I am what I am...

Paula (she/her) / 30+ /Argentina / Avid fan fic reader / I'm just someone who’s trying to figure her life out with the things she has...

[forsakenwitchery]

All hail the Voice of the Tempest. The Legend of Vox Machina 4x02

[itsmarsiart]

I don't know that I'll ever know a moment this happy again.

[bucky-is-my-favourite]

The Dance He Never Had (One Shot)

Summary - Decades after the war stole everything from him, Bucky Barnes finds himself standing in a quiet kitchen at two in the morning, listening to old jazz on a repaired radio. What starts as a slow dance between sleepless lovers becomes something far more fragile: a grieving soldier finally realizing he hasn’t missed his chance at softness, love, or being held gently.

Warnings - Bucky Barnes x Reader, PTSD mentioned, Insomnia, Implied past torture, Hydra mentioned, Mention of War, Domestic fluff, Angst, Mention of age gap, Bucky in a Henley being a warning, pet name (doll)

Writers notes - no proof read or word count

The kitchen light was the only thing awake in the apartment.

Soft yellow. Dim enough to turn the walls gold.

Outside, the city hummed somewhere far below, rain ticking lazily against the windows. Inside, everything smelled like coffee grounds and the cinnamon rolls you’d forgotten in the oven an hour ago.

And in the middle of it all stood Bucky Barnes.

Barefoot. Grey sweatpants. Henley sleeves pushed to his elbows. One hand braced against the counter while the other adjusted the volume knob on an ancient radio he’d spent three weekends repairing for no reason other than it sounded warmer than Spotify.

Static crackled.

Then jazz.

Low trumpet. Slow piano.

You leaned against the doorway, watching him without announcing yourself.

Bucky didn’t notice at first.

He was somewhere else.

Not unhappy. Just… far away.

The kind of expression that made your chest ache because it looked like he was visiting ghosts gently enough not to wake them.

“You know it’s two in the morning, right?” you murmured.

He startled slightly, turning just enough for the kitchen light to catch the hair at his temple.

“Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.”

His mouth twitched like he wanted to smile but wasn’t fully convinced he deserved to.

The radio hissed softly between notes.

“You dance?” you asked.

Bucky actually laughed under his breath at that. Short. Rough around the edges.

“Not since before you were born, doll.”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“That is the answer.”

You crossed the kitchen slowly, socks sliding against the floor. When you stopped in front of him, he looked down at you with that familiar caution he wore whenever softness got too close.

Like tenderness was something with a trigger.

“You wanna dance?” you asked quietly.

Immediately:

“No.”

But his eyes betrayed him.

You held out your hand anyway.

“C’mon.”

“Sweetheart, I am ninety-something years old.”

“And dramatic.”

“Also that.”

The music drifted around you both. Trumpet. Piano. Rain.

Bucky stared at your hand for a long moment.

Then, carefully—as if he thought this might break—he placed his metal hand in yours.

Cold vibranium pressed against your palm.

You squeezed anyway.

His eyes flicked to your face in surprise.

You guided him closer until your free hand rested against his shoulder and his flesh hand settled uncertainly at your waist.

For a second he stood stiff as stone.

A soldier waiting for instruction.

Then you swayed once.

Twice.

And something inside him slowly unknotted.

“There you go,” you whispered.

Bucky exhaled a quiet laugh through his nose.

“You’re leadin’.”

“You’re complaining.”

“I’m observin’.”

The kitchen became smaller as you moved together.

Not graceful. Not polished.

Just slow.

Human.

Bucky looked down most of the time, concentrating like this was something fragile he had to earn. His grip on your waist stayed impossibly gentle, like he was afraid even now that strength automatically meant harm.

You rested your cheek against his chest.

Under your ear, his heartbeat stumbled.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

His answer came after too long.

“Yeah.”

Lie.

You tilted your head back enough to look at him.

“What is it?”

Bucky swallowed.

His gaze drifted somewhere over your shoulder, distant with memory.

“When Steve came home from the war,” he said quietly, “they threw these parties.”

You stayed silent.

“Music everywhere. Girls dancing with soldiers in uniforms.” His mouth twitched faintly. “Fellas acting like the world wasn’t ending anymore.”

The radio crackled.

“I kept thinkin’…” He paused. “Soon as the war’s over, I’ll do it too.”

Your chest tightened.

Bucky looked down at your joined hands.

“But then everything happened.”

HYDRA.

The train.

Seventy years stolen in pieces.

You felt him start to pull emotionally inward again, like he regretted saying any of it out loud.

So you held him tighter.

The movement surprised him enough that he looked at you again.

“You’re dancing now,” you said.

A fragile silence filled the kitchen.

Rain against glass.

Jazz humming low.

And then Bucky smiled.

Not the small careful ones he gave strangers.

Not the crooked sarcastic ones he used to hide behind.

This one was quiet and wrecked and real.

“You know,” he whispered, voice rough, “I thought I missed my chance.”

Your eyes burned instantly.

You reached up, brushing your fingers along the line of his jaw.

“No,” you said softly. “I think it just took longer to get here.”

For one suspended moment, Bucky looked at you like you’d handed him something priceless.

Something no one had ever let him keep before.

Then he lowered his forehead against yours and kept dancing long after the song ended.

[heldbybarnes]

the winter between us

pairing: bucky barnes x reader | 8.5k words

warnings: memory loss, angst, crying, emotional hurt/comfort, devotion, soft yearning, canon violence, references to HYDRA tech, rebuilding a relationship

summary: he doesn’t remember you — not your face, not your name, not the life you built together. but when you cry, something in him aches. so you stay. and you make him fall in love with you twice.

authors note: this fic is part of my 2k celebration and pure angst. i hold this fic so deeply to my heart and am so happy i'm finally sharing it! bring tissues; you'll need them.

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You don’t see the blast coming.

There’s the crack of distant gunfire, the wet slap of boots against slush, the sting of winter air burning your lungs as you sprint through the alley after Bucky, his broad back cutting a path through the chaos. Snow is coming down in slow, soft flakes, turning the ruined street into something almost pretty in the way of nightmares.

“Barnes, left!” you shout, voice hoarse over comms, boots skidding on black ice as you pivot, firing three quick rounds at the HYDRA agents spilling out of a side door.

Bucky doesn’t need the warning. He spins, metal arm raised, bullets sparking off vibranium. He moves like water, like violence and grace sewn together, eyes glacial calm even as everything burns.

You’re almost free. The quinjet is just beyond the next intersection. You can see Sam’s silhouette framed in the open hatch, hear Steve’s orders in your ear, clipped and tense.

“Move, move, move! That building’s gonna—”

You never hear the rest.

There’s a flash. Not the dirty orange of an explosion, but a vicious, sterile blue, ripping across your vision like someone has sliced the sky open. It comes from behind you, from the lab you just blew, from some device you didn’t even know existed until now.

You feel it before you see it—the way Bucky’s head snaps back mid-stride, the way his body seizes, metal hand flexing in a terrible, unnatural arc. The blue light wraps around his skull, around the silver of his arm, and for a heartbeat, his eyes glow with it.

“Bucky!” you scream, reaching.

The air shrieks. The world tilts.

Then there’s only white.

You wake to the beeping.

Slow, steady, maddening. The antiseptic air of the med bay stings your nose. Your throat feels like you swallowed a fistful of broken glass. Every limb weighs a thousand pounds.

“Hey.” Steve’s voice is close, low, trying to be soft and failing. “You with me?”

You peel your eyes open.

Fluorescent lights blur overhead. Steve sits in the chair beside your bed, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped so tight his knuckles are white. There’s a cut along his cheekbone, steri-strips like pale caterpillars holding it closed. He’s still in his suit, the star on his chest dulled by soot.

“What—” Your voice cracks, barely sound. You swallow, try again. “What happened?”

Steve’s gaze searches your face, relief bleeding through his worry. “You got thrown when the device blew. Mild concussion. Some bruising. You’ll be okay.”

Device.

Your brain lurches back into motion. Blue light. Static on your tongue. The way Bucky’s body—

Bucky.

“Where is he?” you rasp, moving to sit up. Your head slams you with a vicious pulse of pain, dark spots sparking in your vision.

Steve’s hand is on your shoulder instantly, pinning you with careful strength. “Easy. You’re still—”

“Where is he, Steve?” you insist, panic shredding its way up your throat. “Is he hurt? Is he—”

“He’s alive,” Steve says quickly. Too quickly.

Your chest tightens. “Alive,” you echo, the word wobbling at the edges. “But?”

Steve’s jaw works. He glances at the glass wall of the med bay, where a privacy screen has been slid closed. You can hear muted voices beyond it, lower registers, the faint clink of equipment.

“Bucky took the full force of the blast,” Steve finally says. “We didn’t know what that thing was. We still don’t fully. HYDRA’s files were… scrambled.”

You stare at him, heart beating so hard you feel it in your teeth. “Steve.”

“It was neural tech,” he says. “Some kind of… reboot device. They used it as a failsafe. If the Winter Soldier got too far off mission, if he went rogue, they’d trigger it. Wipe him. Start again.”

The room moves.

Your fingers curl in the thin blanket, knuckles aching. “But he’s not— they don’t—”

“He’s not theirs anymore,” Steve says sharply. “He’s not. But that lab… was old. It must have been rigged as a dead man’s switch. When you set the charge—”

“I know what I did,” you snap, the words landing harsher than you mean them to. Bile creeps up the back of your throat. “What did it do to him?”

For a long moment, Steve’s face is a muscle trying not to break.

“It reset him,” he says quietly. “Not all the way. Shuri’s tech is holding some lines. But his… short-term memories, anything tied to the last couple years off HYDRA’s leash… it’s like someone took a razor to them. He knows me. Knows Sam. Knows the broad strokes of being out. But the details are gone.”

You feel the bottom drop out of your chest.

“What about me?” you whisper.

Steve doesn’t answer, but you don’t need him to. The silence says everything.

You find him in the next room.

You don’t wait to be cleared. You don’t wait for Natasha’s quiet warnings or Bruce’s murmured cautions about your own concussion. The second your legs can hold you, you’re shoving off the bed, ignoring the way the world sways, ignoring the way Steve tries to call your name.

You shove the med bay door open and step into the colder, quieter space beyond.

Bucky sits on the edge of a second bed, forearms braced on his thighs, fingers clasped together so hard his metal knuckles creak. There’s a bandage at his hairline, another circling his bicep, white against bruised, winter-pale skin. His hair is mussed, falling around his face in dark waves that make him look younger and somehow more haunted.

He looks up when you enter.

His eyes find yours.

You have braced yourself for… something. Confusion, yes. But maybe also a flicker of recognition, a tiny spark, the faintest hint of the way he’s always softened when he sees you, the subtle easing of his shoulders, the way his mouth used to curl at one corner like he was being let in on a secret.

There’s nothing.

He studies you like you’re a stranger who has just walked into his room by mistake.

“Hey,” you say, because you don’t know what else to say, and because that’s what you always say to him. It sounds wrong now, thin, tremoring.

He doesn’t answer immediately. His gaze flicks to the door behind you, to Steve hovering in the hall, then back to your face. His brow creases.

“You okay to be up?” he asks finally, voice low and rasped around the edges. Polite. Neutral. The way he speaks to civilians he saves and never sees again.

You swallow, fingers twisting in the hem of your hospital shirt. “Yeah. I, uh—” You step closer before you can stop yourself. “How do you feel?”

Bucky’s jaw ticks. His eyes dart away from yours, skimming across your shoulder like he’s afraid of looking at you too long.

“Like someone tore my head open and rearranged everything,” he admits. “Like I’ve got—” His hand lifts, tapping his temple with his metal fingers. “Static. Pockets of… nothing. Like there’s a house across the street and I know it’s mine, but I don’t have the key.”

Your throat closes. “Bucky—”

He flinches at his own name. Not visibly. Not a full-body jerk. Just the briefest tightening of his shoulders, the way his eyes darken before he schools them again.

He doesn’t like hearing it from you. He doesn’t know why.

“I’m told you were in that house,” he says instead, mouth twisting humorlessly. “Figuratively speaking.”

The way he says it—the distance in it, the careful, clinical phrasing like he’s reading from someone else’s file—slices through you.

“I am,” you say, voice shaking. “Was. I mean. We—we work together. We’ve been on a lot of missions. I… I’m your partner. In the field. And… outside of it.”

Something flickers behind his eyes at that. His fingers flex once, metal hand curling into a fist.

“Outside,” he repeats.

You nod, swallowing hard. “You… you live in my building sometimes? When you want quiet. And I make you tea you pretend you don’t like. And you steal my blankets. And you complain about my choice in movies and then secretly watch them again when you think I’m asleep. And you—”

Your voice shatters. The words crumble in your mouth, choking you.

You’ve held it together through the mission, through the wake-up, through Steve’s explanation, through the walk to this room. It all unravels now, every thread snapping at once.

The first sob punches out of you like someone’s driven a fist into your ribs. You clap a hand over your mouth, eyes squeezing shut, the world blurring through wetness.

You don’t want him to see you like this.

You can’t bear for him to see you like this and not know why you’re breaking, not remember all the nights he held you together with those same hands.

“I’m sorry,” you choke, turning away, fingers fumbling for the edge of the bed or the wall or anything to hold onto. “I just— I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—”

There’s a scrape of metal against linoleum. A quick intake of breath.

Then his hand—warm flesh, not cold metal—closes around your wrist.

The contact is electric.

You freeze. Your eyes open on a blur of white tile and gray curtain and his bare feet on the floor. His grip is careful, not tight, but there’s a tremor running through his fingers.

“Don’t,” he says, voice rougher than before. “Don’t apologize for… that.”

You drag your gaze up.

Bucky stands so close you can see the individual lashes spiking around his eyes, the faint stubble shadowing his jaw. His expression is tight, strained, like there’s a war happening behind his face.

His thumb moves, just barely, sweeping once across the rapid beat of your pulse.

“I don’t remember you,” he says, and it’s a wound he’s offering you, open and bloody. “I don’t. I look at you and I see… a ghost.” He huffs out something like a laugh, mirthless. “Steve says you’ve been important. That I cared. That we—” He breaks off, like the next words feel too big in his mouth. “That there was… more.”

There was everything, you want to say. There was the universe in your hands.

“But when you walked in,” Bucky continues, low and hoarse, “and you started crying like that, I thought my chest was going to split open. I don’t know you. But it feels like— it feels like I should be on my knees, doing anything, saying anything, to make you stop looking at me like I’ve just died.”

Your breath stutters.

The ache in him is written in every line of his body, in the way his hand holds you like you’re something breakable he’s already broken once. It’s there, even if the history is gone: that bone-deep instinct to protect, to soothe you, to choose you.

The worst part is, you know that instinct has always been there. From the first mission, from the first time your hands shook after a kill and he wordlessly pressed a glass of water into them. From the first night you fell asleep on his shoulder in the quinjet and he didn’t move for three hours, afraid of waking you.

“Bucky,” you whisper.

He flinches again, this time at the sound of his name soft in your mouth.

You blink the tears out of your eyes, swallowing the jagged lump in your throat. Your free hand curls at your side, nails biting into your palm.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say, the words surprising you with their steadiness. They feel like vows; they taste like blood. “Not if you don’t want me to. Even if you never remember. Even if we have to start over from nothing. I’ll stay. I’ll… I’ll make sure you’re not alone in that house.”

You can’t tell if the flicker that passes through his eyes is fear or relief.

Maybe both.

“Why?” he asks, almost quietly. It’s not a challenge, not a dismissal. It’s an honest question from a man whose life has taught him that love is conditional and temporary and always, always dangerous.

Because I love you, you could say. Because you’ve survived every winter they built into your bones and I’m not letting you go through another one alone. Because I’d rather drown in the space between us than live in a world where I didn’t at least try to cross it.

Instead, you just take a breath that hurts all the way down and meet his gaze head-on.

“Because I already did it once,” you say. “And you were worth it the first time, so I’m betting you’re worth it again.”

Something splinters.

His hand tightens on your wrist, just for a second, like he’s holding himself back from pulling you closer.

Behind you, you can feel Steve hovering like a stormcloud, full of all the reasons this is messy and dangerous and maybe impossible. You ignore him.

Bucky swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Okay,” he says finally, voice raw. “Okay. Then… we start over.”

Starting over is worse than you thought it would be.

You’d expected pain. You’d braced for the awkwardness of sitting across from him at the kitchen table like strangers, for the way your hands would twitch with the urge to reach for him, to tuck that one errant strand of hair behind his ear or slide your fingers along the line where flesh meets metal.

You hadn’t expected how much it would feel like losing him in slow motion.

He moves back into the compound temporarily, at Bruce’s insistence. “We need to monitor his neural activity,” Bruce says, pushing his glasses up his nose. “See how his brain adapts. Shuri’s tech is still in place, but that blast… there’s a lot we don’t understand.”

The first night, you stand in the doorway of the room that used to be his and watch as he sets a duffel bag on the bed, eyes scanning the space like he’s walking through someone else’s life.

“You picked the paint color,” you say before you can stop yourself, gaze flicking to the deep steel blue of the walls. “Said it reminded you of—” Home. The East River at dawn. The sky over Brooklyn the first winter after the war. “Of the ocean,” you finish instead. “You wanted something that felt… open.”

Bucky’s fingers brush the edge of the dresser, over the faint rings from coffee mugs you both forgot to use coasters for. “Feels like a stranger’s room,” he says bluntly. “Like I broke in.”

Your heart stings.

“You could still stay with me,” you offer, voice too quick, too eager. “My apartment’s small, but you always said you liked—”

He’s already shaking his head. “I think… it would be better if I had some space. If I’m going to get to know you, I don’t want to do it while surrounded by things I’m supposed to remember and don’t.” His mouth twists. “Feels like cheating.”

You bite back the protest that rises to your lips. You want to argue that it isn’t cheating, that it’s just giving him context. That his hoodie is still draped over your couch, that his toothbrush is still in your bathroom, that the dent in your pillow still matches the shape of his head.

Instead, you nod. “Okay,” you say, forcing your voice to stay even. “Whatever you need.”

His gaze lingers on you for a moment, searching.

“Steve says you’re stubborn,” he says finally, faint amusement ghosting across his face. “I… don’t see that yet.”

You let out an ugly, half-choked laugh. “Give it five minutes.”

He huffs quietly. The sound almost, almost resembles the soft chuckles you used to drag out of him at three a.m. with your worst jokes.

It feels like looking at a photograph through frosted glass. You recognize the shapes, the shadows, but the details are smeared, unreachable.

He doesn’t ask you to stay. You leave before he has to.

They put him through tests.

Memory exercises, reflex drills, therapy sessions. Bruce and Helen Cho and a rotating cast of Wakandan scientists cycle through his days, measuring, prodding, questioning.

Sometimes you watch from the observation room, hands pressed to the glass, teeth aching with the effort of staying still.

In one session, they show him pictures; faces of the team, shots from missions, candids Nat took at movie nights and training sessions and random Tuesday afternoons.

Bucky gets most of them in broad strokes.

“That’s Sam,” he says, squinting at a photo of the two of them mid-argument, wings half-deployed, hair whipping in the wind. “I remember his laugh. And his singing. Unfortunately.”

“That’s Natasha,” when they hold up a shot of her perched on a table, smirking at something just out of frame. “She’s… dangerous.” A pause. “But kind.”

“That’s Wanda.” “That’s Bruce.” “That’s Clint, right? The bird guy?”

Then they hold up a picture of you.

It’s a grainy shot from last winter, taken through the glass of the common room. You’re curled up on the couch, feet shoved under Bucky’s thigh, oversized sweater swallowing your frame. There’s snow falling thick outside the window behind you, and you’re laughing at something, head tipped back, eyes crinkled.

Bucky stares at it for a long time.

The room on the other side of the glass is so quiet you can hear the hum of the fluoros.

“Do you recognize this person?” Bruce asks gently.

Bucky’s brow furrows. His tongue runs over his bottom lip, a gesture you know means he’s thinking hard, digging through the static.

“I’ve seen her,” he says slowly. “Around. Here.” His gaze flicks to the observation window, where he can’t see you but seems to feel your attention anyway, because his shoulders tighten. “She came to see me. In the med bay.”

“And before the incident?” Bruce asks. “Any memories associated with her face? Her voice?”

Bucky’s throat bobs as he swallows.

Your heart pounds against your ribs.

“No,” he says finally.

The word hits you like a bullet.

You don’t cry in the observation room.

You don’t cry when he gets frustrated during training, when his brain misfires and he forgets a move you drilled together a hundred times. You don’t cry when he accidentally calls you “ma’am” the first time you spar again, polite and formal and careful, instead of the amused, exasperated “doll” that used to curl off his tongue like it belonged to you alone.

You wait until you’re alone in the elevator, the doors sliding closed on the bright lights and sterile halls.

The sob punches its way out of you before you can brace for it. You clap a hand over your mouth and let yourself fold in on yourself for the span of the ride, shoulders shaking, tears hot on your cheeks.

When the doors open on your floor, you wipe your face with the cuff of your sleeve and step out like you’re not actively falling apart.

You told him you’d stay.

You didn’t say you’d stay pretty.

Winter settles in, proper and merciless.

Snow piles against the windows of the compound. The glass fogs with breath whenever someone leans too close. The grounds go quiet and muffled, the training yard transforming into an expanse of untouched white between sessions.

Once, last year, you and Bucky spent an entire afternoon out there, bundled in mismatched scarves and hats, pelting each other with snowballs until you were breathless, cheeks flushed, fingers numb and burning. He’d tackled you into a drift, metal arm braced beside your head to keep from hurting you, his hair dusted with snow, laughter bright and shocked on his face like he couldn’t believe it was coming out of him.

“You’re ridiculous,” he’d told you, while you attempted to shove snow down the back of his jacket and he grabbed your wrists with you squealing. “You know that, right?”

“Admit defeat,” you’d crowed, triumphant and giddy.

“Never, doll,” he’d said, and then he’d kissed you, snow melting against your skin, mouth warm and soft and a little clumsy, like he was still learning how.

This winter, he watches the snow fall from behind a window.

You find him there one evening, standing alone in the dim common room, one hand braced on the glass. The sky outside is the color of bruises, the ground a patchwork of gray and white. The city beyond is a softer blur, lights winking through the flurries.

He doesn’t turn when you enter.

“Hey,” you say quietly, stepping up beside him. You keep a careful distance, close enough to feel the chill radiating off the window, far enough not to crowd. “Couldn’t sleep?”

He huffs out a breath. “Seems familiar.”

You try to smile. It comes out wobbly. “Yeah. You’ve always been a night owl.”

“You told me that before,” he says. “In one of the… stories.”

You don’t realize he’s been counting them like that—stories—until now. Each memory you offer, each scrap of your history together, categorized and stored as fiction in his head because he can’t access it as fact.

You swallow. “Did you not want me to?”

His shoulders shift. “No. I mean—” He pauses, struggling. “I want to know. It’s just… strange, hearing about a version of myself I don’t remember being. A version of you I can’t see. It feels…”

“Unfair?” you suggest.

He glances at you, joints of his metal fingers glinting in the low light as he flexes them. “Maybe.”

You turn your gaze back to the snow.

“You used to hate winter,” you say after a moment. “Said it made your bones ache. That it reminded you of too many bad things.”

He snorts softly. “Sounds about right.”

“But then there was this one night.” You can see it like it’s happening again—the glow of street lamps on icy sidewalks, the bite of cold on your cheeks, the way your breath puffed in front of you as you laughed. “We got caught in a storm after a mission. Missed the quinjet pickup. Ended up walking four blocks back to the safe house, soaked and freezing. I was complaining the whole way, and you were just… quiet.”

His head tilts slightly, like he’s trying to follow the thread of the memory with you.

“When we got inside, you made tea,” you continue. “Real tea. Loose leaf. You were offended by the teabags in the cabinet. And we sat on the floor by the radiator, wrapped in one blanket, shivering. I kept complaining about my toes. And you looked at me and said, ‘It’s not so bad, you know.’”

He actually smiles, faint and incredulous. “I did?”

“Yeah.” You smile too, despite the ache in your chest. “I asked if you’d been body-snatched. You said… winter doesn’t seem so long when there’s someone waiting with you for the thaw.”

Silence settles between you, softer than before.

His metal fingers tap once against the glass.

“That sounds like something a better man would say,” he murmurs.

“A good man,” you reply. “Which is what you are.”

He shakes his head, a reflexive denial etched into him too deep for a wiped memory to erase. “You don’t know me.”

“I do.” The words come out fierce, sharper than you intend. You don’t soften them. “I know you better than anyone else here. Better than HYDRA ever did. Better than the files and the legend and the ghosts. I know the way you like your coffee. I know which nightmares you wake up from quiet and which ones pull screams out of your throat. I know the sound of your laugh when you’re trying not to let it out. I know—” Your voice breaks, but you push through. “I know you.”

He’s staring at you now, eyes dark and searching, like he’s trying to stitch together the man he feels like with the man you’re describing.

“Why does it hurt?” he asks, like you’d have the answer. “Whenever you look at me like that. Whenever you talk about… us. Why does it feel like someone’s taken a shovel to my ribs?”

Because your heart recognizes what your mind doesn’t, you think. Because it knows you love me and it doesn’t understand why it doesn’t have the memories to go with it.

“Maybe,” you say instead, voice softer now, “because some things are too strong to wipe. Maybe your brain forgot, but your stupid, stubborn heart didn’t.”

He huffs, but it sounds more like a breathless almost-laugh this time.

“That’s sentimental,” he mutters.

“You like sentimental,” you reply quietly. “You just pretend you don’t.”

His gaze lingers on your face, tracing over the lines you know he’s memorized before and is subconsciously trying to memorize again.

“You talk about him,” Bucky says slowly. “The me that knew you. Like he’s gone.”

You flinch. “I—”

“I’m still here,” he says, not unkindly. “I don’t remember. And maybe I never will. But… I’m not dead. I don’t want you to keep… mourning a ghost when the idiot is standing right in front of you.”

He looks away, like the next admission costs him something.

“And I don’t think I want to spend the rest of my life trying to measure up to a version of myself I can’t even see.”

Your breath catches.

“I’m not—” You swallow. “I’m not comparing. I’m just… grieving what we lost.”

“I get that,” he says. And you think he does. All his lives have been carved up and taken from him piece by piece; he understands loss better than anyone. “But… if we’re going to do this—” His hand gestures between you, encompassing the fragile, undefined thing you’re trying to build. “If we’re going to… try… then I need you here. With me. Not back there with a guy who lived in your memories.”

You stare at him, heart pounding.

“You want to try?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

It hangs there, bare and vulnerable between you.

Bucky’s throat works as he swallows. “I don’t know what we were,” he says. “I don’t know what we… did. What we promised. But I know that when you walk out of a room, I notice. That when you laugh, I want to know why. That when you cry, it feels like something in me is being… ripped apart.”

His metal hand lifts, hovers near your face, fingers trembling. He doesn’t touch you, stopping just shy of your cheek, heat radiating from his skin.

“I don’t remember loving you,” he says, and the words are a knife and a balm all at once, “but I believe you when you say I did. And I—” He sucks in a breath, eyes closing briefly. “I think I could again. If you let me.”

The winter between you shifts.

It doesn’t melt, not all at once. The distance is still there, filled with missing years and stolen moments and a thousand things only one of you can recall. But it cracks, hairline fractures spreading through the ice.

“You’re not a different man,” you say, tears stinging your eyes. “You’re… the same man, just rewinding a bit.”

“Feels like I’ve skipped whole seasons,” he murmurs. “I went to bed in the fall and woke up in the dead of winter.”

“Then we’ll wait for spring together,” you reply, voice shaking. “Again.”

He searches your face for a long moment.

“Okay,” he says finally. “Then… start over with me.”

Your breath shudders out of you.

“Hi,” you say, stepping a fraction closer. Your hand lifts, fingers brushing the inside of his wrist, light and tentative. “I’m—”

“Don’t tell me your name,” he interrupts, and your heart drops for a second before he continues, “Let me guess.”

You blink. “Guess?”

“Yeah.” There’s a ghost of a smile playing at his mouth now. “Feels like… something I should already know. Maybe if I’m wrong, you’ll laugh. And I… think I want to hear that.”

“You already know my laugh,” you murmur.

“Humor me,” he says.

You hesitate, then nod. “Okay. Go ahead, Barnes.”

He closes his eyes, like he’s listening for something inside his own head. His brow furrows. His lips move soundlessly, testing shapes.

Then his eyes open, lock on yours.

“Is it…” He swallows. “Is it the same name you used when you… yelled at me for leaving dishes in the sink?”

A startled laugh bursts out of you. “I—yes? I haven’t changed it since then.”

“Good.” His mouth curls, triumph and something softer flickering through his expression. “Then I think I remember this much: your name looks good written on coffee cups. And it sounds better when you’re swearing at me.”

Your breath catches.

“Bucky,” you whisper. “Do you—?”

He shakes his head, cutting you off gently. “Flashes,” he says. “Not even images. More like… impressions. Feelings. The sense of something. But if I spend the rest of my life stitching those together with what we build from here, I think… I think it might be enough.”

You’re crying again, silently this time, tears sliding down your cheeks. You don’t try to wipe them away.

His metal thumb moves, almost without his permission, brushing one of them from your skin.

The second he touches you, his entire body goes still.

For a heartbeat, it feels like the world has been struck silent. There’s only the sharp inhale he drags in, the way his pupils flare, the way his hand trembles against your face.

“What?” you breathe, afraid to move.

“It’s like…” His voice is barely audible. “Like déjà vu. Like I’ve done this before. A thousand times. Held you like this. Touched you here.” His thumb sweeps under your eye again, maybe chasing another tear, maybe chasing the shadow of a memory. “Like there’s a groove in my bones where you fit.”

You let out a breath that’s almost a sob, almost a laugh.

“There is,” you whisper. “There is, Buck.”

He flinches at the nickname, but it’s softer this time. Less pain, more confusion.

“We’ll get there,” you say, more to yourself than to him. “We’ll… we’ll take it day by day. Mission by mission. Winter by winter.”

He nods slowly, thumb lingering for one more second on your cheek before he lowers his hand.

“Tomorrow,” he says, “will you have coffee with me?”

You blink. “Coffee?”

He shrugs, a bit self-conscious. “Feels like a… starting-over kind of thing. No stories about the past. Just… you, telling me what you like in a drink, and me trying not to screw it up. We can… talk. About now. About… what you want. From me. From… us.” His jaw clenches. “If that’s still on the table.”

It hits you then, all over again, how brave he’s being. How much it must cost to ask that, knowing you could walk away, knowing you already did the falling once and might not choose to again.

“I want you,” you say, before doubt can creep in. His eyes widen, color flushing high on his cheekbones. “I want… whatever version of us we can make. Even if it’s not the same. Even if it’s… new. I’ll take new if it’s with you.”

His lips part.

“Then coffee,” he says, voice rough. “Tomorrow. Ten a.m.”

“Ten-thirty,” you counter automatically. “Or I’ll be late and you’ll think I stood you up.”

He huffs out a surprised laugh. “You’re really not a morning person, huh?”

“I am when missions demand it,” you say primly. “I just don’t believe in socializing before double digits.”

He shakes his head, smile lingering. “Yeah. I can see why he…” He stops, corrects. “Why I liked you.”

Your heart gives a painful lurch.

“You still do,” you say, because you need him to understand, because you need it written somewhere real. “You just don’t remember how much yet.”

His gaze locks on yours, unwavering.

“I’m starting to,” he says quietly.

Coffee at ten-thirty becomes a ritual.

The first morning, he’s waiting at the compound’s small kitchen island when you shuffle in, hair a mess, hoodie three sizes too big, yawning exaggeratingly. There are two mugs on the counter. One is filled with something dark and dangerous-looking. The other is… promising.

“You like it with too much sugar,” he says, as you pick up the second mug. “And oat milk. Because you’re a… what was the word?”

“A gremlin?” you offer.

“Hipster,” he corrects, lips twitching. “That’s the one.”

You take a cautious sip.

It’s perfect.

You meet his eyes over the rim of the mug. He shrugs, trying for nonchalant and failing.

“Guess some things survived the reboot,” he mutters.

You talk.

Not about the past—not much, not in detail. He asks small questions. What did you do before SHIELD? What’s your favorite book? Why do you hate mushrooms? You ask him about the music he’s discovering now, about the way the city looks to him after all these years, about the foods he’s trying, about the way therapy is going.

Between questions, there are quiet stretches where the only sounds are the clink of spoons against ceramic, the hiss of the espresso machine, the muffled hum of life elsewhere in the compound.

The silence is less awkward than you’d feared. There’s something… steady in it. Like slipping into a familiar rhythm, even if you both pretend it’s new.

Days stack on days.

You go on missions together again, slow at first, low-risk operations where he can relearn your combat rhythms. He flinches the first time you take a bullet for him, eyes going wide, fury snapping through his posture as he takes down the agent who fired. In the quinjet afterwards, as Bruce patches you up, he sits across from you, jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticks.

“Don’t do that again,” he says, voice low and shaky.

“I’ll try not to get shot,” you say lightly, wincing as disinfectant stings. “But no promises. Occupational hazard.”

“I mean…” He trails off, hands curling into fists on his knees. “Don’t put yourself in front of me like that. You said you’ve watched me die enough times already. I don’t want to add to the tally by… watching you do it for me.”

You stare at him, throat tight.

“Then don’t make it a contest,” you reply. “We keep each other alive. That’s the deal. Has been from day one.”

He swallows, gaze dropping. “Day one for you,” he says. “Feels like… day seventeen for me.”

“Fine.” You tilt your head, meeting his eyes when they flick up. “Then this is day seventeen of that deal. You don’t get out of it just because you’re behind on the calendar.”

His mouth twitches.

“You’re bossy,” he mutters.

“You like bossy,” you shoot back.

He does.

You see it in the way he gestures for you to go ahead of him when you enter rooms, like his body remembers falling into step with yours. The way his hand hovers a breath from your lower back in crowded hallways, not quite touching but always there. The way his shoulders relax, infinitesimally, when he hears your footstep behind him.

You never call him on it.

You also see the way it hurts him, sometimes, the way people expect him to remember. Clint making a joke about that one time in Madrid. Sam referencing a stupid bet they had about karaoke. Nat tossing him a weapon and calling, “In your sock drawer, right where you obsessively keep it,” only for him to freeze, color draining from his face.

You see him watching you when you tell stories with the others, about the time you all ended up stranded in a motel with only one bed and three broken heaters, or the time Wanda accidentally hexed Tony’s suit into singing Christmas carols every time he flew. The way his gaze goes distant, locked on some point between you and the air, trying to connect dots without lines.

Once, you find him in the gym, alone, punching a bag so hard it swings on the chain like a pendulum. Sweat darkens his shirt, hair plastered to his forehead. His metal arm whirs with each hit, servos humming.

“You’re going to tear it,” you say quietly, leaning in the doorway.

“I’ll buy a new one,” he grits out.

He doesn’t stop.

You walk closer, shoe squeaks masked by the thud of fist against leather.

“Bucky.”

“Don’t.” The word cracks. His fist connects again, the bag groaning. “Don’t call me that like I’m… like I’m yours to call.”

You flinch. The air between you goes brittle.

He sags almost immediately, head dropping, breath sawing.

“I didn’t mean…” He sighs, shoulders slumping. “I’m sorry. I just—”

“Feel like you’re failing a test you never signed up for,” you supply softly. “Like everyone’s speaking a language you forgot.”

He looks at you, eyes bleak.

“There are whole years I don’t have,” he says. “Whole seasons. Steve keeps telling me it’s going to be okay, that people lose memories all the time and still live full lives, but he doesn’t understand what it’s like to… know that there’s someone you loved, right there, hurting, and you can’t remember a single goddamn reason why.”

He hits the bag one more time, weaker.

“I’d never forgive myself for that,” he says. “If I had all my memories. If I chose to forget you. But I didn’t choose. I… I hate that I don’t have to take responsibility for that. I hate that I get to be the victim when you’re the one who has to live with a walking reminder of what you lost.”

You step closer until you can touch the swinging bag, steadying it with both hands. It’s like grabbing hold of the storm between you and forcing it still.

“You’re not a reminder,” you say softly. “You’re… you. Still. Different, yeah. Hurting, yeah. But not… less. Not… half. I didn’t fall in love with your memories, Bucky. I fell in love with you. The way you are when you’re grumpy before coffee. The way you hum old songs when you think no one’s listening. The way you sit on the floor instead of the couch when you’re anxious because you like feeling grounded. That’s all still there. Even if the timeline got screwed.”

He watches you, jaw working.

“You say that like it’s easy,” he mutters.

“It’s not.” You huff out a humorless laugh. “It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Every time you call me ‘ma’am,’ I want to rearrange your brain with my bare hands. Every time you tense when I touch you, I feel like I’m intruding on my own life. But… I’d rather have this. I’d rather have you, broken and rebuilding, than the ghost of what we were.”

You swallow, fingers tightening on the bag.

“And if I’ve got to build a new life with you,” you add, voice steady despite the crack in your chest, “I will. Piece by piece. I’ll tell you the same stories a hundred times if that’s what it takes for you to feel like you belong in them. I’ll stand in this winter as long as I have to, if it means I get to see the first thaw with you. Again.”

His eyes shine in the dim light.

“You shouldn’t have to,” he says, voice rough. “You shouldn’t have to do this again.”

“Maybe I was always going to have to,” you say. “Life doesn’t come with guarantees. People change. Trauma rewires. We forget things. All love is choosing the same person again and again, every day, even when they’re different. Even when you are. This is just… a more dramatic version.”

A huff of reluctant amusement escapes him. “Dramatic,” he echoes. “That’s one way to put it.”

He blows out a breath, then steps away from the bag. His hands drop to his sides, palms open.

“Come here,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“Come here,” he repeats, softer.

You let go of the bag and go.

He wraps his arms around you.

It’s clumsy at first—he doesn’t know whether to put his right or left arm on top, doesn’t remember that you like to tuck your face against the side of his neck, that you like when his flesh hand spreads wide across your back. But his body remembers the shape of you, even if his brain doesn’t. Within seconds, your curves fit into the angles of him like they always have.

You curl your fingers into the fabric at his sides, nose pressed to his sweat-damp shirt. Your eyes sting.

“This feels… right,” he murmurs, voice rumbling against your ear. “Like something I’ve done so many times the muscle memory’s stronger than the wipe.”

Your fingers flex, bunching cloth.

“It is,” you whisper. “It was. It will be.”

He pulls you closer.

“I want to earn it,” he says quietly. “Your trust. Your… love. Again. I don’t want you to keep giving me trust I already broke and don’t remember breaking.”

“You didn’t break it,” you protest, muffled. “HYDRA did.”

“They aimed for me,” he says. “You got hit too.”

You can’t argue with that.

“So let me do it,” he adds. “Let me… fall. For you. Again. Not because you stayed. Not because you did it once already and it’s easier to pretend I still feel the same. But because I do. Because I choose you. Here. Now. In this… snowstorm of a brain.”

Your laugh is wet and shaky. “Snowstorm of a brain?”

“Shut up,” he mutters.

You pull back just enough to see his face. There’s a flush on his cheeks, whether from the workout or his own words, you can’t tell. Maybe both.

“You are,” you say, “so stupidly poetic when you don’t mean to be.”

He groans. “Don’t tell me that. I’ll never live it down.”

“I liked it,” you admit.

He groans louder.

Slowly, deliberately, you reach up and cup his face in your hands. His breath catches, eyes searching yours. You can feel the tremor in his jaw under your fingertips, the staccato thud of his heart where your chest presses to his.

“Then let’s start with this,” you say. “Present tense. No stories. No past lives.”

Something in him braces.

His hands tighten on your waist.

“Do you want to kiss me, Bucky?” you ask softly.

He swallows.

“I don’t know how it felt before,” he says. “I don’t know if I used to kiss you like a man drowning or a man praying. I don’t know if I—”

“I’m not asking what you did,” you interrupt gently. “I’m asking what you want.”

He stares at you, throat working.

“I’ve wanted to since the med bay,” he admits, voice barely audible. “Didn’t know why. Didn’t think it was fair. Felt like stealing from a man who wasn’t in the room.”

“He’s here,” you say. “He’s you. And I promise you, he’d want you to.”

He lets out a shaky breath. “Then… yes,” he whispers. “I want to.”

You lean in.

It’s different from the first time and yet somehow the same. Back then, it was snow-melt and nerves and a hesitant press of mouths, both of you unsure if the world would shatter if you reached for more. This time, there’s weight behind it. History. Loss. Choice.

His lips are warm and a little chapped. He kisses you carefully at first, almost reverent, like he’s afraid of breaking you—or of breaking himself open and finding too much there. His metal hand is an anchor at your hip, grounding, solid. His flesh hand slides up your spine, fingers splaying at the nape of your neck.

You melt into him.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the soft drag of his mouth, the wet heat of breath exchanged, the way his body fits against yours like it remembers, like it’s been waiting.

Then something shifts.

He makes a sound against your lips—half-groan, half-sigh—and the kiss deepens. His hand tightens, pulling you closer. Your fingers curl in his hair, tugging just enough to draw another, darker noise from his throat.

Images flicker behind his eyes—snow on eyelashes, your laughter, a radiator ticking as it heats, the taste of mint tea on your tongue. They’re gone as soon as they come, but they leave an imprint, a trail of warmth through the cold.

When you finally pull back, both of you are breathing hard.

“Anything?” you ask, searching his face.

He closes his eyes, brows knitting. Opens them again, gaze clear.

“Pieces,” he says. “Not enough to make a whole. But… enough to know that I want more. Enough to know that… this isn’t new. Not really. It’s… remembering with my body what my head hasn’t caught up to yet.”

Tears blur your vision.

“We can work with pieces,” you whisper.

He smiles, small but sure.

“We already are,” he says.

Spring comes late that year.

Snow lingers in gray piles at the edges of streets. The river steams on chilly mornings. The city shakes winter off slowly, grudgingly.

Inside the compound, you and Bucky move through your days with a new rhythm. Coffee. Training. Missions. Therapy. Movie nights where he sits close enough that your knees touch. Walks in the city where he lets you show him the little pockets of the world you love: the bookstore with the crooked shelves, the corner deli with the best pickles, the park bench where the light hits just right at sunset.

Sometimes he remembers things.

Not in a neat, narrative way. Not like in the movies, where a single phrase or song triggers a montage of moments. His comes in flashes, disjointed images: your face lit by candlelight as you blow out birthday candles; your hands stained with paint as you help him redo his bedroom; the feel of your head heavy on his shoulder as the opening credits roll.

Once, you’re standing in line at a food truck when he reaches out suddenly and plucks a piece of cilantro from your taco.

“You hate that,” he says, without thinking.

You blink. “What?”

“Cilantro,” he says, frowning at the leaf in his hand. “Tastes like… soap to you. You always pick it out.”

Your heart stutters. “You remember that?”

He looks startled, then slow wonder spreads across his face.

“Guess I do,” he murmurs.

You grin, sudden and bright, and launch yourself at him in a hug right there on the sidewalk. He catches you, laughing as you nearly knock both of you off balance.

“Okay, okay,” he chuckles, arms around you. “Guess I like being your… memory backup.”

“There’s going to be more,” you say into his chest, feeling oddly fierce. “I know it.”

“Maybe.” He presses his mouth to your hair, soft. “But even if there isn’t… I’ve got new ones. With you. That no one can take.”

You pull back, looking up at him.

“You’re not scared?” you ask.

“Terrified,” he says instantly. Then his eyes soften. “But not of forgetting. Not anymore.”

“Of what, then?”

He studies you for a long moment.

“Of losing you twice,” he says quietly.

You cup his cheek, thumb brushing the faint stubble there.

“You’re not going to,” you say. “I promise.”

“You can’t promise that,” he says, but he leans into your touch.

“No,” you agree. “But I can promise I’m going to keep choosing you. Even when you drive me insane. Even when you leave dishes in the sink and pretend you didn’t.”

“I don’t—” he starts, protests on reflex, then stops, a sheepish smile tugging at his mouth. “Okay, maybe I do.”

“See?” you say. “Progess.”

He laughs.

The winter between you isn’t gone. There are still patches of ice, places where his memory slips, where you have to steady him through a conversation he doesn’t remember starting, where he stares at a scar on your arm like it’s a riddle he can’t solve.

But there are more thaws now. More moments where warmth bleeds through, where the ground softens, where something green and fragile pushes up through the frost.

On an evening in late March, you find yourselves back on the compound lawn, snow mostly melted into soggy patches. The air is still crisp, but there’s a hint of softness in it you haven’t felt in months.

Bucky drops down beside you on the grass, metal hand braced behind him as he leans back, looking up at the sky. It’s a washed-out blue, streaked with thin clouds.

“Do you ever think about… before?” he asks, unexpected.

You glance at him. “Before… us?”

“Before all of it,” he says. “Before HYDRA. Before Steve pulled me out. Before…”

“Before me,” you finish quietly.

He shrugs, eyes still on the sky. “Sometimes. Feels like another man’s life. Another man’s winter.”

You turn your gaze upward too, watching a plane cut a slow line across the horizon.

“What about now?” you ask. “What does… this… feel like?”

There’s a long pause.

“Like standing in the middle of a frozen lake,” he says finally. “Listening to the ice crack.”

You stiffen slightly. “That sounds… terrifying.”

He huffs. “It is. But… it’s also the only way to know spring’s coming.”

You look at him.

His profile is sharp against the sky, jawline clean, mouth relaxed. There’s a small scar on his chin you remember from a mission gone wrong in Berlin, when you both dove for cover at the same time and he clipped the edge of a concrete barrier.

He doesn’t remember that.

But he remembers cilantro. And your coffee order. And the way your laugh sounds when you’re trying not to cry.

“Bucky,” you say softly.

He turns his head, eyes meeting yours.

“You know what I think?” you ask.

“What’s that?”

“I think…” You take a breath. “That love isn’t about holding onto every detail. It’s… about choosing someone, over and over, even when the details go blurry. Even when winter drags on. I think you loved me before. I know I loved you. And now… we’re just… proving we’ll do it twice.”

He smiles, slow and real.

“You’re really stubborn,” he says. “You know that?”

You grin back, heart aching in the best way. “Told you. Give it five minutes.”

He laughs, the sound warm and full in his chest, and it hits you like the first day of spring—the sudden, startling knowledge that you’ve made it through something brutal and cold and long, and that on the other side, there’s still life. Different. Scarred. But alive.

He reaches for your hand.

You let him take it.

His fingers twine with yours, the cool weight of metal offset by the warmth of his flesh. He squeezes once, a silent promise.

You squeeze back.

Between you, winter lingers at the edges, always a part of your landscape. But there’s something else now, too. Something tender and brave, breaking through the thaw.

You sit there together, hands clasped, watching the sky change colors as the sun sinks, feeling the ice beneath your feet crack, crack, crack—

And, for the second time, you fall in love with him.

And, for the first time, he realizes he’s falling in love with you.

----

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scene dividers curtesy of the amazing @cursed-carmine

[hazzashouse]

The Midnight Lesson (Anthony Bridgerton)

This one shot might be one of my softest Anthony Bridgerton pieces yet. I loved exploring his quiet vulnerability, the depth of his devotion, and the tender kind of intimacy that blooms in the stillness of night. If you enjoy gentle romance, emotional honesty, and Anthony being the loving, earnest man he is beneath all that duty, this one is for you.

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x Female Reader (fiancée)

Summary: On the eve of your wedding, doubts steal your sleep, and a moonlit walk leads to an unexpectedly tender confession from Anthony Bridgerton. In the quiet of the garden, he shows you the depth of his love, the security of his presence, and the promise of a future built side by side.

MASTERLIST

The night had already slipped well past the acceptable hour for a young lady to be awake, but sleep had refused to claim you, fluttering just out of reach like a skittish bird. The Bridgertons had hosted a dinner that evening in honor of your engagement, a gathering meant to be warm and celebratory, filled with laughter and music and polite admiration. And while it was all of those things, there had been something else beneath the surface whenever Anthony looked at you, something that tightened the air between you until your breath caught without warning.

It was not nerves. It was not fear.

It was anticipation.

It was something you had no name for.

You slipped out to the terrace, wrapped in a thin shawl, letting the cool night air brush over your skin. The garden was quiet, the lanterns glimmering like low stars along the hedges. You breathed slowly, trying to settle your racing thoughts. It felt impossible that you were to be married in only a handful of days. Impossible that your life was about to change so completely. Impossible that Anthony Bridgerton, of all people, had chosen you with such absolute certainty.

You heard footsteps behind you and turned, expecting perhaps a maid sent to find you. But the moment you saw him, tall and unmistakable in the dim light, your heart leapt in your throat.

Anthony stopped a few feet away, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders straight but not stiff. His brows softened the moment he saw your expression.

“Could not sleep?” he asked quietly, his voice a warm rumble in the still air.

“No,” you admitted. “Too much thinking.”

Anthony stepped closer until the lantern light touched his face, revealing something tender in his eyes, something he rarely let anyone see. “About the wedding?”

“About everything.” You hesitated, then added, “It all feels so… enormous.”

Anthony nodded, as though he understood that feeling better than anyone. “It is enormous,” he said softly. “Marriage is not a small promise. It is not a fleeting thing. It is a life, bound with another. And it is natural to feel overwhelmed.”

You exhaled slowly, your gaze drifting toward the garden. “Are you overwhelmed?”

Anthony moved so quietly you did not realize he had stepped beside you until the warmth of him brushed your arm. You looked up, startled by his proximity, but not displeased.

“I am many things,” he said gently, “but I am not overwhelmed by the idea of marrying you.”

Your breath caught. “No?”

“No,” he murmured, shaking his head. “You bring me peace. And I have spent far too many years without it.”

You lowered your eyes, heat rising in your cheeks. You had grown accustomed to his charm, his intelligence, his wit, but when he spoke with sincerity, when his voice softened like this, you felt undone in ways you could not name.

He held out a hand. “Walk with me.”

You placed your hand in his without hesitation, and he led you down the steps into the garden, where the lanterns cast soft shadows on the pathway. You walked in silence for a few moments, his thumb brushing lightly along the back of your hand in a rhythm so soothing you felt yourself relax with each step.

When you reached a quiet clearing, he finally spoke again.

“There is something I wanted to ask you,” he said. “Something I have been thinking about all evening.”

You looked up at him curiously. “What is it?”

Anthony took a slow breath, searching your face with an intensity that made your pulse race. “Are you afraid of loving me?”

The question hit you so unexpectedly that you stopped walking. He turned to face you fully, eyes unwavering, giving you no room to hide behind polite answers.

“Why would I be afraid?” you whispered.

“Because I know myself,” he said, his voice low. “I know I can be difficult. Proud. Overbearing. I know I carry more responsibility than any man should, and I have seen what that weight has done to me. I know that my love is… intense. And I fear it may overwhelm you.”

Your lips parted, your heart twisting at the vulnerability in his voice. It was not often that Anthony exposed the fragile pieces of himself. It was rarer still for him to voice fear.

“You do not overwhelm me,” you said softly.

His jaw tightened as if he needed to hear it again.

You stepped closer. “Anthony, you do not overwhelm me.”

The breath he released was barely audible, but the relief in it was profound. He reached up and brushed a curl from your forehead, his touch gentle, reverent.

“I want to be a good husband to you,” he murmured. “I want to give you more joy than burden. More laughter than worry. More love than fear.”

“And you will,” you whispered.

“Will I?” he asked quietly. “Sometimes I wonder if the life I lead is too heavy for someone as bright as you.”

A small laugh slipped from you, not mocking but warm. “Anthony, you are not as heavy as you think.”

He blinked. “No?”

“No,” you said, smiling softly. “You are serious, yes. And protective. And occasionally infuriating. But you are also kind. Thoughtful. Good. You carry burdens so no one else has to. And you love with your entire heart. That is not heaviness. That is strength.”

A slow, disbelieving smile touched his lips, as though your words warmed him from the inside out. He lifted your hand to his chest again, pressing it over his heartbeat just as he had before.

“Then allow me to show you something,” he whispered.

Before you could ask, he stepped behind you and slid his hands down your arms, guiding them gently upward.

“Close your eyes.”

You obeyed.

His voice was at your ear, quiet, steady. “Do you feel the breeze?”

“Yes.”

“Do you hear the garden?”

“Yes.”

“And do you feel me behind you?”

Your breath stilled. “Yes.”

“Good,” he murmured. “Because this is what marriage is. The world moving around us, the wind shifting, life changing, yet always this. Always me behind you. Always you before me. Always us together.”

Your eyes fluttered open, your heart full.

Anthony turned you gently, his hands settling at your waist, his forehead leaning against yours. “You do not need to fear anything, least of all marrying me. I will spend every day proving that you were right to choose me.”

You slid your hands up his chest, feeling the strength beneath his coat, the steady rise and fall of his breath.

“I never doubted you,” you whispered. “Not once.”

This time, he did not hesitate.

He lowered his head and kissed you, slow and soft at first, then deeper as you melted into him, your hands curling into his lapels. His arms tightened around you, bringing you flush against him, the world fading until there was only the warmth of his lips and the certainty of his devotion.

When he finally drew back, his voice was barely a breath.

“Come back inside, my love,” he murmured, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “The night is nearly gone, and I want you rested for all the days we have yet to live.”

You smiled, your heart full and steady, your earlier nerves forgotten entirely.

You took his hand.

He laced his fingers with yours.

And together, you walked back toward the house, ready for whatever tomorrow would bring.

—————

like and reblog if you liked it and follow me to not miss my future content - I will very much appreciate it! Lots of love, A.

[sparklyhologrampaper-deactivate]

CHILD'S PLAY

It had been raining non stop since monday. So when you woke up and saw the sun you just knew. Being a single mom wasn’t always easy, but you always tried to make special memories for your little boy. It was settled, you’d go to the park and have the nicest picnic ever. You packed some sandwiches and chocolate chips cookies you baked the night before.

It felt like heaven, the sunlight slowly kissing your skin, the grass beneath your bare foot, the sweet laugh of your baby boy, just the perfect day. And it’s on days like these that fate likes to intervene.

You were about to have a bite on your sandwich when your little boy showed up with a new friend. An older boy with the cutest smile.

“Swich mummy?”

As you fed the two boys, you couldn’t help looking for the kid’s parents.

“Where are your parents honey?”

“I’m here with my uncle. He was chasing my brother A.J.” He answered with his mouth full of chips.

“We should look for him. He must be so worry about you.”

As on cue, you heard someone panicking. " Cass! Cass! Sarah is going to kill me. Slowly and painfully. ”

When you turned around you swore your heart skipped a beat. You weren’t expecting “People’s sexiest man alive”.

“I think we found your uncle.”

“Cass! I think I had a heart attack. Don’t you disappear on me like that.” He said hugging the boy and checking on him like he’s been back from war.

“I made a friend Uncle Bucky. And the pretty lady gave me a sandwich.”

You blushed like a freaking teenager at the unexpected compliment.

“We were about to go looking for you, but I’ve figured I’d be easier to stay in one place and wait.”

As he approached and extended a hand, you met the most beautiful eyes.

“I’m James.” He froze for a second, piercing blue eyes on yours. When your hands met, a sudden wave of electricity went through your body. “My friends call me Bucky. I’m sorry Cass crushed your picnic. I was running after this one and when I looked back Cass was gone.”

“Don’t worry. It happened to the best of us.” You took pity on him. He really did look mortified. “I’m Y/N. And the little one is my son Jude.”

“Nice to meet you both.” Forget the eyes. That smile alone could kill an army. “Guys! We should go. We’ve already interrupt lunch. Let’s get out of the way.”

“You know, I packed sandwiches for a multitude. You should stay and have lunch with us. The kids seem to be having fun.” You pointed to the three kids playing with a ball near you.

You had no idea what possessed you. Inviting a stranger to lunch wasn’t your style. There was something about Bucky though. Kind of rough around the edges, but definitely gentle, mostly in the way he behave around the kids. The fact he was handsome didn’t hurt either.

" I wouldn’t want to impose.” He didn’t get to finish that sentence. Your son was already offering A.J. a sandwich. You couldn’t help but laugh. “They do look very appetizing.”

" It’s just a sandwich. It’s not like I’m giving you my kidney or something. Take it.” He looked at you in awe, like he was really taken aback by your small act of kindness.

He took a seat next to you in the blanket and both of you ate your sandwiches in comfortable silence.

“Wait! I totally forgot. Give me your sandwich.” He just stared at you looking totally lost.

“Trust me.”

He didn’t answer. Just gave you the sandwich back as it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Here. Salt and Vinegar chips. Family tradition. You totally need the crunch factor”. You said as you stuffed the sandwich with chips and handed it back to him.

He smiled at you. An innocent smile that melt your heart a bit.

By the time you finished your lunch conversation was flowing. He was smart, funny and dangerously charming.

“Sooo. No wedding ring?” He asked trying to look casual and failing catastrophically.

“Smooth. Really smooth.” You laughed teasingly. “Just Jude and me.”

“Great!.” He answered with too much enthusiasm. You eyed him feigning outrage. “Not great. I mean… You are single…cool.”

Something sweet? You offered Bucky a cookie. You looked too pleased with yourself. You were enjoying, just a little bit, his flustered look.

“Mmmm…These are amazing. I could eat them all day. You are full of surprises.”

“Don’t sound so shocked.” You bate your eyelashes coquettishly. “Baking happens to be one of my many hidden talents.”

“Well, I sure would like to know about your others talents.” He flashed you a lopsided grin.

“I bet you would James.” Now you were being cheeky but he didn’t seem to mind.

As the hours passed you by, it hit you how fast and easily you’ve warm up to each other. As if you’ve been doing this forever. You couldn’t remember the last time you felt so happy and content in someone else’s company.

“The council has spoken. They want ice cream. My treat.” He gave you a look that said " Don’t even think about contradict me.”

When he finished buying the treats, he reached for your hand. Without hesitation you took it. It wasn’t a grand gesture, but the intimacy of it took your breath away.

The kids were a couple of meters ahead of you, chasing birds and playing with a kite. You were in your own private little world. Just walking, hand in hand, in silence, a stupid smile in your faces, none of you wanting to let go. An hours ago you were strangers. Now the world had shift on its axis.

A call broke the bubble. Reality made a unwanted appearance. He needed to get the kids back to their mum.

“Can I get your number? ” He asked shyly, almost doubtful. In what universe you were going to say no? He held on into it as it was his most precious possession.

That night as you got into bed, you heard the ping on your phone. You heart was racing wildly. You knew it was him.

JAMES: Tell me Baby Girl… From which of my dreams did you walk out?.

[pampi-iranzo]

We both love Hallmark movies, can’t you tell?? Lol

Enjoy this beautiful one shot!!

[sparklyhologrampaper-deactivate]

LAW OF ATTRACTION #4

Previous chapter

summary: Bucky is your boss, and you drive him crazy. Are you going to be able to keep it professional?

pairing: congressman!bucky x fem!reader.

warnings: Reader's parents passed away. A lot of banter. Mildly suggestive. (I'll keep adding a little bit of SPICE)

a/n: Congressman Barnes is where I live now. Little blurbs of this unique relationship. I always write with a couple songs on repeat as inspiration. I'll leave one with each chapter. Bare with me. I have so much fun ideas to drive this man crazy. Love you all.

@pampi-iranzo

Was it a dream? A really vivid intense dream? Have you drank one too many shots of tequila that you were hallucinating? Everything around you seemed to stop. Nothing else really matter but this moment, just the two of you. He was indecently close. Each one of your senses were enhanced, the intoxicating smell of his cologne, his piercing blue eyes looking straight into yours, the light touch of his hand on your waist leaving goosebumps all over your body, the sound of his hammering heart, it was all too much,but not enough at the same time. This was it. Def-con 5 level alert. He was gonna kiss you. The Congressman Barnes. Your boss. The oldest and,at the same time, the hottest man on earth was going to kiss you. You were about to close the final gap when hell broke loose.

One minute you were in his arms, the next minute you were being kidnapped by the bridesmaids from hell. Apparently after too many shots your cousin was about to get into a fight with a random girl who spilled her drink into her. You got there just in time before any blood was shredded. Feisty was a common trait on your mother’s side. Luckily diplomacy was something you inherited from your dad. It took you some major convincing, sending some shots to the girl’s table might had help too, but eventually everyone cooled off and crisis was averted. A black eyed wouldn’t have match your cousin’s Vera Wang stunning wedding dress. Obviously this incident meant the night was over. Cinderella was back to being a pumpkin and she didn’t get prince charming kiss.

The ride to your cousin’s hotel was deadly silent. Your mind was somewhere else completely. You couldn’t help wondering if you missed your chance. How you were even going to face him? “Hi B. Remember how we almost kissed?”. “Good Morning. Do you want to pick up from where we left it last night?”. It all sound stupid and pointless in your head. He probably came back to his senses by now. You were so tempted to text him but your brain was a total mush. In your defense he did say he was going to leave you speechless. You’d have prefer he shutting you up with a kiss than this pathetic limbo you were stuck now.

You helped your cousin get into her PJ’s and tugged her safely to bed. It was almost 4 in the morning and you were exhausted, tough you knew you were not going to be able to sleep. The “almost kiss” scene will replay again and again, on loop, hunting you forever.With the little energy you had left you jumped into a taxi and got your ass back home.

You came up with a million scenarios on your head, but these, these you didn’t see it coming. As you climbed down the car you saw him. James Buchanan Barnes,on the flesh, sitting on your apartment entrance.

Ever the gentleman, he stood up the minute he saw you. He looked lost, like he rehearsed a hundred times what he was supposed to say and now all words have abandoned him. Honestly, you didn’t care, you had only one thing on your mind.

“I was worried. I had to make sure you were home and safe…”

You didn’t hesitate for a second. You were not letting this opportunity pass you by a second time. You pulled him by his collar and kissed him. The kiss wasn’t gentle, it was desperate and rather frenetic, full of repressed unspoken feelings. It took Bucky a few seconds to process but when he kissed you back, you knew you were ruined forever. No other man could ever measure up.

He took control so fast it made your head spin. You ended up pinned to one of the walls, hidden from any prying eyes. The kiss was messy, teeth clashing, tongues exploring uncharted territories. It was all consuming. Earth shattering kind of kiss. He made you feel he had been waiting for decades for this moment to finally arrive. You could almost hear his walls coming down, one by one, any trace of his self control gone. His hands were all over you, exploring boldly every inch of your body, memorizing every curve, like he could die if he stopped touching you. You’d never say it out loud, but you’d have let him have his way with you right there, and you wouldn’t have give a fuck about anything else.

Finally you broke the kiss to catch your breath. His forehead into yours, you both trying desperately to come to your senses.

“Y/N…” You cut him off.

“I don’t want to think about the consequences and the ramifications of what we did. Let’s just make out like a couple of horny teenagers and we’ll deal with the aftermath tomorrow.”

“Sounds like a great plan to me.”

Did you spend the next hour making out like there was no tomorrow? Yes. Was it so good that he make you forget your name, city of birth and your parents names? Also yes. Did you let go because the sun was rising, your neighbors could caught you and you needed sleep and food? No. None of that was on top of your priorities. You did because he made you. It was like the third time you said goodbye, you promised it was the last kiss, but you were unable to put physical distance between you two. Afraid if you let go the spell would be broken. He manhandled you like you were a bag of potatoes, threw you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing and carried you to your door.

“It’s not fair. I don’t want to let go either. You need sleep woman.”

You were pouting. You, a grown ass woman with a political science degree, pouting like a child.

“Fine. I get it. You want to get rid of me. I can read the signs.” You were about to put the key in the lock when he stole your key, pinned you to the door and kissed you senseless once again.

“Dream of me sweetheart.” He said as he let you go and gave you your key back.

“Like I haven’t been dreaming of you since the first day I meet you.” You kissed him one last time and reluctantly made you way into your flat.

“I’m so fucked. She is going to be the death of me” Buck told to himself as he left the building.

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You slept probably 2 hours, when you were awaken by the constant buzzing of your phone. It was Saturday for God’s sake. However, you knew better than anyone, Washington never rest.

“Sarah? Is everything alright?”

“I need your help. We have a crisis. We need to get Congressman into the next flight to New York. Congressman is bailing on us. Bucky needs to attend his Charity Gala Sunday night. If he cuts off his support everyone will follow his lead.”

“OK. I’ll talk to him. Don’t worry. I’ll call Greg too. Do some damage control. Make sure Congressman talk to him too.

“Y/N…?”

“What is it you are not telling me Sarah?”

“You know, as his assistant, I should fly to New York with Bucky…”

“Yes?”

“Please cover for me. I have like a million wedding crisis to solve. Chris is in LA, my sister is in Ohio, I’m one melt down away to jump from a window.”

“You already booked us the flight don’t you?

“Yesssss. You leave on 4 hours. Love youuu.Gotta go.”

A romantic getaway to New York with Bucky sounded amazing. Except it wasn’t romantic. It was business and politics. And you’ve just kissed last night. You haven’t talked about the implications of you two having a relationship. Were you in a relationship? Bucky didn’t do casual. At least he didn’t strike you as a situation-ship guy. Now you were forced to spend three days together. What if he needed space to process things? The whole thing was giving you a headache already.

After a shower and two large cups of coffee you were feeling a lot better. You packed your bag, put on some jeans, a white shirt and the biggest sunglasses ever made in human history. You were supposed to meet on the airport, or at least that’s what Sarah emailed you. Imagine your surprise when you hoped on the Uber that was supposed to take you to the airport and found him. Of course he looked amazing. Stupid serum. He didn’t need beauty sleep.

" Good surprise or bad surprise?”

“Great surprise. What do you mean?”.

“Maybe you didn’t want me in New York with you?” You answered suddenly feeling shy.

He looked at you like you spoke Mandarin.“Why I wouldn’t want you to come?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you wanted space after last night.”

“What’s the problem of your generation with space? Since when wanting to be close to someone is a war crime?”

“Well, we were raised by your generation. Wait. Our parents were raised by your generation. I think.”

" Y/N”

“Let’s drop the math. It’s not doing any of us any favor.

“Y/N do you think I spend my Friday nights chasing girls?”

“Isn’t that what they taught you on the army?”

“Hilarious. I’m serious doll. Last night was amazing. I have no desire to put distance between us.”

“Say that again. I don’t think I ever hear a guy say that before. I feel I should give you an award or something. The most emotional responsible man in DC.”

“Maybe you’ve been dating the wrong guys.”

“Maybe I was waiting for you.”

“How you do that? One second you are acting all Miss Sarcastic and the other you say something that disarm me completely.”

“ I could say the same to you.”

“C’me here. You are too far away baby doll.”

You let yourself relax for a while, just melt into his strong arms. Rays of sunlight slipping through the window, soft music playing on the radio, his lips resting on your forehead, his hands slowly caressing your hair. Just a perfect moment. The calm before the storm.

The flight was quiet. Probably because you slept through most of it. It wasn’t your fault Bucky was so soft and comfortable, and smelled delicious, like sandalwood and cinnamon. You didn’t remember feeling this safe, well,ever.

By the time you arrived to your hotel you felt as good as new. You kept wondering how you could ever sleep again away from Bucky’s arms. Someone up there must have heard you, because you ended up in the same suite sharing one bed. Someone must really like you indeed.

“You know Barnes, if you wanted to sleep with me you should just ask. This is the oldest trick on the book.” You said teasingly.

He stopped on his tracks. He turned around and looked at you deadly serious. “I want to do this, you and me, the right way. I want to take you on a date, buy you flowers, court you like any gentleman would. I don’t want to trick you into anything. I want to earn it.”

“Those poor ladies on the 40s they didn’t stood a chance, did they?.” You said to yourself rather than to Bucky. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“You can take me on a date. Tonight. You can pick me up at six. I’ll wear something nice. If you play your cards right, who knows? Maybe I’ll let you kiss me goodnight.”

He rolled his eyes at your audacity. “Well, I’d be honor to Miss.”

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You felt inside an old movie, just like the ones you used to watch with your father. You couldn’t resist it. You had to wear a very “Audrey Hepburn” kind of dress. A black off the-shoulder dress, with a floaty dramatic skirt.

The moment he saw you walking down the stairs into the hotel lobby he swore the world stopped for a moment, just for you. You were the most beautiful woman he had ever lay eyes on. And by some miracle, which he was sure he didn’t deserve it, you were his. For a moment he let himself imagine what could have been if he had meet you back in the 1940s. He would had chase you relentlessly. Waited for you outside your house every morning. Brought you flowers. Wrote you letters. Fought your many suitors just to get to slow dance with you. Showed up in your window every night, just to try to steal a good night kiss from you. He would had come back to make you his wife and start a family. He could see it all so clear, as it was an old memory, an alternative ending to his story, the happy ending he never got.

He could not change his past. However, If life was giving him a second chance, he was most determined not to waste it.

“You clean up real good Congressman.”

“You look…” He passed his fingers through his hair trying to calm himself. “Really, you look….” He stared at you in awe.

“Really?” You were blushing. His silence spoke louder than his words.

“I was going to say beautiful, but it doesn’t even begin to describe it.”

You bite you lip. Damn. He was so freaking charming.

“Keep this going and I’ll have to make an honest man out of you Barnes.”

It was a perfect night, warm, uncharacteristically quiet, the sky was full of stars. In the distance you could hear an orchestra playing some old jazz tunes. It was all so vibrant. The evening felt full of possibilities. Obviously Bucky outdone himself, as usual.

Taking your hand in his he guided you through an old house. Behind it stood the most beautiful garden. Fairy lights and strategically placed candles illuminate it everything. In the center an old gazebo with a table set for two.

“How? This is insane. Out of a fairy tale or something.” You couldn’t believe he did all this for you.

“I had to called out a favor or two. Asked Sam for help. God knows he will never let me forget it.”

“Is this? You didn’t! Did you get pizza from Roberta’s?” You were almost dancing from excitement.

“You know what this means right? Now I will have to marry you. It’s the law. I’m morally obliged now.”

“I remembered I was promised a goodnight kiss. Hold your horses! We can talk about marriage in our second date.”

He made it so easy tease him. You couldn’t resist.“Fair enough. If you get ice cream from Julia’s the we can talk kids too.” .

It was fun banter right? That was all? Because Bucky wasn’t so sure. It didn’t sound crazy to him at all. A small wedding, a kid or two, with you all bets are off. You made impossible seem possible.

“I have one more surprise left.”

“Is it fireworks? Honey! Did you bribe the governor?”

“Is not fireworks. But I’ll keep that in mind. Fully noted.” He looked at with a boyish grin.“Wait. What did you call me?”

You hide your face in your hands. “Honey.”

“Now look at me and say it again.”

“Honey”

“I thing I’d walk through fire to hear you call me that again.”

“No need for that babe.”

“Now you are just trying to kill me.”

“I’d came up with a million different nicknames if I get to see you smile like that.”

“Can I get a preview of that goodnight kiss we’ve been talking about? I think we should rehearse it to get it right.”

“Come here, you dork.”

He kissed you softly, with reverence, as you were the most precious thing he had ever hold. It wasn’t rushed, it was meant to last, like he wanted to engrave it in his memory forever. He kissed you like a man in love. Could it be? Were you reading too much? He didn’t said those word, not yet, neither had you, but it most definitely felt like it.

“Close your eyes.” You looked at him as he was a mad man.

“Humor me please.”

When you opened it he was holding a little box, inside, a necklace with his initials.

“It’s exquisite. The most perfect gift. You shouldn’t have. It’s not even my birthday.”

“So you can keep close to your heart all the time.”

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The walk to the hotel was quiet. Not uncomfortable silence. Just two people walking hand in hand, smiling to each other like lunatics. Everything felt lighter. Just for the night, the city was yours.

Back at the hotel there was the bed dilemma waiting to be addressed.

“I’ll take the couch.” Bucky said. Ever the gentleman.

“You don’t want to sleep with me?” You didn’t want to sound hurt. But you were, a little.

“If I sleep next to you…” He waved his hands looking for the right words. “I don’t think I have that kind of self control”. He stated rather facticaly.

" Sooo…Let me get this right. It’s not that you don’t want to sleep with me, it’s that you don’t want to have sex with me”. Now you weren’t hurt you were just pissed.

“Babygirl. I desperately want to, but I think we should wait. You haven’t slept properly in days, we have work tomorrow. There is no rush. We have all the time in the world.” He used his most charming silky voice.

“You make me feel like a villain trying to steal your virtue.” You were not even trying to hide your annoyance.

“Believe me. You are no the villain of the story.”

You gather all the spare pillows and blankets you could find and proceed to built a fort in the middle of the bed.

“There. You are safe now. I think a need a shower. A really cold shower.”

He was getting into bed when you called from the shower.

“I’m getting into the shower now! Naked! I’m taking my clothes off now.”

“Fuck! You are going to torture me no?” He shouted from across the room.

“Yes, definitely.”

When you left the bathroom, you were wearing the shortest, most revealing, nightgown.

“That’s what you are wearing to bed?” He looked at you like like you grew a second head.

“Aha!”

“You’ve just packed that on your suitcase and thought Hey! I’ll wear this and give the old man a heart attack?”

" I thought…” You stared at him right in the eyes and used your bedroom voice. “I’ll wear this, so this said old man, can take it off.”

“You are making it so hard to be a gentleman right now...” He took a pillow and muffled a scream into it.“You are evil.”

“I’ve told you I was the villain.”

“You know, we will eventually have sex, sooner rather than later, and when we do, I’m not letting you out of this room for days.” The way he looked at you. You knew he fully intended to keep that promise.

“Promises Promises Barnes”

He gave you a kiss on the forehead. “Now sleep baby.”

[pampi-iranzo]

This author is my best friend, and she dropped the new chapter out of the blue!!

Wow. Hope you enjoy!

[aquaticmercy]

We Keep Running Into Each Other

Summary : Bucky falls in love with a struggling journalist, but neither of them were ready for a relationship… until now. 

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x Journalist!reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Friends with benefits to Lovers. Suggestive content. Cursing. Little bit of angst, Hurt/Comfort, domestic!Bucky, TFATWS-Bucky Congressman!Bucky, bit of fluff!!!!

Word count : 16.8k

Note : This story starts around TFATWS and ends right before Thunderbolts. Enjoy!

The bookstore was quiet now. Most of the book club people had filtered out after an hour or so offering their usual waves and lukewarm opinions on the week’s pick. Tonight, it was The Bell Jar. Heavy, emotional, a little too on-the-nose for your current mental state. You stayed behind, your pen hovering over the last page as you pretended to reread a passage you’ve memorised three times already. In reality, you’re avoiding the blinking cursor on the empty Word document waiting on your laptop at home. Another missed pitch. Another editor ‘passing for now.’

“You’re not a fan,” said a voice from across the room.

You looked up to see James Buchanan Barnes, leaning against the doorframe like he’d been watching you for longer than you’re comfortable admitting. The sleeves of his hoodie were pushed up just enough to reveal a hint of metal. You already knew it’s vibranium— you already knew a lot of things about him, but it was different seeing it up close, like it doesn’t belong to a man who once jumped out of planes and shattered skulls with his bare hands. “Not a fan of what?” you asked, raising a brow.

“The book.” He pushed off the doorframe. “You’ve been stuck on the same page for ten minutes. You look like you’re trying to pick a fight with Sylvia Plath.”

You snorted. “Maybe I am.”

He smirked, folding his arms. “She’d probably win.”

“She’d definitely win,” you say with a grin, snapping the book closed and tossing it on the table. “Depressed girls with typewriters are dangerous.”

You’d know, you were one. Still, Bucky watched you like he’s trying to see what parts of you are real, and what you’re faking.

You held his stare, refusing to shrink under it, and told him your name, because you might as well right?

He nodded. “I’m Bucky.”

You smiled faintly. “I know.”

His eyes narrowed for a second—but it wasn’t hostile.  You shoved your stuff into your bag. “I don’t mean like that. It’s just—” You shrugged. “I’m a journalist. Or I try to be. Comes with, you know… obsessively knowing things.”

He tilted his head, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. “You do profiles?”

“Sometimes.” You hesitated. “Lately it’s more… copywriting for blogs that publish people’s hot takes on ethical non-monogamy and pistachio milk brands.”

That made him smile. Not much— just a brief lift at the corner of his mouth, but it counted, right?

“So,” he said, “what’s a smartass doing in a book club like this?”

You grinned. “Research.”

“For?”

“Human behavior,” you said casually. “Actually, you’d be a good topic to write about. You’d make a great tragic anti-hero. Real brooding appeal. It’d get clicks.”

He stepped closer now, helping you up from your seat. “You always this charming?”

“Only when I’m avoiding work.”

“How’s that going?”

“I’m still here, aren’t I?”

Silence stretched for a second too long. Then, he asked, “Are you free?”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “There’s a bar a few blocks over. Good whiskey, if that’s your thing. Got crappy lighting”

You stared at him, at the scars barely hidden beneath his collar. The twitch in his jaw when you looked too long. You felt the heat building behind your chest—not quite attraction, not yet. But the potential to. 

“Alright,” you said. “But I’m warning you—I flirt when I drink.”

He opened the door for you without breaking eye contact. “Guess I’ll take my chances.”

—

He did say the lighting was gonna be crappy, but the bar was still darker than you expected. It had its charm, though, with brick walls and the kind of jazz playing in the background that made everything feel like it was happening in sepia. The bartender didn’t blink twice when Bucky walked in, which probably meant this wasn’t a new spot for him. He slid onto a stool, and you followed without thinking.

“Two whiskeys,” he said to the bartender, glancing at you, and you nodded.

“You come here often?” you said with a smirk, knowing full well how cliché it sounded, but you needed something to break the silence.

He snorted. “That’s my line.”

“I don’t believe you’ve ever used a line in your life.”

His eyes sparkled, then chuckled. “Not since 1943.”

You leaned your elbow on the bar. “What was it? ‘Say, doll, wanna share a malt and talk about the war effort?’”

“Close.” He gave you a dry but amused look. “Steve was shy when it came to girls, so I had to do the heavy lifting for the both of us.”

The drinks arrived. He slid one toward you. 

You took a sip. “You’re better at this than you think, you know.”

He raised an eyebrow. “At what?”

“Conversation,” you said, tapping the rim of your glass. “Making people feel like they’re not talking into a void.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, but didn’t.

Instead, he asked, “What about you? You’re not shy, but you haven’t really said much about yourself.”

That made your lips twitch. “You think I’m not shy?”

“I think,” he said carefully, “you talk a lot to keep people from looking too close.”

You blinked. Not because he was wrong—he wasn’t—but because he’d hit the nail so cleanly after only one meeting, you almost spilled your drink.

“Jesus,” you muttered, leaning back, “You sound like my mother.”

He smiled, just a little. “Didn’t mean it in a bad way.”

“I know.” You swirled the whiskey in your glass, staring down into the amber. “I just… don’t usually have people say that out loud. Most guys I meet don’t exactly want to know the why behind my sarcasm.”

“I do.”

“Well…” you shrugged. You probably shouldn’t trauma dump to a famous stranger, but you needed an outlet to talk to, so… might as well, right? “I’m a mess. I haven’t written a good piece in weeks. I’m broke, chronically tired, and emotionally constipated.”

“That supposed to scare me off?”

“Most people run from the second I talk or feel too much.”

“Most people,” he said, tilting his head, “aren’t me.”

You laughed under your breath, remembering his full name from an article you read a couple months ago. “Okay, James.”

He stiffened slightly. Not in anger, but the name hit a bruise.

“Sorry.” you corrected, “Bucky.”

“No, it’s fine,” he said. “Just weird, hearing it like that again from someone that isn’t my therapist or a supervillain. Feels… old.”

“Everything about you feels old,” you teased, nudging his boot with yours beneath the bar.

He laughed, and the conversation was easy from there.

You finished your drinks. You didn’t touch each other again, not yet, but your legs stayed close. You noticed the way his fingers drummed nervously on the edge of the bar and how he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching.

And when you both stood to leave, he walked you home.

—

Last night wasn’t a date. You told yourself that. Told your friends that. Told your reflection in the mirror that.

But then, you keep meeting between book club.

You ran into him outside your favourite grocery store four days later. You’d think the chances of Bucky Barnes needing kale and almond milk on a Tuesday afternoon were close to zero, but here you were.

Then you bumped into him again at the park. You were nursing a coffee and your latest rejection email on a bench. He was walking alone without a destination and no headphones on— like he didn’t know what to do with himself if he stopped moving too long. He sat down beside you, and that conversation lasted an hour and a half. 

And it happened again. At a cafe. And again. At the library. And Again. At the dentist’s office.

The sixth time, you exchanged numbers.

Then, you started texting. It was never anything dramatic. It was just… links to articles, quotes from books. “This reminded me of you” with no context— and it was a photo of the sky when it turned gold at sunset.

He started sitting next to you at book club after that.

He never said anything about it, never made a show of it— but every week, he claimed the chair to your left like it had always been his. Sometimes his thigh brushed yours. Sometimes your knees bumped and neither of you apologised.

Sometimes, you didn’t take notes at all. You just listened to the way he spoke when he actually cared about a character, or how his muscles tightened when someone made a flippant comment about trauma they didn’t understand.

Because of Bucky, book club became the highlight of your week (even if you did get bored sometimes and developed a whole cipher system with Bucky while everyone else was talking about Jane Eyre).

Then… he missed a session.

No text. No warning. He just didn’t show.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. It wasn’t like he owed you anything.

But your phone stayed within arm’s reach that night. And the night after.

And when the text finally came—after three days and too many imagined worst-case scenarios—you almost dropped your phone reading it.

sorry i missed book club things got messy and didn’t want to drag you into it

You typed a reply quickly.

Are you okay? Where are you?

He got back to you immediately.

safe now can I see you?

You tilted your head, considering your answer.

Yeah Where were you thinking? Bar?

Bucky didn’t respond after that.

—

You didn’t expect the knock.

You’d half expected him to disappear for good. Or to text you some vague “something came up” text that meant he was in mortal danger.

But thirty minutes after you last texted him, at 1:14 a.m., there he was— knocking against your window like he wasn’t standing four stories up on a Brooklyn fire escape.

You blinked and pushed the window open. “You’re insane.”

He gave a crooked shrug. “You said I could see you.”

He climbed in, but only halfway, just to glance around your apartment. His eyes landed on your laptop—open, half a draft blinking on the screen—and then on the half-eaten bag of trail mix on your desk.

“This is sad,” he teased.

“Don’t judge me. It’s freelance life.”

You stepped aside, but instead of going in, he sat down on the ledge of your fire escape again, like he’d done it a hundred times before. You sighed and ducked out the window to sit beside him.

Neither of you spoke right away.

You just sat shoulder to shoulder in the dark. It was cooler than it had been last week, and you noticed the way he rolled his shoulder like something was still sore.

“You okay?” you asked after a minute.

“No.”

You nodded. “Wanna talk about it?”

He was quiet for a moment. Then— “I saw that article you wrote. The one about the Flag Smashers.”

You braced yourself.

“You said they had a point.”

You swallowed. “Yeah?”

“Well,” he let out a deep breath, “I kind of missed book club because we’re going after them.”

You froze. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” His metal fists curled. “I mean—we’re not hunting them down like animals. Sam and I… we were trying to stop it from getting worse, from doing something they’d regret. It’s just—” he shook his head—“messy.”

You nodded slowly. “I get it.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I wasn’t defending what they did. But they’re angry. Displaced. It’s hard not to look at what the world’s become and think, God, someone has to break something to make people listen.”

He looked down. “That’s probably what Karli would say.”

“Yeah,” you breathed. “That’s what scared me.”

Bucky leaned against you, and you carefully put your head on your shoulders. He exhaled through his nose. “It’s not like I think she’s wrong. Just… I’ve done things I can’t take back. I know where that path ends.”

You scooted just a bit closer. He sounded like the weight of the world was draped over his shoulders like an old coat he couldn’t take off.

“I didn’t mean to dump all that,” he said, voice rough.

“Don’t worry about it.”

There was another bout of silence, and for a while, you basked in him

Then you turned to him, narrowing your eyes. “You’re tense as hell.”

He glanced at you. “What?”

“You’ve been rolling that shoulder for ten minutes.”

“I’m fine.”

You reached over before he could finish protesting, your hand finding the spot near his collarbone. He flinched— but didn’t stop you.

“Relax,” you whispered, fingers pressing gently into the muscle. “Jesus, it’s like a steel cable.”

He made a sound that was almost a laugh, almost a groan—and tilted his head just enough to give you better access.

“You keep this up,” he muttered, “and I’m going to start thinking you’re trying to seduce me.”

You smiled without looking at him. “If I was trying to seduce you, James, you’d already be in my bed.”

He let out a real laugh at that, but then he stopped abruptly.

You could feel the moment shift—like heat rising under a volcano.

His voice was quieter when he said it. “You ever think about it?”

Your fingers paused. “Think about what?”

“This.” He glanced at you. “Us. Kind of… doing something about the tension.”

Your hand slipped away from his shoulder carefully. “You mean sex?”

He met your gaze without flinching. “Yeah.”

Your breath caught, but you didn’t move. “Yeah,” you said, just above a whisper. “Of course I have.”

He looked at you. “And?”

“And I think we’re both a mess.”

He didn’t argue. 

“You told me you missed your court-mandated therapy two weeks ago,” you spelled it out for him gently. “I’m averaging three articles a month. Four if I get lucky. I’m emotionally exhausted, financially unstable, and one wrong email away from moving back in with my family.”

He smiled, a little crooked and a little sad. “You think I don’t know I’m a mess?”

“No,” you shook your head, “I think you do. That’s the problem.”

You placed a hand on his metal arm and met his gaze. “Neither of us is in the headspace for a relationship.”

His teeth clenched, but he didn’t look away.  “But,” he said, his voice lower now, almost thoughtful, “One way or another… we should do something.”

Your heartbeat ticked up. “You’re serious?”

“I think about you all the damn time,” he said simply. “I think about how you talk. How you laugh. How you look when you get pissed off in book club and start flipping through your notes.”

“We’re not stable,” you reminded before he could spiral, even though you wanted to say you loved staring into his eyes and finding the ocean, even though you wanted to let him know you found him to be the only person you could breathe around. “We’re not dating material. We’re barely friend material.”

“I know,” he said quietly.

And you knew he did.

You knew because he carried every broken piece of himself like it was still dangerous. You knew because you did the same.

“So what then?” you asked. “What are we even talking about?”

He met your eyes. “Just sex.”

Your breath caught.

“I’m serious,” he said. “No pretending it’s anything else. No promises.”

You tilted your head. “And you think that’s gonna be enough?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I know I feel like I’m losing my mind half the week. And when I’m around you, I don’t.”

You swallowed hard. “Bucky—”

“I don’t mean it like some sappy shit,” he corrected himself. “I just mean — you’re easy to be around. You get it. The mess. The anger. The bad sleep. You don’t try to fix me.”

You were quiet.

“And when you touch me,” he added, “I feel like I’m still human.”

That nearly knocked the breath out of you.

You shouldn’t say things like that, you thought, because I’m already halfway in love with you.

You didn’t say it, though. 

Instead you said, “Okay.”

His brow lifted. “Okay?”

“Sex,” you said. “Just sex. When we’re both clear-headed and want it.”

His voice shifted—playful now, “Do we want it now?”

You looked at him, at the way the moonlight caught the angles of his face, the tension still hanging on his frame like armour, His eyes were warm, but his mind was probably still spinning.

You gave him a faint smile, “You’re not clear-headed right now.”

He glanced down at where your hand still rested on his, fingers splayed.

“No emotional triage sex,” you said again, quieter this time. “Remember?”

He caught your wrist — not hard, just enough to keep it with his hand for a second longer. His touch was careful, and it made your throat tighten. “Fine,” he murmured. “Then I’ll sit out here until I’m calm.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’ll freeze.”

He smirked. “Worth it.”

“You’re such a guy.” You stood, brushing your hands off on your pajama pants. “I’ll be on the couch. Try not to catch hypothermia out here, old man.”

He gave you a mock glare as you slipped back through the window, leaving it cracked open behind you.

—

Twenty minutes passed.

You weren’t sure why you kept checking the clock. You’d pulled an old blanket over yourself, curled sideways on the couch having finished an article, one eye half-watching the blinking cursor on your laptop screen across the room. But your thoughts were back on the fire escape. On him.

You were about to get up—maybe to check, maybe to call him an idiot again—when you heard the scrape of boots on your floor. You looked up.

There he was, hoodie unzipped now, hair a little messy from the night air. 

He didn’t say anything. He just walked across the room, took off his shoes and sat beside you.

Then slowly — like checking for permission — he slid down, tucked his arm under your head, and pulled you in. His body curled behind yours, as he rested his cheek just barely against the back of your shoulder.

You didn’t move. You just let yourself be held.

And after a while, when your breathing slowed and your thoughts finally stopped chasing themselves — you felt his fingers slip gently over yours, and his thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles.

So… no sex. But just comfort. Just him. You weren’t complaining at all.

—

A week later, he was late to book club. Which was no surprise for Bucky Barnes — but this time, you knew why.

He had just stepped off a plane from Riga hours earlier. Still, he made it — slipping into book club quietly, just past the first half hour, with a henley beneath his jacket and baseball cap shadowing his face.

You caught his eye as he dropped into the seat beside you. 

“Just got off the plane,” he whispered, breath warm in your ear, “didn’t want to miss it.”

You blinked, heart skipping a beat. “You flew all the way back for this?”

“No,” he said, a teasing edge under the weariness. “I flew back for you.”

You swallowed, heat blooming behind your cheeks.

The rest of the night blurred into a haze. Words floated like smoke; their meaning lost beneath the thumping of your heartbeat. His knee brushed yours beneath — annoyingly impossible to ignore.

When the last page was turned, the group dispersed, and the chairs scraped across the floor, you stood to face him. “You walking me home?”

His tired smile was all the answer you needed. “Always.”

—

The walk was silent. Not the awkward kind, but the charged kind that hummed under your skin and made every footstep feel like it echoed louder than it should. The streetlights overhead cast golden pools on the sidewalk, and every few steps, his arm would brush yours — too casual to be deliberate, too frequent to be accidental. You’d forgotten to bring a jacket, but you barely felt the chill.

“So,” you finally said, your voice quieter than usual. “Riga, huh?”

“Another mission.” Bucky huffed out a tired laugh. “Got back less than three hours ago.”

“And still came to book club to and I quote,” you teased, “‘See me?’”

His shoulder bumped yours. “Yeah.”

You looked over, and the half-smile on his face wasn’t teasing. It was tired, yes, and a little crooked, but sincere.

“I’m glad you came,” you said before you could stop yourself. You didn’t dress it up or tuck it behind a joke.

He didn’t look away. “Me too.”

You reached your building and stopped at the stoop, one hand gripping the railing absently. The city moved quietly behind you—- the hum of traffic a street over, the flicker of a neon sign across the way. His shadow pooled across yours. You turned toward him. “Do you want to—” You hesitated. You hadn’t planned to say it. It wasn’t a line. “Come in?”

There it was again — that flicker of surprise in his eyes.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took one step closer. You could smell the faint warmth of his skin, the soap still clinging to him. His voice dropped. “Yeah.”

You moved up the stairs ahead of him, heart hammering like it was trying to make itself known through your ribcage. You unlocked the door and stepped inside. He followed without a word.

You didn’t bother turning on the lights. The spill of the city through the windows was enough. Your apartment was small, familiar. 

You slipped off your shoes slowly, suddenly hyperaware of every motion, especially of his eyes on you.

When you straightened, he was still by the door. Hands in the pockets of his hoodie, watching you.

Neither of you moved.

“Do you want a drink?” you asked, quieter than you meant.

“No.”

You swallowed.

He took a step toward you, and you didn’t back away.

When he was close enough that you could feel his breath, you tilted your head up, eyes locking with his. There was something in his eyes that made your stomach twist — like he’d already imagined this moment a hundred times, and now he was here, he didn’t want to rush it.

“I’ve been thinking about last week,” he said, voice low and hoarse. “But I didn’t want to— I didn’t know if you still want…”

Your hands were already sliding up his chest, curling in the fabric of his shirt. “You’re thinking too much, Barnes.”

And then you kissed him.

Not shy, but slow at first — mouths brushing, — but then he groaned low in his throat, and kissed you back with years of tension behind it. His hands slid into your hair, fingers tightening and tugging gently. You gasped against his mouth, and his tongue slid against yours.

You clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded, his metal arm anchoring you to reality.

He broke away first, barely — his forehead pressed against yours, breathing heavy.

His mouth was still hovering over yours, breath warm and ragged, the sweat between you thick enough to drown in.

“That what you wanted?” he murmured, voice  dark.

You swallowed, fingers still twisted in his henley. “It’s a good start.”

The corner of his mouth twitched and then you kissed him again, harder this time.

There was no slow build now. His hands were everywhere — under your shirt, gripping your waist like he’d die if he let go. He tasted like salt and jet lag and something distinctly him, and you couldn’t get enough.

You turned and walked backward, tugging him with you, fingers sliding under his shirt, greedy and fast. He followed wordlessly, eyes locked on yours, hunger darkening his gaze.

Your knees hit the back of the couch, and you pulled him down with you. The couch creaked beneath the sudden, tangled rush of limbs, but you didn’t stop, didn’t care. You reached for the hem of his shirt, yanking it over his head in one fluid motion. His chest was scarred and beautiful, warm skin over muscle you wanted to memorise with your hands, your mouth. His dog tags clinked between you.

He leaned down again, his mouth brushing your jaw, your throat, your collarbone like he was searching for answers in your skin. Your back arched, offering more, needing more.

“Fuck,” he groaned into your neck. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

“I think I do,” you whispered, dragging your nails lightly down his back. He shivered. His hips bucked forward against yours, and you loved the way he wasn’t holding back anymore.

Your shirt was gone next. Then the rest — clothes shed like molted skin, until there was nothing left between you but barely-touched want.

He looked at you for one breathless second — long enough for you to see it, just a flicker of awe, maybe even fear. Then his mouth was on yours again, and he was moving — slow at first, then deeper. You gasped into his mouth, body arching into him. “Bucky—”

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Just let go.”

So you did.

You moved together in a rhythm that was messy and perfect, frantic and slow, too much and not enough. Every sound you made — a gasp or a moan, his name on your lips — made him lose control a little more.

He cursed into your shoulder when you clenched around him, when your nails scraped his back, when your hips lifted to meet every thrust like you’d been waiting your whole life for this.

Your fingers threaded into his hair. And then — the moment hit, like fire swallowing oxygen. You shattered under him, his name a broken cry on your lips, and he followed right after, groaning into your neck as his body locked against yours.

For a long time, he had his hand in your hair, your leg still curled around his hip, both of you coming down with aftershock.

Then, you said it. The thing you’d both been hiding behind. “It’s just sex, right?”

You didn’t know if you meant it. Your voice was casual, but your heart was anything but. You didn’t look at him.

He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned up on one elbow, brushed some hair out of your eyes, and looked like he could see straight through the lie.

Then he smiled — that crooked Barnes smile that you never quite understood but adored anyway. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

—

It became a thing, because of course it did.

Every Thursday night — after book club, after someone gave a half-hearted review of whatever novel they'd half-read — Bucky would walk you home, or he’d invite you over to his, no matter how tired he was. No matter if Sam had him chasing leads across borders the day before. No matter if you’d argued in the middle of a group discussion over whether the protagonist was morally gray or just an asshole.

By the time you got to the door, it was already understood. You’d leave it cracked open behind you as you kicked off your shoes.

Some nights, you didn’t even speak. He’d press a kiss to the back of your neck while you stood by the kitchen counter. You’d melt before the water even hit your lips. Then the glasses would be forgotten.

Clothes disappeared between rooms. Sometimes in the hallway, sometimes the couch, occasionally — recklessly — the window. His hands on your thighs, your mouth on his shoulder, your fingers threading through his hair. Again and again.

It wasn’t gentle, not always. Not at first.

Some weeks, after missions, his hands would grip you a little harder. You knew what to do. You’d pull him onto you and let him use you until the tremors stopped. No emotional triage sex be damned.

You never asked what he’d seen. He never asked why you were typing furiously into 3 a.m. drafts you never submitted.

Other times, it was quiet. Like that fourth week — when you had cramps, and he still came by, and you told him “I’m not in the mood” and he said, “I didn’t come for sex,” and then climbed into bed with you fully clothed and let you curl into him like a furnace, letting the pain bleed out of your spine. He didn’t leave that night. 

Some Thursdays, you’d talk. Bodies tangled under sheets, your leg thrown across his thigh while you shared wine straight from the bottle. He asked you what you liked to read outside of the club. You asked if he ever watched the Voltron cartoons.

Once, you kissed him before he touched you — and it felt dangerously close to strings. He pretended not to notice. Later, as you straddled him on the couch, riding him with desperation, he gasped your name like it meant more than your body.

You pretended not to hear that, either.

It was just sex. Except it wasn’t.

He started keeping a toothbrush in your bathroom. You started texting him about non-sex things. Groceries. Headlines. Memes.

He never stayed past Friday morning. You never asked him to. But every Thursday night, he came back. Like clockwork.

—

This week, he texted you a few hours before book club.

can’t make it tonight. something came up. raincheck?

​​You stared at the message longer than you should have.

No explanation. No voice note. No dumb emoji that he didn’t know how to use. You didn’t respond right away.

You had news — big news — the kind you’d imagined telling him face-to-face, maybe over takeout on your couch, legs tangled under the blanket he claimed was too small for him. 

You… got a job offer six days ago. You accepted it five days ago. And this time, it wasn't an underpaid freelance gig or an op-ed that paid in exposure.

You’d landed an offer from The District Post, a rising political publication based in D.C., one of the few that still let its journalists write with teeth. You hadn’t told him you’d even applied. 

You were supposed to move next week.

And now, he wouldn’t even be here tonight, and you didn’t know if he’d have the time to see you before then.

Still, you typed out your reply.

Okay. Be safe.

That night, you skipped book club. You couldn’t sit in that room tonight, not with his usual empty chair beside you.

Instead, you poured a glass of cheap wine and tried to write — something about your neighborhood, a think piece you were rushing out before the move. But you couldn’t focus. The words didn’t sit right. Everything felt off.

Then you flipped on the TV.

And there they were.

The Live Breaking News banner flashed red across the screen. Chaos outside a GRC meeting in New York, emergency broadcasts, armed guards, panic. And then— Captain America.

His wings outstretched, the shield gleaming under spotlights. He dropped into frame like a meteor.Your breath caught.

And behind him— Bucky. Charging into frame, metal arm glinting, catching falling debris like it was nothing. Bruised, sweating, while people screamed around them. Cameras were everywhere.

You watched, transfixed, all while Sam gave the speech. "You have to do better. You’ve got to step up. Because if you don’t — the next Karli will."

You looked closer at the screen. Bucky stood off to the side, watching his best friend with pride. He wasn’t a soldier anymore, not like he used to be.

You didn’t realise you were crying until you blinked and tasted salt. You sat in silence long after the coverage ended, the glow of the screen flickering across your empty apartment.

Then your phone buzzed with a new email.

Subject: GRC PRESS PASS — URGENT APPROVAL From: [email protected] You are credentialed to cover the post-summit GRC press briefing in Manhattan. Captain Sam Wilson and Sergeant James Barnes will be present. Due to your proximity and recent work, you are our lead. Be there by 9:30 a.m.

You were being sent… because you were closest to the scene. Because somehow your strange, messy, not-a-relationship with Bucky had placed you at the epicenter of something bigger than both of you.

Tomorrow, you’d be there in a professional capacity — with your press badge, a recorder, and a deadline — and you’d have to ask questions like he wasn’t the man who kissed your neck and stole your pillows and never stayed past Friday morning.

You’d have to see him like the rest of the world did. And worse… he’d have to see you that way too.

As a reporter, and not the person who massaged the tension from his shoulders, who whispered against his skin, “just sex, right?”

You set the glass in your hand down and on the edge of your bed, and all you could think about was how his toothbrush was still in your bathroom.

You thought about throwing it out. You didn’t.

—

The press conference wasn’t supposed to be your moment.

You were just another journalist in a sea of microphones and recycled questions, trying to keep your hand steady while the world tilted just a little from everything that had just gone down with the Flag Smashers, with Karli, with Cap—Sam.

People around you were fawning over the new Captain America, swooning at his speech, trying to get quotes that would fit well in a tweet. Soundbites. Clicks. Validation. But not you.

You were tired of the bullshit, of the "how does it feel to have the shield again" questions lobbed toward Sam like a beach ball. Instead, you watched Bucky in his uniform that looked like a rushed fitting— his eyes filled with that haunted, half-there, half-wanting-to-leave-the-building-already look. 

And then he saw you in the crowd.

He blinked—once, twice—like the universe had glitched. His lips parted slightly, and his brow twitched like he wasn’t sure if you were real. You caught the moment his eyes dropped over your face, your mouth, the line of your collarbone visible just above your blouse. It was familiar territory.

You were trying your best to act like you hadn’t had his hand wrapped around your thigh eight nights ago while you bit down a moan in the crook of his neck. Still, you raised your hand.

And when they called on you, you didn’t hesitate.

“Mr. Barnes,” you called. “Do you think public perception of you has changed after this incident?”

The room froze around your voice. Even Sam glanced over.

Bucky stared at you like you’d sucker-punched him. Not because the question was aggressive—it wasn’t. It was…  professional.

But you knew him. You’d had your fingers on his pulse. You were the last person to run your hands through his hair while he came undone in a bed that still smelled like him.

He blinked again, a double-take this time. Like he didn’t quite trust that you were really there, asking that.

“I… don’t know,” he said finally, with a smile he could never help when he saw you. “I don’t… really care anymore.”

You nodded and scribbled something that wasn’t a word into your notebook, just to give your hands something to do.

The press conference moved on. Sam answered a question about international cooperation. A woman from the GRC said something diplomatic and vague, but you didn’t hear any of it.

Because Bucky Barnes was still watching you like he was peeling back every layer of distance, until only the truth of a week ago was left: your nails in his back, his breath against your skin, and the look on his face when he realised he didn’t want it to end.

When it was over, you didn’t wait around. You’d done your job. You’d asked your question.

You slipped out toward the back hallway, but he followed.

—

You were almost down the steps of the building when you heard your name followed with a "Wait—hey."

You turned.

And there he was, cutting through the crowd with that signature Bucky Barnes boyish smile he reserved for you like no one else existed. Which, for that split second, maybe they didn’t. 

His tie was undone, hanging loose around his neck, jacket slung over one shoulder, and his ridiculously blue eyes locked onto you.

He slowed down when he got closer, giving you a once-over that was anything but subtle.

And then, softly, almost to himself. “Wow.”

You smiled, shy all of a sudden. “Hi.”

He blinked, and it took him a second too long to respond. “I—wow. Look at you. Invited to press.”

“Bucky,” you said with a smile, feigning offense. “Are you saying a press pass means I’m finally a real journalist?”

That made him laugh, the sound low and rough. “I just…” he started, “I didn’t expect to see you here.” 

You tapped your badge, the lanyard swinging lightly against your chest. “Got a job.”

He leaned in to read it, his brow lifting. “The District Post? Isn’t that—”

“In D.C.,” you finished. “Yeah.”

His smile almost dropped, like you had pulled the floor out from under his thoughts. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, wow. That’s—shit, that’s huge. Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” you said, lips tugging into a small smile.

His eyes fell to the sidewalk. “So… you’re moving?”

“Next week,” you confirmed.

“Oh,” he said again, but softer this time, like it hadn’t really sunk in until now.

You tilted your head, watching him. “What, you gonna miss me, Barnes?”

And he met your eyes again. “Yes,” he said without missing a beat. “Of course.”

Your heart did a stupid flip in your chest, traitor that it was.

You let the moment sit between you— the heat, the knowledge that whatever this was didn’t feel finished. That those nights weren't just some casual thing, no matter how both of you had tried to play it cool.

And maybe you were both cowards, not texting, not calling, not saying what it meant. But you refused to let it swallow you whole just yet. Instead, you grinned and crossed your arms.

“We still have a week,” you said suddenly, quieter.

He blinked. “What?”

You lifted your eyes to his. “Before I go. I still have a week.”

He gave you half-smile again, the one that always made your stomach flip.

“Well,” he said, voice rough around the edges. “Guess I should make it count then, huh?”

You raised a brow. “What, suddenly you’re sentimental?”

He brushed a knuckle against your wrist, tentative, like he was asking permission to feel again. “I…,” he started, “I just want to help you spend your last few days in New York. If that’s alright?"

You looked up at him. Let your voice drop, teasing again—because too much honesty all at once might break you both. “Depends,” you said. “You buying takeout?”

He grinned,  the tension in his shoulders finally loosening. “Only if you promise not to mock my taste in diners this time.”

“I make no promises.”

He laughed again, and sure, maybe there was still a thousand miles of uncertainty ahead. But for now, you still had a week.

—

The week was over before you knew it.

The morning sun spilled across the sidewalk as Bucky hauled two of your heavy suitcases up the subway and into the train station, the rest of your belongings already en route. He saw you fumble over your ticket but didn’t move, eyes flicking over to you like he was trying to commit the moment to memory.

“Ready?” he asked casually, like he wasn’t thinking about the fact you’d been in his bed less than twelve hours ago. You glanced at him, that familiar flicker of something between amusement and frustration rising. “Yeah. The train is in thirty minutes.”

He nodded, biting his lip like he was holding back a dozen things he wanted to say—and some he probably shouldn’t. You’re letting her go, he thought bitterly, you’re letting her leave without knowing how you really feel.

You had a real shot now — a steady job, a life starting to bloom beyond the chaos that followed him around like a shadow. He remembered the first time he saw the lanyard last week. The pride in your voice should have made him happy. And part of him was.

But another part—one he refused to admit—was drowning. 

She’s gonna meet someone out there, he thought, eyes flicking back to you, someone who can give her the kind of life I can’t right now.

He was jealous just thinking of some random guy touching you the way he did last night. He wanted to beg you to wait, to tell you he’d get there — someday. But he knew, It wouldn’t be fair. Not to you.

So instead, he kept quiet.

You caught his gaze, eyes narrowing. “You gonna say something or just stare at me till I leave?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I was gonna say... thanks.”

“For what?” You arched an eyebrow, crossing your arms.

“For this last week,” he said quietly. “For not making it weird. For just… letting it be.”

You laughed, but there was no real humour in it. “We’re not a thing, Bucky. Just friends.” 

Liar, you thought to yourself.

He chuckled, shaking his head like he was amused by your insistence. “Right. Friends.”

You didn’t say anything. You knew exactly what he meant.

As he handed you your suitcase, he stepped back toward you, closing the distance.

“You sure this is it?” His hand caught yours, fingers around your wrist.

You held his eyes, the heat sparking between you like a live wire. “Yeah,” you said. “I’m sure.”

He leaned in, hand sliding from your wrist up to cup your cheek “We’re just friends,” he whispered.

You nodded. “So,” you said, teasing, “this is just how friends say goodbye?”

Without another word, Bucky’s lips found yours—soft at first, then deeper. You kissed back, heart pounding, the world shrinking to the two of you right there on the sidewalk.

When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours. “Text me when you get there,” he said, voice rough.

You nodded.

“I’ll miss you,” he admitted, quieter now.

You smiled, brushing your fingers through his hair. “Me too.”

And just like that, you were walking toward the train.

When Bucky got home, he read your piece on him and Sam, and pretended you were still there.

—

For a while, you and Bucky kept in touch like you said you would. Those first few weeks were filled with late-night texts and lonely phone calls — the kind that made the distance seem smaller, like you could almost reach through the screen and touch him on the other side. But life, as it tends to do, got in the way.

You both got busier — deadlines, news stories, and endless responsibilities pulling you in a thousand directions at once. The daily messages turned into weekly check-ins, and the weekly check-ins into texts that came sporadically. Before you knew it, you only texted every three months.

"Hey. Hope you’re good." "Hey. Still alive." “I think I’m gonna grow out my hair.”

You’d text a quick update. A joke. A picture of some mundane thing that made you think of the other. Nothing demanding — just enough to say, I'm still here.

You both knew it was a far cry from where you started. No more late-night talks about everything and nothing, no more teasing banter that stretched until sunrise.

But that was okay.

Because sometimes, that’s how life works.

—

A year slipped by like sand between your fingers.

Your work had become a grind — not in a bad way, just in that all-consuming way where your days blurred together in drafts and deadlines and a phone that never stopped buzzing. You still got the occasional “How are you?” text from Bucky. You answered most of the time. Sometimes it took a few days. Sometimes longer.

Then, one morning, while half-listening to a pitch meeting, a colleague offhandedly mentioned a sister company’s political beat — “Big story this week. James Barnes is running for congress. Wild, right?”

You nearly dropped your coffee.

“Barnes?” you asked, pretending it was nothing. Pretending your chest hadn’t just constricted.

“Yeah, Bucky Barnes. Brooklyn seat. He’s advocating for GRC reform, community policy — it’s a whole thing.”

Of course he was running for Congress. Of course.

It was so him —that need to make the world just a little bit better, though still unsure how? Of course he was trying everything. 

You sat on the news for a couple days. Thought about saying nothing. But one night, after too much caffeine and too little sleep, you caved.

[You, 2:41 AM] Saw the news. Congressman Barnes, huh? Good luck.

You didn’t expect a reply. Not right away. Maybe not ever. But then…

[Bucky, 3:05 AM] Thought I should try something stable.

You started keeping tabs. You watched the campaign videos when they came across your feed. Read a few articles. One photo — him at some community event, sleeves rolled up, squinting in the sun with that smile you remembered too well — made you stare a little too long before scrolling past.

It was weird. You weren’t in love. Right? Just... proud.

And maybe, just maybe, wondering what might happen if you ever crossed paths again.

—

A year after he started campaigning, he got voted in.

Congressman James Buchanan Barnes — Brooklyn’s own, sworn in with a navy suit, a firm handshake, and those same blue eyes you remembered from two years ago.

You didn’t text this time— just watched from a distance. Until the day of his first press conference.

You weren’t even assigned to it, not really. But when the opportunity opened to cover local legislative priorities, your badge was already around your neck and your recorder already in your bag. You told yourself it was just another assignment.

You didn’t expect him to notice you. Not right away, at least.

But the second he stepped up to the podium, eyes scanning the crowd of cameras and reporters, he did. He did a full double take when he saw you.

His hair was a little longer, his suit a little more expensive. But he remembered the way your skin felt under his palm.

Then… you raised your hand.

He called on you, because of course he did. He barely even looked at the press sheet. You stood.

"Congressman Barnes," you said, clearly, pretending your heart wasn’t beating out of your chest “You ran on transparency and reform — with the GRC and domestic policy both under scrutiny. Do you believe public perception of you, personally, has changed after your... past affiliations?"

His teeth clenched — but not in anger. It was like a memory trying to claw its way to the surface.

He let out a deep breath. "I think people will always see what they want to see. But I'm here to serve them, not convince them."

You didn’t flinch. “That’s a diplomatic answer.”

A flicker of a smile ghosted across his face. “You shouldn’t expect any less from me.”

God, he’s changed. You raised an eyebrow, letting the tension simmer. You wanted to say, Funny. Last time I saw you, you were definitely not behaving diplomatically.

But no, you just nodded and sat down.

He was dead silent for half a second too long. He chuckled under his breath, eyes cutting into yours like the rest of the room wasn’t even there.

He stumbled a little on the next question and cleared his throat twice. The comms director gave him a look like get it together.

—

The press conference ended with the usual flurry — interns chasing stories, photographers snapping the last few candids, aides ushering the Congressman toward scheduled handshakes and photo ops. But you… you moved slowly.

You weren’t supposed to linger, you had your quote. Your headline was already half-formed in your head. But still, you hovered, half-expecting — hoping — he’d break through the crowd, just for a second. And of course, he did.

“Hey.”

Bucky Barnes, up close in a tailored black suit that made him look was a sight to behold. But his voice was quiet, and his eyes were soft — the way only you knew how to read.

“Didn’t think I’d see you today,” he said, and he sounded winded like he’d just come off the Senate floor, not a press event.

“I cover federal now,” you said, lifting your press badge with a smirk. “So here I am.”

A long pause formed a chasm between you, bloated with everything you hadn’t said for almost two years. The nights. The slowly drifting apart. The texts that faded from “hey” to “hope you’re well.”

“I missed you,” he said quietly.

God. You swallowed. “We got busy.”

He nodded. “Yeah. You were out there doing your thing. And I was…” He looked down at his polished shoes, then back up, almost sheepishly. “Apparently running for Congress.”

You laughed under your breath. “How the hell did that happen?”

“Woke up one day and wanted to matter,” he said. “I guess… I wanted to do something. Like you.”

His voice cracked just a bit. The way it always did when he let the guard down. When he wasn’t the Winter Soldier, wasn’t a Congressman. Just Bucky.

“How do you feel?” you asked. “Off the record, of course.

“Felt like I was gonna throw up,” he admitted, eyes bright with the kind of joy that only came from honesty. “Until you asked that question.”

“Oh?” you asked, one brow lifting. “Didn’t mean to rattle you.”

“You didn’t.” He tilted his head. “Well. Maybe a little. But in a good way.”

You let another beat of silence fester before lowering your voice. “You know, the last time I saw you…”

“That night,” he finished, a little too fast, “I remember.”

You looked up at him. “And the morning after,” you said, “you dropped me at the station.”

“I did,” he said, softer now. “Kissed you like an idiot before you left. ‘Cause we were just friends, right?”

You smiled, biting your bottom lip. “Right.”

He took a step closer, invading your space just enough to let the muscle memory kick in.  “Was it ever really just that for you?” he asked, voice husky.

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you stepped a little closer, too. Close enough to smell the clean linen of his shirt and the warm spice of his cologne.

“Congressman Barnes,” you whispered. “You’re dangerously close to breaking professional boundaries.”

His eyes darkened, locked on your mouth, before his assistant called his name.

“Shit,” he said, reluctantly, “I’ve got a thing in ten minutes.”

“Good,” you said. “That means I can walk away before this gets messier than it already is.”

You turned, but his hand — his human hand — caught your wrist. “I meant what I said,” he told you. “I missed you. I missed this.”

“I missed you too,” you said, just above a whisper. “Even when I tried not to.”

He stepped back, though only barely. “You still trying?”

You didn’t answer. You just looked at him like you knew. Like only the two of you knew how it really ended — how it never really ended at all.

He let you go. “Dinner?”

“I’ll think about it.”

He smiled. “I’ll take that.”

As you walked away, your heart a livewire under your ribs, he watched you with a look that wasn’t fit for public office — but damn if it didn’t feel like the beginning of something. Again.

—

Your article dropped at 7:30 a.m. on a Monday.

By 8:15, it had already been passed between Capitol Hill interns like contraband. Screenshots on Slack. Circled paragraphs in group chats. Someone in Policy & Strategy made a spreadsheet of who was flayed the hardest.

The article was titled: “The New Faces of Power: An Overview of the Elected Democratic Representatives.”

Bucky Barnes — newly sworn-in Representative of New York’s 7th Congressional District — landed at #3 on that list.

He read it in full by 9:04 a.m., standing by the windows of his DC office, coffee gone cold in his hand. You hadn’t pulled your punches.

It was why you’d gone from freelancer with an uncertain voice to one of the youngest senior political analysts at your publication in just two years. You’d clawed your way up, built a reputation out of clever insight and fearless prose.

You didn't have time for flattery. You didn’t care if your subject wore medals or held office — if their platform wasn’t solid, you said it.

And now, you’d turned that lens on him.

James Buchanan Barnes steps into Congress with a legacy longer than most Representatives’ résumés. He’s got the kind of résumé that makes people feel things — safety, nostalgia, reverence. But policy isn’t about feeling. It’s about doing. And so far, Barnes might be more invested in image than action. Final Verdict: Symbolic. Possibly even performative. The jury’s still out.

Ouch.

And yet— Bucky let the words sink deep. Because you weren’t wrong. Not entirely.

And that’s what made it sting — and what made him respect the hell out of you. You’d known him in a way no one else had. You’d known his heart. You’d had your fingers on his ribs and your voice in his ear and still, you didn’t let that cloud your judgment.

You didn’t shrink from writing what needed to be written. And God, he missed you for it.

He hadn’t realised how much until now, until he saw your name again in bold, crisp font — right there, above an article that had already shaken the morning meetings of half the House aides.

But then he noticed something.

His heart picked up. No way.

It was ridiculous to think you’d—

But he sat down fast. Grabbed his phone. Opened the Notes app.

Under your name, he noticed a little key smash that looked like it had accidentally made it pass editing.

hes mw fcxxet

But he knew it wasn’t.

You and Bucky had developed a custom Alphabet replacement cipher, started out as a game three years ago. It was a book club dare between lovers, made of childhood tricks and spy movies. You’d laughed about it afterwards and curled up beside him, called it “your nerdy little secret,” and buried one in a crossword puzzle just for him the week after you’d left D.C.

He hadn’t thought you’d ever use it again.

But there it was. Carefully embedded in your very public article.

He decoded quickly, like muscle memory. Years apart hadn’t dulled it.

YES TO DINNER

He blinked.

He did it again, just to be sure.

You’d written a critical analysis that dissected his first month in office and still found room to slip him that?

Because that’s what it was always like with you: you could gut him and leave him breathless, and still leave the door open. Still whisper, come find me.

And oh, he wanted to.

Not just because you were brilliant, or beautiful, or impossible to look away from at press conferences. But because you saw him. Not the image. Not the mythology. Him.

And you never let him off the hook.

He’d text you — eventually. Or maybe he’d make a statement and bury his response somewhere in the transcript. Because he could play the game too.

But for now, he sat back in his chair, phone still in his hand, and smiled to himself.

Because you weren’t gone. You weren’t done.

You were still here — dropping ciphers just for him.

—

You almost missed the email.

It was buried under press releases and budget spreadsheets and one thousand lines of “per my last email.” Just another ping in your inbox at 2:03 p.m., from a congressional domain name.

Subject line: Response to Editorial – Representative Barnes

The name made your heart jump, but you didn’t let it show. Not at your desk, not around your colleagues, not when you’d trained yourself for years to be unreadable in a newsroom.

You clicked it open like.

The message was clinical on the surface.

Thank you for your recent editorial in The District Post. I appreciate the critical lens and the historical context your piece brought to the ongoing conversation about congressional transparency and symbolic governance. While I would, of course, offer a more nuanced response to some of your assessments, I recognize the value of this kind of scrutiny. In fact, I’d welcome a longer conversation. nwye mw ycxe rwt fcxxet Kind Regards, Rep. James B. Barnes 2318 Zpxqsmwx Vzpne XJ, Pvm. 7O slxsem rtcfph

Your fingers trembled just a little as you pulled up the decoder in your notes app. It felt like sharing a secret in a room full of people who would never understand.

You deciphered the string, slowly.

COME TO MINE FOR DINNER

And then, just beneath the signature:

2318 Langston Place NW, Apt. 7B Sunset. Friday.

You stared at the screen.

Your lips parted in something between a laugh and a silent what the fuck. You were sitting in the middle of a very serious, very professional office, and suddenly you were weightless.

Because he didn’t just say yes.

He invited you to his place like no time had passed. Like you hadn’t gone a whole year barely speaking. Like you hadn’t told yourself that those nights with him were heat-of-the-moment, never-again things.

You didn’t reply immediately. That would be too obvious. You minimized the window and tried to pretend you weren’t practically buzzing.

But your fingers drummed on the desk, your cheeks felt warm, and when someone walked past and said your name, you had to blink yourself back into reality.

He knew. That bastard. He knew exactly what kind of signal he’d sent.

—

​​The apartment was nicer than you expected. Not flashy, but cosy and huge, with wide windows and hardwood floors and a kitchen that smelled like rosemary and garlic and seared butter.

He opened the door in a dark button-down, sleeves rolled halfway, a dish towel tossed over one shoulder. His hair pulled back. 

“Wow,” you said before you could help it, your coat still halfway on. “You clean up.”

He grinned, boyish. “So do you.”

You stepped in. He didn’t hug you — not right away. Maybe neither of you were sure what this night was supposed to be.

But then he brushed your arm when he took your coat, and you both noticed.

You sat on the bar stool by the counter while he plated the steak — cooked perfectly, like he knew what he was doing. There were potatoes, charred asparagus. A bottle of red already breathing on the sideboard.

“This is domestic,” you teased. “Should I be worried?”

Bucky gave a huff of laughter. “Campaign staff made me take a cooking class. Said it would ‘humanize’ me.”

You snorted. “Did it?”

He passed you a plate, eyes flicking up. “You tell me.”

Dinner was slow. Not awkward, not rushed. Like the both of you had been saving this conversation in the backs of your minds, knowing it would happen eventually. The stories started pouring in — how you were promoted after your Ross exposé, how D.C. life was treating you.

He chuckled, chewed, leaned forward with his elbows on the table. “You’re still the same.”

You raised a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean—” He gestured, vague and fond. “Smart. Too good at what you do. Makes people nervous.”

“You?”

“Never,” he said. “You scare the hell outta me in the best way.”

The heat in your cheeks surprised you. He looked down, tongue tucked into his cheek. You nudged the topic somewhere safer, even if it stung a little.You told him how D.C. dating was a disaster — lobbyists who thought they were philosophers, bureaucrats who never turned off the PR charm. “I’ve been ghosted by men with press secretaries,” you said. “It’s bleak.”

He laughed, rubbing his jaw. “That’s rough.”

“And you?”

“New York dating’s a lotta noise,” he said. “Everyone’s either performative or trying to ‘fix’ me.”

“They know you’re now, like, if John Wick and C-Span had a baby, right? You’re not a rehab project.”

“Try telling them that.”

You sipped. “So we’re both un-dateable. Good to know.”

He laughed, a little too loud. “Yeah, no. I went on a couple dates last winter. It’s… weird. I had one woman ask me to sign her shirt.”

You raised your wine glass. “That’s… hot, actually.”

“I declined.”

You both laughed, and it felt… familiar.

Eventually, you leaned back, fork resting on your empty plate. “I saw Sam a couple months ago.”

Bucky tilted his head. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. It was right after the Ross thing. I was there when… you know, the president turned red,” you chuckled, though that wasn’t an amusing memory by any means. “The next day, he came by the Post, off the record. Just to… check in.”

His brow furrowed. He knew you and Sam had a professional relationship, to an extent, and he was grateful for it. If not him, at least someone he trusted looked out for you. “You okay?”

“Fine,” you said softly. “Shaken. But fine. I… visited Joaquin, too. Way too cheerful for someone who broke half the bones in his body, if you ask me.”

He chuckled, nodding.

You hesitated. “I… asked Sam how you were.”

His eyes lifted to yours.

You shrugged, trying to play it cool. “He said you were good. Starting to settle.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“Not true?”

He picked up his glass and swirled the wine.

“I’m not unhappy,” he said. “I just… don’t think I ever figured out where I really belong.”

You swallowed. 

And then, he asked, “You?”

You smiled. “I’m doing okay.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “That’s reductive.”

“Yes,” you agreed. “It is.”

He tilted his head, watching you like he used to.

Then he stood, took your plate, and moved toward the sink.

You sat there, letting it settle. Taking the scent of his soap and warm spices,

When he turned back, his voice was quieter. “I kept reading you, y’know. Even when we stopped talking.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You kept getting better. Meaner, sometimes. But better.” He smiled, almost proud. “I liked that you never held back.”

You bit your lip. 

He stepped closer, one hand still drying on the towel. “Still can’t believe you said yes.”

“To dinner?”

“To me.”

You looked up at him. “We’re just catching up, right?”

He leaned in. “Right.”

“As friends?” You said. 

“Whatever you say,” Bucky nodded, though he never looked convinced when he said that. 

But the way his eyes dropped to your lips — the way yours drifted to the hollow of his throat — it didn’t feel like just friends catching up.

—

Dinner was long gone. The wine was halfway finished, though neither moved to really touch it. 

You were both sitting on the fluffy cotton couch in his living room, the city humming outside the windows like it knew how rare this quiet was.

You had your legs curled under you, holding a cup of warm tea with both hands. Bucky sat on the opposite side, one arm lazily draped over the back of the couch, his eyes on you — not exactly subtle.

You were pretending not to notice.

“So,” he said, breaking the silence with a thoughtful tone. “D.C.’s nice. People have schedules. Rules. They hold doors open and write polite emails even when they’re telling you to go to hell.”

You smiled faintly. “Sounds about right.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” He chuckled once. “But… it’s not you.”

“Oh?” You arched an eyebrow as you looked at him over your glass. “What is me, then?”

His eyes lingered on your face. “Less structured. Messier. More… sporadic.”

You laughed, though you didn’t take it to heart. “Okay, rude.”

“No, not like that,” he said quickly, shaking his head, and way too sincere for his own good. “You just… don’t belong in a box. You think too fast. You don’t follow rules unless they’re worth following. You’re more… New York.”

The room felt warmer suddenly. You set your cup down gently on the coffee table. “I had a chance to leave, you know,” you said, tone lighter now, “The New York Times offered me more money.”

He blinked. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Bigger platform. Fancy job title. But I said no.”

“Why?”

You shrugged. “Because I have friends here. A community. I… love my job.” Then you added, eyes catching his, “And you. Now you’re here, too.”

Bucky’s ears went slightly pink, but he chose to focus on the former rather than the latter, “Do you love that your job includes tearing into your friend’s political motivations?”

You stilled slightly. “You read my latest?”

“Course I did,” he said, like it wasn’t even a question. “You called me ‘possibly performative.’ That was a fun day at the office.”

You shrugged. “Touché.”

“Still stings, though,” he added, quieter.

“I know,” you admitted. “But I said it because I’ve seen you doing your superhero stuff on the field. I know what you look like when you don’t have to ask permission to do the right thing. So forgive me if I think you’re better with your sleeves rolled up, and not behind a podium. Not editing policy drafts.”

Bucky’s teeth clenched slightly, though didn’t look away.

“I just…” you shrugged. “I wonder if this version of you—politician Bucky—is the one who actually is. Or if he’s just… pretending.”

He was silent for a long moment, deciphering your criticism. “I don’t know if I fit anywhere,” he said eventually. “But this?” He gestured vaguely to the apartment, the city, the suit. “This is the first time I’ve chosen something that didn’t involve a gun.”

You watched him carefully. “Why are you really here, Bucky?”

He hesitated. His voice, when it came, was firmer than you expected.

“Because I want to change things. Because I’ve seen what happens when the wrong people are in charge, and I’ve lost too many damn nights thinking about what I could’ve done if I’d mattered.”

Your throat tightened.

“And yeah,” he added. “There are a lot of people here for the wrong reasons. Power, money, legacy. Whatever. But every time I walk through those doors, I get to try. That counts for something, right?”

You smiled, soft and sad. “It does.”

“Besides, Sam and Joaquin are both here.” He leaned in slightly. “And yeah, you being here… doesn’t hurt.”

He held your eyes for a second too long. You looked down, unsure of what to say. 

“You still think I’m better off in the field?” he asked, flexing vibranium fingers. 

You nodded once. “I think that’s when you’re most you. Not when you’re buried in committees and handshakes and kissing babies.”

He didn’t argue.

“But,” you added, “if this is what you want—if this is who you’re becoming—then I won’t be the one to doubt it. I just want you to be sure.”

Bucky exhaled slowly. “I want to matter,” he said again. “And if I can’t fix all of it, at least I can stand in the way.”

Fuck, he was infuriatingly sincere, and all you could do was nod.

He watched you for a second, then said, casually, “There’s a state gala tomorrow.”

You looked up from the mug in your hands. “Is that code for ‘I’m vanishing into some secret operation and won’t return for 72 hours’?”

He gave a small smile. “It’s real. Suits and champagne and officials pretending they know what they’re doing.”

You made a face. “Sounds excruciating.”

“Oh, it is,” He tilted his head. “But if you really want to see me perform.” — he gave the word a faintly mocking twist — “you should come.”

You raised a brow. “What, you’re gonna give me a press invite?”

He shook his head once. “No,” he said, “I’m asking you to be my date.”

That statement hung there for longer than it should have.

You blinked. “That’s... bold.”

“Is it?” he asked, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I thought I was being subtle.”

“You’re about as subtle as a grenade.”

He smiled.

You leaned over, scooting closer. “Is this the kind of event where they serve caviar and pretend the world isn’t on fire?”

“Probably.”

“And you want me there? With my ‘less structured, more sporadic’ energy?”

“I’m counting on it,” he said slyly. “Otherwise I’ll just stand around pretending I support stupid tax policies and end up punching someone.”

You glanced at him. “So this is strategic.”

He looked at you and said, “It’s not just that.”

You didn’t answer right away— considering it for almost a full minute.

“Fine.” You finally said, “But I’m not wearing heels over three inches.”

He gave a huff of laughter. “Deal.”

“And if you make me have small talk with anyone who says ‘let’s circle back,’ I’m walking out.”

“I’ll chase you,” he said playfully.

You turned to look at him. “Will you?”

He just nodded.

After all, he wasn’t letting you go ever again.

—

The next night, you weren’t nervous. Not exactly. Just… hyper-aware.

You’d changed your outfit twice — okay, three times — before landing on something sleek and black. It had a clean neckline and strong silhouette. Subtle enough for D.C., but you in the bones of it. 

Your phone buzzed.

[Bucky, 6:53 PM] Outside.

You smoothed your dress once, checked your lipstick without really seeing your reflection, then grabbed your clutch and headed down.

The car waiting wasn’t flashy, but it was classy. When the door opened and you stepped out under the street light, he stepped out too — and froze.

His suit was black, his shirt was black. It looked tailored within an inch of its life with silver cufflinks and not a tie in sight. He had his collar open, and hair swept back in that lazy way that looked expensive and just a little reckless. It was like he’d gotten dressed while thinking about you.

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. “Wow,” Bucky said, voice quieter than usual. “Just—off the record?”

You tilted your head curiously. 

He let out a deep breath. “You look beautiful.”

You tried not to smile, though it failed.

“Flattery this early in the night might get into my head,” you warned, stepping toward him.

His lips quirked. “Good.”

You both stood there for half a second too long.

Finally, he opened the car door and held out his hand. You took it.

—

The doors clicked shut, the city noise fading. The air inside smelled like his cologne — subtle and clean, a little smoky underneath. There’s a driver, sure, but the glass is up. You’re alone, technically. 

Bucky shifted, resting his left arm casually on the center console, metal fingers tapping a rhythm against the leather. His other hand sat loose on his thigh. 

You glanced over. “So this is you ‘fitting in’?”

He grimaced slightly. “This is me trying not to pull a fire alarm to get out of going.”

You laughed. “And I’m the distraction from your self-sabotage?”

“No,” he said, and you could tell he meant it. “You’re the reason I showed up at all.”

Your breath caught just slightly, but you played it off with a wry smile, turning your head toward the window.

“So,” you said. “Is this where you do your best politician impression?”

He groaned. “God, please don’t make me do the voice.”

“Oh no, you have a voice?”

“You know I do.”

You mimicked him, overly formal: “‘The Congressman appreciates your concern and will take the matter under advisement—’”

He slumped dramatically. “Okay, now you’re just bullying me.”

You smiled. “You like it.”

He didn’t deny it.

—

The ballroom glittered with wealth and power — not chaotic like press rooms, where you’re most comfortable in. Everyone here wore their masks well with practiced smiles, firm handshakes, and champagne flutes held like accessories to an agenda.

You’d seen a hundred rooms like it, but never quite like this 

Bucky walked beside you like a man who’d rather be anywhere else, yet he’d learned how to make discomfort look intentional. His eyes were always moving — reading people, scanning for more information. 

And people noticed. 

Some recognised you immediately. You could see it in the way their eyes narrowed just slightly, or the pause between sip and smile. You weren’t supposed to be here. Not in this capacity — not as a plus-one in a dress instead of with a press badge and recorder in hand.

Which made your presence all the more interesting.

Bucky knew it, too.

He introduced you a few times. Politely, not as “a friend” — not as “press.” Just your name. Just enough to let people wonder, is she here for him or for the story?

You smiled graciously every time and sipped your champagne like you weren’t watching everything.

And then it happened.

You were standing near one of the tall tables, Bucky in conversation with two Congressmen and a Defense contractor whose face you recognised — old money and a reputation wrapped in plausible deniability. The topic had started light — committee reshuffling, midterm optics — but Bucky didn’t do small talk well, especially when he smelled bullshit.

“I’ve been looking into the appropriations numbers from the last round of GRC aid,” he said smoothly. “Funny how the oversight committee flagged three anomalies—two of them connected to firms your office vouched for.”

One of the men laughed nervously. “Now’s not the time, Barnes.”

“Why not?” Bucky asked, calmly. “Transparency’s a big part of your platform, right?”

One of them looked at you— and he definitely knew who you were.

“This isn’t the place,” the man said again.

Your eyebrows lifted.

Bucky turned his head slightly. “What, because she’s here?”

You took that as your cue.

You smiled wickedly and stepped forward just enough to make them uneasy.

“Oh, don’t worry,” you said, voice like silk. “I’m off the clock. Everything’s off the record.” You sipped your drink. “I’m just a plus-one tonight,” you added, eyes dancing. Which is complete bullshit, of course, but it was very fun to pretend you weren’t clocking everything. 

They didn’t laugh. Bucky did.

He stood there beside you, watching them shift in their shoes, and take pleasure in it. Not because you were being antagonistic — you weren’t. You were smiling, polite, even charming. But the presence of a journalist with integrity alone made them sweat. 

That’s what he loved about bringing you here.

You didn’t have to say anything.

They still squirmed.

Not all of them, though.

Later in the evening, a young Senator from Illinois approached you both.

“I just wanted to say,” she said, “I appreciated your breakdown of the foreign security budget last quarter. Brutal, but honest.”

You smiled warmer, more genuine. “Thank you. I try not to hold back.”

“You shouldn’t.” The Senator looked at Bucky. “People like you make us better.”

That one stuck with you.

Because for all the ones who looked rattled — who saw your presence as a threat to their comfort — there were others who understood. Who didn’t fear the questions, who welcomed the pressure.

That when you realised Bucky brought you here not to show you off — but to set a tone.

He could’ve brought anyone.

But he brought the one person who made people nervous— as part of his… performance.

And as the night wore on — as the speeches droned and the clinking glasses dulled into background noise — he’d glance at you now and then with a small smile.

—

The ride back was quiet. Your shoes were off the second you got in the car. Bucky had loosened his collar even more, one hand draped lazily on the back of the seat, fingers just barely brushing your shoulder.

When the car stopped outside your place, you didn’t move right away.

He turned to you. “So.”

You looked at him. “So.”

“That wasn’t a complete disaster.”

“Mm,” you said, mock-considering. “You didn’t punch anyone. I didn’t blackmail anyone. That’s a win.”

Bucky snorted. “Low bar.”

You grinned. “Yup.”

He walked you to your door, jacket slung over one shoulder now, tie stuffed in his pocket. 

“Thanks for coming,” he said, “Really.”

You looked up at him, keys in hand.

“You mean for distracting your enemies and inciting mild panic among the morally bankrupt?”

He shrugged. “Exactly.”

You turned the key in the lock, pushed the door open halfway, then paused. You hesitated for one heartbeat

“Hey,” you said, glancing over your shoulder. “You wanna come in?”

Bucky looked… surprise. “You sure?”

You shrugged casually. “Just don’t make it weird, Barnes.”

“I’m a hundred years old,” he laughed before gesturing to his driver that he was done for the night. “I make everything weird.” 

—

You kicked your shoes off the second you walked in, already sighing with relief. Bucky followed behind you, glancing around with a quiet smile.

“Wow,” he said, soft and sincere. “You’ve really made a life here.”

You turned, one foot curled under you as you leaned on the arm of the couch. “What, you thought I lived in a reporter-shaped room with a desk and no plumbing?”

“I dunno,” he teased. “I pictured you in a shoebox full of press clippings and takeout.”

You walked past him and opened a cabinet, tossing him a glass. “Close.”

He caught it easily and raised it in a little toast. “Seriously, though. It’s nice. It’s… you.”

That mattered, coming from him.

“I tried,” you said. “Stability’s weird, but I don’t hate it.”

You both sat on the couch, facing each other at first, wine in hand, posture still alert. But over the next twenty minutes, the tension melted slowly — minute by minute, like butter on warm toast.

You talked about the gala. About the senator who spilled champagne on her own shoes and tried to blame the caterer. About how politics made everything louder but not always clearer. About Sam. About your job.

At some point, you pulled your hair up into a messy knot and tossed your legs across his lap like nothing has changed. Bucky, to his credit, just adjusted. His hand stayed on your calf, and he didn’t move it.

You were laughing about something — a lobbyist who couldn’t even point out Russia in a map — when Bucky looked at you a little too long.

And suddenly he leaned forward.

It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t a sweep-you-off-your-feet kind of trying-to-kiss-you.

It was slow, like he was giving you the chance to stop it.

And you did.

Gently, you put a hand on his chest and pulled back. 

He froze.

“Shit,” he said immediately, backing off. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean— I just—”

“No,” you cut in quickly. “No, Bucky. I want to.” You looked at him, heart thudding. “I really want to.”

That was true. God, it was true. You were dizzy from the way his breath had felt on your lips, the heat still buzzing where your hand had rested on his chest.

You watched his metal arm plates tighten, his teeth clenching, trying to understand.

“But if we do this again,” you continued, “it can’t be like it was before.”

“Friends with… occasional poor boundary control?” he offered, one corner of his mouth twitching in a sad smile. That charm has always softened the blow, even now.

You gave him a fond look. “Exactly.”

A beat of silence came back, but it wasn’t hard this time.

“So what do we do now?” he asked.

You shifted, taking your legs off his lap and tucking them under you as you leaned back on the arm of the couch. Bucky turned too, mirroring you, knees bumping yours. 

“We should sleep on it,” you said softly.

He raised an eyebrow, then repeated, “sleep on it?”

“Yeah.” You nudged his knee. “Not everything has to explode. We take a second. Let it breathe, y’know?”

“And if I’m already sure?” he asked.

Your heart gave you a small, reckless kick.

You looked at him still. “Then sleep on it anyway. Because I need to be sure, too. And if we want to try again—” You hesitated. “Let’s start properly,” you said, more certain now. “Not with wine and after-gala adrenaline.”

Bucky was quiet for a moment, studying you. Then he nodded. “Start again.”

“Yeah.”

He leaned his head back against the couch, eyes drifting to the ceiling like he was thinking something through. Then he smiled a tired, lopsided smile. “That sounds terrifying.”

You laughed. “Not as terrifying as pretending we’re still just friends.”

“Of course.”

The city hummed low through the window, the buzz of the TV flickering like white noise behind you both.

He stretched out a little, glancing over. “So… if we’re sleeping on it…”

You arched a brow. “You want to crash here?”

His eyes feigned innocence. “Purely in a start-over, emotionally-mature capacity.”

“Oh yeah?” you teased. “You gonna hold up your end of the truce?”

He gave you a look. “You trust me?”

“I trust me,” you joked, “You, on the other hand...”

“Hey,” he furrowed his eyebrows.

“Kidding.” Still, you got up and walked to the closet to grab a blanket, tossed him a throw pillow (which he barely caught). You didn’t say much, but there was something strangely gentle about the way you both moved around each other — no longer afraid of being too close, but careful all the same.

You showered while he showered in the guest room en-suite. You put on an oversized shirt and returned to the couch to find Bucky already lying down in a shirt some guys left at your place like, a year ago (it was a bit too small on him) — legs curled, arms crossed behind his head like he was trying not to take up space.

You didn’t hesitate, climbing in next to him.

“You always did take up the whole couch,” you muttered.

“Guess you’ll just have to climb over me,” he said innocently.

You narrowed your eyes. “I will smother you with this pillow.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

You rolled your eyes and settled in beside him, both of you a little awkward for a second — arms adjusting, legs figuring themselves out — until it just… worked.

His arm ended up around your shoulder. Your head ended up on his chest. Your knee bumped his thigh and stayed there. 

Eventually, you turned on something dumb on TV — a rerun of Friends or Seinfeld, neither of you really watching. You curled into him, one of his hands toyed absently with the ends of your hair.

And somewhere around 1:42 a.m., though you mentioned something about sleeping in your own bed and Bucky taking the guest bedroom — you both drifted off on the couch, your head against his shoulder. 

—

The next morning, you blinked awake, cocooned beneath your comforter, your cheek pressed into your pillow.

Your mind, at first, didn’t quite catch up. You were home, clearly. In your bed. 

But—

Wait.

You sat up.

The comforter slid off your shoulder, revealing your sleep shirt twisted sideways from the night before. You rubbed your eyes, squinting at the faint ache in your neck and…

No Bucky.

Your brows furrowed as you swung your legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet hitting the hardwood floor. You walked down the hallway, and saw that the guest bedroom was empty.

Continuing into the living room, the couch was also empty.

The blanket was folded, pillow fluffed. Everything was neat like he’d never been there at all — except you knew he had. You remembered the warmth of his breath. You remembered falling asleep with his fingers lazily brushing the inside of your elbow.

So what the hell?

And then you noticed it.

A small, folded slip of paper on your coffee table.

Right where the wine glasses had been.

You picked it up, heart thudding with the sudden, irrational hope that it wasn’t goodbye. That he hadn’t walked out and decided this was all a mistake. That you hadn’t imagined the tenderness under all that restraint.

You unfolded the paper.

At first, it was just nonsense.

A familiar, ridiculous mix of letters.

Fcxxet mwywttwj xcqdm?

Your lips curved before you even touched your phone.

You pulled up the old cipher from your Notes app — You typed it in, letter by letter.

DINNER TOMORROW NIGHT?

You stared at it for a long moment, biting back a grin.

So... he’d carried you to bed.

You knew it. You could see it now — him gently scooping you up when you’d both dozed off on the couch, trying not to wake you, probably muttering something like you’re a lot heavier when you’re pretending to be asleep as he navigated the hallway in the dark. 

And then he left without a sound.

You stared down at the note again, fingers brushing over the paper.

You folded the note neatly, slipped it into the drawer beside your bed, and let yourself sink back into the mattress with a small, secret smile still playing at your lips as you got ready for work. 

—

Later that day, Bucky returned from his lunch break late — not intentionally, just Capitol Hill late, which meant five different people had stopped him to ask about pending subcommittees and another wanted to get a “quick quote” on infrastructure allocations (it was never quick).

His shoulders were tense. His tie was already undone by a half-inch, the top button of his collar loosening like it couldn’t breathe.

He stepped into his office and greeted his aide with a distracted nod.

“Anything urgent?”

“Just a note was dropped off for you,” he said, not looking up from his monitor. “Someone from the press.”

Bucky raised a brow.

The note sat innocently on his desk — folded in half, no letterhead, no envelope. Just a slip of paper.

He opened it.

Zem's qw rwt slsdc ptwlxf mde nwtxet mw hwlts. 8VY.

It took less than a second for the corner of his mouth to lift.

He didn’t need the cipher chart anymore. It was muscle memory. Every twist of the alphabet was familiar — like a shared language no one else could hear.

He decoded it line by line, letting the message unfold:

LET'S GO FOR SUSHI AROUND THE CORNER TO YOURS. 8PM.

He closed his eyes and let the smile spread fully now, crumpling the note gently in one hand as he leaned back in his chair.

His aide peered around the door. “Good news?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice quieter than usual. “Yeah. It’s really good news.”

—

The sushi place wasn’t fancy.

It was tucked in the corner, with lantern lighting and wooden booths that smelled like soy sauce and rice vinegar. The kind of place only locals knew — no website, no reservation system, just a handwritten menu by the door and a hostess who warmed up after you ordered the special.

Bucky hadn’t protested. In fact, when he saw the low ceilings, the tiny fish tank by the register, and the man behind the bar rolling perfect maki like a magician, he looked at you and said, “This is charming.”

You grinned. “I know.”

He held the door for you, a hand resting lightly on the small of your back, like it had always belonged there. You tried not to overthink it.

You both ordered too much. The waitress just nodded, unimpressed by your enthusiasm. You ended up with two miso soups, three types of rolls, a shared tempura plate, and a carafe of warm sake.

And for the first twenty minutes, you just talked.

Not flirted. 

Talked.

About terrible campaign ads. About how Bucky’s suit got stuck in the Capitol Hill coatroom for two days. About how your editor now thinks you're “the only one ruthless enough to handle political profiles and deal with it without crying.”

You made him laugh.

He draped an arm along the back of your chair and leaned in while you recounted a story about accidentally calling a senator ‘dude.’

“I mean,” Bucky said, hiding a grin, “still better than the guy calling ‘mom’ during a floor vote.”

You nearly spit your sake.

And something about this felt so normal.

Like this had always been the plan.

You left the restaurant full, Bucky’s hand brushing yours as you walked to the curb.

“This was good.”

You nodded. “It was.”

And then it became a habit.

Tuesdays became a day for sushi. Or Thai. Or that place with the weird tacos in Foggy Bottom you swore would give you food poisoning but kept going back to anyway.

Every Tuesday night — without fail — you had dinner.

Sometimes you argued about who’d pay. Sometimes you or Bucky would cook, and you teased him until he burned the garlic. Sometimes you ordered takeout and sat on the floor with wine and policy memos you pretended to ignore.

You saw him other days, too — but Tuesdays were yours.

Then came the coffees.

First, it was once a week. You brought him a cup to a hearing. He dropped one off at your office on a quiet Thursday. Then it became routine.

Twice a week.

Always black coffee with way too much sugar for him. A latte for you, but maybe iced, depending on your mood. He started keeping one of those silly reusable cups with your initials on it in his briefcase, just in case. You’d pretend not to notice, but you always did.

He sent you articles at 1am with comments like: this senator’s grammar is actually criminal.You texted him mid-press conference while you were in the crowd just to make him break — fix your tie, you look like you’re being held hostage.

And one night, while sitting across from him in a pizza booth with garlic dip on your wrist you realised this wasn’t your old book-club-then-sex habit. This was new. This was… stable.

—

A month or two passed before you even realised.

You’d just come back from dinner — Thai this time, spicy enough to make both of you sniffle over the last plate of drunken noodles. You still had the faintest smear of chili oil on your lips, and your stomach hurt from laughing when Bucky tried to order in Thai and accidentally asked the waiter if the rice was single.

Now, you were in his living room, kicking your shoes off while Bucky headed down the hall to the bathroom, calling over his shoulder, “Gimme two minutes—pick a movie or something. Remote’s on the coffee table.”

You called back, “Copy that, Barnes.”

Except… there was no remote on the coffee table.

You checked under a magazine, lifted a coaster. You beneath a throw pillow with a dramatic sigh.

Still nothing.

So, naturally, you glanced toward the media console. There were two drawers. 

You opened the top one.

No remote. Just a bunch of coasters and a spare charger.

Then the second.

At first, it looked like scraps of paper. Neat ones. Square, all the same size. All stacked and carefully folded. You reached for one without thinking.

Then you saw it.

C zwke hwl 

Your cipher.

The letters stared up at you, jumbled and unreadable at a glance. But your brain, so familiar with this dance now that you’ve regularly been using this to communicate, began decoding line by line.

I LOVE YOU

You blinked. What?

You took a second note.

C'y cx zwke jcmd hwl — I'M IN LOVE WITH YOU

You opened another.

C'y rpzzcxq cx zwke jcmd hwl — I'M FALLING IN LOVE WITH YOU

And another — the handwriting slanted, like he’d written it fast, maybe late at night.

C dpke oeex cx zwke jcmd hwl rwt p jdcze — I HAVE BEEN IN LOVE WITH YOU FOR A WHILE

There were dozens, tucked neatly, like they mattered. Like he wrote them down when he couldn’t say them aloud. Some looked older. Some more recent. Some were on scrap paper, one was on the back of a coffee receipt. They were all different. Some were hesitant. Some were certain. One had been rewritten three times with a slightly different phrasing each time.

But they all said the same thing, all had the same two words:

zwke — LOVE hwl — YOU

Again. And again.

And suddenly, you couldn’t breathe.

The remote was long forgotten. Your fingers shook just a little.

“Hey, sorry, took forever—” Bucky said from behind.

You snapped your head back. Bucky stood in the doorway, towel drying his hands, his hair slightly damp from where he must’ve splashed water on his face.

His eyes dropped to the drawer, to the paper in your hand.

And everything in him went still.

You didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

You just looked at him, standing frozen in the doorway like he wasn’t sure whether to run or brace for impact. 

Your voice came in disbelief. “Bucky…” You held up one of the notes. “How long have you been scribbling these?”

He didn’t move. His eyes flicked from the paper to you, and back again.

Then, quietly, almost like it hurt to admit, he said, “Since I moved back here.” He took a deep breath. “But I… I didn’t want to mess it up. Not when we’d just started figuring out what this is.”

You took a step toward him. The room felt smaller now — but not claustrophobic. 

He swallowed. “I kept writing it down because saying it felt too… final, I guess. And you’d said to take our time. So I tried, but it’s always been right there. Right on the edge of—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You kissed him for the first time in years, and it was… different. 

The kind of kiss that didn’t ask a question or wait for permission — because it was the answer. The kind of kiss that felt like relief and release all the same, like finally.

Bucky froze for half a second, before you back like he’d been holding it in for years.

His hand cupped your cheeks, thumb brushing your jawline  like he couldn’t believe you were real. Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt, grounding yourself in the way he made when he finally let go.

When you pulled back — just barely — your noses brushed.

You kept your eyes closed for a moment before whispering, “Next time you feel like writing ‘I love you’ thirty-six times in a drawer, maybe just… try saying it once out loud.”

Bucky gave a huffed breath of a laugh. “Noted.”

His forehead was still pressed to yours, breath shallow between you. 

You opened your eyes slowly, and his were already there — dark, focused, like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth, the flutter of your lashes, the way your fingers still curled into the front of his shirt like you needed him to stay real.

“I’m serious,” you whispered. “Just say it.”

He tilted his head slightly, lips brushing yours again, so close it was barely a kiss. “Okay,” almost restrained. “I love you.”

Your breath caught — not because you didn’t know it, but because hearing it was something else entirely.

This time, he kissed you first.

And this time, it was different — hungrier.

His arms were around you in a heartbeat, hands sliding along your back, gripping the fabric of your shirt. You pushed him back toward the couch, urgency curling in your belly as his mouth opened under yours — heat pouring in, your teeth catching his bottom lip just enough to draw a soft, involuntary moan. You barely made it to the couch. Your bodies hit the cushions in a tangle, knees and hands and breathless gasps, his hands framing your face before skimming down your sides. He tugged at the hem of your shirt, and you nodded, lifting your arms.

The shirt hit the floor behind you.

Bucky leaned back slightly, eyes raking over your skin like it physically hurt him not to touch you. “God, I missed this,” he said.

You pulled him back in.

The way he kissed you now was different — unhurried, like he was relearning every inch of you. His mouth trailed along your jaw, your throat, teeth raking the curve of your shoulder as your fingers found the hem of his shirt and pushed it up, palms flattening against his chest.

He hissed when your nails dragged lightly down his ribs.

“Still ticklish?” you teased, breathless.

“Only when you do that,” he growled into your skin.

You felt his metal hand curl behind your knee, pulling your leg up around his waist as his hips pressed into yours — a sigh slipping from you before you could stop it.

You gasped as his mouth found your chest, lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses over your skin. He made a sound when you arched beneath him. You felt the drag of his stubble, the roll of his hips, the way he was holding back for your sake.

“Bucky,” you whispered against his ear, teeth grazing the shell. “Don’t.”

He slowed down, only for a second. 

“Don’t hold back.”

And then he didn’t.

—

The room was quiet except for your breathing.

You were lying in the dip of the couch, half-covered by a throw blanket you barely remembered tugging over yourselves. Bucky’s body was curled around you, metal arm slung protective over your waist.

You could still feel him everywhere.

Not just physically — though that, too: the ache between your thighs, the kiss-bruised curve of your mouth, the sweet sting of stubble burns on your inner thighs. But it felt as if he’d pressed himself into your bloodstream, rewired the rhythm of your pulse.

You’d thought you remembered what it felt like to be with him.

You had not.

This time hadn’t been frantic or impulsive like it used to be — not fueled by adrenaline or blurred by loneliness. This time had been devastatingly focused, like he wanted to undo every careless moment you’d ever shared before. And he had. Every touch had felt deliberate — like he’d waited years just to relearn how to love you with his hands and his mouth and his whole damn body.

And you had let him.

Your head rested on his chest now, rising and falling with each breath he took. His human hand gently combed through your hair.

Eventually, his voice came. “Does this mess things up?” he asked, voice careful now. “For us? Our jobs?”

You pulled back slightly, just enough to see him. 

His brow was furrowed — not in guilt, but in genuine concern, mostly because he knew how hard you’ve had to work to get to this point in your career. 

“Honestly?” you said, fingers brushing across his chest, tracing the faint line of an old scar near his ribs. “It complicates things. But that doesn’t mean it ruins them.”

He searched your face for a beat. “You sure?”

“No,” you said plainly. “But I am going to stop writing about you— only because I don’t sleep with my sources… anymore.”

His lips twitched like he was trying not to smile. 

“You always were the reckless one,” he said softly.

“Says the guy with a cybernetic arm and a seat in Congress,” you shot back.

He laughed again.

You glanced at the coffee table, you saw your phone light up and you were suddenly very aware of the time— 2:47 a.m.

“We should go to bed,” you said after a minute, not moving.

He made an amused sound. “Now you want to be responsible?”

You tilted your head. “If we don’t go to sleep soon, we’re going to do that again. And then I’m going to be too tired to write in the morning, and you’re going to miss your 10 a.m. subcommittee meeting, and then the Ethics Committee will suddenly care about optics for the first time in history.”

He let out a low groan. “God, that meeting’s going to be brutal.”

“Mmhm. And I’m going to get yelled at for not turning in my op-ed on legislative gridlock, which is ironic considering I just—” you gestured vaguely between your bodies, “—got very thoroughly unstuck.”

He laughed before pushing a trans of loose hair behind your ears, “You really think we can do this? With all the politics, the press, the oversight committees?”

You reached up and cupped his face, thumb brushing along the edge of his cheekbone. “I think we’ve both done harder things than loving each other.”

He looked like you’d knocked the wind out of him.

“Fuck, please say that again,” he said.

You smiled. “I love you, James.”

His throat worked as he swallowed, then nodded. “Okay,” he said softly. “Okay.”

You kissed him one more time. “We’ll figure it out,” you said.

And you meant it.

Because it wasn’t just adrenaline anymore. Or loneliness. Or lust.

For now, you just had to get him into bed so both of you could get at least five hours of sleep.

-end.

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Masterlist

I wonder if I should make a part two where reader is one of the journalists in the press conference that Val arranged in the end of Thunderbolts because she has been covering her impeachment, and her reaction to her boyfriend being in the lineup? and then maybe explore their relationship when their newfound stability is challenged?

Cipher decoder: 

Plain text: abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz

Cipher text: ponferqdcbazyxwvutsmlkjihg

[sparklyhologrampaper-deactivate]

LAW OF ATTRACTION #3

Previous chapter

summary: Bucky is your boss, and you drive him crazy. Are you going to be able to keep it professional?

pairing: congressman!bucky x fem!reader.

warnings: Reader's parents passed away. A lot of banter. Mildly suggestive. (I'll keep adding a little bit of SPICE)

a/n: Congressman Barnes is where I live now. Little blurbs of this unique relationship. I always write with a couple songs on repeat as inspiration. I'll leave one with each chapter. Bare with me. (This one is in Spanish. Sorry!)I have so much fun ideas to drive this man crazy. Love you all.

@pampi-iranzo

The week had gone by in the blink of an eye. After the day you spent on the farmer’s market Bucky and you haven’t really been alone again.

Saturday felt dreamy, something not quite real, a product of your imagination even. An unique event that surely was not destined to be repeated. If you knew it was a one time event you’d probably had made an effort to memorize every detail. You’ve sat by the lake, close enough so your hands were almost touching, and watched the sun set in comfortable silence. He drove you back home, Aretha Franklin’s voice filled the car, singing something about unrequited love. Bucky being the perfect gentleman he was, rushed to get the car’s door for you and walked you to your door. You were half expecting a good night kiss. Then, you remembered, he didn’t ask you out, it never was a date. It was just your boss making sure you got home safe and sound. As the two of you stood in the threshold you could see the trepidation in his eyes. It was almost as a live entity threatening to swallow him whole. You didn’t want him to give you what he clearly wasn’t ready to offer. So you’ve stand on your tiptoes, gave him a little kiss on his cheek and disappeared inside your apartment.

Friday passed you by, the “Market’s episode” as you called it, was never brought up by neither of you. Forgotten. As it never existed. If he only knew every time you were alone, you could hear him again and again, calling you pretty. You were forever ruined, craving for him to call you pretty, doll, sweetheart or whatever he pleased. You wanted nothing more than to be the object of his desire.

You checked your clock: 10 P.M. Everybody was long gone. Your body was desperately asking for a break. The tension on you neck and your back was killing you. You took off your shoes and discarded your jacket. You were left with just your black satin underskirt and your black pencil skirt. A slow, sexy ballad played on your office’s speakers. As you leaned on your desk, you let your hair down, your body moving to the rhythm of the music. Pretty soon you began to relax, all worries slipped away from your mind for a minute. You were so caught on the moment that you never realized you weren’t alone.

Bucky was supposed to be in some Gentleman’s Club discussing the fate of humanity over Scotch and cigars with Congressman Miles and Scott. He tried to behave, to be a good sport, your voice in his head telling him how badly you needed their support. He didn’t last more than half an hour listening to their stupidity. He was from the 1940s, but he was pretty sure his colleagues were cavemen. All he could think about was how you’d be completely horrified to hear their take on feminism. Pretty sure he heard them said” Feminism killed family values.” He couldn’t wait to tell you and see you get all flustered about it. He’d tease you for days, not to be mean, just because he secretly loved how vehemently you’d defend a cause you cared about.

He didn’t plan to go back to the office. He was heading home when he remembered he left on his desk some files you have begged him to review. You told him about it on Monday. It was Friday. Pretty sure you were going to have an aneurysm if he let another day pass without completing the damn task.

He never expected, not in his wildest dreams, to find you on your office looking like you’ve walked out of straight from one of his fantasies. He should have said something, let you know he was there, but he didn’t want to interrupt whatever moment you seemed to be having. So he stayed, hidden in the shadows, never leaving you out of sight.“You are a pervert. Quit looking.”

It was impossible. He was like a moth drawn to the flame, you were a siren and he couldn’t resist your call. He wasn’t sure if God was real, but if he was, sure he had a hell of a sense of humor. Letting him saw what he couldn’t have. He stood there, fists clenched to the sides, aching to touch you. You were so close but yet so out of reach. He kept telling himself he was your boss. It was wrong in so many levels, and he had already crossed so many lines Saturday. He didn’t want to be the creep making a move on his employee. It was such a cliche. However he couldn’t help wonder what if he stormed into the office and kissed you. The things he’d do to you on top of that desk. There was an internal battle inside his brain, he wasn’t sure how long he could keep playing nice. A side of him screaming: “Just surrender already.” The other begging him to be respectful and keep his distance.

He held on to every ounce of his willpower and left. As he walked out of the building, he welcomed the chill air, his chest rising as if he had just run a marathon, cursing himself for what he did, but mostly for what he didn’t dare to do. He couldn’t allow himself to have a weakness, but there you stood, unbelievably beautiful and fucking perfect for him.

You wake up Saturday feeling like restless. You kept checking your phone, waiting for a text that would never come. You refused to feel like this. You were fine before him, and you were going to be fine now. You’ve packed lunch and decided to hit your favorite spot. One of the perks of growing up as a Congress child was having access to the staff secret garden. It was a place usually reserved for birthdays or special occasions. Courtesy of your dad’s ex secretary you had a key. Technically, you shouldn’t be there, specially not alone on a weekend, but you couldn’t resist. It was the most gorgeous garden, it had a “fairy tale” vibe. Little bushes filled with roses, a little pond, wood benches, a Greek Goddess statue, bird feeders all around.

As Bucky was wondering through your street he couldn’t shake the feeling he finally lost his mind. What was his game plan? Pretend that he was just passing by? Running an errand on the area? Not like he hadn’t been waiting to run into you for an hour. He was about to call it quits when he spotted you leaving your apartment. You were carrying what it seemed a picnic basket. He knew it was wrong, but without even realizing it, he was already following you. You were probably meeting a friend, right? If you were going to a date, if he was going to witness some romantic picnic, he swore he was going to jump out a window. Probably beat the hell out of the guy first, and then jump.

It suddenly hit him. You were walking to the Capitol Building. Was he forgetting some event? Sarah and you ran his agenda with military precision. It couldn’t be. Then he saw you disappear into a side street. Where the hell you were, Trouble?.

You were absent mindely unpacking your lunch when you heard something hitting the floor. It wasn’t something, it was somebody.

When you turned around you saw Bucky. You must be doing your manifestations right or this was the final stage of your delusional state.

“B???? Is that you? What the hell?…Are you okay?” You reached for him but he signaled he was okay.

“Hello Trouble.” He said while arranging his clothes, trying to held onto the little dignity he had left.

“I know we discussed a “Door to Door” approach to the voters, but I think that you took it a step too far.” You laughed trying to hide how pleased you were to see him.

“I saw you a couple of blocks away. Try to call your name but I guessed you didn’t hear me.” He lied. He lied his ass off as his life depended on it.

“Never heard of knocking? You didn’t have doors back on the 1940s?” You tilted your head waiting for a response.

“Very funny.”

“A man your age, climbing walls, you could have broken your hip and then we would have to sacrifice you.”

“You are enjoying this too much.”

“I think you miss me so much on the weekends that you are willing to commit a felony just to see me. Aren’t you a romantic?”

He didn’t answer. Spot Fucking On. You were reading him like a book.

You decided it to show him some mercy so you stopped teasing him.“I was about to have lunch… Do you want to sit with me?” You asked him, suddenly feeling shy.

He looked at you, wondering if he was overstepping.

“I’ve packed enough sandwiches for two. Don’t worry. A force of an habit.” You’ve always cooked for you and your dad, and since he was gone you couldn’t get yourself to cook for one. However, you didn’t want to say it out loud and ruin the moment.

“I know you are a very “law-abiding” citizen, but just in case we end up in jail, it would be very useful to know if we are trespassing?”

“Live a little B.” You gave him a little smile. “Relax. Would you? You always look a minute away from a heart attack.” You show him the key. “If you have a key, it’s not trespassing.” He didn’t look so sure.

“Technically, it’s for the staff, to throw birthdays or retirement parties. I felt like I needed a break from the world for a minute. And it’s always so peaceful here. So I bent the rules a little bit.” You handed him a sandwich and a soda.

“Always living up to your name, Trouble.”

“What can I say? I aim to please.” You grinned mischievously.

“Is your boss treating you so poorly? I could have a word or two with him.” He stated dead seriously.

“Cute. If you see him tell him I could use a raise.” He chuckled a laugh.

“Noted. These sandwiches are amazing by the way.”

“I baked the bread myself.”

“Well, you have a talent for it.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. I stress bake. If I’m baking then I’m not murdering my colleagues.”

“That turn dark very quickly doll.” He looked at you and then stared to the sandwich as it had . “Sooo…no secret boyfriend? I’m not crushing a date or something?” He didn’t dare to look into your eyes.

“No date. But since you are here. Maybeee…You could be my date”. You said sweetly while bating your eyelashes. He choked on his soda. Smooth Barnes, really smooth.

“Okey, Grandpa. I enjoy making you a little bit uncomfortable, you look adorable all hot and bothered, but I swear, I’m not trying to kill you. I’ll play nice.”

He sat up straight. You swore you could see something shifting inside him. “You know, one of these days…”. He ran his hand through his hair.

“What?.

“You are not going to see it coming. I’m not going to hold back anymore.”

“Mhhhh?”He leaned closer and tucked your hair behind your ear.

“I swear I’m going to leave you speechless.”

“Looking foward to it.”

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Monday once again. It was becoming a bit of a routine between you two. Saturday you’d been incredible close. Sunday nothing but radio silence. Monday you’d act as If nothing ever happened. These mood swings were making your head spin.

Tuesday was truly kicking your butt. You couldn’t catch a break. You knocked on your boss door. When you opened it, not waiting for his response, you froze. You were not expecting this, not at all. Bucky was laughing, Mr. Brooding himself, laughing with Miss Young Tall Booby Blondie. You could feel it all over your body, the tension, jealousy taking over.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” You were already making your way out.

“ Y/N Don’t go. How can I help you?” He said trying to stop you.

“I wanted to remind you I’ll be taking the rest of the week off. I’ll be back on Monday.”

“Everything alright?”. He sounded honestly worried.

You tried to mask your discomfort. “Yeah. Some family matters I have to deal with. I’ll leave you to it.”

You disappeared into your office, locking your door. You needed a moment. You were going through all the spectrum of emotions: jealously, anger, disappointment, but above all you felt foolish. He was not yours to claim, you weren’t supposed to be consumed by your idiotic jealousy. You haven’t even kissed for God’s sake. And just like that, it hit you like a wave: You had feelings for him, way deeper than you cared to admit. He, on the other hand, probably entertained your little crush out of pity. He didn’t want to break your heart and risk you quitting the job. All your insecurities surfaced all at once, a entity with life of it’s own,threatening to choke you. Obviously, he was handsome as hell, and that girl on his office was a perfect fit, blonde, killer body, exuding confidence from every pore. She was everything you weren’t.

At lunch break you found out that Capitol Barbie was your replacement. Sarah was supposed to take over your duties, you left everything organized so she could manage, but Bucky felt that she was already handling to much and needed a pair of extra hands. You were chief of staff, how come you didn’t know, you’d be who normally interview a temp. You felt sick to your stomach. Maybe she wasn’t just a temp. What if Bucky had enough of your attitude and was looking for a back up plan? A beautiful and sexy back up plan.

You were never the first one to leave the office. Normally, you’d wait up for him, ask about his meetings, discuss the following day itinerary. Today, you needed distance,and you needed it fast. “Screw him.” You thought to yourself. Anger was good. You could work with anger. Sadness. That you couldn’t afford. You needed the strength to navigate the week. Your cousin was getting married, and was in town to buy a dress and have his bachelorette party. You were happy for her, you truly were, but seeing her interact with her mum, your mother’s sister, it was a constant reminder of how much you missed yours.

The week passed you by in a blink of an eye. Your cousin scheduled was so tight that you had no time to think about Bucky and Capitol Barbie. You had a couple of text’s from your boss, which of course, you left unread. You almost opened them a couple of times, but a voice on your head keept telling you “Let him bother her. He clearly doesn’t need you”.

Your cousin’s bachelorette party was a perfect opportunity to blew up some steam. You didn’t want to feel miserable anymore. You were going to have some fun with the girls, do a couple of tequila shots, dance your ass off and look hot while doing it. You took one last look to yourself in the mirror before stepping outside. You were pleased with the way you looked for a change. You were wearing a red lace bodysuit, which it was just lingerie disguised as a top, your tightest jeans and sky high heels. You wore your hair down, perfectly waved curls framed your face, and you painted your lips crimson red. You felt sexy, untochable, the epitome of female empowerment. A part of you wished certain 106 years old Congressman could see you. Maybe you could post some photos on IG. Who you’d thought you were kidding? He’d never check your IG, probably he had no idea how to use social media. You tried to get him on Twitter once and he looked at you like you were a crazy person.

On the other side of town Bucky was losing his fucking mind. You hadn’t responded to any of his texts. The silence was killing him. You’ve become such an important part of his every day, filling his life with light and bright colors. Now the world was grey. He was sure he messed things up with you , but he had no clue what he did exactly to upset you this much. An idea formed in his head.He hesitated for a minute.“Fuck it. Desperate times called for desperate measures.” He grabbed his cellphone and called Sam.

“What’s up Tin Man?”

“I need your help.”

“James Buchanan Barnes asking for help. That’s a first. Therapy must be working.”

“Sam? Shut up.”

“Okey. Okey. I’m listening.”

“Let’s say, hypothetically speaking, I’m worried about someone, she is not answering my texts, she is not at home and I need to locate her, not in a creepy way, just to make sure she is okey.”

“She? A Girl? You dog.”

“Forget I’ve ever called”

“Wait! Wait! How about social media? Have you try checking her IG?”

“Have you meet me ?”

" I guess that’s a no. Give me her name.”

“Y/N”

“Jackpot baby. Tell me I’m amazing.”

“Sam. I swear..”

“Someone tagged her. She is in a club downtown.”

" Send me the location.”

“No way in hell you are going alone. I’m driving. I need to meet the girl that got the winter’s soldier’s panties on a twist.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me. See you in 10.”

The club was completely packed. Bucky had to bribe the doorman to get in. He was pushing people on the dance floor to clear his way when he spotted you. He stopped on his tracks. For a second he forgot how to breath. You were fucking Aphrodite. The way you were dancing, swinging your hips to the rhythm, it had to be the sexiest thing he had ever seen in his life. The way those jeans hugged your curves, that could make a man lose his goddamn mind. The thoughts invading his head were intoxicating, each one more sinful than the other. You were wearing a top that looked like lingerie. The kind of lingerie he’d buy for you just to take it off. Your red lips so inviting, he’d risk everything to kiss you right here right now. You ruined him for eternity. He wasn’t thinking straight. He noticed a couple of guys staring at you.Without a doubt, he’d punch them right in their faces just to prevent them from getting close to you. It was primal, raw, but he couldn’t fight it anymore.

“That’s the girl you were worried about? Damn Barnes. I’d stalk her too.”

You were lost in the music. Tequila removed your every single inhibition, you didn’t care. As you were dancing you thought you saw a familiar face in the crowd. Surely your mind was playing you tricks.

As you made your way to the bathroom to cool off someone took you by your wrist. When you turned around impossible blue eyes met yours.

“B? What the hell? What are you doing here?”.

“I was worried about you. You didn’t reply any of my texts.”

" Worry about me? I’m surprised you even thought about me. I’ve figure you’d be busy with Boobie Blondie. "

" Wait. Whaaat?”

You tried to leave, but he was fast, next thing you knew he had you caged against the wall.

“That was what all this was about? Are you telling me you were jealous. You? You know every fucking guy in here was looking at you tonight. You could have any guy you want in this club.” He said with a dead serious face.

“Not any guy. Not the one I want anyway.” You looked at him through your eyelashes. He was so incredible close that you could hear his heartbeat. He leaned in and brushed yours lips with his thumb, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Believe me doll. Specially him.”

And just like your whole world shifted on his axis.

[pampi-iranzo]

The craving, the slow burn. Wow!!!

Enjoy

[sparklyhologrampaper-deactivate]

LAW OF ATTRACTION #2

Previous Chapter

summary: Bucky is your boss, and you drive him crazy. Are you going to be able to keep it professional?

pairing: congressman!bucky x fem!reader.

warnings: Reader's pearents passed away. A lot of banter. Mildly suggestive. (I'll keep adding a little bit of SPICE)

a/n: Congressman Barnes is where I live now. Little blurbs of this unique relationship. I always write with a couple songs on repeat as inspiration. I'll leave one with each chapter. (This one is in Spanish. Sorry!) I have so much fun ideas to drive this man crazy. Love you all.

@pampi-iranzo

The next morning when you arrived at your office, waiting on your desk, you found a fresh cup of coffee from your favorite spot. Black, one sugar, and cream. Just how you like it. You were smiling like a lunatic. The little gestures were not helping your already delusional self. You pop your head into Bucky’s office, coffee in hand.

“Did you…?” You stopped mid sentence. What if you were wrong? You just assumed.

“Well, I’m trying to be a good work husband.” He answered like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Someone has been playing with his laptop last night”. Relief flooded your body.

“Try googling that! I’ve come across the most interesting sites.” He smirked arrogantly. That cocky bastard. He was trying to beat you at your own game.

“That must have been educational for a man your age. I hope you learned a trick or two B.” You winked at him and left the office.

Check mate. He was being painfully naive if he thought for just one second he had the ability to left you speechless. He should’ve known by now that you weren’t going down without a fight.

After that little number you pulled off you went straight to the bathroom. As you locked the door, you leaned on it, trying to catch your breath. You could feel the butterflies on your stomach. He had no business making you feel like a schoolgirl crushing on his teacher. How the hell did he knew how you take your coffee? And from your favorite place? He was good. The thing about Bucky, he is observant, he always notices things, but when you are the object of his analysis, it makes you feel seen, special, like you are the only girl in the world. And that my friend, is a treacherous road to navigate. You looked at yourself in the mirror: “Shit! Get it together. Focus. He is your boss.”

The morning dragged out with a never ending meeting about ecological footprint. You were the “Let’s save the planet” and “Reduce our carbon emissions” kind of girl but an hour long monologue from Congressman Jones seemed excessive. You were about to drift off when your boss handed you a note under the table. You looked at him with a puzzled expression that read: “Really? Are you twelve?”

YOUR BOYFRIEND CAN’T STOP LOOKING AT YOU.

You rolled your eyes.He was being ridiculous. If he only knew you only had eyes for him. Besides, who died and made him your virtue protector?. Truly, he was infuriating, but the whole “over protective jealous boss” vibe, that was definitely hot. You adjusted yourself on your seat. All of the sudden the office started to feel like a sauna. Your imagination was running wild one again. All you could think about is dragging him out of the meeting, pushing him into the nearest closet and kiss him senseless just to prove him how you don’t give a fuck about Greg. A noise snapped you out of your daydreaming. You peeked at your boss, he was staring. You could see the mechanisms on his brain moving, you were a puzzle he could not solve. And damn he tried. He was waiting for an answer to his note.

You scrapped in a little piece of paper: FUCK OFF.

When you passed him the note, your fingers touched for the tiniest fraction of time, but that was enough to send shivers down your spine.

You didn’t saw, but rather sensed, his smile. After a minute he passed you another note:

FEISTY AS USUAL SWEETHEART.

You almost choked, you had to disguise it as a cough. He poured you a glass of water, clearly enjoying the game too much for your liking. He had no right to call you sweetheart. Not in a meeting full of colleagues anyway. Just the two of you, alone, whispering it on your ear while he had you pin to a wall, that you were totally on board. Your mind was so out of control. You needed a cold shower ASAP.

You were going to turn the tables on him. “You are fucking with a savage Barnes” you said to yourself. With a knowing smile you wrote:

“ FOR YOU? ALWAYS.”

You flashed him your sweetest smile as you handed him the note. Now he was the one blushing, his brain went on short circuit. It served him well. He started the game but you were the one ending it. You knew you were being reckless, and it all could come back to bite you on the ass, but you couldn’t thing clearly when he was around.

None of you said a word about your little notes. He went off to another meeting and you drowned yourself on paperwork just to keep your brain busy. A knock on your door startled you. Sarah, Bucky’s assistant, called you:

" Y/N! You definitely want to watch this.”

Every member of the staff was watching Congressman Barnes on the common room TV. Another “public statement” debacle was unfolding in front of your eyes. You’ve talked about this, you begged him to get a PR Manager and he shut it off stating there were more pressing issues to handle. The amount of times the word “worrying” left his mouth was indeed worrying. The words came out of your mouth before you could stop them:

“We are here busting our asses off and Sergeant Mc Hottie is over there playing TV star when we said to him, specifically, to keep his mouth shut.”

The room went silent. You were so angry that you didn’t notice that Bucky had just arrived.

“So you were the one that came up with that nickname…”

At different circumstances you’d have apologized, made a joke, just try to clear the air. However, at this specif moment, you could only see red.

“Soooo? Sue me Barnes. Take me to court. You don’t have evidence”. You weren’t making any sense but you didn’t care.

Everybody ditched the room so fast it made your head spin. To be honest, this wasn’t the first time you two argued like an old married couple.

He was about to speak when you shush him. He had the decency to at least look repentant.

“I’ve told you a million times you needed a PR Manager. You know, there are actually kids in college who use your videos as a drinking game.” He looked at you lost. “They do a shot every time you say the word worrying”.

“Fuck”.

“My sentiments exactly.” You heavily sighed. “I’m interviewing for the position first thing Monday morning.” You weren’t asking. He didn’t expected you to.

After what seemed an eternity, you walked out to him, slowly, like you were approaching a cornered animal, looked straight into his blue eyes and fixed his tie. “You have a meeting with the defense committee. The French ambassador is attending. Please, and I can’t stress this enough, please try not to cause an international incident.”

Bucky would never tell you, but he was actually impressed. People never told him what they thought to his face, the shadow of the Winter Soldier ever present. He never had that problem with you. You weren’t afraid to speak up or even reprehend him. It was refreshing.

Late at night the fight kept playing on repeat on his mind. You were so angry at him, face adorably stubborn, unfairly beautiful even then. It took all of his willpower not to kiss you in the middle of that room. He was barely hanging by a thread. Just a couple hours before the he had the same urge during the “Ecological Footprint” meeting. Intrusive thoughts kept coming to his head, one more sinful than the other. He wanted nothing more than to lay you on the table and kiss you till you forget your own name. Show Greg he had no right to look at you like a predator preying on his next victim. Your last note was his undoing. You raised the bet at every term. All the teasing was driving him crazy. “Trouble. What the hell am I gonna do? You are going to be the death of me.”

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Saturday morning had a few surprises under his sleeve. You were far too nice for your own good, that’s how you ended up in the lion’s den. And you had no one but yourself too blame. You rang Bucky’s doorbell, his suit on one hand, freshly baked donuts on the other as a peace offer.

When he opened the door, the last person he was expecting to see was you. He must had summoned you on his dreams.

“Good morning handsome. I come baring gifts.” You said as sweetly as possible.

For a second your knees almost gave out. Of course he looked gorgeous in sweatpants. He’d probably look good wearing a garbage bag. The way the sweatpants hanged on his waist, the damp messy hair, the tight black shirt hugging his sculpted arms, it was all too much for your pretty little brain to take in. You were Icarus flying too close to the sun. It was just a matter of time till you get burned.

“Explain” He said while letting you in into the apartment.

“Aren’t you a ray of sunshine? Not a morning person B?”

“Y/N?”

“Okey.Okey.I know you were expecting Sarah. She called me and asked me to cover for her. She had to go cake tasting for her wedding. It was just picking up your suit and your laptop from the tech guy on the fifth. No big deal.” Before he could make a question you continued.

“I couldn’t say no. She deserves a day off. To live a little.”

“And you don’t?” He said rather factually.

“No. I don’t. I don’t have needs. I’m Jesus. Well, probably a Buddhist monk at this point.” Specially for the chastity vows, but you couldn’t say that out loud.

“I’ve brought donuts too. A peace offer. I’m probably the last person you wanted to see on your day off.”

The last sentence caught him by surprise. Wasn’t he obvious? You were the only person he was actually looking forward to see every day.

“The ones with berry jam filling?” He asked deadly serious.

“Yeah. Exactly the ones. Truce?” You offered him your hand.

“Truce.” He shook your hand and smiled. The apocalypses must be coming. James Buchanan Barnes was smiling at you. A real smile, full teeth on display.

As the two of you were attacking the donuts on the kitchen counter something caught your attention. You could count at least ten Chinese food containers.

“B? When was the last time you had a proper meal? Like real food. Not take out.”

“The 1940s I guess.” He was joking but his answer made your heart ache.

“You are coming with me. I won’t take a no for an answer. We are going to the farmer’s market.”

“Right now?”

“Yeah. Get dressed. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

“Bossy little thing, are you?”

“Don’t pretend that you don’t love it. Not make me wait too long”.

When he finally made it downstairs you were dumbfounded once again. Forget the sweetpants. Bucky Barnes wearing jeans, a white t-shirt, a jean jacket and dark sunglasses was your new favorite look. He looked like a modern James Dean. If the Congressman thing didn’t work out surely he could try a modeling career.

You tossed him your car keys.

“You’re driving.”

“Really, princess?” He gave you a wolfish grin.

“I know for a fact you are not going to shut up about my driving and I don’t want to kick you out of the car in the middle of the highway.”

“Fair enough.”

It was a relatively short ride to the market. While he was driving, he found impossible to keep his eyes on the road. He couldn’t help himself, you were so distracting: one of the straps of your pink sundress hanging on your shoulder, the locks of loose hair framing your face, the hem of your dress riding slightly up, your pouty lips while you were concentrating on the music app on your phone. You were everything he didn’t dare to want until now. He could picture you and him driving to the market every Saturday, his hand on your thigh, making silly jokes to make you laugh, singing some old tune that was playing on the radio. God, he could even see you making out, like a couple of teenagers, in the back seat of the car. It was so easy to forget about everything else when you were around. You anchored him to the present, no ghosts from the past hunted him in your presence. And whats more,you made him hope for a future, one he thought it was inconceivable for someone like him.

“We’re here”. You announced rather cheerfully.

As you made your way through the market, you could sense Bucky slowly relaxing. He looked younger, carefree, some may say even happy. It made your heart grow a size just thinking you had anything to do with it. Probably it was just the fresh air, but a girl could dream.

You made him stopped in every single stall. Surprisingly he didn’t complain. Ever the gentleman, he carried every single purchase you made and made it look effortless.

“You seemed to know your way around here.”

“We used to come every weekend with my parents when I was little. Then my mom passed away and my dad stopped coming. I guess too many memories. When I got my license I came back and never stop since then. For me it was the opposite, being here made me feel closer to my mum, remembering all the things she used to like, her favorite food, the jokes we made, her laugh. Even when she got mad at me because I kept disappearing to play with the bunnies. It’s probably silly…”

“Hey”. He took your hand and looked at you with those big blue eyes. “It’s not silly. It’s not silly at all”.

For the first time ever, you were lost for words. No jokes, no witty comebacks. You stood there in silence, not uncomfortable, but full of unspoken things. So many feelings unraveling on the inside, neither of you ready to confess just yet.

“We should get you some food B. It was the sole purpose of this mission. If you have just one more dumpling I think you might turn into a dragon or maybe the U.S. Government will ship you to China. Probably both.”

He let go of your hand, reluctantly, thinking if he was ever going to have the chance to hold it again.

He followed you dutifully and bought everything you suggested. You even arranged to get home-made food deliver to his apartment once a week.

You lost sight of him for a while. You thought he was just exploring the market on his own. When you found him he was holding the most delicate bouquet of pink peonies. You heart was racing. Did he bought the flowers for you? Were you so far gone into your delusional state that now you’ve started to imagine things?.

Are those…for…me? You asked half expecting he’d tell you he bought them to decorate his living room.

“Pretty flowers for the pretty lady.” He flashed you the shyest smile.

You went into cardiac arrest. He thinks you are pretty. Who was he and What he’d done with your grumpy boss?

“I’ve heard the stories, you know. Rumor has it you were quite a charmer back in the days.” You said teasingly.

“Yeah? I don’t know about that doll.” His “nicknames” game was solid. You wanted to giggle and kick your feet with every new term of endearment.

“ For the record…I think you still got it Sargent.”

[pampi-iranzo]

This is absolutely beautiful!!!

Can you tell I love slow burns? Lol

Enjoy!

[sparklyhologrampaper-deactivate]

LAW OF ATTRACTION #1

summary: Bucky is your boss, and you drive him crazy. Are you going to be able to keep it professional?

pairing: congressman!bucky x fem!reader.

warnings: Reader's father passed away. A lot of banter. Mildly suggestive.

a/n: Congressman Barnes is where I live now. Little blurbs of this unique relationship. I always write with a couple songs on repeat as inspiration. I'll leave one with each chapter. Bare with me. I have so much fun ideas to drive this man crazy. Love you all.

@pampi-iranzo

Disbelief flickers in your face. How the hell did you end up here? As you climb up the stairs of the Capitol building the entire sequence of acts that lead you to this moment keep coming to you. The fact that you had to drop your dream job to take care of your dad, the void that swallowed you whole since he’s been gone. Your dad’s friends eyes burned on your back the day of the funeral. They all swore they would help you to get your career on track but none of them took your call when the time came.

You thought you were going to lose your goddamn mind. The night Congressman Gary called he probably saved you from doing something stupid. Perhaps selling all your stuff and go live in a cabin in the mountain like a hermit.He wanted to grab a coffee. But you knew that in Washington is never just a coffee. The offer was simple enough, Congressman Barnes was not just failing, but catastrophically failing, in managing his office and no one was willing to take that hot seat. You knew that a large number of your colleagues had turn out the job but you were never to back out from a challenge. Maybe it was career suicide but it was better to not having a career at all. Long gone the days you dreamed of being chief manager of the first female president. You accepted the offer as gracefully and elegantly as you could, as if he couldn’t smell the odor of desperation coming from your pores. The job was virtually yours, you’ve just needed the approval of the “man of the hour” himself. Congressman Gary assured you it was just a formality.

As you take a last look on your reflection on the elevator, you sigh, and armor yourself to slay the dragon. You had your fair share of tough bosses but an ex military, ex assassin, former Avenger, zero political experience Congressman, was way out of your line of expertise. You were a Stanford Law School graduate, finished top of your class, and you had MBA in political science. You were more than qualified, quiet possibly overqualified, and yet you felt like a piggy going to the slaughter house.

When Barnes’s assistant let you into his office, you were definitely not expecting those damn blue eyes. You’ve seen the pictures, done the research, but no 106 years old guy should look so handsome. Maybe handsome even cut it. The whole dark, mysterious, brooding thing was hot, so infuriatingly hot. A siren just went off inside your brain, without a doubt you knew in that moment that he was trouble, and you, you were so screwed. There was not a single class in Stanford’s curricula that taught you how to handle a Congressman that looked that good on a suit.

“Miss Y/N.” He stood up and offered his hand.

“Congressman Barnes”. You answered and gave him a firm handshake.

If you were to succeed, you needed to go full on “professional”mode. No distractions. You remembered that technique were you imagine your audience naked so you don’t feel nervous. Definitely thinking of him naked wasn’t doing you any favour. “Just pretend he is bold, fat and has a bad breath”, you thought to yourself. He made a few of the expected questions and then he shoot to kill:

“ Let’s cut to the chase. Why here? Why me?”. His question threw you off balance.

You could quote Niccolo Machiavelli, even recite the Constitution by heart, but deep down you sensed that wouldn’t impress him. Then it suddenly hit you, it was crystal clear, he wanted nothing more than your honesty.

" I grew up on this building. My father office was right down the hall. Probably my first word was “amendment”. You straightened yourself up and looked into his eyes. “I know I’ve been out of the game for so long but I think we all deserve a second chance.”

There was no response. He just stared at you. You couldn’t have fucked up the interview so bad? Could you? He was so guarded that you couldn’t tell. What a great Poker player he had to be. Sure it was an useful trait for an assassin. But then something changed, almost undetectable, you saw what you could only describe as a spark. You stood up, ready to say goodbye and flee the building. You were pretty sure you hid a pine of Chocolate Ice Cream on your freezer for these kind of situations. And then he said: “See you tomorrow Miss Y/N”

‐——————————————————-------------

It’s been a month since you’ve started. Did you still had a embarrassing crush on your boss? You certainly did. At first you were so coy around him. Almost as If you were walking on eggshells. But that didn’t last long. Something you learned about him was, that behind the tough exterior, there was a softie hiding in the inside. So you used attack as the best form of defense. And you were certainly winning. He’d blushed like a fifteen years old teen girl when you called him handsome. You always had some smart ass comeback ready to shoot. He tried to scold you, but not to hard, secretly he was loving it. He couldn’t hide the tinniest hint of a smile after you finished your daily banter. You weren’t afraid of him, you didn’t care about his past, and Bucky couldn’t be more thankful for that. You were a whiff of fresh air that allowed him to breath easy.

You called him B. Congressman Barnes felt too formal and you were way passed that. Bucky was reserved for his friends, you were friendly at work but not friends in the full sense of the word. James, well that was too intimate. It started as a joke but then it kind of stuck. It was unique, as your relationship. He usually called you trouble, which you totally were. Always calling him out on his bullshit and driving him crazy.

You had a solid game plan. If Washington was going to take Congressman Barnes seriously he needed to pass a bill, and it had to be fast. Rome wasn’t build in a day, but you could use your experience and your connections to gain the support require. After careful consideration you choose “Veteran Aid Fund” bill. It was a project close to his heart, and close to yours too, something that would make your father proud and one that other Congressman couldn’t deny their backup without looking like soulless bureaucrats.

You were in the middle of your daily debrief when you’ve got a call. You didn’t bother to take it on your office, there was nothing you could hide from him anyway.

“Greg! Oh my God. You are the best!” Bucky could tell you were totally faking your overly sweet talk.

“Yes. See you at 5! Lulu’s Cafe. You are my hero. You know that? Byee!”

Bucky was staring at you, looking slightly concerned.

“What???”You feigned innocence.

“What the hell was that about?”

“Well B, you’ve just sold me for a cow and two camels to the best bidder.”

He almost spilled his coffee " I did what now?”

“That was Congressman Lewis right hand. He is on board. We have Lewis support. He might bring Smith and Lucas too. I just need to go, have coffee with Greg, bat my eyelashes, act like a damsel in distress and tell him how incredible he is.”

“Like a date?” He sounded more like a jealous boyfriend than an angry boss. “I won’t do that. I refuse to do that.”

“Relax. He hated me back in college. He just wants me to sit, look pretty and beg him. I can handle him.”

And before he could say another word you were out the door.

You didn’t change your clothes, but you’ve definitely did your make up and let your hair loose. If you were going to beg at least you were going to look your best doing it.

Greg was boring as ever. He just went on and on about how great he was at his work and how Lewis would be so lost without him. You’ve just smiled and nodded. You were lost in your thoughts when something caught your eye. You almost choked on your coffee. Sitting on a table in the corner, there he was, your boss. He was wearing a baseball cap, dark sunglasses, black jeans and a black leather jacket, looking all broody and mysterious as usual. You wanted to be mad at him, you’ve told him you could handled the situation, but instead you found him endearing. You should have guess that it was impossible to him to stay away.

After what seemed forever Greg said his goodbyes. You waited for a moment, pretended you were going to the bathroom but then sat on Bucky’s table.

“Subtle. Real subtle B. The cap is a nice touch though” You said while stealing his hat. “I dig this whole sexy spy look.” You winked at him.

“I was just having coffee. Is that a crime?” He stated nonchalantly.

“In the same cafe and at exact the same time I was supposed to met Greg?”. You weren’t buying it.

“What are the odds?”. He was a terrible actor. You didn’t answer, just kept your eyes focused on him.

“Okey. You’ve got me Trouble.” He put his hands up on defeat. " I was worried. I wouldn’t put it past that idiot to pull some stupid shit. He looks like a guy that can’t keep his hand to himself.”

“He is an ass but not that kind of ass.” All of the sudden a face splitting grin appeared on your face. “You know, this little stunt you pulled, it makes you my work husband now.”

“Come again?” He said astonished.

“Google it smarty pants”.

As you stood up you signaled him to follow you outside.

“Where are you taking me? You know you can’t murder me. it’s psychically impossible I’m a super soldier, remember?”

“The idea has crossed my mind. I know I can’t ,but I bet I would have so much fun trying.”

“You are a psychopath. You probably dream about 1000 ways of killing me.”

“Oh! Believe me. I dream about you plenty.” You said seductively.

He had no idea what to respond. You’ve won. Again.He couldn’t stop his mind from imagining what kind of dreams you were having about him. Certainly he couldn’t tell about the dreams he’s been having since you came into his life.

You stopped at a little kart on the street. You waved at the guy and asked him for a Churro. Once you’ve got one you handed it to Bucky as a peace offer.

“It’s a “Thank You” Churro. I know I was giving you a hard time, but you were looking out for me. So thank you. No one ever did something like that for me. Ever.”

Speech deserted Bucky once again. It was so much more than your words, it was the way you said it, so open and honest. It was disarming. You really meant it. There was no one looking out for you since your dad passed away. It was nice feeling safe for a change.

“See you tomorrow my darling husband”. You waved at him as you walked away.

And that was the day that everything changed between you and your boss.

[pampi-iranzo]

Congressman Barnes is my obsession right now, and reading this from my friend… *chef’s kiss*

Enjoy!

[sparklyhologrampaper-deactivate]

Dear James #7

Previous chapter

summary: bucky founds a letter in his desk. Who is the mistery woman behind them?

pairing: congressman!bucky x fem!reader.

warnings: None. Pure fluff!

a/n: So the last chapter! Or no? Maybe I could write about their first date. But I have other story I want to write. Congressman Barnes lives free rent in my head. I'm never moving on. Love you all!

@pampi-iranzo

6 AM already. Stupid alarm. It felt like you’ve slept just for an hour, and maybe you did. Monday morning found you utterly and completely devastated . You looked at yourself and didn’t even recognize the person you saw on the mirror. Puffy eyes, red nose, swollen lips, all consequence of the self pity party you indulged on the day before. It was so tempting to call in sick and just let your bed swallowed you whole, but that would’ve been extremely suspicious. You were safe, you’ve got yourself out of these mess with your dignity unharmed.

Warriors put their armor on to go to war, and you were going to emulate them. God! You needed the strength! Your weapon of choice: you favorite black mini skirt, black stockings, high heels and red painted lips. You weren’t going to wear your hair up, no way, you were going to let it down, styled it in untamed waves. You looked at yourself in the mirror again. You’ve never been this skillful with your curler before. The only way to survive the day was by looking fierce. So Bucky wanted blondie skinny booby Stacy? Fine. It didn’t mean you couldn’t look your best.

When you arrived at the office you could feel the way everybody was looking at you. It’s not that you never wore a mini skirt before, but maybe red lipstick wasn’t a great choice for 8 AM in the morning. One of the interns even whistle when you passed him by.

“Looking good Y/N”.

“Say that again and you’ll end up working in the archives kid”.

Maybe the attention was a bit much, but you had handled worse. Even sweet Sarah asked you if you had and quote: “A hot date”. You were starting to regret the whole charade you were putting on. Thankfully there was no sign of your boss. Maybe he just took a personal day and you were off the hook. You drowned yourself on paperwork. Your love life could be catastrophic, but you were not going to let it affect your work.

It was almost noon. You were absentmindedly leaning on your desk, your legs crossed, chewing on your pen, proofreading a legislative proposal, internally cursing the idiot who wrote it, when you heard him approaching your office. When you looked up you found him standing on your threshold choking on his coffee mid sentence. That was new. Congressman Barnes always so serious and composed, so distant and unaffected. Note to yourself: Wear a mini skirt and red lips much more often.

“Are you okay? Need you to sign a lot of documents before you go dying on me. "

He didn’t answer. Confused and bewildered James Buchanan Barnes. What a sight! One you never thought you’d be witnessing yourself. You’ve never seen someone leave a place in such a hurry. Good. It serve him well. You wanted to feel sympathy for him, and probably you did, but you needed anger as a fuel to survive the day. You keep repeating as part of your inner monologue: “Don’t fall apart. Don’t fall apart. Just keep going.”

There was one particular event you needed to go through that day and you’ve forgotten: A stupid meeting with stupid Congressman Gary and his stupid parliamentary advisor. Your day kept getting better and better. You were tired, you wanted to go home, take a long bath and just forget about everything. Fuck it! You could send his precious Stacey instead, let her take notes and you would deal with all the idiotic men in your life tomorrow.

You were almost out when you get a text: " I need you. Not Stacy.” Damn Bucky Barnes. You couldn’t ignore it. After all he was your boss, and it wasn’t his fault you were helplessly in love with him. “On my way” you texted back. While you were riding on the elevator you couldn’t stop thinking that maybe there was a a hidden message in Bucky’s text, subtle,maybe he wasn’t talking just about the meeting. Could it be? No way. “Stop being delusional” you said to yourself.

The moment you entered the room you could feel those piercing blue eyes on you. He was annoyingly handsome. The way the suit fitted him, so unfair, he looked like he’d walked out straight from the cover of a magazine.If there was a magazine that featured ex brainwashed assassins turned Congressman. You wanted to hate him, you really did, but it was impossible. You knew deep down there was nothing you wouldn’t do for him. Even if that meant just watching from the sidelines.

The meeting was dull, as you expected, but it took you completely by surprise how blatantly Gary’s advisor was flirting with you. He even winked at you. Though, the most unexpected thing of it all, was the murderous look on your boss. If looks could kill, that poor guy would have suffered a horrible tragic dead. It was so wrong, not what a sane person should be thinking, but all you could imagine was grabbing Bucky by his shirt and kissing him nonsense. You wanted to scream at him “I’m all yours, you idiot”. Instead you choose silence.

You didn’t walked out of the meeting. You ran away from it like the whole building was catching on fire. He called your name, but you kept going pretending you didn’t hear him. It was childish, and unprofessional as hell, but you needed out.

When you arrived home you breathed properly for the first time in hours. You’ve been holding it for so long, as you’ve spend the whole day running a marathon. Now that you were alone you could relax a little. You went straight to your bathroom and run yourself a long nice bath. Finally you felt a little more at ease. Like a burden you didn’t know you’ve been carrying had been lifted from your shoulders. You changed your clothes to a simple sleeved pink floaty floral dress and flats. You felt so much better. Done pretending. Just you.

You made yourself some tea and took a seat on your sofa. You were going through some files when you noticed the envelope. Your heart skipped a beat. It couldn’t be. You swore your mind was playing tricks on you. With trembling hands you opened the envelope.

That you were dumbfounded it was the understatement of the century. You found yourself rereading each sentence because you couldn’t believe what you were reading. After each paragraph you kept yelling “What?” like a crazy person. Your ability to form sentences was gone, your capacity to process coherent thoughts totally non existent. He thought you were beautiful and that got you blushing like you were a teenager. You’ve never felt so seen in your entire life. You couldn’t believe he noticed all those small things about you. You were not invisible, not to him. All this time you thought you were alone, but it turned out you had company. You were his without a doubt, but he was yours too.

The ping from a text popped your bubble. Congressman Barnes flashed on your screen. You opened the message: “Look out the window”. You didn’t walk, you ran straight to your living room window. And there he was, leaning on his car, wearing black jeans, a white shirt and a black leather jacket. A bouquet of roses on his hand, the shyest blue eyes you’ve ever seen, so impossibly handsome. You pinched yourself to check you weren’t dreaming, because you felt you might be hallucinating. Then another ping and another text: “Sweetheart, would you let me take you on a date? It would be my honor”.

You didn’t even think about it. Your mind was still grasping the significance of what had happened, but your body was already racing downstairs. You ran to Bucky and he catch you in one swift perfectly orchestrated move. He held you in his arms for a moment, but before he could say anything you kissed him. There was so much you needed to tell him with that kiss: how long you have waited for him to notice you, how much you wanted him, so much it physically hurt you and how sorry you were to not have spoken before. He kissed you back with such intensity that your legs almost gave out. Without breaking the kiss he lifted you up, and you ended up with your legs wrapped up around his waist and your arms around his neck. The kiss was sweet and desperate all at the same time. You could feel his love but also how much he wanted you. He didn’t realize how starving he had been until now. He’d been waiting for these moment for decades without even knowing it. It all had been worthy if you were the final destination.

When you finally came up for air you were laughing like two kids who were caught doing something they shouldn’t.

" So, that was a yes sweetheart?”.

“It was definitely a yes Sergeant Barnes”.

[pampi-iranzo]

The final chapter. Or is it?? Lol. I’m not going to ask. I prefer to be surprised

Enjoy!!

[sparklyhologrampaper-deactivate]

DEAR JAMES #6

Previous Chapter

summary: bucky founds a letter in his desk. Who is the mistery woman behind them?

pairing: congressman!bucky x fem!reader.

warnings: None. Pure fluff!

a/n: Soooo, I'm a liar. This is not the last chapter. Let's call it a two chapter finale event. You are all amazing and I love you.

@pampi-iranzo

Monday Morning couldn’t come fast enough for Bucky. Sunday was hell on earth. He hardly had any sleep, the waiting was driving him crazy. He almost showed up at your door, and then decided against it. He knew he had to play his cards right. He couldn’t rush or he’ll end up ruining his chances. But the worst part was he couldn’t stop thinking in the way she looked, hurt and disappointed all together. He wanted to make it right. The idea that he wounded her made his heart ached in a way that knocked the air out of his lungs.

A tap on his door startled him. He wasn’t expecting anyone. When he opened the door he found the building doorman holding a letter on his hand. He took it without saying a word and run downstairs hoping he could catch her. Instead he found a courier already leaving the building.

He came back to his apartment. He looked at the letter as it might bite. He was already expecting bad news. He sat on the sofa, poured a glass of whiskey, told himself repeatedly to man up and proceed to read.

It was worst than what he envisioned. You went for the kill. No preamble. Just straight to the point. The word “goodbye” was psychically hurting him. The amount of times he said “fuck” out loud it was unprecedented. He could almost see you, your sad eyes, scribbling fast, just to get everything out of your chest. What if you regret the whole thing? What if you quit and never want to see his dumb face again? He needed a plan and he needed it now. If he was going to win her back he knew exactly the way to her heart.Before he could even realize it, he was typing on his computer like a man possessed.

To my mystery girl:

It’s been so long since the last time I wrote a letter, I used to write to my mum and my sister during war but, as surprising it may seem, I don’t think I’ve ever written a love letter. I’ve seen other soldiers doing it. Most of them kept a photo of their girlfriends close to their hearts, a beckon of hope, a reason to come back home safe. I remembered watching them and thinking that If something ever happened to me there was no special someone who would receive my dog tags or bring me flowers to my grave. I knew I was probably missing out on something extraordinary. But as fearless I was in the battlefield I was the biggest coward when it come to love. Back on the day, I could charm the prettiest girl on the room but never ask a lady on a second date. I thought it was pointless, that I ‘d have time later to focus into the matters of the heart. But it turned out I didn’t.

I used to think I didn’t deserve love. That it was not in the cards for me. Too old, too broke, out of date. It felt so out of reach, that I didn’t even let myself fantasize about it. And now, due to some recent and unexpected events, I’ve had a sudden change of heart.

Your words have disarmed, one by one, every single wall I’ve built up through the years. You gave me hope. If a kind soul like yours could look at me and see good then I could see myself through your eyes and see it too. Every time you show me some fear or insecurity I’d wished I could let you know that I was feeling the same way myself. What If I did something that made you thought less of me? I want to, so desperately, to be the man that deserves such faith. Not the Winter Soldier, Not Bucky, Not Congressman Barnes. Just James. Your James.

On your last letter you’ve told me it was for the better that I’ve never found out who you were. I’m sorry to let you down sweetheart. I do know. It took me a while to figured it out, but eventually all the pieces of the puzzle came together. I felt like such an idiot, because it couldn’t be anyone else but you.

Stop. Just stop. I know you are probably staring at the letter and yelling that you are not Stacy, that I’m a dumb ass and I’ve got it all wrong. But doll, I know you aren’t. Y/N, it’s been you all along.

I am the undeserving one. You are my brilliant chief of staff. I don’t think I could’ve survived without you. Always the smartest person on the room. On the other hand, so kind and sweet, so attentive to everyone needs. You are funny in the silliest most endearing way possible. And to top it all, you are breathtakingly beautiful. “Writing sonnets” and “tearing down kingdoms” beautiful. A soft and quiet kind of beauty. It's so rare. And what surprises me the most it's that you don't even realize it. You light up every room you walk in with your smile.

There is so much more I want to say, but I’d rather say it in person. If you give me the chance. Don’t go disappearing on me y/n.

Yours,

James

He could hear his pounding heartbeat loud and clear. He didn’t reread the letter. He didn’t need to. He was terrified, never shared such intimate information to another soul, not even his therapist for God’s sake. However he felt almost relieved, he knew she would take good care of his heart. He was giving away a part of him, but she had given him so much already, this was the only way to even the score.

Monday is probably the most dreadful day of the week for most people. But right here, right now, Monday was Bucky’s lifeline. Monday was the day he was going to win you back.

[pampi-iranzo]

Only one more chapter to go. And I don’t want it to end!! She knows, I told her. Lol

Enjoy!!

[superbassbuck]

Grade-A Pain in My Ass [masterlist]

Single dad!Bucky x Teacher!Reader, enemies to lovers

64.2k words || completed || domestic fluff || sexual tension || no y/n || f!reader || angst/comfort || smut || ao3 || playlist

Bucky Barnes is a single dad who doesn’t do love. He’s got everything he needs: a steady job, cozy home, and his whole life wrapped up in one little girl, his daughter Rebecca. No complications, and absolutely no room for romance. After a rude and not-so-pleasant first encounter, he finds out you’re the elementary school teacher of Rebecca’s class. He would make it his mission to avoid you at all costs and to absolutely not fall in love with you. I mean, how could he? Especially since you’re a grade-A pain in his ass.

one || two || three || four || five || six || seven || eight || nine || ten || eleven || twelve || thirteen

[sparklyhologrampaper-deactivate]

DEAR JAMES #5

Previous Chapter

summary: bucky founds a letter in his desk. Who is the mistery woman behind them?

pairing: congressman!bucky x fem!reader.

warnings: None. Pure fluff!

a/n: I've been typing like a maniac. Need to get this out of my chest. Just one more chapter to go (maybe an extra bonus one. Who knows?) Thank you for reading. It means the world.

@pampi-iranzo

When Bucky woke up that morning he sensed something was off. It all started when the alarm on his phone didn’t ring making him late for picking up his suit for the Gala. He got a coffee on his way to the tailor. It was cold and overly sweet. Then there was a big misunderstanding and he ended up with a tuxedo instead of the dark blue suit he had chosen. When he was waiting for his lunch some idiot tripped and spill an entire can of soda on him. Of course his favorite leather jacket was ruined. If he’d be the kind of guy to believe in the universe or that kind of stuff he surely have thought there was a higher force trying to tell him something. Even the car that was going to take him to the gala arrived an hour late. But he was an stubborn man, and nothing was going to stop him. He had a plan and he was going to execute it no matter what. Was the plan kind of naive? Or maybe even worse, just borderline delusional? Perhaps. But it was the best he got. And he wasn’t one to back up from a challenge.

Valentina was for sure a terrible person but certainly she knew how to threw a party. The whole place looked like a winter wonderland extravaganza. Everything was white and silver, fairy lights in every corner, chandeliers illuminated the tables and the most exquisite crystal snowflakes hanged from the ceiling covering the majority of the dance floor. If these wasn’t an special occasion he’d have definitively felt intimidated by the paraphernalia of it all. But tonight he was a man on a mission.

The first task of the night was getting all the political business out of the way. He did the same old boring rounds he usually did in these kind of events. It usually consisted of tons of dreadful conversations with the archaic members of the Congress and a lot of ass kissing. If ass kissing was a sport, he would be an Olympic athlete by now. After all he was the “new kid” in town and he needed all the help he could get. He wasn’t a soldier on the battlefield anymore, but the way the world worked was quite similar to it. Alliances were needed to be form if he wanted to push his agenda. Diplomacy wasn’t his strong suit, he was more of a “hands on” kind of guy, but he followed the Washington way in order to get things done.

What happened next unfolded extremely fast, but at the same time, Bucky felt everything around him moving in slow motion. Stacy, one of the interns, had asked him to dance in a very sweet , and at the same time,very awkward way. He found it almost endearing.He said yes because he didn’t want to be unkind. She was far too young, though everyone was too young compare to his sweet 106 years old. Probably she had a silly crush on him. Just an innocent infatuation that sure was going to be over in no time. There was no way she could be his mystery woman. She sounded like an old soul. She had seen things and probably lost things just like him. And it took courage to love despite everything.

And just like that, it all clicked, the pieces of the puzzle just coincided. He looked up and there you were, his chief of staff, walking down the stairs. You had a dark blue long satin dress, high waist and v neck, accentuating all the right places and hugging every curve you had. You choose silver sky high stilettos to go with your dress. You wore your hair up, in the most delicate up do, soft waves framing your face. And the finishing touch were your cherry red lips. You would had made Audrey Hepburn very proud.

The world stopped for a minute. For god sake, it might have shift on its axis. You were so breathtakingly beautiful. How on earth he didn’t see it before? Was he so oblivious to not notice you?You were indeed hidden at plain sight. All the signs were there.

You were one of the smartest person he ever met. He remembered thinking you were deranged for taking the job. He was so inexperienced and it was dumb luck he even got elected. A Stanford alumni, graduated top of your class, you could have worked anywhere you wanted. You were tough, you couldn’t have survived Washington If you weren’t, but you lead with a quiet determination. Everyone in the office followed you, no out of fear but out of respect.

He should have recognized you in the little things. The way you always smiled at him when he entered a room. Your patience and your sweet manners while you explained to him the most boring stuff about the legislative work. So many times he walked out of a meeting annoyed and frustrated leaving you to deal with everything. But you’ve never complaint. You always looked at him with understanding. You never pushed him too hard, knowing exactly where his boundaries laid. You were always the one who would bring cake to celebrate birthdays. Now he knew you’d probably bake them yourself. You’d always bring him coffee before a meeting, you’ve learn exactly how he took it. It wasn’t your job, but you did it anyway. When you stayed on the office way past your hours, which was pretty often, you’d be always listening to music on your Air Pods. There was no doubt which sweet tunes you have been softly humming to yourself.

As you were walking down the stairs, your eyes met, briefly, almost imperceptible. He could see something flickering in your eyes. Then you stopped mid way, and took a deep breath, hurt and disappointment written in your face . It lasted only for a couple of seconds, then your mask was back on, he could tell you were putting a hell of an effort in hiding your feelings. You adjust your dress and carried on like nothing happened, looking all confident and unaffected, like you always did. What the hell? Then it hit him, howthe whole situation may have looked like from the outside. He was dancing with a beautiful girl and he never danced with anyone in these kind of events. He never dance, ever. For him it was all about efficiency, engage conversation with a few people, the ones that were absolute necessary, exchange some pleasantries and then he was gone. His social battery always seemed to run low when it came to Washington scene.

He could fix this. It was just a misunderstanding. He could go after you and just explain. He was about to excuse himself when Mrs. De Fontaine materialized in front of him and asked for the next dance. He wanted to say no but it would have been pointless, she was relentless and always got her way. He took his eyes out of you for just a second and the next thing he knew you were gone. Vanish into thin air. He cursed himself for not telling Valentina to fuck off. You were far more important than any political plot. He knew you would have scold him for not taking advantage of the situation and try to win some leverage. He could almost hear you say “You’re quiet charming when you put your head on it Congressman.” He wasn’t quite sure about that, but he has every intention to test that theory on you.

He searched high and low, he scanned every damn room of the party venue but the was no sight of you. You couldn’t have left, could you? When he was about to just text you and put an end to his misery he ran into Sarah. When he asked her about you, in a totally professional casual way, not like a man about to lose it, she told him you weren’t feeling well and that you left early.

He had hurt you. Not intentionally. But he felt like an idiot for being so blind. He have been so lost, so caught up on the past that he never let himself dreamed of a future. He didn’t even believe he deserved one. But you seemed to believe it. And that alone gave him faith. Now that you’ve lifted the curtain, and left him to confront all the feelings he had been simply ignoring out of fear, he knew he would not be able to find answers without you. He was going to make it right. No more hesitation. You weren’t going to become “the one that got away”.

Letter #5

Dear James:

They say all good things must come to an end so I guess it’s time to say goodbye. It’s been a lovely dream but I can’t live in a fantasy anymore. It’s tempting, but it’s the grown up thing to do.

I don’t know who was I kidding? I think mostly myself. My life is not a ROM-COM. I wore the dress, did my make up, but I’m not Sabrina, nothing really changed. I think it’s for the best that you’ve never found out who I am. You’ d have never looked at me the same way and it would have killed me. At least you still respect me as a professional.

I saw you at the Gala. You were dancing and smiling. I’m glad you took my advice. It makes me happy to see you happy. And I mean it, truly, sincerely. You do deserve a happy ending, even if it doesn’t include me.

You made me come out of hiding, made me bold enough to dare to dream, gave me a reason to smile every single morning. Thank you James. It meant the world to me.

You’d still be the one I dream of every night.

Yours forever,

XXX

[pampi-iranzo]

OMG!!!! This chapter is truly amazing, and nerve wracking, might I add

[sparklyhologrampaper-deactivate]

DEAR JAMES #4

Previous chapter

summary: bucky founds a letter in his desk. Who is the mistery woman behind them?

pairing: congressman!bucky x fem!reader.

warnings: None. Pure fluff!

a/n: I meant to publish sooner but life got in the way. I think two, maybe three chapters left. The jury is still deciding.

@pampi-iranzo

#LETTER 4

Dear James:

You are not playing fair. I’m trying to be cool, to carry myself with grace and dignity. I have a job to do you know? Are you trying to kill me? My heart doesn’t stand a chance, how I’m going to survive you and your sweet gestures. I almost dropped everything right on the spot and ran to your office. Now I can’t stop thinking how it would feel to slow dance with you, to be in your arms, impossibly close, you whispering sweet nothings on my ear. Just you and me. The world could collapse and I wouldn’t care as long you keep holding me.

Although is so tempting to get caught in the fantasy I force myself to get back in the real world. Probably if you’ve have to choose it wouldn’t be me who you’d pick.

One of my all time favorite movies is “Sabrina”, not just because I love Audrey Hepburn, God I’d love to have half of her poise. The thing is, at first, Sabrina was kind of invisible, always hidden at plain sight, just observing everything from the sidelines. And then she travels to Paris, and ends in a self-discovery journey . She gets new clothes, new haircut and most important a new attitude. When she comes back she is no longer acting all shy and coy , she is now the protagonist of her life and everybody seems to notice her.And guess what? She ends falling in love with Linus, the older, grumpy but handsome leading man. Rings a bell? The point is, I’d give everything for you to notice me in that way, for you to see me in a new light, as someone beautiful and confident, someone you can’t get your eyes out of.I guess in real life I’d need more that a new haircut and a new dress to accomplish that.

At the end of the day what scare me the most is to be vulnerable. To let you see the real me, not the professional “ready to take on Washington” me or the “i really don’t need anyone” me. Me, who sometimes feel so lonely even if I’m is surrounded by a multitude, me who cries in the bathroom when some idiot make me feel I’m not tough enough for Congress standards, me that really needs someone to fix my kitchen sink but really doesn’t know how to ask for help, that bakes too many cookies and ends up giving them away to my neighbors.

I know the kindness in your eyes. I know you wouldn’t hurt me. Not on purpose anyway. But to take that leap of faith, to let you in and give you the power to hurt me, that terrifies me. Its been so long since the last time I felt this way, perhaps I’ve never feel this way before, not this raw, not this deep, not so undeniably smitten to be writing love letters every night. And somehow I keep writing them because in some unconscious level I believe you understand me. We both crave for intimacy but we are not quite sure how to let go and embrace tenderness.

I see the way you look at Sarah when she gets lunch for you, or when someone takes time to explain you the machinery behind law making, even when some of the interns fetch you coffee. The wonder in your eyes, like that small acts of kindness surprise you every time. We all deserve to be taken care of James. Wish I could give you that, hope it’s what I give you with every letter.

You deserve softness. Please never forget.

Yours,

XXX

He woke up that Friday to a sense of hopefulness he had not felt in decades. The night before his dreams had been peaceful, full of vibrant colors and soft music. There was no darkness because you were sunshine illuminating every corner of his existence with your words.He knew he would find a letter, and that fact alone made his heart skipped a beat.

The moment he arrived in the building he sensed something shifting in the air. Everybody keep looking at him like he gone mad. Probably because there was no actual record of him smiling like that, ever, but he couldn’t help it. Grumpy broody mysterious Super Soldier was gone, hello semi friendly, almost happy Congressman Barnes. That was the effect you had in him. What was next? Serenade in your window? Reciting love sonnets in the building staircase? Nothing seemed so far- fetched to him anymore. All bets were on. He would do whatever it takes to win your heart.

Bucky found your last letter particularly endearing. He could see your hesitation, your fear and the places where the world hurt you and you wanted to hide , but also your sincerity and your admirable ability to love. When he closed his eyes, he could almost see you, a silhouette, baking in your kitchen, humming an old tune, like a siren sing, so inviting. How he could resist? You wanted to take care of him, well “right back at you sweetheart” he thought.

He loved every piece of information you were sharing: your favorite movie (You did said you were a hopeless romantic), your love for baking ( He could smell vanilla and cinnamon in the air), you secretly hiding in the bathroom to cry (That almost destroy him. He was an ex assassin after all, he could take care of these idiots) and even the fact that your kitchen sink was useless (He could fix that for you). But he craved for more, he wanted all of you, all of your versions.He needed to solve the riddle, connect the dots sort of speaking. He couldn’t help felling that, just like you said, you were hidden at plain sight. That the truth was painfully looking him straight in the eyes but he was too blind to see.

He needed to come up with an strategy. His efforts were not unnoticed by you, but you still didn’t trust him enough to reveal yourself to him. All sort of crazy impossible plans danced around his head. Hacking everyone Spotify’s pages and look for Etta James in their libraries, maybe into their computers to see if they have watched “Sabrina” lately. Maybe go through his staff lunch boxes to see if one of them brought home made cookies. No of them seem very tactical. He was losing the touch. You’d think he could put all his battlefield experience at good use but good ideas seemed to be painfully elusive.

On his way home he bought two copies of “Sabrina”, the Audrey Hepburn and the Julia Ormond version,just in case, figured you probably loved both, and he needed a bit of inspiration to crack the case. He called it “Operation Heart Stealing” in his mind. He thought Sam would have felt of a chair laughing if he ever heard him saying that out loud. Probably he’d call him “Sargent Softie” or some other stupid nickname.

An idea popped into his head that night while he was watching “Sabrina”. He was supposed to attend Valentina Allegra de Fontaine big charity gala that Saturday. The idea of such event filled him with nothing but dread, but maybe it was a possibility to make you step into the light. In a very Cinderella type of scenario, he would ask every female member of his staff to dance, and he would ask them specific questions that could give mystery girl away. It wasn’t really scientific, it wasn’t like he was going to compare fingerprints with the ones in the letter (Maybe not just yet, wouldn’t put it past him) but he was convinced he could make you confess.

There were a million things that statistically could go wrong, but that night he let himself hope, the promise of tomorrow lingering in the air.

[pampi-iranzo]

Next chapter of this beautiful story my BFF has written. I’m too emotional for this

[pampi-iranzo]

Hoy hace 15 años que llegué a Tumblr. 🥳