thank you for mentioning me @writing-for-marvel and @jobean12-blog 💛💛 couple more people that i've not seen mentioned yet (not all of them are active in the mcu fandom but hey old fics are just as fun!!)
BEAUTIFUL PERSON AWARD! Once you are given this award you're supposed to paste it in the asks of 8 people who deserve it. If you break the chain nothing happens, but it's sweet to know someone thinks you're beautiful inside and out 🩷💛
BEAUTIFUL PERSON AWARD! Once you are given this award you're supposed to paste it in the asks of 8 people who deserve it. If you break the chain nothing happens, but it's sweet to know someone thinks you're beautiful inside and out 🩷
BEAUTIFUL PERSON AWARD! Once you are given this award you're supposed to paste it in the asks of 8 people who deserve it. If you break the chain nothing happens, but it's sweet to know someone thinks you're beautiful inside and out 🩷
🥰🥰🥰 its been such a long time, so it made me smile even more 🩷
When Bucky finds something of yours, he hopes against hope that you feel the same way about him.
Enhanced!Fem!Reader
Happy Birthday | @/literaryavenger
It's your birthday and the only person who doesn't seem to be excited about it is you
jealousy, jealousy | @auroralwriting
bucky hates when his girl has to flirt with the enemy
Knock You Down a Peg or Two | @navybrat817
Someone learns the hard way that it's a bad idea to upset Bucky's wife.
Not Exactly a Secret | @/navybrat817
You and Bucky are really good teammates... and more.
Don't Look or Touch | @/navybrat817
Bucky isn't having a good day and John suffers the consequences.
Blurb | @sunskisser
tell me you love me | @raven-dor
The Soldier and His Mission | @magical-reid
When a trigger sends Bucky back into the grip of the Winter Soldier, he shadows you with an unyielding protectiveness that leaves the team on edge, though he doesn't harm anyone. After days of tension and careful steps, Bucky finally breaks through the icy barrier, returning to himself in a quiet, tender moment, finding solace in your presence.
Boulevard Confessions | @elixirfromthestars
Being a third wheel to Peggy and Steve wasn't your ideal Thursday night fun. However, when they tell you Bucky is tagging along you eagerly decide to join them. That is until a third party makes its presence known.
By The Warmth Of The Oven | @/elixirfromthestars
You are baking cookies for the Avengers holiday party when a certain super solider comes into the kitchen tipsy for the first time...
Once Upon A December | @anonymityisfunwriter
Haunted Eyes | @brokenbarnes
Based on the Episode “The Power Broker” from the Falcon and the Winter Soldier. Zemo is offering the Winter Soldier to Selby for payment, but the reader plays his handler.
Echos | @/brokenbarnes
Bucky's worst nightmare comes true. You come back to him after taking a turn in Hydra's electric chair.
Smitten | @aquaticmercy
Sam finally meets Bucky’s girlfriend, though you’re not who he thinks you are.
Small Circles | @/aquaticmercy
Bucky Barnes is still getting used to modern dating… and hates that you have to work with your exes.
Have We Met Before? | @/aquaticmercy
America Chavez says that you and Bucky are together in every universe.
The Catalyst | @/aquaticmercy
In this universe, you and Bucky are happy. In other universes, it might not be that simple.
Interstate Love Song | @/aquaticmercy
Bucky tells the team he saw his Hydra days in The Void. You are the only one who knows him well enough to know he is lying.
friendly banter | @wwinterwitch
sam asks for your help on a mission. you're reunited with him, Joaquín and Bucky. the last one really likes to banter. you think it's just a friendly exchange. it's actually a bit more than that
How To Impress a 21st Century Girl. | @brunchable
Sam had forced Bucky to use Tinder to solve his abysmal love life. Bucky tells himself that if third time isn't a charm, he will officially give up trying to find a partner.
𝙄 𝘿𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙇𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙖 𝘽𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙁𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙙 Part Two | @/brunchable
Bucky can't decide if the universe loves him or hates him. Maybe it loves to hate him. Maybe it's mischievous. Because he’s in love. He’s madly, deeply, painfully in love with a girl that he knows he’ll never have. Because the heavens created arguably the most perfect creature in their repertoire, dangled you in front of him for his entire life, and chose to rip you away before he had the chance to tell you how he felt.
Everything's Just Perfect | @ama3003
You're Bucky's ex-wife and you always seem to be there whenever he needs you.
Bucky vs Bucky | @buckyalpine
Imagine time travel going wrong again and instead of 1 Bucky you have 2; one from the present and also one from the 40′s standing on the platform with him.
Come back to you | @/buckyalpine
What happens when a time travel mission ends up with a version of Bucky from the 40′s standing on the time travel platform.
40s Sergeant Barnes with a nurse!reader | @/buckyalpine
blurred lines | @ellemj
When choosing a female agent to send back in time to gain young Sergeant Barnes's trust, everyone's in agreement that it should be Sharon. Until Bucky, the man that you barely get along with, speaks up and lets everyone know that it could only be you.
Against the Rules | @/ellemj
Bucky's trying to fuck you senseless so you'll have to sleep over. Isn't that how a friends with benefits situation is supposed to work?
I Hate You | @/ellemj
y/n has these weird mind powers where she can feel others feelings or make others feel hers...she accidentally during a very heated fun time projects everything she is feeling to Bucky, basically doubling his pleasure
a soldier's solace Pt 02 | @daystarpoet
Bucky has kept his marriage secret for three years now. He always intended to keep it that way. That was until a mission went sideways, and he found himself having to resort to the one person he swore to protect.
charming boy out of time | @/daystarpoet
Bucky Barnes never fell off that train, instead, he joined Steve Rogers in his attempt to take down HYDRA. They both emerged seventy years later, in the 2010s. The tale of the two times Bucky failed to charm you, and the one time he almost succeeded.
Buckyvision Masterlist | @mrsbarnesblog
when Bucky comes back from a mission with a knife wound there is only one person who can convince him to get help
Next Door to Love | @jobean12-blog
When you made the move to the city you never expected your new neighbor to be so sweet and helpful...or hot.
Everything You Want | @/jobean12-blog
there’s no one you trust more than your husband and he always knows exactly what you want.
Stuck in the Middle | @helaintoloki
you come home from work to find the last person on earth you want to see cooking dinner in your kitchen
Somethin’ Stupid part two | @/helaintoloki
a drunken confession spoils a perfectly good evening
Everybody Loves Somebody | @/helaintoloki
Thrown into a blind date against his will, Bucky does his best to prepare in the days leading up to Saturday night, a feat that proves to be much more difficult than expected thanks to his neighbor across the hall.
40s!bucky | @/helaintoloki
after accidentally sending yourself back in time, you run into a younger version of the man you loathe only to find yourself questioning your feelings for him
A Favor | @/helaintoloki
you pretend to be Bucky’s girlfriend in order to help his campaign despite your very real feelings for him
Misunderstanding | @/helaintoloki
you accept Bucky’s invitation to attend Tony’s charity gala as his date, but your night quickly turns sour when you find out about his bet with Natasha
A Kiss To Change Everything | @marvelwitchergilmore
When Bucky becomes the Winter Soldier again, he follows you around. Only you. Funny thing is, you and Bucky aren't exactly friends. So why is the Winter Soldier protecting you?
Winter's Child | @/marvelwitchergilmore
You and your daughter live across the hall from Bucky. However, one night when your daughter won't settle, you turn to him for help.
What If?... | @vunblr
Bucky navigates his insecurities and guilt from his past as he grows closer to his new neighbor, a nurse.
Arm Pat | @skaye44
You go on a date with Bucky and hit it off, or so you think, but it ends weirdly. Nat steps in and gets other agents involved to send you flowers and gifts to get Bucky's attention and make him jealous for screwing up.
Meet my Family | @/skaye44
Your parents want to meet your boyfriend Bucky which you agree, but the whole family invites itself along for the meeting.
begin again. | @sergeantbuckybarnes
When you go to meet your friend at her work you see a cute guy had been stood up, so you’re going to be the best date of his life.
everything i wanted | @/sergeantbuckybarnes
Bucky asks you to pick Rebecca from school, as you spend the day with her, you can’t help to think that this is what you want, for the rest of your life.
Amnesia | @/sergeantbuckybarnes
During a fight in Madripoor you get hit in the head resulting in forgetting the last ten years of your life. And most important, your boyfriend.
Loverboy | @thevillainswhore
Bucky, a lovesick, pining super soldier, vows to keep his feelings for you a secret — no matter how obvious his crush may seem. Those plans are ruined between a meddling Sam, an embarrassing fall, and a visit to the medbay with you.
you or nothing | @feathersandferns
when the Thunderbolts enter the void, Bucky goes missing. You take it upon yourself to find him, venturing into his deepest pockets of his shame.
congressman!bucky x fem!reader | @bruisedboys
Voicemails to an Unmanned Inbox | @pellucid-constellations
When Bucky takes an argument a little too far, you take off. All he wants is for you to come back home.
Voicemails to an Unmanned Inbox | @/pellucid-constellations
When Bucky takes an argument a little too far, you take off. All he wants is for you to come back home
Five Moments in Time | @/pellucid-constellations
All of the moments in which Sergeant Barnes let the nurse on his unit know he’s not gonna stop trying to win her over. Even from beyond the grave. (40s!Bucky)
Grip | @/pellucid-constellations
You knew Bucky didn't like his arm. You just didn't know how much until he accidentally hurt you with it.
Counting | @/pellucid-constellations
Time heals all wounds. Bucky’d been holding onto that proverb ever since blip. But time had never been particularly kind to him, so he opted to keep track of the sweet girl’s in his apartment building instead, the one that made him banana bread and took him to diners at two in the morning. Sometimes, you didn’t keep the same schedule. That made Bucky panic.
Easy | @jaggedamethyst
life with bucky is amazing…but it’s easy to feel like you’re not enough when your relationship is a secret.
drawing the line | @fireinmoonshot
Bucky Barnes has messed up big time ... he just doesn't know it until he sees you and realises he really should've checked his texts.
The One That Got Away | @writing-for-marvel
When Bucky enters the void, he expects his memories as The Winter Soldier to haunt him, or perhaps even death itself, instead, he finds himself face to face with you the night you broke up.
The One That Got Away (2) | @/writing-for-marvel
After reliving your break up as his shame room experience, Bucky goes to deliver an overdue apology to you - what he doesn’t expect to find out is you suffered through the same worst memory.
The Third Wheel | @/writing-for-marvel
When Bucky finally asks you out on a date, the last thing you expect is for his high school crush Connie to also have been invited.
40’s!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader
Dye Me a Lie | @marvelettesassemblenow
When Natasha found out about the Quiz which showed which Avenger you should date, the Avengers decided they all should take the test and go on these dates.
Your Touch | @/marvelettesassemblenow
Bucky hadn’t been long at the compound when he noticed that others sought you out to calm down. So slowly he started too and had to figure out his feelings for you
Sleepy Heads | @winterarmyy
That time when the reader accidentally fell asleep on a stranger’s shoulder in the subway ride home. The stranger in question, however, is none other than the former Winter Soldier, Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.
He Hates Me, Doesn't He? | @/winterarmyy
You hurt Bucky's girl, and now he hates you.
starry eyed | @flowersforbucky
reader gets a special gift from her secret santa
moth to a flame | @/flowersforbucky
bucky is triggered into the winter soldier during a mission and then goes MIA, until he seeks you out in the middle of the night.
love language | @/flowersforbucky
snapshots of your relationship with bucky told through the five love languages.
lessons in lovemaking [masterlist] | @artficlly
You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.
his girls | @/artficlly
alpine barely tolerates anyone but bucky, so when she curls up in your lap without a second thought, the team is left reeling—especially when it leads to the not-so-subtle revelation that you and bucky have been sneaking around for months.
A Quiet Escape | @thebarneschronicles
During a holiday stay at Clint Barton’s home, you’ve been desperately trying to steal a moment alone with Bucky—your super-soldier boyfriend—but the Avengers are constantly interrupting. Between Clint’s kids, Steve’s “bromantic” grocery runs, and Nat pulling Bucky into sparring sessions, it feels like you’re constantly fighting for his attention. Frustration finally boils over when you confront Bucky about your lack of privacy, only to discover he’s just as eager for some alone time as you are - and willing to do anything to get it.
I’d Back Off If I Were You | @thighs-of-betrayal-blog
Hold the Door | @/thighs-of-betrayal-blog
You’ve never met your new neighbor, not until an incident happens involving the apartments elevator.
A Thousand Times Before | @marvelstoriesepic
Bucky travels to an alternate universe for the sake of a mission. But he doesn’t expect to come face to face with a version of you that loves him, completely and openly. Back in his own world, he is left with a truth he can’t keep to himself anymore.
Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader
I Thought We Were Already Dating | @danysdaughter
you thought you were spiraling over a situationship—meanwhile, bucky barnes had been acting like your very committed, very oblivious boyfriend the entire time. one public meltdown, a congressional office full of witnesses, and a very intense kiss later… you're officially his girl (and he never doubted it).
Mine | @cherrypickertheory
A new recruit joins the team, and gets a little too close to you for Bucky’s liking.
Light | @sun-kissy
bucky meets you, his bright, new neighbour, and is instantly endeared
option two | @nev3rfound
after nightmares continue to haunt his nights, bucky knows there’s one person left who could potentially provide some form of comfort, but is she still willing to see him after all this time?
Serious Questions | @espinosaurusrexex
Bucky agrees to go on a date to make his colleagues shut up. Now, he just feels sorry for the poor woman that has to spend an entire evening with him. He really tries to make it work, though, because he actually enjoys her company.
Touch Starved | @mrsbuckybarnes1917
You accidentally walk in on Bucky touching himself when he thinks he is alone. Turns out he is thinking about you.
your dog hates men due to his past before coming into your life.
what happens now that you've started dating bucky?
a/n: slowly getting back into writing? I’ve missed my man bucky barnes so I’ve got a lot in store for him. this one is one of my favourite ideas ugh!!! i hope you enjoy this!!
mentions: animal abuse in the past, abuse mentions related to the dog. fluff, trust fall
do not copy, translate or claim any of my work as your own
minors dni with my blog or my work
You had gotten Sergeant over two years ago while you were volunteering at the local shelter, and both your life and his had changed for the better. He had suffered a life of abuse while living in the streets; other owners before you had mistreated him in ways you couldn't bear to imagine.
It had taken some time in the early stages to somewhat train him and get him used to walking on a leash, being at parks, being social with other dogs and people, but there was something that no amount of time could fix: his fear of men.
And when you began dating Bucky a few months ago, you knew that would be a big problem.
It was a rational fear; who could blame him after all he had been through, right? It had only extended to growling and barking, but you didn't know how bad things could get.
You didn't tell Bucky about your dog at first, and you avoided inviting him to your apartment, making all sorts of excuses and staying over at his place instead.
But then it came up while you were in bed. The side of your face pressed against the pillow, facing Bucky and him as well. His hand on your face gently caressing as he looked into your eyes.
"Is there a reason why you don't want me over at your place?"
It came out of nowhere and you were unprepared for the conversation.
"What? No it's not-
"Maybe it's too soon, I mean we've been at this for four months now, right? I get it if you think having me over is a lot for you or if you live with your parents, which is totally okay I wouldn't be improper at your parent's ho-
"Bucky it's none of that" you interrupt him with a smile and sit up in bed. He watches your moves and sits up as well. "It's hard to bring it up"
"Hey, you can tell me anything doll"
"I have a dog, okay?" he just stares at you and expects the details. What's so bad about having a dog, right? "His name is Sergeant."
Bucky doesn’t say anything for a moment. He just sits there, legs crossed, blanket half-fallen over his lap. His expression isn’t shock or confusion. It’s something closer to tenderness — like he’s trying to piece together how to make this easier for you.
“You think I’d be scared of a dog named Sergeant?” he finally says, smiling gently.
You huff a laugh, but your fingers are already fidgeting with the edge of the comforter. “He’s not just a dog, Bucky. He’s been through more than most people. And he doesn’t trust easily. Especially not men. Ever since he was a pup living in the streets, he was abused and mistreated by them so he growls and barks and can jump up sometimes. I-I've tried to train him, but if you come over, I'm not sure what could happen, and I don't want you or Sergeant to have a bad time so uh yeah.”
“I get it,” he says. And this time, it’s heavier. Not just words — he gets it. You realize, maybe for the first time, that Bucky understands fear. He understands trauma that lingers even after the threat is gone. “I’m not trying to replace anyone or make him like me. But if he’s part of your life, I’d like to meet him. On his terms.”
You look up at him, searching his face for any sign of discomfort or doubt. But all you see is sincerity. Patience.
“You’d really be okay with that?”
“Yeah, doll. We’ll take it slow. I’ll bring treats. He can bark all he wants, I’ve had worse aimed at me.” He nudges your knee with his. “And if he decides I’m a lost cause, you can always meet me halfway. Or we can do the whole ‘dating outside with a chaperone’ thing.”
You laugh, finally. It feels like the knot in your chest starts to loosen a little.
“You’re something else, Barnes.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says, leaning in to kiss your temple. “Besides… I already like the name. Sergeant and Bucky? Feels like fate.”
Eventually, the room quiets. The conversation fades into silence, but it’s not awkward — just still. Peaceful. You fall asleep wrapped up in him, warm and safe. And even though tomorrow still holds uncertainty, it doesn’t feel as scary anymore.
Not with him in it.
--------------------
“Okay, listen,” you murmur, curled up on the couch with Sergeant pressed against your side. “I need you to do something really hard for me tonight.”
Your fingers scratch gently behind his ears — the spot that always makes him huff and melt just a little. He stays still, his big eyes watching you like he knows something’s coming.
“I don’t want you to hate him,” you whisper. “Please, just… try not to hate him. For me.”
He shifts beside you, the weight of him solid and warm, but his body’s already starting to tense. He senses it — the change in your voice, the way your breath catches.
“Bucky’s a good guy,” you continue, voice softer now, your hand moving to stroke between his shoulders. “He’s not like the others. He’d never hurt you. He’s patient, and he listens, and… he makes me feel safe.”
Sergeant’s ears flick. He doesn’t look convinced.
“I’m not asking you to love him,” you say, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Just… maybe don’t bite him?”
Then the buzzer goes off — a loud electric buzz that makes Sergeant’s head snap toward the door, a sharp growl already rumbling low in his throat.
You close your eyes and take a deep breath before walking over to the intercom. You press the button with a shaky hand.
“It’s me,” Bucky’s voice crackles through. “Can I come up?”
You exhale, grounding yourself.
“Yeah,” you say softly. “Come on up.”
You glance over your shoulder at Sergeant, who’s now sitting upright, alert. His ears are perked and his body tense in that familiar way that makes your stomach twist. You kneel beside him one last time, running your hand over his back.
“Okay, listen. He’s not gonna hurt you. I swear. But I need you to be brave, okay?” Your voice is gentle but trembling just slightly. “Just like we practiced. You stay here, I’ll open the door.”
He doesn’t move. Just watches you, eyes dark and wary.
You unlock the front door and wait. The seconds stretch like molasses, heavy and slow. Then a soft knock.
You open the door.
Bucky stands there, not his usual confident self. He’s dressed simply — dark jeans, soft henley, sleeves pushed up — but it’s the way he holds himself that strikes you. He’s… careful. A little unsure. Like he doesn’t want to take up too much space.
“Hey,” he says quietly, holding up a brown paper bag like a peace offering. “I brought snacks. For both of you.”
Your lips twitch into a nervous smile. “He’s on the couch.”
“I figured,” Bucky says, stepping inside slowly, his movements measured, like he’s walking through someone else’s war zone.
Sergeant sees him instantly. A low growl bubbles up, not aggressive—more of a warning. A line in the sand.
Bucky stops mid-step, crouches low without looking directly at him, and sets the bag on the floor. Then he pulls out a plastic-wrapped bone and, without extending it, gently rolls it across the floor toward the couch.
“Hey, Sergeant,” he says, his voice impossibly soft. “I’m Bucky. Just here to hang out, okay? You can have that if you want. No strings.”
The bone rolls to a stop in front of Sergeant.
He doesn’t lunge. Doesn’t bark. He growls again, softer this time, but his tail twitches once. You hold your breath.
Sergeant looks at the bone. Then at Bucky.
And he doesn’t move. But he doesn’t retreat either.
Bucky stays crouched for another moment, then slowly lowers himself to sit cross-legged on the rug. Not on the couch. Not in Sergeant’s space.
“I’m not gonna touch him,” Bucky says, glancing up at you with a faint smile. “Promise.”
You sit down beside Bucky, close enough to touch, but not quite. He lets his knee brush yours, grounding you.
“I know this probably isn’t what you expected,” you whisper.
He shrugs. “I’ve dealt with tougher first impressions.” He nods toward Sergeant, who’s now sniffing the air but hasn’t made a move for the treat. “He’s a smart guy. Just cautious.”
“So you don’t hate him?”
Bucky looks over at you, really looks, eyes soft. “Of course not. He’s protecting someone he loves. I get it.”
Your throat goes tight.
Sergeant lets out a huff. Then slowly — slowly — he leans down and takes the bone between his teeth, pulling it toward him on the couch.
Bucky doesn’t react. Just smiles to himself like it’s a small victory.
You reach for Bucky’s hand, threading your fingers together.
“He took the treat,” you whisper.
“I know,” Bucky says. “We’re making progress.”
And for the first time since you met him, Sergeant lies back down — still alert, still cautious — but chewing his treat just a few feet away from the man he once would’ve seen as a threat.
You rest your head on Bucky’s shoulder. He leans into it, gently.
And even if it’s not perfect, it’s a start.
Bucky learns to move slowly in your space.
At his own apartment, he’s handsy — teasing touches at your waist while you cook, his palm on your thigh while you talk, kisses that start soft and turn into something else entirely. But here, in your home, it’s different. Not because he doesn’t want to touch you, but because he’s being watched.
By Sergeant.
The dog never barks anymore — not unless Bucky moves too quickly. He’ll let him in now, doesn’t growl when he steps over the threshold. But once Bucky gets near you, once there’s a kiss or a hug or even his hand brushing against yours, Sergeant’s ears go up. His eyes sharpen. A quiet growl hums in his chest like a warning bell.
And Bucky respects it. All of it.
He sits on the opposite side of the couch unless Sergeant’s had time to settle, and even then, he doesn’t try to pull you into his lap or hold you close like he usually would. Sometimes, he’ll rest his hand beside yours, close but not touching, and let you be the one to reach first.
You hate it, a little. Hate the way the space between you feels wider than it should. But you love Sergeant too much to rush him. And Bucky? Bucky never complains.
He brings a new kind of treat every time — liver jerky, sweet potato chews, chicken-flavored bones. He doesn’t offer them directly. He just sets them by the door, or on the edge of the coffee table, and lets Sergeant choose.
“Buying his love?” you tease once, curling against Bucky's side when Sergeant’s finally dozing across the room.
“Bribery is underrated,” he says with a crooked smile. “Besides, I get it. If some guy walked into your space and started hanging off me, I’d growl too.”
You laugh, and he kisses your temple — slow and soft, watching Sergeant’s reaction out of the corner of his eye.
Sometimes, late at night, you lie in bed together. Bucky keeps the touches gentle — just his hand on your back, or your fingers loosely twined. Sergeant sleeps at the foot of the bed, one eye half-open, like he’s not ready to fully trust the man beside you yet.
But one night, when Bucky shifts slightly to kiss your shoulder, Sergeant doesn’t growl. He doesn’t move.
He just lifts his head, watches for a beat, then lays it back down.
And Bucky exhales against your skin like it means everything.
-------------
Bucky’s sitting on the couch, one arm slung over the backrest, eyes half on the TV and half on you as you move around the apartment.
He watches you tug on a hoodie, then sees you grabbing poop bags from the drawer and unclipping the leash from the wall hook.
“You heading out, doll?” he asks, voice low and easy.
“Yeah,” you say, stuffing the bags into your hoodie pocket. “Just taking him for a walk. I won’t be long.”
Bucky nods, tapping his fingers absently against the armrest. Then, after a pause: “Can I tag along?”
You turn, surprised. “You sure, Buck?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “If Sergeant doesn’t mind. Thought it might be good—some progress, y’know. If not, I’ll just hang back here.”
You glance down at Sergeant, already sitting patiently by the door, eyes locked on the leash in your hand. Then you look back at Bucky — and the quiet, steady kind of hope in his expression.
You give a small nod. “Alright. Let’s give it a shot.”
You glance at Sergeant. His gaze is locked on you — not Bucky. But he doesn’t growl. Doesn’t retreat.
You clip the leash to his harness carefully, then reach for the door. “Okay, let’s try it.”
Bucky doesn’t rush. He waits until you’re already stepping into the hallway before he moves — slow and steady, arms at his sides, shoulders loose, like he’s trying to shrink himself smaller than he is. And Sergeant watches him every step of the way.
Outside, the air is crisp and cool. The sun’s beginning to set, casting soft gold over the pavement. You keep Sergeant close to your side, walking a few paces ahead, giving him space.
Bucky walks just slightly behind, hands in his pockets, not making eye contact with Sergeant, not reaching for you. He doesn’t even try.
But Sergeant keeps glancing back. Not in fear — in curiosity.
At the corner of the block, a jogger passes close, and Sergeant shifts in front of you protectively, body tense.
Bucky reacts without thinking — takes a small step forward, just enough to shield you.
And that’s when Sergeant turns to look at him. Really look.
There’s no growl. Just a long, silent pause.
Then — to your complete disbelief — Sergeant takes one step toward Bucky. Then two. His nose lifts, sniffing the air near Bucky’s knee.
Bucky freezes, eyes wide. “I’m not moving,” he whispers.
“It’s okay,” you say, your voice hushed.
Sergeant’s nose bumps lightly against Bucky’s leg. He sniffs, circles behind him, then returns to your side.
“That was…” you blink. “That was new.”
Bucky’s expression softens, almost awed. “I got vetted.”
You laugh, stunned, and a little choked up. “Yeah, I think you did.”
Bucky glances down at Sergeant. “Thanks, buddy,” he murmurs.
And maybe Sergeant doesn’t wag his tail — not quite. But he doesn’t bristle, doesn’t growl.
It’s something.
It’s progress.
-------------------
It’s one of those nights where sleep slips through Bucky’s fingers like water.
He lies there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, the hum of the city outside your window barely cutting through the fog in his mind. Your breathing is soft beside him, a slow rhythm he usually finds comfort in. But tonight, even that can’t quiet the buzz under his skin.
Eventually, he shifts, careful not to wake you. Your hand twitches where it rests near his ribs, but you don’t stir — just turn slightly, a soft snore catching in your throat.
He watches you for a moment longer before slipping out of bed.
The floor creaks under his weight as he pads out of the room, and Sergeant lifts his head from his spot near the foot of the bed. There’s no growl, no sound at all — just alert, curious eyes following him.
In the kitchen, Bucky pours himself a glass of water, hands steady even though his chest isn’t. He doesn’t drink right away. Just stands there, leaning against the counter, letting the coolness of the glass anchor him.
He hears soft nails clicking on the floor before he sees Sergeant.
The dog pauses at the edge of the kitchen, watching. Not close, not too near — but there. Present.
Bucky offers a small, almost sheepish smile, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to speak.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he says softly. “Brain’s loud tonight.”
Sergeant doesn’t move, but his head tilts slightly.
Bucky huffs a quiet breath, more air than laugh. He walks to the couch and sinks onto it with a groan, setting the glass on the coffee table. Sergeant follows at a slow, deliberate pace, keeping his distance, but still close enough to see him.
Bucky leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands hanging between them. His eyes stay on the floor.
“Just a hard night,” he murmurs. “You’d get it… right?”
He glances over, and Sergeant is watching. Ears perked. Silent.
“I’m afraid of men too, Serg,” Bucky says, voice lower now. “Not all of them. Just...the kind of men that did this to me," and moves up his metal arm for him to see.
Silence.
Then the faintest shift — the quiet sound of claws against hardwood as Sergeant lies down, just a few feet away.
Not touching. Not close.
But closer than he’s ever been without you there.
Bucky doesn’t say anything else. Just leans back, breathes in the stillness, and lets the presence beside him speak louder than words.
Bucky stays quiet on the couch, his elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped. The weight in his chest hasn’t eased, but he’s breathing through it.
Sergeant still lies a few feet away. Watching.
Then, slowly, the dog gets up.
Bucky hears the soft shift of weight, the light tap of claws on the floor, and glances over.
Sergeant is approaching.
Not fast. Not aggressive. Just… deliberate. His movements are cautious but steady as he walks to the edge of the couch, his head dipping low to sniff at Bucky’s bare forearm.
Bucky freezes — not in fear, but reverence. Like something sacred is happening.
“Hey, buddy,” he says, barely above a whisper.
Sergeant sniffs again, and then—he sits.
Right in front of Bucky. Not pressed close, but not far either. Just there. Solid. Present.
Bucky looks down at him, uncertain. His instinct is to reach out — but he doesn’t want to ruin it. Doesn’t want to misread this rare, quiet invitation.
He lifts his arm slowly, inch by inch.
Sergeant doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t growl.
Just watches.
So Bucky moves closer — slowly, gently — until his hand is hovering just over the dog’s head.
Still no growl.
He lets his fingers lower, the tips brushing against Sergeant’s fur. It’s coarse, thick. Real.
Bucky exhales like he’s been holding his breath the whole time.
He rubs slowly, one soft stroke down the center of Sergeant’s head. Then another.
Sergeant blinks. Then shifts, not away, but closer. A quiet nudge under Bucky’s hand, like: go ahead.
Bucky swallows hard, eyes stinging.
“Thanks, pal,” he says quietly, voice rough with something unsaid.
And for the first time in this apartment, in this complicated triangle of trust, Bucky isn’t just the guy trying to be patient.
He’s accepted.
And neither of them says anything more.
They just sit there, in the soft hum of the night, the soldier and the dog — both still healing, both still learning to trust.
The sun is barely up when you wake, the sky outside still painted in soft gray and peach. You blink a few times, expecting to feel Bucky beside you.
But the bed’s empty. Cold.
You sit up slowly, rubbing your eyes, and glance toward the bedroom door, cracked open just enough to catch a faint sliver of light from the living room.
Quiet footsteps carry you out into the hall, heart already tugging with concern. Maybe he had a nightmare. Maybe—
You stop.
Your brain short circuits.
Bucky is on the couch, fast asleep.
Laid out on his back, one arm dangling off the side, his mouth just slightly open, brow smoothed in rare, deep rest.
And Sergeant?
Sergeant is on top of him.
Half on his chest, half wedged along Bucky’s side, snoring lightly, his head nestled right into the crook of Bucky’s shoulder like he belongs there.
Your hand flies up to your mouth.
What the fuck.
You stand there frozen for a beat, not breathing, like moving too fast might wake them up and shatter the impossible moment in front of you.
Then, slowly, carefully, you reach for your phone.
You hold it up, biting your lip to suppress a gasp-laugh as you frame the shot. The click of the camera is muted, but your heart is pounding.
There is no way anyone would believe this without proof.
You take another photo.
And then another.
And just for good measure, a short video — the way Sergeant’s paw twitches in his sleep, the way Bucky unconsciously shifts closer like he’s anchoring the weight against him, like he wants it there.
You lean against the doorway, blinking hard.
Bucky stirs, blinking up at you with sleep-rubbed eyes. His gaze flicks down, then back up, confusion written all over his face.
“Uh… what the—”
You hold up your phone, grinning as you make your way over to the couch. “Care to explain this, Sergeant’s Majesty?”
He glances down at Sergeant, still curled on his chest like a furry little king, and then back at you.
Bucky’s lips twitch into a sleepy smile. “Guess he finally decided I’m not too bad.”
Sergeant lets out a soft snore, stretching his paws lazily.
You shake your head, still grinning. “Looks like you two made a truce. I’m just glad one of you finally got some sleep.”
Bucky reaches up, pulling you down for a slow, warm kiss.
“Best night I’ve had in a while,” he murmurs.
And as Sergeant settles in deeper, a gentle weight and steady heartbeat beneath you both, you realize this is just the beginning of a little family made of bruised hearts and soft fur.
---------------------------
Did I cry while writing this? maybe...
No, but I genuinely smiled so hard writing this that my cheeks hurt.
Likes, comments, and reblogs are all greatly appreciated!!✨🩷
series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.
pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader
word count: 12.2k
chapter warnings: another mystery gets revealed; canon-typical violence; grief; angst and miscommunication but also a surprising amount of fluff; oh, and time-fuckery. i've missed my time-fuckery 😈 please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.
a/n: it's not friday but i got a new haircut and we're in the endgame now (if you'll excuse the pun) so let's do this
series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3
ten: about time
You liked the anonymity the big city granted you, even though most days, New York felt almost crushingly huge. The crowds swallowed you up and spat you back out again, feeling dizzied and hollow. Sirens wailed and traffic buzzed and life around you hummed in constant cacophony.
But more people meant a better chance of flying under the radar, and that was exactly what you wanted.
No, what you needed.
Even more so now that you were back in the vicinity of the limelight.
"You know," you said as the building caved in on itself, walls going up in flames one by one. "Sometimes I wonder why anyone still lives in this place."
Sam snorted.
"Seriously," you said, taking your place between him and Bucky again. "Rent is outrageous, the streets are crowded, and every other week another catastrophe happens that insurance companies will weasel their way out of covering. So what’s the point?"
"You didn’t grow up here, did ya?"
You weren’t used to Bucky reacting to your rhetorical questions at all, let alone without venom in his voice. Most of the time, you were sure he tuned you out entirely.
"Why," you said in lieu of answering.
He shook his head. "I’ve been gone a long time and there’s a lot of things that changed, but there’s a feeling you get … that’s still the same. Can’t find that anywhere else."
Like home, you thought with a familiar pang in your heart.
"Can I ask you something?" you asked, kicking a pebble as you were walking. It flew across the sidewalk, landing just in front of Bucky’s shoes. He stepped over it.
"Is there a world in which you’re not gonna if I say no?"
"Do you believe in fate?"
He frowned, clearly not having expected that kind of question. But it tugged at you still. Always had, like a whisper in the back of your mind; what if you chose wrong? What if you irreparably ruined the way things were supposed to go? What if—
"I don’t," Bucky replied.
"Me either," Sam said. "I mean, millions of possible worlds and this is the one we get? I don’t want that to be fate."
You turned towards him. "What if the other options are way worse?"
"Like what? Wait, no, don’t answer that. I’m having an alright day."
"Don’t wanna think about how we might all be puppets pulled by invisible strings with no free will to speak of?"
"Y/N," Sam said, the levity from his tone missing now, tilting his head.
To your right, Bucky’s hands were clenched at his sides, his back very straight. Shit.
A wave of guilt rushed through you, unexpected and brutal, thoughtless, "I didn’t—"
"It comes down to choices," he said, very calmly. "What we are and aren’t able to do. What we know. Who we trust."
You swallowed heavily and dropped the idea of attempting a redo. In all likelihood, it wouldn’t have worked, anyway. "You know, Steve said something similar when I asked him once," you said instead. "About people and choices."
Bucky pushed his sunglasses up his nose. "I bet he did."
Maybe fate, in that one case, would’ve been a kinder option.
For a second, you tried to imagine a universe in which the past had worked out differently; where the Soldier never inhabited that dark place at the edge of Bucky’s mind.
You would’ve gotten along great, you know.
You tried to imagine it for a moment; meeting him back in a time before, walking through the streets of New York City side by side in silence with an easy smile on his face. You doubted he ever smiled at all now.
Besides, there was no point in imagining universes that never would’ve been, anyway. Out there, there was a world in which he’d died a happy man, years or decades ago, and you … you’d still have been alone, just as you were now, floating between realities. Staring at thin air and wondering about what could never have been. That was the only thing constant in your life, the one certainty amidst mediocre decisions and timeless space.
Maybe fate was just an ugly torture; or a sorry consolation.
"Right," you said as the wall of journalists rounded the corner. "I’ll see you back at the Tower."
Bucky clapped Sam on the back. "You got this, Cap."
"You’re both assholes."
You dispersed in opposite directions, and you pulled out your headphones as you headed towards the nearest subway station, putting your playlist on shuffle.
"A long, long time ago … I can still remember how that music used to make me smile …"
It punched the air out of your lungs, and for a moment you stopped in the middle of the street, the world around you pausing in shock. Your vision blurred as slowly, movements and noise returned around you, people bumping into you and cursing as you stared at your screen, the song stuttering back to life note by note.
To your own surprise, you found you were smiling.
Happy accidents, indeed.
* * * * *
It’s never happened, you tell yourself. You’ve gotten quite convincing over the past half hour. Dodge Sam’s kicks, feign to the right, ignore the fact that you just kissed Bucky.
Your rush of Sanctum-induced energy has burned down to a simmer at the very back of your mind again, and even though you should probably examine that and its implications, you’ve not been able to focus all morning.
It’s fine. It’s fine. He’s not going to say anything about it because it’s never happened.
Why, then, when he says your name, does it make you want to bolt?
"Y/N," he says again.
You let out a breath. "Barnes."
This was a mistake. You should’ve just stayed in your room. Should’ve packed your things and just left, moved to Canada, or maybe asked for asylum in Kamar-Taj. Surely, Wong would’ve taken pity on you a second time.
Then again, what good would any of that have done? The loop would never let go of you that easily.
The symbols around your wrist tingle, and you fight the urge to scratch. You can feel that Bucky is staring at you, but you can’t look at him. You can’t.
"You done?" you say with faux lightness. "Don’t worry, I know which towel to take."
Pretend is what you’re good at. No matter how tiring it is, you’ve done it all your life. There’s no other way to cope with realities that are no longer real.
Unfortunately, Bucky’s never been inclined to let you get away with lying. "Stop it," he says now.
He sounds tired.
You slip out of the ring, keeping your head down, refusing to yield, "I’ll see you for coffee?"
His hand closes around your wrist and you freeze mid-step. "We need to—would you please look at me?"
You square your shoulders and finally turn to face him. His eyes are wide, intense, pinning you down like you’re a rare kind of butterfly. Your heart skips a little, and you hate yourself for it.
"We need to talk about this," Bucky says.
You hide a wince. "Do we have to?"
"Yes! You—" His cheeks are tinged a soft shade of pink, but you can’t tell if it’s from his run or frustration. You’re certain he’s never looked at you like this before, bewildered and almost betrayed—"You kissed me."
The sentence drops a chasm between you, reality mended against its will. It’s not real, but it was; and you’re not the only one that remembers.
"I know," you say quietly.
The admission conjures the memory again in even more horrific detail. You can still feel the way his entire body froze up against yours, blood curdling in your bones as the scene replays over and over again. You’ve only just started to become friends on equal terms, and now you’ve gone and thrown something like that at him.
What a colossally stupid thing to do.
Bucky’s hair is mussed, like he’s run his hands through it repeatedly. He searches for something on your face, and you cannot tell for the life of you what he sees. "And it reset the loop."
You blink. So that’s what this is about. Inadvertently, you’ve found the most ill-timed literal loophole of the century. No one died during the last Friday; you didn’t even have to go on the mission or throw yourself off a building. The solution, it appears, is as simple and as complicated as a kiss.
Truly, there couldn’t have been a worse way to make him aware of your feelings.
Then again … what does Bucky know, really? Nothing. He’d caught you in a moment of weakness, is all. A temporary madness. Not a big deal at all. So why make it one?
Your feelings aren’t his burden to bear.
"Look at it this way," you say, with a too-bright smile. "We found a way around you catching a bullet at the end of every day. It’s not like it has to mean anything."
You want to take it back almost as quickly as it comes out, but there’s no way for you to take back the things you say anymore. You both know that, and you let it hang in the air for a while.
Bucky swallows. "Well, did you know that this would happen?"
You want to laugh. Out of all possible reactions he could’ve had, you didn’t see this one coming. "How on earth would I have known that?"
His eyes flit between yours, confirming your honesty. "I don’t know, I’m just—this is a lot to process."
Ah. Ah.
You bite the inside of your cheek so hard you can taste iron. "Take your time, then," you say and turn to leave, but he still doesn’t let go of you.
"Twe—Y/N, come on, give me five seconds here."
"No, it’s fine." An odd kind of hurt rushes through you, making every sentence come out sharp and poisonous. "I love the fact that you were immediately willing to jump off the roof every day but the thought of us kissing is something you need to think about. It’s not like I’m asking you to marry me."
"I know that," Bucky says, his flush darkening, "but call me old-fashioned in that I don’t generally like kissing people transactionally."
So you’re people now.
"You’re old-fashioned," you confirm, freeing your hand from his grip. "This isn’t fun for me either, okay? But since this is literally a matter of life and death, I think it’s a damn good compromise. We don’t have to make this a whole thing."
"Well, maybe it should be a whole thing."
"What does that even mean? This doesn’t change things, not really."
"This changes plenty. You think you like me, don’t you." It sounds like an accusation.
You take a half step towards him. "Why are you saying it like that?"
"Because you don’t, actually."
With a pang, you remember before. The constant bickering, the passive-aggressive notes, your rolling eyes and his glaring. Before, when your feelings were easy and surface level, when developing a crush on James Buchanan Barnes would have seemed as likely as receiving a Nobel prize.
Or unraveling reality because he took a shot that was meant for you.
In hindsight, it shouldn’t have taken you this long to decipher what had tenderly started a very long time before Bryant Park. It was there already, in every time you’ve waited for him first thing in the morning, in every cup of coffee and desperate attempt to save him. You see him stone-faced in the quinjet, picking the lock of the public library, guiding you over broken pieces of glass on your bedroom floor, sitting down on the couch next to you, every version of him on this day already so deeply nestled into the very core of your heart that it’s hard to believe it might’ve ever been otherwise.
And so you say, "Of course I do."
"No, you don’t," Bucky says, that tick in his jaw reappearing. "This is just—I don’t know, trauma bonding."
For the first time since the loop started, you actually do want to kill him. "Oh, get a grip, Barnes."
"We’ve never spent this much time together—"
"We fucking live together—"
"—let alone the fact that this whole situation is a nightmare—"
"—and even if we didn’t, I don’t understand what your problem is right now—"
"—so you’re bound to think there’s more to it than—”
"—and also can you stop telling me what I think?"
You stare at each other, unblinking, both of you daring the other to break the silence. Finally, Bucky relents.
"I’m just saying that you wouldn’t be … acting this way if we weren’t the only two people that are aware of what’s happening to us."
You shake your head, slowly. "That’s not true."
His logic is flawed, but can you fault him for that? You’re used to being the person that remembers; you’ve had so much more time to make up your mind, on Friday and all the days that came before.
"You can’t stand me, remember?" Bucky maintains, his back straightening. "Because I do."
"Things changed."
"No." He presses his lips together. "No, not this. You’re wrong. You don’t … like me."
Your shoulders slump, but you don’t look away from him, even as your cheeks burn. "I do."
Even as he backs away from you and your heart aches so badly you want to scream, even as his wide eyes freeze over, slowly, as he regards you in all your fucked-up, sweaty glory. Expecting rejection doesn’t take away from the pain as it happens in real time; and yet, you find yourself meeting it with your head held high.
Somehow you know that even if you had access to your powers right now, you wouldn’t reach for them.
"You can’t do this to me right now," Bucky says, voice devoid of any emotion. "It’s not real."
You let out a joyless laugh and step up to him again. This time, he doesn’t retreat; only watches you with careful, vacant eyes as you put a hand right over his heart. It’s racing under your touch. "Does this feel not real to you?"
He swallows. "It’s temporary. This world is falling apart."
It always is, you think. You don’t say it out loud, though. Instead, you blurt, "We should go out, then."
Something flashes in Bucky’s eyes, gone as quickly as it appears. "What?"
"Out," you repeat, your cheeks flaming. "While were not getting shot at."
"Are you—are you asking me on a date?"
"I’m not actually sure," you say, dropping your hand. "But I can’t keep letting you die, I just can’t. And if that’s the way that you … that we …"
You’re being stripped naked under his unwavering eyes, and you just don’t know what it means. The band around your wrist hums lowly through your blood as you dig your nails into the flesh of your palms.
"If we want to figure this out—whatever this is—we should spend more time together."
"Time," Bucky repeats tonelessly.
"You know what I mean. I mean, maybe you’re right. Maybe we’ll find out we’re never going to get along, but at least I don’t have to watch you die for a couple of loops. Like I said, it doesn’t have to be a big deal," you reiterate, your throat tightening. "Other than you not having to get shot every day. And who knows, maybe we’ll end up as friends after all this."
"Right," Bucky says, frowning. Not budging. The tips of his ears are burning.
There’s a flicker behind his eyes, like he’s keeping himself from saying something else.
Tell me.
Hope is a terrible, dangerous thing, and it only gets people hurt.
"Fine," he says at last. "Let’s try."
* * *
"Big lesson number one: All the time travel in the world can’t make someone love you."
Out of the corner of your eye, you steal a glance at Bucky. He doesn’t seem to notice, his eyes calmly focused on the screen, his expression neutral, his back very straight.
You keep twisting your rings around your fingers and waiting for the blood to stop rushing quite so loudly in your ears.
Your run of terrible ideas, it seems, continues on as you pretend to be invested in the movie while hyperaware of Bucky’s presence next to you. The two of you are next to each other on the same couch, much like you were during the fireworks; only this time, you’re very careful not to touch.
This is what you get for stupid suggestions: awkward silence and the sinking feeling of regret. After all, isn’t more time stuck together kind of the last thing the two of you need right now? Shouldn’t you be doing something to try to end this, once and for all?
Because although you’ve already spent a lot more time with Bucky during these past couple of Fridays, you’ve not done it aimlessly since you lost an afternoon at Bryant Park.
That look on his face he got during that loop is long gone, lifetimes away, and you can’t decide if it’s better or worse that he doesn’t even remember getting it in the first place.
Still, it’s remarkably similar, in some ways. The quiet ease you feel next to him, despite it all. The slight frown between his brows as the movie continues blabbering on in the background. This mix of uncertainty and reassurance rushing through you, making your heart rate go up.
Tell me. What? What did it mean, then? What would it mean, now?
It doesn’t matter. This doesn’t mean anything. It cannot mean anything. You’ve established as much.
Alpine slinks around the couch table and jumps up onto the sofa next to you, pawing at your arm until you let her climb into your lap. She doesn’t settle, exactly, but she keeps tracking the movement of your hands with her head. It distracts you for a while, and you smile as you readjust your position to scratch her head.
She smells a little like Bucky.
"This is so stupid," you finally say. Normally, it’s easy for you to poke fun at the inaccuracies of time travel movies, but this one is … different. You’ve always had a soft spot for it, even though you could never point out why. Maybe it’s the underlying melancholy of its rules that connects to the very core of you.
Right now, though, the characters on screen are having marathon sex and you want to die.
"You’re the one who picked it out," Bucky reminds you, taking a sip of his coffee.
And yeah, fine. In your defense, though, all of his suggestions were at least seventy years old and you had to veto with something to avoid another Hitchcock, or worse, a silent film.
Alpine is still restless in your lap, tapping the inlets in Bucky’s arm like they’re a piece of thread she’s playing with. Without warning, she jumps right over, landing in the crook of his elbow with feline precision.
Unexpectedly, Bucky winces, picking her up with his other hand and putting her down on the floor. She lets out an accusatory cry, bumping her head against his leg.
"Are you okay?" you ask.
"It’s fine," he hisses, looking the opposite of fine. "It happens sometimes. It’s the, uhm." He rolls his shoulder. "Not all the connective tissue healed properly."
"Can I do anything?"
"No, it’s okay. You might wanna just … this is kinda gross."
He grabs the metal arm by the joint and gives a sharp twist. With a whirring, metallic sound, it detaches from its socket, fingers frozen in their strain. It thumps onto the space between you on the couch, and Bucky sighs as the weight disappears from the old scars hidden under his shirt. He doesn’t look at you as he rubs the aching muscles, his jaw tensing even more at the pressure.
You watch him as softness blooms painfully in the pit of your stomach, warm and fond and impossible.
"I’m disappointed," you say at last, your voice cracking ever so slightly.
His fingers halt for just a moment before digging into his skin even more tightly. "I know it’s not—"
"I’m waiting for the gross part," you interrupt him. "I thought you’d have blood bags installed that were gonna explode or something."
An incredulous huff of a laugh escapes him. "That’s your definition of gross?"
"Don’t forget I’ve watched you die literally dozens of times," you remind him, tracing the golden lines laced through the vibranium. It seems less invasive, now that they’re not attached to him. "And I like your arm," you add quietly.
Bucky keeps looking at the screen, but you know he’s watching you out of the corner of his eye. You can feel it.
"It’s grotesque," he says.
"It’s impressive," you correct, absent-mindedly reaching for his pinkie. "But that tracks."
He stays silent for so long, you almost start to believe he’s not heard you at all. Finally, though, he clears his throat and asks, "Is he ever gonna tell her he’s a time traveler?"
It takes you a moment to remember the movie. "I don’t think so."
Bucky nods, producing the small notebook he always carries from his back pocket. "He’s a dick."
You snort and return to your side of the couch. "I know, right? We can watch something else if you want."
"Nah, it’s fine." He flicks through his notebook, jotting something down in the back.
"Do these keep?" you ask when he pockets it again.
"They don’t," he says simply, redirecting his attention to the screen.
You hum, attempting to lure Alpine closer with a shiny bit of chocolate wrapper. She’s decidedly uninterested.
"Were you so bored with the play you decided to ask me to marry you afterwards?"
"Something like that."
"I haven’t even asked," Bucky says and you flinch.
"Huh?" you say, a little shrilly.
"How are you feeling?"
"Oh. Yeah. Mostly normal again, I think."
His gaze flits to your hand as it goes to play with the pendant around your neck before returning to your eyes. "Anything … weird?"
You kissed him you kissed him you kissed him you—
"Not really." You clear your throat.
"I think you’re right, by the way," Bucky says.
"About what?"
He keeps staring straight ahead, his pen tapping against his thigh. "It doesn’t have to mean anything."
Even though it was your suggestion in the first place, it stings a little. You can’t help it.
"If Wong’s right, we’re already running out of time," Bucky continues. "We can figure everything else out once we’re out of this loop, but for now we should just focus on getting this right."
You hesitate. "You’re making it sound like we haven’t been doing just that all along."
"What do you want me to say?"
"I don’t know."
There’s something you’re missing staring you right in the face, but the problem with going through the same day so many times is that you’re running out of things to do. There’s only so much to do in these limited few hours you get before it all starts over again, because everything apart from the two of you stays the same every time.
Bucky’s arm glints in the morning sun like it’s threaded with gold string, his shoulders relaxed, and a different memory stirs in your mind.
That’s a lot of dedication when you could’ve just asked.
"What would you normally be doing right now?"
Bucky raises an eyebrow. "You trying to get rid of me already?"
"No. I’m saying you’re usually more unpredictable."
"Thank you."
"Not really a compliment. Sam has more going on on every given day than the two of us combined, but at least he’s consistent. You’re the one with no hobbies."
"What do you do for fun then?"
"I … Fuck you."
If you didn’t know better, you’d think he blushes.
"So, say there’s no time loop today, no mission, you have no memory of any of this shit. Normal July 4th. Where are you going?"
"Where am I going?"
"Before you remembered, when I didn’t tell you that you were going to die, you always disappeared for hours every morning. And then after Sam’s speech, you were gone again until the mission."
It’s another piece of the puzzle that you’re still missing.
Bucky contemplates you, taking another sip of coffee. His mouth does the little twitch again. "And you’re telling me you’ve never asked me that before?"
"Oh, I did," you reply. "A lot. I also tried following you once and you called me a shit spy."
"Well, you are." There’s a hint of a smile in his voice when he reaches for his arm. "Get your shoes, then."
* * *
It’s a long train ride down to Brooklyn, but it doesn’t feel like it. You manage to get a seat after a few stops, and because Bucky hasn’t said a word to you since you were standing on the platform, you take to watching the people around you.
It’s exciting, in a way, to be in a new space for the first time in a while. Not to know exactly what’s going to happen next. You’ve been making little pockets of time for yourself every now and again, walking different routes home after getting coffee or varying the time at which you leave, but it’s not the same as venturing into a different part of the city. There’s been too much going on for you to have even considered that.
"Are you going to tell me where we’re headed?" you ask after a while, when he has to step over your legs to make room for a stroller.
"Now where’d be the fun in that?" he answers, and then he turns silent again.
A small child is hugging a Mickey Mouse plushie to their chest and pointing at the window, wailing loudly. A girl with a septum piercing and at least three tote bags over her shoulders manages to maneuver a cello case and a scooter onto the carriage, leaning both against the back of some seats before taking out her phone and calmly starting to scroll. An elderly lady watches the whole affair, mumbling to herself disapprovingly, then resumes her knitting.
You catch Bucky already looking at you when you glance up at him. Something about it makes your cheeks heat and turn away quickly.
You remember that his government-issued apartment used to be somewhere near Flatbush, and you have a fleeting thought that this might be where you’re headed, even though that doesn’t really make sense. He still doesn’t make any attempt to move when you pass it by, continuing to stare out the window, his gloved hand wrapped tightly around the handrail above your head.
Finally, the train rolls to its last stop, and you make ready to get off with the rest of the passengers.
"Coney Island, huh?" you say as the heat on the platform slaps you across the face.
"Coney Island," Bucky repeats affirmingly. His hands are back in his pockets, and he doesn’t elaborate, even though you notice the significance in the way he says it.
Two words titling another subchapter in the mystery book that is James Buchanan Barnes.
You follow the masses streaming towards the water and a sigh dislodges from your throat. It’s been way too long since you’ve properly heard the ocean.
The beach is already swarming with people despite the fact it’s not even noon yet, filled with raucous laughter and music playing, but the sound of crashing waves is unmistakable. It fills you with a sense of longing, though for what you’re not sure.
Bucky keeps his hands tucked away as the two of you stroll along the boardwalk, dodging people left and right, until you have to grab hold of his sleeve in order to not get pulled away. His shoulders tense slightly, but he lets you, leading you towards the pier as if he, too, feels the pull coming from the sea.
You can’t figure out the look on his face. It’s like a weight has fallen off him when you left Manhattan, despite the crowds being considerably more dense down here, and yet there’s an anticipatory tension to his frame that you’ve only seen him assume in combat.
You clear your throat and he washes his face off it. "Is it usually like this?" you ask.
"It used to be not quite so bad," Bucky says, which isn’t quite what you asked. "Not this loud at least."
"What?" you shout teasingly. It earns you an eyeroll.
Thirty, you think. Took him long enough.
"We used to come here every summer," he continues, bending down to pick up a perfectly round pebble from the side of the road and weighing it in his hand before slipping it into his pocket. "Ate hot dogs until we were sick. Rode some of the rides if we could afford it. You know them fortune teller automatons? My sisters were obsessed with that."
Maybe you should recount the days you’ve been stuck in the loop, because this feels like an early birthday present. You hold on tightly to his sleeve, not wanting to interrupt the unusual flow of words. Bucky’s smile is miles away. Decades away.
"Becks came with us every year on the fourth, even when she was little. The twins never liked crowds much, but Rebecca loved it all. The noise and the excitement." His mouth tilts up in a grin. "One year, she was desperate for one of those giant stuffed teddy bears you can win," he says, nodding at one of the booths up ahead, "but we were all down to our last couple’a dimes, so she pretended she didn’t want it after all. Steve went, 'Hold on a minute', and he somehow won her that damn bear with two shots."
"Always the hero," you say quietly. Somehow, he hears you through the commotion.
"Yeah." He stops walking, then, leaning against the metal railing of the pier, letting the people flow past you. "The two of us would come here every year before the war, rain or shine, unless one of us was sick."
Nostalgia makes him seem younger, despite the tired eyes and the stubble on his cheek; or maybe this place is its own sort of time capsule and he’s just filling in that space he used to occupy.
"He kept it up." You’re not sure if you should tell him at all, if it helps or if it only makes this day a little more painful. But you figure that if it was you, you’d want to know. "During the Blip, he was always gone for his birthday. Only came home in the evening, I never asked why, though. I figured he just wanted—what?"
"He panicked during one of those press tours they had him do in ’41, said his birthday’s on the fourth. Everyone just ran with it without double-checking." He shakes his head. "I mean, Captain America born on Independence Day? The headlines practically wrote themselves."
"But—when’s his actual birthday then?"
"January 4th. Punk made himself half a year older than he actually is."
You laugh. "Of course he’s a Capricorn. That makes so much sense."
Bucky looks at you with raised eyebrows. "Was that a cap pun?"
You shove his arm and immediately regret it when your elbow hits vibranium. "That was terrible," you say. "The point is, he didn’t forget about your tradition."
"That was a while ago, though. 'Specially for him." He ducks his head. "I don’t know. I just wanted to see if …" He huffs mirthlessly. "Don’t think I’d even really want to see him. Not sure what I’d say to him if I did."
"How about, 'Hey, I’m stuck in a time loop, nice to see you?'"
He smiles as you lean against the railing next to him, your shoulders almost touching. "He’s done with that life. It’s fine."
You don’t know how he bears it. Being left behind already hurt bad enough for you, and you only knew Steve a couple of years, or maybe not at all. It sounds too painful, to be forced to keep wondering what if.
"I disagree," you say.
The silence that follows should be heavy, but the sea swallows it up; and so it floats. Around you, life goes on. People are shouting and fighting and laughing. Over at the boardwalk, a couple of buskers are just starting their set. A familiar melody drifts up to you, and it makes your heart ache a little, even though it’s not sad at all. It reminds you of Nat’s smile.
You watch the shadows that you cast over the water and you think, Dance with me, but you don’t say it out loud. You don’t want to ruin this moment.
So instead, you close your eyes and you breathe it in.
* * *
You spend what feels like hours at the pier, ebbing and flowing alongside the crowd in companionable silence, the only two people alive that are aware this day is like a snake biting its own tail; beautiful and sharp-teethed.
"Do you think we should head back?" you ask finally.
"You wanna head back?" Bucky says in lieu of an answer.
"We should. What if something happens to Sam again?"
He watches you, contemplating something for a moment, before he says, "He’s not gonna go without us today."
Torres’ message comes back to your mind, the lack of urgency in it. It seems, in the beginning, you’ve gotten a lot of things wrong, and you’re only just starting to chip away at those miscalculations.
Another memory, again of that day in the park.
I’m good, I didn’t end up going …Wanna just go home?
Home.
If the mission doesn’t have to happen today but you always go anyway …
"Do you ask him to go?"
He doesn’t answer, but you know his face so well by now.
"Oh, Bucky."
"Mission’s the easiest way to shut my mind up." He laughs dryly. "So, you see. Nothing about this is your fault. I pushed the first domino. Everything else happened after that."
You tug on his sleeve until he looks at you. "If I’m not allowed to blame myself, then you aren’t, either." Something twists in your gut. "Does that mean we’re not going on the mission today?"
The other question, the one you’re not asking, hangs in the air. Bucky swallows.
"It’s still early," he says.
"Right." You turn around and lean against the railing, looking at the booths on the other side of the pier. "Well, we’re here."
"I’m not riding the Cyclone with you."
You shudder. "Yeah, no thanks. Do people actually willingly go on that death trap?"
"Some idiots do," he smirks.
"Well, that’s not how I’m gonna go down, so no. I was thinking something like that." You point in the direction of one particular stand you walked past earlier.
Bucky follows your line of sight. "I thought you didn’t want any shooting today."
"That was before I saw that I could win a giant stuffed dragon."
"You know you can’t cheat, right?" He falls into step besides you with familiar ease, his hands back in his pockets.
"Let me rephrase that. That was before I saw that you could win me a giant stuffed dragon." You smile innocently and he laughs.
"I got banned from these things in ’36 but I’m sure you got this, sweetheart."
You nearly trip over your own feet as heat spreads in your chest. Bucky turns and looks at you in amusement.
You force yourself to ignore it, even though your heart is beating wildly. "That’s such a brag."
"Maybe I just want to see how your aim’s coming along."
Not at all, as it turns out. You walk away from the shooting gallery fifteen minutes later with a little plush keychain that looks like a sleeping bear, pouting.
"You could’ve helped me out," you grumble. "Instead of acting like they have your picture still up there ninety years after the fact."
"You never know. Besides, this is … cute."
"Oh, shut up, Barnes."
The keyring clacks against the back of his hand as it magnetically sticks to it. Your fingers brush as you keep holding onto the little bear. Bucky shakes his head.
"Besides," he says, gently tugging you along with the keyring still stuck to him. "You couldn’t have kept him."
He’s not wrong. Everything around you is set in stone in a way that permanence itself has lost all meaning. How can things ever be expected to change in a closed experiment?
You look around and marvel at all these lives around you, happening in just this way every single day in this loop, and yet this is the first time you’re truly aware of them. All these small, magnificent people around you, and yet it still boils down to the two of you.
"Listen, Y/N …" Bucky clears his throat, not looking at you as you keep walking. "There’s a dance to these things, and I’m not … you and me, we’re not …"
His cheeks are a dark shade of pink.
"I don’t think I follow," you say slowly.
"No. Of course. It’s just that … you should know …" He trails off again, mumbling something in Russian.
Your head is already whirring from the constant noise of the past couple of hours, but your heart is pounding faster again, something irrational like hope spreading wild and dangerous in your chest. He regards you with a sidewards glance, his eyes darkening like you’ve seen several times before now, the corner of his jaw twitching in that way of his; and so it’s easy to say it.
"Tell me."
You’ve asked him over and over, time after time, and you still haven’t gotten an answer. Weeks, months of this question that’s entirely meaningless in the grand scheme of things and yet refuses to leave the back of your mind.
Bucky’s mouth opens and closes, like the words are on his tongue but he needs to contain them just a little longer. His eyes trail over your face and off to the side, settling on something with a frown. "You have a …"
Thinking it’s a bug, you look at your arm and blink.
There, just below the elbow, someone has written four words in careful, slightly wonky letters. You don’t have to twist your arm to read them; you’ve done it many times.
No self-deprication. Скажи ей.
Familiar and slightly smudged under the heat of the afternoon sun, like they’ve been there all along. Like you’ve never washed them off your skin at all.
Memories meant for other timelines.
"Sorry." Bucky exhales slowly, then drags his other hand through his hair. "Think you’re up for another stop?"
Once again, you’re no closer to finding out what on earth he’s wanted to tell you all these times.
"Depends," you say, reminding yourself that you have no right to be disappointed. "Is there going to be coffee?"
"I’ll buy you some on the way." He takes a look at his wristwatch. "We have one last stop."
* * *
When you get to the cemetery, the sun is just setting on the horizon and the gates are locked. It doesn’t faze Bucky in the slightest. He just continues walking along the fencing until he reaches a couple of newspaper boxes lining it.
"After you," he says.
You stare at him. "No."
"Yes."
"You realize this is so illegal, right?"
Bucky shrugs. "I’ve done this dozens of times and they’ve not caught me yet. I’ll give you a lift."
"Again, I hate your ideas."
You place your foot into Bucky’s interlaced hands and only wince slightly when he propels you up. You come to a wobbly halt on top of the box, grabbing onto one of the spikes to keep your balance.
Bucky’s arm brushes your side when he climbs up next to you and nimbly jumps down on the other side of the fence. You sigh.
"You couldn’t have just busted the lock?"
"Probably." He opens his arms. "Come on. I’ve got you."
With a murmured curse, you take the leap. You crash into him, stumbling, his hands steadying your shoulders. You inhale involuntarily, letting yourself be surrounded by his presence for a moment before stepping away.
"I got it," you mutter.
You walk in silence as Bucky leads your way. Above your heads behind you, a passing N train rattles by.
It’s a beautiful sight, even though it’s sad. Rows upon rows of gravestones lined up as far as the eye can see, with paths crisscrossing between them.
Finally, he halts close to a spot in the shadow of an evergreen tree. You step up next to him to read the names on the stone, recognizing only the last one right above the inscriptions on the bottom.
REBECCA PROCTOR BARNES, 1926-2024
You remember the time right after he moved into the Tower; the odd hours, the baking, the candles, the silence, the long hair. The tear in his shirt. Your heart twists in regret, your mouth dry.
Bucky’s lips move with words you don’t hear, and then he pulls off his gloves and takes something out of his pocket, bending down. You recognize the pebble he picked up at the beach. He puts it down on the gravestone, then straightens again.
You reach out for his hand and squeeze it in silent condolence. Instead of letting go, he interlaces your fingers. His hand is warm.
Several minutes pass before he tugs on your hand again, pulling you to a bench a few steps back. You’re not sure what to say, and so you stay quiet, biting the inside of your cheek until Bucky bumps his shoulder against yours.
"I think this might be the longest time you’ve shut up since I met you."
You scowl at him. "I was trying to be respectful."
A small grin flits across his face. "There’s a first time for everything."
Another train passes resoundingly, an oddly mundane sound in such a solemn place; still, it adds to it, in a way. It makes you think of putting your loved ones on a train, then waving them good-bye; just for now.
"Where are your parents?" you ask softly.
"Back in Indiana. They moved to take care of my dad’s parents and then stayed to manage the house and all that." He closes his eyes. "I’ve not been there since I was fifteen years old, but I still remember the way the trees smell in summer right after it’s rained."
"And the twins?"
"Mira got married, moved out of state, died while I was in cryo. Jo was in a car crash in ’58. Apparently, she drove races."
You settle your head against his shoulder. "Did they have children?"
"Miriam did. I have a great-niece who’s an architect in Seattle."
"Fancy."
"Right?" He sighs. "It was always Becks and me, though, when we were kids."
"Do you come here a lot?"
"Not as often as I thought I would. But it’s good to remember things."
"Tell me about her."
You can hear his smile when he speaks again, and it’s almost better than seeing it. "She was exactly the kind of little sister you’d read about in novels. Pigtails. Sweet. Annoying as hell." He chuckles. "One time when she was nine, she ate so much cotton candy she was sick all over Steve’s shoes. And that made him sick."
"Gross," you comment, which makes him huff in amusement. Good. "You must miss her a lot."
"Yeah. I do." He hesitates for a moment, then adds, "You’d have liked her."
The admission blooms in your stomach, warm and wistful at the same time. "Somehow, I don’t doubt that."
"Do you have siblings?"
You sit up straight again. "What?"
Ask me tomorrow.
"What?" Bucky asks.
"Why did you ask me that?"
He looks at you like he just can’t figure you out. "I don’t know, it seemed appropriate."
"It’s just … you asked me before. In the loop."
"I have?" His brows knit. "Is it important?"
You hesitate, then shake your head. This day has been full of surprises you can’t make sense of; what’s one more? "I guess not."
"Well?" He looks at you expectantly.
"When I grew up … let’s just say super powers don’t exactly run in the family."
It comes out slower this time, your memories of the past, and Bucky listens just as carefully. You twist your rings around your fingers, over and over again.
"When you can do what I can do … even with my family around, I never felt like I could actually be a part of them. They never really understood what my powers meant and I … I think it scared them. Which I get now, after a shitton of therapy, but try explaining to a six-year-old why her dad never really talks to her."
"That’s horrible."
"I know. But I’m fine now." Strangely, unexpectedly, you find that you really mean it, too. "And then after that … I mean, you know. Those five years I had at the Compound were the first time I felt like I had a real family. We were all kind of broken together."
Bucky stays silent but you can tell his attention is still focused on you.
"I wasn’t in a very good place when you and Sam found me. I’d just lost everything. But then … that mission happened, and I was needed again even though you despised me—"
"I didn’t—"
"—but the truth is, fighting with you was the most fun I’d had in a long time."
"Ditto." He’s still looking at you as if he’s searching for something. As if he didn’t know all your secrets now. Finally, he looks away, clearing his throat. "It’s getting dark."
You nod. "Give me one second."
He watches you let go of his hand and walk back towards Rebecca’s grave, pulling out your keychain and setting it down as well. It looks like the little bear is resting its head on Bucky’s pebble.
The look on his face is heartbreakingly unreadable when you return, and it makes your insides clench in desperation. You come to a halt in front of him, wrapping your arms around yourself.
"We won’t make it ’til midnight," you say.
"Probably not," Bucky agrees.
"And I don’t want to have to go on that mission."
"Me neither."
Your eyes lock.
"Are you going to lose your mind again?" you say quietly.
He looks at the ground between you, hands hidden in the pockets of his jacket again. "No promises."
You swallow heavily. The anticipation makes you near dizzy, even though you’ve agreed that this doesn’t mean anything.
Your breath still hitches when his lips fan over yours, barely touching at first, just hovering, testing the waters. Like either of you have anything to lose. It’s making your stomach flutter.
In the end, you’re the one who leans in properly. You intend for it to be a short peck, but it’s just too tempting to linger, careful, soft, slow. He tastes like your coffee order: a little sweet and a little bitter.
You could see yourself becoming addicted to it.
The thought makes you break the kiss, your hands still on his chest. You can feel his heartbeat through the fabric of his shirt.
Bucky’s eyes open heavily, dark and blue and confused. His cheeks are flushed. "We’re still here?"
You are. You’ve made a fool of yourself. He’s going to die, anyway.
In a panic, you take a step backwards, blinking, wrapping your arms around yourself. Between one blink and the next, you realize you’re sitting in bed, the sun in your face, FRIDAY blasting The All-American Rejects at full volume.
Your lips are still tingling.
* * *
Something has shifted.
You can feel it in the air, humming like it did at the Bleecker Street Sanctum, vibrating with something akin to anticipation. The colors of the astral plane, warped and peculiar as they always are, feel sharpened, more insistently vibrant in their hue.
What now? the walls seem to ask, curling towards you as soon as you’re not looking at them directly; a presence hovering over your shoulder, close enough to feel its strange, otherworldly heat.
You reach for your necklace and feel its magic pulsating slowly and steadily, reassuring you. These ghosts cannot harm you in here; not yet, at least.
And yet, you feel this place quivering with kaleidoscopic impatience, straining against some invisible malevolence unraveling its very core with needle-pointed talons.
Playing with the fabric of everything is a dangerous pastime.
The symbols around your wrist are prickling, and when you examine them more closely, you notice they have started to lift off your skin, sitting there loosely like a worn-out bracelet.
"Y/N!"
Between one blink and the next, you’re squinting at an unforgiving midday sun, and you tumble backwards against a solid chest. Bucky’s arms come up to steady you as you take a gulp of air. It feels like you’ve been holding your head underwater.
"What are you doing up here?"
Slowly, confusion settles into your bones as you take a look at your surroundings. Somehow, you’ve gotten up to the roof again.
"I don’t know," you gasp, twisting in his hold. You can feel your pulse rushing through your ears. "I don’t remember."
You’ve not been able to forget anything in decades, and now it’s like that easy cord of memory has been snapped at some point between the astral plane and here. Gone, like that time has never existed in the first place.
Bucky studies you carefully, his face sober. His hands firm around your forearms, grounding you. It’s what does it, you’ve realized. The loop doesn’t snap back as long as you’re touching.
That doesn’t mean anything, though.
The important thing is, you’ve not woken up blood-soaked in nearly a week.
"You wanna go back downstairs?"
For a moment, the sky turns wild behind his head; you smell magic and fire as purples and greens and oranges swirl around in lazy, misty clouds, the stars glittering impossibly at the corner of your vision.
Bucky’s grip on you tightens and it all fades away until nothing remains but the intense blue of his eyes. You wonder if he might’ve noticed the colors, too, if he’d just looked away from you.
"Yeah," you whisper. "Yeah, that’s a good call."
His gaze flickers down and then leaves you, and it makes you want to restart the loop right then and there. Or at least have him look at you like that again.
It can’t mean anything and you know that, but if hope kills him, then let it break your heart into a million pieces. You welcome the ache. It’s much better than the alternative.
Curious, how you used to feel like you’ve known him for so long, through textbooks and newspaper articles and anecdotes told on long Campus nights. It’d always been hard for you to recognize the person from those stories in the man who was living just a few doors away from you and emptying your fridge. Hell, most days it was difficult to even imagine him capable of a smile.
But things are different now.
Over the course of this one, endless day, you’ve met a side of Bucky you’d barely believed existed before. A gentler person than he usually lets on, even towards you. Funny, too. Stubborn and capable, vicious, loyal, brave. So much more than meets the eye at first, not just the memory of a person, but a real, breathing, flawed, wonderful human being.
He’s got no clue, you think, how easy it is to fall in love with him.
"You wanna go back downstairs?"
You stare back at him, and a shiver runs down your spine. His brow starts to furrow, and so you nod. "Sure."
There’s no time to overthink this, especially not if time starts acting up again. And so you ignore the nausea in your stomach and the fact that, when Bucky holds the door up for you, the sun catches one of your rings in a way that gives it a soft emerald sheen for just a second. When you try to reach out for your powers, anyway, there’s that same surge of emptiness you’re already so familiar with.
Another fluke, then.
Or even more things that are starting to slip through reality’s cracks.
"So you’re both stuck in a time loop," Sam says skeptically.
"No way," Peter pipes up, eyes wide and astonished. "Like Palm Springs?"
"Really? Palm Springs? What’s wrong with Groundhog Day?"
"What, like—like the musical?"
Sam looks at you accusingly. "Who’s the kid again?"
"You gotta get with the times, bud," Bucky smirks, absent-mindedly scratching Alpine between the ears.
"That’s the million dollar question," you reply, turning to look at Peter. He’s tapping his fingers against his leg, his gaze flitting between the three of you. "Because whenever we tell you about this, you’re not surprised that we know you, you’re surprised we remember you."
He chuckles awkwardly. "Is there a difference?"
"There is," Bucky says.
"You’re not aware of the loop," you continue, tilting your head, "so you might be a symptom of it starting to break down."
"Thank you?"
"It would explain why you think we would know you. Maybe you’ve slipped in through some other part of the multiverse."
"Oh," Peter says, blinking. "Oh. Sorry, I didn’t—no, that’s not what’s happening here."
"I know this is a lot."
"It’s not. I mean, I get what you’re saying but this is not a multiverse problem in—the way you’re thinking."
You’re starting to get a headache. "So you are aware of the time loop?"
"No! That’s all—wow. I’m, uh, look …" He coughs, sitting up a little straighter. "So we’ve actually—it’s a bit more complicated than that because, well, there was this—"
"Ever been to Germany, kid?" Bucky interrupts.
All three of you turn to stare at him. Alpine continues to clean her paws.
"I … yeah, once," Peter replies, a curious look on his face. "Through an internship, why … why?"
Bucky nods, his expression unreadable. "He’s a dead end."
"Hey!"
You glance at Sam, but he frowns at Bucky, too. "How do you know that?"
"Call it a hunch."
"Wanna share with the group?" Sam deadpans.
"I’m good."
You rub your temples with an exhausted groan. If Peter doesn’t have anything to do with the loop brushing against other realities at all, you’re quickly running out of ideas. And time.
You manage a vaguely apologetic smile when Peter comes up with an excuse to leave, then continue to stare blankly at your own hands, twisting your rings around your fingers over and over again. They remain relentlessly black.
What’s the point, you think, and not for the first time. What the hell are you supposed to do when every path you start on leads you back in a damn circle like that stupid snake swallowing its own tail?
It used to be a comfort to know you’ll make it out of the loop somehow, but geez, you’d love to be as certain you’d succeed in not destroying the whole multiverse in the process.
Unfortunately, that outcome seems less likely with every Friday that passes. You’d have to make your move soon, but you don’t know what it is. You don’t know how. Even with the majority of the pieces of this day laid out, you still can’t make out the big picture. You don’t have all the answers.
So what’s the fucking point?
"Okay," Bucky says, leaning over the back of the couch until he can look at your face upside-down, "what the hell is going on with you?"
* * *
"I really don't think this should be our priority right now."
"And I think I definitely want a distraction," you say. "How do you feel about sage green?"
"I don't recall," he says pointedly, and you immediately regret your new honesty policy.
"I'm fine, I promise," you say, putting another paint bucket into your shopping cart. You’ve decided that since nothing fucking matters, you’re going to repaint the living room. "Careful, or I'll start thinking you worry about me."
"Will you stop pretending like you don't know I do for one second?"
You ignore him, staring at the shelves intently. "How about lilac?"
"Y/N," he says in that tone.
"Bucky," you echo.
"You're doing the thing again."
"What thing?" you ask, choosing a particularly ghastly shade of canary yellow just to spite him.
He grabs the wiring of your shopping cart to stop you from escaping into the next aisle. "Look at me."
So you do. "I’m fine, Buck."
It’s just that you’re skirting towards an emotional breakdown the likes of which this loop has never seen before. No big deal.
"What are we doing here? Literally, why are we here?" The metal squeaks as it dents between his fingers. "What are we even trying to do if you won't let me in?"
"What do you want me to say?" you ask in exasperation. "That I'm terrified? That I don't know what's happening? You know that already. I've never been an enigma to you. I remember every detail of my life in full technicolor, and it's been exhausting, but this … forgetting things, that's worse."
"You think I can't relate to that?" Bucky says, and your fingers twitch. Old habits.
"That's not fair."
"Neither is you saying we’re in this together and not acting like it. Why are you still trying to carry everything on your own?"
"Because it’s my responsibility—"
"No, it isn’t," he interrupts. "Even if I did die that first time, it still wouldn’t be your responsibility or your burden."
"Burden?" you say thinly. "You think your life is a burden?"
"Twelve."
There's a pull in your stomach at the old nickname, even though you know its intended meaning now. It's making you realize he hasn't used it since your trip to Avengers Campus. "Don’t Twelve me right now."
"Where is everyone?"
You turn around.
The aisles surrounding you are completely empty, like the few other shoppers that have been in here with you have just vanished off the face of the earth. You frown, leaving the cart behind to look around the corner. The store feels bigger, somehow, now that no one else is here. Your steps echo on the laminate flooring; in the distance, there’s some tinny music playing through the speakers, but there’s no other sound.
"I don’t like this," you say.
"Stay right there," Bucky says, stepping up next to you.
You scowl at him. "Did you just pull a gun out of your pocket? Do you always bring that thing when you go shopping?"
"I don’t," he says. "Do you usually wear your tac suit?"
"I’m not—" You look down. "Okay, something is very, very wrong here."
The aisle has grown in length, like you’re walking through an endless, brightly lit tunnel lined by bare shelves. When you look back, it stretches just as far in the other direction, the exit barely visible on the horizon. In a way, it’s very dreamlike, reality warping to create this odd alternative of itself.
"Stay behind me, at least," Bucky says, raising his weapon. He’s still in his civilian clothes, but a stern look has washed over his face.
"In your dreams, Barnes."
He rolls his eyes.
There’s only one way to go and so you continue walking, the aisles crossing yours continuously seemingly leading nowhere. Finally they disappear altogether as the shelves morph into a sort of avenue which shrinks down even more, the lights dimming. Your feet hit granite.
"This is impossible," you say.
"I think this is what Wong meant," Bucky replies grimly.
"We need to go back right now," you say, but when you turn to look over your shoulder, there’s only darkness and stone. "Bucky—"
He pushes you out of the way as a shot sounds through the tunnels, and one moment later you’re swarmed by white jackets on all sides. You curse, rolling to the side and reaching for the knife on your thigh. It’s not there.
"We need to get out of here!" you shout, using your fist instead. Your pendant pulsates around your neck, but when you reach for your powers, there’s still an invisible wall barring you from using them.
"I thought you wanted to pick out paints," Bucky yells back.
"I don’t understand why you’re so mad about the—"
"I watched Groundhog Day."
If it could, time would freeze. You’re begging it to. "No."
"Yeah," he says, shooting at a white jacket. A spray of blood speckles their uniform. "It’s funny. A little fucked up, if you asked me, but when you get to the crux of it—"
"We’re not having this conversation again," you say, punching another one of them in the face. "We’re not."
"Why not?" Bucky demands. "I’d love to have been a part of it as well."
You let out a frustrated scream. "It’s not gonna work like Groundhog Day."
"You don’t know that. Unless you’re not telling me something."
"For fuck’s sake," you yelp, barely evading a knife aimed at your stomach, "do you really think I’d keep it from you if I had slept with you?"
Bucky twists the gun out of someone’s gloved hands and shoves it into yours. "You’re keeping something from me and I want to know why."
You’re back to back now, both of you trying to catch your breath. With the moment of surprise gone, your opponents are circling you now, waiting for your next move.
And you find yourself breaking.
"Your ma liked Voltaire," you say. "Your favorite ice cream flavor is mint chocolate chip and your favorite coffee order is mine. If you drink it black, you do this thing with your mouth that I’ve never seen anyone do, and it’s weirdly sweet." You let out a breath. "You have a fucked-up sense of humor, which I think is great, and you watch Hitchcock movies even though you don’t particularly enjoy them, which is just so stupid, and I’ve never met anyone who gives better hugs than you. Satisfied?"
You can feel him straighten behind you. "You’re deflecting," he says.
With a frustrated groan, you shoot at the next white jacket breaking formation. "Maybe I want things to be as simple as a damn movie as well, but they’re not. It’s fictional. Four o’clock!" You duck and Bucky hits the one coming from the side over the head with his arm. "It’s a bunch of writers coming up with a bullshit idea of love saving everyone’s problems once again. The girl falls in love with the guy, the loop ends, la-dee-dah-dah, day over."
"Yeah, that’s way more absurd than what’s happening here."
"Well, clearly it’s not fucking worked out so far, so if you have any other suggestion, I’m all ears."
A beat passes.
You bite the inside of your cheek hard, forcing yourself to stay vigilant. It’s out there now. You need to get out of here.
Bucky sounds very far away, even though he’s right there with you. "What are you saying?"
Your vision swims slightly, and you blink through it. Shoot. Kick. Protect. "Don’t," you say, shaking your head. "Don’t play stupid with me right now, I swear—"
"Y/N—"
"It doesn’t matter, alright? It doesn’t change shit because we’re still stuck in this nightmare that keeps getting worse, and it doesn’t matter what I feel because you don’t feel the same way anyway, and I’ve just been trying to—"
"I do."
You fall silent, staggering on your feet at the emotion in his voice.
"I do," he repeats. "I have."
"What?" Your voice cracks on that single word.
His magazine runs out and he throws the gun away, cursing under his breath. "You think every movie should be ten minutes shorter, as a rule. You don’t really like your job, but you’ve also never sat still for a minute in your life and you’d rather be miserable than ask someone else for help when it comes to money or, well, anything. You hate being alone with your thoughts, but you also wouldn’t admit that with a gun to your head."
Like magnets, you turn at the same time, reaching for each other. There’s blood on his nose. Your hands are shaking.
"I’ve been in love for you for months now and it’s been literally fucking killing me."
Tell her.
The tear falls.
"So stupid," you whisper.
He looks at you in that same way he has countless times before; you’ve never been able to put your finger on the emotion in his gaze, but now you know. You know.
And then a shot rings in your ears and you sit up in bed, the sun in your face, music blasting,
"—when I’ve known this all along—"
Your door slams shut behind you as you run across the hall to the elevator, repeatedly hitting the button to go down.
"Are you okay?" Sam shouts from the doorway just as the doors ping open.
"Fine!" you shout back, naked feet almost slipping as you hammer on the button to go to the lobby.
You can’t wait for Bucky to get back. You’re going to have to find him. Surely, he can’t be that far from the Tower anymore. Maybe you should’ve changed out of your pyjamas, you think on your endless way down, besides, you don’t know at all which direction to go, unless—
The doors slide open to reveal Bucky on the other side, panting. His blue eyes lock onto yours immediately, mirroring your own feelings of terror and hope.
"You still remember, right?"
"Yeah," he says, and your last resolve crumbles to pieces.
You both move at the same time.
It’s a little like having your powers back, because the world around you stops and ceases to exist. Nothing else is real except Bucky’s arms coming around you and pulling you into him, his mouth crashing into yours, your back pressing against the elevator wall.
Nothing about your previous brief, careful kisses could have prepared you for this one. It’s desperate. Neither of you is holding back anymore, all things laid out in the open and expressed in every starving touch. You want to live in this moment forever, breathing him in, swallowing every sound he makes.
When you finally have to come up for air, you involuntarily tighten your grasp on his hair, your eyes shut tightly, afraid you’ll be zapped right back to your bed. Instead, you feel Bucky chase your lips with his own, breathing heavily, his arms still steady and firm around you.
You look at him through heavy-lidded eyes, soaking all of him in. "Don’t let go," you whisper.
He steps even closer until your chests are fully touching, and he catches you easily when you wrap your legs around him.
"Never," he mumbles into your mouth, and then he kisses you again.
* * * * *
There was a package on the kitchen table.
It was addressed to you, which was concerning since you hadn’t actually ordered anything. Even if you had, you’d have used a fake name and had it sent to a p.o. box.
You’d rather be overly cautious than risk getting caught over a clothing delivery.
It wasn’t a very large package, only about the size of a shoe box. Still, you didn’t know what to make of it. You just stared at it from a safe distance.
"Are you gonna open it with your mind?"
You flinched slightly at Bucky’s voice right behind you. "You did this," you said sharply.
He crossed his arms, looking at you with something like a challenge in his eyes. "Do you wanna look inside before you kill me?"
Frowning, you ripped the package open to reveal a metal container. When you put it down on the counter, the locks unlatched with a low hiss. Inside, there were six simple, perfect black rings in differing sizes.
You turned to Bucky again. "What is this?"
"They measure fatigue. At least that’s what they’re supposed to do. May I?"
You were stunned enough to nod without thinking, watching him take one of the smaller rings out of the box. He reached for your hand and slid it onto your pinkie. It was a perfect fit, cool against your skin, just like his vibranium palm. You could feel your pulse rushing in your ears.
The ring turned a beautiful emerald green on your finger.
"Mazel tov," Bucky said. "You appear to be awake."
Your mouth was very dry. He was still holding your hand. "Who did you tell about me?"
"No one. Only that I know someone whose abilities are tied to their energy, and who could use a way to track that more easily." He dropped your hand and leaned against the counter, observing you. "So you’ll be able to tell how many redos you can manage without fainting."
Your thoughts were racing, confusion and awe taking the place of your left-over anger. You put another one of the rings on and watched it turn green on your finger.
"Thank you," you finally whispered. "You don’t know what this …"
Bucky nodded as if he did. "Consider it a peace offering."
"You—this is—can I hug you?"
He looked stunned for a second, stunned and maybe something else, but then he tilted his head and you wrapped your arms around him before he could take it back. It was a bit weird at first, awkward and stiff, until then he carefully put his arms around you, too, gently pulling you in.
Oh, you thought, this is nice.
Bucky’s head was touching yours and the scent of his shampoo made you slightly dizzy. When you let go of him, there was a strange look in his eyes, one that made you take half a step back with an embarrassed chuckle.
"You’re a good hugger, Barnes," you said.
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t look away, either.
That’s what made you do it: that look. You didn’t know what to make of it, and suddenly you didn’t feel ready to let go.
"Consider it a peace offering."
You looked at your hands. The ring on your pinkie had maintained that glorious shade of emerald green, but the other had turned black. You laughed a little.
"This is incredible," you told Bucky earnestly. This time, you didn’t stumble over your own words. Instead, you watched his face. "Can I give you a hug?"
It wasn’t just surprise that passed over his features, but you couldn’t pinpoint the other thing. His arms enveloped you again and you sighed a little, burying your nose in his shirt until the warm smell of him was all you breathed in. It was just you and him in that moment, and your ever wandering mind was strangely soothed by that thought.
You didn’t let go when you had last time. You just stayed where you were with your eyes closed, letting Bucky rub the lightest circles on the flat of your back. He could probably feel your heartbeat, but for some reason you didn’t care.
"For the record," you mumbled after a while, "I’m thankful, but I’m also still annoyed with you, so this doesn’t change anything."
You could feel him hold back a surprised chuckle and it made you giddy even as he drew away.
"Wouldn’t expect anything else, doll." He takes another step back as if he’d only just noticed how close you were still standing. "Anyway, at least now we’ll know whether bringing you along will actually be useful."
And there it was, albeit with the usual venom in his voice. Maybe he really did mean it as a peace offering. You were willing to believe it for the time being.
"You’re a strange man, James Buchanan Barnes," you said quietly, shaking your head. Hiding your smile.
"Says the time witch."
You gasped in mock surprise. "Did you just call me a witch? Does that make me one of the Big Three?"
Bucky groaned. "It’s not a thing."
You ignored him. "I want a giant black hat for my birthday so I can scare little kids on Hallowe’en. Ooh, and a cauldron. Sam!" You turned to face the opening door. "Bucky finally admitted it!"
"Admitted what?"
"That I’m one of the Big Three!"
"Big three pains in my ass, maybe," Bucky muttered, the tips of his ears turning red.
"There’s just three?"
"Shut up, Sam."
You slipped on the rest of your new rings in delight and watched them each turn a slightly darker shade of green. The one you’d put on earlier stayed black, though, at least for now, as if to remind you the moment had happened.
It wasn’t breaking your promise, you told yourself. After all, he hadn’t shared anything with you at all. If anything, it had been the other way around.
It was just going to stay yours until you figured out what it meant.
chapter eleven
thank you for reading!! you can follow my library blog @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications 💚 also fun fact, my chapters are long enough to crash my drafts whenever i try to post so if you made it to this point, please do consider leaving a comment and/or a reblog. i don't get anything else out of writing this, and i really do love every single one of them.
I remember you telling me that Twelve and Bucky are idiots... and now that I'm reading their dialogue about the kiss I AGREE! YOU ARE BOTH IDIOTS! And I can't believe she's asking him out then then says "maybe we end up as friends" 🤦🏼♀️
"What do you do for fun?"
"I... Fuck you" - not me reading it in a totally different way and being confused for a second 😂
And I know you're going to hate me now, but (you know me) and when they mentioned how she followed him once I have to think about the banana and I don't know why 😂😂😂🍌
And I can't believe he went there.. but also it's been so long that I can't remember what my theories were - I'm too long in the time loop. And Bucky telling about the time with Steve? My heart! And are they holding hands through a keychain???
Don't twelve me right now should become a common phrase!
This was such a fucked up, perfect (for them) love declaration!!!!!!!!! Love it!
series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.
pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader
word count: 12.9k
chapter warnings: suicidal ideation in a time loop context; general angst; in many ways, this is a callback chapter but also a step forward; is exposition a warning? please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.
a/n: i wasn't sure i was gonna post tonight until like an hour ago but hey, it's friday 13th and i'm feeling lucky 🫶🏼 we're in the home stretch now folks
series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3
nine: out of the past
Home smelled like dish soap and warm cookies.
From your childhood, you remembered that sweet scent wafting from the kitchen to every adjourning room until it knocked on the front door from the inside, welcoming you in its embrace. You never appreciated it as much as you should have, then; maybe children never did. But when the bad days found you, later, you recalled that smell, and it offered a bit of comfort to you, no matter how dismal your surroundings actually were.
At the Compound, smells didn’t linger. No matter how many trays were left out to cool, the air purifier kicked in way too soon and got rid of all sugary traces that tried to stick. It did break your heart a little, but you didn’t know enough about vents to try to mess with them.
The Tower was different, though; a lot of its functions hadn’t been overhauled since 2016, and because all FRIDAY systems were still getting regular service updates, it was simple enough to make minor adjustments to the rest of the set-up. Not that you were baking a lot these days. It was nice to think about it, though. To return from a grueling closing shift and let your nose guide your way home.
Today, it guided your way towards disaster, instead.
"Why are you trying to burn down my kitchen?"
"I got bored," Bucky said, reaching into the oven with his bare hand. You flung up your arms automatically before you realized it was the left one.
You quickly crossed them in front of your chest instead, squinting at the smoking tray. "What are you doing?"
"Making an offering," he muttered distractedly, slapping the crisp pastries with your only good dish towel. "What’s it look like."
You were going to kill him.
"Did your landlord take away your oven for safety reasons or why exactly aren’t these charcoals Made in Brooklyn?" You still hadn't changed the door codes, so you couldn't exactly accuse him of breaking in. It was deeply annoying. "Do you know what time it is?" you said instead.
"Twenty-two forty-five," he said, completely ignoring your first question and not really answering the second. "So you don’t want rugelach?"
"Love rugelach. Prefer them edible."
Maybe you could salvage this. It’d been a long day already, but you’d had quite a lot of coffee and a few minutes should suffice to stop most of the smoke, right?
Otherwise, it’d just linger.
You let out a sigh. "Gimme a sec."
"Could you not—"
With one swift, practiced move, you reached behind and pulled on the thread, teasing time backwards little by little. You watched Bucky return the cursed tray to the oven, his motions jerking, like an old tape that’d been rewound too many times. You found yourself moving into the hallway again, backwards, your shoes returning to your feet, your bag—
Your grip slipped, and you tumbled straight into the coatrack, pulling several hangers noisily down with you. Your ankle twisted with a cracking noise that made tears well up in your eyes.
Great. Just great. Exactly how you’d wanted your evening to go.
"What the hell are you doing?"
Grimacing, you glanced at the time on your phone. You’d barely made it back four minutes. You’d been aiming for six.
"Just take your damn rugelach out of the oven, idiot," you called out sharply.
They still smelled kind of burnt, but not as bad as before. Wincing, you threw your sneaker at the wall to gently roll your foot. It had already started swelling, but at least it didn’t seem broken.
With a relieved sigh, you wiped your cheeks and leaned against the wall to catch your breath. When you opened your eyes again, you flinched backwards, bumping your head.
Today was a dumpster fire.
"What?" you said through gritted teeth when Bucky kept staring at you with raised eyebrows. "This was your fault."
"I magically pushed you into the wall?"
"You just demonstrated your impeccable baking skills. Ow, fuck." Maybe you should just spend the night on the floor. It seemed like the best idea right now. "Why are you bored?"
You didn’t really expect him to answer, but it was the most interesting tidbit of your reset conversation, and you’d promised to share those things.
"Did I say that?" he asked, squatting in front of you. He looked tired as well. There was a long tear through his shirt that you hadn’t noticed earlier. "Why’d you keep your fall?"
"I didn’t keep it," you said disdainfully. "That was a one-time occasion. I overestimated how much energy I had left for my reset."
His frown deepened. "Does that happen a lot?"
"Sometimes," you shrugged. "It’s not like I have a floating health bar I can check every time, you know."
"Sounds impractical."
You huffed. "For once, I agree with you."
He had a pensive look on his face, and you didn’t know what to make of it. Finally, he blinked back into the present and held out his hand. "Come on, Twelve. You should go to bed."
You were too exhausted and aching to question any of it, then. The fact that in all this time since you were introduced, he’d never offered to help you before; or that this was the first time he’d given you that nickname. You didn’t want to ask when you did notice, afterwards, and you couldn’t come up with an explanation on your own until you got a little more used to his military speak, and you remembered what he’d said to Sam.
I’m keeping an eye on her.
You were the danger that was standing right in front of him, and he knew it. He made sure to keep reminding you of the fact that you weren’t to be trusted; that he was watching you.
Then, you remembered telling him about your longest jump backwards being eleven minutes, and you started resenting the nickname a little more. Because no matter which reason was the right one, deep down, you couldn’t fault him for thinking that you weren’t, could never, be good enough.
That was later, though. Right then, you just took his hand.
* * * * *
It doesn’t make any sense.
His hands are still wrapped around your wrists, a light pressure on your pulse. His touch is the only thing tethering you here, cold and warm fingers, and that look of his that you can’t even begin to describe.
I never hit the ground.
"What do you mean," you say quietly, barely a question. "I saw you fall. The loop reset."
That’s how it goes, no matter what else happens. No matter what you do.
"But it reset before I hit the ground," he interrupts your looping thoughts, and there it is again. That awful, useless hope in his eyes. "I don’t remember dying. It didn’t hurt."
You freeze, unable to look away from it. From him. "So, this past week, you always …"
Up until this moment, it hadn’t truly sunk in that Bucky becoming aware of the loops would also mean he’d recall dying; every aspect of it. The pain, the frenzy, the desperation.
Your unwillingness to witness his last moments any longer.
"Doesn’t matter now," you hear him say through a layer of fog and nausea, and how the fuck does he keep doing this? You crave getting that glimmer of optimism back, the sense that there’s another option to explore, a new angle to twist things around in your favor. "We found our loophole."
You blink several times. "What do you mean?"
"Think about it." His thumb swipes across your wrist, gently, and the band tingles. "No more pointless missions that put you and Sam in danger. No more wasting time on trying to save me when it never works out. I can reset us on my own terms."
It’s like something cracks inside you, releasing a cold rush of dread into your bloodstream. "No," you say, "no, that could’ve just been a glitch, we don’t know what’s going on. We have no control over any of this."
Bucky’s face hardens, the triumph that split his mouth into a grin only moments ago a distant memory. "You mean, you don’t."
"Didn’t you just tell me that suicidal behavior can’t be our solution?" you say, unable to hide the bitter edge in your voice.
"That’s different." He drops your hands, finally, as if he’s just noticing he’s been holding onto them this whole time. "You know it’s different."
You can recognize the self-loathing radiating off him all too easily. Useless.
"Forget it," you say, shaking your head. "I won’t let you."
"You won’t let me?" Somehow, he still sounds vaguely amused, and it’s making your blood boil. "Then what’s the alternative, we keep meandering around while I continue to get myself shot every day?"
"I don’t know! Let’s think about this for, like, five seconds."
"I’ve thought about it. And if my options both lead to the same result, anyways, I’d rather choose the one where I at least get somewhat of a say."
Your nails dig into your palms, a sharp, familiar pain. "So you want to, what, pick a time of day where you’re just calling it quits and you plummet to your death?"
"And why not?"
You let out a shrill sort of laugh. "What if it doesn’t work more than once?"
"And what if it does?"
Again, again, he looks at you and something in his gaze shatters. You hate this, and you hate yourself, but you’ve been here before. Hope is the thing that kills him.
"Right," he continues. "You’d rather we keep pretending that nothing’s wrong, like we don’t already know how this day is going to end."
"That’s not fair."
"Nothing about this is fair."
You notice it, then: the fury quietly burning behind his eyes; not with you, necessarily, though you wouldn’t blame him for that, either. No, this is a different kind of rage, one that simmers in the background and hides in the darkest corners, constantly rattling to be let out of its cage. His hands are balled into tight fists now, a single concession to this emotion. It doesn’t seem enough.
Now that you think about it, you wonder if you’ve ever actually seen Bucky Barnes angry.
Annoyed, yes. Frustrated. Pissed off. But those are surface feelings, bubbling up quickly, comparatively easy to live with; nothing like the raw anger that you’ve just caught a glimpse of.
That’s the kind of feeling that, when continually swallowed down, eats you up alive.
So you raise your chin, and you say, "Fight me."
He reflexively moves backwards. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." You get up slowly, wiping some more blood from your nose. The band around your wrist is still tingling. "Or are you scared?"
In all those months you’ve known him, Bucky’s refused to spar with either of you, even though you know for a fact that Sam’s asked several times. He’s not even bothered to come up with a flimsy excuse, just stared blankly and said, "Nope."
"He knows I’d wipe the floor with him again," Sam’s told you in a whisper loud enough to be heard across the living room. If you recall correctly, that was the same night he found white cat hairs all over his bed and had to do laundry at midnight.
Now, Bucky watches you stretch, his gaze intense, calculating. "I don’t want to fight you," he says, but there’s some leftover edge to his voice; more than that, there’s curiosity.
"Bullshit," you reply lowly, tilting your head.
He unlaces his shoes and you smirk.
"Fine." He climbs into the ring, rolling his neck. "What do I get when I win?"
You circle each other on the mat, eyes never leaving each other’s faces. Bucky’s eyebrow is still raised in amusement, a silent challenge for you to make the first move.
"In your dreams, Barnes," you say, and then you do.
He sidesteps your first kicks as easily as a gust of wind, a grin twitching in the corner of his mouth when you follow them with a punch that’s aimed at his stomach but lands on his right arm without much force. The next one doesn’t even graze him, his movements too quick for you to do any damage.
Despite that, he lets you herd him to the other side of the ring, even though you feel it’s more him leading you. Like he’s waiting to see what you’re going to do and is left continually unsurprised. No matter the swirl of confused feelings in your gut, you want to wipe the increasingly smug look off his face.
"Come on, wolf boy," you huff as your foot hits empty space once more. "You’re not gonna hurt me."
His stance changes in a split second, and you barely manage to duck away from his first swing. He’s still holding himself back, you can tell, but the way he holds himself changes from casual defense to downright predatory. You swallow heavily.
"I wouldn’t be so sure about that," he says.
In one quick move he slaps your fist to the side again before his vibranium fingers curl around your neck. He doesn’t put any pressure on it, but your spine still goes rigid as he holds you there for a moment, his gaze slowly dropping down every inch of your body in a way that feels familiar. His thumb twitches with a flutter of your pulse.
He leans in until he hovers right next to your ear and your breath hitches. "And it’s White Wolf."
With a twist, you move out of his hold and aim another kick behind you. It’s not hard enough to hurt—honestly, you’re a little too distracted to put much force into it right now—but he does let go of you with a low chuckle.
Even after that, it’s useless. Every single move you try, Bucky seems to anticipate. It’s like he’s able to tell where you’re about to try to hit him before you even know it yourself.
"Your posture’s terrible," he remarks, blocking your foot again. It sends a jolt of a memory through you.
With the right training, you can use your own weight to your advantage in a fight.
You don’t think you’ve had the right training, exactly, but you’ve certainly never been in better physical shape in your life.
"Thanks," you say, and you think, what the hell.
You feign a punch down, and when he lowers his torso to follow your movement, you turn it into a wonky handstand, yelping as your momentum sends your legs flying forward quicker than anticipated. You feel one of them collide with Bucky’s back, and he huffs in surprise as he staggers, his arms wrapping around you like he’s not sure whether to stop your fall or get you off him. Either way, you both plummet over and into the mat.
There’s a groan from underneath you. "Y’alright, doll?"
"Great," you pant, untangling your legs from his neck but not moving off him quite yet. Instead, you lean forward and press his shoulders to the ground. "One—two—three, yay, I win!"
He gives a short, disbelieving snort of a laugh, and something hot rushes through you again.
The next moment, he flips you both over, catching one of your hands and pinning it to the mat while the other is pressed down by his elbow. Your head is spinning, Bucky’s grin wicked and so close to your face you can feel his breaths fan over your mouth.
"You were saying?"
Your brain short-circuits.
He seems to recognize something is off, because the naked glee in his eyes is slowly, gradually replaced with something else, something you can’t quite name because there’s not a single coherent thought left in your head. You’re acutely aware of the dried blood under your nose. Of a freckle next to his upper lip.
Inhale. Exhale.
And then—
"Am I interrupting something?"
Another rush of heat washes down your body as Bucky takes another couple of seconds to look at you, frowning, like he’s just remembering that you were fighting before all this. Then, he rolls off to the side.
"Go shower, Twelve."
And just like that, the moment has passed.
You push up to your elbows and watch as he ducks out of the ring without so much as another glance at you, an avalanche of your thoughts returning all at once. When you turn to look at Sam, his arms are crossed and his expression seems way too stern and cap-like for this time of day.
"A word?" he says when Bucky shoulders past him, and for some reason you feel like you’re in trouble.
* * *
You stay in the shower until the mirrors fog up and your fingers turn wrinkly, trying and failing to scrub away whatever just happened. It’s like you can still feel him only inches away from your face, hovering, searching. Almost as if he’s waiting for something.
I’m guessing you’ve tried the Groundhog Day option?
Fucking hell, you need to get a hold of yourself right now.
This … training session was a mistake, a miscalculation on your part. Maybe you’ve started losing your mind a little bit after the first couple dozen loops. Lesson learned: find another way to get Bucky to let out his well-earned ire.
One that doesn’t involve him on top of you.
Think you could handle my charm, Y/L/N?
You let the water hit that tense knot at the back of your neck and let out a long sigh. This iteration of today has barely even started and you’re ready to delete it from existence.
Of course, you realize, then, that won’t be quite so easy this time around.
There’s a certain numbness that, according to the heaps of time loop media you’ve consumed early on during all this, seems inevitable when you’re always, always the only person in the world to continually remember the things that happen. Maybe it’s even worse for you, since there once was a time where reversing uncomfortable situations was something you did on the regular. Looking back, those little corrections seem like a preamble for what you’re going through now. Today is a video tape that keeps skipping on the rewind, reliable only in its endless monotony.
It makes you stop considering the long-term consequences of your actions, since there never are any; everything is bound to repeat, with no regard to what you may have done or said that one time during loop number eighty-whatever. Who would remember, except you?
Or so you’ve thought.
The green band around your wrist catches the light and you stare at it for a long time. It shimmers in the steam of the shower, an almost beautiful sort of gleam to it, like it’s gleeful in reminding you of your latest disastrous mistake.
I’m getting Bucky out of this.
As usual, you didn’t do your job as well as you should’ve, and now you’re having to face the consequences of that.
Real stubborn fucking consequences with distractingly blue eyes, that are apparently intent on driving you batshit—
"What was that?"
"Nothing," you mumble, crossing your arms in front of your chest, tapping your fingers one by one. Bucky rolls his eyes for the twenty-eighth time in as many minutes.
Which you know for a fact, since you’ve not let him out of your sight once. Not as he’s rummaged through the fridge with his usual scowl, not as he’s channel-hopped through a couple of lackluster morning shows, not as he’s spent a couple of minutes playing with Alpine before she hopped off his lap to go do whatever cats do. You don’t particularly care today.
If he's so keen on dying, fine, that's his prerogative; but not yet. Not on your watch.
You just need to come up with another solution before he can do anything stupid.
"Are you gonna spend your whole day like this?" he asks, irritated. Good. He doesn’t have a monopoly on staring.
"Depends," you reply. "Got any plans this morning?"
Twenty-nine. That has to be some sort of record.
"Not if I'm gonna be trailed by an overeager barn owl."
"How dare you. And that's Miss Barn Owl to you." You're aiming for lucky number thirty, but no luck. Instead, he lets out a huff.
"I'm not gonna change my mind just because you're annoying, you know."
"When have you ever," you mumble. If only your useless mind could draw anything but a blank.
Endless loop. Saving each other. Threaten Loki. Blow yourselves up. Upon the wielder’s death, the timeline will—
"Twelve …"
You shake your head, your nails biting into your skin, and Bucky cuts himself off, a muscle in his jaw feathering.
Your gaze wanders. He's all sharp angles this morning in his gloves and the leather jacket, like he’s dressed in black armor concealing all the parts that should be gone, bruised, bloodied, broken. A mundane shield anyone else wouldn't even take conscious notice of, because this is just what he does.
Not lately, though. Not at home, not on Friday.
So how many weapons is he hiding right now?
"Okay, we are getting into Annabelle territory."
Out of the corner of your eye, it looks like Sam’s lost some of the ramrod Captain America energy he was radiating earlier. Bucky’s not told you what kind of words were exchanged, so you’re left to chalk it up to another TAG.
That doesn’t calm you even a little bit.
"How's your nose?" Sam asks, leaning against the back of Bucky’s couch.
"Mostly in shape, I think." You dab at your nostrils and it still hurts a little, but there’s no more blood. "How’s your speech?"
"Mostly in shape, I think," he echoes with a lopsided grin that unexpectedly stings.
Again, you can’t help but yearn for a timeline more permanent than this one. Every day Sam writes that speech, and every day he frets about the details for hours and you can’t tell him that he’s always going to end up smashing it. That’s not how this is supposed to go.
"Have I told you lately that I really appreciate you?" you tell him instead.
His eyebrows raise in mild amusement. "Did you take the good painkillers?"
"I’m serious," you protest, even though you may have. "You’re a good friend and a good cap, and you should be told more often."
Sam blinks, glancing at Bucky as if he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"Don’t look at me, bud," he replies. "She’s right."
There’s a couple of moments before Sam shakes his head. "Y’all are Looney Tunes today and I think it’s some sorta ploy, so I’m gonna finish this speech and you’re gonna leave."
"Are you kicking us out?" you ask.
"Yup."
"It’s our apartment," Bucky says.
"I don’t care. Shoo. Come back when you’re normal."
Bucky doesn’t move an inch, even as he has to hide a grin when Sam keeps shoving his shoulder, mumbling to himself about needing room to think, and you have an idea. A bad one, perhaps, but it might just work for your purposes.
"I know what we’re gonna do," you tell Bucky and get up from your couch, grabbing your bag.
"That so?"
You hum, pressing the button for the elevator. "But first, we’ll have to steal a car."
* * *
It’s odd to be back.
Everything about it feels wrong.
You used to know this place like the back of your hand and now it’s like you’re looking at it through fun mirrors, making the image all twisted. The Compound is both bigger and smaller than you remember, and the reality of it makes your heart twinge.
Rubble lines the driveway. You’re both silent as the borrowed car shakily bumps around the curve leading up to where the main building used to be. Your fingers drum a nervous rhythm against the dashboard as you look outside. The branches that used to hang low and cast a soft shade over your head now litter the ground.
New ones are already sprouting, though.
Time hasn’t stopped, not even for this battlefield, and that fact makes you feel better and worse at the same time.
Through the open window, the air smells like hot grass and cement. No one’s working today, of course, but the repair work’s been going slow, anyway. There are no new Avengers to house, and Pepper Potts has had more pressing things to do. You wonder if Morgan’s old enough to be in kindergarten yet.
The car slows until Bucky turns the engine off, parked next to a particularly large piece of debris. You take a deep breath before you trust your legs not to buckle underneath you when you climb outside.
The one and only other time you were here after it all happened, you were still amped up on morphine and grief and you barely felt anything at all at the sight of your home of almost five years lying in ruins. Now, you have to grind your teeth, hugging your arms around yourself in a sorry attempt at comfort.
You used to spend hours reading underneath that tree that’s been cleaved in half. If you squint, you could still point your gaze to where your windows would have been.
Yours.
"This feels strange."
You turn to look at Bucky and find him staring at a spot near the tree line, looking out at the lake.
"Yeah," you say, clearing your throat. "Me too."
The look that passes his face is one you haven’t seen in a while, oddly similar to the one you recall him giving you on your bathroom floor. It’s gone within seconds, but it leaves its trace.
The big hall that had housed the time machine is still mostly rubble, and you’re glad for it. You don’t know how Bruce ever managed to get the pieces out and make them work again; you don’t like thinking about it and you would bet Bucky doesn’t either.
You inhale your grief once more and let it out in one long, shaky exhale. Then, you roll your aching shoulders. "Alright," you tell yourself, lifting your chin up to blink against the bright July sun.
It should be autumn by now.
Every step towards the Campus ruins makes something coil inside your chest, something painful and hot and angry. Good, you think. That’s why you’ve come, after all.
"Remember that game Sam used to play?" you ask and your voice comes out both sharper and softer than you expect. "If you could go any place, any time?"
Bucky doesn’t answer immediately, and for one shocking moment you wonder whether you’d jumped away all of Sam’s terrible attempts of camaraderie.
"My ma used to say that home’s not really a place."
It’s a peace offering, you think, or maybe just his way of showing that he understands what you’re trying to say. Of course he does.
You bite the inside of your cheek harder. "Smart woman."
The site in the center of the former entry hall seems as good as any. No reinstalled roof that could cave your heads in, no loose cables lying around to fry certain jinxed super-soldiers to death.
"She was." Bucky stops a couple of steps behind you as you scan your surroundings for what you’re going to need. Luckily, whoever’s responsible for this part of the site isn’t as cleanly as the ULTIMATUM lab guys; everything’s been left right where someone was using it on Thursday. "So, what are we doing here, exactly?"
You blow the cement dust off a pair of slightly singed safety glasses and hand them to him. "Fuck shit up."
He stares at you. "Sorry?"
"Nope." You continue rummaging through the work tools that are lying about. "No more apologizing. That’s the point. We’re stuck in a damn time loop and absolutely nothing we do matters, so we’re going to fuck some shit up."
"Is this you telling me you’ve finally lost your marbles?"
You pull out a crowbar. "I’m telling you I’m furious and I need to break something, and I think you do, too."
He crosses his arms in front of his chest. "Yeah, I don’t think so."
"Come on, Barnes. You must’ve had the urge to just destroy something before." You swing your lever around for emphasis. "What’s the worst that could happen?"
You wince right after you say it, recalling the last time someone’s said that to the both of you. Bucky’s face stays blank, unreadable.
"Someone gets hurt," he says quietly, making it sound like a prediction. Haunted.
"No one’s gonna get hurt," you say, putting on a second pair of glasses. "Look around! No one here except us. And you know what—helmet." You adjust your hair and plop it onto your head. "See?"
"You look ridiculous," he says dryly.
"Thank you." Perhaps your appeal would be more effective if you weren’t already struggling to close the damn latch of your helmet. Unfortunately, your safety glasses are making everything fit a little funky, and you can’t seem to find the right—
"Geez, let me—just hold still for a sec."
You swallow and tilt your head up, trying not to look at his face when Bucky takes a step closer. His fingers brush the tips of your ears as he readjusts the damn goggles, trailing down to your chin. You suppress the urge to shiver when you realize he’s finally taken his gloves off again.
His touch is rough and light and way too close to your pulse point.
The helmet clicks into place and you shake yourself out of your stupor. You hold up your crowbar like a challenge.
"How about we make a game out of it?"
He deliberates, his mouth set in a thin line, slightly blurred by the polycarbonate. "What do you have in mind?"
"Pry of truth," you say. "You name the thing that gets your hackles up, you get to smash something. And you’re not allowed to say me."
"I don’t like that rule."
"That’s a shame. I’ll go first, then."
You narrow your eyes at an old glass bottle sitting on a bench next to the site. "I’ll never be able to listen to any song by the fucking All-American Rejects ever again."
The bottle smashes beautifully and a rush of adrenaline charges through your veins.
"Your turn, Buck."
You look over your shoulder and freeze for a moment, because he’s shrugged off his jacket, putting it on a work table nearby. Smart, you belatedly think, giving himself a bigger range of movement and you the opportunity to ignore his bare arms.
Get a damn grip.
You hold out the crowbar. "Time to get angry."
"You won’t like me angry." He takes it anyway, and you huff.
"Whether I like you or not has never stopped you before."
His jaw twitches. He mutters something to himself before the pry lightly hits the bench and the whole thing flies away. A startled laugh escapes you.
"Out loud, next time."
"My bad," Bucky says, throwing you the crowbar.
"You’re a cheat," you shake your head, pulling back for another swing. "I’m fucking sick of this weather."
More glass shatters when a bunch of tools and containers go flying off the work table with a couple of strikes.
"I already knew that."
"My bad."
There’s a moment where Bucky flashes a quick grin at you, but you recognize something ignite in him. He slams his vibranium fist into some of the brick stones piled up nearby and they fly into little pieces.
He flexes his fingers slowly, a lost look on his face. "Sometimes I can almost forget that this isn’t …"
You swallow, gripping your crowbar more tightly. "I want nothing more than to stop this loop for good, but it also terrifies me."
Crash. Tools and parts and leftover items smash on the rubble ground as you strike them over and over again, splinters flying off in all directions. You ignore the pain when they hit you, and the sounds of more things breaking behind your back, focused only on the next thing in front of you. Each small destruction that’s under your control.
When you’re done, your breaths come out fast and shallow, your anger at yourself, at your situation, escaping you in desperate pants. Because this is your worst secret yet, isn’t it? More terrible than any growing feelings and long-forgotten truths, this nagging fear of what’s next.
As terrible as the loop has been, it’s at least predictable. Who’s to say that what’s after isn’t worse than this one day? What of every other way the future could break your heart, kill those you care about, burn this world to the ground? If nothing else, Friday is the devil you know.
But you can’t stay; and you wouldn’t want to, anyway. That’s the contradiction you’re stuck in.
Your fingers are wrapped around the pry so tightly it hurts, and you force yourself to take a deep, shuddering breath. Then, you turn around, and your eyes widen.
Bucky’s moved farther away from you, as if to make sure not to put you in his path of destruction. In it, no stone’s been left unturned. Work tables are flipped, machines dented and cracked; the newly put-up drywall a couple of yards ahead has several cracks and holes running through it.
He’s a swirling storm of piled up fury and anguish, and you’re the sole witness to his wreckage. It’s quiet, in a way, with a finality to the brunt of each throw, each hit. Like he’s been waiting for this implicit permission to let go a very long time.
Slowly, the dust settles, leaving him alone at the center of it all, the only thing still standing among broken pieces.
"I keep—" he starts, his head still lowered, shaking. "I keep telling myself that I’m no longer the Winter Soldier, but I don’t think it’s true."
You don’t respond immediately; you’re not sure he’d want you to. Taking off your protective gear is a lot easier than putting it on, and you blink against the sun behind him. It leaves his face in shadows.
"What do you mean?"
"Look at me," he spits, every syllable ringing with despair.
"I am," you say quietly, and you are, you are, you are.
And right then, you feel yourself slip, because the truth is that seeing him like this doesn’t make you like him any less than you do seeing him with relaxed shoulders and sun spots across his chest. It’s just a moment or two before you catch yourself, but you’re sure that if he’d looked at you right then, he’d know.
He hesitates, his jaw tight. "I still hear his voice. I keep thinking like him, wanting to act like he would. What if I do? What if one day, I can’t control it?"
You clear your throat. "Can I say something?"
He nods.
"Of course you still have parts of him in you. It’s your past. You can’t get rid of that. That’s, unfortunately, not how it works." You take a couple of steps closer, your shoes dragging on the rubble. "But it doesn’t make you a bad person, either. It wasn’t your fault."
"I’m supposed to stay in control."
"Aren’t you?" you ask. "I mean, you hear the voice, but do you ever act on it?"
He meets your eyes, then, vehemently. "I would never do that."
You nod, not surprised in the slightest. "What does your therapist think?"
He scoffs. "Not much. He called it intrusive thoughts."
"Hm. That’s really concerning," you say, tilting your head. "You’re being a normal human."
Bucky frowns when you come to a stop in front of him, his eyes swimming with confusion.
"Everyone has those thoughts sometimes," you continue, holding up the crowbar again. "Like, I could hit myself with this. Or you. That doesn’t mean I’m gonna do it. Your thoughts just happen to have a particular flavor to them."
He grinds his teeth. "What if I like being him? When I have these thoughts, my mind is clear. Quiet. Focused. That’s why—"
"What?"
He shakes his head, looking behind you at the rubble surrounding you both. His shoulders deflate at the wasteland before him, and you desperately want to reach for him.
"You’re one of the good ones, Buck," you say, not moving an inch. "Despite your past. Because of your past. It doesn’t make you any less …" Loveable. "You know that, right?"
A beat passes.
"Keep remindin’ me and I might." He clears his throat. "Your turn, Twelve."
It still stings, unexpectedly so. You half-heartedly throw the pry at a couple of bricks, missing by a mile and not caring one bit. You’re out of anger for now.
"I really hate it when you call me that," you admit.
"Why?" he asks, the surprise in his voice genuine.
"Because it makes me … you know how I feel about my powers. It’s like you’re reminding me how I’m not good enough, every time you say that."
Bucky’s gaze on you burns in your neck. "That’s what you think?"
"What else am I supposed to think?" you ask, rolling your eyes. "You said you wanted to keep an eye on me, back when—”
"I think you’re better than you’re telling yourself."
You twist your rings around your fingers, one by one. The space on your pinkie is still empty. "No, I’m not."
"Yes. You are." His boots crunch as he takes a step closer. "You told me eleven minutes on your best days? That’s bullshit."
"It’s not," you huff.
"Remember Marylebone? How much did you jump then?"
London seems like years ago, with July getting stuck. It was another extraction mission, and it went well enough—if you ignored Redwing getting shot to bits, that is. Which you usually did.
"Maybe three minutes," you mumble. Not exactly a span of time to write home about.
"But how many times did you do that?" Bucky insists. "How many times did you hold time still during that?"
Your skin prickles. "That’s different—”
"Not really. Not according to your rings, it’s not. They’re just different aspects of your powers. Also, you made a fucking time loop out of nothing."
"One that I have no control over, remember?"
"Not yet."
You shake your head, pulling your arms around yourself. "How did this turn into you giving me a pep talk?"
"You’re …" He sighs and drags a hand through his hair. Little pieces of dust get stuck in it, and you find yourself wanting to brush them out.
"Likewise." How could he be so positive about all the things you disliked about yourself most while not doing the same for himself?
Bucky picks up another brick from the pile next to you, weighing it in his hand, and something about the movement catches your eye, the sunlight just so that …
"Wait!" you say.
He freezes.
You drop to your knees and start digging through the rubble, pushing the bricks aside and ignoring the cuts you get on your hands until—
"Holy shit," you whisper.
"What’s that?"
It’s stuck underneath a pile of debris, the accumulation of nearly two years of being stuck and forgotten, but somehow, it’s still here. Covered in dirt and a little tattered at the edges when you finally manage to pull it out, but still.
"That’s my invisibility cape."
"You have an invisibility cape?"
"Had," you correct, inspecting it more closely. "I didn’t know it survived."
"For the love of—d’you think you might’ve mentioned this before?"
"I didn’t think it was important."
"Twe—" He pinches his nose with two fingers and lets out a long, slow breath. "Does it still work?"
"I don’t know."
"Well, go on then."
You flap it a few times to get the worst of the dust off, then pull it over your head and watch your body disappear. It’s as much of a journey to the past as you’ve managed throughout this loop, and an incredulous giggle escapes you.
Bucky has a peculiar look on his face as he looks just to the right of where you are.
"You trust me, right?" he says pensively.
It occurs to you that he’s never asked you that before, and so you nod even though he can’t see. "I trust you."
"I have an idea."
* * *
"For the record, I hate your ideas."
"Noted," Bucky replies out of the corner of his mouth, tucking his cap deeper into his face.
You nervously tap your foot, peering at the building on the other side of the street. Bleecker Street isn’t all that busy at this time of day, and even though you're fully hidden by your cape, you can’t help but wish for more of a crowd to hide in. You reach for the amulet around your neck.
"What if something goes wrong?" you murmur.
"It won’t," he says calmly. "You said Sam’s already tried and no one’s there today. Plus, we have more or less infinite tries for this, remember?"
You do, unfortunately. Even though you’d really prefer a better, more elaborate plan to break into the New York Sanctum in much the same way as you did the public library, you don’t think they have a Supreme burglar alarm or anything of the sort. Picking the front door lock, it is.
Annoyingly, Bucky even knows you well enough to understand you don’t want to be seen within a hundred yards of any time wizard territory; hence, the game-changing cape.
You wish you’d kept the damn thing in the dirt.
"You don’t know what they’re capable of," you say quietly.
"True, I don’t. But you do." He waits for a couple of people to pass by before risking a glance in your general direction. "Come on. I would never let anything happen to you in there."
You hate these sunglasses. They make it impossible to tell how he means that.
Before you can voice another reason why you should better head back and go get ice cream somewhere, Bucky’s already moving across the street. Cursing under your breath, you rush to follow him, bumping against his arm to make your presence known.
The tiniest grin flickers in the corner of his mouth, and for a moment you enjoy getting to stare at it without him noticing. Then, you take another step and the air around you changes.
If there was any kind of active warning system, you can pinpoint the exact moment it would have alerted. It’s like you’re entering an invisible bubble that surrounds the building, the air growing just a fraction colder. It’s not the temperature that makes you shiver, though.
Magic hums within the very walls of the house. This energy is different to what you remember, but still similar enough you have to bite your cheek hard to keep concentrating on the task at hand.
You swallow down the bile in your mouth and turn your back on the heavy oak door to make sure no one notices that Bucky isn’t, in fact, struggling with a key but instead breaking and entering in broad daylight.
I knew you’d be back, a voice just behind your shoulder seems to whisper, and you flinch. All those years, and still …
Finally, you hear a quiet click and the door creaks open.
"You with me?" Bucky mutters.
Your nails dig into the palms of your hands. "Let’s do this."
177A Bleecker Street is quite a lot bigger on the inside. In many ways, it looks just as you expected, solemn and intricate, all wooden paneling and marble floors that block the sounds from the street outside. Heavy couches sit along the far walls, framed by doorways. A gigantic staircase leads to the upper floors, spreading out into a gallery.
However, something about it feels … unexpected. The energy you’ve already noticed outside is sparkling like electricity, like a fuse ready to be lit, like fireworks waiting to explode, unprecedented and ever changing. Alive.
For some reason, it’s not all that scary.
Pure magic fills your lungs with every breath, and yet it’s just a house. Dust particles are dancing in the blurry light. Your shoes squeak a little on the stone floors.
Bucky takes off his sunglasses, blinking to readjust to the dim light in here. He takes stock of his surroundings much more quickly than you do, zeroing in on the upper levels.
You hold your hood with one hand as you crane your neck. From your position hovering just behind him in the entrance, you can make out the shapes of a few large shelves.
Bingo.
You’ve agreed that despite Strange’s flakiness, he’s already shown you the books most relevant to your situation that the Sanctum library has to offer. Therefore, if not a reading room, you’re looking for any other magical items that might give you a helping hand, maybe some sort of power boost.
To be honest, you’re hoping for a portal to simply step through and finally leave this day behind for good, but you’d settle for a clue.
Bucky’s fingers twitch ever so slightly by his side. Without thinking, you reach out and wrap your pinkie around his. He doesn’t look at you, but he gently squeezes your finger before pulling away, putting his hands back into his jacket pockets.
He left his gloves in the stolen car.
The stairs creak when you sneak up behind him, but the house remains silent. There’s only the omnipresent hum of electric magic, which gets even stronger when you get closer to the shelves you’ve spotted. It’s calling out to you, but not in the way it did outside; this is a softer whisper, more alluring, more curious. Could it be? it says. I’ve waited so long.
You find yourself trailing off, moving a few paces towards the far wall, your heart pounding a wild rhythm. The shelves are made of glass-paneled dark wood, arranged in a spiral pattern. Their contents look rather unassuming in the pale sunlight falling in from the large circular window, museum-like if not for the absence of proper labeling: a couple of old daggers and wands, dull gemstones, shards of pottery, all carefully bedded on crimson velvet and then left for dust.
None of it screams Gateway Out of Here.
Maybe, you think, you could try to hold a few of these gems in your hand and see what happens, do a couple of gestures to coax your powers back. If only there was one of those rings that—
Behind you, shots are fired, and then something heavy crashes to the floor with a resounding shatter. The thrall breaks.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, to think you’d be safe just because you couldn’t be seen. To think that Bucky would be fine waltzing into a place like this without any real protection, just because you’ve been led to assume it’d be abandoned. You’ve stepped right into the trap, and it’s snapped shut immediately.
You spin around, your hands flying up automatically as if there’s a damn thing you can do.
Time doesn’t freeze, but you wish it would.
Bucky’s tangled in a web of rust-colored twines that curl around his arms, his torso, his neck, cutting off his air flow. His gaze is wild, flitting around the room, searching for you even in your invisibility, a silent command in his eyes: Run.
His gun’s dropped to the floor at his feet, right underneath the tendrils winding their way up his struggling legs. You fall towards it, reaching out right as you’re yanked backwards and the eldritch magic catches hold of you, too. Their otherworldly glow makes shadows dance across the dark shelves, ghostly and distorted.
"I suggest you show your face now," a voice says right behind you.
You can tell the hood is ripped off your head because Bucky throws himself against his bindings again. They tighten even more around him, and he chokes, his eyes still glued to you.
He does it again.
"Please don’t," you cry, "not like this, please stop it!" You’re not even sure who you’re pleading to, your fingers twitching, but there’s nothing you can reach out to, the magic in this place forsaking you again.
"You," the voice behind you says sharply.
Any moment, you should wake up. Wake up. Wake up.
You’re slung backwards and you scream because you can’t see Bucky anymore, can’t do anything except hang there, helpless, eye to eye with the Sorcerer Supreme.
"Zealot," he says, venom in every syllable. "I thought you’d died."
"I’m not," you gasp, the very word stinging. "Please, you need to let go of him."
"I don’t think so. I ought to banish you to the Dark Dimension like the rest of you."
The magic around you starts spinning, surrounding you in a dizzying blur of orange and gold. Your blood rushes in your ears as you feel something pull at your very consciousness, harsh and terrifying, and you’re not waking up, you have to wake up, you—
"We’re facing an Incursion!" you shout, hoping anyone can hear you over the mad cacophony of energy. "Please, there’s no time, call Stephen Strange!"
And then, with a final sputter of color, everything goes black.
* * *
The last time you woke with the smell of Sanctum magic in your lungs was the day Thanos snapped.
Wait. Rewind for context.
Your mother used to call it a gift, but for most of your life, your powers had felt more like a curse.
Sure, they had their uses, sometimes, but at what cost? Most of the time, you couldn’t control them, so when you got older, you tried to hide them instead, as best as you could, to pretend they weren’t there at all. You just wanted to be normal.
But your powers didn’t like that.
Ignorance was a vicious circle: The more you tried to suppress the magic coursing through your blood, the more unpredictable it became, flinging you through the timeline without any regard to your sanity. It was a struggle to control even a fraction of what was happening to you.
You knew you needed help.
The London Sanctum was the only one you were aware of, then, the one safe haven for people who were struggling with things beyond their control. Your mother had told you about it many times.
One can never be too wary of their promises, though, honey, she’d close the story every time. They like to forget them when it’s more convenient.
You never asked how she knew so much about the Sanctum and its inhabitants. Mothers just know things when you’re a child.
Maybe you should’ve listened to her warning more closely, but you were young and overwhelmed and out of options, and so you left familiar faces behind and traded them for a silver lining. For the hope of finally controlling this power that was set on destroying your life.
Time itself.
That first day, you were sitting in the Sanctum's courtyard, looking at the other recruits with wide eyes, to the glimmering portals that, they told you, could bring you to the other side of the world in a single step. For the first time in your life, you were surrounded by magic; it wasn't just your secret burden to bear, it was all around you.
Like an offering, they brought the stone to you that day, suspicion clear in their eyes, and you trembled in your bones knowing that everything would finally be fixed, now. Surely, everything would be fixed. You could feel the energies pulsating from that unassuming little gem, mixing with your own powers, sending apprehensive shivers down your spine.
Yes, you thought, stepping closer to it with your hand outstretched. You can fix this.
It was the one and only time you could recall not remembering anything at all.
You'd lost a few seconds at most, but when you blinked back into consciousness, your head was pounding and the time stone had been snatched away from you once again, safe in its golden cage. You'd never see it again.
How peculiar, you caught a whisper, then another, like voices born out of every nightmare you'd ever had, and you tried jumping back to find out what you'd missed, but your powers didn't obey you.
You let yourself get soothed by the empty promises you'd been warned of, but magic would never seem that light or gentle to you again as it did during that first afternoon.
For a while, things got better anyway.
You studied with the Masters of the Mystic Arts while they studied you. They provided you with all sorts of amulets and cuffs that kept the random jumps under control, but they either couldn’t figure out how your powers came to possess you, of all people, or they just didn’t want to tell you.
Time is sacred, they used to teach, and your very existence went against that premise. You were unpredictable, a variable that could never fit into their precious calculations and theories of the grand, sacred timeline, no matter how hard they tried. You found yourself using your powers even less than before, just to stop them from talking over you.
Impossible girl, the Ancient One used to call you, and you hated it.
Of course, she wasn’t making a reference. She just thought you impossible, along with everyone else.
You went along with it for a couple of months or so before you got tired of trying to do something, anything, and you wanted to go home. That was when things shifted.
You’re not a prisoner, they kept telling you, and it was true, in a way. The doors were always open, and your cuffs weren’t shackles. There were just certain rules to learning, particularly in these important early stages of the process. Rules to who goes where, and what to do, and what to wear at every hour of every day, and also the food all tasted the same, like sad mash of whatever vegetables they were able to find that week, but no. You weren’t a prisoner.
That was just life, here, and everyone else seemed fine with it, so what was your problem, exactly?
You were tired and terrified, and everyone told you that there was something about you that just didn’t make sense, which you could’ve told them from the start if only someone listened to you. Everything seemed pointless.
It was no wonder, then, that when Kaecilius and his band of lunatics offered to take you under their wing, to give you a cause and a reason to use your powers, you thought your luck might finally turn.
You’re such a special girl, they’d tell you. Such a special, clever girl. This is a great thing, you know. It’s your talent to make things right, make them the way they should be. You, my dear, are invaluable.
If it sounded too good to be true, that’s because it was.
Kaecililus’ definition of help, it turned out, meant subjugation; or at least the attempt of it. Do as I tell you. For once, your strangling limits turned out to be a blessing in disguise.
What a disappointment you are.
There were no grand speeches. No fanfare, no declaring you a nuisance; you felt the sentiment, anyway. The special, clever girl was a useless waste of time, after all, and was left behind as such. Never good enough. Not deserving of everlasting life.
Not that you wanted any part of that.
You faded back into oblivion again, unable to leave and unable to stay, stuck somewhere in between in the background where you were met with endless whispers and suspicion, doing your part and eating your mush without complaint. What else were you to do? People didn’t leave this place, after all, not before they understood what they came here to find.
Unless they suddenly started applying to your situation, you were fantastically uninterested in any more lectures.
It took a very long time for you to figure out that you could limit the random time jumps by using your powers as much as you could, small skips and halts to the point of exhaustion. If there was nothing left to use, you reasoned, your body couldn’t act without permission. Slowly, you were able to return their trinkets one by one until the only piece you had left was the one you’d brought from home; silver and black tourmaline. Putting it on again was a small relief.
You were still in London when the world was decimated.
The air was heavy and burnt with dust. It was all that was left of so many. The cries of those left behind dried up quickly, leaving a deafening silence in their wake. That was the part you most remembered in years to come: the smell, and the silence.
You were ready to disappear, too, and when whatever fate there was decided to spare you, you took matters into your own hands. The confusion and panic had raised your adrenaline, and the world stopped easily at your command.
It didn’t take you long to grab the few belongings you had left, to shove them into the wooden box every room was outfitted with, and to turn your back on your prison. You found the portal that would take you closest to home, and you stepped through.
You’d never been lucky for long, though. When you arrived, the front door was locked from the inside, and the television was still running, day and night, with no one left to turn it off. You shouted and knocked and rang the doorbell anyway, until your knuckles hurt and your voice got hoarse, and then you noticed that the name above the door was wrong. Time had once again passed unexpectedly, and this place you'd once called home did not belong to you anymore.
You were a nobody now, just like you’d wanted.
Right?
Right.
…
Anyway.
The first time you met Natasha Romanoff in person, a few weeks after the Snap, she only had to look at you for a couple of seconds to be able to read you like a book.
* * *
When you’re finally done, your voice is hoarse and your palms are bloody. You can tell both Wong and Strange are staring at you, but the only person you look at is Bucky.
He’s leaning against the invisible wall of his cell in the Sanctum’s undercroft, meeting your gaze in grim, unreadable silence. He hasn’t looked away from you once during your whole monologue.
You feel drained, turned completely inside out, presenting your most vulnerable parts for everyone to see; and yet, you keep looking at the one person in this room who’s going to remember any of it, calmly and unwaveringly. It makes your head swim, but you can’t keep looking away.
That me then, you think, your hands tapping a quiet rhythm on the cool stone floor. Disappointed?
A pity, you suppose, that you never did get an answer to that particular question.
To your surprise, Strange is the first to break the silence. "Well, then. You think that’s enough to let them out of there?"
Wong mutters a response you don’t understand, but something flickers in front of you for just a moment, and one blink later, Bucky’s in front of you. He wordlessly holds out his hand.
You don’t hesitate before you take it.
Time slows in a way that’s entirely imaginary as he pulls you back to your feet. Every inch of your skin that’s touching him turns hot and cold at the same time.
If it had been his right hand, you wouldn’t have dared to gently squeeze it before finally letting go.
Bucky looks like he wants to say something, but before he gets a chance to even open his mouth, Strange clears his throat. Not for the first time, you want to set his cloak on fire.
"It’s a good thing you came here."
"Oh, yes," you say. "Thanks again for the warm welcome. What fun we’ve had."
"You did break in," Wong says. "Over the past couple of months, we’ve had to be particularly careful when it comes to unexpected visitors. For what it’s worth, though," he adds, "I am sorry."
There’s an honesty to his voice that you appreciate, though not as much as Bucky staying a half-step in front of you during this whole conversation.
Strange claps his hands. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a tea set appear on the sad old desk that’s been pushed against one of the dungeon walls. "Best not to dwell on it," he says, his cloak gently flapping at you. "May we take a look at your necklace?"
You hesitate. You’ve not taken it off in years, not even to sleep or train. It’s been what’s successfully hidden you away from anyone trying to find you or your powers.
Now that you’ve revealed all of yourself, though, you suppose there’s no point in denying him.
You place the necklace in his palm and he murmurs something. It starts glowing in gentle amber colors.
"It should do," he says to Wong. "Do you want the honors?"
"Here’s what I don’t understand," Wong says, ignoring him. "All of this could’ve been avoided with a few controlled time slips."
"A few what now?" you say.
"It’s the act of reversing time not for the whole universe, but for one small part of it. Even he could do it after just a few months," he says, nodding his head at Strange, who lifts an eyebrow.
"Look at you condoning going against the laws of nature."
"Shut up and do your job. Away from my carpets, this time."
"Your carpets, is it?" Strange says, his cloak flapping impatiently. His gray eyes bore into you one final time, assessing you, you think, or maybe silently telling you something you don’t understand. Then he turns and starts ascending the stairs again.
You wrap your arms around yourself. "I’ve not had months of training," you remind Wong.
"Not that first time," he replies. "From what you’ve told us, though, your training in the astral plane has progressed immensely. You should have much more control over your powers than you ever have before."
"So you’re saying I could do it now?"
"I’m saying there’s at least a chance. May I?"
You fiercely ignore Bucky glancing at you, holding out your arm. The symbols around your wrist buzz and glimmer when Wong murmurs something, his hands hovering over your skin. The smell of magic grows more potent as gentle wisps of light travel along your arm, poking at the loop.
Warm fingers wrap around your other hand this time, and you realize you’ve been shaking.
"With the time anomaly persisting, it will continue getting stronger with every repeat of this day," Wong continues out loud as he’s working. "It will eat away at the fabric between realities until things start to slip through, and then it’s only a matter of time until this one collapses entirely."
You swallow. "What things?"
"People. Places. Memories meant for other timelines. Playing with the fabric of everything is a dangerous pastime."
"It’s not like we’re doing it on purpose," Bucky speaks up for the first time. Your hold on his hand tightens.
Wong glances up at him. "Unfortunately, Sergeant Barnes, there are some rules that don’t care about intent."
"So what if it does?" you say. "Collapse, I mean. You know about me now, can you not portal or time slip us to another reality, let this one disintegrate? It’s cursed, anyway."
"Apart from the fact that that’s not how portals work," Wong says dryly, "that’s a reckless idea. All realities are connected in one way or another. One imploding like this might have disastrous consequences on the entire multiverse."
"This is about the whole sacred timeline thing again, isn’t it?" You roll your eyes. "Who came up with that, anyway? What makes our existence so damn special? I mean, there are endless possibilities out there, aren’t there? An infinite number of realities. Who’s to say we’re more real than the rest of them?"
"Magic, as a whole, is always a balancing act." The symbols return to their place just above your skin, tingling. Wong rubs his hands, looking at you. "Ask your actual question."
"I’m not supposed to exist here, am I?" You’re grateful for the fact that Bucky is still holding your hand, even though you don’t know why he would. It anchors you. "I switch between realities every time I jump back in time, right? So this one isn’t actually mine at all."
"Has anyone ever taught you about the Infinity Stones?"
Had they? You’d learned more about the stones at Campus than you ever had during your time at the Sanctum, but even then—knowing how to find a thing and understanding it aren’t the same thing.
You shake your head.
"The powers held by the stones are interconnected. You don’t just control time, your powers have an influence on space and reality by their very nature as well. You can’t just separate one from the other. Tea?"
You stay silent as he pours it into several mugs and offers you one. It’s steaming hot, and it smells almost exactly like the one you were offered in the astral plane; only with a dash of cinnamon.
"The thing is," Wong continues, blowing on his tea, "in a way, we all hold the same kind of power. These other worlds, they exist alongside this one, all the time, and each time we make a decision, our consciousness merely slips between them. That doesn’t make the ones we left behind more or less ours."
"But the stones got destroyed in our reality," Bucky says.
"There’s that thing called the first law of thermodynamics."
Bucky’s thumb traces an absentminded line along the back of your hand, and you have to hide a shiver. "Energy can’t be created or destroyed, it can only change its form."
"That’s exactly right. So you see, even though the stones may be turned to dust, they’re not gone. Otherwise, our reality—or any like it, in fact—wouldn’t continue to exist."
"That wasn’t my question, though," you argue. "The power of the stones still exists, whatever that means. That’s great. What does that have to do with me? Or with this loop, for that matter."
"You draw from the time stone’s energy more than the other’s," Wong replies. "Since the stones don’t exist in their physical form anymore in our reality, you are pulling the necessary energy from others in which they are still intact, at the moment of using your powers. You’ve been able to jump greater temporal distances more easily before, am I right? Before the stone was crushed into pieces?"
You’re about to deny it, but then he adds, gently, "When you were a child, maybe?"
Memories of repeated accidental time jumps rush through your mind. Memories of getting stuck in the same couple of minutes for hours on end, finally getting out of it after what had felt like years and yet not feeling any different at all.
It’d never made you feel so exhausted, then.
You’d never put it together consciously because the first time you tried using your powers after the Snap, you you’d already been exhausted for so long. You’d blame a lack of practice, of proper technique or attention or adequateness; a lack of freedom to use them however you wanted without feeling prying eyes watch your every move.
Later, you’d mostly blame yourself.
Bucky’s hand slips out of yours and you are brought back to the present again. The tea has gone tepid in your cup when you take a sip; it makes your eyes water with its bitter sting.
"What I’m trying to say is this," Wong continues. "There’s no right or wrong answer to whether you actually belong in this reality, because we all shift between related realities constantly. What you’re doing is unusual, yes, but not unheard of. And it certainly doesn’t mean you shouldn’t exist. Quite the contrary. I’ve found that everything and everyone of us has a purpose here."
You nod, your throat still clogged up.
"The loop," Bucky says. "How do we go about undoing it?"
We.
"It comes back to how it was created in the first place. With internalized magic like yours, the kind used on yourself instead of externally, it comes back to the emotions we feel when we reach out to the stones. They’re essential in what they help create."
Your mind replays the first time you’ve watched Bucky die in front of you. To that desperation, the guilt, the shame. And hidden underneath, still unnoticed, still pushed down, perhaps …
"Here you go," Strange says, returning your necklace. The tourmaline is warm to the touch, humming with newly imbued magic. "Whenever you’re ready, this should do the trick. You might get a bit light-headed."
You both stare at him. "This gets us out?" you ask, your voice cracking.
Strange frowns. "What? No."
"I told you," Wong says with an edge of impatience, "that’s not how portals work."
"Technically not a portal," you mumble, putting the pendant on again, feeling it pulsate warmly against your chest.
True to Strange’s words, you immediately feel a little dizzy with a rush of concentrated magic that has nowhere to go. Even though you’re seated, you have to grasp for Bucky’s arm to keep your balance.
"I’ve imbued the necklace with some of my own powers and linked it more closely to your person," Strange continues, and you dig the nails of your unoccupied hand into your palm to pay attention. "It should help you focus your powers more directly once you’re back in the astral plane and allow you to break the loop in time. Mind you, it’s merely an amplifier, not a quick fix. It might still take a while."
"How much time do we still have before the loop starts to disintegrate?" Bucky asks. Smart question. He’s so smart.
"You’re already past that point, Sergeant Barnes," Wong says, and it sends a chill through you. "But we’ll do our best to help as much as we can. I will set up some wards that should bypass my own consciousness and buy you some more time."
"Thank you," you say quietly, blinking quite a lot. "For all of this."
He nods, slowly, measuring you up, but not in the way you’re used to; for once, you appear to meet expectations. "Good luck, Miss Y/L/N. Let us know how these matters resolve."
"You doing okay, doll?" Bucky chuckles on your way up the stairs. It’s the first time he’s smiled even a little bit all afternoon. He should do it more. Why doesn’t he do it more?
It takes you a bit to notice you’re still holding onto his sleeve. "I’m great," you say. "Superb, really. Did the floor sway like that earlier? Seems like a safety issue. What time is it? I hope Sam’s alright."
"Maybe you should take that thing off again, hm?"
"No no no," you say quickly, immediately tripping over your own feet. Before you plant on your face in the middle of the entrance hall, Bucky manages to hold out his other arm to catch you. "Whoops."
"Very convincing," he says dryly, but there’s something akin to fondness in his eyes when he looks at you.
"You have the prettiest eyes," you tell him with a sigh, "did you know?"
"And you are quite literally drunk on power." A fascinating shadow falls over his face as he steadies you; it mostly reaches his cheeks. "Let’s hope that’ll fade once you get back to the astral plane or else you might just as well kill me yourself."
"I never want to do that. I don’t want that. Do you think I want to kill you?"
"If you did, now’s your chance." He huffs. "Wouldn’t blame ya."
You stare at him, at his oddly bright blue eyes and his self-deprecating scowl and at the way he’s still holding you upright, and then your lightheadedness makes you do something very, incredibly, outrageously stupid.
You kiss him.
It barely takes a moment to make you realize, like a shock of cold water, what it is you’re doing. Bucky freezes when your lips brush against his. They’re so soft.
You immediately jolt your head back, your heartbeat loud enough to reverberate in your ears, "Fuck!"
His eyes are so wide and so blue and he’s still holding your elbow, and so you yank your arms away and tumble backwards just as he says, "You’re not—"
But you’re still falling.
And then, with a start, you wake up.
* * * * *
"You have a lot of empty rooms," Sam said when he found you on one of the couches in the living room area, curled up to watch some Netflix.
You shrugged. "Guess Stark anticipated more people’d be left to use them after … everything."
"And it’s just you?"
You let the question sit for a moment, for some reason looking at your dish towel. "Yup," you replied finally. "Just me."
Sam nodded, apparently lost in thought.
"So yeah," you continued for some reason, "if you’re in the city and need a place, feel free, I guess."
You didn’t expect much to come of it. After all, Sam had his own apartment all the way over in D.C., and you honestly didn’t expect to see him much once this mission was over.
You told yourself that for the first five missions before you accepted that maybe he’d continue asking you to tag along.
In the end, it hadn’t been him who needed a place, anyway. It was Bucky.
He didn’t tell you the particulars about why he had to leave his Brooklyn apartment; you assumed he’d had to leave, because there was truly no other explanation why he’d choose to move in with you, of all people.
Then again, you hardly ever saw him, and if you hadn’t seen him bring an overnight bag and a withering houseplant on the weekend he’d settled in one of the upstairs bedrooms, you wouldn’t have known another person was living in the Tower at all.
Well, that and the food mysteriously disappearing from your fridge now.
Sam was the one most weirded out by your living situation, even though you were absolutely positive it’d been his idea in the first place.
"What did you expect?" you asked, handing him his usual coffee cup. "That we’d immediately become besties just because we share a kitchen?"
"It’s unnatural," he shook his head. "Do you communicate with each other at all?"
"Sure. Sometimes I leave post-its on the fridge and when I come back, they’re in the trash."
"One day, one of you is gonna outweird the other. I just hope I’m out of town." He bit into a rugelach and started coughing. "Jesus, what did you put in these?"
"Ask Bucky. He’s doing a whole midnight baking thing at the moment. I think he’s trying to take the Tower for himself by smoking me out."
Sam decidedly pushes the cookie tin farther away from him. "You’ve not asked him, then?"
"Again, he doesn’t respond to my post-its."
Truthfully, you were still mad at him. How were you supposed to wallow in peace if someone was constantly ignoring your personal space? There were only so many times you could flee into the blissful loneliness of the void.
In other words, you didn’t notice for a very long time that you didn’t seek out the quiet nearly as much anymore these days.
"Hey, Ratatouille," Sam said. "I was gonna tell you both, actually."
It was good progress that made you not flinch quite as much anymore when a cupboard opened just behind you. In fact, you didn’t even move a muscle.
On your second try.
"I was gonna tell you both, actually," Sam said again, taking a sip of coffee. "CIA wants us to quit the ULTIMATUM case."
"What?" you both said at the same time.
"Why?" Bucky asked irritably. "Sharon already sick of your face again?"
Sam threw a piece of rugelach at him. "I don’t think it was her call. But it means I gotta head to Virginia for a while and give them a full debrief so they can do their own 'internal investigation', whatever that’s supposed to mean. After that, we’re on our own."
"I don’t like this," Bucky said.
"Neither do I," Sam replied. "But I’m hoping to get some information out of them while I’m down there."
"So that’s just it?" you said. "They tell us to stop and we just have to drop everything?"
"Officially, yes."
Bucky crossed his arms. "When you say 'we’re on our own' …"
"I don’t trust these people," Sam said. "I want to know what they’re trying to keep hush. But you," he nods at Bucky, "have been pardoned for less than a year, and you," he nods at you, "don’t officially exist. I can’t guarantee either of these things will stay that way if we go against official government orders. So if you want an out, this is it."
You looked at Bucky, and for the first time, you didn’t find any challenge in his eyes. He simply looked at you, letting you make the call first.
Maybe it was a dare in and of itself, but you couldn’t help yourself. Your curiosity had been sparked.
"If you’re waiting for me to chicken out …"
For a fraction of a second, something like a smile made his mouth twitch. "Wouldn’t dream of it."
chapter ten
thank you for reading!! you can follow my library blog @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications 💚 also please consider leaving a comment, it literally helps my motivation so much to hear from you!!
I'm so confused?! Like what is even happening and how did you come up with all of this?
I love, love, love that he's calling her doll! That twelve isn't an insult and that she trusts him! We don't like Buckys thoughts, but I snorted at the wolf boy (which reminded me of Infinity War when Drax told Quill that Thor is a man) and then I was stunned by the sexual tension, which I wasn't prepared for!
✮ synopsis: bucky's gotten good at keeping his distance from his harmless, sunshine-y neighbor. but when you get taken because of him—because someone figured out you're his weak spot—he realizes how spectacularly that plan backfired. turns out the winter soldier's soft spot is a lot more dangerous than he thought.
✮ pairing: post-thunderbolts!bucky x fem!reader
✮ disclaimers: violence, kidnapping, blood and injury, torture (not graphic), angst with a happy ending, emotional hurt/comfort, established feelings but complicated relationship, second person POV, fem!reader, miscommunication, intense yearning, emotionally constipated!bucky, past trauma, mild language, fighting sequences
✮ word count: 10.6k
✮ a/n: first fic on this blog and it's basically just 10k words of soft bucky yearning xoxo
The first time Bucky Barnes sees you, you're trying to shove a couch through a doorway that's at least six inches too narrow, and losing spectacularly.
He's coming home from another pointless congressional hearing—the kind where everyone talks in circles about defense budgets while carefully not mentioning the alien invasion from three months ago—when he spots you in the hallway. You're wedged between the arm of what looks like a vintage velvet monstrosity and the doorframe of 4B, hair escaping from whatever you'd tried to contain it with, muttering a stream of increasingly creative profanity.
"Fucking—come on—you absolute bastard of a—"
The couch shifts. You yelp. Bucky's halfway down the hall before he realizes he's moving.
"Need a hand?"
You twist around, and something in his chest does this stupid, inconvenient flip. Your face is flushed, one cheek smudged with what might be dust or maybe yesterday's mascara, and you're looking at him like—well. Like he's not Bucky Barnes. Like he's just some guy in the hallway who might know how geometry works.
"Oh thank god," you breathe, and the relief in it makes his mouth twitch. "I've been battling this thing for twenty minutes. I think it's winning."
He assesses the situation with the same tactical precision he'd use for a Bulgarian arms deal, if arms deals came upholstered in emerald green and smelled faintly of vanilla perfume mixed with fresh sweat. The angle's all wrong. You've been trying to force it through horizontally when it needs to go vertical, then rotate.
"Here." He steps closer, and you shift to make room, your shoulder brushing his chest in a way that absolutely doesn't make his pulse stutter. "If we flip it—"
"Oh, you're strong," you say, like an observation about the weather, as he essentially deadlifts one end of your couch. The metal arm whirs faintly. You don't flinch. "That's convenient."
Convenient. Right. He maneuvers the couch through the doorway in three efficient moves, trying not to notice how you smell like coffee and something floral, how you hover just inside his peripheral vision like you're trying not to crowd him but can't quite stay away.
"There." He sets it down in what's clearly the only spot it could go in your tiny living room. The space is chaos—boxes everywhere, art leaning against walls, books stacked in precarious towers. "You just moving in?"
"Yeah, from—" You wave a hand vaguely eastward. "Nicer neighborhood. Turns out freelance graphic design doesn't pay for Manhattan rent. Who knew?" The self-deprecation comes with a grin that transforms your whole face, and Bucky has to look away, focus on the box labeled 'KITCHEN SHIT' in aggressive Sharpie. "I'm—well, you probably don't care what my name is."
He does, actually. Cares in a way that makes his teeth ache.
"Bucky," he offers, even though you clearly already know. "4C."
"The grumpy congressman." Your grin goes wider, teasing. "I've seen you on C-SPAN. You look like you're being held at gunpoint during those hearings."
"Feel like it too," he mutters, and the laugh you give him hits like a shot of whiskey—warm and slightly dizzying.
"Well, Congressman Barnes of apartment 4C, you've just saved my Saturday. Can I pay you in beer? I've got—" You dig through a box, emerge triumphant with two bottles. "Hipster IPA or hipster IPA?"
He should say no. Should maintain boundaries. Should remember what happened the last time he let someone get close—the scar on his ribs from Belgrade still aches when it rains.
Instead, he finds himself accepting a bottle, listening to you chatter about the neighbor who warned you about the rats (definitely real) and the ghost (probably not real but who knows), watching how you gesture with your whole body when you talk, like you're too much for your own skin.
It's dangerous, how easy you are to be around. How you look at him like he's just Bucky, not the former Asset, not the killer, not the congressman who can't pass a single fucking bill. Just a guy who helped with your couch.
He stays too long. Drinks two beers. Helps you unpack exactly three boxes before some long-dormant self-preservation instinct kicks in and he makes excuses about constituent emails.
"Thanks again," you say at the door, and there's something in your eyes—curiosity, maybe. Interest. "For the couch. And the company."
"No problem."
He's halfway to his own door when you call out: "Hey, Barnes?"
He turns. You're leaning against your doorframe, backlit by the disaster zone of your apartment, smiling that smile that makes his chest tight.
"I make really good coffee. You know. If congressional hearings ever drive you to caffeine dependency."
It's an offer. An opening. Everything in him screams to close it, lock it down, maintain operational security. Instead, his traitorous mouth says, "I'll keep that in mind."
He's so fucked.
The thing is, Bucky's gotten good at keeping people at arm's length. Seventy years of being a weapon teaches him that distance equals safety—for them, not him.
When you're already dead, what's a little more damage?
So he shouldn't notice when you start leaving your apartment at 7:23 every morning, shouldering a bag that's always slipping off your shoulder. Shouldn't time his own exits to avoid those encounters, then feel like an asshole when he succeeds. Definitely shouldn't lie awake listening through the thin walls as you sing along to whatever pop music you play while cooking, off-key and enthusiastic.
But here's the other thing: you make it really fucking hard to maintain distance.
You leave cookies outside his door with notes that say things like "for emergency constituent-induced rage" and "survival fuel for C-SPAN." You knock when you know he's home, ask to borrow sugar or vodka or a screwdriver, then stay to chat like his apartment isn't just bare walls and a couch Sam made him buy. You touch—casual, constant. A hand on his arm when you laugh, fingers brushing when you hand him things, like physical contact isn't something that makes his brain static out.
"You're a really good listener," you tell him one evening, three weeks into whatever this is. You're sitting on his floor, back against his couch, because you'd knocked asking for wine and then somehow ended up staying. Your knee presses against his thigh. He's catastrophically aware of every point of contact. "Like, actually good. Not just waiting for your turn to talk."
"Not much of a talker," he says, which is true and also easier than explaining that he's memorizing everything—how you twist your rings when you're nervous, the way your voice drops when you're saying something real, how you look in his space like you belong there.
"Bullshit." You bump his shoulder. He doesn't flinch anymore, which is either progress or a sign he's completely fucked. "You're just selective. Quality over quantity."
You say things like that—observations that feel like being seen, really seen, not just looked at. It's terrifying. It's addictive. It's going to get you killed.
Because here's the thing Bucky knows down to his bones: everything he touches turns to ash. Everyone he cares about becomes a target. And you—with your sunshine laugh and your disaster apartment and your way of looking at him like he's worth something—you're exactly the kind of light that attracts the worst kind of dark.
He should stay away.
He doesn't.
"So," Sam says, watching Bucky check his phone for the third time during their coffee meeting. "Who is she?"
"What?" Bucky pockets the phone. You'd texted asking if he knew how to fix a leaky faucet. He knows seventeen ways to kill a man with a faucet. Fixing one can't be that different. "Nobody. Work thing."
"Uh-huh." Sam's doing that face, the one that means he's about to be insufferably perceptive. "That's why you just smiled at your phone. Over a work thing. You. Smiled."
"I smile."
"No, you do this thing with your mouth that's like a smile's evil twin. This was an actual smile. So. Who is she?"
Bucky takes a long drink of coffee, considering how much lying is worth the effort. "Neighbor."
"Neighbor." Sam leans back, grinning. "Cute neighbor?"
The memory of you last night, paint in your hair and gesturing wildly about your latest client, flashes unbidden. His silence is apparently answer enough.
"Buck. Man. This is good. You need—"
"I need to not get people killed," Bucky cuts him off. "I need to remember that anyone who gets close to me ends up hurt. I need—"
"You need a life," Sam interrupts right back. "You need to stop punishing yourself for shit that wasn't your fault. You need to let yourself have something good."
Bucky's jaw works. The phone buzzes again. He doesn't check it.
"She doesn't know what she's getting into," he says finally. "She's—" Bright. Warm. Good. "She's not part of this world."
"So keep her out of it." Sam makes it sound simple. Like there's a way to compartmentalize, to have you without putting you at risk. "Be her neighbor. Be normal. Be happy, for once in your goddamn life."
Normal. Right. Because nothing says normal like a centenarian ex-assassin with more kills than most armies and a metal arm that could crush a skull like an egg.
But then he thinks about your smile when he fixed your garbage disposal last week. How you'd said "my hero" in this teasing, fond way that made him want impossible things. How you treat him like he's just Bucky, not a weapon someone else aimed.
"I don't know how," he admits, quieter than he meant to.
Sam's expression softens. "Nobody does, man. You just try anyway."
The faucet thing turns into a whole production.
You answer the door in tiny pajama shorts and an oversized t-shirt that says "FEMINIST KILLJOY" in glitter letters, and Bucky's brain shorts out for a solid three seconds. Your hair's piled on top of your head in what might generously be called a bun, and there's toothpaste at the corner of your mouth, and he wants to—
"Oh good, you're here," you say, grabbing his arm and pulling him inside. Your fingers are warm through his henley. "It's making this noise like a dying whale. I tried YouTube tutorials but I think I made it worse."
The kitchen is a disaster. Tools scattered everywhere, water pooling on the floor, YouTube still playing on your laptop ("—sure to turn off the water main first—"). You've clearly been at this for a while.
"Did you turn off the water?" he asks, already knowing the answer from the growing puddle.
"I turned off a valve," you say defensively. "Several valves. None of them seemed to be the right valve."
He finds himself fighting a smile as he locates the actual shut-off. You hover behind him as he works, close enough that he can feel your breath on his neck, keeping up a running commentary that's part apology, part stand-up routine.
"—and then the wrench slipped and I maybe screamed a little bit, and Mrs. Nguyen next door started banging on the wall, and I had to yell that I wasn't being murdered, just defeating by plumbing—"
"Hand me the—" He turns to ask for the wrench at the same moment you lean forward to see what he's doing. Your faces end up inches apart. Time does that thing where it forgets how to work properly.
Your eyes are very wide. There's a water droplet on your cheek. Bucky's hand twitches with the urge to wipe it away.
"Wrench," he manages, voice rougher than intended.
"Right. Wrench. That's a—" You scramble backward, nearly slip on the wet floor. He catches your elbow automatically, steadying you, and your skin is so warm under his fingers it feels like a brand. "Thanks. I'm not usually this much of a disaster. Actually, that's a lie. I'm exactly this much of a disaster, you've just caught me on a particularly disastrous day."
He fixes the faucet in under ten minutes. You insist on making coffee as payment, which turns into leftover pizza, which turns into three hours on your couch watching some reality show about people making elaborate cakes. You provide running commentary that's funnier than the show itself, and Bucky finds himself actually laughing—not the dry chuckle he's perfected for public appearances, but real laughter that comes from somewhere deep in his chest.
"See?" you say during a commercial break, grinning at him. "I told you this show was addictive. Next week they're making a life-size dragon cake that actually breathes fire."
"Next week?" The words slip out before he can stop them, too revealing.
Your grin softens into something else, something that makes his chest tight. "Well, yeah. You can't miss fire-breathing dragon cake. That's un-American."
It becomes a thing. Thursday nights, your couch, increasingly ridiculous cooking shows. You always have too much dinner ("I'm terrible at portions, shut up"), he always fixes something that's broken ("it's not broken, it's just temperamental"), and somewhere between cake disasters and your laughter, Bucky forgets to maintain distance.
"Your boyfriend's here," Mrs. Nguyen announces loudly when Bucky knocks on your door a month later, because apparently the entire floor has decided they're invested in whatever this is.
"He's not my—" Your voice cuts off as you open the door. You're wearing a dress, which is new. Red, which is newer. Lipstick, which is going to kill him. "Hi."
"Hi." His brain's stuck on the curve of your shoulder, the way the fabric clings. "Going out?"
"Wedding. Old college friend." You're fidgeting with your earring, a sure tell that you're nervous. "I hate weddings. All that optimism and overpriced chicken."
"So don't go."
"Can't. I already RSVP'd, and I'm a good friend even if I'm a wedding-hating gremlin." You pause, still fiddling with the earring. "Unless..."
He knows what's coming by the way you're biting your lip. "No."
"You don't even know what I was going to ask!"
"You were going to ask me to go with you."
"...okay, so you did know." You lean against the doorframe, giving him a look that's probably supposed to be convincing but mostly just highlights how your eyes catch the hallway light. "Come on. You're a congressman. You must love overpriced chicken and small talk."
"I really don't."
"There's an open bar."
"Still no."
"I'll owe you one. One big favor. Anything."
That makes him pause, but not for the reason you think. The idea of you owing him anything makes his skin itch. You already give too much—your time, your laughter, your casual touches that rewire his brain. But the idea of watching you navigate a wedding alone, of other people getting to see you in that dress...
"Fine," he hears himself say. "But I'm not dancing."
The smile you give him could power Brooklyn for a week.
He's absolutely, catastrophically unprepared for how you look in candlelight.
The wedding venue is one of those rustic-chic places that thinks exposed beams equal personality. You're at table eight, which puts you safely in "college friends but not close enough for the wedding party" territory. You've been providing whispered commentary all through the ceremony ("five bucks says she wrote her vows the night before"), your shoulder pressed against his in a way that makes paying attention to anything else physically impossible.
"See that bridesmaid?" You nod toward a blonde who's definitely already three champagnes deep. "That's Amber. We were roommates sophomore year. She once tried to seduce our RA by leaving Post-it poetry on his door."
"Did it work?"
"Depends on your definition of 'work.' She did get his attention. Also a conduct violation." You're playing with the stem of your wine glass, fingers tracing patterns. "Thanks for this, by the way. I know wearing a suit and making small talk isn't exactly your idea of fun."
He could tell you that wearing a suit is nothing compared to tac gear, that small talk is easier than Senate hearings. Could mention that the way you keep unconsciously leaning into him makes any discomfort worth it. Instead: "It's fine."
"Such enthusiasm." But you're smiling, soft and maybe a little fond. "Dance with me?"
"I said no dancing."
"You said that before you had champagne. And before they played—" You tilt your head, listening. "Oh my god, is this Bon Jovi? We have to dance to Bon Jovi. It's the law."
"That's not a law."
"It's a law of wedding physics. Come on, Barnes. One dance. I promise not to step on your feet much."
The thing is, he can't say no to you. It's becoming a problem. You want him to fix your sink? Done. Need someone to hold your laptop while you Skype your mother? He's there. Want him to dance to "Livin' on a Prayer" at some stranger's wedding? Apparently, that's happening too.
You're a terrible dancer. Genuinely awful. You have no sense of rhythm, keep trying to lead, and you're laughing too hard to even pretend otherwise. It's perfect. He spins you out just to watch your dress flare, pulls you back too close, and for a moment—your hand in his, your face tilted up, surrounded by fairy lights and other people's happiness—he forgets why this is a bad idea.
"See?" you say, slightly breathless. "Dancing's not so bad."
His hand is on your waist. He can feel your pulse through the thin fabric. "No. Not so bad."
Someone bumps into you from behind, pushing you fully against his chest. Your hands come up to steady yourself, one landing over his heart, and he knows you can feel how it stumbles. Your smile falters, shifts into something else. Something that looks dangerously like realization.
"Bucky—"
"They're cutting the cake," he says, stepping back. The loss of contact feels like losing a limb. "Should probably watch. For your show."
You blink, then recover. "Right. Yeah. Cake."
But you're quiet for the rest of the reception, and he catches you looking at him with this expression he can't decode. Like you're working through a complex equation and not liking the answer.
He drives home. You spend the ride fiddling with your phone, uncharacteristically silent. When he pulls up to the building, you don't immediately get out.
"I'm sorry if I—" you start.
"Don't." It comes out harsher than intended. He tries again, softer: "You didn't do anything wrong."
"Feels like I did." You're still not looking at him. "I forget sometimes, that you're—that we're—"
"Friends," he supplies, even though the word tastes like ash. "We're friends."
"Right." You finally meet his eyes, and there's something careful in your expression now. Guarded. "Friends."
You're out of the car before he can figure out what to say to fix this. He watches you disappear into the building first, red dress like a wound in the grey evening, and knows he's fucked everything up without quite understanding how.
You pull back after that.
It's subtle—you still smile when you see him in the hall, still text him memes at inappropriate hours. But you stop knocking on his door for impromptu dinners. Stop touching him casually. When he offers to fix your eternally-dripping showerhead, you say you'll call the super instead.
"You're moping," Sam tells him two weeks later, during one of their mandatory "make sure Bucky's not spiraling" brunch dates.
"I don't mope."
"You're the Black Widow of moping. The Michael Jordan of emotional constipation." Sam pauses. "That neighbor you mentioned?"
Bucky's silence is damning.
"What'd you do?"
"Why do you assume I did something?"
"Because you always do something. You get close to someone, panic, and pull some self-sabotaging bullshit." Sam's voice gentles. "Talk to me, man."
Bucky stares at his coffee like it holds answers. "She wanted to dance."
"...okay?"
"At a wedding. And I—we danced. And it was..." He doesn't have words for what it was. How you felt in his arms, how the world narrowed down to just the two of you, how for a moment he forgot he was dangerous. "And then I shut it down."
"Why?"
"Because." He sets the mug down too hard, coffee sloshing. "Because she's sunshine, Sam. She's late-night cooking shows and glitter pens and leaving snacks for the delivery guy. She has no idea what I've done, what I'm capable of—"
"Did you ever think maybe she does know and doesn't care?"
"Then she's naïve."
"Or maybe she just sees you better than you see yourself." Sam leans forward. "Buck, you can't protect people by pushing them away. That's not how it works."
"It's worked so far."
"Has it? Because from where I'm sitting, you're miserable, she's probably confused as hell, and nobody's actually safer."
Bucky wants to argue, but then his phone buzzes. Your name pops up: my smoke alarm is having an existential crisis. is it supposed to beep in morse code?
He's already standing before he realizes it.
"Go," Sam says, shaking his head but smiling. "Fix her smoke alarm. Talk to her like a human being. Maybe try not to fuck it up this time."
Your door is already cracked when he gets there, smoke rolling out in lazy waves.
"I'm not on fire!" you call before he can knock. "Well, the oven mitt was, but I handled it."
He finds you on a chair, ineffectively fanning the smoke detector with a dish towel. You're wearing those little pajama shorts again and his brain still isn't prepared for the sight.
"How does an oven mitt catch fire?" He reaches up, disables the alarm with practiced ease.
"Well, when you forget it's on your hand and rest it on the stove burner..." You shrink a little at his look. "I was distracted."
"By what?"
You don't answer, just hop down from the chair. This close, he can see the flour in your hair, the way you're worrying your bottom lip. "Thanks. Sorry for texting, I know it's late—"
"Why are you apologizing?"
"Because—" You make a frustrated gesture. "Because I'm trying to give you space. Because you clearly regretted the wedding thing and I'm trying not to be that neighbor who develops inconvenient feelings—"
"Feelings?" His brain snags on the word like cloth on a nail.
You go very still. "Shit. I mean. Not feelings. Just. You know. Neighbor...ly concern. Very platonic. Super appropriate."
"You're a terrible liar."
"Yeah, well, you're terrible at—" You stop, visibly collecting yourself. When you speak again, your voice is carefully level: "I like you, okay? More than I should. And I know that's not what you want, and I'm trying really hard to be okay with that, but you standing in my kitchen looking all concerned while I'm having a feelings crisis is really not helping."
The words hit him like a physical blow. You like him. More than you should.
"You don't know me," he says, defaulting to the easiest argument.
"Bullshit." There's heat in your voice now. "I know you reorganize my bookshelf when you think I'm not looking because the chaos bothers you. I know you bring me coffee on Tuesdays because you noticed I have early meetings. I know you have nightmares—yeah, the walls are thin—and I know you pace afterwards like you're trying to walk off whatever you dreamed about."
Each observation feels like being flayed open.
"I know you're careful," you continue, softer now. "I know you think you're dangerous. And I know you've probably got reasons for that. But Bucky? I also know you'd never hurt me. Ever."
"You can't know that."
"Why? Because you're what, too damaged? Too dangerous?" You step closer and he should step back but he's frozen. "You carry my groceries. You fixed my faucet. You danced with me at a wedding even though you hate dancing. Really dangerous stuff there, Barnes."
"You don't understand—"
"Then explain it to me." Your chin juts out, stubborn. "Give me one good reason why we can't—"
He kisses you.
It's the wrong thing to do. Selfish. Stupid. But you're standing there in your flour-dusted pajamas, looking at him like he's worth fighting for, and his self-control just...snaps.
The sound you make—soft, surprised, maybe relieved—shorts out every rational thought in his head. Your hands come up to frame his face, fingertips cool against his burning skin, and then you're kissing him back like you've been waiting for this, like you've been drowning too.
You taste like smoke and whatever you were baking, sweet with an edge of burn, and he's dizzy with it. His hands find your waist, fingers spreading wide against the soft cotton of your shirt, and he pulls you in until there's no space between you, until he can feel your heartbeat hammering against his chest. You're so warm, so alive, radiating heat like a small sun, and he wants to map every degree of it with his mouth, his hands, his—
Reality crashes back like ice water.
He jerks away, but his hands won't let go of your waist, like his body's in revolt against his better judgment. You're both breathing like you've run miles—harsh, ragged pulls of air that fill the space between you. Your lips are swollen, kiss-bruised, and he did that, he marked you, and the savage satisfaction of it wars with the knowledge that he's just made everything infinitely worse.
Your eyes are huge, pupils blown wide, and you're looking at him like he's just rearranged your entire understanding of the universe. One hand is still on his face, thumb pressed to the corner of his mouth like you're trying to hold the kiss there, keep it from escaping.
"That's why," he says roughly. "Because I want—because you make me want things I can't have."
"Says who?" Your eyes are very bright. "Who decided what you can have?"
He doesn't have an answer for that. Doesn't know how to explain the mathematics of survival, how everyone he's ever cared about becomes a liability, a target, a grave.
"I should go," he manages.
"Or," you say, "you could stay."
The offer hangs between you like a lit fuse. He can see the future unspool in both directions: leave now, go back to safe distances and polite nods in the hallway, watch you eventually move on with someone who doesn't come with a body count. Or stay, and risk you realizing what a mistake you're making. Stay, and selfishly take whatever you're willing to give for however long you're willing to give it.
You're still looking at him, patient and terrified and hopeful all at once.
He leaves.
The word echoes in his head all the way back to his apartment. Coward. Coward. Coward. But it's the right thing to do. The safe thing. You'll hurt for a while, maybe hate him a little, but you'll be alive to do it.
He doesn't sleep. Just sits on his couch, staring at the wall that separates your apartments, listening to the muffled sounds of you cleaning up. The shower runs at 2 AM. He knows you cry in the shower when you think no one can hear—learned that three weeks into being neighbors, when your freelance client stiffed you on a big project. He'd wanted to break the fucker's legs then.
Now he wants to break his own.
You're a better person than he'll ever be, which is why you still smile at him in the hallway.
It's careful now, contained. The kind of smile you'd give any neighbor, not the one that used to light up your whole face when you saw him. You don't knock anymore. Don't text about your smoke alarm or your leaky faucet or the rat you're convinced lives in the walls. You just...exist, parallel to him, in a way that makes his chest feel like it's full of broken glass.
"Fixed it myself," you say one morning when he catches you wrestling with a new deadbolt installation. Your drill slips, gouging the doorframe. "YouTube University, you know?"
He could fix it in under a minute. Could show you how to align the strike plate properly, how to test the throw. Instead: "Good for you."
Your smile flickers. "Yeah. Good for me."
Mrs. Nguyen gives him dirty looks now. The whole floor does, really. Like they know he's the reason you don't laugh as loud anymore, why your music's quieter, why you started getting grocery delivery instead of making three trips up the stairs, arms overloaded, dropping things and cursing cheerfully.
It's fine. It's working. You're safe.
He tells himself that every night when he hears you through the walls, moving around your apartment like a ghost of the person who used to dance while cooking.
Three weeks post-kiss, Valentina calls them in for a mission that's barely legal on a good day.
"Weapons shipment," she says, sliding photos across the conference table with her usual theatrical flair. "Enhanced tech, off-market, very much not supposed to exist. The kind of toys that make governments nervous."
"So we're stealing them," Walker states, not asks.
"Recovering," Val corrects with a smile sharp enough to cut. "For the safety of the American people, of course."
Yelena snorts. Alexei's already studying the compound layout like there'll be a test. Bob's doing that thing where he shrinks into himself, trying to become invisible. Bucky catalogs exits, counts guards in the surveillance photos, and tries not to think about how you looked last night, hauling groceries with your hair falling in your eyes.
The mission goes sideways in minute three.
"Intel was wrong," Ava's voice crackles through comms, too calm for the situation. "Triple the guards. And—"
The explosion cuts her off. Then another. The "barely defended warehouse" is a fucking fortress, crawling with military-grade security who definitely got the "shoot to kill" memo.
"Fall back," Bucky orders, but Alexei's already charged ahead, yelling something about Soviet glory. Walker's trying to flank, Bob's panicking, and somewhere in the chaos, Yelena starts laughing like this is the best thing that's happened all week.
It takes two hours to fight their way out. By the end, Bucky's left arm is sparking, his ears are ringing, and he's pretty sure at least three ribs are cracked. Yelena's favoring her right leg, Walker's bleeding from somewhere he won't admit, and Bob—Bob's dissociating so hard Bucky has to physically guide him to the extraction point.
"Well," Val says over comms, observing from her safe distance, "that was bracing."
Bucky doesn't trust himself to respond.
They limp back to New York in sullen silence. No debrief—Val's already spinning the disaster into something palatable for the brass. Bucky goes straight home, ignoring Sam's calls, ignoring everything except the need to get somewhere quiet before he starts breaking things.
His hands are still shaking when he reaches his floor. Adrenaline crash, probably. Or the delayed realization that they'd all nearly died for some bureaucrat's idea of asset recovery. Or—
Your door is open.
Not open-open. Cracked, like it didn't latch properly. Like someone left in a hurry. Or—
The deadbolt is broken.
The one you installed yourself three weeks ago. The one he'd watched you struggle with, pride keeping you from asking for help.
Bucky goes utterly still.
His body moves before his brain catches up. He's through your doorway, cataloging details with mechanical precision: lamp knocked over, books scattered, coffee table shoved sideways. Signs of a struggle. Signs of—
Blood.
Not much. Just droplets on the hardwood, leading toward the kitchen. But enough. Enough to make his vision tunnel, his chest compress until breathing becomes theoretical.
"Sweetheart?" The pet name slips out, raw. No answer. He clears each room like he's back in Hydra facilities, except his hands won't stop shaking because this is your space, your things, your—
Your phone is on the kitchen floor, screen cracked. There's a handprint on the wall—bloody, smeared. Too small to be anyone's but yours.
Something inside him breaks. Clean, sharp, like a bone snapping. The careful distance he's maintained, the walls he's built, the conviction that keeping you at arm's length would keep you safe—all of it crumbles in the face of your empty apartment and that small, bloody handprint.
He's already moving, phone out, calling in favors he's been hoarding. Because someone took you. Someone came into your home—the home he was supposed to be protecting by staying away—and took you. And they're going to learn exactly why the Winter Soldier's name still makes people flinch.
His phone rings. Unknown number.
"Barnes." He doesn't recognize his own voice.
"Ah, the infamous Winter Soldier." The voice is male, amused, completely at ease. "I was hoping we could talk."
"Where is she?"
"Safe. For now. Though that really depends on you, doesn't it?"
Ice spreads through his veins, familiar as an old friend. This is what he was trying to prevent. This exact scenario. You, hurt because of him. You, taken because someone figured out—
"What do you want?"
"You've been playing house, Barnes. Getting soft. Forgetting what you are." A pause, calculated. "I'm going to remind you. And your little neighbor? She's going to help."
The line goes dead.
Bucky stands in your ruined apartment, surrounded by the evidence of his failure, and feels something fundamental shift. Not break—he's been broken before. This is worse. This is the cold clarity that comes after, when there's nothing left to lose.
Someone made a mistake today. They touched you. They made you bleed.
He's going to paint the city red for it.
"Buck, slow down—"
"No." He's already moving, gathering gear with brutal efficiency. The weapons he's not supposed to have. The tech that's definitely illegal. Every favor, every resource, every skill Hydra beat into him over seventy years.
Sam's on speaker, trying to be the voice of reason. "You can't just go in guns blazing—"
"Watch me."
"This is exactly what they want. You, isolated, operating without backup—"
"They have her, Sam." The words come out raw, flayed. "They took her because of me. Because I was stupid enough to think distance would keep her safe."
Silence on the other end. Then: "What do you need?"
That's why Sam Wilson is Captain America. No more arguments, no more trying to talk him down. Just immediate, unwavering support.
"Intel. Cameras in my building, surrounding blocks. Last twelve hours." He straps a knife to his thigh, then another. "And get me backup."
"I can rally your team. Get Walker, Yelena—"
"No." The word comes out sharp. Another knife. Extra magazines. "The Thunderbolts are compromised. That clusterfuck of a mission proved it."
"Buck—"
"They're not ready for this. Half of them can barely work together without Val pulling the strings." He's checking his tactical vest, muscle memory taking over. "This isn't a government op. This is personal."
"So what, you're going in alone?"
Is he? Bucky stops, considers his options. The Thunderbolts are a mess on a good day—Walker's still trying to prove something, Bob's hanging on by a thread, and Alexei treats everything like a performance. They're not who he needs for this.
"They touched her," he says simply.
"I know, man. I know. But—"
"Get me what intel you can. I'll handle the rest."
"Buck, come on. At least let me—"
"They have her, Sam." His voice cracks, just slightly. "Every second we waste talking, they could be—"
"Okay. Okay. Intel coming your way. But Barnes? Don't do anything stupid."
"Too late for that."
Bucky stops in your doorway, looks back at your apartment. There's a photo on your bookshelf—you and him at the building's July 4th party. Mrs. Nguyen had insisted on taking it. You're laughing at something, leaning into him, and he's looking at you like—
Like you're everything he never thought he'd get to have.
"I'm coming for you," he tells the empty room. A promise. A threat. A prayer to whoever might be listening.
Then he disappears into the night, and the Winter Soldier goes hunting.
The trail goes cold in six hours.
Whoever took you, they're not amateurs playing at being dangerous. They're ghosts—professionals who know exactly how to disappear in a city of eight million people. Every camera angle's been scrubbed. Every witness suddenly develops amnesia. Even the blood in your apartment leads nowhere; cleaned of DNA markers by something that makes Bucky's teeth ache with familiarity.
"Talk to me, Buck." Sam's voice through the earpiece, carefully level. "Where are you?"
Bucky stands on a rooftop in Queens, staring at another dead end. Another empty warehouse that should have had something, anything. "Nowhere."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got." His metal hand clenches, servos whining. Below, the city keeps moving, oblivious to the fact that you're somewhere in it, hurt, taken because of him. "They're good, Sam. Too good."
"We'll find her."
We. Like this isn't Bucky's fault. Like his past isn't bleeding into your present, staining everything he tried so hard to keep clean.
He drops from the rooftop, lands hard enough to crack pavement. A passing couple startles, hurries away. Good. He doesn't feel particularly human right now anyway.
Hour twelve. Yelena finds him in your apartment, sitting on your couch like a grieving statue.
"This is pathetic," she says, stepping over the crime scene tape he'd ignored. "Even for you."
"Get out."
"No." She perches on your coffee table, uncharacteristically serious. "You think sitting here feeling sorry for yourself will find her? You think guilt helps?"
"I said—"
"I know what guilt looks like, Barnes." Her voice cuts, precise as the knives she carries. "I know what it is, failing someone you—" She pauses, searching for the English word. "Care about. But this?" She gestures at him, at the apartment, at the bloody handprint he can't stop staring at. "This is just... как это... self-pity? No, worse. Useless."
The laugh that tears out of him is ugly. "Thanks for the pep talk."
"Someone needs to knock sense into your thick skull." She leans forward. "Whoever has her, they want you like this. Emotional. Sloppy. Making mistakes."
"I know that."
"Then stop giving them what they want."
Easier said than done when every surface in this apartment carries your ghost. The mug on the counter with your lipstick stain. The book splayed open on the side table, marking your place. The sweater thrown over the chair—his sweater, actually, stolen three weeks ago when you'd claimed your apartment was freezing.
"Keep it," he'd said, trying not to notice how it made something primal in him satisfied, seeing you wrapped in his clothes.
"Just until I fix my radiator," you'd promised, but you'd worn it three more times that week, and he'd never asked for it back.
"Barnes." Yelena snaps her fingers in his face. "Сфокусируйся. Focus."
"I am focused."
"You're spiraling." She pulls out her phone, shows him surveillance footage he's already memorized. "Look again. Really look. Use your brain, not your bleeding heart."
He wants to tell her he's looked at nothing else for twelve hours. Instead, he watches you leave your apartment at 6:47 PM, mail in hand. Watches you come back at 6:53. The timestamp jumps—7:31 to 8:15, forty-four minutes missing. By 8:15, your door's ajar and you're gone.
"Professional crew doesn't need forty-four minutes for grab," Yelena says, her English getting rougher as she thinks. "So why take so long? What were they doing?"
Bucky's phone buzzes. Unknown number.
His blood turns to ice, then flame.
"You're going to want to watch this alone," the familiar voice says. "Though I'm sure your friend is lovely. Hi, Yelena."
She stiffens. Bucky's already moving, putting distance between them, some instinct screaming danger.
"Just me," he says. "Let her go."
"See, that's your problem, Barnes. Still trying to protect everyone. Still thinking you can control who gets hurt." A pause. "Check your messages."
The video file is already there. His hand shakes as he opens it.
You're in a concrete room—could be anywhere, everywhere, the kind of place that exists in every city's bones. Sitting in a metal chair, wrists zip-tied but not apparently hurt beyond the cut on your temple still sluggishly bleeding. You're still wearing his sweater.
"Say hello, sweetheart." The voice comes from behind the camera.
You look up, and the defiance in your eyes makes his chest seize. "Go fuck yourself."
The slap comes fast, snaps your head sideways. Bucky's phone creaks in his grip.
"Language." The camera shifts, focuses on your face. "Try again."
You spit blood, manage a smile that's all teeth. "Hi, Bucky. Nice weather we're having."
Another slap. Harder. Your lip splits.
"I told you he made you weak." The voice continues conversationally as you work your jaw, testing damage. "The Winter Soldier, reduced to playing house with some nobody. It's embarrassing, really."
"You talk a lot for someone hiding behind a camera," you mutter.
This time it's a fist. Your head rocks back, and when you look up again, your nose is bleeding. But you're still glaring, still unbroken, and Bucky loves you so fiercely in that moment it feels like drowning.
"Here's what's going to happen," the voice continues. "Every hour Barnes doesn't come alone to the address we'll send, things get worse for you. And before you get any ideas—" The camera pans to show three other men, armed, professional. "—we've planned for contingencies."
Back to you. Blood drips onto his sweater. You notice the camera returning, look directly into it. "Don't you fucking dare," you say, and despite everything—split lip, bloody nose, zip-tied to a chair—you mean it. "You hear me, Barnes? Don't you—"
The video cuts.
Bucky stands very still in your empty apartment, phone in pieces at his feet.
"That bad?" Yelena asks.
He can't speak. Can barely breathe around the rage threatening to tear him apart from the inside. Somewhere in the city, you're bleeding because of him. Hurt because he was selfish enough to let you close, stupid enough to think distance would be enough.
Another text. An address in Red Hook. Come alone or we start cutting.
"Is trap," Yelena says, dropping articles like she does when she's focused. "Obviously trap."
"I know."
"You can't just walk in there like idiot."
"I know."
"So what's plan?"
He looks at her, and whatever she sees in his face makes her step back. "I give them what they want."
"Barnes—"
"They want the Winter Soldier?" His voice sounds wrong, mechanical, like something dredged up from permafrost. "They've got him."
The address leads to a warehouse because of course it does. These people, whoever they are, lack imagination. Bucky counts heat signatures through thermal imaging—six outside, unknown inside. Doable, if he's what he used to be. If he's willing to be what he used to be.
"Don't you fucking dare."
Your voice echoes, but it's drowned out by older programming. By muscle memory that never quite faded, no matter how many therapy sessions or good days or shared dinners with someone who looked at him like he was worth saving.
"In position," Sam's voice, because fuck going alone. Fuck giving them what they want. "West entrance."
"Rooftop," from Yelena.
"Back door," Walker, surprisingly. "For the record, I think this is stupid."
"Noted," Bucky says, and walks through the front door.
The space is exactly what he expected. Concrete floors, exposed beams, the kind of place that swallows sound. They're waiting for him—five men in tactical gear, no identifying marks. Professional contractors, not ideologues. Which makes this personal.
"Dramatic entrance. I respect that." The voice from the phone materializes into a man in his forties, military bearing, forgettable face. He's standing next to a metal table laid out with tools that make Bucky's scars ache. "Though you were supposed to come alone."
"Yeah, well." Bucky spreads his hands, easy target. "I've never been good at following orders. Ask anyone."
"Funny." The man circles him, predator studying prey. "That's not what your files say. 'Perfect compliance.' That was the phrase, wasn't it?"
Old wounds, precisely targeted. These people have done their homework.
"Where is she?"
"Close. Alive. For now." The man stops in front of him. "You know, I studied you. The Winter Soldier. Hydra's perfect weapon. And then you just... stopped. Became this." He gestures dismissively. "James Barnes, failing congressman. Playing superhero. Pretending you're not what we made you."
"We?"
The man smiles. "Not Hydra, if that's what you're thinking. Hydra was sloppy. Cult-like. No vision beyond control." He pulls out a tablet, shows Bucky a logo—a chimera, three-headed. "Cerberus. We're more... refined. We deal in weapons, not world domination. And you, Barnes? You're a weapon pretending to be human."
"Cool speech." Bucky's cataloging angles, distances, how fast he'd have to move. "Must've practiced in the mirror."
The man's smile tightens. "Bring her out."
Two more men emerge from a side room, dragging you between them. You're conscious but barely, feet stumbling, head lolling. They drop you on the concrete, and you don't get up.
Everything in Bucky goes very, very quiet.
"So here's the deal," Cerberus continues. "You're going to work for us. Exclusive contract. Your particular skills in exchange for her life."
"No." Your voice, cracked but clear. You push yourself up on shaking arms, meet Bucky's eyes across the warehouse. "No deals. No trades."
"Sweetheart—"
"Don't you 'sweetheart' me." You manage to get to your knees, swaying. Blood's dried on your face, but your eyes are blazing. "You think I don't know what they're asking? You think I'd let you—" You have to stop, catch your breath. "I'd rather die than be the reason you become that again."
"How touching," Cerberus says. "But not your call." He nods to one of his men, who pulls out a knife. "Barnes? Your answer?"
The knife moves toward you.
The world explodes.
Flash-bangs through windows, smoke grenades, the distinctive whine of repulsor beams. Cerberus shouts orders, but it's too late—the Avengers don't do subtle when one of their own is threatened.
Bucky moves. Not the measured approach of a soldier, but the brutal efficiency of a weapon. The man with the knife goes down first, arm snapping under metal fingers. The second barely has time to scream. He's not thinking, just reacting, just removing threats between him and you.
Someone shoots him. Barely feels it. Someone else tries hand-to-hand, which is adorable. He puts them through a wall.
"Barnes!" Sam's voice, sharp. "Shield up!"
He spins, catches the thrown shield, uses it to deflect a spray of bullets meant for you. You're trying to crawl to cover, leaving bloody handprints on the concrete, and the sight shorts out whatever restraint he had left.
When the smoke clears, Cerberus is the only one left standing. Backed against the wall, gun trained on you because of course it is. These people are predictable to the last.
"Come any closer and—"
Yelena drops from the ceiling, lands on him like gravity given form. The gun goes flying. Cerberus goes down choking on his own blood, Yelena's knife finding the gap in his armor like it was designed for it.
"Predictable," she says, wiping the blade clean. "I told you they were predictable."
But Bucky's already moving, dropping to his knees beside you. You're conscious, breathing, alive. That's all that matters. Everything else—the mission, the cleanup, the questions—fades to white noise.
"Hey," he says, hands hovering over you, afraid to touch. Afraid to hurt. "I've got you."
"Took you long enough," you manage, then promptly pass out in his arms.
He catches you, holds you against his chest, and something in him breaks. Or maybe it finally, finally mends. Either way, he's done pretending distance keeps anyone safe. Done acting like he deserves to make choices about your safety without you.
"Med team's three minutes out," Sam says quietly.
Three minutes. He can hold you for three minutes. Can keep you safe for three minutes.
After that? After that, everything changes.
But for now, in the blood and smoke and aftermath, Bucky Barnes holds the person he was stupid enough to fall in love with and makes a promise:
Never again.
Never fucking again.
The medical bay at the Tower is too bright, too sterile, too full of people who keep looking at Bucky like he might snap. Maybe he will. He's been sitting in the same chair for four hours, watching machines monitor your breathing, and every beep feels like an accusation.
"You need to get that looked at," Sam says, nodding at the blood seeping through Bucky's shirt. Gunshot wound, probably. He honestly can't remember.
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding on their fancy floors."
"I'm fine."
Sam exchanges a look with Yelena, who's been uncharacteristically quiet since they arrived. She's cleaned the blood off her hands but keeps flexing them, like she can still feel it.
"At least change your shirt," she says finally. "You look like extra from horror movie."
He doesn't move. Can't move. Because what if you wake up while he's gone? What if you open your eyes and he's not there, again, like he wasn't there when they took you?
"Barnes." Dr. Cho's voice cuts through his spiral. "She's stable. Three broken ribs, concussion, various contusions, but nothing life-threatening. She's lucky."
Lucky. The word tastes like copper in his mouth. Lucky is winning the lottery, not surviving a kidnapping because you had the misfortune of living next to him.
"When will she wake up?"
"Soon. The sedatives should wear off within the hour." She pauses, studying him with that look medical professionals get when they're about to say something pointed. "You, however, need treatment. You're actively bleeding on my floor."
"Sam already made that joke."
"It wasn't a joke." But she moves on, knowing a lost cause when she sees one. "I'll send a nurse with supplies. Try not to die before she wakes up. The paperwork would be tedious."
She leaves. Sam leaves. Even Yelena eventually wanders off, muttering something about vodka and terrible life choices. And then it's just Bucky and you and the steady beep of machines he'd tear apart if they stopped working.
Your hand is smaller than his. He knows this—has known it since the first time you grabbed his wrist to drag him to see some neighbor's new puppy—but it feels more pronounced now. More fragile. Your knuckles are split from fighting back, and there's still blood under your nails. His blood? Theirs? He doesn't know, and the not knowing makes him want to put his fist through the wall.
"You're spiraling again."
Your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper, but it might as well be a gunshot for how hard it hits. His head snaps up to find you watching him, eyes half-open but alert.
"You're awake."
"Mmm. Kind of wish I wasn't." You try to sit up, wince, immediately abort that mission. "Fuck. Did anyone get the number of the truck that hit me?"
"Don't—" He's hovering, hands fluttering uselessly, afraid to touch you. "You shouldn't move. Dr. Cho said—"
"Dr. Cho can kiss my ass," you mutter, but you stop trying to sit up. Your eyes track over him, cataloging damage. "You're bleeding."
"It's nothing."
"It's literally dripping on the floor, Barnes."
"It's fine."
You stare at each other. Four hours of practiced speeches evaporate in the face of your actual consciousness, leaving him with nothing but the memory of your blood on concrete and the sound you made when they hit you.
"So," you say finally, voice carefully neutral. "Cerberus. That was fun."
"Don't."
"Don't what? Make jokes about my kidnapping? Process trauma through humor? Acknowledge that you're sitting there bleeding because you decided to Rambo your way through—"
"You could have died." It comes out louder than intended, raw. "You almost died because of me."
Something shifts in your expression. "Bucky—"
"No." He's standing now, needing distance, needing space between him and the way you're looking at him. "You don't get to—to act like this is fine. Like this is some funny story you'll tell at parties. They took you because of me. They hurt you because of me."
"They took me because they're assholes who thought they could use me as leverage." You're struggling to sit up again, ignoring whatever pain it causes. "That's on them, not you."
"You're only leverage because I was selfish enough to—" He stops, runs his hand through his hair. "I knew better. I knew what would happen if I let someone close, and I did it anyway."
"Let me get this straight." Your voice is gaining strength, and with it, heat. "You think you 'let' me get close? Like I didn't have any say in it? Like I didn't practically force-feed you cookies until you acknowledged my existence?"
"That's not—"
"And what, you think keeping me at arm's length would've magically made me safer? News flash, Barnes: I live in that building because it's what I can afford. That makes me a target for regular criminals on a good day. At least with you around, I had someone who actually gave a shit if I made it home."
"Don't." The word cracks. "Don't act like I was protecting you. I'm the reason you were bleeding. I'm the reason they—"
"You're the reason I'm alive!" You swing your legs over the side of the bed, bare feet hitting the floor with determination that makes his chest tight. "You think they took me because they wanted leverage? They took me because they were cleaning house. Because they knew you'd gotten soft, gotten close to someone, and that made you unpredictable."
You stand, sway, catch yourself on the bed rail. He moves forward instinctively, and you hold up a hand.
"No. You don't get to touch me right now. Not when you're about to do something stupid and noble and self-sacrificing." You take a step, then another, closing the distance between you despite your own warning. "They were going to kill me either way, Barnes. Whether you came for me or not. The only difference is that you did come, and now I'm alive to be really fucking pissed at you."
"You don't understand—"
"I understand perfectly." You're close enough now that he can see the bruises forming on your throat, the way you're holding your ribs, the tears you're refusing to shed. "You think you're poison. You think everyone you touch gets hurt. You think the best thing you can do is be alone forever because that's what you deserve."
"Stop."
"No. Because here's the thing, James Buchanan Barnes—you don't get to make that choice for me." Your voice breaks, just a little. "You don't get to decide I'm better off without you. You don't get to kiss me in my kitchen and then run away like a coward. And you sure as hell don't get to sit there bleeding and act like it's some kind of penance."
The medical bay feels too small suddenly, like all the air's been sucked out. You're looking at him with eyes that see too much, that refuse to let him hide behind the careful walls he's rebuilt in the last three weeks.
"They hurt you," he says, quieter now. Lost.
"Yeah. They did." You reach up, slowly, telegraphing the movement. Your hand cups his face, thumb brushing over the bruise on his cheekbone. "And it wasn't your fault."
"How can you say that?"
"Because blaming you for what they did is like blaming a bank for getting robbed." Your other hand comes up, framing his face, forcing him to meet your eyes. "You're not responsible for other people's evil, Bucky. You're only responsible for what you do about it."
"I should have protected you better."
"You literally threw yourself between me and automatic gunfire."
"I should have never let them take you in the first place."
"Oh, so you're psychic now? Can predict the future?" Your laugh is watery. "Add that to the resume. Congressman, ex-assassin, part-time fortune teller."
"This isn't funny."
"It's a little funny." But your smile fades, replaced by something fiercer. "You want to know what's not funny? Spending three weeks watching you shut me out. Sitting in that chair, knowing you were hurting, and not being able to do anything because you decided I was better off without you."
"You are—"
"Finish that sentence and I swear to god, Barnes, concussion or not, I will punch you in your stupid, self-loathing face."
He almost smiles. Almost. "You could barely stand five seconds ago."
"Adrenaline's a hell of a drug." But you're swaying again, and this time when he reaches for you, you don't stop him. His arms come around you carefully, mindful of injuries, and you lean into him like you've been waiting for permission. "I'm so fucking mad at you."
"I know."
"Like, incandescently furious."
"I know."
"You don't get to leave again." It comes out muffled against his chest, but he hears the steel underneath. "I don't care if the entire population of supervillains decides I'm their new favorite target. You don't get to leave."
His arms tighten fractionally. "Sweetheart—"
"No." You pull back enough to glare at him, and even bruised and exhausted, you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. "No 'sweetheart.' No soft voice and sad eyes. You're either in this with me or you're out, but you don't get to half-ass it anymore. You don't get to knock on my door at 2 AM because you had a nightmare and then pretend we're just neighbors. You don't get to dance with me at weddings and then act like it meant nothing. You don't get to—"
He kisses you.
There's no grace in it—just collision, pure physics as his mouth finds yours with the same brutal efficiency he'd use to take down a target. Except this isn't violence, it's something worse. It's capitulation. It's three weeks of want compressed into the space between one heartbeat and the next.
The noise that escapes you—half gasp, half sob—unlocks something feral in his chest. Then your teeth catch his lower lip, sharp and unforgiving, and his vision whites out entirely. You kiss like you fight: dirty, determined, taking no prisoners. Your tongue slides against his and his knees actually buckle, what the fuck, he's faced down alien armies without flinching but you're going to be what finally kills him.
His hands fly to your face, metal and flesh cradling your jaw like you're something precious even as he devours your mouth like you're anything but. You're pressed so tight against him he can feel every hitch in your breathing, every shudder that runs through you when he angles his head and deepens the kiss into something filthier, something that has you making these broken little sounds that he wants to bottle and keep.
The medical bed hits the back of your thighs—when did he walk you backward?—and you use the leverage to pull him down, down, until he's curved over you like a question mark, like gravity itself has reorganized around the heat of your mouth.
When you finally break apart, it's only because biology demands it. You're both wrecked—breathing like you've run marathons, lips swollen and spit-slick, staring at each other like you're not quite sure what just happened.
Your pupils are blown so wide he can barely see the color of your irises. There's a flush spreading down your throat, disappearing beneath the hospital gown, and he has to physically stop himself from following it with his mouth. His hands are trembling where they frame your face, thumbs pressed to your cheekbones like he's checking you're real.
"That's not an answer," you manage, but your voice is thoroughly fucked, and your hands are still twisted in his vest like you'll shoot him if he tries to move away.
"Yes, it is."
"No, it's really not. It's a deflection. A really nice deflection, but—"
"I'm in." The words feel like jumping off a cliff. Like defusing a bomb. Like coming home. "I'm in. Whatever that means, whatever that looks like. I'm in."
You study him for a long moment, and he tries not to fidget under the scrutiny. Finally: "You're going to therapy."
"I'm already in therapy."
"You're going to actually talk in therapy instead of just staring at the wall and hoping Dr. Raynor gets bored."
"...fine."
"And you're going to let me have a say in my own safety. No more unilateral decisions about what's 'best' for me."
"Okay."
"And you're going to teach me self-defense. Real self-defense, not just how to throw a punch."
"Deal."
"And—" You sway again, this time more dramatically. "Oh. Okay. Maybe sitting down now."
He guides you back to the bed, hands steady even if nothing else is. You let him fuss, let him adjust pillows and pull up blankets, and he tries not to think about how easily you fit into his hands. How right this feels, even with blood on his shirt and bruises on your skin.
"For the record," you say as he settles back into the chair beside your bed, "I'm still mad."
"I know."
"Like, really mad. There's going to be yelling. Possibly throwing things."
"I can take it."
"And groveling. Lots of groveling. I'm talking flowers, chocolates, the works."
"Noted."
You reach for his hand, lace your fingers through his. "And you're going to tell me you love me."
He freezes. You squeeze his hand.
"Because I know you do. I've known since you reorganized my bookshelf by genre and then pretended you didn't. And I love you too, you absolute disaster of a man, but I need to hear you say it. When I'm not concussed and you're not bleeding. When we're both safe and no one's trying to kill us and we can actually have a real conversation about what this means."
His throat feels tight. "I can do that."
"Good." You close your eyes, exhaustion finally winning. "Now get your gunshot wound treated before you bleed out on my watch. I'm not explaining that to Sam."
"It's not that bad."
"Bucky."
"Fine."
But he doesn't move. Not yet. Instead, he sits there holding your hand, memorizing the way your fingers fit between his, the steady rise and fall of your chest, the fact that you're alive and here and somehow, impossibly, still want him around.
The sun's coming up by the time a nurse finally corners him, threatening sedation if he doesn't let her treat the gunshot wound. You're properly asleep by then, fingers still tangled with his, and he lets the nurse work around your grip rather than let go.
"She's tough," the nurse comments, applying what are probably too many bandages.
"Yeah."
"And stubborn."
"Definitely."
"Good." She pats his shoulder, maternal despite being half his age. "You're going to need it."
He doesn't ask what she means. Doesn't need to. Because you're right—he's a disaster. A work in progress on his best days, a barely controlled catastrophe on his worst. But you looked at all that and decided he was worth fighting for anyway.
The least he can do is try to prove you right.
When you wake up again, he's there. When Dr. Cho kicks him out so you can rest, he goes to therapy and actually talks. When Sam asks if you're together now, he says yes without qualifying it.
And when you're finally released, when you're back in your apartment with its new locks and its carefully cleaned floors, when you knock on his door at midnight because the nightmares found you too—he opens it. No hesitation. No distance.
"Hey, neighbor," you say, and the smile you give him is worth every risk, every fear, every moment of doubt.
"Hey yourself."
You step inside, and he closes the door behind you, and for the first time in longer than he can remember, Bucky Barnes stops running from the possibility of happiness.
*all aus will be labelled
*if an au starts getting a few fics then it'll be moved to a new page dedicated solely to those aus
*all titles colored red are smut/18+ only
**personal favorites at the moment
one shots (with an occasional two-parter)
(sex worker au) camboy!steve: i often see camboy!bucky and I LOVE THAT but yall,,, camboy!steve (@angrythingstarlight)
(soulmate au) in another lifetime: When you bought a box at a flea market you would have never guessed that it belonged to someone close to Captain America. And why was it that you suddenly knew so much about the things inside – and about Captain America? (@marvelettesassemblenow)**
This story is one of my favs! I wrote it in three days on a vacation in a notebook and I just couldn't stop! Thank you so much for the rec and that you like it as much as I do! 💙
*titles in red are suggestive, smut, or 18+ but smut is not the main focus which is why it's on this list and not the smut list. please respect authors by not interacting if a minor
**personal favorites at the moment
one shots (with an occasional two-parter)
come here, i'll keep you safe. swear: reader thinks there's someone trying to break in and bucky goes to investigate there's no one trying to break in though (@inkdrinkerworld)
cat's out of the bag: how Bucky's top secret was revealed to the Thunderbolts. ft. a secret wife and Alpine. (@magicaloneandmystery)
shoulder to lean on: When you fall asleep with your head resting on Bucky's metal arm, he starts to realize he's not just a weapon (@cassiemaebarnes)
glass hours: After a series of awful dates, Bucky is fed up with the way each man leaves her bruised. He gets a call late one night and doesn't hesitate to be there for her. Something fragile blooms that night, beautiful as the first snowdrop flowers after a long winter. (@cricket-reader)
the keychain: When you asked your best friend Steve if Bucky would have liked you if you had known them before the war you didn’t know that you’d find out. Because Bucky was still alive and Steve would bring his friend back home, where you would gave anything to make him feel welcome. (@marvelettesassemblenow)**
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰: nsfw (18+), explicit sexual content, MDNI, friends to lovers, lust spell teehee, soft Bucky, phone sex, fem reader, oral sex, unprotected sex, smut like the whole time, Mentions of overstimulation/physical discomfort, Slight dub-con but consent is still asked several times, fem!masturbation, Bucky is down bad bc that’s literally just how he is, reader is in HEAT
word count: 11k
Summary: You took the hit meant for Bucky—magic that curls under your skin like a fever, an ache that won’t ease no matter how many times you break. And the only thing that eases the fire is him.
But Bucky doesn’t know that. You try to hide it. You try to fight it. But one late-night phone call changes everything.
You come to the sound of his voice. He hears it. And he comes running.
notes: not proofread.
— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated
It started with a flash of violet light.
You’d moved without thinking—shielding Bucky the way you always did, even when he didn’t need it. Even when it meant taking a hit from a wild-eyed witch with runes etched into her skin and a smirk that promised chaos.
“Let’s see how he handles this,” she hissed, moments before you hit the ground.
Bucky didn’t hesitate. He took her down with a snarl and his knife pressed to her throat. The mission was over in seconds. Target neutralized and packed off to a top security prison. But your torment? That was just beginning.
It starts as a whisper in your blood.
Not a scream. Not a blaze. Just… a curl of warmth at the edge of your spine. A low, pulsing hum beneath your skin. You ignore it. You’ve trained to ignore discomfort. Trained to override every tremble and ache until the mission is done. But by the time Wanda drops you off at your apartment and the adrenaline fades, the whisper becomes a murmur—then a throb. An ache. A pull.
You shower. You scrub the sweat from your skin, the grit of combat, the smell of blood and magic and burnt leather. The water runs hot and clean down your back, but you’re already too warm.
You sleep without covers that night, sticky and restless, pressing your thighs together without thinking. And it doesn’t stop.
-
The next morning, the hunger is worse. It’s not pain— not yet. But it’s something unfamiliar.
It begins in small betrayals. You wake slowly, your sheets twisted around your legs, skin damp and flushed despite the cool air drifting in through the cracked window. There’s a weight low in your stomach, a thrum at the base of your spine—not pain, but something… coiled. Waiting.
You brush it off. Roll out of bed. Try to move like normal.
But the floor is cold under your bare feet, and still, your skin feels too warm. Over-sensitive. When your cotton shorts brush your thighs, your breath catches. The fabric is too much and not enough all at once.
You try to think about breakfast—maybe eggs, maybe toast—but instead your mind veers off-course. Not toward food, but toward heat. Mouths. Hands. Pressure. You blink, startled, as the image of someone pressing you into the mattress flashes behind your eyes. Of him. You shake it off as just being tired. Maybe a little lonely, not having had any physical affection in so long from anyone other than Wanda’s occasional hugs or Yelena’s random cuddles. Or maybe just unmoored from the mission.
You drag yourself toward your dresser and start to get dressed, planning to head to the Tower for a morning workout. The tank top you pull over your head clings to your chest like it’s painted on. The brush of fabric against your nipples makes you flinch, making them grow hard, leaving your breath stuttering. You check the thermostat—it’s not hot in your apartment. So why are you sweating?
Your leggings feel like a second skin—too tight, too suffocating. You try to roll the waistband down for air, but even that feels like friction in the wrong way. A pulse starts between your thighs. Low and subtle. But constant.
You strip again. Pace the room. Try to focus.
But even simple things feel off. You reach for your water bottle and your hand shakes. You bend to tie your shoe and the pressure in your belly shifts, flaring in a strange, slick ache. You stand too quickly and your head spins.
You glance at your phone—Bucky sent a text at 2 a.m., some sarcastic remark about Sam snoring—and your mouth goes dry. Just seeing his name makes something twist low inside you. A heat that makes no sense for the situation.
You close your eyes and inhale.
You should head to the gym. You need to sweat it out. But the idea of moving—of being around other people, especially Bucky—makes your skin crawl and your thighs clench. You feel like you’re vibrating out of your skin. Like something inside you is waking up and demanding to be touched.
You sit on the edge of the bed, heart thudding.
You try not to name it yet. You try not to think of the word spell.
But the whisper in your blood grows louder.
-
Hours later, you’re lying flat on your back and thinking about your own hands. About how little they’ve helped.
You try. Of course you do. You shove your fist under your pillow and ride it. Try to make the heat, the ache, go away. But the orgasm is fleeting, thin, unfulfilling. As soon as it peaks, it leaves you raw—edged. Empty. And then the ache returns, worse than before. It’s never satiated— a demanding presence.
You don’t want Bucky to see you like this.
So when he texts—
[you good? swingin by with takeout in 10.]
—you don’t answer. You don’t dare.
When he knocks, you stay frozen on the couch. The cool leather sticks to the backs of your thighs. Your fingers twitch. You’re sweating.
He lets himself in anyway with a key that you regret ever giving him.
“Hey,” he says like he always does. Like it’s not different now. Like your world isn’t quietly coming apart faster than your could spread your thighs. “You forget how to text me back?”
You don’t look at him. You can’t. Not when just hearing his voice sends your nipples tight against the inside of your tank top. Not when his scent—soap and cologne and whatever the hell else makes him smell like home—hits you like a drug.
Your reply is tight. Muted. “Didn’t sleep.”
He softens. Steps closer. “You hurt from that spell yesterday?”
You flinch. “No.”
That’s not a lie. It’s not hurt. It’s something else. A gnawing heat. A tension in your muscles that won’t let go.
His eyes scan your face. You know that look. The one he used to wear when you came back from field ops barely able to walk. The one he wore when you had the flu. The one he wore when someone so much as looked at you sideways in a briefing.
Protective. Focused. And far too perceptive.
“Wanda said you took the brunt of that hit and that she didn’t know what kind of magic it was,” he murmurs. “You sure you’re not—?”
“I’m fine,” you snap.
The silence stretches.
His brows twitch. But he lets it go.
For now.
-
By that night, it’s worse. And you have a sneaking suspicion it has to do with how close in proximity he was to you.
You lie in bed after he leaves, sweating through your sheets. You’ve tried everything. Toys. Fingers. Cold showers. Heating pads. Breathwork. You come again and again—softly, roughly, desperately—and it doesn’t help.
Each wave crests and crashes and leaves you more wrung out, more sore, more burning than the last.
And still, it lingers. That deep, low heat in your belly. That flutter in your chest. That unbearable throb between your legs that no orgasm can reach.
It’s not normal.
It’s not right.
By day three of avoiding your friends, avoiding leaving your apartment or responding to texts, you wake up crying. Not from sadness. But from want.
And then you crack. Not from the pain, but from the way your mind won’t stop conjuring him.
The sound of Bucky Barnes’ voice. The pressure of his vibranium hand at the small of your back. The way he once called you sweetheart when he thought you were sleeping.
It wasn’t sexual then.
But it is now.
Every touch he’s ever given you replays in your head like fuel to a fire you can’t control. The weight of his hand on your shoulder. The brush of his thigh against yours under the briefing room table. The way his fingers always lingered when he patched you up—rough but reverent.
You want him.
Okay.
You’ve always wanted him.
But not like this. Not when your body’s been cursed to crave him. Not when magic is what’s tipping you toward ruin.
-
Wanda comes on day four.
She doesn’t knock. Just appears in your living room like mist, her eyes glowing faintly red.
The moment she sees you—curled on the couch in one of Bucky’s old hoodies that you don’t think he knows you took, legs tucked up under you, trembling—her expression falls.
“Oh no,” she says.
You don’t answer. You can’t. Your voice is hoarse from moaning into your pillow the night before, just to try and quiet the ache.
Wanda kneels in front of you. “I should’ve come sooner.”
You laugh, but it’s not funny. It’s cracked. Sharp. A little unhinged. “That bitch cursed me, didn’t she?”
“I’ve been looking into it. She laced the spell with something old,” Wanda says gently. “Something primal. For whoever it hit, it was designed to mimic heat. Not just lust. Fertility. Desire. But with you? It’s the instinct to—”
“To be filled,” you finish bitterly.
She doesn’t deny it.
“But it doesn’t mess with your head,” she clarifies. “It doesn’t make you want someone you don’t already want. It’s not that kind of magic. What you’re feeling—what your body’s craving—is raw, biological instinct. But the who? That’s all you.”
You go still.
“I can break it,” she continues. “But it’s woven deep. It’ll take time. A few more days, maybe a week at most. Until then…”
“I just suffer?” you whisper.
Wanda exhales. “There’s another way, but you’re not going to like it. If someone finishes inside you—”
“No.”
“You could ask Bucky—”
“No,” you say again, firmer this time. Like it’s the only boundary left you can still enforce.
Wanda’s eyes narrow. “You’re already thinking about him. Don’t lie.”
You drop your gaze. Shame heats your cheeks—but not because she’s wrong. Because she’s right.
“The magic isn’t clouding your judgment,” she says softly. “She aimed it at him, sure. You stepped in, you took the hit. But your body’s not reacting to him because of the spell. It’s reacting because it knows. Because to you, it’s always been him.”
You swallow hard.
“I don’t want to be a fucking spell casualty,” you mutter. “I don’t want to be some needy mess crawling into his lap just because—”
“Then don’t,” Wanda says. “But at least be honest with yourself. You’re not considering anyone else. Not Steve. Not Sam. Not a single name, not a single option. Just him. And the only reason you’re not begging for him is because you’re terrified it might mean something more.”
You clench your jaw. “I won’t ask him.”
Wanda nods once.
Then, almost gently, she says, “You must not forget that the only person more stubborn than you is Bucky.”
And then she leaves you to the fire.
-
It’s evening when you finally, finally break.
The blinds are drawn. The apartment is dim, lit only by the flicker of the TV you’re not watching. You’re curled on the couch with your knees drawn up, a throw blanket pooled around your hips. But you’re not cold.
You haven’t been cold in days.
Your skin is dewy with sweat, flushed and hypersensitive. Every inch of you aches. Your body is too much—too heavy, too warm, too desperate. You can’t think. You can’t rest. You can’t take the edge off no matter how many times you try.
And you’ve continued to try. Your vibrator’s completely dead. Your fingers are sore. You’ve sobbed through orgasms that haven’t brought even a second of peace. And it’s so much worse now. The spell is tightening around your ribcage, your lungs, your throat. And the worst part? It’s not even just physical anymore.
It’s lonely.
You miss him.
And maybe that’s what finally pushes you over the edge.
Not the ache. Not the hunger that gnaws at you from the inside. Not the cruel, unbearable need to be filled. But the silence. The absence. The knowledge that while you’re avoiding him for dear life, Bucky Barnes is out there somewhere— maybe laughing with Sam, or holding Alpine on his chest while he relaxes against his couch cushions— probably doing just fine while you burn for a curse that was meant for him.
You need to hear his voice.
You don’t plan it. Don’t let yourself think it through. You just reach for your phone and call him. Before you can second-guess. Before you can stop yourself.
It rings twice.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he answers, warm and easy. That voice, like melted steel wrapped in velvet, like home. He doesn’t know you’re shaking. Doesn’t know you’re wrecked. He just says it like he always does—like he means it.
Your breath catches. It’s instant, the way your body reacts—your thighs clench, slickness blooming between them like you’ve been touched. All he’s done is speak. All he’s done is say hello.
“Hi,” you whisper.
You can hear noise behind him—other voices, dishes clattering, the low hum of a TV.
“You okay?” he asks, instantly attuned. “You sound a little—”
“Tired,” you cut in. “Just… tired.” You try to sound normal, but it comes out thinner than it should—fragile and tight, like you’re holding something back.
Because you are.
“You sound kind of off,” he murmurs, slower now. “But I won’t push it.”
“Thanks, Buck.” You whisper. You press your palm to your chest, trying to keep it together, trying not to let his concern unravel you. His voice shouldn’t sound this good. His care shouldn’t make you ache harder. But it does.
And he keeps going—gentle, teasing, unaware he’s pouring gasoline on a fire. “Missed your voice today. Thought you were ghosting me.”
You hum—half a sound, half a moan. It slips before you can catch it, but Bucky doesn’t seem to notice.
You close your eyes and inhale. You’re not ghosting him— you’re starving for him.
“Missed your voice,” you say before you can stop yourself. Your hand is already slipping beneath the blanket, already finding the edge of your sleep shorts. Your fingers are trembling.
You don’t want to be doing this.
But you have to.
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. Then a quiet chuckle. “Yeah?” His voice drops, just a little. “You’re being awfully honest tonight.”
You shiver. “Guess so.”
He sighs into the phone. You imagine him settling back, legs stretched out, maybe reclining in a chair with that lazy, boyish half-smile on his face. You can see it in your head. The way he cradles his phone in his metal hand. The way he leans his head back against the couch cushion when he talks to you.
“I can tell you’re skipping sleep just by your voice. You gotta stop doing that,” he murmurs. “You know I worry when you disappear.”
You bite your lip. Your hips roll, just a little, as you press your fingers to your clit. The pressure building between your legs has reached a new, unbearable level. And somehow, somehow, his voice is the only thing keeping you from breaking apart completely.
“You curled up on the couch right now?” he asks, still gently teasing.
You nod even though he can’t see it.
You can hear his grin. “Knew it. You better not be watching that cooking competition show without me again—”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” You say, voice a little wobbly.
He sighs—low and affectionate—and it wrecks you. You slip two fingers inside yourself, soft and slow. Slick. Aching.
“Miss you,” you add, voice barely audible.
There’s another pause—longer this time. You can hear him exhale through his nose, and when he speaks again, it’s quieter. Unsteady in a way you rarely hear.
“Yeah?” he says, rougher now. “You’re sayin’ a lot of things tonight. Are you sure you’re okay, angel?” The words shoot straight to your core.
You don’t answer.
You can’t.
Your fingers are moving inside your cunt now. Gentle, shaky thrusts. The stretch of it only makes you throb harder. Slick sounds quietly build beneath the blanket—barely audible, but not to him, you think.
“Bucky…” Your voice is barely a sound, and he catches it immediately.
“Sweetheart?” He’s more alert now. Like he’s sitting up, holding onto whatever is about to leave your lips.
And then—because of course—
Sam’s in the background.
“Who you on the phone with?” you hear faintly, followed by Bucky’s exasperated sigh.
“None of your damn business, Wilson.”
“You’re smiling like it is my business.”
You hear a scuffle. A dish being snatched. Bucky barking something about boundaries. Sam laughing.
“Your boundaries don’t change that you’re supposed to be makin’ popcorn.” You hear Sam shout.
Bucky groans. “You literally had two hours to do that yourself.” You slipped in another finger, hips canting at the sound of his groan. The tone of Bucky’s voice—normal, distracted, playful—makes you feel insane. He’s so close and so far. Your body is clenching around nothing. You imagine it’s his hand instead of yours. His voice in your ear, whispering the things you fantasize about him doing to you.
“I was in the zone, man. Movie night waits for no one.” You can hear the grin in Sam’s voice. There’s a pause. A rustle. Bucky covering the phone with his hand, probably glaring into the kitchen.
When Bucky speaks again, his voice is soft and low, just for you. Like Sam doesn’t even exist. “Sorry,” he says, quieter now. “You know Sam’s a menace.”
You breathe hard. “It’s okay.”
“You sure you’re alright?”
You swallow. Your slick fingers are working slow, barely enough. You can’t come. Not yet. Not until—
“Just…” You trail off, breath hitching. “Can you… talk to me for a while?”
Bucky stills. You don’t hear it, but you feel it. His attention sharpened again, just like it had before Sam interrupted. This is a dangerous game— you know it is. He’s a super soldier, meaning better senses, better reactions, better intuition. It’s only a matter of time before he hears exactly what you’re up to if he hasn’t already.
“You want me to talk you to sleep?” he asks, voice gentle.
You hum. “Just need your voice.”
His voice softens, all teasing stripped away. “I’d do anything for you, you know that.”
The words crack something open in you. You bite your lip hard. Your other hand clutches the pillow. You’re trying to keep quiet, but your breath is stuttering now, your thighs trembling. You speak before he can.
“Miss your hands,” you murmur, delirious and aching, fucking yourself harder. “Miss your arms. Miss how you always make me feel safe.”
He exhales, a little stunned. “You trying to kill me over the phone, doll?”
“Don’t make fun,” you plead, barely holding it together, hips snapping to meet your rhythm.
“I’m not,” he says quickly. “I’m not. I just… You sound like you need someone.”
You.
Your mind screams it. You need him.
But you can’t say it.
Your fingers move faster. The ache is peaking. His voice is all you have. And it’s perfect.
Soft. Low. Steady.
Like worship. Like he already knows what he’d say if he were inside you.
“Just breathe for me,” he murmurs suddenly. “You sound like you’re holding your breath.”
You gasp. “I’m not—”
“Yeah, you are. Breathe, sweetheart. Slow. Just like that.”
Your eyes flutter shut. Slow, you rock your hips like he said, just like that.
“That’s better,” he soothes. You let out a choked little laugh. “Soundin’ better already,” he says, and God—his tone is so fucking tender.
You almost come at that.
Your moan is soft, but it slips out you can stop it. Followed by another wet, slick sound as your fingers move faster now beneath the blanket.
And then—silence. His end of the line goes quiet.
“…Wait,” Bucky says slowly. “What are you doing?”
Your heart stops.
“Sweetheart?”
You try to catch your breath. Try to stop. But you can’t. You’re so close and it feel so good— so much better than everything you’ve done the past few days by yourself.
But he hears it. The wet glide. The tremble in your voice. The broken sighs you can’t smother anymore.
“Are you—” His voice falters. Drops low, so only you can hear. “Are you touching yourself right now?”
You freeze.
The silence stretches. Your chest rises and falls in shallow, frantic breaths. You can hear the exact moment he understands. The air shifts like a current between you. His tone turns rough—raw and wrecked and barely restrained.
“Jesus,” he breathes. “That’s what this is. That’s why you sound like that.”
You press your hand tighter between your legs, helpless, breath catching. You try to stop again. You should stop. Instead—
You arch.
The phone slips from your fingers and drops onto the couch, the line still open. You bury your face in the cushions, one hand over your mouth, the other working faster now—slipping through your slick, hips lifting, thighs shaking.
“(Y/N)?”
Then it hits.
White-hot and shattering.
Your orgasm tears through you with a muffled, broken moan—barely caught by the couch. Your body locks up, every nerve lit, your back bowing as you clench hard around nothing. You feel your fingers soaked, twitching, trembling, your lungs stuttering to keep up.
You come with his voice still in your ear, him still on the line.
And he hears it.
He hears the way your breath punches out of you. The cry you try to bite down. The slick sounds. The way you gasp his name like it hurts.
On the other end, there’s silence—then a sharp inhale.
His voice goes ragged. “…You just came.”
It’s not a question. Just a stunned, whispered truth.
“Oh my god,” he says softly. “You just came—and you didn’t say a word. You just—fuck.”
You reach for the phone, fingers still wet, hands shaking.
He’s still talking, barely coherent. “I should’ve known. I should’ve heard it. You were falling apart and I just kept talking. I—fuck, baby, why didn’t you tell me?”
You can’t breathe.
You’re too full of it—shame and heat and the unbearable emptiness that follows the high. It didn’t help. It never helps. Your body is still aching. Still burning. Still crying out for him in the echo of your release.
You press the phone to your ear.
“I thought maybe you were just tired,” he says, voice quieter now. Like he’s talking to himself. “But the way you said my name… the way you kept breathing like you were fighting something…”
You squeeze your eyes shut. Your whole body curls tighter.
You hang up. One simple movement. Your thumb presses the screen. The line goes dead and you throw the phone across the couch and curl in on yourself, mortified, aching, and trembling with the need to be filled that you haven’t finish chasing.
The silence after is deafening but all you can hear is his voice. That soft, reverent one.
The one that sounded like he’d use it while pushing into you.
The one that sounded like a prayer.
-
You hung up on him.
The click of the call dropping wasn’t loud, but it might as well have been a gunshot to the chest.
Bucky sat there frozen, the phone still pressed to his ear even as the line went dead. The quiet hum of the background faded into a kind of static silence, and for a moment, all he could hear was you.
The way your voice had trembled.
The little sighs.
The broken softness when you said you missed him. When you told him you missed his voice.
Jesus.
You had been touching yourself.
To him.
Bucky stared blankly across the room, the pieces falling into place like bricks in his gut. Your shaky breath. The way you whispered. The stuttering cadence in your voice, like you were trying not to be caught. And then—those sounds. The slick, wet ones. The ones had tried to ignore. The almost-silent moans you couldn’t fully smother.
You’d come for him. For the first time. With just his voice in your ear.
He’d thought about it for years. How he’d do it the first time. If it would be with his mouth. Or his hands. Maybe his thigh.
He didn’t breathe.
Didn’t blink.
But never like this. He’d made you fall apart and hadn’t even realized until it was over. You’d called him because you needed something—needed him—and he hadn’t understood.
Hadn’t done a damn thing to help you.
And now he was hard. Painfully hard. But the ache wasn’t just in his body—it was everywhere. It was under his ribs. In his throat. Wrapping tight around something sacred.
Because the worst part wasn’t that you’d touched yourself. It was that you were suffering. You missed him. You needed him so badly you couldn’t even pretend not to anymore. You’d called because you were unraveling. Because you trusted him enough to let it show—even if you couldn’t say it out loud.
And God help him, he wanted to be the only one you ever called like that again.
“Yo,” Sam called, stepping into the room with a half-empty bag of chips. “Everything good with your girl?”
Bucky blinked. “What?”
“You look like you just saw a ghost.”
Bucky slowly lowered the phone, thumb brushing over the screen. He should’ve called you back. Should’ve said something. But he hadn’t moved. “She called me,” he said quietly.
Sam looked amused. “She’s allowed to.”
“No,” Bucky murmured. “This was… different.”
“Different how?”
Bucky swallowed hard. Looked away. He couldn’t explain it—not fully. And he wasn’t letting anyone else know how you sounded falling apart— the way your voice had hitched just before you came. Not with the heat still pulsing in his blood or the reverence clawing at his chest.
“She sounded…” He shook his head. “Tired. Hoarse. Like she hadn’t been sleeping. But it was worse than that.
Sam pauses. “You think she’s hurt?”
“I think she’s been hiding whatever it is. For days.” He swallows hard. “She wouldn’t have called unless it was bad. Really bad.”
Sam crosses his arms, voice more serious now. “You know, now that you mention it, Wanda has been holed up with her books since that op you all just got back from. She didn’t give details—just said she was tracking a weird thread.”
Bucky stops breathing, his stomach dropping. “…What?”
Sam shrugs a little. “Like I said, she didn’t say much—just that whatever hit (Y/N) the other day was… weird. She’s been researching it since. Said it’s like some kind of residual aftereffect magic, but deep. Like nothing she’s seen in years.”
Bucky’s jaw tensed, his blood going cold.
Sam paused, brow furrowing. “You didn’t know?”
“No, I didn’t know. At least not all of that.” Bucky snaps. “That’s the problem.”
And now he’s moving. Pacing. Shoving his phone in his pocket, reaching for his jacket. Not toward you—not yet. He needs answers first.
“She didn’t even tell me,” he says, more to himself than to Sam. “She didn’t say a word.”
“She never does,” Sam says quietly. “Not when it’s about you.”
Bucky goes still. Because that’s what breaks him. Not the idea of danger. Not even the idea of magic. But the idea of you, curled up alone, body falling apart under the weight of something you didn’t choose. And still refusing to ask for help.
Still too afraid to ask him.
And so, Bucky stood. The phone slipped into his pocket.
“Where are you going?” Sam asked.
“To talk to Wanda,” Bucky said. His voice was tight. Rough. Already halfway out the door.
Because if there was even one chance that this was something done to you—something you were trying to fight off alone—then he was going to fix it.
Whatever it took.
—
The hallway outside Wanda’s quarters smells faintly of sage and scorched air.
Bucky doesn’t knock.
He pushes the door open like it’s muscle memory, like he’s been breaking through locked rooms for centuries—and finds her already standing in the center of the room, barefoot on a ring of cracked stone and wax.
She looks up the moment he enters, like she was waiting for him.
“I was wondering how long it would take,” Wanda says softly.
His hands curl into fists. “It’s a spell, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“From the mission.”
“Yes.”
“It hit her.”
Wanda nods once.
Bucky’s jaw ticks. He takes a step forward, then another. “You knew something was happening to her—and you didn’t tell me?”
“She didn’t want me to.”
He exhales, sharp and furious. “She’s suffering. Right now. Alone. Because of something that was meant for me.” He lets out a strangled laugh. “She’s mine, Wanda, and I can’t even help her.” The words fall out before he can stop them. Raw. Stupidly honest.
Wanda’s gaze softens. But she doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t argue. “(Y/N) took the hit before I could deflect it. It was cast by an old bloodline witch. Feral magic. Instinct-based. I’ve been trying to untangle it ever since.”
“What kind of magic?”
Wanda tilts her head. “You already know.”
Bucky’s breath catches.
Because he does.
The heat. The broken sighs. The way you’d whispered his name. The way his voice had made you come undone.
Wanda nods slowly, like she hears the realization pass through him. “It’s not just lust. You understand that, right?”
“I know,” Bucky says tightly. “I’ve seen magic like this once before. The Soviets tested something similar. On another soldier. Heat-based—designed to wear you down from the inside out.”
“Then you know why she didn’t want you to see her like that.”
He looks away. Jaw flexing. He does understand. The shame. The humiliation of being reduced to your body’s demands. He’s lived it. But it doesn’t make this easier.
Wanda’s expression is solemn when she speaks again. “It’s worse than what you’re describing, Bucky. It’s mimicking a biological heat cycle. Old fertility magic. And it’s dark—it taps into the most basic part of the body. The need to reproduce. But unless it’s consummated with a partner, it will only grow worse. And each time she tries to stop it herself, it’ll only hurt her more.”
Bucky flinches—more from helplessness than shock. “Jesus Christ.”
“I’ve been working on a way to break it,” Wanda adds. “But it’s not something that just lifts—not like I thought. It has to run its course, and I don’t know how long that will be unless—”
He already knows where this is going.
He shakes his head. “She wouldn’t ask me.”
“No,” Wanda says, eyes softening. “But she called you.”
His chest contracts. “You knew she would.”
“I hoped,” she replies. “Because the other way to end it? It requires the body to believe it’s been satisfied. That it’s safe. Desired. And full.”
Bucky looks like he might snap. “Don’t talk about her like that. Like she’s some fucking spell experiment—”
“She’s not,” Wanda interrupts, firm but gentle. “She’s your friend. Your partner. And right now, she’s burning alive from the inside out, trying not to tell you what she needs.”
Bucky presses both hands into his temples. “She didn’t ask. She didn’t say anything.”
“She was ashamed,” Wanda says. “Because even without the spell… it’s you, James. She’s been yours longer than either of you want to admit.”
He freezes. Swallows. Looks up slowly. “…It’s not just the spell,” he whispers, unsure if he’s asking for reassurance.
“No,” Wanda says, offering it anyway, like she read his mind. “That part? The part where she thought about you? That’s all her.”
Silence blooms—quiet, dense, knowing. “You still should’ve told me before now,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair.
“You’re not the only one who loves her.”
That shuts him up.
Wanda steps forward. “She’s trying to protect you,” she murmurs. “From the spell. From what it’s doing to her. From what it wants from her.”
Bucky closes his eyes. In his mind he hears it again—your voice. The desperation in it. The soft whimpers you tried to smother. The broken little sighs that had almost made him come in his goddamn pants just from listening.
Then, he nods. Once. Sharp. Decisive.
“Then tell me how to help her.”
Wanda’s lips curve upward. Just slightly. “You already know how.”
He does know how, and he wants to be gentle. Wants to hold you. Cradle you. Stroke your hair and murmur that it’s okay. That he’s here now. That you don’t have to be ashamed.
But all he can feel is fury. Not at you.
At himself.
At the fact that he hadn’t put the pieces together sooner.
Bucky’s hand curls around the doorframe, metal fingers flexing tight enough to dent it.
Wanda watches him for a beat. “Go to her,” she says softly.
A pause.
“Before someone else does.”
He doesn’t answer.
But his heart is already halfway out the door.
-
Your apartment is dark. Not blackout-dark—but dim, and quiet, and too still.
Bucky knocks once. Then again.
No answer.
He listens. Listens hard. Enhanced hearing trained on the other side of the door. No footsteps. No rustling. Just silence and the faint sound of something flickering—maybe a muted television. Maybe the dull hum of a lamp that never got turned off.
His jaw clenches. “(Y/N), it’s me.”
Still nothing.
All he can hear is your voice cracking when you said you missed him.
You gave him a key a long time ago—for emergencies, you’d said. For the nights when the world got too loud and he needed a place to crash. For when either of you needed help and didn’t want to say it.
Usually he used it when dropping off food. Or coming over to binge your tv shows that you watch together. He’s never used it like this before. Knowing what he’s planning to do once he’s through the threshold.
He slips the key from his pocket and turns the lock the way he’s done hundreds of times before. The door creaks open—and the moment he steps inside, he knows.
Something’s off.
The air is thick. Stifling. Warm in a way that makes his skin itch, like it’s been steeping in fever. The living room is dim, the curtains drawn, a low flicker of light from the TV throwing soft shadows across the walls.
“(Y/N)?” he calls, gentle now. “It’s me.”
No answer.
His stomach sinks.
He doesn’t storm in. Doesn’t charge through like it’s a raid. He moves soft. Careful. Like if he makes too much noise, the truth might shatter.
And then he sees you—curled on the couch, knees drawn in. A throw blanket twisted around your hips. The rest of you damp with sweat, top clinging to your chest, neck glistening. You look like you haven’t slept. Like you’ve been crying.
His heart cracks.
You’re asleep—but not peacefully.
You’re writhing.
Not dramatically. Not loud. Just subtle, needy little shifts of your hips. Soft whimpers. A crease between your brows like your dreams are made of agony and want.
He steps closer.
“(Y/N),” he says gently. “Hey—wake up.”
You stir. Breath catching.
Then, barely audible, you whisper, “Bucky…” His name from your lips is enough to make him ache. He kneels beside the couch, hand hovering just above your shoulder.
Your eyes flutter open. You blink, dazed and glassy-eyed. Your cheeks are flushed. Your tank top clings to your chest, damp with sweat, nipples peaked. And when you shift under the blanket, you gasp softly—like just the movement hurts.
And when you register that he’s really in front of you, your whole body tenses.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to say anything. I just—fuck.” He drags a hand through his hair. “Wanda told me.”
Your lashes are wet, lips trembling. Still, you remain silent. “I should’ve known earlier,” he says thickly. “I should’ve recognized it.”
Your gaze drops. Shame crashes through you as you look away. “You weren’t supposed to find out.”
“Oh, so I was just supposed to go on not knowing that the spell meant for me was tearing you apart?”
You shift on the couch. The movement makes you suck in a breath—you’re soaked. Your panties cling to you, your thighs sticky with slick.
“I was handling it,” you say, thoroughly humiliated.
“Bullshit.”
“I was,” you insist, even though your voice trembles. “I didn’t ask for help. I didn’t beg. I didn’t make it anyone else’s problem.”
“You called me.”
“That was—” You falter. “That was a moment of weakness.”
“You were touching yourself, and I—”
You squeeze your eyes shut. His words shouldn’t make you ache again. But they do. Your thighs clench. Your chest rises in shallow, desperate breaths.
“You wanted me to talk you through it, didn’t you?” he says, low and rough. “That’s why you called?”
Your breath stutters. He leans closer. “That wasn’t weakness. That was you calling the one person you needed. But then you hung up,” he says, softer now. “You were embarrassed. But you shouldn’t be.”
You open your mouth. Close it again. Because you are embarrassed. Your body is burning and raw and sensitive, and he was never supposed to know.
But he’s here. Still looking at you like you’re something he’d fight the world to protect.
His hand moves, brushing a lock of damp hair away from your cheek. He’s never touched you like this. Gentle. Tender. Almost devotional.
You shake your head, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I didn’t ask you for anything.”
“You said you missed my hands. My arms. My voice.”
“That doesn’t mean I wanted this.”
“Just let me help you,” he says with a huff.
You freeze as he leans in. Slower than slow. Letting you pull away if you want to.
You don’t.
“I know what it feels like,” he says. “When your body turns against you. When everything burns and you can’t think. I’ve been there.”
A choked breath escapes you. “It won’t stop,” you whisper.
“I know,” he says, soothing you. “But I can stop it for you.”
You stare at him. And you know—deep down—you’re not just best friends anymore. Not after this. Not after the phone call. Not after he came running.
“You can’t,” Not after the way he looks at you now, like you’re his.
“Why won't you let me help you?”
Your hands fist in the blanket. “Because it’s you, Bucky.”
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. You look up, and finally let it spill—raw, messy, trembling.
“I can’t take advantage of you like that. We’re friends. Best fucking friends. I know you’d do anything for me, but I can’t let you do this because you feel like you have to.”
His eyes close for half a second. When they open again, he’s already moving—his hands cupping your face, gentle, reverent, trembling slightly.
“You think I would do something like this out of obligation?” His voice is low. Rough. Cracking under the weight of it. “You really think I wouldn’t want you?”
Your lips part. “I don’t know.”
He breathes hard through his nose, like he’s trying to hold himself together. Then he presses a kiss to your forehead. Your cheek. Your temple. Every inch but your mouth.
His voice is a rasp in your ear, heavy with restraint. His hands slide down your arms, fingers curling around your wrists like an anchor.
“I would’ve come to you the second you asked,” he says. “I would’ve broken the fucking sound barrier to get to you. Not because of some curse. Not because you needed release. But because—”
He swallows.
“Because I’m in love with you.”
You whimper—helpless and soft and aching.
His eyes search yours. “I’ve been in love with you for a long time,” he says. “And if this hadn’t happened, I probably wouldn’t have had the guts to say it. But I need you to understand—this isn’t about the spell. This is me.”
You blink. A tear slides hot down your cheek. You shake your head, not because you don’t believe him—but because it’s too much. Too much all at once.
“I didn’t call Sam,” you whisper. “I didn’t call Steve. I could have. Wanda told me anyone I trusted would work. But I didn’t.”
“Why?” he asks, voice barely audible.
Your breath shakes. “Because I didn’t want just anyone. I wanted you.”
He stills.
Your voice breaks. “And not just because of the spell. Because I’ve wanted you since before any of this. Since before I had any right to.”
His face crumples with something that looks like both devastation and relief.
You’re crying now—quiet, overwhelmed tears you can’t stop. “I love you,” you say. “And I didn’t want to use you. I didn’t want it to happen like this.”
His hands frame your face again, thumbs brushing away the wetness on your cheeks.
“Then let it happen like this,” he murmurs. “Because I love you too. And if this is what brings it out of both of us, then fine. I’m not letting you suffer through another second thinking you’re alone. So let me help.” His voice is firm, demanding in the softest way.
You meet his eyes—glass-blue, wild with restraint—and you shatter.
“Please,” you breathe. “Please, Bucky.”
And then—finally—he kisses you.
Not a soft, testing kiss. Not something uncertain.
It’s everything.
It’s the months of tension. The whispered dreams. The nights you held back. The trust you both clung to like a lifeline. It’s him showing you. That this is love. That he’s yours.
And it doesn’t feel like a breaking.
It feels like finally, finally falling into place.
-
His mouth claims yours—slow at first, like he’s afraid of breaking the moment. But the second your fingers slide into his hair and your lips part with a soft, pleading sound, something snaps.
The kiss deepens.
He was trying. Really. Hands trembling with restraint, breath held tight in his chest, mind racing to remember that you were suffering—delicate from the spell, barely holding on. He was going to be gentle. Patient.
His hands are everywhere but nowhere near enough—palming your cheeks, sliding down your sides, skimming the curve of your waist like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you. Like he doesn’t trust this is real.
Like if he doesn’t touch all of you, he’ll wake up and it’ll all be gone.
He pulls back just an inch, breathing hard against your lips. Your back hits the couch cushions, his weight bracketing yours in seconds. His heat wraps around you like a blanket—too much and not enough all at once. His metal hand cups the back of your neck, cool against feverish skin, and his flesh palm slides under your tank top, flattening over your ribs.
He moans into your mouth as you reach for him, curling your fingers around the hem of his shirt, tugging softly. He exhales like a prayer and nods—then brings his hand to yours, guiding it, helping you pull the fabric over his head. He tosses it aside without looking.
You stare.
God.
You’ve seen him shirtless before. In training. On missions. The beach. The Tower.
But never like this.
Not with his chest rising like he’s holding back a storm. Not with the heat of his skin practically radiating off him. Not with his pupils blown wide and his lips pink from kissing you.
Your hips buck. You’re soaked. Still throbbing. Still aching. But it’s different now—sharper, hotter, charged by every inch of his body pressing into yours.
“God, baby,” he groans, pulling back just an inch, lips brushing your jaw. “You’re burning up.”
“You’re not exactly cold,” you manage, breathless. He huffs a laugh against your neck, but it dies quick. He’s too focused—senses flared out like a net, catching every tremble of your body, every gasp, every pound of your heart. He can smell your arousal—his senses are drenched in it. He can hear your pulse fluttering under your skin. Your pupils are blown. Your body’s writhing and his cock is rock hard in his jeans.
“Take this off,” he murmurs, voice wrecked, fingers grazing the hem of your tank top.
You nod and try to lift it, but your hands shake.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers, sliding it up with agonizing care. His knuckles graze your ribs, the underswell of your breasts, the valley of your spine as he peels the sweat-damp fabric away.
Your chest is bare.
His breath hitches. “Jesus,” he says softly, reverently, like he’s witnessing something holy. “My beautiful fucking girl.”
Your heart pounds. Your body burns. But his touch is slow. Steady. Not rushed.
He drags the blanket down next, inch by inch, revealing the rest of you—your soaked panties, your trembling thighs. His metal hand is cool where it brushes your hip. The other, warm and wide, settles just above your knee.
You bite your lip, hips shifting, eyes fluttering open to meet his. “Bucky—”
“You’ve been like this for days?” He asks, voice ragged.
You nod, ashamed. “It won’t stop. I try, but—”
“Don’t,” he interrupts gently. “Don’t apologize. Not when I’ve got you now.” He kisses you again, slower this time. Deep. Lingering.
His mouth tastes like the end of every bad dream you’ve ever had. Like the answer to the ache that’s been devouring you for days. He doesn’t kiss like someone trying to take—he kisses like someone who’s been starving to give.
His tongue traces the seam of your lips and you open to him, moaning when he deepens it. His hand on your ribs slides higher—over the swell of your breast. His thumb flicks over your nipple and you whimper, arching into him.
His hand smooths up your thigh. He watches the way your body shudders under him, the way you arch instinctively into his touch. His voice lowers, deep and full of awe. “You should’ve called me,” he murmurs into your mouth. “First night. I’d have been here in seconds.”
“I didn’t want anyone else. Just you. Even if I wasn’t supposed to.”
Bucky’s jaw tenses. “Don’t ever think you’re not supposed to want me,” he growls, brushing his nose down the column of your neck. “I ache for you. I’ve wanted you in ways I can’t say out loud. I dream about you. I wake up hard just from hearing your voice in my head.”
You gasp—quiet, desperate.
“I think about how soft you’d feel,” he whispers, “how you’d sound when I finally touched you right. How you’d look with your thighs spread and my name on your tongue.”
Your back arches. His hand skims over your center through the soaked cotton. You keen.
“Oh, baby,” he groans. “You’re soaked.”
“It won’t stop,” you sob. “I can’t—I need—”
“I know,” he whispers, and presses a kiss just above your heart. “I’ve got you.”
Then—slowly, reverently—he hooks his fingers into the band of your panties.
“Can I take these off?”
You nod.
He doesn’t rush.
He slides them down with shaking hands, like he’s unwrapping something sacred. The moment you’re bare to him—truly bare—he stills. Just for a second.
Soaking you in.
Burning it into his memory.
Then he moves, kissing your hip, the inside of your thigh. His mouth reverent. His hands hungry. His voice a wrecked, broken whisper against your skin.
“You’re not just my best friend,” he says, brushing his lips across your belly. “You’re my everything. And I’m gonna take care of you.”
You whimper, eyes glassy, chest rising and falling in short, frantic bursts.
“Say it again,” you plead.
He looks up, mouth hovering just below your navel. “What?”
“That you love me.”
His eyes burn.
“I love you,” he says. “I love you, I love you, I love you. I’ve loved you since the first time you patched me up and called me an idiot for bleeding on your floor.”
You choke on a laugh. Then a sob. Then a moan as his mouth dips lower—hot, hungry. His tongue drags up your folds, flicking over your clit with slow, devastating precision. You cry out, hips lifting.
“Easy, doll,” he murmurs, voice like honey between your thighs. “Let me take my time.”
You whimper, fingers fisting the sheets as he anchors himself between your legs like he’s not moving until you break. His hands slide under your thighs, spreading you open further, holding you down. Holding you together.
Or maybe apart.
He groans as he noses deeper, tongue dragging slow, wet circles through your slick. He moans at the taste—deep, guttural—and does it again. And again. Until your legs start to tremble.
Until your body forgets what shame feels like.
Until all you know is him.
“You’re so sweet,” he groans. “So fucking wet. You’ve been aching for days and you still taste this good?”
Your hips jerk. He smiles against you. Then his mouth opens fully—sucking your clit into the heat of him, tongue laving back and forth with maddening control. He groans like he’s starving, and you realize suddenly—
He is.
He’s devouring you. Savoring you.
And he’s not stopping.
You gasp, the sound ragged. One of your hands finds his hair, tugging hard as your thighs try to close around his head, but he just growls—low and dangerous—and spreads them wider with his shoulders.
“Bucky,” you moan. “Fuck—Bucky, I can’t—”
“You can,” he says, licking a stripe from your entrance to your clit. “You’re gonna come for me, baby. You’re gonna come until it stops hurting.”
Your body convulses beneath him as he dips his tongue inside you, slow and deep, fucking you with his mouth, his nose brushing your clit every time. You sob out something incoherent. He keeps going. Keeps drinking from you like you’re the only thing that’s ever quenched him.
You’re writhing now. Legs shaking. Lips parted in a constant stream of moans. Every pass of his tongue sends you spiraling higher.
He pulls back just long enough to whisper, “Give it to me, sweetheart. Let go.”
Then his mouth wraps around your clit again—hot, slick, greedy—and that’s it.
You shatter.
Your whole body arches off the couch, your hands flying to his shoulders as you scream his name. Your climax crashes over you like a storm, wave after wave, your thighs clenching around his head. He groans against you, sucking you through it, tongue relentless, lips tender.
You’re still shaking when the aftershocks hit. He gentles his pace but doesn’t stop—licking you slow and soft, almost reverent now, tasting every bit of your release. Like it’s an offering. Like he’s worshiping at the altar of your body.
And then—another whimper escapes you.
Because you’re still aching. Still burning. Still not full.
“Bucky,” you cry, fat tears rolling down your cheeks. “Please.”
You’re still shaking when he lifts his head, mouth slick with you, lips flushed, breathing ragged. His eyes meet yours—and they’re dark. Wild. But beneath the hunger is something wrecked. Something sacred.
“I should’ve known. Should’ve come sooner. Should’ve—” He cuts himself off, bending to kiss your sternum, your shoulder, your neck. “I’m here now. Not going anywhere. Not leaving you like this again.” His mouth works up, licks a strip from your jaw up your cheek, swiping away your tears.
Then his hands are under you—gentle, steady—and he picks you up like you weigh nothing. You gasp, arms wrapping around his neck, your body still fluttering from the orgasm he just gave you, still soaked, still desperate.
He carries you through the apartment like a soldier carrying his girl off the battlefield—careful, urgent, possessed. You bury your face in his neck, but he can feel the heat of you against his skin. You’re still pulsing. Still aching. Still slick and wanting.
“Bedroom,” he murmurs, voice raw with restraint. “Gotta get you comfortable before I take my time with you.”
Your thighs squeeze around his waist at that, and he groans—deep, helpless. “You like that?” he mutters, half-laughing against your temple. “Of course you do. You’ve been holding all this in. Suffering. Needing me.”
His mouth presses to your cheek, your jaw, your ear.
“I’m gonna give you everything,” he swears, like it’s a vow. “Gonna take care of my sweet girl.”
Your breath hitches.
He lays you down gently on the bed—like you’re something fragile, even though every part of him is dying to be rough. To claim. But when you reach for him again, the hunger behind your eyes makes his hands tremble.
You’re shaking beneath him. Not with fear. With need.
He kisses you deep and slow, tongue stroking yours like it’s an apology and a promise. His hands roam your body—your hips, your waist, your ribs—like he’s mapping every inch, every breath, every curse-marked plea. He palms your breasts, mouth dragging down to kiss them, to taste sweat and skin and desperation.
“You’re still burning,” he murmurs against your chest. “Still so fucking hot.”
You nod, breathless. “It hurts.”
“I know, baby.” He looks up at you, gaze filled with guilt and devotion. “But not for much longer.”
His hand slides between your thighs again—just to feel. Just to make you shiver.
“You’re soaked,” he groans. “So fucking ready for me.”
And still—he waits.
He leans up. His forehead rests against yours.
“I need you to tell me,” he murmurs. “No spell. No instinct. Just you. Do you want this?”
You don’t even hesitate.
“I want you,” you whisper. “I need you, Bucky.”
He kisses you again—hot and open, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. You’re grinding up into him, your body screaming for more.
You feel the thick press of him through his jeans again, and your mouth waters.
“Take them off,” you plead. He strips in seconds, and then he’s above you—naked, hard, huge. Your eyes go wide.
“You’re—”
“Big,” he finishes with that boyish, crooked grin that makes your heart flutter. “Yeah.”
Your thighs part instinctively, you swallow hard. “I can take it.”
“You will,” he kisses your temple. “You’re my good girl, afterall.” His cock is thick and flushed and so hard, resting against your slick folds as he grinds once—slow, teasing. You moan, body arching, craving more.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “Gonna take it slow. Let you feel all of me.”
And then—
He lines himself up. Presses in.
The first inch is unbearable. Bucky groans—loud, guttural—as the tip pushes past your entrance. You’re so wet he slides easily—but you’re tight, still fluttering from the spell, from your orgasm, from the hours—days—of arousal left unfulfilled.
“You’re so ready for me,” he groans out. “So fucking wet. You’re taking me so well, baby.” You nod, eyes wide, gripping his shoulders.
You gasp, the stretch bordering on too much—but it’s everything you need. Full. Thick. Deep.
He pushes in another inch. Then another.
“F-fuck,” he chokes, clutching your hips. “You feel like you were made for me,” he pants, voice wrecked.
You dig your nails into his back. “Please. More.”
He slides deeper. And deeper.
And finally—finally—he’s fully sheathed inside you, cock buried to the hilt, your walls fluttering around him like your body knows what this is.
Like your body recognizes him.
You cry out, overwhelmed.
He holds still.
“Breathe, sweetheart,” he whispers, mouth at your temple. “I’m going to make it better now.”
And as you clutch him—arms wrapped around his back, mouth pressed to his neck—you realize the spell was never the most dangerous thing.
It was him.
His love. His mouth. His voice. His cock, buried so deep it feels like he’s in your soul.
And the fact that you’re not sure you’ll ever want to be without it again.
You’re still gasping around him, still adjusting to the fullness when he shifts—just barely—rocking his hips in the smallest, slowest motion.
Your breath hitches. Your fingers grip his arms like a lifeline.
“Too much?” he whispers, lips ghosting your cheek.
“No,” you breathe, eyes fluttering open. “No, it’s—please. Don’t stop.”
He exhales like he’s been punched in the ribs. His forehead presses to yours again. And then—
He moves.
A slow, deep pull back. Almost all the way out. And then a roll forward, sinking back into your heat like it’s the only thing that’s ever felt right. Your body welcomes him—hungry, desperate, clenching around him like your body’s known his for years.
Bucky groans and presses in deep again, grinds his hips once—slow and thick and so achingly full it nearly splits you open—and then stops. Watches your face. Studies every twitch of your lips, every flutter of your lashes, every little moan you try to hold back.
You whimper. He hums low, eyes heavy with need. “Breathe for me,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your cheek. “You’re holding it again.”
You drag in a breath, shaky and desperate.
“There you go,” he whispers. “Just like that. Let me take care of it.”
And then he moves again.
Not rough. Not fast. But deep. Devastatingly deep.
Each stroke rolls through you like a vow. Your body welcomes him again and again—greedy, starving—and he feeds it. Feeds you.
“Spell or not,” he rasps, kissing the corner of your mouth, “I was always gonna end up here. Inside you. Making you mine.”
Your whole body jolts with it. The way he says mine. Like a prayer. Like a curse. Like the truth he’s been carrying for years.
He pulls back slowly, dragging every inch of his cock against your trembling walls before sinking in again. Your mouth falls open in a moan.
Your arms wrap tighter around his shoulders. Your legs pull him closer. You’re trying to hold him, keep him, anchor him inside you.
His forehead drops to yours.
“You trust me, don’t you?”
You nod.
“Then give it to me,” he whispers. “Give me everything.”
You do.
You open up for him—emotionally, physically, all of it. You let go. Let him take it. Let him have you.
His hand snakes between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with practiced ease, rubbing soft, coaxing circles. “You don’t have to think,” he murmurs, “Just feel. I’ve got you.”
You sob out a moan. Your body is unraveling, and he knows it—feels it.
But he won’t let you go yet.
“Open your eyes,” he whispers, slowing his thrusts again. “I want you looking at me when I make you come.”
You blink up at him. Wet lashes. Wide eyes. Lips parted.
Bucky looks wrecked. His mouth is pink from kissing you. His jaw flexes with restraint. His body trembles from holding back.
“I haven’t had anyone like this,” he rasps. “Not where it meant something. Not where it felt like coming home.”
You blink. Tears well. He kisses one from your cheek, then thrusts slow and deep again—pressing his body to yours, burying his cock inside you until you swear you can’t take more. “But you,” he breathes, kissing your chin, your mouth, your neck, “You feel like my first.”
Your heart splits in your chest.
Your body tightens.
Your orgasm hits like a tidal wave, and you cry out—loud and desperate and shaking.
Bucky groans, holding you close, still grinding against that oversensitive spot inside you. “That’s it,” he whispers, “That’s my girl.”
You’re still trembling, barely able to catch your breath, when he cups your hips in both hands and finally lets go.
“Gonna fill you up now,” he says, voice deeper than you’ve ever heard, needier. “Need you to keep my cum inside, okay baby? Don’t let it go to waste.”
You gasp, the spell still humming under your skin, needing it.
“I wanna see you round and soft with me,” he groans, fucking you deeper, chasing his own release. “Wanna see what I put there.”
You can barely speak. Barely breathe.
But he knows.
He knows you want it. Need it.
And with a guttural moan and one final, devastating thrust—he spills inside you, hot and thick, cock buried to the hilt as he groans your name like it’s the only word that’s ever mattered.
And the moment it happens—the spell breaks.
The air shifts. It’s subtle—but unmistakable. The second he finishes inside you, the pressure lifts. The curse, the ache, the burning edge that had tormented every nerve—gone.
You feel it leave like smoke through a window. Like a fever finally breaking. Your whole body sags in relief, trembling under the weight of release. Breath hitching. Vision swimming.
Bucky doesn’t move.
Not at first.
He stays inside you, cradling your face between both hands, lips brushing your cheek as his own chest heaves. His heart is pounding. His skin is slick. He feels ruined—in the best way.
You blink up at him, dazed. “It’s gone,” you whisper. “I can breathe again.”
He exhales slowly, forehead still pressed to yours. “Good,” he murmurs. “That’s good, sweetheart.”
His thumb strokes beneath your eye. Soft. Reverent. Like he can’t quite believe you’re real.
You shift slightly under him and let out a soft sound—he’s still inside you, and the stretch is no less overwhelming now that the magic is gone. But it’s different. Less urgent. Less sharp.
More… tender.
He kisses the corner of your mouth. “Still okay?”
You nod, voice barely audible. “You didn’t let me go.”
“Never,” he murmurs. His arms wrap around you tighter. He rolls onto his side slowly, bringing you with him—keeping you close, keeping himself inside you. Your legs tangle. The blanket slips. His dog tags rest against your throat.
And he just holds you there like something sacred.
Neither of you speak for a long minute. Just breath and heartbeat and warmth. His palm skims your back, up and down, up and down. Calming you. Centering himself.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper at last.
Bucky freezes.
“For not telling you,” you clarify. “For trying to do this alone.”
He doesn’t respond with words—he just holds you closer. Lets your head rest in the curve of his neck. Kisses your temple. Your hair. Your cheek.
“I don’t want to be alone anymore,” you say softly.
“You’re not,” he promises. “You’ve got me. You always have.” A quiet sniffle escapes you.
And then he shifts his hips, almost without thinking—and you both feel it. The twitch of him, still thick and inside, still so deep in your softest places.
Your breath catches.
And Bucky groans low in your ear. “Fuck.”
“Are you…” you start.
He smirks faintly. “Baby, I haven’t had anything that good in over eighty years. My body doesn’t know what to do with itself.”
You laugh—half-shaky, half-wrecked. “You’re serious?”
“You’re still squeezing me,” he groans, voice low and frayed. “Fuckin’ perfect. Like you were made to keep me inside.”
You shiver.
He kisses your jaw, moving slow. Gentle. But not letting you go. “I need you again,” he murmurs. “Not like before. Not because of some spell.”
His lips drag down your throat. His voice deepens. “I wanna feel you now that you’re mine.”
You moan. Your hips shift instinctively, and he thrusts—just once.
It’s slower. Deeper. Hotter.
No magic now.
Just you.
Just him.
And this time, when he starts to move inside you again—every slow grind of his hips is a vow.
You’re his.
And he’s never letting go.
-
Sunlight slants through the blinds, casting sleepy stripes across the hardwood floor.
You’re perched on the counter in Bucky’s actual t-shirt—faded, soft, too big, and still warm from his body—and nothing else. Your legs dangle idly as you sip your coffee, hips aching, thighs sticky, your voice still wrecked from hours of crying out his name into the pillow… and then the mattress… and eventually his chest.
Bucky moves through the kitchen barefoot, shirtless, boxers slung low on his hips. Damp hair curling slightly from the shower he insisted you take together.
You feel the faint sting of overuse. The tenderness where his hands had gripped your hips. The low, steady ache deep inside where he stayed buried for what felt like hours—moving slow, whispering confessions into your skin like he meant to leave them there forever.
He hasn’t stopped touching you since.
Not possessive.
Just connected.
His hand brushes your knee when he passes. Fingers drift across your thigh, grazing the edge of the t-shirt you’re barely wearing. He kisses your temple when he thinks you’re not paying attention—and growls if you shift just enough to open your legs and make the shirt ride up.
“Behave,” he murmurs darkly as he passes, pausing just long enough to brush his lips along your shoulder. “You’re not seducing me before breakfast.”
You sip your coffee with a lazy smirk. “Why not?”
His eyes flick to your legs—bare, dangling, parted just slightly—and then to the curve of your mouth. “Because if I get between those thighs again, we’re not leaving the apartment until tomorrow.”
You hum thoughtfully. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It is,” he mutters, turning back to the stove with a clenched jaw and tense forearms.
You swing your legs a little, just to test him. He turns then, spatula in hand, assessing you with that signature slow-lidded look.
Something sparks behind his eyes—dark and warm and deeply, dangerously satisfied.
He tries to hide it behind a sip of his own coffee, but you catch it.
“Don’t,” you warn.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought it.”
His mouth twitches. “You can’t try to seduce me while limping.”
You shoot him a look over the rim of your mug. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Not too much,” he says seriously. “Just enough.”
You glare. He grins. Then he leans in and presses a kiss to your cheek. Your temple. Your lips.
“I meant what I said last night,” he whispers, voice brushing warm over your skin. “Spell or not—I was always gonna end up here. Making you mine.”
Your stomach flips. And you feel it again—that stupid, giddy, gut-deep ache for him that has nothing to do with magic.
He turns back to the stove, humming under his breath. His metal arm scrapes gently against the pan, eggs sizzling, toast popping. He’s domesticity incarnate—barefoot, flushed, sleepy-eyed—and the world has no business letting a man this sinful make breakfast like he didn’t fuck the spell out of you last night.
Like he didn’t split you open with slow, reverent thrusts while whispering, “Need you to keep my cum inside, okay baby? Don’t let it go to waste…”
You watch him in quiet awe for a moment, sipping your coffee. Then you sigh dramatically.
“So this is it, huh?”
He glances back at you. “This is what?”
“This is how I die. Legs too sore to walk. Drenched in sweat. Wearing your shirt. Watching my newly acquired boyfriend make me eggs like he didn’t spend all night treating me like his own personal prayer.”
Bucky snorts. “You’re so dramatic.”
You swing your legs. “I’m just saying—if I start cleaning up around here and folding your laundry, it’s not because I’m being helpful. It’s because I’m nesting.”
That gets him. He huffs a laugh but doesn’t turn around.
You keep going. “I mean, this has all the signs. Mind-blowing sex. Shared shower. Domestic morning-after. You kissed my forehead and made me breakfast. We skipped like eight stages. If this were a sitcom, the next episode would be a wedding.”
You pause. Then, innocent and teasing, you ask, “Are we married, Barnes? Did I skip a few episodes?”
Now he turns. One brow raised, spatula hovering mid-air. “You want a ring?”
You tilt your head, still teasing. “Don’t you?”
He stills—just for a moment. His expression shifts. Something flickers behind his eyes, too real to be a joke.
Then he sets the spatula down.
“I already bought one.”
Your breath catches. “…What?”
He shrugs—casual, devastating—but his ears are turning pink.
“A while ago,” he mutters. “Kept it in my pocket like a damn fool for months before finally putting it somewhere safe. You were still just my best friend, and I—”
He exhales, the rest catching in his throat. “Didn’t matter. I already knew what I wanted. I was just… waiting. Hoping maybe one day you’d want it too.”
You go still.
Your heart climbs into your throat.
“You bought a ring… before we were even together?”
He glances over. The faintest smile tugs at his lips, soft and sure. “I wasn’t gonna give it to you then. I’m not that unhinged.” He takes a breath. “Just figured… if we ever ended up here, I’d be ready.”
You blink at him. His words from earlier— “I was always gonna end up here,” replaying in your mind. You were speechless as you stared at this decreasingly handsome, scheming man. Something cracks open in your chest. The laughter dies on your tongue, but it’s not fear. It’s not panic.
It’s awe.
“…Do you have it now?” you breathe.
He smirks, and it’s all trouble and tenderness, as he leans a hip against the counter like the world isn’t tilting. “Don’t worry about it”
“Can I see it?” You ask, grinning.
“Finish your coffee.”
“James Buchanan Barnes—”
“I’ll wait,” he says, quiet and certain, brushing a kiss to your temple. His thumb grazes your jaw, soft and steady, like a vow he’s already made a hundred times.
I started reading it before work and couldn't get it out of my head so I had to finish it on my break 😍 my fav part was that everybody had already accepted that they would end up together!
Summary: Losing a bet with Bucky you had to wear a USO girl costume to deliver something to Steve. Steve lost his composure and suddenly things went awkward
Word Count: ~3.3k
Warnings: the media isn’t nice to reader, anxiety on Bucky’s part, blood and detailed description of nose bleeding, kiss cam, emotional exhaustion
A/N: I’m currently writing on a modern AU Bucky mini series and while I really like my Steve there (it’s Steve, I will ALWAYS like him) it reminded me that I had started this piece and I finally finished it. I’m sorry, Steve!
“I hate you so much, Barnes,” you mumbled and tried to pull the dress a little bit more down before you entered the communal kitchen where you knew you target would be. You didn’t dare to look up until you stood in front of him and tipped his shoulder and tried to ignore the other people in the room.
“I have a special delivery for our savior Captain America,” you said in a not so enthusiastic voice and put your hand on your forehead in a salute. Nothing could’ve prepared you what happened next. If someone would have told you that Steve Rogers aka Captain America would spat water in your face you would have laughed it off. But now you stood in front of him, your hand still in the ridiculous pose while you had a folder in your other hand and as you blinked water started to drip from your eyelashes to your face and onto the folder.
While you stood there still in shock as did the person in front of you, you heard loud laughter. “This was better than anything I’ve imagined,” you could hear Bucky's voice.
Steve suddenly grabbed a towel and started to wipe your face with it and held it out to you when he noticed your décolleté would have been next and even in shock Steve was still a gentleman. You took the towel from him and pushed the folder onto his chest. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know... I would have never,” his glance flew over your outfit. “What are you wearing? Not that you aren’t allowed to wear what you want, but...” Steve started to ramble and was afraid he had dug his own hole.
“Ugh this stupid bet I had with Bucky,” you mumbled while you still tried to get rid of the wetness.
“Hey, do you know how long it took me to find an USO girl costume?” Bucky chimed in with laughter still in his voice.
“Not long, because the texture is awful,” you rebutted and he admitted that it didn’t take him five minutes. “If you excuse me, I still have some deliveries to do,” you turned around and walked out of the kitchen. Steve stared after you until he remembered the folder in his hand. On it was a big print that said confidential and when he opened it he saw only one piece of paper which said “you’re welcome, punk”. He turned to Bucky who just winked at him.
“Well, you could have handled that smoother,” he said and Steve slapped the back of his friend's head before he left the room. He didn’t know where to go, the only thing he knew was that he couldn’t handle Bucky's comments right now.
“Are you sure you are okay?” Steve heard you asking Bucky for probably the fourth time since you had started your trip.
“I'm okay, you can stop your mother hen mode now,” Bucky assured you and while Steve knew Bucky was annoyed, he also knew that he wasn’t really bothered. And he couldn’t help the warm feeling that was spreading through him. Your caring self was one of the things he loved most about you. And it wasn’t even that you were on your way to a mission or anything like that, you were just making a trip to town, but you knew that Bucky got quickly overwhelmed by the amount of people around him.
“Here, hold my hand and squeeze if it gets too much,” you offered and Steve noticed the quick glance Bucky sent his way before he grabbed your offered hand.
“You have a second hand, can I hold it? Or would you rather like it, if Steve would step in?” Sam said and wiggled his eyebrows.
“Or I could use my free hand to punch you in the face, what about that?” you said coolly and Bucky chuckled.
“Nah, I don’t think you will,” Sam said confidentially, but Steve noticed that he left some space next to you.
Maybe your reaction was a little harsh, but the teasing you had to endured since your lost bet was immense. The video of Steve spitting water over you had been going around a lot and you wanted to punch whoever had shown Bucky how to make a meme. You though it had been Sam so the punch would serve for two purposes.
But if you were embarrassed it was nothing close to how Steve felt! He was the one who had lost control over his body. A mission with too many opponents to count? No problem. Jumping from a plane without a parachute? His heart would beat a little faster but that would be it. But seeing you in that outfit had caused his body to start sweating, his heart to beat faster and his brain to turn off for a second, hence the embarrassing moment.
Steve was actually glad that the teasing had turned down this day and was replaced with excitement for the baseball game you were about to watch. He just wanted to enjoy this little trip with his childhood friend, his new found friend and of course you.
You and Bucky were in front with Sam and Steve trailing behind. After the security check you split up, while you and Sam decided to use the bathroom before the game him and Bucky would get snacks and drinks. Steve had problems holding everything in his arms and avoiding a collision with other fans while he waited for the two of you.
You almost walked into him when you tried to avoid a very enthusiastic fan, but luckily Sam caught the cup which was about to fall from Steves arm. “Oh no, we don’t want you spilling your drink over her again, right?” he smirked and took a sip from the cup while you groaned and Steves face changed its color.
The four of you managed to get to your seats without much trouble. You had told the three guys they were looking stupid with their disguise as they were all wearing caps and now that you sat on your actual place between Steve and Bucky, you saw that a lot of people had caps on their heads. You squinted your eyes when the sun shone directly in your face. Steve noticed your distress and placed his cap on your head.
“Thank you,” you said with a bright smile and looked in his direction. Steve who was busy looking at you and replied with a “it isn’t a problem, honey” didn’t saw Bucky and Sam looking at each other with raised brows. They too noticed that the nickname was new.
“I have no clue about baseball,” you admitted just a little bit before the game started.
“Why did you come then?” Sam asked with his mouth full of food and you handed a napkin over Bucky towards him, but he didn’t get the hint.
“Because I also wanted to go out and wanted to have a nice afternoon,” you defended yourself and you left the part out that you joined because you knew how big of a baseball fan Steve was.
“Don’t worry, I’ll explain everything to you,” Steve offered immediately and took you out of the spotlight.
Steve stayed true to his word (as if you had expected anything less) and you had to admit that you enjoyed it. You didn’t know if it was the sport or if it was Steve’s enthusiasm while explaining that swept over to you. Bucky chimed in here and there and before you knew it the break was there.
“Oh, the Kiss Cam,” you laughed and took the last sip of your now warm drink.
“Just to make it clear, if it lands on us I’m not kissing Bucky. I can already imagine the headlines,” Sam was munching on a pretzel now that he had managed to get.
“Did you also noticed that his only problem is the headline and nothing about the kiss,” you whispered to Steve and he let out a light chuckle. And as if Sam had provoked it the cam landed on the four of you and the commentator announced that some of the avengers were at the games. Steve waved awkwardly at the camera.
“Oh that’s not what a kiss cam is for,” Sam announced and started to crawl over Bucky, who started to complain. He kissed your cheek and went back to his place. “Told you I wouldn’t kiss Barnes. This is how you do it, Rogers,” he said and went back to eating his snack. You were about to turn towards Steve but were surprised when suddenly lips landed on the cheek that Sam had just kissed. Before you could comprehend that Bucky had just kissed you publicly (and grabbed your hand afterward, probably because he only felt overwhelmed when he noticed how many people were watching him then) another pair of lips were pressed onto the other side of your cheek, dangerously close to your lips.
The skin there started to tingle and before you could comment on anything that had just happened fans stood in front of you asking for a picture with Captain America. Soon enough you were taking photos for fans and when someone asked for a photo with the four of you and Steve threw one long arm around your shoulder you couldn’t help to feel like there were butterflies flying in your stomach.
You weren’t a fan of press conferences, never were, but after an accident a few months back you didn’t attend them anymore. You knew that it had to be done, but standing in the spotlight and having to explain why you acted a certain way was not your idea of fun. But when one reporter started to ask you questions about your suit and underwear you weren’t sure if you should become angry or if you shouldn’t say anything at all.
Before you could even say anything about it Steve had exploded. Calm, collected Captain America stood in front of the press and gave them a piece of their mind how they dared to be so disrespectful. It had shocked not only the reporters, but also you and some of the other team members attending. Steve had ended the press conference then and stormed off the stage.
So he was more than surprised when he stood dressed in a black suit in front of many cameras and the door flew open with you sprinting towards him, his shield and stealth suit in your arms. “You have to change, we have a situation right now,” you said once you were in a hearing range. He took the suit from your arms and left the shield where it was, turned around and followed a guy pointing towards a room.
It didn’t take long for him to change into his other suit, he had slipped it on more than he could count. You were waiting outside in one hand the shield in the other his helmet. “What are we up against?” he asked once he stepped out of the room and strapped his helmet on.
“Inhuman activity in the city. Sam, Tony, Vision and Rhodey are already on their way, the rest of us is picking you up. We weren’t quite sure what we were facing so we decided we should be all on board,” you informed him while walking next to him and gave him his shield.
“Thanks,” he said once he secured it and followed you to the jet.
In hindsight it was good that you had picked up Steve. There were no big injuries in the team, but the buildings had taken a lot of damage. And the super soldiers came kind of handy to pick up the rumbles and free the civilians. It was exhausting: first the fight, then the rescuing and the emotional side finally caught up with you. You sat down on a staircase after calming down a kid and bringing him back to his mother.
“Are you okay?” Steves voice caused you to raise your head from your hands.
“Yeah, I just needed a moment to breathe,” you admitted. He sat down on the step next to you and placed the shield in front of you. “I feel like the people forget it isn’t only the fight against what comes our way. There are always casualties and it’s not like you can shrug and say ‘well I can’t change a thing now’. There are always the thoughts late at night if I could have been faster could something like that be avoided and it’s just... it’s draining, Steve,” you admitted.
“I know,” Steve put an arm around your shoulder and you pressed your head against his chest. “But you can’t forget the other side. What about the ones that we rescued?”
“Yeah, I know. Let’s just stay like this for a minute, okay?” Steve nodded and you felt the movement and then he placed his head on yours. His hand still caressing your arm. He waited for you to let go of the hug first. “Okay, let’s get back to work,” you said and held out your hand for him to take and to help him up, although you both knew he didn’t need it. He took it anyway.
The next Mrs. America?
We don’t know much about the private life's of the Avengers, especially Steve Rogers aka Captain America isn’t known for being very open about his personal life. But is there a woman by his side that we all know? Pictures speak louder than words. As you can see on the picture shown above the Captain has thrown his arm around his fellow Avenger after the battle on last Tuesday and they look very intimate. The shield the government has him provided is lying carelessly on the ground.
Before that a press conference with Captain America was interrupted by said woman who walked in holding his shield. Have we ever seen the shield in the hand of anybody else than him? No. So there must be a deeper connection between them. Also we can’t forget about the fact when he lost his calm facade the last time she was asked a question at a press conference which was ended by him afterwards.
We can’t wait to see what happens next and hope that Captain America won’t forget about his country because of a woman.
“This is bullshit,” you exclaimed when you put away your tablet. You couldn’t bring yourself to read the rest of the article.
“I’ve carried and used the shield in a battle,” Natasha said.
“It also wasn’t the government who gave it to him,” Tony scoffed.
“And I’m not the next Mrs. America,” you put in.
“Well you could be,” Bucky said from the side.
“What?” You turned around to look at him.
“I don’t think Steve is opposed to the idea,” Bucky shrugged.
“Steve would also never forget about his country and I hope he never has to read this bullshit.” You were glad that he was currently on a mission with Sam.
“The picture is cute, though,” Nat said. Well, she was right, but you wouldn’t admit that out loud.
After the article dropped you distanced yourself from Steve a little bit more and completely when you were in public. Of course Steve had seen the article, but the two of you didn’t discuss it.
So when you were at the next charity event you still kept your distance. It was a volleyball match and the Avengers had their own team. To make it fair it only consisted of people without super strength that meant Steve and Bucky were sitting on a bank as moral support while you, Sam, Nat, Tony and Wanda made your way over to the field.
“This is getting ridiculous, Steve! How long will you avoid her?” Bucky asked when the team was out of earshot and it was only him and his friend.
“It’s just this stupid article. It really hurt her feelings and it wasn’t professional from me to explode and,” he started but Bucky interrupted him.
“Stop it. The article was bullshit. And it was absolutely disgusting that they asked her that question. You’re just human and wanted to protect her, I get it. But stop avoiding her. You were the one telling me that I shouldn’t give any fuck,” he got a gaze from Steve that told him he should watch his language, “about any articles about me. Maybe you should listen to yourself.”
Bucky turned around and watched the players now who greeted each other. It was a mix of people that neither Steve or Bucky really knew. Some kid was a singer or something like that and was a bit starstruck to meet Black Widow. The game started and as neither of the teams were professional volleyball players it looked that way. But the Avengers were competitive people – especially Natasha and Tony and so it wasn’t really a surprise that you won the first game.
The second round was a bit harder and when you were two minutes into the game you didn’t see the ball coming your way as the sun was blinding you. Your head was pushed backwards when the ball connected with your face and a second later you were on the ground. When you weren’t up again a few seconds later Steve was up his feet and made his way to you. Natasha was already kneeling next to you and he kneeled on the other side of you. Blood was gushing out of your nose and you looked a bit dazed.
A medic was approaching but Natasha and Steve blocked her way to you and she was a bit intimidated when none of them made a move to leave your side. She held out a piece of bandage that the spy took from her and pressed it under your nose while Steve took a cooling pack and pressed it in your neck. “Are you dizzy? Do you need to throw up?” he asked you.
When they made sure you just needed to sit down for a while Steve picked you up and carried you to the benches where Bucky was waiting. He stepped in for you and he shared a gaze with Steve that didn’t slip your attention. “It wasn’t his fault Bucky,” you said while you still pressed the bandage under your nose.
“’Course,” Bucky replied and made his way on the field. Steve didn’t want to let go of you and you both didn’t fit on the bench so he sat the both of you down on the floor, him behind you and you between his legs while he still held the cooling pack and put the other arm around your torso.
“You feel better?” he asked after a while.
You hummed, too content to form a full sentence. The bleeding had stopped and you breathed through your mouth, but Steve’s one arm that radiated warmth felt too good around you. “I miss you,” you admitted then. If it was the blood loss or maybe finally being near Steve again you didn’t know what caused the admission.
And Steve didn’t know what cause it, maybe it was having you relaxed near him after such a long time, but he admitted that he missed you too. “You wanna get dinner with me tonight?” he surprised you and him.
“Just you and me?”
“Yeah, just us,” Steve whispered in your ear and his breath caressed you sweaty skin. But when it came to Steve you never felt uncomfortable even if you were covered in sweat.
“I’d really like that.” Your breath hitched when Steve lips connect softly with your skin and just then you looked at Bucky who smirked. You weren’t sure if it was because he just witnessed the kiss or if it was because he had pushed the ball into the face of the man who had hit you. But he yelled a “sorry,” over the field and winked at you.
Summary: Losing a bet with Bucky you had to wear a USO girl costume to deliver something to Steve. Steve lost his composure and suddenly things went awkward
Word Count: ~3.3k
Warnings: the media isn’t nice to reader, anxiety on Bucky’s part, blood and detailed description of nose bleeding, kiss cam, emotional exhaustion
A/N: I’m currently writing on a modern AU Bucky mini series and while I really like my Steve there (it’s Steve, I will ALWAYS like him) it reminded me that I had started this piece and I finally finished it. I’m sorry, Steve!
“I hate you so much, Barnes,” you mumbled and tried to pull the dress a little bit more down before you entered the communal kitchen where you knew you target would be. You didn’t dare to look up until you stood in front of him and tipped his shoulder and tried to ignore the other people in the room.
“I have a special delivery for our savior Captain America,” you said in a not so enthusiastic voice and put your hand on your forehead in a salute. Nothing could’ve prepared you what happened next. If someone would have told you that Steve Rogers aka Captain America would spat water in your face you would have laughed it off. But now you stood in front of him, your hand still in the ridiculous pose while you had a folder in your other hand and as you blinked water started to drip from your eyelashes to your face and onto the folder.
While you stood there still in shock as did the person in front of you, you heard loud laughter. “This was better than anything I’ve imagined,” you could hear Bucky's voice.
Steve suddenly grabbed a towel and started to wipe your face with it and held it out to you when he noticed your décolleté would have been next and even in shock Steve was still a gentleman. You took the towel from him and pushed the folder onto his chest. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know... I would have never,” his glance flew over your outfit. “What are you wearing? Not that you aren’t allowed to wear what you want, but...” Steve started to ramble and was afraid he had dug his own hole.
“Ugh this stupid bet I had with Bucky,” you mumbled while you still tried to get rid of the wetness.
“Hey, do you know how long it took me to find an USO girl costume?” Bucky chimed in with laughter still in his voice.
“Not long, because the texture is awful,” you rebutted and he admitted that it didn’t take him five minutes. “If you excuse me, I still have some deliveries to do,” you turned around and walked out of the kitchen. Steve stared after you until he remembered the folder in his hand. On it was a big print that said confidential and when he opened it he saw only one piece of paper which said “you’re welcome, punk”. He turned to Bucky who just winked at him.
“Well, you could have handled that smoother,” he said and Steve slapped the back of his friend's head before he left the room. He didn’t know where to go, the only thing he knew was that he couldn’t handle Bucky's comments right now.
“Are you sure you are okay?” Steve heard you asking Bucky for probably the fourth time since you had started your trip.
“I'm okay, you can stop your mother hen mode now,” Bucky assured you and while Steve knew Bucky was annoyed, he also knew that he wasn’t really bothered. And he couldn’t help the warm feeling that was spreading through him. Your caring self was one of the things he loved most about you. And it wasn’t even that you were on your way to a mission or anything like that, you were just making a trip to town, but you knew that Bucky got quickly overwhelmed by the amount of people around him.
“Here, hold my hand and squeeze if it gets too much,” you offered and Steve noticed the quick glance Bucky sent his way before he grabbed your offered hand.
“You have a second hand, can I hold it? Or would you rather like it, if Steve would step in?” Sam said and wiggled his eyebrows.
“Or I could use my free hand to punch you in the face, what about that?” you said coolly and Bucky chuckled.
“Nah, I don’t think you will,” Sam said confidentially, but Steve noticed that he left some space next to you.
Maybe your reaction was a little harsh, but the teasing you had to endured since your lost bet was immense. The video of Steve spitting water over you had been going around a lot and you wanted to punch whoever had shown Bucky how to make a meme. You though it had been Sam so the punch would serve for two purposes.
But if you were embarrassed it was nothing close to how Steve felt! He was the one who had lost control over his body. A mission with too many opponents to count? No problem. Jumping from a plane without a parachute? His heart would beat a little faster but that would be it. But seeing you in that outfit had caused his body to start sweating, his heart to beat faster and his brain to turn off for a second, hence the embarrassing moment.
Steve was actually glad that the teasing had turned down this day and was replaced with excitement for the baseball game you were about to watch. He just wanted to enjoy this little trip with his childhood friend, his new found friend and of course you.
You and Bucky were in front with Sam and Steve trailing behind. After the security check you split up, while you and Sam decided to use the bathroom before the game him and Bucky would get snacks and drinks. Steve had problems holding everything in his arms and avoiding a collision with other fans while he waited for the two of you.
You almost walked into him when you tried to avoid a very enthusiastic fan, but luckily Sam caught the cup which was about to fall from Steves arm. “Oh no, we don’t want you spilling your drink over her again, right?” he smirked and took a sip from the cup while you groaned and Steves face changed its color.
The four of you managed to get to your seats without much trouble. You had told the three guys they were looking stupid with their disguise as they were all wearing caps and now that you sat on your actual place between Steve and Bucky, you saw that a lot of people had caps on their heads. You squinted your eyes when the sun shone directly in your face. Steve noticed your distress and placed his cap on your head.
“Thank you,” you said with a bright smile and looked in his direction. Steve who was busy looking at you and replied with a “it isn’t a problem, honey” didn’t saw Bucky and Sam looking at each other with raised brows. They too noticed that the nickname was new.
“I have no clue about baseball,” you admitted just a little bit before the game started.
“Why did you come then?” Sam asked with his mouth full of food and you handed a napkin over Bucky towards him, but he didn’t get the hint.
“Because I also wanted to go out and wanted to have a nice afternoon,” you defended yourself and you left the part out that you joined because you knew how big of a baseball fan Steve was.
“Don’t worry, I’ll explain everything to you,” Steve offered immediately and took you out of the spotlight.
Steve stayed true to his word (as if you had expected anything less) and you had to admit that you enjoyed it. You didn’t know if it was the sport or if it was Steve’s enthusiasm while explaining that swept over to you. Bucky chimed in here and there and before you knew it the break was there.
“Oh, the Kiss Cam,” you laughed and took the last sip of your now warm drink.
“Just to make it clear, if it lands on us I’m not kissing Bucky. I can already imagine the headlines,” Sam was munching on a pretzel now that he had managed to get.
“Did you also noticed that his only problem is the headline and nothing about the kiss,” you whispered to Steve and he let out a light chuckle. And as if Sam had provoked it the cam landed on the four of you and the commentator announced that some of the avengers were at the games. Steve waved awkwardly at the camera.
“Oh that’s not what a kiss cam is for,” Sam announced and started to crawl over Bucky, who started to complain. He kissed your cheek and went back to his place. “Told you I wouldn’t kiss Barnes. This is how you do it, Rogers,” he said and went back to eating his snack. You were about to turn towards Steve but were surprised when suddenly lips landed on the cheek that Sam had just kissed. Before you could comprehend that Bucky had just kissed you publicly (and grabbed your hand afterward, probably because he only felt overwhelmed when he noticed how many people were watching him then) another pair of lips were pressed onto the other side of your cheek, dangerously close to your lips.
The skin there started to tingle and before you could comment on anything that had just happened fans stood in front of you asking for a picture with Captain America. Soon enough you were taking photos for fans and when someone asked for a photo with the four of you and Steve threw one long arm around your shoulder you couldn’t help to feel like there were butterflies flying in your stomach.
You weren’t a fan of press conferences, never were, but after an accident a few months back you didn’t attend them anymore. You knew that it had to be done, but standing in the spotlight and having to explain why you acted a certain way was not your idea of fun. But when one reporter started to ask you questions about your suit and underwear you weren’t sure if you should become angry or if you shouldn’t say anything at all.
Before you could even say anything about it Steve had exploded. Calm, collected Captain America stood in front of the press and gave them a piece of their mind how they dared to be so disrespectful. It had shocked not only the reporters, but also you and some of the other team members attending. Steve had ended the press conference then and stormed off the stage.
So he was more than surprised when he stood dressed in a black suit in front of many cameras and the door flew open with you sprinting towards him, his shield and stealth suit in your arms. “You have to change, we have a situation right now,” you said once you were in a hearing range. He took the suit from your arms and left the shield where it was, turned around and followed a guy pointing towards a room.
It didn’t take long for him to change into his other suit, he had slipped it on more than he could count. You were waiting outside in one hand the shield in the other his helmet. “What are we up against?” he asked once he stepped out of the room and strapped his helmet on.
“Inhuman activity in the city. Sam, Tony, Vision and Rhodey are already on their way, the rest of us is picking you up. We weren’t quite sure what we were facing so we decided we should be all on board,” you informed him while walking next to him and gave him his shield.
“Thanks,” he said once he secured it and followed you to the jet.
In hindsight it was good that you had picked up Steve. There were no big injuries in the team, but the buildings had taken a lot of damage. And the super soldiers came kind of handy to pick up the rumbles and free the civilians. It was exhausting: first the fight, then the rescuing and the emotional side finally caught up with you. You sat down on a staircase after calming down a kid and bringing him back to his mother.
“Are you okay?” Steves voice caused you to raise your head from your hands.
“Yeah, I just needed a moment to breathe,” you admitted. He sat down on the step next to you and placed the shield in front of you. “I feel like the people forget it isn’t only the fight against what comes our way. There are always casualties and it’s not like you can shrug and say ‘well I can’t change a thing now’. There are always the thoughts late at night if I could have been faster could something like that be avoided and it’s just... it’s draining, Steve,” you admitted.
“I know,” Steve put an arm around your shoulder and you pressed your head against his chest. “But you can’t forget the other side. What about the ones that we rescued?”
“Yeah, I know. Let’s just stay like this for a minute, okay?” Steve nodded and you felt the movement and then he placed his head on yours. His hand still caressing your arm. He waited for you to let go of the hug first. “Okay, let’s get back to work,” you said and held out your hand for him to take and to help him up, although you both knew he didn’t need it. He took it anyway.
The next Mrs. America?
We don’t know much about the private life's of the Avengers, especially Steve Rogers aka Captain America isn’t known for being very open about his personal life. But is there a woman by his side that we all know? Pictures speak louder than words. As you can see on the picture shown above the Captain has thrown his arm around his fellow Avenger after the battle on last Tuesday and they look very intimate. The shield the government has him provided is lying carelessly on the ground.
Before that a press conference with Captain America was interrupted by said woman who walked in holding his shield. Have we ever seen the shield in the hand of anybody else than him? No. So there must be a deeper connection between them. Also we can’t forget about the fact when he lost his calm facade the last time she was asked a question at a press conference which was ended by him afterwards.
We can’t wait to see what happens next and hope that Captain America won’t forget about his country because of a woman.
“This is bullshit,” you exclaimed when you put away your tablet. You couldn’t bring yourself to read the rest of the article.
“I’ve carried and used the shield in a battle,” Natasha said.
“It also wasn’t the government who gave it to him,” Tony scoffed.
“And I’m not the next Mrs. America,” you put in.
“Well you could be,” Bucky said from the side.
“What?” You turned around to look at him.
“I don’t think Steve is opposed to the idea,” Bucky shrugged.
“Steve would also never forget about his country and I hope he never has to read this bullshit.” You were glad that he was currently on a mission with Sam.
“The picture is cute, though,” Nat said. Well, she was right, but you wouldn’t admit that out loud.
After the article dropped you distanced yourself from Steve a little bit more and completely when you were in public. Of course Steve had seen the article, but the two of you didn’t discuss it.
So when you were at the next charity event you still kept your distance. It was a volleyball match and the Avengers had their own team. To make it fair it only consisted of people without super strength that meant Steve and Bucky were sitting on a bank as moral support while you, Sam, Nat, Tony and Wanda made your way over to the field.
“This is getting ridiculous, Steve! How long will you avoid her?” Bucky asked when the team was out of earshot and it was only him and his friend.
“It’s just this stupid article. It really hurt her feelings and it wasn’t professional from me to explode and,” he started but Bucky interrupted him.
“Stop it. The article was bullshit. And it was absolutely disgusting that they asked her that question. You’re just human and wanted to protect her, I get it. But stop avoiding her. You were the one telling me that I shouldn’t give any fuck,” he got a gaze from Steve that told him he should watch his language, “about any articles about me. Maybe you should listen to yourself.”
Bucky turned around and watched the players now who greeted each other. It was a mix of people that neither Steve or Bucky really knew. Some kid was a singer or something like that and was a bit starstruck to meet Black Widow. The game started and as neither of the teams were professional volleyball players it looked that way. But the Avengers were competitive people – especially Natasha and Tony and so it wasn’t really a surprise that you won the first game.
The second round was a bit harder and when you were two minutes into the game you didn’t see the ball coming your way as the sun was blinding you. Your head was pushed backwards when the ball connected with your face and a second later you were on the ground. When you weren’t up again a few seconds later Steve was up his feet and made his way to you. Natasha was already kneeling next to you and he kneeled on the other side of you. Blood was gushing out of your nose and you looked a bit dazed.
A medic was approaching but Natasha and Steve blocked her way to you and she was a bit intimidated when none of them made a move to leave your side. She held out a piece of bandage that the spy took from her and pressed it under your nose while Steve took a cooling pack and pressed it in your neck. “Are you dizzy? Do you need to throw up?” he asked you.
When they made sure you just needed to sit down for a while Steve picked you up and carried you to the benches where Bucky was waiting. He stepped in for you and he shared a gaze with Steve that didn’t slip your attention. “It wasn’t his fault Bucky,” you said while you still pressed the bandage under your nose.
“’Course,” Bucky replied and made his way on the field. Steve didn’t want to let go of you and you both didn’t fit on the bench so he sat the both of you down on the floor, him behind you and you between his legs while he still held the cooling pack and put the other arm around your torso.
“You feel better?” he asked after a while.
You hummed, too content to form a full sentence. The bleeding had stopped and you breathed through your mouth, but Steve’s one arm that radiated warmth felt too good around you. “I miss you,” you admitted then. If it was the blood loss or maybe finally being near Steve again you didn’t know what caused the admission.
And Steve didn’t know what cause it, maybe it was having you relaxed near him after such a long time, but he admitted that he missed you too. “You wanna get dinner with me tonight?” he surprised you and him.
“Just you and me?”
“Yeah, just us,” Steve whispered in your ear and his breath caressed you sweaty skin. But when it came to Steve you never felt uncomfortable even if you were covered in sweat.
“I’d really like that.” Your breath hitched when Steve lips connect softly with your skin and just then you looked at Bucky who smirked. You weren’t sure if it was because he just witnessed the kiss or if it was because he had pushed the ball into the face of the man who had hit you. But he yelled a “sorry,” over the field and winked at you.
I know of at least one more that you haven't read yet, but we'll keep that for another day to surprise you 😂 you're right, poor Steve had to endure a lot of teasing! But I'm glad that you enjoyed that one! 🩷
⍟ steve rogers fluff fic recommendations
*titles in red are suggestive, smut, or 18+ but smut is not the main focus which is why it's on this list and not the smut list. please respect authors by not interacting if a minor
**personal favorites at the moment
one shots (with an occasional two-parter)
losing composure: Losing a bet with Bucky you had to wear a USO girl costume to deliver something to Steve. Steve lost his composure and suddenly things went awkward (@marvelettesassemblenow)
crash closet: steve and avenger/agent reader’s friends teasing the reader by getting her a pillow with steve’s face on it (@ronearoundblindly)
•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈• •┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈• •┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•
series (completed)
red, white, and true: Pepper Potts proposes it's time for Steve to get back in the business of helping people, pursuing the greater good. She pitches he run for President of the United States of America. (@buckets-and-trees)
his fiore: Steve smexy Rogers moves into the neighborhood, and one evening, he catches you sneaking into the building opposite his through the fire escape. He watches curiously, slightly amused and, quite frankly, amazed by you. Guess what he does next? He writes a note, signs it with his middle name, Grant, and slips it under your door. How will you discover that Grant is none other than Captain America? (@mercurial-chuckles)**
series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.
pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader
word count: 11.1k
chapter warnings: self-deprecation, negative self-talk and canon-typical violence. this one's heavy on the angst. it's also my favourite so far. please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.
a/n: i return with a semblance of a posting schedule and a chapter that i'm well aware is absolutely insane. but that was always gonna be the case. enjoy my loves 💚
series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3
seven: spellbound
The slamming door made you flinch awake from where you’d fallen asleep on the couch, still wearing your extravagant jumpsuit. Bucky’s hands were clenched into fists, the frown on his face familiar and deep. He’d lost his tie somewhere on the way back.
"You alright?" you mumbled, getting up on one elbow.
He ignored you, facing Sam, who had his hands folded in his lap, back still hunched forward in thought or worry.
"You alright?" Sam repeated.
Bucky gave a short nod. "Can I talk to you?"
"Talk."
He did look at you, then, his gaze slowly and irritably dripping down your body. "I meant alone," he said pointedly.
"This is my home," you protested, sitting up properly.
"You’re a squatter."
"What do you want to talk about?" Sam interjected before you could snap back.
Bucky crossed his arms in front of his chest. "I want her out."
Your mouth dropped open. "What the fuck?"
"Tonight wasn’t ideal, I’ll give you that," Sam said tiredly. "But we got what we went in for and we didn’t cast any unwanted suspicion."
"Didn’t we?" Bucky said. "Because I feel like some of us remember tonight differently."
People murmuring in confusion as you blinked in and out of existence, knowing that something was off, even though they couldn’t put a finger on it. Agitated comm chatter throughout the corridors.
"Excuse me for saving your ass," you said hotly. Maybe it would have had the intended effect if you’d properly wiped the dried blood from your face.
"I didn’t ask you to do that," he pressed out.
"If it pissed you off so much, I’ll just let you get shot next time, then, see how that feels."
"Okay, I think we can all just calm down and continue this conversation tomorrow," Sam boomed.
Bucky gritted his teeth and turned his back on you, but you jumped up from the couch, your anger giving you enough energy to follow him to the stairs.
"No! He’s having a go at me for no reason at all and I would like to hear the rest of it. Tell me where I made a single fucking mistake. Because I can tell you when you did."
"I am sick of you pretending to fix stuff—"
"Pretending?!"
"Guys—" Sam called from the living room.
"—when we don’t even know what it is you’re changing!"
"How about you actually just trust me for once, like you said you would?"
"I said I trust Sam’s decision to take you on, and that I trusted Steve’s judgment. There’s a difference."
You threw up your hands. "You wanna know what I changed? Your fucking arm almost got both of us caught, tin man, that’s what I changed."
"Do you know what it feels like," Bucky said, voice shaking with barely restrained rage, "when people tell you things about yourself that you don’t remember choosing to do?"
"Must be nice to get to forget things."
Your fingers twitched at the same time as his, metal and flesh curling like you both wanted to clutch at something you couldn’t reach. In another universe, he might have turned on you, slammed you into the wall with his hand around your neck.
Do it, then.
But no. In this one, he just went very, very still. Like he’d simply turned to stone under your gaze.
"Stay out of my fucking head," he pressed out under his breath, so low you barely caught it at all.
"I have no interest in your fucking head," you said, rage and frustration blazing in your eyes. "You want me to be honest with you? Fine. I’m sorry about what happened to you and I get why my powers are touchy for you because of it, but you gotta stop telling yourself that I’m holding out on purpose or that I have any control over anyone but myself when I go back. I didn’t ask for this shit, so get off my damn back."
"Who did, then?"
You stumbled a half-step backwards involuntarily. "What?"
Bucky’s jaw was set so tight his teeth audibly ground. "How did you get your powers?"
You blinked several times, your nails digging into your palms again. "I don’t know."
He huffed, turning away with a shake of his head. "You gotta be shitting me."
"I don’t know, okay? I don’t remember. I have to remember every single reset I’ve ever made, but I don’t know when it started, or how, or why. It’s just always been a part of me."
"Then why don’t you try to find out?"
"Oh, because you’ve got me all figured out, haven’t you? Clearly, I have no interest in understanding the thing that’s ruined my fucking life. I’ve tried. I’ve tried everything I could think of, and none of it’s done me any good."
"And you’re just fine with that, and so we’re supposed to be fine with it as well. Not knowing what the extent of your powers is, or why you got them in the first place. Sounds like a great idea."
"It was enough for Steve." You laughed mirthlessly. "He told me once that we would’ve gotten along, can you imagine that?"
"Well, maybe he was wrong about both of us, then, but why don’t you do your thing and we can ask him ourselves."
"Because for the millionth time, it doesn’t work like that! Don’t you think I’d like that, too? To go back and undo all of this damage that happened over the past couple of years? But I can’t, I can’t do it, I can’t change anything that’s farther back than eleven fucking minutes, and that was when I still had a family."
The word fell apart on the way out of your mouth, breaking into pieces just like the actual thing. You pressed your shaking palms against your eyes.
"So. I’m sorry, Barnes, that I’m not good enough for anything like that. I know that. I know that my powers are essentially useless, and I don’t need you to remind me all the time, okay. I’m already very aware."
* * * * *
.
.
.
.
.
.
Darkness.
.
Darkness and pain.
.
.
The sound of dripping, ticking, tilting.
.
Something like a bright light.
.
.
And then—
* * *
Bucky comes to in the middle of the crossing between Lexington and East 55th, right as he’s about to turn his back on the brownstone front of the Central Synagogue. There is a strange itch on his left arm that almost feels human.
He blinks, disoriented, unsure how he got here. The last thing he remembers is—
A car honks and he staggers to the sidewalk, head still pounding, and his good hand flies to the side of it, as if checking for blood.
He doesn’t find any.
Another nightmare, then. Disturbingly vivid, though. He’s concerned that his only memory of getting up and going on his usual run has the tinge of the dream to it, like he hasn’t actually woken up yet.
And neither the memory nor the nightmare carries the usual haze.
Bucky grits his teeth and tries blocking the whole thing from his mind. His thoughts keep returning to your scream, instead, which might be worse.
He notices he keeps rereading the sign in the window in front of him, and when he realizes that it’s yet another fucking Starbucks, he’s about to cut his route short and just go home, like there’s something there that could fix this bad feeling curdling in his stomach.
Instead, he takes a few shallow breaths, pulls his cap more deeply into his face, and then he continues.
When he was younger, he took up running to keep him quick on his feet during a fight. These days, he probably doesn’t have to keep on it quite so regularly, but there’s something about the rhythmic, constant movement that usually does help clear his mind.
Damn, he hates when his shrink is right.
Today, his run takes Bucky eight minutes longer than average, but he can wholeheartedly blame that on his almost-incident with the car. His thoughts are still stuck on what he remembers from the dream, spinning around and around in a loop until the elevator dings and he has to shake himself because he’s already here.
Maybe a shower will help.
It does, a little, because he turns the hot water to cold several times until he thinks, of course he’s awake. It seems so obvious now.
This is real.
The water turns off with that little squeaking sound that he keeps forgetting to fix. He doubts that anyone but him can even hear it; one of the uncountable inconveniences of enhanced senses is the ability to find some of the tiniest noises insufferable.
He shrugs a new shirt on and hangs his towel up on the only free hook, grabbing a fresh cloth from the closet. There’s not many left; neither of you has gotten around to doing laundry post-mission yet.
His heart is still beating a little harder than usual when he cracks open the door to the gym, peering inside right when Sam hits the mat.
"Geez, what’s gotten into you?"
You shrug and roll your shoulders, pulling him back to his feet. "I’ll dignify that with an answer when I see you kick above your waistline, Sammy."
Bucky can’t help but smile a little at the smugness in your voice. No matter what that terrible voice at the back of his mind is still whispering, you’re fine. It was all a strange, bad dream; end of story.
He watches the two of you circle around each other for a moment longer. There’s a grace to your movements as your eyes stay focused on Sam, calm and unwavering, like you’re anticipating the right moment to pounce on him. It’s mesmerizing.
Then again, you usually have that effect on him.
Bucky quietly slips away when you’re about to call it a day. Normally, he’d probably sit in your company to dry off his prosthetic, listening to your heartbeat return to normal levels and then watch you trot off to the showers with that little indignant shake of your head. In fact, there’s a significant part of him that wants to do just that; maybe he’ll catch a glance of that annoyed glimmer in your eyes that seems to be reserved solely for him.
It’s the one thing he gets.
He tries not to read too much into the fact that Sam gets things like an affectionate little suffix to his name when you tease him, even though that fact haunts him more than he’d care to admit. You probably don’t even notice you’re doing it, but it’s because you actually like Sam. Have learned to care about him over the past few months. And why wouldn’t you?
Bucky, on the other hand, is just Barnes more often than not. Which is fine; he’s used to it by now.
He opens the door to his room and a waft of stiff air hits him, familiar and suffocating all at once. For the first couple of months, he hesitated to even call it his room, even though he always picked the same one when it was easier than traveling all the way back to Brooklyn; the one upstairs with the large corner windows facing east and south.
It still doesn’t feel much like his out of anything other than habit. Blank, off-white walls, a half empty dresser, bed always made, the only source of disorder a couple of cat toys cluttered in the far corner. The only thing that reminds him of home is stowed in the drawer next to his bed.
He doesn’t open it now, instead reaching for the journal on the bedside table, flicking through until he reaches the latest entry.
But it’s strange.
Not the content itself, but the fact that Bucky could’ve sworn that he’d written it yesterday. He stares at it for a moment, flips the page over and back again, frowns slightly.
This nightmare is truly fucking with his head if he wasn’t even in a clear enough space of mind to jot down a couple of notes before his run.
He does it now, in as few words as he’s comfortable with, because something about all of this still doesn’t sit right with him but he can’t quite put his finger on it yet.
Out of some deep, dark instinct, his hand slips underneath his pillow, and he hates that his heart beats a little more calmly when he feels the cool metal of his gun right where he left it, where he always leaves it.
This is real.
Something nudges his side softly and when he turns, Alpine is nuzzling her head into the crook of his arm, mewling discontentedly. The sound melts a little more of his trepidation away.
"What’s wrong, sweetie?" he says with a quiet smile.
The cat observes him unblinkingly as he puts his journal down again and reaches out to pet her head, but she jumps off the bed before he can make contact, looking back at him in anticipation and, he’s pretty sure, annoyance.
She’s hungry, then.
Bucky sighs and follows her out of the room only for you to almost barrel into him. You’re sweaty and breathless, and he refuses to notice the way your training gear sticks to your body. In fact, he refuses to look anywhere but your face.
There’s an odd look on it, just as odd as the tone of your voice when you gasp, "Bucky!"
"Y/N!" he says, mimicking it. Adrenaline is still coursing through you, your heart beating so erratically he can almost feel it pulsating in his own skin. "What’s wrong with you?"
"Nothing," you answer quickly enough for him to know something is definitely wrong. "You look … normal."
"Thanks," he says dryly. "You don’t."
The nervous twitch of your ear is back, the soft tapping of your fingers against your thigh. At least he’s seen you like this enough times to know how to deal with it.
"You remember what showering is, right?" A tilt of the head, a hint of a scoff in his tone; you respond best to him pretending not to give a damn, and so he’s gotten quite good at it.
Predictably, your shoulders lose a little of their tension, even though your eyes don’t. "Fuck you, Barnes."
Really; he’s used to it by now.
Alpine meows again, like a reminder not to get hung up on things he has no control over, and it finally lets him look away from you. That’s always the hardest part, somehow, even though that makes him feel ridiculous.
Downstairs, he can’t keep his mind from wandering as he scrapes the contents of a tin can into Alpine’s bowl only for her to fall asleep in a spot of sunlight on the kitchen floor.
It’s then that he realizes the odd thing about you was that it almost, unexplicably, looked like relief.
* * *
Bucky’s been on enough missions with you and Sam by now to know you both use mindless chatter to calm yourselves in tense situations, and so he doesn’t mind forming the rear. Even if he doesn’t listen in on every word, he can easily tell if something about your situation changes while he’s covering your six.
There’s at least two guards patroling the grounds, according to Sam’s funny little computer bracelet, and so it’s no surprise that he asks Bucky to keep an eye on them while the two of you head up to find the entrance to the lab. You keep your hands raised halfway up, but Bucky can tell by your empty gaze that you’re tired. His grip on his gun tightens.
He nods to Sam once he’s in position, perched up on the roof just out of sight from any unsuspecting anarchists. Then, he watches you slip through the entrance of the barn-like building and lets out a deep, slow breath.
It’s been a weird day.
That gnawing feeling of déjà-vu has settled deep into his bones, like a pesky thought he can’t quite let go of. This, though? He can manage this.
The strange truth is—and frankly, this is something he’s looking forward to never disclosing to his therapist—that being on a mission like this one, having a specific set of tasks he can concentrate on, being keenly aware of all his surroundings … it has a calming effect on his brain. He’s not sure what to make of that fact, but it’s true.
He’s sick of the fighting, but he can’t let go of it, either.
Instead, he squints at the two white dots in the distance meeting on the other side of the block, gesturing for a while, and then slowly creeping closer.
Without taking his eyes off his targets, he tunes into your conversation again.
"—only scream when there’s good reason."
"I don’t wanna interrupt," Bucky murmurs, fiercely ignoring the untimely lurch his heart makes, "but they’re heading your way now, so get a move on."
"You’re no fun, Bucky."
He would love to roll his eyes, but he’s a professional. That’s also why he swallows his remark when you make a comment about your resets; it not like it’s surprising, anyway. You haven’t been sleeping well these past couple of weeks. Breakfasts have been particularly grumpy affairs since Marylebone.
The guards creep closer, and even though their faces are covered by the white masks, Bucky can tell they’re bored. Shoulders slumping, grip on their weapons loose, boots shuffling on the gravel. One of them has a pack of cards in her breast pocket.
If either of them were smart enough to look up, they’d spot him within a second. But since nothing unusual has ever happened during their shifts, it doesn’t even occur to them to do so.
Look at them, a voice inside him says. They don’t notice anything, do they?
Bucky’s jaw clenches, his finger tightening on the trigger. Breathe in. Breathe out.
"Reminds me of old times," Sam says.
"Can’t say that, bud," Bucky murmurs. The guards are only a couple of yards away now. "Twenty seconds."
Take them out now.
"—makes Barnes cranky."
"You forget he’s always cranky."
This is what he’s good at, what he’s always been good at. Being the lookout. The Howlies’ best sharpshooter. His aim is perfect. His mind is clear.
They might be dangerous.
He swallows.
One of the guards trips over his own feet, almost losing the rifle he’s holding. They’re both amateurs; it’s clear from their posture, the way their jackets aren’t quite crisply ironed, even the way they walk. Neither of them pose any real threat.
Still, the voice says. Why not make sure?
It’s easy, so easy, to aim at the center of their white jackets. To imagine them soaking red on the ground while he barely moves more than a single finger. Just a flash of a second.
So easy.
"Any time, Buck."
Breathe out.
The taller one gets a bullet in her right shoulder, just underneath the joint, missing her subclavian artery; the shorter one gets hit in the kneepit as he turns, his rifle skittering away as he falls, safety still engaged. Clean and quick.
With one last glance around, Bucky jumps to the ground right as the explosion sounds inside. No one is coming. Yet.
He knocks the guards out with two quick blows to their temples. Their wounds aren’t bad, of course; just enough to keep them out of the way and hurt a bunch later.
Сбой.
No, but it’s all too simple. Too obvious. This, he remembers from his nightmare as well; the lab with the hidden staircase, the metallic stench coming from the leaking containers, the data stick and then …
Another fight.
The voice leaves him alone when there’s no time to think, and so Bucky trusts his instincts for this one. It’s despicable, really, how much the rush of adrenaline makes his blood boil in the best possible way, blocking out all other thought, leaving nothing but the cacophony of noises and the flurry of movement surrounding him.
This is what he was made for.
His breath hitches when a memory catches him, and he steps out of the way of a shot aimed for his head like it was in the dream, just in case.
It fires into thin air, instead.
The fact that it does fire, exactly like he remembers, takes him a fraction of a second to process.
Talk of a lucky coincidence, he thinks, knocking another agent out cold. Breathe in. Breathe out.
"We better get moving," Sam shouts, and Bucky nods.
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see you throwing another punch; you barely seem to have broken a sweat.
There’s something off about the way you move. It seems controlled, almost rehearsed in a way; as if your body knows exactly where to land your next attack without even thinking about it.
A little too perfect.
There’s a beat before you turn around to face him, and your eyes widen at the same time as Sam’s voice explodes in his ear, "Bucky!"
There’s a flash of pain and a burst of green light, and then he comes to in the middle of the crossing between Lexington and East 55th, and it’s like you’re still shouting his name, the sound echoing through his mind so clear and sharp it’s like you’re standing right behind him.
There’s something wrong with him.
Something wrong with his brain, something terribly wrong, because this—
He stumbles to the sidewalk when the same car as yesterday honks at him, comes to a halt next to the same street lamp, sweat beading on his temples in the exact same way while his bad arm itches and his head aches.
Bucky’s hand flies to his chest, pressing, feeling his heart beat erratically. There aren’t any holes. No broken ribs, no scars he doesn’t already know, every new trace of violence vanished like it had never brushed his skin.
Even though he just got shot.
Again.
He’s drawing attention now; he can feel the stares in his neck. It’s not going to take long for someone to recognize his face as well.
So he forces his breaths to slow, straightening his shoulders and tilting his head in the most unassuming way he’s taught himself. After a while, his thoughts start to clear.
There’s something wrong with his timeline. You told him once that going back felt a little like the moment before freefalling, and the bile in his mouth might just be proof for that hypothesis.
But how on earth would he have gone back, and why?
Maybe it’s his perception of time that’s warped.
He remembers the stories about people seeing their whole lives flash before their eyes before they die; and he remembers almost dying.
This feels like much more than a flash, though, and he’s not quite dead yet. This is real.
Right?
"This is impossible," he whispers.
His reflection in the Starbucks window does the same.
* * *
One more, he thinks as the shower washes away the cold sweat sticking to his skin. He’ll give this one more try before accepting that he’s either finally losing his marbles or that there’s something else going on.
His life’s been an assembly of unexplainable things. Twice might still be a coincidence.
Third time’s a pattern.
The shower squeaks off and he steps out in a cloud of steam, the cold tiles underneath his feet grounding, in a way. He wipes a streak of condensation off the mirror, staring at his own face for a moment, trying to find any signs of his mind starting to crack. His hair is long enough to stick to his forehead again, eyes tired as always.
Everything feels the same.
No one’s done laundry.
It’s like his feet automatically follow the same path they’d gone yesterday, turning left, waiting for him to push the door open, hesitating.
"What’s gotten into you?" Sam asks you again, and you shrug, again, neither of you noticing that you’re all retracing steps you’ve taken before.
Bucky thinks about the journal on his bedside table, and his fingers curl more tightly around the rag in his hand because he already knows, he knows it’s going to be incomplete again. The heavy feeling in his stomach settles as he sits down on the wooden bench, the sun hitting his arm at the exact same angle again. For a moment, golden spots dance around the room before he twists his torso just enough to make them disappear again.
He thinks about the journal, and he doesn’t want to have to look at it quite yet.
You flop down on the mat when Sam calls it a day, and Bucky nods back at him as he heads outside, rubbing a spot between his shoulderblades. Your face is still tense, even with your eyes closed, your heartbeat fast enough to make him tilt his head.
You’re so pretty. It’s not making the confusion boiling inside of him any easier to deal with.
The words are at the tip of his tongue without him having to think about them.
"You look like shit."
You blink at him in a peculiar way, like you’re just waking up from a dream yourself, and you let out a long, shaking breath.
"Oh, fuck you, Barnes."
It’s so normal for you to say it like that it almost puts him at ease. Almost.
"I think you nearly broke his nose, there." He presses the rag into another one of the crevices in his arm.
You hum noncommitantly. "Didn’t, though."
You haven’t put your rings back on, but your knuckles look fine, so you’ve probably managed to not do it in one try as well. Bucky’s gaze wanders up your arms again, slowly; your heart hasn’t calmed yet, and you continue to stare at the ceiling like you’re waiting for something.
Probably his leave, he realizes, standing up. He’s had his indulgence. "Take the towel on the right," he tells you again. "I already used the other one."
He doesn’t miss the shaky little exhale you let out as he turns his back on you, and his left fist clenches involuntarily.
One more.
He’s probably just going to have to take his mind off it all.
The air outside is sticky with heat; like the skies are supposed to break open but refuse to. Even when he squints, he can’t make out a single cloud in all that endless blue.
He keeps his head down even as his eyes scan his surroundings. It’s a little like being part of a movie he’s seen before.
There’s the woman with the two dogs, one of them barking at a garbage truck across the street. The banker on a phone call with his pregnant fiancée. The tired violin player busking near the subway station, playing the same song he did yesterday, something Bucky recognizes but still can’t name.
Everything is exactly the same.
He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets to fish for his ticket, joining the other people lining up to board the subway, their faces too familiar to distract him. He keeps expecting one of them to break, to call him out on doubling back every day, but none of them do. They don’t seem to notice.
He almost hesitates before he knocks on Sam’s door that afternoon, but the knot in his stomach hasn’t loosened. If anything, it’s gotten worse.
I thought you’d be there, he texts the number that never responds. He waits for a minute, two minutes, but of course there’s no answer.
There never is.
Just another thing to take his mind off of. Let his mind settle on something concrete that’s right in front of him. That he has complete control over.
Besides, maybe there’s something he’s supposed to get right here.
But when Sam calls, "We need to get moving," Bucky already knows, deep down, how this is going to end. His heart is beating frantically as the situation stays out of control, even though this should be easy. He’s seen this before. What is he missing?
The voice at the back of his mind hums dangerously, and he ignores it, punching out the agent in front of him and then whipping his head around to find you already staring at him with your eyes wide and for a moment, the world freezes because you look at him like … well, fuck.
Like he’s usually looking at you.
Desperate.
It’s his last thought before something right next to him explodes and there is nothing but pain.
And then he comes to in the middle of the crossing between Lexington and East 55th, and this time, this third time, he feels like he’s earned the right to be considerably less calm about the whole thing.
The car honks and the people stare and Bucky throws up on the sidewalk next to Starbucks because the world is still hung up on Friday and he’s died three days in a row. When he rummages through the pockets of his slacks for a tissue, his hand grazes something cool.
It’s a small, coal black ring that he’s seen many times before, and his stomach churns again as his hand closes around it so tightly it must leave an imprint. Of course, there are no coincidences in his life.
He really should’ve known better from the start.
* * *
He needs to talk to you.
He thinks it when he puts the ring back into his pocket and he’s still thinking it when he bursts into the Tower, doors slamming loud enough to startle Alpine awake from her spot on the couch. He needs to talk to you, and you’re going to figure this out together, because that’s what you do. It’s what you always do.
But she’s got time powers.
He presses his lips together tightly as he jogs up the stairs two at a time, ignoring the thought. Then again, there’s the piece of soap on the tiles next to the sink that he’s picked up three days in a row now, and his hand reaches for the same towel automatically, and how the hell does one get stuck in a time loop in the first place?
Месть.
Bucky turns the shower off so resolutely part of it dents. No, he thinks. If you knew, you’d get him out of this. He knows that you wouldn’t wish him harm.
Then how?
"You’re dead," he says out loud, staring at his own steamed up reflection. "You’re not real."
Neither of us is.
His heart beating out of his chest would disagree.
When he sits down next to you today, he watches you apprehensively. You still ignore him, but it seems to come so natural to you. As if all of this is normal, as if you don’t even notice something is wrong, even though you have to, right, you have to.
"You look like shit," he says out loud, but he feels like he’s still talking to himself.
Fuck you, Barnes.
And then it happens again.
Clearly, he’s losing his mind.
It’s the only explanation that’s left. He’s already been to hell and back and now he’s going mad, he’s finally going mad, he’s going insane—
No, you’re not.
His own heartbeat sounds so loud in his ears as the shower screeches off and something settles in his stomach like a stone, something as sure and familiar and uncomfortable as that voice that’s been getting louder each day.
You’re as clear-headed as you’ve ever been.
Which means that once again, someone or something else is trying to mess with his head, only this time, it’s already been screwed with enough for him to tell.
Here’s the thing about all this that keeps rubbing him the wrong way, keeps scratching at the very back of his mind just like the parts of him he’d rather keep buried for the rest of his days: If you truly don’t know this is happening, then why are you the only one doing something different every time?
Bucky’s spent the better part of his life honing in his perception skills, and he’s seen everyone else behave in the precise same manner four, five, six days in a row, but you … you’ll leave a room a few minutes earlier than the day before, or order a different lunch, or wear a different shirt.
It’s not easy to miss in the slightest and it makes him doubt you’re as clueless to this as you pretend to be.
Which leaves him with the version of events he hates the most, and which is therefore the most likely: If you do know this is happening, then why do you keep up this charade? Is it because you’re responsible for all this somehow? And if you are, is it on purpose?
That’s too many ifs for his liking. It all makes him think back to the Westview Anomaly, so he reads up on it.
And then he decides that he’d rather know whether the sinking feeling in his gut is right.
You’re staring up at the ceiling like you want to pretend he’s not even there, and his good hand is shaking too much to be of much use in drying the arm.
"Take the towel on the left," he makes himself say. "I already used the other one."
There’s a shuffling as you sit up, but he can’t bear to turn around. "Sorry, what did you say?"
"I said use the one on the left, because I took the other towel," he repeats.
"Right," you say, and then he can hear your rings clink against each other as you collect them from their dish.
Maybe he should return the one he found in his pocket. Maybe you just haven’t realized it’s missing yet, because this is your first time living through this day and you don’t know to ask for inconsistencies yet.
You shuffle towards the showers, and he’s startled to realize how relieved he feels. Strange, really, to put that much weight on a towel; but at least it means you don’t—
"Hey, Bucky," you say, hesitating at the door, and his stomach drops a little. "What day’s today?"
"Friday," he answers, his voice surprisingly level. "Why." It’s not really a question.
"No reason," you say, and the door clicks shut behind you. The sound seems to echo in the empty gym.
"Something weird is happening," he tells Sam as soon as he can hear him approach the kitchen.
He hates that he’s doing this, but it’s not like there’s a roster of people he could talk to. His shrink would probably just prescribe him some pills that won’t work again—that is, if Bucky could get a hold of him on a national holiday in the first place—, and even though Sam is going to laugh in his face about this whole thing, he at least has to try. Right?
"You sound like Y/N," Sam says, pouring himself a bowl of cornflakes.
Bucky grimaces, which earns him a concerned head tilt. Sometimes, Sam reminds him of all the best parts of Steve, and he doesn’t know whether that makes him calmer or furious.
"Talk to me, Buck."
He stares at the milk carton like it’s holding the solution to his problem. "I think she’s doing something to me."
Sam snorts. "Thank you, Captain Obvious."
He says it so lightly, almost jovially, and Bucky’s nails dig so hard into his palms one hand draws blood. "You know?" he says tonelessly.
"Are you kidding me?" Like he’s tickled. Like he’s been in on the joke for a while. "You two have been doing this dance for months."
Despite it all, his heart cracks a little more. "What?"
Sam hesitates for a moment before squinting at him. "We’re not talking about the same thing, are we?"
And Bucky supposes they’re not, they’re really not, so he says, "Today should be Tuesday."
A frown. "What do you mean?"
"What day is it?"
"Friday," Sam says.
"Wrong," Bucky tells him. "Yesterday was Friday. And so was the day before, and the one before."
He finally puts his bowl down on the counter. "Are you having a stroke?"
"Sam, listen to me. Today keeps repeating."
He frowns. "You mean like a time loop? Like you’re in Groundhog Day?"
"I don’t know what that is." A fun little name for his personal Gehinnom.
Just deserts, don’t you think?
"Have you talked to Y/N about this?" Sam asks. "I mean, that’s kind of her thing. I’m sure whatever this is, she can help you out." He still sounds a little incredulous, but he knows Bucky well enough to recognize when he’s not joking.
He’s never felt less like joking.
"There’s also this." He pulls out the ring. "I found this in my pocket. Why would it be in my pocket?"
Sam leans against the counter. "You tell me, man."
"I think she knows something."
"But that’s a good thing, right?"
Theoretically. Not when he’s died for a week straight, though.
"Then why didn’t she tell us?" He hates the despair in his words, the paranoia seeping through. He hates that Sam catches it, and that his features morph into something that’s supposed to look understanding, even though he doesn’t get what this is about.
"Maybe you’re wrong," Sam says gently. "Are you sure she’s not just as oblivious to this as everyone else?"
Bucky drags a hand through his hair. His left shoulder aches. "I don’t know."
Yes. You do.
"I’m telling you, there’s something going on."
Sam stares at him for a long, hard moment, and then he nods. "Okay. What do you want to do?"
He wants to sleep in on Saturday. He wants to stop feeling so confused. He wants the words in his throat to stop choking him.
But what he wants hasn’t mattered in eighty years.
And so he doesn’t say, I’m scared.
He doesn’t say, I feel so alone.
He doesn’t say, I don’t want to die.
And the only one who hears those things swallows them up whole until there’s nothing left.
"I’ll tell you when I find out," he says, because that’s the only thing that will leave his mouth. And if Sam looks at him doubtfully, well, maybe he knows him a little too well.
* * *
"I’m gonna go get some coffee. Do you want something?"
Bucky can hear your keys clattering as you pull on your shoes in the hallway, but he doesn’t move from his spot on the couch. He has to think.
"I’m good," he says blankly.
Are you?
Even Alpine looks at him doubtfully. He leans back a little until a spot of sunlight reflects from his watch, making her pounce at it playfully. Normally, it’d make him smile.
She jumps up on the coffee table and sniffs at the shreds of cardboard someone’s left behind. They weren’t there yesterday.
On the muted television, Sam enters the stage with his signature cap grin. Presumably, there’s thunderous applause, because it takes him a while to actually step up to the podium and begin his speech.
In the background, dozens of important-looking people gaze at him expectantly, with the exception of a woman with short blonde hair who’s turned away from the stage, holding both hands to her ears like she’s trying to understand a person on the phone. Bucky squints.
"You sure?"
Reflexively, he looks up at the sound of your voice, only to see you leaning in the doorway with a cautious expression that doesn’t help his muddled thoughts in the slightest.
Talk to me.
"Why are you wearing a jacket?" he asks.
You tug at the sleeves, not meeting his eye. It’s become a habit he doesn’t care for. "To be more like you," you deadpan.
It would feel so normal if only he could shake the feeling that something is wrong. Something is off.
He catches a glimpse of your hands just before they vanish into the pockets of your jacket. Not long enough to clearly see what color your rings are, but enough to notice one’s missing.
It’s flitting through his own fingers instead, and you would notice, too, if you would just look at him.
"You sure you alright?" he asks, and for a split second there’s something like a flicker on your face, but it washes away immediately, replaced by the usual unbothered exterior you’ve been wearing.
"Just fine," you say, voice even, face neutral.
And the problem is that he’s not sure if you’re lying. Normally, it’s so easy to tell, but right now …
Alpine rubs her head against his palm, your ring pressing into it like a reminder, and it sends a chill down his spine.
Bucky waits for the door to click shut behind you before slipping into his shoes and quietly following after you. He takes three steps at a time to keep up with the elevator, and in his rush he ends up having to wait for it to arrive in the lobby, glancing surreptitiously through the small window in the fire door.
A change has gone through you while you were out of his sight. The mask you’ve been wearing whenever you know he’s around has vanished, dropped like your shoulders. When you cross the entrace hall, the usual bounce in your step is gone and you just look tired.
The frown on his face deepens. He makes himself count to ten before following you.
Stepping outside at this time of the day always feels like getting slapped across the face by the noise and the heat. The sun is relentless today, and he can feel sweat beading on his neck, but you don’t so much as readjust your jacket as you make your way across the street, slowly, like you’re letting yourself be carried by the crowds.
Bucky keeps enough of a distance so even you won’t get a second chance to become aware of him. Just before you enter the Starbucks, your chin raises up again, your spine straightening.
It’s uncanny to witness your defenses going up as clearly as this, and it makes him stop in his tracks so abruptly someone almost bumps into him.
"Hey, I was just—oh, sorry, Sergeant Barnes."
"It was my fault," he mutters. The guy strolls towards a delivery bike, stealing a cautious look over his shoulder. Something about the way he moves feels oddly familiar.
There’s no time for Bucky to entertain the thought much longer, because a couple of minutes later you step out onto the sidewalk again, drink in hand, and he retreats a bit further into the alley, expecting you to pass him on your way back. You don’t, though. Instead, you look up at the sky and let out a sigh before turning and strolling down Lex.
You didn’t do that yesterday, either.
Bucky hesitates for a moment. He doesn’t want to outright follow you around for the rest of the day; he only wanted to see … what, exactly?
He groans quietly and then walks into the Starbucks himself. Maybe coffee isn’t such a bad idea after all.
Besides … it’s not like she’s that fast.
How strange to know that if he really wanted to, he could probably track your steps without much of a problem, even on a day as busy as today. It unsettles him more than he would like to admit.
The AC blasts a little bit of common sense back into him, even though the volume inside the store immediately makes him want to tear his ears out. It’s not that busy at the moment, but the amount of noise of the chattering people and the coffee grinders and the milk steamers is close to unbearable as usual.
The barista who has a crush on Sam is working the register again, fanning herself with a playbill. There are red, white and blue stripes running down her forehead, and Bucky briefly wonders how she keeps it from getting into her eyes.
"Hi there," she says with a knowing grin as soon as she recognizes him. "You just missed Y/N."
"I saw." Bucky shifts his weight. "Did she seem weird to you?"
She chuckles. "Apart from the fact that she ordered decaf?"
He frowns. "Something like that."
She shrugs and redjusts her cap. "Just the usual amount," she says in a way that would make him smile on any other day. The tag on her apron has the name Nora on it, but he feels like that’s not right. "Do you want to order something? I can put it on her card."
Normally, he’d refuse out of principle, but it’s not like anything he does today matters.
"Thanks," he says. "I’ll have a coffee, then."
He doesn’t even particularly like coffee, but it does help when he hasn’t slept a lot. And, truth be told, he’s not sure when the last time he slept was. He’s been awake for a week, but without feeling any of the usual side effects of insomnia.
Or the numerous head wounds.
"Mhm," Not-Nora says. "Little more specific?"
Well, shit. "Not decaf?" he tries.
"You’re useless," she smiles and then taps her screen a bunch of times. "Alright, move along. Tell cap good luck from me."
He almost smirks. "Why not tell him yourself?"
She huffs, blushing ever so slightly. "I’m not getting out of here ’til one and I’m already a sweaty mess."
And maybe it’s because his day has been nothing but a shitshow over the past week. Maybe it’s because Sam hasn’t talked about Leila in over three weeks even before Friday started, and Bucky doesn’t like his friends being quietly miserable. Maybe he just wants to see something work out for a change.
It’s been a while since he’s played matchmaker. His sisters would’ve laughed about this for weeks; maybe he does it for that thought.
"How about you put down your number and I’ll pass it on?"
Not-Nora perks up even as her flush deepens. "Are you serious?"
"Deadly."
When he leaves five minutes later, her phone number is scrawled along one side of his paper cup, and even though the coffee tastes just as disgusting as usual, he can’t help but feel like maybe he can do one tiny thing right. At least for a moment.
His feet carry him down Lexington Avenue without him even consciously thinking about it, and he gets as far as three blocks before he remembers that Sam’s speech started at 14:00. He jerks up his watch so quickly the coffee spills on his shirt, but he barely hisses at the burn.
14:47.
What’s the point? he thinks as he throws the empty cup into the closest trash. Or maybe he does.
* * *
He throws his punches a little harder each day.
It takes all of his might not to lose himself completely in the fight to come, not to unleash his full serum-powered strength on a couple of faceless fanatics who would be fine again in a couple of minutes, anyway, depending on how long he’ll make it today. Still, there’s a certain mindlessness to it as he repeats his own steps, ribs cracking and wrists twisting as he strikes again and again and again.
"I think I’m losing it," he tells Sam about a week in.
"Like a bad day or you’re about to go Shining on me?"
So far, there hasn’t been any shining, but it wouldn’t make a difference.
"Two o’clock."
He’s already half-turning when you say it, already pulling the trigger as the words leave your mouth, moving on muscle memory alone at this point. And you still don’t notice.
A single bead of sweat runs down the side of your neck as you kick another one of your assailants in the groin, and even though your eyes are focused, you’re not in it.
If he didn’t know any better, he’d say you were just concentrating; but he knows you can be in the moment and quip freely at the same time. He’s seen you do it countless times before today.
But it’s Friday, endless, sweltering, blood-stained Friday, and it’s like you’ve turned into a robot version of yourself, every move premeditated and precise, every look and word and nod planned and practiced just enough not to arouse suspicion in anyone who doesn’t look as closely as he’s had time to. It’s a game of pretend, and you’re almost winning. You’re almost perfect.
No. You’re too perfect.
Perfect in your display of almost-shock, of almost-pain as the knife cuts through Bucky’s kevlar vest like butter and lodges right above his heart. At first, he barely feels it; he only tastes the blood bubbling up his throat when his mouth drops open.
His eyes stay on you as he thuds to his knees, bones crunching, eyes watering. You catch him, barely, supporting his shoulders to keep him steady.
Your silence is deafening.
"What’s wrong with you?" he murmurs as the ringing in his ears gets louder, barely audible enough for you to hear, but clearly you do, because something shifts in your eyes, and oh.
There’s that glimmer in your eye he loves looking at so much, the one he only gets to see when he teases it out of you. That spark of mischief he’s missed during all this, like your fire has burned out.
He’s never hated it more.
And then he comes to in the middle of the crossing between Lexington and East 55th, and once again, he feels like a decision’s been made for him already.
He makes it to the side of the road and sits down on the boardwalk, ignoring the bustle of curious people around him. Instead, he stares directly at the synagogue on the other side of the street, and he doesn’t ask why.
He asks, Like this?
And just like he expected, there’s no answer. Not even from within.
He presses both of his hands to his heart to feel it beat against his palm, more steady than his thoughts and still there. He’s still there.
It’s Friday again.
Bucky thought, not too long ago, that with everything he’s come to know and … like about you, you were someone he could let in. That someday, he could let you see him, with everything he’s used to hiding away underneath all of the protective layers he’s built around his heart.
Maybe he was wrong.
He should confront you. No, he should just ask. Why can’t he bring himself to ask?
Сбой, the voice in his head reminds him again and he presses it down, down between his torn open ribs, shoves it underneath the wounds that keep reopening anyway because he’s sick of having to listen to it all the time, sick of never being alone in his own damn head anymore, of not being able to leave a single day behind, let alone anything else.
Something tugs at him from deep within, and it’s enough to make him get up, rub his palms against his pants, and then take out his phone as he starts walking again. He knows the number by heart, but he’s never been able to actually hit the call button before, even though he’s tried. He’s tried countless times.
His speed picks up with every ring of the phone because something about this makes him feel like running away. Like maybe he gets it now. Like—
There’s a click, and then the sound of the voicemail recording. Of course.
Bucky groans. "Damnit, I know you’re never gonna listen to this, but there’s something really fucked up going on and I don’t—I don’t know what to do, man."
He keeps walking, keeps his head up even when he bumps into people, because what does it matter, right now? He ignores the red light at the next crossing, mostly because he needs to move.
"It’d be real fuckin’ decent of you to just pick up the goddamn phone every once in a while, you know, because that’s what—"
"Buck?"
For a second, everything screeches to a halt.
He’s not sure what comes first, him dropping his phone or the car hitting him from out of nowhere, but the next thing he knows is he comes to in the middle of the crossing between Lexington and East 55th, right as he’s about to turn his back on the brownstone front of the Central Synagogue, and it feels like someone just ripped his heart open all over again.
He flips the car off when it honks, not even caring about the ache in his limbs. His phone is safely tucked away in his pocket, and when he pulls it out again, there’s not so much as a scratch on the screen, but right now, it’s not like he would have cared.
The next five times he tries, the call doesn’t even go through.
He knows that voice. He knows it just as well as his own, just as well as the one hiding inside some dark corner of his mind, and it shouldn’t sound like that anymore.
The thing inside stirs again, that other, softer voice, that part of him he hates just as much.
Keep trying, it says.
It’s the part of him that told him to jump from the helicarrier. The part of him that still refuses to believe he was past redemption despite all the evidence pointing to the contrary; the part of him that’s too damn hopeful for its own good, and somehow still persists.
Talk to her, it says.
He can’t go on listening to ghosts for the rest of his days.
Or day, rather.
His thumb hovers over the call button one last time, and then he shuts his phone off.
* * *
"You look like shit."
"Oh, fuck you, Barnes."
He scoffs, but his mind is still hurling with anger and pain and confusion, and it comes out like a growl. He’s vigorously scrubbing at the crevices in his arm. Maybe the inside is still stained with his blood; maybe that’s why it feels so heavy.
"Are you alright?" you ask and his head snaps up.
You look so innocent, almost concerned. Normally, he would enjoy it for the second it would last, but today, it sticks. Everything sticks today.
"What do you think?"
Your eyes widen just a little bit, but you don’t say anything. You still don’t fucking say anything, and that’s more telling than anything else in this endless nightmare so far.
You’re not asking what’s wrong with him, because you know. You know.
"How many times are we gonna go through this before we’re done?"
You bite your cheek, your fingers twitch. "I don’t know," you say, and your voice sounds so far removed it barely sounds like yours anymore.
Fine, he thinks. If you’re not telling him, then it really is some elaborate scheme to punish him. To make him think he’s lost his mind again, make him see that free will is nothing but an illusion, that things will always, always stay the same no matter what he does. He gets the point.
Then why does it hurt so much to know? Why does it hurt to know you?
Maybe because none of this, as terribly, horribly real as it’s been, has felt like it was true at all. He’s still missing a piece of the puzzle, and you’re refusing to give it to him. If he only knew what went wrong between the two of you—no.
You’re clearly done with him, and he’s not going to beg for answers he’s not going to get. People he cares for usually made a point of leaving him; why should it have been any different with you?
By the time Sam enters the kitchen, Bucky’s been glaring at the fridge for a while already. There’s a magnet in the shape of a blue alien with six arms holding up your shopping list; a couple of sticky notes with passive-agressive messages on them, most of them about the cat litter; a postcard from the exhibit at the National Air and Space Museum. Trivial bits and pieces.
He wants to set all of it on fire, starting with the postcard.
"She knows," he says without turning when he hears Sam’s steps behind him. They halt on the other side of the kitchen island.
"Knows what?" He doesn’t even ask who, and it fuels the anger.
"That I’m stuck in a time loop."
A choking sound, too short to be worrisome. "Come again?"
Bucky glowers at him over his shoulder, even though none of this is Sam’s fault. He gets a concerned stare in return, which cools his temper somewhat; he lets out a sigh. "What day do you think it is?"
"Are you feeling alright?"
No. "Humor me."
He grabs a mug from the drying rack, just to have something to do with his hands. It’s the one with cat ears that showed up outside his room on his birthday, wrapped in cheap brown packing paper.
How long ago was March?
"Friday," Sam says, and he sounds so sure about it. Bucky desperately wants to believe it’s that easy.
"It’s been Friday for a while," he says instead, his voice cracking.
To go through everything like this is both easier and worse than he expected.
"I don’t get it." Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. "I’ve seen you fight before. Hell, I’ve fought you before. You’re near impossible to hurt, let alone kill."
Bucky huffs. "I heal fast, I’m not invincible."
"Then how does it keep happening when you know it’s coming?"
Unbidden, the glimmer in your eye comes to mind again. The line of your back turned towards him, the complete abandon of self-preservation in your fighting style, however streamlined it may be. Even through all this, you expect him to watch your six.
And why wouldn’t you? His eyes are continually drawn to you, anyway.
He knows that just as well as you do, and there’s nothing he can do about it. He can just go and be slaughtered instead.
Bucky swallows. His throat feels very dry.
"I told you we shouldn’t have brought her on," he finally says, even though it’s not really an answer. Or maybe it is. You were always going to be the knife that cut the deepest, and maybe he’s known from the start. "Reckless idiot."
"Yeah, you said that. Almost a year ago. Hasn’t that changed?"
"Everything’s changed," he snaps, and the mug slips from his fingers. It shatters on the tiles, small shards flying off in all directions, and it hurts.
It’s just a mug. It shouldn’t twist his stomach, not like this. He keeps staring at the pieces.
"And why do you think that is?" Such a soft question.
Bucky’s hands clench into fists.
That other voice inside knows the answer, is desperate to scream it out, to share the burden and the weightlessness of it, but he can’t let it. He squashes it down, forces it back into its dark, hopeless corner. It has no place here. It can’t.
Somehow, Sam seems to hear it anyway.
"Have you talked to her?" He chooses his words carefully.
Bucky’s heart is racing like he’s dying, but he knows what that feels like now and it’s not this. This is worse.
Сбой, he thinks again, and this time, it echoes in his mind loud enough to drown out anything else. The shards on the floor are blurring. He has a sudden urge to spit or vomit, but he half-expects words to come out if he should. Of all things.
Can we leave before I do something he’ll regret?
His left hand makes a grating sound as his right palm opens underneath his fingernails, blood slowly dripping from one wrist. It brings him back into the kitchen, Sam’s gaze still heavy on him. He doesn’t want to meet his eyes.
"She’s not coming."
There’s something cold in Bucky’s voice he’s too fed up to care he recognizes.
It’s his own fault. He’s let his guard down around you, let you in, and it’s been a mistake. Of course it was. You’re the one who led him here, and he doesn’t want to follow your orders any longer.
"Let’s go on the mission without her. If she isn’t there, maybe I won’t …" He doesn’t have to say it out loud. He’s still bleeding, after all.
"Are you sure?" Sam says.
No. "I’m asking as a friend."
As expected, that’s enough.
He doesn’t feel bad leaving you behind without a single word, without looking back over his shoulder as he quietly drags the door shut behind him. He doesn’t feel bad sitting on the quinjet in silence, staring daggers at the wall. He doesn’t feel bad as he climbs out and soaks up the last few rays of sunshine, his focus unbroken for once.
He’s not haunted by you here; only by his own ghost.
Bucky’s been through this enough times to recall more than the broad strokes of it; he slips this mission on like a second skin, breathing through the absence of you with more calm than he’s thought possible. Then again: this is what he’s good at.
There’s a goal, and there’s a catch; but no more distractions. This will be a breeze.
.
…
That night, he dreams of you. If you could call it a dream, the few strange, hazy moments after he dies and before he gets put together again.
You look at him, almost reaching out but never quite touching, your eyes gleaming green.
His name still echoes in your voice when he comes to.
* * * * *
From his perspective, it made sense, of course, so really there was no point in going over it again.
And yet you did. Over and over.
I want her out.
It was quite simple, really. Bucky hated your guts because of something you couldn’t control, you were still seething because of it, and you were both perfectly fine with avoiding each other for the rest of your days.
You took an extra shift at the store the next day, just so you wouldn’t have to run into the two of them any more than necessary. You couldn’t wait until Sam jumped back on his flight to D.C. and Bucky fucked off to do whatever he did all day; the most important part was that they’d both be far, far away from you.
"Fucking Steve," you mumbled as you violently scrubbed the counters. Come to think of it, all of this was entirely his fault. No one would even know you existed without him blabbering on about you. And what you wouldn’t give to live in a world without being judged for your very existence by a bionic ex-assassin.
On top of everything else, some moron decided to steal the tip jar while you were distracted getting some ice, and by the time you made it home, it was nearing midnight, you’d had way too many espresso shots for a single human being, and you just wanted to cry in the silence of your own four walls. It was probably the single most terrible day you’d had since the first couple of weeks in the Tower.
Unfortunately, when you unlocked the front door, you immediately realized that your terrible day wasn’t over yet. There were too many pairs of shoes sitting in the hallway, and voices coming from the kitchen area.
You quietly pulled off your sneakers in the semi-darkness of the hallway. You were way too exhausted to attempt to use your powers, but maybe you could tiptoe past them to take a quick shower and then fall into bed without having to talk to anyone.
Slowly, you crept closer to the stairwell, keeping one eye on the shadows dancing across the wall to your left. Snippets of conversation got clearer.
"—not saying that, but whether you want to admit it or not, she’s good." Sam sounded annoyed.
"It’s not about that and you know it."
"Yeah, I do. You know what else I know? You need to go back to therapy."
You froze, shrinking back into the darkness of the hallway. You could hear Bucky huff an incredulous laugh.
"I made—"
"Amends, I’m aware. And was that your idea, or was that the assigned homework from your court mandated army doctor?" Silence. "You can’t just work through a list and at the end of it decide you’re done and everything’s magically alright again."
"'Course not. I don’t get to do that."
There was something about his tone that made your anger sink down slowly, heavily, until you swallowed it down entirely and you just felt wretched.
You weren’t supposed to listen to any of this. This was way out of your depth, and you had no idea how to get out of it. Their voices blurred into each other as your pulse was rushing through your head loud enough to make you dizzy, and you reached for your necklace in an attempt to ground yourself, to calm your breaths and reach out to something that could get you away from this moment in time.
It was useless.
"Like I said," Sam continued calmly. "You don’t have to work together ever again. But the two of you should talk it out first."
"Or how about this," you whispered, not loud enough for any but superhuman ears to pick up on, "should we ever get to the point again where I reset something around you and it’s important, I will let you know."
You barely knew why you offered, with your back pressed against the wall, not even standing in the same room as Bucky. But you didn’t want to fight.
There was a beat of hesitation, and then he said, "Promise?"
"Sure," Sam said.
You held up your pinkie finger in front of your heart, even though no one could see. "On the nine lives of the cat I will own one day."
You counted your breaths up to twenty before you heard one of them shift their weight, bare feet shuffling over your tiles.
"Fine," Bucky said finally. "She can stay for now. But I’m keeping an eye on her."
A familiar hitch went through you all on its own and you opened your eyes to find the world standing still. You took a couple of hesitant steps towards the stairs again, your head turning when you passed the kitchen area.
Sam had his back turned to you, stretching to reach something on the shelf next to the fridge, but Bucky’s frozen gaze was fixed on the wall you’d been leaning against, his arms crossed in front of his chest. Determination was a good look on him, you decided. It left a certain shine in his eyes that was hard to look away from.
That night, you dreamt of drowning at sea, and somehow you didn’t want to call it a nightmare.
chapter eight
thank you for reading!! you can follow my library blog @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications 💚
this chapter was my best kept secret and i'm forever grateful to @marvelettesassemblenow for reading ages ago 🫶🏼 also no one talk to me about thunderbolts bc i still haven't watched it but it seemed like a good time for a comeback
It's been ages since I've read this and I don't want to make you all jealous (I do actually) but I've also read chapters after this and you have to give this a try! The time loop is driving Nika insane, but it's super good and I love and miss these characters!
