what you needed.
End of flashback.
"So, you're hiding out here until..."
"I'm not hiding." You shrugged.
Your mom gave you a look that said, 'bitch please'.
"Snow is supposed to come. It will more than likely stay this time until the spring."
"I know."
Your mom sipped her tea and watched you with her keen eyes.
"Well, you can stay as long as you like."
"I know."
"And if I were you, I would see who parked a trailer across the street and has set up a small camp in the abandoned lot." Your mom shrugged and put her mug down on the coffee table.
"What?"
You peeked out the living room window and gasped at what you saw. A large trailer had in fact, been set up, complete with a generator since the lights were on inside of it.
"Who could that be?"
Your mom joined you and wrapped her sweater tighter around her.
"Old man Smith's family still own that lot?"
"I think so. His kids live in Arizona and haven't been here in years."
"Who would randomly set up a trailer there and at the start of winter?"
You had your answer when the door flung open and out popped Bucky.
"What the actual hell?"
"Looks like you have company." Your mom gently patted you on the back.
"But how? Why?"
Bucky had only been to visit your mom once, a few months ago. You had thought he had some upcoming missions and were confused of as to why he was here.
"Go out and talk to him." Your mom urged.
"No."
"It's going to get a little cold out there."
"He has a generator." You muttered and closed the curtains when he spotted you.
"Y/n!" Your mom scolded you.
"What?"
"Don't be mean and don't let him stay there if it gets too cold."
"You're on his side?"
"I didn't say that. Just go out there and see what he wants."
Your mom shook her head and went into the kitchen while you grumbled and put on a coat.
🚙🔫
"What the hell are you doing here?" You demanded, placing your hands on your hips.
"Thought I would take a bit of a vacation."
"Across the street from me at my mom's house in an abandoned lot? How convenient. How did you even find me? Wait, never mind." You muttered when you saw Bucky smirk at you.
He was excellent at tracking and finding people.
"Seems like a good place as any." Bucky leaned against the door of the trailer and crossed his arms over his chest.
"Where did you even get this?"
You looked at the camper then back at Bucky.
"I have my ways..." He shrugged.
"You just HAPPEN to know a camper guy then? Ugh!"
"I do in fact. So, want to talk now?"
"No."
"Ok." Bucky shrugged and climbed the stairs to the trailer.
"Don't you have a mission with Steve and your 'GiRlFrIeNd' from the Bravo team?" You spat at him.
He stopped and turned to face you. You're certain there was a mission on the calendar for the week which was why you had escaped to your mom's when you did. His face was hardened, eyes narrowed, and you saw his jaw tick in annoyance.
"No."
You watched him carefully.
"You are my girlfriend. You are the only one for me. Period. Besides, since you've been gone, the bravo team has been put on leave. They're gone to Europe for the foreseeable future as per Nat and Fury."
This was the first you had heard of this.
"Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to get back to my vacation." Bucky pointed at the door, opened it, and closed it in your face.
"UGH!" You groaned, turning to head back to your mom's house.
The man was ridiculous.
🚙🔫
"Bring this to Bucky." Your mom put a container of leftover chili and a few snacks into a cooler bag.
"MOM! We don't feed strays."
She glared at you.
"That poor boy just wants to talk. Plus, it's going to be below freezing tonight. The chili should keep him warm." She stuffed the bag in your arms and put her hands on her hips.
<knock knock>
"Here." You shoved the cooler bag at Bucky when he opened the door, then you turned to leave.
"Did you make this?"
"Why? Worried I'd poison it?" You snarked.
"No, I just like home cooking." He shrugged.
A small crack appeared in your cold heart knowing he missed out on a lot of home cooked meals in his life, but you quickly patched it.
"Don't worry, it's not poisoned." You said over your shoulder.
"Thank your mom for me then."
"I'm sure you two have been talking." You muttered to yourself.
You heard him rustle through the bag and chuckle.
"Thank her for the extra blankets too."
"Ugh..."
You were going to have to have a chat with her about tough punishment when you got back. It was his problem he was here during the start of winter in a damn trailer when there was a perfectly decent hotel not that far away.
Or literally ANY other place he could 'vacation' at that wasn't across the street from you. Let him deal with the cold. Better yet, it was his issue for being here in the first place and not somewhere warmer.
You shivered and took your coat off at your back door.
"Did you give him the chili?" Your mom asked while opening a book.
"Didn't realize the bag of chili also had extra blankets in there." You mumbled and headed to your room to relax.
🚙🔫
Your wound was healing nicely, but you still needed to rest it. You were sitting on the couch when you saw Bucky get out of his trailer and sit in one of the chairs he had set up. The temperature hovered around the freezing mark, but the sun was out making the air temperature feel warmer than it was.
"Still not talking to him?" Your mom asked.
It had been a few days since he had shown up out of nowhere. You answered her with a glare. She sighed and went back into the kitchen.
"I dropped off cinnamon buns earlier." She called over her shoulder.
"Mom!"
"Go over and talk to him."
"No."
"Mr. Jackson is coming by for a visit."
"The neighbour?"
She nodded while puttering around the kitchen.
"We've been talking for a while. We keep each other company since his wife passed a few years back." Your mom said while setting up the mugs of coffee.
Since your dad had passed away nearly ten years ago, your mom has been alone. You feel bad you hadn't been by for a while but was happy she had company.
"Ok."
"His son is coming by too."
"Oh?" You had no idea his son was in town. His very gay son who is happily married to a man named Colin from what you could remember from the town gossip.
Your mind raced with this new development. You smirked thinking what you could with that information Bucky doesn't know. You thought you should have a little fun torturing him before you went over there and talked.
🚙🔫
"Hi Mr. Jackson." You smiled and opened the door to your guests.
"Please, call me Barry. You remember Tom." Barry pointed to a younger version of himself who was well groomed and styled.
Excellent.
"Hi Tom." You waved them in but stopped Tom and hugged him tight when you saw Bucky peeking out his trailer window.
Tom tensed up as you hugged him before letting go.
"Who's the brave camper over there?" Barry asked while slipping out of his coat.
"Y/n's boyfriend." "No one." You and your mom both answered at the same time.
Your head snapped to hers and you huffed.
Barry smirked and Tom cleared his throat.
"Come in, please." Your mom ushered them to the living room.
You made sure the curtains were wide open so Bucky could see inside. Tom sat on the loveseat, and you plopped yourself right next to him, smiling and laughing at something your mom said that definitely wasn't THAT funny but it looked like you were laughing at something Tom had said.
Whatever.
Let Bucky see how this makes him feel, seeing you with another man. You saw the curtains of the trailer whip closed which gave you a pleased feeling.
You all chatted for a bit, Tom catching you up on his life and Barry talking about the upcoming holidays. Your mom was happy for the company, and you were going to ask her after they left if there was something going on between them.
You were only half listening though as you watched Bucky pace like a caged animal outside, stopping to glance over every so often. You watched him glare over at the window, then scowl, and continue to pace. There was a tiny part of you that felt bad and childish for doing this, but you felt it was a good lesson for him to learn.
Too many times, you watched him with Nora and even though you KNOW he would never do anything, he still didn't listen to your thoughts and concerns, brushing them off as nothing or you being paranoid about her. Well, it's nice to give him a bit of his own medicine.
Throughout your conversation, you smiled, laughed, and made eyes at Tom while he spoke. You smirked to yourself knowing Bucky was watching through the camper windows since he retreated inside because of the cold wind.
Tom was a little confused at your behaviour but kept the conversation going. At one point, you put your hand on his arm and was listening intently to what his holiday plans were, hearing a loud slam of Bucky's camper door outside, which startled you apart. You looked out and glared at the trailer before turning to smile up at Tom.
🚙🔫
Bucky's thoughts were spiraling. Who do you think you are? Whoever this man is, he must be something to you. Why are you fawning all over him? Why is he leaning in close to talk to you. Bucky's eyes narrowed on the stranger as he watched your every move. His mind wandered to many possibilities on who this man is and why he's here.
He saw you hug him in greeting, then your hand lingered a little longer than what he thought was appropriate. He didn't like it. He wanted to go over and hoist you on his shoulders to take you back to his trailer, away from the well-dressed mystery man. He watched you smile at him, his gut turning over seeing as how he wasn't the one to cause it.
Was this how you felt when he was helping the Bravo agent? He didn't think his actions would make you feel like this. He was only being nice and helping the team and nothing more.
He was going to have a chat with Steve when he returns because for the future, if anyone other than you or the immediate team needs help or extra training or assistance, he isn't volunteering his services. Steve can do it or assign someone else. But first, he needs to apologize to you and hope you'll forgive him or he's going to freeze his ass off sooner rather than later.
🚙🔫
After your visitors left, your mom folded her arms across her chest and tapped her foot in annoyance at you.
"Please go and talk to the boy. God knows he's going crazy with watching you fawn all over Tom for god's sake."
You grumbled nonsense at her, but it was time.
"Fine."
"And tell him to come and spend the night inside the house. It's going to be cold tonight, and I would hate for him to freeze to death because of your stubbornness. The man came here, organized a trailer rental, and is freezing himself all for the hopes you give him your attention." Your mom scolded you, but she was sort of right.
"Fine."
You rolled your eyes and grabbed your jacket and boots.
As you made your way to the trailer, your heart rate increased. You were nervous but know you have to talk to him. You knocked on the door, and it instantly whipped open.
"Hello."
"Hi. I'm ready now." You both stood there staring at each other.
You heard the small heater behind Bucky rumble and sputter in the trailer.
"Come in." Bucky ushered you inside.
"It's nice in here." You were polite in looking around the small interior. It was simple with a bed at the back piled high with blankets your mom had clearly smuggled to him and small kitchenette with bench seating.
The heater was humming away, pumping in what little heat it could manage with its little motor.
You almost felt bad for it and Bucky.
Almost.
Bucky gestured you to sit at the bench while he sat at the end of the bed. You fidgeted with your hands while looking around, his intense eyes watching your every move.
"So..."
"So..."
"Look, Bucky..."
He held up his hand at you to stop you.
"I want to go first." He cleared his throat and sighed.
"I'm so sorry, for everything. For not listening to you, for not taking your concerns serious enough and for you getting hit with a bullet. It makes me sick thinking you could have been injured badly, or worse. I was doing what I thought was right for the team, and not necessarily right for us. I should have stopped it as soon as you mentioned it, but I didn't, so I take full responsibility in making you feel the way you have. I didn't listen to your concerns and brushed them aside for the sake of the team."
You watched him shift and fidget a little, clearing his throat at his words.
"I also...well...when the ambush happened and the gunfire...I...Well, I just reacted. You HAVE to believe me, if I were next to you, I would have jumped on top of you, but you weren't. I-I just wanted to help, protect whoever from our team I could. I thought the other Bravo agent would have done the same to you, but he didn't and left you exposed. My heart sank watching what was happening, knowing you were out of my reach. I was talking into my comms with Sam the entire time making sure you were safe as he had Redwing surround you, but I guess you didn't notice and it was too late..."
Oh.
You had thought he was whispering comforting words into Nora's ear and not that.
"I'm so sorry. I never meant for you to get shot and it was all because of me. I failed to protect you." He whispered again.
"Bucky...I..." You cleared your throat to settle yourself.
"I had to watch you train with Nora. She was always around. I told you it bothered me and that she was up to no good. I told you my concerns and you ignored them. Thought I was overreacting." You glared at him. He winced slightly.
"You just kept doing what you were doing and not listening. I had to watch her fall all over you while you stood and accepted it. What if that were me? What if another male agent was training with me, brushing my arm, touching me, asking me to meet for sessions, needing help with reports late at night. Texting me questions at all hours..." Bucky grumbled and you could tell he didn't like that.
"I would have hated it." He admitted.
"Oh, I know."
"Who was that guy who was over earlier?" Bucky narrowed his eyes on you.
"Tom."
"Who?"
You sighed.
"Tom. My mom's neighbour, Barry. Tom is his son. He was visiting and wanted to come by."
"I didn't like it." He whispered.
"Like what?"
"I didn't like the fact that he had your attention."
"Do you see how that is? How that makes you feel?"
"Yeah, and I didn't like it."
"Ok, just so we're clear. It was not fun watching me with him, right?"
"Yeah." Bucky agreed again.
You were still sitting, and a chill ran up your back. The wind had picked up, and it was getting colder.
"So, the bravo team is gone?" You asked.
"Yeah. Shipped off to Europe according to Nat and Fury. Not sure when they're back, or even if they will be. Nora wasn't too happy but whatever."
You had to hide your smirk since you have a feeling Nat was involved with the transfer. You'd have to thank her when you get back.
"When are you coming back to the compound?" Bucky asked.
You sighed and looked out one of the small windows.
"After the holidays. Had some time saved and wanted to use it."
Bucky nodded.
"So, are we good?" He questioned.
You sighed and shrugged a shoulder.
"I'm not thrilled with you about what happened on the mission, and all the times you brushed off my concerns..."
Bucky seemed to slump down on the rigid end of his bunk bed.
"But..."
He perked up.
"I do miss you."
You saw the corner of his mouth twitch up and he exhaled deeply.
"When I get back, we have some things to work on, but...I think this is a good start."
"Can...can I hug you?" He hesitantly asked.
You flashed him a small smile and nodded.
He got up, meeting you halfway and wrapped his arms around you tight, kissing the top of your head.
"I missed you. I'm so sorry." He whispered.
You hugged him back, squeezing his waist while he held you. It felt good being in his arms again. You stood wrapped in each other when you felt the slight tilt of the trailer.
"What is that?"
"Wind."
"Oh."
You separated and looked at each other.
"Do you want to come inside the house? You can stay with us."
"Really?" Bucky perked up.
"Really. I don't want to read reports of a man frozen to death while camped outside his girlfriend's house." You teased.
"Thank fuck. It's cold as shit in here." Bucky shuddered, reaching around you to grab a few things, stuffing them in a duffle bag.
"Come on. My mom probably has hot chocolate for you all ready."
"With whipped cream and marshmallows?" He asked.
"I guess?"
"Nice. I liked it the last time she dropped off a thermos of it."
"When did she do that?" You looked at him funny.
"Yesterday."
Ugh, mom.
You left the trailer and Bucky followed, carrying his bag.
"How long are you staying?" You asked while walking up your driveway.
"As long as I'm allowed. I thought we could head back after the holidays if that's ok."
You saw Bucky shrug his shoulder. Your eyes went wide.
"What about the team?"
"Got some extended time off too. Figured, we could spend the holidays here, with your mom, then head back in the new year."
Your mouth popped open in shock.
"Is that ok?"
"Uhh...yeah."
A month and a bit of a vacation at your mom's with Bucky and the upcoming holidays. Your mind was racing at all the things you wanted to show him in your town, traditions for the holidays, and extended family that would be coming by.
This will also give you some time to properly heal and work on being a somewhat 'normal' couple away from the compound, missions, and perky bravo agents trying to move in and take what's yours.
Before you headed into your mom's house, Bucky stopped you.
"Thank you for listening to me. And for having me here. I promise to listen to you and to take your thoughts and concerns more seriously in the future."
"Ok." You nodded.
Bucky stopped you from opening the door. You gave him a funny look.
"And I'm looking forward to spending the holidays with the woman I'm falling in love with." His bright blue eyes seemed to burn a hole in yours.
"I...wha...Uh..."
You were at a loss for words when your mom opened the door, holding two steaming cups of hot chocolate, Bucky's had an ungodly amount of whipped cream, marshmallows, and sprinkles in his cup.
"There we are. Is everything ok then?" She handed you the mugs.
"All good." "Yup." You both said at the same time.
"Good. Now, Barry and Tom are coming back tomorrow for supper. Tom is bringing his husband Colin."
Bucky's head shot towards you, his eyes narrowing slightly.
You looked at him, shrugged, and said, "oops," before chuckling and taking a sip of your hot chocolate.
Not even the way Bucky stopped touching her like she was something precious.
It was the silence — the kind that felt like a goodbye he didn’t have the courage to say.
Y/N sat at the kitchen table, knees pulled to her chest, staring at the cup across from her — his cup — still half-full from the night before. He hadn’t taken a sip this morning. Never even came into the kitchen.
He used to.
Every morning.
With a sleepy smile, a forehead kiss, a mumbled “five more minutes, doll.”
But this morning, she woke up alone.
Again.
And she felt it — the shift. Like a cold wind blowing through a house that used to be warm.
Like losing something before it was even gone.
The door creaked behind her. His footsteps. Heavy. Slow. She swallowed, wiped her cheeks quickly with the back of her hand.
He didn’t notice. Or maybe he pretended not to.
“Morning,” she whispered, voice cracking even though she tried to hide it.
Bucky didn’t answer at first. He stood in the doorway, eyes tired, jaw tight. Like he had been fighting a war in his own mind… and losing.
Finally, he muttered, “We need to talk.”
Her heart dropped so violently it almost made her dizzy.
Of course.
Of course this was coming.
She nodded, but her throat burned. “Okay.” A whisper. Barely a sound.
He sat across from her, in the chair he used to pull close just to touch her knee. Now he sat too far away.
“I don’t think I can…”
He exhaled shakily.
“I’m not good for you. I’m not what you need.”
Her chest cracked wide open.
“Bucky—”
He shook his head hard. “Let me finish.”
His eyes were glassy. Not crying — but close. Too close.
“You’re patient. Kind. Soft in all the places I’ve gone hard. You deserve someone who doesn’t bring nightmares into your bed. Someone who doesn’t shut down when things get hard. Someone who…” His voice broke for a second. “Someone who can love you the way you deserve.”
She stared at him, breath gone, heart beating way too fast and way too slow at the same time.
“But I love you,” she choked.
He flinched. Like it hurt him.
Maybe it did.
“Don’t,” he whispered. “Please… don’t make this harder.”
Her hands trembled violently. “Bucky, you don’t get to decide what I deserve. You don’t get to walk away because you’re scared. You don’t—”
“I do.” His voice was hoarse, final. “Because staying is hurting you. I see it. I see you shrinking, trying to make space for all the parts of me that don’t fit.”
“No,” she whispered, tears falling faster than she could stop them. “No, you don’t get it. You’re leaving because you think you’re protecting me. But all you’re doing is breaking me.”
He shut his eyes.
She sobbed — a broken, ugly sound she tried to swallow back.
“Please,” she whispered. “Don’t go. Don’t walk away from me. Don’t—”
He stood. She did too, reaching for him with shaking hands.
He stepped back.
That hurt the worst.
“Bucky, please.”
A whisper.
A plea.
A prayer.
His voice cracked as he said the words she would remember for the rest of her life:
“It’s better this way.”
She sobbed so hard her knees almost buckled. “If you walk out that door, you’re choosing to lose me.”
He looked at her — really looked.
Like he knew he was about to shatter both of them.
“I know,” he whispered.
Then he turned.
She screamed his name — a broken, desperate cry that ripped through the apartment — but he kept walking.
Series Summary | “A chance encounter in a broken elevator ties together the lives of a hardened , emotionally closed off CEO James Barnes and a struggling single mother balancing her daughter , her new job , healing old wounds , and building something neither of them expected , a family."
Content | Fluff and Angst - Violence - Blood/Injury - Arrest/Jail- Substance Use - Addiction Mention (references to past pill abuse, concerns about relapse) - Workplace Harassment - Single Parent Themes - (financial stress, difficulty balancing work and parenting) - Power Dynamics
Word Count | 4010 words
Series Masterlist
<- previous chapter - next chapter in progress
The precinct smelled strongly of stale coffee and iron. For Steve, waiting by the scratched linoleum counter near the release door, it felt like an uncomfortable return to a past he’d worked decades to help his friend bury.
He didn't check his watch, though the digital clock above the duty sergeant showed 2:47 AM. Steve was dressed in an immaculate charcoal suit. He held a large duffle bag containing a change of clothes, a phone charger and cologne—the outfit was a silent insult to the perfectly tailored suit he knew Bucky had been wearing when the sirens arrived.
“Barnes. James B.”
The sergeant’s voice was flat, bored. Steve pushed off the wall, his spine tightening. This was the third time in two years he’d had to retrieve Bucky, though the previous two incidents had been traffic-related; this was the first time since their early twenties that Bucky had physically put hands on someone in a public place.
The door buzzed, and Bucky walked out.
He looked exactly like a CEO who had just spent four hours in a holding cell after using his very expensive, custom-fitted medical prosthetic arm to rearrange an employee’s jaw. His dress shirt was ripped at the shoulder seam, stained with what was probably a mix of whiskey and his own blood, and his hair was falling across his forehead, damp and tangled.
His eyes, however, were the immediate problem. They were hard, glittering with adrenaline that hadn't burned off, but beneath the fight, Steve saw the residue of shame.
Bucky didn't look at the sergeant. He looked at Steve, a silent apology and a challenge warring on his face.
"Let's go, Buck," Steve clapped, his voice low, measured. The quiet authority of it brooked no argument.
They walked out into the damp, cool New York night. The air was heavy with the distant sounds of the city that Bucky owned a significant portion of, but here, on the sidewalk, they were just two men dealing with a mess.
Steve’s black Audi stretched smoothly along the curb, its tinted windows offering immediate anonymity. Steve opened the passenger door, pushing the bag towards Bucky in the chest.
“Get in the back,” Steve instructed. “You’re not sitting in the front smelling like a cheap boxing ring. Change. Now.”
Bucky didn't argue. He scoffed, sure. But ultimately slid into the back. The door slammed with a heavy thud, separating them from the world. Steve started the engine, pulling seamlessly into the minimal traffic brought by the late-night.
He kept the partition between the front and back seats down—they needed to have this conversation.
From the rearview mirror, Steve could see Bucky wrestling with the expensive, and now ruined clothing. The action was awkward, constrained by the close quarters, forcing Bucky to hunch over and wriggle. He shucked the dress shirt and then the slacks, replacing them with the soft, faded black crewneck and loose jeans Steve had packed—clothes Bucky wore when he wasn't answering to a board of directors.
The process of changing felt heavy with unspoken history. They’d danced this dance a hundred times, though usually involving broken curfews, not broken noses.
"The charge is assault and battery," Steve stated flatly, navigating a quiet side street toward the Upper East Side. "Unprovoked, according to the intake sheet. What the hell happened, James? You’re the CEO of a multi-million dollar company. You can’t afford this type of…mess."
Bucky pulled the crewneck over his head. He rubbed a hand over his forehead, smearing some residual blood near his hairline.
“It wasn't unprovoked,” Bucky mumbled, his voice gravelly. “It was necessary.”
“‘Necessary’ is signing a non-disclosure agreement, Buck. Not putting a man in the hospital.”
Bucky sighed, the sound resonating with deep frustration. "They were talking about...about her."
Steve’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, though he maintained a perfect outward appearance of calm. His assistant. Efficient, quiet, utterly vital to his operation.
"What about her?" Steve asked, his voice softening, tinged with a dangerous curiosity.
"Tiffany," Bucky spat the name out like something toxic. "She was with that whole crowd. She saw… she saw me at the gala last week, talking alone, and apparently, she decided it gave her the right to craft new fiction."
Bucky leaned his head back against the leather seat, staring up at the roof of the car.
"She was talking about Y/N’s background—the stuff the board could use against her if she ever moved up. Making insinuations about how she gets access. The usual slander that low-rent people use to take down someone smart. I told them to shut their mouths, they laughed. So I didn’t ask twice.”
Silence descended, broken only by the movement of the car. Steve felt a complex mix of protective rage, not just for Y/N—who, despite her professionalism, was still young and vulnerable to the machinations of the city’s upper social cruelty—but also a dawning realization about Bucky’s motivation.
Bucky James Barnes, the man who had perfected the art of icy indifference, had thrown away his reputation and risked a corporate disaster to protect the honor of Steve’s fiercely private assistant.
"She started spreading stuff after she saw me and Y/N alone together," Bucky repeated, a defensive edge returning to his voice.
Steve’s mind raced through the implications. Bucky had just finalized the most acrimonious, expensive breakup of his life with Tiffany, his fiancée of three years, who was connected to half the investors on the Barnes Medical board. For Bucky, the notorious playboy, to risk provoking his ex’s wrath over Y/N…
Steve cut him off before he could continue the thought, the realization catching in his throat.
“You and…” Steve started, his eyes flashing to the mirror, searching Bucky’s face for confirmation of the emotional entanglement.
Bucky’s jaw clenched, his expression darkening instantly. He shifted slightly in the backseat, a small, defiant grunt escaping his throat, which made Steve stop talking immediately.
The silence that followed was heavy, charged with the sudden barrier Bucky had erected. Steve knew that Bucky would not discuss Y/N or his feelings for her right now. Bucky had just risked his professional life for her reputation; the emotion was too raw to dissect.
Steve took a deep, steadying breath, letting the moment pass, but the core anxiety remained. The fight wasn't the biggest problem. The reaction was. This wasn't the controlled outburst of a business rival; this was the chaotic, self-destructive fury of a man reacting to stress they both knew he wasn't supposed to be handling.
Steve pivoted, addressing the deeper, older fear.
"You’re not nineteen anymore, Buck," Steve said, his voice dropping to a low, warning register that held decades of shared history and dark memories of emergency room waiting areas. “You're not…using again, are you?"
The words hung in the air, cold and unforgiving. Using. The subtle reference to the pills that had cost Bucky his first chance at college and led to the arrest Steve had been forced to sweep under the rug, back when they were just starting out. It was their shared secret, the hidden weakness that Tiffany had always threatened to leverage.
Bucky sat rigidly in the seat, his body language communicating offense and hurt, but his eyes were clear, focused on Steve’s reflection.
"No," Bucky said, the denial sharp, definitive. "I haven't touched a thing. Not a drop of anything but overpriced Scotch since the final split with Tiffany. You know what that felt like to me, Steve. I won’t go back there."
Steve held his gaze in the mirror for another long moment, searching for the tell-tale flinch, the evasion, the lingering tension that signaled a lie. He found only exhaustion and a profound, protective sincerity.
"Good," Steve conceded, the tension easing slightly from his shoulders. "Because if you were, I’d have to take you to the hospital myself and notify the board. You know that. We worked too hard for this."
"I know," Bucky murmured. "But this wasn't about the past, Steve. This was about those people thinking they could smear an innocent woman because their own lives are pathetic." He paused, his gaze fixed on the city lights moving past the window. "Believe me, I hate that I called you. I hate that I put you through this."
They pulled off the main highway and entered the exclusive, quiet streets leading toward Bucky’s penthouse.
Steve pulled the Audi into the underground garage, putting the car in park and turned to look properly at Bucky, reaching across the center console.
"I don't care about the phone call, Buck. I care about you. And I care about her." Steve paused, "If Tiffany is spreading outright slander, we need to handle this professionally. You put your hands on a man, you opened yourself up. We need actual control by noon."
Bucky nodded slowly, running a tired hand over his face. "I'll call Natasha in the morning. I’ll make sure it's buried Steve."
Steve nodded, satisfied that Bucky understood the necessity of business over impulse, even now. He stepped out and opened his door.
"Go up. Take care of those knuckles, and take a shower. You need to reset."
Bucky gathered the remnants of his ruined suit and stepped out into the garage, suddenly looking very small beneath the concrete ceiling. He paused by a pillar, looking at Steve with deep gratitude.
"Thanks, Steven. For everything."
"Just take care, pal," Steve rolled his eyes, watching his friend walk toward the elevator.
When Bucky was gone, Steve leaned back against the hood, closing his eyes. The immediate crisis was averted. Bucky was clean, physically safe, and home.
But the deeper, more complex entanglement—the protective fury Bucky felt for you, the open threat Tiffany now posed, and the subtle shift in focus from Bucky's recovery to Bucky's emotional life—had only just begun.
He pulled out his phone, the screen lighting up his face. He had a few hours before dawn. He needed to draft a email to you, perhaps suggesting you take the morning off, and he needed to call his PR and HR team. More than anything, he needed to understand exactly what kind of crossfire his assistant was now in, caught between his best friend's rash heart and feelings…and his vengeful ex-fiancée.
Steve’s protective instincts, honed over three decades of looking out for Bucky, now swung sharply toward you. He had a feeling this phone call was only the first shot fired in a new, much more complicated war.
The city never truly slept, but its corporate towers, for a few precious hours between midnight and dawn, certainly dimmed. This was your world now, a life of glowing monitors and the ghostly scent of coffee and oatmeal cookies you and Madelyn made last week.
The air between you and Bucky has been unrelentingly thick with unspoken tension, a prickle of something you couldn't quite name – perhaps resentment, a challenge for him to press more.
After that, something had clicked. You’d marched straight into Steve’s office, a determined glint in your tired eyes, and begged for extra shifts, extra projects, anything to fill the emptiness and the gnawing feeling of inadequacy. Steve, ever the understanding one, had looked at her with concern but eventually provided, knowing your fierce independence.
So now, yourlife was a relentless cycle. The alarm often blared at 4:30 AM, jolting you from a sleep that rarely felt restorative. You’d tiptoe around the small apartment, Madelyn’s pictures covering the fridge and a half-finished unicorn puzzle on the coffee table. Your five-year-old was your sun, your moon, the entire galaxy, and the reason for every aching muscle, every skipped meal so your daughter could have seconds.
Madelyn was the first thing in your mind and the last. She’d hum off-key tunes from her favorite cartoon when feeding Flopsy, a habit you found both endearing and occasionally headache-inducing. The current obsession though? Piano music.
“Mommy, can I play the piano like that lady on TV?” Madelyn asked, her eyes wide with wonder, pointing at a commercial for a music school. Later, she’d declared with the unwavering conviction of a five-year-old, “I want piano lessons for Christmas, Mama! That’s’ll be my very big gift!”
You smiled, a tired but genuine smile, and promised her the moon. That promise now fueled you, a desperate, driving force that kept you at your desk long after the cleaning crew had left, long after the last security guard had made his rounds.
You’d arrive when the city lights were slowly beginning to spark pre-dawn, and leave when the building felt like a tomb.
Tonight was no different. The stack of reports on Steve’s desk, which you had offered to consolidate, seemed to mock you with their endless pages. Your head throbbed, eyes burned, and shoulders felt like they were carrying the weight of the entire Barnes Medical Prosthetics operation. The last thing you remembered was highlighting a section on this years profit data, the words blurring into a blurred squiggle.
Bucky had a critical investor call in Europe which kept him glued to his screen all evening. As he made his way to Steve’s office, needing a quick word about a last-minute change to a presentation, he noticed a light still glowing faintly under the door. He frowned. Steve was usually out by eight. Perhaps he’d forgotten to turn it off.
He pushed the door open silently. The office was quiet save for the low hum of a laptop fan. And there, slumped over Steve’s enormous desk, was you.
Your head rested awkwardly on a pile of spreadsheets, one arm dangling like a fallen tree limb, your hair a scattered mess. A half-empty mug of what looked like cold, tea sat beside you.
Bucky took a step closer, his frown deepening into something else – a mix of surprise and… concern? He noticed the small, crinkled piece of paper stuck to the side of your cheek.
It was a waxy crayon drawing, vibrant, somewhat abstract rendition of a unicorn with a rainbow mane, undoubtedly Madelyn’s handiwork. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. He watched you for a moment, the steady rhythm of your breathing, the utter exhaustion etched on your face even in sleep. He reached out, slowly, fingers brushing against your back, a gentle, almost timid contact. He felt the tension in your muscles, the slight tremor beneath his palm.
You woke with a jolt, eyes snapping open, wide and disoriented. You blinked, gaze unfocused, then darted around the room before landing on Bucky. He was standing over you, his hand still warm on your back, that small, almost-smile lingering. The crayon drawing, you realized with a fresh wave of mortification, was plastered to your face.
“Oh! Mr.! Bucky! I… I am so sorry!” You stammered, scrambling upright, chair scraping loudly across the polished floor. Your hair was even more disheveled now, a crimp from the papers visible on your cheek. You felt your face flush hot pink.
You quickly snatched the drawing off your face, stuffing it clumsily into your pocket. “I must have… I didn’t mean to… I was just finishing up these reports for Steve, and I must have dozed off. It won’t happen again, sir, I promise.”
Bucky took his hand back, though his expression remained unreadable, that faint smile gone, replaced by a more neutral, observant look. “Y/N,” he said, his voice surprisingly soft for the same man you went toe to toe with just your last conversation. “Why are you working so hard? This is well beyond what you originally agreed to. It’s… excessive.”
You swallowed, heart still thudding against your ribs. You smoothed down your blouse, trying to appear collected, professional. But exhaustion made you show your truth, clumsy, words stumbling out before you could properly vet them. “Christmas is coming up,” you began, voice barely above a whisper. Gaze dropping to your hands, twisting nervously in your lap. “Madelyn… she wants piano lessons. As her big gift this year. It’s… it’s a lot, and I just… I want to make sure she has it.”
Bucky nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving your face as you talked. He seemed to be processing your words, fitting them into a context he hadn't considered. He understood the numbers, the profit margins, the market. The medical side even. But this? This was a different kind of calculation, one steeped in sacrifice and love.
He looked at his watch, then back at you. “It’s almost nine,” he stated, a simple fact. “You haven’t eaten, have you?” It wasn’t a question, but an observation.
Your stomach gave a quiet rumble at the thought of dinner, betraying you. He was right. You hadn’t. Not since the granola bar you’d crammed down at 7 AM.
“I… I’ll grab something when I get home,” you mumbled, already envisioning a sad bag of microwave popcorn.
He paused, then. “Come have dinner with me, there’s a decent place still open a few blocks from here. We can talk…if you want.”
Your head snapped up. Dinner? With him? The man who you’d had a “kinda fight” with recently, the CEO, the intimidating presence? “Oh, um, I couldn’t,” you quickly refused. “ Maddie. The babysitter… I can’t leave her for any more time than I already do tonight. She needs me.”
Bucky’s shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly, his brow furrowing. He took a deep breath, his sudden offer seeming to dissipate his resolve. Then, to your utter surprise, and perhaps even his own, he straightened up. “Bring her,” he said, the words coming out with a surprising firmness. “We’ll have it at my place.”
You stared, mouth slightly agape. His place? Was he serious? She tried to back out, stammering, “Mr. Barnes, that’s… that’s really too much.”
But he cut you off, voice stern but undeniably gentle. “Nonsense,” he said, stepping closer. “It’s late. You’re exhausted. And you need to eat. Your daughter needs her mother to be healthy…I’ll send a driver to your address in an hour. Just grab your girl, tell the sitter you’re coming home, then going out. I’ll see you both later.” He looked at you, his eyes intense. “Just call it a business meeting, Y/N. I promise it’s nothing more than dinner…Please?”
The last word, a soft plea, caught you off guard. It melted a little of your professional resistance, chipped away at your ingrained sense of independence and self-reliance. You looked into his eyes, searching for a hidden agenda or idea he had, but found only… sincerity. And perhaps a touch of his own surprise at his sudden generosity.
You swallowed, the exhaustion finally catching up to you, making your wall crumble. “Okay,” you whispered, the word feeling foreign on your tongue. “Okay…Mr. Barnes.”
He gave a small, brief nod, a flicker of that earlier smile returning. “I’ll see you then…Y/N.”
And with that, he turned and left, leaving you alone in the office, the lingering feeling of something utterly unexpected in the air.
You stared at Steve's empty chair, then at your own messy desk. You had an hour. An hour to call the sitter, explain the what would have been impossible scenario to you weeks ago, to your daughter. An hour to mentally prepare for dinner at Bucky place, with your five-year-old daughter in tow.
A business meeting.
Right.
You almost snorted, a tired, shaky laugh bubbling up from your chest. This was going to be interesting.
The phone rang for three long rings, each one a tiny hammer blow against his already frayed nerves. Finally, a warm voice, thick with her usual European gleam, answered. "James, dragul meu! What a surprise! To what do I owe this late-day pleasure?"
"Aunt Anya," Bucky began, “I… I need a favor."
A pause, then Anya’s voice, laced with a hint of curiosity, replied, "A favor? From you? This is a rare occurrence. Spill it, then. My ears are ready."
Bucky took a deep breath. "I'm having… people over tonight."
"People?" Anya’s voice shot up an octave. "Tonight? At your home? honey, are you feeling alright? You never have people over. Not since… well your Mamá passed.”
"I know, Aunt Anya. I know it’s late. And unusual. But… it’s rather important."
"Important enough to brave your fortress of solitude?" Anya chuckled, the sound like warm honey. "Who are these brave souls daring?"
Here it was. The tricky part. "It's… well, two people. A woman, and… her daughter."
A palpable silence stretched across the line, thick with Anya’s astonished realization. "A woman… and a child? Bucky, are you telling me you have a… a girlfriend? And she has a child?" Her voice softened, a tender note creeping in. "Dragul meu, this is… unexpected. But wonderful! Tell me, what is her name? How long have you known her?"
"It’s not… quite like that, Aunt Anya," Bucky stammered, the words feeling inadequate. "Not y-” He cut himself off and gave your name—and her daughter Madelyn."
"Five years old!" Anya exclaimed. "A little one! Oh, Bucky, this is truly something. And you are cooking for them?
"I was thinking of making Alfredo," Bucky said, a flicker of confidence returning. "And garlic bread."
"Alfredo and garlic bread," Anya repeated approvingly. "Classic. Comforting. She will like that. And the little baby?"
Bucky hesitated. This was where he truly needed Anya’s unique wisdom. "That’s… the main reason I’m calling, Aunt Anya. I have absolutely no idea what a five-year-old likes. You’re… well, you’re practically a mother to me, and you’ve always had a knack with children. Madelyn… she’s coming to my home. I want her to feel… welcomed. Comfortable. I don't want her to feel like she's in a museum. Or a mausoleum."
Anya’s laughter, rich and full, filled the silence. "Oh, James. My sweet, serious boy. Of course, you want her to feel welcome. That is a good sign. A very good sign. Do not worry, darling. Anya is on it."
"You would do that?" Bucky’s relief was so profound, it almost made him weak.
"Of course, I will do that! Do you think I would let my nephew try to impress a lovely woman and her child with… what? Caviar and liquor? You need treats. Little Madelyn needs treats!" Her voice was firm, decisive. "But first, tell me, what time are they arriving?"
"An hour."
"Okay! Plenty of time. Now, listen carefully. I will go to the late opened market. I will pick up the freshest, sweetest bouquet of flowers I can find. And I will get a few things. Some coloring pencils, a new storybook… something that will make her eyes sparkle. Do you have any preferences for the flowers, dear? Or is it all for the little one's delight?"
Bucky closed his eyes, picturing his apartment. He imagined a splash of vibrant color, a hint of sweet fragrance. "Surprise me, Aunt Anya. Whatever you think… will brighten the room. And make her smile."
"Ah, my boy is learning the art of gifting!" Anya exclaimed, a triumphant note in her voice. "Don't worry, dragul meu. I will be there in time. And I will bring a few little… things for you, as well. A special cheese, a good bottle of wine that isn't that ridiculous vintage you tried to serve me last year that tasted like old books."
Bucky chuckled. "Thank you, Aunt Anya. You’re a lifesaver. Truly."
"Don't be silly. This is what family is for. Now, go and prepare. And try not to look so much like you're about to sign away on an investment. You are inviting people, not negotiating a merger! Kisses my boy!"
The call ended, leaving Bucky in the silence of his car. He was a man who had conquered the financial and medical world, who commanded boardrooms with a mere nod, who could orchestrate deals worth multi-millions. Yet, the prospect of that five-year-old girl’s opinion on his culinary skills, the potential for her being uncomfortable, or the awkward silence of unfamiliar company and location, seemed more daunting than any corporate negotiation or decision he’s ever had to make.
plot! you and damian have the mortisha and gomez kind of love, you act exactly like them and your love language is threatening of torturing each other. his family can't help but get slightly concerned because of how you're utterly obsessed with each other in a almost unhealthy way
a/n: thank you so much for the request sweetie hqjfisjjd i loved writing this!!
The rumor at Wayne Manor traveled in hushed voices down the marble halls and echoed through the Batcave like the faint hum of a secret too strange to be true. Alfred had overheard it first, Bruce’s youngest son was planning something romantic. Which in itself was already cause for concern. Damian Wayne didn’t “plan romantic things.”
He strategized.
He calculated.
He conquered. But apparently this… this was different. Because when you were involved, everything was.
You and Damian had been together long enough for the family to accept it, barely, but still not long enough for them to understand it. Because understanding the two of you was like trying to make sense of poetry written in blood and roses. You were elegance and quiet venom, a woman who wore dark lipstick and black lace like armor. There was something timeless in the way you moved, the way your voice lingered on syllables, your wit as sharp as a blade. Damian called you “beloved torment” and you called him “my little fiend.”
And on Halloween night, the world seemed to tilt just a little more in your favor.
The Wayne Manor’s annual charity masquerade had been transformed into something lavishly gothic, all deep reds and black candles, the chandeliers dimmed to a soft, haunting glow. It was supposed to be tasteful, elegant… but the moment you arrived at Damian’s side, the atmosphere shifted.
You wore a long, form-fitting black velvet gown, the sleeves flowing like dark smoke around your wrists. The neckline was daring, the fabric hugging your shape in a way that made more than one person forget how to speak. Your lips were painted the color of ripe wine, and your hair fell in soft waves that brushed the small of your back. Damian’s gaze had not left you since the moment you stepped down the stairs.
He stood at your side like he belonged there, perfect posture, suit tailored within an inch of its life, a black tie knotted neatly at his throat. His dark hair was slicked back, his eyes gleaming with that sharp, unrelenting intensity that had always been his. But tonight… there was something softer behind it. Something dangerous and devoted all at once.
When you reached him, his gloved hand found yours immediately. “You are—” he began, but words failed for a fraction of a second. Damian Wayne rarely stumbled over words. But tonight, the sight of you was enough to rob him of composure. “—utterly, sinfully exquisite.”
You smiled faintly, tilting your head, your voice a low purr. “Careful, my love. You’ll make me blush. And we wouldn’t want that, would we?”
His lips curved. “On the contrary, I find the idea thrilling. I would flay the stars themselves if they dared outshine that blush.”
Across the room, Tim choked on his drink.
“Are they—are they okay?” he muttered, glancing at Dick, who was watching with a mixture of amusement and mild alarm.
“Define okay” Dick said under his breath.
Bruce, ever stoic, merely exhaled through his nose and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, ‘I should’ve known she’d encourage this side of him.’
But you and Damian didn’t care. You moved through the party like a dark waltz, two shadows perfectly synchronized. You laughed quietly at the way his fingers lingered at the small of your back, how his gaze burned when someone else dared to compliment you.
When one of the Gotham socialites, a man too bold for his own good, approached with a champagne glass and a smile that reeked of entitlement, Damian’s jaw tightened.
“Miss, I must say, you look—”
“Careful” Damian interrupted smoothly, his tone dangerously polite. “You are addressing my heart in human form. Choose your words wisely.”
You laid a hand on his arm, eyes glinting with amusement. “My darling, do behave. We wouldn’t want to make a scene.”
He turned to you, lowering his head so that his lips brushed your ear, his voice a dark whisper that made your pulse flutter. “But you know how much I enjoy making scenes with you.”
“Mm” you replied softly. “And I enjoy watching you try to restrain yourself.”
Tim groaned from the bar. “They’re flirting or threatening to kill each other, I can’t tell anymore.”
“It’s both.” Cassandra said simply, sipping her drink, eyes twinkling with quiet amusement. “They like the tension.”
And oh, there was tension. The kind that lingered in every word, every glance, every subtle touch.
Later that evening, after the guests had begun to drift away and the music had softened to a ghostly hum, you and Damian found yourselves alone on the grand balcony overlooking the manor gardens. The moonlight painted your faces silver, your shadows intertwined across the marble.
He stood behind you, arms circling your waist, his chin resting against your shoulder. His voice was low, smooth as smoke. “You know,” he murmured, “if I could trap this night in a bottle, I would keep it, so I could watch you haunt it forever.”
You turned slightly, smiling with that soft, dangerous affection that only he ever saw. “And what would you do, my love, if I refused to be trapped?”
He smirked faintly, his lips brushing the curve of your neck. “Then I’d follow you into whatever chaos you created. Torture me if you must, but I would die before I let you go.”
“Mm. Such devotion. You almost sound sincere” you teased, though your voice softened at the edges.
“I am” he said simply. “You are my chaos. My muse. My destruction. And I have never been happier to be undone.”
Your heart stuttered, just once, before you turned in his arms to face him. The look you shared could have set the night on fire. His hand came up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip as if memorizing the shape of your smirk.
“And you,” you murmured “are my favorite mistake.”
He laughed quietly, a deep, genuine sound that vibrated through his chest. “Then I’ll make sure you never regret it.”
When he kissed you, it was slow and consuming, the kind of kiss that made time bend. The wind caught the edges of your gown, and for a moment, the two of you looked carved from the same shadow, two beautiful, terrible creatures perfectly matched.
Down below, Dick whispered to Tim, “They talk about torturing each other like it’s foreplay.”
“Because it is for them.”
Inside, Alfred simply sighed. “At least Master Damian has found someone who shares his… intensity.”
Back on the balcony, Damian broke the kiss only to rest his forehead against yours, whispering with that familiar mix of reverence and wickedness, “Cara mia, you drive me to madness.”
You smiled, eyes half-lidded, your tone a dark velvet. “And yet, you never seem to mind.”
“I never will.” he promised. “If madness means you, I’ll embrace it.”
You reached up, fingertips tracing the line of his jaw. “Then perhaps, my darling, we should let the night swallow us whole.”
He took your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “After you, my love. Always after you.”
And as the last candle flickered inside the Manor and the moonlight bathed you both in silver, the world seemed to fade away, leaving only two souls hopelessly, beautifully, dangerously entangled in their own brand of devotion.
Somewhere inside, Dick muttered, “Okay, they’re terrifying.”
But Damian only smiled against your lips and whispered one last thing meant only for you.
“Let them be afraid, beloved. They’ve never known a love worth fearing.”
The morning after the Wayne Halloween Gala, Gotham was still sleeping under a soft layer of fog, but Wayne Manor was already awake, or at least trying to be. The sun hadn’t even fully breached the skyline when the first voices began to drift through the manor halls, carrying the familiar mix of amusement, exasperation, and barely concealed disbelief that only the Batfamily could muster.
In the kitchen, Alfred was serving breakfast with his usual composure, the calm eye in a storm of chaos. Bruce sat at the head of the table, stoic as ever, reading something on his tablet. To his right, Dick was stirring his coffee like a man trying to dissolve confusion instead of sugar, while Tim was slouched halfway over the counter, dark circles under his eyes. Cass was perched cross-legged on the countertop, nibbling toast and looking entertained by everything.
And then, the door opened.
Damian walked in, pristine as ever, wearing a dark turtleneck under a sharp vest, his posture perfect, his expression unreadable. You followed a step behind him, dressed in black silk pajamas with a long robe trailing after you, looking like you had stepped straight out of a dream, or a victorian ghost story. Your hair was still loose, and your expression was calm, collected, and faintly amused.
The entire table froze.
“Morning” you said, your voice smooth as honey and just as dangerous.
“Good morning” Alfred replied warmly, unfazed, sliding a cup of coffee toward you as if he’d been expecting you to descend from the shadows at any moment.
Damian, meanwhile, moved with calculated ease to pull your chair out before you sat down.
He didn’t even ask. Just the smallest, quietest gesture of devotion. When you thanked him, his lips brushed your knuckles in a manner so natural it made Tim blink.
Dick leaned toward Tim. “Okay, so… this is serious, right?” he whispered.
Tim just stared. “Serious? Dick, she literally called him her ‘little fiend’ last night in front of Bruce.”
Damian’s head tilted slightly. “I can hear you.” he said without looking up, his tone calm but edged with threat.
You smirked faintly, glancing at the boys. “He does have excellent hearing, darlings. Be careful, mockery is such an unattractive trait.”
Cassandra bit back a laugh behind her mug. “You’re fun.” she said softly, grinning.
You raised your brow with a smirk. “So I’ve been told.”
Bruce finally lowered his tablet, sighing in that way that said he’d already accepted this chaos as part of his life. “Damian.”
“Yes, Father?”
Bruce’s jaw flexed. “Explain.”
Damian folded his napkin neatly. “Explain what, exactly?”
“This.” Bruce gestured vaguely between you two, as though your entire existence as a couple defied the laws of his understanding. “You two spent the entire night talking about torturing each other, you scared at least five donors into leaving early, and at one point, someone swore they saw you carve your initials into her wine glass.”
“I was marking my territory.” Damian said evenly.
Tim dropped his fork. “You what—”
You reached over, calm as a cat, resting a hand on Damian’s arm. “He was being sweet” you said, smiling just enough to make Tim visibly shiver.
“He told me he wanted to leave a mark that would last longer than the glass itself.”
Dick blinked slowly. “Okay, that’s… definitely poetic. In a kind of please-don’t-kill-me way.”
“She inspires poetry.” Damian said without shame, tone smooth and absolute.
Cass was clearly enjoying every second of this. “He’s obsessed.” she said matter-of-factly, sipping her tea.
Damian turned to her with no hesitation. “I am. Entirely. And why should I not be?”
You smiled at him, softly this time, dangerously, with that slow, magnetic pull that could bend anyone weaker than him to your will. “You do have a talent for devotion, my love. It’s almost frightening.”
“Almost?” he murmured, lips curving. “You wound me.”
Tim leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. “I’m sorry, I just, Damian, why is it always the goth girls? Every single time. Why do you keep going after the ones who look like they could literally stab you?”
Damian’s expression didn’t flicker. “Because,” he said smoothly, “I respect a woman capable of killing me.”
Dick spat his coffee. “I’m sorry, what?”
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “He’s his mother’s son” he muttered.
You smirked, tilting your head, your voice a whisper of silk. “Oh, he’s safe. Mostly.”
“Mostly?” Tim echoed, his voice breaking an octave higher than usual.
You sipped your coffee delicately. “I only draw blood when I’m bored.”
Cassandra snorted into her toast.
Damian turned his head toward you, a flicker of adoration and pride in his eyes. “You see why I adore her.” he said simply. “She’s chaos dressed in couture.”
You hummed contently. “And you, my darling, are the storm I always hoped to weather.”
The rest of the table just stared.
Dick whispered to Bruce, “You think this is like… healthy?”
Bruce didn’t even look up. “For them? It might be the healthiest thing Damian’s ever done.”
Tim groaned. “Okay, but what happens if they break up?”
Cassandra shrugged. “Someone dies.”
“That’s not—” Tim started, then stopped. “Actually, that’s probably accurate.”
You turned your head toward them with that serene, unblinking calm. “We don’t intend to part” you said softly. “There’s something quite eternal about our kind of madness.”
“Eternal.” Damian echoed, his voice dropping lower, like a promise. “And mutually destructive, if we’re fortunate.”
Bruce exhaled sharply. “Please don’t say that with a smile.”
But Damian did smile, that rare, dangerous curve of his lips that carried something almost feral underneath. “Don’t worry, Father. She’ll kill me with affection, not blades.”
“Only if you behave” you murmured, brushing your fingers down the back of his neck.
Tim set down his coffee, defeated. “You two are… something else.”
“Thank you.” you both said at the same time, voices perfectly in sync.
Dick looked between you and Damian, then grinned helplessly. “Okay, but admit it, they’re kinda perfect for each other.”
Cass nodded. “It fits. He needed someone like her.”
Bruce groaned quietly into his coffee. “God help us all.”
You leaned closer to Damian, your smile dangerous and affectionate all at once. “I rather think the opposite, darling. We’re far beyond help.”
Damian’s hand found yours under the table, fingers intertwining effortlessly. “Precisely why I love you.”
And the room fell silent again, not out of awkwardness, but because for a brief, haunting moment, they could see it: the way he looked at you like you were his religion, the way your smile softened just for him. It was dark, yes. Unconventional. A little terrifying. But it was real.
Dick finally broke the quiet. “You two are actually kinda… romantic, in a supervillain way.”
Damian turned his head slightly, lips curling. “Romance is a matter of perspective, Grayson.”
You smirked, raising your coffee cup in a mock toast. “To perspective, then. And to the art of loving dangerously.”
Damian clinked his glass softly against yours. “To us, beloved torment.”
“Always, my little fiend” you replied.
And as the others looked on, confused, amused, maybe even a little envious, it was hard to deny the truth of it.
Damian Wayne and the gothic woman at his side were like fire and smoke, like poetry and blades, two souls too intense for the world around them.
And for better or worse, Gotham was yours to haunt together.
Summary: You don’t like haunted houses. You don’t like Bucky Barnes either. But one bad jump-scare later, both of those things start to feel complicated.
Word Count: 10k
Warnings: panic reaction; physical restraint; mild violence; anxiety; Halloween fair and haunted house setting; cocky!Bucky; protective!Bucky
Author’s Note: We’re finally here, oh my god. I’m posting this in a bit of a panicked rush, so I might still go back and tweak a few things, but I really wanted to get it out there right now. This piece is the second-place winner from the poll I ran back in September. Please forgive me for writing and posting this one first, it just came together more easily than the fic that actually won. I hope you’re still seeing this on Halloween! I know it’s coming out so late, and I’m really sorry about that. I’d hoped to have it finished a week ago, but it just didn’t happen. In the meantime, please enjoy this while I pull myself together and finish the other one!
Masterlist
“I just don’t get why they have to be part of everything we do,” you argue, louder than you mean to. You fold your arms across your chest, like you could barricade yourself behind them.
You’re standing in the middle of the Halloween fair, which should be something nice, something lighthearted and pumpkin-scented and sticky-fingered - but now you’re trying not to look like someone who’s about to stage a coup.
The air is full of sugar and something smoky - caramel apples, popcorn, fake fog. And the lights blink as though they’re trying to have a conversation with your anxiety. Somewhere nearby, a kid screams and you would like to scream back.
Natasha lifts her eyes from her phone and gives you that sideways look. The one that says you’re entertaining her, but only marginally - like a cat watching a bug crawl across the floor. Wanda’s on your other side, hiding a grin behind her mug of hot cider. The steam curls around her face like it’s trying to soften the laughter she’s swallowing.
“They’re fun to have around,” Natasha says, tone dry, unbothered. Her lips jerk into that smug little smirk you love and hate all the same.
“For you, Romanoff,” you fire back, a grumble in your tone. “Which doesn’t count. You’re literally sleeping with one of them.”
That earns you the full smirk, sharp and satisfied.
“Come on, they’re not that bad,” Wanda offers, all warm and useless. She nudges your arm trying to be helpful by not being helpful at all. Her optimism doesn’t reach you tonight.
You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t tumble clean out of your head and into the funnel cake booth.
“They’re men, Wanda,” you declare, voice punctuated with a huff that carries over the carnival din. “Plural. That’s already two strikes.”
Natasha snorts, her face haloed by the string lights dangling over the fairground gate. Then she tilts her head, pretending to think it over. “He’s not that bad once you get used to him.”
You whip toward her, scandalized. “That’s what people say about wasps, Nat.” Your voice pitches up, caught between disbelief and despair. “And for the record? I’ve been trying to get used to him for months. It’s not working. If anything, it’s getting worse.”
Natasha just hums, noncommittal, eyes already back on her phone. Wanda’s trying - and failing - not to laugh.
“He’s just messing with you. He likes that you get all worked up,” Nat says, and she’s saying it with that sly tone you don’t like.
You sigh, loud enough for both of them to hear. “Yeah, well, I’d like for him to find a new hobby.” You scan the fairgrounds, half-expecting to see a flash of chrome in the parking lot already. “Don’t they have, like, engines to fix or tires to kick or whatever it is men do when they’re not ruining girl time?”
Wanda’s giggling now, eyes sparkling under the string lights. “This was supposed to be our night,” she sides with you, tugging her knit beanie lower over her ears.
“Exactly,” you agree. “We should be laughing at other people’s bad costume choices, not-” you wave wildly at the air, where somewhere out there, you can already hear the low thunder of engines, “-being third-wheeled by testosterone.”
You do realize Steve is Natasha’s boyfriend, and yeah, you genuinely love that for her. She does seem happier, lighter. She doesn’t flaunt it, but you know her. You know when she’s secretly smiling about something, even if she tries to act like she’s not.
What you don’t love is that her boyfriend comes with accessories. Steve being the main purchase. Sam being like the fun add-on pack. And Bucky is the extended warranty that no one asked for but keeps showing up in your email.
And right when you think maybe you’ve got a few more minutes of peace before the Motorcycle Trio arrives, the growl of engines grows louder. Too loud for your taste. The sound squirms up your spine and sets the fair’s neon skeletons rattling.
And there they are.
Steve first, predictably, all straight-backed and golden-boy-ish whatever that even means, but it’s what he looks like. The headlights cleave through the fairground fog as though he’s leading a parade of righteousness. Sam right behind him, and you imagine him grinning as though the whole night is his stage behind that helmet.
And then, of course, Bucky.
How unfortunate for you.
He’s last, because of course he’s last.
He pulls up slow and in a way that seems kind of deliberate. Their engines cut off in unison - a coordinated act of drama, clearly rehearsed.
Bucky knows every motion is being watched as he pulls off his helmet, and his hair - unfairly shiny, obnoxiously cinematic - falls into his face. And because he’s Bucky, he tosses a wink at the girl selling kettle corn just to prove he’s aware of the attention he’s getting.
You hate it here.
Steve takes off his helmet like it’s a scene from a romance movie he’s too humble to star in. His hair is doing that annoyingly perfect thing again. He waves when he spots Natasha, and the glow of the fair lights finds his boyish smile and makes it even brighter than a pumpkin lantern. Sam’s laughing, already shouting something you can’t hear but know is probably inappropriate.
You almost grimace at the way Natasha’s own face lights up at the sight of her boyfriend, but something in your heart has the audacity to soften for her happiness. It makes you both melt and gag at the same time. A part of you has to admit, it’s kind of nice.
“See?” She nudges you, but doesn’t take her gaze off of Steve. “Now it’s a party.”
You mutter something that sounds and tastes like funeral and take a sip from Wanda’s drink. It tastes pumpkin-y and warm but it’s no good distraction from the way Bucky catches your eye from across the fair entrance, so you give it back to Wanda.
That lopsided grin already plays with his mouth, and it has you wonder if he knows exactly what you were just saying about him.
And he mouths, miss me?
You don’t. You absolutely do not.
But your pulse, traitor that it is, does a small, stupid skip.
Bucky’s smirk grows as though he can hear it from fifty feet away.
Steve dismounts like a man straight out of an old movie, Sam hops off his bike like he’s dismounting a parade float, stretching his arms wide, and to Bucky, you don’t even look anymore. Out of reasons you’re not going to discuss with yourself.
They walk toward you three girls in slow motion. Or maybe it’s not slow motion, maybe it’s just the unfair way men seem to take up more space when they’re together. Three tall silhouettes under the amber glow of the lights. Leather jackets and that soft swagger that says we’ve arrived and we know it.
Steve is the first to reach you, smiling that golden retriever smile that could probably charm the moon out of orbit. He doesn’t even say hi to anyone else before wrapping his arms around your best friend. You look away because god forbid you witness another episode of people in love.
“Ladies,” Sam’s voice distracts you, and he stretches the word out. “Hope you didn’t have too much fun without us.”
“Define fun,” you muse, tilting your head, but letting a smile tug at your lips. “If you mean in peace? Then yeah. We did.”
Sam grins, hand over his heart like you’ve wounded him. “Look at y’all, already sampling everything without us. Unbelievable.”
Wanda smiles beside you, half-sheepish, half-pleased. “You guys were late.”
“Late?” Sam gasps dramatically. “We’re on biker time, sugar.”
Bucky hangs back a step, not seeming to be in a rush. His hair is a little too long, his jacket half-zipped as though he can’t decide between effort and apathy. There is a small cut on his knuckle, that faint sly smirk on his mouth, and that familiar glint in his eyes that says he knows exactly what he’s doing to your mood.
“Still hidin’ from the fun, doll?”
Irritation is an old friend and it comes knocking once more. “Still mistaking yourself for fun, Barnes?”
Bucky steps closer, not close enough to crowd you, but close enough that you can smell leather and motor oil and whatever cologne he probably stole from Steve. “You wound me, doll” he drawls, with zero evidence of actual pain.
“Promise?”
Steve clears his throat, heroically holding his hand up before the verbal sparring turns into something nuclear. “Alright, alright,” he starts, smiling that peacemaker smile. “What’ve you three been up to?”
Natasha answers for you. “Mostly browsing. Candy, cider, taking bets on which pumpkin Wanda would choose to mother.”
“I don’t mother pumpkins,” Wanda protests. “I just appreciate craftsmanship.”
“You took a photo with one,” you remind her.
“That’s called memory-making.”
Steve chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. “Alright, so you’ve been getting into the Halloween spirit. That’s good.”
Bucky leans in and you don’t want him to. “What about you, doll? Picked out any pumpkins or just glaring at them for sport?”
“Shut up.”
He laughs and it’s the worst kind - real and deep and infuriating.
Wanda hides her grin in her cup. Samuel nudges Bucky‘s shoulder with a *come on, man* look, but he’s already busy smirking at you as if you’re both in on a joke you absolutely didn’t agree to.
The fair is loud and glowing and full of everything that should distract you - cotton candy clouds spinning in machines, kids in half-falling-apart costumes darting between booths, the smells of cider and kettle corn twisting through the air, a tinny remix of Monster Mash leaking from the speakers overhead. Somewhere, someone screams - the happy kind - probably from the haunted hayride you’re absolutely not getting on later.
But your brain keeps getting hijacked by the sound of his voice.
It’s annoying. Like a song stuck in your head.
Like a mosquito with good hair.
Steve’s hand rests on Nat‘s waist, comfortable and certain, and for a second you wonder what it would be like to have that kind of easy warmth.
Then Bucky winks at you.
And the thought dies a swift and justified death.
“Alright, so what I’m hearing,” Sam starts, voice filled with a faked offense, his face still smiling, “is none of you girls won me something.”
You don’t bother hiding your grin. “Sorry to disappoint, Sammy.”
Steve wraps an arm around Natasha’s shoulders and says something about finding the best pumpkin pie stand. Sam agrees loudly and wanders off toward the smell of sugar like a cartoon character following a scent trail.
And soon enough the six of you are walking through the fair in a loose cluster. Natasha and Steve remain joined at the hands, looking like a Pinterest board brought to life.
Wanda bounces between Sam and you, dragging you toward every booth that glows or sparkles, which, at a Halloween fair, is approximately all of them.
And Bucky remains somewhere in your peripheral vision, because apparently the man doesn’t believe in personal space but does believe in existing exactly where your awareness can’t ignore him. You hear him making low and amused sounds whenever something inevitably catches fire on a grill.
Then Wanda makes you all pause at a booth lined with plush animals stacked in precarious towers, or hanging from hooks like soft trophies. Stuffed bears with crooked smiles. Tigers that look faintly unhinged. A battalion of plush ghosts dangling from clothespins. She gasps delighted and points at a round little bat with wings too small for its body. “Oh, look at him,” she coos lightly. “He’s adorable.”
You lean closer to squint at it. “He is adorable,” you agree, but then spot a sleepy-looking fox with a pumpkin in its paws. “That one’s cute too, look!”
Wanda’s smile blooms wide and wicked. You nudge her before she can say anything smug. “Shut up.”
“What are we shutting up about?” Sam materializes behind you two like a nosy older brother.
“Nothing,” you and Wanda chorus, which, of course, makes everyone suspicious.
Bucky sidles up next to you, already looking at the wall of prizes. “These things rigged?” he asks the booth guy - some teenager in a vampire cape who looks like he hasn’t slept in a week.
“Only if you suck,” the kid deadpans.
Sam smirks, slapping his palms together. “Oh I got this.”
A snort escapes Bucky before you can even roll your eyes. “Come on, man. You couldn’t even throw straight in middle school.”
Sam turns to him, mocking offense with a glint in his eyes. “You got middle school trauma you wanna unpack, Barnes? Or you just jealous you’re about to lose in front of an audience?”
“Oh, I’m counting on the audience,” Bucky drawls, smirk glinting under the yellow lights. “They should witness greatness.”
You cross your arms, unimpressed. “This is so stupid.”
Natasha hums, leaning into Steve’s shoulder, her grin too knowing for comfort. “Let them be boys.”
Bucky picks up one of the baseballs from the counter and spins it in his hand a few times. His eyes snap to the stuffed fox you pointed out earlier, hanging from a hook above.
And maybe it’s your imagination, but something happens in his face - focus, mischief, maybe both. Maybe even something gentler, if he ever let himself have that. He sets his feet, shoulders loose but sure.
You watch with folded arms and furrowed brows. “What are you even planning to do with a stuffed animal, Barnes?” you inquire, tone deliberately flat.
He glances over his shoulder, lips curling into something familiar. “Didn’t say it was for me, doll.”
Your brain does that stuttery thing you can never suppress when Bucky says things that make you hope for things, but Sam is already stepping forward and your brain is thankfully shutting up again.
Sam throws, and the ball hits the edge of a tin can tower, knocking only two cans off. “Alright, that was a warm-up,” he says quickly.
“Sure it was.” Bucky sounds amused, a little too smug for your liking. “You done warming up or you need me to call the coach?”
“Man, shut up and throw your ball.”
And so he does.
Bucky steps up. The others lean in. You do too, but who’s to acknowledge that. You watch him squint once, spin the ball once more as though he is taming a thought, and then lets it fly.
There is a clatter.
Every can drops.
Every single one.
Wanda gasps. Sam groans. Natasha slow-claps. Steve smiles proudly as though this is somehow America’s achievement too.
You hate how fast your mouth curves upward. You hate that you’re smiling. But there it is - a reluctant, back-stabbing bloom in your chest.
You hate how fast your mouth wants to curve upward. You can’t help it. But there is a reluctant, traitorous bloom in your chest.
They go back and forth, throwing and taunting, the fair lights flashing. You catch yourself watching Bucky too long, though you pretend you’re not.
He’s focused in that way that makes you understand, suddenly, why he’s good at so many things. There is something sharp and balanced about him when he’s locked in - as though he can’t stand to lose, even at something that costs three tickets and wins a plush animal worth maybe five dollars.
And you can’t seem to be able to look away. You tell yourself it’s because you try to understand what makes him tick, but you know it’s not just that. There is something dangerous in his focus. Something magnetic. Something you shouldn’t find beautiful.
When it’s finally over, Sam’s last throw ricochets off a bottle and bounces uselessly to the ground where it takes its last breath. Your group lets out a collective oooh, which makes him glare in your direction.
With a triumphant and aggravatingly cocky smirk, Bucky turns toward the booth attendant, and points to the stuffed fox you‘d liked earlier. “That one.”
The kid shrugs, unhooks it, and hands it over. “Congrats, dude.”
Bucky twirls the fox by its little paw, then glances your way. His smile is the exact kind you wish you could legally ban.
“Guess I still got it,” he exclaims smugly.
You arch a brow. “Congratulations. You beat Sam Wilson at carnival sports. Truly an achievement for the history books.”
Sam crosses his arms with a theatrical sigh. “You could’ve let me win, man.”
Bucky clicks his tongue. “Not in my nature.” His smirk widens, almost soft now.
You look away, pretending not to see how he’s still holding the fox with almost exaggerated care. Its soft and warmly brown colored fabric glows under the lights.
And you freeze because he’s still looking at you with the kind of gaze that tugs at something you carry too deep inside yourself. There’s a smirk lurking there. Dangerous because it’s too familiar and impossible to ignore.
But you can practically feel the smugness radiating off him.
And you freeze because he’s still looking at you with the kind of gaze that tugs at something you carry too deep inside yourself. There’s a smirk lurking there. Dangerous because it’s too familiar and impossible to ignore.
“So,” he starts, voice low, each word a conscious brush against your awareness. He steps closer to you. “You wanted this one, right?”
Your pulse jumps and you‘d like to tell it to keep it normal. “I never said I wanted it.”
He grins and it’s too infuriating, too effortless. “Didn’t have to.”
And for a microscopic second, you forget how to roll your eyes.
Bucky spins the plush fox once more in his hands before tossing it lightly into your hands. Reflexes betray you and you catch it.
“Souvenir,” he says, voice soft but edged with that infuriating confidence. He starts walking backward into the crowd.
Wanda sidles up beside you, whispering. “You know he totally won that for you, right?”
You snort, clutching the fox tighter. “He just can’t stand losing.”
Wanda hums, Natasha smirks.
You tell yourself it’s because he’s competitive. Because he has that stubborn streak that probably gets him into trouble. Because it’s not about the fox, or you, or anything other than the challenge and winning it.
That’s what you tell yourself. Because that’s what this is.
The fair is beautiful in that messy, overstimulating kind of way. Like someone spilled magic and sugar across an entire parking lot and then charged admission for it.
Everywhere you look there is motion. Spinning rides, people screaming and laughing and singing all at once. The lights flash in colors that make everything look like it’s underwater. It smells of fried dough, melted butter, kettle corn, and the faint metallic tang of the Ferris Wheel that’s been here since you were born probably.
Together, you wander and weave between children in plastic masks and teenagers holding hands. Wanda wipes off caramel on her fingers. Natasha keeps stealing bites of Steve’s popcorn. Sam walks backward half the time, narrating your night as though he’s hosting a travel show while still pretending he wasn’t emotionally wounded by losing at the booth. You are still holding that fox plushie to your chest, warming your hands with the soft fibers of his fur.
You’re laughing more than you mean to.
Until Bucky comes walking beside you. Every few steps, his shoulder brushes yours - not on purpose you tell yourself, just bad spatial awareness. Except he has perfect spatial awareness. You‘ve seen it often enough. You know he’s doing it just to get a rise out of you.
You shift half an inch away. He notices. Smiles. Moves closer again.
Infuriating man.
“So,” he starts, glancing down at the fox, and you want him to stop. “You name him yet?”
You blink, irritated once more. “Why would I name him?”
He shrugs. “Just thought you’re the type who names things.”
“I’m not the type who names things,” you protest, frustrated, tightening the grip on your fox as though using it as a shield before you get flustered.
Bucky smirks, proud of himself for knowing whatever fact about you. “Didn’t you name-”
“Oh, hell yeah,” comes the loud exclamation of Sam further ahead. And something in your stomach tells you you are not going to like whatever comes next.
You follow Sam’s gaze to a booth wrapped in fake cobwebs and glimmering lights - a big, gaudy setup lit in blood-red bulbs and fog machine mist. A sign above says SKEEBALL OF DOOM! in jagged orange letters. Beside the booth, a banner flaps in the cool night air - Test your aim! Win vip haunted house tickets! Couples get bonus rounds!
A pit forms in your stomach.
“That’s perfect,” Sam declares. “We’ve gotta try that.”
Natasha grins, sharp and sly. “I’m in.”
Steve smiles down at her affectionately, a little teasing. “You sure? You flinched last year when the clown jumped out.”
“That was a reflex,” she replies evenly. “If I’d had a weapon, he’d be dead.”
Bucky laughs, the sound a low, satisfied rumble, clapping his hands together. “Alright, let’s win us some tickets then.”
“I’ll pass,” you interject, before this can get any further.
He looks at you, pretending not to hear. “What’s that, sweetheart?”
“I don’t feel like going in there.”
Wanda tilts her head, teasingly bright. “You don’t like haunted houses?”
You shrug, trying to look casual. “They’re fine. I just… don’t need to go to one tonight.”
Natasha smirks.
You send her a subtle glare in warning.
“What, scared already, doll?” Bucky throws you a smirk, that teasing edge in his voice you hate so much.
Your stomach knots. It’s not that you’re scared - okay, you are - but it’s different. It’s the thought of getting startled, and of him seeing it. You can already picture the smirk and the teasing and the way he‘d hold it over your head for weeks.
You cross your arms over the plushie and you hate how it makes you look so much less serious. “No. I just have no interest in giving a man dressed as a zombie the satisfaction of my money.”
He laughs. “God, you’re adorable when you lie.”
You glare, ready to snap, but Wanda bumps you gently. “Could be fun,” she encourages sweetly, like a sunbeam trying to coax a storm into smiling. “A little adrenaline.”
You grit your teeth. You already have plenty of adrenaline. It’s called anxiety.
“Yeah, c’mon,” Sam says, elbowing Bucky. “Barnes here can hold your hand if you get too scared.”
You spin toward him, teeth bared. “He can hold his own hand.”
Bucky’s smile is slow and sharp, predatory in its leisure, like he’s enjoying this more than he should. “You know, doll, that sounded almost like an invitation.”
You stare him down, wishing you could weaponize sheer disdain. “You wish.”
He just shrugs, unbothered. “You’ll be begging for it by the second hallway.”
Your heart does an irritated, startled stutter, but you ignore it, staring determinedly at a nearby cotton candy stand like that’s suddenly your religion.
The guy at the booth, a middle-aged man wearing a cape and exactly zero enthusiasm, waves some plastic darts. “Three tries, win two tickets. Easy.”
Bucky cracks his knuckles, eyes gleaming. “Piece of cake.”
You want him to lose.
You really want him to lose.
Partly because you can’t bear the thought of being trapped in a fake haunted asylum while he laughs at you, and partly because - you admit it - his stupid confidence makes your blood fizz like soda.
But you know that this is Bucky and you know that that makes the chances of him losing almost zero. Which, honestly, is kind of hot. But you’re not acknowledging that.
Steve murmurs something to Natasha about friendly competition and Wanda’s already fishing in her purse for more tickets because apparently, you’re all funding this madness now.
Bucky rolls his sleeves up, eyes on the target like this is a mission. “Let’s make it interesting.”
“Define interesting,” you mumble.
“If I win,” he draws out, leaning on the counter. “we all go. No excuses.” His eyes meet yours and you look away.
“And if you lose?”
He smirks. “I don’t lose.”
You can’t do anything except clutch that poor fox to your chest, feeling its soft, threadbare fur squish against your palms, while watching Bucky line up for his first dart. His focus is absurd. Jaw tight. Eyes fixed. He looks too calm, too sure.
Sam stands beside him, muttering prayers to the carnival gods. Steve is offering advice as though this is a strategy meeting. Wanda is whispering something to Natasha, and you can practically feel her smugness on your skin.
You stand there, pretending not to watch, pretending you don’t care, pretending your pulse isn’t keeping time with the flickering fair lights.
The first dart flies. Pops a balloon dead center.
Of course it does.
You sigh.
The second dart follows and thuds against its target, slightly off - but close enough to be perfect. He clicks his tongue like it’s a personal affront to his skill.
The third dart hangs in the air a fraction too long. He glances back at you, that one eyebrow arching in a way that makes your stomach do a tiny somersault. “This one’s for you, sweetheart.”
You roll your eyes so hard you almost sprain something. “Wow, romantic.”
The attendant looks mildly impressed. “Almost there, big guy.”
He throws. Another pop.
The carny, who has seen all manner of carnivals and idiots, actually smiles - a genuine, slightly impressed smile. The booth lights up and a bell rings so loudly, half the fair turns to look.
He hands Bucky two black tickets with VIP HAUNTED HOUSE printed in dripping red letters. “Congratulations, lovebirds. Haunted house tickets for two!”
“Not lovebirds,” you grumble as Bucky pockets the tickets, grinning as though he just robbed a bank.
“Guess we’re going ghost-hunting, doll.”
You narrow your eyes in annoyance. “Over my dead body.”
He leans closer, voice low enough that only you can hear. “That’s kinda the point, isn’t it?”
And you hate it. How your stomach flips like a carnival ride, how the lights smudge a little around the edges, how he looks at you as if this is all some game he is already winning.
You tell yourself it’s irritation.
Definitely irritation.
But when he strolls off to show Steve the tickets, Sam dashing after another set for Wanda, that stupid grin never leaves his face. And you’re still standing there, staring after him, wondering when exactly you lost control of this night.
Because it all happens faster than you can protest from here on.
Natasha somehow nails her shots as though she’s been training her whole life for this kind of thing. Which you wouldn’t even be surprised at, to be honest. But it’s inconvenient for you now. And now she’s waving two more tickets in the air, all casual, throwing you a heated smirk that has some kind of meaning you can only scowl at.
And because the universe enjoys symmetry and your suffering, Steve wins another set - for himself and Sam.
Which means all of you now have tickets.
Which means you are officially outnumbered.
Bucky looks absolutely delighted about this. Sam looks less so. His ego has taken another audible hit, and Bucky has not shut up about it since.
And you continue clutching your stuffed fox as if it’s a therapy animal and seriously consider tripping into the kettle corn stand to avoid whatever’s going to happen next.
“It was a warm-up!” Sam argues, still trying to claim winning the tickets was a team victory, but everyone knows it was Steve‘s aim that won his ticket.
“Didn’t you already have a warm-up?” you add your own commentary, weaving a little bit of a teasing tone into your voice to mask your unease.
Bucky grins at you and it’s blinding for a short second. There is something delighted, almost proud in the way he smiles. “She’s learning.”
Sam ignores you both and keeps muttering about rigged equipment and unfair wind conditions, and Bucky‘s still smiling so wide, and you’re absolutely not distracted by it.
The path to the haunted house winds past the Ferris wheel, where the lights blink constant circles of cobalt and amber into the foggy air, and the closer you get, the colder it seems to get, too. Or maybe that’s just your nerves catching frost in your spine.
The air almost starts tasting like damp hay and something caramel-y. Somewhere behind you, a ride screeches, gears grinding, and your nerves decide to start practicing acrobatics.
The warped, old Victorian facade of the haunted house looms ahead. It’s half covered in cobwebs and real shadows. It looks like it should have its own tragic backstory and Wikipedia page. Speakers hidden in the fake ivy groan out the sounds of rattling chains and screams coming from inside.
You hear the screams of a girl group that start out playful and end in actual panic, and you feel your heart leap in sympathy.
That’s just the soundtrack you needed.
There is a sign by the entrance that sparkles like a dying heartbeat.
WELCOME TO THE HOUSE OF HORRORS. ENTER IF YOU DARE.
You don’t dare.
Your heart is doing jumping jacks in your ribcage, and your palms feel too warm, and the closer you get, the more the fog seems to breathe.
A horde of people is waiting outside, shuffling forward as the line crawls along.
You shift your weight and stare at the painted signboard near the entrance - something about „no refunds if you faint.“ Cool. Fantastic. Excellent.
The others are talking. Wanda and Natasha are analyzing who will scream first. Wanda says Sam, Nat bets on you, which - rude. Steve is asking questions about the setup and if there is a tactical plan involved because he‘s just that extra. Sam insists that jump scares don’t count as fear because they are only a reflex.
Bucky is quiet beside you.
Which is worse.
Because you can feel him looking at you. Not directly, just that sideways awareness that punctures your skin.
You keep your eyes fixed ahead, on the fake gravestones and fog machines hissing out mist like the world's most tragic kettle.
When you glance sideways, he’s definitely looking at you.
You see him nod at the plush fox. “You’re gonna strangle that poor thing before we even get inside.”
Your fingers loosen automatically, caught. “You gave it to me,” you defend, as if that’s reason enough to want to kill it.
He chuckles, low and easy. “Yeah, I’m still waiting for a thank you, by the way.”
You glance up at him then, because of course he‘d say that, and of course he’d look completely nonchalant while doing it. His hair is a little wind-tousled, his jaw shadowed, eyes bright with that perpetual teasing gleam.
You take in a deep breath and let it out slowly.
He seems to fight a grin. “Afraid of saying something nice to me, doll?”
You roll your eyes, but your pulse is skittering too fast. You don’t notice your hands kneading the fox's fur. “You don’t handle compliments well.”
He wears that smirk again, and it makes you want to throw something soft and plush and fox-shaped at his head. “You don’t give 'em well, either.”
But he’s still looking at you as though anything you say might be a compliment to him.
The line moves forward a little. The fake screams keep coming - louder now, closer. You can see dim red lights pulsing through the cracked boards of the house, hear something mechanical creaking behind the walls. Every instinct you have is begging to leave.
But everyone is here. Everyone is laughing. And you’re not about to be the one to back out - especially not in front of him.
Still, your palms are clammy, and your stomach is doing a whole interpretive dance of dread.
Bucky is waking a little closer now, his jacket brushing your sleeve. You hate that you notice. You hate that your heart is making up its own rhythm again.
Every new sound makes your stomach tighten another notch. You can already imagine the flashing lights, the jump scares, the embarrassing sounds that will come out of your mouth when something inevitably lunges at you.
You can already imagine him laughing.
The line moves again, until there is nothing left between you and the entrance. The heavy curtain at the entrance sways open, the kind of dark that feels like it could swallow anything waiting just beyond it.
You tell yourself it’s fine.
You tell yourself you’re fine.
You tell yourself you don’t care if Bucky sees you startle or hears you scream.
But you do care. You really, really care.
Bucky tilts his head, studying you for a moment longer, that smirk fading into something softer, something that looks suspiciously like concern. “You good?” he asks, low enough for you to hear.
You nod. “Totally.”
He hums, clearly not buying it. “If you say so.”
You tighten your grip on the plush fox and you do feel a sense of gratitude for Bucky for getting you it but you won’t ever tell him that.
Bucky steps ahead, to hand over the tickets for both of you. The man at the door scans them under the dim red light, his face painted like a corpse. „Two at a time. Couples only,“ he explains, voice theatrical. „Enter at your own risk.“
You open your mouth to argue the word couple on principle, but Bucky just smirks and motions you forward, that infuriating kind of self-assuredness oozing from every step. He doesn’t even wait, just nudges the curtain aside with one hand, looks back at you with that damn glint in his eyes, and says, “After you, doll.” His other hand gestures toward the door as if he’s about to escort you into a ball instead of your personal nightmare.
You narrow your eyes with a glare. “If I die in there, I‘m haunting you.”
His grin widens, slow and bright. “Wouldn’t ever say no to your company, doll.”
The others laugh. You don’t. The fog grows thicker.
And as you step toward the dark entrance, Bucky’s win clutched tight against your chest, you get the feeling that maybe the haunted part of this house isn’t even what’s inside it.
You step in first because pride is a terrible thing, and Bucky follows, close enough that you can feel the brush of his jacket against your shoulder.
The first thing you notice is the dark. Not normal dark - this kind eats the light and presses close to your skin. It smells like old wood and machine fog, like cheap rubber masks and something cold. The floor creaks under your shoes. Somewhere is a warped music box tune that sounds like it’s melting.
You keep walking carefully, the fox clutched to your chest like a talisman
The sound of a heartbeat thumps from speakers that are hidden somewhere above, and it syncs up too easily with your own. The lighting is all wrong the further you step - too red, too flickering, every corner whispering something’s waiting there.
Dim bulbs are swinging overhead and shadows move when you blink. Somewhere ahead, something groans. Something mechanical. Or not.
Bucky leans in, voice low, teasing. “Still time to back out, doll.” You feel the heat of him even through your jacket.
“I’m fine,” you whisper back, even though you’re gripping your fox like it’s a flotation device on the Titanic.
He hums, not convinced at all. “You’re squeezing that thing so tight it’s gonna need CPR.”
You glare at him in the dark, but words are failing you.
He grins. You can hear it, even if you can’t see it. “You know, if you needed someone to hold onto-”
“Finish that sentence and I’ll feed you to the zombies.”
He laughs under his breath, soft and maddening.
You move forward down a narrow hallway. The walls are lined with crooked portraits - eyes that seem to follow you. Every time the light flickers, the expressions change. You know it’s sensors. You know it’s fake. Your brain knows. Your body, however, does not.
The floorboards groan underfoot. There’s a sound - slow footsteps behind you - and your heart immediately tries to exit through your throat. You whirl around. Nothing’s there.
Except Bucky, who’s still smiling like he is the jump scare.
“Stop doing that!” you hiss.
“Doing what?” he says, perfectly innocent.
“Just- being there!”
He chuckles. “I can walk in front if you want.”
Pride is still a terrible thing so you don’t react immediately, but then a mechanical ghost jerks forward with a hiss and a canned scream. You flinch so hard the plush fox nearly goes flying.
Beside you, there’s a warm laugh. “You okay there, champ?”
Again, you shoot a heated look into the dark. “That was cheap.”
“Pretty sure that’s the point,” he retorts, still grinning.
You keep walking, chin up, pretending you’re over it. You’re not. Every step feels like stepping into a dare. The walls creak beside you. Shadows keep moving in places they shouldn’t. Someone whispers overhead - something about don’t look behind you - which, of course, makes you look behind you.
And of course, Bucky is still there.
He is close enough for your shoulder to brush his chest. He doesn’t move away. Neither do you, because moving means acknowledging it.
The next room is darker with strobe lights turning everything into snapshots - flashes of fake cobwebs, plastic skeletons, people’s faces caught mid-expression. In one of those flashes, you can see your own reflection in a cracked mirror, wide-eyed and gripping that poor thing. Bucky’s right, it probably will need some serious damage checks.
Something flashes from the wall ahead. A painted face, maybe. You can’t tell. You flinch again.
“Easy,” his voice murmurs in your ear, smooth and deep. “It’s fake, doll.”
You can’t tell if your heart is pounding from the scares or from the way he said it.
You shoot him a look. “I know that.”
He hums - that sound lives somewhere between a scoff and a dare. “Sure you did.”
You keep moving and your fox is probably developing trauma of its own from the way you’re squeezing the life out of it. The hall grows more narrow, and you can hear the others’ voices somewhere behind you. Wanda is laughing nervously, Sam swears dramatically, and Natasha sounds like she is comforting Steve, which feels cosmically correct.
Bucky is still beside you and he doesn’t tease you again, not for a while. Every time you flinch, his hand twitches. As though he’s ready to reach out, but doesn’t.
When another jump scare hits - a skeletal hand dropping from the wall - you flinch again, and he just chuckles quietly, low enough you almost don’t hear it. But his hands twitch again.
“Not funny,”you mutter.
“Kinda is,” he drones out, but it sounds a little softer than before.
You hit his arm with your plush fox, hard. “You’re the worst.”
You glare at him through the dim light, and he meets it with amused eyes a little too soft for your liking. They are on you for another few seconds and you start feeling fidgety. The hallway seems to narrow further.
And then, of course, a clown drops from the ceiling.
You scream. Full volume. High and startled and humiliating.
He bursts out laughing.
It’s not mean, though. It’s bright, surprised, like he wasn’t expecting you to be that loud. You swat his arm, mortified.
“Stop laughing! That thing fell from the ceiling!”
He’s still laughing like a maniac with his head thrown back a little. And you hate to admit it, but his unguarded laugh nearly makes the dark feel bright. “Jesus, doll,“ he wheezes out. “I didn’t know you had that kind of range.”
You elbow him, hard enough to make him grunt, which helps your dignity approximately one percent.
Your cheeks are burning, and his grin is still catching what little light there is.
Your heart is still racing - and not just from the scares. There’s something about the darkness and the laughter and the way he’s looking at you now that has your hands start getting clammy.
You clutch your stupid fox tighter, lift your chin, and keep walking like your dignity isn’t trailing behind you somewhere near the jump-scare curtain.
He follows, still smiling. And you pretend not to notice.
You keep walking, faster now, hoping the next corner isn’t hiding anything with claws. The air feels colder. The whispers are getting creepier.
Another corridor. Another door. The hinges scream as you push it open. Inside, dim red light spills over a scene - fake blood on walls, broken furniture, a mannequin sitting at a dinner table with its head turned backward.
You stop dead with a grimace. “Oh god.”
Bucky chuckles under his breath. “Creative,” he assesses.
“Psychotic,” you correct.
And then a loud bang erupts from the wall beside your head, and instinct takes over before thought.
You grab his arm. Hard.
He goes still. The air between you tightens.
It grows silent again, but your fingers don’t let go. They just stay there. Holding onto leather and his warmth.
You realize it a moment too late. You snatch your hand back like you’ve been burned. “That was reflex.”
“Of course,” he lets out, voice low and stupidly amused.
And then, without warning, a figure bursts from under the table - a guy in a half-rotted mask - and lunges forward. You yelp, stumbling back so hard you hit Bucky‘s chest. His hands shoot out automatically, steadying you at your waist, going around you.
You freeze.
His palms are warm, his breath your ear, and even through the fog and the flickering lights, you can feel the way he is looking down at you. The air feels thick enough to drink.
He doesn’t move either, his breath moving close enough that it grazes your temple. His voice drops to a whisper. “Hey. You okay?”
You nod, too fast. “Fine. Totally. Great. Super haunted, love it here.”
He laughs quietly - not mocking, really - just this low sound that feels too warm for a place this cold.
And then you try to jerk away, but Bucky keeps close again, brushing up against you, and invading your personal space once more.
You throw him a look.
“Gotta make sure you don’t pass out on me,” he explains, deadpan, but there is more to his gaze than to his voice.
You shove him lightly, waking ahead, refusing to let him see that your pulse hasn’t settled at all.
And as you keep walking, the lights shift from strobe to dim amber. The path widens, and you think you hear Wanda laughing somewhere ahead. You don’t know when the others passed you, but it doesn’t matter because it seems you’re through the worst of it.
Further ahead, between the fog, you spot the glowing red EXIT sign - a salvation in neon. You’re two minutes from freedom, from fresh air, from laughing this whole thing off with half your dignity intact.
Your pulse finally starts to settle into something almost reasonable.
You think you’ve made it.
But it seems like you didn’t.
From nowhere - from everywhere - a door slams open beside you. The sound is a bang. And you don’t even have time to flinch when a figure lurched out of the darkness - taller than the others, mask slick with fake blood, voice distorted by a cheap speaker.
He moves fast, too fast, and suddenly he’s in your space. His gloved hand catches your arm, fingers pressing just a little too tight, too real.
“Gotcha,” he hisses, the word dragged out low and ugly and threatening.
You barely register the fake knife before it’s against your throat - cold, hard plastic pressing into your skin - and suddenly you are dragged back into a hard chest that smells like latex and fog machine and sweat.
It’s supposed to be an act. It’s supposed to be a scare.
You know that. You know.
But your body doesn’t.
Your pulse explodes, your lungs forget their job entirely, and the sound that leaves your mouth is somewhere between a gasp and a choke.
You twist, try to pull away, but the grip tightens. The guy says something - scripted, probably - low and menacing. “Don’t move, sweetheart.” A breath brushes your ear, but you hate the way it doesn’t feel like Bucky’s.
And that word - sweetheart - sounds too much like the one Bucky uses when he’s teasing you, except this one feels wrong.
For a second, your brain blanks. You can’t find the line between what’s pretend and what isn’t. The walls shrink. The lights contort. The sound distorts. It’s too much.
You try to wind your way out of the guy’s grip, but he has you locked against him, arms branded across your chest in some horror movie abduction bit that’s supposed to be funny, maybe, if you weren’t running on nerves.
“Hey,” a voice snaps, and you know it’s Bucky despite the way it doesn’t sound like him at all. It’s not the teasing kind of tone you know, it’s something colder, something iron. “Hands off!”
The actor hesitates, probably thinking this is still part of the show, but Bucky’s tone makes something in the air shift. He has lost all his playfulness.
“Let her go! Now,” he says again, stepping closer. His voice is quiet, but it’s somehow worse than yelling.
“Relax, man, it’s part of the show,” the actor mutters, but he still has you constricted to his chest, still has his arms tightly wound around you, still lets his breath fan your temple.
“Yeah?” Bucky’s voice is dangerous. “Well, it’s fucking stopping now.”
And suddenly, you’re free and pulled firmly into another chest, but this time it’s Bucky’s. He holds you to him with one arm and shoves the guy back hard enough that the actor stumbles into the wall with a sound that isn’t scripted.
You’re still clutching the stuffed fox, breath coming too fast, eyes stinging. The world feels fuzzy at the edges, like someone smeared all the colors. You can smell fake blood and rubber and fog juice and underneath all of it, leather and something clean and comforting.
Blood roars in your ears, but the music seems to fade, and someone nearby mutters about calling a supervisor.
You can’t breathe properly until he finds your face. His expression softens instantly, the tension draining out of his shoulders.
“C‘mere,” he mutters, his voice softened as though he flipped a switch only you have access to.
You shake your head, automatically. “I’m fine, Bucky.” You’re not, and you know he hears it. You can’t seem to catch your breath. Your hands are trembling, and the plush in your grip feels like it’s vibrating with your heartbeat.
Bucky doesn’t say anything, just keeps his arm around you and glances toward a side door marked Emergency Exit, Staff Only. He doesn’t even hesitate. He pushes it open with one hand and guides you out into the cold night air with the other.
You know you’re trembling, and you’re embarrassed by it. But adrenaline still ricochets through you.
The door slams behind you and you flinch once more. Bucky’s grip tightens.
The night air is a shock. You blink and the fair sounds slam back into you. The muffled screams from inside fade into carnival sounds - laughter, carousel music, the slow creak of the Ferris wheel turning somewhere above, the scent of fried dough. Everything normal. Everything wrong.
You suck in a breath that feels too jagged, and tastes of sugar and smoke and shame.
Bucky watches you carefully, jaw tight, and guides you past food stalls and game booths.
You gulp the air down as though you’ve been underwater. The fair lights are smearing all around you - orange and violet and gold - and the noise of laughter feels a million miles away.
The only thing that reaches your awareness are Bucky’s guiding hands on you.
You don’t shake him off this time.
You don’t realize where he is taking you until the sounds of the fair start to grow thinner. Until the laughter, the thrum of carnival music, the mechanical groan of machines all dissolve quietly.
You pass rows of parked cars, the scent of gasoline and sugar thick in the cool air. The lights from the fairground stretch long and blurred across the asphalt, smearing themselves into the dark.
And then you spot his bike. Black and chrome, gleaming under the weak glow of a streetlight.
He stops beside it, turning to face you. The set of his shoulders is hard. His jaw is still tight. He looks as though he is chewing on words and choosing not to spit them out yet.
“Sit,” he says, nodding toward his bike.
You blink at him. “What?”
“Sit,” he repeats, quieter this time, but with the same intensity.
“I’m fine,” you insist, but your voice wavers, traitorously thin.
He doesn’t roll his eyes. Doesn’t tease or smirk. He just lifts the helmet off the seat, setting it aside, and keeps his other hand at the small of your back because you both know that your legs are about to give out. “I know. Sit anyway.”
You hesitate, then relent. Because the world still feels slightly tilted, and arguing suddenly takes too much energy.
Your knees wobble as you step forward and he steadies you without comment, his hands warm even through your clothes.
He helps you up, making sure you don’t trip on the curve of metal. You settle awkwardly onto the seat, the leather cool against the back of your thighs. The bike creaks slightly under the shift of your weight.
You clutch that stupid stuffed fox to your chest because apparently, that’s your emotional support now. The leather seat is cool under you, the night air brushing against your skin as though searching for cracks.
Bucky stands in front of you, close enough that you can see the faint red reflection of the fair lights in his eyes. He doesn’t speak for a moment. Just studies you quietly.
He crouches down in front of you, one knee on the pavement, the other bent. It makes your breath hitch a little. His eyes catch yours, worried and unbearably clear. The anger hasn’t left him - you can feel it vibrating under his skin. But he doesn’t let it out on you.
“You okay?” he asks, voice low.
You nod too fast. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Right,” he says dryly. “That’s why your hands are shaking.”
You look down at them - trembling around the fabric of the fox, small tremors that won’t stop. You sigh in defeat.
There is silence for a small while and it feels like a shift in gravity nobody warned you about.
You look away, a shameful heat crawling along the back of your neck.
Bucky digs a water bottle out of the side pack on his bike and hands it to you. “Drink.”
You obey because it’s easier than arguing. The water is cold and relieving. The bottle shakes in your hand.
“Talk to me,” he says quietly.
But you don’t know what to tell him.
“I’m-” you start, but your voice falters. “I’m just… embarrassed, okay? I shouldn’t- I don’t even know why I-”
He exhales through his nose. “You’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about.”
You glance up at him, searching for mockery, because that’s his usual default - sarcasm and that crooked grin, but he’s not wearing it right now. His expression is serious. Careful.
And it feels worse.
Blinking hard, you look away from him. Your throat is tight. You wipe at your eyes before a tear can come loose, but the way Bucky‘s brows come together in the middle makes it clear he notices what you’re trying to hide from him.
“Hey,” he says softly, voice a little rougher now. “Hey, it’s alright, doll.”
You sniff, not looking at him, defensive out of habit.
He watches you for a long second, then just shakes his head, that sharp anger from earlier showing a glimpse once more. “He shouldn’t have touched you. I don’t care if it’s an act. That’s not part of the job.”
Something in the way he says it - the grit, the protectiveness, the bite under his words - sends another wave of heat through your chest, something that‘s circling around a guilty knot sitting in your chest for a long time.
You shrug weakly. “Guess he thought I’d play along.”
His mouth tightens. “Yeah, well, he’s lucky I didn’t forget I’m a guest here.”
You glance up in surprise. “You were gonna hit him?”
He doesn’t answer. Just raises an eyebrow, and that’s enough.
For a moment there’s more silence lingering between you, elastic and strange. The fair is still glowing in the distance, blinking behind him. And you can still hear people screaming for fun. It feels like another planet. Here, you’re sitting with a heart that’s still racing from a fear that’s half-real and half something else entirely.
You hug the plush tighter, half-laughing. “It’s still stupid.”
Bucky’s brows pull together once more. “What?”
“Getting scared like that,” you mumble. “I just- I overreacted. It’s not a big deal.”
A hand runs through Bucky’s hair and then settles on the bike beside you. Right beside you. He is brushing your legs with a finger. “Someone grabs you like that - it’s a big deal. You don’t have to be embarrassed, doll. That guy went too far.”
You shake your head, words tumbling out. “I knew it was fake, and I still-” Your voice is small. “I’m sorry. I hate that I freaked out. I mean, you must think I’m-”
He cuts you off. “Hey.” His voice is firm. Insistent. A little strained. The muscle in his jaw twitches. “You don’t gotta apologize, doll. And I don’t think anything. Except maybe that you‘ve got guts for going in there at all.”
You huff out a laugh and look away, shame creeping up your back. “Right.”
“S true.” He smirks, but it’s gentle. He reaches out and tenderly tucks a strand of hair out of your face. The gesture is careful, as though he’s testing the air. You forget to breathe until his hand moves away again. “Most people who hate me don’t trust me enough to let me drag them through a haunted house.”
You look back at him, because somehow you always do, even when you don’t want to.
“I didn’t let you,” you murmur weakly. You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to hold yourself together. “And I don’t know a single person who hates you.”
The expression you receive from him makes you feel certain weird things, so you stop meeting his eyes again.
He almost smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
With a clear of his throat, he leans back a little and glances at the fair glowing in the distance. Then he looks back at you. “C’mon. Let’s get you home.”
“What?” You blink up at him. “No- I- I’ll call Nat-”
He shakes his head, settling both his hands on either side of you on his seat. “She’s still inside. And I don’t want you waiting around for anyone. You’re coming with me. I‘m taking you home.”
You frown, nerves twisting in your stomach. “I can- I can just call a cab, you don’t have to-”
“Ride’s already here, sweetheart,” he says, standing up and taking hold of his helmet.
You open your mouth to argue again but the word sweetheart comes out of his mouth differently this time - soft, caring, as though it’s been rinsed of every trace of teasing. And maybe it’s that, or maybe it’s the exhaustion sitting in your bones, but you only sigh when he slips the helmet over your head. He checks the strap that feels too careful for the man that he is.
You mutter a weak “fine” and swing a leg over the bike to make space for him.
He almost smiles down at you. Small and hidden. “You ever been on one of these before?”
You shake your head, nervous.
“Then here’s the rule,” he starts, tone turning lighter, and he settles in front of you. “Hold on tight.”
You look at him. “To what?”
“Me, unless you wanna test your flying skills tonight,” he calls over his shoulder.
“Don’t you need a helmet too?” you ask cautiously, a little unsure about him driving like that.
He throws you a little smirk before turning around again. “Think I’ll be fine, doll.” There is something in his tone you can’t quite make out.
And the world narrows to just you and him and the smell of leather and oil and the pounding in your ribcage.
You hesitate. Long enough for him to glance back again, and there it is again, that glint of amusement trying to fight its way through his lingering frustration and something else that swims in the blue of his eyes.
“Both hands,” he adds, a little quieter than before, with something warm in his voice. “Feel free to squeeze the life outta me, doll. I’ll let you know if I can’t breathe.” The corner of his mouth twitches.
You roll your eyes, but your eyes slide around his waist anyway. It’s stiff and awkward and cautious at first. The moment your fingers brush the fabric of his shirt beneath the leather jacket, your pulse jumps again.
He starts the engine. The sound is low and smooth, more purr than roar. But it vibrates through you, through him, through everything.
Then, without a word, he drives off - slow. Slower than you expected. The wind pulls at you, cool and clean, tugging away the remnants of the haunted house.
The fair fades behind you - just a blur of orange lights - and the road opens ahead, empty and quiet. You can feel the rise and fall of his breathing, the pulse of the engine under your thighs.
He doesn’t show off, doesn’t drive sharp turns. He’s solid and patient in his motions, and it lets your heartbeat finally slow down.
You let yourself exhale, finally, deeply, really exhale, and he glances at you in the mirror, eyes soft, a pleased and suppressed smile lifting the corners of his cheeks.
You rest your helmet-clad cheek against his back and let your eyes flutter closed because it feels safer that way, because the world is still unsteady and he isn’t.
Your fingers tighten once when the road dips, and you feel one of his hands lightly rest against yours where they are wrapped around him. He squeezes once.
You don’t speak. Neither does he.
The world is a jumble of neon lights and October wind and the echo of both your heartbeats, and your breathing has a rhythm again.
You still hate that he saw you scared. You still don’t know what to do with the warmth suavely gliding in behind the shame. But sitting here, pressed against his back, leather warm under your palms and his voice still somewhere in your head - it doesn’t quite feel so awful to let him see you.
Prompt: "Moving In" Day 7 of @flufftober
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Synopsis: Moving in with Bucky means packing up more than just boxes and books. It's carrying every memory, every fear of being "too much," and learning that sometimes, home is found in the person who wants all of you, clutter and all.
Word Count: 1.8k
Tags/Warnings: moving in induced anxiety (but gets resolved!), soft!Bucky Barnes, domesticity, emotional healing, Bucky Barnes is a supportive boyfriend, allusion to past awful relationships, Reader is a bookworm, no use of y/n
Chirps: I really didn't mean for this to get so...angsty. My bad! But I hope it resonates with anyone who's every felt like they take up too much space. I'm here to remind you that you will find the person who makes room for you, no matter what ♡
Flufftober 2025 | Main Masterlist | AO3
They say if you really want to know who someone is, just ask for their favorite book.
But whoever they are has clearly never met you. Right now, you are surrounded by five bulging boxes of books, a dozen more piles stacked precariously at your feet, and half a bookshelf still stuffed to the brim. Almost every other one is your favorite. How could you possibly pick just one? There are different genres, authors who use words like weapons or lullabies, stories that shape-shift every time you turn the page. How could you compare them? It’s impossible.
Just like moving all of this would be.
You’re sad to give up your apartment. It’s been your sanctuary ever since you first peeled yourself away from your parents’ house. A quiet reprieve from the bustling gray city sidewalks outside your stoop. But when your super soldier boyfriend asks you to move to a Brooklyn apartment with a view of the bridge and a private patio, you don’t really argue.
Not until you’re standing in the middle of your living room, realizing what an impossible, Herculean task it is to move your entire library and everything else you’ve collected that makes up your life. Not to mention the boxes of “necessities” piling up in the hallway, multiplying when you’re not looking.
“Bucky, it’s too much…” you sigh, hands on your hips as you watch him nimbly dodge towers of cardboard and chaos. The boxes are labeled in your own frantic script: idk what this is but can’t throw away, memories I need to hold onto. The closer you got to moving day, the more you just began to either throw things away or shoved into boxes hurriedly.
You can feel your thoughts starting to spiral, quick and mean, jabbing at the soft spots you thought you’d kept protected. He’s going to think you’re too much. There isn’t space for you in his life. Not really.
Bucky just shakes his head, unfazed. “Nope, it’s not, sweetheart. I even went to IKEA and got those bookshelves you wanted. Put ’em together last night and everything. All that’s missing is for you to come make it a home.”
Some of the tension in your shoulders loosens. Not all the way. Not even when he presses a kiss to your temple and hoists the first box into the moving truck with the ease only someone with super soldier serum in their veins could. You have always, always been deemed too much in relationships.
Too clingy. Too soft. Too needy.
There are so many ways to leave, you’ve learned. Sometimes with slammed doors, sometimes with silence. Sometimes it’s just a gentle drifting, a slow untangling until everything falls apart at the seams. You spent years convincing yourself it was safer to stay small, to never hope for more. After all, hope is a dangerous thing to want when you’d always been braced for disappointment. Yet here you are. Your whole life packed into boxes, standing at the edge of trusting someone not to get tired of you.
When everything is packed, you pause at the doorway, keys heavy in your palm. Your apartment looks wrong, stripped bare. The window to the fire escape where you read all your best books in the warmth of late-afternoon sun is empty now. The shelves are hollow. The ceiling looks lower, the walls…were they always this sad, tired shade of beige?
Bucky slips his arm around your waist, steady and solid. His other hand brushes your hair to one side, lips pressing to that soft spot behind your ear that always makes you shiver. His voice is a warm weight at your back. “They’re just walls, sweetheart. You’re what makes a place a home. We should go before we hit traffic, but take all the time you need.”
He steps back to give you space, but keeps his fingers loosely tangled with yours—a quiet promise that he’s not rushing you, that he understands this is harder than just moving boxes. The choice is always yours. But he never lets you forget where he stands.
—
A couple hours later, you stood in a sea of boxes in Bucky’s apartment, trying to push the panic down that was clawing at your chest. His normally tidy apartment was about to be overtaken by something you knew he didn’t care for: clutter. So when was it going to be that he stopped caring for you?
Meanwhile, Bucky moved around the stacks with ease. Whistling something low as he carried boxes to their respective spots. You wished you could feel the same nonchalance as you began tearing open the tape, testing the waters to see if you could bring yourself to take up space. Despite there being more than enough room in the closet for your clothes, empty shelves for your books, and more than half the bathroom cabinets ready for you, you hesitated. Each box felt like a gamble, a risk that one day he’d change his mind.
Still, you reached for a box labeled ‘fiction – comfort reads’. That seemed safe enough, Bucky said he bought the shelves for you, and they were assembled on a previously empty wall. And still, your fingers trembled as you slid it open. The smell of paper and home wafted up to greet you, grounding you just enough to push the first few novels onto the nearest shelf. Your movements were careful, a little shy, as if the books themselves might make too much noise in this new space.
You were halfway through arranging a now full bookshelf, thoroughly debating on how you wanted to categorize them, when Bucky wandered over, a stack of your sweaters in his arms. “Where did you want these, sweetheart? Closet or drawer?”
Standing, a few books in hand, you made your way toward him. Before you could answer, something slipped free from between the pages—a crumpled receipt, landing on the hardwood with a soft, papery thwip.
Bucky stooped to pick it up, curiosity bright in his eyes. Your heart dropped, panic tightening your chest as you realized exactly what it was. He smoothed the slip between his fingers, brow furrowing as he read your handwriting scribbled on the back.
“What’s this?” he asked, voice gentle, but your pulse thrummed with dread all the same.
Of course. When you were already worried about being too much, your sentimental hoarding tendencies were about to be exposed.
You cleared your throat, putting the books down on an end table. You felt the heat rising to your neck and cheeks. “It's…uh, the receipt from the first time I paid for dinner. At that Italian place when you forgot your wallet.”
Your voice was small as you braced for the fallout. You waited for him to laugh, or look at you like you were unhinged, like every ex before had.
But Bucky just groaned, a big grin on his face as he turned it over in his hands. “Can’t believe you kept this. That was what, our fifth or sixth date? I felt like such a putz…my ma would’ve given me a smack for that one. Forgettin’ my wallet.”
“You made such a show of paying on the first few dates,” you said, smiling despite the storm of unease swirling in the pit of your stomach. “And I knew you were old-fashioned…just felt like something worth keeping. I like remembering things like that.” It came out small, almost apologetic.
Instead of recoiling, like so many before him, Bucky dropped onto the couch and tucked the receipt gently back into the book. He looked up at you with a soft smile like you’d hung the moon. “So, what else have you got hidden away in these boxes, huh? Anything as embarrassing as my wallet slip?”
You let out a small laugh, some of the tension in your chest easing. Your gaze drops to the box labeled ‘memories to not let go of’. “No, not embarrassing. Just…the little things that remind me of us.”
“Well, let’s see,” he said, patting the cushion next to him. “I’d like to see what you thought was worth remembering.”
You nudged the box closer and settle beside him, knees just barely brushing. For the first time all day, you can actually feel yourself beginning to relax.
With Bucky beside you, you flip open the box and pull out the first treasure. A clear glass box with an assortment of pressed flowers.
He takes it gently, thumb tracing along the edges of the box as he examines it from all angles. “Are these from the first bouquet I got you?”
You nod, smiling. “It was the cutest little assortment of flowers…and no one had really ever gotten me flowers on a first date before.”
He grins, placing it gently on the coffee table with a soft click. “Guess I did something right.”
Next, you hand him a small shirt button, navy blue with thread still attached. He laughs, looking it over. “From the time you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself. Found it under my bed.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “You’re never letting me live that down are you? It’s not my fault, it was that dress you wore.”
“Sure, blame me,” you tease back, feeling lighter with every confession.
With every confession, the air grows lighter. The two of you settle into a rhythm. Him pulling out a memento, you sharing the story. Coffee sleeves with his doodles, a napkin scribbled with an inside joke about waffles, movie stubs, faded love notes, a visitor’s pass from the first time you’d visited him at the Avengers compound. Each item is its own little universe, its own proof of the love that grew between you.
The box empties, and the coffee table fills. Scattered with pieces of your life together, a messy constellation of memories. You find yourself drifting closer to Bucky the more you share, your shoulder pressed to his, his arm draped lazily against your body, fingers tracing slow circles against your bicep. For the first time all day, the apartment feels less like a minefield and more like home.
“You know,” Bucky murmurs, pulling out the last item. A takeout menu from your favorite Chinese place, complete with a sticky note with his favorite order that reads ‘The Bucky Special’. “We don’t have to unpack everything tonight.”
You glance around at the chaos, boxes still piled high and half unpacked. “Are…you sure you don’t mind? Isn’t it overwhelming, having all this clutter around?”
He leans down, pressing his lips to the top of your head. “Not even close. You’re not too much. I want all of this. Someone who cares enough to save the small things. Every memory, every box…every bit of you. And tomorrow, we can tackle the rest. Tonight, I just want to eat greasy noodles and egg rolls with you, fall asleep in our place, and wake up wrapped in each other.”
The reassurance settles over you like a weighted blanket, gentling the nerves you’d carried with you all day. You breathe in, heart full to the brim, and meet his gaze, finally, truly at peace.
“Yeah,” you whisper, smiling up at him for real. “That sounds perfect.”
Please drop a like, reblog, or a comment if you enjoyed! This author thrives off of words of affirmation. :3
Banners & Dividers made by me
Summary: You were his healer, his shadow. His Lisichka. You had been with him during the darkest times and when it came to break free, there was no way he would leave without you.
The entire way to Berlin Bucky’s mind raced. All he could think of was you. Lisichka, his fox. Waiting for him in that cold cemetery. Waiting for him to show up. Part of him prays you eventually move on, keep going without him. Maybe find a place to settle. Lay low. But he knows that was impossible. Black Widow had dumped Hydra’s files on the internet, including the ones about you. Someone somewhere would find you and use what you could do for their selfish reasons. It made his stomach roll the thought of you being forced to heal person after person as it took its mounting toll on you. A shaky breath left him as the back of the truck opened, light flooding his vision. The cuffs around his wrists and ankles weren’t strong enough to hold him but he was tired of fighting. He’d never get free from here and to you without being traced. No, in his desperation he would forget every precaution on account to get to you faster.
“Winter Soldier huh? Doesn’t look too intimidating like this,” he heard a guard grumble in German. It made him look forward to where Steve was stepping out of a black van with Sam. No longer in his uniforms, of course they had been given the chance to change. Prisoners didn’t get that luxury. There was something in Steve’s eyes when they met that made him falter. He expected anger, pity, and sympathy. But there was something else he couldn’t name.
Until he saw you being dragged out a van that parked behind the one Steve had gotten out of. His heart slammed in chest seeing your tear stained cheeks, the scrape on one of them. Fury pumped through his veins and the cuffs creaked under his growing unrestrained anger. They had gotten to you. Had hurt you, scared you, and by the way Steve was snapping at a man in a suit, handling you just as roughly as they were him. He would’ve broke free right there, would’ve ignored the current of electricity that prickled at his skin when he fought against the restraints. But then you gave him the most subtle shake of your head. One no one would’ve noticed, would’ve chalked it off to you gathering your bearings, but Bucky knew what it meant. So even though it killed him he relaxed back into his seat. Watched them as they kept dragging you away, a satisfaction filling him seeing how you dug your feet and made their job as possible. Until the collar around your neck buzzed to life and you fell to the ground, muscles tensed and shaking with the electricity no doubt being burned through you. Steve yelled something as he strode over and Bucky jolted against his restraints.
“His Fox,” the guard sneered, “probably his chew toy with Hydra.”
He scowled as they pushed him away, only looking away when he saw Steve help you sit up all while yelling at the man in the suit. Good. Steve was on your side. You had him. If he even suspected you were something to Bucky, he knew Steve would guard you with his life just as he would. You would be fine. So he let out a breath he was holding and leaned his head back against the headrest.
“I’m not letting you take her into a damn cell,” Steve snapped, “she’s a victim.”
Ross wasn’t letting up, no matter how much you fought. How many more shocks they gave you even if Steve fought against each one. Eventually he had convinced them to let you go with him. He was a super soldier, you weren’t. He could handle you. The files said you could heal, nothing more. So why did they keep treating you like a weapon? His question was answered when he noticed how they had made Bucky’s pod linger enough to see what they were doing to you. They were trying to control him using you, it made Steve seethe. How many times has Hydra done that? They were supposed to be better but he saw nothing but the same behavior with a different facade.
“Where’s Bucky?” You asked once your cuffs were moved from behind your back to connect to the table in front of you. Your head rested against the cool surface of the table and Steve pressed his lips together.
“Barnes is fine,” Tony’s voice said, sharing a glance with Steve.
One glance at you and Tony ripped up his copy of the Accords, telling everyone he could off, before locking himself into the interrogation room where Steve, Sam, and Sharon had holed up. He had tried to pick the lock on your collar but that just earned you another shock.
“Do you know?” You whispered, looking at Tony with tired eyes, “what he did?”
“I know it all,” Tony answered and looked at Steve.
That night had been…hard. There was a lot of yelling, a lot of fighting, but even more sobbing. It wasn’t easy telling Tony the truth about how his parents had died. But after a while it turned into resolve. A clear head. And helping Steve with the search. Even if the Accords had been a bump in the road.
“Then you know he won’t be fine,” You whispered, weakly tugging at the handcuffs. Steve had nearly wrung someone’s neck when he caught a glance at how bruised and raw your wrists were.
“We’ll get him good lawyers, a plea–”
“They’ll never let him free,” your voice trailed off as you stared at the screen that now was occupied with the footage from Bucky’s cell.
Bucky should’ve known this psychiatrist was full of shit when he sat down in his badly tailored suit. Should’ve known when the power went out and he didn’t start to freak out about being in a room with the Winter Soldier who could use that opportunity to get free. But then he started saying those words, those fucking words, and he could feel himself slipping. Feel the darkness trying to take hold even as he fought back. No, this couldn’t happen. Not while they still had her. Not while he still had to save her.
I can save her, the dark purred. Bucky’s lip trembled as he felt himself slip away and into the Soldier.
When the glass door fell through and the glass cracked Bucky fell to his knees, but it was the Soldier that stood back up.
“Soldat?” The man asked. His head tilted towards him. “Mission Report, December 16th, 1991.”
“Where is she?” He growled, taking a step closer.
“Ready to comply, Soldat? Mission report–” He didn’t let the man finish his sentence as he wrapped his metal hand around his throat.
“Where. Is. She.”
Guards flooded the room but he only had one thought in his mind, Lisichka, he had to get to her before they sent her to sleep again. So he tossed the man aside and turned towards the doors. He took them down easily, one by one, sometimes two at a time. But they fell as he made his way through them. The man tried to call him back, called him and tried to say the words again. But he had his mission. Knew what he had to do. Nothing would stop him.
You watched the chaos around you, still cuffed to the table even as everyone scrambled when Sharon said something you weren’t listening to. You gave a tug but burning shot up your arm. A hiss escaped you and that caught Natasha’s attention. The former Black Widow who had sat by your side and not moved until the chaos began.
“Oh for fucks sake, Tony her cuffs,” Natasha snapped.
“Dammit,” Tony cursed and whatever enveloped his hand shot a beam of right that freed your wrists. “Stay here.”
“I can help,” you said as you stood, “I can stop him.”
“He’s not himself,” Natasha warned but started leading you towards wherever Bucky had gone, you knew.
“I can stop him,” you said softly.
Natasha was a powerful force in the chaos. It parted ways for her to walk through, you behind as he held your hand in a loose hold. One you could easily break but you wouldn't without Bucky and she could take you to him. Wherever she was taking you, the chaos was getting louder. Gunfire, fighting, things breaking. Then he was there. Powerful, volatile, feral. All things the Winter Soldier was not Bucky. But you still nodded to Natasha. Tony stunned him and that was when Natasha pushed you forward.
Bucky whipped around, ready to continue the fight, but lowered the gun when he caught sight of you. He grabbed a guard who ran at him by the throat, tossing him aside like a wet reg and closed the space between the two of you.
“Lisichka,” he whispered, his voice gravelier and more ragged than when he wasn’t in the Soldier state of mind. His flesh hand dropped the gun and rose to cup your cheek. His thumb traced over the tear stains still there.
“Bucky,” you said softly, your hand rising to grab his hand but he quickly drew it back knowing what you were instinctively going to do.
“We need to go,” he said.
“We can be safe here,” you said, glancing at Steve, “he can help us.”
“I need to protect you,” he said, glowering down at you but you knew it was how he showed worry.
“And you will,” you said, “do you trust me?”
“With everything,” Bucky breathed out.
“Then come with me,” You said, grabbing his metal hand.
A.N: Thank you so much for your wonderful support my loves🩷 I hope you like this chapter as well! 🥰 Please let me know what you think! 🩷
Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Female!Reader
Summary: Politics is a dirty game.
Warnings: Explicit language, angst, mentions of sex and adult themes, mentions of (hypothetical) pregnancy, MDNI.
Word Count: 4k
Series Masterlist
Keeping a secret relationship wasn’t easy.
You weren’t naïve enough to assume otherwise. Especially now that you were supposed to wait until Bucky completed his term in Congress—though having a plan helped—it was still going to be rather challenging.
But in mornings like these, you almost forgot about the challenge part and lost yourself in the bliss.
You were filling yourself a cup of coffee when you felt Bucky wrap his arms around you from behind, making you giggle as he kissed your temple.
“Morning.”
Your cheeks warmed at his morning voice. “Hey.”
“I thought you were coming back to bed.”
“I’m sorry,” you rasped out. “I can’t sleep so I figured I would let you, at least.”
His arms tightened around your torso. “Something on your mind?”
You huffed out a laugh and grabbed another cup for him, then filled it with coffee as well before turning around in his arms to look up at him. He cupped your cheek and you gave him a small smile before holding up the coffee for him to take it from your hands.
“Thanks.” He took a sip. “What’s wrong?”
You dragged the tip of your tongue over your bottom lip, deep in thought.
“He’s up to something.”
“Your father?”
“He knows something that I don’t,” you said. “That we don’t.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know but he’s planning something,” you insisted. “The veteran bill is gonna be voted this week, maybe he doesn’t want it to pass.”
He raised his brows. “Darling...”
“And—and he just showed up to give you that file right before he leaves the country for some time? That’s suspicious.”
“Is it?”
“Why else would he give you the file? He hates you.”
“I don’t know,” he said with a dramatic sigh. “It’s almost as if you’re his daughter.”
You shot him a look.
“You’re not serious,” you said. “You don’t actually believe that’s the reason, right?”
“Are you asking me if I believe that a man wants to protect his daughter against someone who’s directly threatening her?” he asked as if the answer was too obvious and you let out a laugh.
“Despite him claiming otherwise, my father sees me as an ornament to his marriage at best,” you said. “And in case you forgot, he stands for the opposite of everything I believe in.”
“I get that,” he said, “I also get that he’s evil, but you’re still his daughter.”
An impatient whine escaped your lips and you stepped back from him to pace in the kitchen, running a hand over your face.
“You’re not listening.”
“I am listening—”
“You remember how you called me a strategist?” you asked him. “My father taught me everything I know, and I told him to go fuck himself before he could teach me all the tricks of the trade. No favor from him comes without attachment, and this?” You pointed at the file. “This is not a lifeline. This is a trap.”
“A trap for what?”
“I don’t know!” You stomped on your foot. “All I know is that he thinks you’ll resign, and that I’ll do something to risk my career, and in both of those scenarios he wants to be in control because he thinks he’s smarter than us. He’s planning something.”
He stepped closer to you to clasp his hands over your shoulders so that you would stop pacing.
“It doesn’t matter whether he’s planning something or not,” he told you. “We talked about this. I wouldn’t resign without running it by you first, and you’re not risking your career, and he’s not in control. Besides, it looks like the veteran bill will pass, you told me so yourself.”
You clenched your jaw. “I still don’t trust him.”
“You don’t have to trust him,” he said with a small smile. “But in this case, we’re the ones using him, not the other way around.”
Right.
For some reason, you found that very hard to believe.
You opened your mouth to argue but closed it again when you realized there was no way to convince him, or yourself. He pulled you closer to press a kiss on your temple, his thumb tracing your cheekbone.
“It’ll be okay,” he said softly. “Trust me.”
You nodded, then tried to smile at him.
“Sure,” you muttered. “Yeah, I know. It’ll be totally fine.”
You knew it wouldn’t.
Just like every woman you had ever met, you had learned at a very early age not to let any man convince you everything would be fine against your own instincts.
*
Considering everything for the bill was ready, today was, surprisingly, a slow day.
Which gave you even more time to overthink your father’s motives.
You sipped your coffee while you bounced your knee, your focus barely on the email you were reading on your phone when you heard someone pull the chair across from yours, making your head snap up.
“Hey.” Lucas grinned at you as he sat down, Brian offering you a small smile and following him suit. “What’s up?”
“Hey back,” you said and nodded at Brian. “I was wondering where you were.”
“I was working on the green energy draft, ma’am.”
“I asked him if he could help me out for an hour or two,” Lucas told you. “I hope you don’t mind.”
You shook your head. “Anything I can help with?”
“Ah no, I figured you’d be busy,” Lucas said and sipped his coffee while you tilted your head.
“I’m sorry?” you asked. “Why would I be busy?”
“Because of the veteran bill.”
“The veteran bill is ready,” you said with a laugh. “I have basically nothing to do today, I can help out.”
Lucas leaned back on his chair, his brows furrowing.
“What are you talking about? You’re supposed to convi—” he paused, a look of realization dawning on his face. “Fuck. You haven’t heard.”
Your stomach did a nervous flip. “What?”
“Shit,” Lucas muttered. “Okay uh, first of all, I need you to know that it’s basically a rite of passage, okay? We’ve all been through this.”
“Through what?”
“Congress sucks sometimes, especially if it’s a good bill—”
“Lucas, what the fuck are you talking about?”
“The word on the street is that Congressman Bailey will vote no.”
Your heart dropped to your stomach. “…Sorry, what?”
“He told a lobbyist, the lobbyist told his assistant whom he’s fucking, and the assistant told—it’s a long game of telephone, but apparently he’ll vote no.”
“He said he’d vote yes, from the beginning,” you insisted. “The veteran bill will be so good for everyone, it’ll basically save lives—”
“Welcome to politics.” Lucas offered you an apologetic smile. “Politicians can’t be trusted.”
“I know that!” you insisted. “I don’t trust politicians but I trust that they’re pragmatic as fuck, and he’s trying to get elected again, and the number of veterans in his district—”
“Apparently the lobbyists convinced him otherwise.”
You dragged your nails over the table.
“If he votes against it,” you said slowly, “So will the five congressmen he has been working with, and that means—”
“That it won’t pass,” Lucas finished your sentence for you and Brian heaved a sigh.
“It’s a great bill, I don’t understand why anyone wouldn’t want it to pass.”
“No no, it—that has to pass,” you stammered, your mind going overdrive. “What lobbyist got to him, do we know?”
“Nope,” Lucas said. “Listen, don’t let it get to you—”
“Me and Bucky have been working on that bill since before the election,” you growled through your teeth. “I’m not gonna let some asshole screw it up.”
“You know how this game works, Hurricane.”
“This is not a game for me,” you insisted. “Nor will it be for any of those veterans and their families.”
“I didn’t mean that,” he assured you. “It’s just…good bills get voted against all the time, don’t let that encourage you. Like you said, they’re pragmatic assholes. They’re gonna put their own interests over anyone else’s, you know that.”
“It’s not just—” You stopped talking when the thought hit you, and you let out a breath before pushing your chair back. “I’ll find you guys later.”
“Where are you going?” Lucas asked but you ignored him, making your way back to the Capitol. You rushed up the stairs, then walked down the hallway to enter the office.
“Is he in?” you asked Kelsey who nodded.
“Yep.”
“Great,” you said and knocked on his door, then opened it and stepped inside, making Bucky’s head whip up.
“Hey.” He smiled at you and stood up from his chair to go round the desk. “I thought you were out for lunch.”
“I was,” you said as he pecked you on the lips. “I need to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“I need the rest of the day off.”
He tilted his head. “Of course,” he said. “Are you alright?”
“Sure!” you exclaimed. “I’m totally alright.”
“Can I ask what this is about?” he asked. “Don’t get me wrong but you never leave early, even when I tell you to.”
“Yeah I um—” you paused. “I forgot but I had my doctor’s appointment.”
He frowned. “What? What doctor?”
You really should’ve planned this through but before you could stop yourself, the lie had already left your lips.
“Gynecology.”
He pulled back slightly, a hopeful light playing in his blue eyes that wandered down before they snapped back to yours.
“Wait, are you…?”
You opened your mouth to ask what he was talking about before the thought dawned on you, and you let out a laugh.
“Oh no, I’m not pregnant,” you said. “Jesus, that’d be a disaster, wouldn’t it?”
He paused for a second, then nodded.
“Right,” he said. “Sure, that’s…that’d be something.”
“Nah you don’t have to panic,” you said, still grinning and he cleared his throat, running a hand through his hair.
“Yeah, that’s what I was doing. Panicking.”
“It’s like a general check-up but you know, I hate rescheduling shit,” you said. “So I figured…”
“No no, of course!” Bucky said. “Yeah, go. I’ll see you tonight?”
“Yeah!” you said and kissed him on the lips. “I’ll text you, see you tonight!”
With that, you walked out of the office as fast as you could, desperate to get out of the Capitol.
*
This was a good idea.
Albeit risky, but the timing couldn’t have been better.
You followed the maid down the familiar hallway, your heels echoing on the marble floor before you stepped into the living room to find your mother with two of her friends, having coffee.
“Honey!” your mother exclaimed as she stood up from her seat to rush to hug you. “I didn’t know you were coming!”
“Hi mom.” You smiled and hugged her back before you pulled back to wink at her friends Sandra and Leah. “I wasn’t aware we were holding a beauty contest at home today, you should’ve told me.”
Pleased laughter filled the living room and Sandra waved a hand in the air.
“Oh you…”
“How have you been sweetheart?” Leah asked. “Your mother says you’ve been working too much.”
“Oh not really, it’s just—you know, politics.”
“Come, sit!” Your mother dragged you to the table so that you could take a seat and told the maid to get you a cup of coffee.
“You see, I told Lily the same thing, you girls work too much,” Leah said. “Thank goodness she met Hollis and what with the baby now, she doesn’t even think she’ll get back to work. And to be honest, good call! They have enough money, she has no reason to work. And Hollis doesn't want her to work anyway.”
And that right there was probably your biggest nightmare.
You plastered a smile on your face. “Right. Congratulations by the way, I’m sure she’s very happy. With um—with the baby.”
“She is!”
Sandra leaned forward to grin at you. “And when will your mother get her grandchild, honey?”
Fuck.
“I keep asking her the same thing,” your mother said. “But for some reason, she thinks her job is more important.”
“For some reas—” You started, ready to argue but then managed to stop yourself.
This wasn’t what you were here for, you just needed to play along.
“Maybe when I find the right person,” you managed to say, motioning at Leah. “Like Lily and Harris.”
“Hollis.”
“That, yeah.”
“Well if I were you, I’d have jumped on my boss by now.”
“Sandra!”
“What?” she asked with a laugh. “He is very handsome, isn’t he?”
They all turned to look at you as if they wanted your input and you raised your brows.
“I guess?” you said. “I mean I don’t—I don’t see him like that, he’s my boss.”
“A lot of my friends married their bosses back in the day,” she said. “Workplaces were the perfect place to meet your spouse. Bosses choosing employees were more like choosing wives.”
Don’t explode.
Do not explode.
You nibbled on your lip. “That’s what I’ve heard but thankfully nowadays it’s a bit different.”
“Doesn’t have to be,” your mother teased you while the maid put the cup of coffee in front of you and you thanked her.
“I mean come on, don’t tell me he never made a move on you,” Leah said. “I think you girls have too many principles nowadays, you know?”
Too many principles.
Fucking tradwife convention. Great.
“That’s a very interesting opinion,” you lied through your teeth before you stood up. “Which I’d love to get more into.”
“Where are you going?” your mother asked and you motioned at the hallway.
“Bathroom, be right back.”
“I have a lot of questions about Bucky Barnes,” Sandra said when you took a step and you shot her a smile.
“I’d love to answer all of them, and I think he’d love you if he met you,” you said, making her giggle before you walked out of the living room, dropping the fake smile.
“That was something,” you muttered to yourself and looked over your shoulder, then ascended the stairs to make your way to your father’s study. Letting out a breath, you slowly opened the door, half expecting some kind of a booby trap out of a cartoon but it looked exactly the way you remembered it.
You had to have spent thousands of hours in here, discussing books with your father when you were still a child.
Your heart was pacing in your chest when you turned his laptop on, a frown pinching your brows together when you saw the password screen.
“Let’s see,” you muttered as you typed in your mother’s birthday, and smiled when it let you in. “Piece of cake.”
It took you a while to find the correct files, but after a couple of minutes you found what you were looking for and clicked on it, a curse leaving your lips when it asked for a second password. You tried your mother’s birthday again to no avail, your father’s birthday wasn’t it either, and let out a scoff of a laugh when the idea crossed your mind. Even though you knew it wouldn’t be it, you typed your own birthday and when you hit enter, it unlocked the file.
Ah.
“Where are you?” you murmured, the cursor going over hundreds and hundreds of names. “Bailey, where are you—bingo.”
Multiple pictures and documents listed on the screen when you clicked on his name, your eyes darting over the lines before a smile curled your lips. You took out your flash drive to plug it into the laptop, then started copying the files into the flash drive, leaning back in the leather chair with a sigh.
“Well,” you muttered, keeping your eyes on the screen. “This should be interesting.”
*
By the time you got back to Capitol, the sky was already dark and most of the congress people had already gone home, but as you had confirmed with Congressman Bailey’s assistant, he was going to work overtime. You were nearly nauseous with anxiety, but you couldn’t let it get to you so you forced yourself to smile at his assistant, acting like this was nothing but a usual visit.
“Hi,” you said. “I work for Congressman Barnes, I had an appointment with Congressman Bailey?”
“Oh, we talked on the phone!” he said, already walking to his door. “Yeah, just give me a moment—congressman? Your 8 pm is here.”
“Send her in.”
The assistant stepped aside and you nodded at him.
“Thank you so much,” you said and went inside, then closed the door behind you with one hand while holding the files with the other. “Good evening, sir. I appreciate you taking the time to see me at such a short notice.”
“Ah, no problem,” he said and shook your hand from where he was sitting behind his desk. “Sit down, please. What is this about?”
You took the seat across from his desk and cleared your throat, flicking the corner of the file with the tip of your fingernail.
“As you know, Congressman Barnes will present the veteran bill this week,” you said. “And I’m afraid we heard something about your change of heart?”
A look of annoyance dawned on his face and he leaned back in his seat.
“Where?”
“Does it matter?” you asked back. “So we were wondering if it’s true.”
He eyed you up and down. “He couldn’t ask me himself, so he sent a pretty little thing to convince me?”
You tried to keep your expression flat, refusing to take the bait and after a couple of seconds of silence, he heaved a sigh.
“I’ll vote no,” he said curtly. “I think that bill is nothing but an idealist dream, would never work in the real world.”
“Congressman, you’ve read the bill so I’m sure you know it can in fact work in the real world—”
“I say it can’t.”
“The lobbyists say it can’t,” you corrected him and he narrowed his eyes.
“Listen here, sweetheart,” he spat in a condescending manner. “I don’t care who your daddy is, you can’t walk into my office and talk to me like that. Get the fuck out.”
You gave him a fake smile and nodded your head, then stood up.
“Of course, congressman,” you said and put the file on his desk. “But before I leave, I was wondering if you could check this to make sure we understand each other?”
He huffed out like every second you were there was testing his patience, but he pulled the file to him to flip it open, the look of arrogance on his face melting into slow disbelief.
You weren’t supposed to feel the so much satisfaction especially considering the circumstances, and yet, you had to bite down your smirk.
“What is this?” he asked after a pause, shuffling the pages as if he could find something that could help him and you heaved a sigh.
“The first twenty pages are the proof to your money laundering using your shell companies,” you said. “The embezzlement part for your father’s company which you’re a huge part of starts at page twenty-one, if I’m not mistaken. False bills, non-existent employees…Riveting read.”
He turned the pages, his breathing getting faster.
“You see, if that comes out…” You tut-tutted. “Huge scandal. Not only would you lose your job, you would also get sent to prison. That is, assuming you’d last that long, because a couple of your investors seem very shady. I doubt they’d appreciate being pulled under the spotlight any more than they’d appreciate being fucked over.”
He gritted his teeth. “You’re bluffing.”
You made a noise of disagreement.
“You’re free to risk it,” you said. “I wonder what your wife and kids would think—oh wait, I forgot to tell you. It’s a funny story, I noticed while looking through those files that you actually included your wife in one of those companies. And then you used those companies for embezzlement as well. If people are only looking into you, they’d probably miss that tiny little details but…”
He stared at you, at a loss for words.
“I sure do hope your twins like grandma and grandpa,” you said with a shrug of your shoulders. “Because if both of you are gonna get imprisoned, someone has to look after them. They’re still so little—do you think they’d recognize you by the time they let you out? Formative years and all that?”
He swallowed thickly, anger burning in his eyes.
“I suppose not,” you said with a grimace. “Anyways, this is all hypothetical, of course. I should probably get going, but I trust we have your vote this week?”
He opened his mouth like he wanted to curse you out, then stopped himself and nodded.
“Sure.”
“Great,” you said with a bright smile. “You can keep the file, I have the original. Have a nice week, congressman.”
You took a step to the door but stopped when he spoke.
“Why did you go through all that trouble?”
You looked over your shoulder and turned around to see him better. “I’m sorry?”
“A lot of my colleagues think you’re this prodigal daughter who climbed up to the world of politics without any help from your father,” he started. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s stupid as fuck but one could say that was impressive. Not fighting dirty, standing up for what’s right and all that bullshit. So I guess my question is, why did you go through all that trouble if you were gonna follow your father’s footsteps anyway?”
Your heart dropped to your stomach and you pulled back slightly, your heartbeat speeding up again.
“I’m not my father.”
“No,” he said with a shake of his head. “No, you’re not. You know why? Because even your father knows there are lines you don’t cross. Say what you want to say about him, but he has never dragged anyone’s family into any kind of blackmail. He’s a war general, but you? You’re a loose cannon.”
You could feel the bile burning your throat as you clenched your teeth.
“I’m doing this to help people,” you growled. “Unlike you or your friends, or my father. You guys only care about yourselves. This bill will save lives, not to mention make things much better for people in need, I’m—I’m actually helping people.”
“So the end justifies the means?” he asked. “Funny, I could swear your father has said the exact same thing once.”
Anger made your blood boil but you forced yourself not to let it show on your face.
“Make sure to be present during the vote,” you said, your voice silky. “Or else.”
You walked out of his office, thanked his assistant without being able to look him in the eye before you went down the hallway and left the building as if someone was chasing you. It had started to rain while you were inside but you could barely feel it, trying to fix your breathing.
“Calm down,” you muttered to yourself as you descended the marble stairs, your phone vibrating in your pocket. “Calm down, you’re not him. You know better than to listen to a corrupt politician.”
Your hand was still shaky when you got your phone out of your pocket, and the simple text on the screen made you stop dead in your tracks.
From: Dad
Good job, Pumpkin.
…Oh.
He knew.
Of course he knew.
This was exactly it. He was five steps ahead of you, and you hadn’t been able to see it until now. Last night’s visit made perfect sense now; in one swooping move he had learned whether Bucky was planning on resigning and whether you were still as ambitious as he had taught you. He had let you know he would be out of the country so that you would have zero hesitation going to your parents’ place and get those files the moment you needed, and considering he already had a file on Bailey meant that—
He was controlling the lobbyist who convinced Bailey to vote no.
Just to see whether you would take the bait.
Or just to see whether you were like him, despite you claiming otherwise.
And you were. You hadn’t even hesitated to go and steal those files to blackmail Bailey just to make sure he would vote yes, just to make sure that bill would pass—
You could feel the lump in your throat growing bigger, tears of panic rushing to your eyes but you pushed your phone back into your pocket and started walking as fast as you could without gathering any attention, barely aware of people rushing around to get away from the rain.
It was only when you found yourself in Bucky’s backyard that you realized your body was on autopilot, taking you where you wanted to be even if your mind was spiraling. You lingered there for a couple of seconds, shifting your weight from one foot to other, then sniffled and raised your fist to knock on the door.
It didn’t take long for Bucky to open the door.
“Hey, I was just about to call—” He stopped talking when he took in your appearance, completely soaked at his doorstep. “Birdie?”
The flash of lightning in the sky made you look up before you turned your gaze back to him and wiped your eyes, your heart beating in your ears as you took a deep breath.
