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@maybeafaerie
Hi welcome to my blog!
The last time I wrote a story was back in 7th grade… I got such bad feedback from my teacher that I decided my thoughts would never go onto paper again. That said, I do love to read and I post fic recs sometimes :)
~Esther
Bucky Barnes Recs
Azriel Recs
*dividers by @saradika-graphics
He Knows What He Likes
Part 1 | Part 3 (coming soon) Summary: Steve and Bucky have a heart-to-heart. Sam interrogates you over your conspicuous behavior. You and Bucky try not to flirt and fail spectacularly. Characters: Bucky Barnes x new Avenger reader (plus a platonic friendship with Sam Wilson and other Avengers) Trigger warnings/General tags: No use of Y/N, cursing (very minimal and playful), canon-typical mentions of violence, canon-typical mentions of Bucky's past with HYDRA, brief mention of a nightmare, reader is described as former military (Coast Guard), Bucky is awkward but we love him anyway Word count: 2.9K Taglist: Taglist: @tinyshyteacup, @kerwin290710, @alldayeverytae, @crysta1graces (please leave a comment to let me know if you'd like to be tagged in future posts!) Divider by @saradika-graphics
“So.” Steve threw several jabs at the punching bag, each landing with sharp cracks that echoed through the training room. “You and our new recruit.”
“You saw that, huh?” Bucky muttered as he loaded the trap bar with weight plates.
“I didn’t see anything until I turned around. I heard everything, though.” Steve caught the punching bag as it flew back toward him and cast his friend a playful smile. “You guys were practically flirting.”
“I was really hoping you weren’t paying attention,” Bucky grumbled. He assumed a hinge position, gripped the bar, and lifted the weight effortlessly.
“For the record, I think you guys look good together,” Steve teased gently, but his tone suggested he was being honest.
“Don’t start,” Bucky grunted, his gaze set straight ahead. His perfect form spoke of years of relentless training, drills, and discipline.
Steve’s face fell as his tone grew more serious. “Buck.”
“It’s pathetic,” Bucky sighed ruefully. He spoke in between his reps, which were becoming more explosive. “I mean… come on… I’ve got a crush… on the new girl… just because… she’s nice to me?”
“It’s not pathetic to like someone that’s nice to you,” Steve interjected. “That’s kind of how healthy human relationships work.”
Bucky finished his set with a grunt. The plates clunked loudly against the ground as he set the bar down. “I haven’t dated since the forties, Steve. I don’t know what’s normal anymore.” He wiped his brow and raked his hand through his sweaty, disheveled hair. “Hell, I’m not normal anymore. I’ve got baggage. Serious baggage. She doesn’t need that.”
“Buck, you know new recruits get a rundown of their teammates,” Steve said. “She knows about the Winter Soldier. Has she treated you differently than everyone else? Has she been avoiding you?”
Bucky felt his resolve wavering. “Well, no, but—”
“Plus, she’ll have her own baggage soon enough,” Steve cut him off, refusing to let his friend wallow in shame. “It comes with the territory of being an Avenger. When that day comes, she might need support from someone who knows what it’s like.”
“She has Sam for that,” Bucky retorted.
“Look.” Steve clapped a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “I’m not saying become her therapist. I’m not even saying ask her out on a date. All I’m saying is, don’t sabotage an opportunity to make a connection with someone. Romantic or otherwise.”
Bucky nodded, absorbing Steve’s words, his confidence growing. “I don’t think Sam would approve, but I’ll try.”
Steve grinned triumphantly. “That’s the spirit.”
The fluorescent lights of the compound lab hummed above you. You stood at a sleek metal table, dripping clear fluid from a baster into an array of thin vials, all held up in a rack.
Sam entered the room unannounced. He pulled up a stool beside you and crossed his arms. You turned and blinked at him, your eyebrows raised in surprise.
“Hey, Sam,” You said stiffly, turning the baster upright, the fluid slowly oozing down in the container.
“Don’t ‘Hey, Sam’ me. What the hell is going on between you and Bucky?” He demanded immediately.
Here we go, you thought.
You made a contorted face at him, your nose wrinkling with feigned confusion. “I’m sorry?”
“Don’t play dumb. I’ve seen it.” He waggled an accusatory finger at you. “The meaningful smiles when you pass by each other. Sitting together during the meeting. Defending his music taste in the kitchen. You ain’t slick. I know you’re hiding something from me.”
“Relax,” You laughed. “I’ve barely had a conversation with him since I got here.”
“Then you shouldn’t have a problem explaining yourself,” Sam pressed.
You returned to your work to avoid Sam’s unrelenting, scrutinous gaze.
“We smile at each other in passing because it’s polite. We ended up on the elevator at the same time and walked to the meeting together.” You topped off a vial, then moved to the next. “We sat next to each other because there was no one else in the room. What was he supposed to do? Stand in the corner?”
“Yes, actually,” Sam deadpanned. You rolled your eyes.
“You’re avoiding the most incriminating situation of all.” He cocked an eyebrow at you.
“I just think he should be allowed to listen to his forties music in peace,” You supplied a little too quickly.
Sam stared you down. He knew you too well and he wasn’t buying it. Years of being friends with him was finally coming back around to bite you.
“Okay, okay,” You huffed as you loaded a tactical case onto the table. “I think he’s sweet. But I’m not pursuing anything. I’m just trying to be nice.”
“Alright, look,” He said, his tone taking on a warm, brotherly quality. “I know Bucky and I butt heads, but I do care about the guy. He’s working through a lot right now.”
The reality that Bucky was essentially off limits settled over you again. You began to fill another vial, struggling to hide your disappointment.
Before you could sulk properly, Sam continued. “And I care about you too, you know? I don’t want you getting hurt.”
“You think Bucky would hurt me?” You asked pointedly.
“No, he’s not a bad guy,” Sam corrected. “But he’s focused on his own healing. And it would be real disappointing for you if he turned you down because of it.”
As much as you hated to admit it, Sam had a point. After everything he had endured, what Bucky needed most was time and space to learn to forgive himself. You didn’t need to make that process any more complicated than it already was.
And you certainly didn’t need the sting of rejection, even if it was in everyone’s best interest.
Still, you couldn’t pass up the chance to push Sam’s buttons. You turned to face him with a mixed expression of understanding, gratitude, and friendly affection—luring him into a false sense of security.
“Well, you’re too late, because I’m pregnant and we’re getting married tomorrow.”
Sam’s face immediately fell into an exasperated frown. “Don’t even joke like that.”
Bucky shot up from the floor, his chest heaving, his skin clammy. He whipped his head from side to side wildly in the dark, scrambling to make sense of his surroundings. As the disembodied screams faded, his mind became clearer.
He was safe.
He was no longer the Winter Soldier.
He desperately needed to get out from under his suffocating nest of blankets.
He rifled through his laundry basket and threw on the first shirt and pair of sweatpants his hands touched. He shoved his bedroom door open with his shoulder and started walking. No intention, no plan. He just hoped the movement would loosen the knot in his chest.
He wandered aimlessly, breathing in the clean, antiseptic scent that always seemed to saturate the compound.
The halls blurred in his periphery. He stopped in the kitchen for a glass of water, though he couldn’t quite remember how he got there. He smiled as he passed the gym, remembering his earlier conversation with Steve. Occasionally, he reached out to run his fingers against the wall. The smooth texture beneath his fingertips kept him tethered to the present when his mind started to wander into dark corners.
Unsure of how much time had passed or how many steps he had taken, Bucky lifted his head and realized he was approaching the lab—and that the lights were still on.
He squinted to adjust to the bright, sterile light. He crept slowly toward the tall window and saw you there, tinkering away. Your brow was furrowed in concentration behind your plastic safety goggles. Your gloved hands worked deftly, handling what appeared to be thin needles.
He stared through the glass, hypnotized by your nimble movements, his brain finally beginning to quiet itself.
The fluorescent lights had been buzzing above you for hours, but you couldn’t pull yourself away from your work. The self-imposed pressure to perform well on the upcoming mission, Sam’s interrogation, and your festering feelings for Bucky all pumped through your veins like caffeine, keeping your mind on high alert.
The uneasy feeling of being watched broke your concentration. You turned your head and saw a looming figure standing just outside the window, staring right at you. A man.
Your heart fell into your stomach as a burst of adrenaline shot through you. You immediately shrieked, your face contorted in terror, the sharp sound bouncing off the walls.
The figure threw his hands up in surprise and surrender. You heard a frantic, muffled voice call out, “Sorry! It’s just me! Bucky! I didn’t mean to—oh, my god…”
Your hand flew to your mouth, simultaneously trying to catch your breath and stifle your laughter. You hopped off your stool and moved to open the lab door. There stood Bucky, his head hung in utter mortification.
You lifted the goggles to rest them on your forehead. “What are you doing out here, Bucky?”
He rubbed the back of his neck and smiled awkwardly, blush spreading across his face. “To be fair, I could ask you the same question.”
You tilted your head toward your workstation. “Burning the midnight oil.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to disturb you. Or give you a heart attack,” He apologized, as if scared he had offended you.
“No harm done,” You reassured him. “But you still haven’t answered my question.”
He shrugged casually. “Just couldn’t sleep. Decided to go on a walkabout.”
The dark circles under his eyes told you there was more to the story, but you didn’t push.
“So…” He craned his neck slightly to look into the lab. “What are you working on, exactly?”
You waved him in. “Wanna see?”
I’m just being friendly, you told yourself.
Bucky hesitated briefly. I should go, just let her be, he thought. But then, he remembered Steve’s words.
Don’t sabotage yourself.
You walked briskly over to your workstation. Bucky followed at a polite distance.
Spread out on the table were sleek vials containing a clear fluid, with thin needles at one end and aerodynamic fletchings on the other.
“I developed these darts during my time in the Coast Guard.” You held one up carefully, allowing Bucky to get a closer look. “The fluid is a synthetic neurotoxin created from the venom of the Portuguese Man o' War.”
“Woah,” Bucky muttered, turning his head to examine the dart. “Is it lethal?”
“No. The venom causes temporary paralysis,” You explained clinically, proud of your work. “It's designed to incapacitate, not kill. It’s helpful when you need someone alive for questioning.”
“Not bad.” Bucky nodded approvingly, his interest piqued. Then, his eyes narrowed in realization. “Wait, you said Coast Guard. You’re former military too?”
“Yeah.” You nodded as you began to gingerly place the darts in a padded tactical case. “Sam didn’t tell you?”
Bucky shifted uncomfortably. “I may have stopped listening the second he said you guys were friends.”
“Oh.” You pinned him with an exaggerated, reproachful look. “You weren’t too keen on having a Wilson-adjacent team member?”
“I wasn’t at first,” He confessed sheepishly. Then, almost as if he couldn’t help himself, he flashed a charming smile, deepening his chin dimple.
“But I’ve changed my tune since then.”
For a single, staggering moment, he transformed back into the flirty young man from the forties. Bucky knew he was playing a dangerous game, but it thrilled him to reconnect with a part of himself he thought he had lost, even for a second.
He also knew that he was enjoying connecting with you, though he was not ready to admit that to himself yet. What he didn’t know was that he had just effectively swept you off your feet.
Heat spilled rapidly into your cheeks, like water overflowing from a glass.
“Glad to hear it,” You replied wryly, trying to play it cool.
“So, uh,” Bucky cleared his throat, popping the bubble. “What’d you do in the Coast Guard?”
“Lots of search and rescue operations,” You answered quickly, thankful for the subject change. “I’ve got some drug busts under my belt. I’ve also helped break up some human trafficking rings.”
“And you were worried you wouldn’t do good on this mission?” Bucky ribbed you gently.
“Well, there’s a bit of a difference between former Coast Guard with high-tech blow darts and super soldiers with decades of experience,” You quipped as you closed the tactical case with a click.
Despite his better judgment, he shot you another charming smile. “Nah. You were holding out on me. You’ll do great.”
Alarm bells blared in your head. Off limits. Be a friend. Nothing more.
“Hey, I wanted to thank you for earlier,” Bucky blurted, breaking you out of your internal panic and shifting the tone of the conversation. “When you stuck up for me. About the music.”
You blinked at him, amazed that he was bringing it up. You knew your own intentions, but you had no idea the interaction meant anything to him at all.
You waved your hand nonchalantly. “Oh, don’t worry about it.”
“No, really. I appreciated it,” He insisted. “Sam gives me a hard time. Every day, he’s got some new movie for me to watch, or some album to listen to. He acts like I stabbed him if I say I’m not interested.”
“Sam means well,” You said sympathetically. “But I’m sure it gets overwhelming. Let me know if you need me to give him a talking to.”
Bucky chuckled humorlessly. “I think he expects me to be just like Steve sometimes. He eats up all of Sam’s recommendations. And I… I guess I’m just trying to pick up where I left off in 1943.”
His vulnerable admission broke your heart. The world had changed so much and he had never been allowed to adapt and enjoy it. For most of his extended life, he had been living in a violent fog and forcibly put to sleep. Now, all he wanted was the comfort of familiarity.
“You’re reconnecting with things that made you happy,” You murmured, your low, quiet tone matching the intimacy of the moment. “There’s nothing wrong with that. Especially after everything you’ve been through.”
Then, without thinking, you reached out and gave his arm a friendly, encouraging squeeze.
He looked down at your hand, then back at you, his eyes wide as saucers. “I… uhm…” His Adam's apple bobbed visibly, pushing whatever he wanted to say back down his throat. “Thanks.”
You jerked your hand away, horrified that you had crossed some sort of line. “S-sorry.”
“It’s alright.” His lips gently curved upward in a grateful, watery smile.
Thoroughly flustered, you shifted your focus back to the tactical case as if it were the most interesting object in the room. “I should put this away.”
You crossed to the far side of the lab and secured it in a temperature-controlled locker. With your back to Bucky, you schooled your features and took in a slow, fortifying breath.
As you walked back to your workstation to collect your keys and ID badge, a yawn escaped you.
“Am I boring you?” He teased, his eyes twinkling mischievously.
“No!“—You covered your mouth as another yawn forced its way out—”I think my brain is finally slowing down. It’s probably time for me to get to bed.”
“Mind if I walk you back to your floor?” He asked smoothly. Another courteous, gentlemanly offer that turned your legs to jelly.
You found yourself wondering how many women he had walked home in the forties. Had they felt as giddy as you did now?
“Not at all.”
You and Bucky walked in a companionable silence, occasionally exchanging shy glances that said more than words could.
When you arrived at your floor, you leaned against your door lazily, hoping to drag the time out just a little bit longer. “Thanks for stopping by the lab. It was nice talking to you.”
“Thanks for having me,” He replied. His normally chiseled features were softened with drowsiness. His jaw seemed slack and relaxed.
He paused for a beat, then reached out hesitantly and gave your arm a gentle squeeze, returning your gesture from earlier. Your spine went rigid as your breath caught in your chest.
“I’ll see you around.”
Without another word, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing against the polished floors.
As he disappeared into the shadowy hallway, you slipped into your bedroom and slid down the door, your legs finally giving out. Your heart was fluttering, frantic, and thrilled in equal measure.
“I am in so much trouble,” You muttered to yourself. Then, you reached up and pressed your palm to the spot where Bucky’s hand had been, hoping to preserve its warmth.
Bucky’s head swam the entire walk back to his room.
He settled down into his nest of blankets on the cool floor and stared up at the ceiling that stretched above him like the sky, full of possibilities. He supported the back of his head with one hand, the other draped across his chest contemplatively.
Just a few hours earlier, he felt pathetic and ashamed. Now, he felt lighter. Younger. Eager for another day, for the first time in a very long time.
Take it slow, he reminded himself.
As he finally began to doze off, he flexed his hand and imagined what it might be like to hold yours.
End.
More than the Stars
summary Bucky overworks himself till all you see is a grumpy, uptight man. Maybe a date night under the stars will bring your boyfriend back.
warnings soft!bucky; fluff; so much fluff; bucky is a goner; date night; teasing; a little banter; kisses; nicknames (doll, baby); no explicit content
author's note ahem, this is a fluffy drabble for Bucky's relationship—highkey for whatever happened in my last fic. hope you like it it.
i'm always open to critcism. love-love.
previous fic: chapter one; prologue.
<700
"Come on, try it my way!", you splayed your arms out wide, moving your limbs like a squiggly star on the grass.
Bucky exhaled heavily through his nose, pretending to be annoyed but the corner of his lips twitched in helpless affection.
He shook his head fondly, tilting his head back to meet the stars above. His arms draped lazily on the knees he'd drawn to his chest, his posture relaxed but not unguarded. Yet.
"The grass is wet, doll. You should be happy I'm even sitting."
You giggled quietly at that, lifting your head just enough to look at him with a stupid, giddy grin, "You already look like you peed your pants. A little more soaked doesn't matter."
He scrunched his face up at the poor comparison, shifting his ass unconsciously—very obviously embarrassed.
"You're annoying."
You gasped dramatically at that, watching him with cartoonish, mock-offended, wide eyes as he lowered himself on the wet greenery. Flipping over, you propped yourself up on your forearms, eyes squinted into narrow slits.
"You dare dislike your own girlfriend, James Barnes."
"Woah, you use my full name again, and I might as well actually pee my pants," he said in a painfully flat tone. He clasped his hands to his chest like he was praying for divine intervention.
You exaggeratedly gagged, wincing at his words like you hadn't used less than a minute ago.
"Ew. Stop being so childish", you gave him a sassy once-over, eyes sweeping over his body like he was disgusting you.
He stared at you in disbelief for a moment, eyebrows raised to his hairline. He blinked once. Then twice.
Two moments of misleading peace, and before you could comprehend, two thick, strong arms were grabbing you by your waist. You gasped at first, a sharp inhale at the suddenness. Rolled over, he was now on top of you, nimble fingers finding the sides of your abdomen.
You burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, legs kicking the air like you were a mosquito being electrocuted. Your nails dug into his jaw, trying to use your acrylics to an unfair advantage.
"Uh-huh, what were you saying again, baby?", the smugness was dripping from his words, prominent in ways other than his smirk.
Your head tipped back, pieces of weed and crushed petals tangling into a mess in your hair. But you couldn't care less. And neither could Bucky.
He thought you looked prettier like this. More than the stars.
"HAah—let gooo~", you thumped your fists against his chest half-heartedly, all the strength sucked out of your arms. Damn you for being so ticklish.
He lowered his body more, using his ridiculously hot, beefy frame to pin you harder. Before he could trouble you more, a bright, soft light hit your face.
For a moment, he was starstruck. The white light illuminating your beauty. Your pearly teeth shining. Your dimples deepening.
"You missed it."
And you were back on top, a thumb gesturing to the starry sky above.
"No, I didn't."
"Bucky missed a shooting star! He missed a shooting star! Bucky missed—", your very exasperating loud and high-pitched singing was brought to an abrupt stop when his lips met yours.
Not roughly. Not even firm.
Sweet. Gentle in a way that allowed backtracking if you wanted.
Because even if he wanted to shut you up, he didn't have the heart to do it harshly.
"Geez, keep it in your pants", you rolled your eyes but the blush on your cheeks gave you away when he broke it.
The night continued with his head on your chest, a stubbly cheek smushed against the softness of your breast. He'd promised he was only giving you a 'quick hug'.
But here that grump was. Head lolled—heavy—as he unknowingly dozed off to the sound of your heartbeat. Your fingers played with the hair on his nape, twisting and curling, and deciding you'll wake him ten more minutes later for the third time now.
You just couldn't help it.
It made something warm bloom in your chest when you saw a man like Bucky lower his guards around that one person—you.
One Day at A Time
Summary : Despite not being able to get drunk, Bucky goes to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting and meets you.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : meet cute? alcohol addiction and recovery, AA meetings, relapse, cravings, mentions of trauma, brief mention of violence, hurt/comfort, flangst, emotional support, brief mention of food. I think this would be set around FATWS time. (Let me know if I missed anything!)
Word count : 7.1k
Note : As someone who struggles with substance abuse and is now four years sober, this one is special to me. Enjoy!
The first thing you noticed about Bucky Barnes was that he looked like he had already decided to leave.
He walked into the church basement, shoulders broad enough to make the folding chair look like it was gonna collapse at any point during the meeting, one gloved hand wrapped around a paper cup of coffee he didn’t seem to have drunk yet. He wore a baseball cap, a jacket too thick for the weather, and the smile of someone who had survived the end of the world only to be defeated by fluorescent lighting.
You noticed because you were looking at the door, debating whether or not to leave.
You did consider running out and sobbing into the sidewalk, but that seemed overdramatic. So maybe you should just laugh nervously and say you forgot to feed your nonexistent cat. For whatever reason, though, you remained, knee bouncing, palms sweating. Your mouth tasted like pennies. Every time someone said “one day at a time,” your brain whispered, sure, but there are so many fucking days.
The circle was small, just ten people. Twelve if you counted the man asleep near the radiator and an elderly woman named Marie, who was knitting. The coffee was bad and the biscuits were stale. The walls were decorated with cheerful little posters about honesty and surrender and hope, which made you want to peel your skin off because honesty was hard, surrender sounded humiliating, and hope felt like a last resort people offered you when they had run out of practical advice.
Then the chair beside you scraped.
You looked over.
The man at the door had now approached you.
Up close, he looked simultaneously worse and prettier, too, which was annoying. He looked tired, probably not attributed to a single bad night but to years stacked inside him. He had clear blue eyes and dark stubble. His left hand stayed in his pocket. His right hand still held the coffee like a prop.
“Seat taken?” he asked.
You blinked at the twenty empty chairs around the circle. “No,” you said.
He managed a smile before you sighed and moved your bag.
He sat down.
Neither of you really spoke for the rest of the sharing. A man named Dennis talked about hiding vodka in a mouthwash bottle. Marie talked about walking past the same liquor store six times and going home crying but sober. Someone laughed and another cried. The last person said they were ninety days clean and the room clapped.
You clapped too, but it was a second late.
The man beside you didn’t clap. He looked at his hand instead, like he had forgotten what applause was for.
When the meeting leader asked if anyone new wanted to introduce themselves, the room went quiet in that gentle, expectant way that made you want to crawl into the carpet.
You stared at your shoes.
The man beside you exhaled.
“I’m James,” he said.
Every head turned.
His voice was rough around the edges. He sounded like he was confessing a crime instead of a name.
“Hi, James,” the room said.
His jaw flexed. He hated that. You could tell immediately.
He looked down at his coffee. “I don’t know if I’m supposed to be here.”
Nobody interrupted. Nobody corrected him.
His thumb rubbed once over the rim of the paper cup. “I can’t get drunk.”
Your eyes flicked to him.
He said it like a punchline without the mercy of being funny.
“I used to be able to, a long time ago.” His mouth tightened into a flat line. “Then things changed, and my body changed. And now alcohol doesn’t do anything,” he looked down, almost disappointed in how much he was disappointed by his own inability to get buzzed. “I can drink the bar dry and still feel every second of my life perfectly.”
You stopped breathing a little.
“It made me angry,” he admitted, quieter. “I was angry I couldn’t have that. I never cared about fun or the parties.” He gave a humourless laugh. “I wanted the off switch, and when it didn’t work, I hated myself. I hated that that has been taken from me.”
Something in your chest folded. Which one was he? Was your first shameful thought. In a world of superheroes and gods and aliens and people disappearing for five years and then coming back, you really didn’t have the time to memorise names of every Avenger by heart.
His eyes stayed down.
“So, no. I don’t know if I count. I don’t know if this is taking up space from people who need it more. But I know I keep thinking about it, keep trying to find something that’ll do what it used to do. And I know that probably means I shouldn’t be alone with the thought.”
Then Marie, still knitting, said, “You count.”
James looked up.
The meeting leader nodded. “You’re welcome here.”
You felt a little sting behind your eyes.
Fuck, it shouldn’t have been that moving. It should not have mattered that much. He was a stranger in a church basement with untouched coffee and a voice like a bruise. But there was something so painfully familiar about wanting oblivion and being ashamed of wanting it, about standing at the edge of yourself and wishing there was a button, a bottle, a burn, anything that made being alive more bearable.
The meeting moved on, and you decided not to speak.
You were proud of not crying until the end, when everyone stood and started stacking chairs. People exchanged numbers while stirring powdered creamer into coffee. The world did not change. Nobody looked at you and said, we know what you are, or pointed at your throat and said, liar.
You grabbed your coat and made it halfway to the stairs before his voice found you.
“Hey.” James stood a few feet behind you, hands still in his pockets.
You considered pretending you hadn’t heard him. Maybe you could be rude. You considered leaving and buying the smallest bottle you could find and telling yourself it didn’t count because it was only small
Instead, you said, “What?”
His eyebrows lifted slightly.
You winced. “Sorry. That came out mean.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “I’ve heard meaner.”
For some reason, that made you almost smile.
He stepped closer, careful like you were a wounded animal that might bolt. “First meeting?”
You looked at the stairs. “Is it that obvious?”
“A little,” he said.
You huffed. “Great.”
“I’m new too.”
“I know,” you chuckled dryly, “you spoke.”
“Yeah.”
“I would rather be shot.”
He looked at you for one long second. Very dryly, he said, “It’s overrated.”
A startled laugh escaped you before you could stop it, and his gaze brightened so subtly you almost missed it.
You leaned against the stair rail, suddenly too tired to keep standing like a real person. “I’m not like you.”
James tilted his head.
Your fingers tightened around your coat. “It works on me.”
His face changed, eyes more attentive than just pity.
You swallowed. “It works too well on me.”
You didn’t know why you said that, but you hated how small your voice got. You hated how much the truth could make you feel naked, and saying it out loud made your whole body ache for a drink with such vicious clarity that you had to grip the rail harder.
James didn’t look away.
You laughed once, but it broke wrong. “You wanted the off switch, I get that. But mine works fast. It works so well that I start thinking maybe I’m only good when I’m drinking. I think maybe the best version of me is the one that can’t feel anything. Or remember anything. Or ruin anything because I’m not really there.”
His teeth clenched, but he stayed quiet.
“And then I get sober,” you said, unable to stop baring your soul to this stranger. “And everything is worse.”
Your eyes burned. You looked down immediately, furious at yourself.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
“Because I told you first,” he said.
Your throat tightened more.
He shifted his weight, and for the first time, you noticed the way he held his left side still, like he was always aware of the space his body took up. He looked like he had spent a long time making himself smaller for other people’s comfort and had never quite learned how to stop.
“I’m Bucky,” he said.
You blinked. “I thought you said James.”
“I did.”
“So you lied at AA?”
His mouth twitched again. “James is my name.”
“So Bucky is what?” You managed a chuckle, “A nickname?”
“To some people.”
“Do you like those people?”
He paused, before looking down, “I’m trying to.”
You looked at him properly, at the tired eyes, the gloved hand, the too-perfect posture. You could see grief sitting on him like a cloud. You didn't know him or his life, but you knew enough about wanting to be someone else.
You gave him your name.
He repeated it once, like he was trying to get it right.
For a moment, neither of you said anything. Behind him, the meeting leader laughed with Marie near the coffee table as someone dragged a bin bag out of the kitchen. The basement smelled like burnt coffee, wet coats, old wood, and the possibility that maybe you could come back here.
Maybe this terrible room could exist again next week. Maybe you could still exist next week
Bucky nodded toward the door. “You got somewhere to be?”
You almost lied, but you shook your head.
“Me neither,” he said. “There’s a diner around the corner. Coffee’s bad, but it’s not this bad.”
“You asking me out?” You tilted your head.
He just shrugged, as if duh. Why wouldn’t I want to ask out the pretty girl who’s also struggling with life, like me? “Yeah. I mostly like the pie.”
You narrowed your eyes. “What kind?”
“I don’t know. Pie kind.”
You managed a smile. “That is such a man answer.”
He looked vaguely offended. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
And there it was again, your accidental laugh. You could feel him noticing it, not in a smug way, but like he was relieved there was a sound in you that was not pain.
You should have said no and gone home.
You should have taken the bus and white-knuckled your way through the evening and called it a victory if you made it to bed without stopping at the shop on the corner.
But Bucky stood in front of you like a man who understood the shape of a craving, even if his body refused to let him drown in it.
You were opposite tragedies meeting in the basement.
And you didn’t want to be alone.
Same terrible coffee.
So you pulled your coat on properly and said, “Fine. But if the pie is bad, I’m leaving you there.”
Bucky smiled and climbed up the stairs next to you, opening the door like a true gentleman, because apparently your standards were that low.
Cold evening air rushed in, and he said, “Fair.”
You stepped outside together.
For the first time all day, feeling sober didn’t feel like a punishment.
Bucky fell into step beside you, close enough to be there, far enough away to be respectful, and when your hands shook in your coat pockets, he pretended not to notice.
You loved him a little for that.
Not love-love. Just the strangest beginning of it.
—
A year later, you were sitting in the same basement where you met him.
The church still smelled faintly of old wood, overbrewed coffee, rain-damp coats, and whatever industrial cleaner someone used on the floor every Tuesday evening. The chairs were arranged in the same uneven circle as always, but there were more rows now. Nobody here had ever managed to make a circle properly, and maybe that was appropriate. Recovery was not exactly known for pretty geometry.
You sat three chairs away from the radiator now.
Now your coat was folded over your lap. Your coffee was cooling between your palms. Your breathing was almost steady.
The dog tags around your neck shifted when you leaned forward.
You saw them slip out from beneath your sweater, the familiar feeling of them falling against your chest, warm from your skin. They caught the basement light for a second, dull silver flashing against the knit you were wearing, and the man beside you noticed.
He was new, you could tell.
New people had a look to them. Sometimes it was fear or anger. This man was sitting with his shoulders held too high and his hands wrapped too tightly around his cup, staring at everything except the people in the room.
His eyes flicked to the tags.
“You serve?” he asked.
You looked down.
For one stupid second, your fingers closed over the metal before you could stop yourself. “No,” you said. “My boyfriend did.”
The man nodded, still looking at the chain. “Oh.”
“They’re his,” you added, tucking them back beneath your collar as if you had been caught showing a memory too intimate. “He gives them to me while he’s away at work.”
“At work?”
“Yeah.”
You managed to say it with a straight face, which was honestly heroic of you, considering Bucky’s “work” very rarely involved conferences or meeting rooms. His work included Captain America showing up at your apartment three days ago with that charming, apologetic smile that always meant, I’m very sorry, but I’m about to borrow your boyfriend for a classified and incredibly stupid mission.
You had rolled your eyes, and Sam did have the decency to bring him back in one piece
You looked down and added, “it’s for safekeeping.”
After all, that was what Bucky called it too.
He had stood in your kitchen two mornings ago with his duffel bag by the door and his boots not quite tied, looking too handsome for a man who was leaving you for a couple of days. His hair had still been damp from the shower, tucked behind one ear, darkening the collar of his shirt. He smelled like soap and coffee and the lavender shampoo you bought for yourself, which he continued to deny using even though you told him he could. He had been quiet all morning.
He washed his mug even though you told him to leave it. He checked the lock on the window he had already fixed months ago. Eventually, he found you by the counter when you were pretending to look for something in a drawer you had already opened twice. His hands came to your waist from behind, and he folded himself around you without a word. His chest pressed to your back, chin resting against your shoulder. For a minute, he simply held you there in the kitchen, reluctant to leave.
You covered his hands with yours.
“You’re doing the clingy thing,” you murmured, not at all complaining.
His mouth pressed to the side of your throat, not a kiss at first. Then he did kiss you, his stubble rubbing against your skin.
“Maybe I just like holding my girl before work,” he said.
“Work,” you repeated, dryly, “As if you’re dealing with team building exercises and doing trust falls with Captain America.”
“I would rather be shot.”
“Bucky.”
“What? I’ve been shot before.”
“You’re banned from making those jokes before nine in the morning.”
He hummed, amused, and turned you in his arms so your back was against the counter and he could look at you properly.
His thumbs slipped under the hem of your sweater, just enough to touch skin. The intimacy of it made your chest ache. You had lived with him, slept beside him, showered with him, kissed him breathless against this exact counter, and still there were moments where his hands on you felt new.
He bent his head and kissed you.
It was meant to be a goodbye kiss. It became sweeter, heavier. His body pressed yours into the counter, careful of his strength even when the kiss deepened and your hands found his hair. He made a sound when you tugged, more breath than voice.
“You’re going to be late,” you whispered against his mouth.
“Probably.”
“Very professional.”
“Never claimed to be.”
His metal hand stayed at your waist. His right hand came up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as if he could smooth the worry out of your face. He kissed you once more, lingering, then pressed his forehead to yours.
“I’ll call when I can,” he said.
“I know.”
“Marie has your number?”
“Yes.”
“Food in the fridge?”
“Yes.”
His eyes searched yours. “You’ll eat?”
“Bucky.”
“Sorry,” he said sheepishly at his worry.
You wanted to tease him more, because that was easier than saying please don’t go. So your fingers tightened in the front of his shirt.
Bucky took the dog tags from beneath his own shirt and lifted the chain over his head. Your throat tightened before he even touched you. “Buck.”
His eyes softened at the name.
It still did that to him, even after a year.
Buck.
You had been saying it for a while now. At first by accident, then on purpose, then so often it became part of your life. You said Buck when you needed him to pass you a mug from the high shelf, a whiny Buck when he stole your side of the bed and pretended he hadn’t. You had gasped Buck when you woke up from a dream with your heart trying to claw its way out of your chest.
The name had started in the diner, if you were honest.
That first night after AA, when he took you for pie because neither of you were ready to go home alone. Bucky had sat across from you with the menu in both hands, frowning at the pie section as though it was a tactical document.
You had not known yet whether you were allowed to joke with him. Whether he would flinch or he would shut down.
“I remember it being less confusing than this,” he said. “There’s too many options now.”
It would take him three months to admit the last time he had pie there was 1944.
You lifted your eyebrows. “You’re panicking.”
“I’m assessing my options.”
“You’ve been looking at the word ‘cherry’ for almost a full minute.”
He had looked back down, gravely. “Maybe I like cherry.”
You squinted, then decided. “You don’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
You managed a smile.“I know everything.”
That was the first time he smiled at you properly, and it changed his whole face.
You remembered staring at him across that sticky table and thinking, oh, that is pretty.
Later, he walked you home in the rain.
He didn’t ask if he could or assume he should. He just stood beside you outside the diner, hands in his jacket pockets, and said, “I’m going this way.” and it just happened to be the same as where you were going.
So you let him walk you home.
A week later, he saved you a seat. A month later, he was going out for coffee with you every other day. Two months later, he fixed your broken window latch and stayed for dinner.
Four months later, he kissed you in a supermarket car park because you had called him crying from the frozen food aisle after the shop rearranged itself and put the wine where the pizzas used to be. He had come so quickly you were sure he must have run part of the way. He found you with your basket on the floor and your hands shaking, and he stood between you and the aisle like his body could block out the whole world.
You cried because you wanted a drink. Then you cried because he came. Then you cried because he looked at you like none of it made you difficult to love.
He kissed you after he got you outside, so gently, his hands hovering until you grabbed his jacket and pulled him closer, like he had been waiting months to be allowed to want you like this.
After that, Bucky became yours all at once.
Your meetings became his meetings, and his nightmares became your 3 a.m. tea in the kitchen. Your cravings became walks around the block with his metal hand at the back of your neck. Your bad days became less lonely.
There were mornings where you woke up with his face buried against your stomach, one arm heavy across your hips, his hair a disaster against your bare skin. There were evenings where he cooked badly and you ate it anyway because he looked so proud and because he kissed the back of your shoulder while you washed the dishes. There were nights where the two of you ended up tangled on the sofa with a film neither of you watched, his mouth moving slowly along your neck while your fingers slid under his shirt, both of you laughing between kisses.
It wasn’talways easy, but it was worth it.
So when he gave you the tags, standing in your kitchen with the mission waiting downstairs, it seemed like a little too much.
He slipped the chain over your head. The tags settled against your chest, cool for half a second before your skin warmed them.
“For safekeeping,” he said.
You tried to smile. “They’re metal, Buck. I think they’ll survive your l work trip.”
His thumb touched the chain. “It’s not about them surviving.”
You looked up at him.
His voice dropped. “It’s about me coming back for them.”
Oh.
Bucky kissed your forehead, then your mouth, then the corner of your mouth when you tried not to cry. He was so careful with you when he left, like one wrong touch would make both of you admit how much you hated this. He’d been gone for daytrips before, but four days seemed unbearable now.
“I’m proud of you,” he murmured.
Then he kissed you again, and for a few seconds you forgot the whole world beyond his mouth. His hands were firm at your waist, yours around his neck, the tags caught between you. He kissed you until you were breathless and clinging, until Sam honked downstairs and Bucky muttered something unflattering about him under his breath against your lips.
You laughed. He kissed the laugh out of your mouth.
Then he left.
At first, you were fine.
You made breakfast, answered messages, and washed the mug Bucky had already washed, only because it gave your hands something to do. You wore the tags beneath your sweater and touched them whenever you passed the mirror. You went to work and came home. Then ate leftovers standing in the kitchen.
The first night without him was always strange. Then the hours stretched.
The refrigerator hummed too loudly. The upstairs neighbour moved around too much. Your phone stayed blank for too long, and every time it lit up and it wasn't him, disappointment scraped through and you felt childish.
You watched half a film and absorbed none of it.
You opened the fridge, then closed it. Opened the cupboard, then closed it.
Checked your phone, no message.
The next day was the same.
By nine, you were bored. By nine-thirty, you were restless. By ten, your mind had started to tilt.
It was jarring how quickly it happened. No one warned you about it properly, or maybe they did and you had not believed them, but the craving arrived out of nowhere because you were bored.
You were putting away a clean plate when you thought about the shop on the corner. Then you were gripping the counter so hard your fingers hurt.
You are alone. You are bored.
Nobody would know.
The tags felt too heavy. You pulled them out from beneath your sweater and held them in your hand, the chain slipping between your fingers. Bucky’s name was pressed into your palm, and you stared at it until the letters blurred.
“I’m fine,” you said out loud.
Your voice sounded odd in the empty kitchen.
You put the tags back under your sweater and changed into pyjamas. You brushed your teeth and got into bed. Five minutes later, you got out of bed. You checked your phone. You opened your messages with Bucky and looked at the last thing he sent before takeoff: Be good to yourself for me.
You threw the phone onto the bed.
Then, somehow, you were putting on shoes.
When you thought about it later, that felt frightening, how blank you were. It wasn’t exactly a blackout, because you remembered every moment, but there was a strange sequence to it, as if your body had become a machine built for one purpose: Shoes, coat, keys, stairs, and corner shop.
The bell above the door rang. You told yourself you were buying milk.
You did buy milk. In fact, you carried it to the counter with both hands like evidence of innocence, and then your eyes moved to the tiny bottles behind the register.
You could leave. You should leave.
You heard yourself ask for one.
The man behind the counter reached back.
You almost said, nevermind. You didn’t.
The bottle was cold when he passed it to you, but it was small enough for your brain to start building arguments before you even reached the door.
It’s little. It’s one. It’s not like before. I have been good for a year. I can stop after this. I just want to know I can.
The walk home felt unreal as the milk knocked against your leg.
At your door, your hands shook so badly you dropped your keys. you put the milk in the fridge and took the bottle out.
You placed it on the kitchen counter.
You stared at it.
Then you walked away. Then you came back. Then you picked it up. Then you put it down again.
Your whole body was hot and cold at once. Your thoughts were moving too quickly to hold. Bucky’s dog tags rested against your chest beneath your sweater, and you kept touching them, pressing them hard into your skin as if it could bring willpower.
“I won’t drink it,” you whispered.
Then you opened it.
Then you drank.
And alcohol worked on you with humiliating ease. It hit your empty stomach like warmth pretending to be mercy. For a few minutes, missing Bucky became manageable. You stood in your kitchen with the bottle empty in your hand and hated how much relief you felt
Then the relief curdled into horror. Your stomach dropped and skin prickled. The empty bottle looked terrifying in your hand, stupid and catastrophic. You sank to the kitchen floor.
The tiles were cold beneath your thighs. The dog tags swung forward when you bent over, clinking once against the empty bottle still in your fist.
You cried with your whole body, in ugly, breathless sobs that hurt your ribs and scraped your throat.
You almost called him. You saw your hand reach for the phone.
Then you saw him in your mind, answering because he would always answer if he could. You imagined his face changing when he heard your voice, hearing the guilt he would somehow make his own, because Bucky had never met your pain he didn’t try to carry.
You couldn’t do it.
You rinsed the bottle instead. You stood at the sink with the water running and realised what you were doing and hated yourself so violently you had to grip the counter again.
Evidence.
You were rinsing evidence. You were going to get rid of it, as if this was something to hide from a parent or a teacher or a boyfriend.
You threw the bottle in the bin. Then you took it out. Then you put it back in. Then you sat on the floor until the kitchen light started to feel too bright.
You didn't sleep. Or if you did, it was full of waking.
By morning, your mouth tasted sour and your eyes were swollen.
By night, you were in the basement, a year later.
Marie was talking about her daughter’s wedding. She had her knitting in her lap, a pale yellow scarf growing slowly between her hands, and she was describing the open bar with a detail that made you want to crawl out of your own skin.
Usually, Marie made you feel safe. Tonight, she talked about champagne flutes, toasts, ginger ale, and smiling for the photos.
The dog tags were hot against your chest.
You shifted in your chair.
The new man beside you was staring at his coffee again. The meeting leader nodded gently as Marie finished.
“Thank you, Marie.”
Everyone said thanks, and the leader looked around the circle.
“Anyone else?”
You stared at the floor. No.
Your heart began to pound so hard you felt it in your throat.
No, no, no.
Still, apparently your body was on autopilot now, because you opened your mouth before you were ready. “I’m—”
Your voice broke so bad that several heads turned at once.
You stopped as heat rushed into your face. You said your name.
The room answered, like it always did.
You could not look at anyone. You looked at your coffee instead, at the small tremors moving across the surface.
“My boyfriend and I met here,” you said, and the words came out thin.
You swallowed hard and tried again.
“My boyfriend and I met here. In this room.” Your thumb moved over the raised letters stamped into the tags beneath your sweater.
Your breath hitched.
“He doesn’t know I drank last night because he’s away.”
The basement seemed to go still around you.
You let out a broken little laugh that was barely laughter at all. “I was just bored and spiralling and I…” You shook your head, tears spilling hot down your cheeks now, impossible to stop. “I got a little bottle.”
Your fingers curled around the tags.
“It was only a little.”
You knew better than anyone that it never was a little.
—
After the meeting, you cried into Marie’s shoulder in the church hallway until your throat hurt.
You wished you had done it in a dignified way when other people were trying to help you. You cried with your whole face pressed into her cardigan, both hands in the wool while she held the back of your head and kept murmuring, “Oh, sweetheart,” like you hadn’t done something unforgivable, as if you were not disgusting. As if you were just a person who had fallen and was still, somehow, worth helping back up.
She didn’t tell you it was fine.
She only walked you around the block twice in the cold, one arm linked through yours, talking gently about calling Bucky, about honesty, about how a slip didn’t get to eat the whole year unless you fed it the rest yourself.
By the time you got home, you were almost an hour late.
Your eyes were swollen and your face felt tight from drying tears. Bucky’s dog tags were still tucked under your sweater, pressing against your chest.
You opened the door, expecting darkness.
Instead, the kitchen light was on.
Bucky turned from the counter.
He was still in grey sweats, hair damp from a shower he had clearly taken too quickly. There was a smear of frosting on his thumb, and on the counter beside him sat a small, lopsided cake from the grocery store, with too much white icing and little piped flowers around the edge.
Across the top, in blue gel writing, slightly uneven and very obviously done by him, were the words:
ONE YEAR!
Your body went cold.
Was it supposed to be the one year anniversary today? You… hadn’t been counting. Your boyfriend, had, apparently
Bucky’s whole face lit up when he saw you.
“Mission got called short,” he said, so proud and so happy it hurt to look at him. “Happy one year sober, sweetheart.”
You stared at the cake.
The keys were still in your hand. Your coat was still on. You didn’t move, didn’t blink properly, didn’t breathe right.
Bucky kept smiling for a few seconds, but then his smile faltered. “Baby?”
You couldn’t answer as blue icing blurred in front of you.
Three full minutes passed, maybe less, maybe more, you didn’t know. You only knew that you spent every second of them staring at that little cake like it had been made for someone who had died last night.
You didn’t even realise Bucky had been walking towards you.
One moment, he was standing behind the little cake, his smile slowly disappearing as he watched you fail to answer him. The next, his hands were on you.
You flinched so hard the keys slipped from your fingers and hit the floor, but Bucky didn’t let go. His flesh hand closed gently around your upper arm while his metal one came to your face.
“Hey,” he said gently. “Hey, look at me.”
You couldn’t. You stared somewhere around his shoulder instead, hardly aware of his thumb brushing beneath your eye, wiping away a tear you hadn’t felt fall.
His eyes moved across your face with alarm. “Are you hurt?”
You shook your head.
“Did something happen today?”
You shook your head again
“Did someone touch you?”
“No,” you managed, but the word was barely there.
Bucky’s shoulders loosened by a bit, but the worry certainly didn't leave his face. His eyes dropped quickly over you anyway, ever so aware of blood, bruises, torn fabric, any danger. There was none.
Bucky looked over his shoulder at it, then back at you.
“Oh,” he said quietly. You didn’t know what he understood. Maybe he thought the anniversary had overwhelmed you, or maybe he thought you were crying because he had remembered, maybe he thought you were happy.
His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck. He drew you closer, slow enough that you could have resisted, but you didn't understand what he was doing until your forehead struck his chest and his arms folded around you.
Bucky cradled you against him, metal hand across the back of your coat. His other arm wrapped around your head, his palm cupping your skull as he tucked your face beneath his chin.
You stood stiffly inside his embrace, hearing his heartbeat as your hands remained hanging uselessly at your sides.
Bucky rubbed his palm over your back. “It’s okay,” he murmured, kissing the top of your head. “Whatever it is, it’s okay.”
It wasn’t, and he had no idea.
You couldn’t seem to pull enough air into your lungs. Every breath caught halfway, and your body refused to complete it. Bucky must have felt the change because his grip tightened, holding you together while your knees began to feel like cooked spaghetti.
“Easy,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”
Your fingers finally curled into the front of his shirt. You clutched him with both hands as if the floor had opened beneath you and he was the only thing left at the edge.
Bucky bent with you when you folded.
He lowered you both to the kitchen floor without ever taking his arms away, one knee touching the tile before he settled against the cabinets and pulled you fully into his lap.
A sound finally came out of you. “I-I’m sorry.”
Bucky startled, but only for a second.
You buried your face against his throat, the apology coming again before you could breathe. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Shh.”
“I’m sorry, Buck, I’m sorry—”
“Shh, sweetheart.”
He held the back of your head while you began to sob. There was no dignity left in it now. You cried so violently that your body jerked against his, words breaking apart between gasps while Bucky gathered you closer. “I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“I ruined it.”
Bucky’s hand paused against your hair.
You felt the second he understood that this wasn’t an overwhelmed anniversary reaction. “What happened?” he asked.
You shook your head against him.
His lips pressed to your temple. “Tell me.”
“I can’t,” you hiccupped, “You’ll hate me.”
Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you. His hand remained behind your neck, supporting your head when you tried to turn away. The excitement was gone, but fear remained.
“I won’t,” he said.
“You don’t know.”
“I know I won’t hate you.”
Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
You talked before you could think. “You were gone, and I—”
Your voice collapsed. Bucky waited, one arm around your waist, his thumb moving through the damp hair at your neck, while you tried to force the words past the pressure closing your throat.
“I drank.”
It came out abruptly.
Bucky went still beneath you.
“Last night,” you gasped. “I bought one of the little bottles and I drank it. I drank the whole thing.” The confession tore itself out of you all at once. “I rinsed the bottle. I was going to hide it from you.”
Bucky’s face changed, but instead of disgust, it was recognition.
He knew how a craving could take over your body. He knew what it was to want an off switch badly enough to hate yourself for reaching for it.
“It’s okay,” he whispered.
You recoiled inside his arms. “No, it’s really not.”
“It’s okay.” His hand tightened against the back of your head. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
“I ruined the whole year—”
“No.”
He didn't need the details explained to him. He understood every humiliating little ritual because addiction had taught him the same language, even if his body no longer let alcohol answer him.
“I wore your tags,” you choked out. “While I did it.”
Your hand flew to your chest, gripping the metal through your sweater hard enough for its edges to bite into your palm.
Bucky caught your wrist. “Don’t.”
“I shouldn’t have them.”
He gently pulled your hand away from your chest, but he didn’t take the tags. He only folded your fingers around them more carefully, covering your fist with his own.
“I didn’t keep anything safe,” you managed.
Bucky dragged you back against him before you could see more, tucking your face beneath his chin. His palm spread across your back as you broke open in his lap.
“It’s okay,” he repeated into your hair. “It’s okay.”
You shook your head violently, and he kissed your temple.
It’s not that what happened did not matter. It did. You both knew it did.
But he knew what you were convinced of: the certainty that one mistake had poisoned everything that came before it, insisting that because you had fallen once, you might as well stay on the floor.
Bucky knew better than to let that voice speak alone.
“You should be angry.”
His arms tightened, pressing his face against your hair and breathing through it.
“I should’ve called you.”
“Yeah,” he whispered, voice breaking. “You should’ve.”
You flinched.
Bucky immediately drew back enough to cradle your face between his hands. “But I know why you didn’t.”
His thumbs moved beneath your eyes, wiping away tears that were replaced almost immediately.
He knew what shame did, and how it convinced you isolation felt like mercy.
“I thought you’d hate me.”
He shook his head. “Never.”
It was the only reassurance he gave you because it was the only one you could believe.
Bucky pulled you against him again and let you cry until there was nothing graceful left in your chest. He held you through every shaking breath, his mouth pressed to your hair, murmuring the same words whenever your apologies started again.
It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you.
Eventually, the strength went out of your body. You sagged against him, exhausted, your fingers still trapped around the dog tags between your palm and his.
Bucky stayed on the kitchen floor with you until your breathing slowed.
Then he carefully shifted you from his lap and stood, bringing you with him. Your knees nearly folded, but his hands were already at your waist, holding you upright before you could fall.
“Go shower,” he said.
You frowned. “What?”
“Go take a shower,” he repeated kindly. “Put on something comfortable. I’ll make tea.”
You stared at him when his hand slid around the back of your neck, drawing you forward until his forehead rested against yours.
“I’m gonna be here when you come back,” he said.
“You promise?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re not going to leave?”
“No.”
“You’re not going to throw the cake away?”
His eyes flicked toward it.
“No,” he said after a moment. You nodded, though you didn’t entirely believe him.
Bucky kissed your forehead and let you go.
—
The shower took longer than it should have. You stood beneath the water until it ran lukewarm, scrubbing the dried tears from your face, replaying the conversation again and again until it turned into comfort.
When you eventually returned to the kitchen, wearing Bucky’s shirt and a pair of pyjama bottoms, two mugs of tea sat on the table.
Bucky was standing over the cake with a butter knife in his hand and an expression of intense concentration usually reserved for dismantling weapons.
You stopped in the doorway. “What are you doing?”
He glanced at you, then back at the cake.
The blue icing was a mess.
Bucky had scraped away most of the word YEAR. There were deep trenches in the white frosting where he had smushed the letters together, dragging the gel across the surface with very little artistic skill.
ONE YEAR! had become:
ONE DAY!
The exclamation point was still there, slightly crooked.
You stared at it.
Bucky put down the knife.
“I figured we celebrate this instead,” he said.
Your throat closed. “One day?”
He shrugged, suddenly looking uncertain. “That’s what they say, right?”
One day at a time.
But there were so many fucking days.
But there was only this one now.
You managed to walk yourself to the kitchen and threw yourself into his arms.
Bucky caught you, his arms closing around your body. You buried your face against his chest while he kissed the top of your head.
“I’m still proud of you,” he whispered.
You shook your head.
His hand moved down your back. “That’s okay,” he murmured. “I’ve got enough for both of us.”
Later, he cut two uneven slices.
The cake was too sweet, the tea had gone cold, and the blue icing stained your tongues. Bucky sat beside you, his thigh pressed against yours and his metal hand resting open on the table.
When midnight passed, his fingers closed gently around yours.
One day.
You had made it through one day.
—end.
General Bucky taglist pt 1:
@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault @average-vibe @winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @boy--wonder--187 @scariusaquarius @reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida @buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22 @torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire @hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko @lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat @shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot @helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess @samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol
Field Exposure
$ log - you’re a war photographer, capturing all the crucial details of the scene and strategies. but your lens keeps landing on sgt. bucky barnes. $ warn --sfw --gn!reader --flustered!bucky --1940s $ wc -w 1k $ cd masterlist / bucky-barnes
The first time, he lets it go.
You're crouched by the jeep with your camera up, and the whole squad's mid-brief.
Steve's got a map spread across the hood with his finger tracing some route through a forest none of you have seen yet. It's a good shot, objectively. Cover-of-Life-Magazine good. Captain America, all jaw and purpose, doing the thing he does.
Except your lens isn't on Steve. It's on Bucky, three feet to the left, not doing anything in particular — just leaning against the tire with his arms crossed, half-listening, the corner of his mouth doing something private.
You take four frames of that leaning figure before you catch yourself and swing the camera two feet to the right. He doesn't say anything. He just looks, for a second, like a man who's been handed a compliment in a language he doesn't speak yet.
The second time, he brings it up sideways.
"You get good ones today?" he asks, later, cleaning his rifle with the kind of focus that means he isn't actually thinking about his rifle.
"Some."
"Of the Captain?"
"Some of those too."
He glances at you like he's doing math. You go back to your film log and don't help him with it.
By the fourth time it stops being subtle, mostly because he starts finding excuses to be near you when you've got the camera out.
He’s leaning over your shoulder under the guise of checking the light, angling himself into whatever frame you're setting up until you have to physically nudge him with your elbow to get him out of it. Which defeats the entire purpose, since half your rolls now have Bucky cropped at the edge of every photo like a stray thumb.
"You're in my shot," you tell him, not for the first time.
"I'm helpin'."
"You're not."
He grins like that's the correct answer.
It's Dum Dum who says it out loud, which is somehow worse than if Bucky had figured it out himself. They're passing your contact sheets around the fire one night, the ones you'd printed back at base and never quite gotten around to filing.
Dum Dum holds one up — Bucky mid-laugh, head tipped back, off to the side of a frame that's supposedly about morale on the front lines — and says, "Sarge, they've got a whole gallery of just you," and cackles like it's the funniest thing that's happened all war.
You don't deny it. There's no version of denying it that doesn't sound worse than the truth.
Bucky goes very still in a particular way.
It’s like his whole body just hit a wall it didn't see coming, and then he laughs it off too loud and changes the subject to something about the rations. You let him, because you can see the exact moment it lands behind his eyes. Plus, you're not cruel enough to make him sit in it in front of everyone.
He waits until the fire's burned down and the rest of the squad's peeled off to sleep or pretend to.
It's just you and him and Dernier's terrible homemade liquor. It’s the same recipe that smells like it could strip paint — Bucky's been sipping like it's punishing him for something.
"So," he says at first simply.
He's got the tin cup turned in his hands, not drinking, just turning it. For a man who talks for a living he's suddenly having real trouble finding the next word.
You wait. You're good at waiting — it's half the job, sitting behind the lens until the actual moment arrives instead of the one you expected.
"The pictures," he tries again, and stops.
You watch something in him short out completely — the cocky tilt of his shoulders trying to hold and failing, colour climbing up his neck in a way no amount of nonchalance is going to cover.
He opens his mouth like he's got a whole speech loaded and what comes out instead is: "Why me?"
You could make him work for it. Some evil, self-preserving part of you wants to. Instead you just shrug, easy, like it costs you nothing, even though it costs you a little.
"There's enough cameras on the Captain."
It should be a joke. It sounds like one going out.
But Bucky's face does something complicated when it lands — like he's trying to file it under bit and it won't fit, like some part of him already knew and hearing it said plain just confirmed the math he'd been too chicken to finish.
He opens his mouth, then sharply closes it.
Pride hits him first, fast, his chin lifting before he can stop it. Of course, look at this handsome face. Then the crash — mouth open, nothing there, hand to the back of his neck. You want pictures of me?
You watch, unhurried, camera loose in your lap because for once you're not interested in capturing this. You just want to see it happen with your own eyes.
"...Oh," he finally says. One syllable, and it costs him visibly more than the whole sentence before it.
Then he grabs Dernier's cup and drains what's left of the moonshine in one go, throat working, eyes watering instantly. Even Steve — six feet away, half-asleep against his own pack — cracks an eye open and goes a quite pale just from the smell of it.
Bucky doesn't say anything else. He sits there coughing, eyes streaming, ears red clean past the collar, looking like a man who just survived something far more dangerous than the front.
You lift the camera and take the picture anyway.
this is how ur sneaky self is looking btw bc of the goddamn flashbulbs
$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @froggibus
$ cd masterlist / bucky-barnes
Just imagining Bucky constantly being blinded by reader
── A LOUISIANA KINDA LOVE
summary › every other weekend, sam hosts a cookout at the docks. every other weekend, bucky pretends he isn’t looking for the same girl standing by the water at sunset.
pairing › bucky x female reader content warnings › set during tfatws, soft/nervous bucky, (attempted) flirting, sam being a meddling cutie word count › 1.4k
authors note › a little fluff for summer! if you guys couldnt tell tfatws bucky is my obsession. i love him and need him forever and ever.
picnic blanket prompt › 🪵 WOODEN FENCE | 🪵 “I didn’t think you’d notice me.”
Every other weekend in Delacroix, somebody lights a grill, drags coolers out onto the dock, and pretends life has always been this simple.
Sam calls them “casual little cookouts,” which is a lie considering there’s always enough food to feed a football team, music echoing through the boatyard, at least one argument over who burned the burgers and about twenty people yelling over each other while the Louisiana sunset turns everything gold.
Bucky usually keeps to the edges of it all.
Not hiding exactly, just observing. Helping when someone asks. Nodding along to conversations. Holding a beer long enough that people stop offering him another one. And every single cookout for the last two months, somewhere around sunset, he notices you. Always near the water. Sometimes sitting on the edge of the dock with your sandals abandoned beside you, sometimes leaning against one of the old wooden posts near the boatyard. Always looking out toward the horizon like you’re listening to something no one else can hear.
The first time he saw you, he thought to himself how pretty you were, the way the reflected sun off the water glowed across your face. The second time he wondered if you were waiting for someone else to join you. By the fourth cookout, he started looking for you before he even got out of the truck.
Tonight is no different. Bucky stands near the cooler pretending to listen to Sam and Torres argue over seasoning while his eyes drift automatically toward the water, and there you are. Leaning against the fence near the boats, drink hanging loosely from your fingers while the sunset paints orange light across your skin.
Bucky stares too long. Again.
“Jesus Christ,” Sam mutters beside him without even looking up from the grill. “Go talk to her before you wear a hole through the poor girl.”
Bucky nearly chokes on his beer.
“I’m not—”
“You are.”
“I’m just standing here.”
“And lookin’ at her like she hung the moon.”
Bucky scowls while Sam grins into the smoke curling from the grill.
“You got exactly five minutes before somebody else gets the nerve first.”
“That’s not—”
“Five.”
Bucky hates that his stomach actually drops a little at the thought, because he hasn’t done this in a long time, not like this not when it matters. Across the yard, you laugh softly at something one of the Wilson kids says before drifting back toward the quieter end of the dock again. Alone.
Bucky exhales slowly.
Say something to her. Anything.
Before he can talk himself out of it, he starts walking. The wooden boards creak beneath his boots as he approaches. Closer now, he notices details he couldn’t from afar, the condensation sliding down your cup, your hair moving gently in the breeze off the water, the way your shoulders relax out here away from the noise. You glance over at the sound of his footsteps. And suddenly Bucky Barnes the former assassin, war veteran, and literal super soldier—completely forgets how conversations work.
“You uh—”
Brilliant start.
“You’ve been standing there a while.”
The second the words leave his mouth, Bucky wants to launch himself directly into the bay.
Nice going, Barnes.
But then you laugh, soft and surprised and warm enough to knock the air from his lungs.
“Oh, yeah,” you admit, looking back toward the sunset. “Guess I have been.”
Then your eyes flick back to his.
“I didn’t think you’d notice me.”
And Bucky, the poor bastard, his brain short-circuits entirely. Because how is he supposed to answer that honestly?
I notice you every single time you walk into a room. I started showing up early hoping you’d be here. I know exactly what your laugh sounds like from across the yard.
Instead what comes out is something much clumsier.
“I’d have to be blind not to notice you.”
Your cheeks flush immediately and Bucky’s soul leaves his body.
“I mean—” he starts quickly, panic rising fast, “not like I’m staring at you or anything—I just meant like—”
You save him then, with that warm gentle smile of yours.
“It’s okay,” you say softly. “I know what you mean.”
The relief nearly takes his knees out. Then after a tiny pause, your voice gets quieter.
“I notice you too.”
Bucky stares at you, stares like he’s trying to process whether he imagined that.
“You do?”
Smooth. Very cool.
You laugh again, ducking your head slightly.
“Kind of hard not to.”
Something warm unfolds slowly in Bucky’s chest. Shock first, then confusion, then happiness so sudden it almost feels dangerous. And when you smile at him again, all shy and sunlight-soft in the fading evening glow, he thinks distantly to himself.
This is good, right? Yeah. Okay. Time to send it home.
Bucky clears his throat.
“I uh—”
God. Why is he suddenly sixteen years old again?
“I notice,” he says carefully, glancing toward your cup, “your drink is empty.”
You look down at it like you forgot you were holding it.
“Would you maybe wanna get another,” Bucky asks, trying very hard not to sound like this is the most nerve-wracking moment of his life, “with me?”
There’s half a second where he’s convinced he ruined it somehow. Then you smile bright enough to rival the sunset behind you.
“Yeah,” you answer softly. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
Bucky tries to play it cool, he really does, but as the two of you start walking back toward the lights and laughter of the cookout together, he can’t stop the small smile pulling at his mouth. And behind the grill, Sam Wilson watches the whole thing happen before immediately shouting aloud for everyone to hear.
“IT’S ABOUT DAMN TIME.”
Bucky flips him off without hesitation which makes you laugh so hard you nearly spill your drink again as he shakes his head and mutters something about this being a setup.
"A setup?"
"You and Sam."
"We've never discussed you."
"That's exactly what somebody discussing me would say."
The two of you reach the cooler then, and Bucky bends down to grab fresh drinks before you can.
"What are you having?"
"Lemonade."
He already knows, you've had lemonade at every cookout. Still, hearing you say it feels oddly satisfying. Bucky twists the cap loose before handing the bottle over, and your fingers brush his. It's brief, barely there, the kind of touch most people wouldn't even notice. But Bucky does.
The warmth of it lingers embarrassingly long.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Neither of you pull away quite as quickly as you probably should and it makes Bucky's heart do something deeply inconvenient.
You seem completely unaware or maybe you're pretending to be, he honestly can't tell. The realization gives him a strange burst of courage. Because you've been smiling at him for the last half hour, because you noticed him too. Because if he leaves tonight without asking, Sam will probably never let him live it down. Mostly because he doesn't want to wait another two weeks to talk to you again.
Bucky clears his throat and immediately, you glance toward him and suddenly the nerves return full force.
"Hey."
"Hey."
Very smooth, professional even, he thinks.
You bite back a smile and Bucky points at you.
"Don't."
"I'm not doing anything."
"You are."
"I haven't said a word."
"You're thinking things."
That finally earns a laugh and the sound settles some of his nerves, just a little, just enough. Bucky rubs the back of his neck. Then, before he can overthink it.
"Would you maybe wanna come to the next cookout with me?"
Your eyebrows lift slightly.
His stomach drops, so he rushes onward.
"I mean—not that you aren't already coming. Obviously you're already coming."
Fantastic.
"God."
You laugh again.
Bucky closes his eyes briefly.
"Let me start over."
"Okay."
He's smiling now despite himself.
"So. Next cookout."
"Next cookout."
"Would you wanna come with me?"
The teasing fades from your expression and something softer takes its place. Your smile becomes smaller, warmer, the kind that twinkles across your eyes.
"I'd like that."
Relief crashes through him so quickly he almost laughs.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
You nudge your shoulder lightly against his, this time definitely on purpose.
"I've kind of been hoping you'd ask."
And for the rest of the night, Bucky can't stop smiling. Not even when Sam catches his eye from across the grill and points both thumbs triumphantly toward the sky. Not even when you laugh at that too. Not even when your head finds his shoulder, or stays there.
He Knows What He Likes
Summary: When you join the Avengers on recommendation from your old friend Sam Wilson, Bucky Barnes assumes you'll be a pain to deal with. He doesn't like the idea one bit. As you gently chip away at his gruff exterior, he realizes what he does like. And it's you. Characters: Bucky Barnes x new Avenger reader (plus a platonic friendship with Sam Wilson and other Avengers) Trigger warnings/General tags: No use of Y/N, cursing (very minimal and playful), canon-typical mentions of Bucky's past with HYDRA (very brief), canon-typical mentions of violence, Bucky is awkward but we love him anyway Word count: 2.6K Author’s notes: This is the first installment in a little series I'm cooking up! I can't make any promises about future posting and timing, but know that I am working on it! Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy! Taglist: @tinyshyteacup (please send me a message or leave a comment if you'd like to be tagged in future posts!) Divider by @saradika-graphics
With new threats materializing around the world, the Avengers were looking for new recruits to help cover more ground.
Sam Wilson had vouched for you. “I’ve known her forever. I think she’ll be a great fit.”
Bucky Barnes had nearly rolled his eyes into the back of his head.
Great. He thought. Basically another Wilson. Just what I need.
When you arrived at the Avengers compound, Sam was there to welcome you in the parking garage.
“Sam!” You cried, jumping out of the driver’s seat to give him a hug.
“You made it!” He returned your embrace. “How was the drive?”
“Not too bad. I listened to audiobooks the whole way. Pretty much knocked out my to-be-read list.” You clicked your keyfob to unlock the trunk and began unloading your belongings.
“Let me help,” Sam offered, taking your suitcase from you. “Steve would whoop my ass if he knew I let a lady carry her own luggage up the stairs.”
“Oh, give it back then,” You yanked your suitcase back with a mischievous grin. “I want to see you get your ass whooped by Captain America.”
“Absolutely not!” Sam barked a laugh and shot his arms out to reclaim the suitcase.
Just then, Steve and Bucky rounded the corner. Steve laughed at the sight of you two playing tug-of-war. Bucky simply cocked an eyebrow.
“Is this our newest recruit?” Steve called, his voice echoing through the garage.
You snapped your head up and immediately let go of the suitcase, causing Sam to stumble back.
“Unfortunately, it is,” Sam jested, catching himself before he could eat the pavement. “Allow me to introduce you guys. This is Steve.”
Steve closed the distance first, with Bucky trailing reluctantly behind him. Admittedly starstruck, you thrust your hand forward, trying to make a strong first impression. “It’s great to meet you, Captain Rogers.”
“Likewise,” He grasped your hand and gave it a firm, respectful shake. “We’re excited to have you on the team. And please, just call me Steve.”
“And this,” Sam gestured unenthusiastically as Bucky approached. “Is Bucky.”
“Gee, thanks,” Bucky glanced sidelong at Sam, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He turned his gaze to you, stone-faced and serious. “Hi.”
Despite his prickly demeanor, your heart did a stupid little flip that you were not proud of.
Sam had described Bucky Barnes to you in great detail.
Grumpy.
Stubborn.
Kind of reclusive.
Painfully unreceptive to modern pop culture.
He had not mentioned anything about how handsome he was. And those eyes.
Maybe Sam was being dramatic. You thought hopefully. Maybe he’s just a little socially awkward? I can work with socially awkward.
Attempting to break the ice, you offered Bucky a smile. “Sam’s told me a lot about you. It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.” You reached out to shake his hand as well.
“All good things, I’m sure.” He said, his tone bone-dry. He gave you one quick shake with his flesh hand before drawing it back to safety. His metal arm shifted uncomfortably, causing his leather jacket to squeak.
“Terrible things, actually,” You quipped, attempting to chip away at the wall he put up. He blinked and furrowed his brow, deep ridges forming in his forehead like cracks in the earth. He almost looked ashamed.
“But anyone who gives Sam as much grief as you do is alright in my book.”
The ridges faded as he let out a stilted, awkward laugh. His shoulders dropped as the tension bled out of them. “Right. Yeah. I try.”
“Please do not form an alliance with Barnes.” Sam groaned as he pulled a box labeled FRAGILE out of your trunk haphazardly.
“No promises.” You shot Bucky another smile, then whipped your head over to Sam, who was stomping away with your precious cargo. “Hey, be careful with that!”
Huh. Bucky thought. Maybe this won’t be so bad.
As part of the onboarding procedures, you were given a basic overview of your teammates. Their abilities. Their strengths. Their pasts.
“Some of the details are… a little unsavory,” Steve explained solemnly, sliding several files across the conference room table to you. “We’ve all done things we’re not proud of. But we’re also trying to do better.”
“I get it,” You nodded. “It’s a matter of trust and respect.”
Steve flipped through photos and bullet points on a hologram projector, tactfully introducing you to reformed assassins, an unassuming scientist who could punch through a brick wall when provoked, and one former weapons manufacturer turned clean energy connoisseur.
Then Bucky’s photo materialized on screen. Steve seemed to hesitate for a moment, then cleared his throat.
“I’m sure you remember Buck from earlier,” He said, his tone carefully neutral. “He used to be known as the Winter Soldier.”
He hesitated again. It was clear this was a tender subject for him.
Enslaved by a terrorist organization called HYDRA.
Experimented on. No anesthesia. No pain relief.
Brainwashed. Abused. Coerced into gruesome murders.
Shoved into cryostasis when not on active duty.
All over the course of nearly 70 years.
By the end of the explanation, your head was swimming.
“He’s been reintegrating back into society for a while now,” Steve concluded. “Slowly but surely, anyway. Don’t take it personally if he seems standoffish. He really is a good guy.”
Steve’s protectiveness touched your heart. Despite your soul-weary exhaustion, you found yourself smiling softly.
“I believe you, Steve. Don't worry, I won’t terrorize him like Sam apparently does.” You joked, attempting to put him at ease. It seemed to work.
“Thank you,” He sighed, his posture relaxing. “I practically have to separate them sometimes. Might have to call you in for backup at some point.” He rolled his eyes, but his tone was fond and light again.
“Just give me a shout whenever you need me.”
The meeting concluded and Steve dismissed you with another handshake. As you trekked back to your floor, you made a mental note.
Show extra kindness to Bucky Barnes.
And keep this little crush under control.
Over the next few days, Sam insisted on showing you the ropes. He gave you a tour of the compound, formally introduced you to the other Avengers, and volunteered to spar and train with you.
While you quickly warmed up to your new teammates, you noticed that Bucky mostly kept to himself, existing in the perimeter of the group. Kind of reclusive, just as Sam had said.
However, his demeanor had improved since your first meeting.
You chalked that up to the fact that he often overheard you trading verbal jabs with Sam. On a few occasions, he snorted out a laugh before going silent again. Like he wasn’t sure he was allowed into your bubble.
You made a habit of giving him a smile and a small wave whenever you passed by each other. The first time you did it, he only nodded stiffly in acknowledgment. By interaction number three, he started waving back. On interaction number six, you got a lopsided grin in addition to the wave. It nearly knocked the air out of your chest.
Eventually, it became your shared ritual. You looked forward to these little exchanges more than you were willing to admit.
Be cool. He has enough to deal with. You reminded yourself.
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Natasha drawled before taking a bite of her takeout during a team dinner. “You got any embarrassing Sam stories?”
“How much time you got?” You fired back with zero hesitation. That earned a laugh from the whole group, and a desperate plea from Sam to change the subject.
At the far end of the table, Bucky’s lips pulled into a smile. You tried to sneak a glance at him, but your eyes locked instantly. Your heart did another embarrassing little flip.
Feeling brave, he smirked playfully at you.
“Let’s hear one.” He called, then took a sip of his beer. Everyone turned to face him, expressions ranging from subtle encouragement to shock that he had spoken up at all. With all eyes suddenly on him, he shrunk back slightly in his chair and shot you a “help me” look.
Sensing his nerves, you quickly brought the attention back to yourself.
“Oh man, where to begin?” You tilted your head toward the ceiling, reaching into the well of memories you had with Sam. “One time he accidentally sent a girl into anaphylactic shock when he brought her tiger lilies on their first date. She was very allergic.”
“What?!” Everyone gasped, turning sharply toward Sam with accusatory glares.
“The florist said I needed to impress her! I trusted her professional judgement!” He cried, trying to defend himself. “How was I supposed to know her face would swell up?!”
“I take it there wasn’t a second date?” Tony quipped.
“No. There was, however, a trip to the ER.”
More laughter erupted, much to Sam’s chagrin.
But in the middle of the chaos, Bucky wasn’t piling on Sam. He wasn’t joining in the uproarious laughter. He was looking at you. And his heart was starting to do embarrassing little flips too.
The next morning was your first pre-mission meeting. You stepped into the elevator, pressed the glossy button labeled “5”, and began your descent. Your skin was practically buzzing with nerves.
On floor 9, the elevator came to a smooth stop and the doors parted with a hiss. Bucky Barnes stood there, stubble and surprise grazing his face.
You blinked at each other for a single, stretching moment. Then, he presented his signature lopsided smile and wave. You returned the greeting and stepped aside, welcoming him in. You hoped he couldn’t hear your pulse picking up.
He entered and pressed himself against the opposite wall, shoulders slightly hunched, hands shoved in his pockets as usual.
“Uh… floor five,” He muttered. “Please.”
“You heading to the meeting too?” You asked, smiling expectantly at him.
The doors slid closed and the elevator resumed its descent.
“Yep.” He nodded mechanically, not quite meeting your eyes. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders.
“So… how’s it going?”
That caught you off guard. You hadn’t pushed for more than passing glances since meeting Bucky. You now felt nervous for reasons that had nothing to do with the upcoming mission.
“Good,” You said, attempting to appear calm. “Everyone’s been really welcoming.”
“Good. That’s good,” He finally faced you, then grimaced. “You already said good. Sorry.” He ran a shaky hand through his hair.
Well, at least we’re both nervous. You thought.
“No need to apologize,” You laughed light-heartedly. “I appreciate you asking.”
“No problem,” His shoulders seemed to loosen up. “First mission, huh? You ready?”
“I’m feeling pretty nervous, not gonna lie,” You admitted. “Everyone here is so experienced. I just want to do a good job.”
“Don’t worry about it. You wouldn’t be here if Steve didn’t see something in you. You’ll do great.” Bucky’s gaze was steely and resolved, but his tone was certain and kind. It was a glimpse of the good man Steve Rogers believed he was.
Despite your nerves, you stood up a little straighter and offered him a watery smile. “Thank you, Bucky. Really. That means a lot.” You said, your voice warm and grateful.
His expression softened. He gave you a reassuring nod in response.
The doors whooshed open once more, breaking the spell. You had arrived at floor five.
“After you.” Bucky said, gesturing toward the exit. Once you stepped out, he followed and kept pace with you. You stared ahead, actively fighting the heat creeping up your neck.
When you approached the conference room, you reached for the door handle absentmindedly. Without a word, Bucky lurched forward, grabbed the handle himself, and held the door open for you.
It was a simple gesture. Polite. Gentlemanly. And it melted your heart into a puddle.
“Thanks.” You said softly and entered the room on shaky legs. Steve was already there, organizing intel on the holographic touchscreen, completely absorbed in his work.
You took the second-to-last seat at the end of the table, not-so-subtly leaving the one beside you open.
“This seat taken?” Bucky asked, his voice low and casual.
You’re killing me, Barnes. You thought.
“Yeah. By you.” You replied coyly.
The corners of his eyes crinkled in a way that could only be described as endearing. He lowered himself down beside you quietly, the chair creaking slightly under his weight. He kept a respectful gap between you, but it still didn’t help your racing heart.
The other Avengers began to spill in and take their spots, the room filling with a low hum of conversation. Sam sat across from you, grim and displeased, his eyes flicking between you and Bucky suspiciously. You shot him a single warning glare and looked ahead, shutting him down before he could call you out on your conspicuous seating arrangement.
Mercifully, Steve began the meeting at that exact moment.
“Alright,” He clapped his hands once to focus the group. “Let’s talk weapons trafficking.”
Later that afternoon, still mentally kicking your feet over your earlier interaction with Bucky, you walked in on Sam’s latest attempt to drag him into the modern age.
They sat at the kitchen table, plates with crumbs and half-eaten sandwiches long forgotten beside them. Clearly, this discussion warranted their undivided attention.
“Come on, man! You haven’t even given it a chance!” Sam’s arms flew up above his head dramatically.
“I gave it a chance. I liked it just fine.” Bucky grumbled back unconvincingly.
“Just fine? Just fine?! It’s a masterpiece!” Sam was wildly gesticulating at this point.
“What are you boys fighting about this time?” You chuckled as you poured yourself a cup of coffee at the counter.
“Bucky here listened to Trouble Man once and decided it was ‘just fine’.” Sam gestured disapprovingly to Bucky, who crossed his arms defensively.
“I didn’t say it ‘was just fine’. I said I liked it just fine. There’s a difference.” Bucky shot back.
“There really isn’t.” Sam muttered.
“Ah. The age-old debate.” You nodded sagely, stirring creamer into your mug.
“Please help me out here.” Sam rubbed his face in exasperation, his voice muffled by his palms.
You thought for a moment about how best to respond. You knew from Sam’s stories (well, really, your gossip sessions) that he had painstakingly tried to introduce Bucky to new music and media, to no avail.
It came from a good place. Despite his pushiness, Sam was just trying to help Bucky blend in with the world that had moved on without him.
But it had to be overwhelming.
Then, it occurred to you. When was the last time anyone had asked Bucky about what he liked? When had he last been allowed to gush about the things that mattered to him?
You decided to give him that chance.
“What kind of music do you like, Bucky?” You asked pointedly.
He shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant, though he began to fidget like he was being examined under a microscope.
“I like forties music.” He mumbled, his eyes averted.
“No shame in that,” You said matter-of-factly. “You know what you like and you stick to it. I respect that in a person.”
“Oh, for the—” Sam rolled his eyes aggressively. “What did I say about forming an alliance with Barnes?”
“You told me not to. But, in my defense, I said no promises.” You smirked, then took a sip of your coffee.
Bucky blinked up at you from his seat, mildly stunned, processing your words. Then, a grateful smile bloomed, the lines in his face creasing like leather.
The noise around him—the hum of the kitchen appliances, Sam’s agitated rambling—all seemed to fade as if his head were underwater. His heart began to beat so forcefully behind his chest that he swore it rattled the plates in his arm. His vision narrowed to your laughing face.
Bucky Barnes knew what he liked.
Forties music.
Black coffee.
Cold beer.
His growing collection of early edition fantasy novels.
Long talks with his best friend.
And you. He liked you a great deal.
End.
to have and to hold office | series masterlist
congressman!Bucky Barnes x black widow!reader
summary. After a late-night in New Orleans, Congressman Bucky Barnes and his chief of staff wake up legally married. An annulment should be simple, but unfortunately, nothing about their lives is simple. With Bucky's reputation on the line and her past threatening to resurface, staying married starts to look like the safest option. It's only supposed to be temporary. Public appearances, a convincing story, and a quiet divorce once the headlines fade. But fake marriage is harder when everyone else believes it. Especially when Bucky is already in love with his wife. warnings. 18+ NSFW, eventual smut, fake marriage, friends to lovers, mutual pining, former black widow reader, morally gray reader, accidental marriage, alcohol/intoxication, light angst, Sam being exhausted, Yelena being a menace, Valentina being Valentina, mentions of past trauma, truth serum, accidental poisoning, sex pollen, dubcon-adjacent due to sex pollen but with verbal consent, no use of y/n
masterlist
Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Part V
Part VI - July 19th
Part VII
Part VIII
Starling Series Masterlist
bucky barnes x reader
summary: You don’t expect to befriend your neighbor in apartment 3B. Not the one who only speaks in dry observations and quiet glances. Not the one who watches you like he’s memorizing your escape routes. But some people grow on you. Like stray cats. Like bad habits. Like nicknames that weren’t yours–until they were. It starts in the laundry room. “That’s illegal,” he says. “So is jaywalking,” you shrug. He doesn’t ask why you never sleep. You don’t ask why he notices. You have keys to every exit, and he has scars no one sees. But the city is never truly quiet, and you’re both better at listening than you pretend to be. The Soundtrack Act 1 Act II Act III Act IV Act V Act VI Act VII Act VIII Epilogue
Starling: Act IV
bucky barnes x reader
masterlist | series masterlist | previous part | next part
word count: 3.2k
summary: You break into Bucky’s apartment to retrieve your cat and uncover your trauma file on his kitchen counter. An undercover mission ensues.
TW: Trafficking (past, referenced), sexual assault (implied)
The last couple days, things have been weird between you and Barnes.
He’s been keeping a closer eye on you and you pretend not to notice. Quieter, too, and he’s been avoiding looking you in the eyes. It’s been weird, but you don’t address it, sure that he’ll bring up whatever it is that’s bothering him eventually.
Your main concern right now is tracking down Alpine. You’re crouched in your doorway, peering down both ends of the hall, calling her name softly under your breath.
“Alpine, c’mon, you little war criminal. I fed you today. Don’t do this.”
Mr. Keller steps out of his apartment and eyes you warily.
“That cat’s a spy,” he says.
You don’t miss a beat. “Yeah, probably Russian. She’s got that dead-eyed stare.”
Maybe she learned it from her father.
“Microchipped agents, the lot of them,” Mr. Keller continues. “That’s how they’re watching us now. Through those furballs.”
“I believe it. I caught her listening to my therapy podcasts yesterday.”
“And she’s got diplomatic immunity, y’know. They all do.”
And with that, he shuffles down the hall muttering under his breath about how you can’t arrest a cat, no matter what you see.
You sigh. She’s not in the vents. That leaves… Barnes.
You glance toward 3B. The door is shut. It’s been like that the last two days, which is unusual, but you don’t question him about it. Maybe he needs a break from you.
Suddenly a crash. Something heavy. Alpine’s distressed yowl.
You’re at his door in seconds. You knock. Nothing. You knock again. Silence. You try the handle. Locked.
You frown and crouch down, pulling a bobby pin from your sleeve like a conjuring trick.
“This is still technically neighborly concern,” you rationalize.
A click. You push the door open.
“If you’ve hurt her, I swear to God–” You stop.
Alpine is perched on the fridge. She meows sweetly like she didn’t just stage a hostage situation. Sam is sitting at the kitchen counter with a spring roll in one hand and chopsticks in the other, his mouth slightly agape at the sight of you. Bucky sits at his table frozen like a raccoon rifling through confidential trauma.
“Oh good,” you say, “a party.”
Bucky stares at you incredulously. “You picked my lock?”
A wide grin takes over Sam’s face. “So this is the famous neighbor?”
“Famous?” Your eyes narrow.
“You came up in therapy, apparently,” Sam tells you.
“Sam–” Bucky starts.
“Barnes, are you emotionally processing me behind my back?” You ask.
“With guidance!” Sam cuts in.
Bucky, again, more firmly this time, “Sam.”
You ignore the two of them and turn to Alpine on the fridge.
“You’ve got one job, and it’s not espionage. Get off the fridge.”
She does not.
“You always pick locks with that much flair?” Sam asks.
“Only when I’m rescuing a stolen cat or defusing emotional bombs.”
“You’ve got good instincts. He’s been brooding since Tuesday.”
“Oh, I know. He left me groceries and wouldn’t make eye contact for 48 hours.”
Sam says quietly to Bucky, “She’s cute.”
You hear it.
“You flirting with me or trying to make him jealous?”
Bucky shifts in his seat. “I should’ve tried harder to keep you two from meeting.”
Sam ignores him. “How long you and Barnes been exchanging sad eyes and groceries?”
“Not long,” you reply, “he still pretends it’s not happening.”
“Why do I hang out with either of you?” Bucky is talking to himself at this point.
You turn to face him and notice that Bucky’s still not looking at you. You follow his line of sight.
On the counter, a file marked ASSET: STARLING – RECOVERED PROPERTY.
Your photo. Grainy. Labeled. Stamped.
The smile drops from your face and when you speak again your voice is much lower.
“What the hell is that.”
The room falls silent.
Sam’s face tightens, he knows he should’ve said something.
Bucky’s voice is quiet and cautious. “It’s… not what it looks like.”
You step closer to the file.
“It looks like my trauma. On paper. In your kitchen.”
Sam gathers his phone and takeout and walks to the door.
“I’ll give you two a minute, but I’ll be downstairs if either of you self-destruct.”
He’s gone and you continue.
“So you’ve been collecting my file like a baseball card?” There’s venom in your voice.
“It wasn’t like that.”
“My face is on your counter!” Your voice raises, but his volume doesn’t rise to match it.
“You’re part of the op. I needed to know.”
“Was I part of it before I made you pasta, Barnes?” You let out a humorless laugh. “When were you going to tell me? Or were you just going to pretend I was some footnote?”
And then you catch the name on another file. And the same one on another. Every file in the kitchen has one name in common: Lucien Virell. You freeze.
Bucky sees the subtle expression change and his voice softens.
“You know him?”
A long pause of silence. When you speak again, it’s barely above a whisper.
“He’s the one who put me in the cage.”
Something flashes across Bucky’s face… pain, anger maybe.
“You should have told me.”
“So you could add it to your casefile?” You bite out, voluming rising again.
“I was trying to protect you. You shouldn’t have to relive this.”
“You don’t get to decide that for me!”
“You don’t understand–”
“I understand perfectly. I know what they take. I know what they break.”
The volume escalates. You both say too much. Not enough. Everything in between.
A pounding on the wall and Mr. Keller’s muffled voice.
“Some of us are trying to rot in peace!”
You and Bucky settle into silence, the tension failing to dissipate between the two of you. Eventually Sam re-enters, less smug, now carrying himself with the seriousness of a soldier.
“I got the call. It’s official. Virell’s running a new op in Queens. We need to move soon.”
“Then I’m going,” you say flatly.
“No.” Bucky says firmly. “You’re not a part of this.”
“I was. And I still am.”
“You don’t have to prove–”
“This isn’t about proving anything. I know how they think. I used to be one of their trophies.”
Silence settles into the air as Bucky and Sam take in what you’re telling them. You continue.
“Let me finish what they started.”
Sam nods. Doesn’t argue.
Bucky says nothing. He’s angry, maybe not at you. But he knows you’re already going, and there’s no changing your mind.
Alpine jumps down from the fridge and you pick her up like a shield. You leave the apartment and don’t look back.
The file still lies on the counter. Unclosed. Unforgotten.
-
Your bare feet slip against something you hope is water. It isn’t.
The hallway hums with fluorescent light and silence. Forced silence. You can still hear it.
The lock on the door was old and simple. You had watched him punch in the code too many times to forget. You don’t have a plan, just a sharp piece of wire you’d hidden in your waistband and a window where no one was looking.
Your heart beats violently against your rib cage. Not brave – just done. Done waiting. Done praying. Done surviving on scraps of hope and someone else’s idea of when you deserved air.
You don’t look at any of the girls in The Menagerie. They don't lift their heads. Not anymore. Except one.
She was new. Young. Reminded you of yourself several years ago. She had whispered her name to you in the dark. You whispered yours back. You promised you’d take her with you.
But the alarms sounded too soon.
The hallway door slam shut, and you scream. You had blood caked under your nails for days after clawing at the door trying to get back to her.
You don’t know how long you run after that, but eventually your feet hit the cold pavement. A hand grabs you as you fall. Not to help. To return you.
You scream, stabbing them with something sharp.
When you wake up, you’re still screaming.
It takes you a moment to calm down. To remember that it was over. Just a nightmare. A memory.
-
Bucky hates the plan, but Sam signs off, knowing you’re the only one who can pass unnoticed. The only one they’d want to collect.
Things between you and Bucky have been tense for days, stretched so tight even the silences feel sharp. He’s leaning against the wall as you get ready, arms crossed, eyes heavy. Brooding. Watching. Waiting for you to change your mind.
“You sure you want to do this?”
It’s not a challenge. He’s giving you an out. He’s holding it out like a parachute. Hoping you’ll take it.
“I’ve done worse,” you say without turning. You mean it.
His jaw clenches. A flicker of guilt in his eyes. His response is quiet.
“You shouldn’t have had to.”
It’s not anger in his voice. It's regret. Like somehow, all of this is his fault.
You don’t respond, stepping into your closet to change. When you reemerge, Bucky’s entire demeanor shifts from quiet dread to active protest. He is ready to call off the entire mission.
“You’re not wearing that.” There’s a low growl in the back of his throat. “We’re not doing this.”
The dress is tight, black, unapologetically revealing – strategic cutouts, a plunging neckline, and thigh-high boots that click against the hardwood like punctuation. He rakes his eyes over your form once more before forcing himself to look away.
“I’m dressing the part,” you say evenly.
“Not like that, you aren’t. This was a bad idea. We’re not doing this,” he’s pacing now, thumb already halfway to his phone, “I’m calling Sam and telling him to find someone else–”
“Bucky.” Your tone is stern enough to snap him out of his spiral. You wait until he meets your eyes.
“I’m doing this. You’re not changing my mind.”
He takes a deep breath. His hand falls away from his pocket.
“Trust me, okay?”
Your voice softens to meet him where he’s at.
“Besides… you’ll be there the whole time in case anything goes wrong, right?”
You’re not sure if you’re trying to reassure him or yourself.
“Right,” he confirms.
-
The club is all shadow and sound. Basslines vibrating through the floor, velvet booths, Flickering lights that don’t show you clearly unless they mean to. It smells like perfume and sweat and cologne trying to hide the rot underneath. Men in expensive suits pretending they aren’t monsters.
You blend in with the club goers here, and you slip into the role like it’s muscle memory. The dress fits you like it was made out of silk. But this time you have comms in your ear and a super soldier at the bar watching you closely.
“Tell me you brought backup and not just your disapproval,” you say casually into your comms.
“Sam’s in the van. Torres has eyes on the back exit. I’m watching your six.”
“Try not to stare. People will talk.”
Silence on comms for a minute and then you hear Bucky once more. Low and tense.
“He’s making his way over to you.”
You don’t need to ask who.
A man slides in beside you. Mid-tier, but arrogant. The kind of man who feeds off power he didn’t earn. He orders you a drink without asking. You sip it like poison, smile like it doesn’t burn. He’s shamelessly flirting with you. You swallow the bile rising in your throat and flirt back. You can feel the heat of Bucky’s stare on your back.
You give him a name that isn’t yours. He gives you one you don’t care to remember. The handler grazes your arm with the back of his knuckles. You don’t flinch. Bucky’s grip tightens around his drink, you swear you can hear him breathing more heavily under the sounds of the pounding base.
His breath reeks of alcohol as he leans in closer to you.
“You have the look,” he says, hand sliding down your back, “Like the old collection. That’s rare now.”
Your stomach drops but you smile anyway.
His hand trails down your back. You grip the lapel of his jacket, running your hands up and down the fabric. That’s when you feel it–the subtle outline of a flash drive in his jacket pocket.
He leans in closer, lips against your ear as he whispers.
“I remember one like you. We called her Starling.”
A pause. He continues, voice lower this time.
“Had the prettiest screams.”
Your body stills and the blood drains from your face. Across the club, a stool scrapes. Somewhere in your periphery you can see Bucky moving from his spot.
“What’s your rate?” The handler murmurs. “Or are you one of those they keep for private buyers?”
You don’t have to respond. He notices something in your face, or maybe the handler has noticed The Winter Soldier closing in and realizes something is off. He pushes you off him roughly and makes a beeline toward the back exit.
He doesn’t get far. Vibranium finger close around the back of his jacket.
“I don’t know who you think you are–”
“I know exactly who you are,” Bucky cuts him off, “and I’ve met worse men. Most of them are dead.”
Sam and Torres show up just in time to pull Bucky off him. He’s quickly arrested and dragged out of the building.
Bucky turns back to go find you but you’ve already made your way to his side. He breathes–maybe for the first time that night. The two of you step out into the alley and he’s quick to examine you.
“Are you okay?”
You nod, exhale.
“Yeah.”
It’s a lie. He knows it.
He feels a pang of guilt. He should’ve tried harder to keep you out of this.
“I’m sor–”
You throw your arms around him, nearly knocking the wind out of him. You’ve run out of armor. He catches you, just barely, and holds on like it’s the only thing anchoring him.
Neither of you say anything. He tugs you tighter to his chest and decides he never wants to let go of you.
When you finally part, he notices it. The black flash drive you grip in your hand.
“What’s that?”
“Insurance.”
He watches you.
“You don’t have to steal anymore.”
You shrug. “Old habits.”
“That doesn’t mean they’re good ones.”
“They kept me alive.”
There’s a certain hardness in your voice. Exhaustion in your eyes. He doesn’t say anything out loud, but you can read his face: you shouldn't have had to learn those habits at all. You shouldn’t have had to survive anything at all.
You press the flash drive into his hand.
“Was all that necessary?” He asks.
You stiffen. Just a little. “You think I wanted to touch him?”
“I think you wanted to hurt him.”
You don’t deny it.
“You shouldn’t have to be bait,” he says quietly.
“And you shouldn’t have been turned into a weapon,” you say sharply, “but here we are.”
The words hang in the air long and heavy. The alley is still. Until, finally:
“This is the only way I know how to burn them down.”
He nods once. He knows the feeling. He hates that you share it.
-
It’s late when you finally get home. The door closes behind you with a finality.
Bucky doesn’t speak. He just locks the deadbolt with a soft click, and you both stand there in silence, holding something tight behind your ribs that neither of you can name yet.
Alpine meows once, trotting into the room, but you don’t even move. You don’t bend down to greet her, just wordlessly unzip your boots and toss them toward the door. Bucky toes off his own boots.
You move toward the couch but you don’t make it that far. Your knees hit the rug and your back slumps against the couch. Your breath catches, trembles, breaks.
And then you start to cry.
Not a single tear, but a broken open sob. It’s not cinematic, it’s ugly and raw. One hand grips the couch like it will keep you tethered to the room. Bucky’s at your side before he can think about it. He doesn’t touch you at first, just there, letting you unravel.
“I–” you choke out. It’s like trying to breathe underwater. “I left her–”
His brow furrows and he leans in. “Hey, I’ve got you, slow down–”
You shake your head violently. “She was just a kid–I told her I’d take her with me. I didn’t. I ran.”
You’re swallowing a sob, hands pulling toward your chest, your ribs, looking for a way to get your heart to stop beating, just for a moment.
“I didn’t look back.”
Bucky reaches for you slowly now, speaking softly.
“Hey, hey–look at me.”
You meet his eyes. Barely.
“You got out,” he says. “That wasn’t betrayal. That was survival.”
You squeeze your eyes shut and shake your head again.
“If you hadn’t gotten out, I wouldn’t be here. Sam wouldn’t be here,” his voice is low and steady. “That bastard tonight wouldn’t be in cuffs. You survived. That counts.”
Like a wave finally crashing, you collapse forward into his chest. It’s not graceful, like a tree giving out at the roots.
He catches you. Of course he does. You’re crying so hard your whole body shakes. He wraps his arms around you, slowly, tightly, as if putting your pieces back together with his bare hands.
“I hate them,” you say quietly. “For making me like this. Broken.”
“You’re not broken,” he murmurs into your hair.
“Then why do I feel like I don’t even fit in my own skin?”
He doesn’t answer, just holds you tighter. A hand curls at the base of your neck. A vibranium hand, no glove this time. His thumb rubs soft circles into your skin, quieting the storm. He doesn’t try to fix you, just makes sure you don’t fall apart alone.
Eventually, when your sobs begin to dull, he gently helps you to your feet. He doesn’t say much, just guides you to the bathroom, turns on the light, and starts the water for you.
He picks a candle off your shelf labeled Weightless. Sea salt, bergamot, neroli, smoke. Bucky lights it and leaves it on the edge of the sink.
You’re peeling off your dress when he leaves the room, shutting the door behind him without a word. He checks the lock on your front door, refills Alpine’s food, and folds the blanket on your couch.
When he knocks on the bathroom door an hour later, he doesn’t expect a response. He opens it gently to find you dressed in oversized pajamas, hair damp, legs curled up by the side of the tub – like you slid down the wall and just couldn’t pull yourself back up.
You don’t flinch when he lifts you. He carries you like you weigh nothing, arms secure around your back and thighs.
“This is not how I imagined you carrying me to bed, Barnes.”
Your voice is hoarse but there’s a flicker of humor at the edge of it.
Bucky almost smiles. “Another time, Birdie.”
You don’t hear him, already gone. He tucks the blanket around you, cheek pressed into the pillow, breathing soft and slow. Alpine curls up at your side like a guardian.
Bucky stands there for too long. Watching.
Finally, he moves to the couch, exhaustion sinking into his bones.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs.
True to his word, he stays. And falls asleep to the soft sound of your breathing.
(Don't) Shoot Your Shot v3
$ log - bucky barnes has a lot of feelings with no idea how to say them. you have a lot of anxiety and absolutely no idea what he means! $ warn --sfw --gn!reader --soft!bucky --fluff $ wc -w 1.7k $ cd masterlist $ echo "manager said it's wfh day tm!!!1!111!11" > authors-note.txt $ vi dont-shoot-your-shot.txt (v1) dont-shoot-your-shot-v2.txt
Steve is gone before you finish turning around. You don't see him leave. One moment he's there and the next there is just an empty gym and the distant sound of someone who has decided this is not his problem anymore.
You turn back around. Bucky is standing next to the punching bag.
He'd been glaring — you'd clocked that much in your peripheral vision, the familiar weight of it, incident number thirty-something.
But the moment your eyes land on him something happens to his face that you don't have a category for yet. It goes through several things very quickly: the glare, then something that isn't the glare, then nothing.
Then a very deliberate attempt at a neutral expression that doesn't quite land because he's already reaching out to punch the bag next to him with the energy of a man doing a completely normal thing he'd planned to do all along.
The punch is too light. He knows it's too light. So, he does another one, also too light.
You watch this for a moment.
Okay. You work with the Avengers. You have stood in rooms with people who could level buildings. You have completed extractions in active combat zones. You have done things that required considerably more nerve than walking across a gym floor and asking one man what your problem is. You can do this. You are doing this. You're going.
You go.
Across the gym, Bucky is having a separate but related crisis.
Say it, he thinks. Sam said say it. Sam said just say it, James, stop making it weird, it cannot possibly get weirder than it already is, so just —
He watches you stand up straighter, watches you set your jaw the way you do when you've made a decision. He watches you start walking toward him, and every single prepared sentence he's spent four days constructing evaporates completely.
He straightens up, putting his shoulders back. He breathes out once through his nose.
Say it.
You stop in front of him. He's looking at you. You're looking somewhere around his collarbone because his face has always been the problem, the weight of it, and you can't look at it directly right now.
"I've been meaning to ask you something," you start.
"I need to tell you something," he says at the same time.
You both stop. He gestures, slightly, with one hand. You first. You shake your head. You first. He nods once, like accepting a mission parameter. Then there is a brief silence in which he appears to be locating something inside himself that doesn't come easily.
"I think about you," he says. "A lot. More than — " he pauses, seems to decide that more than is a road he doesn't know how to finish, and reroutes. "You're the first thing I think about in the morning. Most mornings."
You stare at him. Your brain does a fast, wrong translation.
"I'm sorry," you say.
Something moves across his face. "What."
"I'm sorry," you repeat, to his collarbone, "for whatever I did. I've been going over it and I can't figure out what, but clearly something — "
"That's not — " he stops, and tries again. "I wasn't saying that as a bad thing."
"Right," you say, in the tone of someone who absolutely does not believe that.
He looks at the ceiling for a moment and then looks back at you. Bucky plants his feet straight.
"When you're in a room," he says, slowly, carefully, like he's translating from a language he's still learning, "it's quieter. In my head. It's been loud for a long time and when you're around it — stops. That's not something that happens to me."
You are quiet for a moment.
"Is it the mug?" you say.
Bucky blinks. "What."
"I used your mug. The grey one. I washed it but maybe I put it back wrong or — "
"This isn't about a mug," he says, with great patience.
"The obstacle course?"
"No."
"I beat your time."
"I know."
"By four seconds, I know that probably — "
"I don't care about the obstacle course," he says. "I've never thought about the obstacle course. Please." He exhales, trying to find the thread again, somewhere. He does, and pulls on it. "I gave you my rifle," he says.
You go very still.
"I've never given anyone my rifle," he continues. "I want you to know that. I need you to know that, actually, because I think — " he stops, rebuilds. "I gave it to you because I wanted to. Because I trust you with things that matter to me."
The silence stretches long enough to be uncomfortable.
"Did I scratch it?" you say quietly.
"What — " he closes his eyes for just a second, before opening them. "No. You didn't scratch it. It's fine. You were — your shots were incredible, that's the — " he stops again.
Bucky's three sentences away from where he wants to be and he can't seem to close the distance. He looks at you. You're looking at the floor, tracing the edge of a panel with your eyes, and he's looking at the ceiling again, at the flickering light in the far corner that no one has fixed.
There are approximately four feet between you that feel considerably larger than that. He tries one more time.
"I like you," he says. Just that, flat and direct and stripped of all the scaffolding because the scaffolding isn't working. "I like you and I don't — I'm not good at this. I know I'm not good at this. But I needed you to know that the way I've been — it was never — it was always — " he stops and looks at you. "It was never a bad thing, what I feel. It's not a bad thing."
Something small and white walks into the gym. You both look down.
Alpine surveys the situation with the expression of a creature who has found two people being unnecessarily complicated about something very simple.
Swalks in a slow deliberate figure of eight between your legs, purring at a volume that seems unreasonable for her size. Something in your face does the thing it does when you're not performing anything.
"Oh," you say softly. "Hi. Hello, who are you?"
Alpine headbutts your hand with considerable force. You make a small sound. You are now entirely focused on the cat, which means you are no longer focused on your own hands, your own shoes, the specific floor panel you've been staring at.
So, you’re certainly not focused on Bucky, which is the only reason you miss what happens to his face when he watches you with her.
He crouches down.
"Hey, baby," he says, to Alpine, in a voice about forty percent softer than anything you've heard from him, and Alpine abandons you immediately to climb onto his knee. He lets her. He runs his hand down her back and she presses into it.
He exhales, quietly, and then — because he's down here, because it's a different angle, because he's spent weeks looking at you from across rooms and corridors and ridgelines but not like this, not close and low and quiet — he glances up.
The thought arrives before he can stop it. He'd looked at you from many angles. Across briefing tables, through scope lenses, from the other end of long corridors. But this one — you close, and soft, and unguarded, not knowing he's looking — this one was different. This one he thinks he'll carry for a while.
You reach down to pet Alpine. He catches your wrist.
Not hard — barely anything, just his fingers closing gently around it. You go still, and he turns your hand over slowly, pressing his lips to your palm. Quiet and certain. The way he does everything when he's actually sure of it.
You look at him.
He's already looking at you. That same look, the one that's been there for weeks in the corners of rooms and the edges of missions. Except now there's nothing between you and it. And there’s no misconception or misunderstanding. It’s just his face, open in a way you've never seen it, and the understanding of what you've been seeing this whole time settling into place all at once.
"I like you too, Buck," you murmur. Your eyes move over his face like you're still learning it, this version of it, the one he's been keeping underneath everything else. "I was scared I'd disappointed you. That's — that's why I couldn't look at you. I thought you were angry and I couldn't figure out what I'd done and I just kept — " you stop, almost laughing a little. "I kept waiting for it to get worse."
Something in his expression shifts — not pain exactly, but close to it, the specific kind that comes from understanding something too late.
"No," he says, quietly. "Never that."
Alpine climbs off his knee and sits between you both with the air of someone who has successfully managed a very difficult negotiation and would like to be acknowledged for it.
In the doorway, Sam stops walking, with Steve, two steps behind him, stopping also.
They stand there for a moment, looking at the scene across the gym — Bucky on one knee, your hand in his, Alpine between you, the particular quality of the quiet from this distance —
"Is he — " Steve starts.
"No," Sam says immediately.
"Sam, he's on one knee — "
"He's petting the cat, Steve — "
"He was petting the cat, now he's holding her hand — "
"That's not a proposal, that's a — "
"You told him to go talk to them and now he's on one knee holding their hand, Sam — "
"I told him to confess," Sam says, with great emphasis, "I did not tell him to propose, those are two entirely separate conversations that I very clearly delineated — "
Steve turns to look at him with an expression of profound betrayal. "You said you had it handled."
"I did have it handled. Look at them, Steve. It's handled."
Steve looks. The gym is very quiet from here. Bucky is saying something low that they can't hear, and you're laughing — actually laughing, the real one, not the polite one — and Alpine is sitting between you both like she planned the entire thing.
Something in Steve's face settles.
"...okay," he says, after a moment.
"Thank you."
"You're still an idiot."
"Absolutely," Sam agrees, and neither of them moves toward the exit yet, standing there a little longer in the doorway, not wanting to be the thing that breaks it.
$ tag @twentytomidnight @froggibus
$ vi dont-shoot-your-shot.txt (v1) dont-shoot-your-shot-v2.txt
$ cd masterlist
(Don't) Shoot Your Shot v3
$ log - bucky barnes has a lot of feelings with no idea how to say them. you have a lot of anxiety and absolutely no idea what he means! $ warn --sfw --gn!reader --soft!bucky --fluff $ wc -w 1.7k $ cd masterlist $ echo "manager said it's wfh day tm!!!1!111!11" > authors-note.txt $ vi dont-shoot-your-shot.txt (v1) dont-shoot-your-shot-v2.txt
Steve is gone before you finish turning around. You don't see him leave. One moment he's there and the next there is just an empty gym and the distant sound of someone who has decided this is not his problem anymore.
You turn back around. Bucky is standing next to the punching bag.
He'd been glaring — you'd clocked that much in your peripheral vision, the familiar weight of it, incident number thirty-something.
But the moment your eyes land on him something happens to his face that you don't have a category for yet. It goes through several things very quickly: the glare, then something that isn't the glare, then nothing.
Then a very deliberate attempt at a neutral expression that doesn't quite land because he's already reaching out to punch the bag next to him with the energy of a man doing a completely normal thing he'd planned to do all along.
The punch is too light. He knows it's too light. So, he does another one, also too light.
You watch this for a moment.
Okay. You work with the Avengers. You have stood in rooms with people who could level buildings. You have completed extractions in active combat zones. You have done things that required considerably more nerve than walking across a gym floor and asking one man what your problem is. You can do this. You are doing this. You're going.
You go.
Across the gym, Bucky is having a separate but related crisis.
Say it, he thinks. Sam said say it. Sam said just say it, James, stop making it weird, it cannot possibly get weirder than it already is, so just —
He watches you stand up straighter, watches you set your jaw the way you do when you've made a decision. He watches you start walking toward him, and every single prepared sentence he's spent four days constructing evaporates completely.
He straightens up, putting his shoulders back. He breathes out once through his nose.
Say it.
You stop in front of him. He's looking at you. You're looking somewhere around his collarbone because his face has always been the problem, the weight of it, and you can't look at it directly right now.
"I've been meaning to ask you something," you start.
"I need to tell you something," he says at the same time.
You both stop. He gestures, slightly, with one hand. You first. You shake your head. You first. He nods once, like accepting a mission parameter. Then there is a brief silence in which he appears to be locating something inside himself that doesn't come easily.
"I think about you," he says. "A lot. More than — " he pauses, seems to decide that more than is a road he doesn't know how to finish, and reroutes. "You're the first thing I think about in the morning. Most mornings."
You stare at him. Your brain does a fast, wrong translation.
"I'm sorry," you say.
Something moves across his face. "What."
"I'm sorry," you repeat, to his collarbone, "for whatever I did. I've been going over it and I can't figure out what, but clearly something — "
"That's not — " he stops, and tries again. "I wasn't saying that as a bad thing."
"Right," you say, in the tone of someone who absolutely does not believe that.
He looks at the ceiling for a moment and then looks back at you. Bucky plants his feet straight.
"When you're in a room," he says, slowly, carefully, like he's translating from a language he's still learning, "it's quieter. In my head. It's been loud for a long time and when you're around it — stops. That's not something that happens to me."
You are quiet for a moment.
"Is it the mug?" you say.
Bucky blinks. "What."
"I used your mug. The grey one. I washed it but maybe I put it back wrong or — "
"This isn't about a mug," he says, with great patience.
"The obstacle course?"
"No."
"I beat your time."
"I know."
"By four seconds, I know that probably — "
"I don't care about the obstacle course," he says. "I've never thought about the obstacle course. Please." He exhales, trying to find the thread again, somewhere. He does, and pulls on it. "I gave you my rifle," he says.
You go very still.
"I've never given anyone my rifle," he continues. "I want you to know that. I need you to know that, actually, because I think — " he stops, rebuilds. "I gave it to you because I wanted to. Because I trust you with things that matter to me."
The silence stretches long enough to be uncomfortable.
"Did I scratch it?" you say quietly.
"What — " he closes his eyes for just a second, before opening them. "No. You didn't scratch it. It's fine. You were — your shots were incredible, that's the — " he stops again.
Bucky's three sentences away from where he wants to be and he can't seem to close the distance. He looks at you. You're looking at the floor, tracing the edge of a panel with your eyes, and he's looking at the ceiling again, at the flickering light in the far corner that no one has fixed.
There are approximately four feet between you that feel considerably larger than that. He tries one more time.
"I like you," he says. Just that, flat and direct and stripped of all the scaffolding because the scaffolding isn't working. "I like you and I don't — I'm not good at this. I know I'm not good at this. But I needed you to know that the way I've been — it was never — it was always — " he stops and looks at you. "It was never a bad thing, what I feel. It's not a bad thing."
Something small and white walks into the gym. You both look down.
Alpine surveys the situation with the expression of a creature who has found two people being unnecessarily complicated about something very simple.
Swalks in a slow deliberate figure of eight between your legs, purring at a volume that seems unreasonable for her size. Something in your face does the thing it does when you're not performing anything.
"Oh," you say softly. "Hi. Hello, who are you?"
Alpine headbutts your hand with considerable force. You make a small sound. You are now entirely focused on the cat, which means you are no longer focused on your own hands, your own shoes, the specific floor panel you've been staring at.
So, you’re certainly not focused on Bucky, which is the only reason you miss what happens to his face when he watches you with her.
He crouches down.
"Hey, baby," he says, to Alpine, in a voice about forty percent softer than anything you've heard from him, and Alpine abandons you immediately to climb onto his knee. He lets her. He runs his hand down her back and she presses into it.
He exhales, quietly, and then — because he's down here, because it's a different angle, because he's spent weeks looking at you from across rooms and corridors and ridgelines but not like this, not close and low and quiet — he glances up.
The thought arrives before he can stop it. He'd looked at you from many angles. Across briefing tables, through scope lenses, from the other end of long corridors. But this one — you close, and soft, and unguarded, not knowing he's looking — this one was different. This one he thinks he'll carry for a while.
You reach down to pet Alpine. He catches your wrist.
Not hard — barely anything, just his fingers closing gently around it. You go still, and he turns your hand over slowly, pressing his lips to your palm. Quiet and certain. The way he does everything when he's actually sure of it.
You look at him.
He's already looking at you. That same look, the one that's been there for weeks in the corners of rooms and the edges of missions. Except now there's nothing between you and it. And there’s no misconception or misunderstanding. It’s just his face, open in a way you've never seen it, and the understanding of what you've been seeing this whole time settling into place all at once.
"I like you too, Buck," you murmur. Your eyes move over his face like you're still learning it, this version of it, the one he's been keeping underneath everything else. "I was scared I'd disappointed you. That's — that's why I couldn't look at you. I thought you were angry and I couldn't figure out what I'd done and I just kept — " you stop, almost laughing a little. "I kept waiting for it to get worse."
Something in his expression shifts — not pain exactly, but close to it, the specific kind that comes from understanding something too late.
"No," he says, quietly. "Never that."
Alpine climbs off his knee and sits between you both with the air of someone who has successfully managed a very difficult negotiation and would like to be acknowledged for it.
In the doorway, Sam stops walking, with Steve, two steps behind him, stopping also.
They stand there for a moment, looking at the scene across the gym — Bucky on one knee, your hand in his, Alpine between you, the particular quality of the quiet from this distance —
"Is he — " Steve starts.
"No," Sam says immediately.
"Sam, he's on one knee — "
"He's petting the cat, Steve — "
"He was petting the cat, now he's holding her hand — "
"That's not a proposal, that's a — "
"You told him to go talk to them and now he's on one knee holding their hand, Sam — "
"I told him to confess," Sam says, with great emphasis, "I did not tell him to propose, those are two entirely separate conversations that I very clearly delineated — "
Steve turns to look at him with an expression of profound betrayal. "You said you had it handled."
"I did have it handled. Look at them, Steve. It's handled."
Steve looks. The gym is very quiet from here. Bucky is saying something low that they can't hear, and you're laughing — actually laughing, the real one, not the polite one — and Alpine is sitting between you both like she planned the entire thing.
Something in Steve's face settles.
"...okay," he says, after a moment.
"Thank you."
"You're still an idiot."
"Absolutely," Sam agrees, and neither of them moves toward the exit yet, standing there a little longer in the doorway, not wanting to be the thing that breaks it.
$ tag @twentytomidnight @froggibus
$ vi dont-shoot-your-shot.txt (v1) dont-shoot-your-shot-v2.txt
$ cd masterlist
Bird-Brained
$ log - courting bucky barnes is usually a sweet, slow-burn affair — until you catch him frantically throwing a mail pigeon into the sky and he panics, inventing the world's worst cover story right to your face! $ warn --sfw --gn!reader --fluff --1940s-brooklyn --miscommunication --cutie-steve-involved-too --idiots-in-love $ wc -w 1.4k $ cd masterlist
The pigeon went up clean. Bucky watched it fly off with his arms still raised, privately satisfied. Forty-three minutes. Third-floor window ledge, the one you always propped open on account of the radiator knocking.
He knew the timing because he’d checked it twice, and he was absolutely not going to think about that right now.
"For whom did you send that pigeon?"
He turned.
You were standing two feet to his left, holding something wrapped in cloth with both hands, your eyes already on the bird as it shrunk to a speck above the avenue. You had just watched him throw a whole pigeon carrier straight into the air like a lunatic.
But Bucky didn't look like a man caught red-handed. He just looked at you, and because it was you, his brain instantly turned to pure mush. His arms stayed locked right above his head, a goofy, completely relieved grin spreading fast across his face.
He looked like a giant, lovesick dummy standing on the cobblestones.
"Buck," you said, your voice still sweet, though your eyes narrowed slightly at the sky. "You all right?"
"Yeah." He finally dropped his arms to his sides, the grin splitting his face. "Fine. What are you doing here? You're early."
"My ma baked." You lifted the cloth bundle, leaning in just enough for him to catch the scent of sweet crust. "Thought I'd bring it down before my shift. For us."
For us.
He looked at the pie, then at the empty sky, and suddenly the goofy fog cleared and the terrifying math hit him like a frozen bucket.
The letter was in the air. The plan was supposed to be flawless. The pigeon was trained to find your face at your third-floor office window across town. What the hell were you doing here early? Why weren't you behind your desk?
He was too shocked at how fast his operational mechanics were crumbling to even think straight.
Now, he had two options here.
He could just tell the truth, right now on the cobblestones: It's a love letter. For you. I wanted it to be a surprise and you were supposed to be at your window and why are you here so early —
Or he could say something else, anything else, and pray to god he could fix it later.
Panic took the wheel. His brain jammed, his gears locked, and his mouth moved before he could stop it.
"Sent it for a dame," he said. "Over on Linden. Seamstress."
There it was. The worst possible option, selected instantly, executed immediately.
"A seamstress," you said. The warmth left your face so fast it was like a lamp going out. You had literally just watched him throw a mail bird into the wind, and now he was looking you in the eye, talking about a girl on Linden Avenue.
"Real pretty." He could hear himself spinning out, completely blind to the trap closing. "Dark hair. Works the late window. Been — working up to it for a while."
You looked at him for a beat. The sweet courtship smile vanished, replaced by something flat, hard, and furious.
"Barnes," you said, your voice cutting through the humid air like an iron sheet. "Is Steve in?"
The sudden use of his last name hit him like a physical slap. You didn't even wait for him to answer; you walked straight past his shoulder.
He watched the back of your coat, his brain still entirely jammed on the fact that his pigeon was currently flying toward an empty office.
He thought about the second line of the letter.
I've tried starting this four times. I keep stopping because it doesn't come out right and I'd rather it come out right.
Past tense now, apparently.
Steve looked up from the kitchen table when the door rattled open. His face did that open, uncomplicated thing it always did whenever people he liked showed up.
"Oh, you didn't have to —"
"My ma insisted." You set the pie down. Not on the table, but directly into his hands, your fingers pressing firmly against the tin.
The smile you gave him was blinding, but your eyes were like flint. Bucky stepped through the threshold behind you, his face completely pale. "This is for you, Steve. Do NOT share it with James."
Steve's fingers, already hooked around the tin, went entirely rigid.
He looked down at the pie. He looked up at your terrifyingly bright smile. Then he looked over your shoulder at Bucky, who was standing there with his mouth hanging open, entirely paralysed by his failed bird mechanics.
Bucky was too busy short-circuiting over the pigeon to even register the execution drop of his own first name.
But Steve registered it. Steve clocked the jawline, clocked the steely "James," and calculated the exact radius of the explosion.
With the profound wisdom of a man who wanted to live to see Friday, Steve slowly pulled the tin to his chest, picked up a fork, and decided his only job in this apartment was to chew.
"...Right," Steve said softly.
Bucky opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
"Wow, this is so tasty," Steve said, taking a massive bite. He nodded, committing entirely to the food.
"You're welcome, dear Steve," you said. Your voice was perfect, entirely too sweet, your teeth flashing. Bucky stood just inside the frame with absolutely nowhere to put his hands.
If he could just say it. It was for you. The letter is for you. There is no seamstress, I'm a coward.
The window behind him gave a dull, heavy thump.
He turned.
The pigeon was sliding down the glass, feathers ruffling against the grime. It reached the sill, steadied itself, and sat there blinking through the dirt.
Bucky’s stomach dropped through the floorboards. The stupid bird. The absolute, bird-brained idiot.
He had spent three weeks training the thing down by the docks, using bits of dried fruit to get it to sight you, specifically. Go to the face. Go to where they are. It was supposed to be easy — an airtight delivery straight to your third-floor office window while you were trapped behind your desk.
Except you weren't behind your desk. You were standing right here.
The bird hadn't looked for the office brick; it had tracked your face right down the avenue, and these godforsaken tenement windows didn't even slide up without a crowbar and three prayers.
It was a total, unmitigated operational disaster.
You didn't even turn around. You were already talking to Steve about the crust, murmuring something about cold butter while Steve nodded along, suddenly very invested in bakery logistics.
"I have to get back before Holt notices," you said, pulling your gloves on by the fingers. To Steve, warmly: "Enjoy."
To the general vicinity of the room, which technically included Bucky but touched nothing near him: silence.
The door clicked shut.
Steve looked at his friend. Bucky was staring straight at the wood grain of the door. Behind them, the pigeon shifted on the stone sill, the paper still strapped tightly to its leg, settling in to wait.
Steve took another bite of pie. He didn't offer any.
"Steve."
"Mm."
"Bring that here."
"They said not to."
"It's my pie. Their ma made it for me."
"They put it in my hands, Buck. Specifically. In my hands."
"You little scallion —"
"Nope."
Bucky dropped heavily into the chair across from him, staring at the tin. Steve cut himself another slice. He had right on his side, and a fork to prove it.
Behind them, the pigeon tapped the glass.
"I have to fix this," Bucky muttered.
"Probably," Steve agreed.
"The letter's still out there."
Steve paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. "What letter?"
Bucky dropped his face into his palms. Steve set the fork down, very slowly. He looked at the window, then at the grey feathers on the sill, and then back at Bucky.
"Oh, Buck."
"Don't."
"You sent them a —"
"Steven, I'm begging you."
Steve looked at the remaining pie. He looked at Bucky’s ruined expression. He slid the tin two inches across the table. Not all the way, but just enough.
"Start talking," he said.
$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @froggibus
$ cd masterlist
to have and to hold office | part v
congressman!Bucky Barnes x black widow!reader
summary. After a late-night in New Orleans, Congressman Bucky Barnes and his chief of staff wake up legally married. An annulment should be simple, but unfortunately, nothing about their lives is simple. With Bucky's reputation on the line and her past threatening to resurface, staying married starts to look like the safest option. It's only supposed to be temporary. Public appearances, a convincing story, and a quiet divorce once the headlines fade. But fake marriage is harder when everyone else believes it. Especially when Bucky is already in love with his wife. word count. 6.8k warnings. pregnancy rumor hijinks, minor angst, jealousy, miscommunication, donor wellness retreat from hell, bucky saying everything except that he's in love with her, no use of y/n
masterlist | series masterlist | last chapter | next chapter
By noon, Bucky had read the same paragraph of the same memo six times and retained none of it.
The memo was not difficult. It concerned the amended oversight language in the Enhanced Persons Protections Act. He knew the material.
But the words would not stay where he put them.
They kept shifting into other things. Your voice in the kitchen and your face when you said you deserve good things. No joke afterward to drag the moment back into something safer.
Bucky leaned back in his desk chair and dragged one hand over his mouth. You were in the conference room with Mia and two legislative aides going over the guest list for the donor dinner now linked to one of the shell companies from the drive. He could see you through the glass wall if he turned his head.
You looked fine.
Which meant nothing.
You were good at looking fine.
He turned back to the memo, but didn’t get far before the memory returned again. Your head tilting tiredly in the kitchen. His mouth against your forehead before he had the sense to stop himself.
It had not been strategy. It had not been public. He could have explained a hand at your back. He could have explained holding a door, pulling out a chair, warming the car, checking your bruise because you had been hurt on a mission he should have been on. Bucky had explanations for all of those, even if some of them were bad.
But the forehead kiss had slipped out of him like habit. A dangerous habit.
His phone buzzed.
A text from Sam.
Wilson
You alive?
11:35
Bucky stared at it, then typed back: At work.
Sam replied immediately.
Wilson
That is not what I asked.
11:36
Bucky huffed despite himself and set the phone facedown.
A minute later, Sam Wilson walked into his office without knocking.
Bucky looked up. “Door was closed.”
“Was it locked?”
“No.”
“Then it was open.”
“‘S’not how doors work.”
Sam shut the door behind him and dropped into the chair across from the desk. He wore a dark jacket, no shield, no visible weapons, and the expression of someone who was far too entertained to be in a government building.
“I’m busy,” Bucky said.
Sam leaned forward and looked at the first page. “You’ve been on page two since I texted you.”
Bucky set the memo aside because pretending to read it was starting to feel more embarrassing than being caught. “What do you want?”
“Wanted to check on you after last night. She texted me last night.”
Bucky blinked. “She texted you?”
“Texted Mia first, who told her not to engage. So naturally she texted me with twelve jokes she is not allowed to post. I ranked them.”
Bucky exhaled and leaned back in his chair.
Sam smiled for a second, but it softened quickly. “She okay?”
“Yeah. Sore knee and bruised shoulder, nothing serious.”
“Did she let you look at it?”
Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Because it’s a miracle every time that woman lets someone help her, and I like to keep track.”
“She let me look.”
Sam nodded. “Good.”
Bucky looked toward the glass wall before he could stop himself. You were still in the conference room, standing now, one hand braced on the table while Mia pointed at something on a tablet. Peter entered with a stack of folders, nearly dropped one, recovered too fast, and then looked around as if hoping no one had noticed.
Bucky noticed.
There was still something strange about that kid.
Before he could focus on it, you looked through the glass and caught his eye. You lifted your brows slightly, a silent question from across the office. You were asking if he was fine.
He nodded once.
You gave him a look that said you did not believe him but lacked time to prosecute, then turned back to Mia.
Sam’s eyes sharpened. “What happened?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Try again.”
Bucky looked down at the desk. The ring on his left hand caught the light from the window. It looked real on his hand. That was one of the daily cruelties of his life now.
“I kissed her,” he said.
Sam stared.
“On the forehead,” Bucky clarified.
Sam blinked.
“That’s it?”
Bucky looked up.
Sam lifted both hands. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be dismissive, but are you middle schoolers? Call me when you have sex.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Sam.”
“Buck.”
“I shouldn’t have done it.”
“Why?”
“Because she didn’t ask for that.”
Sam’s expression changed, the exasperation giving way to something more careful. “Did she pull away?”
“No.”
“Did she say anything?”
“No.”
“Then maybe don’t put a felony charge on a forehead kiss.”
Bucky stood and crossed to the window and looked down at the street below. Staffers from other offices cut across the sidewalk with coffee, badges, phones pressed to ears.
“It’s not about the kiss.”
“No kidding.”
Bucky kept his eyes on the street. “I get to be married to her. I get all the parts that look like a life. She lives in my house. Sleeps in my bed. Leaves her tea in the pantry and her knives in places she thinks I haven’t found. I know how she likes eggs.”
Sam did not interrupt.
Bucky swallowed. “And none of it’s mine.”
The office noise dulled behind him. Someone outside laughed. Through the glass reflection, Bucky could see Sam in the chair, watching him with that tired, patient look he wore when he was trying not to punch through a friend’s self-loathing.
“She doesn’t want it,” Bucky said. “Not like that. If I forget for one second that this isn’t real, then I’m the guy who used a bad situation to get close to her.”
“You’re not that guy.”
“She doesn’t know,” Bucky said.
Sam’s voice came lower. “I know.”
“If she knew, she’d never trust me again.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know her.”
“You know the parts she lets you see.”
Bucky turned. “That supposed to make me feel better?”
“No. It’s supposed to make you stop acting like you’re the only person in this marriage with complicated feelings.”
“What are you sayin’?” Bucky asked.
“I’ve had you in my ear for two months telling me you can’t say anything because she doesn’t want you. I told you to tell her the truth about New Orleans.” Sam leaned back in the chair again. “I told her to stop assuming she knows what you feel. I have been consistent, mature, and handsome in extremely difficult conditions.”
Despite himself, Bucky huffed.
Sam pointed at him. “Don’t laugh. I’m mad.”
Bucky sat back down.
Sam’s tone sharpened. “You’re making decisions for each other. You’re deciding what she can handle. She’s deciding what you want. Both of you are wrong often enough that I should be getting some sort of pay for putting up with it.”
Bucky looked down.
“I can’t tell you what she feels. That’s not mine to give you. Same way I won’t tell her what you said to me. But you are not doing either of you a favor by standing in the middle of the road waiting for a truck because you feel bad about New Orleans.”
Bucky’s mouth tightened. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Buck.”
Sam let the silence sit for a moment, then lowered his voice.
“You made a mistake. And you’re gonna have to tell her. Every day you don’t, you’re building something with her on top of a thing she doesn’t know. And the longer it goes, the worse it gets.”
Bucky said nothing. He knew that. He knew it so well the knowledge had become part of the room he lived in.
Sam shrugged once, but his face stayed serious. “You kissed her forehead. Fine. Maybe you shouldn't have. But if your worst crime yesterday was being gentle with a woman you love, then congratulations. You have become annoying in a very normal way.”
Before Bucky could answer, the office door opened without warning, and you stepped in with a folder under your arm and a brown paper takeout bag in your hand.
“Am I interrupting something?”
Sam leaned back. “Yes.”
“No,” Bucky said at the same time.
You looked between them. “Terrible coordination.”
“You need something?” Bucky asked.
“I need many things. A better printer, for starters.” You held up your takeout bag. “I need my lunch courier to stop having a crisis.”
Bucky frowned. “Your what?”
“What did you do?” Sam asked.
You reached into the bag and pulled out a container of soup, a wrapped sandwich, a bottle of ginger ale, and a pickle sealed in plastic. “I allowed Peter to pick up my lunch.”
Bucky stared at the food, then looked through the glass. Peter stood near Priya’s desk, clutching a stack of mail and trying not to look into Bucky’s office. The second Bucky looked at him, Peter looked away so quickly he nearly hit himself in the face with the envelopes.
Bucky turned back to you. “Why did Parker get your lunch?”
“Because some men still have manners, dreamboat.”
“Why did he think you needed lunch?”
You opened the soup container and smelled it with great satisfaction. “I may have mentioned that I was craving this specific soup from the place on the corner.”
Bucky closed his eyes. Sam started laughing.
“Chief.”
“What?”
“You told Parker you’re pregnant.”
“I did not tell Peter I’m pregnant.”
Bucky opened his eyes.
You held up one finger. “I may have insinuated the baby wanted ginger ale.”
Bucky stared at you.
You shrugged. “The tabloid introduced the premise. I just explored the available consequences.”
“By letting the office think you’re pregnant.”
“I created an atmosphere of possibility.”
You looked up at him with the spoon halfway to your mouth, eyes bright with trouble. You were enjoying this. Not the rumor itself, but the chaos that came after. Someone had handed you a stupid misunderstanding, and you had turned it into soup.
Bucky should have been annoyed, but he was trying too hard not to smile.
“Parker,” Bucky called.
Peter appeared in the doorway so fast Bucky wondered, again, what the hell was wrong with the kid.
“Yes, sir?”
“Why did you buy my wife lunch?”
Peter’s face reddened immediately. “Oh. Um. I was going out anyway.”
Bucky crossed his arms. “If my wife were pregnant, I wouldn’t have another guy running around attending to her.”
You stopped with the pickle halfway to your mouth.
Sam’s eyebrows rose.
Bucky cleared his throat. “I can take care of her just fine.”
“I-I’m sorry, sir. There was the article—and Mrs. Barnes said I was a kind young man who understood urgency,” Peter stumbled over his words. “The next thing I knew I was outside buying soup.”
You nodded. “And you did beautifully.”
Peter looked trapped between pride and terror. “Thank you?”
“She’s not pregnant,” Bucky reminded him.
You threw your hands up. “James. You are robbing me of a very important cultural moment.”
Bucky stared at you. “What cultural moment?”
“The moment where the internet decides you’re a problematic older man who knocked up his much younger wife after a suspiciously sudden wedding.”
Sam leaned back in his chair. “Oh, I’d read that thread.”
“Exactly,” you said. “Where is the outrage? Where is the discourse? Why is no one asking whether Congressman Barnes should be cancelled for being a cradle-robbing menace to democracy?”
Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not that much younger than me.”
You blinked at him.
Sam blinked at him.
“Bucky,” you said carefully, “you fought in a war that has documentaries in black and white.”
“I was frozen.”
“Oh, convenient excuse.”
Peter’s mouth hung halfway open. “So… she’s not pregnant?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“She was messing with you.”
Peter processed that with the grave disappointment of a young man encountering betrayal. “So the baby doesn’t want ginger ale?”
“There is no baby,” Bucky said.
“Not with that attitude.” You rolled your eyes.
Sam lost the fight and laughed openly.
Peter took one step back. “Should I go?”
“Yes,” Bucky said.
“No,” you said at the same time. “Peter, thank you for the lunch. You showed initiative, compassion, and excellent pickle judgment.”
Peter nodded uncertainly. “Okay.”
“You did nothing wrong,” Bucky said, because the kid looked one sentence away from drafting his own resignation letter.
Peter looked relieved. “Okay. Good. Great. I’m sorry for implying anything about your personal life or family planning or, um, biology.”
“Peter.”
“Yes?”
“Breathe.”
Peter inhaled sharply. “I’m going to file constituent letters now.”
“Good idea,” Bucky said.
Peter left quickly, but not before nearly colliding with the doorframe and apologizing to it.
Bucky turned to you, fixing you with a look.
You sighed, irritated by your own conscience. “I will apologize to Peter."
“Good.”
“I will not return the soup.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“And I will be keeping the ginger ale.”
“That’s fine. Keep eating your soup.”
“Is that an order?”
“More of a suggestion.”
“Right. Because the baby needs nourishment.”
Bucky looked toward the ceiling. “There is no baby.”
Sam leaned back, enjoying himself.
You stood from the chair, picked up the ginger ale, and came around the desk. The office was small enough that he should have stepped back. He did not. You stopped just inside his space and tilted your head up at him, eyes bright, mouth doing that pleased little thing it did when you had committed to a bit.
“Would you peel grapes for me?”
“No.”
“What about oranges?”
“No.”
“What if the baby developed scurvy because of your neglect?”
Bucky tried not to smile. “There is no baby.”
You nodded. “It’s good to know that there are limits to your devotion. I’ll remember this.”
“You do that.”
You lifted the ginger ale between you. “I think I’ll name the baby Minestrone. Minestrone Barnes. That has a good ring to it, yeah?”
“We’re not naming the kid Minestrone.”
“Ah,” you said, delight dancing across your features. “So you are acknowledging the baby now.”
“Get out of my office.”
“Minestrone is a hell of a lot better than Borscht Barnes. Or Chicken Noodle Barnes.”
“Out.”
“Or maybe they should take my last name. French Onion—”
“Now.”
You backed toward the door, looking unbearably pleased with yourself again. “Fine. I know when I’m not wanted.”
Bucky’s stomach turned.
You said it as a joke. He knew you said it as a joke. It was part of the bit. Still, his voice came out before he could stop it.
“You’re wanted.”
You stopped.
Sam went very still.
Bucky did too.
The office noise beyond the door seemed to thin out. Bucky’s pulse beat once, hard, beneath his collar.
Then you smiled. Smaller this time. “Careful, Congressman. That sounded almost sincere.”
“It was.”
Your face shifted again, softer and more uncertain than he meant to make it.
Then Oliver called your name from the bullpen, asking something about Mia and the revised statement. The moment snapped like a thread pulled too hard.
You lifted the ginger ale in half salute. “Duty calls.”
Bucky’s eyes followed you until you were out of eyesight, at which point he turned back to Sam who was regarding him with something between disappointment and annoyance.
“Are you kidding me?”
“What?” Bucky asked.
“‘You’re wanted’?” Sam made a gagging noise.
Bucky rolled his eyes. “Yes, exactly. I’m being obvious. I couldn’t be more obvious.”
“Oh, you absolutely could. Have you ever tried ‘hey Chief, I want you. I want to wake up next to you and smell your hair and hold your hand and be your husband forever and ever and ever.’ You ever try that?” Sam stood from where he was seated and stretched.
“No, haven’t tried that one yet.”
“Well that’s your problem.”
“You’re my problem.”
Sam fixed him with a look. “You’re your own problem. I can’t be flyin’ in here all the time every time you have a middle school crush.”
“I didn’t ask you to fly in here.”
“And you’ll never have to. But you seriously need to do something about this.”
“I have been doing something about it.”
“What, you think kissing her on the forehead and staring at her with puppy dog eyes while you’re in the office is doing something about it?”
Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Well I’m not going to ‘smell her hair’ if that’s what you want me to do.”
A slow smile spread across Sam’s face.
“Y’know, maybe you do need to up your physical game. Here, I’ll be you—”
“No.”
“—and you be her.”
“No.”
But Sam was already crossing the office, his voice dropping to a lower register in an attempt to imitate Bucky’s voice. If you would have asked Bucky, it sounded nothing like him.
“Gee whiz, sweetheart. I know I’m a grumpy 200-year-old super—”
“I’m not that old.”
“You sound nothing like her.” Sam scowled. “It’s like you’re not even trying. Now where was I? I know I’m a grumpy 200-year-old super soldier, but you’ve really put the razzle-dazzle on my ticker. Better call a doctor, ‘cause I’ve got a case of the feelings and there ain’t no penicillin for it!”
Bucky stared at him.
“Penicillin existed when I was young.”
“No one likes doing bits with people who fact check them.” Sam snapped back into the voice. “Dollface, you’re the bee’s knees, the cat’s pajamas. I’m awfully sweet on ya, but unfortunately I’m too committed to being a stoic flimflam to do anything about it.”
“You’re not even using those terms correctly,” Bucky said, picking up the memo once more. “This is terrible advice.”
Sam’s grin widened. “Try this one: listen here hussy—”
“I have never called someone hussy in my life,” Bucky said, dragging a hand down his face. “And I certainly wouldn’t call her that.”
“—I like you an awful lot, but I’m too much of a coward to say anything about it. So I oughta show ya!”
Before Bucky could process what was happening, Sam had grabbed Bucky’s face in his hands and was leaning in to place a sloppy wet kiss on him.
Bucky realized what was happening with just enough time to hold Sam at an arm’s length, but Sam was persistent. Despite Bucky’s super strength, Sam was able to plant a kiss on his cheek, prompting Bucky to throw him off of him.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
Sam couldn’t respond over his fit of laughter.
Before Bucky could throw his best friend out the window, you appeared in his doorway again, this time without the soup, the ginger ale, or the ridiculous performance of pregnancy theater. You held a folder in one hand and his reading glasses in the other.
He frowned. “Where’d you find those?”
“Windowsill.”
“I looked there.”
“You looked near there. You were probably too busy making out with Wilson to look properly.”
Sam coughed.
Bucky took the glasses. Your fingers brushed his for barely a second. He put the glasses on and opened the folder.
You leaned one hip against the doorframe. “Mia wants your approval on the revised statement before she sends it.”
“Is it going to say you’re not pregnant?”
“It is going to say we do not comment on private family matters.”
“That sounds like you’re pregnant.”
“It denies nothing. It confirms nothing. It lets the story die without us chasing it around with a shovel.”
Sam nodded. “She’s right.”
Bucky turned to him. “Don’t you think you’ve done enough for one day?”
“Can the two of you work out your couple’s dispute on your own time?” You said.
Bucky signed off on the revised statement and handed it back. “Tell Mia it’s good.”
“I’ll tell her it passed the old-man desk.”
“Don’t call it that.”
“You have a wooden letter opener.”
“It was a gift.”
“You use it.”
Sam pointed at Bucky. “She has you there.”
“You are both in my office,” Bucky said.
“You’re only in this office because of me,” you pointed out. “Dinner is at seven. We leave at six-thirty.”
You left, and Sam took that as his sign to finally leave Bucky alone, muttering something about being late for a meeting with the president.
Bucky sat alone with the memo, the revised statement, the faint smell of your soup still lingering near his desk, and the sound of your voice drifting through the office as you told Peter yes, the sandwich was his.
“I thought this was going to be a networking event.”
You hated this place.
It was not even a real resort. It was a private wellness retreat outside the city with too many windows. A major supporter of Bucky’s bill had insisted that he and his wife attend the one-day donor wellness intensive because it would be “a meaningful opportunity to connect with the more human side of the coalition.”
You had assumed that meant lunch.
Maybe a roundtable.
It had not meant sitting in a circle while a woman named Marigold asked each pair to “share one unspoken emotional request through eye contact.”
You had stared at Bucky for eight full seconds and tried to communicate kill me.
He had looked back at you with calm blue eyes that somehow communicated behave.
You were now thirty-seven minutes into something called a partner attunement sequence, and Bucky Barnes, former Winter Soldier, current congressman, and fake husband, was holding both your hands while Marigold circled the room barefoot with a small brass chime.
Around you, other couples murmured soft things to each other. One foundation director and her husband had already cried twice before lunch. Somewhere near the windows, Senator Vale’s wife was telling her husband that his listening face needed work.
Bucky leaned slightly toward you. “We only have to make it to four.”
“Time stopped during the compassion labyrinth.”
A muscle in his jaw moved.
The truth was, you had been teasing him all morning. If you stopped, you would have to notice the fact that this whole thing was designed to make couples behave like couples. Couples who did not have to decide whether holding hands was a strategy or a habit.
And the problem was that you and Bucky were good at this.
In the mirrored movement exercise, his hand had lifted at the same time yours did, both of you reaching for balance before anyone instructed you to. You were beginning to suspect fake marriage looked very different from the inside than it did from the outside.
Marigold announced they would be moving into a guided intimacy practice, clapping her hands softly.
“Before we begin, take a moment with your partner. Ask: What do I need from you that I have not asked for?”
You stared at Bucky.
Bucky stared back.
There were too many answers in the room, and you didn’t like any of them.
Then, from somewhere behind a tall arrangement of pampas grass and a table of herbal tea, a familiar blonde head appeared.
You froze.
Bucky’s hand tightened around yours.
Yelena stood near the refreshments table wearing a cream-colored staff tunic, a name tag that read Juniper, and a deeply satisfied expression of a woman who had lied her way into paradise and was disappointed with what she found.
You blinked.
She lifted two fingers in a wave.
Bucky turned his head toward you. “Is that Yelena?”
“No.”
“Her name tag says Juniper.”
“Then clearly that’s Juniper.”
You closed your eyes.
Bucky said, very quietly, “Why is she here?”
“Am I my sister’s keeper?”
Yelena picked up a small tray and began circulating with lemon water as if she had been born for hospitality and minor espionage. She stopped beside you with practiced politeness.
“Infused water?” she asked.
You stared at her. “What are you doing?”
“My job.”
“You have a job?”
“Many.”
Bucky looked pointedly at her name tag. “Juniper?”
“You may call me Miss Juniper. This is a professional setting.”
You took a glass from the tray. “Why are you here?”
Yelena’s eyes brightened. “I wanted to see this.”
“This?”
“Yes. Couples retreat with husband.”
“Fake husband,” you corrected in a hushed tone.
Yelena smiled. “Sure.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Leave.”
“No.”
“You are not staff.”
“I have uniform.”
Marigold glanced over. Yelena immediately straightened, serene and helpful.
“Everything all right here?” Marigold asked.
“Yes,” Yelena said. “The couple was just working on open communication.”
Marigold nodded solemnly. “Wonderful.”
When Marigold drifted away, you hissed, “I am going to put you in the koi pond.”
“You would have to catch me,” Yelena replied.
“Don’t tempt her,” Bucky said.
Yelena looked him over. “You look less miserable. Marriage is growth.”
Then she swept away with the tray.
Bucky leaned closer. “We are not telling Sam.”
“We are absolutely not telling Sam.”
Marigold began instructing couples to close their eyes, hold each other’s hands, and match their breathing to one another.
You patted his hand. “If you die from poisoned cucumber water, I get everything, right?”
He opened one eye to look at you.
You expected an eye roll. A dry comment.
“Everything I have is already yours.”
You stopped breathing. Which was so not the point of the exercise.
Bucky seemed to realize what he had said only after it was too late. His gaze dropped briefly to your joined hands. His thumb was resting near your ring.
“Careful, dreamboat. Dangerous thing to say to an ex-assassin,” you said quietly.
His mouth curved faintly.
“Also,” you added, “was that a will update, or do men from your era just hand over their assets at wellness retreats?”
Bucky looked down at your joined hands. “You always this difficult when someone says somethin’ nice to you?”
“Yes. It keeps me young. You should try it.”
Marigold rang her chime again.
The intimacy and boundaries exercise began with instructions that were uncomfortably intrusive. One partner would ask a question. The other would answer without deflection. Then they would switch.
Bucky looked too large for the mat. The linen shirt did unfair things to his shoulders. You hated the shirt. You hated wellness. You hated Yelena’s little uniform.
Marigold instructed the first partner to ask, “What boundary do you need honored in this relationship?”
You and Bucky looked at each other. Neither of you spoke. Around you, couples began murmuring. Soft, earnest answers drifted through the room. More alone time. Don’t read my texts. Please stop signing us up for pickleball.
You stared at Bucky. He stared back.
Because you were tired and cornered, and deeply irritated by the fact that this room had been designed to foster sincerity, you said the first thing to come to your mind.
“Are we allowed to sleep with other people?”
Bucky went perfectly still.
“While we’re fake married, I mean. Not that we have to, it’s just we’ve been at this for months—and I’m not complaining—but this whole situation has really put a damper on dating.” You heard yourself continue before you could stop. “Y’know, having a very public marriage and all. I haven’t been laid in—”
Bucky interrupted you, saying your name softly.
The room around you kept murmuring, oblivious. Somewhere behind him, you could feel Yelena’s eyes watching the two of you.
“You want to?” Bucky’s voice came low.
“No,” you said quickly.
His face shifted.
“I mean,” you corrected, because now you had started and you never knew when to put the shovel down, “not with a specific person. I don’t have a candidate waiting in the wings with a number ticket. But it’s been months, and I still have… well, needs, right?”
Bucky’s jaw tightened.
You pressed on, hating every word more than the last. “It just seems like something we should discuss.”
“Here?”
“Would you rather discuss this during tax preparation?”
“Maybe not in a room full of donors and politicians doing yoga.”
“This isn’t yoga.”
“Hardly the point.”
You made a face. “God forbid a girl try to engage with the retreat.”
“That wasn’t an open invitation to bring up our sex life.”
“Our sex lives. Theoretically separate. Which is the issue at hand.”
Bucky looked down for half a second, then back up. “Right.”
You hated that you had said anything. You hated that some stupid, reckless part of you had wanted him to say no immediately. In a way that meant he could not stand the thought any more than you could. You hated that you had no right to want that.
So you made your voice brisk.
“We can be adults about it.”
“Yeah.”
“If one of us wanted to, discreetly, obviously—”
“Obviously.”
“No staff. No donors. No one connected to the office.”
“God, no. No one in the townhouse.”
You nodded.
Your hands were still in his. You wondered if he was thinking of someone. Some woman from before you. Some veterans advocate with kind eyes. Some woman who didn’t come with a suitcase full of trauma and a fake marriage license.
Whoever she was, you hated her.
Which was unfair, because you had invented her less than four seconds ago.
“If that’s what you want,” Bucky said.
It was not what you wanted. It was not even adjacent to what you wanted.
But you had brought it up, and now pride had locked the door behind you.
You nodded once. “It’s practical.”
“Sure.” His mouth tightened.
For one second, something almost broke through his expression. Hurt, maybe. Or anger. Or want. You could not tell, and that was the problem.
The exercise moved on around you. Couples switched roles. Marigold rang that stupid chime. Someone nearby cried quietly into a bamboo napkin.
You and Bucky did not ask the next question.
You sat there facing each other in a room full of people trying to become more intimate with their spouses, having just given one another permission to be with someone else.
Three days after the wellness intensive, Bucky discovered that agreeing to something and surviving the idea of it were two separate skills.
He had agreed because it was fair.
That was what he told himself.
It was fair for you to have a life outside a marriage neither of you had planned.
Fair for you not to be trapped by the ring on your finger, by the townhouse, by the office, by every camera and donor and staffer who thought the two of you had stumbled into something romantic instead of something legally inconvenient and increasingly difficult to survive. Fair, too, for him to say yes without making his feelings your problem.
So he had said yes.
The worst part was that nothing had happened yet. There was no one. Not that he knew of. You had not come home late with a lie in your mouth or a new perfume on your coat. You had not guarded your phone. You had not started smiling at texts. There was no evidence of anything at all.
Which meant the entire problem was Bucky’s.
He knew that.
He did not need Sam in the room to tell him.
He could hear Sam anyway, which was one of the drawbacks of having a best friend with a loud moral compass.
You agreed to it, man. Don’t get jealous about imaginary people.
Bucky adjusted the cuff of his shirt and looked across the ballroom.
You were talking to General Adrian Vale.
Not Senator Vale. His brother. Retired Air Force, now some kind of senior defense liaison attached to a multinational security commission. Silver at the temples. Navy dress uniform.
He was standing too close to you.
Close enough that when the crowd shifted, Vale leaned slightly toward you instead of away. Close enough that his smile lasted half a second longer than the conversation required. Close enough that when you said something, he laughed and looked down into his drink like he needed a moment to recover.
Bucky hated him immediately.
Then hated himself for hating him.
You were not doing anything wrong.
That was the trouble. You were doing your job. You were working the room the way only you could, all sharp charm and careful attention, letting people underestimate you right up until they handed you exactly what you needed.
Your dress was dark, simple, expensive enough to disappear among donor wives and embassy staff, but cut with enough precision that Bucky had not known what to do with his eyes when you came downstairs earlier.
You had asked, “Too much?”
He had said, “No.”
Now you were across the room in that same dress, laughing with General Vale.
Bucky took a slow sip of water and listened to Congressman Pike explain something about appropriations that Bucky should have been tracking. He heard enough to nod at the right place. He had become good at listening while his attention was elsewhere. A useful skill in government. A necessary one in war.
A miserable one at a diplomatic reception where his fake wife was maybe, possibly, probably not flirting with a man who had once commanded fighter squadrons.
“Representative Barnes?”
Bucky looked back at Pike. “Sorry. Say that again?”
Pike smiled a closed-mouth smile. “I was only saying that your wife has made quite an impression tonight.”
Bucky’s eyes went to you again before he could stop them.
Vale was speaking now. You were listening. Your head had tilted slightly.
“She does that,” Bucky said.
Pike chuckled. “General Vale is not easily impressed.”
Bucky did not like that either.
“Good for him.”
Pike blinked, then laughed because he thought Bucky was joking.
Bucky had been, technically.
You glanced over then. Across the bodies, the polished floor, the low lights, the embassy flags lined along one wall. Your eyes found his like they always did in crowded rooms. Not dramatic. Not searching. Just a quick touch, a check-in.
You lifted your glass slightly.
Then Vale said something, and you looked back at him.
Bucky’s hand tightened around his glass.
He forced it to loosen.
This was what he had agreed to.
Not this specifically. Not you and Vale at a reception full of defense money and polite predators. But the possibility. The right for you to decide that someone else interested you, that someone else might give you something uncomplicated, physical, easy.
Bucky set his glass down.
Pike was still talking.
Bucky said something that passed for an answer and excused himself before the man could decide whether it fit the conversation.
He imagined what you might be saying.
My marriage is complicated.
No one has to know.
It’s not like that with him.
That last one made something in him go cold.
Someone stepped into his path. A woman from the veterans’ coalition, gray-haired, kind-eyed, with a drink in one hand and a gold pin shaped like a dove on her lapel. Bucky recognized her but could not immediately remember her name, which made him feel worse.
“Congressman,” she said warmly. “Your remarks earlier were wonderful.”
“Thank you.”
She followed his gaze before he could stop it.
“Your wife is very good in these rooms,” she said.
“She is.”
“That must be a comfort.”
Bucky looked at her.
She did not seem to mean anything by it. Maybe she only meant what everyone meant when they saw you beside him: that the marriage helped soften the edges of his public life, gave him someone to look at across rooms, made him seem less alone.
“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”
By the time Bucky looked back, Vale had stepped away. You were alone near the archway leading toward the quieter side corridor, looking down at your phone with your drink tucked against your wrist.
Bucky crossed the room before he could decide not to.
You did not look up until he was almost beside you.
“There you are,” you said.
He stopped. “You looking for me?”
“No. But it sounds nicer than ‘why are you looming by the ficus?’”
“Funny.”
“I am very funny. People say this.”
“Who?”
“People with taste.”
Your eyes flicked over him. “You’re doing the jaw thing.”
“What jaw thing?”
“The one where you’re either angry, hungry, or trying not to say something.”
“I ate.”
“So we’ve eliminated one.”
He looked toward the ballroom.
You followed his gaze. Your expression changed just slightly.
“Ah.”
“What?”
“General Vale.”
He looked away, irritated that you had seen it so easily. More irritated that he had given you something to see.
Your voice softened by one degree. Not enough for anyone else to hear. Enough for him.
“I was working.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
You studied him for a second.
He wished you would stop. He wished you would keep going until you found everything and put him out of his misery.
“You get anything?” Bucky asked.
“He mentioned a closed briefing last month. Defense liaison, two private security contractors, and someone from a humanitarian foundation that does not appear on any of the public schedules.”
“Valentina?”
“Maybe. Not directly. But adjacent enough that I want the guest list.”
Bucky’s shoulders eased a fraction. Information helped. Work helped. Work gave him somewhere to put the jealousy other than his teeth.
Bucky kept his hand at his side. He wanted to touch his ring and refused to let himself. “I meant what I said at the retreat. You can do what you want.”
Your mouth tightened.
He hated that too.
“But?” you asked.
“No but.”
“I’m trying to help you find the sentence.”
For a second, the room almost fell away. He could tell you. Not all of it, maybe. Not New Orleans. Not here. Not in a corridor with donors fifteen feet away and a military liaison who had smiled too long somewhere on the other side of the archway.
But something.
He could tell you that he hated watching Vale touch your arm. He could tell you that he didn’t want anyone else.
“Just be careful,” is what he landed on.
Something in your expression closed.
“Of course,” you said.
He knew he had taken the wrong turn, but he could not find the road back fast enough.
“I don’t mean—”
“No, I know what you mean.” You lifted your drink slightly, smile returning with too much polish. “No reporters, no donors, no lobbyists. I’m careful, Barnes.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
That should have ended it. It almost did. You stepped slightly away from the wall, as if preparing to return to the room, and Bucky felt the chance slipping.
Then you paused.
“Relax, hotshot,” you said. “If I were looking for something discreet, which I am not, I would pick someone less obvious than a man in uniform at an event with six photographers.”
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
Your expression flickered. “For what?”
“For making it your problem. I don’t want to be that guy.”
“What guy?”
“The one who says yes and then punishes you for taking him at his word.”
“Bucky, I don’t—” You stopped, which was rare enough to catch him completely. “I… I don’t have anyone in mind. I’m not actively looking.”
He did not move.
You looked at your drink. “For the record.”
“For the record,” he repeated.
You both stood there caught in all the words that weren’t being said.
You didn’t have anyone in mind. Neither did Bucky. He wanted to say it then: that he didn’t want to use the loophole at all. That he just wanted you. There was no one else.
He could feel the sentence forming, simple and plain.
Before he could say anything, a woman from the embassy staff appeared at the edge of the corridor, looking relieved to find you.
“There you are,” she said. “Mrs. Barnes, General Vale was hoping to introduce you to Minister Armand before he leaves.”
You nodded. “Of course.”
The staffer disappeared back into the room.
You stepped closer, just enough to make it look from the ballroom like an affectionate aside between spouses. Your shoulder angled toward him. Your voice dropped.
“I’m going to talk to him because he has information,” you said. “Then I am going to complain about him in the car ride home.”
“You don’t need my permission.”
“I know that.” You looked at him, something unreadable passing behind your eyes. “That’s why I’m telling you, not asking.”
Then you walked back into the ballroom.
Bucky stayed in the corridor for a moment, watching you cross toward Vale and the minister. You did not look back immediately. You did not need to. Halfway across the room, you lifted your hand slightly and touched your earring, the tiny signal you used when you wanted him to know you had eyes on exits and everything under control.
He hated that he knew that.
He loved that he knew that.
to have and to hold office | part III
congressman!Bucky Barnes x widow!reader
summary. After a late-night in New Orleans, Congressman Bucky Barnes and his chief of staff wake up legally married. An annulment should be simple, but unfortunately, nothing about their lives is simple. With Bucky's reputation on the line and her past threatening to resurface, staying married starts to look like the safest option. It's only supposed to be temporary. Public appearances, a convincing story, and a quiet divorce once the headlines fade. But fake marriage is harder when everyone else believes it. Especially when Bucky is already in love with his wife. word count. 10.7k warnings. politics, everyone's bad at feelings, fake marriage setup, friends with questionable boundaries, bucky is quietly losing his mind, accidental truth serum dosing, sickfic elements, sam wilson, yelena is basically her sister, bucky is a first class yearner, he should teach classes at the yearning academy, a smidge of angst at the end because they're both idiots
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The problem with being fake married to Bucky Barnes was that he was very good at being fake married.
Actually, no. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was that he was good at being married. There was a difference, and you had begun to resent it.
It had been a little over a week since you moved into his townhouse, which was enough time for the house to stop feeling like his and start feeling like a crime scene you had tampered with. You had not hung curtains or rearranged his books alphabetically, though the temptation had been there. But things started appearing.
Your tea on the middle pantry shelf because he had cleared it without making a production of it. Your blue mug in the kitchen cabinet beside his plain white ones. Your hair ties in a little ceramic dish by the bathroom sink, where Bucky had started placing them when he found them on doorknobs, cabinet handles, his wrist once, though he had insisted that last one happened accidentally.
The townhouse itself had become an issue. You had expected to hate it on principle. You had expected the move to feel like a concession, an inconvenience, another piece of public staging in a week already full of too many soft smiles and controlled statements.
His house was infuriatingly nice. The locks were good. The windows were better. There was no upstairs neighbor who performed what sounded like tap dance exorcisms at midnight. You slept better there. That was the worst part.
You had told yourself it was because of the security, and that it had nothing to do with the fact that Bucky slept on the other side of the bed like a man trying to make himself less large, or that he always took the side closer to the door without mentioning it. When you woke from old dreams with your hand halfway under your pillow for a knife you had not slept with in years, he never asked.
You were thinking this while sitting on the bathroom counter, one of Bucky’s sweatshirts swallowing you to mid-thigh, your bare legs crossed at the ankles, a pen between your teeth, and a half-finished crossword folded over your knee.
Bucky stood at the sink shaving. Standard fake-married roommate behavior.
The bathroom smelled faintly of cedar soap, mint toothpaste, and the tea he had made you before coming upstairs. The mirror was beginning to fog at the edges from the shower he had taken earlier. Morning light came in through the frosted window, softening the lines of his face as he drew the razor carefully along his jaw.
You watched him for perhaps two seconds too long, then looked back down at the crossword because you had survival instincts.
“Seven letters,” you said around the pen. “Old-timey word for handsome.”
Bucky’s eyes flicked to you. “Why’re you askin’ me?”
“I’m consulting a primary source.”
He rinsed the razor. “Debonair.”
You removed the pen from your mouth and stared at him. “Of course you knew that.”
He looked unimpressed, going back to shaving. “You gonna write it in?”
“Don’t rush me. I’m deciding if I want to give you the satisfaction.”
His mouth twitched, which nearly ruined the clean line he was shaving beneath his cheekbone.
You pointed the pen at him. “Careful, honeybun. Wouldn’t want to have to clean up bloodshed in the bathroom before eight.”
“Honeybun?”
You nodded. “Yeah, m’trying out old school pet names. Trying to meet you where you’re at, and all that.”
Bucky snorted. “Yeah, alright, babydoll.”
You let it slide, writing in debonair into the little boxes with aggressive pen strokes.
He rinsed the razor again, then reached for the small towel beside the sink. He had placed your mug near your hip so you could reach it without leaning. You had not missed that. You had also not missed the way he did not ask you to get down from the counter even though you were taking up half the useful space and had moved his aftershave to make room for your crossword.
That was the worst thing about living with him. Not the bed or the sight of his ring on the sink while he shaved. The worst thing was how easily he made room. Not in a dramatic way, not with a speech. He just shifted until there was space where there had not been space before.
A shelf. A drawer. A towel hook. A place for your mug. The left side of the bed. The good sightline in the kitchen.
“Five letters,” you said, tapping the crossword. “Moral failing. Common in powerful men.”
“Pride.”
You glanced up, a cheeky smile playing on your lips. “Speaking from personal experience?”
Bucky gave you a look. “Observation.”
“I gotta tell Sam that one,” you said, writing in the letters. “He’ll think it’s funny.”
“You tell Sam anything before coffee, he’ll hang up.”
“Incorrect. Sam loves gossip. He pretends he’s above gossip because he has a shield now, but in reality? He’s a porch auntie.”
Bucky huffed. “A porch auntie?”
You nodded. “Yeah, he likes to sit, observe, and judge. Offer his opinions. Sometimes he offers snacks.”
“He’s downstairs.”
You froze, the pen stopped over the crossword. You looked at him.
“What?”
Bucky wiped his face with the towel, far too calm for a man who had just mentioned an intruder.
“Sam’s downstairs.”
“Since when?”
“About twenty minutes.”
You stared harder. “Samuel Wilson has been in this house for twenty minutes?”
“He knocked.”
“I didn’t hear him.”
“You were arguing with the crossword. He came over to go over scheduling for the donor reception next week.”
“And?”
Bucky glanced at you in the mirror. There was a tiny pause that meant he was choosing which parts of the answer to give you.
“And the bill,” he said.
You waited.
He reached for his aftershave, but you reached it first, moving it behind your back. He stared at you. You stared back.
“Give it.”
“No.”
“It’s mine.”
“Then answer me.”
He sighed through his nose. “Security, scheduling, and the bill. That’s it.”
“Which part of the bill?”
“The current part.”
“The current part,” you repeated. “Excellent. Specific. Very transparent.”
He groaned your name. “It’s early.”
“I’m awake.”
“You’re sittin’ on a bathroom counter in my sweatshirt interrogating me over aftershave.”
You lifted your chin. “And?”
His eyes moved over you, enough that something warm slipped beneath your ribs before you could kill it. He looked away first.
You tossed him the aftershave. He caught it without looking.
Show-off.
“I don’t like not knowing things,” you said.
“I know.”
“I especially don’t like not knowing things while wearing a wedding ring connected to a congressional office, an enhanced-persons bill, and your unresolved martyr complex.”
“My martyr complex is resolved.”
“It is not.”
Bucky smiled faintly, rubbing aftershave along his jaw. “Sam’s waiting downstairs with coffee.”
“Why didn’t you lead with that?”
“You were busy with your crossword.”
You slid off the counter, landing lightly on the tile. Bucky’s hand moved instinctively toward your waist before he caught himself and dropped it.
You pretended not to notice.
The sweatshirt hem shifted high on your thighs, and his eyes went to the wall with the discipline of a man in church. You brushed past him through the bathroom door, close enough for your shoulder to skim his arm.
This was absurd. You were a former Widow, you had done worse things than share a bathroom with a handsome man. You had survived handlers, extraction orders, kill rooms, and fake identities. You would not be undone by Bucky Barnes shaving.
Probably.
Downstairs, the townhouse smelled like coffee and toast, which meant Sam had made himself at home. That was not surprising. He sat at the kitchen island in a dark jacket, your blue mug’s less charming cousin set beside him.
He looked up when you entered, then looked at Bucky behind you. Then looked at the sweatshirt. Then at your bare legs. Then back at Bucky.
His eyebrows climbed.
“Good morning,” Sam said.
“No,” you said, pointing at him.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You said it with your face.”
Sam took a slow sip of coffee. “Y’all look domestic.”
Bucky came into the kitchen behind you and went straight to the coffee machine. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, I’m starting.” Sam leaned back in his chair. “I’ve been downstairs twenty minutes listening to the two of you argue over a crossword clue like a retired couple.”
You set your crossword on the counter. “We are not retired.”
“No, just married.”
“Fake married.”
Sam lifted one finger. “Not legally. And from the sound of that bathroom, not in spirit.”
Bucky set your mug down in front of you.
You looked down. Not coffee, tea. He had brought your mug down from upstairs and refilled it without making a show of it.
Bucky leaned against the counter beside you, coffee in hand. “You said you were here for security.”
You took a long sip of tea and let the warmth settle you. The house was bright in the morning, sunlight catching the edge of the counter and the ring on your hand. Bucky’s kitchen had improved under your supervision. There were snacks now. A bowl of fruit, because Bucky had claimed he liked fruit. Crackers that did not taste like field rations. Jam, honey, and three kinds of tea.
“Security,” you said. “Talk.”
Sam’s expression sobered, though the humor stayed at the edges. “Donor reception next week. Private house. Half the people in the room got money, the other half want it. Bellamy’s people may be sniffing around.”
Bucky opened his mouth to respond but a sound interrupted him.
A soft click from the front door. Not a knock, a click. Your hand was under the island before conscious thought finished forming. There was no knife taped there. Of course there was no knife taped there. This was Bucky’s townhouse, not your apartment. You had considered taping one there two days ago and decided it would be too much too soon.
A mistake.
Bucky moved before you did, stepping quietly away from the counter. Sam’s posture changed in the same breath, easy warmth gone, shoulders loose but ready.
The door opened, and a blonde walked into the townhouse carrying a paper bag and wearing sunglasses.
You stared.
She stared back.
Sam slowly lowered his mug.
Bucky stopped in the hall.
Yelena pushed her sunglasses up onto her head and looked around the entryway, taking in the coat over the chair, your shoes by the table, the fact that you were standing barefoot in Bucky’s kitchen wearing his sweatshirt, and the incriminating diamond on your left hand.
Her mouth flattened.
“Wow,” she said. “Very nice. Domestic. Disgusting.”
You closed your eyes for one second.
“Yelena.”
“No.” She pointed at you with the paper bag. “Do not ‘Yelena’ me.”
Bucky looked at you.
You looked at Bucky.
Yelena had always had a talent for entering rooms like a thrown knife. She had been that way since the Red Room fell and the Widows scattered into a world they had not been raised to understand. Natasha had given so many of you freedom, and Yelena had taken that freedom like a personal assignment: find the ones still lost, drag them out, feed them if necessary, and call them family.
You had not been much younger than her. Enough that after Dreykov was dead and the chemical control was gone, Yelena had looked at you like someone had handed her a baby bird with a knife in its beak.
She had called you annoying, reckless, underfed, and badly socialized. But when you had woken from nightmares in safe apartments during those early months, she had been there.
Yelena set the paper bag on the entry table and walked into the kitchen.
“I had to learn from internet,” she said.
You winced. “I know.”
“From Tweeter. Not even good Tweeter. Political Tweeter. Everyone there is ugly inside.”
Sam nodded. “That is true.”
Yelena shot him a look. “Don’t agree with me yet. I am still deciding if I dislike you.”
Bucky cleared his throat. “Yelena—”
“You marry my sister and do not call me?”
Yelena’s eyes moved over Bucky, assessing him.
You spoke before he could take the blame too easily. “It happened fast.”
Yelena looked at you. “So does gunfire. I still expect update.”
“That’s not comparable.”
“It is very comparable. Both are dangerous and there are usually men involved.”
“She’s got a point,” Bucky said.
You turned to him. “Et tu, Robo-Brutus?”
Bucky frowned. “Robo-brutus?”
You lost the fight with your mouth and smiled.
Yelena saw it. Her face did something. Not softened, Yelena did not soften in obvious ways. But her anger shifted, narrowed, became less theatrical and more hurt.
“You are smiling,” she said.
You stopped.
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are smiling in kitchen of secret husband.”
Yelena stepped closer, and for one second, underneath the sunglasses and the sarcasm and the controlled violence of her presence, you saw the woman who had found you after the Red Room and decided, without asking you, that you belonged with her now.
“You did not tell me,” she said.
You looked down at your mug. “I know.”
“You tell Captain America.” She nodded at Sam and sighed. “I am not angry you married sad congressman.”
“Great,” Bucky muttered.
“I am angry because you do stupid life thing and I am not there.”
Your throat tightened. A normal person might have apologized properly. You were not normal people.
“There was no cake,” you said.
Yelena blinked.
You continued. “It was a chapel. There was a package called Jazz It Up. You would’ve hated it.”
“Yes, probably.”
“And the rings were terrible.”
“I saw photo. Very terrible.”
“Vending-machine adjacent.”
“Disrespectful to vending machine.”
You nodded. “Exactly.”
The corner of Yelena’s mouth twitched.
Victory.
Small, but real.
Bucky moved toward the toaster.
“You want breakfast?” he asked.
Yelena turned to him with suspicion.
“What kind?”
“Toast. Eggs.”
“Do not use food to make me less angry.”
“I wasn’t.”
“He was,” you said. “He’s from the forties. If a woman is mad in his kitchen, he tries to feed her.”
Bucky looked over his shoulder. “That’s not—”
Sam cut in. “It’s exactly what you do.”
Yelena considered this, then removed her sunglasses completely and set them on the counter.
“This is manipulative,” she said, “but effective.”
Bucky nodded once. “Eggs?”
“Yes, but I remain betrayed.”
“Understood.”
“And I want toast.”
“Okay.”
“With butter.”
“Got it.”
“And something sweet.”
Bucky looked at you.
You shrugged. “You married into this.”
He gave you a look.
Yelena opened the paper bag she had brought and pulled out a pastry box.
“I brought cake,” she announced.
Sam looked at it. “You brought your own cake to confront them?”
“Yes.”
“Respect.”
You leaned against the counter, watching Bucky take eggs from the fridge like this was a normal morning. Like one of the deadliest women you knew had not broken into his townhouse. Like Sam was not sitting at the island with the expression of a man watching premium cable.
Yelena slid onto a stool and opened the pastry box. “So. Tell me everything.”
Tonight’s event was at a private house in Kalorama. Some kind of reception for the Enhanced Persons Protections Act, though half the guest list looked like people who wanted to support the bill and the other half looked like people who wanted to learn exactly how much it threatened them.
You had spent the morning reviewing names, spouses, companies, private interests, known grudges, possible Valentina connections, and one man whose entire file was just the word “weasel” underlined twice.
Bucky had asked if that was an official classification.
“It is in my office,” you had said.
Now you were standing in the kitchen, trying to put your earring in while glaring at your phone.
“Bellamy is sending Eleanor,” you said.
Bucky looked up from the tea kettle. “His wife?”
“His wife, his fundraiser, his most effective weapon, yes.”
“You like her?”
“She once ruined a councilman’s career over brunch without putting down her mimosa. Of course I like her. I’m not made out of stone.”
“Tea?” Bucky asked, reaching for your mug in the cabinet.
“Yes, please. Something with mint if we have it.”
He nodded and opened the pantry.
There were actual snacks. Crackers, cookies, a small tin of cocoa. A tiny glass bottle with a handwritten label that said peppermint extract.
Bucky picked it up. The handwriting was yours. The bottle was small, dark amber glass with a little dropper cap. It looked like something from a health store or one of the strange specialty markets you and Yelena liked.
He unscrewed the top and sniffed.
Peppermint.
Sharp, clean. Normal enough. He added a few drops to your tea. Maybe four. Possibly five.
You were still glaring at your phone.
“Do not say anything kind to Senator Vale tonight,” you said.
Bucky stirred the tea. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
“You sometimes default to polite when startled.”
Bucky handed you the mug. You took it, still distracted, and drank. Bucky watched your face for a second. No reaction. You lowered the mug and finally looked at him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“The tea is fine.”
“Fine?”
“Don’t get needy.”
He huffed and turned toward the stairs. “Need your dress zipped?”
You turned without comment, presenting him with the open back of your dress.
This was still the part of fake marriage he had not gotten used to. The ordinary things. The things that had no business feeling like trespassing. A zipper. A mug. You standing in his kitchen asking him to close a dress he was not allowed to think too hard about.
Your skin was warm beneath his knuckles. He looked at the wall over your shoulder and pulled the zipper up slowly. The dress closed along your back, dark fabric settling into place like armor.
“There,” he said.
You looked back at him. “No lecture about how I should wear a coat?”
“I was saving it for the car.”
“How gallant of you, soldier boy.”
“‘S cold out.”
“It’s fifty-two degrees.”
“Still cold.”
“You were frozen for seventy years.”
“Yeah, and I didn’t like it.”
That got you to laugh. A quick one. Real. Gone too fast.
Then you stepped away, grabbed your other earring, and finished getting ready while narrating an assassination of Bellamy’s entire family tree that you claimed was “rhetorical and therefore legal.”
The car came to pick the both of you up shortly after. You spent most of the car ride quizzing Bucky on the guests that would be attending the event, and to your surprise, Bucky had done his homework.
By the time you arrived, the reception was already loud. The kind of low, polished noise that came from old floors, expensive shoes, crystal glasses, and people laughing in a way that suggested no joke had actually been told. The house was all tall windows and oil portraits and floral arrangements large enough to hide surveillance equipment in.
Bucky placed a hand at your back as the host approached. You leaned into the touch by half an inch, just enough to sell the picture. Maybe less than half. Maybe he imagined it.
“Representative Barnes,” the host said, smiling too widely. “And Mrs. Barnes. We’re so pleased you could make it.”
Bucky felt you stiffen at Mrs. Barnes, but your smile did not move.
You moved through the first half hour easily. Better than easily. You were good at this. Better than he was, though you would never frame it that way unless you were trying to annoy him. Bucky could stand and look sincere. He could talk about the bill. He could shake hands, remember names, and answer questions.
You could make people comfortable enough to reveal themselves. You smiled at a donor’s wife and had her talking within three minutes about who was nervous about the bill. You complimented Eleanor Bellamy’s earrings and got a quiet list of who had arrived together and who was pretending they hadn’t. You spoke French to a Belgian attaché just long enough to make him nervous, then Russian to a private security consultant who nearly dropped his drink.
Bucky watched it all with a mix of respect and unease. Marriage had changed the way people saw you. That had become obvious fast.
As his chief of staff, people braced themselves when you walked into a room. They watched their words. They knew you had teeth.
As his wife, they underestimated you differently. Some still knew better. Women mostly, the smart ones. But men with expensive watches kept making the same mistake. They treated you like an accessory. Like you were there to soften him, decorate the room, translate his silence into charm.
You returned to his side after speaking with Eleanor Bellamy, your smile still in place, your hand sliding into the crook of his elbow with a practiced ease that made several people nearby look on fondly.
“What’d you find?” he asked under his breath.
“Eleanor thinks Harrington’s group is nervous.”
“About the bill?”
“About the subpoenas.”
Your finger tightened briefly against his sleeve, then Mr. Harrington himself approached.
He shook Bucky’s hand too firmly, then turned to you.
“Mrs. Barnes,” Harrington said. “I imagine married life has softened the congressman.”
Bucky felt you shift beside him.
“No,” you said. “He was already soft where it matters.”
Bucky went still. Harrington blinked. You blinked too. Then you looked at Bucky with alarm.
Harrington laughed uncertainly. “Well. That’s one way to put it.”
“He makes married life easy,” you admitted. “I couldn’t imagine being married to anyone else.”
Bucky looked at you.
You looked back, eyes wide for half a second.
Something was wrong.
You apologized to Mr. Harrington, saying you suddenly felt unwell, and Bucky pulled you quietly to the side of the room.
“Are you alright? You seem off,” he asked softly once you were a few steps away.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“It was like I had an inside thought and it became an outside thought.”
“That happens to you.”
“Not like this.”
Before he could respond, a woman from the veterans’ coalition intercepted the both of you, smiling warmly.
“You two are so lovely together,” she said. “Is it difficult, working with your husband?”
You opened your mouth. Then shut it.
Bucky watched you physically fight your own face.
“Yes,” you said.
Bucky’s eyebrows lifted.
You continued, visibly horrified by yourself. “He is stubborn, exhausting, overprotective, and much more attractive than is necessary in a workplace setting.”
The woman’s smile widened.
“Oh,” she said, delighted. “That’s very sweet.”
You excused the both of you again, your eyebrows furrowing in concern.
“Bucky, something’s wrong,” you muttered, a wave of nausea rolling over you.
Bucky held your elbow to steady you. “Are you alright?”
Before you could answer, Sam turned the corner and took in the sight in front of him.
“What’s going on here?” He asked, looking between them.
You shook your head. “I suddenly feel sick. Don’t ask me questions.”
Sam’s eyebrows rose. Bucky’s attention sharpened.
“Why not?” Sam asked.
You pressed your lips together. Your eyes went slightly unfocused, like someone holding a door shut from the other side.
“Because,” you said, “I’m having trouble not answering them.”
Sam’s face changed. Delight. Then suspicion. Then delight again.
Bucky stepped between you by half an inch. “Sam. Don’t.”
Sam looked at you. “You okay?”
You made a small, strangled sound. “No.”
Bucky’s chest tightened. The answer came clearly. You never admitted you weren’t okay that quickly.
He lowered his voice. “What’s happening?”
You looked at him. Your pupils were not blown, exactly, but your eyes were brighter than they should have been. Your breathing was controlled, but too controlled. Your hand had gone tight around his arm.
“I don’t know,” you said, your face twisting with irritation.
Bucky turned to you fully now, blocking more of the room from seeing. “Did you eat anything strange?”
You shook your head.
“Drink?”
“Just your tea.”
“My tea?”
“The tea you made me while we were getting ready.” You said. “Did you put anything in it?”
Bucky stared at you. “Peppermint extract.”
Your face went perfectly blank. Bucky had seen that look before. Not often. Not in safe rooms. It was the expression you wore when your body got to the answer before the rest of you wanted to.
“What bottle?”
“Small. Amber glass. Handwritten label.”
Your eyes closed.
“That wasn’t peppermint extract,” you said.
Bucky went cold. “What was it?”
You looked past him toward the crowd, then back at him. Your voice was dangerously calm when you spoke again.
“Truth serum.”
The room seemed to narrow around him. Sam made a sound that was probably not helpful. Bucky did not look away from you.
“Why would you label your truth serum as peppermint extract?!”
Your skin was too warm. Your mouth tasted like mint and metal. The lights in the donor’s foyer had grown hard around the edges, each chandelier throwing bright little blades into your eyes. Every laugh from the reception behind you arrived too loudly, too close, too full of teeth. You could feel your pulse in your throat, in your wrists, under the ring on your finger.
Worst of all, beneath the nausea and the chemical heat, there was the constant pressure of honesty building behind your teeth.
Not truth, but compulsion. Truth was a choice, and this was not that. This was old Widow chemistry crawling through your veins, dragging answers out like wire through skin.
Bucky put himself between you and the rest of the reception without seeming to. His hand settled at your back, light enough to pass as husbandly concern, firm enough that you knew he was ready to catch you if your knees gave out.
“You’re sweating,” he said under his breath.
“Thanks, Captain Obvious.”
Bucky’s hand shifted. “Okay. We’re leavin’.”
“We are not leaving.”
“We are.”
“We are at a donor reception for your bill.”
“You’re sick.”
“I have been sick at much more important events.”
Sam, from your left, muttered, “That is not the defense you think it is.”
You wanted to tell him to shut up. You also wanted to ask if the wallpaper was moving or if it was just your nervous system trying to flee your body.
“Get the car, Sam,” Bucky instructed.
Sam pointed toward the front doors. “I’ll pull the car around.”
“Good.”
“I’m helping.”
“You’re grinning.”
You tried to laugh, but the motion made your stomach lurch. Bucky’s hand moved instantly, his palm spreading across the center of your back as you bent slightly at the waist and breathed through your nose.
The reception continued around you, softened by distance and your own rising fever. Voices blurred. Someone laughed. A glass clinked.
You pressed a hand to your stomach and let Bucky guide you toward the hallway. The movement was too smooth to look urgent, too intimate to draw alarm. To anyone watching, Congressman Barnes was simply taking his wife outside for air. His hand at your back. His body angled close. A good husband.
A fake husband who had accidentally drugged your tea and now looked like he wanted to throw himself into traffic about it.
You wanted to make fun of him for that. You wanted to tell him that guilt was unattractive, except it wasn’t—not on him. It was terrible. It was familiar. It was also one of the reasons you had trusted him, because Bucky Barnes was one of the few men you knew who was actually afraid of what he was capable of.
The thought tried to come out your mouth. You clamped your lips shut. Your stomach rebelled immediately.
Bucky felt it. “Don’t fight it.”
You glared at him. “Easy for you to say. You’re not currently one stray question away from announcing state secrets to Kalorama.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said, voice laced with guilt.
“Yes,” you said, because the serum grabbed the answer before you had the chance to soften it. “You should be.”
Bucky stiffened beside you.
Damn it.
You stopped walking, which made the nausea worse, but the look on his face was worse than that. You put a hand on his wrist, fingers tightening around the cuff of his jacket.
“Not like that,” you said.
His eyes found yours.
The hallway had arrowed around him. Around his face, his mouth, the crease between his brows. The worried set of his shoulders. You could hear the party behind you, but it felt like it belonged to another building.
“I mean you should be sorry in the way people are sorry when they step on someone’s foot,” you mutter. “Not in the way you get when you decide you’re personally responsible for every bad thing that has happened since 1943.”
He blinked.
“Sorry, too honest.” You swallowed hard.
His hand turned under yours until he was holding your fingers. “Still true?”
“Unfortunately.”
His thumb moved once over your knuckles.
“C’mere,” he said, pulling you closer to his body so he could support you better. “Car’s here.”
Sam had pulled the SUV directly to the curb and was standing beside the open back door with the posture of a man who had decided he was both chauffeur and audience.
“Your getaway car awaits,” he said.
You pointed at him as Bucky helped you down the front steps. “Sam, stop enjoying this.”
The cold air outside should have helped. It did not. It hit your overheated skin and made you shiver so hard Bucky’s hand tightened at your waist.
You hated needing support. You also hated that he was good at giving it.
He helped you into the backseat with an amount of care that would have been insulting if you had not been trying very hard not to throw up on his shoes. You slid across the leather seat, intending to sit upright with dignity, but the SUV moved half an inch as Sam climbed into the driver’s seat and your stomach dropped through the floor.
Bucky climbed in before you, taking his jacket off and placing it under your shoulder before you could complain. His metal hand braced against the seat while his right hand guided you down with careful pressure at your upper back.
“Lie down.”
“Bossy.”
“Yeah.”
“I am your chief of staff.”
“You’re my wife.”
“Fake wife.”
“Sick wife.”
The argument unfortunately held traction.
You lay down across the backseat, your head ending up in his lap because the universe had apparently decided humiliation should arrive in layers. Bucky went very still beneath you.
For one suspended second, the truth serum, the nausea, the evening, the donor reception, all of it thinned into one clear fact: your cheek was against his thigh, his hand hovering near your shoulder, and you could feel the warmth of him through the fabric of his trousers.
The SUV pulled away from the curb and your stomach lurched again. You groaned and pressed the back of your hand against your mouth. Bucky’s hand came down immediately, broad and warm against your hair.
“Breathe,” he said.
“I am breathing.”
“Through your nose.”
“I know how breathing works.”
“Coulda fooled me.”
“You’re becoming quite bold for a man who poisoned his wife.”
Sam made a sound from the front seat.
Bucky closed his eyes.
“I deserved that one,” he said.
“You deserve several. I’m spacing them out.”
Bucky snorted. “Appreciate it.”
Sam adjusted the rearview mirror, which you noticed because even poisoned and nauseous, you were trained to notice people adjusting mirrors.
He was looking directly at you, not even pretending he wasn’t.
“Wilson,” Bucky said.
“What?”
“Drive.”
“I am driving.”
“Then look at the road.”
“The road is still there.”
“Sam.”
“Fine.”
He looked forward for approximately four seconds.
“So,” Sam said. “Truth serum.”
“Shut up, Wilson,” you grumbled.
He did not.
“I’m just clarifying the situation.”
Bucky’s fingers moved through your hair once, almost absent. Maybe he did it to comfort you. Maybe he did it without thinking. Either way, your whole body noticed, which was extremely inconvenient given that your body was already filing numerous complaints.
“How long does it last?” Sam said.
“Depends on dose, metabolism, training, whether the serum was stabilized properly, and whether your fake husband has a heavy hand.”
Bucky looked down at you. “I put in five drops.”
You lifted your head just enough to glare at him. Five drops.
Bucky’s face changed.
“What?”
“Five?”
“You said you liked mint.”
Sam started laughing.
You dropped your head back into Bucky’s lap and closed your eyes again. “I hate both of you.”
“No, you don’t,” Sam said.
Your mouth opened and your stomach seized. You sat up halfway so fast Bucky had to catch you by the shoulders.
“No,” you said, voice tight. “I don’t.”
Bucky leaned forward with you, one arm around your back now, steady and immediate. “Don’t answer.”
“I know that.”
“Then don’t.”
“I’m trying.”
Sam’s laughter died. “Wait, it makes you sick if you don’t answer.”
You swallowed hard, eyes shut, willing the wave down. “Yeah, bird brain. If I fight too hard. Or try to lie. Yes.”
Bucky’s arm tightened around you.
Sam went quiet for a moment.
Then in a much more careful voice: “Okay, that part’s not funny.”
“No,” you said. “But I’ll recover.”
Bucky exhaled through his nose. “Lie back.”
You did, partly because the nausea was fading to a simmer and partly because his hand at the back of your head made it easier to let go. He arranged you with the same maddening care as before, jacket under your shoulder, your head in his lap, his palm resting lightly against your temple as if he could measure your temperature through sheer concern.
Maybe he could. Maybe it was a feature that came with your super soldier.
Not your super soldier.
The SUV weaved through D.C. traffic, the city lights breaking across the windows in long white and red lines. The backseat smelled like leather, Bucky’s aftershave, and the faint medicinal sharpness of your own poisoned breath. Up front, Sam drove with one hand on the wheel, posture loose, but you could tell he was listening to every breath you took.
He was having too much fun, yes, but he was also worried.
“Alright,” he said after a while, too casually. “Safe questions only.”
“No such thing.”
“Sure there is. Widow stuff.”
Bucky’s head snapped up. “That is not safe.”
Sam ignored him. “Could you really kill a man with a paperclip?"
You opened one eye. “What kind of paperclip?”
Sam’s grin returned in the mirror. “Standard office.”
“Yes.”
Bucky looked down at you. “Really?”
“Not quickly.”
Sam nodded in approval. “See? Educational.”
“Stop asking about murder,” Bucky said, his thumb brushing your temple.
You tried not to enjoy the touch.
You failed.
Sam kept going, because mercy was not one of his spiritual gifts.
“Could you beat Bucky in a fight?”
“Yes.”
Bucky raised an eyebrow.
You did not open your eyes.
“That was fast,” Sam said.
“It was true.”
Bucky’s voice lowered, amused despite himself. “You think you could beat me?”
“I know I could beat you.”
“Super soldier.”
“Predictable.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Predictable?”
“You fight like a man who is used to being stronger than everyone else.”
Bucky’s hand stilled in your hair. You opened your eyes and looked up at him. His face hovered above yours, upside down from your angle, dark hair falling slightly forward, expression caught between offense and interest.
“You rely on force when irritated,” you said. “Your left side is overprotected because of the arm. You assume people will avoid it. I wouldn’t. Also, you hesitate when you think you might hurt me.”
The SUV went quiet. Bucky’s throat moved.
You blinked up at Bucky, realizing what you had said.
Then you added, because you could not help yourself, “I would also cheat.”
Sam laughed so hard the car drifted half an inch before he corrected it.
“Road,” Bucky said, looking forward.
“I got it,” Sam said, still laughing. “I got it.”
You let your eyes close again, heat creeping across your face. You were not sure if it was the serum, the fever, or the fact that Bucky had gone silent beneath you.
His hand resumed its slow, absent motion over your hair after a moment.
You wanted to bite him.
Possibly affectionately. You were not going to examine that.
Sam cleared his throat. “Okay. Next question. What happened to my Valentine’s Day donut?”
Bucky’s brows drew together. “What?”
“Last year,” Sam said, “I brought a dozen donuts to Buck’s office. Special ones from that place in Alexandria. I put a note on the box that said, ‘Do not eat the pink one, Sam is saving it.’ I came back from a call and the pink one was gone.”
You kept your eyes closed.
Sam said your name again.
You said nothing.
Your stomach turned sharply.
Bucky’s hand pressed lightly to your shoulder. “Hey.”
“I ate it,” you said, and immediately felt better.
Sam gasped.
Bucky looked down at you with something like amusement.
“You lied to me,” Sam said.
“I said Bucky looked suspicious.”
“Bucky always looks suspicious. That was low-hanging fruit.”
“Hey,” Bucky interjected.
“I knew it,” Sam grumbled. “You said you didn’t even like strawberry frosting.”
“I don’t.”
Both men waited.
You sighed. “It had jam inside.”
“It had a note.”
Bucky actually laughed then, enough that you felt it in the muscles beneath your cheek. A warm low vibration. You hated how much you liked it.
“Alright,” Sam said, shifting gears. “Serious question.”
“No,” Bucky said immediately.
“You don’t even know what it is.”
“I know your tone.”
Sam ignored him. “How many aliases have you had?”
You considered not answering.
The nausea warned you.
“Thirteen active. More if you count burn names and one very short-lived Belgian art dealer identity.”
Sam’s mouth opened.
Bucky went still again.
You felt his silence before you saw it.
He knew things about your past. More than most. Less than all. He had read the sanitized files, heard the stories you offered like jokes, pieced together the rest from old mission reports and the way you woke up when someone spoke Russian too softly behind you.
But numbers were different.
Thirteen lives. Thirteen names. Thirteen versions of you created to enter rooms, ruin men, disappear afterward.
Bucky’s hand settled against your cheek, not forcing you to look at him. Just there. You did not open your eyes.
Sam’s voice was quieter when he asked, “Did you like any of them?”
“One.”
The answer hurt on the way up.
Bucky’s hand stilled.
You opened your eyes and looked toward the dark window, where city lights blurred against your reflection.
“She had a dog,” you said. “I mean, a fake dog, but—”
“Still counts,” Bucky said softly.
You stared up at him, mesmerized by the way you could still make out the blue in his eyes in the dark of the car. Mesmerized by the way he handled you so gently when you knew you didn’t deserve it. Didn’t deserve him. You fought the urge to tell him how gorgeous he was, how much you enjoyed the feeling of his hands in your hair, how you’d like his hands to be—
Your stomach turned so violently you lurched upright again, hand over your mouth.
Bucky moved with you, arm around your shoulders, his other hand already reaching for the little paper bag Sam had shoved into the seat pocket from some takeout place. He got it open in front of you before you could ask.
You did not throw up. Barely.
But your body shook with the effort, and Bucky held you through it, one hand firm between your shoulder blades, his voice quiet near your ear.
“Breathe. That’s it. Don’t fight it so hard.”
“I’m not—”
You stopped.
Bucky’s fingers pressed lightly against your back.
“You are,” he said.
You hated that he knew. That he was right. You breathed slowly and the nausea loosened.
Sam had gone quiet in the front seat, his joking temporarily stripped down to concern. He drove more carefully now. Fewer sharp stops. Slower turns. He was not careless, not ever, when it mattered.
You sank back down, exhausted now, your head finding Bucky’s lap again like it had been assigned there.
“Done with serious questions,” Bucky told Sam.
Sam nodded once. “Yeah.”
For about a minute, the car was quiet.
Then:
“Can I ask a stupid one?”
Bucky sighed. “Sam.”
“She likes stupid ones.”
“I do,” you admitted.
Sam brightened. “See?”
Bucky looked down at you. You looked up at him.
His expression was soft with worry, but there was a question there too. Permission.
You nodded once.
Bucky looked forward. “One.”
Sam grinned. “Worst date you’ve ever been on?”
Bucky’s entire body went still. “You don’t have to answer.”
You smiled despite the nausea. “I do, actually, if I don’t want to redecorate your lap.”
His mouth shut, a faint red touching his ears.
“The worst operational date was with a French arms broker who cried after sex and asked if I thought his mother loved him.”
Sam made a strangled sound. Bucky looked like he had been hit.
You continued. “The worst real date was with an assistant U.S. attorney who said he liked strong women, but got genuinely scared when I was giving orders in the bedroom later.”
Sam laughed again, quieter this time.
Bucky’s hand had stopped moving through your hair.
You glanced up, his jaw was tight. That was very interesting.
“Barnes?” you said softly.
“I’m fine.” He grunted.
“You’re lying. I can tell because I currently cannot.”
“This is incredible,” Sam whispered.
Bucky looked toward the front seat. “Ask your last question.”
“I already asked my last one.”
“Then be quiet.”
“But now I have a better one.”
“No.”
“It’s not for you.”
“No.”
Sam looked at you in the mirror, the grin returning with terrible caution. “Do you think Buck is handsome?”
Bucky’s hand tightened in your hair. You couldn’t stop yourself from thinking about how you’d like to feel his hands in your hair in a different circumstance.
Your body reacted before your mind could build a wall around it. Heat climbed your neck. Your mouth opened, then shut. Your stomach turned hard.
“No,” Bucky said.
You pressed your lips together. The nausea surged. Bucky felt your body go rigid. He looked down at you, alarm replacing everything else.
“Hey. Don’t answer. Sam, stop.”
Sam lifted a hand from the wheel. “Okay. I’m done.”
But the question was already in the car.
Do you think Buck is handsome?
Stupid question.
Easy question.
You could have said yes. You had said worse tonight. But this felt different with your head in his lap, with his jacket under your shoulder, with his fingers in your hair and his whole body bent around the effort not to take what the serum was trying to hand him.
The answer sat behind your teeth. The refusal sat in your stomach like a blade.
You turned your face into Bucky’s thigh and groaned.
Bucky’s hand slid to the back of your neck, warm and steady. “I’m sorry ‘bout him, sweetheart. Just breathe for me.”
“I hate him,” you said.
“I know.”
Sam said, much quieter, “I’m sorry.”
“No,” you opened one eye toward the front seat. “No, you’re not.”
“I am a little.”
“You’re sorry because Bucky is going to murder you.”
Sam considered this. “That was a factor.”
The serum dragged at the answer, punishing the locked door because it could not get through. Bucky’s thumb moved slowly against your neck, grounding and patient. The kind of touch that made you want to tell the truth for reasons that had nothing to do with chemicals.
“Objectively,” you said finally, voice muffled against his leg, “yes.”
Bucky stopped breathing.
You kept your eyes shut. “He is very handsome in a very annoying way. It’s irritating.”
No one spoke.
The nausea eased at once, which was humiliating.
You continued, because apparently the door that had been open couldn’t be shut.
“And his shoulders are a problem. His hair is usually a problem. The eyes are…” You stopped. Tried to stop. Failed. “The eyes are worse.”
Bucky was very still beneath you.
You opened your eyes and looked up.
Bucky’s face was turned slightly away, but you could see the red at the tips of his ears. The tightness in his jaw had changed into something else. Something shy, almost. Embarrassed and pleased and guilty for being pleased.
That made your chest hurt.
“Also, he dresses like a widowed history professor.”
Sam barked out a laugh.
Bucky looked down at you, and the expression on his face finally cracked.
A smile. Small, helpless, warm.
“You done?” he asked.
“I hope so.”
“Feel better?”
“Physically, yes.”
Sam shook his head. “For what it’s worth, I thought that was beautiful.”
“Wilson, drive into the river.”
“See? She’s fine.”
Bucky gave him a look.
You closed your eyes again, drained from nausea, embarrassment, and the emotional labor of not confessing anything more catastrophic.
His hand resumed its movement through your hair, slower now.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
You wanted to say obviously. The lie rose. Your stomach warned you. So you told the truth.
“No.”
His hand stilled.
Then, gently, “Okay.”
You opened your eyes and looked up at him.
His face was still flushed, still worried, still guilty. His ring caught the passing streetlights where his hand rested near your cheek. His fake wedding ring. Your fake husband.
“You’re very guilty,” you said.
“Yeah.”
“It was an accident.”
“Still happened.”
“You are not allowed to self-flagellate in the back of an SUV.”
“That a rule?”
“Is now.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Okay.”
“And if you apologize again, I’ll say something graphic about your arms just to make you uncomfortable.”
Sam made a noise. “Please don’t threaten him with a good time while I’m driving.”
Bucky shut his eyes.
You smiled weakly.
The SUV turned onto Bucky’s street.
Home, you thought, and immediately wished you had not.
You tried not to think about the fact that the safest place you had been all night was with the man who had accidentally poisoned you.
By the time Sam pulled up in front of the townhouse, Bucky had already decided he was carrying you inside.
He did not announce this.
Announcing it would give you time to argue, and you had already spent the last twenty minutes nauseous, honest, and stubborn enough to keep trying to sit up every time the SUV slowed at a light.
The truth serum had not knocked you out. That might have been easier, in some ways. Instead, it had left you too aware of everything. Too hot, too sick, too sharp around the edges. You kept blinking like the streetlights were too bright. Every so often, your mouth would open like a thought had tried to escape, and you would clamp your lips shut so hard your whole body went tense.
Bucky felt it every time.
Your head was still in his lap. His jacket bunched beneath your shoulder. One of your hands had curled loosely around the fabric near his knee, like you had grabbed onto the nearest thing during a bad turn and forgotten to let go.
Sam put the SUV in park and looked at the two of you through the rearview mirror. His face had lost most of the teasing by then, leaving behind concern and something quieter Bucky did not want to name.
“You need help gettin’ her in?”
“No,” Bucky said.
You opened one eye. “I am not luggage.”
“You’re right,” Sam said. “Luggage is easier.”
You lifted one hand, weakly, and pointed at Sam. “Your betrayal has been noted.”
Sam turned around enough to look at you properly. “You gonna be okay?”
Your mouth opened.
You seemed to consider the question. Or maybe fight it. It was hard to tell now. The serum had started to wear at you in waves, dragging honesty up at odd intervals and punishing you when you tried to push it back down.
Finally, you said, “Probably.”
Sam’s face shifted. “That sounded real.”
“It was.”
Bucky slid carefully out from under you. The second your head left his lap, your eyes shut tighter and your hand went to your stomach.
“Easy,” he said.
“I hate cars.”
“You used to jump out of them.”
“I hated them then, too.”
Bucky got out first, then opened the back door on your side. Cold air slid into the SUV, and you shivered once, hard enough that Bucky stopped thinking about anything except getting you inside.
He leaned in. “C’mere.”
“I can walk.”
“Didn’t ask.”
“Yeah, it’s implied by the way you’re looming.”
“You gonna fight me?”
You opened your eyes and looked at him.
For half a second, he saw the urge. Not a real fight. Not tonight. Just the reflexive objection to being helped. The old, embedded thing in both of you that said needing someone was another way to get trapped.
Then your stomach turned again. Your face tightened, and the fight went out of you with a quiet miserable breath.
“No,” you said.
Bucky reached in and lifted you carefully, one arm beneath your knees, the other around your back. You were warm against him, too warm. Your head tipped into his shoulder like you were too exhausted to keep it up.
The movement made your dress shift against his hand, smooth fabric under his palm. He kept his grip careful. Clinical. Useful. He had carried injured people before. Soldiers. Civilians. Strangers bleeding out in places they never should have been.
That was not the problem.
You were not a stranger. You were not a mission. You were his wife, except not really. His chief of staff. His best friend. The woman who had spent the last car ride accidentally telling him just how attractive he was.
His ears went hot again just thinking about it.
He adjusted his hold and looked at Sam.
“I’ve got her.”
Sam nodded, but his eyes lingered on Bucky’s face for one second too long.
“Yeah,” Sam said quietly. “I know.”
Bucky carried you up the steps and into the townhouse. Sam followed with Bucky’s jacket, your bag, and the folded paper bag Bucky had kept ready in case you got sick again.
Inside, the house was dark except for the entryway lamp Bucky had left on before the reception. Your shoes were still near the console table from earlier. Your coat hung over the arm of the couch. A stack of your folders sat on the coffee table, one marked with a color-coded tab system Bucky did not understand but respected too much to disturb.
His house looked lived in now.
You shifted against him. “Don’t carry me like I’m consumptive.”
Sam shut the door behind you. “Do people still say consumptive?”
“She’s been using historical terms,” Bucky said. “Says she’s tryna ‘meet me where I’m at’ or whatever. But it’s a good sign. Poisoned and still doing her vocabulary.”
“I’m not poisoned,” you muttered into Bucky’s shoulder. “Just, ah, chemically inconvenienced.”
Bucky glanced down at you. “You gonna let me take care of you?”
Your eyes opened. The serum was still in you. He saw it in the way your expression flickered, in the tiny pause before you answered. A fight behind your face.
Then, quietly, “Yes.”
Bucky carried you upstairs. You were quiet against him now, your fingers resting near the collar of his shirt. He could feel the warmth of your breath through the fabric at his shoulder. Every few steps, you swallowed hard, and his grip tightened even though there was nothing more he could do.
He hated all of it.
The tea. The five drops. The look on your face when you had realized what he had done. The fact that you had spent the last hour fighting your own body because of something he had given you.
At the top of the stairs, he carried you into the bedroom and lowered you onto the edge of the bed. He meant to step back immediately, give you space, get water, get a towel, get anything useful.
But you swayed.
He caught you by the shoulders.
“Still with me?”
You looked up at him, your eyes were slightly glassy, but focused.
“Unfortunately.”
His mouth softened despite himself. “Yeah, there she is.”
Sam appeared in the doorway with your bag. “You want me to stay?”
Bucky looked at you.
You were already shaking your head.
“No. I cannot have you asking any more questions near my sickbed.”
Sam put a hand to his chest. “I’m wounded.”
“You’ll live.”
Bucky took your bag from him. “I’ll call if anything changes.”
Sam’s expression sobered again. “You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Drink water,” Sam told you.
You lifted one hand without looking. “Goodbye, porch auntie.”
Sam laughed softly and left. Bucky heard the front door close downstairs.
Too quiet.
He stood by the bed, your bag in hand, watching you breathe through another wave of nausea. You pressed your fingers to your mouth, eyes shut, shoulders tight beneath the straps of your dress.
Bucky moved immediately.
“Bathroom?”
You shook your head once.
“Bowl?”
You nodded.
He grabbed the small trash bin from beside the desk, emptied the papers into a pile on the floor, and set it beside the bed. Then he went into the bathroom for a washcloth, ran it under cool water, wrung it out, and brought it back.
When he pressed it gently to the back of your neck, your whole body loosened by a fraction.
“Thank you,” you said.
He sat beside you, leaving space. “You need anything else?”
“My pajamas.”
“Okay.”
“And help.”
Bucky went still.
You seemed to realize what you had said only after it had left your mouth. The serum had loosened you enough to ask for something before pride could cut it down.
“I can do it,” you said immediately.
The lie hit you fast.
Bucky reached for the bowl, but you pressed a hand to your stomach and breathed through it.
“You don’t need to lie,” he said.
“I hate this.”
“I know.”
“I hate asking.”
“I know.”
He did. Better than most.
He kept his voice low. “I’ll help however you want. You tell me what to do.”
Your hands went to the side zipper of your dress, clumsy with exhaustion. Bucky looked away at once, but not before he saw the strap slide down your shoulder.
He turned to the wall, jaw clenching.
Behind him, fabric shifted. The dress hit the floor with a soft sound. Bucky stared at the paint like it contained answers.
It did not. It was just a wall. A very lucky wall.
“Barnes.”
His voice came out rough. “Yeah?”
“You can turn around. I’m not naked.”
He turned carefully.
Bad idea.
You were sitting on the edge of the bed in your bra and underwear, one arm wrapped around your stomach, hair mussed from the car ride, cheeks flushed from the serum. The washcloth had slipped from your neck to the mattress. Your dress lay pooled at your feet like it had surrendered.
Bucky’s brain stopped being useful.
He had seen you in evening gowns, tactical gear, sweats, blood, rain, a hospital blanket, his sweatshirt in the kitchen that morning. None of that had prepared him for this. For the ordinary intimacy of you half-undressed in his bedroom, too tired to posture properly, looking up at him.
He forced his eyes up to your face.
Your mouth curved faintly. Even sick you noticed.
“Don’t pass out, dreamboat.”
“I’m fine.”
“Sounded like a lie.”
“Wasn’t.”
“Mm.”
You leaned back on your hands. “Top drawer on the left. Pajamas.”
“Left dresser?”
“Yes.”
He moved too quickly, crossing to the dresser and opening the top left drawer. He froze.
Not pajamas.
At least, not only pajamas.
The top layer contained silk and lace, folded things in black and red and dark blue, fabric so delicate it barely looked capable of existing in daylight. It took his brain half a second to understand what he was looking at.
Then his entire body went hot.
Bucky shut the drawer halfway on instinct, then stopped because he still needed the damn pajamas.
“They’re in there,” you said behind him.
His eyes closed.
Of course they were. Of course your pajama drawer also contained lingerie. Of course he had opened it while you sat half-dressed on the bed behind him, sick and trusting and completely unaware that his mind had just betrayed every decent intention he had.
He stared at the drawer again. Pajamas. Find pajamas. He moved a black lace thong with two fingers, like it might explode. Before he could stop himself, he was imagining you in it.
You standing in this room with the lamp low and that sharp little smile on your mouth. You telling him to touch you, and him obliging you instantly. The feeling of the thin lace against your hot skin. Your legs tossed over his shoulders carelessly.
And then he imagines you wearing it for someone else. Letting someone else see the softness under all that armor. Someone else’s hands at your waist. Someone else pulling the straps down. Someone else making you laugh in a bedroom that was not his.
His stomach twisted.
Because of course you owned lingerie. You were an adult woman with a life before this fake marriage and a body that did not belong to him. Of course there had been other men. Other women, maybe. Other names. Other rooms. Other hands.
The ring on your finger was not a claim. The house was not a claim. The bed was not a claim. The word wife was not a claim, not the way he wanted it to be, not when you had agreed to stay married because it was safer than the scandal and not because you wanted him in any of the ways that kept him awake at night.
Still, the thought burned and he hated himself for it.
He hated that some small, ancient, selfish part of him wanted to know whether any of that lace had been worn for someone specific. Whether you had packed it because you planned to wear it again. Whether you had folded it into his dresser like a normal thing because, for you, it was normal.
“Everything okay?” You asked.
“No,” he said, because apparently your truth serum had become contagious.
You laughed weakly. “Find something scandalous, old man?”
He cleared his throat. “Pajamas.”
“Mmhmm.”
He found them at last beneath a folded slip he refused to examine too closely. Soft cotton shorts. An oversized T-shirt. Not his, thank God, because he was not built for that tonight. He closed the drawer with more care necessary and turned back.
His face felt hot.
You noticed immediately. Your eyebrows lifted.
“Oh.”
”Don’t.”
“What did you see?”
“Pajamas.”
“You are an abysmal liar. Are you blushing?”
“No.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
He held the pajamas out without stepping too close. “Here.”
You took them, fingers brushing his.
And then, with absolutely no warning and no apparent concern for his survival, you reached behind your back for the clasp of your bra.
Bucky spun around so fast his metal hand clipped the dresser.
The drawer rattled.
You started laughing.
He faced the wall. “What? You’re changing.”
“I was also changing thirty seconds ago.”
“I wasn’t looking thirty seconds ago.”
“You absolutely looked.”
“By accident.”
“Sure.”
He stared at the wall with the grim focus of a man trying to survive interrogation.
“You’re very committed to the gentleman act,” you said.
“It’s not an act.”
You made an unconvinced sound.
The bed shifted as you pulled on the t-shirt.
“Decency restored.”
When he turned around, you were in bed, or halfway there, sitting against the pillows in the oversized shirt and shorts. Your hair was loose around your face. Your skin still looked too warm. The bowl sat on the nightstand beside a glass of water.
He sat on the edge of the bed, far enough away that there was space between you. He wanted to touch your forehead. He wanted to check your pulse. He wanted to keep his hand in your hair until the tight line around your mouth went away.
“Serum wearing off?” He asked.
You nodded slowly. “I think so. It’s less loud.”
“Loud?”
“The honesty feels… loud.”
His throat tightened. “I’m sorry.”
You closed your eyes. “You already apologized.”
“Still.”
“I know.”
“You asked me not to self-flagellate.”
“I did. Very wise of me.”
“Trying not to.”
Your eyes opened. Softer now. Exhausted.
“You didn’t mean to.”
“That doesn’t make it okay.”
“No.” You looked at him for a long second. “It was an accident.”
He nodded.
Bucky should have left it there. He should have told you to sleep, turned off the lamp, gone downstairs, called Sam, and spent the next several hours hating himself in the kitchen like a gentleman.
Instead, he heard your voice in the car again.
The eyes are worse.
He knew better. Knew you were still under the serum, knew asking near the edges was unfair. But the words had been inside him since the car, pressing against old wants he had spent months burying under strategy and restraint.
He looked at you.
“Did you mean what you said?” He asked.
Your fingers tightened around the blanket and he regretted it immediately.
“Sorry,” he said. “Don’t answer that.”
“No.” You swallowed. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not.”
”I can answer.”
“You don’t have to.”
You looked toward the window, then back at him. Your eyes were clear enough now that he let himself hope the serum had eased.
“In the car,” he said carefully. “You said some things.”
“I said many things.”
“Yeah.”
Bucky looked down at the ring on his hand. “I know you were dosed. I know it wasn’t fair. I’m not asking because I want to hold you to anything.”
“Then why are you asking?”
Because I love you.
Because I need to know if there is any part of this that is real for you too. Because every day in this house is killing me a little and I would thank you for it if you asked.
He did not say any of that.
Instead, he said, “I don’t know.”
You watched him for a long moment. Then your expression changed.
“Bucky,” you said. “We’re friends.”
He held still.
You continued, voice careful. “We’re friends. And colleagues. And we get along better than most people who accidentally end up married for press management reasons.”
He felt something in him begin to shrink.
You gave a small shrug, eyes not quite meeting his now.
“I meant what I said in the obvious way. You’re attractive. That’s just… objective information. Like weather. Or the fact Sam talks too much.”
He tried to smile.
“So that’s all?”
You hesitated a fraction, then nodded.
“That’s all.”
The words landed entirely too cleanly.
Bucky had been shot before. Stabbed. Frozen. Cut open and remade into something else. He knew pain in plenty of forms.
This one settled heavy behind his ribs.
Right. Of course. Friends, colleagues, fake spouses. Two people who worked well together and had made a bad decision in New Orleans. That was all it had ever been for you. That was all he had any right to expect.
He nodded once.
“Right,” he said, “of course.”
You looked at him then. Something flickered across your face, but he was already standing, already turning away because he could not sit there and let you see all of it.
“You should rest,” he said.
“Bucky—”
“I’ll be downstairs. Bowl’s there. Water too. Call if you need anything.”
His voice sounded normal. That was good. He had practice.
Bucky crossed to the door and paused with his hand on the frame. He did not look back. If he looked back, he might do something embarrassing, like ask again or apologize or tell you the truth when you didn’t want to hear it.
“Try to sleep,” he said.
Then he left, shutting the bedroom door behind him.
Bucky Barnes had survived wanting things he could not have before. He would survive this too.
He went downstairs, not seeing you grab the bowl he had left beside the bed and bend over it, shaking and miserable as your body rejected the words you had forced through your teeth.
That’s all.
You had lied.
So close! 😩
to have and to hold office | part I
congressman!Bucky Barnes x widow!reader
summary. After a late-night in New Orleans, Congressman Bucky Barnes and his chief of staff wake up legally married. An annulment should be simple, but unfortunately, nothing about their lives is simple. With Bucky's reputation on the line and her past threatening to resurface, staying married starts to look like the safest option. It's only supposed to be temporary. Public appearances, a convincing story, and a quiet divorce once the headlines fade. But fake marriage is harder when everyone else believes it. Especially when Bucky is already in love with his wife. word count. 6.9k warnings. alcohol/intoxication, drunk decision making, fake marriage setup, friends with questionable boundaries
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Congressman James Buchanan Barnes moved through the warm New Orleans night with the posture of a man trying very hard not to look like a man who had just spent four hours shaking hands with donors, veterans, reporters, lobbyists, local officials, and one woman who asked if his metal arm was “cold to the touch.”
You had nearly handled that one yourself.
Bucky had stopped you with one hand around your wrist, gently, but firm, before you could ask the woman if her personality was cold to the touch. He had not even looked at you when he did it, just caught your wrist, answered politely, and moved on.
Annoying.
Very annoying.
You stumbled half a step on the uneven sidewalk and immediately cursed whoever had created cobblestones—probably some medieval peasant—and cursed yourself for consuming so much bourbon at the event itself and the afterparty.
“You all right?”
Bucky’s hand moved to your elbow.
You looked down at his hand, then up at him. “You asking as my boss, my congressman, or the man responsible for making me put up with all these rich assholes for hours?”
“I’m askin’ as your friend. Should I be worried?”
“You should always be worried. S’what makes you such an effective public servant.”
He huffed, the closest he usually came to laughing in public.
The hotel was two streets behind you, all soft golden lighting and polished donors and tiny crab cakes that had been arranged on porcelain spoons. You had stolen one of the spoons simply because you were fond of the size and shape, and it now resided securely in the band of your bra.
You had handed Mia your glass of champagne when you noticed Bucky was making that face he made whenever too many people thanked him for his service. He looked like he might turn to stone.
Mia Santos, his communications director, had not asked questions. She was good that way. Also, likely, afraid of you. Healthy.
Now the streets of New Orleans spread out before you in humid, glowing layers. Neon signs illuminated puddles left from an earlier storm. Music leaked out of bars and down avenues. It was too much, in a way that made you feel like the city itself was saying make worse choices.
And who were you to not embrace the local culture?
“I want it on record,” you said, the world spinning around you, “that I was doing just fine before you convinced me to have those last two drinks at the afterparty.”
Bucky snorted. “Trust me, you didn’t need encouragement. You got here all on your own.”
“Rude.”
“Accurate.”
“Two things can be true.”
His eyes slid toward you, lips almost curving again.
Bucky Barnes looked unfairly good illuminated by the lamplights of the French Quarter.
This was not new information. You had known him for years. Seen him at campaign stops, hearings, office crises, hospital visits, safehouses, and one unfortunate charity softball game where he had refused to hit the ball hard because he was scared of killing the pitcher. You vaguely recalled yourself giving him ill-advised advice, something like do it for the children!
You had seen him in suits. In tactical gear. In rolled-up shirtsleeves, tie loose, hair falling into his eyes while you yelled at him for trying to rewrite his own remarks fifteen minutes before delivery.
You were not impressed by Bucky Barnes. Not generally. Not physically.
Usually.
Tonight, however, the humidity had done something catastrophic to his hair, and his shirt collar was open beneath his dark suit jacket, his tie had vanished sometime in the night.
And you were drunk. Pleasantly, dangerously warm. The kind of drunk that made your limbs loose, your mouth faster than your judgement. Bucky had been drinking too.
You knew because you had watched him accept bourbon from three separate people, nurse the first glass, finish the second, and then a third. He seemed looser than usual. Softer around the edges. He had laughed at two of your jokes without pretending it was a cough.
“You’re smiling,” he said.
You blinked. “No. No, I’m not.”
“You are.”
He guided you around a dip in the sidewalk. You noticed, and pretended not to.
“You keep doing that,” you muttered.
“What?”
“Acting like I can’t walk.”
“Yeah, well, m’not sure you can right now. You nearly fought a curb.”
“The curb started it.”
“And you threatened a shrimp tower.”
“You should’ve heard what they were saying to me!”
He shook his head, but he was smiling now. Fully smiling, almost. The real version, not the press version. Not the polite congressional one with the careful mouth and the distant eyes. This one showed up rarely and usually by accident.
You tried to commit it to memory in your drunken state.
You were interrupted by brass, loud and bright. Trumpet, trombone, drum. A little ragged, a little joyous, moving closer from the cross street ahead.
You stopped.
Bucky stopped because you had stopped, and because he was trained by now to treat your sudden stillness as either tactical assessment or impending nonsense.
You held up one hand. “Do you hear that?”
“I hear a lot of things.”
The music got louder as the procession turned the corner.
It was not quite a parade. It was too small and too disorderly. A brass band moved down the street with a dozen people trailing behind it, waving napkins, cups, and what appeared to be a feather boa in the colors of a tropical bird. Someone wore a sash that said Divorced and Delighted! Someone else wore a veil. Three women were laughing so hard they could barely walk.
You inhaled.
“No,” Bucky said, instantly.
“I’m engaging with the public.”
“You’re trespassing into someone else’s event.”
“Cultural immersion.”
The procession drew closer, and the woman in the divorce sash spotted you, gasped at Bucky, then pointed at him with her plastic cup.
“You!” She shouted. “You’re the congressman!”
Bucky’s shoulders shifted, the public face moving into place.
You hated it. Not always, sometimes it was necessary. Useful, even. You had built half his career around understanding when Bucky Barnes needed to be human and when he needed to be untouchable. But tonight, after hours of people mining his trauma for a handshake, you did not want him to have to become Congressman Barnes again.
You stepped in front of him and pointed back at the woman.
“And you are divorced and delighted. Congratulations!”
The woman stared at you for a second. Then she screamed with laughter.
Bucky’s hand closed around the back of your arm, not stopping you, just there. The woman grabbed your free hand.
“Come on, baby, we’re celebrating!”
“What are we celebrating?” You asked.
“Me leaving Dennis!”
The woman pulled you into the moving cluster before Bucky could object, and because Bucky Barnes had survived assassins, aliens, Hydra, and congressional hearings, but had not yet developed a defense against you making delighted eye contact with a newly divorced woman holding a plastic cup, he followed.
The brass band surged around you. You laughed because it was impossible not to. Someone shoved a napkin into your hand, someone else draped beads over your head. A man with a tambourine passed near you, and you reached for it on instinct.
Bucky caught your wrist.
“No.”
“I wasn’t going to steal it!”
He gave you a look.
“I was just going to… redistribute it.”
“That sounds like stealing.”
“Welcome to government, Congressman.”
The man with the tambourine overheard you and grinned. “You want it?”
“Yes!” You said.
“No.” Bucky said.
The man handed it to you, and you lifted it above your head in victory.
Bucky stared at the sky like he was asking God for backup.
You shook the tambourine badly. Immediately, aggressively, with confidence that was disproportionate to your skill.
“You’re off beat,” Bucky winced.
“It’s a counter-rhythm."
Bucky leaned closer, voice low near your ear so you could hear him over the band. “You’re going to get us kicked out of the procession.”
Your skin prickled at the warmth of his breath. Rude. You shook the tambourine directly beside his shoulder to cover whatever your face had just done.
The procession rolled forward, and you let it take you. For a few minutes, there was no policy. No Bucky Barnes brand problem. No veterans’ bill. No old aliases. No list of things you had done and things you would never fully outrun.
There was just music and heat and Bucky’s hand hovering near your back every time you veered too close to the street. Annoyingly chivalrous.
“You know you don’t have to keep saving me from traffic,” you said, glancing at him.
“I do if you keep trying to join it. You’re never allowed to drink bourbon again.”
“You don’t get to tell me what to do, Sarge,” you said, giving him a playful mock salute.
His eyebrows lifted.
Ah.
You had surprised him. You liked surprising Bucky. He spent so much of his life expecting the worst that surprising him with something stupid felt almost virtuous.
“You’re making me regret leaving the hotel.”
“I’m making you a man of the people.”
“I was already elected.”
“Barely.”
“You ran the campaign.”
“And I’m kept up at night by the margins.”
He looked at you for a second, eyes soft with amusement.
You felt something in your chest tilt. No. Absolutely not. Bad chest.
You lifted the tambourine again. “I should return this.”
Bucky just nodded.
You brought the tambourine back to the man who accepted it solemnly.
“You did terrible,” he told you.
“Why, thank you.”
He laughed and kissed your hand.
Bucky’s expression did something interesting. You did not know what to call it. It was not jealousy, obviously not. Bucky was not jealous because a man with a tambourine kissed your hand in a street parade celebrating a Dennis-based divorce. That would be absurd.
Still, when you returned to his side, he was staring at the man with mild suspicion. And when the parade moved on, he did not immediately follow. Neither did you. The music drifted down the street, taking sequins and beads and most of your remaining sense with it.
You stood beneath a wrought-iron balcony dripping with plants, the street damp beneath your shoes, the air heavy and sweet. A neon sign buzzed across the street. Somewhere, a saxophone moved lazily through a melody that sounded like it had been awake for a hundred years.
You looked down, one heel strap had come loose.
“Traitor,” you mumbled to your shoe.
Bucky followed your gaze. “Need help?”
“No.”
You bent down. The street tilted. Bucky caught your elbow.
“I had that,” you said.
“You were about to headbutt a mailbox.”
“Yeah, well, it looked at me funny.”
He crouched before you could object. You stared at him. This was bad. Bucky Barnes on one knee in front of you on a wet New Orleans sidewalk, dark hair falling forward, one hand gentle around your ankle while he fixed the strap of your heel.
You blinked several times, the bourbon offering you several unhelpful thoughts. You rejected all of them. Mostly.
“This is very Cinderella,” you said.
He did not look up. “You calling me the prince?”
“The footman. You’re definitely the footman. The prince had poor vetting procedures.”
“He tried a shoe on every woman in the kingdom.”
“Exactly. Inefficient and weird.”
Bucky fastened the strap and stood. “There.”
He looked at you then. There was something odd in his face. Something still and warm and gone before you could examine it.
“Come on,” he said.
“Where?”
“Hotel.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“The night is young!”
“And I’m old!”
You snorted. “Yeah, tell me something I don’t know.”
“I’ll be carrying you back if we don’t get back soon.”
“I can walk just fine.”
“For now.”
You resumed walking, mostly because standing still made the sidewalk behave suspiciously. Bucky fell into step beside you. The street curved ahead into a slightly darker block. A small sign hung near the corner, hand-painted and purple, advertising ghost tours every hour until 2 a.m.
You stopped again.
“No,” Bucky said.
“You keep saying that. What are you, allergic to fun?”
“I’m not allergic to fun. No ghost tour.”
“That’s exactly what someone allergic to fun would say. You’re afraid.”
“I’ve fought actual ghosts.”
You paused. “Have you?”
He looked at you. “I’ve fought a lot of things. The categories get blurry.”
“That is either very sad or very metal.”
“Both.”
You were already moving toward the cluster of tourists gathered beneath the sign. Bucky sighed behind you.
The ghost tour lasted eleven minutes. Not because the tour was eleven minutes long, but because at minute nine, the guide said something historically inaccurate about tuberculosis, and Bucky, who apparently had limits after all, muttered, “That’s not how quarantine worked.”
You heard him. Unfortunately, so did the guide.
“What was that sir?”
Bucky’s face went blank. You stepped in immediately.
“My uncle is just passionate about public health history.”
Bucky looked at you. You looked back. Uncle? Why had you said that? Probably because “boss” would sound weird.
The guide looked uncertain. “Well, as I was saying—”
“The date’s wrong too,” Bucky said quieter, but still audible.
The guide’s smile tightened.
“Stop heckling the ghost man,” you hissed at Bucky.
“He’s wrong.”
“It’s a ghost tour!”
The guide squinted at the two of you. “Wait, did either of you pay for this tour?”
“Great tour!” You announced. “We’ll leave a five-star–”
“Three stars, max,” Bucky grumbled beside you.
“--review on Yelp. Terrifying. Educational. We’re leaving.”
The guide looked relieved. Bucky let you drag him away.
He waited until you had crossed half the block before he said, “Uncle?”
“Well,” you said, glancing up at him, “no one would believe ‘boyfriend.’”
“Why wouldn’t they believe that?”
You pointed at him, and then at yourself. “Look at you, you’re too old to be my boyfriend.”
He made a face. “Don’t think m’too old to be your boyfriend.”
“Aren’t you like, 120 or something?”
“110,” he grumbled.
You clapped your hands together. “Practically a spring chicken.”
“I don’t look 110.”
“Yeah, that cryostasis chamber did wonders for your skin,” you quipped sarcastically.
“People would believe that we’re dating.”
“Sarge, I’m so youthful. I don’t know, you could be, like, my hot sugar daddy maybe.”
“Hot?”
You felt your cheeks flush. “Yeah—like temperature wise.”
“In March?”
“It’s the humidity. I was mocking you.”
“Were you?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re bad at it. You called me hot.”
You stopped walking and turned to fix him with a look. “James Buchanan Barnes.”
His eyebrows lifted.
Using his full name was usually reserved for near-felonies, bad press, and once when he had tried to skip breakfast before a five-hour hearing.
“Don’t weaponize drunk syntax against me.”
“Drunk syntax.”
“Yes, the grammar of the impaired is inadmissible.”
“In what court?”
“My court.”
The corners of his lips pulled upward. Your stomach did something you did not authorize.
“You’re smiling,” you pointed out.
“Yeah.”
“Stop.”
“Can’t.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. He looked back, warm and amused and too handsome beneath the neon glow of a sign advertising haunted cocktails.
You turned and walked away, advancing in a different direction. Unfortunately, your different direction brought you directly to a small white building with a pink sign in the window.
CRESCENT CITY VOWS. WALK-INS WELCOME. OPEN 24/7.
You slowed. Bucky slowed beside you.
The chapel was narrow and bright, wedged between a closed souvenir shop and a bar emitting aggressive karaoke. Plastic flowers filled the front window. A poster advertised packages: Classic, Jazz It Up, Voodoo Romance.
You stared.
Then you started laughing.
“Absolutely not,” Bucky said.
You pointed at the sign. “Jazz it up!”
“No. We’re leaving.”
“Imagine getting married somewhere between a karaoke bar and a T-shirt shop.”
“People do.”
“Brave people do.”
“Drunk people.”
You stepped closer to the window, peering inside. The lobby had black-and-white tile, a small counter, a display of rings, and a woman behind the desk reading a paperback.
You looked ridiculous together. You in a cocktail dress with beads around your neck; Bucky in a dark suit, tie missing, hair wrecked by humidity.
“Y’know,” you said, “we’d probably be good at a marriage.”
Bucky went still. “Would we?”
“Obviously.”
“Obviously,” he repeated.
“Yes. I already run your life.”
“That’s marriage?”
“Basically,” you continued, counting on your fingers. “We share enemies. We agree on most moral issues and disagree productively on methods. You carry my shoes when necessary. I know how you take your coffee.”
“You insult how I take my coffee.”
“Because I care. Who even puts that much sugar in their coffee, James?”
“You never had to experience rationing.”
You looked up at him. Mistake.
His eyes were on you in a way that did not feel like a joke. It was hard to tell with Bucky. He had layers. Like trauma onion. Or trauma lasagna.
You nudged his shoulder. “What, you don’t think I’d make a good wife?”
Your question had been a joke. It was the kind of joke you made because it was absurd. Because the idea of being anyone’s wife seemed like something that happened to other people, ordinary people, people with normal childhoods and fewer hidden knives.
Besides, Bucky was your best friend. Or at least, one of them. Or the person you trusted most besides Yelena. Bucky thinking of you as a wife would be objectively funny. But he did not laugh.
He looked at you for a long second and said, “I think you’d be impossible.”
You scoffed. “That was not the question.”
“You’d be terrifying.”
“Still not the question.”
The chapel door opened, a young couple stumbled out laughing, both wearing cheap plastic crowns. Behind them, the desk woman called, “Congratulations. Remember, the license copy is the ugly one.”
You stared after them, then looked at Bucky.
“Do you think these are legally binding?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“It’s a licensed chapel. There’s a registration number on the door.”
You looked. Of course there was. Of course he noticed.
“Sexy,” you said. “You and your regulatory literacy.”
He stared.
“Temperature-wise,” you added.
His smile returned. “Sure.”
“What package would you pick?” You asked.
“None.”
“Do you need me to get your EpiPen for your allergy to fun?”
“This again? I’m not picking a wedding package.”
“Hypothetically.”
“No.”
“C’mon, hotshot.”
“Hotshot?”
You shrugged. “Expanding my lexicon. Classic, Jazz It Up, or Voodoo Romance?”
“Classic.”
“Obviously.”
“You asked.”
“No, that’s the correct answer. You’re a practical man.”
He glanced at you. “What would you pick?”
“Voodoo Romance.”
He stared.
“Kidding!” You grinned. “Jazz It Up, obviously.”
Maybe it was the bourbon. Maybe it was the music still rattling in your bones. Maybe it was the way Bucky had looked at you. Maybe it was the fact that for one weird, suspended second, being his wife did not sound like a joke so much as a dare issued by the universe.
“If we got married, Sam would kill you,” you said lightly.
Bucky turned back slowly. “Me?”
“Yes, you’re the man. You’d be blamed.”
“So much for feminism.”
“My feminism is situational.”
“Yelena would kill me too.”
You nodded. “Yelena would kill us both. But she’d start with you.”
“Good to know.”
“She’d be very hurt about missing cake.”
“There’s no cake.”
“That would make her angrier.”
Bucky looked at the chapel. Then at you. His face had gone quiet again.
“You wanna?” he asked.
You laughed, because obviously. Because that was the correct response when your best friend, your boss, the congressman whose schedule you managed and reputation you protected and emotional constipation you had elevated into an operational challenge, asked if you wanted to get married outside a New Orleans chapel after midnight.
You laughed.
But he did not. He smiled, small, almost private.
Your laughter thinned.
“What?”
“Marry me,” he said.
The city tilted.
“You’re joking.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
Bucky stepped closer, not enough to crowd you. He never crowded unless there was danger. He understood space better than most people because so much of his had once been taken from him. He stood near you but left air between you, enough for the decision to sit there by itself.
“Bucky, you cannot propose to your chief of staff outside a 24/7 chapel.”
“Why not?”
“Because Sam would develop a stress rash.”
“He’ll live.”
“Because Yelena would turn your arm into modern art.”
“She’ll try.”
“Because I’m drunk.”
“I know.”
“And you’re drunk.”
His eyes flicked over your face. “Right.”
You frowned at him. “This is stupid. You’re supposed to talk me out of bad ideas.”
“I do that all day.”
“And now?”
His eyes moved to the chapel sign again, then back to you.
“Maybe I’m off the clock.”
You stared at him. The problem was that Bucky rarely asked for things. He accepted assignments. Responsibilities, burdens, coffee he hated because you handed it to him. He did not ask for comfort or attention, did not ask for help until absolutely cornered, and even then, he phrased it like a logistical update.
But now he was asking. Maybe as a joke or a drunken impulse. His face gave you nothing obvious. Or maybe it gave you too much and you did not know how to read it.
“You really want to get married?”
“It would be operationally efficient.”
You lifted a finger. “If we do this–”
“We’re doing this?”
“I said if.”
“Okay.”
“If we do this, we pick the Jazz It Up package.”
“Obviously.”
“And we tell no one.”
“Sam will find out.”
“Yeah, because you can’t keep secrets from that guy.”
His gaze dropped to your hands. “Do we need rings?”
“Probably not.”
“If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”
“I forgot how old-fashioned you are.”
Bucky reached for the door and opened the door for you. “You coming?”
You should have turned around, should have gone back to the hotel. You should have drunk three glasses of water, removed your makeup, gone to bed, and woken up grateful that the worst thing you had done all night was steal a tambourine.
Instead, you walked into the chapel.
Cool air hit your skin. The lobby smelled like artificial roses, lemon cleaner, and stale champagne. The woman behind the counter looked up from her paperback, took in your dress, Bucky’s suit, the beads around your neck.
You lifted your chin with all the dignity you had left.
“Jazz It Up package, please.”
Bucky exhaled behind you. It might have been a laugh. The woman set down her book and slid a form across the counter.
You looked back at Bucky. His eyes were already on you. For a second, neither of you moved.
Then you smiled, because this was absurd, and you were drunk, and he was your best friend, and the world had made very little sense for a very long time.
“Come on, hotshot,” you said, picking up the pen.
Bucky woke up before the alarm. He always did. It did not matter what time he went to bed, or how late the night had stretched, or how little sleep his body had been given. He came awake all at once.
The hotel room was dim. The curtains were half closed, but a thin slice of morning had made it through the gap and cut across the carpet. Somewhere below, New Orleans was already waking up. He could hear a truck backing up, voices on the sidewalk, a door shutting in the hallway.
Beside him, you were asleep.
You had started the night on your side of the bed, or at least what had become your side. At some point after that, you had drifted diagonally, one knee bent, one arm shoved beneath your pillow, hair spread over the white case like evidence of a fight you had won.
Bucky lay still and watched you breathe. He knew he should move. He knew he should get up, call Sam, call legal, call somebody who could tell him what shape the fallout might take and how fast it would come.
But for a few seconds, he did nothing.
The room was quiet. You were asleep beside him. His wedding ring was on his hand. It was the kind of thing a man could get used to if he were stupid.
He was not stupid. He had done plenty of stupid things. There was a difference.
He lifted his left hand and stared at the ring. It looked wrong there. Cheap, silver, too bright, already scratched along the bottom where it had caught against the hotel keycard last night.
You had chosen it for him. You had stood at the counter, swaying slightly, studying the little velvet tray as if selecting equipment for a mission.
He remembered everything.
The street parade. The tambourine. The chapel door. The way you had looked back at him right before you stepped inside, grinning like the whole night had been built for you personally by a god with bad judgement.
You made a sound in your sleep, small and irritated, and dragged the blanket higher over your shoulder. Your ring caught the light when your hand shifted across the pillow.
The marriage certificate was folded on the desk beneath the chapel brochure, which advertised vow renewals and discount photography. He had meant to put it somewhere safe. Instead, he had put it on top of the minibar menu and gone to bed beside his wife.
His wife.
Bucky closed his eyes. That was not a word he got to keep.
You stirred beside him.
Bucky opened his eyes and turned his head.
Your brow pulled together first. Then your nose wrinkled. Then your whole face folded into a grimace, as if consciousness had personally offended you.
Your eyes opened, and you turned your head very slowly. He watched the memory arrive, not all at once. In pieces. First confusion, then pain, because your hangover was clearly taking up most of your skull. Then recognition.
Your hand came up in front of your face. You sat up so fast the blanket slid to your waist.
“Oh my God.”
Bucky pushed himself up on one elbow. “Morning.”
You turned on him.
“Do not.”
“Okay.”
You looked down at yourself, still wearing the slip dress from last night, wrinkled now and twisted slightly at one strap. You looked over at him. He was still in his trousers and shirt, though the shirt was unbuttoned at the collar and his jacket had been thrown over the desk chair.
Your eyes narrowed.
“Did we—”
“No.”
Your shoulders dropped with visible relief. “Okay.”
“I stayed on top of the covers for half the night.”
You rubbed both hands over your face. “Did you?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened to the other half?”
“You stole the covers and then threatened me when I tried to get them back.”
You threw the blanket off and stood. Too fast, you swayed. Bucky was out of bed before he decided to move, his hand catching your elbow.
You looked at it. He let go.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re hungover.”
You crossed the room with great purpose and slightly poor balance. You lifted the chapel brochure first, squinted at it, and then found the folded certificate beneath. You opened it. Read it. Read it again.
“James.”
There it was. His real name in your voice. Not “Barnes,” not “Congressman.” James meant one of two things: danger or trouble. Possibly both.
Bucky stood beside the bed. “Yeah?”
“This is real.”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t say yeah like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I just asked if you wanted toast.”
He glanced at the certificate. “It’s real.”
You looked back at the paper, then at the brochure, then at your ring.
You turned sharply toward the bathroom, stopped, turned back toward the desk, then turned again toward the minibar.
Bucky watched you make a small, silent circle of panic.
Bucky crossed the room and started the coffee machine. You stood behind him, quiet now except for the small sound of your breathing and the occasional miserable swallow that told him the bourbon was exacting revenge.
Behind him, you said, “We need an annulment.”
He watched the coffee drip into the cup. “Maybe.”
“Not maybe. Definitely. We get an annulment. Today. Or as soon as legally possible. What are Louisiana annulment laws? God, why do I not know Louisiana annulment laws?”
Bucky handed you a mug of coffee. “Because it hasn’t come up.”
“It is up now.”
“Yeah.”
You pointed at him. “Stop saying yeah.”
He pressed his lips together.
You paced. “Ground. We need grounds. Intoxication. Lack of sound mind. No consummation. No intent. Joke intent.”
“Joke intent is probably not in the statute.”
“I will make it case law.”
He almost smiled.
You saw it.
“Do not smile.”
“I’m not smiling.”
“You almost did. Why are you so calm?”
He breathed in slowly. “Because one of us should be.”
“No, I reject that. You should be panicking. This is your career.”
“It’s also yours.”
“I’m staff, I can be replaced.”
“No.”
The word left him before he could soften it.
You blinked.
“No,” he repeated.
Your face changed in a way he hated. Like you had heard something you were not prepared for. You looked away first.
“Fine,” you said, “staff can be investigated, disgraced, and fired.”
“That’s not better.”
“It’s accurate.”
Bucky crossed his arms. “An annulment might not stay quiet.”
You stilled.
This was the part he had to handle carefully. Not because you could not handle the facts. You could handle the facts. You liked facts. You collected them.
You turned back slowly. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, if we file fast, someone notices.”
“People file annulments all the time.”
“Not sitting congressmen married to their chief of staff.”
You stared at him.
“If this gets out as a marriage and annulment, that’s one story. If it gets out as a private marriage, that’s another.”
You laughed once. “You think secret marriage is quieter than annulment?”
“I think secret marriage sounds intentional.”
“It was not intentional.”
“No one needs to know that.”
You opened your mouth, then closed it. He saw the gears turning now, the panic not disappearing, but making room for strategy. You began seeing angles, headlines, risks, who would leak what.
Your eyes dropped to the certificate again, Bucky holding it loosely in his hand.
“People are going to figure out who I am and say I manipulated you,” you said.
Bucky’s jaw tightened. “No.”
“Bucky,” you sighed, “you don’t get to decide what people say.”
“I get to decide what I answer.”
“It’s not the same.”
He knew that. Still, the thought of someone using you as the next weapon against him made something old and violent shift beneath his ribs.
You turned away and walked to the window. You pulled the curtain aside just enough to look out. Morning light hit your face, and he saw how tired you were under the jokes. How tight your mouth had gone.
“The chapel had cameras.”
“Probably.”
“The clerk remembers us.”
“Definitely.”
“If this gets out as a drunken annulment, it becomes…” You paused, searching for the word.
“Blood in the water,” he supplied.
You nodded once. “And we just established credibility for you. The press would have a field day with this… but staying married? That’s insane.”
“It doesn’t have to be forever.”
Your eyes met his.
Bucky made himself keep going. “We wait. Talk to counsel. Figure out what’s already public, what isn’t. If nothing comes out, we handle it quietly. If something does, we control what we can.”
“You sound like me.”
“Believe it or not, I listen to you sometimes.”
You sat down on the edge of the bed, coffee in one hand, the other pressed to your forehead.
“I cannot believe I did this.”
“We did this.”
You snorted. “That’s generous.”
“It’s true.”
“You were drunk, too.” You closed your eyes. “What are you thinking?”
He took a seat in the chair at the desk. “I’m thinking we need to call Sam.”
“Absolutely not.”
“He’ll find out. He’ll be mad if he hears from someone else.”
“He’ll be mad because we got married in a discount chapel.” You pointed at him. “You call him.”
“I was going to.”
“You handle him.”
“I will.”
“And you do not let him yell at me.”
“I would never.”
“I need a shower.”
You set your coffee on the nightstand and disappeared into the bathroom to hopefully wash the events of last night off.
Bucky picked up his phone from the nightstand. There were already too many messages, most from his staff, several from Sam, and one unknown number with a photo attached that Bucky did not open.
His stomach dropped. One crisis at a time. He dialed Sam.
Sam answered on the third ring.
“Please tell me,” Sam said, without greeting, “that the photo I just saw is fake.”
Bucky closed his eyes. “Morning, Sam.”
“No morning. I asked you a question.”
“What picture?” Bucky asked.
Sam laughed once. It was not amused. “What picture, he says. Man, there is a photo of you and your chief of staff walking into a chapel in New Orleans at what looks like drunk o’clock in the morning.”
“My wife.”
Sam paused.
“Your what?”
“A photo of my wife and I in New Orleans.”
Silence. And then:
“Are you an idiot or are you just fuckin’ stupid.”
“I’m going to hang up,” Bucky grumbled.
“Is she there right now?”
“In the shower.”
“Alright, then answer me this. What is wrong with you?”
“I was serious about hanging up.”
“Bucky, I’m your friend. Probably your best friend, maybe your only friend—”
“That’s definitely not true.”
Sam continued. “---and as your best and only friend, I have to tell you, this is your most stupid idea yet. And trust me, you make plenty of those. What were you thinking?”
Bucky ran a hand through his hair. “We clearly weren’t thinking. We had had too many drinks, and—”
“Buck, we both know that’s bullshit. Your super soldier metabolism or whatever doesn’t let you get that drunk off of a couple drinks. Maybe she had too many drinks, but we both know you knew better. So y’wanna try again, with the truth this time?”
Bucky went silent. What was wrong with him? He had definitely been sober enough to know better. But you thought he was on the same page as you, and he had let you believe that. Bucky knew it was messed up, but how the hell would he explain to you that he married you perfectly sober?
“I… I-I don’t know, Sam,” Bucky finally admitted. “It was stupid, I know that. We were just walking around after the summit, and—I don’t know, man—we just stumbled upon this chapel. And she gave me this look, and Jesus, I don’t know how to say no to her when she looks at me like that.”
“You didn’t try something like ‘hey, you’re drunk, you’re my chief of staff, and I’m sober enough to know this is a terrible idea’? You didn’t try that?”
“Well, gee, Sam, wish you had been there—”
“Yeah, loverboy, I wish I had been there too to knock some sense into that thick skull of yours.”
Bucky scowled at the phone. “Sam, I know I fucked up.”
“Then tell her the truth!”
“Sam, I can’t. She’ll… she’ll freak out. And get an annulment, and the press will have a field day with it.”
“You’re worried about the press? Bucky, you lied to her.”
“I didn’t lie, I just…” Bucky was having a hard time believing himself. “I’m just withholding information.”
“Pertinent information.”
“Sam,” and Bucky sounded miserable enough this time to make Sam really pause. “I’ll lose her. If I tell her the truth. She thinks we made this mistake together. If she finds out I married her sober, she’ll be furious.”
“And she’d be right to.”
“Yeah, I know. Trust me, I know. But, Sam, she’d never speak to me again,” Bucky admitted. “I can’t lose her. Not as my chief of staff, not as my friend. Even if she never feels the same way, I need her in my life and if I tell her the truth I’ll lose her.”
Sam sighed on the other line. “Buck, I’m sorry. I know what this means to you, but this isn’t an ‘if’ she finds out kind of situation, it’s a ‘when’ she finds out.”
“It won’t be forever,” Bucky tried to justify. “Just a respectable amount of time until we can quietly get a divorce. And then things can go back to normal.”
“Do you understand what you’re proposing? That you fake a marriage with your chief of staff who you’re in love with?”
“Well, how hard can it be?”
“You need a psych evaluation.”
Before Bucky could respond, the handle to the bathroom door turned and you emerged from the bathroom covered only in a fluffy white towel. His eyes followed the curve of your neck, the smoothness of your skin. He swallowed, looking away and staring at the ceiling like it had become fascinating.
“Is that Sam?” You asked.
Bucky nodded, putting Sam on speaker. “Yeah, he says there’s already a photo of us outside the chapel circulating.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Who sent it to you?”
“Someone I know who saw it in a private group chat,” Sam replied. “The kind where people send things before they hit the press.”
You crossed to the desk and picked up Bucky’s phone without asking. He let you. You opened the unknown message with the attached photo. There you were, outside the chapel. You were looking up at him, laughing. Bucky stood with the chapel door open, looking at you.
Bucky stopped breathing for half a second. The photograph caught too much, he looked at you like the whole street had gone quiet.
“This is not ideal,” you muttered.
“Understatement of the year,” Sam scoffed through the speaker.
You zoomed in on the photo. “Bad angle.”
Bucky frowned. “What?”
“My left side is better.”
“Are you serious?” Sam said.
“Private group chat means it’ll leak soon,” you said.
“What’s the public version if it leaks?” Sam asked.
“The public version,” you said slowly, “is that we got married privately after the summit.”
Sam made a sound. “That’s it?”
“That’s all they get,” you said. “Bucky is a public figure, I’m staff, people are invasive. We wanted to keep personal matters out of the press.”
“Is that believable?”
You looked at Bucky.
It was too believable, that was part of the problem. The two of you had kept your friendship private in its deepest parts for years. People saw the work, the banter, the sharp comments in hallways. They did not see the late nights, the way you knew when he needed to leave a room, the way he knew when you were lying about being fine.
The public would believe you had hidden a relationship, because, in some ways, you had hidden something. Just not the thing they would think.
“Yes,” you said. “It’s believable.”
Sam was quiet for a moment.
“Can you sell it?”
“I can sell anything,” you shrugged. “If we look panicked, it becomes a scandal. If we look like we made a private choice and intend to remain private, people get bored.”
Sam snorted. “People do not get bored of Bucky Barnes secretly marrying his chief of staff.”
“I’ll give them something more interesting by Tuesday.”
Bucky leaned against the desk.
You were already working. He could see you building the story in your head. It was almost beautiful, in a way that made him uneasy. You had once used that mind to destroy people. Now you used it to protect him. He tried not to think too hard about how much that meant.
“And if people ask how long you’ve been together?”
“Our private life is private,” you said.
Sam groaned. “That’s not an answer. That sounds like an answer you give when the real answer is bad.”
“The real answer is bad.”
“Fair.”
Bucky picked up the certificate. “Chief, we need to decide before it leaks.”
You stared at him. “Decide what?”
“If we’re staying married for now.”
The room went still. You looked at him like he had just placed a loaded gun on the desk. You turned away and walked back to the window, pulling the curtain aside. You just stood there, fingers gripping the fabric.
“I’m not asking you to do this forever,” Bucky said.
“I know.”
“I’m not asking you to do anything you don’t want.”
You laughed once. “That’s the problem with you.”
He frowned. “What is?”
“You make it very hard to accuse you of being the villain.”
Sam was quiet for a long moment. Then he sighed.
“I’m going to let you two talk. Buck, don’t be stupid twice before breakfast.”
The call ended.
Bucky didn’t know what to say.
“Okay,” you said.
“Okay?”
“We wait long enough to see if the photo leaks,” you shrugged. “Long enough to get legal advice, long enough to prevent this from becoming a week-long morality play about whether the former Winter Soldier is fit to choose a spouse.”
Bucky flinched, not much, but you saw it and looked furious with yourself.
“That’s not—”
“I know.”
“No, I didn’t mean—”
“I know.”
Your mouth closed.
For a second, neither of you moved. Then, he folded the hurt away, because that was what Bucky did when there was no safe place to put it.
“Okay,” he said. “We wait.”
You nodded once.
He managed a small smile. “Okay. Good. We have a plan. Now, what does my wife want to eat for breakfast?”
You threw a pillow at him.
Half of Him
Chapter 1: 8 Weeks
➸ Synopsis: “The failure of the Winter Soldier program was James Buchanan Barnes's humanity. They thought erasing his memories would make him obedient, but they were wrong. I know the only way to truly succeed is to start from the beginning. A child with half of the Winter Soldier's DNA is the key to creating the perfect soldier, which you now carry.”
None of this was supposed to happen to you. One minute you're trying to get through another shift at the diner, and the next you're waking up in the emergency room nine weeks pregnant despite never having had sex. After learning that your gynecologist accidentally inseminated you with a sample meant for the continuation of the Winter Soldier program, you escape the Hydra-obsessed scientists responsible and find yourself on James Barnes's doorstep, hoping the former Winter Soldier can help. The only thing Bucky doesn't know is that the baby you're carrying is his.
Basically a messed up version of Jane the Virgin, set shortly after the events of The Falcon and the Winter Soldier.
TW: Morning Sickness (like a lot), and pregnancy obviously ⁽⁽ƈ ͡ (ु ˲̥̥̥́ ˱̥̥̥̀) ु⁾⁾
➸ Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader
➸ Chapter Notes: Bucky isn’t in this chapter, but I promise he’ll appear in Chapter 2! I debated for a long time whether I wanted to write this story. While I’ll be keeping things somewhat vague, the implications of how they’re able to continue the Winter Soldier program in this way are pretty dark, and I hate putting Bucky through sad situations. I promise they get a happy ending, but they have to go through some crazy stuff first!
I’m very excited to write about Bucky with a pregnant reader, and I’m especially excited to write Dad Bucky! ˉ̞̭(′͈∨‵͈♡)˄̻ ̊
➸ Chapter Word Count: 2,896
Masterlist 🌒
Twenty minutes before the alarm on your nightstand goes off, the sound of creaking pipes pulls you awake. Your neighbor is up earlier than usual, showering on the other side of the wall. In a building this old, every sound seems to travel from one apartment to the next. Outside, a siren blares, and two men are having a very loud argument. The city isn't waking up; it never seemed to sleep in the first place. The first week you spent in New York was different. Back then, the city seemed impossibly loud compared to the quiet town you'd left behind. Years later, the sounds have faded into the background, becoming just another part of the morning. A familiar feeling greets you before your eyes can fully open. Nausea rolls through your body, pushing you out of bed and toward the bathroom. Barely making it in time, you drop to your knees in front of the toilet and throw up.
When it finally passes, you stay there for a moment, one hand pressed against the cool tile floor. The spot you've chosen gives you a perfect view of the bug sticky trap tucked in the corner, and you notice a cockroach still holding onto life. You stifle the urge to be sick again. While unpleasant, you can't help but feel grateful that you're in this shitty apartment that's all your own. A plane flies overhead, and you take a moment to ground yourself in the sound, breathing until enough strength returns to stand. You flush the toilet and turn on the sink, splashing cold water against your face. The reflection staring back at you looks thinner, exhaustion sitting deep beneath your eyes. This has become part of the morning routine lately. The rent increase in the building has forced longer shifts at the diner, and exhaustion has settled in as something constant. The dizziness from the past few weeks lingers faintly even now, along with the nausea that never seems to fully leave. A quiet sigh escapes as you reach for your toothbrush. Whatever is causing it will have to wait. The day isn't about to stop for a stomach bug.
You sway on your feet, gripping the stanchion as the subway comes to another stop. An older woman had offered you her seat, which you politely declined, but now, as the dizziness returns, you regret turning her down. You barely register the chime signaling your stop and hurry out, slipping through the doors just before they close. The platform is filled with adults and children alike, all on their way to work or school. As you climb the stairs, you take a breath. This is the best part about the city, the reason you’ve stayed so long. No one is looking at you, too busy with their own lives to worry about yours. There’s comfort in disappearing into the crowd.
You hold the door open for a mother and her baby, who smiles up at you from the stroller, before stepping into the diner. Normally, the smell of bacon and butter drifting in from the kitchen would put you at ease, but instead, you shorten your breath, trying to stifle a gag.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
You wince at Cassie's greeting, though the concern written all over her face takes some of the bite out of it. She's leaning against the diner’s counter with her notepad in hand, one eyebrow raised in a way that tells you she already knows she's not going to like your answer.
“Mornin' to you too.”
Making your way behind the counter, you grab a glass and pour yourself some fresh-squeezed orange juice. It's become something of a miracle lately, one of the few things your stomach doesn't immediately reject. You barely have time to set your bag down before Cassie steps in front of you.
“I told you, I was covering for you today. You can't keep pushing yourself like this. You need to see a doctor and take a day off.” She puts extra emphasis on the last part, her brow furrowing. You've known Cassie for a few years now and can't remember ever seeing her angry. You hope not to make a habit of it.
“And I told you, she wasn't gonna listen.” Max calls over his shoulder as he carries a coffeepot toward the kitchen, dropping off an order on his way.
You sigh and tie your apron. “I appreciate it, I really do, but I can't right now.”
“You've been saying that for three weeks,” Cassie shoots back. “Three weeks. This isn't normal.”
“I'm fine,” you say automatically, taking a sip of orange juice as though it might prove your point. The cool citrus settles your stomach, if only for a second.
Cassie shakes her head. “You're barely eating. You look exhausted. And you keep getting sick in the middle of shifts.”
“It's just a bug that overstayed its welcome.”
“That's not how bugs work.”
“Mine is apparently very committed.” You finish, trying to lighten the mood. Max snorts and disappears back into the crowded room with a tray balanced on one hand.
Cassie doesn't laugh. “Just make an appointment.”
“I will.” You pause. “If it's still going on in a couple weeks.”
She stares at you, weighing whether it's worth continuing the argument. You take advantage of the silence.
“Anyway,” you add casually, “your sister’s birthday thing at Coney Island is today, right? You have plenty of time to make it if you leave now.”
Before Cassie can protest, you grab the coffee pot and make your way toward your section, already mentally running through the tables that still need refills and which regulars are due to come in any minute. It’s not coming to you automatically like it usually does, and you pause for a moment to gather your bearings.
“And I told her, I don’t care if it’s your birthday, I’m not riding the Cyclone with you. You couldn’t pay me to get on that thing.”
Right, Cassie’s still talking. You smile faintly, though you realize you have no idea what the beginning of that story was, only that somewhere between grabbing the coffee pot and crossing the dining room, you must have stopped listening. Or maybe she’d changed the subject. Either way, she sounds annoyed enough that you nod along.
When you reach the booth, however, you realize they already have food on the table. The older couple sitting there stares up at you expectantly while you stand with the coffee pot in your hand, trying to remember why you’d walked over in the first place.
Not your section.
“Sorry,” you mutter, heat creeping into your face as you turn away.
The dizziness returns with a vengeance, and you shake yourself out of it, pressing your fingers tighter around the handle of the coffee pot while you take a slow breath. Only eight hours, then you can return to your nice, soft bed. Eight hours is nothing, you've worked doubles plenty of times.
Cassie is still talking behind you, though every other word seems muffled now, as though she's speaking from another room instead of twenty feet away, and you vaguely wonder if she's still talking about her sister or if you've missed another part of the conversation without realizing it.
You glance toward your section and stop.
For a second, the booths all look the same.
The numbers sitting on them blur together, and though you know exactly where you're supposed to be, your feet refuse to cooperate, carrying you in one direction while your mind struggles to remember why. The smell of bacon drifting out from the kitchen turns your stomach again, and you swallow hard, willing yourself not to throw up in the middle of the breakfast rush.
Someone says your name.
“Hey, woah, are you good?”
You assume it's Max, though when you try to look up at him, you can't quite manage it. It feels as though the world has turned to liquid around you, the chatter of customers and clatter from the kitchen blending together into a warm buzzing that drowns out everything else.
There's the sound of something crashing to the floor, followed by voices rising around you, but they seem oddly distant, and by the time your vision goes black, the only thought left drifting through your mind is that maybe you should've stayed home today after all.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Your mother's soft cries drift in from the bathroom, the open window in your bedroom letting in the cool summer breeze. Your father's been gone on a work trip, and you know he's due back any day. You listen for the rumble of his truck outside, followed by the crunching of gravel that signals his return, but it never comes. It's safe in your room, a quiet oasis shielding you from any mistake that might set off a bomb and leave you and your mom dealing with the aftermath of your fathers temper. You creep out of your room and over to where she sits on the bathroom floor, something clutched in her hand. You're not much taller than her curled-up form, and you stop in your tracks when she looks up at you. You see something you've rarely seen before. Rather than her perfect, practiced expression, she has a genuine smile. And even rarer, she scoops you into her arms, making you giggle at her excitement. You finally can see what's in her hand. It's a little plastic stick with two pink lines.
“You're going to be a big sister.”
At the time, you had no idea what that meant. Years later, however, you understand that her excitement in that moment wasn't really about the promise of a new baby. It was hope. Hope that a baby might be what your parents' broken marriage needed, what their daughter had never been able to be.
But it wasn't.
The baby boy grew into a mirror of your father, carrying the same cold anger and condescension. He looked at you and your mother with the same expression as the man sitting across from him, yet he was loved unconditionally by the woman who gave him life, while somehow your every move was punished. Then the sound of an engine rolls up the driveway, gravel crunching beneath the tires, and both of you freeze.
You're retreating back to your room before you even realize you've moved, listening through the walls. You know the sound of the front door opening is coming, and your heart drops in anticipation of it, but instead, a rhythmic beeping catches your attention, and you focus on that.
The front door opens.
You open your eyes, and you're not in your childhood room. It's a doctor walking through the door, and the beeping is coming from a machine beside you.
“Oh, good, you're awake. The fluids seem to be working already.”
A man with black, pepper-streaked hair and a bright white smile makes his way over to your bedside, flipping through a clipboard filled with paperwork. The back is labeled Lenox Hill Emergency Room. It seems Cassie got her way, and now, instead of a normal doctor's bill, you'll be dealing with an emergency room bill on top of however you ended up here. You groan.
“You took quite the spill. Can you tell me what you remember?”
You pause, trying to think back. Your head feels clearer than it has in weeks, no doubt thanks to the tube stuck in your arm. You tell him as much as you can remember, the nausea, the dizziness, waking up sick every morning. He nods along, not seeming surprised in the slightest. You're sure he's seen worse in a New York emergency room than a girl who hasn't been taking care of herself.
“Is there someone you'd like to call to be with you? Your husband, or maybe a boyfriend?” The question catches you off guard. Why is it that men always assume a woman can't deal with something alone? You gave up dating a long time ago, deciding the risk of being with someone was far greater than the reward.
“Uh, no, I don't have…” You shake your head. “Actually, I'd really like to get out of here as soon as possible, if that's okay.” The doctor seems taken aback by that, though only for a second. He glances back down at the clipboard.
“Well, you were severely dehydrated, but your levels have improved since you arrived. Your bloodwork showed low calcium, vitamin D, and iron, which isn't unheard of in early pregnancy. You'll want to make sure you're taking your prenatal vitamins to help bring those levels back up.”
You laugh.
Not a polite laugh, either. A loud one.
“Oh, no, sir, sorry, but I'm not pregnant. I just really haven't been taking care of myself.” He has no idea how ridiculous of a mix-up this is. It's almost funny how impossible that would be. The doctor, however, doesn't laugh with you or tell you it's all some big misunderstanding. Instead, a nurse walks into the room carrying another stack of paperwork. She slows when she notices the look on your face.
“You didn't know?” the doctor asks, glancing between the two of you, the nurse looking just as confused as you are. “Oh. Uh, okay. Well, congratulations. You're pregnant. I know this must be a shock, but for being nine weeks along, everything else is looking healthy.”
The smile slowly slips from your face. This isn't funny anymore.
“No,” you say quietly. “That's not possible.”
The nurse chimes in. “Well, despite what most people believe, contraceptives are never one hundred percent effective.”
“No.” You cut her off. “I mean physically not possible.” You put extra emphasis on the last two words. “Unless I'm pregnant with the second coming of Jesus, either you have the wrong patient or your tests are wrong.”
The doctor finally speaks again, sounding more frustrated than before. Strangely, he's frustrated when he's the one making the mistake. “I can assure you, the tests aren't wrong. False negatives happen, but false positives are extremely rare, especially with blood tests.”
“And I personally drew the sample,” the nurse adds. “It is yours, dear.”
You're half expecting a camera crew to jump out and tell you it's all some elaborate joke. Instead, the room seems to close in around you, and suddenly you can't get enough air into your lungs.
This can't be happening.
There had been plenty of things you'd been unsure about in your life, but this had never been one of them. You never wanted children, never wanted to tie yourself to someone who could turn on you without warning or leave you and a baby living with the consequences, and so you never took that chance.
“You have options. We can set up an appointment with an OB-GYN for you, and they can go over next steps, whatever they may be.”
That's when it hits you.
“I understand this must be quite the shock—”
“Dr. Ryder,” you cut the man off, the words spilling out before you can stop them. “He's my gynecologist. I saw him a few months ago for my annual. You need to call him, something must've happened. He can tell you this is all some big mistake.”
The two of them exchange a look, and though neither says anything, you suddenly become aware of how desperate you sound. You try to think back to the appointment, but nothing stands out. It had been the same office you'd been going to for years, and you'd left thinking no more about it than any other appointment.
The doctor, however, seems finished with the conversation.
“We can't contact him, but you can make an appointment to follow up, or we can find a provider for you. I wish you the best of luck.”
Before you can protest any further, he's gone, leaving you alone with the nurse, who watches you with a sympathy that only makes the knot in your stomach worse.
You don't bother arguing with her. Instead, you pull out your phone and find three missed texts from Cassie, assuring you she's covering your shifts today and tomorrow and threatening to send you right back to the emergency room if you even think about stepping foot in the diner. You pull up the number for Dr. Ryder's office, one you've called plenty of times, and stare at the screen when the call doesn't go through. You try again, then a third time, before searching the number online, thinking maybe they'd changed it.
Nothing comes up. Not only that, but the listing for his office isn’t listed on Google anymore.
You barely register the three nurses who enter the room, all busying themselves with various machines. You only look up when someone reaches for your IV, expecting to see the same nurse who's been checking on you all morning, but it isn't her. It's a man in a lab coat with buzzed hair and tattoos peeking out beneath his sleeves, and while the other two remove the wires attached to your chest, the one closest to you pushes a syringe into your IV.
You finally open your mouth to protest, but warmth spreads through your arm before the words can leave your lips, and for the second time today, everything goes black.
