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[barnescafe]

grumpy x grumpy angst?? im on my knees??

a/n: girl who is definitely not projecting on her fanfic: haha yeah man

featuring the two bozos the clowns from misery loves company. all parts are stand alone fics

warnings: emotionally unavailable fucks, swearing

"You thinkin' about asking her out?"

"Dunno," Bucky mutters, eyes staring into his phone. "Maybe."

Bob sends a quick glance your way.

"Real romantic." You raise your eyebrows, focusing on the stupid drink in front of you.

"Are you sensing any vibes?" Bob continues to test, wiping down the kitchen island.

"The hell does that mean now," he murmurs more as a statement than a question.

Bob answers anyway. "Flirting, Interest. Maybe she’s trying to let you know she’s single.”

Awfully rude conversation to have within your hearing range, honestly.

Bucky squints at his phone again. Probably the tenth message in five minutes.

“I guess.”

Your drink’s gone cold. You keep stirring it anyway. It's basically rancid now.

"Well, you look excited about it." Bob says encouragingly, still casting another glance your way.

Bucky stares back, emotionless.

You snort, feeling a sick sense of fatigue set in on you.

You hop off the counter, taking your stupid drink with you because pouring it down the sink would probably look entirely suspicious.

Not that there was anything to be suspicious of.

In fact, this is what you wanted.

"What do you think?" he asks abruptly

You send him a wry look. "I don't think anything."

“We noticed,” Bucky says immediately. Like breathing. It makes your heart curl until it withers away. “What do you think about this?”

"Ask her out. Or don't. I don't care."

"You're a terrible friend."

"Devastating," you say monotonously.

Seriously, what the fuck.

Bucky locks his phone and puta it away, watching you slowly drag yourself out of the room before you say something worse.

Behind you, there’s silence for a beat before Bucky locks his phone and follows.

Bob looks back and forth between the both of you before deciding he actually wants nothing to do with any of this, contrary to his earlier belief

"You got a problem?" Bucky asks, the silence of the hallway cracking under his audacity.

"Many. Take your pick."

"Funny."

You hum, praying that the fucking elevator gets here faster.

"You don't want me to ask her out," the says, too close to you for your liking right now

"I don't even know her."

"Does that matter?"

You press the elevator button harder than necessary.

Not really. You noticed this whole thing the second it started. The texting. Him checking his phone more. Smiling at it sometimes, which was frankly irritating to witness. Something ugly lodged itself in your chest after that and never really left. Slithered it's way down to your stomach, and legs, and arms, and had just stayed there, stagnant.

You close your eyes, still turned away from him.

"You said this was nothing," he says, voice hard. "Not me."

He was right.

"it is nothing."

“Then you won’t care if I ask her to get coffee this weekend.”

The elevator dings open. You exhale shakily.

You step inside. He follows immediately.

Annoying.

You stare at the glowing floor numbers instead of him.

This was nothing. You’d repeated it enough times that eventually it stopped sounding ridiculous to yourself. You knew there was no hope for the both of you, that this was fruitless, so why waste each other's time.

At least until someone else entered the picture.

Now you feel vaguely homicidal over someone you actually really liked.

"You didn't answer."

"I already said do whatever you want."

"What do you want?"

"A bagel."

Bucky let's out a heavy exhale, like he's tired.

It feels like you're speed running the 5 stages of grief at once as you prepare for the inevitable distance you would have to put between the both of you.

You glance at all the fucking floors left to go and realise you're stuck here for longer than you want.

You can feel him looking at you. Terrible experience.

“She’s nice,” he says after a second. “Likes documentaries. Hiking.”

“Wow,” you mutter. “Soulmates.”

You’ve watched documentaries. You’ve also nearly died on several mountains.

The lift moves with the urgency of a fucking melting stick of butter down a hill.

“Tell me not to go.”

“I don’t care.”

“Bullshit.”

You finally look at him.

His brows are drawn together slightly. Tired. Irritated.

Like this is somehow your fault.

Funny.

You always assumed if this thing ended, it’d be because you eventually got your shit together and moved on.

Didn’t really account for him getting there first.

You're well aware of your hypocrisy.

“Right. I'm gonna go cry in my room about this” you mutter. “I’m gonna go journal about it.”

His expression flickers. “You journal?”

“Christ, no.”

That almost gets a smile out of him.

The elevator finally opens.

You step out immediately.

“Just be honest for once,” he says behind you.

Your jaw tightens.

You could do it.

You could tell him you thought you had more time.

That the idea of him sitting across from someone else, smiling at them the way he smiles at his phone lately, makes something sharp twist in your stomach.

You could tell him you already miss him, which is pathetic considering he’s standing ten feet away.

“Do whatever," you say. "It doesn't matter what I want."

The elevator doors start sliding shut.

The last thing you see is Bucky’s expression tightening, like he’s angry at you. Or himself.

Hard to tell with him.

Maybe now's a good time to start a journal.

[barnescafe]

unsolved (xviii)

Summary: Bucky doesn’t even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet’s amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse.

Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky, obnoxious reader, tension, ghosts, panicking, mentions of death, rituals,

A/N: i cant believe this is the last chapter im gonna throw up. thank you all for everything. i wrote this during a really terrible time in my life and all your comments and love have made this such a beautiful experience. i apologise for how long the whole thing took to finish-- but we finally got here and im so grateful to everyone who stuck along for the journey. thank you thank you thank you <3 im gonna miss these two idiots. i tried to make the finale as romcom as possible for you. hope u enjoy!!

Previous part || Series masterlist

The conference room is filled with tension so thick it had trouble finding jeans that fit.

Maya sits at the head of the table, spine straight, pen still. Face completely still and stony like she was judging whether to let you out on bail.

“Alright,” she says. “Go.”

You clasp your hands on the table. “We’ve sustained viewership through strong mid-season assets. Engagement peaked with episode seventeen. To close, we need a pivot. Something high-risk, high-resonance, with narrative permanence.”

Bucky sits beside you, arms crossed, jaw locked, eyebrow twitching. 

Maya flicks her eyes toward him. “Consent forms signed?”

“Fully,” you say. “He understands the liabilities.”

Bucky grunts, “Sitting right here,” but no one acknowledges it. His thumb picks at the seam of his jeans, an old nervous habit.

You take his irritability as a sign to spew on, “Novelty is old. They want catharsis. But we can provide both. Controlled environment, one take. No reshoots.”

Maya narrows her eyes. “Walk me through the risk profile.”

“High,” you say evenly. “Personal exposure, unpredictable optics, and the possibility of emotional contagion. But containment is possible with careful framing.”

Bucky rests his forehead on his fingers, digging into his skin to smoothen out a migraine, “Don’ like bein’ described as a containment issue.”

He’d helped throw ideas around last week, had even agreed when you framed it as the way forward, but now that it’s written in your voice, in front of Maya, his shoulders are iron bars.

You ignore him. “The deliverable is clean, consumable, and irreversible. It will work.”

He shifts, arms uncrossing, then crossing again. 

Maya steeples her fingers. “And what are we calling it?”

You slide the folder across the glass. Words stamped bold on the cover:

THE EXORCISM OF JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES.

Bucky exhales sharply, “S not an exorcism. I’m not possessed.”

 She closes the folder, pushes it back to you.  

Ignores him, as to keep with tradition. 

“You have yourselves a finale.”

At finale, he looks at you again. Doesn’t even mean to. 

Just a flicker, but long enough that it costs him. His stomach drops all over again. 

Because this was always the plan, wasn’t it? 

The series ends. You leave. 

Curtain down.

You hit the supermarket at 10:43 p.m., a completely normal and recommended time to go there. 

Automatic doors whoosh. You grab a basket. Bucky plucks it from your hand and swaps in a trolley, no explanation,

He steers. You dangle off the side like a pirate ship, half expecting him to complain but instead he silently shifts his weight without breaking stride, letting you hang along for the ride.  

“Callsigns?” you say, purely to irritate.

“No,” he says, purely on instinct.

“Copy that, Negative.”

He exhales through his nose, but his hand tightens slightly on the trolley bar, like he’s hanging on harder than necessary. He has to remind himself not to get used to this. It won’t last past the finale.

Over the PA, a bored voice drones, “Cleanup on aisle seven.” 

You show him your list. He scans it at record speed and sets off.

Salt first, because it is the starting step to any good ritual. 

There are thirty types, all performing the same basic function.

Bucky reaches for a big blue box that says nothing except SALT, like reaching out for the most war-ration looking option is his instinct. You, of course, go for the small jar with an insufferable label reading out mineral content, origin story, childhood loves and the like.

He looks at your hand. You look at his. He puts both in the trolley. 

“Candles,” he says from memory. 

“You’re going to pick some unscented garbage,” you say, mournful.

“Probably,” he says. 

“Strange choice, for someone who buys cinnamon body wash.”

He blinks once, slow. “I don’t buy cinnamon body wash.”

“Sure,” you say.

“I don’t. Steve brings home so many fucking baked things, all my clothes smell like cinnamon.”

You bite back a smile.

“Fine. I’ll look for the unscented ones.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You gave in quick.”

“It’s your farewell ritual,” you dismiss. “You get to pick what you want.”

The word ritual makes him shift a little, like the floor just tilted. 

Still, he watches you try every wick, tilt, examine, estimate, burn, reject, and gives each one a onceover when you hand it to him.

You hold up a heart-shaped one with a wick where the thought should be.

“Absolutely not,” he says, before you finish raising your eyebrows.

“Statement piece?”

“My statement is, ‘no.’” He picks up a pack of plain church candles and checks the burn time like he’s buying a second-hand car. “These.”

You drop it into the cart. 

He doesn’t remove it. You grin only when you turn away.

“What if we get her something she’d like?” you say. “Maybe it’ll be more effective.”

“They got any jellybean flavoured candles?” he mumbles. 

“No, but we can get a bunch of them and melt them together.”

Bucky finally settles on something vaguely berry scented, but with glitter in it. 

Matches. Chalk. You pick the cheap white stuff as a compromise even though you eye the neon ones very strongly. 

You swing into the hardware aisle. 

“Bell?” you ask.

“That wasn’t on the list.”

“It’d be cute. Maybe she’ll like the noise.”

Bucky gives you a look. 

“Small,” you add. “Not obnoxious.”

He finds a plain brass bell the size of a thumb. Rings it once, soft. The air wraps itself around the sound.

“That one,” he says.

“Why did you say yes?” you ask.

“It’s not a big deal, it’s a bell.”

“No, not the bell,” you dismiss. “To this whole thing.” 

He keeps his eyes on the shelf too long, thumb rubbing the ridge of the bell until the skin goes pale. The first time you pitched it, it had sounded purposeful. But standing here under fluorescent lights, holding a bell for Becca, it feels different. Like he’s handing pieces of her over to strangers who’ll eat it and scroll on.

He picks up some thyme and holds it up under the light.

“Because you asked,” he says simply, examining it.

“That can’t be the standard. I ask you for nonsense three times a day.”

He looks at you in the harsh light of the grocery store. His eyes skip past you too quickly, like they’re not allowed to linger. 

“You could’ve said no.

“I tried that for a year,” he says. “Didn’t take.”

You give him a look. “Yeah, but not for this. I’m genuinely surprised you said yes.”

He keeps the trolley rolling another foot, stops, steadies his hands on the bar. He could tell you the truth– that it had sounded safe when it was only theory, that he hadn’t thought about the aftermath until the word finale was stamped in ink.

“She would’ve done it,” he says, “She’d have heard me out, called me an idiot, and then lit a candle herself.”

“She sounds persistent.” 

“Yeah. Turns out I tend to gravitate towards idiots like that in my life,” he glances at you. 

“Hey now,” Your throat has a line in it. “I’m not an idiot. I’m a moron. There’s a difference.”

He hums, putting the thyme back. 

You keep moving another half-step before you look back. 

He’s looking at the shelves, not you, expression doing that closed-lid thing it does when he’s choosing not to say what he’s thinking.

“What?” you say, softer than you meant.

He avoids your gaze when he says, “She’d have liked you.”

“Oh.” You swallow back a stone.

“She liked people who made rooms work.”

“High praise,” you say, and it doesn’t sound like a joke at all. 

Bucky pockets a sprig of rosemary without thinking, then pretends he didn’t. You pretend you didn’t see.

In cleaning products, there’s a bottle called Sunshine Water. 

“Does it do anything?”

“Makes the room think kindly of you.”

You dont know how useful it will be, but it goes in the cart. 

You drag him to the snack aisle. 

“Do we need offerings?” you ask, “She liked strawberries, right?”

“That was Steve,” he says, automatically. Then he hears himself. “But yeah. Becca liked strawberry jam on toast. When we had it.”

You pick up a jar of jam without comment and put it next to the bell.

You reach for chips in a colour best described as radioactive. 

He blocks you with the trolley, staring at your hand. “Not in the perimeter,” he says.

“Say ‘perimeter’ again,” you say, climbing onto the trolley’s lower bar. “Make it sexy.”

“You’re worse when you’re tired.”

“You’re worse when I’m awake,” you reply.

He tilts his head. “There’ll be crumbs.”

“Foresight. You are unreasonably good at this.”

“I am aggressively medium at everything,” he says.

You replace the chips with pretzels. He slides across a bag of roasted nuts. You add obscene marshmallows shaped like snowmen.

“We’re not four,” he says.

“Speak for yourself,” you say, dropping a second bag in. “You can have some if you’re good.”

He pushes the trolley on, the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth, which is unfair because he wins every argument by simply owning that mouth.

He lets you win more than he should, because he’s already on his way to acknowledging the fact that won’t get to lose to you anymore. 

The trolley rolls. You stick your arms out. 

“Feet down.”

“Why,” you sing, and then the trolley hits a tile seam and you wobble. His hand snaps to your hip, steady and unshowy. You feel it in three separate organs.

You step off like nothing happened. He keeps walking like nothing happened. You both fail to breathe for six paces.

You find the sour gummies. Put one bag in. He watches you do it. You put another bag in. He lifts one out and replaces it with a smaller bag.

You scowl. He doesn’t bother hiding the second smile.

“Something warm for after,” you remember, at the end of the aisle. “Brandy? Whiskey? Tequila, but then we’d have to invite Nat.”

A bottle of whiskey levitates towards you from god knows where.  

He doesn’t budge, “Hot chocolate.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Hot chocolate,” he repeats, and steers you toward the aisle.

“Fine,” you grumble, coming to a stop in front of the shelf. “Hot chocolate it is.”

“You’ll like it better.” 

“You’ll miss the whiskey when we’re stuck with hot chocolate at the end of the night.” 

“I’ll take that risk.” He leans in from your left to take it, one hand braced on the trolley’s bar.

You’re about to make a joke about ‘taking that whisk’ when he leans in and presses his mouth to your temple, brief and unthinking. The sort of kiss you give a person you’ve been brave around for a very long time.

You go quite still.

He doesn’t realise, for the span of a heartbeat, what he’s done. You feel the moment he does: the fractional withdrawal, the impulse to apologise or  throw it away.

He goes perfectly still, too, like the way not to startle a wild thing. He doesn’t even look like he knows which of you is the wild thing.

Bucky pushes the trolley ahead again because his hands remember how to do things when his brain has temporarily left the building. 

The trolley fills with sensible things and not. Somewhere by the end of Household Miscellaneous he peels off and returns with a cheap wooden frame. He doesn’t meet your eye. You don’t ask. He slides it under the salt and the rosemary, and leaves it face down.

Tea. He chooses mango, which you learn is what he likes the most now, and chamomile because it’s the most consistent.

 An older woman stares at Bucky like he’s a memory she can’t place.

“You’re that man,” she says, delighted.

“Unfortunately,” he replies, polite.

“You make the videos,” she tells her trolley, and wanders on, satisfied.

“Famous,” you whisper to him. “Can’t take you anywhere.”

He doesn’t smile. He is smiling.

You cut through the pet aisle for Alpine because you are weak. Bucky grabs heavy litter.  

“Are we forgetting anything?” you ask, doing the ritual pre-till scan. “Chalk, tape, salt, candles, bell, nails, thread, rosemary, jam, tea, cups, cloths, frame, butcher paper, soap, painkillers, pretzels.”

He taps the chain. That’s his answer.

At the tills, a teenager drops your items in front of the scanner.

“Party?” she asks, flat.

“Work,” Bucky says.

“Sorry,” she says.

When she lifts the bell, she rings it.  

You pay because the least you can do is fund his farewell ritual.  

 Bucky pockets the receipt because he will not let you pay for 15 candles alone. He is a gentleman. 

The marshmallows though, you are on your own.

The next night doesn’t begin with thunder or rain or anything out of the million movies you watched in preparation. 

It begins the way you promised it would: tidy, steady, everything in its place.  

Chalk circle down. Salt seam straight as a ruler. Iron nails at the four quarters, heads pointing in like compass points. Bell in the middle. Candles, unscented and assorted, set in a triangle and then left alone because it’s his call. 

You’ve wiped the table with Sunshine Water. Windows are closed, music off, phones away. 

You run your eyes over the list one last time, a habit more than a need. 

He stands just outside the circle, sleeves shoved to the elbow. His hands flex against his thighs, and he’s staring directly at the floor. 

“You good?” you ask, voice low

He nods once.  “Let’s do it.”

You’re about to strike the first match when something stops you. A flicker in your chest, an impulse that’s been nagging for weeks. 

“Hold on.”

Bucky’s brows knit, match still in his hand. He pinches out the flame before it can catch, gaze snapping to you like you’ve just called the whole thing off.

He can’t say he doesn’t feel a bit relieved. 

You dig into your pocket to find a small little bag. You’ve been carrying it around for three weeks. It’s been the wrong time every time since.

 You fish out it out and leave it out on his outstretched palm. 

“For you,” you say. 

He looks at the pouch and then at you, as if you’ve just placed a live wire on the bar and asked him to keep still. 

He opens it. A thin chain. A simple charm, ugly in a way that suggests it’s here to work, not to be photographed.

His breath leaves on a sound that’s closer to a laugh but not. “What is this?”

“From the charm lady at Paracon,” you explain softly. “She was a little intense, but she knew her stuff. Before you complain, yeah, I know there are stronger ways to do protection. But this one fits over your big head, so.”

He exhales. 

“May I?” you ask. 

He nods, dipping his head without theatre. You step in close, your fingers skim the side of his throat, warm skin over steady pulse, as you work the clasp. For a heartbeat too long you leave it there, knuckles brushing his collarbone, before the chain falls into place.

The clasp clicks; the charm settles against his sternum like punctuation finally arriving at the end of a sentence.

He breathes once, and the chain lifts with it. Neither of you step back. The silence is suddenly thick, reverent, fragile in a way you don’t want to break.

“Alright,” he says, very quietly.

He straightens. You step back. 

“Alright,” you echo, forcing yourself to move on

He stands inside the circle, sleeves pushed to the elbow, the thin chain you gave him sitting square against his sternum. 

He’s barefoot. It looks right.

“Alright,” you repeat, softer now. “We start small. We stop if you want to stop.”

He nods, eyes fixed on the bell in the center. He hasn’t looked at you in a full thirty seconds, like if he meets your gaze the whole fragile thing will collapse.

“Last chance to regret this,” you offer, because tradition is tradition.

His mouth tugs at one corner, though it doesn’t quite make it into a smile.  

The silence stretches after that, heavier than before. The house is too quiet. His bare toes flex against the chalk line, a restless tell. 

The matchbox is warm in his hand, but he doesn’t strike it yet.

You watch him, patient.

He finally drags in a breath. The match flares, sudden, spilling gold light over his face. The shadows carve him older.

The air thickens. He shifts his stance, shoulders pulling tight, and the thought comes sharp and unwelcome: God, what is he doing? 

He doesn’t say it out loud, instead watching as you light the candles, one and then the other. The kitchen looks immediately different, more menacing. 

You wet your fingers with the Sunshine Water and flick it over the circle, a soft hiss as drops hit warm wax.

“For those who love us and wish us well,” you read from the paper, steady. “For those who kept watch when we weren’t watching. You’re welcome here. You’re safe here. You can rest when you’re ready.”

The temperature eases down a notch. 

You glance at him. “Say her name?”

He swallows, then says it carefully, “Rebecca Barnes. Peanut. Bec if you’re in a hurry.”

“Bec,” you repeat, respectful. “We’re not sending you away. We’re making you a door and asking you to choose. If you’re here, you’re welcome. If you’re tired, we’ll make it easy. If you want him to stop guessing, say so.”

Bucky’s hand rests on the bell. His knuckles are white against the brass, but he doesn’t ring it yet. His chest rises, falls.

When he finally speaks, it’s unsteady but certain. 

“Hey, Becks. If you’re here… sit where you like. And then-- he glances at you, something wry and unbearably fond flickering across his face “--we’ll talk.”

The room exhales. Pressure shifts. The candles stand straighter, flames drawn tall and thin.

“Becca,” you add, lighter now, almost teasing. “I brought your brother to a sensible circle with sensible candles. I know you’d have opinions.”

The rosemary smokes without flame. A curl of grey, faint as breath. The fine hair at Bucky’s temple lifts, stirred by a current you can’t see.

The planchette twitches. A little scratch of wood against wood. It scoots sideways, stops, and then does a slow, deliberate circle that’s more flourish than necessary. Show-off.

You inhale. “I think she’s here.”

He doesn’t look surprised, just stricken. 

“Hi, kid,” he says, voice thinned to almost nothing.

The bell answers for him. One clear tap against the rim, like a polite child at a service counter. Bucky’s mouth shifts, a recognition more than a smile.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “Come on then.”

At first it’s almost imperceptible.  The rosemary sprig slides an inch, then two, as if pulled by a string. 

The box of matches tilts, rights itself, then edges toward him with a stubborn little scrape. A cool draft skims your forearms.

You hold your breath and wait. 

Bucky’s eyes flick toward the far corner without turning his head. 

His voice changes, lighter, scolding out of habit. “Don’t even think about the kettle.”

The kettle, obedient for years, clicks on.

“Becca,” he warns, the tone all older brother.

It clicks off again.

Something weightless taps his shoulder. Nothing visible, but you catch the subtle shift as he angles his body, unconsciously making space for someone smaller.

Then it’s no longer subtle. A marshmallow arcs across the room with balletic spite, smacking his collarbone and leaving a sugar bloom on his shirt.

He blinks at the offending puff, then at the bag it came from, hand half-lifted in a useless “that’s enough” gesture that convinces precisely no one.

Two more marshmallows follow in quick succession.

A tea light scrapes sideways. The bell chimes once, sharp and impatient. Your pen rolls off the table, clattering to the floor and skittering to your foot like it’s joining in.

You bend, pick it up, and set it carefully back inside the circle. 

“Hi,” you say, as gently as you know how. “Nice to finally meet you. I’m your brother’s friend.”

The room’s cold edge softens a fraction.

Bucky’s fringe lifts, tugged by invisible fingers. He huffs, automatic. “We’ve talked about this. Do not pull my hair. Don’t wanna bald faster than I already am.”

The air tugs again, sharper, downright cheeky. He twitches, fighting a smile.

“Becca,” he whines, already this close to laughing. The sound makes him younger by years.

Something rattles near the sink.

“No crockery,” Bucky deadpans, without even looking.

A coaster slides across the island with neat precision and taps the back of his hand. He blinks, then taps it back with two fingers– a rhythm so simple it means nothing to you, but from the look on his face, you know it means a lot more to him.

“Alright, Peanut,” he says, voice caught between authority and affection. “Ground rules apply.”

You can’t help it: a smile breaks across your face at how different the whole evening was shaping up to be. After all, in the end, it was just a little sister doing what little sisters do best– annoying the hell out of her brother, even from the other side.

“Okay,” you say, biting your grin back because his mouth, traitor that it is, keeps trying to go soft. “This is going well.”

“Don’t encourage her,” he warns, deadpan, but his eyes betray him. They’re bright in a way you’ve never seen before.

A small gust swirls the salt line, playful as a finger through sand. The bell tips to one side, rights itself again, smug about it.

You unfold the makeshift board, the same one from the first night he swore she’d come through. You set it between the candles and the bell, balancing the shot glass over the center. Light as breath.

Bucky slides his fingers onto the wood. For a second, his hand hovers. You can see it in his shoulders: the pull to step back, to shut the door before it opens too wide.

But he doesn’t. He anchors the planchette with two fingers. 

The planchette drifts. It bumps his knuckle. You watch his mouth find something like the shape of a laugh and then give up, because laughing is less accurate than what’s happening.

“Throw your best shot if you’ve got it,” he says.

A pretzel flicks him in the ear from a ridiculous angle. The bell chimes once, sharp and pleased, like a kid clapping for herself.

His hoodie string tugs on its own and flicks him in the chin.

He scoffs, long-suffering but helplessly fond. “That’s very mature.”

The letters drag him toward J. He stills, the planchette trembling under his fingers. Then, with quiet certainty, it slides to A.

You keep your eyes on the board, not on him. You make yourself into furniture, because this isn’t yours.

M.

His breath leaves him. The tiny, private world you’ve been trying to build around him all year, suddenly older than both of you, suddenly full, not empty.

“Hey,” he says, softer than you’ve ever heard his voice. “I need to say some things. Sit still, would ya?”

The planchette stills. The flame nearest his wrist lifts tall and straight, like it’s listening.

He reaches under the island. You’d seen him tuck the envelope there earlier. Now he draws it out with hands that aren’t quite steady and sets it by the nearest candle, right on the seam of the circle.

“For you,” he says, to the table, to the air, to the three inches of space he hopes are occupied. “Read it when you’re bored of throwing things.”

The envelope lifts an inch, two. 

The air holds itself taut, like the whole room is holding its breath with you.

His throat bobs. His eyes stay fixed on the paper. 

“I’ve been… living the wrong way round.” The words are slow, deliberate. “Kept thinking if I ignored it long enough, it’d go away. But it didn’t. That’s not how it works.”

His jaw tightens, but the words keep coming. “I’m sorry I left you with all the difficult bits. And I’m sorry I wasn’t there to tell you I thought you were the best of us.” His voice dips rough, steadying itself against the edges. “I couldn’t have had your back, even though I really fuckin’ wish I did. I know that too. I still wish I had.”

The envelope tilts in the air like someone weighing it. The candle gutters once, recovers.

The planchette shivers, then pulls steady, letter by letter.

M. I. S. S. U.

It lingers there, like it’s catching its breath, deciding whether to say more. 

Then, with sudden certainty, it slides quick across the board: J. A. M.

Bucky goes still. His jaw locks; his fingers slide off the planchette and fall heavy to his thigh. For once he doesn’t bother to hide the wreckage on his face.

“Yeah,” he says, raw and unadorned. “Me too, Peanut.”

Something invisible flicks his hair again, softer this time.  

The bell chimes once, quiet as a nod.

The planchette drifts toward the edge of the board. Pauses, toeing the grain like a foot hovering at a doorway. Then it settles on the word you’d written months ago in uneven pen: goodbye.

Bucky’s chest rises once, long and deliberate. 

“Alright,” he says, steadying himself on the word. “We’re good.”

You clear your throat, practical because someone has to be. “Rules still stand. You can swing back if you want to tell him to knock it off, but you don’t have to keep carrying him. He’s heavier than he looks.”

 The candle nearest the envelope gutters, then steadies again.

Bucky leans back, but his eyes stay locked on the envelope. It’s as if he’s trying to read through the paper, through the wax seal, through time itself to all the words he put inside and the thousand he didn’t.

His knuckles tap gently against the table, the same rhythm he’d used on the coaster. 

A habit she’d recognise from breakfast tables eons ago. 

“Go on,” he says to the air, to the weight of it. “I’ll see you when I see you.”

And just like that, the atmosphere shifts. The cold edge leaves, replaced by a warmth, the sort of warm that belongs to mugs and chairs. 

The planchette sits where you left it.  

You ring the bell once, and the sound feels final, like a line drawn under a paragraph.

“Close?” you ask.

“Close,” he agrees.

You sweep the salt inward, not out.  

“Do we have to… say anything to finish it?” he asks. His voice is worn but clean, stripped of everything except what’s necessary.

You glance at the planchette. It sits still, waiting. “We could say thank you,” you offer.

He nods once, eyes lowered to the circle at his feet. “Thanks for everything, Bec. I got it from here on.”

The words land with a quiet thud. 

You step forward, brush the chain at his throat with two fingers and then step out of the circle.

He rises after a long beat. There’s a brightness to him that isn’t relief so much as rightness, the kind that makes your chest ache. 

He lifts the envelope carefully, reverently, and tucks it into his hoodie pocket the same way he’d tucked the chain under his shirt earlier, like something belongs to him after all.

“Hot chocolate?” you remind him, though you both know you don’t need to.

“Thought you’d forgotten,” he says, though you both know you didn’t.

You hold out a hand. 

He takes it, and for a second his hand trembles. 

You keep your own steady, and say nothing about it.

“Thank you,” he says finally,  

“Don’t thank me. I just read the instructions,” you reply gently. “You were good. You didn’t make a speech at the air.”

A breath escapes him that’s almost a laugh. “She’d have laughed at me.”

You’re wiping a streak of salt from your sleeve when he opens his mouth again. Hesitates. Closes it. Then tries once more, quieter this time, stripped bare.

“You think she read it?” he asks finally, without the usual armour.

You look at him, at the tired brightness in his eyes. 

“I think she knew most of it already,” you say softly. “But yes.”

He nods, jaw working once, and lets it rest there.

You head toward the hall together. His fingers brush yours, then take hold properly. You let him.

Behind you, the planchette gives one last lazy nudge. Just leaving a fingerprint on clean glass. Proof she passed by, and that for a moment, she stayed.

Maya doesn’t bother with hello. She drops two paper cups on the glass table and taps the lid of one.

“Decaf for you,” she tells you. “Because you shake when you’re excited.”

Then she sits, opens her notebook to a page already half-destroyed by post-its, and exhales through her nose in the long-suffering way she usually does. 

Eventually, she does that flat-palmed tap on the glass table that means you’re already behind.

“Walk me through outcomes,” she says. 

You slide the laptop round so she can see the frame you opened on. Bucky can feel the meeting air con move past his wrist as he fiddles with his fingers.

“Closed loop on the season’s narrative debt,” you say, steady. “We promised an answer; we delivered one.”

Maya’s eyebrow does a half-centimetre. “Brand-safe, then. Good. Where did you land on disclaimers?”

“We open with context card,” you reply. “No ‘don’t try this at home,’ just ‘this is personal; viewer discretion is adviced.’ Legal won’t have hives.”

Bucky watches her, feeling that familiar prickle that means he’d like to be anywhere else, preferably on fire.

Personal, he thinks. That’s one word for it.  

But he keeps it quiet. He’d agreed. He’d sat in those early meetings, nodded along, even thrown in his own ideas. But sitting here now, watching his sister’s memory shrink down into bullet points and timelines, he feels it clawing wrong in his chest.

“Lift?” Maya asks.

“the subreddit’s already building the timeline. PR can seed three exclusives,” you say. 

Maya taps two knuckles twice. “Cadence.”

“T-3 trailer, T-1 micro, 8 p.m. Sunday drop, no live chat, stills Tuesday, then radio silence.”

“Good.” She clicks her pen. “Risks.”

“Derail into grief tourism if we let the wrong pull-quote out,” you say. “Counter is to let the work speak. Keep Bucky off live streams for seventy-two hours so he doesn’t ‘I’m fine’ himself into a hole.”

“I am literally here,” Bucky says, because someone has to.

“Which is why I plan,” Maya says, not unkindly. “Okay. What’s your trailer moment?”

You scrub forward: the pencilled letters, the planchette nudging. A line of text appears across the board: MISS U JAM.  

Maya watches it through once, eyes not once leaving the screen. 

“That,” she says, soft once and then brisk again, “is your finale.”

He hates the word. He’s been hating it for weeks.

She stands. No hugging. Just the nod you get when a skyscraper goes up on time.

“We’ll carry the press,” she adds, already ticking off the exit steps. “You keep your phones off. We’ll send the line for ‘what happens after this’ and you will stick to it. I don’t need either of you improvising on live television.”

You both nod. She tucks the pen into her notebook, closes it without looking, then looks at you because you still haven’t moved.

“I would say it was a pleasure working with the both of you…” she trails off.

You give her a big grin and she shakes her head. 

“Fine,” she says, making her way out the door. “Mastering by Friday. Credit lock by noon. If either of you changes a comma after that, I will come to your homes and strangle you.”

At the last split second, a smile upturns the corner of her mouth as she pauses by the door.

“For the record,” she says, quieter, “you did right by her. It’s… good work.” 

Bucky and you glance at each other. 

“I like you both more when you’re not talking,” she adds, before leaving

The door clicks behind her. . 

You’re still standing there, that wry smile in place, professional and terrible. 

Bucky stares at you, at the edges of your mouth that don’t quite match your eyes, at the way you hold your shoulders like you’re already halfway turned to leave. 

And it hits him – that’s the look you wear when you’re bracing to slip out of a room without anyone stopping you.

It makes his chest feel scraped raw.

Then you hold out your hand.

Bucky stares at it too long. His pulse thuds in his ears. It looks obscene and beautiful at once: a handshake at the end of a job, a curtain call, an exit. 

Something in his chest pulls tight, because he knows what it means.

He takes it anyway, 

“Well, partner, we made the numbers, you got your closure,” you drawl. “It appears our work here is done.”

The smile on your face doesn’t change, but he swears your eyes shutter. Just a flicker, like you’ve already filed this away as finished.

Bucky’s stomach gives that slow, awful roll, “Now what.”

“I don’t know,” you say, light, professional. “I’ll see you soon, I guess.”

What the fuck.

It doesn’t make a sound in the room. It’s just the way his fingers don’t close around anything. They just hover, useless.

“Catch you later?” he tries to ask. It does not come out steadily at all.

“Maybe,” you hum. “Don’t mope if you can’t find me.”

He searches your face for any crack, for hesitation, for anything that says that he’ll find you here the next morning. But all he finds is that same wry professionalism, practiced enough to be convincing.

It lands cleanly in his chest and then wrong, like a picture frame he can’t get level. He keeps moving anyway.

Silence drops in.

Alright, he tells himself, eyes on the varnished seam of the floor. If this is where it’s ending, he’ll let go. That’s the deal, isn’t it?  

He tries to make his mouth remember a joke. It doesn’t.

“You wish,” he says. 

That’s what you do when they look like they’re halfway out the door already. 

You grin, before cleanly escaping the room. 

Bucky’s left staring. 

Steve throws a party.

Bucky doesn’t clock the reason until the third time someone tells him. Everyone’s wrapped their seasons. A wrap party.

Sam’s on music and abusing the privilege. Clint’s wearing a hat that might actually be radioactive. Wanda asks where his “other half” is, and Bucky mutters “Busy,” like a placeholder.

You’re not here.

He excuses himself to the kitchen, pretending to eat something that may or may not be food. 

Really, he’s just trying to get his hands to stop twitching. He checks his phone. Again. No messages.

 Your thread glows back at him. His thumb hovers over the call button. He presses.

One ring. Two. Five. Voicemail.

By the time he looks up, Steve’s closing in, grinning, a tin under one arm.

“Congratulations,” Steve says. “I brought nonsense.”

“Always wanted nonsense,” Bucky answers, voice steadier than he feels. “What is it this time?”

“War cake,” Steve says proudly, lifting the towel. “Eggless, milkless, butterless. I had to boil the raisins.”

Bucky eyes the tin. “So it’s… cake with the cake left out.”

“Exactly,” Steve says, uncovering it with a flourish. The room fills with cinnamon and cloves. “Go on.”

Bucky breaks off a piece. 

He chews. He swallows. 

Then he gives a small, traitorous nod.

“Not terrible,” he admits.

Steve’s grin could power a block. He carves himself a wedge.

The cake is dense, sweet, oddly good.

“So,” Steve says around a mouthful, “end of the season. You did it.”

“Mm.”

Steve studies him. “You alright?”

“Fine.” Too fast.

Bucky picks at the edge of the tea towel. He’s thinking about the way your hand felt in his palm in that glass room. 

The words you used, and the way you said it.

I’ll see you soon.

Anodyne. Disposable. The kind of phrase that doesn’t mean anything when you’re already half-turned to leave.

He hasn’t checked if you’re gone yet. He can’t. He just knows he hasn’t seen you since you walked out that door.

“What’s going on?” Steve asks.

So Bucky relents, because he’s become strangely sentimental over the last few months. 

Steve leans a hip against the counter. “Soon as in…?”

“That’s the question,” Bucky says. “I don’t know.”

“Ask,” Steve says, like it’s easy. .

“That’s not–” He stops, huffs. “Ain’t this what you're supposed to do? Let someone go, if they want to.”

Steve turns the tin lid over in his hands, considers the shine. “Sometimes. Or you say what you mean and let them decide with all the information. Advice from the world’s leading authority on waiting too late to say things you want to.”

Bucky’s mouth pulls. “There’s nothin’ to say.””

“Keep tellin’ yourself that,” Steve says. “Maybe you’ll talk yourself into believing it like with everything else.”

That gets him, unexpected. 

A short, unwilling laugh leaves Bucky’s chest before he can lock it down. He shakes his head.

“I’m trying to be—” he gropes for a word, settles on the smallest one. “Good.”

“You are,” Steve says, no hesitation.  “Now stop hiding behind it.”

Bucky shifts, uncomfortable.

“You don’t want to risk hearing no,” Steve goes on, calm as ever. “You spent a century doin’ what you were told, and now that you can choose, you keep pretending you can’t. You’re being a little bitch.”

Bucky exhales hard through his nose.

Steve softens a hair, but only a hair. “You’re not some accident, Buck. You don’t just ‘happen’ to people. You get to say what you want.”

Bucky mutters, “What do you want me to say? ‘Stay?’ I’ve made it pretty fuckin’ obvious.”

Steve levels him with a look. “‘I want you to stay. If you don’t, I’ll survive. But I want you to stay.’ Not complicated. Try English instead of martyr.”

 .Bucky huffs a broken laugh. “You rehearse this?”

“I’ve known you since you were two feet tall,” Steve says. “I got a whole notebook.”

Bucky stares at the door. The door stares back.

“It’ll be fine,” Steve says.

Bucky nods, sharp. Turns. Hesitates. Turns back.

“Go.”

He goes.

He goes.

The corridor is the same length it’s always been, but it feels colder tonight. 

The corridor stretches the same length it always has, but tonight it feels endless. 

Cooler too, like the air itself is keeping him out.  

Every radiator that bangs, every scuff on the skirting– he knows them all by heart, but they feel like they’re counting him down. His boots make no sound at all, and that makes it worse.

He stops outside your door.

For a long second, he does what he’s always done: listens. 

Waits for the shuffle of feet, the hitch of breath, any sign you’re still on the other side. 

Nothing. 

Just stillness so complete it makes his pulse roar in his ears.

His stomach knots.

He breathes once. Knocks.

Nothing.

He knocks again, softer, as though gentleness will change the answer.

Still nothing.

Alright. That’s it. 

You’re gone. You slipped away clean, like you promised you would. 

He’s too late. He’s fucked it.

His chest feels like it’s folding in on itself. 

He waits anyway, stupidly, one more beat, just in case the universe feels generous.

The universe stays silent.

He turns, already rehearsing the fight he’ll pick with Steve for shoving him into this, already bracing himself for the hollow that’s about to open under his ribs.

But his feet don’t move.

He stands there frozen, the quiet pressing down on him, and then curses sharp and loud. 

Before he can talk himself out of it, his hand is on the handle. 

He shoves it down and pushes the door open.

The room is bare.

Bare in the same way it’s always been. No photos. No decoration. No fingerprints left behind. It looks less like a bedroom than a stage set.

His stomach hollows out. His throat tastes of metal. 

For one awful second, he thinks he’s staring at a crime scene: already emptied, already abandoned.

Then he sees it.

The lamp catches on the small wooden house sitting on the dresser.

His heart kicks hard against his ribs before his brain catches up. The house. The one he made you.

For a flicker of a moment, hope scrapes through him, but it sours fast. 

If you were gone, you’d have taken it. Wouldn’t you? Or maybe you left it behind because it didn’t matter.

He crosses the room anyway. His hand finds it before he can stop himself. Thumb along the roofline, forefinger against the porch rail he’d sanded too thin. He can smell cedar if he tries hard enough. He remembers the stupid satisfaction of pressing it into your hand.

The silence in the room is too final. Too still.

“Fuck,” he mutters, dragging both hands over his face. 

He paces once, twice. The window glares back at him, blank and black.

A book hits the floor behind him.

He turns.

Alpine is perched on the middle shelf, tail coiled neat around her paws. Her yellow eyes pin him in place, unblinking.

Before he can open his mouth, she lifts one paw and bats a book off the shelf. It lands spine-first with a crack.

“What,” Bucky snaps, frayed nerves showing.

She blinks once, then sets her paw on the next book. A deliberate pause. Then she shoves.

The thud echoes louder in the quiet room.

“Cut it out,” he barks. His chest is still tight from the silence in the hall. “Not in the mood.”

Alpine ignores him completely. Her paw slides to a third book. Push. Crash.

Bucky steps forward, half a mind to catch the next one, but her paw is already on the fourth.

“Alpine.” His voice cracks on it. “Enough.”

The fourth book hits the floor. She shifts her paw to the fifth.

And then finally, horribly it strikes him. 

His stomach flips.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. 

Her paw presses meaningfully against the sixth book.

“Jesus Christ, stop, I know what you’re saying,” he bites, louder now, panic bleeding through. “And you can literally talk.”

She does not move the paw.

The book drops anyway.

Alpine hops down, tail high, regal as ever. She passes him without a glance, smug in every step.

“I’m communicating in a medium you understand,” she radiates, “violence.”

Bucky exhales hard, raking a hand through his hair. “You’re so fucking annoying.”

She flicks her tail toward the door, already done with him.

And then it sinks in fully.  

His pulse spikes all over again. 

His legs are already moving before the thought finishes forming.

Bucky, god bless him, arrives like a Category 5 weather event.

He slams the door with his shoulder, breath gone, hair a mess, eyes wild enough that the security camera would phone a friend. You blink at him over the spine.

You blink up from the carpeted corner, with an open book and a packet of high-res scans by your feet. 

“You good?” you ask, cautious, as if he might start speaking in tongues.

“You’re still here,” he gets out,

“I only just got here.” You glance at the clock. “Like, it’s been twenty minutes, man.”

He presses off the door and crosses to you on long, purposeful strides that are at odds with the way his chest is still working. He drops into his usual place beside you, shoulder to shoulder, boots in the same scuffed rectangle of carpet he’s worn in all year.

“Are you leaving?” he demands, low.

“I was going to get a snack later, but that’s the extent of my grand plan.” You close the book over a finger. “What do you look like that for?”

“Like what?” He drags a sleeve over his mouth, trying to corral his breath. 

“Well… unhinged.” You tip your head, taking him in. 

He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Thought I missed you.”

“Missed me? Missed me wh– hold on.” You tip your head. “Did you think I was skipping town?”

He gestures vaguely at the ceiling, the floor, the entire concept of objects. “Yeah?”

“Oh.” You blink. “Well, I’m not.”

It’s physical, the way the tightness leaves him. 

He closes his eyes for a second. “Fine. Okay. Good.”

You snort. “And what, this was you bursting in to give me fifteen reasons to stay?”

“Fifteen is stretching it.”

“And then what? You kiss me?” you say, airy, testing.

He looks at you, steady now. “And what if I did? Would that be such a big problem?”

You hold his gaze a beat longer than is safe. “Well… no. I suppose not.”

He rolls his eyes at the ceiling.

“Never beating the ‘you have feelings for me’ allegations, Barnes.”

“Yeah,” he says, slow, like you’re being dense on purpose. “Because I do. You know this.”

“God, there goes my leverage.” You sigh, theatrical. “How am I supposed to annoy you with that if you just admit it?”

“You’ll find a way.”

He says it like a fact and sits back. And ridiculously, stupidly, it feels like someone’s taken a weight off his chest and put it on the table where the light can see it. The room changes shape around it.

A quiet beat stretches.

“Me too, you know,” you say, almost casual.

“Figured.”

“I mean I have feelings for me, too.”

He has to bite the inside of his cheek. “Who else would you be talking about.”

You fiddle with the receipt you’ve used as a bookmark.

The air between you thins. His shoulder is warm against yours.

“Anything else you want to confess while you’re here?” you ask, half-light, half-daring.

He doesn’t answer right away. His throat works. His fingers flex against his knee, like he’s trying to bleed the nerves out of them.

“Yeah,” he says finally, voice lower than before. “Actually… I don’t want to publish the video.”

Your head tips.

He keeps going, quick now, like if he stops he won’t start again. 

“I know I said I was fine, but I’m not. I don’t want it out there. I don’t want–” his breath snags, sharp, “--I just don’t want it.”

Silence, except for the sound of the printers breathing in the corner.

You nod once, like you were waiting for this exact moment. “I know.”

His eyes snap to yours.

“I already pulled it,” you say, calm. “Turned my phone off before Maya could reach through it and stab me after everything we spent on promo.”

He blinks, startled. It takes him a beat too long to process.

“It’s between you and Becca.” You give him a small, steady smile. “No one else needs to see it.”

He finds it in himself to give a small nod. 

“Anything else?” you ask, tone joking.   

“You can’t leave.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Oh?”

“It’s not a good idea.”

“Compelling argument.”

He grimaces at himself. “That was a terrible sentence. Forget that. Look– in the clock tower, you asked how I knew. I knew you weren’t paying attention to the details. I know that because even then, months ago, you’d been here long enough for me to notice. That you’d probably missed something, because you always said details were a waste of time.”

Something flickers in your face.

He turns until you’re angled knee-to-knee, thighs almost brushing. His hand braces on the carpet close enough that your knuckles nearly touch. The proximity is ridiculous for a guy who, a year ago, spoke to you exclusively in grunts and prolonged glares. 

“You’ve already laid down roots,” he says, shoulders loosening in defeat. “So go wherever you want. Do whatever you want. But all I’m sayin’ is I’d like it if you came home at the end of the day.”

He looks away on purpose, like he can fake not caring for ten seconds. You watch him not succeed.

“What,” he barks, without heat, when he feels you smiling.

“You know,” you say quietly, “I wasn’t actually planning to move out.”

That rocks him. He looks up fast. “No?”

“No.” Your mouth tugs. “Sorry I stole your big moment.”

“I’ll find a way to forgive you.” He clears his throat. 

“You could still give me twenty-five reasons you want me to stay.”

“No.”

“Twenty, and we’ll call it eve—”

He leans in and kisses you. 

It knocks the air straight out of your ribs. His mouth catches yours in a soft, sure press, and you tilt into it without thinking, a sound caught low in your throat. He’s careful for exactly one heartbeat. And then you’re moving, answering, tugging him in by the front of his hoodie, knees knocking clumsily on the carpet.

The corner of his mouth catches your smile. You laugh once against his mouth, stupid, breathless, and he chases it like he’s been starved for it. You taste like mint, the electric edge of adrenaline. The warmth of him presses in until there’s no room left for air.  

“Didn’t miss this time,” you murmur, an echo from a different doorway, a different nearly.

“Thank god,” he huffs, helpless. 

He kisses you again, quick but just as sure. The whole world reduced to four square feet of carpet.

“Just so we’re clear,” you say into his mouth, “this is terrible for my eloping-with-a-ghost-bride agenda.”

He kisses you for that, too, because one, it’s so incredibly stupid, and two, now that he’s started he doesn’t seem to see the point of stopping. his one is slower, longer, his lips sliding against yours, your palm pressed to the back of his neck, holding him there.

One of your knees bumps the leg of the table; the printers choose that moment to cough a sheet into the tray. Neither of you looks. 

Time turns elastic until you finally peel apart, shaky with adrenaline, the kind of silence that only feels possible after a storm.

“Okay,” he says eventually, voice wrecked, eyes too bright.  “So what are you doing here, then? You’re missing Steve’s raisin vinegar cake.”

You tip your head, lips still parted, and tug a white sheet from the stack beside you. It glides across the carpet until it rests at his boot.

“I was researching,” you say. “You kinda need to do that if you want to pitch another season.”

His brow furrows, until he sees the title.

Renewal Agreement: The Graveyard Shift Season Two

The grin that blooms across his face isn’t careful at all. Hoodie tugged crooked from your fists, hair mussed from your hands, he looks nothing like careful anyway.

“But that’s secondary.” You push the paper aside for the moment. “I believe we were discussing twenty five reasons you want me to stay.”

He gives you a look that could undo a saint. “No.”

“No? Twenty and we’ll call it even–”

He kisses you again, deeper, slower. 

It seems to do the trick.

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

THANK U TO EVERYONE WHO BOUGHT ME A KO-FI FOR THIS SILLY FIC. IT'S STILL INCONCEIVABLE TO ME THAT YOU LIKED THIS ENOUGH TO PAY ME REAL MONEY FOR IT.

The road is two lanes, sky washed colder.

You turn off where the stone wall dips, tyres crunching over gravel. 

The cemetery is small enough to miss if you weren’t looking. It isn’t grand, just sloped grass, old maples that creak in the wind, and a scatter of names.

You climb out first. Bucky follows, hands jammed deep into his jacket. The gate complains once and then lets you through.

He doesn’t need a map. He finds her on the second row like he always does, by the crooked birch, left of the angel with a wing the groundskeeper keeps meaning to mend.  You suspect he could walk here blind and still find the right patch of ground.

The letters are clean. Someone’s been here before you or maybe the weather’s been kind. Still, he brushes his thumb along the top edge of the stone, the old soldier’s ritual of removing what isn’t needed.

You take the box from under your arm and set it on the granite. The berries inside are dark and cold, still beaded from the chill of the car. He loosens the lid and slides it halfway off, like he’s making space for company.

“Hey, Peanut,” he says.

His voice roughens at the edges. He clears his throat, lowers himself into a crouch. His metal hand presses into the grass; the other steadies the box.

“Thought we’d stop by,” he adds, thumb worrying a cardboard seam. “Been a while.”

The wind lifts, flicks the string handle, lets it drop.

“We got you strawberries,” you tell her, because you’ve learned he likes it when you speak, too. “And we brought extra so you don’t have to share.”

That cracks a smile out of him. The kind that fades almost before it’s there.

The box lid taps once against the stone like an answer. Or the breeze. Neither of you are keeping score.

From his pocket, Bucky pulls a paper napkin, folded neat. He slides it under the box so the chill won’t bite into the granite. Little courtesies, carried from one life to another.

He lingers there a second longer, palm flat to the stone, before straightening and stepping back, making room for you.

You pat the lid once. “We’ll bring more next time.”

For a while, the two of you just stand there side by side, the grass bending at your boots, the trees shifting overhead. 

When you head back to the gate, he stops halfway and looks over his shoulder. The box sits neat against the grey. The napkin has decided to stay.

On the walk back, the wind picks up enough to make you tuck into his side. He opens the passenger door for you without show, 

“You good?” you ask, because it’s a question that never hurts to ask twice.

“Yeah.” He nods. Not the lie. You can tell the difference now.

On the road again, the heater finally starts warming his hands. The silence is soft, not heavy.

“Think she’ll mind if we’re late?” you ask.

“I think she knows by now we’re always going to be late,” he says, signalling.

“Last time she said she’d stop giving us the lemon glaze ones.”

“Just make your eyes at her. She’s got a soft spot for you.”

“You saying I make eyes? They work on you?”

He side-eyes you. “Not once.”

You grin at the windscreen. “Liar.”

He reaches across the console without looking, squeezes your knee once. The kind of touch that settles everything.

The miles start stitching again. Trees. A petrol station. A field with exactly one horse.

You rest your head against the glass and catch your reflection, soft-edged in the dark.

“We’re stealing two boxes this time,” you say. “No arguing.”

“It’s not stealing if she’s keeping them for you.”

“I just said no arguing.”

He huffs, but the corner of his mouth twitches.

Ahead, the road leans toward a town that smells like butter and old sugar, and a woman who will pretend she didn’t keep your favourite aside.

You roll the window down two fingers and let the cold air cut sharp and clean, stitching the day into memory.

[shurisneakersupdates]

unsolved part....something out now!

[barnescafe]

unsolved (xvii)

Summary: Bucky doesn’t even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet’s amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse.

Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky, obnoxious reader, tension, ghosts, panicking, tarot, mentions of death, implied psychedelics. this is unedited. I'll edit it later

A/N: guys i swear to god ive had the Most Time ever. my manager was fucking unhinged. which is why you havn'et seen or heard from me forever. but anyway. the next part is the last part and i am determined to finish it. also i am cancer free my one year scan came back clean woohoo. anyways enjoy and lemme know what u think!!

Previous part || Series masterlist

The thing about Avengers Tower is that it’s too big for how small their lives have become.

The place still has its charm. What started as sterile and stainless steel eventually morphed into chipped counter tops and wobbly picture frames. There’s always a jacket or two strewn across chairs that had frayed from the desperate attempt to clean up some mysterious stain.  

The sun barely scrapes over the top of the adjacent skyline, casting a pale sliver of light through the oversized window in the east lounge. 

The floors are quiet, the city hums somewhere far below, and all the voices Bucky used to be able to drown out with mission chatter and workout jazz were silent without much effort. 

Bucky is already halfway through his second cup of coffee, eye staring straight at the elevator, waiting for a sign. 

To anyone who is not used to him, this would not be weird. Trained assassin, doing surveillance of a room he is currently possessing. 

But unfortunately, everyone in the Tower has painstakingly grown to know, get used to, and most times, cherish him in their own little absurd ways. 

Point is, he usually doesn’t wait around for anyone.

But today, like the last three, the hall’s quiet. The kitchen’s colder than usual. The espresso machine hums patiently, untouched.

The thing about habits, Bucky decides, is that you only ever notice them once they stop.

He doesn’t come to this realization in any poetic, life-altering moment. He’s standing barefoot, hoodie half-zipped, eyes bleary. Alpine is making herself tall by clawing at his calf.

“Cut it out,” he mutters, nudging her gently with his foot. 

She swipes at him. It barely registers.

It takes him another full minute to realize what's wrong. The chair across the kitchen table is empty.

He stares at it, hand wrapped around a mug that still hasn’t been poured. A week ago, that chair had a permanent resident every morning.  Usually with a bagel, sometimes with a half-open laptop. Always like there’s too much on your plate and not enough hands. And somehow, despite that, you still make yourself at home with a single glance acknowledging his presence before you steal whatever is in his hands. 

Bucky pours cereal into his mouth directly from the box because someone finished the milk and didn’t replace it. Again.

Alpine hops up onto the counter and gives him a look. Then she swipes the box out of his hand.

“Do you mind,” he mumbles. 

She swipes again, this time catching his wrist.

“Stop,” He shrugs her off. “You don’t even eat cereal.”

“I don’t,” Alpine replies evenly, knocking the box over. 

Bucky glares at her. Alpine licks her paw and pointedly turns away.

“You seen--” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Pretends it’s not because he doesn’t want to say your name out loud like some kind of heart-eyed loser. “You seen anyone else this morning?”

Alpine flicks an ear. “Already out of the house.”

He blinks. 

“Skipped breakfast. Left with that bag full of stuff.”

Bucky runs a hand down his face.

He’s trying to be chill. He is. He’s a grown man with a job and hobbies and everything.

It’s just-- well.

You’re usually around. You press your forehead to the fridge while deciding what you want. You wear his sweater sometimes like it’s no big deal.

Whatever. It’s not weird. You’ve got things to do. You’re a whole person. That’s good.

Still, he finds himself standing in the kitchen longer than he means to, bowl of dry cereal in hand, like maybe you’ll come walking back in with that same bag and tell him you forgot your keys or your lunch or your Bucky. 

You don’t.

Alpine’s tail flicks. “You’re being weird.”

Bucky scoffs but doesn’t respond.

He flips her off without looking. She licks her shoulder like she’s unbothered.

“You’re brooding,” Alpine says, hopping up onto the counter like she owns it.  

“Not brooding,” Bucky says.

“Uh-huh,” Alpine replies, licking a paw. “You gonna sigh while looking out the window again? You waiting for a telegram, Barnes?”

He glares at her.

 “It’s been three days of moping.”

“I don’t mope.”

“Either fight it out or move on.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You two should go on a date”

“No.”

“Die alone, then.”

It’s probably nothing. He tells himself that for the third  morning in a row.

She stares at him, then slowly and deliberately knocks the spoon off the counter.

He doesn’t move. Just sighs.

The spoon clatters on the tile floor and Alpine, appearing quite pleased, hops down to follow it, her claws clicking on the steel.

“You done?” he mutters.

“Not even a little bit,” she stares. “You’re gonna spiral.”

"I’m not spiraling."

"You’ve got your miserable eyes on again." She glances sideways. “You’re in love.”

Bucky closes his eyes. “Alpine.”

“Like, embarrassingly.”

“Alpine.”

“This is sad. It could have been cute if you did something about it, but you won’t so it’s mostly sad.”

He says nothing.

Bucky stalks out of the kitchen, leaving behind a cat very pleased at inventing mental distress for her reluctant owner. 

By Thursday, he’s taken to searching you out.  

Not in a weird way. Just… happening to pass your floor. Just checking if the studio lights are on. Or the espresso machine is still warm. Or if that playlist you always blast when you're in bed is drifting out from under the door.

Nothing.

The void becomes noticeable.

It’s disorienting.

It makes him feel like he’s missing something. Like music that cut out mid-song.

He just leans on the opposite wall like he’s starring in fucking Grease. Perhaps if he waits long enough, you’ll open the door and say something ridiculous and act like you didn’t miss a full week of doing absolutely nothing together.

Instead, it’s the stupid cat who strolls out, halting when she sees him. 

Bucky leaves before the comments start. 

The first time you're technically still there, but not really, it’s a Friday morning.

You're in the kitchen, nursing something hot from a chipped mug. His mouth immediately turns up into a smile, which he immediately gets rid of. 

On paper, everything looks normal. But something’s off.

You don’t say anything when he walks in.

Not even a throwaway line about how long he took to get out of bed. No snide remark about his slippers. Just a vague, distant nod in his direction, your gaze locked somewhere on the floor tiles like you’re trying to solve a problem he can’t see.

Bucky stands by the fridge for a second longer than he needs to. Watching.

He pours himself coffee, leans against the counter. Clears his throat.

"You sleep?"

A beat passes.

"Did I sleep?" You blink like you’re coming back into the room. "Sort of. You?”

"Why, what’s going on?"

"Hm?" Your brow furrows. Then you smile late, like a cue you forgot to hit on time. "Oh, nothing. Been watching a lot of Smallville. These teenagers are driving me nuts.”

“Do you want to–”

Your phone alarm rining cuts him off, and you glance at it before cursing softly.

“Sorry.” You give him an apologetic smile. “Raincheck?”

He nods, and you hop off the stool, clamouring off. 

Something nags at him. It's not that you're rushing. You've always rushed. It's the fact that you didn't try to rope him into whatever you're rushing for.

He stands there holding his coffee, stomach turning over with something he can’t name.

It happens again two days later.

You always do. You're a menace like that.

"Maybe you’re going to be assassinated soon," Alpine suggests, from atop the arm of the couch.

Bucky glances over.

"People are just busy sometimes," he mutters.

"Uh-huh." Alpine licks a paw, unimpressed. "People are just in denial sometimes."

He ignores that.

By Sunday, you do show up to movie night, late, disheveled, an apology tumbling from your mouth before you’re even through the door.

Bucky watches as you curl up into the corner of the couch, next to him like usual. A small thing. Maybe nothing.

You steal his popcorn only twice. Don’t quote the movie out loud, even though you’ve forced him to watch this with you thrice already. You just sit there, distracted, eyes glazed a little like you’re somewhere else entirely.

Halfway through the movie, your phone buzzes. You glance at it. Type something. Smile faintly.

Then you remember you’re in a room with someone else and look over.

“Sorry,” you murmur, gesturing vaguely at the screen. “Do you need me to rewind?”

He shakes his head. “You haven’t looked at the screen in forty minutes.”

You open your mouth, then close it. “Shit. Sorry. I’ve just– my brain’s kinda…” You do a circling gesture near your temple.

He doesn’t say anything. You don’t say anything more either.

Eventually, the credits roll. You’re on your feet before the cast names fade.

“I gotta run,” you say. “I left something exporting.”

"You’re leaving now?" Usually you force him into a discussion of the themes and the narratives and how some character is literally him, half because you think they’re pretty.  

"Yeah. Just need to check on a few things."

He watches you go.

There’s an imprint in the cushion beside him, still warm.

Alpine jumps up into the empty spot seconds later. “Is this the part where you start crying quietly?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

Bucky doesn’t answer.

The next morning, he finds a paper coffee cup on his doorstep.

No note. But the lid’s labeled with his name, written in your usual scribble. He stands there holding it for too long, thumb pressed against the warm cardboard.

For a moment, he forgets what he’d been brooding about.

Then he remembers.

Finally, when he does corner you, because that’s what it feels like at this point, you’re in the hallway outside the production suite with a file tucked under your arm and a cup of coffee he’s 85% sure is yours.

A smile brightens up your face when you see him and you open your mouth to say something but he speaks before he can stop himself.

“Are you avoiding me?”

You freeze, smile fading. “…What?”

“Just a question.”

There’s a pause. “I thought you’d be glad I was leaving you alone.”

“So you are,” he says.

“No. I’m not.”

“Then what the hell’s going on?” Bucky crosses his arms. “You’ve been MIA since–”

Since the conversation in the car where he told you he was being haunted. 

His eyebrows lift, just slightly. “You think I’m insane.”

“No,” comes the reply, steadier this time. “I do not.”

There’s a pause.

“I promise you, I do not think you’re insane,” you say again. “I’ll be back to normal soon. I’ve just been busy.”

He nods curtly, eyes avoiding looking at you. 

“So,” you add, “you are mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

He just doesn’t like disruptions to a working pattern. That’s all.

You eye him, one eyebrow raised. 

“It’s just weird.” He runs a hand over the back of his neck. “I’m used to you talking my ear off with whatever bullshit is running through your head, and now you’ve disappeared.”

“I get it.” You shift the file in your hand from one arm to the other. “I didn’t want to say anything until I had something concrete.”

“About what?”

You look at him. “I’ve been trying to figure something out. I don’t want to talk about it in case it’s nothing. 

Bucky doesn’t say anything for a second, studying your face. 

Finally, he exhales through his nose and nods.

You reach past him and flick his nose gently. “Thought you were waiting for me to leave you alone all this while. Just say you’re in love with me and go.”

He huffs. “Go where? You’d track me down to tell me about season 7 of Love Island.”

“And I have so much to tell you on that front.” You grin, before your phone rings. 

You glance at the caller ID before flashing him a small smile. 

“Go,” he says. “I’ll see you later.” 

“Catch you soon,” you say, pressing a kiss to your fingertips before tapping his cheek. 

You bump your shoulder into his as you walk away, and the part of him that’s been aching lately, that raw sore space where you usually live, quiets down a little.

The next morning, he wakes up later than usual and immediately glances at his phone.

Nothing.

He walks into the kitchen. Still no you. Still just Alpine, licking the top of a yogurt someone left out.

He mutters something about bacteria.

She flicks her tail at him.

That afternoon, he does see you in passing, arms full of books, phone held between ear and shoulder, talking rapidly about something he can’t hear.

You don’t notice him.

Either way, he leans against the wall, arms crossed.

“Wow,” Alpine drawls. “Snubbed.”

“We already talked.”

“You’re being avoided.”

“People have lives.”

“You used to be part of it.”

He watches you disappear around the corner and mutters, “Jesus, you’re an asshole.”

Alpine licks her paw. “Takes one to know one.”

It’s late enough that most of the lights in the tower have dimmed on their own. 

It’s past midnight, maybe closer to one. The TV is playing some rerun of a wildlife documentary, the sound down low. Alpine's tail flicks with irritation as Bucky scrolls aimlessly through an ancient recipe blog on his phone, looking for something he doesn’t plan to cook.

The door creaks open before he can even answer.

You step in, arms full with a laptop under one, a beat-up manila folder under the other, and something precariously balanced on top of both.

He’s on his bed, leaning against the headboard, reading something old and dog-eared. Alpine lifts her head from the windowsill, ears twitching.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hi,” he blinks, getting off the bed to meet you midway. “You’re supposed to knock.”

“You’re supposed to lock your door,” you reply, already halfway inside.  “Can I come in?”

“You’re already in.”

“Yeah, but like-- can I come in come in?”

You’ve got a paper bag in one hand, a closed laptop under the other arm, and something tucked awkwardly under your chin that might be… a folder? It slips, and you catch it just before it hits the floor.

“Jesus,” Bucky says flatly. “You’re going to trip on your own feet.”

You kick the door shut with your heel.

“Won’t,” you say, confidently. Immediately stumble two steps in.

He catches you by the elbow, just a flicker of a touch, steadying.

“You’re fine,” he mutters, more to himself than you.

You flash him a big smile, before dropping everything onto his bed, ungracefully claiming your space on it. He pretends not to notice the way his shoulders relax. 

Alpine lifts her head slightly, annoyed at first before climbing onto your lap.

“Okay,” you announce. “First things first. Cake.”

“Cake?”

You pull out a slice in a sad little plastic container. “I am nothing if not a master of apology.”

“You’re apologizing?”

“I am apologizing that you missed my face for seven straight days.”

He raises a brow.

“Sorry for making you cry.”

“No one cried.”

“Took to your bed. Covered the mirrors.”

“Do you even hear yourself when you talk?”

You fork into the cake, take a bite, and offer him the container without looking. 

“A peace offering,” you say. “Because I ghosted you like a little rat.”

He stares at it.

You stare at him. “This is where you accept my emotional olive branch.”

“That cake’s not emotional enough,” he mutters.

“I stole it from Steve’s fridge.”

“You know Steve’ fridge is my fridge, right?” But he takes it anyway.

You smile at him like you’ve won.

A few bites pass. You lean your head against the headrest, watching the TV like you were always here.

Bucky watches you as you settle in. You bump your knee into his lightly. 

He notices the details he’s trying not to. There’s a tiny streak of pen on your cheekbone. You look like you haven’t sat down in days.

You look fidgety. That big chaotic energy you always carry is muted, focused. There’s a nervous twitch in your fingers, a hesitance in the way you look at him.

“Sorry I’ve been gone.”

“You weren’t gone.”

You shift slightly, knee knocking into his. Neither of you moves away.

“I didn’t mean to avoid you,” you continue. “I just--” You gesture vaguely.

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“Still,” you say.

He watches you for a second. There’s something in his eyes that softens barely. Just a flicker at the corner.

He nudges the cake toward you. “Eat first. Explain after.”

For a few seconds, there’s only the quiet sound of forks against plastic. 

Then, without looking up, you speak, “I missed hanging out.”

His mouth twitches again with that near-smile, the one that always seems half-surprised by its own arrival.

You bump your knee against his. “Say it back or I’ll key your motorcycle.”

He mumbles something under his breath, all garbled.

“Louder.”

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t push it.”

You smile, just slightly, before passing him the rest of the cake. “Here. Eat your feelings.”

He takes it. “You ate most of it.”

“That’s because I have more feelings.”

He lets out a quiet laugh. You reach over, brush a crumb off his hoodie, and linger there a little longer than you need to.

Alpine has fully annexed your thigh, and Bucky, loser that he is, scratches her between the ears like he didn’t threaten to launch her into the sun last week.

You both watch the TV flicker for a second. Something explodes onscreen. Neither of you reacts.

Bucky watches the way you pick at the edge of the container. Your eyes are glazed over, the same way it has been this whole week. You’re not here with him, not really. 

“You’re thinking again,” he says, voice soft.

“No I’m not.” You huff. 

“You’ve been thinking since you walked in,” his gaze flicks between the TV, to your fork. Mostly, they seem to linger on your eyes.

You chew on your lip like you’re deciding on whether or not you want to let him in on a secret.

“Fine,” you say, “Can I say something, and you promise not to flip out?”

“No,” he says, knowing fully well that he was lying. 

You smile. “Fair.”

You pull the folder into your lap, the edge of it a little bent, a couple of post-it notes barely hanging on. He thinks it looks the way your brain probably does.

He holds up a hand to go on.

You fidget with the folder a second longer, then sigh and open it, rifling through a handful of pages before finding what you’re looking for.

“Like I said, I didn’t want to say anything until I had something real. So even this is just-- I don’t know.”

Bucky doesn’t look away. “What’s in the file?”

“Research.”

“Something for the show?”

“Something for us,” you say, and it slips out too fast. You blink, looking down. “I mean– like not us. Just you. Something for you.”

“Okay,” he says. “What is it?”

“Right,” you hesitate. “I thought about everything you said. About Becca. And I thought– I don’t know, that one day, if you’d ever want to know more, that you should be able to.”

It’s quiet again, but not the same quiet as before. This one is loaded with quiet anticipation. 

“I’m not pushing anything,” you say, turning your torso slightly toward him. “This is not a thing you have to deal with right now. Or ever. But you’ve been walking around like you’ve got a lead weight strapped to your ribs, and I didn’t know how to help.”

You gesture to the sheets basically spelling out of the binding.

“There’s a bunch of stuff in there, whatever I could find. Timelines, pictures, conversations with people who’ve met ghosts, mediums, tarot readers. My Instagram is basically only crystal ads now.”

You nudge the folder a little closer to him.

“You don’t have to look. You don’t have to talk about it. You don’t have to do a single thing.” You smile softly. “But if you ever want to, it’s there.”

Bucky hasn’t moved, but his jaw’s tight, and you can see the thoughts behind his eyes, too fast to track. 

He doesn’t open the folder. Just nods once, sets it aside on the nightstand like it's a phone charger or a pair of keys. 

Something to deal with later. 

Maybe.

Eventually, the cake’s half gone. The air in the room is warm, soft, like a blanket that hasn’t slipped off your shoulders yet.

You're already halfway through a yawn when you ask, “What day is it?”

He checks his watch like it’ll give a better answer than his brain. “Tuesday. No. Wednesday.”

“Right.” You rub at your eyes with the back of your hand. “We’ve still got one episode left. We’re short one climax, Barnes.”

He exhales through his nose. “We got nothing?”

“I didn’t say nothing,” you reply, thumbing open your notes app. “I said we don’t have a plan.”

He raises an eyebrow.

You scroll. “Okay. Here’s the shortlist. Stuff we never shot, leads that went nowhere that I still think have potential.”

Bucky leans back against the headboard, arms folded. “Which ones do you like?”

“I don’t know yet. I want to see them. We’ll pick the dumbest ones.”

You hand him the phone.

“We’ll need B-roll,” you add, already planning. “If we hit three in five days, we’ll have raw footage by Sunday. I can cut a teaser next week.”

“You’re assuming they’re all worth shooting.”

“I’m assuming one is. The other two can be weird little day trips.”

He nods once, crisp. “Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Let’s go on your weird little field trips.”

You grin. “God, you’re soft. I wore you down in one season.”

He grumbles something that sounds like denial. You poke him in the side.

“Tomorrow,” you announce, “we start with the one that smells like cat piss.”

He groans.

You stretch out on the bed, arms flung overhead. “Okay, pick something else to watch. I can’t watch another bear kill a fish. It’s depressing me.”

“Remote’s somewhere.”

“I’m not moving.”

“Sucks to be you.”

His eyes flick toward the unopened folder on the nightstand, doesn’t touch it. Doesn’t say a word.

You don’t either, except when he looks back at you, you’ve got a stupid, lazy smile on your face.

It takes him a second to notice the both of you are levitating few inches off the bed.

“Found it,” you say, as the remote floats up between you.

He rolls his eyes.

You grin at him.

The first artifact is a heavy, leather-bound journal sealed behind glass.

A brass plaque reads: DO NOT OPEN UNLESS YOU’RE READY TO KNOW EVERYTHING.

So you open it in five seconds. No self-preservation whatsoever.

The pages are blank until Bucky reaches over, brushes the corner, and a line of red ink unfurls across the paper.

He reads aloud, flatly, “Once faked an injury to skip running laps and cried when a crabapple hit your knee.”

You don’t move.

He glances at you. “So it’s personal.”

The page turns itself.

Another line appears.

“Had a dream last week where you kissed in an elevator. It fell. You were mostly annoyed the kissing got cut short.”

You take the journal from his hands, silent. Snap it shut.

“I don’t have dreams,” he says, amused. “That one’s not about me.”

You place the book on the far end of the table. Like it might try again.

It does.

More ink creeps across the fucking cover. Bucky lunges for it, reading it before you can stop him.

“You like his face. Especially when he’s--"

You’re already standing. Already crossing the room with the damn thing in your hand.

You open a window that doesn’t need opening.

And then, smiling brightly, you fling the book out.

When you turn back, he’s still in the chair, elbows on his knees, watching you with the same expression he always wears during briefings; a little curious, vaguely entertained.

“Anything else?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Don’t know who it was writing about. Wasn’t me.”

“Right,” he says, half-snort. “You just trashed our one viable video idea.”

“It was nonsense.”

That night, while brushing, you glance down to find the blasted thing near your toothbrush like Satan himself returned it to you. 

A green bookmark is wedged halfway through.

There’s a note on it in someone’s handwriting: For your reading pleasure. From, Not Bucky

You stare at it for a while.

Then you open to page one.

It’s not a haunted object, according to the label. It’s “psycho-reactive porcelain, late 19th century” which means nothing to either of you.

You hold it up to the light. It’s chipped. There’s a faint blue pattern around the rim.  

“It’s meant to do something if you drink from it,” you say.

Bucky stares at you over his jasmine citrus tea. “Define ‘something.’”

“Memory recall. Light clairvoyance.”

“Right.”

You tilt it toward him. “Want to go first?”

“No.”

You shrug. Fill the teacup from the sink. Take a careful sip.

Nothing.

You wait.

Still nothing.

Bucky glances at you. “How do you feel?”

“Like I drank tap water out of a very pretentious bowl.”

You hand it to him. He hesitates for a second, then downs the rest in one go like antibiotics.

Again, nothing.

You wait five minutes in silence.

When Bucky opens his mouth, you wait for the next snarky remark.

Instead, he asks with full sincerity, “Why is the light doing that.”

You frown. “What light.”

He gestures at the overheads. “They’re pulsing.”

You look up. They’re not.

You glance at him. He’s frowning slightly. His coffee mug is now three inches to the left of where it was.

Neither of you moved it.

You sit down. Slowly.

“It’s a delayed reaction,” you say.

“That or I’m having a stroke,” he murmurs. 

Alpine hops onto the counter. She looks taller than usual.

Not bigger. Just more vertical. As if someone stretched her slightly in post.

You both stare at her. She tilts her head. Her pupils are too wide.

Bucky leans toward you. “Is it possible to hallucinate in widescreen?”

You don’t answer. You’re watching the fridge breathe.

It’s subtle, in and out, like a sleeping animal.

“Okay,” you say calmly. “Might be time to lie down.”

He doesn’t argue. Just gets up and walks very carefully down the hall like gravity’s got new rules no one told him about.

You follow, passing Alpine, who now has three ears. You choose not to engage.

__________

You’ve both made it to bed, but you’re not sure whose bed it is. Or whether it is a bed. You’re lying very still.

There’s a low hum in the air, like a charger left plugged into a wall that hasn’t existed for years.

Neither of you speaks for a while.

Eventually Bucky says, “If I die…”

And then he doesn’t continue. It takes a good while to even register that he spoke. 

You’re staring at the ceiling. The ceiling is fine. The ceiling is a forest now. A very polite forest.

“Too late,” you mutter.

He turns his head slightly. “What?”

You turn yours. “Nothing.”

He closes his eyes. “I can hear colours.”

You stare at him.

“I’m hearing green.”

“What does green sound like?”

He’s silent for a long time.

“Wet,” he says.

You nod like that makes sense.

There’s a moment of peace. Then you start laughing. Not loudly. Just the kind of slow, broken laugh that happens when your brain lets go of structure.

 He lets out a low breath, almost a laugh. “Are we going to talk about the part where you’re lying on my arm.”

You look down.

You are, in fact, using his arm as a pillow.

You consider moving.

The light seems dimmer now. Or maybe the shadows are heavier. Either way, you can feel your pulse in your mouth.

“Should I move?” you ask, finally.

"Don’t." His voice is quiet. "Feels nice.”

You don’t move for another twenty minutes.

When you do finally sit up, the hallucinations are gone.

Alpine is asleep on the windowsill, back to her standard issue two ears.

The fridge has stopped breathing.

Bucky’s still on the bed, one hand covering his eyes.

You look at him.

He says nothing.

You leave the room with the teacup in your hand.

You drop it in the bin.

You miss.

Someone is supposed to drop off a haunted chair.

That’s what you thought, when you opened the door to Vincent. Vincent is wearing a waistcoat and fingerless gloves.

“You’ve got the look,” he says, stepping inside.

You blink. “The look? Am I gonna be a model?”

He brings his own clipboard.

“You’re going to want to sit down for this,” he says.

You stay standing. Bucky leans against the fridge, arms crossed.

Vincent glances between you. “You both died. Probably three, four days ago.”

You blink. “Right.”

Bucky says flatly, “Okay.”

“We’re breathing.”

“Depends on the cause of death. Sudden impact ghosts usually don’t. You two read as slow-burners.”

“What’s a slow-burner?” Bucky dares to ask.

“Emotional bleed-out. Takes years. You don’t even notice until you stop casting shadows.” He frowns. “There’s something very cold about this room.”

“That’s the air conditioner.”

“Ever feel like your body’s not yours anymore?”

“Capitalism.”

Vincent points his clipboard at you. “Denial is step one.”

You glance at Bucky. “He’s trying to gaslight us into being ghosts.”

“I clocked that.”

“You passed over quietly. Very dignified.”

You consider. “Okay. But if we’re dead, why are we still here?”

“Ah,” he says, tapping his nose. “Unfinished business. Usually regret. Or unspoken feelings. Or--”

“Sexual tension,” you offer.

He blinks.

You nudge Bucky’s boot. “Hey. Think we died in the middle of something?”

He doesn’t look up. “Probably.”

Vincent clears his throat. “You’re joking because you’re resisting transcendence.”

You nod, serious. “That’s right. I died before I got to see Bucky shirtless in daylight.”

“Exactly,” Vincent says, with a touch too much sincerity.

You turn to Bucky. “Do I look dead to you?”

He shrugs. “Define dead.”

Vincent closes his notebook. “Okay. You’re clearly not ready.”

You press on. “Hypothetically, are we separate ghosts, or do we haunt as a pair?”

His eyes light up. “Oh, tandem hauntings are extremely rare–”

“I’m going to stop you there,” Bucky says, already walking to the sink. “This is a waste of time.”

You trail after. “Let him finish. This might be the closest I get to a legally binding commitment from you.”

Vincent’s still going: “It would explain the EMF levels. The flickering lights. Your cat refusing eye contact–”

“She doesn’t respect anyone,” Bucky adds. “She hissed at the mirror this morning. I think it was at herself.”

Vincent reaches into his bag, pulls out two laminated cards.

“These are temporary death certificates. Just until you make peace with the transition. If anyone official asks, show them this.”

Vincent clasps his clipboard. “So. Are we ready to move on?”

You shake your head. “Absolutely not. Tell him to make out with me and I’ll transcend in three seconds.”

Vincent sighs. Pulls out a pen. “I’ll be back in a week. If you're still resisting, we escalate.”

“To what?” you ask.

“Spirit mediation,” he says grimly. Then brightens: “You’re probably not going to heaven, by the way. But you might have great lighting down there!”

The door clicks shut.

Silence.

You say, “If we’re dead, we’re doing it badly.”

He hums. “Speak for yourself. I was a professional ghost for 50 years.”

The bedroom was quiet. 

You’d left a while ago, citing the fifteen hours you’d stayed up to catch the haunted chair say something to you. 

Bucky stayed awke to make good on his promise to check whether any footage was actually usable.

He’s spent a good three hours going through tapes, watching every single interaction and joke between the both of you. Rewinded quite a few times to catch the way you said something particularly. It makes the whole process a lot longer than it had to be.

At nearly 12, he comes to the disheartening conclusion that none of what was filmed is worth a final video. 

He's not sure why. It just felt like it wasn’t worthy enough, not if that was the last video you were going to film together. 

He stares at the shared Google doc. It still said “no climax” in capital letters, underlined. 

Bucky lets out a breath through his nose, sits back in the chair, and opens the laptop.

There’s nothing urgent in his inbox. One polite reminder from the Maya, phrased like a threat. He clicked it open, skimmed, and clicked away again.

He tabs over to the edit queue and opens a Reddit tab while it loads. A habit he’d formed after relying on it as his main search engine for the last few years.  

If the internet was good for anything, it was telling him what his own face looked like under harsh lighting.

The subreddit was louder than usual, more posts, more upvotes, more speculation than he remembered. 

It’s mostly fluff: timestamps with vague noises, blurry screenshots of orbs that were probably dust, someone insisting that a static hiss in episode 23 was Morse code for “JACK WAS HERE.”

He scrolss, mildly bored, while the next set of videos transfer to the cloud.

Until he pauses on a specific title.

He clicks on it.

It was the clip in the woods where you’d gone searching for the Mothman, the one where the wind had knocked over the directional mic.

Bucky dismisses most of the footage. It was too thin, too chaotic. Too much wind, not enough ghosts.

Until he clicks on the link to the screenshot.

There, just at the edge of the frame, nearly obscured by shadow: a figure.

He frowns, returning to the video to play the clip.

Nothing obvious. Just wind and breath and him muttering something snide about the stupid forest.

He scrubs back to the frame, pauses it, zooming in.

The figure was there.

He leans closer.

He stares at it. At the shape. At the faint outline of something like a dress, like the one–

He opens another tab. Types fast.

His throat went dry.

There were screen grabs now. Threads inside threads. Cross-referencing. Timestamps. One video from episode seventeen, filmed in the abandoned greenhouse. A shape in the background, just behind the condensation. The same hair. The same profile.

He clicks faster. Traced it.

Episode 3: 12:47, near the tree Episode 4: 1:22, corner of the house Episode 6: 4:35, doorframe, briefly, mid-argument Episode 7: 9:10, window Episode 9: 11:12, blurred, reflected in the china 

He sits back, chest screwed tight.

The username of the original poster was something mundane: spectraldramaqueen23. But their eye for detail was nauseatingly good. They’d overlaid screenshots. Zoomed in. Used filters. 

His palms felt cold.

The room felt heavier than it had a moment ago, as if it, too, had read something it shouldn’t have.

He reaches out, slowly, and opens the laptop again.

Back to the footage.

There she was, in every clip from the last 25 videos you’d released, at exactly the timestamps the internet had told him. 

He sits back again, heart ticking slightly louder than he liked.

Another post blinked in on the sidebar. A new one.

"Ghost Girl identity: here are my theories"

Bucky slams the laptop shut, standing up too fast.

The chair rolls back to hit the wall.

The file wasn’t where he thought it would be.

Which made sense. He hadn’t exactly placed it down. More like hurled it into the back of the closet three weeks ago. Now he was on his knees in the dark, shoulder wedged behind a space heater, muttering curses at a collapsed tripod and an unopened pack of candles.

He finds it by accident.

The edge of the manila folder was bent in, crushed beneath an ancient hoodie and something that might’ve once been a gimbal. 

He stares at it before clawing it open it with both hands,

He doesn’t even sit, just starts flipping fast, skimming and not reading so much as consuming, eyes grazing past dates, screenshots, scans, your handwriting scrawled in the margins, circling things he’d looked at a dozen times and never seen.

He slammed the file shut before scrambling out his door.  

You open your door to find Bucky, panting slightly, face flushed like he’d run the entire flight of stairs.

You opened the door mid-knock, because he hadn’t really knocked. More just landed against it.

He looked– well. Not great.

He holds the file out you’d given him nearly two weeks ago and never spoke about since, like it was on fire. “She’s been in every single fucking episode.”

You exhale, like you knew this was coming, before stepping aside. “Come in.”

He’s breathing like he’d run from something. Hoodie half-zipped, hair a mess, eyes wide and almost glassy.

“She’s been in every episode,” he says.

His voice cracked halfway through it. Like his chest hadn’t caught up to the rest of him.

“She’s been here the whole time. The whole goddamn time.”

You close the door gently. “Sit with me.”

He looks at you like he’d just remembered you were real.

“What have you found,” he said, “about her.”

You gesture, calmly. “I’m gonna make you some tea, and you can tell me what happened.”

He paces a tight, messy loop of your room. Hands on his hips, then arms folded, then rubbing his jaw like he’s trying to erase it.

You watch him with some alarm. This is not a man well-acquainted with emotions. Watching him come undone is a bit like watching a sink catch fire.

“I didn’t see it,” he says. “I didn’t notice. But she’s in the footage. And everyone else has been seeing it but me.”

You nod, slow, walking past him toward the kettle. It buys you time. He’s vibrating with something between panic and fury, and you need the anchor of making tea just to stay upright.

You call out as you fill the kettle. “You checked Reddit?”

“Yeah,” he says. “She’s in my shots. She’s following me.”

The kettle clicks on. You return. He’s standing where you left him, blinking like you hit him with a brick.

“Right,” you say.”

“Because she hates me.”

You blink. “That’s your takeaway?”

“She’s haunting me,” he snaps. “Of course she is. Why wouldn’t she? I left her alone to go turn into something she’d fucking hate.”

“She doesn’t hate you,” you say, calm again. “That’s not what this is.”

He’s already shaking his head. “I missed her entire life. I missed her funeral.”

“You didn’t choose to do that,” you tell him, eyebrows knit together. “Sit with me. Please.”

Finally, he agrees. You give him a warm cup with a teabag floating in it. It’s more recreational than anything else. 

He doesn’t drink the tea, just holds it, only because you gave it to him. 

You sit across from him, watching the way he stares into the middle distance. Like the footage is still playing somewhere behind his eyes.

“I don’t think she hates you,” you break the silence. “Once you told me, I started compiling everything. Not just the clips she shows up in, but the places. It wasn’t random. You remember the ones you told me you saw her?”

He doesn’t look at you.

You go on anyway.

“The mansion that Jason said was haunted by his uncle. That piece of paper that hit you in the neck that had ‘PBJ’ scribbled on it.”

His thumb twitches against the mug.

“The cornfield,” you continue. “Where you said you heard her laugh and chased it down.”

“I know,” he mutters.

He nods. Doesn’t speak.

“The haunted ship, in the mirror fogged up and you heard her say ‘Leave.’.”

“You’re not making a great case for her not hating me,” he mutters.

“No,” you say softly. “But I think it makes her consistent.”

He scoffs. “Yeah, consistent in making sure I know I fucked up.”

You lean forward. “Bucky–”

“She’s told me to leave.” His voice rises, sharp and bitter. “She’s spelled out my name on a board.”

“Buck–”

He cuts you off, fast and loud. “I even talked to a fucking tarot reader about those cards in that potions episode. I explained the positions. And she told me I was screwed.”

You stare at him for a beat. “Bucky, what’d you tell her about the cards?”

“What.”

“Did you even look at the footage before you talked to her?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Of course you didn’t,” you mumble.

“I remembered which ones came out.” He shrugs, defensive. “Besides, I don’t like watching myself.”

“Liar,” you say, not unkindly, but some way to relieve the tension in him. “You love watching our videos. I’ve seen you watch them several times.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, “I’m not looking at me in them.”

You ignore the warmth creeping up your neck.

“Anyway,” you say, clearing your throat. “I figured you didn’t look at the footage before talking to her. But they were upright. All of them.”

You flip to the relevant page. Three photos: the cards exactly as they appeared on the table. You’ve annotated them, of course.  

“And if I’m not wrong,” you say, drawing the folder toward you, “she told you the meanings in reverse.”

You open the file. Pull out a thin, crumpled email printout, and slide it across the table to him.

He doesn’t touch it.

“I found Lillia. Took me two weeks, but I sent her the card photos. I asked her to read them again. She wrote me back. It’s all in there.”

Bucky lets out a shaky breath. He’s still holding the email in both hands,  the paper crumpling under the force.

You speak, finally, voice quiet, “Let’s walk through it.”

He doesn’t look up.

“The house,” you say. “Paper hitting you, with a nickname for both of you as kids. Furniture was moving without any of us having to do anything with it, bottles too.”

“Yeah.”

“She gave you a heads-up. Something small. Something harmless. Something that’d let you know she was there.”

He doesn’t respond.

You go on. “Then the cornfield. You were lost for like, half an hour. You said you heard a laugh, so you followed it.”

He nods, just barely.

“And it led you straight back to me,” you say. “To someone, so that you weren’t alone anymore.”

His throat works like he’s swallowing something sharp.

“The haunted ship,” you say. “The mirror where you saw her. Where she told you to leave.”

His voice is flat. “Yeah. That one wasn’t subtle.”

You look at him. “No. But the ship levitated that night. You were on the verge of passing out from the sway.”

“She knew I got sea sick,” he says, barely above a whisper.

“Exactly.”

You pause.

“It doesn’t sound like she was trying to scare you, Buck,” you say, gently. “It sounds like she was trying to let you know she was there.”

He’s staring at the wall.

“She left you notes so you knew it was her,” you say. “Led you when you needed a way out. Told you to leave when it was dangerous. She showed up when no one else could see what was coming.”

You shake your head. “It doesn’t sound like she’s haunting you. It sounds like she’s looking out for you.”

His jaw tightens. You can see him trying not to let it in.

“So,” you say. “When you say you feel like you’ve failed her… I have a feeling that maybe you're not the only one who thinks that.”

He turns his head, slow, like doing anything physically hurts. 

You look at him, steady. “Maybe she feels like she should’ve protected you.”

His eyes sting, glassy now. He looks down at his hands like they’re foreign, like they’ve done things he can’t bear to remember.

His voice comes rough, sanded down to the nerve: “Yeah.”

He doesn’t lower the email, clutching it like it’s burning through his fingers.

The room is so quiet you can hear the tea cooling in its cup. His shoulders fall, just slightly. Like something’s finally been set down.

And for the first time since this whole thing started, he looks like he doesn’t know how to carry it anymore. Not the guilt, not the love, not the sudden awful realisation that maybe she just wanted to make sure he got home. 

You stay where you are, knees folded on the couch, tea cold beside you. 

You watch him, gently, without speaking. He’s leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the printed email still loose in his fingers.

He turns it over, once. Just for something to do.

“Wanna pull a card?”

His eyes lift to yours.

You don’t smile, but your face is kind. 

He looks at the bed where you’ve placed an old tarot deck sits. He looks back at you.

“Yeah,” he says. Quietly. “Okay.”

You set the deck down in front of him and nod at it. “You shuffle.”

He hesitates, then picks it up. His hands are steady now. Not relaxed, but sure.

It’s clumsy but deliberate. When he’s done, you tap the top of the deck with one finger.

“Pull.”

He does.

One card.

He flips it over.

Neither of you speaks for a long moment. The card rests between you like a breath finally released.

Then, almost inaudibly, he says, “Huh.”

You lean forward, elbows on the table, and tilt your head at it.

“You know what it means?”

He shakes his head slowly.

“From what I’ve learnt in the last few weeks,” you begin, “It’s a beginning. An offering.”

He frowns slightly. “Doesn’t feel like a beginning.”

“It’s not that kind of beginning,” you say. “I've seen people compare it to the first breath after crying. What lets you know the worst is over.”

He watches you. 

“It means healing. Gently. Slowly, what you don’t notice until one day it doesn’t hurt to say her name out loud.”

You watch the muscle in his jaw flex.  

He looks at the card. Doesn’t touch it.  

You soften your voice.

“I think she’s here because she loved you too much to leave,” you say. “Even if you said you didn’t deserve it.”

He presses a hand to his face. Exhales through his palm.

“She’s not stuck,” you say. “You’re not, either.”

He nods, just once.

You watch him for a second longer. “How about we let her know that you’re taken care of, yeah?”

His head lifts. He meets your eyes.

You smile, small. Steady.

“And I think you should realise,” you add, “that she was taken care of too.”

He doesn't speak, eyes shining. 

But he nods.

“Yeah,” he says, voice hoarse.

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

THANK U TO EVERYONE WHO BOUGHT ME A KO-FI FOR THIS SILLY FIC. IT'S STILL INCONCEIVABLE TO ME THAT YOU LIKED THIS ENOUGH TO PAY ME REAL MONEY FOR IT.

fun fact: the lil montage in there are all ideas i had that i never ended up including in chapters. haunted chairs, manuscripts, psychedelics, someone who convinces them that they're dead.

to know when this fic updates, please follow @shurisneakersupdates and turn on post notifications! it’s the only way tumblr will let me have a taglist and i don’t post there at all except for fics </3

[shurisneakersupdates]

unsolved part 16 out now!

[barnescafe]

unsolved (xvi)

Summary: Bucky doesn’t even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet’s amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse.

Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky, obnoxious reader, tension, ghosts, ptsd

A/N: this was 10k words long before i brought it down to 9.6k. anyway. we're starting to wind down with this series. isn't that so insane.

Previous part || Series masterlist

Dawn comes, and brings with it not birdsong. Not the gentle patter of rain. 

A loud, sharp knock on your door.

You roll out of bed to check your phone. 4:58 a.m.

You half expect to find the building on fire.

No one else would be stupid enough to pull this stunt on you on the second day of the year. 

When you open the door, Bucky’s standing there like he’s already been up for hours. Hoodie, boots, duffel in one hand, a to-go cup in the other.

“You’re up,” he says.

You stare at him. “You just woke me.”

He tips his head. “We’re leaving in ten.”

You’re not even sure you heard this loser right, considering it was 5 in the fucking morning. 

Still, you ask as patiently as you can, “Where.”

“Route 7. There’s a ghost on the highway.”

You just look at him, wondering if he had been replaced in the middle of the night by an alien with a death wish, because what the fuck is this.

He looks back, steady. “Ghost bride. Wants to hitch a ride.”

“And she must hitch one at the ass crack of dawn? Not at like, 3pm?” 

He shrugs. “It’s a long drive.”

“I haven’t packed.”

He holds up the bag. “I did.”

You recognize it as the one you keep ready for field work, though you can’t remember where you last left it.

“…You packed for me.”

“Check it. I guessed on the jacket.”

You take it, slowly. “But the camera’s not charged.”

“I charged it.”

“Tripods?”

“Loaded.”

“SD cards?”

“In the glove box. Readers too.”

You can’t stop staring at him. “Is this a trap?”

“There’s a folder on the front seat,” he says. “Case notes. Highlighted.”

“Highlighted.”

“Active case sightings.”

“What is happening?” You stare at him. “Are you trying to impress me?”

His eyes flick to yours, just for a second. “Is it working?”

You don’t know what to do with that, so you point at the cup. “Is that coffee?”

“No. Peach mango tea.”

“…For me?”

He raises an eyebrow. “No.”

That is probably the most normal he’s been in this whole interaction.

You don’t say anything for a moment. He doesn’t fill the silence.

He looks like he might, but he doesn’t.

“I’ll meet you downstairs,” he says. “Ten minutes.”

Then he turns and walks down the hall.

“Your cup’s in the car,” he calls over his shoulder.

You glance down. The zipper’s already half open. Inside, you can see your camera, tucked into its spot like it’s been handled a hundred times. Neatly packed. Memory cards in their pouch. Gimbal foam-wrapped. Chargers coiled.

You don’t know what to do with any of this.

The road unwinds slowly in front of you, all gray light and low fog. He’s been driving for over an hour. 

Neither of you have spoken much since the first gas station, and even that was mostly about fuel grades. A lot, considering he dragged you out of bed to be here. 

Ghost bride, tragedy at the wedding leads to it being called off, dies on her way home. Now haunts the highway, shows up in people’s car, waiting for someone to drop her to her favourite diner. Stuff you’d dealt with before, which is why Bucky dragging you out of bed for this made no sense. 

The sun's just starting to bleed into the sky when you say it.

“Does this have anything to do with the meeting yesterday?”

He shifts his position. Not much, but enough.

“No,” he says, too flat. 

You hum quietly. “Right.” 

You let the silence stretch.

You glance at him. “You didn’t say much after it.”

“Didn’t have much to say.”

You haven’t seen this Bucky since the first meeting you had with him all those months ago, all monosyllabic and short sentences. 

He turns up the heat on the AC, one arm leaning on the window.   

You turn your head to the outside, watch the mist slide past the trees.

Something stretches tight between you. Like a drawer packed too carefully, threatening to spill.

You think about the look on his face yesterday after Maya logged off the call. How he just stared at the blank screen.

You think about the way he’d said, “Guess that’s that.”

You glance at him now, and he’s still got that same set to his jaw.  

He just keeps driving, hands steady and eyes on the horizon.

“There’s no way this road used to be called ‘Lover’s Bone Trail’,” you say instead, poking a hole into the tension in the air.

“That’s what all the articles said.”

“And we, as a community, have just decided to keep it?”

“It’s historical. Named in 1874.”

“It was the 1800s. Everything was like a euphemism for syphilis. Men wore ten layers of wool and died from looking at soup wrong. Why are we respecting that?”

Bucky has no answer to that.

“So,” you say, suddenly loud because you guess you had to do this the old fashioned way, “if she shows up, I’m pulling over. She’s coming with us.”

“You’re not the one driving.”

“Technicality.”

“No,” he says. “That’s literally how driving works.”

“She’s a bride,” you say, ignoring him entirely. “That means she’s into commitment. I think I have a shot.”

“You think she’s your type?”

“I think I’m her type. She keeps climbing into strangers’ cars in the middle of the night. She sounds fun. I think I could win her over before she disappears.”

“Win her over to what.”

“To our side. She could help us with b-roll.”

Bucky exhales. “She’s going to latch onto your soul and suck the nutrients out of your bones.”

“Great. Finally some passion in my relationship.” 

He doesn’t answer.

You grin. “You could just admit you’re jealous of my hypothetical ghost wife.”

He mutters something like “I’m begging you to shut up” but there’s the barest, traitorous twitch at the corner of his mouth.

You lean your head back against the window, pleased. “If she asks what we are, I’m saying I’m single and looking.”

“You don’t even know what she looks like.”

“She’s a bride. How hard can it be.”

“You can’t just stop for every random on the street.”

“I can. And I will.”

“We are not putting a stranger in the car while it’s still dark.”

“If she’s dead, what’s she gonna do?”

“She could be a con artist.”

You grin. “So am I. We’ll get along great.”

You flash him a cheerful thumbs-up like that clears you of all responsibility.

Bucky shakes his head with a small tug at his lips. 

“Fine,” you say, “if she gets in the car and asks what we are, what do you want me to say?”

“Coworkers.”

You scoff. “We’re in a car at sunrise. You packed my jacket. This is essentially foreplay.”

He doesn’t look at you. “You’re deeply troubled.”

“You knew that when you signed the contract.”

He mutters something under his breath. You ignore it.

“I’m just saying,” you continue, “if she climbs in here and asks, I’m gonna say we’re eloping.”

“You’re gonna tell a dead bride that we’re eloping? You want to get us killed?”

“Yessir. You going to stop me?”

He doesn’t answer.

You lean back smugly. “Didn’t think so.”

He shakes his head, one hand adjusting the rearview mirror with resigned energy.

“Do you think we'd be one of those couples that get married and divorced over and over again? Because it’s fun and chic?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Like Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez.”

He narrows his eyes. “We’re not even dating yet and you’re talking about divorce.”

“Dibs.”

“Dibs?”

“I’m calling dibs on being your first divorce. I don’t care you who you date–” blatant lie “--so long as I'm the one you're getting married and divorced to over and over.”

He doesn’t respond. But his ears are a little pink.

You’re sitting cross-legged in the passenger seat with your hoodie pulled over your face like evil Kermit. 

Bucky’s been pretending not to notice for fifteen miles.

He should be used to this by now. He is used to this. But he doesn’t look at you. Can’t.

Because the problem is that he’ll either lose his mind or kiss you so hard it resets both your trauma timelines.

So instead he stares straight ahead. 

“If we see her, I’m slamming on the brakes and proposing.”

Bucky doesn’t flinch. “You’re still not the one driving.”

You shift a little, pull your legs down, twist the sleeves of your hoodie into knots around your fingers

He sends a glance your way. “You should sleep.”

You look at him sideways. “You trying to get rid of me?”

“Yes.” Blatant lie.

Outside, the horizon’s cracking open with light. The fog’s burning off slow. The road stretches ahead like it’s daring you to say something next.

“If I die on this trip, I want you to taxidermy me.”

A beat passes as Bucky processes what you just said.. 

“No,” he says slowly, like it’s a boundary he’s had to establish before.

“I’m serious. Tasteful pose. Keep me in the studio.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Where would you put me then?”  

“I’m going to bury you in a ditch.”

“I’d crawl back up Michael Jackson style.” You sit up slowly and stretch with the smug satisfaction of someone who knows they’re an acquired taste and has already been acquired.

You’ve had enough caffeine to kill a Victorian child and still your brain refuses to slow down.

Still, you tediously continue, “If I die before you, you’re not allowed to get remarried.”

“We’re not married.”

“I just think if I die, you should live a quiet, devoted life. Maybe take up baking. Get weird about birds. But never move on.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Focuses on the road.

You keep going.

“If you die before me, I’m gonna be insufferable,” you say. “Wear your hoodie for five years. Cry at vacuum commercials. Start getting into knife-throwing or something.”

He lets out a breath.  

You smile, wicked and tired and radiant with nonsense. “Also, I’m going to lie about you. So much. You fought bears. You once ate glass to win a bar fight.”

“I’ve never even been in a bar fight.”

“Gotta fill in the gaps.”

And yet again, he doesn’t say anything. You’re sitting there with crumbs on your shirt spewing absolute madness without even blinking. 

He tells himself to focus on the horizon, on the mission.

But all he can feel is the heat of you next to him. The way you’re always like half-feral. And how every word you say has him unraveling by degrees. All he can think is that god, you’re annoying, and god, he wants to kiss you so bad he could drive you both off this road just to make it stop.

You turn to him suddenly, serious. “If I do die first, you can’t carry a picture of me in your wallet. That’s boring. You can carry my teeth. Like, in a pouch. Just in case.”

“In case of what.”

“You never know,” you say. “Might need them.”

He glances over. “You’re carrying your own teeth.”

“No,” you say. “I give you my teeth. It’s symbolic. A gesture of trust. Of love.”

“A bag of loose teeth is not love.”

“You just don’t get symbolism. Anyway. If you don’t do it, I’ll know you never really loved me.”

He finally glances over. 

Your grin widens. “See? That’s the look. Perfect. Do that when journalists ask if you still hear my voice.”

He doesn’t answer, eyes lingering over you for a second too long. 

“You’d look good with a parrot, by the way. For your widower era.”

He looks at you and it takes a millisecond to realise somehow this is– different. 

Messy. Like all the gears in his head are clanging against each other at once.

“You good?” you ask after a beat of him not moving.

He exhales sharply, before giving a curt nod. “Fine.”

You’re still watching him like you’re about to say something else when it happens.

You blink, and that’s when it flashes past the passenger window.

White and tall. Not a blur, but more like a flicker, the kind you catch just out of the corner of your eye. 

Pale fabric snapping in the wind. A veil, maybe. A dress.

You sit bolt upright.

“HEY.”

He jerks slightly, hand tensing on the wheel. “What?”

“What do you mean ‘what’? You twist halfway in your seat, finger jabbing at the back window. “Did you not see that?!”

“What are you talking about?”

“We passed her.”

“Passed who.”

“The bride!”

He glances at the rearview mirror. “There’s no one there.”

“She was right there. You just— I told you to keep your eyes open!”

“I was watching the road.”

“You were looking at me.”

“You were trying to give me your teeth.”

You’re still facing backward, peering through the fog. “I think she posed. That’s so hot of her.” 

He squints. Checks the mirrors. Nothing. Just the stretch of empty road behind you. 

You turn in your seat, trying to spot her through the trees. “She probably thinks we’re rude.”

“She probably doesn’t exist.”

“She posed.”

“She didn’t pose.”

“I know a theatrical ghost when I see one, and that bitch was hitting angles.”

“Jesus Christ.”

He parks.

You’re already out of the car before he unbuckles. Camera bag over your shoulder, boots crunching on gravel, one hand raised.

“Miss Bride!” you call. “Sorry, my cameraman was too busy making googoo eyes at me to notice you the first time–”

“Shut up.”

“--but we’d love a second to talk if you’re free. Perhaps even consider holy matrimony.”

Bucky rolls down the window to watch you. 

“Turn around.”

Bucky, sitting in the car, door shut, hands on the wheel, does not even flinch.

“No.”

Your head snaps toward him. “Excuse me?”

“We’re not going back.”

You stomp over to his window. He hits the button and rolls it down.

““She was right there,” you say, stabbing a finger into the air.

“She’s not now.”

“Because we drove past her.”

He shrugs. “She’s got legs. She can catch up.”

“She doesn’t have legs, she’s floating.”

“She can float her way over.”

“Bucky.”

“If she’s that into this, she’ll show up again. Get in the car.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, marching around to the passenger side. “You’re so fucking difficult.”

You throw the door open, toss yourself in.

He starts driving, non-chalant, like he hasn’t just disrespected the very fabric of journalism.

You stare at him. He stares ahead.

“Can’t believe I saw a literal ghost bride and you’re acting like it was a pigeon.”

“Both of them are mobile. She can come over if she wants.” 

Your voice is all sullen when you say, “She liked me. We had a moment.”

“I’m sure she’ll tell all her friends.”

You glare out the window. 

He’s been driving for forty minutes.

The forest has thinned. The fog has burned off. The sun has the audacity to shine.

No sign of her.

You’re on your third rewatch of the dashcam footage you weren’t even filming at the time.

“There’s a shadow at timestamp 7:08,” you say, zooming in. “Could be a veil.”

Bucky doesn’t look. “Could be a bird.”

You turn to him. “You have no imagination.”

At another point, you put on music that is, frankly, emotionally manipulative. Minor keys. Whispery vocals.  

He turns the volume down without asking.

You turn it back up.

Another twenty minutes pass.

Still nothing.

Just road. Crows. One gas station.

You sigh.

“I think she broke up with me.”

“She was never dating you.”

“We had a moment.”

“Your entire moment lasted less than five seconds.”

“People fall in love in less.”

“Name one time.”

You stare pointedly at him, daring him to say it.

He does not.

Instead, he says: “We’ll stop at the next town. You can film the local haunted mailbox or whatever.”

Another mile passes.

You peer out the window one last time, hopeful.

Nothing.

“You’re buying me breakfast,” you say like it’s punishment.

As if that wasn’t the plan anyway.

Since it’s on Bucky’s dime, you order too much food. It’s half out of spite. Half because the menu actually looks good. 

Bucky’s halfway through his toast, mind elsewhere.

You point your fork at his plate. “What should our last video be about?”

Bucky’s mouth goes a bit dry but he swallows the bread nonetheless. 

“Don’ care. Pick whatever.”

“Wow, can you contain your excitement? I can't handle it.”

He gives you a brief smile.  

You take a sip from his mug. “You’ll miss me.”

“Like a rash.”

“Charming.”

You kick his shin lightly under the table. He doesn’t flinch.

You lean back, stretching your arms over your head. “One more after this. That’s it.”

“It is.”

You eye him. 

He shrugs, picking a crumb off the table like it’s something to do.

“What next?” he asks you, tone casual but voice gruff. 

You watch him for a beat before saying, “I mean, I always figured I was gonna bounce after this. It was a fun gig.”

He nods once, making no motion to argue. Like you said you were going to pick up groceries.

“So, you know. Big change.”

“Guess so.”

You give him a look. “That’s it?”

“What else am I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know. ‘Wow, I’ll miss your witty insight and looking at how sexy you are." Something like that.”

He raises an eyebrow. “My mother raised me not to lie.”

You throw a balled up straw cover at him. It bounces off his shoulder and lands on his plate.

You pick up your fork again. “So what are you gonna do with your newfound freedom?”

He sets his cup down. “Sleep for a week. Punch the next person who says ‘content strategy.’”

“Bold of you to assume anyone talks to you voluntarily.”

“You never shut up.”

“I bet you had a countdown. Big red Xs on a calendar. ‘Only three more episodes with the loud one.’”

He doesn’t respond. You glance up.

His face is unreadable.  

You flag down the check with a raised hand.

“Anyway,” you say, lighter again. “One more, then I ride off into the sunset. You get your life back. Everybody wins.”

He watches you slide on your jacket, looking at you from the corner of his eye. “Is that what you think? I get my life back?”

You pause, one arm halfway in a sleeve.

He pays the bill without asking even though he very defiantly he said he wasn’t going to.  

You finish putting the jacket on. Adjust the collar like it’s suddenly very interesting.

Outside, the morning’s sharper now. Colder, even though the sun had taken its rightful place in the sky. 

You walk toward the car. He follows.

Just before you get in, you say, “I don’t think you hated all of it.”

He opens his door. Doesn’t look at you. “Some parts were tolerable.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“I can take it back.”

“You won’t.”

The doors shut.  

Bucky turns the key. The engine grumbles awake. He checks the mirrors like he’s doing a final perimeter sweep before war.

And then he goes rigid.

“...Huh.”

You’re adjusting your seatbelt. “What.”

He doesn’t answer.

Just stares into the rearview, deadpan.

You lean over. “What.”

Still nothing.

“What?” you ask again, sharper. 

He sighs. “There’s someone in the back seat.”

You blink. “Sorry what?”

Bucky can’t tear his eyes away from the mirror.

You twist around.

White dress. Veil. Pale as moonlight.  

You turn back slowly. Face forward. Stare straight ahead.

“Is she... buckled in?”

“Nope,” he says, straight laced.

“She should be buckled in.”

“That’s not a priority right now.”

“I don’t care. That’s a moving violation.”

He adjusts the rearview. Avoids eye contact with her. 

You whip around again. She hasn’t moved. Just sits there, hands folded, gaze unfocused.

“Now what?”.

“She’s not screaming,” Bucky mutters. “So that’s a good start.”

“Oh great, we’ve upgraded from ‘screaming banshee’. Love that for us.” You stare at her a bit longer before deciding on, “She’s probably just hitching a ride.”

“A ride to where? Hell?” Bucky just adjusts the AC like that’ll fix the ambient death in the backseat.

She’s still there in the rearview. Still pale, still backlit like she brought her own horror movie fog. Face slack. Eyes a little too bloodshot, like she’s been awake since 1834.

You watch her for a second.

Then look at Bucky.

Then back at her.

“Okay,” you say slowly. “According to literally every story ever written about this woman, she just wants to be dropped off at the diner.”

He nods. “Which we’ve done.”

“Which we’re currently leaving.”

Another second passes while you both contemplate.

“What if she didn’t see it?” you pose.

“She’s sitting in this car. We’re in the parking lot. She has eyes.” 

“I’ve seen her eyes. She has bad eyes.”

You squint at her reflection. Her stare doesn’t waver. Doesn't blink.

“Okay. So if she saw the diner, and didn’t leave, does that mean–”

“She’s defective?”

“I was going to say she doesn’t have money.”

You reach down, grab the diner’s leftover bag from the floor and rifle through it.

You hold the takeout container up so she can see it in the mirror.

“Hey,” you say, “We have pancakes. They’re lukewarm, but edible.”

She stares.

“Real maple syrup,” you add, like that’s going to help. “I think.”

Still nothing.

Bucky glances in the mirror, then back to the road. “Well, you offered. Now what.”

You close the container, before twisting in your seat to face the back. “Okay, so what do you want?”

No answer. Just red-rimmed ghost eyes.

“Maybe she just wants to hang out.”

“She is bleeding from the eyes, Buck.” You lean forward, rub your hands over your face. “She wants something else.”

You glance back at the mirror. Her stare is heavier now. Expectant.

You squint. “What can we do for you? What will help?”

Her eyes narrow just a little.

You look at Bucky.

“She’s got that look,” you mutter. “The one you get when you think I’m about to say something stupid.”

Bucky nods. “That’s ninety percent of the time.”

“What if we brought her to the wrong diner?” You turn back to her. “Is that it?”

Nothing.

You lean back in your seat, defeated. “What the hell are we supposed to do with her? What’s the plan here?”

“I thought you wanted to marry her.”

You turn back around. “Girl, you wanna get married? I’ll do it, I don’t care. I love you.”

She doesn’t reply.

“Wow, rejected,” Bucky says flatly. “I thought you were soulmates.”

“Shut up.” You glance back at the mirror. The ghost bride stares, unmoved. Slightly annoyed. Still bleeding from the eye sockets.

You squint. “Try flirting with her.”

There’s a beat of silence so dense you can hear the engine hum in self-defense.

“I’m sorry?”

“You heard me.”

“No.”

“Oh, come on. Give her a little smolder. Ask if she, I don’t know, haunts here often.”

“Absolutely not.”

“She’s literally haunting us, Bucky. The least you could do is be polite about it.”

“She’s dead.”

“So’s your dating life. You have nothing to lose.”

He glares at you.

You grin. “She might respond to compliments. What’s the worst that happens? She leaves from embarrassment?”

He glances up at the mirror, then back at the road.

You can see the moment his soul gives up.

“Fine.”

You bite back a smile.

Bucky clears his throat. Just once.

Then, directed at the mirror with the bone-deep enthusiasm of a man being held at gunpoint, he turns around. 

“So, uh–”

You lean in, eyes gleaming.

“You... look nice. In white.”

A pause.

Nothing happens.

He presses on, deadpan. “Timeless. Very... Victorian. Suits you.”

You press your mouth closed so tight it hurts. God forbid you laugh. 

Still nothing.

The ghost bride doesn’t blink. Doesn’t so much as tilt her head. Like even in undeath, this is the worst pickup attempt she’s ever witnessed.

“Tell her she has... striking bone structure,” you whisper.

“Absolutely not.”

“She’s got cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, Barnes. Show some respect.”

“Fuck off.”

You both look at the mirror again.

“I think you offended her,” you say.

“I think she’s always looked like that.”

“She probably wanted something more old-fashioned. A sonnet. A duel. A goat sacrifice.”

“She got a compliment. That’s the most effort I’ve put into any relationship in the last decade.”

You hum. “Explains a lot.”

He gives you a sidelong look. “You want to flirt with her?”

“I can’t. I’m already married to the grind.”

He groans audibly.

“Well,” you say, “we tried.”

“She’s still here.”

You tilt your head. “Ma’am, are you lonely?”

Another beat of silence passes.

In a quick second, she raises her eyes to you. 

Bucky and you exchange glances. 

“It it because you miss your husband?” 

Her eyes grow more bloodshot. Your eyebrows furrow.

“So, not him. Do you not like him?”

She does something that looks somewhat similar to exhaling.

“You said there was a tragedy at the wedding,” you muse. “Did something happen between you both?”

She inhales, noise coming out like a wheeze. 

You only stare at her for a while.

“He left you at the altar?” you say, voice gentler now.  

Bucky’s brows furrow. 

A second goes by with no change.

The ghost lifts her head a fraction. Her mouth twitches, barely.

You almost miss it.

You hum. “So you walked out?”

Another blink.

“Let me guess,” you say. “Everyone else went home to gossip and you– what– ended up at the diner? That your favourite place?”

She doesn’t nod. But she doesn’t look away.

Bucky glances at you. “She died on the way. Heel got caught crossing the road. Truck didn’t stop.”

You wince, looking back at her.

“You didn’t get what you wanted, did you?”

She looks tired. Deflated even, from what you’ve known her in the last few minutes.

“Okay,” you say, after thinking for a second. “Alright.”

You don’t explain further. Simply open the door, step out, and head into the diner.

Bucky stays seated, watching the mirror.

She doesn’t move.

Just watches you through the glass.

You’re gone for a minute. Two.

Then the door swings open again.

You’ve got a receipt in hand as you walk around the back, open her door like you’ve done it a hundred times before.

She looks at you.

And for the first time, Bucky watches her move.

She slides out of the car in one smooth, silent motion. Her veil doesn’t rustle. Her feet don’t touch the ground.

She drifts toward the door.

You get there first, hold it open for her, but don't follow.

He sees the waitress behind the counter glance up, not surprised at all. She nods once, like it’s routine.

And when the faint trace of the ghost steps through, the waitress turns, grabs a menu without reading it, and just pulls out a chair. Pours syrup into a little ceramic pitcher. 

She sets a fresh plate of pancakes at the far booth in the corner.

You waits until the ghost is fully inside.

Then let the door shut, before walking back to the car.

Bucky twists in his seat.

There’s no one in the backseat. 

But unlike the mirror, the booth isn’t empty.

The ghost sits.

You climb back into the car. Quiet. Still watching her.

Bucky looks at you.

“Let’s go,” you say.

He turns back to the window.

Watch her cut into the stack, careful. 

And for a brief second, she looks young.

 

The road is long again.

You thumb the edge of a candy bar wrapper and let your foot rest against the dash. He hasn’t spoken in a while.

Eventually, Bucky shifts in his seat.

“How’d you know what she wanted?”

You glance over, caught off guard by the softness in his voice.

“I didn’t,” you admit. “If that didn’t work, I would’ve tried something else.”

He falls quiet again.

You watch the blur of trees sliding past the window. Shadows flickering over the dash.

“People don’t really try to figure it out, you know?” you say. “They just assume. Oh, she’s lingering, so she must be angry. Must be tragic. So let’s banish her, cleanse her, salt the windows. But I don’t know, maybe she wanted something else.”

He hums under his breath. A sound like he’s chewing on the thought.

You’re ten minutes down the road when it hits you.

“Fuck.”

Bucky doesn’t flinch. “What now.”

“I didn’t record it.”

A beat of silence.

Bucky drags a hand over his face. 

“I was moved,” you defend. 

“That’s not a setting on the camera.”

“Okay, well excuse me for having a heart.”

There’s a pause.

Then, unexpectedly, he huffs a laugh.  

 You stretch, bones cracking like old wood, and glance out the window. The sky’s brighter now, the sun finally winning the fight against the fog.

“So,” you say, casual. “I guess we’re heading home now.”

“No.”

You blink. “No?”

“No.”

You look over. He’s got the same expression he always has when he’s plotting something. His face is bare, unreadable, but with that slight tightness at the corner of his mouth.

You stare. “Are you kidnapping me?”

His eyes don’t leave the road. “Would I have bought you breakfast if I were?”

“That’s exactly what someone trying to trick me would say.”

He exhales through his nose. Not quite a laugh, but in that direction.

You narrow your eyes. “Where are we going?”

He shrugs.

“That’s not an answer.”

“You’ll see.”

“That’s actually the slogan of most kidnappers.”

“Most kidnappers don’t let you pick the music,” he says dryly. 

You pause before reaching over and switching the playlist to something you know he’d hate.

He doesn’t argue.

Suspicious.

He finally stops at a fucking cabin.

The sign isn’t even painted properly. 

Just a piece of sun-bleached wood swinging lopsided over the door. Letters barely legible. 

It’s a lodge or gift shop or something, with a coffee shop right next to it.  

“Why are we stopping?” you ask, brows raised as he turns off the ignition.

Bucky doesn’t answer.

He just gets out, door shutting with a solid thunk, and starts walking toward the little building.

You scramble out after him. “Okay, I thought you ate lunch at like 5pm. Didn’t realise you were hungry.”

He doesn’t slow down. “Let’s go.”

You stare at the back of his head. “You’re being weird.”

He doesn’t argue.

Just pushes the door open and holds it for you. The little bell above it gives a jingle, bright and alive.

Inside, the air is warm and smells like baked apple, butter, and a little woodsmoke. A few tables. Worn chairs. Mismatched mugs on a shelf by the register. 

Bucky doesn’t look at you. Just walks toward the counter like he’s been here before.

You follow, slower now. Cautious. Trying to put pieces together that don’t quite fit yet.

There’s a small table near the window. Sunlight filters in like it’s being polite about it. He stops there. Waits.

“Okay, I want a croissant, if you’re buying,” you tell him. “And one extra one because you keep taking bites from mine even though you say you don’t want one-” 

Bucky knocks on the counter, pretty loudly for his standards. “Hello?”

You’re about to ask again what the hell is going on when the back door swings open.

You freeze.

Not metaphorically.  Your entire body stops moving like someone yanked the cord out.

She looks exactly the same.

Same cardigan. Same sleeves pushed up. Same towel draped over her shoulder, like she’s been mid-shift since the day you left.

“What the fuck,” you say quietly.

She stops just short of the counter and smiles like no time has passed. “Hey.”

Bucky, beside you, clears his throat. “Ma’am.”

Mrs. Mullens nods at him, warm and amused. “I was wondering when you were gonna make it.”

Your head whips toward him. “What on earth– what do you mean–”

She steps forward and folds the towel over one hand. “Well, he tracked me down. Told me what the plan was and so I invited him right over.”

You stare at him.

He stares somewhere over your head, suddenly very invested in the far corner of the café.

“This whole trip was… what?” you ask. “A set-up?”

“Don’t blame him,” Mrs. Mullens says gently. “Second I heard, I told him to get himself down here and bring you with.”

You don’t know what to do with your hands.

You don’t know what to do with your face.

Bucky shifts on his feet. “I’m, uh, gonna give you two a minute,” he mutters. “Wait in the car.”

He turns before you can stop him. Just raises one hand in a half-wave and heads for the door.

You feel like the floor’s been tilted, and everyone else got a headstart adjusting.

Mrs. Mullens watches you quietly, like she’s got all the time in the world. “You okay?”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Then try again.

Her expression doesn’t flicker as she reaches out to hold your forearms. 

“Well,” she says, scanning you up and down. “There you are.”

You feel something in your chest cinch tight and then loosen all at once.

“Hi,” you manage.

She still smells like flour and cloves, soft in the way that nothing else in your life ever quite let itself be.

“Come on,” she says. “Sit with me. Let me make you something.”

“I don’t want to put you out,” you say, voice hoarse.

“Still the same order?” she asks, already halfway to the kitchen.

“Yeah,” you say. “Still the same.”

She’s back a few minutes later with a plate, the way she used to make it when you were seventeen and underfed and too proud to admit it.

“Thanks,” you say softly. “You really stayed the same.”

“You look taller,” she says, sitting across from you.

“I’m not.”

“You sure? Your feet used to swing off that booth.”

“I was like, eighteen.”

“You were seventeen,” she corrects, smiling.

You blink. “You remember?”

“I remember everything,” she says, a little amused. “You showed up with two shirts and a backpack like you’d been chased cross-country.”

You laugh under your breath. “Sounds about right.”

“I gave you the Monday morning shifts because you were too twitchy on Sundays. You always smelled like metal. What were you even doing back then?”

“Nothing good,” you say, without really thinking. “But I liked being here.”

“Did you? You were terrified of the espresso machine. Thought it was gonna explode if you pressed the wrong button.”

“It hissed at me, Mags.”

She laughs, full-bellied and familiar.

It’s been years. You should feel different, older, hardened. But with her sitting across from you in that same cardigan and kind eyes, you feel like the same version of yourself that used to sneak biscotti from the back and cry in the walk-in freezer when everything felt too loud.

“I know,” she says. “But you needed something to keep your hands busy. Didn’t think you’d stay longer than a week.”

You lift one shoulder. “Didn’t plan to. It just happened.”

“But you did.”

“I did.”

“Sometimes that’s the best kind,” she says. “When you don’t notice it while it’s happening.”

“I still don’t know if I’m any good at staying.”

“Doesn’t mean you’re bad at it.” She hums. “Some folks are just built for motion. Nothing wrong with that.”

“Never felt like I was built for anything.”

“Then I guess you get to make it up as you go.”

You don’t answer right away. She doesn’t push.

You glance around the café. It’s not the same one you left, but it might as well be. Same vinyl booths. Same laminated menus that stick a little when you peel them open. The clock on the wall ticks one second behind, and the radio hums something mellow and familiar from a back room.

“I liked the old place,” you say eventually.

She doesn’t look up from where she’s stacking sugar packets. “So did I.”

“What happened?”

“Rent happened,” she says simply. “And my knees don’t like the city anymore.”

You nod. “This place is nice too.”

“I like the light,” she says, finally glancing out the wide front windows. “Good for the plants.”

There’s a little succulent lined up by the sill. A tiny herb pot, something leafy and stubborn. You remember the basil plant she used to keep behind the counter. It never survived more than a few weeks.

“I thought you might’ve moved further,” you say.

“I tried,” she replies. “Didn’t stick.”

“Why not?”

She shrugs. “Missed my regulars.”

“Do you ever think about moving again?” you ask.

She shakes her head. “No. This feels right. Feels enough.”

You don’t know what to think about that. 

But something about the way she says it quietly and certain, makes you think maybe one day, it won’t feel so impossible.

She folds the towel in thirds, slow and deliberate, like she has all the time in the world.

“He said you spent the day driving,” she says, “showed up back home with half an hour left for the day to get done.”

You huff. “Snitch.”

She chuckles.

“And you just gave him the new address?” you ask.

“Well, I asked him who he was first.” Her eyes soften. “Then he told me he was with you, and that was enough.”

You fiddle with the edge of your napkin. “I’m sorry I didn’t call. Or write. Or—”

“I know why you left,” she says, cutting in gently.

You blink.

“I figured you’d come when you were ready.”

“I should’ve said goodbye.”

She reaches across the table and sets her hand on yours.  

“You did what you needed to do,” she says. “And you survived. That was always the only thing I ever wanted for you.”

You look at her, the lump in your throat rising too fast.

“I thought about calling. A dozen times.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t come back. I told myself I would, after things settled. But they never really did.”

“I know.”

“I felt like I owed you more.”

“You didn’t owe me anything,” she says, gentle but firm. “You stayed as long as you could.”

You exhale, slow and tight. “I didn’t leave because I didn’t care.”

“I know,” she repeats with the same patience as the previous hundred times.

“It just–”

“I remember,” she says. “You got real quiet the last few weeks. Used to stare out the kitchen window like the world was shrinking on you.”

You swallow hard.

“I didn’t know how to make it easier,” she says. “So we did what we could.”

“I didn’t know how to thank you,” you add, quieter now.

“You just did.”

You laugh once, short, a little embarrassed. “It’s not enough.”

“Why not?”

“I left,” you say. “Just took off. No note.”

She tilts her head. “You think that erased everything before it?”

“No. But it– it undid it. I left the state,” you say, eyebrows pulling together in frustration. “Just because you offered me a room. That’s insane.”

“You were always going to leave. I knew that when you came in.”

You look up.

“You walked in that first day like someone who already had one foot out the door,” she smiles, hand still resting over yours. “You didn’t owe me anything. I was just glad I got to know you for the time I did. You were always my favorite.”

You scoff. “You said that to everyone.”

“I lied to everyone else.”

You blink.

“You knew that already.” 

“I hoped.”

You glance out the window to get your bearings.

Mrs. Mullens follows your gaze. “He’s still out there.”

You follow her gaze. Bucky’s slouched in the driver’s seat, arms crossed, sunglasses on. He looks like he’s trying to nap and also like he’s making sure he can see the door if it opens.

“Is that your…?”

“Friend,” you say quickly.

She lifts an eyebrow.

“He’s fine,” you add. “Mostly grumbles. Pretends he doesn’t like things.”

“He doesn’t talk much, huh?”

“Not unless he wants to argue.”

“He’s cute.”

You snort.

“He yours?” she asks, lightly.

You shrug, avoiding the question. “He drove me here.”

“That’s not what I asked,” she says, grinning.

You look away.

“He seems steady,” she adds. “Even from here.”

“He is,” you admit. “More than he knows.”

“You always did pick the prickly ones,” she says, amused.

You huff a laugh, the ache in your throat a little lighter now.

“Why’d you say yes?” you ask. “When he called.”

She stirs her tea, quiet for a moment. “Because I missed you.”

You stare at her.

“I don’t know what else to tell you,” she says. 

You nod slowly. You can’t meet her eyes.

She watches you for a beat too long. “You think you’ll stick where you are now?”

“I don’t know,” you say honestly. “Time’s almost up on this one. It was never supposed to be permanent.”

“Seems like you’ve got people now. Makes things easier.”

You stare at the guy in the car, shifting in his seat. 

“Not always.”

“No,” she agrees, “but it makes them worth the trouble.”

You both sit there a while, the sun warming the tabletop. The world doesn’t demand anything from you just yet.

She leans back in her seat and folds her hands in her lap. “You know, I’ve got a room upstairs here, too.”

You blink.

“Not fancy,” she adds. “Small.”

You don’t say anything.

“Could use the help. These joints aren’t what they used to be. I’ve got a dishwasher who always misses a spot and the young ones never sweep under the tables right.”

Your face pulls into a smile.

“Think about it,” she says, tone still easy. “Doesn’t have to be forever.”

You watch her, unsure if the ache in your chest is guilt or hope or something else entirely.

“It sounds good,” you say quietly. “Actually good.”

She tilts her head, like she’s trying to read your thoughts. “You don’t have to make the call right now. But if you need a soft landing, this is still one.”

“Even after everything?”

“Especially after everything.”

You look down at your hands. “Why didn’t you get mad?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She blinks like she’s surprised you’d even think that. “You were never mine to keep. I was just glad I got to know you while you were here.”

There’s a warmth in your ribs you didn’t know you were missing until it showed up again.

She reaches below and comes up with a little paper box, folds creased neatly at the corners.

“Take these,” she says, setting it down. “Eat them before they go stale. Or don’t. Your call.”

You reach for it. “You didn’t have to–”

“Don’t start,” she says lightly, ““I baked too much this morning.”

You open the box and peer inside.

Biscotti. Lemon glaze. Just like she used to make them.

“These still your favourite?”

Your chest stings.

“Thank you,” you say again, quieter now.

Outside, the sun’s starting to shift.

“I’m really glad I came,” you say, voice low.

“Don’t wait so long next time,” she says. “You come back when you want to. No pressure.”

“I won’t.”

“Good,” she says.  

You bite the inside of your cheek.

She reaches over and gently pushes the box of biscotti toward you. “These’ll hold for a few days if you keep ‘em in a cool place.”

“I remember.”

“‘Course you do.”

You finally pick one up and take a bite.

It tastes exactly the same.

The screen door swings shut behind you with a thud and a jangle of the bell.

You stand still for a second outside the café. 

Gravel crunches gently beneath you. The sunlight’s warm, dappled. The smell of coffee and baked sugar lingers in your sleeves.  

It should be easier to walk away than this.

It’s not like you haven’t done it before. Not like you haven’t packed lighter and left faster. Sometimes with the door still swinging behind you. Sometimes before the people even noticed you were gone.

But you’re not moving.

You turn back briefly, gaze catching on the shape of her through the window, apron tied neat, still wiping down the counter like you were never even there.  

And for the first time in a while, you feel… stuck.

Not in the bad way.

Not Leviathan-trapped. Not time-loop-clocktower-stuck.

Anchored.

For a moment.

You drag yourself toward the car on legs that feel heavier than they should, biscotti box clutched under one arm like it’s going to make this easier.

Bucky watches you through the windshield but doesn’t move. His elbow is propped lazily on the open window frame.

He doesn’t ask, only looks.

You stop beside the car. Pull in a breath.

“Hey,” you say, a little quieter than you mean to.

He rolls the window down a little further. “Hi.”

You rest your forearms on the top of the window. Your eyes are a little tired. Your voice is a little warm.

“She asked me to stay,” you say.

His face doesn’t change, not really. But his grip on the steering wheel falters for a beat.

“Said I could pick this place as my next job, live upstairs if I wanted.”

A long second ticks by. Then another.

“Oh,” he says.

You finally look at him. “What do you think?”

He shrugs. “I mean, sounds nice.”

“It is,” you say, eyes drifting back to the building. “Peaceful. Kind of perfect, honestly.”

He nods slowly.

The wind whistles soft between you both.

“I told her it sounds great,” she says. “Told her I’d love to do it.”

Bucky’s jaw shifts. He doesn’t say anything. He’s not sure what would come out.

The world stills around the silence like it’s holding its breath. 

And then, quieter. “So… you’re staying?”

The words are small. Stiff. Like they don’t quite know how to fit in his mouth.

You don’t answer right away. Just tilt your head back and stare at the cloudless sky, lips pressed together like they’re holding something in.

Then you glance toward the café again. At the little chalkboard sign that’s still got the special written in cursive. At the potted plants by the door that have managed not to die.

At the open window, and the breeze that carries cinnamon and clove and lemon zest like a memory.

And you turn back to him.

“I told her I’d come back,” you say. “I’ve got some more videos to shoot.”

His shoulders relax just a fraction.

He swallows, nodding like it means nothing. Like it’s good to be reminded of obligations.

His hand comes off the steering wheel, flexes once. Settles again.

And then you lean in closer than you need to be.

And you press your mouth against his cheek in a long, steady press. A kiss that lingers just a second too long, enough to burn.

You feel his breath hitch.

“You’re kind of insane, Bucky Barnes,” you say when you pull back, voice rougher now. “Thanks.”

You hand him the box through the window. “I got you some biscotti”

He doesn’t say anything for a beat, just looks down at it like it’s heavier than it is.

He shifts it from one hand to the other, then looks up at you again.

You don’t look away.

“You seriously considered it?” he asks finally, like he’s trying to make it sound casual.

“Yeah.”

The answer’s easy. Too easy.

“You still thinking about it?”

You pause. Then nod. “A little.”

And you both sit in that silence.

The breeze kicks up again. A bird chirps somewhere in the trees nearby. The world keeps turning.

You let your fingers drum once along the car door. Then twice.

“I liked it there,” you say finally. “It was warm.”

He nods, barely perceptible. “It’s a nice place.”

You rest your chin on your arm and peer at him. “You ever want that? Quiet place, job that doesn’t involve crawling through basements looking for dead guys?”

He considers that.

Then shrugs. “I think I used to.”

“And now?”

“I don’t know. I guess I just like knowing where my shoes are.”

You grin at that.

You let your arms fall and step back. Gravel crunches. Sunlight warms your shoulders.

“I’ll come back,” you say again.

He just nods.

You start to walk around the car, toward the passenger side. You slide into your seat, pull the door shut. Clip your belt.

The car hums to life beneath you.

He pulls out of the lot slow and easy. 

The café disappears behind you.

The road hums under the tires. Pine trees slip past in long green blurs. 

You’ve both been quiet since the bakery. The box of biscotti sits unopened in your lap. You pick at the corner of the lid, folding it in and out.

You break the silence first.

“So.”

Bucky flicks his eyes over to you, then back to the road.

“Summoning the ghosts of Christmas past and all that,” you continue. “Worked.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just shifts his position in the seat. 

Things have changed for him the past year. He’s come to realise that the world doesn’t follow the rules he was taught it ought to follow. 

You exhale, watching your reflection ripple in the window glass. “It was her. Ghost of Christmas past.”

He nods once, almost imperceptibly.

You clear your throat. “That’s why I went looking for her, you know. After. Couldn’t stop thinking about it. Thought if I found her again– I don’t know.”

He waits.

“I wasn’t thinking. I just left.” You glance at him. ”I didn’t start this series really expecting to find any. But I guess the world’s a lot more complicated than I thought.” 

He’s quiet. More than usual.

The muscles in his jaw twitch like they’re trying not to.

You turn slightly in your seat to look at him. “You okay?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

You watch his throat bob as he swallows hard.  

Then, after a minute that stretches too long: “I’ve been seeing one.”

You blink.

He doesn’t look at you.

“Months now,” he adds, softer. “Maybe longer.”

You don’t say anything at first.

“Is that what you were talking about on the ship?”

Bucky exhales, jaw clenched. “Yeah.”

You wait.

He doesn’t meet your eye. Keeps his attention on the road ahead. “I didn’t want to say anything. Thought maybe it was in my head. Hallucination. Stress. Y’know. Old habits.”

“When did it start?”

“After that episode with that doll,” he says.

It falls quiet for a while as you piece it together. The comment about hallucinations, freaking out after the doll episode, the way he looked at the children’s ward–

“Bucky, is a kid haunting you?

He looks at you wearily. “You think I’m insane.”

You watch him for a second, eyebrows tugged together.

You reach over, hand resting on his face, thumb brushing the edge of his jaw. His eyes close briefly under your touch.

“I believe you. Trust me, I do,” you say intently, before hesitantly asking, “This kid… are they yours?”

“No. No, I don’t have a kid.” He sighs. “It’s my sister.”

“You’ve been seeing Becca?”

“Yeah,” he glances at you. “You don’t think I’m lying?”  

You shake your head. “I don’t think you have any reason to lie.”

 The sun hits the edge of his cheekbone and shadows the rest of him.

“Thanks,” he says. His voice cracks slightly. “I didn’t know how to tell anyone.”

“How do you know it’s her?”

And so he tells you about the doll. The paper she threw at him in the mansion, the ouija board, the cornfield, the mirror on the ship.  

The fucking tarot cards.

“Tarot cards? From that stupid video?” you ask in confusion. 

“The Star, Six of Cups, The Hanged Man. I got in touch with this fuckin’ reader who said if you were haunted by someone, and couldn’t move on, it might be because we hadn’t made peace.”

He exhales, and you see it then. The look on his face like it’s been carved out of regret.

“I think she’s mad at me,” he admits. 

“Why would she be mad?”

“I don’t know. For dying. She had to figure it out without me. I wasn’t there for her.”

“You were just a kid too, Buck,” you say quietly. “You didn’t have a choice.”

He doesn’t respond.

You glance sideways. “You’ve never told anyone else, have you?”

He shakes his head.

“Do you think talking to Steve would help?” you ask. “He knew Becca too.”

“What’s he gonna think?” Bucky replies. “My brain’s been fried enough times. I don’t really know what’s real or not.”

You offer him a tired, lopsided smile. “It’s Steve. He’d believe you if you said you were a ghost.”

That earns a quiet huff of a laugh from him. Barely there, but it’s something.

You shift in your seat, grabbing onto his hand.

“We’ll figure this out,” you whisper. “Thank you for telling me.”

He lets out a shaky breath. 

He opens the door and steps inside.

He pauses just inside the entryway, eyes scanning a room he already knows by heart. No sound except the faint hum of the refrigerator and a distant car alarm outside. He exhales, like he’s been holding his breath the entire way back.

Alpine’s already on the table, licking her paw like she pays the mortgage.

“Do you want to know what it's like,” she says, in the dark, “living with a man who keeps all the lights off like it’s a crime scene?”

“Turn it on if it bothers you so much,” he grumbles. 

“You know what I did today?” she asks, still not moving.

Bucky doesn’t answer as he drops his keys in the bowl and shrugs off his jacket.

“I sat on the windowsill and watched the neighbour’s cat get fed twice,” she says. “They gave her actual tuna. Not the shredded cardboard you buy.”

He heads to the sink and fills a glass of water. The faucet squeals.

Bucky doesn’t respond. Just sips.

“Two full servings. A little parsley on top. I think there was lemon involved. Meanwhile, I have to beg for dry pellets like a Dickens orphan.”

He places the glass on the counter. She eyes the smudge it leaves.

“I get it,” she says. “Something tragic probably happened. But you live like you’re actively trying to make this place uninhabitable.”

“Because I am. I tell you to get out all the time, you clingy demon.”

He sits down in the nearest chair and rubs the back of his neck.

Walks to the fridge. Opens it. Closes it again.

“I’d ask if it was a long day but you look like this all the time,” she calls out. 

“Don’t start.”

She jumps down from the table, lands with a soft thud. “Bit late for that.”

He rubs a hand over his face.

Alpine watches with narrowed eyes. “You didn’t cry in public, did you? Because I can’t be seen with you if that’s–”

“Alpine.”

“What?”

“Shut up.”

He pours himself a glass of water, ignoring her.

She hops up beside the sink. “You look miserable.”

He points at her. “You’re supposed to be a support animal.”

“I support you being less lame. So far, complete failure.”

He drinks.

She sniffs at the glass. “Is that water? You okay? Should I call someone?”

He sighs, leans against the counter, and finally looks at her. “Why do I keep you around?”

She tilts her head. “Because I’m the only one here who doesn’t let you get away with your sad orphan Victorian chimney boy routine.”

He holds her stare for a moment longer, then turns away, muttering.

Alpine jumps back down, tail curling behind her. “Go on then, brooder. Back to your man-cave. Try not to repress anything new while you’re in there.”

Bucky flips her off without turning around.

The floor is quiet when he finally heads inside.  

He walks down the hallway with his hands in his pockets, head tipped forward just slightly. When he reaches the landing, he notices it.

A bowl of strawberries.

It’s on the little table outside his room, covered with a plate.  

He stares at it for a moment, then picks it up, turns it slowly in his hand. The fruit is fresh. Still cold from the fridge. He knows where it came from.

He doesn’t go inside his room.

He turns around and walks back down the hallway to the other door. Raises a hand, knocks twice.

Steve’s voice comes through, muffled as he pushes the door open. “Yeah? Oh, hi, Buck.”

Steve’s in his sweatpants and a faded t-shirt. He has his glasses on, one arm slung casually on the back of a chair like he was reading something before being interrupted.

“Didn’t see you all day,” Steve says, stepping aside to let him in.

“Busy,” Bucky mumbles, stepping in and holding up the bowl. “You left this outside.”

Steve glances at it. “I did. They’re fresh.”

Bucky doesn’t laugh, but he breathes a little easier. He stands in the middle of the room for a second, like he’s forgotten what to do with himself.

Steve watches him. “Everything alright?”

“Can we talk?”

Steve straightens a bit. “Yeah, of course.”

They both sit. Steve curls one leg under himself. Bucky holds the bowl of strawberries in both hands.

For a long time, he doesn’t speak. The wall clock ticks quietly behind them. Somewhere, a car honks.

“You good?” Steve asks.

Bucky lets the silence stretch a second longer. 

“What do you do when you fail the ones you love?” he asks finally.

Steve doesn’t move. He just watches Bucky carefully, gaze quiet.

“Well,” he says, “you apologise the best you can.”

Bucky swallows. “How do you live with the guilt?”

Steve takes a moment. Then he leans forward, rests his arms on his knees.

“You bring them fruit,” he says. “And make reminders to ask them about things they care about. You show up in a way that lets them know they matter. And you hope that makes up for failing when they needed you.”

Bucky stares at the bowl in his hands.

There’s a lump in his throat that won’t budge. He’s not sure how long it’s been there. Days. Weeks. Longer.

“You think it’s enough?”

“I think it’s something,” Steve says. “Which is more than nothing.”

Bucky doesn’t answer.

They sit for a while longer.

Steve nudges the bowl slightly closer. “They’re fresh.”

Bucky picks one up.

They’re tangy. They stain his lips red.

He eats another. Then another.

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

THANK U TO EVERYONE WHO BOUGHT ME A KO-FI FOR THIS SILLY FIC. IT'S STILL INCONCEIVABLE TO ME THAT YOU LIKED THIS ENOUGH TO PAY ME REAL MONEY FOR IT.

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[shurisneakersupdates]

part 15 out now!

[barnescafe]

unsolved (xv)

Summary: Bucky doesn’t even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet’s amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse. (Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky, obnoxious reader, tension, Christmas, ghosts, mentions of ptsd,

A/N: i'll be so honest. this is not edited i will come back during the day and edit this. it's 3am here man. welcome to Christmas in may

Previous part || Series masterlist

It was two nights before Christmas. 

Not to get too festive, but Bucky was already ho-ho-h-over this shit.

As with everything, the Avengers refused to be normal when it came to planning Christmas. A giant tree had already been brought into the living room, with the bottom 3 feet already decked out in ornaments. Boxes upon boxes of ornaments– customised, traditional, passed down for years, new– lay at its base, waiting to be set up. 

Stockings had arrived in the mail, hot cocoa was being purchased by the pound, and the damn Christmas playlist had gotten boring 3 days into the month, but continued to play every single day like they were working in a grocery store. 

Bucky doesn’t really feel the cold as much as the others– spending 70 years in nothingfuck Siberia will do that to a guy. So while everyone wears ugly sweaters that you’ve gotten them with enthusiasm, he sticks to an ugly Christmas t-shirt you had custom made for him.

And felt-antlers. With bells. Because you stuck it on him and he never bothered taking it off. 

He’s fended off several attempts to get him to go carolling through the Tower. He did go to the soup kitchen to serve people the whole month, and shovelled snow from driveways for free. 

He thinks that’s good enough for Christmas Spirit.

“Bucky Barnes,” you announce, gliding into his personal space once more with practiced ease. “I have an idea for you.”

“Of course you do,” he says, voice like gravel after not using it the whole day. “Are you going to make another animal talk and then lie to me for months?”

“Lie to you for months?” you scoff, dropping your head into his lap, feet kicking up. “I literally fucking told you she talks, like multiple times. You’re the one who didn’t believe me.”

His hand instinctively moves to run over your scalp. “Oh I’m sorry, I’ll start taking everything you fucking say literally.”

“You’re my boyfriend.”

He narrows his eyes. “Starting now.”

“You’re my boyfriend.”

“Starting now.”

“You’re my-–”

“Stop it. Get help.”

“You will never learn from your mistakes,” you tsk lightly, unperturbed. “I even told you she picked Alpine as her name, why the fuck would I lie about that?”

“I thought you talked to her like– I don’t know– an imaginary friend or some shit.”

“She’s not imaginary.”

“I know that now,” he hisses. “She’s been calling me a little bitch for the last 2 weeks every chance she gets.”

“Have you considered that perhaps it’s because you are, in fact, a little bitch?” you ask brightly. 

“I know that, doesn’t mean I wanna hear it every time she wants food.”

“You should get her one of those dispensers where she hits the button and it gives her food.”

Bucky grumbles, adjusting so you can be more comfortable, “It’s her Christmas present.”

“You’re a big ol’ softie,” you say approvingly, patting his thigh. “Speaking of Christmas presents, what did you get me?” 

“Didn’t get you shit.”

“Excuse me.”

“Don’t need to ask me for permission, ‘s a free country.”

You push up from his lap, glaring at him. “Did you get anyone presents?”

“I got Steve socks.”

“What about Sam?”

“Socks.”

“Nat?”

“So–”

“If you say socks, I’m gonna kill you.”

Bucky shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

“Did you get me socks too?”

“No, they didn’t deliver in time. You'll get them next month.”

“Bucky.”

“What?”

“You sound like the fucking Grinch.”

“Whatever.”

“You sound like Scrooge. You’re gonna have a 200 year old Bucky Barnes show up tonight and make you change all your ways and then you’ll be nice to me,” you say, laying your head back down on his lap. 

“I’m always nice to you,” he scoffs. Which is true. He even made sure the fucking temperature was to your liking, even though everyone had complained about it. 

“Liar. Anyway, that reminds me of what I came here to talk about. It’s so convenient that your personality is a natural segue into Scrooge. I think that says a lot about you.”

He stares at you. You grin at him. 

He rolls his eyes, glare dropping in favour of a small smile instead. 

“I found a Reddit post about how to summon the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future,” you say, pulling it up on your phone. “All you need is 2 red candles, and some blood and stuff.”

“Feel like you’ve skipped over a lot there.”

“Nah, it’s cool. I’m gonna get red candles delivered for the Tower anyway, and I’m sure the chalk from the seance we did a few months ago will be enough.”  

“While you’re at it, you can get yourself socks too and I’ll pretend it’s from me.”

“Stop.”

“I’ll put a note on it, if it helps.”

“It does not, I hate you.”

“Guess I’ll cancel the socks then.”

“I’ll kill you, Barnes.”

Finally, after a marathon of Die Hard, the Tower retreats into quiet. Everyone gets back to their floors, leaving only soft lights on and the faint hum of Eartha Kitt in the background.  

Bucky sits at the counter, waiting for you to get on with your scheme. 

There’s a plate of cookies beside him that was definitely supposed to last the whole week, but was depleting rapidly at a pace that was unjustifiable.

He looked comfortable. In a good mood, even.

You slid onto the chair across from him, a candle in each hand and your phone tucked between your shoulder and ear.

“Did you know,” you said, striking a match, “that if you perform a Yule invocation on the night of a waxing moon–”

He only chooses to listen, chewing absentmindedly. 

“—and speak the ancient lines passed down by account owners on Reddit—” The flame on the candle lights up your face. “—you can summon the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future.”

He thinks you look nice in the candlelight. His head tilts lightly as you light the other one.  

“You mean like the story?”

“No, like the tax auditors. Yes, like the story.”

He slides a cookie over to you, which you accept. “It’s two nights before Christmas. I should be resting.”

“You’ve been resting all day.”

“I shoveled a driveway this morning.”

“For five minutes.”

You place the candle in a chipped ramekin you stole from the kitchen. The second one wobbles slightly before finding its balance.  

“You know,” he said eventually, “for someone who claims to hate rules, you love rituals.”

“Completely different.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, taking another bite before asking casually, “How’s this month been for you?”

You look at him with an eyebrow raised. “Is this a performance review?”

He shrugs. “Christmas tends to be a lot. Family this, family that. First year here was incredibly claustrophobic.”

You draw a little diagram on the counter with a sketch pen. He’d have to wipe that off later.

“It’s been alright,” you say after a while. “This is probably the first time I’ve been a part of something like this.”

“You can fuck off somewhere quiet.” He offers you another cookie from the plate, watching as you take this one as well. “No one would say anything.”

“Sam’s got me learning some choreography with Cass and AJ, so I’m pretty sure he’d mind.”

“No one cares what Sam thinks.”

“I’ve seen the way you look at him, you can’t fool me.”

Bucky narrows his eyes at you. The corner of your lip pulls in a smile.

“Besides– maybe all this ‘family this, family that’ will help me get what you meant by silent blenders.”

He stops chewing momentarily, trying to place what you’re talking about. It sounded familiar, just on the tip of his tongue but he couldn’t place it.

“Clock tower,” you remind him.

Oh.

God, that was so long ago.

So many things have changed since then. Looking back, he thinks he’d have done things a lot differently.

You handing your phone over to him snaps him out of his quick flashback.

“What?”

“This is a two-person ritual,” you tell him. “I need you to read it so that they come haunt you too.”

Bucky’s nose twitches.

Did he really want more people after him.

He skims through the Latin line on the screen with the same energy as reading a rental agreement. 

“This is too much effort.”

“Um.”

“It’s the middle of night, I don’t want to learn Latin.”

“You’re such a pain,” you whine. “Fine, just repeat after me then.”

“What if I say it wrong?”

“Well, then you’ll probably summon something else, Buck. You looking forward to that? You wanna make a new friend?” 

Bucky rolls his eyes, watching you over the rim of his mug. The light from the candles flickered across his face. It made him look softer. The quiet suited him.

 “Repeat after me. This is the oath,” you announce. “I do.”

“I do,” Bucky says dryly.

You nod your head. “We’re married now.”

 His lips stretch into a thin line, casting a wry look at you. 

“I’ll get you there some day, baby.” You grin. “Alright anyway. ‘Si spiritus circumvagantur–”

He says it, not sounding even remotely interested. 

“Monstra nobis praeteritum, praesens et futurum.”

“Monstra nobis– how long is this thing,” he interrupts. 

You send him a pointed look. He says the stupid line.

“Ut quod fractum est reparare possimus.”

Bucky feels a sudden sense of unease as he says it. He may have thought of it as a joke before, but did he actually want more people haunting him? Did he want the one person who was haunting him to show up once more.

“Sana quod vulneratum est. Muta consilium Parcarum,” you read, glancing over at him. 

He says it, but his words get more faint, shoulders tensing.

“Melior homo esto ante lucem,” you finish.

You look at him expectantly.

“Good night,” he says instead, chair scraping against the floor as he pushes away from the counter. 

“Did you just quit on me at the last second?”

“Got bored.” 

“I cannot believe–”

“It was too long. Get a shorter spell next time.”

“I can’t believe you made me summon ghosts alone.”

He raises his hand in mock salute. “Hope your visit goes well.”

“I hope you get visited by the Ghost of Being Lame.”

“Maybe he’ll bring socks.”

You stand up, blowing out the candles as look at him. “You're lucky you’re cute.”

His face suddenly feels hot, which is stupid, because the candles were already extinguished. 

Nothing happens.

You declared it was because you were literally perfect and there was nothing to change ever, so they didn’t even bother making the trip to see you.

Bucky’s sort of glad he doesn’t have to see his sister on her favourite holiday. 

The next morning, the Tower was already loud before a reasonable time. 

And much like a fucking minefield, there was mistletoe everywhere.

All over the ceilings, every doorway, hanging from sticks on top of basic necessities like the fridge. 

Bucky noticeably avoids walking under any of the mistletoe, which only made it more fun.

“Are you allergic?” you ask innocently, trailing behind him into the kitchen.

“To you, yeah,” he muttered, swerving clear of opening the fridge like it might save him.

You lean on the counter. “What would be the worst thing that happened? Someone kisses you?”

“Someone sees it happening,” he says.

He turns around, only to immediately bump into Nat. Bucky whose lets out something similar to a screech and has the look of a cat who accidentally touched water, books it. 

You’d never seen him leave a room faster.

Afternoon is spent at a volunteer event downtown. 

Distribution tables, hot meals, paper hats. A photographer from some local paper follows Sam around for three hours. 

Bucky stands beside you and quietly refills the cider table without being asked.

“You know, just because you haven’t mentioned the thing you said on the ship, doesn’t mean I forgot it,” you pipe up.

Bucky pauses, grip tightening on the ladle. “I was seasick.”

“Yeah. Which is why I think you were telling the truth.”

“Wasn’t thinking straight.”

“I’m not gonna push you, Buck,” you tell him. “I’m just sayin’ that if there’s something you want to talk about, you can.”

He stays silent, instead focusing on whether every glass was filled the right amount. 

You squeeze his shoulder and go to find Nat to help with blanket distribution.

Bucky barely moves from his designated table. You show up occasionally to make sure he steers clear of the photographs being taken at random. 

On your way out, he silently hands you a candy cane and doesn't look at you when you take it.

Clint catches him under the mistletoe in the garage.

Bucky physically recoils when a sloppy, wet kiss is pressed to his forehead. 

By the time the sun dipped behind the Tower, dinner was long done and half the team had changed into progressively worse pajamas. 

The living room smelled like cinnamon and pine. The movie was something old and animated, the volume low enough to talk over.

You were on the floor with your back against the couch, half-wrapped in the throw blanket Bucky had been using until you’d stolen it.

Steve flips through a catalog Wanda had brought back from a Christmas market. He keeps holding up strange ornaments and asking if they were “a thing now.”

“That’s a mushroom,” Wanda said flatly.

“It has a face.”

“They all do.”

“It’s smiling at me.”

“Smile back.”

On the other couch, Sam had Alpine on his lap. She was tolerating it with visible judgment.

You weren’t really talking. Not in full conversations. Just that easy holiday haze of noise and small jokes and unfinished thoughts.

“Who keeps changing the thermostat?” Steve asked without looking up. “The hallway’s freezing.”

You didn’t say anything, biting back a smile at Bucky very pointedly staring straight ahead. 

You bump your knee into his.

He bumps it back.

It’s too late when everyone disbands. 

By the time the lights switch off, Bucky’s too drowsy to drop you to your floor the way he usually does, instead groggily making his way back to his room. 

You told Nat you’d be there in a while, that you’d set up your presents and then come upstairs. 

You can’t sleep.

There’s a restlessness in your limbs, like something’s trying to shake loose inside you.

So you walk.

You grabbed the throw blanket off the couch, draped it over your shoulders, and stepped into the quiet, humming the last carol that was playing when you left.

No point in really paying attention to where you’re going, it’s not like it matters.  

The only light came from the window, where the skyline buzzed faint and gold against the glass.

The hallway beyond the common room was empty.

As you shuffle along, something shifts.

It’s faint, but there.

And though you’d had variations of it over the last few days–something about it is so familiar, it slows your stops. 

A trace of cinnamon, baked sugar, worn wood, and warm cloth. Scents buried under years, suddenly so vivid.

You stop walking, whipping your head around to look at the kitchen.

It was empty, the leftovers stuffed into containers in the fridge.

The hallway is the same–quiet, washed in soft light.

But the scent is unmistakable.

Your chest tightens before your mind catches up.

And when you turn to look back at the path ahead of you.

She’s already there.

At the far end of the hallway. 

She’s just there, the way she used to be at the end of a long shift, standing in the kitchen doorway of the bakery with a dish towel in her hands and something cooling on the counter behind her.

Same cardigan, same sleeves rolled to the elbows. Same soft shoes, same patient gaze. The way she used to watch you when you thought you were being subtle.  

You’re not sure if your body moves first or your voice.

“Mrs Mullens?” 

She smiles, and it feels like the world has opened up to swallow you. 

You can’t remember the last time you saw her. You’re not sure you even remembered what she looked like. 

You’ve had years of impossible things since then. Cities falling. Rooms shifting. Time and space slipping out of your grasp. But this makes your throat ache in a way none of those things ever did.

When you don’t take a step towards her, you still find that she’s closer. Like you have no choice but to meet her midway. 

“It’s been a while,” she says, voice airy. It reminds you of wind chimes. 

Your voice cracks, just slightly. “You look exactly the same.”

“Well,” she says, tilting her head, “you slouch more now, so it evens out.”

The laugh that escapes you is soft, unsteady.

“Walk with me,” she says. 

You  find yourself nodding before it even registers. 

Moving down the hallway you’ve done hundreds of times in the last year now feels like the floor of the café again. 

The air warm with sugar and vanilla. The low sound of a radio playing something old. You, legs aching from a double shift, watching her knead dough like it was nothing.

“How long has it been?” she asks.

You shrug, but your eyes sting. “Too long.”

She nods once, small smile teasing on her lips. “I’m glad you’re here now.”

“I meant to come back,” you say, quieter. “I really did. I told myself I would.”

“I know,” she says.

You fidget with the hem of your sleeve. “Working at the cafe was the first time I didn’t feel like– you know.”

“I know that too.”

You stare at her. “I shouldn’t have taken off like that suddenly. It was a shitty thing to do.”

“You were scared,” she says gently. 

“I should’ve said goodbye.”

“You weren’t ready to.”

“Should’ve tried.”

Her voice stays level. “You stayed longer than I thought you would.”

You glance at her.

She smiles again, soft. “And I hoped you’d stay longer still. But I also knew what it looked like when someone was running.”

Your throat closes.

“I was going to give you a raise,” she continues, just conversational. “I’d already had the envelope.”

You blink hard.

“I think I hoped,” she adds, “that if I gave you enough reason to stay, you would.”

“I know,” you say, without meaning to. The words just slip out. “I’m sorry. Everything felt like it was closing in on me.”

She’s quiet for a moment.

You look away, not knowing what to do about the guilt grabbing hold of your ribs. 

“Why are you here?” you ask after a while. 

She shrugs, lightly. “I wanted to see how you’re doing.”

“Same old.” Your shoulders rise in half a shrug. “Don’t think I’ve ever had a biscotti as good as the one you used to make. Used to steal them right out of the display case.” 

She chuckles. “I knew. Why’d you think we never ran out? I started making extra.”

You grin, despite yourself. 

You’re not quite sure you’re awake. Everything feels hazy and unclear.

Like it’s a reminder that this is actually happening, she reaches over, resting a hand on elbow.

Your fingers tighten around hers. It feels like the guilt was going to eat you alive. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to say thank you,” you say. “I should have stayed.”

“You can still do that,” she tells you gently. 

Your eyebrows furrow.

And when you look at her to respond– 

You come up empty. 

Just gone.

But the air still smells like cinnamon.

You blink hard a few times, looking behind you. 

The silence fores you to keep moving down the hall. 

The elevator ride up seems unusually short, but you cant say for certain that you were focusing on anything but what happened. 

It dings, the door opens up and you step out to more quiet.

As you walk down the hall to your room, the smell of cinnamon fades. The touch of her hand on yours also begins to ebb away, as much as you don’t want it to. 

You take a turn to your room, walking past picture frames and more mistletoes– until you come to an immediate halt.

There’s a bench you don’t remember being there before.

Someone’s sitting on it.

You stop, hand at the ready at your sides. 

The person on the bench slowly turns to look at you. 

It damn near knocks the breath out of you. 

They look like you. 

Well, it’s not exactly you– there’s a lot more lines and…fatigue. 

Enough to unsettle. Not enough to feel like a mirror.

“What the hell,” you whisper.

Other You raises an eyebrow in amusement. “Gonna take a seat?”

You don’t give an answer immediately. 

“Well?”

You cautiously slip onto the bench, watching from the corner of your eyes.

“Well at least we’re still hot,” you mumble.

Other You has a thin smile, nodding along. “One of the constants of life.”

You give a sidelong glance. “You’re from the future, I’m guessing.”

They lean forward a little, elbows on knees. You match it.

“You here to warn me?” you ask. 

“Not exactly. Life’s fine.”

You furrow your brow. “Then why are you here?” 

Other You shrugs. “What, we can’t have a conversation? This should be the most interesting talk in the world.”

“Do we ever win the lottery?”

“No, but we waste a lot of money buying tickets.”

“What stocks should I invest in?”

“Chicken. Bouillon.”

“Do Bucky and I ever–”

You don’t even finish your sentence before Other You’s head is shaking with half-smile. 

“Seriously?” you ask. “Not even once?”

“Nope.”

You honestly asked as a joke but the answer has you feeling more dejected than you’d anticipated. Which was wild. Because what the fuck.

“We leave soon, I suppose,” you pose.

“A week after Christmas. Another roadtrip someplace, but this time, you don’t come back to the tower with him.”

“Well that’s fucking bleak.” You blow out an exhale. “We ever stop anywhere?”

“Couple months. Year, maybe.”

You chew the inside of your cheek. “What does life look like now?”

Other You scratches a spot on their jaw. “You meet a lot of new people. Mediocre coffee. See new places. Thirty two new jobs.”

You nod slowly. “Sounds pretty–”

“Lonely. Yeah.” 

You exhale. “I don’t want to be tied down.”

“Nor did I.”

Another silence.

You look at Other You, a little sharp, but their face is calm, unbothered.

Other You stretches out their legs, ankles crossing. “It’s not a tragedy, you know. The way we turned out. We’re not a cautionary tale or anything.”

You look away. “Do you want people?”

“Yeah,” they say simply. “I have them. For a while, anyway. Life isn’t bad. I don’t answer to anyone. I can go wherever I like. It’s fun.” 

You sit with that. “Would you do it again?”

“I don’t know anything else.”

You fidget with the edge of your sleeve. “I don’t know if I do either.”

“Yeah.”

You glance at them.

“But you’re asking. That’s more than I ever did.” Other You stands then, stretching a little. “Any other questions?”

You look up. “That’s it?”

“That’s enough,” Other You says. “If you’ve got no more questions, I’m gonna head out.”

“Can you tell me what the lottery numbers are?”

“What makes you think we remember random fucking lottery numbers?”

Your face cracks into a smile. 

The lights above you flicker, demanding your attention for  split second. 

When you look back down, you’re on your feet. 

No bench in sight.

And no you.

You sigh, wrapping the blanket tighter around yourself as you continue down the hallway to your room.

Past the floor common room, and by the kitchen, until you catch sight of flaming red hair. 

The kitchen is dark except for the light over the stove.

You don’t turn anything else on. Just walk in, barefoot, letting the tile cool the heat in your skin.  

Nat’s perched on the counter, feet tucked under her, arms crossed. Her hoodie’s too big and her hair’s still damp, like she just got out of the shower and couldn’t be bothered to dry it. 

There's a jar of olives open next to her. She picks one out and eats it.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asks.

You shake your head. “Not really. You wouldn’t believe the night I had.”

She nods once, popping another olive into her mouth. 

You open the fridge and stare into it like it's going to offer you something new. It doesn’t. 

You grab the first thing that makes sense. Half a juice box. 

Nat watches you for a second. “You’re the only one who drinks those.”

“That’s not true.”

“No one else touches the purple ones. You keep pretending someone else is buying them but I’ve seen the receipts.”

You snort quietly. Toss the empty box into the bin. It misses. You let it.

She offers the jar of olives. You shake your head.

“Why are you up?” you ask. “What’s bugging you?”

“You remember that guy we met on the roof last month?” she asks. “The one who said he knew me from the Red Room but kept calling me Nadia?”

“Yeah.”

“I still don’t know if I knew him.”

You lean against the counter, crossing your arms. “That’s what’s keeping you up?”

“Not really. But I’m thinking about it.” Nat picks another olive out of the jar, inspects it, then eats it. “Steve was trying to wrap presents earlier. Took him two hours. He’s probably used all the tape in the country..”

You smile, just a little.

“He put your name on one of them,” she adds, chewing on another olive.

 “You spy on everyone’s gifts?”

“I notice things.”

You pull a chair out and sit. It creaks a little. 

“You didn’t have to stay up,” you say.

“I agree.” She slides the olive jar closer to you.

You still don’t take one.

“Do you think I’m strange?” you ask, not really sure where it came from.

Nat doesn’t blink. “Yeah.”

You laugh, soft.

“Not in a bad way,” she continues. “Just– specific.”

You chew that over.

Nat kicks her heel lightly against the counter.

There’s a crack in one of the tiles. You wonder how long it’s been there.  

“You used to be on the run too, right?” you ask her finally. “But you’ve been here for a while. Why’d you stay?”

“Helps if the government isn’t trying to hunt you down.” She shrugs. “Besides, I figured if you ever stopped long enough to look behind you, someone should still be here.”

You don’t reply.

Nat screws the lid shut on the jar. “This place suits you.”

The haziness that’s been following you around all evening suddenly swells around you, reminding you of its presence. 

Hesitantly, you call after her, “Are you real?”

She shrugs again. “I’m always real when it counts.”

The radio hums from nowhere. The lights flicker once more.

And you’re back in the hallway in the common room downstairs.

The living room is silent. The lights from the city glimmer. 

You stand quietly in the centre of it all. 

Bucky wakes up to Alpine pawing at his ribs.

It’s too bright out. 

He rolls onto his side. She chirps. Climbs over his shoulder and plants herself by the window like she’s keeping watch.

He gets dressed. Stretches. Rubs at the back of his neck until the worst of the stiffness fades. 

Alpine judges.

Downstairs is warm, loud, and already a mess. Wrapping paper underfoot. Someone’s spilled cocoa.

He takes a lap, slipping in and out as unannounced as he can. 

Doesn’t see you.

You’re probably just late.

He sits on the couch.  

He gets up again.

Checks the kitchen.

Your mug’s still in the sink from last night.

He opens the fridge like it might contain a clue. It doesn’t..

He pulls out his phone.

No texts.

He scrolls. Finds your name. 

Types ‘Where are you?’

Deletes it.

Tries again.

‘You skipping Christmas?’

Deletes that too.

He settles on ‘You good?’

Sends it. Doesn’t wait for the read receipt.

Wanders down the hall. Checks the gym. Empty. 

He walks back to the common room. Nat’s lounging on the arm of the couch, chewing on a candy cane.

He sits beside Steve, who’s halfway through a puzzle that no one asked for.

“You alright?” Steve asks.

“Yeah.”

The word comes out before he even thinks about it.

He takes a sip of coffee. It’s too strong. Someone messed with the settings again.

The snow keeps falling.

You’re not here.

He’s not worried.

He’s just… watching the door.

In case.

Just on time, it swings open loudly.

The chatter in the room dies down until everyone’s looking at who just barged in.

“Oh shit– was that too loud? Sorry,” Peter’s words trip over themselves. “I thought I was late– the bus didn’t come. I didn’t want to–”

“Hey, kid,” Sam calls. “You’re right on time. Come on in.”

Peter grins wide, bounding into the room with two giant bags. 

“May sent pie. D’you guys wanna eat some– actually, it’s pretty early. I can just leave in the kitchen for later,” he rambles, pausing when he catches sight of Bucky stretched out on the couch. “Oh hey, Mr. Barnes. I wanted to talk to you about something when you have the time–”

“Presents first, conversation later,” Clint announces. “I’ve been waiting since the crack fuck of dawn.”

“You woke up ten minutes ago.”

“I’ve been waiting since the crack fuck of ten minutes ago.”

Bucky settles in, eventually.

Takes the mug Steve hands him, warm and too sweet, and the plate of cut apples.

You’re still not here.

The living room’s already littered with opened boxes, half-crumpled wrapping paper, that one roll of tape Clint lost and blamed on everyone else. 

Bucky’s got his own small pile tucked in the corner. Nothing dramatic. Just things he picked out with intent, which is about as much holiday spirit as he can manage.

Sam gets a replacement for the book Bucky accidentally dropped in a puddle three weeks ago. Same edition, leatherbound this time. 

“Fancy,” Sam says, flipping it over. “Trying to buy my forgiveness?”

“Just stop threatening to sue me.”

He gives Wanda a little wind up music box, with some tune he remembers her humming months ago. 

Peter gets everything ranging from Legos, to a promised trip to the NASA headquarters, to gummy bears. 

Nat’s gets a knife. Obviously. Custom handle. Something he shaped himself. She doesn’t say anything. Just runs her fingers along the spine of the blade, nods with a smile, and taps his shoulder as thanks.

Steve actually gets socks, because he’d found the limited edition signed copy of a Gid Tanner CD in Bucky’s room already by mistake. 

Clint gets socks that don’t fit him. 

There’s one more box left in the corner. Wrapped more neatly.

He doesn’t touch it.

Steve reaches under the tree and pulls out a package marked with Bucky’s name. The paper is pink. The tag has hearts drawn in glitter pen.

“What the hell is this,” Bucky mutters.

A tie.

With each Avenger’s face on it, stitched badly in red and green thread. Alpine’s head is on one. 

He stares at it for a full ten seconds.

Then folds it carefully and tucks it back into the box.

“That’s what you get for not telling us what you wanted.”

But they do get him plenty of things. It’s enough to last him a year and more. 

Noise canceling headphones, a subscription to National Geographic, more tools for woodworking and a new set of gloves. 

The gifts keep coming.

And somewhere in the room, tucked under the tree, your box still waits.

By the time the sun dips, the Tower has thinned out.

Alpine has claimed Bucky’s lap like a throne. He doesn’t argue. She won’t mov either way.

The snow is still falling.

He checks his phone again. No new messages.

Dinner came and went. Steve made something that tried to pass as stuffing. 

Your name was mentioned twice, but only in passing. 

It’s getting late now.

He lets his hand rest on the box still tucked behind the tree. Doesn’t unwrap it. Doesn’t move it.

Thirty minutes to midnight.

He gets up, Alpine protesting with a growl, and walks out of the room.

She, of course, calls him a little shit once more.

The elevator hums softly on the way up.

He reaches your floor. Pauses at the door.

You’d always told him to just come in. He knocks anyway. Waits.

Nothing.

He lets himself in.

The lights come on with a soft click.

Your room is… mostly the same. Bare, except the weirdly bent lamp.  

Bucky looks around now, trying to decide if you’ve taken anything.

There’s nothing obvious. But then again, he wouldn’t be able to tell if you did.

He looks at the clock.

Still time.

Karaoke has entered the equation.

Steve is halfway through “Blue Christmas”. Clint’s howling along in a key that doesn’t exist in music theory. It’s a disaster.

Bucky watches it all from the corner of the room, nursing the last of his lukewarm coffee, one leg bouncing under the coffee table.  

He gets up finally, under the guise of grabbing something sweet. 

Half the table’s been picked over, but there’s a bowl of wrapped caramels shoved into one of the stockings over the fireplace. 

He leans down, reaches in–

And hears the door open.

He doesn’t turn around.

“Took your time.”

Your voice follows, breezy and a little wind-chapped, “You’d think I’d never left.”

You’re still in your coat. A box under one arm, big bag in the other. You’ve clearly been outside a while.

“Presents are in the bag,” you tell them, “Help yourselves.”

Clint’s already shoving a mic at you, demanding a duet. 

“In a minute. I’ve got a thing to do.”

They elect to finish off the monstrosity that was Blue Christmas. 

You sway into the living room where he is, ruffling Peter’s hair on the way.

“Hey,” you say, smiling at him, small and familiar. “Sorry I’m late. I got caught up with something.”

“What was it?” 

“I drove next state over to find the cafe I used to work at. To see if the lady I used to work with was still there,” you inform him with a sigh. “Turns out they moved years ago.”

“Why’d you look for it?”

“I wasn’t really thinking,” you admit. “Got stuck in the holiday rush on the way back. Sorry for not answering your texts. I was driving pretty much the whole day.”

He stares at you.

He knows you’re impulsive, but something about this felt like it was…off. 

It was too short, you looked too distracted. 

You weren’t telling him the whole story, for whatever reason it was, but it was enough to make you drop everything and go look for something you’d left behind in the past. 

“Got you something,” you add, pulling out the box from under your arm.

You hold out the box.

He doesn’t take it right away.

Instead, he says, “You almost missed karaoke.”

You step further in. “How would I have lived?”

You stop in front of him. Still holding the box. You’re a little out of breath, like you came straight here without thinking.

“I’m fine, by the way,” you say.

“I know,” Bucky replies.

You finally offer him the box again. He takes it this time.

He lifts a brow, when he shakes it to get a clue of what’s inside. Something rattles around, but he draws a blank on what it could be.

You drop down onto the floor, sitting cross legged. He elects to join you, bringing the big box you gave him along with him, 

You reach toward the tree, like you’ve known exactly where your gift’s been this whole time. You grab it, navy wrapping, a little crooked at the edges, and hold it up.

It’s heavier than you were expecting, which makes you raise your eyebrows.

You look at him. “From you?”

“Yeah.”

“If it’s socks I’m gonna jump out the window.”

“I’ve left it open.”

“Thanks,” you snort. “Go on, then.” 

He peels back the paper carefully and opens up the lid. 

There’s another smaller box in there, which he finally flips open to reveal a collection of drink sachets. Every kind imaginable. Weird flavors. Strange colors. A handwritten label on each one. 

Some are just jokes. Others are things you actually thought he’d like.

He stares at them.

“Fuck coffee. We’re gonna figure out what drink you really want,” you say, grinning. “You can play beverage roulette.”

He picks one up. 

“Lemon hazelnut cinnamon tea,” he reads, before  looking up at you. “This sounds terrible.”

“You’re gonna try it anyway.”

He shakes his head, trying not to smile.

“Okay,” you say, “Second one’s a little different.”

Bucky reaches into the box to find a flat, thin package wrapped in dark red. 

He runs his finger under the tape and pulls out a frame.

He freezes.

Inside are two yellowed tickets. Old. Worn at the edges. 

Not quite the originals he remembers. But close.

“I tried to find the real ones,” you say. “They’re not in circulation anymore. But these were the same ride. Same year. Closest I could get.”

The Miniature RailwayDreamland – Coney IslandAdmit one – 10c

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

You watch him a beat too long. “I thought maybe… you’d want a piece of that day.”

His fingers are still resting on the glass.

After a long second, he says roughly, “You remembered.”

“Well, yeah. How could I forget Becca Barnes dragging you five times onto a tiny train?”

He looks at you with something flickering behind his eyes. For once, you can’t tell what he’s thinking.

He sets the frame down gently. 

“Thanks,” he says softly.

You beam at him. 

He leans over to push the box he got you towards you. 

Unlike him, you tear off the paper.

He’d have rolled his eyes with a smile if he wasn’t about to– well, he doesn’t know. He can’t name a single thing running through his head right now. Al he knows is that his chest feels like it’s going to explode.

You find a flimsy cardboard box inside, which you also essentially yank off, but significantly gentler this time. 

It takes a while to register what it is. 

Inside is a miniature house.

Not a dollhouse — not quite. 

It’s rough-hewn, handcrafted, clearly made in a workshop, not a factory. 

Each room is lined with pieces to match. Sinks, a bookshelf made from matchsticks, a tiny coat by the door that looks suspiciously like the one you always wear.

The doors all open. The windows too.

And there are people. Tiny replicas of the rest of the Avengers in their costumes, each in a different room. 

You lift up the box wordlessly to have a closer look, when you notice everything is glued down, including the rest of the team.  

Except for one little figure. Not much bigger than a thumb. Untethered. Looks a lot like you. Like someone specifically took extra time out to carve it to be as authentic as possible. 

You turn it over in your hand slowly. “Are these…?”

“The team.”

“They’re glued down. Mine isn’t.”

“Figured you wouldn’t want to be.” Bucky clears his throat.” Point is, they’re always there. Even when you aren’t.”

Your fingers tighten slightly on the box. “You built this?”

“Tried to.”

You swallow hard. “I love it.”

Bucky’s mouth twitches.

You trace the edges of the house again, fingers catching on the little imperfections in the wood. The weight of it sits in your lap, solid and strange and oddly warm.

“You asked me what it feels like,” he murmurs. “To have people like that.”

You glance up. He doesn’t meet your eyes, just watches the house.

“When I first moved in, I was in the kitchen and someone was making a smoothie. The blender made this awful noise when it powered down. And it sounded so much like… something else. One of the chairs they used in Siberia, or something.”

His voice stays even. Distant, almost. 

“Threw up all over the breakfast table. Everyone was there. Sam. Steve. Nat.”

You stare.

“They didn’t say anything. Just… cleaned it up. Gave me water. A different shirt. And the next week, there was a new blender. And it made no noise.”

You feel your throat go tight.

“They make fun of me constantly,” he says. “For everything. The way I eat, the way I breathe. But they’ll clean up the table. Replace the blender.”

You look at him now. Really look.

“So when I think of what it feels like– that’s the closest I’ve ever come to naming it.”

“Silent blenders,” you say, voice quiet.

He nods once. Eyes still on the little house.

You don’t say anything for a while.

And neither does he.

You close the box gently. Rest your hand over the lid like it might keep the warmth inside.

When you look back at him, he’s already looking at you.

The noise of the team still going strong in the background.

“Come on,” you say softly. “We got some karaoke to do.”

He exhales out a laugh in the form of a small breath, accepting your hand as you tug him to his feet. 

“Did you sing?”

“I don’t sing.”

“Nonsense, I know you got a set of pipes in you. Michael Buble’s gonna bring it right out.”

He’s about to respond when something rustles overhead. 

You glance up.

Sure enough, mistletoe hung slightly askew on a sliver of garland, taped with what looks like medical adhesive.

It swung dangerously, like it was just about to give up. 

You look back at Bucky. “That was completely coincidental.”

He raises an eyebrow. 

He’s not smiling. But his mouth is doing that thing it does when he’s fighting one.

“This is ridiculous,” he mutters. 

You stare at each other.

Neither of you moves.

“You gonna do anything about it, or just keep calling it names,” you challenge with a dumb smile on your face.

Bucky exhales through his nose. Looks like he might say something else. 

Instead, he just steps closer.

The smile you have on falters. 

Honestly, it’s not like you were expecting him to do anything about your stupid flirting because– well– he hadn’t done anything in months. 

But he’s looking at you with something unreadable on his face and you can smell the remnants of the day on him.

“What?” he asks, voice low, taking a dangerous step closer. “No comment now?”

Your mouth opens and closes. 

God, he may look like he wants to commit homicide, but nutmeg smells real good on him.

“Well,” you breathe out, and add nothing more.

His eyebrows raise in amusemuent for just a second before his face changes into something else. Something more serious. 

He’s close enough that you can tell that he’s controlling his breath. 

“It’s tradition,” Bucky murmurs, like you need any sort of justification whatsoever. 

Your eyes dart down for a split second, but he still fucking catches it, the corner of his mouth upturning just minisculy.

Your hand reaches up to fist his stupid sweater–

“Hey! Good, great, you’re both here. Finally.”

Both of you jump apart like you’ve been caught doing something scandalous. 

“Peter,” you say, blinking repeatedly as you attempt to catch your breath. “What’s wrong?”

The kid skids to a stop. “Okay, so I’ve been trying to ask this for like, months, and nobody’s been answering me, and I figured since I’m technically an Avenger and it’s Christmas, I can just—wait, are you guys mad at me?”

Bucky stares at him, dry as all hell as he asks, “Why would we be mad at you?”

You flick at him, telling him to behave.

Peter frowns. “I don’t know. I thought maybe you were ignoring me on purpose? Because I’ve tagged you both, like… a lot.”

You tilt your head. “Tagged us where?”

“On Twitter.”

There’s a moment where you all stare at each other like you’re speaking in an alien language. 

“I’ve been tweeting at you since you started this series,” Peter continues, eyes darting between the both of you. “You even read one of my tweets in your videos. I thought you knew.”

Bucky’s head turns slowly toward you. You’re already staring at Peter like he’s sprouted a second head.

“What are you talking about?” you ask slowly.

“Well, it’s my alt. I didn’t want people from my school to see that I was tweeting at you guys.” He scratches the base of his neck. “Sk8rboy02?”

“Wait,” you say, jaw dropping. “You’re sk8rboy02?”

“Yeah,” Peter drags in confusion. “I thought you knew?”

“You’re the one who kept replying to the giveaway post with ‘I deserve this because my cousin died in a haunted Chuck E. Cheese’?”  

Peter nods, completely sincere. “And also ‘if you give me the EMF reader i’ll use it responsibly (lie)'.”

“You entered the contest seventeen times,” you say slowly. 

Peter brightens. “So you did see me!”

“Of course we saw you. You called that guy from the Daily Bugle a balding fuck.”

“Oh yeah, he’s my boss. He sucks.” Peter waves off. “Wait, so you just… didn’t realize it was me?”

“No?” you ask incredulously. 

“I said I knew someone in the Avengers in like four different tweets!”

“Everyone thinks they know someone in the Avengers,” Bucky mutters. 

“Okay, yeah, fair.”

You shut your eyes. “So let me get this straight. You’ve been tweeting at us all year. You’ve been defending us online. You ratioed random reporters.”

“Yeah.”

“And you didn’t think to just… say it to our faces?”

“I honestly thought you guys knew.”

“No,” you and Bucky both say at once.

Peter shrugs and flips open a small, folded notebook from his hoodie pocket. “Okay, cool. Well, now that we’ve cleared that up, I’ve got some questions I’ve been collecting on behalf of the internet.”

“No,” Bucky says again.

“Just a few!” Peter insists. “They’re good questions! Like have you ever brought home something cursed by mistake? Or if a ghost starts following you, how do you tell it to leave? Or—this one’s from me—have you ever faked a haunting just to win a bet?”

Silence hangs in the air. 

“Or not,” he says, closing his notebook. “I’ll just– head out.”

You glance over at Bucky. 

He rolls his eyes.

“One question,” you say, turning back to the kid. “Holiday spirit.”

Peter practically vibrates. “Okay. Okay. This is a good one. What’s the most haunted place in the Avengers Tower?”

“Laundry chute on the south side,” you say.  

Peter scribbles something into his notebook like it’s the gospel truth.

“Thanks, guys.” He beams at you. “I’ll see you out there.”

Before you get a chance to reply, he zips away, already calling for his shot at the mic.

You and Bucky just stand there, shoulder to shoulder, in the lull left behind by Peter’s hurricane.

You glance up.

More mistletoe. Hanging smugly from the beam above you like it planned this.

You both clock it at the same time.

“Again?” he says. Tired. But not really.

“Second time today,” you reply, hands stuffed in your hoodie. “Third if you count the one in the elevator.”

“Which I don’t.”

You turn slightly to face him. 

“You know,” you start, tone carefully casual, “for a guy who once took a full round to the ribs and still had the energy to toss a grenade into a Hydra facility, you sure are squeamish about a little mistletoe.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just glances at you sharply, like he’s assessing something. 

“I’m just not trying to do something halfway,” he says finally, tone even.

You open your mouth. Close it. 

“Okay.”

You step closer.

Just enough that your hands brushes his. That shared warmth again. Static in the space between.

You lean, slow. 

Your lips press gently to the corner of his mouth. 

Barely there, more cheek than kiss, but close enough to make him inhale through his nose like he didn’t mean to.

When you pull back, you say nothing.

He blinks once.

“You missed.”

“Oh, did I?”

“Little to the left next time,” he mutters.

“Maybe,” you say, already turning to leave. “Next Christmas.”

Bucky exhales, shutting his eyes for a second before he follows right behind you.

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

THANK U TO EVERYONE WHO BOUGHT ME A KO-FI FOR THIS SILLY FIC. I BOUGHT MYSELF SOME CAKE.

to know when this fic updates, please follow @shurisneakersupdates and turn on post notifications! it’s the only way tumblr will let me have a taglist and i don’t post there at all except for fics </3

[barnescafe]

sometimes I revisit the hellsite when a hyperfixation reappears and no surprises here, it’s Thunderbolts*. So naturally, I’ve come here to beg for help because I’m obsessed with the idea of a reader x Bucky (the grumpy x grumpy kind) whereby Bucky, Yelena and Alexei speak to each other in Russian purely to annoy them. seems like their brand of chaos, and your brand of fic 🧡

omg my angel it has been forever since we have talked. i missed u!!

here have some absolute garbage russian and nonsense writing.

word count: 800 words. i think this is the shortest thing I've ever written

warnings: swearing, longing, gyms

my masterlist over here and my silly little inbox for more requests, should you please

"How many more to go?"

"No one asked you to be here."

"Congratulations, I am. How many?"

You wipe a bead of sweat from your forehead as you pull yourself up again. Bucky's ridiculous face is, once again, too close to yours. He’s crouched like a gargoyle, scrolling through his phone while your core screams as you complete one crunch before going back down again.

"You're acting like you're important to this process," you exhale as you go back down.

"I'm keeping your form right."

"You're sitting on my feet and playing Sudoku. You wouldn’t notice if I dropped dead."

"I’d notice. I'd step over you."

Your lips quirk at the morbidity of this exchange, pulling yourself up again.

He raises an eyebrow at how close your face gets. You ignore him, drop back down.

"Are we interrupting something?" You don't need to see Yelena's face to know she's got a stupid smirk on. "I did not know crunches were a two-person exercise."

"Neither did I," you grunt.

"Back in Soviet Union," Alexei announces, "everything was two-person job. We shared everything. Socialism."

Bucky's eyebrows pull together.

"I thought you two trained in the mornings," you mutter, exhaling hard through another rep.

"Walker showed up right when we finished the milk. We left before he could tell us to replace it." Yelena shrugs before casting her attention towards Bucky. "Вы всё ещё продолжаете свои танцы друг вокруг друга?"

Are you still dancing around each other?

"Я не танцую," he retorts.

I'm not the one dancing.

"Anna Pavlova danced less than you," Alexei brushes past to head towards the weights.

"What the fuck are you guys talking about?" you mutter.

Bucky casts a sideways glance towards you, but keeps his attention on Yelena.

"Вам стоит сходить на настоящее свидание," she continues. "Ужин, цветы. Могу дать пару советов."

You should go on a real date. Dinner, flowers. I can give you some advice.

"So can I. You know, they added 'Russia's greatest love machine' in that song after they met me." Alexei uses the resistance band to tie together both the bench press bars.

"Why’s he the only one in English?" You jerk your thumb out towards him as lower onto the mat. "And what the fuck is he on about?"

"I had many lovers in my youth--"

"I don't want to know what he's on about," you interject immediately, glaring at Bucky. “Get off my feet.”

“No.” He doesn't even hesitate, before firing back at Yelena, flat as ever. "Мне не нужны советы. Я справляюсь."

I don't need advice. I'm fine.

"Да, очень романтично. Желание придушить друг друга."

Yeah, this is super romantic. Wanting to strangle each other.

"Strangling can be romantic," Alexei lifts up both the barbells with one hand, arm pin straight. "If you asked Melina--"

"Dad," Yelena groans.

"Jesus Christ, I'll go train in the fucking garden," you mumble.

"Should we clap? Should we celebrate that you're making contact with the outside world?"

"Your face is going to make contact with my foot."

"Это у тебя такой флирт?" she asks.

Is this how you flirt?

"Я слишком стар, чтобы флиртовать."

I'm too old to flirt.

"You made me lose fuckin' count--"

"You're at 465," he cuts you off, before looking at Yelena again. "Не говори ни слова."

Don't say a word.

She raises her hands, lips pulling down in amusement. "Ты светишься. Противно."

You're glowing. Disgusting.

"She is right, you glow," Alexei drops the weights with a crash. The whole room trembles for a moment..

"You’re glowing?" you ask, incredulous. "What are you, pregnant?"

Bucky doesn’t respond. Just keeps looking at his phone like it’s going to save him from this conversation.

“Move. I’m done.”

"You still owe five."

“I don’t owe you shit.” Still, you pull yourself up to painstakingly complete the misery.

"Нам уйти? вы сейчас начнёте снимать друг с друга одежду?"

Should we leave? Are you going to start taking each other's clothes off now?

"Christ alive," Bucky mumbles. "Присоединиться к этой команде было ужасной идеей."

Joining this team was a terrible idea.

"Alexei, if you drop that stupid barbell again, I'm gonna hurl it at your head," you snap, wiping sweat from your face. "Let go, I'm leaving."

"You still owe five," Bucky reminds you.

"Can you not count? I finished five minutes ago."

"No. You still owe five."

You hiss at him from the mat, "Barnes--"

"Chop chop."

You shoot up, ready to fight him.

Bucky leans in and kisses you, soft and chased with a self-satisfied, smug smile. He pries away just in time to let you drop back down on the mat.

"That's five hundred," he says, already standing. "You can do the second set on your own."

It's hard to remember what your rebuttal even was.

"Disgusting," Yelena gags, hand on her waist.

"Замолчи," you snap.

Shut up.

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

also if you want u to know when i post fics, please follow @shurisneakersupdates and turn on post notifications! it’s the only way tumblr will let me have a taglist and i don’t post there at all except for fics </3

[barnescafe]

Omg hi if you're taking requests can u do one where bucket and reader are like investigating a murder or something and just make them bicker idk I'll read ur grocery list bro you can keep it annoyance to lovers like the "I just want you to stop saying odd shit" bit and then they fall in love

the way i had to cycle through multiple scenarios before landing on this so i could keep it lighthearted

word count: 1.3k

warnings: mild thunderbolts spoilers, swearing, longing, reader being annoying, fake murders

my masterlist over here and my silly little inbox for more requests, should you please

They're trained assassins.

Bob is not.

Yeah he does the dishes, and folds his laundry and rewatches old movies he liked better the first time. But eventually, he realizes he needs something to get him out of bed.

So he starts organizing nights.

Trivia. Gets weirdly competitive, and the tiebreaker is the name of some random model of gun from 1996.

A wine tasting that resulted in seven open bottles, no glasses, and someone using a tactical knife to open a wheel of Brie.

Potlucks, even though they don't know what to do with fifteen packets of Doritos and no real food.

And finally-- murder mystery nights.

Which is objectively deranged, because why are they coming home from their day job to cosplay it at night, but worse.

But it’s Bob. And Bob asks with that quiet, hopeful tone that’s hard to refuse. So they come. They try to stay longer than thirty minutes.

There's a body on the floor, covered in fake blood. None of the metallic smell that usually follows one-- it's something sweet. Suspiciously close to edible.

Bucky arrives late thirty minutes. Ridiculous, considering he lives in the building.

You arrive five minutes after that.

The others have already formed their teams, so he gets paired off with you. He knows why Bob has done this, no one in the tower was particularly subtle about the both of you. To their credit, he doesn't fight it.

The teams have already gotten a headstart, and he doesn't know what to do at a crime scene that he did not cause.

He also knows for a fact that neither of you have read the case file.

"Hmm," you say, kicking at the body with your toe. "Suspicious."

"What?" Bucky asks dryly.

"It appears the victim is...dead."

He stares at you. "That's the fucking game."

"I see," you hum. "As I said. Suspicious. Perhaps the murderer enjoys playing...games."

He closes his eyes. “I forgot how quiet it was when you weren't around.”

“And you hated it.”

“I cleaned the kitchen twice.”

“That’s grief, Bucky.”

He glances at you, expression unreadable. “You think you’re funny.”

“I think I’m observant.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, but doesn't quite lift.

Bucky hands you a sheet of paper. “You’re the maid. You found the body.”

“No. You're the maid. You found the body."

"That's not how this works. This is not a negotiation."

Five minutes later Bucky is the maid. He found the body.

Bucky ignores you trying to lift the thing with one foot.

"Mr. Long was found by his maid, Ms. Bennett, when she came to work," he reads out dryly. "She says to the police, 'Jee''-"

And then he stops.

You raise an eyebrow. "What does she say?"

"I don't know, there's, like fifteen typos on this thing." He squints. "'Jee howdy, well I walked in and he was on the floor, cold as a slice of pie..that was left in the refrigerator'."

"Things that are famously cold." You nod. "Read it again. Put a little drawl into it. Jee howdy."

"No."

“Read it again. Commit.”

“No.” He folds up the paper. "Did you find any clues?"

"None. Where is the chalk?"

"Chalk?"

"I want to outline his body," you tell him.

"That is not a real thing that happens."

"But if we work together, we can live in a world where it does."

You settle for permanent marker. The team was not going to be happy when they see this.

Either way, he doesn't say anything when you hand the cap to him and start drawing around the dummy. He even tells you you missed a spot.

He doesn't mind that he's paired up with you. You'd showed up at midnight and slept through most of the day, so this was really the first time you were speaking since you'd come back.

Yelena and Ava breeze past on the way to the kitchen, clearly more invested. Someone mentions a footprint.

Bucky doesn't even know the murder victim's full name.

"What the fuck are you doing.” Bucky asks, squinting at your latest addition. "What’s this circle?

"I drew a basketball. He looks like he's playing."

He’s about to argue, but something stops him. Maybe it’s the way your finger traces the imaginary arc of the shot. The line of his jaw knows what that feels like. The thought of it makes him swallow just the briefest amount.

He clears his throat. "What is wrong with you."

"Look at his arm. I'm gonna draw him a basket."

"Stop it. We're supposed to be investigating."

"I already investigated. He's straight up dead, man."

''That's not--"

"RIP for real." You nod solemnly. "No chance for a come back."

"Investigate why he's here."

"Well, this is a dummy, Bucky. He's only here 'cause someone left him like this. I think we ought'a find that fool who's left his mannequin out here and give him a real talking to."

He drags a palm down his face. "I don't want to be here. You're making this worse."

"Don't worry, we'll get to the bottom of this." You pat his shoulder. "What's this guy's name again?"

"I don't know. Mr Long."

"Mr So-Long." You smile wide. "Because he's dead."

He doesn’t argue. Not really. Not in the way that matters.

Bob asks on the group whether everyone's having fun. Everyone replies with various versions of 'yes'. Bob tells them there are no clues outside, and Alexei and John really have no reason to be grappling down the side of the Avengers Tower.

Eventually, he starts reading the case notes. Eventually, you abandon what you're doing and try to pick up on what's actually going on in the case.

You ignore his need for space, leaning into him to read for yourself.

“Why are you so close?” he mutters.

You don’t move. “I can’t read upside down.”

He reads the same line three times in a row. Can’t retain any of it. His brain is occupied with the way your hands are resting lightly on his wrist.

It's ten minutes to nine. Bucky's been trying to solve this on his own for a while now.

Bob, bless him, has tried to give everyone motives, but they don’t quite make sense. A missing cook. A driver who doesn’t show up until page four. A torn photograph. A coffee stain on the calendar. The date of a car accident circled in red.

You sniff the air. "San Marzano tomatoes."

"I'm pretty sure that's what the blood is made with." He continues reading from the notes. They’re sloppily written. Some of the pages are out of order. The names are inconsistent. The clues are vague.

"No," you say. "This was on purpose. This murder was at the hands of an Italian."

“There are no fuckin' Italians on the suspect list," he lies, knowing fully well he has no idea who the other suspects are, or if there are any.

"Fine. What other tomato-forward cuisines do you know?"

Bucky groans. "Let’s just say it was the maid. She poisoned him. Case closed.

"Well, actually Bucky, it's the driver. He took the fall for the crash a few years ago, got blamed for something that wasn’t really his fault. He drops Mr. Long off, follows him inside, kills him with a car key. The wound is something small. Multiple stabs, more than necessary, so it's definitely personal."

He stares at you.

He wonders if you meant the kiss you gave him before you left. He wonders if it meant anything to you. He’s been wondering that all week.

"Oh hey, you guys got it," Bob says, poking his head into the room. "Nice. I'll go tell the others you won."

"It was all Bucky. All I did was draw a chicken with his fingers."

Bucky shakes his head, but it’s with a softness you’ve seen before. Usually when you come back from a mission in one piece. When you make him laugh by accident. When he forgets, briefly, how much he isn’t supposed to want this.

"One more question, Bob," you say, spinning around. "Where was the driver from?"

“Oh, Ricci? Naples. Italian.”

"I fucking knew it."

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

[barnescafe]

“i can’t seem to understand you” with bucket bucky - hello i love you!!!

um hello i love you mORE am i going back to my roots?? yes. i never left. here's an avengers 2012 style fic with my new forced family morons.

word count: 1.6k warnings: mild thunderbolts spoilers, swearing, breaking and entering, mr avoidant over here

my masterlist over here and my silly little inbox for more requests, should you please

"First he leads us into the ass-kicking of our lives, now he's got us breaking into a random flat," Ava snipes, trailing behind the group. "What's the plan now, Bucky?"

"It is not his fault we got our asses kicked," Yelena squints as she looks up the brick wall.

"I don't need you defending me," he grumbles, jumping to catch hold of the fire escape.

"I'm not defending you," she says. "I'm calling all of us useless."

"We will break into tiny, New York apartment, and recover before we fight again," Alexei says. "Take nap, small lunch, then crush our enemies."

Bucky drags the fire escape ladder down to the ground, before wiping off his hands.

"No lunch," Bucky replies. "We're not staying that long. We just need a place to come up with a plan."

"Oh, we're taking the ladder? I figured you had another U-Haul around here to crash," John looks at the rackety old thing. "Can this thing even hold all of us?"

Bucky rolls his eyes, beginning the ascent. "Climb. Or don't. I don't care."

"Move." Ava shoves past him, following behind Bucky.

They crept up the side of the building, quiet enough for trained fugitives, loud enough to be annoying.

By the time they reached the third floor, Bucky was already prying open a window with enough force to snap the lock.

The window behind them hasn’t even clicked shut when a voice cuts through the room like a blade.

"You've got to be joking," your voice snapped from the doorway, sharp enough to stop all movement.

They all freeze.

You’re standing in the hallway, barefoot, holding a bat high up.

Yelena raises a tentative hand. “Uh-- hello?”

“Don’t.”

She puts her hand back down.

"What the hell Bucky?" you grit. "What the fuck are you doing here? And who are these people?"

"You guys know each other?"

"Hi," Bucky grunts, ignoring Walker and also the redness creeping up his neck. "These are--"

"The Thunderbolts."

"No." He glares. "They're helping me take down Val."

"Val? Congress Val? We're against her now?" you ask exasperatedly. "Last time we talked, you just got elected. Are you still in Congress?"

"You're in Congress?" Ava pipes up. "Didn't you kill JFK?"

"Not the point," Bucky groans.

"And they still elected you?"

"I'm not in Congress anymore."

"Oh goodie. Since when?" you ask.

"This morning." He rubs the back of his neck. "I didn't get time to call."

"Sure. You had time to break into my apartment, though."

"About that--" He glances back at the group who were standing around, clearly enjoying the beat-down he was facing. "We just need a place while we regrouped."

"To be clear, he did not tell us that he knew you. We thought we were going somewhere random," Walker juts in again.

"Oh, he's here too. Hello Craptain America. Which sewer did you crawl out of to be here?"

"I didn't even do anything," he mumbles stepping back.

"You've done enough."

"We'll leave if you just say the word," Bucky cuts in. "Swear. But we just need a few hours, and we'll be out of your life."

You stare at him for a few seconds. "Is someone gonna come break down my door looking for you?"

"No," he says.

“A door would not stop him anyway,” Alexei added, sounding entirely too cheerful. “But we will protect you. Not well. But we will try.”

You glance between all of them for a few seconds.

"Fine," you say at last. "If anyone comes looking for you guys, you're replacing anything they break."

Bucky lets out an exhale, as they all walk past him to sink down into various seats.

You turned without saying anything and walked down the hallway to the bedroom.

A minute passes.

Then footsteps.

He sees you leaning against the dresser, arms folded, phone still in hand.

Bucky stands in the doorway for a second, hesitant.

You look at him. “You gonna say something, or are you just here to breathe loud and feel sorry for yourself?”

He blinks. “Hi?”

“Try again.”

He sighs. “It wasn’t supposed to go like this.”

"No way, really?" you drawl. "But this is everything I've ever dreamed of."

"You're mad," he says

"I don't get it. I can't seem to understand you." You shake your head. "You bring me flowers, disappear for three months, we kiss, you raincheck every dinner I cook for you and now you show up here with four assassins."

He shifts on his feet. “I just needed somewhere safe.”

“And I’m what? A checkpoint?”

“No,” he says, too quickly, before adding in something more quieter, “You’re the first place I thought of.”

You sigh, folding your arms. “Are you in or are you out, Bucky?

His mouth is pressed into a thin line, arms crossed over his chest.

"Because if you are, and this is how it's going to be, I'm not interested. You're cute. I like you. But this isn't enough for me."

"'M sorry," He looks at you, softer now. "Things haven't been good. Didn't want to get you caught up in it."

"Yet here I am."

"I'm sorry about that too," he adds. "

You look at him for a long moment. At the cut above his brow. The dust on his jacket. The way his hands are clenched..

"You kept the bat." The corner of his lips quirk up into a smile.

“You should be grateful I didn’t swing it.”

“It’s got good balance,” he admitted.

He looks different up close. Same face, same eyes but worn thinner. Like he hadn’t slept properly in days. Maybe weeks.

You sigh. "Should I order pizza?"

"Yes," they all chorus from the living room. It catches you by surprise.

"Stop listening in," he barks.

"The walls are like, paper thin, man," Yelena says. "You should have thought of that before you brought us to your situationship's house."

“What the hell is a situationship?” he muttered, directing it toward you now. “Actually scratch that. I don’t care. Whatever it is, that’s not what we are.”

You raised an eyebrow, arms still folded. “No?”

"But there is a 'we', yes?" Alexei calls.

You look at Bucky. He looks back sheepishly, somewhat even helpless.

"Nope," you reply, moving past him to go to the band of morons out there. "There is no 'we'."

"I mean--" he mumbles.

"Classic lover's quarrel," he hears Alexei continues, like he's explaining this to someone. "Melina and I had them many times."

You roll your eyes. "How long do you have? Pizza's gonna take a while."

“You don’t have to feed us.”

"If you're gonna fight against this guy--"

"Bob," someone calls.

"Bob. If you're going to fight against Bob, you're gonna need more than a granola bar. When’s the last time any of you had a vegetable?"

You're met with a series of shrugs.

"Grown adults," you exhale, shaking your head before walking back into the bedroom to find your phone.

You thumb through the menu.

Something soft brushes against your hand. You swallow the thickness in your throat, refusing to tear your gaze away from the phone.

“Hey,” he says, and it’s almost too soft. “I’m sorry.”

You don’t move.

“I mean it. I’ll make it up to you.”

You glance at him.

"Look, I'm not trying to guilt you into--"

"It's not that. I've been meaning to." He swallows.

"Bucky--"

“I missed you,” he said, not quite looking at you. “I wish I could say I’ll get everything right from now on. I just… I’m trying. I swear I’m trying.”

You swallow. Slowly.

“And it didn’t feel good. Not talking to you. Everything was happening, and the nightmares were back, and I kept thinking 'I should tell you this.' But then I didn’t. And it got worse.”

“You don’t get to drop that on me if you're gonna fuck off again.”

“I won’t.”

You stared at him for a long moment.

Then you tilt your head. “You know you owe me, like, three dinners.”

He gives you a small smile. "I'll buy you dinner for the rest of your life."

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Congressman."

His eyes drifted toward the bat, still propped against the wall.

“You really were ready to clock me, huh?”

“I was aiming for Walker, but yeah. You were next.”

He smiles, and it's probably the most beautiful thing in the world.

"Are these your friends now?" you ask finally.

"They're not even my co-workers."

"Didn’t think you had co-workers anymore. As of, you know. This morning."

“Yeah, well,” he shrugs, “new job. No salary. No benefits at all, really.”

"You're gonna buy me dinner like this?"

"I'll figure it out."

You snort despite yourself. “You're gonna get someone killed.”

He shrugs again. “Probably me.”

He reaches out. Just lightly. Two fingers brushing against your pinky where your hand hangs.

Without thinking, he shifts just slightly closer. Not enough to close the space, but... there. He's back up in your space, and he fills it like he never left at all.

“I think about you,” he says, voice quiet like it's the one thing he wants to keep only for you both, "All the time."

"Sap," you say, but it feels airy. "Your 100 year old charm won't work on me. This doesn't fix anything."

"I know."

His fingers twitch like he’s about to pull away.

You catch them before he does.

“You disappear again like that,” you say, “I swing the bat next time.”

He smiles, head tilted. “Sure thing.”

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

[shurisneakersupdates]

unsolved part 14 out now!

[barnescafe]

unsolved (xiv)

Summary: Bucky doesn’t even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet’s amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse. (Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky, obnoxious reader, seasickness,

A/N: hey how are we feeling about bucky barnes being back with a fuckass bob. old man's got JOKES. im gonna kiss him.

Previous part || Series masterlist

There’s a book open on his lap but he’s not touched a single page. You’ve got a few books strewn across in different distances from you– physics, psychology, cooking. 

He’s stretched out across the floor with his legs thrown over your lap, back against one of the bookshelves. One leg has already fallen asleep since he hasn’t moved in the last two hours. The other digs its heel into your thigh every time he shifts.

You’ve got a clipboard balanced on top of his shins and a pen in your mouth.

You’re scribbling.

He watches you, warily, feeling the indents of the shelf in his back.

His phone plays the Velvet Underground at a volume just above whispering. 

But the library is warm. And you snuck a flask of something warm past the librarian, and wouldn’t tell him what exactly he was drinking but told him to trust you, and he did. 

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“You have a clipboard.”

“It’s for science.”

“You’re making that face.”

“I have one face.”

“You have at least three,” he mutters, eyes drooping. “And the one you’re making is never good news.”

“I’m not,” you say, offended. “I’m just cataloguing your responses in different haunted locations.”

Bucky stares. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And thorough.” You tap the page. “Okay. Quick question. Rank these: ghost orphanage, blood motel, mirror forest, murder mansion, possessed gas station.”

He sighs and leans his head back against the books. “Too much effort.”

“C’mon. Based on vibes, then.”

“Vibes? I almost got murdered at the gas station.”

“So that’s a ten?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Silent agreement. Got it.”

He shifts his foot just enough to knock the clipboard sideways. You catch it easily.

“You’re avoiding,” you sing.

“I’m surviving,” he replies, eyes closed.

You poke his leg with your pen. “I’m just trying to map it out, Buck. There’s a pattern, I know it.”

He cracks an eye open. “And what happens once you figure it out?”

You shrug. “Then I stop dragging you into the ones that hurt. Or I keep doing it, but I bring snacks.”

His smile is slight, but his foot settles again.

You take that as a go-ahead.

“Okay,” you say, chewing the end of your pen. “Would you say your discomfort in haunted locations is more visual, auditory, or tied to–”

Bucky lifts his phone and mutes the song. The chimes disappear into silence.

You blink. “...Was that dramatic or are you helping?”

“Helping,” he says flatly. “You can’t do a field study with a soundtrack.”

You grin down at him. “God, you’re such a good test subject.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“Too late.” You blow him a kiss. A stupid, immature, teenager-y part of him takes it to be as close to the real thing for now.

“Shouldn’t have let you bring me here.”

“I literally just said hi and you asked where we were going.” 

“Shut up,” he mutters. 

And then you return to your clipboard, tongue caught in your cheek, already mid-question again as his eyes flutter shut.

You don’t say anything for a while. Just the soft scratching of your pen, the hum of the muted light overhead, the quiet rhythm of him breathing, slower now.

You glance over.

He’s still got his eyes closed, head resting back against an old copy of Emma, mouth relaxed in a way it rarely is when he’s awake.

You’re about to poke him again with the pen when you remember something.

“Oh,” you say, like it’s nothing. “By the way. Our next case is a haunted cruise ship.”

He doesn’t open his eyes. Just lets out a low, long groan.

“That shit makes me seasick.”

You smile, soft. “Okay. Then I’ll find something else.”

He shifts slightly, still not looking at you.

“Nah,” he mumbles. “It’s fine. We’ll go.”

“You sure?”

“Mhm.”

He shifts again, lazily, until he’s rolled halfway onto his side, legs still slung over your lap, arm tucked under his head.

Settled.

You stare at him for a second longer, pen hovering uselessly above your clipboard.

Then you look down and write:

Subject may be growing fond. Possibly attached. Observe further.

And beneath that, smaller:

Also: seasick. Do not let steer boat.

“I just want to set the tone,” you say, stepping lightly onto the rusted gangway with arms wide and a dramatic spin. “For the record, even though you and her are the same age at the end of the movie, I am the Rose in this situation.” 

Bucky, standing behind you with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, responds. “You mean doomed?”

“I mean devastatingly hot.”

He takes a cautious step onto the gangway. It groans. Loudly.

“This thing’s gonna collapse and then I’m going to be the one floating on driftwood,” he says. 

You glance back over your shoulder, grinning. “You’d let me drown?”

“I’d let you have your monologue first.”

“Wow.”

You spin again, wind tugging at your jacket, and gesture to the looming structure ahead.

The Odette rises out of the fog.

White paint peeled back to rust. Windows dark. Decks slanted just enough to make the walk a bit of a trek. 

The dock beneath you is warped and uneven, and the whole structure leans as if the water itself is trying to reclaim it.

“This is going to be a very romantic evening. I can feel it,” you tell him. “It’s giving summer romance on the waves.”

“It’s giving tetanus,” Bucky mutters, eyeing the railing. “Did you get a tetanus shot this year?”

“What’s a little tetanus in the grand scheme of things?”

“Do you ever process the things you’re saying or do you just freestyle it?”

You step through the hull door, flashlight flicking on with a warm click.

Inside, the ship is exactly what you'd hoped: creaking wood, disorienting reflections from old mirrors, the lingering scent of salt and mold and varnish.

It’s not ice cold, but it feels like it should be. No light enters in through the dusty windows. 

Bucky walks slowly beside you, metal arm brushing against yours as you move deeper into the central hall.

“This place is barely thirty miles from the city,” he says, scanning the space. “You’d think someone would’ve turned it into an Airbnb by now.”

“They tried three different times. One crew abandoned the job overnight. The other two refused to stay past sundown. Last contractor quit two hours in.”

He makes a noise in consideration. 

“Anyway,” you say, pausing beneath a crumbling art deco archway. “Here’s what we’re working with. 

"Then one night, she vanished mid-voyage. Off the coast near Long Island. Clear weather. No distress calls. She was just... gone. They found the ship the next morning, still running. No crew onboard. Like the whole ship had just stopped."

"Anyway," you continue.

“Look,” you say, “if I go missing on this shit, just tell people I vanished. Don’t ruin the mystery.”

“Noted,” he says dryly. 

You grin. 

The hallway smells like wet velvet.

You push open the next door and step into a long, narrow hallway.

“Oh, by the way, we’re staying overnight.”

There’s a pause. A long one.

“Sorry?”

“On the ship,” you say lightly, scrolling again. “Spending the night. Full investigation, sunrise exit, et cetera.”

Bucky stops walking. “That was not in the briefing.”

“What do you think is in the duffel bag you’re carrying?”

“Change of clothes because we’re on water.”

“You’re planning on swimming?”

“Considering I’m with you, I wouldn’t rule out anything.” 

You grin. “The ship’s tethered, you’re not getting thrown overboard.”

 “Right, ‘cause nothing abnormal ever happens around you.”

“We’ve talked about this. Racing heart, nervousness are signs that you’re in love with me, not paranormal activity.”

“I’m not in love with you.”

“Denial looks so hot on you babe.”

He rolls his eyes, moving ahead past you.]

"The ship's not moving. It's hardcore anchored, so you don't have to worry about the waves. I made sure."

"Joy."

"Unless, of course, the ship decides to set course with us in it. But then we'd have bigger problems than you throwing up."

"Thanks. Good to know."

The next room is a dining salon, or what’s left of one.

Long tables still bolted to the ground. Place settings eerily intact. The dust is thick.

You shine your flashlight along a stack of plates. They’re china. Real. Cracked at the edges but still arranged in neat piles.

“I got us sandwiches. Wanna eat it on that?”

“You’d be eating more dustmites than bread.” 

"Oh, word. Protein."

Bucky’s flashlight points toward a faded sign above the wall paneling. It reads: Midnight Banquet. Closed Event. Strictly Guests Only.

“Well, I feel deeply unwelcome,” he mutters.

You step closer to the table and pull back a chair. It’s heavy. Cold.

“They say the night she vanished, Odette was hosting one of her private parties. Whole thing was invite-only, super-exclusive. Her ‘farewell to the sea.’”

He rests a hand on the back of one of the chairs. It creaks beneath the pressure, but doesn’t move.

“Talk to the spirits,” you tell him. “They’re supposed to be real hospitable ‘cause it’s all waitstaff for the ultra-wealthy.” 

“I’m not talking to the air.”

“Just say ‘hi’, It’s common courtesy.”

He gives you a weathered look. You nod seriously.

He sighs, shifting the duffel bag to his other shoulder.

“Hello, demons,” he tests slowly, awkwardly. “It’s… James.”

“Who the fuck has ever called you James in your life? You immediately interject. 

“That is my name.”

“No one has ever called you James,” you scoff. “Hello spirits? His name is Bucky Barnes, also known as Bucky Barnes. And he is single and ready to be haunted.”

Bucky rolls his eyes so hard he might just see his brain, but the second he turns to retort with a glare, he falters. 

Golden, flickering, warm.

The room smells like citrus oil and perfume. It’s bright. There’s a glow to everything. Not artificial. Sunlight. Morning sunlight, thick and amber and alive.

You don’t know where it’s coming from.

There’s a polished table in the middle, partially set. Delicate china cups. A half-eaten grapefruit. Silverware placed with elegance. A folded napkin resting over someone’s chair, like they stepped away mid-brunch.

He looks at you, covered in the same rays you’ve dragged him to the roof too many times just before sunrise to see. It makes him swallow the thickness in his throat at how… radiant–

“I think we’re at brunch,” you whisper, snapping him out of it. 

There are coats slung over the back of chairs. Gloves. A handbag, its clasp slightly open. Someone’s reading glasses resting on a closed book.

Bucky doesn’t answer. He’s scanning the room like he’s expecting someone to laugh, to enter, to scold them for intruding.

It feels like somewhere nearby, someone’s telling a joke. Someone’s fixing their lipstick. Someone is about to ask you how long you’re staying and whether you’re from the city.

You walk further in. The carpet is soft under your boots.  

You rest your hand on the edge of the table. The porcelain is still warm.

Glass. Clinking, faintly. A fork brushing against a plate. A woman’s voice, low and amused. Not words. Just the tone.

You turn slowly, goosebumps crawling up your arms.

There’s no one there.

But it feels like there is.

Bucky’s still watching the room like it’s going to move on its own.

You don’t answer.

There’s a sound then. Not loud. Just a scrape, like someone pulling their chair back, ready to leave.

You both turn.

Nothing moves.

But the folded napkin is now unfolded, crumpled gently on the seat.

The grapefruit is gone.

The juice pitcher is empty.

The book on the side table is closed, a bookmark placed neatly between its pages.

You blink.

There is only rusted metal, cold dead silence and the thick smell of salt. 

Back to dust. Rot.

“Did you see–”

“Yep.” 

You glance around. 

The pale green walls half peeled and browned. Wet splotches on the ceiling. 

There’s a painting of a garden party over the fireplace, and beside it is a mirror.

Full-length. Silver-framed. Spotless.

You tilt your head at it.

Bucky walks closer, and the moment you both step in front of it, you freeze.

Because it’s you.

But not exactly.

Standing too near. Soft expressions that don’t match the faces you think you wear. A version of you that belongs here. A version of Bucky that isn’t carrying everything in his shoulders. 

Like you’re mid-conversation. Like this is familiar.

You glance at him.

He’s staring at the mirror with an unreadable expression.

“…That’s not real,” he says after a long pause.

“No shit.”

“I don’t stand like that.”

“I don’t smile like that.”

The version of you in the mirror glances up. At him.

The reflection of Bucky gives you that smile. You recognise it– it’s the one he only ever uses when he thinks no one’s looking. Sometimes it makes an appearance when you say something exceptionally stupid. 

Your stomach does something unhelpful.

“Okay,” you say too loudly, stepping back. “Well, that’s cursed.”

“Some fucking gas leak has us hallucinating here,” he adds, voice rough. “We’re leaving before we pass out.”

He slinks away, clearing his throat and blinking harshly a few times. What the fuck. 

“Got another hundred rooms and a whole night– well fuck,” you stop midway. 

“What?” he asks, trying to reconcile with what he just saw. 

“I don’t know how long we’ve been in this fucking room but it’s close to midnight,” you murmur. “Crazy.”

That’s one way of putting it. 

“Well, that was fun. I’m gonna go check if we got any of that on camera or if we just went through a cool new bonding exercise in our heads,” you say, unfazed.

Bucky thinks that the world may not be all he’s been believing all these years. 

You walk out of the room, leaving Bucky to follow. 

He turns to the mirror again.

It’s cracked.

Just once, straight down the middle.

“C’mon, we’ve gotta go check out the captain’s quarters,” you call.

“Coming,” he grunts out, exhaling slightly. 

He turns again, just out of instinct, one last time– 

She’s there.

Small. Smiling. Bright-eyed in that way only memory can exaggerate..

Standing beside him in the reflection, just for a moment. Hair tucked behind her ears. Wearing a sundress he got her with money from overtime at the docks

She mouths something.

“Leave.”

He takes half a step back. Blinks.

She’s gone.

Your voice sounds distant, asking something, but he doesn’t register what.

He turns. Doesn’t speak. Just walks out.

You walk in silence for a while.

Your boots creak against the warped floor. Bucky’s steps are quieter. Measured.

You glance sideways at him.

He’s got that look again. The one where he’s processing, but pretending he’s not.

You open your mouth. Close it again.

You stop in the middle of the corridor. He stops too, reluctantly.

Your voice drops, suddenly serious. “You saw it. The mirror. Us.”

“Did I?

He starts walking again.

“You’re being weird about this,” you say, catching up.

“I’m being normal about this,” he mutters.  

You roll your eyes. “You’re deflecting. That’s fine. That’s your thing. But I know when something rattles you.”

He snorts. “I wasn’t rattled.”

You study his face. The way his mouth is set, the way his jaw ticks every few seconds like he’s grinding through something.

You stop again.

And then you sit down. Right there in the middle of the hallway. Clipboard across your lap like a shield.

He blinks down at you.

“What are you doing.”

“Something’s wrong, Bucky.”

“Something’s always wrong.”

You pull a pen from behind your ear like it’s a sword. “You’re being weird. This isn’t just normal you-weird, this is that weird.”

He sighs.

“Alright. Paranormal scale. One to ten. Emotional impact, ten being a full snot-crying on my shoulder.”

He groans. “Put that away.”

“You’re pale.”

“That’s just my face.”

“You look seasick.”

“I am seasick.”

“From a ship that hasn’t moved since 1900s?”

He closes his eyes. “I should’ve left you in the mirror.”

“You wouldn’t. I was fake-laughing at your jokes.”

He snorts. Looks away. That one almost got him.

You make a show of writing something down. “So. You’re not talking. You’re not denying it either. Conclusion?”

“I’m tired.”

You study him for a few more moments. Bucky doesn’t change.

You glance down at the clipboard. Then, gently, you place it back in the bag.

You offer him a bottle of water instead. He takes it.

“Where’s the quarters,” he asks. 

“Straight ahead,” you oblige. 

The lantern’s been off for fifteen minutes.

Technically, it’s lights-out.

Realistically, you’re still awake.

Lying on your back, blanket pulled over your chest, eyes fixed on the water-stained ceiling, listening to the gentle scratch of pen on paper.

Bucky shifts in his sleeping bag beside you. “Are you writing again?”

“No,” you say, scribbling something else. “I’m documenting.”

He exhales through his nose. “Same thing.”

“I’m keeping a record in case we’re murdered in the night. I think that’s responsible.”

“You wrote ‘smells like seaweed’ earlier.”

“It did smell like seaweed.”

He turns his head. “What does it smell like now?”

You pause. “Unresolved tension.”

“Go to sleep.”

“I will. I’m just waiting.”

He groans. “For what?”

You tap your pen. “To see if any of the staff shows up. Captain usually goes on rounds at night.”

“There’s no ghost captain.”

“There might be. He probably wears epaulettes and appears only to emotionally complicated people.”

“My bad, tell him I say hi when you meet.”

You toss a balled-up gum wrapper in his direction. It hits his shoulder.

You glance at him. He’s lying perfectly still, like if he commits hard enough, he’ll vanish.

You turn back to your clipboard. “I think if I die, they’ll probably promote me. Make me first mate.”

“You’d be thrown overboard in five minutes.”

“I’d haunt the galley. Spill soup on your ghost boots.”

“Ghost boots.”

“Ghost boots.”

“You still haven’t told me where you got that fucking candle from.”

“Stole it from brunch.” You glance at the small tealight flickering next to your knee. “It’s ambiance.”

“You’re going to burn the ship down.”

“It’s in a dish.”

“You put it in a cup.”

“It fits perfectly.”

There’s a long pause.

“You’re insane.”

You smile to yourself. “You love it.”

“I tolerate it.”

“You love it.”

Bucky doesn’t answer.

He just rolls over, pulling the sleeping bag tighter. “Wake me up if anyone on the staff’s hot.”

You grin, still scribbling. “I’ll put that in the notes.”

The first thing he notices is the movement.

A deep, rolling sway. Not a casual creak or a groan, but a full-bodied shift.

He blinks awake.

Immediately regrets it.

His stomach lurches sideways.

The ceiling above him is doing slow, sick figure-eights.

“God–” he mutters, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The ship rocks again, harder this time.

He grabs the edge of his sleeping bag like it’ll help. It doesn’t.

He closes his eyes, counts to five, and opens them again.

And that’s when he realizes.

The sleeping bag next to his is empty.

No candle. No clipboard.

No you.

“Jesus fucking Christ. You have to be kidding me.”

He tries to sit up and instantly regrets that too.

Something slips down from his forehead and lodges on his nose. 

He pulls it off and stares at it.

A sticky note.

You’ve written in your neatest cursive:

“Gone to investigate. If I die, avenge me. If I live, take me bowling.”

Underneath, in all caps: “DO NOT THROW UP IN THE CORNER. THAT’S MY SIDE.”

He stares at it.

Then lets his head fall back against the floor with a quiet, miserable thunk.

Another lurch. The ship groans like it’s stretching awake.

He exhales through his nose. Folds the note once. Puts it in his pocket.

Then he rolls to his feet, grabbing onto walls and railings to steady himself, and sets off to find you.

_____

Bucky staggers down the corridor like a man cursed, one hand braced against the wall, the other curled around his stomach. 

The ship sways harder this time like it’s trying to shrug him off.

He swears under his breath.

He rounds a corner, stomach lurching again, and stops in the doorway of the captain’s room.

You’re there.

Grinning like a lunatic, wind in your face that doesn’t technically exist, spinning the massive ship’s wheel with both hands.

He shouts over the noise. “What the hell are you doing?”

You look over, delighted. “Steering!”

He blinks. “We’re not moving.”

You point dramatically. “We are listing to port, sir. Someone had to take control before this ship took us to fucking hell.”

The wheel creaks as you spin it again. You lean into it like it might actually do something.

“You’re making it worse,” he groans, dragging himself fully into the room. 

You glance at him. “You look awful.”

“I feel worse.”

“You’re green.”

“The room is fucking spinning.”

“I know, I’m trying to counterbalance it.”

He collapses against the nearest console like it might forgive him. The whole floor shifts again, a slow, sick tilt that makes the walls groan in protest.

You finally let go of the wheel. "Honestly, the ship started making all these weird noises and when I got up to check, it started rocking like we're in the middle of a storm. I was hoping I'd get it under control before it woke you up. Didn't want you to get sick."

The ship groans again. Still. Slower, maybe. But still wrong.

You look at him a little closer now.

“Okay, you really don’t look good.”

“I woke up alone. On a moving ship.”

“Did you throw up on my side?

“There was a note taped to my face.”

“I told you not to throw up on my side.”

“Stop talking about throwing up,” he groans. 

“Alright, Buck,” you say brightly, “your turn!”

He doesn’t even lift his head. “Absolutely not.”

You let go anyway.

The wheel creaks, spins half a turn on its own.

“Why is it still moving?” he asks sharply.

You’re already across the room. You step up onto the low ledge by the window and spread your arms slightly, windless but dramatic.

“I’m the king of the world,” you announce.

“Get down.”

The ship lists again. He lurches forward, catches himself on the wheel, and immediately regrets touching it.

You hop down lightly and clap your hands together. “Okay, okay, fine. Keep steering. I’ll figure this out..”

“I’m not steering.”

“You are steering. You’re at the wheel. That’s what it means.”

“I’m touching the wheel. That’s not consent.”

“Ghost captain would be disappointed in you.”

“Ghost captain should drive his own damn ship.”

He grips the wheel with one hand. It shifts again beneath his fingers, slow and unsteady.

The wind’s gotten worse.

The deck tilts again, hard. You catch yourself, slide a few inches toward the helm, wind slamming through the cracks in the wall.

“Okay, okay,” you pant. “I think it’s pulling to the left. Hold on, I’ll try to level it out–”

“Christ alive, hurry up.”

“I am doing my best.”

The ship lists again. He makes a noise and grips the wheel tighter.

“I hate this place,” he mutters. ”I hate ghosts. I hate ships. I hate being haunted.”

“I thought the brunch wasn’t that bad–”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. 'm talking about the dead people who've been after me for months.” He clenches his eyes shut to quell the nausea. 

The ship groans under you like it’s stretching its spine.

“What?”

Fuck.

“What do you mean dead people have been after you for months?”

He’s not looking at you. Both hands on the wheel, jaw clenched.

You stare.

He swallows. Doesn’t repeat it. But the damage is done.

You step toward him, slow. “Bucky.”

“Can you make this stop?” he says, voice as even as he can make it.

The ship groans again, loud now. Almost angry.

You plant your legs firmly on the ground. 

Your fingers dig into the palm.

Steady. Focused.

And the wind begins to slow.

Not like flipping a switch, but with a groan. 

The ship stops rolling. The tilt evens.

It doesn’t feel natural, not in the way ships normally respond to weight or wind, but it’s still. 

You breathe hard. Keep your hands where they are.

Bucky is still staring at the wheel, like it’s safer than meeting your eyes.

“Forget what I said, I’m sick,” he says, voice rough. 

You don't say anything when you look at him. 

The ship groans beneath you but this time it’s heavier.

You step to the window again, squinting out into the dark.

He doesn’t look up. He’s leaned over a console like the only thing keeping him upright is his refusal to puke in front of you.

You clear your throat. “I think we’re not in the water anymore.”

“What?”

You open the hatch. Step out into the stale wind.

He drags himself after you, reluctant and mildly green.

Outside, there’s nothing. No lapping water. No dock.

Just air. Fog. The faint shape of the coastline beneath you.

The Odette is levitating.

Bucky stares for a long moment.

“Did you lift the ship?”

“Not on purpose.”

“You anchored us into the air.”

“I was trying to keep it from swaying.”

“You took it off the ocean.”

You hold up both hands. “To be fair, it worked. I can put it–”

“Do not put it back down.”

You blink.

He slides down the wall and sits, knees pulled up, head in his hands. “If it starts moving again, I will jump off the side.”

You nod solemnly. “Understood, Captain.”

He drops his head to his knees.

You sit beside him.

For a long beat, neither of you say anything.

The air is cool, and it ruffles through his hair. You wipe stray strands away from his forehead. 

“If you bring that clipboard out, I’ll drown myself.”

“I’ll circle back later.”

“Absolutely not.”

You pat his knee. “Let me know when you’re ready to go back down.”

He just closes his eyes. “Give me five– twenty minutes.”

You barely make it through the front doors before being ambushed.

Really, Maya appears like she’s been summoned.

“Jesus Christ,” she says, stepping into the hallway. “You’re alive.”

You pause mid-step. “Statistically, we’re usually alive.”

Maya exhales like she’s been holding it in for hours. She’s in flats, an oversized blazer, and carrying two phones, both vibrating. 

She stops in front of you. Eyes bloodshot.  

“I have emailed. I have pinged. I have sent a courier, and the only response I got was an AI generated TikTok of both of you turning into swans.”

You blink. “I figured I was in trouble again.”

“And so you thought avoiding it would make it go away?”

“I try that with everything, it never works,” Bucky mutters. 

Maya closes her eyes. “You two are going to be the death of me.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“Yes. And every time I mean it more.” She opens her tablet. “Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about, which you'd know if you opened my mail.”

“Sorry.”

She waves you off. “Your numbers are up. A lot.”

You raise an eyebrow. “How much is a lot?”

She turns the screen. “This is your traffic graph.”

You stare. “Why does it look like a heart attack?”

“Because while you test terribly with people over the age of 65, ages 13 to 55 love you. Congratulations. You are now accidentally our most valuable brand.”

Bucky falters. 

Maya continues, flipping to another screen. “Also, the poll about the code name? That thing you launched without approval?”

You nod slowly. “People had opinions.”

“They always have opinions. You know who else had opinions? Legal. Communications. Homeland Security, somehow.” She gestures broadly. “But good news for you: it worked. Your metrics are through the roof. So, as per the contract you signed– you only need enough videos to finish off the season. Then you’re out.”

You stare at her.  

“We’re out?” you repeat. 

Maya nods. “Done. No more videos. Just a few interviews here and there, and some social media.”

You glance at Bucky.

He’s still facing away, completely still. Like he’s buffering.

Maya softens a little. “Hey. This is good. Right? You guys– him especially– wanted this. You’re free.”

Still nothing from him.

You say, carefully, “Yeah. Great.”

She studies you both. Her voice gentles. “Seriously. You did good. I’m proud of you. Deeply, incredibly exhausted. But proud.”

Bucky finally turns. Looks like he’s trying to remember how language works.

“Thanks,” he says flatly.

Maya tilts her head. “Okay. That’s about the emotional range I expected.”

You smile faintly. “You should lie down.”

“Oh, I’m going to die standing up like a horse.” She steps back. “Eat something, you guys look terrible. And sign off on the new Mayday merch. We’re launching a footwear collection.”

“No promises,” you reply.

“I know,” she mutters, and walks off down the hall, muttering to herself about analytics. 

The silence returns.

You and Bucky stand there a while longer.

Finally, he says, without looking at you, “C’mon.”

Neither of you say what you’re thinking.

Bucky doesn’t know whether the sick feeling in his stomach is still from the ship or not.  

The elevator dings softly.

The doors slide open to your floor.

You’re half-asleep, half-hovering against the wall of the elevator, hoodie pulled over your head.

Bucky stands beside you, hands in his pockets.

You yawn, dragging your feet as you step out. “You look like you’re about to collapse. You don’t have to walk–”

Before you can finish the statement, he steps forward. Stubborn motherfucker. 

Follows you down the hall.

“I’ve made it to the room in one piece," you announce. "Now go sleep for a week.”

“I will.”

But he stays until you cross the threshold. Until the lights come on fully. 

Until you turn and say, a little softer, “Thanks.”

He nods just barely.

Then turns and disappears down the hall.

Bucky doesn’t even bother with the light when he gets back to his room.

The door slides shut behind him and he lets his coat hit the floor somewhere between the entrance and the bed.

He lands face down, boots still on, half a groan catching in his throat on the way down.

He lies there for a long time.

Somewhere near the pillow, Alpine lets out a soft chirp.

She steps delicately onto his back. Sits.

He doesn’t complain.

The buzz of his phone vibrates against the nightstand.

He reaches out blindly, flips it toward his face. Squints.

From: mayday You ever gonna talk about what you said on the boat?

He closes his eyes again. Let the phone drop.  

Exhales long and heavy.

There’s a pause.

Then, from somewhere near his shoulder:

“You should talk about your sister.”

His eyes snap open.

He doesn’t move.

Just lies there.

Face still in the pillow.

He lifts his head. Slowly. Looks over his shoulder.

Alpine is still sitting there. Tail flicking gently.

Silence.

“I haven’t told anyone about her yet, if that’s what you care about.”

Bucky stares, mouth open.

Alpine licks her paw. Casually. 

“You can fucking talk?!”

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

THANK U TO EVERYONE WHO BOUGHT ME A KO-FI FOR THIS SILLY FIC

to know when this fic updates, please follow @shurisneakersupdates and turn on post notifications! it’s the only way tumblr will let me have a taglist and i don’t post there at all except for fics </3

[barnescafe]

Hello, lovely Ari! I hope life is treating you like the queen you are 💜 I come bearing a thought: grumpy x grumpy with Bucky where he falls asleep on her shoulder on the jet after a mission.

a/n: my angel violet. is there any universe where you ask me to write something and I do not do it? I think not.

featuring the two bozos the fools from misery loves company. all parts are stand alone fics

warnings: stab wounds, gun shot wounds, alcohol, swearing

"Happy with yourselves?"

"Positively thrilled," you mutter, stifling a yawn. "Any more morphine?"

"Last of it went into your boyfriend," Nat calls from the cockpit.

"Not my boyfriend," you say, slumping back.

"Sweet. That’s real sweet, thanks," Bucky grumbles, dragging himself across the floor, one arm pressed to his side. "No morphine-- where's the damn liquor? I had a bottle here."

"Barton torched it. Molotov," Sam says without looking up.

"Dick," Bucky mutters. "Pyromaniac asshole."

"Sit down before your insides become outsides," Nat warns.

"Whee."

"Sit."

"Or what?"

"You’ll die."

"Big whoop."

You glance over. He’s still standing. Barely.

"You bleeding out on purpose or just trying to make a point?"

He shrugs. Or tries to. Winces instead. “Little from column A, little from column B.”

You shoot Bucky a sharp look. 

He meets your gaze with a flash of indifference. Then, finally, that twitch of his mouth.

"How’s it going?" he rasps, sinking into the seat beside you.

"Stabbed. You?"

"Shot."

"Spectacular."

"No one told you to get stabbed."

"No one told you to get shot."

"No one told either of you clowns to dive into each other’s line of fire," Nat cuts in. "What was the plan? Now you're both useless."

"I’m not useless," you grumble.

"That knife went through you like butter."

"Okay, Swiss cheese, let’s not start."

A beat of silence passes. Bucky holds back a hiss every time the plane goes through turbulence.

"I've gotten stabbed before," he mutters.

"Try not being shit at it next time, champ."

"Didn't need the save."

"Neither did I." 

Silence.

You shift. "Bottle under the seat. Back left."

"Christ, you get me," he groans, leaning over. 

He grabs it, opens it with his metal hand, takes a long drink.

His head drops to your shoulder. All heat and blood-soaked fatigue.

“You’re heavy,” you mutter.

“Give it ten minutes. I’ll bleed out some weight.”

A pause.

He moves just enough to press a slow, rough kiss to your shoulder. Somehow finds a scrap of skin between the shredded fabric and grime.

You exhale, slow.

"Not your boyfriend, huh?" he murmurs, voice drowsy. Blood loss and alcohol, hell of a combination.

"Still not."

He hums, quiet. 

He doesn’t move. You don’t push him off.

You sigh, resting your cheek against his head, letting the dull hum of the jet act as a lullaby

[shurisneakersupdates]

unsolved part 13 out now!

[barnescafe]

unsolved (xiii)

Summary: Bucky doesn’t even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet’s amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse. (Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky, obnoxious reader, forests, sabotaging

A/N: lmao so initially this was actually supposed to be released on Halloween last year bc it was the 13th chapter. but of course, The Horrors. so have a Halloween themed chapter in the middle of fucking April. good day to you all.

Previous part || Series masterlist

Bucky doesn’t do Halloween.

To be fair, Bucky doesn’t do most organised festive celebrations. 

But Halloween specifically, is not for him. 

He barely has energy to exist in real life, and now he has to do it with a costume? Like a little circus clown boy begging for claps?

No.

So even though the team has mostly done the most with what they can, and dressed up to celebrate the spirits of the holiday, he has chosen to stick to his usual.  

He begins to feel the guilt twirling around his stomach when he finally makes his way to the event ground. 

The whole Halloween fair felt like fall in a bottle. Rows of vendor stalls lined the main walkway, overpriced cider and hot chocolate competing for everyone’s attention. The air was thick with the scent of kettle corn, fried dough, and bonfire smoke, and at the very center of the fairground, a massive pumpkin display loomed. IT was carefully arranged, family-friendly, and absolutely begging to be destroyed. 

There were costumes everywhere. Kids sprinting between hay bales in bandages and plastic fangs, groups of teenagers posing for selfies in group outfits, couples holding hands.

It was nice. It might even begin to thaw his cold, solid heart. 

The groans and bullying that follows when he pulls up half an hour late is warranted but he holds his ground. 

Hands balled into fists, chest pushed out and sturdy, he takes his usual place next to you, bracing for impact. 

“You’re a bore,” you say without skipping a beat. “You’re like fun-antidote. Where is your costume?”

“I’m wearing a costume,” he says simply. “I’m A Guy.”

“Your costume cannot be guy. I knew this shit would happen. I had a costume delivered to you one month ago, where is it?”

“If you think I’m dressing like that Dr Seuss piece of shit, you’re deranged.” Bucky casts a look at you. 

He opened the package, saw the red stripes and closed it right back up.

“There’s no way you showed up with nothing,” Nat scoffs.

“Clint wore a full Pikachu onesie,” Wanda offers, joining the group with a powdered sugar moustache.

“That’s because Clint has no shame.” 

“I heard that,” Clint calls from somewhere. God knows where.

“You were supposed to,” Bucky fires back. 

Nat raises an eyebrow. “C’mon Buck. Not even a little face paint?”

“Do I look like a man who owns face paint,” he says dryly, glaring when he suddenly notices a little detail. “Why’s everyone looking at me? This one’s not wearing a costume either.”

He juts a thumb towards you. You narrow your eyes.

“I’m literally wearing one right now,” you say, gesturing to yourself. 

“You’re wearing a black t-shirt and combat boots,” he argues. “That’s clothes. It’s not a costume.”

“It’s a good costume,” Sam pipes up. “I get it.” 

You beam at him. “Thanks.”

Bucky glances at you, then at Sam, then back at you again.

Nat, leaning back against the table, exhales a short laugh. “Really nailed the details.”

“Right?” You glance down at your fit. 

She nods. “Very accurate.”

Bucky stares for a few more seconds, coming up short.  

Finally, he grumbles, “Whatever. Where’s the video shoot?”

“You guys are shooting a video here?” Wanda asks, tearing off a piece of funnel cake and popping it into her mouth.

“Yeah, I thought it’d be fun to go through the corn maze. Local legends say it’s haunted by the spirit of teenagers who got lost in there years ago and never returned.” You shrug. “I’m gonna attach a GoPro onto Bucky’s head and set him free in there.”

“You make me sound like a rat.”

“You’re the handsomest rat I’ve ever seen, baby. If I were a piece of cheese, would you want me?”

“Stop.”

“You’re really just gonna go in there together, huh?” Sam pipes up casually. 

Bucky looks at him weirdly, but Sam has the deeply self-satisfied smirk of a man about to be a menace.

You don’t even hesitate. “Yeah?”

“Uh-huh. Corn mazes have a history, you know? Just saying. ”

“A history,” you repeat. 

Nat, ever helpful, leans forward, resting her chin in her hand. “Classic teenage makeout spot.”

Bucky’s eye twitches.

“I wouldn’t know, I spent my teenage years blowing up buildings,” you reply. 

Wanda hums. “That’s what they all say.”

“Literally who says this.”

“You’re not missing out. It’s cold and itchy and the whole place smells like hay,” Steve chimes in, doing his best to aid the situation. 

Sam nods solemnly. “Yeah, but next thing you know, you’re lost with no cell service, standing real close, saying shit like ‘oh no, my flashlight batteries died, guess we have to huddle for warmth–””

Bucky groans. “It’s a fucking corn maze, not the catacombs. There’s no getting lost and huddling for warmth.”

Clint, appearing just in time to make this worse, tilts his head innocently. “Oh, you guys doing the Lover’s Lane?”

Bucky gestures aggressively at the fair map. “It says Field of Screams.”

“Sure can be a field of screams if this night goes well,” you add unhelpfully. 

Bucky turns to Steve, clearly expecting him to be the voice of reason.

Steve, unfortunately, is already hiding a smile behind his drink.

Bucky’s jaw clenches.

“Assholes,” he mutters.

Sam claps him on the shoulder. “Have fun in the murder corn.”

Somewhere in the distance, the haunted house’s chainsaw gag goes off, followed by delighted screaming.

Bucky adjusts the camera strapped to his head like a miner’s torch. “I thought you were going as the tennis ball from that threesome movie.”

“Costume didn’t deliver in time. So I found something better.”

“What are you supposed to be?” 

You ignore him, but there’s an amused expression on your face. “I know you think that because you’ve gotten to this point, you’ve gotten away with not having a costume. Unfortunately for you, I have come prepared.”

Before he can react, you shove a piece of fabric into his hands.

He holds it up, balled into his fist. “Is this–”

“The cape from the laughing gas group, yes.” You nod. 

“I thought I got rid of this thing, where the hell did you get it from?” He lets it unravel in all its unironed, crinkly wonder. 

“I would never let you get rid of a piece of art like this. Now look, you’ve got a solid costume.”

“I don’t need a costume.”

“Well, now you have one. Put it on.”

“No.”

“Put it on.”

“No.”

Five minutes later, he has a shitty full-length cape on as you stand at the entrance to a haunted corn maze.

The wind picks up just enough to make his cape move ominously. He elects to ignore it. 

You adjust the camera on your head, tilting it toward him.

“Well, well, well,” you narrate,. “If it isn’t the dark lord himself.”

“I hope the ghosts take you first.”

“That’s what I love about you, Buck. Always looking out for me.”

Bucky shakes his head, pulling the cape tighter around his shoulders when the wind threatens to blow it away.

The archway is wrapped in dim string lights, flickering unsteadily.

Beyond it, the corn stands tall and unmoving, the entrance swallowing the path ahead in a thick, oppressive darkness.

“Alright, you ready?” you turn to him.

He sighs. “Always.”

The night is alive.

The festival’s noise carries even through the thick walls of corn, muffled laughter and distant screams bleeding through the cracks, the occasional blast of music from a game booth still loud enough to reach you guys.

Teenagers run ahead, scaring their friends before the actors even get the chance.

Bucky walks beside you, hands tucked into the pocket of his cargo pants.

A breeze kicks up, rustling through the maze.

From somewhere to your right, a group of college kids run screaming out of one of the side paths, shoving each other as they trip over their own feet.

Bucky watches them, expression completely unimpressed. “They paid twenty bucks to get chased through corn by a guy in a mask.”

“We also have done that,” you remind him. 

You walk for a while in no particular direction, just following the winding, trampled-down paths. Nothing creepy has happened yet.

“I had a place like this growing up,” Bucky mutters, stepping over a stray piece of corn husk.

You glance at him. “A haunted maze?”

“A fair. Smaller than this, but same kind of deal. Seasonal. My parents used to take us before it got too cold.”

You hum. “What’d they have?”

“The usual,” Bucky says. “Rides, caramel apples, bad magic acts. There was a fortune teller I was scared of when I was a kid.”

“You were scared of a fortune teller?”

“She was fuckin’ aggressive for a woman whose entire job was pretending to read palms. I didn’t even want to do it. My parents paid ‘cause Becca begged, and then she got too scared to go near her. I got thrown in so it didn’t up being a waste of a few bucks.”

“Becca betrayed you.”

“Sold me out immediately.”

You laugh. There’s a faint smile on his face as he walks through the godforsaken corn. 

“I had a fair once,” you say.  “It wasn’t real. But they called it a festival.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

“There was a little town outside the facility,” you say, stepping over a raised tree root. “Once a year, they’d set up these tests. The whole thing was so weird. Gave us candy. Let us play games. Just to see if we could blend in.”

“HYDRA did something similar.”

You snort. “You guys ever do the winter carnival, or was that unique to usl?”

Bucky groans. “Always fucking Winter Wonderland or Halloweentown.”

You laugh, kicking at a loose pile of hay. “I used to steal candy.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Without getting caught?”

“They probably knew,” you admit. “But they never stopped me. Maybe that was the test.”

Bucky hums, before saying gruffly. “Maybe it was just a win.”

You hold his gaze for a second. The careless upturn of his lip is enough to make you forget what nonsense you were about to say.

You wonder how much footage you’d have to edit out if it was just staring at his dumb, pretty face in silence.

A breeze shuffles the corn.

The distant scream of another maze runner echoes through the night.

It’s enough to snap you out of whatever the hell this is. 

The festival noise is still going strong, bleeding into the maze, distant music mixing with the hum of people.

You reach a split in the path. A fork in the maze, with two equally stupid-looking trails leading deeper into the field.

Bucky stops, tilting his head slightly, scanning both directions.

You, on the other hand, just pick a side based on what the vibes emanating from them were. 

“This way,” you say, already stepping toward the left.

Bucky does not move. “That’s the wrong way.”

“Excuse me?”

Bucky gestures down the right path. “That’s the way out.”

You fold your arms. “How do you know?”

“Because I do.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only answer you’re getting.”

You tilt your head. “Did you fucking map out the way to the exit?”

“No,” Bucky lies.

“That defeats the whole point of a maze.” 

“It’s called situational awareness.”

“It’s called being a control freak,” you correct.

Bucky exhales sharply. 

You gesture down the path you picked. “So what happens if I go this way?”

“You get lost.”

“Or.”

“No.”

“Or–”

“I’m not going the wrong way.”

“Fine. It appears that we have reached an impasse.” You pause, considering for a second. “I fear that our journey together ends here. Catch you on the flipside, partner.”

Bucky watches as you take a slow, exaggerated step backward down the left path.

“Are you seriously splitting us up?” he asks dryly. 

“It is not I who refuses to tread the path of integrity.” 

Bucky glares.

You take another step, arms crossed over your chest, combat boots pressed into the dirt.

He’s about to give in and follow your stupidass plan, when it suddenly clicks for him. Honestly, once he gets it, he’s embarrassed at how long it took. 

“Is your fuckin’ costume s’pposed to be me?” Bucky’s jaw drops open slightly. 

A grin breaks across your face and it’s enough of an answer for him.

“You’re fucking ridiculous.” He takes a long, hard look at your ridiculous outfit. “What is wrong with you?”

“I think I did great,” you say, pulling at the hem of your black t-shirt. “I even made sure the shade was right.”

“You think you’re hilarious.”

“I do, yeah. Now let’s get a move on.” You clap your hands. “This maze ain’t gonna solve itself.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you dressed like that.”

“Afraid people are gonna think we’re the same person?”

Bucky crosses his arms over his chest. You do the same.

“Stop.”

“I’m just existing, man.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“Now who said that?” You narrow your eyes. “I’m dressed like the hottest person I know besides myself, you should take it as a compliment” 

Bucky mumbles something under his breath, taking a step towards the path on the right. 

“I see you’ve made your choice. The wrong one, but I respect it.” You salute.  “See you on the other side, Barnes.”

And just like that, you disappear down the path.

Bucky stands there for a few seconds in silence.

Then, grudgingly, he starts walking again, taking his route. The correct route.

The festival noise is still there, still steady.

Bucky isn’t worried.

Because, first of all, it’s a corn maze.

Second of all, he’s already sure he knows the way out. 

The first few minutes alone, he doesn’t think about it much.

He walks, eyes scanning the paths, the layout, the movement of people up ahead. 

Unfortunately with the way his brain is hardwired, It doesn’t take him long to see the pattern.

The jump scares are timed.

The actors cycle between three or four spots.

The lighting is only dim enough to be “spooky,” but there are clear emergency lanterns posted at every exit route.

All things considered, it’s shockingly easy to navigate, so he wonders what’s so haunted about it in the first place. 

By the time he reaches the third scare actor, he’s already figured out that they’re all positioned in the exact same intervals.

A few minutes later, the familiar mechanical rev of a chainsaw sounds through the corn again. 

Bucky sighs, already exhausted.

The actor jumps out from the corn, mask on, chainsaw lifted dramatically.

Bucky stares.

The actor stares back.

There’s a long, painful pause.

Bucky slips past him and keeps walking.

_______ 

“How much fuckin’ corn is there?” he mumbles by the time he hits the next split in the path.

He hasn’t heard from you in a while, which doesn’t make sese because he should have run into you at some point. He would never admit it out loud but he would rather your incessant chattering than silence.

Seemingly ten minutes into his neverending trek, he pulls out his phone to track his way back to Steve using the damn Find My Phone bullshit

No signal.

He exhales sharply. Taps the screen a few more times, holds it above his head and even rotates it a few times. 

Still nothing.

It’s annoying, sure. But beyond that, something about it feels vaguely unsettling.

 The maze wasn’t that far away from the fair. 

It wasn’t like he’d wandered into the woods. 

He should have cell service. 

He grumbles, putting his phone back into his pocket, continuing on. 

_________

The paths aren’t endless.

The entire attraction is contained within the fairgrounds, wedged between the parking lot and the hayride station, which means if he just keeps moving in a straight line, he should hit the outer edge eventually.

Or at the very least, run into a staff member making sure no dumbass teenagers try to cut through the corn and ruin the layout.

And yet he’s been walking for a while now.

No exits are showing up.

Which is annoying. Because he’s usually good at this kind of thing.

If he can navigate a city he barely recognizes, evade people trying to kill him, track movement through urban terrain with nothing but a loose trail, then he should be able to walk out of a goddamn festival attraction.

But the paths just keep twisting, folding back into each other. 

The maze stretches longer than it should.

EVen though he’d figured it out, Bucky doesn’t immediately notice it.

He’s too focused on just moving forward. Getting to the end.

But after another few turns, another five minutes of silence, it finally registers.

There hasn’t been a single scare in a while.

The last was what, ten minutes ago?

Before that, they had been stationed at every few turns, jumping out at whatever happened to wander through.

Bucky stops.

The corn doesn’t rustle the way it usually does. 

It stands tall and eerily frozen. 

Bucky tilts his head slightly and listens.

But the fairground is further away than it should be.

There’s still wind.

It's still chilly.

Like it’s been pushed back a little further with every turn he’s taken.

Which doesn’t make sense.

Bucky exhales, shaking it off, shaking it loose, refusing to acknowledge the stupid, creeping frustration in his chest.

This is fine.

He keeps moving because at some point, it has to end.

The sky is still clear.

The night is dark.

He rounds the next turn--

Agonizing minutes later, Bucky knows he should have found an exit by now.

Even if he somehow took the longest possible route, even if he completely lost track of where he was going, he should have hit the fairground again by sheer accident.

And finally, he sees something different.

A scarecrow.

Lying in the middle of the path.

It's an old, rotting, weatherworn thing that doesn’t belong in a festival attraction.

The wood is splintering at the edges. The burlap sack tied around its head is molded and sun-bleached. The hat it’s wearing is barely holding together.

And its arms, long and stiff and thin, aren’t stretched out the way scarecrows usually are, instead pressed tight against its sides.

Bucky stares at it.

A long, slow moment passes.

“What the fuck’s your deal?” he asks. 

It does not answer. Obviously. 

He stares for a few more seconds, raising his leg to step beside it and move on–

Something touches him.

His entire body locks up for half a second, reflex screaming at him to step back, to turn, to fight.

It’s barely anything.

A whisper of sensation, a brief, feather-light press against the metal of his wrist.

Not a grab. Not a push. Just contact.

And then there’s a giggle.

Soft, small sound that feels like it’s been yanked straight out of another life. 

It takes a secodn to register that his pulse is hammering now.

Because it’s been months of this. Of coming to terms with the fact that he wasn’t just imagining it.

Not from cold, clamping fear.

Something else. 

The giggle sounds again, a few feet away this time.

She’d been following him. Watching him. Waiting for a chance to get him alone and-- God, what?

What was she going to do?

His head snaps towards the sound, trying to zero in on it outside of the rustling of stems. 

When it floats by again, it’s further away. 

His feet move before his mind registers it. 

Soft peals of laughter, the same when he’d let her draw all over his sketchbooks, when he’d douse her in water from the hose, when his dad would throw her under his arm and carry her around. 

It doesn’t matter.

He rounds the corner fast, boots skidding slightly on the packed dirt.

The air is colder now than ten minutes ago, stinging his skin. Or maybe that’s just in his head.

The laughter leads him around another corner, and the weight in his chest grows more desparate.

Because if she’s there, he can tell her everything he’s been thinking of for months now.

That he’s sorry, that he’d do whatever it takes to get her to rest–

He opens his mouth to call out her name– 

He bounds down the path, heart hammering and eyes wide.

His feet skid to a halt, boots grinding into the ground when he almost collides straight into something.

Someone.

But no.

Face tucked behind a Jason Vorhees mask, fake machete resting on a shoulder.

Not her. 

“Woah,” it says, “the hell are you running from?”

Bucky stops immediately, breathless.

It doesn’t take even a second to register the voice.

In the same short second, it is gone.

The giggle. The touch on the inside of his wrist. 

It’s all gone.

And in its place, it’s you.

You’re standing like you’ve been waiting for him, mask lopsided, fake machete swinging lazily in one hand, like you just wandered in from a completely different reality. 

Fuck. He’d been sure. So sure.

But then it’s you, pulling the mask up till it rides up your forehead. 

“Look who finally showed up,” you say brightly, grinning like you haven’t been wandering the maze in abandoned slasher cosplay for god knows how long.

“I’ve been trying to find an exit for, like, half an hour. Got so bored I was about to float up and look for you from the sky.”

He doesn’t say anything, heart in his mouth.

He doesn’t smile.

He probably doesn’t even blink, head turning as he scans the area for any sign.

You cock your head at him. “...You good?”

“Yeah,” he says too fast. “Fine.”

She wasn’t here. 

You give him a look. One you’ve used before. 

He forces his hands to stay loose at his sides. Tries not to look like he’s still coming down from something. Tries not to think about the soft giggle he’d heard minutes ago, or how badly he’d wanted it to be real.

“You been in here the whole time?” he asks finally.

You nod. “Yeah. I got bored. The actors vanished a while ago. I found the mask and figured, why not.” You hold up the machete. “Also this. Very high-quality prop. Very stabby.”

“I was gonna jump-scare someone, but no one’s been around.” You pause. “Except you, apparently.”

He raises an eyebrow. Barely.

He's not entirely sure he's in the same plane of existence as you.

His gaze flicks over you again, with your mask, weapon, loose smile. Still completely unaware that he just nearly walked out of the last twenty years chasing a memory, only to find you instead.

He swallows. Pushes the feeling back down.

“Thought you said you were gonna levitate out.”

“I was!” You grin. “But then you showed up. How was your night? 

He doesn’t answer right away.

Finally he just exhales for the first time in what seems like years.

“It was fine.”

But the longer you look at him, the less sure you seem.

You study his face, squinting. “You look like you saw something.”

“Didn’t.”

You chew on that for a second, eyes still on him, before saying, “You’ve been weird, you know.”

Bucky tilts his head slightly.

“Like, not just tonight. After some of these shoots. Not all of them. Just… some.”

You go on anyway. “At first I thought it was just your usual ‘why am I involved in this bullshit’ thing, but it’s not that. Not every time. Some of these places are different. You come back quiet.”

Bucky says nothing. He knew it wouldn't be too long before you brought this up.

You shift the machete from one hand to the other. It feels stupid, suddenly.

“I haven’t said anything,” you add. “Because I figured if you didn’t want to be here, you’d say something. But you haven’t and if this kind of stuff screws with your head in some way, we can pick other places. Or we can stop the show altogether. We don’t have to keep doing this if it’s messing with you.”

You look back at him now. Direct. Steady.

Bucky doesn’t flinch.

It would be easy to lie. Easier than explaining.

So he clears his throat, looks down the path where the maze bends gently left. “Good to know.”

Something soft on his cheek tugs his face back.

He looks back at you, a small crease between his eyebrows.

You hold his face in place softly, but the look on your face is firm. "We don't have to continue the show. I'm being serious. It's not worth it if you--"

Bucky watches you trail off, but your hands don't let go of his face.

"I know," he says, voice a bit quieter, more tired.

Your gaze is intense, but he holds it. His throat constricts a bit when he swallows.

“Well. I was headed for apple dunking before this turned into a weird spiral. You coming?”

He knows you notice it.

Still, you don’t press. Just give him a small smile, search his face one last time before letting go.

“Yeah,” he says, letting out a deep exhale when you turn away from him.

“Good. I need a witness when I inevitably fight a twelve-year-old over a Fuji.”

“I will not take your side,” he manages to get out, following behind closely.

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, casting a look over your shoulder. “But you’ll reap the rewards when I win.”

Bucky opens his mouth to say something in return, but shuts up when you slip your hand into his, interlacing your fingers and giving it a short squeeze. 

His heart, poor fucking thing, probably won’t be able to handle another episode of racing tonight. 

“Come on,” you say, swinging it back and forth. “You can buy me some cider.”

Bucky says something snappy, sighs a little and tightens his grip on your hand. 

It takes a while before you finally see the fair.

You push a few stalks aside and sigh like you’ve just crossed a battlefield.

The fairground lights bleed brighter through the corn, the ambient noise getting louder with each step. 

Bucky's kept his grip on your hand, but slipped it into the pocket of his jacket because the night only gets colder.

“I can’t believe I almost had to fly over this stupid maze just to find you,” you say. “What would you have done if I hadn’t shown up?”

He shrugs. “Would’ve found a way out.”

“Oh?” you say, eyebrows lifting. “With what? Your ancient Boy Scout compass? Prayer? I was prepared to carry you out, you know.”

He snorts.

“Little rescue mission. One arm around your waist.”

He stops walking. “No.”

You blink innocently. “No?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not? I can fly. Kind of.”

“I would rather die in the corn than be carried out like a wet cat.”

“You’re being ridiculous. Hasn’t Steve ever gotten a ride from Tony? I don’t hear him complaining about sitting on his teammate’s back.”

“Like he’s on a fucking horse?” Bucky says, scandalized. “No?”

“You’re emotionally allergic to help.”

“I don’t need help.”

“I know,” you say, turning to grin at him again. “But I’m gonna offer it anyway. Just to annoy you.”

The stupid Jason mask is still swinging at your collar, machete tucked like a trophy at your hip. Bucky rolls his eyes but can't help a smile from slipping out.

“Anyway,” you say casually, “I’m just saying, if I hadn’t found you, you’d still be in there. They’d name the field after you eventually.”

He doesn’t respond to that, but you catch him shaking his head.

You swing the machete against your leg like a toy. “Would the team have come looking for you if I hadn’t?”

Bucky glances at you. “Eventually.”

“Eventually,” you repeat. “Cool. So like… couple of days?”

He shrugs. “Give or take.”

You nod sagely. “Okay. So if it takes you a few days to get rescued, I’m looking at what, two weeks? After someone trips over my skeleton by accident?”

He doesn’t look at you when he says, “That’s not how it works with us.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Us?”

He gestures vaguely. “The team.”

You scoff. “I literally had an entire PR team trying to erase me from the internet not too long ago.”

Bucky studies you with a sharp look for a few moments. You keep swinging the machete back and forth, one arm locked in place inside his jacket pocket.

“Do you think it was a coincidence,” he says finally, “that the week your article dropped, everyone just happened to go batshit insane?”

You blink at him. “What.”

“C’mon,” he says. “Steve makes a huge donation. Nat starts a fight on live TV. Clint breaks into a goddamn bank vault. Your story got the least coverage out of all of them.”

You frown slightly. “I thought that was just Avengers being Avengers.”

Bucky shrugs. “Nobody told anyone to do anything. They just did it loudly so you’d know whose side they were on.”

You fall silent for a moment. “Huh.”

He doesn’t push. You don’t ask again, but you shuffle closer. He tries his level best to stay cool, and mostly succeeds.

The second you step out of the cornfield, it's like walking into a trap.

Scattered around the festival’s edge, half-lurking by the caramel apple stand and the booth selling “Blood Smoothies”, are most of the team, waiting.

Nat is nursing a cup of hot chocolate like it's vodka and watching everything with the faint smirk of someone who knew how this would end before it started.

Sam spots you first. His grin spreads instantly. 

“Generally when people disappear for a while, they show up with less clothes than before,” he calls. 

You glance at your mask and machete and Bucky tugs off the stupid cape. 

“Just in time for the main event. I was about to start placing bets.”

“On what,” Bucky mutters, already tired of this conversation.

“Whether we were getting a call from you,” Sam replies, “or the morgue.”

You shrug. “Por qué no los dos?”

Wanda drifts in with a caramel apple in one hand and a too-knowing smile at your hand in his. 

Bucky’s expression shutters instantly, mouthing. “Don’t.”

She shakes her head lightly, not saying anything. 

You’re still smiling, focused on the conversation at hand, “He got lost. I heroically rescued him. It was a very emotional journey.”

“I wasn’t lost.”

Steve finally wanders over, coffee in hand, squinting at Bucky like he's trying to decipher something.

“You good?” he asks, handing him a slice of pumpkin pie.

Bucky nods. “Fine.”

Steve looks between the two of you. Then at the mask. Then at the machete. “You two gonna go find other hauntings or are y’all done for the evening?”

“I’m going apple dunking,” you say brightly. “I’m about to ruin some middle schoolers.”

“Emotionally or physically?” Clint asks.

Bucky’s always liked the noise of fairs.

“Whichever’s funnier.” You shrug, nudging Bucky’s shoulder. “I’m gonna destroy some third grader and dedicate the win to you.”

"I don't know you."

You give him a bright grin, and wiggle your hand out of his to follow behind Clint.

Bucky doesn't like the sudden lack of warmth, but he finds respite in pie Steve has handed to him.

Not because he actually enjoys them and the overstimulation it brings, but because he can disappear into the background. Everyone's loud. Everyone's distracted. No one looks at the guy who stands still.

So that’s what he does now.

Leans against a picnic table, a second slice of pie in his hands that he hasn’t even looked at, while Steve stands beside him with a cup of something steaming and unremarkable.

It’s easy, the quiet between them. Familiar.

Which is probably why Bucky says it out loud before he thinks about it too hard.

“Do you remember PBJ?”

Steve squints. “The sandwich?”

Bucky exhales through his nose. “No. The nickname.”

Steve takes a slow sip, then looks at him again.

“She got very smug about it,” Bucky mutters.

“Oh,” he says, softer now. “Right. What I called you and Becca."

"D'you remember why?" Bucky doesn't meet his eye.

"Wasn't it 'cause she couldn’t spell your name properly when she was little? Wrote ‘Jam’ everywhere. Used to drive you insane.”

Steve laughs. “Only ‘cause you kept calling her ‘Peanut’.”

Bucky nods, tight smile on his lips.

“I’d forgotten about that,” Steve says. “God, Peanut Becca and Jam. You were so serious about it, too."

Bucky notes quietly, “She wrote ‘PBJ’ on everything. Lunchboxes. Schoolbooks. Hell, birthday cards.”

"I remember."

Steve elbows him gently. “Why’d you ask?”

They stand there a while longer.

The lights flicker in the distance.  

And there it is. That soft pang in his chest, sharp and sad and warm all at once.

Bucky hesitates. Opens his mouth to say something else–

“Gentlemen!”

You’re striding toward them with far too much confidence, holding a large, offensively purple stuffed bat in both hands like it’s a gift from a distant god.

“I bring tribute.”

You shove the bat into Bucky’s hands, grinning. “For being so brave in the cornfield. And for looking like you were about five seconds away from emotionally unloading on pie.”

The bat’s wings sparkle. Its eyes are mildly unhinged.

Bucky looks at it to you. “What is this.”

“A cherished new member of the team. And a gift to you.”

Steve’s face does something complicated behind his cup.

And for a second, Bucky just stares at the stupid plush thing in his hands, and tries to ignore the way his throat tightens.

Bucky huffs. “Thanks. It’s horrifying.”

“I know,” you say, bright as anything. “Try not to fall in love with me over it.”

He has the sick, annoying, grating feeling that it's a warning that's come too late, probably.

But he doesn’t say that.

Because you steal the rest of his pie.

And the ugly bat now rests on his bed.

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unsolved part 12 out now!