Disclaimer: Please note that none of my works contain smut, but may include suggestive themes. I may reblog posts with smut. Minors DNI.
FALLING
Bucky Barnes x Reader — Complete 🤍
Read on AO3: Falling (44,241 words) by probablybucky
When you find yourself falling for Bucky Barnes (literally), you wonder if you can let go of the past enough to trust him. Set post TFATWS.
Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5 // Part 6 // Part 7 // Part 8 // Part 9 // Part 10 // Part 11 // Part 12 // Part 13 // Part 14 // Part 15 // Part 16 // Part 17 // Part 18 // Part 19 // Part 20
DRIFTING (Sequel to Falling)
In Progress — Currently on Hiatus until the Fall 🤍
Read on AO3: Drifting (12,439 words) by probablybucky
Drifting apart was never part of the plan—but neither was falling in love with Bucky Barnes. With a looming threat on the horizon, distance becomes a liability neither of you can afford.
Part One: The Fight
Part Two: Cold Coffee
Part Three: Crossed Wires
Part Four: Romantic Reunions (Or Not)
Part Five: Fractures
Part Six: The Space Between Us
Part Seven:
ONE SHOTS
I CHOOSE YOU — 2.2k Words
After a mission gone wrong, you're injured and unsure where to turn. Hurt/comfort.
FLUSTERED — Coming Soon!
TOO LATE — 589 Words (Drabble)
Questioning if you made the right decision, you run into Bucky for the first time since you left. Lots of ANGST.
Content: fluff, the reader gives Bucky a (playful) hard time
Synopsis: You always make sure Bucky has the best bouquets for his first dates. What happens when one bails on him?
A/N: dividers from @saradika-graphics ; thanks to @buckybarnes82 for inadvertently giving me inspo for this piece hehe 🤭
The bell above the shop door chimes and you look up from the arrangement you’re working on to see his familiar face.
“A dozen red?” You ask confidently, reaching for the craft paper roll under the desk.
He shakes his head. “Not tonight. Apparently she’s ‘not a roses gal’ according to her profile.”
You hum and nod your head. “Interesting, okay. Did she mention what she does like? Or favorite colors?”
“Asking her favorite color before the third date? How scandalous,” he jokes and your knees buckle at his laugh. You swallow and pull yourself together, flashing him a smile at his quip.
“I just got a bunch of dahlias in,” you offer, pointing to the two five-gallon buckets on the floor by you. He looks them over and nods to himself.
“Those are nice. Would you like those on a first date?” He asks, picking up a stem and bringing it to his nose.
“Sure… I mean, I’d just be happy to get flowers honestly,” you say before cringing internally at how sad that sounded. His eyes dart to your left hand quickly, not noticing a ring.
“Let’s do the dahlias,” he agrees. “Baker’s dozen, if you don’t mind.” He pulls out his wallet as you wrap the bouquet carefully for him and tie it in twine.
“You like them?” You ask, twirling the flowers around.
“They look great as usual,” he says with a soft smile as he pays. You hand him the bouquet, but before he leaves he pulls one dahlia out and offers it to you. “Thank you for always helping me. These first dates are intimidating, and honestly the bouquets give me something to do with my hands.” A light blush paints his cheeks and you sniff out a laugh.
“Well, don’t be intimidated. You always bring flowers. That’s a rarity these days. And thank you,” you say, twirling the stem in your hand. “Go get ‘em tiger!”
He chuckles and waves as he exits your shop.
“Oh, fuck, I like him,” you say loudly enough for your best friend and co-owner of Petal to the Metal, Ava, to hear. She walks around the corner from the back work station and rolls her eyes.
“You are so not smooth,” she jokes, poking you in the ribs. "We need to work on your game, girl."
You shrug and shift your attention back to the arrangement in front of you, popping in sprigs of baby's breath.
"Maybe he needs to work on his game, too," Ava adds. "How many first dates does this make now for your mystery man?"
"He's not a complete mystery," you reply, holding up the receipt with 'J.B. Barnes' at the bottom. "Mr. Barnes, but I still don't have his first name. And I think this is first date number six…"
"Six?!" Ava exclaims.
"This month," you tack on with a lopsided frown.
"Oh, there's gotta be something wrong with him," Ava says with a nonchalant wave of her hand. "Six different women? In one month? And he looks like that? What, does he have a micro penis?"
You close your eyes and pinch the bridge of your nose, not wanting to picture him hooking up with some chick.
"I'm sure there's nothing wrong with him," you spout. "Maybe it's the women he's dating. Who knows? And can we not theorize about his penis, please?"
Ava huffs out a laugh. "Like you've never thought about it."
You roll your eyes and throw a peony at her. "Get back to work, perv!"
A week later, he's back, but you don't hear him enter because you're unloading a truck of greenery in the stockroom.
"Another week, another first date?" Ava asks from behind the front desk. His brow furrows and he looks around the shop for you. "She's in the back. Let me grab her."
Ava shouts your name without looking away from the man. "Your favorite customer is here!"
You pull out an AirPod, swearing you heard Ava's voice, and yell back. "What?!"
"Mystery man needs another bouquet!" She yells unashamedly, and you feel your stomach drop. You fluff your hair and take a deep breath before walking out to the front of the shop.
"Hi," you say, slightly too high pitched to be casual. "Ava, there's some stuff in the back that needs unpacking. You mind?"
She smirks and skips off, leaving you alone with him.
"Well, I can see why you usually man the front. She's a bit abrasive," he says with a chuckle.
"Yeah, she's the metal and I'm the petal," you say, shaking your head at your cheesy joke. "Anyway! What do you need tonight? Roses? More dahlias? We just got some gorgeous anemones in."
He clears his throat and extends his hand to you. "I'm Bucky, by the way."
You shake his hand and look at him quizzically. "Nice to put a name to your face." You give him yours before glancing down at your name tag. "But you probably already knew that. So, flowers?"
He smiles at you sweetly. "Dealer's choice? I'm not feeling hopeful about this one. The one I got dahlias for stood me up, so they're sitting in a beer glass on my kitchen table."
"You got stood up? That's awful. I'm sorry," you say, genuinely upset for him.
"It's alright. Just wasn't meant to be," he says with a shrug.
"Do you ever get tired of the apps?" You ask as you pick out your favorite stems and build him a bouquet. "The texting? It's kind of exhausting, don't you think?"
He nods solemnly. "It is exhausting, but my therapist said I have to put myself out there, so that's what I'm doing."
You smile at that. "So, who's the lucky lady tonight?"
Bucky blushes at you assuming his date is lucky. "Her name is Jill. She's a nurse. That's all I know, really. So, it sounds like you've tried your hand with the online dating shtick. It work out for ya?"
You laugh and shake your head. "Not so far."
"Not so far," he repeats with a nod, watching your deft hands put together the flowers. His phone pings and he checks it. His face falls and he puts it back in his pocket.
"She bail on you?" You ask, feeling guilty about the hopefulness in your voice.
"Y-yeah. She did. But, hey, keep making that arrangement. I'll put it somewhere in my apartment. It'll brighten up the place." He swallows, trying not to show the disappointment on his face.
"It's okay. You don't have to buy this just because I started making it. It's pretty. Someone else will swoop in a buy it," you tell him.
"It is pretty. And I want to buy it. You're good at your job," he says.
Suddenly, Ava comes charging around the corner and looks between the two of you.
"Did you make reservations somewhere?" She asks Bucky pointedly.
"Uh, yeah, why?" He asks, putting his hands in his pockets.
"Are you blind, sir?"
"I'm sorry?" He asks, eyes flitting between you and Ava.
"She's single. You're single. I bet it's too late to cancel the reservation. She's gorgeous, wouldn't you agree? And I know she thinks you're fine shit, so take her out," Ava suggests with confidence.
You feel like you could throw up. Bucky's eyes go wide.
"Ava, you can't just-" you start, but he cuts you off.
"Do you want to go out with me tonight?"
Your eyes snap to his. He looks serious.
"Um…" you start, not sure how you feel about the impromptu invitation.
"You don't have to say yes," he assures you. "I know you're working and all."
"I can cover for her. We close in an hour anyway," Ava chimes in with a smug smile.
"Ava, I love you, but can you get lost for two seconds?" You ask with an edge. She holds her hands up in surrender and moonwalks back to the stockroom.
"Don't feel obligated-" he starts.
"I don't," you say. "I'm just not sure I want to be a backup date."
"Whoa, you're not. I promise. I just… I didn't know you were single," he says sheepishly, raking a hand through his dark hair.
"You never asked," you add, ribbing him a bit.
"You make me nervous, okay?"
"I make you nervous? Is that a joke, Bucky?"
He scoffs. "Definitely not! Come out with me?"
"Okay," you agree. "But you're buying me these flowers!"
"Already planned on it, remember?" He says, handing you his card. You swipe it and untie your apron, glad that you wore a cute sundress today.
"Is this okay for the restaurant we're going to?" You ask, gesturing to your dress.
Bucky looks you up and down before swallowing and nodding his head. "That's perfect. You look pretty."
"Thanks," you say with a shy smile. "Let me tell Ava I'm leaving and then we can go."
You walk to the stockroom and can't hide your grin. "Get out of here, kid," she teases, flicking water at you.
Bucky leads you out of your shop and opens the car door. He's not showing off, you realize. It's like a habit for him. You slide into the passenger seat and try not to squeal in excitement.
He drives you across town to the new pizza joint. "Have you been here yet?"
"No. Have you?" You ask.
"Nope, but I've heard it's good."
He gets out and opens the car door for you again before leading you into the crowded restaurant.
"Barnes for 2," he tells the host.
"Right this way, sir," the young man says as he escorts you both to your corner table. "Your server will be right with you."
Bucky thanks him and pulls your chair out for you.
You sit down and smirk. "So, you're clearly a gentleman. You make reservations. You bring flowers. You open car doors. What's the problem?"
He inhales and raises his eyebrows. "Wow, we're just diving right into the nitty gritty, huh?"
"I'm not getting any younger. Do you have a secret family? Do you not know how to do your own laundry? Do you hate Taylor Swift? Give me your red flags,” you say, tracing the gingham pattern on the tablecloth.
He chuckles. "Well, let's see. No secret family. No living family, actually. I know how to separate my delicates and my towels. I'm no Swiftie, but I enjoy a few songs when I hear them on the radio. That one about karma is fun. Red flags… hmm. I'm 110 years old with a questionable history."
You giggle. "So you're into younger women?"
He rolls his eyes. "I tried picking up some grannies at Bridge, but they were all hung up on Gerald the janitor. What's a guy to do?"
Your waiter comes over at that moment and takes your drink orders. Bucky orders a beer as you peruse the menu.
"What's your most popular wine?" You ask the waiter.
He points to be a cabernet.
"And what's your backup if you're out of that one?"
"We have that one, though," the waiter insists.
"I know, but if your shipment bailed on you, which one would you suggest next? Your second best?"
The waiter looks at you with confusion and points to a pinot. Bucky rolls his eyes playfully, catching on to your little game.
"I'll have that, please," you tell the waiter and he walks off to grab your drinks.
"You're not second best, you know," Bucky starts.
"You sure about that?"
"I never asked you out because I figured someone as sweet and beautiful as you was spoken for," he admits shyly.
"Well thank you, but I'm not… spoken for," you clarify.
"Do you want to be?"
You blush at his forward question. "Maybe."
Your drinks arrive and you take a sip of your wine.
"How is it?" Bucky asks.
You hum. "Tastes like a runner-up."
He can't help but shake his head and laugh at your bit. You order two small pizzas, one pepperoni and one sausage, and relax back into your chair. He's handsome, especially when he's laughing, and you can't help but stare at him.
"What are you doing?" He asks with a smirk as he takes a drink of beer.
"Honestly, I'm just wondering why the hell you're still single," you admit, swirling your wine around the glass.
"Some women are repulsed by the arm. Some think I come on too strong with the flowers, but I can't in good conscience show up to a date without flowers. Some think I'm too quiet. Some think it's weird that I was born before their great grandparents. Some women don't like how slow I want to take things… physically speaking. It's a plethora of things. I just haven't met my Goldilocks yet. Why are you single, really?"
You clear your throat and sit up straighter. "Honest answer?"
"Please," he says with a warm smile.
"I refuse to settle. I know there's someone out there that will give me butterflies and be a gentleman without having to be asked. He'll notice the little things and commit them to memory. He'll watch my silly reality TV shows with me without complaining. He'll let me yap about the romance books I read and listen to the songs I send him. And he'll buy me flowers."
Bucky nods, really listening to you. Your pizza arrives and he cuts you a slice.
"That all sounds more than reasonable," he assures you with a smile. "It sounds like we're just dating the wrong people."
You take a bite of pepperoni. It's perfect.
"You're telling me," you say through a mouthful of cheese and Bucky laughs.
"So that's your red flag," he teases. "You talk with your mouth full."
You widen your eyes and swallow. "I'm sorry!"
He throws his head back in a laugh. "Don't be sorry. It's funny. Besides, no one's perfect, but you were toeing the line before that." He winks slyly.
"You're charming," you blurt out.
"And you're adorable," he replies. He pulls out his phone and opens up the main screen.
"Ah, so your red flag is getting on your phone during a date?" You ask, crossing your arms across your chest in annoyance.
"I just have to do something really quick," he mutters, focusing on the phone screen.
You huff, but he just smiles and holds his phone up as all the app icons dance on the screen. His finger hovers over the delete button on his dating app before he presses it.
"What are you doing?" You ask, feeling your stomach fill with butterflies - big ones.
"Getting rid of that. I don't think I'll need it after tonight."
You feel bold and nod your head. "Yeah, I don't think you will either."
Tropes: Best friend's Sister and Lovers to Enemies
Word Count: 589 (lol) // Warnings: Angst. That's all.
Masterlist // AO3 // Spin the Trope
“I should have known you’d be here.” His voice, low and rough, hit you before your eyes even adjusted to the darkness of the empty warehouse.
Your fists clenched as you tried to steady your heartbeat. You knew this would happen eventually. That is, running into him. But you weren’t ready for it.
“I guess I could say the same,” You murmured, trying to keep your tone neutral. You could barely make out the outline of him in the dark, until he stepped towards you.
You shift your weight, eyes flicking to the far end of the warehouse where your team is sweeping the site. You should be moving. Completing your mission objectives. Getting the hell out of there.
But instead, you were frozen in place.
With your eyes locked on Bucky Barnes.
He took one step closer.
Two steps.
Three steps.
And suddenly he was in front of you. Breathing your air. The look on his face is one of betrayal, almost like you were a stranger. Almost like you were the kind of threat he was trained to eliminate.
“You chose him,” He whispered, “Over me.”
“He’s my brother, Bucky,” You breathed. He was silent for a moment, jaw clenched like he was biting back something sharp.
“And I was the love of your life,” he said. His voice cracked, just barely, on the last word.
You looked away, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. Your heart ached. You knew there was nothing you could say to make him understand your decision to join Sam’s team.
He took another step toward you. You inhaled sharply, breath catching in your throat.
“I should hate you,” He said, quieter now. You let out a shaky breath,
“I wish you did,” You whispered. His hand lifted, hovering near your face. Fingers twitching like he wanted to cup your cheek the way he used to.
Like he still remembered what you could never forget.
The way he’d pull you in close, kissing you until your head spun. Like every breath was a promise. Like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.
And then you did.
Your heart ached desperately in your chest. You should have stepped back. But you didn’t.
He leaned in, just barely.
Your lips were inches apart and you could feel his breath on your skin, warm and familiar. Your chest rose and fell with the weight of everything unspoken.
“We’re on opposite sides now,” you said, voice barely audible.
“That doesn’t mean I stopped loving you,” he whispered back.
His eyes searched yours. And without warning, his hand came to your jaw, gentle and reverent, thumb running over your cheek like it belonged there. Like you still belonged to him.
Your eyes fluttered shut at the feeling. For a moment, you let yourself feel it. The familiarity of his touch.
The spell was broken when you heard his comm crackle in his ear.
“Barnes. We got what we came for. Time to move.”
He pulled back like nothing had happened—his jaw tightening, his face hardening into an unreadable expression.
He took one step back. And then another.
His voice came low, “Don’t follow me out.”
You swallowed hard, “I won’t.”
He hesitated, just for a moment, before he disappeared into the shadows.
And you stood there in the dark, pretending it didn’t break you to let him go. Wishing that you’d told him the truth.
“And I was the love of your life,” he said. His voice cracked, just barely, on the last word.
Oh this is already so painful 😣 the was… not present tense
“That doesn’t mean I stopped loving you,” he whispered back.
The implication here that he does still love her and that it is present tense, please my tummy hurts from this!! The hurt but they still love each other 🥺
He never knew you left just to keep him safe.
Ahhhh stop it right now!! To keep him safe!! And he doesn’t know!! He needs to get back here and reader needs to tell him that 😭
I know I know😭 I have rarely written anything without a happy ending…. This was certainly a challenge. Thank you for taking the time to read and share your favorite parts!
Tropes: Best friend's Sister and Lovers to Enemies
Word Count: 589 (lol) // Warnings: Angst. That's all.
Masterlist // AO3 // Spin the Trope
“I should have known you’d be here.” His voice, low and rough, hit you before your eyes even adjusted to the darkness of the empty warehouse.
Your fists clenched as you tried to steady your heartbeat. You knew this would happen eventually. That is, running into him. But you weren’t ready for it.
“I guess I could say the same,” You murmured, trying to keep your tone neutral. You could barely make out the outline of him in the dark, until he stepped towards you.
You shift your weight, eyes flicking to the far end of the warehouse where your team is sweeping the site. You should be moving. Completing your mission objectives. Getting the hell out of there.
But instead, you were frozen in place.
With your eyes locked on Bucky Barnes.
He took one step closer.
Two steps.
Three steps.
And suddenly he was in front of you. Breathing your air. The look on his face is one of betrayal, almost like you were a stranger. Almost like you were the kind of threat he was trained to eliminate.
“You chose him,” He whispered, “Over me.”
“He’s my brother, Bucky,” You breathed. He was silent for a moment, jaw clenched like he was biting back something sharp.
“And I was the love of your life,” he said. His voice cracked, just barely, on the last word.
You looked away, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. Your heart ached. You knew there was nothing you could say to make him understand your decision to join Sam’s team.
He took another step toward you. You inhaled sharply, breath catching in your throat.
“I should hate you,” He said, quieter now. You let out a shaky breath,
“I wish you did,” You whispered. His hand lifted, hovering near your face. Fingers twitching like he wanted to cup your cheek the way he used to.
Like he still remembered what you could never forget.
The way he’d pull you in close, kissing you until your head spun. Like every breath was a promise. Like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.
And then you did.
Your heart ached desperately in your chest. You should have stepped back. But you didn’t.
He leaned in, just barely.
Your lips were inches apart and you could feel his breath on your skin, warm and familiar. Your chest rose and fell with the weight of everything unspoken.
“We’re on opposite sides now,” you said, voice barely audible.
“That doesn’t mean I stopped loving you,” he whispered back.
His eyes searched yours. And without warning, his hand came to your jaw, gentle and reverent, thumb running over your cheek like it belonged there. Like you still belonged to him.
Your eyes fluttered shut at the feeling. For a moment, you let yourself feel it. The familiarity of his touch.
The spell was broken when you heard his comm crackle in his ear.
“Barnes. We got what we came for. Time to move.”
He pulled back like nothing had happened—his jaw tightening, his face hardening into an unreadable expression.
He took one step back. And then another.
His voice came low, “Don’t follow me out.”
You swallowed hard, “I won’t.”
He hesitated, just for a moment, before he disappeared into the shadows.
And you stood there in the dark, pretending it didn’t break you to let him go. Wishing that you’d told him the truth.
Tropes: Best friend's Sister and Lovers to Enemies
Word Count: 589 (lol) // Warnings: Angst. That's all.
Masterlist // AO3 // Spin the Trope
“I should have known you’d be here.” His voice, low and rough, hit you before your eyes even adjusted to the darkness of the empty warehouse.
Your fists clenched as you tried to steady your heartbeat. You knew this would happen eventually. That is, running into him. But you weren’t ready for it.
“I guess I could say the same,” You murmured, trying to keep your tone neutral. You could barely make out the outline of him in the dark, until he stepped towards you.
You shift your weight, eyes flicking to the far end of the warehouse where your team is sweeping the site. You should be moving. Completing your mission objectives. Getting the hell out of there.
But instead, you were frozen in place.
With your eyes locked on Bucky Barnes.
He took one step closer.
Two steps.
Three steps.
And suddenly he was in front of you. Breathing your air. The look on his face is one of betrayal, almost like you were a stranger. Almost like you were the kind of threat he was trained to eliminate.
“You chose him,” He whispered, “Over me.”
“He’s my brother, Bucky,” You breathed. He was silent for a moment, jaw clenched like he was biting back something sharp.
“And I was the love of your life,” he said. His voice cracked, just barely, on the last word.
You looked away, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. Your heart ached. You knew there was nothing you could say to make him understand your decision to join Sam’s team.
He took another step toward you. You inhaled sharply, breath catching in your throat.
“I should hate you,” He said, quieter now. You let out a shaky breath,
“I wish you did,” You whispered. His hand lifted, hovering near your face. Fingers twitching like he wanted to cup your cheek the way he used to.
Like he still remembered what you could never forget.
The way he’d pull you in close, kissing you until your head spun. Like every breath was a promise. Like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.
And then you did.
Your heart ached desperately in your chest. You should have stepped back. But you didn’t.
He leaned in, just barely.
Your lips were inches apart and you could feel his breath on your skin, warm and familiar. Your chest rose and fell with the weight of everything unspoken.
“We’re on opposite sides now,” you said, voice barely audible.
“That doesn’t mean I stopped loving you,” he whispered back.
His eyes searched yours. And without warning, his hand came to your jaw, gentle and reverent, thumb running over your cheek like it belonged there. Like you still belonged to him.
Your eyes fluttered shut at the feeling. For a moment, you let yourself feel it. The familiarity of his touch.
The spell was broken when you heard his comm crackle in his ear.
“Barnes. We got what we came for. Time to move.”
He pulled back like nothing had happened—his jaw tightening, his face hardening into an unreadable expression.
He took one step back. And then another.
His voice came low, “Don’t follow me out.”
You swallowed hard, “I won’t.”
He hesitated, just for a moment, before he disappeared into the shadows.
And you stood there in the dark, pretending it didn’t break you to let him go. Wishing that you’d told him the truth.
chapter summary: As the Avengers team medic it's your job to take care of everyone. So why does Bucky feel like he gets special treatment? Surely a medic wouldn't know the exact way he likes his tea.
word count: 4.0k+
pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader
notes: this is sometime post civil war but the avengers are a big happy family :)
i just love the idea of medic!reader, and a reader who take cares of bucky even when he thinks he doesn't deserve it
warnings/tags: medic!reader, mentions of violence, mentions of blood/injuries, fluff, angst, possible inaccurate depictions of medicine
The quinjet’s rear ramp hissed open onto the compound’s flood-lit tarmac. Everyone scattered toward post-mission routines—Thor to the kitchen, Natasha to the debrief, and Tony already complaining about “arrow residue” in his repulsors. Bucky tried to drift with the crowd, jacket pressed close to hide the dark bloom seeping through his side.
“You can limp faster than that, Barnes.”
You fall into step beside him, sweatshirt sleeves shoved to your elbows, med bag bumping your hip. Bucky answered with his best frown. “Took a scratch, that’s all.”
“Scratch?” You tugged the jacket hem and the fabric stuck to his ribs with an audible peel. “That’s shrapnel and at least two stitches.”
“Good thing I only need one.”
“Math is not your strong suit tonight. Med bay—now.”
He could’ve kept walking, you’d seen him yank bullets with pliers before. But the way you were already cataloging his breathing, the way your fingers hovered without quite touching—something in him unclenched. So he followed.
---
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as you snapped on gloves, murmuring absent comfort. “Top bunk’s free if you need to crash after.” Bucky eased onto the exam table, metal fingers curling off the edge.
“You really hate me, don’t you?” he grumbled while you cut away the ruined shirt.
“I don’t hate you,” you said, then winced theatrically. “I just hate that you treat medical like a voluntary suggestion.”
“That’s a lot of sugar-coating for ‘pain in my ass.’”
“Sugar-coating? You take two sugars in your tea.” You sterilized the wound, and he hissed. “Hold still.”
He did, but only because you asked. Because the gentle press of your palm over gauze was somehow louder than the sting of antiseptic. Because—though he’d never admit it—he trusted those hands more than the vibrating hum in his own metal arm.
“Shrapnel’s shallow,” you said finally, suturing. “You’ll live to brood another day.”
“Lucky me.”
You tied the final knot, slapped a gauze pad over it, then—softly—tapped his knee. “Go shower. I’ll re-dress it in the morning.”
“Thought you were off tomorrow.”
“Barnes, I saw you take that hit through a concrete wall. I’m not clocking out until I know you didn’t bleed through the mattress.”
He opened his mouth—some dry retort about over-caring—but you were already disinfecting the tray, back turned, humming off-key.
---
Bucky padded into the kitchen wearing sweats with damp hair, intent on pilfering chamomile. The compound was dark but for the fridge glow and the soft blue of tablet screensaver fish.
A lone mug waited by the kettle. Steam coiled up, lazy with two sugars stirred in.
There was a sticky note with your handwriting: “For not bleeding on the mattress. —Night watch”
He stared and noticed the tiny doodle of a star in the corner with five uneven points. The soft spot in his chest, poorly armored, thudded once.
He made himself a second mug—because the first felt too much like you standing there—and carried both down the hall.
---
The only light came from the vitals monitor you’d dragged over “just in case.” You were slumped in the visitor chair, hoodie hood halfway over your face, but awake—eyes on the empty bunk you assumed he’d take.
Bucky set the untouched mug on the table and slid the other toward you. “I figured you could use a refill.”
You blinked up, sleep-rough voice. “I thought you hated chamomile.”
“Growing on me.”
A beat. Then your gaze dropped to the clean bandage at his ribs, then to the tea. “Vitals look good,” you said quietly. “Pain level?”
“Manageable.” He nudged your foot with his socked one. “Go sleep in a real bed.”
You made a face. “Orders?”
“Suggestion.” His mouth twitched. “I hear those are optional.”
You laughed—soft, tired, the sound a little cracked around the edges. But you stood, stretching. “Fine. Wake me if it starts hurting worse.”
He saluted lazily. “Yes, doc.”
Before you left, you hovered in the doorway, studying him like another chart to file. Bucky lifted the mug in thanks.
When the door whispered shut, he exhaled into the quiet. The compound was never truly silent—vents sighing, arc reactor pulse traveling the pipes—but tonight it felt close. Close enough that he could hear the scrape of your chair being pushed into a corner, the distant thump of your sneakers heading for the dorm wing.
He took a sip. Too sweet, like always. But he didn’t mind.
Across the room, the monitor’s soft beep kept time with his heartbeat—steady, unhurried. Unusually calm.
Maybe he’d never say it out loud, maybe you’d never ask, but the truth sat warm in his hands—for someone who used to be a weapon, he was surprisingly okay being someone’s patient.
And maybe, just maybe, you were becoming the safest place he’d ever been patched back together.
He lay back, closed his eyes, and let the steady beep carry him toward sleep. No dreams, no ghosts—just chamomile with two sugars cooling on the bedside table.
---
When you walked into the kitchen, Wanda was already massaging her temples. Before you could ask why, she spoke. “Apparently, Clint’s midnight snack was the last of Thor’s Pop Tarts.”
Bucky raised an eyebrow from the coffee machine. “That man has a death wish.”
You shrugged out of your hoodie, sleepy grin in place. “‘Again’ has to be implied. What flavor?”
“Frosted cherry,” Wanda muttered, as if reciting a crime scene. “Thor’s favorite.”
Bucky whistled. “Clint better start running now.”
You laughed, then popped open the cabinet beside him and grabbed a mug—one of the few without cracks or Stark-brand snark printed on it. You poured coffee for yourself, then, almost absently, reached around and refilled Bucky’s too. Two sugars and a quick stir. Your left hand remained braced on the counter while your right did the pouring. He noticed the way you didn’t ask if he wanted more—you just did it, then dropped a tiny packet of vitamin C gummies next to his mug like it belonged there.
He blinked. “Uh… thanks.”
“Breakfast of champions.” You nudged the gummies closer. “Take those.”
Wanda smirked into her own cup. “Mother hen back at it?”
“Hush,” you said without heat, already fishing in the fridge. You snagged strawberry jam—he liked that brand, the one with whole berries—and set it next to the toaster before sliding two slices of rye into it, same as last time.
Bucky’s eyes flicked to Sam and Steve, who were locked in an animated debate over training schedules and paying zero attention to you. No one else seemed to be getting stealth-medic treatment.
The toast popped. You buttered it, then passed the plate his way. “Eat. Protein shake later if you’re still looking pale.”
“I’m not pale,” he muttered.
You tapped the inside of his right wrist, just where yesterday’s IV line had been. “Humor me.”
Steve reached for the jam and found an empty spot—your hand was there first, sliding it to Bucky. Steve redirected to peanut butter without comment.
Bucky sipped. Sweet, perfect. “You remember how I take it?”
You shrugged. “Memory’s my job.”
“Don’t see you memorizing Clint’s coffee,” he mumbled.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.” He bit into the toast.
Thor stormed in then, cape swinging. “Who has eaten the sacred pastries of Pop-Tart?” he bellowed.
Clint darted behind Vision like a toddler hiding behind a sofa. Chaos erupted—Wanda sighing, Vision tilting his head, and Tony strolling in with an energy bar and an amused grin.
You, unfazed, passed Bucky two ibuprofen tablets, whisper-soft: “Take with food.” Then you patted his left shoulder once, and crossed the room to break up Thor’s thunderous rant before it hit Category Five.
Bucky watched you go, tablets warm in his palm. Nobody else got those taps, that quiet voice.
Steve elbowed him. “You spacing out?”
Bucky slid the pills into his mouth and chased them with sweet coffee. “Just thinking.”
“Anything good?”
He watched you over by the fridge, coaxing Thor into accepting a toaster strudel peace offering. You glanced back once, checked the bandage line beneath his tee, subtle as blinking, then returned to the thunder god.
“Yeah,” Bucky said. “Good.”
Sam squinted. “Why’re you smiling like that?”
Bucky’s face smoothed. “I’m not.”
Steve chuckled. “Sure, pal.”
The kettle hissed again—fresh water. You were already setting out a chamomile bag beside it. Just one cup this time. For him. Bucky swallowed more toast and decided maybe gummies at 0800 weren’t so bad.
---
Tony paced, ranting about arrow residue again while you stood on a step-stool rewiring Bucky’s prosthetic calibration dock.
“This will cut recharge time by half,” you told him, finishing with a screwdriver flourish. “Left side ports were overheating.”
Tony paused. “You don’t do house calls for my suits.”
You shrugged. “Your suits don’t bleed.”
Bucky’s throat tightened. He flexed the metal fingers experimentally and they were already smoother.
---
You nearly collided with him outside the med bay, arms full of supply boxes.
“Need a hand?” he asked.
“Sure.”
He took the heavier crate with his left arm while you kept the lighter. Inside, you labeled shelves while he stacked gauze packs. “Dinner?” you asked without looking up. “Kitchen has turkey chili. I set aside a bowl, no beans.”
He stilled. “You remembered that?”
“Try forgetting a thirty-minute rant about legume betrayal,” you teased.
He coughed, embarrassed. “Wasn’t a rant.”
You just smiled, scribbling a date on a vial.
He noticed: no one else had personalized bowls waiting. No one else’s preferences pinned to sticky notes.
---
Bucky exited the shower, his shoulder stiff. You were leaning against his door with a pill bottle in hand. “Forgot your evening dose,” you whispered. “Take with water.”
He accepted it. “You chasing everyone around like this?”
“Only the stubborn supersoldier who forgets he’s breakable.”
A beat hung between you. He swallowed the pill and handed the bottle back. “Thanks,” he said, soft.
You patted his metal wrist—short, warm contact that didn’t clang like steel should. “Sleep. I’ll check the bandage tomorrow.”
You pushed off the wall, heading for your quarters. Bucky watched you go, mind replaying the day’s subtleties: the mug, the toast, the custom dock fix, the bean-free chili, the midnight meds.
He’d been trained to notice patterns—threat vectors and escape routes. Tonight, all he saw were gentle fingerprints no one else seemed to receive.
He brushed the healing edge of his sutures, feeling the ghost of your careful pressure. The soft spot inside his chest thudded, confused.
With a quiet sigh, he stepped into his room, door sliding shut behind him. The compound settled, vents humming. Somewhere down the hall, your laugh floated out of a late-night movie with Wanda.
He found himself smiling at the sound—unbidden, uncomplicated—then shook his head, still not quite understanding why any of it felt different.
But he noticed. Oh, he noticed.
---
The mission had been small. Routine, even. Just recon, in and out. But somehow, recon turned into a shootout, the shootout turned into a building collapse, and the building collapse turned into Bucky sitting on a gurney again, shirtless, with dried blood streaked down his spine.
You weren’t saying anything.
That was the part that made him nervous.
You were always talking. Even if it was just quietly—nagging, joking, grumbling about the lack of gauze. But now you were just… cleaning.
“I’ve had worse,” he offered.
Your latex gloves snapped as you peeled them off and tossed them into the waste bin. “You didn’t say you were hit,” you said flatly. “You walked off the quinjet, sat through debrief, and then I found out from Steve that there was blood on your back.”
Bucky’s mouth opened, then closed. “…It didn’t feel like a big deal.”
You grabbed a new pair of gloves, and didn’t even meet his eyes.
He winced. “Okay, maybe not the best choice of words.”
“I’m not mad,” you said, finally stepping forward with fresh antiseptic. “I just—if there’s something wrong, I need to know. That’s literally my job.”
“I know,” he said. Then quieter, “Didn’t want to make a fuss.”
Your fingers slowed. You sighed. “You never do. That’s the problem.”
The sting of antiseptic burned, but he didn’t flinch. Just watched you—how focused you were, how your brow furrowed when you worked, how you used your bare palm to gently steady his vibranium shoulder without hesitation.
---
Bucky wandered in, shirt finally replaced, hair still damp. You were at the stove, humming. Something savory simmered in a pot, and when you turned, your expression softened. “Sit. You look like hell.”
“I feel like it,” he muttered.
You slid a plate across the counter. Roast chicken, soft rolls, roasted potatoes. All stuff he actually ate. You didn’t even ask.
“No peppers?” he said quietly.
You shot him a look. “I learn.”
He glanced toward Wanda, who was eating leftover takeout. Sam was microwaving a burrito. Steve had a protein shake. Natasha wasn’t even around.
Just you, making an entire meal—for him.
“Did you… cook this just for me?” he asked before he could stop himself.
You didn’t answer right away. Just poured him water, nudged it toward him, and said, “you didn’t eat after the mission. Figured you’d need something.”
That was all.
No smile, no brag. Just facts.
He stared at the plate. Then the water. Then you.
And suddenly, it clicked. Really clicked. You didn’t do that for anyone else. He watched as you turned back to the stove, scooping out a second helping for him without asking.
---
“Left arm up.” You raised your voice slightly over the compound’s gym speakers, watching Bucky jog to a halt near the sparring mats. He’d been training with Sam—light footwork drills, nothing too intense—but you’d caught the wince when he landed on the wrong foot. Twice.
Bucky didn’t argue. Just stood still while you tugged his sleeve up past his elbow. The metal gleamed under the overhead lights, scuffed from friction burns. You pressed your fingers to the joint just above his wrist.
“Feels fine,” he said, too quickly.
You didn’t look at him. “You ever consider letting me finish an exam before making declarations?”
“Not really.”
You held out your hand. “Knife.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Back of your waistband, Barnes. Don’t pretend it’s not there.”
With a grunt, he pulled the hidden blade and handed it over. You set it beside the med kit you’d brought out for him, then gently tilted the arm back and forth, checking the rotation.
“I adjusted the resistance last week,” you murmured, mostly to yourself. “Feels like it’s dragging again. Could be a wiring imbalance.”
“You’re the only one who notices stuff like that,” he said before he could think better of it. You glanced up. He didn’t move. “…I mean,” he continued, “I don’t think Tony even knows how this part works. But you always—”
“That's because you clench your fingers when you're in pain,” you interrupted, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Metal doesn’t bruise, but tension still shows.”
You flexed his hand slowly with both of yours, checking the motor response. Warm hands on cold vibranium.
Across the gym, Sam watched for a beat before wisely deciding now was the time to disappear.
---
He came back from the shower and found the bandage drawer in his bathroom neatly restocked. Same with the small jar of the eucalyptus balm you’d quietly started using on the nerve scars along his shoulder. He never asked for it. Never mentioned when it ran out. But there it was.
A sticky note sat on the lid, folded in half.
“Start with a thin layer. Don’t overdo it or you’ll smell like a tree. —Y/N”
Underneath was a doodle of a tiny pine tree with a frowny face sat in the corner. He set it down, sat on the edge of the bed, and rubbed his hand over his face.
You were everywhere, quietly.
In the gym, reminding him to stretch after missions. In the kitchen, always placing the sugar on his side of the table. In the med bay, adjusting the light so it wouldn’t buzz when he sat under it. In the way Wanda handed him a book and said, “Y/N thought you’d like this one.”
You never called attention to any of it. Never asked for anything back.
And somehow, it all hit him right now, in the silence of his own damn room.
You weren’t just being kind.
You were being kind to him.
He leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling like it had answers. The balm sat next to him, untouched.
And suddenly, all he could think was:
When did I start needing her?
Not just the medical part. Not just the stitches and the vitamins and the “take your painkillers or I’ll sedate you myself” threats.
But you.
All of it.
He grabbed the sticky note again, turning it over in his hand.
Then grabbed the balm, because yeah, maybe he did smell like a tree. But if it meant you’d still be hovering nearby tomorrow, clipboard in hand and eyes soft with concern?
He didn’t mind at all.
---
You were in the med bay, updating reports and reorganizing supplies. Calm, routine stuff. A protein bar sat on a napkin next to your tablet, but you hadn’t even taken a bite.
The team had been deployed on a perimeter sweep near Budapest—low threat, minimal risk. You hadn’t worried… until the comm crackled to life.
“Y/N.” It was Steve. His voice was tight. “We need med bay prepped. ETA fifteen minutes.”
You were already standing. “What happened?”
There was a pause. “Bucky’s hit. Left side. Took a hit shielding Nat from debris. We’ve stabilized him, but he’s not great.”
Not great.
Your stomach dropped. “Vitals?”
“Still with us. But you’ll need to dig deep.”
You were already moving. Vitals cart on, sterilizers heating, IVs prepped, and sutures laid out. You opened the drawer with the trauma shears and had to stop—both hands braced on the metal edge as your throat locked tight.
A cold rush of adrenaline prickled your skin.
He’s still with us.
But “not great” was a hell of a distance from okay.
You scrubbed your hands, twice, and blinked hard. A few tears fell anyway, streaking silently down your cheeks before you wiped them off and pulled your gloves on. No time for panic. No time for feelings.
You weren’t his person. But somewhere along the line, he’d become yours.
---
The rear ramp dropped. Tony hovered in with the stretcher as Sam helped guide it. Natasha’s jaw was set, her hands smeared with blood—his blood.
And there he was.
Unconscious. Pale. Lips slightly parted like he was stuck in a breath. His vibranium arm was twitching involuntarily.
You snapped into motion. “On the table—now. Hook up the monitor. Nat, give me the full report while I—damn it, someone get this vest off.”
Natasha rattled off the damage as you cut open the combat suit. Shrapnel through the lower left ribs. Vascular trauma. Debris burn across the shoulder. One lung likely bruised.
“Vitals are dropping,” Steve muttered. “Y/N—”
“I know.” You clamped gauze to the worst bleeder, then barked, “Steve, scrub in or get out.”
The room cleared fast.
You didn’t notice your hands trembling until you felt the blood pooling under your glove, hot and sticky. You dug in anyway.
---
He was stable. Bandaged and hooked up to monitors. His chest rising and falling, slower now. Normal. You sat beside him, stripped of your gloves and gown, hands raw from scrubbing, and eyes blurry.
You hadn’t left. Hours had passed. Everyone else had, but not you.
“You okay?” His voice rasped through the quiet.
You startled, looking up—Bucky’s eyes were half-lidded but open, watching you.
You sniffed, tried to smile. “You’re awake.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” You exhaled, shoulders dropping. He blinked slowly. “Your eyes are red.”
You rubbed your sleeve across your face. “Long day.”
His brow furrowed. “Y/N.”
“I’m fine.”
“You were crying.”
“No, I—”
“Sweetheart,” he murmured, low but steady. His vibranium arm, clumsy but precise, reached up and caught your hand. Gently tugged.
You tried to resist, just a little.
“C’mere.”
You let him pull you. One second you were sitting stiffly in the chair, the next you were curled against his good side, your forehead tucked under his jaw, cheek pressed to the edge of his shoulder.
He held you. A warm, real, heartbeat under your ear.
“I told you not to be a hero,” you whispered into his collar.
“Wasn’t trying to be. Just saw Nat about to get flattened.”
“You took a rebar to the ribs, Barnes.”
“Still breathing, aren’t I?”
You let out a weak laugh—half sob, half laugh. His hand came up and cradled your head gently before he pressed a kiss to your hairline. “I’m okay.”
“You weren’t,” you said, voice cracking. “Not for a while. You weren’t.”
His hand never stopped stroking your hair. “But I am now. Because you’re here.”
You gripped his shirt harder, hiding your face. “Don’t do that again.”
He didn’t say anything. Just held you closer. And for the first time in hours—maybe longer—you finally let yourself fall apart. And he didn’t let go.
---
The med bay was quieter than usual.
Bucky was sitting up now, monitors off, bandages fresh. He’d been cleared for light movement earlier that morning, and now he sat on the edge of the bed, tugging awkwardly at the edge of his hospital tee like it was itching.
You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching him. “Looks like you’re getting ready to make a break for it,” you said lightly.
He looked up, lips twitching. “If I had my boots, I might try.”
“You’d make it about ten feet before collapsing.”
“Worth it.”
You pushed off the frame, stepping into the room. There was a new cup of tea in your hand—same chipped mug, same two sugars. You set it down beside him on the table without a word.
Bucky stared at it for a second, then up at you. “I’m getting the feeling you’re trying to fatten me up,” he said.
You shrugged. “Easier target.”
That earned a quiet laugh. He picked up the mug and sipped, but his gaze didn’t leave you. “You didn’t sleep,” he said after a beat.
You blinked. “I did.”
He gave you a look. “Y/N.”
You sighed. “Okay, maybe not a lot.”
“You stayed with me. Again.”
“I always stay with patients.”
“No, you don’t.”
Silence. He set the mug down, slow and deliberate, and reached for your wrist—not fast, not demanding, just enough to make you stop retreating. You let him take your hand.
“I remember,” he said quietly. “When I woke up. You were crying.”
You swallowed. “You were bleeding out. I didn’t know if I was gonna lose you.”
“You didn’t.”
“I could’ve.”
His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “But you didn’t.”
Your breath hitched. “I can’t lose you, Buck,” you said, barely above a whisper. “I can’t.”
He tugged gently, pulling you between his knees, one hand still cradling your fingers, the other resting lightly against your hip.
“You’re not gonna,” he murmured. “I’m not going anywhere. Not from you.”
Your eyes were glassy again. “You say that like it’s easy.”
“It is,” he said. “Now it is. Because this—” his vibranium hand tapped his chest, just above the fresh bandage “—hurts like hell. But not half as bad as seeing your face when I woke up.”
Your breath caught.
And then he leaned up, slowly, giving you every chance to pull away.
You didn’t.
Your lips met his—warm, careful, steady. Like a promise being made in real time.
When you pulled back, your forehead stayed pressed to his. His eyes were half-lidded, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.
“You kiss all your patients?” he whispered.
You let out a breathy laugh. “Only the ones who try and disobey medical orders.”
He grinned, a little crooked. “I wasn’t gonna disobey.”
You arched a brow. “Liar.”
He kissed you again. This time a little firmer, more sure. And when you pulled away again, his arms wrapped around your waist, keeping you close.
Tropes: Best friend's Sister and Lovers to Enemies
Word Count: 589 (lol) // Warnings: Angst. That's all.
Masterlist // AO3 // Spin the Trope
“I should have known you’d be here.” His voice, low and rough, hit you before your eyes even adjusted to the darkness of the empty warehouse.
Your fists clenched as you tried to steady your heartbeat. You knew this would happen eventually. That is, running into him. But you weren’t ready for it.
“I guess I could say the same,” You murmured, trying to keep your tone neutral. You could barely make out the outline of him in the dark, until he stepped towards you.
You shift your weight, eyes flicking to the far end of the warehouse where your team is sweeping the site. You should be moving. Completing your mission objectives. Getting the hell out of there.
But instead, you were frozen in place.
With your eyes locked on Bucky Barnes.
He took one step closer.
Two steps.
Three steps.
And suddenly he was in front of you. Breathing your air. The look on his face is one of betrayal, almost like you were a stranger. Almost like you were the kind of threat he was trained to eliminate.
“You chose him,” He whispered, “Over me.”
“He’s my brother, Bucky,” You breathed. He was silent for a moment, jaw clenched like he was biting back something sharp.
“And I was the love of your life,” he said. His voice cracked, just barely, on the last word.
You looked away, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. Your heart ached. You knew there was nothing you could say to make him understand your decision to join Sam’s team.
He took another step toward you. You inhaled sharply, breath catching in your throat.
“I should hate you,” He said, quieter now. You let out a shaky breath,
“I wish you did,” You whispered. His hand lifted, hovering near your face. Fingers twitching like he wanted to cup your cheek the way he used to.
Like he still remembered what you could never forget.
The way he’d pull you in close, kissing you until your head spun. Like every breath was a promise. Like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.
And then you did.
Your heart ached desperately in your chest. You should have stepped back. But you didn’t.
He leaned in, just barely.
Your lips were inches apart and you could feel his breath on your skin, warm and familiar. Your chest rose and fell with the weight of everything unspoken.
“We’re on opposite sides now,” you said, voice barely audible.
“That doesn’t mean I stopped loving you,” he whispered back.
His eyes searched yours. And without warning, his hand came to your jaw, gentle and reverent, thumb running over your cheek like it belonged there. Like you still belonged to him.
Your eyes fluttered shut at the feeling. For a moment, you let yourself feel it. The familiarity of his touch.
The spell was broken when you heard his comm crackle in his ear.
“Barnes. We got what we came for. Time to move.”
He pulled back like nothing had happened—his jaw tightening, his face hardening into an unreadable expression.
He took one step back. And then another.
His voice came low, “Don’t follow me out.”
You swallowed hard, “I won’t.”
He hesitated, just for a moment, before he disappeared into the shadows.
And you stood there in the dark, pretending it didn’t break you to let him go. Wishing that you’d told him the truth.
Mature, Bucky x Female Reader, Established Relationship, Sexual situation but no actual sex, Breeding Kink, Chubby Bucky, Tattooed Bucky, No Cowboys or Cowboy Hats were harmed in the writing of this fic, ~400 words. Also on AO3.
Summary:
"Well, okay, darlin', if this is what you want..."
It's the cowboy hat's fault, really.
Written (sort of) for @artficlly's Spin the Wheel Challenge. We were joking around as she spun and I was teasing her about a Breeding Chubby Tattooed Cowboy Bucky. Then I went to Costco and came up with this.
“Sweetheart, I am so ready for this.”
You close your eyes, shivering in anticipation on the bed. You smell Bucky’s sweat, feel the warmth from his skin next to yours. His rough hand lightly dancing over your naked skin, shoulder to breast, before resting, cupped, over your stomach.
“Gonna put my baby in here,” he murmurs into your ear. You groan, wanting to lean into him, unable to because of the restraints holding your wrists.
“Bucky, please,” you murmur, turning your face to him as far as it can go. “I just want to see you.”
“No, baby, you know that’s against the rules.”
“But—”
“Mm-mm.” He rests a finger on your lips; you try to suck it in, but he’s too smart, too quick.
Even if he does cup that same hand around your cheek and lean in for a searing kiss.
“Don’t be doin’ that, I’ll want to give you my cock to suck next, and how’m’I gonna get a baby in you that way?”
“First time for everything,” you gasp, breathless. He chuckles, so low and full that his belly shakes against you. “Please let me look at you…”
“All right, sweetheart, hold on.”
A moment later, the blindfold is gone, and there he is, your beautiful man, kneeling between your legs, ready to thrust into you. Cock standing proud and thick below the paunch of his belly. Your name tattooed above his heart.
Cowboy hat perched on his head. He pushes it back and winks at you.
“Hi, darlin’,” he says.
You cock your head to the side. “Huh.”
He frowns. “What?”
“The hat’s all wrong,” you decide. “Can we do a do-over?”
Bucky stares at you. “A do-over.”
“Yeah.” You pull your hands out of the wrist restraints—thank God you’d invested in the velvet-lined elastic versions—and twist around to fumble in the box sitting by the side of the bed. “Not a cowboy. What about…”
“Oh, God,” groans Bucky, pinching the top of his nose. “Babe. Does this have to be a production? Can’t we just—?”
“Aha!” You sit up in triumph, holding a chef’s toque and a tie adorned with dollar signs. “The billionaire who falls in love with a sous chef!”
Bucky sighs, long-suffering. “I love you. So much.”
You kiss his cheek. “You are the best boyfriend ever.”
Previous Part (5) // Part 7 (Coming 7/11 ish) // Masterlist // AO3
The jet touched down with a jolt that rattled your spine. Outside, Prague looked like a bruise — gray clouds hanging low over damp cobblestones and narrow alleys blurred by drizzle.
You pulled your jacket tighter as the ramp hissed open. The cold hit instantly — not the sharp kind, but the kind that sank in slowly and deeply.
You followed Sam and Torres down the ramp, boots striking wet pavement. Bucky came out last, his expression unreadable as he silently followed behind. An SUV was waiting a few yards away.
Sam glanced back at you over his shoulder as you all moved toward the car. “Encrypted route, burner IDs. We’ve got one safehouse near the Vltava.”
Torres adjusted the strap on his duffel, slinging it into the trunk. “We’ll set up surveillance at the safe house and go from there with recon.”
You gave a short nod, climbing into the backseat. Next to Bucky. Like it was normal.
And for a moment, it felt normal. It felt like those days a year ago in Georgia and Romania – when the tension between you and Bucky was a good kind. When he whispered reassuring words to you and held your hand like he’d never let go. Now, it wasn’t the kind of tension that gave you butterflies. It was the kind of tension that made you want to scream. Or maybe just cry.
Bucky’s vibranium hand tapped on his thigh, the sound harshly bringing you back to reality. And then right back out of it. This felt all too familiar. The anxiety of Mikhail being alive. Finding out it was Sharon pulling the strings all along. Your heart rate accelerated as you dug your fingernails into your palms. Why was this happening again? Why were you really here? What did Sharon really want from you?
And before you could spiral any further, a hand was pulling your fingers, one by one, out of the grip you were holding. You couldn’t do anything but stare at the half moon indentions you’d carved into your hands.
“Breathe,” Bucky whispered. For a moment, you didn’t even realize you’d been holding your breath. You exhaled, your eyes watering. Was it from holding your breath or Bucky touching you? You weren’t sure. You yanked your hand away from his.
“I’m fine,” You muttered, refusing to meet his gaze as you looked out the window.
“Sorry,” He said under his breath. Your eyes welled again. Because it wasn’t enough to fix the space between the two of you.
—
The silence inside the car was heavier than the rain outside. Sam watched you in the rearview, but didn’t speak. Bucky didn’t even look your way.
The drive was short. You pulled into a narrow alley behind an old textile factory, now converted into residential lofts. The safehouse was on the third floor. You clocked three exits before the door even closed behind you.
Inside, it was stripped and clean — concrete floors, exposed beams, a table scattered with blueprints and empty mugs. Torres got to work instantly at the console. Sam peeled off his jacket and started syncing comms.
You stood near the window, watching mist curl over the old factory building. You were already cataloging the exits, blindspots, and cameras. Bucky’s presence burned just behind your right shoulder — like he was watching your six, whether you wanted him to or not. The four of you were silent until Bucky finally spoke.
“Still think this is a trap?”
Your spine stiffened. “Do you?”
He shrugged out of his tactical vest. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone used tech to bait us in.”
You turned. “That’s what I said. Back in the jet. And you didn’t want to listen.”
“I listened,” he said. “You just didn’t like what I had to say.”
You stepped toward the table, laying out the schematics Torres had pulled. “No. I didn’t like you implying I’m not ready.”
“I implied someone might be targeting you,” he said evenly. “That’s not the same thing.”
“Feels like the same thing,” you muttered.
Sam cleared his throat. “Let’s get back on task before someone throws a punch.”
You dropped into the nearest chair. “Fine. Let’s go over the plan.”
“Warehouse perimeter’s active with low-range pulse fences,” Torres said, gesturing to the map. “Nothing sophisticated. But they’re watching the corners.”
“Heat sensors on the north wall,” Sam added. “Back alley’s our best bet for visual recon. I’ll take that with Joaquin.”
You nodded. “I’ll loop the south. Bucky can take east.”
“I can handle north alone,” Bucky said.
“No,” you snapped. “You’ll follow the plan.”
Sam gave Bucky a look. “We split up any more, we lose coverage. Stick to the pairings.”
Bucky sat down across from you. “You’re not going alone, Y/N.”
Your gaze met his. Flat. Cold. “Worried I’ll fall apart again?”
“No,” he said quietly. “Worried someone’s waiting for you.”
That silence came again. The kind that makes even breathing feel too loud.
Sam stood. “We move in thirty. Gear up. Keep comms tight.”
You stood without another word and moved to the armory.
You didn’t look at Bucky.
But you knew he was watching.
—
The alley smelled like diesel and humidity.
You crouched near the end of the narrow side street, your breath fogging as you watched the warehouse across the way. Its windows were blacked out. Security lights swept the loading dock in slow arcs.
“I’ve got visual on the eastern guard shift,” Bucky said into the comms. “Two-man patrol, ten-minute intervals. No IDs. Weapons seem to be military surplus.”
Sam’s voice crackled in. “Copy that. Joaquin and I are circling to the loading dock now.”
“Perimeter is clean on the south,” you said quietly. “No motion sensors. But someone swept the alley recently. Boots. Not local.”
There was a pause on the line.
“Say again?” Sam asked.
You stood slowly, eyeing the boot prints. “Whoever’s in there is expecting someone. This isn’t a warehouse. It’s a stage.”
“They want us watching,” Bucky said.
“Or they want one of us alone,” you murmured.
Silence again.
“I don’t like this,” you said sharply. “This feels like Madripoor all over again.”
“Y/N,” Sam began, “we’ve got the upper hand this time. We’ve got intel, surprise, backup—”
“No. We don’t,” you snapped. “We’re chasing shadows with half a plan and old ghosts breathing down our necks. This is reckless.”
“You agreed to this,” Bucky’s voice cut in.
You turned toward him, where he stood a few feet away in the dark, just out of range of the streetlight.
“I agreed because we didn’t have a choice,” you said, eyes burning. “But don’t pretend this is under control. That drive should’ve been gone. That tech was mine to destroy—and somehow, someone watched me do it.”
Bucky stepped forward, tone low. “You think I don’t get what’s at stake here?”
You stared at him. “I think you’ve been pretending this is just another mission. Like we’re fine. Like you’re fine.”
“I am fine.”
“No,” you said. “You’re lying.”
His jaw tensed.
“You’ve been lying since D.C.,” you went on. “You keep saying this isn’t about us, but you follow me with your eyes every time I move, and you flinch every time I speak. What is it you’re not saying, Barnes? Spit it out.”
He took a slow breath, then:
“You gave up on us.”
You blinked.
He said it like it was a fact. Like it was simple. Like it hadn’t gutted you.
“You left,” you said, voice cracking. “You walked out and never looked back.”
“I looked back every day,” he said quietly. “I just stopped thinking you'd still want me.”
The comms hissed with static—Sam’s voice faint and distant. But neither of you heard it.
You shook your head, fists clenched. “You don’t get to rewrite it. You don’t get to play the part of the one who stayed.”
“You never let me explain,” Bucky said. “You shut the door and locked it. I knocked for weeks—”
“We talked on the phone once,” you snapped. “And that was just to break up.”
“I didn’t know how to fix it.”
“Well, you don’t get to fix it now.” Something behind your eyes burned. Too much. It was all too much.
“Move,” you said, voice low.
Bucky didn’t budge from in front of you – and you didn’t wait for him to. You slipped past him and walked out the door.
You didn’t look back.
You couldn’t.
You made it three blocks before your breathing evened out.
It wasn’t the cold air that burned your lungs. It was the silence. The space where his voice should’ve been. Where he should’ve come after you—like he always used to. Like he promised he would.
But he didn’t.
You told him to leave you alone, and he listened. And wasn’t that the worst part? That maybe he was done fighting for you.
You didn’t belong in Prague. Not anymore. Not with them. You weren’t even sure you belonged anywhere.
You were spiraling. You could feel it. But you weren’t sure you could stop it.
For a moment, you wondered how you got here. To this point of your anger towards Bucky overshadowing how much you love him. You’d been this way for weeks — replaying every conversation that had gone wrong. Wishing things had been different — or even just easier.
And now, you were stuck with Bucky on this mission. Fighting more than you were working to finish the operation. Your comms crackled in your ear, but you ignored it. Sam would notice soon. Probably assume you were blowing off steam. Sam might be pissed for five minutes but he’d understand. Maybe Bucky would volunteer to come find you.
And for a second, you wondered if the fighting was worth it. It seemed impossible for things to ever go back to the way they were before. Maybe it was impossible. But you weren’t the same person you were a year ago — in all the best ways. Bucky had changed your life for the better.
Despite being broken up and fighting, you knew you couldn’t imagine your life without him in it. Your heart sank at the realization: you wanted him in your life.
And things couldn’t continue like this.
Your eyes scanned your surroundings, realizing you had walked into an empty side street. The shops and restaurants were seemingly empty. With the exception of two men sitting at a cafe. Watching you.
Shit. Picking up your pace to get back to the safe house, you pressed your comm.
“Buck?” You whispered.
“Copy,” His voice grumbled through the line.
“I’m being followed,” you trembled as you saw another figure emerge from around the corner.
“Where the hell are you?”
“I don’t — fuck,” you started, before realizing there were more of them. You broke into a sprint.
“I’m coming — do you hear me, doll? I’ll be there in a second, I swear.”
“I can’t outrun them for long, Buck,” You replied breathlessly as you turned the corner.
“Like hell you can’t. Run faster,” He demanded. You snorted,
“I’m trying.”
“Try harder.”
Out of the corner of your eye you could see them gaining on you. and for a moment you felt a brief pinch in your neck. You reached behind and pulled something out, feeling yourself getting woozy. You pushed through and kept running.
“Hit by some sort of tranquilizer in my neck,” you muttered into the comm.
“Did you take the damn thing out?” Bucky asked.
“Of course I did,” you snapped, feeling irritated that he would even ask. Heading towards the nearest alley, you hoped there was somewhere you could hide. Your heartbeat was pounding in your ears and every bone in your body was tired.
Your back slid down the wall, eyes fighting to stay open. You could vaguely hear Bucky’s voice again in your ear, but you couldn’t pick it out from the sound of your heartbeat. Time felt like it had slowed down.
“Bucky,” you whispered, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t you dare stop running.”
Your vision blurred.
“No, I’m sorry. For being stupid about us,” you breathed. Your eyes fluttered shut. “I love you, Buck.” Your words were slurring by the end.
But now, your body felt like you couldn’t move. And the sound of your pulse in your ears was getting worse. You couldn’t even vaguely hear Bucky anymore.
Suddenly feeling a pinch in your neck again, your eyes opened slightly to see a dark figure over you.
And then, everything went black.
-------------------
Author’s Note: am I crying? Are you crying? Idk I just feel the angsty tears I’m sorry bout it. Let me know what you think of this chapter!!!! Happy 4th of July to my American friends! ❤️💙🤍
something in the way she moves - bucky barnes x reader
one-shot
bucky barnes x intern!reader
warnings/tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers (ish), emotional angst, mutual pining, jealousy, miscommunication, soft bucky barnes, canon-divergent timeline, eventually fluff, emotional hurt/comfort, mentions of self-doubt
author's note: i wanted to write a bucky one-shot for so long i'm so excited about releasing this. i hope u like ittt <3 also i know there are many separate scenes however i'm still struggling with connecting them...
The hum of Stark Tower’s lower lab was your version of white noise. You liked the gentle whirring of processors, the occasional flicker of blue light across your schematics, the faint scent of soldered wires and too many energy drinks. It was your space—controlled chaos that somehow made perfect sense to you.
You didn’t expect it to be interrupted by Bucky Barnes.
When the lab doors hissed open, you didn’t look up immediately. No one really came down here without a reason, especially not him. But when you glanced up, and saw the familiar silhouette—broad shoulders, black hoodie, vibranium arm catching the light just enough—you blinked, mildly thrown off.
He was leaning in the doorway like he had somewhere better to be. Typical.
“Well, well,” you said, voice light with amusement as you set your tools down, “look who finally decided to come out of his cave.”
His eyes narrowed just slightly, and he didn’t bother with pleasantries. “They said you’re the one messing with my arm’s interface.”
You arched a brow at his tone. Defensive. Irritated. That was fine. You’d dealt with worse. “Messing with it? Please. I improved it. Unless you enjoy your arm freezing up every time you lift more than a truck.”
Bucky stepped inside, slow and deliberate, his presence like a shadow creeping into the room. He didn’t sit. He didn’t even glance at the equipment around him. He just stared.
“They upgraded the protocols without telling me,” he said flatly. “I didn’t ask for your help.”
Your smile didn’t falter. In fact, it curved a little higher. “You didn’t ask for a lot of things, I bet. Doesn’t mean they weren’t upgrades.”
That earned you a flicker of expression—annoyance, maybe curiosity. It was hard to tell with him. He looked around the room then, letting his gaze sweep over your scattered notes, the messy pile of wires on your workstation, your third cup of coffee that had gone cold two hours ago.
“So,” he muttered, “you’re Stark’s intern.”
You leaned back in your chair, arms folding lazily across your chest. “Engineering intern. Systems tech specialist. Resident miracle worker. Title pending.”
His expression barely shifted, though you could’ve sworn something in his jaw ticked. “Sounds fancy.”
You shrugged. “If it makes you feel better, I didn’t want to touch your arm either. But Tony trusts me. So here we are.”
Bucky’s eyes met yours, cold and unreadable. “You don’t even know what that arm has done.”
The words were like ice dropped in the room. But you didn’t flinch. Instead, you stood, slowly closing the distance between you.
“I’m not afraid of what it’s done,” you said, voice softer now, but no less certain. “I care about what it can do.”
He didn’t reply right away. The silence stretched long enough that you thought maybe you’d hit a nerve. Maybe he’d leave.
Instead, he lifted the arm.
You didn’t hesitate. With careful fingers, you took hold of his wrist and guided it closer to your workstation. The metal was cool under your touch—sleek, powerful, complex. You grabbed your diagnostic scanner and began your work, focused but aware of the way his eyes followed every movement.
“You know,” you said after a moment, fingers dancing across the holographic interface, “for someone so emotionally constipated, your tech is very expressive.”
It was impossible to miss the soft exhale from him—like a laugh that got stuck somewhere on the way out. He didn’t respond, but that silence wasn’t quite as cold anymore.
You continued working, scanning the joints, recalibrating the neural sync points, deliberately avoiding looking up at him.
“You think I’m just some Stark pet project,” you murmured, not a question.
“I don’t know what you are,” he replied.
You finally looked at him then, meeting his gaze head-on. “Guess you’ll have to stick around and find out.”
His eyes searched your face like he was looking for some kind of trick, some agenda. But you didn’t offer any. Just that same maddening smile that said you’re not as unreadable as you think you are, Barnes.
And for once, he didn’t try to walk away.
You didn’t expect to see Bucky again so soon.
Definitely not less than twenty-four hours later, hovering like a ghost in the doorway of the Avengers’ common room while the others bickered over movie night. He wasn’t exactly subtle—tall frame half-shadowed by the hallway light, arms crossed, expression locked somewhere between disapproval and regret.
You were tucked into the corner of the plush sectional, legs curled beneath you, a bowl of popcorn balanced in your lap and a tech schematic open on your tablet. The glow of the screen painted your face in faint blues and greens, and for once, you were more focused on the people than the tech.
Until you felt that pull.
That awareness.
When you looked up, his eyes were already on you. Steady. Intense. Like he hadn’t meant to come here but now that he had, he didn’t know how to leave.
Sam noticed him first. “Look who decided to stop hiding.”
Natasha didn’t even glance back. She just smirked as she uncapped a soda. “Careful, Wilson. Spook him and he’ll vanish.”
Peter was curled up at the other end of the couch, practically buzzing with excitement. “Hi, Mr. Barnes! We’re picking a movie—Nat wants horror, Sam’s pushing rom-com. Thoughts?”
Bucky ignored the question. His attention hadn’t shifted from you.
You tilted your head slightly, letting a slow smile play at your lips. “Twice in two days, Barnes. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were stalking me.”
The faintest flicker passed across his face—just enough to register as amusement, maybe. Then it was gone.
“You just fixed my arm,” he replied flatly, like that explained everything. It did actually.
“Yup,” you said brightly, popping a piece of popcorn into your mouth. “And you came back for more. Almost like you’re impressed.”
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he stepped into the room with deliberate slowness, his boots silent against the polished floor. The shadows clung to him like a second skin, but the dim overhead lights caught in the gleam of his vibranium arm. He didn’t sit. Didn’t lean. Just stood there, silent and watchful, as if joining the rest of you might set something off in him he wasn’t ready for.
You patted the space beside you, mock-sweet. “Come on, Sergeant. I promise not to bite. Unless you’re into that.”
That earned a low chorus of groans.
Natasha took a long sip of her drink. “She’s gonna break him.”
“One week,” Sam said, raising a brow. “Maybe less.”
“I’m not a project,” Bucky muttered under his breath, barely loud enough to hear.
You shrugged. “Could’ve fooled me.”
For a moment, his gaze lingered on you, unreadable as ever. And then—just like that—he turned and left.
Peter turned toward you, blinking through his glasses. “Okay, but like… he totally likes you.”
You rolled your eyes and tossed a popcorn at him. “Shut up.”
Five days passed.
Long enough for you to convince yourself maybe you had pushed too hard. You hadn’t meant to, not really. The flirting was harmless. Mostly. You weren’t trying to crack him open and crawl inside. But you were curious.
And, yeah—maybe you liked the way his attention felt. Like being studied. Not ogled. Not dismissed. Just… seen.
You were standing in the quiet hallway outside the kitchen, barefoot in fuzzy socks and drowning in one of Tony’s old hoodies, when the elevator chimed softly. You didn’t look up right away—just sipped your tea, staring down at a holographic schematic floating above your tablet. The lines danced and shifted as you made minor adjustments to the interface’s neural response time.
Then that familiar silence crept up again.
Heavy. Focused. Bucky-shaped.
You turned slowly, unsurprised to see him standing just inside the kitchen doorway, a bottle of water dangling from his fingers, posture deceptively casual.
He was out of uniform—just a soft black T-shirt that hugged his shoulders and dark sweatpants. The kind of off-duty look that made him look younger. More human.
“Do you sleep?” you asked, not unkindly.
“Sometimes,” he replied. His voice was lower at night. Rougher.
You studied him for a moment. The hard line of his jaw. The faint circles under his eyes. The way his metal fingers flexed unconsciously around the bottle’s cap like he wasn’t aware he was doing it.
“You here for diagnostics?” you asked lightly. “Because the lab’s closed. Kind of a one-woman show.”
“I didn’t come to see you.”
You raised your brows, unimpressed. “Sure you didn’t.”
He moved deeper into the kitchen, taking his time. Opened the fridge, stared at its contents like he didn’t really see them, then grabbed nothing at all. He set the water bottle down on the counter with a muted clink.
“I don’t do friendly,” he said suddenly. The words dropped into the quiet like weight.
You tilted your head. “Okay…”
“I’m not charming. Or easy. Or good at… this.” His jaw clenched. “I don’t like being touched. Or watched. Or treated like I’m something people are supposed to fix.”
That last part held something bitter in it. Something vulnerable, buried under layers of grit.
You took a step closer, your voice gentler now. “You think that’s what I’m doing? Fixing you?”
His eyes flicked up. Met yours. Steady. Testing.
You swallowed and nodded toward the hoodie you wore. “For the record, this is like… peak comfort attire. I’m not trying to psychoanalyze you. I just like you.”
His expression shifted slightly. Not softer, exactly—but something in his posture eased. His shoulders no longer sat quite so tight around his ears.
“I don’t hate you,” he said after a moment.
You smiled despite yourself. “Well. You know how to sweet-talk a girl.”
He looked away then, toward the hallway. You thought he might leave. But instead, he asked, “Why me?”
You blinked. “Why not you?”
He didn’t reply. Just stood there, arms crossed again, looking everywhere but at you.
“You’re not a monster,” you said softly. “You’re not broken. And I don’t need you to be charming or easy or anything you’re not. I just want to know the version of you that wants to be known.”
There was a pause. Long and heavy. Then, just barely audible, he muttered, “You talk too much.”
Your smile widened. “Yeah. But you keep listening.”
And this time, he didn’t deny it.
He didn’t mean to be there.
Not really.
The living room was loud—too loud. Sam was cracking jokes again, Natasha was doing that low, dangerous laugh she used when she knew she was winning, and someone had music playing too close to the speakers. It was chaotic and messy and warm in that way he hadn’t learned to belong to yet.
He didn’t even like movie nights. Didn’t care about who picked what. But still—he found himself standing at the edge of the common room again, arms crossed over his chest, shoulders half-hidden behind the wall like some goddamn ghost. Watching.
Well, not watching.
Just… observing.
That’s what he told himself anyway.
You were laughing. Not just a polite chuckle, but full-on, head-thrown-back, sparkling laughter that seemed to light up the whole space. Sam had said something—some dumb joke probably—and you’d nearly choked on your drink. He heard you call him an idiot with affection in your voice, and Sam had grinned like he’d just scored a touchdown.
And then—you reached out. Laid your hand on Sam’s arm for a moment. Nothing intense. Just familiar.
Comfortable.
Like you belonged here.
And Bucky hated how his attention snapped to that. To the way your fingers lingered. To how relaxed you looked with them. With everyone.
You moved between them like sunlight—touching, teasing, warm without trying to be. Even Natasha, who rarely let people close, seemed at ease with you. She let you steal her drink, let you lean against her shoulder for a beat before swatting you away.
Bucky’s jaw tightened.
He wasn’t sure why.
He didn’t care, obviously. You could flirt with Sam all you wanted. Or Peter. Or both at once. What the hell did he care if you giggled at dumb jokes and called them names like “hotshot” or “baby genius”? You were just a Stark intern. Loud. Talkative. Always in everyone’s business. Always—
Your gaze flicked up.
Right at him.
Bucky froze.
You smiled. Small. A little knowing. Just a twitch at the corner of your mouth like you were daring him to say something. Or inviting him to.
He looked away instantly.
Fuck.
He didn’t mean to follow you.
Not in a creepy way. He just happened to be going to the kitchen. At the same time. In the same direction.
You were there already, leaning against the counter in leggings and an oversized T-shirt that had seen better days. Your hair was a little messy, and your voice was soft as you hummed something under your breath while pouring hot water into a mug.
You didn’t see him at first.
He should’ve left. Should’ve backed up, gone to his room, locked the door and buried himself in silence. But instead he hovered in the shadows again—watching how you moved, how your fingers tapped idly against the ceramic. How peaceful you looked when no one else was watching.
Except him.
You turned then. Not startled. Not surprised.
“Back for more late-night water bottle staring contests?” you asked casually, sliding a second mug across the counter without being asked.
He stared at it.
You shrugged. “Figured you might want something warm. Don’t worry. It’s not poisoned.”
He stepped forward without thinking. Picked up the mug. Steam curled up in delicate threads. Chamomile, he thought. Gentle. Soothing.
You weren’t talking much tonight. That was new. Maybe you were tired. Or maybe—
“Did I do something?”
Your question hit him off-guard. He looked at you sharply.
“What?”
“You’ve been… weird,” you said simply, stirring your own tea. “Weirder than usual. You barely looked at me all day. Did I piss you off?”
No. You hadn’t. That was the problem.
He shook his head. “You talk too much. That’s all.”
You gave him a flat look. “Not an answer.”
He didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Because how was he supposed to say, No, I’m just losing my mind slowly every time I catch myself being happy while looking at you? That he noticed when your perfume lingered in the air a little longer than it should. That your laugh echoed in his head hours after you left the room.
No. He wasn’t going to say any of that.
So he took a sip of tea instead. It burned slightly. Good. He deserved it.
You didn’t push.
You just gave him that look again—soft. Patient. Infuriating.
And he hated how badly he wanted to keep watching you.
You sipped your tea slowly, then leaned against the counter beside him. The silence stretched. For a second, it wasn’t so uncomfortable. Just the quiet hum of the compound at night, the warmth of two mugs between you.
But then you said it. Gently.
“You know,” you murmured, eyes on your cup, “for someone who doesn’t want attention, you sure linger in doorways a lot.”
It was a joke. Just a little one. But something about it hit Bucky sideways. Maybe it was the way you said it—light, teasing, like you saw him. Like you knew he’d been watching. Like you were asking for more.
And suddenly, something in him snapped.
“Maybe if you weren’t so desperate for it all the time, you’d stop assuming everyone’s looking at you.”
The words came out sharper than he meant.
You froze.
Just a flicker. Just long enough for your lashes to lower, for your shoulders to go a little too still.
Then you laughed. Quiet. Hollow. “Right. Of course.”
You didn’t say anything else. Just set your mug down with careful fingers and stepped back.
And that was when he saw it.
The flicker across your face. Not anger. Not even embarrassment. Just that brief, awful moment of hurt you hadn’t hidden fast enough. The way your mouth pressed tight. The way your chin lifted just a little like you were trying to hold something back.
Shit.
Bucky felt the regret slam into him all at once—sharp and immediate.
He didn’t mean it. Not like that. Not really.
But you were already turning away, muttering something about early lab hours, already walking off down the hallway like nothing had happened.
He didn’t call out.
Didn’t stop you.
Didn’t know how to.
So he just stood there, the warmth of the tea cooling in his hand, and stared at the space you’d left behind.
And for the first time in a long time, Bucky Barnes felt like the asshole in the story.
That night, you stayed late in the workshop again.
Alone.
The silence wasn’t as comfortable as it used to be. You found yourself replaying his words over and over like a stupid broken song.
“Maybe if you weren’t so desperate…”
God.
What hurt most wasn’t even what he’d said. It was how fast he’d said it. Like he’d been waiting to.
And the part of you that had once wondered what it would feel like to touch his metal arm again—to be close to someone like him—shrank away, quiet and small.
Maybe you were wrong about him.
Maybe you always had been.
You weren’t sulking.
You weren’t.
You were just… tired. That was it. Long days in the lab. Tony had dumped three design reports on you before he left for some expo in Dubai. The prototype arm you were helping adjust was being temperamental. Vision’s new AI patch had crashed twice. It had nothing—nothing—to do with a certain super soldier who liked to appear in shadows and say things that stuck like thorns under your skin.
You hadn’t even thought about him.
Much.
Well. Except maybe when you walked past the kitchen again and avoided looking toward the hallway where he usually brooded. Or when Sam cracked a joke at lunch, and you didn’t laugh quite as hard as usual. Or when you found yourself skipping game night and hiding in your lab with your laptop instead.
But that wasn’t sulking.
It was self-preservation.
You weren’t stupid. You knew when someone didn’t like you. And Bucky Barnes had made it abundantly clear: you talked too much. You took up too much space. You looked for attention, and worst of all—you’d made the mistake of looking for it from him.
And he’d shoved it right back in your face.
So now, you were adjusting.
Quieting.
Backing off.
Just a little.
“Where’s your shadow?”
Natasha’s voice cut into your thoughts the next afternoon as you leaned over a blueprint in the tech lab. She was half-smiling, arms crossed, a brow lifted with casual suspicion.
“My what?”
She nodded toward the empty space beside you. “You know. You. Talking. Laughing. Giving Barnes a headache.”
You forced a smile. “I think he’s had enough of that.”
Nat’s eyes narrowed, reading between the lines like she always did. “Something happen?”
“Nope.”
Your tone was light. Breezy. Convincing, even.
Except Nat wasn’t convinced.
“You sure? Because he’s been staring at you like you kicked his cat.”
That caught you off guard.
You blinked. “What?”
She shrugged, nonchalant. “He’s not subtle. Just broody. There’s a difference.”
You laughed—but it didn’t reach your eyes.
“Well, good for him. I’m giving him what he wanted. Space.”
And you meant it. You were. You weren’t lingering in rooms he entered. You weren’t teasing him anymore. You didn’t even glance at him in morning briefings. And if you felt his eyes on you when you made a joke or passed him in the hall—you ignored it.
You were done trying to be liked by someone who clearly wasn’t interested.
The lab was quiet.
Not just quiet—still. It was that hour where the compound seemed to exhale, stretching out into silence after a long day. The buzz of machinery had dulled to a low hum, the lights overhead dimmed slightly, casting a bluish glow over the workshop benches. You sat hunched over one of the touchscreen panels, stylus in hand, pretending to be absorbed in wiring schematics that you’d reviewed twice already. You weren't focused. You hadn't been in days.
Not since that night.
You hadn’t meant to keep replaying it. But it looped in your brain every time you caught a glimpse of him—or worse, when you didn’t.
Maybe if you weren’t so desperate…
God. What a thing to say. And the worst part? You hadn’t even said anything flirty that time. Just made a joke. Just tried to crack the weight in the air between you. Like always. Like you did with everyone.
You weren’t some heart-eyed intern with a crush. You just didn’t like watching people carry the world like it owed them something. Bucky carried it like it owed him everything.
The door hissed open behind you.
You didn’t flinch—but your chest did tighten slightly.
Footsteps. Hesitant ones. Heavy. Slow.
You already knew it was him.
You kept your gaze on the screen.
“If you’re here to lecture me about my caffeine habits,” you said, tone light, stylus still clicking against the corner of your tablet, “I’ll have you know I’m limiting myself. Two cups a day now. Very adult of me.”
Silence followed.
Then Bucky’s voice—gruff, low, almost uncertain. “I’m not here to talk about coffee.”
You stilled your hand, but didn’t look at him.
“Then I’m not sure what you’re here for,” you said casually. “This is the part of the building where people talk and make eye contact, remember?”
That landed. You didn’t have to look to know.
There was a pause. A breath. Then the faint creak of metal fingers flexing—a tell he probably didn’t even know he had.
“I wanted to say… I shouldn’t have said what I did. That night.”
Your stylus hit the desk softly.
You leaned back in your chair, eyes still fixed forward, blinking at a mess of meaningless numbers. You waited for more. For something.
Bucky didn’t offer it right away.
So you turned—slowly—until you were facing him.
He stood a few feet away, arms crossed, expression unreadable but strained. His shoulders were tense. His eyes didn’t quite meet yours.
“I was an ass,” he added gruffly.
You smiled a little, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Was?”
He winced, and you hated how satisfying that felt.
Bucky shifted his weight, then looked at you again—and this time he really looked. There was something underneath the quiet. Guilt, definitely. Something else, too. Hesitation.
“You don’t make it easy to think straight sometimes,” he said, voice low.
That caught you off guard.
You narrowed your eyes. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“It’s supposed to be honest.”
You stood slowly, crossing your arms, mirroring him without meaning to. The distance between you was just wide enough to hold the silence comfortably—until you broke it.
“I wasn’t trying to make you think anything, Barnes,” you said, quieter now. “I was just being nice.”
“You’re not just nice,” he said quickly, like the words slipped out before he could stop them.
Your lips parted slightly—but you said nothing.
Bucky hesitated. His metal fingers flexed again, thumb brushing over the edge of his palm like he needed something to do with his hands.
“I didn’t mean it. The attention thing. I—It came out wrong.”
“No,” you said simply, “it came out exactly how you wanted it to.”
You could see it in his face—that quiet twist of shame, the way his jaw tightened like he wanted to take it back but didn’t know how.
You took a small step forward—not aggressive, just enough to close the emotional gap.
“I don’t know what I ever did to make you think I was some walking spotlight junkie,” you said. “But I’m not. I just tried to be kind. That’s who I am. And I won’t apologize for it.”
“I know.”
You shook your head slowly, letting out a breath. “Do you?”
He blinked.
“Because I don’t flirt with you because I want something. I don’t laugh at your terrible dry humor because I expect anything in return. I talk to you because I thought… I don’t know. Maybe you needed someone to.”
Bucky didn’t say anything.
And you realized he wasn’t ready. Not really.
Not yet.
You swallowed down the rest of what you wanted to say, because if you said more, it would spill into vulnerable territory. Into feeling territory. And you weren’t sure you could handle another hit like the last one.
“I’m not angry,” you said, more gently now. “But I’m not going to keep doing this thing where I chase after someone who clearly doesn’t want me around.”
You moved past him—slowly, brushing just close enough to make his breath catch—and headed toward the door.
You paused in the doorway.
Didn’t look back.
Just said, quietly, “Try not to say things you don’t mean next time. Some people actually listen.”
And then you walked out.
Leaving him in the blue glow of the lab, the scent of solder and soft electric hum the only things left to keep him company.
He stayed there a long time.
Long enough to realize this time, you weren’t going to come back first.
The common room buzzed with easy laughter, the smell of buttery popcorn, and that relaxed kind of chaos only the Avengers could create when off-duty. The TV was blaring—something loud and overly dramatic, probably one of Sam’s reality shows that he insisted he “hated” while somehow always knowing the exact moment the villainous ex walked into the beach resort.
Bucky sat at the edge of the sectional couch, one arm draped over the side, water bottle in hand. He wasn’t really watching the show, though his eyes occasionally flicked toward the screen. Mostly, he was letting the noise wash over him, grounding himself in the present. The casual warmth of everyone’s banter. The occasional clink of glass. The distant hum of the elevator.
And your absence.
He’d noticed it right away, the moment he stepped into the room. You weren’t perched on the armrest next to Natasha with a bowl of snacks, or curled up in the corner throwing quips back at Sam. You weren’t draped across a chair, fiddling with a gadget while pretending not to be listening.
You were just… gone.
It unsettled him more than it should have.
He’d told himself it was a good thing. Quieter. Easier. But the space you usually filled felt noticeable, like someone had dimmed the lights just a little.
A low whistle cut through the noise, and Nat tilted her phone toward Sam with a smirk.
“I wonder how her date’s going,” she said, casually but not without intent.
Bucky blinked, attention snapping into sharp focus.
He kept his expression neutral. Relaxed.
Sam leaned over to see. “Oh, right—the coffee guy. The one she matched with last week. Man bun, works in tech support or something?”
“R&D,” Nat corrected, not missing a beat. “She said he had ‘soft hands and sad eyes.’ Honestly, that’s her type to a T.”
Bucky took a sip of water to hide the way his jaw clenched. He didn’t remember you saying anything about a date. Then again, why would he? You didn’t owe him details.
Still.
Sad eyes and soft hands? What the hell did that even mean?
“Apparently he volunteers at an animal shelter and bakes sourdough,” Nat added.
“Oh, he’s definitely trying too hard,” Sam said with a laugh.
“He brought her a book of poetry on their first coffee run,” Nat said.
Sam winced. “Okay, yeah, that’s jail.”
Bucky barely heard the rest. The words were there, but they blurred. He was too busy staring at the edge of the coffee table.
You were out. On a date. With someone who had gentle eyes and poems and flour on his fingers.
Why the hell did that bother him?
“You alright, Barnes?” Sam asked, too casually.
Bucky didn’t answer.
Nat raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you’re invested.”
“I’m not,” he said evenly.
Sam grinned. “Come on, man. You’ve had the grumpiest look on your face since you heard about her date.’’
“I always look like this,” Bucky said, standing abruptly.
Nat tilted her head. “You know, if you’re curious, you could just ask her how it went.”
“I’m not curious,” he said. “I’m just wondering what kind of guy brings a poetry book on a date in 2025. What does he think this is, a Jane Austen adaptation?”
Sam burst out laughing. “There it is.”
Nat smirked. “You sure you’re not jealous?”
“I don’t get jealous.”
“Liar,” Sam and Nat said in unison.
Bucky muttered something under his breath and left before they could add anything else. He didn’t even realize he’d clenched his metal fist until he passed the hallway mirror.
The halls were dark when he wandered down to the tech wing hours later. He wasn’t looking for anyone, just… pacing. Thinking. Being still made the thoughts worse.
But then—there you were.
You rounded the corner fast, a tote bag slung over your shoulder, phone pressed to your ear. You looked different—more casual than usual. Hair slightly tousled, a touch of makeup smudged at the corner of your eye like you’d wiped it mid-laugh.
You weren’t glowing the way he expected.
You were muttering something about leaving your charger behind and having to “sneak into the damn lab like a raccoon.” You almost ran into him.
“Shit—sorry,” you said, stopping just short.
Bucky froze.
You blinked up at him, clearly startled. “Didn’t expect anyone to be down here this late.”
He shrugged. “Could say the same.”
“I left something,” you said simply, pulling your phone from your ear and tucking it away. “Didn’t want to deal with it in the morning.”
He nodded, but didn’t move. There was a moment—too long to be casual, too short to be intentional—where neither of you spoke.
He didn’t want to ask. But it clawed at him.
“How was the date?” he said, trying for detached. Instead it came out sharp, unfiltered.
You paused, brows lifting slightly. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t.”
You tilted your head at that, studying him for a second. “Right.”
Silence.
He hated how uncomfortable it felt. He used to enjoy silence. Silence meant no expectations. No weight.
But this? This was different. This was you, pulling away.
“I didn’t mean what I said before,” he muttered.
You blinked. “You’ll have to be more specific. You say a lot of things you don’t mean.”
His jaw tightened. “Back in the lab. About the attention again.”
You smiled, but it didn’t touch your eyes. “Oh. That.”
You didn’t say anything else for a moment, just shifted your tote bag on your shoulder and looked past him down the hallway. He hated the distance in your body. Hated the way your voice had cooled.
“I shouldn’t have said it,” he added.
“No,” you agreed softly. “You shouldn’t have.”
He took a small step closer, and you tensed.
“I didn’t think it mattered,” he said.
“And now?” you asked.
He hesitated. “I’m not sure.”
That—that—made you pause. Your gaze flicked up to his. It was brief, but raw.
You gave a tired smile. “That’s the thing, Barnes. I think you are sure. You just don’t want to admit it.”
Before you could take another step, Bucky’s chest tightened, his breath catching in a way that surprised even him. Without thinking, he reached out—his metal hand brushing against your arm, steadying you.
His eyes locked with yours, searching for something—an answer, permission, maybe even a sign that he wasn’t alone in feeling this way.
Then, before his mind could catch up, he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours.
The kiss was brief, hesitant, but charged with everything neither of you had dared to say aloud.
You froze at first, wide-eyed, heart pounding, caught between shock and something else—a flicker of hope, maybe.
When he pulled back just a breath, his voice was rough and low.
For a long moment, all you could do was stare.
You stepped back.
Slow, cautious, like a deer backing out of a clearing.
Bucky’s brows drew together immediately. “Did I—did I misread that?”
Your eyes flickered up to his. “I don’t know. Did you?”
He looked stunned for a second, like he wasn’t prepared for it to feel like rejection. But it wasn’t—not exactly.
“It was just… a lot,” you said, shifting the weight of your tote bag again. “You don’t speak to me for days. You act like I’m a nuisance. And then this?”
“I didn’t plan it,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to—I just saw you, and—”
“And what?” Your voice was low now. Measured. “You saw me and decided it was convenient?”
“That’s not fair.”
You gave a hollow laugh. “Neither is this.”
He looked lost. Frustrated.
You took a deep breath, voice softening—just barely. “I don’t want to be some impulsive moment for you, Bucky. I’m not a distraction. I’m not background noise you suddenly noticed because you were bored.”
“I wasn’t bored,” he said sharply. “I was scared.”
That stopped you.
He almost regretted saying it. But now it was out there, hanging between you like smoke.
“Scared of what?” you asked after a beat, something in your chest cracking despite yourself.
He hesitated.
“That you’d mean something,” he admitted. “And I wouldn’t know how to handle it.”
The silence that followed wasn’t cold this time—it was thick. Fragile.
But you still took another step back.
“I can’t do this half-hearted, Barnes,” you said gently. “Not with you. So figure it out. Whatever this is—what you want it to be. But don’t kiss me unless you’re ready to mean it.”
You gave him one last look—something caught between hurt and hope—and turned down the hallway.
Bucky didn’t stop you.
He just stood there, lips still tingling from the kiss, heart caught in the echo of your footsteps as they faded down the corridor.
You hadn’t slept.
Not really.
You’d curled up beneath the covers, phone beside your head, eyes fixed on the crack of light spilling through the curtain. Hours passed, but your body never fully settled — too tense, too alert. Your brain spun in endless loops, trying to make sense of something that wasn’t supposed to happen.
And yet—
It did.
He kissed you.
And not by accident. Not in a moment of heat or confusion. No, he reached for you. Pulled you in, let the silence stretch between you like a thread, and then he broke it — not with words, but with that kiss.
And now?
Now you were here. Awake, underslept, a bitter taste in your mouth that wasn’t just coffee. You hadn’t told anyone. Not Nat. Not even Pepper, who always somehow knew when something was off. You didn’t want to explain, because you couldn’t explain it to yourself.
The kiss hadn’t been bad.
That was the problem.
It had been… soft. Unexpected. Measured, like he was afraid you’d disappear halfway through. Like he’d been waiting, even if he didn’t know why.
And for one full second, you kissed him back.
And then?
You’d said the words.
Cold, sharp, half-defensive:
“Don’t kiss me unless you’re ready to mean it.”
You didn’t know if you’d meant them. You weren’t even sure what they meant. You just knew something had shifted. And you didn’t know how to shift with it.
That morning, you got dressed slower than usual. Picked up your makeup brush, then set it down. Looked in the mirror and barely recognized yourself — eyes too puffy, mouth too tight. You didn’t look like the version of yourself he kissed. She’d been looser. Warmer.
You layered on something safe — jeans, a plain hoodie, your badge clipped to your pocket like a shield. You wore your hair up, like you always did when you didn’t want to feel things brushing your skin.
When you entered the hallway, the compound was already buzzing. You smiled at people in passing. Forced yourself to answer questions in the lab like everything was normal. It was muscle memory. Pretend. Perform.
Until you saw him.
You hadn’t meant to look — really, you hadn’t. But your gaze found him anyway, standing in the kitchen, back half-turned, talking to Sam and Nat like it was any other day.
He looked normal. Relaxed.
And God, that hurt.
He wasn’t sulking in his room. He wasn’t quiet or withdrawn. He wasn’t chasing after you, saying something — anything — to make the weirdness disappear.
He was fine.
And you were unraveling.
You ducked into a side hall before anyone could see your face, the back of your throat tight.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
You’d always known where you stood with people. You flirted, teased, kept things light. That was your space. Your control. And Bucky Barnes? He was the opposite of control.
He was silence and sharp glances. Hesitation laced with tension. He was the constant wall you pushed against just to see if he’d crack.
And now, you had. He’d kissed you. And it felt like falling — fast, unexpected, right until you hit the ground.
You spent the next hour in the lab, pretending to check inventory.
Anything to keep your mind from drifting back to the hallway. To the brush of his fingers on your sleeve. The weight of his eyes on yours. The kiss.
You hated yourself for checking your phone. For hoping he’d texted. For hoping he’d explain.
But there was nothing.
Maybe he regretted it.
Maybe it hadn’t meant anything.
And maybe — just maybe — he didn’t kiss you because he wanted you.
Maybe he just wanted the power back.
You were halfway through re-sorting equipment you’d already logged twice when Pepper peeked in.
“You okay?”
You smiled too quickly. “Fine. Just catching up on some things.”
She didn’t press. But she lingered a second longer than normal before stepping back into the hallway.
When she was gone, you let the fake smile fade. Pressed your palms against the cool surface of the counter and leaned in until your shoulders slumped.
You hadn’t done anything wrong.
You knew that.
And yet—
You’d let him see a part of you no one else did. The one that didn’t flirt. The one that froze. The one that wanted something more than banter.
And now you didn’t know how to take it back.
You hadn’t meant to stop.
You were just passing through, late-night folder in your hands, hoping to cut through the lounge unnoticed on your way to the tech wing. But the sound of laughter caught you mid-step.
You glanced up instinctively — and froze.
Bucky sat on the far end of the couch, shoulders relaxed, laughing softly at something a woman beside him had said. She was unfamiliar — probably someone from PR or medtech, from the way she looked like she didn’t carry a gun but still wore confidence like armor.
He looked different.
Loose. Casual. Almost… charming.
His arm draped along the back of the couch. The woman leaned closer, smiling. And he didn’t pull away.
You weren’t close enough to hear the words, but that didn’t matter. You saw enough.
He was fine.
And you were not.
You took a step back, slow and quiet — not wanting anyone to notice the crack in your chest. But as you turned to disappear into the hallway, his head shifted.
You didn’t look back.
But Bucky did.
He caught your silhouette in the corner of his eye — the familiar shape of you, just before you vanished behind the wall.
His smile faded instantly.
He stood.
The woman said something else — something he didn’t hear.
Because he was already walking out, following the direction you’d gone, heart suddenly beating louder than before.
You didn’t expect him to follow you.
You really thought he’d stay in that room — with that woman, with his easy smile and his arms stretched across the couch like he hadn’t just kissed you and disappeared for days. You thought maybe that had been it. One impulsive moment. One mistake.
But then the lab door opened.
And there he was.
You didn’t turn right away. You stared straight ahead at the desk screen, pretending to focus, pretending not to feel your chest tighten.
“I’m finishing up,” you said. “If that’s what you came to ask.”
“I didn’t come to ask anything,” he said, voice quiet. “I came because you’re avoiding me.”
You laughed under your breath. “Observant.”
He took a few slow steps into the room.
“And you’re angry.”
“More observant,” you muttered.
“I’d say sorry, but I think you’d spit it back in my face right now.”
You turned then. Slowly. Arms crossed, eyes hard.
“You kissed me, Bucky. And then you acted like it didn’t happen.”
“I never acted like it didn’t happen,” he said. “I acted like I didn’t know what to do with it.”
You blinked. “That’s not better.”
“I know.” His jaw tensed. “But it’s the truth.”
You stayed silent, unsure if you wanted to scream or cry or both.
He exhaled sharply, like he was trying to keep his voice from breaking. “That night—I didn’t plan it. You were there, and you looked at me like I wasn’t something broken. Like I was worth being seen. And I panicked.”
“So you kissed me?” you snapped. “That was panic?”
“No,” he said immediately, stepping closer. “That was me giving in to something I’d been trying not to feel since the day I met you.”
You blinked hard, suddenly breathless.
He ran a hand through his hair, pacing once before facing you again. “You have this… way. You walk into a room, and I forget how to be quiet. You talk, and I want to listen. I’ve spent most of my life trying to disappear — and then you show up and ruin that.”
Your chest tightened.
“Because you’re loud. And warm. And messy and stubborn and brilliant, and you say exactly what’s on your mind and you don’t let me push you away even when I tried like hell to do it.”
You tried to keep your expression neutral, but something cracked in your chest.
“And I told myself it meant nothing,” he continued, softer now. “The way I noticed when you weren’t around. The way I watched the door every time I came into the lab. The way my day felt better when you teased me about that stupid water bottle I never drink.”
You looked away, throat tight.
“I thought,” he said slowly, “if I just kept pretending… maybe you’d get tired of me. Maybe I wouldn’t have to admit I wanted something.”
He took another step toward you. Close enough to see the faint eyebags under your eyes. Close enough that his voice lowered without meaning to.
“But then you were walking away that night, and it felt like someone was ripping something out of my chest.”
Your eyes flicked to his.
“So yeah,” he said. “I kissed you.”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your whole body was buzzing, but you weren’t sure if it was adrenaline or fear or something dangerously close to hope.
“And I stayed away because I didn’t know how to face you,” he added. “Because if I saw your face and you looked like you regretted it, I think it would’ve wrecked me.”
You let out a slow breath. “You saw me walk away and assumed I regretted you.”
He nodded.
“I didn’t,” you whispered.
His eyes searched yours. “Then why did you leave?”
“Because I didn’t want to be just a moment for you,” you said, voice trembling. “I didn’t want to be the thing you used to feel something and then threw away once it scared you.”
“I’m scared,” he admitted. “Every damn day.”
You blinked.
“But not of you,” he added. “Of how much I want to not mess this up.”
Your pulse pounded in your ears.
“I thought I was doing you a favor by staying away,” he said. “But all I did was prove I don’t know how to hold something good without crushing it.”
He stepped closer, now just a breath away.
“I don’t want you to be small,” he said. “I don’t want you quiet. I want the girl who rolls her eyes at me, who challenges every word out of my mouth, who flirts with everyone but me just to piss me off.”
A breathy laugh escaped you despite the lump in your throat.
His gaze softened. “I want you. Not a version of you that’s easy. The real thing.”
You opened your mouth, but no words came out.
Because your heart was fluttering so hard it hurt. Because you hadn’t felt like this — breathless and brimming — since the moment he kissed you. Maybe not even then.
“I’m still figuring it out,” he said. “But I’m here. And I’m not going to pretend anymore.”
You swallowed, lips parting to speak.
But instead of words, you took a step closer and rested your forehead gently against his chest.
He froze for a moment when you stepped in like you were finally letting him hold you without conditions. But he didn’t pull away. His arms wrapped around you instead, strong and steady, grounding you with a warmth you hadn’t realized you’d needed until now.
You stayed like that for a long moment. Breathing. Centering.
The silence between you had shifted no longer heavy, no longer uncertain. Just calm. Present. Real.
When you finally stepped back, your hand stayed lightly on his chest.
His eyes searched yours steady and open this time. Unafraid.
No masks. No hiding.
“I meant what I said,” he murmured. “I don’t want to run.”
You nodded slowly, your expression soft but edged with something playful something you.
“I know.”
A beat passed.
Your fingers brushed down his chest, just a little.
And then, you tilted your head slightly, voice low and a little smug but warm.
“Now’s the time, Barnes.”
His brows twitched a small, stunned smile tugging at his lips. “What?”
You arched one brow. “To kiss me again.”
This time, it was him who didn’t hesitate.
He leaned in and kissed you but unlike the first time, this wasn’t tentative or rushed. It wasn’t afraid. It was deep and sure and full of everything he’d wanted to say but didn’t know how to until now.
And when his hand cupped your cheek and you melted into him, he knew this was the moment he’d been running from.
✮ synopsis: bucky's gotten good at keeping his distance from his harmless, sunshine-y neighbor. but when you get taken because of him—because someone figured out you're his weak spot—he realizes how spectacularly that plan backfired. turns out the winter soldier's soft spot is a lot more dangerous than he thought.
✮ pairing: post-thunderbolts!bucky x fem!reader
✮ disclaimers: violence, kidnapping, blood and injury, torture (not graphic), angst with a happy ending, emotional hurt/comfort, established feelings but complicated relationship, second person POV, fem!reader, miscommunication, intense yearning, emotionally constipated!bucky, past trauma, mild language, fighting sequences
✮ word count: 10.6k
✮ a/n: first fic on this blog and it's basically just 10k words of soft bucky yearning xoxo
The first time Bucky Barnes sees you, you're trying to shove a couch through a doorway that's at least six inches too narrow, and losing spectacularly.
He's coming home from another pointless congressional hearing—the kind where everyone talks in circles about defense budgets while carefully not mentioning the alien invasion from three months ago—when he spots you in the hallway. You're wedged between the arm of what looks like a vintage velvet monstrosity and the doorframe of 4B, hair escaping from whatever you'd tried to contain it with, muttering a stream of increasingly creative profanity.
"Fucking—come on—you absolute bastard of a—"
The couch shifts. You yelp. Bucky's halfway down the hall before he realizes he's moving.
"Need a hand?"
You twist around, and something in his chest does this stupid, inconvenient flip. Your face is flushed, one cheek smudged with what might be dust or maybe yesterday's mascara, and you're looking at him like—well. Like he's not Bucky Barnes. Like he's just some guy in the hallway who might know how geometry works.
"Oh thank god," you breathe, and the relief in it makes his mouth twitch. "I've been battling this thing for twenty minutes. I think it's winning."
He assesses the situation with the same tactical precision he'd use for a Bulgarian arms deal, if arms deals came upholstered in emerald green and smelled faintly of vanilla perfume mixed with fresh sweat. The angle's all wrong. You've been trying to force it through horizontally when it needs to go vertical, then rotate.
"Here." He steps closer, and you shift to make room, your shoulder brushing his chest in a way that absolutely doesn't make his pulse stutter. "If we flip it—"
"Oh, you're strong," you say, like an observation about the weather, as he essentially deadlifts one end of your couch. The metal arm whirs faintly. You don't flinch. "That's convenient."
Convenient. Right. He maneuvers the couch through the doorway in three efficient moves, trying not to notice how you smell like coffee and something floral, how you hover just inside his peripheral vision like you're trying not to crowd him but can't quite stay away.
"There." He sets it down in what's clearly the only spot it could go in your tiny living room. The space is chaos—boxes everywhere, art leaning against walls, books stacked in precarious towers. "You just moving in?"
"Yeah, from—" You wave a hand vaguely eastward. "Nicer neighborhood. Turns out freelance graphic design doesn't pay for Manhattan rent. Who knew?" The self-deprecation comes with a grin that transforms your whole face, and Bucky has to look away, focus on the box labeled 'KITCHEN SHIT' in aggressive Sharpie. "I'm—well, you probably don't care what my name is."
He does, actually. Cares in a way that makes his teeth ache.
"Bucky," he offers, even though you clearly already know. "4C."
"The grumpy congressman." Your grin goes wider, teasing. "I've seen you on C-SPAN. You look like you're being held at gunpoint during those hearings."
"Feel like it too," he mutters, and the laugh you give him hits like a shot of whiskey—warm and slightly dizzying.
"Well, Congressman Barnes of apartment 4C, you've just saved my Saturday. Can I pay you in beer? I've got—" You dig through a box, emerge triumphant with two bottles. "Hipster IPA or hipster IPA?"
He should say no. Should maintain boundaries. Should remember what happened the last time he let someone get close—the scar on his ribs from Belgrade still aches when it rains.
Instead, he finds himself accepting a bottle, listening to you chatter about the neighbor who warned you about the rats (definitely real) and the ghost (probably not real but who knows), watching how you gesture with your whole body when you talk, like you're too much for your own skin.
It's dangerous, how easy you are to be around. How you look at him like he's just Bucky, not the former Asset, not the killer, not the congressman who can't pass a single fucking bill. Just a guy who helped with your couch.
He stays too long. Drinks two beers. Helps you unpack exactly three boxes before some long-dormant self-preservation instinct kicks in and he makes excuses about constituent emails.
"Thanks again," you say at the door, and there's something in your eyes—curiosity, maybe. Interest. "For the couch. And the company."
"No problem."
He's halfway to his own door when you call out: "Hey, Barnes?"
He turns. You're leaning against your doorframe, backlit by the disaster zone of your apartment, smiling that smile that makes his chest tight.
"I make really good coffee. You know. If congressional hearings ever drive you to caffeine dependency."
It's an offer. An opening. Everything in him screams to close it, lock it down, maintain operational security. Instead, his traitorous mouth says, "I'll keep that in mind."
He's so fucked.
The thing is, Bucky's gotten good at keeping people at arm's length. Seventy years of being a weapon teaches him that distance equals safety—for them, not him.
When you're already dead, what's a little more damage?
So he shouldn't notice when you start leaving your apartment at 7:23 every morning, shouldering a bag that's always slipping off your shoulder. Shouldn't time his own exits to avoid those encounters, then feel like an asshole when he succeeds. Definitely shouldn't lie awake listening through the thin walls as you sing along to whatever pop music you play while cooking, off-key and enthusiastic.
But here's the other thing: you make it really fucking hard to maintain distance.
You leave cookies outside his door with notes that say things like "for emergency constituent-induced rage" and "survival fuel for C-SPAN." You knock when you know he's home, ask to borrow sugar or vodka or a screwdriver, then stay to chat like his apartment isn't just bare walls and a couch Sam made him buy. You touch—casual, constant. A hand on his arm when you laugh, fingers brushing when you hand him things, like physical contact isn't something that makes his brain static out.
"You're a really good listener," you tell him one evening, three weeks into whatever this is. You're sitting on his floor, back against his couch, because you'd knocked asking for wine and then somehow ended up staying. Your knee presses against his thigh. He's catastrophically aware of every point of contact. "Like, actually good. Not just waiting for your turn to talk."
"Not much of a talker," he says, which is true and also easier than explaining that he's memorizing everything—how you twist your rings when you're nervous, the way your voice drops when you're saying something real, how you look in his space like you belong there.
"Bullshit." You bump his shoulder. He doesn't flinch anymore, which is either progress or a sign he's completely fucked. "You're just selective. Quality over quantity."
You say things like that—observations that feel like being seen, really seen, not just looked at. It's terrifying. It's addictive. It's going to get you killed.
Because here's the thing Bucky knows down to his bones: everything he touches turns to ash. Everyone he cares about becomes a target. And you—with your sunshine laugh and your disaster apartment and your way of looking at him like he's worth something—you're exactly the kind of light that attracts the worst kind of dark.
He should stay away.
He doesn't.
"So," Sam says, watching Bucky check his phone for the third time during their coffee meeting. "Who is she?"
"What?" Bucky pockets the phone. You'd texted asking if he knew how to fix a leaky faucet. He knows seventeen ways to kill a man with a faucet. Fixing one can't be that different. "Nobody. Work thing."
"Uh-huh." Sam's doing that face, the one that means he's about to be insufferably perceptive. "That's why you just smiled at your phone. Over a work thing. You. Smiled."
"I smile."
"No, you do this thing with your mouth that's like a smile's evil twin. This was an actual smile. So. Who is she?"
Bucky takes a long drink of coffee, considering how much lying is worth the effort. "Neighbor."
"Neighbor." Sam leans back, grinning. "Cute neighbor?"
The memory of you last night, paint in your hair and gesturing wildly about your latest client, flashes unbidden. His silence is apparently answer enough.
"Buck. Man. This is good. You need—"
"I need to not get people killed," Bucky cuts him off. "I need to remember that anyone who gets close to me ends up hurt. I need—"
"You need a life," Sam interrupts right back. "You need to stop punishing yourself for shit that wasn't your fault. You need to let yourself have something good."
Bucky's jaw works. The phone buzzes again. He doesn't check it.
"She doesn't know what she's getting into," he says finally. "She's—" Bright. Warm. Good. "She's not part of this world."
"So keep her out of it." Sam makes it sound simple. Like there's a way to compartmentalize, to have you without putting you at risk. "Be her neighbor. Be normal. Be happy, for once in your goddamn life."
Normal. Right. Because nothing says normal like a centenarian ex-assassin with more kills than most armies and a metal arm that could crush a skull like an egg.
But then he thinks about your smile when he fixed your garbage disposal last week. How you'd said "my hero" in this teasing, fond way that made him want impossible things. How you treat him like he's just Bucky, not a weapon someone else aimed.
"I don't know how," he admits, quieter than he meant to.
Sam's expression softens. "Nobody does, man. You just try anyway."
The faucet thing turns into a whole production.
You answer the door in tiny pajama shorts and an oversized t-shirt that says "FEMINIST KILLJOY" in glitter letters, and Bucky's brain shorts out for a solid three seconds. Your hair's piled on top of your head in what might generously be called a bun, and there's toothpaste at the corner of your mouth, and he wants to—
"Oh good, you're here," you say, grabbing his arm and pulling him inside. Your fingers are warm through his henley. "It's making this noise like a dying whale. I tried YouTube tutorials but I think I made it worse."
The kitchen is a disaster. Tools scattered everywhere, water pooling on the floor, YouTube still playing on your laptop ("—sure to turn off the water main first—"). You've clearly been at this for a while.
"Did you turn off the water?" he asks, already knowing the answer from the growing puddle.
"I turned off a valve," you say defensively. "Several valves. None of them seemed to be the right valve."
He finds himself fighting a smile as he locates the actual shut-off. You hover behind him as he works, close enough that he can feel your breath on his neck, keeping up a running commentary that's part apology, part stand-up routine.
"—and then the wrench slipped and I maybe screamed a little bit, and Mrs. Nguyen next door started banging on the wall, and I had to yell that I wasn't being murdered, just defeating by plumbing—"
"Hand me the—" He turns to ask for the wrench at the same moment you lean forward to see what he's doing. Your faces end up inches apart. Time does that thing where it forgets how to work properly.
Your eyes are very wide. There's a water droplet on your cheek. Bucky's hand twitches with the urge to wipe it away.
"Wrench," he manages, voice rougher than intended.
"Right. Wrench. That's a—" You scramble backward, nearly slip on the wet floor. He catches your elbow automatically, steadying you, and your skin is so warm under his fingers it feels like a brand. "Thanks. I'm not usually this much of a disaster. Actually, that's a lie. I'm exactly this much of a disaster, you've just caught me on a particularly disastrous day."
He fixes the faucet in under ten minutes. You insist on making coffee as payment, which turns into leftover pizza, which turns into three hours on your couch watching some reality show about people making elaborate cakes. You provide running commentary that's funnier than the show itself, and Bucky finds himself actually laughing—not the dry chuckle he's perfected for public appearances, but real laughter that comes from somewhere deep in his chest.
"See?" you say during a commercial break, grinning at him. "I told you this show was addictive. Next week they're making a life-size dragon cake that actually breathes fire."
"Next week?" The words slip out before he can stop them, too revealing.
Your grin softens into something else, something that makes his chest tight. "Well, yeah. You can't miss fire-breathing dragon cake. That's un-American."
It becomes a thing. Thursday nights, your couch, increasingly ridiculous cooking shows. You always have too much dinner ("I'm terrible at portions, shut up"), he always fixes something that's broken ("it's not broken, it's just temperamental"), and somewhere between cake disasters and your laughter, Bucky forgets to maintain distance.
"Your boyfriend's here," Mrs. Nguyen announces loudly when Bucky knocks on your door a month later, because apparently the entire floor has decided they're invested in whatever this is.
"He's not my—" Your voice cuts off as you open the door. You're wearing a dress, which is new. Red, which is newer. Lipstick, which is going to kill him. "Hi."
"Hi." His brain's stuck on the curve of your shoulder, the way the fabric clings. "Going out?"
"Wedding. Old college friend." You're fidgeting with your earring, a sure tell that you're nervous. "I hate weddings. All that optimism and overpriced chicken."
"So don't go."
"Can't. I already RSVP'd, and I'm a good friend even if I'm a wedding-hating gremlin." You pause, still fiddling with the earring. "Unless..."
He knows what's coming by the way you're biting your lip. "No."
"You don't even know what I was going to ask!"
"You were going to ask me to go with you."
"...okay, so you did know." You lean against the doorframe, giving him a look that's probably supposed to be convincing but mostly just highlights how your eyes catch the hallway light. "Come on. You're a congressman. You must love overpriced chicken and small talk."
"I really don't."
"There's an open bar."
"Still no."
"I'll owe you one. One big favor. Anything."
That makes him pause, but not for the reason you think. The idea of you owing him anything makes his skin itch. You already give too much—your time, your laughter, your casual touches that rewire his brain. But the idea of watching you navigate a wedding alone, of other people getting to see you in that dress...
"Fine," he hears himself say. "But I'm not dancing."
The smile you give him could power Brooklyn for a week.
He's absolutely, catastrophically unprepared for how you look in candlelight.
The wedding venue is one of those rustic-chic places that thinks exposed beams equal personality. You're at table eight, which puts you safely in "college friends but not close enough for the wedding party" territory. You've been providing whispered commentary all through the ceremony ("five bucks says she wrote her vows the night before"), your shoulder pressed against his in a way that makes paying attention to anything else physically impossible.
"See that bridesmaid?" You nod toward a blonde who's definitely already three champagnes deep. "That's Amber. We were roommates sophomore year. She once tried to seduce our RA by leaving Post-it poetry on his door."
"Did it work?"
"Depends on your definition of 'work.' She did get his attention. Also a conduct violation." You're playing with the stem of your wine glass, fingers tracing patterns. "Thanks for this, by the way. I know wearing a suit and making small talk isn't exactly your idea of fun."
He could tell you that wearing a suit is nothing compared to tac gear, that small talk is easier than Senate hearings. Could mention that the way you keep unconsciously leaning into him makes any discomfort worth it. Instead: "It's fine."
"Such enthusiasm." But you're smiling, soft and maybe a little fond. "Dance with me?"
"I said no dancing."
"You said that before you had champagne. And before they played—" You tilt your head, listening. "Oh my god, is this Bon Jovi? We have to dance to Bon Jovi. It's the law."
"That's not a law."
"It's a law of wedding physics. Come on, Barnes. One dance. I promise not to step on your feet much."
The thing is, he can't say no to you. It's becoming a problem. You want him to fix your sink? Done. Need someone to hold your laptop while you Skype your mother? He's there. Want him to dance to "Livin' on a Prayer" at some stranger's wedding? Apparently, that's happening too.
You're a terrible dancer. Genuinely awful. You have no sense of rhythm, keep trying to lead, and you're laughing too hard to even pretend otherwise. It's perfect. He spins you out just to watch your dress flare, pulls you back too close, and for a moment—your hand in his, your face tilted up, surrounded by fairy lights and other people's happiness—he forgets why this is a bad idea.
"See?" you say, slightly breathless. "Dancing's not so bad."
His hand is on your waist. He can feel your pulse through the thin fabric. "No. Not so bad."
Someone bumps into you from behind, pushing you fully against his chest. Your hands come up to steady yourself, one landing over his heart, and he knows you can feel how it stumbles. Your smile falters, shifts into something else. Something that looks dangerously like realization.
"Bucky—"
"They're cutting the cake," he says, stepping back. The loss of contact feels like losing a limb. "Should probably watch. For your show."
You blink, then recover. "Right. Yeah. Cake."
But you're quiet for the rest of the reception, and he catches you looking at him with this expression he can't decode. Like you're working through a complex equation and not liking the answer.
He drives home. You spend the ride fiddling with your phone, uncharacteristically silent. When he pulls up to the building, you don't immediately get out.
"I'm sorry if I—" you start.
"Don't." It comes out harsher than intended. He tries again, softer: "You didn't do anything wrong."
"Feels like I did." You're still not looking at him. "I forget sometimes, that you're—that we're—"
"Friends," he supplies, even though the word tastes like ash. "We're friends."
"Right." You finally meet his eyes, and there's something careful in your expression now. Guarded. "Friends."
You're out of the car before he can figure out what to say to fix this. He watches you disappear into the building first, red dress like a wound in the grey evening, and knows he's fucked everything up without quite understanding how.
You pull back after that.
It's subtle—you still smile when you see him in the hall, still text him memes at inappropriate hours. But you stop knocking on his door for impromptu dinners. Stop touching him casually. When he offers to fix your eternally-dripping showerhead, you say you'll call the super instead.
"You're moping," Sam tells him two weeks later, during one of their mandatory "make sure Bucky's not spiraling" brunch dates.
"I don't mope."
"You're the Black Widow of moping. The Michael Jordan of emotional constipation." Sam pauses. "That neighbor you mentioned?"
Bucky's silence is damning.
"What'd you do?"
"Why do you assume I did something?"
"Because you always do something. You get close to someone, panic, and pull some self-sabotaging bullshit." Sam's voice gentles. "Talk to me, man."
Bucky stares at his coffee like it holds answers. "She wanted to dance."
"...okay?"
"At a wedding. And I—we danced. And it was..." He doesn't have words for what it was. How you felt in his arms, how the world narrowed down to just the two of you, how for a moment he forgot he was dangerous. "And then I shut it down."
"Why?"
"Because." He sets the mug down too hard, coffee sloshing. "Because she's sunshine, Sam. She's late-night cooking shows and glitter pens and leaving snacks for the delivery guy. She has no idea what I've done, what I'm capable of—"
"Did you ever think maybe she does know and doesn't care?"
"Then she's naïve."
"Or maybe she just sees you better than you see yourself." Sam leans forward. "Buck, you can't protect people by pushing them away. That's not how it works."
"It's worked so far."
"Has it? Because from where I'm sitting, you're miserable, she's probably confused as hell, and nobody's actually safer."
Bucky wants to argue, but then his phone buzzes. Your name pops up: my smoke alarm is having an existential crisis. is it supposed to beep in morse code?
He's already standing before he realizes it.
"Go," Sam says, shaking his head but smiling. "Fix her smoke alarm. Talk to her like a human being. Maybe try not to fuck it up this time."
Your door is already cracked when he gets there, smoke rolling out in lazy waves.
"I'm not on fire!" you call before he can knock. "Well, the oven mitt was, but I handled it."
He finds you on a chair, ineffectively fanning the smoke detector with a dish towel. You're wearing those little pajama shorts again and his brain still isn't prepared for the sight.
"How does an oven mitt catch fire?" He reaches up, disables the alarm with practiced ease.
"Well, when you forget it's on your hand and rest it on the stove burner..." You shrink a little at his look. "I was distracted."
"By what?"
You don't answer, just hop down from the chair. This close, he can see the flour in your hair, the way you're worrying your bottom lip. "Thanks. Sorry for texting, I know it's late—"
"Why are you apologizing?"
"Because—" You make a frustrated gesture. "Because I'm trying to give you space. Because you clearly regretted the wedding thing and I'm trying not to be that neighbor who develops inconvenient feelings—"
"Feelings?" His brain snags on the word like cloth on a nail.
You go very still. "Shit. I mean. Not feelings. Just. You know. Neighbor...ly concern. Very platonic. Super appropriate."
"You're a terrible liar."
"Yeah, well, you're terrible at—" You stop, visibly collecting yourself. When you speak again, your voice is carefully level: "I like you, okay? More than I should. And I know that's not what you want, and I'm trying really hard to be okay with that, but you standing in my kitchen looking all concerned while I'm having a feelings crisis is really not helping."
The words hit him like a physical blow. You like him. More than you should.
"You don't know me," he says, defaulting to the easiest argument.
"Bullshit." There's heat in your voice now. "I know you reorganize my bookshelf when you think I'm not looking because the chaos bothers you. I know you bring me coffee on Tuesdays because you noticed I have early meetings. I know you have nightmares—yeah, the walls are thin—and I know you pace afterwards like you're trying to walk off whatever you dreamed about."
Each observation feels like being flayed open.
"I know you're careful," you continue, softer now. "I know you think you're dangerous. And I know you've probably got reasons for that. But Bucky? I also know you'd never hurt me. Ever."
"You can't know that."
"Why? Because you're what, too damaged? Too dangerous?" You step closer and he should step back but he's frozen. "You carry my groceries. You fixed my faucet. You danced with me at a wedding even though you hate dancing. Really dangerous stuff there, Barnes."
"You don't understand—"
"Then explain it to me." Your chin juts out, stubborn. "Give me one good reason why we can't—"
He kisses you.
It's the wrong thing to do. Selfish. Stupid. But you're standing there in your flour-dusted pajamas, looking at him like he's worth fighting for, and his self-control just...snaps.
The sound you make—soft, surprised, maybe relieved—shorts out every rational thought in his head. Your hands come up to frame his face, fingertips cool against his burning skin, and then you're kissing him back like you've been waiting for this, like you've been drowning too.
You taste like smoke and whatever you were baking, sweet with an edge of burn, and he's dizzy with it. His hands find your waist, fingers spreading wide against the soft cotton of your shirt, and he pulls you in until there's no space between you, until he can feel your heartbeat hammering against his chest. You're so warm, so alive, radiating heat like a small sun, and he wants to map every degree of it with his mouth, his hands, his—
Reality crashes back like ice water.
He jerks away, but his hands won't let go of your waist, like his body's in revolt against his better judgment. You're both breathing like you've run miles—harsh, ragged pulls of air that fill the space between you. Your lips are swollen, kiss-bruised, and he did that, he marked you, and the savage satisfaction of it wars with the knowledge that he's just made everything infinitely worse.
Your eyes are huge, pupils blown wide, and you're looking at him like he's just rearranged your entire understanding of the universe. One hand is still on his face, thumb pressed to the corner of his mouth like you're trying to hold the kiss there, keep it from escaping.
"That's why," he says roughly. "Because I want—because you make me want things I can't have."
"Says who?" Your eyes are very bright. "Who decided what you can have?"
He doesn't have an answer for that. Doesn't know how to explain the mathematics of survival, how everyone he's ever cared about becomes a liability, a target, a grave.
"I should go," he manages.
"Or," you say, "you could stay."
The offer hangs between you like a lit fuse. He can see the future unspool in both directions: leave now, go back to safe distances and polite nods in the hallway, watch you eventually move on with someone who doesn't come with a body count. Or stay, and risk you realizing what a mistake you're making. Stay, and selfishly take whatever you're willing to give for however long you're willing to give it.
You're still looking at him, patient and terrified and hopeful all at once.
He leaves.
The word echoes in his head all the way back to his apartment. Coward. Coward. Coward. But it's the right thing to do. The safe thing. You'll hurt for a while, maybe hate him a little, but you'll be alive to do it.
He doesn't sleep. Just sits on his couch, staring at the wall that separates your apartments, listening to the muffled sounds of you cleaning up. The shower runs at 2 AM. He knows you cry in the shower when you think no one can hear—learned that three weeks into being neighbors, when your freelance client stiffed you on a big project. He'd wanted to break the fucker's legs then.
Now he wants to break his own.
You're a better person than he'll ever be, which is why you still smile at him in the hallway.
It's careful now, contained. The kind of smile you'd give any neighbor, not the one that used to light up your whole face when you saw him. You don't knock anymore. Don't text about your smoke alarm or your leaky faucet or the rat you're convinced lives in the walls. You just...exist, parallel to him, in a way that makes his chest feel like it's full of broken glass.
"Fixed it myself," you say one morning when he catches you wrestling with a new deadbolt installation. Your drill slips, gouging the doorframe. "YouTube University, you know?"
He could fix it in under a minute. Could show you how to align the strike plate properly, how to test the throw. Instead: "Good for you."
Your smile flickers. "Yeah. Good for me."
Mrs. Nguyen gives him dirty looks now. The whole floor does, really. Like they know he's the reason you don't laugh as loud anymore, why your music's quieter, why you started getting grocery delivery instead of making three trips up the stairs, arms overloaded, dropping things and cursing cheerfully.
It's fine. It's working. You're safe.
He tells himself that every night when he hears you through the walls, moving around your apartment like a ghost of the person who used to dance while cooking.
Three weeks post-kiss, Valentina calls them in for a mission that's barely legal on a good day.
"Weapons shipment," she says, sliding photos across the conference table with her usual theatrical flair. "Enhanced tech, off-market, very much not supposed to exist. The kind of toys that make governments nervous."
"So we're stealing them," Walker states, not asks.
"Recovering," Val corrects with a smile sharp enough to cut. "For the safety of the American people, of course."
Yelena snorts. Alexei's already studying the compound layout like there'll be a test. Bob's doing that thing where he shrinks into himself, trying to become invisible. Bucky catalogs exits, counts guards in the surveillance photos, and tries not to think about how you looked last night, hauling groceries with your hair falling in your eyes.
The mission goes sideways in minute three.
"Intel was wrong," Ava's voice crackles through comms, too calm for the situation. "Triple the guards. And—"
The explosion cuts her off. Then another. The "barely defended warehouse" is a fucking fortress, crawling with military-grade security who definitely got the "shoot to kill" memo.
"Fall back," Bucky orders, but Alexei's already charged ahead, yelling something about Soviet glory. Walker's trying to flank, Bob's panicking, and somewhere in the chaos, Yelena starts laughing like this is the best thing that's happened all week.
It takes two hours to fight their way out. By the end, Bucky's left arm is sparking, his ears are ringing, and he's pretty sure at least three ribs are cracked. Yelena's favoring her right leg, Walker's bleeding from somewhere he won't admit, and Bob—Bob's dissociating so hard Bucky has to physically guide him to the extraction point.
"Well," Val says over comms, observing from her safe distance, "that was bracing."
Bucky doesn't trust himself to respond.
They limp back to New York in sullen silence. No debrief—Val's already spinning the disaster into something palatable for the brass. Bucky goes straight home, ignoring Sam's calls, ignoring everything except the need to get somewhere quiet before he starts breaking things.
His hands are still shaking when he reaches his floor. Adrenaline crash, probably. Or the delayed realization that they'd all nearly died for some bureaucrat's idea of asset recovery. Or—
Your door is open.
Not open-open. Cracked, like it didn't latch properly. Like someone left in a hurry. Or—
The deadbolt is broken.
The one you installed yourself three weeks ago. The one he'd watched you struggle with, pride keeping you from asking for help.
Bucky goes utterly still.
His body moves before his brain catches up. He's through your doorway, cataloging details with mechanical precision: lamp knocked over, books scattered, coffee table shoved sideways. Signs of a struggle. Signs of—
Blood.
Not much. Just droplets on the hardwood, leading toward the kitchen. But enough. Enough to make his vision tunnel, his chest compress until breathing becomes theoretical.
"Sweetheart?" The pet name slips out, raw. No answer. He clears each room like he's back in Hydra facilities, except his hands won't stop shaking because this is your space, your things, your—
Your phone is on the kitchen floor, screen cracked. There's a handprint on the wall—bloody, smeared. Too small to be anyone's but yours.
Something inside him breaks. Clean, sharp, like a bone snapping. The careful distance he's maintained, the walls he's built, the conviction that keeping you at arm's length would keep you safe—all of it crumbles in the face of your empty apartment and that small, bloody handprint.
He's already moving, phone out, calling in favors he's been hoarding. Because someone took you. Someone came into your home—the home he was supposed to be protecting by staying away—and took you. And they're going to learn exactly why the Winter Soldier's name still makes people flinch.
His phone rings. Unknown number.
"Barnes." He doesn't recognize his own voice.
"Ah, the infamous Winter Soldier." The voice is male, amused, completely at ease. "I was hoping we could talk."
"Where is she?"
"Safe. For now. Though that really depends on you, doesn't it?"
Ice spreads through his veins, familiar as an old friend. This is what he was trying to prevent. This exact scenario. You, hurt because of him. You, taken because someone figured out—
"What do you want?"
"You've been playing house, Barnes. Getting soft. Forgetting what you are." A pause, calculated. "I'm going to remind you. And your little neighbor? She's going to help."
The line goes dead.
Bucky stands in your ruined apartment, surrounded by the evidence of his failure, and feels something fundamental shift. Not break—he's been broken before. This is worse. This is the cold clarity that comes after, when there's nothing left to lose.
Someone made a mistake today. They touched you. They made you bleed.
He's going to paint the city red for it.
"Buck, slow down—"
"No." He's already moving, gathering gear with brutal efficiency. The weapons he's not supposed to have. The tech that's definitely illegal. Every favor, every resource, every skill Hydra beat into him over seventy years.
Sam's on speaker, trying to be the voice of reason. "You can't just go in guns blazing—"
"Watch me."
"This is exactly what they want. You, isolated, operating without backup—"
"They have her, Sam." The words come out raw, flayed. "They took her because of me. Because I was stupid enough to think distance would keep her safe."
Silence on the other end. Then: "What do you need?"
That's why Sam Wilson is Captain America. No more arguments, no more trying to talk him down. Just immediate, unwavering support.
"Intel. Cameras in my building, surrounding blocks. Last twelve hours." He straps a knife to his thigh, then another. "And get me backup."
"I can rally your team. Get Walker, Yelena—"
"No." The word comes out sharp. Another knife. Extra magazines. "The Thunderbolts are compromised. That clusterfuck of a mission proved it."
"Buck—"
"They're not ready for this. Half of them can barely work together without Val pulling the strings." He's checking his tactical vest, muscle memory taking over. "This isn't a government op. This is personal."
"So what, you're going in alone?"
Is he? Bucky stops, considers his options. The Thunderbolts are a mess on a good day—Walker's still trying to prove something, Bob's hanging on by a thread, and Alexei treats everything like a performance. They're not who he needs for this.
"They touched her," he says simply.
"I know, man. I know. But—"
"Get me what intel you can. I'll handle the rest."
"Buck, come on. At least let me—"
"They have her, Sam." His voice cracks, just slightly. "Every second we waste talking, they could be—"
"Okay. Okay. Intel coming your way. But Barnes? Don't do anything stupid."
"Too late for that."
Bucky stops in your doorway, looks back at your apartment. There's a photo on your bookshelf—you and him at the building's July 4th party. Mrs. Nguyen had insisted on taking it. You're laughing at something, leaning into him, and he's looking at you like—
Like you're everything he never thought he'd get to have.
"I'm coming for you," he tells the empty room. A promise. A threat. A prayer to whoever might be listening.
Then he disappears into the night, and the Winter Soldier goes hunting.
The trail goes cold in six hours.
Whoever took you, they're not amateurs playing at being dangerous. They're ghosts—professionals who know exactly how to disappear in a city of eight million people. Every camera angle's been scrubbed. Every witness suddenly develops amnesia. Even the blood in your apartment leads nowhere; cleaned of DNA markers by something that makes Bucky's teeth ache with familiarity.
"Talk to me, Buck." Sam's voice through the earpiece, carefully level. "Where are you?"
Bucky stands on a rooftop in Queens, staring at another dead end. Another empty warehouse that should have had something, anything. "Nowhere."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got." His metal hand clenches, servos whining. Below, the city keeps moving, oblivious to the fact that you're somewhere in it, hurt, taken because of him. "They're good, Sam. Too good."
"We'll find her."
We. Like this isn't Bucky's fault. Like his past isn't bleeding into your present, staining everything he tried so hard to keep clean.
He drops from the rooftop, lands hard enough to crack pavement. A passing couple startles, hurries away. Good. He doesn't feel particularly human right now anyway.
Hour twelve. Yelena finds him in your apartment, sitting on your couch like a grieving statue.
"This is pathetic," she says, stepping over the crime scene tape he'd ignored. "Even for you."
"Get out."
"No." She perches on your coffee table, uncharacteristically serious. "You think sitting here feeling sorry for yourself will find her? You think guilt helps?"
"I said—"
"I know what guilt looks like, Barnes." Her voice cuts, precise as the knives she carries. "I know what it is, failing someone you—" She pauses, searching for the English word. "Care about. But this?" She gestures at him, at the apartment, at the bloody handprint he can't stop staring at. "This is just... как это... self-pity? No, worse. Useless."
The laugh that tears out of him is ugly. "Thanks for the pep talk."
"Someone needs to knock sense into your thick skull." She leans forward. "Whoever has her, they want you like this. Emotional. Sloppy. Making mistakes."
"I know that."
"Then stop giving them what they want."
Easier said than done when every surface in this apartment carries your ghost. The mug on the counter with your lipstick stain. The book splayed open on the side table, marking your place. The sweater thrown over the chair—his sweater, actually, stolen three weeks ago when you'd claimed your apartment was freezing.
Easier said than done when every surface in this apartment carries your ghost. The mug on the counter with your lipstick stain. The book splayed open on the side table, marking your place. The sweater thrown over the chair—his sweater, actually, stolen three weeks ago when you'd claimed your apartment was freezing.
"Keep it," he'd said, trying not to notice how it made something primal in him satisfied, seeing you wrapped in his clothes.
"Just until I fix my radiator," you'd promised, but you'd worn it three more times that week, and he'd never asked for it back.
"Barnes." Yelena snaps her fingers in his face. "Сфокусируйся. Focus."
"I am focused."
"You're spiraling." She pulls out her phone, shows him surveillance footage he's already memorized. "Look again. Really look. Use your brain, not your bleeding heart."
He wants to tell her he's looked at nothing else for twelve hours. Instead, he watches you leave your apartment at 6:47 PM, mail in hand. Watches you come back at 6:53. The timestamp jumps—7:31 to 8:15, forty-four minutes missing. By 8:15, your door's ajar and you're gone.
"Professional crew doesn't need forty-four minutes for grab," Yelena says, her English getting rougher as she thinks. "So why take so long? What were they doing?"
Bucky's phone buzzes. Unknown number.
His blood turns to ice, then flame.
"You're going to want to watch this alone," the familiar voice says. "Though I'm sure your friend is lovely. Hi, Yelena."
She stiffens. Bucky's already moving, putting distance between them, some instinct screaming danger.
"Just me," he says. "Let her go."
"See, that's your problem, Barnes. Still trying to protect everyone. Still thinking you can control who gets hurt." A pause. "Check your messages."
The video file is already there. His hand shakes as he opens it.
You're in a concrete room—could be anywhere, everywhere, the kind of place that exists in every city's bones. Sitting in a metal chair, wrists zip-tied but not apparently hurt beyond the cut on your temple still sluggishly bleeding. You're still wearing his sweater.
"Say hello, sweetheart." The voice comes from behind the camera.
You look up, and the defiance in your eyes makes his chest seize. "Go fuck yourself."
The slap comes fast, snaps your head sideways. Bucky's phone creaks in his grip.
"Language." The camera shifts, focuses on your face. "Try again."
You spit blood, manage a smile that's all teeth. "Hi, Bucky. Nice weather we're having."
Another slap. Harder. Your lip splits.
"I told you he made you weak." The voice continues conversationally as you work your jaw, testing damage. "The Winter Soldier, reduced to playing house with some nobody. It's embarrassing, really."
"You talk a lot for someone hiding behind a camera," you mutter.
This time it's a fist. Your head rocks back, and when you look up again, your nose is bleeding. But you're still glaring, still unbroken, and Bucky loves you so fiercely in that moment it feels like drowning.
"Here's what's going to happen," the voice continues. "Every hour Barnes doesn't come alone to the address we'll send, things get worse for you. And before you get any ideas—" The camera pans to show three other men, armed, professional. "—we've planned for contingencies."
Back to you. Blood drips onto his sweater. You notice the camera returning, look directly into it. "Don't you fucking dare," you say, and despite everything—split lip, bloody nose, zip-tied to a chair—you mean it. "You hear me, Barnes? Don't you—"
The video cuts.
Bucky stands very still in your empty apartment, phone in pieces at his feet.
"That bad?" Yelena asks.
He can't speak. Can barely breathe around the rage threatening to tear him apart from the inside. Somewhere in the city, you're bleeding because of him. Hurt because he was selfish enough to let you close, stupid enough to think distance would be enough.
Another text. An address in Red Hook. Come alone or we start cutting.
"Is trap," Yelena says, dropping articles like she does when she's focused. "Obviously trap."
"I know."
"You can't just walk in there like idiot."
"I know."
"So what's plan?"
He looks at her, and whatever she sees in his face makes her step back. "I give them what they want."
"Barnes—"
"They want the Winter Soldier?" His voice sounds wrong, mechanical, like something dredged up from permafrost. "They've got him."
The address leads to a warehouse because of course it does. These people, whoever they are, lack imagination. Bucky counts heat signatures through thermal imaging—six outside, unknown inside. Doable, if he's what he used to be. If he's willing to be what he used to be.
"Don't you fucking dare."
Your voice echoes, but it's drowned out by older programming. By muscle memory that never quite faded, no matter how many therapy sessions or good days or shared dinners with someone who looked at him like he was worth saving.
"In position," Sam's voice, because fuck going alone. Fuck giving them what they want. "West entrance."
"Rooftop," from Yelena.
"Back door," Walker, surprisingly. "For the record, I think this is stupid."
"Noted," Bucky says, and walks through the front door.
The space is exactly what he expected. Concrete floors, exposed beams, the kind of place that swallows sound. They're waiting for him—five men in tactical gear, no identifying marks. Professional contractors, not ideologues. Which makes this personal.
"Dramatic entrance. I respect that." The voice from the phone materializes into a man in his forties, military bearing, forgettable face. He's standing next to a metal table laid out with tools that make Bucky's scars ache. "Though you were supposed to come alone."
"Yeah, well." Bucky spreads his hands, easy target. "I've never been good at following orders. Ask anyone."
"Funny." The man circles him, predator studying prey. "That's not what your files say. 'Perfect compliance.' That was the phrase, wasn't it?"
Old wounds, precisely targeted. These people have done their homework.
"Where is she?"
"Close. Alive. For now." The man stops in front of him. "You know, I studied you. The Winter Soldier. Hydra's perfect weapon. And then you just... stopped. Became this." He gestures dismissively. "James Barnes, failing congressman. Playing superhero. Pretending you're not what we made you."
"We?"
The man smiles. "Not Hydra, if that's what you're thinking. Hydra was sloppy. Cult-like. No vision beyond control." He pulls out a tablet, shows Bucky a logo—a chimera, three-headed. "Cerberus. We're more... refined. We deal in weapons, not world domination. And you, Barnes? You're a weapon pretending to be human."
"Cool speech." Bucky's cataloging angles, distances, how fast he'd have to move. "Must've practiced in the mirror."
The man's smile tightens. "Bring her out."
Two more men emerge from a side room, dragging you between them. You're conscious but barely, feet stumbling, head lolling. They drop you on the concrete, and you don't get up.
Everything in Bucky goes very, very quiet.
"So here's the deal," Cerberus continues. "You're going to work for us. Exclusive contract. Your particular skills in exchange for her life."
"No." Your voice, cracked but clear. You push yourself up on shaking arms, meet Bucky's eyes across the warehouse. "No deals. No trades."
"Sweetheart—"
"Don't you 'sweetheart' me." You manage to get to your knees, swaying. Blood's dried on your face, but your eyes are blazing. "You think I don't know what they're asking? You think I'd let you—" You have to stop, catch your breath. "I'd rather die than be the reason you become that again."
"How touching," Cerberus says. "But not your call." He nods to one of his men, who pulls out a knife. "Barnes? Your answer?"
The knife moves toward you.
The world explodes.
Flash-bangs through windows, smoke grenades, the distinctive whine of repulsor beams. Cerberus shouts orders, but it's too late—the Avengers don't do subtle when one of their own is threatened.
Bucky moves. Not the measured approach of a soldier, but the brutal efficiency of a weapon. The man with the knife goes down first, arm snapping under metal fingers. The second barely has time to scream. He's not thinking, just reacting, just removing threats between him and you.
Someone shoots him. Barely feels it. Someone else tries hand-to-hand, which is adorable. He puts them through a wall.
"Barnes!" Sam's voice, sharp. "Shield up!"
He spins, catches the thrown shield, uses it to deflect a spray of bullets meant for you. You're trying to crawl to cover, leaving bloody handprints on the concrete, and the sight shorts out whatever restraint he had left.
When the smoke clears, Cerberus is the only one left standing. Backed against the wall, gun trained on you because of course it is. These people are predictable to the last.
"Come any closer and—"
Yelena drops from the ceiling, lands on him like gravity given form. The gun goes flying. Cerberus goes down choking on his own blood, Yelena's knife finding the gap in his armor like it was designed for it.
"Predictable," she says, wiping the blade clean. "I told you they were predictable."
But Bucky's already moving, dropping to his knees beside you. You're conscious, breathing, alive. That's all that matters. Everything else—the mission, the cleanup, the questions—fades to white noise.
"Hey," he says, hands hovering over you, afraid to touch. Afraid to hurt. "I've got you."
"Took you long enough," you manage, then promptly pass out in his arms.
He catches you, holds you against his chest, and something in him breaks. Or maybe it finally, finally mends. Either way, he's done pretending distance keeps anyone safe. Done acting like he deserves to make choices about your safety without you.
"Med team's three minutes out," Sam says quietly.
Three minutes. He can hold you for three minutes. Can keep you safe for three minutes.
After that? After that, everything changes.
But for now, in the blood and smoke and aftermath, Bucky Barnes holds the person he was stupid enough to fall in love with and makes a promise:
Never again.
Never fucking again.
The medical bay at the Tower is too bright, too sterile, too full of people who keep looking at Bucky like he might snap. Maybe he will. He's been sitting in the same chair for four hours, watching machines monitor your breathing, and every beep feels like an accusation.
"You need to get that looked at," Sam says, nodding at the blood seeping through Bucky's shirt. Gunshot wound, probably. He honestly can't remember.
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding on their fancy floors."
"I'm fine."
Sam exchanges a look with Yelena, who's been uncharacteristically quiet since they arrived. She's cleaned the blood off her hands but keeps flexing them, like she can still feel it.
"At least change your shirt," she says finally. "You look like extra from horror movie."
He doesn't move. Can't move. Because what if you wake up while he's gone? What if you open your eyes and he's not there, again, like he wasn't there when they took you?
"Barnes." Dr. Cho's voice cuts through his spiral. "She's stable. Three broken ribs, concussion, various contusions, but nothing life-threatening. She's lucky."
Lucky. The word tastes like copper in his mouth. Lucky is winning the lottery, not surviving a kidnapping because you had the misfortune of living next to him.
"When will she wake up?"
"Soon. The sedatives should wear off within the hour." She pauses, studying him with that look medical professionals get when they're about to say something pointed. "You, however, need treatment. You're actively bleeding on my floor."
"Sam already made that joke."
"It wasn't a joke." But she moves on, knowing a lost cause when she sees one. "I'll send a nurse with supplies. Try not to die before she wakes up. The paperwork would be tedious."
She leaves. Sam leaves. Even Yelena eventually wanders off, muttering something about vodka and terrible life choices. And then it's just Bucky and you and the steady beep of machines he'd tear apart if they stopped working.
Your hand is smaller than his. He knows this—has known it since the first time you grabbed his wrist to drag him to see some neighbor's new puppy—but it feels more pronounced now. More fragile. Your knuckles are split from fighting back, and there's still blood under your nails. His blood? Theirs? He doesn't know, and the not knowing makes him want to put his fist through the wall.
"You're spiraling again."
Your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper, but it might as well be a gunshot for how hard it hits. His head snaps up to find you watching him, eyes half-open but alert.
"You're awake."
"Mmm. Kind of wish I wasn't." You try to sit up, wince, immediately abort that mission. "Fuck. Did anyone get the number of the truck that hit me?"
"Don't—" He's hovering, hands fluttering uselessly, afraid to touch you. "You shouldn't move. Dr. Cho said—"
"Dr. Cho can kiss my ass," you mutter, but you stop trying to sit up. Your eyes track over him, cataloging damage. "You're bleeding."
"It's nothing."
"It's literally dripping on the floor, Barnes."
"It's fine."
You stare at each other. Four hours of practiced speeches evaporate in the face of your actual consciousness, leaving him with nothing but the memory of your blood on concrete and the sound you made when they hit you.
"So," you say finally, voice carefully neutral. "Cerberus. That was fun."
"Don't."
"Don't what? Make jokes about my kidnapping? Process trauma through humor? Acknowledge that you're sitting there bleeding because you decided to Rambo your way through—"
"You could have died." It comes out louder than intended, raw. "You almost died because of me."
Something shifts in your expression. "Bucky—"
"No." He's standing now, needing distance, needing space between him and the way you're looking at him. "You don't get to—to act like this is fine. Like this is some funny story you'll tell at parties. They took you because of me. They hurt you because of me."
"They took me because they're assholes who thought they could use me as leverage." You're struggling to sit up again, ignoring whatever pain it causes. "That's on them, not you."
"You're only leverage because I was selfish enough to—" He stops, runs his hand through his hair. "I knew better. I knew what would happen if I let someone close, and I did it anyway."
"Let me get this straight." Your voice is gaining strength, and with it, heat. "You think you 'let' me get close? Like I didn't have any say in it? Like I didn't practically force-feed you cookies until you acknowledged my existence?"
"That's not—"
"And what, you think keeping me at arm's length would've magically made me safer? News flash, Barnes: I live in that building because it's what I can afford. That makes me a target for regular criminals on a good day. At least with you around, I had someone who actually gave a shit if I made it home."
"Don't." The word cracks. "Don't act like I was protecting you. I'm the reason you were bleeding. I'm the reason they—"
"You're the reason I'm alive!" You swing your legs over the side of the bed, bare feet hitting the floor with determination that makes his chest tight. "You think they took me because they wanted leverage? They took me because they were cleaning house. Because they knew you'd gotten soft, gotten close to someone, and that made you unpredictable."
You stand, sway, catch yourself on the bed rail. He moves forward instinctively, and you hold up a hand.
"No. You don't get to touch me right now. Not when you're about to do something stupid and noble and self-sacrificing." You take a step, then another, closing the distance between you despite your own warning. "They were going to kill me either way, Barnes. Whether you came for me or not. The only difference is that you did come, and now I'm alive to be really fucking pissed at you."
"You don't understand—"
"I understand perfectly." You're close enough now that he can see the bruises forming on your throat, the way you're holding your ribs, the tears you're refusing to shed. "You think you're poison. You think everyone you touch gets hurt. You think the best thing you can do is be alone forever because that's what you deserve."
"Stop."
"No. Because here's the thing, James Buchanan Barnes—you don't get to make that choice for me." Your voice breaks, just a little. "You don't get to decide I'm better off without you. You don't get to kiss me in my kitchen and then run away like a coward. And you sure as hell don't get to sit there bleeding and act like it's some kind of penance."
The medical bay feels too small suddenly, like all the air's been sucked out. You're looking at him with eyes that see too much, that refuse to let him hide behind the careful walls he's rebuilt in the last three weeks.
"They hurt you," he says, quieter now. Lost.
"Yeah. They did." You reach up, slowly, telegraphing the movement. Your hand cups his face, thumb brushing over the bruise on his cheekbone. "And it wasn't your fault."
"How can you say that?"
"Because blaming you for what they did is like blaming a bank for getting robbed." Your other hand comes up, framing his face, forcing him to meet your eyes. "You're not responsible for other people's evil, Bucky. You're only responsible for what you do about it."
"I should have protected you better."
"You literally threw yourself between me and automatic gunfire."
"I should have never let them take you in the first place."
"Oh, so you're psychic now? Can predict the future?" Your laugh is watery. "Add that to the resume. Congressman, ex-assassin, part-time fortune teller."
"This isn't funny."
"It's a little funny." But your smile fades, replaced by something fiercer. "You want to know what's not funny? Spending three weeks watching you shut me out. Sitting in that chair, knowing you were hurting, and not being able to do anything because you decided I was better off without you."
"You are—"
"Finish that sentence and I swear to god, Barnes, concussion or not, I will punch you in your stupid, self-loathing face."
He almost smiles. Almost. "You could barely stand five seconds ago."
"Adrenaline's a hell of a drug." But you're swaying again, and this time when he reaches for you, you don't stop him. His arms come around you carefully, mindful of injuries, and you lean into him like you've been waiting for permission. "I'm so fucking mad at you."
"I know."
"Like, incandescently furious."
"I know."
"You don't get to leave again." It comes out muffled against his chest, but he hears the steel underneath. "I don't care if the entire population of supervillains decides I'm their new favorite target. You don't get to leave."
His arms tighten fractionally. "Sweetheart—"
"No." You pull back enough to glare at him, and even bruised and exhausted, you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. "No 'sweetheart.' No soft voice and sad eyes. You're either in this with me or you're out, but you don't get to half-ass it anymore. You don't get to knock on my door at 2 AM because you had a nightmare and then pretend we're just neighbors. You don't get to dance with me at weddings and then act like it meant nothing. You don't get to—"
He kisses you.
There's no grace in it—just collision, pure physics as his mouth finds yours with the same brutal efficiency he'd use to take down a target. Except this isn't violence, it's something worse. It's capitulation. It's three weeks of want compressed into the space between one heartbeat and the next.
The noise that escapes you—half gasp, half sob—unlocks something feral in his chest. Then your teeth catch his lower lip, sharp and unforgiving, and his vision whites out entirely. You kiss like you fight: dirty, determined, taking no prisoners. Your tongue slides against his and his knees actually buckle, what the fuck, he's faced down alien armies without flinching but you're going to be what finally kills him.
His hands fly to your face, metal and flesh cradling your jaw like you're something precious even as he devours your mouth like you're anything but. You're pressed so tight against him he can feel every hitch in your breathing, every shudder that runs through you when he angles his head and deepens the kiss into something filthier, something that has you making these broken little sounds that he wants to bottle and keep.
The medical bed hits the back of your thighs—when did he walk you backward?—and you use the leverage to pull him down, down, until he's curved over you like a question mark, like gravity itself has reorganized around the heat of your mouth.
When you finally break apart, it's only because biology demands it. You're both wrecked—breathing like you've run marathons, lips swollen and spit-slick, staring at each other like you're not quite sure what just happened.
Your pupils are blown so wide he can barely see the color of your irises. There's a flush spreading down your throat, disappearing beneath the hospital gown, and he has to physically stop himself from following it with his mouth. His hands are trembling where they frame your face, thumbs pressed to your cheekbones like he's checking you're real.
"That's not an answer," you manage, but your voice is thoroughly fucked, and your hands are still twisted in his vest like you'll shoot him if he tries to move away.
"Yes, it is."
"No, it's really not. It's a deflection. A really nice deflection, but—"
"I'm in." The words feel like jumping off a cliff. Like defusing a bomb. Like coming home. "I'm in. Whatever that means, whatever that looks like. I'm in."
You study him for a long moment, and he tries not to fidget under the scrutiny. Finally: "You're going to therapy."
"I'm already in therapy."
"You're going to actually talk in therapy instead of just staring at the wall and hoping Dr. Raynor gets bored."
"...fine."
"And you're going to let me have a say in my own safety. No more unilateral decisions about what's 'best' for me."
"Okay."
"And you're going to teach me self-defense. Real self-defense, not just how to throw a punch."
"Deal."
"And—" You sway again, this time more dramatically. "Oh. Okay. Maybe sitting down now."
He guides you back to the bed, hands steady even if nothing else is. You let him fuss, let him adjust pillows and pull up blankets, and he tries not to think about how easily you fit into his hands. How right this feels, even with blood on his shirt and bruises on your skin.
"For the record," you say as he settles back into the chair beside your bed, "I'm still mad."
"I know."
"Like, really mad. There's going to be yelling. Possibly throwing things."
"I can take it."
"And groveling. Lots of groveling. I'm talking flowers, chocolates, the works."
"Noted."
You reach for his hand, lace your fingers through his. "And you're going to tell me you love me."
He freezes. You squeeze his hand.
"Because I know you do. I've known since you reorganized my bookshelf by genre and then pretended you didn't. And I love you too, you absolute disaster of a man, but I need to hear you say it. When I'm not concussed and you're not bleeding. When we're both safe and no one's trying to kill us and we can actually have a real conversation about what this means."
His throat feels tight. "I can do that."
"Good." You close your eyes, exhaustion finally winning. "Now get your gunshot wound treated before you bleed out on my watch. I'm not explaining that to Sam."
"It's not that bad."
"Bucky."
"Fine."
But he doesn't move. Not yet. Instead, he sits there holding your hand, memorizing the way your fingers fit between his, the steady rise and fall of your chest, the fact that you're alive and here and somehow, impossibly, still want him around.
The sun's coming up by the time a nurse finally corners him, threatening sedation if he doesn't let her treat the gunshot wound. You're properly asleep by then, fingers still tangled with his, and he lets the nurse work around your grip rather than let go.
"She's tough," the nurse comments, applying what are probably too many bandages.
"Yeah."
"And stubborn."
"Definitely."
"Good." She pats his shoulder, maternal despite being half his age. "You're going to need it."
He doesn't ask what she means. Doesn't need to. Because you're right—he's a disaster. A work in progress on his best days, a barely controlled catastrophe on his worst. But you looked at all that and decided he was worth fighting for anyway.
The least he can do is try to prove you right.
When you wake up again, he's there. When Dr. Cho kicks him out so you can rest, he goes to therapy and actually talks. When Sam asks if you're together now, he says yes without qualifying it.
And when you're finally released, when you're back in your apartment with its new locks and its carefully cleaned floors, when you knock on his door at midnight because the nightmares found you too—he opens it. No hesitation. No distance.
"Hey, neighbor," you say, and the smile you give him is worth every risk, every fear, every moment of doubt.
"Hey yourself."
You step inside, and he closes the door behind you, and for the first time in longer than he can remember, Bucky Barnes stops running from the possibility of happiness.
Captain America's Birthday Cookies (a NATFK ficlet)
Summary:
Never, ever attempt to troll Steve Rogers. Especially when it involves cookies.
Steve Rogers & Reader, Steve's Birthday, General Audiences. Technically part of the NAFTK 'verse but can be read independently.
Based on this tumblr post.
This fic fulfills two separate Steve Rogers birthday challenges.
The Build-a-Steve Party Bingo from @avengers-assemble-bingo: it fills Reader / Baked Goods / Costumes / I understood that reference (sort of) / Going Out. I used different music, though. 😉
Steve's Birthday Calendar from @stevesbirthdaycalendar: July 3 is Steve and Food; there are so. many. cookies in here. I've also linked to recipes so you can make them yourselves!
Enjoy the fic, and Happy Steve's Birthday! 🎆🎉🎊🎈
Please navigate to my MCU masterlist for other stories & AO3 links.
You set the plate of cookies on the coffee table in front of Steve after dinner, along with a glass half full of milk, and a cheerful, “Here you go, the yearly offering.”
Steve looks up from his sketchpad and frowns at the cookies. “The yearly what now?”
You smack Clint’s hand as he reaches for a cookie. “Stop that, they’re Captain America cookies.”
“Captain America cookies?” says Natasha flatly, looking up from her book.
You stare at the rest of them. “Seriously? No one in PR has told you guys about this yet?”
“Nooo,” says Steve slowly, still focused on the cookies. “But now I’m afraid to ask.”
You sigh. “Fine. There’s been this meme for the last, I don’t know, five years or so. On July 4th Eve, good patriotic little boys and girls leave out cookies and milk for Captain America, who will come by their houses after they go to sleep and leave behind truth, liberty, justice, and the American way.”
You motion to the cookies and milk in front of Steve, as if the rest is self-explanatory.
Bucky, somewhere on the couches, begins to snort with amusement.
“July 4th Eve,” says Steve, skeptical.
“Look, I did not make this up,” you say.
“She didn’t,” says Natasha, scrolling on her phone. “It’s a thing.”
“No shit,” says Sam, delighted. “Hand that over, lemme see.”
“Kiddo,” says Tony, possibly even more delighted, which also passes for devious. “Please, please tell me you did this growing up.”
You’re about to say no…
But then you see the stricken look on Steve’s face.
And the way Bucky is still snickering behind him.
And Clint already pulling out his phone.
“Every year,” you say, as wistful and pitiful as you can manage. “Sugar cookies. Chocolate chip cookies. Oreo cookies. The most American cookies I could find, except that one year I was totally obsessed with biscotti. I guess they’re not American enough, though, because you never came.”
Steve’s eyes narrow, as if he senses that Someone is Mocking Patriotism. Well, you’ve got two choices now: either pull it back, or… lay it on thicker.
Bucky’s laid out on the couch, biting a pillow to keep from laughing. Sam’s texting hard on his phone, grinning like mad. And Clint? He’s filming this on his phone.
Really, it’s not like you have a choice here.
“I’m just thinking of all those little boys and girls out there, trying so hard to be the best possible patriotic Americans that they can be,” you say earnestly, folding your hands together, like you’re pleading. “Think of the children, Steve. Third, second, first generation Americans, who have grown up knowing that Captain America believes in them and wants them to know about justice and liberty. All their truths super self-evident. So many little American babies, hoping and wishing that they’ll get a visit from Captain America, who will give them the confidence to know… okay, yeah, I can’t do this,” you admit, giving up as laughter overtakes you.
Steve shakes his head slowly. “You almost got me.”
“Oh, seriously?” you groan.
“Another minute, I might have caved,” says Steve, reaching for a cookie.
But when you reach for one, too, he pulls the plate away. “Nope. My cookies. You’re not Captain America.”
“Spoilsport,” you sigh, and go to get the rest of the cookies from the kitchen.
*
You are deep asleep in your bed, so deep you’re not even dreaming. When:
“WHO’S STRONG AND BRAVE, HERE TO SAVE THE AMERICAN WAY?” blasts the music at top volume.
You sit straight up in bed and scream, flailing your arms before someone switches on the overhead lights, and then you stare, mouth open in shock.
Steve’s wearing his Captain America uniform, and before you can say a word, he throws a cloth bundle at you.
“Get a move on, solider,” he says briskly.
“Oh my God,” you groan. “Did I miss an alert, I am so sorry—”
“Not that,” says Cap, motioning to the bundle in your lap.
Which has unraveled, and now you can see that it’s an actual costume. Red and white and blue with sequins, like some old-fashioned showgirl costume.
Like…
“CARRY THE FLAG SHORE TO SHORE FOR AMERICA!” sings the recording.
Your mouth drops open. “Are you serious? Steve, did you break into the Smithsonian to steal another costume again?”
“Tony had it,” says Steve, without further explanation, and oh man, are you glad he does not elaborate.
“Um,” you say.
“We have forty-five minutes to get to Delacroix,” continues Steve. “And you are officially my fourth of July elf.”
“Elf.”
“Well, I could call you my chorus girl, but…”
You stare at him, still half asleep, not entirely sure you’re not dreaming.
“Tony also told me to tell you, and I quote—” Steve looks like he’s going to enjoy this next thing: “Put on the suit.”
You blink. “I do not understand that reference.”
Steve just grins back at you, like he is enjoying himself thoroughly.
“Shake a leg, chorus girl,” says Steve. “I’ve got a date with some cookies.”
*
The Quinjet makes it to Delacroix in 35 minutes flat. Nick Fury is going to have words for the pair of you, because you’re technically not supposed to go into super-sonic when it’s not for a mission, but whatever, it’s fun.
The chorus girl outfit is decidedly not fun. You feel like an idiot, but Steve just grins and gives you a thumbs up, and doesn’t even try objectifying you like you know Clint would (in a jokey, wolf-whistle sort of way). Natasha would smile and offer a compliment, and Bucky…
Well. He’d probably stop talking for a few minutes and then go back to pretending that he doesn’t see you as anything but a field partner.
Anyway, the trip is good, Steve gives you a little more training on flying the Quinjet, which is probably the cover for using the super-sonic, and he lands the jet outside Sarah Wilson’s house just before midnight. (After all, it’s not just you who needs practice time in the jet, which only bounces a few times and doesn’t even knock over any trees.)
“Carry these,” Steve tells you, handing you two small gift bags, one red and one blue, both overflowing with patriotic paraphernalia: toys, glow sticks, coloring books, and the like. You roll your eyes and carry them.
“How are we getting in?” you ask as Steve heads for the house. “Like, shouldn’t we go in through the fireplace or something? Or is that too close to breaking and entering? ‘Cause that would be super un-American of you.”
Steve pulls a key out from one of his utility belt pockets. You snort.
“Did you steal that from Sam?”
“No,” says Steve, and unlocks the front door. “He gave it to me.”
“Wait,” you say, realizing, “is the rest of the team in on this?”
Steve grins at you. “Who do you think suggested you should be my elf?”
He goes into the house, but you stay on the porch for a moment, letting it sink in.
“Those shits,” you breathe, and follow him.
It’s quiet, but you and Steve are good at quiet. There’s a plate of peanut butter cookies on the kitchen table, along with a glass of milk and a hand-drawn note in crayon. FOR CAPTAIN AMERICA HAPPY BIRTHDAY LOVE CASS AND AJ WILSON. You grin and reach for a cookie—
“Nope,” says Steve firmly, pushing your hand away. “You’re not Captain America.”
Your mouth drops open. “I’m an elf, I should get cookies.”
“You’re leaving the rewards,” says Steve through a mouth full of cookie, and you scowl while you set the bags down next to the plate.
Steve munches on the cookies all the way back to the Quinjet, and finishes them somewhere over Missouri. You don’t get a bite, but you do get a solid fifteen minutes on the controls, so maybe it evens out.
You don’t even like peanut butter cookies. Whatever. Stupid Captain America.
You arrive at the farm outside Waverly, Iowa, shortly after midnight. There’s lights on in the farmhouse, though they switch off as Steve lands the jet.
This time, he clips a tree.
It’s quiet when you both slip into the house – Clint having given Steve his key, too – but a nightlight glows from the stairwell, which is probably where the giggles are coming from. Steve grins at you, finger on his lips, and you nod, trying not to laugh.
The way Steve’s voice booms is so on brand, you almost can’t hold back the laughter at all.
“Well, my patriotic little elf, I think we’ve just found the most American children in the state!”
The giggles get even louder, and are accompanied by fervent shhhhhhing.
“I think you’re right, Captain America, sir!” you say, raising your voice a little bit. “And those cookies look delicious!”
“They really do, Elf, they really do,” agrees Steve, scooping up a handful of the thumbprint cookies. “Raspberry and blueberry thumbprints with white-chocolate stripes are my favorite.”
You reach for one – but Steve shakes his head and pulls them away. “All right, Elf, time to recite the Patriotic Promise—”
“The what?” you mouth at him.
“I, Captain America, defender of FREEDOM and LIBERTY hold this truth to be self-evident, that this house is home to the best Americans in the entire state of Iowa!” says Steve.
Cooper and Lila aren’t even bothering to contain their laughter now. One of them is probably kicking the wall, judging from the knocking sounds.
“We the people in order to form a more perfect union establish that this household should always contain justice, tranquility, and…”
Steve loses the thread for a moment. Or maybe is overcome by patriotic fervor, you’re really not sure which.
“And continual success in the pursuit of happiness?” you suggest.
“And continual success in the pursuit of happiness!” yells Steve, giving you a thumbs up.
The laughter is joyful, the shushing is half-hearted, and Steve glows at you. You leave two more giftbags full of patriotic silliness, and take a picture with your phone to send to Clint.
This is the best night ever.
Right up until Steve takes every damn cookie and doesn’t let you have a single one.
“Captain America cookies,” he tells you, and he’s practically walking on air back to the Quinjet.
You are gonna kill him.
*
“You know it’s my birthday today,” says Steve, halfway between Waverly and San Francisco.
The Quinjet’s on autopilot, and you’re both stretched out in the back of the jet, because it’s the middle of the night and in a perfect world, you’d both be sleeping.
But no, you had to go and troll Steve Rogers, because you forgot that Steve Rogers invented trolling, and now you’re 30,000 feet above Wyoming on your way to San Francisco to deliver a gift bag of silly patriotic toys, and you’re not even going to get cookies in exchange.
If Tumblr wasn’t already a trash fire (and proud of it), you’d turn it into one.
“Oh my gosh, Steve,” you say, deadpan. “You’re kidding. I had no idea that you were born of the Fourth of July. That was absolutely never in any history textbook I ever had, ever.”
Steve throws a wadded-up piece of paper at you; you pick it up and throw it back. “Most people thought it was a publicity stunt.”
“No way. It’s so corny, it had to be real, you know?”
It’s quiet for a while, except for the sound of Steve throwing the paper ball up in the air and catching it again. You close your eyes and think about falling asleep, sure that Steve will wake you up when you land.
“Sometimes I hate being Captain America.”
For a moment, you think you’ve dreamed Steve speaking. You turn your head to look at him, and he’s still throwing the paper ball up in the air, catching it when it falls back down. He’s taken off the cowl and the shield is stowed in its locker; his belt is on the table behind you and he’s undone some of the fastenings over his chest, so the suit is a little looser around his torso.
“Symbol of America, so patriotic he was born on the fourth of July,” continues Steve, with that deep voice he uses when he’s making fun of something official. He scoffs. “Even the Howlies didn’t believe it, until Bucky told ‘em it was true.”
You shrink a little bit into yourself; it’s not like you were much better, with your so corny, it had to be real. “Steve, I—”
“It’s fine,” says Steve quickly, but he doesn’t look at you, and he throws the paper ball a little higher, as if he’s throwing out the bitterness and aggression at the same time. “I’m used to it. And it’s not like I make a big deal of it anymore. Hard to celebrate being a hundred when I don’t look or feel it, you know? Anyway, Clint really would try to put a hundred candles on the cake, and Dum-E would drown all of us before I had a chance to blow them out.”
You chuckle.
“There was a kid we knew in school – Jacob Feinstein. Born on the 25th of December, and he’d get so angry with people who said he was born on Christmas Day, because he was Jewish, right? Wasn’t Christmas to him, it was just his birthday. But to everyone else…” Steve shrugs. “I’m not any more patriotic than the next person because of the day I was born, no more than Jacob was less Jewish. I’m a scrappy little punk from Brooklyn who’s more socialist than patriot.”
Steve throws the paper ball again. “That was the hardest part of the USO tour. The adults all expected me to be this… patriotic figure-head, you know? Every one of ‘em would come up to talk to me, expecting me to spout whatever bullshit they believed, because they’re all good Americans, right? I gotta think the same way they do. And sometimes I did, but the type of person who goes to those shows wasn’t usually the type of person I agreed with.
“The kids, though. They didn’t care about the politics. They just wanted to know if I was really holding up all those girls and how heavy was the shield and if they could hold it too. This one kid – Idaho, I think – I hand it to him. Not this one, it was the prop one. Barely weighed a thing. His eyes get real big, and he says, I thought it was heavier. You hold it like it’s heavier. And I said, ‘It is.’ And after that, it was a lot easier. Because they knew I wasn’t Captain America, I was just Steve Rogers from Brooklyn playing a character they knew from the comics they were already reading. And I talked to them like that, like I was Steve Rogers from Brooklyn playing a character named Captain America, and you know, it didn’t change, when I woke up after the ice.”
You smile, thinking of the times you’ve seen Steve with kids, because it’s true; the kids all want to hold the shield, are surprised when he can lift them up above his head. He talks to them like he’s a friend who happens to be a bit bigger, like the shield’s just a prop, like his uniform’s just a costume. The adults, they all want to know his opinion as if he’s the last word on all things American.
“You ever see those PSAs I did for the schools?”
The change of focus catches you off-guard. “Online, sure; they were after my time.”
“Same thing all over again. It’s Steve Rogers playing a character everyone thinks they know. Pretty sure that’s why all the kids make fun of them. I can’t even blame them, I’d do the same thing.
“But those kids we meet in the Make-A-Wishes. And the ones wearing the shield on their shirts, and hanging around to watch us take off in the Quinjet. Those kids. They know it’s just a costume. They know I’m Steve Rogers first, even if everyone else forgets.”
“I’m sorry I forgot.”
He twists to look at you. “You didn’t, though. Those kids know I’m playing a character, but they never make me feel like I don’t deserve to be. Sometimes I’m not sure I should be carrying the shield. But those kids make me really want to try.”
You smile at him. “I like that.”
He smiles back. “My mom was a nurse. First responder, they’d say now. But I just knew, when I was a kid, that I hated her going to work and leaving me alone when I wasn’t feeling well. Or if I just wanted her around, because I missed her. But she went to the hospital, every day, because that was her job. And I was proud of her, I knew it was a good thing, what she did. But sometimes, I wished she’d care about me more than she cared about strangers. Even though I knew she loved me more than anyone else on the planet. The Wilson and Barton kids, and Cassie Lang… maybe they feel different, maybe not. Except their dads and uncle are usually in a lot more danger a lot more often than my mother ever was.”
You think, but don’t say: Sarah Rogers’ job still killed her in the end.
“So if I can do this one thing for them,” continues Steve. “Something to make them laugh, to give them a really good memory… use Captain America to let ‘em know I see them and not just that they’re a hero’s kid… well. That can’t be a bad thing.”
You smile up at the top of the jet, letting that sink in.
Except.
“You’re wrong about one thing, though.”
Steve twists on his cot to look at you. “Oh? What’s that?”
“It’s not your hundredth birthday. You’re only ninety-ni—owwww!”
You yelp as Steve casually reaches over and knocks the latch holding up the cot, and you tumble to the floor, both of you laughing as you throw bits of wadded-up paper at each other’s heads.
It’s about twenty minutes later when Steve lands the Quinjet in the street next to Scott Lang’s house in San Francisco. It’s a quiet, pretty little street, and instead of a key under the front mat, you find a lock-breaking kit with your name on it.
“Great, you can earn your keep, Elf,” says Steve lightly, and you stick your tongue out at him and open the unlocked door.
“That seems very unsafe,” says Steve dryly.
“Yeah, but really funny if I’d locked it for him first,” you say smugly, dropping the kit on the table inside the door. “Anyway, only an idiot would break into an Avenger’s house in the middle of the night.”
“What’s that make us?” asks Steve, with a grin.
It’s dark in the house, and you think Cassie’s probably already asleep, a suspicion borne out when you find the note on the kitchen table.
Sorry guys, tried to stay awake but she conked out at 10.30. She decorated everything herself. Do me a favor, take a selfie and send it to me so I can prove it wasn’t me eating them? See you next week.
Scott
The cookies are amazing. They’re sugar cookie men and women, each one decorated to resemble a different Avenger. There’s even a cookie Nick Fury, and a cookie Pepper, and a cookie Maria Hill.
Steve picks up the Captain America cookie, laughing, and you take a picture quickly. Not a selfie, but it’ll work.
“We gotta take these back with us,” says Steve, munching on one of his legs, like a heathen who doesn’t realize the heads should be eaten first.
“I’ll go find some plastic wrap or something,” you say, and rummage in the drawers until you find a piece of foil.
“Hey, wait,” says Steve before you can cover the plate. He reaches over and snatches Cookie!You.
“Seriously, Steve?” you groan – but then he hands you the cookie.
“Go on,” he says, through the rest of Cookie!Him. “They’re really good.”
You break into a grin. “Really?”
“Well,” says Steve, “you earned it, cookie elf.”
You grin and look happily at your cookie. It’s too heavy on the icing in some places and the squiggles are lopsided and you don’t actually have orange on your costume but you don’t even care. Cassie Lang made you a cookie. Life is amazing.
“Also eating you would just be weird,” continues Steve.
“Yeah,” you agree cheerfully, dropping the gift bag for Cassie on the table and following Steve back out the door, making sure the knob locks automatically behind you. “Cassie Lang is my favorite.”
You as a cookie! You are gonna protect that girl through thick and thin.
The Quinjet takes off and Steve sets the course for home. You have lost all track of time, but there’s a cot back there with your name on it, and you can sleep in. You are the Cookie Elf, you have earned a late morning. And also a cookie.
It’s a gorgeous night, so many stars above the summertime clouds. You’re exhausted and you want to eat your cookie and you also don’t because it’s you. And Steve’s right, it would be weird.
Can you keep a cookie forever? You’ll have to look it up.
“Gonna be perfect for fireworks tomorrow,” says Steve, coming back to lay on the cot across from yours. He sounds so perfectly satisfied and full of cookies. “Well. Later today, I guess is more accurate.”
“Hey, Steve?”
“Hmm?”
“Happy birthday.”
Steve folds his hands on his stomach and smiles. “The best,” he agrees.
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The jet touched down with a jolt that rattled your spine. Outside, Prague looked like a bruise — gray clouds hanging low over damp cobblestones and narrow alleys blurred by drizzle.
You pulled your jacket tighter as the ramp hissed open. The cold hit instantly — not the sharp kind, but the kind that sank in slowly and deeply.
You followed Sam and Torres down the ramp, boots striking wet pavement. Bucky came out last, his expression unreadable as he silently followed behind. An SUV was waiting a few yards away.
Sam glanced back at you over his shoulder as you all moved toward the car. “Encrypted route, burner IDs. We’ve got one safehouse near the Vltava.”
Torres adjusted the strap on his duffel, slinging it into the trunk. “We’ll set up surveillance at the safe house and go from there with recon.”
You gave a short nod, climbing into the backseat. Next to Bucky. Like it was normal.
And for a moment, it felt normal. It felt like those days a year ago in Georgia and Romania – when the tension between you and Bucky was a good kind. When he whispered reassuring words to you and held your hand like he’d never let go. Now, it wasn’t the kind of tension that gave you butterflies. It was the kind of tension that made you want to scream. Or maybe just cry.
Bucky’s vibranium hand tapped on his thigh, the sound harshly bringing you back to reality. And then right back out of it. This felt all too familiar. The anxiety of Mikhail being alive. Finding out it was Sharon pulling the strings all along. Your heart rate accelerated as you dug your fingernails into your palms. Why was this happening again? Why were you really here? What did Sharon really want from you?
And before you could spiral any further, a hand was pulling your fingers, one by one, out of the grip you were holding. You couldn’t do anything but stare at the half moon indentions you’d carved into your hands.
“Breathe,” Bucky whispered. For a moment, you didn’t even realize you’d been holding your breath. You exhaled, your eyes watering. Was it from holding your breath or Bucky touching you? You weren’t sure. You yanked your hand away from his.
“I’m fine,” You muttered, refusing to meet his gaze as you looked out the window.
“Sorry,” He said under his breath. Your eyes welled again. Because it wasn’t enough to fix the space between the two of you.
—
The silence inside the car was heavier than the rain outside. Sam watched you in the rearview, but didn’t speak. Bucky didn’t even look your way.
The drive was short. You pulled into a narrow alley behind an old textile factory, now converted into residential lofts. The safehouse was on the third floor. You clocked three exits before the door even closed behind you.
Inside, it was stripped and clean — concrete floors, exposed beams, a table scattered with blueprints and empty mugs. Torres got to work instantly at the console. Sam peeled off his jacket and started syncing comms.
You stood near the window, watching mist curl over the old factory building. You were already cataloging the exits, blindspots, and cameras. Bucky’s presence burned just behind your right shoulder — like he was watching your six, whether you wanted him to or not. The four of you were silent until Bucky finally spoke.
“Still think this is a trap?”
Your spine stiffened. “Do you?”
He shrugged out of his tactical vest. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone used tech to bait us in.”
You turned. “That’s what I said. Back in the jet. And you didn’t want to listen.”
“I listened,” he said. “You just didn’t like what I had to say.”
You stepped toward the table, laying out the schematics Torres had pulled. “No. I didn’t like you implying I’m not ready.”
“I implied someone might be targeting you,” he said evenly. “That’s not the same thing.”
“Feels like the same thing,” you muttered.
Sam cleared his throat. “Let’s get back on task before someone throws a punch.”
You dropped into the nearest chair. “Fine. Let’s go over the plan.”
“Warehouse perimeter’s active with low-range pulse fences,” Torres said, gesturing to the map. “Nothing sophisticated. But they’re watching the corners.”
“Heat sensors on the north wall,” Sam added. “Back alley’s our best bet for visual recon. I’ll take that with Joaquin.”
You nodded. “I’ll loop the south. Bucky can take east.”
“I can handle north alone,” Bucky said.
“No,” you snapped. “You’ll follow the plan.”
Sam gave Bucky a look. “We split up any more, we lose coverage. Stick to the pairings.”
Bucky sat down across from you. “You’re not going alone, Y/N.”
Your gaze met his. Flat. Cold. “Worried I’ll fall apart again?”
“No,” he said quietly. “Worried someone’s waiting for you.”
That silence came again. The kind that makes even breathing feel too loud.
Sam stood. “We move in thirty. Gear up. Keep comms tight.”
You stood without another word and moved to the armory.
You didn’t look at Bucky.
But you knew he was watching.
—
The alley smelled like diesel and humidity.
You crouched near the end of the narrow side street, your breath fogging as you watched the warehouse across the way. Its windows were blacked out. Security lights swept the loading dock in slow arcs.
“I’ve got visual on the eastern guard shift,” Bucky said into the comms. “Two-man patrol, ten-minute intervals. No IDs. Weapons seem to be military surplus.”
Sam’s voice crackled in. “Copy that. Joaquin and I are circling to the loading dock now.”
“Perimeter is clean on the south,” you said quietly. “No motion sensors. But someone swept the alley recently. Boots. Not local.”
There was a pause on the line.
“Say again?” Sam asked.
You stood slowly, eyeing the boot prints. “Whoever’s in there is expecting someone. This isn’t a warehouse. It’s a stage.”
“They want us watching,” Bucky said.
“Or they want one of us alone,” you murmured.
Silence again.
“I don’t like this,” you said sharply. “This feels like Madripoor all over again.”
“Y/N,” Sam began, “we’ve got the upper hand this time. We’ve got intel, surprise, backup—”
“No. We don’t,” you snapped. “We’re chasing shadows with half a plan and old ghosts breathing down our necks. This is reckless.”
“You agreed to this,” Bucky’s voice cut in.
You turned toward him, where he stood a few feet away in the dark, just out of range of the streetlight.
“I agreed because we didn’t have a choice,” you said, eyes burning. “But don’t pretend this is under control. That drive should’ve been gone. That tech was mine to destroy—and somehow, someone watched me do it.”
Bucky stepped forward, tone low. “You think I don’t get what’s at stake here?”
You stared at him. “I think you’ve been pretending this is just another mission. Like we’re fine. Like you’re fine.”
“I am fine.”
“No,” you said. “You’re lying.”
His jaw tensed.
“You’ve been lying since D.C.,” you went on. “You keep saying this isn’t about us, but you follow me with your eyes every time I move, and you flinch every time I speak. What is it you’re not saying, Barnes? Spit it out.”
He took a slow breath, then:
“You gave up on us.”
You blinked.
He said it like it was a fact. Like it was simple. Like it hadn’t gutted you.
“You left,” you said, voice cracking. “You walked out and never looked back.”
“I looked back every day,” he said quietly. “I just stopped thinking you'd still want me.”
The comms hissed with static—Sam’s voice faint and distant. But neither of you heard it.
You shook your head, fists clenched. “You don’t get to rewrite it. You don’t get to play the part of the one who stayed.”
“You never let me explain,” Bucky said. “You shut the door and locked it. I knocked for weeks—”
“We talked on the phone once,” you snapped. “And that was just to break up.”
“I didn’t know how to fix it.”
“Well, you don’t get to fix it now.” Something behind your eyes burned. Too much. It was all too much.
“Move,” you said, voice low.
Bucky didn’t budge from in front of you – and you didn’t wait for him to. You slipped past him and walked out the door.
You didn’t look back.
You couldn’t.
You made it three blocks before your breathing evened out.
It wasn’t the cold air that burned your lungs. It was the silence. The space where his voice should’ve been. Where he should’ve come after you—like he always used to. Like he promised he would.
But he didn’t.
You told him to leave you alone, and he listened. And wasn’t that the worst part? That maybe he was done fighting for you.
You didn’t belong in Prague. Not anymore. Not with them. You weren’t even sure you belonged anywhere.
You were spiraling. You could feel it. But you weren’t sure you could stop it.
For a moment, you wondered how you got here. To this point of your anger towards Bucky overshadowing how much you love him. You’d been this way for weeks — replaying every conversation that had gone wrong. Wishing things had been different — or even just easier.
And now, you were stuck with Bucky on this mission. Fighting more than you were working to finish the operation. Your comms crackled in your ear, but you ignored it. Sam would notice soon. Probably assume you were blowing off steam. Sam might be pissed for five minutes but he’d understand. Maybe Bucky would volunteer to come find you.
And for a second, you wondered if the fighting was worth it. It seemed impossible for things to ever go back to the way they were before. Maybe it was impossible. But you weren’t the same person you were a year ago — in all the best ways. Bucky had changed your life for the better.
Despite being broken up and fighting, you knew you couldn’t imagine your life without him in it. Your heart sank at the realization: you wanted him in your life.
And things couldn’t continue like this.
Your eyes scanned your surroundings, realizing you had walked into an empty side street. The shops and restaurants were seemingly empty. With the exception of two men sitting at a cafe. Watching you.
Shit. Picking up your pace to get back to the safe house, you pressed your comm.
“Buck?” You whispered.
“Copy,” His voice grumbled through the line.
“I’m being followed,” you trembled as you saw another figure emerge from around the corner.
“Where the hell are you?”
“I don’t — fuck,” you started, before realizing there were more of them. You broke into a sprint.
“I’m coming — do you hear me, doll? I’ll be there in a second, I swear.”
“I can’t outrun them for long, Buck,” You replied breathlessly as you turned the corner.
“Like hell you can’t. Run faster,” He demanded. You snorted,
“I’m trying.”
“Try harder.”
Out of the corner of your eye you could see them gaining on you. and for a moment you felt a brief pinch in your neck. You reached behind and pulled something out, feeling yourself getting woozy. You pushed through and kept running.
“Hit by some sort of tranquilizer in my neck,” you muttered into the comm.
“Did you take the damn thing out?” Bucky asked.
“Of course I did,” you snapped, feeling irritated that he would even ask. Heading towards the nearest alley, you hoped there was somewhere you could hide. Your heartbeat was pounding in your ears and every bone in your body was tired.
Your back slid down the wall, eyes fighting to stay open. You could vaguely hear Bucky’s voice again in your ear, but you couldn’t pick it out from the sound of your heartbeat. Time felt like it had slowed down.
“Bucky,” you whispered, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t you dare stop running.”
Your vision blurred.
“No, I’m sorry. For being stupid about us,” you breathed. Your eyes fluttered shut. “I love you, Buck.” Your words were slurring by the end.
But now, your body felt like you couldn’t move. And the sound of your pulse in your ears was getting worse. You couldn’t even vaguely hear Bucky anymore.
Suddenly feeling a pinch in your neck again, your eyes opened slightly to see a dark figure over you.
And then, everything went black.
-------------------
Author’s Note: am I crying? Are you crying? Idk I just feel the angsty tears I’m sorry bout it. Let me know what you think of this chapter!!!! Happy 4th of July to my American friends! ❤️💙🤍
Pairing | New Avengers!Bucky Barnes x New Avengers!Reader
Summary | After a mission goes horribly wrong, the team ends up stewing in their own anger on the car ride home. You try to lighten the mood, but instead it makes everyone angrier. When you're down, Bucky’s there to comfort you.
Warnings/tags | Thunderbolts* spoilers?? Tower fic, fluff, friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, yearning, cursing, nsfw, MDNI (18+), smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, praise kink, soft dom!Bucky, kissing, protective!Bucky, breast play, oral (f receiving), fingering, your honor Bucky’s obsessed with reader, no use of y/n.
Word Count | 12.3k
A/N | Baby's first fanfic!! I’ve been wanting to write for some time and how fitting that my first one is about my husband. Please have mercy on me, I write for fun. It’s not great, but I had a blast writing it. I hope you enjoy!! And if you did let me know:))
It’s a cold day. The kind of cold that sits deep in your bones, chilling you to your very core. No snow is on the ground, but it’s getting close to that time of year. You shiver in your seat, wrapping your arms tightly around your middle to bring warmth back into your system.
The car sways slightly with the intense winds, but Bucky has a firm handle on the wheel, keeping it steady. Silence settles over the car; only the occasional groan, sigh, and low engine rumble break the quiet.
The team just completed a mission, and though everything worked out in the end, it didn’t seem to matter. Many things had gone wrong. The intel you had gathered was bad, the plan was thrown out the window, and the whole team was out of sync. All of that caused a rift between the members in the car.
Bucky’s driving, grip so tight on the wheel that his knuckles are white. You’re not sure if it’s from anger that the team had entirely ignored the meticulous plan you and Bucky had put together hours before you left, or if the uncomfortable silence is eating at him like it is you.
Yelena is in the passenger seat, feet propped up on the dash, picking at the chipped polish on her nails. Her face says everything. She’s pissed. At everyone, but specifically Walker.
During the mission, he went to throw a punch, and instead of hitting his original target, he clocked Yelena right in the jaw. You don’t think she meant to get in the way, but she was just so occupied with getting the mission done that she wasn’t too keen on her surroundings. Now, a purple bloom of color is setting into her skin, along with other marks littered across her face and body, not unlike the others sitting in the car.
Walker is sitting in the bench seat ahead of you, closest to the window. He’s rubbing at his jaw, where Yelena punched him as “payback” on the walk back to the car. When Walker hit her, it was an accident. She didn’t see it that way; no one could convince her otherwise. You had to stifle a laugh when it happened because it was so abrupt, but also because of the clear shock on John’s face.
Ava’s next to him, arms crossed over her chest, and her brows drawn together. She occasionally bumps Walker with her elbow when the car drifts off its straight path, causing grunts and a string of low curses from the blonde man’s mouth.
Alexei’s eyes are closed, no doubt sleeping, next to Ava, who paid him no mind. You don’t think he’s upset with anyone, but the stillness lulled him to sleep, and you’re envious that he can nap at a time like this. But he can doze off at any time, no matter the circumstance. One time, you found him snoring upright while waiting for the microwave to beep, notifying him that his ramen was finished.
Bob is to your left on the second bench seat. You can feel the anxiety radiating off of him. Though he hadn’t helped out on the mission, he decided to come along for the ride. But he most likely regrets his decision now because he hates seeing the team like this. Bob always tries to lighten the mood, but he knows it’s useless this time.
You, on the other hand, don’t share everyone else’s sentiments. Yeah, every single thing was fucked from the start. But at least the job is done, and no one has any serious injuries, which is a win in your book.
Your head is swimming with ways to get everyone to stop sulking, but you don’t want to make an already bad situation worse. So, you settle on breaking the silence and suffering the consequences.
“Still on for movie night?” You say almost sheepishly, but there’s a hint of amusement in your tone. You’re met with silence. Only Bob looks your way briefly before his head drops between his shoulders, eyeing the floor. Instead of letting that deter you, you continue your pursuit.
“John picked last time, so it’s someone else’s turn. And I don’t think I can sit through another shit action movie. It’s just an excuse for men to blow shit up at this point.” That earns a strained laugh from the man beside you, but he doesn’t lift his head.
”Hell no.” Yelena grumbles from the front seat. “After this car ride, I am not sitting next to any of you.”
”I second that notion.” Walker pipes up, rolling his eyes in the process.
”At least there’s something we can agree on.” Ava ‘accidentally’ knocks her elbow into Walker’s arm again, and he looks like he’s seconds away from losing it.
You sit up in your seat, trying to draw their attention. “Oh, come on. We always watch a movie every other Friday. It’s tradition.”
John shakes his head. “Not happening.”
”I made homemade brownies, and I’ll make popcorn.” You put on your best smile, even if it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Your smile quickly fades when no one answers. You glance around the car, and not a single soul is looking your way.
You lock eyes with Bucky in the rearview mirror. He loosens his grip on the steering wheel and gives you an almost apologetic expression. Your heart stutters in your chest. It’s a simple gesture but still melts some tension away from your shoulders.
You and Bucky have become friends over the last few months, or at least that’s what you’d like to think. When you first met the super soldier, he was closed off, grumpy, and didn’t talk much outside of a mission. But if you were lucky, you’d earn a stiff nod or grunt in response.
You strangely saw him as some sort of challenge. And you never backed down from a challenge. He didn’t have to like you, but you at least wanted to get more than a gruff sound from deep in his chest.
You started to memorize his schedule. Not like a creep, you just noticed the little things he did throughout the day. He wasn’t a morning person, so you avoided him until he finished his early workout. Usually, that changed his mood drastically; his posture was less guarded, and his expression had softened slightly.
He’d come to the kitchen after exercising, and you’d always have coffee ready, offering him a cup. Plain black coffee, just the way he likes it. You’d slide the mug near him with some sweet treat you had made prior that week. He would nod as a thanks, which had already been a small victory.
The common room was a safe place for him to gather intel or scope out potential missions. Pieces of paper were sprawled out on the table, and a soft glow illuminated his face from the screen on his laptop.
You caught on pretty quickly to what he was doing and started asking if he needed help. He always looked up from his work, stormy blue eyes meeting yours, and shook his head, no. Unfortunately for him, you were persistent.
You flopped down in the seat next to him with your laptop. His dark eyebrows knit together in confusion as he stared at you from behind his screen. You propped your head in your hand while the other was busy scrolling through articles, news reports, and random findings online.
You turned your screen around, giving him the vital information you found. Soon after, you began working together as a team, granting you much more than his usual guttural noises. From then on, everything was a breeze. Well, not exactly a breeze, but you considered him your friend.
Bucky made small talk in the morning over coffee, complementing you on whatever pastry, muffin, or dessert you made. He asked you to spar with him after John had slept in one morning. You were giddy with excitement that he chose you, but that feeling disappeared when he kicked your ass that day. Your chest heaved with exertion as your body slumped down on the mat, sore and aching. You knew he wouldn’t go easy on you, which was okay with you. You just had to step up your game.
It became easier to spar with Bucky after learning his tells. He would give you a few helpful pointers, which your original sparring partner, Yelena, hadn’t cared to do.
There were plenty of late nights between the two of you. You and Bucky hunched over a laptop, leaning into each other's space while researching and losing sleep.
But, if you’re being honest, you didn’t mind being sleep-deprived because you liked being next to him. Breathing in his scent, a mix of sandalwood, musk, and a hint of spearmint. Hearing the snort he let out when you made a joke. Seeing the corner of his lip turn up when you get animated about certain information.
It had turned from friends in your head to perhaps…more. You developed a crush on the tall, dark-haired man. Of course, you knew he was handsome; you weren’t blind. But you thought maybe the butterflies dancing in your stomach from his laugh or smile would go away. Then, his metal hand brushed against your skin. You’d feel like your world was turned on its axis and knew your attraction to him wouldn’t go away anytime soon.
As you sit in the car, gaze locked on Bucky’s blue irises, you must force yourself to look away so your heart doesn’t beat out of your chest. You tell yourself to try again to shake the team out of their irritated state. Maybe that will take your mind off your intense feelings for Bucky.
”We can order in Chinese. That’s always a comfort food of mine.” You offer.
Yelena turns entirely in her seat, shooting daggers at you. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”
Your back hits the seat as if she stabbed you. Yelena never raises her voice at you, not even when angry, because she’s never angry at you.
You consider Yelena more of a friend than anyone in the car. You connect more deeply with her, for which you are genuinely grateful. But now, as she stares you down, you feel a sense of dread putting down roots in the pit of your stomach.
“What?” It comes out smaller than you intended, and you can hear the hurt in your voice. Bucky hears it and immediately tries to meet your gaze in the mirror, but your eyes are directly on Yelena’s. They’re usually deeply warming, but there’s only a raging fire right now.
“Not everything is a puzzle you can assemble and force the pieces to fit. You can’t make everything better. You don’t make anything better.” Yelena’s voice is booming in your ears, loud and harsh. You feel too vulnerable. Too seen. You don’t know whether to scream or cry. You decide to stay silent instead, letting the anger boil beneath the surface.
”Knock it off, Yelena.” Bucky speaks up. His jaw is clenched, as if he could say more, but he chooses not to. You’re glad he doesn’t, though, because you might just let yourself cry in front of the team. All anyone will see is just how broken and raw you feel on the inside. But the others in the car don’t seem to be paying too much attention. Either they’re trying their hardest to ignore it, or they’re determined not to get involved.
Yelena’s eyes haven’t left yours, completely ignoring Bucky’s warning. “I’m sick of you trying to fix everything. Just let it be broken for once.” The anger threatens to bubble up, but you keep it at bay.
”Enough!” Bucky seethes at Yelena, whipping his head in her direction. Yelena finally settles back into her seat, satisfied with releasing her wrath on you.
You take a deep breath in before you say a word. ”Got it. Loud and fucking clear.” Your voice is steady, firm even. You're not going to let everyone see the raw and bleeding parts of you. Not now. Not ever. You glance out the window, a storm brewing behind your eyes, focusing on how the buildings pass by in a flash.
You hear a soft groan in front of you, but you don’t look for the source of the sound, too busy stewing in your irritation. “Did I fall asleep?” You recognize the voice as Alexei’s. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and pats his thighs, sitting up in his seat. “Well, what did I miss?”
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Everyone breaks off in different directions once they’re back at the Tower. No one has said a word. Maybe it’s better that way so that everyone can cool down. Bucky follows behind you, keeping just enough distance for it not to be noticeable. He wants to check on you but isn’t quite sure how.
You’re quiet, and your muscles are taut, which is unlike you. Bucky knows all your intricate details, and you are far from a quiet person. Sure, there’s a gentleness about you, but you’re also lively. Especially when it comes to you talking about your passions. Your face lights up, and it’s as if the colors around you are suddenly brighter.
One of his favorite things is to catch you in the kitchen, hips swaying to the smooth music drifting through the speakers. You always seem in your element when baking and humming along to the song while your hands are whisking. Bucky would be embarrassed if anyone caught him, but it’s addicting. You’re addicting.
When the gentle parts of you come to the surface, it’s like watching a butterfly float through the air. There’s something so delicate about that side of you, like you're made of glass.
You’re constantly checking up on the team. You make sure they’ve eaten or drank enough water, or if they need a person to talk to. You’re always there. And now, no one is there for you when you need it most, which kills Bucky.
You’re speed walking to your room, arms tucked against your chest as if you’re closing in on yourself. Bucky practically trips over his feet, trying to catch up to you. He calls your name, but you don’t seem to hear. He finally gets close enough to grab hold of your arm. Not forcefully, just a light touch against your skin to pull you out of your daze.
Your breath hitches in your throat at the sudden contact, and you stop dead in your tracks. You glance down at where his flesh hand is and then up at his eyes. He drops his hand to rest at his side when he has your attention. His fingertips tingle from touching your skin, and it feels like tiny jolts of electricity.
There’s a beat of silence as he clenches and unclenches his fist before he clears his throat. “So, no movie night?”
”You heard them, it’s not happening.” You mumble, your voice is so soft. He might've missed it if he hadn’t been beside you.
“Right,” Bucky murmurs back, matching your tone so he doesn’t scare you away. He wants to say he’s still up for it, but then it’ll just be the two of you. Then again, is that so bad? You stare at each other without speaking. He opens his mouth to say something, but you cut him off.
”Look, I’m pretty tired. I’m gonna go to bed. It’s been a long day.” You rub a hand over your arm, where he touched you, and now he’s spiraling. Maybe she didn’t want to be touched, and now she’s trying to rid her skin of any trace of me. He shakes the thought away and gives you a stiff nod.
“Of course, you must be exhausted. Goodnight, I’ll see you in the morning.”
”Night.” You give him a tight-lipped smile before turning away and heading to your room, disappearing into the hallway's darkness.
Bucky stands there, one hand on his forehead, as he rubs at the growing headache. His mind is racing. He should have said so many things and asked if you were okay or wanted to talk about it. But Bucky was never truly good with feelings. He’d rather cram them deep down inside than open that Pandora’s box of issues.
He’s getting better, though, revealing the dark parts of himself. The nightmares, the memories that make his muscles tense, Hydra. Not to everyone, just to you. And you always listen. You make it your purpose to give him all your attention; he knows he doesn’t deserve that. But you give that part of yourself so freely.
He can’t just stand idly by while you’re hurting. So, he turns from his spot and wanders around the Tower to find Yelena. She’s not too hard to find. She’s standing in the kitchen watching her mug rotate around in the microwave with a cookie in her mouth. Bucky stands right behind her, hands on his hips.
”Apologize.”
Yelena spins around, clutching the spot on her chest right over her heart with her eyebrows raised. “Fuck, James. Give a girl some warning.” Her voice comes out muffled from her mouth full of crumbs.
“You’re an ex-assassin. You’re supposed to hear me coming from a mile away.” Bucky deadpans.
Yelena swallows down what’s in her mouth before speaking. ”I am off the clock. My guard is down.” She shrugs her shoulders, then points a finger at the super soldier as if scolding him. “Plus, I was chewing. I could have choked.”
Bucky ignores her dramatics and repeats himself. “Apologize.”
”No.” She whirls around as the microwave beeps and takes out the cup of hot water, placing it on the counter.
”Why?”
Yelena grabs a white packet from the cupboard, ripping off the top and shaking the contents into her mug. “Because I’m sick of her being so positive all the time.” She grabs a spoon from the drawer to stir the rich chocolate liquid.
“And? What’s wrong with that? This team needs a little fucking positivity.” Bucky snaps.
She twists to face Bucky, leaning against the counter and bringing the cup of hot chocolate to her lips. “Seems like you need a little positivity.”
“Yeah, maybe I do.” Bucky lowers his voice; his mind flicks to you and how content you make him when you’re around. “Listen, without her, this team would be nothing.”
Yelena tilts her head; her voice is thick with faux pity. “Are you saying she’s the glue that holds us together?”
“Yes,” Bucky says simply. Even if she doesn’t mean what she says, that’s precisely what he meant. You’re the glue.
Yelena quirks a brow. “Have you gone soft, Barnes?
He disregards her question and continues. “Just apologize.”
“Fine, fine. Don’t get your panties in a twist. I will…tomorrow.” She takes another swig of the dark liquid.
“No, right now.”
Yelena rolls her eyes and begins walking out of the kitchen, Bucky hot on her heels. “I’m tired. I’ll do it bright and early tomorrow so you can see her beautiful smile.” He pauses for a moment, caught off guard by her statement. She smirks at him over her shoulder as she strides to her room. He recovers quickly, following her again.
She snorts when he doesn’t answer. “That is what this is about, right? You can’t stand to see her sad. It’s breaking you. Making you have all kinds of feelings. Your little heart can’t take it.” Yelena opens her door, getting ready to close it behind her.
“No, that’s not-.” Before he can deny her revelation, she interrupts him.
“Goodnight, Barnes. Or should I say loverboy?” Yelena gives him a smug look, wiggling her eyebrows before closing the door in his face.
Great, he thinks, that’s what I get for prying.
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It’s been a couple of hours, and you're still lying in bed, wide awake, to your dismay. You spent about an hour tossing and turning, then another hour staring at the ceiling. Now, you can’t decide between a blanket or no blanket. Maybe you need a glass of water, but no, scratch that; you need a drink.
You can’t help but play the day's events over in your head: the mission, Yelena’s words, Bucky. Your skin still prickles where he touched your arm. He was so gentle with you, as if you were fragile.
Of course, he knows you're not. You’ve tripped him up a few times while sparring, knocking him flat on his ass. That shouldn’t give you as much thrill as it does, but who can blame you?
Still, you think about his hand gingerly placed on your arm as he examined you with concern etched on his face. And, you had pushed him away. Not because you didn’t want him. Fuck, you wanted him. But you knew if you opened up and let him see how wounded you were, that would leave you more exposed than you already felt. You’re wishing you had stayed. Let him take your mind off everything, but it’s too late.
You kick your feet over the side of the bed and amble over to your bedroom door, neglecting to put on your slippers. You pad through the hallway, and a figure in the living room snags your attention.
Bucky is on the couch, a quilt draped over his legs as colors dance across his form, and he’s taking you in. You note how his shoulders drop and his features soften, almost as if he were waiting for you. But that’s absurd. You rid the thought immediately.
He pulls you out of your daze as his voice cuts through the air. “You alright?”
You shrug, gesturing to him on the sofa. “I could ask you the same question.”
His gaze flicks down as if noticing where he is and what he’s doing. “Oh, yeah, I couldn’t sleep.” He focuses back on you, no doubt wanting you to answer his question.
“Me either.” You tip your thumb in the direction of the kitchen. “You want a drink?”
“Sure, sounds good to me.”
You go to the bar, rummaging through the liquor cabinet until you find what you are searching for—a clear glass bottle with dark amber liquid. You couldn’t care less about how much it cost, but you can tell by the ornate design of the bottle that it had to cost half a fortune. It's not something you have the money for, especially before this job, but Valentina always supplied the best for appearance's sake.
You take two short whiskey glasses from the shelf, setting them on the counter before detaching the glass stopper from the geometric bottle. You fill both glasses halfway and head back to the living room.
You step around the couch and hand Bucky his. He nods in appreciation as you sink into the spot next to him. You’re close enough to feel his warmth, but there’s still some distance between you.
You take a sip of the liquid. A smooth, smoky, and vanilla flavor hits your taste buds and floods your senses—a welcoming contrast to distract from how shitty you feel.
You already feel a thousand times better, Bucky next to you, the liquor calming you, and the steady sound of the TV playing in the background. You tip your head toward the TV as you get comfortable.
You turn towards him as your arm rests on the back of the couch, elbow bent so your hand can support your head. “Having movie night without me?”
He shakes his head. ”No, never. It just happened to be on.” The corner of your lip lifts, and your chest warms. You can’t tell if it’s from the whisky heating your body temperature or the way he said never, and you think you might believe him.
”Well, you are watching a movie on movie night, so that’s a little suspicious.” You tease.
”Shit, I guess I am.” There’s amusement in his voice as a faint smile appears. He rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry, doll. I would’ve invited you but thought you wanted to be alone.”
You hum in response. “I thought I did, too, but I was wrong.”
Bucky’s tone turns serious as he scans your face. “Do you wanna talk about it?”
”Hell no. Distract me, please.”
“Anything for you.” He says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. You swear your heart skips a beat, and your cheeks flush slightly. Somehow, you know he’s not just saying that to make you feel better. You feel like you can breathe easier knowing that.
“Anything, huh?”
”Just say the words, sweetheart.”
“Care to share that blanket?” You think the whisky is calming you and giving you hidden confidence you didn’t know you had.
”I s’pose.” He drawls with a smirk on his face. You scoot closer, and he lifts the quilt, covering your legs. It was never about needing warmth, just an excuse to be near him.
“Much better.” You mumble.
Bucky stares at you, blue eyes flicking between your features like he’s trying to memorize you, and a shiver runs through you under his gaze. He clears his throat, running his metal hand through his hair.
“Right, distraction.” He leans his head back against the couch, examining the ceiling as he sifts through his brain for a topic of discussion. All you can think of is how distracted you already are.
“Oh, got it.” He locks his eyes with yours once again. “Alexei was riding the elevator this morning.”
Your eyebrows draw together, utterly confused. “That’s usually what happens.”
”For half an hour.”
You giggle at how strange that sounds. “Wait, why?”
”I don’t know. When I asked him about it, he said he was testing a theory and then swore me to secrecy. So, you can’t say anything.” He arches a brow. “I’m pretty sure he just pressed all the buttons, though.”
Laughter bubbles out of your mouth, exactly what you need. You’re hurt, and anger is a distant feeling.
“I have one.” Bucky nods his head for you to continue. “Ava phased through the bathroom the other day, and I was completely naked.”
His jaw drops, and then he proceeds to bust out laughing. It’s a sound you never get tired of hearing, probably because it’s so rare, but also from the way it makes your stomach do somersaults. “That’s the one place you shouldn’t phase into. Is she ever going to learn how to knock?”
”I wouldn’t hold out hope. She apologized profusely, but I know she won’t stop doing it.” You put your glass on the coffee table to give him your attention.
“I don’t know how to top that one.” There’s still a lingering grin fixed on his lips as he thinks for a moment. “I caught Walker watching Titanic. He kept telling me it was already on when he sat down.”
”I knew he was a sucker for romance.” You pause, tilting your head and narrowing your eyes at him. “Wait, that means you’ve watched Titanic.”
”Of course, I have. People say it’s one of the classics.”
“And, what did you think?”
“It was good.” You can hear the reluctance in his tone. You give him a look to carry on. Bucky rolls his eyes, but there’s no malice behind it. “Jack clearly could have fit on that door.”
“Right?” Your voice goes up an octave, and you're grinning from ear to ear like a lovesick fool. “Yelena and I had a whole conversation about how they could've made it work.” Your face drops immediately after you realize what you said.
You let out a long breath, and suddenly, whatever is on the TV is extremely interesting. Your eyes are directly on the person on the screen, but you’re not paying much attention because your head is spinning again.
Why are Yelena’s words affecting you so much? You’ve never truly cared what other people think. But, then again, she’s your friend. Perhaps your best friend. Shouldn’t her opinion matter?
Bucky breaks your train of thought, not easily deceived by your sudden intrigue in the television. “She’s wrong, y’know?”
“Hmm?”
“You do make everything better.” His words are like silk, soft and comforting. You whip your head to meet his gaze. There’s a slight smile on his lips; the color in his eyes is swirling and shifting. It’s like a tide pulling you in and telling you, you’re safe. You fully trust that he will keep you safe, and you won’t overlook that.
You return his smile, and the light reaches your eyes. He parts his lips and sucks in a breath—it’s subtle, but you notice. You don’t know what to say, but settle on, “Thank you, Bucky.”
“Sure thing, doll.”
You turn your attention to the TV to hide the blush crawling up your cheeks. Then, because that liquid courage is coursing through your veins, you rest your head on his shoulder. Bucky tenses beneath you, and you internally kick yourself for making him uncomfortable. You almost pick your head up. As if he’s reading your thoughts, he relaxes, and his breathing becomes lighter.
You stay like that for a while, enjoying each other’s company as you watch the movie. Your lids feel heavy, and before you know it, they flutter shut. You’re sleeping on Bucky’s arm like you belong there.
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Bucky noticed your breathing even out about twenty minutes ago, but he’s still watching you like you're a masterpiece in the Louvre. He’s scrutinizing every aspect of your person as if he’ll be quizzed on it later. He wants to pull you into his arms and tuck your head under his chin as you lie on his chest, but he doesn’t want to overstep a boundary.
He doesn’t think he’s ever been this calm; it’s refreshing. To forget about any piece of his past for a second and drown in you. There’s no promise of nightmares or bad memories taking shape at the forefront of his mind.
Bucky yawns and leans his head against the back of the sofa. Maybe I’ll rest my eyes for a moment, he thinks before closing them and drifting off to sleep.
The sun peeking through the curtains stirs him awake, and he reluctantly opens his eyes. Your head is still a gentle weight on his arm, which brings a sleepy smirk to his face.
It dawns on him how this must look, and he realizes he should get up before any team member sees. Yelena’s already hinting at his crush on you. He can’t have everyone on him about how dopey he must look, staring at you like you hung the stars.
Bucky slowly moves from his spot on the couch, careful not to rouse you. He takes your head in one hand and shifts to stand up. Bending over, he grabs a pillow and maneuvers it under you. He delicately pulls your legs and sets them on the couch, draping the blanket's full length over your shape. Your body twitches slightly as you settle into the new position.
He steals one last glance at your peaceful demeanor as he stretches. He groans at the sharp pain in his upper back and neck, no doubt from the way he fell asleep. But he honestly doesn’t care. He’d do it all over again to feel any part of you on him. Bucky leaves you to get some much-needed rest as he starts his morning.
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You rise from sleep to the sound of clattering and blink a few times to adjust to the light. There’s a pillow under your head that you don’t remember putting there, and the quilt from last night covers the expanse of your body. You must have fallen asleep.
The recollection of last night hits you like a tidal wave. You were cuddled up on Bucky’s arm last night, which lulled you to sleep. He must have adjusted you before he went to bed. The thought gives you a fuzzy sensation in your brain.
The smell of coffee fills your nostrils, and you finally get off the couch. You drift into the kitchen. You spot Yelena and Walker talking by the counter. At least someone made up.
Walker detects you instantly. “Hey, sleepy head. How was the couch?” Yelena’s eyes dart up to meet you.
You shrug, stepping into the room. “Surprisingly, not bad.” Yelena turns around and opens the cupboard, reaching for a mug.
John nods and clears his throat. “Sorry for yesterday. Our dumb asses ruined movie night.”
You wave him off. “Don’t worry about it.” You watch Yelena bring the coffee pot to the mouth of the cup, pouring the dark liquid as steam wafts into the air.
”No, movie night is important to you. We should have sucked it up and watched it.” He reiterates.
”It’s no big deal. That just means we're watching two next Friday night.” You jokingly add.
Walker chuckles. “It’s only fair.”
Yelena turns around and hands you the cup. You must have missed her putting cream in because now it’s a swirl of tan and white. You give her a look of gratitude before bringing the warm drink to your lips.
“Can we talk?” Yelena asks with a soft expression. You can almost see her guilt on display.
”Yeah.” You murmur as your hands wrap around the mug, soaking up the heat.
”Alone, dipshit.” She adds, shooting Walker a glare over her shoulder.
He frowns, his eyebrows scrunching together. ”I was literally in here before both of you.”
It’s your turn to glare at the blonde man. He raises his hands in surrender and wanders out of the kitchen, mumbling something about women under his breath.
Yelena flicks her gaze to you and begins. “I apologize for what I said yesterday. I regretted it as soon as the words left my mouth. If I could take them back, I would.”
Yelena glances around the room, trying to find the words to convey her feelings. “I wanted to stay mad, but you were changing my mind about being mad, making me more mad. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, though.”
You sigh, shaking your head. ”It’s okay. I should have read the room instead of pushing everyone to feel a certain way.”
“No, you were right. It was a stupid reason to be upset with each other. Although there’s always a good reason to be angry at Walker.” She tilts her head in the direction John went. You let out a soft chuckle. “Do you forgive me? You can punch the other side of my jaw if that makes you feel better.”
You snort. “Tempting, but no. I forgive you.”
”That’s a relief. I thought I was going to have to replace you with one of the boys, and that makes me want to vomit.”
Your jaw drops in mock horror as you clutch your chest. “You would replace me? You wound me.”
”I’m kidding. No one could replace you.” Yelena hums as a thought pops into her head. “Barnes was right; you are the glue.”
You quirk a brow. “Huh?”
”We were talking last night. He was the one who told me to apologize.” She pauses, raising a hand. “To be clear, I was going to anyway. Plus, I never let a man tell me what to do.”
That causes you to giggle, and then you gesture for her to continue. “Go on.”
”Anyways, he implied that you’re the glue that holds this team together, and I couldn’t agree more.” She softly nudges you with her elbow. You feel your cheeks warm, and you sip at your coffee to hide how those words affect you.
Yelena rolls her eyes playfully. “Man, you two are ridiculous. Just kiss already.”
”What are you talking about?” You don’t even know why you’re trying to deny it; she caught you red-handed.
”Don’t get me started. How you look at each other, and Barnes is so protective of you. I also found you both cuddled up on the couch this morning when I was on my way to apologize to you.” Yelena gives you a look that says, Don’t you dare try to gaslight me.
Cuddled up on the couch this morning? That means Bucky didn’t leave in the middle of the night like you thought. He stayed. You bite your lip to suppress a smile, but how ecstatic you are is no secret.
”Ugh, you’re so weird. Remind me never to talk about him around you again.” She turns on her heels and heads out of the room, leaving you with a mess of feelings to sort out in your head.
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It’s late afternoon when you eventually get the courage to talk to Bucky. You’ve been avoiding all the usual places he goes throughout the day because you're afraid you’ll tell him how you feel. Gosh, you feel like a foolish teenager.
You want this more than anything. You want him more than anything. But there are a lot of what-ifs to consider. What if he doesn’t feel the same, and then you feel awkward? What if you do test this out and it doesn’t work out? Now you’ve ruined your friendship. And worst, what if he has feelings for you and wants you just as badly? You won’t know how to act with that last one.
You ultimately said to hell with all those questions because you need answers, and the only person who can answer them is Bucky. You won’t beat around the bush any longer; if there are consequences, so be it. You can live with whatever outcome, even if it hurts.
When you arrive at his bedroom, the door is already open a crack. You softly knock on it, causing it to swing open more. His gravelly voice comes through the door. “Come in.”
You push the door to proceed forward into his space before closing the door behind you. Bucky is leaning against the headboard, one leg crossed over the other with his laptop on his thigh. “Hey.” You mutter as you step closer to his bed.
He straightens instantly, placing his laptop next to him. “Hi.” As he moves to sit on the edge of his bed, he sucks air through his teeth and his face contorts into one of discomfort. He tries to hide how sore he is, but fails miserably. “What’s up?” His voice comes out strained.
Concern is written on your face as you examine him. “You’re in pain.” You cross the room to stand before him.
Bucky tries to brush off your worries. ”It’s nothing. I must’ve pulled something while training.”
You give him an unimpressed look and motion for him to turn. “May I?”
“Really, I’m fine.” He shrugs, but even that gesture seems to cause him more pain.
“Can I touch you or not, James?” Your tone relays a sense of authority, but your voice remains soft.
He lets out a deep sigh and reluctantly turns to the side, so you have access to his back. “Yes, ma’am. You can go ahead and touch me.”
You’ve never been one for formalities, but the way he says ma’am has you reeling. You recover, though, positioning yourself behind him, a knee propped on the bed for leverage.
You place your hands on his shoulders, lightly squeezing his muscles and working your way down his arms. He’s stiff beneath your touch, so you gently coax him by whispering in his ear.
“Relax for me.” As if you commanded him, he drops his shoulders and lets his head fall forward. You increase the pressure and start to massage the knots in his neck, eliciting a low groan from deep within his chest. You continue to knead his upper back, neck, and shoulder muscles until you can feel the tension melting.
”Training, huh?” You ask as you carry on with your task.
”That’s what I said.” Bucky mumbles, evidently lost in the relief you’re giving him.
”Yes, but you’re lying.”
You hear him swallow hard. “What?”
”I know you fell asleep with me on the couch last night.”
Bucky picks his head up, though he hasn’t turned to meet your gaze. “Were you awake?”
”No, Yelena told me.” You pause, rubbing at a stubborn knot in his back. “You could have gone to bed, y’know?”
He nods once. “Yeah, I know, but,” the super soldier wavers slightly, “I didn’t want to.”
The confession hits like a punch to the gut. You want to press the matter, but as your hands journey back up to his shoulders, he rests a hand over yours, and you freeze.
He pivots to face you, his flesh hand still over yours. As he turns, your other hand falls to your side, and you pick your knee off the bed. “Thank you, but why did you actually come here? Because I know you didn’t come here to take care of me, sweetheart.”
Suddenly, you’re incredibly nervous. His eyes are locked on you, and his hand's warmth causes your heart to race. “Uh…it’s something Yelena said.”
Bucky grabs your hand off his shoulder, taking it in both of his—flesh and metal. He starts to rub soothing circles into the skin. “You two made up then?”
“Yeah,” the word seems to get caught in your throat from how he’s massaging your hand.
”Good, I’m glad.” He rotates your hand, palm up, and repeats the action to that side. “So, what did she say?”
You swallow hard to regain your composure, but your heart is still rapidly beating. “She said I’m the glue that holds this team together. She mentioned that she may have gotten that from someone else.” You give him a knowing look.
Bucky halts his actions and releases your hand. Then, he moves to the other one and starts massaging it. “I wonder who.” You arch a brow, and he sighs, conceding in his efforts to deny it.
“Fine, I said it and I meant it.” He adds emphasis to the last part. “You do a lot for this team; we don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve you.” You quietly gasp, but he still hears it.
He drops your hand and proceeds. “You’re kind, caring, and you always listen. Even if it’s not worthy of your attention. I mean how many times have you listened to the same damn story from Alexei’s ‘glory days’?”
You giggle, light and breathy. You flush a deep red color, and there’s no use in hiding it. “I don’t mind.”
”See, that’s what I’m talking about.” Bucky braces his hands on his knees and hauls himself up to stand before you. “You care so much about everyone else, but don’t let anyone do the same for you.”
He leans in, and you sharply inhale. Your eyes dart between both his eyes before your attention dips to his parted lips briefly. He notices, because of course he does, and the corner of his lip lifts into a sly smirk. He glances down at your lips in return.
Did you die and go to heaven? Because there is no way this is happening. Are you reading this wrong, or did he honestly look at your lips? You want to close the distance, but it’s not that simple. You have to leave before you do something stupid.
You step around him and begin to book it to his door, but he’s much quicker than you. “Where are you going?” Bucky snatches your arm before you can get too far. He spins you around to scan your face.
Your eyes flick up to meet his, and you’re sure he’s going to drive you wild. ”I think I might do something reckless if I stay.” You murmur.
”Then, let me do it instead, doll.” Bucky’s voice is low and rough, sending shivers down your spine.
He inspects you for any sign of hesitation, but there is none. His flesh hand moves to brush your hair out of your face and tuck it behind your ear. Bucky lets his touch drag down your jaw, tracing the skin there. Then, he takes a firm hold of it and brings you closer, capturing your lips.
The kiss is soft and slow at first, lips moving against each other like you have all the time in the world. Bucky’s other hand finds your waist, and he pulls you closer until there’s not an inch of space between you. You melt into him, and one of your arms wraps around him as your other hand cups the back of his neck, deepening the kiss.
It quickly turns hungry, your lips moving with his in a desperate dance of passion. As it starts to get heated, his tongue runs along your bottom lip, requesting access.
You part your lips immediately, and his tongue slips into your mouth. He lets out a satisfied hum when he finds your tongue. He’s completely immersed in you. His tongue explores your mouth like it’s a personal mission to taste every inch of you. Your knees buckle slightly, and his hand leaves your jaw to grab your hip, granting you stability.
Your tongues slide and swirl with one another as your hand snakes up and under his shirt, feeling his bare skin. Bucky positions his leg between your thighs, and you moan into the kiss at the contact.
He breaks the kiss and gazes down at you. You’re flushed and trembling with desire. You're both trying to slow your breathing, but it’s pointless. He dips his head to attach his lips to your neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your collarbone. You grind against his leg, needing some friction. “Bucky,” you breathe.
He growls against your skin, sending vibrations through you. He tightens his grip on your hip and begins to help guide your movement. Then, he moves to your ear, taking your earlobe between his teeth and licking its shell. “Tell me what you need, doll.” His tone is raspy in your ear.
Your breathing turns erratic at all the sensations, and your knees threaten to give out, but you know he has you. “I…I need you.”
“Fuck,” he drawls in your ear before pulling back to get a glimpse of you. “That’s all I want to hear. Are you going to let me take care of you?”
You open your mouth to speak, but the words won’t come. You nod in response, and he doesn’t waste any time.
“Good girl.” Bucky picks you up by your thighs effortlessly as if you weigh nothing. You realize you’ve always wanted to witness that super soldier strength firsthand, and now you have a front row seat to the show.
Bucky carries you the short distance to the bed and lays you down gingerly. He crawls onto the mattress after you and nudges your legs apart with his knee so that he can situate himself between your thighs. He braces his arm next to your head, hovering over you. You bite your lip at the sight of his bicep on full display. He lets out a low chuckle as his other hand slips under your shirt.
He lets his fingers dance across your flesh, reveling in the way you shiver. Bucky takes the hem of your shirt in both hands and pulls it over your head, tossing it somewhere in the room. He hums at the sight of you before making quick work of your bra. He reaches around you and unclasps it as he lowers the straps off your shoulders.
He drinks you in, naked from the waist up. “Damn, you’re gorgeous.” Bucky plunges to kiss along your sternum while his hand wanders up to cup your breast. He trails kisses to your other breast before his tongue darts out to tease your nipple.
His eyes flick up to you as he wraps his lips around your nipple, sucking and swirling his tongue around the sensitive bud. His hand gently squeezes and massages your other breast. You arch your back and you let out a soft whimper. You feel a heat pool in your lower stomach as the tension builds in your aching body.
“Bucky, please.” You beg while you buck your hips up into him to relieve some of that growing pressure.
He releases your nipple with a soft pop. “Shh…patience, doll. Let me take my time with this beautiful body of yours.”
Bucky switches to the other, giving each breast equal attention. You grunt in frustration, and he laughs against your skin. You begin to protest, but he bites your nipple, causing a new wave of pleasure to crash over you. You silence yourself and let him work his magic.
As he languidly kisses and sucks the opposite breast, his fingers toy with your other one. Bucky’s thumb rubs and flicks over your nipple, drawing a moan from your lips.
Once he’s satisfied, his mouth moves further down. He kisses and nips at your skin as he travels to your lower stomach. Bucky licks along the spot above your waistband, and you squirm underneath him.
“Lift your hips for me, doll.” He pats your thigh and glances up at you; his blue eyes are dark. You obey, digging your heels into the mattress to lift the lower half of your body. He hooks his thumbs into your shorts and peels them off, leaving you in just your panties.
He’s breathless as he admires the way you’re sporting those black, lace panties. Bucky licks his bottom lip before taking it between his teeth. You’re thrumming with anticipation from how he’s examining you like you’re his next meal and he’s starving. He traces the outline of your underwear with a single digit. Then, runs his finger over your core, his touch feather-light, but it still causes you to twitch.
“Mmm…so wet for me.” Bucky plants a soft kiss to your underwear clad clit. He takes the lace band and drags it down your thighs. You raise your legs, and he slips them off and stuffs them in the back pocket of his jeans. You playfully roll your eyes, and he smirks at you.
“What, I can’t have a little souvenir of our first time?” He grabs the underside of your knee and hooks it over his shoulder as he kisses your inner thigh.
“I didn’t say you couldn’t, I just kinda like that pair.” You jest.
”I can see why.” Bucky looks up through his lashes and winks at you. You giggle, and you’re sure that this man is going to be the death of you. “But, I gotta say, I prefer you in nothing.” He fans his hot breath across you as his mouth gets closer to where you need him most. “Such a pretty pussy.”
Yep, he’s going to kill you, and if it isn’t from that handsome face, then it will be from that filthy mouth. You smooth his hair back and out of his face, taking a moment to appreciate the sight of him. He looks like a dream. Maybe this is a dream because he’s too damn perfect.
Bucky leans into your touch as you run your fingers through his long hair. His expression softens, and he presses a lingering kiss to your thigh.
“Can I taste you, babydoll?” His voice goes deep and husky. Your breathing stutters at the nickname; he can tell you like it.
“Yes, please.” Your eyes are pleading, like you can’t wait a second longer.
”Anything for you.” He lowers his mouth to lick a strip up your center. You whine and grip his dark strands. Bucky’s tongue dives back in, devouring you. His tongue works expertly on your wet heat, licking up your juices and teasing your entrance.
You writhe and squirm under him as erotic sounds exit your wide-open mouth. “Fuck, that feels so good. Your mouth is perfection.”
Bucky groans against your pussy hearing your sounds and praises. His metal hand rises to rest on your lower stomach as the other one grabs your hip, holding you still. He flicks his tongue over your clit before lightly sucking on it. He swirls his tongue around you in tight circles. You tip your head back, letting out a loud, throaty moan.
He lets go of your hip and traces a finger around your entrance as he continues to suck and lick your bundle of nerves. Bucky dips his finger into you and steadily pumps it in and out.
You whimper at the sudden intrusion, and your free hand searches for something to grab onto. You find Bucky’s metal hand on your stomach and grasp the back of it, trying to ground yourself. He flips his hand over, holding your hand in his as he works at your cunt.
He slides a second finger in, stretching you out and pumping deeper into you. Bucky breaks away from your clit, his teeth faintly grazing it, as he comes up for air. Now that you can see his whole face, you notice the way his mouth and chin are covered in your juices. It only adds to the intense pleasure you feel from his skilled fingers.
”You’re doing so well, sweetheart.” He squeezes your hand and brings it to his lips, kissing your knuckles before resting your clasped hands on your abdomen again.
You can feel the pressure building inside you with every stroke of his fingers, and it’s overwhelming. You don’t think anyone has ever made you feel this incredible, and you never want the pleasure to end.
He curls his digits inside you, caressing your walls. You squeeze around his fingers, and he picks up the pace, wanting to bring you to the edge. Your thighs begin to quiver as moans and whimpers fill the room. “Bucky…I’m so close. Please, don’t stop.”
”Wasn’t plannin’ on it.” He drops his head down, mouth pushing between your slick folds. Bucky doubles down on his efforts. His fingers thrust faster while he sucks on your clit hard, then his tongue starts to move with even more purpose—swirling, flicking, and teasing.
Without warning, your orgasm wracks through your body. Wave after wave of pleasure crashing down upon you. You come undone with a strangled cry as your eyes squeeze shut. Your hand instinctively pulls on Bucky’s hair as you ride out your climax. He helps you prolong your orgasm by keeping up with his ministrations.
He slows his movements to a stop and lets you catch your breath. You shudder with aftershocks of pleasure as you come down from your high.
He unhooks your leg from his shoulder and begins to kiss and nip up the expanse of your body. He inches up your form until he’s level with your face. Your eyes are still closed, and he chuckles low at your blissed out state. He plants kisses on your forehead, cheeks, and nose, making you release a breathy laugh. He finally places a soft, sweet kiss on your lips before leaning back to inspect you.
“You still with me, doll?” Bucky brushes a stray damp hair out of your face. You open your eyes, giving him a soft grin. “Ah, there’s my pretty girl. You doin’ okay?”
Your smile grows wider because he looks like an angel above you and has the nerve to call you pretty. “Better than okay. That was unreal.” You grab the back of his neck as your thumb caresses the skin. “Do you eat pussy for a living?” You jokingly add.
He gives you an amused look. “I can eat your pussy for a living. Keep me down there between your thighs and I’ll be a happy man.” He pinches your thigh to emphasize his words.
You giggle and wish time would stop for a minute because you want to stay in this moment forever. You snap yourself out of your daze and gesture between the two of you. “This isn’t fair.”
”What’s not fair, doll?” He gives you a quizzical expression.
”You’re wearing too many clothes.”
He shakes his head, grinning. “I can fix that.”
Bucky climbs off the bed and reaches behind him, pulling at the collar of his black shirt until it's off. You’re faced with sharp lines and toned muscles like a fucking ancient Greek sculpture. It’s absurd how sexy he is. You don’t know if you’ve met a more attractive person.
You lean on your forearms to better view him as he continues the show. Bucky unbuckles his belt; just the clang of the metal makes a fire light within your very bones. He slips it out of the belt loops of his dark-washed jeans before tugging them and his boxers down his legs.
You cast your eyes down at where the material pools at his feet, then slowly let them glide up his figure. Fuck. You don’t know where to look. His thighs, chest, biceps, abs, dick-
He’s huge, and he looks painfully hard. Forget what you said before about his handsome face and filthy mouth, his dick will be the death of you. You’re sure that’s the best way to go, though, so you can’t find it in your heart to care much.
Bucky crawls back over top of you, settling into his original place. Your hands are instantly on him, tracing his dips and contours. His stomach muscles flex beneath your touch.
“Stunning.” You mutter. You lift your head to kiss along the spot where skin meets metal, and he quivers above you.
“Doll-“ His voice is sweet and warm like honey in your ear. You register that his cock is hard against your thigh as you trail kisses to his neck. You grip him firmly in your hand, carefully stroking his leaky cock.
He gasps softly at the feel of your soft hand on him. Bucky’s forehead falls to your shoulder, and his breathing is ragged in your ear as you continue your movements. Your thumb swipes at the precum that beads at the slit, spreading it to give you more purchase.
”Oh, sweetheart.” He growls, low and rough. “Fuck, I need to be inside you.”
You hum in agreement as you free him from your grasp. “Well then,” you move your mouth to hover beside his ear and whisper. ”Take me, baby.”
Bucky grunts and pecks your shoulder before pulling away to gaze into your eyes. His eyes are dark with desire, matching your own. He takes his dick in his hand and positions himself between your thighs. He runs the head through your slick and teases your entrance with his tip.
“Are you ready for me?”
Your free hand finds a place on his bicep in preparation, knowing you’ll need stability from his sheer size. “Yes, Bucky.”
He slides inside of you, nice and slow, taking his time to stretch you out on his cock. His entire body stiffens as he feels how tight you are. Bucky groans and his jaw clenches as if it’s taking every bit of control not to slam into you. You suck in breath and tilt your head back. He instantly takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger, gently forcing your gaze back on him.
“Eyes on me, doll. I want to watch you as it goes in.”
Fuck. You’re so turned on that you can’t even respond to him; you just obey. Your eyes are locked on his as he pushes inside you at an achingly slow pace like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you.
He bottoms out inside you, and you feel impossibly full. You’re just staring at each other now, your rapid breaths mingling in the space between you. Bucky’s giving you a moment to adjust before he even thinks about moving. He also wants to take a moment to feel you surrounding him; it’s overwhelming.
You have to remind yourself to breathe. The stretch of your pussy around him is intense. His dick is buried so far into your tight warmth it’s like he’s drowning in it, but instead you're the one losing oxygen.
He moves his hand from the spot on your chin to cup your cheek, stroking the flushed skin. He leans down and captures your lips in a hungry kiss, hot and desperate, like he needs to taste you. You reciprocate with equal fervor, your hand snaking up into his hair to deepen the kiss as your tongues merge.
He moves both his hands to grab your thighs and hikes them up to wrap your legs around his waist. Bucky’s metal hand settles on your hip as the other searches for your hand on the back of his head. He wraps his fingers around your wrist and pulls it from its place in his hair. He breaks the kiss and brings your palm to his lips, before pinning it above your head.
He leisurely starts to ease in and out of you while trying to get a read on your expression. He wants to make sure you’re feeling good or if you need more time to adjust. But, instead, you softly moan, giving him the reassurance he needs to speed up.
“Atta girl, taking me so well.” Bucky praises. It only seems to make your core wetter, making it easier for him to thrust into you. You tighten your grip on his bicep as he snaps his hips into you. His grip on your hip is bruising as he sets a rhythmic pace, steady and deep.
His hand on your wrist lets go before his fingers glide across your palm to interlock your hands, holding it against the mattress as if to say, I’m here, I’ve got you. You squeeze his hand in a silent reply to remind him that you’re here and not going anywhere.
Bucky adjusts himself as his thrusts turn erratic and sloppy as his pace quickens, slamming deeper into you. He wants to see you completely fall apart under him. You moan loudly at the new angle he’s providing you. He begins to hit that sweet spot deep inside you over and over. The tension rises sharply and quickly, like you might explode at any minute.
”Yes, Bucky. Just like that. So fucking good.” The words spew from your lips like an erupting volcano, and you can’t help the sounds you’re making, loud moans and strained whimpers.
”You sound so pretty, babydoll. Don’t hold back. Let me hear you.” He reaches between your bodies with his metal hand to rub your aching, sensitive clit with his thumb.
You arch your back into him and your hand finds purchase on the carved lines of his back, nails digging into the flesh, leaving behind little crescent moon shapes. The flood of sensations washing over you causes you to clench hard around him as you cry out in pleasure.
”Bucky, I-I’m…” You cut yourself off with a groan as he hits your cervix again.
”I know, sweetheart. I can feel you squeezin’ me.” He rubs your clit faster, applying more pressure, his thumb moving in tight circles. “Let go, doll. Come for me. I want to feel you come on my cock.”
That’s all the motivation you need as you scream his name while your pussy flutters around him. Your body is trembling as you orgasm for the second time tonight. Your vision blurs, and you’re seeing stars. The feeling is euphoric. It’s as if you’re on cloud nine, floating on ecstasy. It’s a struggle to keep your eyes open, but you need to watch him come undone.
He lets out a strangled moan as he feels you come. It’s the best feeling in the world, and he knows he could easily get addicted to it. He eases off your clit and returns his hold on your hip, firm as if he’s afraid to let go.
Bucky thrusts in once, twice, three times before spilling deep inside you. Hot ropes of cum filling you and coating your walls as he grunts your name, throwing his head back in pure bliss. He clutches your intertwined hands like a lifeline.
You watch in awe as he releases into you. Your mind is still in the clouds as you cup his jaw and force his head down. He opens his eyes, adoration swimming in his soft blues. He presses his forehead to yours as he works you both through your climax, pushing his cum deeper into you.
He ceases his movement, but stays buried to the hilt deep inside you. He wants to keep that connection for a bit longer. You can feel cum leaking out of you as your body goes limp. Bucky rests his weight on top of you, and you welcome it.
He nuzzles his face into your neck as you both come down from your highs, chests rising and falling rapidly. Your hand moves into his hair as you lightly scratch his scalp with your nails. Bucky groans in appreciation, and his lips brush against your neck with lazy kisses.
“Damn,” you breathe into the air. “Is it going to be like that every time?”
He chuckles into the side of your neck, vibrating your body. Bucky inclines his head back, letting go of your hand to lean on his forearm over you. His face has a soft expression, a mix of arrogance and amusement.
“I’m pretty sure it only gets better, doll. I still have a few tricks up my sleeve.” He pinches your side, and you huff air out of your nose in laughter.
“Oh, really? You’re quite cocky, aren’t you?”
“I’m only confident in my ability to please you.” He shoots you a look like he knows how good he made you feel.
Bucky pulls out of you, causing you to softly gasp from how sensitive you are. He rolls over into the spot beside you and takes you with him, cradling you into his warm chest. He places a lingering kiss on your forehead and then tucks your head under his chin. It’s as if you belong there.
You practically melt into him, wrapping your arms around his waist and burrowing the side of your face into his chest. Bucky hums and starts playing with your hair while his metal fingers draw meaningless patterns into your back.
”I’ll clean us up in a bit. Maybe run a bath,” he thinks out loud, making a soft smile grow on your lips. “But right now, I just want to hold my pretty girl.”
You let your eyes flutter closed, reveling in the moment and his soothing actions on your back and hair. “You won’t hear any complaints from me, handsome.”
｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆
You’re in the kitchen, three different pans heating on the stove. This could potentially be a fire hazard, but it isn’t much of a concern for you. You’re cooking pancakes, eggs, and sausage as you hum to one of the songs blasting from your phone.
Your hips sway to the music, gently, because it seems every time you move, pain surges between your thighs. You don’t mind, though. It’s a reminder of Bucky and the long night you spent together. But, fuck, you’re sore.
You didn’t realize how much stamina a super soldier has, but now you are acutely aware. You thought it would be a nice, relaxing bath after your first round, but someone got a little too handsy. And as you were drying, the towel wrapped snugly around you, Bucky tore it off and had his way with you again. Hence, why you’re hurting this morning, this kind of pain is something you can and will get used to, though.
You decided to make breakfast for him as soon as the sun woke you up, and you couldn’t stop admiring his sweet, sleepy expression. Half the reason is to thank him for rocking your world last night, and the other half is for much-needed sustenance.
You use your spatula to push at the edges of your fluffy pancake to flip it eventually. As you're flipping it, warm hands envelope your waist. You jump slightly, the sudden contact startling you. Bucky rests his chin on your shoulder and whispers in your ear.
”Sorry, doll. Didn’t mean to scare you.“ His voice is still thick with sleep; he must have just woken up.
You grin as you continue with your task. “You’re fine, I just didn’t hear you come in.”
”You left me.” Bucky murmurs against your skin as he kisses a trail down your neck to your shoulder.
”I was making you breakfast in bed, but now that you’re not in bed, it’s just breakfast.” You tease him as you check on your eggs.
He hums, clearly amused by your teasing. “Mmm…I missed you.” Bucky squeezes your torso, and you giggle. “I thought it was all a dream when I didn’t see you next to me.”
”No, not a dream. Very real. The throbbing between my legs is proof of that.”
Bucky snorts as his hands glide down your figure. “I would apologize, but I’m not that sorry. You know I can’t get enough of you.”
He dips his fingers under the hem of your oversized shirt and starts to massage your thighs as he mumbles in your ear. “I can’t keep my hands off of you.”
“Bucky,” You softly moan, enjoying the sensations he’s giving you. “You’re distracting me.” Your spatula drops to the counter as you reach up to rest a hand on his cheek, keeping him close to your ear.
He lightly laughs in your ear as he pulls you by your hips, your ass flush against his growing erection. His fingers dig into your flesh, gripping and rubbing at your thighs.
”A good distraction?” Bucky nibbles on your ear.
You bite your lip to suppress another moan. You take a firm hold of his jaw and turn your head, angling your lips inches from his.
”You know it.” You mutter against his mouth before pressing your lips to his.
It’s soft and tender, lips moving unhurriedly like you're learning from every brush of each other's mouth. His teeth graze your bottom lip, and he gently bites it, tugging on it before letting go.
Bucky dives back in, kissing you deeply as his tongue pushes its way past the seam of your lips. As he slides his tongue against yours, his fingertips trace your inner thighs. Your skin dots with goosebumps from his touch. You start grinding your ass on him until-
“Ah! What the fuck?” A voice cuts through the air, and you instantly break away from Bucky’s mouth to see the source of the words.
Yelena is shielding her eyes with a repulsed expression on her face. Bucky moves away from you, adjusting himself in his sweatpants. You straighten out your oversized shirt, bunched around your torso, even though you’re wearing shorts underneath.
“Is your dick out or can I open my eyes now?” Yelena can barely get out the words because she’s gagging.
Bucky groans, rubbing at his forehead, so you answer for him. ”Holy shit, Yelena. No! We’re not animals.” You glance over to Bucky, and he shrugs with a mischievous grin as if to say, Well…
You shake your head at him. “Not helping.” You whisper.
You turn back to Yelena, and her eyes are still squeezed shut. “You can open your eyes now.”
She hesitantly peels her eyes open, peeking behind her hand. Once she knows you’re both decent, she drops her hand to her side.
”Now, I have to wash my eyes with bleach to get that image out of my head.” Yelena grumbles, advancing further into the kitchen to the coffee pot.
”We were just kissing.” You insist, though you’re blushing.
”It looked like a lot more than kissing to me.” Yelena mutters as she begins to pour herself a cup.
Bucky steps around you, a hand on the small of your back as he kisses your cheek. “Sorry, that was my fault.” He murmurs. “Guess I should have stayed in bed. I’ll see you there?” He offers you an apologetic look.
You give him a soft smile. “Yeah, I’ll bring you breakfast in bed like I originally planned.”
He nods, giving you one last kiss on the cheek like he can’t resist you. “Alright, babydoll.” The nickname melts you, and you’re beaming at him before you know it.
Bucky begins to wander out of the kitchen, but pauses to glance over his shoulder. “Smells delicious, by the way. I meant to say that, but got a little…distracted.” You giggle, and he veers right and out of the room.
You return to your cooking and notice the pancake is slightly burnt. You scoop it onto a plate with an easy grin, like it doesn’t matter to you, because Bucky’s lips were on yours as it burned.
“Cute.” Yelena's voice breaks you from your trance, and when you glance at her, she’s slanted against the counter, sipping her coffee as she stares at you.
“Sickeningly cute, but I suppose cute nonetheless.” She mutters into the mouth of her mug.
You snort as you begin to assemble the breakfast on your dishes. As you're plating the food, you catch Yelena from the corner of your eye. She’s still studying you, and it’s starting to make you uncomfortable. You turn your body towards her.
”What is it?” You cross your arms over your chest, waiting for her to spit it out.
”Although I never want to see that again,” she gestures to the air around you, referring to the make-out session she just witnessed. “I’m happy for you two.”
Her words cause you to stagger briefly. That’s not what you thought she would say, but you are pleasantly surprised. “Thanks, Yelena.”
You consider Yelena’s statement for a second. You have this weightless feeling that you’ve never had in the morning. You seem to walk with a bounce to your step. There’s a constant fluttering in your stomach. You’re happy. And it’s all because of Bucky. Even though this is new and fresh, you somehow know that feeling will never disappear.
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