I consume an unhealthy amount of fanfic daily so I started this blog because while I can’t write worth a damn I can most certainly hit like and reblog 🫡
here’s a list of characters I like to read about:
A Court of Thorns and Roses
Azriel Part 1 | Part 2 | Azriel's Hands
Cassian
Rhysand
Eris Vanserra
Lucien Vanserra (in progress 🦊)
Poly Bat Boys (in progress 🦇)
Bridgerton
Benedict Bridgerton
Anthony Bridgerton
Harry Potter
Remus Lupin
Sirius Black
Fred Weasley
George Weasley
Severus Snape
Newt Scamander
Ominis Gaunt
Sebastian Sallow
Throne of Glass
Fenrys Moonbeam
Lorcan Salvaterre
Gavriel
Crescent City
Ruhn Danaan
Ithan Holstrom
Stranger Things
Eddie Munson
Steve Harrington
at the moment, you can search any character’s name by hashtag on my blog to navigate. individual rec lists are in progress :)
Are requests open? 😅 sorry I just found your blog through your amazing Eris x nightcourt healer story and I tried looking around for a requests open/closed.
Would you be open to writing an Azriel x half human/Peregryn fae.
She has wings like her peregryn fae mother and minor light magic which is pretty much just for show with how weak it is. But she’s definitely half human as she doesn’t recover quickly so no fae healing, you got that lovely prone to human acne, and she eats well plus exercises (especially swimming, running, and flying) she’s just naturally curvy not willing to starve herself to get rid of that small belly pudge that won’t leave.
The bond snaps for her first, at a meeting with the night-court and court of dawn, her father is an engineer and inventor while her fae mother is a warrior.
But the insecurity that her human side means she won’t meet Azriel’s expectations means her self image takes a blow especially with him chasing after girls like Morgan, Elain, and Gwyn
*sorry you don’t have to write for this if you don’t want to or aren’t taking requests rn. Thank you either way 😄
What the Shadows Don’t Say
Pairing: Azriel x Half Human/Peregryn fae f!reader
Summary: When an unexpected bond drags her into a world that feels too sharp, too powerful, and too distant from everything she’s ever known, she struggles to find her place in a court where power and legacy dominate. But as quiet truths emerge and unspoken fears surface, she and Azriel must navigate what it means to belong, both to each other and to themselves. Deciding to stay when walking away seems easier.
Warnings: emotional vulnerability, insecurity, discussions of self-worth and identity, mentions of past trauma, emotional neglect, body image insecurity, slow burn romance, gentle angst (focus on healing), jealousy
Word count: 5,290
Author’s Note: I love this concept, the human vulnerability, fae strength, her light magic, body positivity, insecurity, and the bond snap. I love it! This is a shorter style compared to my other fics, but I enjoyed it. Requests like this refresh my creativity, especially during writer’s block; they give me something new to explore, and that’s always exciting. Let’s see where this takes us!
Part 1 | Masterlist | Part 2
The task was meant to be simple: a brief, formal meeting with the Night Court, a show of unity, a chance to speak of strategy, of strength, of numbers.
Nothing more.
She sat stiff-backed in the carved stone chair, her wings tucked tightly to her sides, the soft feathers brushing against her arms in quiet reassurance. Around her, other Peregryns murmured, their voices low, laced with unease. The tension hummed beneath the surface, quiet but undeniable. Whispers about the Night Court’s arrival flowed like court gossip, talk of shadows and powerful beings that spoke of more like myths than fae.
The chamber doors opened.
Sunlight spilled into the chamber, golden and too bright, casting long shadows across the floor as they arrived. The air shifted, and every Peregryn went silent.
The first figure stepped through the archway, a tall male, commanding and unreadable. He wore power like a second skin, cool and self-assured, his violet eyes scanning the room with unsettling precision. Rhysand. High Lord of the Night Court.
Beside him moved a woman, younger, with soft, tanned skin and smooth, golden-brown hair. Feyre, the High Lady, though she had only heard stories about her until now. She hadn’t expected her to look kind while exuding an aura of authority.
Then came another woman, vivid and striking. She wore a red dress, deep and rich. Her golden hair shimmered in the light, and when she flashed a smile at someone in the crowd, the room itself seemed to brighten. Her beauty, her elegance, her effortless confidence, and as she was introduced, her stomach twisted with jealousy, a bitter and unwelcome feeling.
The next male was impossible to ignore. Broad-shouldered, tall, every inch of him battle-hardened. Red siphons glowed at his hands and shoulders like barely-contained fire. His voice was loud, his grin easy, and he was the General of their Illyrian forces.
The last one stepped through the archway, or rather, the shadows entered first, twisting along the floor and slipping through the chamber like smoke, searching for threats.
The room seemed to tilt as he slowly stepped into view, his face set in stone. His skin was golden-brown, his hair dark, and his expression unreadable. Shadows twisted around his shoulders and arms like smoke, seeking an escape.
Their eyes met, and the world snapped.
There was no warning. Just a sudden, violent pull in her chest, as though something invisible had yanked a thread between them tight, and then tighter, until it snapped straight through her ribs.
Her breath caught in her throat. Her lungs refused to fill. Her lips parted slightly, trembling, but no sound emerged. Her fingers clenched in her lap, nails sinking into her skin as she fought to stay still.
Across the room, the man didn’t move. His shadows lashed once, violently, recoiling from her like they’d been burned. He stared, frozen in the archway, not even blinking.
He looked at her, really looked, and all she saw was fear. Not awe. No recognition. Dread.
“Azriel,” Cassian said beside him, quietly.
The name echoed in her skull.
Azriel.
The Night Court’s shadowsinger. The blade in the dark. The spy with a reputation that reached every corner of Prythian. A male forged from silence, from scars, from shadows.
The Cauldron, cruel, chaotic, and blind, had tied her to him.
A half-human girl with just a flicker of magic, more like a dying ember than anything bright. She wasn’t a warrior like the others. Her body was soft where theirs was lean, her curves more evident where theirs were toned. Her skin bore the stubborn marks of human imperfection, acne scars and stretch marks. Her healing was slow. Her flight was strong but not perfect.
She wasn’t made for a male like him, and from the way he looked at her, distant, closed-off, as if fate had betrayed him, he knew it.
Shame bloomed in her chest, slow and thick. She looked away first, heart hammering, cheeks burning. Around her, the Peregryns remained oblivious. The silence between her and Azriel was theirs alone, suffocating and unbearable.
The bond pulsed in her chest, alive and aching, but all she could feel was his horror echoing through it.
She wanted to run. Instead, she sat in silence, her wings curling tighter around her frame like a shield. Azriel moved past her without a glance, as if she didn’t exist, and took the empty seat beside the golden-haired female in red. The woman leaned toward him slightly, their shoulders nearly touching.
He didn’t look her way again.
Jealousy seared through her, swift, sharp, and nasty. It caught her off guard how quick and fierce it was. How fiery.
No one noticed. No one cared.
The meeting began.
She was only there as a symbol, to show the Peregryns were not broken or few. That they had a place at the table, her voice hadn’t been asked for. Her presence was decorative, a formality.
Her fingers clenched the edge of her white and gold robes. The fabric was soft, layered, a thing of beauty and ceremony, but it gave her something to hold. Her thumb found the embroidered edge of her sleeve and traced it again and again. Focus. Breathe.
Her hair had been carefully arranged that morning, half pinned back with a golden clasp, the rest cascading over her shoulders in loose waves. A breeze drifted through the chamber. A few strands stuck to her cheek.
She didn’t move.
She kept her eyes on the table, looking at the maps, the documents, the neat stacks of inked parchment, but none of it registered. The voices blurred into noise, a soft hum through water.
She didn’t look at them.
Especially not him.
The High Lord, Rhysand, she’d heard the name whispered in tense briefings, spoke first. His voice was calm and precise. Beside him, the High Lady offered her own input, sharp and clear. She carried herself as if she were used to silencing a room.
Every now and then, the blonde woman, the one in red, would add something. Her voice was as lovely as her face. Every word she spoke seemed to enchant the room.
Then the Illyrian general spoke. His words were blunt and confident. He spoke of camps, drills and brutal training. Of the Illyrian way.
A few Peregryns exchanged glances. Quiet scoffs. They were warriors, too, fast, clever, sky-born, not brutish Illyrians, but she said nothing. She wasn’t like the others. Her human blood made her slower to heal. She bruised easily. Her body lacked the lean, sharp-edged elegance of her kin; her softness marked her as something less. Her magic was faint, flickering.
She sat quietly, tracing embroidery, pretending the table’s sharp edge didn’t dig into her wrist, and across from her, beneath the table, shadows moved.
They slipped unnoticed between the chairs. Cool tendrils of darkness wrapped silently around her ankles and curled gently around her calves. She tensed, but didn’t look up. Didn’t speak.
She didn’t know if he sent them, didn’t know if he knew, but they touched her like they knew her, like they were claiming her.
The meeting dragged on. Plans were exchanged. Maps were marked. Voices rose and faded. Her heartbeat never slowed, and the shadows never left.
When the meeting finally ended, she didn’t know what came next.
Chairs scraped against stone. Everyone stood. The Night Court prepared to leave, murmuring farewells, adjusting weapons, nodding to Thesan.
Then a voice, low and rough, cut through the quiet.
“I am Azriel.”
She flinched.
He stood closer than she expected, just a few feet away. The golden-haired woman was beside him, as was the general. Both wore the same expression: wary confusion. Azriel’s shadows pooled at his feet like something waiting.
His voice dropped. “Your name?”
Her eyes were still fixed on the floor. Her mouth refused to open. Around them, the room fell into silence. Everyone had gone still, waiting.
Cassian placed a hand on Azriel’s shoulder. Something silent passed between them, but Azriel didn’t look away from her.
She didn’t answer.
Her gaze flicked to the side, to where the Peregryns stood.
“Y/N,” she said at last, barely above a whisper. She stepped backward, closer to her kin.
Azriel stepped forward.
“Wait,” he said, and his voice cracked a little. Not from emotion. From tension. “You’re my mate.”
The words dropped like a stone in the room. She could hear her heartbeat pounding in her ears.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re wrong.”
His jaw tensed. “I’m not.”
“You are.” Her wings curled tighter around her body, wrapping her in feathers. “I’m not your mate, your wro—”
“You know it,” he cut in, softer now. Almost afraid to say it. “You felt it.”
Her mother finally stepped forward, voice shaking. “Is this true?”
Tears gathered in her mother’s eyes, not joy. Dread.
“Mother,” she whispered, the word breaking in her throat.
Her mother, who had raised her quietly, outside of tradition and pride, who had taken in a human man and loved him, despite what it had cost her. But mating bonds were sacred, unquestioned and inescapable.
Feyre, the High Lady, stepped forward gently, her voice calm, careful. “You don’t have to come with us. But if you do, you won’t be alone. A mate of Azriel’s is family to us.”
“And if you choose to stay,” she added, “you will not be harmed. Azriel will not force you to accept.”
Her words were soft, but her gaze flicked to Azriel, firm, a warning, just in case.
Azriel didn’t speak. He didn’t move, but he was still staring at her like she was the only thing in the room that mattered.
That look. That dread. That stillness.
She looked back at her mother, and her mother nodded, just once.
Encouragement. A silent push.
Go.
Leave.
Do what is expected.
Her stomach twisted. Her hands trembled. The other Peregryns watched her in silence, faces unreadable. Her shame bloomed in her chest.
Her wings twitched at her back.
She took a single step toward the Night Court.
A glance at Thesan, to her High Lord. He nodded.
“Might I visit?” she asked, voice thin.
“Of course,” Rhysand said gently.
Thesan echoed the same. “Whenever you wish.”
That was all.
She stepped forward, one breath, then another, until she crossed the line between what was known and what was not.
Shadows swirled around her, silent and sudden, swallowing her whole.
She didn’t know if they were Azriel’s or Rhysand’s. She didn’t know where they were going.
All she knew was that in the span of a heartbeat, her mother was gone. Her people were gone—her home, her sky, her legion.
Gone.
She vanished into darkness. The world gradually reformed. Wind caught her wings as she floated down to a broad stone platform, her feet touching down almost silently. The others landed nearby, their landings precise and practised.
One heartbeat, she was standing in the sun-drenched council chamber. The next, she was somewhere else entirely, cold, dim, quiet.
The shadows receded, peeling away from her like smoke and folding themselves back into Azriel’s wings and armour. She blinked, disoriented, as the balcony came into focus, vaulted, grand, carved from white moonstone that shimmered faintly with veins of silver starlight.
The silence here felt thicker, somehow, as though the air had weight. As though magic pulsed through the stone.
She swayed.
The robe she wore shifted around her legs, and for a fleeting second, she could still feel the sun on her back, the wind of the eastern peaks. But it was memory now. A warmth already fading.
Azriel stood a few feet away.
Still. Silent.
The golden-haired female was beside him again, poised and radiant. The general, Cassian, watched her with a furrowed brow, unreadable. Rhysand and the High Lady stood at the edge of the platform, their expressions carefully neutral.
No one spoke.
They just looked at her, as though she were something unexpected. A creature dragged out of some quiet place and dropped, uninvited, into the middle of their home.
Then, finally, the golden-haired woman stepped forward, a soft smile forming on her lips. “I’m Morrigan,” she said gently. “This is the House of Wind. You’re safe here.”
Safe.
The word scraped against her ribs.
Nothing about this felt safe.
Azriel hadn’t said a word. His shadows writhed around him, still twitching, uneasy, like they too didn’t know what to do with her.
She swallowed, the silence stretching too thin, too loud.
“I’m sorry,” she said at last, voice low. “If you didn’t want me to come with you. I know it’s what was expected. The shame of staying would have ruined my family. More than we already are.”
Morrigan shifted slightly, a flicker of emotion crossing her face. Pity? Sympathy? She didn’t know.
Azriel’s expression shifted. Just slightly, his voice, when it came, was rough with something she couldn’t place.
“Of course I wanted you to come,” he said, pausing.
The rawness in his tone cracked something in her, and based on the glances exchanged around them, that kind of honesty was rare coming from him.
“Let’s give them some space,” Feyre said quietly, but with the unmistakable authority of a High Lady.
“We’ll be in the living room when you’re ready,” she added with a softer smile, guiding the others away. Morrigan lingered for a moment, then followed, her eyes lingering before she disappeared down the corridor.
The moment they were alone, the silence returned, thicker now. Denser.
The mountain wind tugged at her robes and hair, sending loose strands brushing across her face.
She didn’t look at him, and he didn’t move closer.
“You didn’t want this,” she said at last, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I saw it. The dread. The fear in your eyes.”
Azriel didn’t flinch. His eyes stayed on her. “I was surprised.”
She let out a faint breath. “That’s one word for it.”
He stepped forward, just once. Not enough to close the distance, only to be slightly closer. “I didn’t expect my mate to be there, or to be you. That doesn’t mean I didn’t want it.”
She didn’t believe him. She turned away, arms wrapping tightly around herself, wings curling inward behind her like a shield.
“You looked at me like I was a mistake,” she murmured.
Azriel’s shadows stirred faintly, slipping across the balcony floor like smoke. “I looked at you like I didn’t know what to do, because I didn’t.”
Silence settled again. Cool. Unforgiving.
Her voice, when it came, was small and tired. “Neither do I.”
She felt rather than heard him shift closer again. Still, he didn’t reach for her, didn’t try to touch her or force proximity.
“I’ll give you time,” he said softly. “As much as you need.”
She turned toward him then, slowly. “I don’t know if that’ll be enough.”
Azriel nodded once. Not in agreement. Just understanding.
“Then I’ll give you more.”
It wasn’t a promise. Not exactly, but it was something.
Behind her, the wind shifted, tugging gently at her golden pin. The sky beyond the balcony had darkened, the sun slipping behind distant peaks.
After a beat, his voice turned slightly warmer, a tentative softness beneath it. “I can show you around if you’d like. The others can be intense.”
She nodded, but said nothing, tucking her hands into the folds of her robe to hide the trembling.
As they walked, he kept a respectful distance beside her. Not leading and not crowding.
“There are a few people who live here, or come and go often,” he explained quietly. “Cassian and Nesta, Feyre’s eldest sister, stay here. They are… you’ll understand when you meet them.”
A strange hesitation in his voice.
“Cassian and I train often. Nesta joins sometimes. Her friends, too, Emerie, a female Illyrian, and Gwyn, a priestess.” He paused again before adding, “And of course… Feyre, Rhysand, Morrigan, and Feyre’s other sister. Elain.”
The way he said those names, careful, restrained, told her there was more to the story, but that was the thing about fae: when you lived long enough, the past and feeling followed you for centuries.
“Oh,” she said quietly.
He led her through the sprawl of the House: the training grounds, the terraces carved into the cliffside, and spoke of the library hidden beneath. She followed wordlessly, absorbing it all but feeling none of it. When he mentioned training, offering it to her, something inside her twisted.
“I can train you, if you’d like.”
Innocent words, but they sank into her like thorns.
She knew why he offered. Knew what he saw. The curves she’d never shed. The softness she’d tried to hone into strength. It didn’t matter how many hours she flew or how long she trained; that softness never left.
She wasn’t the kind of fae he wanted, and that belief solidified when they reached the living room.
It was full, too full. More than the inner circle she’d met back in the Dawn Court.
Feyre’s sisters stood near the arched windows. The one at the far end had a sneer carved into her sharp, beautiful face, Nesta, undoubtedly. The other woman, brown-eyed, warm, radiant in a way that felt more human, met her gaze. Elain. That look, that softness, cut her differently as those large eyes looked to Azreil’s, and her lip twitched in what seemed to be soft affection.
Morrigan relaxed beside Cassian, Rhysand nearby, watching with an unreadable calm. Another woman stood near the fireplace. Short, fierce, silver-eyed, her attitude reeked of judgment. Ameren, she introduced.
Beauty. Confidence. Strength.
She felt it, like a wave crashing into her chest.
You don’t belong here.
They were warriors. Slim, poised, powerful.
She was softness. Curves. Caution.
Jealousy, shame, and old, deep wounds flooded her chest like a rising tide. She wrapped her arms tighter around herself.
Azriel glanced at her, his shadows curling faintly, as if they, too, sensed her unravelling, but she said nothing. Not here. Not in front of everyone.
She stood just inside the threshold, spine rigid, eyes scanning the room without really seeing it.
Too many faces. Too much beauty. Too much space between her and everything else.
Nesta’s sneer didn’t fade. The warrior female’s icy stare flicked from her robes to her wings, then to Azriel. That look said more than words ever could.
Elain, on the other hand, blinked slowly. Her gaze was unreadable, but not unkind. It slid past her sisters, past Morrigan, and landed gently on her, as though trying not to startle her.
She hated it.
Hated the part of herself that wanted to shrink into the stone beneath her feet. To vanish. To be unseen.
“You must be exhausted,” Feyre said softly, rising from her seat. “I can have the House draw you a bath, or food, if you’d like.”
She managed a small nod. “Thank you.”
Rhysand inclined his head from the armrest he leaned against. “You’ll have whatever you need,” he said, his voice calm but unreadable. “This place is yours now, too.”
That statement rang in her head, hollow and unreal.
Yours now, too.
She didn’t know what to say to that. She wasn’t sure she believed it.
Azriel hadn’t moved from beside her, but his shadows had thickened again, rising and coiling low around his boots, as if they, too, felt the scrutiny, the tension simmering just beneath the surface.
“You’ll find the House quite accommodating,” Morrigan offered, rising and crossing the room with elegance.
Morrigan’s golden hair gleamed in the dimming light. Her voice was kind, but not patronising, genuine in a way that surprised her.
“It understands more than most of us,” the female added.
She swallowed and nodded once. “Thank you.”
A flicker of something passed through Azriel’s eyes, but he said nothing.
“Come,” Morrigan said gently, “I’ll show you your room.”
Azriel tensed beside her, almost imperceptibly. A muscle in his jaw twitched, but she didn’t look back at him. Not as she let Morrigan guide her away.
She felt the gazes on her retreating, the judgment, the curiosity, the cold calculation from some, the uncertainty from others, and Azriel’s.
She felt his eyes follow her until she disappeared down the hall.
The bedroom was beautiful. A little too beautiful. The kind that made her feel like she shouldn’t touch anything.
The windows were wide and framed with gossamer curtains, the sky beyond already veiled in night. The bed was enormous, draped in rich fabrics that shimmered like starlight. A fire crackled quietly in the hearth.
“It’s yours,” Morrigan said, stopping just inside the doorway. “You can move things around if you’d like.”
She nodded. “This is fine.”
Morrigan tilted her head, studying her, but didn’t press.
“I’ll let you rest. If you need anything, just ask. I asked the Dawn Court to send your things; they should be here in the coming days. Until then, I’ve stocked the wardrobe with clothing I thought you might like. As well as some books and other things here and there.”
Morrigan’s voice was warm and sincere.
Then the door closed behind her with a quiet click, and she was alone again.
She stood in the centre of the room for a long time.
Not moving. Not thinking. Just feeling.
The weight on her shoulders was unbearable. Like a second set of wings, heavier, colder, not hers. Not really.
The silence pulsed. Not peaceful, not soft. It was a kind of silence that made every thought louder, every heartbeat harder to ignore.
Finally, she turned toward the bathing chambers.
The water shimmered, a pale silver sheen rippling across the surface. The sunken pool looked like it had been carved from moonlight itself, perched along the edge of the mountain, open to the wind and stars.
Steam curled in the air, carrying the scent of lavender and cedarwood, gentle and grounding.
She undressed slowly and stepped in.
The heat wrapped around her like a cocoon, but it couldn’t reach the ache inside. She sank deeper until only her face remained above the surface. The warmth kissed her skin, humming against her collarbones.
The words haunted her.
I can train you, if you’d like.
They weren’t meant to be cruel, a genuine offer. But now, alone in the quiet, they wrapped around her throat like wire.
Had he looked at her and seen weakness? Softness? A body not carved from war and discipline like the others? Had he spoken those words to be kind? Or to fix something?
Was she broken?
Her fingers clenched the edge of the stone pool. Steam veiled the tears slipping down her cheeks.
She didn’t sob. Didn’t shudder, just silent, painful tears.
After a while, she climbed out and dried herself on soft towels the House provided without her needing to ask.
The wardrobe had indeed been filled, gowns and leathers, silks and wools. All in shades she liked. Soft golds and moonlit creams. Deep blues. Rich earth tones. Nothing too tight. Nothing too revealing.
Thoughtful. Intimate.
She slipped into a loose nightgown and padded barefoot across the room. The bed looked far too large. Far too soft. She stared at it for a long moment before crawling in from the far side, curling into the corner like a cat.
The blankets smelled faintly of starlight and mountain wind.
Still, sleep didn’t come.
She watched the sky through the arched window, where the stars glittered above the snow-dusted peaks. Somewhere down the halls, she heard laughter.
She pulled the blankets tighter around herself.
This is not my home.
The thought rang clear and bitter.
She didn’t remember falling asleep, but when sunlight touched her face the next morning, the ache in her chest hadn’t faded. It clung to her ribs. Her throat.
The room was still. Too quiet. A reminder of how alone she was.
A tray of food sat near the hearth, still warm, as if the House had kept it so just for her. Toasted bread. Fruit. Tea that never seemed to grow cold.
She ate in silence, in a haze of uncertainty. What was expected of her here? What was she, now?
She spent most of the morning wrapped in the oversized robe she’d found in the closet, curled in the window seat, watching the wind chase snow across the mountain peaks.
Hours passed.
A soft knock. Just once.
She rose slowly, tightened the robe around her waist, folded her wings in, and cracked the door open.
She didn’t need to see his face to know. She’d felt it, the shift in the air, the hush of shadows curling beneath the threshold.
Azriel.
He didn’t speak at first. Just looked at her. At the unbrushed hair, the thick robe, the tear-streaked cheeks, she hadn’t bothered to wash.
“I thought you might like some air,” he said, his voice low. “The training ring’s quiet this morning. Or there’s a walk along the northern bridge, it overlooks the city.”
She didn’t answer immediately. The silence between them stretched, not hostile, just uncertain.
“You don’t have to,” he added quickly. “I just thought—” He exhaled. “Just checking in.”
He looked tired. Not in the way warriors look tired after battle. In the way people look when they’ve been waiting for something they’re not sure will ever come.
“You didn’t have to come,” she said, softer this time.
“I know.”
A beat passed.
“I’ll go for a walk,” she said, and the tiniest shift crossed his face, something almost like relief, though he didn’t move.
She left the door slightly ajar and slipped into the closet. When she emerged, dressed in soft navy, her wings folded neatly behind her, Azriel was still there. Standing like he hadn’t moved, hands tucked behind his back as if he didn’t quite trust himself to reach for anything.
They walked in silence through the winding corridors of the House. Somewhere deep in the halls, Nesta’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding. Cassian’s laugh followed like a drumbeat.
“Sorry,” Azriel muttered. “They’re… never quiet.”
She didn’t reply, but she didn’t flinch either.
As they passed the training ring, she slowed without realising.
Cassian was leaning against the wall, laughing at something Emerie had said. Emerie stood beside him, stretching out a shoulder. Nesta faced off against Gwyn in the ring’s centre, both blades drawn, focused and fluid.
Then Gwyn glanced up.
Not at her. At Azriel.
It wasn’t a long look. Barely a second, but there was something familiar in it, like a conversation had already happened without words.
The knot in her chest, the one she’d thought sleep might have dulled, coiled tighter.
The stone path curved along the edge of the cliff. The air was sharper here, cleaner, wilder. The city shimmered far below like a dream made of light and glass. Azriel unfurled his wings slightly, adjusting to the wind, and then folded them again.
“Your wings are… beautiful,” he said, his voice almost lost to the wind like the words had surprised even him.
She blinked. Glanced at him. “Thank you.”
They climbed in silence, the kind that wasn’t uncomfortable, but careful.
Her steps slowed as they reached a ledge carved into the mountain, one that overlooked the river far below. The cold stung her cheeks. Her hands curled tighter into her sleeves.
She didn’t want to speak, but her chest ached with the words that had built up, quiet and sharp, since the moment she’d opened her eyes that morning.
“I know I’m not what you expected,” she said finally, barely louder than the breeze. “And I’m sorry if this bond is… inconvenient.”
Azriel turned slightly, not sharply, just enough to show he was listening.
“I can find work in Velaris,” she went on. “Keep a low profile. Dawn Court will still believe the mating bond is being unified. That helps my family name, and it gives you space.”
The silence between them deepened.
“You can go on with your life,” she finished, forcing her voice to stay steady, though each word felt like splintered glass in her throat.
Azriel came to a stop beside her.
“You think I want to go on with my life,” he said evenly, “like you’re not part of it.”
She didn’t meet his gaze. “I just thought it would make things easier.”
“Easier?” The word came rough, frayed at the edge. “You think watching you walk away would be easier?”
“I do,” she said softly. “I think it would be easier for both of us if I weren’t in the way.”
His brow furrowed, slowly, like he was trying to translate a language he’d never learned. “In the way?”
Her lips parted, then closed again. She didn’t know how to explain it, how out of place she felt here, in this city full of warriors and power, where the women around her seemed carved from fire and steel.
“You don’t have to make room for me,” she finally said. “I saw the way they looked at you, and then at me. Like they were trying to figure out why the mother was so cruel as to gift you me as your mate.”
Azriel’s wings twitched slightly behind him, but his face didn’t change.
“Don’t,” he said gently, firmly. “Don’t do that.”
Her throat burned. Her eyes did, too.
“I didn’t come here to start a fight,” she said. “But I’m not made for someone like you. I’m half-human. My magic’s useless. Just flickers of light that look nice and mean nothing. I’m soft, Azriel. Curved. I bruise easily and don’t heal. And the women in your life? Morrigan. Feyre. Amren. Elain. Nesta. Emerie. Gwyn…” Her voice cracked. “They’re strong. Sharp. Beautiful. Everything I’m not.”
The last words weren’t meant for him; they were whispered to the cold air, bitter truths she’d held far too long.
Still, Azriel didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch. He just stood there, silent, like each word she gave him mattered.
“You’re not in the way,” he said finally, his voice low and sure. “You’re not some obligation I have to fit around.”
She turned her face toward the horizon, blinking hard. “Then what am I?”
A long pause. Then a step.
He moved closer, slowly, until she could feel the faint heat of him, breaking through the mountain air.
“You are soft,” he said gently. “You are strong. You have curves that make my mouth water and thoughts I should be ashamed of. You are beautiful.”
She blinked at him, stunned.
“You’re my mate,” he added, quieter still. “Mine.”
A beat. Then another.
“I didn’t know what to do at first,” he said. “Not because I didn’t want you, but because I didn’t want to get this wrong. I didn’t want to touch something fragile and ruin it.”
She looked up at him, and he wasn’t the Spymaster, wasn’t shadow and blade and silence.
He was just a man. Tired. Honest. Trying.
Her lips parted, but no words came.
The wind passed between them, curling her hair into her face. She didn’t push it away.
Azriel’s gaze held. “You talk like you don’t belong. Like everyone else deserves this more than you. But I see you. I feel the bond every moment I’m near you. You are not a mistake. You are not a burden.”
She whispered, shaky and small, “But what if I don’t know how to be what you need?”
His shadows softened, his wings folding slightly behind him.
“Then we figure it out,” he said. “Together.”
She didn’t respond. She didn’t need to.
She just stood there, arms wrapped tight around herself, heart thundering in her chest.
Summary: She is a Day Court princess, the light in every room, loud, bright, and adored. He is the Night Court’s spymaster, hidden in shadows, haunted by the knowledge that she deserves better.
Author’s Note: Another request completed! I hope you enjoy it!
Masterlist
Azriel had waited his whole life for the mating bond to snap, and now, as he watched her from across the room, it was nothing like he had imagined.
It snapped like sunlight searing through every shadow in his soul, filling the darkness with burning light.
His mate stood surrounded by a circle of heirs, nobles, and High Fae who made his skin crawl. Her laughter echoed through the ballroom as her hand rested against a High Fae’s chest.
Azriel’s world narrowed to her, his breath ragged and uneven.
A hand clapped his shoulder, dragging him out of the haze of her.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Cassian’s voice said.
Azriel’s eyes didn’t leave her.
“Rhys calls her the Day Court’s princess,” Cassian chuckled. “Apparently, Eris has been trying to wed her for nearly a century.”
Azriel said nothing.
He couldn’t.
The word princess didn’t begin to describe what she was.
She was life itself.
Her gaze found his then, and her smile faltered, just slightly, as her hand tightened on another man’s chest.
Azriel felt a pull deep within him, demanding and undeniable, dragging him forward.
Cassian’s eyes flickered between the princess, whose smile had now vanished completely, and Azriel, whose shadows were now restless, nearly engulfing him whole.
She felt it too.
She knew.
The princess’s hand fell from the man’s chest. Her eyes locked on Azriel as she crossed the ballroom toward them.
“Az,” Cassian hissed in disbelief as the most eligible bachelorette in all of Prythian rushed straight toward them.
She stopped a few feet away, the soft shimmer of her golden gown catching the light.
Up close, she was even more devastatingly beautiful. Every inch of her was warmth, gold, sun, and life.
Suddenly, Azriel felt like his shadows were strangling him.
“You must be from the Night Court,” she said softly, a smile on her lips. “I’m Y/N it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
She didn’t seem to notice the way every pair of eyes in the room turned towards her, towards them.
Maybe she just didn’t care. She was used to being the centre of attention.
Azriel, however, felt every gaze.
He wasn’t made for the spotlight.
Still, Azriel didn’t move. He couldn’t.
He just stared at her as she stood before him.
Cassian bumped his shoulder against his, but still, Azriel couldn’t force a word out.
His shadows curled instinctively around her, as if trying to dull her light.
Instead of flinching like he expected, she laughed softly, a sound that made his mouth go dry, and for a moment, he thought he might faint.
She tilted her head, studying him. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Azriel,” Cassian said, grinning. “And I’m Cassian, General of the Night Court.”
Before Azriel could even react, Cassian stepped and took her hand. He bowed slightly and pressed a kiss to the back of her knuckles.
Jealousy burned in Azriel’s chest, his shadows thickening at her ankles. Cassian glanced at him with a smirk before releasing her hand.
“Cassian, the Night Court’s War General,” she said with a smile. “And Azriel, what’s your title?”
The way his name rolled off her tongue made his chest ache.
“Spymaster,” he said, his voice low and rough.
Her smile deepened into something that could have brought kings to their knees.
“Spymaster? That sounds… dangerous.”
Cassian laughed as Azriel’s jaw clenched.
“Most people call him the Shadowsinger,” Cassian added, lifting his glass of amber liquor to his lips.
The bond pulsed in Azriel’s chest, sharp, constant, and it took everything in him to remain still.
Her eyes filled with amusement.
“Well, Shadowsinger, your shadows seem to like me,” she giggled, hands gliding through the wisps of darkness that danced around her.
The sight made something twist inside him, equal parts awe and dread.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
His mate wasn’t supposed to be someone like her.
Not someone who shone so brightly it hurt to look at her.
She stepped closer, lowering her voice to a teasing whisper. “Tell me, Shadowsinger, do you dance?”
Azriel’s heart was pounding so loudly in his ears that he could hardly breathe.
“I don’t dance,” he said finally.
“A drink, then?” she asked, her smile softening.
Cassian’s smirk turned into a grin, glancing between them, but Azriel was already shaking his head.
“You should enjoy your night,” he said, forcing a polite nod and avoiding her gaze.
“Oh.” Her smile faltered, confusion flickering across her beautiful face.
“I’m on duty tonight,” Azriel added.
He could feel her hurt and rejection through the bond.
“Right,” she said softly.
A practised smile formed on her lips, but her eyes betrayed her, looking at him with hurt, as if she had never been denied a dance or a drink before.
He doubted she ever had.
“Well,” she said after a pause, her voice bright again. “I’ll let you get back to your duties, shadowsinger. I’ll save you a dance.”
His heart twisted as he watched her take a step back, then another.
The crowd swallowed her whole, courtiers and suitors, drawn to her like moths to a flame. Even as she smiled and laughed, her gaze didn’t leave Azriel’s.
He turned on his heel and pushed through the crowd, away from her, away from the sight of those men leaning too close, offering her company, drinks and dances that should have been his.
Jealousy flared hot, curling low in his stomach. The bond twisted painfully as he forced himself further and further from her.
“Az!” Cassian called, trying to catch up.
Azriel didn’t stop until they reached the edge of the ballroom. His hands were shaking, his chest rising and falling too fast.
Cassian caught up to him.
“What the hell was that?” he demanded. “The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen just walked up to you, asked you to dance and have a drink, and you said no.”
Azriel dragged a hand down his face, shadows curling around him as if shielding him from reality.
“She’s…”
He couldn’t bring himself to say it, the word catching in his throat.
Cassian exhaled sharply. “She’s what?”
“She’s my mate,” Azriel whispered, his voice cracking on the word.
Silence fell for a moment.
Cassian froze, eyes widening. “Does she know?”
Azriel’s gaze flicked back toward the crowd surrounding her. Men leaned closer, trying to catch her attention.
“She knows,” he said finally, forcing himself to meet Cassian’s eyes. “I think she’s waiting for me to go to her.”
Cassian’s brow furrowed, confusion written across his face. “Then go to her. Have your dance, have a drink with your mate, speak to her.”
Her laughter echoed in his ears; the bond between them was relentless and aching, a constant pull beneath his ribs.
“She deserves more,” he whispered. “So much more than me.”
Cassian’s expression softened, but Azriel didn’t look at him. He just stood there, shadows curling around his shoulders as her laughter faded into the music.
After that, he kept to the edge of the room, shadows cloaking him in darkness.
She was never alone, always surrounded by admirers, their laughter too loud, their touch too familiar and no matter how deeply he hid in the shadows, her eyes always found him.
Through the crowd.
Through the noise.
Through the dark.
Each time their eyes met, his breath caught, and each time, he was the one to look away first.
He could handle watching her from afar.
Until he saw him.
A flash of red hair, glowing like flames. A sharp smile. Amber eyes locked on one target.
Her.
Azriel’s stomach dropped, his fingers twitched at his sides, and his shadows coiled around his boots.
Eris Vanserra was heading toward his mate.
The heir of the Autumn Court bowed before her, taking her hand and gently kissing her knuckles. She laughed softly as Eris pulled her into a tight embrace, but her gaze slipped past him to where Azriel stood hidden in the shadows.
In that moment, Azriel’s control fractured.
Eris whispered something that made her laugh, a loud, unrestrained sound that twisted like a knife in Azriel’s chest. His wings flared slightly, and his hands clenched into fists.
“Dance with me,” Eris murmured, already tugging her toward the floor.
She hesitated. Her gaze fixed on the shadows where Azriel stood, almost invisible.
Azriel’s chest tightened painfully as he watched them step onto the dance floor. Her gown shimmered with every turn, golden fabric catching the light.
Eris held her as though she belonged to him, his hand resting far too low at the small of her back.
Every instinct screamed at him to intervene, to pull her from Eris’s grasp and into his own arms where she belonged.
Maybe she did belong here, in the centre of the room, with the heir of a court.
Maybe the Cauldron had made a mistake.
He stood there, cloaked in shadow, and watched his mate dance with another man.
Finally, her eyes found his.
Across the room.
In the arms of another.
Azriel’s fragile control finally shattered.
He turned on his heel and left the ballroom, through the winding halls of the Night Court palace.
The air was too bright, too heavy.
He needed darkness.
He needed distance.
He needed to breathe.
Azriel pushed open the heavy doors of the balcony, the night air cool against his burning skin. His hands gripped the railing until his knuckles turned white.
The bond pulled at him relentlessly, a constant, searing ache beneath his ribs. It was a pain unlike anything he had ever felt, as if he were being burned from the inside out.
His eyes stung.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried. Couldn’t remember the last time he allowed himself to feel so much, but now, standing alone, he was seconds away from breaking completely.
He tried to smother it, the bond, the ache, her.
Tried to build the walls back up.
To breathe through the pain.
His wings flared in frustration. His shadows writhed and coiled around him, whispering her name.
“Stop,” he hissed to them. “Stop.”
The bond tightened in response, strangling him.
He didn’t hear the door open at first, only the sound of heels on stone.
He turned, tears drying instantly as his face settled into its usual mask.
He’d expected Cassian. Maybe Rhys.
Anyone but her.
“Is there a threat out here?” she teased, her gown glowing in the darkness.
“I’m sorry?” Azriel said, carefully.
She tilted her head. “You said you couldn’t have a drink because you were on duty, but from what I can see—” she glanced around the empty balcony, “—there don’t appear to be any threats.”
He inhaled sharply as she stepped closer.
“You followed me,” he said, his fists clenched at his sides.
“I did.”
She took another slow step forward. The closer she came, the more his shadows retreated.
“You were hiding,” she continued. “Watching me, watching Eris, and acting as if it didn’t bother you.”
Azriel’s shadows went still.
“You could feel that?” he whispered.
She was so close that he could feel her warmth against his chest.
“I can feel everything you feel, Shadowsinger,” she murmured, her eyes flicking from his to his mouth. “And you, my mate, are jealous. I’m here to tell you that I will always choose my mate, stranger or not.”
Azriel’s voice broke as he said, “You deserve someone like Eris.”
A quiet laugh left her lips as she shook her head.
“If I wanted Eris, I would have chosen him long ago. He knows that, it’s just a game to him, a chase he’ll never win.” Her voice was soft but sure. “I don’t want Eris. I want the man the Mother gifted me. My equal. My mate.”
He couldn’t breathe. The bond burned between them, a living thing.
“I’m not here to rush you,” she whispered. “And I’ll never force the bond, but I couldn’t leave the Night Court knowing my mate thought I’d chosen someone else.”
“You’re leaving,” Azriel said, voice cracking.
“Not if you don’t want me to.”
He shouldn’t have looked at her, because when he did, his heart raced.
All sense, all restraint, left him.
“Stay,” he whispered.
Her breath caught, and then a smile formed on her lips. “As you wish, Shadowsinger.”
She stepped even closer, her gown brushing against his boots. The bond ached between them.
“Eris means nothing,” Azriel murmured, voice low and rough.
“Eris means nothing,” she repeated softly, looking up at him through her lashes.
“Tell me,” she said, her tone teasing. “Do you truly not dance, or were you avoiding me?”
“I don’t know how,” he admitted. “Will you teach me?”
Her smile widened, and the look on her face nearly brought him to his knees.
“Yes,” she whispered, reaching for him. “I’d love to teach you to dance.”
Her hands slipped into his, and the world tilted. The bond flared in response, and his chest tightened.
“Follow my lead,” she murmured, placing his hands on her waist, while hers rested on his shoulders.
She guided him, the Spymaster, the Shadowsinger, her mate, through the steps of a waltz.
He stumbled, stepped on her toes, tripped her, apologised too much, and his cheeks flushed for the first time in years. She scolded him, louder and fiercer than Cassian ever had during training, but every word, every correction, made his heart ache in growing affection.
After that night, everything changed.
For six months, they practised every evening.
He learned how to spin her without stumbling, when she wanted to be dipped or lifted, when to turn, and when to pull her close.
He learned her.
After that night, she never left his side.
She left the Day Court without a second thought. She moved into his home and filled every dark corner with light, colour, and life.
She was loud, spoiled, and everything he never knew he needed.
She kept every gift he gave her, every letter, every ribbon.
Every reminder of him.
On the night of their mating ceremony, they danced until their feet ached.
They danced with friends, with family, beneath the glow of the moonlight. He twirled her beneath the stars, her gown shimmering, her laughter echoing through the courtyard.
She glowed, a light so blinding, so pure, that he couldn’t look away.
summary: He asked for your hand like you were a favor to be traded. When the mating bond snaps in the Court of Nightmares, furious but powerless, you're taken to Autumn.
word count: 5,310
content: [ coercion, emotional manipulation, power imbalance, mating bond, all warnings that come with Keir and the Hewn City, dead parents, mentions of abuse, keir is y/n's grandfather ]
author's note: thanks anon for this request! sooo i didnt end up writing any smut for this. the tone it took on as i wrote just didnt have the vibe for that, and it wouldve felt really forced. also i felt a strange power imbalance when i tried; not something i’d usually shy away from writing but i think this was a really pretty piece and i didnt want to muddle it with dubcon yk
✦ . Masterlist . ✦
You walked fast—nearly jogged, if you were honest—through the narrow hallway that led to the Council Chamber, your heels catching against the smooth stone as you tried not to make too much noise. Your pulse was already high in your throat, pushed higher by the low, measured toll of the nearby bells. You were late. Again.
He was going to skin you alive.
Keir hadn’t said much this morning—just that the heir of Autumn would be joining him for “a conversation of mutual interest,” whatever that meant. You hadn’t asked questions. You’d learned by now that curiosity only invited irritation.
But still. Eris Vanserra didn’t come to the Hewn City for polite formalities. No one did. And Keir had been in a mood ever since the messenger confirmed the High Lord had set the meeting. He’d spent the morning stalking the halls like a male preparing for war.
Which meant you were walking in late to something very, very important.
You swore softly and slipped inside.
You hesitated at the heavy double doors of the Council Chamber, the low murmur of voices inside fading the moment you stepped over the threshold. The scent of burning incense mixed with cold stone filled your lungs. Your footsteps echoed softly on the polished floor as you moved forward, eyes deliberately fixed on the ground. As you crossed the room, the tension prickled at your skin.
“You’re late,” Keir’s voice was calm but sharp enough to cut through the hum of conversation.
The room quieted around him.
You stopped just shy of your chair, spine straightening instinctively.
You’d expected the reprimand. The public humiliation. He rarely missed an opportunity to remind you who held the reins.
Keir didn’t motion for you to sit. “Late,” he repeated, the word twisting with disdain. “As though your time is more valuable than mine. Than the court’s. Than our guest’s.”
You kept your gaze low, jaw tightening.
Keir rose slowly from his seat, not to tower but to command. His voice stayed even, deliberate. “I give you responsibility, and this is how you meet it? I allow you opportunities I would grant no other female. Not even your mother.”
You flinched.
“Do you think we can afford such carelessness?”
He didn’t wait for an answer—there never was room for one.
He turned slightly, gesturing toward Eris with an open palm. “Beron sends us his heir, a rare opportunity for diplomacy. And you walk in like a distracted servant girl, too absorbed in your own little errands to arrive on time.”
You felt the heat creeping up your neck.
“I bring you here to observe, to learn,” Keir continued, each word striking like a lash, “and instead, you’ve set an example I’d be ashamed to see from one of my lowest courtiers.”
Still standing, still silent, you braced yourself for the worst of it.
Keir waved a hand. “Apologize,” he said simply, resuming his seat. “You’ve made a spectacle of yourself. You will not make one of me.”
Only then did you finally allow yourself to move.
You turned—slowly, deliberately—your movements stiff with the effort of keeping your expression blank. You didn’t rush, though your stomach twisted with the burn of humiliation. You kept your chin high anyway. You’d learned that from Keir: if you must be dragged, at least look like you walked of your own will.
You faced the heir of Autumn like you were stepping into a performance you hadn’t rehearsed.
Eris Vanserra.
He was exactly as you’d imagined—sharp angles and cool composure, seated like the chair belonged to him. His golden-red hair caught the torchlight, flickering like open flame, but his posture was still and unbothered. One ankle crossed over a knee, a single finger resting against the corner of his mouth. His gaze was unreadable. Not cold, but closed. Guarded.
He said nothing. Only watched.
And when your eyes met his—
Not gently. Not like the brushing of threads or a soft breath of recognition. It hit like a tether pulled taut all at once, yanked from the depths of your chest, snapping into place so violently it nearly knocked you back a step. Something inside you reeled, flinched—like a door long rusted shut had been forced open from the inside.
Your breath caught, too sharp, too sudden.
The world narrowed.
You felt it everywhere—like heat blooming low in your stomach, like your lungs weren’t your own, like your pulse had been dragged into rhythm with someone else’s. It was not pain, not exactly. But it was overwhelming. Terrifying. Your heart scrambled to understand what your body already knew: something irreversible had just happened. Something ancient and final.
It was as if an unknown magic inside you had reared its head for the first time in your life and whispered, there you are.
And he was the answer.
You couldn’t look away.
Didn’t dare blink. Not yet.
Eris’ posture didn’t shift. Not even a flicker of recognition across his face. He sat still as stone, gaze steady, unreadable. A master of silence. If his eyes were a fortress, his control was the outer wall—built stone by stone over years, and just as immovable.
But you—
Your face betrayed everything.
Your lips parted before you could stop them. Your breath stuttered once, then again, too shallow. The blood had drained from your fingertips and rushed to your throat. You felt your lashes flutter, a single blink too slow, too stunned.
And from the corner of your vision, you saw your grandfather’s head tilt—just slightly.
He had seen it.
And you knew, before you even looked at him, that he understood exactly what had happened.
The silence in the chamber stretched thinner than glass. A breath, then another. You could feel the air shift—not with magic, but with attention. Every gaze in the room was waiting. Watching.
Then Eris stood.
Not abruptly. Not with surprise. But like he had been planning to stand all along. Like your new bond had changed absolutely nothing.
You barely stopped yourself from stepping back. Your throat bobbed, dry.
He didn’t speak. Not yet.
He looked at Keir first, his expression unreadable. Not quite expectant—no, it was cooler than that. Measured. His eyes lingered a beat too long. Like he was assessing your grandfather, weighing something invisible.
Then he turned his gaze to you.
Slowly.
And for a moment—just a moment—you wondered what he saw.
Not the expression you’d failed to mask. Not the shock still ringing in your bones. But you. You. The girl your grandfather had hidden behind a hundred veils of courtly obedience. The girl who’d never, in all her fifty years, breathed real air or touched soil or seen the sun. Did he see that? Did he see a possession, or a person?
What does a male like that think when a bond snaps into place?
What does he do with it?
He turned back to Keir.
You braced yourself—he would speak now, you were sure of it. Would begin the negotiations, would play whatever game the two of them had arranged behind closed doors. You knew how this worked. You knew how your story was supposed to be told.
But he didn’t go to Keir.
He came to you.
You froze.
He crossed the room without hesitation, the distance vanishing beneath the sure, easy weight of his steps. And then he was before you—taller, closer than you’d ever expected.
His fingers found yours, gloved hand brushing bare skin. And without asking, without hesitating, he lifted your hand to his mouth.
And kissed it.
Slowly. Deliberately. His gaze never leaving yours.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
You couldn’t answer. Your voice stuck behind your teeth, behind the shock, behind the weight of everything unspoken. You weren’t sure your lungs had remembered how to pull air.
Then he turned, your hand still in his.
As if you had already agreed.
As if your silence meant yes.
As if you were already behind him.
“I’d like her hand,” he said, gaze returning to Keir. “Formally. As mate. As future lady of Autumn.”
The words didn’t seem real.
You heard them. You understood each one. But they landed out of order, scattered, like someone had tipped your mind sideways and let your thoughts spill into a pile.
Her hand. Mate. Lady of Autumn.
Was this—was this a proposal? A declaration? A transaction?
Your heart was still beating too fast. Your palm still burned faintly where his mouth had touched it. The bond hummed along your spine and through each rib like a second heartbeat, louder now, more insistent, as though it was pleased with itself for being named.
But your body hadn’t caught up with your brain. You felt removed from it—like you were standing in the wrong version of yourself. The version that would have looked to her grandfather for approval. That would have nodded, smiled, curtsied, spoken her lines.
You weren’t smiling now.
He had asked for you. Claimed you. Not in metaphor, not in theory, not in the slow-burn romantic sense you’d once imagined while reading contraband books in the dim corners of your room.
No—he had asked for you like you were an estate: measurable, ownable, transferable.
You opened your mouth. You weren’t even sure what you meant to say. Maybe No, maybe What are you doing, maybe just your own name to remind the room you had one.
But whatever it was, it didn’t make it past your tongue.
“Vanserra,” your grandfather said smoothly, eyes narrowed just enough to reveal his doubt. “You expect me to believe you would bind yourself, your future court, to someone you’ve not yet had a full conversation with?”
His voice was amused. Skeptical. But not insulted.
Not dismissive.
And that, somehow, made the panic press tighter behind your ribs.
You’d thought—naively, maybe—that your grandfather would laugh. That he’d bristle with offense. That he’d dismiss Eris’s request outright, just for the insult of asking.
But instead, Keir was considering it.
That amusement in his tone wasn’t mockery—it was interest, cloaked in skepticism. Testing the weight of the offer. Looking for the angle.
Your fingers curled in on themselves slowly, like your body was trying to reclaim what had been taken, as if you could reverse it, undo it, pull back from the moment and make it a mistake someone else had made.
Eris didn’t flinch beneath Keir’s scrutiny. His stance remained relaxed—too relaxed. He finally released you in favor of clasping both hands behind his back, chin slightly lifted.
“Curious choice,” Keir mused, voice light with false interest. “Hardly the most advantageous offer on the table.”
A pause. Your face heated.
“I don’t make decisions I haven’t already considered in full,” Eris said. “And I don’t waste time asking for what I don’t intend to keep.”
A faint smirk touched his lips, but it wasn’t cruel. It was worse than cruel—it was calm. Certain.
“Let that be answer enough.”
Your knees nearly gave out.
That was the story, then. That was how they’d frame it. As strategy. As inevitability.
Your mouth parted again, and this time, words came. Shaky, quiet.
“I haven’t—”
“Be silent,” Keir said, without looking at you.
And just like that, your voice vanished again.
Not by magic. By command.
By obedience.
You looked at Eris then. You wanted to see something—anything—in his face. Doubt, maybe. Hesitation. Some flicker of recognition that this was wrong, or too much, or too fast.
But there was only stillness.
Keir leaned back in his chair with the ease of a male who had just found himself holding the sharpest blade in the room.
“And here I thought,” he said, almost idly, “you’d come to posture and circle, like every other male with a title to defend.” His fingers drummed once against the armrest.
Eris didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
Keir let the silence settle before continuing, voice shifting—cooler now, more precise. “She wasn’t part of the original arrangement. Not in any meaningful way.”
You flinched, barely, at the word meaningful.
“She’s young. Inexperienced. Untried in court or politics. I wouldn’t call her… an asset.”
Your stomach turned.
“But,” Keir went on, tone sharpening, “it seems the bond has given her value. At least to you.”
He smiled then, the kind that didn’t touch his eyes.
“So let’s discuss what her hand is worth.”
It was like being stripped bare in the center of the room—like the torchlight itself was meant to spotlight your stillness, your silence, your helplessness. You didn’t know if they saw you blush or pale or tremble. You didn’t think it mattered.
They weren’t looking at you anymore.
Only at what you could buy.
“What do you offer, Vanserra?” Keir asked, gaze gleaming. “Because I can promise you, I don’t sell cheaply.”
The faint flicker of torchlight caught the sharp angles of Eris’ face, casting shadows that made him look almost carved from stone. His eyes narrowed slightly, the faintest curve touching his lips—not quite a smile, but close. He leaned forward, his voice low, measured.
“You won’t find a more valuable alliance, Keir.”
He let the words hang between them.
“I offer the full backing of Autumn once I am its High Lord—its armies, its resources, its influence. A bond with me is a bond with the power of my court.”
His gaze flicked briefly to you, cool and appraising, then back to Keir.
“This union will strengthen your hold on the Hewn City, and send a clear message to any who would challenge you.”
He paused, voice dipping with a quiet threat.
“Turn away from this offer, and you risk everything Autumn’s power can undo.”
The room grew heavier with unspoken implications.
Your grandfather’s smile was thin but sharp. “Bold words. But fitting for the Vanserra heir.”
Keir leaned forward, steepling his fingers beneath his chin as he studied Eris for a long moment. Then, at last, he nodded slowly, the hint of a smile ghosting across his lips.
“Very well,” he said with deliberate finality. “The alliance is formed. The hand is promised.”
His gaze snapped to you, sharp and unyielding. “You have thirty minutes.”
The weight of his words fell like a stone in your chest.
There was no room for protest. No space to bargain or plead.
This was not a question.
This was command.
Keir rose from his chair, gathering his cloak with a casual authority that brooked no argument.
“Leave us.”
You swallowed hard, every nerve taut, as you turned on unsteady legs, the silent watch of Eris burning at your back.
The path ahead was certain. And terrifying.
You closed the heavy chamber door behind you with a muted click, but the weight of the moment pressed against your chest so hard it felt like stone. Your knees wobbled, breath shallow and uneven, as you leaned against the cold wall just outside the Council Chamber.
The words kept spinning through your mind, relentless: You have thirty minutes. You have thirty minutes. You have thirty minutes.
Your mind scrambled to make sense of it all. You’d been dealt like a pawn, bargained over like a piece of trade—no voice, no choice, no say. And yet, beneath the shock and numbness, something deeper roiled.
Not just because Eris had asked for your hand without so much as a conversation, but because your grandfather had agreed so easily, like you were a thing, not a person. Like your life, your future, was a token to be wagered.
You hated the quiet calm in the chamber, hated the way Eris had kissed your hand like it was a prize, hated the way you’d frozen when you wanted to scream.
You wanted to yell. To fight. To rip the whole arrangement apart.
But mostly, you hated the emptiness.
When you finally reached your chambers, the door swung open to reveal the room you had grown up in—familiar, but suddenly stripped bare of comfort.
You stared around at your belongings. A handful of dresses neatly hung or folded, books lined on a shelf, a worn cloak hanging by the door. Nothing worth packing.
What was there to take with you when everything you were about to leave behind was all you’d ever known?
You sank onto the edge of your bed, hands clenched in your lap. The silence screamed louder than the council ever had.
You forced yourself to stand, to move, to do what you had to do.
First, you found your friends. You avoided their eyes at first, unsure how to explain what was happening—or how to bear the pity you already saw lurking there. But they hugged you tight, whispered promises and farewells.
Then, you made your way to the cremation grounds—an austere place carved into the stone, where your parents’ ashes rested beneath a polished granite marker.
You knelt, fingertips tracing the cool surface, and whispered a goodbye you hadn’t dared to say aloud until now. The names carved into the stone were tethers, memories heavy as iron.
They had never seen the surface. Never felt true sun, never lived anywhere but in this damn mountain. Born, bound, and buried beneath it. Your chest ached at the thought.
You closed your eyes, let the silence stretch—let it echo with everything you couldn’t give them. Everything they should’ve had. The dust of their memory settled quietly around you as you rose, a small flame of resolve kindling in your chest.
“I’ll wait, if you need more time.”
You didn’t flinch, didn’t so much as turn to look at him. His voice didn’t startle so much as settle—low and composed, like the rest of him. But still unexpected.
For a long moment, you just stared at the stone. At your parents’ names carved into it, slightly worn by time and your fingertips.
“I can’t say I expected you to be here,” you said quietly.
And then—because curiosity always got the better of you, and because something in you bristled at the fact that it was him standing there—you turned.
He was standing a careful distance away. Hands clasped behind his back, gaze on the marker like he owed it something.
“I would have brought flowers,” Eris said after a beat. “If I’d known.”
“They weren’t the type.” Your voice cracked a little. “Anything sentimental would’ve embarrassed them.”
A ghost of a smile touched his mouth. “Practical, then. Like you.”
You bristled. “You don’t know me.”
“No,” he conceded, meeting your eyes. “Not yet.”
Something in the way he said it—not with the arrogance you heard before, but something quieter, steadier—made your throat tighten.
“I’m still angry,” you admitted, folding your arms like you could hold the feeling in place.
Eris nodded once, slowly. “You have every right to be.”
You didn’t respond. Just stared at the stone again, at the faint lichen creeping over the edge. It unsettled you, how easily he’d said that. How quickly he’d handed you that piece of ground to stand on. You weren’t used to your feelings being named, let alone validated. It felt like a trick. Like something sharp might be hidden beneath it.
“It wasn’t what I wanted,” he said, voice low. “But it was the best way to get Keir to let you go.”
You glanced at him, wary. “You bought me.”
His jaw tensed. “No. I negotiated a release. From a court that would never stop holding this bond over our heads.”
Your silence stretched a little too long.
“I know,” he went on, quieter now, “that Rhysand wouldn’t have allowed me to set foot in the Night Court again if it meant keeping me away from you. Not if Morrigan had anything to say about it.”
You blinked.
And then—gods. Morrigan.
Your aunt Morrigan. Your father’s sister.
This was the male she’d been promised to. The male she’d “sullied” herself to escape. Your whole life, your family had cursed her name. Called her tainted. Faithless. A disgrace to her bloodline. Whispers you’d grown up hearing, sharp as knives tucked behind closed doors. That she’d betrayed her own. That she’d been ungrateful for the match.
But now… after having to stand in silence as you were bartered…
Now you finally understood.
What kind of cruelty had she been trying to avoid?
Surely not worse than what you’d seen in the Hewn City. Surely not worse than what you had endured under Keir’s thumb.
But the question clung like smoke, refusing to leave you.
“So this is it, then?” You gestured to the empty stone corridor. “This is how it starts?”
Eris didn’t immediately respond. Instead, he studied you, the weight of his gaze something you couldn’t quite avoid. And then, as if the weight of it had become too much, he said, “No. This is how it was forced to begin. What comes next… that’s something we decide.”
You believed him. And it infuriated you. Because believing him meant accepting that this—this loss of control—had been the cleanest option. That all the quiet fury in your chest had nowhere to go.
After a long pause, Eris stepped forward. “Take my hand,” he said quietly, extending his gloved fingertips toward you. His tone wasn’t gentle—merely firm, as if it carried the weight of inevitability. “It would be my pleasure to welcome you to Autumn.”
At those words, your heart lurched. You had never stepped beyond the Hewn City, never ventured to the surface where a world existed beyond cold stone and perpetual shadow. The thought alone made you shudder with both apprehension and a spark of fragile hope.
Before you could protest, Eris murmured, “Please. Trust me—even if you can’t fully do so right now.”
And then, his hand pressed to your arm. At his command, your surroundings began to shift. At first, it was subtle—a soft darkening of the edges of your vision, as though a veil were draped over the world. The corridor’s harsh, angular stone and the ever-present damp chill faded into a deeper gloom, the familiar replaced by an almost dreamlike dusk.
The subtle shift in sensation, like the brush of silk over your mind. The way color and texture pulled away from you slightly—not gone, not dulled, but… filtered.
Your stomach clenched.
“What did you do?” you demanded, already blinking hard against the strange dimness. “You glamoured me.”
“Yes.”
“Why—”
“I didn’t want it to overwhelm you,” Eris said, voice steady but not unkind. “You’ve never seen the sun. Not really. I thought easing you into it might be… gentler.”
It should’ve infuriated you. It did—for a breath. But even through the soft, unnatural dimness, you could feel something shifting in the air around you.
Your eyes dropped to the ground.
Leaves.
Thousands of them, scattered in every direction, mottled gold and rust-red and brown. Some crisp, curled in on themselves; others flattened by the damp, pressed into the dirt like forgotten pages.
The ground was dirt. Dirt.
And you were standing on it. Not stone. Not carved, cursed floors. Just—ground.
Your knees wobbled.
You tried to look up—to follow the drifting fall of a leaf—and froze again.
The glamour had begun to lift. Slowly, gradually, but it made all the difference.
Light filtered through in ribbons. Warm and golden, but not the artificial flickering of faelights or the guttering orange of torches. It hit the edge of your face and you jerked away, blinking rapidly, hand lifting on instinct.
You turned, staring at the strange, living world around you. Everything moved. Not like it did in the Hewn City, where the only shifting things were people and shadows and smoke. Here, even the air moved. The trees swayed. The grass trembled. Light dappled and danced without ever once flickering out.
There were no books about this.
Why would there be?
What need would any of you have to understand this, when you were never meant to leave?
The surface was spoken of in fragments, in dismissals wrapped in soft smiles. Your parents had told you once—when you were young and asking too many questions—that they’d gone up, years ago. That it was nothing special. More stone. More dark. Just bigger. Emptier. That the Hewn City was safer, more efficient. Cleaner. The lie had worked for a while. You were a child who still believed adults wouldn’t lie for no reason.
But you remembered their faces when they eventually admitted the truth: they’d never been above ground.
Not once.
But oh, how they’d wanted to.
They didn’t know what waited for them up here. Didn’t know what the air felt like when it didn’t cling. Didn’t know that cold could come from something other than absence. They didn’t know what it was to hear the earth breathe.
They never got to find out.
You exhaled through your nose, slow and uneven. The glamour loosened its hold over your sight like fingers unthreading from your hair, slow, gradual, calm. You were starting to see more, now—color edging its way in around the world.
Something darted between two tree trunks ahead. You flinched. It flapped.
A bird. Not like the crows some kept in the Hewn City—those clever-eyed, miserable things bred for messages and menace. This one was bright. Red all over. Smaller, rounder. It seemed… unnecessary. Beautiful in a way that served no purpose at all.
And the air. You hadn’t realized before—it was scented. Not perfumed, not thick with the smell of candles and sweat and opium or whatever poison the courts were drinking. This was sharp. Crisp. Like snow, but not quite. Like spice, but not any kind you’d tasted. It filled your lungs, slid into your mouth and over your tongue. It was—
Alive.
So was the cold. Not the heavy, hollow kind that leached from stone walls and seeped into your bones while you sat still for too long. This cold had movement. It brushed your cheekbones, bit at your fingers, made your teeth press together—but the sunlight, wherever it touched you, answered it. Like they were playing. Like they were supposed to exist together.
The light was almost fully clear now.
You squinted up, following the glow that filtered through high branches, and—
“Ow—fuck,” you muttered, jerking back a step.
Eris shifted in front of you before you could blink. “Yeah,” he said, amused. “Don’t look straight at the sun. Even mortals know better than that.”
You rubbed your eyes, half-glaring at him. “Thanks for the tip.”
But even now, blinking past the blur, the world stayed. The trees. The grass. The slow roll of clouds, and the strange freedom of air that didn’t sit stale and pressed against a ceiling. It was too much. You didn’t know where to look. You didn’t know what to do with it all.
A whisper, so quiet you weren’t sure at first if you imagined it: “Turn around.”
You did. Slowly. The way he’d said it—low, reverent—it pinned you still.
“And don’t make a sound,” he added, barely audible. “Just look.”
You turned.
And the world opened again.
A small clearing spread before you, rimmed by trees. And in it—movement. Dozens of them. More. Creatures you couldn’t name. Slender, long-legged, soft-eyed. Some with antlers that curved like branches, others smaller, delicate, trailing behind.
Eris leaned in close, voice barely more than breath. “The ones with antlers? Those are bucks—the males.” You watched as they stepped, and grazed, and flicked their ears.
“The others are does. And…” His smile warmed his words. “Looks like they’ve got fawns with them. Babies.”
They didn’t look real.
They looked like myths given flesh—gentle and silent and unreal in their serenity. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t remember how.
One of the younger ones looked up, ears twitching. It stared directly at you.
And for one impossibly long second, you felt seen in a way no one from the Hewn City had ever dared to look.
Not as something to be shaped. Not as a petulant granddaughter. Not as a tool.
Just… someone standing in the woods.
Alive.
The fawn blinked. Its ears flicked once more. Then it turned, unafraid, and trotted after its mother through the trees.
You didn’t realize your fingers had curled into Eris’s sleeve until he shifted to glance down at them. You let go at once, heart lurching, but he said nothing.
The clearing quieted again, the herd melting into the underbrush as if they’d never been there at all. But the stillness they left behind was different. Settled. And full.
“I didn’t think anything like that could exist,” you whispered, like the words might scare the memory off too. You looked back to where the deer had vanished. “They weren’t afraid of us.”
“No,” he said. “They didn’t need to be.”
A breeze stirred the trees, and sunlight flickered between the leaves like rippling gold. Somewhere overhead, a bird you didn’t know the name of called out—sharp and clear and free.
You wrapped your arms around yourself. Not because you were cold.
There was moss, impossibly green, clinging to the north side of the trees. Clusters of wildflowers pushing up through soft earth, in shades too delicate to name. A squirrel—tiny, absurdly fast—scrambled up a trunk nearby and vanished into the leaves with a rustle. Even the rocks here didn’t seem lifeless. Sun-warmed and dappled in lichen, they felt like they belonged to the scene, not just cluttered it.
And when you turned back, Eris was looking at you.
His smile was soft. Crooked. Lit not by torchfire, but something gentler. And his eyes—amber, bright as honey in the sun—sparkled with it.
You blinked at him. “What?”
He tilted his head, just a bit. “You’re smiling.”
You were.
Big and bright and wide and completely unrestrained. Not the practiced curve you offered at court. Not the polite, tight-lipped expression your family had called pretty when appropriate.
This was something else. A whole-body kind of smile. A laugh trying to form even though nothing had been said. And you hadn’t even noticed.
Heat crept to your cheeks. “Oh.”
Eris didn’t tease you for it. Didn’t smirk or say something sharp. He only studied you, as if trying to memorize the exact shape of it.
His voice was quiet when he spoke again. Not uncertain, exactly, but… careful. Like the words mattered more than they usually did.
“Would you…” He hesitated, just a beat. His gaze flicked away, then returned to yours. “Would you like to see more? Take a walk?”
He said it like he wasn’t sure if you’d want to go—with him, specifically. Because it hadn’t occurred to him, maybe, that someone might say yes to something like this. To him, like this.
The breeze rustled again, lifting strands of his hair where it had slipped loose from the ribbon at his nape. In the sunlight, it was all shades of flame—copper and gold, a glint of red. His coat had caught some of the forest too: a few leaves clung to the velvet near his shoulder, unnoticed. His collar was slightly askew.
He looked nothing like the High Lord’s heir here. Nothing like the snarling, coiled force you’d seen before.
He just looked… warm. And waiting. One arm extended in quiet offering, elbow bent like some chivalrous male out of an old tale. Like he meant to escort you, not lead.
You slipped your hand into the crook of his arm.
He didn’t start walking right away—just stood there a moment, like he was letting you decide when to begin. And when you finally did, your steps slow and quiet beneath the trees, he matched them without question.
For a while, neither of you spoke. The woods did enough talking for you.
“There’s no rush,” Eris said, softly. “Take it as slowly as you like.”
You glanced up at him, but his gaze stayed ahead, following the winding path.
pairing: bob reynolds x fem!reader
summary: ava and yelena have no choice but to call your ex-boyfriend when you refuse to leave girls’ night out without him. but in your drunken haze you forget you’re broken up, and bob was never very good at telling you no.
tags: new avenger!reader, exes to lovers, angsty mutual pining goodness (i can’t seem to write anything except men who yearn these days), alpine picked bob in the divorce (you were never married)
warning(s): reader wears a dress and makeup, reader drinks alcohol and is intoxicated, mentions of addiction, mentions of mental health issues, suggestive content (no smut but some mild spice), one derogatory joke about florida (sorry florida. love, a californian 🫶🏻)
word count: 11.6k
note: title comes from the song back to friends by sombr, which i listened to while writing to help inspire the angst 🙂↕️
masterlist
If Ava and Yelena had known what a menace you were when you got drunk, they would never have floated the idea of a girls’ night out. They just thought you needed to blow off some steam after Bucky banned you from going on missions for two weeks.
Ever since you and Bob broke up, you’d been trying your best not to visibly mope too much. It had been almost three months since the breakup, and it was easy to avoid Bob when you went on missions and he stayed behind at the Watchtower. You did everything you could to throw yourself into work and volunteer for missions with barely any breaks in between to avoid the pain of seeing him.
Everything was going to plan until Bucky put his foot down after you almost got shot in your exhaustion. Luckily, John had gotten there just in time, but it was a closer call than any of your teammates were comfortable with.
So, for the last week, you’d been locked in your room to avoid Bob. You tried desperately not to run into him, only using common areas when you knew he was scheduled for training.
That was how Ava and Yelena got the idea to have one of their famous Thunderbolts—you never did quite feel like the “New Avengers” label fit you, much preferring your inside joke team name—girls’ nights out.
And boy, were they regretting that now.
You were something of a dark horse when it came to alcohol tolerance.
At first, Yelena and Ava were blown away by your ability to throw back drinks. For the first hour, Yelena was banging on the bar top and yelling for you to chug while Ava cupped her hands around her mouth and cheered. During the second hour, you hit the dance floor, closed your eyes, and let your hips sway with the pulsating beat of the 2000s dance track playing.
It was the third hour when all your drinks caught up with you.
You were delightfully sweet when you were drunk; they had to give you that.
Even though you were leaning against the bar, blinking slowly at your friends, you had a honeyed smile on your lips. Your already short dress was riding up your thighs as you slumped on a bar stool, and the eyeliner Yelena had carefully applied for you at the start of the night was smudged at the corners.
The nightclub had already started winding down. The dance floor that was buzzing only half an hour ago was now a cluster of stragglers clinging to the last songs. You could taste salt on your lips, from sweat or the rim of some forgotten glass.
“Yelena, your hair looks soooo good slicked back,” you said, just slightly slurring your words. Yelena, whose love language was exchanging insults and making fun of you, stared back emotionlessly. “Like—like a sexy seal. Ava, tell her she’s a sexy seal.”
“Yes,” Ava deadpanned. “She is a very attractive aquatic mammal. Happy?”
You laughed, delighted. “See? You get it. Yelena’s the prettiest seal in the sea. If seals wore blue eyeliner and were trained to kill.”
You blinked slowly. The lights in the room had gone softer, pink, purple, and blue lights smearing at the edges like a watercolour painting. Your body was slow to obey you, limbs heavy and skin hot, a pleasant hum under your skin where alcohol loosened your nerves.
Yelena snorted, then sighed as she watched you wobble on your stool. “Okay, dorogaya, time to go,” she declared. In your inebriated state, you had no idea this was the fifth time she’d said this. “Drink’s empty, party’s over. Up you get.”
You pouted, clutching your glass protectively. It was empty, save for some ice left behind, condensation wetting your fingers. “Noooo, I’m not leaving until Bob gets here!”
Rubbing her forehead, Ava tried not to lose her temper. “Bob didn’t come out with us tonight,” she reminded you. “He’s back at the Watchtower.”
You leaned across the bar top, whispering like you were telling them a secret. “Liar. He never misses girls’ night out!”
Yelena rolled her eyes, muttering, “I am not paid enough for this.” Then, more gently, she tried to urge you out of your stool. “Come on, you’ll see him tomorrow.”
You shook your head furiously, words dragging together. “Nooo, I need him now! I miss him. I love you both sooo much, but you’re not Bob. Nobody’s Bob but Bob.” You pointed very seriously at Ava, who blinked like she wasn’t sure how to answer.
“True,” is what she went with. “I’m not Bob.” Then, below her breath, Ava muttered, “Who’d want to be from Florida?”
You giggled, throwing your arms around her anyway. “But you’re my best ghosty-shadow girl. I love you.” Ava had to admit that it was nice to get a hug. If there was one thing the Thunderbolts were starved of, it was physical affection, but you gave it out freely and happily. “But I need Bob to take me home.”
Yelena lowered her voice while you nuzzled Ava’s shoulder. “She’s going to break him in half,” she declared. Even though he was the one who broke up with you, everyone knew it absolutely destroyed him. “He’s just barely standing, and now this?”
The pinched expression on Ava’s face suggested she agreed. “I don’t like it either. But she’s not going to move for anyone else. She’ll stand here all night long, hoping Bob will show up.”
You lifted your head suddenly, eyes bright and wet. “Did I ever tell you? Bob makes the best midnight snack noodles.” A faraway, glazed-over shine filled your irises. “He always stirs them with chopsticks because he thinks it makes the soup tastier.” Your voice grew tender. As your eyelids grew heavy, each blink lasted a second longer than the last. “Nobody makes noodles like Bob…”
Yelena tried not to let the stab in her chest show on her face. “You are killing me.”
You perked back up, grabbing Yelena’s hand and kissing it. “But youuu, you’re the absolute best. You’re my girl forever, Lena. Even if you make me drink water when I don’t want to.”
Taking the opportunity, Ava suggested, “Maybe drink some now? Before you declare your love for the bartender.”
You gasped, genuinely scandalised, clutching a non-existent string of pearls. “I would never! Only Bob.” Your gaze fell to the bartender, eyes narrowing as you studied him. “…Also, maybe the bartender a little bit. He gave me free fries.”
Yelena muttered something under her breath in Russian, and Ava was glad she didn’t understand the profanity. “She is impossible,” Yelena complained.
“She went all krav maga on my arse when I tried to drag her out,” Ava reminded her flatly. “I vote we surrender and text him.”
You were the most experienced out of the three of them at hand-to-hand combat, and you nearly tossed Ava over your shoulder the first time she tried to help you out the door. Even drunk, you weren’t going to let anyone carry you anywhere.
Yelena pinched the bridge of her nose. “He’ll come. And then what? We get front row tickets to his heartbreak?”
“Better than a broken wrist,” Ava retorted, but she didn’t look happy about it.
You leaned across the bar again, all wide-eyed with sincerity. Some of your body glitter was smudged across your cheek. “You guys always take care of me. You’re my family.” Your voice wobbled, suddenly heavy with emotion. “But I just— I need him, okay?”
Yelena shut her eyes, inhaling sharply. “Text him the code,” she told Ava. “Before she starts crying.”
Ava, who was already pulling out her phone, muttered, “He’s going to kill us for letting her get this drunk.”
“At least we’ll leave in one piece,” Yelena said.
AVA: code safety net. she’s fine, just refuses to leave the club without you.
When you and Bob first started dating, he set up what he called a “safety net” with the rest of the team. If anyone sent him a code safety net, he’d come running. The idea was that it was for non-emergencies, moments when you needed him but couldn’t ask him yourself.
The last time anyone sent him that code was over four months ago, when you were still his girlfriend.
Now, Bob sat on the edge of his bed, tugging his sneakers on one at a time. Getting that code used to mean rolling out of bed, grumbling half-heartedly to himself about how you’d gotten yourself into trouble, and loving that it was his responsibility to come and help you.
Reading the code word now felt like stepping into dangerous territory. Bob didn’t know if he was allowed to be the person who came to your aid now that you’d broken up.
When he got the text, he’d already had the messages app open, scrolling through an endless exchange of texts between the two of you. He knew he shouldn’t have reread them again, but it was like pressing on a bruise to see if it still hurt.
Spoiler alert: it did. A lot.
Even months after the breakup, letting you go was something Bob hadn’t quite figured out how to do, no matter how hard he tried.
He had to remind himself that he had reasons to break up with you; good reasons. Bob reminded himself of these reasons constantly, just to stop himself from taking it all back.
At the end of the day, it wasn’t fair of him to drag you into his mess. He was still trying to learn what it meant to be Sentry, still doing his best to tame the thing inside him that one day might crack open and release Void into the world again. He couldn’t risk that, not with you sleeping beside him every night.
Whether he was Bob, Sentry, or Void, he would burn the world down if he ever hurt you.
And then there was his sobriety. Even in the best of times, it was a fragile, fickle thing. Bob had been in and out of programmes enough to know how it worked: no new relationships for at least a year, not until his feet were steady under him. He had broken that rule the moment he kissed you, but he couldn’t let his feelings for you be the reason he fell apart this time.
You were the right person at the worst possible time.
Bob knew meeting you was the kind of kismet people only got once in your life, and that’s if they’re lucky. He never considered himself particularly lucky, so he’d held on tight when he first found you.
Bob wondered now if that made it worse. Now that you were broken up, he knew exactly what he was missing.
When he arrived, the club was almost empty. The music was quiet, a few people were slouched against the walls outside, and the bouncer didn’t bother checking his ID when he walked in.
The smell hit him first. The scent of cheap spirits was soaked into the bones of the club, leaving the floor sticky and tacky beneath his shoes. Even though nobody was smoking, cigarette smoke clung to the walls, making his throat tighten. The air was heavy with memories Bob didn’t particularly want to relive.
He’d never been much of a drinker, but chemicals were chemicals, and his body recognised the promise of it even if his mind didn’t want it.
Bob’s mouth went dry, a phantom bitterness gathering at the back of his tongue. His thumb rubbed compulsively across the ridge of his palm, a nervous tick he’d barely registered unless you pointed it out to him.
He spotted you sitting on a bar stool beside an exhausted-looking Ava and Yelena, and the way your eyes lit up when you saw him made something in his chest shatter. In seconds, you were there, arms flung around Bob’s neck with the easy warmth of someone who didn’t remember they were supposed to keep their distance.
“I knew you’d come,” you murmured so sweetly that he felt his knees buckle a little.
You smelled of his favourite perfume, sweat, and alcohol, and it was so dizzying that it was almost like another type of intoxication. Bob’s breath hitched. He nearly folded into you without thinking, fingers twitching with the urge to hold you before remembering he wasn’t supposed to anymore.
His heart pounded against his ribs, too fast, too loud, and he irrationally you’d hear it. He forced his muscles to stiffen, every nerve screaming at him to let you go while every neuron insisted he hold you like he wanted to. It was the most delicious sort of agony.
Yelena and Ava’s eyes flicked his way, because of course they noticed his turmoil, so he took a heavy step back. Inside, everything screamed. Bob tried to mask his face in calmness, knowing his teammates could see right through his efforts.
“Sorry about this,” Ava said, grimacing at the way you pressed your face into Bob’s neck. “We wouldn’t have dragged you out if we had any other choice.”
Nodding drily, Yelena added, “She refused to leave. We tried everything short of a tranquiliser dart.”
“I’ve never seen her like this,” Ava mused. Now that Bob was here, your shoulders had completely relaxed. “She said she’d only go home if you came.”
Forcing a smile, Bob waved away their concern. “S’alright. Don’t worry about it. I’m glad you texted.”
“Don’t you think Yelena looks like a sexy seal?” you asked excitedly. Bob wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but nodded anyway.
As you babbled drunkenly about what you got up to that night, Ava and Yelena shared a weary look. “He says he’s glad,” Yelena mumbled, “But he looks like he swallowed glass.”
“Yeah. I noticed,” Ava agreed.
“You know I can hear you, right?” Bob cut in, brows pulled together, offended. “I’m fine.”
When you moved back just enough to peer at him with glossy, adoring eyes, Bob audibly gulped. “I missed you so much, Bobby,” you said sweetly. Your voice was a little husky and tired, and it made him shiver.
Stiffening slightly, Bob gently patted your back with one hand. The other was still busy doing his usual nervous tick, rubbing his thumb across his palm. “Yeah, I—I missed you too,” he stammered, shooting Ava and Yelena a concerned look.
Yelena softened, her expression regretful. “She doesn’t remember,” she explained, cadence uncharacteristically tender.
It felt as if someone had punched Bob in the gut. He couldn’t actually feel anyone’s punches with his impenetrable skin, but God did he remember what it was like. His breath gushed out of him all at once, and his organs felt like they were being crushed together.
Incredulous, he looked at you with wide, questioning eyes. And there you were, grinning at him like you’d never broken up. “You look soooo good tonight, handsome,” you told him. The familiar nickname was like a second blow to his stomach. “D’you know that?”
Bob’s eyes darted to the others. “Uh…”
You frowned, unhooking your arms from his neck and catching his hand in yours. “You’re doing it again. The thumb thing,” you noted. “You only do that when you’re worried. What are you worried about, Bobby?”
He choked a laugh, trying to pull free gently. “Nothin’, sweetheart. I just— don’t worry about me.”
Suppressing a laugh, Ava commented, “She’s sharper drunk than half the team sober.”
Yelena was slightly less tactful; she didn’t even try to hide her smirk. “Only when it comes to Bob,” she sang. “A tragic gift.”
“Very inconvenient,” Ava agreed.
Still holding Bob’s hand, your voice wobbled a little. “You didn’t answer me. I missed you. Did you miss me?” Your head tilted as you took on a seductive tone that used to make Bob do whatever you wanted. “You do, right? You always do, especially at night…”
Heat curled low in Bob’s stomach, and you thought you might have caught a familiar glimmer of gold in his irises. “Of course I missed you,” he admitted hoarsely.
You hummed happily, lacing your fingers together and resting your other hand on his solid chest. “Knew it. You always say as long as you miss me, you love me. You still love me, right?”
Bob swallowed loudly. “You’ve… had a lot to drink tonight.”
You offered him a bright, tipsy laugh. “Only enough to tell the truth,” you teased. “You’re my Bobby. Always my Bobby.”
When you leaned in and started pressing kisses to his neck, Bob jerked back, turning scarlet. He shot Ava and Yelena a look that said, For God’s sake, how much did you let her drink?
“Don’t look at us,” Ava exclaimed defensively, hands up. “We tried cutting her off hours ago. She just kept sneaking off and getting more.”
“We told the bartender to deny her orders, but she caught the next guy once his shift ended,” Yelena added, straight-faced. “It’s a miracle she still has a functioning liver.”
Bob huffed out of breath, blowing the hair from his face. “Okay.” He started steering you toward the exit. “C’mon. Time to head home now, yeah? Fresh air’ll do you good.”
Dopily blinking at Bob, you smiled. “If you think so, Bobby.”
Yelena and Ava trailed behind, keeping an eye on you. As you stepped into the cool night, the music dulled behind you. You closed your eyes contentedly as the breeze soothed your warm skin. New York City air wasn’t exactly fresh, but Bob said it’d help, so you basked in it regardless.
“Easy now,” he said, holding you steady. “One foot at a time.” You nodded, clinging to his arm and taking careful steps.
“She does exactly what he says,” Yelena said, partially impressed. “We spent almost an hour arguing with her to switch to water.”
“Tell me about it,” Ava groaned. “I nearly pulled my hair out.”
“I told them I wouldn’t go without you,” you told Bob sincerely. “I knew you’d come. You always come when I need you, and I really needed you tonight.”
All Bob could do was nod, smile, and try not hide how much his hands were shaking. It was ridiculous how he still remembered the sensation of your weight against him. Muscle memory was a cruel thing, and this one came with a sharp jab in his chest.
“Yeah. I’m here,” was all he could say.
Warmth pooled under your skin, not from alcohol but from leaning against Bob. His skin was always hot, bleeding into you until you felt safe and cosy in his arms.
You paused as Ava lifted a hand to flag down a cab. Bob could feel the burn of Yelena’s stare and pointedly ignored her. While you were the person who knew Bob best, Yelena was his best friend. The two of them were inextricably bonded after everything they’d gone through, and he knew he’d fall apart if he saw the pained sympathy on her face.
“For the record, we did try everything,” Ava said as a nearby cab slowed to a stop beside them.
“At one point, she sat on the floor and said she lives in the club now. That was our breaking point,” Yelena added. She hurried to open the back door, watching Bob carefully manoeuvre you inside the cab.
“Alright, careful now,” Bob warned, careful to put his hand out so you wouldn’t hit your head as you got in.
“Let’s go before she decides she’s staging another sit-in,” Ava sighed. She took the passenger seat, giving the cab driver the address for the Watchtower.
The middle-aged man stared at her in shock, clearly recognising the address and the team in his car. Without making a big deal about it, he started the meter once Yelena slid into the last available seat in the back, shutting the door behind her.
The cab rattled softly, city lights flickering across the windows. You were half-curled against Bob’s side, still talking despite your heavy eyelids. Yelena watched you with a conflicted frown.
“Knew you’d come for me, Bobby,” you murmured again. Your heartbeat slowed when your head tipped against his shoulder. “Always do.”
“Yeah, sweetheart, I’ve got you,” he assured you. The old anxiety ticks were back before he could stop them, thumb worrying the side of his index finger, shoulder giving the faintest twitch every time your hand shifted further up his thigh. “Let’s just get you home, alright?”
You smiled at him, eyes half-closed and gleaming with exhaustion. “Home’s wherever you are, silly.”
Bob felt his pulse jump in that ugly, uneven way it used to when he was strung out—except this was worse, because there was nothing to take the edge off. Just your eyes, devoted and pure, looking at him like he was still yours.
Noticing the shift towards the kind of honesty you wouldn’t be verbalising if you were sober, Yelena leaned forward a little. “You should rest,” she suggested. “Save the poetry for the morning.”
You giggled tiredly. “S’not poetry. S’the truth.” Your skin tingled deliciously where it touched Bob’s. It wasn’t sexual so much as the electrical spark of recognition, like your body was sighing in relief. “Missed you so much tonight, Bobby. Like my chest was hollow until I saw you walk in.”
Ava turned from the passenger seat to glance at Yelena.
Beside you, Bob stiffened. “You’ve, uh, you’ve had a long night,” he said, soft and strained. “Just close your eyes, yeah?”
You shook your head clumsily, words slurred but earnest. “Can’t. Gotta tell you.” You touched his chest softly, with all the care in the world. “For the first time in what feels like forever, I’m not empty anymore,” you confessed. “And we’ve only been apart for a few hours. Isn’t that wild?”
Silence filled the cab. Even the driver flickered his eyes to the rear-view, then looked away.
Bob kept his jaw locked, molars grinding so hard he knew they’d crack if his body was still capable of breaking. It was better than letting his mouth soften, better than letting something slip that he couldn’t take back. There was a low, burning ache behind his sternum. Not sharp or panicked, but heavy, like his heart was collapsing in on itself.
Ava cleared her throat, trying to cut the tension. “Hey, maybe we all just… take a breather, yeah? Get some rest.”
You pouted, trying to keep your eyes open. “I love you. I always will.” Your laughter came out fond and warm, almost dreamy. “My Bobby…”
Bob looked stricken, eyes darting helplessly to Yelena. His thumb rubbed harder against his palm, and he was sure that if his skin could still chafe, it would have. Yelena shook her head slowly, silently urging him not to answer.
Still, there was an almost imperceptible shift toward you when you drifted off to sleep, his body betraying what he wouldn’t let himself admit aloud.
The worst of it was the relief. That tiny, treacherous thought whispering: you still loved him. You still wanted him. It made Bob light-headed, sick with hope he knew better than to trust.
You can’t love me if you don’t remember why we ended things, he thought. You can’t. But God help me, I want to believe you.
Bob’s head tilted towards you as you dozed, the old instinct to shield you from the world kicking in even when he was supposed to have stopped. This was a masterclass in containment. He didn’t explode or crumble; he absorbed your confession, keeping it together while his heart split down the middle.
Bob effortlessly helped you out of the cab and up to your room in the Watchtower. It had taken a few months to get used to the newfound strength that came with the Sentry serum. But at least he wasn’t accidentally ripping doors off their hinges or breaking dishes when he picked them up anymore.
With uneven steps, he guided you into your room, setting you down on the bed. Seated, you blinked up at him, drowsy and smiling like he’d hung the stars. It was a look that was overfamiliar; an intimate expression he’d missed seeing.
“I’m not tired,” you mumbled, resisting his help.
“Love, you’re half asleep already,” Bob tried, coaxing but awkward. He gave a short, nervous laugh. “C’mon, let’s just get you sorted out.”
You squinted like he’d offended you. “Sorted? I don’t need sorting. I need… food.”
With a huff of laughter, he shook his head. “Face first. Food later. That’s—uh, that’s how it works. Pretty sure.” Then, mostly to himself: “If you’re still awake by then, which… yeah, probably not.”
Disappearing into the bathroom, Bob kept an ear out for any noises as he grabbed your makeup remover and wet a washcloth with warm water. He returned and crouched in front of you, carefully starting to wash your face for you.
You leaned into the touch happily, taking the opportunity to admire your ex-boyfriend. “You always do it nicer than me,” you mumbled, grinning. “So good to me.”
Quietly, Bob admitted, “Old habit.”
You pouted playfully. “You love taking care of me,” you teased. “I always think it’s so hot when you—”
“Okay, I think it’s time for pyjamas,” Bob blurted, pushing up to his feet a little too fast. He turned away, ears pink, and wondered briefly if his poor heart was as conflicted as his mind was tonight. “Don’t fall over, alright?”
After taking your favourite pair out from your dresser, Bob turned his back to you as you wriggled into your pyjamas. His back was unnaturally stiff, listening for the sound of you stumbling. When you flopped back against the pillows, hair mussed and smile loose, he finally glanced over.
“See?” you said proudly. “All sorted. I can sleep now.”
Relieved, Bob nodded. “Good.” He moved to tuck the blanket around you.
You blinked up at him, suddenly urgent. “Wait,” you said, loud and high-pitched. “Snack!”
Bob sighed. “But—”
“No, Bob, listen,” you hurried, sitting back up with wide eyes. “If I don’t eat something right now I’ll die.” Your confession wobbled, tears starting to form as your eyes became glassy.
Oh boy. If there was one thing that was Bob’s Achilles heel, it was you crying.
There was something so heart-wrenching and wrong about seeing you in tears. The way your cheeks puffed up and your eyes widened, lips curving down into the most perfect frown, was enough for him to agree to do anything to make it stop.
“I’m so hungry now,” you whined, the first few tears cascading down your cheeks. Bob caught them without thinking, chest aching at the sight. He was torn between wanting to maintain some semblance of ex-appropriate boundaries and the dull twinge in his chest.
Eventually, his soft heart couldn’t take it any longer. “God, sweetheart,” he groaned. “You can’t do that. You know I’m useless when you cry.” He tried to laugh, but it came out as a thin sound.
You sniffled, only a touch dramatic. “You wouldn’t let me starve. You love me too much.”
He shut his eyes at that, steadying himself. “You don’t play fair,” he said under his breath.
Triumphantly, you offered Bob a teary smile. “So… snack?”
“Fine,” he agreed. “Yeah, okay. But you stay put, alright? Don’t you dare try and follow me.” Bob wasn’t sure what he’d do if you kept looking at him like you still loved him. “Just stay here.”
You huffed, visibly offended. “As if I’d follow you.”
Bob arched his brow. “You absolutely would.”
“Nu-uh!”
You padded into the kitchen after Bob, clutching the back of his sweatshirt like he’d disappear if you let go. He was resigned but soft with you, guiding you towards the counter. The fluorescents hummed overhead faintly.
“Midnight feast!” you whisper-yelled excitedly, pumping your free fist in the air.
“It’s a quarter to two,” Bob corrected.
You gasped, delighted. “Even better,” you declared.
Bob wasn’t sure what your metric was for deciding what time was better to have a snack, but he laughed anyway. He went through the fridge while you rummaged noisily through the pantry.
Moments later, your tiny gasp of joy filled the kitchen. You held up two packets of noodles like they were a rare treasure. “Bob, noodles!” You held them out for him, already climbing onto the counter deftly. Even your drunken state couldn’t stop years of practised agility. “It’s perfect.”
Bob gave a half-laugh, shaking his head. “That’s… yeah, sure. Wild, right? Cosmic destiny.”
Midnight noodles were something of a weekly ritual when you were dating. You usually had dinner early with the rest of the team, then stayed up late chatting and cuddling. By the time the two of you were tired enough to sleep, you were hungry again.
You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t mock.”
He smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh no, hey, I’m serious. I swear.”
Taking the packet from you before you tore it open with your teeth, Bob took out a saucepan and set the water to boil. You sat swinging your legs, watching him with lazy admiration.
Bob’s shoulders hunched, stomach tightening each time you called out to him affectionately. His face was schooled into neutrality, but he didn’t know how much longer he could hold it. He was hyper-aware of your position in the room. If you swayed, even slightly, his whole body tensed in case he needed to catch you.
“You like this,” you mused, teasing him. A lazy, fizzy happiness bubbled in your chest. You couldn’t quite figure out why, but you felt truly happy for the first time in a long time. “Taking care of me.”
Bob ducked his head shyly. “I like when you’re not sad. Or mad at me. So,” he motioned awkwardly to the stove, “noodles.”
You nodded. “You’re good at making sure I’m not sad,” you said fondly. “Can’t ever feel sad around you.”
It was a compliment that meant more to him than you could imagine.
Bob chuckled lowly. “No, I’m good at screwing stuff up, mostly. This is just hot water and noodles. Even I can’t—” he faltered, jaw tightening. “Well, I probably could mess it up.”
You frowned at his characteristic self-deprecation. “Don’t be mean to Bob,” you scolded.
Bob raised an eyebrow, dropping the noodles in the boiling water. “Pretty sure I am Bob.”
“Exactly,” you huffed. “Don’t be mean to my Bob.”
He nearly dropped his chopsticks at that. Clearing his throat, Bob bought himself some time by stirring the soup base into the water. To himself, he mumbled, “Didn’t know I was still yours.”
You smiled, still oblivious to your break-up. “‘Course you are, Bobby. You’ll always be mine, and I’ll always be yours. That’s how the whole ‘forever’ thing works.”
Bob busied himself with the noodles, but when you started humming, he couldn’t stop glancing at you. You leaned your cheek against the cupboard beside you, watching him as if he’d strayed out of a dream. Reaching for him without thinking, you tugged carefully at Bob’s sleeve, pulling his free wrist closer.
“Miss you tonight,” you told him, longing to hold his hand.
Bob laughed softly, deflecting. “I’m right here.”
You shook your head stubbornly. “Not like that. Missed you in my bones, y’know?”
His chest squeezed. He cracked the chilli oil packet open to have an excuse to take his hand back. “Yeah, but you had your thing, right? Girls’ night. Shots. Dancing. Didn’t need me standing awkwardly in the corner.”
“Always need you,” you argued.
Bob’s hand tightened around the chopsticks. Still facing the stove, he begged, “Don’t say that.”
Your brows pulled together. “Why not?”
“‘Cause it’s— you’re drunk, okay?” It was tough to maintain a firm boundary and not get lost in how you treated him like he was still your boyfriend. “You say stuff like that—”
“Because it’s true,” you said happily. “You’re shy tonight. What’s the matter?”
“I’m,” he gestured at himself, voice breaking, “I’m Bob. I’m the guy who ruins every good thing he touches. And you’re…” he trailed off, swallowing hard. Bob couldn’t bring himself to say, You’re the last person I wanted to hurt.
You slid off the counter, stepping closer. Bob finally looked at you, wincing like it hurt to meet your eyes. For a second, all the noise in his body stopped—no fidgeting, no rambling. Just raw, aching stillness.
“You are something good, Bob,” you declared. It would have been sweet had your words not slurred together, reminding him of your tipsiness.
Bob reached for the bowls and poured noodles and soup into them. “Okay, so, noodles—uh, one for you, one for me,” he rambled, passing you the bowl with a noticeably bigger portion.
Bob returned to your room, balancing a glass of water and some painkillers for the headache you were sure to have in the morning. You were curled beneath the duvet, hair a mess, cheeks warm, still blinking against the low light. The noodles had settled in your stomach without making you nauseous, which you were both grateful for.
He set the glass on the bedside table, fingers twitching like he wasn’t sure if he should tuck you in or back away. “So,” he cleared his throat. Your eyes drifted up to his. They looked like the ocean during a storm, and you were transfixed. “There we are. One water, one magic pill. Not as fun as tequila, but you’ll thank me in the morning.”
You grinned sleepily. “You’re bossy.” You were comfortable in Bob’s presence, letting your guard down entirely.
He huffed a shy laugh. “M’not bossy, I’m being responsible. Someone’s gotta keep you from feeling rotten tomorrow.”
“Bossy,” you sang, pulling the duvet higher. Bob rolled his eyes fondly. He perched at the edge of the bed, hands clasped so tight in his lap his knuckles paled. You noticed. “Why do you look like you’re waiting for your turn at a job interview?”
Startled, Bob stammered, “Wh—what? I’m not— this is just how I sit.”
You giggled. “We’ve been dating for, like, nine months. I think I know how you sit.”
Bob bit his lip, glanced away, then reached down to straighten the corner of the duvet to keep his hands busy. “Just making sure you’re settled,” he said. “That’s all.”
You hummed, dubious. “You’re fussing. You only fuss when you’re nervous.”
His cheeks turned pink at that. “Maybe I’m always nervous around you,” he diverted your question. You blinked up at him, a little too fuzzy to catch the weight of it. “Right. You’re all tucked in. No more sneaking around for snacks, okay?”
You opened your mouth to argue, but a muffled sound at the door caught your attention. A soft little purr. Both your heads turned. “Apine!” you gasped, ecstatic to see Bucky’s feline companion entering your room.
The little white cat slipped in, tail high, and leapt onto the bed. You sat up straighter, arms out, laughing as Alpine bumped her head against your chin and curled beside you. Your smile spread wide and unguarded.
“Hi baby,” you cooed, stroking her head with the back of your hand. “I thought you didn’t love me anymore.”
“‘Course she does. She’s just picky.” Bob brushed a crease from your pillow, doing anything to stop himself from reaching for you.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” you accused Alpine, speaking to her in a low, dulcet tone. You watched her with almost childlike delight, pressing your cheek against her. “For weeks and weeks. I thought I got on your bad side somehow. Like that time John accidentally stepped on your tail.”
Bob chuckled, but his hands twisted together in his lap. He bit at his lower lip. Watching Alpine’s purrs vibrate against your cheek made his chest split in two. He’d always been more of a dog person, but he did have a soft spot for Bucky’s cat. “I’m sure she just missed you.”
“Or you,” you argued. “You’re her second favourite, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know about that.”
“No, you are. Everyone knows it,” you insisted. “She follows you around like a shadow. You spoil her with treats when you think nobody’s looking.”
“I guess she likes me well enough,” Bob allowed. His hand hovered near Alpine’s back, then withdrew, retreating to his lap.
You giggled into Alpine’s fur, drunk and unbothered. But then the giggle faded, replaced by a sudden, sharp earnestness you couldn’t quite stop.
“But she hasn’t come near me for weeks,” you murmured, lips pressed to the soft patch between the feline’s ears. Your hand stilled on her fur. “Not since…”
The words trailed away. You didn’t know why. Some small, skittish part of you pulled back from finishing the thought.
Your smile slipped, slow and reluctant, like something precious sliding out of your grip. A heaviness pressed against your chest, cutting off the little bubble of warmth you’d been floating in all night long. You lifted your head, blinking at Bob. His face was flushed, eyes darting from you to Alpine to the headboard behind your shoulder.
Your stomach dipped, a cold wash chasing away the warmth of the alcohol. That’s it, isn’t it? The pieces slid into place with cruel precision, emerging from the alcohol-induced fog that kept them hidden all night long.
“She’s been with you,” you said, the words cracking open in your throat. “Because we—because we’re not…”
Bob froze, throat bobbing as it worked against words that wouldn’t form. “I—I—don’t…” He tried again, breath stuttering. “It’s not—”
The ache in your chest grew so quickly that it made your hands shake. You dragged trembling fingers down Alpine’s back, stroking her fur in desperate repetition, like you could keep yourself from fracturing if you just kept the motion steady.
Your voice spilled into the room in a whisper. “We’re not together anymore, are we?”
The words hurt more once spoken, like they’d hadn’t been true until you said them aloud. Tears pricked hot at the corners of your eyes. You blinked hard, but it only made them spill faster, streaking down your cheeks and landing in Alpine’s snowy fur.
“You broke up with me,” you recalled, your reply wavering in the middle of your sentence.
Bob looked ruined. His whole chest heaved, and for a moment, he just stared, caught in the wreckage. Hesitant and trembling, his hand pulled you gently, carefully into him. The damn broke when Bob wrapped his arms around you, turning your silent cries into sobs.
“Don’t—don’t cry. Please,” Bob begged, audibly torn. One hand rubbed your back in clumsy circles, while the other cupped your head, tender and desperate.
Your question came muffled against his shirt, small and devastating. “Why did you break up with me? I love you so much.”
Bob flinched like the words struck him, eyes squeezing shut. His hand kept caressing your back, not steady but frantic, trying to stop both of you from falling apart.
You pressed your face harder into his sweatshirt, tears hot and messy against the fabric. The sobs came out loud and hard, shaking your shoulders, then softened into smaller gasps and hiccups as the rhythm of Bob’s hand calmed you.
He could feel how your remaining energy slowly burned itself out. First, your trembling quietened, then your hands loosening where they’d clutched his sweatshirt, then the weighted slump of your body. His arms tightened around you instinctively, holding you upright.
You gave a little sniff. “Don’t you love me?”
Every muscle in Bob’s body locked. His lips parted, but nothing came out at first; not with your breath warming his sweatshirt, not with the fragile pressure of you sinking so trustingly into him.
“I— Do I love you?” The words shuddered out of him, frayed at the edges. “Of course I do.”
But when he pulled back to see your face, your lashes were already lowered, breaths evening out, body soft in the safety of his arms. Your question had used up the last of your energy, and now you were asleep.
Bob’s chest throbbed with relief and grief all at once. You’ll never know, he thought. Not really. Not the way he wanted to tell you—awake, sober, with steady hands instead of shaking ones. He pressed his chin to the top of your head, shutting his eyes to stop his own tears from falling.
You woke to sunlight pressing against your eyelids, a dull yellow insistence that came from your curtains being open. Your head throbbed; not stabbing but heavy, like someone had stuffed your skull with cotton. Your mouth was dry, your tongue thick, every swallow tasting faintly of metal.
You blinked slowly, trying to piece the previous night together. What you remembered came in flashes: Ava’s laugh at the bar, Yelena making a face at the DJ, colourful lights blurring overhead. And then, nothing. Just a clean break in the reel, as though someone had pressed stop and forgotten to hit record again.
At least you were in your own bed, the duvet pulled up to your chin like your own personal fairy godmother helped you home. You couldn’t smell cheap takeaway on your clothes, which meant you’d dodged your usual post-club ritual of inhaling fries at three in the morning.
Still, the gap in your memory made your stomach twist a little. Not in fear, you trusted Ava and Yelena too much for that, but embarrassment. A mortifying little voice in your head whispered that if you’d blacked out at the end of the night, you’d probably done or said something mortifying.
You groaned and pressed the heel of your palm to your eyes.
After taking the painkiller someone left for you on your bedside table, you shuffled into the kitchen looking for something to have eat. You didn’t care that your hair was mussed and you looked distinctly worse for wear; you just needed to get something into your stomach before the nausea took over.
In the kitchen, Yelena and Ava were sitting at the table while John rifled through the pantry. Both of them look just as bad as you did. Yelena wore sunglasses even though you were indoors, and Ava still had eyeliner streaked across her face. You gratefully accepted a cup of coffee when Ava passed it to you. Collapsing into the chair beside her, you groaned quietly.
“Okay,” you began, a little sheepish. “Don’t laugh. I don’t remember anything after the club last night.” Your friends shared a look that said they weren’t surprised. “I just wanted to say thanks for dragging me home and dealing with me.”
Yelena smirked. “Dragging is the right word. You fought like a feral raccoon.”
“We were two seconds away from calling animal control,” Ava chimed in, grinning.
If they were teasing you, then their hangovers weren’t that bad.
You groaned, burying your face in your arms. “I knew it. I’m the worst drunk.” When you looked up, you gave your friends your prettiest smile. “Sorry about that. How did you even get me into bed?”
Yelena and Ava exchanged a quick look.
Before you could prompt them further, John interrupted. “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” he screeched. You turned around just in time to see him slam the pantry doors shut, glaring at the three of you like you’d committed a horrible betrayal. “Who ate my noodles?” John demanded.
All he got in return was three blank stares.
“Pardon?” Ava asked, her tone suggesting she was already done with the conversation before it started.
“My last two packets of instant ramen,” John said, crossing his arms and glaring between you. You had to admit, as much as you all liked messing with him, he could be pretty intimidating when he wanted to be. “Been saving them all week, and what do I find? Empty shelf.”
Without missing a beat, Yelena said, “Maybe the universe is telling you to eat a vegetable.”
“The universe can shove it,” John deadpanned. “Someone in here’s a thief. And don’t act innocent! It’s been a while, but my noodles used to vanish every week like clockwork.”
You froze with your coffee cup halfway to your lips. Your eyes snapped to Yelena and Ava, who were already looking at you, matching your wide-eyed look of surprise.
“It was Bob,” you said quietly, almost accusing, once John gave up and started searching the fridge for something edible. “That’s how you got me to come home.”
Yelena sighed heavily, rubbing between her eyebrows like she was getting a headache. “We didn’t have a choice, you wouldn’t leave without him. Besides, it wasn’t that bad.”
“Wasn’t that bad?!” you exclaimed, not buying it for a single second. “I know exactly how unhinged I get when I’m drunk, and you let me spend the night with my ex-boyfriend?”
“You honestly didn’t do anything embarrassing,” Ava insisted. Then, she paused. “Well, I guess you did forget you were broken up and treated him like you were still together,” she admitted. You opened your mouth to keep yelling, so she hurriedly added, “But he was honestly fine with it!”
“He took it very well,” Yelena agreed. “It crushed his mind, body, and spirit. But he took it well.”
“Even if I was asking for him, I can’t believe you forced him to come,” you retorted.
Yelena gasped. “We did not force him!”
John, who was eavesdropping the entire time, cut in. “Wait, wait, hold up.” Your eyes drifted over to him. “Are we even allowed to call a code safety net if the two of them are broken up?”
You frowned. “Code what?”
“Nicely done, Walker,” Yelena drawled sarcastically, pretending to applaud him. She was known to resort to his last name when he messed something up. Which, in her eyes, was often. “What is it about a secret code that you don’t understand?”
“What secret code?” you asked, already dreading the answer.
“Okay look,” Ava said, giving it to you straight. “When you and Bob started dating, he set up an emergency code called ‘safety net.’ If you were too far gone at the club, or if you needed him but were too scared to ask, we’d send him the code. He always came to help, no matter what.”
You swallowed, processing the news. “That’s…”
“Overly protective?” John teased, smirking a little. He didn’t mean it, of course. Nobody had called a code safety net more often than him. He just lived to tease you and was convinced you ate his noodles.
“I was going to say romantic,” you corrected him, rolling your eyes.
“Don’t you think you’re a little too, I don’t know, divorced to be making comments?” Yelena added.
“Jesus,” Walker muttered, holding his hands in defence and grumbling about ordering takeout instead.
Once he was out of the kitchen, Ava smirked. “So, midnight noodles with Bob?”
“I have a big mouth when I’m drunk,” you grumbled, downing the rest of your coffee to soothe your dry throat. You’d never told them about you and Bob’s midnight noodles, so you knew you had your drunk self to thank for that one.
“Yeah, but it was cute,” Ava said, leaning back in her chair. “You looked very proud of your little tradition.”
Yelena snorted. “You made it sound like a sacred ritual.”
You pressed your lips together, staring at the empty mug in your hands. “But… why would he still come? Why would he—” You broke off, shaking your head. “He’s the one who ended things. If he doesn’t love me anymore, then why show up to help?”
For once, Ava didn’t have a snarky comment locked and loaded. She just tilted her head, eyes warming. “That sounds like a question for him,” she said.
Yelena nodded, elbowing you lightly. “Yeah. Don’t waste your breath on us. Go ask Bob. We’ll be here eating John’s backup noodles. I found them this morning and stashed them in my room.”
You stood outside Bob’s door longer than planned to. Long enough to wonder if the team could hear your pacing from the hall, long enough to almost turn back around. Twice. You even considered coming back tomorrow, but you knew your courage was dwindling fast. If you left now, you probably weren’t coming back.
You held your breath as you knocked. From inside, you could hear Bob shuffling around before the door slowly cracked open. He blinked at you, hair a mess and t-shirt wrinkled like he’d been napping. For a stupid, dizzying second, the sight of him all domestic and soft punched through your ribs. You could still feel what it was like when you used to wake up in that bed with him.
Bob looked surprised to see you standing there, but not unhappy. “Hey.”
“Hey,” you echoed, hating how your throat tightened around the word. “Um. Can we talk?”
For a second, you thought he might say no. Then, he stepped back and opened the door wider. “Yeah. Sure. Come in.”
You crossed the threshold and realised you hadn’t prepared yourself for the wave of nostalgia that made your stomach clench. Bob’s room looked exactly the same as it had the last time you were in it. From the mug on his bedside table to the blanket you’d bought for him, half-folded on the bed.
It was all the same, except you didn’t live here anymore. Your fingers itched to straighten the blanket the way you always used to, so you folded them together like a penitent child.
You hovered awkwardly in the middle of the room, unsure where to sit. Bob noticed and gestured toward the chair at his desk before sitting on the edge of his bed. It felt like he’d deliberately put distance between you.
“So,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “What’s up?”
You smoothed your palms over your jeans. “I just— I wanted to check in. See how you’ve been.”
Bob’s brows lifted. “I’ve been… fine,” he said slowly. “Busy, I guess. You know how it is around here.”
“Yeah,” you agreed. “Of course. I get it.”
Before the awkward silence stretched further, he asked, “And you?”
You blinked. “Me? Oh, you know. Same thing. Busy.”
“Right,” he replied. Bob didn’t point out that he knew Bucky had banned you from going on missions for two weeks, and refused to acknowledge how he’d accidentally broken the windows in the conference room when he found out you were almost shot.
You nodded, exhaling through your nose as your fingers tightened on your lap. “Okay, so… Ava and Yelena told me about last night.” Bob’s eyes flicked up to yours wearily.
“They said you came to pick me up,” you continued. “Brought me back. Stayed until I was asleep.” You shifted in the chair, the words scraping raw in your throat. “John mentioned something about missing noodles, so I assume you made those for me. Which I—I don’t remember at all.”
“I don’t know what I did,” you admitted, voice smaller than you intended. “I don’t know what I said. I just keep thinking— God, I must’ve been awful. Embarrassing. Ava said I forgot that we’d, y’know,” you gestured vaguely with your hands, referring to your breakup, “And I hate that I don’t even know what to apologise for.”
Something flickered across his face, not quite a wince, but close. Bob looked down at his hands, thumb dragging over his palm. “It wasn’t like that,” he said finally. “You weren’t being embarrassing. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
You almost laughed at how gently he said it. “Then what was it like? Because right now, it feels like everybody knows something I don’t,” you revealed.
Bob hesitated, mouth opening and closing before anything came out. “You were drunk. People get drunk, they… say things. Do things.” His cheeks and ears flushed as he averted his eyes. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me,” you pressed. “Why did you come when they texted? You could’ve ignored the code, or told Yelena to handle it, but you didn’t. Why?”
His jaw tightened. Truthfully, Bob had never considered the fact that you might find out about code safety net. When the two of you broke up, he assumed you’d never have a reason to hear about it.
“Because it was you.” He said it like he expected a blowback, shoulders hunched just like when he’d first confessed his feelings for you.
You blinked at him, the honesty of it knocking you off balance. Bob seemed to realise what he’d admitted, because he immediately pushed on, fumbling. “I mean— I set that code up for a reason. Back then. You always knew exactly when I needed help, and I was never as good at figuring that stuff out, so I set up a code. Even last night, I couldn’t ignore it. That’s all.”
“That’s all?”
Bob nodded too quickly, eyes darting to the floor again. “That’s all.”
You studied him. Dating for almost nine months allowed you to mentally store something like a Bob Reynolds textbook. You could tell from the way his shoulders shook like he was bracing for impact that he wasn’t being entirely truthful. Then there was his nervous tick of rubbing his thumb across the ridge of his palm, and the way his legs couldn’t keep still.
“You didn’t tell drunk-me we broke up,” you said after a beat. “You just let me think…” The words trailed, your breath catching at the memory you didn’t have. “Why would you do that?”
He shook his head, voice rough. “You were drunk. I wasn’t gonna hit you with reality in that state. Didn’t feel right, not when you were smiling for the first time in months.”
You sat back, staring at him like you were trying to piece together a puzzle with half the pieces missing. “So… you didn’t tell me because I was drunk. Because you wanted me to be happy.” Bob shifted awkwardly on the bed. “And because you knew I wasn’t saying anything I didn’t mean.”
His head jerked up to meet your eyes before he could stop himself. “You’re sure you don’t remember anything?”
You nodded. “Not a thing. But I can guess. If I thought we were still together, I would have trusted you with my most private thoughts. I would have poured my heart out without knowing what I was doing.”
Bob exhaled slowly. “End of the night, you figured it out. When Alpine came in, you looked at me like—” He broke off, jaw working. “You realised we weren’t together. It hit you, and—it tore you up.” His wince said the memory still hurt. “If I’d known telling you up front would’ve spared you that, I would have said something. But I didn’t know what to do. I just didn’t want to hurt you.”
“You wanted to spare me the pain,” you pressed. “Why? If you were just helping me out of an old obligation, why did it hurt you to see me upset?”
“Because I—” Bob cut himself off, breathing hard through his nose. Because I love you was dangerously close to the tip of his tongue. “Because it was hard. Anyone would’ve found it hard.” The excuse was weak, even to him.
You leaned forward, refusing to let him retreat. “I don’t care what anyone would’ve thought. I care what you thought. Why was it so hard for you?”
Finally, Bob dragged in a breath. “You think this is easy for me because I’m the one who ended things? Believe me, it hasn’t been easy.”
Your heart thudded hard in your chest, but you didn’t speak; you didn’t move.
“I broke up with you because, for once, I wanted to do the right thing,” Bob went on, words tumbling out like he was afraid he’d lose his nerve. “I had to focus on the depression, and the loneliness, and the never-ending void.” He rubbed his eyes. “I messed this stuff up so many times trying to get sober, and I can’t afford to do that with the Void and the Sentry hanging around. If I fall off again, it’s not just me who pays the price. I couldn’t drag you through that.”
You opened your mouth to argue, but he pressed forward, too worked up to let himself be interrupted.
“I wanted you. God, I wanted you. And maybe that’s what made it worse. Because every time I looked at you I thought—what if I screw this up? I couldn’t live with myself if I did that.” Bob’s words caught, low and ragged. “So I let you go. Not because I wasn’t sure I loved you. It was just… bad timing.”
You sat frozen, his words blowing up everything you thought you’d known. You’d told yourself a hundred stories about why he’d walked away; boredom, fear, maybe even that he stopped loving you. But you’d never considered this.
Bob scrubbed his hand over his face, then let it drop. “You know I’m sober,” he said. “And yeah, the serum means drugs don’t really… stick anymore. I can’t drink, can’t use, not in any way that matters. But sobriety isn’t just about not putting stuff in your body. It can make you screw up the people around you while you’re trying to get clean. I guess my fear of doing that to someone never really went away.”
He let out a shaky breath, eyes flicking up to gauge if you were still listening.
“Every program told me the same thing: don’t date in the first year. Because you’re too raw, too unsteady. You’ll lean on someone in ways that end up hurting them.” He shook his head. “And I thought if I wanted a real shot at keeping the Void under control, I had to treat it like I was back at square one. Like I was still in that first year.” His jaw flexed, guilty, pained. “But by then I’d already met you, and for once, I thought maybe I got lucky.”
He looked away. “But I couldn’t have it all. Not when I was still learning how not to let the Void bleed out, or not to let the Sentry serum break everything I touched.”
You let out a laugh, shaky and wet, dragging your hand across your cheek. “Do you have any idea what you’re telling me right now?” you whispered.
His brow furrowed, wary. “I’m telling you why I ended things.”
“No,” you said, tone firming. “You’re telling me you never stopped loving me.” You were startled by how steady the words sounded, considering how violently your pulse was hammering.
Bob’s mouth opened, then closed. He didn’t deny it.
The months without him came crashing down: every long night staring at empty walls, every mission you buried yourself in, hoping exhaustion would trick you into not missing him.
“I know exactly what I would have said to you last night if I thought we were still together,” you admitted. “I would’ve told you I love you. That I miss you so much it feels like part of me got ripped away.” You swallowed hard, blinking against the sting in your eyes. “I’ve been walking around trying to pretend that I didn’t search for you every second of the day.”
Bob’s silence should have scared you. Months ago, when it felt like you were on the verge of breaking up, it did.
“Do you know what the worst part was?” you whispered. “Not knowing why you did it, or if I’d been wrong about you. I kept thinking—if you could walk away so easily, maybe you never loved me the way I loved you. And I hated myself for wanting you anyway.” Your chest rose and fell unevenly. “And now—” You broke off in a half-laugh, half-sob, “now that I know why you did it, it makes me love you even more.”
Bob’s hands twisted together in his lap, and then slowly stilled. “You know,” he said, voice quiet enough that it made you lean in to catch it, “it’s been a year.”
You blinked at him. “Since…?”
He glanced up hesitantly, like he wasn’t sure if saying it aloud might jinx it. “Since the last time the Void broke through. Since I—” Bob exhaled shakily. “Since I lost control like that. One year of doing everything right. No shortcuts, no lies, no risking it. Other than being with you, I guess.”
Your throat tightened. “You did it.”
“I did it,” Bob echoed, almost like he couldn’t believe it himself. “I didn’t think I could, but I did. And these last few months,” his eyes found yours, steady now, “I missed you so much.”
Something tugged at your gut. “Then why be with me at all, if you’d promised yourself a year?” The words came out softer than you meant, not accusing, but like you were afraid of the answer.
Bob’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Because I couldn’t let you go. You were the only thing that made me feel like I wasn’t just surviving that year, but actually living it. I thought—I thought I could hold both, you and the vow, but when it came down to it… I was terrified I’d break one, and I couldn’t risk it being you.”
You bit your lip, forcing yourself not to cry. “I missed you so much,” you said. “Nothing feels right without you.”
Bob swallowed, his gaze fixed on you. “You really think…” His words faltered, and then, barely above a whisper: “You really think you could take me back?”
You reached for him before you could second-guess it, your hand covering his. His fingers tensed, then relaxed, instinctively interlocking with yours.
Bob stared down at your joined hands, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I don’t deserve this,” he murmured. “You shouldn’t—”
“You don’t get to decide that for me,” you interrupted, quieter than you meant, but steady. “If anything, the fact that you were willing to give this up to get better proves that you deserve it.”
When he looked up at you again, there was something tender in his eyes. “I just don’t want to hurt you again.”
“You did hurt me,” you admitted, a small, almost rueful smile tugging at your mouth. “By keeping things from me. But we can work on that.”
For a long moment, he didn’t speak, just held your gaze like he was trying to capture the moment in a memory. Then, voice rough, Bob asked, “So what now?”
You squeezed his hand, feeling the warmth of it sink into you. “Now?” You drew in a shaky breath, lips trembling with something like a laugh. “Now we see if we can get it right this time.”
Then Bob leaned across to reach you, almost hesitant, like he was giving you one last chance to pull away.
Your free hand caught his sweatshirt collar and pulled him in the rest of the way, and then his mouth was on yours. It was laughably familiar, the exact way you used to tug him down for a kiss when he was stalling, and you felt his breath hitch like he remembered that too.
It was the kind of kiss that came from months of restraint tearing loose all at once. His lips pressed hard to yours, hungry and desperate, like your bodies remembered what your minds had tried to forget.
You tasted salt—your tears, his, you couldn’t tell—and his hand slid to cradle your jaw, tilting your face so he could kiss you deeper. It was as if he’d been picturing this moment in his head and couldn’t risk losing a single detail now that it was real.
The tremor in his hands gave him away; Bob always shook when he was holding too much back, and you realised this was months of self-restraint crumbling. Your lungs burned with the need for air but your body refused to stop, greedy and starved, like you’d gone months without food and only he could satiate you again.
The heat of it built fast, familiar and overwhelming, like no time had passed at all. Bob’s mouth found yours with the kind of certainty that only comes from practice, from knowing exactly how to draw that sharp gasp from your lips, exactly how to make your knees weaken.
You broke apart just long enough to breathe, and he let out a ragged groan against your mouth. “I missed this,” Bob whispered, deep and wrecked like it always was after you kissed.
“Then don’t ever make us miss it again,” you said, and dragged him back into another kiss.
Bob’s breath shuddered against your mouth, his thumb tracing over your cheek to ground himself in you. “I love you,” he said, hoarse and certain, before kissing you again.
Your hands slid into his curls, tugging him closer, closer, until the chair scraped back against the floor. Bob didn’t care, didn’t even pause, just caught your waist and pulled you into his lap like he couldn’t bear a single inch of distance. Your knees sank into the mattress you used to sleep on every night, heat flooding your abdomen.
The sound he made when you settled against him was half growl, half plea, and it vibrated through you, low and devastating. His hands slid up your back, spanning your ribs, mapping you all over again with a reverence disguised as desperation.
“You feel exactly the same as I remember,” Bob rasped against your mouth, the words breaking on another groan as your fingers tugged his hair. “Except so much better than anything my mind made up.”
You kissed him instead of answering, teeth catching on his bottom lip. He cursed softly, lost to it. His hands moved restlessly—your hip, your thighs, your back—like he couldn’t decide where to touch you first. There was nothing careful in the way he kissed you.
When you leaned back, Bob chased your lips. “I can’t stop,” he whined, trembling as his thumb stroked gently across your throat. “Tell me to stop and I will, but—God, I can’t—”
“Don’t stop,” you cut in, breathless, your lips bruising his as you spoke. “Don’t you dare.”
That was all it took. Bob surged up to kiss you again, all fire and urgency, one hand splayed across your back to keep your chest pressed against his. You could feel the frantic beat of his heart against yours. You gasped when your back hit the headboard, legs wrapped around his waist for stability. His mouth was already chasing the sound, devouring it.
“Missed this—missed you—” Bob muttered between kisses, completely wrecked. His hands roamed, greedy and adoring all at once.
Your fingers hooked into the hem of his sweatshirt, aching for bare skin, tugging it half-way up before you even realised you’d done it. The noise he made when you touched him—strangled, helpless, carnal—shot straight through you like lightning.
He broke the kiss only long enough to yank his shirt over his head, his chest heaving, eyes burning into yours. “Tell me this isn’t just me,” he rasped, already pulling you back in.
“It’s not,” you whispered. “I love you.” Then you kissed him as your hands traced over familiar lines of muscle, remembering exactly where to touch to make him shiver and groan.
Bob’s masterful composure broke. He fell back without warning, pliant and gasping underneath your fingers. Your knees dug into the mattress again, your hands bracing on either side of his head while his fingers disappeared underneath your t-shirt. You arched into him instinctively, his name breaking on your lips, and his grip on your hips tightened.
Bob knew exactly how to undo you, exactly where to linger, exactly how to make your breath stutter. And you knew him just as well; the way his hands trembled when you trailed kisses down his neck and across his collarbones said you hadn’t lost your hold on him either.
Every scrape of his stubble, every brush of his tongue, every shaky gasp between kisses was a reminder that Bob knew you inside and out.
And then you started laughing. Messy, breathless giggles that bubbled up between kisses when Bob fumbled with the button of your jeans and swore under his breath, when his nose bumped yours because neither of you could keep still.
You dropped your forehead against his shoulder, giggling helplessly. He smelled the same, soap and cedar and the faint tang that clung to him when he woke up, and it sent another wave of hysterical affection through you.
“We’re a disaster,” you teased, rolling over to lie on your back beside him.
“Speak for yourself,” Bob muttered, though his grin was hopelessly crooked, his chest still heaving. “I’m very smooth.”
You gave him a look, one brow arched. He sighed, sagging down beside you, reaching for your hand like it was the only thing tethering him.
“Okay,” he admitted, eyes flicking away. “Maybe not smooth. More like… sandpaper. Or, uh, a car crash. The kind you can’t look away from because it’s that bad.”
You laughed again, louder this time, tugging him forward so you could kiss the corner of his mouth. “Bob.”
He glanced at you warily, self-deprecating humour still lingering in the downturn of his smile. “Yeah?”
“You’re fine,” you whispered, cupping his cheek, brushing your thumb over the stubble there. “More than fine. You’re the best thing I’ve ever let crash into me.”
Something unguarded flickered in his eyes then, relief tangled with endless affection. The way his face crumpled—half a laugh, half like he’d taken a breath after holding it breath for too long—was so unmistakably Bob that you couldn’t help kissing him again. Softer this time, slow and sweet, like coming home.
Summary: The Fantastic Four thought they were done dealing with cosmic threats after the defeat of Galactus. That is, until you crash-landed in Gramercy Park. Except, you aren't a threat, and Johnny Storm might be head over heels in love with a woman who couldn't care less for his flirting...again.
Warnings: little steamy but nothing major, making out, so much god damn fluff, some angst, some adult themes mentioned, strangers to friends to lovers, Johnny is a massive flirt, star-crossed lovers, slow burn, bittersweet ending but there will be a sequel, SPOILERS! for The Fantastic Four: First Steps, MCU spoilers, female reader but no characteristics described, reader kind of has PTSD, maybe some incorrect stuff regarding the 60s and how it worked but it's a fantasy world, VERY lightly edited so apologies for any mistakes
Johnny Storm was barely paying attention to the conversation happening around the dining room table of the Baxter Building. Instead, he dug his hand even further into the Lucky Charms box, popping another handful of the cereal into his mouth.
Sue shot him a look across the table, half of the bits of cereal falling from the side of his mouth to the table. His only response was an incredulous look her way, which was met with an affectionate eye roll from his sister.
“He probably just got caught up with something,” Sue tried to calm Ben’s nerves, bouncing little Franklin in her arms as he babbled out nonsense of some kind. That was enough to bring a smile to Sue’s face, her lips pressing a kiss to the side of his little head. “You know how Reed is.”
“Ben’s got a point, though,” Johnny chimed in, as the giant rock hand of his friend swiped his cereal box from his hands. With a defeated sigh, he decided he wasn’t going to start a fight over it, turning his gaze back to his sister and nephew. “Last time he was late for Sunday dinner it’s because you were pregnant and he was having an existential crisis. As much as I enjoyed that crisis, I think we’ve dealt with enough in the last few months.”
He wasn’t wrong, and he knew it. They all knew it. A year later and the aftermath of Galactus and Shalla-Bal still hung in the air. The implications of intelligent, threatening life out there in the universe casting a shadow over every news broadcast across the globe.
“That’s exactly my point,” Ben high fived Johnny from across the table, turning his gaze to Sue as well. “If he’s this caught up with something to miss family dinner, that means he found something.”
“And we all know when your husband finds something, that spells trouble for the rest of us,” Johnny lit his hand on fire for added effect, lips pursed as he waved the burning flames around gently in the air. “For example…cosmic radiation.”
It was clear that Sue wanted to argue with the pair, but Johnny knew there was no arguing with them. Their point was made, and that smirk on his face creeped in as Sue sighed, rising to her feet with Franklin situated on her hip.
“Alright, fine. Let’s go see what he’s up to,”
The chorus of cheers shared between Ben and Johnny from behind was surely making Sue roll her eyes once again. Any moments that Johnny was given to bother his brother in law in the lab was a win in his book.
Following his sister into the elevator, Johnny snapped his fingers in Ben’s direction as they descended toward the lab floor.
“10 bucks says it’s another alien woman,”
Ben’s groan sounded through the elevator, bouncing off the walls. Short laughter from Sue mixed in with it, even as she shook her head in response.
“Johnny, just because the first one dumped you, doesn’t mean you can go chasing after any alien woman in existence,”
“She never dumped me, for your information. She heroically sacrificed herself to save me because of her deep, profound love for me,” the shove Ben gave Johnny’s shoulder pushed him into the wall of the elevator. All he could do was shoot the rock man a glare, following his family out of the elevator and onto the lab floor, but not before pretending to grab at little Franklin’s nose to make the baby laugh. “Plus, I think it’s about time little Franklin got an auntie. A cool one.”
None of them were prepared for the mess of a lab they were stepping into.
Papers scattered the entire floor, from the workstation to the chalkboards. Those chalkboards had a thousand equations scattered across them: some scribbled out, others circled over a hundred times. Poor Herbie was frantically moving throughout the room, trying and failing to pick up every piece of paper that he could and bring some form of organization to the room.
“Uh, Suze,” it was Ben’s voice that cut in first, the trio stood just outside the elevator doors in mild shock at the state of the lab that was usually pristine. “I think your husband may have finally lost it.”
“That or he bought some drugs and tried them for the first time,” Johnny tacked on in a mumble that still got him an unimpressed look from his sister.
Johnny wasn’t wrong, though, and neither was Ben. Reed Richards looked like a certified mess.
He stood at the far end of the lab, moving between workstations at the deep blue tables lining the area in a half circle. He typed viciously, new data points mapped upon the screens adorning the walls. The middle screen, the largest, held a map to the entirety of New York City, markings appearing every so often in certain sections of the city before disappearing.
Even as the group approached, Reed never moved from his place, still typing away as he mumbled to himself.
“Reed,” Sue spoke up, just as her husband stalked across the floor once more.
The freshly written upon papers in his hands fell to the ground the second he laid eyes on them. Hair slightly disheveled, tie almost entirely undone, Reed Richards looked as if he had been rocked by a hurricane.
“Something is coming,”
Those were all the words he had to say. Johnny felt as if the air had been knocked from his lungs, as if all the oxygen in the room had been sucked straight out. He heard the sharp intake of breath from his sister first, before Ben stepped forward.
“Reed, what are you talking about?”
Ben quickly had multiple papers shoved into his hands as Reed gestured to the large screen showing the map of New York. One of the workstations beeped as the scientist quickly logged whatever data his system had just mapped out, another blip appearing on the screen that Reed pointed to desperately.
“For the last fifteen minutes, I’ve been tracking these energy signatures,” the map zoomed in on a focused location of the city. “They’re appearing at strange intervals. They started just a minute or two apart, but have grown to be just seconds apart now. All contained in an area between 24th and 17th street, in conjunction with Park Ave and 3rd Ave.”
“Gramercy Park?” Johnny chimed in, crossing his arms over his chest. He cocked his head slightly, looking at the map and the park that lay directly between the streets his brother-in-law had just named off. Honestly, he was still trying to understand what it was he was looking at, or just understand Reed’s mental state as a whole. “Maybe your baby proofing didn’t work and the Wizard is just out of prison.”
“That was my first thought as well, but the energy signatures proved me incorrect,” Johnny only rolled his eyes, running a hand down his face at Reed’s inability to take a joke. “These energy signatures are different, even more so than those of the Herald. It’s a culmination of dimensional energy–energy that’s being pulled from the fabric of the universe itself–it matches with energies given off by planets, or even stars themselves. But there’s another component to it, something so inherently not scientifically explainable that I can’t understand.”
Johnny shared a look with his sister and Ben, and even a look with confused little Franklin, before Sue chimed in.
“Okay, so there’s some weird space energy in the area-”
“Energy that has organic life woven into it,” Reed emphasized for those standing in front of him. He crossed the room back to his desk, pulling up a clear imaging of the energy itself from a nearby street camera that happened to catch the pulse. It was like a burst of blue strands, interwoven, pulsing and dousing the surrounding area in color, before it blinked away. “This energy beats, like a heartbeat. It moves organically, as if being pushed and pulled by someone. Compare these scans with a simple energy scan of any one of us, anyone in New York for that matter, and the fundamentals match perfectly. This isn’t some cosmic energy seeping into our earth for a moment, there’s something attached to it, something causing it. It’s forewarning something–someone.”
The lab grew quiet, the weight of Reed’s words hung in the air. For Johnny, they hung a little harder.
The last time something–someone–showed up on this Earth, he’d almost lost his family, lost his nephew. He had lost his sister, even for just a brief moment, but that was enough. Enough to never want to be put through this again. Johnny’s jaw clenched at the memory, his gaze flickering back to the screens.
“Why’s the park empty?” he questioned, gesturing to the live feed of the park from security cameras placed around light poles. “It’s not even 8 at night.”
“Suspicious activity in the area over the last week. I spoke to the mayor and had a curfew put in place out of an abundance of caution,” Sue chimed in.
“Okay, so another space alien is coming,” Ben clapped his hands together, the sound echoing as it drew everyone’s attention to him. “We threw the devourer of worlds through a portal to deep space…let’s just do that again.”
“This isn’t Galactus,” Reed muttered, voice just loud enough to be heard by everyone in the room as he turned back to the screens before him. “This is something else.”
Before anyone else could speak again, another pulsation of blue energy directly in the center of the park this time. Bigger than the others, strands of energy moving and beating in the air. Growing brighter, bathing the park in light.
The power of the building flickered for half a second before the live feed into the park cut off suddenly. Reed tapped incessantly, trying to bring it back, but it was no use.
“Reed…what is that?”
On the main screen, right in the center of the park on the New York City map, was one single blip of energy. Unlike the other blips, this one didn’t leave. It held steady.
“Johnny-” his name had barely left Reed’s mouth before Johnny was at the windows of the lab, swinging them open before streaking through the air in a blaze of red and orange.
No one was threatening his family again.
Gramercy Park wasn’t far away from the Baxter Building, especially not for a man who could light himself on fire and streak through the air at speeds humans couldn’t comprehend.
The park and every surrounding street was quiet the second his feet touched down on the pavement, flames dissipating from his body with a single thought.
The trees rustled above him in the night time breeze, stray leaves breaking off of the branches and falling to the ground. In the distance Johnny could faintly hear the usual sound of New York traffic, the muffled sound of sirens streets and streets away.
Straight ahead of him, down the path, laid the circle of greenery and flowers planted around the statue that sat in the middle of the park.
When he approached the center of the park apprehensively, flaming fist at his side ready to attack, the last thing he expected to see was you.
Pacing back and forth until the point he was sure you’d burn lines into the ground under your feet, you were glancing up at the sky over and over, muttering something to yourself. He cocked his head as he creeped closer, taking in the clothes that adorned your body: a pain of jeans adorned with so many tears and holes he couldn’t comprehend why you were still wearing them, and a tight fitting shirt that plunged way too far down your sternum to be considered decent to wear…anywhere. He wasn’t sure he’d even seen a woman wearing a shirt quite that revealing before.
His foot hit a single branch littering the pavement, ten feet from you now, before you froze and spun on your heels to face him. Johnny was pretty sure every bit of oxygen in the air was ripped away the second his eyes locked with yours.
Well, fuck, you are the prettiest fucking woman I’ve ever laid my eyes on.
It was the only thought capable of filtering through Johnny’s head. Reed must have gotten something wrong in his data, been tracking something that didn’t really exist, because there was no way that you were the blip that had appeared on the map. You were just another New Yorker–a drop dead gorgeous one, at that–who was out past the mandatory curfew…even if the clothing you bore threw him for a loop.
You didn’t look scared of him, his hand still burning with flames at his side. He could see the way your eyes drifted to the fire, head almost tilting in curiosity, before you glanced back at his face. Your hands were held out at your sides, fingers flexing as if you were prepared to defend yourself if the need arose.
Johnny wasn’t going to hurt you. You were a civilian, one who should be in her home during this curfew. Just another normal civilian that he would definitely be coming back to this area for the following day so he could figure out where you worked, or which cafe you visited most often so he could orchestrate a way to run into you again-
His watch beeped, that familiar alert sound. Johnny’s eyes tore themselves away from you for just a second to glance down: an energy reading, matching the same one from Reed’s lab, pointed directly at you.
Way to go, Johnny. Get the hots for yet another alien woman that’s probably here to destroy your world and kill your family. Nice job. Way to go. Ben totally isn’t going to make fun of you for this.
“I’m not usually one for telling strong, pretty women what to do,” Johnny quipped, flames igniting on his other hands, both now burning bright at his sides. “But you’re out after curfew.”
“Curfew?” you had practically barked out a laugh, and fuck Johnny hated the fact that even your voice was pretty. Even as it was dripping in disbelief. “Yeah, right. I haven’t seen a single curfew ever go into effect in this city through the multiple alien incursions it’s seen.”
Johnny cocked his head immediately: multiple alien incursions? Given that Shalla-Bal was the only alien he’d watched descend into Times Square, he was utterly confused.
“Makes sense–given that you’re another one of those alien incursions–that you don’t know about the curfew,” flames burning just a tad bit brighter, crawling up his forearms, Johnny raised his hands in your direction as he took a cautious step forward. “I’d prefer not to hurt you, doll, so why don’t we do this peacefully and you just come with me?”
It happened in the blink of an eye. Johnny’s eyes never left you as your head tilted just slightly, a flash of blue crossing your eyes as your fingers twitched at your sides, before suddenly his arms were enveloped.
Like a casing of blue tinted energy, pulsing around his hands and up his forearms, the flames that ignited Johnny’s skin were extinguished in moments. Blue eyes shooting wide open, he shook his hands frantically. Willing himself in his head, telling his flames to ignite, but they wouldn’t. Every wave of his arms did nothing, the blue energy unmoving and shifting with him.
“No use trying, pretty boy. There’s not a single ounce of oxygen in the air around your arms right now, so I suggest you keep the flames at bay because I’d prefer not to do that to your entire body,” you shot back at him. With a single wave of your hand, the casing of energy dropped from around his arms. Johnny let the fires reignite for just a moment, confirming that he could indeed use his power again, before his wide eyes shot back to you.
“...I’m going to be so honest, I can’t tell if I’m terrified or completely turned on right now,”
“I’m, also, not an alien. I grew up upstate. And, why does Gramercy Park look so…weird?” Johnny’s comment was ignored, even though it was a valid question that he was trying to work out in his head. He instead watched you spin around on your heels, pointing around the park and up toward the surrounding buildings. “I know I haven’t left the Sanctum in a few days, but I feel like I would’ve heard construction. That building was never white, that one–wait, how did they build an above ground subway system? That wasn’t there three days ago when I got in, and I know for a fact the city doesn’t have the budget for this.”
In all of his life, Johnny Storm had never been more confused. He’d sat through countless lectures from Reed about matters of organic chemistry that he didn’t understand in the slightest, or cooking lessons from Ben that ended in him shoving his hand deep into a box of cereal, and this was more confusing then all of those combined.
Your clothing, something just about the way you talked and looked, whatever the hell this blue energy was it looked like you were controlling–and what the hell was a Sanctum?
“Back up…the Sanctum?” Johnny chose to start there as you turned back to him. He chose to keep his flames at bay, having a gut feeling that if you really did want to cut off the oxygen around him you could, and he wasn’t in the mood to deal with that. “Isn’t that, like, some type of Church thing? Are you from some weird alien cult?”
“I literally just told you I wasn’t an alien. The Sanctum Sanctorum, over on Bleeker street? You know…Wong, Stephen Strange, the Masters of the Mystic Arts?” you must have seen the confusion on his face grow, because Johnny could see the moment your back seemed to straighten. “Wait, you have no clue who they are? Actually–beyond that–you have powers. How do I not know who you are?”
“Great question, sweetheart. The Fantastic Four kind of just saved the world a year ago, so I’m about as lost as you are,”
Johnny wanted to be apprehensive, wanted not to trust a word you were saying. He wanted to be cautious, to put his walls up, because the last time someone had come down into his world like this, he’d almost lost everything.
But you weren’t Shalla-Bal. You weren’t standing on a silver surfboard, speaking with confidence and heralding the end of the world.
No, when Johnny looked at you now, he saw pieces of himself. Of little him, hugging Sue, losing their mother forever. Of the version of him that came back to Earth over four years ago forever changed: confused and scared. The version of him that locked himself away in Building Q, charring the sheets and everything around him as he cried, trying to understand what was happening.
“I meant what I said, by the way,” Johnny cut in, that usual charm infiltrating his words. You were still the prettiest thing he’d ever seen, and he was curious, more curious then he was the moment a woman coated in silver appeared in the air. You had his full attention, even if he was still trying to figure out who the hell you were, but he hoped showing off his charm would ease the tensions a bit. “You’re a very pretty woman…and I might be turned on right now, the jury is definitely still out on that one. Took my breath away when I first saw you, and you could literally do that if you wanted to. That’s hot.”
He watched as you huffed out the semblance of a laugh, still teetering back and forth on if he was a danger to you. Given the fact that you had demonstrated your ability to cut off his oxygen…he was hoping you wouldn’t see him as a threat anymore.
“Ah, a charmer, aren’t you? Knew someone like that, been awhile since I’ve seen someone so brazenly flirt with a woman,”
“Oh darling, that’s my whole brand,”
You hummed across from him, but he caught your body language. Slightly more at ease, not as rigid anymore.
“The Fantastic Four?” your eyebrow shot up, eyes still wide with confusion, but slightly less apprehensive than before, as you brought the conversation back to that name he’d dropped. “Bit of a pretentious name to give yourselves.”
“That was all the fans,” Johnny shot back with a hint of a grin. A ghost of a smile seemed to find your mouth as well, and Johnny mentally cheered to himself that it seemed he was able to convince you he wasn’t a threat to your life.
“Fair enough. The Avengers was chosen for us…I feel like I would’ve heard about another new superhero team being formed in our absence, though,”
Johnny’s confusion was back again as he mulled over your words.
“Avengers? What are they, some superpowered band?”
It was your turn to mull over his words.
“You…you don’t know who the Avengers are?”
There was a whirl through the air as Johnny watched you glance behind him. He turned too, eyes landing on the familiar blue of the Fantasti-Car landing behind him on the pavement, Sue, Reed and Ben stepping out just moments later, practically running down the pavement toward him.
“Johnny-!”
“No, no, wait!” he called out frantically, glancing back at you again. Your hands were rigid at your sides again, fingers flexing, eyes narrowed in a terrified glare in their direction. He glanced back at his family, holding out a hand for them to stop just behind him. “She’s not a threat, I swear!”
Ben’s thunderous steps came to a halt, his head thrown back to the sky as he let out the loudest sigh in the world. “Johnny, seriously, you can’t keep falling for every alien woman you meet-”
Johnny didn’t let him finish, spinning back around to face you. His eyes pleaded with you, hoping you would see his hesitance to hurt you, feet shuffling forward a few steps. You took one back for each step he made forward, that same blue energy dancing around your hands once again.
“I really don’t want to hurt you,” you spoke, voice steady and loud enough to carry through the air. Your eyes glanced past Johnny, to his family. “Any of you. It’s not who I am, that’s not what I do. But if I have to, I will.”
“We won’t,” Johnny promised, taking a glance back at his family. Ben seemed unsure, Reed apprehensive, but Sue watched him. Curious, unsure of what he might do next. He glanced back at you. “I won’t. We’re just as confused as you are right now.”
You laughed. “I really doubt that.”
Reed brought a device out from his pocket, that same alert that came from Johnny’s watch ringing through the air as he pointed it in your direction.
“It’s coming from her,” Reed announced. Johnny tried desperately not to roll his eyes and make a comment of ‘obviously’ toward his brother-in-law. “These readings are coming from her. I was right: she’s controlling this dimensional energy, bending it to her will.”
Johnny hung his head with a sigh, still mulling over making a comment as he turned his gaze back to you. It was apologetic, accented with an eyeroll, one that brought a hint of a smirk back to your face. It worked, though, as you dropped your hands, body relaxing once more as Johnny confirmed for you once again that they didn’t want to hurt you.
With a single flick of your wrist, the device in Reed’s hands was enveloped in that same energy, wrapping around it and carrying it over to your hands before their very eyes. Johnny froze, along with the three directly behind him, as they watched it happen.
“Not energy–well, not technically–it’s magic,” you explained, never taking your eyes off the device in your hands as you fiddled with the controls. “This thing is…so strange. It looks like such a primitive piece of tech but functions so modernly. Did you get this from Stark Industries? Is this some old prototype of Tony’s that Pepper sold you?”
“I designed it,” Reed answered after a moment. You hummed, flicking your hand again as the device made its way through the air and back to Reed’s hands. “Stark Industries, are they a foreign company? Do you work for them?”
Johnny watched that confusion bubble up in your features again, tinged with nerves now. He caught it, the way your leg began to shake as the pacing you’d been doing when he first showed up resumed once again. All he could do was watch.
“T-This doesn’t make any sense. I’ve never heard of you guys, everything about New York looks different, you don’t know the Avengers, hell you don’t even know who Tony is!” you laughed, incredulously this time, as your eyes locked with Johnny’s again. “This has to be a joke, right? A-Are one of you Wong in disguise, trying to teach me a lesson for opening a book to perform a spell that I wasn’t supposed to touch-”
You stopped in the middle of your sentence.
Johnny took another step forward the second you cut your own words off with a gasp. Hand flying up to cover your mouth, your wide eyes never left him as he took a cautious step forward.
“We just want to help you. What are you talking about? Help us understand,”
“The Book of Vishanti,” you said it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, like the four standing in front of you were supposed to understand it. “Wong thought I was ready for powerful light magic, h-he invited me so that he could show it to me, so that I could learn from it. I should’ve listened to him, I shouldn’t have snuck down there-”
Sue stepped up to Johnny’s side. He watched his sister, the easy look on her face, the understanding in her eyes, as she spoke softly to you.
“What happened before you showed up in this park?”
“I touched the book without him, I thought I could teach myself things without him,” you spoke quickly, shaking your head frantically. “I could barely read the spell and yet I performed it anyway. Either I fucked it up, or I did it right and I didn’t know what I was doing because…this isn’t my earth. It can’t be, not with all the differences.”
Reed and Ben joined either side of Johnny and Sue now, all four of them staring down at you in front of them as you came to a realization of what had truly happened.
Through it all, Johnny just couldn’t take his eyes off of you. Curiosity pulled at him, more than it ever had before.
“What are you saying?” Reed chimed in.
“I’m saying this isn’t my universe…I think I accidentally traveled the multiverse, and I have no idea how to get back,”
❤︎
Performing a spell from the Book of Vishanti that you couldn’t yet read was, in hindsight, probably the worst idea that you had ever had in your entire young adult life.
When the Sorcerer Supreme believes that you’re ready to handle a book such as that, lined with the most powerful magic and spells and knowledge of light magic that have ever existed…it’s not hard to get an ego about it and jump the gun. You could already hear the berating you’d get from Wong, the things that Steve would’ve said to you if he was still around, the things that Sam most definitely would say to you when you got back to Washington.
If you ever got home, that is.
It was a thought you tried not to dwell on. Every night, as you closed your eyes, you saw them. The ones still here, the ones taken from you even as you fought with every ounce of you to save them all. The final look in your best friend’s eyes before she destroyed the version of herself that she had become, destroying what felt like a piece of you in the process. All so you could wind up in a world without any of them, a universe so far away from your own, nursing what felt like a shattered heart as you tried to find a way home.
You cried enough every time your head hit the pillow of the bed that wasn’t yours, you wouldn’t let the tears find you during the day too.
To their credit, the Fantastic Four were the most welcoming and kind group of people you’d ever met. If a strange woman basically crash landed in your universe, claiming to be a witch, you too would probably have hesitated. But here you were, a week later, having taken up the space on the unused guest floor of the Baxter Building at the insistence of Susan Storm. Trapped in a universe so similar to your own, but so different.
You weren’t alive in the 60s of your Earth, but now you got the chance to experience it firsthand…with a twist. It was strange how retro and yet futuristic this Earth was. The technology was advanced, sometimes more advanced than anything you had seen in your own universe, and that was all thanks to Dr. Reed Richards. You had thought that Bruce Banner and his 7 PhDs was the smartest person you would ever meet, but Reed and his 18 Doctorate degrees blew him out of the water by miles. But beyond the advanced technology of the world, everything else was still so primitive.
The clothing was different, more modest and brightly colored than anything you were used to seeing before. The hairstyles were different, sometimes shorter, almost always poofier than they were in the 2020s. They talked differently, the music was different, everything felt so familiar and yet so wrong at the same time.
This little team, this family you had stumbled upon, had been nothing but helpful, even if they were still wrapping their minds around the idea of the multiverse. The protectors of their Earth, the only superheroes this universe had compared to the plethora yours seemed to have, but some of the most down to earth people you had ever met. Reed Richards was abrasive sometimes, but curious, asking a thousand questions when you would venture out of the guest floor about your magic and the scientific properties surrounding it and its composition. Ben Grimm was kind, giving you space, but always dropping off something to eat on the guest floor for you every day. Sue Storm was kind and bright, strolling in with confidence and her son, Franklin, perched on her hip, filling your closet with an array of clothing to wear so that you would be comfortable.
Johnny Storm followed you like a puppy dog, hanging off every word you spoke and popping up in every corner of the building you found yourself in, much like he was now.
“Find anything in there?”
You rolled your eyes, tossing the book borrowed from the city library onto the coffee table of the guest floor living room. It landed with a thud on the multiple other books that Sue had picked up for you before you glanced over your shoulder, seeing Johnny stalking toward the couch you were sitting upon from the elevator.
“Just more confirmation that witches don’t seem to exist in your universe, except in the fairy tales," you shot back with a sigh. Your gaze turned to the floor to ceiling windows adorning the wall before you, giving you a glimpse of the New York skyline as night crept in on it, the sun dipping below the horizon line in the distance. “Which leaves me with exactly what I started with: nothing.”
Johnny hummed, hands grasping the back of the couch from beside you as he too glanced out over the skyline. The record player in the corner played some Elvis tune, something to fill the silence.
“Can’t you just, like, do the spell again to get home?”
“If I knew what spell I did, probably,” came your answer as you glanced over to him, finding his blue eyes already watching you. “No clue what spell I did, so without that I have no means of traversing the multiverse.”
Your gaze watched him as he left the couch, stalking across the room toward the record player. Another eye roll left you as he plucked the Elvis record off the turntable in seconds, muttering something about how that record ‘wasn’t good enough,’ before combing the collection beside it for another one.
This wasn’t the first time he’d done this over the course of the week. It felt like Johnny Storm practically lived on this guest floor with you: he’d brought his dinner down every night to eat with you, lounged around the living room while you searched through book after book, and had gone through every bit of clothing his sister had procured for you and made comments about which ones he thought you’d look best in (spoiler alert: it was every single item).
You didn’t entirely mind. His presence felt like a soothing balm over the pain that still sat within you, his ability to joke and make anyone around him smile, able to slap a bandaid over what felt like a gunshot.
“What’s music like in the 2020s?” he called out from across the room, settling on a Bob Dylan record instead that he dropped the needle down onto. “Does everyone have giant record collections now, ones that would rival my own?”
“Music is…much different than what you’re used to now,” was the response you settled on, chuckling slightly as you tried to imagine the man across the room listening to the likes of Eminem or even Taylor Swift. Taking a sip of your drink settled on the table in front of you, you dug your now dead cell phone out of your pocket, waving it around. “We listen off our phones, can connect headphones to them wirelessly. Vinyl collections are usually just collections now, not typically used to play music.”
Your cell phone was plucked straight out of your hands by Johnny himself, who had crossed the room with impressive speed. With a chuckle, you shook your head at his antics, leaning your head against your hand as you watched him inspect the dead device.
“I should tell Reed to invent this thing. Have to use that big brain for something useful,”
“And somewhere in Chicago, I can hear Martin Cooper crying that his invention is about to be stolen,”
Johnny tossed your phone back onto the cushion next to you without another thought, plopping down right next to it. Head thrown back against the back of the couch, he turned to look at you again with a giddy grin.
“Ignore the little talking box device for now, can you show me more of your magic?”
That was the question Johnny had asked at least three times a day in the week you had been on his earth. It was cute, the way his eyes would light up with excitement like a little kid every single time you showed him something new. That sparkle in them, the grin that lit up his face every single time, as he’d beg you to show him again.
You tried not to focus too much on how cute it actually was.
“What haven’t I shown you at this point?” you laughed, smile bright, though you already knew the answer. There was a neverending stream of things you could show him.
“There has to be something,” he sat up a little straighter, leaning even more into your personal space now. “Come on, I have a witch sitting in front of me. I thought those only existed in movies and books. You can’t blame a guy for being interested, baby.”
Ignoring that pet name that so easily fell from Johnny’s lips, you took a quick glance around the room. Acting as the centerpiece of the table sat a fresh bouquet of wildflowers, curated by Sue herself and brought up as a gift. Leaning forward, you plucked a single daisy from the bunch, leaning back and holding it in the space between you and Johnny.
Your eyes never stopped watching him as that familiar swirl of blue magic seeped from you, enveloping the delicate flower. The thin, white petals merged together into five beautiful petals, the white coloring fading into an enchanting ombre of orange and pink. Then, as fast as it started, your magic dissipated and the blue hue that lit up Johnny’s face disappeared.
He took the new flower from you with the brightest of grins, a sight that stirred something deep within your chest you were keen to ignore. He took a single sniff, eyes glancing back to you as his smile slipped into a charming little smirk.
“What did that poor daisy ever do to you?”
“It wasn’t a Plumeria,” you shot back with a slight laugh, plucking the flower from his hand and slipping it back into the vase. “They’re my favorite flower.”
“Noted,” he casually stretched his arm over the back of the couch, resting it over the portion directly behind your head, as that charming smirk grew even more. “Want them incorporated into the wedding decor, or should I pin one to my suit jacket so you can see it while we stand together at the altar?”
With a bright laugh, your hand met his face, pushing him back slightly as you rose from the couch, sauntering over into the kitchen with your empty glass. You could feel his eyes on you with every step.
“I have to hand it to you, Johnny, your flirting this past week has definitely gotten more brazen with each passing hour. Be careful, you might fall in love,”
“Too late, that happened when you first turned around,” shooting a glance back at him on the couch, he dramatically flopped backward on the cushions, pretending an arrow had just struck him in the chest. It was impossible not to shake your head and laugh at the sight. “I took one look at you and thought…wow, that’s the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen.”
You hummed in response, pouring yourself another glass.
“Does your charm and your flattery typically get you places with the ladies?”
“Depends, is it working right now?”
Ben had warned you about Johnny’s charming personality and what would surely be incessant attempts at flirting, but you hadn’t thought the man would be as persistent as he had been this past week.
You’d taken to keeping a running list in your head of some of your favorite lines of Johnny’s that he’d thrown your way.
Are love spells a thing? You could put one on me and I wouldn’t even notice: I’m already too far gone for you, baby.
Do you think you fell into our universe because you and I were made to find each other?
Before you head back to your universe eventually, we should send you back with the last name Storm. I think it fits you nicely.
Each one had made you laugh, and you begrudgingly had to admit that most of them were quite cute. It helped that Johnny Storm was as charming as they came.
From the moment you had laid eyes on him in that park that night you’d known it. This man was a heartbreaker, a face that girls across the world surely had hanging on their bedroom walls and were fawning over. Magazines called him a playboy, his personal fan club, The Flaming Hearts, swooned at his feet over how he was the ideal man women should strive for. You saw why they fawned: Johnny was attractive, anyone with eyes could see it. Perfectly swept to the side blonde hair, blue eyes that felt deeper than the ocean, and the charm and wit to have you laughing into the night.
He could flirt all he wanted, but it was going to take more than a flirty comment and a pretty smile to make you feel a thing. Johnny Storm wasn’t the first charming man you’d ever encountered, and he surely wouldn’t be the last.
“Sorry, pretty boy,” you shook your head, finishing off your glass that you’d just poured before dumping it into the sink for later. “Takes a little more than superficial flattery to butter me up.”
“I’m pretty sure you just called me pretty, that has to count for something,”
“It doesn’t,” you shot back, leaning against the island counter as you looked across the room toward him. Johnny was rolling off the couch in the most unelegant way, hopping back up to his feet to lean against the other side of the counter from you, shooting you a wink.
“You know what they say–denial is the first step to falling in love,”
“Acceptance. The quote ends in acceptance,” you barked out another laugh, shaking your head as the man as you stood up straighter. “Now, what did you actually come up here for, or was it just to bother me?”
Johnny clapped, eyes going wide as he seemed to remember exactly why he’d come upstairs in the first place.
“Right! It’s Sunday, family dinner night. You’re invited, and I was volun-told to come and get you,”
“Of course, because I’m sure you really protested being given that job,”
As charming as ever, he shot you another wink as he banged his hands on the table.
“You already know me so well, darling,”
“Are the pet names necessary?”
“Why, are they making you swoon?” yet another wink was shot at you.
“Johnny, I’m sure your charm works on just about every other woman in this universe. You want me to swoon? It’s going to take a lot more than that,” you pointed toward the shirt on his body, the bright blue logo over his chest shining in the light. “Plus, wearing your own team merch all the time? How superficial of you.”
He feigned hurt over your comment, looking down at the logo himself.
“I’m just representing the team. Plus, it’s comfortable, like our suits are too,” Johnny instantly snapped his fingers, eyes wide again as he giddily smiled toward you across the counter. “Your suit! You’ve never shown me your superhero suit! Come on, I’m dying with anticipation here, baby.”
Even as you rolled your eyes, you indulged his request. With a single flick of your wrist, your clothing shimmered in blue tendrils of magics, transforming it into the suit you knew like it was a second skin. Reinforced black and blue fabric that trailed high up your neck and down to your wrists, down your waist and finally tucked into the black boots that sat directly below your knees. That shimmering silver “A” still sat on your belt, something you were never able to part with.
Johnny let out a low whistle, teeth biting into his bottom lip as his eyes scanned you up and down over and over again.
“Hot damn…remember that comment I made about being turned on? Yeah, yeah this is doing it for me,”
With yet another eye roll, something you were learning you did quite frequently around him, you waved off the magic and dissipated the suit once again. The look you shot at him was anything but impressed, even if you were trying to hold back laughter.
“Why are you like this?”
Before some other flirty comment could fall from his lips, the elevator dinged across the room, its large doors sliding open. Neither of you were expecting it to be little Franklin Richards stumbling out on his tiny, wobbly legs.
Tufts of blonde hair on his head, blue eyes wide as could be, a happy little smile overtook his face as he spotted the two of you in the kitchen. His little hands clapped together, incoherent but otherwise happy babbles falling from his lips.
“Frankie! What has your mom told you about playing with the elevator, little guy?”
Johnny was across the room in seconds, sweeping Franklin into his arm with a single swipe. The laughter of little Franklin echoed through the room as Johnny dipped him, practically holding the little guy upside down, before spinning him upright. The little boy wearing a matching grin to his uncle, the man he could practically be a twin of, continued to laugh as Johnny pulled his shirt up, blowing a raspberry directly into his stomach and muttering something about how ‘magic babies never listen to their mothers.’
The skip your heart did at the sight was enough to have the beginnings of a flush crawling up your skin. Maybe his charm didn’t work on you, not his flirty jokes, but this? Seeing the side of Johnny Storm that the media didn’t see, the part that wasn’t the persona he played up for the world, was enough to bring a soft smile to your face and to fully understand why people across the world fell for him so easily.
Willing the blush to go away, desperate to hide the evidence that you did, in fact, find this man cute, you stalked across the room until you came to stand beside the man and his laughing nephew. They both turned to look at you, looking like twins with their bright smiles and blue eyes. Another round of giggles fell from Franklin as you swiped your finger over the edge of his nose slightly, pushing past them both toward the waiting elevator.
“Well, come on then. Guess I shouldn’t be late for my first family dinner with the Fantastic Four,”
In all honesty, you needed Johnny to put Franklin down. He looked too adorable, making faces at the little boy as he pressed the button for the main living area on the elevator. Franklin just continued to clap, babbling nonsense.
“You’re good with him,” you cut through the silence after a moment, smile still soft as you watched the two of them beside you in the confined space.
Johnny glanced up, an air of sheepishness finding him as he laughed lightly, looking back at Franklin. The little boy was watching you once again.
“Yeah, well, what can I say? Always loved kids,”
Bringing your hand up between the two of you, with a single thought you let a little ball of blue magic appear along your fingertips. Franklin’s eyes widened, following the movement of the little ball of magic as you rolled it around your fingertips, dancing it around his head and back to your hand.
Your eyes flickered to Johnny after a moment. His head rested against the wall of the elevator still slowly moving its way down. His smile was soft, softer than you’d seen it look at you before this week, his eyes holding a gentle pensiveness as they watched you.
“What?” you questioned lightly. He shrugged, adjusting Franklin on his hip.
“Nothing. You’re just good with him, too,”
“Well, he’s not the first baby in my life,” you answered, the edges of your smile dropping just a fraction as you thought about her. The little girl that was only, what, 6 years old now? Brown hair and eyes just like her father’s, the wit and sass to match it. Universes away from you, a little piece of someone you used to hold so dear that you may never see again.
“Whoever you’re thinking about,” Johnny was more observant than you gave him credit for, picking up immediately on the thoughts that seemed to plague your mind, even if he didn’t know the full extent of them. His fingers lightly grazed your cheek, an action that you so wished didn’t feel so nice. Comforting, warm with the heat that burned within him, brushing a strand piece of hair back behind your ear, tucking it there. You met his gaze, burning with a quiet determination. “You’ll see them again. We’ll get you home.”
Ignoring the slight flutter behind your ribcage, you raised an eyebrow at him.
“Oh, you’re suddenly content with letting me go? I remember Ben telling me yesterday that you were planning to keep me trapped here forever,”
His laughter echoed into the living room as the doors to the elevator pushed open, allowing the three of you to step out into the room fully. Ben was hard at work in the kitchen, calling out things to their little helper robot, Herbie, who zoomed around the kitchen at his command. Reed’s arm stretched out across the room, setting the table without ever leaving the kitchen, his other arm wrapped around his wife as Sue laughed at something he said.
“Oh I’ll help get you home, but there are conditions to your departure,” Johnny shot back, walking alongside you toward the dining room. “The one non-negotiable is that you have to leave unequivocally in love with me-”
“Whoa, that’s a big word for you, Johnny-”
“You also have to leave admitting that I’m the most charming man that you’ve ever met-” he cut back in, cutting you off after you had cut him off.
“I mean, you’re definitely on your way to joining the ranks of Tony, Quill, and Joaquin-”
“You also have to leave with the last name Storm,” Johnny spun, back facing the kitchen, as he shot you a wink. “We can negotiate that one. I don’t want to rush our wedding, but I’d prefer you go back home with it. A little something to remember me by.”
Sue Storm was quick to slap Johnny on the shoulder as he dipped into the kitchen, practically tossing the laughing baby into his sister’s arms, before ducking around her to dip his hand into the pot of sauce that Ben was working to season. His rocky hand whacked Johnny on the shoulder, who pretended to crumble to the ground in pain as Ben cried out “you haven’t even washed your hands!”. Reed’s arm stretched across the room, coming between the two and pushing his brother-in-law to the other side of the kitchen without a word, trying to maintain a semblance of peace.
Sue sighed, pressing a kiss to her son’s head, before she turned to you: still standing still, frozen in place by the dining room table, watching the events before you unfold with a smile you couldn’t hide if you tried.
“Welcome to family dinners,” she told you with a laugh, Ben once again yelling at Johnny in the background as he dipped his hand into a cereal box. “Before you ask: yes, it is always this chaotic.”
The chaos was nice, it almost felt like home. A home you hadn’t known for years now. Watching them, you could almost picture them all, the family you used to have: a flash of Natasha’s red hair in your head, the sound of Steve’s laughter, Tony’s quips that Sam always met back just as quick, Wanda muttering to you about how you worked with idiots.
Johnny’s eyes met yours again, a soft smile and a playful wink sent your way before he ducked out of the way of Ben’s arm again, and that was somehow enough to soothe that ache in your heart for just one night
❤︎
“I know people usually look exhausted after leaving Reed’s lab…but you were down there for two hours. I’m surprised you’re alive,”
Stalking across the room into the kitchen of the Baxter Building, you faked a laugh in Ben’s direction, dipping into the fridge for a bottle of water to nurse the headache you could feel approaching. The man let out a laugh at your actions, shaking off his oversized trench coat and tossing it over toward the dining room as he placed the multiple paper bags in his hands down on the counter.
“I am, too,” you shot back at him, hopping up onto the island counter beside him to sit. Ben just laughed at your antics, rifling through the bags on the counter from the market down the street. “He asked for more blood tests, so I consented even though I told him he’s not going to find any answers to why I have magic in my blood.”
“And did he?”
“NO!”
Ben’s laugh thundered through the room as he put some of the groceries away in the cupboards. Returning to the island counter, he dipped into a smaller, white paper bag, producing a small sleeve of paper holding a warm cookie within. The headache you felt coming on almost completely dissipated the second the sweet smell filled the air.
“Good thing I grabbed some of these, then. Eat, before you pass out from blood loss,” you didn’t argue, taking the gooey chocolate chip cookie from him with a smile and sinking your teeth in. “It’s from Maisie’s. Figured it was about time I showed you the best cookies in town, not sure how I held off for two months.”
Two months. It was a time period you tried not to dwell on. If you thought too long about how long you’d been stuck in another universe with no way back home, you were sure you’d start spiraling more than you did every night that your head hit the pillow of the guest floor. The guest floor that was slowly just becoming your floor.
If you thought about it too long, you’d remember how you were starting to forget the sound of Sam’s laugh. How this was the longest you’d gone without visiting Pepper, how Morgan was probably asking where you were. You hadn’t put flowers at Nat’s grave in so long, you could only hope her sister had gone and changed the flowers.
“Well, it’s quite good,” with a slight shake of your head, you sent Ben a strained grin, enjoying the taste of the cookie. It wasn’t a lie, it was quite possibly the best cookie you’d ever had.
Ben hummed, holding your gaze for a moment, before he smiled. It was soft, but you could see it woven in: the pity.
“Thinking about home?”
You swallowed, both the bite of the cookie you’d taken and the lump that formed in your throat.
“Yeah…always am. I hate how good you are at reading me, by the way,” Ben chuckled at your comment, returning to putting the rest of the groceries away in their designated spots. “Reed offered to invent multidimensional travel again today.”
“Did you say yes?”
“No, I turned him down like I do every time,” Ben returned as you shook your head with a wry laugh. “It sucks because I know he could do it, he’d have me home within a week. But multiverse traversal spells exist, they have for a very long time, which means they obviously don’t blow a hole in the space-time continuum. I don’t need Reed to accidentally blow a hole in the entire multiverse just to get me home.”
Ben hummed. Placing one hand on the counter, his other rocky hand laid across both of your legs, delivering the slightest of squeezes in comfort that he was able to. You looked up, meeting his eyes, and practically melted under the kindness and comfort in them.
“You’re going to go home, I promise you that. You’re homesick: it’s where you belong, it’s full of the people you love, and we’ll get you back there. But think of it like this: you’re in a different universe, how many people get to experience that? Take it in, enjoy it, learn from it, eat all the Maisie’s cookies this world has to offer. The people you love will still be waiting for you back home, no matter how long it takes to get there,”
He moved away, his hand sliding back down to his side and he returned to the groceries. But his words stuck with you, hung in the air, settled deep within you.
The quiet hung there in the room for a moment as you just watched him, placing cereal box after cereal box on a shelf near the fridge. He met your gaze again when he turned around, rocky brow raising in question as you let a sigh slip past your smiling lips.
“You remind me a lot of Steve,” Ben waited, letting you collect your thoughts, never pushing. “He always knew what to say, especially to me. That’s how it feels talking to you a lot, like I’m talking to him again. I…I miss being able to talk to him.”
“Well, you can talk to me anytime,” he motioned his hand toward the cupboards of the island counter blocked by your legs. Sliding off the countertop, you stepped to the side as he bent down to put another bag away. “Who do the others remind you of?”
You mulled the question over in your head, grabbing a bag from the counter and helping Ben place the rest of the groceries away across the kitchen.
“I think Reed has to be Bruce, simply because they’re both too smart of their own good. Sue reminds me a lot of Natasha, with the way she takes care of everyone. Nat was quiet about it, but she was always picking up after the boys. Johnny…unfortunately reminds me of Tony. He’s got his same sass, wit, charm and flirtatious nature,”
Ben waved his hand in the air, a grimace on his face.
“Please, no, I don’t want to think about there being another Johnny out there in the multiverse,” you laughed, catching the bottle he threw in your direction to slot into the fridge. “Speaking of matchstick, where’s he at? He’s usually attached to your hip, what with his whole plan of whatever he calls it-”
“Ah, you mean Johnny Storm’s Complete Guide to the 60s?”
It was the dumbest name in the world, but given that Johnny had named it, you weren’t surprised. He’d taken it upon himself to give you a complete guide to what the 60s were like, with the added footnote that the weirdly futuristic 60s they lived in was bound to be different than the 60s of your own universe. Johnny had claimed you were too ‘cooped up’ on your floor of the building, and it was time you got out and ‘lived a little’ since you were here.
Johnny’s guide to the 60s began with bowling. He’d been so excited, sliding into those custom shoes for the alleyways, that you didn’t have the heart to tell him until you were beating him by 70 points in the 8th frame that bowling was very much the same game in the 2020s.
“No, that’s unfair!” Johnny had called out, mouth dropped open as he pointed an accusatory finger in your direction. The manual scoresheet in his hand was all but crumpled at this point. “You didn’t tell me bowling was still a thing!”
“To be fair, Johnny, you didn’t ask,” was the only response you could manage through your laughter, grabbing your ball once more and aligning yourself with the lane in front of you. “Bowling is very much still around, and very much the same game. I guess you just aren’t as good at it as you think you are.”
You weren’t laughing long, a spark of heat igniting along the back of your hand just as you let go of your ball. Your hand jerked immediately at the feeling, sending your ball rolling straight into the gutter. Mouth dropped open, it was your turn to point an accusatory finger in Johnny’s direction.
“Hey!”
“Leveling the playing field here, baby,” he teased, skirting by you as his fingers bumped your chin slightly, before he grabbed his own ball as his body was racked with laughter. “Now, let me show you how good I really am at this game.”
Johnny’s own laughter was short-lived. His ball made it halfway down the lane before coming to a sudden stop along the slick surface, surrounded by a hum of blue magic that flicked it off into the gutter. His betrayed face turned to face you, met with your smirk and hand held out toward the ball. You only batted your eyelashes at him.
“Hey, if you’re going to level the playing field with powers, then I am too. It’s only fair,”
“Oh, I’m going to show you fair-”
The laughter that poured out of you mixed with a shriek the second Johnny practically tackled you, throwing your body over his shoulder like it was nothing and parading you down the alley, highfiving little kids along the way as you could do nothing but laugh, smile never slipping for a second.
Go-Karting, on the other hand, was definitely a little different in the 60s. The karts themselves were much different, a lot less structurally sound at times and incapable of doing the speeds that you knew Johnny really had wanted to drive them at. He had claimed to win the race fair and square, even as you pointed out that he’d gone as far as to melt one of your tires right before you crossed the finish line.
Record stores, golfing, roller-skating, you named it and Johnny dragged you off to do it. He filled every moment with vibrant stories: the record store was one that Sue liked to take him to when they were growing up, golf was something he fell in love with after coming back from space with powers, and how roller skating was something he swore he’d never do, but the smile on your face the entire time had been well worth it.
The diner had been your favorite. Griddles & Waffles, nestled deep in the heart of Queens. A 24/7 joint that sold breakfast and breakfast only, a beloved place by locals. Johnny had been awake into the early hours of the morning that night, the only one still up, diving into a box of cereal buried in the kitchen when you screamed. The next thing you knew, he was practically diving out of the elevator onto your floor as you shakily grabbed a glass of water in the kitchen, eyes wide and panicked as he informed you that he could hear you scream floors away. One look at the state you were in and he was shoving you into the hoodie he was wearing and shoving you out of the building and into his car.
“You took me to a place with waffles in the name, and you ordered pancakes?”
Johnny’s eyebrow shot up, half of the stack of pancakes in front of him practically shoved into his mouth as he pointed the fork in his hand in your direction.
“Don’t you ever diss these pancakes, you hear me? Best flat pieces of dough in the entire state of New York,”
You couldn’t help but laugh lightly under your breath as he barely got his words out through the food in his mouth. Taking another bite of your own waffle, it was easy to get lost in the decor of the diner. Bright colors, shiny metal gleaming under the lights, it looked exactly like the recreations that existed in your own universe. The simple thought of home brought your frown back in seconds, and Johnny was instantly snapping his fingers.
“No, there’s no frowning in Griddles & Waffles, you hear me?” you rolled your eyes, but that simple thought weighed heavy on you, lips still pulled into a frown. Johnny made some motion toward the waitress before he leaned into the table toward you, drawing your gaze to him and his waiting, patient, gentle eyes. “Honey, I’m surprised that scream didn’t wake anyone else up. What’s wrong?”
“It was nothing. Just a nightmare…a memory of a day I don’t like thinking about,” you tried to deflect, shoving your fork around your plate, scraping it against the ceramic. Johnny’s hand caught yours, his eyes still soft and gentle, as he gave your hand a gentle squeeze until you relented. “It’s…I don’t like talking about it. I don’t get nightmares about it often anymore, but when I do, it feels like I’m there again: in that forest full of nothing but blood and dust.”
The blonde hummed, fingers gently rubbing small circles into your knuckles. His skin was warm, unusually warm from the heat that coursed through him, the feel of it on your skin bringing a sense of comfort. Then, he took his hand away, holding both his hands out like he was presenting something, that dazzling smirk of his lighting up his face.
“Have no fear, because Griddles & Waffles has the perfect cure for sadness!”
The waitress came back, sliding a single tall glass onto the table between the two of you with two straws tossed down onto the tabletop. You glanced at it: one large, over the top, classic chocolate milkshake with a large cherry resting right on top. You looked back up at him, your eyebrow raised this time.
“A milkshake? At two in the morning?”
“Have some faith in me, baby,” Johnny teased, slipping the two straws into the shake with ease. He took the cherry between his fingers, easily biting off the majority of the fruit as he twirled the stem between his teeth. Your eyes flicked down for just a second, to the stem between his lips and the hint of red juice that covered them, before your skin flushed and your eyes were back on his. “This is about to be the best milkshake you’ve ever had, and it’s going to cure every bit of sadness in your body.”
Johnny was known for exaggerating, but you indulged him anyway. With a short eyeroll you leaned in, taking a single sip from the straw pointed in your direction. Johnny waited, his smile wide and bright as his fingers tapped against the table, the sound echoing through the mostly empty diner in the middle of the night.
“...alright, it’s pretty damn good,”
His cheer echoed through the diner, the waitress shooting him an unimpressed look as his hands banged down on the table. Another round of laughter slipped past your lips as you shook your head at his antics.
“See? You have to trust me more often,” Johnny teased, leaning in to take a sip of the shake from his own straw. “These milkshakes are the cure to sadness.”
You didn’t have the guts in that moment to tell him the shake didn’t cure anything. No, you felt lighter simply from that boyish grin and the laughter that fell from Johnny Storm’s lips, something you weren’t keen to admit quite yet.
“Talking about me, baby? I leave you alone in the lab for a few hours and you miss me that much?”
As if hearing his name from floors away, Johnny Storm himself came strutting straight into the kitchen, charm rolling off him with every step he took. That smile of his was as bright as ever, eyes wide and full of mirth.
He practically skipped up to your side, tossing the box of food in your hand somewhere onto the counter. Cradling your hand in his, he brought it to his lips without another thought, pressing a featherlight kiss to your knuckles. His gaze never wavered from you the entire time.
With a roll of your eyes, though paired with a smile full of affection, you shoved him off, placing the box of food he’d just tossed away into its rightful place as you shot him a look over your shoulder.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Johnny. Contrary to what you think, you are not the only thing I’m thinking about,”
“You see, but that implies that I am one of the things you’re thinking about,” his response came easily as he made his way over to Ben, stealing one of Maisie’s cookies from the bag before he could be stopped. Ben only let out a sigh that could probably be heard from the other side of the city. “Nevermind that, though, I came here on a mission. The sun is setting and we’ve got a 40 minute drive, so get upstairs and attempt to look even cuter than you already do, if that’s possible.”
Exchanging a quick look with Ben as Johnny walked backwards out of the kitchen and back into the living room, you both looked back at the blonde moments later.
“Get ready for what?” you questioned. “To go where?”
“Long Island, sweetheart. Your guide to the 60s continues tonight,” he paused at the stairway, one hand on the railing and the other pointing across the room toward you. “Meet me in the lobby in ten minutes, got it?”
You considered arguing, but the truth was, you didn’t want to. Every one of these excursions with Johnny so far had been fun, had been enough to fill that little hole in your chest for a fleeting moment, and right now you wanted that more than anything.
“Alright, ten minutes,”
He clapped, beginning to move up the stairs as he practically shouted across the room.
“Good girl. It’s a date-”
“It is not a date-” your words fell on deaf ears as he went sprinting up the stairs, yelling out a distant “It very much is a date!” from the next floor. It was impossible to ignore the heat spreading in your cheeks at his words, though.
The silence of the room only hung there for a minute before Ben’s laughter filled it, echoing off the walls. Shutting your eyes for a moment, you let out a deep breath, trying to understand the enigma that was Johnny Storm sometimes, before patting Ben on the shoulder as you moved toward the elevator.
“Well, wish me luck on whatever this next excursion is. Hopefully it doesn’t involve him almost whacking me in the head with a golf club again,”
“You’ll be just fine,” Ben called out from the kitchen, speaking through his laughter. You could clearly hear the underlying teasing tone to his words. “Have fun on your date-”
“Benjamin, don’t start with me!”
It might not have been a date, but that didn’t mean you weren’t going to try. There really was no reason to, though: Johnny had seen you at your worst over the last two months. Always arriving on your floor sometimes at the crack of dawn with an idea for the day, startling you before you even had a chance to wipe away the mess of tears streaking across your cheeks from yet another nightmare you’d just awoken from.
It wasn’t a date. Just because you chose the cutest pair of pants and a sweater that the closet full of 60s style clothes offered didn’t mean anything. Not a damn thing.
You hated to admit how good Johnny looked in just a simple grey sweater and some slacks. Strutting toward you through the lobby of the Baxter Building, employees already sent home for the day and leaving the lobby bathed in silence, he let out a short whistle as he came to a stop in front of you.
“You say it’s not a date, but you sure do look nice,”
“That’s because your sister filled my closet with all nice clothing,” you shot back.
Johnny hummed, eyes still scanning you up and down. Eyes finding yours again, he held out his arm to you, just as he typically did on these little excursions.
“Come on,”
Hand resting in the crook of his elbow, the cool night air sank deep into your bones as you stepped outside. Johnny’s hand was quick to find the handle to the passenger side door of his custom blue Corvette, swinging it open and taking your hand in his to help you into the leather seat, just as he always did.
The leather made a noise as you shifted, buckling yourself into place as Johnny cooly slid into the driver’s seat. One hand rested on the wheel, the other drumming along the knob of the gearshift as his foot hit the gas, sending you speeding out of the drive of the Baxter Building and onto the roads of New York.
“What’s today’s adventure?” you asked after a few moments of silence. Johnny’s grin simply brightened, his glance finding you beside him for a second before his fingers turned the knobs of the radio on, filling the call with music as he continued to cruise down the streets he knew like the back of his hand.
“That’s a surprise, sweetheart. Just enjoy the drive,”
It was easy to enjoy it. The same city you’d grown up in, yet so different at the same time. Every building looked new, the atmosphere felt lighter than New York had for you in years, everything about the city you knew so well felt different. The lights, the skyline, everything still felt like home as you crossed the East River, flying through the streets of Brooklyn and eventually Queens.
The heaviness eventually found you, though, just like it had every day for the last two months. As city lights shone off the windows of the Corvette, bathing you in its light, your mind still wandered back to memories. The first time Tony had driven you upstate to the new compound in the passenger seat of the god awful orange Audi. The quietness that came with the blip, the way the entire city fell still. The sweeter moments, like dragging your best friend from the compound late one night and sneaking into the city, sitting along the Brooklyn Bridge to admire the lights.
“Hey,” those memories came to a halt, Johnny’s hand brushing across your knee, settling there with a gentle squeeze. “You’re thinking hard over there.”
You hummed, head still resting on your hand as your elbow sat against the window of the car door. You let your eyes settle on his hand, just watching the way his thumb drew circles into the side of your knee.
“Reminiscing on my New York, that’s all,”
“Ah, getting homesick,” the sight of Johnny nodding was just barely visible out of the side of your eyes, His hand slid from you, joining his other hand on the wheel. “You’ll go home, back to your futuristic universe eventually, I know it. Then you can forget all about us in this little universe.”
The radio was blaring a Frank Sinatra song, something much too slow for the night time around you. The song crackled through the speakers as you glanced over, observing the side of Johnny’s face. For a man that hid behind such an extravagant persona for the media and the fans, you could see right through it. That hint of sadness in his own features, woven into the creases of his eyes and the lines around his lips, at the thought of you leaving.
I fall in love too easily, I fall in love too fast. I fall in love too terribly hard.
“I think you’re underestimating how much I will miss you guys when I go home,” you told him simply, the music playing lightly through the speakers. It really was that simple, it was the truth. “I’ll miss you guys a lot. I’ll miss you.”
Johnny’s hand seemed to tighten along the steering wheel for just a second, so quick you almost missed it. Those blue eyes glanced over at you, catching your gaze. His features were riddled with something you couldn’t understand, but could see how gentle it was, until his charming smile was back, wiping away any trace of the strange emotion you had seen.
“Careful there, little witch. It’s starting to sound like you’re falling unequivocally in love with me-”
His laughter filled the car, overtaking the sound from the radio as your hand reached out and shoved his shoulder, your own laughter mixing in with his own.
“You’re fucking impossible, Johnny Storm,”
Of everywhere that you could’ve thought Johnny would be dragging you to, a drive-in theater was the last place you would’ve imagined.
The entire stretch of lawn buried deep within the heart of Long Island was packed with cars of all different kinds, vintage ones you had never seen in person. There was a group of teenagers crowded around one of the cars, hugging their friends and talking animatedly between each other. Some couples walked through the lines of vehicles, giggling together under their breath as they carried their food from the little stand off to the side.
Johnny pulled the car to a stop in one of the last remaining spots, side windows immediately rolling down to allow the sound from the mounted speakers to infiltrate the car. Night had set in, an announcement projected onto the large screen that the movie would begin soon, as you turned to find Johnny already watching you with a wide grin.
“Come on, don’t tell me you’ve been to drive-in theaters too?”
“They’re still a thing, but I’ve never been,” was the response you gave, a small laugh falling from your lips as he excitedly punched the air. “I have always wanted to go to one, though”
“Then your wish, princess,” in his usual dramatic fashion, Johnny stole your hand in his. With a kiss placed to your knuckles, he was already halfway out of the car before you could truly process the moment. “Is my command. Be right back with the snacks.”
You watched him the entire time he was gone. From the moment he slipped out of the car to ordering something from the snack stand, you watched. Even as the young girl working behind the counter seemed to fangirl at the sight of the Human Torch in front of her.
His charm was stupid most of the time. Little one liners, flirtatious jokes, touches that were all but friendly in nature. You didn’t care for a single one of those moments. It had been awhile, but you’d seen Tony use the same tricks. In the briefest of time you had known Peter Quill even he had tried it. Those moments meant nothing to you, but these did.
Bringing you breakfast in the morning just so you didn’t have to be alone. Dragging you around the city to participate in a thousand activities on the off chance that you hadn’t done them before, once again so that you wouldn’t feel alone and left with your thoughts. Hearing a single scream from you, seeing a single tear, and dragging you through New York in the middle of the night just to see you smile again. Those moments worked on you–meant something to you–more than you wanted them to.
The moment he was swarmed by a bunch of little kids trying to leave the snack stand didn’t help the turmoil you felt inside either. Johnny didn’t complain, not once, simply balanced the food in one arm so he could lean down and high five one of the girls, ruffling the hair of another little boy standing right next to her. He smiled wide, you could see the shake of his chest as he threw his head back in laughter, igniting his hand quickly as the kids all clapped and gasped in awe at the sight of their own personal superhero. There was a news reporter nearby, calling out for a photo that Johnny happily posed for with the kids, leaving them with one last story that had them all looking up at him in awe and adoration.
You hated the stutter that occurred in your heart. You weren’t dumb–you knew what it meant. Johnny Storm was charming, handsome, a literal superhero that had captured the hearts of the entire world. He, also, was the most down to earth man you had ever met sometimes, more observant than you gave him credit for, and too sweet for his own good.
If you thought hard enough, you could almost hear Wong’s voice in your head, scolding you for slowly falling for a man from an entirely different universe. The definition of a man you could never have, never meant to be yours.
“Got swarmed by some little kids, had to make sure I showed off the flames,” Johnny’s voice broke through your thoughts as he slid back into the car, passing a bag of popcorn over the console and into your hands. Just as he did, the large screen in the lot changed, the beginnings of the movie beginning to play as some of those teenagers from earlier began to clap and holler. “Just in time.”
Shaking those thoughts from your head, trying to will them away, you brought your gaze back to the screen. The opening shots of the credits, directors names and actors names plastered across the screen as it dove into the first scene without hesitation, situated on some mountain with hoards of people who were dressed for an even more vastly different time period than now.
“Spartacus?” a questioning glance was thrown Johnny’s way from you as you took a quick bite of your popcorn. “An action/adventure movie was your choice for a drive-in movie date?”
“Hey, you’re the one who said this wasn’t a date,” Johnny retorted, meeting your glance as he took in another handful of popcorn himself with a cheeky grin. “Besides, I didn’t peg you to be a romance movie kind of girl.”
“On some occasions I can be,” you gave back with a shrug. “A good action movie is definitely more my speed, though, so good choice.”
“What can I say, I know you,”
He did. He really did.
It was barely an hour into this three hour movie when your mind finally began to drift off again. Legs curled up on the seat under you, your own popcorn bag finished off and discarded at your feet as you reached over to steal from Johnny’s own bag, you found your thoughts leaving the movie once more. But instead of thinking about home, about the people you lost or the ones waiting for you to come back, you found them on Johnny once again.
Watching the side of his face quietly, you couldn’t help but smile as you watched him mouth some of the words to the movie under his breath, almost mimicking the accents of the actors themselves. It was enough to elicit a small giggle from your lips, bringing his gaze from the movie over to you instead.
“Are you quoting this movie word for word?”
“Hey, don’t knock it. I happen to really like this movie,” your giggles persisted, even as Johnny reached into his bag and tossed a handful of popcorn in your direction. “You should see Ben watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s, he could probably act that entire movie out for you. Don’t tell him I told you that.”
“You’re both such dorks,”
“Come on, don’t you have a movie you can quote?”
You hummed, letting the question sit with you for a moment, memories rushing back over you.
“Not a movie, but a show. Full House,” Johnny’s gaze never left you, the movie long abandoned in his eyes for a moment. An idea sprang to mind, your head tilting ever so slightly as you shot him a grin. “Want to see it?”
Excitement crawled into Johnny’s eyes immediately, his head nodding as he sat up straighter in the driver’s side seat.
You took a deep breath. Holding up your hand to the door beside you, that familiar blue magic seeped from your fingertips as that same color glowed in the irises of your eyes, crawling along the interior of the car until it reached the windshield. Your eyes were watching Johnny once again, the absolute wonder in his eyes as his windshield shimmered in blue, before the screen through the windshield changed before your very eyes: gone were Kirk Douglas and Laurence Olivier, replaced instead by John Stamos and Bob Saget in that iconic kitchen of their San Francisco home.
With another flick of your hand, the speaker at your car switched, playing the sound of the show you were now broadcasting instead of the movie.
“Don’t worry, no one else can see or hear this. Just us,”
Johnny was barely paying attention to what you said, too busy dipping his head in and out of the window in shock and awe, the screen beyond the windshield still playing Spartacus while within the confines of the car your tv show was playing.
“You…I don’t know how you do it, but you somehow get hotter every time you use your magic,”
Laughing, you reached into his popcorn bag and threw an unpopped kernel at the side of his head. Resting back into your seat, arms wound around your knees, you found yourself lost in the scene before you on the screen.
“This was one of Wanda’s favorite shows,” after a minute of silence, engrossed in the scene, you told him. You could feel Johnny’s eyes watching you instead of the show. “She always liked older shows, like Bewitched or I Love Lucy. We used to watch this one all the time in the compound, whenever Steve didn’t have us training constantly.”
Johnny didn’t say anything for a moment, just watched you.
“She was your best friend, wasn’t she? I don’t think you’ve ever said her name,”
“That’s because it’s hard to talk about her,” finding his gaze again, the gentle comfort shining in his gaze washed over you, as if draping you in a blanket. Swallowing the lump in your throat that always formed when you thought too hard about her, you offered him the smallest smile you could muster. “Just a few weeks before I wound up in your universe, I lost her. She lost herself to dark magic, let it consume her, so like the brave woman she was, she chose to protect the world from herself.”
Your words hung in the air, neither of you speaking for a moment. The scene from the show continued to play out before you swiped your hand through the air, dissipating the magic and letting the picture and sound of the movie return to the screen and the little speaker. It hurt too much to relive those moments.
“Hey, do you think by showing me a show that hasn’t come out yet in my universe, this will mess up, like, space and time? Like, what if I go pitch this show to Hollywood real quick and get it made a whole decade before it’s supposed to get made?”
The car got quiet, the only sound being the audio from the movie still playing through the speakers. Raising an eyebrow, entire face contorted in confusion, soft laughter sputtered out of your lips at the simple comment.
“I…what? Johnny that…” his smile grew, as did your laughter as you struggled to get your words out. “Johnny, that doesn’t make any sense?”
“I’m aware,” his hand reached out, thumb and index finger pinching your chin between the soft pads of his fingers. Your breath caught, laughter dying down as you just stared at him, as he drew small circles into your skin, heat blooming under his touch. “You were getting sad. I just don’t like seeing you sad.”
Johnny’s words were so sincere. Not a hint of his usual charm, not a single signature Storm smirk in sight, just genuine affection. Genuine care for you, for your thoughts, for the way your memories made you feel.
The idea of never going home again hurt, but the idea of leaving the Fantastic Four? Of never seeing Johnny Storm again? That was starting to hurt even more.
Even as his blue Corvette was parked in front of the Baxter Building again late that night, headlights flickering off and plunging the car into darkness except for the street lights around the building, your eyes kept flickering back to him.
Driving through Queens, you no longer thought back on the memories of walking through the city one night with Steve when you were younger. Now, you thought about the diner, about the smile on Johnny’s face as he watched you try that milkshake in the dead of night. As you crossed over the bridge into the city, you didn’t think of the nights you and Wanda would sit on the edge and watch the city lights, you instead watched the way the lights danced over Johnny’s skin through the glass.
The elevator of the Baxter Building popped open on the floor of the main living room. The building was quiet, just a lamp in the corner by the staircase to the bedrooms lit up, everyone else fast asleep.
Johnny stepped out of the elevator, pausing just barely still in the doorway. One arm leaning on doors, keeping them open, you both just stood still and watched one another for a moment.
“For a not date, this very much felt like a date,” you threw at him after a moment. Those blue eyes of his lit up, smile lines etching themselves into his skin as his little grin grew immediately.
“Oh sweetheart, this definitely wasn’t a date. Our first date would be a lot different, trust me,”
You hummed, taking a step forward in the elevator, eyes never leaving his. There was barely space left between the two of you now. Johnny's sharp intake of breath was evident, the smile on your lips growing as you ignored every little voice in your head telling you this was a terrible idea.
“What would our first date be like?”
Surprise crawled into his expression. Eyes wide and bright, the smile on his face warped into something you couldn’t quite place. The hand tucked into the pocket of his slacks crawled forward, gingerly placing itself against your waist. Not pulling you closer, just lying there: steady, grounding, present. You didn’t push him away.
“The Regent,” he spoke softly but certainly, eyes never straying from yours. “Exclusive little dance hall just a few blocks away. Live band every night. You’d look just as beautiful as you always do, and I’d get to spend the entire night spinning you around in circles. Making you smile, watching you laugh, holding you close. That would be our first date.”
You hummed, stepping just a hair closer to him. His fingers flexed along your waist, squeezing ever so slightly, as one of your hands came to rest on his chest, looking up at him through your lashes.
“Sounds like you’ve thought about this,”
“Every night since the moment I realized you weren’t a threat that was coming to destroy my entire world…again,”
“I don’t know,” you teased, hand curling into the fabric of his shirt. “According to Sue, you’re kind of into that thing. I could always coat myself in some shiny silver paint if that does it for you.”
He huffed out a puff of air in laughter, tugging you in until you were pressed to his chest in the doorway of the elevator.
“No, you just have to be you. The pretty little witch that could cut off my oxygen supply with a flick of her wrist is all I need. All I want,”
Your eyes trailed down, along the bridge of his nose, until they settled on the pink of his lips. As you spoke, you never looked away from them.
“When would this date be?”
“Tomorrow night, 8 on the dot,”
“That’s so soon, eager?”
“Extremely, I’ve only been thinking about this for two months,”
Your laughter was soft as your eyes finally trailed back to his, only to find them settled on your lips in turn.
“It’s a date, then,”
His blue eyes found yours, shining with an affection that made your knees week. The hand gripping your waist trailed up, fingers dancing along every curve of your body, until it curled around your cheek to cup it within his hand. The heat of his skin bloomed through yours, sending a single shiver down your spine.
“You know,” his voice was low, eyes blown slightly wider than they had been before, as his eyes quickly darted back down to your lips for a moment. “This would be the moment during the date where I’d probably try and kiss you.”
Even with the flutter of butterflies through your chest, head feeling lighter than it ever had before, your lips curled into a wide grin. Eyes glowing blue for just a moment, a small burst of magic left the hand resting on his chest, pushing him backward and out of the elevator doors.
Johnny’s wide eyes watched you as he caught himself, steadying himself on the ground as he stared at you with a dumbfounded smile. You only returned the look, pressing the button for the guest floor without ever breaking eye contact.
“Guess you’ll have to try your luck tomorrow night,”
Even with the amount of bravado laced into your words as the elevator doors swung shut, cutting you off from Johnny’s captivating gaze, nothing could quell the swell of emotion building behind your chest at the simple thought of the blonde man who’d managed to capture your heart without even really trying.
❤︎
“I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that you want to go on a date with matchstick. I mean, he’s my buddy, he's a great kid, but come on. There’s no one waiting for you back in your universe?”
Ben’s comment earned him another affectionate eyeroll from you, along with a deadpan look shot across the kitchen island counter.
He was deep into making a fresh batch of cookies that he had been given the recipe for, the little old woman he’d met claiming they could match the quality of Maisie’s cookies. Reed was skeptical of the recipe, trying to offer advice from further down the counter, but Ben waved him off every single time.
Little Franklin was sitting in his highchair at the counter between you and Sue, babbling incoherently as he played with the little pieces of cereal laid on the counter in front of him. You were simply flicking the little pieces around with little tendrils of blue magic, Sue laughing every single time Franklin tried to catch a piece and you yanked it away.
“No, Ben, there’s no one waiting for me back home,” was the answer you gave the man, never looking up once as you continued to toy with the food on the counter. “Being a superhero for most of your life kind of makes dating an impossible situation.”
“I, for one, fully support this,” Sue chimed in, rising from her chair to refill Franklin’s bottle on the counter. She passed behind you, reaching out to help smooth down the white long sleeve blouse along your shoulders, forcing you to adjust it along your waist where it was tucked into the navy blue slacks she had helped you pick out earlier on. “This is the first time I’ve seen Johnny so head over heels for a woman in a way that might just stick. He worships the ground that you walk on, I love to see it.”
“It helps that you could kill him if you really wanted to,” Ben threw in for good measure, ducking the slap that Sue tried to land on his shoulder. “Sometimes I think it’s a secret kink of his-”
“Okay, I don’t want to hear about what kinks my little brother may or may not have,”
You laughed at the antics you had grown so used to from the group in front of you. Franklin got upset with the constant moving of his little cereal bits, grabbing a handful and tossing them toward you. Wide eyed at his antics, you grabbed onto his tiny hand, blowing a raspberry into the palm of his hand as his shrieks and giggles sounded throughout the room.
“Reed, I’m surprised you don’t have any comments to add in,” you threw in the super genius’ direction. “Nothing about how we’re from two different universes, or how this could blow up the entire multiverse?”
“I’ve been taking notes regarding it, actually,” Ben’s groan sounded through the room the second Reed said it, pulling a notebook out of his back pocket and flipping it open. “Your genetic makeup, based on previous tests, seemed to align with ours, but that doesn’t mean that fundamentally there isn’t something woven into your DNA that doesn’t match with ours. There’s also the idea that, given you’re from two different universes, you were never supposed to meet, so if you managed to fall in love there could be an unforeseen breakdown of the fabric of the-”
Sue’s hand immediately clamped over her husband’s mouth, giving him an unimpressed look, as she shot you the brightest smile she could manage. She slid the now refilled cup for Franklin across the counter to you as you caught it, laughing under your breath at the entire situation as you handed it over to the little boy beside you who made grabby hands in its direction.
“What Reed means to say is that you’re good for him, and honestly, we haven’t seen you as happy as you’ve been the last few weeks since you started spending more time with him. Since you got here he hasn’t done a single PR nightmare worthy thing. I think Lynne might want to get you the keys to the city for it,”
“What are we getting my girl keys to the city for?”
Maybe his charm never worked on you, his endless flirtatious moves and jokes. But in this moment, as he descended the stairs into the living room and your heart stuttered over several beats, you finally understood the hoards of women across the universe that had Johnny Storm plastered across their walls and their hearts.
The navy blue button up he adorned clung to him, almost slightly too tight on him as the fabric pulled in the creases under his arms and by his waist. It was tucked into a pair of white chino pants, accented with navy blue dress shoes. His smile was bright, cheeky as it always was, his hands clasped together behind his back as he made his way across the living room.
Taking a semi-shaky stand on the strappy heels that Sue had helped you into before, you met him halfway across the room, a hush having fallen over the kitchen as you felt their eyes watching every movement both of you made.
Johnny’s eyes trailed up and down your body the second you came to a stop in front of him, taking in the navy blue of your pants and the white of your blouse, before he cheekily shot you a wink.
“Twinning on the first date? What’s the slang they use in your time for that? Couple goals, wasn't it?”
“Couple?” your eyebrow shot up. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Storm. You have to earn that.”
“Oh, I’ll earn it,” his hands finally unclasped from behind his back, thrusting out toward you. “For you, gorgeous.”
A beautiful bouquet of flowers: Plumeria flowers. Glittering in an ombre of pinks and oranges, taking you back to one of those first nights on that couch just a few floors away.
You took the bouquet in your hands, eyes never leaving Johnny’s as you inhaled the sweet scent that wafted from the petals. The adoration that shone in his blue eyes sent your heart into another flutter.
“My favorite,” you responded.
“What, did you think I’d forget?”
“Kind of,”
“Give me a little more credit, darling,” he lifted one of your hands from the bouquet, cradling it in his as he left a kiss along your knuckles. “When it comes to you, I don’t think I could forget even if I tried.”
“Can you two leave for your date and go flirt elsewhere? My god, this is painful to watch,”
Sue laughed at Ben’s comment, and you joined in. Johnny shot the man a look, flipping him the bird that you were sure was being shot right back at him from behind your back.
Sue saddled up to your side seconds later, plucking the bouquet from your hands with a soft smile.
“I’ll put these in water for you and leave them upstairs,” she shot her eyes to Johnny, narrowing them. “Treat her well or I will cover for her when she drags your lifeless body back later tonight.”
Too busy laughing, you never even noticed Johnny’s eye roll toward his sister. The only thing you could comprehend as he pulled you into the awaiting elevator was the feeling of his fingers slipping into the empty spaces between yours, intertwining your hand with his.
It felt right. Too right for two people who should have never met one another.
The Regent was situated just a few blocks away from the Baxter Building, the perfect distance to walk straight there. You weren’t complaining, not with the way Johnny gripped your hand like he was afraid you’d pull it away, every so often tugging it gently so that your body fell into his, arm brushing against his arm.
“We fought with Moleman–well, I guess he prefers to be called Harvey–right here,” he pointed out just a few blocks from the Baxter Building, gesturing toward the blocked off area right beside a small park. There were fences up around what looked like a giant hole in the ground with just the very top of a building sticking out of it, signs indicating ‘keep out’ to everyone that walked past. “He runs Subterranea, the whole civilization under New York.”
“There’s an entire city under this city?” you questioned, looking up at him in alarm.
“Oh yeah, you guys don’t have that?” he quirked an eyebrow toward you as you shook your head in response. “He stole the entire Pan Am building, sinking it down into the ground before we could stop him. Been years and they’re still working on what to do with it.”
You took a single glance around: 45th Street and Park Avenue. The familiar intersection made you smile, one that Johnny seemed to understand all too well. Taking a quick glance around to ensure that there weren’t too many people watching, you slipped your hand from Johnny’s in order to tilt his head to look at where the building used to stand. With a single wave of your fingertips toward his temples, blue seeping into his eyes, you could see the moment they widened at the sight you were projecting to him.
“In my world, this was the site of the Avengers tower,” you could see the glamour you were showing him, but you knew it like the back of your hand. The tower that hung high above the skyline of the city, the shining ‘A’ that matched the one hanging from the belt of your suit. “It was Stark Tower, until Tony decided to fashion it into a base of operations for the team after the battle of New York.”
The vision faded, the traces of your magic leaving Johnny’s eyes, as they turned back to look at you. His hand found yours again without hesitation, fingers tangling with yours again as if it was the most natural thing in the world for him.
“How do you possibly get cooler and more interesting with every passing thing you tell me and show me? It’s not fair,”
Johnny filled every second of the walk with story after story. A diner on the corner that he’d rescued a little girl from during another fight in the city, and the way she’d hid behind her father shyly the second he’d dropped her back down on the ground. Another diner just a block away that he’d dragged Reed to after he’d locked himself in his lab for upwards of 48 hours, not having eaten a single thing to the point where Sue was concerned he’d just pass out on the floor in front of his chalkboard. The bakery that sat underneath a row of apartments that Johnny was convinced had the best pie in the world, but Ben still argued there wasn’t a single bakery in the world that could compare to Maisie’s over on Yancy Street.
Before you knew it, you were standing before The Regent. Elegant, sign shimmering and lighting up the darkened sidewalk before it. One single man stood at the door, surveying the area. With one look to Johnny, he nodded his head toward the door to grant him access.
Stepping into that room felt like entering an entirely new world. Light wooden floors that matched the light wood of the walls, which were decorated themselves with photographs upon photographs of couples and celebrities dancing and performing on the stage. The stage itself was beautiful, shining bright at the end of the room as the lights illuminated the band that was currently engrossed in some Elvis song that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. The walls were all draped with velvety red curtains from the ceiling to the floor, accenting the dimly lit room, dance floor, stage and bar in color. Couples, friends, groups all mingled about, dining at the tables elevated at the back of the room, mingling along the walls, and dancing together in front of the stage.
“Of everything you’ve dragged me to these last few months,” you spoke up, voice rising to be heard over the music as the band switched songs, playing a cover of River Deep - Mountain High now. “This is the most 60s feeling thing yet.”
“And that, sweetheart, is why I saved it for a proper date,” Johnny appeared in front of you, your hand still clasped in his, as he tugged you forward. “Come on!”
Your laughter rang through the room as Johnny pulled you into the throws of people, finding an open spot among the crowd on the floor.
He spun you, that smile never dropping from his lips as you twirled in circles. Each twirl left you dizzy as the song played on in the background, the groups of people around you clapping along to the beat from the band. It was inevitable that you’d eventually stumble in the heels you weren’t accustomed to. Johnny’s arm was there, like you somehow knew it would be, curling around your waist. He dipped you, cheekily pretending as if it was all meant to happen, before spinning you back up onto your heels and pulling you into his chest.
“Come on, I can’t have you tripping and falling for me just yet,” he teased, hands holding yours as he spun you out once again just to pull you right back in.
“You try dancing in heels!” you shot back at him, earning a bright laugh from the man still dancing you around in circles. “We never danced like this at Tony’s parties.”
“I thought you said he threw a lot of those,”
“Yeah, but they were more stand around, drink, and talk parties than dancing,” you took a single glance around the room, at every woman being danced around by their friends and their partners. Swishing skirts, some almost touching the floor, loosely hanging from their bodies. “Not that the dresses I was forced to wear would've allowed for dancing. Too tight fitting–the one had a slit almost the entire way up my thigh.”
Johnny’s hand tugged you in at that moment, your chest flush against his. His lips skimmed over the edge of your ear, voice husky as he whispered into it just loudly enough for you to hear.
“I need you to not give me a mental image of your 21st century clothing while we’re in public, honey,”
A laugh bubbled from your throat as you pulled back to see him fully. The ways his eyes had darkened just slightly, the blue of his eyes almost completely overtaken, had your stomach doing a flip. But it wasn’t enough to stop the slightly sadistic smile that overtook your lips.
“Why? It’s so much fun, seeing you all worked up,” you let your fingers touch his jaw gently, nails dragging down the expanse of his neck and to the small bit of skin just barely visible along his collarbone, before you pushed away from him. “Come on, let’s get drinks!”
You could just barely hear his groan of “You’re going to be the death of me,” behind you as he followed you diligently through the crowd, his hand finding the small of your back within seconds so that you were never quite far from him.
Seated on one of the barstools, sipping gingerly at the drink Johnny had procured for you, it was impossible not to watch Johnny.
The way he animatedly retold a story about how they’d been invited to a fundraiser years ago in a dance hall, how he’d talked Ben into getting up onto the stage to dance. The way he so enthusiastically greeted those around the bar that did recognize him, as they slid in little comments about if you were the “mystery woman” that the papers had begun to pick up on over the last two months. He deflected them with ease, remembering many of those that said hello to him, asking such personal things about their families, their jobs, as if they were his best friends.
Your laughter spilled into your drink as the band played their own version of The Twist, and Johnny chose to demonstrate his moves directly in front of you. He smiled wide, eyes never leaving you, as he mouthed the words in your direction, following along with the dance every other person in the club was doing along with him.
“Johnny Storm: a superhero, an avid golfer, a lover of space, and now we can add dancer to that extensive list,” you teased, taking the final sip of your drink before leaving the empty glass on the counter behind you. “Do you frequent these dance halls a lot?”
“When I was a teenager I found my way here pretty often,” he answered easily as the song came to an end, the room cheering out and erupting in applause for the band. With one arm, he leaned against the counter beside you, looking up at you. “I wouldn't call myself a dancer, though. Just had enough practice to be semi-decent.”
“Practice, huh?” you questioned, just as the band started back up again. “How many girls have you taken dancing before?”
The band kicked back up, their next song already ready to go. You recognized it immediately: that same Frank Sinatra song that had played in the car through Long Island barely 24 hours prior. Johnny only smiled softly, standing out in front of you with his hand outstretched toward you.
“None. Promised myself that only one woman would ever have the pleasure of seeing me dance. Now, will you do me the honor?”
It wasn’t a line, not one of his usually charming, flirtatious lines. Not the way in which he said it: so genuinely, so vulnerably. You slipped your hand into his without a second thought.
Johnny guided you back out onto the dance floor, finding another open space among the couples around with ease. His arm slid around your waist, resting there as if it was the most natural thing in the world. You didn’t want to dwell on the fact that it really did feel so right, in a way you had never felt before.
His hand pressed firmly into your lower back, holding your body close to his. You could feel that unnatural heat that radiated off of his skin through the layers of clothing that adorned your body. One of your arms found its place around his shoulder, hand curled around the back of his neck and tangling just slightly with the hairs that laid there. Your other hand was clasped in his, taking in every bit of warmth that seeped from his palm into yours.
I fall in love too easily, I fall in love too fast. I fall in love too terribly hard for love to ever last.
“Can I ask you something?” you asked him quietly, nose just barely brushing along the edge of his jawline as you danced together, swayed back and forth across the floor with him.
“Anything,”
“You didn’t have to trust me that day in the park. You could’ve assumed I was a threat, taken me out. Instead, you took me in,” you closed your eyes, leaning in just slightly as your nose brushed over his jawline once again. “Then, you took it upon yourself to make me feel comfortable, to not let me feel alone in a universe that isn’t mine…why?”
“I mean, from the moment I saw you I thought you were pretty, but it was because I felt like I was looking at me,” Johnny’s answer was simple. No charm, no jokes, just the truth. “I saw myself for a moment, the me I was when we came home from space with powers. Confused, angry, terrified of what I had become. I didn’t know what to do. You looked so lost, so alone, and you continued to look that way every day. I didn’t…I didn’t want you to feel alone. I didn’t want you to feel like I did when I came home that day, when I felt like I had to lock myself away. It didn’t help that…I kind of fell for you along the way.”
Any hesitation in your heart, any thought in your brain still telling you that this was a terrible idea, that it could never work, melted away in that single second.
My heart should be well schooled ‘cause I've been fooled in the past. And still I fall in love too easily, I fall in love too fast.
“Can I ask you something?” he tacked on as your brain and heart still searched for a way to respond to him. All you could give him was a nod, one he could feel from where your skin touched his. “I’ve been flirting with you every day since we met. What made you finally say yes to a date?”
“Because I wasn’t saying yes to Jonathan Storm, the Human Torch, one of the four protectors of this Earth,” you told him simply, leaning back just slightly so that you could catch his gaze as you spoke, bodies still swaying back and forth to the swell of the violin. “I was saying yes to Johnny. The flame boy who decided to trust me. The guy that does the dumbest shit just to make his nephew laugh. The only one who’s made the pain of what I’ve lost lessen these last few months. I didn’t fall for all the bravado, or the charming lines, I just fell for him.”
Your confession was laid bare, as was his. He didn’t say a single word. Johnny simply smiled, leaning forward to press a kiss to the crown of your head, before letting his eyes close and his forehead rest against yours. You followed suit, mirroring him, simply existing in the space within his arms.
My heart should be well schooled ‘cause I've been fooled in the past. And still I fall in love too easily, I fall in love too fast.
What felt like hours later, while also feeling like no time had passed at all, you found your hand clasped in Johnny’s once more. Roaming the streets of New York in the cool air of the night, a giddiness present in each of you that could only be compared to the feeling of pure childlike wonder and joy.
All you could think about was how right it felt, being with him. Having his hand in yours. Being in his arms. Universes separated you, but in this moment, you felt as if you had never belonged somewhere more than you did right now.
“Okay, okay,” Johnny forced out through his laughter, leaning into you as you turned another street corner, trying to find the next question to ask in the long line of questions you had been throwing back and forth. “Favorite fight that you had with the Avengers?”
“Oh god, I don’t know if I can answer that,” you responded easily with a laugh, shaking your head at the thought. “None of them were really fun, they all kind of left immense damage in their wake. One ended with me locked in a high security prison in the middle of the ocean for a short period of time, so, I guess that was fun.”
“That…that sounds like the opposite of fun,”
“Oh, it was. It sucked immensely,” he shoved his shoulder into yours for the comment. “Okay, my turn. Favorite memory with Reed?”
“When he asked me permission to marry Sue. I thought he was going to piss himself, I’ve never seen the man look so nervous,” Johnny laughed, tugging on your hand to bring you in closer to his side again. “Okay, how about your favorite thing you can do with your magic?”
Now that was a show instead of a tell question. Dropping his hand, you slid into the space in front of Johnny on the side walk, shuffling backwards against the pavement. He cocked an eyebrow as you shot him a tiny grin, before your hands at your sides began to glow in that familiar blue as your body lifted off of the grow by just a few feet, uncaring for anyone that could possibly see you in the area.
Johnny stopped in his tracks, dumbfounded as his wide eyes looked up at you. He sputtered for a moment, trying to find his words.
“Wait–you could fly this entire time, and you didn’t tell me?”
“You never asked!”
Johnny’s body ignited in flames, a sight you’d sparingly seen over your time in their world. From the chest down, every bit of him burned in those bright orange and red licks of fire as he, too, flew above the ground before you, back to being level with you once more.
“We could’ve been flying everywhere instead of driving!”
“Well, let’s just have some fun with it now,” you shot back with a wink, before propelling yourself upward. “Keep up, flame boy!”
The chill in the New York breeze was a familiar feeling, beating against your face as you propelled yourself up into the air, flying along the edge of the buildings. Johnny followed along right beside you, the heat of his flames fanning out over you and cancelling out the chill that night air brought with it.
His eyes never left yours as you spun around a corner of the building, propelling yourself further up into the air. You looked down, watching him with a smile as you hung there high above the buildings and the city of New York. Johnny joined you in seconds, hovering just in front of you. The clouds practically kissed your body, the city so far down below you both, leaving you alone together among the clouds.
You could see it, the glint in his eyes, the way they flickered down to your lips for just a second before glancing back up, pretending as if they’d never strayed away. He leaned in, and you let him for just a moment, before letting your body fall backward and freefall through the air back toward the city.
His laughter echoed through the sky as he flew down after you, following the sound of your own laughter. He saddled up to your side, flying down alongside you once again before you took a sudden turn, propelling yourself toward the rooftop of a building just barely in the distance.
Your feet touched down on the private rooftop moments later, magic dissipating from your fingertips as you landed, taking in a deep breath as the rush of flying left your body in one fell swoop. The rooftop garden you’d landed in was clearly one for a private residence, somewhere you probably shouldn’t have been, but you didn’t care. Not with the smell of the flowers invading your senses, the glint of the dim fairy lights strung around the roof bathing you in their light, and the view of the Baxter Building dead ahead.
Johnny’s feet touched the ground just moments after you, the sound of his shoes hitting the flooring alerting you. Spinning, he was standing just a few feet away, watching you with a little smile as he shook his head with laughter.
“You might be insane,”
“Sorry,” your giggles fell into the mix with his own laughter. “It’s been a minute since I’ve flown. I’ve missed it.”
“Can’t say I’ve ever flown with someone on a first date,” Johnny countered, taking just a few steps forward toward you. “Unless you count Shalla-Bal throwing me off her surfboard in space, but that wasn’t really a date.”
“Guess this was a first for both of us, then,”
You matched his steps, barely a few feet between the two of you now. Johnny didn’t make another step forward, though, didn’t close the space separating you.
His Adam’s apple bobbed, his foot tapped against the ground, and his hands clearly didn’t know what to do with themselves.
“What’s wrong?” you asked gently, even though you could practically see the nerves rolling off of him. He laughed, shaking his head as he glanced to the ground for just a moment, before back to you.
“I…I’m kind of nervous, if you can believe it,”
You hummed, taking the initiative to step up into his space, barely a few inches separating the two of you now. Your eyes never left him.
“Why? I thought the charming Johnny Storm had been on a bunch of first dates?” you teased.
He laughed breathily, eyes darting to your lips for just a second.
“Not ones that mattered…not like you do,”
You barely let him finish his sentence before you curled your hands around the back of his neck, tugging him down to you and slotting your lips against his.
It was short, but poured every bit of passion into it that swarmed through your heart and your head. Your lips moved against his just slightly, still testing the waters as the heat that coursed through his skin and into yours felt as if it was sinking straight down into your bones. Johnny’s lips were soft, supple, a shaky breath leaving his lips and fanning out over yours the second that they touched for the first time. Something in your head clicked at the feeling, something that you couldn’t quite put your finger on, making you light-headed as your fingers just barely curled into the hair kissing the nape of his neck.
It was you that pulled away first. Barely a few inches away, the heat of his body still filling the air between you. His blue eyes bore down into your, wide and full of awe, lips slightly parted. A smile stretched across his face first, a matching once crawling across your own as you let your hands fully dive into his hair.
Johnny moved first, hands enveloping your waist and tugging you until your body was almost one with his, his mouth devouring yours in a kiss that had your knees almost crumbling to the ground.
Those heated hands swarmed your body desperate to touch every single expanse of you that they could in the way you were sure he’d thought about, in the way you never wanted to admit you sometimes dreamed about. Goosebumps crawled across your skin with every move of his hands, with every flex of his fingers and they pressed into you. His lips moved against yours like a starved man, slick with spit as your mouth opened to him, letting him invade every bit of you that you could, his tongue slipping just barely in and grazing over your bottom lip. A moan fell–from you or Johnny, neither of you knew–but the sound only spurred you both on.
His hands tightened their grip around your waist, holding him to you like a possession, one he couldn’t bear to lose. Claiming you. Your hand wound into his hair, tugging to elicit a groan from him, as you let your other trail down to rest over the patch of skin just barely visible under the single unbuttoned part of his shirt.
When your lips finally broke, soft pants filling the air between you, neither of you dared to look away. You couldn’t. It was like being in a trance, being pulled to the man in front of you almost magnetically. He leaned in, pressing a series of soft pecks against your lips, hands still flexing across your hips with each little peck that sent the butterflies in your stomach into a frenzy.
“This is crazy, right?” he muttered out between kisses. You hummed in response, matching each kiss of his with your own through your grin, hands still carding through his hair.
“What, falling for each other when we come from completely different universes?”
“Exactly that,” he responded, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose, before his forehead rested against yours. Those blue eyes bore down into yours, a soft smile over taking his kiss bitten lips again. “I don’t care much, though. Not when it just…feels so right.”
Your smile matched his in seconds as you leaned forward, stealing yet another kiss that flooded your body with warmth.
“Me too,”
Maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t so crazy: falling for someone universes away from you. Even universes away, maybe Johnny Storm was always meant to be yours, always meant to be the missing piece to your incomplete puzzle.
❤︎
Johnny Storm had been called many things over the years by the media. A playboy, a womanizer, noncommittal. They were all wrong.
He preferred the term hopeless romantic, especially when it came to you.
Especially in this exact moment, leaning against the doorway of his bedroom in the early hours of the afternoon to see you sprawled out, tangled in the covers that were halfway off his bed. You looked as if you belonged there, and in Johnny’s eyes, you did. There was nowhere else that you belonged than right by his side.
Crossing the room quietly, trying not to disturb you, he gently placed the glass of water he’d ventured into the kitchen for down on the bedside table. He got distracted, as he typically did, at the sight of the polaroids splayed out across the wooden table. Taking them gingerly in his hands, terrified to ruin them, the smile that crossed his face couldn’t be wiped away.
You wrapped in his arms along the Coney Island beach in the early hours of the morning. One of just you, sprawled out in his bed in nothing but one of his button downs that fell down to your thighs. You on the couch, Franklin curled into your lap as you read him a book. His favorite one, sneakily taken by Sue late one night, wrapped in his arms on the balcony of the Baxter Building, lips pressed together through smiles.
He loved you. Johnny loved you more than he ever believed he could love someone in life. Multiverse be damned, you were it for him. You were meant to be his and his alone, and he was hell bent on loving you to the fullest extent every single day that he could, knowing someone could come along and rip you away at any moment.
But the universe had given him a year. An entire year to love you in every way that he could, to prove to you that you were it for him. He thanked whatever being out there in the multiverse he needed to every single day for the time he’d been given with you.
Johnny crawled onto the bed, tugging the comforter down from around your shoulders so he could fully see you. His pillow was clutched between your arms, the space in which he usually occupied. His white t-shirt, bearing the 4 logo that you’d made fun of him for months ago, covered your body, falling to the middle of your bare thighs.
He leaned in with a smile, pressing kiss after kiss to the bare skin of your arms he could see, trailing down to leave heat filled kisses to the bare skin of your thighs. He’d barely left three there before he could hear your giggle, body flipping over onto your back so that you could look down on him with a raised eyebrow and a grin.
“You left me,” you teased with a fake little pout. “I had nothing to hold but a pillow.”
“I’m so sorry, princess,” Johnny mumbled through his smirk, pressing yet another kiss into your thighs. His hands traveled up the sides of your legs, pushing his t-shirt with them as his kisses trailed further up the expanse of your skin. “How could I ever make it up to you?”
“I-I don’t know…round three doesn’t sound that bad,”
Johnny hummed through his laughter, mumbling a quiet “I love you” into your skin. He knew you could hear it, though, he knew that you knew it.
He reveled in every little noise that left your lips, every puff of air that was on the cusp of being a moan as he lavished every inch of your skin in a kiss.
“Look, you’re both adults so I try not to tell you what to do, but it’s the middle of the afternoon and–JESUS CHRIST, JOHNNY!”
He’d never sprang away so fast, throwing himself so hard to the side of the bed that he fell straight off of it to the floor with a thud. Your laughter filled the room as he crawled back up the side of the bed, your hand covering your mouth to conceal your laughter and the comforter pulled back up your legs.
Johnny immediately shot a glare at his sister, standing in the doorway of his room with her eyes covered by her hand.
“Sue, you have no one to blame but yourself for this–”
“You could have closed the door! I don’t need to see you doing all of that, my god,” Sue shook her head, peaking between her fingers to finally see that there was nothing happening, before dropping her hand. “Reed wants you in the lab for a few more tests, okay, he promised those would be the last ones this week. Just…look decent and meet us down there, okay?”
She grumbled the entire way out of the room, muttering comments about scarring her for life.
Johnny only rolled his eyes, throwing himself back onto the bed to hover above you. Nothing could ruin his mood, not when you looked up at him like that, smile bright and eyes full of adoration.
“That’s the third time this month she’s done that,” you managed to speak through giggles, slapping him lightly on the shoulder. “She’s going to kill us one of these days.”
Johnny only hummed, ignoring the comment. Instead, his fingers trailed down your neck, grasping the chain of the necklace that rested against your chest, a little charm of a Plumeria dangling off the end. His Christmas gift to you, one of the many you received as you were showered in them by his entire family. He pressed a kiss to the flower, looking up to you, only to see that same soft look in your eyes.
“I love you,” he whispered out, leaning in to capture your lips in his before you could speak back. He could feel you sigh into the feeling, your fingers dancing over his cheek lightly as you kissed him back just as softly.
“I love you, too,” you whispered back against his lips, before your hand rested on his chest with a little push. “But we’re going to go down to that lab because if we stay here another second, Sue is going to be walking in on a sight that she really doesn’t want to see.”
Johnny groaned, but relented. Falling back to his knees, his hands wound under the covers to your hips, pulling you up to your knees quickly on the bed. His mouth found yours in an instant, cementing another kiss there just for good measure.
“Round three after, right?”
It was your magic this time that pushed him, sending him tumbling back off the bed as your laughter rang out through the room.
“If you can behave, then maybe,”
Still clad in his t-shirt, having thrown on the old pair of ripped jeans you’d arrived in this universe in over a year ago, Johnny tucked you under his arm the second you stepped out of his bedroom, unable to go a second without touching you in any way shape or form. You never complained, even leaned into him as he pressed a kiss to your hairline.
“Lynne was able to get us reservations at that one restaurant you’ve been wanting to try for tonight, by the way,” he told you as you stepped into the elevator, hitting the button for Reed’s lab instantly. He grinned at the way your smile brightened, eyes turning to look up at him.
“Oh my god, that new one in Times Square?”
“That’s the one,” Johnny shot back. He let his arm fall from your shoulders, letting it wrap around your waist. His hand found the edge of his shirt, dipping beneath it so that his hand could press against the skin of your bare back. “Thinking maybe afterward we could go for a little fly around the city, sit down on the Brooklyn Bridge for a little while.”
Your hands cupped his cheeks almost instantly after he spoke, pulling him into a kiss. A feeling Johnny was sure he would never grow tired of, never get enough of.
“It’s a date,”
Stepping out into Reed’s lab, the entire team was gathered around. Reed was fussing over a machine, just as he normally was, with Sue trying desperately to calm him down. Ben was entertaining Franklin over on the couch, reading to him one of his favorite books.
“Oh, good, you’re here,” Reed called out, ignoring the doting of Johnny’s sister as he waved you over frantically. “I just want to run a few more tests for this week. I changed some of the parameters, I just want to make sure that we have all of our bases covered.”
You gave Johnny’s hand a quick squeeze before crossing the room, sliding into the same chair you always sat in for Reed’s tests, presenting your arm for the usual blood draw. Reed was convinced that it was necessary to test your blood, to do weekly scans of your body, to ensure that there were no lasting effects on your from staying in the wrong universe for an extended period of time like you had.
Johnny joined Ben and Franklin over on the couch, leaning down to leave a little kiss on his little nephew’s forehead, one that left the boy smiling and giggling.
“Johnny,” Franklin was barely able to say his name, stumbling over most of the letters, but he heard him loud and clear. He ruffled the boy's hair with a laugh, kneeling down in front of the couch.
“Hey buddy,” Johnny glanced over at Ben, at the smirk on the man’s rocky mouth, and raised an eyebrow in question. “What?”
“Nothing, nothing. Love just looks good on you, kid,” Ben teased.
Johnny shot a look over his shoulder, straight toward you. Smiling in that chair, laughing at something Sue said, as Reed drew the blood from your arm with a practiced ease for his various tests.
“Nah, it’s just loving her,” Johnny glanced back at Ben, a hint of a sheepish grin on his lips as he shrugged. “I don’t know how to describe it, man. She’s just…I think she’s just it.”
Ben smiled, that knowing one that he always had, as his rocky hand came down to pat Johnny’s back.
“I think so too. You deserve this, matchstick. You were practically made for each other,”
Johnny agreed. He was trying to decide mentally if one year was too soon to officially make your last name Storm like he had promised months ago.
The quiet, the lightheartedness that filled the lab, couldn’t stay forever. Not when the alarms across the room began to blare.
Every head shot up at once, turning to look down the length of the lab to the computers where the alarm was blaring. Reed shot to his feet, taking a step in front of Sue as you ripped the needle from your arm in seconds to join them.
“Johnny-”
“On it!”
He’d practically sprinted halfway down the lab at that point, pulling up the alarm system at the designated workstation. That same map that had foreshadowed your arrival blinked on the screen, the same blip that showed your arrival in Gramercy Park blinking on the screen–right on the Baxter Building.
“It’s the same readings as when she got here,” Johnny called out down the lab, eyes frantically darting back and forth between you and Reed. “The blip, though, it’s right here on the building-”
There was sound from right beside him, startling him. Johnny whipped around, little sparks of yellow and gold flashing in the air beside him.
He instantly took steps back, shuffling backward and away from the growing sparks until his legs hit the back of the couch. Ben stood somewhere behind him, holding Franklin protectively in his arms. Reed held onto Sue across the room from where Johnny stood, keeping her at his side, as you stepped up in front of them: eyes glowing, magic dancing at your finger tips.
Until those sparks of energy grew, larger and larger, until they formed the makings of a small circle. Johnny could hear the second your breath caught, that glow in your eyes fading and the magic at your fingertips vanishing in seconds as you took another step forward.
“O-Oh my god…”
The sparking circle grew, almost the size of an entire person, before it stabilized, and out of what Johnny could only assume was a portal stepped a man. Older, tired, short hair and the remnants of cuts along his face. Body draped in elegant robes of purple and yellow he’d never seen before. His eyes darted around the room, before they landed on you, and he let out the loudest sigh Johnny had ever heard.
“Oh, thank god-”
“WONG!”
You’d practically flown across the room and into the man’s arms. Wong hadn’t wasted a second, hugging you back just as tightly as you cried, holding onto the man for dear life.
Johnny froze: Wong. He’d heard that name before. You talked about him all the time. The Sorcerer Supreme, the man you were supposed to wait for before you performed the spell that had landed you here in the first place. Johnny felt his heart break at the realization. He could feel the eyes of his sister on him from across the room.
His time had finally run out. Home had finally come to take you back from him.
“When I tell you that you aren’t to touch the Book of Vishanti without me, it is not a suggestion,” Wong scolded, hands clasping your shoulders as you violently wiped your tears across the room. “I already had to deal with Stephen breaking into the restricted section years ago, I do not want a repeat of that again. Do you know how difficult it is to find your energy signature through the vast multiverse?”
“I know, I know,” you nodded your head, before shaking it back and forth. “No performing any spells from an ancient book without your supervision. I got it.”
Wong nodded once, before his eyes finally glanced over the rest of the room. They settled on Reed and Sue, Ben and Franklin, and finally on Johnny.
“Do I need to worry about-”
“No, no, they’re friends. They’re practically family,” you assured the man, turning and gesturing out to the room. “This is the Fantastic Four. They’re essentially the Avengers of their universe…”
Your words trailed off as you finally met Johnny’s eyes again. He could see it, the moment that the realization seemed to settle in over you like it already had for him, and he thought his heart was going to break all over again.
From the corner of his eyes, he could see the glance that Wong sent between both you and him. A knowing one, one that spoke volumes without having to speak at all. He sighed, the sound ringing through the otherwise quiet lab, as he squeezed your shoulder.
“Five minutes,” Wong told you gently, his gaze drifting back to Johnny for just a minute. “There’s no telling if your time here has done any damage to the time streams. We need to get you home…I can give you five minutes.”
You only nodded, tearing your eyes away from Johnny. There was no arguing.
He knew this day would come, even if selfishly he wished it never would.
His eyes never left you as you crossed the room, practically flying into Sue’s arms. Johnny felt as if his head was under water. He could see your lips moved, Sue’s lips moving, but he couldn’t hear a word either of you said.
In his head, Johnny could guess what you were saying. A thank you for taking you in, for taking care of you, for all the times Sue had helped you dress for a date or taken you out into the city with her. He was sure Sue was thanking you for simply loving her little brother.
Reed pulled you into a tentative hug, short but still sweet. You didn’t exchange many words, but he could make out a “thank you” on his brother-in-law's lips.A thank you that simply encompassed everything, everything that he was sure Reed struggled to say.
Johnny saw your tears again when you stepped into Ben’s arms finally. A conversation that he was sure detailed the many early morning trips you’d made to Maisie’s together, or the late night talks that happened on the couch over drinks as some movie played on TV.
Franklin’s cries pierced the air, his hands making grabby motions toward you as he cried. You placed a single kiss to his head, walking away before you broke down.
Finally, you stood before him. Mascara running just slightly, tear stains littering your cheeks and down to your chin. You mustered the smallest of smiles that you could for him, albeit watery. Johnny tried to do the same, feeling the lump in his throat beginning to form.
“I thought I had three rules for you before you went home,” he managed to say, trying to swallow back the burning need to cry. You laughed, though the sound almost sounded like a sob, as you nodded your head.
“I’m leaving having accomplished two of those things. I guess that counts as a win,”
Johnny nodded, the beginnings of a sob almost bubbling out of his throat. Like two magnets pulled together, you fell into his arms. Head buried into his neck, Johnny’s one hand curled into your hair, tears slipping down his cheeks and soaking into the skin of the side of your head as your own tears soaked into his neck, your cries muffled by his skin.
“I love you,” he muttered into the side of your head, pressing kiss after kiss to your skin. “I don’t care. I love you. I love you more than anything.”
You pulled away, those red rimmed and watery eyes finding him, as you cupped his cheeks in your shaking hands.
“I love you too,” you whispered, stealing a kiss from his lips that took every bit of breath out of him. Your next words were whispered against his mouth. “This isn’t goodbye. I promise.”
Johnny managed a laugh, stealing another kiss as he gripped you as tightly as possible, hoping if he held on tight enough you wouldn’t slip away.
“What, you’re going to find a way to defy the multiverse to see me again? Abandon your home?”
“For you? Yeah,” you answer was short, meaningful, determined, definitive. Johnny believed every word. “I’ll see you again. And next time, I won’t have to leave. Because you’re my home, too.”
Johnny managed a smile, hoping it was as comforting as he wanted it to be, as he stole one last kiss. Not a goodbye, he wasn’t sure he could handle a goodbye. He wasn’t sure he could handle the idea of never seeing you again. This kiss was a promise. To what? He wasn’t sure. Maybe just a simple promise that he was yours.
“I’ll be counting the days,”
He couldn’t bear to look down at you again, afraid if he kissed you again he’d shove Wong back through that portal and find a way to hold you here forever. Johnny settled for a single kiss to your forehead, accented with the tears that were still running silently down his cheeks, before he let you go.
You slotted yourself back to Wong’s side, wiping at the tears that stained your cheeks. He placed a hand on your shoulder, and even Johnny could see how much it pained him to do this to you. He caught the slight flick of your hand, though, the slight burst of your magic, so small he wasn’t sure at first if he’d seen it correctly.
The room was silent as you and Wong stepped back through the glittering gold portal and onto the floor of the other side. Your eyes met his one last time, a watery smile crossing your lips, before it closed.
And in the blink of an eye, you were gone. Gone as if you’d never been there in the first place.
Franklin’s cries were still the only thing he could hear in the room, No one dared to speak, dared to break through the air, as Johnny’s eyes stayed locked on the last spot you had stood in.
“Johnny…”
He turned, tear filled eyes meeting with his family. The heartbroken look on Ben’s face, the conflicted look on Reed’s, and the absolute pity that shone through on Sue’s. She took a single step forward, but Johnny waved her off immediately, shaking his head as he wiped at his tears, forcing a smile.
“I-I’m fine. I just…I just need a minute,”
No one rushed after him, and he was thankful for it.
The entire elevator ride back up to his room was done in a daze, in a haze of emotions. His vision was blurry the entire time, but no more tears fell. He wasn’t sure he had more to cry.
Stepping into his room again, he felt like he could muster a few more tears. The bed was still unmade. The scent of your perfume, one you’d picked a few months ago with Sue, lingered in the air. Your clothes from the night before were strewn over a chair by his record player.
It was the only sign that you had, in fact, existed here in his universe. You weren’t a figment of his imagination.
Approaching his bed, wanting to bury himself in the lingering scent of you, his breath caught.
Lying there, on the unmade sheets, was a single flower. A single little Plumeria, remnants of blue magic dancing over and around its petals. Right below it? That same Polaroid Johnny loved so dearly.
He clutched it in his hands, willing himself to be back in the moment: holding you on the balcony that night, kissing you, telling you he loved you. As he did, your magic seeped across the bottom white edge of the photo, scrawling your handwriting across the bottom.
Unequivocally yours.
That, alone, was enough to bring a smile back to his lips.
Multiverse be damned: you were his. There was no one in this life or the next that Johnny Storm was convinced he could love more, just as there was no one that could love you the way he could.
In that moment, he knew for a fact he’d see you again. And next time, he was never letting you go.
SYNOPSIS you've been friends-with-benefits with bucky barnes for what feels like forever. it's fine. great, even. but when you slowly notice he's open to being with other people, you pull away before he has the chance to let you down easy. besides, you're too busy to waste your time thinking about him, ego too high to let him beat you to breaking it off. yet suddenly, when you take your foot off the gas, he notices. astronomically so.
WORD COUNT 10.2k......uhhh sure?? my bad?
WARNINGS & NOTES fluff, suggestive content and sexual language, no actual smut (would be open to adding maaaybe). self deprecating behavior? first time posting some bucky barnes, surprise? fwb!bucky is very important to me, he's such an idiot. post grad au, everyone’s alive. enjoy???? 18+ mdni.
You've met all kinds of people in your life.
Some are incredibly down to earth, others so shallow the water barely grazes your ankles. A few so detrimentally chatty that you thought their tongue would light on fire as one would light a match, and others so painfully quiet that getting something as simple as their name is comparable to pulling teeth. Once in a blue moon, there's the cocky frat Wall-Street wannabe attempting to pick you up at the bar not suited for such painful small talk, or the girl who drunkenly approaches you in the bathroom complimenting your lip combo and insulting your outfit in the same breath.
But there's no one quite like Bucky Barnes.
On the outside, he's undeniably handsome in a way that turns heads, with a chiseled jaw and bright ceruleans and a smile that could bloom wilted flowers. Not only that, but the deep baritone of his voice simply compliments his looks, laced with a honey cadence that makes you weak in the knees, even if he's saying the most vulgar shit to ever grace planet earth. Dimples indent deep whenever he smiles, creases the corners of his mouth and around his eyes when he laughs, almost another pretty sound.
Yet on the inside — past all the handsome and picturesque physique — there's a sense of rawness to him you've yet to crack.
You've seen glimpses of it, of him, taking in the way he can go from joking in a sense of self deprecation to contemplating the foundation of the universe within a five minute span. He's smarter than he lets on, and way more interesting than simply a pretty face and nearly picture perfect body. One time, he let it slip how obsessed he is with The Hobbit, and you've never been able to see him in the same light since, knowing underneath all those muscles and incessant fuck-boy flirtatious tactics there's a dormant nerd.
It...also doesn't help that he says the most gut-wrenching things in bed as if you were ever his to begin with.
Sometimes you forget you aren't his. Especially when he praises how pretty you look with his cock in your mouth or how you're taking him so well from the back, side, top, any angle possible. It only gets worse after you both finish (yes, he makes you finish. It's impossible to stop sleeping with him) and you're tangled together under his sheets that seem to now smell of you, one of his hands tracing shapes on your vertebrae and the other tangled in your hair, talking about things you wouldn't even confess to a journal. Not the dirty shit. The real shit. The I'm borderline having an existential crisis and simply need to talk out my hopes and dreams and fears and nightmares without anything getting fixes shit. The I just learned about the Fourth Turning and need someone to contemplate the universe with shit. The shit that normal friends with benefits don't engage in.
The whole friends with benefits ordeal happened merely by accident. All your friends had coupled-up by the end of the night, leaving you and Bucky to twiddle your thumbs and keep up your playful banter as long as you could to avoid the obvious seventh wheeling (eight?). Yet, one thing led to another (i.e. a guy approaching you and asking you to dance, and when you realize just how fucking awful he was, you simply sunk your talons into Bucky's bicep and said you had a boyfriend. Not that Bucky minded. At all. Because he almost missed your words because of how hyper-fixated he was on how nice it felt to touch you. For you to touch him? Semantics.). Regardless, you kept up the little act within your foreplay, and somehow found yourself tumbling into his bed.
Over, and over, and over.
And for a while, you thought he liked you, too. You also assumed he got the same kind of butterflies you did whenever you were in the same room. You figured you weren't just any hookup, especially when you've spent more time knowing the inner workings of his brain than you have his body. It almost seemed correct to assume you were friends, at that, who respected each other, who respected the deal you both had.
That is — until you see him getting a little too close with a strawberry blonde you've never seen before in the middle of a packed bar as if he doesn't give less of a fuck about your 'supposed' connection.
But it's actually fine. It is. It has to be.
Because you're not his, you remind yourself over and over, mumbled from chapped lips like a prayer and reiterated in your hurting mind like a mantra, something you're forcing yourself to believe. You down your drink, all hopes of getting laid tonight flying out the window, ignoring the sorrowful looks from Steve, Natasha and Sam, because they know you'll do nothing. Say nothing. And instead close yourself off to shield the last ounce of dignity you have left.
"You wanna leave?" Natasha asks you after another ten minutes of turning your back to Bucky and his new fling, almost forcefully manifesting the saying whatever is behind you is beneath you type bullshit.
But you shake your head, sending her a smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes and doing your best to remain indifferent, because if you don't, it literally will kill you. Besides, he's never actually expressed an interest in being with you and you've never brought it up as a possible next step. So who are you to get upset?
You blink away the image of him and someone else out of your mind.
"Nah. I'll get another drink, though."
And that's what you do... You move on. Or at least go through the motions of doing so. Your friends stay stagnant for one, two beats before shrugging at your nonchalance, knowing they're not getting any sort of intel on your feelings tonight even though they can already tell how you feel. Washed up. Replaceable. Not special in the slightest.
Especially when the thought of being with another guy physically makes you sick.
Because you're too burnt out to be doing this will they won't they shit with him anymore. You hang out. You fuck. You pillow-talk like your lives depend on it. You go about the next day hanging out with all your friends and dismissing the fact you know everything about him, down to the name of his childhood pet to his greatest regret. The two of you converse in front of your friends as normal, civil people do, ignoring the fact you let him hit it raw a mere twelve hours ago. You think you love him, you'd be stupid not to, and that's the part that makes your heart ache more than anything.
You smell his cologne before you feel his presence.
"Hey."
Suddenly, the culprit is brushing your shoulder as he nudges towards the bar, murmuring a quiet, personal greeting to you before addressing the group.
"Christ. That was brutal. Did I miss anything good?"
You stiffen — only slightly, barely noticeable — as he stands arm-to-arm with you, pressing your lips shut as Steve, ever the savior, clears his throat to mediate the tension of the moment. Whether Bucky's aware of the clear apprehension of his friends towards him in this given moment, he doesn't seem to notice, too focused on being back with his group and how your perfume smells like absolute heaven, how nice it is to have you brushing your arm with his.
"No, Buck," Steve answers smoothly, bringing his beer up to his lips. "Unless you count the fact that Sam ate shit on the dancefloor twenty minutes ago and ruined his jeans."
"They're Levi's!" Sam's voice comes from above the music.
And suddenly you're all back in the same rhythm. Joking, laughing, reminiscing over anecdotes that happened ages ago and sharing drinks and shots as if you're back in college again. You nearly lose the image of Bucky with the girl from before, solely focused on how beautiful it is to be out with your friends on such a nice night, all together and happy and enjoying yourselves.
It’s light. Easy. Fun. In fact, it’s so fun that you nearly miss that Bucky’s hand has been pressed against the small of your back for the betterment of a half hour. Light yet firm. Casual but possessive. Cool despite the fire burning in your chest.
You subtly shake it off when you leave briefly to grab another drink, and when you settle back in your spot with a considerable amount of distance between you and him (i.e. not touching arms anymore, practically continents away), he doesn’t put his hand back, instead keeping it polite at his side for the rest of the night, almost as if he noticed his handsy nature and reeled it in.
That is, when Sam is ranting on and on about some nim-wit coworker in his department, you feel a gentle nudge on your arm.
You look up to the left to see Bucky already staring at you. Intent. Soft. Something else behind his eyes that you can't seem to recognize, and you're not really sure that you want to.
"You wanna get out of here soon?" Bucky asks softly, a tone just reserved for you.
And as much as you want to say yes to that, as much as your body wants you to say yes to that, your mind betrays you. It replays the image of him and the strawberry blonde, and it seems to solely remember his face, blue eyes blown black with lust and that half smirk he has when he's trying to pull, when he's flirting. It remembers his hands on her waist, polite yet implying something further, and even if you never saw them kissing, it still fucking hurts.
So you protect your peace.
"I'm actually gonna stay for a while."
You don't miss the way his brows shoot up in surprise, as you've never really turned down his wanna get out of here one-liners before, not that they're even a flirting method. But you stand your ground, sending him an easy smile before turning back to the group, tuning back into Sam's story and even laughing along when it's needed. In the corner of your eye, you see Bucky shrug at your casual brush off, probably thinking nothing of it and assuming you'll be in his bed tomorrow night instead.
Whatever. Water under the bridge, right?
Especially when you give him the same side-hug you give all your friends when you all catch your separate cabs back to your respective homes, not giving him an ounce of special attention he's used to. Especially when you dodge his second attempt to bring you back home with him, blaming your lack of sleep and busy upcoming day. Bucky doesn't argue and lets you leave, but not without a five second are you actually being serious stare as all of your friends have already left.
"You're actually going home?" He asks incredulously as he watches you hail a cab, ego half bruised and half aching with something he isn't ready to confront. "What about last night?"
Your eyes don't leave the road.
"What about it?"
Bucky blinks stupidly at your profile, confused why you aren't looking at him.
"You said you'd come over again tonight."
"Didn't think I'd be this tired."
“We can just go to sleep.”
You pause, heart aching. Stop making this difficult, you think bitterly. Of course you want to be with him. Stay with him. Allow yourself to fully indulge in your feelings for him. But not when he’s had his hands on another merely hours ago, not when it’s all you can see burned fresh in your mind, embers still catching. You know the outcome. You know if you spend the night, you’ll initiate something your heart desires and mind despises. You know yourself too well.
“Bucky,” you sigh, half amused, half exasperated. “You and I both know that’s not gonna happen.”
A beat.
You change the subject before he can protest. "I'll see you this weekend for Steve's movie night, yeah?"
That's when you turn and flash him a warm smile, one that says everything is fine, nothing's unusual. You ignore his pinched brow and head tilt, probably more confused than ever. But he doesn't linger on it, instead blinking and nodding slowly, as if he wants to argue with it but knows better than to confront whatever weird fluttering his heart is doing the more he looks at you.
"Yeah," he says eventually. "Alright."
Finally, a car approaches the curb and you nearly sigh out of relief, not bothering to try and save yourself further as you move to leave. You opt for a polite wave, get in your cab, and force yourself to not turn around and watch him get smaller and smaller as he stands dumbfounded on the curb.
So, in a feeble attempt to be dignified, you simply pull back.
Not loudly, or explicitly, or anything synonymous to drama. It's quiet, calculated, nonchalant. On nights he texts you at an ungodly hour, you're pretending you slept through the fuck-sesh window. When your friend group gets together, you're sticking with Nat and conversing with him when it's convenient. When he shows up to Sam's birthday celebration with the intention of spending the night with you after, you disappear with Wanda before the final goodbyes and smoke a joint for a little too long on the fire escape.
If he wants to treat your connection as something casual, as something he does with the other girls he may bring into his bed, then you want no part of it.
You work later hours. You pick up hobbies to distract yourself from the incessant buzzing of your phone on the kitchen island. You cling to Natasha and Wanda and lean on your support systems. Does part of you miss him? Oh, absolutely. All the time. He’s been your friend longer than most. He’s helped you through your worst and lifted you up at your best. You’ve been platonic. You’ve been lovers. You’ve been strangers. You’ll always love him, regardless of the emotional toll this situationship is taking on your heart, because he was your friend first. A good one, at that.
But you're smarter than this, smarter than letting yourself get strung along by a man who won't put you first, a guy who will make you say you’re his when he’s buried to the hilt inside you, only to spin around and go on a coffee date with a girl from work the next morning, a guy who seems to be dangling the possibility of a relationship on a fish hook right in front of your face, even if he doesn’t realize he’s doing it or not, a guy who is — undoubtedly — the best lay of your sexual career.
(Though you’d rather die than admit that to anyone).
The next time you see him, it's for another one of Tony's charity benefits.
Turns out that when his father left his multi-billion dollar company and said go nuts, Tony didn't take that as a joke. A fairly large portion of the funds go towards these charity events. Another big chunk to his progressive research. Parts to mainly force all of his friends to look nice and be in one place for the night, promising an open bar and free range of the liquor cabinet on the outdoor rooftop patio, to which you and none of your friends can resist in the slightest. Besides, it's a nice excuse to put on a pretty dress and stand in the corner with Natasha and Wanda and viscerally judge everyone's outfits and guess which trophy wives are cheating on their old, wrinkled creeps of husbands.
Tonight you opted for simple, not necessarily in the mood for an over the top get-up. The dress is floor length, hugging your body in the places that make you feel confident while giving you space to breathe all the same, with an open back that dips low, exposing everything down to the base of your spine.
Not that it matters, anyway, because you've been standing with your back against the outdoor concrete walls nursing a now-luke-warm champagne flute, studying the partygoers and trying your best not to bleed green as you watch all your friends break off with their partners, dancing intimately and smiling and looking so disgustingly (and endearingly) in love that you have half a mind to chug the rest of your drink. You politely declined a handsome man's earlier request to share a dance, mind stuck somewhere else. Particularly on someone else.
And — perfect timing — because suddenly, he's leaning his back against the wall next to you.
"Oh my god," he mutters irritably, bumping your shoulder. "That girl from the copy desk would not stop talking."
You ignore the way your heart lurches. "The one who laughs like a dj board or the one who always has lipstick on her teeth?"
He hums amusingly. "No, the other other one. The blonde who's all legs."
Riiiiight. There's no way he's not going to have women approach him all night looking this dangerous, like straight out of a model's fantasy. Or have him approach women. You don't want to think about the semantics of it all.
"Oh," you murmur.
"Yeah," he responds, missing the way your voice gets quiet. "She was explaining her astronaut calendar to me, or something. Honestly, she lost me after she starting talking about dinosaurs."
Bucky sighs like he's had a long day at work, plucking the champagne flute out of your hands like second nature and downing the drink in one go, missing the way your brows furrow and the gears turn in your brain at his last sentence. You sneak a side eye to him, really trying to ignore how beautiful he looks: tie a bit loosened, cheeks flushed, still ridiculously handsome in the all-black suit, not noticing your confusion in the slightest.
"...What are you saying to me right now?"
"Sweet girl, your guess is as good as mine."
"Do you mean...astrology chart?"
"Sure?"
"And Sagittarius?"
"Is that the one with the really long neck? You know, the herbivore?"
You blink at him. "Bucky, that's a star sign. She was telling you about zodiacs."
All he does is stare back at you, a smirk tugging the ends of his lips to mask his confusion. It's clear he's had a flute or two or three, because suddenly his eyes soften as he takes in your appearance: a near-scowl on your face as you hide the best feature of your dress — the open back — scanning the crowd like it's done something to personally offend you. You look like an angry, beautiful fairy. He's decided you've never looked more ethereal in his life.
Suddenly his smirk grows into a grin.
You ignore how it makes your heart lurch. "You do know what zodiacs are, right?"
"Yeah, sure," he says distractedly. Then, "You look beautiful tonight."
You suck in a harsh breath, caught off guard immediately.
All the responses you had in your head suddenly dissipate, evaporate into thin air as you come up blank in how to react, what to say, how to feel. On one hand, your chest constricts at the casual intimacy of it, how he's looking you up and down not lustfully, but in admiration, like you're a portrait in a museum he's been waiting in line all day to catch a glimpse at. On the other hand, you assume that's his opening liner to all the women he's conversed with tonight.
The expression on your face must not be what he was expecting, because his grin slowly morphs into a softer one, brows furrowing in confusion. That's never not worked on you before, as you'll usually quip something playful back at him or compliment him too or try and suppress a smile to appear indifferent. But now you just...don't give him anything besides something that resembles hurt. And, oh, he notices. It kills him.
"What?" He asks quietly, nervously smiling. "Should I have bought you a drink first?"
You attempt to laugh at the joke, but it comes out as a short exhale, not even sure what kind of response you're trying to give him.
"Or..." Bucky trails off, softer. "...asked you to dance?"
Your knees nearly buckle.
"I'm not—" You swallow thickly. "I don't really dance."
He shrugs, not seeing the problem. "Me neither."
"I'd step on your feet."
"I wouldn't mind."
"My stiletto could puncture your toe."
"Is it made of steel?"
"It could be. You never know with shoe manufacturers, these days."
"Sweet girl." A warning.
You suck in another particularly harsh breath, not sure on why he's so adamant on the matter at all. Doesn't he have at least five other girls he could've asked in the time span he's spent trying to get you to say yes? What about the astrology blonde? She'd definitely keep him company, and not only that, she'd keep him entertained, that's for sure.
Because you know if you dance with him now, you'll never get over him, never get over how good it feels to be touched by him, held by him. You need to stay dignified. Stay true to your wordless promise. Keep your distance, protect your heart.
You're about to let him down easy. "Bucky—"
But fate decides to enter the scene like a modern day Superman. And she looks killer with bright red hair and a low cut dress that's comparable to sin.
Natasha pokes her head onto the rooftop, swaying only slightly given all the drinks her and Steve have been pounding all night. When her eyes land on you, they brighten along with a beautiful grin that immediately gives away her elatedness to see you, pointing at you so staggered that the champagne nearly flies out of her flute.
"There you are," she hisses quietly, pearly whites on display. "C'mon, the timeshare guy's wife is about to fuck the bar back. Are you coming or not?"
Your eyes dart between her and Bucky, who is solely amusingly looking at you and waiting for you to make your decision. Yet something catches your eye just over his shoulder: a sliver of beach blonde hair staring at his back, wringing her fingers together as she patiently waits for her time slot with Bucky to open back up. You recognize her from the copy desk, and especially recognize her from Bucky's story from earlier as you can faintly make out a Libra necklace from all the way over here.
So you sheepishly smile up at him. "Raincheck?"
It doesn't look like he wants to take a raincheck. Not in the slightest. But, nonetheless, he nods and smiles gently back at you, a look seemingly reserved for you. He ignores Natasha's incessant prompting for you to hurry up, not taking his eyes off of you while you walk past him and slip back into the ballroom. Bucky's eyes slide down the slope of your exposed back, watching you weave in and out of the crowd with Natasha firmly holding your hand, wishing it was him holding you instead.
He doesn't see you for the rest of the night.
And, later, after your little adventure with Natasha, you poke your head back to peer out onto the rooftop, seeing a very familiar broad backed brunette talking to an overly annunciated blonde.
You don't stay much longer after that.
It isn't until now, three weeks into your internal giving your heart space entourage, when you see a text pop up.
You're sitting comfortably on your couch, half an edible deep with your laptop open idly on the side with today's crossword and a mindless reality show playing softly on the TV. A nearly full glass of wine is perched pretty on the coffee table, as well as a bowl of popcorn you never touched. Wanda left a half hour ago to spend the night at Viz's down a few blocks. Now, left to your own devices, you figure you'll take advantage of the night of solace after three weeks of working late and burying yourself in papers and projects in a feeble attempt to silence the way your heart is screaming for love.
Like an idiot, you check your phone.
Bucky: Sweetheart, when can I come see you?
The words sit like a rock in your gut, and suddenly being crossed off a gummy and a few glasses of wine doesn't seem very fun anymore.
Because the whole point of detaching yourself from the friends with benefits was to get him off your radar. It was to simply keep the friends title and drop the with benefits bit, since it's not like you don't want him in your life anymore, because you'll always want him in your life. But just not in a context where he constantly strings you along emotionally. That's all. Nothing more to it. You need to remind yourself he only wants sex, he only wants your mouth, he only wants your hands, he only wants the parts of you that serve as a convenience to get him off. It has to be.
Your thumbs move before you can stop them.
You: Hey, B. Not tonight.
Staring at your response, a kettlebell settles in your gut, absolutely wrecked and also relieved and also sick to your stomach knowing what you're typing next.
Almost immediately, you follow up.
You: Been meaning to text you for a while. I've got a lot going on and don't have the time anymore to be messing around. So. You can take me off the roster.
Send. Oof. Put the phone on silent, turn it face down on the couch, and pretend it didn't carry an astronomical amount of emotional turmoil that's borderline making you go into cardiac arrest. Take a sip (chug) of wine. Grab a handful of popcorn and ignore your shaking hands. Attempt to mindlessly finish the crossword you started and tune one ear into the soap operatic drama displaying on the television. Refrain from checking your phone with all the strength you can muster. Because it’s not a big deal. At all.
Right?
You fall asleep like this: curled up on the couch, clutching a throw pillow as if it’ll float away if you let go, the mindless tv playing low in the background mixed with the soft sounds of your even breathing. Tears never came, why would they? You know what you’re doing, you’ve known for weeks what the end game was, and you finally cut the string, no longer a puppet to the show of love. It’s agonizing. It’s freeing. It’s lonely.
In the midst of your sleep, you miss the string of notifications that immediately follow your message.
Bucky: Wait what
1 Missed Call From: Bucky
Bucky: Roster?
Bucky: Sweetheart
2 Missed Calls From: Bucky
Bucky: You can't say shit like that and then put your phone on do not disturb.
3 Missed Calls From: Bucky
Bucky: If this is what you want, then that's fine. Can we at least talk about it?
When you wake the next morning, you don't reply.
You're actually having the worst day to grace the planet.
The subway was late — what else is new — and by the time you got to work, your heels already started burning blisters into your feet. Your coffee order was wrong, still drinkable, but wrong, and it simply wasn't worth it to jump back into the ten minute line for a minor change. The projects you've been working on need to essentially be redone since another department you've been partnered with decided to send you a new list of completely different numbers than what you've been working with. You were originally supposed to go home at six. It's nearly eleven.
It's just been long. Mentally. Physically. You can't even bring yourself to emotionally bring up the past few weeks of ignoring Bucky. It's all too much, and all you can do at this point is attempt to turn your brain off as much as you can so you can actually sleep tonight. You hope the late night walk home will give you a sense of fresh air and clarity. It doesn't do much, but it helps you unwind slightly.
But of course things can't be good for too long.
Because when you get back to your apartment, Bucky's leaning patiently against your door.
You freeze in the hallway, and the sound of your heels skidding to a stop makes him look up, eyes burdened with something raw and upsetting that it makes your heart flutter. He stands a little straighter, perhaps trying to mask the fact that he's been waiting here for hours without complaints, simply holding onto the mere fact that he has to talk to you, get a gauge on your feelings, because you've been practically radio silent. And it's killing him.
The two of you stare at each other for a few beats, almost surprised to see each other. He, surprised to see you still in your work clothes and heels, and you, surprised to even be seeing him at all. You never thought he'd actually come here and confront you in person, yet you can't necessarily blame him as you've been dodging his messages and treating him as if nothing's wrong in social gatherings.
"Hey," you say eventually, drawing it out in skepticism.
"Hi," he breathes out quietly, voice light. "Are you— Were you working?"
You take a cautious two steps forward, fishing through your bag to find your keys. "Yeah, been stupid busy lately."
When you move to unlock the door, he steps to the side to let you do so, and it takes everything in you to focus on the task at hand yet it's proving increasingly difficult when his cologne gives you a sense of nostalgia you didn't even know you missed. It's like grieving an ex you never had. You were never his. He was never yours. Get a grip.
"I've noticed," he says after a minute.
The door creaks open gently, and you pause for a moment, internally deciding if you want to let him in or not. Part of you knows what will happen if you let him in, physically and mentally, and the thought of rehashing it right here, right now, almost makes you sick to your stomach. You're too tired, too burnt out to even think about what to eat for dinner, too exhausted in every single way possible.
Bucky notices your apprehension immediately. "You alright?"
Well. That's a loaded question if you've ever heard one. How much time does he have?
You decide to play it safe.
"Just exhausted. Is there— Did you need something?"
Bucky's mouth opens and closes, especially when you peer up at him and he notices just how fucking tired you are. All the words he's been dying to say rise and dissipate in his throat, nearly shocked from your appearance. He wants to say something, to say anything, to help you get ready for bed and tuck you in and let you fall asleep in his arms.
But he can't. Not when he can tell some of your exhaustion is from him.
"I— Uh, I just wanted to talk," he murmurs sheepishly. "But it can wait."
You frown, not expecting that. "You sure?"
Then he smiles. It doesn't quite reach his eyes, but he smiles nonetheless. Soft. Reserved for you. Understanding.
"Yes, sweetheart," he reassures gently, nodding towards your apartment. "Get some rest. We'll talk later, okay?"
You ignore the way your heart lurches at the pet name, how selfish he is to say it as if he ever had the right, how wanted it makes you feel. Like you’re his. Claimed. Taken. Yearned for. It’s awful. It’s beautiful. You want to throw up and also feel his arms bear wrapped around you. You want him to call you that forever yet never again. Not if you aren’t his.
"Okay." You find yourself murmuring sleepily. "Goodnight, Bucky."
The last thing you hear is a soft hum behind you when you step into your apartment, send him a tired, apologetic smile, and shut the door. The only image in your head when you're going to bed later that night is how pretty he looked standing in that hallway.
"Have you always been this prone to self sabotaging or am I blind?'
"Natasha, I'm seconds away from flying all the way to San Diego just to kick your ass."
"I'd like to see you try."
You roll your eyes as you prop your phone between your ear and your shoulder, thinly slicing eggplant to meal prep for the work week ahead. Do you want to forget all about being a responsible adult and simply rot on the couch until it's time to go to bed? Absolutely. Have you been slacking on being a real adult lately? Also absolutely. Between work and doing your best to stay busy nearly all the time, you're forgetting to take care of yourself. So, exhibit A: making actual meals for the week instead of relying on foods primarily stuffed with GMOs.
Natasha and Steve are on their annual west coast voyage, but your best friend always finds time to carve you into her schedule. Granted, they're in their siesta hours at the moment, as you can hear Steve gently snoring in the background as she yaps to you, not even caring about her boyfriend finding any peace and quiet to sleep.
You don't mind the company in the slightest, even if it is virtual.
"Seriously, though," she adds after a moment of laughter, tone dropping with an edge of seriousness. "You really should talk to him at some point instead of avoiding him like the plague."
Huffing, you slice an eggplant particularly aggressively.
"Yeah, I'm okay."
"You know I'm all for hating on men."
"Of course."
"But—“
"Natasha—“
"This is Bucky we're talking about," Natasha says almost incredulously, as if him as a person is an excuse in itself. "Yeah, he's one of the biggest idiots I know, and I know a lot of them, but he's not a bad guy. You and I both know he cares about you more than the rest of us, whether you want to accept that or not."
Another harsh slice. Channeling your frustration out on a poor eggplant who did nothing to you.
Sighing clear into the microphone, you relent. "I don't even know where I would start besides standing there like an idiot."
"You could be sitting."
"What would I even say to him?" You say, exasperated and ignoring her smart-ass-itry.
"Maybe, 'hey, sorry for ghosting you for the past month but I am experiencing an influx of emotional volatility at the moment and can't process my feelings for you.' Something along those lines."
"Really?"
She snorts. "The truth would be a good start, no?"
You pause, chopping movements halting as you stare off into space, pondering the simple concept of talking to him. Blabbing your incoherent feelings to him. Letting him in with the possibility of being shut out. You'd think that would be the reasonable course of action as a responsible adult, but you never said you were one. Part of you wants this to fizzle out as quietly as possible, to let your feelings subside like the tide and strictly go back to being friends without any of the weirdness. However, you know that can't slide, not with a guy like Bucky who has no concept of letting bygones be bygones.
Granted, you haven't really been playing fair by dodging every single one of his attempts to clear the air, opting for the safe excuse of being too tired or working or anything synonymous to that. And he's been respectful enough, even though you can tell he's been itching to push you into a conversation. He keeps a distance. Approaches when it's right, not forced, only to be shut down all the same. You know it isn't fair. At all. But your heart can't handle that right now.
"Later," you say simply.
Natasha sighs over the phone, but drops the topic for now.
“I’ll be asking again later," she grumbles. "Anyway, do you remember that old Cape sweatshirt you bitched and moaned about losing like three months ago? Viz said he found it in his closet with Wanda's stuff."
You hum cheerily. "No shit? I thought Yelena accidentally donated it?"
She snorts at the mention of her sister. "Apparently not."
"That'll give me an excuse to leave the apartment."
"Oh, actually you don't have to," Steve pipes up in the background, suddenly awake and alert and interjecting so casually it shocks you. "I asked Bucky to drop that off to you tonight. You're home, right?"
You stop slicing immediately.
"What?"
"Yeah, I texted him like thirty minutes ago," he adds nonchalantly. "He should've been there by now."
Your veins turn to ice. "I thought you were fucking asleep?"
"Why would I be asleep?"
"I heard you snoring."
"Oh," Natasha hums. "That's just his deviated septum."
Steve mimics the noise, instigating further by almost sounding like he had no idea. "Oh, yeah, that explains it."
The knife clatters to the cutting board as you sigh gutturally deep, the sound coming deep from your soul as your irritation skyrockets to amounts unknown. Your friends fully know what they were doing, and you can't even pride them on the setup since they got you right where they want you. You can picture them right now: sitting snug in their hotel bed, suppressing shit eating grins and probably quietly celebrating their successful mission of trapping your situationship back at your apartment. Fool proof.
As if things couldn't get worse, three soft knocks rasp against your apartment door, sending your blood pressure to numbers a doctor would faint at.
“Wonder who that is,” Steve ponders innocently.
You shake your head, knowing you're not getting out of this one.
"You guys fucking suck," is all you meekly respond with.
Natasha snorts. “I hope you shaved your—“
You hang up immediately.
Sighing, you throw your phone face down on the counter and forget all about the boiling food you have on the stove, thoughts instead filling with the man on the other side of the door, who no doubt wants to continue the conversation he tried to start last week.
That was until you practically slammed the door in his face and continued to ghost him into oblivion.
Your feet move before your mind can process it, shifting your body towards the door. A sweaty palm hovers over the knob, almost shaking with the anticipation of seeing his pretty blues up close again, of being in the vicinity where you can smell his cologne and resist the urge to pull the loose threads of his sweaters since he always forgets to. Who knows — maybe he’ll just hand you the piece of clothing and leave. Respect your space. Space that you aren’t even sure you want anymore.
Because truth be told: you fucking miss him. More than you’d like to admit.
You miss his hands that often held your trembling ones. You miss the way his laugh reverberates a room. You miss the way he was so eager to please and made you feel so fucking good every. Single. Time. Like you were the only person on earth worth paying attention to. Like you hung the stars yourself. Like he loved you.
Suddenly, you’re whipping the door open (frankly to avoid hanging onto that last thought that will — no doubt — make you spiral if you dwindle on it).
And there he is.
Bucky Barnes stands tall, shifting his weight between feet and cradling the sweatshirt as if it’ll shatter into a million pieces. His hair is lightly askew, hoodie a bit mussed, as if he’d thrown it on in a rush, yet he looks handsome all the same. His bright blue eyes lock on you immediately, almost surprised at the speed at which you opened the door. But they soften immediately at the sight of you, nearly relieved that you’re giving him some sort of time of the day.
And your heart races. Instantly. Muscles frozen in place as you stare right back at him, ignoring the sizzling from the stove and trying to swallow the giant lump in your throat. No words come. Absolutely nothing. The only thing that you can coherently conclude is how handsome he looks like this: casual, soft, domestic. It’s not fair.
“Hey,” he greets gently. “Delivery for the prettiest girl on the planet?”
“She’s on sabbatical,” you deadpan.
Bucky’s lips twitch as he rolls his eyes playfully. “Steve told you I was dropping by?”
Only forty seconds ago, you think bitterly.
Instead, you nod. “Yeah, he might’ve mentioned it.”
Bucky hums amusingly. “Hope my delivery skills are up to par.”
“Debatable,” you respond pointedly.
Bucky stares at you quietly for a beat. Two. Three. Studying your expression and taking in all your pretty while he still has the chance.
It makes you squirm.
You hand your arm out, palm upturned in anticipation.
“Uh, the sweatsh—“
Suddenly, the smell of fresh burning fills your nostrils, and you whip your head towards the culprit — your kitchen — and forget all about the man standing in front of you, cursing loudly under your breath and dashing to the stove. The batch of three eggplant slices you’d been frying are indefinitely inedible, charred to black and wasted. So much for trying to be a responsible, independent, slightly put together adult.
You wave your arm above the stove, moving the pan off the burner and shut everything off as you see Bucky in your peripheral cautiously enter your apartment, shutting the door gently behind him with the sweatshirt still sitting idly in his hands.
“Motherfucker,” you hiss with annoyance, sighing through your nose, suddenly overwhelmed with his presence lingering in your kitchen. “Uh, you can leave it on the barstool. I’ll rate you five stars, or whatever.”
When you don’t hear an immediate response, you pause your movements of waving the light smoke out of your face, dropping your arm at your side to glance at him. Bucky simply stands, watching you intently. Half amused. Half with a look in his eye that makes your heart flutter uncomfortably. A look you don’t want to begin to decipher, only knowing it’ll hurt your soul in the long run.
Blue eyes bore into yours. As if he’s not interested in looking at anyone else ever again.
“Are you gonna—“
“You look pretty.”
The words die in your throat, actually more like violently sucked out of you at the sincerity of his tone, as you open and close your mouth, agape like a fish. You blink stupidly, hating the way your heartbeat is utterly erratic just from a simple sentence. And whether he means it or not, it makes you a fucking mess of emotions anyway. Regardless if he’s just saying it to be back in your good graces, or if it’s true.
You can’t dwell on the semantics.
All you can do is shut your eyes and sigh quietly. “Bucky…”
“Sweetheart, when are we gonna talk about this?”
You dare to peek your eyes open, taking in his intent expression, almost desperate, as he darts his gaze between your eyes. Flustered, you shift weight between feet, feeling your face flush and palms immediately grow warm. Half of you wants to say forget it and jump into his arms, forget all about your hurt and push it down and pray it goes away. The other half stands dignified.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” you defend meekly.
“I would completely beg to differ.”
Your eyes drift down, locking on his hands as you can’t even bring yourself to look at him in his pretty blues. “We were sleeping together. Now we’re not. Not sure what you want me to say.”
Bucky snorts devoid of humor. “How about an explanation, to start?”
“I’m too busy.”
“I’ll make time for you.”
“That’s not the point.”
“How?”
You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose. “Bucky—“
But he doesn’t let you get far. “I’m serious. I’ll work around your schedule,” he says casually, as if it’s the easiest solution in the world.
“That’s inconvenient,” you defend weakly.
“That’s called problem solving,” he corrects pointedly.
You nearly scream in frustration, because you knew you’d have some sort of pushback with this, especially with the world’s most stubborn man to ever grace the earth. When he’s set on something — or in this case, someone — it’s nearly impossible for him to back down, to concede into neutral territory and go with the flow. It’s not that he doesn’t see it, in fact he’s fully aware of his ability to argue with a brick wall if it looked at him funny. He uses it to his advantage, like right now.
The other part of you wants to scream in terms of the emotional intensity of it all. Why does he care so much? Why is he blindly opting to carve a chunk of his time and effort out of his day solely for you? When all it’s ever been between you two was casual intimacy? Why is he offering the choice as if it’s the simplest solution, as if it isn’t the most inconvenient option.
Bucky notices your silence immediately, and decides to fill it. “There’s no way I’m gonna just stop seeing you, sweetheart.”
“Don’t—“ You say before you can stop yourself, aching. “Don’t say that.”
“Say what? That I care about you?”
God, he’s not fucking getting it.
You shake your head, exasperated.
“No, the whole sweetheart, baby, sweet girl bullshit,” you sigh tiredly, not even caring about holding back anymore. “I’m not your sweetheart, I’m not your sweet girl, I’m not yours, Bucky. Never have been.”
His jaw slacks.
Despite the way your skin feels like it’s on fire and that your heart is beating so erratically it’d make a cardiologist faint.
“And it’s—it’s fine,” you pointedly admit. “Really. But it’s confusing, and it drives me fucking crazy, and I need space. That’s all.”
Silence engulfs the room.
Bucky simply just…stares at you. Half in awe and half something you can’t pinpoint, as if the gears are turning in his head and he’s understanding your frustration, the reason for your distance, your coldness towards him. It wasn’t out of dislike or disinterest. No. It’s the opposite. You care too much. Feel too much. Felt that you needed to separate to shield your heart, protect your peace, put yourself first.
It’s almost as if the expression happens in slow motion. Because his look of shock and confusion morphs into understanding, almost relief. A noticeable tension releases from his shoulders as he puts two and two together, gaze softening so disgustingly endearing that you swallow thickly. There’s the truth. Floating in the air. Coming to bite you in the ass, as you presume he’s figuring out an easy way to let you down gently.
God, why is he looking at you like that?
“When you texted me,” he starts slowly, calculated. “I had no fucking idea what you were talking about.”
You blink at him.
He continues. “That was the first time I’d heard about a supposed roster. Didn’t even know I had one. Didn’t know that was the impression you had of me.”
A wave of guilt washes over you. “Bucky—“
“Sweet girl—“ He interrupts softly, almost in a gentle warning to let him finish. “I don’t know where you got that from, but there was never anything like that. No one else I was even thinking about.”
The confession makes your blood run cold.
“But— But that girl from the bar,” you defend meekly. “Or the blonde from Tony's party. The girl who’s all legs, remember? You’ve been seeing other people, and, again, that’s fine—“
He grimaces at the mentions of both women, the blonde he really wasn't listening to in the slightest and the redhead from that night at the bar, the night you started distancing yourself from him. He remembers it perfectly: how you leaned away from his touch, dodged his invitations, looked at him like he was everybody else, like he wasn’t special anymore.
Now it makes sense. Total sense. You saw him practically cuddled up — well, if you were any closer, you’d see his clear apprehension and gentle rejections — with a random girl as if it was just another average night. And then cozied up with the blonde at Tony’s gala (not really by his choice). No one to be tied down to. As if you weren’t the only thing on his mind for the entirety of each confrontation. The way you subtly swerved him both nights made his stomach twist so uncomfortably that he felt sick for days after, not understanding your sudden cold — luke warm? — shoulder.
But now he sees it, he sees you. And it gives him all the confirmation he needs to speak carefully. Tread lightly. Let it all out.
“The night at the bar, that was Mariah.” Then, after a moment, adds, “Um, Madison? Something like that. One of my sister’s friends who always got a little too close, you know?”
Heart thumping, you nod slowly. Cautiously. Not trying to appear as though the mere thought of him talking with other girls makes your chest do this weird thing where all you can see is green. Jealousy. Possession over a man you aren’t even with. Pathetic. Trying to appear indifferent because you should be indifferent.
He continues. “She kept talking and talking, it was brutal. Couldn’t get out of it. After a second attempt to ask me out, I just… I don’t know.”
Your chest aches. “You what?”
“Pointed at you,” Bucky says. “Told her you were my girlfriend.”
If your eyes widened any more, they’d bulge out of the sockets.
Because what? He didn’t just— He just said— He couldn’t have possibly meant—? No, he just got tired of her asking. That’s it. That has to be it. There’s no way he casually said that without ever being promoted to, it was simply just a ruse to get this girl to back off, that’s all. No further implications. No secret manifesting techniques. Only a way out. An escape.
“She backed off, and all. So did the blonde, I told her the same thing,” Bucky continues casually, as if he didn’t just short circuit your brain with a simple sentence. “The first time I said it, back at the bar, I came back to the group as soon as I could. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”
You dare to bite. “About which part?”
His blue eyes have never been more focused on you. “When I said that to her, it felt… right.”
“Right?”
“Yeah.” Bucky nods, almost a little too quickly. “Real. Forgot it wasn’t true until you went to get another drink.”
“Oh,” is all you can murmur.
“Then I couldn’t stop thinking about if… you know… if we were actually together,” he ponders aloud, spilling his guts with every word. “How nice it’d be to have danced with you. I didn’t realize how much I wanted it to be real until I thought of the possibility.”
The expression on your face must be comedic gold.
“Oh,” you repeat quietly.
“Yeah,” Bucky muses low. “Oh.”
You blink stupidly at him, mouth agape as you take in his words, his confession, especially how sincere he sounds recounting the night. It makes sense: how overtly touchy he was with you right up until you rejected his first attempt to bring you home, and how his hands kept to himself for the rest of the night, how uncharacteristically quiet he was standing broad next to you. You didn’t think about it, about what his interaction with that girl actually could’ve been, and rather jumped to conclusions on what you expected.
In the midst of your self deprecating inner dialogue, you don’t notice Bucky slowly walking towards you, getting closer and closer with each cautious step. When you don’t jerk back or create more space between you, he allows himself to step into your vicinity, now merely a foot away as the sweatshirt he’d need cradling is now forgotten behind him, folded idly on the barstool.
And now — once his cologne has invaded your scent as his pretty blues are suddenly way closer than you remember — you realize just how much distance he squashed in a matter of a few mere steps.
You peer at him, frozen as a statue and confused as an idiot as one of his palms experimentally ghosts over your jaw. When you don’t pull away, he presses it gently against your smooth cheek, burning under his cool skin, and you can’t deny how nice it is to finally feel him again, and you especially can’t deny how pretty he looks like this: lopsided smile and gaze so soft it’d resemble the touch of a warm fire.
“Breathe,” he guides gently.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. And suddenly it’s alllllll coming out.
“Sorry,” you say immediately, almost panicked. “I just— Phew, okay. You have to know what it looked like. Really. But I shouldn’t have cared because we aren’t together, we never were, and I’m not that kind of person to, like, monitor who you sleep with— You know I’m not like that—“
Bucky’s grin grows.
“I never wanted to make you think I was trying to sink my claws into you, or some bullshit, I don’t know,” you continue your incoherent rambling, missing the way he’s already made up his mind. “I figured you wanted to explore options? Or something like that? So I gave you space. I needed space to… You know... To get…”
When you trail off, Bucky cocks his head to the side, inviting the gentle confrontation.
“To get what, sweet girl?” He coos gingerly, pressing the pad of his thumb near the swell of your bottom lip.
You blink stupidly at him, wide eyed and embarrassed at your incessant rambling. But when he looks at you like this: soft, intent, as if nothing else in the world is even worth glancing at, you let your guard down slightly. For fuck’s sake, he just poured his heart out to you earlier, you know how he feels, where he stands, what’s the reason of holding back? What’s the harm in keeping your feelings to yourself? Especially now when you’ve practically exposed yourself, anyway.
Your mouth moves before your brain can comprehend it.
“To get over you.”
His brows raise, half surprised and half condescending. “You wanted to get over me?”
Swallowing thickly, you nod. “I thought you had a roster.”
“No roster,” he responds immediately. “Just you.”
“Well, I thought you didn’t like me like that.”
“Sweetheart, I love you.”
Your jaw slacks in his hold, and now his palm presses a bit harder, grounding, firmer, all to confirm his feelings, to get you to understand, to feel him. His hands are cool, calm, composed, whereas your skin is on fire, heart thumping a million beats per minute with a shock value so high that your ears might be ringing. They must be. Because you couldn’t have heard him correctly, right? Because he just— he said that he— he lo… he loves—
“Breathe,” he reminds you again, an endearing smile ghosting his pretty lips.
For the second time, you’re letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been keeping in, staring into those pretty blues as they crystalize into yours. His palm holds your jaw in place, secure, as if he has all the time in the world to do so, to be here with you, regardless of all rhyme and reason. The touch is warm, familiar, something you missed a lot more than you'd like to admit, and you can't help but lean into the content, pressing your jaw and cheek further into his hold.
To think he was off sharing an ounce of this bravado with others is almost comical, because Bucky can't recall ever feeling this gravitates towards anyone. You're the first person he thinks of when he wakes up and the last thing he sees before he goes to sleep. After you spend the night, he hopes you'll take one of his hoodies to bring home so that when you give it back to him, it has your scent. When he arrives at any function, you're the first person he's searching for the immediate second he walks through the door.
Because, sure, the two of you have always been friends. Friendly. Comfortable. But the first time you slept together and created your little agreement, Bucky already knew — from that moment forward — that there was absolutely no way he wouldn't fall for you. Fuck, the first night you fell asleep in his arms, he already knew he was in deep, simply because the mere sounds of your syncopated breaths brought him a sense of comfort no one else has ever been able to provide. And that was only the first night. His infatuation for you only augmented after that.
Meanwhile, your brain is slowly starting to work again.
"That's— When did— Are you sure?"
Bucky laughs boyishly, head tipping back and clearly amused with your shock as you stand befuddled. If you weren't so fucking blindsided right now, you'd take the time to appreciate the way the corners of his mouth crease and how his eyes seem to gleam at the mere sight of your slightly panicked demeanor, because how dare he have the audacity to look this handsome right now, especially when he's practically laughing at your self depreciation.
"Because I'm a lot," you continue pointedly, so serious contrary to his jovial nature. "You know that. It's not— Do you know what you're actually signing up for? Genuinely?"
"I've been signed up," he says casually, still coming down from his laughter. When he notices your perplexed expression, he cocks his head to the side. "What? Sweet girl, you must've known."
"How could I possibly have known?"
"I came immediately when we had sex for the first time."
"Well, I thought you were just...excited."
"Tried sleeping with another girl a week later to try and get over you, and said your name when I finished."
"Semantics."
"I measured your ring finger one night while you were sleeping."
The next retort dies in your throat as you quirk a brow at him, and given the way his eyes immediately widen and mouth agapes that he absolutely did not mean to say that. His pretty blues blink at you for one, two beats. You resist the urge to push the hair out of his eyes.
"For science," he adds quickly.
You suppress a grin. "I don't remember you ever having a PhD."
You don't let him respond before you move without thinking, gripping the collar of his hoodie and tugging him taut to you, stealing his breath with a kiss so sudden that he mmrphs low into your mouth, half in surprise and half in need.
His hand cradles your jaw, feeling the movements of your mouth beneath his palm and kissing you back with just as much fervor, if not more. His unoccupied hand takes its rightful place on your waist, pads of his fingertips indenting deep into your skin almost as a wordless claim, a confirmation that this is real, this is happening, you're here in his arms after what feels like forever. You make a noise you didn't even know you had in you — a mix between a sigh and a whine and something else entirely unholy — and Bucky swallows it immediately.
Your hands brace on his chest, palm over his erratic heartbeat and the other trailing down his abdomen, ghosting the waistband of his jeans, an act all too familiar to you. And to him, because he gets the hint immediately.
When he pulls away a fraction, resting his forehead against yours as his chest heaves, you let your heart speak.
"You really love me?"
Bucky responds immediately. "More than anything."
He's so close, so pretty like this. A bit dazed, soft, eyes set only on you and nothing else. Smile lines by the corners of his mouth, his thumb swiping over your bottom lip almost in admiration, his eyes darting at all parts of your face as if he's studying you intently, remembering your features and taking note of how they look in this lighting. As if he wants to remember how you look in every possible way. Just for his own sake, to picture you in his mind when you're not physically with him.
And your heart just...aches.
But in the best way possible, knowing all your worrying and self doubt was for nothing. In the time you spent wondering if you were his, he was already dead-set on being yours. Irrevocably. Occupying so much space in his mind that there wasn't much space for anything else. He loves you. He loves your smile, your laugh, the way you hold him at night and listen to his dreams and nightmares all in same breath, the way you've made him feel important, like he deserves to be happy, like he's a good person. There's no one else on this planet he can say has made him feel like this, already missing you before you've even left and already wondering when he's going to see you next.
"Sweet girl, let me show you, hm?" Bucky asks gently, a tone reserved just for you.
Summary: You die and come back—every time. But when a mission pushes your limits and you don’t return right away, Bucky’s worst fear threatens to finally be true.
MCU Timeline Placement: Post CACW / Avengers AU
Master List: Find my other stuff here!
Warnings: depictions of death, medical trauma, near-death experiences, resurrection themes, discussions of mortality, panic/anxiety responses, emotional dysregulation, implied PTSD, field injury descriptions, medical experimentation implications, intense emotional themes, soft romance with heavy angst!!!
Word Count: 9.4k
Author’s Note: brb posting this again because my dumbass accidentally deleted it. but this one was a request and i absolutely devoured it—i loved the concept so much i maybe (definitely) left the ending a little loosely tied up on purpose… might’ve gotten a bit carried away with the angst and emotional spirals, but honestly? no regrets. thank you to the lovely anon who sent this in 💀🖤
The first time Bucky saw you die, he didn’t believe in miracles.
Not really. Certainly not in the Hallmark kind. And definitely not in the gods-and-glory kind. Not after the war. Not after the ice. Not after Hydra. Not after the Avengers fell and the Sokovia Accords cracked open everything that had once felt like progress.
He’d barely believed Steve when he told him the Avengers were a family again. Patched-up, stitched-together, maybe limping a little, but still standing. Still fighting.
Bucky hadn’t expected to be pulled into that house. Hadn’t expected them to let him stay.
And he hadn’t expected you.
You were fire where the rest of them were steel. Not volatile—just burning, always. Bright eyes, steady hands, too much laughter in your lungs for someone who carried as much loss in their file as he did.
He hadn’t noticed you at first, not really. You weren’t loud like Tony or cocky like Clint, didn’t crackle with power like Wanda or jab like Sam. But Natasha passed you the remote without asking. Clint stole your fries and never got glared at for it. Steve nodded when you spoke, like your word was enough. Rhodey let you reroute a live op mid-briefing without batting an eye. Even Tony, who didn’t trust anyone he couldn’t outtalk, actually listened when you muttered a correction under your breath.
You had a room in the south wing, but half the time you were in the gym or on the roof, or behind a console in the mission control room, legs kicked up and a lollipop jammed between your teeth like you were doing a bit. Bucky didn’t know how to approach someone like that.
You didn’t scare him, but you didn’t make sense, either.
Not until that mission in Belarus. Not until the firestorm. Not until the building collapsed, and you—without hesitation, without backup—went in after a hostage nobody had even confirmed was still alive.
It happened fast. They always do. One second, he was behind you, shoulder to shoulder, rifle sweeping the hall for stragglers. The next, a pressure plate went off. The whole floor heaved. He remembered seeing your body twist mid-air, pushing the civilian ahead of you toward a half-shattered window. And then nothing. Just dust. Screaming metal. Silence.
And then red. Everywhere.
He found your body half-buried in the rubble. Neck bent too far to one side. Eyes wide and glassy. Lips open like you’d died with a breath caught in your chest. You didn’t look peaceful. You didn’t look gone. You looked ripped away.
And Bucky—who’d seen bodies pile up like cordwood, who’d watched friends bleed out under moonlight, who’d held too many soldiers as their lungs gave out—could not breathe. He dropped to his knees beside you, gravel and glass biting into his palms.
Sam’s voice was in his comm, sharp, ordering a retreat. Steve was yelling something, calling his name. But all he could hear was the static of his own pulse roaring in his skull. All he could see was you.
He wasn’t supposed to panic. Steve had told him that. Not in those words, but close enough. The night before their first mission with you, Steve had pulled him aside after briefing, lingering near the map table long after the others had left the room.
The compound lights had gone dim, casting that glassy blue reflection over everything, and Bucky remembered the way Steve rubbed his thumb over the edge of the table—like he wasn’t sure how to start. Which was rare. Steve always knew how to start.
He had told Bucky you had a… condition. That you could recover from injuries that would level anyone else. That death wasn’t always the end for you. But the words had come with too much weight and not enough clarity. Bucky had assumed it meant you healed fast, like someone like him. Something cellular. Scientific. Something manageable.
Not this.
Because talking about someone’s tendency not to stay dead didn’t prepare you to watch their neck snap against a concrete beam. It didn’t give you tools for handling the stillness of their chest, the unnatural twist of their limbs, the mouth gone slack and blood pooling under their skull. It didn’t make it any easier to reach out and try to close their eyes, only to find them already glassed over.
It was one thing to be told.
It was something else entirely to see.
And yet no one else seemed to be moving like he was. Sam had cleared the building. Natasha’s voice crackled in his ear with calm, crisp updates. Steve sounded winded but focused, calling coordinates for extraction. The rest of the team had already folded the loss into their protocol, trusting that the wrinkle would smooth out. That you’d sit up. That you’d shake it off.
That it was temporary.
You came back on the jet, somewhere over the Baltic. Coughed once, loudly, and then swore like someone had woken you up from a nap. Your pupils were blown wide, disoriented, blinking into the overhead light. Your voice cracked. Your ribs were still healing when you sat up and reached for a damn granola bar.
Bucky watched the whole thing from across the cabin like he was watching a ghost dig itself out of the grave. No one else even flinched. Steve patted your back. Natasha tossed you a bottle of water. Sam made a joke about “another life gone down the drain.”
After that, he started watching you differently.
It wasn’t obvious. He wasn’t obvious. Just...more aware. How you moved. How you fought. How you flinched sometimes when the flashbangs went off, how you touched your own throat after every mission like you had to remind yourself it was still there. He started walking a little closer to your side. Started memorizing the way you breathed, just in case he had to hear it stop again.
And he did.
He heard it stop. Again. And again. And again.
A dozen times over the past year. Maybe more. He’d stopped counting after the tenth.
And every time it happened, no matter how fast you came back—thirty minutes, five minutes, once in under thirty seconds—some part of him still reacted like it could be the last time.
It didn’t matter if it was a sniper’s shot that caught you in the neck or a car bomb that threw you half a block down a dirt road or an enemy blade shoved clean through your spine. You dropped. You went still. And Bucky would freeze. For a breath. For a blink. For just long enough to feel that quiet pull in his chest like gravity trying to drag him down with you.
He never got used to it.
Not once.
He never let the others see how it shook him. Never said anything. Just picked up your body when he had to. Pulled you out of fire when no one else noticed you’d fallen.
Because you always came back. That was the rule. Everyone else had accepted it like a fact of nature. But for Bucky, it never felt like science. It felt like gambling. Like every time you died, death got a little greedier. The odds stacked a little higher. And one day, the universe would call it.
And he hated it.
Hated how reckless you were. How little regard you had for your own body. You weren’t suicidal—he wasn’t sure you could be—but there was a fearlessness in you that read like self-destruction. You joked about it. Sam called you “the immortal dumbass.” Tony called you “useful.” Steve said you were brave. But Bucky saw something else behind your eyes. A kind of numbness. A weightless tilt.
It scared him.
Because what scared him more than dying himself…was watching someone else do it. Again. And again. And again.
The compound was quiet at night in the way that only military-grade buildings ever were—buzzing, humming, never truly silent. The ventilation systems always sounded like breath. The floor lights pulsed faintly, like veins. Even the steel walls seemed to whisper in low frequency. But the quiet now was different. It was waiting. Restless. A low, thrumming kind of tension that had nothing to do with the building and everything to do with what was coming.
Bucky sat upright in bed for over an hour, jaw locked, staring at the far wall like it might give him something to focus on that wasn’t you. It didn’t.
You were leaving in the morning.
You, Natasha, and Stark—some infiltration op on the edge of Ukraine that had started as a tech recovery and escalated into something else. Bucky hadn’t asked the details. Didn’t want to know. Didn’t want the mental image of another burning compound or another half-collapsed stairwell or another sniper’s nest tucked into a tree line where you couldn’t see it until the shot cracked through your spine.
He’d already watched it happen too many times. The last three missions you’d been on? Dead. Dead. Dead. And then back again. You always came back. But that didn’t make him feel better. It made everything worse. It made the space between each heartbeat unbearable.
Eventually, he gave up pretending to rest. The sheets were cold. His skin felt too tight. The compound clocks glowed 2:38 AM, and the hallway lights flicked on one by one as he passed, barefoot, hoodie sleeves tugged over his palms.
He didn’t expect the kitchen to be lit. Or occupied.
But there you were—back to him, standing by the sink with the kind of posture that didn’t belong to someone who was tired. You were wide awake. Methodical. Precise, like you were rebuilding a bomb or stitching a wound. Except your hands were moving around the kettle. Teabags. Your favorite mug.
You turned your head, sensing him before he made a sound. Always did. “Hey, Buck.”
Your voice was low. Not a whisper. Just soft, like you didn’t want to scare the quiet away.
“Can’t sleep either?”
He stopped just inside the threshold. Blinked once. Swallowed the first thing he thought and offered something neutral instead. “Didn’t try that hard.”
You smiled without showing teeth. It didn’t reach your eyes, but it tried. And without another word, you turned back to what you were doing and pulled a second mug from the shelf. Not a guess. Not a question. His mug. The one with the faded shield logo and hairline crack at the rim.
He watched you move in silence, jaw working slightly as your hand hovered over the tea canister, pulling out the one he liked. Not the basic black tea ones the others used. Yours smelled like warm bark and orange peel and cinnamon. You added a splash of milk and just enough honey to kill the bite without making it sweet. You didn’t measure, never did, but it was always perfect.
You passed the mug across the counter without fanfare, fingers brushing his briefly. They were warm. You always ran warm. He took it without speaking.
“You’re leaving in, what—” he glanced at the digital stove clock, “less than seven hours?”
You nodded, stirring your own tea slowly. “More like six and a half. Don’t remind me.”
He tried not to frown. Failed.
You sipped and leaned back against the counter. Your legs were bare. Oversized hoodie, no armor, no gear. No bulletproof vest. Just soft cotton and skin and the delicate shimmer of a healing scar above your collarbone where a blade had gone in clean two missions ago. You hadn’t even blinked. Bled out in Tony’s arms. Came back with a cough and a nosebleed like it was a mild inconvenience.
You noticed his stare but didn’t call him on it. Just nudged the edge of your mug against his knuckles and murmured, “Don’t do the broody look. I know what it means.”
He glanced down, unsure if he was glaring or just giving himself away. “What does it mean?”
You tilted your head, considering him. Your hair was a mess. Damp at the ends. No makeup. No effort. He liked you better this way. Not performance. Not mask. Just you.
“It means you’re thinking too hard again.” You didn’t say it accusingly. More like it was something you admired and hated all at once. “That or your tea’s already gone cold and you’re too polite to tell me I messed it up.”
Bucky exhaled through his nose. Shook his head once. “It’s fine.”
“It’s perfect,” you corrected. Then you added, quieter, “I always make it the way you like.”
There was no flirt in your tone. No edge. Just fact.
He didn’t know what to do with that.
You were watching him now. Really watching. Like you could see the tension in his shoulders, the slow grind of his jaw, the way his eyes kept darting back to the clock like it was counting something down.
You leaned forward slightly. “You alright?”
He looked at you.
Really looked.
You, who had died more times than he could count. Who always smiled when you came back, like it wasn’t terrifying. You, who hadn’t asked him for a thing, hadn’t pushed for closeness, hadn’t teased him the way others did, but who had somehow become the only person in the compound whose absence he felt like a bruise.
He let the silence stretch. It took effort to speak through the tightness in his chest. “Just… try not to die this time, alright?”
You blinked once. Then you gave a half-smile. “That’s the plan.”
“That’s always the plan,” he said, voice low, rough. “You just never stick to it.”
You raised your mug in a lazy sort of salute. “Well, someone’s gotta keep things exciting around here.”
He didn’t smile. Didn’t return it.
You sobered immediately. “Bucky.”
He looked down at his tea. Didn’t answer.
Your voice gentled. “I know it’s hard.”
That made something sharp move in his gut. He swallowed it. “Do you?”
“I do.” You shifted, setting your mug down. “It’s hard for me too.”
His eyes snapped back to you then, confused.
You exhaled through your nose, slow, measured, like you were weighing the shape of what you were about to say. Like even now, even with the space between you tighter than it had ever been, there was still something in you that hesitated.
“Everyone assumes it doesn’t really hurt. Dying.”
The words slid out like you’d been holding them back for years.
“I don’t really correct them. What’s the point? I’ve done it so many times it’s almost natural at this point.” You gave a small shrug, and Bucky hated how casual it looked. Hated how practiced it felt. “They think it makes it easier to watch if it’s clean. If it’s clinical. Like I’m slipping under for a nap or something.”
You laughed, but it wasn’t a real laugh. It had a rawness to it, like it was built to cover something far older and more bitter.
“It’s not,” you said. “It’s not clean. It’s not quiet. And no, it doesn’t always hurt. Sometimes it does. Sometimes it’s just cold. Sometimes it’s like static ripping through my chest. Sometimes it’s like drowning. But I’ve done it enough times to know—”
You hesitated.
Then, softer: “The worst part isn’t dying.”
Bucky’s grip on the mug shifted slightly. Not enough to clink it against the counter, but just enough that the tension bled through his fingers.
He stared at you. At the way your expression barely moved, but your voice had pulled taut—something strung between exhaustion and confession. And before he could stop himself, before he could measure the weight of the words or consider whether he wanted to hear the answer, his voice slipped out, quieter than he meant.
“Then what is?”
You didn’t answer right away. Your mouth parted like you might, then closed again. You looked down, thumb running along the seam of your mug, then up again like you were scanning the ceiling for courage or language or both.
“Coming back,” you said, after a long breath.
Your fingers traced the rim of your mug, absent, like they needed something to circle. “It’s like being dropped into your own body from a great height—like everything’s disjointed and wrong, like your cells are trying to knit themselves into something they almost remember being but keep getting it wrong on the first try. I wake up choking on a breath that doesn’t belong to me. There’s always this—delay—between my heartbeat and my mind, like I’m being rebooted from the inside out.”
You paused, eyes somewhere near the floor, shoulders rigid but low. “The world doesn’t feel real at first. My senses are too loud, or too quiet, or off, like I’m underwater or too deep in my own skin.”
Bucky didn’t move. Couldn’t. His palms had gone clammy against the ceramic, but he didn’t dare set the mug down—it felt like the only thing tethering him to the moment.
You looked up then, not at him, but through him, gaze unfocused like you were reliving something only you could see. “I don’t always remember my name. I don’t always remember if I was supposed to come back at all.” Your voice cracked then—barely—but it landed in his chest like a breach.
“And it does hurt, Buck,” You exhaled, slow and tired. “God, it’s like being remade out of raw wire.”
Bucky didn’t know when he stopped breathing. Didn’t know how long his body had been holding still like it was trying not to wake something. The mug in his hand felt cold now. Heavy. Like it had been drained of heat the same way he had. And still, he didn’t let go of it. He wasn’t sure what he’d do with his hands if he did.
And then, softly, you reached out.
Your fingers brushed his forearm like you were checking to see if he was real. Just the lightest touch at first, then a firmer press.
You didn’t say sorry, didn’t ask if it was too much, didn’t flinch away when he didn’t move to meet you halfway. You just held there—gentle, grounded. The way someone might try to soothe a trembling animal. Or offer comfort without making a show of it. And maybe it was stupid, or selfish, or something worse, but Bucky let himself lean into it.
“I don’t want it to be my first move, Buck. It never is.” Your thumb shifted against the fabric of his sleeve like you couldn’t help it. “When I charge in, when I make a call that looks reckless—it’s not because I’m aiming to die. It’s because in the moment, there’s no better option. No faster way to stop it. No one else in range. Sometimes… sometimes it’s just easier if it’s me.”
His throat was tight. Too tight to speak.
Because he believed you. Of course he did. But that didn’t stop the ache in his chest from flaring sharp and sudden. Didn’t stop the cold curl of dread he felt every single time your comm went quiet. Every time the room stilled after an explosion. Every time he turned and you weren’t there.
His voice came out low, uneven, laced with too much he hadn’t meant to say.
“Just—just stay close to Romanoff tomorrow. Or Stark. Don’t run ahead unless you have to. Don’t be alone when it happens.”
When.
Not if.
He hated how easily the word came out.
You gave him a soft, lopsided smile. The kind that didn’t make it to your eyes but still tried. “It’s alright, Buck. I’ve done this long enough. I’m used to it.”
And that broke something small and vital in him.
“You shouldn’t be.”
His voice was sharp, sudden, louder than he meant. It cut through the hush of the kitchen like a blade. He saw your eyes flicker at the sound, but you didn’t recoil.
“You shouldn’t be used to dying alone,” he said, softer now. Raw. “You shouldn’t come back alone, either.”
He didn’t say the rest. Didn’t say I want to be there. Didn’t say I would hold you through it if you let me. Didn’t say it kills me every time I have to watch you fall.
But he didn’t have to.
Because your expression shifted, just enough.
And then—still slow, still careful—you slid your hand from his forearm down to his wrist. Let your palm settle over the place where his pulse jumped like it was trying to escape.
“I don’t want to get used to it either,” you said quietly. “But if I have to… I’d rather it be you waiting for me when I come back.”
The words lodged deep. Lodged somewhere past logic, past instinct—somewhere in that hollowed-out place he didn’t let anyone touch. And he didn’t know what it meant, not really. Not what it implied or promised or asked of him.
Because that was the one thing he knew how to do.
Wait.
Watch.
Endure the parts no one else wanted to witness.
He’d spent a lifetime surviving the aftermath of things—wars, experiments, governments, grief—and this felt no different. Just another kind of ruin. Just another body he couldn’t stop reaching for. But if there was even a sliver of a choice here, if there was any piece of this he could claim, it would be what you asked.
When you finally looked at him again—wary, uncertain, something like tired hope flickering behind your eyes—all he could do was nod.
The first thing he registered was the sound of his own boots slamming against the tile. The weight of them. The violence of it. Bucky didn’t run in the compound. There was never a need. Never a reason. But now he was sprinting. No hesitation, no precision, just raw momentum. Like if he stopped, the whole world might catch up and swallow him whole.
The overhead lights stuttered past in a blur—white, blue, white, blue—his reflection shattering and reforming in every panel of glass he passed. The comm still buzzed in his ear, but he’d stopped parsing the words. It had become background noise, panic laced with protocol, two voices overlapping in jagged bursts.
“Vitals flatlined—”
“Still no activity—fuck, fuck, we need Bruce—”
“I’ve never seen her take this long—”
“ETA three minutes, someone prep the med bay—”
Tony’s voice cracked on the last word, something clipped and sharp sliding under the usual bravado, and that was what made Bucky run faster.
He didn’t wait for the elevator. Barreled up the north stairwell like it would collapse behind him. His lungs burned. His shoulder ached. He barely registered when he passed Sam near the third-floor turn, just the sound of his name shouted down the corridor, ignored. Nothing else mattered.
Because you were supposed to be back by now.
Not on the quinjet. Not in the air. Not in stasis.
Back.
On your feet. Joking about needing a sandwich. Complaining about the lights being too bright. Mumbling something sarcastic as your system recalibrated. That’s how it always went. Messy, yeah. Ugly, sometimes. But reliable. You came back within the hour. Always. Always.
This time, you hadn’t.
And Bucky had felt the shift in his bones the second the mission feed cut out mid-transmission.
It was subtle at first. Just dead air. Then a flicker of video from Natasha’s body cam—frantic movement, blood on the wall, your body collapsed in a narrow corridor with debris still falling overhead. Tony had shouted something unintelligible over comms. Nat was already kneeling beside you. Trying to wake you. Then the feed cut out again.
Bucky hadn’t heard what happened next.
He didn’t need to.
He knew. He always knew.
And still, he’d waited. Ground his teeth. Paced the hall outside mission ops like a ghost with no orders. Told himself it wasn’t new. Told himself you’d done this dozens of times. Told himself not to make a scene.
But then the timer passed sixty minutes after Tony and Natasha had loaded you onto the quinjet.
Then seventy.
Then ninety.
And no one said it, no one dared, but the silence on the channel had changed. The kind of silence that meant containment, not comfort. Containment of panic. Of grief. Of the beginnings of a body bag.
By the time he reached the landing bay, the hangar doors were already yawning open, air pressure groaning with mechanical grief. Steve was behind him now, not far. Bruce was shouting something to a tech, slamming gloved hands into the control panel and barking for clearance codes. Bucky’s eyes locked on the quinjet’s silhouette as it cut through the horizon, still high, but descending fast. Too fast. The bay lights washed the whole space in a sterile blue that made everything look surgical. Wrong.
The quinjet’s landing gear screamed against the platform as it made contact. The bay was full now—techs, med staff, Bruce at the front with a gurney, clipboard in one hand, tablet in the other, already barking orders before the ramp even dropped. And Bucky—he stood rooted at the bottom of the stairs, fists clenched at his sides, heart hammering like it might give out.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Bucky still expected you to walk off that jet like nothing happened.
There was a part of him, desperate and stubborn, that still clung to that image. That hoped you’d emerge before the engines even powered down—smirking, smug, asking why everyone looked like they’d seen a ghost.
He could almost hear your voice. Relax, Barnes. I’m contractually obligated to survive.
But the ramp dropped. And you didn’t walk out.
Tony did.
No suit. No helmet.
Just his bare hands curled around your limp form. One arm under your knees, the other locked around your back, holding you close to his chest like something fragile. Like something already gone. His face was pale, eyes rimmed red. Whatever had been holding him together on the jet was cracking now, and Bucky watched the breath stutter out of him as he carried you down the ramp and toward the waiting gurney.
Natasha was already moving. Straight to Bruce. Her voice was low, urgent, fast, but Bucky couldn’t hear a damn word of it. It was all static in his skull—white noise flooding out every sense except for the sight of you. Head lolling. Arms dangling. That stupid hoodie half-zipped over your tac gear, stained dark down the front.
No movement. No twitch. No rise of breath.
Tony laid you down without ceremony. Like he couldn’t bear to hold your weight a second longer. His hands hovered as he stepped back, twitching once before curling into fists at his sides.
Bruce was shouting. Snapping gloves on. Calling for neuro pads, ordering an amp of sodium bicarb and a second gurney of crash meds. The med team swarmed, rapid and precise, like they’d rehearsed this. Maybe they had. But none of it made sense to Bucky. Because no one was saying the thing he needed to hear. No one was saying you were alive.
And then you were gone.
Rolled away down the corridor on a rush of wheels and panic, monitors trailing, IV bags bouncing against the rails, Bruce jogging beside the bed while the team barked vitals and stats Bucky couldn’t parse. The doors hissed open. Then closed.
And Bucky moved.
He didn’t remember his legs making the decision—just that he was following, ignoring the hand that caught at his arm, the voice that tried to stop him.
“Bucky—” Natasha’s voice, behind him. “You don’t have to—”
But he did. Of course he did. Where else would he be.
By the time he reached the med bay corridor, the viewing room was already sealed. The glass looked too clean, too polished, reflecting his own wrecked face back at him as he stepped inside. The lights overhead were harsh, clinical. He didn’t blink. Just locked his gaze on the room beyond the glass, where your body lay motionless on the biobed, surrounded by noise.
There were five people in the room with you—Bruce, a trauma nurse, and three field medics. The readouts were red. Your core temp was low. Too low. And that was wrong. Because your body didn’t deteriorate. Not like this. Not if it was going to come back.
Bruce’s voice cut through the comm system, clipped and clinical:
“She’s entering cellular stasis—no signs of resync. EKG flat. Core temp’s dropping—eighty-four and falling. Prep the defib pads. Set to 300 joules.”
Bucky’s stomach twisted.
One of the techs stepped in, gel already applied to the paddles. Bruce checked your chest placement, then gave a nod.
The charge fired. Your body jolted.
No rhythm.
Another nurse adjusted the IV line. “Bicarb’s in. Still no spike in brain activity.”
“Try again,” Bruce snapped.
Another charge. Higher. Your body arched, then slammed back down. No response.
“Still nothing.”
“Try again.”
It was wrong. All of it. Bucky’s nails dug into his palms, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles burned. They were treating you like a patient. Like someone they could save. But this wasn’t how it worked. You didn’t need to be brought back. You just came back—like clockwork, like breath, like gravity. There had never been any need for any involvement.
Bruce turned to the others, rattling off a new protocol—hypothermic suppression, something about delaying tissue damage, prolonging viability. Words like organ stability and neural oxygenation passed between them, and Bucky could barely process it, because all of it translated to the same thing:
You weren’t coming back yet. And they don’t know how long you had.
The door behind him hissed open.
He didn’t turn.
Natasha stepped in without a word. No sound but her boots against the tile as she came to stand beside him. Arms crossed. Face unreadable. She didn’t speak, not at first. She didn’t try to comfort him. Just stood next to him, shoulder to shoulder, and stared through the glass like she was holding vigil too.
It took him several minutes before his voice cracked out of him, low and sharp.
“What happened?”
Natasha didn’t answer right away. She didn’t look at him, either—just kept her arms crossed, gaze fixed on the glass where your body lay surrounded by wires and machines and steady, unchanging noise. He saw the way her jaw flexed. The tick in her cheek like she was chewing through something unspeakable.
And that alone told him this wasn’t routine.
She never hesitated when it was routine.
Finally, her voice cut through the silence—low, clipped, too measured to be natural. “We were clearing a lab. North end of the facility. Looked like abandoned HYDRA tech, but older. Pre-Winter program. Lots of redundancy, lots of analog systems. Nothing networked. Tony was busy cataloging the hard drives—we thought it was just a data dump. Then she found some sort of weapon.”
Bucky didn’t move. He didn’t breathe.
Natasha’s arms tightened against her ribs. “We didn’t even recognize it at first. It wasn’t primed. No energy signatures, no alerts. Looked inert. Like junk.”
His heart slammed harder.
“She picked it up to inspect the casing. Turned it over. There was a crack in the housing. We think the firing mechanism was already damaged. Or maybe proximity triggered it—Bruce or Tony would know better than I would. But it discharged.”
He didn’t speak. Just waited. Let the pause stretch long enough for Natasha to regret telling him anything at all.
“It wasn’t explosive,” she said finally. “No heat, no impact. No shrapnel. But it hit her. One shot. Center mass. We didn’t hear a sound—just this flash of white light, and then she dropped.”
Bucky didn’t react. Couldn’t.
Not at the image of you turning the weapon over in your hands. Not at the thought of white light and silence and you dropping like a puppet with the strings cut. Not even when Natasha’s voice dropped, brittle and precise in a way it only got when she was holding herself together by muscle memory alone.
All he could see—all he could fucking see—was the scene playing out behind the glass. Your stillness. Your silence. The unrelenting machinery keeping your body warm, your blood oxygenated, your brain stem pulsing with artificially induced potential. But not life. Not you.
It hadn’t felt real until now. Not entirely. Panic had a way of making things surreal—like there was still a punchline coming, like it hadn’t fully landed. But this? This was worse. Watching it. Being trapped behind glass while they shocked you over and over, like they were trying to wake a corpse without saying the word.
You’d survived worse. That was the problem.
You’d walked off missions with your ribs in fragments. Pulled yourself out of burning wreckage. Sat up after being shot in the head. He’d seen it. He’d held you while your pulse fluttered back under his palm. He knew the rhythm of your breath when it restarted. Knew how your fingers twitched first, then your jaw. Knew how you blinked like you were trying to remember the shape of your name.
But now you weren’t even twitching.
And his brain was starting to do that thing it did—the one where it spiraled so hard it looped, where logic cracked open and left nothing but noise behind. Because if it was taking this long… if Bruce didn’t have a timeline… if even Tony was panicking—
“She’s not gone.”
Natasha’s voice was quiet. Steady. Like she’d seen the spiral forming in his posture before he had.
“She’s not,” she repeated, sharper this time. “There’s no sign of neurological decay. Tony said her cortex is holding. There’s no evidence to suggest she won’t come back.”
Bucky’s jaw clenched.
“She flatlined for forty-seven minutes that time in Syria,” Nat added, tone more clinical now, like she was reciting a file to ground them both. “We all thought it was over. Bruce was five seconds from calling it when she sat up and asked if we’d eaten her snacks.”
He wanted to believe that should’ve helped. That it mattered. That past precedent meant something. But it didn’t settle the pressure behind his eyes, or the fire crawling up his throat.
“This is different,” he muttered.
Natasha didn’t argue.
He turned just enough to glance at her, the flick of his gaze heavy and pointed. “You’ve never been an optimist.”
“I’m not,” she said simply. “But I’m also not an idiot. If she were really gone, we’d know.”
He let out a bitter, humorless breath. “We’re watching them electroshock her chest every five minutes. You sure we’d know?”
Natasha’s lips twitched—not a smile, not even close. Just something flickering beneath the surface. “You think she’d let some half-functioning relic weapon be the thing that takes her out? After everything she’s lived through?”
He didn’t answer.
But he didn’t disagree, either.
“Tony’s running the analysis now,” she continued. “Whatever that thing was—it wasn’t designed to kill conventionally. That much is clear. It’s probably why it didn’t even register as active. He thinks it might’ve been experimental stasis tech—some kind of field disruptor. Lock the target in a non-degrading state. But even that’s just a theory.”
Bucky ground the heel of his palm against his brow. The ache had started somewhere deep, beneath his skull, where stress nested and bloomed.
His hand pressed harder. “If she doesn’t come back—”
“She will.”
“Nat.”
“She will, Bucky.”
There was a buzzing.
Not a sound. Not exactly. More like a current running through your skin, deep beneath the layers—like someone had threaded copper wire through your veins and left it live. Everything felt… charged. Damp. Wrong.
The air was heavy, too close. Your teeth ached. Your ribs didn’t feel like they belonged to you.
You opened your eyes, maybe. At least you thought you did. Everything was too bright and too dark at once. The edges of the world were sliding. The walls were breathing. Your lungs weren’t. Not quite. Your throat was raw, like you’d been screaming or swallowing metal or—no, not screaming. That would’ve made sense.
You blinked again, or tried to. The room didn’t shift.
There was a room, wasn’t there?
Something sterile. Bleached light, white tile, silver machinery that hummed like it was alive and watching. Somewhere in the distance, maybe inside your skull, a sound repeated over and over. A slow metronome. A beep. You couldn’t tell if it was coming from you or something next to you. Or beneath you. You couldn’t tell where you were at all.
Your hands weren’t hands. Just weight. Ghosted nerves. One of them trembled. The other didn’t.
You tried to sit up. The effort felt like drowning in a body that hadn’t been built for you. Your limbs didn’t respond so much as wobble, twitching into motion with a lag like bad video playback.
Your feet hit the floor. Bare. Cold. You didn’t remember standing. Didn’t remember walking. But the next time you blinked, the bed was behind you, its sheets twisted like a fight had happened there.
You were… moving. One step. Then another.
The hallway felt endless. Pale and wrong, like a dream version of the compound—hall lights too dim, shadows too tall, silence pressing too close to your skin. There was a tug in your chest. A flicker of wrongness beneath your breastbone, like the rhythm in your body hadn’t fully started yet. Or like it had started crooked.
You touched the wall for balance. The material was cold and real and buzzing. Or maybe that was still you. Maybe it wasn’t the wall at all.
You weren’t dressed right. Thin fabric hung off your shoulders—hospital gown. You registered that in a floaty, useless sort of way. Legs bare. No shoes. One IV port still half-taped to your arm, the cannula snapped off but the tubing still there.
No one was in the hall. Or maybe they were. Maybe you weren’t seeing them right.
You should’ve gone back. Sat down. Laid down. But your feet kept moving. Left, right, wrong. Left again.
You didn’t know where you were going. You just needed something. Somewhere.
Suddenly, there was a shape ahead. Dark. Tall. Solid.
For one sharp, blinding second, your heart kicked up like it was trying to reboot again, like it had seen something familiar enough to latch onto.
You paused.
You heard a name in your head, but didn’t feel right. It didn’t fit. You tried to reach for it and came up empty.
You blinked, slow and sticky. There was something familiar about him. Something that sent a lurch through your ribs. Broad shoulders. Dark shirt. Dark jeans. Hands clenched at his sides.
Your mouth opened to speak, but nothing came out but a dry, broken sound.
And then there was movement. Too fast for your brain to register. Your legs staggered back a step, warning sparks flaring through your nerves, but there wasn’t enough time. He reached you. Arms wrapped around you like a snap, like a catch, like a promise made good on. It knocked the air from your lungs. Or maybe you’d forgotten how to breathe.
You gasped into the fabric of his shirt. Cold hands on your spine. His arms iron-wrapped around your shoulders, your ribs, your back. Unyielding. Like he couldn’t hold you hard enough.
You didn’t remember how to respond. Your hands hovered, limp, not sure what to do. Not sure if this was safe. Not sure if this was real. Everything felt out of sync.
He pulled back.
Just enough.
Calloused and cold metal hands cupped your face. His thumbs swept under your eyes, across your cheekbones. His touch was trembling. His breath hitched. You blinked up at him, and for the first time, the shape of him sharpened. The fragments aligned. You saw the worry carved into every inch of his expression—the eyes too wide, jaw tight, lips parted like he wanted to say something but couldn’t.
“...Bucky?”
Your own voice startled you. Dry and thready, like it had been caught somewhere deep in your chest and dragged out raw. It barely sounded like you. But he reacted to it like a knife.
His breath caught. His jaw trembled. And then he let out this low, uneven exhale, like it had been sitting in his lungs for years.
“Yeah,” he rasped. “Yeah. I’m here.”
His hands were still on your face. Still grounding you, brushing warmth over your cheeks in shaky passes like he wasn’t convinced you wouldn’t vanish if he let go.
You stared up at him, and for a long moment, all you could do was look. Trace the mess of emotion behind his eyes. The strain in his posture. The red-rimmed edge of grief barely reined in. You could feel it in his touch, too—not just relief, but fear. The kind that lingered even after the danger had passed.
Something in you ached.
You didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to say anything. Your body still felt wrong. Out of order. Like it had been rebooted without your permission and the software hadn’t finished syncing yet.
He pulled his hands back slowly. Gave you space. But didn’t step away.
“What…” you swallowed, but your throat burned. “What happened?”
Bucky’s eyes searched yours. Carefully. Slowly. As if he were checking to see just how much of you had come back.
“You tell me,” he said, voice low. “What do you remember?”
Your brow furrowed. You tried to think. Tried to pull something forward.
There had been a mission. You remembered that.
Tony, Natasha, an old facility. HYDRA tech. Dust and rust and data cores. A strange silence under the floor. Static in your comms.
Your stomach turned.
“I—uh. We were clearing a lab,” you murmured. Your own voice sounded off—like it belonged to someone else, like it had been stored too long in a drawer and didn’t quite fit anymore. “Tony was pulling drives. Nat was checking the walls. I saw a piece of something near the far console—looked like an old shell casing, but smooth. Heavy.”
You paused. Closed your eyes.
“I turned it over.”
Bucky’s hands didn’t move. His eyes were locked on yours.
You swallowed, mouth dry. “There was a flash. White light.”
It hit you then. Like a thread being yanked too hard. Like memory trying to force its way back through a door that wasn’t fully open.
“I got hit by it,” you whispered. “Didn’t I?”
He didn’t answer. Just stared at you with something carved into every inch of his expression—exhaustion, disbelief, something ancient and brittle and on the edge of breaking.
“I died?”
The words felt too loud. Too sharp in the silence of the hallway.
Bucky exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for hours. “Yeah.”
And something about that didn’t make sense. Not the dying, that part settled in your chest like it had always been waiting to happen, but the not knowing. The blank space. That was new. That was wrong. Every other time it had happened, you remembered it all. The hit, the fall, the final breath. The fading. The return. You always remembered. Even the worst of it. Especially the worst.
Your lungs forgot how to breathe again.
You stared at him, heart thudding, pulse catching somewhere behind your ribs. There was no way to make sense of the quiet horror creeping through your chest—not when the room felt too still, too flat, like gravity was being dialed back inch by inch. Like something essential had shifted and no one had warned you.
“How long?” The words rasped from you before you could fully catch them, dry and soft and sharp all at once.
Because that had to be it, right? That was the only thing that made sense. That strange, sterile absence, like someone had taken a scalpel to your memory and carved a clean edge around it. The only thing that could explain it was time. Too much of it.
Bucky’s expression flickered. His jaw tightened, just slightly, and his eyes dropped for the first time—not in shame, not in guilt, but like he didn’t want to hurt you with the answer. Like even saying it might knock something loose that neither of you could ever put back.
“Three days,” he said quietly.
You blinked. The number didn’t land at first. It circled above you, weightless, disbelieving.
“Three days?” You echoed it like a question, but you already knew it wasn’t.
Your fingers curled against the front of his shirt, the fabric bunching between your knuckles like it could steady you somehow.
It had never been that long before. Never more than minutes, maybe up to an hour, maybe. You’d always come back fast. Always. That was the unspoken rule—get hurt, go dark, and snap back into the world before anyone even had time to mourn you. But this…
Three entire days of silence. Of stillness. Of him, of all of them, thinking you were gone for good.
“Oh my god,” you choked out. It ripped from your throat like it had claws. “Bucky. I’m so sorry.”
You didn’t even mean to say it at first. It just burst out of you, clumsy and frantic, like your own voice couldn’t get ahead of the guilt rising fast and unstoppable in your chest.
“I didn’t mean to—fuck—I didn’t know. I didn’t know it would take that long. I thought—I thought I’d come back like always. I didn’t think—” Your voice cracked, all the breath leaving your lungs in one crushing wave.
He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you like he wasn’t sure how to hold both your apology and his own devastation at the same time. His mouth opened, then closed again. And then he reached for you—more confident this time, more desperate too—and pulled you into his chest like it was the only thing keeping him together.
“Hey. No.” His voice was low against your ear, strained but steady. “Don’t do that. It’s not your fault. It was never your fault.”
You wanted to argue. You knew it wasn’t logical, that this wasn’t a choice you made, it wasn’t something you did or forgot or failed to prevent, but that didn’t stop the guilt from clawing its way up anyway. It didn’t stop the ache of imagining what it must have looked like from the outside—your body going still, time dragging on, and nothing changing.
You melted into him, arms curling around his waist as if your bones remembered the shape of him before your brain could catch up. Your face pressed into the worn fabric of his shirt, where it clung damp to his chest, and you could feel it. His heartbeat. A steady, shaking rhythm like it had forgotten how to pace itself without yours beside it.
Your hands fisted at the back of his shirt, fingertips curling like maybe if you held him tightly enough, you could undo it. Take it all back. Erase the look in his eyes. Rewind whatever hell he’d been living through in those three days without you.
“I didn’t want to leave you,” you murmured again, the words barely a breath this time. “I didn’t know—I didn’t think—I’ve never… I’ve never been gone that long, Bucky. I didn’t even know it was possible. It’s always seconds. Minutes. I blink and I’m back. But this…”
You felt him nod against your temple, slow and pained. “I know,” he said. “I know, baby.”
He didn’t let go. Not entirely. Even as you pulled back just enough to look at him, his hand stayed on the side of your neck, like maybe if he kept some part of you anchored, it would keep you from vanishing again. You weren’t sure if the trembling in his fingers was from adrenaline, or if you were just imagining it. But it felt real. Realer than anything else.
You searched his face, trying to memorize him all over again. The lines carved harder into his brow. The shadows under his eyes. The flecks of grey threading through overgrown stubble at his jaw. Things you’d seen a hundred times before, but now, somehow, it felt like starting over. Like he’d aged a lifetime in those three days, and you hadn’t been there to watch it happen.
Your throat worked. “You look like you haven’t slept.”
He huffed a breath, humorless. “Didn’t really want to.”
“Bucky…”
“I kept thinking…” He paused, jaw flexing. “If I closed my eyes, maybe I’d miss it. You coming back. Maybe I’d wake up and you’d be gone again. For good.”
His voice cracked halfway through and you felt it in your ribs like a bruise. It stole the breath from your lungs. You reached for him without thinking, hand sliding up to his chest again like it was the only place you knew how to go.
“I’m here now,” you said, and it came out steadier than you felt. “I came back.”
His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. But, god, you were cold, sweetheart. You were—fuck. I held you and you were cold. And I didn’t know how to come back from that.”
A sound punched out of your chest. Some awful, broken thing that didn’t even feel like your own voice. You didn’t mean to cry. You didn’t want to cry. But something inside you cracked wide open, and all you could do was stand there, chest pressed to his, hands curled into the collar of his shirt like you needed to feel the beat of his pulse to convince yourself you weren’t still dead.
“But you came back,” he whispered. “You came back. That’s all I care about.”
“I’m so sorry,” you said again, but softer now. “I didn’t mean to put you through that. Any of you.”
His gaze found yours again after a few silent beats. “You didn’t put us through anything. You’ve saved our asses more times than I can count. You’ve carried me out of the field more than once. You think I wouldn’t wait three fucking days for you?”
Your throat went tight.
He shifted, one hand sliding from your back to cradle your jaw with aching care. His thumb brushed along your cheekbone, his voice dropping even lower. “You didn’t just die. You scared the hell out of me. I thought you’d left me.”
You closed your eyes against the burn. “I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to leave you, Buck. Not ever.”
Something in his expression shattered, cracked open, soft and sharp and impossibly tender all at once. “Then don’t,” he said, just above a whisper. “Don’t go anywhere.”
You leaned into him again, because you didn’t know what else to do. There weren’t enough words to explain the grief of being gone, or the miracle of not being gone. Of being here, now, in this dim hallway with the man who refused to let you die without a fight.
His nose brushed against your hair as he exhaled, the tension in his chest finally loosening where it pressed against yours. “But,” he murmured, reluctant, a thread of warmth tugging at the corner of his mouth, “we should probably get you back to your room before Bruce finds out you wandered off. Otherwise he’ll have a coronary.”
You huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t caught on the remains of a sob. It escaped anyway, quiet and shaky, against the curve of his shoulder as you melted into him again. Your forehead pressed beneath his jaw, your fingers curling loosely into the fabric at his side like you didn’t trust your legs to keep holding you up, like maybe you didn’t have to.
And you didn’t. Not with him. His arms shifted, steady and sure, one looping behind your knees, the other bracing your back as he lifted you without hesitation. You didn’t protest. Just let yourself be carried, the heat of his chest against yours the only reminder you were still here—alive, alive, alive.
The cotton scrubs were gone, thank god, and you were finally back in your own clothes. A soft, lived-in hoodie, sleeves pushed halfway up your arms, and your favorite pair of sweatpants that had survived more missions than they probably should have.
You sat perched on the edge of the med bay bed, feet swinging slightly off the floor. The sterile scent of antiseptic still clung to everything, and you swore you could hear the damn EKG machine phantom-beeping in the back of your mind, even though Bruce had finally stopped hooking you up to it.
Bucky stood next to you, close enough that his thigh brushed your knee every time he shifted his weight. He hadn’t gone far since you’d woken up. Sometimes he wandered out for coffee, sometimes not even that. You knew the way he hovered was more for his own sake than yours, and you let him. His hand rested casually on your shoulder now, his thumb running slow, grounding passes along the curve of your collarbone like he was trying to memorize the rhythm of your breathing.
Bruce was talking. You’d missed the first sentence—your brain still had a habit of fogging over, like a page half-erased and rewritten at the same time—but you refocused in time to catch the tone of curiosity in his voice, the kind he only ever got when he was equal parts disturbed and intrigued.
“…not a shell casing,” Bruce said, half to himself as he tapped at his tablet. “Or, well—it was shaped like one. That was intentional. Camouflage. What you picked up was a containment vessel.”
“A vessel,” you repeated, brows drawing inward.
Bruce nodded. “Specifically, a dampening field housed inside a compression matrix. HYDRA tech, but not HYDRA-built. We found alien alloy markers in the molecular structure—Xandarian, we think, maybe even adapted from something Kree. That’s why it didn’t register right away on Tony’s scans. It’s old. Repurposed.”
“And boobytrapped,” Tony added, from where he was leaning against the counter with a tablet of his own, fingers tapping fast. His gaze flicked up toward you. “You’re lucky it only discharged once.”
You blinked slowly. “So I… what? Triggered it by picking it up?”
Bruce hesitated, glanced at Tony, then looked back at you. “It was proximity-based. Designed to activate if someone with a certain energy signature got too close.”
You frowned. “What kind of energy signature?”
“Yours,” Tony said, like it was obvious. “Which is why it shorted. It wasn’t supposed to come into contact with whatever the hell you are for more than a second.”
You opened your mouth, closed it again. Your stomach turned. “I’m sorry—what I am?”
Bruce stepped in gently. “That’s not how we meant it. It’s just… we’ve never really gotten to study what happens to you. When you die.”
Bucky stiffened beside you, his hand stilling on your shoulder. You could feel the way the air changed, but Bruce didn’t flinch. He just met your eyes with a softness you didn’t expect.
“We’ve always assumed you regenerate,” Bruce continued. “That it’s some kind of cellular rebirth. Maybe quantum in nature, maybe metaphysical. But this time… this time we had data. You were out long enough for us to run the scans. To observe.”
You felt your pulse stutter. “And?”
Bruce turned the screen toward you. It displayed several charts—brainwaves, cellular readouts, something about energy dispersal. None of it meant anything to you. But the look in his eyes did. That hint of wonder behind all the science.
“You weren’t regenerating,” he said softly. “You were… gone. Dead. No neural activity. No cellular motion. For seventy three hours, you were—there was nothing.”
“But she came back,” Bucky said quietly, firmly, like he had to say it out loud to believe it. “You came back.”
Bruce nodded slowly. “And that’s the thing. We did see something shift. Around the seventy-hour, fifty-five-minute mark, there was a surge—massive, sudden, untraceable to any physical origin point. It wasn’t just energy. It was like… space itself rewrote you.”
You stared at him. Your skin prickled.
“What does that mean?” you asked, your voice too thin.
Tony finally set the tablet down. “It means whatever’s happening to you—it’s not biological. Not entirely. You don’t regenerate. You reboot. Like your existence is being rewritten every time. Like someone’s hitting a reset switch.”
Silence.
Bucky’s hand tightened gently on your shoulder, and your eyes flicked toward him. He looked calm. But only on the surface. You knew better than to trust that expression—he was the king of silent panic.
“Any idea who or what is doing the rewriting?” he asked.
Bruce hesitated. “We don’t know. It’s beyond our instruments. Beyond anything we’ve seen. It’s like you disappear from this reality, and then—bam. You’re back. Same cells, same vitals, same memories. Except this time, you were out too long. And your body didn’t come back on its own.”
You swallowed hard. “So what did?”
Bruce and Tony exchanged a look again, and it was Tony who answered this time—quiet, rare for him. “That’s the question. Because whatever it was… it didn’t come from here. Not from this plane, or dimension, or hell, even this time signature. But something out there yanked you back.”
You leaned forward slightly, elbows to your knees, head in your hands.
“And if it happens again?”
Bruce didn’t answer.
But Bucky did.
“Then we’ll be ready,” he said, his voice low, rough with something that sounded like a vow. “We’ll bring you back. No matter what it takes.”
no more taglists! tumblr’s @ limit said no 💔 follow @cheekybarnesupdates + turn on notifs for all fic drops!
winter soldier x reader / thunderbolts!bucky x reader
word count: 18.7k
you fell in love with the man who trained you in the red room. he helped you escape - and made you promise to never look back. years later, when an old friend asks for your help, you find yourself working with a group of anti-heroes. including him.
warnings/tags: 18+ only mdni, smut, ex widow reader, angst, heartbreak, thunderbolts timeline, pre-winter soldier movie timeline, mentions of blood, canon level violence, probably poorly translated russian, no use of y/n, reader is afab, oral, unprotected p in v, reader is implied to be shorter than bucky, reader's age isn't specified but she is an adult throughout the whole story, slow burn as fuck but happy ending i promise
thank you so much to @starsoverbrooklyn and @whereiweep for letting me yap about this for over a month and for reading over it for me. ily and appreciate you both so much.
i made a little playlist for this fic. you definitely don’t have to listen to it, but here it is if you want to give it a listen for the vibes ✨🖤
Circa 2013
“Согните локти. Я не хочу повторять это снова.”
You grit your teeth at his words. He only speaks to you in Russian when he means business - it's a force of habit for him, more than anything, but you can't help but feel the stinging pinch of disappointment anytime he speaks to you in the language.
His voice is always a tad colder. More mechanical. Like he's talking to one of the handlers. Like he's a little less himself.
Whoever that may be.
Bend your elbows. I don’t want to have to tell you again.
“My elbows are bent,” you say flatly. It’s a bold face lie - you know damn well you tend to hyper-extend your arms when they start to get tired during target practice. He reminds you of it often.
“Come and get a closer look and see for yourself,” you taunt him.
He says nothing. After a second of loaded silence, the sound of his combat boots against the floor echoes through the room as he takes deliberately slow steps toward you. He probably thinks he's intimidating you - and judging by the way your breath catches in your throat as he closes in on you, it’s a safe assumption.
You maintain your position when he comes to a stop just inches behind you. Your index finger hovers above the trigger as you try to ignore the way your heart races as he looms over you from behind.
It isn't a reaction born from fear. It’s excitement. So often you try to draw him in closer, though it’s rare that he actually indulges in your scheming.
He stands close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath on the back of your neck. You blink rapidly, as if it will somehow make the goosebumps that have suddenly appeared on your skin dissipate.
He raises his metal hand to your arm from his position behind you, placing his fingers against the bend of your elbow and applying just enough pressure so that you relax the position of your arm. Then, using his flesh hand, repeats the action on your opposite arm.
“Now,” he breathes in perfectly clear English, “if you’re finished trying to get my attention, shoot the target.”
You blink. Once, then twice, and then squeeze the trigger. Only after a perfect succession of hits, do you remember to breathe.
“See,” he muses, his voice softening the slightest bit. “You've got great aim, when you aren’t being childish.”
You whip around, turning to face him. Your chest brushes against his, but he doesn’t move an inch. Steel blue eyes bore into yours, unblinking. His jaw is set in a hard line, but you don’t miss the way his Adam’s apple bobs at the sudden close proximity.
It's moments like this that you’d do anything to know his name. You’ve wondered what it could be a thousand times. Henry? William? Daniel?
None of those names seem to suit him. But you know better than to ask. Every time you do, you’re met with a blank expression and loaded silence.
“Am I being childish?” You challenge. “Or do I just find all of these extra lessons a little…unnecessary? I don’t see anyone else getting this level of one-on-one attention. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you might be growing fond of me, Soldat.”
His expression remains stoic. Your eyes begin to sting, but you refuse to be the first to blink.
“If these extra lessons help to keep you alive, then they are not unnecessary to me.”
He suddenly steps back, distancing himself from you a mere second before the double doors on the other side of the room come flying open and two Hydra agents barge inside. They bark commands at him in thick Russian accents, effectively breaking any tension that had been brewing between you. Still, his gaze remains on you.
“Любить — недостаточно сильное слово.”
With his back turned to the guards, he says the words low enough so that only you hear them. He then turns and follows the agents out of the room, leaving you alone to wonder if you’d heard him correctly.
Fond is not a strong enough word.
☆☆☆☆☆☆
A fortnight passes before you see him again.
Each night, you fall asleep replaying the last words he said to you on an endless loop. With every day that passes, you’re more and more convinced that you had hallucinated his confession.
It's rare that you go this long without seeing him. Your sessions together had become something of a routine, and you find yourself wandering aimlessly in your limited amount of free time each day, just hoping to run into him around the bleak and depressing facility that you're forced to call home.
You just need a few minutes with him - just long enough to confirm that you aren’t going crazy. That he really did say those words to you before seemingly vanishing like smoke.
You find yourself longing to get him alone. Really alone. Not in the way that you’re alone when he’s making you fight him in hand to hand combat or shoot at the same target for the twentieth time and someone could walk in at any moment. Completely and utterly alone - away from here, away from Hydra, away from the Red Room.
Maybe then he’d open up and at least tell you his name.
But it’s just a fantasy. Merely something for you to maladaptive daydream about in order to get through the day when he's nowhere to be found. The likelihood of ever seeing him outside of these walls is slim to none, but that doesn’t stop you from fantasizing about it far more often than you care to admit.
It's three in the morning and you’re staring up at your ceiling in the pitch black when you hear a sudden commotion of slamming doors and loud, angry voices. You sit up, holding your breath as you listen. There’s only so much that you can make out from down the hallway, behind the closed door of your room, but it’s enough to make your heart thud in your chest.
The soldier. The asset. Soldat. All spat in the same tone of disgust.
You get out of bed, tip-toeing across the room to press an ear against your door in hopes of hearing his voice. You just want confirmation that he’s okay - that he’s alive.
All that you’re able to hear is the voice of the guards, one indistinguishable from the next. Within a minute, the voices dissipate and the night is silent once more.
Your thoughts begin to spiral and your stomach churns with nausea. There’s no use in even trying to sleep now. There’s no way your brain will allow you to relax enough to fall asleep until you know that he’s alright.
You’ve lived in this facility for years. You know it like the back of your hand - even sections that are supposed to be off limits. You’ve never been to his quarters, but you know your way around well enough to get there. You don’t have any intention of actually approaching him; the last thing you want is to do anything that could cause the guards to refer to him with so much venom in their voices again.
Just to hear the shuffling of his covers or low snores from behind his door would be enough to ease your worrying until you see him again.
The compound is eerily silent at night. You don’t bother putting on shoes, as you’re able to walk more quietly without the shuffling of your slippers. The metal flooring of the hallway feels like ice against your feet, making you wish you had at least thrown a hoodie or cardigan over your camisole.
Without any windows or lights on, navigating your way through the endless maze of hallways is borderline impossible. You have to rely on touch more than sight, keeping your hands extended in front of you to feel for anything you might run into. Eventually, you make your way to the basement, where you’re relieved to see that the long hallway is illuminated by dimly lit sconces, each placed a few yards apart.
From the opposite end of the hallway, you hear what you believe to be running water - a faucet or shower. You follow the sound until you come to a closed door with faint yellow light spilling from the crack at the floor. You freeze, waiting to hear some kind of movement or see some kind of shadow appear on the sliver of light.
“I know you’re out there. You aren’t nearly as quiet as you think you are.”
You exhale through your nose at the sound of his voice, releasing the breath you didn't realize you’d been holding in. His voice is as serious as ever, and there’s an unusually strained edge to it, but he’s alive, so you can’t help but feel relieved.
“How’d you know it’s me?” You murmur back.
He’s silent for a few moments. You start to worry that you’re bothering him when the door opens up, startling you - for more reasons than one.
“I can smell you. I recognized your scent.”
Your eyes go wide as your mouth hangs open in shock and horror. He pulls you into the bathroom and closes the door before the first question can leave your lips.
The left side of his face is marred by a reddish-purple bruise that covers his eye and extends down to his cheekbone. His bottom lip is just as swollen, with a split down the middle. There’s dried blood concentrated around his nose, indicating injury there as well.
Only after taking in the jarring discoloration across his face do you realize that he isn't wearing a shirt. Your gaze trails to the raised, jagged scar tissue where the flesh of his shoulder meets the metal that is his left arm. You aren't sure how he lost the limb - you’ve never asked - but the scarring tells you it was brutal and violent.
“Who did this to you?” You whisper, not trusting your voice. The same feeling of nausea that came over you when you’d overheard the guards talking about him washes over you once more.
He swallows thickly, his jaw tensing as he grits his teeth. He doesn’t answer before he turns away from you to look at himself in the bathroom mirror. Deep down, you already know the answer.
“Part of my latest assignment didn’t go as intended. It’s my own fault.”
You can tell by his tone of voice that not only does he blame himself, but that he thinks he’s deserving of the punishment. You don’t care what the assignment was, or how it went wrong - you refuse to believe that he could deserve such cruelty.
You don’t know his story. For all you know, maybe he chose this life. But if he’s anything like you - and every fiber of your being is screaming that he is - then you know that he had as little choice as you did when you were thrust into this world of malevolence.
No matter his history and how he found himself to be in the position that he’s in, it hurts you to see him in this state. If you could, you’d take it all away - the scars, the pain, the weight of all of his responsibilities.
You slowly walk towards him, coming to a stop when you’re standing directly behind him. With one hand, you grab the damp washcloth that he’d been using to clean himself up with off of the vanity.
“Turn around,” you instruct him softly. You aren’t sure why you’re surprised when he obeys without hesitation - his entire life is taking orders from others. It stings a little; just how quickly he turns to face you, because you know it isn’t purely out of trust. It’s out of habit of doing what he’s told.
You keep your eyes locked on him as you tentatively raise the cloth to his face. You gauge his reaction to make sure he isn’t going to move away or tell you to stop. When he doesn't flinch, or even blink, you delicately sweep the wet rag along his bottom lip, letting the dried blood melt away.
“You’ve been sending me mixed signals, you know,” you hum, breaking the heavy silence looming over you. “A confession like that followed by two weeks of silence really fucks with a girl’s head.”
He waits until you finish cleaning his lip to speak. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
His answer stings. You don’t know which would hurt worse - your brain playing a cruel joke on you and making up the entire scenario, or it really happening and him regretting it.
“Did you mean it?”
“Yes.” He pauses. You wait with bated breath. “I did mean it. But I still shouldn’t have said it.”
The goosebumps on your skin, originally caused by the chilly night air, are now from his words. His stare. His close proximity to you. You can’t help but wonder when the last time that someone, anyone, stood so close to him without the intention of inflicting pain was.
You’ve been this close to him before. Closer, even. But always for the intents of training. Never quite like this. Never in a way that you can study every individual freckle, wrinkle, and scar on his skin.
Even as bloodied and bruised as he is, you've never seen anyone even a fraction as beautiful as him. You believe there’s a real possibility that he’s an angel; outcast from heaven and damned to hell. Here.
They’re likely the same place. The only possible difference between the two is that here has him.
When you finally finish ridding his skin of all of the dried blood, you reluctantly start to drop your hand from his face, but he stops you. He grabs your hand in his flesh one, keeping it near his cheek. With his metal hand, he takes the bloodied rag from you and tosses it somewhere behind you.
His skin feels like fire against your own and blood pounds in your ears as he slowly brings your hand to his mouth. He presses his lips to the top of your knuckles, all the while never taking his eyes off of yours.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmurs as he lowers your hand away from his lips. The words snap you back to harsh reality. You pull your hand out of his grasp, stepping back to put a few inches of space between the two of you.
“Right,” you whisper, not trusting your voice to speak at a normal volume. You clear your throat and reach for the doorknob. “I’m sorry. I’ll go—"
“That’s not what I mean,” he interrupts, stepping forward. You freeze. “I’m not referring to this bathroom. You shouldn’t be in the Red Room. You should be far away from here.”
Without thinking, you close what little distance is left between you. Your hands settle on either side of his waist, his muscles taut under your palms. He tilts his head down, resting his forehead against yours.
“I could say the same about you,” you hum. His fingers trail up the sides of your arms; the warmth of his skin on one and the chill of metal on the other. When he reaches the top of your shoulders, he cups the sides of your face in his hands. “Something tells me you shouldn’t be here, either.”
He shakes his head, his eyes cinched shut. His swollen, pink lips form something akin to a grimace. “No,” he whispers. “No. The things I’ve done… this is where I should be.”
“I don’t believe that.”
Before he can try to convince you otherwise, you lift yourself by the tips of your toes to press your lips to his.
You can count on one hand the number of times that your lips have touched someone else’s. This kind of life doesn’t allow much time for simple pleasures - bubble baths, watching a morning sunrise while drinking coffee, long drives with your favorite music blaring.
Kissing.
Despite your inexperience, you’ve been kissed enough to know how it feels. At least, you thought you did. Now, you’re not so sure. Because this - this feels entirely different. The way he kisses you as if you're the air he needs to breathe and holds you like a fragile lifeline is brand new to you.
Even though you had wiped the blood off of him, he still tastes faintly of iron from the cut on his bottom lip. He’s hesitant at first - like he knows he shouldn’t be doing this yet physically can’t hold himself back. But your tongue sweeps along the swell of his bottom lip and he loses all restraint.
His hands - hands that you have seen snap bones like twigs and pull countless triggers - now tremble as they caress your face. His flesh hand trails down to the side of your neck and he tilts your head back, deepening the kiss and slipping his tongue past your lips. His movements are slow and intentional, like he’s trying to memorize your mouth before the moment can shatter around you.
You release an involuntary whimper into his mouth and something within him snaps. He drops his hands to the curve of your ass and hoists you up around his midsection. The sudden movement startles you and you gasp, but the noise is swallowed by him. He spins around, plopping you against the cold marble countertop.
You secure your legs around him, keeping him flush against you. Your fingers dart to the long locks of his brunet hair when the sudden, loud pounding of a fist against the bathroom door rings like a gunshot through the night.
“Soldat,” a deep, monotone voice calls from the other side. You recognize it from when you’d heard the commotion in the hallway not long ago. “You are needed upstairs for a mission report.”
You both go completely still, too terrified to even breathe. You hadn’t locked the door. If the guard so much as cracks the door open, the two of you would be exposed. He holds a singular metal digit up to his lips, indicating for you to stay silent.
“I’m almost finished cleaning up,” he barks back, his voice robotic and void of emotion. “I will be there soon.”
“Hurry up,” the guard snaps. “Or you’ll have even more to clean up.”
By some miracle, his footsteps begin to retreat down the hallway. You exhale in relief, your heart beating wildly in your chest.
“I should have heard him,” he mutters lowly, shaking his head. He steps back, leaving you sitting on the edge of the counter. You fight against the automatic urge to pull him back to you. “I was distracted.”
“We both were,” you breathe. “I didn’t hear him either. We just…have to be careful.”
He looks down at the floor with a furrowed brow.
“I can’t be careful enough when it comes to you. This can’t happen again. Not here.”
He steps forward, grabbing your face in his hands. You think - hope - he might kiss you again, but he doesn’t. He just looks down at you, a storm of different emotions in his blue eyes. He ghosts his flesh thumb across your cheekbone as if you’re made of glass.
“I’m going to get you out of this place. Even if they kill me for it.”
He drops his hold on you and backs away. You shake your head, opening your mouth to tell him to stop being ridiculous, but he turns the doorknob and slips through the opening before you can get a word out. It clicks shut by the time you hop down from the countertop. You stand in stunned silence, your brain reeling as you try to make sense of everything that happened in the last five minutes.
You try to calm down before risking the journey back to your sleeping quarters but with each deep breath in, you think of how his lips felt on yours and with every long exhale, his words echo through your mind.
Fond is not a strong enough word.
I did mean it. But I still shouldn’t have said it. You shouldn’t be here. I can’t be careful enough when it comes to you.
I’m going to get you out of this place. Even if they kill me for it.
You lose track of how long you stay in the bathroom. Though it’s small, it feels infinitely bigger, and colder, without him in it.
When you finally sneak back to your room, the digital alarm clock on your nightstand reads 4:28 am. There’s no use in trying to go back to sleep now, as you and the other widows are expected to be awake and ready to begin your morning routines in only an hour. Still, you lay down, not quite ready to face the day.
When your head hits the pillow, you hear a faint crinkling noise close to your ear. You reach beside you, turning on your lamp. You lift the pillow, revealing a white piece of paper folded into a perfect square.
Before you unfold it, you have a gut feeling who it is from. Or maybe it's just irrational hope.
You don’t recognize the handwriting. The first few words are messy - childlike. Nearly illegible. The last words, however, are a little bit easier to read. As if whoever wrote the message hadn’t written anything in a while and had to remember how to hold a pen.
Friday night. 2100 hours. South watchtower. Keep your distance until then. Tell no one. Destroy this after reading.
Friday night - that’s a whole five days away.
He’s plotting something. And you can only hope that it involves both of you getting out of here alive.
☆☆☆☆☆☆
The following days feel like a slow dissent into madness.
You don’t see or hear a word from him. Each day, upon returning to your room after nonstop training, you check under your pillow in hopes of finding another note, only to be met with disappointment. You long for more information - what exactly is going to happen on Friday night? How long will it take the handlers to realize that you’re missing? The tracking device located just under the skin of your left thigh will surely alert them of your desertion. What is his plan? Has he thought of everything that could go disastrously wrong?
And the question that lingers in the forefront of your mind - what you desire an answer to more than anything else - wherever you’re going, will he be going with you?
The mere possibility of the answer being no is enough to make you sick to your stomach.
You’ve barely eaten in days. You have no appetite - not that the food served in the mess hall is ever truly appetizing, but you feel the desire to eat even less than usual. On top of that, you’ve been so distracted that you’re covered in tender bruises from having your ass handed to you during sparring sessions. You haven’t been able to focus on anything the entire week, and others are starting to notice your mental absence.
“Where have you been the last few days?” A feminine, Russian accent startles you in the hallway as you walk back to your quarters on Thursday evening. You turn to see a fellow widow - a short, pretty blonde named Yelena whose room borders yours - looking at you with arched brows. “Your body is here but your mind has been miles away.”
You look away, scared that if you stare into her hazel eyes for a second too long, she’ll see right through you.
“I’m here,” you shrug. “I just haven’t felt the best this week. It’s uh - migraines.” The lie comes naturally to you, though you don’t know if she believes it.
“If you say so,” she snorts. “Must be pretty bad if you’re letting Sasha beat you in hand to hand.”
Luckily, she doesn’t press the subject any further.
Behind the closed door of your room, you retrieve the handwritten note from where you had tucked it between your bed frame and your mattress. He had instructed you to destroy it after reading it, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do so.
Maybe you’re sentimental - or perhaps just pathetic - but it’s the only thing you have of him. A singular piece of paper with his messy handwriting. Physical evidence that you aren’t going entirely crazy. You’ve reread the words more times than you care to admit over the last few days, as if they could possibly say something different than the first fifty something times you looked at the paper.
But they don’t change. The words remain the same, in the same black ink that has started to smudge from tracing the letters with the tip of your finger as if they are written in Braille.
Friday night. 2100 hours. South watchtower.
And finally, after the longest five days of your entire life, Friday arrives.
The day drags on and the nervous pit in your stomach cannot be quelled. You go through the motions as if it’s any other day - archery, aerobics, weight lifting, a five mile run - your typical Friday routine, all while trying to keep your composure at the thought of tonight.
An internal battle wages inside you as nine o’clock draws near. There’s fear, of course. Anxiety and uncertainty and apprehension. But beneath all of that, there’s anticipation. Eagerness. Excitement, even. Simply at the prospect of seeing him again.
There’s a small part of you that almost changes your mind. Not because you wish to stay here, but out of fear for what may happen to him if you’re caught. You wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if he were punished because he tried to help you.
It would be smart to rip the piece of paper into a thousand tiny shreds and flush them down a toilet and then go the fuck to sleep.
But then, you picture him waiting for you at the base of the watchtower, and the choice becomes clear.
To say that you packed lightly would be an understatement. The last thing you want is for someone to notice you carrying a duffel bag and a backpack out of the facility and ask where you're going, so to avoid drawing attention to yourself, you bring only what you can fit on your person. Your widow bites, a few knives, and two small pistols all concealed by a thick, dark purple bathrobe. It’s both windy and rainy tonight, with temperatures falling into the low forties, so you need something to keep you warm, but a large parka would surely raise suspicion if you were caught.
A bathrobe, however, is perfect for your escape plan. You can’t exactly walk out the front door unless you want a guard to demand information about where you’re going, and this place has practically no windows. A facility like this is designed to keep things in, not let them out - so the ventilation system it is.
And the communal bathroom on your level just so happens to have a nice, spacious vent just waiting for you to crawl into.
Widows are required to be in their private quarters no later than half past eight o’clock, so it times out perfectly with when you need to leave to make it to the south watchtower by nine o’clock. You have exactly thirty minutes to disappear. If you’re careful, you’ll be long gone by the time someone inevitably notices that you’re missing the next morning.
Right off the bat, you get lucky. The hallway outside of your bedroom is deserted, with no guard on patrol. If there had been, you would’ve just made some excuse about needing to use the bathroom, but you’re relieved that you don’t run into anyone on your way there.
With all of the other widows already in their beds, you find that the bathroom is empty, too. With the help of a shower chair that one of the girls has been using due to a leg injury, you’re able to reach just high enough to unscrew the vent cover from the wall.
You’re still standing on the chair when you pause for a brief moment before crawling inside the vent. You lean down, double checking that the note he’d left under your pillow is, in fact, tucked inside your sock.
You couldn’t bring yourself to throw it away. You couldn’t bring yourself to leave it behind. A voice in the back of your head kept nagging you to keep it. Once you’ve reassured yourself that the small piece of paper is safely tucked away, you spring into action.
You know you’re leaving behind a scene that paints a very clear picture of precisely what you’ve done - a chair directly beneath the open vent could mean only one thing. The first person who walks into the bathroom will know exactly what happened here.
Once you’ve hoisted yourself through the opening, you can’t bring yourself to care. All you can think about is slithering through the vents as quietly and quickly as you possibly can.
There’s one advantage to having lived in this facility for over a decade - you know the ins and outs of this place like the back of your hand. All you have to do is stay quiet, not have a claustrophobia induced panic attack, and follow the tunnels to freedom - to the man waiting for you in the woods.
Or whatever else might await you at the end.
The air inside the shaft is stagnant yet cold. It smells of metallic rust, almost blood-like. Even the smallest of movements produces a faint echo through the tunnels and all you can do is hope that anyone who hears will chalk the noises up to ghosts.
You freeze every time the metal groans beneath the weight of your body. You breathe in, then out. Count to three, and then cautiously start to move again when you feel confident enough that no one heard you.
The tunnels seemingly get tighter and tighter the farther you crawl. Right, then left, then right, and left again through the never ending maze of metal.
When your muscles start to burn and the shaft starts to feel suffocatingly hot, you picture his face and it gives you the motivation you need to keep going.
There’s no going back now. Not even if you wanted to.
After what feels like hours, when your bones are screaming at you to rest and your skin is covered in a thick layer of sweat beneath your bathrobe and clothing, you breathe a sigh of relief when the slope of a downward facing duct comes into view.
If your calculations are correct, you'll be out of this building in a matter of seconds.
You propel your body forward, mentally and physically bracing yourself for gravity to take hold as you slip down a chute. The smooth fabric of your bathrobe helps you to slide down the incline with ease before you come tumbling out of the vent entirely, plopping onto the cold, wet earth.
You give yourself all of five seconds to both recover from the drop and assess your surroundings, making sure that no one else happens to be lurking around this remote part of the facility at this hour before you begin sprinting in the direction of the woods behind the building.
You glance down at your watch when you cross the threshold of the forest - 8:54 pm.
The south watchtower is roughly half a mile into the woods. Under different circumstances, you'd be able to run half a mile in a few minutes with ease.
But right now? With only the illumination of a waning gibbous moon to guide you through the dense woods while a steady mist of freezing rain gradually soaks through the layers of your clothing? You’ll be lucky to find your way to the watchtower at all.
Still, you force one foot in front of the other, refusing to slow down. You don't want to be even a minute late for fear that he'll think you changed your mind or that something happened on your way there.
For the first minute or so of your trek, the rain and wind feel like a balm to your skin after being trapped in the oven-like vents - but it doesn’t take long for your clothing to become drenched, causing your body to shiver and teeth to chatter despite the fact that you’re running as fast as you can.
You’re thankful he chose the south watchtower. You’re more familiar with it than the other towers that surround the facility, and you know the route well enough. Still, that doesn’t change the fact that you don’t have night vision, and you stumble over a large tree root, twisting your right ankle. You curse under your breath but force yourself to keep going, knowing that you’re so close to reaching him.
The tower comes into view, and your heart drops when you don’t see him right away. You slow from a sprint to a jog, looking around the clearing that surrounds the tower when you hear the crackling of twigs and leaves from behind you.
Before you can even lay eyes on him, your wet, shivering frame is enveloped by strong arms from behind you. A metal hand covers your mouth, but you don’t scream. Instead, you relax for the first time in days, practically melting against him.
He breathes your name close to your ear. You turn in his grasp, nuzzling your face against his chest. You inhale his scent - a scent you’d recognize anywhere. It isn’t that of a fancy cologne or strongly scented soap. It’s natural - masculine and musky and uniquely him.
“You came,” he whispers. It isn’t a question, though there is a lilt of surprise in his voice. He grabs you by the shoulders and delicately pushes you back enough to run his eyes up and down your frame. “Are you okay?”
You nod. “I twisted my ankle, but I’m okay.”
His hands move from your shoulders to cup the sides of your face. Even in the limited amount of moonlight, you can see the tension in his jawline seem to melt away. His expression softens for a brief moment before he’s back to business.
“Did anyone see you leave?”
“No.” You shake your head. “No, I don’t think so. I crawled through an air duct in the bathroom and escaped through an exit in the back of the building.”
“Smart girl,” he praises, your face still clutched in his hands. “We still need to hurry. I don't know how much time we have.”
“What’s the plan?” You ask. Not that it really matters - you think you’d do just about anything he asks of you right now. You’d follow him anywhere, as long as it is far the fuck away from here.
He jerks his head in the direction of the watchtower a few yards away. He guides you to the entrance at the base of the structure, keeping his metal hand on your lower back. Once you’re inside, he closes and locks the door behind you. The only source of light in the room is produced by an antique oil lamp. On a concrete bench, there’s a first aid kit that’s already been opened beside an array of medical supplies.
He doesn’t need to say anything for you to piece together what is about to happen. The small, discreet tracking device located in the flesh of your thigh seemingly pulses at the realization. He notices you staring at the equipment and pauses.
“I have to remove your tracker before we can go any farther. We're still on Hydra grounds, so it likely hasn’t set off an alert yet. But as soon as we go any farther south…”
“I understand,” you murmur. “I trust you. Take it out.”
He nods, motioning for you to take your place on the bench. First, you shed the drenched bathrobe. Then, you shimmy your pants down to your knees, giving him access to the location of the tracker placed mid-thigh.
You shiver when the skin of the back of your thighs comes in contact with the cold concrete bench. He lowers himself to the ground in front of you, looking up at you in the dim, flickering light of the lamp. The sight makes your breath catch in your throat. The way he looks at you - like you aren’t an assassin, a soldier, a killer, but rather someone worth saving - it makes your heart nearly combust in your chest.
“I’ll try to be quick,” he murmurs. He places his flesh hand just above your knee as if to ground you. His skin is warm and soft, and you find comfort in it. With his other hand, he reaches for an isopropyl alcohol pad to sterilize where he will make the incision. You hiss when he swipes the cold alcohol across your bare skin.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes, a grimace forming on his face. “It’ll be over soon.” You know he doesn’t want to cause you any discomfort, but it has to be done. He retrieves a small scalpel and looks at you for your consent.
“On the count of three?”
You nod, biting down on the inside of your cheek.
“One. Two…”
He doesn’t say three.
Your eyes snap shut and your teeth dig into the meat of your cheek so hard that you taste blood. Somehow, you manage to stay silent. You keep your eyes closed until you feel the tracker ease through the opening he had cut. You glance down, seeing vibrant red leak down the side of your thigh. He places the tracker on the bench beside you - visual confirmation of your newfound freedom.
The small device might weigh less than an ounce, but you suddenly feel a hundred pounds lighter.
He grabs a large gauze pad and presses it to the wound, applying pressure to help slow the bleeding. “Are you okay?” He asks, voice tense.
“Never been better.” You force a small smile to give him reassurance. Despite the circumstances, there’s a level of truth to your words. “What about you?”
“I’ll be better once I get you away from here.”
You watch in heavy silence as he works to bandage the incision on your thigh. He’s gentle - more gentle than anyone has ever been with you, you think.
Widows are usually stuck tending to their own injuries, but in more severe cases, you'd be sent to the pitiful excuse of an infirmary within the Hydra facility. Doctors - who most likely weren’t even legitimate doctors - would do the bare minimum to keep you from dying without caring if they’re too rough or lack bedside manner.
But not him. No, he touches you like the last thing he wants is to cause you the slightest discomfort. He touches you like you’re precious to him.
Maybe it’s the fact that you haven’t had a decent night of sleep in nearly a week, or maybe it’s the fact that you’re experiencing an adrenaline crash and aren’t thinking clearly, but you can’t help the way your eyes keep flickering to his lips. It’s not the time, and definitely not the place to be having such thoughts, but you think them, anyway - he’s inhumanly beautiful.
“I can rebandage it when we get somewhere safer,” he says when the dressing is secure against your skin. “We need to go. How’s your ankle? Can you walk?”
He stands, pulling you up from the bench in the process. You instantly yank your pajama pants back up around your hips.
Truthfully, you had forgotten all about twisting your ankle while running through the woods. But now, with the sudden pressure of your weight on it again, the pain returns in a dull but persistent throb.
“It hurts a little, but I’ll be okay—”
Before you can finish your sentence, he’s scooping you into his arms. You squeal in surprise as his metal arm swipes your legs out from beneath you. He lifts you with ease, metal arm hooked beneath your knees and flesh arm supporting your back.
You’re sure you could walk. Maybe even run, if you really needed to. But you aren’t about to order him to put you down. Not when the warmth from his arms and chest feels like heaven against the cold night air. Your soaking wet bathrobe still lays discarded on the bench, so you can use all of the warmth you can possibly get.
“This works, too,” you snort. Without thinking, you brush a lock of his hair away from his face, tucking it behind his ear for him. He looks down at you, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips for a brief moment before he lifts you up just high enough to press his mouth against your forehead. Your eyes flutter shut, savoring the sensation of his lips against your skin. You’ve craved to feel this again ever since you first kissed him in the bathroom five days ago.
“Let’s get you out of here,” he murmurs.
You nod, pursing your lips. Your heart sinks a bit at his choice of words.
I’ll be better once I get you away from here. Let’s get you out of here.
You. Not us. You.
He says it like a promise, but you can’t help but feel like it’s going to lead to a goodbye.
☆☆☆☆☆☆
You end up being thankful that he took it upon himself to carry you for the duration of the trek through the woods - a half hour walk through thick, dense trees that would have taken twice as long had you attempted to make the journey on your bum ankle.
The rain had come to a stop, but clouds then covered the moon, making it near pitch black. Somehow, his steps never faltered. Despite the darkness, and all of the tree roots and low hanging branches that he had to constantly dodge, he somehow got the two of you out of the woods and to the safety of a getaway car in an impressive amount of time. Both his vision and sense of direction are so impeccable that you suspect he has supernatural senses.
He drives for hours - always going a steady twenty miles an hour over the speed limit. At some point during the night, you fall asleep in the passenger seat. You don’t mean to, but after days of constant anxiety and subsequently very little sleep, plus the adrenaline crash after your escape from the facility, your eyes close of their own accord.
The first thing that you hear when you wake up is the sound of tires crunching over gravel. You open your eyes, noting that it’s still dark outside. The digital clock on the dashboard of the old Buick reads 2:52 am. You have no idea where you’re at, but a small house comes into the view of the headlights.
“What is this place?” You ask, voice raspy from sleep and dehydration.
“It’s an old safe house,” he grunts. He pulls into the driveway and parks the car. “It’s been inactive for years. We’ll be okay here for the night,” he assures you.
Inactive is putting it lightly. The place looks like it is on the verge of caving in on itself. From the creaky wooden boards of the front porch steps to the cobwebs that decorate the bannisters and windows, it’s obvious that you’re the first people here in a very long time. Still, despite the place being run down, you much prefer it to the place you’re running from.
At first glance, the inside looks surprisingly tidy compared to what you could see of the exterior. Then, you notice a large pack of disposable water bottles and some non-perishable goods on the kitchen countertop - canned soup, instant oatmeal, ramen.
He catches the look on your face. “I dropped all of that off a few days ago,” he says. “There’s some toiletries and dry clothes for you in the bedroom, too.” He jerks his head in the direction of the hallway, an indication for you to follow him.
Prior to a few hours ago, you had no idea what to expect tonight. But the careful consideration and thoughtfulness of it all surpasses your every expectation. In addition to a pile of neatly folded clothing - sweatpants, t-shirts, a hoodie, etc - there’s a toothbrush and toothpaste, a bar of soap, shampoo, and even a bottle of lotion.
You don’t know how he did it. You don’t know when he found the time, or the means. But for you, he did.
You sniffle, fighting against the sudden, undeniable burning sensation in your eyes. You do not want to cry. “You did all of this for me?” Your voice is barely a whisper.
He shifts uncomfortably, looking down at the floor. “I tried to be as thorough as I could on such short notice.” His gaze flickers back to you. “There’s one more thing.”
He turns, walking in the direction of the bedroom’s small closet. He opens the door, revealing the closet to be empty except for a pile of extra blankets on the floor. He shifts them around, reaching for something that is blocked by his frame. When he turns back around, you see that he is holding a backpack. He must have placed it in the closet when he dropped the non-perishable goods and clothes off earlier this week. Before you can question what the bag holds, he unzips the main compartment and reaches inside.
“This should be everything you need to start a new life.” You recognize the first item as soon as he hands it to you - a dark blue rectangle with the word PASSPORT engraved across the top. You open it, revealing a brand new passport and ID. There’s a picture of your face and a name you don’t recognize. Your new name.
Your hands tremble around the items. He opens the bag further, revealing the majority of the compartment to be filled with cash.
“Holy shit,” you breathe. He really thought of…everything. “Where did you get this? All of this?” You ask, gesturing between the cash in the bag and the documents in your hand.
He smirks, taking the passport back from you and tucking into an interior pocket of the backpack. “That’s not for you to worry about. I have my ways.”
“Clearly,” you mumble. It’s a lot to take in, and you feel overwhelmed by it all, but there’s one thing that has become abundantly clear - you won’t be leaving this safe house together.
One passport. One ID. One getaway bag. This is all for you.
A heavy silence falls over the room. You could hear a pin drop.
“You’re going back. Aren’t you?” You murmur.
His lips are set in a harsh line. His face gives nothing away, but after a thick beat of silence, he nods in confirmation. “Yes. I’m going back.”
You could pry. Part of you wants to. You want to beg him to tell you why - why he stays with them when he’s obviously so different from them. But if his mind is made up, then this could very well be your one and only night together. You aren’t about to tarnish it.
How are you supposed to ask someone for more when they’ve already risked everything for you?
You step towards him, stopping when your chest is no less than an inch away from his. You look up at the most beautiful pair of blue eyes you’ve ever seen. “Will you at least tell me your name so I can properly thank you?”
He grimaces, shaking his head. “I don’t know my name,” he admits, voice low. “I only know what they call me. Soldier. Asset. If I have any other name, I don’t remember what it is. But I promise, if I did know my name…I would have told you long ago.”
You part your mouth to speak, but no words come out. For some reason, you hadn’t considered the possibility that he may not know his name. Let alone the possibility that he may not have one.
“I’ll leave you to shower. You need to rest,” he says gently as he starts to move past you, towards the bedroom door. You grab his flesh hand in yours and he freezes. You know what you’re about to say is a risk, but considering that he’ll likely be gone come daylight either way, you decide to take it.
“Would you join me?”
There’s a flash of something in his eyes. Surprise, lust - maybe a hint of restraint. “Are you sure you want that?”
“Yes,” you hum, squeezing his hand. “I’m sure.”
That’s all he needs to hear. He nods, almost imperceptibly, and begins guiding you towards the bathroom.
The water pressure is abysmal at best, and the temperature’s barely lukewarm, but none of that matters as soon as he steps into the tub after you. At first, he stands an awkward distance away from you, his hands flexing at his sides like he isn’t quite sure what to do with them. He stands closest to the rusted shower head, the uneven stream spraying the back of his neck.
“You can touch me,” you say softly.
He gulps. He steps closer to you, backing you against the cool shower tiles. His flesh hand rises, brushing against the side of your cheek as his metal hand settles on your hip.
He’s barely touched you yet, and you already can’t stand the thought of never getting to experience it again when the night is over. But you can’t bring yourself to stop. Not when he’s standing bare before you, looking at you like he’s trying to memorize every minute detail.
When he kisses you, he’s hesitant at first. Slow and cautious, like he’s waiting for you to change your mind. But you place your hands on his hips, pulling him flush against you, and that restraint slips away. The metal hand resting on your hip trails upwards, ghosting the skin of your stomach until he reaches your breast. He kneads it with a low groan into your mouth.
You lose track of time beneath the stream of water. He kisses you until you’re breathless, only pulling away to move his lips to the pulse point of your throat. He nips at the skin before trailing hot kisses down your neck, past your collarbones and to the peaks of your breasts.
Your own hands begin to wander. You snake one between your bodies, pausing just before you reach the prominent erection that juts against your belly.
“Is this okay?” You ask, the tips of your fingers trailing along his length as you wait for consent to go a step further.
“Yes,” he grunts next to your ear. “Yes, please.”
You wrap a firm hand around him. You’re both fully drenched from the shower by this point, the water acting as a gentle lubricant as you stroke him in your grasp. You start slow, and he exhales a sharp breath as his forehead drops to your shoulder.
It’s clear to you that it’s been a long time since he’s been touched like this. You can tell by the way he shudders against you; almost trembling. Like it’s all brand new to him.
Fingers from your free hand thread through the damp locks of his hair. You guide his mouth back to yours, kissing him deeply as you increase the pace at which you massage him in your hand. He whimpers into your mouth, and a second later you feel him twitch against your palm. He finishes with a deep groan as warm ropes paint the skin of your belly.
His forehead rests against yours for a moment as he comes down from his climax. He takes a few uneven breaths, and then sinks to his knees on the shower floor. You glance down to find him looking up at you as he gently spreads your thighs apart. You nod your head - maybe a bit too enthusiastically - giving him permission to continue.
He starts by kissing the skin of your inner thighs - alternating between each leg until he reaches the apex of your thighs. He’s careful at first, testing what makes you gasp, what makes you dig your nails into the meat of his shoulders. But it doesn’t take long before he finds a rhythm. It’s slow and deliberate, but unrelenting.
Your legs quickly turn to jelly. He reads you like an open book, supporting you from his position beneath you. You think to yourself that you’d do anything to know his name right now, just so you could moan it. Instead, you settle for oh, god - fuck - god, yes while you tug on locks of his hair.
At the sound of your praises, he grows more confident in his ministrations. His lips suck the swollen bud at the apex of your folds and your eyes snap shut as you throw your head back. He eases a singular, metal digit between your legs, teasing your entrance with the tip to coat it in your slick. When he slips it between your walls - slowly to allow you to adjust to the stretch - you feel a hot coil begin to tighten in your lower belly. The sensation isn’t completely new to you, though it’s the first time you’ve experienced it at the hands of another person.
The pressure of his thick, metal finger inside you and his lips around your clit is enough to send you tumbling over the edge. Your thighs squeeze his head and he moans against you as you ride his face through the high of your orgasm. When you go still, he slowly rises from the floor and you all but collapse against him. You stand there for a few long moments, in the now cold stream of water that trickles down from the showerhead. Your head rests against his chest and his arms wrap around your midsection, cradling you against him.
He reaches for the towel hanging over the shower’s curtain rod and then wraps it around you before shutting the water off and seamlessly lifting you into his arms. Neither of you say a word as he steps out of the shower and carries you back to the bedroom.
He pulls the comforter back and then places you on the bed before crawling in beside you. You’re both still damp, but you’re far too exhausted to care. Your escape through the Hydra facility’s ventilation system and subsequent run through the woods feels like a lifetime ago, and every part of your body is screaming for you to go to sleep. The only thing stopping you from closing your eyes is that you know when you open them again, he won’t be beside you anymore.
So you force your eyes to stay open for a little longer. Just so you can try to memorize the way his heartbeat sounds when your cheek rests against his chest.
“I need you to promise me something,” he whispers into the dark. He grabs one of your hands in his and brings it to his lips, where he places a soft kiss against your knuckles.
Your breath catches. Before the words can leave his lips, you already know what he is going to say. Words that you’ve been dreading all night.
“You can’t look for me,” he continues when you don’t say anything. His voice is strained, like the words hurt him to say as much as they do for you to hear. “Not ever. You can do whatever you want with your life after tonight, but you can’t look for me.”
You’re silent. You don’t trust your voice to speak. You knew it was coming, but it still stings to hear. You pull your hand out of his grasp and place it on his chin. You look up at him, though you can only see a faint outline of his profile in the darkness.
“I know,” you whisper. You tilt your head enough to press your lips to his one more time. It’s brief, but you hope it conveys so much of what you can’t find the words to say. “Thank you,” you add when you pull away. “For saving my life. For everything.”
He doesn’t say anything - just kisses your forehead, and pulls the comforter tighter around the two of you. The heavenly combination of his body heat and the feeling of his fingers dancing along your ribcage begins to lull you to sleep despite your best efforts to stay awake and hold onto this moment for as long as possible.
“I’ll find you one day. One day, when it’s safe, I’ll find you.”
When morning comes, you don’t know if you dreamed his promise, or if he really had said those words while you drifted to sleep.
All you know is that the space beside you is cold.
☆☆☆☆☆☆
3 years later. Circa 2016.
“I’m missing a small green piece. Did you steal a small green piece, Maple?”
You glance at the brown cat lying on the windowsill. She seemingly side-eyes you as if to say you’re interrupting my nap, human.
You’re not convinced that she’s innocent, though. The cat, who had shown up on your doorstep almost a year ago and made herself right at home, has a knack for knocking over your Lego sets. It wouldn’t surprise you at all if she was responsible for the missing piece.
She can’t be blamed, you suppose. It’s your own fault for leaving the partially assembled Minecraft village in hundreds of pieces across your coffee table. You should have finished it weeks ago, but you’ve done very little other than work and sleep lately.
Work, sleep, work. Drink too much coffee, pick up extra shifts just so you don’t have to be home alone with your thoughts and are so exhausted when you do get home that you have no issue falling asleep quickly, and then repeat it all.
Maple meows, though it sounds more like an annoyed huff.
“You’re right,” you sigh. “I do need to get a life.”
Your ringtone begins blaring, startling you. You glance down at where your cell phone sits on the coffee table in front of you. One of your coworkers, Hannah, is calling you. You debate on letting it go to voicemail - Hannah likes to yap and you aren’t really in the mood for a phone call right now - but part of you hopes she’s calling to ask if you want to pick up her evening shift at the coffee shop the two of you work at, so you answer.
It’s not like you have any other plans tonight.
“Hey,” you greet her. “What’s—”
“Oh my god,” she exclaims before you can get the rest of the sentence out. “Remember a few months ago when I said that a super hot guy was watching you at work but then he just disappeared before you could see him?”
There’s an instant pit in your stomach. You open your mouth to reply, but no words come out. Instead, the memory from a few months ago replays in your mind.
“There’s an insanely hot guy that keeps checking you out by the door,” Hannah giggles as she walks up behind you. You’re in the middle of making an iced macchiato, so you don’t bother to glance at whatever mystery hot guy she’s talking about.
“I highly doubt he’s looking at me,” you snort.
“Oh, he definitely is,” she insists. “If he wasn’t so good looking it would almost be creepy, actually.”
Curiosity gets the best of you. You put the lid on the drink and casually glance over your shoulder, towards the coffee shop’s entrance. You see a small group of teenage girls at a table near the door, and a few college students scattered about the lounge on their laptops. There’s no lone, attractive man to be found.
Hannah follows your gaze. “Huh,” she shrugs. “Guess he left. What a shame.”
You shake your head at her. “What did he look like, anyway?”
“Shoulder length, dark hair. Vibrant blue eyes. Six feet tall, maybe. Give or take an inch. He had on a leather jacket, even though it’s like a million degrees outside today. And he was wearing one glove? Kind of odd, but in a hot way—”
You lose your grip on the freshly made drink and it falls to the floor, coffee and ice both going everywhere - all over yours and Hannah’s shoes.
It feels as if the room is spinning around you. It’s been three years. It can’t be him.
“Shit,” you whisper, eyes darting around the room as if he’s going to magically reappear. “Shit. I’m sorry, Hannah. I’ll clean this up, just give me a moment—”
You practically run towards the direction of the front door, completely ignoring Hannah’s startled stare. You throw the coffee shop door open, exiting the building. You’re downtown, and it’s rush hour. You see dozens of cars and even more people hurrying to get where they need to be, but your eyes search for one person in particular.
You swear that you can hear blood pumping in your ears. You’ve only been outside for a few seconds and you’re already sweating - and you don’t think it has anything to do with today’s high temperature.
He’s nowhere to be seen. You’d recognize him in an instant. No matter how much time has passed since the last time you saw him - he’d stand out in any crowd.
You should have known better than to look. If he wanted you to see him, you would have - but he didn’t. And now he’s a ghost once more.
You have no doubt it was him. Vibrant blue eyes and shoulder length, dark hair. One singular glove. You don’t know why he decided to show up today, after three years of radio silence, but it had to be him —
Hannah’s voice pulls you out of the memory and back to reality.
“Hello? Are you there? Earth to—”
“Uh,” you interject, trying to remember how to string words together. “Uh - yeah. I remember.”
“I swear to God, he’s on the news right now.”
“What?” Your voice rises several octaves, startling Maple from her sleep. You put Hannah on speakerphone. “Are you - are you sure it’s him?”
“Positive. Turn on your TV right now.”
You glance around your small living room, searching for the TV remote and thanking your lucky stars that you didn’t cancel your cable package like you had thought about doing.
“What channel?” You ask when you retrieve the remote from in between two couch cushions.
“Uhm - 3. 5. 9. Literally any of them, probably.”
Your jaw drops the second that you get to a major news station. For the first time in three years, you see his face.
The footage is grainy - obviously from a security camera. But it’s him - unmistakable. His hair is a bit longer and his chest and shoulders are a bit bulkier than the last time you saw him, but you recognize him in an instant. Even with the piss poor video quality, you can see the shining silver of his left hand.
The headline across the bottom of the screen reads: JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES, HYDRA’S WINTER SOLDIER, WANTED FOR TIES TO VIENNA BOMBING.
You’re vaguely aware that Hannah’s voice is coming from the speaker next to your ear, but you aren’t paying attention to a word she’s saying. There’s a high-pitched, intense ringing in your ears that makes it impossible for you to focus on what the news reporter is saying. You only manage to get bits and pieces as you attempt to control your breathing.
“James “Bucky” Barnes, former United States Army Sergeant and childhood friend of Captain America, has been identified as the prime suspect in the bombing that took the life of King T’Chaka and twelve others…”
“… conducting a manhunt all over southeastern Europe…”
“Barnes, also known as the Winter Soldier, has known ties to Hydra that span over half a century…”
You press the end call button on your phone’s screen without even thinking about it, cutting Hannah off in the middle of a sentence. Maple, seemingly noticing the change in your mood, jumps down from her position on the windowsill and trots over to where you sit on the couch.
James. James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky, the reporter had called him. Bucky Barnes. After all this time, you know his name. You thought that finally knowing his name would feel a lot different. You expected to feel relief - maybe even a sense of satisfaction. But right now, all you feel is fear and bewilderment.
Key words echo in your mind: childhood friend of Captain America. Army Sergeant. Hydra. Over half a century. Winter Soldier.
There’s still so much that’s unknown - so many questions that you don’t know if you’ll ever have answers to. But you do know this much - James Bucky Barnes, childhood best friend of Steve Rogers, wouldn’t work for Hydra of his own volition. You don’t know exactly how he found himself to be their pawn, but there’s no doubt in your mind that there’s more to this story than meets the eye.
The man who saved you - James or Bucky - wouldn’t do what they are accusing him of. Not if he had a choice.
☆☆☆☆☆☆
2 years later. May 2018.
You wish you could say that you kept your promise.
For three years, you did exactly what he’d asked of you. You took the fake passport and ID, the ten thousand dollars in cash, and started a new life. You got your own apartment, a normal job that you didn’t completely hate - even a cat. You kept yourself off of Hydra’s radar. You laid low and didn’t search for him. You were doing good, all things considered.
Then you saw him on the fucking news.
All it took was learning his name for you to pack a few bags into the old Buick that he’d left for you. The next morning, you dropped Maple off at Hannah’s - your friend and former coworker who just so happens to love cats and was more than willing to look after Maple on a temporary or permanent basis - and got on a plane to Romania.
Of course, by the time you got to Romania, he was long gone.
From there, you flew to Germany, where news reports showed him fighting beside Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, Wanda Maximoff, Clint Barton, and someone named Scott Lang against Tony Stark, James Rhodes, Natasha Romanoff, the soon to be king of Wakanda, a robot, and some guy in a spider costume at the Berlin airport.
At the time, you had very little information to go off of, but from what you were able to gather, Bucky had been framed for the bombing in Vienna. Team Cap, as the news reports had referred to the group, had aided in his and Steve’s successful escape from the airport.
After that? Your guess was as good as all of the government officials looking for them. They have been fugitives ever since - Bucky, Steve, Sam, and even Natasha, who had apparently played both sides.
That was two years ago. Since then, you’ve been chasing dead ends all over the world. You don’t even know if he’s alive, but you have to believe that he is.
Currently, you’re in the breathtaking town of Interlaken, Switzerland. The lead you’d been following had turned out to be a bust - no surprise - but Switzerland is otherworldly and peaceful, so you decided to stay for a few days. At least until you catch wind of another supposed Winter Soldier sighting.
You’re finishing up brunch at a small cafe that overlooks the Interlaken countryside. Soft sunlight, a stone patio, and the smell of fresh bread that wafts from the kitchen. You could get used to this. Maybe one day, you’ll come back. When you’ve found him, or he’s found you.
You’re about to signal to a server that you’d like a refill on your coffee when an ear-splitting scream sounds from inside the restaurant. You and all of the other guests on the patio freeze, looking around.
Then, another scream. This time, a young child sitting at a table a few feet behind you.
“Mommy? Mommy, where did you go?”
The child’s mother is nowhere to be seen. Where she sat only a few moments prior is a thick dusting of what appears to be… Soot? Ash?
A tray falls to the ground and glass shatters, tearing your attention away from the panicked child. You glance at a server just in time to see him seemingly turn to dust in front of your very eyes.
Chaos breaks out. Guests are shouting in terror as several others vanish into thin air. You stand up, unsure of what to do. You begin to walk towards the crying little girl a few feet away from you, when you’re overcome with intense dizziness. Your vision goes fuzzy, and your skin feels like pins and needles.
You look down at your hands. The screaming in the background seems to fade.
Not yet, you think. Please, not yet. I need more time. I haven’t found him yet.
Your fingertips crumble before you - carried away by the light spring breeze. The tingling sensation spreads up your arms and you can do nothing but watch yourself disappear.
It’s true what they say. When you’re dying, your life flashes before your eyes.
You think of how he looked in the glow of the oil-lamp in the watchtower. You think of his promises - to get you out of the Hydra facility, and to one day find you. One that he fulfilled, and one that he’ll now never have the chance to. You think of his lips on yours and how safe you felt in his arms the one night you shared together.
Your last thought is that you hope wherever you go when you leave here, it’s the same place as him.
☆☆☆☆☆☆
Post blip. Circa 2024.
Ever since you and the other fifty percent of the population that had turned to dust were brought back to life, you’ve been thinking a lot about the butterfly effect.
The idea that if someone misses their train on the way to work, they could avoid a horrible accident. Or that something as small as holding a door open for someone could cause them to pay it forward, then leading to a cascade of simple acts of kindness that could change the course of history.
If your babysitter hadn’t taken you to the community pool that hot July day, you may have never been kidnapped by Red Room operatives.
If you hadn’t been kidnapped by Red Room operatives, you never would have been forced to live in the facility where you eventually met him.
And if you hadn’t met him, your eyes wouldn’t still be scanning every crowd, over a decade later, in hopes of randomly seeing him.
You stopped your search for him. When you were brought back, you had no reason to continue scouring the earth.
Why would you? You no longer have to wonder where he is and if he’s okay. For months following the sudden return of millions of people, you could simply turn on the news or open any social media app. Answers that you’d spent years searching for were suddenly right in front of your eyes.
No, he did not have a choice when it came to working for Hydra. Yes, like Steve Rogers, he was injected with super soldier serum, but unlike Steve, it was against his will. And, fun fact: he is old enough to be your great grandfather.
You also learn that he underwent intensive deprogramming in Wakanda to remove trigger words Hydra had implanted in his mind. No wonder your two-year search for him had gone nowhere.
And yes, he’d received a full pardon for everything he did while under their control. He’s officially a free man. Free from Hydra, and free to do whatever he pleases with his life.
Still, he does not come for you. For several months following the announcement of his pardon, you hold out hope that he’ll show up when you least expect it. But after a while, that hope begins to fade.
You aren’t angry with him. How could you be? He’s the entire reason that you’re free. It’s unfair to hold him to a promise he made over a decade ago, when he was under mind control. The news articles tend to throw around words like brainwashed and memory loss when talking about him - for all you know, he doesn’t even remember who you are.
So, you go through the motions of moving on. Like so many other people, you rebuild your life from the ground up. You relocate to New York and get a small apartment just outside of the city, start going to therapy once a week, explore some new hobbies, and make a few friends. You even run into an old friend - for lack of a better word.
By run into you mean she shows up unannounced at your job on a random Thursday.
It’s a slow, rainy morning at the small bookstore that you work at. You’re in the back, sorting through a new shipment of books, when you hear the front door chime.
“Welcome!” You yell out from the back office. It’s a small store, so you’re sure they’re able to hear you. “I’ll be out in just a moment.”
“Take your time,” a feminine voice calls back. You freeze. You recognize that voice - a distinct Russian accent that you’re able to put a face to right away, even after all these years. “I’ll just entertain myself with this…dark romance smut novel until you come out.”
You almost don’t believe your ears. What could she be doing here, after all this time? How did she find you? You don’t even have the same name as the last time you saw her, thanks to Bucky giving you a new identity.
If your training in the Red Room taught you anything, it’s to question everything and trust no one. You don’t think she’d hurt you. The two of you always got along, and you liked her more than a lot of the other widows. But until you know exactly why she’s here, you aren’t taking any chances. Your bag is just a few feet away from you, and inside it, a small pistol. Quickly and quietly, you tuck it into the waistband of your pants, at the small of your back.
When you exit the back room, she’s turned away from you. Still, you recognize the short stature and blonde hair right away.
“What brings you here, Yelena?”
She snorts, placing the book back on the table before turning around. “I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me.”
You stand there, eyes narrowed, trying to gauge what version of her you’re about to get. You know just how ruthless she can be, but you also know that underneath the person that the Red Room turned her into, there’s good.
She studies you with a faint smirk. But it doesn’t reach her eyes. She looks…tired. Not just physically, though the dark circles under her hazel eyes do indicate that she needs a good night’s sleep.
“You look good,” she chirps. “Different. Domestic.” She waves a hand in a slow circle, gesturing at your outfit. “What are you now? A librarian?”
“Bookstore manager,” you correct softly. “It’s peaceful.”
She hums, amused. “Must be nice.”
You tilt your head, still trying to get a read on her. “Is there something I can help you with, Yelena?”
The pause is brief but loaded. Her expression flattens. “I was sent,” she says finally. “My boss wants to talk to you. She’s looking for more people with…backgrounds similar to ours.”
You already know where this is going. “Valentina.”
Yelena raises a brow, unable to hide her surprise. “You’ve heard of her?”
You nod. “People talk. They don’t say anything nice, but they talk.”
“She has resources. Protection. Mission stability.”
Yelena recites the benefits as if she’s reading a script. But there’s a quiet sort of resentment in her voice. Like she doesn’t fully buy it herself. “And I’m sure it pays better than…this.” She gestures vaguely towards the bookshelves around you.
“Why me?”
“She says you have skills. And a brain. She’s impressed that you were able to escape the Red Room without getting yourself killed.”
You snort. “Too bad I’m retired.”
“No one ever really retires,” she says, shrugging. “We both know that.”
“Speak for yourself.”
You pause, watching her more closely. There’s something off in the way she shifts her weight, the slight shake in her hands. It’s subtle, but not invisible. And when she turns slightly, you catch a faint whiff of something sharp and metallic beneath her perfume. Vodka, maybe.
“Are you okay?” you ask gently.
She gives a soft laugh, one that sounds more bitter than amused. “You’re asking me that?”
You don’t push. Instead, you fold your arms and say, “Tell Valentina thanks, but no thanks.”
Yelena blinks. “Just like that?”
“I was given a second chance. Someone risked a lot to help me get it, and I don’t think they would appreciate me throwing it away by working for someone like Valentina.”
Yelena’s eyes flicker. She studies you for a long moment, something softening around the edges of her mouth. “So it’s true, then.”
You raise a brow. “What’s true?”
She tilts her head. “The Winter Soldier. Bucky Barnes. Was it really him who helped you escape?”
Your breath catches slightly. You’ve never admitted it out loud to anyone, but you suppose there’s no point in denying it now that both Hydra and the Red Room have been taken down.
“He did,” you say softly. “He got me out.”
Yelena doesn’t speak for a while. When she finally does, it’s almost a whisper.
“Good.”
You both stand there for a long, awkward moment. You can’t help but see a small part of yourself when you look at her. It could have so easily been you in her shoes - working for someone like Valentina, contract kills and shadow operations - if it hadn’t been for him.
You turn to the register beside you and grab a pen and a piece of receipt paper. You scribble your phone number and then hold it out to her in offering.
“If you ever want to get coffee,” you shrug. “Or if you ever need anything…reach out.”
Yelena takes it, eyes flicking down to the number. She folds the piece of paper without comment and slips it into her pocket. Then she gives you one last look - something unreadable in her expression - and heads toward the door.
The bell above the entrance jingles as she exits, and the sound echoes in the silence she leaves behind.
☆☆☆☆☆☆
Present Day.
Funny enough, it’s one of the rare days that he hasn’t even crossed your mind when your phone rings and an unknown number pops up on the screen.
You can’t describe it, but there’s a sinking feeling in your stomach before you even answer. Call it a sixth sense that you somehow knew it wasn’t just another spam call. Normally, you wouldn’t even bother answering a number that isn’t already saved to your contacts, but you hesitate when you start to press decline.
Instead, you swipe to answer. “Hello?”
The first thing you hear is a shaky exhale, followed by your name. Then, background noise. A lot of it. Multiple voices - male and female. You manage to catch a few key words here and there.
New York. Valentina. Bob..?
“Yelena?” You ask in disbelief. It’s been three years since you gave her your phone number and this is the first you’ve heard from her. “What’s going on?”
You’re in your apartment, catching up on some chores that you’ve been procrastinating all week. You’re in the middle of unloading your dishwasher, but you pause as soon as you realize it’s her.
“Are you still in New York?” She asks, forgoing all pleasantries.
“Uh - yes,” you answer, growing more confused and concerned by the second.
“We need help,” she says. “I don’t have time to explain everything, so you’re just going to have to trust me. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
“Who is we? And what kind of help, exactly?”
She has to give you a little more information than that. How are you supposed to know what to bring? Do you need firearms? Combat knives? Batons? Smoke bombs? Lockpick? All things that you haven’t had use for in years yet still keep on hand, just in case.
Your thoughts spiral as you wait for her to respond. Someone begins speaking in the background.
“Who are you talking to?” You hear a masculine voice yell. Your heart lurches - you recognize that voice.
As if you could ever truly forget it. As if you don’t hear it in your dreams still to this day.
“Yelena, whose voice is that?” You ask, already knowing the answer. You just want her to say it - to give you confirmation that you aren’t imagining things. That you aren’t crazy.
Yelena doesn’t answer your question or his. You can’t help but wonder if he heard your voice, too. He always had exceptional hearing.
“Meet us at the old Avenger’s Tower,” she says instead. “Get there as quickly as you can.”
“Yelena—”
“Please. Just hurry.”
The call ends, and your heart feels as if it is going to beat right out of your chest. You stare at the phone, debating on calling her back and demanding to know exactly what the hell is going on before you potentially uproot the peaceful life that you’ve worked so hard to create.
But you don’t. Instead, you run to your bedroom and start throwing whatever you can find into a duffel bag. A few handguns and ammo, knives and gas pellets. From your closet, you retrieve a tactical suit that you haven’t worn in years and pray that it still fits.
The truth is, you don’t need to call her back. Though you’re freaked out by the panic in her voice and would love a heads up for what you’re walking into, it doesn’t really make a difference.
No matter what it is, you’re going. If there’s something big enough for Yelena to call you and beg for help, you’re going to do whatever you can.
Especially if he’s there.
The thought of seeing him again, after so many years, terrifies you far more than whatever it is they could need help with. But not nearly as much as letting the chance of seeing him again slip through your fingers.
☆☆☆☆☆☆
Your apartment is only a forty-five minute drive from Midtown Manhattan. An hour, if there’s heavy traffic.
Today, you make it there in thirty minutes. The now twenty-five year old Buick that Bucky had left you in the driveway of the safe house over a decade ago may have over 300,000 miles on it, but you can count on her to get you where you need to go.
You could have bought a new car a long time ago. You have decent credit, job stability, and enough money in savings for a downpayment. You’re just oddly attached to the old thing.
It’s been with you since the very first day of your new life, and it’s one of the only tangible reminders you have of him. That, and the handwritten note he left under your pillow the week you escaped.
You tell yourself that you’re just sentimental, but if the car had come into your possession any other way, you would have junked it years ago.
When the old Avenger’s Tower comes into view, the questions in your head begin to multiply.
“What the fuck have you gotten me into, Yelena?”
Someone has driven a van directly through the building. Where there was once a front entrance, there is now a jagged, gaping hole. From the street, you can still see the van inside.
You park in the first available spot you can find and run one final check: widow bites, two small pistols, a collapsible baton, and several combat knives tucked into your thigh holsters. Despite the fact that it’s been over a decade since you’ve carried more than a single handgun, this doesn’t feel as strange as you expected it to - not yet, anyway. You may feel differently if you end up having to put the weapons to use.
You walk straight into the building through the cratered wall. You look around, not seeing Yelena or Bucky or anyone else that you think would be with them. There’s random men cleaning up debris from whatever the fuck must have happened before you arrived, but none of them pay any attention to you.
Your phone vibrates from your back pocket. The number Yelena called you from earlier is displayed across the screen with a message that simply says: Top floor.
Inside the elevator, you press the button to take you to the very top of the building and then lean back against the wall. Your heart pounds at the possibility of what awaits you at the top floor. Sure, you’re nervous at the prospect of walking into a hostile situation.
But more than that, it’s him. Bucky.
You don’t know what you’ll say to him - or if you’ll even say anything at all. Will he even acknowledge you? What if he doesn’t recognize you? Or worse: what if he does recognize you, and doesn’t care that you’re there?
The elevator ride feels eternal.
You take a few, steady breaths as the elevator passes the last few floors before coming to a stop. The last thing you want is to appear as if you’re on the verge of a panic attack the second that he sees you.
The elevator dings, and the doors slide open.
He’s the first person that you see. Standing on the other side of the room, directly across from you, is the man you fell in love with without so much as knowing his name.
His hair is a little shorter, and his frame a bit stockier, but he has the blue eyes and serious expression that you fell in love with so long ago.
His jaw tightens, and he swallows thickly. He doesn’t say anything, but there’s recognition in his eyes. He doesn’t appear surprised - he must have pieced together that it was you on the phone with Yelena.
You wonder if he’s putting as much effort into keeping his composure as you are.
All eyes are on you as you step out of the elevator. You force yourself to look away from him. On one side of the room is the woman you recognize to be Valentina - standing next to her is a man you’ve never seen. He wears an ostentatious, gold costume that matches his hair. He fidgets with his hands and quickly looks down when your gaze flickers to him - obviously uncomfortable.
Standing directly across from Valentina and the blond man is Yelena and several others. The only one you recognize is John Walker. You’ve never met him, but you vividly remember his brief, failed stint as Captain America several years ago. In addition to Yelena and John, there’s a paunchy, bearded man in a red costume and a tall, dark-haired woman in some kind of high-tech tactical suit.
They all look like shit. Like they’ve already had their asses handed to them on a silver platter.
“Well, well, look who finally decided to show up,” Valentina drawls in a voice laced with fake cheer. “Everyone else managed to get here on time.” She gestures towards the group of people standing across from her - each of who are glaring at her.
Except for Bucky. He’s looking at you. Though his expression is stoic, you catch the way his throat bobs and his fingers subtly flex at his sides - like he’s holding himself back from saying or doing something.
“Sorry,” you deadpan as you come to stand beside Yelena. “I had to parallel park.”
“And she has a sense of humor,” Valentina retorts. “You know, you’re one of the only people to ever say no to me. Why was it you turned me down, again?” She puts a finger on her chin in mock contemplation and takes a step towards you. From the corner of your eye, you see Bucky inch forward as well, his flesh hand hovering over the gun on his hip.
“Something about someone helping you get a second chance?” She asks rhetorically. “I wonder who that could’ve been.”
You know she’s just trying to get a reaction from you, so you purse your lips, hold eye contact, and don’t respond.
“That’s enough, Valentina,” Bucky speaks up for the first time. Your heart skips a beat at the sound of his voice. You don’t let yourself look at him. “Leave her alone. It’s not her fault that she has been dragged into this.”
Valentina doesn’t take her eyes off of you. “He’s still protective. Isn’t that cute?”
“Can someone tell me why I’m here?” You can’t help the way your voice shoots up several octaves. “I wasn’t exactly given the run down.” You shoot a glare at Yelena, who looks at you apologetically.
“Lucky for you, you got here just in time,” Valentina quips as she turns away from you, back to the fidgety blond man standing beside her. “I was just telling your friends here - it is my great honor to introduce to you, The Sentry.”
“Hey, guys,” the man in the gold says. His voice is timid, though it sounds as if he’s greeting old friends.
“You see, the press is on their way here now,” Valentina continues. “And they’re going to witness the awesome power of Sentry as he takes down this ruthless group of rogue agents—”
Rogue agents? Ruthless?
“Sentry, your first mission is to take out these criminals.”
“I don’t wanna hurt you guys. Why don’t you just…turn yourselves in?”
Your brows furrow together. You find it hard to believe that he could hurt anyone with how soft-spoken and hesitant he seems.
Walker steps forward, speaking up for the first time since you entered the room. “You don’t wanna do this, Bobby.”
Bobby? Something clicks in your head at the sound of the name. Bob - you remember hearing someone in the background of your and Yelena’s phone call mention the name. We have to help Bob, they’d said.
As you’re piecing together that this Sentry guy is the Bob they are trying to help, there’s a sudden change in his demeanor. His eyes seemingly darken as his once meek expression turns serious.
“You can call me The Sentry,” he asserts, looking Walker dead in the eye.
“Please, don’t do this. You do not need to listen to her,” Yelena pleads with him.
“Robert, they don’t think you’re good enough,” Valentina interrupts.
“That’s not true. Remember? You can trust me. I know you.”
Bob - Bobby - Robert - Sentry - whatever the guy’s name is - shakes his head. “I don’t think that you do.”
“ENOUGH TALKING,” the tall, hairy man in the bright red suit suddenly booms, capturing everyone’s attention. “No one messes with the West Chesapeake Valley Thunderbolts!”
At this moment, you’re every bit as confused as Valentina appears to be.
“Thunderbolts?” You echo.
The room erupts before you can process what’s about to happen.
The man in the red suit charges first, letting out a guttural war cry as he hurls himself at Sentry. With one fluid motion, Sentry lifts a single hand and sends him flying across the room with a force that cracks the wall on impact.
Walker charges next, shield raised. The tall, dark-haired woman, whose name you quickly learn is Ava due to Yelena yelling it after her, disappears in a blur of glitching pixels before reappearing behind Sentry in an attempt to destabilize him from the inside.
Yelena flanks to the right, pistols in each hand. She fires, but Sentry easily sends the bullets flying in the opposite direction - straight towards you. Bucky sprints towards you at the same time as Walker, who raises his shield to deflect the bullets.
You reach for your baton, but as you do, Bucky grabs your wrist in his flesh hand.
“Stay close to me,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. You nod, not trusting your voice to speak. Even with all of the violence and chaos happening right in front of you, all you can think about in that moment is the feeling of his hand holding yours.
Yelena’s scream as Sentry sends her flying across the room brings you back to reality.
The two of you fall back into rhythm like it’s muscle memory. Your bodies move in tandem as you cover each other. It’s almost too easy to pretend this isn’t the first time you’ve fought together in over a decade. Your movements are a little rusty from so many years of doing your best to avoid scenarios like this, but he easily picks up your slack.
From the corner of your eye, you see Ava cry out as she’s forcibly de-phased, slamming into the ground. Walker hits a column and groans. Yelena lands in a crouch, panting.
“Get down!” Bucky yells, a mere second before throwing himself in front of you.
A blast of Sentry’s energy hits him square in the chest, and he flies backward, taking you with him. Your back slams against the floor, head spinning. When you push yourself up, Bucky is already struggling to his feet.
Sentry closes in on the both of you.
He grabs Bucky’s metal arm mid-swing, and everything slows.
“Don’t—” you start, pushing yourself up, stumbling toward them.
But you’re far too powerless to stop him. With terrifying ease, Sentry rips Bucky’s vibranium arm clean off. Sentry winds the metal appendage back as if it weighs nothing and then swings it forward, slapping Bucky across the face.
“No!” You yell as you fall to your knees beside him. Your scream is swallowed by the sound of the others regrouping, but you barely hear them. All you can see is him.
Your hands cradle his face. He’s out cold.
Around you, the others seem to accept that there’s no way any of you can beat him. The only way out is to run.
Yelena shouts for everyone to move, to get to the elevator. Ava is suddenly beside you, picking up Bucky’s arm before running in the direction of the elevator.
“Walker! Alexei!” Yelena shouts. “Get Bucky!”
The two men appear beside you, hauling an unconscious Bucky into their arms. All of you run after Yelena and Ava, who are already in the elevator. You enter the cramped space a mere second before the doors shut.
Behind the closed doors of the elevator, Bucky is still held up by Walker and Alexei. Everyone around you pants, trying to recover from the absolute disaster of a fight, but your only focus is the man in front of you.
“Hey, hey,” you coo, gently tapping him on the face in an attempt to wake him up. You don’t care that your hands are shaking. You just need him to open his eyes. “Come on, Bucky. Look at me…”
There’s a visible bruise forming across his cheekbone from the impact of the heavy vibranium. His eyes flutter open and shut repeatedly, like he’s hanging onto the sound of your voice in an attempt to find his way back to reality.
There’s a beat of uncertain silence, and then he lets out a groan. His eyelids twitch, and then slowly open. Dazed blue eyes find yours.
“Am I concussed,” he grunts, “or are you actually here right now?”
You’re unable to stop the laugh that slips out of you. It’s half relief, half disbelief. “I’m actually here. Though I wouldn’t completely rule a concussion out yet.”
Ava clears her throat from behind you. You glance over your shoulder to see her holding Bucky’s metal arm out to him. “I take it you two know each other, then?”
You step back as he accepts the appendage, popping it back into place on the left side of his body. You nod, not meeting her stare. “Yeah. Something like that.”
You feel his gaze on you, but he says nothing. An awkward silence settles over the elevator.
When the elevator doors slide open, no time is wasted in getting out of the building. You’re vaguely aware that Yelena, Ava, Alexei and Walker immediately start arguing with each other about what steps to take next, but you aren’t paying attention to a word they say.
The relief you’d felt when you realized that he’s okay just moments before is quickly replaced with uncertainty.
You’re here, he’s here, and you’re both okay. But what now? Where do you go from here? You spent so long wondering if you’d ever see him again, but didn’t even consider what you’d say to him if that day ever came.
Now that it’s finally here, you’re at a loss for words. Factor in the adrenaline crash that you can feel coming on…
Your lungs feel too tight. The sounds around you blur into static. Raised voices, car horns, the distant wail of sirens - none of it registers. Your vision narrows, and suddenly the space feels way too small and loud. It’s all too much.
You turn and walk. You don’t know where you’re going, just that you need to get away. Just until you can breathe again.
You duck around the corner of the building, stepping into the cool shadow of an alleyway. You lean back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut as you try to steady your breathing.
Your pulse is racing. Your palms are damp. You press a shaking hand to your chest and attempt to count down from ten.
“Hey.”
You open your eyes at the sound of his soft voice. He’s standing at the mouth of the alley, a few feet away.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” you trail off, unable to finish the sentence. “I just need a minute.”
“I know.”
He takes a few steps towards you, tentative and slow, like he doesn’t want to scare you off. You cross your arms over your chest. Not because you’re cold, but because you’re trying to hold yourself together.
Every part of you wants to close the remaining distance between you and throw yourself into his arms. To forget everything going on around you and melt into him in the middle of this stinky alleyway. But you fear that if you do, you’ll crumble - and there’s still so much on the line right now that’s bigger than just you and him.
Still, it’s hard to hold your tongue when the chance to say all of the words that you’ve waited years to say to him is right in front of you.
“You never came back for me. Why?”
Your voice breaks on the last word. He flinches, his gaze dropping for the first time since stepping into the alley.
“I wanted to,” he says. “I wanted to every day.”
You wait for him to continue.
“When I came back, after I was pardoned, I did come for you. But I saw how…stable and peaceful your life is. I couldn’t bring myself to disrupt that. That’s all I ever wanted for you.”
There’s a lump in your throat that you force yourself to swallow down.
“All I wanted for me was you.”
There’s a flash of something in his eyes - guilt, maybe regret - at your confession. Hearing the words come from your mouth seems to snap something inside him. He steps forward, closing the remaining distance between you. His hands cup your cheeks, tilting your head to look up at him. The lump in your throat suddenly feels suffocating, and your eyes begin to burn with the threat of unshed tears.
“I thought of you every day,” he whispers. The look in his eyes lets you know that he’s telling the truth. “Every single day. Staying away from you is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. But I did it because I love you enough to want more for you than…this.”
He doesn’t elaborate on exactly what he means by this. Maybe he means the potential danger that looms over you right at this moment. Maybe he just means him. You’re not sure - you can’t think clearly because he just said that he fucking loves you.
The moment comes to an abrupt end when panicked screams echo from around the block. You recognize Walker’s voice barking a command at someone. You both look towards the commotion, and then back to each other.
“I should’ve come back,” he says quietly, shaking his head. “And when this is all over - whatever the hell this is - I will.”
You blink, stunned by the certainty in his voice. “Are you sure?”
He nods, grazing his flesh thumb along your cheekbone.
“If you’ll still let me.”
Without thinking, you press your lips to his.
It feels like being transported back in time. You’re no longer standing in a Manhattan alleyway in the midst of impending doom. With your eyes closed, and his lips against yours, you’re kissing him for the first time in a Hydra facility bathroom. You’re kissing him in the bathroom of a safe house. You’re kissing every version of him - soldier, ghost, Bucky - more sure than ever that you want all of him.
It ends all too soon. When you pull away, he rests his forehead against yours.
“When this is over, I’ll be waiting.”
☆☆☆☆☆☆
If someone had told you just forty-eight hours ago that you’d get a call from Yelena asking for help, that you’d be reunited with Bucky, that all of New York would be turned to shadows and everyone would be forced to relive their greatest traumas in interconnected shame rooms, and that you’d be announced as a member of the New Avengers on live television, you would have wondered if you had accidentally consumed a really potent edible.
Everything happened so quickly. Your whole life changed in what felt like the blink of an eye.
You had all been offered rooms at the old Avenger’s Tower - or the Watchtower, as Valentina has apparently renamed it. But you have a place of your own - with a lease that isn’t up until the end of the year. And a job that you actually really like. And plants that have to be watered.
Therefore, you’re back at your apartment outside of the city. At least for the time being.
Yelena didn’t look surprised when she found out that you weren’t staying.
The dust had barely settled from the aftermath of The Void. You were still in your tactical suit, attempting to wrap your head around the fact that Valentina had announced to the entire world that you’re all Avengers now. You were on your way out of the Watchtower when Yelena caught up to you in the hallway.
“Leaving already?” She’d asked. There was no judgment in her voice, only genuine curiosity.
You shrugged. “This whole…superhero thing wasn’t exactly on my vision board. I just need some time to process it all.”
Her expression softened. “What about Bucky?”
You smirked, exhaling a laugh through your nose. “Bucky knows where to find me.”
You hadn’t meant it to sound harsh. You leaving - it isn’t about pushing him away. It isn’t about making him work for it.
It’s simply about believing that he’d meant what he said. That he really would come for you.
But until then - you have books to read. Laundry to do. Shows to watch. A pothos plant that desperately needs to be repotted. A calm life full of little things that you wouldn’t have if it weren’t for him.
And for the first time in a really long time, you have hope.
☆☆☆☆☆☆
Three hours.
That’s how long it takes for you to hear the revving of a motorcycle’s engine outside of your first floor apartment after you get back to your place.
You’ve barely had time to scarf down two day old leftovers and wash all of the sweat, blood, and grime off of your skin when you hear it.
None of your neighbors ride motorcycles. And the headlights are shining directly into your living room through the cracks of the window’s blinds.
It could be anyone. But you know that it isn’t just anyone.
You’re opening the door before he even has a chance to knock.
His hair is still damp from a shower. He smiles at you in a way that you’ve never seen him smile before. It reaches his eyes and brings out the laugh lines around them.
“That was quick,” you hum.
“No.” He shakes his head in disagreement, but his smile doesn’t falter. “It wasn’t. That took me entirely too long. I should’ve been here years ago.”
Without another word, he steps inside and closes the door behind him.
The warm glow of a lamp in your living room is the only source of light, but it’s enough to see the dilation of his pupils as he takes in your appearance. Freshly showered, bare faced, and nothing but a loose t-shirt draped over your frame.
“Well,” you breathe. “You’re here now. What are you gonna do?”
He stares at you for a moment. Like he’s scared you might vanish if he blinks. Then, his hands are on your waist and yours are in his hair. You pull his mouth down to yours and he lifts you, your legs wrapping around his waist.
Without so much as breaking the kiss, he carries you through your apartment as if he’s done so a hundred times before. He places you on the edge of your kitchen counter, his hands splaying across your thighs as if to anchor himself.
“You look exactly the same,” he murmurs against the skin of your throat, in between planting kisses by the shell of your ear and your jaw. “Still as beautiful as ever.”
You grin. “Well, I was blipped for five years, so that helped a little bit. You look pretty good, too, you know. Not a day over seventy-five.”
He laughs, pulling back to look at you. His expression turns more serious as he brushes a slow circle on your inner thigh with the cool vibranium of his thumb.
“We don’t have to rush this,” he says in a low voice. “We have time now. All the time.”
Your hands slide beneath his shirt, fingertips ghosting over taut muscles and warm skin.
“I know,” you whisper. “But we aren’t rushing. I’ve wanted this for over a decade. Wanted you for over a decade.”
His mouth is back on yours in an instant. It’s hungry, but still careful. He presses closer and you can feel him - hard against your core, even through the thick material of his jeans. You roll your hips against his and he groans into your mouth at the friction.
“You have no idea,” he groans when he pulls his mouth away from yours, “how many times I’ve thought about this since I last saw you.”
“Oh, yeah?” You smile against his mouth. “What took you so long?”
“Don’t,” he warns softly, dragging his metal hand up your spine. “Don’t start with me. I’ll take you right here.”
Your breath catches, arousal blooming low in your stomach. His tone is teasing but there’s promise in his words.
“I wouldn’t stop you.”
He chuckles lowly. “Tempting. But I’m doing this right.”
Then he’s lifting you again, carrying you in the direction of your bedroom.
Clothes are lost piece by piece, hands continuously touching and roaming. When his eyes drag over your bare body, he breathes your name. Your real name - not the name on the fake passport and ID he’d given you so long ago that most people know you by these days.
Your name. And goddamn, does it feel good to hear him say it.
Then his mouth is on you - slow at first, savoring you, tongue moving with agonizing precision. You gasp, your hands flying to grip the back of his head.
“God, baby,” he mutters in between strokes of his tongue. “You are so fucking sweet.”
“Bucky,” you groan, loving that you know what to call him this time around. By the way he moans into you, you think that he seems to like it, too. “Fuck, Bucky.” Your hips twitch and he splays both hands across your belly, pinning you in place.
“Easy,” he murmurs against you. “I’ve got you.”
You cry out when he slides one thick finger inside, curling it just right, then adding a second without warning. The combination of his mouth and fingers is almost too much. You clutch at his hair, grounding yourself in the sound of his low groans and the warmth of his tongue.
He keeps going, steady and sure, working you until your thighs are shaking and his name is tumbling from your lips again and again. You come with a shudder, gripping him hard and gasping through the wave that crashes over you.
He stays there for a moment, letting you ride it out, before finally pulling away, his mouth shiny and blue eyes full of desire.
“Come here,” you say breathlessly, taking no time to recover before pulling him up to you. You pull his face down to yours, crushing your lips against his once more, reveling in the flavor of yourself on his tongue. He snakes a hand between your bodies, stroking his length in his flesh hand before teasing your entrance with the tip.
“Bucky,” you whine at this teasing. “Please. Waited long enough.”
“I know, sweetheart,” he coos as he eases inside you. You gasp at the stretch, sinking yourself onto his length. “I’m gonna take care of you.”
And he does. It’s not rough or rushed - it’s full of reverence. Like he’s making up for all of the years that he couldn’t have you. Hands roam your body as if trying to memorize every individual dip and curve and every kiss says I missed you, I missed you so much, I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.
“So perfect,” he grunts beside your ear. “I love you. Loved you for as long as I can remember—”
His confession is enough to cause the hot coil in the pit of your stomach to snap. You come with a cry of his name, your nails digging into the flesh of his back as he continues to rock into you. He follows shortly after with a low, broken moan into the crook of your neck.
For a while, neither of you move. You lie together in the afterglow, sweat slicked bodies still pressed together as you both come back down to earth.
“Bucky?” You murmur after a moment, still breathless. He pulls back far enough to look down at you.
“I love you, too. For as long as I’ve known you. I never stopped loving you.”
He smiles at your words, his expression open and unguarded in a way that’s brand new to you. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips.
You curl into him as he pulls the blanket over you both. His arm wraps around your waist like he never wants to let go of you again.
The city outside is still recovering. You don’t know what tomorrow will bring. You haven’t decided if you’ll take Valentina’s offer seriously, if the New Avengers are actually a thing, or what any of it means going forward.
Only one thing matters to you right now, and he’s laying beside you, holding you close.
You’re both home.
if you read all 18.7k words of this, thank you. as always, comments and reblogs are very appreciated 🫶🏻💖
summary: now that bob knows you’re out there, he goes looking for you.
pairing: bob reynolds x fem!reader
insp by: ‘for the first time’ by mac demarco
word count: 6.9k
cw: bob doesn’t speak very highly of himself, mentions of vomiting, mentions of drug addiction, bob mentions wanting you to hit him and tear out his heart ( a LOT ), touching and stuff, smooching ;)
a/n: hi guys thank you SO MUCH for all the love on the first part of this fic. it genuinely means so much seeing how much you guys loved it and wanted a part two. and also sorry to the people i evil laughed at and made you think it was angst. it’s not. ENJOY :P
‘polaroid’ part one
bob is sure his entire body is about to explode.
for the past few weeks, there's been something buzzing just below his skin that he can't quite name— nerves? anxiety? fear? bob didn't know. he only knew that it was unbearable and that it was trying to crawl out of his skin.
you were here. in new york. in brooklyn. but where exactly? nobody knew. you could have been staying in the hotel right next to the watchtower and he wouldn't even know it.
and bob is nervous. he's thrown up once already, maybe twice. (okay, three times, but who's counting?)
the tab on his laptop blares your name in bold black letters. a picture of you is staring back at bob, smiling at him like you're mocking him. there's an entire website dedicated entirely to you— a movie director. credits, awards, press snippets. there's comments praising you and your work, and they make him smile.
you're still relatively new to the scene, so most of the photos of you are from group pictures. in half of them, you're barely in the frame.
bob scrolls down again even through he's already read through the entire page about fifteen times. he thinks he knows more about you than he does about himself.
he knows what studio you work at. he knows your most recent project. he knows the last three cities you've been too, and the next three cities you want to visit. he knows that you went to film school after the blip, graduated top of your class, and that you trained under all the best directors. he even knows that you had developed a dust allergy.
"bob—" yelena replies flatly after bob tells all of her this, "it sounds like you've been stalking her."
"no, no—" bob quickly shakes his head, his arms shooting up in defence like he's being held at gunpoint, "no, well i mean— not like that. i'm not being creepy about it."
yelena raises a skeptical brow as she slides bob a warm strawberry pop tart. she takes a bite into her own, "you just told me you knew what material her bedsheets are made of. i don't even know the material of my own bedsheets."
bob opens his mouth like he's going to give yelena a detailed explanation as to why he knows these things— why he needs to know these things— but closes it. he shifts uncomfortably, "it's research."
"bob."
"i just—" he winces, "i wanted to be prepared. in case i saw her. or bumped into her. or do something that would make me look like an idiot. i- i don't know. i wanted to impress her."
yelena mutters something in russian that sounds vaguely similar to a prayer, then turns face bob again. she leans forward, voice softer this time, but still firm, "you spent every day together for two years, bob. you already know her."
she holds his gaze for a moment.
"you're not scared of not knowing who she is now. you're scared she's moved on. that she forgot you." how about you find out where she's shooting and just talk to her—"
bob shakes his head in doubt, "it's not that easy—"
"if she cares about you, then it will be." yelena cuts him off, her voice strong, "love doesnt just dissapear like that. trust me, i know. i might have been gone for five years to everyone else, but it was one second for me. and when i came back, nothing felt the same— nothing except for the love i held in my heart. that part was still there."
there's a conflicted look in bob's eyes. he believes yelena. he knows she wouldn't lie to him about this— wouldn't say something like that just to make him feel better— that she'd guide him as much as she can, but he's still so afraid.
you may still be the same you were all those years ago, but you're also a big shot now— famous— and bob is still bob, just sober now. if anything, he hoped you would be proud of him for that.
"look—" yelena can see the thoughts darting behind his eyes. she stands back up and tilts her head, "just find out where in brooklyn she's shooting. if you need me to, i can come with you. i'll even hold your hand if you want."
the corners of bob's mouth twitch, almost like he's about to smile, but he doesn't know quite how to right now. the what-ifs in his brain are still running rampant.
so he does. later that night, bob sits on his bed with his phone, the blue light burning his eyes in the dark of the room. he's been searching for film sets in new york all night.
he glances at the time in the corner of his phone. in measley white text, 2:34am stares back at him. bob takes a deep breath as he leans back against the headboard, a hand running through his hair. his fingers are cold and his palms are clammy, and he finds that his heart is beating way too fast for someone who's barely moved all day.
his search bar is open, filled with every combination of relevant words he could think of. film sets in brooklyn today, movies being filmed this month, [your name] director location now, movie production nyc july. it's endless. of course there's a few results, but there’s nothing involving you. at this point, he thinks it'd be easier to just walk around brooklyn to see if he can spot you.
you were frustratingly hard to track. you didnt have social media—no instagram, no twitter, no facebook, no tiktok, no youtube channel, and not even a crappy linkedin.
then— almost by accident— bob ends up on reddit. he types your name into the search bar without much hope, but the results suprise him. the first thing that comes up is a subreddit dedicated entirely to you— your work, pictures of you, and even clips of you on set. there's only 312 members. nothing huge, but enough to make bob a little proud. he scrolls down the subreddit.
then, tucked deep into a comment thread, he finds it—
'Saw her filming something today in Washington St in Brooklyn. No idea what the movie is about, but the rig setup was INSANE. Can't wait for it!!!'
bob clicks on the image attached to the comment. it's a wide shot— nothing super detailed— of the set, and in corner, bob can see you. he zooms in. you're standing on the edge of the frame, a headset on and a script in your grasp and talking to who bob assumes is one of the lead actors.
washington street. that's only thirty minutes away.
it's a stupid plan. he knows it's a stupid plan. but he also knows that if he spends another day pacing in his room and staring your polaroid when you were literally a couple of blocks away, he was going to lose his mind.
tomorrow. he was going tomorrow.
and the next morning rolls around the corner a lot faster than he thought it would.
bob wakes up to the sunlight streaming in through the curtains and casting warmth onto his bed. his phone is still in his hand, and he remembers falling asleep while watching an interview on a movie you co-directed.
you weren't in it for very long— just a few snippets of you explaining your favourite parts of the film and the wonderful collaboration the entire crew put in to turn it into what you envisioned.
it was barely three minutes. he watched it about a hundred times.
not because it was particularly exciting, but because it was you. you were talking, and bob had always loved listening to you. a small, stupid part of him had been waiting to hear your voice for so long, and now he finally had it.
the knowledge that you were still alive and breathing was good enough for him, living life like you hadn't just vanished into thin air one day. like you hadn't vanished upset with him, and then reappeared five years later still upset with him. like you hadn't vanished when bob needed you the most— when relapse sat heavy on his breath and regret crawled up his spine.
bob turns over in his bed as he blinks the sleep from his eyes. his body is warm and his sheets are swallowing him whole. he's comfy, and for a second, he wants to stay like this forever— but his heart has other plans. it beats against his ribs before his mind even remembers what he's meant to do today.
his phone buzzes.
YELENA
update me
bob sighs. his thumbs hover over the keyboard as he tries to think of the right words. he stares at yelena's text before he types a response.
BOB
They're shooting in Washington street somewhere near the park. We can probably see the set from the living room
he stares at his own text for a moment, then flips to his notes app where he's already saved the address, the crew call time, and the nearest subway stop. he knows exactly where you're filming. he found it hours ago— but that's not the problem.
BOB
But I don't know
I'm still thinking about it
YELENA
thinking is for losers 😡 just do it
just kidding
but also not really joking
bob lets out a short breath— almost a laugh. he knows she means well. he can picture her sitting in the training room a couple floors down with a protein bar in her hand and her phone in the other, rolling her eyes at his cowardice like it's a personal inconvenience.
BOB
It's just been a long time.
She probably doesn't remember me like that anymore
he pauses.
BOB
And I don't want to mess up whatever peace she's made
this time, yelena takes a little longer to answer. bob watches as the 'typing...' bubble flickers in and out about four times before she finally sends the message.
YELENA
if she found peace then i am willing to bet a lot of money that you were a part of it
his heart is racing. his palms are still sweaty— and yet somehow, he's already undressed and in the shower. he even uses the fancy lavender shampoo valentina had stocked the bathrooms with instead of his dollar tree three-in-one.
and when he gets out of the shower, his phone buzzes again.
YELENA
you got this 👍 go bob
BOB
❤️
but oh god, he doesn't know what to wear. what do you even wear when you go searching new york city for your best friend who you liked a little bit more than platonically who turned into dust right in front of your eyes in the middle of an argument about your meth addiction? theres no guidebook for that.
he doesnt even own much— just a few pairs of sweatpants and a couple of hoodies and sweaters. not that he needed much anyways— he never really left the tower.
"geez." he grumbles.
he settles on a navy sweater and the most formal pair of black sweatpants he has (the one with the least stains), along with his only pair of shoes, his beat-up grey nikes.
then he exhales— hard.
"okay—" he says to his reflection in the mirror, "okay. you're going to... possibly see the love of your life. who probably thinks you're an asshole. cool. yeah. okay."
bob grabs his phone and his wallet. he ensures that the polaroid is still tucked deep within the safety of his wallet. he shoves them into his pockets, giving them a quick tap for good luck before he leaves his room.
he steps out of his room, nerves chewing away at his stomach, and walks straight into the living room.
john's lounging on the couch with a bowl of cereal on his lap, begrudgingly watching alexei struggle with the tv remote. the russian clicks helplessly at the little buttons on the remote, but he can't seem to navigate anything. ava's in the kitchen pouring granola into a bowl of yoghurt. as she walks past bob, she looks him up and down.
"you smell good." ava raises her brows as she catches a whiff of his new lavender shampoo. she shoots bob a cheeky smile, "you heading out?
john and alexei turn their heads to watch the commotion.
"i'm, uh—" he nods, trying to instill confidence into himself, "i'm going to brooklyn. to see the set."
john pauses mid-chew. ava stops stirring her yoghurt, and alexei blinks, as if he's recalibrating. he says it, soft but certain, they're all a little surprised.
"seriously?" john asks.
"yeah." bob nods, but the stale energy in the room and the looks on their faces makes his stomach drop a little. he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, "why? do you guys think it's a bad idea—"
"it is a great idea, bob!" alexei quickly interrupts as he jumps up from the couch. he saunters over to bob and grabs a hold of his shoulders, squeezing firmly, "today is the day you get your girlfriend to fall in love with you again! we are proud, my boy."
john snorts as he shakes his head, never missing an opportunity to dumb down the conversation, "they never dated, remember?"
alexei ignores john, still gripping bob's shoulders with unshakeable enthusiasm, "that does not matter. your love is bigger than girlfriend and boyfriend labels. labels are for jars, not people."
“thanks.” bob's lips tug into a smile, "do i look okay? i didn't really have anything to pick from, but—"
"you look good." ava adds with a nod, "nervous, but good."
bob glances towards the elevator door. his heart is beating against his ribs like it's going to burst out at any moment— like it's trying to run ahead of him to see you first.
"okay. i, uh—" he awkwardly points to the elevator, "i guess i'm gonna go now."
"bring her home, bob!" alexei beams, patting him once— hard— on the back. it pushes bob towards the elevator, sending him stumbling on his own feet.
"i'm not— she's not gonna—" he turns back and shakes his head, his cheeks flushed, and gives them a measly thumbs up, "wish me luck."
"break a leg, bobby." john deadpans.
ava raises her bowl like she's giving a toast, "go get your girl."
alexei just nods, solemn and serious, "may the force be with you."
he's only been in new york a couple of months, but he thinks he knows where he's going. the directions are pulled up on his phone on maps, but he double-checks his notes where he's written them down just in case he needed it.
bob takes a seat on the subway. his body jerks a little as it starts moving, watching as the graffiti in the station starts blurring as the train speeds up. he counts the stops in his head, tapping them out anxiously against his thigh.
when the train finally pulls into high street, his knee is bouncing like he's about to run a marathon. he gets off and follows the slow trickle of people heading towards the exit. once he's above ground, brooklyn stretches out before him, quieter than manhattan, but still buzzing with life.
bob looks at the map again. washington street isn't far— a ten minute walk, maybe less.
and as he's walking, he's almost knocked over by two girls. they're running in the same direction as him and nearly crash into him as they round the corner. they're laughing breathlessly, giddy with kinetic teenage energy.
one of them quickly turns back and shouts a sincere "sorry!" before turning back around and running towards washington street. bob furrows his brows as he watches them bolt up the block towards where he's heading.
and then he sees it. the orange cones, the large gates and tents blocking off the street, the hundreds of people waiting at the curb just to catch a glimpse of what's being hidden behind the curtain. from behind the gates, there's orders being shouted about lights and positions. the girls slow as they reach the perimeter of the set, one of them pulls out her phone, already recording.
he's not even sure what to expect. he's not sure if he'll get close enough to see you or if you're even here— but there's a pull in his chest that drags him closer and closer to the crowd.
the people that gather around the gate are silent, almost as if they're trying to listen to what's being said on the other side, but they're buzzing with excitement— subtle, but undeniable.
bob finds himself squashed between the two girls from earlier and an older man with a camera around his neck, who bob assumes to be some sort of paparazzi. every so often, someone gasps or points at the set. they're all waiting for something.
"bob!"
he jumps. it comes from behind him, sharp and almost confused. sure enough, valentina's assistant is squeezing through the crowd with mild exasperation and a winded sort of urgency. her eyes are locked onto his like she might lose him in the crowd if she looks away.
"mel?" bob blinks, "what are you— what are you doing here?"
she reaches him, pulling her blazer back up her shoulder, "valentina saw that you left the tower and sent me to bring you back. what are you doing here?" she squints as she looks around, "is this a movie set?"
"uh. well—" bob rubs the back of his neck. how is he going to explain this? "it's… uh..."
then it happens— the cloth is pulled down and a gate creaks open. a rustle moves through the crowd. there's camera flashes already going off, and someone shouts "it's him!"
and out steps the lead actor.
he's tall, and he has sunglasses perched on his head even though it's a gloomy day. he flashes a smile at his fans, signs a few things, and waves a couple times.
"oh my god." bob hears mel complain, but as the crowd surges forwards towards the lead actor, mel is pushed away from bob. she squeals as someone takes her spot, and she disappears into the crowd faster than she appeared.
someone shouts, "how is it working with this director?"
the actor grins, acting calm and casual as if he doesn't have fans obnoxiously shoving their phones in his face, "it's great. she's one of the best directors i've ever worked with. she really knows how to bring her visions to life.”
but bob isnt looking at him. he's looking past him— through the open gate— trying to look for you, but he can't see much. there's tangles of wires and lighting equipment everywhere. a swarm of production assistants move past, but none of them are you.
he leans a little to the side, just enough to peer deeper into the lot. his heart is beating deep in his gut. bob knows it's stupid. if you were there, he's sure something would have happened— he would have felt it, heard your laugh, caught a glimpse of your silhouette— but there's nothing.
bob frowns. maybe it was stupid of him to think it would have been that easy. maybe it was always going to end like this. maybe this would have happened even if you hadn't vanished during the blip. maybe it was always going to end with bob standing behind a wall, watching your life go on while he stays stuck on you.
he doesn't wait for the gate to close. he doesn't wait for mel to find him and drag him back to the tower. he just turns and leaves.
bob finds himself in a small corner café somewhere in lower manhattan. he doesnt really know how he ended up here. he took the subway back to manhattan and just started walking.
now, he's hunched over a graffitied table near the window, chewing on a ham and cheese croissant and his bitter coffee like it's the worst thing in the world. his croissant is stale, but he can't complain. he only had five dollars in his wallet and this was all he could buy.
your polaroid laid flat on the table, mocking him.
bob stares at it like it might move— like it might speak to him or blink— but it doesn't. it's just that same frozen moment in time, taunting him like he had done something wrong.
outside of the window, life moves on. the sun is setting, people are walking by with smiles on their faces, taxis drive by and honk, and there are food trucks parked on the curb serving delicious overpriced food, but bob feels miles away from it all.
he had overheard it as he was leaving— a conversation between two crew members in the smoking area just outside of the movie set.
"we're packing up tonight. trucks start rolling out at 6am up north to syracuse tomorrow. first shoot is scheduled for monday."
bob couldn't go to syracuse. he had barely made it to brooklyn.
there's a horrible gnawing feeling of disappointment festering in his chest. not because he couldn't find you, but because he actually thought he would— that maybe fate would be kind to him and bring him back to you once more.
but no. fate hadn't even led him to a good croissant.
his teeth tear away at another chunk of it. the cheese is cold and rubbery against his teeth, and the pastry flakes inside of his mouth like drywall. he sets it down onto the plate and pushes it a few inches away.
"shouldve just stayed home..." he grumbles.
his phone buzzes.
YELENA
all good?
bob sighs. he wishes.
BOB
No
They're moving the shoot to Syracuse tomorrow
YELENA
syracuse in italy?
| BOB
Syracuse in New York. Google says it’s up North
YELENA
im sorry
you did really good bob. im proud of you
he stands to leave, holding tight onto the polaroid. the cafe bell gives him a half-hearted jingle as he pushes it open. he's still chewing on a bit of the croissant, bitter crumbs sticking to his lips when it happens.
he crashes into someone rounding the corner.
papers fly everywhere. it almost looks like someone just threw an entire stack of coloured paper and tossed it into the air. it's utterly cartoonish.
bob stumbles back in shock— his coffee had slipped from his hand and collapsed to the ground, destroying many of the papers. he recoils as a blue paper flies straight into his face and pens and highlighters drop straight onto his shoes. its chaos.
"shit, i'm—" a stressed laugh breaks through the air as the person drops to their knees, scrambling to pick up their stuff before the new york grime clings to it, "i'm so sorry. i wasn't looking where i was going."
bob's stomach drops to his ass. oh my god.
his eyes drop down in an instant, trying to identify who it was— but a hood is pulled right over their head and he can see the brim of a cap peaking out. but he's not crazy. he knows what he heard. their voice had sounded almost exactly like—
"i'll buy you a new coffee." they offer, wiping their coffee-soaked highlighters against their jeans, "shit..."
it hits him like a punch in the face.
he doesnt lean down to help— he can't. he's frozen in place, and the only thing that could possibly move him is if the world opened up and swallowed him whole. the air around him warps and his breath catches in his throat.
"how much is coffee around here? like 6 bucks?" but the question goes through one ear and out the other.
the person stacks whatever isn’t french in coffee back into their bag and gives a shaky sigh, muttering something unintelligible under their breath.
bob can barely move or think— but a white rectangle lying face down on the floor by his shoe catches his eye. but the stranger is reaching for it before he can even comprehend what's happening. they're standing up and flipping it around before he can reach out and take it.
"hey, you dropped—"
it's the polaroid. his polaroid. your polaroid.
and it's almost like the trembling hand that holds it recognises it too— the polaroid, the setting, the smile, and the woman— but especially the man that she holds.
it's you. it has to be you. nobody reacts like that to a strangers photo, and especially not after they've spilled coffee all over their nice sweater.
your head is tilted just enough that bob can make out your features. your eyes are blinking like you've seen a ghost, and lips curves into a small frown. your eyebrows are curled in confusion and he fears you might start crying.
you're still hidden underneath the shadow of your cap, but bob recognises you straight away. how could he not? he feels a bit ashamed to admit it, but he had been scouring the internet for you for almost a week straight. he’s seen more picture of you now than he’s even seen of himself.
and then your head shoots up— eyes wide and mouth slightly parted— and bob feels his knees turn into jelly.
"...bob?"
and he swears the sound of his name on your lips could kill him and then bring him back to life in the same breath.
but oh god, what does he do now? you're right in front of him— so close that he could reach out and touch you just like he's wanted to since you'd vanished. but he doesn't.
your name slips from his mouth in a soft whisper.
but now he's sure he actually might explode. not in a heart-pounding, stomach-churning way. it's more of a oh-my-god-i'm-going-to-die-from-this kind of way.
you recoil for a moment— just a touch— but it's enough to make bob's heart lurch. there's an unreadable look in your eyes that bob doesn't know what to do with.
he's afraid you're going to hit him. slap him. curse at him. he almost wants you to. he wants you to shove him onto the ground— to do anything at this point. he just wants you to touch him. he wants to feel your hands on him, even if it hurts. his hands twitch at his sides, aching to reach for you, but terrified of what might happen if he does.
"say something." his voice is barely a whisper— barely holding itself together, "please."
instead, you reach out. you both watch as your shaky hand presses flat onto his chest. his pulse thrums hard against your palm, wild and thrashing, and the weight of your touch wrings out a shaky breath from both of you.
bob wouldnt mind if you hit him— if you pounded so hard on his chest that it left dents where your fists landed. he wouldn't have minded if you pressed a little harder and tore his heart from his body.
just take it. bob thinks. it already belongs to you.
and then it hits you— like cold water to the face, like lightning in your veins— he's real. he's not a memory, or a dream, or an awful hallucination brought on by stress. he's real, and he's in front of you, and you can feel his heart beating underneath your palm.
you stumble forwards. you don't think. you just move— fast, clumsy, desperate. your arms wrap around his torso like it's your lifeline, fingers twisting into the fabric of his sweater like youre trying to intertwine yourself with him.
"oh my god." you mutter into his chest, "bob—"
bob inhales like he's been holding his breath for years. he notes the tremble in your voice and the way you cling to him like he might vanish. you’re not hitting him or yelling at him. you’re holding him. you’re as distraught as he is.
his arms come around you slowly— hesitant— and then all at once, like he can’t help it anymore. his eyes flutter shut as he tries to get a grip on his breathing. his arms wrap around your body, anchoring you to him.
and he notices everything. how your body sinks into his arms, how your breath hitches, how you bury your face so deep into him like maybe you’re trying to disappear into him entirely.
and god, you smell so good. soft and warm, like vanilla and something sweet. maybe honey. maybe even lavender— wait, is this weird? bob wonders, he’s being weird, isn't he?
but one of your hands slides down his back like you’re trying to feel all of him, your other arm pulls him tighter than he thought possible.
so no, he decides. he’s not being weird. you’re holding onto him like you need him, and he’s holding you because he does need you.
your arms loosen slowly— reluctantly— and bob follows your lead as you begin to pull apart. it’s just an inch at first, like neither of you are ready to let go, but then your hands slide up to cradle his face. your thumbs sweep across his cheek like you’re recalling lost memories, and your eyes search his like you’re trying to find something you thought you’d lost forever.
then you lean in, your lips kissing at the soft skin on his cheeks several times, each kiss landing harder and harder. bob’s eyes flutter shut, his hands curling around your waist, fingers pressing gently into the fabric of your jacket.
“it’s really you, right?” you ask, still breathless as you press another kiss under the swell of his cheekbone. there’s a hint of humour in your tone, but it’s overshadowed by the desperateness of the question.
“yeah.” he laughs as he nods, almost like he can’t believe it himself, “yeah, it’s me. it’s really me.”
your fingers stay curled at his jaw as you pull away, a giddy smile on your face. bob’s eyes flicker between yours, trying to read everything you’re not saying out loud. he’s afraid you think he’s all old and wrinkly now— that he’s not the bob you once knew, who was an addict, but at least he was your bob.
he knows he’s changed and he knows you can see it. you’ve both changed— but he’s nine years older than the last time you saw him. the five years that had vanished from you hadn’t vanished from him. they etched themselves onto his face in the form of smile lines and shadows under his eyes, his jaw a little sharper and his skin a touch darker.
“is something wrong?” he whispers, brow twitching in worry.
you shake your head as you run a hand through his hair, “jus’ wanna take a look at you, bobby.” you whisper, “i wanna see what i missed.”
and he smiles, loving the feeling of your hands on his face. you’re so close that he can count the eyelashes fanning over your eyes when you blink. he can see the way your pupils dilate as you take him in— like you’re memorising him all over again.
his voice comes out soft, almost unsure. “do i look okay?”
your thumb brushes against the edge of his jaw, eyes swiping briefly over his lips, and then you smile— that heart stopping smile— and you nod, “you look amazing, bob.”
god, you’re so beautiful. he thinks. he never wants you to stop saying his name. his eyes swipe over your lips, still so pretty and plump, and your eyes, magnetic as ever.
but then you let go of his face. the softness in your eyes flickers before something else bubbles up. you blink a few times, jaw clenching, and then your hands are on his chest again— but this time you’re pushing him away.
it’s not violent. its not even harsh. its just hard enough to put distance between you. bob stumbles back, startled by the change. he’s cold now, the warmth of your breath mingling with his now gone.
“why weren’t you there?” you ask. it’s not loud, but it’s enough for bobs heart to feel like it’s suffocating.
your voice cracks, and bob wants to reach out. to grab you and pull you back into his arms. to apologise and say how much of an idiot he is for abandoning you. he opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
you frown, eyes glossy but still burning into his, “i turned around and you were just— you were just gone, bob. and everything in the apartment was so… different. i didn’t understand. i didn’t understand anything and… and you weren’t there.”
he tries to step towards you, to try and hold you again, but you hold a hand like you just need him to wait— like you need to get the words out before you crumble to the ground.
“i was so scared, and then i was angry.” you sniffle, “and then i didn’t know what to be.”
bob nods— eager, desperate. “i know. i know, and i’m so sorry i wasn’t there. i didnt mean to. i didnt mean to leave you like that, i swear.”
“it was five years, bob.“ you shake your head, eyes shining under the cafe lights, “five years is a long time to wait for me, i get it—“
“but i did. i waited for you. i waited for so long. but then—“ his voice cracks as he stops himself. his chest rises and falls like he’s bracing for something.
you can see it in his eyes. the hesitation. the fear. the memory of how bad all of it unraveled so long ago. the pain.
“what happened, bob?” you whisper.
he swallows hard. his gaze drops to the ground for a moment, voice hoarse as he answers, “i got bad again.”
“i didn’t mean to.” he adds desperately, looking back up at you, “i was doing okay for a while. i really was. then i… got lonely. and scared. and i didn’t know how to live with how it ended. i didn’t know how to live without you.”
your heart wrenches in your chest. the way his eyes flood with warm tears and how his hands tremble at his sides makes you want to wrap him up, tuck him into your ribs, and never let go.
“but i’m better now.” he huffs out a breathy laugh. theres tears clinging to his waterline, but his smile is so bright that you know he’s okay, “i’m a lot better.”
and you believe him. you don’t even need to hear it. you can see it in his face— in the plumpness of his face, and in the colour and warmth of his eyes. even if he hadn’t gotten better, if he was broken beyond repair, you’d still love him. he’s still your bob.
then you run back into his arms. your head slams into his chest again, and bob is quick to welcome you back in. you don’t think you could ever leave his embrace ever again.
“i missed you, bobby.” you sigh as you push your head gently into the crook of his neck.
“i missed you more.” bob presses a soft, lingering kiss to the side of your face, gentle and certain, like he means it all the way down to his bones, “so much more.”
and then you both laugh. you vibrate against each other, soft breathless giggles that slip out for no proper reason. it’s not even about anything. just relief. just being there together.
you finally pull away, hands still on each others body. there’s still a trace of laughter on his lips, and it makes your heart ache in the best way possible. your arms are around his neck, fingers playing with a strand of his hair, and his hands sit tenderly on your waist. to onlookers, you probably looked like a middle-school couple who don’t know what too much PDA is.
“you’re older than me now, right?” you ask with a teasing glint in your eye.
“i am, yeah.” bob tilts his head and puckers his lip in thought like he hadn’t really thought about it. he had— many times, actually— but only because he was afraid that you might not like how old he looked, “it’s weird to think about, isn’t it?”
you snicker and punch his arm, “you’re an old man now.”
the laughter fades, but the warmth remains. bob’s eyes flicker over your face, slow and deliberate, from the curve of your cheek to the bow of your lips. and you let him. you let him look because you’re doing the same.
you’re so close together— closer than best friends probably should be— but it feels so right.
and bob becomes hyper aware of this— the feeling of you playing with and tugging the soft ends of his hair, the way he pulls you closer when he feels your body stray from him, the way you’re looking at each others lips like best friends shouldn’t.
“can i—“ he swallows, breaking the silence, “can i ask you something?”
you tilt your head slightly and hum in encouragement.
he hesitates. his eyes flick back up, searching for your answer within your eyes, "did you... maybe... like me?"
you blink, "like you?"
there’s a nervous laugh caught in your throat, but it falls out of your mouth light and airy. bob chews at the inside of his cheek, wincing like he almost regrets asking— like he’s already preparing for the hard blow of your rejection.
he wants to take it back— to say its a joke— but he can’t, and he doesn’t. this is you, for heavens sake. he had just gotten you back. even if you didn’t like him— didn’t share the same feelings he had for you— he didn’t care.
“yeah.” he says, a little smaller now, “like… like like me?”
there’s something boyish in the way he says it. like the words are stolen from a younger version of himself. like its a question he’s been carrying around for years and only now feels brave enough to ask.
you lean forward without thinking, brushing a stray hair from his forehead refuge against his cheek, your fingers lingering as your palm settles gently on his cheek. his eyes flutter slightly at the contact.
"i was so in love with you, bob.” you whisper, thumb grazing his cheekbone, “i think i still am.”
he can’t help it anymore. your words poke at something in his brain, like a light in the dark, and something inside of him just gives.
he leans in, fast and sudden, like gravity’s been pulling him towards you this entire time and he’s only just now given in. one hand tightens around your waist, the other cups your face, and then his lips are on yours— warm and desperate and full of every unsaid thing he’s kept buried for years.
it isn’t perfect. its a little messy— your noses bump against each other and your teeth knock slightly in the rush of it all, but it’s real and it’s honest and it’s hungry, like bob’s been waiting forever.
your hands curl into the fabric of his sweater. the world tilts a little. everything narrows to this very moment, and bob is all you feel. he’s so warm and he’s so sweet against your lips, holding you so tenderly with such fervour. his breath catches, especially when your fingers brush the back of his neck and crawl into his hair.
when you both break apart, it’s only to breathe. foreheads pressed together, eyes fluttering open. you’re both grinning like love-sick idiots, dazed and a little breathless.
and then bob laughs— a soft, incredulous sound—and presses another kiss to the corner of your mouth, and another, right on your jaw, then another, quick and tender above your eyebrow.
“i take it you like like me back?” you murmur, half-grinning like an idiot, your eyes still half-close and your lips brushing against his.
a quiet, disbelieving laugh falls from his mouth. then bob dips his head catches you in another kiss. it’s slower this time, gentler, like he wants to memorise the way you taste when you’re smiling.
“i do.” he mumbles into your mouth, breathless but so in love, “so much.”
dont think i forgot about the tag list!!! ok so i know you guys didn’t sign up for an official tag list but i wanted to tag you anyways lol thank you guys so much for liking and commenting and reblogging and EVERYTHING. i really do appreciate it and hope you guys stay with me for a long time!! im sorry to the people i didn’t get to tag. i dont know why it does let me but i see you 🫵
summary: the team asks about the polaroid in bob’s wallet, so he tells them about the girl he never even dated.
pairing: bob reynolds x fem!reader
insp by: we never even dated by sombr and also that one life is strange line about chloe in max’s wallet :P
notes: angsty, mentions of drug use, relapse, j*bs mentioned
word count: i don’t know but there’s a lot
a/n: okkkkkayyyy first fic on this blog lets goooo it had to be my man bobothy reynolds of course and only real ones know it had to be angst. let me know your thoughts!!!!
acknowledgements: @/cursed-carmine for the beautiful header!!! and also dedicated to @opheliabbarnes cuz who else could this be dedicated to
part two!
yelena knew she was in over her head asking bob if he wanted to go to the store with her.
don’t get her wrong— she likes bob. bob is fun, and she would have much rathered his company than john (annoying), her dad (even more annoying), ava (british) or bucky, who was tolerable, but unavailable. it was just that bob was bob, and he wasn’t exactly the most fun to be around either.
yelena fiddled with a box of dry spaghetti before humming and tossing it into the red basket hanging from her arm. it makes a loud crinkling sound as it lands on top of the other items, almost falling out from the side.
bob points awkwardly at the full basket, brows crinkling in worry, “should we get another basket?”
yelena glances down, then back up at bob. she pats him on the arm and gives a half-assed smile, “why don’t you put those muscles to use and carry some stuff?”
“oh—“ bob stutters, “okay.”
bob holds out his arms, expecting yelena to pass him the basket, but she ends up placing the pack of dry spaghetti, amongst other items, straight onto his arms.
“do we even need this much stuff?” he asks as he watches her pile three stalks of celery onto two boxes of cereal.
“no, but it’s valentina’s money, so i feel okay spending it.” yelena shrugs.
“oh, okay.” he’s silent for a moment, but then he perks up again, “do you think she’d be mad were spending her money on celery?”
this is like the hundredth question he’s asked in ten minutes.
“no, bob.”
“okay, cool.”
they continue shopping— or more like yelena shops and bob follows, acts like a second basket and asks questions every five seconds.
by the time they reach the cashier, bob is like the leaning tower of pisa. he’s juggling boxes upon boxes and every step he takes is another step closer to collapsing and spilling cereal and spice jars all over the store floor.
the cashier, a teenager, shoots a judgemental look towards bob, who only grins awkwardly behind the boxes. yelena gives the teenager a small ‘hello’ before she starts placing items onto the conveyor belt.
yelena reaches into her pocket for valentina’s card, but frowns when she realises it’s empty. she quickly reaches for her jacket pockets, but there’s nothing in there either.
“oh shit.” yelena groans, “i forgot the card.”
bob and yelena glance at each other with panicked eyes, bob more-so than yelena.
they hadn’t even scanned half of the groceries yet.
“how much is it?” yelena asks.
“$106.50.”
they hadn’t even scanned half of the groceries yet.
yelena scoffs, “geez.”
the cashier awkwardly points at the screen, “so did you want me to cancel that or…?”
yelena wants to answer, but she’s unsure of what she should even say. should she say yes and then leave this tiny teenager to put all of these groceries back by themselves? should she say no and be in debt to the store?
“i-i have fifty dollars.” bob mentions.
yelena shoots bob a confused look. bob has fifty dollars in cash when he has valentina’s money at his disposal? he basically has millions of dollars in his hands and chooses to keep a measly fifty dollars on him— but she respects it.
“here— it’s in my wallet.”
he tilts his hips towards yelena. in his right cargo pocket, there was an outline of his wallet. yelena raises her brows, but digs into his pocket and pulls it out.
“i’ll—um—“ bob leans over and grabs whatever bags he can and nods his head towards the aisles, “i’ll go put some stuff back.”
“okay, bob.”
bob scatters back towards the aisle and yelena gives a tightlipped smile to the cashier before observing the wallet.
it’s a decent wallet— one that valentina had given bob after he had pestered her for two weeks for a place to hold his subway coupons— and holds most of bob’s most cherished belongings.
yelena picks through it, flicking through the various receipts, coins, and subway coupons trying to find the fifty dollars bob mentioned— but then she spots something that catches her attention.
she pulls it out. in between her fingers was a polaroid of bob and… a girl? a very pretty girl, at that.
it’s worn— edges frayed and picture yellowed, but yelena can only focus on the girl. she’s smiling so wide that it’s almost contagious, and her eyes are full of life. yelena almost feels a smile appearing on her face.
the girl’s arm is wrapped around bob’s neck and her face is smushed against his. bob looks a little more put together than he is now. his hair is a touch shorter and he’s wearing a big button up shirt. he’s smiling too, but his eyes are looking at her. he looks happy.
yelena doesn’t know anything about this mystery girl, but she can see how much she matters to bob, and the thought makes her smile.
but before she can look any further, she hears bob walking back up to the counter. yelena shoves the polaroid back into his wallet and pulls out the crumpled fifty dollar note.
“a worker said she would handle it for me, so i think we’re all good.” bob grins with a weak thumbs up as he walks up, “you find the fifty yet?”
“yes, it’s right here.” yelena quickly replies as she hands it to the cashier, suddenly feeling quite nervous, “very smart keeping cash on you.”
bob tilts his head, “you don’t?”
“no. why would i? that’s stupid.”
“you… just said it was smart.”
“shush, bob.”
after paying and sliding the paper bags onto bob’s arms, the two made the short walk back to the tower. bob juggled with the paper bags, grunting whenever his knees knocked against the cans of tomato soup.
bob, as always, doesn’t complain. he adjusts his grip and walks onwards, trying to keep up with yelena.
“guess we don’t need to get groceries for another few months.” he tries to joke, but yelena doesn’t reply.
he glanced at her, confused. normally she’d have something snarky to say, or even something, but she doesn’t say anything. bob chalks it up to her being tired or annoyed at the random people sneaking photos of her, he doesn’t bother her any further.
not even an hour later, yelena finds herself beside bucky. they had just been called in by valentina for a debriefing for their next mission. it was just yelena and bucky, and in a way, yelena was thankful she wouldn’t have john, ava, or her dad calling for her every second.
it was quick and technical. yelena had nodded at all the right times and said all the right things, but she couldn’t stop thinking about the girl in bob’s wallet.
valentina’s voice still rings sharply in her head. the hallways are most empty as they walk towards the elevator. bucky’s boots thump against the tiled floor, not saying much as he walks with his hands in his pockets. his eyes are set forwards, but he glances at yelena as if he can sense that she’s about to say something.
so she cuts straight to the point.
“do you know if bob has a girlfriend?”
the question takes bucky back a little bit. yelena, who has never once worried about any of the team’s relationships, was suddenly asking about bob’s?
“why?” he quirks an eyebrow, “are you interested?”
“what? no. i just—” she sighs and squeezes the bridge of her nose. she slows down, and bucky does as well, “when i was going through his wallet, i found a picture of him and a girl. looked like an old girlfriend… or someone close. i didn’t ask.”
bucky tilts his head and narrows his eyes, “you went though his wallet?”
“i was looking for money.” yelena gestures to herself in defence, “we were getting groceries and i forgot val’s card.”
bucky nods once, but his expression is unreadable.
“so do you know if he’s seeing anyone or seen anyone?”
he shrugs, “i don’t know. i don’t think so. he hasn’t mentioned anything either. why don’t you just ask him?”
yelena scoffs, “what, and say ‘hey bob. i went through your wallet and saw that polaroid of you and this beautiful girl. who is she?’”
bucky looks at her as if that’s exactly what she should say, “…yeah.”
she glares at him, but it doesn’t exactly land the way she wants it to. bucky looks at her as if he’s known her for far too long to be intimidated.
“just… i don’t want bob to find out and get upset. let’s just keep this between us.” yelena shifts her weight, “promise me you won’t tell anyone.”
“i won’t.”
“promise it, bucky.”
“ok, fine—“ bucky exhales, “i promise.”
and bucky likes to think he can keep secrets. he likes to think he’s a good enough friend to keep his mouth shut— but somehow, he manages to let it slip.
bucky and john are in the training room, sweat already gathering at the collar of their shirts. they’ve been sparring for almost two hours, and neither of them were close to giving up.
he dodges another one of john’s punches with ease.
“come on, grandpa. stop going easy on me.” john grunts as he circles bucky, fists raised to his face.
bucky huffs, “stop running your mouth and then maybe you’d be able to land a few hits.”
they trade a few blows. bucky’s sharper, more controlled, but john’s strength keeps him from going down easily. the wraps in their hands are tearing at the seams with each hit, echoing throughout the gym, yet neither relent.
john ducks from a jab and counters it with a sharp twist and a palm to the shoulder, sending bucky stumbling back a few steps.
bucky’s off. not enough for most people to notice, but john does. his punches are just a little late and his reactions are slower. he keeps leaving his left side open— which he usually never does— and it’s the first thing john exploits.
“you’re getting sloppy.” john cocks his head as he readjusts his stance, “what’s got you so distracted?”
bucky shakes his head. he runs a hands against his jaw, wiping the sweat that had crawled down from his hairline, “nothing.”
but it wasn’t nothing. yelena’s voice ran rampant in his mind, and now all of a sudden, he was curious about the girl in bob’s wallet.
“you sure? because i just landed two hits on you that you normally would’ve blocked with your eyes closed.”
bucky swings. misses. grunts.
“this about yelena? she seemed real secretive about something this morning.” john circles him again.
and john can tell he’s hit gold as soon as bucky lunges forward, throwing a punch that john usually wouldn’t have been able to dodge— but bucky’s sloppy, so he does.
“oh, it is.” john smirks, “what, did she yell at you again?”
bucky really doesn’t want to tell john, but the guy would not have given up. he would have pressed and pressed until bucky beat the shit out of him, and he didn’t really feel like doing that right now.
“she—“ bucky groans, “she found a photo in bob’s wallet?
“a photo?” john blinks, “what, like a nude?”
“no, walker. it was picture of him and some girl.” bucky pinches the bridge of his nose, “she said it looked like a girlfriend or something. she also said she was pretty.”
john’s eyes light up like a kid on christmas, “so bobby has a girlfriend?”
bucky wants to slap himself. he let it slip, and to john of all people? that man wouldn’t have kept bob’s secret to save his life. god, he should’ve just lied.
“forget i said anything.” bucky grumbles as he starts unwinding his hand wraps.
“yeah, good luck with that.” john grins, “that’s the best thing i’ve heard all week!”
“i’m serious, walker. yelena told me not to tell anybody.”
“hey, don’t stress. i’m great with secrets.”
but he isn’t. john can keep secrets, but only if they involve his own personal business— otherwise, it’s free real estate. another thing about john is that he really, really doesn’t like awkward silences.
it’s late. the halls are dark and it’s almost silent in the tower, but john is really craving orange juice. thanks to yelena and bob’s earlier grocery trip, they now have four bottles that he decides he wants all to himself.
but ava beats him to it. she’s already sat down on the kitchen island, eyes glued to her phone, which seems to be playing some british news channel. beside her sit three bottles of orange juice, two empty and the other almost finished. with her other hand, she shovels dry lucky charms straight from the box into her mouth— no milk, just cereal.
“hey.” john grumbled as he eyes his orange juice.
“hey.” ava mumbles back, her eyes still focused on the news channel on her phone.
john walks over to the fridge and opens it, expecting the usual sad collection of condiments and energy drinks— but no, there’s actual groceries in there.
there’s even a pot of macaroni sitting behind a bundle of kale. it’s still warm, and there’s a pink post-it-note on top of the lid that just says ‘don’t touch. seriously. i’ll know’ in aggressive blue sharpie.
john pulls out the last bottle of orange juice and grabs a handful of grapes, tossing a few into his mouth as he shuts the fridge and leans against the counter. ava’s phone is loud enough that john can hear it— something about a diplomatic standoff in prague.
“big week for international diplomacy.” he half-jokes, nodding at the news report still playing on her phone.
ava hums, “it’s the third one this month. val’s sending yelena and bucky there. thought i’d research a little.”
john shifts slightly, the joke dying before it even really got the chance to land. “right. makes sense.”
the news anchor continues talking, something about increased military presence and growing tension within the country, but then it cuts out.
“shit.” ava grumbles, smacking her phone against her palm before tossing it onto the counter. she leans back in her seat like she doesn’t know what to do.
john takes a swig of his orange juice, “what?”
ava glances up at john, then grabs the lucky charms. she shovels a handful into her mouth, “my phone died.”
john hums.
but now it’s just so quiet and ava’s chewing is getting louder and more obnoxious, and he’s sure that if he doesn’t make conversation soon, his head might explode.
“the fridge is full.” he says suddenly.
ava finally glances up at him with one brow raised, “yeah?”
he nods, “like actual food. there’s spinach in there.”
“huh.” ava cocks her head in bewilderment. who would have expected them to buy spinach?
but then it’s quiet again. the crunching of lucky charms between ava’s teeth makes john want to scratch out his eyeballs. the fridge hums. a pipe creaks somewhere in the building.
you have to give him the benefit of the doubt— john has never done well in awkward silences.
“bob has a girlfriend.” he blurts out.
ava freezes mid-chew.
“what?”
john shrugs as if he hadn’t just dropped the biggest piece of team drama on ava at three in the morning. she’s so surprised that a lucky charm falls from her mouth and back into her hand.
it’s silent now. john actually misses the crunching.
ava swallows her chewed cereal— slow like her brain is trying to comprehend what he had just said. she places the box back onto the island and leans forwards, intertwining her fingers like she’s trying to run the idea of bob having a girlfriend through her mind.
john watches her, suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that he’s squeezing his half-empty orange juice between his hands like a nervous child. the condensation is dripping down his thumb, but ava’s looking at him like she expects him to say something else,
“what?” he grimaces.
ava raises her brows, incredulous, “you can’t just say that and then shrug! give me some context!”
“i did give you context.” john says defensively, “bucky told me that yelena told him that bob has a photo of him and a pretty girl hidden in his wallet.”
ava rolls her eyes, “what you told me wasn’t context, you idiot. that was the headline.”
“okay winston churchill, i’m trying my hardest.” john snaps, vaguely gesturing to himself as if it’d help his point.
ava shook her head, deadpan, “just shut up and tell me exactly what bucky said.”
“well, we were sparring, he was distracted, i landed a couple hits, and then i said something like ‘what’s got you so distracted?’ and then he just blurts it out. said yelena found a photo of bob with some girl in his wallet. he didn’t give me a name or a backstory— just that she found it and it’s been messing with her.”
ava narrows her eyes, “messing with her how?”
“i don’t know, like… it’s bothering her that she doesn’t know who she is. seems to be bothering bucky too, the way he’s throwing punches.” john shrugs, but then points a finger to add another point, “which i get, by the way. a wallet photo? that’s pretty intimate. and apparently she’s real pretty.”
ava leans forward again, her attention piqued. john chugs the rest of his juice and shoots it into the open trash can, watching it as it hits the rim once, bounces, and then tumbles in.
he claps his hands in success and turns to gauge ava’s reaction, but she only looks unimpressed. she quickly gets back to the topic.
“so bob’s just… walking around completely unaware that the entire team knows about this girl?”
“well, everybody but alexei.” he stuffs the rest of the grapes into his mouth and looks ava up and down, “okay, now it looks like you’re spiraling.”
“i’m not.” ava replies too fast, “i’m just wondering who bob’s mystery girl is.”
“i hope someone asks soon,” john mutters, “because i swear to god, if i have to keep this secret for any longer, it’s going to eat me alive.”
so why not give the people what they want? ava thought why not go straight to the source? bob was literally within arms reach of her, so why not?
“who’s the girl in your wallet?”
unfortunately, she had gone straight to the source in the middle of the living room, where the team was strewn around on the couches, still trying to catch their breathes after five hours of mandatory training.
bob sits comfortably on the couch in his sweats, just happy he can talk to someone after five hours.
yelena freezes. and almost like she hadn’t just been beating a punching bag for five hours, she sits up and glares at ava. ava then shrugs and glances at john, who raises his brows and points at bucky, who gives yelena a tight lipped smile. alexei, as usual, was just confused.
yelena rolls her eyes and throws her head back in disbelief, “oh my goodness, people. it hasn’t even been a day!”
bob looks around the room, almost unaware of what was happening, but when he finally registers ava’s question and sees all of the eyes ogling him, his stomach sinks and he frowns.
he turns to yelena, “you snooped in my wallet?”
“i didn’t mean to.“ yelena sits up and shakes her head in defence, “it fell out when i was getting the money for the groceries— and i mean, it’s a picture of you and a very pretty girl, so i looked!”
“woah!” alexei exclaims, reaching over to grab bob by the shoulders and give him a firm shake, “bob has girlfriend?”
“she’s not—“ bob vigorously shakes his head. there’s a bitter taste growing in his mouth, “she’s not my girlfriend.”
“then who is she?” john asks, “you don’t carry a picture of someone in your wallet unless they’ve emotionally wrecked you or you’re planning to propose.”
bob opens his mouth to say something— anything— but nothing comes out. the problem isn’t that he has no words, it’s that he has too many. he can feel them writhing around in his throat, knotting together into a tight ball of word vomit.
he closes his mouth.
john licks his teeth, “okaaaaay… i’m guessing you don’t plan on proposing—“
“you don’t have to tell us, bob.” yelena cuts john off, “we were just wondering—“
“no, no, it’s okay. it just—“ bob quickly replies, waving his hand like he’s trying to swat away the lump in his throat, “caught me a little off guard.”
he’s aware of everyone staring at him like he’s been cracked open, but he remembers that this is his family now— his stupid girl troubles weren’t enough cause to start shaming him.
his brows furrow in thought, trying to think of what he could possibly say that would capture the two years he had known you. two years, and somehow, there still aren’t words big enough.
because how do you explain carrying a picture of someone you never got to love out loud? how do you admit that a part of you plays conversations that have never been had, like maybe there was a version of your life that had turned out different?
so he starts from the beginning.
“we were neighbour back in sarasota.” he says, the words slow, like he’s trying to recount everything perfectly, “we lived in a dingy apartment building that felt like a shoebox. i had only been living there for a few months before she moved in two doors down. i remember because she would always play music when she cooked— real loud, like she didn’t care who heard it. i used to complain about it in my head all the time. but then at some point… i started waiting for it.”
he runs a hand over his jaw, smiling faintly like the memory surprises him.
“everyone loved her. it was hard not to. but the kids in the apartment adored her. they’d knock at her door just to see what she was doing, or to ask if she wanted to play soccer with them, and she always did. she worked at the theatre, so sometimes she would bring them back boxes of popcorn.”
he glances down at his hands, flexing them like he’s trying to keep the memory from slipping away, “and then one day, i locked myself out of my apartment— no keys, no phone, nothing. i was just standing there like an idiot. but then she walked by and saw me sitting in the hallway and asked if i wanted her to call the superintendent. i said it was fine but she did it anyways.
and then… she invited me into her apartment. she made me peppermint tea, let me pick a movie… and then we just sat there watching twister.”
“she sounds kind.” yelena mumbles with a smile, her voice soft in a way she rarely lets it be.
bob laughs— a breathy laugh that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “she was the kindest. we started talking more after that. i helped her carry her groceries once, and she lent me a screwdriver when my cabinet door fell off. but it was always easy… like— like i didnt have to try so hard to be someone else.”
the team is silent as they watch bob. no one moves. even alexei has shut his mouth. it’s silent, but the air is thick— with love? reverence? admiration, definitely. the team is seeing another side of bob now, and they’re afraid even breathing too loud would throw it all out of the window.
bucky breaks the silence, his voice low but steady, “what was her name?”
there’s no demand in his tone. no pressure—
bob flinches.
your name sits in the back of his throat like bile. he doesn’t want to say it. he hasn’t said it for years. he’s afraid that if he does, you won’t be his anymore— that if your name leaves his mouth, you’d be gone forever, final and permanent.
but you weren’t here anymore, and you weren’t his anymore. you never really were.
so he lets it slip from his mouth, soft and subtle, but the way he says it— like it’s the last beautiful thing he has left to ruin— makes him feel sick.
bob reaches for his pocket, his fingers hovering for a second before he pulls open his wallet, the leather groaning like it knows what’s coming.
he slides the photo out gently, the edges worn and picture yellowed from all those years of being touched, looked at, and missed. he doesn’t look at it, just holds it inbetween his fingers for a moment, his thumb brushing over your face like he’s trying to recognise the way your skin felt.
and then he hands it to alexei.
just a quiet offering, like maybe if he let them see you— really see you— then they might understand why you still live in the space between his ribs.
“she is very beautiful, bob.” alexei almost congratulates, his voice warm and sincere as he passes it to ava, “very pretty girl.”
ava takes it into her hands carefully, like the slightest movement might turn it to ash. her eyes flick down as she scans the image, and something shifts in her face. softness, maybe, and sympathy.
bob clears his throat— once, then twice. his voice is quieter now, like the memory of you is all that’s keeping him going.
“we… we spent everyday together after that.” he says, “two years. just about.”
bob glances at the polaroid, now in john’s hands, and watched how the super soldier gently flips it over to observe it. “i’d bring her takeout after my shifts, and she would sneak me into the theatre whenever a new movie came out that she thought i’d like— and i always did.”
“and she could tell i was struggling. i think everyone did. but… she didn’t treat me like i was my addiction. she didnt tiptoe around it, or act like it wasn’t there— she just let me be a person. she made me want to get better. and i did for a while. i really did.” he confesses with a small smile, “she was good like that.”
“so,” john says as he leans over and hands the photo to bucky, “what happened to her?”
it’s a question they all tiptoed around. what if they had just resurrected the memory of someone who’s been six feet under for years? what if they had just tore another hole in bob’s chest?
the corners of bobs mouth tug down. he feels a familiar ache in his chest, and when he speaks, his voice is quiet— fragile. “she disappeared during the blip.”
there’s a shift in the air, the kind that only comes with that word— an event they all witnessed and lost so much to.
“we were fighting when she disappeared. we weren’t yelling, just… that quiet kind of fighting.” he admits, almost like he’s ashamed of it. he swallows hard as he fidgets with his sleeves, his gaze hitting the floor, “i had relapsed. just a little. that’s what i told her— just a little. but she knew it wasn’t just a little.
she was upset. disappointed, maybe, i— i don’t know.” bob shakes his head, “i told her i didn’t need help. she told me i did. and then i said something so… stupid— angry and scared and stupid— and she just stood there and looked at me like i had just broken her heart.”
his voice wavers, and something raw flashes across his face. bob blinks hard, like it’ll keep the sting in his eyes from turning into anything more.
then his hand drifts. its slow at first— just a subtle curve of his fingers over his chest— but then he presses down, his palm flat, like he’s trying to hold himself together.
“and then she vanished— right in front of my eyes.”
yelena leans over the couch, her expression softening as she places a gentle hand onto bob’s shoulder. it’s quiet, like she doesn’t need to say anything, because there isn’t anything to say that could make it easier.
“i waited so long for her to come back— but the worst part… was the look on her face before she disappeared. like she didn’t know if i loved her at all.”
bob doesn’t cry, but he looks like he might. but then he lets out a breath— half-laugh, half-sigh— and shakes his head, trying to blink the tears away.
“it’s so stupid… i mean— we never even dated.” he shrugs like he’s trying to be light-hearted, but it doesn’t work.
“just because you never dated the girl, it doesn’t mean you didn’t love her.” john adds.
and somehow, coming from john, it hits harder.
the polaroid makes its way back to bob. he holds it between his fingers, the feeling of the shiny polaroid calming him down already.
“did you ever go back to find her after everyone reappeared?” yelena asks.
bob sighs and shakes his head, “i couldn’t. i was already high out of my mind in malaysia. by the time i came to, i didn’t have any money to get back home.”
the room settles once again. bob’s looking down at the polaroid and nobody else dares to speak, not wanting to break the silent spell that’s settled over them.
and then—
“why don’t we just google her or something?” ava asks, furrowing her brows like she just had the most brilliant idea in the world, “i’m sure something would pop up.”
everyone blinks.
“wh—what?” bob lifts his head.
“you miss her, right?” ava asks, “so let’s just do a quick search. no harm done. it’s not like we’re gonna message her or anything.”
“no, no. that feels weird. i don’t want to invade her privacy or anything. i mean—“ bob awkwardly laughs, “it’s been years—“
but ava brushes him off and points to the table behind bob and alexei, “can you pass the laptop and bob’s photo?’
alexei cheers. he plucks the polaroid from bob’s fingers and slides her the laptop, “yes, finally someone with brains!”
ava wastes no time in opening it and opening google. the team crowds around, necks craning and shoulder bumping as they try to catch a glimpse of the screen.
bob shifts in his seat, slightly hesitant. nervousness bubbles deep within his stomach. he’s afraid.
ava types your name into the search bar, unsure what results would pop up with only your first name, but when she clicks the enter button, she’s slammed with links— social media profiles, media blogs, a couple of articles, and even a podcast episode.
“woah.” ava mumbles as she scrolls through the searches, “hey bob, if this is your girl, you’re gonna be so proud of her.”
bob’s so curious, but he’s also so scared.
she clicks on a wikipedia page, where a photo of your face pops up for the entire team to see. ava places the polaroid side-by-side, and the air shifts in realisation.
it’s definitely you.
ava scrolls down a little bit, the entire room silent as each person read— and there was so much to read.
“she’s got a whole resume here. look at all those credits.” yelena points to a list of projects you’ve been a part off, her eyes widening, “she worked on that space movie i cried during!”
“she’s a director.” john points out.
alexei gasps, “she makes the movies? oh wow, bob! you pick a good one!”
bob doesn’t even realise he’s started chewing on his thumbnail. she’s a director? that’s all she’s ever wanted to be.
he thinks, and then slowly, almost without thinking, he gets up. he crosses the room, and without speaking, he squeezes through and his eyes settle on the screen.
bob doesn’t speak, just stares at the picture of you. it’s a little more polished, and you look a little more grown, but it’s unmistakably you. you’re smiling, professional, and wearing a pair of heavy-looking headphones around your neck, probably caught between takes.
you look good. you look happy. you look like you’ve built a life, and for a second, all bob can think is god, i’m so glad she’s okay.
it finally sinks in that you’re real and not just a memory he keeps in his wallet. you exist somewhere out there, breathing the same air as him.
bob finds that he’s not sad anymore— he’s nervous.
“she’s based in los angeles.” ava reads a line of text aloud, her voice cutting through the silence.
bob’s eyes are still glued to the scene, barely registering ava’s words until they sink in a second later.
los angeles. not another country, or another planet— you’re across the country. just a flight away.
“really?” he mumbles.
“what?” yelena looks up at him with concerned eyes, “is that weird or something?”
“i mean, she’d always talked about wanting to do an apprenticeship or something in LA. i just didn’t think she’d—“
he trails off. didn’t think she’d actually do it? didn’t think she’s survive the blip? didn’t think she’d move on without him?
“oh shit.” ava laughs, her eyes widening.
“what?” alexei intently leans over her shoulder.
john raises an eyebrow, “is she married?”
bucky shoves him a little.
“no, no— just look at this.” ava points at a new press article highlighted in large red writing, “she’s solo-directing her first movie in new york. it says it’s shooting in brooklyn in a month.”
for a moment, bob thinks he’s misheard ava. you’re shooting a movie in brooklyn in a month? there’s no way the stars had aligned that perfectly.
but she said it, and it’s right there on the screen. you’re going to be in the same city as him— probably even a few blocks away from him.
“guess the universe wants a rematch.” john snickers with a smug grin.
bob lets out a shaky breath, “oh god.”
he doesnt know how to feel. relief that you’re okay? that you’re doing what you love? or panic? that new york city isn’t big enough to hide in anymore. fear? fear of what he might say if he sees you again, and afraid of what you might say back.
if you crossed each other on the street? i mean, he’s aged five years and you haven’t. would you even recognise him?
but underneath all of that fear and uncertainty, there’s something warmer— hope. and that’s what really guts bob, because hope is what hurt the most last time.
“she’s coming to new york.” bob says under his breath, more to himself than anyone else— like he’s trying to cement it into his brain, “god, she’s coming to new york.”
john reaches over and pats bob on the back, “so what are you gonna do about it, bobby?”
everyone is watching bob. they’re waiting, not saying a word, but they’re all hoping he says the same thing.
finally, bob straightens up. there’s a genuine smile on his face, his eyes wide with a burst of confidence—
summary: after two years of you talking into his ear, bucky meets the face behind the voice on the comms after a tricky mission.
pairing: tfatws!bucky barnes x fem!reader
insp by: an instagram reel from an art account that drew bucky on the phone with someone screaming at him…….. guys trust me my brain was thinking big things… also inspired by the goat penelope garcia!!!!!
word count: 10.1k… wowza… read at your own risk
content warnings: usual description of violence (blood and punching and stuff), being trapped under rubble, swearing, mentions of dying death and murder, very slightly suggestive content, explosions, guns and shooting
a/n: my first bucky fic!!!! for @opheliabbarnes since you got me hooked into bucky with all of your bucky propaganda and also becuade you cheated in my poll and used your bucky powers to make me write this. also guys for the sake of the book just imagine that bucky is working with sam and doesn’t divorce him
"comms are live. hello, can you hear me?"
a pause.
there's a static crackling that rings through your headset before bucky's voice comes in, low and gruff, "yeah, unfortunately."
"good morning to you too, barnes." you smirk as you lean back in your chair, the screens in front of you flickering to life one-by-one. "it's nice to hear that your sunshine and optimism lived to see another day."
"play nice, you two." sam warns, "we haven't even gotten inside."
"i am playing nice." you retort, "that was me being sweet."
"define sweet..." bucky grumbles. you're not sure whether he's forgotten you can hear everything he's saying or if he's doing it just to spite you— but you let it slide.
you glance over to a screen where you can see joaquin's boots— and only his boots— thanks to his poorly angled body cam. it's shaking like he's struggling with something.
"joaquin, you there? i think your mic's off."
"yeah, he's here. he just can't figure out his ear piece." sam sighs. you watch him step into joaquin's screen and grab something from his hands, "you just have to click the button, man. it's not that hard—"
there's an awful screeching noise that pulses through your headset. it sounds like someone had just murdered a sentient robot and then fed its screams through a megaphone.
you pull it off in a hurry, waiting until it goes silent, and then place it back onto your headset with a huff. "everybody just... stop touching things."
another screen immediately catches your eye. blotches of red and orange pop out amongst a deep blue background— heat signatures patrolling the perimeter of the building that sam, bucky, and joaquin are in. you watch as a handful of them enter the warehouse.
"we've got movement." you still up in your chair, zooming in as the thermal overlay focuses, "there's about four patrolling the west perimeter. there's five— no— seven of them have just entered through the east side of the first floor."
sam peaks around the corner, but he can't see much unless he wants to compromise their position. he pulls back, "super soldiers?"
"i can't tell. they move like it, but nothing’s confirmed." you narrow your eyes. your eyes flicker to a smaller screen and a controller that sits beside it, "i'm sending scout. incoming!"
from somewhere in the sky, a grey blur cuts across the roof of the warehouse. bucky rolls his eyes as he watches it zoom past.
on your screen, scout's POV snaps into focus— clear, high-res, infrared, and absolutely glorious. it’s practically your child. you guide the bot with a simple flick of your wrist.
a small drone no bigger than a tennis ball and stamped with a white 'S' on its side zips through the air like a wasp on a mission. it's virtually silent, zipping low as it peaks around the corner of the east wall.
"okay, they aren't armed, but—" you pause as you rotate scout, "wait, there's a truck pulling up on the east loading dock."
sam furrows his brows. they didn't plan for anything other than a simple surveillance and a couple catch and arrests. "can you see what's inside?"
you turn to another screen— a thermal drone that's zoomed into the truck. "one driver and one passenger. there's a few crates in the back, but i can't see what's in them. they must have some sort of cooling system because they're freezing."
joaquin glances between sam and bucky, "that has to be the serum, right?"
"this must be one of the meeting points for their buyers." sam says, "they're gonna be here any second."
"don't worry. i've got eyes on them." you cut in, fingers flicking across your keyboard as another feed pops up, "i'm guessing it's the four black range rovers approaching from the south along franklin street."
there's a pause, then bucky asks, "what's our game plan?"
he's not looking at sam or joaquin. he hasn't moved a muscle. his voice is low and steady, his eyes fixed straight ahead— like he's waiting for your voice to tell him what to do next.
and you don't hesitate.
"we need to seperate them from the buyers. if this is an exchange, they're going to have bodyguards. we can't have thirty armed criminals in one warehouse. can you handle that, torres?"
joaquin nods, "loud and clear."
without another word, he takes a running step off of the warehouse's broken wall. his wings snap out from his jet pack with a hiss, catching the wind as he flies south along franklin street. you watch his tracker blip across another screen, already zeroing in on the buyers.
"and you two have to take these guys out." you continue, focus turned on sam and bucky, "there's five on the perimeter, all armed. there's two that have just wandered off towards you guys. pick them off."
sam's voice crackles in, "i'll take the guys with the guns."
there's a pause—
"we can take the guys with the guns." he corrects himself a moment later— probably after a look from bucky.
"they're unloading the crates now. the truck is electric, so i think can stall it long enough for you guys to get close— maybe cut off their exit entirely. we still don't know if they're enhanced, so be careful and don't be stupid."
you watch sam's body cam as bucky turns to him, his voice flat through the comms, "yeah, sam."
sam scoffs and waved him off as he readjusts his shield, "i think she means you, man."
"i was just throwing it out there." you roll your eyes, fingers flying across your keyboard as you send joaquin backup, "torres has already contained the buyers, so you're up— go."
bucky's already moving before you can even finish your sentence, heavy boots almost silent against the concrete floor. sam vaults the barrier to his left, moving fast and low.
sam closes in. a pacing guard turns just a moment too late— sam drives his fist into the side of his face. he drives into another guard, sending him tumbling into a wall with a dull thud. another one spins around with a gasp. he fumbles for his weapon—
crack.
a metal fist drops him before he can even point it. bucky steps over the guy, barely slowing his pace or breaking a sweat. but then another guard rounds the corner— one who doesn't fumble with his gun— and shoots.
you look over to another screen. the thermal camera shows more figures closing in on sam and bucky, clearly on high alert. the tension in their movements show that they're panicked. the four crates that had been unloaded were now being covered back up.
"you've got six of them heading your way, and fast." you scramble. the truck's screen is visible on your screen, but your software is still trying to figure out the password, "they're unarmed, but be careful."
sam's wing fans out in a practiced motion and shields them both from the bullets. the shots ping right off of the reinforced metal. his wing retreats, and the guard looks terrified. he tries to reload the gun, but he's struggling.
sam's voice comes through, dry but amused, "i guess we're past the stealth phase."
"i didnt like that phase anyways." bucky grunts as he shoves the guard against a wall. he makes a point by grabbing his gun and snapping it in half like a twig, tossing it out reach. he knocks the guy out with one swift punch to the jaw.
they're doing good— clearing the path with ease and making sure to be vigilant— but then they walk into the main area of the warehouse. it's wide open and humming with the sound of the truck and trailers shoving the crates back into the back, and there's at least a handful of masked figures standing there.
the six figures you had seen nearing sam and bucky are already stepping into the light of the warehouses main floor— calm, coordinated, and slightly intimidating.
each one is broad-shouldered and looks battle-worn. their body temperatures come up significantly warmer than both sam and bucky's, and you can tell something is wrong.
"you think they've taken the serum?" bucky shifts his stance, fists already clenched.
you watch as one of the men lurches forwards— blindingly fast— and throws sam across the room, far too fast for sam to catch himself. he hits a pillar, sliding down it with a groan.
"shit." you inhale.
"i think so!" sam yells, voice strained.
the rest of them charge. bucky's the first to meet them head-on. he lands a solid punch to one of their jaws— and it should've dropped him— but the guy just snarls, barely flinching, and drives his knee into bucky's stomach.
sam's back up, his shield snapping into place just quick enough to block a hit. he's fighting hard and moving fast, wings flicking around for balance and defence, but for every hit he dodges, there's another one right after.
you're watching the fight from a drone overhead like a game you can't control. youre working on trying to stall the truck, but it's difficult when youre also watching your friends get their asses beat.
sam takes out one guy with a swing of his wing and a nasty uppercut, but two more corner him. bucky slams a guy through a metal beam— literally through it— but it only buys him a second before another super soldier grabs him by his jacket and tosses him across the room, back slamming into a shelving unit.
then— like a miracle— a screen on your right starts beeping. a red dot farts across the radar, closing in on the warehouse. you spin in your chair to check the corresponding feed just as a figure cuts through the sky.
you grin, "torres incoming!"
not even a second later, joaquin bursts through one of the warehouse windows, wings flaring wide. his visor glints as he absolutely bodies two super soldiers like bowling pins just as one of them winds up to hit bucky again.
he lands with a thud, wings retracting quickly as he jogs up to sam. bucky is close behind, but he's still fighting off two super soldiers.
"about damn time." sam huffs.
bucky wipes the blood leaking from his nose, taking a moment to catch his breath, "what the hell took you so long?"
"traffic." he grins and holds his hand out for sam, who's literally holding on by a thread, trying to prop himself up with his shield, "was getting your asses kicked a part of the plan?"
sam groans as joaquin pulls him up, "don't push it, joaquin."
you're still watching the fight through various monitors. the comms are full of grunts and sharp breathes, but now that joaquin's there, they're struggling a little less.
and then there's a beep— a small, sad beep— and a window that says 'OVERRIDE FAILED' in big red letters. you freeze.
"they've locked me out of the truck's system. they're overriding my remote access." you scramble to restart the process, but it doesn't let you.
you glance at another screen. the camera feed confirms your worst fear— they're escaping. one of the super soldiers is climbing into the driver's seat, the rear doors slamming shut as the engine hums to life.
"they're taking off—" you panic as you watch the truck pull out of the warehouse driveway, "shit, someone stop that truck!"
before anyone can respond, bucky takes off in a full sprint— no hesitation, no plan, and clearly no intention of letting that truck get away or waiting for anyone. his boots pound against the asphalt as he trails it.
"barnes—" you call through the comms, stressed out of your mind.
you hadn't expected him to chase after it. he was the only one without wings or a jet pack, yet you watched him run after that truck like he was chasing all he's ever wanted. the panic in your voice doesn't help. if anything, it only pushes bucky harder.
he barrels out onto the street, only a few metres from the truck. you send a drone up ahead, the camera feed glitching as it races to keep up. you're trying to calculate every route the truck could take to evade capture— until your eyes land on a large clearing.
there's a river glittering under the sun, splitting the city in half. a large drawbridge stretches over it, connecting the two sides of land. just next to it, there's an enormous cargo ship waiting to cross— and your heart stops when you notice the bridge is already at a 70 degree angle.
"they're gonna jump the bridge, barnes." you quickly warn, "if they make it across before the split—"
"they're gone." he finishes, breathless but ready. you can hear his sharp breathes through your headset, "i'm not letting it get away. 'gonna jump it."
"fall back, barnes, you're not going to make it." you bark through the comms, trying to keep your voice steady. you watch as he speeds up, running faster than you've ever seen him run.
"you better listen to the lady, bucky." sam adds, wings slicing through the air as he tries to catch up.
you watch as the truck barrels forwards, climbing up the incline of the rising drawbridge like it's easy work. bucky's close— too close to stop. he digs his feet into the ground harder as he launches himself up the incline.
you can see it all through a drone— the truck about to leap, bucky on its tail, the bridge yawning wide open underneath them, and the water far below shining like teeth. the cargo ship blares its horn as it draws closer to the bridge, wary of what's happening.
it happens too fast—
the truck leaps across the gap. its front wheels leave the ground for just a split second before the back wheels follow, and then its airborne. behind it, bucky jumps too.
you're on your feet now, eyes locked onto the drone feed. your hands are braced on either side of the desk and your knuckles have gone bone-white. you're not breathing or thinking. you're not even sure if your heart is beating.
for a moment, he's airborne. then just as quickly, he's falling straight through the gap and into open air. the wind catches in his jacket, gravity yanking him down towards the water and the cargo ship below.
just before he hits the ship deck, a blur of red, white, and blue zips past— sam.
his wings flare as he dives, hooking one arm around bucky with precision, the two of them twisting mid-air as the momentum nearly sends them spiralling. they hover under the bridge for a moment before sam takes off towards solid ground.
you collapse in your chair and yank the joystick for scout, who zooms towards bucky and sam. its camera focuses, cutting through the haze of the sun to check on them.
"jesus christ, buck, are you okay?" you panic into your mic, already trying to see if he needs medical attention.
"i've caught the princess, he's safe." sam replies, smug as ever.
you lean in closer to the screen as scout zips around him, "are you injured? you might need to take your vest off so i can assess it and let medical know."
"take me to dinner first." he doesn't look thrilled about the rescue. he brushes off his jacket with a clenched jaw, then narrows in on scout, who's circling him. he flings his hand at it like a fly, "and get that stupid drone out of my face. it's ugly."
"rude." you frown, "he just risked his tiny propellor life to check up on you."
"yeah?" bucky asks flatly.
you narrow your eyes, "yeah."
bucky gives scout a fake smile and says an insincere 'thanks buddy'. then— without hesitation— bucky grabs scout mid-hover. you barely have time to shout at him before he launches scout straight up into the sky, spinning wildly and almost vanishing.
the feed spins out of control as the stabilisers struggle to compensate with the speed it'd been hurled at.
sam clicks his tongue and shakes his head, "ooooh, she's gonna kill you."
bucky shrugs, utterly unfazed, but there's a shadow of a smile sitting on his lips, "i didn't like the way it was looking at me."
"you better pray he still works when you get back or else i'll murder you in your sleep." there's a lowness in your voice that should be intimidating, but bucky doesn't falter.
"i'd like to see you try." he retorts, his tone bordering amused.
"you've never seen me." you reply matter-of-factly, "you wouldn't even see me coming.”
"oh, trust me, the moment i hear nasally breathing, i'd know exactly who was about about to beat my ass."
"that sounded like a compliment, barnes." you roll your eyes, ignoring the insult and simply smirk, putting on your best mock-sultry tone, "are you complimenting me?"
"don't flatter yourself. i've just taken too many hits to the head."
he hears you scoff, and it makes his grin widen. he can almost imagine you in your little computer room at the base, sitting in front of your set-up with an unimpressed look on your face, or even pacing back and forth muttering about how annoying he is.
it's weird how he knows so much about you, but still can't really picture what you look like. he's tried, but it's mostly just a blur— almost like a familiar face from a dream.
sam stops walking and turns to bucky with his hands on his hands, "are you guys done flirting or do you want me to circle back in a couple of hours?"
"you should've just let him fall into the river, sam." you grumble through the comms.
"hey guys?" joaquin's voice comes in clear and troubled.
sam pauses, his eyebrow furrowing, "what's up, torres?"
"you might wanna come and check this out."
it's later in the day. the team had gathered back at the base to debrief, worn out and trying to gather themselves after the failed mission.
sam is slouched on a chair, eyeing the information on the screen to figure out what went wrong, bucky's leaning against the wall with a towel around his neck and a band-aid above his brow, and joaquin's icing his shoulder and holding up his phone, where your voice comes through the speaker.
"so youre telling me that they just abandoned two entire crates full of super soldier serum and then just dipped?" you spoke— sharp and unmistakably done with everything.
"uhhhhhhhh... yeah." joaquin blinks, then tilts his head in confusion, "i thought you were already caught up with this?"
"do i sound caught up, joaquin?" you roll your eyes and take a deep breath, "it just doesn't make any sense. they went through all that effort to keep up busy, only to leave the serum behind like its nothing?"
"you think it was a decoy?" joaquin asks.
"i don't know." you half-shrug, "they've barely touched it, and i just got a message that they want me to check it out before they log it and send it into evidence."
sam straightens in his chair, "you want backup?"
"it's sitting in the middle of an air-force base, sam. if someone pops out, they've got bigger things to worry about than me— like the twenty armed guards surrounding it or the drone that's been circling it for the past hour."
"you're actually leaving your cave?" bucky jokes.
"yeah, barnes, i am." you deadpan, hand already on your 'caves' door handle, "since you threw scout into orbit, i'll have to use my eyes like a normal person. he's fine, by the way. just a bit of whiplash."
sam huffs out a laugh, but his shoulders are still visibly tense, "hey, just be careful, okay?"
"always. i'll call back in ten." you say, more to yourself than anyone else, then hang up.
the room is silent for a few seconds. the low him from computer monitors fills the space, punctuated by the slow ticking of a clock nearby.
joaquin sighs, then mutters, "can't believe they left the crates behind." he shifts the ice pack on his shoulder, "feels... off."
sam leans back in his chair with a tired sigh, "if anyone's gonna spot something we missed, it's her."
then another moment of silence stretches through the team. outside the window, the airfield lights burn against the dusk. the base is usually quiet at this time of day.
bucky stares out of the window. then he asks, "is she always like that when she's out in the field?" he doesn't clarify what he means by that, but the others seem to understand what he means.
"what, annoyingly confident?" sam lets a small smile wander onto his face as he thinks about you, "she's about ten times worse when she's not behind those screens. but it's good. she doesn't miss much. and when she's got a gut feeling..."
sam doesn't finish his sentence. he doesn't need to.
"you should see her during intel briefings." joaquin adds with a goofy grin, "she'll shred a guy's whole thesis with like... three words. it's brutal."
"and that weird 'incoming' thing she does?" bucky frowns, like he's genuinely confused, "what is that?"
joaquin laughs under his breath, "she's been doing that since we were recruited. it's like... her thing."
bucky's quiet for a moment. his eyes glance at joaquin's phone where your voice had just crackled through not even a minute ago. it sat idly on the table. there's a weird feeling in his chest— almost embarrassment. he'd known you for two years and was only just now asking questions.
"is she tall?" bucky blurts out.
joaquin blinks, caught off guard, "what?"
there's another beat of silence. sam turns his head away slowly from the monitor, clearly unimpressed, and gestures vaguely to bucky. he deadpans, "he's never seen her."
"seriously?" joaquin raises his brows, "you've been working with her for two years, and you've never ever seen her face?"
bucky runs his tongue against the inside of his cheek. he wants to just get over the subject, but he's brought it onto himself. he shrugs like it's nothing as he pulls the towel from around his neck, but the pink tips of his ears say the opposite.
"she's always behind a screen or..." bucky runs his hand over his face, exhaling like he already regrets having this conversation, "or on encrypted phone calls, or in a control room in some random part of this place. she's not exactly the easiest person to bump into."
"you've never looked her up? never seen a photo?" joaquin still looks utterly amused, inching ever so slightly across the table, "you haven't even stalked her, just a little bit?"
bucky looks at him like he's spewed gibberish, "no."
"she was standing right next to you last week." joaquin exclaims incredulously, "at the debrief? she was standing next to you with her arms crossed? we could go check out to the crates right now. she'd be there."
bucky furrows his brows, completely silent.
sam leans back with a knowing smirk, "trust me, if he'd seen her, he'd remember her."
"what's that supposed to mean?" bucky frowns, unsure if he should be offended or if he actually has a point to make.
"it means she's memorable, man." sam says like it's the most obvious thing in the world, "voice like that? brain like that? you think the looks don't match? she’d have you thinking about her 24/7.”
joaquin raises his brows in agreement, "he's got a point."
bucky doesn't respond, and his silence says more than any smartass comeback ever could. he's just sitting there, absentmindedly playing with the towel in his hands and staring at nothing in particular, his gaze far off— maybe trying to picture you again. maybe trying to figure out if he should go out and see you— but it feels wrong.
sam watches him for barely a second and has already read him like a book. he rolls his eyes and leans forwards with intent, like he's seen this before. and he has. "don't go getting all obsessed, buck."
that snaps bucky out of his head. he scoffs, "i'm not—"
"she called you buck and you didn't say anything about it."
joaquin watches the exchange like its an intense tennis match.
"i've known you for, like... ten years. i called you buck last year and you didn't like it." sam points out, gesturing emphatically, "and you just asked if she was tall like you were filling out your dating profile preferences."
"it was a question." bucky defends.
"a weird question." sam retorts.
"oh, give me a break." bucky clenches his jaw, "you're telling me that if you there was a voice in your ear 24/7 for two years, you wouldn't be going insane?"
and he meant insane. you were everywhere. in his ear during missions, on his phone when you need to let him know important intel at ungodly hours, in briefing folders where half of the intel had come straight from you, and even in conversations he overhears whenever he walks through the base.
you— the genius air-force captain who works directly for the new captain america.
no one really knew how you ended up running tactical for sam, but no one had questioned it either. you were just good. scary good. the kind of smart that made people shut up and listen, and the kind of precise that made bucky trust your voice more than his own gut.
bucky had fought his entire life— in wars, for and against hydra, stared down gods and aliens and wizards— but somehow, it was you, the staticky voice in his ear, that kept him on edge.
how can someone be everywhere, but nowhere to be seen?
but then there's a loud bang— loud enough to jolt sam and joaquin out of their chairs. its sharp and feels wrong in their guts, the kind of sound that doesn't belong in a secure military base.
"what the hell was that?" sam shouts.
an alarm starts blaring in the main sector of the air base— where you are.
the three of them were already sprinting down the hallway before they had even registered that they'd moved. the smell of smoke hits their noses before they even make it out of the doors— acrid, bitter, and smelling off chemicals.
outside, the air is thick of it. it sticks low to the ground, a handful of military personnel already corralling debris and shouting orders at each other amongst the wreckage. something had definitely exploded.
"jesus—" sam mutters with his mouth shielding his face from the smoke, "isn't that where the crates were?"
bucky's jaw tightens. there's a crunch under his boot, and when he lifts it, a tiny vial with blue liquid stares back at him. his eyes sweep through the smoke, but he's not sure he could even recognise you. a figure in fatigues passes by and bucky's wastes no time in stomping towards them.
"hey—" he calls, voice rough with urgency. your name slips from his mouth, "was she here? was she hurt?"
the figure turns and points to the other side of the base, "they took her to medical." they quickly reply.
joaquin wastes no time and bolts in your direction, not bothering to ask any questions or where you are— he'd find you.
sam is already stepping over the debris to try to figure out what had happened. when they'd transported it back to the base, there had been no signs that anything was wrong. and now, after hours of silence, one had detonated after you had checked on it.
"she said she felt something was off." sam stiffens, "and she was right."
bucky rounds the edge of the blast zone, his eyes scanning the ground. bits of scorched wood and metal are strewn everywhere with dark smoke still curling upwards like it's taunting them. his boot kicks something small and metallic, half buried in the dust.
"sam." he calls, crouching down.
sam looks over. his eyes narrow as bucky reaches for a small warped disc. it's blackened, but not completely unrecognisable— a thin casing, circuit etching, and what looks like melted adhesive around the edges.
"they were never gonna come back for it." bucky turns over the deflated bomb, "wanted to cause serious damage to whoever took it."
"yeah, and it worked. they've put our man in the chair in hospital."
bucky rips off a flailing piece of plastic from the bomb. underneath, there's writing writing in minuscule block letters and unintelligible to him at first glance. its not english or in any language he recognises.
he squints, turning it slightly, "you seeing this?"
sam leans over and brushes soot off of the surface, "some kind of... manufacturing tag?"
"could be a location." bucky matters, pointing at a short line of text half-buried under the sticky residue, "this part here looks like latitude and longitude."
sam exchanges a stumped look with bucky, "so what, they booby-trap the crates, nearly kill our comms specialist, and then give us a return address?"
"looks like it."
they both fall silent. there's still a hum of chaos and confusion in the air with military personnel running back and forth to figure out what's happening, and joaquin's still in medical trying to find you. sam's jaw ticks.
"you thinking what i'm thinking?" he asks.
bucky nods once, "yeah. time to pay 'em a visit."
the moon hangs heavy over the towering complex. the building hangs on the edge of a tree line, swallowed by both nature and time. what used to be a lavish apartment complex in the 70s was now home to spiders, rats, and bird nests, the crumbling skeleton of concrete and steel forgotten, but not untouched.
joaquin frowns, craning his neck just to look up at the building, "you guys sure this is the place?"
before he can even finish his sentence, a slow gust of wind passes through. it whistles through the exposed windows and cracked walls, groaning like its alive. the metal structure groans under its own weight and it sways.
"that cannot be good." sam audibly winces.
they shake it off, moving without speaking. joaquin checks his wings and weapons, bucky is staring up at the windows like he's trying to see something through them, and sam is trying to get redwing to scout the area— a poor substitute for the tech they had gotten used to.
there's a silence surrounding them that crawls under their skin. no crackling in their ear pieces, no humming from drones zipping around in the air, and certainly no voice in their ears telling them what to do next. all that accompanies them is the sound of wind and the thud of concrete as chunks occasionally fall from the building.
then joaquin exhales through his nose and shifts uncomfortably like your lack of presence is physically effecting him, "yeah, this feels weird."
"right?" sam lets out a relieved laugh like he's been thinking the same exact thing, "it's almost too quiet. i dont know what to do with myself without someone yappin' in my ear."
he glances sideways at bucky, who looks like he's thinking the same, but is keeping his mouth shut about it. "you miss her too, don't you, buck?"
bucky pauses like he's about to say something witty that'll get sam off of his back, but he lets out a small breath in amusement and nods once instead, "yeah. i guess i got used to her bossing us around all day."
then, as if summoned by pure magic, there's a crackle that hits all three of their ear pieces.
"you guys can't get rid of me that easily." your voice slips in, smug and unhurried— like you'd been listening the whole time and were just waiting for the perfect moment to turn your mic on.
sam jumps so high that he nearly flies redwing straight into a power line, "jesus christ—"
bucky's head snaps straight up. his hand flies to his ear piece like he can't believe that your voice is actually there. "what the hell are you doing on comms?" he asks sharply, but he can't hide the hint of relief he feels.
"it's nice to hear you too, barnes." your roll your eyes, amused.
"they cleared her." joaquin laughs, answering the question before they could ask.
"yup." you nod and gesture to your face as if they can see you, "i'm a little burnt and they had to remove a piece of metal from my cheek, but other than that, i'm fit as a fiddle."
your monitor flickers to life. in one of them, you can see the tips of bucky's fingers pressing against the lens of the small camera he usually wears on missions.
"what are you doing, barnes?" you deadpan as you watch one of your screen flip back and forth.
"i'm trying to put—" bucky sighs as he tries to jam the camera into a small hole in his vest, but it twists and turns and wont stick. "this camera's broken."
"it isn't broken. you're just putting it in upside down."
"... didnt the nurse tell you to stop talking?" bucky grumbles as he messes with the small camera. he flips it around and scoffs when it sticks on with ease, "y'know, to preserve your vocal chords and prevent any more damage or whatever?"
"a bomb exploded in my face, barnes, not in my throat." you roll your eyes, "and look— it's in now. see what listening to me does?"
"i thought i was... zooming in."
joaquin snorts, "dude's out here trying to fight super soldiers with the tech literacy of a toaster."
"i've killed people with a toaster—"
"love the attitude today, guys. very inspiring." sam grumbles. redwing flies back into their radius and clicks back into sam's pack, "now that you're here, you mind checking out the perimeter?
"whatever. scout is in—"
"incoming." the three of them chime in unison, perfectly timed and perfectly familiar. there's a silence before you laugh.
"wow, you guys." you sigh with dramatic flair, a mix of both sarcasm and genuine amusement, "i've babied you guys for so long that you're finally taking after me. wanna call me mama next?"
you can hear joaquin snicker loud and clear through the mic, and you watch through sam's body cam as bucky scoffs, rolling his eyes like he's annoyed with your antics.
sam gives the camera a flat look, knowing that you were probably laughing at their faces, "this is what happens when they let her out of medical early."
scout zips into the scene, a quiet mechanical sound whirring past the team. it flies high up into the abandoned apartment complex, small enough to squeeze into the cracks of broken windows and rusted beams like a bird, scanning the surroundings and mapping them out on sam's tablet.
"scout's in." you announce, weaving scout through dusty cloth and abandoned furniture.
from outside, the guys glance up, watching as scout disappears for a moment before darting back inside.
"i'll never get used to how fast that thing moves." sam mutters as he watches scout zip through the top floor.
"he's faster than redwing." you simply reply, but sam doesn't miss the slight edge of challenge in your voice.
"excuse me?" he scoffs, glancing at bucky's body cam like it's you and you're actually there, "trust me— if your tiny little tennis ball goes down, you're gonna be begging to use redwing."
"i'm not touching your freaky little robot bird. i have standards."
"hey, i met your ex. don't you talk to me about standards—"
there's a sharp bark of laughter from joaquin, but bucky cuts in before you and sam's banter can escalate. "can we focus?"
you roll your eyes, but narrow in on scout's POV.
"something moved on the fifth floor. it could've been the wind and some tarps, but it could've also been— woah."
that gets their attention.
"what is it?" bucky asks, immediately alert.
you zoom in slowly. "there's... something big in here. looks like machinery— lots of it. the whole setup looks old, but it doesn't look abandoned."
"what kind of machinery?" sam asks.
"hang on." scout scoots a little closer, and your eyes widen. "it's a production lab— specialised injectors, gene sequencers, stabilisers— i think this is where they were were making the serum."
joaquin narrowed his eyes in confusion, "they used this place as a super soldier factory?"
you shook your head, "no, not anymore. looks like it's been stripped clean, but the setup's still here. they didn't even bother hiding what it was and just left it to... rot. scout's picking up residual heat signatures, so whoever was here cleared out recently— maybe a few hours ago, maybe less. it should be safe."
“should be." sam mutters under his breath, but he's already pulling his shield to his chest and heading towards the door, "never feels comforting when you say that."
the team fans out as they enter the apartment building— or what's left of it.
sam sticks to the lower floors, descending down stairs leading to a basement. the flashlight on his vest isn't bright enough to cut through the vastness of it.
bucky decides to check out the machinery to see if they left anything of importance behind. he mutters something about it smelling like a meth lab as he heads upstairs.
joaquin jets to the rooftop. he wants elevation, to see the layout of the place and the potential leads that could find the group behind this— but he also wants to avoid being on the ground floor if the building decides to give way.
"scout's overhead if you need backup. keep your comms clear and open. let me know if you find anything." you tell them before turning your microphone off.
"wouldn't dream of ignoring you." joaquin teases.
and then you're alone in the silence of your command room. you lean closer to your monitors, hands intertwined against your mouth as you watch your boys disappear one by one into the dingy bowels of the apartment complex.
it's dark, and even with scout's night vision, you can barely see ahead. the hallways look more like underground tunnels, and you can only imagine how cramped it must feel. the camera stutters with static as scout floats ahead, probably from the lack of service. you're almost afraid you might lose contact with them.
scout rounds a corner. you dont necessarily know where you've guided him— it's too dark to see— but you know you're somewhere down below. you're half-focused, watching bucky's body cam and keeping tabs on joaquin's feed— until something jolts scout off course.
the small drone clips the corner of a wall and bumps into sam's shoulder, startling him.
"what the hell?" he whips around, staring down at scout like he'd just punched sam in the face, "don't sneak up on me like that."
you click your mic on with an apologetic smile, "sorry. wasn't looking where i was going."
sam rolls his eyes and turns back to the basement. it's almost a labyrinth with how many empty boxes and crates are stuffed down there, and it smells of mold and rot. sam scans the room, and you do too. there's an old supply crate shoved into the corner of a hallway, covered by a measly and moth-eaten tarp.
"hang on..." sam mutters as he nears it.
"sam, wait, don't touch it—" you warn, but it's too late. sam nudges the tarp aside, and what's underneath sends your stomach plummeting.
"it's a bomb." you breathe, "get out, sam, now—"
"sh—"
the comms explode with static— not just sam's, but bucky's and joaquin's too. there's a high pitched ringing noise piercing through your headset and sam's screen goes white, then black.
your hands fly to your keyboard, pulling up scout's emergency override system. he's still functional— wobbly and a bit glitchy, but functional— and through his lens, you see smoke and chunks of plaster. there's a section of collapsed ceiling sitting beside scout's whirring body.
before the smoke even clears, another explosion rings out— louder and closer, and then there's another. for a split second, all you can see is light, your screens showering you in a horrible, horrible feeling of dread. for a second, you think you've lost all of them.
"sam!" you yell, "sam, can you hear me? sam?"
there's movement— and then there's a groan.
"still alive." he coughs through the dust, his voice strained, "think i caught the edge of it. damn shield saved me."
"okay. you're okay—" you let out a horribly shaky breath, "just... hold still. i still need to— joaquin? bucky? someone, come in."
there's nothing but static, and then one of your screens flashes back to life. it's joaquin's, who's outside and on flat ground.
"i'm fine— jesus, i barely made it out of there." joaquin pants, doubled-over with his hands on his knees, "the roof's collapsed. i managed to fly out just before it gave out."
you close your eyes for a split second, relief washing over you— but then it's gone just as fast as it came. you whip your head towards the last monitor, the screen still static and your heart clawing in your throat.
"what the hell happened?" sam grunts as he pushes a chunk of concrete off of his chest.
"i don't know, man." joaquin replies, still catching his breath, "i was heading down and there was a POP, and then the whole building blew up like a chain reaction."
"it was a chain reaction. they must've known we were coming." your voice is low, urgent, "one in the basement near sam, one on the roof, and—" you pause as you glance at bucky's feed, "one near the lab."
sam presses his hand to his ear, trying to filter out the crumbling concrete from the static in this ear piece, "bucky, do you copy?"
"barnes?" you call again, leaning over your console like it'll bring you any closer to him, "barnes, can you hear me?"
"come on, buck, say something." sam mutters, pacing through the wreckage, "try bouncing the signal again."
"i am." you snap, more out of fear than anger, "i've already rerouted twice. there's just— there's nothing." then, more quietly you add, "he was right by the lab. that blast radius—" you swallow hard.
"i'm going after him." sam says immediately, already pushing his way out of his entrapment.
"no— no, wait, sam. the buildings not stable. i have to run a structural integrity scan before you can move." you pause, frantically typing, "follow scout— he'll find a way out. i'll find barnes."
sam clenches his jaw, but he listens.
"i'm going to try switching stations. maybe in the explosion he accidentally hit a button. maybe he just lost signal— a tech issue, maybe. either way, i can fix it."
you try reasoning out loud— trying to stay calm— but you're not convincing anyone, least of all yourself.
from the middle floor, bucky lets out a wrangled sound— half-cough, half-groan.
he doesnt know where he is. everything's dark and dusty, choking him every time he takes a breath. his ears are ringing, and the ground is cold and damp beneath him, and it even takes him a moment to register that he’s on the ground.
and there's a throbbing pain in his leg— dull at first, but then sharp, like someone lit a fire in the muscle just below his knee. he tries to shift it, but the pressure doesn't give.
"shit.."
its hard to focus. he can't remember where he was or how he had gotten there. he blinks, once, then twice. it's silent, and he's alone. he can tell before the thought even forms, and a deep unsettling feeling forms in his stomach.
there's no chatter or humming of a drone. there's no voice telling him where to go or what to do— there's no you.
bucky clenches his jaw as he pulls himself up on one elbow. he grits his teeth as he shifts, enough to look down. there's a large metal beam pinning him down just across his shin. he exhales, trying not to move too much— trying not to panic.
he reaches up to his ear, pressing against it just to see if there was anything at all. his fingers press the buttons, trying to switch the dials— anything to get a hold of someone— but there's static.
"sam?” he rasps, "sam, come in.”
a shifting groan in the walls answers him.
"torres?" his voice cracks, "joaq— joaquin, come on. hey—"
the metal beam pinning him down just creaks under pressure.
panic starts to creep into his minds, replacing all logic. the pressure on his leg is sharp now, his side aches, and the silence is starting to weigh on him.
and then— barely a whisper— your name slips from his mouth. once, twice, and then once more, calling for you like you'd appear and rip the rubble from off of his body yourself.
"c'mon, talk to me." he pants, "tell me that i'm holding the camera upside down, or... or that scout's incoming. anything— just— say something."
he waits, and waits, and waits, but only static answers.
bucky doesn't know what to do. if he moves, he's afraid the rubble around him will crush him. if he doesn't, he'll never get out.
he squeezes his eyes shut, his forehead pressing against the dusty concrete as his breath stutters. his heart is pounding in his chest and he can hear it in his ears, unsure if it's from fear or the lack of oxygen.
he doesnt want to die. at least not like this. not alone.
a sharp, dry laugh escapes him— bitter and breathless.
"shouldve told you i missed your voice before i got crushed by a goddamn support beam." he mutters to no one, "that would've been smart."
his hand slips from his ear and falls to the floor. he's tired.
then—
"barnes? barnes?"
his earpiece glitches as he turns his head, looking around like the voice might be there. there's a sputter, and another glitch— but the voice in his ear is unmistakably you.
"bucky, can you hear me?"
your voice cuts through the static like a blade of light in the dark. youre clearer now, sharper— desperate.
and bucky laughs. its all he can do. a soft, disbelieving laugh into the stagnant air, his chest stuttering with pure, aching relief. its the sound of someone trying not to fall apart.
"you—" he coughs, dragging a shaky breath into his lungs, "you dont know how happy i am to hear your voice. where's sam and joaquin?"
he can hear a loud breathy laugh and then a thud, almost like you just collapsed at your desk from sheer joy, "they're fine. they're out. you just... you scared the hell out of me, barnes—"
"call me bucky’."
there's a silence on your end— like you're letting his words find their way into your brain. like maybe you needed to hear that.
then softer, you smile. "okay. bucky."
he closes his eyes again. he lets the sound of his name in your voice carry him through the weight pressing down on your leg.
"can you move? are you bleeding? are you—"
"i'm trapped." he cuts you off. he knows you're stressing yourself out far too much, "there's a support beam pinning my leg down, but otherwise, i think i'm fine. i can't get a hold of sam or joaquin, so... you're all i've got now."
"good. i've got you all to myself now." you try to joke— trying to keep bucky from panicking— but he can hear the quiver in your voice and the way your words wobble just enough to betray you.
"hey." he softens, "you don't need to worry. i'm okay. i'm alive."
"right. sorry, i'm just—" you swallow, eyes boring holes into bucky's monitor, "i was scared."
there's a silence, and for a moment, you're afraid bucky's been knocked out— but then he laughs. with his usual calm certainty you're so used to now—
"takes a little more than bombing a building to get rid of me."
you smile— watery and breathless— even if he can't see it. but he can hear you, and that helps with his pain. bucky huffs out a soft laugh, but it catches in his throat when the rubble around him shifts against his chest.
you catch the sound immediately. "what was that?"
"i'm under five hundred pounds of concrete and steel." bucky grunts under his breath, "i don't think it likes me moving."
"okay, okay. hold on. i'm pulling up scout's last scan of your level." you're already typing, eyes darting between monitors. "there's a structural weakness about two feet to your left. if you can push against it, i think i can guide you out."
"you think?" he mutters.
"barnes—"
"bucky."
you sigh, "i'm going to get you out, bucky. just.. trust me."
"i do." he says without hesitation.
you breathe in. "alright— now lean over and try to pull out your leg out from under that beam. it's cracked and scout thinks you can snap it. from there, you should be able to push some of the concrete away on your left and climb out."
"i'll try."
there's a deep rumbling sound coming from bucky's mic, and it was now more than ever that you wished his body cam had worked. there's a sharp grunt from bucky, and then—
there's a metallic groan, and then a cracking noise.
"bucky?"
"i'm out."
"jesus christ, bucky, don't ever do that again. i thought you broke your leg or something."
"you just told me to do it."
"that's not the point. i just—" you stop yourself and place a restless hand against your forehead like you can scrub the panic away, "i'm re-routing scout to find you. sam and joaquin are moving to help you from the outside.
there's a pause— just the low hum of your tech and the faint hiss of static in bucky's ear.
"you're doing great." bucky says gently as he pulls away a handful of debris, "seriously. you've got me halfway out already."
"halfway doesn't count." you mutter. youre focused on scout's monitor as it zooms up multiple levels towards bucky. you're barely blinking, and you're thumbnail is torn up from where you've been nervously chewing on it.
he smiles faintly— dusty, tired, but honest. "it counts to me."
scout clears the floors— each level scanned and discarded— and then, like a light in the dark, you can spot the unmistakable glimmer of bucky's vibranium arm under the rubble.
you switch back to sam and joaquin's channel, your voice breaking through the comms, "bucky's on the sixth level's east corridor. he's trapped, but he's okay."
"copy that!" joaquin responds instantly.
before long, bucky can hear two pairs of boots thudding against the ground. he blinks slowly as a flashlight burns into his face. he turns his head just enough to see them through the haze— sam on the left and joaquin on the right.
"took you long enough." bucky jokes as he shoves another piece of debris out of the way.
"oh, he's alive." joaquin exhales as he grabs at chunks of metals, "i thought we were gonna be digging out a corpse."
bucky rolls his eyes, holding out an arm, "love the optimism."
sam practically leaps forwards, crouching beside him, "you're a damn cockroach, you know that? an explosion, six floors of concrete, and you're still alive." he says, grabbing bucky's arm and slinging it over his shoulder, "can you walk?"
"i'll manage." bucky leans on sam and joaquin more than he wants, but at least he's upright.
as they make it out, scout trails behind them like a loyal shadow. your voice crackles through, but not in their ear pieces— through scout. "you've got a clear past east. the stairwell's stable, but don't waste time."
bucky glances up, and although he can't see you, there's a softness in his expression as he limps down the hallway, "still with me?"
you smile, "still with you."
joaquin glances awkwardly at sam, then rolls his eyes, "alright, you can flirt later. let's just get out of here."
the hangar is dim, lit only by overhead lights that flicker slightly and the occasional sensors that turn on when a janitor walks by. sam, bucky, and joaquin stand in a semi-circle staring down at atleast ten full crates of super soldier serum, the lids pried open and the vials staring— almost mockingly— back at them.
no one speaks for a while.
"so you're telling me..." sam pauses as he holds his hand to his mouth, trying to make sense of the unbelievable situation in front of him, "we almost died... and the serum was in john walker's hands?"
joaquin tilts his head, "hell of a sentence."
bucky leans over and plucks a vial from it's foam confine. it's heavier than he expected. he tilts the vial, watching the blue liquid slink to its side, an inkling of suspicion growing in his chest.
"who's to say this isn't a trap?" he places it back into the crate and crosses his arms against his chest, "walker drops off ten crates of serum and walks off, no questions asked? i mean... how'd he even manage to take these guys down? he doesn't have the shield or the government's support."
sam turns around and shakes his head, too stressed out of his mind to even think about it anymore, "i don't even wanna know, man."
behind them, a door opens with the familiar hiss of hydraulics. and then there's footsteps— soft, but certain.
"what are you guys looking at?"
bucky freezes.
it hits him like a punch in the chest— he knows that voice. he hears it in his sleep. in the quiet between missions. in the static of a dead ear piece. and now it’s just here— fast approaching.
it’s you. he knows it’s you.
he doesnt want to turn around— not yet— because turning around would make it real, and if it’s not— if its just his mind trying to comfort him with something familiar in a world that keeps pulling itself from under his feet— then he’s not sure he can handle it.
but then—
“why do you all look like someone died?”
and something breaks lose in him. bucky turns— he can’t stop himself— and there you are. you’re walking towards them, headset around your neck and your sleeves rolled up, clearly just finished with reports, debriefing and damage control. you look tired, but so alive that it almost knocks the air out of his lungs.
he doesnt know what he expected, but you look better than anything he could have possibly conjured up in his mind.
it’s instant, like something short circuits in him. you’re safe. you’re here. there’s no more static through a headset, no dust, and no explosions. you’re real and you’re standing ten feet away, completely unaware of the fact that he hasn’t stopped thinking about you since you said his name over comms.
you walk closer, hands on your hips as you peer into one of the crates. you speak, but bucky barely hears you over the roaring in his ears.
she’s fine. she’s fine. she’s fine.
he swallows hard. his metal hand twitches. you feel his stare before you see it. you glance over.
there's dust still smudged along the side of his jaw, and a faint scrape just above his eyebrow. but he's standing there and breathing, watching you like he can't believe you're real.
“hi, bucky.” the corner of your mouth twists up into a warm smile as you give him a proper once-over, “you look good.”
you say it like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
as you walk up to them, your shoulder brushes his for a fraction of a second. you just stand beside him like it's nothing— like this isn't some world-shattering event for bucky and that you weren’t a disembodied voice talking in his ear less than an hour ago.
even sam and joaquin are surprised, side-eyeing each other over the crates with identical expressions of is this really happening right now? and why is he just staring?
he's trying to play it cool, but he can't— he just can't keep his eyes off of you.
"holy shit, is that—" your jaw almost goes slack as you peer into the crates, eyes glazing over the glass vials in their foam casings, "where the hell did these come from?"
joaquin lets out an exasperated laugh, "you'll never guess."
you blink, "john walker?”
sam snorts, “okay, maybe you’ll guess.”
"i heard you say his name before i came in, i just didn’t think he was the one who dropped these off." you exclaim. you’re sort of impressed, "are you kidding me? how'd he even manage to get in here?”
your voice pitches with incredulity, the question half-rhetorical, half pure disbelief. you’re already running through possibilities in your head, and none of them are good.
you’re still peering into the crates, but bucky’s barely processed a single word since you walked in. his brain short circuits a little, and he speaks before he can stop himself.
“you’ve got… pen on your cheek.”
you blink, caught off guard, “what?”
bucky gestures vaguely to his own face, like his hand can explain for him, “right there. blue. it’s… smudged under your eye. must’ve been from the, uh… debrief reports or something.”
there’s a pause.
"seriously?” sam turns to face bucky’s, his brows raised so high that they’re practically part of his hairline, “you see the lady's face for the first time and that's what you say?
joaquin chokes on a laugh. you stare at bucky with an amused grin. he looks absolutely mortified.
“wh— it was distracting.” bucky waves sam off, trying to get him off of his back.
but you only laugh as you watch bucky scoff, "two years and you still don't know how to greet me. you could at least tell me i look good.”
he furrows his brows, caught somewhere between embarrassed and flustered “that’s a bit egotistical, don’t you think?”
you shrug, “oh, my bad. i forgot that you were the only one who’s allowed to be a little full of yourself around here.”
joaquin sucks in a breath through his teeth, “she’s got you there, man.”
bucky rolls his eyes and sighs. he opens his mouth, then closes it, and then he just shrugs, “you look good. really good.”
its awkward and a little stiff, but something about the way he says it makes it feel real— a little vulnerable— like he means it more than he knows how to physically express it.
you soften, just a little, “thanks, bucky.”
a short silence passes again, more comfortable now.
“okay, but seriously, what the hell are we gonna do with these?” you nod towards the crates, nudging one with the toe of your shoe.
sam blows out a breath, “i don’t know, but i do know one thing.”
you, bucky, and joaquin all look at him as he claps his hands together like he’s had a brilliant idea.
“i think we deserve a drink— y’know, to celebrate not dying.”
joaquin raises his hand, “i second that.”
“best idea you’ve had all day, sammy.” you grin, “i’ll go grab the good stuff.”
bucky watches as you turn and leave, something unreadable in his eyes. he stays frozen as he watches you disappear behind a door.
once you’re out of earshot, sam turns to bucky and pats him firmly on the shoulder—
“don’t worry.” he says with a knowing grin, “i’ll make sure you get another chance to say something better.”
bucky doesn’t reply, but the faintest smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.
Summary:
For the longest time, you thought the cat roaming the tower wasn’t owned by anybody. Then you eventually realize that the “Tower Cat” does, in fact, have a name, and is owned by none other than Bucky Barnes himself, the one team member you aren’t exactly best friends with.
After Bucky finds out that Alpine has become fond of you, he starts giving you odd looks and passive-aggressive comments. This leads you to the conclusion that he is jealous of you for taking his cat. However, as time goes on, you come to the realization that it might be the other way around.
Word Count: 9.6k
Warnings/Tags: Bucky is so bad at feelings, Reader is an unreliable narrator, miscommunication at its finest, happy ending, Reader is very oblivious (it’s bad)
A/N: Is it realistic for somebody to get jealous over a cat? Probably not (keyword being probably), but I thought it was funny, so here you guys go! First post on this account :) Enjoy!
Masterlist
Cats.
You, like many people, adore the creatures.
They can be affectionate and cuddly on good days, purring and rubbing up against you as if nothing else exists. However, they can also be mischievous little demons.
Either way, you’ve always loved cats.
Recently, you had been planning on getting a cat, but after moving in with the rest of the team, the plan had been put on hold.
It was a tragedy. You were really looking forward to adopting one for yourself. You weren’t exactly sure if pets were allowed in the Watchtower. Technically, you didn’t see any rules against it, but you didn’t want to adopt a pet immediately after getting new roommates.
That being said, you did ask Valentina, but that didn’t really go well.
-
You shuffled anxiously, hearing the phone ring before it eventually picked up. “Hey, so—”
“Is this an emergency? You do know this number is for emergencies only, correct?” She said, and you could practically see the eye roll.
“Welllll, not exactly, but you haven’t exactly been around for us to ask any questions. You also don’t respond to my texts…” You trailed off, mumbling the last line. It’s not as if you wanted her around, but it would have solved this issue ages ago.
She remained silent for a moment, and you heard her sigh, exasperated. “Well, what is it?” She asked.
“The policy for pets?”
She sputtered for a moment, “I’m sorry, what?”
“Pets,” you said slowly as if talking to a child, “can we have them?”
She huffed, and sharp laughter rang in your ears. “Oh, absolutely not.”
You exhaled, “Damn…” You mutter to yourself, thinking she wouldn’t catch it.
“I do not want to see a pet there. I don’t care if it’s a dog, cat, guinea pig, snake, or turtle. No pets. Now, please, save this number for emergencies only. Goodbye.” She hung up the phone before you got a word in.
You soon realized after that incident that either people didn’t know about the policy, or didn’t care (likely the latter).
You didn’t immediately notice the animals. You weren’t even sure if they were always there or a new addition. The story of how you found out is actually pretty anticlimactic.
Yelena walked in with a guinea pig in hand.
That's really about it.
You watched as she sat down on the couch, petting the animal without a care in the world. You raised an eyebrow. You weren’t sure if this was a deliberate act of rebellion or if Yelena just didn’t know. Either way, you didn’t mind. You just needed to know where everybody stood, you know, for… reasons.
“Did Valentina ever mention the policy for pets?” You asked casually, walking over to sit next to Yelena. The guinea pig crawls over her lap into yours. You smile as you pet them gently.
Yelena pauses, “You know what? I don’t know.” She looks down at the guinea pig on your lap, “I also don’t really care. I don’t think Valentina knows I have her anyway.”
You nod, chuckling. “Fair enough. Would you care if she told you otherwise?”
Yelena laughs before her smile falls, “Not one bit.”
Frankly, you find it hard to believe Valentina did not notice the guinea pig. She seems like the type to have cameras everywhere and have constant monitoring. However, you let that slide, after all, it wasn’t exactly an animal that freely roams the tower.
What truly surprised you was the cat, or “Tower Cat” as you began to call her. She just appeared one day. Nobody said anything, no “hey guys we’re going to have a cat around, hope you don’t mind!” You wouldn’t have minded, but it's the principle that matters.
You had just finished up a solo mission. It was nothing too difficult, but you were exhausted nonetheless. You walked into the empty common area, blinking in confusion. Normally, there’s always one person here. You cautiously entered the space, looking around for any signs of life.
“Uhh, anybody home?” You asked, your voice echoing slightly in the empty space.
You walk over to the couch to try to catch a breather for a moment before you see her.
A cat. A fluffy white cat.
How’d she get in? You aren't sure, but you weren’t going to complain. You look around one more time to make sure nobody is nearby.
“Hello there!” You slowly moved to the cat loafed up on the couch. You tried to extend a hand to her, but she immediately moved away as if offended by your attempt to pet her. “Not the cuddly type, huh? That’s okay.” You now had a new goal: befriend the cat.
Over the next few weeks, you had taken to various methods of befriending Tower Cat. You had bought some toys and treats for her. While she was initially very hesitant, and you mean very hesitant, she slowly started to warm up to you. She would now walk up to you to eat the treats you offered her. You considered that progress since the first time you tried to feed her treats, she hissed at you.
The first time she approached you was a moment to be written down in history. You were hanging out in the kitchen, making yourself a quick snack, when suddenly you noticed something fluffy next to you.
You immediately paused whatever you were doing, looking down at Tower Cat. You didn’t want to scare her away, so you slowly started to turn your attention away from her. As you cooked, you noticed that she didn't leave the area. She didn't try to engage with you, but she watched you cook, never straying very far.
Eventually, when you finished, you went back to your room to grab the cat treats. To your surprise, she actually followed and made herself comfortable on your desk.
“Oh, so you just own my space now?” You asked her, grabbing a treat out of the bag. You hesitantly offered her a treat from your hand. You hadn’t tried this since the initial scratch incident. She stared at you for a moment before eventually deciding to approach you and take the treat. You withheld your gasp, allowing her to lick your hand before she became disinterested and claimed your desk as her own once more.
“You’re cool there?” You asked her.
She watched you silently.
“Okay, have fun, I guess.” You smiled, leaving the door to your room ajar in case she wanted to leave.
You weren’t sure if the rest of the team noticed the new addition, but you can’t imagine they didn’t notice. With how many former assassins and super soldiers you live with? No way they didn't notice. The first time you heard anything about it was when you were talking with Bob and Yelena.
“Oh, damn it.” Yelena sighed, groaning in frustration. You and Bob, being the only ones in the room, turned towards her. She was looking into her room, looking less than pleased.
“What happened?” You ask.
“Damn cat got into my room again. Knocked over all my stuff.” Yelena responded, walking into her room, leaving the door wide open. You watched as Tower Cat came out from her room looking innocent.
You blink, “The cat? Didn’t realize anybody knew she was here.” You looked between Yelena and Bob.
“She’s not exactly hard to miss,” Yelena said, walking out of her room, closing the door behind her. She looks down at Tower Cat before shaking her head and walking back over to you and Bob.
“It’s just that nobody talks about her. I just assumed it was one of those things that everybody sees, but never speaks about.” You leaned against the armrest of the sofa. “So I’m assuming she isn’t any of your guys’ cat?” You raised an eyebrow, looking between Yelena and Bob.
Yelena shook her head, “Nope.”
Bob similarly shook his head, “Not mine either.”
“Huh, do we know whose cat she is?” You asked.
Yelena shrugged, “I thought she just wandered in one day, and everybody let her stay. Haven’t really asked though.”
You hummed, “That’s funny. I was actually considering getting one too. Maybe it’s fate.” You joke, smiling.
Yelena laughs, “Please, take her. The first, and only, time I tried to pet her, she hissed and tried to scratch me.” You nodded in sympathy.
“Yeah, she did that to me the first time, too. She eventually warmed up to me, kinda. She actually came into my room the other day just to relax.” You said, looking over to the cat in question, who is walking through a hallway. Bob and Yelena followed your gaze, watching as the feline slowly walked over to your door before waltzing in like it was her own. “Oh, hey there she goes, what timing.” You laugh at their stunned faces.
“Does she have a name?” Bob asked.
“Well, I was gonna name her, but her original title of ‘Tower Cat’ just kinda stuck.” You explained.
“How’d you get her to like you?” He asked, looking at you with genuine curiosity.
“Treats and patience. Wanna see if we can try and get her to warm up to you a bit?” You asked, grinning.
Bob smiled, nodding silently. Yelena laughs sharply before bidding her goodbyes for the night. She did not want to deal with that cat any more than she already did that day.
That’s how you started your “Cat Time” with Bob. You grew close over your similar love of cats. However, there’d be times where Tower Cat wouldn’t be anywhere in the Watchtower, betraying her name entirely. You and Bob would walk around, checking around, but there’d be nothing. She always showed up the next day or two after, so you assumed somebody would just let her into their room, but you didn’t know who.
Eventually, after weeks of exposure, she warmed up to both you and Bob considerably. She’d hang out with you two while you watch TV or talk. Everything was going well. You finally got the cat you wanted.
Then you found she wasn’t your cat to claim.
-
If there was one person on the team where you weren’t sure where you stood, it was Bucky Barnes.
To be clear, you had tried to establish friendly relations, seeing as you were living together, but after multiple attempts being met with nothing, you eventually gave up.
When you first moved in, you wanted to make a good impression on everyone, and for all intents and purposes, you were successful.
Alexei was not very difficult. You just engage in conversation with him often and laugh. He could actually be pretty funny sometimes, much to Yelena’s embarrassment.
Ava was a bit more difficult, but she eventually warmed up to you. Sometimes when you baked, you’d offer her some cookies, and you two would talk. Yelena would join in too occasionally. Those nights were always fun.
John was John, meaning he was kinda an asshole. You eventually got somewhere with him... kinda. You both would banter back and forth, but initially it was not banter. The insults over time turned less aggressive and more along the lines of “you annoy me, but you’re alright, I guess.” In your defense, you did try to be nice to him at first, but he made that very difficult with the way he treated other people, especially in the beginning. You eventually figured it out, though.
Yelena was the easiest next to Bob. She immediately became one of your best friends. She was one of the people on the team you really looked up to. You two would often end up hanging out with each other. This was how you were introduced to Bob.
Initially, it was kind of awkward with Bob. Both of you were friends by association, meaning you both liked Yelena, but didn’t really know each other. Eventually, once Tower Cat came into the picture, you both would hang out. You realized how funny he was once you actually got to know him. This led to a lot of late nights with you, Yelena, Bob, and Tower Cat. Sometimes Yelena would insist that Tower Cat must go, but for the most part, that was your little group.
So overall, you thought you did a good job establishing a positive relationship with the team. If you try to forget about Bucky, that is. You almost feel embarrassed thinking about it. By the end, you had gotten pretty desperate and had tried bringing him coffee in the mornings, or checking in to see if he was injured after missions. If you two were friends and your efforts had succeeded, you wouldn’t be embarrassed. However, they failed, and failed miserably.
The coffee incident? You wince even thinking about it.
“Oh, hey, I left some coffee on the counter for you. Not sure how you like it, so I left the sugar to the side.” You smiled as you watched Bucky walk in. He looked like he had just woken up, hair disheveled, rubbing his eyes.
He looked over to you before glancing at the mug you left for him, filled with coffee. He nodded slowly, walking over to it hesitantly. He stared at it for a bit before clearing his throat, “I was actually going to go to the gym.”
You tried not to sigh and look over at him. “No worries. I’ll just, uh, clean it up.”
He nods, looking at you, muttering a small “Thanks anyway.”
As he walks away, you immediately feel embarrassed. Well, that was pathetic.
Of course, that wasn’t the only embarrassing incident.
Bucky had been returning from a mission with John. However, you only saw Bucky exit the elevator and head toward his room. You noticed that his face had a deep cut on it.
“Hey, you need help with that?” You asked, walking over to him. He paused before looking at you.
He smiled reassuringly, but you can see in his eyes he’d rather be anywhere else than talking with you. “I’m good, thanks.”
You blinked, watching as blood dripped down his face from the wound. “You sure? I don’t mind-”
“I am fine.” He cut you off. “I will be fine, thanks.” He told you, not even looking you in the eye. His words sounded so final that you didn’t even try to follow him. He closed the door behind him, leaving you staring at it.
That was when you realized that the “good impression” mission you had was a failure.
You had tried, and maybe it was because of your personality, you aren’t sure. He just did not like you. After that incident, you backed off of him, not offering aid or doing small gestures for him. His previous interactions sent you a clear message, and you received it.
Were you hurt by it? A little. You did put effort into trying to make him at least think you were an okay person. You couldn't help but admire him from a distance. Anyway, you tried not to take it too personally, after all, he’s been through a lot. He probably just isn’t comfortable with you, which you get, but it still hurts putting in effort for such blatant disregard.
So you can imagine your surprise when he approaches you on a random day.
-
“. . . and I was so confused, like how did you come to that conclusion?” You raise your hands, gesturing confusedly. Bob chuckles at your outrage.
You sigh, putting your hands down, petting Tower Cat on your lap softly. “I dunno, I was just so over it. I eventually confronted her, and she had the AUDACITY to act confused.” You continue to rant, neither you nor Bob noticing the elevator opening.
“And I’m assuming you weren’t going to let that slide?” Bob asks with a soft, amused smile on his face. You grin back at him.
“Not a chance. So—”
“Is that Alpine?”
You and Bob immediately turn toward Bucky. You blink. “When’d you get here?” You ask.
“Just now,” he pauses, “since when did Alpine start hanging out with you two?” Bucky furrowed his eyebrows.
“‘Alpine?’” You repeat the foreign name back at him. You and Bob look at Tower Cat, or apparently “Alpine.”
You look up at Bucky, “She’s your cat?” You feel your mouth drop in surprise.
“Whose cat did you think she was?” He asks, looking at you in disbelief.
“I thought she was like the communal tower cat or something.” You say, your voice quiet as if that will quell Bucky’s growing bewilderment.
“The ‘communal tower cat?’” He repeats incredulously.
“Okay, sorry, sorry.” You apologize profusely, hoping that he won’t murder you for taking his cat. Bucky seems to stare at you for what feels like forever. You shift uncomfortably under his stare.
“Uh, you can have her back, if you want.” You eventually say, mumbling the last part. Bucky just continues to stare at Alpine in your lap. You look toward Bob to see if he is feeling the same awkward tension you are. He quickly glances at you, then Bucky, then back at you before shifting awkwardly.
You try to pick up Alpine without disturbing her. The moment you try, her eyes snap open. “Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart.” You coo softly to the cat. You offhandedly notice Bucky shifts stiffly.
“Bucky’s back, though. Wanna go with him?” You speak softly to her. In response, she pushes herself closer to you, purring against your collarbone. “Aw, I’m sorry, I wanna cuddle with you more too.” You frown at her before gently handing her to Bucky. Your hands brush his as you try to give her to Bucky without disturbing her too much.
She meows softly, and you feel your heart break. “Didn’t realize you liked cats,” Bucky says.
Bob laughs, and you both turn to him before he covers it with a cough and low “Sorry.” He knows you love cats.
“Love them.” You respond with a strained smile. He looks at you for a moment longer. Eventually, you clear your throat and look away from his gaze, “Sorry, Bucky.”
Bucky seems to stare at you for a moment longer before leaving. Not a word said, he just leaves.
“Well, at least we know why Tower Cat or ‘Alpine’ disappears some nights,” you comment, Bob shaking his head, amused, “but damn, he hates me.” You whisper as if Bucky will hear you, and knowing him, you can’t be too sure.
“I doubt that. He just has…” Bob pauses for a moment, trying to find the word for it, “struggles.”
You huff, “Yeah, that’s one way to say it. I don’t even know what I did to him. It’s not my fault your cat likes me.” Actually, it is your fault, but Bucky doesn’t need to know the details.
In your defense, Alpine did just waltz around the entire place like she owned it. There was no indication she was owned, let alone owned by Bucky of all people.
“He do that often?” Bob asks. You raise an eyebrow at him to elaborate. “The staring.”
You scoff, “Only in days that end in ‘y.’” You shift on the couch so that you’re lying down instead of sitting. “I assumed it’s one of his weird quirks. I thought it was just a former assassin thing where he just stares at you as if assessing if you’re a threat,” you hold your hand up to emphasize your next point, “which I am not.”
“Maybe he thinks you’re pretty?” Bob suggests, and you laugh loudly, making him raise his eyebrows at you in slight concern.
You smile at Bob, “That’s so sweet,” you put your hand on his shoulder gently, “but so very wrong.”
Bob shakes his head but smiles, “You never know.”
You shake your head confidently. “No, I do. He’s probably planning different ways to kill me if needed. The stare of ‘I’m planning your murder because you took my cat.’” You stick your hands up into the air, doing jazz hands, still staring up at the ceiling.
“Is that a thing?” Bob asks, doubtful.
You look at him, contemplative. “I don’t know, but if it was, he definitely invented it.” You respond.
Bob frowns, but he nods, agreeing with the sentiment anyway.
-
You initially thought Bucky was jealous of you.
After all, Alpine decided that you were now her favorite person, and Alpine was his cat. Therefore, it’d make sense if he were a little upset over how Alpine clung to you.
You’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little smug.
“Hey, whatcha guys doing?” You walk into the common area, watching as the team stands surrounding the center coffee table.
“Don’t fuck this up—”
“Shut up, John. I’m trying to concentrate.” Yelena cuts him off.
You eventually walk over and see the situation.
“What are you doing?! Don’t pick that one!” John points at the Jenga tower in front of him. Yelena leans over it, slowly tugging at a piece that’s halfway out.
Yelena stops, turning toward John, “John, I swear if you don’t be quiet, I will knock over this tower on purpose.” She points a finger at him, and he mutters a quick “Okay,” his hands held up in mock surrender.
You notice that on the couch sits Bucky Barnes himself, which immediately strikes you as odd. Bucky, while not explicitly against these little bonding activities, didn’t ever seem to care for participating in them. He’d support them, but from his own room. Seeing him actively engaging with these activities is definitely new. You also notice that Alpine is curled up on his lap.
Everybody else is standing, eagerly watching the game of Jenga. It appears that Yelena and John are on a team, which is a concerning team-up on its own, and Ava and Alexei are on a team. Bob seems content watching the game.
“GOT IT!” Yelena raises the Jenga piece into the air in victory.
Ava groans, looking at the tower, and you feel her pain. There were seemingly no good moves. You decide to walk up to Yelena and John to see how they’re doing.
“Oh, finally decided to join us?” Yelena pats you on the shoulder as you walk up to her.
“Didn’t realize you guys would be out here still.” You admit, you’d come back from a walk around the city.
John shrugs, nodding his head slightly, “Yeah, I didn’t think we’d still be here either.” He mutters.
You raise an eyebrow, “How long have you guys been at it?”
“Eh, not that long.” Yelena waves a hand casually.
”Two hours.” John deadpans at the same time.
You chuckle, deciding to sit down. “For one game?”
“We’re determined.” Yelena joins you on the couch.
You smile, nodding, “Say, since when did he start joining?” You quickly glance at Bucky, sitting on the other couch.
Yelena shrugs, “I don’t know, why?”
“Well, I mean, he just doesn’t ever show up to these. Was wondering how you guys got him to actually sit through a game.” You whisper, hoping he can’t hear you. However, you suddenly get the feeling that he’s watching you. You try to discreetly look at him, but when you do, he’s still staring at the game in front of him.
“What happened?” John asks, hovering over you and Yelena sat over on the couch.
“None of your business.” Yelena rolls her eyes.
“Well, if you are talking about B—”
“Oh, so now you’re eavesdropping.” You click your tongue, disappointed in him.
“You guys aren’t quiet.” He looks unimpressed.
“That’s not fair. We are quiet by normal people’s standards.” You turn to face him. You’re so focused on proving John wrong that you don’t even register Ava yelling “Alpine! No! Get off the table!”
“Well, I thought to inform you that perhaps the person you’re discussing can hear you, seeing as he wouldn’t fall into ‘normal people standards.’” John does air quotes.
You slowly turn to see if Bucky is watching you three have your not-so-quiet discussion. To your surprise, he is looking at you. Also, to your surprise, everybody is looking at you.
You feel yourself shrinking under their scrutiny. Did they all hear your conversation? “What?”
“The kitty cat likes you! I did not think she liked anybody.” Alexei laughs, and you furrow your brows, confused. You eventually sit up to find Alpine looking up at you, sitting right at your feet.
“Oh.”
She meows before hopping onto your lap. Yelena immediately shifts away from you, and John similarly moves away.
“Keep her there, please? She almost knocked over the tower.” Ava sounds exhausted.
“Uh, yeah sure.” You respond, still processing everything that just happened. No wonder Bucky was looking at you.
You glance up at him to find him no longer sitting laxly, but instead leaning forward, staring directly at you.
You grimace, trying to mouth an apology to him, but his expression stays the same. By this point, everybody else is sucked into the game again, except you two. You think that maybe he’ll just resolve to stare at you for the rest of the game, but no, he stands up.
Alpine purrs on your lap, but not even that can ease your growing stress levels as you see Bucky maneuver his way to your couch. You expected him to talk to you, perhaps ask for his precious cat back, but he does none of that.
Instead, he sits on the couch with you, saying nothing. He makes himself comfortable as if this is a normal occurrence. He decided to sit on the other side of the couch, pretty much the furthest he can sit from you while still being on the cushions. You can’t help but glance at him a few times, as if that would elicit an explanation.
Alpine looks up at you as you stare at the game in front of you, rigidly. You don’t dare to move or say anything. After minutes of silence from you two, you eventually turn toward him.
“Did you want Alpine back?” Your voice is barely louder than a whisper, as if afraid that any louder would garner the team’s attention once more.
He turns toward you, and for the first time, you are struck by how blue his eyes are.
“It’s fine.” He matches your volume, glancing toward Alpine on your lap. If you weren’t looking for any sort of reaction, you wouldn’t have caught the way his eyes narrowed as he gazed upon Alpine in your lap.
You feel obligated to give Alpine back, even if every bone in your body is telling you to keep her. He even said, “It’s fine,” meaning it is definitely not fine. That, combined with the narrowed look towards his cat, probably means that he wants his cat back right now.
“No, really,” you start to shift, Alpine’s purring ceasing, “it’s okay. Sorry about that.” Just as you’re about to pick her up to give her to Bucky, he reaches over and gestures for you to stop, putting a hand on your shoulder.
He says your name, making you pause as your hands freeze under Alpine, ready to pick her up. “Seriously, don’t worry about it. If she likes you, she can stay with you.” You nod, very aware that his hand is still on your shoulder.
“If you’re sure…” You trail off hesitantly.
“I am.” He looks at you smiling, but can’t help but think it looks forced.
The rest of the night continued without a hitch. The game of Jenga eventually ended, with Ava and Alexei winning. John swore that he saw Ava cheat and phase her hand through the tower in order to grab a piece at just the right angle, but he couldn’t prove it. He grumbled about it for the rest of the night, taking snips at them, but he eventually let it go.
Throughout the entire night, you sat there with Alpine. Bucky did not ask for her. However, you did notice that every now and then, he’d turn to look at you, or more accurately, look at Alpine. You thought that maybe he did want to say something, but didn’t want to cause a huge scene. You would’ve assumed it’d be to ask for his cat back, but he seemed insistent that you keep her.
So you sat, watching as the team started slowly turning in for the night. As one by one went, you waited for Bucky to say something, anything, yet he sat there.
By the time almost everybody left, it was just you two. You had pulled out your phone by this point in order to look as if you were busy. Feeling a weight lift itself from your lap, you look and see Alpine get off of you, slowly walking across the couch to make her way to Bucky. You decide that this is your cue to leave.
You stand up, brushing off loose cat fur left on you. Just as you are about to leave, you sneak a glance toward Bucky, only to find he is already staring at you.
“Sorry about that.” You break the silence, casually pointing at his cat, as if his whole behavior hasn’t put you on edge all night.
He seems surprised that you spoke to him, looking from you down to Alpine. “It’s alright. She seemed to like being close to you.” You thought you could detect a hint of bitterness in his tone.
“Yeah,” you chuckle, unsure how to respond.
Silence permeates the room once again. “Well, I’m gonna head out.” You slowly start walking towards your room. “Good night,” You bid him before turning around and heading out, not expecting a response.
“Night,” he returns softly.
You pause in your retreat, turning around, to see him looking down at Alpine. You offer him a small smile before heading back into your room.
-
So yeah, you thought that between the constant looks, bitterness, and not-so-subtle glares, he was jealous.
Not wanting to fuel his anger, you tried to avoid being in the room at the same time Alpine would be with Bucky. Alpine could be cuddled next to you, but the moment Bucky walked in, you’d vanish.
He gave you weird looks, as if he were trying to figure out what your deal was. You just continued to give him a polite smile every time.
Cooking in the kitchen was always an invitation for Alpine to join. She liked it when you cooked because she’d just watch you, and Alpine decided watching you cook was the most fascinating thing. You didn’t mind, so you let her.
You wash the final dish before going to consume the results of your Alpine-monitored cooking session. Just as you’re about to eat, Bucky comes walking in. You make direct eye contact with him, before glancing to Alpine perched on the counter next to you.
“What are you doing?” He asks, approaching you two.
“Eating,” you look down at your plate of food, “I was going to go eat in my room anyway. Alpine is all yours.” You did not plan on eating in your room, but you did that night.
Incidents like this didn’t stop as you had hoped.
Whenever you folded your laundry, Alpine would magically find her way onto your clean clothes. She liked the warmth, and so she’d make herself cozy. You pretended to be upset, but you enjoyed her company.
Then you hear a knock at your door, which was already open, so you turn around to see Bucky.
You can’t mask your surprise before he makes a comment. He clears his throat, “Sorry, I was just wondering if Alpine was in here.” You shift to the side, allowing him to see the very asleep feline on your bed in a pile of clothes. You immediately put down any hangers in your hand.
“I am so sorry. Here, sorry.” You gently pick up Alpine, apologizing to both her and Bucky. She meows softly, annoyed at being disturbed from her rest. You would be upset too if you were suddenly woken up and removed from warmth. “Sorry, she just likes sitting on the warm clothes. Here, take her back.” You give Bucky the fluffy cat, and he looks hesitant to accept her, but does so anyway.
“I’m sorry about that, won't happen again.” You smile, embarrassed. Bucky stares at you as you slowly shut the door on him and cover your face in embarrassment.
What made all of these incidents worse is that instead of becoming less frequent over time, they seemed to almost increase in frequency as time went on. You’d always see Bucky or Alpine. You couldn’t walk around the tower without seeing one of the two. Even worse, once one shows up, it wouldn’t take long before the other magically appeared.
You would be sitting with the team, Alpine on your lap, when the sound of the elevator would ring out. Most of the time, it wouldn’t be an issue, but since you had Alpine on your lap, it had to be Bucky because the universe hates you.
“Do you still want to try that new cafe you were talking about earlier?” Ava crosses her legs as she leans back in one of the chairs.
You grin, “Oh yeah! I heard their pastries were amazing.” You pet Alpine as you pick her up to walk around with. She wouldn’t let anybody else hold her, even Bob, but she would allow you to hold her. Actually, now that you think about it, she’d probably let Bucky hold her too, but you haven’t asked him (and you don’t plan to).
“Did you wanna try and go today? I don’t know when exactly they’re busy, but we can always check.” You walk around the coffee table already thinking about what you might order once you get there.
Then the elevator rang out.
Unconcerned, you turned around to welcome the newcomer. That is, until the doors open to reveal Bucky.
Feet frozen in place, you look down at Alpine in your arms. Bucky walks out of the elevator and immediately meets your eyes before he looks at your arms.
You don’t break eye contact with him as you slowly put Alpine down on the ground. Immediately, she heads over to Bucky and rubs up against him.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, despite not being very apologetic. If given the chance, you'd absolutely pick her up again. To make things worse, you completely forgot that Bucky can definitely hear you. Feeling his focus shift from Alpine onto you, you internally wince.
Forgetting Ava is witnessing this interaction, you hear her call your name out, and you turn to face her. “Sorry, what?”
“Do you wanna head out now?” She looks between you and Bucky, raising an eyebrow.
“Absolutely, let’s go.” You nod enthusiastically, ignoring the piercing eyes on your back.
“Where are you two going?” Bucky asks, grabbing Alpine for himself and holding her in the same position you were sporting not even a minute before. Hoping Ava won’t say anything, you look dead into her eyes, pleading.
“New cafe,” she ignores your plea, “wanna come with us?” Feeling your stomach drop, you decide to confront the problem yourself by doing the one thing he does best: staring directly into his eyes.
He matches your stare, unsurprisingly, and then looks towards Ava. “You sure?” He asks hesitantly.
“Yeah, it’s all good. We were planning on asking Yelena to come with us anyway.” Ava dismisses casually, as if this isn’t gonna be a miserable trip.
Continuing your staring contest, he breaks the silence with one dreadful word: “Sure.” He ends whatever trance you two were in, turning to smile at Ava before returning his gaze to you.
“Alright,” Ava gives you two an odd look, “well, I’m gonna go grab Lena, I’ll be back in a minute.” She starts to walk away, and you feel your soul leave with her.
“You sure this is okay?” Bucky questions, startling you.
You nod, turning to face him, “Yeah, she said it was all good.” You smile at him.
He nods slowly, “Yeah, ‘she said,’” he quotes, “I was asking if you are okay with me coming along.”
You nod, “Yep, no issue with it.” You lie.
He nods, watching you and definitely not believing you, “Alright, if you say so.” He walks over to the couches where you’re standing by. “Didn’t realize she liked you that much that she let you carry her.” He comments casually.
You immediately understand the hidden meaning. He may seem all innocent there, standing with a fluffy cat in his arms purring up against his chest, but you know it isn’t that simple. He is challenging you right now. He is asking you how you managed to win her affections over and is silently reminding you that she is not yours. Talk about being passive-aggressive.
You keep your smile, “Yeah, it’s actually pretty crazy. She doesn’t even let Bob hold her. To be honest, I’m surprised she let me carry her around.”
Bucky smiles, it’s softer than you expected. “Perhaps she feels as if you’re a safe person to be around.
You nod, humming in acknowledgment.
“Alright, are we ready? Come on, I want to get some coffee.” Yelena walks out, Ava at her side.
“It’s almost nine at night.” Ava comments in disbelief.
“Yeah?” Yelena pauses, “Well, I like coffee. Let’s go.” She enters the elevator, waiting for you all to join her.
The elevator ride wasn’t as awkward as you thought. Yelena and Ava managed to ease the tension for the most part. Whether or not they were even aware of it is a discussion of its own, but knowing them, they probably knew.
The walk to the coffee shop wasn’t very eventful either, for the most part. About halfway through, you realize that Ava and Yelena are heavily engrossed in their own conversation. Earlier, you couldn’t stop talking, but as the topics changed, you started to say less and less as they transitioned to your less knowledgeable topics. By this point, you didn’t even know what they were talking about. This led to you walking ahead of them.
To your surprise, somebody else decided to join you in what you thought was your brief solo walking moment.
“They seem to be passionate.” Bucky comments, and you both look behind you to see Ava nodding her head with a drawn-out “Yes!” All of this occurs while Yelena gestures wildly, seemingly approving of Ava’s agreement.
“Huh, yeah, I guess so.” You add on, amused. You two walk in silence for a moment before you eventually just decide to ask the question bugging your mind. “So, uh,” you pause as Bucky immediately gives you his full attention, “why exactly did you want to come?” You look at him.
He seems slightly taken aback by your question, but smiles anyway. “I like coffee, you guys said the cafe was good.”
You nod along, finding yourself questioning previous incidents. You had offered him coffee before, and he had decidedly not accepted it. So either he was lying, or he just really wanted to embarrass you that one time. You can’t tell which one is worse.
“You do? Really?” You ask, unconvinced.
“Yeah.” You laugh at his answer, “What?” He asks, matching the smirk on your face. “You don’t believe me?” He asks, acting as if he’s offended.
You continue to laugh, and he once again stares at you, resolute. “No, no, I believe you.” You smile at him.
He looks at you, nodding as if accepting that to be the end of that discussion. You eventually stop at the door of the cafe. The moment you’re about to open it, Bucky puts his hand in front of you, halting your action. You pause. What is he about to do?
Dazed for a moment, you watch as he opens the door for you. You smile at how unabashedly old-fashioned he is.
“Thank you.” You tell him, walking in. He smiles at the gratitude, garnering Yelena and Ava’s attention.
“What is it you are doing?” Yelena asks him as she walks inside. Bucky follows in behind her and Ava.
“Holding the door?” Bucky raises an eyebrow.
“No shit. I meant the” she gestures to her own face then to Bucky, “smile.”
“Am I not allowed to smile?” Bucky asks, disbelief written all over his face.
“I mean, you can,” Ava asks, but even she seems doubtful of her statement, “you just… don’t.”
“Oh, so you want me to have a restriction on being happy now?” Bucky asks, shaking his head in a disapproving manner. The three of them join you in line.
“I mean, I thought you already did.” Yelena blatantly admits. You all turn to her, “What?”
“Next up!” You roll your eyes at their discussion before going to the counter and telling the barista your order. Yelena and Ava peep over your shoulder and tell her their order as well. However, Bucky stands behind you three silently.
“What do you want?” You ask him.
He pauses, “Uh, black coffee.”
“‘Black coffee?’” You repeat, and he nods in confirmation. It was the exact same coffee he had rejected months ago.
“Okay, black coffee for him.” You turn back towards the barista, telling her your name before pulling out your card to pay.
Just as you’re about to tap the card, Bucky pulls you back, “Hey—” He taps his card.
“Oh, thanks, Bucky.” Yelena nods at him. Ava also gives him a quick “Thanks.”
You look up at him, suddenly feeling unsure about everything. “You didn’t have to do that.”
He shrugs, “I wanted to.”
“Thanks.” You tell him, and he accepts your gratitude with a nod before you all find a table to sit at.
This whole situation is odd. You genuinely thought he hated you. Well, hate is extreme, but he decidedly went out of his way to avoid your previous attempts at friendship.
Tagging along to a cafe with you, walking with you, and generally acting like a gentleman was not exactly what you expected this trip to be. You expected more backhanded compliments like before. If this was some sort of way to get to you, he was really playing the long game.
He hasn’t mentioned Alpine once during this whole excursion. It makes you wonder if you’ll have to be the one to confront him about that. That’s not exactly something you want to do, but you feel like it’s coming anyway.
You take a look at him to see how he’s faring here. He’s in a deep conversation with Yelena and Ava, all leaning away from you. You can’t hear what they’re discussing, but Yelena and Ava both make eye contact with you throughout their little talk. You aren’t even sure if you want to know what they’re talking about.
Hearing the barista call your name, you grab the drinks and pastries for the group, and you thank them before heading back to the table.
“So,” Ava starts cautiously at your return, glancing at Bucky for a split second before looking back at you, “when did you two… start?” She gestures between you and Bucky.
You take a slow sip of your drink. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You know this whole,” Yelena interjects, “thing you two have going on. It’s painful.” She takes a sip of her coffee.
Suddenly, the room feels hot, and it doesn’t help that your drink is also hot. You turn to Bucky, but he just looks at Yelena and Ava, bored. You take another sip, hoping he will say something, anything.
After a period of silence, you accept the fact that he will not be denying anything, so you eventually speak up. “No idea what you’re talking about.” You shrug.
What makes it worse is that you truly don’t know. Your excuse is terrible, and so they will think you’re lying when you genuinely have no idea.
Ava nods her head, “Mhm, okay.” She says, looking between you two.
You turn towards Bucky, who has not taken a sip of his coffee once. “Thought it was your favorite.” His attention snaps to you.
”I never said that.” He shakes his head.
“Then why’d you order it?” You raise an eyebrow, amused.
He looks at you before taking a long, slow sip of his coffee. You can’t tell what he’s thinking, but he doesn’t break eye contact. “Happy?” He asks.
You smile, “Thrilled.”
Walking home is not exactly silent, after all, you’re in New York, but it’s definitely quieter. Once again, Bucky decides to walk next to you. He makes a big deal about you being on the outside of the sidewalk, you roll your eyes, but let him have his moment.
You turn around every now and then to check and make sure Ava and Yelena are behind you. However, every time you turn around, they are already looking at you. Ava gives you a nod with a small smirk, and Yelena gives you a thumbs up. You give them a horrified look the first time it happens. However, by the third time you turn around and they repeat their same shenanigans, you give up, shaking your head, trusting that they will stay behind you and Bucky for the rest of the walk.
When you get back to the tower, you all enter the elevator. The ride up is relatively quiet, but then the door opens. You walk out, Bucky on your left, and John walks by, turning to see who came back, only to look at you two with an appalled expression.
“Did you two go on a date?” John looks at Bucky as if doubting what he’s seeing.
Ava and Yelena step out right after John’s question. “No, they just walked side by side together, and got coffee while teasing each other across our table.” Yelena walks over.
Alpine makes her presence known and walks over to you, rubbing herself against you. “You wanna take her for the night?” Bucky leans toward you, whispering to your ear. You feel your heart rate increase.
“Oh God, they’re sharing custody over the damn cat.” You hear John remark, exasperated. You both ignore him.
You frown at him. For somebody who is so protective of his cat, you would never have expected an offer as gracious as this one. “Are… are you sure?” You ask him hesitantly.
He smirks, amused, “Yes, I’m sure.”
You nod slowly, “And you won’t be upset?”
He tilts his head slightly, “Why would I?”
You look at him, his eyes on you with a fondness that sends your stomach whirling. You feel instantly conflicted. Why is he acting like this? What happened to being upset about you stealing Alpine’s affection? Were you wrong? There’s no way you were wrong. He was definitely upset when he commented about how much she liked you.
“We should go.” Ava looks towards the remaining team members who are watching you and Bucky. “Give them some privacy.”
John scoffs, “‘Privacy?’ There is no privacy here.”
“Just because you ruined your love life doesn’t mean you have to be bitter over other people’s, John.” Yelena snaps, disapprovingly.
His eyebrows raise, “Jesus, okay. Let’s give them some privacy.” He walks away from them, not even checking to see if Yelena and Ava follow behind him.
As that whole discussion went down, Bucky continued to look at you, confused.
“I just thought you might be upset?” You eventually respond to his question, unsure whether you're stating something or asking.
“Over you sleeping with my cat next to you?” He asks, sounding progressively more perplexed.
You open your mouth to say yes, but the look he gives you leaves you speechless. You try to say something, but everything that your brain comes up with sounds unreasonable. How do you tell somebody that yes, you thought they’d be upset that you were snuggling with their cat?
He huffs, his voice softening, “Why would I be upset about that?” You briefly wonder if he can read minds, but shove that thought away.
You eventually muster enough brain power to speak, “It’s stupid.”
He looks at you, shaking his head, “I doubt that.”
“No, it’s really fucking stupid. You’re going to think I’m insane after this.” You reiterate.
“I promise I won’t think you’re insane.” He chuckles, picking up Alpine, who was demanding attention.
You remain silent for a moment, staring at him, holding Alpine in his arms. Both Bucky and Alpine stare at you as if awaiting your response. You look around, as if checking to make sure nobody is going to hear what you’re about to say.
“I thought you were jealous…” you look up at him, finding him patiently waiting for you to explain, “of me taking Alpine all the time.” You look away from him.
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and you look at him once more. He isn’t reacting at all. You shift on your feet, unnerved. Suddenly, he cracks a small smile, exhaling amused. However, your dismayed reaction causes his smile to fall.
“How on Earth did you come to that conclusion?” He desperately tries to keep the amusement out of his voice, but you can hear it as clear as day, much to your chagrin.
You open your mouth to explain, but hesitate for a brief moment. “So you’re not jealous of me taking Alpine… I just wanna confirm.” You mutter.
He shakes his head, amusement lighting up his eyes, but he humors you, “No. I am not jealous of you taking Alpine.”
You walk over to the couch and sit down, leaning over and placing your palms against your eyes. “So you weren’t making passive-aggressive comments about me taking her?”
“No, promise.” He confirms, joining you on the couch.
“Okay, well,” you look towards Bucky, who nods for you to continue, “I thought you hated me cause in the past every time I tried to talk to you, you’d just ignore me. So eventually I just kinda assumed that you did not like me. Then you saw me with Alpine, and started acting weird, so I was like ‘oh no, he’s going to be upset that I took his cat.’” You ramble, watching Bucky’s eyes get wider as you progress.
“You thought I hated you?” He asks, as if the concept were absurd.
“Yeah, I mean, there was that time I made coffee for you and you just rejected it. Then I also tried to help out with an injury you got during a mission, and you said no and sounded upset at me, so I just figured you didn’t like me around you.” You explain sheepishly.
Bucky exhales harshly, “I never disliked you. I thought it was sweet when you did all that.”
You blink, “You did?”
He laughs, Alpine moving off his lap onto yours. “Yes, I did.”
You frown, “But you always rejected my offers.”
Now he avoids eye contact, “Well,” he locks eyes with Alpine, “I didn’t know how to approach you. I didn’t know how to talk to you without messing everything up, so I didn’t. I was scared.”
“‘Scared?’ Scared of what? Me?” You repeat.
He laughs softly, “Terrified.”
“I am like the least scary person on the team. Why the hell would you be scared?” You laugh at the idea.
“Because,” he looks at you, his eyes flickering down to your lips briefly before going back up to your eyes. You look at him, anxiously awaiting his response.
“You said you thought I was jealous of you,” he shifts the topic, “because you won Alpine’s affection.” He shook his head at the thought. “I was never jealous of you.” He reiterates, moving closer to you. You remain in your spot, watching as he grabs your hand. “I was jealous of her.” He looks down, smiling at the ridiculous notion.
“Of… Alpine?” You repeat dubiously.
“Because,” he looks up to meet your eyes, “she was able to get close to you. She was able to just insert herself into your life like she always belonged.” He looks down at Alpine purring on your lap. “Something I wasn’t able to do.”
You take a deep breath, “I thought you disliked me…”
He shakes his head, “I could never. I was stupid, but I have never once disliked you. I never wanted to hurt you, but I guess I did that anyway.” He exhales with a soft huff of laughter, but there’s no humor.
“This whole time?” You ask softly. “This whole time you’ve…” You glance down at his hands, clasped in your own.
He nods slowly, “All this time.” He confirms softly.
You gape at him, not saying a word. You can tell he’s waiting for you to say something. Instead, you say nothing, shifting closer to him on the couch, closing what little space is between you two. Alpine doesn’t even move from your lap despite the disturbance. You look at him, and his lips part open. Your eyes flicker between his eyes and lips, but he doesn’t take his eyes off of you. Slowly, you inch closer, giving him time to back out. You feel his breathing quicken before you close the gap.
It wasn’t a long kiss, but a soft one. You barely linger, removing yourself from him, before he can react. His mouth is slightly open out of pure awe. He looks at you, as if ready to lean in again, pupils dilated. You put your hand on his chest, causing him to raise his eyebrows in surprise.
“At least take me out on a date first, Barnes.” You smirk, chuckling breathlessly despite the short-lived kiss.
He grins, looking awestruck, eyes lighting up with that same amusement from earlier, “I did.” He squeezes your hand tighter, trying to move you closer once again.
You shake your head, “No. You tagged along to my cafe quest with two other team members.”
He chuckles, looking down in disbelief that this is even happening. “I would take you out on a date every single day if you asked me,” he rubs his thumbs along your hands. “But all I want right now, all I need right now, is you.” He slowly raises his arm up to hold your face, his hand cradling you gently.
You feel your face heat up at his words, “You drive a hard bargain…” You pretend to think about it. Eventually, you shift yourself so that you're leaning against him. Alpine looks up at you two, annoyed. “Aw, did we disturb you?” You ask her. She meows before climbing to rest on both you and Bucky. You laugh, feeling her purring resume and leaning just a little closer to him.
-
“Oh my God.” You blink away the sleepiness from your eyes. Oh, right, you’re still on the couch from last night. Alpine is on top of Bucky’s chest, peacefully asleep. You are cuddled up next to Bucky’s side.
“What the fuck, we sit there.” John sounds affronted, loosely gesturing to you and Bucky on the couch. “You could’ve gone to your room to do that.”
Bucky, now also awake, raises an eyebrow at him. “Sleep?”
“You know what you did.” John narrows his eyes at you two. You stand up, stretching as the rest of the team walks in.
“What happened?” Yelena asks, walking in.
“Nothing, we just fell asleep on the couch last night. Nothing crazy.” You shrug, giving a pointed look to John.
“Oh, so you two figured it out, great.” Yelena walks over to make herself coffee.
“You knew?” You walk over to her, not entirely surprised. You notice in your peripherals that Bucky, still lying down, is now being scrutinized by the rest of the team, John standing over him disapprovingly.
Yelena pauses, giving you a look. “Yes, I knew… Everybody knew. You even asked me about him.”
“Yeah! He stares at you like you hung stars.” Alexei adds on, pointing to the ceiling.
“You mean the moon?” You raise an eyebrow.
“Eh, moon and stars.” He adds on.
You roll your eyes, looking over at Bucky. He’s sitting on the couch, the rest of the team asking him various questions, presumably about you two. Seeing him now, he looks so stoic. Then, almost as if he can feel you watching, he turns towards you, and you physically see his eyes soften.
“Oh wow, he’s bad,” Yelena comments next to you, watching him. You laugh at her, but continue to admire just how soft he looks. The image is something you could not have imagined merely weeks ago, but now you have the pleasure of experiencing it.
“I’m glad it worked out, it was getting difficult to watch,” Yelena adds.
You give a small smile, “Thank the cat.” You look down at the feline rubbing up against your legs.
I hope you guys enjoyed that! This is my first Marvel fic so it might take a moment for me to find my footing. I really don't want to make characters too ooc, so feel free to leave any feedback. Thank you for reading if you made it all the way through :D
Summary:
You want Bucky to be happy, even if that means it breaks your heart every time you see him with Natasha. With the aid of Steve, you two devise a series of plans in order to get them together.
What you fail to realize is that Bucky and Natasha are simultaneously devising a series of plans to get you and Steve together, even if it pains Bucky.
Word Count: 10.7k
Warnings/Tags: Reader is implied to be at least slightly shorter than Bucky (it’s like one line), Mutual pining except they’re both stupid, you and Steve wingman, miscommunication, there’s some texting, Avengers tower fic
A/N: Woah not a thunderbolts fic!?!?!!? crazy
Masterlist
You have been friends with Bucky for a while. You’ve been there with him during his low points and high points. After years of companionship, you had foolishly believed you had a chance. You really wanted to believe that maybe after all these years beside him, perhaps you could be the one to be by his side for the rest of your lives.
Like you said, foolish.
You had already considered the idea that he liked Natasha, but you wanted to live in denial until it was confirmed.
You get it, she’s pretty, incredibly skilled, and can empathize with him on a personal level. They’re essentially made for each other. You wouldn’t even be lying when you say that they’d be a good couple. They would, and that makes it hurt so much more.
You walk into the common area, immediately diverting your eyes away from Bucky and Natasha as you walk in. You beeline for the kitchen and grab a glass of water, using Steve as a shield to block your gaze from them.
Despite that, your own eyes betray you and sneak a glance at them. They seem to be invested in their conversation. You can’t hear what they’re saying, but you don’t bother trying to listen. If they don’t want you to be able to hear you, you won’t be able to.
“Notice them too, huh?” Steve leans on the counter next to you, a small smile on his face.
You place your glass down, “Huh? Oh, yeah.” You offer a polite smile to him.
“Honestly can’t believe they aren’t together yet,” you try to ignore how your stomach drops at his words.
You both turn to see Natasha smirking at something Bucky said. Whatever he says next seems to have her giggling.
“They really are perfect.” You admit, forlornly.
Steve nods, “Yeah, if he could do something about it.” He taps his finger on the counter before turning slowly towards you.
You turn to meet his gaze, raising an eyebrow. “What?”
“Well, he hasn’t exactly dated since 1945, I’m pretty sure.” Steve starts.
You raise your eyebrow even more, “‘Pretty sure?’” You quote
He tilts his head, “Well, I haven’t exactly asked. I’m just making an assumption, but that’s not the point.” He waves a hand, shaking his head. “I’m saying that,” he points at himself, then at you, “we help him.”
You almost let laughter escape, but you catch yourself. “You want us to wingman for him?” You smile at the absurdity of the idea. Out of all the people he could’ve asked. How did Steve manage to ask the one person who also likes Bucky?
He offers you the most hopeful grin, and you want to decline. God, how you want to decline, but then you look at them. He looks unburdened, untroubled. He’s smiling as if nothing weighs him down, and at the end of the day, that is what matters.
You turn back to Steve, a smirk on your face, “When do we start?”
-
Dinner.
Dinner is when you start.
Honestly, you should not be surprised. You agreed to Steve’s proposition with (seemingly) no hesitation. Why would he wait to try to push them closer together?
So here you all sit at dinner. You sit next to Steve and across from the source of your pain and misery (and love, but that’s not important right now). Your eyes flicker over to Natasha, who's right next to Bucky.
It’s silent, like uncomfortably silent. Usually, somebody is making noise, but nope, not this time. All you hear is the utensils clatter every couple of seconds.
You glance at Steve, tilting your head slightly across the table to Bucky and Natasha. He returns the stare before looking towards Bucky. “So—”
“You two,” Natasha addresses you and Steve, surprising both of you. “How’ve you two been recently?” She takes a sip of water, giving you both a piercing look.
Both you and Steve glance at each other before looking back at her, “Uh, we’ve been… we’ve been good.” Your confidence falters at her random question.
“‘Good,’ huh?” She traces the rim of her glass, not breaking eye contact with you.
You nod slowly, not sure what she’s implying. “Yep,” you pop the ‘p,’ “‘good.’”
She turns back towards Bucky, for a moment, before humming. “You two been spending a lot of time together?” She phrases it like a question, but knowing her, it’s anything but. It’s a declaration in disguise.
“I mean, we spend lots of time with everyone,” Steve interjects, with you nodding in agreement.
“What about you two?” You try to flip this onto them.
Bucky looks puzzled. You wouldn’t be able to tell if you didn’t know him, but you do. You notice the details, such as a small twitch of his eyebrow, giving away his confusion.
Natasha, undeterred, quips back: “‘We spend lots of time with everyone.’”
You smile, “Touché.”
“We happened to notice that you guys were… conversing in private earlier.” Steve cuts his steak.
“I wouldn’t call that ‘private.’ If you guys could see us, it wasn’t exactly private.” Bucky joins in.
“Well, what else should I call it?” Steve takes a bite of his steak. “Intimate?” He whispers low so that only you four can hear it.
Bucky and Natasha both freeze, eliciting a reaction from one of them is an achievement, but two? They must really be trying to hide their secret.
“‘Intimate.’” Bucky deadpans, eyes flickering to you in disbelief as if asking, “Do you hear this guy?”
You shrug, “We’re only describing what we saw.” You move your food around your plate, avoiding eye contact with Bucky.
“Oh? What about you two?” Bucky scoffs.
You blink, stopping your motion, “What about us?”
“You two looked cozy earlier in the kitchen,” Natasha remarks.
“I was getting water?” You frown, you aren’t sure “cozy” is a word you’d use to describe that situation.
“Really?” She looks at you in mock disbelief. “'Cause I dare say it looked almost,” she smirks, “‘intimate?’”
Just as you’re about to defend yourselves, you’re cut off.
“Okay, what the hell happened? Did something happen? It feels like something happened. Frankly, I’m disappointed in all of you for not saying anything.” All four of you freeze and turn toward Tony.
“Nothing happened,” Steve responds dryly.
“Now why do I find that hard to believe?” Sam asks.
“Maybe we should drop the topic?” You try to smile, but it comes out more like a grimace. Thankfully, Bucky and Natasha seem to agree.
Tony gestures his hand to you, “Great idea. I think that’s a brilliant idea.”
The silence that permeates the room is suffocating, but the rest of the team looks relieved. You try to sneak a glance across the table, and Bucky meets your eyes. He raises an eyebrow, and you try to suppress a smile, but you fail. You cough in order to cover your rising laughter. You notice him smirk at his plate, and you avoid looking at him for the rest of the night. Sometimes you wonder if he is aware of the effect he has on you.
As dinner finishes up, Steve gestures for you to follow him.
“Well, that went better than expected.” You comment.
Steve gives you a look. “Perhaps we were too forward with it.”
You huff, amused, “Yeah, maybe ‘intimate’ was a bit on the nose there.”
Steve looks a bit sheepish, shaking his head. “Okay, we need a new plan. Maybe if we can catch them on their own, it might be easier to stage something.”
You shake your head, “That assumes they can be separated from one another. Every time I think I see Bucky on his own, suddenly Natasha appears out of thin air.”
“Well, Natasha does have a solo mission coming up soon.” Steve walks over to the couch, and you follow close behind.
“So what? We basically ambush Bucky while she’s gone and push him into admitting something?” You place your hand on your hip.
Steve smiles, “Your words, not mine.”
“Wait,” you shake your head, “what are we even aiming for at this point? Are we just trying to get him to admit his feelings for her?” The words feel bitter on your tongue.
“If we can get him to admit his feelings for her, then that makes our job a lot easier.” Steve sits down, looking up at you.
“I guess that’s true…” You look down at your feet, contemplative. “You know when she leaves?”
“Two days.”
“Okay…” You sigh, “We can make that work.”
Steve stands up, clasping his hand on your shoulder, “Don’t look so stressed. It’ll be quick and easy. He won’t need much convincing.”
You give him a soft smile, “Yeah, he won’t.” Your voice is barely a whisper at this point. You doubt Bucky will hesitate at the chance to get with Natasha.
“Well, I’m going to head in for the night. We can plan tomorrow. Goodnight.” He clasps your shoulder before giving a small wave and leaving.
“Night, Steve.” You return the wave.
-
The next day, you got up early, not because you wanted to, but because Steve knocked on your door at four in the morning.
“Is somebody dying?” You ask, half joking.
He rolls his eyes, “Wanna join me in the gym?” He asks. “We still gotta talk about what our plan will be.”
“You seem too happy about this.” You rub your eyes.
“Come on, I’ve never gotten to set up a date for him. You know, he actually tried to set me up on some dates in the past.” He leans against your doorway.
“Really?” You chuckle at the image. “How’d those go?”
“Eh, they never worked out. I always found interest in other things.” He shrugs.
“Like what? Enlisting in the military?” You smile at him.
He returns the smile, “You know me so well, now get dressed. I want to get there before Buck does.”
You sigh, mourning the sleep you could’ve had, but get changed anyway. When you open the door, Steve is still standing there. “When does Bucky get there?” You ask, continuing the conversation from earlier.
“Usually we go together a little past five,” Steve explains, walking towards the elevator.
“Oh, so you’re trying to avoid him.” You wait for the elevator door to open before walking in.
“You make it sound worse than it actually is.” Steve comments amused.
“I’m just stating the facts.” You mumble, closing the elevator door and tapping the floor number.
Eventually, the door opens up and you two make your way into the gym. “Okay, so…” Steve slowly trails off as both of your eyes widen. You don’t even hide your shocked expression at seeing Bucky and Natasha already in there.
You four all stare at each other for a moment before you try to break the tension, “Uh, hi?”
“Hello,” Natasha responds slowly, “we didn’t expect you two to be down here.”
“Yeah?” You nod. “Well, neither did we.” Your voice gets quieter the more you speak. You turn towards Steve. “I thought you said you and Bucky—” You whisper.
“I’m aware of what I said,” Steve responds, matching your tone.
Bucky and Steve look at each other for a long moment, not saying anything.
“Were you two planning on coming here alone?” Natasha asks slowly, keeping an eye on the super soldiers.
“I guess?” You frown, Steve turns toward Natasha, shaking his head. “I mean, what about you two?”
“Just wanted to get an early start to our day.” Natasha shrugs.
“Us too.” Steve gestures between you two. You nod eagerly.
It seemed the conversation started to die off after that comment, so you make your way to your preferred piece of equipment when Natasha decides to continue.
“Is this about dinner last night?” She asks, making both you and Steve pause.
“What?” You frown.
Natasha sighs, tilting her head to the side, looking at you two expectantly.
You look at Steve to try to gauge his reaction. “What about last night? I thought we moved on.” You give her a confused smile.
“Did you guys follow us down here?” Bucky asks, his eyes on you and you alone.
Your lips part in genuine shock, “No? Why would we?”
“I don’t know, you two seemed awfully passionate last night.” Natasha raises an eyebrow.
“‘Passionate?’” You repeat incredulously.
You turn towards Bucky as if to plead for him to understand, “In what world was that conversation ‘passionate?’” You shake your head. “What about you two? If we were passionate, then so were you two.”
Bucky’s eyebrows furrow, “We weren’t.”
You cross your arms. “Really?”
“Really.” You are briefly taken aback at his strong conviction, but nod anyway.
Steve sighs, “We weren’t spying on you.” He turns to Natasha. “Why are you two still hung up over dinner last night anyway?”
“We aren’t.” Natasha glares at Steve.
“You brought up the topic yesterday, and you’re bringing it up again today.” Steve frowns.
You groan, “We aren’t getting anywhere.” You turn toward Bucky. “Please, Bucky, I don’t know what you guys are talking about, but I promise we aren’t following you two. This has nothing to do with dinner. We just came to use the gym.” You don’t look away from him once.
Bucky looks at you for a long moment before looking back at Steve and Natasha, who are still talking (or yelling at this point). “Nat, let’s just go somewhere else.” He stands up, sparing you a meaningful glance before he ushers Natasha out.
You and Steve both watch, surprised. “Why didn’t you try that before she started grilling me?” He looks at you.
Your mouth parts, “I didn’t think it’d work.”
-
The four of you silently agreed to let that day go. You don’t even hide your sigh of relief when Bucky gives you the same smile he always does when he walks past you. You were worried he’d be upset at you, but it seems he let it go.
“Okay, so maybe you can trip him—”
“‘Trip him?’” You rub your temples. “Not all of us are super soldiers, Steve. Bucky is more likely to trip me while I try to trip him.”
“Well,” he pauses, frowning, “okay, maybe you can trip Natasha?”
“I don’t think this is a good idea.” You shake your head, not looking at him.
He runs a hand through his hair. “Okay, then what do you have in mind?”
You take a long sip of your water, “I dunno.”
“Great, so what I’m hearing is, we trip Natasha. Make sure Bucky is nearby, and hypothetically, he should catch her.” Steve spins a pencil in his hand.
“How would I even go about trying to trip Nat?” You look up at him.
He shrugs, “I don’t know. I mean, you can push her if that makes it easier?”
“‘Push her?!’” You repeat. “Captain America himself wants me to push her so that she can fall in Bucky’s arms?” You look at him, slightly dumbfounded
He snaps before pointing a finger at you, “Yes.”
“Is this how you got dates in the 40s?” You rub your temple, looking away from him.
“I didn’t, remember? Buck set them all up for me.” He responds, not an ounce of sympathy in his tone for the headache he is causing you.
“I can see why he had to, my goodness.” You sigh. He gives you a disapproving look.
“What if he doesn’t catch her?” You ask, leaning against the desk you two were planning on. There is a large piece of paper littered with stick figures sprawled out on top of it. The top of the page has “The Plan” written in black sharpie.
“He will,” Steve says confidently.
“Okay, what if Natasha catches herself?” You put your hand down next to Natasha’s stick figure.
“Well,” he pauses, “make sure you push her hard.”
“Natasha will kill me.” You sit down at the desk, setting your head onto it.
Steve pats your shoulder, “She will un-kill you after she gets with Bucky. Now come on, this will be great.”
You sigh, grabbing your phone before following Steve out of the room. “You sure you wanna do this now?” You ask, speeding up to walk side by side with him.
“I don’t see why not. No time like the present.” He keeps his long stride.
“How are we even gonna position them to be near each other? Maybe we should reconsider.” You frown, following as he sharply turns around corners of the hallway without slowing down.
“Just get Romanoff down, I’ll handle the rest.”
“Okay, well if you—”
You run into somebody, and it’s somebody strong. They immediately cause you to fall back a little, but they immediately clutch your arms. “Shit- You okay?” You immediately recognize Bucky’s voice.
“Oh, uh, yeah?” Your brain freezes the moment you try to speak to him.
“Is that an answer or a question?” He smirks, still holding onto you.
“Answer. It was an answer.” You regain your confidence, smiling back at him.
“Alright,” he slowly lets go of your arm, almost reluctantly, “what are you two speeding around for?” He finally addresses Steve. Steve looks between the two of you, seemingly baffled.
“Places to be,” Steve says slowly, his eyes still on you.
“Oh,” Bucky seems to be surprised. He turns away from Bucky to face you. “Oh.” He suddenly looks uncomfortable. “Well, I’ll leave you guys at it.” He looks towards Steve again, offering a small smile and nod before leaving.
You and Steve watch as he walks away. “You were supposed to trip Nat, by the way.”
“Yeah, yeah,” you wave him off.
“And didn’t you tell me that you couldn’t trip Bucky?” He adds, walking down the hall you two were heading down.
“I technically didn’t. I ran right into him.” You respond dryly.
“Yeah, I guess.” You follow up right beside him. “It’s a shame that would’ve been perfect. It was just the wrong girl.” He looks toward you, giving you an indecipherable look.
“Yeah,” you look down at your shoes, “the wrong girl.”
-
It turns out that, despite having good plans for missions, Steve actually really sucked at coming up with good plans to get Natasha and Bucky together.
You two didn’t even get a chance to trip Natasha. You somehow failed the mission before you made it into a room. Granted, you imagine that if you successfully made it to Nat and tripped her, it would have been a whole lot worse.
So, you two were out of ideas.
“Why don’t we just wait til Nat leaves to talk to him?” You ask, tapping your pencil’s eraser onto the Bucky stick figure’s head.
“Because Buck doesn’t even have her personal number yet.” Steve takes away your pencil, getting annoyed with the constant tapping noise.
“What? How do you know? Did you ask him?” You immediately sit up, firing questions at him.
“I didn’t need to ask him. He has like four contacts on his personal phone. I figured you would ask me to make sure, so yes, I did ask him.” Steve nods.
“I’m not sure whether to take offense at that. Anyway,” You tap your hands onto the desk. “Idea! Okay, so what if we stage something for them? I have Nat’s personal number. You have Bucky’s right?” You look at Steve optimistically.
“I do.” He responds, not matching your enthusiasm.
“Perfecttt,” You grin. “So maybe we just talk to them and casually mention that ‘Oh, I have their number! Ya know, in case you want it.’ That way, they can stay in touch while Nat is gone.”
Steve looks doubtful, “That’s your idea?”
You lean back, offended, “It’s better than you telling me to trip her!” You cross your arms. “Come on, you’ll just have to talk to Nat and casually add at some point that you have Bucky’s number. Make sure it seems natural. She’ll know if the change in topic seems too abrupt. Meanwhile, I’ll go talk to Bucky, give him Nat’s phone number.” You smile at Steve.
He looks at you, frowning, but he eventually nods. “Alright.”
You hide your joy at your victory, standing up to leave the room. As you begin your search to find him, you’re hit with a wave of dread. Dread that had been previously there, but subdued.
Hanging out with Steve helped you forget that you were setting up your crush with one of your friends. Now it’s getting real. You have an actual plan, and you were so happy that you thought of an actual idea that you almost forgot what exactly you were setting up.
Despite every bone pleading in your body to stay, to not go through with this, you go. You go because you know this is what he wants. This is what will make him happy.
It has to.
-
The next day, you and Steve decided to enact your plan. You had pretty high hopes, after all, there’s not really a way it could fail. Well, they could decline the numbers, but you throw out that possibility.
It was early in the afternoon when you and Steve split up. Knowing Bucky’s schedule (which is not weird at all, he’s your friend) came to be very useful in this situation. There he was, in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. You stare at him for a minute before approaching him.
“Hey,” you grin at him.
He looks startled by your presence, immediately standing up straighter and clearing his throat. “Hey,” he returns your greeting.
“Haven’t seen you alone in a minute.” You start off casually. You don’t want to immediately throw Natasha’s number in his face. You gotta build up to it.
He smirks, “Could say the same about you.”
You chuckle, “Fair enough.” You place yourself on the counter next to him. He watches you the entire time. “So,” you tap your finger on the counter, “how’ve you been?”
He shrugs, “Could be better, could be worse. You?” He looks down.
“I’m alright.” You nod, quickly realizing you aren’t sure how you’ll continue this conversation.
A long moment of silence goes by, but it’s not uncomfortable. In fact, you almost find yourself enjoying it. You try to look at him a few times, but he continues to stare down at his feet.
“Sorry about the other night.” He breaks the silence.
You turn toward him, slightly confused. “Sorry for..?”
“Dinner,” he clarifies, gesturing a hand out, “and the next day.”
“Oh,” you respond, blinking in surprise. “It’s fine, really. We all moved on.” You place a hand on his shoulder casually. You feel him relax slightly under your touch, almost as if a weight has been lifted off his shoulders.
“I know, I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to bring it up. I just,” he looks at you, “I didn’t mean to push the topic so hard.”
You shake your head, “Bucky, don’t worry about it. In your defense, we were also kinda pushy too.” You rub his shoulder.
“Yeah, but we started the conversation.” Bucky insists. Does he want you to be mad at him?
“How about we compromise? We are both at fault.” You suggest, he seems hesitant to accept it, but you give him a pleading look. “Please? For me?” You ask.
He scoffs before turning back to you and sighing, “For you.”
You grin at him, pulling your phone out of your pocket. “Great! Now that we have that out of the way, I have something you might be interested in.” So maybe you're a little impatient.
Bucky raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything. He watches as you scroll through your phone.
“So, Steve tells me you do not have a certain someone’s number in your contact list.” You smirk at him, hiding your screen.
Bucky frowns, “I have all of your guys’ numbers.”
You shake your head, “No, I meant on your personal phone.”
“Oh,” he says dumbly. “Uh, yeah, I guess not.” He mutters.
“Well, I guess you can thank me later.” You scroll down to show Natasha’s number, turning your screen towards him. Her name isn’t visible on the screen, but he knows who this is for.
He blinks slowly at the screen for a moment before turning toward you, “Are you sure?”
“Yeah! I mean it’s always good to expand your contacts with new friends.” You shrug.
He shakes his head, amused, “I guess so.” You watch as he enters the number into his contact before he starts typing her nam-
That’s not her name.
“What… What are you doing?” You ask, watching as he types your name onto the contact that is definitely Natasha’s number.
He frowns at you, confused, “Adding your contact?”
You gape at him as he continues to stare at you, confusion clear in his eyes. “Oh, that’s uh,” you clear your throat, “that’s Nat’s number.” You clarify.
He looks down at the screen, which has your name plastered clearly onto it. “Oh.” He slowly erases it before putting “Natasha” on his phone. Well, at least they don’t have cute nicknames for each other. You might’ve jumped off the tower if that were the case.
“Sorry about the confusion,” you look back down at your phone, slightly embarrassed.
“No, no, it’s okay.” He chuckles as he puts a hand on your shoulder, helping diffuse the tension. He nudges your foot, making you look up at him. “How about I get yours too? After all, I’d like to ‘expand my contacts.’” He holds out his phone, his number reflected on the screen.
You look up at him, instantly feeling your face heat up once you see the smirk on his face. Remembering why you are here, you compose yourself before adding a new contact labeled “Bucky.” You text him a simple “hi” to make sure he gets your number as well.
“Thanks, sweetheart.” You literally feel your heart rate skyrocket.
You nudge his foot, and he laughs, “Bold move there, Barnes.” You look away so that he can’t see the pure fondness in your eyes.
“Worked, didn’t it?” He opens your message, holding it up like it’s a damn trophy.
You exhale, not able to withhold your smile, “Yeah, yeah, it did.”
-
Later that night, you meet up with Steve.
You walk into your meeting room with a smile on your face, “I take it somebody was successful?” Steve asks, leaning back in his chair.
“Yeah, mission successful.” You take a seat next to him. “How’d yours go?”
Steve gives a long exhale, “She got it.”
You nudge him, “Come on, it couldn’t have been that bad.”
“It wasn’t bad,” he shakes his head. “She was just very hesitant,” he taps the arm rest mindlessly, “and confused.” He adds on. “You run into any issues?”
“Not really, he did ask for my number as well. Figured he wants to get past those four contacts you mentioned. Perhaps he’ll reach ten by the end of the month.” You joke.
“He asked or you offered?” Steve tilts his head at you.
“Does it matter? He asked and then said, and I quote, he wanted to ‘expand his contacts.’” You do air quotes as you speak.
Steve looks down at the ground in front of you, contemplative. “You good?” You ask, and his eyes snap back to you.
“Fine. How would we know if Nat texts Steve or vice versa?” He leans against the desk.
You shrug, “We won’t.”
“So there’s a chance that all of that was for nothing?” Steve walks over to the desk.
“It’s not for nothing, don’t be dramatic.” You sigh, at least for you it wasn’t. Steve watches you through his peripherals. “At least my plan has the potential to work. Your plan failed before we even got them in the same room together.” You frown at him, offended.
“That’s because you bumped into Bucky!” Steve points a finger at you.
“That’s because I was trying to keep up with you! You were walking beyond what anybody would consider a ‘normal speed.’” You do air quotes.
He rubs his temples, and you lean into your chair. “What are we doing?” He asks. You aren’t sure if he’s asking you or himself.
“I assumed you were the one with the answer.” You stare at the ceiling. You feel Steve give you that same “Really?” look he loves to give.
“Alright, let’s just wait til tomorrow.” Steve leans against the desk. “We’ll wait til Nat is gone, and then we can talk to him.
“Alright,” you nod, “sounds good to me.” You sit up straight.
“Meet here at eight tomorrow.” Steve looks at you.
You give him a mock salute, “Yes, Cap.” He kicks your foot.
“Get out of here.” He rolls his eyes, but there is a smile on his face.
You bid him goodbye before making your way out of your meeting room. On the way out, you decide to grab a quick snack. You grab some chips from the cabinet before closing it and turning around.
“Oh my— Geez, Nat.” You jump as you see Natasha appear behind you. “Scared me.” You lean your elbows against the counter.
“Sorry,” you note that she doesn’t sound very apologetic, “just wanted to ask you something.”
You stand up straighter. Is this something serious? “What’s up?”
“We were planning on going for a walk later. Perhaps we can get something after, do you want to join us?” Natasha smirks.
Not serious. All that for a not-so-serious question. “Sur-”
“Oh, Steve is coming.” You blink at her interjection. “Just thought you should know.”
“Oh, okay?” You laugh. Did Steve just decide not to mention this? That’s odd, you were just with him. “Yeah, sure.”
“Great,” Natasha smiles before starting to walk away, “meet us in the lobby at seven.” She says over her shoulder before disappearing from sight.
You stand there alone in the kitchen, chips forgotten, “Okay?”
You decided to go back to your room after the strange encounter, not thinking much about it. You tidy up your room a bit and scroll on your phone for a bit. Before you know it, it is time to go. You grab your stuff before heading to the elevator and descending to the lobby.
“Hey guys,” You smile at Natasha and Steve. “We ready to go?”
“Waiting on Buck,” Steve responds, looking towards the elevator as it opens to reveal a person who is decidedly not Bucky.
“Oh,” You weren’t aware he was coming. Actually, you feel substantially worse now that you know he’s coming. Did Natasha invite you and Steve to third wheel?
“Don’t worry, we’ll give you two plenty of space,” Natasha smirks, giving you a small wink.
You blink, “Okay?” You whisper to yourself. Bucky finally appears once the elevator opens again, and he walks over to you three.
“Sorry about that, ready?” He smiles at you and Steve before you all agree to leave.
You let Bucky and Natasha lead for a bit before turning to Steve, “You didn’t mention that you planned this.” You whisper to him.
He turns towards you, frowning. “I thought you planned this. Buck told me you were coming, so I thought you had some plan.”
You both turn toward Bucky and Natasha, then back to each other. “They got us.” You sigh.
“No, we can work with this.” Steve tries optimistically.
“We can try.” You mumble tiredly.
The four of you walk around the city, eventually getting to the park. Natasha seems to attempt to make eye contact with you on multiple occasions. You offer her a small thumbs-up. At least things seem to be going well for her and Bucky. You and Steve haven’t needed to do anything.
“I have an idea.” You nudge Steve. “You see them on the bridge over there?” You gesture over to where Bucky and Natasha are talking on the bridge. “Let’s offer to take photos for them.” You smile at him.
“That’s an… idea.” Steve watches as you pull out your phone.
“Come on, let’s go.” You elbow him before heading over to the bridge.
“Hey! You two want a photo together?” You walk up to them, phone in hand.
Bucky freezes before turning around to face you. Even Natasha looks startled. You smile at him innocently, holding up your phone with the camera app.
“Do we get a choice—”
You cut Bucky off, “Annnnd smile!” You take various photos of them.
“Put your hand on her shoulder, Buck,” Steve calls out from beside you.
“Are we photographing a family portrait?” Bucky retorts, amusement in his tone.
“A future one, maybe.” You whisper to yourself, slightly bitter.
“Okay, done.” You give them a thumbs up. “Those were so cute, you two. I’ll send them to you both.” You smile at them. The sooner you send them, the sooner they are out of your gallery. Those are not photos you need to keep in your phone, for your sanity’s sake.
The four of you continue to trek your way through the park. At some point, Natasha and Steve get caught up talking about the mission she’s leaving on.
“There are ducks over there.” Bucky finds his way next to you.
You turn to where he’s pointing, seeing five, maybe six ducks on the shore of the lake. “Oh my goodness,” you frantically pull out your phone. You were honestly surprised that Bucky remembered that you liked taking photos of animals.
“Want me to take a picture of you with them?” Bucky asks.
You slowly pull your phone down, “Oh, sure.” You hand him your phone.
He steps back, and you let him take a few pictures of you with the ducks. “Thanks, Bucky.” You smile.
“It’s no issue at all.” He smiles.
You don’t know where the sudden burst of confidence came from, but you grab his shoulder and pull him next to you.
“What are you—”
“Smile!” You snap probably a dozen selfies of you and him in front of the ducks. He initially looks stunned by your action, but then he eventually gives the camera a small smile.
“Aw, these are cute.” You say scrolling through the photos. “Look at how shocked you look in this one!” You turn around to show him your phone, only to find he’s already been staring at the photos from over your shoulder.
“Send those to me.” He whispers, his voice right next to your ear.
“Of course.” You smile at him.
“Hey!” Natasha’s voice catches both of your attention. “Where’ve you two been?” She asks, frowning.
You point your thumb to the ducks behind you two, “Oh,” she looks towards Bucky. “Well, come on, we were going to go get ice cream.” She walks away before either of you responds.
Despite your actual objective having no progression, with Steve talking with Natasha and you talking with Bucky, you’d say that the whole adventure was pretty fun. By this point, it was pretty dark, so the group decided to wrap things up.
You guys walk to a small ice cream shop a couple of streets away from the tower. Steve and Nat go in first to order. You tell the worker what you’d like before Bucky comes along.
“I’ll have chocolate chip cookie dough.” He tells the employee. You all decided to get cups this time around. Once Bucky gets his ice cream, you all pay before walking out.
You happily enjoy your ice cream, and you feel almost at peace right now. You could almost forget the fact that you and Steve are probably intruding on what could’ve been a date. Bucky and Natasha do such a good job of hiding their relationship that you almost think they aren’t dating. Bucky has actually spent more time next to you this trip than anyone else.
“Your ice cream good?” You walk up to Bucky. He nods, “Wanna try?” He asks, tilting his cup towards you.
This means nothing. This means nothing. This means nothing. “Sure!” You take your spoon and get a small bit of his ice cream before eating it. “Oooh, that is good!”
He chuckles, “You want more?”
You shake your head, “Nah, it’s okay.” You tilt your cup towards him. “Do you wanna try mine?” You try not to think too much about what you offer.
He seems hesitant to accept, but you offer him a warm smile as if you want him to try it. “Sure.” He gets a small bit of your ice cream. “That’s good.” You smile, happy he enjoyed your choice.
You eventually cave under Bucky’s persistent offers to share the ice cream. By the time you both finish, you realize you basically just split ice cream. You failed to notice how Steve gave you both odd looks as you shared ice cream. Before you know it, the four of you arrive at the tower and are crowding into the elevator.
“Well, I’m done for the night,” Steve says as you guys walk out into the common area.
“Yeah, that was fun though.” You add, and everybody murmurs in agreement.
You all bid each other goodnight, and you start to get ready for bed. Right as you plop into bed, ready to knock out for the night, you check your phone. Who is texting you at—
Hey, so I noticed you haven’t sent me those photos we took by the ducks. Do you mind sending them?
Instantly awake, you grip your phone, staring at the message. Do you open it now? What if he thinks it’s weird that you read his message so fast? Does he even care if you read his message immediately? Does he know general texting etiquette like that?
Oh shoot my bad
You attach the photos and send the best ones you could find.
I only sent you the best ones :)
You stare at your phone, watching as the bubble appears, showing he is typing.
Just the best ones? I’m sure all of them are perfect. Send them all.
You instantly feel your face heat up, and you kick your feet against the bed. Damn, you are glad he can’t see you acting like this.
Please.
You snort as he adds on that last text. It’s okay, though. Nobody is in your room. Nobody can judge if you act a little crazy.
Alright, but don’t blame me if they’re bad lol
You attach all the photos you guys took in front of the ducks.
Sorry I may have spammed the camera without thinking. There’s a lot.
You watch as he types his next response out.
That’s okay. Thanks.
You decide to heart the message, and then put your phone down, thinking that’s the end of the conversation. You look up at the ceiling with a massive grin on your face. You turn off all the lights and get under the covers when you hear it: a vibration.
Instantly, your hand shoots out from under the blankets into the cold air, grabbing hold of your phone.
Don’t you find it funny how Nat made us all go out to get away from work, and then proceeded to talk to Steve about work for the whole walk?
You stare at the message, an actual conversation?
Omg fr I was like bro come on why did they ditch us like that??
You eagerly await the next message. You watch the texting bubble.
I haven’t heard “fr” yet. What does that mean?
You beam at the screen.
-
You walk into the meeting spot right on time, rubbing your eyes.
“Okay, so— What happened to you?” Steve starts out before frowning at your disheveled state.
“I was up late.” You respond shortly.
“I knocked out last night. How long were you up til?” He asks.
“Like two? Maybe three?” You shrug, sitting down in one of the chairs.
“Doing what?” He asks, you didn’t realize he was so nosy.
“On my phone. Anyway,” You wave a hand for him to continue his original rant.
“What could you be doing on your phone that late?” He asks, frowning.
“Watching videos, doomscrolling.” You say, trying to ignore the voice in your head saying, “I was texting Bucky for hours, my bad.”
He looks at you, “Alright, well, maybe avoid doing that.”
“Yes, sir, Captain.” You spin in your chair twice before stopping. “Alright, now what is this plan you wanted to tell me about?”
He sighs, “As I was saying, Natasha is already gone by this point. Her mission shouldn’t take more than a day, as it’s pretty close to New York. I will talk to Bucky and try to open him up to the idea of a relationship.” You nod along to his plan.
“Then, later that day, you will just casually bring it up to him. Maybe even mention Nat by name. We won’t do it immediately, though. We don’t want him to think our efforts are coordinated. Let it roll around in his head for a bit. This is where you come in. You bring up dating again. Make him think ‘Wow, two people are telling me I should date somebody? Maybe I should.’ By this point, it’ll be night, and he’ll fall asleep thinking of Nat. Then I come around the next morning, and he agrees to let us help him get with Nat.” Steve gives a proud smile at the end of his plan.
You blink at him slowly, your brain still sluggish. “Yeah, sure.”
Steve smiles, “Oh, come on, give me more than that. It’s a good plan.”
“It’s a plan.” You say dryly. “Let’s just hope it works.” You stand up.
“It will, trust me. Okay, as for specific timing, I will go talk to Bucky now. You will wait at least six hours before talking to him.” Steve checks the time.
“Alright,” You give a small smile, “if this works though, Bucky owes us bigtime.”
“Oh hell yeah, he does.”
-
You went about your day normally. You didn’t really want to think about how you were going to approach Bucky. Hours and hours passed until you eventually got the text from Steve. “It’s time.” It read, perhaps a bit ominous for your liking.
You walk around the tower in search of Bucky, and surprisingly, it doesn’t take long to find him. You walk into the common area, having zero expectations, and find yourself staring at Bucky on the couch.
He looks up straight at you, and you’re both frozen in place. For some reason, you get this feeling that he expected you.
“Hey,” You greet him, walking over slowly.
“Hey,” He returns, and it’s so quiet.
“Mourning the absence of the other half?” You joke, leaning onto the couch opposite him.
He raises an eyebrow, “Steve? Didn’t realize he left the tower.”
Thrown off guard, you frown, “What? I meant Nat.”
He nods slowly, glancing at the elevator before nodding, “Right,” he draws out.
“How’ve you two been anyway?” You ask, taking a seat on the couch, facing him.
“Nat and I? Fine?” He seems a bit puzzled by the question, but answers it regardless.
You cross your legs, leaning onto the armrest, “Just ‘fine?’”
He frowns, shrugging, but nodding nonetheless.
You open your mouth to speak, but hesitate. He’s looking at you, and it feels like he can read your mind. Does he know how much you hate this? He couldn’t. This whole time, you haven’t struggled with aiding Steve in this operation. You’ve been doing well. Pull yourself together.
You shake your head inconspicuously before continuing, “You’d be cute together, you know.” Your voice doesn’t stutter, and it sounds confident.
Bucky’s mouth parts, as if surprised by the assessment. “You think?”
You nod, fidgeting with the fabric of the couch in order to avoid eye contact. “Yeah, I mean, you two spend a lot of time together. She’s badass, you’re badass. Power couple, ya know?”
You feel Bucky smirk at your comment, “You think I’m badass?” He chuckles.
You turn to look at him reproachfully, “That’s what you took from that?”
“I heard the rest, don’t worry.” His smirk widens.
You debate throwing a pillow at him, “Yeah huh.”
“I’m serious. What, you don’t believe me?” He shakes his head, as if offended. You know he isn’t.
“No, not really.” You can’t help the smile that appears on your lips.
He chuckles lowly, “That’s painful, sweetheart.” He gives a quick glance at the elevator.
You have to stay focused. Do not look at Bucky. Do not look at Bucky. That’s just how he is. You can’t help but think back to how Steve said Bucky was always the one who set up dates for him. If this was how Bucky talked to girls back then, you would’ve also caved.
“You’ll live, sweetheart.” You mock him, if only to detract attention from your embarrassment. You await his laughter, perhaps a scoff, or even an overly exaggerated sigh.
Instead, he remains silent. You turn to look at him, but he just seems frozen, staring at you. The moment your eyes meet, he laughs, but it sounds strained. You raise an eyebrow at his odd behavior.
Suddenly, the elevator rings out. You don’t think much of it, but Bucky gives it an oddly conflicted look. Relieved? Pained? You can’t tell. Then you turn around.
Natasha walks in, and you feel your brain short-circuit. You watch, trying to hide your obvious shock, as Natasha walks over to where Bucky is. They greet each other casually, as if you aren’t there. Ouch.
You guess that Steve was wrong.
It’s fine. Really, it’s okay. It’s okay. Steve didn’t exactly give you a backup plan on what to do. This is going great.
Eventually, Natasha turns to greet you, and you smile at her. “I didn’t realize your mission would be so quick.”
She gives a knowing smirk, “I left last night so I could finish it early.”
“Oh,” you respond eloquently. “Welcome back.” You aren’t feeling very “welcome” yourself, but that’s not important right now.
“Thanks,” she takes a seat on the couch next to Bucky.
You look between the two of them. Sorry Steve.
“Well, I’ll leave you two—”
“You and Steve? How’ve you been?” Natasha smiles, crossing her legs.
“Uh,” you glance between her and Bucky, “Good. Good? I guess? I can’t speak for him.”
“You can’t?” Natasha raises an eyebrow, clearly doubting your statement.
“No? Should I?” You frown.
Natasha sighs, “Look, we wanted to catch you on your own since we concluded that you’re less clueless than Steve.”
You blink, “Thanks?” You don’t like where this is headed. You need to get out.
“As your friends,” Natasha gestures between her and Bucky, “we feel obligated to help you.”
“Did you two plan this?” You ask them. Both of them ignore your question, but Bucky decidedly avoids your eyes.
“Look, we saw you two talking.” Bucky leans forward from his spot on the couch. “And it’s,” he looks away, “agonizing seeing you two dance around each other.”
You gape at Bucky, “You are severely misinterpreting what you saw.”
“You guys have been meeting in one of the old storage rooms.” Natasha deadpans.
“You are…” You point to Nat, “also misinterpreting that.”
“Really?” Bucky responds detachedly.
“Yes. Whatever you guys are seeing is not what you think.” You sit up straighter.
Bucky scoffs, and Natasha gives a long sigh. “Fine, live in denial.” He looks directly into your eyes. You take a deep breath as he shakes his head, “I- We will be here when you want to tell us the truth.” Bucky stands up, ready to walk away.
You furrow your eyebrows, “You aren’t going to believe anything I say, are you?”
“I’ve seen you two.” He seethes.
You shake your head, looking away from him. “Fine, believe whatever you want.” You toss your hands up in the air. “If you want to believe I’m sneaking around with Steve, you can believe that. I told you the truth. It’s your choice whether you want to believe that.” Bucky seems to falter at your words.
You don’t wait to hear what they have to say next before you walk off. Of course, you had to be the one they confronted. Couldn’t be Steve, no.
You make it back to your room, closing the door behind you. You pull out your phone.
They think we’re sneaking around together
You don’t even have to wait a minute before Steve responds.
What?
You flop onto your bed.
Bucky and Nat think we’re trying to hide some secret relationship or something
This time, you wait a bit longer for a response.
How? How could they possibly come to that conclusion? Did Bucky tell you?
Bucky and Nat told me. They’re both here.
She’s back already?
Yupppp, I think they planned to confront me about this. She left for her mission early. She not tell you?
Not a word.
He sends another text immediately after:
I’ll talk to her.
You groan, throwing your phone onto the mattress before grabbing a pillow and slamming it onto your face.
-
You lean against the wall, waiting for Steve’s door to open. You had gone to sleep that night, not wanting to deal with the aftermath of whatever that was. Steve hadn’t said anything after his last text.
You have your phone in your hand, and you tap the side of it anxiously. The door opens up, and you immediately move to greet Steve.
“What happened?” You ask, making him stumble.
“Jesus, how long have you been there?” He asks.
“Like twenty minutes,” you follow him as he makes his way to the kitchen. “Now what happened?”
He starts to make himself a smoothie, and you lean on the counter watching. “I talked to Nat.”
You raise your eyebrows, gesturing for him to continue. “Okay? Details?”
He sighs, “I told her that we aren’t in a relationship.”
“Did she believe you?” You grab an apple from the counter.
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Seemed like it?”
“‘Seemed like it?’” You take a bite of the apple.
“Yeah, I dunno.” He grabs the ice tray from the freezer.
“How are you so calm about this?” You watch him in disbelief.
Steve pauses his movement, looking up at you, conflicted.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” He puts all items down on the counter, giving you his full attention.
“What?” You blink.
“About Bucky.” He almost looks sympathetic.
“What are you talking about?” Is he implying what you think he’s implying?
“Don’t,” he shakes his head, “Don’t play stupid.”
You remain silent.
“When you bumped into him in the hallway, I thought it was odd. He was acting bizarre.” Smoothie forgotten, he moves closer to you to keep your conversation quiet.
“I thought maybe it was a fluke, but then you told me that he gave you his number.” He gives a small chuckle. “He is picky with who he adds to his contacts.”
Suddenly, your mouth feels dry. You can’t form words; you can only listen as Steve lists out the different pieces of evidence.
“Then he shared his ice cream with you.” Steve shakes his head at you.
You look down, away from his unwavering stare. “We’re just good friends?” You respond, but even you’re questioning it.
“I’m his best friend, you don’t see me scooping ice cream out of his cup.” Steve deadpans. You cover your face with your hands.
“Were you ever going to say anything?” Steve asks softly, a frown on his face.
“I dunno, you sounded so convinced that he’d be happy with Nat, I tried to ignore it.” You mumble into your hands.
“I wouldn’t have done any of this if I knew you actively liked him.” Steve sighs.
You shake your head, “I didn’t think it mattered. You’re his best friend. If you thought he liked Nat, then that was probably the most likely scenario.”
Steve leans against the counter, “This is a mess now.” He says softly.
You laugh humorlessly. “Yep.”
He turns to you, “Are you going to do anything about it?”
You give a dead stare to the fridge in front of you, “Nope.”
Steve looks like he was slapped, and it’d be funny in literally any other situation. “So you’re just going to leave him with Nat?”
“Yeah,” You look down at the ground.
He remains silent for a moment before standing up straight. “I gotta go.”
You blink, “What—”
“I’ll talk to you later!” He calls out, pulling out his phone.
You look at the cluttered counter, “Your smoothie?” You look at the forgotten ingredients.
“Guess I’m making one now.” You sigh, picking up where he left off.
-
After your talk with Steve, you pretty much locked yourself in your room for the rest of the day. Was it sad? Absolutely. However, you didn’t have the energy to face any of the people involved in whatever that was. The chances of seeing those people are pretty high, seeing as they live here, so yeah, you stayed in your room.
You didn’t get any texts from anybody (not that you were checking). So, you put on some of your comfort movies and watched those for most of the day.
Steve didn’t come to say anything, which you do find a bit surprising. You expected at least a text of “You okay?” He seemed concerned about your feelings earlier. Perhaps he realized that you and Bucky were a hopeless case. Which, yeah, true, but it still hurts.
You couldn’t help but rethink the past few days. When Steve laid it out like he did, it really seemed like Bucky could’ve liked you. You had ignored the signs because, well, Natasha was right there. Despite everything that’s happened, you still have that infinitesimally small spark of hope that he returned your affection.
You pull out your phone, the movie droning on in the background. You open photos and see the selfies you took with Bucky. You tap on the first one, smiling at how unprepared he looked. You scrolled through some of them until you stopped at one.
It wasn’t one of the ones you had originally considered the best. After all, he wasn’t looking at the camera. What made you pause is where he is looking.
You.
He was looking at you.
You had a smile on your face, staring at the camera, oblivious to his gaze. The look he gave you wasn’t something you recognized. It wasn’t a look he gave Natasha, nor a look he gave Steve.
You dare to say it looks lovesick. The same emotions that had you giggling and kicking your feet late at night. The same emotions that had you avert your gaze when the word “sweetheart” was uttered by him. The same emotions that had you texting until early mornings, awaiting a response instead of sleeping.
You favorite the photo, immediately hiding your screen as if somebody would see you.
A loud knock startles you, and you stand up, frantically throwing your phone (which lands safely on your mattress). You approach the door to see Steve there.
“Hi?” You ask, looking at his hand still raised to knock.
“Hello,” he puts his hand down, “so I may have done something.” He whispers to you.
“Okay?” You raise an eyebrow.
“So, remember how we were talking about Bucky earlier?” He asks.
How could you not? “Eh, maybe a little.” You respond sarcastically.
“I made a plan.” He looks at you proudly. “For you two, not Nat.”
You look at him in horror, “All of your plans for helping him with Nat were awful. How is this going to be any better?”
“Uncalled for, but this is good, I promise.” He gives you a small smile.
“Okay,” you look at him doubtfully.
“I told him I’d meet him in the common area to hang out in fifteen minutes. However, I want you to be there before then. He will be expecting me, and then see you. Then you two can hash out.” He leans against your door.
You look at him, blinking. “You serious?”
“Yes. I figured it’s the least I owe you for making you suffer through all of that.” He waves his hand as he talks about the past. You stand there speechless. “You might wanna go now, no rush.” He gives you a smirk before leaving you standing at the door.
You turn around and zip around the room, you try to make yourself slightly presentable with the less than fifteen minutes Steve gave you. You are about to walk out of your room before you decide at the last second to grab your phone.
You walk to the common area, taking deep breaths. You eventually pick a couch to sit on, pulling out your phone so that at least if somebody (Bucky) walks by, you aren’t staring at nothing. You stare at your reflection on the screen, feeling your heart race.
The couple of minutes you sit there feel like an eternity. While waiting, you open every app on your phone before closing it seconds later. Maybe this was a terrible idea. Perhaps Steve is making a mistake, and wouldn’t that be soul-crushing?
Minutes go by before you hear them: footsteps. You fight the urge to look up as they approach.
He says your name.
You look up casually, as if you haven’t been waiting for his arrival. “Oh, hey, Bucky.” You smile at him, giving him a slight wave with your phone. You both remain silent.
You try not to watch as he slowly makes his way over to the couch opposite you. He sits down, and your gaze flickers to him a few times. You should put your phone down. You should definitely put your phone down. The issue with that is it’s the only thing protecting you from just blatantly staring at him.
“I believe you.” He breaks the silence after what felt like minutes.
You look up to him, confused.
He meets your gaze, “The other night. When I thought you were with Steve.” He clarifies.
“Oh,” you pause, “don’t worry. I’m sure the situation did look weird from an outsider's perspective.”
“That shouldn’t have mattered.” He shakes his head. “I should’ve believed you, I was just…” He looks away. “Steve is my best friend. He looked happy with you. You two would sneak away and meet up secretly. I wanted him to be happy. He hasn’t found somebody who made him act like that since Peggy. I thought that maybe you’d be the one.” He looks up at you. “And I know, I know, that isn’t what you two had. I just made an assumption, a bad one.”
“You were upset that I was taking away that potential happiness from him?” You begin to understand.
“No.” He instantly says, “I mean, yes, but that wasn’t the main reason.”
You take a deep breath, digesting the information. “Because of me.” You whisper.
He gives you a tired smile, “I thought that maybe if I made Steve happy, that would triumph over the ache I felt for you. When you rejected the idea of getting with Steve,” he shakes his head. “I didn’t know what to do. I assumed you didn’t like me because you never attempted to do the things you did with him with me. You never snuck away to talk to me, never conspired with me like you did with him or anything. I figured it was a lost cause and damage control by that point.”
“You liked me?” The words are a question, but your tone makes it sound like a statement. He nods slowly.
You stare at him before leaning back and covering your eyes with your hand. “I know, please don’t feel obligated to—”
“I liked you too, but I thought you liked Nat.” You say, abashed.
That makes him stop talking instantly. “What?”
“You were talking with her that one night, Steve and I happened to see it at the same time. He started telling me how he couldn’t believe you two weren’t dating.” You chuckle, looking up at Bucky’s astonished expression.
“So we came up with a lot of plans,” you continue, “to try and get you two together. It failed, obviously.” You gesture between you both.
Bucky rubs his temples before leaning forward from his spot on the couch. “You aren’t joking?”
You smile, but it comes out more like a grimace, ”I wish.”
“That night,” he starts slowly, “we saw you two plotting. Nat instantly spotted it. She told me she had been wanting to set him up with somebody.” You feel your stomach drop. There’s no way this story goes where you think it’s going.
“She told me how cute it’d be if you two got together, and well,” he gestures to the room around him.
“That night she came over and asked if I wanted to join you guys on a walk…” You shake your head.
“Her idea.” He responds dryly. “I assume the phone number thing was one of your guys’ plans?”
“Yeah,” you respond, laughing in disbelief.
He stands up, watching you. You copy his movement, moving closer to him. Neither of you looks away, staring at one another as if the other will vanish once eye contact breaks. “I can’t believe…” He chuckles. “This whole time?” He slowly reaches his vibranium hand up to cup your face. The moment the metal touches you, he flinches back, as if forgetting it wasn’t his flesh one. You grab it before he can pull away, slowly bringing it back to your face.
He gently cups your face before freezing, “Wait, do you still like me?” He looks genuinely concerned.
You smile, stepping closer, “I never stopped.”
He leans in, and before you know it, the gap between you two is nonexistent. You feel your heart beating faster than ever. This time, however, it’s not out of stress or fear. You think that maybe this is it, you are going to melt under his touch, but he holds you firm and in place as if to tell you he will be there to support you. You find yourself relaxing in his hold. Love, the word places invades your thoughts as if it always belonged. It cements itself in the trenches of your mind. All those times you doubted who felt what now feel insignificant. The moment feels like it lasts less than a second, but oh— how you wish it was your eternity.
He pulls back, a smile on his face.
-
“I swear you guys can’t pull this every damn dinner.” Tony points his fork around the table. “You did this last time, where you start off quiet, and then end with unsubtle glares across the table. Please, we are better than this.” He sets his fork down.
You glance at Bucky, who is sitting across from you. As if sensing your gaze, he turns toward you, matching your expression.
“Oh, and now that is happening. Love it.” Tony remarks sarcastically.
“I take it things worked out.” Steve comments.
“You can say that.” You sneak a glance at Bucky before turning to Steve.
“Oh, kinda hate it actually,” Tony adds helpfully. “You know, when I said I was disappointed in you all for not telling me whatever you’re up to, I lied. I don’t think I want to know anymore.” He shakes his head as if trying to tune out the situation.
You roll your eyes, turning toward Bucky, who shakes his head at Tony. He meets your eyes and throws you a small wink.
“No, you really don’t.” You smirk at Tony.
The only reason that the last plan of Steve's worked is cause it wasn't his lmao. He 100% asked Nat for help. Bucky thought that you were "planning on meeting Nat" in the common area, and Nat told him to go meet you there.
Okay real side note, thank you SO much for all the support on my fics so far. I have no words. I read every single comment you guys leave (reblogged or not), and they bring me tremendous joy. Thank you so much for reading my work. I appreciate every like, comment, and reblog :D
Pairing: Trailer Park!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Summary: You're ready to start over, and your neighbor makes a lasting impression.
Word Count: Over 3.7k
Warnings: Flirting, swearing, dirty talk, tension, sexual chemistry, world building, asshole ex, Alpine appearance, Bucky Barnes (he's very forward and a warning, okay?)
A/N: Here we are! My trailer park!Bucky intro. We're calling this AU Diamond in the Rough. Thanks to the nonnies and everyone who has asked about him. He's here, @ellethespaceunicorn, @targaryenvampireslayer, @vunblr, @vesearlee, @startcarvingdarling, @thezombieprostitute, @buckybarnesfic (sorry to anyone I missed)!❤️ Beta read by the wonderful @mumbles411 , but any and all mistakes are my own. Divided by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
Your life went up in flames recently all thanks to the match you struck. If people asked your parents, your friends, your old boss, or your now ex-boyfriend, they’d likely say it was a mid-life crisis or form of rebellion to get some sort of attention. The truth was that the fuel had spread for years, daring you to light it all on fire, and you did when you finally had enough. You wouldn’t say the old you was dead and that you were reborn, but you weren’t who you were yesterday either.
This was the start of a different, and hopefully happier, version of you.
Staring at the worn down trailer in front of you, you hadn't made your way inside just yet. While your place with your ex had been large and open and new, this place had seen better days. It needed a fresh coat of paint to start, a new door and windows. It was sinking in that this was really going to be your new home, and it made you happy.
“I’ll bring you back to life,” you whispered, determined to give this place the TLC that it deserved. If you poured yourself into this, maybe it would fix something inside you, too. You certainly didn’t need your ex or anyone else to help.
You looked over at your car, your beautiful Mustang, which had everything you thought to pack. Your bed and other furniture wouldn't get delivered until later, but that was okay. It hurt to think so much of your life, what defined you, could be boiled down to material possessions, but weren't you fortunate since so many had much less? Maybe unpacking as much as you could today would occupy your time and thoughts.
Like finding a new job, something you truly wanted to do and not what was expected of you.
Your phone went off and you hesitated to look at the message, not sure who it would be from. It was funny how for years no one went out of their way to talk to you unless they needed something. Now that you were gone they suddenly cared? The thought left a hollow feeling in your chest, one you didn’t want to examine today.
“I have a bet on how long it’ll take you to come crawling back to me. Can’t wait to see you on your knees with those pretty tears when you beg for forgiveness, Pumpkin. And let’s face it, on your knees is where you belong because you’re nothing without me.”
A surge of anger flooded your veins as you reread it. Even now he expected you’d come back with your tail between your legs where he could look down on you. He had another thing coming. “Trust fund prick,” you muttered, your finger hovering only for a moment before you blocked him. You should’ve done that the moment you dumped him, but doing it now in front of your new home, it felt more right.
Your eyes burned when you put your phone away and an empty feeling began to consume you. Why were you close to tears? Because of him? You knew from the beginning what kind of man he was and you lied to yourself to maintain the facade that everyone else wanted. You were tired of living for other people’s expectations. This was your life, you didn’t need a man, and-
“You lost?”
You turned at the sound of the deep voice just feet behind you, trembling ever so slightly when you saw the man that husky voice belonged to. The sight knocked the very breath from your lungs. You were used to being surrounded by guys who paraded themselves as men, but they were little boys playing dress up. But the man in front of you? He was all man.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
He stood tall and proud, but relaxed and at ease in his element. Blue eyes like an ocean, yet he was the calm of the storm. The short dark brown hair matched his thick goatee and you wished you could feel it against your skin so you knew if it was soft or scratchy. The white tank top showed off his muscles and tattoos and the chain around his neck dipped beneath the neckline. The low hanging jeans hid what you knew was an amazing package. He was something out of a wet dream, the kind of man who looked like trouble.
The kind of man you should stay away from, but wanted to chase after you.
He slowly licked his bottom lip before he asked, “Cat got your tongue, Sweet Cheeks?”
Your face felt like it would go up in flames. Being attracted to what you believed was a new neighbor wasn’t going to happen. It couldn’t. “No, and I’m not lost,” you replied, gesturing to what was now your home. “I live here now.”
You could see why he thought you were lost since it was obvious you weren’t from around there. When you looked for a new place, you purposely picked an area far from your old place. If you had stayed close, it wouldn’t have severed the ties enough. It would’ve made your leash longer and that wouldn’t do.
“Is that right?” He looked you over from head to toe and your mouth went dry when he smirked, the kind that likely disintegrated panties. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”
The ruggedly handsome man held his hand out for you, and you only just realized he was wearing rings. What would it feel like if they dug into your skin? And, yes, you may have glanced at his left hand to see if he was wearing a wedding ring, which he wasn’t. “Thanks for the welcome,” you said, taking his hand.
Electricity crackled between you, feeling the crackle from head to toe. The intensity shook you to your core when he locked his eyes with yours and brought your hand to his lips and kissed it instead of shaking it. You let out a breath when his goatee tickled your skin, his eyes locked with yours. Well, that answered your question- both soft and scruffy, the kind that would leave a delicious burn between your thighs.
Jesus, you needed to keep your libido under control. You just got out of a relationship. Weren’t you just thinking moments ago how you didn’t need a man?
“I’m Bucky,” he said against your skin, reluctantly releasing your hand. “You wanna tell me your name, or should I just keep calling you ‘Sweet Cheeks’?”
You told him your name, the sound barely above a whisper. He hummed and repeated it. Never once did you think your name sounded sexy until he said it.
“Why are you calling me Sweet Cheeks?” you asked. Did he call every pretty woman that? Not that you were full of yourself and thought you were drop-dead gorgeous, but you had some confidence in your looks.
He chuckled, a throaty sound that made you want to hear it again. “Well, I hope you don't mind me being forward, but…” he began.
You tensed up a little and looked down at yourself. Was he going to make a comment that you didn't belong there? That you stood out like a sore thumb? You were dressed down, but still looked pristine as you always did, a habit instilled in you that you had to look put together no matter if you were crumbling inside. Appearance meant everything to your family, and you needed to let that expectation go.
“Your ass looks incredible in those jeans. Sweetest fucking cheeks I’ve ever seen and that’s with your pants on.” He licked his lips when his gaze drifted down your body. “I don’t think I’ve seen a better ass than yours.”
You blinked and looked behind you to get a look at yourself. “Excuse me?” you asked. Of all the things you thought he’d say, that wasn't one of them.
“I saw you from behind and stared for a good minute, thinking of all the things I wanted to do to you, before I walked over. You have the kind of ass that should be worshipped. Could make a grown man cry,” he said, your heart speeding up and your core throbbing. “And then you turn around with the face of a fucking angel and I swear my heart stopped,” he added, putting both hands on his chest for emphasis. “Givin’ me a heart attack over here.”
You almost laughed because he couldn’t be serious, but there was no humor in his eyes. In fact, he scanned your face like he was trying to memorize it. “That’s… no. My ass isn’t that great. Neither is my face,” you said. It wasn’t to fish for a compliment, as nice as it would've been, because while you had some confidence in yourself, you didn’t have that great of an ass.
But beauty was in the eye of the beholder, wasn’t it, and he looked like he was two seconds from dropping to his knees in the dirt to worship you like he claimed he wanted to.
“Tell that to my racing heart and my cock,” he said, your mouth parting when he pointed to his crotch. “But if you continue to disagree, I’m more than happy to show you how wrong you are.”
Your words were stuck in your throat, not used to being the center of someone’s attention that way. “I’m sorry, but we just met,” you said, unsure of how else to respond. He didn’t know you, apart from your name, and he was talking about worshipping your ass and looking at you like he wanted to devour you whole?
It was… kind of flattering. What would you have to be upset about? Weren’t you mentally telling your libido to calm down at the sight of him? You were attracted to him, he was just the one being brave enough to vocalize his attraction to you.
His gaze didn’t waver when he said, “Yeah, we just met, but I want you.”
Your mouth parted again. Well, he was certainly forward and that didn’t bother you. It was better than the fake people you surrounded yourself with before spouting pretty lies. “You want me? You don’t know me and I could be a taken woman,” you pointed out.
“I’ll get to know you if you let me. ‘Sides, it’s not like I see a ring or indentation on your finger, so I don’t think you’re married or engaged. And I sure as hell don’t see anyone here helping you with your stuff, so I’m guessing you’ve been single for a while or you recently got out of a relationship,” he said, taking a look around to make his point before he focused on you once again. You weren’t at all upset that he noticed your bare finger since you had looked at his, too. “You wanna be a taken woman?”
Was it that obvious that you were all alone? “So what if I did just get out of a relationship?” you asked. There was nothing wrong with getting out of something that wasn’t right.
He smiled, not pushing when you didn’t answer his question. “Then he’s a fucking idiot for letting you go. And what better way to get over someone than getting under another?”
“I dumped him,” you clarified, not knowing why you needed him to know that. Your ex was likely spewing to everyone that he dumped you to save face, but that’s not what happened. “And I’m already over him.”
You should’ve felt guilty for that, but he wasn’t your forever and you weren’t his. He was free to find someone who fit with him better than you ever did. You were free to find your own happiness.
“Good girl,” Bucky smirked, your legs pressing together. You had to get a grip. “And I wasn’t implying that he dumped you, only that he’s an idiot for letting you go and I’m happy to help you forget all about him.”
You finally let your laugh out and you swore you heard him groan. Did he like the sound of your laughter? “You really are forward, and I just said I don’t need to get over him.”
“I said I’d help you forget about him,” he said, taking a step forward and smiling when you didn’t step back. You weren’t some wilting flower he’d pluck from the soil. “Just let me fuck him from your memories and I swear you’ll thank me when I’m done.”
You frowned. Did he think you were an easy lay, or was he picking up on your attraction to him and running with it? “I haven’t even moved into my trailer yet, so maybe you should let me get settled before you continue to… I don’t know, harass me.”
His eyebrows shot up and the amusement died in his eyes. “Harass you? That’s not what I’m doing,” he swore, taking a step back to give you space. “Look, I’m sorry if I upset you or came on too strong.”
The apology took you by surprise and slowly warmed you inside. Not many people ever apologized to you for anything. “No, I’m sorry. Harass wasn’t the right word,” you said. It was just flirting. Very… strong flirting. “But if that isn’t it, what are you doing?”
He smiled after a moment, that spark back in his eyes. “Just grabbing an opportunity when I see it. Life’s too short not to,” he said.
You respected that perspective. “Is that what I am? An opportunity?” you asked. Something to get out of his system?
“I think you’re a lot more than that and that you may be running from something,” he replied, tilting his head. “Are you running from something or someone?”
He asked like he genuinely cared and you didn’t know how to process that. “I wouldn’t say I’m running,” you said, though you were running in a way, running from the life you no longer wanted. “More like I finally closed a chapter.”
“Well, I’m looking forward to getting to know you and helping you write a new chapter.”
“You say that like it’s a sure thing,” you said.
When his eyes swept over you again, it didn’t look like he was checking you out. It was as if he was trying to figure you out. “‘Cause it is,” he said, glancing at your door before you could say anything to his cocky remark. “Can help you out with repairs if you’d like.”
“I might take you up on that,” you said since you didn’t really have a clue what you were doing when it came to the handyman type of stuff. You could pay him, too. “Don’t get too excited. I said ‘might’,” you teased when he smiled.
Something in your gut said that even if he wasn’t hitting on you that he would’ve offered to help. It was a feeling you had, just like he had a feeling about you. And sure, he looked like danger and sin and everything you should stay away from, but there was more to him than met the eye.
What was his story? Who was the man behind the swagger and tattoos and rough edges? Did he grow up here or did he make a choice like you?
“I run my own shop. I’m very good with my…” He rolled his lip between his teeth. “Tools.”
You laughed again, louder than before, and his smile widened. “You really are something, Bucky,” he said.
“Love hearing you say my name,” he whispered, heat pooling in your gut before he pointed at your car with a whistle. “And she is a beauty. You ever need any help with her, you let me know.”
You agreed. She was a beauty. “Is this the part where you tell me you’ll take me for a ride or something like that?”
“Oh, I'll give you a ride,” he said in a low voice. “As many as you want.”
You ignored the ache between your thighs. “Not today, Bucky. I need to unpack.”
“One sec, Sweet Cheeks.”
“...Is that seriously what you’re going to call me?” you asked as he rushed to his trailer. It was ridiculous, but you didn’t hate it. You sure as hell liked it better than Pumpkin.
“‘Til the day I die,” he called back, whistling when he opened the door. “C’mere, girl. I got someone I want you to meet.”
Your brows furrowed. Who was in there who would possibly want to meet you? Did he have a kid?
You weren’t prepared for a white ball of fur to curl up in Bucky’s waiting arms. “And who is this?” you asked when he strolled back over. The image of such a beautiful cat in his arms was one that would put a smile on your face for days to come.
“This is Alpine. Found her near my shop a while back, starving and shivering. Nursed her back to health and she’s been by my side ever since,” he said, affection written all over his face. There was no bragging in his tone and that made you appreciate his story more. “Al, meet our beautiful new neighbor.”
You weren’t about to preen since he called you beautiful. “Oh, my god,” you whispered, tentatively holding a hand out to her when she lifted her head and regarded you with bright eyes. “Hi there.”
Alpine stared for a few seconds before she sniffed your fingertips and rubbed her head against them, encouraging you to pet her. You felt Bucky’s penetrating stare when you gently stroked her fur. “She’s a great judge of character,” he said, swearing under his breath. “I’m such a dick.”
“What do you mean?” you asked. He was a very forward flirt, but you didn’t get the impression that he was a dick.
“I didn’t ask if you were allergic,” he muttered with a shake of his head. “Fuck.”
Your heart turned over. No one you knew would’ve ever considered that. “I would’ve told you right away if I was allergic,” you assured him, smiling when Alpine purred. “I’m glad he was able to nurse you back to health. I’ll bet you watch over everyone around here, don't you?”
You could just imagine her being a little guardian and your heart twisted. Maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea for you to get a pet. Like your trailer, you could shower a pet with love, too.
Alpine surprised you when she moved forward and pressed her head to yours. “Fuck me,” Bucky whispered when she curled up again and closed her eyes. “She really fucking likes you.”
“Maybe she’s just being nice,” you said.
“Trust me, she wouldn’t do that unless she really liked you,” he said, leaning down slightly to kiss the top of Alpine's head. “Would you, Al?”
Your heart melted. It wasn't fair how sweet and sexy he looked holding an animal. The only thing missing was him in a leather jacket, which you had no doubt he owned. If you ever saw him in a leather jacket holding a cat, you’d probably combust.
“Like seeing me kiss a pussy?” he asked nonchalantly when he caught you staring.
“Oh, my god,” you giggled, not dignifying him with any other sort of response to his question. Because if you pictured him eating your pussy, your legs would start shaking and you were altready hot and bothered enough thanks to him. “I really should start bringing my stuff in,” you said. You really needed to look over your resume, too, and find a job sooner rather than later.
“Say bye, Al.” He lifted her paw to give you a wave as she meowed.
You smiled and gave her a wave, too. “Bye bye. Thank you for the warm welcome.” It was a smooth tactic bringing his cat out. You imagined she helped win a lot of people over if his charm didn't.
“Wait,” Bucky said when went to turn away. “You sure you don't need any help? I don't mind doing any heavy lifting.”
“I can manage,” you answered. You had to get used to doing things on your own now. “But I appreciate it.”
“If you change your mind-”
“I’ll let you know.”
He frowned, but nodded. “One more thing,” he said, nodding over to a clearing. “Potluck lunch two days from now. You should stop by. Give you a chance to meet everyone.”
“Really?” Your eyes lit up. “I can bake something,” you said. Something delicious that would leave a good impression on the neighbors.
He raised an eyebrow. “You bake?”
“Yeah, I like to bake. Cakes, cookies, brownies, pies, whatever I feel like.” You shrank in on yourself, waiting for the inevitable laughter or insult.
But it didn’t come.
Bucky merely stared when he ran his tongue over his lips. Did the man ever keep his tongue in his mouth? “Now, I think it’s only fair that I get to taste your sweet cheeks and I don’t know if I want to share.”
You shook your head. Surely you hadn’t heard him right. “...You mean my treats?” you asked.
“Cheeks, treats, all of it. Bet it’ll all melt on my tongue,” he replied with a wink and turned away, giving you the chance to check out his ass when he slowly walked away. He spoke about worshipping your ass, but you couldn’t take your eyes off his.
“You cocky son of a bitch,” you whispered with a smile. Of course you heard him right, and you bet he ate like a starved man. “Keep dreaming,” you called after him.
“Oh, I will, Sweet Cheeks. I will dream about you,” he promised over his shoulder before he looked back once more. “You might just be my future wife,” he declared and went inside with Alpine while his words hung in the air.
“Fuck me,” you breathed out, your shoulders shaking as you laughed because that just happened.
You didn’t know how the rest of the day would go, but you did know that your new home and neighbor were going to make for a very interesting and exciting chapter in your new life.
Okay, lovelies. What do we think? Talk to me. Let me know if you love him as much as I do. And let me know where you think this is going. 🥰 Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
Summary: Bucky Barnes— who is cold and curt with everyone— always lingers by the front desk smiling and flirting with the receptionist.
The Avengers Tower was a well-oiled machine—structured, efficient, humming with the quiet chaos of genius and responsibility. There was a rhythm to it all: debriefings in the morning, security rotations in the afternoon, and the occasional power surge from one of Tony’s questionable late-night experiments in the lab.
But nothing in the building ran more smoothly—more dependably—than the front desk.
She sat at the heart of it, tucked behind the sleek counter with a sharpened pencil between her fingers and a soft, welcoming smile on her lips. She was the calm in the middle of a storm of superheroes, double agents, and billionaire tech mishaps. She knew every name that walked through the lobby, every coded schedule shift, and exactly which agents tried to sneak in late without scanning their badges. She remembered who took their coffee black and who needed two sugars. She remembered birthdays. Allergies. Dog names.
And when the lobby was quiet, like it often was early in the morning, she pulled out a folded crossword from her bag. Always in pencil. Always neat. She’d sit with her brow furrowed and her lip tugged gently between her teeth, fully focused, as if solving those little squares could somehow bring order to everything else around her.
And every morning—every morning—Bucky Barnes walked by just to see her do it.
To the rest of the Tower, Bucky Barnes was an enigma wrapped in leather and combat boots.
He was cold. Quiet. Always two steps ahead and impossible to read, with a stare sharp enough to cut through glass and a silence that seemed louder than most voices. He moved through the halls like a ghost—efficient, intimidating, all coiled muscle and mission focus beneath that black leather jacket. He didn’t make small talk. He didn’t attend team dinners. He didn’t linger longer than necessary.
And he never smiled. Not at anyone.
Except at the front desk.
There—just there—he was different. Softer, somehow. Less winter soldier, more man. He’d slow his stride before he reached the counter, his posture easing, the tension around his eyes loosening the moment he spotted her behind the desk. Sometimes it was just a glance. Sometimes it was a subtle smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he caught her mid-crossword, her pencil tapping against the laminate as she chewed the end of it in thought.
But other times—on the mornings when the sun streamed through the tall lobby windows and she was already laughing at something under her breath—he’d stop. Lean one elbow against the desk. Say something in that low voice of his, rough with sleep and just the tiniest hint of amusement. And when she looked up at him, wide-eyed and smiling, something would flicker behind his carefully guarded expression. Something warm. Real.
No one else ever saw that version of him.
So when agents passed through and caught a glimpse—when they saw Bucky Barnes smiling, actually smiling, as he leaned in a little too close to the girl at the front desk—they usually did a double take. Whispered to each other in disbelief.
Because everyone knew Bucky Barnes didn’t flirt.
Bucky Barnes didn’t smile. He didn’t joke. He didn’t laugh, and he definitely didn’t smirk.
He was the kind of man who carried silence like armor—sharp, impenetrable, and constant. Most people in the Tower had never heard him say more than a few clipped words at a time, let alone seen him do something as human as chuckle.
But then there was her.
And somehow—impossibly—he was doing all of those things. Because of her.
Because of the way she’d look up from her crossword puzzle with that curious little tilt of her head. Because of how she smiled at him like he wasn’t a weapon in a jacket, but just a man passing through her morning. Because she didn’t flinch or force conversation—she just saw him, and he didn’t feel the need to disappear.
So yeah, Bucky Barnes was grinning at the front desk now. Letting out quiet laughs under his breath when she got frustrated retelling a story. Teasing her gently, just to see that spark of amusement in her eyes. The unshakable Winter Soldier—grinning like a fool because she told him he looked tired and then offered him a travel-sized coffee creamer from her purse like it was contraband.
To anyone else, it would’ve seemed impossible.
But to him, it felt like the most natural thing in the world when he was with her.
“Hey, doll.”
His voice was smooth, low, and unmistakably fond as it drifted across the lobby, cutting through the usual morning quiet like it belonged there.
She looked up from her crossword puzzle, already smiling without meaning to. Bucky Barnes was leaning both elbows onto the marble counter, sleeves pushed up just enough to show the edge of his metal forearm, posture relaxed like he had nowhere else to be. As if the world outside didn’t expect him to be a weapon.
“Good morning, Sergeant,” she teased, pencil still in hand.
He groaned, dragging a palm down his face in mock frustration. “I told you not to call me that.”
She shrugged, unfazed. “I like it. It suits you.”
He didn’t answer right away—just stared at her, trying not to smile. The way her eyes crinkled when she teased him, the softness in her voice… it undid him more than it should’ve. His stomach flipped like it always did around her, and he prayed it didn’t show on his face.
Then she laughed. That warm, honey-sweet sound that filled the wide, sterile lobby like sunlight through the glass-paneled windows. It wasn’t loud or dramatic—just easy. Natural. And it made something in his chest settle.
She twirled her pencil between her fingers before tapping the paper in front of her. “Stuck again,” she sighed. “Ten-down: ‘Hard exterior, soft center.’ Five letters.”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Me.”
She blinked at him, then let out a small chuckle. “That’s not you.”
He raised a brow. “It fits though.”
“It does fit,” she admitted with a hum. “But you’re more of a marshmallow all around.” He smiled liking the way she thought of him as.
He leaned in slightly, looking amused. “Told you I’m good at these.”
“I thought your specialty was knives, not wordplay.”
He dropped his voice conspiratorially. “I have layers.”
She gave him a playful look. “I’m starting to see that.”
He tried not to react, but the words struck a quiet chord. His gaze drifted to her hands—delicate, thoughtful, a little lead-smudged from the crossword—and he watched as she absently brought her nail to her mouth, chewing gently while focused.
His lips twitched, eyes fond. “You do that when you’re thinking.”
She looked up, surprised. “What?”
“That thing with your nail,” he said, tone casual. “You do it when you’re thinking too hard.”
Her mouth parted slightly. “You notice that?”
He shrugged, doing his best to play it cool even as warmth crept up his neck. “I notice a lot of things.”
She tilted her head, curious. “Like what?”
His voice dipped just a bit, low and steady. “Like how you hum under your breath when you think no one’s listening. Or how you always read the clues out loud, like you’re hoping someone’ll come help—even though you act like you want to solve it alone.”
Her cheeks flushed pink, and she ducked her head, smiling despite herself. “I might be,” she said quietly.
Bucky grinned, unguarded for a moment. “Well,” he said, voice teasing but soft, “keep waiting for me, doll.”
And she laughed again—just for him.
Unaware that moments like this didn’t happen with anyone else.
Unaware that Bucky Barnes didn’t flirt. Didn’t tease. Didn’t linger.
Except at the front desk.
Except with her.
Meanwhile, Sam Wilson had just stepped into the Tower lobby, sunglasses still on and a fresh coffee in hand. He wasn’t planning to stop—he rarely did on the way in—but something caught his eye.
Or rather, someone.
There, at the front desk, was Bucky Barnes.
Again.
For the third time this week, Sam slowed to a stop near the entrance, brows drawing together as he watched the interaction unfold from a distance. Bucky was leaning on the counter like it was his second home, posture casual, shoulders relaxed. He was smiling—an actual, real smile that reached his eyes—and laughing softly at something she said. He even nudged her pencil with the edge of his finger before giving her a lazy little wave, like he was any other guy.
Sam’s jaw was practically on the ground. Bucky Barnes—Mr. Scowl and Grunt—had waved. Waved.
“The hell…” Sam muttered to himself, lips pressing into a line as Bucky finally turned and strolled past, his usual cold stare meeting him. Classic.
But Sam didn’t let it slide.
He changed direction and walked straight to the desk, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion as he approached.
She looked up, bright and cheerful as always. “Morning, Sam! How’s it going?”
“Uh-huh,” he said, setting his coffee down with a thunk and eyeing her. “Don’t ‘morning’ me. What’s going on with you and Bucky?”
Her eyes widened slightly, innocent and confused. “What do you mean?”
Sam crossed his arms. “Don’t play coy. I just watched that man smile—smile—like he wasn’t a certified menace fifteen minutes ago.”
She laughed, the sound sweet and light. “He’s always like that.”
Sam’s brow shot up. “No, he’s not. Not with anyone. The man barely makes eye contact with the rest of us, and he just waved at you like y’all are in a damn Hallmark movie.”
She tilted her head, still looking genuinely puzzled. “Really? He’s never been anything but sweet with me.”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “What does he even talk about?”
“Books. And puzzles. And snacks.”
Sam leaned in eyebrow raised. “Puzzles?”
She nodded looking at him as if he was going crazy— which may or may not be true.
Sam stood back like he’d just solved a case. “You’ve cracked the code. Bucky Barnes has a crush on you.”
“Sam.”
“I’m serious. I’ve known the guy for years. He’s glared at me more than he’s spoken to me. But you? You get crossword help and puzzle talk.”
Sam leaned in slightly, half-conspiratorial, half-stunned. “You realize you’re like… his favorite person in this building, right?”
Her cheeks warmed, and she gave a shy laugh. “I think he just likes the crossword banter.”
“Sure,” Sam drawled, grabbing his coffee. “That’s why he acts like a golden retriever who just found his favorite tennis ball every time he sees you.”
And with that, he turned on his heel, leaving her blinking after him—confused, smiling, and maybe, just maybe, starting to wonder what exactly Bucky Barnes saw when he looked at her.
⸻
Sam’s words stuck in her head.
She started paying closer attention—something she was usually great at. It came with the job. She noticed things. Like who avoided eye contact after a rough mission. Who needed to be buzzed in early on Mondays. Who always brought back an extra pastry for the agent next to them without ever saying why.
But now, she was noticing Bucky. (Way more than she usual did)
And he was… not like he was with her. At all.
With everyone else, Bucky was courteous, in that distant kind of way. Polite nods. Quiet acknowledgments. He spoke when necessary, nothing more. Even around the people he trusted—Natasha and Sam—he always held part of himself back. Like he was there, but not fully. Always watching, calculating. Like his presence was borrowed, temporary. Controlled.
But with her?
It was different. So noticeably different that almost everyone already picked up on it.
He lingered.
He’d drift by the front desk in the late afternoon, when the tower was quiet and the air felt still. Sometimes, he mumbled something about needing to double-check the mission schedule or update his clearance log—things she knew damn well he could’ve done from his tablet or comms.
But instead, he’d end up leaning on the counter with his forearms, half-facing her, voice softer than usual. He never seemed in a rush to leave. And on multiple occasions, he would laugh at something she said—not a breathy huff, but a real laugh. Low and warm and surprisingly easy. The kind of laugh that curled around her like a blanket, and made her freeze for half a second with flushed cheeks.
That sound stuck with her. It came back to her later, in the quiet of her apartment or in between elevator dings, like a little reminder she hadn’t imagined it.
And then there were the smaller things.
Like when he walked by two days after Sam’s visit.
She hadn’t even noticed him coming. One moment she was scrolling through reports, and the next, his knuckles tapped gently on the marble edge of the counter—soft enough not to startle, firm enough to pull her attention.
“Hey doll,” he said, his voice almost careful. Not shy, but not overly confident either—just… gentle. Thoughtful. “Brought you something to have with your crosswords.”
She blinked, gaze dropping to the small brown bag he set in front of her. A blueberry muffin peeked out the top.
Her favorite.
She stared. “How did you—?”
“You mentioned it,” he said, tone quiet, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Last week, when you said the banana ones ‘scarred you for life.’” He gave a slight grimace, mimicking her dramatic tone, and it made her smile.
“You remember that?” she asked, still a little caught off guard.
Bucky leaned forward just enough to rest his arms on the counter, head tilted, eyes steady on hers. “Told you,” he smiled. “I notice things.”
The air between them felt softer somehow. Still. Like it had narrowed to just that space—just them.
Her fingers brushed the edge of the bag without opening it, eyes still on his. Her heart fluttered. She wasn’t sure what to say, but it felt like she didn’t have to say anything at all.
Because in that quiet look he gave her, there was a kind of ease she hadn’t seen in him before. Not even with the people who knew him best.
A few days later, it happened again.
She was seated at the desk, trying to pull herself together after a chaotic morning. Her hair was scooped into a rushed bun that wasn’t quite secure, strands already slipping loose. One sleeve of her cardigan was pushed up, the other still falling over her wrist. There were two half-finished coffees beside her keyboard, and she looked—by her own admission—a bit of a mess.
She didn’t even notice Bucky until he passed by, slowed, then took a step back like something had caught his eye. He leaned in close enough that she glanced up, startled.
“Hold still,” he said, his voice low and even.
Before she could respond, his hand reached out—delicate but sure—and tugged gently at a loose thread unraveling at the shoulder seam of her cardigan.
She froze.
Not because he touched her exactly, but because of the way he did it. So careful. So familiar. Like it wasn’t a big deal at all. Like fixing her sweater was second nature.
His fingers lingered for just a second longer than necessary, and then he let the thread fall into his palm.
“There,” he murmured, standing straight again, a small curve at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smirk—something softer. “Didn’t want you walking around looking like a walking unraveling mystery.”
She blinked, still caught between the ghost of his touch and the way his eyes had flicked down so briefly, so purposefully.
“Is that a compliment?” she asked, an eyebrow raised.
He was already turning, already moving away down the hall in that unhurried way he always did. But he glanced over his shoulder, soft, a little smug and a knowing glint in his eye.
“Only if you want it to be.”
And then he was gone again.
She sat there for a long moment afterward, eyes on the empty hallway, lips parted slightly in surprise. He always did that—left her sitting there, a little breathless, a little confused, like she was still trying to catch up to whatever moment just passed between them.
It was maddening. And a little addictive.
⸻
But then came the moment that shifted everything.
She was kneeling near the cabinet by the elevator, half-crouched with a clipboard balanced on her thigh and a box of laminated visitor tags in her lap. Her hair had fallen over one shoulder, and she was quietly humming to herself, content in the calm of a late morning.
The ding of the elevator barely registered at first—just another routine sound in a day full of them—until the doors slid open and she glanced up.
Bucky stepped out, flanked by two unfamiliar agents.
She smiled without thinking, her automatic greeting already forming on her lips.
But something happened.
He didn’t spare so much as a glance at the others. Barely a grunt of acknowledgment as they moved past him, mid-conversation, unaware or maybe just used to his silence.
But Bucky—he looked straight at her.
And just like that, everything about him changed.
His shoulders relaxed, tension sliding off like he’d been holding his breath without realizing it. His expression softened, that faint edge in his jaw smoothing into something gentler. His eyes brightened—not wide or dramatic, but unmistakably warmer, like the sight of her tugged some invisible thread inside him loose.
“Hey, doll,” he said, low and fond, like she was the only person in the room.
She froze, lips parting as her breath caught for half a second. She was used to his visits, his little teasing comments, the quiet smiles he saved only for her—but this?
This was different.
He walked toward her without hesitation and crouched beside her, his long legs folding with casual ease. He didn’t ask what she was doing. Didn’t make it awkward. Just reached for a neat stack of folders beside her and handed them over, his sleeve brushing hers.
“You always do this stuff alone?” he asked, glancing briefly at the mess of papers and lanyards around them.
She nodded, adjusting the clipboard in her arms, still caught off guard. “Usually. It’s just part of the prep for tomorrow’s visitor batch.”
“Still,” he murmured, eyes flicking to hers. “You shouldn’t have to do it all alone.”
The words weren’t dramatic. There was no flourish, no deliberate charm.
But the way he said it—quietly, like a simple truth—made her chest go warm.
Their fingers brushed as he passed her the folders. Neither of them pulled away too quickly.
And then he hesitated—just for a beat. His gaze dropped to her hands, then lifted again, slower this time. She felt it before he even said anything, like the air shifted.
“Hey,” he said, licking over his bottom lip. “You got plans after your shift?”
She blinked. “Um… no, not really.”
Bucky gave a tiny nod, thumb grazing the edge of one folder like he needed something to fidget with. “There’s that little coffee place down the block,” he said, eyes still on hers. “I was thinking… maybe you and I could go. If you want.”
The way he said it—low and nervous—sent her heart into a full stumble. It wasn’t just coffee. It was a date.
Her mouth opened, then closed again, and when she finally managed a breath, she nodded—too fast, maybe, but smiling. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
He stood, the faintest tug of a smile playing on his lips—not cocky, not proud. Just quietly pleased.
“We can do your crossword while there.” He said smiling. She chuckled and rolled her eyes, “You’re such a dork.” He only smiled harder in response.
The two agents, now at the far end of the hall, had turned back to look.
They were staring.
And for once, she didn’t blame them.
Because in that moment, it clicked. He really was different with her.
Not just less guarded—but open. Gentle. Grounded in a way she hadn’t seen him be with anyone else.
And maybe—maybe Sam was right. Maybe this wasn’t just one-sided. Maybe it hadn’t been for a while.
Because the Bucky Barnes standing in front of her wasn’t the cold soldier everyone whispered about. He wasn’t sharp-edged or haunted or unreachable.
He was steady. He was thoughtful.
And he looked at her like she was something soft in a world that had never been kind to him.
And she was starting to realize—with a quiet, breathless sort of clarity—that she liked this version of him far more than she’d ever meant to.
Synopsis: When a visit to his office leaves you shaken, Bucky becomes determined to take care of you.
Word Count: 4.4k
Warning(s): CEO!husband!bucky x wife!reader. protective!bucky. no use of y/n. use of nicknames sweetheart and angel. established (secret) relationship. reader is a damsel in distress. "GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY WIFE" 🗣🗣🗣 trope. public humiliation. physical violence (reader is manhandled - not by bucky). hurt/comfort. angst, fluff, smut (holy trifecta) (18+ mdni!!!). vaginal fingering. lots of praising. bucky is Scary™ and only soft for reader.
Author's Note: GUYS HI I'M ALIVE 👋🏼 so sorry for being MIA. work has been kicking my ass. I've literally been skipping lunch and working through weekends bcs of how crazy it is (yeah I know it's bad). but other than that, I've also been having the worst case of writer's block ever. I have three fics in my draft that I kept deleting and rewriting because none of them turned out good enough. this is the only half decent thing I managed to produce. not fully happy with this bcs I wanted to spend more time on it, but I've also been itching to put out something for you guys, so pls bear with me 😔 hopefully you'll still like it 🧡 don't forget to comment/like/reblog 💕
Bucky Barnes Masterlist
As soon as you step through the rotating doors, a relieved breath escapes your chest.
The rain continues to patter outside, merciless in their mission to soak everyone who dares to leave the comfort of their home. Your wet hoodie clings to you like second skin; your cotton skirt dripping on the marble floors below. The back of your neck scorches as you notice a few sharp glances sliding your way.
This is so not how you thought this day was going to go.
A quick coffee run with the girls had been the plan. The only plan. A chance to catch up with Wanda and Natasha amidst the unpredictability of everyone’s hectic schedules. Everything was going well. Up until the point you left the coffee shop, started the trek back towards the subway station, and realized something.
Your wallet was missing.
Not misplaced.
Not forgotten.
But actually missing.
You spent the next couple of hours retracing your steps—going back to the coffee shop, peering under evey chair and table, even asking the clueless barista if anyone had turned it in—but nothing. You even emptied your tote bag in the middle of the sidewalk at one point. Confirming that the wallet was, in fact, gone. To make matters worse, your phone had also died somewhere between Wanda showing you her latest painting project and Natasha's crude remarks about your sex life. In that raging desperation, you made a decision to resort to one last dramatic measure.
Bucky's office.
Inside your drenched sneakers, your toes curl. It’s silly for someone to feel this nervous about visiting their husband's place of work. But when the husband in question is none other than James Buchanan Barnes—CEO and founder of Barnes & Co.—you suppose the churning in your gut is somewhat justified. Especially when the prospect of visiting his office, impromptuly and without the dark cover of night, feels like crossing a threshold you've been avoiding for far too long.
You and Bucky have been together for over two years, married for one short, whirlwind month. The news of your wedding broke across the country like a hailstorm. Stirring a media frenzy and a nationwide intrigue revolving one question in particular.
Who is the woman that managed to conquer the heart of one of America's most eligible bachelors?
You've always dreaded the attention that comes with being Bucky's partner, hence why you asked to keep your identity a secret at the start of your relationship. And Bucky—despite having his reservations about not being able to love you loudly in front of the whole world—had agreed, but not before promising you that his world was yours to enter whenever you pleased.
You just never thought that the entrance would happen today.
The dribbles of rain have gathered into a puddle under your feet. You squirm as more eyes begin scrutinizing you as if you're a ketchup stain in their otherwise polished world of Rolexes and Armani-clad egos. Taking a deep breath, you will the thumping in your chest to abate, forcing your chin up as you stalk towards the front desk across the lobby.
The two receptionists are conversing among themselves when you approach, huddled over a phone on the desk. You’re about to open your mouth when the mention of a familiar name stops you dead in tracks.
“Bet she's just a ditzy arm candy,” one of them remarks. “I won’t be surprised if he found her at a yacht party.”
The other gasps scandalously, pausing mid-way of applying her dark red lipstick. “You think she's an escort?”
“I don’t think. I know.” The first one smirks. “But then again, a guy who looks like that? With that kind of money? Hell, he could probably get with any woman in the world.”
“Yeah, you're right. I'd gladly get on my knees and be the sidepiece if Bucky Barnes asked me.”
The two receptionists snicker.
A few paces away, you're standing with hands curled into fists, commanding the red hot emotion in your chest to dissipate before you do something you might regret.
Instead, you clear your throat.
Two pairs of eyes look up, and the moment they catch sight of you—teeth chattering and skirt trickling with mud—their expressions twist into something unpleasant. Dismissive. Judgemental in a way that causes your skin to crawl and your ears to ring.
“Can I help you?” asks the one with the red lipstick.
“Hi. Yes, please. I, uh—” you shift on your feet, “—I'm here to see Mr. Barnes.”
“He's in a meeting,” she replies, already tapping something on her keyboard. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but—”
“You need an appointment to see Mr. Barnes.” She smiles, so sickly sweet as she drags her eyes from your head to your toe. “I can't let you in. Sorry.”
“Okay. But I'm actually—”
“She said you can't go up, Ma’am,” the other receptionist interjects.
“If you could just call his office and tell them—”
“Mr. Barnes doesn't receive walk-ins,” says Red Lipstick, her gaze acrid when it lands on you. “Especially not from… strangers.”
You grit your teeth. “I'm his wife.”
The other receptionist snorts.
It takes everything in your power not to snap right then and there.
“Look,” you sigh, tugging at the hem of your drenched hoodie, “can I at least borrow a phone, then? Just to call his secretary?”
Red Lipstick sneers. “We're not a public phone booth.”
Next to her, the other receptionist doesn't even attempt to hide her smug smile. There is an ache prickling in the back of your eyes. You're soaked, freezing, and exhausted, and the last thing you need is to defend your identity in front of two people who seem to have resolved their judgement upon seeing your appearance. All you want to do right now is to get home, curl up in bed, and forget that this whole day ever happened in the first place.
“Fine,” you mutter, exhaling a stuttering breath, “I'll just wait then.”
You head towards the seating area several feet away, the leather squeaking the moment you sink down. Red Lipstick whispers something to her friend before picking up the desk phone.
Two minutes later, security shows up.
Chill licks up your spine as you watch the man in the uniform talking to the receptionist from earlier, the latter throwing daggers in your direction without bothering subtlety. You move your tote bag to your lap—as though the material can shield you from the impending confrontation—and clutch the canvas in a death grip when the security starts marching towards you.
“Ma'am.” The large man, all muscles and ear-piece, towers over you. “I need to ask you to leave the premises.”
You close your eyes.
This can't be happening.
“I'm not doing anything wrong.”
“You're causing a disruption.”
“Disruption?” you seethe, your voice shakier than you would like it to be. “I'm only sitting.”
“Please, Ma'am—”
“I'm just waiting for my husband, alright?” Your voice cracks. “Just—just please… give me five minutes. I'll just wait for his meeting to be over and—”
You don't get to finish your sentence.
Before you can fully process what is happening, the security guard has stomped forward, plunging his claws around your forearm, and jerks you up to your feet. You yelp as he begins to try and drag you away, scrambling to peel his vicious grip.
“Hey! What are you—? Let me go!”
“You need to stop resisting, Ma'am.”
“I'm not! Please, just… just let me go, you're hurting me!”
All around you, people have paused and begun watching. Businessmen halt mid-call. Women with perfect sleek buns turn their heads to lour at the sudden commotion. You're half certain that someone in the crowd has even pulled out a phone to record the whole thing.
And yet, none of them steps forward to help.
Shame creeps up your neck, burning in tandem with the ache that now travels through your arm. Your sneakers screech against the marble floors as the security heaves you across the lobby, unperturbed by your whines of pain and your desperate pleas.
No one seems to care.
That is until a voice breaks through your choked cries.
“What the hell is going on here?”
The crowd falls into a sudden hush, panting like the Red Sea to reveal the figure standing in front of the closing elevator doors.
Bucky Barnes.
His suit jacket is unbuttoned, tie slightly loosened from the tumult of the day. You can almost picture him tugging repeatedly at that piece of fabric as he sits in one of his tediously long meetings—the same tie that you bought for him several months prior. His steel-blue eyes scan the surroundings, flicking from the mass of foreign faces standing in his lobby to the scene that has seemingly rendered everyone frozen on their spot. His gaze lands on you—dripping, scared, and on the verge of crying—and immediately zeroes in on the security guard's iron grip around your forearm.
Bucky steps forward.
And something inside of him snaps.
"Get. Your fucking hands. Off my wife."
The meeting is running long.
Too long.
Bucky keeps glancing at the clock above the screen monitor, counting down the minutes until the longer hand strikes twelve. He barely hears the pitch being presented. Not when his mind isn't even present in the room. His phone sits face-down on the table, buzzing occasionally with email notifications, meeting reminders, missed phone calls, but not from the one person who matters the most.
You.
He sighs quietly.
When the final slide clicks off and the lights turn on again, Bucky doesn't waste time standing to his feet. “Good work,” he says, already halfway out of the door. “We'll review the proposal and follow up. That's all.”
He doesn’t even give his team a chance to respond.
The hallway is deserted as he walks past. Bucky enters his office and shuts the door behind him, checking his phone to see the last four messages he has sent to you.
[08.28 AM] Have fun with Wanda and Nat. I'll see you tonight, angel ❤️
[11.47 AM] Still with the girls, sweetheart?
[12.04 PM] Let me know once you're home
[01.58 PM] Angel?
His jaw clenches.
Bucky presses the call button and brings the device to his ear, cursing when the line goes straight to voicemail. You never do this—leave his messages hanging for hours like this. You always answer—with a text or a phone call, sometimes with a single emoji response when you're too busy or too tired to form a proper one. A total silence is unheard of, and Bucky knows that this can mean one of two things.
Either your phone is dead… or something is wrong.
Bucky’s gut plummets.
He hits another number on his phone, his driver instantly answering on the second ring.
“Bring the car to the front,” Bucky orders. “I'm heading home.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bucky moves in quick lightning. Gathering his things and shoving important documents into his briefcase. He leaves the office and stops by his secretary's desk, who shoots out of her seat immediately upon seeing him.
“Cancel everything else for today. I'm going home.”
“Wait, what? But, Mr. Barnes, you still have—”
“I don’t care,” he says, already turning towards the elevator. “I need to check on my wife.”
Inside the elevator, Bucky fiddles with his cuffs, trying not to imagine the worst. There is a good chance you probably just forgot to charge your phone and got way too caught up reuniting with your friends to notice the time. Maybe you're already back home, asleep, snoring softly into his pillow. Maybe there really is no reason for Bucky to worry.
But he does worry.
Bucky has been worried for sometime. Particularly since the story of your wedding broke a month ago.
He didn't say anything to keep you from stressing, but on the second week of your honeymoon in the Caribbean, Bucky received word from his security team that a stalker had tried to break into his house in Westchester. The perpetrator was caught and handed to the police before things could escalate, but it still wasn't enough to ease Bucky's mind. He had to relocate your residence temporarily to his penthouse in Manhattan—telling you a little white lie about doing some renovations at the house. Thankfully, you're none the wiser. You've always loved living at the heart of the bustling city, anyway.
The elevator doors open with a ding.
Bucky steps out, pausing in his tracks when he realizes there is a horde gathering in the lobby. People are murmuring among themselves, their necks craning as they attempt to sneak a peek at the center of the ruckus. Bucky's brows furrow.
“What the hell is going on here?” he bellows.
The crowd parts.
Bucky examines his surroundings. Seeing at least two people with their phones out, receptionists standing behind their desks, and heads turning towards a scene unfolding near the sofas.
There is a man there.
A man in uniform—a security guy—who has his hand around a woman's arm, trying to drag her away across the lobby.
The woman is drenched and shaking, voice hoarse from pleas that have fallen on deaf ears. When he finally catches her eyes—your eyes—blown wide with panic, the rest of the world seems to evaporate.
Bucky sees red.
“Get. Your fucking hands. Off my wife.”
The security guard falters, just for the briefest of milliseconds, but it's all Bucky needs to yank his hands off you. He shoves the guard so hard the man stumbles nearly five feet back. Bucky doesn't stop there—he grabs the guard by his collars, the man now trembling with fear in front of him. It doesn’t matter. Not to Bucky. Not after what he just saw this man was doing to you.
“Are you out of your goddamn mind?!” Bucky froths, face twisting into stone. “Touching my wife like that? Dragging her out? Do you want me to fucking kill you?!”
“S-Sir, I—”
“Bucky.”
His head snaps.
Your voice is meek beneath the tense air of the lobby, but it reaches him nonetheless. It always does. One short utterance of his name from you is all it takes for Bucky to loosen his grip on the security guard, his breath catching in his throat as he finally takes you in—soaked to the skin, shivering, shoes drenched under your feet.
Everything else melts away.
In two long strides, Bucky is now standing before you, his large palms cradling your face with a softness that startlingly opposes the man that has threatened death upon another human being five seconds ago. There is a pinch in his forehead as he studies your face. His face contorting as if the sight of you alone has plunged a blade so deeply into his soul.
“Sweetheart.” His voice breaks. “What happened?”
Your lips quiver. “I-I'm sorry, Bucky. I didn't mean to… I lost my wallet, and my phone’s dead. Then it just—it started raining, and I—I didn’t know what else to do—”
“Shh, angel. It's okay.” He tugs you close, arms wrapping around you without hesitation, not caring the fact that your rain-soaked clothes are probably ruining his expensive suit. You press into him, an involuntary shudder running through your limbs. “Shit, angel, you're freezing.”
Bucky shrugs out of his jacket and wraps it around your shoulders, firm hands rubbing your back to transfer some of his warmth to you. His voice is so unbearably tender as it falls on your ears.
“I’ve got you now,” he whispers. “You’re safe, angel. I’ve got you.”
Then, Bucky turns.
Slowly.
“You,” he barks at the security guard, blue eyes burning with hellfire. “Explain. Now.”
The guard swallows. “Sir, I-I didn’t know. The receptionist said she was causing a disturbance. Said she was crazy. Claimed she was your wife. I was just following—”
“She is my wife.” Bucky’s voice is deathly quiet. Venomous. “And you fucking manhandled her.”
“I-I didn’t mean to—”
Bucky turns his gaze towards the front desk.
The girl with the red lipstick is now as white as a sheet. Beside her, the other receptionist doesn't seem to be doing much better.
“Mr. Barnes,” Red Lipstick begins. “I didn’t—I didn’t know. She didn’t look like… She just sat on the furniture like she owned the place, and she—”
“She does own the damn place,” Bucky snaps. “And she told you who she was. And instead of doing the one job you have—calling my office—you humiliated her. Called security. Let this entire lobby watch while you treat her like dirt.”
“I—I was just trying to—”
Bucky raises his hand.
The girl's jaw snaps shut.
“I want all of you gone. Now. Security. Receptionists. Both of you. Fired. I don’t want to see any of you here again.”
The other receptionist tries to speak, “But sir—”
“Do you want me to fucking repeat myself?”
The three of them stay quiet.
Bucky turns back to you then, still enveloped in his jacket, looking smaller and more vulnerable than the person he knows you to be. Something inside him splinters at the sight.
“Let’s get you home, sweetheart,” he murmurs.
He guides you through the lobby, tucking you against his side as if he's afraid to let even an inch of space separate the two of you from now on. Before he reaches the rotating doors, Bucky halts his steps. He sweeps his gaze across the crowd, a raging flame in his sternum when he sees some people with their phones still out.
Bucky takes out his own mobile, typing in something without ever retracting his other arm away from your frame. Seconds later, his driver appears through the rotating doors, taking a subtle double take at your state, before nodding dutifully at the two of you.
“I want you to get all the names of the people in this lobby,” Bucky commands. “Give them to me by tomorrow. Check their phones. Confiscate them if you find anything of my wife. Prepare a fund to reimburse them for the device, we will not be returning them.”
The driver nods.
“Oh, by the way—” Bucky adds, gesturing at the security guard and the two receptionists, “—those three? I want them gone by the end of the day. Make sure to blacklist their names. Notify our partners as well.”
With that, Bucky leads you away again. Out of the office, out of the rumpus, and straight into the safety of his arms.
By the time you reach the apartment, New York City is in mourning.
The rain has exploded into a full-blown storm. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, you can see the darkness that has befallen the entire city. The roar of thunder echoes through the floor, still rough, still formidable, but a little quieter now that you're swaddled in the safety of your home.
Next to you, another thunder is subsiding.
Bucky doesn't let go of your hand as you step further into the apartment. He holds you like you're procelain, tucking you a little closer into his side every time he feels a tremble running through you. His lips are pressed onto your temple as he leads you towards the hallway.
“You're shivering, sweetheart,” he points out. “Let me run you a bath, okay?”
You don't have the energy to respond.
In the bathroom, Bucky guides you to sit on the toilet. He moves through the space like a domesticated cyclone—filling in the tub, lighting up your favorite candles, adding in that lavender and eucalyptus oil that he knows you love. Steam is rising within minutes. Bucky turns back to you with the gaze of a man who is trying to spell out love with his eyes alone.
“I'm gonna take off your clothes now, alright?”
He sheds each layer with reverence. As if he was revealing your secrets rather than taking off rain-soaked worn cotton. Bucky pauses every now and then to squeeze your hand, peppering tiny kisses along the knuckles, shifting closer every time he detects gooesbumps on your skin.
The whole thing is so sweet.
He is so sweet.
And it makes the whole dam you've been straining to uphold finally collapses.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, surprising him.
“Sorry?” Bucky is perplexed. “Angel, why are you sorry?”
“S-Sorry for… for showing up like that. For making a scene. I shouldn't—I must’ve embarrassed you—”
“Hey,” he says firmly, cupping your face in his hands. “No. Don’t do that.”
Tears cling to your lashes.
“You can never embarrass me, sweetheart. You’re my wife. The most important thing in my life. If anything, I should’ve been there sooner. None of this is on you.” Bucky brushes his nose to yours, massaging the nape of your neck. “I'm so sorry, angel. You didn’t deserve to go through any of that.”
Your breath stammers.
Bucky leans back and presses his lips to your forehead.
“Come on.” He smiles. So tender and loving you think you might unravel completely. “Let me take care of you.”
He helps you into the tub, guiding you down into the warmth with a steady hand on your back. The water laps against your skin, chasing the chill from your aching bones as well as your bruised heart. The next thing that comes out of your mouth is a relieved sigh.
Bucky moves to stand.
Your hand shoots out and curls around his wrist before he can rise.
“Join me,” is all you say.
He doesn’t need to be told twice.
Bucky never takes his eyes off you even when he starts stripping down his clothes. He steps behind you in the tub, tugging you to his chest the moment he has settled into the bath. Your whole body liquefies on instinct the second his arms engulf your middle.
“I’ve got you now,” he murmurs, pledging the words to your temple. “You’re safe.”
Bucky reaches for your soap, lathering his plams with the scent of lavender and peppermint. You sigh and sink deeper into his chest as you feel his touch working over your skin—shoulders, arms, the curve of your back. He kisses each spot every time he finishes rinsing it off, running his tongue down your neck, whispering praises with each breath.
“So strong. So brave.” He nips at your ear. “So proud of you, sweetheart. I love you so much.”
Bucky continues peppering your skin with kisses. Experimenting with the graze of his teeth and the scrape of his tongue. You squirm in his hold when his fingers begin swiping at your chest. Subtle, at first, but then he takes a nipple between his fingers and twist it just enough to make you mewl in delight.
It's the best goddamn sound he has ever heard on this planet.
He begins massaging your breast with his left hand, the other one sliding lower and lower with every bruise he is sucking into your neck. Bucky parts your nether lips, feeling you soft and compliant under his touch. You jolt in his arms the moment he skims over your sensitive nub.
“B-Bucky—”
“Shh, I got you, angel. Don't worry,” he soothes, burying his face in your throat. “Just feel me. Gonna make you feel so good, okay? Just lean back and relax for me.”
You follow his instruction, letting yourself fall back onto his chest. Bucky starts rubbing you slowly, earnestly, circling his fingers around the one place that is yearning for him, never quite touching it just to tease those breathless sounds out of you even further. In front of him, you're panting. Your hips grinding against his hand as you attempt to chase more of those heavenly feelings.
“Look at you,” Bucky muses, relishing the way you're chasing more of his touch. “Always so beautiful for me. You know that, don't you, sweetheart?”
“Bucky,” you whine.
“Shh, I know, angel. I know. Doing so good for me.”
Bucky rubs his fingers over your clit, groaning when the motion tears a wrecked sound out of your throat. He carries on with his ministrations, playing your body like a musician would their favorite instrument. Alternating between lazy strokes and desperate flicks that have you gasping and writhing against him.
“Oh God.” You close your eyes, brows creasing when Bucky eventually plunges two fingers into your heat.
He moves them in and out of you languidly. Curling his digits, feeling your walls contract and suck him deeper each time he stimulates that one spot that always paints your vision with stars. You're gripping his forearm now. Your head falling back onto his shoulder as his other hand slides downward towards your bundle of nerves.
Everything feels heightened.
Everything feels good.
You angle your head to the side and kiss his jaw as you feel a familiar knot forming in your abdomen.
“Bucky,” you whimper, locking your eyes with his. “I-I'm gonna—oh God, don't stop—I wanna—”
“Wanna cum, angel?” Bucky purrs, running his nose down your cheekbone. “Can feel you squeezing my fingers—shit. Go ahead, sweetheart. Let go for me. Let me see you.”
You come apart within seconds. The murmurs of Bucky's encouragement as your music and the kisses he leaves on your shoulder as your anchor. His fingers continue to drag in and out of you with reverence, prolonging your pleasure, never once relenting until he is sure you've given him everything that you could.
“That's it, sweetheart. You did so well.” He tilts your chin up, leaving a chaste kiss in the corner of your lips. “Such a good girl for me.”
He holds you until your breathing slows, until the thrum under your skin quietens and your nerve endings stop lighting up in flames. Bucky helps you out of the bath with a towel already warm in his hands, drying you carefully, each brush a well-concocted plan because he knows you deserve nothing less than the utmost form of care.
Once you're dressed, Bucky leads you to your shared bed. You're already half asleep by the time he tucks the covers around your frame, brushing his thumb across your cheek.
“I love you,” he confesses into the quiet. “You’re my whole world, angel.”
You blink at him, eyes drowsy but warm. “Love you, too.”
Bucky slides in beside you, pulling you close until your head is rested on his chest and your hand finds the steady beating of his heart.
Outside, the storm continues to rage. Anguish in its name and its promise, chasing thunders with the stable clatter of the rain.
Inside, though, it's quiet. A stretch of silence merely rustled by the intakes of breath and the soft snores of Bucky's whole life—his wife. His world. Kept securely inside the certainty of his embrace where nothing and no one else would be able to lay their hands on you.
And with that reassurance, Bucky closes his eyes, drifting off with his heart stitched solidly to yours.
