reader who is a huge cuddle bug but is constantly shy to ask bucky if he wants to cuddle with her. and bucky who, every single time, just melts when she stumbles through asking him for cuddles.
You’ve been thinking about it for the past ten minutes.
Well, thinking about it, circling it, building it up into something much bigger than it actually is. Because it’s just cuddling. Just asking your boyfriend if he wants to hold you for a little while. That’s normal. People do that all the time.
But your brain doesn’t really care about “normal.”
Your fingers twist in the hem of your sleeve as you sit on the couch, angled just slightly toward him. Bucky’s sprawled beside you, long legs stretched out, one arm hooked over the back of the couch like he owns the space without even trying. There’s a quiet movie playing on the TV, something neither of you are really paying attention to. His attention keeps drifting back to you anyway—little glances, soft and curious.
You notice every single one of them.
You always do.
Your knee bumps his accidentally and your heart jumps like you’ve done something wrong. He doesn’t pull away, though. If anything, his leg shifts just a little closer, pressing more firmly against yours.
God.
You swallow.
“Buck?” you try, and immediately want to hide.
His head turns toward you instantly. “Yeah, doll?” His voice is soft, warm in that way that always makes your chest feel too tight.
You open your mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Because suddenly the words feel embarrassing. Too needy. Too much. What if he doesn’t want to? What if he’s comfortable like this and you mess it up? What if—
You shake your head quickly. “Nothing. Sorry.”
You turn your attention back to the TV like you didn’t just implode right next to him.
There’s a beat of silence.
Then, quieter, closer—“Hey.”
His hand finds your wrist. Not grabbing, not forcing. Just there. Thumb brushing gently over your pulse like he’s checking in.
“You sure?” he asks.
You nod too fast. “Mhm.”
Another pause.
His thumb keeps moving.
“Because,” he says slowly, like he’s choosing his words with care, “you’ve been fidgeting for the last ten minutes. And you keep lookin’ at me like you’ve got somethin’ to say.”
Your face burns.
“I—no, I haven’t.”
Bucky huffs out a quiet, amused breath; eyes twinkling in fondness.
“Doll.”
And that’s it. That one word, all warm and coaxing, and you crumble.
“I just—” you start, and your voice immediately gets smaller. “I was just wondering if, um—if you maybe wanted to—like, if you’re not busy or anything—”
His brows pull together, not in frustration, just confusion. “Not busy,” he repeats gently.
“Right, yeah, I know, I just mean—if you didn’t want to, that’s totally fine, I just—”
“Hey.” His hand slides up from your wrist to your arm, grounding. “Slow down. What’re you askin’ me, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart.
You might actually pass away.
You take a breath, staring determinedly at a spot on the couch instead of at him.
“Can we… cuddle?” you mumble, so quiet it barely counts as sound. “Just for a little bit. If that’s okay.”
Silence.
Oh God.
You knew it. You knew you shouldn’t have asked. You start to pull back, already preparing to laugh it off, to say you didn’t mean it, to pretend—
“Oh.”
It’s soft. Almost breathless.
You risk a glance up.
Bucky looks like you just handed him something precious.
His expression has completely melted. There’s no other word for it. The sharp lines of his face have gone soft, eyes wide and warm and a little bit awed, like he can’t believe you just asked him that.
“Yeah,” he says immediately. Then, a little stronger, like he needs to make sure you hear him properly, “Yeah, of course we can.”
Your shoulders loosen just a fraction. “Really?”
“Really?” he echoes, almost incredulous. “Doll, you never gotta ask like it’s a big favor.”
“I just didn’t wanna bother you,” you admit, voice small again.
That does something to him.
You see it, the way his jaw tightens just slightly.
“You could never bother me,” he says, quiet but firm.
Before you can overthink it again, he’s already moving.
His arm drops from the back of the couch, sliding around your shoulders, guiding you gently into him. Like he’s giving you every chance to change your mind, even though you never would.
You go easily, curling into his side.
And the second you settle against him, it’s like something in him gives.
He exhales, long and slow, like he’s been holding that breath all day. His arm tightens around you, pulling you closer until you’re practically draped over him. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, pressing you into his chest.
“There we go,” he murmurs, more to himself than anything.
You can hear his heartbeat. Feel it under your cheek—steady, strong.
Safe.
Your hand curls against his shirt, bunching the fabric lightly as you relax into him. The earlier nerves start to fade, replaced by something warm and soft that spreads through your chest.
“You okay?” he asks after a moment, voice low.
“Mhm,” you hum. “Sorry I made it weird.”
He lets out a quiet laugh, the sound vibrating through you.
“You didn’t make it weird,” he says. “You made my day.”
You tilt your head just enough to look up at him. “I did?”
“Yeah.” His thumb starts tracing slow, absent circles against your arm. “You askin’ for this? Means you want me close.” A small pause. “I like that.”
Your face heats again, but it’s softer this time. Less panic, more… something shy and happy.
“I always want you close,” you admit.
That completely ruins him.
You feel it in the way his hold on you tightens, not enough to hurt, just enough to keep you there. Like he’s not letting go anytime soon.
“Then c’mere whenever you want,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Don’t make yourself nervous over it, alright?”
You nod against his chest.
“Okay.”
His fingers drift through your hair, slow and careful, and the movie continues playing in the background, forgotten.
You stay tucked against him, warm and quiet, listening to his heartbeat.
Summary : Bucky feels guilty for missing three months of his baby’s life while on a mission.
Pairing : Husband!Bucky Barnes x Wife!reader (she/her), You have a baby named Jamie.
Warnings/tags : little bit of angst, Hurt/Comfort, domestic!Bucky, Baby Jamie, Tower fic! Lots and lots and lots of fluff!!!!
Word count : 5.4k
Note : This could be read as a sequel to Elevator, Baby! Or on its own as a one shot. Enjoy!
You stood at the base of the jet ramp, your heart in your throat and Jamie in your arms, bundled in a little blue jacket with bear ears on the hood. Bucky had been holding it together all morning—packing, checking gear, getting briefed—but the second he turned around and saw the two of you standing there, it all fell apart.
His eyebrows relaxed, lips parting just slightly as he took you in—your tired eyes, your little smile, the way Jamie was chewing on his tiny mitten.
“C'mere,” Bucky said, voice already threatening to break.
He pulled you both into his arms in one sweeping motion, pressing you against his chest, his metal hand cradling the back of Jamie’s head. He kissed your forehead, then Jamie’s cheek, then your lips, then Jamie’s nose—over and over, like he was trying to memorise the feeling.
This mission was unavoidable.
A Hydra remnant had resurfaced— and the team decided on a stealth op, one man in, one man out. No comms except for daily status checks. It had to be someone with experience, someone who knew Hydra, someone who could disappear without a trace and still come home.
It had to be Bucky.
But it killed him to go.
“I love you,” he whispered into your hair. “So much. You take care of Mama, alright?” he said quietly to Jamie, who blinked up at him with wide, curious eyes. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
You tried to smile, even as your eyes blurred. “We’ll be right here, Buck.”
Bucky kissed your lips again and lingered there, forehead to forehead afterward. “You’re my whole world,” he said quietly. Then he pulled back, crouched to Jamie’s level, and pressed a hundred tiny kisses to his son’s chubby cheeks.
“Love you, Jamie,” he cooed. “I’m so proud of you already,” he whispered, his voice cracking just a little. “Don’t grow up too fast while I’m gone, okay?”
Jamie laughed, squeezing his father’s vibranium fingers with his mittened hands.
Bucky kissed him one more time. Then you.
Then he stepped away— like if he turned around too quickly, he wouldn't want to go.
—
You and Bucky had a cosy little house in the suburbs just outside the city on a quiet street with a fenced-in backyard and a nursery Bucky had painted himself in. It was your dream place to raise Jamie. But when Bucky got called in for the mission, he insisted that you and the baby stay in the Watchtower while he was gone.
“It’s safer,” he had said with his hand on your back. “Security’s tighter. You’ll have people around if anything happens. Please, honey,” he had puzzled into your neck, placing gentle kisses there, “It’ll help me sleep at night.”
You couldn’t argue. With Yelena and John both on recovery, Bob always nearby, and even with Ava and Alexei in and out on missions, you wouldn’t be alone. There was always someone to lend a hand, and the reinforced security systems at the Tower made your alarm system look like a toy. So, for Bucky’s peace of mind—and maybe yours, too—you agreed.
But you were only supposed to be here for four weeks.
That’s what Bucky said—“Just a month, sweets. They won’t even know I was there.” He had smiled when he said it, trying to hide how hard it was to leave you. “It'll go so fast.”
It didn’t.
The days passed like honey, slow and sticky. Jamie was teething, waking every couple of hours with red cheeks and a heartbreaking whimper. Every time you soothed him back to sleep, you whispered stories about his daddy—how brave he was, how much he loved him, how every mission he ever went on was just so he could protect you both.
The New Avengers had your back. Bob made you meals, even when you weren’t hungry. John insisted on installing baby gates. Yelena would hold Jamie when your arms got tired. Alexei insisted he remembered how to swaddle (he didn’t), and Ava had access to the baby monitor— because realistically, if there was an emergency, she would get there the fastest by phasing through walls.
And every night, at exactly 2200 hours, the comms come to life with a single message from the field.
“Alive.”
That was all you got. Nothing more. You weren’t allowed to respond, couldn’t ask if he was warm, if he’d eaten, if he missed you—though you knew the answer.
Then, at the 30-day mark, a second message came.
“Need more time. One month.”
You had to sit down. Your heart beat so loud and quick it muffled the silence that followed.
John placed a hand on your shoulder. “You’re doing great,” he said. “And he’s gonna be okay.”
But you didn’t feel great, though.
—
Around week six, it happened.
You’d just finished changing Jamie into his footie pajamas—the yellow ones with little moons and stars—and were placing him on the playmat in the middle of the living room when he surprised you. He’d been trying for days, wobbling like a baby penguin with a mission, always toppling sideways or collapsing onto his belly with a frustrated huff.
But this time… he did it.
With a determined little grunt and a proud scrunch of his brow, Jamie pushed himself upright—his pudgy hands planted firmly on the mat, his legs bent in just the right way—and he sat…. unassisted.
You froze, blinking in disbelief for a full second before the joy hit you like a wave.
“You sat up on your own, Jamie!” you squealed, your voice high and overwhelmed with pride. You rushed forward, scooping him into your arms and covering his chubby cheeks with rapid-fire kisses. “You’re so clever!”
Jamie laughed a delighted giggle that made your heart explode—and you clapped for him like he’d just graduated from college. You kissed him again and again, whispering praises, brushing his hair back, watching how his eyes lit up from your joy.
But then you looked up— just for a second.
Your eyes flicked instinctively toward the doorway, half-expecting to see Bucky there leaning against the frame. You could practically picture it—the way he’d whisper "Atta boy..."
But the doorway was empty.
Oh, right. He wasn’t here.
Still, you held Jamie close to your chest, rocking him gently as his small hands gripped your shirt. “Daddy would’ve loved that,” you whispered into his hair, kissing the top of his head. “He would’ve clapped louder than me.”
—
It was around week seven when it happened— a quiet afternoon in the nursery, rain pattering against the Watchtower’s windows, and you were in the other room folding laundry while Yelena played with Jamie on the floor. You heard her voice, delighted. “Wait—wait, wait! bozhe moy—he’s doing it!”
You dropped the stack of baby onesies and rushed in just in time to see Jamie, your seven-month-old bundle of determination, wiggling forward on his hands and knees, his little face scrunched in focus as he crawled for the first time— straight toward his favourite stacking rings.
Yelena already had her phone out, camera rolling, grinning like a proud aunt. “Look at this strong little soldier,” she said, laughing. “He has places to be!”
You dropped to your knees beside them, your hand over your mouth as laughter and tears bubbled up all at once. “Oh my God. Oh my God, Jamie,” you whispered, scooping him into your arms as he squealed, triumphant. “You did it, baby. You did it!”
Later that night, after Jamie had drifted off in his crib, you sat in the Watchtower kitchen surrounded by avengers and half-drunk mugs. You played the video again (complete with Yelena’s commentary, Jamie’s babbling giggles, the sound of his tiny palms slapping the play mat) as everyone gathered around—Ava and Bob peering over your shoulder, John and Alexei leaning against the fridge.
“He did this today?” Ava said, visibly impressed.
You nodded. “He just… took off.”
“Bucky would lose his mind,” you whispered, more to yourself than anyone else. “He’s been waiting for this.” You wiped your eyes with the sleeve of your hoodie, glanced toward the nursery monitor on the table.
“He’s growing up so fast,” you said softly. “Too fast.”
And though no one said it aloud, you could feel it in the way Ava gently touched your shoulder, in the way Yelena squeezed your hand, in the way even John stayed silent for once— Bucky was missing moments he would never get back.
—
Around week eight, the daily message finally came through on the Tower comms, blinking with the same buzz it always did. You dropped what you were doing and hurried over, hoping that today would be the day he said he was on his way home.
But the screen displayed:
“Need more time.”
That was it.
No follow-up and no time estimate.
You stood there in the dimmed hallway light, heart sinking into your stomach. You pressed a hand to the monitor screen like it might somehow pass through, like it might reach him— like it might let him know how much you needed him now.
You hadn’t realised just how much hope you’d pinned on hearing something different today.
After you got Jamie down for the night, you sat in the rocking chair by the window in the nursery. You clutched one of his worn t-shirts to your chest—washed too many times but still faintly smelling like him—and glanced at the small framed photo on your nightstand.
It was a candid shot of Bucky holding Jamie the day after he was born. His metal hand was cradling Jamie’s head so delicately, his human hand around his little body.
You looked at it every night— and lately, you’d started talking to it.
“I swear, Buck, he’s got your attitude,” you murmured with a smile. “Fights nap time like he’s trying to break out of a prison transport. He’s teething now, too—two little teeth on the bottom. He bit my shoulder today and then laughed.”
You laughed to yourself, but it was tired. “And he crawled up two stairs today. Alexei nearly had a heart attack. I’m fine. Totally fine. Totally not freaking out.”
You rested your head against the back of the chair, tears burning your eyes as you looked over at the crib.
Jamie was sound asleep, arms spread, a tiny fist curled around the edge of his blanket. You got up and tiptoed over.
“Wanna say goodnight to Daddy, sweetheart?”
As part of your nightly routine, you’d started showing Jamie a few photos of Bucky—his favorite was the one of Bucky grinning with sunglasses on and Jamie strapped to his chest in a carrier.. You’d hold it up and say, “That’s your daddy. He loves you so much.”
Then you’d pull up the recording Bucky had made weeks before the mission of him reading Jamie’s favourite bedtime story— Goodnight Moon. It had been his idea, something he insisted on recording “just in case.”
As his voice filled the room—“Goodnight comb and goodnight brush…”—Jamie stirred, but only to sigh and snuggle deeper into the mattress, soothed by the sound of the man he hadn’t seen in more than three months.
—
By the time week twelve rolled around, the days had started to blur into each other. You weren’t sure if it was Tuesday or Saturday, or if you’d eaten lunch or just forgotten again. Your life was just Jamie’s routine and the single nightly message from Bucky.
“Alive.”
That was all he was allowed to say. It wasn’t much, but it was everything to you.
But then came the night the comms didn’t crackle at all.
You’d finished Jamie’s bedtime routine—bath, bottle, story—and sat in the control room with the monitor nearby, watching the clock tick past the usual transmission window. You waited one minute. Then ten. Then twenty.
Just as your chest began to tighten, Ava appeared in the doorway, still in half of her mission gear.
“Delay in transmission,” she reassured. “There’s been some disruption on the line. It doesn’t mean anything bad. Happens sometimes.”
You nodded, even though your stomach had already sunk halfway through the floor. “Thanks.”
But sleep didn’t come that night. You tried to lie down, tried to close your eyes, but your body was on high alert.
So instead, you padded barefoot to the nursery and lifted Jamie from his crib. He stirred in your arms, but didn’t fully wake— just tucked his head against your shoulder the way BUcky often did when you cuddled, tiny fingers curling into your sleeve like he knew you needed him as much as he needed you.
You curled up in the rocking chair with him, forehead pressed against the fuzz of his hair.
“Daddy’s okay,” you whispered, rocking slowly,“He’s coming home soon. Any day now, sweetheart. He promised.”
—
One night, while you rocked Jamie through the tail end of another teething fuss, the Tower’s main comm crackled to life.
You weren’t expecting much— maybe the usual “Alive”, maybe nothing at all. But then you saw it.
“On my way back. ETA: 2 hours.”
You stared at the words for a second, blinking once they sank in.
Oh.
Oh. Oh my God.
Your heart started racing, hands trembling around Jamie’s warm little body. You pressed a kiss to his hair, eyes filling with tears. “He’s coming home, baby,” you whispered to him.
Two hours later, almost to the minute, the Watchtower’s hangar doors hissed open with a mechanical sigh. The team had decided to give you privacy, so you were the only one there.
Still, your lungs had forgotten how to work the second you saw him.
Bucky.
He stood at the top of the ramp, his tactical gear scraped and worn, smeared with dust and bloodHis hair was tied back, a little longer than when he’d left. His face was gaunt with fatigue—like he’d lived a lifetime in the past three months—but none of that mattered.
Because his eyes were on you.
And then he ran.
You barely had time to react before he barreled into you, boots slamming against the floor, arms wrapping around you in a grip so tight it stole the breath from your lungs. His body collided with yours and you stumbled back a step, arms coming up around his shoulders like muscle memory.
“I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you—” he whispered into your neck, his voice cracking. His hands were everywhere—your waist, your back, your hair—frantic and tender.
You curled your fingers into the rough fabric of his jacket, fisting the front of it. He smelled like dirt and ash, but beneath it, he still smelled like home. You closed your eyes and breathed him in like oxygen.
“I made sure Jamie was napping,” you murmured, “Wanted to have you all to myself first.”
Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you. He cupped your face in both hands, gently brushing your cheekbones with his thumbs, as if you were something precious and fragile.
“You did?” he chuckled playfully.
You nodded, eyes wet.
“Sweetheart…” His breath hitched. “God, I missed you. So much.”
You pressed your lips to his in a kiss— and there was no rush, no frantic edge— just pure love, poured from the cracks in your heart into hisYou melted into him, every part of you screaming finally.
“I don’t care what Val says,” he whispered against your lips. “No more long missions. I don’t care if I have to clean the Tower bathrooms with a toothbrush— the longest I’ll ever go without you is a weekend. That’s it.”
You smiled through your tears, resting your forehead against his.
—
Later, once the team greeted him for a debrief and he got checked up in the medical bay, Bucky walked through the corridor to the nursery, your hand in his. You stopped just outside the door, letting him step in first.
The glow of the nightlight spilled across the room like moonlight, Jamie was fast asleep in his crib, one tiny hand curled near his cheek.
Bucky stood in the doorway.
For a long time, he didn’t speak. He just stared, glassy-eyed.
“He’s so big…” Bucky whispered, voice breaking. His metal hand tightened around yours just slightly. “I mean, I knew he would grow—but…”
“He did,” you said, wrapping your arms around his waist. “He grew up so much.”
Bucky leaned down, resting his chin atop your head, eyes never leaving his son.
You nodded, pressing your cheek against his jacket. “He looks more like you now.”
Bucky gave a soft, almost disbelieving laugh, still watching Jamie’s chest rise and fall. “I wanna hold him so bad,” Bucky said. “But I should shower. Get the dirt off me before I touch either of my babies.”
“He’ll be up in the morning. He’s become a morning person, like his dad,” you whispered, “But I don’t mind the dirt.”
Bucky finally turned, pulling you into his arms again, a bit more relaxed now. “Don’t you, now?” he chuckled, dropping a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw.
You grinned, fingers curling into his jacket as he leaned in closer.
“I missed this,” he said, lips brushing the shell of your ear now. “Missed you in our bed. Missed the sounds you make. Missed waking up with you. Missed touching you—loving you.”
Your breath caught as his hands traced your sides. “Bucky—” you whispered, heart racing.
“Let me love my girl,” he said, eyes burning into yours. “Let me come home to you properly.”
You nodded.
He took your hand in his, and with one last glance toward the crib before closing the door as he led you to your shared tower bedroom.
—
The hum of the baby monitor filled the bedroom — until it didn’t. You heard a faint rustle, the scrunch of fabric, and a sleepy little sigh followed by the unmistakable pat-pat of tiny hands against the crib mattress.
You stirred beneath the blanket, blinking awake. “He’s up,” you whispered, barely a breath.
But Bucky, excited to finally see his son, was already halfway across the room.
You sat up as he disappeared into the hallway as you followed behind watching him pause outside the nursery door.
He reached for the handle and then he opened the door.
The morning light spilled across the floor, filtering in through the curtains, and there—right where you'd left him—was Jamie. Blinking drowsily, legs kicking beneath, his cheeks still warm.
“Hey, buddy,” he said gently, crouching down beside the crib. His voice was rough, quiet—like reverence wrapped in gravel. “There’s my boy.”
Jamie blinked once before a high-pitched squeal erupted from his little body, his whole face scrunching into a gummy, delighted grin. He kicked hard, flailing his arms like he might fly right out of the crib.
Bucky let out a laugh that sounded half a choke, half a sob. “You remember me, huh?” he whispered, almost amazed.
He scooped Jamie up with both arms, holding him against his chest like he was made of spun sugar.
You leaned against the doorframe, a smile tugging at your lips. “Of course he did.”
Bucky pressed a kiss to Jamie’s hair and shut his eyes. “God, he’s heavier,” he said.
Jamie babbled something unintelligible, tugging at Bucky’s collar like he had a lot to catch up on and no words to say it.
The three of you curled up on the couch not long after—Jamie nestled in Bucky’s lap, clutching his bottle with sleepy fingers while Bucky held him close, murmuring nonsense. Jamie giggled, tugged gently at his hair, and babbled like they were resuming a conversation that had never ended.
You sat beside them, then you pulled out your phone.
“Here,” you said, shifting closer until your thigh brushed his. “You missed a few things. I saved everything.”
Bucky glanced at the screen as you pulled up the first video.
It was Jamie crawling. Wobbly and determined, launching himself forward from the rug to the couch as you cheered and Yelena laughed in the background.
Bucky’s breath caught. “Look at him go,” he whispered, brushing Jamie’s hair back. He kissed his son’s temple.
You smiled and swiped to the next.
This one was Jamie sitting up all by himself, beaming proudly, clearly so proud of himself.
Bucky’s smile was gentler this time.
Clip after clip, moment after moment—Jamie waving at Bob for the first time, babbling nonsense as Alexei tried to teach him the Russian word for “banana” — These were three months worth of milestones, one after another.
You were too busy watching the screen to see the way Bucky’s teeth clenched, the way his metal hand flexed against his thigh.
“And here,” you said, “this was last week. He figured out how to hold the bottle himself.”
You tapped the video: Jamie lying on a blanket, gripping his little bottle with both hands, gurgling contentedly between sips. It was three days ago.
“That’s… that’s great,” he whispered, barely audible.
You turned your head to look at him, resting your hand on his thigh. “You okay?”
He met your eyes with a sad smile. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m good, sweetheart. Just… taking it all in.”
You nodded, comforted by the answer, and turned back to the next video..
You didn’t see the way his eyes lingered on the screen long afterwards, the way his hands tightened around Jamie’s.
He kissed Jamie’s cheek again.
Because while you saw memories, Bucky only saw his absence from an entire chapter of his son’s life that he could never get back. And even as Jamie cooed against him, Bucky couldn’t help but think—
I should’ve been there.
—
That night, sometime past 2 a.m., the baby monitor crackled to life—a fizz of static followed by the most heartbreaking cry.
You stirred beneath the covers, still half-asleep, but before you could even lift your head, Bucky was already sitting up, one hand brushing your thigh.
“I got this, honey,” he reassured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Go back to sleep.”
You gave a groggy hum of thank you and rolled over, already sinking back into the mattress.
Bucky moved down the hallway and into the nursery, easing the door open.
Jamie was wriggling in his crib, face red and scrunched, little fists clenched tight as he let out another frustrated cry— the particular pitch that could only mean one thing.
“Hey, hey, alright, buddy,” Bucky soothed, already reaching in. “You mad about the diaper again? I get it. Nobody likes soggy pants.”
He changed him on the table— hesitant at first, but it came back to him like muscle memory. Tape, wipe, fresh diaper, blanket with the faded cartoon stars— he one Jamie always settled best in.
“There we go,” Bucky whispered, swaddling him up with care. “Better?”
Jamie hiccupped, then let out a sleepy little sigh. His eyes drooped.
But neither Jamie nor Bucky headed straight back to bed— it was as if they were both awake and in this together now..
So, he drifted into the Watchtower’s common room, where the city lights bled in through the windows and walked around the kitchen tower. He reached and pointed to the fridge, most likely for a bottle.
“You hungry, too, huh?” he asked. He quickly warmed up the bottle before slipping it gently into Jamie’s hands.
And Jamie… gripped it. He adjusted it and found the rubber nipple on his own like it was second nature.
Bucky didn’t help anymore, he didn’t have to. Jamie had it handled.
Tears pricked his eyes as he sank into the couch.
“You’re so good at that now,” he whispered, voice cracking as he brushed a hand over Jamie’s brown curls. “You don’t even need me to help.”
Jamie drank peacefully, his little hand patting absently at Bucky’s chest.
“I should’ve been here for that,” Bucky continued. “Should’ve helped you figure it out. And now I come back, and you’ve already moved past it.”
He looked away, wiping at his face, “What kind of dad misses that?”
“Someone who is trying,” came a gravelly voice behind him.
Bucky twisted to look behind him.
Alexei stood in the doorway, travel-worn, duffel bag still slung over his shoulder, just coming home from a mission. He smelled like pavement and engine grease, and he was careful not to get too close to little Jamie.
“Hey there, malen’kiy medvezhonok,” he greeted Jamie. Then, with a smirk, he said, “And bol’shoy medved,” he added, nodding to Bucky with dry amusement— his long-standing nickname for Bucky’s bear-like devotion to fatherhood.
Jamie made a sleepy gurgle and blinked up at him, unimpressed.
Bucky sighed. “He figured out the bottle on his own.”
Alexei nodded, stepping inside and collapsing into the nearby armchair with a grunt. “Babies do that.” he said, dropping his bag, “But I think my girls skipped it and went straight for knives.”
Bucky huffed a chuckle, but it faded quickly.
“Be honest with me, Alexei.”
Alexei raised a brow. “Always.”
“Am I a failure of a father?”
Alexei blinked, frowning like Bucky had asked whether water was optional for survival.
“What? No.”
“I missed him crawling, sitting up. All the big firsts. I keep telling her I’m fine, that I’m proud, but I’m already behind and he’s not even one. How do I even begin to catch up?”
Alexei sat on an armchair. Then he leaned back, stretching his legs with a groan. “You want truth?”
Bucky nodded.
“You are not failure. You are a man who had to leave but came back.” He gestured vaguely. “That alone makes you better than ninety-nine percent of men I’ve known—including my own father. It makes you better than me for most of Natasha and Yelena’s lives.”
Bucky frowned. “But—”
“Listen to me.” Alexei held up a hand, interrupting him. “I used to think I could fix everything with fists. I thought if I hit enough bad guys, it made me good by default. But then.... I stay— and Yelena likes me better now. We need to keep coming back, even when you feel like you don’t deserve it.”
He paused, then added, “John —he is not perfect. He missed much of his child’s early life. Now he gets weekend and playground visits. But he shows up. He tries. Do you think he is bad father?”
“No,” Bucky admitted, remembering when John’s kid got a tour of the tower, giggly and happy, “Not anymore.”
“Exactly,” Alexei said, “And John left for a year. You? You are holding your son and feeling bad about a bottle.”
Bucky looked down. Jamie was dozing now, the bottle half-full, his hand curled in the fabric of his shirt.
“You think he’ll forgive me?” Bucky asked.
Alexei snorted. “He is baby. He will forgive you before breakfast.”
That drew a real laugh from Bucky. He buried his nose in Jamie’s hair and closed his eyes.
“Thanks,” he said.
Alexei stood with a stretch. “I go find food. Or shower. Or both. In whatever order I hit first.” He gave Jamie a parting glance. “Good baby. Sleeps better than little Yelena.”
And with that, he disappeared down the hallway, leaving Bucky and Jamie alone again.
—
The light of morning spilled across the Watchtower’s windows. The city below hummed—cars drifting like whispers on distant roads, the sound of turbines blending into birdsong. Inside, the common room was warm and quiet.
You sat curled on the long couch, a travel bag at your feet and Jamie balanced in your lap, his tiny body still warm from sleep. He wore his little bear-print onesie, his cheeks smudged pink, fingers lazily wrapped around the last bit of his morning bottle. He blinked sleepily up at you, eyelashes fluttering like they were too heavy.
It was your last morning at the Tower, Bucky had just finished debriefing everyone he needed to and doing all the official paperwork. You’d be back often, of course—visits, Bucky’s (hopefully shorter) missions, and dinners with the team—but today, you were finally going home. Back to your own kitchen, your backyard, to your birdfeeder. Back to your quiet street and your swing and the scent of fresh coffee in your own kitchen. Back to your bed that no longer felt too big, because Bucky was coming with you.
He’d slipped out earlier, promising to pack up your things while you focused on Jamie. “Let me do something useful, sweets,” he’d said, pressing a kiss to your temple. He was still carrying this guilt in small ways— over-packing the diaper bag, refolding clothes you’d already folded, checking three times that Jamie had socks on.
And you let him.
Because this was how he stitched himself back into your life.
Jamie finished the bottle and gave a small, sleepy grunt. Then he kicked around, accidentally knocking your empty breakfast plate from the coffee table.
CLACK!
It clattered to the ground with an echo that felt so much louder than it should have been.
Jamie flinched.
His whole body jolted as his eyes went wide, mouth pulling down hard. And then— like a dam cracking open— the cries began— the kind that came with a startled fear only babies felt, when they didn’t understand the world enough to explain it.
“Oh, baby—no, no, it’s okay,” you whispered, immediately rocking him. “Just a sound, it’s alright. Just a noise. Mama’s got you—shhh…”
But he was inconsolable. His tiny fists curled tight against your collarbone, whole face turning red as he wailed.
That was the moment the door slid open.
Bucky stepped into the room, a suitcase in one hand and a diaper bag slung over one shoulder, brow furrowed from some conversation he’d just had with John on the comms. “Hey, I found the monitor and that book you always—oh—”
He froze, watching you frantically try to calm little Jamie down
“What happened?” he asked quickly, dropping the bag before you could answer.
“He scared himself,” you explained. “He knocked the plate off the table and made a loud noise.”
You didn’t need to explain more. He was already reaching.
“Come here,” Bucky said, his voice a particular tenderness he reserved only for you and Jamie. “Come to Daddy. Daddy’s got you now.”
You passed Jamie over, and Bucky drew him in tight— one hand cradling the back of Jamie’s head, the other rubbing soothing circles across his little spine. His voice dropped to a hush. “Shhh… It’s alright now. Just a dumb plate, huh? Didn’t mean to scare you. We’ll kick its ass later, huh?” he said, and you playfully slapped his shoulder for saying a bad word. “Plates are overrated anyway.”
Jamie’s cries had quieted into little hiccups, no longer frantic. He clung to Bucky’s shirt, burrowed in under his chin like.
And then it came in his small, raspy voice “...Dada.”
Bucky stopped moving. You blinked.
And then, slowly, Bucky pulled back just enough to look at Jamie’s face. “What… What did you say?” he whispered in disbelief.
Jamie blinked up at him as a chubby hand reached up and curled into Bucky’s beard.
“Dada,” he said again, clearer now.
Bucky’s knees almost buckled.
His mouth opened, but no words came out at first.
“Is this—has he...?” he asked, barely turning his head toward you.
You were already nodding, tears burning in your own eyes. “It is,” you whispered, kissing Jamie’s forehead. “That’s his first word.”
Bucky let out a stunned laugh, his voice cracking. “That’s me. That’s me, Jamie. I’m your Dada.”
He kissed the top of Jamie’s head over and over again, before kissing you— gentle and sweet.
Jamie giggled at the sight of his parents showing affection to each other, delighted with himself, babbling nonsense now and again, but punctuating it with another firm, proud “Dada.”
You smiled, burying your face in Bucky’s shoulder.
All those nights you’d shown Jamie picture after picture of his father—telling him over and over, “That’s your Daddy. He’s coming home.” All those times you’d held your breath hoping Jamie wouldn’t forget him… It had all paid off.
Bucky kissed your forehead without even looking, still half in shock, like he couldn’t believe this little boy—this squishy miracle—was his. And yours.
And that his very first word had been Dada.
Jamie wiggled and tucked his head beneath Bucky’s chin, pressing close with a little hum of contentment. “Dada,” Jamie said again, sleepily this time.
Bucky leaned down and whispered, “That’s me, buddy.”
$ log - you’re a war photographer, capturing all the crucial details of the scene and strategies. but your lens keeps landing on sgt. bucky barnes.
$ warn --sfw --gn!reader --flustered!bucky --1940s
$ wc -w 1k
$ cd masterlist / bucky-barnes
The first time, he lets it go.
You're crouched by the jeep with your camera up, and the whole squad's mid-brief.
Steve's got a map spread across the hood with his finger tracing some route through a forest none of you have seen yet. It's a good shot, objectively. Cover-of-Life-Magazine good. Captain America, all jaw and purpose, doing the thing he does.
Except your lens isn't on Steve. It's on Bucky, three feet to the left, not doing anything in particular — just leaning against the tire with his arms crossed, half-listening, the corner of his mouth doing something private.
You take four frames of that leaning figure before you catch yourself and swing the camera two feet to the right. He doesn't say anything. He just looks, for a second, like a man who's been handed a compliment in a language he doesn't speak yet.
The second time, he brings it up sideways.
"You get good ones today?" he asks, later, cleaning his rifle with the kind of focus that means he isn't actually thinking about his rifle.
"Some."
"Of the Captain?"
"Some of those too."
He glances at you like he's doing math. You go back to your film log and don't help him with it.
By the fourth time it stops being subtle, mostly because he starts finding excuses to be near you when you've got the camera out.
He’s leaning over your shoulder under the guise of checking the light, angling himself into whatever frame you're setting up until you have to physically nudge him with your elbow to get him out of it. Which defeats the entire purpose, since half your rolls now have Bucky cropped at the edge of every photo like a stray thumb.
"You're in my shot," you tell him, not for the first time.
"I'm helpin'."
"You're not."
He grins like that's the correct answer.
It's Dum Dum who says it out loud, which is somehow worse than if Bucky had figured it out himself. They're passing your contact sheets around the fire one night, the ones you'd printed back at base and never quite gotten around to filing.
Dum Dum holds one up — Bucky mid-laugh, head tipped back, off to the side of a frame that's supposedly about morale on the front lines — and says, "Sarge, she's got a whole gallery of just you," and cackles like it's the funniest thing that's happened all war.
You don't deny it. There's no version of denying it that doesn't sound worse than the truth.
Bucky goes very still in a particular way.
It’s like his whole body just hit a wall it didn't see coming, and then he laughs it off too loud and changes the subject to something about the rations. You let him, because you can see the exact moment it lands behind his eyes. Plus, you're not cruel enough to make him sit in it in front of everyone.
He waits until the fire's burned down and the rest of the squad's peeled off to sleep or pretend to.
It's just you and him and Dernier's terrible homemade liquor. It’s the same recipe that smells like it could strip paint — Bucky's been sipping like it's punishing him for something.
"So," he says at first simply.
He's got the tin cup turned in his hands, not drinking, just turning it. For a man who talks for a living he's suddenly having real trouble finding the next word.
You wait. You're good at waiting — it's half the job, sitting behind the lens until the actual moment arrives instead of the one you expected.
"The pictures," he tries again, and stops.
You watch something in him short out completely — the cocky tilt of his shoulders trying to hold and failing, colour climbing up his neck in a way no amount of nonchalance is going to cover.
He opens his mouth like he's got a whole speech loaded and what comes out instead is: "Why me?"
You could make him work for it. Some evil, self-preserving part of you wants to. Instead you just shrug, easy, like it costs you nothing, even though it costs you a little.
"There's enough cameras on the Captain."
It should be a joke. It sounds like one going out.
But Bucky's face does something complicated when it lands — like he's trying to file it under bit and it won't fit, like some part of him already knew and hearing it said plain just confirmed the math he'd been too chicken to finish.
He opens his mouth, then sharply closes it.
Pride hits him first, fast, his chin lifting before he can stop it. Of course, look at this handsome face. Then the crash — mouth open, nothing there, hand to the back of his neck. You want pictures of me?
You watch, unhurried, camera loose in your lap because for once you're not interested in capturing this. You just want to see it happen with your own eyes.
"...Oh," he finally says. One syllable, and it costs him visibly more than the whole sentence before it.
Then he grabs Dernier's cup and drains what's left of the moonshine in one go, throat working, eyes watering instantly. Even Steve — six feet away, half-asleep against his own pack — cracks an eye open and goes a quite pale just from the smell of it.
Bucky doesn't say anything else. He sits there coughing, eyes streaming, ears red clean past the collar, looking like a man who just survived something far more dangerous than the front.
You lift the camera and take the picture anyway.
this is how ur sneaky self is looking btw bc of the goddamn flashbulbs
$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @froggibus
C’s Corner: Hi loves, I was listening to Summertime by MCR and this little one shot came to mind. Hope you like it. Also, thank you to all my new followers and everyone else who reads and likes my fics. I appreciate everyone single one of you 🫶🏽✨🤗
WARNINGS: Fluff, mutual pining, soft first kiss, Bucky being emotionally constipated but trying his best, light teasing, Sam being nosy, brief mentions of Bucky’s past trauma/winters/darkness, romantic tension, golden-hour yearning, cherry popsicle thoughts that get a little too distracting for one super soldier. ☀️
SUMMARY: Bucky Barnes has spent too long expecting warmth to disappear, until one summer evening, one shared look, and one soft first kiss make him believe some things are allowed to stay.
Bucky Barnes noticed things.
He noticed exits before he noticed wallpaper. Noticed footsteps before faces. Noticed when someone’s smile didn’t reach their eyes, when a hand lingered too close to a pocket, when silence changed shape in a room.
And lately, he noticed you.
It was becoming a problem.
He noticed the way you tied your hair up when the heat got unbearable, twisting it off your neck with one hand while holding your drink in the other. He noticed how you always hummed along to songs before you remembered the lyrics. He noticed that when you laughed too hard, you leaned forward like your joy was too big to keep upright.
Worst of all, he noticed that you looked for him.
In crowded rooms. Across Sam’s backyard. Through the steam rising off the grill and the buzz of cicadas in the trees. Your eyes would find his, quick and bright, then flick away like you had not meant to get caught.
But Bucky always caught it because he had been looking too.
Tonight was no different.
The summer air hung warm and honey-thick around Sam’s place, the kind of heat that made everyone lazy and loud. Someone had dragged a speaker out onto the porch. Music spilled into the yard, all electric longing and restless devotion, a song made for open windows and reckless hearts.
You were barefoot in the grass.
That was the first thing Bucky noticed.
Not the fireflies blinking near the fence. Not Sam arguing with Sarah over whether he had burned the burgers. Not Joaquin trying to balance three paper plates on one arm.
You.
Barefoot. Laughing. Holding a melting popsicle between your fingers, your lips stained cherry red.
Bucky forgot how to breathe for half a second. Which was stupid. He had seen worse things than a pretty mouth in July.
Still.
His brain went quiet in a way it rarely did, all the static softening into one clear thought.
There you are.
You looked up then, as if you had heard him.
Across the yard, your smile changed.
It was small at first. Just the corner of your mouth lifting. Then it grew warmer, private in a way that made Bucky’s chest feel too tight beneath his shirt.
He looked away.
Coward.
“Man,” Sam said beside him, flipping a spatula in his hand. “You are pathetic.”
Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“I’m standing here.”
“Exactly. Standing. Brooding. Making tragic little eyes across my yard.”
“I don’t make tragic little eyes.”
Sam snorted. “You make museum-quality tragic little eyes.”
Bucky took the beer from Sam’s hand and drank from it out of spite.
Sam didn’t even blink. “That was mine.”
“Was.”
Across the yard, you laughed at something Joaquin said, but your gaze slipped back to Bucky again. This time, you didn’t look away as quickly.
Neither did he.
The whole yard seemed to blur at the edges.
You lifted the popsicle in a tiny salute.
Bucky’s mouth twitched before he could stop it.
Sam groaned. “Go talk to her before the grass catches fire from all this unresolved tension.”
Bucky handed the beer back. “You always this dramatic?”
“Only when two emotionally constipated people are ruining my barbecue.”
Bucky ignored him or tried to. But his feet were already moving.
Each step across the yard felt ridiculous. He had crossed battlefields with steadier nerves. He had walked into gunfire. He had faced monsters and gods and men who thought themselves both.
And somehow, walking toward you with the sun setting behind your shoulders made his pulse kick like a drum.
You watched him come closer.
That was the thing that ruined him. You didn’t glance around. Didn’t pretend you hadn't been waiting. You just stood there in the grass, cherry red smile softening into something sweeter, something almost shy.
“Hi, Barnes,” you said.
“Hi.”
Terrible start.
One word. He had eighty years of languages, mission reports, coded phrases, and poetry somewhere in his head, and all he managed was hi.
Your smile widened like you knew exactly what he was thinking. “You having fun?”
He looked over his shoulder at Sam, who was very obviously watching while pretending to inspect burger buns.
“Fun might be generous.”
“You smiled at least twice.”
“Maybe it was heatstroke.”
You laughed, and there it was again. That feeling. A door opening somewhere in him that he had sworn was sealed shut.
You held out the popsicle. “Want some?”
Bucky stared at it, then at you.
Your fingers were sticky. The thing was melting down your wrist. A drop of red sugar slid toward your palm, and Bucky’s mind, traitorous and unhelpful, noticed the movement with far too much attention.
“No,” he said quickly.
Your eyebrows lifted. “You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Scared of germs, Sergeant?”
“Scared of you.”
That slipped out before he could stop it.
The air changed.
Your teasing expression softened, the laughter fading from your eyes but not the warmth. You lowered the popsicle, suddenly still.
Bucky wished he could take it back... no, he didn’t.
That was the problem. He didn’t want to take any of it back. Not the looking. Not the wanting. Not the quiet ache that had been building in him for weeks every time you said his name like it belonged in your mouth.
You glanced down, lashes hiding your eyes. “You shouldn’t be.”
Bucky’s voice came out low. “I know.”
“Do you?”
He swallowed.
The music shifted behind you, the song swelling into something bright and desperate. Summer folded itself around the two of you, warm wind moving through the trees, cicadas buzzing like tiny live wires, fireflies sparking gold in the grass.
Bucky stepped closer.
Not much. Just enough that he could smell sunscreen on your skin, sugar on your fingers, the faint clean scent of your shampoo underneath the smoke from the grill.
Your breath caught.
He noticed that too.
“Doll,” he said quietly.
Your eyes lifted to his.
The nickname landed differently this time. Not casual. Not easy. It hung between you, soft and trembling, waiting to see if either of you would be brave enough to touch it.
“Bucky,” you whispered.
His name in your voice nearly undid him.
He had heard his name shouted. Ordered. Begged. Cursed. He had heard it through radios and nightmares and hospital rooms. But this was different.
This was summer-warm. This was wanting. This was you.
Bucky’s hand flexed at his side. “Tell me to stop looking at you like that.”
You did not blink. “I don’t want you to stop.”
The words hit him clean through the ribs.
Behind him, someone laughed too loudly. A plate clattered. Sam yelled something about burger integrity. The world continued, careless and alive.
But Bucky could not hear much past the blood rushing in his ears.
“You sure?” he asked.
Your smile trembled at the edge, nervous and hopeful all at once. “I’ve been sure for a while.”
Bucky let out a breath that felt like it had been trapped in him for years.
He raised his hand slowly. You leaned into the space between you, your eyes fluttering when his knuckles brushed your cheek.
Soft.
You were so soft.
It terrified him. It made him want to be soft too.
His thumb swept lightly beneath your cheekbone. “I don’t want to mess this up.”
“You haven’t even kissed me yet.”
A helpless laugh escaped him, quiet and disbelieving.
Your smile turned radiant.
There, that was the moment.
Not the kiss. Not yet.
The moment before.
The breath before the match struck. Your face tipped up toward his. His hand at your cheek. The music spilling into the pink-orange dusk. The summer heat pressing close, turning the air molten.
Bucky leaned in slowly. So slowly he felt every inch of it.
Your eyes closed first.
That nearly killed him.
Then his mouth touched yours.
The kiss was gentle at first, almost a question. Your lips were warm, tasting faintly of cherry sugar, and Bucky felt the shock of it all the way down to his bones. Not sharp. Not violent. Just bright.
A sparkler in his chest.
Then you sighed against him. That tiny sound broke something loose.
Bucky stepped closer, his other hand finding your waist with careful reverence. You leaned into him, fingers curling in the front of his shirt, and the kiss deepened just enough to become an answer.
Yes.
Yes, this.
Yes, you.
The yard disappeared. The years disappeared. For one impossible second, there was no past waiting behind his eyes. No cold. No ghosts. No weight dragging at his name.
There was only your hand over his heart. Only the warm press of your mouth.
Only the dizzy, golden thought that maybe he had not been made solely to survive. Maybe he had been made for this too. For a summer evening. For a kiss that tasted like sugar and courage. For wanting someone and being wanted back without either of you having to run from it.
When you pulled away, it was barely far enough to breathe. Your forehead rested against his. Your fingers were still twisted in his shirt.
Bucky opened his eyes and found you already looking at him.
You looked stunned.
He probably did too.
“Hi,” you whispered again, breathless.
This time, Bucky smiled. A real one.
“Hi, doll.”
Your laugh came out soft and shaky, and Bucky wanted to kiss that too.
So he did.
Just once. Quick and sweet. Enough to make you smile against his mouth.
From across the yard, Sam shouted, “Finally!”
The entire barbecue erupted into noise.
You buried your face against Bucky’s chest with a groan. “I’m moving. I have to leave the country now.”
Bucky wrapped his arms around you, smiling into your hair. “I know a guy.”
You laughed, muffled against him. “You’re supposed to say no.”
“I’m considering my options.”
You tilted your head back, eyes bright with embarrassment and happiness and something so tender it made his throat ache. “Was that okay?”
Bucky stared at you.
The sun had nearly vanished, leaving gold caught in your lashes. The music was still playing. Sam was still yelling. The popsicle had melted completely, forgotten in the grass.
Bucky brushed his thumb over your cheek again.
“Best part of my summer,” he said.
Your smile went soft.
And Bucky Barnes, who had spent so much of his life bracing for winter, stood barefoot in the warm grass with you in his arms and let himself believe, just for tonight, that some things were allowed to last.
Agghhh!!! This was fantastic! Absolutely fantastic! This was written so intelligently, the pacing was perfect, the imagery and descriptions, it actually obsessed! This was such a pleasure to read! Thank you for writing it
Dad!Bucky taking his family to the ocean for the first time. But, plot twist, HE'S the one scared his entire family is going to get eaten by sharks even though there's like zero risk of that happening at the specific beach they went to
-🖤
The first thing you notice is how still Bucky is.
Not calm—no, you know him better than that. Still like a coiled spring, like every muscle in his body is locked tight beneath sun-warmed skin and rolled-up sleeves. His sunglasses hide his eyes, but his head keeps moving—left, right, scanning the water, the shoreline, the lifeguard tower, the kids splashing too far out.
You follow his gaze, squinting out at the ocean stretching wide and blue under the summer sky. It’s beautiful. Endless. Gentle waves curling onto the shore in soft, foamy sighs.
“Buck,” you say, laughter already tugging at your voice, “you’re doing the thing again.”
“I’m not doing anything,” he mutters, arms crossed over his chest.
You raise a brow. “You’ve been tracking that one seagull for five minutes.”
“It’s acting suspicious.”
“It’s a bird.”
“Exactly.”
You snort, shaking your head, and lean back into your beach chair. The kids—your kids—are a few yards ahead, right at the edge where the water laps at their ankles. Rowan is squealing every time a wave chases her back, Harlow clutching her hand and laughing, while Bennett stands a little braver, letting the water hit his knees like he’s proving something.
They’re fine. More than fine. The beach is calm, shallow for yards out, dotted with families and umbrellas and bright towels. There’s a lifeguard on duty, a flag flying green.
Zero risk.
Absolutely zero.
Bucky, however, is acting like you dropped your children into shark-infested waters during feeding hour.
“They’re too far out,” he says suddenly, straightening.
“They’re ten feet away.”
“That’s how it starts.”
You blink. “How what starts?”
“Attacks.”
“Attacks.”
He nods grimly, already pushing to his feet. “I’m just gonna—hang on.”
Before you can stop him, he’s striding toward the water like a man on a mission, broad shoulders cutting through the crowd. You watch, biting back a smile, as he approaches the kids.
Rowan sees him first. “Daddy!”
He doesn’t smile—no, he crouches down immediately, eyes scanning the water like he expects a dorsal fin to slice through at any second.
“Okay,” he says, voice firm but gentle, “new rule. Nobody goes past… here.” He draws an invisible line in the wet sand with his foot.
Bennett frowns. “But it’s just water.”
“Yeah, and what lives in water?” Bucky counters.
Harlow gasps, delighted. “Fish!”
“Yes,” he says carefully. “Fish.”
“And dolphins!” Rowan adds.
“And sharks,” Bucky slips in.
You can practically see the shift.
Rowan freezes. Harlow’s grip tightens. Bennett squints suspiciously at the horizon.
You’re out of your chair before you can even think about it, hurrying over as Bucky immediately realizes what he’s done.
“Hey,” you cut in smoothly, crouching beside them. “No sharks here, okay? This beach is super safe. Daddy’s just being… Daddy.”
“I am not—” he starts.
You give him a look.
He exhales, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I’m just saying, statistically—”
“Don’t you dare bring statistics into this.”
Rowan tugs on your hand. “There’s no sharks?”
“None,” you promise, brushing her damp hair back. “Just waves and sand and maybe some little fish.”
Bucky clears his throat. “Very small fish.”
You elbow him lightly.
He sighs again, shoulders dropping a fraction, and crouches lower to their level. His voice softens, all that tension bending into something quieter, steadier. “You guys stay where we can see you, okay? That’s the real rule.”
Bennett nods, serious. “Okay.”
“Okay,” Harlow echoes.
Rowan just grins and splashes her foot in the water again, already distracted.
Crisis averted.
For about thirty seconds.
Because then a wave rolls in a little stronger than the others, rushing up to Bennett’s thighs, and Bucky’s entire body snaps back to attention.
“That one was bigger,” he says.
“It’s an ocean,” you reply. “That’s kind of the point.”
“It pulled him,” Bucky insists.
“It was a wave.”
“It pulled him.”
You grab his wrist before he can surge forward again. “Bucky.”
He looks at you, jaw tight, and for a second you see it—not the ridiculous shark paranoia, not the overprotective dad mode turned up to eleven, but the fear underneath it. The kind that doesn’t make sense to anyone but him. The kind that comes from a lifetime of things going wrong, of people being taken, of not being fast enough.
“They’re okay,” you say softly.
His gaze flicks back to the kids.
Rowan is now trying to stomp on the foam as it recedes. Harlow is giggling beside her. Bennett has discovered a shell and is holding it up like treasure.
Safe.
Happy.
Right there.
“I know,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t sound convinced.
You step closer, slipping your hand into his. His fingers tighten immediately, grounding, familiar.
“You know what you are?” you tease gently.
He glances at you. “What.”
“A landlocked Brooklyn boy who thinks the ocean is personally out to get him.”
A huff of reluctant laughter escapes him. “I don’t think that.”
“You do.”
“I just—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “There’s too much out there.”
“There’s also too much out there in space,” you point out. “You gonna start worrying about that next?”
He considers it for half a second too long.
“Bucky.”
“Right,” he says quickly. “Ocean first.”
You laugh, leaning into his side, and for a moment he lets himself relax. His arm drapes around your shoulders, pulling you close, even as his eyes flick back to the kids every few seconds.
Eventually, he sinks down into the sand beside you.
Still watching.
Always watching.
Rowan looks back at one point, catching him staring, and waves wildly.
“Hi, Daddy!”
His whole face softens, fear melting into something warmer, something steadier.
He lifts a hand, waving back. “Hey, sweetheart.”
Then, quieter, more to himself than anyone else, he mutters, “If a shark shows up, I’m fistfighting it.”
You grin, resting your head against his shoulder. “Of course you are.”
“And I’d win.”
“Obviously.”
His arm tightens around you, gaze still locked on the water, on your children, on everything he loves standing right at the edge of something vast and uncontrollable.
Terrified.
Ridiculous.
Completely, utterly devoted.
And even as another wave rolls in, and the kids shriek with laughter instead of fear, Bucky doesn’t move.
Could we get bucky physical touch headcanons? Or just general established relationship fluff :)
Bucky Barnes has always been careful with his hands.
It’s instinct now—something carved into him just as deeply as the ghosts in his head. His strength is something he’s constantly aware of, constantly measuring, constantly holding back. Even after everything—after Wakanda, after the deprogramming, after learning how to exist as just Bucky again—there’s still that quiet hesitation in the way he reaches for things.
For you.
Especially for you.
In the beginning, it showed up in small, almost invisible ways. The way his fingers would hover just shy of your skin before actually touching you. The way his metal hand would stay tucked behind his back or buried in his pocket when you sat close. The way he’d brush his knuckles against yours instead of lacing your fingers together, like he was testing the waters, waiting for you to pull away.
You never did.
When you first noticed it, you were sitting on the couch together, some movie playing that neither of you were paying attention to. Your legs were tangled, your shoulder pressed into his side, and his arm was draped along the back of the couch behind you.
Not around you.
Behind you.
Close enough to feel, but not enough to hold.
You turned your head, studying him quietly. His eyes were fixed on the screen, but you could see the tension in his jaw, the subtle flex of his fingers against the cushion. Like he wanted to touch you and didn’t trust himself to do it.
So you fixed it.
Without saying anything, you reached up and took his metal arm and pulled it down into your lap.
Bucky froze.
His entire body went still, breath catching like you’d just done something dangerous. His eyes snapped to yours, wide and uncertain.
“Doll…” he murmured, voice low, almost warning.
You just shrugged, like it was nothing. Like your heart wasn’t beating a little faster at the vulnerability in his expression. “You can touch me, you know.”
His brow furrowed. “I am touching you.”
“Not really,” you said softly, guiding his hand so his palm rested properly against your thigh. “This is touching me.”
The metal was cool against your skin, but not unpleasant. Different, yes—but you leaned into it, pressing your hand over his, holding him there.
For a long moment, he didn’t move.
Then, slowly, so slowly you almost missed it, his fingers curled.
His thumb brushed once, tentative, against your leg.
You smiled.
And something in his expression cracked open.
From that moment on, things changed—but not all at once. Bucky doesn’t do anything all at once. He learns you the way he learned everything else: carefully, patiently, like he’s committing every reaction to memory.
He starts small.
A hand at the small of your back when you walk through doors. Light at first, barely there—but steady. Grounding.
His fingers brushing yours when you sit beside each other, lingering just a second longer each time until one day they stay, sliding between yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He figures out quickly that you like it when he touches your face.
The first time he cups your cheek fully—flesh hand warm, metal hand resting just beneath your jaw—he watches you like he’s bracing for impact. Like he expects you to flinch.
Instead, you lean in.
Close your eyes.
Press into his palm like you belong there.
The breath he lets out is shaky.
After that, it becomes his favorite thing.
Bucky is not subtle about the things he loves.
He touches you constantly, not in a way that’s overwhelming, but in a way that’ deliberate. Intentional. Like every point of contact is a reminder, for both of you, that you’re here. That you’re real.
When you’re in the kitchen, he stands behind you, chest to your back, arms wrapping around your waist. Sometimes he just rests there, chin hooked over your shoulder, breathing you in like it steadies him.
Sometimes his hands drift.
Up your sides, slow and absentminded. Over your stomach. Down your hips. Never rushed. Never careless.
Always aware.
When you’re out with the others, he keeps a hand on you—your thigh under the table, your back when you’re standing, your wrist when he wants your attention. It’s grounding for him, you realize. A tether.
You’re his anchor.
And he makes sure you know it.
At night, it’s different.
Softer.
There are nights when the past creeps in, when sleep doesn’t come easy and his body is too tense, too alert. On those nights, he doesn’t always say anything—but he reaches for you.
Carefully, at first.
Like he always has.
But now, instead of hovering, his hand settles.
Finds your hip. Your arm. Your waist.
And when you shift closer in response, when you tuck yourself into him without hesitation, something in him unwinds.
He holds you tighter then.
Not enough to hurt. Never enough to hurt. Just enough to feel.
His metal arm curls around you sometimes, hesitant even now, but you always pull it closer. Press it where you want it. Teach him, over and over, that you’re not fragile. Not in the ways he fears.
“C’mere,” you’ll mumble, half-asleep, guiding his hand to your stomach or your chest.
He always follows.
And once he’s there, once he knows you want him there, he doesn’t hold back as much.
His touch becomes confident.
He learns the exact pressure you like when he rubs your back. The way your body melts when his fingers trace slow patterns along your spine. The way you sigh when he presses a kiss to your shoulder, his hand splayed wide over your ribs like he’s memorizing you.
Sometimes, when you’re lying together in the quiet, he’ll map you.
His fingertips dragging lightly over your skin. Your arms, your stomach, your thighs. Not sexual. Not urgent.
Like he’s reminding himself that you’re here. That this is real. That he’s allowed to have this.
You.
“Still okay?” he’ll ask sometimes, voice low, almost unsure, even after all this time.
You always answer the same way.
You take his hand—metal or flesh, it doesn’t matter—and press a kiss into his palm.
“More than okay.”
And every time, something in his shoulders loosens. Something heavy lifts, just a little.
Bucky Barnes has always been careful with his hands.
But with you, he’s learning that he doesn’t have to be afraid of them.
Because every time he touches you, you don’t pull away.
You lean in.
More than anything, that is what teaches him how to hold you.
summary › summer nights in brooklyn. one last night before war changes everything. and two people quietly falling apart over the possibility of goodbye.
pairing › 40s!bucky x female reader
content warnings › fluff city with a stop in angst town, established situationship? going away party, talking about the war, a few tears, kissing, soft bucky as always
word count › 2.2k
authors note › the way i would never survive this if it was me... anyways a little angst ficlet for the teen vogue party!
picnic blanket prompt › 🔕 MISSED CALL | 🔕 “You were supposed to be there.”
Delmar’s is too loud.
Too crowded and too hot with summer bodies packed shoulder-to-shoulder beneath yellow hanging lights while someone’s record player crackles faint jazz into the room.
The whole neighborhood showed up for the send-off. Brooklyn boys in freshly pressed uniforms get clapped on the back and handed drinks while mothers dab at their eyes pretending they aren’t terrified. Girls dance too close to soldiers trying hard to make tonight feel normal and worth remembering. Dum Dum is already halfway drunk, Morita’s winning money off somebody in cards while Jones keeps trying to drag everyone onto the dance floor.
And Bucky keeps looking at the door.
“Barnes!”
A hand slams against his shoulder hard enough to jolt him from his thoughts as he turns automatically, plastering on an easy grin for the older man standing there.
“Mr. Delmar.”
The man beams proudly while shoving another beer into his hand.
“Look at you, huh? Sergeant now.” He shakes his head. “Your ma would’ve been proud.”
Bucky swallows around something uncomfortable in his throat.
“Thanks.”
More people pull him away before the conversation can linger. Another handshake, another “good luck overseas.” Another smiling girl asking for one dance before he ships out. Bucky gives everyone exactly what they expect, the grin and the charm.
Because that’s what they need tonight. What they deserve.
But every few minutes his eyes drift back toward the entrance anyway, still waiting. Steve notices first, obviously, because Steve Rogers has always looked at Bucky like he can read the wiring in his head.
“You’re gonna wear a hole through the door,” Steve mutters beside him while accepting two drinks from the bartender.
Bucky tears his gaze away too slowly. “I’m not lookin’ at the door.”
“You checked it four times during one conversation.” Steve stares at him flatly.
“She’s probably just late.”
The words slip out before Bucky can stop them and Steve’s expression softens immediately. Oh. So that’s what this is.
“You told her to come?”
Bucky shrugs too casually.
“Mentioned it.”
“You must really like her.”
“I invited her for the drinks.”
“That’s practically a marriage proposal from you.”
Bucky rolls his eyes, but his mouth twitches despite himself. Then the door opens again and Bucky looks up immediately.
Not you, just another group filtering in from the street laughing loudly. The hope that sparked in his chest disappears so fast it almost embarrasses him.
Steve notices that too.
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
Lie.
Across the room somebody calls Bucky’s name again with ,ore congratulations, more shoulder claps, more promises that he’ll “make Brooklyn proud.” And Bucky tries, God, he tries to stay inside the moment but all he can think about is you.
The way you looked the last time he saw you standing outside the corner store while he told you about deployment papers finally coming through, the party that the block was putting up for him. You’d smiled for him but it never reached your eyes.
Now hours pass and there's still no sign of you. The party keeps moving around him anyway. The music swells and people dance, someone starts singing badly near the bar while Bucky stands in the center of all of it feeling strangely disconnected. Like he’s underwater because deep down, a thought keeps growing uglier and uglier in the back of his mind. Maybe she’s not coming.
The realization settles heavy in his chest until Jones eventually drags him into a celebratory toast near midnight.
“To Sergeant Barnes!” someone yells.
Everyone cheers loudly around him and Bucky lifts his beer automatically, smiles on cue but over the rim of the bottle, his eyes drift one last time toward the door. Still hoping, still waiting.
Nothing. And for the first time all night, his smile finally slips just for a second. Long enough for Steve to see it from across the room, long enough for Bucky to quietly wonder what he did wrong. Or worse—if maybe you saying goodbye would’ve hurt less than not showing up at all.
The phone rings three times before you answer it.
You almost let it keep going.
Almost let the sound echo through your apartment until whoever stood on the other end finally gave up and hung up for good. But something ugly and hopeful twists in your chest when it rings a fourth time, and despite every stubborn thought in your head, your hand reaches for it anyway.
“Hello?”
Static crackles softly through the line before his voice comes warm and rough and achingly familiar.
“Doll?”
Your eyes squeeze shut immediately. Of course. You lean heavily against the kitchen wall, fingers tightening around the receiver.
“What do you want, Bucky?”
There’s a pause, not long, just enough to hear the smile fall from his voice.
“You were supposed to be there.”
The deployment party.
The one at Delmar’s with music too loud and cheap beer and neighborhood girls crying into handkerchiefs while boys barely old enough to shave pretended they weren’t terrified of dying overseas. You couldn't go. Because you knew the second you saw him in uniform smiling like war was just another adventure, something inside you would crack clean open.
“Yeah well,” you mutter quietly, swallowing around the ache climbing your throat, “forgive me if I didn’t feel like celebrating.”
Silence hums between you. Somewhere through the line you hear traffic, distant voices, Brooklyn still moving like the world isn’t changing around it.
Then softer than you'd ever heard before.
“Doll…”
“No, Bucky, don’t do that.”
Your voice comes sharper than intended. You press your hand harder against your forehead, pacing once across the apartment.
“I’m not gonna stand there and watch you ride off to your death, alright?”
The words finally spill loose after being trapped in your chest for days.
“Because you’d smile that stupid smile like everything was okay, and it’s not.” Your breath catches painfully. “I might not ever see you again.”
The line goes quiet enough that for one terrible second you think maybe he hung up.
“You’ll see me again.”
You laugh weakly under your breath.
“You can’t promise that.”
“No,” he admits gently. “Guess I can’t.”
The honesty nearly ruins you more than reassurance would’ve. You slide slowly down the kitchen wall until you’re sitting on the floor, phone cord twisted around your wrist.
“I hate this.”
“I know.”
“I hate the uniform.”
“I know.”
“I hate everybody acting like this is brave and noble when really it’s just—”
You stop yourself before the word terrifying escapes.
Bucky finishes it quietly anyway.
“Scary.”
Your eyes sting. On the other end of the line, his voice lowers like he’s speaking something sacred.
“I’ll always be yours, no matter what.”
The words settle heavily into the silence and your chest aches with them. Then carefully, Bucky almost sounds hesitant for the first time in his life.
“Can I come see you?”
You wipe quickly beneath your eyes before he can somehow hear it.
“…Only if you leave the uniform at home.”
Bucky goes quiet.
“I want Bucky,” you whisper. “Not Sergeant Barnes.”
For the first time since answering the phone, you hear his real smile, small and soft and entirely yours.
“Ma’am, yes ma’am.”
Twenty minutes later, there’s a knock at your door. You open it to find him standing there in dark slacks, suspenders hanging loose at his hips, hair still damp like he rushed washing the pomade from it before coming over.
Not Sergeant Barnes, just Bucky, and suddenly the air leaves your lungs. Because this, this is the dangerous part. Not the war, not the train he’ll board tomorrow morning to England. It’s this soft, ordinary version of him standing in your hallway looking at you like you’re home already.
Neither of you speaks at first. Bucky’s eyes move slowly over your face, searching for damage. You realize distantly that he probably expected you to still be angry, to scold him some more, instead you step aside quietly.
He walks in like he’s trying not to disturb something fragile, glancing around before landing on you again.
“You been cryin’?”
“No.”
“Doll.”
“Don’t start.”
A faint smile pulls at his mouth despite everything.
“There she is.”
You hate that the sight of it still makes your heart stutter. Bucky takes a slow step closer, then another until your socks nearly touch his shoes, close enough to smell soap and cigarette smoke and the familiar warmth of him.
“You really that mad at me?” he asks softly.
You look up at him then, finally letting him see it. Not anger, but the fear. Pure, ugly fear. And Bucky’s expression breaks instantly.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
His hands settle carefully at your waist like he’s afraid you might disappear.
“I invited you tonight because I didn’t wanna leave things bad between us.”
“They’re not bad,” you whisper shakily. “They’re just… ending too soon.”
That wrecks him a little. You see it happen in real time. Bucky lowers his forehead against yours with a tired exhale, eyes closing briefly.
“I wish I knew how to make it better,” he admits quietly.
You melt a little hearing that. Because Bucky Barnes always acts like he knows exactly what to say, but not now, not when it matters. So instead of answering, you lift your hand to his cheek and he leans into it immediately.
“You come back to me, that'll make it better,” you murmur.
Bucky opens his eyes and there’s something unbearably tender in them now. Something young, frightened and loving. Maybe it was the thought of tomorrow morning, maybe it was the way he looked at you like leaving already hurt. Maybe it was the terrible understanding you both had that there might not be another chance after this one.
Whatever it was, it pulled you toward him before fear could stop you.
The kiss happened softly, your lips brushing his in a way that felt almost disbelieving, like even this was subject to disappearing if you thought about it too long. Bucky exhaled shakily against your mouth as he kissed you back, one hand tightened lightly at your waist while the other slid warm against your jaw.
It wasn’t a practiced kiss, wasn’t smooth or perfect. It felt like relief, like months of almosts finally giving in all at once. When you pulled back, Bucky stayed close enough that his nose brushed yours.
His eyes were still closed.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “I’ll try real hard to do that.”
You want to believe him. To know in your heart that his words are true. But it's hard. Loving someone during peacetime already felt terrifying enough, but loving someone marching toward war feels unbearable.
“That wrinkle between your eyebrows means you’re thinkin’ too hard again.” He says with a soft grin.
You huff softly through your nose.
“You say that like it’s avoidable.”
“For you? Probably not.”
“I’m comin’ back for you, you know.”
Your breath catches softly.
“Buck—”
“No, listen to me.”
There’s something steady in him now. He steps closer until the world narrows into the smell of cigarette smoke on his collar, soap, and the warmth of him standing near enough to feel.
“I’m gonna come back,” he says quietly, “and the first day I do, I’m gonna take you to the pictures.”
A laugh escapes you through the ache in your chest.
“The pictures?”
“Mhm.”
“You’re using all your big romantic material tonight, huh?”
Bucky grins softly.
“I’m serious.”
His thumb traces lightly along your cheekbone.
“I’ll get one of those giant buckets of popcorn you like.”
“The overpriced kind?”
“The very overpriced kind.”
“And?”
“And those little chocolate M&M’s you like.”
You smile helplessly and Bucky’s expression softens like he’d do anything just to keep seeing that look on your face.
“We’ll spend the whole day there,” he murmurs. “Movie after movie until you fall asleep on my shoulder.”
Your chest aches so badly it feels beautiful. Because the promise itself isn’t really about popcorn or candy or movie theaters. It’s about a future, small and ordinary and domestic. The kind of life that war keeps trying to steal from boys like Bucky.
You reach for him before thinking too hard about it, fingers curling softly into the front of his shirt.
“You really believe that?” you whisper.
Bucky looks at you like the answer is easy.
“I believe in you.”
The words settle somewhere deep inside you permanently and you think maybe this is what love really is. Not grand speeches or dramatic declarations. Just a boy standing close, promising you a future made of popcorn buckets and shared silence in dark movie theaters because that’s the only way he knows how to say please wait for me, please let me come home to you.
And finally you let yourself lean into him completely. Bucky exhales softly the second you do, arms wrapping around you instinctively, pausing only long enough to look at you, to really look at you.
Like he wants to memorize this version of you beneath the streetlight forever.
Then he kisses you again. His hand slides warm against the back of your neck while yours bunch softly in the fabric of his shirt. The kiss deepens slowly, unhurried and aching with all the things tomorrow threatens to take from you.
Bucky kisses like he’s trying to promise something impossible, like if he loves you carefully enough, the war won’t touch either of you.
When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t go far. His forehead rests against yours while both of you breathe the same summer air.
“See?” he murmurs softly, lips brushing near yours again. “Now you got somethin’ to come back to too.”
And for one fragile, fleeting moment before the war takes him away, Brooklyn still feels like yours.
feeling guilty over not working on your fic is so silly if you think about like why are you stressing over the hobby you do in your free time for fun lol wip not whip
genuine writers getting wrongly accused of using ai because of witch hunt and proper grammar/structure in their works must be what being a woman in the 1600s who is wrongly accused of being a witch because she can read and is intelligent feels like
i get so emotional every time i think about fanfic culture. it's just so beautiful that people are writing and anonymously posting these thousand-word stories about characters we all love and not even getting any money or public fame from it. it's literally just for the love of the game.
shout out to everyone who participates in fanfic culture, be it reading or writing fanfics. you are contributing to such a lovely thing <3
Summary: When a mission goes horribly wrong and the team gets injured and the jet can't make it back, Bucky Barnes chooses to reveal a closely guarded secret he's keeping in upstate New York.
Tags: Fluffy, cute, comfort, secret wife, established relationship, domestic Bucky Barnes, Bucky the sweetheart, ALPINE.
Warnings: None!! But it's TEETH rottingly sweet lol. (also maybe some implied sexy time at the very end)
Words: 2897
Notes: Now...I know what must you be thinking...who is this new man...well...guess who fell in love with Bucky...me...I did. I love this man and he may or may not show up more lol. This one is so fluffy it's not even funny. And is also a birthday gift for @dearwalker. Happy Birthday!!!!!!
The Secret
There were a lot of things in his life that James “Bucky” Barnes wanted to keep hidden. How much his trauma really affected him, what happened in the Void, how much his hands hurt from clenching them too hard at night and most importantly…you. With you tucked away he had the chance to be free of his duties as a New Avengers member, he could sit and relish in the feeling of peace for the few weeks he managed to make it out to your little slice of paradise in upstate New York. Sure you wanted him to be around all the time and had a good set of skills the team could probably use but Bucky refused, he didn’t want to ruin what you two had built and despite a want to help, you wanted to help him more. You knew what it meant to crave normalcy, to crave the escape of a couple acres of land, a soft cat on your lap and absolutely nothing to worry about.
But sometimes that can be shattered and Bucky was mumbling some choice words to himself after a mission that went horribly wrong. Sure most missions with the newest band of bumbling super heroes went bad but this one was particularly nasty and the team was in rough shape, himself included. Alexei, the biggest of the three super soldiers, was nursing quite a few bullet wounds since he always assumed he was bulletproof when he wasn’t, Walker was shoving an ice pack against his concussion and even the resident super human, Ava, was pretty banged up and not able to really unlock her powers. The jet was also on its last leg after a few bullets managed to puncture the fuel tanks and Bucky had to assume it wouldn’t make it all the way home…but it could make it somewhere else.
The benefit of New York state was the fact that it wasn’t just the big city and so many parts of it were just nothing but land, the area he was aiming for included. Bucky usually loved the view of the small farm, sitting on a good chunk of land not far from the banks of Lake Ontario but not today…today it would change and would never be the same.
“Where are we?” Yelena asked and glanced out the front window, eyes narrowed as Bucky landed the jet.
“Somewhere special,” he muttered and the jet shuttered as it landed, fuel reserves completely depleted but he had some tools in one of the barns that could fix it or he could call OXE.
“Somewhere special is the middle of nowhere?” Walker asked and Bucky groaned at the annoyance in his voice, amplified by the pain in his head.
“Okay…look…this is me being very vulnerable,” he said and the team’s eyes all collectively widened, unaware that was even possible. “There are very few people that know this place exists, Sam, Joaquin and now you guys. If you do anything to mess it up or tell more people than those in this jet, you will regret it. Are we clear?”
“What are you hiding?” Yelena asked and he sighed, running a hand through his hair.
“A lot,” he deadpanned and stepped out of the jet, limping a tad bit since he even got hit in the fray.
“So…I’m guessing a secret kid,” Ava said and Bucky eyed her.
“No…he’s so a drug dealer and this is his base,” Walker shot back and they both chuckled as Bucky ground his teeth together, already regretting this.
“What about a wife?” Yelena asked and Bucky tried to not react.
“No way, he’s too grumpy to have a wife,” Ava said and he sighed, glad they thought so…when you didn’t.
“Alright…be nice,” he hissed and walked up the steps of the porch before knocking on the screen door, pretty sure you were home.
“Do you have an accomplice in your drug deal business?” Walker asked and Bucky glared at him before digging around his pocket for his key and unlocking the door.
“Inside, I’ll go see what’s going on,” he said and they all shuffled inside, taking up residence in the living room and sprawling about on the various couches and armchairs.
Alexei was about to sit on a certain chair and Bucky cursed before bolting forward, grabbing the ball of white fluff before she got sat on and got really mad at him. Alpine wasn’t known to be that friendly, especially not to people other than you and Bucky and being sat on definitely wasn’t the best way to make a first impression. She also wasn’t that big a fan of being scared and that happened when he grabbed her, the cat hissing and scratching in protest.
“No…Alpine, stop, calm down,” he said and the cat finally registered it was Bucky that grabbed her and calmed down a small bit, still looking angry but luckily not trying to kill him.
“A cat,” Alexei deadpanned and he nodded.
“This is Alpine, she doesn’t like most people,” he said and the cat perched on his shoulder as he made his way into the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of homemade lemonade and taking a long sip.
This was what home felt like and it took a lot of searching to finally get that but here…in this little farmhouse with creaky floors and a semi-pissed off cat, it felt like he had finally found it. The house was littered with photos of various occasions, fourth of July’s with Sam, the actual wedding all those months ago, summer vacations and looked a hell of a lot different from the sterile box he kept at the Watchtower. Yelena had once accused Bucky of being unable to settle in but he was able to…he just needed you and he noticed how shocked she looked to see all the personal artifacts littered across the room.
“So…is this the secret?” she asked as she walked over, holding a photo of him and you.
“Bingo.”
“Secret wife?”
“For about three years,” he said and pulled out his phone to see if he could deduce where you were.
“You never told us.”
“I wanted to keep this place secret, from you guys and from Val and her goons. Just another thing to use against me,” he muttered and sent off a, where are you, hun?, text as Yelena eyed him.
“How’d you meet?”
“She worked for SHIELD, as one of their agents and was around when the whole resurface thing happened, helped Sam and Steve find me in Berlin and was by my side that whole trial. I went away for a while to find myself, choosing to heal my brain rather than be with her but we managed to reconnect after the whole…Blip incident.”
“Well, I hope she comes back cause I want to meet her.”
“You’ll love her,” he said and grinned just as a car pulled up outside and Bucky had to assume you had gone out for groceries and would be pretty shocked to see the new guests in the living room.
“Is this your drug buddy?” Walker quipped and Bucky glared at him before dropping Alpine on the counter and heading out, standing on the porch as you gathered up the groceries.
Normally you’d be ecstatic to see your husband, since he wasn’t home all that much and really made a show of it when he was but today…today he needed to stay away from the house and your eyes widened when you caught him on the porch. Sure your plans weren’t made yet, but anyone with eyes could deduce what they were from the supplies in your arms and you cursed as he met you halfway.
“What are you doing here?” you asked and Bucky frowned.
“Not even a hello?”
“Hi,” you shot back and kissed him. “What are you doing here?”
“Mission went south, the jet couldn’t make it back,” he said and nodded to the quinjet as you sighed.
“Of course.”
“I have the team here as well.”
“Great, they now know,” you said and Bucky shrugged as you sighed and handed him a bag.
“What’s all this for?”
“It was supposed to be for your surprise when you got home much later,” you said and he eyed the bag of cake supplies and a large collection of lemons and raspberries.
“Oh my God…I forgot,” Bucky deadpanned and you chuckled as you opened the screen door.
“I mean…when you’ve had over a hundred it makes sense,” you shot back as he rolled his eyes. “But yes…Happy birthday, hun.”
“You were going to make your famous cake.”
“I make it every year,” you said and dropped the supplies on the counter, scratching Alpine under her chin before staring out at the team of superheroes who were all staring at you. “Hello.”
“So…no drugs?” Walker asked and you eyed him as Bucky rolled his eyes.
“No…I don’t indulge in much more than weed,” you said and Walker’s eyes widened since he knew you.
“Wait…you,” he said and stood, cringing from the concussion as you smiled. “I know you.”
“Yep, haven’t seen you since the Flag Smashers in New York.”
“What are you doing here?” he asked and you eyed Bucky to see if it was okay and he gave you a nod.
“Well…I live here,” you deadpanned and began to put the groceries away. “I have for a while now. It’s been fun, the land is nice, cat’s even better and sometimes…if I’m lucky…I have a husband to share it with. But he’s gone a lot.”
“Wait…husband?” Ava asked and eyed Bucky as he shrugged. “You lying jerk, this was what you’ve been hiding.”
“Guilty as charged,” he muttered and kissed your cheek, dropping the baking supplies on the counter. “Yes this is her.”
He rattled off your full name as you smiled at the Barnes attached to the end, glancing at the small wedding band on your left hand, a relic since it was an antique all the way from the 40s just like him. You knew Steve Rogers first and had been assigned to help him adjust to his new life not being frozen in time and in doing so he had rambled about Bucky for half the time you spent together. When he reappeared as the Winter Soldier, you jumped at the chance to help and became obsessed with getting him back. It worked and he broke his programming but ran off and you didn’t see each other till Steve and Sam caught him in Berlin. When the Sokovia Accords nearly took him, you were right there by his side and that was the moment things started to get a bit more intimate.
You were trained by SHIELD to help desperate people, normally hostage situation survivors or frozen super soldiers and Bucky was no different. He was just as lost and when the nightmares of his time at HYDRA became too much, you were there and you let him go off and fix himself, kept apart by the Blip and everything in between before finally reuniting shortly after Steve went off to return the stones. Bucky was changed, he was willing to get help and he got it with you. The relationship kicked off almost instantly and less than six months later you were standing in that very farmhouse, using it as a honeymoon destination. Sure his idea to go into politics was questionable and it kept you apart a lot of the time but you just liked that he was finally happy and finally free.
When Bucky began to share his life story and all his regrets, one of the bigger ones was leaving his mother behind when he joined the army. He left her angry, his sister as well and admitted late one evening in bed that what he missed the most from her was her baking. She used to make a lemon and raspberry cake for every birthday and the next time March 10th rolled around and he returned from a mission to see you, one was sitting on the counter. It had become a tradition to spend his birthday at home with Alpine and the cake and this year would be no different despite the increase in company.
“Now…I have a cake to make,” you said and he nodded, reaching under the sink and grabbing a first aid kit before giving you another kiss and heading off to tend to Alexei.
Ava and Walker followed, still in shock over the whole thing but Yelena stayed back and eyed you as you started to cut up some lemons for the cake and the lemon curd to go in between the layers. You glanced up to find her staring and grabbed the raspberries from the fridge, a bowl and a wooden spoon and told her to mash them if she was going to stare at you.
“So…SHIELD agent.”
“Former, they don’t really exist anymore,” you said and grabbed a pot, heating up the stove and pouring some flour into a bowl. “Now I manage the wages at a local processing plant. A lot less glamorous.”
“Why not work for OXE?”
“No, I like this little life,” you said and she smiled at you.
“He looks so different here,” Yelena said and you glanced at Bucky who was laughing at Alexei’s jokes as he patched a bullet hole in his arm.
“He looks like that all the time to me.”
“You really got the domestic super soldier version.”
“I like this version,” you said and added some lemon zest to the cake batter. “If I can give him a chance to act normal, to come home and eat cake and celebrate his birthday then that’s more than enough. I used to assist people who had been traumatized during SHIELD missions when I worked with them, hostages and even Steve Rogers after he was frozen and it taught me a lot but…one thing above all the rest.”
“Which is?”
“Sometimes, the best things in life are the most mundane,” you said and licked the spoon as Yelena chuckled and handed over the bowl of mashed raspberries as you added them to the pot with some sugar.
***
Late that evening you announced to the team that the cake was done, candles and all and the group of you sang a very enthusiastic happy birthday to a man who looked more embarrassed by it than anything. It was perfect like it was every year and Bucky kicked the team out of the house so they could sleep on the quinjet which had more than enough beds for a bunch of cake filled superheroes, leaving the two of you alone in the living room, curled up on the couch with Alpine between you.
“So…did you wish for anything?” you asked and he chuckled.
“I thought you were supposed to keep it a secret?”
“You can tell me,” you said and he turned so he was looking at you.
“I wished for this…forever more,” he said and you rolled your eyes.
“You’re a big suck you know that.”
“I try.”
“What about the big brooding Bucky that the team gets. Where’s that one?”
“He gets shoved down when I’m here with you.”
“Why?”
“Because he forgets how good he has it,” he said and you chuckled, kissing him deep and squishing the cat between the two of you. “So…I got a cake…what else?”
“Oh…you want more?”
“It’s not every year you turn 110.”
“Oh stop, you’re reminding me of our problematic age gap,” you said and sat up, Alpine moving and meowing as she went, mad from always getting caught between you.
“We’re scandalous,” he muttered and you nodded with a grin, slipping off your cardigan as his eyes widened.
“We can make it more scandalous,” you said and stood, slipping off your jeans, leaving you in nothing but a t-shirt and panties as his eyes widened further. “Sure you may be an old man but only in age…not in…stamina.”
“Oh…you’re making this so easy,” he said and slipped off his shirt as you smiled.
“Come on, doll, let’s see just how much of that stamina you still have,” you said and he chuckled as you ran up the stairs, Bucky close on your heels.
The life you had built together was domestic at best, horribly so even, full of late mornings and a home that was warm and smelt like fresh coffee whenever he was home for longer than a night. Sure it was a bit unconventional but you didn’t care, you had him and the cat and a whole future ahead of you. For before when the nightmares would attack his mind and send him back to those moments at HYDRA, lost and alone and trying desperately to find a way out Bucky was alone in it all.
But now…he had you.
Sure the secret he had been trying to keep was shattered and the team would surely want to return all the time but he didn’t care since it meant he could see you more and maybe even invite you to the tower on occasion, showing you his own little world.
For the light in your home shone a bit brighter that evening and lasted long into the night as the supposedly brooding and horribly unsociable super soldier melted away and a man in love took his place.
What about Buck coming home one day to you randomly doing something special for him? There is no reason behind it, and he's blown away by it!
The apartment smells like sugar and butter and something deeper—rich, almost jammy, the kind of scent that clings to the air and settles into the walls like it’s always belonged there.
You’re standing at the counter in one of Bucky’s old shirts, sleeves rolled up past your elbows, a dusting of flour across your cheek you don’t even know is there. The late afternoon light spills in through the windows, warm and golden, catching in the loose strands of your hair as you lean over the pie dish, carefully weaving strips of dough into a lattice.
You’ve never made a plum pie before.
But you’ve seen the way he looks at plums.
Two weekends in a row at the farmer’s market, you’ve watched him pause at the stand. He never says anything, never reaches out, just slows down enough to glance. His fingers twitch once, like he might pick one up, then he keeps walking.
Both times, you’d asked, “You like plums?”
And both times, he’d shrugged, all casual like it didn’t matter. “They’re okay.”
But Bucky Barnes is a terrible liar when it comes to the small things.
So today, when he’d left for a quick mission debrief and told you he’d be back before dinner, you’d gone straight to the market and bought a whole basket.
Now the pie sits finished on the counter, golden and bubbling slightly at the edges where the filling has peeked through. You’ve been hovering around it for the last ten minutes, checking it, turning it, pretending you’re not a little nervous.
It’s just a pie.
It’s not even for anything.
No anniversary, no birthday, no reason at all.
You just… couldn’t stand watching him walk past something he clearly wanted.
The sound of the front door unlocking makes your head snap up.
“Doll?” Bucky’s voice carries through the apartment, low and familiar, a little rough around the edges from the day.
“In the kitchen!” you call back, wiping your hands on a towel and tryingnnot to hover.
His footsteps are heavy, grounded, moving closer. There’s the soft clink of his gear being set down, the quiet exhale he always lets out when he finally steps inside, like he can breathe properly again.
Then he rounds the corner.
And stops.
You watch it happen in real time—the way his brows pull together first, confusion flickering across his face as his gaze lands on you, then shifts past you, catching on the pie.
He blinks.
“What… is that?”
You huff a small laugh, suddenly shy under his stare. “It’s a pie, Buck.”
“I can see that,” he says slowly, stepping further into the kitchen like he’s approaching something fragile. “I mean, why is there a pie?”
You lean back against the counter, shrugging like it’s no big deal even though your heart is doing something a little too loud in your chest. “I made it.”
He looks at you like that explains absolutely nothing.
“Yeah,” he says, dragging the word out. “I got that part.”
You bite your lip, then gesture toward it. “It’s plum.”
That’s what does it.
It’s subtle, so subtle most people wouldn’t catch it, but you see the way his entire expression shifts. The confusion is still there, but it softens, something else slipping in underneath it. Something quieter.
“…plum?” he repeats.
You nod, suddenly feeling a little exposed. “You kept looking at them. At the market.”
His eyes flick up to yours, sharp now. “You noticed that?”
“Of course I noticed,” you say, like it’s obvious. Because it is. Because you notice everything about him, even the things he tries not to show. “You didn’t buy any. Twice. It was starting to bother me.”
A faint, disbelieving huff of breath leaves him, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that.
“So,” you add, softer now, gesturing again to the pie, “I got some. And I figured… I don’t know. Maybe you wanted them but weren’t gonna get them for yourself.”
There’s a pause.
A long one.
Bucky just stands there, staring at the pie like it’s something he’s not entirely sure is real. His metal hand flexes once at his side, the faint whir of it loud in the quiet kitchen.
“You made this,” he says finally.
“Yeah.”
“For me.”
It’s not a question, but you answer anyway.
“Yeah, Buck.”
“Why?”
You blink at him, thrown off by the genuine confusion in his voice. “What do you mean, why?”
His jaw shifts, like he’s trying to find the words and coming up short. “There’s no—” he gestures vaguely, “—thing. It’s not a special day or—”
You let out a soft laugh, pushing off the counter to step closer to him. “Do I need a reason?”
He looks at you like maybe you do. Like that’s the only way this makes sense in his head.
“You’ve been… lookin’ at plums,” you say, gentler now, reaching out to take his hand, threading your fingers through his. “That’s it. That’s the reason.”
Something in his expression cracks.
It’s quiet, the way it happens. His shoulders drop a fraction, the tension easing out of him like he’s setting something down he didn’t realize he was carrying.
“You made me a whole pie,” he murmurs, almost to himself, “because I looked at some fruit.”
You smile, soft and a little teasing. “When you say it like that, it sounds ridiculous.”
“It is ridiculous,” he says, but there’s no bite to it. Just awe. “Nobody does that.”
You tilt your head, studying him. “I do.”
That lands somewhere deep.
You can see it in the way his throat bobs, the way his grip on your hand tightens just a little.
For a second, he just looks at you. Really looks at you, like he’s trying to memorize the moment, or maybe understand it.
Then, before you can say anything else, he pulls you in.
His arms wrap around you, solid and warm, tucking you against his chest like he needs you close. Like this is the thing he’s been missing.
“You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” he mutters into your hair.
You laugh softly against him, your hands sliding up his back. “It’s just a pie.”
“No,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at you, his blue eyes bright in a way that makes your chest ache. “It’s not.”
His gaze flicks back to the counter, to the golden crust, then back to you.
“It’s you seein’ me,” he says quietly. “Even when I don’t say nothin’.”
Your expression softens.
“I always see you, Buck.”
You don’t even get another word out before he’s kissing you, like he’s trying to pour everything he can’t quite say into it. His hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek where the flour still sits, and he huffs a quiet laugh against your mouth when he notices it.
“Got flour on your face,” he murmurs.
“Yeah?” you smile, breathless. “Worth it?”
He glances at the pie, then back at you, something warm and certain settling into his features.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Worth it.”
And later, when you finally cut into it and he takes his first bite, the way his eyes close—like he’s tasting something familiar, something he didn’t realize he missed—tells you everything you need to know.
I beg of you please write us Bucky reader and our son in a heatwave🙏🙏🙏🙏
Bucky’s Beach Day
WC 1.5k
TW established relationship, Husband!Bucky x Wife!reader, you and Bucky have a son called Jamie, fluff!!
Could be read as a one-shot, but you can read more stories in this universe here!
The cooling function in Bucky’s arm had been designed for missions. That was what Shuri had said to him when she installed the upgrade.
It was intended for harsh desert operations, or long exposures to tropical heat. It could save someone’s life in a life or death heat stroke situation. The section she had it in was called Tactical Temperature Regulation. It was brilliant and sleek, and Bucky nodded very seriously while pretending he understood half of the science she was explaining to him.
It was not, technically, made so his wife could cling to it on a beach towel because she was “literally going to perish without it.”
But Bucky knew better than to argue with you. Especially when you were sprawled under the umbrella in your swimsuit, sunglasses slipping down your nose, one hand thrown over your forehead like a woman in a tragic period drama.
“Buckyyy,” you said weakly.
He looked over from where he was helping Jamie dig a sandcastle with the yellow shovel. “Yeah, sweetheart?”
“I’m dying.”
Jamie gasped. “Mommy?”
“She’s not dying,” Bucky said calmly.
“I am,” you insisted with a sigh, beads of sweat rolling down your skin that Bucky was really trying not to pay attention to, not while he was building sandcastles with your son. “The sun has chosen me as tribute.”
“Mmm,” Bucky’s mouth twitched into a small smile. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” you frowned, “I need your arm.”
He glanced down at the vibranium arm, then back at you.
Jamie looked between the two of you, very interested. “Daddy’s cold arm?”
“Daddy’s cold arm,” you confirmed. Jamie knew because when he sprained his ankle last month, Bucky used his arm to “ice” the bruise.
Bucky huffed a laugh.
Then, without making a big deal out of it, he reached up and detached the arm.
Your eyes widened behind your sunglasses. “Wait. I was joking.”
“No, you weren’t.”
You considered you answer for a second. “I was joking a little.”
“No, you weren’t,” he repeated, because apparently being the love of your life meant that he knew you better than you knew yourself.
He walked over and gently set the vibranium arm beside you on the towel, cooling function already humming faintly through the vibranium.
You immediately wrapped your arm around it.
“Oh my God,” you sighed, pressing your cheek against the cool surface. “I love you.”
Bucky arched an eyebrow and chuckled. “Me or the arm?”
“At this exact moment,” You tilted your head, “I need you to be emotionally secure enough not to ask that.”
Jamie toddled over and patted the arm with both little hands. His eyes went huge. “Cold!”
“Very cold,” you said reverently at his adorable little face, blue eyes not unlike Bucky’s own.
Jamie turned to Bucky, delighted. “Daddy, mommy has your arm.”
“I know, buddy.”
“You only have one hand now.”
Bucky looked down at himself, then at Jamie. “Yeah. Looks like I’m gonna need help with the castle.”
Oh. Daddy needs me! He seemed to think.
Jamie straightened like he had just been promoted to general.
You watched the exact second your six-year-old became the most important construction worker on the beach.
“I can help,” Jamie said, very solemnly.
“I was hoping you would.”
Bucky went back to the sandcastle one-handed. To be fair, he could still do most things better than most people with one hand.
He packed sand with his right palm, dragged the shovel toward him, smoothed down walls with his fingers. But every time one of Jamie’s little structures needed steadying, every time a bucket had to be tipped or a shell had to be placed or the moat needed “more water but not too much water,” he looked to Jamie.
“Can you hold this side for me?”
Jamie rushed in. “I got it, daddy!”
“Good job,” he smiled, “Don’t let it fall.”
Jamie’s little face went slightly pink with concentration. “I won’t.”
You hugged the cold arm closer, your heart melting for an entirely different reason.
Bucky could have done it faster on his own. You knew that. He knew that. But Jamie absolutely did not know that.
To Jamie, his father needed him.
To Jamie, he was not just watching the castle happen. He was making it happen.
He held the bucket while Bucky packed wet sand inside. He pressed both hands against one crooked wall while Bucky reinforced the other side. He selected shells with the concentration of a professional jeweller. He added one piece of seaweed to the top and declared it a flag.
Bucky squinted at it. “Looks like kelp.”
Jamie gave him a look.
“I mean,” Bucky corrected himself immediately. “Strong flag, buddy.”
Jamie nodded. “It means no bad guys.”
“Good rule.”
“And no stepping on mommy.”
Bucky’s eyes flicked to you, curled shamelessly around his detached arm like a sun-drunk cat. “Definitely no stepping on your mom.”
You lifted one hand lazily. “This kingdom has great laws, baby.”
Jamie beamed.
The castle got bigger. As it got bigger, it got stranger. Then, Jamie insisted it had a garage, because Jamie insisted all castles needed garages, and Bucky, being a better father than anyone had any right to be, didn’t argue with the logic.
“For what kind of car?” Bucky asked.
Jamie frowned like the answer was obvious. “A fast one.”
“Right. Of course.”
“A blue one.”
“Blue fast car. Got it.”
“And it flies.”
Bucky paused. “A flying car?”
Jamie nodded.
So Bucky built the garage one handed.
The left side collapsed twice, and Jamie gasped both times like there had been casualties.
“I need you,” Bucky said seriously. “This wall’s no good without you.”
Jamie dropped to his knees beside him. “I fix it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You hold it, Daddy.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bucky held the wall while Jamie patted wet sand onto the side with tiny, clumsy, determined hands. Half of it stuck, and half of it slid down. But none of it mattered, because Bucky looked at your son like he had just watched him solve cold fusion.
“There,” Jamie said, sitting back on his heels. “I did it!”
Bucky smiled proudly. “You did.”
Jamie looked down at the castle, then back at him. “You needed me.”
Bucky went very still.
It was brief, but you saw that little pause he got sometimes when love hit a wound he forgot he still had.
Then he reached out and brushed sand from Jamie’s cheek with his thumb.
“Yeah,” Bucky said quietly. “I did.”
Jamie accepted that like it was simple. Because to him, it was.
His daddy needed help. He helped. Because of both their efforts, the castle stood.
The world was very easy at six years old.
By the time the tide started creeping closer, the castle had three towers, a moat, one flying-car garage, sixteen shells, a kelp flag, and Jamie’s full emotional investment.
When the first little wave reached the edge of the moat, Jamie gasped. “No!”
Bucky turned immediately. “You want me to move it?”
You lifted your head. “Bucky, you cannot move a sandcastle.”
He looked at you. You looked at him.
He looked back at the castle like he was genuinely considering whether he could get a big enough shovel to move a sandcastle.
“Don’t,” you warned.
Jamie, thankfully, solved the crisis by flinging himself into Bucky’s side.
“It’s okay,” he said, though he sounded heartbroken. “Ocean can have it.”
Bucky wrapped his one arm around him and pulled him close. “That’s generous.”
Jamie sniffed. “But not the garage.”
“No,” Bucky agreed. “That part’s between us and the ocean.”
You laughed into the vibranium arm.
Bucky glanced back at you, sun-flushed, hair messy from the wind, one arm missing and the other full of your son.
He looked perfect.
Eventually Jamie wore himself out completely. He crawled into Bucky’s lap, sandy and buzzing with sleep, mumbling something about blue flying cars against his father’s chest.
Bucky sat under the umbrella with him, broad shoulder curved protectively around Jamie’s small one.
You scooted closer, still holding the detached arm. “Do you want this back?” you asked.
Bucky looked at you, then at Jamie asleep against him, then at the arm tucked against your cheek.
“Keep it,” he said softly.
You chuckled and kissed his cheek, “It was made for dangerous missions.”
“It’s on one.”
You smiled. “Taking care of me is a dangerous mission?”
“Keeping you comfortable is my life’s work.”
You laughed, and he only smiled wider. Jamie shifted in his sleep, one small hand fisting in Bucky’s sleeveless shirt.
Bucky looked down at him, and there it was again. That disbelief and gratitude all the same.
He had been made into a weapon once.
Now his metal arm was keeping his wife cool, his only hand was holding his sleeping son, and a crooked sandcastle with a flying-car garage was being swallowed by the sea in front of him.
Shuri’s desert-grade cooling system had probably not been built for this.
But it was hard to imagine a better use.
—
Note: please send me more blurb/short story ideas of this little family! I adore writing for them sm 😭
could you write about congressman bucky about to go on stage to give a speech and his wife or gf gives him a couple of good luck kisses before he goes out and he ends up going out with lipstick on his nose and cheeks and the internet thinks it’s the cutest thing ever and sam teases them about it all the time💟💟
The first time you attend one of James Buchanan Barnes’ campaign speeches as his wife, you think you’re prepared for the nerves. You’ve seen him face down hostile committees, smear campaigns, and late-night news pundits who try to bait him into losing his temper. You’ve watched him sit through budget meetings that drag on for hours without so much as a flicker of impatience. He is steady, composed, unshakeable.
What you are not prepared for is how adorably human he looks five minutes before stepping onto that stage.
He stands in the small green room behind the curtain, suit jacket already buttoned, tie perfectly straight, thick fingers flexing at his sides like he’s about to step into a boxing ring instead of a town hall. His jaw is tight, the faint crease between his brows giving him that serious, intimidating look that made half his district vote for him in the first place.
“You’re gonna scare them,” you murmur, stepping into his space.
His eyes soften immediately when they land on you. That’s the thing about Bucky—he can go from imposing congressman to your husband in half a heartbeat. “I’m not tryin’ to scare anyone,” he mutters, though his shoulders are stiff. “Just want it to go well.”
“It will,” you promise. “You’ve rehearsed this speech like thirty times in the kitchen.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, some of the tension bleeding out of him. “You were supposed to forget that.”
“Never,” you tease, smoothing your hands up the lapels of his jacket. “I have it memorized too, just in case you choke and I have to run out there and finish it.”
He gives you that look—half exasperated, half smitten—that makes your stomach flip even after years together. “You’d love that.”
“I would.”
There’s a stage manager counting down somewhere beyond the door. Three minutes.
Bucky swallows. You can see it—the nerves. Not because he doubts himself, but because he cares. He cares so much it makes him anxious. He wants to say the right thing, do the right thing, represent people well. It’s written into him as deeply as the old soldier instincts he still carries.
“C’mere,” you whisper.
He leans down automatically, and you cup his face in your hands. Your lipstick is a soft rose shade tonight, something you picked because he once told you it made you look like you’d just come in from the cold. You press a kiss to his cheek, right over the faint line of an old scar. “For courage,” you murmur.
Another to his other cheek. “For clarity.”
He smiles, that shy, crooked smile he only ever gives you. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And one for luck.” You stretch up and kiss the tip of his nose because it’s right there and because he always scrunches it in the cutest way when you do.
He laughs under his breath, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you closer. “You’re gonna ruin the image, sweetheart.”
“Your image can handle a little love.”
Someone calls his name. Thirty seconds.
He squeezes you once more, forehead brushing yours. “Stay where I can see you?”
“Always.”
He steps back, shoulders squaring again as he turns toward the stage entrance. You watch him take a slow breath, then another. The curtain parts. The crowd starts clapping.
He walks out into the lights.
You’re too focused on the way he carries himself—confident, grounded, steady—to notice anything else at first. He reaches the podium, adjusts the microphone, flashes that warm, practiced smile at the audience.
Then you hear it. A ripple of delighted laughter.
Bucky falters for half a second, clearly confused. He glances down at his notes, then back up at the crowd, brows knitting together. The laughter swells, mixed with a few audible “aww”s and the unmistakable sound of phone cameras clicking.
You frown slightly, craning your neck from the wings.
And then you see it.
There, bright and unmistakable under the stage lights, are three perfect lipstick marks: one on each cheek and a very prominent one right on the tip of his nose.
You clap a hand over your mouth.
Oh no.
He’s still speaking, because of course he is. “Good evening, everyone,” he starts, voice smooth despite the way his eyes narrow suspiciously at the audience reaction. “Thank you all for coming out tonight—”
More laughter.
Someone in the front row calls out, “We love your wife, Congressman!”
His hand lifts instinctively to his face, brushing his cheek. When he pulls it away and sees the faint smear of pink on his fingertips, his eyes widen just a fraction. He pauses, exhales, and then, to your utter surprise, he laughs.
It’s unguarded and warm and completely disarming.
“Well,” he says into the microphone, shaking his head. “Guess I’ve already got my good luck charm.”
The crowd practically melts.
Instead of wiping it off immediately, he leaves it there. All three marks. He launches into his speech like that, cheeks faintly pink—not from your lipstick, but from the realization that the entire internet is probably watching him stand at a podium with his wife’s kisses stamped all over his face.
By the time the event ends, the photos are everywhere. News outlets pick it up within the hour. “Congressman Barnes Goes Viral for Adorable Pre-Speech Moment.” “Lipstick Kisses Steal the Show.” There are slow-motion clips of him realizing what happened, memes of the nose kiss, comments about how refreshing it is to see a politician so openly loved.
When he finds you afterward, he’s half mortified, half amused. “You did that on purpose.”
“I absolutely did not,” you insist, though you’re laughing too hard to sound convincing.
He wraps his arms around you anyway, burying his face in your neck. “Internet’s never gonna let this go.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
The teasing only gets worse when Sam corners him at the next event. “Man,” Sam says, grinning ear to ear, “I’ve seen you take down terrorists without breaking a sweat, but one little lipstick ambush and you’re defenseless.”
Bucky rolls his eyes, but his arm stays firmly around your waist. “It was a tactical oversight.”
Sam snorts. “You wore it through the whole speech. That’s not oversight. That’s whipped.”
You beam proudly. “Thank you.”
Bucky just shakes his head, trying and failing to hide his smile. “I prefer ‘well-loved.’”
And every time he steps out onto a stage after that, you make sure to press at least one kiss to his cheek. He always pretends to grumble about it, checking reflexively for smears before walking into the lights, but you’ve caught the way his hand sometimes lingers over the spot afterward, like he’s carrying a secret.
Because no matter how many cameras flash or how many speeches he gives, he still walks out there knowing he’s loved.
And apparently, so does everyone else.
"I never was ready, so I watch you go..." @singularattitudeofasafetypin - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
