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 sheâs trying to let you know sheâs single.â
Awfully rude conversation to have within your hearing range, honestly.
Bucky squints at his phone again. Probably the tenth message in five minutes.
âI guess.â
Your drinkâs 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."
âWe noticed,â Bucky says immediately. Like breathing. It makes your heart curl until it withers away. âWhat do you think about this?â
"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, thereâs 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."
âThen you wonât care if I ask her to get coffee this weekend.â
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. Youâd 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.
âSheâs nice,â he says after a second. âLikes documentaries. Hiking.â
âWow,â you mutter. âSoulmates.â
Youâve watched documentaries. Youâve also nearly died on several mountains.
The lift moves with the urgency of a fucking melting stick of butter down a hill.
âTell me not to go.â
âI donât care.â
âBullshit.â
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, itâd be because you eventually got your shit together and moved on.
Didnât really account for him getting there first.
You're well aware of your hypocrisy.
âRight. I'm gonna go cry in my room about thisâ you mutter. âIâm gonna go journal about it.â
His expression flickers. âYou journal?â
âChrist, no.â
That almost gets a smile out of him.
The elevator finally opens.
You step out immediately.
âJust be honest for once,â 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 heâs standing ten feet away.
âDo whatever," you say. "It doesn't matter what I want."
The elevator doors start sliding shut.
The last thing you see is Buckyâs expression tightening, like heâs angry at you. Or himself.
Summary: Bucky doesnât 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 internetâs amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse.
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.
âAlright,â she says. âGo.â
You clasp your hands on the table.
âWeâve 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.â
Maya flicks her eyes toward him. âConsent forms signed?â
âFully,â you say. âHe understands the liabilities.â
Bucky grunts, âSitting right here,â 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, âNovelty is old. They want catharsis. But we can provide both. Controlled environment, one take. No reshoots.â
Maya narrows her eyes. âWalk me through the risk profile.â
âHigh,â you say evenly. âPersonal exposure, unpredictable optics, and the possibility of emotional contagion. But containment is possible with careful framing.â
Bucky rests his forehead on his fingers, digging into his skin to smoothen out a migraine, âDonâ like beinâ described as a containment issue.â
Heâd helped throw ideas around last week, had even agreed when you framed it as the way forward, but now that itâs written in your voice, in front of Maya, his shoulders are iron bars.
You ignore him. âThe deliverable is clean, consumable, and irreversible. It will work.â
He shifts, arms uncrossing, then crossing again.Â
Maya steeples her fingers. âAnd what are we calling it?â
You slide the folder across the glass. Words stamped bold on the cover:
THE EXORCISM OF JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES.
Bucky exhales sharply, âS not an exorcism. Iâm not possessed.â
 She closes the folder, pushes it back to you. Â
Ignores him, as to keep with tradition.Â
âYou have yourselves a finale.â
At finale, he looks at you again. Doesnât even mean to.Â
Just a flicker, but long enough that it costs him. His stomach drops all over again.Â
Because this was always the plan, wasnât it?Â
The series ends. You leave.Â
Curtain down.
You hit the supermarket at 10:43 p.m., a completely normal and recommended time to go there.Â
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. Â
âCallsigns?â you say, purely to irritate.
âNo,â he says, purely on instinct.
âCopy that, Negative.â
He exhales through his nose, but his hand tightens slightly on the trolley bar, like heâs hanging on harder than necessary. He has to remind himself not to get used to this. It wonât last past the finale.
Over the PA, a bored voice drones, âCleanup on aisle seven.âÂ
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.Â
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.Â
âCandles,â he says from memory.Â
âYouâre going to pick some unscented garbage,â you say, mournful.
âProbably,â he says.Â
âStrange choice, for someone who buys cinnamon body wash.â
He blinks once, slow. âI donât buy cinnamon body wash.â
âSure,â you say.
âI donât. Steve brings home so many fucking baked things, all my clothes smell like cinnamon.â
You bite back a smile.
âFine. Iâll look for the unscented ones.â
He raises an eyebrow. âYou gave in quick.â
âItâs your farewell ritual,â you dismiss. âYou get to pick what you want.â
The word ritual makes him shift a little, like the floor just tilted.Â
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.
âAbsolutely not,â he says, before you finish raising your eyebrows.
âStatement piece?â
âMy statement is, âno.ââ He picks up a pack of plain church candles and checks the burn time like heâs buying a second-hand car. âThese.â
You drop it into the cart.Â
He doesnât remove it. You grin only when you turn away.
âWhat if we get her something sheâd like?â you say. âMaybe itâll be more effective.â
âThey got any jellybean flavoured candles?â he mumbles.Â
âNo, but we can get a bunch of them and melt them together.â
Bucky finally settles on something vaguely berry scented, but with glitter in it.Â
Matches. Chalk. You pick the cheap white stuff as a compromise even though you eye the neon ones very strongly.Â
You swing into the hardware aisle.Â
âBell?â you ask.
âThat wasnât on the list.â
âItâd be cute. Maybe sheâll like the noise.â
Bucky gives you a look.Â
âSmall,â you add. âNot obnoxious.â
He finds a plain brass bell the size of a thumb. Rings it once, soft. The air wraps itself around the sound.
âThat one,â he says.
âWhy did you say yes?â you ask.
âItâs not a big deal, itâs a bell.â
âNo, not the bell,â you dismiss. âTo this whole thing.âÂ
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 heâs handing pieces of her over to strangers whoâll eat it and scroll on.
He picks up some thyme and holds it up under the light.
âBecause you asked,â he says simply, examining it.
âThat canât be the standard. I ask you for nonsense three times a day.â
He looks at you in the harsh light of the grocery store. His eyes skip past you too quickly, like theyâre not allowed to linger.Â
âYou couldâve said no.
âI tried that for a year,â he says. âDidnât take.â
You give him a look. âYeah, but not for this. Iâm genuinely surprised you said yes.â
He keeps the trolley rolling another foot, stops, steadies his hands on the bar. He could tell you the truthâ that it had sounded safe when it was only theory, that he hadnât thought about the aftermath until the word finale was stamped in ink.
âShe wouldâve done it,â he says, âSheâd have heard me out, called me an idiot, and then lit a candle herself.â
âShe sounds persistent.âÂ
âYeah. Turns out I tend to gravitate towards idiots like that in my life,â he glances at you.Â
âHey now,â Your throat has a line in it. âIâm not an idiot. Iâm a moron. Thereâs a difference.â
He hums, putting the thyme back.Â
You keep moving another half-step before you look back.Â
Heâs looking at the shelves, not you, expression doing that closed-lid thing it does when heâs choosing not to say what heâs thinking.
âWhat?â you say, softer than you meant.
He avoids your gaze when he says, âSheâd have liked you.â
âOh.â You swallow back a stone.
âShe liked people who made rooms work.â
âHigh praise,â you say, and it doesnât sound like a joke at all.Â
Bucky pockets a sprig of rosemary without thinking, then pretends he didnât. You pretend you didnât see.
In cleaning products, thereâs a bottle called Sunshine Water.Â
âDoes it do anything?â
âMakes the room think kindly of you.â
You dont know how useful it will be, but it goes in the cart.Â
You drag him to the snack aisle.Â
âDo we need offerings?â you ask, âShe liked strawberries, right?â
âThat was Steve,â he says, automatically. Then he hears himself. âBut yeah. Becca liked strawberry jam on toast. When we had it.â
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.Â
He blocks you with the trolley, staring at your hand. âNot in the perimeter,â he says.
âSay âperimeterâ again,â you say, climbing onto the trolleyâs lower bar. âMake it sexy.â
âYouâre worse when youâre tired.â
âYouâre worse when Iâm awake,â you reply.
He tilts his head. âThereâll be crumbs.â
âForesight. You are unreasonably good at this.â
âI am aggressively medium at everything,â he says.
You replace the chips with pretzels. He slides across a bag of roasted nuts. You add obscene marshmallows shaped like snowmen.
âWeâre not four,â he says.
âSpeak for yourself,â you say, dropping a second bag in. âYou can have some if youâre good.â
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 heâs already on his way to acknowledging the fact that wonât get to lose to you anymore.Â
The trolley rolls. You stick your arms out.Â
âFeet down.â
âWhy,â 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 doesnât bother hiding the second smile.
âSomething warm for after,â you remember, at the end of the aisle. âBrandy? Whiskey? Tequila, but then weâd have to invite Nat.â
A bottle of whiskey levitates towards you from god knows where. Â
He doesnât budge, âHot chocolate.â
âYouâre unbelievable.â
âHot chocolate,â he repeats, and steers you toward the aisle.
âFine,â you grumble, coming to a stop in front of the shelf. âHot chocolate it is.â
âYouâll like it better.âÂ
âYouâll miss the whiskey when weâre stuck with hot chocolate at the end of the night.âÂ
âIâll take that risk.â He leans in from your left to take it, one hand braced on the trolleyâs bar.
Youâre about to make a joke about âtaking that whiskâ when he leans in and presses his mouth to your temple, brief and unthinking. The sort of kiss you give a person youâve been brave around for a very long time.
You go quite still.
He doesnât realise, for the span of a heartbeat, what heâs 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 doesnât 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.Â
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 doesnât meet your eye. You donât 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 itâs the most consistent.
 An older woman stares at Bucky like heâs a memory she canât place.
âYouâre that man,â she says, delighted.
âUnfortunately,â he replies, polite.
âYou make the videos,â she tells her trolley, and wanders on, satisfied.
âFamous,â you whisper to him. âCanât take you anywhere.â
He doesnât smile. He is smiling.
You cut through the pet aisle for Alpine because you are weak. Bucky grabs heavy litter. Â
âAre we forgetting anything?â you ask, doing the ritual pre-till scan. âChalk, tape, salt, candles, bell, nails, thread, rosemary, jam, tea, cups, cloths, frame, butcher paper, soap, painkillers, pretzels.â
He taps the chain. Thatâs his answer.
At the tills, a teenager drops your items in front of the scanner.
âParty?â she asks, flat.
âWork,â Bucky says.
âSorry,â she says.
When she lifts the bell, she rings it. Â
You pay because the least you can do is fund his farewell ritual. Â
 Bucky pockets the receipt because he will not let you pay for 15 candles alone. He is a gentleman.Â
The marshmallows though, you are on your own.
The next night doesnât begin with thunder or rain or anything out of the million movies you watched in preparation.Â
It begins the way you promised it would: tidy, steady, everything in its place. Â
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 itâs his call.Â
Youâve wiped the table with Sunshine Water. Windows are closed, music off, phones away.Â
You run your eyes over the list one last time, a habit more than a need.Â
He stands just outside the circle, sleeves shoved to the elbow. His hands flex against his thighs, and heâs staring directly at the floor.Â
âYou good?â you ask, voice low
He nods once. âLetâs do it.â
Youâre about to strike the first match when something stops you. A flicker in your chest, an impulse thatâs been nagging for weeks.Â
âHold on.â
Buckyâs brows knit, match still in his hand. He pinches out the flame before it can catch, gaze snapping to you like youâve just called the whole thing off.
He canât say he doesnât feel a bit relieved.Â
You dig into your pocket to find a small little bag. Youâve been carrying it around for three weeks. Itâs been the wrong time every time since.
 You fish out it out and leave it out on his outstretched palm.Â
âFor you,â you say.Â
He looks at the pouch and then at you, as if youâve just placed a live wire on the bar and asked him to keep still.Â
He opens it. A thin chain. A simple charm, ugly in a way that suggests itâs here to work, not to be photographed.
His breath leaves on a sound thatâs closer to a laugh but not. âWhat is this?â
âFrom the charm lady at Paracon,â you explain softly. âShe 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.â
He exhales.Â
âMay I?â you ask.Â
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 donât want to break.
âAlright,â he says, very quietly.
He straightens. You step back.Â
âAlright,â 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.Â
Heâs barefoot. It looks right.
âAlright,â you repeat, softer now. âWe start small. We stop if you want to stop.â
He nods, eyes fixed on the bell in the center. He hasnât looked at you in a full thirty seconds, like if he meets your gaze the whole fragile thing will collapse.
âLast chance to regret this,â you offer, because tradition is tradition.
His mouth tugs at one corner, though it doesnât quite make it into a smile. Â
The silence stretches after that, heavier than before. The house is too quiet. His bare toes flex against the chalk line, a restless tell.Â
The matchbox is warm in his hand, but he doesnât 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?Â
He doesnât say it out loud, instead watching as you light the candles, one and then the other. The kitchen looks immediately different, more menacing.Â
You wet your fingers with the Sunshine Water and flick it over the circle, a soft hiss as drops hit warm wax.
âFor those who love us and wish us well,â you read from the paper, steady. âFor those who kept watch when we werenât watching. Youâre welcome here. Youâre safe here. You can rest when youâre ready.â
The temperature eases down a notch.Â
You glance at him. âSay her name?â
He swallows, then says it carefully, âRebecca Barnes. Peanut. Bec if youâre in a hurry.â
âBec,â you repeat, respectful. âWeâre not sending you away. Weâre making you a door and asking you to choose. If youâre here, youâre welcome. If youâre tired, weâll make it easy. If you want him to stop guessing, say so.â
Buckyâs hand rests on the bell. His knuckles are white against the brass, but he doesnât ring it yet. His chest rises, falls.
When he finally speaks, itâs unsteady but certain.Â
âHey, Becks. If youâre here⊠sit where you like. And then-- he glances at you, something wry and unbearably fond flickering across his face â--weâll talk.â
The room exhales. Pressure shifts. The candles stand straighter, flames drawn tall and thin.
âBecca,â you add, lighter now, almost teasing. âI brought your brother to a sensible circle with sensible candles. I know youâd have opinions.â
The rosemary smokes without flame. A curl of grey, faint as breath. The fine hair at Buckyâs temple lifts, stirred by a current you canât see.
The planchette twitches. A little scratch of wood against wood. It scoots sideways, stops, and then does a slow, deliberate circle thatâs more flourish than necessary. Show-off.
You inhale. âI think sheâs here.â
He doesnât look surprised, just stricken.Â
âHi, kid,â 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. Buckyâs mouth shifts, a recognition more than a smile.
âAlright,â he murmurs. âCome on then.â
At first itâs almost imperceptible. The rosemary sprig slides an inch, then two, as if pulled by a string.Â
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.Â
Buckyâs eyes flick toward the far corner without turning his head.Â
His voice changes, lighter, scolding out of habit. âDonât even think about the kettle.â
The kettle, obedient for years, clicks on.
âBecca,â 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 itâs 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 âthatâs enoughâ 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 itâs joining in.
You bend, pick it up, and set it carefully back inside the circle.Â
âHi,â you say, as gently as you know how. âNice to finally meet you. Iâm your brotherâs friend.â
The roomâs cold edge softens a fraction.
Buckyâs fringe lifts, tugged by invisible fingers. He huffs, automatic. âWeâve talked about this. Do not pull my hair. Donât wanna bald faster than I already am.â
The air tugs again, sharper, downright cheeky. He twitches, fighting a smile.
âBecca,â he whines, already this close to laughing. The sound makes him younger by years.
Something rattles near the sink.
âNo crockery,â 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 fingersâ 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.
âAlright, Peanut,â he says, voice caught between authority and affection. âGround rules apply.â
You canât 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 bestâ annoying the hell out of her brother, even from the other side.
âOkay,â you say, biting your grin back because his mouth, traitor that it is, keeps trying to go soft. âThis is going well.â
âDonât encourage her,â he warns, deadpan, but his eyes betray him. Theyâre bright in a way youâve 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 sheâd 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 doesnât. He anchors the planchette with two fingers.Â
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 whatâs happening.
âThrow your best shot if youâve got it,â 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. âThatâs very mature.â
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 isnât yours.
M.
His breath leaves him. The tiny, private world youâve been trying to build around him all year, suddenly older than both of you, suddenly full, not empty.
âHey,â he says, softer than youâve ever heard his voice. âI need to say some things. Sit still, would ya?â
The planchette stills. The flame nearest his wrist lifts tall and straight, like itâs listening.
He reaches under the island. Youâd seen him tuck the envelope there earlier. Now he draws it out with hands that arenât quite steady and sets it by the nearest candle, right on the seam of the circle.
âFor you,â he says, to the table, to the air, to the three inches of space he hopes are occupied. âRead it when youâre bored of throwing things.â
The envelope lifts an inch, two.Â
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.Â
âIâve been⊠living the wrong way round.â The words are slow, deliberate. âKept thinking if I ignored it long enough, itâd go away. But it didnât. Thatâs not how it works.â
His jaw tightens, but the words keep coming. âIâm sorry I left you with all the difficult bits. And Iâm sorry I wasnât there to tell you I thought you were the best of us.â His voice dips rough, steadying itself against the edges. âI couldnât have had your back, even though I really fuckinâ wish I did. I know that too. I still wish I had.â
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 itâs catching its breath, deciding whether to say more.Â
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 doesnât bother to hide the wreckage on his face.
âYeah,â he says, raw and unadorned. âMe too, Peanut.â
Something invisible flicks his hair again, softer this time. Â
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 youâd written months ago in uneven pen: goodbye.
Buckyâs chest rises once, long and deliberate.Â
âAlright,â he says, steadying himself on the word. âWeâre good.â
You clear your throat, practical because someone has to be. âRules still stand. You can swing back if you want to tell him to knock it off, but you donât have to keep carrying him. Heâs heavier than he looks.â
 The candle nearest the envelope gutters, then steadies again.
Bucky leans back, but his eyes stay locked on the envelope. Itâs as if heâs trying to read through the paper, through the wax seal, through time itself to all the words he put inside and the thousand he didnât.
His knuckles tap gently against the table, the same rhythm heâd used on the coaster.Â
A habit sheâd recognise from breakfast tables eons ago.Â
âGo on,â he says to the air, to the weight of it. âIâll see you when I see you.â
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.Â
The planchette sits where you left it. Â
You ring the bell once, and the sound feels final, like a line drawn under a paragraph.
âClose?â you ask.
âClose,â he agrees.
You sweep the salt inward, not out. Â
âDo we have to⊠say anything to finish it?â he asks. His voice is worn but clean, stripped of everything except whatâs necessary.
You glance at the planchette. It sits still, waiting. âWe could say thank you,â you offer.
He nods once, eyes lowered to the circle at his feet. âThanks for everything, Bec. I got it from here on.â
The words land with a quiet thud.Â
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. Thereâs a brightness to him that isnât relief so much as rightness, the kind that makes your chest ache.Â
He lifts the envelope carefully, reverently, and tucks it into his hoodie pocket the same way heâd tucked the chain under his shirt earlier, like something belongs to him after all.
âHot chocolate?â you remind him, though you both know you donât need to.
âThought youâd forgotten,â he says, though you both know you didnât.
You hold out a hand.Â
He takes it, and for a second his hand trembles.Â
You keep your own steady, and say nothing about it.
âThank you,â he says finally, Â
âDonât thank me. I just read the instructions,â you reply gently. âYou were good. You didnât make a speech at the air.â
A breath escapes him thatâs almost a laugh. âSheâd have laughed at me.â
Youâre 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.
âYou think she read it?â he asks finally, without the usual armour.
You look at him, at the tired brightness in his eyes.Â
âI think she knew most of it already,â you say softly. âBut yes.â
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 doesnât bother with hello. She drops two paper cups on the glass table and taps the lid of one.
âDecaf for you,â she tells you. âBecause you shake when youâre excited.â
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.Â
Eventually, she does that flat-palmed tap on the glass table that means youâre already behind.
âWalk me through outcomes,â she says.Â
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.
âClosed loop on the seasonâs narrative debt,â you say, steady. âWe promised an answer; we delivered one.â
Mayaâs eyebrow does a half-centimetre. âBrand-safe, then. Good. Where did you land on disclaimers?â
âWe open with context card,â you reply. âNo âdonât try this at home,â just âthis is personal; viewer discretion is adviced.â Legal wonât have hives.â
Bucky watches her, feeling that familiar prickle that means heâd like to be anywhere else, preferably on fire.
Personal, he thinks. Thatâs one word for it. Â
But he keeps it quiet. Heâd agreed. Heâd sat in those early meetings, nodded along, even thrown in his own ideas. But sitting here now, watching his sisterâs memory shrink down into bullet points and timelines, he feels it clawing wrong in his chest.
âLift?â Maya asks.
âthe subredditâs already building the timeline. PR can seed three exclusives,â you say.Â
Maya taps two knuckles twice. âCadence.â
âT-3 trailer, T-1 micro, 8 p.m. Sunday drop, no live chat, stills Tuesday, then radio silence.â
âGood.â She clicks her pen. âRisks.â
âDerail into grief tourism if we let the wrong pull-quote out,â you say. âCounter is to let the work speak. Keep Bucky off live streams for seventy-two hours so he doesnât âIâm fineâ himself into a hole.â
âI am literally here,â Bucky says, because someone has to.
âWhich is why I plan,â Maya says, not unkindly. âOkay. Whatâs your trailer moment?â
You scrub forward: the pencilled letters, the planchette nudging. A line of text appears across the board: MISS U JAM. Â
Maya watches it through once, eyes not once leaving the screen.Â
âThat,â she says, soft once and then brisk again, âis your finale.â
He hates the word. Heâs been hating it for weeks.
She stands. No hugging. Just the nod you get when a skyscraper goes up on time.
âWeâll carry the press,â she adds, already ticking off the exit steps. âYou keep your phones off. Weâll send the line for âwhat happens after thisâ and you will stick to it. I donât need either of you improvising on live television.â
You both nod. She tucks the pen into her notebook, closes it without looking, then looks at you because you still havenât moved.
âI would say it was a pleasure working with the both of youâŠâ she trails off.
You give her a big grin and she shakes her head.Â
âFine,â she says, making her way out the door. âMastering by Friday. Credit lock by noon. If either of you changes a comma after that, I will come to your homes and strangle you.â
At the last split second, a smile upturns the corner of her mouth as she pauses by the door.
âFor the record,â she says, quieter, âyou did right by her. Itâs⊠good work.âÂ
Bucky and you glance at each other.Â
âI like you both more when youâre not talking,â she adds, before leaving
The door clicks behind her. .Â
Youâre still standing there, that wry smile in place, professional and terrible.Â
Bucky stares at you, at the edges of your mouth that donât quite match your eyes, at the way you hold your shoulders like youâre already halfway turned to leave.Â
And it hits him â thatâs the look you wear when youâre 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.Â
Something in his chest pulls tight, because he knows what it means.
He takes it anyway,Â
âWell, partner, we made the numbers, you got your closure,â you drawl. âIt appears our work here is done.â
The smile on your face doesnât change, but he swears your eyes shutter. Just a flicker, like youâve already filed this away as finished.
Buckyâs stomach gives that slow, awful roll, âNow what.â
âI donât know,â you say, light, professional. âIâll see you soon, I guess.â
What the fuck.
It doesnât make a sound in the room. Itâs just the way his fingers donât close around anything. They just hover, useless.
âCatch you later?â he tries to ask. It does not come out steadily at all.
âMaybe,â you hum. âDonât mope if you canât find me.â
He searches your face for any crack, for hesitation, for anything that says that heâll 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 canât 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 itâs ending, heâll let go. Thatâs the deal, isnât it? Â
He tries to make his mouth remember a joke. It doesnât.
âYou wish,â he says.Â
Thatâs what you do when they look like theyâre halfway out the door already.Â
You grin, before cleanly escaping the room.Â
Buckyâs left staring.Â
Steve throws a party.
Bucky doesnât clock the reason until the third time someone tells him.
Everyoneâs wrapped their seasons. A wrap party.
Samâs on music and abusing the privilege. Clintâs wearing a hat that might actually be radioactive. Wanda asks where his âother halfâ is, and Bucky mutters âBusy,â like a placeholder.
Youâre not here.
He excuses himself to the kitchen, pretending to eat something that may or may not be food.Â
Really, heâs 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, Steveâs closing in, grinning, a tin under one arm.
âCongratulations,â Steve says. âI brought nonsense.â
âAlways wanted nonsense,â Bucky answers, voice steadier than he feels. âWhat is it this time?â
âWar cake,â Steve says proudly, lifting the towel. âEggless, milkless, butterless. I had to boil the raisins.â
Bucky eyes the tin. âSo itâs⊠cake with the cake left out.â
âExactly,â Steve says, uncovering it with a flourish. The room fills with cinnamon and cloves. âGo on.â
Bucky breaks off a piece.Â
He chews. He swallows.Â
Then he gives a small, traitorous nod.
âNot terrible,â he admits.
Steveâs grin could power a block. He carves himself a wedge.
The cake is dense, sweet, oddly good.
âSo,â Steve says around a mouthful, âend of the season. You did it.â
âMm.â
Steve studies him. âYou alright?â
âFine.â Too fast.
Bucky picks at the edge of the tea towel. Heâs thinking about the way your hand felt in his palm in that glass room.Â
The words you used, and the way you said it.
Iâll see you soon.
Anodyne. Disposable. The kind of phrase that doesnât mean anything when youâre already half-turned to leave.
He hasnât checked if youâre gone yet. He canât. He just knows he hasnât seen you since you walked out that door.
âWhatâs going on?â Steve asks.
So Bucky relents, because heâs become strangely sentimental over the last few months.Â
Steve leans a hip against the counter. âSoon as inâŠ?â
âThatâs the question,â Bucky says. âI donât know.â
âAsk,â Steve says, like itâs easy. .
âThatâs notââ He stops, huffs. âAinât this what you're supposed to do? Let someone go, if they want to.â
Steve turns the tin lid over in his hands, considers the shine. âSometimes. Or you say what you mean and let them decide with all the information. Advice from the worldâs leading authority on waiting too late to say things you want to.â
Buckyâs mouth pulls. âThereâs nothinâ to say.ââ
âKeep tellinâ yourself that,â Steve says. âMaybe youâll talk yourself into believing it like with everything else.â
That gets him, unexpected.Â
A short, unwilling laugh leaves Buckyâs chest before he can lock it down. He shakes his head.
âIâm trying to beââ he gropes for a word, settles on the smallest one. âGood.â
âYou are,â Steve says, no hesitation. âNow stop hiding behind it.â
Bucky shifts, uncomfortable.
âYou donât want to risk hearing no,â Steve goes on, calm as ever. âYou spent a century doinâ what you were told, and now that you can choose, you keep pretending you canât. Youâre being a little bitch.â
Bucky exhales hard through his nose.
Steve softens a hair, but only a hair. âYouâre not some accident, Buck. You donât just âhappenâ to people. You get to say what you want.â
Bucky mutters, âWhat do you want me to say? âStay?â Iâve made it pretty fuckinâ obvious.â
Steve levels him with a look. ââI want you to stay. If you donât, Iâll survive. But I want you to stay.â Not complicated. Try English instead of martyr.â
 .Bucky huffs a broken laugh. âYou rehearse this?â
âIâve known you since you were two feet tall,â Steve says. âI got a whole notebook.â
Bucky stares at the door. The door stares back.
âItâll be fine,â Steve says.
Bucky nods, sharp. Turns. Hesitates. Turns back.
âGo.â
He goes.
He goes.
The corridor is the same length itâs always been, but it feels colder tonight.Â
The corridor stretches the same length it always has, but tonight it feels endless.Â
Cooler too, like the air itself is keeping him out. Â
Every radiator that bangs, every scuff on the skirtingâ he knows them all by heart, but they feel like theyâre 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 heâs always done: listens.Â
Waits for the shuffle of feet, the hitch of breath, any sign youâre still on the other side.Â
Nothing.Â
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. Thatâs it.Â
Youâre gone. You slipped away clean, like you promised you would.Â
Heâs too late. Heâs fucked it.
His chest feels like itâs folding in on itself.Â
He waits anyway, stupidly, one more beat, just in case the universe feels generous.
The universe stays silent.
He turns, already rehearsing the fight heâll pick with Steve for shoving him into this, already bracing himself for the hollow thatâs about to open under his ribs.
But his feet donât move.
He stands there frozen, the quiet pressing down on him, and then curses sharp and loud.Â
Before he can talk himself out of it, his hand is on the handle.Â
He shoves it down and pushes the door open.
The room is bare.
Bare in the same way itâs 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.Â
For one awful second, he thinks heâs 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.Â
If you were gone, youâd have taken it. Wouldnât you? Or maybe you left it behind because it didnât matter.
He crosses the room anyway. His hand finds it before he can stop himself. Thumb along the roofline, forefinger against the porch rail heâd 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.
âFuck,â he mutters, dragging both hands over his face.Â
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.
âWhat,â 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.
âCut it out,â he barks. His chest is still tight from the silence in the hall. âNot in the mood.â
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.
âAlpine.â His voice cracks on it. âEnough.â
The fourth book hits the floor. She shifts her paw to the fifth.
And then finally, horribly it strikes him.Â
His stomach flips.
âOh, for fuckâs sake,â he mutters, dragging a hand down his face.Â
Her paw presses meaningfully against the sixth book.
âJesus Christ, stop, I know what youâre saying,â he bites, louder now, panic bleeding through. âAnd you can literally talk.â
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.
âIâm communicating in a medium you understand,â she radiates, âviolence.â
Bucky exhales hard, raking a hand through his hair. âYouâre so fucking annoying.â
She flicks her tail toward the door, already done with him.
And then it sinks in fully. Â
His pulse spikes all over again.Â
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.Â
âYou good?â you ask, cautious, as if he might start speaking in tongues.
âYouâre still here,â he gets out,
âI only just got here.â You glance at the clock. âLike, itâs been twenty minutes, man.â
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 heâs worn in all year.
âAre you leaving?â he demands, low.
âI was going to get a snack later, but thatâs the extent of my grand plan.â You close the book over a finger. âWhat do you look like that for?â
âLike what?â He drags a sleeve over his mouth, trying to corral his breath.Â
âWell⊠unhinged.â You tip your head, taking him in.Â
He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. âThought I missed you.â
âMissed me? Missed me whâ hold on.â You tip your head. âDid you think I was skipping town?â
He gestures vaguely at the ceiling, the floor, the entire concept of objects. âYeah?â
âOh.â You blink. âWell, Iâm not.â
Itâs physical, the way the tightness leaves him.Â
He closes his eyes for a second. âFine. Okay. Good.â
You snort. âAnd what, this was you bursting in to give me fifteen reasons to stay?â
âFifteen is stretching it.â
âAnd then what? You kiss me?â you say, airy, testing.
He looks at you, steady now. âAnd what if I did? Would that be such a big problem?â
You hold his gaze a beat longer than is safe. âWell⊠no. I suppose not.â
He rolls his eyes at the ceiling.
âNever beating the âyou have feelings for meâ allegations, Barnes.â
âYeah,â he says, slow, like youâre being dense on purpose. âBecause I do. You know this.â
âGod, there goes my leverage.â You sigh, theatrical. âHow am I supposed to annoy you with that if you just admit it?â
âYouâll find a way.â
He says it like a fact and sits back. And ridiculously, stupidly, it feels like someoneâs 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.
âMe too, you know,â you say, almost casual.
âFigured.â
âI mean I have feelings for me, too.â
He has to bite the inside of his cheek. âWho else would you be talking about.â
You fiddle with the receipt youâve used as a bookmark.
The air between you thins. His shoulder is warm against yours.
âAnything else you want to confess while youâre here?â you ask, half-light, half-daring.
He doesnât answer right away. His throat works. His fingers flex against his knee, like heâs trying to bleed the nerves out of them.
âYeah,â he says finally, voice lower than before. âActually⊠I donât want to publish the video.â
Your head tips.
He keeps going, quick now, like if he stops he wonât start again.Â
âI know I said I was fine, but Iâm not. I donât want it out there. I donât wantââ his breath snags, sharp, â--I just donât want it.â
Silence, except for the sound of the printers breathing in the corner.
You nod once, like you were waiting for this exact moment. âI know.â
His eyes snap to yours.
âI already pulled it,â you say, calm. âTurned my phone off before Maya could reach through it and stab me after everything we spent on promo.â
He blinks, startled. It takes him a beat too long to process.
âItâs between you and Becca.â You give him a small, steady smile. âNo one else needs to see it.â
He finds it in himself to give a small nod.Â
âAnything else?â you ask, tone joking.  Â
âYou canât leave.â
Your eyebrows shoot up. âOh?â
âItâs not a good idea.â
âCompelling argument.â
He grimaces at himself. âThat was a terrible sentence. Forget that. Lookâ in the clock tower, you asked how I knew. I knew you werenât paying attention to the details. I know that because even then, months ago, youâd been here long enough for me to notice. That youâd probably missed something, because you always said details were a waste of time.â
Something flickers in your face.
He turns until youâre 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.Â
âYouâve already laid down roots,â he says, shoulders loosening in defeat. âSo go wherever you want. Do whatever you want. But all Iâm sayinâ is Iâd like it if you came home at the end of the day.â
He looks away on purpose, like he can fake not caring for ten seconds. You watch him not succeed.
âWhat,â he barks, without heat, when he feels you smiling.
âYou know,â you say quietly, âI wasnât actually planning to move out.â
That rocks him. He looks up fast. âNo?â
âNo.â Your mouth tugs. âSorry I stole your big moment.â
âIâll find a way to forgive you.â He clears his throat.Â
âYou could still give me twenty-five reasons you want me to stay.â
âNo.â
âTwenty, and weâll call it eveââ
He leans in and kisses you.Â
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. Heâs careful for exactly one heartbeat. And then youâre 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 heâs been starved for it. You taste like mint, the electric edge of adrenaline. The warmth of him presses in until thereâs no room left for air. Â
âDidnât miss this time,â you murmur, an echo from a different doorway, a different nearly.
âThank god,â he huffs, helpless.Â
He kisses you again, quick but just as sure. The whole world reduced to four square feet of carpet.
âJust so weâre clear,â you say into his mouth, âthis is terrible for my eloping-with-a-ghost-bride agenda.â
He kisses you for that, too, because one, itâs so incredibly stupid, and two, now that heâs started he doesnât 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.Â
Time turns elastic until you finally peel apart, shaky with adrenaline, the kind of silence that only feels possible after a storm.
âOkay,â he says eventually, voice wrecked, eyes too bright. âSo what are you doing here, then? Youâre missing Steveâs raisin vinegar cake.â
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.
âI was researching,â you say. âYou kinda need to do that if you want to pitch another season.â
His brow furrows, until he sees the title.
Renewal Agreement: The Graveyard Shift Season Two
The grin that blooms across his face isnât careful at all. Hoodie tugged crooked from your fists, hair mussed from your hands, he looks nothing like careful anyway.
âBut thatâs secondary.â You push the paper aside for the moment. âI believe we were discussing twenty five reasons you want me to stay.â
He gives you a look that could undo a saint. âNo.â
âNo? Twenty and weâll call it evenââ
He kisses you again, deeper, slower.Â
It seems to do the trick.
hereâs my ko-fi if youâd 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.Â
The cemetery is small enough to miss if you werenât looking. It isnât 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 doesnât 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. Someoneâs been here before you or maybe the weatherâs been kind. Still, he brushes his thumb along the top edge of the stone, the old soldierâs ritual of removing what isnât 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 heâs making space for company.
âHey, Peanut,â 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.
âThought weâd stop by,â he adds, thumb worrying a cardboard seam. âBeen a while.â
The wind lifts, flicks the string handle, lets it drop.
âWe got you strawberries,â you tell her, because youâve learned he likes it when you speak, too. âAnd we brought extra so you donât have to share.â
That cracks a smile out of him. The kind that fades almost before itâs 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 wonât 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. âWeâll bring more next time.â
For a while, the two of you just stand there side by side, the grass bending at your boots, the trees shifting overhead.Â
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,Â
âYou good?â you ask, because itâs a question that never hurts to ask twice.
âYeah.â 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.
âThink sheâll mind if weâre late?â you ask.
âI think she knows by now weâre always going to be late,â he says, signalling.
âLast time she said sheâd stop giving us the lemon glaze ones.â
âJust make your eyes at her. Sheâs got a soft spot for you.â
âYou saying I make eyes? They work on you?â
He side-eyes you. âNot once.â
You grin at the windscreen. âLiar.â
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.
âWeâre stealing two boxes this time,â you say. âNo arguing.â
âItâs not stealing if sheâs keeping them for you.â
âI just said no arguing.â
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 didnât 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.
Summary: Bucky doesnât 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 internetâs 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!!
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The thing about Avengers Tower is that itâs 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. Thereâs always a jacket or two strewn across chairs that had frayed from the desperate attempt to clean up some mysterious stain. Â
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.Â
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.Â
Bucky is already halfway through his second cup of coffee, eye staring straight at the elevator, waiting for a sign.Â
To anyone who is not used to him, this would not be weird. Trained assassin, doing surveillance of a room he is currently possessing.Â
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.Â
Point is, he usually doesnât wait around for anyone.
But today, like the last three, the hallâs quiet. The kitchenâs 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 doesnât come to this realization in any poetic, life-altering moment. Heâs standing barefoot, hoodie half-zipped, eyes bleary. Alpine is making herself tall by clawing at his calf.
âCut it out,â he mutters, nudging her gently with his foot.Â
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 hasnât 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 thereâs 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.Â
Bucky pours cereal into his mouth directly from the box because someone finished the milk and didnât replace it. Again.
Alpine hops up onto the counter and gives him a look. Then she swipes the box out of his hand.
âDo you mind,â he mumbles.Â
She swipes again, this time catching his wrist.
âStop,â He shrugs her off. âYou donât even eat cereal.â
âI donât,â Alpine replies evenly, knocking the box over.Â
Bucky glares at her. Alpine licks her paw and pointedly turns away.
âYou seen--â He doesnât finish the sentence. Pretends itâs not because he doesnât want to say your name out loud like some kind of heart-eyed loser. âYou seen anyone else this morning?â
Alpine flicks an ear. âAlready out of the house.â
He blinks.Â
âSkipped breakfast. Left with that bag full of stuff.â
Bucky runs a hand down his face.
Heâs trying to be chill. He is. Heâs a grown man with a job and hobbies and everything.
Itâs just-- well.
Youâre usually around. You press your forehead to the fridge while deciding what you want. You wear his sweater sometimes like itâs no big deal.
Whatever. Itâs not weird. Youâve got things to do. Youâre a whole person. Thatâs good.
Still, he finds himself standing in the kitchen longer than he means to, bowl of dry cereal in hand, like maybe youâll come walking back in with that same bag and tell him you forgot your keys or your lunch or your Bucky.Â
You donât.
Alpineâs tail flicks. âYouâre being weird.â
Bucky scoffs but doesnât respond.
He flips her off without looking. She licks her shoulder like sheâs unbothered.
âYouâre brooding,â Alpine says, hopping up onto the counter like she owns it. Â
âNot brooding,â Bucky says.
âUh-huh,â Alpine replies, licking a paw. âYou gonna sigh while looking out the window again? You waiting for a telegram, Barnes?â
He glares at her.
 âItâs been three days of moping.â
âI donât mope.â
âEither fight it out or move on.â
âDonât know what youâre talking about.â
âYou two should go on a dateâ
âNo.â
âDie alone, then.â
Itâs 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 doesnât 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.
âYou done?â he mutters.
âNot even a little bit,â she stares. âYouâre gonna spiral.â
"Iâm not spiraling."
"Youâve got your miserable eyes on again." She glances sideways. âYouâre in love.â
Bucky closes his eyes. âAlpine.â
âLike, embarrassingly.â
âAlpine.â
âThis is sad. It could have been cute if you did something about it, but you wonât so itâs mostly sad.â
He says nothing.
Bucky stalks out of the kitchen, leaving behind a cat very pleased at inventing mental distress for her reluctant owner.Â
By Thursday, heâs taken to searching you out. Â
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.
Itâs disorienting.
It makes him feel like heâs missing something. Like music that cut out mid-song.
He just leans on the opposite wall like heâs starring in fucking Grease. Perhaps if he waits long enough, youâll open the door and say something ridiculous and act like you didnât miss a full week of doing absolutely nothing together.
Instead, itâs the stupid cat who strolls out, halting when she sees him.Â
Bucky leaves before the comments start.Â
The first time you're technically still there, but not really, itâs 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.Â
On paper, everything looks normal. But somethingâs off.
You donât 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 youâre trying to solve a problem he canât 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 youâre coming back into the room. "Sort of. You?â
"Why, whatâs 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.â
âDo you want toââ
Your phone alarm rining cuts him off, and you glance at it before cursing softly.
âSorry.â You give him an apologetic smile. âRaincheck?â
He nods, and you hop off the stool, clamouring off.Â
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 canât name.
It happens again two days later.
You always do. You're a menace like that.
"Maybe youâre 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 youâre 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. Donât quote the movie out loud, even though youâve forced him to watch this with you thrice already. You just sit there, distracted, eyes glazed a little like youâre somewhere else entirely.
Halfway through the movie, your phone buzzes. You glance at it. Type something. Smile faintly.
Then you remember youâre in a room with someone else and look over.
âSorry,â you murmur, gesturing vaguely at the screen. âDo you need me to rewind?â
He shakes his head. âYou havenât looked at the screen in forty minutes.â
You open your mouth, then close it. âShit. Sorry. Iâve justâ my brainâs kindaâŠâ You do a circling gesture near your temple.
He doesnât say anything. You donât say anything more either.
Eventually, the credits roll. Youâre on your feet before the cast names fade.
âI gotta run,â you say. âI left something exporting.â
"Youâre 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 theyâre pretty. Â
"Yeah. Just need to check on a few things."
He watches you go.
Thereâs an imprint in the cushion beside him, still warm.
Alpine jumps up into the empty spot seconds later. âIs this the part where you start crying quietly?â
âNo.â
âAre you sure?â
Bucky doesnât answer.
The next morning, he finds a paper coffee cup on his doorstep.
No note. But the lidâs 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 heâd been brooding about.
Then he remembers.
Finally, when he does corner you, because thatâs what it feels like at this point, youâre in the hallway outside the production suite with a file tucked under your arm and a cup of coffee heâs 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.
âAre you avoiding me?â
You freeze, smile fading. ââŠWhat?â
âJust a question.â
Thereâs a pause. âI thought youâd be glad I was leaving you alone.â
âSo you are,â he says.
âNo. Iâm not.â
âThen what the hellâs going on?â Bucky crosses his arms. âYouâve been MIA sinceââ
Since the conversation in the car where he told you he was being haunted.Â
His eyebrows lift, just slightly. âYou think Iâm insane.â
âNo,â comes the reply, steadier this time. âI do not.â
Thereâs a pause.
âI promise you, I do not think youâre insane,â you say again. âIâll be back to normal soon. Iâve just been busy.â
He nods curtly, eyes avoiding looking at you.Â
âSo,â you add, âyou are mad.â
âIâm not mad.â
He just doesnât like disruptions to a working pattern. Thatâs all.
You eye him, one eyebrow raised.Â
âItâs just weird.â He runs a hand over the back of his neck. âIâm used to you talking my ear off with whatever bullshit is running through your head, and now youâve disappeared.â
âI get it.â You shift the file in your hand from one arm to the other. âI didnât want to say anything until I had something concrete.â
âAbout what?â
You look at him. âIâve been trying to figure something out. I donât want to talk about it in case itâs nothing.Â
Bucky doesnât say anything for a second, studying your face.Â
Finally, he exhales through his nose and nods.
You reach past him and flick his nose gently. âThought you were waiting for me to leave you alone all this while. Just say youâre in love with me and go.â
He huffs. âGo where? Youâd track me down to tell me about season 7 of Love Island.â
âAnd I have so much to tell you on that front.â You grin, before your phone rings.Â
You glance at the caller ID before flashing him a small smile.Â
âGo,â he says. âIâll see you later.âÂ
âCatch you soon,â you say, pressing a kiss to your fingertips before tapping his cheek.Â
You bump your shoulder into his as you walk away, and the part of him thatâs 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 canât hear.
You donât notice him.
Either way, he leans against the wall, arms crossed.
âWow,â Alpine drawls. âSnubbed.â
âWe already talked.â
âYouâre being avoided.â
âPeople have lives.â
âYou used to be part of it.â
He watches you disappear around the corner and mutters, âJesus, youâre an asshole.â
Alpine licks her paw. âTakes one to know one.â
Itâs late enough that most of the lights in the tower have dimmed on their own.Â
Itâs 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 doesnât 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.
Heâs on his bed, leaning against the headboard, reading something old and dog-eared. Alpine lifts her head from the windowsill, ears twitching.
âHey,â you say.
âHi,â he blinks, getting off the bed to meet you midway. âYouâre supposed to knock.â
âYouâre supposed to lock your door,â you reply, already halfway inside. âCan I come in?â
âYouâre already in.â
âYeah, but like-- can I come in come in?â
Youâve 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.
âJesus,â Bucky says flatly. âYouâre going to trip on your own feet.â
You kick the door shut with your heel.
âWonât,â you say, confidently. Immediately stumble two steps in.
He catches you by the elbow, just a flicker of a touch, steadying.
âYouâre fine,â 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.Â
Alpine lifts her head slightly, annoyed at first before climbing onto your lap.
âOkay,â you announce. âFirst things first. Cake.â
âCake?â
You pull out a slice in a sad little plastic container. âI am nothing if not a master of apology.â
âYouâre apologizing?â
âI am apologizing that you missed my face for seven straight days.â
He raises a brow.
âSorry for making you cry.â
âNo one cried.â
âTook to your bed. Covered the mirrors.â
âDo you even hear yourself when you talk?â
You fork into the cake, take a bite, and offer him the container without looking.Â
âA peace offering,â you say. âBecause I ghosted you like a little rat.â
He stares at it.
You stare at him. âThis is where you accept my emotional olive branch.â
âThat cakeâs not emotional enough,â he mutters.
âI stole it from Steveâs fridge.â
âYou know Steveâ fridge is my fridge, right?â But he takes it anyway.
You smile at him like youâve 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.Â
He notices the details heâs trying not to. Thereâs a tiny streak of pen on your cheekbone. You look like you havenât sat down in days.
You look fidgety. That big chaotic energy you always carry is muted, focused. Thereâs a nervous twitch in your fingers, a hesitance in the way you look at him.
âSorry Iâve been gone.â
âYou werenât gone.â
You shift slightly, knee knocking into his. Neither of you moves away.
âI didnât mean to avoid you,â you continue. âI just--â You gesture vaguely.
âYou donât owe me anything.â
âStill,â you say.
He watches you for a second. Thereâs something in his eyes that softens barely. Just a flicker at the corner.
He nudges the cake toward you. âEat first. Explain after.â
For a few seconds, thereâs only the quiet sound of forks against plastic.Â
Then, without looking up, you speak, âI missed hanging out.â
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. âSay it back or Iâll key your motorcycle.â
He mumbles something under his breath, all garbled.
âLouder.â
He rolls his eyes. âDonât push it.â
You smile, just slightly, before passing him the rest of the cake. âHere. Eat your feelings.â
He takes it. âYou ate most of it.â
âThatâs because I have more feelings.â
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 didnât 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. Youâre not here with him, not really.Â
âYouâre thinking again,â he says, voice soft.
âNo Iâm not.â You huff.Â
âYouâve been thinking since you walked in,â his gaze flicks between the TV, to your fork. Mostly, they seem to linger on your eyes.
You chew on your lip like youâre deciding on whether or not you want to let him in on a secret.
âFine,â you say, âCan I say something, and you promise not to flip out?â
âNo,â he says, knowing fully well that he was lying.Â
You smile. âFair.â
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 youâre looking for.
âLike I said, I didnât want to say anything until I had something real. So even this is just-- I donât know.â
Bucky doesnât look away. âWhatâs in the file?â
âResearch.â
âSomething for the show?â
âSomething for us,â you say, and it slips out too fast. You blink, looking down. âI meanâ like not us. Just you. Something for you.â
âOkay,â he says. âWhat is it?â
âRight,â you hesitate. âI thought about everything you said. About Becca. And I thoughtâ I donât know, that one day, if youâd ever want to know more, that you should be able to.â
Itâs quiet again, but not the same quiet as before. This one is loaded with quiet anticipation.Â
âIâm not pushing anything,â you say, turning your torso slightly toward him. âThis is not a thing you have to deal with right now. Or ever. But youâve been walking around like youâve got a lead weight strapped to your ribs, and I didnât know how to help.â
You gesture to the sheets basically spelling out of the binding.
âThereâs a bunch of stuff in there, whatever I could find. Timelines, pictures, conversations with people whoâve met ghosts, mediums, tarot readers. My Instagram is basically only crystal ads now.â
You nudge the folder a little closer to him.
âYou donât have to look. You donât have to talk about it. You donât have to do a single thing.â You smile softly. âBut if you ever want to, itâs there.â
Bucky hasnât moved, but his jawâs tight, and you can see the thoughts behind his eyes, too fast to track.Â
He doesnât open the folder. Just nods once, sets it aside on the nightstand like it's a phone charger or a pair of keys.Â
Something to deal with later.Â
Maybe.
Eventually, the cakeâs half gone. The air in the room is warm, soft, like a blanket that hasnât slipped off your shoulders yet.
You're already halfway through a yawn when you ask, âWhat day is it?â
He checks his watch like itâll give a better answer than his brain. âTuesday. No. Wednesday.â
âRight.â You rub at your eyes with the back of your hand. âWeâve still got one episode left. Weâre short one climax, Barnes.â
He exhales through his nose. âWe got nothing?â
âI didnât say nothing,â you reply, thumbing open your notes app. âI said we donât have a plan.â
He raises an eyebrow.
You scroll. âOkay. Hereâs the shortlist. Stuff we never shot, leads that went nowhere that I still think have potential.â
Bucky leans back against the headboard, arms folded. âWhich ones do you like?â
âI donât know yet. I want to see them. Weâll pick the dumbest ones.â
You hand him the phone.
âWeâll need B-roll,â you add, already planning. âIf we hit three in five days, weâll have raw footage by Sunday. I can cut a teaser next week.â
âYouâre assuming theyâre all worth shooting.â
âIâm assuming one is. The other two can be weird little day trips.â
He nods once, crisp. âFine.â
âFine?â
âLetâs go on your weird little field trips.â
You grin. âGod, youâre soft. I wore you down in one season.â
He grumbles something that sounds like denial. You poke him in the side.
âTomorrow,â you announce, âwe start with the one that smells like cat piss.â
He groans.
You stretch out on the bed, arms flung overhead. âOkay, pick something else to watch. I canât watch another bear kill a fish. Itâs depressing me.â
âRemoteâs somewhere.â
âIâm not moving.â
âSucks to be you.â
His eyes flick toward the unopened folder on the nightstand, doesnât touch it. Doesnât say a word.
You donât either, except when he looks back at you, youâve 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.
âFound it,â 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 YOUâRE 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, âOnce faked an injury to skip running laps and cried when a crabapple hit your knee.â
You donât move.
He glances at you. âSo itâs personal.â
The page turns itself.
Another line appears.
âHad a dream last week where you kissed in an elevator. It fell. You were mostly annoyed the kissing got cut short.â
You take the journal from his hands, silent. Snap it shut.
âI donât have dreams,â he says, amused. âThat oneâs not about me.â
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.
âYou like his face. Especially when heâs--"
Youâre already standing. Already crossing the room with the damn thing in your hand.
You open a window that doesnât need opening.
And then, smiling brightly, you fling the book out.
When you turn back, heâs still in the chair, elbows on his knees, watching you with the same expression he always wears during briefings; a little curious, vaguely entertained.
âAnything else?â he asks.
You shake your head. âDonât know who it was writing about. Wasnât me.â
âRight,â he says, half-snort. âYou just trashed our one viable video idea.â
âIt was nonsense.â
That night, while brushing, you glance down to find the blasted thing near your toothbrush like Satan himself returned it to you.Â
A green bookmark is wedged halfway through.
Thereâs a note on it in someoneâs handwriting:
For your reading pleasure.
From,
Not Bucky
You stare at it for a while.
Then you open to page one.
Itâs not a haunted object, according to the label. Itâs âpsycho-reactive porcelain, late 19th centuryâ which means nothing to either of you.
You hold it up to the light. Itâs chipped. Thereâs a faint blue pattern around the rim. Â
âItâs meant to do something if you drink from it,â you say.
Bucky stares at you over his jasmine citrus tea. âDefine âsomething.ââ
âMemory recall. Light clairvoyance.â
âRight.â
You tilt it toward him. âWant to go first?â
âNo.â
You shrug. Fill the teacup from the sink. Take a careful sip.
Nothing.
You wait.
Still nothing.
Bucky glances at you. âHow do you feel?â
âLike I drank tap water out of a very pretentious bowl.â
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, âWhy is the light doing that.â
You frown. âWhat light.â
He gestures at the overheads. âTheyâre pulsing.â
You look up. Theyâre not.
You glance at him. Heâs 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.
âItâs a delayed reaction,â you say.
âThat or Iâm having a stroke,â he murmurs.Â
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. âIs it possible to hallucinate in widescreen?â
You donât answer. Youâre watching the fridge breathe.
Itâs subtle, in and out, like a sleeping animal.
âOkay,â you say calmly. âMight be time to lie down.â
He doesnât argue. Just gets up and walks very carefully down the hall like gravityâs got new rules no one told him about.
You follow, passing Alpine, who now has three ears. You choose not to engage.
__________
Youâve both made it to bed, but youâre not sure whose bed it is. Or whether it is a bed. Youâre lying very still.
Thereâs a low hum in the air, like a charger left plugged into a wall that hasnât existed for years.
Neither of you speaks for a while.
Eventually Bucky says, âIf I dieâŠâ
And then he doesnât continue. It takes a good while to even register that he spoke.Â
Youâre staring at the ceiling. The ceiling is fine. The ceiling is a forest now. A very polite forest.
âToo late,â you mutter.
He turns his head slightly. âWhat?â
You turn yours. âNothing.â
He closes his eyes. âI can hear colours.â
You stare at him.
âIâm hearing green.â
âWhat does green sound like?â
Heâs silent for a long time.
âWet,â he says.
You nod like that makes sense.
Thereâs 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. âAre we going to talk about the part where youâre lying on my arm.â
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.
âShould I move?â you ask, finally.
"Donât." His voice is quiet. "Feels nice.â
You donât 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.
Buckyâs 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.
Thatâs what you thought, when you opened the door to Vincent. Vincent is wearing a waistcoat and fingerless gloves.
âYouâve got the look,â he says, stepping inside.
You blink. âThe look? Am I gonna be a model?â
He brings his own clipboard.
âYouâre going to want to sit down for this,â he says.
You stay standing. Bucky leans against the fridge, arms crossed.
Vincent glances between you. âYou both died. Probably three, four days ago.â
You blink. âRight.â
Bucky says flatly, âOkay.â
âWeâre breathing.â
âDepends on the cause of death. Sudden impact ghosts usually donât. You two read as slow-burners.â
âWhatâs a slow-burner?â Bucky dares to ask.
âEmotional bleed-out. Takes years. You donât even notice until you stop casting shadows.â He frowns. âThereâs something very cold about this room.â
âThatâs the air conditioner.â
âEver feel like your bodyâs not yours anymore?â
âCapitalism.â
Vincent points his clipboard at you. âDenial is step one.â
You glance at Bucky. âHeâs trying to gaslight us into being ghosts.â
âI clocked that.â
âYou passed over quietly. Very dignified.â
You consider. âOkay. But if weâre dead, why are we still here?â
âAh,â he says, tapping his nose. âUnfinished business. Usually regret. Or unspoken feelings. Or--â
âSexual tension,â you offer.
He blinks.
You nudge Buckyâs boot. âHey. Think we died in the middle of something?â
He doesnât look up. âProbably.â
Vincent clears his throat. âYouâre joking because youâre resisting transcendence.â
You nod, serious. âThatâs right. I died before I got to see Bucky shirtless in daylight.â
âExactly,â Vincent says, with a touch too much sincerity.
You turn to Bucky. âDo I look dead to you?â
He shrugs. âDefine dead.â
Vincent closes his notebook. âOkay. Youâre clearly not ready.â
You press on. âHypothetically, are we separate ghosts, or do we haunt as a pair?â
His eyes light up. âOh, tandem hauntings are extremely rareââ
âIâm going to stop you there,â Bucky says, already walking to the sink. âThis is a waste of time.â
You trail after. âLet him finish. This might be the closest I get to a legally binding commitment from you.â
Vincentâs still going: âIt would explain the EMF levels. The flickering lights. Your cat refusing eye contactââ
âShe doesnât respect anyone,â Bucky adds. âShe hissed at the mirror this morning. I think it was at herself.â
Vincent reaches into his bag, pulls out two laminated cards.
âThese are temporary death certificates. Just until you make peace with the transition. If anyone official asks, show them this.â
Vincent clasps his clipboard. âSo. Are we ready to move on?â
You shake your head. âAbsolutely not. Tell him to make out with me and Iâll transcend in three seconds.â
Vincent sighs. Pulls out a pen. âIâll be back in a week. If you're still resisting, we escalate.â
âTo what?â you ask.
âSpirit mediation,â he says grimly. Then brightens: âYouâre probably not going to heaven, by the way. But you might have great lighting down there!â
The door clicks shut.
Silence.
You say, âIf weâre dead, weâre doing it badly.â
He hums. âSpeak for yourself. I was a professional ghost for 50 years.â
The bedroom was quiet.Â
Youâd left a while ago, citing the fifteen hours youâd stayed up to catch the haunted chair say something to you.Â
Bucky stayed awke to make good on his promise to check whether any footage was actually usable.
Heâs 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.Â
He's not sure why. It just felt like it wasnât worthy enough, not if that was the last video you were going to film together.Â
He stares at the shared Google doc. It still said âno climaxâ in capital letters, underlined.Â
Bucky lets out a breath through his nose, sits back in the chair, and opens the laptop.
Thereâs 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 heâd formed after relying on it as his main search engine for the last few years. Â
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.Â
Itâs 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 âJACK WAS HERE.â
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 youâd 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 oneâ
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 chinaÂ
He sits back, chest screwed tight.
The username of the original poster was something mundane: spectraldramaqueen23. But their eye for detail was nauseatingly good. Theyâd overlaid screenshots. Zoomed in. Used filters.Â
His palms felt cold.
The room felt heavier than it had a moment ago, as if it, too, had read something it shouldnât 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 youâd released, at exactly the timestamps the internet had told him.Â
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 wasnât where he thought it would be.
Which made sense. He hadnât 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 mightâve once been a gimbal.Â
He stares at it before clawing it open it with both hands,
He doesnât 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 heâd looked at a dozen times and never seen.
He slammed the file shut before scrambling out his door. Â
You open your door to find Bucky, panting slightly, face flushed like heâd run the entire flight of stairs.
You opened the door mid-knock, because he hadnât really knocked. More just landed against it.
He lookedâ well. Not great.
He holds the file out youâd given him nearly two weeks ago and never spoke about since, like it was on fire. âSheâs been in every single fucking episode.â
You exhale, like you knew this was coming, before stepping aside. âCome in.â
Heâs breathing like heâd run from something. Hoodie half-zipped, hair a mess, eyes wide and almost glassy.
âSheâs been in every episode,â he says.
His voice cracked halfway through it. Like his chest hadnât caught up to the rest of him.
âSheâs been here the whole time. The whole goddamn time.â
You close the door gently. âSit with me.â
He looks at you like heâd just remembered you were real.
âWhat have you found,â he said, âabout her.â
You gesture, calmly. âIâm gonna make you some tea, and you can tell me what happened.â
He paces a tight, messy loop of your room. Hands on his hips, then arms folded, then rubbing his jaw like heâs 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.
âI didnât see it,â he says. âI didnât notice. But sheâs in the footage. And everyone else has been seeing it but me.â
You nod, slow, walking past him toward the kettle. It buys you time. Heâs 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. âYou checked Reddit?â
âYeah,â he says. âSheâs in my shots. Sheâs following me.â
The kettle clicks on. You return. Heâs standing where you left him, blinking like you hit him with a brick.
âRight,â you say.â
âBecause she hates me.â
You blink. âThatâs your takeaway?â
âSheâs haunting me,â he snaps. âOf course she is. Why wouldnât she? I left her alone to go turn into something sheâd fucking hate.â
âShe doesnât hate you,â you say, calm again. âThatâs not what this is.â
Heâs already shaking his head. âI missed her entire life. I missed her funeral.â
âYou didnât choose to do that,â you tell him, eyebrows knit together. âSit with me. Please.â
Finally, he agrees. You give him a warm cup with a teabag floating in it. Itâs more recreational than anything else.Â
He doesnât drink the tea, just holds it, only because you gave it to him.Â
You sit across from him, watching the way he stares into the middle distance. Like the footage is still playing somewhere behind his eyes.
âI donât think she hates you,â you break the silence. âOnce you told me, I started compiling everything. Not just the clips she shows up in, but the places. It wasnât random. You remember the ones you told me you saw her?â
He doesnât look at you.
You go on anyway.
âThe mansion that Jason said was haunted by his uncle. That piece of paper that hit you in the neck that had âPBJâ scribbled on it.â
His thumb twitches against the mug.
âThe cornfield,â you continue. âWhere you said you heard her laugh and chased it down.â
âI know,â he mutters.
He nods. Doesnât speak.
âThe haunted ship, in the mirror fogged up and you heard her say âLeave.â.â
âYouâre not making a great case for her not hating me,â he mutters.
âNo,â you say softly. âBut I think it makes her consistent.â
He scoffs. âYeah, consistent in making sure I know I fucked up.â
You lean forward. âBuckyââ
âSheâs told me to leave.â His voice rises, sharp and bitter. âSheâs spelled out my name on a board.â
âBuckââ
He cuts you off, fast and loud. âI 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.â
You stare at him for a beat. âBucky, whatâd you tell her about the cards?â
âWhat.â
âDid you even look at the footage before you talked to her?â
He doesnât answer.
âOf course you didnât,â you mumble.
âI remembered which ones came out.â He shrugs, defensive. âBesides, I donât like watching myself.â
âLiar,â you say, not unkindly, but some way to relieve the tension in him. âYou love watching our videos. Iâve seen you watch them several times.â
âYeah,â he mumbles, âIâm not looking at me in them.â
You ignore the warmth creeping up your neck.
âAnyway,â you say, clearing your throat. âI figured you didnât look at the footage before talking to her. But they were upright. All of them.â
You flip to the relevant page. Three photos: the cards exactly as they appeared on the table. Youâve annotated them, of course. Â
âAnd if Iâm not wrong,â you say, drawing the folder toward you, âshe told you the meanings in reverse.â
You open the file. Pull out a thin, crumpled email printout, and slide it across the table to him.
He doesnât touch it.
âI found Lillia. Took me two weeks, but I sent her the card photos. I asked her to read them again. She wrote me back. Itâs all in there.â
Bucky lets out a shaky breath. Heâs still holding the email in both hands, the paper crumpling under the force.
You speak, finally, voice quiet, âLetâs walk through it.â
He doesnât look up.
âThe house,â you say. âPaper 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.â
âYeah.â
âShe gave you a heads-up. Something small. Something harmless. Something thatâd let you know she was there.â
He doesnât respond.
You go on. âThen the cornfield. You were lost for like, half an hour. You said you heard a laugh, so you followed it.â
He nods, just barely.
âAnd it led you straight back to me,â you say. âTo someone, so that you werenât alone anymore.â
His throat works like heâs swallowing something sharp.
âThe haunted ship,â you say. âThe mirror where you saw her. Where she told you to leave.â
His voice is flat. âYeah. That one wasnât subtle.â
You look at him. âNo. But the ship levitated that night. You were on the verge of passing out from the sway.â
âShe knew I got sea sick,â he says, barely above a whisper.
âExactly.â
You pause.
âIt doesnât sound like she was trying to scare you, Buck,â you say, gently. âIt sounds like she was trying to let you know she was there.â
Heâs staring at the wall.
âShe left you notes so you knew it was her,â you say. âLed 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.â
You shake your head. âIt doesnât sound like sheâs haunting you. It sounds like sheâs looking out for you.â
His jaw tightens. You can see him trying not to let it in.
âSo,â you say. âWhen you say you feel like youâve failed her⊠I have a feeling that maybe you're not the only one who thinks that.â
He turns his head, slow, like doing anything physically hurts.Â
You look at him, steady. âMaybe she feels like she shouldâve protected you.â
His eyes sting, glassy now. He looks down at his hands like theyâre foreign, like theyâve done things he canât bear to remember.
His voice comes rough, sanded down to the nerve: âYeah.â
He doesnât lower the email, clutching it like itâs burning through his fingers.
The room is so quiet you can hear the tea cooling in its cup. His shoulders fall, just slightly. Like somethingâs finally been set down.
And for the first time since this whole thing started, he looks like he doesnât 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.Â
You stay where you are, knees folded on the couch, tea cold beside you.Â
You watch him, gently, without speaking. Heâs leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the printed email still loose in his fingers.
He turns it over, once. Just for something to do.
âWanna pull a card?â
His eyes lift to yours.
You donât smile, but your face is kind.Â
He looks at the bed where youâve placed an old tarot deck sits. He looks back at you.
âYeah,â he says. Quietly. âOkay.â
You set the deck down in front of him and nod at it. âYou shuffle.â
He hesitates, then picks it up. His hands are steady now. Not relaxed, but sure.
Itâs clumsy but deliberate. When heâs done, you tap the top of the deck with one finger.
âPull.â
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, âHuh.â
You lean forward, elbows on the table, and tilt your head at it.
âYou know what it means?â
He shakes his head slowly.
âFrom what Iâve learnt in the last few weeks,â you begin, âItâs a beginning. An offering.â
He frowns slightly. âDoesnât feel like a beginning.â
âItâs not that kind of beginning,â you say. âI've seen people compare it to the first breath after crying. What lets you know the worst is over.â
He watches you.Â
âIt means healing. Gently. Slowly, what you donât notice until one day it doesnât hurt to say her name out loud.â
You watch the muscle in his jaw flex. Â
He looks at the card. Doesnât touch it. Â
You soften your voice.
âI think sheâs here because she loved you too much to leave,â you say. âEven if you said you didnât deserve it.â
He presses a hand to his face. Exhales through his palm.
âSheâs not stuck,â you say. âYouâre not, either.â
He nods, just once.
You watch him for a second longer. âHow about we let her know that youâre taken care of, yeah?â
His head lifts. He meets your eyes.
You smile, small. Steady.
âAnd I think you should realise,â you add, âthat she was taken care of too.â
He doesn't speak, eyes shining.Â
But he nods.
âYeah,â he says, voice hoarse.
hereâs my ko-fi if youâd 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! itâs the only way tumblr will let me have a taglist and i donât post there at all except for fics </3
Summary: Bucky doesnât 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 internetâs amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse.
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.Â
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.Â
When you open the door, Buckyâs standing there like heâs already been up for hours. Hoodie, boots, duffel in one hand, a to-go cup in the other.
âYouâre up,â he says.
You stare at him. âYou just woke me.â
He tips his head. âWeâre leaving in ten.â
Youâre not even sure you heard this loser right, considering it was 5 in the fucking morning.Â
Still, you ask as patiently as you can, âWhere.â
âRoute 7. Thereâs a ghost on the highway.â
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. âGhost bride. Wants to hitch a ride.â
âAnd she must hitch one at the ass crack of dawn? Not at like, 3pm?âÂ
He shrugs. âItâs a long drive.â
âI havenât packed.â
He holds up the bag. âI did.â
You recognize it as the one you keep ready for field work, though you canât remember where you last left it.
ââŠYou packed for me.â
âCheck it. I guessed on the jacket.â
You take it, slowly. âBut the cameraâs not charged.â
âI charged it.â
âTripods?â
âLoaded.â
âSD cards?â
âIn the glove box. Readers too.â
You canât stop staring at him. âIs this a trap?â
âThereâs a folder on the front seat,â he says. âCase notes. Highlighted.â
âHighlighted.â
âActive case sightings.â
âWhat is happening?â You stare at him. âAre you trying to impress me?â
His eyes flick to yours, just for a second. âIs it working?â
You donât know what to do with that, so you point at the cup. âIs that coffee?â
âNo. Peach mango tea.â
ââŠFor me?â
He raises an eyebrow. âNo.â
That is probably the most normal heâs been in this whole interaction.
You donât say anything for a moment. He doesnât fill the silence.
He looks like he might, but he doesnât.
âIâll meet you downstairs,â he says. âTen minutes.â
Then he turns and walks down the hall.
âYour cupâs in the car,â he calls over his shoulder.
You glance down. The zipperâs already half open. Inside, you can see your camera, tucked into its spot like itâs been handled a hundred times. Neatly packed. Memory cards in their pouch. Gimbal foam-wrapped. Chargers coiled.
You donât know what to do with any of this.
The road unwinds slowly in front of you, all gray light and low fog. Heâs been driving for over an hour.Â
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.Â
Ghost bride, tragedy at the wedding leads to it being called off, dies on her way home. Now haunts the highway, shows up in peopleâs car, waiting for someone to drop her to her favourite diner. Stuff youâd dealt with before, which is why Bucky dragging you out of bed for this made no sense.Â
The sun's just starting to bleed into the sky when you say it.
âDoes this have anything to do with the meeting yesterday?â
He shifts his position. Not much, but enough.
âNo,â he says, too flat.Â
You hum quietly. âRight.âÂ
You let the silence stretch.
You glance at him. âYou didnât say much after it.â
âDidnât have much to say.â
You havenât seen this Bucky since the first meeting you had with him all those months ago, all monosyllabic and short sentences.Â
He turns up the heat on the AC, one arm leaning on the window.  Â
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 heâd said, âGuess thatâs that.â
You glance at him now, and heâs still got that same set to his jaw. Â
He just keeps driving, hands steady and eyes on the horizon.
âThereâs no way this road used to be called âLoverâs Bone Trailâ,â you say instead, poking a hole into the tension in the air.
âThatâs what all the articles said.â
âAnd we, as a community, have just decided to keep it?â
âItâs historical. Named in 1874.â
âIt 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?â
Bucky has no answer to that.
âSo,â you say, suddenly loud because you guess you had to do this the old fashioned way, âif she shows up, Iâm pulling over. Sheâs coming with us.â
âYouâre not the one driving.â
âTechnicality.â
âNo,â he says. âThatâs literally how driving works.â
âSheâs a bride,â you say, ignoring him entirely. âThat means sheâs into commitment. I think I have a shot.â
âYou think sheâs your type?â
âI think Iâm her type. She keeps climbing into strangersâ cars in the middle of the night. She sounds fun. I think I could win her over before she disappears.â
âWin her over to what.â
âTo our side. She could help us with b-roll.â
Bucky exhales. âSheâs going to latch onto your soul and suck the nutrients out of your bones.â
âGreat. Finally some passion in my relationship.âÂ
He doesnât answer.
You grin. âYou could just admit youâre jealous of my hypothetical ghost wife.â
He mutters something like âIâm begging you to shut upâ but thereâs the barest, traitorous twitch at the corner of his mouth.
You lean your head back against the window, pleased. âIf she asks what we are, Iâm saying Iâm single and looking.â
âYou donât even know what she looks like.â
âSheâs a bride. How hard can it be.â
âYou canât just stop for every random on the street.â
âI can. And I will.â
âWe are not putting a stranger in the car while itâs still dark.â
âIf sheâs dead, whatâs she gonna do?â
âShe could be a con artist.â
You grin. âSo am I. Weâll get along great.â
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.Â
âFine,â you say, âif she gets in the car and asks what we are, what do you want me to say?â
âCoworkers.â
You scoff. âWeâre in a car at sunrise. You packed my jacket. This is essentially foreplay.â
He doesnât look at you. âYouâre deeply troubled.â
âYou knew that when you signed the contract.â
He mutters something under his breath. You ignore it.
âIâm just saying,â you continue, âif she climbs in here and asks, Iâm gonna say weâre eloping.â
âYouâre gonna tell a dead bride that weâre eloping? You want to get us killed?â
âYessir. You going to stop me?â
He doesnât answer.
You lean back smugly. âDidnât think so.â
He shakes his head, one hand adjusting the rearview mirror with resigned energy.
âDo you think we'd be one of those couples that get married and divorced over and over again? Because itâs fun and chic?â
âWhat the fuck are you talking about?â
âLike Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez.â
He narrows his eyes. âWeâre not even dating yet and youâre talking about divorce.â
âDibs.â
âDibs?â
âIâm calling dibs on being your first divorce. I donât care you who you dateââ blatant lie â--so long as I'm the one you're getting married and divorced to over and over.â
He doesnât respond. But his ears are a little pink.
Youâre sitting cross-legged in the passenger seat with your hoodie pulled over your face like evil Kermit.Â
Buckyâs been pretending not to notice for fifteen miles.
He should be used to this by now. He is used to this. But he doesnât look at you. Canât.
Because the problem is that heâll either lose his mind or kiss you so hard it resets both your trauma timelines.
So instead he stares straight ahead.Â
âIf we see her, Iâm slamming on the brakes and proposing.â
Bucky doesnât flinch. âYouâre still not the one driving.â
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. âYou should sleep.â
You look at him sideways. âYou trying to get rid of me?â
âYes.â Blatant lie.
Outside, the horizonâs cracking open with light. The fogâs burning off slow. The road stretches ahead like itâs daring you to say something next.
âIf I die on this trip, I want you to taxidermy me.â
A beat passes as Bucky processes what you just said..Â
âNo,â he says slowly, like itâs a boundary heâs had to establish before.
âIâm serious. Tasteful pose. Keep me in the studio.â
âAbsolutely not.â
âWhere would you put me then?â Â
âIâm going to bury you in a ditch.â
âIâd crawl back up Michael Jackson style.â You sit up slowly and stretch with the smug satisfaction of someone who knows theyâre an acquired taste and has already been acquired.
Youâve had enough caffeine to kill a Victorian child and still your brain refuses to slow down.
Still, you tediously continue, âIf I die before you, youâre not allowed to get remarried.â
âWeâre not married.â
âI just think if I die, you should live a quiet, devoted life. Maybe take up baking. Get weird about birds. But never move on.â
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Focuses on the road.
You keep going.
âIf you die before me, Iâm gonna be insufferable,â you say. âWear your hoodie for five years. Cry at vacuum commercials. Start getting into knife-throwing or something.â
He lets out a breath. Â
You smile, wicked and tired and radiant with nonsense. âAlso, Iâm going to lie about you. So much. You fought bears. You once ate glass to win a bar fight.â
âIâve never even been in a bar fight.â
âGotta fill in the gaps.â
And yet again, he doesnât say anything. Youâre sitting there with crumbs on your shirt spewing absolute madness without even blinking.Â
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 youâre always like half-feral. And how every word you say has him unraveling by degrees. All he can think is that god, youâre 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. âIf I do die first, you canât carry a picture of me in your wallet. Thatâs boring. You can carry my teeth. Like, in a pouch. Just in case.â
âIn case of what.â
âYou never know,â you say. âMight need them.â
He glances over. âYouâre carrying your own teeth.â
âNo,â you say. âI give you my teeth. Itâs symbolic. A gesture of trust. Of love.â
âA bag of loose teeth is not love.â
âYou just donât get symbolism. Anyway. If you donât do it, Iâll know you never really loved me.â
He finally glances over.Â
Your grin widens. âSee? Thatâs the look. Perfect. Do that when journalists ask if you still hear my voice.â
He doesnât answer, eyes lingering over you for a second too long.Â
âYouâd look good with a parrot, by the way. For your widower era.â
He looks at you and it takes a millisecond to realise somehow this isâ different.Â
Messy. Like all the gears in his head are clanging against each other at once.
âYou good?â you ask after a beat of him not moving.
He exhales sharply, before giving a curt nod. âFine.â
Youâre still watching him like youâre about to say something else when it happens.
You blink, and thatâs 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.Â
Pale fabric snapping in the wind. A veil, maybe. A dress.
You sit bolt upright.
âHEY.â
He jerks slightly, hand tensing on the wheel. âWhat?â
âWhat do you mean âwhatâ? You twist halfway in your seat, finger jabbing at the back window. âDid you not see that?!â
âWhat are you talking about?â
âWe passed her.â
âPassed who.â
âThe bride!â
He glances at the rearview mirror. âThereâs no one there.â
âShe was right there. You justâ I told you to keep your eyes open!â
âI was watching the road.â
âYou were looking at me.â
âYou were trying to give me your teeth.â
Youâre still facing backward, peering through the fog. âI think she posed. Thatâs so hot of her.âÂ
He squints. Checks the mirrors. Nothing. Just the stretch of empty road behind you.Â
You turn in your seat, trying to spot her through the trees. âShe probably thinks weâre rude.â
âShe probably doesnât exist.â
âShe posed.â
âShe didnât pose.â
âI know a theatrical ghost when I see one, and that bitch was hitting angles.â
âJesus Christ.â
He parks.
Youâre already out of the car before he unbuckles. Camera bag over your shoulder, boots crunching on gravel, one hand raised.
âMiss Bride!â you call. âSorry, my cameraman was too busy making googoo eyes at me to notice you the first timeââ
âShut up.â
â--but weâd love a second to talk if youâre free. Perhaps even consider holy matrimony.â
Bucky rolls down the window to watch you.Â
âTurn around.â
Bucky, sitting in the car, door shut, hands on the wheel, does not even flinch.
âNo.â
Your head snaps toward him. âExcuse me?â
âWeâre not going back.â
You stomp over to his window. He hits the button and rolls it down.
ââShe was right there,â you say, stabbing a finger into the air.
âSheâs not now.â
âBecause we drove past her.â
He shrugs. âSheâs got legs. She can catch up.â
âShe doesnât have legs, sheâs floating.â
âShe can float her way over.â
âBucky.â
âIf sheâs that into this, sheâll show up again. Get in the car.â
âOh my god,â you mutter, marching around to the passenger side. âYouâre so fucking difficult.â
You throw the door open, toss yourself in.
He starts driving, non-chalant, like he hasnât just disrespected the very fabric of journalism.
You stare at him. He stares ahead.
âCanât believe I saw a literal ghost bride and youâre acting like it was a pigeon.â
âBoth of them are mobile. She can come over if she wants.âÂ
Your voice is all sullen when you say, âShe liked me. We had a moment.â
âIâm sure sheâll tell all her friends.â
You glare out the window.Â
Heâs 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.
Youâre on your third rewatch of the dashcam footage you werenât even filming at the time.
âThereâs a shadow at timestamp 7:08,â you say, zooming in. âCould be a veil.â
Bucky doesnât look. âCould be a bird.â
You turn to him. âYou have no imagination.â
At another point, you put on music that is, frankly, emotionally manipulative. Minor keys. Whispery vocals. Â
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.
âI think she broke up with me.â
âShe was never dating you.â
âWe had a moment.â
âYour entire moment lasted less than five seconds.â
âPeople fall in love in less.â
âName one time.â
You stare pointedly at him, daring him to say it.
He does not.
Instead, he says: âWeâll stop at the next town. You can film the local haunted mailbox or whatever.â
Another mile passes.
You peer out the window one last time, hopeful.
Nothing.
âYouâre buying me breakfast,â you say like itâs punishment.
As if that wasnât the plan anyway.
Since itâs on Buckyâs dime, you order too much food. Itâs half out of spite. Half because the menu actually looks good.Â
Buckyâs halfway through his toast, mind elsewhere.
You point your fork at his plate. âWhat should our last video be about?â
Buckyâs mouth goes a bit dry but he swallows the bread nonetheless.Â
âDonâ care. Pick whatever.â
âWow, can you contain your excitement? I can't handle it.â
He gives you a brief smile. Â
You take a sip from his mug. âYouâll miss me.â
âLike a rash.â
âCharming.â
You kick his shin lightly under the table. He doesnât flinch.
You lean back, stretching your arms over your head. âOne more after this. Thatâs it.â
âIt is.â
You eye him.Â
He shrugs, picking a crumb off the table like itâs something to do.
âWhat next?â he asks you, tone casual but voice gruff.Â
You watch him for a beat before saying, âI mean, I always figured I was gonna bounce after this. It was a fun gig.â
He nods once, making no motion to argue. Like you said you were going to pick up groceries.
âSo, you know. Big change.â
âGuess so.â
You give him a look. âThatâs it?â
âWhat else am I supposed to say?â
âI donât know. âWow, Iâll miss your witty insight and looking at how sexy you are." Something like that.â
He raises an eyebrow. âMy mother raised me not to lie.â
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. âSo what are you gonna do with your newfound freedom?â
He sets his cup down. âSleep for a week. Punch the next person who says âcontent strategy.ââ
âBold of you to assume anyone talks to you voluntarily.â
âYou never shut up.â
âI bet you had a countdown. Big red Xs on a calendar. âOnly three more episodes with the loud one.ââ
He doesnât respond. You glance up.
His face is unreadable. Â
You flag down the check with a raised hand.
âAnyway,â you say, lighter again. âOne more, then I ride off into the sunset. You get your life back. Everybody wins.â
He watches you slide on your jacket, looking at you from the corner of his eye. âIs that what you think? I get my life back?â
You pause, one arm halfway in a sleeve.
He pays the bill without asking even though he very defiantly he said he wasnât going to. Â
You finish putting the jacket on. Adjust the collar like itâs suddenly very interesting.
Outside, the morningâs sharper now. Colder, even though the sun had taken its rightful place in the sky.Â
You walk toward the car. He follows.
Just before you get in, you say, âI donât think you hated all of it.â
He opens his door. Doesnât look at you. âSome parts were tolerable.â
âThatâs the nicest thing youâve ever said to me.â
âI can take it back.â
âYou wonât.â
The doors shut. Â
Bucky turns the key. The engine grumbles awake. He checks the mirrors like heâs doing a final perimeter sweep before war.
And then he goes rigid.
â...Huh.â
Youâre adjusting your seatbelt. âWhat.â
He doesnât answer.
Just stares into the rearview, deadpan.
You lean over. âWhat.â
Still nothing.
âWhat?â you ask again, sharper.Â
He sighs. âThereâs someone in the back seat.â
You blink. âSorry what?â
Bucky canât tear his eyes away from the mirror.
You twist around.
White dress. Veil. Pale as moonlight. Â
You turn back slowly. Face forward. Stare straight ahead.
âIs she... buckled in?â
âNope,â he says, straight laced.
âShe should be buckled in.â
âThatâs not a priority right now.â
âI donât care. Thatâs a moving violation.â
He adjusts the rearview. Avoids eye contact with her.Â
You whip around again. She hasnât moved. Just sits there, hands folded, gaze unfocused.
âNow what?â.
âSheâs not screaming,â Bucky mutters. âSo thatâs a good start.â
âOh great, weâve upgraded from âscreaming bansheeâ. Love that for us.â You stare at her a bit longer before deciding on, âSheâs probably just hitching a ride.â
âA ride to where? Hell?â Bucky just adjusts the AC like thatâll fix the ambient death in the backseat.
Sheâs 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 sheâs been awake since 1834.
You watch her for a second.
Then look at Bucky.
Then back at her.
âOkay,â you say slowly. âAccording to literally every story ever written about this woman, she just wants to be dropped off at the diner.â
He nods. âWhich weâve done.â
âWhich weâre currently leaving.â
Another second passes while you both contemplate.
âWhat if she didnât see it?â you pose.
âSheâs sitting in this car. Weâre in the parking lot. She has eyes.âÂ
âIâve seen her eyes. She has bad eyes.â
You squint at her reflection. Her stare doesnât waver. Doesn't blink.
âOkay. So if she saw the diner, and didnât leave, does that meanââ
âSheâs defective?â
âI was going to say she doesnât have money.â
You reach down, grab the dinerâs leftover bag from the floor and rifle through it.
You hold the takeout container up so she can see it in the mirror.
âHey,â you say, âWe have pancakes. Theyâre lukewarm, but edible.â
She stares.
âReal maple syrup,â you add, like thatâs going to help. âI think.â
Still nothing.
Bucky glances in the mirror, then back to the road. âWell, you offered. Now what.â
You close the container, before twisting in your seat to face the back. âOkay, so what do you want?â
No answer. Just red-rimmed ghost eyes.
âMaybe she just wants to hang out.â
âShe is bleeding from the eyes, Buck.â You lean forward, rub your hands over your face. âShe wants something else.â
You glance back at the mirror. Her stare is heavier now. Expectant.
You squint. âWhat can we do for you? What will help?â
Her eyes narrow just a little.
You look at Bucky.
âSheâs got that look,â you mutter. âThe one you get when you think Iâm about to say something stupid.â
Bucky nods. âThatâs ninety percent of the time.â
âWhat if we brought her to the wrong diner?â You turn back to her. âIs that it?â
Nothing.
You lean back in your seat, defeated. âWhat the hell are we supposed to do with her? Whatâs the plan here?â
âI thought you wanted to marry her.â
You turn back around. âGirl, you wanna get married? Iâll do it, I donât care. I love you.â
She doesnât reply.
âWow, rejected,â Bucky says flatly. âI thought you were soulmates.â
âShut up.â You glance back at the mirror. The ghost bride stares, unmoved. Slightly annoyed. Still bleeding from the eye sockets.
You squint. âTry flirting with her.â
Thereâs a beat of silence so dense you can hear the engine hum in self-defense.
âIâm sorry?â
âYou heard me.â
âNo.â
âOh, come on. Give her a little smolder. Ask if she, I donât know, haunts here often.â
âAbsolutely not.â
âSheâs literally haunting us, Bucky. The least you could do is be polite about it.â
âSheâs dead.â
âSoâs your dating life. You have nothing to lose.â
He glares at you.
You grin. âShe might respond to compliments. Whatâs the worst that happens? She leaves from embarrassment?â
He glances up at the mirror, then back at the road.
You can see the moment his soul gives up.
âFine.â
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.Â
âSo, uhââ
You lean in, eyes gleaming.
âYou... look nice. In white.â
A pause.
Nothing happens.
He presses on, deadpan. âTimeless. Very... Victorian. Suits you.â
You press your mouth closed so tight it hurts. God forbid you laugh.Â
Still nothing.
The ghost bride doesnât blink. Doesnât so much as tilt her head. Like even in undeath, this is the worst pickup attempt sheâs ever witnessed.
âTell her she has... striking bone structure,â you whisper.
âAbsolutely not.â
âSheâs got cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, Barnes. Show some respect.â
âFuck off.â
You both look at the mirror again.
âI think you offended her,â you say.
âI think sheâs always looked like that.â
âShe probably wanted something more old-fashioned. A sonnet. A duel. A goat sacrifice.â
âShe got a compliment. Thatâs the most effort Iâve put into any relationship in the last decade.â
You hum. âExplains a lot.â
He gives you a sidelong look. âYou want to flirt with her?â
âI canât. Iâm already married to the grind.â
He groans audibly.
âWell,â you say, âwe tried.â
âSheâs still here.â
You tilt your head. âMaâam, are you lonely?â
Another beat of silence passes.
In a quick second, she raises her eyes to you.Â
Bucky and you exchange glances.Â
âIt it because you miss your husband?âÂ
Her eyes grow more bloodshot. Your eyebrows furrow.
âSo, not him. Do you not like him?â
She does something that looks somewhat similar to exhaling.
âYou said there was a tragedy at the wedding,â you muse. âDid something happen between you both?â
She inhales, noise coming out like a wheeze.Â
You only stare at her for a while.
âHe left you at the altar?â you say, voice gentler now. Â
Buckyâs brows furrow.Â
A second goes by with no change.
The ghost lifts her head a fraction. Her mouth twitches, barely.
You almost miss it.
You hum. âSo you walked out?â
Another blink.
âLet me guess,â you say. âEveryone else went home to gossip and youâ whatâ ended up at the diner? That your favourite place?â
She doesnât nod. But she doesnât look away.
Bucky glances at you. âShe died on the way. Heel got caught crossing the road. Truck didnât stop.â
You wince, looking back at her.
âYou didnât get what you wanted, did you?â
She looks tired. Deflated even, from what youâve known her in the last few minutes.
âOkay,â you say, after thinking for a second. âAlright.â
You donât explain further. Simply open the door, step out, and head into the diner.
Bucky stays seated, watching the mirror.
She doesnât move.
Just watches you through the glass.
Youâre gone for a minute. Two.
Then the door swings open again.
Youâve got a receipt in hand as you walk around the back, open her door like youâve 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 doesnât rustle. Her feet donât 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 itâs 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.Â
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.
Thereâs no one in the backseat.Â
But unlike the mirror, the booth isnât empty.
The ghost sits.
You climb back into the car. Quiet. Still watching her.
Bucky looks at you.
âLetâs go,â you say.
He turns back to the window.
Watch her cut into the stack, careful.Â
And for a brief second, she looks young.
Â
The road is long again.
You thumb the edge of a candy bar wrapper and let your foot rest against the dash. He hasnât spoken in a while.
Eventually, Bucky shifts in his seat.
âHowâd you know what she wanted?â
You glance over, caught off guard by the softness in his voice.
âI didnât,â you admit. âIf that didnât work, I wouldâve tried something else.â
He falls quiet again.
You watch the blur of trees sliding past the window. Shadows flickering over the dash.
âPeople donât really try to figure it out, you know?â you say. âThey just assume. Oh, sheâs lingering, so she must be angry. Must be tragic. So letâs banish her, cleanse her, salt the windows. But I donât know, maybe she wanted something else.â
He hums under his breath. A sound like heâs chewing on the thought.
Youâre ten minutes down the road when it hits you.
âFuck.â
Bucky doesnât flinch. âWhat now.â
âI didnât record it.â
A beat of silence.
Bucky drags a hand over his face.Â
âI was moved,â you defend.Â
âThatâs not a setting on the camera.â
âOkay, well excuse me for having a heart.â
Thereâs a pause.
Then, unexpectedly, he huffs a laugh. Â
 You stretch, bones cracking like old wood, and glance out the window. The skyâs brighter now, the sun finally winning the fight against the fog.
âSo,â you say, casual. âI guess weâre heading home now.â
âNo.â
You blink. âNo?â
âNo.â
You look over. Heâs got the same expression he always has when heâs plotting something. His face is bare, unreadable, but with that slight tightness at the corner of his mouth.
You stare. âAre you kidnapping me?â
His eyes donât leave the road. âWould I have bought you breakfast if I were?â
âThatâs exactly what someone trying to trick me would say.â
He exhales through his nose. Not quite a laugh, but in that direction.
You narrow your eyes. âWhere are we going?â
He shrugs.
âThatâs not an answer.â
âYouâll see.â
âThatâs actually the slogan of most kidnappers.â
âMost kidnappers donât let you pick the music,â he says dryly.Â
You pause before reaching over and switching the playlist to something you know heâd hate.
He doesnât argue.
Suspicious.
He finally stops at a fucking cabin.
The sign isnât even painted properly.Â
Just a piece of sun-bleached wood swinging lopsided over the door. Letters barely legible.Â
Itâs a lodge or gift shop or something, with a coffee shop right next to it. Â
âWhy are we stopping?â you ask, brows raised as he turns off the ignition.
Bucky doesnât answer.
He just gets out, door shutting with a solid thunk, and starts walking toward the little building.
You scramble out after him. âOkay, I thought you ate lunch at like 5pm. Didnât realise you were hungry.â
He doesnât slow down. âLetâs go.â
You stare at the back of his head. âYouâre being weird.â
He doesnât 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.Â
Bucky doesnât look at you. Just walks toward the counter like heâs been here before.
You follow, slower now. Cautious. Trying to put pieces together that donât quite fit yet.
Thereâs a small table near the window. Sunlight filters in like itâs being polite about it. He stops there. Waits.
âOkay, I want a croissant, if youâre buying,â you tell him. âAnd one extra one because you keep taking bites from mine even though you say you donât want one-âÂ
Bucky knocks on the counter, pretty loudly for his standards. âHello?â
Youâre 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 sheâs been mid-shift since the day you left.
âWhat the fuck,â you say quietly.
She stops just short of the counter and smiles like no time has passed. âHey.â
Bucky, beside you, clears his throat. âMaâam.â
Mrs. Mullens nods at him, warm and amused. âI was wondering when you were gonna make it.â
Your head whips toward him. âWhat on earthâ what do you meanââ
She steps forward and folds the towel over one hand. âWell, he tracked me down. Told me what the plan was and so I invited him right over.â
âThis whole trip was⊠what?â you ask. âA set-up?â
âDonât blame him,â Mrs. Mullens says gently. âSecond I heard, I told him to get himself down here and bring you with.â
You donât know what to do with your hands.
You donât know what to do with your face.
Bucky shifts on his feet. âIâm, uh, gonna give you two a minute,â he mutters. âWait in the car.â
He turns before you can stop him. Just raises one hand in a half-wave and heads for the door.
You feel like the floorâs been tilted, and everyone else got a headstart adjusting.
Mrs. Mullens watches you quietly, like sheâs got all the time in the world. âYou okay?â
You open your mouth. Then close it. Then try again.
Her expression doesnât flicker as she reaches out to hold your forearms.Â
âWell,â she says, scanning you up and down. âThere you are.â
You feel something in your chest cinch tight and then loosen all at once.
âHi,â you manage.
She still smells like flour and cloves, soft in the way that nothing else in your life ever quite let itself be.
âCome on,â she says. âSit with me. Let me make you something.â
âI donât want to put you out,â you say, voice hoarse.
âStill the same order?â she asks, already halfway to the kitchen.
âYeah,â you say. âStill the same.â
Sheâs 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.
âThanks,â you say softly. âYou really stayed the same.â
âYou look taller,â she says, sitting across from you.
âIâm not.â
âYou sure? Your feet used to swing off that booth.â
âI was like, eighteen.â
âYou were seventeen,â she corrects, smiling.
You blink. âYou remember?â
âI remember everything,â she says, a little amused. âYou showed up with two shirts and a backpack like youâd been chased cross-country.â
You laugh under your breath. âSounds about right.â
âI 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?â
âNothing good,â you say, without really thinking. âBut I liked being here.â
âDid you? You were terrified of the espresso machine. Thought it was gonna explode if you pressed the wrong button.â
âIt hissed at me, Mags.â
She laughs, full-bellied and familiar.
Itâs 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.
âI know,â she says. âBut you needed something to keep your hands busy. Didnât think youâd stay longer than a week.â
You lift one shoulder. âDidnât plan to. It just happened.â
âBut you did.â
âI did.â
âSometimes thatâs the best kind,â she says. âWhen you donât notice it while itâs happening.â
âI still donât know if Iâm any good at staying.â
âDoesnât mean youâre bad at it.â She hums. âSome folks are just built for motion. Nothing wrong with that.â
âNever felt like I was built for anything.â
âThen I guess you get to make it up as you go.â
You donât answer right away. She doesnât push.
She doesnât look up from where sheâs stacking sugar packets. âSo did I.â
âWhat happened?â
âRent happened,â she says simply. âAnd my knees donât like the city anymore.â
You nod. âThis place is nice too.â
âI like the light,â she says, finally glancing out the wide front windows. âGood for the plants.â
Thereâs 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.
âI thought you mightâve moved further,â you say.
âI tried,â she replies. âDidnât stick.â
âWhy not?â
She shrugs. âMissed my regulars.â
âDo you ever think about moving again?â you ask.
She shakes her head. âNo. This feels right. Feels enough.â
You donât know what to think about that.Â
But something about the way she says it quietly and certain, makes you think maybe one day, it wonât feel so impossible.
She folds the towel in thirds, slow and deliberate, like she has all the time in the world.
âHe said you spent the day driving,â she says, âshowed up back home with half an hour left for the day to get done.â
You huff. âSnitch.â
She chuckles.
âAnd you just gave him the new address?â you ask.
âWell, I asked him who he was first.â Her eyes soften. âThen he told me he was with you, and that was enough.â
You fiddle with the edge of your napkin. âIâm sorry I didnât call. Or write. Orââ
âI know why you left,â she says, cutting in gently.
You blink.
âI figured youâd come when you were ready.â
âI shouldâve said goodbye.â
She reaches across the table and sets her hand on yours. Â
âYou did what you needed to do,â she says. âAnd you survived. That was always the only thing I ever wanted for you.â
You look at her, the lump in your throat rising too fast.
âI thought about calling. A dozen times.â
âI know.â
âIâm sorry I didnât come back. I told myself I would, after things settled. But they never really did.â
âI know.â
âI felt like I owed you more.â
âYou didnât owe me anything,â she says, gentle but firm. âYou stayed as long as you could.â
You exhale, slow and tight. âI didnât leave because I didnât care.â
âI know,â she repeats with the same patience as the previous hundred times.
âIt justââ
âI remember,â she says. âYou got real quiet the last few weeks. Used to stare out the kitchen window like the world was shrinking on you.â
You swallow hard.
âI didnât know how to make it easier,â she says. âSo we did what we could.â
âI didnât know how to thank you,â you add, quieter now.
âYou just did.â
You laugh once, short, a little embarrassed. âItâs not enough.â
âWhy not?â
âI left,â you say. âJust took off. No note.â
She tilts her head. âYou think that erased everything before it?â
âNo. But itâ it undid it. I left the state,â you say, eyebrows pulling together in frustration. âJust because you offered me a room. Thatâs insane.â
âYou were always going to leave. I knew that when you came in.â
You look up.
âYou walked in that first day like someone who already had one foot out the door,â she smiles, hand still resting over yours. âYou didnât owe me anything. I was just glad I got to know you for the time I did. You were always my favorite.â
You scoff. âYou said that to everyone.â
âI lied to everyone else.â
You blink.
âYou knew that already.âÂ
âI hoped.â
You glance out the window to get your bearings.
Mrs. Mullens follows your gaze. âHeâs still out there.â
You follow her gaze. Buckyâs slouched in the driverâs seat, arms crossed, sunglasses on. He looks like heâs trying to nap and also like heâs making sure he can see the door if it opens.
âIs that yourâŠ?â
âFriend,â you say quickly.
She lifts an eyebrow.
âHeâs fine,â you add. âMostly grumbles. Pretends he doesnât like things.â
âHe doesnât talk much, huh?â
âNot unless he wants to argue.â
âHeâs cute.â
You snort.
âHe yours?â she asks, lightly.
You shrug, avoiding the question. âHe drove me here.â
âThatâs not what I asked,â she says, grinning.
You look away.
âHe seems steady,â she adds. âEven from here.â
âHe is,â you admit. âMore than he knows.â
âYou always did pick the prickly ones,â she says, amused.
You huff a laugh, the ache in your throat a little lighter now.
âWhyâd you say yes?â you ask. âWhen he called.â
She stirs her tea, quiet for a moment. âBecause I missed you.â
You stare at her.
âI donât know what else to tell you,â she says.Â
You nod slowly. You canât meet her eyes.
She watches you for a beat too long. âYou think youâll stick where you are now?â
âI donât know,â you say honestly. âTimeâs almost up on this one. It was never supposed to be permanent.â
âSeems like youâve got people now. Makes things easier.â
You stare at the guy in the car, shifting in his seat.Â
âNot always.â
âNo,â she agrees, âbut it makes them worth the trouble.â
You both sit there a while, the sun warming the tabletop. The world doesnât demand anything from you just yet.
She leans back in her seat and folds her hands in her lap. âYou know, Iâve got a room upstairs here, too.â
You blink.
âNot fancy,â she adds. âSmall.â
You donât say anything.
âCould use the help. These joints arenât what they used to be. Iâve got a dishwasher who always misses a spot and the young ones never sweep under the tables right.â
Your face pulls into a smile.
âThink about it,â she says, tone still easy. âDoesnât have to be forever.â
You watch her, unsure if the ache in your chest is guilt or hope or something else entirely.
âIt sounds good,â you say quietly. âActually good.â
She tilts her head, like sheâs trying to read your thoughts. âYou donât have to make the call right now. But if you need a soft landing, this is still one.â
âEven after everything?â
âEspecially after everything.â
You look down at your hands. âWhy didnât you get mad?â
âDonât be ridiculous.â She blinks like sheâs surprised youâd even think that. âYou were never mine to keep. I was just glad I got to know you while you were here.â
Thereâs a warmth in your ribs you didnât 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.
âTake these,â she says, setting it down. âEat them before they go stale. Or donât. Your call.â
You reach for it. âYou didnât have toââ
âDonât start,â she says lightly, ââI baked too much this morning.â
You open the box and peer inside.
Biscotti. Lemon glaze. Just like she used to make them.
âThese still your favourite?â
Your chest stings.
âThank you,â you say again, quieter now.
Outside, the sunâs starting to shift.
âIâm really glad I came,â you say, voice low.
âDonât wait so long next time,â she says. âYou come back when you want to. No pressure.â
âI wonât.â
âGood,â she says. Â
You bite the inside of your cheek.
She reaches over and gently pushes the box of biscotti toward you. âTheseâll hold for a few days if you keep âem in a cool place.â
âI remember.â
ââCourse you do.â
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.
Gravel crunches gently beneath you. The sunlightâs warm, dappled. The smell of coffee and baked sugar lingers in your sleeves. Â
It should be easier to walk away than this.
Itâs not like you havenât done it before. Not like you havenât packed lighter and left faster. Sometimes with the door still swinging behind you. Sometimes before the people even noticed you were gone.
But youâre 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. Â
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 itâs going to make this easier.
Bucky watches you through the windshield but doesnât move. His elbow is propped lazily on the open window frame.
He doesnât ask, only looks.
You stop beside the car. Pull in a breath.
âHey,â you say, a little quieter than you mean to.
He rolls the window down a little further. âHi.â
You rest your forearms on the top of the window. Your eyes are a little tired. Your voice is a little warm.
âShe asked me to stay,â you say.
His face doesnât change, not really. But his grip on the steering wheel falters for a beat.
âSaid I could pick this place as my next job, live upstairs if I wanted.â
A long second ticks by. Then another.
âOh,â he says.
You finally look at him. âWhat do you think?â
He shrugs. âI mean, sounds nice.â
âIt is,â you say, eyes drifting back to the building. âPeaceful. Kind of perfect, honestly.â
He nods slowly.
The wind whistles soft between you both.
âI told her it sounds great,â she says. âTold her Iâd love to do it.â
Buckyâs jaw shifts. He doesnât say anything. Heâs not sure what would come out.
The world stills around the silence like itâs holding its breath.Â
And then, quieter. âSo⊠youâre staying?â
The words are small. Stiff. Like they donât quite know how to fit in his mouth.
You donât answer right away. Just tilt your head back and stare at the cloudless sky, lips pressed together like theyâre holding something in.
At the open window, and the breeze that carries cinnamon and clove and lemon zest like a memory.
And you turn back to him.
âI told her Iâd come back,â you say. âIâve got some more videos to shoot.â
His shoulders relax just a fraction.
He swallows, nodding like it means nothing. Like itâs 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.
âYouâre kind of insane, Bucky Barnes,â you say when you pull back, voice rougher now. âThanks.â
You hand him the box through the window. âI got you some biscottiâ
He doesnât say anything for a beat, just looks down at it like itâs heavier than it is.
He shifts it from one hand to the other, then looks up at you again.
You donât look away.
âYou seriously considered it?â he asks finally, like heâs trying to make it sound casual.
âYeah.â
The answerâs easy. Too easy.
âYou still thinking about it?â
You pause. Then nod. âA little.â
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.
âI liked it there,â you say finally. âIt was warm.â
He nods, barely perceptible. âItâs a nice place.â
You rest your chin on your arm and peer at him. âYou ever want that? Quiet place, job that doesnât involve crawling through basements looking for dead guys?â
He considers that.
Then shrugs. âI think I used to.â
âAnd now?â
âI donât know. I guess I just like knowing where my shoes are.â
You grin at that.
You let your arms fall and step back. Gravel crunches. Sunlight warms your shoulders.
âIâll come back,â 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 road hums under the tires. Pine trees slip past in long green blurs.Â
Youâve 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.
âSo.â
Bucky flicks his eyes over to you, then back to the road.
âSummoning the ghosts of Christmas past and all that,â you continue. âWorked.â
He doesnât say anything. Just shifts his position in the seat.Â
Things have changed for him the past year. Heâs come to realise that the world doesnât follow the rules he was taught it ought to follow.Â
You exhale, watching your reflection ripple in the window glass. âIt was her. Ghost of Christmas past.â
He nods once, almost imperceptibly.
You clear your throat. âThatâs why I went looking for her, you know. After. Couldnât stop thinking about it. Thought if I found her againâ I donât know.â
He waits.
âI wasnât thinking. I just left.â You glance at him. âI didnât start this series really expecting to find any. But I guess the worldâs a lot more complicated than I thought.âÂ
Heâs quiet. More than usual.
The muscles in his jaw twitch like theyâre trying not to.
You turn slightly in your seat to look at him. âYou okay?â
He doesnât answer right away.
You watch his throat bob as he swallows hard. Â
Then, after a minute that stretches too long: âIâve been seeing one.â
You blink.
He doesnât look at you.
âMonths now,â he adds, softer. âMaybe longer.â
You donât say anything at first.
âIs that what you were talking about on the ship?â
Bucky exhales, jaw clenched. âYeah.â
You wait.
He doesnât meet your eye. Keeps his attention on the road ahead. âI didnât want to say anything. Thought maybe it was in my head. Hallucination. Stress. Yâknow. Old habits.â
âWhen did it start?â
âAfter that episode with that doll,â 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 childrenâs wardâ
âBucky, is a kid haunting you?
He looks at you wearily. âYou think Iâm insane.â
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.
âI believe you. Trust me, I do,â you say intently, before hesitantly asking, âThis kid⊠are they yours?â
âNo. No, I donât have a kid.â He sighs. âItâs my sister.â
âYouâve been seeing Becca?â
âYeah,â he glances at you. âYou donât think Iâm lying?â Â
You shake your head. âI donât think you have any reason to lie.â
 The sun hits the edge of his cheekbone and shadows the rest of him.
âThanks,â he says. His voice cracks slightly. âI didnât know how to tell anyone.â
âHow do you know itâs her?â
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. Â
The fucking tarot cards.
âTarot cards? From that stupid video?â you ask in confusion.Â
âThe Star, Six of Cups, The Hanged Man. I got in touch with this fuckinâ reader who said if you were haunted by someone, and couldnât move on, it might be because we hadnât made peace.â
He exhales, and you see it then. The look on his face like itâs been carved out of regret.
âI think sheâs mad at me,â he admits.Â
âWhy would she be mad?â
âI donât know. For dying. She had to figure it out without me. I wasnât there for her.â
âYou were just a kid too, Buck,â you say quietly. âYou didnât have a choice.â
He doesnât respond.
You glance sideways. âYouâve never told anyone else, have you?â
He shakes his head.
âDo you think talking to Steve would help?â you ask. âHe knew Becca too.â
âWhatâs he gonna think?â Bucky replies. âMy brainâs been fried enough times. I donât really know whatâs real or not.â
You offer him a tired, lopsided smile. âItâs Steve. Heâd believe you if you said you were a ghost.â
That earns a quiet huff of a laugh from him. Barely there, but itâs something.
You shift in your seat, grabbing onto his hand.
âWeâll figure this out,â you whisper. âThank you for telling me.â
He lets out a shaky breath.Â
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 heâs been holding his breath the entire way back.
Alpineâs already on the table, licking her paw like she pays the mortgage.
âDo you want to know what it's like,â she says, in the dark, âliving with a man who keeps all the lights off like itâs a crime scene?â
âTurn it on if it bothers you so much,â he grumbles.Â
âYou know what I did today?â she asks, still not moving.
Bucky doesnât answer as he drops his keys in the bowl and shrugs off his jacket.
âI sat on the windowsill and watched the neighbourâs cat get fed twice,â she says. âThey gave her actual tuna. Not the shredded cardboard you buy.â
He heads to the sink and fills a glass of water. The faucet squeals.
Bucky doesnât respond. Just sips.
âTwo 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.â
He places the glass on the counter. She eyes the smudge it leaves.
âI get it,â she says. âSomething tragic probably happened. But you live like youâre actively trying to make this place uninhabitable.â
âBecause I am. I tell you to get out all the time, you clingy demon.â
He sits down in the nearest chair and rubs the back of his neck.
Walks to the fridge. Opens it. Closes it again.
âIâd ask if it was a long day but you look like this all the time,â she calls out.Â
âDonât start.â
She jumps down from the table, lands with a soft thud. âBit late for that.â
He rubs a hand over his face.
Alpine watches with narrowed eyes. âYou didnât cry in public, did you? Because I canât be seen with you if thatâsââ
âAlpine.â
âWhat?â
âShut up.â
He pours himself a glass of water, ignoring her.
She hops up beside the sink. âYou look miserable.â
He points at her. âYouâre supposed to be a support animal.â
âI support you being less lame. So far, complete failure.â
He drinks.
She sniffs at the glass. âIs that water? You okay? Should I call someone?â
He sighs, leans against the counter, and finally looks at her. âWhy do I keep you around?â
She tilts her head. âBecause Iâm the only one here who doesnât let you get away with your sad orphan Victorian chimney boy routine.â
He holds her stare for a moment longer, then turns away, muttering.
Alpine jumps back down, tail curling behind her. âGo on then, brooder. Back to your man-cave. Try not to repress anything new while youâre in there.â
Bucky flips her off without turning around.
The floor is quiet when he finally heads inside. Â
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.
Itâs on the little table outside his room, covered with a plate. Â
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 doesnât go inside his room.
He turns around and walks back down the hallway to the other door. Raises a hand, knocks twice.
Steveâs voice comes through, muffled as he pushes the door open. âYeah? Oh, hi, Buck.â
Steveâs 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.
âDidnât see you all day,â Steve says, stepping aside to let him in.
âBusy,â Bucky mumbles, stepping in and holding up the bowl. âYou left this outside.â
Steve glances at it. âI did. Theyâre fresh.â
Bucky doesnât laugh, but he breathes a little easier. He stands in the middle of the room for a second, like heâs forgotten what to do with himself.
Steve watches him. âEverything alright?â
âCan we talk?â
Steve straightens a bit. âYeah, of course.â
They both sit. Steve curls one leg under himself. Bucky holds the bowl of strawberries in both hands.
For a long time, he doesnât speak. The wall clock ticks quietly behind them. Somewhere, a car honks.
âYou good?â Steve asks.
Bucky lets the silence stretch a second longer.Â
âWhat do you do when you fail the ones you love?â he asks finally.
Steve doesnât move. He just watches Bucky carefully, gaze quiet.
âWell,â he says, âyou apologise the best you can.â
Bucky swallows. âHow do you live with the guilt?â
Steve takes a moment. Then he leans forward, rests his arms on his knees.
âYou bring them fruit,â he says. âAnd 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.â
Bucky stares at the bowl in his hands.
Thereâs a lump in his throat that wonât budge. Heâs not sure how long itâs been there. Days. Weeks. Longer.
âYou think itâs enough?â
âI think itâs something,â Steve says. âWhich is more than nothing.â
Bucky doesnât answer.
They sit for a while longer.
Steve nudges the bowl slightly closer. âTheyâre fresh.â
Bucky picks one up.
Theyâre tangy. They stain his lips red.
He eats another. Then another.
hereâs my ko-fi if youâd 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.
to know when this fic updates, please follow @shurisneakersupdates and turn on post notifications! itâs the only way tumblr will let me have a taglist and i donât post there at all except for fics </3
Summary: Bucky doesnât 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 internetâs 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)
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.Â
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 ornamentsâ customised, traditional, passed down for years, newâ lay at its base, waiting to be set up.Â
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.Â
Bucky doesnât really feel the cold as much as the othersâ spending 70 years in nothingfuck Siberia will do that to a guy. So while everyone wears ugly sweaters that youâve 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.Â
Heâs 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.Â
He thinks thatâs good enough for Christmas Spirit.
âBucky Barnes,â you announce, gliding into his personal space once more with practiced ease. âI have an idea for you.â
âOf course you do,â he says, voice like gravel after not using it the whole day. âAre you going to make another animal talk and then lie to me for months?â
âLie to you for months?â you scoff, dropping your head into his lap, feet kicking up. âI literally fucking told you she talks, like multiple times. Youâre the one who didnât believe me.â
His hand instinctively moves to run over your scalp. âOh Iâm sorry, Iâll start taking everything you fucking say literally.â
âYouâre my boyfriend.â
He narrows his eyes. âStarting now.â
âYouâre my boyfriend.â
âStarting now.â
âYouâre my-ââ
âStop it. Get help.â
âYou will never learn from your mistakes,â you tsk lightly, unperturbed. âI even told you she picked Alpine as her name, why the fuck would I lie about that?â
âI thought you talked to her likeâ I donât knowâ an imaginary friend or some shit.â
âSheâs not imaginary.â
âI know that now,â he hisses. âSheâs been calling me a little bitch for the last 2 weeks every chance she gets.â
âHave you considered that perhaps itâs because you are, in fact, a little bitch?â you ask brightly.Â
âI know that, doesnât mean I wanna hear it every time she wants food.â
âYou should get her one of those dispensers where she hits the button and it gives her food.â
Bucky grumbles, adjusting so you can be more comfortable, âItâs her Christmas present.â
âYouâre a big olâ softie,â you say approvingly, patting his thigh. âSpeaking of Christmas presents, what did you get me?âÂ
âDidnât get you shit.â
âExcuse me.â
âDonât need to ask me for permission, âs a free country.â
You push up from his lap, glaring at him. âDid you get anyone presents?â
âI got Steve socks.â
âWhat about Sam?â
âSocks.â
âNat?â
âSoââ
âIf you say socks, Iâm gonna kill you.â
Bucky shrugs. âSuit yourself.â
âDid you get me socks too?â
âNo, they didnât deliver in time. You'll get them next month.â
âBucky.â
âWhat?â
âYou sound like the fucking Grinch.â
âWhatever.â
âYou sound like Scrooge. Youâre gonna have a 200 year old Bucky Barnes show up tonight and make you change all your ways and then youâll be nice to me,â you say, laying your head back down on his lap.Â
âIâm always nice to you,â he scoffs. Which is true. He even made sure the fucking temperature was to your liking, even though everyone had complained about it.Â
âLiar. Anyway, that reminds me of what I came here to talk about. Itâs so convenient that your personality is a natural segue into Scrooge. I think that says a lot about you.â
He stares at you. You grin at him.Â
He rolls his eyes, glare dropping in favour of a small smile instead.Â
âI found a Reddit post about how to summon the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future,â you say, pulling it up on your phone. âAll you need is 2 red candles, and some blood and stuff.â
âFeel like youâve skipped over a lot there.â
âNah, itâs cool. Iâm gonna get red candles delivered for the Tower anyway, and Iâm sure the chalk from the seance we did a few months ago will be enough.â Â
âWhile youâre at it, you can get yourself socks too and Iâll pretend itâs from me.â
âStop.â
âIâll put a note on it, if it helps.â
âIt does not, I hate you.â
âGuess Iâll cancel the socks then.â
âIâll kill you, Barnes.â
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. Â
Bucky sits at the counter, waiting for you to get on with your scheme.Â
Thereâs 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.
âDid you know,â you said, striking a match, âthat if you perform a Yule invocation on the night of a waxing moonââ
He only chooses to listen, chewing absentmindedly.Â
ââand speak the ancient lines passed down by account owners on Redditââ The flame on the candle lights up your face. ââyou can summon the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future.â
He thinks you look nice in the candlelight. His head tilts lightly as you light the other one. Â
âYou mean like the story?â
âNo, like the tax auditors. Yes, like the story.â
He slides a cookie over to you, which you accept. âItâs two nights before Christmas. I should be resting.â
âYouâve been resting all day.â
âI shoveled a driveway this morning.â
âFor five minutes.â
You place the candle in a chipped ramekin you stole from the kitchen. The second one wobbles slightly before finding its balance. Â
âYou know,â he said eventually, âfor someone who claims to hate rules, you love rituals.â
âCompletely different.â
âUh-huh,â he says, taking another bite before asking casually, âHowâs this month been for you?â
You look at him with an eyebrow raised. âIs this a performance review?â
He shrugs. âChristmas tends to be a lot. Family this, family that. First year here was incredibly claustrophobic.â
You draw a little diagram on the counter with a sketch pen. Heâd have to wipe that off later.
âItâs been alright,â you say after a while. âThis is probably the first time Iâve been a part of something like this.â
âYou can fuck off somewhere quiet.â He offers you another cookie from the plate, watching as you take this one as well. âNo one would say anything.â
âSamâs got me learning some choreography with Cass and AJ, so Iâm pretty sure heâd mind.â
âNo one cares what Sam thinks.â
âIâve seen the way you look at him, you canât fool me.â
Bucky narrows his eyes at you. The corner of your lip pulls in a smile.
âBesidesâ maybe all this âfamily this, family thatâ will help me get what you meant by silent blenders.â
He stops chewing momentarily, trying to place what youâre talking about. It sounded familiar, just on the tip of his tongue but he couldnât place it.
âClock tower,â you remind him.
Oh.
God, that was so long ago.
So many things have changed since then. Looking back, he thinks heâd have done things a lot differently.
You handing your phone over to him snaps him out of his quick flashback.
âWhat?â
âThis is a two-person ritual,â you tell him. âI need you to read it so that they come haunt you too.â
Buckyâs 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.Â
âThis is too much effort.â
âUm.â
âItâs the middle of night, I donât want to learn Latin.â
âYouâre such a pain,â you whine. âFine, just repeat after me then.â
âWhat if I say it wrong?â
âWell, then youâll probably summon something else, Buck. You looking forward to that? You wanna make a new friend?âÂ
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.
 âRepeat after me. This is the oath,â you announce. âI do.â
âI do,â Bucky says dryly.
You nod your head. âWeâre married now.â
 His lips stretch into a thin line, casting a wry look at you.Â
âIâll get you there some day, baby.â You grin. âAlright anyway. âSi spiritus circumvaganturââ
He says it, not sounding even remotely interested.Â
âMonstra nobis praeteritum, praesens et futurum.â
âMonstra nobisâ how long is this thing,â he interrupts.Â
You send him a pointed look. He says the stupid line.
âUt quod fractum est reparare possimus.â
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.
âSana quod vulneratum est. Muta consilium Parcarum,â you read, glancing over at him.Â
He says it, but his words get more faint, shoulders tensing.
âMelior homo esto ante lucem,â you finish.
You look at him expectantly.
âGood night,â he says instead, chair scraping against the floor as he pushes away from the counter.Â
âDid you just quit on me at the last second?â
âGot bored.âÂ
âI cannot believeââ
âIt was too long. Get a shorter spell next time.â
âI canât believe you made me summon ghosts alone.â
He raises his hand in mock salute. âHope your visit goes well.â
âI hope you get visited by the Ghost of Being Lame.â
âMaybe heâll bring socks.â
You stand up, blowing out the candles as look at him. âYou're lucky youâre cute.â
His face suddenly feels hot, which is stupid, because the candles were already extinguished.Â
Nothing happens.
You declared it was because you were literally perfect and there was nothing to change ever, so they didnât even bother making the trip to see you.
Buckyâs sort of glad he doesnât have to see his sister on her favourite holiday.Â
The next morning, the Tower was already loud before a reasonable time.Â
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.Â
Bucky noticeably avoids walking under any of the mistletoe, which only made it more fun.
âAre you allergic?â you ask innocently, trailing behind him into the kitchen.
âTo you, yeah,â he muttered, swerving clear of opening the fridge like it might save him.
You lean on the counter. âWhat would be the worst thing that happened? Someone kisses you?â
âSomeone sees it happening,â 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.Â
Youâd never seen him leave a room faster.
Afternoon is spent at a volunteer event downtown.Â
Distribution tables, hot meals, paper hats. A photographer from some local paper follows Sam around for three hours.Â
Bucky stands beside you and quietly refills the cider table without being asked.
âYou know, just because you havenât mentioned the thing you said on the ship, doesnât mean I forgot it,â you pipe up.
Bucky pauses, grip tightening on the ladle. âI was seasick.â
âYeah. Which is why I think you were telling the truth.â
âWasnât thinking straight.â
âIâm not gonna push you, Buck,â you tell him. âIâm just sayinâ that if thereâs something you want to talk about, you can.â
He stays silent, instead focusing on whether every glass was filled the right amount.Â
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.Â
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.Â
By the time the sun dipped behind the Tower, dinner was long done and half the team had changed into progressively worse pajamas.Â
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 youâd 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 âa thing now.â
âThatâs a mushroom,â Wanda said flatly.
âIt has a face.â
âThey all do.â
âItâs smiling at me.â
âSmile back.â
On the other couch, Sam had Alpine on his lap. She was tolerating it with visible judgment.
You werenât really talking. Not in full conversations. Just that easy holiday haze of noise and small jokes and unfinished thoughts.
âWho keeps changing the thermostat?â Steve asked without looking up. âThe hallwayâs freezing.â
You didnât say anything, biting back a smile at Bucky very pointedly staring straight ahead.Â
You bump your knee into his.
He bumps it back.
Itâs too late when everyone disbands.Â
By the time the lights switch off, Buckyâs too drowsy to drop you to your floor the way he usually does, instead groggily making his way back to his room.Â
You told Nat youâd be there in a while, that youâd set up your presents and then come upstairs.Â
You canât sleep.
Thereâs a restlessness in your limbs, like somethingâs 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 youâre going, itâs not like it matters. Â
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.
Itâs faint, but there.
And though youâd had variations of it over the last few daysâsomething about it is so familiar, it slows your stops.Â
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 sameâquiet, 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.
Sheâs already there.
At the far end of the hallway.Â
Sheâs 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. Â
Youâre not sure if your body moves first or your voice.
âMrs Mullens?âÂ
She smiles, and it feels like the world has opened up to swallow you.Â
You canât remember the last time you saw her. Youâre not sure you even remembered what she looked like.Â
Youâve 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 donât take a step towards her, you still find that sheâs closer. Like you have no choice but to meet her midway.Â
âItâs been a while,â she says, voice airy. It reminds you of wind chimes.Â
Your voice cracks, just slightly. âYou look exactly the same.â
âWell,â she says, tilting her head, âyou slouch more now, so it evens out.â
The laugh that escapes you is soft, unsteady.
âWalk with me,â she says.Â
You find yourself nodding before it even registers.Â
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.
âHow long has it been?â she asks.
You shrug, but your eyes sting. âToo long.â
She nods once, small smile teasing on her lips. âIâm glad youâre here now.â
âI meant to come back,â you say, quieter. âI really did. I told myself I would.â
âI know,â she says.
You fidget with the hem of your sleeve. âWorking at the cafe was the first time I didnât feel likeâ you know.â
âI know that too.â
You stare at her. âI shouldnât have taken off like that suddenly. It was a shitty thing to do.â
âYou were scared,â she says gently.Â
âI shouldâve said goodbye.â
âYou werenât ready to.â
âShouldâve tried.â
Her voice stays level. âYou stayed longer than I thought you would.â
You glance at her.
She smiles again, soft. âAnd I hoped youâd stay longer still. But I also knew what it looked like when someone was running.â
Your throat closes.
âI was going to give you a raise,â she continues, just conversational. âIâd already had the envelope.â
You blink hard.
âI think I hoped,â she adds, âthat if I gave you enough reason to stay, you would.â
âI know,â you say, without meaning to. The words just slip out. âIâm sorry. Everything felt like it was closing in on me.â
Sheâs quiet for a moment.
You look away, not knowing what to do about the guilt grabbing hold of your ribs.Â
âWhy are you here?â you ask after a while.Â
She shrugs, lightly. âI wanted to see how youâre doing.â
âSame old.â Your shoulders rise in half a shrug. âDonât think Iâve ever had a biscotti as good as the one you used to make. Used to steal them right out of the display case.âÂ
She chuckles. âI knew. Whyâd you think we never ran out? I started making extra.â
You grin, despite yourself.Â
Youâre not quite sure youâre awake. Everything feels hazy and unclear.
Like itâs 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.Â
âIâm sorry. I didnât know how to say thank you,â you say. âI should have stayed.â
âYou can still do that,â she tells you gently.Â
Your eyebrows furrow.
And when you look at her to respondâÂ
You come up empty.Â
Just gone.
But the air still smells like cinnamon.
You blink hard a few times, looking behind you.Â
The silence fores you to keep moving down the hall.Â
The elevator ride up seems unusually short, but you cant say for certain that you were focusing on anything but what happened.Â
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 donât want it to.Â
You take a turn to your room, walking past picture frames and more mistletoesâ until you come to an immediate halt.
Thereâs a bench you donât remember being there before.
Someoneâs sitting on it.
You stop, hand at the ready at your sides.Â
The person on the bench slowly turns to look at you.Â
It damn near knocks the breath out of you.Â
They look like you.Â
Well, itâs not exactly youâ thereâs a lot more lines andâŠfatigue.Â
Enough to unsettle. Not enough to feel like a mirror.
âWhat the hell,â you whisper.
Other You raises an eyebrow in amusement. âGonna take a seat?â
You donât give an answer immediately.Â
âWell?â
You cautiously slip onto the bench, watching from the corner of your eyes.
âWell at least weâre still hot,â you mumble.
Other You has a thin smile, nodding along. âOne of the constants of life.â
You give a sidelong glance. âYouâre from the future, Iâm guessing.â
They lean forward a little, elbows on knees. You match it.
âYou here to warn me?â you ask.Â
âNot exactly. Lifeâs fine.â
You furrow your brow. âThen why are you here?âÂ
Other You shrugs. âWhat, we canât have a conversation? This should be the most interesting talk in the world.â
âDo we ever win the lottery?â
âNo, but we waste a lot of money buying tickets.â
âWhat stocks should I invest in?â
âChicken. Bouillon.â
âDo Bucky and I everââ
You donât even finish your sentence before Other Youâs head is shaking with half-smile.Â
âSeriously?â you ask. âNot even once?â
âNope.â
You honestly asked as a joke but the answer has you feeling more dejected than youâd anticipated. Which was wild. Because what the fuck.
âWe leave soon, I suppose,â you pose.
âA week after Christmas. Another roadtrip someplace, but this time, you donât come back to the tower with him.â
âWell thatâs fucking bleak.â You blow out an exhale. âWe ever stop anywhere?â
âCouple months. Year, maybe.â
You chew the inside of your cheek. âWhat does life look like now?â
Other You scratches a spot on their jaw. âYou meet a lot of new people. Mediocre coffee. See new places. Thirty two new jobs.â
You nod slowly. âSounds prettyââ
âLonely. Yeah.âÂ
You exhale. âI donât want to be tied down.â
âNor did I.â
Another silence.
You look at Other You, a little sharp, but their face is calm, unbothered.
Other You stretches out their legs, ankles crossing. âItâs not a tragedy, you know. The way we turned out. Weâre not a cautionary tale or anything.â
You look away. âDo you want people?â
âYeah,â they say simply. âI have them. For a while, anyway. Life isnât bad. I donât answer to anyone. I can go wherever I like. Itâs fun.âÂ
You sit with that. âWould you do it again?â
âI donât know anything else.â
You fidget with the edge of your sleeve. âI donât know if I do either.â
âYeah.â
You glance at them.
âBut youâre asking. Thatâs more than I ever did.â Other You stands then, stretching a little. âAny other questions?â
You look up. âThatâs it?â
âThatâs enough,â Other You says. âIf youâve got no more questions, Iâm gonna head out.â
âCan you tell me what the lottery numbers are?â
âWhat makes you think we remember random fucking lottery numbers?â
Your face cracks into a smile.Â
The lights above you flicker, demanding your attention for split second.Â
When you look back down, youâre on your feet.Â
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.Â
The kitchen is dark except for the light over the stove.
You donât turn anything else on. Just walk in, barefoot, letting the tile cool the heat in your skin. Â
Natâs perched on the counter, feet tucked under her, arms crossed. Her hoodieâs too big and her hairâs still damp, like she just got out of the shower and couldnât be bothered to dry it.Â
There's a jar of olives open next to her. She picks one out and eats it.
âCouldnât sleep?â she asks.
You shake your head. âNot really. You wouldnât believe the night I had.â
She nods once, popping another olive into her mouth.Â
You open the fridge and stare into it like it's going to offer you something new. It doesnât.Â
You grab the first thing that makes sense. Half a juice box.Â
Nat watches you for a second. âYouâre the only one who drinks those.â
âThatâs not true.â
âNo one else touches the purple ones. You keep pretending someone else is buying them but Iâve seen the receipts.â
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.
âWhy are you up?â you ask. âWhatâs bugging you?â
âYou remember that guy we met on the roof last month?â she asks. âThe one who said he knew me from the Red Room but kept calling me Nadia?â
âYeah.â
âI still donât know if I knew him.â
You lean against the counter, crossing your arms. âThatâs whatâs keeping you up?â
âNot really. But Iâm thinking about it.â Nat picks another olive out of the jar, inspects it, then eats it. âSteve was trying to wrap presents earlier. Took him two hours. Heâs probably used all the tape in the country..â
You smile, just a little.
âHe put your name on one of them,â she adds, chewing on another olive.
 âYou spy on everyoneâs gifts?â
âI notice things.â
You pull a chair out and sit. It creaks a little.Â
âYou didnât have to stay up,â you say.
âI agree.â She slides the olive jar closer to you.
You still donât take one.
âDo you think Iâm strange?â you ask, not really sure where it came from.
Nat doesnât blink. âYeah.â
You laugh, soft.
âNot in a bad way,â she continues. âJustâ specific.â
You chew that over.
Nat kicks her heel lightly against the counter.
Thereâs a crack in one of the tiles. You wonder how long itâs been there. Â
âYou used to be on the run too, right?â you ask her finally. âBut youâve been here for a while. Whyâd you stay?â
âHelps if the government isnât trying to hunt you down.â She shrugs. âBesides, I figured if you ever stopped long enough to look behind you, someone should still be here.â
You donât reply.
Nat screws the lid shut on the jar. âThis place suits you.â
The haziness thatâs been following you around all evening suddenly swells around you, reminding you of its presence.Â
Hesitantly, you call after her, âAre you real?â
She shrugs again. âIâm always real when it counts.â
The radio hums from nowhere. The lights flicker once more.
And youâre back in the hallway in the common room downstairs.
The living room is silent. The lights from the city glimmer.Â
You stand quietly in the centre of it all.Â
Bucky wakes up to Alpine pawing at his ribs.
Itâs too bright out.Â
He rolls onto his side. She chirps. Climbs over his shoulder and plants herself by the window like sheâs keeping watch.
He gets dressed. Stretches. Rubs at the back of his neck until the worst of the stiffness fades.Â
Alpine judges.
Downstairs is warm, loud, and already a mess. Wrapping paper underfoot. Someoneâs spilled cocoa.
He takes a lap, slipping in and out as unannounced as he can.Â
Doesnât see you.
Youâre probably just late.
He sits on the couch. Â
He gets up again.
Checks the kitchen.
Your mugâs still in the sink from last night.
He opens the fridge like it might contain a clue. It doesnât..
He pulls out his phone.
No texts.
He scrolls. Finds your name.Â
Types âWhere are you?â
Deletes it.
Tries again.
âYou skipping Christmas?â
Deletes that too.
He settles on âYou good?â
Sends it. Doesnât wait for the read receipt.
Wanders down the hall. Checks the gym. Empty.Â
He walks back to the common room. Natâs lounging on the arm of the couch, chewing on a candy cane.
He sits beside Steve, whoâs halfway through a puzzle that no one asked for.
âYou alright?â Steve asks.
âYeah.â
The word comes out before he even thinks about it.
He takes a sip of coffee. Itâs too strong. Someone messed with the settings again.
The snow keeps falling.
Youâre not here.
Heâs not worried.
Heâs just⊠watching the door.
In case.
Just on time, it swings open loudly.
The chatter in the room dies down until everyoneâs looking at who just barged in.
âOh shitâ was that too loud? Sorry,â Peterâs words trip over themselves. âI thought I was lateâ the bus didnât come. I didnât want toââ
âHey, kid,â Sam calls. âYouâre right on time. Come on in.â
Peter grins wide, bounding into the room with two giant bags.Â
âMay sent pie. Dâyou guys wanna eat someâ actually, itâs pretty early. I can just leave in the kitchen for later,â he rambles, pausing when he catches sight of Bucky stretched out on the couch. âOh hey, Mr. Barnes. I wanted to talk to you about something when you have the timeââ
âPresents first, conversation later,â Clint announces. âIâve been waiting since the crack fuck of dawn.â
âYou woke up ten minutes ago.â
âIâve been waiting since the crack fuck of ten minutes ago.â
Bucky settles in, eventually.
Takes the mug Steve hands him, warm and too sweet, and the plate of cut apples.
Youâre still not here.
The living roomâs already littered with opened boxes, half-crumpled wrapping paper, that one roll of tape Clint lost and blamed on everyone else.Â
Buckyâs 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.Â
âFancy,â Sam says, flipping it over. âTrying to buy my forgiveness?â
âJust stop threatening to sue me.â
He gives Wanda a little wind up music box, with some tune he remembers her humming months ago.Â
Peter gets everything ranging from Legos, to a promised trip to the NASA headquarters, to gummy bears.Â
Natâs gets a knife. Obviously. Custom handle. Something he shaped himself. She doesnât 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 heâd found the limited edition signed copy of a Gid Tanner CD in Buckyâs room already by mistake.Â
Clint gets socks that donât fit him.Â
Thereâs one more box left in the corner. Wrapped more neatly.
He doesnât touch it.
Steve reaches under the tree and pulls out a package marked with Buckyâs name. The paper is pink. The tag has hearts drawn in glitter pen.
âWhat the hell is this,â Bucky mutters.
A tie.
With each Avengerâs face on it, stitched badly in red and green thread. Alpineâs head is on one.Â
He stares at it for a full ten seconds.
Then folds it carefully and tucks it back into the box.
âThatâs what you get for not telling us what you wanted.â
But they do get him plenty of things. Itâs enough to last him a year and more.Â
Noise canceling headphones, a subscription to National Geographic, more tools for woodworking and a new set of gloves.Â
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 Buckyâs lap like a throne. He doesnât argue. She wonât 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.Â
Your name was mentioned twice, but only in passing.Â
Itâs getting late now.
He lets his hand rest on the box still tucked behind the tree. Doesnât unwrap it. Doesnât 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.
Youâd 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. Â
Bucky looks around now, trying to decide if youâve taken anything.
Thereâs nothing obvious. But then again, he wouldnât be able to tell if you did.
He looks at the clock.
Still time.
Karaoke has entered the equation.
Steve is halfway through âBlue Christmasâ. Clintâs howling along in a key that doesnât exist in music theory. Itâs 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. Â
He gets up finally, under the guise of grabbing something sweet.Â
Half the tableâs been picked over, but thereâs a bowl of wrapped caramels shoved into one of the stockings over the fireplace.Â
He leans down, reaches inâ
And hears the door open.
He doesnât turn around.
âTook your time.â
Your voice follows, breezy and a little wind-chapped, âYouâd think Iâd never left.â
Youâre still in your coat. A box under one arm, big bag in the other. Youâve clearly been outside a while.
âPresents are in the bag,â you tell them, âHelp yourselves.â
Clintâs already shoving a mic at you, demanding a duet.Â
âIn a minute. Iâve got a thing to do.â
They elect to finish off the monstrosity that was Blue Christmas.Â
You sway into the living room where he is, ruffling Peterâs hair on the way.
âHey,â you say, smiling at him, small and familiar. âSorry Iâm late. I got caught up with something.â
âWhat was it?âÂ
âI 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,â you inform him with a sigh. âTurns out they moved years ago.â
âWhyâd you look for it?â
âI wasnât really thinking,â you admit. âGot stuck in the holiday rush on the way back. Sorry for not answering your texts. I was driving pretty much the whole day.â
He stares at you.
He knows youâre impulsive, but something about this felt like it wasâŠoff.Â
It was too short, you looked too distracted.Â
You werenât telling him the whole story, for whatever reason it was, but it was enough to make you drop everything and go look for something youâd left behind in the past.Â
âGot you something,â you add, pulling out the box from under your arm.
You hold out the box.
He doesnât take it right away.
Instead, he says, âYou almost missed karaoke.â
You step further in. âHow would I have lived?â
You stop in front of him. Still holding the box. Youâre a little out of breath, like you came straight here without thinking.
âIâm fine, by the way,â you say.
âI know,â 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 whatâs 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,Â
You reach toward the tree, like youâve known exactly where your giftâs been this whole time. You grab it, navy wrapping, a little crooked at the edges, and hold it up.
Itâs heavier than you were expecting, which makes you raise your eyebrows.
You look at him. âFrom you?â
âYeah.â
âIf itâs socks Iâm gonna jump out the window.â
âIâve left it open.â
âThanks,â you snort. âGo on, then.âÂ
He peels back the paper carefully and opens up the lid.Â
Thereâs 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.Â
Some are just jokes. Others are things you actually thought heâd like.
He stares at them.
âFuck coffee. Weâre gonna figure out what drink you really want,â you say, grinning. âYou can play beverage roulette.â
He picks one up.Â
âLemon hazelnut cinnamon tea,â he reads, before looking up at you. âThis sounds terrible.â
âYouâre gonna try it anyway.â
He shakes his head, trying not to smile.
âOkay,â you say, âSecond oneâs a little different.â
Bucky reaches into the box to find a flat, thin package wrapped in dark red.Â
He runs his finger under the tape and pulls out a frame.
He freezes.
Inside are two yellowed tickets. Old. Worn at the edges.Â
Not quite the originals he remembers. But close.
âI tried to find the real ones,â you say. âTheyâre not in circulation anymore. But these were the same ride. Same year. Closest I could get.â
The Miniature RailwayDreamland â Coney IslandAdmit one â 10c
Bucky doesnât say anything.
You watch him a beat too long. âI thought maybe⊠youâd want a piece of that day.â
His fingers are still resting on the glass.
After a long second, he says roughly, âYou remembered.â
âWell, yeah. How could I forget Becca Barnes dragging you five times onto a tiny train?â
He looks at you with something flickering behind his eyes. For once, you canât tell what heâs thinking.
He sets the frame down gently.Â
âThanks,â he says softly.
You beam at him.Â
He leans over to push the box he got you towards you.Â
Unlike him, you tear off the paper.
Heâd have rolled his eyes with a smile if he wasnât about toâ well, he doesnât know. He canât name a single thing running through his head right now. Al he knows is that his chest feels like itâs going to explode.
You find a flimsy cardboard box inside, which you also essentially yank off, but significantly gentler this time.Â
It takes a while to register what it is.Â
Inside is a miniature house.
Not a dollhouse â not quite.Â
Itâs rough-hewn, handcrafted, clearly made in a workshop, not a factory.Â
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.Â
You lift up the box wordlessly to have a closer look, when you notice everything is glued down, including the rest of the team. Â
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.Â
You turn it over in your hand slowly. âAre theseâŠ?â
âThe team.â
âTheyâre glued down. Mine isnât.â
âFigured you wouldnât want to be.â Bucky clears his throat.â Point is, theyâre always there. Even when you arenât.â
Your fingers tighten slightly on the box. âYou built this?â
âTried to.â
You swallow hard. âI love it.â
Buckyâs 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.
âYou asked me what it feels like,â he murmurs. âTo have people like that.â
You glance up. He doesnât meet your eyes, just watches the house.
âWhen 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.â
His voice stays even. Distant, almost.Â
âThrew up all over the breakfast table. Everyone was there. Sam. Steve. Nat.â
You stare.
âThey didnât 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.â
You feel your throat go tight.
âThey make fun of me constantly,â he says. âFor everything. The way I eat, the way I breathe. But theyâll clean up the table. Replace the blender.â
You look at him now. Really look.
âSo when I think of what it feels likeâ thatâs the closest Iâve ever come to naming it.â
âSilent blenders,â you say, voice quiet.
He nods once. Eyes still on the little house.
You donât 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, heâs already looking at you.
The noise of the team still going strong in the background.
âCome on,â you say softly. âWe got some karaoke to do.â
He exhales out a laugh in the form of a small breath, accepting your hand as you tug him to his feet.Â
âDid you sing?â
âI donât sing.â
âNonsense, I know you got a set of pipes in you. Michael Bubleâs gonna bring it right out.â
Heâs about to respond when something rustles overhead.Â
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.Â
You look back at Bucky. âThat was completely coincidental.â
He raises an eyebrow.Â
Heâs not smiling. But his mouth is doing that thing it does when heâs fighting one.
âThis is ridiculous,â he mutters.Â
You stare at each other.
Neither of you moves.
âYou gonna do anything about it, or just keep calling it names,â you challenge with a dumb smile on your face.
Bucky exhales through his nose. Looks like he might say something else.Â
Instead, he just steps closer.
The smile you have on falters.Â
Honestly, itâs not like you were expecting him to do anything about your stupid flirting becauseâ wellâ he hadnât done anything in months.Â
But heâs looking at you with something unreadable on his face and you can smell the remnants of the day on him.
âWhat?â he asks, voice low, taking a dangerous step closer. âNo comment now?â
Your mouth opens and closes.Â
God, he may look like he wants to commit homicide, but nutmeg smells real good on him.
âWell,â 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.Â
Heâs close enough that you can tell that heâs controlling his breath.Â
âItâs tradition,â Bucky murmurs, like you need any sort of justification whatsoever.Â
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 sweaterâ
âHey! Good, great, youâre both here. Finally.â
Both of you jump apart like youâve been caught doing something scandalous.Â
âPeter,â you say, blinking repeatedly as you attempt to catch your breath. âWhatâs wrong?â
The kid skids to a stop. âOkay, so Iâve been trying to ask this for like, months, and nobodyâs been answering me, and I figured since Iâm technically an Avenger and itâs Christmas, I can justâwait, are you guys mad at me?â
Bucky stares at him, dry as all hell as he asks, âWhy would we be mad at you?â
You flick at him, telling him to behave.
Peter frowns. âI donât know. I thought maybe you were ignoring me on purpose? Because Iâve tagged you both, like⊠a lot.â
You tilt your head. âTagged us where?â
âOn Twitter.â
Thereâs a moment where you all stare at each other like youâre speaking in an alien language.Â
âIâve been tweeting at you since you started this series,â Peter continues, eyes darting between the both of you. âYou even read one of my tweets in your videos. I thought you knew.â
Buckyâs head turns slowly toward you. Youâre already staring at Peter like heâs sprouted a second head.
âWhat are you talking about?â you ask slowly.
âWell, itâs my alt. I didnât want people from my school to see that I was tweeting at you guys.â He scratches the base of his neck. âSk8rboy02?â
âWait,â you say, jaw dropping. âYouâre sk8rboy02?â
âYeah,â Peter drags in confusion. âI thought you knew?â
âYouâre the one who kept replying to the giveaway post with âI deserve this because my cousin died in a haunted Chuck E. Cheeseâ?â Â
Peter nods, completely sincere. âAnd also âif you give me the EMF reader iâll use it responsibly (lie)'.â
âYou entered the contest seventeen times,â you say slowly.Â
Peter brightens. âSo you did see me!â
âOf course we saw you. You called that guy from the Daily Bugle a balding fuck.â
âOh yeah, heâs my boss. He sucks.â Peter waves off. âWait, so you just⊠didnât realize it was me?â
âNo?â you ask incredulously.Â
âI said I knew someone in the Avengers in like four different tweets!â
âEveryone thinks they know someone in the Avengers,â Bucky mutters.Â
âOkay, yeah, fair.â
You shut your eyes. âSo let me get this straight. Youâve been tweeting at us all year. Youâve been defending us online. You ratioed random reporters.â
âYeah.â
âAnd you didnât think to just⊠say it to our faces?â
âI honestly thought you guys knew.â
âNo,â you and Bucky both say at once.
Peter shrugs and flips open a small, folded notebook from his hoodie pocket. âOkay, cool. Well, now that weâve cleared that up, Iâve got some questions Iâve been collecting on behalf of the internet.â
âNo,â Bucky says again.
âJust a few!â Peter insists. âTheyâre 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? Orâthis oneâs from meâhave you ever faked a haunting just to win a bet?â
Silence hangs in the air.Â
âOr not,â he says, closing his notebook. âIâll justâ head out.â
You glance over at Bucky.Â
He rolls his eyes.
âOne question,â you say, turning back to the kid. âHoliday spirit.â
Peter practically vibrates. âOkay. Okay. This is a good one. Whatâs the most haunted place in the Avengers Tower?â
âLaundry chute on the south side,â you say. Â
Peter scribbles something into his notebook like itâs the gospel truth.
âThanks, guys.â He beams at you. âIâll see you out there.â
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 Peterâs 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.
âAgain?â he says. Tired. But not really.
âSecond time today,â you reply, hands stuffed in your hoodie. âThird if you count the one in the elevator.â
âWhich I donât.â
You turn slightly to face him.Â
âYou know,â you start, tone carefully casual, âfor 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.â
He doesnât answer right away. Just glances at you sharply, like heâs assessing something.Â
âIâm just not trying to do something halfway,â he says finally, tone even.
You open your mouth. Close it.Â
âOkay.â
You step closer.
Just enough that your hands brushes his. That shared warmth again. Static in the space between.
You lean, slow.Â
Your lips press gently to the corner of his mouth.Â
Barely there, more cheek than kiss, but close enough to make him inhale through his nose like he didnât mean to.
When you pull back, you say nothing.
He blinks once.
âYou missed.â
âOh, did I?â
âLittle to the left next time,â he mutters.
âMaybe,â you say, already turning to leave. âNext Christmas.â
Bucky exhales, shutting his eyes for a second before he follows right behind you.
hereâs my ko-fi if youâd 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! itâs the only way tumblr will let me have a taglist and i donât post there at all except for fics </3
sometimes I revisit the hellsite when a hyperfixation reappears and no surprises here, itâs Thunderbolts*. So naturally, Iâve come here to beg for help because Iâm 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 đ§Ą
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. Heâs 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 wouldnât notice if I dropped dead."
"Iâd 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. "ĐŃ ĐČŃŃ Đ”ŃŃ ĐżŃĐŸĐŽĐŸĐ»Đ¶Đ°Đ”ŃĐ” ŃĐČĐŸĐž ŃĐ°ĐœŃŃ ĐŽŃŃĐł ĐČĐŸĐșŃŃĐł ĐŽŃŃга?"
Are you still dancing around each other?
"ĐŻ ĐœĐ” ŃĐ°ĐœŃŃŃ," 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.
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.
"Whyâs 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. âGet off my feet.â
âNo.â He doesn't even hesitate, before firing back at Yelena, flat as ever. "ĐĐœĐ” ĐœĐ” ĐœŃĐ¶ĐœŃ ŃĐŸĐČĐ”ŃŃ. ĐŻ ŃĐżŃаĐČĐ»ŃŃŃŃ."
"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.
"ĐĐ°ĐŒĐŸĐ»ŃĐž," you snap.
Shut up.
hereâs my ko-fi if youâd like to support my writing!
also if you want u to know when i post fics, please follow @shurisneakersupdates and turn on post notifications! itâs the only way tumblr will let me have a taglist and i donât post there at all except for fics </3
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
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 itâs Bob. And Bob asks with that quiet, hopeful tone thatâs 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. âI forgot how quiet it was when you weren't around.â
âAnd you hated it.â
âI cleaned the kitchen twice.â
âThatâs grief, Bucky.â
He glances at you, expression unreadable. âYou think youâre funny.â
âI think Iâm observant.â
The corner of his mouth twitches, but doesn't quite lift.
Bucky hands you a sheet of paper. âYouâre the maid. You found the body.â
âNo. 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."
âRead it again. Commit.â
âNo.â 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.â Bucky asks, squinting at your latest addition. "Whatâs this circle?
"I drew a basketball. He looks like he's playing."
Heâs about to argue, but something stops him. Maybe itâs 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 doesnât 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.
âWhy are you so close?â he mutters.
You donât move. âI canât read upside down.â
He reads the same line three times in a row. Canât 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 donât quite make sense. A missing cook. A driver who doesnât 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. Theyâre 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."
âThere 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. "Letâs 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 wasnât 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. Heâs 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 itâs with a softness youâve 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 isnât supposed to want this.
"One more question, Bob," you say, spinning around. "Where was the driver from?"
âOh, Ricci? Naples. Italian.â
"I fucking knew it."
hereâs my ko-fi if youâd like to support my writing!
âi canât seem to understand youâ 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 hasnât 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.
Youâre standing in the hallway, barefoot, holding a bat high up.
Yelena raises a tentative hand. âUh-- hello?â
âDonât.â
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.
âA door would not stop him anyway,â Alexei added, sounding entirely too cheerful. âBut we will protect you. Not well. But we will try.â
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. âYou gonna say something, or are you just here to breathe loud and feel sorry for yourself?â
He blinks. âHi?â
âTry again.â
He sighs. âIt wasnât supposed to go like this.â
"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. âI just needed somewhere safe.â
âAnd Iâm what? A checkpoint?â
âNo,â he says, too quickly, before adding in something more quieter, âYouâre the first place I thought of.â
You sigh, folding your arms. âAre 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.
âYou should be grateful I didnât swing it.â
âItâs got good balance,â he admitted.
He looks different up close. Same face, same eyes but worn thinner. Like he hadnât 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."
âWhat the hell is a situationship?â he muttered, directing it toward you now. âActually scratch that. I donât care. Whatever it is, thatâs not what we are.â
You raised an eyebrow, arms still folded. âNo?â
"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."
âYou donât have to feed us.â
"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. Whenâs 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.
âHey,â he says, and itâs almost too soft. âIâm sorry.â
You donât move.
âI mean it. Iâll make it up to you.â
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--"
âI missed you,â he said, not quite looking at you. âI wish I could say Iâll get everything right from now on. I just⊠Iâm trying. I swear Iâm trying.â
You swallow. Slowly.
âAnd it didnât 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 didnât. And it got worse.â
âYou donât get to drop that on me if you're gonna fuck off again.â
âI wonât.â
You stared at him for a long moment.
Then you tilt your head. âYou know you owe me, like, three dinners.â
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.
âYou really were ready to clock me, huh?â
âI was aiming for Walker, but yeah. You were next.â
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."
"Didnât think you had co-workers anymore. As of, you know. This morning."
âYeah, well,â he shrugs, ânew job. No salary. No benefits at all, really.â
"You're gonna buy me dinner like this?"
"I'll figure it out."
You snort despite yourself. âYou're gonna get someone killed.â
He shrugs again. âProbably me.â
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.
âI think about you,â 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 heâs about to pull away.
You catch them before he does.
âYou disappear again like that,â you say, âI swing the bat next time.â
He smiles, head tilted. âSure thing.â
hereâs my ko-fi if youâd like to support my writing!
Summary: Bucky doesnât 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 internetâs 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)
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
Thereâs a book open on his lap but heâs not touched a single page. Youâve got a few books strewn across in different distances from youâ physics, psychology, cooking.Â
Heâs 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 hasnât moved in the last two hours. The other digs its heel into your thigh every time he shifts.
Youâve got a clipboard balanced on top of his shins and a pen in your mouth.
Youâre 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.Â
But the library is warm. And you snuck a flask of something warm past the librarian, and wouldnât tell him what exactly he was drinking but told him to trust you, and he did.Â
âWhat the hell are you doing?â
âNothing.â
âYou have a clipboard.â
âItâs for science.â
âYouâre making that face.â
âI have one face.â
âYou have at least three,â he mutters, eyes drooping. âAnd the one youâre making is never good news.â
âIâm not,â you say, offended. âIâm just cataloguing your responses in different haunted locations.â
Bucky stares. âYouâre unbelievable.â
âAnd thorough.â You tap the page. âOkay. Quick question. Rank these: ghost orphanage, blood motel, mirror forest, murder mansion, possessed gas station.â
He sighs and leans his head back against the books. âToo much effort.â
âCâmon. Based on vibes, then.â
âVibes? I almost got murdered at the gas station.â
âSo thatâs a ten?â
âI didnât say that.â
âSilent agreement. Got it.â
He shifts his foot just enough to knock the clipboard sideways. You catch it easily.
âYouâre avoiding,â you sing.
âIâm surviving,â he replies, eyes closed.
You poke his leg with your pen. âIâm just trying to map it out, Buck. Thereâs a pattern, I know it.â
He cracks an eye open. âAnd what happens once you figure it out?â
You shrug. âThen I stop dragging you into the ones that hurt. Or I keep doing it, but I bring snacks.â
His smile is slight, but his foot settles again.
You take that as a go-ahead.
âOkay,â you say, chewing the end of your pen. âWould you say your discomfort in haunted locations is more visual, auditory, or tied toââ
Bucky lifts his phone and mutes the song. The chimes disappear into silence.
You blink. â...Was that dramatic or are you helping?â
âHelping,â he says flatly. âYou canât do a field study with a soundtrack.â
You grin down at him. âGod, youâre such a good test subject.â
âDonât make it weird.â
âToo late.â 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.
âShouldnât have let you bring me here.â
âI literally just said hi and you asked where we were going.âÂ
âShut up,â he mutters.Â
And then you return to your clipboard, tongue caught in your cheek, already mid-question again as his eyes flutter shut.
You donât 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.
Heâs still got his eyes closed, head resting back against an old copy of Emma, mouth relaxed in a way it rarely is when heâs awake.
Youâre about to poke him again with the pen when you remember something.
âOh,â you say, like itâs nothing. âBy the way. Our next case is a haunted cruise ship.â
He doesnât open his eyes. Just lets out a low, long groan.
âThat shit makes me seasick.â
You smile, soft. âOkay. Then Iâll find something else.â
He shifts slightly, still not looking at you.
âNah,â he mumbles. âItâs fine. Weâll go.â
âYou sure?â
âMhm.â
He shifts again, lazily, until heâs 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.
âI just want to set the tone,â you say, stepping lightly onto the rusted gangway with arms wide and a dramatic spin. âFor the record, even though you and her are the same age at the end of the movie, I am the Rose in this situation.âÂ
Bucky, standing behind you with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, responds. âYou mean doomed?â
âI mean devastatingly hot.â
He takes a cautious step onto the gangway. It groans. Loudly.
âThis thingâs gonna collapse and then Iâm going to be the one floating on driftwood,â he says.Â
You glance back over your shoulder, grinning. âYouâd let me drown?â
âIâd let you have your monologue first.â
âWow.â
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.Â
The dock beneath you is warped and uneven, and the whole structure leans as if the water itself is trying to reclaim it.
âThis is going to be a very romantic evening. I can feel it,â you tell him. âItâs giving summer romance on the waves.â
âItâs giving tetanus,â Bucky mutters, eyeing the railing. âDid you get a tetanus shot this year?â
âWhatâs a little tetanus in the grand scheme of things?â
âDo you ever process the things youâre saying or do you just freestyle it?â
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.
Itâs not ice cold, but it feels like it should be. No light enters in through the dusty windows.Â
Bucky walks slowly beside you, metal arm brushing against yours as you move deeper into the central hall.
âThis place is barely thirty miles from the city,â he says, scanning the space. âYouâd think someone wouldâve turned it into an Airbnb by now.â
âThey tried three different times. One crew abandoned the job overnight. The other two refused to stay past sundown. Last contractor quit two hours in.â
He makes a noise in consideration.Â
âAnyway,â you say, pausing beneath a crumbling art deco archway. âHereâs what weâre working with.Â
"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.
âLook,â you say, âif I go missing on this shit, just tell people I vanished. Donât ruin the mystery.â
âNoted,â he says dryly.Â
You grin.Â
The hallway smells like wet velvet.
You push open the next door and step into a long, narrow hallway.
âOh, by the way, weâre staying overnight.â
Thereâs a pause. A long one.
âSorry?â
âOn the ship,â you say lightly, scrolling again. âSpending the night. Full investigation, sunrise exit, et cetera.â
Bucky stops walking. âThat was not in the briefing.â
âWhat do you think is in the duffel bag youâre carrying?â
âChange of clothes because weâre on water.â
âYouâre planning on swimming?â
âConsidering Iâm with you, I wouldnât rule out anything.âÂ
You grin. âThe shipâs tethered, youâre not getting thrown overboard.â
 âRight, âcause nothing abnormal ever happens around you.â
âWeâve talked about this. Racing heart, nervousness are signs that youâre in love with me, not paranormal activity.â
âIâm not in love with you.â
âDenial looks so hot on you babe.â
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 whatâs 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. Theyâre china. Real. Cracked at the edges but still arranged in neat piles.
âI got us sandwiches. Wanna eat it on that?â
âYouâd be eating more dustmites than bread.âÂ
"Oh, word. Protein."
Buckyâs flashlight points toward a faded sign above the wall paneling. It reads: Midnight Banquet. Closed Event. Strictly Guests Only.
âWell, I feel deeply unwelcome,â he mutters.
You step closer to the table and pull back a chair. Itâs heavy. Cold.
âThey say the night she vanished, Odette was hosting one of her private parties. Whole thing was invite-only, super-exclusive. Her âfarewell to the sea.ââ
He rests a hand on the back of one of the chairs. It creaks beneath the pressure, but doesnât move.
âTalk to the spirits,â you tell him. âTheyâre supposed to be real hospitable âcause itâs all waitstaff for the ultra-wealthy.âÂ
âIâm not talking to the air.â
âJust say âhiâ, Itâs common courtesy.â
He gives you a weathered look. You nod seriously.
He sighs, shifting the duffel bag to his other shoulder.
âHello, demons,â he tests slowly, awkwardly. âItâs⊠James.â
âWho the fuck has ever called you James in your life? You immediately interject.Â
âThat is my name.â
âNo one has ever called you James,â you scoff. âHello spirits? His name is Bucky Barnes, also known as Bucky Barnes. And he is single and ready to be haunted.â
Bucky rolls his eyes so hard he might just see his brain, but the second he turns to retort with a glare, he falters.Â
Golden, flickering, warm.
The room smells like citrus oil and perfume. Itâs bright. Thereâs a glow to everything. Not artificial. Sunlight. Morning sunlight, thick and amber and alive.
You donât know where itâs coming from.
Thereâs a polished table in the middle, partially set. Delicate china cups. A half-eaten grapefruit. Silverware placed with elegance. A folded napkin resting over someoneâs chair, like they stepped away mid-brunch.
He looks at you, covered in the same rays youâve dragged him to the roof too many times just before sunrise to see. It makes him swallow the thickness in his throat at how⊠radiantâ
âI think weâre at brunch,â you whisper, snapping him out of it.Â
There are coats slung over the back of chairs. Gloves. A handbag, its clasp slightly open. Someoneâs reading glasses resting on a closed book.
Bucky doesnât answer. Heâs scanning the room like heâs expecting someone to laugh, to enter, to scold them for intruding.
It feels like somewhere nearby, someoneâs telling a joke. Someoneâs fixing their lipstick. Someone is about to ask you how long youâre staying and whether youâre from the city.
You walk further in. The carpet is soft under your boots. Â
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 womanâs voice, low and amused. Not words. Just the tone.
You turn slowly, goosebumps crawling up your arms.
Thereâs no one there.
But it feels like there is.
Buckyâs still watching the room like itâs going to move on its own.
You donât answer.
Thereâs 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.Â
Back to dust. Rot.
âDid you seeââ
âYep.âÂ
You glance around.Â
The pale green walls half peeled and browned. Wet splotches on the ceiling.Â
Thereâs 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 itâs you.
But not exactly.
Standing too near. Soft expressions that donât match the faces you think you wear. A version of you that belongs here. A version of Bucky that isnât carrying everything in his shoulders.Â
Like youâre mid-conversation. Like this is familiar.
You glance at him.
Heâs staring at the mirror with an unreadable expression.
ââŠThatâs not real,â he says after a long pause.
âNo shit.â
âI donât stand like that.â
âI donât smile like that.â
The version of you in the mirror glances up. At him.
The reflection of Bucky gives you that smile. You recognise itâ itâs the one he only ever uses when he thinks no oneâs looking. Sometimes it makes an appearance when you say something exceptionally stupid.Â
Your stomach does something unhelpful.
âOkay,â you say too loudly, stepping back. âWell, thatâs cursed.â
âSome fucking gas leak has us hallucinating here,â he adds, voice rough. âWeâre leaving before we pass out.â
He slinks away, clearing his throat and blinking harshly a few times. What the fuck.Â
âGot another hundred rooms and a whole nightâ well fuck,â you stop midway.Â
âWhat?â he asks, trying to reconcile with what he just saw.Â
âI donât know how long weâve been in this fucking room but itâs close to midnight,â you murmur. âCrazy.â
Thatâs one way of putting it.Â
âWell, that was fun. Iâm 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,â you say, unfazed.
Bucky thinks that the world may not be all heâs been believing all these years.Â
You walk out of the room, leaving Bucky to follow.Â
He turns to the mirror again.
Itâs cracked.
Just once, straight down the middle.
âCâmon, weâve gotta go check out the captainâs quarters,â you call.
âComing,â he grunts out, exhaling slightly.Â
He turns again, just out of instinct, one last timeâÂ
Sheâs 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.
âLeave.â
He takes half a step back. Blinks.
Sheâs gone.
Your voice sounds distant, asking something, but he doesnât register what.
He turns. Doesnât speak. Just walks out.
You walk in silence for a while.
Your boots creak against the warped floor. Buckyâs steps are quieter. Measured.
You glance sideways at him.
Heâs got that look again. The one where heâs processing, but pretending heâs 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. âYou saw it. The mirror. Us.â
âDid I?
He starts walking again.
âYouâre being weird about this,â you say, catching up.
âIâm being normal about this,â he mutters. Â
You roll your eyes. âYouâre deflecting. Thatâs fine. Thatâs your thing. But I know when something rattles you.â
He snorts. âI wasnât rattled.â
You study his face. The way his mouth is set, the way his jaw ticks every few seconds like heâs 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.
âWhat are you doing.â
âSomethingâs wrong, Bucky.â
âSomethingâs always wrong.â
You pull a pen from behind your ear like itâs a sword. âYouâre being weird. This isnât just normal you-weird, this is that weird.â
He sighs.
âAlright. Paranormal scale. One to ten. Emotional impact, ten being a full snot-crying on my shoulder.â
He groans. âPut that away.â
âYouâre pale.â
âThatâs just my face.â
âYou look seasick.â
âI am seasick.â
âFrom a ship that hasnât moved since 1900s?â
He closes his eyes. âI shouldâve left you in the mirror.â
âYou wouldnât. I was fake-laughing at your jokes.â
He snorts. Looks away. That one almost got him.
You make a show of writing something down. âSo. Youâre not talking. Youâre not denying it either. Conclusion?â
âIâm tired.â
You study him for a few more moments. Bucky doesnât 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.
âWhereâs the quarters,â he asks.Â
âStraight ahead,â you oblige.Â
The lanternâs been off for fifteen minutes.
Technically, itâs lights-out.
Realistically, youâre 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. âAre you writing again?â
âNo,â you say, scribbling something else. âIâm documenting.â
He exhales through his nose. âSame thing.â
âIâm keeping a record in case weâre murdered in the night. I think thatâs responsible.â
âYou wrote âsmells like seaweedâ earlier.â
âIt did smell like seaweed.â
He turns his head. âWhat does it smell like now?â
You pause. âUnresolved tension.â
âGo to sleep.â
âI will. Iâm just waiting.â
He groans. âFor what?â
You tap your pen. âTo see if any of the staff shows up. Captain usually goes on rounds at night.â
âThereâs no ghost captain.â
âThere might be. He probably wears epaulettes and appears only to emotionally complicated people.â
âMy bad, tell him I say hi when you meet.â
You toss a balled-up gum wrapper in his direction. It hits his shoulder.
You glance at him. Heâs lying perfectly still, like if he commits hard enough, heâll vanish.
You turn back to your clipboard. âI think if I die, theyâll probably promote me. Make me first mate.â
âYouâd be thrown overboard in five minutes.â
âIâd haunt the galley. Spill soup on your ghost boots.â
âGhost boots.â
âGhost boots.â
âYou still havenât told me where you got that fucking candle from.â
âStole it from brunch.â You glance at the small tealight flickering next to your knee. âItâs ambiance.â
âYouâre going to burn the ship down.â
âItâs in a dish.â
âYou put it in a cup.â
âIt fits perfectly.â
Thereâs a long pause.
âYouâre insane.â
You smile to yourself. âYou love it.â
âI tolerate it.â
âYou love it.â
Bucky doesnât answer.
He just rolls over, pulling the sleeping bag tighter. âWake me up if anyone on the staffâs hot.â
You grin, still scribbling. âIâll put that in the notes.â
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.
âGodââ he mutters, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. âYouâve got to be kidding me.â
The ship rocks again, harder this time.
He grabs the edge of his sleeping bag like itâll help. It doesnât.
He closes his eyes, counts to five, and opens them again.
And thatâs when he realizes.
The sleeping bag next to his is empty.
No candle. No clipboard.
No you.
âJesus fucking Christ. You have to be kidding me.â
He tries to sit up and instantly regrets that too.
Something slips down from his forehead and lodges on his nose.Â
He pulls it off and stares at it.
A sticky note.
Youâve written in your neatest cursive:
âGone to investigate.
If I die, avenge me.
If I live, take me bowling.â
Underneath, in all caps:
âDO NOT THROW UP IN THE CORNER. THATâS MY SIDE.â
He stares at it.
Then lets his head fall back against the floor with a quiet, miserable thunk.
Another lurch. The ship groans like itâs 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.Â
The ship sways harder this time like itâs trying to shrug him off.
He swears under his breath.
He rounds a corner, stomach lurching again, and stops in the doorway of the captainâs room.
Youâre there.
Grinning like a lunatic, wind in your face that doesnât technically exist, spinning the massive shipâs wheel with both hands.
He shouts over the noise. âWhat the hell are you doing?â
You look over, delighted. âSteering!â
He blinks. âWeâre not moving.â
You point dramatically. âWe are listing to port, sir. Someone had to take control before this ship took us to fucking hell.â
The wheel creaks as you spin it again. You lean into it like it might actually do something.
âYouâre making it worse,â he groans, dragging himself fully into the room.Â
You glance at him. âYou look awful.â
âI feel worse.â
âYouâre green.â
âThe room is fucking spinning.â
âI know, Iâm trying to counterbalance it.â
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.
âOkay, you really donât look good.â
âI woke up alone. On a moving ship.â
âDid you throw up on my side?
âThere was a note taped to my face.â
âI told you not to throw up on my side.â
âStop talking about throwing up,â he groans.Â
âAlright, Buck,â you say brightly, âyour turn!â
He doesnât even lift his head. âAbsolutely not.â
You let go anyway.
The wheel creaks, spins half a turn on its own.
âWhy is it still moving?â he asks sharply.
Youâre already across the room. You step up onto the low ledge by the window and spread your arms slightly, windless but dramatic.
âIâm the king of the world,â you announce.
âGet down.â
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. âOkay, okay, fine. Keep steering. Iâll figure this out..â
âIâm not steering.â
âYou are steering. Youâre at the wheel. Thatâs what it means.â
âIâm touching the wheel. Thatâs not consent.â
âGhost captain would be disappointed in you.â
âGhost captain should drive his own damn ship.â
He grips the wheel with one hand. It shifts again beneath his fingers, slow and unsteady.
The windâs 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.
âOkay, okay,â you pant. âI think itâs pulling to the left. Hold on, Iâll try to level it outââ
âChrist alive, hurry up.â
âI am doing my best.â
The ship lists again. He makes a noise and grips the wheel tighter.
âI hate this place,â he mutters. âI hate ghosts. I hate ships. I hate being haunted.â
âI thought the brunch wasnât that badââ
âThatâs not what Iâm talking about. 'm talking about the dead people who've been after me for months.â He clenches his eyes shut to quell the nausea.Â
The ship groans under you like itâs stretching its spine.
âWhat?â
Fuck.
âWhat do you mean dead people have been after you for months?â
Heâs not looking at you. Both hands on the wheel, jaw clenched.
You stare.
He swallows. Doesnât repeat it. But the damage is done.
You step toward him, slow. âBucky.â
âCan you make this stop?â 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.Â
Your fingers dig into the palm.
Steady. Focused.
And the wind begins to slow.
Not like flipping a switch, but with a groan.Â
The ship stops rolling. The tilt evens.
It doesnât feel natural, not in the way ships normally respond to weight or wind, but itâs still.Â
You breathe hard. Keep your hands where they are.
Bucky is still staring at the wheel, like itâs safer than meeting your eyes.
âForget what I said, Iâm sick,â he says, voice rough.Â
You don't say anything when you look at him.Â
The ship groans beneath you but this time itâs heavier.
You step to the window again, squinting out into the dark.
He doesnât look up. Heâs leaned over a console like the only thing keeping him upright is his refusal to puke in front of you.
You clear your throat. âI think weâre not in the water anymore.â
âWhat?â
You open the hatch. Step out into the stale wind.
He drags himself after you, reluctant and mildly green.
Outside, thereâs 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.
âDid you lift the ship?â
âNot on purpose.â
âYou anchored us into the air.â
âI was trying to keep it from swaying.â
âYou took it off the ocean.â
You hold up both hands. âTo be fair, it worked. I can put itââ
âDo not put it back down.â
You blink.
He slides down the wall and sits, knees pulled up, head in his hands. âIf it starts moving again, I will jump off the side.â
You nod solemnly. âUnderstood, Captain.â
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.Â
âIf you bring that clipboard out, Iâll drown myself.â
âIâll circle back later.â
âAbsolutely not.â
You pat his knee. âLet me know when youâre ready to go back down.â
He just closes his eyes. âGive me fiveâ twenty minutes.â
You barely make it through the front doors before being ambushed.
Really, Maya appears like sheâs been summoned.
âJesus Christ,â she says, stepping into the hallway. âYouâre alive.â
You pause mid-step. âStatistically, weâre usually alive.â
Maya exhales like sheâs been holding it in for hours. Sheâs in flats, an oversized blazer, and carrying two phones, both vibrating.Â
She stops in front of you. Eyes bloodshot. Â
âI 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.â
You blink. âI figured I was in trouble again.â
âAnd so you thought avoiding it would make it go away?â
âI try that with everything, it never works,â Bucky mutters.Â
Maya closes her eyes. âYou two are going to be the death of me.â
âYouâve said that before.â
âYes. And every time I mean it more.â She opens her tablet. âAnyway, thatâs not what I wanted to talk to you about, which you'd know if you opened my mail.â
âSorry.â
She waves you off. âYour numbers are up. A lot.â
You raise an eyebrow. âHow much is a lot?â
She turns the screen. âThis is your traffic graph.â
You stare. âWhy does it look like a heart attack?â
âBecause 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.â
Bucky falters.Â
Maya continues, flipping to another screen. âAlso, the poll about the code name? That thing you launched without approval?â
You nod slowly. âPeople had opinions.â
âThey always have opinions. You know who else had opinions? Legal. Communications. Homeland Security, somehow.â She gestures broadly. âBut good news for you: it worked. Your metrics are through the roof. So, as per the contract you signedâ you only need enough videos to finish off the season. Then youâre out.â
You stare at her. Â
âWeâre out?â you repeat.Â
Maya nods. âDone. No more videos. Just a few interviews here and there, and some social media.â
You glance at Bucky.
Heâs still facing away, completely still. Like heâs buffering.
Maya softens a little. âHey. This is good. Right? You guysâ him especiallyâ wanted this. Youâre free.â
Still nothing from him.
You say, carefully, âYeah. Great.â
She studies you both. Her voice gentles. âSeriously. You did good. Iâm proud of you. Deeply, incredibly exhausted. But proud.â
Bucky finally turns. Looks like heâs trying to remember how language works.
âThanks,â he says flatly.
Maya tilts her head. âOkay. Thatâs about the emotional range I expected.â
You smile faintly. âYou should lie down.â
âOh, Iâm going to die standing up like a horse.â She steps back. âEat something, you guys look terrible. And sign off on the new Mayday merch. Weâre launching a footwear collection.â
âNo promises,â you reply.
âI know,â she mutters, and walks off down the hall, muttering to herself about analytics.Â
The silence returns.
You and Bucky stand there a while longer.
Finally, he says, without looking at you, âCâmon.â
Neither of you say what youâre thinking.
Bucky doesnât know whether the sick feeling in his stomach is still from the ship or not. Â
The elevator dings softly.
The doors slide open to your floor.
Youâre 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. âYou look like youâre about to collapse. You donât have to walkââ
Before you can finish the statement, he steps forward. Stubborn motherfucker.Â
Follows you down the hall.
âIâve made it to the room in one piece," you announce. "Now go sleep for a week.â
âI will.â
But he stays until you cross the threshold. Until the lights come on fully.Â
Until you turn and say, a little softer, âThanks.â
He nods just barely.
Then turns and disappears down the hall.
Bucky doesnât 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 doesnât 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. Â
Exhales long and heavy.
Thereâs a pause.
Then, from somewhere near his shoulder:
âYou should talk about your sister.â
His eyes snap open.
He doesnât 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.
âI havenât told anyone about her yet, if thatâs what you care about.â
Bucky stares, mouth open.
Alpine licks her paw. Casually.Â
âYou can fucking talk?!â
hereâs my ko-fi if youâd 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! itâs the only way tumblr will let me have a taglist and i donât post there at all except for fics </3
Hello, lovely Ari! I hope life is treating you like the queen you are đ 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
"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. Thatâs 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?"
"Youâll die."
"Big whoop."
You glance over. Heâs still standing. Barely.
"You bleeding out on purpose or just trying to make a point?"
He shrugs. Or tries to. Winces instead. âLittle from column A, little from column B.â
You shoot Bucky a sharp look.Â
He meets your gaze with a flash of indifference. Then, finally, that twitch of his mouth.
"Howâs 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 otherâs line of fire," Nat cuts in. "What was the plan? Now you're both useless."
"Iâm not useless," you grumble.
"That knife went through you like butter."
"Okay, Swiss cheese, letâs 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."Â
Silence.
You shift. "Bottle under the seat. Back left."
"Christ, you get me," he groans, leaning over.Â
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.
âYouâre heavy,â you mutter.
âGive it ten minutes. Iâll bleed out some weight.â
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.Â
He doesnât move. You donât push him off.
You sigh, resting your cheek against his head, letting the dull hum of the jet act as a lullaby
Summary: Bucky doesnât 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 internetâs 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)
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 doesnât do Halloween.
To be fair, Bucky doesnât do most organised festive celebrations.Â
But Halloween specifically, is not for him.Â
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. Â
He begins to feel the guilt twirling around his stomach when he finally makes his way to the event ground.Â
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 everyoneâs 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.Â
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.Â
The groans and bullying that follows when he pulls up half an hour late is warranted but he holds his ground.Â
Hands balled into fists, chest pushed out and sturdy, he takes his usual place next to you, bracing for impact.Â
âYouâre a bore,â you say without skipping a beat. âYouâre like fun-antidote. Where is your costume?â
âIâm wearing a costume,â he says simply. âIâm A Guy.â
âYour costume cannot be guy. I knew this shit would happen. I had a costume delivered to you one month ago, where is it?â
âIf you think Iâm dressing like that Dr Seuss piece of shit, youâre deranged.â Bucky casts a look at you.Â
He opened the package, saw the red stripes and closed it right back up.
âThereâs no way you showed up with nothing,â Nat scoffs.
âClint wore a full Pikachu onesie,â Wanda offers, joining the group with a powdered sugar moustache.
âThatâs because Clint has no shame.âÂ
âI heard that,â Clint calls from somewhere. God knows where.
âYou were supposed to,â Bucky fires back.Â
Nat raises an eyebrow. âCâmon Buck. Not even a little face paint?â
âDo I look like a man who owns face paint,â he says dryly, glaring when he suddenly notices a little detail. âWhyâs everyone looking at me? This oneâs not wearing a costume either.â
He juts a thumb towards you. You narrow your eyes.
âIâm literally wearing one right now,â you say, gesturing to yourself.Â
âYouâre wearing a black t-shirt and combat boots,â he argues. âThatâs clothes. Itâs not a costume.â
âItâs a good costume,â Sam pipes up. âI get it.âÂ
You beam at him. âThanks.â
Bucky glances at you, then at Sam, then back at you again.
Nat, leaning back against the table, exhales a short laugh. âReally nailed the details.â
âRight?â You glance down at your fit.Â
She nods. âVery accurate.â
Bucky stares for a few more seconds, coming up short. Â
Finally, he grumbles, âWhatever. Whereâs the video shoot?â
âYou guys are shooting a video here?â Wanda asks, tearing off a piece of funnel cake and popping it into her mouth.
âYeah, I thought itâd be fun to go through the corn maze. Local legends say itâs haunted by the spirit of teenagers who got lost in there years ago and never returned.â You shrug. âIâm gonna attach a GoPro onto Buckyâs head and set him free in there.â
âYou make me sound like a rat.â
âYouâre the handsomest rat Iâve ever seen, baby. If I were a piece of cheese, would you want me?â
âStop.â
âYouâre really just gonna go in there together, huh?â Sam pipes up casually.Â
Bucky looks at him weirdly, but Sam has the deeply self-satisfied smirk of a man about to be a menace.
You donât even hesitate. âYeah?â
âUh-huh. Corn mazes have a history, you know? Just saying. â
âA history,â you repeat.Â
Nat, ever helpful, leans forward, resting her chin in her hand. âClassic teenage makeout spot.â
Buckyâs eye twitches.
âI wouldnât know, I spent my teenage years blowing up buildings,â you reply.Â
Wanda hums. âThatâs what they all say.â
âLiterally who says this.â
âYouâre not missing out. Itâs cold and itchy and the whole place smells like hay,â Steve chimes in, doing his best to aid the situation.Â
Sam nods solemnly. âYeah, but next thing you know, youâre lost with no cell service, standing real close, saying shit like âoh no, my flashlight batteries died, guess we have to huddle for warmthâââ
Bucky groans. âItâs a fucking corn maze, not the catacombs. Thereâs no getting lost and huddling for warmth.â
Clint, appearing just in time to make this worse, tilts his head innocently. âOh, you guys doing the Loverâs Lane?â
Bucky gestures aggressively at the fair map. âIt says Field of Screams.â
âSure can be a field of screams if this night goes well,â you add unhelpfully.Â
Bucky turns to Steve, clearly expecting him to be the voice of reason.
Steve, unfortunately, is already hiding a smile behind his drink.
Buckyâs jaw clenches.
âAssholes,â he mutters.
Sam claps him on the shoulder. âHave fun in the murder corn.â
Somewhere in the distance, the haunted houseâs chainsaw gag goes off, followed by delighted screaming.
Bucky adjusts the camera strapped to his head like a minerâs torch. âI thought you were going as the tennis ball from that threesome movie.â
âCostume didnât deliver in time. So I found something better.â
âWhat are you supposed to be?âÂ
You ignore him, but thereâs an amused expression on your face. âI know you think that because youâve gotten to this point, youâve gotten away with not having a costume. Unfortunately for you, I have come prepared.â
Before he can react, you shove a piece of fabric into his hands.
He holds it up, balled into his fist. âIs thisââ
âThe cape from the laughing gas group, yes.â You nod.Â
âI thought I got rid of this thing, where the hell did you get it from?â He lets it unravel in all its unironed, crinkly wonder.Â
âI would never let you get rid of a piece of art like this. Now look, youâve got a solid costume.â
âI donât need a costume.â
âWell, now you have one. Put it on.â
âNo.â
âPut it on.â
âNo.â
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.Â
You adjust the camera on your head, tilting it toward him.
âWell, well, well,â you narrate,. âIf it isnât the dark lord himself.â
âI hope the ghosts take you first.â
âThatâs what I love about you, Buck. Always looking out for me.â
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.
âAlright, you ready?â you turn to him.
He sighs. âAlways.â
The night is alive.
The festivalâs 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. âThey paid twenty bucks to get chased through corn by a guy in a mask.â
âWe also have done that,â you remind him.Â
You walk for a while in no particular direction, just following the winding, trampled-down paths. Nothing creepy has happened yet.
âI had a place like this growing up,â Bucky mutters, stepping over a stray piece of corn husk.
You glance at him. âA haunted maze?â
âA fair. Smaller than this, but same kind of deal. Seasonal. My parents used to take us before it got too cold.â
You hum. âWhatâd they have?â
âThe usual,â Bucky says. âRides, caramel apples, bad magic acts. There was a fortune teller I was scared of when I was a kid.â
âYou were scared of a fortune teller?â
âShe was fuckinâ aggressive for a woman whose entire job was pretending to read palms. I didnât even want to do it. My parents paid âcause Becca begged, and then she got too scared to go near her. I got thrown in so it didnât up being a waste of a few bucks.â
âBecca betrayed you.â
âSold me out immediately.â
You laugh. Thereâs a faint smile on his face as he walks through the godforsaken corn.Â
âI had a fair once,â you say. âIt wasnât real. But they called it a festival.â
Bucky doesnât say anything.
âThere was a little town outside the facility,â you say, stepping over a raised tree root. âOnce a year, theyâd 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.â
âHYDRA did something similar.â
You snort. âYou guys ever do the winter carnival, or was that unique to usl?â
Bucky groans. âAlways fucking Winter Wonderland or Halloweentown.â
You laugh, kicking at a loose pile of hay. âI used to steal candy.â
Bucky raises an eyebrow. âWithout getting caught?â
âThey probably knew,â you admit. âBut they never stopped me. Maybe that was the test.â
Bucky hums, before saying gruffly. âMaybe it was just a win.â
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 youâd 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.
Itâs enough to snap you out of whatever the hell this is.Â
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.Â
âThis way,â you say, already stepping toward the left.
Bucky does not move. âThatâs the wrong way.â
âExcuse me?â
Bucky gestures down the right path. âThatâs the way out.â
You fold your arms. âHow do you know?â
âBecause I do.â
âThatâs not an answer.â
âItâs the only answer youâre getting.â
You tilt your head. âDid you fucking map out the way to the exit?â
âNo,â Bucky lies.
âThat defeats the whole point of a maze.âÂ
âItâs called situational awareness.â
âItâs called being a control freak,â you correct.
Bucky exhales sharply.Â
You gesture down the path you picked. âSo what happens if I go this way?â
âYou get lost.â
âOr.â
âNo.â
âOrââ
âIâm not going the wrong way.â
âFine. It appears that we have reached an impasse.â You pause, considering for a second. âI fear that our journey together ends here. Catch you on the flipside, partner.â
Bucky watches as you take a slow, exaggerated step backward down the left path.
âAre you seriously splitting us up?â he asks dryly.Â
âIt is not I who refuses to tread the path of integrity.âÂ
Bucky glares.
You take another step, arms crossed over your chest, combat boots pressed into the dirt.
Heâs about to give in and follow your stupidass plan, when it suddenly clicks for him. Honestly, once he gets it, heâs embarrassed at how long it took.Â
âIs your fuckinâ costume sâpposed to be me?â Buckyâs jaw drops open slightly.Â
A grin breaks across your face and itâs enough of an answer for him.
âYouâre fucking ridiculous.â He takes a long, hard look at your ridiculous outfit. âWhat is wrong with you?â
âI think I did great,â you say, pulling at the hem of your black t-shirt. âI even made sure the shade was right.â
âYou think youâre hilarious.â
âI do, yeah. Now letâs get a move on.â You clap your hands. âThis maze ainât gonna solve itself.â
âIâm not going anywhere with you dressed like that.â
âAfraid people are gonna think weâre the same person?â
Bucky crosses his arms over his chest. You do the same.
âStop.â
âIâm just existing, man.â
âYouâre making fun of me.â
âNow who said that?â You narrow your eyes. âIâm dressed like the hottest person I know besides myself, you should take it as a complimentâÂ
Bucky mumbles something under his breath, taking a step towards the path on the right.Â
âI see youâve made your choice. The wrong one, but I respect it.â You salute. âSee you on the other side, Barnes.â
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 isnât worried.
Because, first of all, itâs a corn maze.
Second of all, heâs already sure he knows the way out.Â
The first few minutes alone, he doesnât think about it much.
He walks, eyes scanning the paths, the layout, the movement of people up ahead.Â
Unfortunately with the way his brain is hardwired, It doesnât 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 âspooky,â but there are clear emergency lanterns posted at every exit route.
All things considered, itâs shockingly easy to navigate, so he wonders whatâs so haunted about it in the first place.Â
By the time he reaches the third scare actor, heâs already figured out that theyâre all positioned in the exact same intervals.
A few minutes later, the familiar mechanical rev of a chainsaw sounds through the corn again.Â
Bucky sighs, already exhausted.
The actor jumps out from the corn, mask on, chainsaw lifted dramatically.
Bucky stares.
The actor stares back.
Thereâs a long, painful pause.
Bucky slips past him and keeps walking.
_______Â
âHow much fuckinâ corn is there?â he mumbles by the time he hits the next split in the path.
He hasnât heard from you in a while, which doesnât 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.Â
Still nothing.
Itâs annoying, sure. But beyond that, something about it feels vaguely unsettling.
 The maze wasnât that far away from the fair.Â
It wasnât like heâd wandered into the woods.Â
He should have cell service.Â
He grumbles, putting his phone back into his pocket, continuing on.Â
_________
The paths arenât 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 heâs been walking for a while now.
No exits are showing up.
Which is annoying. Because heâs 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.Â
The maze stretches longer than it should.
EVen though heâd figured it out, Bucky doesnât immediately notice it.
Heâs too focused on just moving forward. Getting to the end.
But after another few turns, another five minutes of silence, it finally registers.
There hasnât 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 doesnât rustle the way it usually does.Â
It stands tall and eerily frozen.Â
Bucky tilts his head slightly and listens.
But the fairground is further away than it should be.
Thereâs still wind.
It's still chilly.
Like itâs been pushed back a little further with every turn heâs taken.
Which doesnât 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 doesnât 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 itâs wearing is barely holding together.
And its arms, long and stiff and thin, arenât stretched out the way scarecrows usually are, instead pressed tight against its sides.
Bucky stares at it.
A long, slow moment passes.
âWhat the fuckâs your deal?â he asks.Â
It does not answer. Obviously.Â
He stares for a few more seconds, raising his leg to step beside it and move onâ
Something touches him.
His entire body locks up for half a second, reflex screaming at him to step back, to turn, to fight.
Itâs 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 thereâs a giggle.
Soft, small sound that feels like itâs been yanked straight out of another life.Â
It takes a secodn to register that his pulse is hammering now.
Because itâs been months of this. Of coming to terms with the fact that he wasnât just imagining it.
Not from cold, clamping fear.
Something else.Â
The giggle sounds again, a few feet away this time.
Sheâd 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.Â
When it floats by again, itâs further away.Â
His feet move before his mind registers it.Â
Soft peals of laughter, the same when heâd let her draw all over his sketchbooks, when heâd douse her in water from the hose, when his dad would throw her under his arm and carry her around.Â
It doesnât 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 thatâs just in his head.
The laughter leads him around another corner, and the weight in his chest grows more desparate.
Because if sheâs there, he can tell her everything heâs been thinking of for months now.
That heâs sorry, that heâd do whatever it takes to get her to restâ
He opens his mouth to call out her nameâÂ
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.Â
âWoah,â it says, âthe hell are you running from?â
Bucky stops immediately, breathless.
It doesnât 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.Â
Itâs all gone.
And in its place, itâs you.
Youâre standing like youâve been waiting for him, mask lopsided, fake machete swinging lazily in one hand, like you just wandered in from a completely different reality.Â
Fuck. Heâd been sure. So sure.
But then itâs you, pulling the mask up till it rides up your forehead.Â
âLook who finally showed up,â you say brightly, grinning like you havenât been wandering the maze in abandoned slasher cosplay for god knows how long.
âIâve 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.â
He doesnât say anything, heart in his mouth.
He doesnât smile.
He probably doesnât even blink, head turning as he scans the area for any sign.
You cock your head at him. â...You good?â
âYeah,â he says too fast. âFine.â
She wasnât here.Â
You give him a look. One youâve used before.Â
He forces his hands to stay loose at his sides. Tries not to look like heâs still coming down from something. Tries not to think about the soft giggle heâd heard minutes ago, or how badly heâd wanted it to be real.
âYou been in here the whole time?â he asks finally.
You nod. âYeah. I got bored. The actors vanished a while ago. I found the mask and figured, why not.â You hold up the machete. âAlso this. Very high-quality prop. Very stabby.â
âI was gonna jump-scare someone, but no oneâs been around.â You pause. âExcept you, apparently.â
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.
âThought you said you were gonna levitate out.â
âI was!â You grin. âBut then you showed up. How was your night?Â
He doesnât answer right away.
Finally he just exhales for the first time in what seems like years.
âIt was fine.â
But the longer you look at him, the less sure you seem.
You study his face, squinting. âYou look like you saw something.â
âDidnât.â
You chew on that for a second, eyes still on him, before saying, âYouâve been weird, you know.â
Bucky tilts his head slightly.
âLike, not just tonight. After some of these shoots. Not all of them. Just⊠some.â
You go on anyway. âAt first I thought it was just your usual âwhy am I involved in this bullshitâ thing, but itâs not that. Not every time. Some of these places are different. You come back quiet.â
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.
âI havenât said anything,â you add. âBecause I figured if you didnât want to be here, youâd say something. But you havenât 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 donât have to keep doing this if itâs messing with you.â
You look back at him now. Direct. Steady.
Bucky doesnât 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. âGood to know.â
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.
âWell. I was headed for apple dunking before this turned into a weird spiral. You coming?â
He knows you notice it.
Still, you donât press. Just give him a small smile, search his face one last time before letting go.
âYeah,â he says, letting out a deep exhale when you turn away from him.
âGood. I need a witness when I inevitably fight a twelve-year-old over a Fuji.â
âI will not take your side,â he manages to get out, following behind closely.
âYeah, yeah,â you say, casting a look over your shoulder. âBut youâll reap the rewards when I win.â
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.Â
His heart, poor fucking thing, probably wonât be able to handle another episode of racing tonight.Â
âCome on,â you say, swinging it back and forth. âYou can buy me some cider.â
Bucky says something snappy, sighs a little and tightens his grip on your hand.Â
It takes a while before you finally see the fair.
You push a few stalks aside and sigh like youâve just crossed a battlefield.
The fairground lights bleed brighter through the corn, the ambient noise getting louder with each step.Â
Bucky's kept his grip on your hand, but slipped it into the pocket of his jacket because the night only gets colder.
âI canât believe I almost had to fly over this stupid maze just to find you,â you say. âWhat would you have done if I hadnât shown up?â
He shrugs. âWouldâve found a way out.â
âOh?â you say, eyebrows lifting. âWith what? Your ancient Boy Scout compass? Prayer? I was prepared to carry you out, you know.â
He snorts.
âLittle rescue mission. One arm around your waist.â
He stops walking. âNo.â
You blink innocently. âNo?â
âAbsolutely not.â
âWhy not? I can fly. Kind of.â
âI would rather die in the corn than be carried out like a wet cat.â
âYouâre being ridiculous. Hasnât Steve ever gotten a ride from Tony? I donât hear him complaining about sitting on his teammateâs back.â
âLike heâs on a fucking horse?â Bucky says, scandalized. âNo?â
âYouâre emotionally allergic to help.â
âI donât need help.â
âI know,â you say, turning to grin at him again. âBut Iâm gonna offer it anyway. Just to annoy you.â
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.
âAnyway,â you say casually, âIâm just saying, if I hadnât found you, youâd still be in there. Theyâd name the field after you eventually.â
He doesnât respond to that, but you catch him shaking his head.
You swing the machete against your leg like a toy. âWould the team have come looking for you if I hadnât?â
Bucky glances at you. âEventually.â
âEventually,â you repeat. âCool. So like⊠couple of days?â
He shrugs. âGive or take.â
You nod sagely. âOkay. So if it takes you a few days to get rescued, Iâm looking at what, two weeks? After someone trips over my skeleton by accident?â
He doesnât look at you when he says, âThatâs not how it works with us.â
You raise an eyebrow. âUs?â
He gestures vaguely. âThe team.â
You scoff. âI literally had an entire PR team trying to erase me from the internet not too long ago.â
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.
âDo you think it was a coincidence,â he says finally, âthat the week your article dropped, everyone just happened to go batshit insane?â
You blink at him. âWhat.â
âCâmon,â he says. âSteve 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.â
You frown slightly. âI thought that was just Avengers being Avengers.â
Bucky shrugs. âNobody told anyone to do anything. They just did it loudly so youâd know whose side they were on.â
You fall silent for a moment. âHuh.â
He doesnât push. You donât 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 festivalâs edge, half-lurking by the caramel apple stand and the booth selling âBlood Smoothiesâ, 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.Â
âGenerally when people disappear for a while, they show up with less clothes than before,â he calls.Â
You glance at your mask and machete and Bucky tugs off the stupid cape.Â
âJust in time for the main event. I was about to start placing bets.â
âOn what,â Bucky mutters, already tired of this conversation.
âWhether we were getting a call from you,â Sam replies, âor the morgue.â
She shakes her head lightly, not saying anything.Â
Youâre still smiling, focused on the conversation at hand, âHe got lost. I heroically rescued him. It was a very emotional journey.â
âI wasnât lost.â
Steve finally wanders over, coffee in hand, squinting at Bucky like he's trying to decipher something.
âYou good?â he asks, handing him a slice of pumpkin pie.
Bucky nods. âFine.â
Steve looks between the two of you. Then at the mask. Then at the machete. âYou two gonna go find other hauntings or are yâall done for the evening?â
âIâm going apple dunking,â you say brightly. âIâm about to ruin some middle schoolers.â
âEmotionally or physically?â Clint asks.
Buckyâs always liked the noise of fairs.
âWhicheverâs funnier.â You shrug, nudging Buckyâs shoulder. âIâm gonna destroy some third grader and dedicate the win to you.â
"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 thatâs what he does now.
Leans against a picnic table, a second slice of pie in his hands that he hasnât even looked at, while Steve stands beside him with a cup of something steaming and unremarkable.
Itâs easy, the quiet between them. Familiar.
Which is probably why Bucky says it out loud before he thinks about it too hard.
âDo you remember PBJ?â
Steve squints. âThe sandwich?â
Bucky exhales through his nose. âNo. The nickname.â
Steve takes a slow sip, then looks at him again.
âShe got very smug about it,â Bucky mutters.
âOh,â he says, softer now. âRight. What I called you and Becca."
"D'you remember why?" Bucky doesn't meet his eye.
"Wasn't it 'cause she couldnât spell your name properly when she was little? Wrote âJamâ everywhere. Used to drive you insane.â
Steve laughs. âOnly âcause you kept calling her âPeanutâ.â
Bucky nods, tight smile on his lips.
âIâd forgotten about that,â Steve says. âGod, Peanut Becca and Jam. You were so serious about it, too."
Bucky notes quietly, âShe wrote âPBJâ on everything. Lunchboxes. Schoolbooks. Hell, birthday cards.â
"I remember."
Steve elbows him gently. âWhyâd you ask?â
They stand there a while longer.
The lights flicker in the distance. Â
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 elseâ
âGentlemen!â
Youâre striding toward them with far too much confidence, holding a large, offensively purple stuffed bat in both hands like itâs a gift from a distant god.
âI bring tribute.â
You shove the bat into Buckyâs hands, grinning. âFor being so brave in the cornfield. And for looking like you were about five seconds away from emotionally unloading on pie.â
The batâs wings sparkle. Its eyes are mildly unhinged.
Bucky looks at it to you. âWhat is this.â
âA cherished new member of the team. And a gift to you.â
Steveâs 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. âThanks. Itâs horrifying.â
âI know,â you say, bright as anything. âTry not to fall in love with me over it.â
He has the sick, annoying, grating feeling that it's a warning that's come too late, probably.
But he doesnât say that.
Because you steal the rest of his pie.
And the ugly bat now rests on his bed.
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