Currently writing for Marvel. Exploring different AUs is one of my favourite things to do, so expect to see some soon and of course will write normal Marvel fics too.
Writing schedule: Monday, Wednesday, Saturday and Sunday (More often when I'm off work)
The first time you returned to the forest after Eddie disappeared, you knew before you reached the clearing.
The air feels different - lighter, emptier, like a room after the music has stopped playing but everyone hasn’t quite realized it yet. Your steps slow without you meaning them to. Your heart already knows what your eyes haven’t confirmed.
You step into the clearing.
It is empty.
No voice greets you. No familiar shape leaning against the trees, no crooked grin waiting to make the ache bearable. Just sunlight filtering through branches, dust motes drifting lazily where someone used to stand.
You wait anyway.
Minutes stretch. Then longer. You say his name out loud, once, twice, your voice trembling as it echoes uselessly back to you.
Nothing answers.
You sit on the log where he used to perch, hands folded tightly in your lap, staring at the place where the ground still looks wrong. Where the forest remembers violence even if you don’t speak it aloud.
You do not cry right away.
You learned, over months with Eddie, how grief can be quiet. How it can live in the space between breaths. How it can settle into you like a second heartbeat.
Eventually, you whisper, “Goodbye,” even though you already said it once.
You don’t stop coming after that.
At first, you visit every day. Then every week. Then whenever the world feels too heavy, or too loud, or too full of people who don’t know what it’s like to love something you can never have back.
You stop expecting him to be there. You stop listening for his voice.
But you keep coming.
Because love doesn’t disappear just because it’s no longer answered.
Life, infuriatingly, keeps going.
You move away from the town eventually - not because you’re running, but because staying feels like holding your breath forever. You find work somewhere quieter. You make friends. You learn how to smile without feeling like you’re betraying something sacred.
You fall in love again.
It surprises you how gently it happens.
He is kind. Steady. Alive in a way that doesn’t hurt to look at. He never asks why you need quiet sometimes, why certain songs make you go still, why you disappear into the woods whenever you visit your hometown.
You marry him under an open sky.
You have children. Two of them. Loud, messy, wonderful. You love them with a fierceness that scares you sometimes. You tell them stories at bedtime - about bravery, about kindness, about how love doesn’t always look the same.
You never tell them about the boy in the forest.
Not because you’re ashamed. Not because it hurts too much.
But because some loves belong only to the people who loved them.
Years pass.
Your hair greys. Your children grow taller than you. Your hands ache in the mornings. You learn the rhythm of a life well-lived - birthdays and scraped knees and anniversaries and funerals.
And still, whenever you return to that town, you walk into the forest.
You stand in the clearing. You talk to the trees. You tell them about your life, about the people you’ve loved, about the way the world keeps turning even when it feels wrong.
Sometimes, when the wind moves just right, you swear it’s like he's listening.
The day you die is not dramatic.
It is quiet. Peaceful. You are old, and tired, and full in a way that feels complete rather than heavy. Your family surrounds you. Hands hold yours. Voices murmur love into the spaces between breaths.
You are not afraid.
As your vision dims, you think - not of pain, or regret - but of a forest bathed in soft light.
And then -
You are standing.
Your body feels light. Whole. Unburdened by years and aches and gravity. The air around you smells like pine and damp earth and something eclectic and familiar.
You know where you are before you see it.
The forest is brighter than you remember. Not sunlit exactly - more like it glows from within. The trees are tall and unscarred, their leaves impossibly green. The clearing opens before you, unchanged and yet entirely different.
You step into it.
“Hey,” a voice says, soft and disbelieving.
You freeze.
Slowly, you turn.
Eddie Munson stands at the edge of the clearing, exactly as you remember him - curls wild, eyes bright, smile trembling like it doesn’t quite trust itself.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
Then Eddie laughs, broken and breathless. “Holy shit.”
You cross the distance between you in a heartbeat.
This time, when you reach for him, your hand meets warmth.
Solid. Real.
Eddie gasps as you touch him, fingers digging into your arms like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. You cling to him just as tightly, sobbing into his shoulder, laughter and tears tangled together.
“You came back,” he whispers. “You really came back.”
“I told you I’d remember you,” you say through tears. “I told you I wouldn’t forget you.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes shining with unshed tears and wonder. “You lived,” he says softly. “I watched.”
You blink. “You… watched?”
“Not like before,” Eddie admits. “Not close. Just… glimpses. Enough to know you were okay. Enough to know you didn’t stop living.”
You smile, heart aching in a way that finally feels right. “I kept my promise.”
“I know,” he says. “That’s why I could let go. Because I knew you’d be okay.”
The forest hums around you, alive with something warm and endless.
Eddie takes your hands, lacing fingers together with a reverence that steals your breath. “I don’t feel unfinished anymore.”
Neither do you.
You look around the clearing, at the trees that held his grief and yours for so long. “Is this… forever?”
Eddie grins, that familiar crooked smile finally free of sorrow. “As long as you want it to be.”
You laugh softly, leaning into him. “I missed you.”
“I missed you more,” he says, pressing his forehead to yours. “Every day that passed, my heart yearned for you.”
The forest exhales.
For the first time, it feels whole.
You walk together beneath the trees, hands intertwined, the weight of time no longer pressing down on you. Love, at last, without distance or loss.
There are no twisted trees clawing at the sky, no unnatural fog curling at your ankles. It smells like rain-soaked soil and pine needles crushed beneath careless boots. The birds still sing here. The wind still moves the leaves. Life persists with an almost insulting normalcy.
That is what makes it unbearable.
You come because the world feels quieter between the trees, because the silence here does not judge you for lingering too long on things that should have been let go. You come because no one watches you talk to the air. You come because the forest remembers what everyone else has forgotten.
The boy who never left.
The path curves inward, narrowing the deeper you go, until it feels like the woods are closing around you - not threatening, just intimate. Familiar. Your chest tightens as the clearing opens before you, small and hollowed out like a wound that never healed properly.
You stop at the edge.
You always stop here.
“Hey,” you say softly, like the world itself might shatter something fragile.
For a moment, there is nothing but the sigh of the trees.
Then -
“You know, if you keep sneaking up on me like that, I might have a heart attack.”
Your breath stutters.
Eddie Munson is sitting on the fallen log at the centre of the clearing, elbows braced on his knees, dark curls falling into his eyes like they always do. He looks up at you with that familiar, crooked grin - too bright for the weight he carries, too alive for someone who isn’t.
You exhale shakily. “You’re impossible.”
“Incorrect,” Eddie says cheerfully. “I’m very possible. You’re just cursed with the rare and tragic ability to see me.”
You step into the clearing, heart aching at the sound of his voice. It never gets easier - this strange, fragile miracle of being heard and seen by someone the world has already buried.
“You’re late,” he adds.
“So are you.”
He laughs, then stills.
You didn’t mean it the way it lands. You never do.
Eddie’s smile falters just enough to hurt. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Guess that’s one way to put it.”
You sit on the log opposite him, hands clasped together to keep them from shaking. The forest hums low around you, alive in a way that feels unfair. Eddie watches you like you’re the only solid thing left.
“You look tired,” he says.
You shrug. “Didn’t sleep much.”
“You never do anymore.”
There’s no accusation in his voice. Just concern. The kind that feels heavier when it comes from someone who can’t do anything about it.
“Nightmares?” He asks gently.
You nod. He doesn’t push. Eddie never pushes - not about that, not about the way you flinch when the wind whistles too sharply, not about the way your gaze drifts to the darker parts of the clearing where the ground still looks wrong. Where the forest feels… thinner.
Where he won’t go.
You didn’t ask how he died. Not on the first day. Not the second. Not any day after. Some truths care too deeply to survive being spoken.
“You don’t have to keep coming here,” Eddie says after a while.
You laugh bitterly. “This again?”
“I’m serious,” he insists. “You could stop. Forget this place. Forget me.”
“I don’t forget people,” you say quietly.
Eddie’s eyes soften in a way that makes your chest ache. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s kind of your fatal flaw.”
The first time you came here, you thought you were alone.
It was supposed to be a stupid dare - one last reckless act before you left this town behind for good. Everyone knew the stories: the boy who vanished, the screams some swore they heard, the way compasses mysteriously spun on their own near the clearing.
You expected to feel fear.
You didn’t expect to hear a voice.
“Y’know,” Eddie had said casually, sprawled across the log like he owned the place, “you’re not even supposed to be here.”
You had screamed. Loudly. Embarrassingly.
Eddie had laughed until he realized you were screaming at him.
“You can see me,” he whispered then, awe cracking his voice. “Holy shit. You can actually see me.”
You both froze, staring at each other like you’d discovered something impossible.
That was the moment everything changed.
Now, months later, the impossible feels like routine. The unbearable feels normal.
“Tell me something good,” Eddie says suddenly.
You blink. “What?”
“Anything,” he shrugs. “Something real. Something that reminds me the world’s still spinning without me.”
You hesitate, then sigh. “I bought a plant.”
Eddie snorts. “Wow. Riveting.”
“I haven’t killed it yet,” you add defensively.
He grins. “Okay, that’s pretty impressive for you.”
You smile despite yourself, then it fades. “I talk to it sometimes.”
Eddie chuckles. “Join the club.” Gesturing to the plants and trees around him.
Silence stretches between you, heavy but familiar. The forest shifts, leaves rustling softly like whispers.
“Do you remember how it felt?” You ask.
“To be alive?” Eddie tilts his head. “Every day.”
You swallow. “Does it hurt?”
He doesn’t answer right away. When he does his voice is softer. “Every day.”
Your throat tightens.
Eddie stands, pacing the edge of the clearing, careful not to step too close to the centre. His boots pass through fallen leaves without making a sound. He looks… wrong, if you stare too long. Like a memory trying to hold a shape.
“I had plans,” he says. “Big ones. Loud ones. Thought I’d leave this place behind, you know? Thought I’d be more than just a story people whispered to scare each other.”
“You are,” you say fiercely. “To me.”
He smiles, sad and fond. “Yeah. That's the problem.”
You stand too, stepping closer until the space between you hums with something eclectic and aching. You raised your hand, stopping just short of his chest. You never touch. You never can.
“I hate this,” you whisper. “I hate that I can’t -”
“I know,” Eddie says, voice breaking. “I hate it too.”
You lower your hand, curling your fingers into your palm. “Why me?” You ask. “Why can I see you?”
Eddie’s gaze drifts to the trees. “Maybe you’re just… unfinished too.”
The words hit harder than you expect.
“I don’t belong here,” he continues quietly. “Not really. But you - “ He looks back at you, eyes shining. “You do. And you’re wasting time on a ghost.”
“You’re not a waste,” you snap. “Not to me.”
He steps closer, close enough that the cold of him brushes against your skin like a memory of winter. “Loving me is.”
The forest darkens as the sun dips lower, shadows stretching long and thin. The air grows colder. Eddie stiffens.
“No,” you say immediately. “Don’t.”
“I don’t have much time tonight,” he murmurs. “It’s getting harder.”
Your heart pounds. “Harder how?”
“Staying,” he says simply.
You shake your head. “Please, stay. Don’t go.”
He laughs softly, heartbreakingly. “You sound like me.”
The truth presses in, suffocating: this isn’t just about time anymore. Eddie is fading. You can feel it in the way his edges blur, in the way his voice echoes strangely when the forest grows quiet.
“I think I’m the reason,” you whisper.
He frowns. “What?”
“I think I’m keeping you here,” you say, voice trembling. “You’re unfinished because of me. Because I want you to stay.”
Eddie’s expression crumples. “Hey. No. Don’t do that.”
“But what if it’s true? What if I’m the reason you can’t… move on?” Tears spill down your cheeks. “What if loving me is the thing that's trapping you here?”
He reaches out instinctively, stopping inches from your face. His hand trembles. “If loving you is wrong,” he says hoarsely, “then I don’t want to be right.”
You sob quietly, the sound swallowed by the trees.
“I wish I could’ve known you… before -”
He chuckles softly. “I died? Sweetheart, I died a long time ago, way before you were even born.”
You look up at him, with tear stained cheeks.
“You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You’re the one person who showed me what it’s like to feel… loved.” He says softly.
Another sob escapes from your throat before you could stop it.
“I love you,” Eddie says. “And I know it doesn’t fix anything. I know it doesn’t give me a future with you. But it’s the only thing that’s felt real since I died.”
Your chest aches like it might cave in. “What happens if you leave?”
He shrugs and smiles gently. “Honestly? I don’t know.”
Fear claws up your throat. “What if I never see you again?”
“Then you’ll remember me,” he says. “And that’ll have to be enough.”
“It won’t ever be enough.”
The forest goes still.
Eddie looks toward the centre of the clearing - the place he never goes. The air there shimmers faintly, like heat on a pavement.
“Oh,” he breathes.
Your stomach drops. “What?”
“I think…” He swallows. “I think this is it.”
“No,” you whisper. “No, please.”
“I’ve been holding on,” he says softly. “Because of you.”
You step forward desperately. “Then hold on a little longer. Please. I know it’s selfish, but I can stay. I’ll visit everyday.”
Eddie shakes his head, tears shining in his eyes. “You know I would do anything to stay, to be with you. But this… this isn’t living.”
He steps back, closer to the centre than he’s ever been. The forest seems to pull at him, a tide finally turning.
“You helped me remember who I was,” he says. “You made me feel seen. Loved.”
His form flickers, edges dissolving like smoke.
“I don’t want to forget you,” you sob.
He looks at you, his crooked grin you’d grown to love spreading on his face. “You won’t,” he promises. “I’ll be everywhere. In the trees. In the quiet. In every song that hurts a little too much.”
He smiles one last time - soft, grateful, devastating.
“Goodbye, sweetheart.”
And then Eddie Munson is gone.
The clearing is empty.
The forest breathes.
You collapse to your knees, grief ripping through you like something feral. The air feels wrong without him - too loud, too alive.
When you finally leave, your heart feels hollowed out, but the forest does not feel empty.
⚠️Trigger Warnings⚠️: Major character death (Eddie Munson - prior to story), Grief & Mourning, Loss of a loved one, Death (in part 2, peaceful), Afterlife/Ghost Themes, References to trauma, End-of-life themes (part 2), Heavy Angst.
No graphic violence. No explicit sexual content. (SFW).
Would anyone be interested in Bucky x reader, but it’s a John Wick Universe AU where Bucky is excommunicado and you are the manager of the Madripoor Continental Hotel?
I love both fandoms so much but I’m not sure how much the fandoms overlap or if anyone would take interest in it 😭 so please, you’re opinions would be greatly appreciated 🫶
Okay. So I’ve hit a bit of a writer’s block on this one, as well as the Sue x reader x Reed one.
I will try to finish both but expect a college au quarterback!Bucky x fencer!reader tomorrow. (they both will be seniors, so 21-22 year olds because I find writing any younger a bit awkward even though uni was literally 2 years ago for me lol)
As a big, big fan of Christmas time, I could not let this time of year go by without celebrating it wholeheartedly. The best way to do that? A series of Christmas themed Bucky fanfics!
Because my time is limited, and I don't want to take on more than I can chew, I am promising only four fics; that isn't to mean, however, I won't write more Christmas themed things during the month of December, but these are the four fics I will be actively working on and posting during the last month of the year.
No publishing dates yet, but check back on this post occasionally to see updated version 💕
a marshmallow world
It's been a while since Bucky Barnes truly celebrated Christmas. This year, you try to get him into the festive spirit with a day of holiday activities: decorating the apartment; matching pajamas, watching Home Alone while drinking hot chocolate.
do you hear what i hear?
In the Red Room, there are no celebrations. No holidays. But when the Winter Soldier comes to train his favorite Black Widow in December, there’s only so much he can do when the both of you end up under a mistletoe branch.
sleigh ride
There's nothing like a secret relationship to add flair to holiday season! When you get tasked with picking up a tree from the local market to decorate the New Avengers’ tower, your secret boyfriend Bucky is tasked with carrying it back to the Tower.
winter wonderland
Getting stuck on a mission during Christmas Eve is bad enough; it’s somehow even worse when you get stuck in the middle of nowhere during a snowstorm with Bucky. Just your luck, there’s a nearby cabin in the woods - that turns out to be the perfect Christmas getaway.
The first public event comes two weeks after you’ve moved into the penthouse.
Two weeks of passing each other in the kitchen with polite nods and short exchanges that feel like they’re built on a truce rather than a marriage.
Two weeks of learning the shape of silence in a space that isn’t yours and was never meant to be.
The gold-embossed invitation arrives on thick card stock, addressed to James Barnes & Y/N Barnes in an elegant script. The host is a name you’ve heard before, spoken in your father’s office with a tone that meant both caution and respect. A gala. Wealth and power gathering under chandeliers and champagne flutes, where every smile is calculated and every handshake has a price.
Bucky doesn’t ask if you want to go. He just says, “We leave at seven.”
Wanda turns up that afternoon like she owns the place, two garment bags draped over her arm.
“You’re wearing this one,” she says, unzipping the first to reveal a gown of deep crimson silk. “It’s bold, dangerous, and it will make every woman in the room want to know what you’ve got that they don’t.”
You look at it in the mirror. “Subtlety isn’t your thing, is it?”
“Not when subtlety gets you ignored,” she says, shaking her head. “You want to be unforgettable.”
She works on your hair while you sit before the vanity. “You know how to smile for him, right?”
You meet her gaze in the mirror. “I’ve been practicing.”
Wanda smirks. “You’re better at it than you think. Just… make sure you’re the one controlling when it drops. If he sees the cracks before you’re ready, he’ll use them.”
Natasha meets you in the car, wearing a black dress cut like a weapon. Her eyes sweep over you once before she says, “The dress works. Now learn to read the room.”
You glance at her. “And how do I do that?”
“Posture first. Leaning forward means they want something. Leaning back means they’re hiding something. Watch their feet—if they point toward the exit, they’re planning their escape. And if someone barely moves at all?”
“They’re the dangerous ones?” you guess.
Natasha’s lips curve slightly. “Exactly.”
From the driver’s seat, Bucky says nothing, but you catch his eyes in the rearview mirror for a second before he looks away.
The gala is marble floors and glittering chandeliers, all polished wealth and low danger. The air smells faintly of champagne and expensive perfume. Bucky offers you his arm. You take it because you have to, not because you want to.
And then you see the transformation.
In here, Bucky is charming—effortlessly so. He shakes hands with power players and murmurs just enough to make them lean closer. He accepts compliments with a faint smile that makes it seem like he’s humoring them. And every time he introduces you, his voice wraps around your name like it’s something rare.
You smile when you’re supposed to, laugh when it’s required, touch his arm at the right beats. The cameras catch all of it. To the outside world, you’re a perfect picture.
While Bucky is engaged in a long conversation with a senator, Natasha sidles up next to you. Her eyes flick toward the bar. “Man in the navy suit—feet angled to the exit. He’s checked the door twice in five minutes.”
“What does that mean?” you ask softly.
“Could mean he’s nervous. Could mean he’s here for someone else. Could mean he’s carrying something and doesn’t want to use it here.”
You resist the urge to look too quickly. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
Natasha’s mouth tilts just slightly. “A little.”
In the car on the way back, the city lights flicker over his face in the dark.
“You were very charming tonight,” you say finally.
He glances at you briefly. “It’s expected."
“Expected or easy?”
He turns back to the road. “Does it matter?”
“It does when the man I live with barely looks at me unless there’s an audience. Out there, you make it look like we’re—” you hesitate, “—something. In here, you act like I’m just taking up space.”
His tone stays even. “That’s not acting. That’s survival.”
You laugh, but it’s short and sharp. “So survival is smiling at me in public and freezing me out in private?”
“Survival is making people believe we’re untouchable,” he says, his eyes still on the road. “It’s a warning. No one tries to pull at threads they think are unbreakable.”
“And what am I in that? A warning label?”
He glances at you again, this time holding the look. “You’re part of the image. And you’re good at it.”
Your jaw tightens. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or just you telling me I’m useful.”
“Maybe both.”
You lean back in your seat. “And what if I decide I don’t want to be useful to you?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Then be dangerous beside me.”
The words settle between you like a loaded gun neither of you is ready to pick up.
Back at the penthouse, Steve is leaning against the kitchen counter, arms folded.
“You did well tonight,” he says to you.
“I didn’t realize it was a test,” you reply.
“Everything in our world is a test,” he says. “And keeping up appearances in that room isn’t easy. But you didn’t flinch.”
“I didn’t know I was supposed to.”
A faint smile flickers over his mouth, but it’s gone almost instantly. He glances at Bucky. “She can handle herself.”
Bucky doesn’t answer, but you notice the way his eyes linger on you for a second longer than necessary before he turns away.
Wanda calls later. “I saw the photos. You looked like the perfect wife.”
“It’s a skill,” you say flatly.
“It’s more than that. It’s armor. Just make sure you’re the one holding the straps.”
That night, you lie awake thinking about his words in the car. Then be dangerous beside me.
You can’t decide if it was an invitation… or a challenge.
So... my ADHD brain couldn't just let me focus on one series instead it decides to make me focus on two. So I'm writing Cold Vows and another series, which I probably won't post until I write a few more chapters.
The penthouse doesn’t feel like home. It doesn’t even feel like somewhere a person lives.
When the elevator doors open, you’re met with polished black floors and walls the colour of steel. Every surface gleams, sharp-edged and sterile. The air smells faintly of expensive cologne and leather, but there’s no warmth, no trace of life here beyond its functionality.
Two walls are made entirely of glass, the city sprawled beyond them in shades of silver and shadow. It should feel luxurious. Instead, it feels like you’ve stepped into a watchtower.
Bucky steps inside first, the echo of his shoes sounding too loud in the open space. He doesn’t look at you when he says, “Two bedrooms. Yours is on the left. Mine’s on the right.”
You trail behind him, your heels making smaller, sharper clicks on the marble. “Seperate bedrooms,” you echo, unable to stop the edge in your tone.
“That’s what we agreed.”
What he means is: that’s what he decided.
Pietro arrives twenty minutes later with the first load of your things, carrying a box labeled Books as though it weighs nothing.
“Well,” he says, glancing around, “this is… cozy. In the way interrogation rooms are cozy.”
You almost smile. “Try not to get too comfortable.”
“I don’t think that’s a risk.” He sets the box down near the sofa - if you can call it a sofa. It’s a severe, angular thing in black leather, positioned so it faces the skyline rather than any sense of a living area. There’s no coffee table. No rug. Not a single photograph.
As you start unpacking, you notice Pietro’s glances toward where Bucky stands, leaning against the counter of the open-plan kitchen, arms crossed. His eyes are on Pietro, cool and unblinking.
Pietro notices, too. His movements get sharper, faster, and you realise he’s trying not to linger in Bucky’s space for too long. When he heads back toward the elevator for the next load, he mutters just low enough for you to hear, “Your husband has a great glare. Ten out of ten. Hope it’s not aimed at me forever.”
“Don’t provoke him,” you warn, though part of you is tempted just to see what would happen.
By the time Pietro leaves, the boxes are stacked neatly against one wall. You start opening them, pulling out pieces of yourself - a framed photograph of you and Wanda, a glass paperweight shaped like a rose, a stack of dog-eared novels.
You’re halfway through arranging the books on a sideboard when Bucky’s voice cuts across the room.
“Don’t.”
You look over your shoulder. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t start filling this place with… that.” His tone is mild, but the meaning is cold.
“That?” You repeat, turning fully toward him.
He nods toward the books, the frame, the paperweight. “This isn’t a home. It’s a base. Things stay functional here.”
You laugh - sharp, incredulous. “A base? What are we, an occupying army?”
He doesn’t answer. He just watches you, his expression unreadable.
“You know,” you say slowly, “most people try to make the place they live in feel less like a morgue.”
“This place keeps me sharp.”
“And what, books make you weak?”
His mouth twitches into something that might be amusement, but it doesn’t soften him. “Distractions make you weak.”
“They make you human,” you fire back.
“Humans make mistakes,” he says simply. “Mistakes get you killed.”
The conversation slams into silence. You stare at him, trying to decide whether he actually believes what he’s saying - or whether he’s just unwilling to bend on principle.
Finally, you turn back to the box, pulling out another book. “Well, I’m not planning on dying in the living room, so I think we’ll be fine.”
The next knock on the door comes a half hour later. You open it to find Steve standing there in a dark coat, the city lights gleaming faintly on the wet shoulders of the fabric.
“Moving day,” he says. “Figured I’d check in.”
You step aside and let him in. He takes in the sight of your unpacked boxes, the small collection of belongings you’ve managed to place, then shifts his gaze toward the kitchen where Bucky is pouring himself a glass of water.
“You settling in?” Steve asks you.
You give him a thin smile. “Trying to.”
His eyes are sharp, even when his tone is casual. “Don’t mess with his focus.”
The words land heavier than you expect. You glance between him and Bucky, who doesn’t turn around but doesn’t look surprised to hear it.
“Wasn’t planning to,” you say after a moment.
Steve’s gaze holds yours a beat longer than necessary, then he nods. “Good.” He doesn’t stay long - just long enough to drink half a glass of water, exchange a few quiet words with Bucky that you can’t hear, and then he leaves.
When the door shuts behind him, you feel the weight of the warning settle into the room.
By evening, the city outside is drenched in rain. You stand at the glass wall, watching it bead and streak down the surface, the lights beyond blurring into a haze. Behind you, Bucky moves like a shadow - silent, deliberate.
“You can keep your books in your room,” he says finally.
You glance back. “How generous of you.”
He ignores the jab. “Your space is yours. My space is mine. The rest stays the way it is.”
You turn back to the rain. “So the living room is neutral territory?”
“It’s mine,” he corrects.
You hum softly, not agreeing but not arguing. Not yet.
The night stretches out between you, quiet except for the rain and the faint hum of the city below. You think about the separate bedrooms, the sterile walls, the way Steve’s voice carried no malice and yet no softness in that warning.
You think about how a base is built to withstand attack. And how a home is built to be lived in.
And you wonder, not for the first time, how long you can stand to live in someone else’s fortress.
