The Tumblings Of Shadow. @shadowprincess1630 - Tumblr Blog

I know it wont work | Part One

Bucky x reader AU

Word Count: 7.4k

Warnings: Drinking, angst,

A/N: I KNOW i said i wasnt posting this till Yours, Always was done buuuuuuut before i keep writing it because it is FLOWING for this fic i had to see if anyone was even interested lol soooo lemmeee know if you want me to continue this after Yours, Always

Masterpost

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There’s something sacred about Saturday mornings in the apartment. The quiet is different, not heavy, not tense. Just still. Like the world finally decided to give you all a break, especially before you all get a little chaotic again…tonight.

Sunlight pours through the dusty windows, catching in the floating particles of last night’s hangover haze. There’s an empty pizza box on the coffee table. Someone, probably Steve, folded a blanket and placed it neatly over the back of the couch like it makes the whole place less of a disaster.

Natasha’s curled in the armchair, black hoodie, hood up, headphones in. She hasn’t spoken to anyone since she woke up, but that’s not weird. That’s just Nat, communication through shrugs, smirks, and sideways glances. You’ve known her long enough to translate.

Steve’s in the kitchen, still making pancakes like they didn’t all come out slightly undercooked last week. He hums when he cooks. It used to annoy you, but now it’s like clockwork. Something solid.

Bucky hasn’t come out of his room yet. But you know he’s awake, the soft glow of his bedroom light slipped under the door before you even stepped into the hallway. You always notice these things when it comes to him. You wish you didn’t.

Most nights, you end up in each other’s beds not for sex, you've never taken anything that far, not even for anything romantic. Just comfort, a habit. A kind of wordless safety you’ve never really been able to explain.

But not last night.

You’re not even sure why. Maybe it had something to do with your father calling in the middle or your usual Friday night hangout. Maybe it was the way you stormed off after, slammed your bedroom door and locked it behind you. You didn’t mean to shut Bucky out, but you did.

He waited outside your door for hours. You found out this morning, Steve mentioned it casually, like it wasn’t a knife to the gut. Said Bucky kept checking the handle, said he looked wrecked.

You passed out before you could let him in.

Now, guilt settles in your chest like cement. But then you remind yourself, he has his own room. His own bed. You’re not together. You don’t owe him everything.

And still… you wish you’d opened the door.

You met Steve and Bucky first. Kids running around the same block with scraped knees and more heart than sense. Bucky was the wild one, fast, sharp, and full of charm even before he knew what to do with it. Steve was smaller back then, but you never saw him that way. He was stubborn as hell and kind to his core. You trusted him before you even knew what trust was.

Natasha came next, around eighth grade. She didn’t talk much at first, just kicked the shit out of a kid who said something about your clothes, and that was that. You were bonded. She didn’t let people in easily but she let you in and that’s never changed.

Sam came in during college. Met Steve in a politics class, argued with him for three weeks straight, and then showed up at your apartment one day with a six-pack and said, “I figured I might as well be friends with the guy who can’t shut up.” You liked him immediately. So did everyone else.

Wanda’s newer. A friend of Nat’s from her job. You’re still getting to know her, but she’s intuitive in a way that’s unsettling. Observant, soft-spoken but never passive. She watches the room like it’s a chessboard and she already knows how it ends.

You wonder what she sees when she looks at you.

You’re guessing it’s a mess.

The thing about your group is: nothing is simple, but somehow it still works.

Everyone’s got their stuff.

Steve can’t stop trying to fix things. He wants everyone to be okay so badly it physically hurts him when they’re not. He’s gotten better at boundaries, but only because Nat threatens him when he forgets to take care of himself.

Nat’s a vault. Loyal, razor-sharp, and terrifying when she’s angry. You love her like a sister. She loves you the same, even if she’ll never say it out loud.

Sam grounds everyone. He’s the calm in the storm, the first one to check in, the last one to judge. You don’t know how he does it, how he holds space for people without ever asking for anything in return. He just does.

And then there’s Bucky. Bucky, who always feels like he’s just on the edge of something. You’ve never known how to categorize him. Not really, he’s like glue, like the anchor holding the ship down.

You’ve tried to shove him into the “best friend” box more times than you can count, but it never quite fits. The way your heart lurches when he laughs, when he looks at you across a room, when he throws his arm across the back of the couch and your skin burns just from being near him, that’s not best friend energy.

But it’s never been the right time or maybe you’ve just never been the right person.

You’re not like him.

Bucky comes from warmth. A single mom who never let the world make him hard. A younger sister he still talks to every week. He knows what love is supposed to feel like.

You don’t, not really, not at all.

Your father was always two drinks too deep and one word too cruel. He didn’t raise you. He happened to you and you learned to flinch first, to run before you could get left behind.

That’s what you do. It’s what you’ve always done. And Bucky? Bucky stays. No matter how many times you’ve pushed him. No matter who else you or he has tried to date. No matter how many fights or false starts or awkward silences or almosts.

He stays and that scares the hell out of you. Because if he stays and you screw it up it’s not just losing a relationship. It’s losing him. Its hurt more because you know it's not a matter of if you lose him, it's a matter of when because you are self aware despite what people thing and that makes you selfish as fuck. And Bucky is good, he is so good.

You are not the glue of the group.

You’re not the leader. You’re not the peacekeeper. You’re not the one people orbit around. You’re the space in between, important, maybe, but not essential. Not the reason this whole thing holds together.

You don’t fit a role the way the others do. Not the way Steve leads, or Nat protects, or Sam balances, or Bucky anchors. You exist somewhere off to the side, shoulder pressed to the wall, watching it all and trying not to feel the slow creep of loneliness that settles in even when you’re surrounded.

That’s the worst part. You’re never really alone. But sometimes it feels like you are. You wonder if they see it. You doubt it. You’ve always been good at hiding things in plain sight.

Your pain’s not loud. It’s not breaking plates or screaming matches. It’s biting your tongue so hard it bleeds. It’s brushing things off with a laugh. It’s slipping out of the room when your chest gets too tight and coming back like nothing happened. It’s saying, “I’m fine,” in a way that sounds almost believable.

They don’t see it because you don’t let them, and you know that’s on you but maybe it’s just what you learned. Because if you say I’m not okay, people start leaving. or worse they stay, but differently, carefully. They stop being honest. They stop touching you the same. They stop looking at you like a person and start looking at you like a project.

Bucky never did that. Not once.

That’s the thing, he knows. Maybe not everything, but enough. Enough to see the cracks. Enough to feel the weight when you start to pull away. Enough to wait outside your door for hours even though you never opened it.

You can still see the way his shadow stayed under the crack. How he didn’t move. How you did.

You always do.

It’s not fair. To him, to anyone. But you don’t know how to stop. You don’t know how to stay without feeling like you’re holding your breath.

How you can be more like him, like Bucky he breathes like it’s easy. He exists like he’s meant to be here. Like love is just something you do. Something you give.

You love him more than you should. More than you can handle. More than you’re ready to admit and it’s not a soft, storybook love. It’s sharp. It’s cracked at the edges. It makes you cruel sometimes. Makes you scared. Makes you push him just to see if he’ll come back.

He always does and you hate yourself for needing that proof so badly. Because he’s good. So fucking good.

You don’t know if you’re capable of being loved like that. Not without ruining it. Not without ruining him. So you just don’t give it, not all the way, never all the way.

You get close. You offer pieces. Just enough to keep him there. Just enough to keep the line from snapping. But not enough to cross it.

You let him hold you when the nightmares come. Let him crawl into bed beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Let him brush the hair from your face when you’re half-asleep, fingers soft, reverent, like you’re something fragile.

But you never say the words. Not the real ones.

Not I love you.

Not I’m yours.

Not I’m scared shitless and you make me want to try anyway.

Because if you say it, really say it you don’t know what happens next. You don’t know how to be fully seen by someone and not flinch. Not run. You know Bucky deserves someone who doesn’t flinch.

He deserves someone who doesn’t carry years of silence under their skin. Someone who wasn’t raised in a house where love sounded like slammed doors and apologies that came too late. That felt like a burning red cheek and smelt like alcohol.

He deserves warmth, ease. A love that says you’re safe here without ever having to prove it. You want to be that person for him. You do.

But wanting and being are not the same thing. So you stay stuck in this middle place.

This half-space.

The almost.

The ache.

The thing that lives between best friends and something else, you tell yourself it’s enough. You tell yourself he’s fine with it too.

But some nights, like last night when he waits outside your locked door, and you can’t bring yourself to open it, you wonder how many times he’ll do that before he stops. Before he decides that you’re not a thing he wants to wait for anymore, you know, deep down, that if that day ever comes, you won’t stop him.

Because maybe that’s what you deserve.

Maybe that’s what love looks like when it’s given to someone who doesn’t know how to hold it without cutting their own hands.

Nat pulls her headphones down and speaks for the first time that morning. “You’re staring into space like you’re watching your own funeral.”

You blink. “I was just thinking.”

“Don’t,” she says, dry. “You’re terrible at it.”

You smirk. “Love you too.”

Steve leans over the counter. “Are we doing anything today or just sitting around wallowing in existential dread?”

Sam walks through the front door with bagels and answers, “Both.”

It's like clockwork again. The laughter, the comfort, the distractions. The quiet place you’ve all built together.

“We gotta get this place cleaned up for tonight,” Steve says as he flips a pancake.

Natasha groans, “Why do we have to drink both Friday and Saturday?”

Sam steals a piece of bacon from Steve’s cooked plate. “We drink tonight to recover from last night, and so Sunday’s brunch is euphoric.”

Steve sighs. “That’s not how hangovers work.”

“Let me have my process, Rogers.”

You don’t laugh, even though they do.

You’re standing by the counter, half-dressed in your sleep shirt and socks, hair pulled back in a lazy knot. You smear peanut butter across your bagel with practiced, robotic movements. The coffee in your cup has already gone lukewarm. You sip it anyway.

You can feel him before you see him.

Bucky steps out of his room, quiet as ever, and you don’t even have to look to know his eyes go straight to you. You can feel the weight of it, soft, searching, familiar.

You don’t look at him.

You just keep working on your bagel like it’s the only thing tethering you to earth. You sit at the island and eat in silence, chewing slowly while the others talk around you about party themes and drink lists and whether anyone remembered to restock the Advil.

He doesn’t say anything either. But he lingers. You don’t know what’s worse when he pretends nothing is wrong, or when he tries to fix it.

You head to your bathroom once your plate’s clean and your coffee cup is empty. You don’t slam the door this time. You don’t lock it either.

You don’t have the energy for drama today. You’re just tired.

You’re standing at the sink, brushing your teeth with a sluggish kind of motion, when you hear the door click open behind you, the one that connects to Bucky’s room.

You glance at him in the mirror.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You nod, not meeting his eyes. “Hey.”

He steps in, closes the door behind him like he’s careful not to scare you off.

“You okay?”

You rinse and spit. “Yeah.”

He leans against the counter, arms crossed loosely. “What’d your dad want last night?”

Your hands still for half a second as you reach for a towel.

“I didn’t answer,” you say. “It rang and I just… freaked. I was being dramatic.”

Bucky’s quiet.

You keep talking, mostly to fill the silence. “I was sore and tired and kind of drunk and definitely didn’t think things through. I just needed everything to stop for a minute.”

He lets out a small breath of a laugh. “Well, you were definitely intoxicated. That’s not up for debate.”

You smile a little, not much.

He steps closer, gentle. Always gentle with you. His hand lifts and brushes a piece of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering just a second too long against your skin.

“I don’t deserve you,” you say, and it comes out smaller than you meant it to.

He doesn’t blink. “Yes, you do.”

You shake your head. “You’re too good of a friend to me.”

Something shifts in his expression just barely. But you catch it, of course you do because you know what you said. The flicker of hurt that dances behind his eyes before he drops his gaze.

“That’s because I’m your best friend.”

It’s quiet, it’s honest and it fucking stings.

You want to say that’s not what I meant. You want to say that’s not all you are. But you don’t.

He steps closer and wraps his arms around you, pulling you into a long, solid hug. His chin rests against the top of your head. Your cheek presses to his chest.

You let your eyes close and breathe him in, for a second, you let yourself imagine that this is enough.

That it could stay like this forever.

Even if you know it can’t.

----------

There’s something about the apartment before a party.

The music hasn’t started yet. The living room’s still half-lit. Nat’s burning incense in the corner to cover the smell of tequila and whatever Steve tried to cook earlier that went sideways. Everything’s in that perfect, golden-hour chaos, lipstick on the bathroom sink, shot glasses lined up on the kitchen counter, Steve yelling at Sam for not helping clean, and Nat refusing to wear anything other than combat boots with her dress.

It’s your favorite kind of storm.

You’re in your room, touching up your eyeliner, when Natasha leans against the doorframe.

She raises a brow. “You’re gonna cause problems in that.”

You glance down at yourself. Short black dress, off the shoulder. Hugs in all the right places.

You paired it with heels you’ll definitely take off halfway through the night, and your hair’s doing that I don’t care but I care thing that always makes you feel a little dangerous.

You smirk. “Good.”

Nat crosses her arms, smirking right back. “Hot and petty. My favorite version of you.”

You roll your eyes but don’t argue. Because she’s right. You are feeling yourself tonight andd just maybe, that has something to do with the fact that Bucky hasn’t left his room since this morning’s bathroom hug.

The thing about Bucky is you’re addicted to him. To the way he looks at you like you hung the moon. To the way he never touches you without meaning it. To the way his voice softens when he says your name like he’s afraid it might break.

You’re addicted to the attention he gives you, even when you pretend not to be and you know, deep down, if you just let it happen, if you gave in, really gave in there wouldn’t be all this tiptoeing. No games, no passive-aggressive flirting. No lines that feel drawn in sand and rewritten every time you both breathe too hard.

If you opened the door, Bucky would walk through it without hesitation. But you’d probably lock it again the second he did.

Because that’s what you do. That’s what you’ve always done. You cross the line, then backpedal like hell, and he stays. Every time.

But tonight, maybe you’re tired of being scared. Maybe you want to cause a little trouble. Just enough to feel something crack.

Nat’s still watching you, arms crossed, that little knowing smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“Are we doing the pre-party shots?” she asks, already moving toward the kitchen.

You follow.

Ten minutes later, the four of you are gathered in the kitchen, like you always are before a party. One bottle, five shot glasses, its tradition.

“Just one?” Steve says.

Nat’s already pouring the second round. “Don’t be soft.”

Sam’s first to show up, he practically lives here already. “Oh, we’re starting early, huh?”

You grin. “Fashionably toxic. You know how it goes.”

Bucky finally steps out of his room. T-shirt clinging to his chest, jeans slung low, rings on his fingers. His hair’s pulled back, and he looks good. Too good.

Your heart does that annoying thing it always does when he walks into a room.

He takes his place beside you at the counter, close. Closer than he has to be. You reach for your shot glass. He reaches for his and just like always, you don’t break eye contact.

Not through the first shot.

Not through the second.

Not when Nat bumps Steve’s arm and whispers something about “Jesus, just kiss already.”

An hour in, the apartment is packed. There’s a playlist running, windows cracked open to let out the heat. People are spilling into the hallway, drinks in hand, sweat glistening on collarbones.

You’re laughing with someone you think his name is Ryan or Riley. One of those, you’re not sure. Doesn’t really matter.

He’s charming enough. He leans in too close, says something that’s probably supposed to be funny, and brushes his hand against your arm like he’s testing the waters.

You laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because you know exactly what you’re doing and because you can feel Bucky watching you.

You don’t turn, you don’t need to, you know. You always know and you hate yourself a little more.

Across the room, Bucky leans against the wall, nursing a half-warm beer he’s barely touched. His eyes haven’t left you since the second Riley-whatever walked up to you.

Steve’s next to him, trying to have a conversation, but Bucky’s checked out. Eyes narrowed, jaw tight.

“Earth to Buck,” Steve mutters, nudging his elbow.

Bucky doesn’t respond.

Sam walks up on his other side, clocking the look instantly. “Oh, come on,” he sighs. “You’re really gonna just stand here and watch her flirt with, what is that guy’s name?”

Steve answers. “Ryan, he goes to my gym, good guy.”

“Does it matter?” Bucky mutters, eyes still glued to you.

Steve snorts. “You’ve got that look, man.”

“What look?”

“The one that says you’re two seconds away from throwing the guy out the window.”

Bucky grunts, taking another sip of his beer. “If you two are trying to be helpful, you’re not.”

Sam raises a brow. “Helpful would be you walking over there and saying something that isn’t ‘you okay?’ or 'you need another drink?’”

Bucky doesn’t laugh, doesn’t smile. He’s stuck in it now, in his head. Because the thing is, he’s not mad at you, he’s never been and never will be. He’s mad at himself. For waiting, for hoping. For standing here like he always does, watching you shine for someone else.

“It’s not that simple,” Bucky says, voice low.

Sam rolls his eyes. “It’s exactly that simple. You’re in love with her. She’s in love with you. End of math.”

Steve sighs. “We’ve been telling him for years.”

“No,” Bucky snaps, still not looking away from you. “You don’t get it.”

Sam raises his brow. “Then explain it.”

“She doesn’t trust it. Not the way I do.” He shifts his jaw. “If I say it out loud, it makes it real. That’s the part that’ll scare her.”

Steve softens. “Buck…”

“I’m not mad at her for that,” Bucky says, finally turning to them. “But I know her. If I push too hard, if I ask for all of her…she’ll run.”

Sam studies him for a long second. “And what? You’d rather live in the middle of this forever?”

Bucky looks back toward you. You’re laughing again, the guy leans in closer.

You don’t lean away.

“I’d rather have half of her than none at all.”

Steve exhales slowly, leans back against the wall. “There’s no pushing to do, Buck. You’ve been there since you were kids. Neither of you are going anywhere.”

That’s the problem, because maybe you should have gone somewhere by now. Maybe you both should’ve run when you had the chance.

But here you are still orbiting each other like you don’t know how to stop and he’s still standing there, with a full heart and empty hands, watching someone else reach for what he’s never been brave enough to ask for.

Bucky drains the rest of his beer, jaw clenched tight, then pushes off the wall and disappears into the crowd.

You don’t notice it right away. You’re too busy pretending you’re not watching for him. But eventually, your eyes drift…they always do.

You spot him in the kitchen, leaning back against the counter. He’s talking to some girl, dark curls, low-cut top, pretty in that effortless kind of way. She’s touching his arm, laughing then laughs, too.

Not the forced kind. The real kind, the one you always think is just for you, your stomach twists.

You smile too quickly at something Ryan (or Riley?) says, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. You’re not even sure what he said. Doesn’t matter. None of it does, except Bucky.

It always comes back to him. So you play your part.

You lean in a little closer. Let your fingers graze Ryan’s forearm. Let your laugh ring just a little too loud. You toss your hair over your shoulder like you’re in a movie scene you don’t believe in.

You know what you’re doing.

You’re not the only one.

Across the room, Steve groans under his breath. “Here we go again.”

Sam glances up from his drink. “Already?”

Steve nods toward the kitchen. “He’s doing the flirt-and-deflect.”

Sam squints. “Which one’s she doing?”

Natasha, sliding in beside them with a drink in hand, answers before either of them can. “She’s doing the ‘fuck it, I can flirt too’ thing. It’ll escalate in five minutes. Ten tops.”

Wanda, beside her, blinks. “Is this a regular thing?”

Natasha smirks. “Every time.”

Steve nods, resigned. “They’ve been stuck in this cycle since highschool.”

Sam chuckles. “They invented the cycle.”

Wanda frowns. “So what happens next?”

Steve and Nat answer at the same time.

“Shots.”

Sure enough, twenty minutes later, you’ve ditched Ryan (or Riley, he never stood a chance) and you’re lined up in the kitchen with Sam, laughing as he holds a beer funnel above your head.

Bucky walks over, still warm from the attention he let himself soak in, but his eyes are already back on you. He sees you, head tilted back, mouth open in a wide grin, beer spilling down your wrist as you finish the pour and slam the cup on the counter.

You’re glowing and a little reckless. He hates how much he loves it.

“Jesus,” he mutters to Steve, who hands him another beer. “She’s gonna feel that tomorrow.”

Steve shrugs. “You always do.”

Sam throws an arm around your shoulder, both of you breathless from laughing.

Bucky’s jaw ticks. He walks over, leans on the counter beside you, too close for it to be casual.

“Didn’t know we were reliving college tonight,” he says, looking you over.

You raise your brows, voice syrupy sweet. “Didn’t know we were competing for who could flirt harder.”

His smile is razor-thin. “You winning?”

You take a slow sip of your drink. “Obviously.”

You’re both playing the same game and you’re both losing. But neither of you backs down.

You break eye contact first not because you want to, but because staying in it feels too much like telling the truth.

So you slip away.

Back into the crowd, into the noise and the blur and the bass pounding through your chest. You find someone else, some guy with warm hands and a beer in one of them and a smile that’s trying a little too hard.

You let him talk, let him flirt. Let him touch your leg under the table with fingers that don’t mean anything.

You laugh at something he says and feel his hand drift a little higher, and for a moment, it almost works, you almost forget. Until you glance up and see him.

Bucky’s across the room again. Back with the girl from earlier. Only this time, he’s not leaning. He’s close. His body tilted toward her, head bent low, voice soft. She’s laughing, smiling up at him like he’s hers.

And then he reaches out, slow and deliberate, and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear.

Like it’s nothing.

Like it’s not something he’s only ever done to you.

Your chest tightens.

Something sour blooms in your throat. It feels like bile or heartbreak. You can’t tell the difference anymore.

You stand abruptly, muttering something to the guy that even you don’t hear, and make your way toward the hallway.

You need to breathe.

You need to not cry.

You need to get out before it shows.

You slip into the bathroom, shut the door, and press your back against it. The silence hits you like a wave. You’re not even mad at him. That’s the worst part, you are not even allowed to be.

You started it. You always start it and now you’re here again, locking yourself in a room because the only person who knows how to get under your skin is the one you’re supposed to trust the most.

You stare at yourself in the mirror. Eyes too bright, chest rising too fast.

And before you can even try to pull it together, you hear the door on the other side creak open the one that connects to his room. You don’t even turn. “Seriously?” you say, flat, arms crossed.

Silence, then a sigh. “I could say the same to you.” He steps in, jaw set, closing the door behind him. “You don’t even know him.”

You throw your hands up. “Oh, I’m sorry, are you my keeper now?”

He steps closer. “You’re flirting with some asshole who only cares that you look good in that dress.”

You turn slowly, leaning back against the sink. “So now you care?”

His eyes flicker. “I’ve always cared.”

You laugh, sharp and bitter. “Yeah, until it’s convenient to touch someone else.”

His jaw tenses. “You were letting some guy run his hand up your leg in the middle of the living room.”

“So what?” You raise your brows, daring him. “You didn’t like that?”

“No, I fucking hated it.”

“Right,” you laugh, bitter. “But you? You get to flirt with every warm body in a five-foot radius and I’m supposed to just smile?”

He shakes his head. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to act like you give a damn only when someone else looks at me.”

You scoff. “You think I’m acting?”

There’s a beat of silence, and then he adds, quieter, “I know why you did it.”

You go still.

“You wanted me to see.”

You scoff, look away. “You’re delusional.”

“Don’t do that,” he snaps. “Don’t pretend like we’re not both playing the same goddamn game.”

“I wasn’t playing,” you say, voice hard.

His laugh is humorless. “Bullshit.”

You push off the sink, stepping closer. “And what about you, Bucky? You think you’re innocent in all this?”

“I never claimed to be.” He moves in too, closer, crowding the space. “But at least I own how I feel. You? You keep running, then blaming me for chasing you.”

“I never asked you to chase me.”

“You didn’t have to.” His voice drops. “I want to.”

You stare at him, breathing heavy. Your chest tight, eyes burning, it's quiet, the kind that means too much has been said or not enough.

His hands find your face before you can stop him, thumb brushing under your jaw, eyes searching yours, like gravity, like you’re not even deciding, you kiss him.

It’s messy, desperate. His hands on your waist, your fingers in his hair, his mouth on yours like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your pain.

Your back hits the bathroom wall. His hands are in your hair, your hands gripping his shirt, pulling him closer. He kisses like he’s angry, like he’s trying to prove a point like he’s been holding it back for years.

You bite his bottom lip, he groans against your mouth. His hands slide down, grip your waist like he needs something to hold onto or he’ll fall apart.

You press into him like you’re trying to crawl under his skin. He lets you.

His fingers skim the hem of your dress and you gasp into his mouth and then you both pull back. Breathing like you’ve just run a mile. He rests his forehead against yours. You both say nothing because that’s the rule.

You kiss him like you’re drowning, he kisses you like he doesn’t care if he drowns with you.

But then you hear it.

“Yo! Y/N, you doing another one?!” Sam’s voice, faint from down the hall.

You pull back, breathless, lips swollen, and avoid his eyes as you fix your shirt. Bucky’s chest rises and falls, his hands still half on you.

You force a laugh, one that sounds like it might crack in the middle. “Guess I’m up.”

Bucky grabs your wrist, gently. “Don’t you think that’s enough for tonight?”

You pause. “You’ve never been in my head, Buck.” You try to keep it light, say it like a joke but it lands heavy. “You don’t get to tell me when enough’s enough.”

His eyes soften with hurt. He doesn’t fight you on it.

You stare at Bucky, still breathless from the kiss you weren’t supposed to want but always do. Your lips are swollen, your body still humming.

He steps back, barely. He won’t meet your eyes. His voice is low, unreadable. “Go first.”

You frown. “What?”

He nods toward the door. “Go. So it’s not… obvious.”

You let out a breathy, humorless laugh. “It already is.”

He flinches, just slightly. “Still.”

You linger for a second, but he doesn’t look up. So you leave.

You unlock the bathroom door, step into the hallway, and just like that? You’re back in the noise and the lights and the warmth of the party. You exhale. Fix your hair in the hallway mirror. You’re good at this. Pretending.

When you re-enter the living room, you make a beeline for Sam, who’s standing on a chair holding a funnel like a trophy. “You ready?” he grins.

You smirk and take your place beside him. “Let’s go.”

Bucky stays in the bathroom, staring at the door you just walked through.

He presses the heel of his palm into his chest like that’ll do anything. Like he can stop the familiar ache that’s been there for years, the one with your name carved into it.

He breathes in deep, hands braced against the sink. You’re poison and home all at once and he’d let you break his heart over and over and over again….If it meant he could keep even the smallest piece of you.

This is the part that always gets him, the in-between. The silence after your lips leave his and before you’re laughing with someone else.

The space where he remembers that he’s not yours, not officially, not fully. Not ever. He stares at the door for a long time. You’d live in purgatory forever with him if he let you. If he stayed and he always stays.

When he comes back out, the party’s louder, looser. The guy you were flirting with earlier is now talking to the girl he was talking to earlier, and Bucky actually chuckles at that. Inevitable.

He heads toward the kitchen where Steve and Sam are talking by the drinks.

“You alive?” Sam asks, handing him a beer.

“Barely,” Bucky mutters, taking a swig.

Steve raises a brow. “You good?”

“Great,” Bucky lies.

“You two playing or what?” Sam nods toward the beer pong table.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Me and her.”

Beer pong. Teams: You and Bucky vs. Sam and Steve.

You’re two drinks deep, flushed and laughing, heels long since ditched. Bucky stands behind you, guiding your arms. His hands are at your waist. They don’t move, you sink a shot. Turn and grin.

“Nice,” he murmurs, low in your ear.

You spin and wrap your arms around his neck, and he catches you without thinking. When you remove your hands from his beck they slither around his waist, your hand slips just under his shirt, thumb brushing the warmth of his stomach. You don’t even realize it until he tenses slightly. You don’t pull away and he doesn’t want you to.

You’re always like this. All over each other by the end of the night, but never too far and never far enough.

Sam just shakes his head. “Disgusting.”

Across the room, Wanda and Natasha are watching. Wanda takes a slow sip of her drink. “This is… normal?”

“Since we were kids,” Nat replies dryly. “You should’ve seen them at twenty, when we first moved here. Like magnets, messy ones.”

Wanda tilts her head. “So what’s the deal?”

Nat smirks. “There’s a bet.”

Wanda perks up. “A bet?”

“Been running almost ten years.”

Wanda laughs. “Who’s in?”

“Me, Steve, Sam. We all have different takes.”

Wanda glances back at you wrapped around Bucky’s back, squealing with laughter while he spins you through the living room. He’s smiling so big it almost hurts to look at.

“You want in?” Nat asks.

Wanda hums. “What’s the buy-in?”

Nat lifts a brow. “Fifty bucks.”

Wanda watches you a second longer. “Ask me in the morning.”

Nat clinks her glass against hers. “Smart girl.”

--------

You and Bucky vanish from the party somewhere around 2AM.

You’re both giggling, tipsy, bumping into doorframes as you stumble down the hall. You don’t even say goodnight to the others anymore. Everyone knows the drill.

You’re in your room first, slipping out of your dress and into one of Bucky’s old shirts. He knocks once, then opens the door and closes it behind him.

You crawl into bed, he follows. You lay there, back to chest. His arm finds your waist like gravity. Neither of you speaks, until he does.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever felt more like home than you do.”

You don’t breathe, you don’t say anything. You just find his hand under the blanket and hold it a little tighter.

-----------

You wake up slow.

The kind of slow that feels like safety. Like warmth, like something you don’t get to keep, but you can hold onto for a few more minutes if you stay very, very still.

Bucky’s arm is still wrapped around you, his body curled along your back, his breath warm against the side of your neck. His chest rises and falls steady, grounding. You shift just slightly and his grip tightens instinctively.

You don’t move again. You just… take him in.

The weight of his arm. The shape of his hand resting at your waist. The way your legs are tangled under the blankets like they always end up this way.

You shouldn’t feel this way about your best friend, but you do.

You know you love him. Not the way you’re supposed to love your best friend. Not the safe kind, not the platonic kind. The kind that could gut you if it ever turned the wrong way.

And that’s the problem because love, for you, has never been clean. It’s always been a little cruel. It showed up in raised voices. Slammed doors. Silence used like a weapon. It made promises it never kept. It came with strings. With people who said, I’m doing my best as an excuse for not doing better.

So somewhere along the line, you learned not to trust the word at all.

You learned to leave before you could be left. To withhold before anyone could take too much. To build your walls higher than your expectations. To call it strength when really, it was fear.

Bucky makes all of that harder to hold onto.

Because he doesn’t demand anything. Doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t punish you for the days you go quiet, or shut down, or need more space than anyone else would understand.

He just stays and somehow that’s more terrifying than all the people who left. Because you can trust Bucky with your life, you already do.

But trusting him with your heart? That’s something else entirely. That’s the kind of trust you’ve never been brave enough to give. Not because he doesn’t deserve it.

But because deep down, you’re scared that if he ever really saw the mess of you, the parts you hide, the sharp edges, the soft places turned hard from too many years of being let down he’d walk too and that would wreck you in a way nothing else ever has.

Because he’s not just anyone.

He’s Bucky.

He’s home.

You don’t know how to let yourself have something that feels like that. You only know how to ruin it before it can leave on its own.

So instead, you stay here. Pretending you’re not already in it deep, and fully, and hopelessly in love with someone you’ve spent your whole life calling a friend.

You close your eyes.

You try not to want too much.

He shifts behind you, breath catching, arm tightening just a little.

You feel him wake before he says a word.

Your fingers lift on their own, tracing lightly down the line of his cheek. He stirs, blinks. Opens his eyes. His voice is soft. Rough. “Hi.”

You smile. “Hi.”

He tightens his arm around you, pulling you a fraction closer. His thumb rubs a lazy circle into your side.

You just… look at each other. A long, quiet moment. Then your stomach growls, loud.

His lips twitch. “Hungry?”

You close your eyes and laugh into the pillow. “Apparently.”

He grins, voice still low. “All right. Let’s go yell at everyone to get up. Get some brunch.”

You nod. “Okay.”

He repeats it back. “Okay.”

He shifts onto his back, pulling you with him so you’re suddenly straddling him, and his hands land on your hips like muscle memory. His eyes rake over your face, your messy hair, his own t-shirt hanging loose on you.

“What a sight,” he says quietly, like he doesn’t mean for it to come out loud.

You blink once. Then lean down and kiss his cheek. “Yeah. What a sight.”

You climb off of him and he lets you go, head falling back against the pillow with a soft groan as you head into the bathroom.

You’re in the shower when you hear him move around your room. Hear the door shut quietly behind him a few minutes later. You close your eyes and lean your head against the tile, let the water rinse last night off your skin, but not out of your mind.

When you emerge, he’s already dressed, running a towel through his hair. You pass him on the way to your room, trade a glance and a small smile like you’re not both still spinning from whatever the hell you are.

The house is awake now. Loud, chaotic, full of movement and coffee and half-shouted plans.

Sam’s standing in the living room holding a speaker. “I swear to God if someone plays that sad indie playlist again—”

Natasha sips her coffee without looking up. “It’s Bucky’s playlist.”

Steve enters with his phone out. “I found two good spots. One’s a walk, the other has bottomless mimosas.”

You grab a hoodie and slide it on. “Lead the way, Stevie.”

Steve groans, “I told you I’m too close to 30 for that nickname.”

You smirk. “Okay, yeah sure Stevie.”

He rolls his eyes.

Outside, the air is cool and bright.

The six of you fall into formation like you always do. You and Sam walking up front, shoulders bumping, laughing about something dumb. You’ve got your own rhythm, your own jokes, your own language. He sees you in ways the others don’t, and he doesn’t ask about the night before.

You love him for that.

Behind you, Bucky and Steve are deep in some low conversation probably about sports or politics or something overly philosophical because it’s them.

At the back, Wanda’s walking with Natasha, watching all of you like she’s watching a sitcom unfold in real time.

Wanda glances between you and Bucky, her brow creased in quiet disbelief. “So it's a regular thing?” she asks.

Natasha links arms with her. “You’ll get used to it, my friend.”

Wanda shakes her head, stunned. “They sleep in the same bed.”

Nat shrugs. “Mmhm.”

“They kiss.”

“Mmhm.”

“They act like a couple.”

“Exactly.”

Wanda frowns. “So… what are they?”

Natasha sighs. “Stupid.”

Wanda laughs.

Natasha goes on. “So the bet started ever since we all moved here when we were twenty. Steve thinks they’ll figure it out before thirty. I think they’re gonna marry other people first.”

Wanda blinks. “That’s… dark.”

“I’m not wrong.” Natasha shrugs. “Sam said before 25 but that's gone and past, so he had to buy in again but double the price to place a new bet, he now says before 32.”

Wanda hums. “I give it a year.”

Nat nearly chokes on her coffee. “Excuse me?”

“I give it a year.”

Nat raises an eyebrow. “You wanna bet?”

Wanda reaches into her pocket, pulls out a crumpled fifty, and slaps it into Nat’s hand.

Nat grins, holds it up like a flag. Steve and Sam are now walking together, glance back, see the money, and groan.

“Really?” Steve mutters.

Sam just laughs. “They’ll never know.”

But neither of you notice.

You’re too busy jumping on Bucky’s back, laughing in his ear, while he hoists you up with zero effort and carries you the rest of the way to brunch.