I said "I love you". You say nothing back | John Logan
summary: the arrangement was simple: keep it casual, don't catch feelings, don't ask for more than what's on the table. 338 days later, you're starting to think simple was never really an option with john logan.
notes: hii, i'm back!! i was genuinely so overwhelmed by the response to my first one shot. you guys are so kind and it inspired me to keep writing. so here we are, back with more yearning, more angst, and more logan being an idiot about his feelings. my requests are open if you have any ideas or characters you want to see i'd love to hear from you. thank you so much for reading and enjoy ❤️❤️
warnings: swearing, alcohol, light angst, situationships, a puck bunny accusation and a confession in the rain.
word count: 8k
The thing with Logan had started exactly 338 days ago. Almost one year. One full lap around the sun. You knew because you had been counting, the days and the hours and even the minutes since this situationship from hell, as your dear friends had taken to calling it, had installed itself in your life like an antivirus app you hadn't downloaded and couldn't figure out how to delete.
It had started on Halloween, and at the time it hadn't seemed like a bad idea. It was just past eleven and the house off campus that your friends had dragged you to smelled like dry ice and weed, and you were tired and ready to leave, which was an anomaly. You were usually the last one standing, your friends had given you the nickname ending antagonist for a reason. In hindsight, that probably should have been a warning sign. The one night you wanted to go home early was the night everything started.
Though to be fair, things with Logan are not bad. That's the thing people don't understand when they hear situationship from hell. On the contrary, things with Logan are very good. Too good. Too good to look at directly without feeling something inconvenient shift behind your ribs, which is precisely why it's bad. Because he had been so genuinely, almost aggressively nice about the whole thing. He had found you at the edge of that party and sat next to you and talked to you for hours like you were the most interesting thing in the room, and he had made a real effort not to look at your boobs while you were talking, which in that particular environment was either extremely respectful or a sign that he was raised correctly, and either way it had done something to you.
And then you had woken up on his chest the next morning. His warm skin and steady heartbeat, the sort of light that meant it was too early to be awake, and done the awkward post-hookup shuffle of words, and heard: I'm not really looking for anything serious.
A bucket of cold water dropped directly on your head would have been less effective. More merciful, probably.
What else could you have done except agree? For god's sake, he was sitting there in black boxers holding a cup of coffee, extending it toward you like a peace offering, brown eyes looking at you with an expression that was genuinely, unfairly soft for seven in the morning. You took the cup. He readjusted against the headboard and looked at you with those eyes and said, simply: "So?"
So. So what? What were you supposed to say?
"Sure," you heard yourself say. "I'm interested in that too."
Sure. I'm interested in that too. Your internal voice repeated it back to you with the tone of a younger sibling trying to get a rise out of you. That was, objectively, the least true thing you had ever said out loud. You had been raised on Bridget Jones and every famous rom-com ever committed to film. You believed in love, in its inconvenience and its necessity and its complete refusal to be reasoned with. Casual did not cut it for you. It never had.
But god. If Bridget could have seen John Logan in that particular light, with that particular bed head, she would have understood completely.
So you agreed. And after that came the encounters.
At first they were private, almost secretive, you telling your friends you were going for a run and then actually running, just in the wrong direction entirely. Logan telling his that he was going to study somewhere, which was technically true, depending on your definition of anatomy. It gave everything a specific kind of thrill, the pleasant urgency of something that existed slightly outside the normal rules, and for a while that was enough.
But time has a way of dissolving things like that. Gradually, without either of you deciding to, you stopped hiding. And that was when the real problem arrived.
You and Logan became friends.
Not the convenient, surface-level kind, the real kind, the kind that builds without you noticing until one day you look around and realize that this person has become load-bearing in your life. You were always at the house. You knew the full taxonomy of Dean's recent romantic encounters, the specificity of Garrett's current problems, the ongoing narrative of Tucker's various endeavors. You didn't just know about them, you helped. You were involved. You had opinions and history and context, and they knew it, and they came to you with things.
And it went the other way too. Logan had gotten so close to your friends that he would voluntarily drive Marissa to her therapy appointments in Boston without being asked, would send Benny reels about topics they'd talked about the week before, remembered details that even you sometimes forgot. He had threaded himself into the fabric of your life so completely and so quietly that you could no longer locate the seam.
And finally, finally, things had started to feel like they were moving in the right direction. The direction they probably should have been heading since the morning after Halloween. Maybe the casual arrangement had just been a detour — a scenic route to the same destination. All's well that ends well.
And then you and Logan would go to Malone's, and a waitress would glance between you with a smile and say what a nice couple you made, and Logan would laugh in that easy, noncommittal way of his and say: we're just friends.
And there it was. Bucket of cold water. Every time, without fail, like a reset button neither of you had agreed to keep pressing.
Every single time.
Which brings you to now.
You are sitting on Logan's couch, draped over him, legs intertwined, peppering kisses down his neck while he makes a valiant and increasingly unsuccessful effort to tell you about the new episode of some reality show he has gotten inexplicably invested in. Something about traitors in a castle. Who cares. Not you. Not when Logan smelled like that and the house was quiet and his hands were doing that thing where they moved without him seeming to notice.
You sank further into him. The kisses started to linger. His words got sparse.
"Are you even listening to me?" Logan murmured, his voice coming out considerably less steady than he had probably intended.
You hummed against his pulse point by way of answer.
The front door opened.
You both startled, pulling apart with the practiced efficiency of people who had been interrupted before, but the moment you registered it was Dean you settled back into exactly the position you'd been in. Dean didn't care about PDA. He actively encouraged it.
He dropped onto the opposite couch, looked at the ceiling briefly, then at you.
"Okay, I have a question," he said. "Logan, dude, this is for science, please don't be weird about it."
At this point you were sitting upright, Logan's arms still looped around you, his chin finding your shoulder, using you as a very comfortable shield against whatever Dean was about to say.
"Shoot," you said.
Dean took a breath with the energy of someone preparing to say something they had already decided to say regardless of the response. "Do you think I should buy a vibrator for a friend of mine?"
Logan laughed against your neck. You shivered slightly at the warmth of his breath.
"Are you the friend?" you asked. "Are you buying a vibrator for yourself?"
"What? No. I'm a man."
"That doesn't mean anything. Men are allowed to have vibrators."
"I know that. It's not for me."
"I really think you should get one though. For yourself. If you want to be the Samantha of the group you have to commit to the bit."
"I am the Samantha," Dean said, with genuine offense. "And it's not for me."
"Have you even watched Sex and the City?"
"Yes. I'm from New York, for god's sake and you're being such a Carrie right now."
You settled back against Logan's chest, his arms tightening around you automatically, like a reflex, like something he did without thinking about it anymore.
Yes, you thought. And my own Mr. Big is currently holding me on this couch.
Garrett and Hannah came down the stairs in what you assumed were their stay-at-home outfits: sweatpants, hockey jersey, the specific comfort of two people who had stopped performing around each other. The moment they came into view you felt Logan's hand still. Not move away just still. And then he shifted from behind you to sitting beside you, technically still touching but the warmth of it had changed completely. It was less person you are tangled up with and more person you happen to be sitting next to on public transport.
You knew that shift. You had felt it before.
The first time, you had told yourself you were imagining things.
It was a Tuesday, nothing special about it, the kind of evening that had become completely ordinary, you at the house, Logan beside you on the couch, his thumb making absent circles on your knee while Dean argued with Tucker about something that didn't matter. Hannah had stopped by to pick up something she'd left there the week before, and the moment the door opened Logan's hand had stilled. Not moved away. Just stilled. Like an animal that had heard something.
You hadn't said anything. You'd filed it away in the part of your brain reserved for things you weren't ready to look at yet.
The second time was at one of Garrett's games. You had been standing with Logan at the edge of the rink afterward, his jacket half around your shoulders the way it always ended up, and Hannah had appeared through the crowd. Logan had straightened. Subtly, almost imperceptibly, but you felt it the slight shift in his posture, the way his jacket had slipped back off your shoulders without him seeming to notice he'd let it go.
You'd picked it up off the floor and handed it back to him without a word.
The third time you stopped counting.
Malone's on a Friday night had a particular energy loud enough to feel festive, familiar enough to feel like home. Your usual table was in the corner, the big one that fit all of you without anyone having to pull up an extra chair, and the evening had been good. Genuinely good, the kind that reminded you why you had agreed to this arrangement in the first place, Logan's knee against yours under the table, his arm finding the back of your chair sometime around the second round of drinks, the easy warmth of being somewhere you belonged.
You were mid-story , a good one, the kind that had the whole table leaning in and you could feel it landing, the timing was right, and Garrett was already laughing before you got to the punchline and Dean had that look on his face that meant he was going to steal this story and tell it as his own later, and Tucker was—
You glanced at Logan.
He wasn't laughing.
He was looking across the table at Hannah with an expression you recognized because you had spent the better part of a year learning every single detail of his face, and what was on it right now was something soft and slightly helpless the expression of someone watching something they had decided they couldn't have.
The story finished without you. Somewhere far away, the table laughed.
You picked up your drink. Set it down. Picked it up again.
"I'm going to step outside," you said. "Just — smoke a bit."
"You don't even smoke, (Y/N)!" Tucker replied, laughing, and it killed you because all of Logan's friends had come to know you so well.
"You okay?" Garrett asked.
"Fine. Just air."
You were already standing. Already reaching for your jacket. Logan was on his feet before you made it two steps.
"I'll come with you," he said.
The parking lot outside Malone's was cold and poorly lit. You got about twenty feet from the door before you stopped walking. The noise from inside filtered out muffled and distant, everyone still laughing, completely unaware.
Logan stopped beside you. Waited. He had always been good at waiting, which was one of the things you had loved about him and one of the things that had slowly, quietly driven you insane.
"Don't," you said.
"Don't what?"
"Don't do the thing where you stand there and wait for me to calm down." You turned to face him. The cold air hit your face and you were glad for it. "I'm not going to calm down. So just talk to me. Tell me the truth. Please. Don't bullshit me right now, Logan, I am asking you to not bullshit me right now."
"Baby—"
"Don't baby me, Logan. Not right now"
He looked at you with that steady, unhurried patience of his, which tonight felt less like a quality and more like a weapon.
"What do you want me to say?" he asked.
"I want you to tell me if you have a crush on Hannah." The word crush felt absurdly small for the moment but you couldn't bear the weight of the more accurate alternatives.
Something shifted in his face. Not guilt exactly, something deeper than that. The specific expression of someone who had been quietly hoping a question wouldn't arrive and had known, somewhere underneath the hoping, that it always was going to.
"It's not—" he started.
"Logan."
He exhaled. Looked at the ground briefly. Looked back at you.
"It's not serious," he said. "It's nothing. She's with Garrett. It's not like I would ever—"
"Oh my god." The laugh that came out of you had nothing to do with anything being funny. "Oh my god, you actually do. You actually have a crush on her."
"It's not a big deal—"
"You have a crush on your best friend's girlfriend and it's not a big deal." You repeated it back to him slowly. "I have been right here, Logan. For almost a year I have been right here, and you have a crush on Hannah."
"It's just a feeling. It doesn't mean anything." His voice had an edge to it now, something defensive sharpening underneath the calm. "And you don't get to be mad at me for it."
"Excuse me?"
"You don't get to be mad at me for having feelings." The words were coming faster now, the composure cracking in a way you almost never saw from him. "We said casual. That was the agreement. I can't be accountable to you for things I feel when you are not my girlfriend."
The word landed like a slap.
Girlfriend.
"Right," you said. Your voice had gone very quiet. "I'm not your girlfriend."
"That's not what I—"
"No, you're right. I'm not." You looked at him. Really looked at him — this person whose coffee order you knew by heart, whose nightmares you had talked him through at two in the morning, whose hand had reached for yours in his sleep so many times you had stopped counting. "Can I ask you something? And I need you to actually answer me. Not just wait until I stop talking."
He said nothing, which you took as a yes.
"What did you think this was?" Your voice was still quiet. Controlled. "Not what we agreed on in the beginning. What did you think it was last week? Last month? What did you think it was tonight when you had your arm around me at that table? When you picked me up from my house and kissed me in your truck?" You took a breath. "Because I need to understand how you look at what we have been doing and see something casual. I genuinely need you to explain that to me."
"It's complicated—"
"It's not complicated. It's actually very simple. I just need you to say it out loud."
"You knew what this was when we started—"
"I know what it was when we started. I'm asking what it is now." You crossed your arms against the cold. "Because from where I'm standing it looks a lot like a relationship. It looks like you drive my friends places and remember things about them they never told you twice, and I know every single thing about your life, and we spend more nights together than apart, and you reach for me when you're asleep like I'm something you don't want to lose." Your voice cracked slightly and you pushed past it. "So you'll have to forgive me for being confused about the casual part."
"I can't—" He stopped. Started again. "It's not about not wanting to. It's about what I can actually give right now. Hockey takes everything. My family, my mother, I don't have money, I don't have stability, I don't have any of the things that—"
"I'm not asking you for stability. I'm not asking you for money." Something in your chest had cracked open and you were past the point of closing it. "I'm asking you to admit what this already is. That's all."
"I am being honest—"
"Then be more honest." Your voice broke on the last word and you kept going anyway. "Because I'm in love with you."
The parking lot went completely silent.
Logan stared at you. The words sat between you in the cold air like something that had changed the temperature.
"What?" His voice came out barely above a breath.
"I'm in love with you." Steadier the second time. "I have been for a long time. And I know that's not what we agreed on. But I can't stand here and pretend I don't while you tell me it's not a big deal that you have feelings for someone else." You looked at him. "We are already a couple, Logan. In every single way that actually matters, we already are. The only thing missing is you admitting it."
Something moved across his face — something large and unguarded and almost frightened.
"It's not that simple," he said, quieter now, the defensiveness gone out of it.
"I know it's not simple. I know about hockey. I know about your mom. I know all of it, Logan, because you told me, because that's what we do. But none of that changes what I just said." You took a breath. "So just tell me. Do you have feelings for me? Yes or no. That's all I'm asking."
Logan looked at you.
And said nothing.
The silence stretched between you, long and terrible. His jaw was tight. His eyes moved across your face like he was looking for something he either couldn't find or couldn't say, and the longer the silence went on the more clearly you understood that the silence was itself an answer.
"Wow," you said finally. Very quietly. "Okay."
You picked up your bag. Straightened your jacket. Looked at him one more time this person you had spent 338 days loving in whatever form he would accept.
"Don't follow me," you said.
He didn't.
You walked back toward the warm light spilling out of Malone's windows, past your friends still laughing, past the table that an hour ago had felt like home, and you kept walking. Past the door, past the window, down the street, into the cold.
Too angry to cry. Too tired to pretend. Too done to look back.
Behind you, in the parking lot, Logan stood very still and said nothing which was the thing he was best at, and the thing that had finally cost him everything.
It had been a hard couple of days. But the upside of a not-breakup in college was that you didn't get to wallow, no watching rom-coms until the wee hours, no doing the Bella, watching the months pass from your bedroom window. Life was as it had always been, minus the space Logan had occupied in your weekly schedule. Not a metaphysical space, a literal one. When you opened your Google Calendar you found his game days still blocked out in blue, his training days still marked, everything still there like a calendar that hadn't gotten the news yet.
Pathetic, you thought, and deleted them.
Your days now belonged entirely to yourself, which should have felt like freedom and mostly felt like a lot of unscheduled Tuesday afternoons. No more disappearing in the middle of the day, no more make-out sessions in the library during lunch break. Just you and your own company and the slow, unglamorous work of being fine.
You weren't fine. You were something adjacent to fine that required daily maintenance and the careful avoidance of certain songs.
Marissa had noticed, she called it being under the weather, which was such a specific and old-fashioned way of putting it that in the beginning you had found it strange and now found it completely endearing. Your own personal nanna, showing up with iced coffee and terrible ideas at exactly the right moments.
The terrible idea this time was an underground bar in Boston she had found, which was a surprise since Marissa was fundamentally a sports bar person. You had a strong suspicion the entire excursion was engineered entirely for your benefit and the benefit of your appetite for expensive, colorful drinks, and you loved her for it and didn't say so.
The drive took exactly long enough to hype yourself up.
I'm pretty. I'm smart. I'm a catch.
The bar was dimly lit in a way that felt intentional rather than neglected, all low ceilings and good music and the general atmosphere of a place that didn't need to try. You, Marissa and Benny settled into a corner booth and approximately ninety seconds later Benny's elbow was in your ribs.
"Cute guy. Nine o'clock," he said, in what he apparently believed was a whisper.
You glanced toward the bar. Tall, white jacket, the kind of easy posture that meant he wasn't thinking about his posture at all.
"I'm not really looking for anything," you said.
"You're single. He's cute. The bar has drinks. What exactly is the problem?" Benny tilted his head. "Go order our drinks and make some poor decisions. You've earned it."
"I didn't bring my ID."
Benny stared at you. "You came to a bar without your ID?"
"I forgot." You shrugged.
"(Y/N)." His voice had the specific tone of someone choosing their words carefully. "What is wrong with you. Go. Drinks. Now. The ID thing is a you problem, figure it out."
You slid out of the booth before he could say anything else.
The guy at the bar was, up close, even more irritatingly attractive than he had been from across the room. He glanced over when you appeared beside him, and then glanced again in a way that was not subtle and didn't try to be.
"You look like you're deciding something," he said.
"Whether to admit I forgot my ID at a bar."
He looked at you for a moment. Then he smiled easy and genuine. "Hunter," he said, and held out his hand.
"((Y/N))."
"I'll vouch for you," he said. "If you tell me what you're drinking."
You told him. He ordered both without being asked, which was either presumptuous or exactly right, and you decided it was exactly right.
By the time you made it back to the booth with four drinks and Hunter's number in your phone, Benny was looking at you with the expression of someone who had orchestrated something and was very pleased about it.
You didn't tell him he was right. But you didn't have to.
The thing about Hunter Davenport was that he was genuinely, irritatingly likeable.
You had not been thinking about Logan when you said yes to Hunter's suggestion of getting coffee. You had not been thinking about Logan when the coffee turned into a walk, and the walk turned into two hours of easy conversation that asked nothing from you and gave something back.
That was the point.
You had gotten very good at not thinking about Logan in the weeks since Malone's. It was a skill, like any other, it required practice and the occasional forcible redirection of your own brain, but you were nothing if not disciplined when the situation called for it. You had been showing up to things. Laughing at the right moments. Sleeping through the night, mostly.
You were fine. You were getting finer by the day, which was either progress or a very convincing impression of it, and right now you weren't examining the difference too closely.
Hunter was easy. That was the thing about him. He was warm and uncomplicated and he looked at you like you were worth looking at, which was something you had apparently needed more than you realized.
It was nothing serious. You had been very clear about that with yourself. You were not ready for serious. But his hand was warm when it found yours walking back from the coffee place, and you let it stay there.
You were almost believing it.
The team was at the rink for an open practice, one of the informal ones that sometimes drew a small crowd of friends and the generally affiliated. You had come with Marissa, which gave you plausible deniability about why you were there, and you had sat in the third row and watched without watching, which was a skill you had also been practicing.
Hunter had waved at you from the ice. You had waved back.
You had not looked at Logan. You had been extremely disciplined about not looking at Logan, which meant you were also extremely aware of exactly where he was at every moment without technically looking at him, which was its own kind of exhausting.
After practice, Hunter had come off the ice still in half his gear and found you immediately, easy and unhurried, and said something that made you laugh. Your hand had gone to his arm the way hands do when you're laughing at something someone said, and it had stayed there for approximately four seconds.
Four seconds.
You knew it was four seconds because you had counted them, which meant some part of you had been paying attention to something you were pretending not to pay attention to.
The locker room door swung shut behind Logan without him looking back.
You found a quiet corner of the rink lobby while Hunter went to get his bag. You were looking at your phone, not reading anything on it, when you heard footsteps and looked up.
Logan.
He had changed out of his gear. His jaw was doing the thing: the tight, controlled thing that meant something was happening underneath the composure that the composure was working very hard to contain. His eyes moved from your face to the door Hunter had gone through and back.
"Hey," you said carefully.
"You and Hunter," he said. Not a question.
"That's not really your business."
"You're spending a lot of time with him."
"Logan—"
"I'm just making an observation." His voice was very even. The voice he used when he was the least controlled.
"Make it somewhere else."
He laughed short and humorless. "Right. Okay." He looked at the floor. Looked back at you. "I just didn't think you were the type."
You went very still. "The type to?"
"To go after a guy because of who he plays for." Quiet. Measured. Like he had chosen this version of the sentence carefully. "I didn't think that was your thing."
The lobby was very quiet.
You looked at him for a long moment. Long enough to make sure you had heard what you thought you'd heard. Long enough to see something flicker in his expression, the immediate, unmistakable recognition that he had gone too far.
"Say that again," you said softly.
"I didn't mean—"
"No." Your voice was calm in a way that had nothing to do with being calm. "Say it again. I want to make sure I understood you. Are you calling me a puck bunny?"
Logan said nothing. The flicker had become something closer to horror.
"Because that's what you just said." You tilted your head slightly. "After everything. That's what you went with."
"I didn't — that's not what I meant—"
"Then what did you mean?" You took a step toward him. "Because I have been patient, Logan. I have been so patient with you. I said the most honest thing I have ever said to anyone in that parking lot and you said nothing back, which I am trying. I am actively trying to make my peace with. But you do not get to say that to me. You don't get to do that."
"I know." His voice had lost all its evenness. "I shouldn't have—"
"Why did you say it?"
He looked at you.
"Tell me why." Your voice cracked slightly and you kept going. "Because it wasn't an observation. So tell me why."
Something moved across his face the composure fracturing in a way you had only seen once or twice in all the time you had known him.
"Because I can't—" He stopped.
"Can't what?"
"Because I can't watch you with him and not—" He stopped again. Pressed his mouth shut. Looked at the ceiling briefly.
"Not what?" Your voice was barely above a whisper.
He looked at you. Right at you. And for one unguarded, terrible second you could see everything, all of it, the whole enormous weight of everything he hadn't said in the parking lot outside Malone's, sitting right there on his face with nowhere left to hide.
And then he looked away.
"I'm sorry," he said. "It was wrong."
You looked at him for a long moment.
"Yeah," you said. "It was."
You picked up your bag. Hunter had reappeared at the far end of the lobby, jacket on, easy smile, completely unaware of the wreckage he had wandered back into. You walked toward him and did not look back at Logan.
But you heard him the sharp exhale of someone who had just watched something leave that they weren't sure was coming back.
Good, you thought.
And hated that you thought it.
Here was the thing about being called a puck bunny: it wasn't the word itself that got to you.
Puck bunnies weren't the worst thing a person could be.
Men were allowed their types, allowed to prefer blondes or brunettes or redheads, to only date younger women, to have a thing for accents, to announce their type to anyone who will listen like it’s a personality trait, to want someone tall or short or with a specific laugh, or say things like "I have never been with a Brazilian before". They were allowed to say these things out loud, to Tinder-filter by height, and if it was possible they would do by weight too, to have opinions about bodies that they shared freely and without apology.
But god forbid a woman had a type. God forbid a woman found hockey players attractive or musicians, or academics, or anyone with a specific quality she was drawn to. Then she was something to be named and categorized and looked down upon. Then she was a bunny.
You were not offended by the word.
You were offended that Logan, who had been silent while you poured your heart out in a cold parking lot, who had said nothing when you asked him the most direct question you had ever asked another human being , had found his voice again specifically to say that. That of all the things he could have finally said to you, after all the silence, this was the one he chose.
That was what got to you.
Not the word. The timing. The source. The specific, devastating irony of a man who couldn't say I have feelings for you finding it very easy to say something that small.
You didn't tell anyone what he said.
That was the first decision you made, walking out of that rink lobby with Hunter's hand in yours and Logan's exhale still somewhere in your chest. You were not going to tell Dean, who would say something devastatingly accurate about it. You were not going to tell Marissa, who would want to talk about it for three hours. You were not going to tell anyone, because telling someone meant turning it over, examining it, and you were not ready to examine the specific shape of what Logan had said to you and what it meant that he had said it.
You knew what it meant. That was the problem.
You had known the moment you saw his face, that flicker of something before the composure reassembled itself, the way his eyes had moved to Hunter and back to you with an expression that had nothing casual about it. You had spent 338 days learning the map of Logan's face and you knew exactly what that look was. You had just also heard what came out of his mouth immediately afterward, which meant that what Logan felt and what Logan was willing to do about it were, as always, two completely different countries.
You were done trying to travel between them.
The week that followed was quiet and it felt different from the other times you had gone quiet. Before, the silence had always been temporary, a held breath. This felt more like an exhale. Like something had finally, after a very long time, finished.
You went to class. You had coffee with Hunter on Tuesday, which was easy and warm and asked nothing from you. You went to Marissa's on Thursday and watched something forgettable on her laptop and fell asleep on her couch, and she put a blanket over you without waking you up, which was the kindest thing anyone had done for you in recent memory.
You did not go to the house off campus. You did not text Logan. You did not check if he had texted you, which required leaving your phone face-down on your desk for approximately four days straight, which was its own kind of discipline.
You were fine. You were getting finer.
You were also absolutely not fine.
Dean found you on a Wednesday.
Not dramatically, he just appeared at the coffee shop near your building where you went on Wednesday mornings, which you had mentioned to him exactly once four months ago, which meant he had remembered it and filed it away and was now using it, which was such a Dean thing to do that you almost smiled.
He sat down across from you without asking if it was okay and stole a sip of your coffee before saying anything.
"He told me what he said," Dean said, without preamble.
You looked at your coffee. "Okay."
"He feels terrible."
"Good."
"I mean genuinely terrible. Like, I've known Logan for three years and I've never seen him—" Dean stopped. Seemed to decide something. "He's not sleeping. He's barely eating. He showed up to practice yesterday and coach pulled him aside after because his head wasn't in it, which has never happened, not once in three years."
"Dean." You looked up at him. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you deserve to know that it cost him something." His voice was straightforward, without manipulation. "I'm not asking you to forgive him. What he said was awful and he knows it. I'm just, you spent a long time showing up for him and I don't want you to think that none of it landed. It all landed. It's landing right now. It's just landing a little late."
You were quiet for a moment.
"A little late," you repeated.
"Okay, very late."
"Dean." You wrapped your hands around your cup. "He called me a puck bunny."
"I know." Dean had the grace to look genuinely pained. "He said it because he was jealous and scared and he handled it in the worst possible way and there is no defense for it. I'm not here to defend it."
"Then what are you here for?"
Dean looked at you across the table, this person who had been in your corner since before you had any idea how much you would need someone in your corner, and his expression was very honest.
"I'm here because he's my best friend and he's falling apart," he said. "And you're also my friend. And I hate watching both of you be miserable when I know exactly why you're miserable." He paused. "I'm not asking you to do anything. I just wanted you to know."
You looked out the window. The street outside was grey and unremarkable, the specific flatness of a Wednesday in November.
"How long has he known?" you asked quietly. "That he has feelings for me. How long has he actually known?"
Dean was quiet for a moment.
"A while," he said carefully.
"How long is a while, Dean."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"Since pretty much the beginning," he said.
You closed your eyes briefly. Opened them.
"Okay," you said.
"(Y/N)—"
"I'm not angry." And you weren't, which was almost surprising. You were something quieter and more tired than angry. "I just needed to know." You picked up your coffee. "Tell him I said he needs to sleep."
Dean looked at you. "That's it?"
"That's it." You met his eyes. "I'm not ready for anything else right now. But tell him to sleep."
Dean nodded slowly. He finished stealing your coffee and stood up and put his jacket on, and then he stopped with his hand on the back of the chair.
"For what it's worth," he said. "The Hannah thing. It was never real. He told me that too. He said he thinks he latched onto it because it was safer than admitting what was actually happening."
You didn't say anything.
"Okay," Dean said. "I'll see you around."
He left. You sat there with your cold coffee and the grey Wednesday street outside and the specific, exhausting weight of loving someone who had known the whole time and chosen, over and over, to say nothing.
Since pretty much the beginning.
338 days. And he had known since pretty much the beginning.
You sat with that for a long time.
It had been raining since noon.
Not the dramatic, cinematic kind of rain that arrived with thunder and purpose, just the steady, grey, unrelenting kind that soaked through your jacket in the first thirty seconds and didn't apologize for it.
You were on your way back from the library, hood up, head down, thinking about nothing in particular, which you had gotten very good at recently. The art of thinking about nothing. Occupying your own brain with the immediate and the logistical the paper due Thursday, the coffee you were going to make when you got home, the question of whether you had remembered to charge your phone.
You had not been thinking about Logan.
You were almost at your building when you heard him.
"(Y/N)."
You stopped walking.
He was standing at the bottom of your building's front steps, which meant he had been waiting in the rain for some amount of time, which was evident from the state of him soaked through, hair flat, jacket dark with water. He looked like someone who had arrived with a plan and abandoned it somewhere on the walk over and was now operating on something more basic and less manageable.
He looked, for the first time in all the time you had known him, completely unguarded.
"Logan." Your voice came out carefully. "What are you doing here?"
"I need to talk to you."
"It's raining."
"I know."
"You're soaked."
"I know." He took a step toward you. "I've been standing here for forty minutes trying to figure out what to say and I still don't know, so I'm just going to say it badly and hope that counts for something."
You looked at him. The rain came down steadily between you.
"You have two minutes," you said.
He exhaled. Ran a hand through his wet hair. Looked at you with the expression of someone stepping off a ledge they had been standing on for a very long time.
"I have been in love with you," he said, "since pretty much the beginning."
The rain was very loud suddenly.
"I knew it when we agreed to casual. I knew it when we stopped hiding. I knew it every time I reached for you in my sleep and every time a stranger called us a couple and I laughed it off, and I knew it in that parking lot outside Malone's when you told me the truth and I stood there and said nothing back." His voice was steady but only barely, the steadiness of someone gripping something very hard. "I said nothing because I was terrified. Not of you. Never of you. Of what it meant. Of what I would owe you if I said it out loud. Hockey takes everything I have and my family situation is a disaster and I don't have money or stability or any of the things that a person is supposed to have before they ask someone to—" He stopped. "But Dean said something to me last week. He said that I was losing you anyway. That all my careful management of the situation had achieved was losing you slowly instead of all at once, and somehow I had convinced myself that was the better outcome."
You said nothing. The rain soaked through your hood and you didn't move.
"And then I said what I said to you at the rink." His jaw tightened. "I have replayed that moment every day since it happened. There is no version of it that I can make okay. I said it because I saw you with Hunter and something in me just broke. Not a good break. Not the kind that leads anywhere useful. Just — I broke, and I said the cruelest thing I could think of, and I aimed it at you, and I have hated myself for it every single day since." He looked at you. "I'm not telling you that to make you feel sorry for me. I'm telling you because you deserve to know that it was never about you. It was never about who you are. It was about me being terrified and handling it in the worst possible way, and I'm sorry. I am so sorry."
The rain fell between you, steady and indifferent.
"You knew since the beginning," you said finally. Your voice came out quieter than you intended.
"Yes."
"A year."
"Yes."
"And you said nothing."
"Yes." He didn't flinch from it. "I said nothing, and I let you carry it alone, and I told myself I was protecting you from the complications of my life, but I think I was just protecting myself. From having to be as brave as you were in that parking lot." Something moved across his face. "You were so brave. You said the true thing and I just stood there. And I have thought about that every day since. About what it cost you to say it and what it cost me to say nothing back."
You looked at him. This person. Soaked through and unguarded and finally, finally saying the thing he had been not saying for 338 days.
"The Hannah thing," you said.
"Wasn't real." Immediate. Certain. "I think I needed it to be real because it was safer than admitting what was actually happening. She has what you and I have, what you and I were and I think I confused wanting that with wanting her. It was never her." He held your gaze. "It was always you. It has only ever been you."
The rain had soaked through your jacket completely now. You were cold in a way that had stopped being uncomfortable and become simply the condition of the moment.
"I'm not asking you to forgive me tonight," Logan said. "I'm not asking you to do anything. I just needed you to know that I heard you in that parking lot. I heard every word. And I should have said this then, and I'm sorry that I didn't, and I'm saying it now because Dean was right, I am losing you anyway, and I would rather lose you having finally told the truth than keep you at a distance by staying silent." He paused. "I love you. I have loved you for a long time. And I'm sorry it took me this long to be brave enough to say it."
The street was very quiet under the rain.
You looked at him for a long moment. Long enough to turn it over. Long enough to feel the full weight of 338 days, of every almost-conversation and loaded silence and reset button and bucket of cold water. Long enough to remember his hand going still when Hannah walked in, and the parking lot, and the rink lobby, and the specific sound of his exhale when you walked away.
Long enough to remember, underneath all of it, a Halloween party and a wall and two people waiting out the night from the edges of it, talking like they had nothing to prove to each other.
The beginning, before it got complicated. Before it got careful.
"You're an idiot," you said.
Something shifted in his expression. Not quite hope. Something more tentative than hope.
"I know," he said.
"You made everything so much harder than it needed to be."
"I know."
"I carried that alone for a very long time, Logan."
"I know." His voice broke slightly on it. "I know you did. I'm sorry."
The rain came down. You looked at him this soaked, unguarded, finally honest person standing at the bottom of your steps and felt something in your chest that had been braced for a very long time slowly, carefully release.
"You should have just said it," you said. "In the beginning. You should have just said it."
"I know." He took a step closer. Close enough that you could see the rain on his face, the wet dark of his hair, the expression underneath all the composure that had finally run out of places to hide. "I know. I'm saying it now."
You looked at him.
"Say it again," you said quietly.
"I love you." No hesitation. No composure. Just Logan, standing in the rain, finally saying the true thing. "I love you. I have loved you since pretty much the beginning and I am done pretending I don't."
The rain fell between you and neither of you moved and the street was quiet and everything was very still.
Then you closed the distance.
You kissed him in the rain, which was cold and slightly impractical and nothing like the careful, managed version of Logan you had spent 338 days trying to navigate. This was different. This was him kissing you back with both hands and no hesitation and none of the holding back, and it felt finally, finally like the true thing. Like the version of this that had been waiting underneath all the other versions the whole time.
When you pulled back you were both soaked and breathing slightly unsteadily and his forehead dropped to yours in the rain.
"I'm still mad at you," you said.
"I know." His arms tightened around you. "I know you are."
"The puck bunny thing is going to take a while."
"I know. Whatever it takes."
"And you have to tell me things." Your voice was muffled against his jacket. "When you're scared, when it gets complicated, when your brain does the thing where it decides silence is the safe option. You have to tell me instead."
"I will." He said it simply, without qualification, which was how you knew he meant it. "I will."
You stood there in the rain outside your building, soaked through and slightly ridiculous, and you thought about Halloween and 338 days and parking lots and rink lobbies and all the long, complicated distance between the beginning and right now.
Summary: Logan knows better than to fall for his best friend’s little sister.
wc: 2,2k graham!reader; figure skater!reader; reader is inspired by alysa liu; brother’s best friend; hockey player x figure skater; mouthful reader; multiple chapter fic
Their house smelled like beer and sweat. Which meant the party was dying.
Bodies still crowded the living room, music still thumped through the speakers, and someone was loudly arguing about video game hockey in the kitchen, but the energy had shifted hours ago, from drunk and chaotic to lazy and half-dead.
Logan leaned back against the couch with a bottle hanging loosely from his hand while Dean flirted shamelessly with two girls near the staircase.
Typical.
Tucker was passed out in an armchair.
Also typical.
And Garrett… “Get your damn feet off my table,” he said, glaring across the room at a freshman defenseman currently ignoring him completely.
Logan snorted into his beer. “Y’know,” he drawled, “you get more aggressive every year.”
Garrett flipped him off without looking away from the kid. “I’m two seconds away from murdering half this team.”
“Only half?” Logan asked, smirking.
Before Garrett could answer, the front door swung open hard enough to hit the wall. Cold air rushed inside.
And then:
“Jesus Christ, this place smells disgusting,” a familiar female voice said dramatically.
Logan looked up automatically.
Y/N Graham stood in the doorway wearing leggings, an oversized Briar hockey hoodie (which was, by the way, stolen) and the kind of expression that suggested she’d rather be literally anywhere else. Still… she was here.
Her duffel bag slid off her shoulder as she kicked the door shut behind her.
“Oh, thank God,” Dean said immediately. “An attractive person finally showed up.”
Y/N rolled her eyes. “Still using that line?”
“Still working?” he winked.
“It’s really not,” she said casually.
Garrett frowned from the kitchen. “What are you doing here?”
She stared at him blankly. “Hello to you too, sunshine,” she said sarcastically as she moved to give him a light kiss on the cheek.
“Weren’t you at practice?” he asked as he leaned down to receive it.
“Yeah… like three hours ago.” She checked her phone for the time. “I texted you.”
Garrett pulled his phone out, checked it, then shoved it back into his pocket. “Didn’t see it.”
“No way,” she deadpanned. “You mean you ignored your phone during a party? That’s so unlike you.”
Logan huffed out a laugh before he could stop himself.
Y/N’s eyes flicked toward him briefly. Just for a second. Like she only now acknowledged he was there.
Then she walked straight past the couch and headed for the kitchen like she owned the place. Which, honestly, she kind of did at this point. Especially when Dean instantly grabbed her bag from the floor and took it to the living room like second nature.
Nobody questioned it anymore.
Not when she’d been hanging around the team since their freshman year. Not when she knew all their names, their habits, their schedules. Not when she walked into their house without knocking and immediately started stealing their food.
“Is that my pizza?” Dean yelled, watching her take a container out of the fridge.
Y/N opened the takeout container. “If you have to ask, they’re not yours anymore.”
“That’s stealing,” he complained.
“That’s survival,” she replied, already placing the leftovers in the microwave.
Dean pretended to be annoyed about it. But not really, already accepting the terrible fate that his leftover pizza didn’t belong to him anymore.
Garrett, meanwhile, was still watching his sister with narrowed eyes like she might spontaneously set the house on fire if left unsupervised for too long.
She was too much like Garrett. Same sharp mouth, same stubborn confidence, same tendency to look at people like she already knew exactly how to win the argument before it started.
It made her annoyingly difficult to intimidate.
Logan had learned that pretty quickly.
The first time they met, she’d looked him up and down and said:
“You definitely look like a hockey player,” she said.
Logan laughed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The hair. The ego. The vacant expression. Very on brand.”
That had been two years ago.
And now she was just… always there. Curled up on their couch during movie nights. Stealing all their hoodies. Yelling at the TV during games. Bullying Dean with terrifying efficiency. Part of the furniture, basically.
Y/N hopped onto the kitchen counter and pointed at Logan’s bottle. “Is that the last Diet Coke?”
“No…” he lied, looking away because he knew she’d fight him for it.
“Give it to me,” she ordered.
Logan held the bottle out lazily. “Then come take it, Graham.”
Her eyes narrowed immediately.
Garrett didn’t even look up from his phone. “Don’t encourage her.”
“Too late, man,” Dean said.
Y/N slid off the counter and walked over. Logan expected her to snatch the bottle and leave.
Instead, she stopped directly in front of him.
Close enough for him to notice the cold flush in her cheeks from outside. Close enough to smell winter air and something faintly sweet underneath it.
She tilted her head and pouted cutely.
Logan grinned slowly. “That’s not gonna work on me, princess. I’m not your brother… or Tucker.”
“But… there’s only beer left in the fridge,” she said sadly.
“Come on, Johnny,” she said softly. “You’re really gonna let Garrett’s little sister die of dehydration?”
Logan grinned slowly.
“Pretty sure Coke does the opposite.”
“Wow,” she said, unimpressed. “And they let you into college.”
Dean barked out a laugh somewhere behind them.
Logan looked down at her, still smiling, and willingly handed over the bottle. She smiled and grabbed it before moving to the living room with his soda and Dean’s pizza.
But across the room, Garrett was watching the entire interaction with narrowed eyes.
He knew hockey players couldn’t be trusted around his sister.
Good thing Logan agreed.
And he had nothing to worry about.
“So… what are you doing here, Baby G?” Tucker asked sleepily, barely lifting his head from the armchair as Y/N practically threw herself onto the couch with Logan’s stolen Coke still in hand.
“My roommate’s having her boyfriend over tonight,” she said easily, stretching her legs across the cushions. “She asked me to disappear for a few hours.”
Dean looked offended on her behalf. “And your first thought was to come here?”
Y/N took another sip of the soda. “Well, yeah. You idiots always have food.”
“That’s weirdly touching,” Dean admitted.
“It’s not meant to be.”
Garrett pointed at her from the kitchen. “You’re not sleeping here.”
Y/N blinked at him. “I literally wasn’t asking permission.”
“You should,” he replied.
“Fine,” Y/N said dramatically. “I’ll just sleep in some motel then.”
Garrett looked horrified. “Absolutely not,” he practically shouted.
She smirked immediately, seeing he’d fallen for her teasing.
“You are not staying alone in some random motel.”
Y/N threw her hands up. “You seriously need to stop acting like I require constant supervision.”
Garrett stared at her blankly. “Y/N…”
“What?” she asked knowingly.
“Two days ago you got suspended from practice for fighting another girl.”
Y/N scoffed immediately. “She deserved it.”
“Wait, what?” Dean perked up instantly.
Y/N scoffed again. “Some girl at practice kept acting like I stole her routine or something.”
“You did steal her routine,” Garrett muttered.
“She wasn’t performing it correctly,” she said, offended.
“And you threw a skate guard at her.”
Her jaw dropped dramatically. “It barely hit her.”
Logan barked out a laugh. Tucker and Dean joined immediately.
Y/N pointed at them. “Thank you.”
Garrett looked exhausted. “I hate all of you.”
“That’s not true,” Y/N said sweetly. “You love me.”
“I tolerate you because we share DNA.”
“Aww.”
She leaned back deeper into the couch cushions, entirely too comfortable for someone who technically didn’t live there. Not that anyone was surprised.
At some point over the years, Y/N had stopped being Garrett’s little sister visiting campus and started becoming part of the house itself.
Logan sat on the end of the couch and looked at her.
She looked exhausted.
There was still faint glitter near her eyes from practice, her hair messy from being shoved into a rushed ponytail, oversized hoodie sleeves covering half her hands.
Cute.
The thought came and went so fast Logan barely registered it.
Garrett’s sister.
Mouthy figure skater. Professional thief of their food. Human headache.
Nothing more.
“Hey,” Y/N suddenly said, tossing a pretzel at his chest. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
Logan caught it automatically. “I’m trying to figure out how Garrett and you came from the same genetic pool.”
“Easy,” she replied. “I got the personality. He got the anger issues.”
Garrett flipped her off from across the room.
“See? I’m right.”
Y/N smiled proudly.
“Anyways,” she said, taking another sip, “you boys don’t mind me. Just finish your party. I can sleep on the couch.”
She sounded completely unconcerned about it already, like the decision had been made hours ago and everyone else was just catching up.
Before Garrett could argue again, she shifted deeper into the cushions, grabbing one of the throw pillows and shoving it under her head.
Logan snorted softly.
“She’s nesting,” Tucker said.
“I do not nest,” Y/N mumbled, eyes already half-closed.
“That’s my pillow, by the way,” Dean pointed out.
“Communism.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not how communism works,” he replied.
Garrett crossed his arms. “You’re not sleeping down here while the house is still filled with people.”
Y/N cracked one eye open to stare at him. “Garrett. I grew up with you. Trust me when I say none of your friends scare me.”
“That’s because you have terrible survival instincts.”
She smiled lazily. “Maybe. But I’m tired enough not to care.”
And honestly, she looked exhausted.
The dark circles under her eyes were faint but there, her voice rough with sleepiness after what was probably hours at the rink.
Figure skating looked elegant until you actually watched the training. Then it just looked painful.
Logan had seen enough practices to know that much.
Y/N shifted again until her sock-covered feet ended up in his lap without warning.
He looked down at them. Then at her.
“…seriously?” he asked, annoyed.
“You’re warm,” she said simply, not even bothering to move.
Garrett rubbed a hand down his face like this entire room was raising his blood pressure by the second.
Within minutes, her breathing evened out.
Asleep.
Even with the music and chatting around her.
Dean noticed first. “Wow. She’s actually dead.”
Garrett immediately grabbed the nearest blanket and tossed it over her without a second thought.
Something in Logan’s chest tightened strangely at the sight.
Not because Garrett was protective, that part was expected. But because Y/N relaxed almost instantly after the blanket covered her. Like she trusted, without even thinking about it, that her brother would always take care of her.
Garrett glanced toward Logan then. “Don’t let anyone wake her up.”
Logan frowned. “And why am I responsible for that?”
“Because I know you won’t anyway,” Garrett said, clapping Logan’s shoulder once before heading off to probably end the party.
It wasn’t even said like a warning.
That was the worst part.
It sounded like trust.
Dean followed right behind him, still muttering something about his stolen pillow, while Tucker dragged himself upstairs looking half-conscious.
And then suddenly, the living room was quiet.
And Y/N was asleep beside him.
Or technically… on him.
Logan looked down carefully. Her feet were still in his lap, tangled under the blanket Garrett had thrown over her earlier. One of her hands was tucked under her cheek, hair falling across her face messily.
She looked peaceful asleep.
Softer.
Not like the sharp-mouthed girl constantly arguing with everybody in the house.
Just tired.
Logan shifted slightly, testing to see if he could leave.
Y/N immediately made a small sound of protest and moved closer unconsciously, pressing her legs more firmly against him like she was searching for warmth in her sleep.
Logan froze.
Completely froze.
“…seriously?” he muttered under his breath, throwing his head back.
Because now if he moved, she’d wake up.
And somehow that felt illegal considering how exhausted she looked.
He leaned his head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling with the exhausted resignation of a man realizing the universe hated him personally.
This was ridiculous.
The same girl who once laughed at him for walking into a glass door.
The same girl who stole his fries every single time she came over.
The same girl who called him “Johnny Boy” specifically because she knew it annoyed him.
There was absolutely no reason for him to suddenly be hyper aware of the weight of her legs across his lap. Or the heaviness of her breathing. Or the hair falling across her face.
And yet—
His eyes dropped back to her face.
A strand of hair had fallen over her cheek. Without thinking, Logan reached over slightly to move it away.
The second his fingers brushed her skin, Y/N frowned softly in her sleep before relaxing again almost immediately.
Trusting. Comfortable.
Like she never once considered he could be anything except safe.
Something twisted strangely in his chest.
Logan pulled his hand back fast.
“Yeah,” he muttered quietly to himself, staring back at the ceiling again. “This is exactly how people die.”
Summary: Falling for your brother’s best friend is already a terrible idea. Falling for John Logan, while Garrett Graham watches the two of you like a security threat, is even worse.
Pairing: John Logan x Graham!Reader
A/N: hii! this is actually the first thing i’ve ever published, which is both exciting and terrifying honestly 😭 i’ve always been more of a reader than a writer, so this is very new to me, but i had so much fun writing it.
if you end up reading, please let me know what you think! i’d really love to hear your thoughts.
also, im taking requests, so if you have any requests you can send it to me
okay bye, hope you enjoy <3
Garrett and you were born three minutes apart. Only three. You've done the math a thousand times, turned it over like a coin, trying to understand how three minutes could possibly account for the way he acts. The only explanation you've ever landed on is that Garrett must have gone through some Interstellar type of thing on his way out, where those three minutes stretched into three decades, aging him into the world's most exhausting older brother before he even took his first breath.
You two were never the kind of twins people expected. No matching outfits, no finishing each other's sentences, no eerie identical habits. From the very beginning you were sorted into different boxes. Garrett's box had ice skates and early morning practices. Your box had dolls and tea sets and the vague, uncomfortable feeling of being dressed up for something you hadn't agreed to.
It was a common complaint "why does Garrett get to do something while I just sit here?" Your mother would smooth your hair and change the subject. Your father never even registered the question. It took years before you understood that Phil Graham simply operated in a world where the answer was obvious. Garrett got to play hockey because Garrett was his son. You got the dolls because you were his daughter. Feminist icon was not a title Phil Graham was ever in the running for.
Growing up, you and Garrett were close in the way that kids who share a wall and a last name and a particular kind of household tend to get close,out of necessity as much as love. It was a good closeness, mostly. Until high school, when it curdled into something more complicated.
The prom thing was the first real incident. Aaron Michaels showed up at your door junior year with his hair combed and his hands in his pockets, and before he even finished the sentence you said yes. Not because you were swept away by him, you barely knew him, honestly. But you had caught Garrett watching from the top of the stairs with that particular expression on his face, the one that meant he was calculating something, and the thought of letting him anywhere near your prom night was enough to make you say yes to virtually anyone.
You think about that sometimes. How early it started.
In college, things loosened. Distance helped. You found your place in a sorority a house full of girls who were loud and warm and didn't ask you to be anything specific. Garrett found his place off campus, in a house with three teammates that quickly became something closer to family.
You were glad for him. You meant that sincerely. He had always been the kind of person who needed people around him, and for a long time the only person around had been you.
What you were less glad for was the way his protectiveness followed you across town like a second shadow. He knew your schedule. He knew your friends. He had a habit of appearing places whenever a boy seemed too interested. You had once watched him dismantle an entire almost-relationship simply by being in the same room, asking questions that were technically friendly and somehow completely lethal.
The thing was, and this was the part that made it complicated, you understood where it came from.
Growing up, Garrett's protectiveness hadn't been suffocating. It had been necessary. Your father's anger was the kind that lived in the walls of the house, that changed the air pressure in a room when he walked in. For a long time you were almost oblivious to it, the way children learn to not see things that are too large and too frightening to look at directly. But then you got old enough that it became impossible to pretend.
What you remember most is not the sounds. It's Garrett, how he would find you, and sit with you, and press your head gently against his chest without saying anything, his hands patient and steady, turning himself into a wall between you and whatever was happening on the other side of it.
He never talked about it. Neither did you. You're not sure you ever will.
Your mother died when you were young. After that, there was just you and Garrett and your father and a house that felt too big and too quiet. Garrett stayed close to you that whole year in a way that asked for nothing and gave everything, and you never once had to ask him to.
So no you didn't resent the protectiveness, not really, not at its root. You understood it.
You just wished it wasn't currently ruining your love life.
It's college, you thought, more than once, lying on your sorority house bed staring at the ceiling. Why can't I get some?
When Garrett moved into the house off campus at the end of freshman year, the relief was quiet and immediate and guilty enough that you didn't mention it to anyone. You visited often it was an easy excuse to get out of the sorority house, and Dean and Tucker were genuinely funny, the kind of company that required nothing from you.
But there was something about Logan that was different from the start. Something you noticed before you had the language for it.
The first time you really registered him was after the team's first game of the season. You had gone to the arena with Rowan, more out of obligation than enthusiasm, expecting to do your dutiful twin sister routine and leave. You found Garrett near the locker room, already mid-conversation with Logan, still in half his gear, laughing at something.
Logan turned when Garrett said your name. That's what you remember: the turn, the way his attention moved to you. He reached out to shake your hand and said something, something normal, something you have completely forgotten because you stopped processing words the moment his hand closed around yours.
His hands were warm. That's what you thought. Just warm. And large. And you were aware of them in a way that made the rest of the sentence disappear entirely.
You let go. You said something back. You moved through the rest of the conversation on autopilot, smiling at the right moments, and the whole time you were thinking about his hands.
On the drive back, Rowan looked at you sideways and said, you have about five seconds to tell me what that was.
You told her.
She was quiet for a moment. Then: make a move before they get any closer. Because once Logan becomes one of Garrett's people, you're done.
You had laughed at the time. But Rowan was right.
That was two years ago. Logan and Garrett were now the kind of friends that finished each other's sentences and covered for each other without being asked. Which meant that every time you let yourself think about Logan, really think about him, about his hands and his voice and the way he looked at you sometimes when he thought you weren't paying attention ,Garrett materialized in your mind immediately, like a warning, like a wall.
Two years. And you were no closer to doing anything about it.
This morning Logan had texted, and the moment his name appeared on your screen that feeling arrived with it the one that lived somewhere between your ribs and your stomach and had no polite name. You had stopped calling it a crush a long time ago. Crushes were light things, easy things. This was two years old and had roots.
He needed help with an assignment. A professor, a deadline, the usual disaster.
You had started tutoring at the beginning of sophomore year, a natural extension of the waitressing you'd picked up at Malone's when you first realized college was expensive and pride was not a payment method. Tutoring paid better and smelled less like fried food. Logan was the one client you had never once considered charging. You weren't sure what that said about you. Probably something embarrassing.
You got a ride to the house and let yourself in without knocking, everyone did, that was just how it worked here, and followed the stairs up to Logan's room, where you found him on his bed with his laptop open and his reading glasses on.
You took a moment.
"Hey, you," you said, walking in and knocking on the door after the fact, in the way you had trained yourself to do ever since a series of unfortunate incidents involving Dean that you were never going to think about again.
Logan looked up and smiled.
"Hey." He moved to make room. "I was waiting for you."
The assignment was for his sports management elective and it was, structurally speaking, a crime scene.
"Walk me through what you're trying to argue," you said, pulling the laptop toward you.
"That collegiate athletic programs need better mental health infrastructure."
"Say that in the paper."
"I did."
You turned the screen to face him. He read it. He had the grace to look slightly ashamed.
"...that's not what that says."
"No. It really isn't."
You started from the top. Logan sat beside you and explained himself in sentences that were clear and direct and completely unlike anything on the page, which was its own kind of frustrating because it meant the ideas were good. They were just trapped under writing that was trying too hard to sound like writing.
"Stop trying to sound smart," you told him. "You already are. Just say the thing."
He looked at you. "You're kind of mean when you tutor."
"You're paying forty dollars an hour for this."
"You're not charging me."
"Then you're getting exactly what you paid for. Keep going."
He kept going. You kept pushing. Somewhere in the middle of restructuring his third paragraph he had migrated from the desk chair to the bed beside you, and at some point after that the laptop had ended up in your lap, and the space between you had gradually, unremarkably, ceased to exist. His arm was against yours. His knee was against yours. He smelled like cedar and something warmer underneath it, which you were actively choosing not to think about.
Once, leaning over to point at something on the screen, he turned his head and found you already looking at him. Neither of you said anything. You looked back at the screen.
By the time you finished it was late afternoon, the light in the room had gone gold and low, and Logan was leaning against the headboard with his legs stretched out and you were beside him, close enough that moving away would have required a decision neither of you had made.
"Thank you," Logan said, and the way he said it was quieter than his regular voice. "Genuinely. You didn't have to do this."
"I know," you said.
"You're kind of incredible, you know that?"
You laughed, which was the only safe response available to you.
"You are very welcome, Johnny," you said, shaking your head, which brought you even closer than you already were.
The room was very quiet.
You had thought about this moment approximately four hundred times over the past two years. You had imagined it in detail. Talked yourself out of it and back into it and out of it again, and every single time Garrett had materialized in your head like a stop sign and that had been enough.
But Garrett was not here. And Logan was looking at you like that, his eyes dropping, just briefly, to your mouth, and coming back up. And two years was a very long time to wait for a moment that kept almost arriving.
You closed the distance.
The seconds that followed were the slowest of your life. You were aware of everything the warmth of him, the sound of your own pulse, the fact that his eyes had closed, which meant something, that had to mean something..
His eyes opened.
He pulled back, just slightly, and looked at you with an expression you had never seen on him before and couldn't name.
"Oh," he said. "Are we finished?"
The words landed like a door closing.
You heard yourself say yes. You heard yourself say something about studying, about being busy, about having to go. You were already reaching for your bag. You were already standing.
Every embarrassing moment you had ever lived through, every misdirected wave, every bon appétit thrown at a waiter who had not asked for it, every autocorrected text sent to the wrong person, shrank to nothing. Microscopic. Irrelevant. Amateur hour.
This was the real thing.
There should be a world record for how fast you left that house. You would have broken it.
Arriving home, there was only one thing on your mind.
The almost-kiss.
You prayed on the entire walk back. Prayed that something would take you lightning, a sinkhole, the apocalypse, anything. Because there could not be a world in which you had just tried to kiss John Logan and he had literally swerved. This could not be happening. You felt like you couldn't breathe, and yes, it was dramatic, but how, how could something like this happen to you?
I have to hide forever, you thought.
So hide was what you did. Three days of pretending to be too busy to check your phone, sending texts that said busy, call later to everyone who tried to reach you and yes, that included Logan. He had texted to thank you for the tutoring session and ask how your day was going, which was its own specific kind of torture. It was genuinely difficult to decide which was worse: him not mentioning the almost-kiss, or him not mentioning the almost-kiss.
Your sorority friends decided not to let you sulk indefinitely. You hadn't told them the truth, it was too embarrassing,but they had collectively decided that you needed to go out. Luckily, Dean and Beau's birthday bash was happening that weekend. Rowan had appointed herself costume director. You and her were going as Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen in New York Minute — which was a generous description of what amounted to tiny red shorts and an I ♥ NYC shirt.
Walking into the party, you spotted your brother almost immediately. He was standing with a girl: Hannah, you realized after a second. You had heard the rumors that Garrett was seeing someone but hadn't paid much attention. Garrett with a girl was like rain in the Amazon. Unremarkable. Constant. A feature of the landscape.
You already knew Hannah from Malone's. She was sweet, genuinely, almost confusingly sweet, and you had always had a hard time understanding why a girl like her would give the time of day to someone like your brother. You grabbed a drink and kept glancing at them, and spotted the exact moment Garrett stepped away and Jules moved in with that particular look on their face that meant they were about to conduct a full background check.
Time to intervene.
"Hi, Hannah," you said, inserting yourself smoothly. You turned to Jules with a look of mock severity. "Jules. This is a party. Stop the questionnaire."
They both laughed, because that was exactly what Jules had been doing. Jules threw her hands up and wandered off.
"Hey, (y/n)!" Hannah said cheerfully. "I haven't seen you at Malone's in a while — how have you been?"
"Busy. Tutoring." You shrugged. "How about you? I heard you were dating my brother."
Hannah looked startled. "Oh, not dating. Just a fling."
"Nice. A fling is nice." You tilted your head. "But since when do you do flings?"
"It's new. Experimenting." She seemed to run out of words.
"You can tell me the truth, you know," you said, softening your voice. "I'm not going to say anything. I thought you had a thing for that guy Justin,the one with the band?"
"I did," Hannah said, and then lowered her voice. "If I tell you, you have to promise not to tell anyone."
You made the motion of zipping your mouth shut, locking it, and throwing away the key.
"Garrett is helping me," she said. "He said guys aren't interested in girls who are too available. So he's helping me seem less available so Justin will come around."
You stared at her. "He's fake-dating you to make another guy jealous."
Hannah nodded.
"That's—" you started, then stopped. Actually not the worst plan. "Okay. Solid strategy."
As if summoned, Garrett appeared carrying a can of beer for Hannah, which was objectively cute even if you would never tell him that.
"Hey, (y/n)." He pulled you into a side hug. "Why have you gone MIA? I was getting worried."
Because I tried to kiss your best friend and he dodged me like I was a pothole in the middle of the road.
"Just busy," you said pleasantly. "I'll leave you two lovebirds alone." You winked at Hannah, who turned pink, and made a beeline for the kitchen.
The thing was, you couldn't stop turning it over. What Garrett had said to Hannah guys aren't interested in girls who are too available. Was that it? Was that why Logan had pulled back? Had you made it too obvious, been too present, too easy to read?
It was the kind of question that only one person at this party could answer.
Dean was in the kitchen taking shots with Tucker, Beau, and,of course, Logan. He was dressed as Maverick from Top Gun, which was doing entirely too much for everyone in the vicinity. The navy jumpsuit was one deep breath away from falling off his shoulders entirely, to the visible appreciation of roughly half the party.
Your heels announced you before you got there. All four of them looked up.
"Dean." You used your most businesslike voice. "I need to talk to you."
Logan, who until that moment had been carefully avoiding looking at you, looked at you.
"In private," you added.
Beau and Tucker made a coordinated oooooh sound. You took Dean by the hand and led him to a quieter corner, and from the edge of your vision you could feel Logan watching the whole way there.
"Do you think guys go for girls who aren't available?" you asked, skipping any kind of introduction.
Dean blinked. "What?"
"Just answer it. Do guys prefer women who are harder to reach?"
He studied you for a moment with the particular expression of someone who was not fooled even slightly.
"(y/n)."
"Dean."
"It's Logan."
"It's not…"
"It is literally Logan." He glanced over his shoulder and back at you. "He's been staring at this corner since you dragged me away from the shots he was pouring, by the way. So I hope this is worth it."
You opened your mouth. Closed it.
"He swerved me," you said finally, quietly, in the tone of someone confessing a crime.
Dean's eyes went wide. "He what—"
"Don't make it a thing."
"I'm not making it a thing, I'm just" He stopped, visibly recalibrating. Then something shifted in his face. The confused expression dissolved into something far more dangerous. A Dean I have an idea smile. "Okay. I know exactly what to do."
"That face terrifies me."
"Let me make him jealous."
You stared at him. "What."
"Think about it." He leaned against the wall, warming to the plan in real time. "You and me, rest of the night, very cozy, very close. Logan spends the whole party watching. By midnight he either says something or he implodes. Either way you get your answer."
"That is insane."
"That is genius and you know it." He held out his hand. "What do you say, Graham?"
You looked at his hand. You looked across the room at Logan, who was very deliberately not looking in your direction, which meant he was absolutely looking in your direction.
You took Dean's hand.
"If this blows up," you said, "I'm telling everyone it was your idea."
"It is my idea." Dean grinned and pulled you back toward the party. "Come on. Let's go be very convincing."
Dean was, it turned out, an excellent co-conspirator.
He had led you back into the main room with his hand on the small of your back, a small gesture, casual enough to be deniable, obvious enough to be noticed, and steered you toward the couch where Tucker and Beau had set up camp. You settled in close to him, closer than you normally would, and let the conversation wash over you while you tracked Logan from the corner of your eye.
It took approximately four minutes.
Logan had migrated from the kitchen to the edge of the living room, arms crossed, drink in hand, wearing an expression you had never seen on him before. Not angry exactly. Something tighter than that. Something controlled, but only barely.
Dean said something in your ear something about Tucker's costume, and you laughed and leaned into him, and across the room Logan's jaw tightened.
Good, you thought, and then immediately felt terrible about it, and then thought good again.
The night continued like that. Dean was committed to the bit in the way that only someone who was genuinely enjoying himself could be his arm around your shoulders, finding excuses to tuck your hair back, laughing at everything you said like you were the most interesting person in the room. It wasn't entirely unpleasant. Dean was funny and warm and completely unthreatening, which made it easy.
What was not easy was Logan.
He didn't leave. That was the first thing you noticed he had every opportunity to drift to another room, another conversation, and he didn't take a single one. He stayed in the periphery of wherever you were, a fixed point, his drink barely touched. He had stopped pretending to talk to people. At some point Tucker said something to him and he responded without looking away from you, which Tucker clearly clocked because he glanced between the two of you with an expression of dawning comprehension and wisely said nothing.
Once, you made direct eye contact with Logan across the room. Neither of you looked away for a long moment. Then Dean said your name and you turned, and when you looked back Logan had moved closer.
He was close enough now that you could hear him when he spoke, which he had started doing small insertions into the group conversation, technically friendly, with an edge underneath them that you recognized because you had never heard it from him before.
When Dean refilled your drink, Logan was suddenly beside him. "I'll get it."
"I've got it," Dean said pleasantly.
"I said I'll get it."
Dean looked at him. Logan looked back. The silence lasted exactly long enough to be uncomfortable.
"She likes more ice than you think," Logan said finally, which was such a specific and unguarded thing to say that Dean had to look away to keep from smiling.
He brought you the drink himself. Set it down in front of you without a word and went back to his position across the room, jaw tight, arms crossed, watching.
You picked up the drink. You took a sip. You did not look at him, which cost you more than you were prepared to admit.
Okay, you thought. So it's working.
The makeout was a decision.
You made it around midnight, when the party had gotten louder and the lights had gotten lower and Dean had pulled you onto the makeshift dancefloor with the easy confidence of someone who had committed fully to a plan and intended to see it through. You were dancing close, and it was working you could feel Logan's attention like a hand on the back of your neck and then you looked up at Dean and he raised an eyebrow, a question, and you thought about Logan swerving you on a quiet October afternoon and something in you made a decision.
You kissed Dean.
He kissed you back, because he was Dean and he was committed to the bit, and for a moment it was just that a kiss, warm and uncomplicated, Dean's hands steady on your waist.
You didn't hear Garrett coming. Nobody ever did.
"What the fuck?" His voice came from directly behind you, loud enough to cut through the music. You pulled back from Dean and turned around.
Garrett was standing there looking like he had just witnessed something that had personally offended him on a cellular level. Behind him, a few feet back, standing very still, was Logan.
"(y/n)." Garrett's voice had dropped into that register the one that meant he was trying very hard to be calm. "What is happening right now."
"I'm at a party, Garrett."
"You're…" He gestured at Dean, who had the presence of mind to take a small step back. "That's Dean."
"I'm aware of who it is."
"He lives in my house."
"Also aware."
"(y/n)"
"Garrett." You crossed your arms. "I am an adult at a college party. I don't need your commentary right now."
"I'm not — I'm just—" He stopped. Dragged a hand through his hair. Then, with the particular tone of someone who had not thought through what they were about to say before saying it: "Thank God. Logan went to get me — I thought something was actually wrong—"
The sentence landed in the middle of the room like something dropped from a height.
You went very still.
Logan went to get him.
Logan, who had been standing across the room all night with his arms crossed and his drink untouched and his jaw tight, had watched you kiss Dean and gone to get your brother instead of coming over himself.
You turned, slowly, and looked at Logan. He was looking back at you with an expression that was carefully, completely neutral, which was somehow the most infuriating thing you had ever seen on a human face.
"Garrett." Your voice came out quieter than you intended. "You want to talk about boundaries? Let's talk about boundaries. Let's talk about the fact that you have spent the last three years treating me like I'm something that needs to be managed. Like I'm a problem to be solved. I am your sister, not your assignment."
"I know that—"
"Do you?" You were properly angry now, the kind of angry that had been looking for a door for a long time and had finally found one. "Because from where I'm standing it looks a lot like you don't trust me to make a single decision about my own life without you swooping in to fix it. I kissed someone, Garrett. At a party. Like a normal person."
"I just—"
"You sent Logan to get you." Your voice cracked slightly on his name, which you hated, and pushed past. "Like I was a child who had wandered too close to the street. I'm twenty years old."
Garrett opened his mouth. Closed it. He looked, for the first time in the conversation, genuinely uncertain.
"I need some air," you said, and turned and walked toward the door.
You made it to the front porch before you heard footsteps behind you.
"(y/n)."
Logan's voice. Of course.
You kept walking down the porch steps, arms wrapped around yourself against the cold, and didn't turn around.
"Hey." He was closer now. "Can we—"
"Logan." You stopped walking but didn't turn. "Please don't."
"I just want to—"
"I said please." Your voice was steady, which surprised you. "I can't do this right now. I need you to leave me alone."
A long pause. The sounds of the party filtered out through the walls of the house, muffled and distant.
"Okay," Logan said quietly.
You heard him stop. Heard him not follow you. Stood there in the cold for a moment with your eyes closed, and then kept walking.
The week after the party, you became a ghost.
Not dramatically, you didn't make an announcement, didn't post anything, didn't give anyone the satisfaction of knowing they had gotten to you. You just quietly became unavailable. Texts went unanswered for hours, then days. You skipped the house visits. You stopped showing up to things you normally showed up to.
Garrett called twice. You let it ring both times and sent a voice memo that said I'm fine, just busy in a tone that made it very clear you were not interested in discussing it further. He texted after that, a long one, full of run-on sentences and no punctuation, and you read it three times and didn't respond.
Logan texted once. Just your name. A single word, no punctuation, no follow-up. You stared at it for a long time, lying on your bed in the dark, and said none of it. You set your phone face-down on the desk and went to sleep.
Or tried to.
The only people you talked to with any regularity were Hannah and Dean. Hannah because she never pushed, never pried, just showed up with iced coffee and terrible reality television and the quiet uncomplicated warmth of someone who liked you without needing anything from you. Dean because he was the only person who knew the full story and had the decency not to turn it into a conversation every time he saw you.
He did try, once.
"You can't hide forever," he said, sitting on the edge of your bed one afternoon while you stared at the ceiling.
"Watch me," you said.
He watched you for approximately eleven more days before he stopped saying anything about it at all.
The car situation came to a head on a Tuesday, which felt appropriate. Tuesdays had always had a particular talent for making things worse.
You had always known, in a vague and carefully unexamined way, that the car thing was unfair. Garrett had gotten one junior year of high school a practical, slightly dented Honda Civic that Phil Graham had handed over with a clap on the shoulder and a speech about responsibility that lasted four minutes. You had gotten a lecture about how young women didn't need to be driving alone at night, delivered in the measured, reasonable tone your father used when what he actually meant was something he knew better than to say out loud.
In college it hadn't mattered much. Campus was walkable, rideshares existed, and you had quietly become very skilled at organizing your life around other people's cars without ever quite admitting that was what you were doing.
And then the interview came up and the system collapsed.
The position was tutoring coordinator at a learning center in Boston — real money, flexible hours, the kind of thing that could genuinely change the shape of your year. Friday at nine. Boston. Forty minutes away on a good day.
You needed a car.
Which meant you needed to call your father.
Phil Graham suggested lunch, because Phil Graham always suggested lunch. It was his preferred format for any interaction he wanted to feel like generosity rather than transaction, a restaurant, a table, the performance of a normal family.
You took Dean with you without asking permission, which your father noticed immediately and acknowledged with a slight tightening around the eyes that lasted less than a second before his public face reassembled itself. He shook Dean's hand with the particular warmth he reserved for audiences and said it was nice to see one of Garrett's friends, and Dean smiled and you watched them take the measure of each other across the table.
Dean was good at this. You had not known, before today, exactly how good. He had a way of being present without inserting himself filling silences before they became uncomfortable, asking your father questions that were just interested enough to be flattering without being so specific that they required anything real. He ordered the second cheapest thing on the menu, sat up straight, and spent the meal being quietly, almost imperceptibly perfect, and you watched your father recalibrate in real time.
"I need a car," you said, when the food arrived. Straight to it.
Your father looked up from his plate. "A car."
"I have an interview in Boston on Friday morning. I need reliable transportation."
"You could take the train."
"The timing doesn't work for the train."
A pause. Your father cut into his steak with the precise unhurried movements of a man deciding how much something was going to cost him versus how it would look to say no in front of company.
"I'll look into it," he said.
"I'd prefer to sort it out today."
Dean took a sip of his water and looked pleasantly at the middle distance, which was exactly right.
Your father bought you a car three days later. A white Subaru, two years old, clean interior. He texted you the details with no preamble and no sentiment, and you picked it up from the dealership with Dean in the passenger seat reading the car manual out loud in a documentary narrator voice until you were laughing so hard you had to pull over.
It was, all things considered, one of the better days you'd had recently.
The tire went two weeks after the party, on a Friday morning, on a stretch of road so unremarkable it felt like an insult.
You heard it first a dull, percussive thud that traveled up through the wheel and into your hands, followed immediately by the lurch of the car pulling hard to the right. You steered onto the shoulder and sat there for a moment with both hands still on the wheel and the hazards blinking orange into the grey morning air.
Boston was forty minutes away. The interview was in just under two hours. You were wearing your good blazer.
You got out and looked at the tire. Flat. Completely, aggressively, unapologetically flat.
You got back in the car and called Dean.
"Tell me you know how to change a tire," you said, when he picked up.
"Good morning to you too."
"Dean. I have a flat tire and an interview in Boston in less than two hours."
A pause. The sound of someone sitting up. "Where are you?"
You told him. There was a longer pause the kind that meant he was deciding something you weren't privy to yet.
"I can't come," he said finally. "I'm on the other side of town and I don't have the truck. But I'm going to fix this. Give me ten minutes."
"If you send Garrett—"
"I'm not sending Garrett." His voice had gone careful. Deliberate. "Ten minutes. Stay put."
He hung up before you could argue.
You sat on the hood of your car in your good blazer and watched the morning traffic pass and tried very hard not to think about who else Dean might send. You had a short list. The list had one name on it.
Fourteen minutes later, a familiar dark truck pulled onto the shoulder behind you.
You closed your eyes briefly.
Dean, you thought. I am going to kill you.
Logan got out without hurrying, because he never hurried. He was in a worn grey shirt with the sleeves pushed up and dark jeans, carrying a jack and a spare tire with the easy competence of someone who had done this many times before, and the morning light was doing something completely unreasonable to the line of his jaw.
You crossed your arms.
"I didn't ask for you," you said, before he reached you.
"Dean called me." He crouched beside your tire and assessed the damage.
"I know Dean called you. I'm saying I didn't ask for you."
"I know." He ran his hand along the tire. "You've got a nail in the sidewall. It's not patchable."
"Logan—"
"You can be angry at me the whole time." He looked up at you briefly, and there was something in his expression that wasn't quite an apology and wasn't quite a plea but sat somewhere in between. "But you have an interview in an hour and forty minutes, so let me do this."
You looked at the road instead.
He worked quickly and without commentary loosening the bolts, positioning the jack, the methodical progression of someone who understood machines in a way that was almost meditative to watch. You tried not to watch. You watched anyway.
Once he glanced up and found you looking. You looked away first.
"This is a temporary spare," he said, after a while. "It'll get you around town but not highway speeds. Not safely." He stood and wiped his hands on his jeans. Then he reached into his pocket. "Take my truck."
"Absolutely not."
"Your interview—"
"I'm not taking your truck, Logan."
"Why not?"
Because taking his truck meant owing him something, and owing him something meant having a reason to come back, and coming back meant another conversation where you said something you couldn't take back and he looked at you with that expression and didn't say anything.
"Because it's your truck," you said.
"And your interview is in less than two hours." He held out the keys. "Take it. I'll stay here. Come by the house when you're done and we'll swap back."
"I can call a rideshare—"
"(y/n)." Just your name. Just that, quiet on the side of the road, and something about the way he said it made all the arguments feel very small. "Please."
You looked at him. He looked back, steady and patient, keys extended, and you were so tired of fighting things that weren't worth fighting anymore.
You took the keys.
"I'm paying for the tire," you said.
"You're not."
"Logan—"
"Go." The corner of his mouth moved, almost. "You're going to be late."
The interview went well. You thought about Logan the entire time.
You drove back in his truck, which smelled like cedar and old coffee and something else you couldn't name, and you sat in the driveway of the house for a moment before going in.
Logan was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a glass of water, and he looked up when you came in.
"How'd it go?" he asked.
"Good. Really good, actually." You set his keys on the counter. "Thank you. For the truck."
"Of course."
A silence settled. The television murmured from somewhere in the house. Tucker's laugh, distant and easy.
You should leave. You had told yourself on the drive over that you were going to return the keys and go clean and simple, no openings.
But you were so tired.
Tired of the almost-conversations and the loaded silences and the two years of carrying something that got heavier every time he looked at you like that and said nothing.
"I like you," you said.
The words came out quieter than you intended. Steadier than you expected. You watched them land.
Logan went very still.
"I know that's complicated," you continued. "I know about Garrett. I know that's why. I'm not asking you to do anything about it." You paused. "I just needed to say it out loud. I've been carrying it for two years and I needed to put it down somewhere."
Logan looked at you with an expression you had never seen on him before — open and unguarded and almost pained. His mouth opened.
"(y/n)—" he started, and his voice was different, lower
The back door opened.
Garrett came through it pulling off his jacket, mid-sentence about something to Tucker, and nearly walked into you before he registered you were there.
He stopped. For a moment he just looked at you. Then something cracked open in his expression relief and guilt and two weeks of missed calls all arriving at once.
"(y/n)." His voice was careful. "Hey. I didn't know you were here."
"Just returning the truck," you said. Perfectly normal. You were getting very good at it.
"Okay." He nodded slowly. Then, quieter: "Can we talk? It's been weeks and I—"
"I'm kind of in the middle of something," you said.
Behind you, almost inaudible, Logan said: "It's okay. Go."
You turned.
He was leaning against the counter with his arms crossed and his expression carefully arranged into something neutral, and he met your eyes for exactly one second before he looked at the floor.
"Logan—"
"Go talk to your brother." His voice was even. Controlled. "It's fine."
You stared at him. The word sat in the kitchen between you like something neither of you wanted to pick up.
Fine.
"Okay," you said. And turned away.
The conversation with Garrett lasted longer than ten minutes. They always did.
He sat across from you on the couch with his elbows on his knees and said: "I'm sorry about the party."
"Okay," you said.
"I didn't mean to embarrass you. I was worried."
"I know."
"I know you're an adult. I know you don't need me to—"
"Garrett." You looked at him. "I know you know. That's never been the question."
He was quiet. In the kitchen, the low sound of Tucker and Logan talking, the refrigerator opening and closing.
"Then what's the question?" he asked.
You thought about it. About his hands pressing your head against his chest in the dark. About the house that felt too big after your mother left. About the whole year he had stayed close without ever being asked.
"I think you learned to protect me at a time when I really needed it," you said carefully. "And I think you don't know how to stop. And I think—" your voice went slightly unsteady "—I'm always going to love you for the first part. I just need you to work on the second part."
Garrett looked at the floor. His jaw worked.
"Yeah," he said finally. "Yeah, okay."
It wasn't a resolution. It wasn't a fix. But it was the most honest thing you'd said to each other in years, and when you stood up to leave he pulled you into a hug that lasted long enough to mean something.
Logan was in the hallway when you came out.
Not waiting, exactly leaning against the wall with his phone in his hand, doing the convincing impression of someone who just happened to be there. He looked up when he heard you.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey." You picked up your bag. "I should go."
"(y/n)—"
"I meant what I said." Your voice came out gentler than you intended. "I'm not asking you for anything. You don't have to—"
"I know." He said it quickly. "I know you're not. I just—" He stopped. Something moved across his face. He pressed his mouth closed and looked at the ceiling briefly. "I heard you. What you said in the kitchen. I need you to know that I heard you."
You stood there with your hand on the door and the cold night air coming in.
"Okay," you said quietly.
And you left.
The guy's name was Eric.
He was in your economics lecture tall, easy smile, the kind of person who made friends without trying. He had asked to borrow a pen three weeks ago and somehow that had turned into sitting together, and sitting together had turned into coffee after class, and coffee after class had turned into texts that had nothing to do with economics.
You liked him well enough. He was uncomplicated in a way that felt, after everything, like something you might need.
You mentioned him to Hannah on a Thursday. Hannah mentioned him to Garrett on a Friday. Garrett mentioned him to the house on a Saturday, in the way Garrett mentioned things casually, as information, with the studied neutrality of someone who had learned to deliver news without editorializing.
Dean watched Logan's face when Garrett said the name.
Later, he would describe it as watching someone step on a piece of glass they hadn't seen coming.
Logan lasted four days.
Four days of being completely normal. Of practice and class and the house and dinner and conversations that had nothing to do with you. Four days of his phone on the table, not checking it, of going to bed at a reasonable hour and lying there for a long time.
On the fifth day, Dean knocked on his door.
"You have about forty eight hours," Dean said.
Logan looked up from the bed. "What?"
"Before she decides Eric is actually a good idea." Dean leaned against the doorframe. "She's not in love with him. She's barely interested. But she's trying, and she's good at trying, and if you wait much longer she's going to try herself right into actually meaning it."
"She deserves to be happy—"
"She deserves to be with someone who's been in love with her for two years, actually." He said it simply, without drama, the way you said things that were just true. "But that's just my opinion."
The word landed in the room and sat there.
In love.
Logan didn't correct him.
"Garrett—" he started.
"Talk to Garrett first if you need to," Dean said. "But do it tonight. Because forty eight hours is generous and I'm not known for being generous."
He left the door open when he walked out.
Logan found Garrett in the kitchen an hour later.
It was the conversation he had been avoiding for two years the one that lived in the back of his head every time you walked into a room, every time he had talked himself back from the edge of doing something about it.
"I need to talk to you about (y/n)," he said.
Garrett turned from the refrigerator. His expression moved through several things quickly before settling into something careful and still.
"Okay," he said.
"I like her." Logan held his gaze. "I've liked her for a long time. I should have said something to you before now and I'm sorry I didn't. But I'm saying it now because I can't not anymore."
The kitchen was very quiet.
Garrett looked at him for a long moment. Long enough that Logan had time to fully contemplate what losing his best friend would feel like, to turn it over, to decide that he was going to say it anyway.
"I know," Garrett said finally.
Logan blinked. "What?"
"I've known for a while." Garrett set his drink down. "I was waiting to see if you'd do something about it or if it would just go away."
"It didn't go away."
"No," Garrett said. "I can see that." He was quiet for a moment. "She's not easy to know. You know that."
"I know."
"And if you do this and it goes badly—"
"It won't."
"Logan—"
"It won't." He held Garrett's gaze. "I promise you it won't."
Garrett looked at him for one more long moment. Then he picked his drink back up and said, in the tone of someone changing the subject entirely: "She's probably at the sorority house."
You were on the porch when he pulled up.
You had come outside for air, just that, and you were sitting on the steps with a mug of tea going cold in your hands when you heard the truck. You knew the sound of that engine. Your stomach did the thing it always did.
He got out. Crossed the front path. Stopped at the bottom of the steps and looked up at you with an expression that had nothing careful about it — no composure, no distance. Just Logan, standing there looking like he had driven over without thinking it all the way through and wasn't sorry about it.
"There's a guy," he said. "Eric."
"I know who Eric is," you said slowly. "He's in my economics class."
"I know." His jaw worked. "I know, and I have no right to say anything about it. But I've been sitting in that house for four days and I can't—" He stopped. Tried again. "I can't watch you choose someone else because I was too much of a coward to say something."
You were very still.
"I talked to Garrett," he said.
"You—" You stared at him. "When?"
"Tonight." He took a step up, closing some of the distance. "I should have done it a long time ago. I should have done a lot of things a long time ago." He looked at you with an openness that was almost difficult to look at directly no walls, no distance, just the thing underneath all of it, which was apparently enormous. "I like you. I have liked you since the first time Garrett introduced us and you shook my hand and looked at me like you were trying to figure out what I was. And I have been handling it badly ever since and I'm sorry."
The street was quiet. The mug in your hands had gone completely cold.
"Eric is fine," you said. Your voice was slightly unsteady. "He's a perfectly nice person."
"I know."
"I'm not in love with him."
"I know that too." Logan's voice dropped slightly. "Is it too late? Because Dean said—"
"What did Dean say?"
"That I had forty eight hours."
You looked at him.
"Dean gave you forty eight hours," you said.
"He said it was generous."
"He's right, it was." You stood, which put you on the same level as him, close enough that you didn't have to look up anymore. "I was going to give you until the end of the month."
Something broke open in his expression. "Yeah?"
"Don't make it a thing," you said, and kissed him.
He kissed you back immediately, no hesitation, one hand coming up to the back of your neck and the other finding your waist, and it was nothing like October — none of the uncertainty, none of the held breath. This was certain. This was two years of accumulated patience finally running out, from both directions at once.
When you pulled back he was smiling — a real one, unguarded, the one you had always liked best on him.
"For the record," he said, "the first time you shook my hand I thought about it for three days."
"I know," you said. "I could tell."
He laughed. You smiled. Down the street a light came on in someone's window, and the night was cold, and two years of almost finally became something else entirely.
Summary: It’s Bucky’s birthday and you and your friends are planning a surprise party. That leaves you with the task to distract him while the others prepare.
Prompt 1: “I think we need to talk.”
Prompt 2: “I don’t owe you an explanation.”
Prompt 3: “Kiss me.”
Word Count: 7.6k
Warnings: friends to lovers; reader is embarrassed and rather terrible at attempting to distract Bucky; Bucky is smug; Bucky is worried; Sam and Steve are idiots; feels; pining; tension; Bucky is a sweetheart
Author’s Note: This is another entry for the lovely cinema themed writing challenge by @elixirfromthestars ♡ I hope you’re not getting tired of me participating, my dear, but I couldn’t help it. Especially since you were the one inspiring me to write this about college!bucky. I'll have to thank you for that!! Hope you enjoy! ♡
Masterlist
You always knock four times.
It’s instinctive at this point, muscle memory more than conscious thought. You don’t even remember when or how it started, but it's always fours knocks.
The door swings open within seconds, revealing Bucky’s easy and bright grin. He leans against the frame, arms crossed over his broad chest, hair slightly tousled, perhaps from running his hands through it. God, he looks great.
“Hey, doll,” he greets, voice warm. “You’re early.”
You arch a brow, stepping past him when he shifts to let you in. “It’s your birthday, Buck. What kind of friend would I be if I left you alone, huh?”
Bucky exhales a short sigh, but his smile stays in place. “Told you, it’s not a big deal.”
“‘Course it is, Buck,” you argue, almost indignant at the thought. Because if anyone deserves a day where people get to celebrate him, it’s James Buchanan Barnes.
But he doesn’t make much of his birthday. He doesn’t like attention when he hasn’t earned it.
It’s why he loves the mound, standing there under stadium lights with all eyes on him, but loathes things like this - birthdays, personal praise, anything that forces him into a spotlight just for existing. You suppose that’s just part of who he is.
You saw him earlier, in university. You shared one class today. He walked in a few minutes late, baseball cap pulled low, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder.
You had been waiting for him, barely able to contain your excitement as you nearly launched yourself at him in the hallway with a cheerful happy birthday, Bucky!
He had only blinked, slightly startled at your enthusiasm before huffing out a laugh when you crushed him in a tight hug. But he hadn’t complained, only chuckled softly, winding his arms around you and pressing his hands to your back, waiting for you to be the first to pull away again.
You told him he'd receive his present later the day with a grin and Bucky only rolled his eyes with a fond smile, letting you have your moment.
But what Bucky doesn’t know is that there is a surprise party awaiting him later, planned by you and your shared group of friends - because somebody has to make sure that today doesn’t pass like it is just another day.
Sam’s apartment is the only logical choice, given that his roommate dropped out and no one had rushed to fill the space yet. That means lots of room, plus an open invitation to make a mess.
The only issue is that Sam’s apartment is directly across the hall from Bucky and Steve’s.
Which means you have been assigned a very specific task - keep Bucky in his apartment until it’s time.
Not that you had much say in the matter. The moment the question came up about who would be the one distracting him that long, every pair of eyes landed on you.
You are his best friend, but - and that’s how you see it - so is everyone else. Still, they seemed to believe that you could hold his attention for long enough, that you could keep him engaged enough not to notice the shuffle of footsteps and suspicious voices beyond his door. That it would be you who he doesn’t mind having around, lingering in his space.
Honestly, you didn’t argue.
There is not a reason as to why you should. Any excuse to spend time with Bucky is a good one.
After all, you love the guy. But that’s a problem for another day.
You drop your bag on the worn-out armchair by the window, the same spot you always claim when you are here.
Bucky’s jacket is slung over the back of the chair, and the second your bag lands on it, the scent of his cologne drifts up - clean, something woodsy, something him. It distracts you for a second, but then you turn to face him again.
He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans after closing the door again.
“Where’s Steve?” you ask casually, like you don’t already know he is across the hall, making sure everything is set up for the surprise. But you don’t know what he told Bucky.
“He said somethin’ about running some drills with the rookies, helping out the coach, or whatever,” Bucky answers, tilting his head in that unconcerned way. He slowly makes his way toward you. “Guess one of them nearly took his own damn head off trying to hit a curveball.”
One of your brows lifts amused. “And Steve’s the guy to fix that?”
Bucky smirks. “Well, y’know how he is. Someone fucks up a throw, suddenly he’s gotta be the one to teach ‘em how to do it right.” He shakes his head, like the whole thing is ridiculous.
“Yeah, sounds like Steve,” you state, trying to suppress a knowing smile.
You lean your hip against the kitchen counter, arms loosely crossed, trying to keep it casual. The apartment is small, with the kitchen bleeding into the living space, a single couch, and a coffee table taking up a lot of the room. You love it.
“So, what do you feel like doing?” You tip your head toward him. “You’re the birthday boy, you get to decide.”
Bucky scoffs, lips curling, finding your antics amusing. But then, he actually seems to consider it. His hands slip from his pockets, arms crossing as he leans back slightly against the table. His gaze falls to the window. Sunlight spills in, casting golden lines across the floor and making your hair gleam.
“You wanna go get some ice cream or somethin’?” he suggests. “It’s warm out.”
You blink, caught off guard. Bucky isn’t usually the one to propose going out. It takes a little coaxing most days, a push to get him moving and leave his apartment to meet your group of friends somewhere outside. You wonder what he would have said if anyone else were the one distracting him.
But you can’t take him up on it. Because you can’t let him leave and potentially find out.
“Uh-no,” you say, a little too quickly, a little too firmly.
Bucky’s brows lift, a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. “No?” He huffs a laugh, shifting his weight onto one foot, arms still folded. His voice takes on that slow, teasing drawl. “You just asked me what I wanna do, doll. Thought I got to decide? Y’know, birthday and all that.”
You just started this distracting thing and you are already messing up. Great.
You scramble for a way to walk it back, to keep him here without making it obvious. “Yeah, you know, I just-” You glance around as if the answer is hidden somewhere in the room. “Why don’t we stay inside?”
Bucky watches you, eyes narrowing just slightly, trying to puzzle you out. He doesn’t look suspicious. But there is a curiosity in it.
“Why?” he drags the word out, tilting his head. “Something wrong with ice cream? We could also go get some tacos maybe-”
“No! Nothing’s wrong with ice cream.” You force a laugh, waving your hand dismissively. “I just figured we could chill here for a bit.” You bite your lip, then continue. “We could bake you a cake?”
You would love to face-palm yourself right now.
Why would you even say that?
There will be plenty of cake at the party. Cake that’s already been ordered, picked out, baked yourself, and waiting across the hall. And yet, here you are, offering something completely unnecessary, completely ridiculous.
God, you are terrible at this.
Bucky’s blue eyes are on you, considering, lips parting, about to say something.
Panic rises.
“Or not,” you blurt, stepping forward too fast, too sudden, hands coming up in a vague, dismissive gesture. “Yeah, maybe not. That’s dumb. Forget I said anything.”
You shift where you stand, fingers twitching at your sides. You don’t get nervous around Bucky - at least, not like this. But something hot and uncomfortable starts to creep up the back of your neck.
A slow smirk pulls at Bucky’s mouth as he watches you with so much amusement in his eyes, enjoying whatever the hell this is turning into.
“You alright over there, doll?” he asks, voice warm, teasing.
You scoff, rolling your eyes, trying to keep your cool. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You sure?” He tilts his head, a lock of dark hair falling into his eyes. “Cause you’re actin’ a little funny.”
You open your mouth, a retort or something like it ready, but Bucky suddenly leans in just a fraction, gaze sweeping over your face like he is searching for something. And yeah shit, you need to shut this down. Now. Or you’ll be a hot mess on the floor.
“Just forget it.” You shrug and then move away from him, toward the fridge, suddenly very interested in whatever’s inside. “You want something to drink?”
You don’t look back at him immediately, don’t give him a chance to see the way you feel your face warm up. Instead, you grab two small bottles of orange juice, shoving one in his direction as a distraction.
Bucky takes it easily, but that amused smirk does not waver a tiny bit. He is still watching you.
Bucky is no idiot. And if you’re not careful, he’s going to catch on fast.
You twist the cap of the bottle a little forcefully, the plastic groaning in your grip. The cold of it seeps into your palm, but it’s not enough to steady the way your heart is beating a little too fast. Taking a sip of the juice, you try to swallow past the lump in your throat.
He has always been observant. Even more so when it comes to you. You wish, just this once, that he'd be a little more dense.
“You gonna tell me what’s up with you today?” he asks, voice colored with curiosity, dipping just enough into concern that you flinch internally.
“I don’t owe you an explanation.”
It’s defensive, but all it does is amuse him. His lips curve, his brows shoot high, the lines on his forehead creasing in exaggerated surprise.
Leaning against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest, his own bottle loosely held in one hand, he tips his head back and studies you. “That how we’re playin’ it, huh?”
You shrug, taking another sip of your juice, using the movement as an excuse to break eye contact. But you know it does not deter him.
Bucky makes a thoughtful noise, shifting his weight. “Y’know,” he drones out, tone lazy but eyes sharp and smirk sly. “Usually when people get all cagey like this, it means they’re hidin’ something.”
You shoot him a hopefully flat look. “Wow, Barnes. That’s some real detective work. You want to get a notepad? Maybe a magnifying glass?”
His smirk widens. He seems thoroughly entertained. You don’t like it.
“Depends,” he teases, leaning in just a fraction. “Do I need ‘em?”
Your pulse spikes. Bastard.
With an obvious eye roll that unfortunately lacks the conviction you tried to portray, you cross the room, shoulders set, and let yourself drop into the armchair where your bag still rests with a heavy thud. The cushions soften the impact. Trying to feign the usual comfort you feel sitting here, you tuck one leg under the other, leaning back. Your hands tighten around the still cold bottle of juice.
Bucky doesn’t move right away. He is still standing by the counter, bottle in hand, eyes never leaving you.
“Do you want to watch something?” you ask, reaching for the remote, already trying to steer this back into safe waters.
Bucky exhales through his nose, humor lining the corners of his eyes. His stance is easy and relaxed, but he looks at you like he knows something is off.
“Is this me deciding?” he muses, voice smooth. “Or are you just gonna tell me no again?”
There is no accusation in his tone, just that familiar Brooklyn drawl that makes everything sound like an inside joke.
He finally moves, dragging his body toward the couch. He doesn’t plop down like you did. He settles himself with intent and leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his entire focus trained on you like you are the most interesting thing in the room.
You swallow.
“You’ll get to decide,” you promise, trying for nonchalance.
Bucky glances at the dark TV screen, then back at you.
“Nah,” he claims. “Let’s talk.”
Your stomach drops.
Bucky never lets things go when he is curious. You see the spark in his eyes, the glint of amusement, the way the corners of his mouth twitch with that smirk. He knows you are acting weird. Maybe he doesn’t know why, but he sure as hell knows something is up and he is going to dig.
You inhale deeply, fighting the urge to groan. But all you do is force a casual shrug, stretching your arms over your head before letting them drop back into your lap. “What do you want to talk about?”
Your fingers fidget with the label on the bottle, a nervous little movement you don’t mean to make. Bucky’s gaze flickers down to your hands and you freeze, immediately stilling them, letting the bottle rest in your lap and shoving your hands between your thighs.
His eyes snap back to yours, lips curving up.
“You,” he says simply.
You roll your eyes, feigning playful annoyance, because if you don’t, you might actually combust on the spot. “Oh, come on,” you scoff.
For the next few minutes, you actually manage to let a conversation drift to normal things. The familiar back-and-forth. You talk about classes, you being annoyed at that one professor who has a habit of trailing off mid-lecture, forgetting what he is actually supposed to talk about. Bucky tells you about his brutal morning training session that left half the team groaning like old men.
You bring up his next baseball game, the one you won’t be able to make because of an assignment, and Bucky whines.
He doesn’t just complain a little but rather goes on about it for minutes on end. Arms flailing, huffing dramatically, groaning like you just told him his dog died.
“You could just skip,” he protests, lounging back into the couch.
“I can’t just skip, Bucky.”
“But I need my lucky charm,” he laments, throwing his head back against the cushion as if this is some great tragedy.
You roll your eyes but there is warmth rising in your chest. “I’m sorry, Buck. But I did come to all your games last month.”
“Yeah, which is why you owe me,” Bucky retorts, sitting up again, gesturing with his hands. “I hit a homer 'cause you were there. What if I suck without you?”
“I’m sure you’ll survive,” you laugh, but Bucky grumbles under his breath, not quite over it.
It starts to feel normal. Easy. You begin to believe that you might actually pull this off. That you can keep him here, keep him occupied, long enough for your friends across the hall to finish setting up.
But then a loud thump echoes from the hallway.
Your spine goes rigid.
Bucky’s head snaps up, his grin replaced with a furrowed brow.
Another thud.
Yeah, so, that was that.
You fumble for your phone and type out a quick text to Sam.
Y: What are you guys doing out there?
The reply comes almost immediately.
S: Just keep Barnes inside.
You would love to curse loudly right now. Because thank you for nothing, Sam.
Bucky is already standing.
“What are you doing?” you ask, standing up as well, your voice perhaps a little sharper than usual.
Bucky glances at you briefly. There is a tiny bit of concern in his eyes. “There’s something goin’ on out there.” He gestures toward the door. “Think I should check. Might be Miss Nelly.”
Something clenches in your gut.
Miss Nelly, the sweet older woman who lives next door to him and Steve. The one they always help carry groceries up the stairs. The one who has trouble with her hip sometimes. If Bucky thinks she might have fallen, or perhaps tried to carry something on her own, of course, he wants to check.
But that is not what is happening out there.
You rush to step between him and the door. “Let me check.”
Bucky shakes his head. “You wait here, doll. I’ll be back in a sec-”
But you don’t let him finish.
You throw the door open and basically slam it shut behind you before he can follow.
Yes, that was perhaps a little rude. Yes, that will probably only make him more suspicious. Yes, you could have come up with something better. But you certainly did not have the time to think about what exactly.
Right outside, Sam and Steve are standing there - in front of the open door to Sam's apartment where a chair lays with its backside on the floor - wide-eyed, looking about as guilty as two kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar.
You would have laughed at the sight if not for the fact that you just slammed Bucky’s own apartment door basically in his face without an explanation.
“What the hell are you guys doing?” you hiss, voice low, exasperated.
Sam lifts his hands in a calm down gesture. “Listen-”
“No, you listen,” you snap, whisper-shouting, barely resisting the urge to grab them by their collars and shake them. “He’s two seconds away from walking out that door.”
Steve grimaces, rubbing the back of his neck. “We, uh, we miscalculated.”
“Miscalculated?” you repeat, eyes narrowing.
They both exchange a glance.
You sigh in frustration. “Where’s Nat?”
“Out with Bruce getting drinks,” Steve answers, folding his arms. “Wanda, Clint, and Laura are inside, decorating.”
“Look,” Sam starts, raising a brow. “We’re bustin’ our asses for this dickhead, and you’re the one who came up with the whole thing in the first place.”
“That’s not-”
“So you gotta do your part. Go back in and stall him some more” A grin spreads across his face and he waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “I don’t know - offer him a good time.”
Your eyes narrow, hands on your hips. “Sam.”
Steve sighs, shaking his head, but there is an unmistakable smirk tugging at his lips.
You glare at them both, spinning on your heel before they can make this worse, yanking the door open and stepping back inside the apartment.
Bucky is exactly where you left him.
Arms crossed. Eyebrows raised. Lips parted slightly, caught between confusion and suspicion.
He is wearing that what the hell was that expression.
You swallow and shut the door more forcefully than necessary, the sound echoing slightly.
Bucky doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just fixes you with a stare so focused, so piecing, seemingly able to look right through you. It makes you shift where you stand, suddenly hyper-aware of every nervous tick in your body.
“Alright,” he starts slowly, carefully, eyes falling to the door before turning back to you. “What’s goin’ on?”
“Not Miss Nelly,” you quip, attempting a light and assuring tone.
It does not work.
Bucky still doesn’t blink. His jaw works. He doesn’t buy a damn thing you’re trying to sell him.
“No, doll.” His voice is lower now, thoughtful, putting together a puzzle in his head. “What’s going on with you?”
You try to press down the lump in your throat.
“You’re actin’ real weird.” His words aren’t harsh, not even accusing. Just observant.
He cocks his head slightly.
Why did the others think you could withstand the way his eyes root you to the spot without flopping down to the ground as a puddle.
You are so screwed.
You push yourself out of the conversation, walking over to the armchair again and trying to find something to keep you busy while plopping down.
“It’s nothing, Bucky.”
Your fingers curl around the juice bottle, bringing it to your lips, but the cold liquid doesn’t do much to cool the heat crawling up your spine. Your thumb works at the label, picking at the paper until it peels away in small, curling strips.
Bucky blows out a breath, rubbing a hand down his face before slowly making his way over to you.
Crouching in front of you, he braces his forearms on his knees, his eyes intently locked onto you.
The sudden closeness forces you to suck in a breath and your fingers tighten around the bottle in your hands.
His expression shifts again, humor creeping into the smirk on his mouth. “Doll,” he starts, voice light, amused. His hands slide up to rest on either side of your chair, effectively caging you in. “Did you plan somethin’ for me?”
Shit.
Your next inhale is a little hesitant. The air thickens. “No.” It sounds too stiff.
Bucky raises an eyebrow. He is smirking so wide. Enjoying this so much, the way you squirm in your seat before him.
You push forward, shaking your head. “No, Buck. I did not.”
“You sure?” He almost laughs.
“Yes, I just-” You are floundering, drowning in your own words. How can you save this now?
“I’m nervous.” Well, at least that’s not a lie.
Bucky’s expression softens immediately, his amusement fading into something quieter. He straightens up, tilting his head tenderly. His full attention is on you.
A gentle crease in his brows forms. “Why are you nervous, sweetheart?” His voice is softer now, lower.
And guilt hits you.
How do you get out of this?
But, hell, he is so close, too close. His eyes are so blue, too blue. His gaze is so intense, too intense. You are feeling hot, too hot - your brain isn’t working, it’s overheating, and your mouth is suddenly moving.
“Because.” Shut up, shut up, shut up. “Because I think we need to talk.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
The entirety of Bucky shifts and you just want the ground to eat you up right this second.
Because now he looks so worried. So genuinely concerned.
You feel yourself start to sweat. Where is this going? Why can’t you stop this? Why did you even start it?
Bucky’s face drops to a frown so deep, lines are forming. A hand of his moves, palm landing lightly on your knee.
“We can talk, doll.” His voice is even softer now, barely above a murmur. “Is something wrong? You alright?”
You just stare at him.
Your heart is hammering.
What the hell are you doing?
Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as your fingers keep worrying at the torn label, peeling off strips that crumple beneath your fingertips. It’s the only thing you want to focus on right now with Bucky’s proximity and his intense gaze.
But then his hands replace the bottle and he grasps your fingers, wrapping around them and stilling their fidgeting.
Something electric rushes through your veins so quickly, you couldn’t catch it if you tried.
This is getting way too serious.
Too intimate in a way that sends your pulse skittering up your throat.
You feel like a deer caught in headlights, your body tensing up, lungs forgetting how to work properly. Because this is veering dangerously off course, heading straight for a conversation you’re not sure you’re ready to have. You never thought you’d ever be ready.
But you started this. You walked straight into it with your own words, and there is no backing out now. So you might as well be honest now.
No time like the present.
Bucky must feel the way your hands begin to tremble in his hold, because he adjusts again, shifting closer, his knees pressing against the base of your chair. His thumbs trace over the backs of your hands. His frown deepens.
Why does he have to be so worried? It would make things so much easier if he remained casual and easy. But really, that’s how Bucky always is. Worrying so fast when it comes to you. You can’t really blame this on him now, can you?
His voice drops lower, soft as a whisper. “What is it, sweetheart?” His eyes are full and searching. “Talk to me.”
Air hitches, stalling between your ribs before pushing forward in a rather trembling exhale. Your lungs barely feel full. Your eyes dart away from his, searching the room, the floor, anywhere but him.
“Did I upset you? Is it something I did-”
“No!” you rush out, hastily. “No, you didn’t do anything, Buck.” God, now he even goes that far. This is bad.
Bucky softens a tiny fraction, but he keeps sweeping his eyes over your face, latching on the details, trying to study you, trying to read what this is about. “You can tell me, doll. Always. Whatever it is,” he coos so sweetly, and it makes you want to cry.
How do you even start this?
You open your mouth. You’re certainly not ready to climb the whole mountain, but perhaps you can try a small hill.
“Do you-” You swallow, trying to sound as if you are simply reminiscing. “Do you remember that time after your game last year when it started pouring the second we left the stadium?”
Bucky blinks at the sudden turn. Confusion enters his features but the worry only deepens. “What?”
You push forward, gaze fixed on the arm of your chair as if it might give you the courage you need. “You gave me your jersey, even though I already had a jacket and you were the one soaking wet-”
Bucky’s brows pull further together, his head shaking slowly, not knowing what to do with your words. “Doll-”
“You walked me all the way back to my apartment.” Your voice turns quieter as if you are speaking more to yourself than him. Perhaps you are. Saying those things out loud makes them seem so much more important. “And then you got sick for three days.”
His hands squeeze yours gently. “I mean- Yeah, I remember.” Confusion also settles in his tone. “But what’s that got to do with-”
“I don’t know,” you cut in quickly. “I just-” You exhale a deep sigh. “I think about that a lot.”
Bucky says your name like it is something delicate. Something that might slip away if he is not careful.
“Look at me, please.”
You try, but it’s hard.
It means staring into those impossibly blue eyes that see too much, that strip you bare without even trying, that try to coax something out of you, you didn’t even plan on letting go.
But you force yourself to lift your gaze and it is worse than you expected.
He is watching you with an intensity that makes you stop breathing. His stormy eyes are so full of concern, so desperate to understand what is going on in your head, searching every inch of your face.
His lips are parted slightly. His breathing is sharper. Uneven.
“What’s going on, hm?” he coaxes, so softly, so full of patience you don’t deserve. “What’s this about? You still feelin’ guilty?”
Your heart plummets like a stone.
“Doll, there’s no need to, alright?” His hands squeeze yours, grounding, reassuring. “We talked about this.”
God, why does he have to be so good?
His voice is so warm. Warm like sunlight, like home. It makes the sting behind your eyes grow stronger.
You don’t want to cry.
You don’t want to feel this way. Don’t want to ruin his fucking birthday like this. This is getting so out of hand right now, but what should you do? You are so tangled up in trying to figure out what to say, things you are too much of a coward to finally admit out loud.
Bucky notices your struggles. He sees them. Plain on your face. His thumbs brush over your skin in careful strokes. “And you took such good care of me.” His tone lightens, trying to pull you out of whatever hole you’re sinking into. “Remember that part?”
You nod, swallowing and swallowing but the clump of emotions stays stuck in your throat. “Yeah.” Your voice comes out flat, like you are detached from it. “I do. Sorry for bringing it up.”
Bucky’s lips press together, and then he sighs so deeply, his chest rises and falls profoundly.
“Doll,” he murmurs, straightening up, arms beside you tensing as though he is holding himself back from doing something. “That’s not what you wanted to talk about.”
He’s right.
“Darlin’, please,” he urges, and god, the way that word falls from his lips makes you shudder. His voice is barely above a whisper now, full of something genuine, something tender, something that makes him sound like he wishes you would just talk to him, and it makes you want to shrink down to something he can’t see anymore. “What is it?”
You could lie. Again.
You could laugh it off, steer the conversation away, keep pretending.
You could drag this out further until the others are ready, leaving him worried and slightly upset.
You could tell him the truth about the party.
Or you could finally come clean about the feelings you have held in your heart for so long. Feelings for your best friend.
Drawing in a breath, you straighten slightly. Your hands, still held in his, still shaking, squeeze back. His eyes never waver from your face, tracing the contours of your features.
You clear your throat, but it doesn’t help much. “Uhm,” you croak. “I- I wanted- I need to tell you something.”
His fingers twitch around yours. His features fall into a deep concentration. He doesn’t rush you. Just watches. Waits.
And god, his eyes are pools you never learned to swim in.
You look away, at the wall behind him. “I’ve been wanting to tell you this for a while now, I guess. But-” You inhale a quivering breath. “But I was afraid. Because I don’t know how you’ll react.”
Bucky doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. His chest rises and falls deeply, almost mechanically. There is something almost spellbound in the way he stares at you, completely locked in, completely yours. The only sign that he has heard you is the subtle press of his fingers against yours.
His head dips in a nod for you to go on.
You wet your lips. “I, uhm-”
But then something catches your attention.
The door to Bucky’s and Steve’s apartment opens.
Painstakingly slow.
You stiffen.
Bucky is still so enamored with what you were saying, he doesn’t seem to notice at first. His back is to the door.
You see heads peeking through the small gap, cautious, bodies frozen in an awkward crouch as if that makes them less noticeable.
Steve and Sam.
They are trying to slip in without a sound, their movements so unbelievably slow, exaggerated. They resemble cartoon characters sneaking through a heist.
Sam motions at you wildly, gesturing at Bucky, at himself, at the hallway, mouthing something like distract him! Keep him busy.
They almost make it, but Bucky catches the small reaction of you, the surprise. His senses are too tuned in to every little thing about you and with his brows knit together, he shifts to glance over his shoulder.
You don’t think about anything.
Your hands rip from his, and before he can turn fully, before he can see those two idiots, you grab his face.
Bucky jolts, startled, his breath hitching audibly. His skin is warm beneath your palms, the sharp angle of his jaw fitting perfectly against your hands. His wide eyes snap back to you, dumbfounded, searching.
He blinks at you. Then blinks again. Then simply stares.
His lips part slightly, breath brushing over your skin.
Your heart slams against your ribs.
This is close. Too close. Closer than you’ve ever been. Well, but not closer than you’ve let yourself imagine. But having him here in reality is something else entirely.
Sam throws you a thumbs up over Bucky’s head and a wiggle of his brows and the both of them disappear from sight into the hallway.
But you just made this worse.
And you are still holding his face between your hands.
Bucky’s lashes flicker, but he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t fight it. Just stares at you like you’ve done something earth-shattering, like you’ve just rewritten every unspoken rule between you in a single, desperate motion.
Your pulse is a drum against your throat.
You see Bucky’s pulse thunder in his neck.
But he doesn’t move. You don’t move either.
He doesn’t breathe. You don’t know if you do.
He watches you. You watch him back.
“Doll?” Bucky practically breathes the question.
You swallow hard. Opening your mouth doesn’t help with finding words, so you shut it again. Slowly, you pull your hands away from his face.
But Bucky still doesn’t move.
His breath is still broken, his lips still parted, his brows still slightly drawn, stuck somewhere between surprise and something so deep, you’d be falling endlessly.
He is leaning in just the slightest bit, as though his body hasn’t quite caught up with his mind, not even realizing he is doing it.
And you hate the way your chest aches at the look in his eyes.
There is so much all at once and the more you stare, the harder it gets.
“I’m sorry,” you mumble, dropping your gaze.
But there is movement in your peripheral.
Steve and Sam are creeping back out of the hallway, lugging something that looks like Bucky’s speaker system from his room.
And god help you, they are still moving at a snail’s pace, their motions so exaggerated, so painfully slow and obvious that you want to scream. You grit your teeth.
Fortunately, Bucky is still just staring at you, stunned.
The two are just about to reach the door, so close to getting through this ridiculous charade, when Sam’s end of the box bumps against the shoe shelf.
The sound isn’t loud, but it’s enough. Enough for Bucky’s head to instinctively turn toward the noise. Enough for his body to shift just slightly.
Your brain short-circuits.
Like completely.
Totally.
Lacking any sense.
Not only do you pull his face back.
You pull it in.
“Kiss me,” you blurt, and it’s not soft, not sweet, not anything carefully planted - it’s desperate, panicked.
Bucky’s whole face just goes wide, pure shock filtering out anything else.
Another bump.
You’re not sure Bucky even heard it, but your lips crash onto his with urgency.
Bucky freezes.
And when you say freeze, you mean freeze.
Every muscle in his body turns to stone. His hands flex before going rigid, floating in the air. His breath stalls. His spine goes straight, and the grunt he lets out - so low and gravelly, caught deep in his throat - reverberates into your mouth.
But behind him, Steve and Sam go as still. Dead silent.
You can feel them watching, their eyes practically bulging out of their skulls.
For a full few seconds, nothing happens.
But then, there is a shift. You don’t see it, but you know it. The way their disbelief turns into something smug - something amused and downright delighted. You feel the way Sam’s mouth probably stretches into that toothy and knowing, cocky-ass grin. You feel the way Steve simply looks happy.
You don’t pull away.
Instead, you wave one frantic hand behind Bucky’s back, motioning wildly, trying to get them to move.
You open an eye to see them still staring, Steve blinking rapidly, Sam grinning like a fool, nudging Steve.
But then, finally, they start creeping out of the room again.
They are gone now.
Bucky still isn’t moving.
He’s not breathing.
He’s not reacting.
And the tension stretches so tight, you swear the air could snap in half.
Because this isn’t just a distraction anymore.
This isn’t just a cover-up.
Your lips are still on Bucky’s.
Your hands are still gripping his face.
And his are trembling where they hover near your knees, as if he wants to touch you, wants to move, but his brain is still struggling to catch up with what is happening.
Then the tension snaps.
Bucky exhales against you.
It’s not just a breath - it’s a surrender. A sharp and shuddering exhale that stirs against your lips, warm and tentative, as if he is trying to feel what is happening, trying to understand the shape of this moment.
His hands flex and twitch against your legs, but he is hesitant, as if waiting for something, waiting for you to pull back, waiting for this to be some kind of mistake.
But you don’t pull back.
You don’t want to pull back.
And that’s when he melts.
He sinks into the kiss, his body softening, folding inward toward you. His fingers slide up your legs, brushing tenderly against the fabric of your pants before settling on your hips, cautious, like he doesn’t want to break the moment, doesn’t want to take too much.
Then, his lips move. It’s a slow, searching motion, testing the waters, trying to figure you out. His mouth is warm, his lips so much softer than you imagined. And hell, did you imagine.
He makes a sound - low and unsure, a hum deep in his throat that vibrates against your lips. His movements are careful, almost disbelieving. Like he is afraid this will disappear if he lets himself want it too much.
But then something changes.
Your nails lightly run over his neck, thumbs over his jawline.
And you feel the exact second the hesitation snaps.
He pulls you in.
His hands tighten, fingers digging into your hips, pulling you forward to the edge of the seat, into his chest, his grip growing needy, desperate. He seems to have been starving for this, like something in him has just broken loose.
The kiss turns deeper, heavier, a push and pull of breath and movement. He kisses you with searching urgency, trying to memorize the exact shape of your mouth, the way you feel pressed against him, the way you taste.
His lips part, just for a moment, and then he dares to press in a little more, tilting his head, fitting his mouth more firmly against yours.
He makes another sound - this time rougher, needier - a groan that slips through the space between you.
You can feel the want in the way he kisses you, in the way he angles his head to take more, to taste more, and damn if it does not overwhelm you.
The way his fingers tighten their hold, his thumbs brushing just beneath the hem of your shirt, needing to feel your warmth.
And the way he breathes you in, each exhale shaky, each inhale sharper, like he is drunk on this, on you.
Your hands find purchase in his hair, fingers tangling in the strands at the nape of his neck, and the second you pull just so slightly, he makes a sound.
A gravelly noise that shoots straight through you, heat curling at the base of your spine.
He is kissing you like he can’t help it anymore. As if he has been waiting for this exact moment, for you, for so long that he’s past the point of fighting it.
You thought he’d pull away. You thought he’d startle and demand an explanation, eyes sharp with suspicion, voice laced with confusion. But he doesn’t.
His lips only press more firmly against yours, his nose sweeping against your cheek, his chest rising and falling unevenly, breathing erratic as if he is just as lost in this as you are.
Your heart is hammering so violently in your chest, you think he must hear it, must feel it where your body is pressed to his. Your hands are slightly trembling, sliding to curl into the fabric of his shirt, holding onto him. Because you have to hold on. You have to anchor before you fall, before you slip too deep into the intoxicating pull of him and lose all sense of self.
But maybe you already have.
Because he is kissing you as though he’s afraid this is a dream, testing the edges of reality with every careful, exploring movement of his tongue and lips.
He tastes like something warm, something safe, something like the orange juice you two have been drinking, something wholly Bucky. Every press of his lips, every brush of his tongue against yours, is stealing a coherent thought from your mind.
This was supposed to be a distraction. This was supposed to be a lie.
But hell, it’s not.
It’s everything you’ve ever wished for.
When you pull away, both breathless and panting, his forehead stays against yours.
Your pulse is so fast, so fluttering, and you know he can feel it, the way it thrums in your chest, in your throat, in the slight tremor of your fingers still curled loosely in his shirt.
His hot and shuddering exhale fans over your lips and it’s maddening how much you want to taste them again, how much you want to fall right back into him.
You open your eyes.
His are already on you, so close, so intent, so devastatingly blue that they don’t help at all in trying to regain a healthy breathing rate. There is something in them, something soft and devoted, something awed, like he can’t quite believe you are real, that this is real.
A shiver works its way down your spine, leaving goosebumps in its way and Bucky sees it. He feels it. His grin widens, slow and boyish almost, something that makes him look young and light, like something is lifted off his shoulders.
Your name is a breath that leaves his lips with the kind of care reserved for wishes made on falling stars.
It sends another shudder through you, and his grin turns brilliantly wide.
“That the present you were talkin’ about earlier?” he breathes, voice still hoarse, still dazed.
You huff a laugh, shaking your head. Smiling. Grinning. Like a fool. God, you can’t stop. It’s lifting your cheeks and making you feel giddy in a way you haven’t felt in so long.
“No,” you whisper back, voice airy.
“Don’t matter,” Bucky’s voice is full of affection, of something certain. His hands slide up, one cupping your jaw, thumb skimming over your cheek, the other finding the nape of your neck, fingers weaving into your hair. Holding you there. Holding you close. “Best damn present I’ve ever gotten.”
His tone is so sincere, so full of adoration, that your breath turns upside down, and you can’t do anything but feel the way butterflies are dancing in your stomach.
Heat floods your face and Bucky’s fingers flex against your skin, his smile turning impossibly brighter.
His eyes are shining with something you don’t think you’ve ever seen in them before. It’s breathtaking. It’s promising. It’s worshipful.
It’s everything.
You guess you owe him a little bit of an explanation.
There is guilt pooling in the hesitation before you speak. “Buck?” you start, voice quiet.
“Yeah, baby?” he drawls, and the way the new nickname rolls from his tongue so seamlessly makes your next inhale shatter midway, breaking into uneven pieces. You almost feel like choking.
His voice is so full of warmth, so soft, so fond. He is smiling at you and his eyes are sparkling as if you’ve just handed him the world. He is kneeling in front of you, patient and content, as though he’s got all the time in the world if it means spending it with you.
Something dizzying rushes through your veins, sparking at the base of your spine. You have to take a moment, a single, shaky pause to shove the giddiness down for later, to not let it explore the wide landscape of your heart and mind.
You clear your throat, shifting slightly in your seat, still at the edge of the armchair. Your chest almost brushing against Bucky’s. “I, uh- I do have something planned for you.”
Bucky is beaming. His amusement spills over into something so brilliant and blinding. His entire face lights up, so open, so full of adoration that it makes a feeling of pure bliss explode in your chest, sending delightful shivers down to your toes and hell, you don’t think you can handle it.
“Oh, do you?” he muses, dragging the words out slow and teasing. There is something beneath the syrupy sweetness. Something like mischief. His brows raise, eyes glinting, his lips twitch, and you know he is about to be a menace.
Tilting his head, Bucky feigns deep thought, but his eyes stay on you at all times. “Would that involve two idiots tryna sneak around behind my back?”
You blink at him.
Bucky’s grin turns wolfish and he bites his lip to suppress a laugh.
“You were actin’ all off from the beginning, doll. Knew somethin’ was up,” he states, voice a little softer, until he turns on his playful teasing voice again. “Flawless execution, sweetheart. Didn’t notice a damn thing.”
Groaning loudly, you press your hands to your face and Bucky lets the laugh out. It’s full-bodied and wholehearted. His chest shakes, his shoulders lift, his body tilts into it. And it’s such a good sound, such a lovely sound, so rich and free. It makes your own lips curl despite the frustration of the ruined surprise.
Bucky reaches up to gently pry your hands away from your face. His grip lingers, thumbs tracing over your knuckles, his touch so easy and natural.
His expression gives way to something soft. He bites his lip again, before bringing your hands up and kissing them softly, twinkling bright blue eyes trained on you and the deep flush that spreads along your cheeks.
Perhaps Bucky Barnes finally has a reason to start celebrating his birthday.
“But oh baby! Your smile.. Felt like warm sunshine after a heavy storm.. Overdose of it, is still not enough for me..”
Warnings: ummm pining bucky, friends to pining, frat!bucky
a/n: Hi! I haven't been able to write for some time, so I'm having a drabble spree over the next week or so, writing based on prompts from this list. If you send me a category, I'll pick a prompt!!
This fic was based on this prompt in the Forbidden Love category: "You're the one person I promised myself I would never cross that line with."
____________________________________________
It was sudden, like the split decision to take an exit off the freeway and change your dinner plans. Bucky felt his life shift—just a fraction. Enough to be noticeable, but not enough to throw him off his axis. Maybe it had always been there, maybe it hadn't. But, either way, things felt different. He felt different, sitting in the horridly lit Denny's at two in the morning, his university-branded crewneck dipping off your shoulder as you inhaled a plate of fries.
"God, these are terrible," you moaned, drenching another floppy stick in ranch. "Why did we come here?"
"You begged me to," Bucky threw back, shifting in the booth uncomfortably.
"Tell me no next time."
"That hasn't gone over well, historically."
You snorted and then turned back to your fries.
You had always been a constant in Bucky's life—first in middle school, then high school, and now entering your last year in college. Inseparable was a common term used to describe your relationship, but there was something that separated you, and it had been a more... recent development.
Bucky had joined a frat. A very popular frat. You had not liked the frat, but you put up with it. But then Bucky started sleeping with women, and you put up with that far less, because Bucky started sleeping with... a lot of women. So, it was fair. You kept your distance, made your own friends, and you made time to see each other when you could.
Bucky coveted those times, even if he wouldn't admit to it. Even if each quick dinner, each passing coffee in the dining hall, began to feel like he was falling off a cliff. A very sudden, very steep cliff.
The women were not a distraction at first. He was supposed to have sex with women. That's what guys like him did in college. But, recently, for the past few weeks, they were a distraction. A distraction from you. He couldn't stop thinking about you, and that wasn't the plan.
"Why are you staring off into space like a freak?" you laughed, tossing a fry at his face. It smacked between his eyes.
"I'm not," he argued. "What, a guy can't think anymore? That illegal?"
You puffed out a laugh. "What could you possibly be thinking about?" You shoved the plate away and rested your face in your hands. "The next girl you'll waste the time of? Maybe you're worried that you left one in your bed and now she's going through your underwear drawer."
"Ha. Ha," Bucky mocked. "No, smart ass. I was thinking about what to get you for your birthday, but now, since I'm not allowed to think, I think I'll just forget."
"Not my birthday!" you gasped, hands coming down on the table. "You said you were going to take me to Disneyland."
"I was kidding about that. You actually want to go to Disneyland?"
"Not anymore. Not after you've dangled it in front of my nose like this."
Bucky let out another sarcastic laugh, sliding out of the booth after tossing a few bills on the table. He shrugged his jacket on and held out an expectant hand that you stared at dubiously before taking with a roll of your eyes.
"Yeah, yeah," Bucky droned. "Let's get out of here before your hysterics get us kicked out."
He helped you into your own jacket, lingered with his nose by your temple and greedily took time he wasn't allowed, and then pushed a rough kiss to the side of your head because that was a normal thing to do. He was being normal. His feelings were normal.
You tugged him into the parking lot and blabbed on about Disneyland and terrible fries and looked at him like you always did, and he looked at you like you were holding his entire life in your hands. You didn't seem to notice the difference.
Bucky kept it to himself and pretended he wasn't crossing a line.
A line he swore to himself in that moment—as you flipped on the cabin light in his car and rifled through his glovebox looking for a pack of gum you were adamant you lost in there a month ago—he would never cross with you. He couldn't.
$ log - bucky barnes has a crush on you, and he's doing his best; his best is just terrifying!
$ warn --sfw --fluff --steve-and-sam-are-shit-wingmen
$ wc -w 1.4k
$ cd masterlist
$ tag @twentytomidnight (@froggibus here's the horror movie in play 🧍♀️)
Somewhere between the third mission and the second month, Bucky figured out that something was different about you.
Not in a way he could name at first — just that the noise in his head got quieter when you were around, that he'd catch himself in the middle of a debrief actually listening, because you were talking. That easy, unthinking quiet he hadn't felt in years just showed up, unprompted, in whatever room you happened to be in, and he didn't know what to do with it.
So he did what he always does: he watched, he catalogued, and he thought about it at three in the morning with the same focus he'd once applied to things that actually required it.
Steve called it a crush. Sam called it painfully obvious and immediately started offering unsolicited advice, which became its own problem entirely. Bucky called it none of their business and then spent the better part of an evening thinking about the way you laugh when you think no one's watching — the real one, not the polite one — and the fact that it had taken him four days to notice the difference and no time at all to memorise it.
The thing is, it's not one-sided. You're just as aware of him as he is of you. In that way you notice the shape of someone's absence before you register anything else about a room, where you find reasons to be somewhere he might be and then act surprised when it works. You've replayed certain conversations more times than you'd like to admit, and you'd like to admit zero.
The problem was never the feeling. The problem is that Bucky, with the best intentions and absolutely no remaining social calibration, is now trying to do something about it. And you, with no context and no warning, are on the receiving end.
It goes about as well as you'd expect.
The Staring Problem
Avengers Tower, various locations, two weeks running.
You've been keeping a mental list with the grim focus of someone building a legal case, and it's up to eleven incidents. The evidence is circumstantial but it is consistent.
At this point you're less interested in understanding it than in figuring out at what number you escalate to Fury.
It starts at the coffee machine. You reach for the pot and when you look up he's already looking at you. Not glancing, looking — with an expression that gives you absolutely nothing to work with. You say good morning and Bucky says nothing. You take your coffee and leave at a quicker pace that is definitely not a jog.
It happens in the elevator, the common room, and even in the hallway outside the training floor. Always the same: you look up and he's there, already watching, and he never looks away first. You've started taking the stairs.
You run through the list of possible offenses. You were loud in the kitchen once. You accidentally used his mug, but you washed it? You beat his time on the obstacle course three weeks ago, but surely that's not, surely he's not still—
You mention it to Natasha, very casually, purely as a logistical concern for your continued survival. She looks at you for a long moment, says "hm," and walks away. It’s somehow the least reassuring response she could have given.
He is, for the record, not thinking about any of your eleven incidents. He is thinking about the way you laugh when you think no one's listening, and it's been living in his head for three days, and he has absolutely no idea what to do about that.
The Rifle
Pre-mission briefing, loading bay, five minutes before wheels up
You're running through your gear check with a focus that has nothing to do with the gear and everything to do with the fact that Bucky has been watching you for two weeks and you are no closer to understanding why.
Especially when he appears at your left shoulder without sound and holds out his rifle like that's something people do.
You take it, obviously you do. You don't know what else to do. He gives a single nod and walks away to the quinjet like he hasn't just handed you something that costs more than your apartment and is probably also somehow an heirloom.
You hold it for the entire mission like it's a live grenade. You make every shot count. You are not going to be the person who scratched Bucky Barnes' rifle and lived to tell about it.
Your shots are, objectively, incredible. You don't register that at the time because you are too busy being careful.
He watches your form from across the ridge with an expression nobody else would clock as anything. Sam clocks it, filing it away.
You hand it back after debrief, two-handed, like returning something sacred. He takes it one-handed, casual, and there's something around his eyes that might be — you don't finish that thought. You go to your debrief, trying not to seem scared shitless.
"We Should Shoot Together"
Post-mission corridor, still in tactical gear, he has clearly been waiting
You're tired in the specific way that comes from twelve hours of sustained adrenaline, and you want a shower and about eight hours of not thinking about anything, which is why it's particularly unfortunate timing when Bucky falls into step beside you. He’s got that calm, unhurried energy of someone who has made a decision and is simply waiting for the moment to be right.
He stops walking. You stop walking. He looks at you with the full weight of his complete attention and says, completely evenly: "Your shots were incredible out there."
You say thank you and mean it and wait for the other shoe.
"Use my rifle next time." You think about the last time. You think about how carefully you held it. So, you wonder if your performance didn't meet the standard and this is somehow a test.
"We should shoot together." He says it like it's a normal sentence, like those words in that order constitute a fun activity and not what your nervous system has just interpreted them as — a proposal, a hunt, prey selected.
He turns and walks away. And here is the thing, the thing that keeps you up later: he's smiling. Small, private, to himself. The smile of a man who just executed a plan perfectly.
He has, in his own assessment, just asked you out. It went great. You are currently reconsidering whether your go-bag is packed.
The Smile
Common room, the morning after Sam and Steve got involved
You have faced things that scared you — real things, things with actual stakes — and come out fine, which is why it's genuinely surprising that you're standing in the kitchen at eight in the morning holding a piece of toast and feeling, for reasons you cannot immediately articulate, like something is deeply wrong.
Sam and Steve, well-meaning and catastrophic in equal measure, pulled him aside the previous evening. The conversation reportedly involved the phrase "just smile more, it makes you seem approachable." Steve demonstrated, while Sam refined it. Bucky practiced in the mirror with the focused intensity he applies to everything.
He comes in, sees you, and then — and you will think about this for a long time — he smiles. At you. Directly at you. It is the most deliberate, considered, technically-executed smile you have ever seen on a human face. There are too many teeth. The eyes are not involved. It lasts exactly three seconds too long.
You put down your toast.
He holds it for another beat, nods once like a mission objective completed, and leaves. You hear Steve in the hallway say "how'd it go" and Bucky say "good" with complete sincerity.
You are still standing there when Natasha comes in. She looks at your face and says "what happened." You don't have the words yet.
Twenty minutes later — you're still in the kitchen, the toast long forgotten — he comes back for something and doesn't see you around the corner. Someone says something from the hallway and he laughs, actually laughs, and then this smile, this real one, quiet and a little crooked and completely unguarded, just sits on his face for a moment before he schools it back.
He doesn't know you saw it. You don't know what to do with the fact that you did. You look down at your coffee. Something has shifted and you can't quite name it yet. You're not scared anymore; that's the problem.
Hiiiii, love the “you’re not my boyfriend” trope and I raise you one further
You’re at a lil kids party and someone has taking a strong liking and it’s just Bucky and this child proving that they like you more. You should be a grownup about it but it’s so fucking funny seeing Bucky try to outsmart a kid
You should be a grownup about it.
You really should.
But instead you’re sitting on the edge of a folding lawn chair in the middle of a backyard full of screaming five-year-olds, a half-melted cupcake in your hand, watching your boyfriend attempt to politically maneuver against a child who has decided you are her favorite person in the world.
It’s Sam’s niece’s birthday party—princess theme, pink balloons, plastic tiaras, the whole thing. You volunteered to help with face painting because you’re good with kids and you didn’t mind glitter under your fingernails for a day. Bucky had tagged along, claiming he wanted to “support” you, which you’d translated to: stand around looking intimidating so no one’s weird uncle tries to hit on you.
What neither of you expected was Olivia.
Olivia is six. Olivia has a crooked ponytail and grass-stained knees and a missing front tooth. Olivia has decided you are her person.
It starts innocently enough. She wants a butterfly painted on her cheek and refuses to let anyone else do it. She holds your wrist with both hands while you work like she’s afraid you might evaporate. When you finish, she beams up at you like you’ve just handed her the moon.
“You’re the prettiest,” she informs you very seriously.
From somewhere over your shoulder, Bucky snorts.
You glance back at him. He’s leaning against the fence, sunglasses on, arms crossed over his broad chest. He looks like a Secret Service agent accidentally dropped into a kindergarten class. His mouth twitches when you catch him watching.
Olivia notices too.
She narrows her eyes at him.
“Who’s that?” she asks.
“My boyfriend,” you say lightly.
Olivia studies him with open suspicion. “He looks grumpy.”
Bucky pushes off the fence and strolls closer, crouching down to her level. “I’m not grumpy,” he says, voice low and smooth. “I’m… selectively friendly.”
Olivia gasps softly and steps closer to you. “He’s scary.”
You bite your lip to keep from laughing.
“I am not scary,” Bucky protests, offended in a way that is so deeply adult that it makes this entire situation ten times funnier.
Olivia slips her hand into yours.
Possessively.
Bucky’s eyes drop to your joined hands.
It begins.
For the next thirty minutes, Olivia refuses to leave your side. She drags you to the bounce house. She demands you watch her attempt a cartwheel. She insists you sit next to her during present time. Every time Bucky gets within three feet of you, she wedges herself in between.
It’s subtle at first. A shoulder nudge. A strategic lean.
Then it becomes blatant.
You’re sitting cross-legged on the blanket while Olivia opens gifts, and Bucky lowers himself down on your other side. His thigh presses warm against yours. You instinctively lean into him.
Olivia notices.
Without breaking eye contact with Bucky, she scoots closer to you until she’s practically in your lap.
Bucky arches a brow.
Olivia lifts her chin.
You press your fist to your mouth to stop yourself from cackling.
He tries diplomacy first.
“So, Olivia,” he says smoothly, “how about I show you a magic trick?”
Her eyes flicker with interest—then suspicion. “What kind?”
“The kind where I make this cupcake disappear.”
He reaches for the cupcake in your hand.
Olivia slaps his hand away.
You lose it.
Actually lose it.
A bark of laughter escapes you before you can stop it, and Bucky looks betrayed.
“She assaulted me,” he says.
“She’s six,” you wheeze.
Olivia folds her arms. “She was eating that.”
“I was going to give her mine,” Bucky argues.
Olivia narrows her eyes again, then turns to you sweetly. “You can have mine if you want.”
Bucky stares at her.
“Oh, it’s like that?” he mutters.
You are crying laughing now.
It escalates from there.
Bucky tries to win her over by pushing her on the swing set. Olivia accepts the push but only if you stand in front of her the entire time. She keeps shouting, “Higher! But only if she’s watching!”
Bucky jogs behind her, competitive even now. “I can push higher than that.”
“No you can’t,” she shoots back.
He pushes higher.
She squeals in delight and immediately looks at you. “Did you see that? He’s trying to impress you.”
Bucky nearly trips.
At some point, someone suggests a three-legged race for the adults and kids. Before Bucky can volunteer, Olivia grabs your hand.
“She’s with me.”
Bucky blinks. “Excuse me?”
“You can be with Uncle Sam,” Olivia informs him kindly.
Sam, who has been watching this entire thing with vicious enjoyment, grins. “Sorry, Barnes. She’s claimed.”
Bucky crosses his arms. “This is rigged.”
You shouldn’t encourage him.
You absolutely shouldn’t.
But you lean in close and murmur, “You’re losing to a first grader.”
His jaw tightens.
“Oh, I’m not losing,” he says quietly. “I’m gathering intel.”
He switches tactics.
Instead of trying to outshine Olivia, he starts helping her.
He ties her shoelaces before the race. He steadies her when she wobbles. When she gets shy lining up with the other kids, he crouches down and murmurs something that makes her giggle.
You watch his face soften in a way it only does when he forgets to guard himself.
And you feel something warm bloom in your chest.
The race starts. You and Olivia tumble spectacularly halfway through and end up in a heap of grass and limbs. She’s laughing so hard she can barely breathe. You’re not much better.
Bucky is there instantly, hauling both of you upright.
“You okay?” he asks, hands gentle on your shoulders.
“I won,” Olivia declares.
“You came in third,” he says.
“That’s basically first.”
He stares at her for a long moment, then nods solemnly. “You’re right. That’s on me.”
She beams.
And then—without hesitation—she throws her arms around his neck.
Bucky freezes.
Slowly, awkwardly, his arms come up around her small frame.
“Don’t be grumpy,” she tells him.
“I’m not grumpy,” he mutters, softer now.
“You can like her,” Olivia says seriously. “But I like her too.”
His eyes flick up to yours over her shoulder.
And there it is—the surrender.
He presses a kiss to the top of Olivia’s head. “Deal,” he says. “We can share.”
She considers this.
Then she turns to you and whispers loudly, “He’s okay.”
You laugh again, wiping grass from your knees.
Later, when the cake is gone and the balloons are deflated and Olivia has been scooped up by her parents, Bucky wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you into his side.
“I could’ve taken her,” he grumbles.
“Sure you could’ve, big guy.”
He kisses your temple. “You enjoyed that way too much.”
“I did,” you admit shamelessly. “You were outsmarted by a six-year-old.”
He hums thoughtfully. “She’s got good instincts.”
“About?”
He squeezes you closer. “You.”
And just like that, the ridiculous competition fades into something softer.
Because the truth is, watching him try—and then watching him give in and be gentle—was the best part of the whole day.
Could you imagine bucky with his staring problem just staring at you and you respond with slow blinking at him like people do with cats to gain their trust... imagine it actually works and he slow starts to trust you... basically imagine treating bucky like an aggressive stray cat bringing him little pastries and snacks you bake and leaving them just out of arms reach for him to get when hes ready which eventually leads to bucky coming back from a hard day where he finds himself dropping to the floor in front of the couch you're sitting on because hes still uncomfortable with soft surfaces, his back resting next to your legs trying not to melt as your hand reaches to scratch gently at his scalp
Was what you were thinking the moment your eyes adjusted to the light and you were met with an angel laying next to you. His eye’s were shut, softly snoring but you didn’t mind, his dogtags reflected sunlight atop his blue Henley that hugged him in all the right places. You brushed your hand through his short somewhat spiky hair. Totally not fair. You thought as you saw how it fell perfectly framing his face.
It wasn’t always like this
You recalled only a few months ago the weeks of sleepless nights, you never knew how horrible it had been until you started spending your nights in his room. He was constantly plagued by nightmares, he often slept in shifts, he couldn’t stand to sleep too long. His body was always in fight or flight, even asleep he could wake up in an instant and fight. You hated those nights where you’d wake up to see him curled in a corner like a kicked dog, and when you’d inched closer his voice would raise, he felt dangerous, and he would rather hurt your feelings than hurt you. Urging you to stay away, insisting he was fine, going as far as to say he didn’t want you near, anything that would keep you away and safe. Safe from him.
But slowly you both started adjusting, and trusting. He couldn’t stand seeing you struggle to stay awake in meetings, or slowing down in training. The last thing he wanted to do was weigh you down. So trying to be better for you turned into trying to be better for himself as well. Which is what led you to this.
This beautiful sight, his slow breathing, the rise and fall of his chest. The fact that he felt so safe and comfortable to sleep so soundly, it made you emotional.
He made a small sound from the back of his throat as he mindlessly reached out his hand for you, it found its way to your waist and suddenly you were dragged flush to his chest, his flesh arm tight around you, face buried in your head. He mumbled into your hair, you couldn’t help but smile at his clingy sleepy behavior, he was usually so stoic.
“Gmornin baby” you cooed.
He mumbled in return.
The thing about Sundays was that you two had absolutely nothing to do, no meetings, missions, training, nothing. And it was bliss. It first started when you were having your usual sleep-in-Sunday, at the time Bucky was not a participant, but in your half-awakeness you tugged on Bucky’s arm as he started to leave the bed. Seeing you half-asleep, begging for him to stay, he was a goner. He didn’t really have anything to do, and once you were soft and warm in his arms it didn’t matter if he did.
You were snapped out of your thoughts by him groaning as he awoke, shifting onto his back and rubbing his eyes.
“Ugh baby it’s so bright.” He groaned. You giggled at his sleepy complaint; prying yourself out of his grasp to turn down the shades.
“Better?”
“So much better” he said grabbing you back down to bed and enveloping you in a warm hug.
“You sleep okay?” You asked, hand gently going through his short locks.
“Mhm. Always sleep good with you here”
You sighed, half in comfort half in relief.
“Baby I gotta tell you somethin’” he said all soft, you looked up at him, eyes half closed.
“What is it?”
“I love you” he confessed like it was the first time he had ever said those three words, it was just so sweet, so raw, so rewarding in a way. Your heart bloomed like a flower.
“I love you too. So much James.”
“Ya know what else i love?” He said shifting so you were on top of him, he pressed a kiss to your head.
pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader
summary: bucky swore he’d never lose himself again. so why does he keep looking for you in every room, hearing you in every silence, wanting you in every moment? he thinks your powers are making him fall in love, but when the truth comes out, so does everything he’s been holding back.
tags: avenger!reader, superpowered!reader, bombshell!reader, mutual pining, bucky’s doing his best but still represses his romantic feelings for you
warning(s): miscommunication trope, reader wears a dress, reader drinks alcohol, the avengers are alive and live at the compound with the thunderbolts because i said so, suggestive content (no smut)
word count: 12.1k
note: i got my start on tumblr writing bucky fics like eight years ago, so i love that i’m returning to my roots lol. i hope everyone enjoys this one!! there will be more bucky fics from me in the future 🫡
masterlist
Bucky knew you were a problem the moment you started distracting him during missions. Not that he would ever say that out loud. He didn’t say much at all, really, especially not to you.
And even if he wanted to, what the hell was he supposed to say? Hi, sorry, I can’t stop staring at you when I should be watching the guy with the grenade launcher. No. He kept his mouth shut because that was safer. Safer for him, safer for everyone.
But it didn’t matter what he told himself. You were still there, in his head.
It was the way you moved through a room effortlessly. Everyone else leaned closer when you spoke, even people like Tony who rarely listened to anyone.
You didn’t demand attention; you collected it the way fire collects moths. A hand on a shoulder, a laugh tossed lightly into the air, a question asked like you genuinely wanted the answer—and suddenly, you had them. All of them, including Bucky.
That was the part he couldn’t stand. Watching you draw people in and knowing he wasn’t immune. Watching the rest of the team light up around you, and catching himself memorising the way your smile tilted, the cadence of your voice, the way your presence shaped the whole atmosphere.
It made him restless and angry with himself, because Bucky Barnes didn’t get restless over anyone, not anymore. He’d had that burned out of him long ago.
So why the hell couldn’t he stop tracking the sound of your laugh over the comms? Why couldn’t he keep his eyes on the perimeter instead of catching glimpses of you through the chaos?
Bucky told himself it was tactical. In fact, he told himself countless things he knew were complete lies. But every time he caught you looking back at him, even just for a second, he felt the ground shift under his boots.
That was when he decided you weren’t just a distraction, you were dangerous.
You’d caught the weight of his stare once or twice in the mayhem of a mission; the kind of look that wasn’t meant to be spotted. Quick, averted, almost guilty. But you were stubborn enough to notice him anyway, and stubborn enough to remember.
You didn’t blame Bucky for keeping his distance. Siren wasn’t the kind of codename that inspired trust. It sounded like trouble, like temptation, like something a man with Bucky’s past ought to run from. And your ability didn’t help either. Your voice could slip past a person’s defences like a knife between ribs, coaxing truth before they could resist.
Useful, yes, but unsettling to anyone who didn’t know the limits of it.
As a former S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, you were capable of holding your own without using your abilities on most missions. But it was the only way to get information out of a mercenary with ties to Hydra.
You had the merc cornered against a crumbling wall. Your power thrummed in your throat, low and resonant. “Who hired you?”
The merc’s mouth moved before he could even think to resist, eyes wide as he gave up everything he knew. You dropped the thread of power the moment you had what you needed, your voice gentling back into warmth as you relayed the intel over comms.
Somewhere nearby, Steve was giving orders into comms, boots thundering on cracked concrete. Beneath all of it, you felt the burn of someone’s gaze.
When you turned, Bucky was watching you. Not casual, not even curious about your abilities. He didn’t seem to have noticed you used them in the first place.
Bucky was watching like a man who knew better, but couldn’t stop anyway. His jaw was locked tight, expression carved from stone, but his blue eyes betrayed him; sharp and fixed like he couldn’t help himself.
You offered him a quick smile—polite, maybe a touch coquettish—before moving on.
Back at the compound, everyone parted ways, grumbling about showers and sleep. After a long, hot shower, you padded into the kitchen with sock-clad feet, expecting it to be empty, but found Bucky there instead.
He stood stiffly at the counter like he hadn’t decided whether he was staying or fleeing. His shoulders were hunched as if bracing for impact, but he looked softer around the edges. His hair was almost black when wet, and his clothes were looser too: grey sweatpants and a faded navy T-shirt that clung to his shoulders but slouched everywhere else.
Most people read that aura as Caution! Do not approach, but you weren’t most people.
“Tea?” you asked, flicking the kettle on and rummaging through the cupboard for your favourite bedtime blend.
Bucky blinked, startled you’d spoken at all. His pause was longer than it needed to be, and against what looked like his own better judgment, he nodded.
You pulled two mugs from the cabinet, the faint clink of porcelain filling the hush between you. The silence wasn’t empty so much as alive, humming with the soft whistle of the kettle and the faint scrape of your movements.
Bucky’s gaze tracked every small motion: your hand brushing hair from your face, the curve of your mouth when you concentrated, the way your body seemed to move with easy unconscious grace. He told himself to look away, but he couldn’t. All he could do was admire the way your sleeve slipped back from your wrist and the curve of your shoulders when you leaned forward.
He was watching too closely, and you felt it, the weight of his attention warm on the back of your neck.
When you turned to face him, steam curled between you in fragrant ribbons of chamomile and lavender, heat fogging the air just enough to make the kitchen feel smaller. You offered him a mug, and for a heartbeat, his calloused, warm flesh hand brushed yours. Though his skin was rough, the press of his fingers against the back of your hand was feather-light.
The touch was deliberately fleeting, but not so fleeting that you missed the sharp intake of his breath. Bucky pulled back like he’d been burned, lips pressed together.
“Thanks,” he muttered. His voice was rougher than you’d expected, gravel clinging to the edges of his tone even in the safety of the compound. It made the single syllable sound reluctant.
You sipped your tea, letting the heat sink into your palms, waiting for him to say or do something. Bucky didn’t immediately bolt, as he often did when the team tried to rope him into things, so you tried again.
“Recon missions with new people are always a little hectic. Could’ve gone worse, though,” you said casually.
A pause. Bucky’s jaw worked, and then a low sound rumbled from him, almost like agreement.
You pressed, light but curious. “We don’t get to work together much, do we?”
Another pause. Bucky’s eyes flicked to yours, swift and hot, before sliding away. “No,” he agreed.
You smiled into your mug. “Guess I’ll have to start putting in requests.”
This time, Bucky’s lips curved too. The smallest grin, quick and self-conscious, but real. And when it faded, his eyes lingered on you like he’d already let more slip than he should.
You always found your way to the Avengers Tower’s rooftop by accident. The first few times, you’d gone to the roof when the insomnia wouldn’t let up, and the walls of the tower felt like they were pressing inwards. Even though you had just as many fond memories at the tower as you did at the compound, some moments felt too polished and artificial, and you needed a breather.
Tonight was one of those nights.
The night air hit sharp against your cheeks, that particular New York chill that carried the smell of exhaust and something frying three streets down. You closed your eyes and breathed it in. The city was loud even at this hour, horns blaring, subway grates sighing.
Still, when you leaned against the railing and looked out, your chest tightened. DC wasn’t so far in miles, but it may as well have been on another planet. The memory of rooftops there—quiet, stolen places where you’d sat trying to decide whether you were really helping anyone, or just another cog in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s well-oiled machine—pushed its way in, unwanted.
The sound of the door sliding open behind you made you stiffen. You expected Tony to lecture you about safety protocols and F.R.I.D.AY. waking him to alert him that someone was on the roof, or maybe Steve to remind you that you actually needed to be in bed to get a good night’s sleep.
Instead, it was Bucky. He paused in the doorway, shoulders squared as if it’d taken a lot of courage for him to see you through the glass door and decide to join you. He stepped forward, silent despite the heavy weight of his boots.
You wondered—not for the first time—if the super soldier serum had made him unnervingly stealthy on purpose, or if he just enjoyed startling you.
You glanced at him, but he didn’t meet your eyes. Bucky leaned against the railing beside you, a careful two feet away. He always liked his distance. He wore that heavy jacket of his, zipped high, though you knew it wasn’t the cold that bothered him. His vibranium arm was covered, and his breath came in steady clouds.
“You don’t sleep much either, huh?” you asked, your voice softer than you meant.
Bucky’s mouth lifted faintly, like he wasn’t sure if he’d forgotten how to smile or if he didn’t trust it. “Not really.” His voice caught at the edges, the kind of sound that hummed against your skin long after it faded.
You tilted your head, trying for lightness. “Is it the mattress? Too many Egyptian cotton threads?”
That got you a small huff of air, an almost-laugh. The sound curled through you far too easily, catching low in your chest. Unfair, really, that one almost-laugh could feel like a personal victory.
Bucky looked out at the skyline. “Noise,” he said finally. “City’s loud.” A pause. “I used to sit on rooftops in Brooklyn when I was a kid. If it got too noisy inside, I’d go higher. It always felt quieter up there.”
“I had roof access in DC,” you offered, surprising yourself at how much you wanted to meet Bucky where he was. “Slept better up there than in my own bed. Guess it was easier to breathe when there wasn’t a ceiling above me. Or a mission the next morning.”
His gaze cut to you then, sharp and searching. “You didn’t like the missions?”
You swallowed, the cool air stinging your throat. “Didn’t always know who I was helping.” You trailed off, alluding to the way you, Steve, and Natasha had exposed Hydra’s infiltration of S.H.I.E.L.D. “Funny how you can spend years fighting the good fight and not even know whose definition of ‘good’ you’re following.”
That earned you a heavy silence.
You let yourself shamelessly watch Bucky, then. Not ogling or studying him, just observing him in the way you always seemed to watch people. As a trained spy, you spent a lot of your time trying to understand people through their behaviours so that you could give them exactly what they wanted from you.
With Bucky, you just hoped your training would let you get to know him better. You liked the way the streetlight caught in the faint silvering at his temples, and his jaw flexed when he thought too hard. He smelled faintly of leather and soap despite the grit of the day still clinging to him.
You caught yourself wondering what it would be like to close that careful gap he always held between you.
“The world’s loud in different ways now,” Bucky said at last. His voice was quieter, as if meant only for you. “Hard to tell what’s real.”
You tilted your head, watching the faint curl of your breath fade into the night. “The city, or people?”
Bucky huffed, closer to laughter than you’d ever heard from him. “Both.” His eyes lingered on the skyline. “Brooklyn used to feel smaller. Easier. You knew who was on your block, who’d slip you an extra cannoli at the bakery if you carried their groceries home. Now,” his hand made a vague gesture over the surrounding skyscrapers, “it’s like living in someone else’s memory. Looks familiar but doesn’t sound right.”
Hearing him admit something so personal without you prying surprised you. You softened. “I get that. DC felt that way after S.H.I.E.L.D. Same streets, same cafés, but I couldn’t walk them without wondering who’d known what. Who I’d smiled at in passing while they were pulling strings above my head.”
Bucky frowned, a shadow of empathy flickering across his face. “Guess we’ve both had the rug pulled out from under us.”
“More like the whole floor,” you quipped, before you could stop yourself. But Bucky’s lips curved, brief and genuine, and you decided you’d die happy having put a smile on his face.
He looked at you, steady in a way that made you shiver more than the cold. “So what keeps you here? With them?” His tone wasn’t accusatory, just searching.
You blinked. “What keeps me with the Avengers?”
Bucky nodded.
You shifted, leaning against the railing, your fingers brushing cold metal. “Because even if the ground isn’t steady, the people are. Steve, Nat, Sam—they make the world make sense. And,” You hesitated, aware of the weight of his attention. “Because I want to believe in good. Even if I’ve been wrong before.”
Bucky’s jaw worked, as if he were chewing on that. Then he asked, almost softly, “And do you?”
Your throat tightened. “Most days. Some days more than others, especially when I’m not up all night contemplating it.” You chuckled quietly. “More than anything, I see good more than I believe in it.”
Bucky leaned his forearms on the railing, his shoulder almost brushing yours as he moved closer. If you moved even an inch, your sleeve would catch on his. The thought was absurdly magnetic, pulling at you.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever get back there. To believing.” Bucky glanced sideways, a flicker of something raw passing through his eyes. “But sometimes I think it could be possible. Around the right people.”
You felt the admission settle between you, fragile and earnest. Your chest ached with the desire to ease the rawness in Bucky’s voice.
You tipped your head, your lips curving into a smile. “Well,” you murmured, “I guess that makes for a decent audition tape for Team ‘Believing in Good Again.’ Obviously headed by Steve, America’s Golden Retriever Boyfriend. Not sure what the benefits package is, though. Fingers crossed for dental.”
Bucky’s mouth twitched. “Therapy would be nice,” he deadpanned. “Think they’d cover ninety years of back pay?”
That startled a laugh out of you, loud and unguarded enough that you clapped a hand over your mouth. “God, that’s dark.” The fact that he’d reciprocated your banter instead of shutting it down made you grin so hard your cheeks hurt.
“Honest,” Bucky corrected, his tone bone-dry.
You laughed harder, helpless against it, and Bucky joined in too. A low sound, quiet but genuine, breaking out of him like it hadn’t seen daylight in a long time. You turned to look at him, wanting to catch it before it vanished.
It didn’t vanish. The sound was rough, unpractised, but real. You wanted to wrap it in both hands and keep it safe.
Bucky was still chuckling softly, shaking his head as if he couldn’t quite believe you’d gotten him there. The sound warmed the cold air more than any jacket could.
“Okay,” you said, breathless with amusement, “I think you make an excellent addition to the team. We don’t have nearly enough comic relief.” Your sardonic tone made Bucky smile again. If anything, the Avengers had too many sarcastic assholes who lived to make everyone laugh.
He arched a brow, the tiniest hint of mischief in his eyes. “That’s why they let you in, isn’t it?”
You mock-gasped. “Excuse you, I’m multi-talented.”
That earned you another little huff of laughter, and this one came easier, freer. Bucky didn’t look away this time either. His gaze stayed with you, steady and open in a way that made your heart thrum. It felt dangerously like trust, like a door creaking open just wide enough to glimpse the man he still was beneath all that armour.
Bucky lingered in the hall longer than he should have. The tower was alive tonight, laughter spilling from the common room in bright bursts. He caught the cadence of Sam’s bark of amusement, Natasha’s low drawl, and Peter’s earnest whining that always gave way to more heckling. Cards slapped against wood, a chorus of voices rose and broke again.
He’d only meant to come down for water. Nothing more; in and out, like one of their recon missions. But when he turned into the hallway and saw you in the kitchen, he couldn’t help but want to linger.
You leaned against the counter, bathed in the pale glow of the fridge. Hair swept up, but just messy enough that it looked deliberate. Your mouth already tipped into a smile when you noticed Bucky in the doorway.
“Well, if it isn’t Sergeant Midnight Snack,” you teased, lifting your glass with a lazy flourish. “At least tell me you’re here for Cheetos or something. Don’t ruin this for me with celery sticks.”
Bucky’s grip tightened on the doorframe before he moved. Keep it steady, he reminded himself. Controlled. He brushed past you toward the cupboard, careful not to graze you. “Water,” he muttered.
“Water,” you echoed, amused. You tipped your head, eyes gleaming. “Living on the edge, I see.”
Bucky almost smiled. God, it was too easy with you. He reached for a glass. His hand stilled halfway when you slid one off the counter instead.
“Here,” you offered, filling it at the sink. The sound of water pouring was louder than the laughter down the hall. You held the glass out to him, steady, waiting.
Bucky hesitated. A thousand instincts screamed at him to retreat, to keep the space between you. He couldn’t afford softness, couldn’t afford the memory of your warmth stitched into his palm.
But he reached anyway.
The brush of your fingers hit him like a spark—searing through his veins, too quick to disguise. His chest locked up, then hollowed, a dangerous looseness spreading where control should have been.
You didn’t even blink, just looked at Bucky with a smile so easy it made him dizzy. “You know,” you said lightly, breaking the silence but not moving your hand, “if you want, I can teach you how to play. UNO’s not as terrifying as it sounds.”
Bucky huffed, a sound caught between dismissal and laughter. His voice came out rougher than he meant. “I think I’ll sit this one out. Not sure how much of Stark I can take once he’s started with the scotch.”
The common room roared again: cheers, shouts, Peter’s name yelled with mock outrage. But in the kitchen, between the hum of the fridge and the heat of your fingers still brushing his, it was quiet.
You grinned, mischief sparking, your voice velvety soft. “You’re already here, Bucky. Might as well take a seat before Clint cheats again.”
“I don’t cheat,” Clint’s voice called from the other room, immediately followed by Sam barking, “He cheats all the time!”
Your smirk deepened. “See? Justice needs you.” With that, you grabbed your own glass and headed back to the common room.
Bucky shook his head, but his unfaithful boots carried him those few steps toward the noise. He told himself he’d sit for one round, maybe two, and then slip away again.
The table was chaos—cards flying, Steve laughing so hard he nearly fell off his chair, Wanda calmly dismantling Clint’s entire hand with two cards.
Peter made space instantly, practically bouncing in his seat. “Oh! Mr Barnes, sit here! You can totally take my spot.”
“He’s good,” you cut in smoothly, hand brushing the back of the empty chair next to you. “This one’s his.”
For a moment, Bucky paused. The expectation was always that he’d hover at the edges, watching but never joining in. But no one protested. They just kept shuffling, dealing, arguing over the rules—Yelena and Peter louder than anyone else.
“Barnes,” Clint said, already smirking. “You’ve never played UNO, have you?”
Bucky gave the faintest shrug.
“He doesn’t need experience,” you cut in, dealing the re-shuffled deck now that Bucky had joined. “He’s got the look of a man who can sniff out lies. Which means your cheating reign of terror is finished, Barton.”
Laughter rippled across the table. You leaned in, lowering your voice conspiratorially, “Rule number one: don’t listen to Tony. He thinks a Draw Four is a valid form of diplomacy.”
Tony lifted his drink in salute. “It’ll work one day.”
For the next few rounds, it was pure anarchy.
Sam narrated every card he played as if he were a sportscaster; Natasha destroyed Clint with surgical precision; Wanda and Yelena teamed up in a way that made Peter groan dramatically. Bucky seemed to angle himself toward you, so subtly you could almost convince yourself you’d imagined it.
You kept the banter flowing, firing off one-liners like sparks, revelling in the warmth of being part of this ridiculous found family that somehow hadn’t banished you yet.
You didn’t notice the way Steve’s eyes flicked to Sam, both of them catching the soft set of Bucky’s mouth when you laughed. You didn’t see Wanda hiding her smile behind her glass, or Natasha and Yelena exchanging the kind of look that could topple governments.
The pile of cards in front of Clint was obscene, and you had never been more delighted in your life. “Twenty-three,” you counted loudly, pointing to his spread across the table. “That’s not a hand, Barton. That’s a fire hazard.”
Clint, naturally, refused to concede. “Strategic arsenal.”
“Strategic losing streak,” Sam corrected, sliding a card down with far too much flourish. “Which, ladies and gentlemen, leaves me in the lead once again.”
“You’ve been in the lead since 2015,” Natasha deadpanned.
“That’s called consistency,” Sam said, grinning, and you nearly doubled over laughing.
Beside you, Bucky shifted, the kind of minimal movement that would’ve gone unnoticed if you hadn’t already been watching him. The corner of his mouth curved into a real smile, and seeing it felt like a victory greater than winning a game of UNO.
Still, you put down three Draw Four cards and gave the Avengers’ team leader a sugared smile.
Steve groaned loudly. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, staring at his new stack of twelve cards. “You played me,” he accused you.
You fluttered your lashes at him, unrepentant. “Played with you. For a while.”
Steve’s ears went red. “I wasn’t—” He stumbled, tripping over his own words, and Sam let out a delighted cackle.
“Look at him!” Sam hollered, pointing an accusatory finger. “Cap’s blushing like it’s prom night. That wasn’t strategy, that was seduction. You never stood a chance.”
“Seduction?” Steve repeated, scandalised.
“Oh, 100 percent.” Tony leaned across the table, eyes bright. “Textbook Siren manoeuvre. Get him cosy, lull him into trust, then—bam! Draw twelve. You should’ve known better, Capsicle.”
Clint wheezed a little. “She did smile at him all sweet, right before she gutted him.”
“Classic her,” Wanda cut in, smirking. “She pulls the same thing in training.”
Nat agreed, “You fall for it every time, Steve.”
Steve’s laugh grew more helpless, his blush creeping down his throat. “Okay, but she was being nice—”
“Nice?” Sam cackled. “She had you wrapped around her finger, man. Don’t even try to deny it.” He pointed at Bucky in a dramatic warning. “Careful, Buck, don’t sit too close to her. She’ll have you doing her bidding before you even realise she’s humming a tune.”
“Siren,” Yelena said in a husky whisper, teasing you for the codename you’ve had since your S.H.I.E.L.D. days and grinning as Natasha snorted beside her.
Steve complained again, dragging his hands down his face. “This is so unfair!” His protest broke into laughter, the tips of his ears already pink.
You’d been friends with Steve since the Avengers first formed, and you knew exactly how to appeal to your kind-hearted, big softy of a team leader. A tilt of your head, a lowered voice, a smile that suggested conspiracies shared just between the two of you. Steve was putty every time.
“Oh, come on, Rogers,” you teased, letting your fingers tap against the table. “You like trusting people. You trusted me, and it felt good, didn’t it?”
Steve sputtered, “I—that’s not—” He broke off into helpless giggles.
Sam leaned back, delighted. “Would you listen to him?”
Yelena let out a bark of laughter. “Is this normal? Does she do this every game night?”
“Every single time,” Wanda confirmed.
“I was the victim last time,” Peter recalled, matching Steve’s blush.
Laughter rolled across the table, easy and familiar as family. By now, they were used to the way you could shapeshift and charm to fit anyone’s needs—and to the way you shamelessly wielded it on game night. They couldn’t hold it against you. They knew you too well, and still fell for it every time.
But Bucky’s gaze was fixed on Steve’s hand on your shoulder. His chest rose too fast, like his ribs were suddenly too tight, and for one disorienting moment, the world blurred at the edges. The laughter muffled into a distant echo, and Bucky felt oddly like everything was moving in slow motion.
Siren.
The word echoed, venomous and familiar in all the wrong ways.
She’ll have you doing her bidding before you even realise she’s humming a tune. Was that why you were consuming Bucky’s every thought? You were using your powers on him?
His pulse thundered like an alarm in his ears. The warmth of the room—the light, easy banter he’d been enjoying all night—faded, leaving only the memories and sting of Hydra training and commands behind.
You didn’t notice at first, caught up in Sam’s running commentary, in the ease of being teased by people who knew you too well to ever mistake your tricks for malice. You were oblivious to the way Bucky’s hand curled into a fist against his thigh.
When you turned, Bucky’s eyes were locked on you—blue, wide, and startled—like you’d just morphed into something sharp and dangerous.
The sight knocked the air out of you. You’d been making jokes, leaning into the jesting the way you always did, certain this was safe ground. Everyone else had laughed, But Bucky’s face made doubt curl in your stomach.
Had you crossed a line? Had your harmless flirting with Steve made Bucky uncomfortable?
“Bucky?” you murmured. Not playful this time. Just quiet and uncertain, caught between an apology and concern.
He couldn’t hear the softness in it over the ringing in his ears.
It started the morning after game night.
You weren’t expecting Bucky to send you flowers and a mixtape or anything. But you were expecting at least the usual nod in the hall. That minuscule flicker of acknowledgement he always gave, like he knew you existed in the same dimension and maybe didn’t mind it. Sometimes, if you caught him in a good mood, there’d even be the ghost of a smile.
But the next day? Nothing. Bucky passed you in the kitchen, eyes on the floor, shoulders hunched like he was trying to make himself the world’s grumpiest teammate.
And maybe that was just him. You knew he wasn’t Mr. Sunshine at the best of times, but then it happened again. And again. No nod, no hello, not even a grunt when you made some joke loud enough for him to overhear.
It was like someone had flipped a switch from tolerating you to couldn’t care less if you lived or died.
At first, you brushed it off. People have bad weeks. The Avengers have bad weeks where “bad” involves alien warlords or the occasional robot uprising, so you figured he was busy.
But then you noticed the small things. Bucky had started sitting near you at the briefing table recently—not close, but within quipping distance. Now he deliberately picked the seat furthest away, next to Sam, since you always sat with Nat and Steve. And when you tried to talk to him, Bucky gave you these tight, clipped answers.
Polite, sure, but with all the warmth of an ice skating rink.
Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered if you hadn’t seen the other side of Bucky. The side that came out on the balcony, when his shoulder almost brushed yours and he’d admitted, low and raw, that maybe he could believe in good again. The side that had joked with you and then, God help you, laughed like a careless little kid. Not a grunt, not a huff, but a real laugh, cracked and rusty and beautiful because it was his.
You’d thought—naively, apparently—that you’d reached some fragile truce where Bucky trusted you enough to be honest. But now he was shutting doors you hadn’t even realised he’d opened, and it left you fumbling in the dark.
It wouldn’t have been such a big deal if you hadn’t realised how much you’d come to enjoy those little moments. The way Bucky used to glance over when you were bantering with Yelena and Bob, that half-exasperated twitch of his mouth like he wanted to roll his eyes but was secretly amused. The way he’d linger for a second after you said goodnight, like there was something he might add before deciding against it.
They weren’t big things. They were barely-there things. Things you could almost convince yourself you’d imagined. But their absence was loud, and you kept wondering why it hurt so much.
The worst part was that you had no idea what you did wrong.
The warehouse smelled like damp concrete and trouble. You hated that smell.
“North corridor looks clear,” Natasha’s voice crackled through the comms, calm as always. “Yelena and I will sweep the other side. You two, check the labs.”
You cast Bucky a quick glance, but he didn’t return it. He was busy checking his gun, jaw set, posture locked in that soldier-straight way that always made you want to nudge him to see if he’d flinch.
He didn’t. Not even a twitch.
“Copy,” you said, because someone had to.
The labs were exactly what you’d expect in a bioweapons facility. Sterile walls, glass vials, enough ominous-looking refrigeration units to make you wonder how long it would take one bad leak to end civilisation. You tried to focus on cataloguing and checking for Hydra insignias, but it was impossible not to notice every tiny brush of proximity.
When you both reached for the same file on the counter, your fingers grazed Bucky’s vibranium hand, just a whisper of contact. But you felt the sudden hardness of his grip as he pulled away, and you saw the way his eyes flicked to yours for a microsecond.
You swallowed, surprised at how much your chest skipped.
Then, when you crouched to check under a lab bench and came up too fast, you collided shoulder-to-shoulder with him. The contact was short, but Bucky stiffened against you, eyes narrowed in a way that made your stomach drop.
You winced, ready to laugh it off, but the look he gave you had you biting your lip instead.
Your gaze caught a glint of red along the edge of his temple: a shallow cut from a piece of flying debris when the door gave way. “Bucky, let me see,” you murmured, reaching up toward the wound.
“I’m fine,” he said, waving a hand and jerking his head back just enough to evade your touch.
“Just let me look,” you pressed, brushing a loose strand of hair from his forehead.
Bucky tensed, jaw tight, and for a moment, you almost didn’t recognise him. “I said I’m fine,” he snapped, voice low and brittle. “The serum takes care of it. Don’t fuss.”
You hesitated, caught between wanting to push and knowing when to step back. You frowned, growing defensive. “I’m not fussing, I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
Bucky stared at you, his eyes harsh and unreadable, and then he sighed to let you know he was done with the conversation. You wanted to ask him if he’d always made everyone else feel this way or if it was just you. But the moment passed before it could take shape.
By the time the mission wrapped and you were making the trek back to the Quinjet, your nerves were shot. Your shoulders brushed, once, then again, and neither of you pulled away.
You could feel Bucky holding himself back, the tension radiating off him like something resembling anger. You stole glances at him, studied the furrow of his brow and the tight line of his mouth. It was like watching a storm brew in human form.
The Quinjet landed back at the Avengers Tower smoother than your nerves. Bucky had been staring at you the whole way home, or at least you thought he had. Every time you glanced up from adjusting your seatbelt strap there he was, heavy gaze fixed on you like you were a puzzle piece jammed into the wrong box.
Not glaring, just watching. And not in a fun, this could lead to kissing kind of way. More like this could lead to homicide.
So, naturally, when the ramp lowered and the others filed out, you decided to test the waters. Light and breezy. Nothing that could be mistaken for poking the grizzly bear.
“Hey, Sarge.” You jogged a couple of steps to fall into stride with him. “Quick question: are we good? Because if this is about me finishing the last donut, I promise I’ll buy another box. Maybe two. Chocolate with sprinkles, right?”
Bucky didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at you, just kept walking—shoulders tight, jaw flexing. Your stomach dipped. Okay, not the donut thing. Probably something worse.
“Bucky?” you tried again, quieter this time. “You’ve been—” You flailed for a word less desperate than glaring at me like I killed your family. “A little weird. Is everything okay?”
That’s when he paused; stopped dead in the middle of the hangar, boots planted, head bowed like he was holding himself together by the thinnest thread.
When Bucky finally spoke, his voice was low and taut. “No. It’s not okay.”
Oh, good. Not terrifying at all.
You forced a laugh, aiming for light but landing somewhere nervous. “Well, bonus points for honesty. Do you maybe want to elaborate, or should I just start apologising for every stupid thing I’ve ever said since we met?”
Bucky’s head lifted, and the intensity in his eyes rooted you to the spot. “You’re driving me insane,” he said.
The air left your lungs. Not playful, not an exaggeration. Something raw and jagged bled through every syllable.
“Um,” you blinked. “Okay. Can I ask why, specifically?”
“I can’t sleep without thinking about you,” Bucky pressed on, like your joke hadn’t reached his ears. He took a step toward you, each word sharp, cracking. “I can’t think without hearing your voice. Everything I do, every thought—it comes back to you. It’s like you’ve taken over every part of my brain, and I can’t shut it off.”
Your breath caught. Your pulse was a thunderclap in your ears. Part of you wanted to laugh it off, but the panic in his eyes shoved the humour back down. “Bucky,” you said carefully, trying to steady your voice, “I don’t—”
“You need to stop.” Another step, his shadow spilling over you now. It was the first time you’d ever felt small next to him, not because he was towering, but because his walls were closing in, bricked high.
Your back hit cool concrete of the wall before you’d even realised you’d been walking backwards. Your heart tripped over itself. “Stop what?”
“Using your powers on me!”
You blinked, disoriented. The words made sense in order, but together? They might as well have been a foreign language. “My what?!”
Bucky was breathing hard now, as if saying it out loud tore something open in him. His flesh hand raked through his hair, his metal one clenched like it might shatter. Then he shook his head, hard, like he could fling the thoughts out by force.
“This, whatever this is, it isn’t real!” Bucky’s voice was rising, frayed, trembling with panic. “You’re making me feel things I don’t want to feel, thoughts I don’t want. And I know why, I know what you do to people.”
Your gut swooped uncomfortably. “What I do to—Bucky, are you serious right now?”
“You think I don’t get it?” His voice cracked like a whip, close enough that you felt the heat of his breath. “They call you Siren. You sing your way into people’s heads. Twist them around until they can’t think straight. Well, congratulations, you got me.”
The accusation slammed into you harder than a punch. You swallowed, the air thick and sticky in your throat. Of all the things you thought he might accuse you of—being annoying, overeager, maybe even too much of a flirt—this cut bone-deep.
“That’s—” Your voice cracked before you fought it steady. “That’s not what I do. The name, Siren? It’s a joke. A stupid one, from when I was a new recruit at S.H.I.E.L.D. But I don’t manipulate people’s feelings! I can’t make you feel—”
But Bucky was already shaking his head. “Stop.” His tone was softer this time, closer to a plea than a command. “I just—” His hands flexed, metal glinting under harsh lights. “I don’t want you to talk to me anymore. I don’t want you around.”
And then Bucky tore himself away, storming out of the hangar as if he stayed a second longer, he’d break in half.
You stood frozen in the echo of his absence, heart pounding hard enough to bruise, skin prickling with the sting of it. You’d wanted clarity, reassurance that the tension between you wasn’t all in your head.
Instead, you got a mess of raw nerves and jagged mistrust—and the unmistakable sense that Bucky Barnes had just put you behind enemy lines.
Bucky had apparently mastered the art of disappearing in plain sight.
It didn’t matter if you were in the gym, the kitchen, the common room, or wedged shoulder-to-shoulder with the rest of the team in debriefs—he was suddenly the kind of man who always had someone standing between you and him. Yelena. John. Sometimes even Steve, which felt like adding insult to injury. And then, before you could so much as blink in his direction, Bucky’d be gone.
A ghost in tactical boots.
You tried. God, you tried. A couple of subtle attempts in hallways, a few “funny running into you here” gambits that weren’t funny to anyone, least of all you. Once, you even faked needing an extra hand moving groceries into the kitchen. Bucky had slipped through a doorway like mist before you’d finished the word “carry.”
At night, when you stared at the ceiling of your tower room and felt the press of unsaid words burning behind your ribs, you replayed it all: his voice, his accusations, the wrecked look in his eyes when he told you he couldn’t sleep without thinking about you.
That last one was the killer. Because even knowing he’d meant it as a confession of torment, you couldn’t stop the treacherous part of you that wanted to savour it. It was, in many ways, a confession of everything you’d wanted to hear from Bucky. But it was cloaked in a fear you couldn’t let yourself romanticise.
You might have happily earned your honorary degree in self-pity if your door hadn’t swung open without warning.
“Get up.”
You blinked at the sudden intrusion. Yelena, the picture of menace in cargo pants and a strapless crop top, leaned against your doorway like she owned the place. Behind her, Kate was juggling a bag of chips, a bow case, and the kind of apologetic smile you knew all too well.
“I’m sorry,” Kate stage-whispered, tilting her head toward Yelena, “she doesn’t really, uh, knock.”
“I do knock,” Yelena said flatly, stepping into your room. “But sometimes people pretend not to hear. This is more efficient.”
“Right,” you said, pushing up on your elbows. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this home invasion?”
Yelena crossed her arms. “We are going out.”
You blinked again. “Out where?”
“Bar,” Yelena explained. “Drinks. Dancing. Maybe karaoke if Kate Bishop here does not embarrass us.”
Kate made a wounded sound. “My karaoke skills are amazing, thank you very much.” Then, turning back to you with that earnest, slightly awkward energy that was somehow impossible to resist, she added, “You’ve been kind of out of it for the past couple of days. And since this is our last night in the city before heading back to the compound, we wanted to have some fun. No missions, no strategy briefs, and no sulking.”
“I don’t sulk,” you muttered automatically.
Yelena arched an eyebrow so sharp it could cut glass. “You are sulking right now.”
Kate nodded sympathetically. “Yeah, you kind of are sulking.”
You groaned, flopping back against the pillows. “Look, I appreciate it, but I’m not really in the mood to—”
“Wrong.” Yelena clapped her hands once, decisive. “You are in mood. Bad mood. We are fixing it.”
Kate dropped the chips onto your bed and perched on the edge with a grin. “C’mon. One night. Just us. You can wear those sexy combat boots with your black dress. I know you always pack it just in case.”
Your lips twitched despite yourself. “Well, it would be irresponsible to consider heels with her around,” you said, motioning to the blonde menace in the room.
Yelena grinned approvingly. “Smart girl,” she said proudly.
And that’s how, twenty minutes later, you found yourself shimmying into a short black satin slip dress, the hem swishing around your thighs, your favourite black combat boots laced tight. The outfit, while not exactly groundbreaking or original, said you were fun but willing to fight if things got dicey.
Exactly the vibe for a night out with Yelena Belova.
The bar was already humming when the three of you pushed through the door, Yelena leading the way. Warm golden light spilt from old-fashioned sconces onto scuffed hardwood floors, softened by the lazy swirl of neon lights spilling from behind the liquor shelves.
It wasn’t just the strong drinks or the comfort of knowing the staff would keep any gawkers in line—this bar was used to Avengers appearing like a travelling circus in leather jackets—but the fact that nobody cared who you were, so long as you tipped well.
“See? Already better than sulking in your room,” Yelena declared, tossing you a look over her shoulder. “Less pathetic. More you.”
Kate trailed behind, giving you a conspiratorial smile. “I told her you’d say no if we gave you the option. So she took away the option.”
“Very Russian,” you deadpanned, but your lips curved when Yelena smirked. She knew your comment was all in good fun.
Inside, familiar faces were already waving you over. Natasha with her usual low-key poise, Ava looking like she’d rather be anywhere but here, and Wanda, already halfway through a cocktail that shimmered in deep scarlet like her powers.
Natasha slid a glass across the polished bar toward you. “First round’s on me,” she said. “House rules: no talking shop, no moping, no sneaking out early.”
“Wow. Subtle, Nat,” you said, narrowing your eyes at the look she sent you specifically.
“Subtle is for people who don’t know you,” Natasha shot back.
You laughed, and when Yelena shoved a shot glass into your hand with a curt, “Drink. Or I tell embarrassing story,” you found yourself clinking it against Kate’s clumsily raised glass.
The first swallow burned in that good way, warm spreading through your chest. Around you, the energy of the bar shifted up a notch.
“Look at that,” Ava murmured, eyeing you with a pleased look. “She remembers how to smile.”
“Barely,” Yelena cut in. “We haven’t seen Siren in forever. She’s hiding.”
At that, Kate raised her glass in mock solemnity. “May she rise from the ashes tonight, preferably on the dance floor.”
“To Siren,” Wanda added. “The one who makes half the room fall in love and the other half wonder what hit them.”
You rolled your eyes, but their laughter was infectious. “You’re all ridiculous,” you said. It was hard to fight the warmth of Wanda’s grin, Yelena’s sharp shove at your shoulder, and Kate’s eager nodding.
“Ridiculous, but not wrong,” Yelena said smoothly. When the music shifted into something louder and sultrier, she tugged you to the dance floor with zero hesitation.
By the time the others arrived—Steve’s broad frame cutting a path through the crowd, John already chuckling at something Sam muttered, Bob trudging behind with an expression that suggested he’d rather be anywhere else—you were gone.
Not literally, but lost in the pulse of it: twirling Wanda, laughing into Yelena’s shoulder, hips moving in tandem with the rhythm.
Bucky stopped dead just inside the doorway.
It hit him like a punch, the sight of you under the neon haze, hair catching the light like spun fire, laughter so unguarded it seemed to crack the shell he knew you kept tight around yourself. Everyone else in the room was drawn toward you without even realising it.
You were gravity, you were the centre of orbit, you were Siren in full force, and he hadn’t realised until this moment how much he’d missed it.
Bucky’s chest ached with something he couldn’t name. Not quite jealousy, though the sight of you pulling Bob in and letting him spin you in a circle did spark something sharp.
More than anything, it was awe. You didn’t just light up the room, you made it warmer.
Sam elbowed him as they skirted toward the bar. “Man, you’re staring like you’ve never seen her before.”
Bucky didn’t answer. He couldn’t, not with the sound of your laugh carrying over the music and the way the hem of your already short dress teased the tops of your thighs.
His eyes tracked you without his permission, cataloguing details like he was back on a mission. The sway of your hips was controlled, but loose enough to let the beat pull you. The stretch of your arms above your head, bracelets sliding down your forearms as if the music shook them there. A bead of sweat curved down the side of your neck, catching in the hollow of your collarbone.
Bucky swallowed hard. His throat felt dry, and he took a sip of his beer that did nothing to fix it.
His gaze fell to your legs again. The shift of muscle as you bent your knees, the arch of your back when you moved, and the combat boots that always drove him crazy when you wore them. Bucky knew those legs could knock a man flat in the field, but here, they were all allure and temptation.
Every step you took felt like it was being stomped on his chest.
You leaned into Bob’s side at one point, laughing, your hair sticking slightly to the sweat at your temples. It should have looked messy. Instead, it was devastating.
Bucky gripped the glass tighter. Cold condensation seeped into his gloved palm. He wished it had done more to ground him, because his body sure as hell wasn’t helping. Heat had pooled low in his stomach, spreading fast, leaving his shoulders tense and his pulse too quick.
He told himself it was just instinct, just observation, just knowing a teammate well. But then your head tilted back in laughter, exposing the clean line of your throat, and he knew he was lying to himself.
Steve said something beside him. Bucky didn’t catch it. His eyes didn’t leave you, the way you lost yourself in the song like no one was watching. Except he was watching; every second, every movement.
You were the first to notice the drinks were running low. Sweat sticking to your skin, music thrumming in your veins, and your glass bone-dry. Bob, bless him, had nursed the same Coke for nearly half an hour, so he needed a refill too.
“I’ll grab us some drinks,” you announced, shouting over the music.
Bob pushed his sleeves up as if he were gearing for battle. “I’ll come with you.”
You gave him a look, half-amused, half-incredulous. “It’s a bar, Bob. I can take care of myself.”
Still, he looked was protective in that gentle way of his. Before you could explain your plan, Yelena leaned in, smirking. “She does not want you cramping her style. Nobody will buy her drinks if you are standing there like bodyguard.”
That earned you a confused blink from Bob, then a sheepish laugh as realisation hit. You couldn’t help the smug little smirk that tugged at your mouth. Yelena wasn’t wrong.
You slipped your way to the less busy side of the bar—far from where the guys had staked out their corner—and sure enough, the second you claimed a sliver of space at the counter, the swarm arrived.
A few leaned too close, voices already slurred; one was way too interested in your neckline. But one—tall, dark hair, dimples—looked more like the golden retriever type. Friendly smile, easy energy. You gave him your brightest grin back.
“You look like you could use a drink,” he said, raising his voice over the bass.
“Well, aren’t you sweet,” you drawled. “One Coke, one gin and tonic, and…” You rattled off the rest of the order, watching his brows climb as the list grew.
But he only laughed, waving the bartender down. “Guess I’ll be the hero of the night.” You tilted your head, enjoying the view.
The bartender set about juggling glasses, and while you waited, Dimple Guy leaned an elbow on the counter, turning toward you like you were the only person in the room. You nodded, smiled, threw in a quip or two, perfectly aware that your friends were somewhere behind you taking bets on how long it would take you to walk back with a tray full of free drinks.
The bartender slid the Coke drink across the bar, glass clinking against the counter, and you smiled at Dimple Guy like he’d just solved all your problems and passed it to Bob. Then you leaned in a little closer to Dimple Guy—because it was loud, because it was fun, because you could—and laughed at something he said.
The sound of your giggle carried easily over the music, bright and unrestrained, drawing a few more glances your way.
You didn’t notice the way Bucky’s jaw tightened from across the room, the muscles in his forearm flexing where he gripped his own glass too hard. Didn’t see the way his eyes tracked your hand as you gestured, or how he watched your head tilt back when you smiled.
From his vantage point, it didn’t look like you were talking. It looked like you were working.
Siren.
His stomach twisted at the thought—like maybe the sparkle in your eyes and that easy sway of your hips weren’t just you enjoying yourself, but something deliberate, something calculated, meant to reel this guy in.
You had no idea. You were riding the high of the night, warm with sweat and music, free and a little reckless. But across the room, Bucky sat stiff and silent, every instinct in him coiled tight.
Bob drifted over to their cluster by the bar, a fresh Coke in hand and his cheeks still a little pink from the dancing you’d roped him into. John caught sight of him and smirked, jerking his chin toward the dance floor.
“Guess she got you, huh? Should’ve warned you, she only drags in reinforcements when she’s planning to unleash the full Siren routine,” John said affectionately. He’d been the happy recipient of free drinks on a night out with you before.
Bob chuckled, still catching his breath. “I didn’t even get two steps in the door before she had me. She’s killing it out there, though. Haven’t seen her light up like that in a while.”
A couple of the others laughed, Ava shaking her head with an indulgent little smile. But Bucky’s expression didn’t budge. He set his drink down a little too hard. “You all just let her do that?”
The laughter tapered. Sam tilted his head, wary. “Do what?”
“Use her powers on some guy like that,” Bucky said flatly, his jaw tight. “Make him feel something that isn’t real just because she wants free drinks. That’s not right.”
A beat of silence followed. Kate blinked. Sam looked at Steve, confused. Natasha raised one brow like she couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing.
“Buck,” Steve said carefully, “what are you talking about?”
“You know damn well,” Bucky snapped, low but heated. “She’s Siren. That’s her thing. She manipulates people, makes them fall over themselves and puts all kinds of thoughts in their heads. And now you’re all just standing here letting her do it.”
Steve stared at him for a moment, then laughed—short, incredulous. “Now, wait just one minute. You think that’s her power?”
Bucky’s frown didn’t ease. “Isn’t it?”
Natasha snorted softly and folded her arms. “No, Barnes. That’s just her.”
Bucky’s head jerked toward her, but she continued, her voice edged with fond amusement.
“When she joined S.H.I.E.L.D., half the recruits couldn’t keep their eyes in their heads. And instead of fighting it, she leaned into it, let them underestimate her. Let them drool and stumble over themselves while she smiled pretty.” Natasha’s smile grew proud. “And then she flattened them in hand-to-hand. Outshot them, outran them, outplayed them at every turn.”
Steve’s tone softened, adding, “She can’t mess with people’s heads, she can make people tell the truth. Useful for interrogations, but nothing she uses outside of work. The code name stuck because she was the perfect spy: charismatic, adaptable, instinctive. She could mirror anyone, win their trust, then turn the whole game on its head. That’s Siren.”
Sam let out a low whistle, grinning. “Yeah, man. If she’s getting free drinks, that’s just her charm. Not powers. Don’t cheapen it.”
Bucky stood stiff, processing. His gaze pulled helplessly back to you across the bar, where you were holding a tray of drinks, nodding at something Dimple Guy said. For the first time tonight, the knot of anger in his chest unravelled into something else.
Something that scared him more than rage ever could.
Bucky’s chest felt too tight. The floor seemed to tilt under his boots as Nat’s words replayed in his head, each one hammering another nail into the coffin of his assumptions.
No powers. No manipulation. Just you.
And suddenly every sharp glance, every clipped word he’d thrown your way over the past weeks felt like shrapnel lodged under his skin. He’d treated you warily, even cruelly sometimes; pushing you back, refusing to trust you, accusing you of pulling strings you’d never even touched.
He’d dismissed your kindness, doubted your laughter, second-guessed every spark of warmth between you, and you hadn’t deserved any of it.
A wave of shame clawed up Bucky’s throat, raw and hot. He should have seen you clearly. He should have known. Instead, he’d twisted every smile into proof of something sinister because it was easier than admitting the truth: you got under his skin, you always had.
He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, the noise of the club fading to a dull roar in his ears. And then, like a gut punch, another realisation hit him.
That night after the mission.
Bucky’s stomach dropped, cold dread sinking deep. He’d cornered you outside the Quinjet, tense and accusing you of messing with his head. About how you were in every thought, how he couldn’t shake you, how you consumed him without even trying.
At the time, he’d believed it was your doing. Your powers; some invisible hook you’d buried in him. But if what Natasha and Steve were saying was true, if none of that had ever been manipulation, then he hadn’t accused you.
He’d confessed to you.
Bucky’s breath caught, rough and uneven. You knew. You’d known all along. Every word he thought was an accusation had been nothing but a bare-knuckled admission: that he couldn’t stop thinking about you, that you lived in his head, that he was falling—hell, had already fallen—for you.
You knew he loved you.
His metal fingers curled into a fist against his thigh. Bucky could almost feel the moment again, the way his voice had cracked, the raw edge of desperation when he’d said you were everywhere. He’d meant it as a warning, a complaint.
But looking back on it, it sounded like devotion.
And you hadn’t called him on it. You hadn’t laughed, or brushed him off, or told the others. You’d just looked at him. That soft, confused look he hadn’t been able to stand at the time.
Now Bucky understood why.
A low curse slipped between his teeth. He felt exposed, skinned alive. The part of him that still thought like a soldier, like an asset, wanted to retreat—bury this mess, shove it down, pretend it never happened. But the rest of him, the part that had been pulled closer to you despite every protest, was thrumming with the humiliating awareness that you knew him better than he wanted to admit.
Bucky dropped his gaze to the sticky floor, fighting the useless urge to rewind time and unsay all of it. To crawl back into the comfort of thinking you’d tricked him somehow, because that lie had been easier than the truth pressing down on him now.
The truth that you hadn’t taken anything from him. He’d handed it over, piece by piece, all on his own.
The tower was still humming from the afterglow of laughter and music, the others scattering off to their rooms with flushed cheeks and unsteady footsteps. Natasha’s heels clicked faintly down the hall, Sam’s voice trailed off in a joke half-finished, and then—silence.
You lingered at the counter, fingers curled tight around a half-empty glass of water, as if you held it hard enough it might anchor you. You hadn’t planned on staying, hadn’t planned on being here when the room thinned out, but there was Bucky, leaning in the doorway like some inevitability.
The last person you wanted to see. The only person you wanted.
You didn’t look at him. Your arms folded tight across your chest once you put your glass down, a makeshift shield against the weight of his gaze.
Bucky’s voice was low, rough. “I need to talk to you.”
“Don’t.” You cut him off, sharper than you meant to. “Just, let me say one thing.” Bucky paused, then nodded. “You of all people know what it feels like to lose your ability to choose. Did you really think I’d do that to you?”
That landed. You saw it in the way his jaw clenched, in the flicker of pain that crossed his face like you’d struck him clean through. Bucky moved a step closer, then another, hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.
“I know.” His voice cracked, raw enough to scrape at your chest. “I know, and I was wrong. I panicked. You—” Bucky broke off, dragged a hand through his hair, metal fingers catching the light. “You make me feel things I thought were gone for good. Want, longing, desire. All of it. And I didn’t know what to do with it, so I twisted it into something darker because that’s what Hydra trained into me.” Your breath caught, and you fought to steady the shaky exhale that followed. “I thought that if I let myself want anything, it’d be used against me. So I put it on you, and that wasn’t fair.”
You could feel your own heartbeat everywhere: in your throat, your wrists, low in your belly. Bucky’s confession made you grip the counter behind you to stay steady. Because God, if he only knew how many nights you’d been lying awake, caught in that same impossible ache.
And now here it was, on his tongue.
Bucky was a breath away now, and your pulse hammered like a drum in your ears. The space between you was agony and heaven all at once. His eyes darted to your lips, then flicked away, as if he were trying to measure the consequences of the smallest movement.
“I—” Bucky hesitated. He reached out, metal fingers brushing against the air beside your hand before pulling back sharply. “I had to make myself think badly of you. I had to because you’re so good. Funny, warm, and honest. And I didn’t trust myself to feel anything like that and not ruin it. Not break it. So I let my mind turn it into something to be scared of.”
Your chest tightened, a wild thrum of hurt and want colliding. “Bucky,” you whispered, trembling hands moving from the counter to clench at your sides. “I need honesty, not guilt. Talk to me, tell me why you thought I could put thoughts and feelings in your head.”
“I heard everyone call you Siren, on game night, and saying that you’d have me wrapped around your finger,” he said. “I guess it was convenient for me to believe you were putting thoughts in my head, making me feel things I didn’t want to. I—” Bucky broke off, exhaling. “I wanted my feelings for you to be someone else’s responsibility. That way, I could just say they weren’t mine in the first place.”
“I was born with these abilities,” you explained slowly. “When I was little, I realised I could make people tell the truth when I suspected they were lying. That was it. That’s all I can do with my powers, make them verbalise the absolute truth. I mostly ignored it because I knew it was manipulation.” Bucky nodded like he already knew. “I got through S.H.I.E.L.D. on my own merits, earned the codename Siren, and—yes, I can force the truth when I have to. But everything else is just me. Your feelings for me, though? The want, the desire? That’s you.”
Bucky flinched a little at the words, metal arm twitching involuntarily. “That’s me,” he echoed, voice shaking with disbelief.
“Yes.” You took another step closer, your hands brushing the air just above his chest; not touching, just daring him to meet you halfway. “I can’t make you feel this. I may be good at flirting and figuring out what people want from me, but I never turned on the Siren charm for you. So all of this,” you paused, letting your gaze lock onto his, unwavering, “Is you, Bucky. Own it.”
Bucky’s jaw flexed, and his eyes shimmered with something raw, almost dangerous in its intensity. You could hear the faint scrape of his boots against the tile, the subtle shift of his weight as he closed the space, inch by inch.
The warmth of him, barely separated from your body, made your chest tighten. You could feel the faint heat radiating off Bucky’s neck, smell the sharp tang of metal and soap mingled with the faint smoke of the city outside. His breath, slow and deliberate, ghosted over your cheeks.
Bucky didn’t speak. Everything was sound and heat and the faint tang of his cologne, vibrating with the tension of the nearness. Every subtle movement he made, each tilt forward, each flex of muscle, made the desire between you so thick it almost had a taste.
Then his hands moved, a careful, almost excruciating centimetre away from sliding fully against yours, letting you feel the heat, the weight, the need.
Bucky exhaled, an almost inaudible sound that brushed against your ear. He was so close. Every inch of him spoke of everything you’d been holding back, every suppressed need, and now the energy between you crackled, waiting for the moment someone gave in.
His hands found yours before you could think to move, fingers threading through yours, warm and solid, and the shock of contact made you shiver violently.
Bucky held your hands, careful but insistent, letting you feel his weight, his presence, his unabashed want. You could feel the slight tremor in his fingers, the subtle tension of muscle beneath your palms. Your own hands tingled, every nerve ending singing.
The low rasp of his voice, barely more than a whisper, broke the silence. “I don’t know how to want something without being afraid of it anymore,” Bucky said, and the honesty in it dug into you.
You felt the tension in his shoulders, the taut line of his jaw, the slow rise and fall of his chest as if he were holding back the rest of the words.
“I don’t know if I believe in good,” Bucky continued, his voice breaking slightly, “but I believe in you. And how could you not be good?” His thumb brushed along the back of your hand, tentative but deliberate.
The weight of his admission was almost too much to bear. You lifted your chin, breath mingling in the small space between you.
“Then let me show you it’s okay to want me,” you murmured, your voice steady despite the heat pooling through your chest. “Let me show you that I want you too.” Your fingers tightened around his, a silent promise and invitation.
Bucky’s lips parted slightly, a sharp intake of breath that mirrored your own. His gaze never left yours as he leaned forward, careful, deliberate, giving himself permission, giving you permission.
His hands slid up your arms, tracing the line of your shoulders, grounding him even as the rest of him seemed ready to unravel.
“I—” Bucky’s voice was hoarse, swallowed by the tension, but the word cracked through the air like a lightning strike. “I love you.”
You blinked, breath catching on the confession. It was so quiet, almost lost in the shuffle of your racing pulse, and it landed inside you like a shockwave. You didn’t have time to respond before he closed the space between you.
His lips pressed onto yours, desperate, hungry, as if he’d been holding back decades of want and need and fear all at once. The force of it drove you back into the counter, and you clutched at him—fingers tangling in his hair, gripping the leather at his shoulders, pulling him closer with a ferocity that matched his own.
For so long you’d both been denying this; now there was no holding back.
Teeth grazed in the frenzy, breath tangling, the kiss deepening until it felt like he was trying to drink you in whole. His chest pressed against yours, hard and unyielding, the heat of him searing through your body as his arms wrapped tight around you, like if he loosened his grip for even a second, you might vanish.
Every nerve in you screamed, every breath was stolen. You could taste months of restraint unraveling on his tongue, feel the quake in his body as if he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you. The ache you’d carried, the hollow nights of longing, all of it poured out of you.
And still, Bucky couldn’t get enough.
His hands roamed as though he needed to map every inch of you at once—one sliding down your spine, pulling you flush against him, the other cradling your jaw, tilting your face so he could claim your mouth deeper, longer, harder. He kissed you like a starving man finally given food, like he didn’t know how to slow down even if he tried.
But then it slowed, achingly so, like Bucky remembered that he could take it slower. His grip softened, his lips brushing yours in featherlight passes, reverent and trembling. One hand stayed at your waist, grounding, the other cupped the back of your neck with searing gentleness.
Bucky loved you.
You let your fierceness meet his, but there was tenderness too, a painstaking devotion in the way your lips traced his. Your fingers combed through his hair, your body leaning into his with unguarded trust. You kissed away the ghosts clinging to him, kissed away every Hydra shadow, every jagged scar of memory.
Bucky groaned low in your mouth, raw surrender, and you swallowed it eagerly. Your bodies pressed closer until there was no space left. Just heat, hammering hearts, and the dizzying rush of being completely his.
Everything around you dissolved. Every brush of lips, every sigh, every whispered gasp became the center of your existence. The kiss broke only to return again and again, each one as hungry as the last, as though neither of you could stop feeding on the moment.
Bucky whispered your name against your lips—over and over, soft and worshipful—and you clung to as you clung to him.
When you pulled back just enough to look at each other, chests heaving in tandem, the room felt impossibly alive. Bucky’s hands lingered on you, thumbs brushing lightly over the exposed skin of your back.
His lips moved against yours in soft, breathless murmurs, just barely grazing your mouth, your jaw, the curve of your cheek. “I love you,” he whispered again, voice low and rough, almost in disbelief.
You smiled against him, a gentle warmth spreading in your chest at the sound of it. “I think you’re going to have to say that more than once,” you murmured, teasing just enough to lift the tension without breaking the intimacy.
Bucky chuckled, an unguarded sound that made your stomach twist in the best possible way. Then, almost reflexively, he said again: “I love you.” And again, and again, and again. Each time, quieter, breathier, and somehow even more insistent, as though saying it aloud made it more real to him.
Your smile deepened, and you pressed a light kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Guess I didn’t need to use my powers after all,” you murmured, letting the warmth of your laughter bubble through, teasing but tender.
Bucky let out a full, real laugh this time, unrestrained, and pulled you back against him, lips claiming yours in another deep, desperate kiss. His hands held you tighter, your arms wrapping around his shoulders.
You both eased back just enough to breathe. Bucky’s arms stayed wrapped securely around you, holding you as if letting go might undo everything. Your hands rested played lightly with his hair, sending a shiver down Bucky’s spine.
He nuzzled your temple. “You’re amazing,” you murmured, half-teasing, half-awed, as the adrenaline and heat of the kiss slowly ebbed.
Bucky let out a quiet chuckle, low and rumbling, shaking his head against you. “I don’t even know how to do this without screwing it up,” he admitted, voice thick with vulnerability.
“You’re not screwing anything up,” you whispered, brushing a loose strand of hair from his face. “You’re here. That’s enough. That’s all I need.”
For a long moment, silence settled over you, comforting and warm. Bucky pressed careful kisses to your head and hair, quietly murmuring to himself.
Then, with a soft giggle escaping you, you tilted your head back slightly. “You’re still saying it,” you teased, voice light, fingers brushing over his jaw.
“I can’t stop,” Bucky murmured against your temple, voice hoarse and intimate. “I love you… I love you… I love you—”
“I love you,” you cut in, grinning as he pulled you closer again.
There was no rush, no urgency beyond the shared need to be near. For the first time since he’d been Winter Soldier, Bucky let himself fully surrender—fully want, fully trust, fully be with you.
summary: (technically a pt 2 to this but can be a standalone!!)
bucky finds himself sleeping in your room more and more often. but the bed is strictly off limits.
tags/warnings: bucky barnes is a cutie patootie, nightmare but no details, idiots in love
wc: 1.6k
a/n: this was written ages ago so kinda sucks but i'm starting to write again which means i am resurrecting my account 🙏 writing a longer fic though and wanted smth to post so here you go yayy
masterlist
Bucky Barnes had formed what he would call a weak habit. Unfortunately for him, the pull of it wasn’t weak. Instead, the weakness was imposed on him as he so desperately tried and failed to resist the temptation.
But the only thing to truly work, to finally give him a grip on discipline, was getting caught.
Two weeks pass after you catch Bucky asleep on your floor. Despite the insistence that you hadn’t minded, and what you thought was his acceptance of that fact, he doesn’t return. You might think you imagined the whole thing, if not for the awkwardness that lingers when you bid each other goodnight.
You question if it can even be called that; he throws out the word like a bomb, darting to his room before it can detonate. You’re left with the explosion and it rattles your thoughts, crashing into you as you wonder: Had you been too pushy? Did you make it awkward? Is this the end of your friendship?
The sting of rejection isn't quite fair, you know that, but still there's some deep part of you that takes a hit. However, you follow his lead and don’t bring it up, don’t invite him back to your room. After a while, accepting it is easy - or at least that’s what you tell yourself. This doesn’t mean he hates you, and it’s not like it’s something you should have come to expect. The two of you are best friends, nowhere close to the realm of... anything else.
Yeah, maybe his simple presence had provided you with the best night’s sleep in a long time, but so what? A strong drink could knock you out too. It didn't mean you should rely on it every night.
You try to shove the memory of it all out of your head as hard as possible, but it’s pushed so far that the bitter taste of it reaches your throat. It resides there, causing the occasional stutter when you speak to him, a frown to tug at your lips more often.
But you don’t care.
The day it happens again, Bucky’s arm is acting up. You’d noticed that afternoon how he winced when reaching with his left hand, how he’d closed all the windows without a word. The air is bitingly cold, which is always the worst for him.
Your room is kept warm. Bucky can do the same with his, has access to the heating system. But your room exudes warmth in a way that isn’t just heat. While his is all barren walls and bleak curtains, you’ve got fairy lights, fluffy pillows, sticky-taped pictures. The space is lived-in, not just a spot that exists between other moments.
Most warm of all, he thinks, it has your presence.
You fall asleep that night completely unexpecting, though some deep part of you might be waiting. Your senses are finely tuned, even when you’d tried slicing the wires with pliers as sharp as your own cutting thoughts. But your eyes peek open in time with the door.
Bucky’s steps are tentative, like the doorframe is a trip wire. He hesitates, scanning the room for any threats the way he does on missions. You give no indication that you’re awake. Half of you just wants to see how this plays out, while the other is sure that even breathing too hard will shatter the moment.
He crouches onto the floor slowly, as if he might startle himself or you with any sharp movements. The scene from last time is recreated, his limbs curled up with a small, thin blanket over his torso. It’s so bunched up that it only goes to his knees, and his arms have no cover at all. He tosses and turns for a while, plagued by an antsy energy.
It’s only when he turns so vigorously and knocks into your nightstand that you can’t keep up the pretense anymore. Your phone crashes to the floor and he fumbles, sitting up, attempting to salvage the damage as you crack your eyes open properly.
“Not very stealthy for a super soldier,” you say, biting back a laugh.
His shoulders slump as he sits there, staring at the floor like he wants it to swallow him. He holds up your phone between two flesh fingers. “Not cracked, at least.”
“Good, or I’d make you pay for the damage.” You take it from him, noticing how he favours his flesh hand despite the metal one being closer. Despite knowing the answer, you ask, “Your arm acting up?”
“Mm. Cold weather.”
You wordlessly grab your heating pad and lean over to drape it against his shoulder. He lets you, eyes remaining on your face, even though the smile he gives you is rueful. “Thanks… sorry for waking you.”
You keep your own gaze on the pad, not quite sure how to handle eye contact at such close proximity. “What do you mean?” you ask, releasing a small breath as you retreat to lay back down. “I’m still asleep right now.”
He knows what you’re doing. How you refuse to give him any more interaction to overthink when he doesn’t want to be pushed. He’s being given a choice, something that was ripped from his hands for seventy years.
And while the heat seeps from the pad into his shoulder, really it’s the way you understand him so deeply that warms him.
He stays the night, still on the floor, but closer to your bed than usual.
He comes back three nights later. Once more the next. You start leaving a little extra space on the side of the bed closest to the door. It’s a silent invitation, one you refuse to acknowledge even in your own mind.
There’s no pressure. It’s simply there. Something that lingers, floats in the air like a whispering breeze instead of a billowing wind.
Sometimes you notice his stare, like he runs through all the outcomes in his head. Apparently it never weighs out in his favour. But eventually you wake and his head rests on the mattress at the foot of the bed, body slumped as he leans against the frame. You shift slowly to swipe away a piece of hair that flops over his eye, then drape a blanket over his shoulders.
You think you get away with it and don’t wake him up. But what you don’t notice is how Bucky holds his breath at the contact, all of his willpower focused on not leaning into your touch.
A few nights later, you lean against the headboard, knees drawn to your chest as you perch in the middle of the bed. There had been a little nightmare, followed by a lot of overthinking. It casts shadows into the caverns of your mind, leaving you unable to close your eyes.
It’s one of the nights where Bucky chose not to come - or so you’d thought. Those nights are becoming much more scarce, to the point he’s now here more often than not.
“Oh -” he says, almost swallowed by the creak of the door as he peeks his head in and notices you’re still up. “Sorry… I can -”
You shake your head, hoping the action might force some of your thoughts out too. “No, no, come on in.”
He makes it to his usual spot but doesn’t sit down. Instead he stands there, eyes studying you in a way that makes your shoulders curl in but your heart call out. “You okay?”
The shrug that comes out is weak. “Been worse.”
“You wanna talk about it?”
You shake your head.
He doesn’t add anything else - he doesn’t have to. In this line of work, nights like these aren’t rare. But you’re not hyperventilating or crying, just a little spooked, so he knows not to push. What he does do is grab the bottle of water on your nightstand, holding it out like an offering. Even when you take it, he doesn’t move away. You notice his eyes are on the mattress in that way they sometimes do when he’s analysing.
He waits until you take a sip and then nudges your shoulder. “Come on, move over.”
You blink at him, figuring you’d misheard. But he’s avoiding your gaze, which is confirmation enough that you had heard correctly.
You scoot over to your usual position, and this time he follows you in. You take another sip of water to stop from staring stupidly at him.
“The floor finally catching up to those old bones?”
He rolls his eyes, elbowing you as he adjusts the pillows. “You’re the one always complaining about a sore back.”
“Not all of us have that super blue shit in our veins.” As you slide to lay down, he joins you.
Some nights you’d imagined what this would be like. If awkwardness would engulf you, or you’d miss the luxury of a full bed. But you just feel safe, grounded in a way you’ve never experienced. Your bodies don’t touch, except for the occasional brush of an arm, and you spend the next half an hour talking, not about anything important.
Even though your brain urges you closer, you don’t quite dare. Bucky looks at you with soft eyes, crinkled at the corners, and for now it’s enough.
It’s enough when his laugh is closer than you’ve ever heard it.
It’s enough when you’re able to watch his eyelashes flutter against his cheekbones.
It’s enough when you don’t think he’d trust anyone else enough for this.
And then you fall asleep, unsure how to make it enough forever.
Summary : After dating for six months, Bucky is now your emergency contact. Yelena, your best friend, finds out the hard way.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x New Avengers!reader (she/her) | Best friend! Yelena
Warnings/tags : Kinda Tower fic!!! Fluff with angst if you squint. Protective!Bucky x chaotic!reader, Reader is ex-red room and thinks of Yelena as a sister, established relationship, mild injury, mild concussion, alcohol concussion, tipsy reader, mentioned bar fight, reader beats up harassers, Bucky being down bad. Set after Thunderbolts (Let me know if I missed anything!)
Word count : 8.2k
Note : I love a platonic buddy cop Bucky and Yelena dynamic. Enjoy!
Yelena had been your emergency contact for as long as you had a life outside the Red Room.
It just made sense. Back when you just had started to be free, neither of you had exactly known how to be people in the ordinary way everyone else seemed to manage. You knew how to run on little sleep, how to disappear into crowds, how to take apart a weapon by touch alone. You knew how to lie without blinking, how to hide injuries beneath sleeves, how to make one fake passport stretch across three countries and four very bad decisions. You did not know how to list a dentist, or pick a primary care doctor, or fill out forms that asked for a “next of kin” as if your family was simple enough to write on a dotted line.
So you wrote Yelena.
You wrote her number.
You wrote her most recent address
Again and again and again, on medical forms, on paperwork, on apartment leases, on job applicants and anything that asked who should be contacted if something happened to you.
It had always been Yelena.
Once, a hospital called her at two in the morning after you dislocated a shoulder in a rooftop in Queens, and she had arrived in the ER in pajama pants, combat boots, and a face so flat with irritation it was almost comforting.
“You are lucky I love you, sestryonka,” she had said, watching a nurse snap your arm back into place.
“You are not much older than me,” you murmured under your breath, not even flinching.
Another time, when you had been grazed by a bullet and insisted it was “basically nothing,” she had threatened to staple your mouth while a doctor stitched you up because, apparently, your pain scale was “made by idiots, for idiots.”
That was Yelena. She was not gentle, not exactly. But she was there for you. Every time a hospital called, she came.
She was your best friend and your sister in every way that mattered. You had not shared parents or a childhood in the traditional sense, not even in the sense that Natasha had been to her. Still, you had shared training rooms, handlers, bruises, and survival. You had shared the particular feeling of being made into weapons by the same machine and then escaping with pieces missing, only to decide, stubbornly and badly, that you were going to be normal people anyway.
Yelena had been your emergency contact because she was the person you trusted to be there.
She was also the person who understood, better than anyone, that your definition of an emergency was not normal.
“You do not have to stab every man who deserves it,” she had told you once, bailing you out of jail in the early hours of Saturday morning. The cops had let you off on self-defense later, which was true but Yelena found it pleasantly shocking, especially considering how bad the wound you left was. She had her suspicions: mostly that you must’ve tampered with the documents, but who was she to judge?
“I don’t stab every man who deserves it.”
“No,” she said, dry as dust, “only because there are not enough hours in the day.”
Which was probably why, for years, she had answered the emergency calls with the patience of a saint who had accepted her role in your life as sister, accomplice, and getaway driver.
Then Bucky Barnes happened.
—
You and Bucky lived next to each other in the Tower because Valentina had decided the New Avengers needed a base, a schedule, and probably several court-mandated group therapy sessions.
Not just you two, really. All the new avengers, after the Void incident, got crammed into one still-in progress building with too much fragile glass, too many cameras, and far too many sharp objects for people who pretended they were “doing better.”
You noticed Bucky because it was impossible not to.
He was quiet, but not empty. He was always careful, and you always saw him against a wall. He was always watching doors, windows, reflections, and hands. He moved through life like a man who had learned the world could turn on him without warning.
You understood that.
Maybe he noticed you for the same reason.
You both had old ghosts in different rooms. You might have had different handlers, but they did the kind of damage.
The first kiss happened after a mission.
You had made it home. You had showered. You had told Yelena you were fine, which made her stare at you like you had insulted her intelligence. Then you went to the training room because your body was still buzzing with murderous adrenaline and there was nowhere else to put it.
You hit the bag until your knuckles ached.
That was when Bucky said your name.
You stopped and turned. He stood by the door in a black Henley and sinful grey sweats, hair loose, brows furrowed as if he understood.
“I’m fine,” you said, pretending your knuckles weren’t bleeding through the wraps.
His mouth curved up, but he was not really amused. “Yeah. I know that one.”
You looked away.
He came closer, giving you every chance to tell him to leave.
You didn’t.
You just stood there, breathing hard, throat tight.
Bucky stopped in front of you. Suddenly, the room felt smaller.
You told yourself it was because he was being a good leader. That was all.
He was checking on his team. Emulating Steve, maybe, in that painfully earnest way he did when he thought no one noticed. He was just making sure everyone made it back from the mission in one piece.
That was what leaders did, right? They noticed when a member went too quiet. They followed them to the training room. They stood too close with that gentle, worried crease between their brows and made it almost impossible to breathe normally.
It was definitely not because he was getting closer to you.
Definitely not because, over the last few months, he had started caring about you in ways that felt too intense to be casual. He had stitched you up when Yelena hadn’t been around, sitting close enough that his knee touched yours while his fingers worked carefully over your skin. He had found you in the common room after a nightmare once, shaking in the dark with your knees tucked to your chest, and instead of asking too many questions, he had disappeared for two minutes and come back with one of his too-big hoodies. He had handed it to you without a word, then sat beside you until the sunrise turned the windows gold.
It was definitely not because you had almost kissed him three times in the past two weeks.
Not in the kitchen at two in the morning, when you had both reached for the same mug and ended up standing too close, his eyes dropping to your mouth before he looked away.
Not in the elevator after the Berlin mission, when the power had flickered and his metal hand had caught your waist on instinct, steadying you even though you didn’t need steadying at all.
Not in the hallway outside the med bay, when he had brushed blood from your cheek with his human thumb and froze afterward, like he had only just realized he was touching you.
No. This was not that, right?
Bucky Barnes was merely being responsible.
He was your teammate. Your leader, technically. He cared because he cared about everyone. That was all.
Except he was looking at you like you were not everyone.
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said.
That almost broke you. So, naturally, you tried to get mean about it. “I’m not pretending.”
Bucky’s eyes did not change. “Okay.”
You hated that. You hated his stupid patience, his awful gentleness, the way he didn’t push and somehow made you feel more transparent because of it.
Anyone else would have argued. John or Ava would have told you to sit down. Alexei would have made some loud, affectionate declaration about strength and soup. Bob would’ve given you a self-help book and hoped it fixed you. Yelena would have stared at you until you confessed out of irritation alone.
But Bucky just stood there.
“I said I’m fine,” you snapped, turning away from him. “You can go back to bed.”
“I could.”
“Great.”
“I’m not going to,” he tilted his head.
You let out a laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Of course you’re not.”
His brow furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The good man thing.” You gestured vaguely at him, at his stupid stance, the stupid caring voice, the stupid beautiful blue eyes that kept finding every crack in you no matter how hard you tried to cover them up with plaster and concrete. “The checking-on-the-team thing. You’ve done it. Congratulations. I’m checked on.”
Bucky’s teeth tightened, just barely. “I’m not here because of that, and you know.”
That made your throat close, looking away too fast.
“Don’t,” you said.
His voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t say things like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you want to give me hope.”
The words left you before you could stop them.
Bucky could only stare at you, and for one terrifying second, you thought he would step back. You almost wanted him to; it would have been easier if he did. It would’ve been easier if he proved you right, if he retreated into duty and all the safe, noble reasons a man like him would follow a woman like you into a dark room after a bad mission.
But he didn’t move. He only said your name, not like scolding you. Instead, it sounded like he was trying to give you a rope, a lifeline, something to reach out to so you could get yourself out of the well you had willingly jumped in yourself.
Your eyes burned, and you hated him a little for it.
Not really, but almost.
Because Bucky had always gotten to you in ways no one else had, not even Yelena. Yelena knew your damage because hers had grown beside it, root tangled with hurt twin root, rotten as a result of the same poison in the same soil. She understood you like a blade understood a knife made in the same forge.
Bucky was different.
Bucky looked at you like he knew what it was to be made into a weapon and still wanted to touch whatever soul was still left underneath. He looked at you like he was not afraid of your pain, because he had spent a lifetime bleeding on his own. He didn't meet your defenses with force. He just stood there, ruinously patient, until your walls began to feel dumb for being up at all.
You shook your head and stepped back.
“I don’t need this.”
“I know you don’t,” he said. “That’s not why I’m here.”
Your mouth parted, but nothing came out. Bucky took one careful step closer.
“You can push me away,” he said. “You can tell me to leave. If you really mean it, I’ll go.”
Your chest ached.
“But don’t lie to me because you think it’s easier.”
You swallowed hard.
His eyes dropped briefly to your wrapped hands, to the tremor you had not been able to hide, then came back to your face.
“I know easier,” he said quietly. “Easier doesn't mean it helps.”
And that was it.
That was the stupid, gentle thing that finally cracked you open.
Your shoulders lowered by half an inch. Your breath went thin. You looked down at your hands, at the loose wraps, and suddenly the whole room felt too bright, too much like the place you had been trying to run from inside your own head.
“I hate when it comes back,” you whispered. “I hate that they still get to have me like that.”
His face changed, not out of pity. Instead, it was recognition.
His hand lifted carefully, like touching you was sacred and dangerous all at once. When you didn’t move away, his fingers settled against your cheek, his thumb brushing just beneath your eye.
Bucky didn’t look shocked by the confession. He looked like he had been waiting for you to stop holding it alone.
“Look around,” he said, voice almost rough.
You swallowed. “Buck—”
“No,” he insisted. “Just look.”
So you did.
Past him, past the punching bag still swaying faintly from where you had been hitting it, past the mirrored walls and polished floor and bright lights. Beyond the training room doors was the rest of the tower. You could see the hall that led to the common room where Yelena kept pretending she didn’t leave snacks out for you when she knew you hadn’t eaten. The kitchen where Alexei made too much food and called it portion control. The hallway Ava drifted through like a ghost when she was tired. The pool table where John had taught Bob how to play when he was close to relapsing, just so he could take his mind out of the drugs he was craving.
You were here, in the strange, broken, impossible home all of you had built because none of you knew what normal looked like.
“You’re safe,” Bucky reassured. “You’re in the tower. You’re surrounded by the only people in the world who could maybe come close to understanding you.”
Your throat tightened when he stepped a little closer, his hand still on your face.
“We protect each other,” he said. “We look out for each other. Because we’ve established, pretty clearly, that none of us can be left alone without causing some kind of international incident, right?”
A broken laugh slipped out of you despite trying to hold it back.
Bucky’s mouth gentled, but his eyes stayed serious.
“They don’t have you,” he said. “Not anymore.”
Your breath shuddered as his thumb moved once over your cheek.
“We have you,” he said, smaller now. “Yelena has you. The team has you.”
He hesitated, as if the last part would cost him something. As if saying it out loud was more dangerous than any mission he had ever walked into. But because it was you, he said it anyway.
“I have you.”
Oh.
Bucky looked at you like he meant every word.
It was not duty, not leadership, not the good man thing you had accused him of earlier. He was simply standing there in front of you, asking for nothing, offering everything, and trying very hard not to look terrified by how much he wanted you to believe him.
You stared at him.
His hand was still warm against your face. His body was close enough now that you could feel the heat, close enough that you could see the rapidly healing little cut on his forehead from the mission, the bruise blooming near his neck, the way his eyes dropped to your mouth and then dragged themselves back up like he was trying to be good.
He was trying so hard.
That was what undid you: the way Bucky Barnes, who could have taken apart the whole room without breaking a sweat, held you like you were sacred and waited for you to choose.
So you did.
“Buck,” you whispered.
His breath caught. “Yeah?”
You rose onto your toes and kissed him first.
Just like that.
You were aware of how warm, aching, and sudden it was. Your hands held the front of his shirt, fingers twisting into the fabric. For half a second, Bucky went completely still, like his body had forgotten what to do with being wanted.
Then he made a small sound against your mouth, not quite a groan as much as a sigh of relief. His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, while his metal hand settled at your waist like he needed to anchor you without trapping you. He kissed you back like he had finally snapped, but softly. He had been holding himself back for weeks, maybe months, and now that you had crossed the distance first, he still refused to rush you.
You pulled him closer, and he came willingly.
The kiss deepened, enough to make your heartbeat trip, enough for his breath to turn uneven against your lips. Your hands moved up his chest, and Bucky’s fingers flexed at your waist before he forced them to be gentle again.
You felt that too.
When you finally pulled back, barely, his forehead rested against yours.
Neither of you spoke for a moment. The punching bag had stopped swinging. Your hands had stopped shaking.
Bucky’s eyes stayed closed, his breath warm against your mouth.
“I have you,” he whispered again, like a promise.
“I know,” you whispered back. “I know.”
You kissed him once more, smaller this time.
When you finally pulled away, Bucky looked wrecked.
Yours, though neither of you had said it yet.
You touched his stubble with your thumb.
“We don’t have to talk about it tonight,” you said.
His eyes closed for half a second.
“Mmm,” he hummed, then he kissed your forehead, right between your brows.
And when he took your hand and led you out of the training room, neither of you let go.
—
It took a week for anyone to mention it.
A full week.
Which, considering you all lived on the same floor and had the collective subtlety of a grenade launcher, was honestly impressive.
You and Bucky had not exactly been hiding it well, anyway. He stood closer now. His hand found your lower back when he passed behind you in the kitchen. You wore his shirts more often than your own clothes. He had started looking at you across rooms with this horribly longing expression that made you want to throw a magazine at him and kiss him stupid in equal measure.
The whole thing came apart in the common room on a Thursday evening, because John Walker had the social grace of a brick through a window.
You were reaching over the counter for the ketchup when John looked up from his steak, frowned slightly, and said, “You smell different.”
Every single person at the table froze.
You turned your head. “Excuse me?”
John, apparently realizing too late that this was a weird thing to say out loud, gestured vaguely with his fork. “Not bad. You just smell like Barnes.”
Bucky stopped chewing.
Yelena’s eyebrows shot up.
Ava looked down into her mug like she could already see where this was going and wanted no part in preventing it.
Alexei leaned forward with immediate interest. “Like Barnes how?”
John shrugged. “I don’t know. His soap? Cologne? Whatever old men use.”
Bucky looked offended. “Old men?”
Before you could save the conversation, Bob, who had been peacefully munching on his fries at the end of the table, said, “Oh. It might be because they were making out in the sauna earlier.”
What followed was utter catastrophic silence.
Your hand tightened around your mug.
Bucky stared at Bob like he had just launched a missile.
“You saw us?” you hissed.
Bob looked up, mildly confused by everyone’s reaction. “Yeah.”
Bucky’s voice went very careful. “And you didn’t say anything?”
Bob thought about it. “You both looked busy.”
John dropped his fork with a clatter. “I’m sorry, what?”
Alexei slapped both hands onto the table. “In the sauna?”
“It wasn’t—” you started.
Bucky said at the exact same time, “We were not—”
Yelena pointed at both of you. “Oh my god.”
You looked at her, bracing yourself for the protective sister routine. Maybe an interrogation, or a threat. Instead, Yelena broke into the most smug, delighted grin you had ever seen.
“I knew it.”
Bucky’s head turned toward her. “You knew?”
“Obviously.” She leaned back in her chair, looking disgustingly pleased with herself. “You two have been making eyes at each other for months. It was pathetic.”
“It’s really not,” you said.
Ava hummed, because apparently this was a good time to speak up. “It was a little.”
You felt betrayed. “Ava.”
Alexei looked between you and Bucky with shining eyes. “This is beautiful. Two damaged assassins finding love in luxury wellness room.”
Yelena waved a hand. “Whatever. You two are perfect for each other.”
That, weirdly, was what shut you up.
Bucky froze beside you, his shoulder brushing yours. You could feel him looking at you, you could feel that private warmth that had started between you in the training room and somehow survived a week.
“You think?” you asked, more vulnerable than you meant to.
Yelena’s eyes softened just slightly. Then, because she was Yelena, she ruined it immediately. “Yes. You are both dramatic, emotionally constipated, and terrible at pretending you are not in love.”
Alexei looked near tears. “I support this union.”
“There is no union,” Bucky said, ears pink.
You glanced at him, half joking. “No?”
His mouth opened, but closed almost immediately.
“Yet,” Bob said under his breath.
Yelena made a triumphant noise. “Ha!”
Bucky rubbed a hand over his face while the entire table erupted, everyone talking over each other at once. John was asking when it started. Alexei was demanding to know who kissed who first. Ava calmly said she had assumed it happened months ago because Bucky had stopped looking like a kicked dog whenever you walked into a room. Bob asked if the sauna was now off-limits for everyone else.
And through all of it, Bucky’s hand found yours under the table.
You looked at him.
He looked mortified. Happy, though.
So happy it made your chest hurt.
You squeezed his hand back and smiled into your drink while Yelena loudly declared, “Finally. Maybe now the sexual tension in this Tower will stop clogging the ventilation.”
—
For six months, Yelena thought the whole thing was very funny.
At first, anyway.
It was funny when Bucky started leaving his jackets in places you could “accidentally” find them, as if anyone in the tower believed you just happened to keep ending up swallowed in navy cotton that smelled like him. It was funny when you and Bucky tried to sit normally on the couch and still ended up pressed shoulder to shoulder, your knee hooked over his, his hand resting on your thigh like he had forgotten other people had eyes. It was especially funny when Alexei called him your American house cat and Bucky looked personally wounded while you gave him doe eyes, trying to convince him that you both should adopt an actual house cat.
Yelena teased him mercilessly. She teased you worse.
But mostly, she liked it.
Because in the end, Bucky was good for you. He understood the coldness you wrapped yourself in after bad missions. He didn't flinch when you woke up violently from nightmares. He never asked you to be smaller than you were.
And, irritatingly, you were good for him too.
You made him laugh more. Not loudly, not often, but enough that Yelena noticed. You made him less haunted in the mornings. You made him complain about normal things, like burnt toast and John stealing his protein powder and Alexei singing in the shower. You made him human in little ways he had forgotten he was allowed to be.
So, yes, for six months, Yelena thought it was cute.
Until one night, when she decided it wasn’t.
It was one of your nights.
You had it once a month or so. You called it “me time.”
Everyone else called it, “the night you went out alone to random bars, played darts against biker gangs, wagered full-grown men out of their cash, and came home at two in the morning smelling like beer and smuggled cigars.”
Bucky hated those nights, and not because he wanted to stop you. He knew better than to try. You were not a houseplant. You were not fragile. You were a former Red Room operative with excellent aim and a deeply concerning fondness for humiliating men named things like Tank and Moose at bar games.
Still, the second you left, Bucky became useless. He checked his phone. He checked the windows. He made coffee and forgot to drink it. He stood in the kitchen like a widower in a war film, staring at nothing until Yelena threw a peanut at his head and told him to sit down before she sedated him.
Yelena didn’t worry. At least, not openly. She knew you. She knew you liked the adrenaline, the anonymity, the very specific joy of walking into a place where everyone underestimated you and leaving with an ego boost and cash in your pocket. It was stupid, yes, but not unusually stupid for you.
Besides, you always came back.
So once a month, everytime you went out for your “me time,” Bucky and Yelena would hang out together and pretend they were not both slightly empty without you.
They played cards. Sometimes they watched terrible action movies just to complain about the fight choreography. Sometimes they made food neither of them admitted you usually supervised. They never called it waiting up. But they were definitely waiting up.
The two of them were embarrassing without you. Truly embarrassing.
That was how they had ended up at the kitchen island playing heads-up poker with ammunition.
Yelena had dumped a box of bullets onto the counter and divided them into two little piles like poker chips.
“This is bad gun safety,” Bucky scolded.
“These are not in gun,” Yelena said, dealing the cards. “So it is fine.”
“That is not how it works,” Bucky complained, but took the cards anyway.
“You are losing,” Yelena insisted. “Stop distracting.”
“I’m not.”
“You have three bullets left,” she pointed out.
Bucky looked down at his sad little pile, and Yelena smirked. “Very tragic.”
“I’m distracted.”
“Yes,” she nodded. “Because your girlfriend is not here and you are useless without her.”
He gave her a look over his cards. If this was how she was going to act, then two can play at that game. “You’ve checked your phone six times.”
“I am monitoring,” She sneered.
“You’re useless too.”
She kicked him under the counter, and he just glared at her.
This, somehow, was what they had become.
Two people with probably the highest body count in the tower, sitting in the kitchen past midnight, playing poker with loose ammunition because neither of them knew what to do with themselves when you weren’t there.
Yelena tossed a card down. “Raise.”
“With what?” Bucky sighed. “You have all the bullets.”
She slid one bullet forward. “I am generous.”
Bucky opened his mouth, but his phone rang before he could answer. He looked at the screen to see: Unknown number.
He furrowed his brows before he picked it up.
Yelena saw it and sat straighter, all the teasing draining out of her face.
“Barnes,” he answered.
What followed was a couple of seconds of terrible silence as he listened to the voice on the other side.
Then his eyes flicked to hers. Yelena was already standing.
“What happened?” he asked, her voice low.
Her chair scraped back. “What is it?”
Bucky lifted one hand slightly, as if to say wait. His fist clenched slightly. “Is she conscious?”
Yelena’s stomach dropped. She grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair and threw Bucky’s at him before he had even ended the call.
“Metro General,” Bucky said into the phone. “I’m on my way.”
He hung up. “It’s her,” he said.
“I figured that out, genius.” Yelena shoved her arms into her jacket. “How bad?”
“Forehead cut and a possible concussion,” he repeated back the information. “Awake, but mostly being difficult, apparently.”
Yelena exhaled through her nose. “So alive.”
“Yeah.”
“Good,” she said, “I can kill her myself.”
They moved fast. Bucky barely remembered to grab his keys. Yelena scooped the ammunition back into the box with one sweep of her hand, because even in crisis she was not leaving loose bullets on the kitchen counter for her papa to find and turn into a story.
They hit the elevator together and the doors slid shut.
For two floors, neither of them spoke.
Then Yelena frowned. “Wait.”
Bucky looked at her, tilting his head.
“Why did they call you?” She narrowed her eyes. “I am her emergency contact.”
For a second all Bucky could think was why does that matter so much— oh.
You had changed it.
To him.
Bucky looked down at his phone.
He tried very hard not to react. He really did. His face went blank in that deeply annoying winter soldier way, but Yelena had known him too long now. She saw the tiny shift, the warmth growing under the panic. She saw the stunned realisation in his eyes.
The pleased, fuzzy glow.
He was worried, obviously. But underneath it, was this absurd, boyish pride.
You had chosen him over her for emergencies. For hospital calls. For the ugly, inconvenient, blood-on-your-shirt parts of being loved.
Bucky looked like you had just handed him the moon and told him he was allowed to keep it.
Yelena stared at him. “Do not,” she said.
His head snapped up. “What?”
“Do not look all pleased.”
“I’m not pleased.”
“You are very pleased.”
“She’s in the hospital,” he insisted. “I’m worried.”
“And yet your face is saying, oh, I am her emergency contact now, this is very special for me.”
His ears went pink.
“You are pleased!” Yelena gasped. “This is disgusting. She has head wound and you are having moment.”
Bucky dragged a hand over his face. “I’m worried.”
“Yes, and pleased,” she crossed her hands over her chest.
“I didn't even know she changed it,” Bucky said, exasperated now.
“I know.” Yelena sighed.
“I didn’t ask her to.”
“I know, Barnes.”
His voice lowered after a moment of silence, feeling a little guilty now. “She didn’t tell you either?”
Yelena looked away.
There it was: The small hurt she had been trying not to feel.
For years, it had been her number. Her phone ringing at two in the morning. Her job to show up with a jacket and a lecture. Her name on your forms because she had been your person before either of you had learned how to have people properly.
Now it was his.
Which was fine. Obviously.
Normal.
Healthy.
Terrible.
“I am fine,” Yelena forced out, knowing it wasn’t the answer to his question
He did not say anything, but she could tell he didn’t buy it.
She hated him a little for that too. For not believing her. For knowing what fine meant in their shared vocabulary. Her reflection looked back at her in the elevator doors, blonde hair loose around her face, teeth clenched enough to ache.
“I mean, it is practical,” she said, forcing a shrug. “You are her boyfriend. You are tall. You can carry things.”
The elevator kept descending.
His mouth twitched, barely. Apparently, he thought this was a good time to be the leader he always was during difficult moments. “She still loves you,” he said.
Yelena scoffed. “Obviously. Everyone loves me.”
Then the elevator dinged.
Saved by the doors.
She stepped out first. “Come on, emergency contact. Your girlfriend has probably insulted three hospital staff by now.”
—
Metro General smelled like antiseptic, cheap coffee, and fluorescent lighting that made everyone look like they were either guilty or about to confess to a hidden treasure on a death bed.
By the time Bucky and Yelena found you, you were sitting on an exam bed in a curtained-off bay with your boots dangling above the floor, one knee bouncing restlessly, a wad of gauze pressed near your eyebrow, and the loose, bright-eyed expression of someone who had definitely been drinking before getting into a fight she absolutely considered justified.
A doctor stood in front of you with gloved hands, carefully stitching the cut along your forehead. He looked like he had already asked you to sit still several times and had not been listened to once.
“Okay,” he said, leaning closer with the needle. “I need you to stop moving your eyebrows.”
“I’m not moving them,” you said, “it’s just my face.” You frowned then, which made him pause immediately.
“See?” he said.
You tried not to laugh. It came out anyway, both tipsy and unhelpful.
Yelena reached the edge of the curtain first, already halfway into her usual annoyed rescue mode, one where she would call you an idiot while checking the color of your lips and the steadiness of your pupils. But Bucky was beside her, stupid and all boyfriend-y. His eyes went to the gauze, then your hands, then the doctor, then back to your face, cataloguing every visible inch of you like he could put himself between you and the past hour if he tried hard enough.
Then you looked up.
The second you saw them, your whole face changed.
“Bucky!” It came out warm and embarrassingly kind. His name left your mouth like he was home, like even a little drunk and bleeding beneath hospital lights, some part of you knew exactly where safety was standing.
He moved before he could stop himself, stepping into the bay like the sound of his name in your mouth had pulled him by the ribs.
Yelena froze, just for half a second.
Of course. Bucky. Not her.
Her mouth curved up into a fake smile because that was easier than letting disappointment show.
“Right,” she said under her breath. “Him. Not me. I am just the sister, obviously. Not important.”
“Hey, trouble,” he said when he got to you.
You smiled up at the nickname, sweet and entirely too pleased with yourself. “You came.”
His frown was a little devastating then. It was as if the part of you that thought he would not come had hurt him. He looked like it made him want to gather you up and never let anything touch you again.
“Of course I came,” he said, holding his human hand out to yours.
The doctor cleared his throat. “Please don’t lean forward while I have a needle near your face.”
You blinked, realizing you had leaned toward Bucky without noticing. “Sorry.”
“You are not sorry,” Yelena said from behind him.
Your gaze drew past Bucky, and your expression brightened again. You had missed her entirely the first time, though you still sounded pleased. “Oh. Lena is here!”
Yelena’s smile went thin.
Lena is here.
As if she would not be. As if she had not once crossed three boroughs at three in the morning because you had texted only the word problem and a blurry picture of your own bleeding arm. As if she had not been showing up for you since before either of you knew what showing up was supposed to look like.
“Wow,” she said. “Lena is here. Incredible. Shocking. Who could have foreseen this plot twist?”
You squinted at her, trying to understand why she sounded like that through the warm blur of alcohol and adrenaline. “Are you mad?”
“No,” Yelena said immediately.
Bucky glanced back at her.
Yelena pointed at him. “Do not.”
He wisely turned back to you.
You reached for more of him without thinking, fingers curling around the hem of his jacket. Bucky noticed. He noticed everything about you, every wince you tried to bury, every joke you used as misdirection, every time your breathing went uneven. His hand covered yours, warm flesh over bruised knuckles, and you melted a little under the touch despite the doctor still working at your forehead.
You loved him so much it felt stupid sometimes.
It felt especially stupid now, with blood drying at your temple and your head pleasantly spinning, because all you could think was that he was so beautiful when he was worried, beautiful like a storm held back by sheer will.
Bucky’s thumb moved across your knuckles. “How much did you drink?”
You considered lying.
Yelena snorted before you could answer because she knew that look. “Do not.”
You knew exactly what she meant and scoffed. “I was not.”
“Tell him the truth.”
You looked back at Bucky. “A few drinks.”
“How many is a few?”
“Less than many.”
The doctor made a sound like he was trying not to laugh and it was taking everything for him to stay professional.
Bucky closed his eyes for one second. When he opened them again, they were still worried. He was not angry with you. You could handle anger, but Bucky looking at you like you were precious and reckless and his made you want to crawl directly into his arms in front of medical professionals, which was inconvenient.
“What happened?” he asked.
You sighed, because this part was obvious to you and apparently baffling to everyone else.
“I was playing darts with Moose and drinking,” you said. “Normally. Like a normal person.”
Yelena made a rude noise.
“I was,” you insisted, looking offended. “But then there were these guys.” You gestured vaguely, almost hitting the doctor’s wrist.
The doctor caught your hand midair and placed it firmly in your lap, resuming the stitch. “Hands down.”
“Sorry.”
“Thank you.”
You looked back at Bucky, lowering your voice like you were sharing state secrets. “They were being gross.”
Yelena tilted her head. “To you?”
You hesitated. “At first.”
Bucky’s jaw ticked, as if he was going to find these very same guys in here and was going to massively increase their hospital bills.
You waved a hand quickly, or tried to, before remembering the doctor had forbidden it. “I ignored it. Then I had to scare them away. It worked.”
“Mmhmm,” Yelena said.
“But then they started harassing the bartender while she was working,” you continued, ignoring her, “and these guys kept bothering her. Like, they asked for her number once, and she said no.”
Bucky nodded.
“But they didn’t stop,” you said, voice losing some of its tipsy brightness. “They kept leaning over the bar and calling her sweetheart and asking what time she got off. One of them said she was being stuck-up, and another one tried to grab her wrist when she turned away.”
The air in the little bay changed.
Bucky went quiet, and Yelena’s expression flattened. You shrugged, though your own fist tightened at the memory. “So I told them to leave her alone.”
The doctor tied off one stitch and moved to the next. “That’s not exactly how the police report phrased it.”
You frowned. “The police report lacks emotional context.”
Bucky’s mouth twitched up despite himself, as if thinking, that’s my girl.
Yelena crossed her arms. “And then?”
“And then one of them told me to mind my business.”
Bucky looked at you. You looked back at him.
“And I felt,” you said carefully, “that it had become my business.”
“Reasonable.” Yelena nodded once. “So you threw hands.”
You brightened again and confirmed. “I threw hands.”
A nurse, who had been mindlessly standing at your side, looked at your report and said, “this says you threw a barstool.”
“I used the environment,” you shrugged.
“And a pool cue,” she flipped a page.
“That was already in my hand.”
“Ummm,” the nurse started, reading more, “this said it wasn’t.”
Bucky looked down at your bruised knuckles, trying his hardest not to sound proud. “How many?”
You pursed your lips.
The nurse answered before you could. “Seven injured men were brought in separately. None critical.”
You looked offended. “Eight.”
The doctor blinked. “Eight?”
“One slipped on beer,” you nodded, “I feel like I contributed to that.”
Yelena let out a startled laugh before she could stop herself.
The nurse glanced up from your chart. “You did tell the paramedic, repeatedly, that he should see the other guys.”
You pointed at her. “Because he should.”
“You also asked if anyone had written down your dart score.”
“That was important,” you frowned. “I had a winning streak.”
“You might have a concussion,” the doctor corrected.
You sighed and looked at Bucky, as if he hadn't just heard it himself. “They’re saying concussion.”
Bucky’s thumb stroked the back of your hand again, and the motion pulled your attention back to him like gravity. He loved you so much. It was everywhere when you knew how to look. In his hand around yours. In the set of his shoulders. In the way he kept glancing at the doctor’s needle like he disliked it for hurting you, even though it was helping.
The doctor finished the last stitch and began cleaning around the wound.
“So,” he said, returning to a more professional tone, “the CT was clear, which is good. But given the head injury, the alcohol, and the history, we’re treating this as a mild concussion. She’ll need to be monitored for the next twenty-four hours. No alcohol. No strenuous activity. No driving. No sleeping without periodic checks. If there’s vomiting, worsening headache, confusion, vision changes, unusual behavior—”
You smiled sweetly, interrupting him. “They know concussion protocol.”
Bucky repeated, “We know concussion protocol.”
Yelena said, “Unfortunately.”
The doctor looked between them, then at you. “Right. Avengers.”
How fortunate.
—
Yelena drove because Bucky refused to be more than an inch away from you, and because you were still tipsy enough to keep trying to wave goodbye to the hospital security guard through the back window.
It was late enough that the city had gone a bit quieter for New York standards. Streetlights streaked gold across the glass and rainwater from earlier in the evening shone black on the road. The heater hummed, filling the car with warmth, while you sat in the back seat tucked so securely into Bucky’s side that you might as well have been part of him.
His human arm was wrapped around your shoulders. His vibranium hand rested carefully over your knee, tapping every so often when your head began to loll too comfortably against his chest.
“Stay awake, sweetheart,” he cooed.
“I am awake.”
“Mhmm.”
From the driver’s seat, Yelena snorted before she could stop herself.
She was still bitter. You could tell, even through the pleasant, cottony haze in your head. Yelena’s bitterness had a very specific texture: too sarcastic and too much focus on the road. She had her hands at ten and two like she was angry at the steering wheel. She had been making jokes since the hospital, which meant she was hurt enough to hide behind them.
Bucky noticed too.
His thumb moved gently over your knee. “You doing okay?”
“Mmm.” You tipped your face up toward him. “You’re very handsome when you’re worried.”
His ears went pink.
Yelena made a gagging sound from the front. “Please remember I am trapped in this vehicle.”
You smiled lazily. “But he is handsome, Lena! Don’t you think?”
“Gah,” she said, not even wanting to think of him that way.
Bucky’s mouth turned into a faint smile, but the amusement faded quickly. His eyes dropped to the bandage near your forehead, then to your bruised knuckles, then back to your face. He had been doing that all night, checking you in pieces like he could not trust the whole of you unless he inspected every injured part.
Finally, after a bout of silence, he asked, “Can I come out with you next time?”
Your eyes opened properly, widening in an instant.
In the rearview mirror, Yelena’s eyes flicked up. This was going to be fun.
Bucky looked almost embarrassed as soon as he said it, but he kept going anyway. “Not to stop you. I know you can handle yourself. I just…” He looked away a little. “I just wanna make sure you’re okay.”
Oh.
Your poor heart melted stupid inside your chest.
You reached up and patted his cheek with perhaps slightly too much affection and not enough coordination. “I love you,” you said, very seriously, “but don’t dote.”
He huffed despite himself. “Come on, sweets. Why not?”
“Because,” you almost scolded, “you’re no fun.”
Yelena laughed then. It was a small, surprised laugh that broke through her mood before she could lock it down again.
But Bucky frowned.
He wasn’t exactly heartbroken. It was just a little crease between his brows, his mouth settling into that wounded line he got when he was trying not to take something personally and failing because he loved you too much to be casual about anything you said.
Immediately, you gasped, hearing yourself.
“No. No, no, no.” You pushed yourself upright from his chest, and Bucky’s arm tightened at once like you had attempted to dive out of the moving car. “Baby.”
“It’s okay,” he said, which meant he absolutely was not.
“Baby,” you repeated, cupping his face with both hands. Your palms were warm against his stubbled skin, your thumb brushing clumsily near the corner of his mouth. “Baby, baby, I don’t mean it like that.”
His eyes searched yours. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You nodded, then winced because nodding was apparently not your friend. “Ow. Anyway. I mean… if you come with me, then no one underestimates me anymore.”
Bucky blinked blankly.
You pointed at him with one hand, nearly poking his cheek. “Because you’re all… this.”
“This?”
“Big,” you said. “Beautiful. Scary. Murder boyfriend.”
Yelena coughed so hard it was almost a laugh.
Bucky stared at you for a second.. “Murder boyfriend?”
“You know what I mean.”
He shook his head. “I really don’t know if I do.”
“You do. You walk in and suddenly no one thinks I’m harmless.” You sounded genuinely disappointed by the concept. “Then it’s not fun anymore.”
Bucky looked torn between fondness and despair. “I’m sorry my presence ruins your bar ecosystem.”
“It does.”
“I’ll work on that.”
“You can’t,” you sighed, hiccuping a little before continuing. “You’re too threatening.”
This time, Yelena did laugh.
Then your whole face brightened, like a solution had dropped straight out of the sky and into your concussed little head. “Oh! I know.”
Yelena’s smile vanished with immediate suspicion, because that sounded like you just came up with a bad idea.
“Lena should come with me next time!” you exclaimed.
Oh.
What?
Yelena looked at you in the rearview mirror. “Huh?”
You smiled at her, tipsy and so painfully sincere that Bucky looked like he was actually considering it. “You should come with me. It’ll be fun.”
Yelena didn’t know what to make of it
You leaned forward, eager now, and Bucky immediately caught the back of your jacket to stop you from lunging yourself forward over the center console.
“Careful,” he warned.
You ignored him completely, eyes still on Yelena in the mirror. “We barely go out together anymore.”
Her hands tightened on the wheel.
The streetlights passed over her face in brief yellow flashes, there and gone, there and gone. Yelena was never gentle in the way people usually were, but her anger faltered, just enough for you to see the hurt underneath it.
“I miss going out with you.” Your voice went smaller. “I miss you.”
Yelena looked away from the mirror too fast.
Fuck.
You did?
All this time she thought she was replaceable, you missed her?
She blinked hard, and if her eyes watered a little, no one in the car was stupid enough to point it out.
“You are just concussed,” she said, trying not to sound too sentimental. “And drunk.”
“But I still mean it.”
Bucky’s hand slid over your arm, warm and steady. You settled back against him, still looking at Yelena, your smile hopeful now instead of bright.
That was the thing, wasn’t it? You loved Bucky. God, you loved him. You loved him with the dizzy certainty of a weapon who had found a place to lay down her weapons and still be known. You loved his worried eyes, the way he said sweetheart, the way he looked at you like he was lucky to hold you at all.
But Yelena was your sister. The one you knew as child soldiers in the battlefield. The one who yelled because she was scared. The one who had dragged you through survival and gave you a life.
You had always known that there was room enough in your heart for both of them.
Yelena just needed to hear it.
Bucky seemed to understand that, too, because he lifted to the rearview mirror, meeting Yelena’s eyes there, as if saying, see? She does care.
“She’d be safer with you,” he said.
Yelena swallowed.
The car hummed through another stretch of wet road before she nodded once, like she was accepting a mission.
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll take care of your girlfriend, Barnes.”
You sighed happily and melted back against Bucky’s chest. “See? Perfect.”
Bucky pressed his mouth lightly to your hair, careful of your injury. “Perfect,” he echoed.
“Now,” you added, holding up one finger with great importance, “you can be both our emergency contacts!”
Yelena rolled her eyes. “Now that is pushing it.”
Bucky laughed then, his chest shaking beneath your cheek. You giggled into his jacket as he pulled you closer.
Up front, Yelena pretended to be annoyed. She rolled her eyes, muttered something in Russian under her breath about how grossly in love you two were, and kept both hands firmly on the wheel.
But she ended up avoiding all the potholes she had planned to run over on the way home.
Summary: Bucky overhears you telling Yelena that you've got a date planned for this weekend, which sends him spiraling, because he doesn't know who you're going with.
Part of the Spooky Season Writing Challenge. — Day 3 Prompt: Autumn Leaves
Spooky Season Masterlist
"TGIF," you sigh loudly while sinking into the couch in the common area next to Yelena.
She smirks while scrolling through her phone. "You say that like you work a normal 9 to 5 job."
"Shhh... Let me live my fantasy." You press a finger to your lips while shushing her and close your eyes as you sink deeper into the cushions.
"Got any fun plans this weekend?" she asks sarcastically while humoring you at the same time.
"A hot date."
Yelena's pretty sure she's never seen Bucky's head whip around so fast from where he was analyzing something on his tablet across the room. You don't notice with your eyes still closed, but Yelena is grinning back at him. "Is this a real date or a fantasy date?" she asks while holding Bucky's narrowed gaze.
"Real." By the time you're reopening your eyes, Bucky's focus is back on the tablet, but his spine is stiff.
Yelena blinks and pins you with a shocked look. "Wait, what? With who?" She's watched you and Barnes circling around each other for months. She was just about ready to employ her lock-you-both-in-a-room-until-you-kiss matchmaking method after having had enough of all the sexual tension bouncing between the two of you. But if Barnes was acting just as shocked as she was regarding this apparent date, then clearly it's not with him.
Mischief shines in your eyes as you tell her, "It's a secret."
She raises a brow, her spy senses intrigued. "Is it someone I know?"
"Maybe," you laugh teasingly. "I need to go figure out what I'm gonna wear." You push yourself off the couch with a soft grunt and head down the hall toward the living quarters.
Bucky not so subtly watches your retreating figure.
Thoroughly done with his sad puppy eyes, Yelena shakes her head and stands up as well. "You should know by now that 21st-century girls aren't going to wait around forever. You should tell her how you feel before it's too late." She gives her advice, then leaves him to his racing thoughts.
Bucky was well aware that he was hesitating in asking you to be in a relationship with him. He knows there's mutual attraction between the two of you. He's not blind. He recognizes the way you tilt your head when he strips down to a tight muscle shirt during sparring sessions. The way your eyes light up when you see him already sitting at the kitchen table in the morning. That soft, relieved smile that he's pretty sure is reserved just for him when he comes back from missions.
The problem lies entirely with his own insecurities. At first, he was concerned with how a shift in your relationship might affect the team dynamic. But the more that he worked with you, the deeper his feelings began to run until he had a startling revelation one day that he was already hopelessly in love with you. It didn't take him long to realize that loving you was the easy part. Telling you, though... that was more complicated.
He'd imagined the scenario more than what was probably considered healthy. But there was always some sort of excuse too easily available that would stop him. Last-minute missions. Extra-long debriefs. One crisis after the next.
While he wasted time waiting for the perfect moment to finally ask you out, you'd apparently moved on.
He hears the teasing way you'd said maybe to Yelena ringing in his ears, and immediately starts putting a list together of who you could be going out with. It must be someone you've interacted with recently. You live with the team in the tower and mostly only go out for missions, so it must be someone else also working in the building.
Mark from accounting? Bucky remembers how he smiled at you when you baked cookies for the different departments in the tower. Dennis from IT? Bucky saw you laugh at one of his lame computer jokes once. Or maybe that barista from the coffeeshop around the corner?
Bucky sets down his tablet and hurries after you as soon as he realizes he's going to drive himself crazy if he doesn't get to the bottom of this soon. He takes a steadying breath before knocking on your door, hoping he doesn't look as unhinged on the outside as he feels on the inside.
"Come in!" you call musically through the door.
He enters your personal space, eyes immediately scanning your room and settling on your figure where you're standing near your open closet. "Hey," his throat is dry, causing his voice to crack on the single word. He clears his throat and tries again. "You have a sec?"
You glance at him over your shoulder, smiling like you haven't just thrown a massive wrench into every plan he's ever made regarding your shared futures. "Oh, perfect! I could really use your opinion. What do you think?" You pull a hanger out of the closet with a burgundy long-sleeved dress on it and hold it against your body. "Dress or pants?" you ask. Your other hand gestures to the secondary outfit already splayed out on your bed. "It's supposed to be pretty chilly tomorrow. The dress is cute and I can pair it with some wool tights, but the black jeans and knit sweater combo will probably still be warmer."
Bucky's gut clenches at the question. He easily pictures you in both outfits and knows you'll be undeniably beautiful in either one. "Pants," he struggles to get out the word, throat even drier than when he first entered. "Wouldn't want you catching a cold," he attempts a smile. Not to mention that a dress would be too easy for anyone with wandering hands to slip them up your skirt. The thought alone is enough to turn his stomach sour.
"All right. Pants it is." You accept his response without question and hang the dress back up in your closet. You move the pants and sweater to hang off your reading chair in the corner, and then grab a scarf that will pair well with the combo and set out some comfortable boots that will also keep your feet warm.
Bucky watches you fuss and is at a complete and total loss on how he might convince you to not go on this date.
"So, I'm stuck between going to see a movie versus walking around Central Park to see the changing colors of the trees. What do you think?" you ask him once more. You look at him with excitement, and he simply can't come up with a good enough excuse to stop you.
"Central Park definitely sounds more fun," he finally responds. If you notice the waver in his tone, it doesn't show. He doesn't like you doing either option with anyone that isn't him, but the thought of you cuddled up with some guy in a darkened movie theater makes him want to stab something. Or someone.
"Okay!" you smile like he's just given you permission to rob a candy store. "Oh, I can't wait!" You bounce giddily on the balls of your feet.
Bucky desperately tries to act like you're not tearing his heart right out of his chest. "I hope you have a good time," he forces a smile that feels more like a grimace. His hand knocks idly against your door frame before he steps back out into the hall.
"Hey Bucky!" you call, peaking around the doorjam to catch him before he gets too far down. He stops and turns to look at you from over his shoulder. "You should wear that turquoise-blue Henley with your black leather jacket tomorrow."
He blinks slowly, his feelings of heartache turning into confusion. "...Why?" he questions cautiously.
You give him that beaming smile that makes him want to kiss you. "Because it makes your eyes pop."
He nods and continues to back away slowly. "Okay," he agrees only because you're the one asking, not because he understands why.
After a restless night, Bucky just about gives up on the possibility of sleep by sunrise. He crawls out of bed like he's walking to his own funeral and immediately heads for the gym to work out his frustrations. The punching bag doesn't stand a chance, even though it was specifically made for enhanced individuals and super soldiers. He feels marginally better after working up a sweat, then hits the showers.
He goes back to his room, changes into the outfit you'd described the day before, and then fools himself into thinking he's not sulking while he has a book in his lap that he can't get himself to focus on, no matter how hard he tries. He's not sure how much time has passed before there are two gentle knocks against his bedroom door. He looks at the door in confusion and tosses the book aside. His confusion only grows when he opens the door and finds your beautiful, grinning face on the other side.
"Hey! Ready to go?" you ask with enthusiasm.
He blinks back. "Go where?"
You laugh like he's just told a funny joke. "Central Park, silly. That's what you said you wanted to do for our date."
"Our date?" he repeats.
"...Yeah?" Now you're the one who's starting to sound confused. "You said you were free this Saturday when I asked a few days ago. Did that change?"
Bucky's mind scrambles to understand the situation. He remembers you asking about his availability, but assumed it was just a casual conversation, not that you were asking him on a date. Now that you're here in front of his bedroom door, your look of excitement quickly bleeding into confused hurt, he feels his heart pounding in his chest at the slipping opportunity. Instinct takes over faster than anything else. "Let me just grab my wallet," the words rush out while his head is still reeling, and he slams the door shut before you can respond.
His hands press into the door frame from the other side while he takes a second to compose himself. Apparently, you're not going on a date with Mark from accounting or Dennis from IT. You're going on a date with him... A date he's done zero planning for, aside from the option A vs B you'd given him the night before. He pushes off the door and scrubs his hands over his face. This was happening, whether he was prepared for it or not, and he'd be damned if he let this opportunity slip through his vibranium fingers. With renewed vigor, he turns back toward his room, shoves his wallet and phone into different pockets, checks his reflection in the mirror, then adds a spritz of cologne. He's back at the door within a few heartbeats. "Ready," he confirms, smiling with a confidence he doesn't really feel.
"Great!" You smile back and turn toward the elevators.
Bucky wipes his hands on his jeans before following; one hand is sweaty, the other mimics just out of habit.
"You know, I don't even remember the last time I went to Central Park," you tell him as the elevator descends.
"Me neither," he smiles, the tension slowly easing from his shoulders just from being in your proximity.
You leave the tower and take the subway to the park. Bucky curls an arm around your waist under the guise of preventing tourists and locals from stepping between the two of you, but he doesn't miss the way you mold against him, like a puzzle piece locking into place.
Crisp autumn air tickles your cheeks as you both exit the subway and enter the park. The trees have all turned to various shades of orange and yellow. The paths are covered in gilded leaves that have already fallen from their branches. They crunch under your boots and swirl in the light breeze.
Tucking yourself under Bucky's arm has the added benefit of soaking up his natural body heat to fend off the autumn chill. The two of you spend the afternoon taking in the beautiful fall foliage while trying to avoid rushing tourists and errant pigeons. You eventually find an empty bench tucked away from the crowds. The two of you sit and people-watch, talking softly as the rest of the world blurs into autumn hues.
"I'm glad we finally did this," you turn your head to find Bucky already looking back at you.
His eyes, normally hard and guarded, are now soft and tender. The edge of his mouth is curved up just slightly, and his shoulders have lost their constant tension. He's not the Winter Soldier here. He's not an Avenger. He's just Bucky Barnes. Just a man, looking at the person who gives his life meaning. The person who makes him think the future can be brighter than all the darkness, pain, and suffering from his past. The person that he thought he'd never deserve, but still seemed to be waiting for him with open arms. "Me, too."
Your smile is pure radiance, backlit by golden leaves. Your eyes flicker down to his mouth, lingering long enough for Bucky's blood to turn molten in his veins before meeting his eyes once more. "Well, Barnes, now that you've got me all to yourself, what are you going to do next?"
His eyes dip to your own mouth. There's a slight sheen from your chapstick, and he wonders if they're as soft as they look. "What do you want me to do next?"
If he wasn't looking so closely at your mouth, he might have missed the slight twitch at the corner. "I think you know."
He releases an amused huff and leans in closer. "I think I know, too."
Your face tilts up slightly, the barest indication of approval, but it's enough. Your eyes close right as his lips press to yours. Your delighted little hum tickles his mouth and makes him want to get lost in you for an eternity. His hand gently cradles the back of your head, holding you like you're something delicate that's meant to be cherished. Your own hand comes up to settle against the edge of his face, the scruff on his jaw tickling your palm. His kiss is slow and steady, like he's using each moment to memorize every aspect of the feeling of you pressed against him. The warmth of your body, the taste of your lips, the cinnamon and vanilla scent of your fall-themed body soap. He takes all of it in and files the memory somewhere deep enough that no one will be able to find it. Even if HYDRA comes back and tries to shred him back down into a thing rather than a person, they will never have this. They will never take this moment from him.
Beneath the color-changing leaves, Bucky feels the beginning of a new chapter in his life with the endless possibilities of a blank page laid out before him. One that he'll get to fill with moments of joy, tenderness, and affection. Moments just like this one.
He woke up this morning, thinking he'd lost you forever, but now you're kissing him like he's the only future you've ever wanted. A future he thought he'd never see, let alone one he'd get to share with you.
"I love you," he breathes against you, like the emotion became too great to contain within his body and he had to let it out before he burst.
He feels your smile against his lips. You pull back enough to rest your forehead against his. "I love you too, Bucky." Your voice is soft, quiet, meant only for him.
He feels the words settle against the deepest parts of him, their meaning lighting an eternal flame in a place that's only known darkness for a very long time. You've long since carved a place for yourself in his heart, but now that he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that you love him back, he feels a combination of relief and giddy weightlessness. Like the man he was before he fell from that train might still exist somewhere inside him. The man who optimistically looked forward to what the future could hold. That kid from 1940s Brooklyn who went to science fairs and took girls dancing. The one who still believed in things like hope, happiness, and love. That's the man who pulls you in for another kiss, amongst falling leaves and autumn winds.
It's the season of change and new beginnings. Bucky can't wait to see what those changes have in store for both of you.
Summary: After overhearing some choice words between Bucky and his best friend, you make the difficult decision to avoid him. For a week. Bucky loses his mind in the process.
Word count: 2.1k
Warnings: Some angst and miscommunication
a/n: I love this trope!! It was so fun to write a little one and I loveee reading it. I hope you enjoy!! Thank you for reading ily ❤️❤️
Masterlist
~~
You fought off the swell of your throat with tight lips, stirring the contents of the pot with unnecessary care. He was staring at you. He had been staring at you from the moment he came inside, but there was nothing you could do about it—nothing you should do about it.
The spices from the haphazardly thrown-together dinner were beginning to burn your eyes. This felt awful. The past week had felt awful.
After overhearing Bucky call you intense, everything you felt was amplified.
It had been an accident, you being at his apartment at that exact moment. You were dropping by unannounced, but you hadn’t even knocked on the door before his words had vibrated past the locked threshold of the door. And then you had left.
You had taken great care to be less intense over the past week. This was the first time Bucky had been in your apartment since that day, and that hadn’t been without struggle. He asked to come over several times, even showing up and knocking on the door while you pretended to be asleep. It all felt very juvenile—the ignoring and avoiding and missing calls. But you didn’t know how else to respond.
You loved Bucky. You loved him and it felt intense, but, apparently, things had moved too fast for him. A few months of dating were not enough. You were too much.
You had told him you loved him for the first time just days before you overheard his confession, so connecting the dots hadn’t been very hard.
You were too much.
Avoiding him had been made easier by your intense work schedule. You stayed overtime and texted brief excuses. That had worked for a time. But last night, Bucky showed up at your office with a bag of takeout and an uncomfortably furrowed brow, and you knew it was probably time to face this.
You gave him space for a week, and now it was time to practice being less intense in person. You couldn’t avoid him forever. And it hurt—being away from him for too long. Not that you would admit that. Not now.
“I don’t know how good this is going to be,” you huffed out a laugh, ladling noodles into two bowls. “It’s a new recipe, and I’m kinda low on groceries.”
When you glanced up at Bucky sitting on the couch, his smile looked strained. “‘M sure it’ll be great.”
You replied with a short smile, glancing down at the bowls as you joined him in the living room. You sat far enough away for it to make sense—one cushion over, not halfway in his lap like you used to. The television created a soft backdrop of some show you weren’t paying attention to, but the meal was otherwise silent.
You missed kissing him.
When he came in, you gave him one quick press of your lips and then darted back to the kitchen, ignoring the feel of his hands on your waist as they rushed to grab you. He was only doing all of that to appease you—the calls and trips to your office and the affection.
If you let him do what he didn’t want to do, you would lose him.
“Well,” you prompted, your teasing smile almost wobbling over the bowl. “How is it?”
Bucky caught your eye from the other side of the small couch. His expression narrowed on your mouth, and then he winced, almost imperceptibly.
Something dropped in your gut.
“It’s good, sweetheart.”
You kept up your smile, but as you turned back to your meal and pretended to watch TV, everything felt final. Your jaw was stiff as you took your next bite, the food tasting like nothing and curdling in your stomach. You hadn’t done enough. You hadn’t given him enough space. He had been so adamant about coming over because this was the end.
You left your bowl half-filled when you placed it on the coffee table, the smell of it nauseating. The inside of your cheek was bleeding from where you bit into it.
“Done already?” Bucky asked. He had finished a few minutes before you, his dish next to yours, and his arm looped back behind the couch. He wasn’t touching you. Almost, but not.
“Yeah,” you replied. The single word sounded unstable, and you cursed your throat for feeling so thick with anxiety. You looked at Bucky from the corner of your eye, only to find his eyes closed and his expression pinched.
Your lips parted. Were you going to beg? That would only make it worse, surely. Too intense, too much.
Maybe this would be for the best. Some time for a break would—
“Please, tell me how to fix this.”
You blinked at the TV, and then you blinked over towards Bucky, lips still parted but no words escaping them.
A pause as breath was caught in the heaviness of your chest, and then, “What?”
Bucky moved his tongue to his cheek, leaning forward to prop his elbows on his knees. He was wearing a hoodie today, and it felt so uncharacteristic that you had almost been distracted at the door.
“I can’t… I can’t lose you, okay? I don’t know what I did, but you gotta tell me or I’m—” his hands came up to run over his head and fall at the nape of his neck. “—just tell me what I did, sweetheart. Please.”
He turned to look at you then, only a foot of space between you but the distance almost stifling. Your hands clenched atop your knees, and he watched them, eyes flickering to any movement you made. He tracked your unsteady breath, the way your gaze couldn’t stay rooted in one place, and each minute shift in your features.
“I don’t—I don’t understand,” you offered, because it was the truth.
Bucky’s jaw rocked to the side. “You barely said three words to me this week. You didn’t want me over—didn’t want to see me. I fought through your building security to bring you dinner, and you looked… Baby, I walked through the door and looked about ready to cry. I mean, you didn’t even—you barely even kissed me today.”
Your gentle sigh weighed down your chest. You dropped your gaze down to the couch, unaware that Bucky was desperately trying to find himself there, leaning his head down to no avail. This didn’t make any sense. You really couldn’t do anything right, it seemed.
“It’s just—baby, I thought you said—” Bucky started, speaking in such disjointed sentences you looked up to try and parse them out. His shoulders untensed as you did, but then he said, “Thought you loved me, is that still true?” and the confusing swirl of emotions turned to devastation.
“I do,” you fervently replied, shaking your head as if that made sense. “Of course I do, Bucky, but you…”
“I what?” Bucky rushed to get clarification, the vulnerability so clear on his face it made you ache.
“I thought I was too much for you. I was trying to give you space. I thought you were going to end things tonight.”
“Why in the hell would you think that?” he exasperated, the words harsh but his delivery of them so gentle.
You bit into your bottom lip and let out another breath, the pressure on your chest looming down into your ribs. The fists on your knees moved to pick at a loose thread on the couch.
“I came by on Saturday—to your apartment, I mean. You left your jacket in my car, and I knew you were going to be out late with Sam.”
“But I didn’t—”
“I never actually got inside your apartment,” you revealed, knocking your head to the side, still unable to fully meet his gaze.
A tick of silence passed.
“You heard me.”
This was the worst part. It made you seem immature, eavesdropping from the hall of his building. It made you seem immature, and you were also petty because you avoided him for a week. You fought the urge to allow the couch to swallow you whole.
“I didn’t mean to hear you,” you stressed, pulling and tugging at the loose corner of your cushion. “I left pretty quickly. I didn’t—”
“Hey,” Bucky interrupted. He placed fingers under your chin, forcing your gaze up to his. The concern in his features masked lingering hurt, and you moved your hands into your lap to squeeze them together instead. “What did you hear, baby?”
You flickered your gaze between his eyes. “I’m not mad at you. I understand, you know? I wouldn’t want—”
“Y/n. What did you hear?”
“That you think I’m too intense. That this—us—is too much, maybe.”
Bucky kept you in his hold, but he closed his eyes. The hurt melted from his face only to be replaced with something akin to regret. He shook his head slightly, jutted out his jaw, and then he looked at you once again, his features strained.
“Damn,” he whispered. The fingers under your chin moved to cup your cheek, rubbing soothing shapes there. “Thought you were leaving me, did you know that? Whole time this has been my own fault. God.”
Bucky shifted forward on the couch until your legs were pressed close. You untucked yours to accommodate him, greedy for the contact despite your confusion, and he only got closer. When his forehead touched yours, you gave in to the burn in your waterline, vision blurrier than it had been.
“I love you so goddamn much,” Bucky began, moving back only an inch to find your watery gaze. “When I said you were intense, I meant that this is the most I’ve ever felt for someone. That the intensity was mutual. That maybe, at the rate we’re going, it would be too much for you. I was asking Sam for advice—seeing if he thought I should back off.”
“You?” you asked, the word crackling in your throat.
“Yeah, me, sweetheart. Not you. I was afraid you were gonna bolt one of these days. I’m not exactly the easiest to get along with, according to quite a few people, and I know that loving you means that I’m probably the worst around you.”
The muscle at the corner of your mouth twitched, and along with it went the stress that had settled in every nerve ending in your body. The tension in your jaw released, your chest began to ease, and the only remaining negative was the sadness at Bucky’s confession—at his fronted vulnerability.
You reached up to catch his wrist in your grip, and he responded by bringing his other hand up to hold you fully.
“I love you,” you affirmed. Bucky’s own smile was sad. “I’ve never thought about ‘bolting.’ I spent this entire week sad and lonely because I was afraid you were going to leave me. I was trying to show you that I could be… chill, I guess.”
“Chill?” Bucky repeated with a scoff-like laugh, brows shooting up as he brushed his thumbs along the dampness of your cheeks. “I drove past your apartment every night this week. I used that shampoo you left in my shower just to make my bed smell like you again. I wrote…God, I wrote you this letter because I figured maybe if you got something in the mail—”
“You sent me mail?” you interrupted.
Bucky’s face blushed a bashful pink, his mouth open in a defensive smile. “We can forget about the mail, okay? Now that we’re talking it out.”
“Right. I’m going to check my mail when you leave.”
“Hey,” he demanded, his playful, pointed look reorienting you to the reason behind the tears now drying on your face. When you settled back into his gaze, Bucky readjusted you in his hands, bringing your head into his shoulder until you were fully in his arms. “I love you, you got that? I’m sorry you heard what you did and thought—thought that wasn’t true. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I never want to feel like that again—like I’m losing you.”
You tightened your fingers into the material of Bucky’s hoodie, taking a moment to relish in his arms around you. You nodded against him, hoping that would suffice, and it did. He kissed the side of your head and leaned back against the couch, bringing you with him.
“Can’t even check the mail,” Bucky eventually grumbled out. “You’re crazy if you think I’m leaving any time soon.”
Synopsis : Bucky needed someone to look after Alpine after receiving a last-minute call for an urgent mission, and, unable to call anyone quickly enough, he asked his neighbor to take the cat with her for the few days he was away. What he didn't expect was that Alpine wouldn't want to leave.
Warnings : Alpine being a perfect matchmaker.
A/N : Yeah I know, it's surprising it's not a repost. There will be a second part !
Bucky was lying sideways on his couch that night, one arm stretched along the cushions, the other tucked under his pillow where Alpine had made herself comfortable against his vibranium arm, as she always did, like the cold metal had somehow become the safest place in the world for her.
The apartment was quiet, dimly lit by the rays of the moon, casting soft shadows across the walls. It wasn’t messy, not really, just lived-in. A few things left out here and there, a blanket thrown over the back of the couch, like he hadn’t really planned on sleeping there… and yet, he had.
He still had trouble sleeping in his bed sometimes, more than he liked to admit. The silence felt too loud there, the space too empty. The couch, at least, felt easier. Smaller. Safer.
That’s why the sudden ringing of his phone dragged him so brutally out of his half-sleep, the sharp sound cutting through the calm of the room and making Alpine jolt awake at the same time.
He groaned softly, his face tightening as he dragged a hand over it, trying to shake off the fog of sleep. His eyes barely opened as he reached for his phone, but the second he saw Sam’s name on the screen, he rolled them.
“What ?” he grunted, voice rough, pushing himself up slightly. His free hand immediately moved to Alpine, rubbing her head in slow, apologetic motions after the abrupt wake-up.
On the other end, Sam spoke too fast, something urgent, something that couldn’t wait. His tone alone was enough to make Bucky sit up straighter, even if he didn’t like it.
“Are you kidding me ?” he muttered, already knowing the answer.
“No. Move your ass, grandpa.”
And just like that, the line went dead.
Bucky stared at his phone for a second, jaw tightening slightly before he let out a long, tired sigh, his head tipping back.
Of course.
He finally checked the time.
1:16 a.m.
“Crap,” he muttered under his breath.
His gaze dropped to Alpine, who was now fully awake, blinking up at him with quiet curiosity. She nudged her head lightly against his arm, as if asking what was going on.
“I can’t leave you here,” he murmured, softer now, almost instinctively.
He stood up, pacing the length of the living room once, his hand running through his hair as his thoughts raced. The apartment suddenly felt too quiet again, too still, like it was waiting for him to make a decision he didn’t have time to think through.
He didn’t know how long he’d be gone.
And finding someone at this hour ?
Not happening.
Then...
The neighbor.
The one from the fifth floor.
He stopped mid-step.
“Oh, God…” he breathed.
Moving quickly now, he grabbed Alpine’s carrier, placing a soft duvet inside, adjusting it carefully like it actually mattered. He added her favorite toy, then paused for half a second, his mind already running through every possible outcome.
You barely knew him.
Just a few shared elevator rides. Polite smiles. Short conversations.
And the fact that he’d had a quiet, stubborn crush on you since the first time he saw you ?
Yeah. That really wasn’t helping.
“Come on, Alp’.”
To his relief, Alpine slipped into the carrier without much protest, letting out a small, questioning meow as she settled inside.
“I know,” he murmured, softer now. “I’ll be back soon, okay ?”
He grabbed a small bag of her kibbles, just in case, then stepped out of his apartment, closing the door quietly behind him.
The hallway was dim, silent at this hour, his footsteps muted as he headed for the staircase instead of the elevator.
One floor down.
Faster.
He stopped in front of your door, suddenly very aware of himself, of how this looked. Standing there in the middle of the night, holding a cat carrier, about to knock on the door of someone who barely knew him.
He hesitated.
Then knocked.
Gently.
The sound felt louder than it should have.
Barely two seconds passed before he heard movement inside. The soft click of the peephole, a pause… then the lock turning.
The door opened.
And there you were.
Your apartment was softly lit behind you, a warm glow spilling into the hallway, contrasting with the cooler light outside. It looked… calm. Lived-in, like his, but way warmer.
You didn’t look particularly sleepy, which immediately eased something in his chest. But the slight frown on your face, your eyes flicking from him to the carrier, said enough.
“Hi,” he said, quieter than usual, almost careful.
“Hi…?” you replied, leaning lightly against the doorframe, your arms crossing over your chest.
For a second, he just looked at you.
The dim light caught in your eyes, making them look softer. Your hair was slightly undone, falling naturally over your shoulders, and there was a faint pink flush on one side of your face, probably from where you’d been lying before he interrupted your night.
“Mr. Barnes ?” you said after a beat, tilting your head slightly. “You know it’s one thirty, right ?”
“I— yeah. I know. I’m really sorry,” he said quickly, the words tumbling over each other. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t an emergency. I just— I have to go, and I can’t leave her alone, and I don’t know how long I’ll be gone and— ”
You raised an eyebrow, the situation clicking into place.
“And you want me to take your cat while you’re gone.”
“…Yes,” he admitted, quieter now. “If you don’t mind. And if you do, it’s totally okay, I’ll figure something out, I just— I know you don't even know me, but— ”
“James Buchanan Barnes,” you cut in lightly. “Vibranium arm. The whole package. I know who you are.”
You crouched down before he could respond, your attention already shifting to the carrier.
“That’s not a problem.”
He blinked, a little caught off guard.
“Hi, baby,” you murmured softly, your entire tone changing as you looked at Alpine. “What’s her name ?”
“Alpine,” he replied. “How did you know it was a girl?”
You smiled faintly, your eyes soft as you looked at the cat.
“You just said 'her'.”
You stood back up, taking the bag of kibbles from his hand with an ease that felt natural, like the decision had already been made.
“Come on, Barnes.”
Relief settled in his chest so quickly it almost made him dizzy.
“Thank you,” he exhaled quietly as he stepped inside, brushing past you slightly as you closed the door behind him.
The warmth of your apartment hit him immediately. It smelled faintly like something sweet, candles, maybe. A blanket was draped over your couch, a mug sitting forgotten on the coffee table.
“Really, I’m sorry I bother you in the middle of the night.”
“I wasn’t sleeping,” you said with a small smile. “Just scrolling.”
You gestured toward the living room.
“You can put her there.”
He nodded, setting the carrier carefully on the couch before crouching down, opening it slowly.
“It’s okay, Alp,” he murmured. “You’re safe.”
You sat beside him, your movements calm, unhurried. There was something grounding about it.
“Hi, baby,” you said again, softer now.
You held your hand out, letting Alpine sniff it, patient and gentle.
“I don’t know when I’ll be back,” Bucky added, glancing at you briefly. “There’s food in the bag, but I’ll try not to be gone too long.”
“Don’t worry about that,” you replied quietly. “I’ve got her.”
Alpine stepped out slowly, looking around before her gaze settled on you. After a second, she leaned into your hand.
Bucky let out a quiet breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
“She likes you.”
You smiled, but it softened into something more fragile.
“I had a cat before,” you said, your voice quieter now as your fingers moved along Alpine’s back. “He died a few months ago. He was… kind of my soulmate.”
Your hand slowed slightly.
“It’s strange having another cat here. But… I’m glad she’s here.”
“I get that,” Bucky said softly. “She’s probably mine too.”
Your eyes met his.
And for a second, something unspoken passed between you, something quiet, understanding.
There was no fear in your gaze. No hesitation. Just warmth. Just kindness.
Simple. Genuine.
“Thank you,” he said again, more sincerely this time.
“It’s okay,” you replied with a small smile. “She’ll keep me company.”
He huffed softly. “Yeah… she tends to do that.”
You laughed under your breath as Alpine climbed onto your lap, already purring.
“That’s fine with me.”
Bucky watched you for a moment, the way your shoulders relaxed, the way your attention softened without you even realizing it.
Until you looked back at him.
“You should go,” you said gently. “If it’s urgent.”
“Yeah,” he nodded. “You’re right.”
He pulled out his phone.
“I’ll give you my number, so I can text you when I’m back.”
You handed him yours without hesitation.
“Of course.”
He typed it in quickly, then stood, crouching one last time to scratch Alpine’s head.
“I’ll be back soon, okay ?”
Then he looked at you again.
“Thank you. Seriously.”
“Anytime,” you said softly.
He lingered for half a second, like he wanted to say something more, then gave you a small smile and stepped out.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Silence settled back into your apartment, softer this time.
You looked down at Alpine, who was now perfectly settled on your lap, like she had always belonged there.
“Well,” you whispered, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to her head, “it’s just you and me now.”
Alpine nudged into the kiss with surprising enthusiasm, making you laugh quietly.
“Okay, okay,” you murmured, smiling as you scratched behind her ears. “I think we’re going to get along just fine.”
The night had been perfectly smooth.
You had gone to bed about half an hour after Bucky left, the quiet of your apartment settling back in naturally, like nothing had really changed, except for the small presence padding softly behind you.
Alpine had followed you without hesitation.
The moment you slipped under the covers, she had jumped up beside you, circling once on the empty pillow before curling into herself, like she had already decided this was her spot. Her breathing had quickly evened out, soft, steady, tiny snores escaping her every now and then.
Weirdly enough, it helped.
The sound filled the silence just enough to make it feel… less empty.
You fell asleep faster than you expected.
When you woke up the next morning, sunlight was slipping through the curtains in soft lines, warming the room gently. For a second, everything felt still, quiet in that peaceful, early-morning way.
Then you turned your head.
Alpine was still there.
Except now, she was completely sprawled out, her body twisted in a way that made absolutely no sense, all four paws pointing lazily toward the ceiling, her fur slightly puffed up like she had fought an invisible battle in her sleep and won.
You smiled instantly.
Almost on cue, your phone buzzed softly on your nightstand.
You reached for it, still half-buried in your blankets, eyes barely open as you unlocked it.
A message from Bucky.
Bucky Barnes
Hi, I’m so sorry but I’ll be back only tonight, I don’t know exactly when, probably late, sorry.
A second message followed.
Bucky Barnes
How is it going ?
You blinked at the screen for a second, a small smile tugging at your lips. Something about the way he wrote — simple, a bit rushed — made it easy to picture him wherever he was, probably busy, probably not even realizing he sounded… a little worried.
You typed back quickly.
You
Hey, don’t worry about it. Everything’s perfectly fine. She sleeps like she pays the bills.
On the other side of the conversation, Bucky let out a short snort before he could stop himself.
Sam shot him a look from across the room.
Bucky didn’t even bother explaining.
A few seconds later, your phone buzzed again.
Bucky Barnes
Yeah, she usually does that.
Thank you again for taking care of her. You can give her kibbles when she waked up. There’s a bowl in the bag and a cup, I usually give her half a cup.
You pushed yourself out of bed, stretching slightly as you walked toward the mirror.
And then you stopped.
Your reflection stared back at you like a personal attack.
Your hair was… everywhere. Not messy in a cute way, no, this was structural chaos. Your tank top had twisted halfway around your torso, and one leg of your sweats had somehow migrated above your knee like it had its own agenda.
You stared at yourself for a second.
“…Wow.”
A quiet laugh escaped you as you turned toward the bathroom.
You ran a brush through your hair, carefully working through the knots without ripping your scalp off in the process, then splashed your face with cold water, blinking at your reflection again.
Good enough.
For now.
When you stepped back into the bedroom, Alpine was awake, stretching slowly, her mouth opening wide in a long yawn.
“Hey, Alpine,” you said softly, your voice still a little sleepy as you sat down beside her, your fingers immediately finding the soft fur behind her ears. “How are you, hm ? You hungry ?”
As if she had been waiting for that exact word, Alpine perked up, letting out a small meow before hopping off the bed and trotting toward the kitchen like she had lived there her whole life.
You laughed under your breath, following her.
“Okay, okay, bossy.”
You grabbed her bowl, pouring in half a cup of kibbles like Bucky had said, then filled another bowl with water. Alpine didn’t even wait, she immediately started eating, completely focused, tail flicking slightly behind her.
Leaning against the counter, you watched her for a second, that same soft smile settling on your face again.
Without really thinking about it, you grabbed your phone.
You opened your conversation with Bucky, switched to the camera, and angled it just right.
Click.
The picture captured the moment perfectly, you in the foreground, hair still slightly messy but smiling wide, and Alpine beside you, completely absorbed in her food like nothing else in the world mattered.
You sent it without hesitation.
A few seconds passed.
Then your phone buzzed.
Bucky Barnes
Wow. I don’t know who looks happier in this photo.
You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you moved to sit at the table.
You poured yourself a bowl of cereal — milk after, obviously — and glanced at Alpine again, still eating like she had a full-time job.
Yeah.
This was a perfect adult breakfast.
Your phone buzzed again.
Bucky Barnes
Seriously, thank you again.
You leaned back slightly in your chair, thumbs hovering over the screen for a second before typing.
You
Anytime. We get along well.
Your eyes drifted back to Alpine, who finally looked up at you.
And somehow, the apartment didn’t feel quite as empty anymore.
You ate your cereal in the quiet calm of the morning, sitting by the table as soft rays of sunlight slipped through your windows, painting the room in warm shades of orange and gold. It felt slow, peaceful, the kind of morning that didn’t ask anything from you.
Behind you, Alpine moved from room to room with quiet curiosity, her paws light against the floor, occasionally stopping to inspect something invisible only she seemed to notice.
You found yourself glancing at her more than once.
Just… checking she was still there.
When you were done, you brought your bowl to the sink before heading back to your bedroom, pulling on a pair of jeans and a clean tank top, then layering a soft wool sweater over it.
Spring or not, you were cold.
You always were.
The rest of the day passed slowly, but not in a heavy way. Not in the kind of silence that pressed too hard against your chest.
This one felt… lighter.
Easier.
You hadn’t realized how much you’d missed it, having a presence around you, something warm and alive. Alpine was naturally affectionate, settling beside you without hesitation, following you from room to room like she had quietly decided you were hers for the day.
It soothed something in you.
More than you expected.
By the evening, you were curled up on the couch, a blanket thrown loosely over your legs. Alpine had claimed her spot against your stomach, curled into a small, warm weight that rose and fell with your breathing.
Your TV was still playing, the soft murmur of your show filling the room, but you had stopped paying attention a while ago.
Your eyelids felt heavy.
Your body relaxed.
You were fighting it, trying to stay awake, for no real reason other than habit.
Knock, knock, knock.
Three soft knocks.
The same rhythm as last night.
Your eyes blinked open slowly, your brain taking a second to catch up before you pushed yourself up with a quiet groan, rubbing at your face as you made your way to the door.
You didn’t even check the peephole.
You already knew.
You opened the door.
“Hey, I’m sorry it’s so late.”
Bucky stood there, looking a little tired, a little disheveled, but there was something softer in his expression the second he saw you.
“What time is it ?” you mumbled, a yawn interrupting your words as you stepped aside to let him in.
“Almost one,” he replied, stepping inside. “I texted you, but you didn’t answer. Did I wake you up ?”
You shook your head lightly, closing the door behind him.
“Not really. I was trying to stay awake, but…” you trailed off, another yawn escaping you, “apparently I’m tired.”
“Sorry.”
You turned toward him immediately, pointing a finger lazily in his direction as you walked back to the couch.
“If you say ‘sorry’ one more time, I’m kicking you out and keeping your cat,” you muttered, your tone still heavy with sleep but playful.
He huffed a quiet laugh behind you.
When you sat back down, Alpine barely reacted, still curled up in your spot like she had no intention of moving ever again.
Bucky moved closer, sitting on the other side of the couch, his hand immediately finding her fur.
“Hey, Alp’,” he murmured, gently stroking her.
The cat didn’t even open her eyes, she just shifted slightly, stretching toward him, pressing herself more comfortably between you both.
You let out a small, amused breath.
“Okay… wow,” Bucky muttered. “I see how it is.”
“She’s chosen,” you said softly, a hint of a smile pulling at your lips as you leaned back into the couch.
“Yeah,” he sighed, though there was no real complaint in his voice, just something fond. “But she still has to get up.”
He nudged her gently.
Alpine responded by… not responding.
You chuckled under your breath, your head tilting slightly as you watched the scene, your eyes still a little heavy.
“I’m— ” he started.
“If you say it again,” you cut in without even looking at him, your voice soft but firm, “I mean it. I’ll keep her.”
There was a small pause.
Then Bucky glanced at you, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
“Well,” he said lightly, looking back down at Alpine, “apparently you won’t need to kidnap her.”
You let out a quiet snort, one hand coming up to cover your mouth as another yawn threatened to escape. You tried to fight it, blinking a few times, shifting slightly on the couch like that might help.
It didn’t.
Your eyelids grew heavier by the second, your body slowly sinking deeper into the cushions. Your arms wrapped a little tighter around yourself, instinctively, like you were trying to keep the warmth in despite the thick wool sweater.
You didn’t even realize your head had started to tilt forward.
But Bucky did.
His eyes lingered on you for a moment, the teasing fading into something softer, more attentive. He took in the details without even thinking about it, the way you were still dressed, like you had waited for him, the way you curled into yourself, the quiet exhaustion you were no longer being able to hide.
And the way you kept forcing your eyes open every few seconds, like you were reminding yourself he was still there.
A small, fond smile pulled at his lips.
Without saying anything, he leaned forward, carefully sliding his hands under Alpine to lift her. The cat barely reacted, letting out a faint sound before settling against him again, completely unbothered.
“Yeah, okay,” he murmured under his breath. “Guess I’m second choice tonight.”
She didn’t even open her eyes.
He stood, moving quietly through the apartment, slipping into the kitchen to gather her things. He picked up the bowl of kibbles, emptied it, rinsed it quickly, then did the same with the water bowl, his movements calm, almost automatic.
There was something strangely easy about being there.
Like he didn’t feel out of place.
Once everything was packed, he set the carrier down gently near the door, placing the bag beside it before pausing.
The apartment had gone quiet again.
He glanced back toward the living room.
You hadn’t moved.
When he stepped back in, he found you completely asleep this time.
Curled into the corner of the couch, your head resting against the armrest, your legs drawn up toward your chest. Your breathing was slow, steady now, the kind that came with real sleep.
You looked… small.
Not fragile.
Just… peaceful.
Bucky stopped for a second, just watching you, something in his chest tightening in a way he didn’t quite expect.
You had trusted him enough to fall asleep like that.
In your apartment.
With him still there.
That thought settled quietly somewhere deep.
Careful not to make any noise, he moved to the other side of the couch, grabbing the blanket you had left there earlier. He shook it out softly before draping it over you, pulling it up to your shoulders, then a little higher, up to your chin.
His hands lingered for a second as he adjusted it, tucking it gently around you so it wouldn’t slip.
You stirred slightly, but didn’t wake.
“Good night,” he whispered.
His voice was softer than before, quieter, like he didn’t want to disturb the moment.
He stayed there for a second longer than necessary, just looking at you, a faint smile still on his lips.
Then he straightened, stepping back.
He took one last glance at you before turning toward the door, grabbing Alpine’s carrier and slipping out of the apartment as quietly as he had entered.
Carefully, he reached for the small key you had left on the narrow table by the entrance. He hesitated just a second, glancing back at the door like he was double-checking something unspoken, before locking it gently.
The soft click echoed in the stillness of the corridor.
He crouched slightly, sliding the key under the door with care, pushing it just far enough so you’d see it in the morning without having to search.
With a quiet exhale, he finally straightened, adjusting his grip on Alpine’s carrier as she shifted faintly inside, still half-asleep.
“Let’s go, Alp',” he murmured softly.
And then he turned, his footsteps fading down the hallway.
origamiaround
andulkaphoto
titsay
jbbartram-illu
tangentwithtanner
blakekathryn
annaxmalina
