summary: After decades of being away from his wife, Bucky Barnes tried to make his way back to her, only to find out that he was too late. Coping with that hurt, but instead of wasting his life mourning what he didnât have, Bucky trusted that he would meet you again when the time was right.
word count: 2.6k
warnings/tags: kinda hurt/comfort, female reader, fluff, bucky is a little softie, a little bit of angst, mourning a loved one, grief, coping with death, mentions of injuries but nothing graphic, kinda angsty ending but itâs a good one
authorâs note: This was inspired by Noah Kahanâs new song We Go Way Back, honestly the storyline has nothing to do with the lyrics but there are a few references. Iâve been wanting to post this since Tuesday, unfortunately I didnât have any time so youâre getting it now.
Honestly I didnât really know how to tag this as itâs a sad ish ending but itâs also happy? I donât know how to describe it, youâll see what I mean when you get there.
Also, I really want to thank you guys for the support my work has gotten over the last few days!! I appreciate it so much and canât wait share more stuff with you in the future, Iâm a little sick right now so I have some time to kill the next few days which Iâll definitely spend writing. Thatâs it with my little rant, I really hope youâll like the story just as much as I enjoyed writing it!!
I do not give my consent for my work to be posted on other platforms or to be fed to AI.
dividers by @cursed-carmine
The grave didn't look like it used to when he first came here anymore.
Back then, after delaying actually visiting your grave for as long as his conscience allowed him to, Bucky had known that it wouldn't be easy to face this.
He'd been right. It hadn't been easy.
As a matter of fact, Bucky had broken down the second he'd read your name on the gravestone, more than grateful that Sam had insisted on coming with him, because he was pretty sure that he would've stayed there for the whole night if it wasn't for him, just staring at your grave as if that would make your death any less real.
As if it would be enough to bring you back to him.
It didn't, of course, but the human brain sometimes had a funy way of planting hope were sun could never actually reach to make it bloom.
Looking back on it, Bucky didn't think that the grave had been what set him off, at least not in the way he'd expected.
After he'd found out that you'd still been alive, living in a small nursing home in Brooklyn whilst he was all the way across the world in Wakanda, he'd promised himself that he would come to visit you, no matter what consequences going back to the US might bring for him.
Then the blip happened and before he knew it, yet another five year of his life had been taken from him.
After coming back, he had to come to the realization that during his absence, the inevitable had happened.
You were dead.
He'd known that it was going to happen, of course. Bucky wasn't stupid, after all, and 102 already was an impressive age, considering that you didn't have the same bullshit running through your veins like him or Steve did.
He'd just thought that he would have more time.
The grave had been in a horrible state when Sam and him first got there, which probably hurt the most.
His sister still had family that was taking care of hers, people he didn't really have anything to do with, but they kept it neat.
Whenever he visited, there was already a boquet of flowers sitting where he added his, the occasional candle burning sometimes.
You didn't have any of that.
Wether your family didn't care or you didn't have one, he hadn't known at the time.
After a little bit of research that Sam had done for him, Bucky now knew that you never actually had kids, let alone got married again.
That was enough of a reason for him to take the complete responsiblility for your grave, making sure that it was in good state again, visiting as often as his tight schedule allowed him to, because he would be damned if anyone ever walked past it again, smiling in pity because they thought that there weren't any people that cared about you to maintain it anymore, which couldn't be further away from the truth.
Bucky cared about you. And now that he couldn't tell you that in person anymore, he could at least make sure that all the love he carried in his heart had a place to go, which happened to be the place you were buried.
Bucky'd made a promise, after all.
On the evening before his deployment started, when you'd cried because you'd been so scared of never seeing him again, Bucky'd promised that he would come back to you.
He'd made it a pinky promise, too, well aware of how much those meant to you.
Sometimes, he liked to think that it had been the only reason he'd survived that hellhole of a place he'd spent more than seven decades of his life in, the gravity of what he'd promised you back then stronger than any pull towards death could ever be.
Unfortunately, he still hadn't been able to keep his promise to the extend he'd actually wanted to.
He did come back to you, just like he'd said he would, you just weren't alive to witness it anymore.
Now your grave was the only thing he had left of you, so he made as much of it as he could.
Sam had once tried to gently tell him that it maybe wasn't exactly the healthiest way of coping, but Bucky couldn't help it.Â
He was thinking about you all the time anyway, so it didn't matter if he spent his time doing it at home or if he came to visit you.
The weather was nice when Bucky made his way to the cemetery, taking the familiar detour to the florist he was already a regular at by now.
He tried to get you flowers at least once a week, just like he used to when he took you out on friday nights, a tradition he knew you'd always looked forward to even though you had always scolded him for spending his money on that kind of stuff.
Bucky never cared, though. He did his damn best to treat you well, taking on a few extra shifts whenever he could so money wouldn't be too tight at the end of the month.
To be able to afford your engagement ring, he'd worked so much that he actually passed out on the job once, nearly crushing himself under one of the crates they always had to unload from the cargo ships.
You'd been mad as hell when you'd found out and Bucky'd only gotten half of the usual pay for the shift, but it'd been enough money for him to get the ring just in time for when he had the proposal planned.
Even though his whole body had ached for the next to weeks, you'd said yes when he had asked you to marry him, the two of you standing under the starts of Brooklyn, the moon illuminating your face beautifully when you threw yourself into his arms, knocking him over from where he was kneeling on the ground.
That had made all the strain he'd put on his body more than just worth it.
The weather was nice when Bucky made his way over to the cemetery, taking the familiar detour to the florist he was a regular at by now.
The familiar bell chimed when Bucky entered the flower shop, all the flowers shining with how the sun illuminated them.Â
The young girl that worked at the shop sometimes looked up from where she was organizing some stuff, face lighting up immediately when she noticed that it was him, already familiar with Bucky because of how often he came here.
He never got you the same boquet- mostly because he thought that you'd find it endearing how excited the kid always got when he told her that she could put together whatever she wanted to, but also because he was sure you'd like the variety of it.
It wasn't like he really had a budget, anyway.
Now that he didn't have to worry about that kind of stuff anymore, there was nothing that could ever be too expensive for you.
"What's up, Mr. Barnes? Anything in particular I can do for you today?" Bucky almost had to smile at that. She never failed to check in with him, even though he could already see her fingers twitch against the counter, more than ready to get creative again.
"Nah, kid. You go ahead, don't let me stop ya."
She didn't need more permission than that and quickly made her way over to the buckets overflowing with color, hands reaching for all different kinds of flowers that Bucky couldn't even name if he tried.
"Can I ask you something, sir?"
Even though her eyes were still focused on the boquet she was currently arranging, Bucky could hear the nerves in her voice, which intruiged him a little too much to shut her down. He wasn't usually one for nosy questions, butt he supposed he could deal with them for once. "Go ahead, kiddo."
"Does your wife ever say anything about the flowers? It's just that you come here so often and always let me do whatever I want, doesn't she have any preferences?"
There was something so endearing about the innocent curiousity of teenagers, Bucky just couldn't bring himself to tell her the truth.
"You got nothing to worry about, kid. She always loves them."
Bucky supposed that keeping the answer vague was a little better than actually lying, because he was certain that you would love the flowers. You'd adored the colorful ones the most, claiming that the uncertainty of what the next boquet he'd get you looked like was what made you look forward to receiving them the most.
You'd always made a game out of it, too, trying to get behind the pattern he used to chose the flowers.
There wasn't one, if he had to be honest. He always just picked whatever he thought suited you best.
"Well, I'm glad she likes them. She's really lucky, you know, It's cute that you do this for her so often."
Now, he couldn't help the quiet rumble of laughter that slipped past his lips. "Trust me, I'm the lucky one. This is the least I can do."
He should probably not be doing this. He should just tell her that his wife wasn't alive anymore, that he didn't get you flowers because he was such a great husband, but because they were for your grave.
He couldn't bring himself to do that, though. No matter how pathetic it might seem, it was nice to escape the reality of his life and just pretend that you were sitting at home, preparing pancakes for breakfast whilst he walked the familiar route to the florist, coming back home afterwards instead of going to the cemetery.
Maybe in another life that was the reality he got to have.
Not in this one, though, but he still liked to imagine sometimes.
"May I ask how the two of you met?"
Finished with picking all the flowers and seemingly happy with the result, the kid walked back to the counter again and started wrapping the boquet with practised ease.
She seemed to notice that Bucky didn't actually mind her curiousity, he noticed that she got more comfortable asking questions which was actually pretty nice to witness.
It was refreshing to talk to someone that didn't carry the usual wariness most did when talking to him.
"We go way back, actually. Been friends for ages before we started dating."
"Naw, that's cute. Friends to lovers is the best trope, actually. Hands down."
Bucky wasn't entirely sure about what that meant and made a mental note to ask Sam about it later, even though he would probably just make fun of Bucky's lack of knowledge about pop culture again.
She didn't keep asking questions, seemingly aware that any more questions might border on being too personal, which Bucky appreciated. So instead of feeling the need to keep the conversation going, she just handed the finished boquet over to him.
"That'd be fifty dollars, Mr. Barnes."
Bucky didn't hesitate to hand over a crisp hundret dollar bill, dismissingly waving his hand as she reached for the change. "Keep it, kiddo. Boquet's looking extra great today, thank you."
He grabbed the flowers and left before actually giving her a chance to answer, because he wasn't really up for an unnecssary discussion about whether or not the money was too much for a tip.
The kid was respectful and friendly, and Bucky was a grown man. It was for him to decide what he wanted to spend his money on.
Besides, if she even had to work on the weekend, maybe she could use it.
The remaining walk from the florist to the cemetery was quick, especially because Bucky was eager to get there as soon as possible.Â
When he was still a young boy, Bucky never understood how visiting someone's grave would actually help to miss them a little less.
Now, he couldn't imagine going without it anymore.
In the beginning, talking to you had felt a little akward and weird, but he'd gotten usd to it by now. He didn't stumble over his words as much anymore and instead talked for hours on end sometimes.
He occasionally told you about missions, but it was mostly things that made him think of you or that he thought you would like if you were still here to experience them with him.
He often apologised, too.
Sometimes because he hadn't held his promise like he thought he would, other times because you'd lost him before the two of you ever got to live together properly.
You'd been freshly married back then, only four months into being Mr. and Mrs. Barnes before war took him from you without either of you actually being able to do anything about it.
Sitting on the grass in front of your grave now, sun shining down onto his back whilst the birds chirped in the background, something settled in his chest.
It wasn't uncomfortable like the anxiety he used to carry everywhere he went. In fact, it felt really close to something that could resemble contentment.
Bucky liked the life he got to live right now.Â
He liked that he got to go on missions with Sam, but that they weren't what he spent the majority of his time anymore.
He adored his apartment in Brooklyn, had people in his life that he loved and cared about and got to visit you whenever he pleased.
He could finally spend his life the way he wanted to, not having to worry about money or war or the freezing cold of cryostasis running through his body anymore.
He was free.
And even though he really did enjoy his life after years of learning who he was again, he knew that he wasn't afraid of death either.
Bucky wasn't sure if an afterlife and heaven were things that existed for people like him, neither if he even really believed in that kind of stuff.
He was certain that he would get to see you again, though. After all, eight decades had passed since Bucky had fallen of the train and you never tried to love someone else again, didn't get married again.
You'd kept his name, and Bucky realised that the choice you made, the fact that you let him have the honour of being your husband until the very last moment of his life, was enough to reassure him that everything was going to be okay.
After that day, Bucky still came to your grave at least once a week. He still left the girl at the flower shop too big tips and told her about you, but he didn't hold onto you as anxiously as he did before, when it felt like you slipped through hands more and more with every second that he got to live and you didn't
Now it felt like he got to live his life, just like you lived yours, before the two of you would be reunited again.
And when he was lying on the battleground five years later, too much of his blood already covering the ground for him to have any hope anymore, he didn't feel scared.
Sure, he was going to miss Sam. He'd also miss Joaquin, Sarah, the kids and the flower girl, but he knew that they were going to be okay.
Just he was going to be okay, after his eyes grew heavy and he left the world with a smile that pulled on his lips, truly at peace for the first time in what felt like forever, because he knew that when he'd open them again, you'd be there with him.
And now, the time the two of you'd get wouldn't be limited.
AN: Have a suggestive slice of life from our favourite throuple from An Artist and an Engineer for day 18 of #JuneJukeboxScribbles.
Todayâs prompt is Come and get your love â Red Bone.
Unbetaâd. Banner by me and divider by @firefly-graphics
Master list | Jukebox Master list | Series Master list | Join my tag list
Relationship: Artist! Steve Rogers x Engineer! Bucky Barnes x Female reader.
Word count: 300
CW: Fluff, Slice of life, implied sexual content
Your boys were in a cuddle-puddle on the couch when you made it home on Friday night. When the door shut behind you, they both raised their heads to look in your direction, but you waved them back down. They looked too cute and comfortable to disturb â at least right away.
You hummed to yourself as you took a shower, washing away the stress and the grime of the day and looking forward to the evening ahead, as well as the rest of the weekend. It had all been rather hectic recently and while the three of you had been spending time together, it wasnât the slow, thorough loving that you all craved.Â
But that would be fixed this evening.
You took your time getting ready, moisturising every inch of your skin, spritzing on just the right amount of perfume. Finally you eased your way into some of your favourite lingerie, smoothing it over your curves as you admired yourself in the mirror.
Turning away, you pulled your sheer robe on and then dug through the toy box to get out everything you might need for this evening. Yes, having three of you meant there was always an extra hand or two, but no-one wanted to have to break the moment to go rummaging for the lube.Â
With a final check of your hair, you exited the bedroom, gliding down the stairs back to your boys. You observed from the doorway for a moment, entranced with how Bucky was lying with his head in Steveâs lap, your artist boyfriend petting his hair.
âHey lovers,â you cooed, and suprressed a giggle as they both perked up like meerkats on patrol. Their eyes widened as they took in how you looked. You crooked your finger at them.
reader who faints in the middle of the sex after the most intense orgasm bucky gave it to her, bucky panicking and taking her to the doctor ASAP and then it turns out it was nothing serious, just overly sedated and then it goes funny and fluff from there with the nurses teasing them
The bedroom was thick with heat and the sound of ragged breathing. Bucky had you pinned beneath him, his metal arm braced beside your head while his flesh hand gripped your thigh, hiking it higher around his waist. Every thrust was deliberate, deep, and devastatingâexactly the way you liked it when he let that super-soldier stamina loose.
âYouâre so fucking tight, doll,â he growled against your neck, voice wrecked. âCome on, give it to me. One more.â
You were already trembling from the last two orgasms, but Bucky wasnât done. He shifted angles, hitting that spot inside you with ruthless precision, his thumb circling your clit in tight, slick strokes. The coil in your belly wound tighter, hotter, until it snapped with blinding force.
The orgasm crashed over you like a tidal waveâharder than anything before. Your vision whited out, back arching sharply off the bed as you cried his name. Pleasure bordered on pain, every nerve singing. Then the edges of the world blurred, your limbs going limp, and everything faded to black.
Bucky felt it instantlyâthe way your body went slack around him, your walls still fluttering but your breathing shallow and uneven. He froze mid-thrust.
âBaby?â His voice cracked. He pulled out carefully, cupping your face. âHeyâhey, sweetheart, talk to me.â
No response. Your eyes stayed closed, lashes dark against pale cheeks.
Panic hit him like a freight train. âNo, no, noâfuck!â He scooped you up, heart hammering against his ribs.
Your head lolled against his shoulder as he grabbed the nearest shirtâhis ownâand yanked it over your head. He didnât bother with pants for himself beyond boxers, wrapping you in a blanket before bolting for the door.
The drive to the nearest ER was a blur of red lights he ignored and frantic calls to Steve, who promised to meet them there.
Bucky kept one hand on your pulse the whole way, whispering apologies and pleas. âIâm so sorry, doll. Shouldâve been gentler. Stay with me, please.â
By the time he carried you through the sliding doors, nurses were already rushing forward with a gurney. They pried you from his arms despite his protests, wheeling you back while a doctor fired questions at him.
Bucky paced the waiting room like a caged animal, metal fingers flexing, until Steve arrived and forced him to sit.
An hour later, a nurse finally emerged. âMr. Barnes? Sheâs awake and stable. You can come back.â
Bucky nearly tripped rushing after her. You were sitting up in the hospital bed, looking sheepish in a gown, an IV drip in your arm and color slowly returning to your face. The moment you saw him, your lips twitched into a tired smile.
âBuckyââ
He crossed the room in two strides, pulling you into his chest. âDonât you ever scare me like that again,â he muttered into your hair, voice thick. âThought I killed you, doll. My fault. Too roughââ
âIt wasnât,â you whispered, hugging him back. âFelt amazing⊠until it didnât.â
The curtain rustled and the doctor entered, chart in hand, with two nurses trailing. âWell, Mrs. Barnesââ (Bucky didnât correct the assumption; he liked the sound of it too much.)
âEverything checks out fine. Vitals normal, no underlying conditions. Just a classic case of vasovagal syncope triggered by extreme physical exertion and an exceptionally intense⊠climax.â The doctorâs lips quirked. âYour husbandâs, ah, enthusiasm got the better of your blood pressure for a moment.â
One of the nursesâa sharp-eyed woman in her fortiesâsnorted. âWeâve seen it before, but never with a super-soldier on the chart. You two mustâve broken some kind of record.â
Your face flamed. Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, ears red. âIt, uh⊠wasnât planned.â
The second nurse, younger and clearly enjoying herself, leaned in. âHoney, next time maybe keep some snacks and Gatorade by the bed. Or, you know, pace yourselves. That man looks like he could go all night.â
Steve, who had slipped in behind the doctor, choked on a laugh and quickly turned it into a cough. Bucky shot him a betrayed glare.
You buried your face in Buckyâs shoulder, mortified but giggling. âWeâll⊠work on that.â
The doctor cleared his throat, fighting a smile. âHydrate, rest for twenty-four hours, and maybe take it easy on the acrobatics. Youâre free to go once the IV finishes.â
As the medical team filed out, the first nurse winked. âAnd congratulations on the stamina, Sergeant. The whole floorâs impressed.â
The curtain closed. Silence fell for half a second before you both dissolved into laughterâBuckyâs deep and relieved, yours lighter and still slightly dizzy.
âYou fainted because I made you come too hard,â he said, incredulous, pressing kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, your nose. âIâm never living this down.â
âPretty sure the nurses are already texting the group chat,â you teased, looping your arms around his neck. âSuper-soldier sex: now with blackout warnings.â
He groaned, but his eyes were soft, warm blue full of love. âI was terrified, doll. Thought I hurt you bad.â
âYou didnât.â You tugged him down for a gentle kiss. âIt was perfect. Until the hospital part.â
Steve poked his head back in. âI brought clothes. And Iâm never mentioning this again if you both promise to never speak of it either.â
âDeal,â you and Bucky said at the same time.
Later, back home, Bucky refused to let you walk.
He carried you straight to bedâfresh sheets, a mountain of pillows, and a tray of water, electrolytes, and your favorite snacks already waiting.
He curled around you like a protective shield, metal arm cool against your waist.
âNo more passing out on me,â he murmured, nuzzling your neck. âNext time I make you see stars, you stay conscious so you can tell me how good it feels.â
You laughed softly, threading fingers through his hair. âPromise. But maybe we test the âtaking it easyâ theory tomorrow. Slow and sweet.â
His grin was wicked and tender all at once. âWhatever you want, baby. As long as youâre okay.â
You were more than okay. Safe in Buckyâs arms, the faint memory of hospital embarrassment fading under his gentle kisses and whispered praises, you drifted off againâthis time into peaceful, dreamless sleep.
summary: after weeks of back-to-back cases, exhaustion is written all over youâ and Aaron Hotchner notices. When a relaxing dinner at Rossiâs confirms his fears, your husband takes matters into his to his own hands with a surprise getaway designed to remind you how it feels to simply breathe and relax again
Aaron Hotchner x Reader
authors note: havenât updated in daysss.. because writers block sucks and Iâve also been really busy with work. So if thereâs anyone out there with any ideas, please help me đ alsoo, I hope you enjoy reading this one! đđ
The first thing Aaron notices is that youâre rubbing the back of your neck again.
Not absentmindedly, either.
Itâs the slow, exhausted kind of movement that comes from days of too little sleep, too much coffee, and one case bleeding straight into the next before youâve had time to breathe.
The BAU has been running nonstop for almost three weeks.
A kidnapping in Ohio.
A spree killer in Colorado.
A family annihilator in Virginia.
By the time the jet touches down after the latest case, everyone is running on fumes.
Even you.
Especially you.
Aaron watches from across the aisle as you stare blankly out the window, your FBI jacket folded in your lap. Your eyes are heavy. Your shoulders are tight.
You donât even notice him looking.
His chest aches.
Because he knows you.
He knows every version of you.
The one who laughs so hard you snort when Garcia sends ridiculous memes to the team.
The one who steals fries from his plate and pretends you didnât.
The one who curls up beside him on the couch with a book after a long week.
And right now?
Youâre none of those things.
Youâre exhausted.
âSweetheart.â
You blink and turn toward him.
âHm?â
Aaron offers a small smile.
âWeâre home.â
You glance around as if youâve forgotten where you are.
âRight.â
The concern settles deeper in his chest.
â
Two nights later, Rossi insists on hosting dinner.
âNobody is allowed to talk about serial killers,â he announces as everyone arrives. âOr paperwork. Or psychological profiling.â
Garcia points dramatically toward him.
âYouâre taking away eighty percent of our personalities.â
Rossi laughs.
âThen discover the other twenty.â
The evening turns out exactly how everyone needs it to.
Wine flows.
Music plays softly through the house.
Emily and Morgan argue over some ridiculous story from years ago.
Garcia keeps stealing food from everyoneâs plates.
JJ laughs harder than youâve heard her laugh in months.
For a while, the tension eases.
For everyone except Aaron.
Because even as youâre smiling, he notices the little things.
The way you lean heavily against the kitchen counter.
The tired shadows beneath your eyes.
The way your smile fades whenever you think nobody is watching.
And Aaron is always watching.
Not in a profiler way.
In a husband way.
A deeply, hopelessly in-love husband way.
Later, while everyone is gathered around Rossiâs patio table, you sit beside him with a glass of wine cradled between your hands.
The evening air is cool.
Comfortable.
You seem calmer.
But still tired.
Aaron slides a hand onto your knee beneath the table.
Your fingers immediately find his.
A habit.
An instinct.
His favourite one.
âYou okay?â he asks quietly.
You smile.
âJust tired.â
âThatâs what youâve been saying for weeks.â
Your expression softens.
âI know.â
Neither of you speaks for a moment.
The conversation around the table continues.
Morgan is teasing Reid.
Garcia is threatening violence.
Rossi is pretending not to enjoy the chaos.
Aaron squeezes your hand.
Then he says casually,
âTake next week off.â
You nearly choke on your wine.
âWhat?â
âTake next week off.â
âAaronââ
âIâm serious.â
You stare at him.
âWe have paperwork.â
âItâll survive.â
âCases.â
âWe have a team.â
You narrow your eyes.
âWhat are you planning?â
The corner of his mouth twitches.
A dangerous sign.
For you, anyway.
Because whenever Aaron Hotchner gets that look, heâs already made up his mind.
âA vacation.â
You blink.
âA vacation?â
âYes.â
âThose are real?â
He actually laughs.
A genuine laugh.
And the sound makes your heart do embarrassing things.
âApparently.â
You stare.
Aaron simply sips his wine.
Calm
Collected.
As if he hasnât just suggested something completely insane.
âAaron.â
âHm?â
âYou hate vacations.â
âI donât hate vacations.â
âYou brought case files on our honeymoon.â
âI brought one case file.â
âYou brought three.â
Aaron wisely decides not to argue.
â
Three days later, youâre standing beside him at a small lakeside cabin several states away from Virginia.
No phones ringing.
No briefing room.
No crime scenes.
No paperwork.
Just trees.
Water.
Quiet.
The kind of quiet you forgot existed.
You stand on the porch staring out across the lake.
A breeze brushes against your skin.
Somewhere nearby, birds chirp.
The water glitters beneath the afternoon sun.
And for the first time in weeksâŠ
You feel your shoulders relax.
Aaron appears beside you carrying two mugs of coffee.
âStill think this was a bad idea?â
You take the mug.
âAsk me tomorrow.â
He smirks.
âFair.â
The next few days pass slowly.
Wonderfully slowly.
You sleep in.
You read books.
You take long walks along the shoreline.
You spend entire afternoons doing absolutely nothing.
At first it feels strange.
Your brain keeps waiting for a phone call.
A case.
A crisis.
Something.
But nothing comes.
And gradually, you stop waiting.
Aaron notices before you do.
The tension leaves your shoulders.
The crease between your eyebrows disappears.
Your laughter comes easier.
Your smile becomes genuine again.
One evening youâre sitting together on the dock as the sun begins to set.
Your legs dangle over the edge.
The lake reflects streaks of gold and orange.
Beautiful.
Peaceful.
You lean your head against Aaronâs shoulder.
His arm settles around your waist.
For a long time, neither of you says anything.
You simply watch the sunset.
Eventually you glance up at him.
âThank you.â
Aaron kisses the top of your head.
âFor what?â
âFor this.â
His gaze remains fixed on the water.
âYou donât have to thank me.â
âI do.â
Aaron is quiet for a moment.
Then he turns slightly toward you.
The setting sun catches the softness in his eyes.
The expression only a handful of people ever get to see.
You.
Jack.
His family.
âHoney,â he says gently, âI donât like seeing you exhausted.â
Your heart melts instantly.
âYou worry too much.â
âI do.â
âAt least youâre honest.â
Aaron smiles.
Then he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear.
A touch so tender it steals your breath.
âI like seeing you like this.â
You tilt your head.
âLike what?â
âHappy.â
The answer comes so quickly that you know he didnât have to think about it.
Not even for a second.
Aaron presses a kiss against your forehead.
Then another.
And another.
Until youâre laughing.
A real laugh.
Light and carefree.
The kind he hasnât heard in weeks.
Aaron smiles against your skin.
Because thatâs exactly why he brought you here.
Not for the lake.
Not for the cabin.
Not even for the vacation.
But for this.
For the sound of your laughter.
For the sight of you relaxed and smiling in his arms.
For the reminder that the world can wait for a little while.
And as the sun disappears beneath the horizon and Aaron pulls you closer against his side, you realize something.
Maybe rest isnât a luxury.
Maybe itâs necessary.
And maybe being loved by Aaron Hotchner means having someone who notices when youâre carrying too much long before youâre willing to admit it yourself.
Series Summary: Amidst growing sexual tension in your shared home - often alone due to your motherâs business trips, you and Steve Rogers, a police officer and your stepfather, finally engage in a forbidden relationship⊠that is soon joined by his best friend, Bucky Barnes.
Wordcount: 16.3 k
Pairing: Stepdad! Steve Rogers x Reader x DBF! Bucky Barnes
Warnings: MDNI, stepcest, daddy kink, dom/sub dynamics, oral (f receiving), fingering, p in v, slight uniform kink, age gap (reader is of age), threesome, mulitple orgasms, overstimulation, pet names (sweetheart, baby, dollface), praise kink, mention of infidelity (Steve cheats on his wife with reader), no use of Y/N
A/N: This is the end of this series. I'm kinda glad it's over, I was running out of ideas for it. Beta read by the marvelous Cassie as always.
Masterlist- Series Masterlist - Prev
Bucky sat at the scarred wooden table in his kitchen, the steam from his mug of black coffee curling lazily upward like a ghost unwilling to depart. His right hand cradled the ceramic handle, though he hadn't taken a sip in minutes.
His gaze drifted out the window, unfocused on the gray drizzle pattering against the glass, turning the world outside into a blurred watercolor of parked cars and sodden sidewalks.
The apartment felt emptier than usual, the air thick with the scent of brewed coffee and the faint, lingering trace of takeout from last night's solitary meal.
It had been a week.
Exactly seven days since you'd slipped from the tangled warmth of their bodies in the dim light of dawn, your bare feet silent on the floorboards as you gathered your things and vanished like smoke. No note, no whispered goodbye â just the echo of your confession hanging in the air like an unexploded bomb. Love you. Those words had spilled from your lips in the hazy afterglow, raw and unguarded, and now they festered in the silence that followed your departure.
He and Steve had pieced together fragments of your whereabouts from the thinnest threads.
Your mother had mentioned it offhand to Steve during one of their strained dinners â something about you crashing at a friend's for a few days to clear your head. But âa few daysâ had stretched into a week, and still, your phone remained a black hole, swallowing texts and calls without reply.
Bucky's messages piled up unread: simple at first â Hey, you okay? â then laced with worry â Talk to us, dollface â and finally edged with frustration â This isn't like you. Please.
Steve's were shorter, more direct, his impatience bleeding through We need to see you.
No response. Nothing.
The tension between him and Steve had simmered all week, bubbling over during patrols and late-night stakeouts.
Steve paced like a caged lion in the precinct locker room, his jaw set in that unyielding line, muttering about how you'd 'run scared' after baring your soul. Bucky felt it too, a knot of irritation twisting in his gut, but beneath it lurked something sharper â hurt, maybe, or the gnawing fear that you avoided them thinking theyâd rejected you, with them not saying a damn word.
They'd replayed that night in hushed tones over beers at the dive bar down the block: the way your body had arched between them, slick and trembling; the gasps and praises that had filled the room; the vulnerability in your eyes as you whispered those words to each of them. Had it been too much? Too real? Steve, ever the strategist, suggested giving you space, but his blue eyes darkened with possessiveness whenever Bucky brought it up. They both wanted you back â craved the heat of your skin, the way you fit so perfectly in their arms â but the radio silence stung like salt in a fresh wound.
Bucky finally lifted the mug to his lips, the coffee bitter on his tongue, mirroring the ache in his chest. He set it down with a soft clink, running his fingers through his disheveled hair.
The clock on the wall ticked relentlessly, marking another morning without you.
Outside, the rain picked up, drumming harder against the pane, as if the sky itself mourned the distance. He wondered where you were right now â curled up on someone's couch with a mug of tea, staring at your phone, heart pounding at the sight of their names? Or had you pushed them to the back of your mind, burying the memory of their touches under layers of denial?
The not knowing clawed at him. For now, he sat there, lost in the window's hazy reflection, waiting for the silence to break.
The afternoon sun slanted through the windshield of the patrol car, casting long shadows across the dashboard as Bucky and Steve cruised the familiar streets of the neighborhood.
The radio crackled sporadically with dispatch updates â nothing urgent, just the usual hum of routine calls â but the air inside the vehicle felt heavier, charged with the unspoken weight of the past week.
Steve gripped the steering wheel a little too tightly, his knuckles whitening as he navigated a turn, his broad shoulders tense beneath the crisp blue uniform shirt. Bucky slouched in the passenger seat, one boot propped against the door panel, his eyes scanning the sidewalks lined with mom-and-pop shops and chain-link fences. The silence between them had stretched thin, punctuated only by the low rumble of the engine and the occasional sigh from Steve, who couldn't seem to let go of his frustration.
Steve launched into another rant, his voice low and edged with irritation, recounting how he'd checked his phone for the umpteenth time that morning.
âShe's ghosting us, Buck. After everythingâ after she said those words? It's like she hit the eject button and left us hanging.â
He glanced sideways, blue eyes narrowing, expecting Bucky to chime in with agreement or commiseration. Bucky's jaw tightened, but before he could respond, his phone buzzed sharply in his pocket, vibrating against his thigh like an insistent pulse.
He fished it out with a quick motion, the screen lighting up his face in the dim interior. The notification flashed: your name. Bucky's breath caught, his thumb hovering for a split second before he unlocked it. Steve noticed the shift immediately, his words trailing off mid-sentence.
âWhat? Who is it?â
But Bucky held up a hand, his expression hardening as he read the message.
The words were stark, stripped bare.
I need to talk to both of you. It's urgent.
No pleasantries, no emojis â just the raw urgency that made his chest tighten.
âShut it, Steve,â Bucky snapped, his voice cutting through the cab like a whip, sharper than he'd intended.
Steve's eyebrows shot up, surprise flickering across his face before it settled into a scowl, but he clamped his mouth shut, eyes flicking back to the road. Bucky typed rapidly, his fingers steady despite the sudden rush of adrenaline coursing through him.
We're off tomorrow. Come to my place for breakfast. 9 AM?
He hit send, the whoosh of the message echoing in the sudden quiet. The car rolled to a stop at a red light, the wipers swishing idly against a light mist that had begun to speckle the glass.
Seconds stretched into what felt like minutes, the tension coiling tighter.
Then, your reply pinged back.
OK.
Simple.
Final.
Bucky exhaled slowly, leaning back against the headrest, his free hand rubbing at the stubble along his jaw. Steve shot him a sidelong glance, curiosity overriding his earlier annoyance.
âThat her?â
Bucky nodded, pocketing the phone with deliberate care.
âYeah. Wants to talk. Tomorrow morning at my place.â
Steve's grip on the wheel eased fractionally, a mix of relief and wariness settling over his features. He nodded once, decisive.
âGood. About damn time.â
The light turned green, and Steve accelerated smoothly, the car merging back into traffic. Bucky stared out at the passing buildings, the knot in his stomach loosening just a fraction.
Urgent.
The word lingered in his mind, stirring a whirlwind of possibilities â what had you been wrestling with all week?
Regret?
Fear?
Or something that could bridge the chasm your silence had carved?
He didn't know, but for the first time in days, the emptiness felt like it might fill, even if only with answers. The patrol continued, the city unfolding around them, but Bucky's thoughts stayed fixed on the morning ahead, on the sound of your voice breaking the quiet once more.
The clock on the kitchen wall ticked relentlessly toward seven in the evening, but outside Bucky's apartment window, the sky cracked open with a sudden fury. Rain hammered against the glass in sheets, turning the streetlights into blurred halos and flooding the sidewalks with rushing water.
Bucky stood at the sink, rinsing a mug under the faucet, his broad frame silhouetted against the storm.
He glanced out, irritation etching deep lines across his forehead, his dark hair still damp from an earlier shower. The downpour seemed to mock him, relentless and unyielding, mirroring the storm churning inside his chest. He set the mug down with a clink, wiping his hands on a dish towel, and paced to the living room window.
The world beyond was a watery haze â cars splashing through puddles, pedestrians huddling under umbrellas that offered little protection. Bucky pressed his palm against the cool pane, willing the hours to blur past.
The morning felt impossibly distant, trapped in some eternal limbo. He couldn't shake the gnawing anticipation, the what-ifs swirling like the wind-whipped rain.
Would you show up?
What urgent words would spill from your lips?
The silence of the past week had been torture enough; this waiting amplified it into something sharper, more insistent.
He turned away, sinking onto the worn leather couch, the cushions dipping under his weight.
The apartment was quiet, save for the rhythmic drumming on the roof and the distant rumble of thunder.
Bucky rubbed his stubbled jaw, his blue eyes distant as he replayed the day's patrol in his mind â the terse exchange with Steve, the simple OK that had lit a fragile spark of hope.
But now, with the night closing in, doubt crept back. He flicked on the TV, muting the news channel to a low hum of voices and images, but his attention wandered. Time stretched, elastic and mocking; eight o'clock came and went, then eight-fifteen, each minute dragging like an anchor.
By half-past eight, Bucky had retreated to the kitchen again, brewing a fresh pot of coffee despite the late hour, the rich aroma filling the air.
The storm showed no signs of letting up, lightning flashing intermittently to illuminate the room in stark white bursts. He poured a cup, the steam curling upward, and leaned against the counter, staring at the floor.
That's when it started â a sharp, insistent pounding at the door, not a knock but a frantic barrage, echoing through the hallway like gunfire.
Bucky's head snapped up, his body tensing instinctively, muscles coiling as if ready for a fight.
Who the hell would be out in this mess, banging like that?
He set the cup down hard, coffee sloshing over the rim, and strode to the door, his bare feet padding across the cool hardwood. Irritation flared hot in his veins; he was in no mood for solicitors or neighbors complaining about the noise from his nonexistent party.
He yanked the door open, the hinges creaking, a sharp retort already forming on his lips â something along the lines of What the fuck do you want? â but the words died in his throat.
There you stood, framed in the dim hallway light, a drenched vision of distress.
Rainwater streamed from your hair, plastering strands to your cheeks, your clothes clinging transparently to your skin like a second, sodden layer. Your chest heaved with ragged breaths, as if you'd sprinted the last few blocks, shoulders shaking not just from the chill but from the sobs wracking your body. Tears mixed with the rain on your face, carving salty paths down to your chin, your eyes red-rimmed and wide with a desperation that hit Bucky like a punch to the gut.
For a heartbeat, maybe two, he just stared, frozen in the doorway, the storm's roar fading to a dull backdrop.
Your lips parted, but no words came â only a choked gasp, your hands trembling at your sides, droplets pooling at your feet on the welcome mat.
Bucky's irritation evaporated, replaced by a surge of protectiveness that propelled him forward. âJesus,â he muttered under his breath, reaching out to grasp your arm gently but firmly, pulling you inside with a swift motion. He kicked the door shut behind you, the latch clicking softly amid the chaos of your breathing.
The warmth of the apartment enveloped you immediately, a stark contrast to the biting cold outside, but you shivered violently, arms wrapping around yourself as fresh sobs bubbled up.
Bucky's hands hovered for a moment, uncertain, before he shrugged off his hoodie in one fluid pull, draping the dry fabric over your shoulders. It swallowed you, the sleeves dangling past your fingertips, carrying his faint scent of soap and coffee.
âHey, hey,â he said softly, his voice a low rumble, guiding you toward the couch with a hand at the small of your back.
You stumbled slightly, legs unsteady, and he steadied you, his touch careful, like handling something fragile. You collapsed onto the cushions, the sobs intensifying now that the immediate shock of the door had passed â deep, wrenching sounds that tore from your throat, your face buried in your hands. Words failed you entirely; your body curled in on itself, knees drawn up, the weight of whatever had driven you here crashing down in waves.
Bucky knelt in front of you, his knees pressing into the rug, one hand resting lightly on your knee through the damp fabric of your jeans. Rainwater dripped from your hair onto the floor, forming small dark spots, but he didn't care.
His eyes searched your face, concern etching worry lines around his mouth.
âWhat happened?â he asked, keeping his tone even, though his heart pounded with a mix of fear and urgency.
You shook your head, unable to form the explanation, the tears flowing unchecked. He nodded slowly, not pushing, and rose to fetch a towel from the bathroom, returning to blot gently at your hair and face. The simple act was grounding, his presence a solid anchor in the emotional tempest. Outside, the rain continued its assault, but inside, Bucky focused solely on you, waiting patiently as your sobs began to quiet into hiccuping breaths, the first fragile bridge toward whatever truth you needed to share.
âI... I went back home to... To get some clothes,â you managed, your chest heaving with the effort to push the words past the lump in your throat.
Bucky's hand paused mid-motion, the towel still clutched loosely in his fingers, as your words tumbled out in broken fragments. You wiped at your eyes with the back of your hand, the gesture sharp and furious, smearing the remnants of mascara across your knuckles like war paint. Your voice cracked on the first syllable, raw and unsteady, as if speaking it aloud made the horror more real.
âMy mother told me Steve wouldn't be there.â
The sentence hung in the air, heavy with the betrayal of that simple lie, and you drew in a shuddering breath, only for another sob to wrench free from deep inside, echoing softly in the quiet apartment.
The rain outside battered the windows like an unrelenting drumbeat, but Bucky barely registered it now. His blue eyes locked onto yours, wide with a dawning comprehension that tightened his jaw. You pressed on, the story spilling out in fits and starts, your hands twisting in the damp hem of his hoodie.
âWhen... When I entered...â
Your voice faltered again, the memory flashing vivid and cruel behind your eyelids â the creak of the front door, the muffled sounds drifting from the bedroom like smoke.
âI heard them... They were there, both of them... He... He...â
Fresh tears welled up, hot and unstoppable, tracing rivulets down your flushed cheeks. You couldn't finish.
Bucky moved without thinking, his callused thumb brushing away the tears with a gentleness that belied his broad, solid frame. He cupped your face in both hands now, tilting it up so you couldn't hide, his touch warm and steady against your chilled skin. The faint scent of his cologne mingled with the earthy smell of rain clinging to you, grounding you in the moment.
âShh, it's okay,â he murmured, his voice a low, soothing rumble that vibrated through his chest.
But you forced the final words out, the vulgarity slipping past your lips like a confession of sin.
âHe was fucking her.â
The room seemed to still, the storm's fury fading to a distant roar as Bucky processed it all. His thumbs stilled on your cheeks, eyes searching yours with a flicker of shock that quickly hardened into something protective, fierce.
Steve â his partner, his friend, the man tangled in this impossible web with you â caught in the act with your mother. His wife. The pieces clicked into place like a lock tumbler: your frantic arrival, the sobs that shook you like aftershocks, and the weight of last week's confession echoing in his mind. You'd laid it bare then, in the hazy afterglow of tangled limbs and whispered promises â love for both of them, a forbidden ache that bound you in equal measure.
And now, to walk in on that? To hear one of the men you loved claiming another woman, your own mother, with the same raw intensity he'd shown you?
It hit Bucky like a gut punch, empathy surging through him hot and immediate.
He pulled you closer without a word, wrapping his arms around your trembling form and drawing you against his chest. Your face pressed into the soft cotton of his t-shirt, absorbing the steady thump of his heartbeat, faster now but resolute.Â
âGod, dollface,â he breathed into your hair, one hand stroking slow circles along your back, the other cradling the nape of your neck. The damp fabric of your clothes seeped into his shirt, but he didn't pull away; instead, he held you tighter, as if he could shield you from the pain radiating off you in waves.
Your sobs muffled against him, quieter now but no less heartbreaking, your fingers clutching at his sides like a lifeline. Bucky's mind raced â anger simmering toward Steve for the recklessness, sorrow for the fresh wound you'd just torn open in yourself â but he shoved it down, focusing on you.
This wasn't the time for his own turmoil; it was yours to unravel.
Minutes stretched as he rocked you gently on the couch, the towel forgotten on the floor beside his knees. The apartment's warmth began to thaw the chill from your bones, but the emotional frost lingered, your body still wracked with occasional hitches.
Bucky murmured soft reassurances, words like âI've got youâ and âYou're safe hereâ weaving through the quiet, his breath warm against your temple. He didn't press for more details, didn't demand explanations; he just let you cry it out, his presence a solid wall against the chaos. When your breathing finally evened, the sobs tapering to sniffles, he eased back just enough to meet your gaze again. His eyes were soft, lined with concern, but there was a spark of determination there too â the kind that promised he'd stand by you through whatever storm came next.
âTell me what you need,â he said finally, his voice steady, thumb tracing a gentle path along your jawline. âStay here tonight. Or longer. Whatever it takes.â
Outside, the rain showed no signs of mercy, mirroring the deluge inside you, but in Bucky's arms, the first fragile threads of comfort began to weave themselves back together.
Bucky's arms remained a steadfast anchor around you, his broad chest rising and falling in a rhythm that coaxed your own breathing to slow, even as the storm outside howled its indifference. The warmth of his body seeped through the thin barrier of his t-shirt, chasing away the damp chill that had settled into your skin from the relentless downpour.
He held you there on the couch, one hand splayed across your back in slow, deliberate strokes, the other cradling the curve of your head against his shoulder. The faint stubble on his jaw grazed your forehead as he shifted slightly, his voice emerging low and measured, laced with a concern that made your chest ache anew.
âDid you walk all the way from your mom's place to here?â he asked, his breath warm against your hair, the words carrying a note of disbelief mingled with quiet worry.
You nodded against him, the motion small and jerky, your fingers still twisted into the fabric of his shirt as if letting go might unravel you completely. The rain had plastered your clothes to your body, strands of hair clinging wetly to your neck, but in his embrace, the world narrowed to the steady beat of his heart.
âI didn't think,â you whispered, your voice hoarse from the tears and the run, the words tumbling out in a rush of raw honesty. âI just... ran.â
He didn't press, didn't demand more; instead, Bucky tightened his hold just a fraction, rocking you gently as if you were something fragile and precious, his chin resting atop your head. The motion was instinctive, soothing, like waves lapping at a shore worn smooth by time.
Minutes blurred into a hazy stretch of silence broken only by the patter of rain against the glass and the occasional hitch in your breath.
His hand continued its path along your spine, fingers tracing lazy patterns that eased the tension knotted there, while the scent of his skin â clean soap and a hint of the coffee he'd been drinking â wrapped around you like a blanket.
Eventually, as your sobs faded to quiet sniffles and the trembling in your limbs subsided, Bucky pulled back enough to look at you, his blue eyes searching your face with an intensity that stripped away any pretense. His thumb brushed a lingering tear from the corner of your eye, the touch feather-light, before he spoke again, his voice steady but probing.
âWhat was it you wanted to talk about? All three of us?â
The question hung between you, pulling at the fragile threads of your resolve. Your heart pounded in your ears, a frantic drumbeat that drowned out the storm for a moment. You swallowed hard, the words you'd rehearsed in your mind during that frantic dash through the rain now feeling heavy on your tongue, impossible to hold back any longer. Your hands, still damp and cold, pressed flat against his chest as you lifted your gaze to meet his, the vulnerability raw and exposed in your eyes.
âI'm pregnant,â you said, the confession slipping out in a whisper that carried the weight of worlds colliding â fear, hope, terror all tangled in those two simple words.
The air in the room thickened, charged with the enormity of it, as Bucky's expression shifted from concern to stunned silence, his eyes widening just a fraction while his arms instinctively drew you closer once more.
Bucky's eyes locked onto yours, the initial shock etching lines of disbelief across his features as the words hung in the air like a fragile secret finally unleashed.
For a heartbeat, the room seemed to hold its breath, the rain's relentless drumming against the windows fading into a distant murmur.
His arms, still wrapped around you, tensed ever so slightly, his fingers pausing their gentle strokes along your back as the full weight of your confession sank in. Then, slowly, a smile broke through the surprise â a soft, emotional curve of his lips that reached deep into his eyes, crinkling the corners with a mix of wonder and tenderness that made your throat tighten.
âAre you sure?â he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, thick with emotion, as if speaking any louder might shatter the moment. His hand lifted to cup your cheek, thumb tracing the damp trail of a tear with infinite care, his gaze searching yours for any hint of doubt.
You nodded, the motion steady despite the whirlwind inside you, your hands still pressed against the solid warmth of his chest. âI took a test two days ago,â you explained, the words steadying as you spoke them aloud for the first time to him. âAnd then I got a blood draw to confirm it. Itâs real. Itâs happening.â
The confirmation seemed to settle over him like a warm blanket, his smile deepening as he exhaled a breath heâd been holding, pulling you closer until your forehead rested against his.
But then, the vulnerability crept back in, your voice dropping to a tiny, trembling thread as you added the part that terrified you most.
âI donât know if the baby is yours or Steveâs,â you confessed, the admission feeling like a crack in your armor, exposing the raw fear beneath. âAnd I... I donât even know if Steve would want this. Want us like this.â
Your words carried the echo of those heated nights, the times Bucky had growled promises against your skin in the throes of passion â whispered fantasies of filling you, of claiming you in the most primal way, of seeing you swell with his child. But those had been fevered declarations, lost in the sweat and gasps of ecstasy, never dissected in the quiet light of day. Now, with the reality pressing in, doubt gnawed at you, twisting your stomach into knots.
Bucky felt it all â the tremor in your voice, the way your body curled instinctively toward him as if seeking shelter from the storm of uncertainties. His expression softened further, a flicker of resolve hardening in his eyes as he shifted, easing you back just enough to look at you fully. One hand remained at your waist, grounding you, while the other threaded through your damp hair, tilting your face up to his.
He searched your eyes for a long moment, the silence between you charged with unspoken depths, before he spoke, his voice low and sincere, stripped of any pretense.
âI love you,â he said simply, the words pouring out like a dam breaking, raw and unfiltered. His gaze held yours without wavering, the confession carrying the weight of everything heâd held back â the late-night worries, the stolen glances during patrols, the ache of your absence over the past week.
âIâve loved you for longer than I let myself admit. And this baby... whether itâs mine or Steveâs, it doesnât change that. Weâll figure it out together. All of us. Youâre not alone in thisâ not for a second.â
Bucky's words lingered in the air between you, a fragile bridge over the chasm of your fears, his hand still cradling the nape of your neck as if to anchor you against the pull of doubt.
The warmth of his confession seeped into your skin, easing the knot in your chest just enough to draw a shaky breath, but before you could summon the words to reply â before you could bridge the gap with your own tangled emotions â a sharp knock echoed through the apartment, cutting the intimacy like a blade.
Bucky's brow furrowed, his eyes narrowing toward the door as the sound repeated, insistent against the steady roar of rain outside. He hesitated for a split second, his thumb brushing once more along your jawline in a silent promise of return, then rose from the couch with a low sigh. The floorboards creaked under his weight as he crossed the room, his broad frame casting a long shadow in the dim lamplight.
He paused at the door, hand on the knob, glancing back at you with a flicker of reluctance before twisting it open.
There stood Steve, drenched from the storm, his dark hair plastered to his forehead in wet strands, droplets tracing rivulets down his neck and soaking into the collar of his jacket. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched forward as if bracing against the gale-force wind that whipped sheets of rain across the threshold. Water pooled at his boots, and the chill clung to him like a second skin, making his usually steady posture seem just a touch diminished by the downpour.
Bucky's expression darkened instantly, a scowl pulling at his features as recognition dawned â jaw tightening, eyes flashing with a mix of irritation and guarded surprise.
For a moment, he lingered in the doorway, blocking the entry like a sentinel, the tension between the two men crackling sharper than the thunder rumbling in the distance.
But then, with a curt nod, Bucky stepped aside, gesturing Steve in without a word, the door clicking shut behind him to seal out the tempest.
Steve shook off the worst of the rain, his gaze sweeping the room until it landed on you, curled into the corner of the couch with Bucky's blanket draped loosely over your lap. Relief softened his features for an instant, a small, tentative smile tugging at his lips as he took a step forward, arms unfolding from his sides as if drawn by instinct to close the distance.
âHey,â he started, voice rough from the cold, laced with that familiar warmth that always seemed to wrap around you like a shield.
But the sight of him â solid, unyielding, the man who'd been woven into every secret ache of your heart â triggered something raw and visceral inside you. Your body reacted before your mind could catch up, a instinctive recoil that pulled you back against the cushions, knees drawing up slightly as if to create an invisible barrier.
The tears you'd only just stemmed welled up again, hot and unrelenting, spilling over your lashes and carving fresh paths down your cheeks. They blurred your vision, turning Steve's approaching form into a hazy outline, but the hurt in your chest sharpened everything else â the sting of betrayal from hours earlier, the weight of the secret now blooming inside you, the terror of how it might shatter everything.
Steve froze mid-step, his smile vanishing as concern etched deep lines across his face, brows knitting together in alarm. He halted a few feet away, hands lifting slightly in a placating gesture, palms open and empty.
âWhat happened?â he asked, his tone dropping to a urgent hush, laced with worry that bordered on panic. He scanned you from head to toe, taking in the redness of your eyes, the way your shoulders trembled under the blanket, searching for clues in the disarray of your damp clothes and the pallor of your skin.
âSweetheart, talk to meâ what's wrong? Did something happen to you?â
Bucky, sensing the shift like a predator attuned to vulnerability, moved without hesitation. He crossed back to the couch in two long strides, his presence a solid wall at your side as he sank down beside you, closer this time, his thigh pressing firmly against yours for reassurance. One arm slid around your shoulders, pulling you gently into his warmth, his free hand finding yours under the blanket to squeeze with steady pressure.
He shot Steve a look over your head â part warning, part solidarity â his jaw set as he murmured low against your temple, âEasy now. Iâm here.â
The rain continued its assault outside, but in that moment, the three of you formed a tense triangle, the unspoken currents of love, fear, and uncertainty swirling thicker than the storm.
Bucky's growl rumbled low in his chest, a protective rumble that vibrated through the air as he watched you shrink further into the cushions, your silence a wall he wouldn't let Steve breach just yet. His arm tightened around your shoulders, fingers digging in just enough to ground you, his body a barrier between you and the man whose presence now hung heavy with misunderstanding.
âShe heard you,â Bucky snapped, his voice rough and edged with accusation, eyes locked on Steve like a challenge. âYou and her mother. She came home because you weren't supposed to be there, and she heard you... fucking, or whatever the hell it was. How could you do that? A week without her, and you just slide back to her mother like nothing happened? Like she means shit?â
The words spilled out hot and unfiltered, Bucky's frustration boiling over from the days of your absence, the unanswered calls, the gnawing worry that had eaten at him.
Steve's face twisted in confusion, his blue eyes widening as the pieces refused to fit, brows furrowing deeper with each syllable Bucky hurled. He stood there, still damp from the rain, jacket clinging to his broad shoulders, hands half-raised as if to ward off the assault of words.
The storm outside battered the windows, but the real tempest brewed in the room, thick with the scent of wet wool and unspoken betrayals.
He opened his mouth once, twice, searching for the right response, his jaw clenching as incomprehension warred with the dawning horror of what you might have walked into. Finally, he shook his head, voice steady but laced with bewilderment.
âI... what? I just came from Sam and Sharon's. Sam needed a hand hauling a washing machine up to their apartment â damn thing weighed a ton â and there was no way Sharon was lifting anything, not with her being pregnant like that. I had dinner there, helped them settle in. I wasn't home for the last two hours.â
His gaze shifted to you then, pleading for clarity, the lines around his eyes deepening with concern.
Only then did you lift your head, your neck aching from the hours curled in on yourself, tears carving salty trails that blurred the edges of Steve's familiar face. Your voice emerged trembling, fragile as a whisper caught in the rain's relentless drum, each word cracking under the weight of relief and lingering doubt.
âYou... it wasn't you? Fucking my mom, then? I heard themâ moans, the bed creakingâ I thought it was you, coming back to her after... after us.â
The confession hung there, raw and exposed, your chest heaving as fresh sobs threatened to rise, the terror of betrayal twisting like a knife even as hope flickered dimly.
Steve shook his head again, more firmly this time, a vehement denial that softened his features with a mix of sorrow and quiet resolve. No anger flared at the implication of his wife's infidelity â how could he, when he'd been the first to stray, his heart and body long entangled elsewhere? The guilt flickered in his eyes, brief but real, overshadowed by the ache of seeing you so broken. He should have raged, demanded answers about her wandering, but in that moment, all that mattered was you, unraveling before him.
The dam broke fully then, your body surging forward on instinct, launching yourself across the scant space between you.
You crashed into Steve's arms, the solid wall of his chest absorbing your momentum, his jacket cool and damp against your cheek as sobs wracked your frame in violent shudders. He caught you effortlessly, strong arms wrapping around your waist and back, pulling you flush against him as if to shield you from the world. One hand cradled the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair with gentle pressure, while the other rubbed slow circles along your spine, his touch a soothing rhythm against the storm inside you.
âShh, it's okay,â he murmured into your hair, voice low and reassuring, his breath warm against your scalp. âI'm here. Whatever happened, we're sorting it now. You're safe.â
Bucky shifted beside you, his hand lingering on your arm in silent support, the three of you tangled in a web of relief and unresolved tension, the rain's fury outside mirroring the emotional torrent that finally began to ebb.
Over the crown of your head, still buried against Steve's chest, Bucky's gaze locked onto his best friend with a quiet intensity, the weight of unspoken words hanging between them like the lingering patter of rain against the windows. His jaw tightened subtly, the lines of his face etched with a mix of resolve and empathy, knowing the storm of emotions that needed to break free.
âYou gotta tell her,â Bucky said, his voice low and steady, cutting through the hushed sobs that had begun to quiet in your throat. âWhat you really feel. No more holding back.â
Steve nodded slowly, the motion careful and deliberate, his arms never loosening their hold around you as if afraid you'd slip away again into the shadows of doubt. The damp fabric of his jacket pressed against your skin, a cool contrast to the warmth radiating from his body, and as your breathing evened out â ragged gasps turning to shallow, steady inhales â he tilted his head down.
His fingers gently cupped your chin, lifting your face until your tear-streaked eyes met his. Those blue depths, usually so steady and commanding, now shimmered with vulnerability, the faint stubble along his jaw catching the dim light from the lamp as he searched your gaze.
âDarlinâ,â he murmured, the endearment slipping out like a confession, his voice rough from the emotion clogging it.
âI'm completely, irremediably in love with you. Have been for longer than I can pretend otherwise.â
The words hung there, raw and unadorned, his voice cracking just enough to reveal the depth of his confession, the way his heart had long ago surrendered to this forbidden pull.
Your lips parted, a fragile whisper escaping as you blinked up at him, lashes clumped with moisture.
âFor real?â The question came out tiny, almost childlike, laced with the remnants of fear that had gripped you for days â the terror of being just a fleeting indulgence in his complicated life.
âFor real,â Steve echoed, his response barely above a breath, a tender smile curving his lips despite the gravity of the moment. It softened the sharp angles of his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes with genuine warmth, his thumb brushing away a stray tear from your cheek in a gesture so gentle it made your chest ache anew.
The relief washed over you then, a tidal wave that loosened the knot in your stomach, and in that fragile peace, you gathered the courage for the revelation that had burned inside you since the test's positive line appeared. Your hand trembled as it rested against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm.
âI'm pregnant,â you said, the words tumbling out in a rush, your voice steadying even as your pulse raced. The room seemed to still, the rain's rhythm fading into a distant hum, as the enormity of it settled over the three of you.
Bucky, who had already absorbed the news in the frantic moments before Steve's arrival â your whispered confession amid fresh tears as you collapsed into his arms â watched his best friend now with a keen, unblinking stare. He leaned back against the couch arm, his posture deceptively casual, but his fingers drummed a silent rhythm on his knee, betraying the undercurrent of tension.
Steve's body went rigid for a split second, his embrace tightening instinctively around you, breath catching in his throat as the words sank in. His eyes widened fractionally, searching yours for confirmation, a flicker of shock giving way to something deeper â wonder, perhaps, mingled with the sharp sting of uncertainty.
Bucky's gaze never wavered, tracking every nuance of Steve's reaction: the subtle swallow, the way his free hand clenched at his side before relaxing, the slow exhale that followed as the reality took root.
In that suspended moment, the bonds between you all â tangled, unbreakable â shifted once more, pulling you deeper into the uncharted territory of what came next.
Steve's face paled slightly as the words hung in the air, his blue eyes widening with a mix of shock and dawning realization. He blinked slowly, processing the revelation that had just upended everything â the pregnancy, the uncertainty of paternity, the tangled web of their shared desires now manifesting into something real and irreversible. His arms, still wrapped loosely around your waist, tightened just a fraction, as if anchoring himself to you amid the whirlwind of emotions swirling in his chest.
The room felt heavier, the distant patter of rain against the windows underscoring the gravity of the moment, while the faint scent of damp clothes and lingering coffee from earlier mingled in the air.
âOkay... Okay...â Steve murmured, his voice hesitant and low, barely above a whisper, as he repeated the words like a mantra to steady his racing thoughts.
He pulled back just enough to search your face, his brow furrowing with the weight of it all, lips parting but no further sound escaping.
Silence stretched between the three of you, thick and charged, broken only by the soft rhythm of your collective breathing.
Bucky sat nearby on the edge of the couch, his posture relaxed but his gaze sharp, watching his friend with quiet intensity, one hand resting on his knee as he waited for the dust to settle.
Finally, Steve exhaled a long, shaky breath, his expression softening into something resolute yet tender. He leaned in closer, his forehead nearly brushing yours, the warmth of his skin a comforting contrast to the chill that had seeped into your bones from the storm outside.
âSo, the divorce,â he said gently, the words measured and deliberate, as if laying out a path forward step by step. âThen, looking for a house for the three of us. Four of us, I mean... Wow...â His voice trailed off, a faint, incredulous smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, his eyes flickering with a spark of awe that made your heart stutter.
Bucky let out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling from his chest like distant thunder, breaking the tension with his familiar dry humor. He shifted forward, his elbow resting on his thigh as he fixed Steve with a teasing grin.
âYou don't want to enroll the kid in school right away while you're at it?â he quipped, his tone light but laced with affection, the easy banter a lifeline in the midst of the emotional storm.
You swallowed hard, your throat tight with lingering doubt, the vulnerability clawing at you despite the tentative hope blooming in your chest. Your fingers twisted in the fabric of Steve's shirt, seeking reassurance in the solid feel of him, your voice emerging small and tentative, still laced with the fear that had haunted you for days.
âAre you... happy about this?â you asked, your gaze locked on his, pleading for the truth. âDo you want this baby? Want us?â
Steve's eyes met yours directly, holding your stare with an intensity that made the world narrow to just the two of you. For a moment, he looked at you as if the answer were etched into every line of his face, obvious and unwavering, his hand coming up to cup your cheek with a gentleness that belied the strength in his frame.
But then he saw it â the flicker of terror in your eyes, the raw uncertainty that made your lips tremble â and his expression shifted, deepening with understanding and empathy. He brushed his thumb across your skin, wiping away an invisible tear, his voice dropping to a soothing murmur.
âI've been thinking about separating from your mother for weeks now,â he confessed softly, the admission spilling out like a long-held secret finally set free. âIt's been building, this... this realization that what we have â what the three of us share â is real. More real than anything else. And this baby? It's a gift, no matter what. I want it. I want you. All of this.â
His words wrapped around you like a warm embrace, easing the knot of fear in your stomach, even as the enormity of the future loomed large before you all.
Your heart pounded in your chest, the question bubbling up from the depths of your lingering insecurities, even as the warmth of their presence surrounded you.
The morning light filtered through the curtains of Bucky's apartment, casting soft shadows across the three of you tangled together in the aftermath of confessions and revelations.
You shifted slightly in Steve's arms, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath your touch. Bucky lounged beside you, his body heat a comforting wall against your side, his hand resting possessively on your hip.
âAnd it doesnât matter to you that the baby might be Bucky's?â you asked, your voice soft but edged with a vulnerability that made it tremble.
Bucky had already assured you earlier, his words casual yet firm â he didn't give a damn whose it was, as long as it was yours. But you needed to hear it from Steve, needed the weight of his commitment to chase away the shadows of doubt that whispered he might one day hold it against you, turn it into a wedge between what the three of you were building.
Steve's eyes locked onto yours, deep blue and unwavering, filled with a tenderness that made your breath catch.
Without a word, he leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was unhurried and deep, his mouth moving against yours with a deliberate slowness that sent shivers racing down your spine. His hand slid up to cradle the back of your neck, fingers threading gently through your hair, tilting your head just so as he poured reassurance into the press of his lips, the subtle sweep of his tongue tasting of coffee and unspoken promises.
The kiss lingered, stretching out until your lungs ached for air, until the world narrowed to the warmth of his body molding against yours, the faint scratch of his stubble against your skin.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with your own in the scant space between you.
âIt's our baby,â he murmured against your lips, the words vibrating softly, laced with conviction. âAll three of ours.â
Tears welled up in your eyes again, hot and unbidden, blurring the edges of his face as emotion swelled in your chest â a mix of relief, joy, and the raw ache of everything you'd endured. Steve's expression softened further, and before you could wipe them away, Bucky shifted closer, his arm wrapping around your waist while Steve pulled you into his embrace. They enveloped you together, their strong frames forming a protective cocoon, Bucky's chin resting on your shoulder as Steve pressed a kiss to your temple. The scent of their skin â musky and familiar â filled your senses, grounding you in the solidity of their affection.
âYou're a real softie today,â Steve teased lightly, his voice warm with amusement, though his hold on you remained gentle and secure, his thumb stroking soothing circles on your back.
âOh, come on!â you shot back, a watery laugh escaping despite the tears tracking down your cheeks. You swiped at your eyes with the back of your hand, nestling deeper into their combined warmth.
âI've spent the last week convincing myself I was the only one with real feelings in this relationship, then freaking out because I was late and realizing I was probably pregnant. I think I've earned the right to cry a little.â
Bucky chuckled softly against your ear, his breath tickling your skin, while Steve's hand continued its reassuring path along your arm. The tension that had knotted your stomach for days began to unravel, replaced by a fragile but growing sense of peace amid the storm of changes ahead.
Bucky and Steve gave you the space you needed, their presence a steady anchor as the last of your tears subsided, leaving your eyes puffy and your cheeks damp.
The room felt warmer now, the air thick with the scent of their skin and the faint trace of sweat from earlier exertions, a reminder of the passion that had bound you all together. You drew in a shaky breath, wiping your face with the edge of the sheet, and they moved as one, their bodies shifting closer until you were enveloped in their dual embrace.
Bucky's arm draped across your shoulders from behind, pulling you back against his chest, while Steve leaned in from the front, his broad frame curving protectively around you.
Their warmth seeped into your skin, a shared heartbeat syncing with yours in the quiet intimacy of the moment.
Bucky's lips brushed the shell of your ear, his voice a low, soothing rumble that vibrated through you.
âCome stay with me for a few months,â he murmured, his breath warm and reassuring against your neck.
âJust until Steve sorts out the divorce, and we can find our own placeâ an apartment, a house, whatever feels right. We'll make it work, all of us.â
His words wrapped around your heart like a promise, easing the knot of uncertainty that had twisted inside you for so long. You nodded faintly, leaning into him, the solid press of his body chasing away the chill of doubt.
Steve's hand found your belly then, his palm splaying wide and gentle over the slight swell that was just beginning to show. His touch was reverent, fingers tracing slow, feather-light circles that sent a flutter of awareness through your core.
He closed his eyes, his mind drifting to visions of you further along â your body transformed, curves softened and amplified by the life growing within. He pictured your breasts heavier, fuller, straining against the fabric of a simple shirt, nipples hardening under his gaze, begging for his mouth.
The image stirred something primal in him, heat pooling low in his gut as he imagined kneeling before you, hands cupping that newfound weight, thumbs teasing the sensitive peaks until you arched and gasped.
A deep growl rumbled from his throat, unbidden and raw, the sound echoing in the quiet room like a confession of its own. His eyes snapped open, darkening with desire as they met yours, the intensity there making your pulse quicken. Bucky felt the shift too, his hold tightening just a fraction, a silent acknowledgment of the fire reigniting between you all.
You shifted in the cocoon of their arms, the press of Bucky's chest against your back and Steve's solid form in front creating a delicious trap that you finally broke free from. Your body hummed with a renewed ache, the emotional storm giving way to a deeper, more insistent hunger that had been building since the week's separation.
With a soft exhale, you disentangled yourself, reaching out to capture Bucky's hand in your left and Steve's in your right. Their fingers laced with yours instinctively, warm and callused from years of shared battles and tender touches. You tugged gently but firmly, drawing them up with you, their eyes locking onto yours with a mix of surprise and simmering heat as you led them toward the bedroom down the hall.
The air in the corridor felt charged, every step echoing the urgency pulsing through your veins.
Once inside the dimly lit room, the door clicking shut behind you, clothes came off in a frenzy. You yanked at the hem of your shirt first, peeling it over your head to reveal the soft swell of your breasts.
Bucky shrugged out of his pants with a swift motion, his cock springing free, thick and half-hard from the earlier growl that had escaped Steve. Steve followed suit, his shirt discarded in a heap as he kicked off his jeans, his erection straining upward, veins prominent along its length.
You shimmied out of your underwear last, the fabric sliding down your thighs to pool at your feet, exposing the neat trim of hair above your folds, already glistening with anticipation.
The week's absence had sharpened every sensation â the way their gazes raked over your naked skin, the faint scent of arousal mingling with the clean linen of the bed, the cool air raising goosebumps on your arms and tightening your nipples to peaks.
They guided you to the bed with reverent hands, laying you back against the pillows as if you were something sacred yet wildly desired.
Bucky settled between your legs first, his broad shoulders nudging your thighs apart, while Steve knelt beside you, his palm returning to the gentle curve of your belly before trailing up to cup one breast.
âGod, look at you,â Bucky murmured, his voice rough with need, blue eyes darkening as he leaned in. His mouth descended on your inner thigh, lips pressing open-mouthed kisses that trailed higher, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your skin.
Steve mirrored him from above, latching onto your nipple with a slow suck, his teeth grazing just enough to send sparks shooting to your core.
Bucky's fingers parted your folds first, two digits sliding through the slick heat gathering there, circling your clit with deliberate pressure. You arched, a gasp escaping as he dipped lower, his tongue replacing his touch â flat and broad, lapping from your entrance up to that sensitive bundle. He sucked gently, then harder, the wet sounds filling the room as your hips bucked against his face.
Steve's hand joined the fray, pinching and rolling your other nipple while his mouth switched to the first, soothing the sting with swirling licks.
The dual assault built fast, your body coiling tight under their worship. Bucky curled his fingers inside you, stroking that ridged spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids, his tongue relentless on your clit until the first orgasm crashed over you â waves of pleasure rippling out, your walls clenching around his digits as you cried out, thighs trembling against his ears.
They didn't stop.
Steve shifted down now, trading places with a seamless grace born of their long partnership. His mouth claimed your pussy next, tongue delving deep to scoop at your release, humming approval against you. Bucky took over your breasts, one hand kneading the fuller flesh while his lips sealed around a nipple, sucking with a rhythm that matched Steve's thrusts below.
Steve's fingers â thicker, more insistent â pushed in alongside his tongue, scissoring to stretch you, thumb grinding your clit in firm circles. The second peak built slower but fiercer, your breaths coming in pants as Bucky's free hand trailed down to join Steve's, their fingers intertwining inside you, pumping in unison. You shattered again, harder this time, juices coating their hands as your body convulsed, toes curling into the sheets.
Bucky returned for his turn, flipping you gently onto your side so Steve could spoon behind you, his cock nestling hot against your ass. Bucky's mouth found your core once more, from this new angle allowing his tongue to probe deeper, lapping at your oversensitive entrance while his fingers rubbed your clit in tight, fast loops. Steve's hand splayed over your belly again, dipping lower to tease where Bucky worked, adding a third finger to the mix.
The stretch burned sweetly, their combined efforts pushing you toward the edge with ruthless precision. Bucky's sucks grew hungrier, his stubble scraping your thighs as he devoured you, and when the third orgasm hit â yours, but claimed by them both â you sobbed their names, the release soaking Bucky's chin.
Steve took the final worship, urging you onto your back once more. He buried his face between your legs, nose bumping your clit as his tongue fucked into you, long and insistent. Bucky's fingers danced over your nipples again, twisting and tugging until they ached, his other hand holding yours in a grounding squeeze. Steve added his fingers, three now, curling and thrusting with a wet squelch that echoed your moans.
The fourth climax tore through you like lightning, your pussy fluttering wildly around him, back bowing off the bed as ecstasy blurred your vision, leaving you limp and quivering in their arms.
They hovered above you then, cocks throbbing and untouched, eyes locked on your flushed form â breasts heaving, skin slick with sweat, the evidence of their devotion glistening between your thighs. The air hung heavy with promise, their restraint a testament to the depth of their care, waiting for your signal to finally claim what they'd both earned.
Their eyes burned with a quiet fire as they watched you recover, your chest rising and falling in ragged breaths, the aftershocks of pleasure still tingling through your limbs.
The tenderness in their gazes softened the raw hunger, pulling you into the warmth of their shared devotion. Bucky leaned in first, his lips brushing your forehead in a feather-light kiss before trailing down to capture your mouth. His tongue slipped past your lips, slow and exploratory, tasting the salt of your sweat mixed with the faint echo of your releases.
âI love you,â he whispered against your skin, voice husky and sincere, his hand stroking the curve of your hip. âEvery inch of you. And when your body swells with our baby... God, it'll be even more beautiful. We'll take care of you, dollface. Always.â
Steve nodded, his breath warm on your shoulder as he pressed closer, his erection sliding along the cleft of your ass in a teasing glide. He nuzzled your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive spot below your ear.
âYou're everything to us,â he murmured, his words vibrating through you. âI love you so damn much. Your body's gonna change, yeah â rounder, fuller â and it'll drive me wild. We'll worship it, protect it. You, our kid... we'll handle it all.â
His hand splayed over your belly again, fingers splaying wide as if already cradling the life growing there, a promise etched into his touch.
The words wrapped around you like a blanket, easing the lingering tensions of the week apart, the uncertainties of the future. With gentle hands, they maneuvered you onto your side, the sheets cool against your heated skin.
Bucky faced you, his body aligning perfectly â chest to chest, thigh slipping between yours to part your legs just enough. His cock, rigid and leaking at the tip, nudged against your entrance, the heat of it making you whimper.
Steve settled behind you, his solid frame spooning yours, one arm draping over your waist to hold you steady while his own length pressed insistently at your folds from behind, ready to follow.
Bucky entered you first, slow and deliberate, the thick head of his cock parting your slick walls with a stretch that bordered on ache. You gasped into his mouth as he sank deeper, inch by inch, filling you completely until his hips met yours. He paused there, buried to the hilt, his forehead resting against yours as he rocked gently, letting you adjust to the fullness.
âSo perfect,â he breathed, pulling back only to thrust in again, shallow and tender, his hand cupping your breast to thumb your nipple in lazy circles. The rhythm built softly, each slide of his cock dragging along your inner walls, reigniting the embers they'd stoked earlier.
Steve's fingers dipped between you then, gathering your combined wetness to slick his shaft before he took his turn. Bucky withdrew with a reluctant groan, his cock glistening as it slipped free, and Steve pushed forward, his girth thicker, stretching you anew in a way that made your toes curl.
He bottomed out with a low sigh, his lips pressing kisses along your spine as he began to move â long, unhurried strokes that hit deep, his free hand intertwining with Bucky's over your belly.
âFuck, you're carrying our child,â Steve mumbled, voice rough with awe and lust, his hips snapping a fraction harder on the next thrust. âThis makes me so hard, knowing you're full of us already. Gonna keep you like thisâ swollen and ours. Soon as this baby's out, I'll fill you up again, knock you up all over.â
Bucky growled low in his throat, the sound rumbling from his chest as he watched Steve claim you, his own hand stroking your thigh to keep you open.
âDamn right,â he agreed, eyes locked on where Steve's cock disappeared inside you, the wet sounds of each plunge filling the room. The approval in his tone sent a fresh wave of heat through you, your pussy clenching around Steve in response. He groaned, pace faltering for a beat before he resumed, tender but insistent, his balls slapping softly against your ass with every drive.
They alternated like that, seamless and attentive, Bucky sliding back in as Steve pulled out, their cocks trading places in your pussy with careful precision.
Bucky's thrusts were rhythmic, grinding against your clit with each hilt, his mouth on yours in deep, loving kisses that muffled your moans. Steve followed, his movements more possessive, hand gripping your hip as he fucked into you from behind, whispering more praises about your changing body, how he'd kiss every new stretch mark, how they'd both dote on you through the cravings and the kicks.
The tenderness laced every action â the way Bucky's fingers traced your jaw, Steve's nose buried in your hair â building the pleasure in layers, your body humming with the dual sensations of being so utterly filled, so completely cherished.
Your climax crept up slowly, a warm tide rising from your core, sparked by the slide of their cocks and the weight of their words. Bucky was inside you when it hit, his name a sob on your lips as your walls fluttered and squeezed, milking him with rhythmic pulses.
He followed soon after, hips stuttering as he spilled deep, hot spurts coating your insides.
Steve took over immediately, chasing his own release in the slick mess, groaning your name as he came, flooding you further until it leaked down your thighs.
They held you between them through the haze, breaths mingling, bodies entwined in a sweaty, satisfied tangle, the storm outside forgotten in the calm of their arms.
Five months had slipped by in a whirlwind of doctor's appointments, tender nights tangled in sheets, and the slow unraveling of old ties.
The new apartment waited for you all on the third floor of a quiet building in the heart of the city, its wide windows overlooking a tree-lined street where leaves rustled in the crisp autumn breeze.
Boxes cluttered the hallway outside the door, labeled in Bucky's neat handwriting â âKitchen Essentials,â âBooks for the Nursery,â âClothesâ â a testament to the life you were building together.
Your belly had rounded noticeably now, a gentle swell that pressed against the soft fabric of your maternity blouse, the baby inside kicking with increasing insistence as if eager to join the chaos of the move.
Despite the pregnancy's demands, you'd landed a teaching position at the local high school just a short walk away, the interview a blur of excited nerves and the principal's warm congratulations on your condition. The job felt like an anchor, a way to hold onto your independence amid the swelling changes in your body and heart.
But Steve and Bucky had drawn a firm line at the outset of the day: no lifting, no bending, no straining.
âYou're carrying our world in there,â Steve had said that morning, his large hand splaying protectively over your abdomen as he kissed you goodbye to the old place. Bucky had echoed the sentiment with a stern nod, his eyes softening only when you promised to supervise from the couch with a mug of herbal tea.
The divorce had finalized swiftly, barely two months after you'd shared the news of the pregnancy in that rain-soaked night of revelations.
It turned out your mother had been entangled with one of her colleagues from the California branch for longer than anyone suspected â late-night calls, secretive trips that painted a picture of betrayal Steve had somehow missed in his devotion to the family facade. When the truth surfaced, she packed her bags without much fanfare, heading west to start fresh with her lover under the sun-drenched skies.
Strangely, the separation unfolded amicably, a quiet agreement sealed over coffee in a neutral diner. Tensions eased when she learned the full story: that Steve's heart â and Bucky's â belonged to you, their love for you a bridge that turned what could have been bitterness into a reluctant understanding.
âTake care of her,â she'd said to Steve with a sad smile, her eyes lingering on your photo on his phone before she walked away.
Now, as the afternoon sun filtered through the half-unpacked living room, you perched on the edge of the new sectional sofa, directing traffic with a mix of amusement and exhaustion. Bucky hauled in the last of the heavier boxes, his shirt clinging to his broad back with sweat, muscles flexing under the strain as he set it down with a grunt.
âThat's the lot,â he announced, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand before crossing to you. He knelt at your feet, hands immediately seeking your belly, fingers tracing the curve through your shirt. The baby responded with a firm nudge, and Bucky's face lit up, that rare, boyish grin breaking through his focused demeanor.
âFeels like they're ready to help unpack already.â
Steve emerged from the kitchen, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a smudge of dirt on his cheek from wrestling with the fridge delivery. He carried two glasses of water, handing one to you with a gentle squeeze of your shoulder.
âYou holding up?â he asked, voice low and concerned, his blue eyes scanning your face for any sign of fatigue.
The weight of the past months hung between you all â the relief of the divorce's closure, the thrill of this fresh start â but it was tempered by the quiet joys, like watching your body bloom and knowing it carried their child. He settled beside you, arm draping around your shoulders, pulling you into his side while Bucky leaned in from the other, their warmth enveloping you like a promise.
The apartment smelled of fresh paint and possibility, the nursery room down the hall already half-assembled with a crib Bucky had put together late one night, humming softly under his breath. Outside, the city hummed with distant traffic, but here, in this space you'd claimed as yours, the world narrowed to the three of you â bound by love, forged in secrets, and stepping forward into the unknown with hands intertwined.
The bedroom in the new apartment felt like a sanctuary amid the organized chaos of the move, sunlight slanting through the half-drawn blinds to dance across the unmade bed and the open suitcases spilling clothes onto the floor.
You knelt beside one of the larger boxes, your rounded belly making the motion a careful negotiation as you sorted through the folded shirts and pants, the faint scent of laundry detergent mingling with the fresh wood polish of the dresser. Steve's things were mixed in with yours and Bucky's now, a tangible sign of the life weaving together â his crisp uniforms folded neatly, a reminder of the man who balanced duty outside these walls with the fierce tenderness he showed within them.
Your fingers brushed against something firmer amid the soft fabrics: Steve's police cap, forgotten in the bottom of the suitcase, its dark blue fabric worn at the edges from countless shifts.
A playful impulse sparked in you, unbidden and mischievous, as you lifted it free. What possessed you, you couldn't say â perhaps the hormones swirling through your veins, or the simple joy of this new chapter â but you settled it onto your head, adjusting the brim so it sat at a jaunty angle over your hair.
The weight felt absurdly authoritative, like stepping into a role from one of those late-night fantasies you'd shared in hushed whispers during quieter nights. With a secret smile, you pushed yourself up, hand pressing lightly against your lower back for support, and padded barefoot toward the kitchen where the clatter of dishes and low murmurs told you the men were at work.
The kitchen opened into the living area, counters already lined with stacks of plates and bowls, the air carrying the clean tang of cardboard and soap.
Bucky stood at the sink, sleeves pushed up as he rinsed a set of glasses, water splashing lightly against the porcelain, his broad shoulders shifting with each motion. Steve was nearby, unpacking a box of silverware, his focus intent as he sorted forks from knives with methodical precision.
You lingered in the doorway for a moment, heart quickening at the domestic sight of them â strong, capable, utterly yours.
Steve turned first, perhaps sensing your presence like he always did, his blue eyes lifting to meet yours.
The moment his gaze landed on the cap perched atop your head, a sharp gasp escaped his lips, raw and unguarded, his hand freezing mid-reach for a spoon. His chest rose and fell a fraction quicker, color rising along his neck as he took in the sight: you, pregnant and glowing in your simple blouse and leggings, transformed by that single piece of his uniform into something provocatively authoritative. The cap shadowed your eyes just enough to lend an air of command, your belly a proud curve beneath it all, and the effect hit him like a patrol siren â desire flickering hot and immediate in his stare.
Bucky caught the sound, twisting from the sink with a dish towel slung over his shoulder, droplets of water trailing down his forearms. His eyes found you next, then slid to Steve's face, reading the tension there in an instant â the way Steve's jaw tightened, his body going still as if fighting the urge to close the distance.
A soft chuckle rumbled from Bucky's chest, warm and teasing, as he dried his hands and leaned against the counter.
âDoes it make you hard to imagine her as a cop, Steve?â he drawled, his voice laced with amusement, though his own gaze lingered on you, darkening with shared heat.
Steve swallowed hard, setting the silverware down with deliberate care, his fingers flexing as if to steady himself.
âYou have no idea,â he admitted, voice rough around the edges, stepping closer until he loomed just inches away.
His hand rose to trace the brim of the cap, thumb brushing your temple in a feather-light touch that sent shivers racing down your spine. The air thickened between you, charged with the unspoken promise of what this little game could unleash, your body responding instinctively â nipples tightening against the fabric of your bra, a warm ache blooming low in your core despite the fullness of your pregnancy.
Bucky sauntered over, flanking Steve, his presence a solid warmth at your side. He reached out, adjusting the cap slightly with a grin that didn't quite hide the hunger in his eyes.
âLooks good on you, dollface,â he murmured, his breath ghosting your ear.
âBut if you're playing dress-up, maybe we should make it official. What do you say, officer? Need backup in here?â
His hand settled on your hip, fingers splaying possessively, while Steve's palm slid to the swell of your belly, protective and reverent, the three of you drawn into that magnetic pull that had defined your world for months now.
The dishes forgotten on the counter, the unpacked boxes fading into irrelevance, the afternoon stretched ahead like an invitation â playful at first, but edged with the deep, insatiable need that bound you all.
The playful spark in the kitchen ignited into something fiercer as you reached up, fingers grazing Steve's jaw in a teasing caress before lifting the cap from your own head. With a deliberate slowness, you settled it onto his blond hair, the brim casting a shadow over his intense blue eyes, transforming the familiar lines of his face into something commanding and utterly arresting.
You'd seen him in his full uniform countless times â crisp shirt hugging his broad chest, pants tailored to his powerful thighs â but the cap added an edge of raw authority that hit you like a punch to the gut, heat flooding your veins and pooling low in your belly.
Your breath hitched, nipples peaking hard against the thin fabric of your blouse, the weight of your pregnancy only amplifying the ache between your legs.
Bucky's lips found the sensitive curve of your neck before you could fully process the sight, his mouth hot and insistent as he pressed open-mouthed kisses along your skin, teeth grazing just enough to draw a soft moan from your throat. The sound escaped unbidden, vibrating through you as your eyes locked onto Steve's, the world narrowing to the way his gaze darkened, pupils dilating with shared hunger.
Bucky's hands roamed your sides, pulling you back against his solid frame, his erection already straining thick and insistent against the seam of his jeans, pressing into the cleft of your ass. Steve stepped closer, closing the scant distance, his own hardness nudging firmly against your thigh through his pants, the friction sending sparks racing up your spine.
They both seemed to sense the way your body trembled, the flush creeping up your chest â Steve's lips parting on a low, reverent murmur.
âOh, baby girl...â
His voice was gravel-rough, laced with that protective edge that always made your knees weak. He ground against you slowly, deliberately, the bulge of his cock rubbing along your hip in a promise of what was to come, his free hand sliding up to cup your breast through your shirt, thumb circling your nipple until it throbbed under his touch.
Bucky's chuckle vibrated against your neck, his breath hot as he nipped at your earlobe.
âYou gotta tell the officer what you need, dollface,â he urged, his tone teasing yet commanding, fingers kneading the full curve of your ass while his other hand mirrored Steve's on your opposite breast, squeezing gently to elicit another gasp from you.
Their erections pulsed against your thighs now, hot and unyielding, the dual pressure making your pussy clench with need, slickness gathering between your folds despite â or because of â the gentle swell of your belly pressing between you all.
Steve's eyes never left yours, the cap tilting slightly as he leaned in, his mouth brushing your lips in a ghost of a kiss.
âThat's right,â he rasped, voice dropping lower. âWhat does my girl want? You gonna arrest us for distracting you, or you need us to take care of that pretty little ache?â
His hand on your breast tightened just enough to make you arch into him, while Bucky's fingers dug into your ass, pulling you flush against both of them, their bodies a wall of heat and muscle enveloping you completely.
The air hummed with tension, the forgotten dishes and boxes mere backdrop to the building storm of desire, your moans mingling with their heavy breaths as hands explored, teasing you toward the edge of surrender.
Steve's breath ghosted over your ear, his voice a low, husky rumble that sent shivers racing down your spine.
âDo you want me to eat your pussy with the cap on?â
The words hung in the air, bold and unfiltered, painting a vivid image that made your core throb with anticipation.
A sharp gasp tore from your lips, the sound raw and needy, and it drew a soft, knowing laugh from him, the vibration of it rumbling against your side as he pressed closer, his body a solid anchor in the whirlwind of sensation.
Bucky's mouth stayed latched to the tender skin of your throat and neck, his lips trailing wet, sucking kisses that left faint marks in their wake, a chuckle bubbling up from his chest to mingle with Steve's. The sound was deep and affectionate, his amusement evident in the way his teeth grazed your pulse point before soothing it with his tongue.
Without breaking contact, he tugged your t-shirt upward in one smooth motion, the fabric bunching just below your ribs to expose the lacy edge of your bra. His palm settled over your breast, warm and possessive, fingers splaying wide to encompass the fuller swell that pregnancy had gifted you. He kneaded gently at first, then with more intent, his thumb flicking over the hardened nipple through the thin barrier, rolling it until it ached deliciously, drawing another whimper from deep in your throat.
Steve's hand, which had been teasing your breast moments before, began its descent, trailing fire along your abdomen, skirting the subtle curve of your belly before dipping lower. He didn't hesitate, his fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your leggings, pushing past the damp cotton of your panties to meet the slick heat of your skin.
The first brush of his fingertips against your swollen folds made you buck involuntarily, your pussy already soaked and pulsing, lips parting under his touch as if begging for more. He stroked lazily at first, parting you with two fingers to circle your clit in feather-light passes, then dipping lower to trace the entrance where your arousal coated him instantly.
âWant us to fuck you stupid, baby?â he murmured, the question laced with dark promise, his cap-shadowed eyes locking onto yours as he increased the pressure, sliding one finger inside you just enough to make your walls clench around the intrusion.
The dual assault left you trembling between them, Bucky's mouth now latching onto the exposed skin above your bra, sucking a nipple into his mouth through the lace while his hand pinched and twisted the other.
Steve's free hand gripped your hip, holding you steady as his finger pumped slowly in and out, curling to hit that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. Their cocks strained harder against your thighs, thick lengths twitching with every gasp you made, the kitchen air thick with the scent of your arousal and their shared desire. You could feel the tension coiling tighter in your belly, the playful tease giving way to an urgent need that promised to unravel you completely if they kept this up.
Bucky's voice rumbled against your neck, low and teasing, his breath hot as he murmured, âYeah, I think that's exactly what she wants. For us to fuck her until she forgets her own damn name.â
The words wrapped around you like a promise, rough and unyielding, stoking the fire already blazing through your veins. Your teeth sank into your lower lip, eyes squeezing shut as a wave of heat crashed over you, your body betraying every ounce of restraint.
Those pregnancy hormones had been a relentless storm for weeks, turning every touch into an inferno, and these two knew it all too well. They'd been reveling in it ever since the nausea finally eased up a month ago, drawing out your cravings with deliberate, maddening precision, leaving you boneless and sated night after night.
Steve pulled his hand free from between your legs with a deliberate slowness, his fingers glistening with your slick arousal, and the sudden emptiness made a needy whine escape your throat, your hips bucking forward instinctively in protest.
But he didn't leave you wanting for long.
He dropped to his knees in front of you, the police cap still perched on his head, casting a shadow over his intense blue eyes as he looked up at you with a predatory grin. His hands gripped the waistband of your leggings, tugging them down along with your soaked panties in one fluid motion, the fabric sliding over your hips and thighs until it pooled at your ankles.
He helped you step out of them carefully, mindful of your balance, before tossing the bundle aside, leaving you bare from the waist down.
With a firm but gentle hold on your thigh, Steve lifted one of your legs, draping it over his broad shoulder to open you up completely. The position made your pussy throb visibly, folds slick and swollen, aching for contact.
He leaned in, pressing a series of hot, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, starting just above your knee and working his way up with agonizing patience. Each brush of his lips sent sparks skittering across your nerves, his stubble scraping lightly against your flesh, marking a trail of goosebumps in its wake.
Bucky held you steady from behind, his arms like steel bands around your waist, keeping you upright as your body trembled with building anticipation.
Steve's mouth finally reached the apex of your thighs, his breath fanning hot over your exposed core, making your clit pulse in response. He nuzzled closer, inhaling deeply as if savoring your scent, before his tongue darted out to trace a slow, deliberate line along your outer lips, tasting the wetness that had gathered there.
You gasped sharply, fingers digging into Bucky's forearms for support, your body arching toward Steve's face.
Bucky, true to form, devoted all his attention to your upper body, his hands shoving your t-shirt higher and unhooking your bra with practiced ease. The lace fell away, and he cupped your breasts fully now, thumbs circling the stiff peaks of your nipples before pinching them just hard enough to make you cry out.
Steve's kisses turned hungrier, his lips sucking gently at your inner folds, tongue delving deeper to lap at your entrance, collecting your arousal with broad, flat strokes. He groaned against you, the vibration humming through your clit, and you felt your knees weaken, relying entirely on Bucky's strength to hold you up.
Bucky's mouth returned to your neck, sucking bruises into the skin while his fingers rolled and tugged at your nipples, alternating between soft caresses and firmer twists that mirrored the rhythm of Steve's tongue flicking over your sensitive bundle of nerves. The dual sensations built a pressure in your core, coiling tighter with every lick, every squeeze, your breaths coming in ragged pants as the world narrowed to the heat of their touches.
Steve's hands gripped your ass, pulling you closer to his mouth, his cap brushing against your belly as he buried his face between your legs. He sucked your clit between his lips, tongue swirling around it relentlessly, while one hand slid up to join the feast, two fingers pushing inside you with a wet squelch, curling upward to stroke that spot deep within.
The combination shattered your restraint; your head fell back against Bucky's shoulder, a moan tearing from your lips as the first waves of pleasure crested, your walls fluttering around Steve's fingers. Bucky chuckled darkly in your ear, his own erection grinding against your back, hard and insistent.
âThat's it, dollface,â he whispered, nipping at your earlobe. âLet him taste how much you need this. We're just getting started.â
Your body shook through the orgasm, slick coating Steve's chin as he didn't let up, prolonging the bliss until you were whimpering from overstimulation. But even as the tremors faded, the hunger in their eyes promised more â much more â until every thought in your head dissolved into nothing but them.
Steve's eyes locked onto yours from between your thighs, his gaze dark and triumphant, lips still glistening with your release.
âThat's one,â he murmured, his voice rough and satisfied, the words vibrating against your sensitive skin as he licked a final, teasing stripe through your folds. The police cap sat crooked on his head now, adding to the raw, authoritative edge of the moment, and you felt a fresh wave of heat flood your cheeks at the intensity in his stare.
Bucky's lips curved into a wicked smile behind you, his breath warm against your ear as he watched the exchange, his hands never ceasing their exploration of your breasts. He squeezed them gently, rolling your nipples between his fingers in time with Steve's lingering touches, drawing out the aftershocks that still rippled through your body.
The grin on his face spoke volumes â amusement mixed with hunger, promising he was far from done reveling in your unraveling.
Without another word, Steve dove back in, his mouth sealing over your pussy with renewed fervor. His tongue plunged deep, thrusting in and out of your entrance before flattening to lap greedily at your clit, sucking it into the wet heat of his mouth.
The overstimulation hit you like a tidal wave; your body, still humming from the first climax, ignited all over again, nerves firing too fast, too intensely. A sharp cry escaped your lips, your hips jerking involuntarily as pleasure bordered on pain, every flick of his tongue sending electric jolts straight to your core.
Your legs betrayed you completely now. The one planted on the floor wobbled beneath your weight, muscles quivering uncontrollably, threatening to buckle at any second. The other, hooked over Steve's shoulder, trembled just as fiercely, your thigh pressing against his cheek as he held it steady with one strong hand.
You clutched at Bucky's arms for dear life, nails digging into his skin as waves of sensation crashed over you, your knees threatening to give out entirely. Bucky tightened his hold around your waist, his chest solid against your back, propping you up with effortless strength while his free hand trailed down to steady your hip.
Steve didn't relent, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass to pull you flush against his face, nose bumping your swollen clit as his tongue delved deeper, curling inside you to stroke your walls. He hummed in approval, the sound buzzing through you, and you felt your pussy clench around nothing, desperate for more even as the intensity made tears prick at the corners of your eyes.
Bucky's mouth found your shoulder, teeth grazing the skin there before he soothed it with a kiss, his voice a low growl in your ear.
âHold on, sweetheart. He's not stopping until you're shaking for us again.â
The room spun around you, the new apartment's unpacked boxes fading into the background as your world narrowed to the relentless assault of Steve's mouth and the supportive cage of Bucky's body. Your breaths came in short, gasping bursts, body arching as the coil in your belly wound tighter once more, the overstimulation pushing you toward a second peak faster than you thought possible.
Steve's stubble rasped against your inner thighs, a delicious friction that only heightened the chaos, and you whimpered, legs spasming as the edge loomed dangerously close.
Steve pulled back abruptly, his mouth leaving your aching pussy just as the tension coiled unbearably tight in your core, teetering on the brink of release. The sudden absence of his tongue left you gasping, your body throbbing with unfulfilled need, every nerve screaming for completion.
âFuck!â You swore, your voice a frustrated hiss as you glared down at him, eyes narrowed in a mix of desperation and annoyance. His blue eyes met yours with a mischievous glint, lips swollen and shiny from devouring you, chin slick with your arousal trailing down in glistening streaks.
He rose slowly, his broad frame towering as he closed the distance, capturing your mouth in a deep, possessive kiss. The taste of yourself flooded your senses â salty and musky â mingling with the warmth of his breath as his tongue swept against yours. His stubble scraped your skin, rough and grounding, while his hands gripped your hips to steady your trembling form.
âNeed to get you comfortable, baby,â he murmured against your lips, voice husky and laced with concern. âYou're gonna collapse if we keep this up like that.â
Bucky chuckled softly from behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist to support your weight as the two of them guided you toward the bedroom.
The new apartment still felt sparse, boxes stacked haphazardly in the corners, but the king-sized bed stood as the sole oasis of order â sheets crisp and inviting, pillows fluffed just so.
They moved with practiced ease, their bodies brushing against yours in the narrow hallway, sending fresh sparks of anticipation through your veins. Steve's hand lingered on the small of your back, possessive and warm, while Bucky's fingers traced soothing patterns along your arm.
Once inside, they wasted no time. Steve shrugged off his shirt first, revealing the hard planes of his chest, muscles flexing under tanned skin marked by faint scars from years on the force. Bucky followed suit, peeling away his own clothes with quick, efficient motions, his leaner build corded with strength from endless patrols and workouts.
Their pants hit the floor next, cocks springing free â Steve's thick and veined, already hard and curving upward; Bucky's long and straight, tip beaded with pre-cum. The sight made your mouth water, your pussy clenching emptily as heat pooled low in your belly.
Steve reached for his police cap, which had tumbled to the floor during the frenzy, and settled it back on his head at a jaunty angle. The uniform element, even just the cap, transformed him â turning the tender lover into something more commanding, more primal.
A low moan escaped your throat unbidden, your gaze fixed on how it framed his sharp jawline, your thighs pressing together instinctively.
âYou like it, sweetheart?â he asked, his voice dropping to a gravelly timbre as he stepped closer, one hand cupping your cheek while the other teased the hem of your shirt.
You nodded eagerly, words failing you in the haze of desire, your body already arching toward him.
Bucky's eyes darkened at the exchange, a possessive edge sharpening his features as he scooped you up gently, his touch feather-light despite the power in his arms. He lowered you onto the bed with infinite care, the mattress dipping under your weight as he arranged pillows behind your head and back, ensuring your swollen belly was supported comfortably. The cool sheets contrasted deliciously with your heated skin, and you sighed in relief, spreading your legs without prompting, inviting him in.
Bucky knelt between your thighs, his hands sliding up your calves to hook under your knees, parting you wider. His breath ghosted over your soaked folds, warm and teasing, as he settled in, shoulders nudging your legs apart further.
âMy turn,â he growled, the words vibrating with promise, his eyes locked on your pussy like a man starved. He leaned in slowly, savoring the moment, his tongue darting out to trace a deliberate path from your entrance to your clit, lapping up the remnants of Steve's efforts mixed with your fresh arousal.
Steve watched from the side of the bed, his cock twitching as he stroked himself lazily, the cap casting a shadow over his intense stare.
Bucky's mouth worked you with deliberate precision â lips sealing around your clit to suck gently at first, then harder, his tongue flicking in rapid circles that made your hips buck. One hand slid up to join the feast, two fingers pushing inside your slick heat, curling to stroke that sensitive spot deep within. The stretch was perfect, filling the void Steve had left, and you cried out, fingers tangling in Bucky's dark hair to hold him close.
The overstimulation from before lingered, amplifying every sensation until your body sang with it â pleasure bordering on overwhelming, your walls fluttering around his fingers as he pumped them steadily.
Steve leaned down to kiss you then, swallowing your moans, his free hand roaming your breasts, pinching your nipples until they pebbled under his touch.
Bucky hummed against your core, the vibration shooting straight through you, and you felt the coil tighten again, faster this time, your legs quivering around his head as the edge rushed toward you once more.
Steve settled onto the bed beside you, his body heat radiating like a furnace against your side as he propped himself up on one elbow. His lips found yours again, the kiss deepening immediately â tongues tangling in a slow, hungry rhythm that made your pulse race.
One of his large hands cupped your breast, thumb circling the hardened nipple with firm pressure, rolling it between his fingers until you arched into his touch, a soft whimper escaping into his mouth. The sensation shot straight to your core, amplifying the building pressure from Bucky's relentless attention below.
Your hand moved on instinct, sliding down his toned abdomen, fingers wrapping around his thick cock. It throbbed hot and heavy in your grip, the veined length slick with pre-cum that smeared over your palm as you began to stroke him. Up and down, your fist tightened just right, matching the pace of his kisses â slow at first, then faster, twisting slightly at the head to draw a low groan from his throat. He bucked into your hand, hips shifting restlessly, but he didn't break the kiss, his free hand tangling in your hair to hold you close.
Bucky's mouth never faltered between your legs. His tongue pressed flat against your clit, lapping in broad, insistent strokes while his fingers thrust deeper, curling to hit that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. The wet sounds of his sucking filled the room, mingling with your muffled moans and the slick slide of your hand on Steve's cock.
Pressure coiled tighter in your belly, your thighs trembling around Bucky's head as the orgasm crashed over you â waves of pleasure ripping through your body, your pussy clenching hard around his fingers. You cried out into Steve's mouth, the sound vibrating against his lips as your back bowed off the bed, toes curling into the sheets.
Bucky eased you through it, his tongue gentling to soft licks that prolonged the aftershocks, drawing out every last quiver until you slumped back, breathless and spent. He lifted his head finally, lips glistening with your release, a satisfied smirk curling his mouth as he wiped his chin with the back of his hand. Steve pulled back from the kiss just enough to meet Bucky's gaze over your belly, their eyes locking in that shared, heated understanding â the kind forged from years of partnership and now this tangled intimacy.
âThat's two,â Steve murmured, his voice rough with arousal, blue eyes flicking down to where your hand still pumped his cock steadily, keeping him hard and leaking.
You caught your breath, a lazy smile tugging at your swollen lips as you turned your head to look between them, your body still humming from the release.
âHow many are you aiming for tonight?â you asked, your voice husky, fingers tightening around Steve's shaft for emphasis, eliciting another deep rumble from his chest.
They exchanged a glance, grins spreading across their faces â playful yet predatory, like wolves sizing up their prey.
Bucky leaned up on his elbows, his cock brushing against your inner thigh as he hovered near your hip.
âEight?â he suggested, one eyebrow arched, his hand trailing up your leg to squeeze your ass possessively.
âTen,â Steve countered firmly, his tone leaving no room for debate as he nipped at your earlobe, his breath hot against your skin.
His hand abandoned your breast to join yours on his cock, guiding your strokes to a firmer rhythm, showing you exactly how he liked it â long pulls from base to tip, thumb swiping over the slit to spread the pre-cum.
Bucky chuckled, the sound low and vibrating through you as he shifted higher, his mouth claiming your neck in open-mouthed kisses that sucked marks into your skin.
âAmbitious as always, Rogers,â he teased, but there was no real challenge in it â just the easy camaraderie that made your heart swell even as your body reignited. Steve's cap had slipped slightly during the frenzy, but he adjusted it with a quick flick, the sight sending a fresh jolt of desire through you.
You laughed softly, the sound turning into a gasp as Bucky's fingers dipped back to your pussy, circling your oversensitive entrance without pushing in, teasing the slick folds. Steve captured your mouth again, swallowing your next moan, while your hand worked him faster, feeling his cock pulse in warning.
The air in the room thickened with their scents â musk and sweat and the faint tang of your arousal â promising a long night of chasing those numbers, bodies entwined in the half-unpacked bedroom, the world outside forgotten.
Then, out of nowhere, a soft laugh bubbled up from your chest, light and unexpected in the charged air between you three. It started as a quiet chuckle, your body still relaxed from the earlier waves of pleasure, but the sound drew their attention immediately.
Bucky lifted his head first, his dark hair tousled and falling over his forehead, those piercing eyes narrowing slightly in curiosity as he propped himself up on one arm.
Steve followed suit, his broad shoulders shifting as he turned toward you, one eyebrow arched in that familiar mix of amusement and intrigue, his hand pausing its lazy trail along your thigh.
They both stared at you, expressions mirroring each other â questioning, almost boyish in their shared confusion, waiting for you to explain the sudden mirth that had broken the playful tension.
âI just realized...â you said, your voice warm and teasing, a grin spreading across your face as you glanced between them, your hand resting lightly on Steve's chest while the other reached out to trace Bucky's jaw. â...when the baby gets here, I'll be calling you both daddy.â
The words hung in the air, simple yet loaded with the promise of your future together â the tangled love, the family you were building from the ashes of old secrets.
Their reactions came swift and visceral.
Bucky's eyes darkened first, a feral glint flashing in them like a predator sensing something vital, his lips parting in a slow, hungry smile that revealed just how much the idea thrilled him.
Steve's gaze turned intense too, his blue eyes smoldering with that same wild anticipation, his fingers tightening briefly on your skin as if he could already picture it â the cries of a child, the three of you wrapped in this unbreakable bond.
They looked like they could barely contain themselves, the raw desire evident in the way their bodies tensed, breaths quickening, as if the mere thought ignited something primal deep within.
Without a word, Bucky leaned in first, capturing your lips in a deep, possessive kiss that lingered, his mouth moving against yours with a tenderness edged by that feral edge, tasting of salt and shared secrets. He pulled back just enough to let Steve take his place, and Steve's kiss was slower, more deliberate â his hand cupping your cheek as his tongue swept in, pouring all that unspoken eagerness into the connection, leaving you breathless and cherished.
As they settled back, the room fell into a comfortable quiet, the three of you entwined on the bed, hearts syncing in the afterglow of laughter and love.
The unpacked boxes in the corner of the new apartment stood as silent witnesses to the life ahead, filled with mornings like this â tender, teasing, and utterly yours.
SUMMARY: bucky barnes is head over heels for a girl who could say i love you and simultaneously try to kill him in the same breath. (but donât save him! he is exactly where he wants to be).
PARING: grumpy!reader x lovesick!bucky
WORD COUNT: 2.7k
WARNINGS: lovesick!bucky, bucky is an idiot in love, fluff, weapons, suggestive comments, no use of y/n.
NOTE: itâs always grumpy!bucky x sunshine!reader. i thought iâd switch it up ;) iâm not too sure how i feel about this tbh, but if i stare at it anymore iâll go crazy </3
If someone was to tell Bucky Barnes two years ago that heâd fall hopelessly in love with a girl who was all flirty smiles, baked cookies and wore pretty pastel sundresses, respectfully?
He wouldâve rolled his eyes and told them to fuck off.
Now, if they were to tell that same Bucky Barnes that heâd fall hopelessly in love with a girl who threw knives for sport and had the permanent expression of Iâm going to kill you and enjoy doing it on her face?
. . . Well, letâs be honest, he still wouldâve rolled his eyes and told them to fuck off.
But hey! At least this time they wouldnât be wrong, but heâd never admit that to their face. Or to anyone elseâs for that matter.
The first time Bucky meets you, you almost slice his ear clean off.
Honestly? Thatâs the moment he thinks he fell in love with you. Love at first sight. . . or possible ear amputation, in this situation.
It was his own error. He was walking in the gym, too in his own head and oblivious to his surroundings to notice you and walked right in front of the target you were hurling throwing knives at. They were all crammed around the center. Defenitely could've got him if you wanted to.
Thereâs no panic, thereâs no loud dramatics like gasps or hands flying to mouths in shock, you're not rushing to take a look and see if heâs okay and spewing out apologies.
You just stand there and narrow your eyes with a head tilt that doesnât say youâre concerned, but rather youâre lucky.
âYou good?â You ask simply.
Bucky's mouth goes dry, and he finds himself being able to only nod in response.
He was doomed from the very start.
âââ
After your first encounter, he kept running into you.
In the gym (again), the kitchen, the common room. He seemed to gravitate towards you like there was something nudging him in your direction.
Buckyâs the one to ask you on a date. No grand gestures, just a simple question in the hush of the quinjet on your way back from a mission. Broken, bloody and bruised, the sun setting behind you.
This was one of the moments where you were at your softest. You were exhausted, your arm resting in Bucky's careful palms so he could stitch together a small gash on your arm.
âThis is gonna hurt.â He says softly.
âIâve had worse.â You whisper gently. No flat tone or sarcasm falling from your mouth like usual. Just you, tired and recovering.
He cleans it with antiseptic, and you welcome the sting with a shaky inhale, eyes fluttering shut.
The silence stretches between you. Steve controls the jet upfront, taking the three of you back to compound. Thatâs when Bucky asks you on a date.
And to his surprise? You say okay.
He blinks like he heard you wrong, his gentle grasp on your wounded arm going slack, "Really?"
You shrug, "Sure, why not."
His mouth stays a little agape, and you shake your head softly and rest your head back against your seat. Your eyes flutter shutter, tapping his chin, "Close your mouth, Barnes. You'll catch flies in that trap."
Bucky blinks again, and then his mouth shuts promptly.
The date is nothing overly fancy, an Italian restaurant somewhere in downtown Manhattan because he overheard you in conversation with Natasha once about it and how much you liked their tiramisu.
You wear jeans, a simple top and a pair of heels, all various dark colours, hair pulled away from your face. When Bucky hears you coming he turns opens his mouth like a fish out of water when he catches sight if you. He stumbles over his words, shooting up from the couch and almost tripping over his own feet.
"With limbs flailing like that, no-one would ever believe you were the Winter Soldier," You quip with an unimpressed arch of your eyebrow, "Just a man with bad coordination."
"You, uhâ you look, uh, really nice." He chokes.
"You don't look so bad yourself, Barnes." You reply, already sashaying your way to the exit, "Are you just going to stand there or am I going on my own?"
Bucky prays for strength and to not make an absolute fool of himself, scoops up his car keys, and then jogs after you.
âââ
Ever since that first date, and the dates that followed, Bucky has been so totally whipped, and he knows that.
Sam says that to his face at least three times a day.
Bucky doesnât deny it, not onceâ he can't.Â
You spar one time just for fun, and you told him not to take it easy on you. You both pounce at each other, hitting and deflecting like you were practicing choreography, like you had memorised what comes next after he swung his arm in a low arc.
You catch him off guard at one point, and suddenly your swinging up and around his neck before he can blink, thighs squeezing either side of his throat.
And he. . . doesnât do anything.
Brain short circuits.
Bucky.exe has stopped working.
What a good way to go, is about the only thing rolling around in his brain.
âYouâre distracted,â You pant as he sets you down, sweat dripping from your temples and wisps of hair sticking to your forehead.
âNo shit,â Bucky huffs, his eyes lingering on you for longer than necessary, âKinda what happens when you wrap your legs around my head.â
You shake your head, exasperated, âAlways thinking with your downstairs brain.â
Bucky grins, âOnly when itâs you.â
You give him a sharp stare that would probably unsettle anyone else. It just makes Bucky melt like ice-cream left in the sun.
Only you would wrap your legs around your boyfriendâs head and expect him not to be completely distracted by that. . . or maybe you do, and youâre messing with him. He canât be sure, and your expression doesnât give anything away.
All Bucky knows is if itâs psychological warfare youâre playing at?
Heâll never win.
âââ
You're stood at the foot of the bed, sorting your clothes, a basket of Bucky's waiting on the floor for its own turn to be sorted after.
âSam says I dress like Iâm going to a funeral,â You grumble, folding clothes with more vigour than necessary, âWho the fuck wears dark green to a funeral?â
Bucky approaches you from the doorway, pushing the door gently behind him. He wraps his arms around your waist, and you tense for a moment before letting yourself relax into him.
A kiss is pressed to the back of your neck, soft and gentle, âThink he just means you wear a lot of dark clothes, baby.â
âI know what he meant,â You mutter, folding socks over each other so you donât lose the pair, âThe comment was uncalled for.â
Bucky huffs a laugh into your shoulder. You squirm like you hate it, but Bucky knows you donât. He nuzzles into, thumbs running in soothing circles over your hipbones.Â
"Since when have you ever listened to Sam?" He murmur, peppering kisses against the soft skin behind your ear and trailing them down neck.
"I don't listen to Sam," You mumble, eyebrows furrowed and your lips pursed.
"He's trying to get under your skin."
"He's annoying."
"Aggravatingly so."
You lean into his touch as his hands curl around your hips to hold gently instead, until your eyes lock onto a basket of clothes that're pink and your body goes still.
"Bucky?" You say softly.
That tone of voice is never good.
That tone of voice means he's in trouble.Â
He doesn't register it though, he only hums noncommittally. You feel the vibration against the sensitive skin of your neck that makes you flinch before you can try to stop yourself from reacting.Â
Bucky grins, happy with himself, and lifts his head from your neck. He kisses your cheek, "Yeah, baby?"
You point at the basket of clothes he left on the floor, "What is that?"
His eyebrows furrow, looking at where your pointing, "My clean clothes?"
You grit your teeth and turn your head just enough to catch him in your peripheral, "Yes, but why are they pink?"
Bucky does a double-take, blinking at his clothes. He picks up the basket and sets it on the foot of the bed next to your neatly folded clothes.Â
He chews on his bottom lip, "They looked white in the washing machine."
You scoff, "Oh, so the air made them pink?"
Bucky doesn't say a word.
You rummage through his clothes, dress shirts and t-shirts and vests and socks, until you find the culprit. You hold it up slowly, dangling it in front of him.
The look on your face says he's fucked up.
"Are you gonna kill me?" He blurts out.
"I might've if it was my clothes, but you did this to yourself," You huff, gesturing at the ruined pile of his clothes, "How do you even do this, Bucky?"Â
He shrugs, "Wasn't paying attention."
You hold the offender in your handâ a single red sock. Not even a pair.
"I can see that," You deadpan, "Now your whites are all. . . pastel pink."
At least he has the audacity to look a little sheepish.
"You had one job," You continue, "Just one."
Bucky nods solemnly.
"I did."
"You failed. . . how do you fail washing clothes, Bucky?"
"I didn't fail washing them," He corrects, "They're clean, aren't they?"
You blink at him, "They're pink. They're supposed to be white!"
"I justâ I missed the red sock!"
"You have pristine vision!" You exclaim, "You're a super-soldier, it's part of the package!"
"Yeah, but I don't have x-ray vision!"
You huff, shaking your head and muttering about your useless 106 year-old super-soldier boyfriend who can't wash clothes correctly under your breath.
You're complaining, but it still has the corners of Bucky's mouth upturn fondly.
He guides your hips to turn you around, wrapping his arms back around your waist, one hand splayed across your lower back, the other coming up to knead the back of your neck gently.
Your jaw grinds, and you stare at him, that same stare from the first day he saw you in the gym, but this time there's something else there.Â
Love.
And it's for him.
And isn't that something special in itself?
"I'm sorry," He whispers softly, brushing hair from your face, "I'll never touch the washing again."
You try not to smile at that. It's a failing task.
"I'm an 106 year-old man, we didn't have washing machines," Bucky exaggerates a long sigh, "All this technology. . .â
"Alright, old man." You roll your eyes, patting his chest.
He grins, a thumb stroking over your cheek before leaning in to kiss youâ slow and soft, a kiss that warms you on the inside and makes you melt.Â
Something that makes you feel safe, cared for, loved.
Everything the two of you deserved to be.
"I love you," Bucky murmurs against your lips, soft like a prayer, his hand cradling your cheek.
"I love you too," You sigh in a rare defeat, nipping at his lower lip in warning, "But if you ever do that to my clothes, Bucky. . ."
"Told you, I'll never touch the washing machine again," He offers quickly, "Or try to be helpful."
You roll your eyes with a lingering smile, "Might be for the best."
You can still feel the honeyed trace of his lips that had just been pressed to yours, residual warmth still seeping into your skin like sunlight.Â
If he's going to kiss you like that? You ought to have to him apologising more often.
He tilts your head just enough to kiss you a second time, pouring love into you as if it comes from an endless source that lives in his chest.Â
Your eyes flutter shut, hands coming up to cup his cheeks, and suddenly the reason why you were mad at him in the first place slowly begins to fade away.
Later, he'll buy you flowers as an apology. A small bunch of red roses and he'll make a silly joke about the two of you and true love. You'll scoff and give him a playful shove, but you'll take the bouquet and inhale the floral scent. You'll gingerly untie the ribbon and put it in your pocket, filling a vase with water and placing the flowers inside with the utmost care.
But for right now? You can settle for this.
âââ
Some of Bucky's favourite moments with you is in the morning, specifically when the sun is rising and shines through your bedroom window.
Hues of orange and yellow bleed into the darkness of the room, slithering through the gaps in the curtains that had been haphazardly drawn the night prior.
Your face, illuminated by the rising sun from its golden light spills into the room and streaks across your face, will be an image he will never be able to rid from his mind.
In your sleep you had always looked serene, as though the traumatic weight you carry on your shoulders doesn't exist at all. The wrinkle between your usually furrowed eyebrows is smooth and that flat, unimpressed look you usually wear is nowhere to be seen.
It's just you, stripped of that façade you wear like armour.Â
Sometimes, he can't believe that he's lucky enough to see you just as you are.
Bucky tucks hair that had fallen in your face behind your ear, and the soft sweep of his fingertips against your skin has your face twitch, the corners of your lips quiver at the fleeting touch.
"Shhh," He hushes softly as you shift, seeking him out with a deep sigh.
That alone could've made him melt.
His grumpy girl, searching for him even when she was asleep.Â
Your hand settles against his chest and a leg weaves between his. Bucky watches the tension that had started to rise in your body slowly dissipate until you were pilant against the sheets once more.Â
He smiles, his metal arm enveloping your back, and curls his free hand over yours where it rests against his heart.
âââ
You in your element is something that Bucky will never quite get over.
He watches you moveâ dangerous and deadly, your body twisting fluidly and your limbs swing in arcs meant to deliver heavy blows to take down men that're twice your size.
Bucky sighs wistfully.
Sam blinks, looking both mildly frustrated and slightly horrified at his reaction.
âSheâs doing her job, Buck.â
Bucky huffs, âYeah, but she looks good doing it.â
âAre you two finished with your mother's meeting or what?" You yell, glancing over your shoulder at them with a withering stare.
Someone takes this as the chance to try and rush you.
You curse under your breath, exasperated and utterly irritated, jaw clenched as your body moves fluidly, whirling around on your heel and swinging your leg in the air. The heel of your boot connects with his face, a sickening crunch under it where his nose snaps to the side.Â
He staggers from the force of it and swears, trying to grasp clumsily at your leg in his disorientation. You grab him by his shoulders and smack his head against your knee hard, and he falls like a sack of potatoesâ unconscious.
"Seems like you have it handled." Sam quips.
You roll your eyes, pointing a throwing knife at him, "Careful, Wilson, or it'll be you next."
"What about me?"
"You're such a machochist, dude." Sam huffs with a shake of his head, following redwing down one of the corridor's that'll hopefully lead you all where you need to go.
"If you want a punishment, James, you know where to find me." You tease with a roll of you eyes, but there's a hint of a smile there.
And that's for him.
When he doesn't move from his spot, you huff softly and take his wrist to drag him along with you to follow Sam, still failing to hold off that smile, "C'mon, old man."
Bucky grins and trails behind you like a puppy.
There's no place he'd rather be.
đ·ïž: @metal-armed-muse @juniebjonesin @kileyking @nightfirecomit + to be added to the tag list? comment on this post or send in an ask!
pairing | Veterinarian!Bucky Barnes x f!Reader
summary | After years of traveling abroad, you are called back to your hometown to help settle your grandmother's estate. You expected to quickly sell the house and return to your life in the city, but an injured bunny leads you straight back to your high school sweetheart...and a life you thought you wanted to leave behind.
warnings | MDNI; 18+ Barbies ONLY please đ | modern AU, hurt/comfort, angst, slow burn, high school sweethearts to strangers to lovers, mentions of relative death (grandma), grief, Bucky lost his arm and it's briefly described (non-graphic), jealous partner (not Bucky), Bucky Barnes is a yearner, slight description of an animal injury (non life threatening), mentions of pet euthanasia (not described, just the feelings around it), Bucky Barnes is a beggar, but also a tease, oral f! and m! receiving, pussy pronouns, slow, passionate unprotected p in v, these two yap way too much as does the author, Bucky can lift reader and is described as being bigger than her, nicknames used: bunny and sweetheart, reader has a relevant tattoo of something, somewhere, no use of y/n, please let me know if i missed anything
word count | 18k (i did say the long way, didn't i?)
phoenix chirps | hooollllyyyyyyy fucking shit, i did it. my longest fic to date, who let me yap this much??? my second fic for the @stantastic-association Barbie collab â€ïžđ this one...i'll talk about after. there's a lore drop at the end where i'll yap your ear off even more. for now...please enjoy my favorite fic i've ever written 𫶠oh and if this flops i'm ending it all. kidding. maybe.
Main Masterlist | Barbie Dreamhouse Masterlist | AO3
When did casseroles become the standard of care when someone was grieving?
Surely there had to be something better than canned ingredients thrown into Tupperware dishes to give the surviving members of a family? The unlabeled containers felt like a tower of misguided sympathy as you stacked them in the passenger seat of your car. The reception had cleared out minutes ago, each of your grandmother's friends handing you a dish and saying "sorry for your loss" or "she's in a better place" before going off to their own lives.
Words that were meant to bring comfort, yet hit a concrete wall that you had erected around the feelings death brought. Smiling as sadly as you could, you accepted each one gratefully. Social norms telling you anything but that would be rude and inappropriate. So now, not only were you still holding back tears that you didn't want to shed in the presence of others, you had to play Tetris so they wouldn't topple over on the drive.
Still though, it was easier to focus on them than the grief that was clawing at your insides, you supposed. Easier to focus on the contents of casseroles than the oddity of returning to a place you thought you'd left in the dust when you decided to broaden your horizons.
As you drove, your mind picked out familiar things. The tree-lined streets that looked like they belonged on postcards were still the shining star of the sleepy town, impeccably manicured as always. Yet the landscape around them had changed in the decade since you'd laid eyes on it. The diner you used to get a quick bite to eat at after school had gotten a new coat of paint that made you wrinkle your nose. The library where you once pored over travel magazines and occasionally studied had gotten a new neon sign and updated the flower beds with limestone facades. The singular convenience store where everyone did their grocery shopping had gotten a modern facelift with new signage.
Time had seemed to touch everything except the layout, making everything both familiar and new at once. The nursery that was at the end of the street your grandmother lived on was just putting out their spring plants. A fresh wave of despair hit you square in the chest at the realization you wouldn't get to hear your grandmother lovingly describe what she picked to plant in her garden that season.
The stack of Tupperware leaned dangerously when you turned onto the road you learned to ride a bike on, and once knew all of the neighbors. Memory alone got you from the reception hall to now idling on the unpaved driveway of your grandmother's house, body working on autopilot the second you had passed the nursery. The house looked the same, in theory. Though there was a looming darkness where your grandma's presence would've normally brightened. Like the soul of the house had been snatched with her passing.
The plush leather seats seemed to have magnetized your clothing, your hands not able to move from the steering wheel. Of all the tasks you needed to take care of since you got the news, somehow getting out of the car and crossing the threshold to a quiet house where your grandmother no longer occupied was definitely the hardest.
Yet, it was your cross to bear as her sole heir. Her last wishes were for you to clean up the house that had been in your family for generations, and make sure whoever bought it would treat it with the same care as she did. And there was no way you could fulfill that if you didn't gather the courage to walk through the door.
Yanking your suitcase free from the backseat, you moved to face the front door, casseroles forgotten in their stacked configuration of the passenger seat. With trembling fingers, you finally unlocked the heavy wooden door and pushed in.
The scent of muted rose perfume and lemon pledge hit you first, and your mind briefly played a phantom memory of your grandmother. Rounding the corner from the kitchen, drying her hands on a tea towel before she opened her arms for an all encompassing embrace that could cure all ailments. Pressing a hand to your heart to stop the ache as you took in the dim entry way, moving to the living room. The rooms and hallways looked the same as they did in your childhood memory onlyâŠsmaller. Like you had outgrown the space, but not the feeling of comfort.
A fresh tinge of guilt wrapped around your throat as you saw the signs of your grandmother's aging. Pill bottles on the small end table, lined up in an orderly fashion. A walker stood at the ready next to her favorite arm chair that had a handmade throw blanket you sent her from a remote village of Machu Picchu. An unfinished crossword sat on the small coffee table that made your lip tremble. It would likely stay unfinished for all of eternity.
With a deep breath you moved to the bedrooms, taking in the changes that you had only heard from your grandmother when she visited you or spoke about on the phone. The kitchen had gotten a much needed upgrade from the old 70s appliances that were truthfully on their last leg for awhile.
Your childhood room had amassed some boxes, but remained for the most part untouched. That's where your suitcase landed, hoping what you packed would be enough until you could get the house ready to sell.
The heels you wore to the funeral clicked on the worn hardwood, and you could almost hear your grandmother's voice asking you how you walked in those things. The last room you hadn't inspected yet was hers. And the closer you got to the door at the end of the hallway, the stronger the scent of her perfume became.
Memories flooded in one by one as you dared to reach for the door knob. Cuddling up next to her while awful soap operas played on an ancient TV with a lace doily draped over it. Gossiping about the townspeople like they were characters in her own personal drama series. Your grandmother always made it a point to know everyone's business.
Dropping your hand from the knob, you bolted for air. For space to breathe that wasn't bashing you over the head with guilt. Guilt for not coming back as she aged even though you could have. Guilt for your selfishness of always flying her to you on your travels instead of relaxing with her in the home you basically grew up in.
The sliding glass door squeaked as you stepped into the backyard oasis that was still thankfully maintained to perfection. The sun was just dipping below the trees, casting everything in a soft orange glow, and birds were calling somewhere off in the distance. Out here, your thoughts always seemed to halt.
In the summer, wildflowers would bloom along the fence line, fruit trees towards the back of the property would produce lemons and cherries for pies that would be baked from scratch or preserved. Rows of raised flowerbeds held all manners of vegetables, herbs, and fruits. Even in her old age, your grandmother had continued its upkeep insisting that it helped her feel young again.
And when her body began to wither with the throes of time, she hired trusted gardeners and landscapers from around town to keep its spirit alive. Something you were tasked to ensure the next owners of the house would do. Even now, the thought of this space still overflowing with life being redone in a trendy minimalist aesthetic brought a strange surge of anger in your veins.
Just as you took a deep breath, you heard a rustling sound from a raised flower bed to your left. Something too loud to be from the light spring breeze. Slowly making your way over, you saw the source of the sound. Nestled between the stalks of herbs that had survived the winter frost, was a small, tawny bunny with wide black eyes trying to burrow for safety. Yet, she was ensnared in what appeared to be fishing line, an angry red mark visible against her fur where it dug into her back leg. She stopped at the sight of you, going completely still except for the rapid twitching of her nose.
You shrugged off your black cardigan without a second thought, draping it over her body in hopes of keeping her warm. You couldn't bear anymore thoughts of death today if you could help it. Dashing inside, heels briefly getting caught in the grass, your thumbs were already flying over your phone screen to find the closest vet. It wasn't lost on you that you used to know this town â and the vet clinic â like the back of your hand. And now you needed to Google a place you used to call home because you didn't trust your mind to remember where it was.
Grabbing a small shoebox from the kitchen counter, you returned to the bunny. Gently snapping the fishing line so as not to disturb the wound, you wrapped the cardigan completely around her and placed her in the box. "Hold on for me, okay?" you pleaded, securing her as best you could before making your way back to the car. "I've got you."
The casserole dishes you had been too drained to move still sat in the front seat, a glaring reminder that you hadn't been able to stomach anything real since the news of your grandmother's passing. But you had more pressing matters to attend to.
Based on your search, there was still a singular vet in town. The street address was the same as well, familiar now that it was staring back at you. Summers spent at that very address using every spare minute to nurture your passion for animals. And while you should know how to get there, you didn't trust the decade old map in your head while a life hung in the balance.
Pulling up to the clinic was like opening a time capsule. The name had changed to "White Wolf Animal Hospital", proudly displayed on a wooden sign. The front facade had been redone, upgraded slightly with a modern undertone though still keeping the rustic charm. The big oak tree you used to sit underneath during hot summer afternoons still stood, branches larger and broader now.
Carefully scooping up the box, you pulled open the clinic door, a bell announcing your arrival with a faint clink. The reception area was empty and quiet, though the overhead lights were still on indicating that it should have been occupied. It was odd that no one was manning the front, a position you used to fill during your free time, so you knew how important it was.
You checked your watch to see if you were too late for their working hours (you weren't), then chanced a glance at the bunny. She was still in a state of shock, eyes blinked slowly up at you. Sighing, you set the box down on the high counter, close to convincing yourself that you could go to the back and use your limited knowledge to maybe help the little creature.
Surely this place wasn't closed yet if the door was unlocked? And if it was, what kind of person bought the clinic and was managing it so inadequately?
"Hello?" You called into the emptiness, heels continuing to click with each step. The clinic wasn't that big, surely if anyone was here, they would have heard you. Picking up the box again, you moved to start opening doors to exam rooms until you found anyone to help, when the farthest one swung open, a man in a lab coat stepping through.
"Ma'am, I'm so sorry, but we're â"
Time froze as soon as blue eyes you never thought you'd see again met yours. Your heartbeat increased wildly, just as it used to when you saw him. Of all the people you had expected to be running the old vet clinic, Bucky Barnes was the absolute last one.
He looked nearly the same as he did in your memories of him, somehow. A little older, a little more muscular, with wisps of incoming grays in his dark hair and stubble around his jaw as the only things to show any time had passed since you had said goodbye. When the relationship between two young and dumb kids couldn't stand the test of long distance and an amicable breakup followed, you thought that would be it. And the 20 year old you left behind would be the forever image you held of your first love.
But now here you were, shaking free his own memories if the way his eyes darted around your figure were any indication.
"Bunny?" he asked, breathless.
Stepping closer, you held the box out for him to see, you almost asked how he knew what you had brought him. Until you realized he wasn't referencing the injured animal. He was talking to you.
A nickname bestowed to you once upon a time. When the stars twinkled brighter and your futures weren't yet decided, a silly thing based on an inside joke of an inside joke that you couldn't remember the origin of. Hearing it from him was in and of itself, another kind of shock.
"Oh," you both said in unison, chuckling awkwardly, trying to figure out where to go next. Because, truthfully, what words were there to say to someone after ten years and barely a birthday or holiday card? You weren't even planning on looking him up, not wanting to disturb whatever peace he had built by showing up unannounced. And yet an injured bunny sent those plans to crumble.
His gaze dropped to the cardigan in the box, then to the modest black dress and heels you hadn't bothered to change out of. His features morphed, worry lines deepening as he came to a quiet conclusion as to why you had returned in the first place.
"IâŠfound a bunny in grandma's garden. It looks like she got caught up in some fishing line," you explained, breaking the silence. You moved closer, box still held out like a peace offering in hopes of getting his calculating stare off of you and towards the more pressing matter.
"Come on back," Bucky motioned with his head to the exam room behind him, holding the door open for you and letting you go in first.
Suddenly incredibly aware of the clack you made with each step, and how you were trying to breathe calmly and not breathe in the familiar aroma of his cologne. You placed the box onto the metal exam table, stepping back to give him space to perform the exam.
"Alright little one, let's see what you've gotten yourself into." Bucky's voice still held that gentle quality you remembered falling in love with. It was surprising how much you missed it, when something that faded over time without you realizing it was suddenly back with clarity.
His hands moved carefully, cradling the small animal that somehow seemed even smaller once it was in his palm. The glint of black and gold on his left hand caught your eye then, a sleek and modern prosthetic that had your chest clenching, mind reeling with scenarios of what could have happened for him to lose his arm. Vaguely, you did remember your grandmother telling you briefly of how there was a fire at the animal clinic, and that someone had been injured. She just hadn't told you how orâŠwho.
Bucky's voice calling your name snapped you from trying to decipher the mystery and defrost any more memories. He was looking at you expectantly, probably asked a question you didn't hear and therefore couldn't answer. "Sorry, what?"
A soft chuckle left his mouth, making your heart melt just a bit further. "Do you know how she got wrapped up like this?"
"No," you answered, arms wrapping around your waist. "I was getting some air in the backyard when I heard her rustling in between the rosemary and parsley. I'm not even sure where the fishing line came from, grandma didn't use it for this very reason."
"Well she's lucky you found her." Bucky smiled in your general direction, but he hadn't met your eyes since the nickname faux pas. Turning, he grabbed some cleaning solution and gauze.
You watched as he tried to dress the wound, but the bunny was wriggling to the point it had become a struggle of not injuring her further. "Let me help," you offered softly, already pulling on a pair of surgical gloves. Helping to hold the bunny still, Bucky was able to get her patched up. Based on your limited knowledge, the wound didn't appear that deep, but without your intervention there was no way the poor thing would have survived.
Putting the thought of anymore death out of your head, you turned to dispose of the gloves and let Bucky do a final wellness check. Ignoring the familiarity of what just happened by reaching up to fidget with the pendant of your necklace.
Bucky barely looked over at you, but still asked: "When's the last time you ate anything?"
"Oh, aboutâŠtwelve hours ago," you answered truthfully, but when he leveled you with a pointed stare, you felt the need to ramble in defense. "But I haveâŠcasseroles. In the car. ForâŠlater."
"Casseroles," he deadpanned, now moving his attention to bringing out a small cage and preparing it with straw and bowls from various cupboards.
"The backseat is full of Tupperware containers. Apparently all of grandma's friends thought the best way for me to deal with her death was by pouring a bunch of ingredients into a dish and letting me play a guessing game of what I thought was in it."
His lips twitched into a barely there smile, placing the bunny into her temporary home where she immediately hopped to the corner, snuggling into a tight ball. "I'm going to keep her here for observation for a few days, and contact some wildlife rehab centers in the morning."
Shoving his hands into the pockets of his lab coat, he rocked onto the balls of his feet. "In the meantime, let me take you to dinner. We can catch up."
It was a simple request, one you could deflect again. You did have casserolesâŠbut they likely weren't even good anymore, considering they should've been refrigerated as soon as you got to the house. But as it neared 6 pm, you'd been running on empty for hours without realizing it. And your stomach was growling in protest of being ignored.
"Okay," you agreed, continuing to fidget with your necklace. It was a simple agreement. And yet nothing was going to be simple about bridging a decade of non-communication into one dinner.
"We can go to Frankie's up the road, just give me a couple of minutes to close up," Bucky suggested, nodding towards the door to the front.
You nodded, the name of the old diner hitting you like a force field. Memories of past dates, post homecoming and prom nights, andâŠthe night you had both decided that the relationship wouldn't work if you left. There were no fireworks, not even a fight or careless words thrown. Just two people mature enough to realize that the life you wanted was one that he couldn't follow you into. And loving each other enough to say it instead of forcing someone to give up their dream.
Initially, you thought it would be easier to sever ties completely. Considering there would be long stretches where you didn't know where you would land, you didn't want to lead him on when you also didn't know if you'd be back.
Yet every year you'd look at important dates on your calendar just a little bit longer. A birthday, anniversaries of first kisses or relationship milestones that no longer meant anything hoping that you had made the right decision by putting yourself first and that Bucky was at least happy. Because that's all you'd ever wanted for him.
"Ready?" Bucky asked, returning to you with keys twirling around a finger easily. The lab coat was gone, giving a closer glimpse of his broad shoulders stretching the plaid button-down shirt he was wearing as he grabbed a jacket from a hook behind the reception desk.
You nodded, following him out of the clinic and onto the sidewalk. The streetlights were just coming on, bathing everything in an amber glow, with the soft chirps of crickets providing ambiance as you began walking.
It was absurd if you thought about it for too long. How normal this would've been had you not had to cure the wanderlust of your soul.
"SoâŠ" you both started awkwardly, chuckling at your timing. Perhaps this sort of clumsiness was just what ten years apart does to two people who used to finish each other's sentences.
"So, how long are you in town for?" Bucky asked, keeping a respectful distance with his hands shoved into his pockets and focusing on the ground in front of him.
You matched his pace, heels scraping along the sidewalk while your hands weren't really sure what to do with themselves, the anxious habit of twisting the pendant the only thing you were able to think of. "Only until grandma's house sells. Her will specified that I need to stay there while it's on the market, something about making sure it goes to the right person," you explained calmly. "You know how particular she was about that garden of hers."
Bucky nodded thoughtfully, a few pieces of hair bouncing as he did so. The uncomfortable silence lingered again, pressing inwards like it knew it shouldn't be here. There was the sense that there were several thousand words unsaid, and yet none were rising to the surface.
"SoâŠhow long are you in town for?" you asked, looking at him out of the corner of your eye.
He smiled fully then, lines around his eyes and mouth a little deeper than you remembered. "Quite a while, I think."
You stopped next to him in front of the diner, nose wrinkling in slight disgust as you saw the new paint job it had been given. A bright cherry red and white awning with bright, electric blue signage, where there was once a soft yellow storefront with inviting turquoise accents. Who decided that your favorite diner needed to look like a bomb pop had exploded? OnlyâŠwas it really your favorite diner anymore?
"Don't worry. It may have gotten a botched facelift, but the food is still good," Bucky assured, holding the door open for you, the still familiar smell of fryer grease and salt with the undertones of ground coffee even this late in the evening wafted out.
There was once a time you recognized everyone who worked at Frankie's, including the owner, who named it after his late father. But now, only new faces blinked back at you while you were shown to a booth in the corner.
Just like your grandmother's house, the booths felt and looked the same, yet seemedâŠsmaller. You had anticipated that after ten years of growing, yet you didn't think you'd ever outgrow a place that meant so much to you.
The Formica tabletop had been refinished, probably at the same time the awful paint job had occurred outside. This corner booth was one you would frequently sit at, and one your fifteen year old self had boldly carved your and Bucky's initials into, like it was going to be as permanent as what you thought your relationship was.
"What can I get ya, Doc?" a waitress asked, stopping by the table with a pen and notepad in hand. She smiled warmly at you briefly, but her attention was focused mainly on Bucky. A habit of people from a town where everyone knew everyone.
It was strange to hear Bucky of all people be referred to as 'doc'. Technically, it was his title, and you knew that. It just took a stranger saying it out loud to make it click that the boy who used to shotgun energy drinks, demolish your high score in Guitar Hero, and whisper sweet nothings against your skin was an actual doctor. Even if it was for animals.
"Two coffees please, Joyce, and I'll have my usual," he answered, not even glancing at the menu.
You rattled off a simple sandwich and French fry order, settling on the first familiar thing you saw. A little grateful that not everything had changed.
Joyce returned with two mugs of steaming coffee, and you wrapped a hand around one, letting the warmth seep into your palms.
"So, where did you end up going?" Bucky asked, pushing the tin of sugar towards you before you had a chance to grab for it.
"Ah, all over really? Spent a couple of years traveling around central Europe picking up odd jobs. Learned how to ask for directions and where the bathroom is in about eight languages," you explained, focusing more on the slow turn of your spoon.
He nodded again, eyes finally freely roaming over you when he thought your gaze was downcast. Up until now, he'd really focused on anything that wasn't your face. It made something in your chest twist, knowing that your surprise appearance was just as big a shock for him as it was for you.
Guilt, like bile, settled in the back of your throat. You had promised to come back, in this very booth actually. Sure it was before you knew where your life would take you, but still. You could have visited.
Your eye caught the black and gold glint of his left arm again, heart hammering to know how exactly that came to be. You hadn't really stopped wondering, but didn't know how to bring it up. You tried taking a sip of your coffee, averting your eyes back to Bucky's, but he was giving you a small, knowing smile.
"About a year after you left," he began, leaning back in the booth like he was reliving the memory in real time. "A fire broke out from some faulty wiring. Almost lost the whole building."
You put that into a quick perspective, trying to figure out what you were so busy doing while something so horrible was happening to a person you claimed to care about.
"All the animals got out," he continued, drumming his fingers against the table top. "I went back in to get the old clinic cat. Stubborn thing was hiding in the back storage room. I was able to get her out, but got pinned in the process."
You swallowed thickly, guilt still radiating outward. "Grandma told me about the fire, but never the extent of it."
"She probably just didn't want you worrying," he answered, sipping his coffee.
Your eyes finally met his since the first time at the clinic, cataloguing freely the changes age and the stress of running a business had caused. And his did the same to you. "Bucky, I'm - "
You were cut off from an improvised and too late apology by Joyce, dropping the food off at the table.
Shoulders dropping, you didn't even know what you would've said anyway. Something like that should be more thought out so you could get out everything you needed to say.
"So old Doc Hensley finally retired then? Any idea where he ended up?" you asked, steering the conversation away from a haphazard apology.
Bucky huffed a chuckle, popping a fry into his mouth. "Bought a timeshare in Cabo. Left me with the clinic once he knew I could handle it after I got my degree."
The image of walking into an empty reception area had your head tilting slightly. "Can youâŠhandle it?" you asked gently, remembering just how difficult it could be to run the whole operation by yourself.
One of his shoulders raised slightly, the corner of his mouth tipping up like he knew what you were really asking. "It's been harder recently. Lost my front desk associate after he decided to choose a different career path."
You knew he didn't mean anything by the words. That was just the story of what happened, but still, an apology tried to worm its way free again. Like he wouldn't have this problem had you stayedâŠ
"And where did you finally end up? Or are you still traveling?" he asked, and you wondered if he could see where your mind was wandering, and he had looked for a way to bring it back to the present.
"I'm working in the tech field now, based out of New York City, where I live. Mostly remote stuff, so I could keep traveling around if I want. I took a bereavement leave to get the house sorted," you paused to look at the darkening sky, realizing you had not made a dent in packing up the house or contacting a realtor to begin the process of putting it on the market.
"Do you like it in the city?"
"It's good, I suppose. The apartment is tiny, but it's in a great neighborhood, and my - " you paused briefly because it really hadn't hit you how awkward this next glimpse into your new life would be. "- my boyfriend likes living there."
Bucky stilled, coffee cup halfway to his lips as a mix of emotions quickly flickered over his eyes., before he shifted his gaze downwards. "How long has that been going on?"
Chewing your lip at the sudden change in demeanor, hand that wasn't occupied with the coffee mug flying to the pendant necklace again. "About two years."
He nodded his head once, like it was something final, and you couldn't help feeling like you had just sucker-punched him with that news. "Is he good to you?"
It was your turn to nod with a small smile when you answered, "Yeah, he is."
You should have expected this reveal to land awkwardly, as everything else had with him since you ran into his clinic. But in practice, it felt so much worse for reasons you didn't currently want to dwell on. Especially when every single turn of events since the funeral - except for saving that bunny - had made guilt become the leading emotion for the foreseeable future.
Turning your mug in your hands, you fought against the urge to fill the silence. Even as Joyce came to take away your empty plates and drop off the check, you still wanted to say something. But what could you say to someone whose feelings you hurt twice in the span of a decade? In the very same diner, no less.
You turned to dig in your purse to put some money down, but Bucky had already placed cash on the table and leveled you with a look that crossed a decade. Enough that you knew whatever small argument was about to happen, you would not win.
"Thank you for dinner. You really didn't have to," you protested, scooting out of your side of the booth and following him out of the diner.
He smiled gently, something unguarded now in his expression. "You ran into my clinic in what I'm assuming are your funeral clothes with an injured bunny. It's the least I could do."
Out on the sidewalk, the temperature had dipped considerably now that the sun had set. The moon had risen, providing a silver haze mingling with the amber pools of light of the streetlamps.
The silence between you and Bucky no longer felt like it was begging to be filled with awkward questions and small talk, it had become slightly more manageable. The dinner was successful, if that bar was measured by divulging big life events and evading the pitfalls of a reunion neither party was prepared to make.
You shivered against the chill during the short walk, slightly berating yourself for leaving the cardigan you had worn earlier with the bunny.
Bucky cleared his throat, draping his jacket over your shoulders without question or ceremony. He used to do something similar on cold nights, walking down these same sidewalks. Only it was his Letterman jacket he'd put over your shoulders and then wrap a hand around yours. His hand didn't find yours though in the present.
"How are you doing? WithâŠeverything?" he asked gently. It was a loaded question in the loaded silence while your hand was itching with the phantom feeling of his. Gone was the formality of catching up, and he was genuinely asking. Looking for an honest answer that none of the funeral goers earlier in the day would have wanted.
You let out a shaky sigh, guilt in the back of your throat being replaced with a heavy hollowness. Tears really hadn't fallen since you got the news, and some form of robotic numbness had taken up residence where emotion should be, and you didn't want tears to fall now. "Okay, I suppose. Being back in the house was hard. Didn't really have time to dwell too hard on it when I found the bunny."
Bucky glanced sideways at you, something in his expression shifting at your answer. You must have worn your sadness plainly enough now. "Do you need any help? Boxing things up or anything?"
You were approaching the clinic's parking lot where your car was waiting. "I don't know where to start, really. I couldn't even open her bedroom door," you paused to rifle through your purse for the keys. "The whole place feels like a giant game of Minesweeper, and I just keep stepping on mines instead of flagging safe spots."
"WellâŠ" Bucky sighed, stepping back to give you space to open the door to your car. The wafting smell of casseroles made you grimace, thankful that you had taken Bucky's offer to get some real food tonight. "The clinic could use some help. If you ever want somewhere to be that isn't the house."
You faced him fully then, leaning against the car, tilting your head back to look at him. The passage of time had been kind to him. And maybe in another life, this date - if that's what you could even call it - would've ended with him gently pressing you against the car, his hand at the nape of your neck. It would be comforting even now, yet impossible for you to ask for on several counts.
"I'm not even licensed for anything clinical, Buck," you sighed, looking back down at your shoes, worried about getting too lost in his eyes. "I'd just get in the way."
"I'm aware," he answered simply, "and no, you wouldn't."
You kicked a small pebble with your toe, watching it bounce between his feet. Deep down, you knew he wasn't expecting an answer right now. He really wasn't even expecting you to do it. It was just an offer of a distraction so you didn't wallow in grief.
"I'll think about it," you finally answered with a small smile, gaze tracking over his face.
He nodded, opening the car door for you further so you could slide in. "Try to get some sleep. It really was good to see you."
"You too."
Shutting the door and driving away with an easy wave, you mulled over the last few hours in your mind. How little building blocks had all snapped into place so you could end up here. It wasn't until you turned onto the road home that you realized his jacket was still draped around your shoulders. And now that if the heaviness of going through your grandmother's things got to be too much, you had a sliver of an excuse to show up and slide behind the reception desk as if no time had passed at all.
Sleep evaded you, like it always did in a new place. Ghosts of your childhood and the things you left behind had you tossing and turning for most of the night. If you had managed to drift off, it was dreamless, and interrupted by sounds of the house settling that you were no longer used to. You rose before the sun, intending to at least start clearing some of the easier parts of the house.
The kitchen felt like the safest place to start. Not to mention if you were going to tackle anything on your to do list, copious amounts of caffeine were going to be a necessity.
The cupboard always held seven mugs, six were from the set of china your grandmother had acquired on her wedding day. The single out of place mug was a chipped butter-yellow with lopsided daisies hand painted on it. One that you had presented her when you were no more than seven years old. And ever since then, you watched her pour coffee into it every morning, reserving the 'fancier' mugs for company.
No one was ever allowed to use it while your grandmother was aliveâŠand you decided you'd like to keep it that way. Setting it on the counter, the flagship of the 'keep' pile, you started the ancient coffee maker and let the aroma of fresh coffee fill the kitchen.
There were only a couple of texts from Nick asking how you were. A fresh pang of guilt knocked against your ribs that you hadn't responded. That you were too busy reliving the past to fully remember the present. You sent off a simple responseâŠ
You [7:39 AM]
Morning! Slept OK, but it's been a lot to take inâŠhoping to make progress with the realtor today. Miss you xx
With your coffee mug in hand, your feet carried you to the solace of the backyard while you drafted an email to the local realtor in your head. The sun was still hiding behind the trees, but must've been barely over the horizon, as the sky was lightening to a pale purple.
Glancing sideways at the small herb garden where you'd found the bunny, there was a small indent in the greenery still visible. A small frown tugged at your lips. You didn't really know how the bunny was doing this morning after her little ordeal. Sure the wounds weren't that bad, and the fact that she survived the car ride alone should've been enough to calm your mind. Yet, as you moved back inside going room to room to take stock of what you needed to accomplish, the poor bunny still lingered in the back of your mind.
Along with the image of an empty reception area. If Bucky was truly short-staffed, who was going to be checking on her throughout the day? Considering you were the one to drop her in his lap, maybe you should justâŠ
Then, your eyes landed on the borrowed jacket that had been draped over your shoulders last night, where it now laid on the back of the couch. You should return it, at least, and when you did that's when you could check in on the bunny.
You should also start adding more to the 'keep' pile and clean up a few of the more personal effects of your grandmother's so listing photos could be taken. But the thought of doing that felt insurmountable when you were worried about the little creature. And Bucky trying to run that place on his ownâŠ
So, with a half-drafted email waiting to be sent in your outbox and memories that you didn't have the mental capacity to untangle yet, you grabbed the jacket and your keys and left all responsibilities to wait.
The drive to the clinic was familiar now. You pulled into the parking lot just in time to see Bucky emerging from a house next door to the clinic, juggling a bag and a travel coffee mug, his keys held between his teeth while he situated everything into a comfortable hold.
Stepping out of your car, you waved sheepishly at him, fiddling with your own key chain. "You live around here?" you asked, once he was in earshot.
Really, you expected to surprise him, seeing as this was your second time showing up unannounced in less than 24 hours. Yet there were no signs of shock on his face, just a knowing smile and the hint of relief in his piercing gaze. "I live next door," he gestured to the house, key sliding into the lock. "Easier and faster to get here in case of an emergency. What are you doin' here?"
You held the jacket out like a peace offering, "I didn't want to steal your jacket, andâŠI was worried about the bunny."
His lips twitched at the corners while he held the door to the clinic open for you to pass through first. "I checked on her last night before I turned in, and she was doing great. You can go see for yourself if you'd like."
You walked to the back, lights flicking on overhead as Bucky wordlessly prepared his clinic for the day. The bunny was awake, moving as gingerly as she could through her bedding of straw to get to a small food bowl. She caught sight of you, twitching her nose as she ate. The bandages you had helped place were still intact, though you suspected Bucky would need help changing them soon.
Your cardigan had been folded carefully and placed next to the cage, no longer needed now that the bunny was safe and warm. Moving to pick it up, your eyes caught sight of a small placard that would normally get filled out during intake. In Bucky's semi-neat handwriting was the name 'Rosemary' along with a few progress notes.
"See? She's a real trooper; the first night is always the one to watch."
"Bucky youâŠyou named her?" you asked, turning to look at him while he adjusted his lab coat over his shoulders.
"I did. Figured she might be staying a bit until she gets her strength up, and we can find a wildlife center to help us release her."
For a moment, you didn't say anything, turning to look back down at the tawny bunny - Rosemary - instead. You could sense Bucky pick up on something being wrong as he moved closer behind you. "Was that okay?" he asked, voice dipping now in concern.
Nodding quickly, you turned the cardigan over in your hands. "It's justâŠ.I meanâŠyou named her after my grandmother?"
Bucky's composure completely faltered as he finally connected it, eyes going wide with surprise. "Oh! I - fuck - I only named her that because you said you found her in the herbs, and I didn't - I'm sorry."
You huffed a small laugh at his stumbling, really unnecessary apology. It wasn't like your grandma liked being called Rosemary anyway. She much preferred everyone call her 'Rose' or 'Grandma', even if they had no relation to her. "It's really fine, I justâŠwasn't expecting it. It suits her, though."
Bucky's mouth opened like he had more to say, but just outside the room, the bell jingled to announce that the first client had come in for their appointment. "Well, that's me. You'll be okay back here?"
Nodding, you glanced back at your cardigan in your hands.
"Hey," he said, hand already braced on the door to the front. "Seriously, you can stay as long as you need to."
"Thanks," you murmured, knowing what that offer was. Stay somewhere neutral if the house is getting too loud. And you really were grateful for it. The crushing weight of responsibility still sat in your chest, but it was easier here when glaring memories of the past weren't around every corner.
But sitting in a room with your thoughts while the bell jingled twice more, and the sound of an overexcited dog came from beyond the door, wasn't really helping either. A different kind of guilt hit then, when you knew you could help. You knew, roughly, where the client files were. You knew how to soothe owners when something slightly traumatic happened, and they were worried. You knew some patients would take longer, and a backlog would happen if intake forms weren't completed before Bucky saw them.
Setting the cardigan back down next to Rosemary's cage, where she had already curled up for a nap, you pushed your way to the front. Bucky was bent over the reception desk, fingers rifling through folders. "Let me," you said gently, moving to nudge him out of the way, but he had already stepped back before you got too close.
He gave a grateful smile, but didn't dwell further, showing the dog and her owner to one of the exam rooms. Orienting yourself was easy enough, or would have been. But whoever Bucky had manning the front had completely obliterated your filing system that you spent your entire last summer here working on.
"Who fuckin' organized these?" you grumbled under your breath, knowing you'd need to get this back into shape at some point. Even if you didn't plan on staying, the need to create efficiency was already eating away at you.
The bell jingled again, and you looked up to see an elderly woman with a cat carrier clutched tightly. "Well, I'll be, I didn't expect to see Rose's granddaughter here ever again."
You chuckled softly, recognizing her as one of the many whom you met at the funeral the day before. "Just getting my mind off things. What brings you in today?"
A sympathetic smile creased her face. "We're here for Figg's annual checkup." She raised the cat carrier a bit.
Nodding, you pulled the paperwork free, and began the simple process. Asking questions if anything was concerning or anything had changed since last time. "Take a seat and Doctor Barnes will be out here shortly." The line out of your mouth was standard once the paperwork was completed. Though it used to be 'Hensley' you said, and Bucky's surname coming from your lips felt a little foreign. Still, you couldn't stop the flare of warmth in your chest at knowing he fulfilled a dream he'd talked about since you were kids.
"You know, these used to be organized to perfection," you groused, sliding Figg's client folder to Bucky when he emerged from an exam room.
A look of amusement danced across his eyes as he picked up the folder. "I do know."
You settled behind the desk once they were out of sight, starting to reimplement everything back to perfection. Something about doing something menial with little emotional consequence was healing. Giving you the space to maybe come to terms with having to go through every one of your grandma's belongings.
The day began to run smoothly. You sorted paperwork, greeted patients as they came in, and tried to get your mind to clear as much as possible. It was a little alarming if you stopped to think about it too much. How easy it had been to slip back into a persona and exist in Bucky's presence. Despite the initial awkwardness of dinner the previous night, and a few moments where the space between you narrowed too close, the stiffness had dissipated slightly, leaning more towards two people who had always known how to coexist in the same space.
It wasn't until your phone buzzed under a particularly thick stack of papers that reality came to a head.
Texts from Nick asking how things were coming along had been sitting unanswered, and you'd been too caught up to respond. Right. You had been in the middle of an email when you had decided you'd needed to be anywhere else.
With a lull in the day, you opened the half-drafted email back up on your phone. But just as you were double-checking the contents before sending it, Bucky's voice pulled your attention.
"Would you mind helping me redress Rosemary's bandages?"
And just like that, your phone lay forgotten once more, a more important task needing your full attention.
Once the last patient of the day left, the clinic lights had been dimmed, and the front door locked, you returned to Rosemary for one last check-in.
"Thank you for staying. " Bucky said, with this being the first real chance the two of you had to be alone. "You really didn't have to."
"I did, though. Couldn't leave you stranded when all I was going to do was stand frozen in the hallway of grandma's house."
You were aware of his proximity as he moved closer, while he carefully deduced what an appropriate amount of space there should be between you. "The offer still stands, you know. With the house. I have the weekends free if you need an extra pair of hands."
"Speaking of an extra pair of hands, could IâŠcome back tomorrow? It was nice getting away from the house." You hated how timid your voice sounded, asking for permission to be in a place he'd already said you could be. But you really didn't want to get in the way or cause a distraction. "I figured I'd rather sort through paperwork rather than grandma's thingsâŠ"
You caught the small twitch of Bucky's fingers from your periphery. Like he wanted to reach for you in comfort, but wasn't sure if he should. "You don't have to ask, you know. Just show up if you want to."
There was a long, white box waiting on the doorstep of your grandmother's house when you arrived. Picking it up and seeing it was from a local florist, your first instinct was that this was a late funeral arrangement. Someone that your grandmother had befriended on her travels with you, who couldn't make it to this small town.
Already gathering a vase from the linen closet, your eyes were finally able to start making mental notes of what to do with the contents after clearing your head at the clinic that day. But when you opened the box, you didn't see what appeared to be a funeral arrangement. There were a few dozen pink and white tulips nestled in brown kraft paper, wrapped with a delicate lace ribbon.
Plucking the card carefully from the greenery before situating them in the vase, your heart thumped just slightly harder at the familiar scrawl on the white stationery.
Hope these help you smile. You'll be okay. - B
Your favorite flowers from an ex of the past, yet maybe⊠a friend of the present had your mind reeling. Though you couldn't linger on what the feeling of being seen in such a vulnerable way, without having to word it for too long.
Your phone buzzed in your pocket, another dose of reality being poured down your throat for what felt like the thousandth time that day had just arrived.
Nick [6:42 PM]
What did the realtor say?
It was never meant to be something long-term. Maybe a week of clinic work at most until your head cleared enough to tackle the responsibilities of selling your grandmother's house. But by the second week of working a structured Monday through Friday, 8 to 5âŠa routine had been established.
You would arrive just as Bucky stepped out of his front door. Both of you would tackle the opening tasks separately, with you checking in on Rosemary, who was getting stronger every day.
The once messy files were now put back to their original glory, ready to be handed off to whoever Bucky decided to hire for this position. Who would hopefully keep it at least more organized than when you found it.
It became easier to breathe in the charm of the small town. Most everyone who came in recognized you as Rose's granddaughter, and would want to regale you with their favorite tales of your grandmother. Sometimes you'd be able to handle it, but others, Bucky learned to step in and redirect the conversation to the pet that was being seen. You weren't sure when he'd begun recognizing your grief was about to spill over unintentionally, but it was welcome. Like he'd never stopped knowing when to protect you, but the skill had waned while not in your orbit, only to sharpen with each day you kept showing up.
Sometime in that second week, the space you and Bucky carefully kept between you seemed to shrink. Until one day, poring over the appointment book to try to find room for a last-minute call in, the distance was nonexistent. Close enough that you registered the warmth radiating off of him, and practically feel the fabric of his shirt against your arm.
Neither of you moved to fix it, or place the wedge back. But you didn't acknowledge that something had shifted from when you first showed up with an injured bunny, either. The moment fleeting, as you solved the problem of squeezing in an appointment, and both resuming your separate tasks that didn't require such tight proximity.
In the middle of the third week, you realized that bereavement for your job that helped pay rent for an apartment in the city would be coming to an end soon, and you'd need to make arrangements. That combined with an onslaught of texts from Nick had reality continuing to press in from all sides.
Nick [11:23 AM]
How's the house coming along?
You [11:24 AM]
It's comingâŠstill kind of hard to go into some rooms.
Nick [2:47 PM]
Did you ever hear back from the realtor?
You [2:58 PM]
Not yet, I still need to get some more cleaning done :(
Nick [7:15 PM]
Let me know if you need help finding an agent, I can pull some strings.
You [7:42 PM]
I think someone more local would be best, but I appreciate it. Love you xx
Somewhere along the way, his texts had become less about with your well-being, and more concerned that you hadn't been working towards the end goal of selling the house.
You still hadn't mentioned why you weren't really able to get much cleaning done. It wasn't a lie really, just a careful omission. You still hadn't been able to work up the nerve to go into your grandmother's room. Things did need to be cleaned for staging photos to be taken, but by the time you got back from a long day at the clinic, you didn't have the strength.
Not to mention, how were you supposed explain to your boyfriend of three years that the reason you're avoiding the house is because you're essentially working for your ex? You couldn't even explain to yourself why going to the clinic saved you from an emotional spiral that would've inevitably kept you rooted to your bed, and you didn't feel like you should until you had a concrete answer.
One weekend with the clinic closed, the storm clouds of your mind finally began to clear. The haphazard boxes that you'd started to stage around the rooms didn't seem quite so insurmountable. Determination flared the moment your eyes opened to the now familiar slatted ceiling and soft light filtering through the blinds, like the soul of the house had finally awoken and said 'let's start healing now'.
The living room was an easier place to begin, and maybe if you came home to visible progress, you'd be more inclined to keep moving ahead. With a fresh cup of coffee in hand, you began with the bookshelf that stretched from the ceiling to the floor along half of the wall, filled to the brim with cookbooks, knickknacks, framed pictures, and the occasional phone book.
Three boxes marked 'donate', 'New York', and 'discard' followed you as you worked along the shelves, sneezing every so often as clouds of dust broke free. Just as you neared the top shelf closest to grandma's favorite arm chair, you spied a bundle of postcards tied with twine, wedged between two thick mystery novels. Once you got them free, a wave of emotion hit, paralyzing any more of the progress you would make today.
Dropping to the soft rug with your legs crossed you began flipping through them. Every single postcard you had ever sent your grandmother was saved in this bundle. Tangible evidence of everywhere you'd been able to explore now lay in front of you.
Lisbon, Edinburgh, Melbourne, Mumbai, Rio de JaneiroâŠ
ReykjavĂk, Iceland. You ran a finger over the glossy image of a waterfall you'd seen in person, remembering the moment you got to cross it off your bucket list. Roughly a year after you leftâŠthe same time Bucky would've been -
You didn't allow yourself to finish that thought. Instead, you wrapped the postcards back up, gently set them in the New York box, and didn't sort anything else for the rest of the weekend.
That Thursday was what Doctor Hensley would call 'a hard luck kinda day'. Like no matter what happened, a disaster was around every corner. The culmination came when Bucky's last appointment ran longer than it should've. When he had to pause at the door of the exam room after some X-rays came back, and the news he had to deliver was going to be one of the most devastating things a pet owner had to hear.
Regrettably, you'd forgotten this part. How sometimes this job asked you to hold someone together while simultaneously tearing them apart. You sighed heavily, hearing a muffled cry from beyond the exam door. With no more appointments that evening, you locked the front door, dimmed the lights, and silenced the desk phone.
It never got easier, no matter how many times you'd witnessed it, but you would try your hardest to make the owner comfortable when they left.
And when they did, it was with a tear-stained face and a strangled goodbye, a leash twisted around their hands that no longer had a purpose. Bucky emerged a minute later, a look of pure devastation etched deeply into his face. "Can you - "
"I've already called the cremation facility." You answered before he had a chance to ask. "They'll be here in a half hour at most."
Bucky nodded, eyes downcast. "Thank you, bunny," he whispered before turning and making his way out of the back of the clinic. The nickname caught you off guard, touching a nerve that was connected directly to your heart. He hadn't called you that since it had slipped out when you first showed up at the clinic with Rosemary.
You left the reception desk, finding him sitting on the short concrete steps that led out of the back door. He looked smaller somehow, his shoulders sagging inwards like he'd forgotten why he'd wanted to get into this profession in the first place.
His eyes were glassy when he glanced sideways at you when you sat down on the steps beside him. Crystal clear and bluer than the sky after a rainstorm. Deciding that now was when the space between you narrowed into nothing in an attempt to comfort, your shoulder brushed his.
"They were one of the first clients that came in after I took over," Bucky whispered, looking down at his hands clasped between his knees. "I watched them grow up, and justâŠ"
You knew no words would help at this moment in the grieving process, having heard all of the canned idioms people thought they should say when a soul passes on a few weeks ago at your grandmother's funeral. They still didn't help now if people tried to give them. Instead, your knuckles gently brushed against the back of his hand, ignoring the slight flare of anxiety and welling of emotion at the familiarity of it. When he didn't shrink back, your fingers worked in between his palms, freeing one of his hands from the other and putting yours in its place.
He didn't say anything more, but squeezed your hand a little tighter in thanks, while you both watched the sun set beyond the treeline.
That next morning, you lay in bed for longer than you meant to, replaying the scene from the evening before. Something had shifted the minute you decided to comfort Bucky with touch rather than words. Or maybe it had shifted before that, and your brain was only now catching up. Seeing each other for eight hours a day, five days a week so suddenly after a decade of silence was enough to close any distance you thought would still be here. You didn't want to examine that too closely, almost afraid of what it could mean.
So instead, you made coffee and went to the clinic like normal, pushing whatever feelings were rising back down where they belonged.
In the week that followed, Nick's texts took on a different edge. Like he was trying tactic after tactic to get you to hurry up and move on like you were a client of his he was trying to sway.
Nick [10:14 AM]
Seriously though, how long do you think this is going to take? I miss you.
You [11:58 AM]
She has a lot of stuff and I want to do this properlyâŠI'll be back as soon as I can, I miss you too.
Nick [12:01 PM]
Well, my buddy knows a good real estate lawyer if you need a referral to see if this can get settled faster?
You [3:47 PM]
No, I think it'll be okay. There's really nothing to settle except some memories, and it's still a bit raw for me.
Nick [3:49 PM]
I just feel like I haven't properly talked to you in daysâŠ
You [6:07 PM]
I know, I'm sorry babeâŠI'll try to make it up to you soon.
Nick hadn't been completely wrong, when you thought about it. On your phone calls, you hadn't been fully present, and you knew it. But when the only thing he wanted to talk about was how the house was coming along and if you had emailed the realtor (you still hadn't), it became more of a performance to speak to him. Especially when you hadn't touched a single box since you had found the postcards and you still hadn't mentioned the clinic.
The realtor email was something that felt like a finality that you'd been putting off. Like the second you sent it, it was going to put into motion that you'd be leaving once again, and that there was going to be a deadline attached to your time here.
But being reminded over and over by NickâŠ.something snapped in you during a midday lull.
The draft had been sitting in your outbox since the morning you had decided to return the jacket and check on Rosemary instead. You added a few extra sentences, that above all, whoever bought it had to have your full blessing before any papers would be signed. The 'woosh' sound that it had finally been sent felt almost like a cold bucket of water being dumped over your head.
It should have felt like relief. One less thing off your plate. But it felt like the opposite. Your sudden change in mood must've been clearly written on your face, or Bucky had simply relearned how to read you.
"Everything okay?" he asked gently, leaning against the reception desk.
"Yeah, justâŠjust sent an email."
He didn't respond, only gave a single nod, and changed the subject. But the corners of his mouth tilted down like he already knew what the email could be and what it meant for him.
Anxiety began to loom once again as soon as the realtor responded with suggestions of open houses, staging times, and a listing price. You tried to ignore it, but it was like any excuses you afforded yourself had finally run dry. That weekend, you reached through the invisible barrier your mind had placed over your grandmother's bedroom and finally opened the door.
It looked perfectly preserved, like it had been waiting for her to come back. Her perfume was strongest in here, having been sealed in with you unable to open the door. The vintage-looking crystal bottle that held the perfume in question was sitting on the dresser, primed for use. With trembling fingers, you allowed yourself to pick up the bottle, running your thumb over the beveled edges, remembering how it was to sit in this room and watch her get ready for the day.
You sprayed a small amount on your inner wrist, the urge to bolt again for fresh air still prevalent, but not quite as urgent as it had been that very first day. And with it, every time you moved, the perfume wafted around you, like the spirit of your grandmother was indeed still here.
It helped you move through the room. Opening the closet to assess what needed to go where once the boxes were brought in, immediately placing her jewelry box in a makeshift 'New York' pile. Trying not to feel like you were snooping as you opened drawers that you would've never looked in if your grandmother were still around.
It was in the nightstand that you felt the beginning of an avalanche you didn't know how to stop.
Your grandmother's planner was in the top drawer. She always said she liked to make sure she crossed off every to do at night, and look at the day ahead when she woke up. Among the mundane things like doctor's appointments, planting schedules, and get-togethers she had planned, your name appeared every Sunday at 2 pm without fail. A weekly ritual you hadn't really forgotten, but had just chosen not to think too much on in fear of what it would do when you realized you no longer had it.
The Sunday after she passed, your name was underlined with a small note that said 'Ask her to come home.'
She never did ask you to come back. Instead, always packing a bag and making a trip to where you were in the world, and never once making you feel guilty for it. And even if she had asked, would you have brushed it off and said this place was behind you? Calling it a chapter of your life you'd already finished? Cradling the planner, you sank onto the bed, where you would often curl up against her side.
You still hadn't properly cried since you got the news and began funeral preparations. Always keeping your mind and hands busyâŠthe clinic, filing, packing. Because falling apart normally meant that what had happened was a finality. And you hadn't been ready to let go of your grandmother in that way yet.
In the end, all it took was realizing that she wanted you to come back and that she was probably in some other plane of existence where people go when they leave, regretting that she never got to ask.
And in that moment, you lay against the pillows that had a lingering scent of her shampoo mingling with the borrowed perfume on your wrist and finally let the tears fall.
You cried until there was nothing left, whispering apologies to the room like your grandmother could hear you. Even though you knew she'd tell you there was nothing to apologize for, and that your journey would've wound up exactly where you were always supposed to be eventually.
That next morning felt lighter, once the weight of tears you'd been carrying had been shed. Only made brighter when you walked into the clinic to do your standard check-in on Rosemary. Her wounds had healed to the point that no more bandages were needed, and she had developed her own routine as soon as the lights of that room flicked on.
The moment she heard your voice, she hopped to the front of the hutch, having learned that your presence meant either food or attention. And she loved both.
"Oh, the rehab center called and said they'd be able to do an assessment on her next week," Bucky said from the doorway while you started to clean her cage. You could feel his eyes on you while you worked, quietly assessing your reaction to the news.
Nodding, you held your hand in the cage for a second longer than necessary, letting Rosemary nuzzle into your fingers before she moved to her food bowl. "I guess we'll see how she does," you smiled up at him before making your way to the reception desk to set up the files for the day's appointments.
It wasn't until you arrived home that evening, sinking onto the couch with a glass of wine, that you had the chance to finally check your phone. Your stomach dropping slightly at the number of notifications you had waiting.
Nick [9:04 AM]
Morning love <3
Any word from the realtor?
Nick [11:23 AM]
Do you know when you'll have a timeline?
Nick [3:21 PM]
I miss youâŠ
I don't like that you're still there all by yourself.
Nick [4:10 PM]
What's actually going on over there?
Nick [5:39 PM]
When are you coming back?
Nick [6:08 PM]
Wait, did you extend your leave? How much longer is this going to take?
You [6:42 PM]
I didâŠI just couldn't balance that work with the house and wouldn't have been able to give it my all. My performance would've suffered.
Nick [6:44 PM]
OKâŠ
Conflicted didn't even begin to cover the pressure in your chest. You truly didn't have an answer as to when you'd be back or how much longer it was going to take.
And the days were flying by at a breakneck speed to the point that you had become comfortable in the house and with your current routine. Gone were the days of slouching over a keyboard, staring at three different monitors while noises of the city hummed beyond your too-small apartment.
Here, there wasâŠpeace. A calm you didn't know you missed until you allowed yourself to stop and appreciate it. You weren't sure when you'd begun to miss the hustle and bustle of the city, or when the image of your apartment had become too fuzzy to remember.
Or when you stopped looking forward to the thought of leaving again.
The thing with making someone wait for your attention was that eventuallyâŠthey became too big to ignore.
In the middle of sending out email reminders for appointments and vaccine schedules, the bell above the door jingled.
Not even looking up, you began your standard greeting. "Welcome in, we'll be right - "
"Finally, I've been looking all over for you."
Your fingers stalled on the keys, the voice familiar, yet didn't belong in this realm of your world because you hadn't invited him in yet.
Nick stood expectantly in the middle of the clinic, dressed like he'd caught the first flight out after a long day at the office, with the rich scent of his aftershave so out of place it made your head spin.
It took several beats for your brain to catch up with what your eyes were seeing, and that you should register the feeling of happiness of seeing your boyfriend after weeks of being apart. But you only felt confusion and a slight annoyance as to why he was here in the first place.
He cleared his throat, opening his arms further, obviously expecting a much warmer greeting.
"WhatâŠ.what are you doing here?" you asked, finally rounding the desk and returning his embrace.
"I missed you?" he phrased it like a question and that it was the most obvious answer before pressing a quick kiss to your lips. "I thought you could use some help so you could come home sooner."
Nick's hands landed on your shoulders to hold you at arm's length, performing a quiet assessment like he would an asset before making an offer. "And imagine my surprise when I didn't find you at your grandmother's house and," he paused to wave his hands around the space that felt smaller with him occupying it, "here."
His sharp gaze met yours, and then you realized he was waiting for you to explain what here was. "I'm justâŠhelping out. They were short handed and - "
"You've been working here?" His dark eyebrows knit together in confusion. "Instead of - "
"Helping," you corrected quickly, placing your hands on his chest. "It's not - I really just needed somewhere to be thatâŠwasn't the house."
"Love, you - "
That was the moment Bucky had seemingly decided to exit an exam room, cutting off Nick's sentence. "Hey, did the Bartons confirm or - oh."
It was like watching worlds collide in front of your eyes after the swinging of a door.
Realizing it was you who was in charge of introductions, you piped up to fill the awkward silence. "Oh, Bucky, this is my boyfriend, Nick. Nick that's - "
"Doctor Barnes," Bucky interrupted with the same tone you knew he reserved for difficult patients, extending a hand to Nick.
"Nick Fowler." The handshake was civil and brief, both men's smile not really meeting their eyes.
Bucky nodded. "I'll let you two catch up." And with that, he disappeared through the same door he'd just come out of.
Nick watched where he had disappeared for just a second longer than you thought necessary.
"Uhm, we can get lunch," you offered quickly, grabbing for your purse. "I'll show you the town."
Sitting in a booth at Frankie's, you quickly remembered that Nick always had loud opinions. And those were normally fine when dulled by the equally loud buzz of New York. But here, where things were quieter. And it made him stick out obnoxiously.
"It'sâŠcute," was Nick's only praise while he barely looked up from his phone, food sitting untouched in front of him. "But I have some thoughts about the listing price of the house."
And that was all he said about a place that had been your solace for weeks. Cute. It shouldn't have landed wrong, it was a compliment after all. But he said it like it was an insult. Like he was a parent praising a child's finger painting.
That night, Nick had tried to convince you to go to his hotel. Stating something about it being weird to stay in the house and that he was already missing the amenities of the city. Strangely, he hadn't really said he missed you. You didn't push him to stay where he didn't want to be, but you felt the gap being widened between you and him even if this was the closest distance wise you had been in weeks.
The next morning, he showed up at the house bright and early, an easy smile on his face. "I figured I'd come help you pack," he offered, letting himself in without waiting to be invited. You knew he meant well, but it really was beginning to feel like he didn't want to be here longer than necessary while you were trying to get him to see the charm of this place.
"Nick, I have to go into the clinic todayâŠ"
"Oh, you're still - okay, um," he paused, hands on his hips as he looked around. "I'll go to the cafe then, I've got to get some work done anyway."
And that was that. His lips brushed yours in a rushed goodbye as he walked away, already talking on the phone to settle some sales pitch.
It wasn't until you stepped into the clinic that you realized you could breathe fully. Like you weren't walking on eggshells or performing or worried you were going to say the wrong thing. Bucky gave you a tight smile, but neither of you addressed the very clearly Nick shaped wedge that had surfaced. Instead, you worked around each other like normal. Letting the routine heal the staggering nerves that had for some reason started clawing at your insides.
That evening when Nick was helping you sort through a few boxes, taping them up and getting them ready to ship, he made the comment you'd been expecting. "You know you don't have to keep doing that. Volunteering for him."
"I know, butâŠI like it and the clinic does need help until someone fills that position."
Nick nodded like he understood, but you doubted he did.
The day of Rosemary's wildlife rehab assessment came, and when you mentioned it over breakfast to Nick, the only thing he managed to say was "So you'll be done at that clinic soon, then?" before directing the conversation to potential owners he had found for the house.
The foundation of your relationship with Nick continued to crack after that.
You watched with bated breath as the wildlife rehabilitator carefully took Rosemary out of her cage. He examined the now fully healed wounds where the fur was just beginning to grow back, jotting something down on a clipboard. Once she was set back down on the metal exam table, Rosemary hopped straight to you. She sat back on her haunches and looked at you expectantly, nose twitching with what you supposed was indignation of being handled by a stranger and to remind you that her breakfast was late.
The wildlife rehabilitator immediately confirmed what you'd probably already known. Rosemary had become too accustomed to humans and wouldn't survive on her own in the wild if released. You and Bucky exchanged a glance, a silent conversation happening with one single stare. "I"ll keep her," Bucky offered, watching you cradle Rosemary before gently putting her back in the safety of her cage.
Over dinner, you told Nick about your day, casually mentioning that Rosemary would be staying with Bucky for the foreseeable future.
"How well do you know him? Barnes," Nick asked, focusing on something on his fork instead of you.
You bristled only slightly, giving the bare minimum. "Pretty well, we went to the same high school, and worked at the clinic together."
He nodded, corners of his lips downturned, and didn't say more about Bucky. But did continue to make arrangements around 'the asset' as he had begun calling the house.
The cracks became fully noticeable and not something you thought you could fix when Nick showed up unannounced at the clinic the next day, offering to take you to lunch.
You had already agreed, standing to go let Bucky know that you'd be right back when he appeared from the back, head too buried in a file to notice Nick was there. "Hey bunny, did you get the Maximoffs their vaccine records they requested or - " he stopped as you stiffened. The nickname ringing through the clinic like a death knell. Ever since that evening on the steps after the euthanasia, he had tentatively begun calling you that again. And - a minor fault of yours - you let him. Allowing yourself to be swept away with the comfort it gave you.
To Nick's credit, he didn't cause a scene then and there, but there was a storm swirling behind the stare he shot at Bucky.
"I'm so sorry - didn't really realize - I'll - " and with that, Bucky disappeared to the back again, but the damage had well and truly been done. Maybe it had been done for a while, but you were trying to hold the foundation together with temporary band-aids.
Nick cleared his throat, giving you a once-over before saying, "I'll just see you tonight."
He came to the house that evening after your shift like he had been doing since he arrived. Normally, he picked up dinner, and had his laptop bag slung over his shoulder. But tonight, he was empty handed.
The door had barely shut before he said it. "Bunny."
You had been braced all day for this fight the second bunny slipped from Bucky's mouth. "It's just a nickname," you tried to play it off.
He folded his arms across his chest, head dropping like he was trying to solve some sort of puzzle. "Why did he call you that, though? That's not something you call an employee. Or volunteer or whatever the hell it is you're doing."
"It's just a silly nickname, it doesn't mean anything."
Nick shook his head briefly, still not meeting your eyes. "From when?"
He was backing you further and further into a corner. "High school," you answered.
"Did you date him?"
You looked up at the ceiling with a deep sigh. "Yep." There really was no sense in lying about it now.
"So you've been working for an ex-boyfriend for weeks and you didn't think that was something I needed to know?" his voice sharpened.
"I really didn't think you'd understand. We worked at the clinic together in high school and - "
"Bunny," he said again, cutting you off, something calculating behind his narrowing eyes once again. "Like your tattoo."
Your hand brushed over the spot on your hip almost like a shield, where you did indeed have a small bunny tattoo. No one had questioned it before, because they thought it was something you got on a silly whim. And yet here it was, the true meaning behind it being cracked open.
"How long have you had it?" he asked, eyes trained to where your hand lay over it.
You chewed your bottom lip. "A while."
His voice quieted. "Did you get it for him?"
Shutting your eyes, you nodded quickly.
"This is just," Nick shook his head again in disbelief, turning away from you. "You had a life, a real career. And you're talking about throwing it away to file paperwork forâŠfor him."
"I came back for my grandmother. This is not about him," you clarified.
"We've been together two fucking years, and you never brought him up. Or this boring ass town. And yet all of a sudden, your grandma dies and you want to be back here? For what? Help me understand, because this all just seems like a dead end."
"See, that's the problem isn't it?" you asked, voice raising in pitch to match his. "You don't understand. All you've done since you got here is try to sell the house and belittle every fucking thing without trying to see it from my perspective first."
"I thought that's what you wanted! When you left you said you just needed to settle your grandma's estate and you'd be back."
"Maybe what I wanted changed!"
"Does that include me?"
You could hear a pin drop in the silence that followed. As you tried to reach for the most diplomatic answer. Though to Nick, your silence must have been answer enough, as you averted your eyes further. Because at this point, after watching him interact with a place you had fallen in love with again, you realized you couldn't be with someone who looked down on this town the way that he did.
"I see," he whispered. "Guess we're done then." he said it like he'd won a prize. Like he'd been expecting this and had been waiting for the culmination of it for longer than just today.
You gave a single nod, eyes looking down at the rug instead of him. "I guess so."
He scoffed, brushing past you to the front door. "I'll mail you your stuff so I don't inconvenience you by asking you to leave this place again."
And with a final door slam, rattling the pictures on the walls, he was gone. The silence he left behind deafening. But as finite and heavy as the silence felt, it was nothing compared to the weight that had been lifted off your shoulders. Of trying to live two separate lives at once while ignoring what felt like an inevitability.
Though losing a relationship in such an explosive way was never easy, and what you really needed before you spiraled into an uncontrollable mess wasâŠ
You picked up your car keys, hoping to go to the only place of comfort you had ever known.
You sat in the parking lot of the clinic longer than you probably meant to. Worried that you were disturbing Bucky after a long day. Probably made longer after your relationship with Nick silently imploded midday and you hadn't returned.
Soft light was filtering onto the flowerbeds from the curtained windows, so you at least knew he was awake and home. You approached the door like it might bite you, or tell you to get lost and that you no longer had claim to the comfort he brought you. But Bucky's words of 'if you ever need to be somewhere that isn't the house' echoed in your head. Sure he may have been talking about the clinic, but your mind had equated that to him as well, and how the thoughts quieted in his presence.
When you knocked, he opened the door not long after. Hair messy like he'd been running his hands through it repeatedly, dressed in a black t shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders, and dark sweatpants.
A look of wide eyed confusion flickered across his face while he took in your appearance, not all that different from the first time you dropped into the clinic unannounced.
"IâŠdidn't know where else to go," you shrugged, looking down at your feet.
"That's okay, come in." he assured, opening the door wider and letting you pass.
The living room felt like the embodiment of him, warm and minimally decorated. Cozy in the same way a cup of coffee is during a fall rainstorm. A lamp was on in the corner next to a record player that was spinning something, but the needle had been lifted so no sound was coming out.
"Can I get you anything?" he offered, watching you orient yourself in his space.
Several things ran through your mind at once of what you wanted, each seemingly more and more unattainable. Sinking onto the couch with wobbly knees, wrapping your arms around your body like a shield. "A drink would be nice."
"What do you drink now?" he asked quietly. "Surely your tastes have changed from the dollar store boxed wine you used to sneak."
You mustered as close to a smile as you could , eyes watering at the fact that he remembered the rebellious teenager you used to be. "Whatever you're having is fine."
Bucky returned with two small tumblers of amber liquid, placing one in your hands. You murmured a thanks, turning the glass between your palms when you heard him fiddle with the record player in the corner of the room, lifting the needle back onto something soft and ethereal.
He settled beside you, as far away on the couch as he could, just enough to give you some space if you needed it.
"Nick and I broke up," you finally said, taking a large sip of what you deduced to be whiskey, the liquid immediately warming your chest.
Bucky nodded, slowly swirling his own glass in his hand like he had already known the second he opened the door to find you standing there. "I figured, afterâŠmy mess up earlier. Are you okay?"
"Not really," you huffed a dry chuckle, finishing the whiskey. "And it wasn't your fault."
The silence lingered like it had the first night the two of you went to the diner. But this wasn't awkward or loaded with expectations. Silence between you and Bucky had morphed over the past few weeks into something you found comforting. It's probably why you subconsciously decided to show up at his doorstep. Yet after everything that had transpired with Nick the past few days, it felt like something finally had to give and you needed to fill it.
"I owe you an apology," you sighed, leaning forward to put the glass on the table.
"You don't - "
"I do, Buck, I - please just let me," you turned towards him, something still guarded in his expression.
His eyes roamed your figure, sensing the determination behind your words and he sat back against the couch cushions. "Okay."
You stood, unable to say the hard parts while sitting still. Maybe that's why you weren't able to do it in the diner. There wasn't enough room to get your thoughts out.
"I'm sorry for never coming back like I promised," you started, beginning to walk back and forth in front of the couch where he sat. "I'm sorry I left in the first place, that was really fucking selfish, but - I should've at least called. Sent you a card or something on your birthday or the holidays instead of just - "
Your hands found your hips, eyes glaring at some nondescript spot in the dim room, before you began pacing again.
"I was in fuckingâŠIceland," you blurted, waving a hand at nothing. "When the fire happened. I figured it out a few weeks ago when I found some postcards I sent and - " you stopped, letting out a frustrated laugh. "I was standing in front of a waterfall I'd been dreaming about for years and you were - "
"Don't apologize for that," Bucky tried to interject, but the thread you were currently unraveling couldn't be stopped.
"I know you made peace with it, I know you know there's nothing that I could've done, but I would'veâŠif grandma would've told me - " you stopped again, the thoughts now not coming out in the correct order, brain working faster than your mouth could move.
"She had 'ask her to come home' written in her planner for the Sunday after she died. She was going to ask me to come back. And - and she never got to. I don't know what had changed for her want to ask me that. And it just feels like - " Tears were now free falling, words tumbling out even faster.
"Hey," Bucky's voice finally broke through your own, and he was standing in front of you. "I know," he nodded. His hands raised settling on your shoulders first and then drifting up to cradle your face. "I know."
"No, that's - I don't - "
"It's okay, we're okay," he said, softer this time. Thumbs wiping away the tears that were collecting on your cheeks. His hands were a welcome weight on your skin. One familiar, one not, the cool touch of the prosthetic felt different, but not wrong. StillâŠhim.
Bucky was now closer than he had ever been, your chest brushing his with each shuddering inhale. There was something unguarded in his expression when you opened your mouth to start the spiral again, but he shook his head, thumb brushing over your lower lip. "We've always been okay."
"You can't mean that. Not after I justâŠdisappeared."
"We both agreed all those years ago that was best," he reminded you. "Might've been slightly misguided, butâŠ"
His voice trailed off, something left lingering between you as he stepped closer, body pressed to yours completely. "I never stopped loving you, you know."
The words hung in the air. Suspended by the dreamlike reverb of whatever record he had chosen. Rendering you speechless after you had just spilled the contents of your heart.
A rush of memories flashed in your vision. The first time he had said 'I love you' in history class when you were barely sixteen, the times he whispered it against your hairline during school dances and beyond, the first time you'd given each other everything, the last time you had heard it in that diner booth before you started to travelâŠand yet, him saying it now had healed twenty-year-old you who thought you'd never get to hear those words from his lips again.
"You - " you thought about repeating it, but with everything that had happened since that morning, it was a snap decision to start acting on your feelings instead of continuing the spiral that had kept you frozen from your true desires for far too long.
Your own hands lifted to mirror his hold, cradling his jaw the way he cradled yours. His eyes hadn't stopped darting around your face ever since he had said those seven words. Like he was worried you were going to disappear when they finally registered in your brain.
And when they did, you didn't run like you had been recently whenever things got too weighted. Instead, you leaned forward, pressing your lips to his, allowing yourself to finally melt into him fully.
An explosion of time and fate, your mind had finally caught up to what you had been barrelling blindly toward for weeks now. His hands dropped from your face, arms wrapping tightly around your back like he planned to keep you there for all of eternity.
Bucky kissed you back, carefully at first, a sound of surprise escaping his throat like he couldn't believe what was happening. His lips tasted of whiskey, but underneath that, familiarity and comfort. Your arms wove around his neck, pressing your body to his, needing space to no longer exist between you.
The heat, the lingering tension of two people who had once given each other everything was rising steadily. His lips wandered from yours slowly, moving to your jaw, to your cheeks, tongue daring to erase the salt lines of your now dried tears. And you let him. Allowing him to explore the terrain of your features while your fingers twisted in the soft material of his shirt; an exploration of your own occurring along the muscles of his chest as he began to walk you backwards towards the couch.
"I've been wanting to kiss you since you walked into the clinic," he whispered, maybe more to himself than you as the backs of your knees hit the cushions. Each word was punctuated by a kiss somewhere on your skin, like his lips were magnetized and could not spend more than a second away.
A fire flared low in your belly, radiating out to your fingertips that had gotten bolder, taking the journey traveled so often underneath his shirt, tracing the ridges and dips of his skin. Once known completely by memory.
When you sank onto the plush couch, Bucky followed. His knees hit the rug, slotting himself between your thighs immediately. His mouth had moved to your neck, searching for the spots that used to leave you shaky and breathless, testing to see if they still did.
His hands radiated with unbridled tension as they trembled where they landed on your waist. Fingers dared to slide under your shirt, a sigh escaped from his mouth against your skin like he'd been waiting for this moment for far too long. "Can I?" he whispered in your ear, goosebumps erupting down your neck and arms.
You nodded quickly, leaning back so he could fling your shirt across the room. His mouth was back on you, restraint waning with each passing second, continuing a slow, almost agonizing descent. Moving over the swell of your breasts, down your sternum, teeth occasionally grazing your sensitive skin until his fingers dipped below the waistband of your jeans.
"C'mon bunny," he pleaded to the barrier of your jeans, fidgeting with the button and zipper. "Please let me, I've missed her."
Huffing a laugh, you ran a hand through his hair, reveling in the desperation behind his widened pupils and kiss swollen lips. "Go ahead," you chuckled, the sound quickly replaced by a sharp inhale when he pulled you to the edge of the couch.
A low, desperate but barely there growl sounded from between his teeth. With permission, his fingers made quick work sliding the denim off. Bucky's head lowered to continue working down your body. Until he saw the faded ink of your tattoo in the low light.
His jaw slackened on an inhale, like he wanted to say something, but words escaped him. He briefly shook his head instead, thumbs hooking into your panties to draw them down your legs.
Bucky's lips parted, tongue brushing over the tattoo briefly and then moved closer to your aching center. It was slightly frustrating, to say the least. He seemed to be taking his time, while your body had been missing his for ten years. "BuckyâŠ" you whined softly, trying to use your thigh to push him where you needed him, but his arms were faster. Wrapping under your thighs so you couldn't move.
"When'd you get it?" he asked, not looking up, focused instead on your lower belly, kissing right above your clit.
"What?" Every one of your nerve endings was on edge and he wanted to talk about this now?
His finger tapped twice on the tattoo just as his tongue finally grazed your clit. Your body jolted, legs straining against his hold. "Please tell me when you got it," he pleaded again, voice deeper as his tongue ran through your folds once more.
"Uh - I - fuckâŠ" you gritted out as he continued the slow, even movement. He may have forgotten how to exist in your presence momentarily, but there was no denying that he had never forgotten how to please you.
"C'mon bunny, tell me," his dark gaze lifted, meeting your glazed eyes while he continued to tease. A smirk raised the corners of his mouth, one thick finger circling your entrance, moving in tandem with the devastating pace he'd set.
"Two years after I -" you managed, but got cut off by a moan when that finger slid slowly in, lips sealing around your clit.
Bucky pulled back, leaning his head against your thigh. His blue eyes now dancing with amusement watching you squirm while his finger never ceased the slow curling motion that had your back arching for more. "After you left?" he finished for you.
He kissed along your inner thigh, stubble leaving a slight scratch in his wake while he moved back to the tattoo.
You nodded, reaching for him, to put his head back where it belonged between your thighs, but he resisted, batting your hands out of the way with his that wasn't slowly driving you to madness.
"Why?" he asked innocently, thumb now circling along the bundle of nerves with featherlight pressure.
You whined in frustration. "Do we really have to do this now?"
"Yeah, think we do. Bunny," he laughed softly against your skin, kissing the tattoo once more, and then turned his head, finally flattening his tongue along your clit. "Go on, now."
He finally stopped teasing, allowing your hands to fly to his hair in muscle memory. "I - I missed you," you stuttered out, the languid pace feeling more like he was savoring a feast.
"Mhm," he hummed, the vibrations of it making head fall back and thoughts to scatter.
"I was in - " you moaned something that might have been considered Bucky's name, "I don't remember, but I -" you stopped to cry out again. He pushed another finger in, like he thought the problem with you blanking on the story was that you weren't full enough of him.
"It was your birthday and I was sad I wasn't here for it, so I got it on a whim to make you feel closer to me while I traveled, and fuck please don't stop." The words spilled out in one breath as your thighs shook next to his ears.
Your answer seemingly satisfied his curiosity, gone was the slow pace he'd set replaced by a hunger that hadn't been satisfied in a decade. His name fell from the tip of your tongue like it had been perched there for the same amount of time, as sparks flared up your spine, release crashing over you in rocking waves.
His fingers and tongue slowed, withdrawing completely. His hands found your waist again, lips kissing the tattoo one more time before traveling back up to your mouth. Still trying to catch your breath, you draped your arms limply over his shoulders, returning the kiss. He groaned into your mouth, his own arms snaking around your middle to pull you against him.
"Bedroom?" he asked, voice sounding hopeful and wrecked while you were still hazy, mind fuzzy, savoring your own taste on his lips.
"Bedroom," you confirmed. With a deep grunt, he lifted you off the couch. Your legs locked around him on instinct while he staggered through the house until he nudged open the door to his bedroom. Turning, he sank onto the bed, situating you on his lap.
A slight impatience took over your movements, yanking the hem of his shirt over his head. It was then you caught the first glimpse of the extent of his injury, making you pause. A clean scar sat where his shoulder used to continue, where the black and gold prosthetic was attached. "Can - " you didn't finish the question, fingertips already ghosting over the raised edges. "Does - can - "
"I can feel things," he confirmed, letting you come to terms with this new part of him at your own pace. "Even if I couldn't, I don't think I could forget what you feel like."
You gently guided him down to lay on the bed, kissing his mouth first, then moving in your own familiar path down places you knew made him impatient. But not before pressing your lips against the scar tissue, offering an apology. Whispering it in your mind and transferring it from skin to skin.
Continuing down over the planes of his chest that had grown hair since you last visited them. Teeth gently sinking into the soft skin over hard muscle of his belly. A trail of coarser hair disappeared under the waistband. You didn't ask permission, as your thumbs dipped below, smiling against his skin at his sharp intake of breath. Permission was given in the form of his hips raising and you tugging his pants down.
His cock landed heavy against his stomach, flushed, hard, and leaking for you already. Mouth watering, having already wasted too much time not being here you leaned forward, tongue dragging slowly from the base to the tip.
Bucky tensed under your touch, letting out a strangled sound. Your eyes flicked up to his face, smiling while you wrapped a hand around his length, seeing the veins protrude from his neck and arm while trying to keep some form of composure. Your thumb swirled along the reddened tip, spreading the precum before your lips parted, pressing a kiss in the mess you made. A near involuntary moan left your throat at his taste.
He inhaled sharply again, his hand finding purchase on your head, brushing any stray hairs away from your face. With your tongue resting on the thick vein on the underside, you allowed your mouth to part, taking his length fully into your mouth.
He let out a dulcet grunt, fingers flexing against your scalp. "Oh fuck I've missed your mouth," he breathed while you slowly bobbed your head up and down on his cock. The taste of him had always been addictive to you, something you didn't realize how much you missed until you had gone without it for so long.
Bucky had been vocal, you remembered. But his voice was deeper now, taking on a sharper edge while you worked, sending heat rushing through you all over again. The second he hit the back of your throat, his hands moved, patting your arms and grabbing your chin with a gentle urgency. "Can't be finishing in your mouth like a teenager, sweetheart, hop up here. I need to feel you."
You laughed, letting him pull you back onto his lap. He adjusted, back hitting the headboard while your thighs landed on either side of his hips. There wasn't a preamble to be had anymore, one of his hands guiding your hips down, the other fisting his cock to line it up with your entrance.
Sinking down onto him felt like you were finally coming home. Like it was a missing piece of a puzzle you'd tried to solve in a different room. Your forehead dropped, leaning against his, allowing your body to adjust to the welcomed stretch.
"She feels just like I remember," Bucky whispered, hips bucking slightly like he couldn't help it. "Perfectly fucking made for me."
In such an intimate position, overwhelming pleasure and devotion trickled down your spine. Feeling the passion radiating from his embrace as his arms wove around your back, one warm resting on your shoulder, the other slightly cooler, holding you steady on your waist. You moved slowly, wanting to savor the sweetness of finally being where you were supposed to be for as long as possible. And he let you, allowing you to set the pace with only slight twitches of his cock when it dragged against a certain spot.
"Why didn't you ever come back?" he exhaled shakily, breath mingling with yours. You were sure he was rambling. Asking a question to the room and not really expecting an answer.
You hummed, already gasping broken moans quietly as your hips circled. "I didn't think you wanted to see me ever again." The answer honest, finally breaking free.
The hand on your shoulder drifted to the nape of your neck, coaxing you to look at him fully. "You've always been it for me, bunny." His blue eyes two crystalline pools of vulnerability, laying his emotions out raw and hoping that you wouldn't try to run again. "No matter how long you were gone.
"You've always been it for me too." You said, hands coming up to cradle his face. "I'm sorry it took me so long to realize it."
His palm guided you forward, mouths meeting again as the pace became less about savoring, more about letting everything go that you'd been holding back for a decade.
Whispered words of love, of devotion, of pleasure mixed with the sound of skin on skin. A new desperation took over. Bucky held your hips, slamming up over and over, his cock hitting the spot only he knew how to reach that had your mind blanking except for his name over and over again.
Breathless moans turned ragged, until your body clamped down on his, fingers dug into each other's skin like the fact that he wasn't buried as deep as he could be was close enough. You felt the twitch and throb of his cock as he held you against his body, the heady feeling of his own release right after yours spreading through your veins until you slumped forward into the safety of his embrace.
In the afterglow, Bucky held you close, sliding down the headboard to lay flat against the pillows. All the while peppering any skin he could with gentle kisses like it was impossible for him to not to have his lips on you. Like he was making sure you were actually here.
The only thought you could muster in that moment as sheets were pulled over your bodies and your brain was still soft around the edges was that this was what home should feel like. This was the feeling you had been chasing around the world, and it took you leaving first to realize it.
"I'm done running, I think," you whispered into the crook of Bucky's neck.
"Yeah?" even behind the tiredness of his voice, the hope that you were finally coming back here, back to him was unmistakable.
You nodded, fingers tracing over his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart that you had somehow never forgotten. The rhythm lulling you into a deep, even sleep.
One Year Later
A chipped butter yellow coffee cup with hand-painted daisies clinked down on the metal outdoor table next to a vase of fresh pink and white tulips. Steam curled into the early morning air as Bucky sat down in the patio chair next to yours.
"I found a good flight to Iceland, by the way," his voice broke through your drifting thoughts while you watched Rosemary happily hop around in her handmade hutch situated by the herb garden where she had been rescued. "We would leave right after the reception."
You smiled, twirling the ring around your left finger. Vacating your chair, you planted yourself on his lap instead. "Yeah? I can't wait for you to see it," you whispered against his lips.
Bucky's head tilted back to look at you fully. The rising sun catching the look of pure adoration and contentment in his eyes. With a slow smile spreading across his face, while he wrapped his arms further around your waist, "And I can't wait to be married to you."
Lore Drop (as promised): On August 21, 2025, I had to make the incredibly difficult and unexpected decision to put my soul dog to sleep. Anyone who's ever lost a pet knows that this emotional pain is really unlike any other. I still cry every day about him, and miss him more than I can really put into words. I named the diner in this fic after him as a small memento. Suffice it to say that when I spun the wheel we used to choose our Barbie Bucky careers and I got veterinarian, my first instinct was to channel the grief of losing an animal and having Veterinarian Bucky be there to make it better. I sincerely hope everyone enjoyed this story way more than whatever grief fest I almost dragged y'all into lmao. A massive, giant thank you to @miraclediviner again for putting this together. Another thank you to Stantastic for welcoming me in with open arms when they asked me to join. I really don't know where I'd be without any of y'all, and I'm so grateful to have all of you in my life.
Synopsis : Bucky hadn't celebrated his birthday since the World War II and he didn't see any sort of interest in it, until you brought all the interest to him.
Warnings : cute cute cute, love love love, kiss kiss kiss.
You were lying in bed with Bucky Barnes the week before, your cheek pressed against his chest, your fingers tracing absent patterns over his skin while his did the same along your shoulder, slow, grounding, familiar.
âWhat would you like for your birthday ?â you asked, your tone light, almost innocent, like you hadnât already planned something behind the scenes.
âNothing, really,â he sighed, the sound rumbling softly beneath your ear. âJust being with you will be enough.â
âYou donât want to celebrate it?â you murmured, lifting your chin so it rested gently on his chest, just enough to look at him.
He hesitated, his gaze drifting somewhere far away, somewhere you couldnât quite reach.
âI didnât celebrate one of my birthdays for a long time,â he admitted quietly. âI guess it just⊠stopped meaning anything when I was twenty-six.â
When HYDRA took him.
The words didnât need to be said. They hung there anyway, heavy and unspoken.
Your expression softened instantly, your eyes dropping to your fingers as they stilled against his chest. A quiet sadness settled in you, the kind that always came when you were reminded of everything heâd lost. Time, memories, pieces of himself no one could ever give back.
Bucky noticed. Of course he did.
He leaned down slightly, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head, his hand pausing in its movements as if to reassure you.
âBut itâs okay,â he added, a small, almost self-deprecating laugh escaping him. âI donât think itâs worth much now that Iâm, what⊠a hundred years old ?â
You looked back up at him, offering a smile, but it didnât quite reach your eyes this time. It was warm, but there was something fragile behind it, something that refused to ignore what he was brushing off so easily.
Instead of answering, you let yourself sink back against him, your cheek returning to its place over his heart, listening to its steady rhythm.
And quietly, without saying a word, you held onto a single thought.
This year would be different.
Because whether he believed it or not⊠he deserved to feel special.
You stood in front of your mirror, turning slightly from one side to the other, trying to decide if this dress was the one, as if the six others discarded on the floor hadnât already proven how indecisive youâd been.
Usually, getting dressed didnât take this long. It never did. But it was easier when Bucky was there, sitting somewhere nearby, watching you like you were the most beautiful thing heâd ever seen, reminding you every few seconds with that soft, earnest voice of his.
Tonight, though, you had sent him away.
Youâd made up some excuse about needing something very specific and impossible to find, and he had gone along with it without question, determined to help. It had been two hours. He still hadnât come back.
Probably because whatever youâd sent him to find didnât exist.
What ? You had to make sure he stayed away long enough for everything to be ready.
With a final glance in the mirror, you settled on a long, black strapless dress, paired with matching heels. Simple. Elegant. Enough to make you feel pretty.. for him. Your makeup was soft, just enough to highlight your features, and your hair fell naturally over your shoulders.
You paused, taking yourself in for a second longer.
You felt good.
Letting out a steady breath, you smoothed invisible creases from your dress before finally stepping out of your room and heading downstairs, where the others were gathered.
Most of the Avengers were already there, scattered through the living room, putting the final touches on everything before Buckyâs return. You hadnât wanted anything big, definitely not whatever over-the-top idea Tony had originally suggested, but Steve Rogers had insisted on being part of it.
And honestly⊠you hadnât said no.
âLooking great, kid,â Thor said with a grin, like you werenât well into your thirties.
âThanks, old man,â you shot back, a small smile tugging at your lips.
You barely had time to check that everything was in place, the banner slightly crooked but charming, the balloons, the food laid out, before the sound of the front door opening echoed through the compound.
Your heart skipped.
A second later, Bucky walked in.
âI didnât find the- â he started, distracted, before he looked up.
And froze.
âHappy birthday !â everyone shouted in unison.
Bucky blinked, his mouth parting slightly as he took it all in, the people, the decorations, the atmosphere that felt so⊠warm. So his. He spotted Steveâs wide grin, the others gathered around, the simple banner hanging from the ceiling: Happy Birthday Buck, handwritten in a way he would recognize anywhere.
Yours.
Of course it was yours.
Not just because Tony Stark wouldâve thrown something far more extravagant, but because of you. Because of the care in every little detail. Because of the way you stood there now, at the front of it all, your fingers twitching slightly in front of you, your posture just a bit too stiff.
Waiting.
As if you were bracing yourself for him to hate it.
But the only thing he could think about⊠was how breathtaking you looked.
âI guess you didnât want anything, right ?â he said, rolling his eyes playfully as he let the bag in his hand drop by the door.
Then he walked straight toward you.
He pressed a quick, affectionate kiss to your temple before moving past you to thank the others, offering brief but firm hugs and shaking hands, lingering just a second longer with Steve, before the group naturally drifted toward the couches, conversations already picking up.
And then he was back.
Bucky opened his arms without hesitation, wrapping them around your back and pulling you in close, like it was instinct, like it was where you belonged.
Your hands found his shirt, gripping lightly, the last traces of your worry still lingering.
âIf you donât want this, we can just slip away and put on a movie or something and- â you rushed out, your words tumbling over each other too quickly, nerves catching up to you.
He kissed you to stop you.
Quick. Gentle. Certain.
âItâs perfect, doll.â
The tension left you all at once. Your shoulders softened, your breath steadied, and your smile making his widene.
âI know you said you didnât want to celebrate your birthday,â you murmured softly, your voice quieter now, more vulnerable. âBut I couldnât let you think you didnât mean enough not to deserve at least a little party.â
His expression softened instantly, something warm and almost fragile flickering in his eyes. He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, lingering there like he didnât quite want to pull away.
You stayed like that for a moment, wrapped in something quiet and tender, before Bucky took your hand, his fingers naturally lacing with yours as he guided you toward an empty spot on the couch.
You sat close, closer than necessary, but neither of you ever questioned it. His arm slipped around your shoulders as if it belonged there, pulling you into his side with a familiarity that made your chest ache in the best way.
You didnât talk much that evening. You didnât need to.
Instead, you watched him.
You watched the way he smiled, really smiled, at something Steve said, the way he relaxed more with every passing minute, the way he seemed lighter, like something heâd been carrying had eased, just a little.
Your eyes barely left his face, that soft, lovestruck look impossible to hide.
Because for once⊠this was for him.
And he deserved every second of it.
When the evening finally began to wind down and Bucky started to look a little tired, you both stood to say your goodbyes. He thanked everyone again, sincere and a little overwhelmed, before your fingers found his once more, naturally, like they always did.
Together, you slipped away toward the elevator.
Your hand stayed in his, your shoulders brushing every now and then in the quiet of the hallway, the noise of the party fading behind you.
Bucky stepped inside first, already reaching for the button that would take you back to your shared room, ready for something simple, something calm.
But your hand darted out, gently slapping his fingers away.
âNope,â you smirked.
His brows pulled together in confusion as you pressed a different button. The rooftop.
âWhere are we going ?â he asked, glancing at you, curiosity mixing with amusement.
âSurprise,â you shrugged lightly, rising onto your tiptoes to press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.
That was enough to make him stop questioning, for now.
When the doors opened, you stepped out first, still holding his hand, guiding him further across the rooftop. The night air was cool, but the space ahead was sheltered, partially enclosed with soft curtains that swayed gently, keeping the wind at bay and giving the whole place a quiet, intimate feeling.
You stopped, turning slightly so he could see.
A makeshift little cinema waited for him.
A large white sheet hung in front of a projector already humming softly behind a nest of pillows and blankets, everything arranged carefully, thoughtfully, just like downstairs, but somehow even more personal.
More you and him.
âI thought a film would be great to end this evening,â you said softly, almost shy now.
For a second, Bucky didnât speak.
His arm tightened around your shoulders instead, pulling you closer against him as he pressed a lingering kiss to your temple, his breath warm against your skin.
âYouâre perfect, doll.â
His lips drifted from your temple to your cheek, slow and affectionate, his hand coming up to cup your face with a tenderness that made your chest tighten. He pressed a trail of soft kisses along your skin, unhurried, almost like he was memorizing you in that moment. A quiet laugh slipped past your lips, light and breathless, before he finally found your mouth.
The kiss was deeper this time, but still gentle, careful, like he never wanted to take more than you were willing to give, like he was grounding himself in you.
When you pulled apart, it wasnât by much.
Your foreheads stayed pressed together, your breath mingling, your eyes locked with his, lost in that familiar blue you could never quite look away from.
âHappy birthday, Buck,â you whispered softly, your voice full of warmth and something deeper, something steady and sure.
Can you write something about bau reader wanting a hug from aaron when they're on duty while they're in a secret relationship? Like she sees him being good with a kid or smiling at soemthing and shes overwhelmed with how much she loves him? No pressure <3
secret affections
i'm swooning i need him cw; fem bau!reader, secret relationship, brief case talk, aaron being soo sweet and fluff <3
Aaron was sitting across from the witness, a sweet kid who couldn't be older than six. A social worker stood off to the side observing as Aaron leaned forward just enough to seem engaged but not imposing, his voice calm as he began to ask questions.
There was a set of blocks in between the two of them; a light distraction meant to keep the conversation feeling easy - almost normal - as they talked.
The boy's mother was currently missing, and that was already hard enough. But when you add to it that his father, also missing, probably had something to do with it, it gave Aaron all the more reason to be as gentle as he could while learning more about what his life was like at home.Â
Behind the observation window, you stood with your arms loosely crossed, watching the scene unfold. The glass dulled the sound, making it impossible to fully hear their conversation.
Morgan sidled up beside you, you acknowledged him with a faint lift of your lips before gazing back in.
Inside, Aaronâs mouth formed into a reassuring smile, keeping his voice light. âYouâre pretty good at this.â
âMy dad says I build too slow,â the boy mumbled, not looking up.
Aaronâs expression didnât change, but there was a subtle shift in his eyes. âSlowâs not bad. It means youâre careful.â He reached for a block, waiting for permission before placing it.
"I almost forget sometimes." Derek stated after a moment, the half-formed sentence completely out of the blue.
Your head turned, "forget what?"
"That he's like that." He gestured in, Aaron stacking the block himself on the growing tower. "He's on our asses so much, y'know? Itâs hard to remember heâs not⊠like that all the time.â
Affection bloomed in your chest at the quiet confirmation - Aaron was a sweetheart. It was something you already knew, of course, but there was something special about hearing it coming from somebody else. Or about seeing it in a secondary form; despite being scared, unsure and talking to a near stranger, the little boy didnât hesitate to immediately trust him. Traits that Aaron had were enough to put him at ease, and that meant something. It meant everything.Â
Your lips curved softly as you watched the two of them, warmth settling in your chest.Â
"It's sweet." It was an offhand, forgettable comment that didnât reveal anything about the actual nature of your relationship with Aaron, but it made you feel better to say it. Even if what you really meant was, he's sweet.Â
You considered yourself lucky that you had the privilege of witnessing his gentler side on a daily basis. Whether directed towards you, Jack and or anyone else Aaron came into contact with.
You both lapsed into silence after that, simply watching Aaron interview the witness for about ten more minutes. You could barely keep still, suddenly aching to tell Derek that you and Aaron were together. To say it out loud to someone, because just watching him made your chest feel like it might burst.
 After he was through, Aaron got up, closing the door and joining the two of you.
"Hey," your eyes softened, and you hoped they didnât give anything away. âAny luck?"
Aaron sighed, looking over his shoulder and back into the room. The social worker crouched beside the boy, hopefully reassuring him of what a good job heâd done. "Some. He knows something, definitely saw something happen. It's just a matter of figuring out what and how it can help us. He just⊠he needed a break,â he shook his head briefly. âI couldnât do it to him anymore.â
"Poor kid." Morgan sighed, and you nodded in agreement, your bottom lip jutting out in a sympathetic pout.
âYeah.â Aaron said as mouth fell into a line, his eyebrows furrowing. You fought the urge to reach out and touch his arm. Â
Morgan headed in the other direction, making it all too easy for you to follow Aaron - close enough that your steps nearly fell in rhythm with his - as he made his way to the conference room. It wasnât deliberate, or something you had to think about. Just a natural, steady pull.Â
You simply wanted to be near him; the kind of closeness that came from loving someone so deeply it felt instinctive, like gravity. A feeling so full it made your chest tighten, whether you were beside him or not. You understood, completely, what people meant when they called someone their lifeline.Â
Aaron felt how close you were, your steps nearly overlapping with his. Just before you reached your destination, he slowed to a stop. He turned to you, his voice soft with a hint of concern, his brows quirking in slight confusion. A small chuckle left him, keeping his voice low. "Are you alright?"
"Yeah," you rushed out, a touch too quick, warmth rising to your face as if the question had caught you off guard - as if you hadnât been dating him for the past six months. "It's just, I just..."Â
Your shoulder dropped in slight defeat and instead, your eyes softened once more. This time, they relayed everything you had concealed in them not even five minutes ago. In summary: I love you.
The tension that had been pulling at Aaronâs face eased, his features settling into that loving look reserved only for you. You didnât need to elaborate. "Me too."
âș a/n: please enjoy some of my late night thoughts about aaron hotchner lol (not proof read sorry)
» | - aaron would love watching you explain your theories or hypotheticals during briefings. he loves seeing how your brain works and how you process information.
» | - even though you two have an age gap relationship, it never feels that way with him. he knows how mature you are, how you can meet his communication levels but sometimes you ask for reassurance when you insecure about your age. but in the end he always lets you know he wants you and no one else.
» | on late nights during cases in different states or countries you two share a room knowing the team knows and if they donât you two sneak off anyway. sometimes the nights just end with you two changing into sleepwear and going straight into each others arms. or the night ends with pent up passion and need from a long day.
» | - when you two are back at his place on the weekends where thereâs no case, he makes you breakfast in bed and makes sure youâre okay after a hard case or helps you relax. sometimes heâll let you sleep in to make sure the jet lag doesnât hit you too much.
» | - during busy days when heâs in his office most of the day he makes sure to check on you every couple hours. he loves lingering by your desk to bother you sometimes. heâll even try to make sure you two go out for lunch somedays or eat delivery in his office.
» | - when you two would argue about a specific judgment on a case, he tries to make sure you understand his point as he understands yours. he wants to find a compromise.
» | - when you two would wake up before your work alarm youâd take up any chances to cuddle, leave soft touches or small kisses. sometimes aaron would be needy in the mornings pressing his body against yours in attempt to ask you for more.
» | - even though everyone on the team may know about you two, aaron still loves sneaking around hiding in old rooms for even the smallest touch or one kiss during the slow days.
» | - when youâre out in the field? heâs so protective. anytime youâre interrogating a suspect or an unsub you guys just brought in. he always wants to be in the room or by the door incase they say something rude or try to even get in your personal space. he never lets anyone get their hands on you.
Could you do one where reader is at home and (just beginning of tfatws era) and Bucky comes home with his haircut? I think her reaction would be like shocked and stuff and it would be cuteee and silly !!
Crimes against Curls
A/N : TFATWS look of bucky it THE look for me and no one can convince me otherwise. I love his short hair and that grumpy face.
Word Count : 900
You're sprawled over the couch, folding some laundry when the door clicks open with a thud and a sweet voice calls âI'm homeâ
âBuck!â You chirp, not looking up from the shirt you're folding âyou're back early. How wasââ
You look up.
And freeze.
Your breath leaves you instantly, eyes widening at your boyfriend.
He looks fairly normal at first. The same broad shoulders, the same loving smile, the same blue eyes, exceptâŠ..his hair.
It used to be long, messy, almost down to his shoulders, falling into his eyes, flowing into the wind, and nowâŠ..
Now it's just gone. Not gone gone. But short. So much shorter.
âBucky!â You almost scream âWhat did you do to your hair?â You gesture vaguely at his hair situation.
âI cut itâ he answers, sheepish.
âWhy?â
âIt was getting in my face,â he mutters. âSam said I should try something new.â
You stare at him like heâs committed a crime.
âYou walked out of this apartment looking like a 40s war poster and came back looking like a reformed criminal with a barista job.â
âThatâs not a thing.â
âIt IS now.â
âDo you hate it?â He rubs the back of his neck nervously.
Your eyes soften at that. He's so adorable when he's trying to hide just how much your opinion means to him. Just how much he wants you to like it
âI'm just a little shocked. And you're not allowed to make decisions based on Sam's judgement ever againâŠâŠ but no, I don't hate itâ
You really don't.
You catch yourself staring at him when he laughs at your commentâhead tipped back, eyes bright.
With the shorter hair and the light in his face, he looks⊠young.
Not in years, but in weight. Like someone meeting him for the first time would never guess what heâs carried.
They wouldnât see the long nights or the memories that still wake him. Theyâd think he grew up gently, that nothing ever broke him, that the world was kind to him.
For a heartbeat, you let yourself believe it too.
You extend a hand, âcan I touch it?â He crouches a little, leaning towards you, so that you reach his head easily.
Your fingers graze the spiky edge of his hair before sliding through it. It's soft in a way that you've always known. Felt.
His eyes are on you as your other hand finds its way to his hair. Ruffling it slightly, mostly just feeling it.
âI left it long enough so you can still tug at itâ he teases âyou know when IâŠâ
you glare at him, shutting him up but there's no anger there. Just adoration, fondness.
And bucky's eyes glimmer with mischief.
So when you step closer, squinting at him. âYour face is more⊠visible.â
He frowns. âSo you miss when it was hidden.â
âThatâs not what I said.â
âThat's how it feltâ he feigns annoyanace.
âYour eyes stand out more now,â you add quickly, trying to make up for the previous compliment.
âSo you didnât like them before.â
âI always liked them!â
âUh-huh.â
You stare at him, frustrated. âWhy are you like this.â
âBecause you still havenât said you like it.â
âIâm literally trying to!â
He tilts his head, smiling. That mischievous little smile you know all too well. âSounding a lot like you donât.â
You realise the game he's playing. âI think it looks really good on you,â you say softly, hands sliding from his hair and cupping his cheeks. âI just wasnât ready.â
He searches your face. âReally?â
âYes.â
âAnd youâre not lying.â
âNo.â
âAnd youâre not secretly wishing to undo it.â
âNo.â
âAnd youâre not about to say something devastating.â
âBuckyâ you shake your head, huffing a laugh âI love itâ
He goes silent.
You go on âYou look so young. And i can see your ears and your eyes stand out a little more. And mostly, you just look mine.â
He smiles, bright and radiant and relieved. âThank God. I almost swore to wear a hat forever if you hated itâ
You giggle, breathy and amused. The sound music to bucky's ears.
You end up like that on the couch. Laughing at his silly comments while you card your fingers through his hair.
He's sprawled sideways onto you. Head on your lap, eyes locked onto you. Then he perks up a little, remembering something. âYou know, sam said the haircut makes me look less⊠scary.â
Your heart twists a little. âYou never looked scary. Sam doesn't know anythingâ
âReally?â you can hear the smirk in his voice
âDonât get smug.â
Too lateâhe already is.
You lean back into the couch, still tracing lazy patterns through his hair while he relaxes more fully against you, like the day finally caught up to him.
You dissolve into quiet giggles and whispered teasing, the kind that doesnât need an audience.
And for a long while, the world is just a couch, and lamplight, and the sound of him laughing in your lap.
Dividers : @dividers-are-us
Tag list : @redstarleftarm, @sweetserendipity65, @sambuckystony, @nymphhbabiee, @darlingdenise, @quantumbarnes, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @bstan01, @phoenix-in-writing, @singulartoast, @danerb67, @onyx8514-blog, @globetrotter28
Summary: On rain-soaked nights, in sweet, careless conversations and in downpours like these⊠how is one supposed to feel?
Authorâs note: No. Stop. R.D. Burman has already devastated me with this song. And I have further devastated myself by writing this.
This will also be my last fic before a hiatus so I went all in with the length and feels. It was hard to not let my imagination flow free with this song. Happy Reading! đ (pictures sourced from Pinterest. Credit to their rightful owners.)
Warnings: Slow burn. intimacy. kissing. teasing. rain. reader is an avenger and has been described as having psychic powers, but it's just one dialogue which can be overlooked if you want.
Main- Masterlist
word count: 10k
People assume things. They always have.
It is easy for them to notice the small details. The way his gaze lingers on you a moment longer than it should. The way your hand finds his arm without thinking whenever the two of you are walking side by side. The way neither of you ever seems particularly eager to step away once you end up standing close.
To anyone watching, it looks obvious. Predictable even.
To you, it has always felt simple. You are friends. Nothing more.
By the time the two of you step off the subway, the city has slipped into that quieter version of itself that only appears late at night. New York never truly sleeps, but it does soften. The crowds thin. The noise lowers into a constant distant hum of traffic and conversation drifting from late night diners and corner stores.
You walk beside him toward the compound with no real urgency. Just two figures moving through the glow of the city lights, your footsteps falling into an easy rhythm against the sidewalk.
Bucky moves through the streets with a quiet confidence that suggests familiarity deeper than simple habit. His stride is relaxed, steady in a way that comes from knowing exactly how to move through a place without needing to think about it.
A cold breeze shifts through the street and catches his hair, leaving the dark strands slightly tousled where they fall across his forehead. The leather jacket on his shoulders looks as though it has belonged to him forever, worn into that perfect balance between comfort and durability.
As you near the street, he glances down at you with a small smile that feels almost private.
âThanks for the tour,â he says. âYou always know the best spots.â
You glance up at him, warmth blooming in your chest despite the casual tone of the conversation. The night air is cool against your skin, but something about the ease of walking beside him makes the cold feel distant.
âThat was nothing,â you reply lightly. âI know a great Indian place too. But you have to book months in advance.â
You sigh dramatically, as though the injustice of the situation personally offends you.
âSo maybe next time.â
The corner of his mouth lifts slightly. His hands slide into the pockets of his jacket as he tilts his head, studying you with an expression that carries quiet amusement.
âMonths in advance,â he repeats thoughtfully. âSounds fancy.â
His gaze drifts over your face for a moment longer than necessary.
âYou trying to impress me?â
You lift an eyebrow at him in challenge, entirely unimpressed with the implication.
âYouâre impressed by basic knowledge of food and geography?â you reply. âYouâre too easy, Barnes.â
The laugh that escapes him is sudden and bright, breaking through the quiet street in a way that feels almost startling. For a moment it looks like he surprises himself with it too.
âEasy?â he scoffs, though the sound carries no real offense. âIâve been around since before half these places had menus.â
You shook your exaggerated offense while he glances sideways at you again, something thoughtful slipping quietly beneath the teasing.
âStill better company than Steve.â
Your laughter spills out before you can stop it. The sound echoes faintly down the street, light and unguarded. For a moment the night feels strangely effortless, like the world has narrowed down to the simple act of walking together through dimly lit streets. The kind of comfort that sneaks in slowly until it settles somewhere deep in the bones.
The first drop of rain is so soft you almost miss it.
A second lands against the pavement near your shoe. Then another.
Both of you look up at the same time.
Bucky exhales through his nose, staring at the sky with the weary patience of someone who feels personally inconvenienced by the weather.
âOf course,â he mutters.
His gaze drifts back down to you.
âYou didnât bring an umbrella, did you?â
You scrunch your face in mild irritation and lift your bag above your head as if the thin material might somehow qualify as protection.
âOf course I didnât,â you say. âHow was I supposed to know it would rain?â
He watches you attempt to shield yourself with the bag, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.
âYouâve got all those psychic tricks,â he says casually. âWeather not included?â
You shoot him a flat look.
âThatâs not how my powers work.â
The rain begins to gather strength, the droplets growing heavier as they strike the pavement. Within seconds the water is catching in your hair and soaking slowly into the sleeves of your jacket.
Bucky glances up at the sky again with visible disapproval before shrugging his jacket off in one smooth motion. The leather darkens almost immediately as rain begins to collect across the surface.
âHere,â he says, holding it out toward you. âNo point in both of us getting drenched.â
You grumble something under your breath about unnecessary commentary and terrible weather, but you accept the jacket anyway. You lift it awkwardly above your head in a half-hearted attempt at creating some form of shelter.
The rain chooses that exact moment to grow heavier.
Water begins to fall in thick, steady sheets, the sound of it filling the street as it splashes against pavement and metal grates.
It does not look particularly reliable. The fabric sags slightly in the middle where water has already begun to collect. But it is shelter and that is enough.
Without thinking about it too much, you reach for his hand and pull.
He stumbles forward with a surprised sound, clearly not expecting the sudden movement, but he does not resist. His fingers tighten instinctively around yours as you drag him across the slick pavement, rain splashing around your shoes with every hurried step.
The shelter is modest at best. The canvas roof hangs low above your heads, supported by thin metal poles that creak softly whenever the wind pushes against the fabric. A few metal chairs sit stacked near the wall, abandoned by the staff hours ago. The faint scent of old coffee lingers in the air, mixed with damp fabric and the earthy smell of rain.
Bucky shakes his head once, scattering droplets from his hair.
âReal five star setup,â he mutters.
You lower his jacket from above your head and hand it back to him, giving him a dry look as you brush wet strands of hair away from your face.
âNo complaining,â you say. âIâm not interested in drowning in that.â
He glances out at the rain that now pours steadily beyond the edge of the canvas. The streetlights blur behind the falling water, turning the city into a hazy wash of gold and silver.
âOh, this is luxury,â he replies lightly. âExactly how I pictured my evening.â
But something about the moment has shifted.
The awning does not leave much room for distance. The rain presses in from all sides, loud enough to swallow the rest of the cityâs noise. The world beyond the thin shelter feels strangely far away now, reduced to blurred lights and rushing water.
When you shift your weight, your shoulder bumps lightly against his arm.
You let out a quiet huff at his sarcasm and lean back against one of the narrow metal poles supporting the awning. Folding your arms across your chest, you look out toward the rain-soaked street beyond the shelter while the steady rhythm of water fills the quiet space between you.Â
A few cars pass through the quiet street, their headlights cutting pale tunnels through the rain before disappearing again into the haze. Strangers hurry along the sidewalks beneath dark umbrellas, shoulders hunched and steps quick as they escape the downpour. Their shoes splash through shallow puddles without hesitation. Everyone seems determined to reach somewhere warm and dry.
For anyone watching from a distance, the rain might almost look romantic.
It should be beautiful.
Droplets gather along the glossy leaves of nearby plants, swelling until gravity finally pulls and they slip free, falling to the pavement quietly. The air smells freshly washed, cool and clean in a way that feels almost peaceful. The steady rhythm of rain striking concrete and metal and canvas creates a soft, hypnotic hush that spreads across the street.
It would be calming if you were not stranded beneath a tent that looks one determined gust away from collapsing completely.
Your mouth pulls into a small scowl as you stare out at the rain.
Across from you, Bucky stands with his back against the opposite support pole. Without realizing it, he has mirrored your posture perfectly. Arms folded across his chest. One shoulder resting against the metal frame. His gaze drifts over the same quiet street you have been watching, though there is something far calmer in his expression.
The rain does not seem to irritate him the way it irritates you.
If anything, it settles him.
There is an ease in the way he watches the storm, like a man who has endured far worse weather than this and learned long ago that fighting it is pointless. His eyes move slowly over the shimmering streetlights and slick pavement, absorbing the moment rather than wishing it away.
When he glances over and catches the scowl still sitting stubbornly on your face, something amused flickers in his eyes.
âYouâre really cranky when youâre wet, huh?â he asks lightly.
The laugh that bursts out of you is immediate and bright, breaking through the quiet rhythm of rain with surprising force.
âThere has got to be a better way to phrase that,â you reply, lifting your head to look at him with unmistakable mischief.
His lips curve slowly.
âPerfectly normal sentence,â he insists, though the faint spark of satisfaction in his eyes betrays him.
You narrow your gaze at him, unimpressed.
âLike you didnât know how that sounded.â
His grin deepens just enough to confirm your suspicion.
The rain continues to fall beyond the tent, blurring the edges of the world outside. Streetlights glow through the downpour like soft halos, and the empty road gleams beneath the constant wash of water. You shift slightly, leaning your shoulder against the metal pole while watching thin streams of rain spill from the edge of the canvas roof above you.
Every now and then your gaze drifts back toward him.
He does not look inconvenienced in the slightest.
If anything, there is something strangely peaceful in the way he stands there, watching the storm like it is an old companion rather than an obstacle. The tension that usually rests in his shoulders seems looser tonight. Even his breathing is slower. As though the steady rhythm of rain has reached somewhere deeper inside him.
You let out a quiet sigh and push yourself away from the pole, digging into your bag until your fingers find your phone.
âLet me call Nat,â you say. âMaybe she can come get us.â
âNat?â His mouth twitches.
âSheâd make a joke and leave us here on purpose.â
You pause mid-motion, glancing up at him.
He shifts his weight slightly, eyes drifting back out toward the rain before returning to you again with that same calm expression.
âWe could always walk.â
Your hand stills completely.
You stare at him.
âSeriously?â A small, incredulous laugh escapes you before you can stop it. âYou want to walk in this?â
He shrugs as though the idea requires no further explanation.
Rain has begun to creep under the edge of the tent, darkening the collar of his shirt where stray droplets have landed. The damp fabric clings faintly to the shape of his shoulders without him seeming to notice.
âItâs just rain,â he says simply. âAlready wet anyway.â
You lean forward slightly and peer out from beneath the tent. The downpour has not softened in the slightest. If anything, the rain has grown heavier, thick drops slanting across the street with relentless determination.
âThereâs no way Iâm joining you,â you begin.
You never finish the sentence. His hand closes around yours in one smooth, decisive movement and before you can react, he pulls you forward and straight out from beneath the shelter.
Cold rain hits instantly.
The shock steals the breath from your lungs as icy water soaks through your clothes within seconds, plastering your hair to your face and running down the back of your neck.
âBucky!â
He is laughing now.
Not the restrained, polite version he offers most people. This one is genuine and bright, carrying easily through the sound of rain as he keeps hold of your hand and pulls you further down the sidewalk.
âYouâre coming with me,â he says, tightening his grip slightly when you try to resist. âIâm not doing this alone.â
Rain gathers on your lashes and slides into your mouth when you gasp for breath. You attempt to shield yourself with the edge of his jacket, but it does absolutely nothing against the relentless downpour.
âCome on,â you protest, trying to steer him toward the wide canopy of a nearby tree where the branches at least promise partial cover.
He resists immediately, tugging you back toward the open stretch of sidewalk.
âNo hiding,â he counters. âIf weâre doing this, weâre doing it properly.â
A frustrated sound escapes you, though it dissolves quickly into reluctant laughter. The whole situation is ridiculous. Completely unnecessary.
And yet there is something strangely exhilarating about the warmth of his hand wrapped around yours. About the way his laughter cuts through the storm as if the rain itself cannot dampen it.
âI swear I will kill you,â you warn him, though the grin tugging at your mouth ruins the threat entirely.
âYouâd miss me,â he replies without hesitation.
He releases your hand only long enough to slide his arm around your shoulders instead, pulling you closer against his side as the two of you continue down the glistening sidewalk. The leather jacket drapes awkwardly over both of you in a half hearted attempt at shelter. It does almost nothing to keep the rain away, but the gesture lingers anyway.
You are pressed against him now. Your shoulder brushes his chest with every step. Your hip knocks lightly against his thigh as the two of you navigate puddles forming along the street.
The rain falls harder.
Streetlights smear into streaks of warm gold against the wet pavement. Water splashes around your shoes with each hurried step. The entire city feels quieter somehow, softened and distant beneath the steady roar of the storm.
And somewhere between your protests and his laughter, the walk stops feeling like such a terrible idea.
----
You find the bus stop before he does.
It appears through the blurred rain like a small miracle of concrete and fogged glass. For a moment it almost does not seem real, just another shape shifting in the storm, but the longer you stare the more certain it becomes. Relief hits first, followed immediately by a burst of energy.
You dart toward it without warning, shoes splash through shallow puddles that scatter water across the pavement, breath coming quick and uneven from the combination of running, laughing, and the cold air filling your lungs. Rain clings to your eyelashes and blurs the world into streaks of gray and yellow light.
By the time you reach the shelter you are breathless.
You duck beneath the metal roof and lean against one of the pillars, pressing your palm against the cool surface while you try to steady your breathing. Your chest rises and falls quickly. Strands of wet hair cling to your cheek and neck, and the fabric of your clothes feels heavier now, soaked through from the rain.
Bucky arrives a second later.
He slows as he approaches, pushing damp hair back from his face with one hand. Water runs freely along the sharp line of his jaw before disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. His jacket clings darkly to his shoulders, rain dripping steadily from the edges.
You glance at him and shake your head, still catching your breath.
âI swear,â you say between breaths, laughter still lingering in your voice, âthat has to be the most ridiculous thing you have ever done.â
Despite the accusation, a reluctant smile curves across your mouth.
âIf I get sick after this, I am blaming you.â
He pauses just inside the shelter and shakes his head once, sending a small spray of droplets across the concrete floor before stepping fully beneath the cover.
âRidiculous?â he repeats, sounding faintly offended. His mouth tilts upward.
âI prefer adventurous.â
He leans back against the wall beside you, close enough that the warmth of him cuts through the lingering chill of the rain. The air beneath the shelter feels slightly warmer, trapped beneath the metal roof while the storm continues to pour beyond it.
His gaze drifts over you slowly. Your soaked sleeves. Your dripping hair. The faint rise and fall of your breathing as you recover from the run.
âIf we do get sick,â he adds lightly, his voice softer now, âat least it will be together.â
Rain pounds steadily against the thin metal roof above you. The sound is loud and rhythmic, a constant drumming that fills the small shelter and creates a strange cocoon around the two of you. Outside the glass panel, passing headlights smear into glowing streaks of white and red.
For a moment neither of you speaks.
Then he glances at you from the corner of his eye.
âAdmit it,â he says. âYou were not having that much fun before I pulled you out there.â
You let out a quiet scoff, trying to summon indignation that refuses to stay in place.
âNo. Absolutely not.â
He simply watches you. One eyebrow lifting slowly, patient and amused, as if he already knows exactly how this will go.
Your resolve lasts three seconds.
âFine,â you sigh, the word leaving you with exaggerated reluctance. âMaybe a little.â
The corner of his mouth lifts almost immediately.
âBut this is the last time,â you add quickly, raising a finger in warning. âAnd only because you dragged me.â
âDragged,â he repeats, placing a hand lightly over his chest as if wounded. âI was being helpful.â
The rain outside refuses to slow. It drums relentlessly against the pavement, splashes into gutters, and bounces off the dark street in silver bursts. The air smells fresh and metallic, clean in a way that only storms can make it.
Without thinking, he shifts slightly closer.
His arm brushes yours.
The contact is subtle. Barely there. Just the faint press of damp fabric against damp fabric.
Neither of you moves away.
Then his expression changes. There is a small glint in his eyes now, the kind you have learned to recognize far too well.
âYou know what would make this better?â he asks.
You narrow your gaze immediately.
âI do not like that tone.â
He turns his head toward the rain again, pretending to consider something serious while the hint of a smile tugs at his mouth.
âA race.â
You stare at him.
âA race?â you repeat slowly.
He nods once, the challenge written clearly across his face.
The laugh escapes before you can stop it. The idea is completely ridiculous. Entirely unnecessary.
Which somehow makes it perfect.
You glance toward the rain soaked street and then back at him.
âFirst one to the next shelter wins.â
And before he can answer, you bolt.
The rain hits harder the second you leave the bus stop. It is colder out in the open, the drops striking your face and shoulders with renewed intensity. Somewhere behind you he shouts something, but the words dissolve into the roar of the storm.
For a few glorious seconds, you are ahead.
Your shoes slap against the wet pavement. Your heart pounds hard in your chest. Laughter bubbles in your throat as you run blindly through the rain.
Then he is beside you.
His stride is longer, smoother, effortless in a way that is almost insulting. He matches your pace easily, not even looking winded.
âHey,â you protest between breaths. âThat is not fair.â
âFair?â he replies, his voice carrying clearly over the rain. âI am a super soldier. I canât do anything about fair.â
He speeds up just enough to irritate you.
The next stretch of cover appears ahead beneath a flickering streetlamp. The light reflects across the wet pavement, turning the ground into rippling gold and gray. It is close enough that you can almost imagine winning.
You push harder. You really do try. But your lungs betray you first.
You slow abruptly, bending forward with your hands on your knees as rain pours down your back and soaks the collar of your shirt.
âOkay,â you gasp. âStop. You win.â
He slows from a jog to an easy walk, stopping directly in front of you. His breathing is slightly heavier now, but nothing compared to yours.
âTold you,â he says, satisfaction clear in his voice.
Before you can protest, he reaches forward and ruffles your already soaked hair.
âNext time,â he adds casually, âtry keeping up with a hundred year old man.â
You lift your head and peer up at him through wet lashes, exhaustion slowly giving way to something far more mischievous.
âSure,â you say sweetly.
âGrandpa.â
You grab the jacket slung over his shoulder and fling it straight at his face before he can react.
Then you take off running again. Your laughter echoes through the rain as you sprint toward the wide trunk of a nearby tree.
âLoser.â
He sputters behind you, yanking the jacket away from his face just in time to see you darting across the pavement.
âYou are going to regret that,â he calls.
You barely manage two steps into the open before he catches you. His arm loops around your waist from behind, pulling you sharply off balance as he drags you back against him.
âGot you,â he murmurs.
His breath brushes warm against your ear despite the chill of the rain.
You shriek, half in surprise and half in laughter, as he spins you around and gently presses you back against the rough bark of the tree. The canopy above blocks part of the storm. Not all of it, but enough that the rain softens into scattered drops slipping through the leaves.
Your breathing is uneven now. His is close enough that you can feel the rhythm of it against your cheek.
For a moment, neither of you says anything.
The rain begins to soften, shifting from a wild downpour into something steadier and calmer. The street beyond the trees blurs into distant light and shadow.
The world feels quieter.
Smaller.
As if the storm has carved out a small private space beneath the branches just for the two of you. And suddenly you are very aware of how close he is. Too close for something that is supposed to be only friendship.Â
His chest rises and falls unevenly as he steadies himself, but the moment he truly registers how close you are, something in him shifts. The playful energy that had carried the two of you through the rain fades into something quieter, heavier. His grip on your waist loosens slightly. Not enough to let you go. Just enough to give you space if you want it.
An offer rather than a retreat.
His eyes drop to your flushed cheeks first, then to the rain caught along your lashes. Droplets cling there for a moment before sliding down your skin. When his gaze lifts again to meet yours, something guarded flickers behind it.
âThe rainâs slowing,â he says quietly.
His voice is rough.
Not from running. But from restraint.
You feel the shift in him as clearly as if it were a physical thing. The careful distance he is trying to rebuild. The discipline he has relied on for decades pressing its way back into place. Your breathing begins to steady, but your heart does not follow.
You notice the space he offers.
You do not take it.
âYeah,â you murmur softly. âIt is.â
Above you, the canopy of leaves filters the last of the storm into scattered drops that fall gently through the branches. The roar that had surrounded you moments ago fades into a softer rhythm. The air smells fresh and cool, washed clean by the rain.
He should step back. He knows that.
This is easy. This is safe. You are friends.
But your body is still pressed to his. Warmth seeps through damp fabric where you touch, and your eyes never look away from his. His gaze lowers again, slower this time. It lingers at your mouth before returning upward, his jaw tightening as though he is holding something back through sheer force of will.
The space between you has almost vanished. A breath. Less than that. His fingers flex slightly against your hip. The motion is small, hesitant. Not demanding. Not pulling.
Just asking.
The world narrows until the rain becomes nothing more than background noise. Even the distant hum of the city fades. Your pulse pounds loudly in your ears, so hard you are certain he must feel it through the hand resting at your waist.
Without thinking, your hands rise and catch lightly in the hem of his damp shirt, gripping the fabric.
He inhales sharply.
The control he carries so carefully begins to thin.
You tilt your chin upward just enough to meet his gaze more fully, your voice barely more than a breath.
âBucky.â
That is all it takes.
Whatever line he had drawn for himself dissolves.
His mouth finds yours in one decisive movement, fierce and unguarded. His metal arm braces against the tree beside your head, steadying himself as his other hand tightens around your waist and pulls you flush against him.
There is nothing tentative about it.
The kiss carries every unspoken glance, every almost-touch, every moment the two of you pretended not to notice. It is rain soaked and breathless and long overdue.
You gasp softly against him before melting into it, your hands sliding upward to the base of his neck. His hair is damp beneath your fingers, the strands cool from the rain while the skin beneath them is warm.
He responds immediately.
A low sound escapes him, something caught between relief and disbelief. His hand leaves your waist and slides into your hair, angling your head slightly so he can deepen the kiss without overwhelming you.
Above you the rain has nearly stopped. Only scattered droplets fall through the leaves now, landing softly against your shoulders and the back of your neck.
Neither of you notices.
When you finally pull apart, it happens at the same time. Both of you reluctant. Both of you needing air.
Your lungs burn, lips tingle.
His hands never leave you. One stays firm against your hip while the other slides slowly from your hair down to your waist, as if he needs the reassurance that you are still there.
Still real.
Your foreheads rest together while the quiet of the storm settles around you. The only sound left is the uneven rhythm of your breathing.
âDamn,â he mutters under his breath.
It is not elegant. It is not practiced.
It is honest.
His chest rises and falls against yours as he studies your face, like he is still trying to understand what just happened, like part of him expects the moment to vanish if he looks away.
You feel it in the way his fingers press into you. Not possessive. Not demanding.
Just unwilling to let go.
âYou know,â he says after a moment, his voice lower now, rougher than usual, âI donât know if I wanna stand here all night.â
His thumb brushes slowly along the curve of your hip, absent and distracted, like he is barely aware he is doing it.
âOr,â he adds, his gaze drifting back to your mouth, âif I wanna kiss you again.â
A small smile curves your lips and you can see it clearly now. The want in his eyes. The fragile thread his restraint is hanging from.
Your hand lifts and rests lightly against his chest, fingers curling into the damp fabric there.
An invitation.
He leans in.
And you stop him.
Your finger presses gently against his lips before they reach yours.
He freezes instantly.
The shift in him is immediate. His eyes darken, his breath catching as if the smallest movement might shatter something delicate between you.
For a moment he does not move at all.
He swallows.
âWhat?â he asks quietly.
You slide your finger away from his mouth slowly, letting it trail along the edge of his lower lip before your knuckles drift across the line of his jaw.
His eyes close for a brief second at the contact.
You watch the reaction carefully. Watch the control tighten and strain.
When you speak, your voice is soft, teasing, threaded with something deeper.
âYou look at me like that again,â you murmur, âand we are never making it back.â
A subtle shudder passes through him.
A low curse slips out under his breath.
Your laughter breaks the tension, lighter than the moment deserves. Before he can react, you step out of his hold and put a little distance between your bodies. You move back toward the pavement where the rain has begun to fall harder again.
You lift a hand over your head in a useless attempt to shield yourself, glancing back once with a grin before turning forward.
He stays still for a moment watching you. Like he is deciding something.
Then he runs a hand through his damp hair and starts after you.
The smirk returns slowly, deliberate and dangerous.
âOh no,â he mutters under his breath. âYouâre not getting away that easy.â
You hear him before you see him. The quickening rhythm of his steps. The shift of air behind you.Then his arm slides around your waist again and pulls you back against him in one smooth motion.You shriek before dissolving into laughter, turning within his hold until you are facing him again.
The rain is heavier now. It pours down in steady sheets, soaking both of you completely. Your hands settle instinctively against his chest while his arm remains firm around your waist.
He looks down at you like this might be the best decision he has made all night.
Water runs down the line of his jaw. Your hair clings to your face. Your eyes struggle to stay open against the falling rain.
You cling to him as if he is shelter, though he is just as drenched as you are.
âDo you not want to get home?â you ask, teasing.
He pretends to think about it. Really think about it.
His grip tightens slightly as his gaze drifts over you without subtlety now. The rain soaked hair. The flushed warmth of your cheeks. The way you are looking back at him.
âMm,â he hums thoughtfully.
Then his eyes lift to meet yours again.
âWhy go home,â he says slowly, âwhen Iâve got this view?â
You are still laughing when it happens.
Before you can throw another remark at him, a car tears down the street, moving too fast for a road slick with rain. The tires cut through a shallow puddle near the curb and send a sudden wave of muddy water rushing outward.
It crashes into him without warning. Cold spray drenches him from boots to hair in one violent splash. His shoulders jerk back instinctively and his metal arm gives a sharp mechanical whir as it reacts faster than the rest of him.
For one stunned heartbeat, he simply stands there.
Dripping.
Blinking slowly as rain and murky water slide down the sharp angles of his face.
His shirt, already damp from the storm, clings even more miserably to his frame. Droplets gather along his jaw and fall steadily to the pavement. The expression that forms on his face is slow and deliberate, disbelief giving way to unmistakable outrage.
âExcuse me?â he calls sharply after the car.
The vehicle is already disappearing down the road, its taillights fading through the rain. He turns back toward you with the look of a man who has just suffered a profound betrayal. As if you somehow had a hand in the entire situation.
âDid you see that?â
You have one hand clamped over your mouth in a completely useless attempt to stop yourself. The sight of him standing there, soaked and splattered and glaring at the empty street like it personally offended him, is simply too much.
âOh my god,â you manage but the laughter escapes you anyway. It spills out uncontrollably, bright and breathless, echoing beneath the quiet rhythm of the rain.
His scowl deepens immediately and flicks water off his sleeve in your direction with exaggerated offense making a few cold droplets land on your arm.
âYou think this is funny?â he asks, his voice dry with disbelief. There is irritation in his tone, but the faintest glimmer of amusement betrays him.
He takes a slow step toward you and you instinctively take one backward.
If he were not completely drenched and faintly ridiculous in the moment, the movement might have been intimidating. Instead it only makes your laughter worse.
âOkay,â you manage through another breathless giggle. âIt is a little funny.â
He advances again. You retreat again.
The rain begins to soften around you, easing from a steady downpour into a gentler fall that still patters against the pavement and darkens the street beneath your feet.
âLetâs just find some shelter,â you offer quickly, raising your hands as if reasoning with him might save you from whatever revenge is forming in his head. âYou can dry off a little.â
For a moment he pauses, brows draw together slightly as though he is considering the suggestion with genuine seriousness. Then a slow smirk spreads across his face. The expression is sharp. Dangerous. Entirely too pleased with itself.
âNo.â
You barely register the word before he lunges forward with sudden speed and scoops you off the ground in one effortless motion. The world tilts violently as your feet leave the pavement. A startled squeal escapes you before you can stop it.
In the next second you find yourself slung over his shoulder. Your stomach drops with the sudden shift in balance, but his metal arm immediately locks around the back of your thighs, steady and unyielding. His other hand settles securely against your back.
There is absolutely no risk of falling.
There is also no chance of escaping.
Your laughter bursts out again, louder this time, as you kick your feet uselessly in the air while he begins striding down the sidewalk with deliberate confidence.
âNice try,â he says smugly. âNo shelter yet.â
âOkay, okay,â you protest between breathless laughs.
Rainwater drips steadily from your hair onto the back of his shirt as you squirm slightly. You push yourself up just enough to look at him upside down, bracing your hands against his shoulders for balance.
âI will not tease you,â you promise dramatically. âJust put me down.â
You swat his back lightly for emphasis. The attempt at defiance lasts all of two seconds before you ruin it by dissolving into another fit of laughter and pressing your face against the side of his neck.
The reaction is immediate.
His hold tightens instinctively when you nuzzle closer. You feel the subtle shift in his breathing where your cheek brushes his skin, warm despite the rain.
He stops walking but does not put you down.
âYou promise?â he asks, his voice skeptical but clearly amused. âNo more laughing at me?â
You sigh with exaggerated patience.
âYes,â you drawl innocently. âI promise.â
A quiet laugh escapes you anyway.
He waits another moment just to prove that he can. Then, finally, he relents. His hands guide you down slowly, steadying your waist as your feet meet the pavement again. The motion is careful despite the teasing. Protective in a way that seems entirely instinctive.
The moment you are upright, his arm slips around your waist.
He keeps you there, close against him.
Rainwater has soaked through both of you by now, damp fabric clinging to skin, but neither of you seems particularly concerned about it anymore.
He tilts his head slightly as he studies your face, one eyebrow raised in quiet challenge.
âYou are sure?â he asks softly. âNo more teasing, doll?â
His arm tightens just enough to remind you that lifting you again would be very easy.
You chuckle softly and look up at him with a small, knowing grin.
âI promise,â you reassure him, your hands resting lightly on his arms. âNo more teasing.â
Then you gesture toward the nearby bus stop.
âAnd we are finally taking the bus.â
Before he can argue, you slip your hand into his and tug him forward.
âCome on.â
He gives you a deeply skeptical look, the kind that says he does not believe your promise for even a second. But the moment your fingers lace with his, something in his expression softens. The resistance fades almost immediately and he lets you pull him along the rain-darkened pavement, his longer stride easily matching yours.
âThe bus?â he asks, his voice thick with exaggerated disbelief. âI am soaking wet and you want the bus?â
You glance back at him over your shoulder, laughter still lingering in your voice.
âWell it is better than walking all the way back to the compound,â you reply. âEspecially when we are not even halfway there.â
You shake your head lightly and keep moving, your hand still wrapped securely around his.
âUnless you have a better suggestion.â
He huffs under his breath, clearly unimpressed with the plan but unable to argue with your logic.
âFine,â he mutters, falling into step beside you, his hand remaining firmly in yours.
He glances at you again, wet hair falling loosely across his forehead while rainwater drips from the ends.
âI could think of a much better way to keep warm right now than getting on a goddamn bus.â
You roll your eyes, though the corner of your mouth lifts into a small smirk.
âOf course you could,â you mutter dryly.
---
You reach the bus stop first and drop onto the narrow bench beneath the small metal shelter, your legs grateful for the brief rest after running through the rain. The storm has eased slightly now, though the air still carries the sharp scent of wet pavement and cold evening wind. Water continues to drip steadily from the edge of the shelterâs roof, tapping softly against the concrete below.
A moment later, Bucky sits down beside you.
Close.
Close enough that the damp fabric of his jacket brushes lightly against your arm, still cool from the rain. The contact sends a faint shiver across your skin that has nothing to do with the weather.
The stop is quiet. A few cars pass along the street in the distance, their tires hissing softly against wet asphalt. Otherwise there is only the low murmur of rain and the distant hum of traffic around the two of you.
He lifts one arm and drapes it loosely over your shoulders, pulling you gently into his side as if it is the most natural thing in the world.
âHey,â he says, his voice warm with teasing. âI am just thinking practically, sweetheart.â
His fingers move idly against your upper arm as he speaks, brushing back and forth in an absent motion that somehow feels far too deliberate.
âWarmer options are available.â
A giggle escapes you before you can stop it, and you tilt your head upward to look at him. A playful spark lights in your eyes as you study the faint smirk tugging at his mouth.
âGod,â you say. âYou make it sound so easy.â
You lean forward slightly as you speak, closing the space between your faces until only a few inches remain. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath in the cool air beneath the shelter.
âAnd what exactly do you have in mind?â
His smirk deepens the moment you move closer.
His eyes darken just enough to betray the quiet challenge building beneath the teasing. Rainwater still clings to the edges of his hair, a few damp strands falling across his forehead as he studies you.
âOh, I donât know,â he murmurs.
His voice drops lower, meant only for you over the steady rhythm of rain. His fingers trace a slow line along your side where his arm rests around your shoulders, the motion almost absent but impossible to ignore.
âMaybe putting my jacket back on you.â
His gaze dips briefly toward your lips before lifting again.
âOr carrying you all the way home like that.â
He says it as though both options are perfectly reasonable. As though he would do either one without the slightest hesitation.
You laugh softly and lean closer still, lifting your hand until your palm rests lightly against his jaw. His skin is warm beneath your touch despite the cold rain outside.
Your thumb brushes slowly over his lower lip.
âNow that sounds really tempting.â
You pull back just enough to meet his eyes again, though your hand remains against his face.
âRomantic, even.â
One brow lifts as you study him carefully.
âDid not know you had it in you, Barnes.â
His breath catches the moment your thumb touches his lip.
A quiet, rough chuckle slips from him, low and warm despite the chill lingering in the air.
âRomantic?â he repeats softly, eyebrow lifting slightly as his gaze lingers on your face.
âYou have not seen romantic yet.â
His arm tightens subtly around your shoulders. The movement is small but impossible to miss, shifting you just slightly closer against his side. The rain, the street, the quiet bus stop all seem to fade into the background as his attention remains entirely on you.
His gaze then drifts to your mouth again before slowly lifting back to your eyes.
âYou have no idea what I would do,â he says quietly, âfor a few minutes alone with you right now.â
Your breath catches and a slow smile spreads across your lips.
âI think I might have some idea,â you tease.
You lean forward again until the space between you nearly disappears, close enough that your breath brushes lightly across his lips.
For a moment the world narrows to that tiny distance between you. Then the low rumble of an approaching engine cuts straight through the moment.
The bus.
You pull away suddenly with a bright laugh as you stand from the bench.
âCome on,â you say lightly. âRideâs here.â
Bucky stays seated for half a second longer, staring at the space you just vacated.
You had been so close.
So close.
He drags a hand through his damp hair before pushing himself to his feet with a long exhale.
âI hate public transportation.â
---
The bus is mostly empty when the two of you climb aboard. Only a few passengers sit scattered toward the front and middle rows, some speaking quietly while others stare through rain fogged windows at the passing streetlights. The faint hum of the engine and the steady patter of rain against the roof fill the otherwise quiet space.
A pleased smile tugs at your lips.
You can practically feel the effect you have had on him tonight. The tension still lingering in the way he looks at you. The quiet intensity in his gaze every time your eyes meet. And despite the cold rain, despite the ridiculous dash through the streets and the crowded bus, that small smile still tugs at the corner of his mouth.
It is adorable.
You spot an empty seat at the very back and slide into it beside the window.
The moment Bucky notices, he shoots you a look. He knows that smile. That smug little expression that means you are enjoying this far too much. He climbs onto the bus slower than necessary, letting out a dramatic huff as though the entire situation personally offends him. But the second he sees the open seat beside you, he heads straight for it.
He drops down next to you without hesitation.
Close.
Close enough that his damp side presses lightly into yours as he stretches one long arm along the back of the seat behind you.
âComfy?â he mutters under his breath.
His tone is dry, but his eyes linger on you like he is still very aware of everything that happened tonight.
You sigh softly and shift comfortably in the seat before resting your head against his arm.
âYup.â
A small giggle escapes you as you turn slightly to face him, your smile still lingering and something in his expression softens immediately. He lets out a slow breath, almost as if he is steadying himself. The sight of you curled easily against his side does something strange to his chest, something warm and unfamiliar.
His fingers begin tracing slow circles against your shoulder where his arm rests behind you. The motion is absent and gentle, warm even through the chill of damp clothes.
âGood,â he murmurs quietly.
The bus lurches forward then, beginning its slow route through the rain soaked streets. Each turn and bump makes the frame rattle softly, but he barely notices.
If anything, the movement only presses you a little closer against him and the two of you settle into a comfortable silence. The gentle rocking of the bus and the steady drone of traffic outside create a quiet rhythm around you. His fingers continue tracing those lazy circles along your shoulder without him even realizing he is doing it.
He feels everything.
The warmth of your head resting against his arm.
The occasional brush of your knee against his.
The way your body naturally leans into his space as if it belongs there.
It is intimate.
Almost too intimate for the back seat of a public bus.
But Bucky does not care.
Because it is you.
After a moment Bucky lowered his head slightly, bringing his mouth close enough that only you could hear him over the soft rumble of the bus and the distant whisper of rain against the windows.
âYou know,â he murmured.
His voice was low and rough from disuse, the sound of it close enough that a faint warmth slid down your spine despite the cold damp air clinging to both of you. His breath brushed lightly against your ear and for a second the world felt smaller, quieter, as if the rest of the passengers had faded somewhere far away.
âThis isnât exactly how I imagined the rest of the day going.â
Your brow lifted with quiet curiosity and you tilted your head to look up at him. There was still rain caught in the dark strands of his hair and the dim lights of the bus painted soft shadows across his face.
âWhat do you mean?â
A small chuckle slipped out as you asked, the sound light and easy. Your expression softened in that familiar way that only appeared when you were around him. Comfortable. Relaxed. Too relaxed, maybe.
Because technically you were just friends.
At least that was what the two of you had always believed.
Until earlier tonight.
Until the rain.
Until the ridiculous race down the street.
Until the kiss that had shattered whatever quiet line had once existed between you.
Now every little thing felt different. The way he held you close without thinking. The way you teased him about wanting that other kiss. Even the quiet space between words seemed charged with something new.
It felt strangely familiar. Like things had always been this way and neither of you had noticed it until tonight.
Bucky let out a quiet chuckle when you looked at him like that, your eyes bright and curious as if you were waiting for him to explain something important. There was something about the effortless ease between you that made his chest feel warm. The way you leaned against him without hesitation, as if the space beside him had always belonged to you.
âI didnât exactly think weâd end up riding a bus soaked through and flirting,â he admitted, the corner of his mouth lifting.
You hummed softly in agreement, glancing down at the damp sleeve of your jacket before looking back up at him again.
âYeah. Well I didnât think weâd get caught in the rain either. Or that youâd pull me into a race in the middle of the street.â
You paused then, your gaze drifting slowly across his face. Over the familiar lines, the faint crease between his brows, the quiet intensity that always seemed to linger in his eyes.
âOr that weâd kiss.â
The words left you softer than you intended.
Your expression shifted as you said it, the teasing fading just enough for something gentler to appear. Your eyes lingered on him a second longer than necessary.
Buckyâs breath caught before he could stop it.
You looked unfairly pretty like that.
Rain had softened the strands of your hair and there was still a faint flush lingering across your cheeks from earlier. His mind betrayed him instantly, dragging him right back to that moment. The way your lips had felt against his. The warmth of your body pressed against his chest. The way his hands had tightened around you without a second thought.
And how badly he had wanted to kiss you again.
He cleared his throat quietly, attempting to look far more unaffected than he actually felt.
âYeah, well,â he said, forcing his voice back into something casual.
âYou started it.â
Your reaction was immediate. A laugh bubbled up and your brows lifted in challenge as you turned toward him.
âHey. It was your idea to race me in the first place.â
His smirk returned almost instantly.
Bucky leaned a little closer, raising an eyebrow in exaggerated accusation as if he had just caught you in the worst lie imaginable.
âThatâs a lie and you know it,â he said. âYouâre the one who got competitive and started sprinting away from me.â
You huffed under your breath, though the corner of your mouth twitched traitorously. Unfortunately he was not wrong. So instead of arguing you nudged his shoulder with yours before turning toward the window, pretending to focus on the rain-streaked glass.
Your attention shifted outward but the shy little smile tugging at your lips gave you away completely.
Bucky noticed it at once.
His eyes followed the faint curve of that hidden grin as blurred city lights slipped past outside the window, reflecting faintly across your face. You looked like you were trying very hard to pretend you were not pleased with how the evening had unfolded.
His own smirk softened into something quieter.
Leaning back into the worn bus seat, he draped his arm across your shoulders again in that same easy motion. It felt natural now, like something he had been doing for years instead of minutes.
âYou know,â he said after a moment, his voice quieter this time.
âI donât regret racing you.â
He paused briefly before adding, softer still,
âEspecially if this is where it leads us.â
Your head lifted quickly at that.
A flicker of surprise crossed your face as you turned fully toward him again.
âYou mean that?â
Your heart had begun beating noticeably faster now and you searched his expression carefully, trying to find even the smallest hint that he might be teasing.
But he wasnât.
The playful smirk had faded into something gentler. Something honest.
His gaze stayed steady on yours when he spoke again, his voice was lower, warmer.
âOf course I do.â
There was no hesitation.
âYouâre worth a little rain, doll.â
For a moment the world seemed to slow.
The bus rolled quietly through dark city streets while rain tapped softly against the windows and distant headlights blurred across the glass. Your shoulder remained tucked beneath his arm and the quiet certainty in his voice settled somewhere deep in your chest.
And a soft smile found its way onto your face before you could stop it.
The rest of the ride passed in silence.
You remained by the window while Bucky sat at the aisle beside you, his arm still resting across your shoulders as if it had always belonged there. Outside, the rain had begun to slow into a softer drizzle. The window glass had fogged faintly with mist, streaked by the slow paths of fading droplets.
Neither of you spoke.
The air between you still carried the quiet weight of everything that had happened that night. The kiss. The laughter. The way something unspoken had shifted between you both.
And yet the silence did not feel awkward.
If anything, it felt strangely familiar.
Almost as if this closeness had been waiting quietly beneath the surface of your friendship all along. As if something deeper had simply been biding its time for the right moment to reveal itself.
As if the two of you had never truly been just friends.
Bucky sat beside you with that same relaxed closeness, his arm draped loosely across your shoulders. His thumb moved slowly in absent circles against your sleeve without him even realizing he was doing it.
The bus rocked gently along its route, the steady hum of the engine filling the quiet space.
He stared ahead at nothing in particular, though his attention kept drifting back to you. The warmth of your body leaning into his side. The quiet comfort of your presence beside him. The simple ease that seemed to settle over everything whenever you were this close.
It was dangerously easy to get used to.
By the time the bus slowed near the stop a few blocks from the Compound, the rain had almost disappeared. What remained was the quiet aftermath of it. The pavement shimmered beneath the streetlights, still slick and reflective, thin puddles gathering along the curb.
You stepped down from the bus together. Cool night air brushed against your damp skin, carrying the faint scent of wet concrete and leaves.
For a moment neither of you moved.
Then Buckyâs arm settled naturally around your shoulders again, like it had belonged there all evening. The gesture was easy, unthinking. As if somewhere along the walk, he had forgotten how to stand beside you without that small point of contact.
You began the short walk back toward the Compound.
The city had already slipped into its late evening quiet. Traffic had thinned to the occasional passing car, headlights sweeping briefly across the street before fading again. Mostly there was only the soft rhythm of your footsteps against damp pavement.
For a while neither of you spoke.
Bucky glanced over at you now and then, careful enough that it almost looked casual. The dim streetlights caught the side of your face as you walked beside him. The calm set of your expression. The way the last traces of rain still clung to the loose strands of your hair.
His thumb moved absentmindedly against your shoulder, tracing slow circles through the fabric there.
He had not even noticed he was doing it.
There were things he could say. A lot of things, actually. Words that had been sitting quietly in the back of his mind for longer than he cared to admit. Feelings that had waited patiently while he convinced himself they could stay unspoken.
But the quiet felt good.
Right now he was content just walking beside you.
Content to have you close enough that your arm brushed lightly against his side with every few steps.
He then cleared his throat suddenly, the sound small in the stillness of the street.
âYou know,â he began.
His voice came out rougher than he intended.
You turned your head slightly toward him, curiosity softening your expression.
âThat was nice.â
The words were simple. Almost careless in the way he said them. But there was far more hidden behind them than he let on. He was talking about the bus ride. The rain. The ridiculous sprint down the street. The way you had laughed while water dripped from your hair. The kiss beneath the tree that still lingered somewhere warm in the back of his mind.
And this quiet walk beside you now.
Your eyes met his for a brief moment, and he knew immediately that you understood.
The faint smile that appeared on your face made something tighten quietly in his chest.
âYeah,â you said, your voice soft in the calm night air. âIt really was.â
Bucky breathed in slowly, then let the air leave him through his nose.
âReal nice,â he added.
This time there was something heavier behind the words. Something that lingered between you both, unspoken but unmistakable.
He shifted a little closer without realizing it, his arm tightening just slightly around your shoulders.
His gaze lingered on yours.
âIn fact,â he said after a moment, quieter now, âI wouldnât mind if something like this was⊠permanent.â
The word seemed to settle into the space between you.
Permanent.
Not just rainstorms and stolen moments. Not just teasing glances and quiet walks home. Something steadier than that. Something that lasted beyond nights like this.
His fingers pressed a little more firmly into your shoulder without him quite realizing it. A subtle grip. Almost instinctive. As if some part of him already knew he did not want to let you go.
âWith you.â
Your steps slowed.
Then you stopped completely.
The subtle shift did not escape him. Bucky halted almost immediately, turning toward you as the soft glow of a nearby streetlamp cast a faint wash of gold across the pavement and the damp strands of your hair.
Your expression was gentle, though a trace of surprise lingered in your eyes as you studied him.
âAre you sure itâs not the rain talking?â you asked lightly.
A small laugh slipped out with the words, teasing in tone, though your heart was beating just as quickly as his.
Buckyâs expression sobered almost at once.
âRain?â
He stepped closer without hesitation. His hand lifted instinctively, warm and steady as it came to rest along your jaw. His rough fingertips brushed over the cool, rain-damp skin of your cheek as he tilted your face toward him.
âDoll,â he murmured, his voice low and textured with something deeper than teasing, âIâve been in love with you since way before we got soaked today.â
The words settled into the quiet between you.
They were simple. Honest.
But they carried the weight of years behind them.
Bucky had carried those feelings carefully, quietly, like something fragile he had been afraid to expose to the light. For a long time it had been easier to keep them tucked away, hidden behind jokes and sideways glances and moments that almost meant something.
Now that they had finally slipped free, spoken out loud beneath the quiet hum of the city and the fading scent of rain, he felt something loosen in his chest.
Relief.
He stepped closer again, his height casting a gentle shadow over you as his gaze searched your face.
âItâs always been you,â he said softly.
The words sounded almost like a confession.
Your breath caught in your throat.
For a moment you simply looked at him.
At the damp strands of dark hair falling across his forehead. At the leather jacket hanging loosely from his hand. At the quiet seriousness in his eyes that left no room for doubt.
The teasing expression you had been wearing slowly softened.
âYou picked a strange time to tell me youâre in love with me.â
A faint smile curved your lips again, warmer this time.
âGood thing I feel the same way.â
Bucky stilled completely.
For one strange, disorienting second he wondered if he had imagined the words.
But then he saw the certainty in your expression. The warmth lingering in your smile.
And that was all he needed.
He pulled you toward him without another thought.
His metal arm wrapped securely around your waist, drawing you against him as his lips found yours with sudden urgency.
The kiss came fast and fierce.
Bucky kissed you like a man who had been holding himself back for far too long. Like someone who had spent years pretending he could live without something he had wanted all along.
His hold on you tightened instinctively. His other hand curled into the fabric of your shirt as if he needed the reassurance that you were really there.
When he finally pulled back for air, both of you were breathing harder.
Your forehead rested lightly against his. Your cheeks were warm beneath the cool night air, and your hands had somehow found their way to the back of his neck.
A quiet laugh escaped you, breathless and soft.
For a moment neither of you moved.
Bucky lowered his head again, this time pressing his face gently into the curve of your neck. His breath warmed your skin as he exhaled slowly, his nose brushing just beneath your jaw.
âGod,â he murmured quietly, his voice rough with something that sounded very close to relief, âbeen wanting to do that for a long time.â
You inhaled sharply as his lips grazed your skin, a small shiver slipping down your spine before you could stop it.
âJesus, BuckyâŠâ
Your voice came out softer than you meant it to.
It felt natural being held like this. Easy in a way that made everything else fade quietly into the background.
Just then a low crack of thunder rolled through the sky.
You startled slightly at the sound and pulled back just enough to look up at him, though his arms were still wrapped securely around you.
âOkay,â you said quickly, glancing toward the darkening clouds above. A laugh slipped out despite yourself. âI am not getting drenched again.â
You slipped your fingers through his and immediately started pulling him toward the compound gates before the sky could prove you wrong.
Bucky let himself be dragged along, a quiet laugh rumbling under his breath as your joined hands swung between you.
âYou really hate getting wet, huh?â he teased.
You glanced back at him over your shoulder, a grin already spreading across your face.
âOkay, for the second time tonight,â you began, âthere has to be a better way to say that.â
Before you could finish the sentence, Bucky suddenly bent and lifted you clean off the ground.
A startled gasp escaped you as he scooped you into his arms with effortless ease, your feet leaving the pavement before your brain could quite catch up to what had just happened.
âBucky!â
But he was already moving.
His laughter broke free a second later, deep and unrestrained as he took off down the rain-darkened street. The first fresh drops began to fall again, cool against your cheeks and catching in your lashes.
âBetter?â he teased near your ear, his voice warm with amusement.
You clutched instinctively at his shoulders as he ran, the steady rhythm of his steps jostling you just enough to make another helpless laugh spill from your lips.
âPut me down,â you protested breathlessly, though the grin tugging at your mouth betrayed the words entirely.
Bucky only tightened his hold around you, one arm secure beneath your knees while the other kept you firmly against his chest.
âNot a chance, doll.â
Instead of slowing, he shifted his grip slightly and pulled you a little closer against his chest as he kept running, boots splashing lightly against the rain-dark pavement.
The rain grew steadier around you, soft silver droplets falling through the warm glow of the streetlights as the compound gates appeared in the distance.
You could feel the steady rise and fall of Buckyâs breathing beneath you. The solid warmth of him. The easy strength in the arms holding you like this was the most natural thing in the world.
Your laughter softened into quiet giggles as you held onto him.
And somewhere between the falling rain and the sound of his footsteps echoing through the empty street, you realized something.
Being carried through the storm in his arms like this, with his laughter rumbling against your ear and his grip warm and certain around you, felt strangely perfect.
Three levels. Two people. One night. You and Bucky learn a little bit more than anticipated about each other from a simple card game.
âž PAIRING: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader
âž WARNINGS: Hurt/comfort, fluff, alcohol consumption, miscommunication final boss (because im a sucker for it), idiots in love (fr, you have been warned)
âžÂ WORD COUNT: 7.5K
âž A/N: happy bday to my beloved bucky! failed to write a quick fic again. for @star-and-shield-monthly's february prompts for "tipsy and in love" and "what would make you the happiest right now?" no smut? who am i. hope you enjoy anyway!!!
†main masterlist
Level 1
Bucky flips the card over in his hand, frowning as he squints. âIf MySpace were still a thing, what would my profile song be?â He looks up at you. âWhatâs MySpace?â
You stifle your laughter, swallowing it before it can scream youâre so incredibly endearing. He was already hesitant about partaking in this little card game you picked up, so teasing him would be counterproductive. You force yourself to deadpan, âSometimes I forget that you skipped an entire internet developmental stage.â
He gives you a look, those sharp blue eyes landing in your chest with a thud. Your heart shouldnât be racing, you shouldnât feel all warm and tingly from his gaze alone, but you never really had control over your bodyâs responses to Bucky Barnes.
Tearing your gaze away from him, you explain, âItâs a social media platform, where people would post status updates about their lives or follow other people. You can choose a song to represent you on your profile!â
The befuddled look clings to his face. Social media has always been a strange concept to Bucky, who is used to living incognito; he thinks itâs a security risk, has even made you share yours so he can vet it.
âItâs not a big deal, we can go to the next question,â you say, increasingly flustered the more Bucky stares at you as if you have all the answers.
âHold on,â he murmurs as he settles back more comfortably into the couch. He tilts his body to face you, elbow propping up on the back as his head leans against his balled fist. His messy hair, wind-swept still from the mission earlier, falls across his forehead.
Your finger actually twitches with the urge to brush it away from his face.
âWhat do you think my song would be?â His lips are curled into that smile â mysterious, almost teasing, like heâs relishing watching you squirm.
A nervous laugh escapes you as you look towards that deck of cards again. âI donât know, it certainly wonât be Sabrina Carpenter.â
âItâs⊠not my thing,â he presses his lips together. You bite down a smile. The scandalous lyrics had, well, scandalized Bucky. Heâs no prude, but he also isnât very used to people singing about how tears run down my thighs on the radio.
âWeâll figure out a song for you, Buck. Maybe one of those sad white boy ballads youâre always listening to in the shower.â
His cheeks flush pink. âTheyâre good songs!â
âIâm not saying otherwise, donât worry.â You hold your hands up.
âI donât like this game already,â he grumbles under his breath.
âWell, would you rather have me destroy you at poker again? Or Risk? Or monopoly?â
Buckyâs mouth curls into the cutest little pout. You donât think he even realizes heâs doing it; the great Bucky Barnes wouldnât ever be caught dead pouting. Sulking like a child.
âYou donât even have it hard! You donât even feel the effects of alcohol so, even if you donât want to answer, you wonât get drunk from drinking. When I think about it, that doesnât seem fair, does it?â
âYou were the one who made the rules.â
You hum, stroking your chin thoughtfully. Bucky still regards you with that amused tilt of his lips. âAlright, then how about this â you get another penalty if you donât answer.â His eyebrow raises in question. âMaybe I get to make you do a dare instead.â
Bucky immediately scoffs. âNow that hardly seems fair. You get a sip of a wine that you like and I might have to potentially backflip off a roof if you dare me to?â
A laugh bubbles up your throat. âFirst of all, youâve survived literally jumping off a moving plane,â you point out and he makes a face. âSecond of all, are you scared of a little challenge, Buck?â
For a second, his eyes thaw into a calmer blue. The sharpness gives way to the warm pools of his irises. You blink at him in surprise and he jerks back to the present, coughing as he looks away from you.
You swear his cheeks are tinged pink but maybe itâs because of the heat running on full blast. âAlright, fine,â he grunts, âDare. But if itâs anything too crazy, just know that my liability waiver only applies to the Avengers, not you and whatever game youâre makinâ me play.â
Snickering to yourself, you miss the way his grin stretches a fraction wider. âYouâre lucky the legal teamâs asleep, Tom would definitely take my side.â
The corners of his lips tighten. Youâre once again caught off guard by the shift in his expression. You almost hate how sensitive you are to his changing moods (this is a lie, you love that you notice these things about him; it makes it easier to discover his feelings about certain things â like how he had balked at your first attempt at lasagna but had politely said âdelicious, Iâll take another sliceâ).
He was being kind. Buckyâs always kind to you. Itâs why you find yourself so enamored with him.
Maybe youâre a little silly â mistaking goodwill gestures for something more â but you canât help the way your poor little heart dreams.
âYou and Tom close?â Bucky asks, drawing you out of your thoughts. His voice is low, almost contemplative.
âWe chat.â You shrug, flipping open another card. âOh, whatâs the first thing you noticed about me?â
Bucky flushes a deep shade of scarlet, colors reaching the tip of his ears. Your heart stutters against your ribs.
âDamn, that bad, huh?â
âWhat?â He blanches. âNo.â
âWhy do you look like youâre about to run away then? Itâs an easy question.â His lips twist together in disagreement. âIt is! You really want to pick up your dare on this of all questions? You do realize weâre only on Level 1?â
âThere are multiple levels?â Dread settles hard and fast on his face.
âYes, so you might want to save those for actual questions you donât want to answer. What? Are you scared of offending me?â
His tongue digs into the inside of his cheek as he relents with a deep breath. His gaze flies to the ceiling as he mutters, âYour eyes.â
âMy eyes?â
âYouâre veryâŠâ he pauses, âexpressive.â
âExpressive?â you parrot again, still confused.
âI can tell how youâre feeling based on your eyes alone.â Your head tilts in question. Buckyâs lips tip up. âFirst time we met, it was right here on campus. I was coming back from a debrief with Steve when Tony introduced us.â
You remember that day. You had been so overwhelmed with meeting everyone on your team, not to mention running into one Avenger after another, heroes youâve idolized for so long. The final whammy was bumping into Steve and Bucky on your way out.
âYour eyes went wide, size of saucers,â he chuckles, âI didnât even need to hear you stutterinâ to know you were scared of me. Couldnât even look me in the eyes.â
At that, you frown. You seem to remember this interaction very differently.
Before you can question it, Bucky continues, âWhen youâre upset, you have this little pinch between your eyes and itâs like all the light goes out. Your eyes usually just kind of â I donât know â sparkles? When youâre irritated, you have this dead look; if looks could kill and all that. When youâre sad, itâs similar, like you lose your shine, but softer in a way. Your eyebrows go like thisââ He angles his index fingers downwards to represent your supposedly upset brows. He chuckles then, âBut when youâre excited, you take in all the light, absorbing all that sunshine that you become it yourself.â
Youâre at a loss for words. How do you even respond to that? You didnât even know Bucky really knew you existed, not until the two of you found company in your fellow insomniac. But the way he talks about you, how well he can differentiate between your moods, you almost feel⊠seen.
Bucky stiffens when he realizes how much heâs said, quickly casting his gaze away to the coffee fireplace crackling before the two of you. âAnyways,â he swallows, âthatâs it. Thatâs the first thing I noticed about you.â
Heat licks up your skin and youâre sure itâs not from the burning embers.
âI wasnât scared of you,â you blurt out and Bucky perks up. âIt was my first day and you â well, youâre you. Youâre an Avenger. I was just in awe that I was going to be working for the Earthâs mightiest heroes.â
âI wasnât a hero,â Bucky corrects a little too quickly, a little too harshly.
âYes, you were and you are, Buck,â you softly admonish him. âGive yourself a little more credit. Youâve done a lot for everyone. Iâm grateful that I get to work with someone like you.â
His eyes flicker between shades of blue before the fireplace. For a moment, heâs silent like heâs appraising you and you wonder if youâve said something wrong. Just because the two of you have formed some semblance of friendship â or so you think â in the late hours in this building doesnât mean that you can speak out of turn.
âSorry, I didnât mean toâ forget I said anything,â you look down at the deck again, âyour turn.â
âThank you,â Bucky murmurs and your gaze immediately lifts to see him. Him smiling so gently at you. Without addressing it further, Bucky picks up another card.
Level 2
The first question in Level 2 leaves you wondering what has been your happiest memory in the past year. The first one that comes to mind is immediately when you and Bucky took an emergency trip to the farmerâs market to pick up groceries for an abrupt birthday celebration for Bruce (Tony did not clue you in early enough for you to plan). It was a simple afternoon but it was one that left you feeling all fuzzy inside.
After all, you did have Bucky all to yourself for a good two hours â and he was following you around like a puppy as you bounced from stall to stall, carrying all of your purchases with one hand.
âI see you smilinâ, what is it?â
You realize that you do in fact have a shit-eating grin on your face. Bucky must think youâre a lunatic. How embarrassing.
âUhm, I need to think about this.â
He smirks, zeroing in on the shame quickly etching itself across your face. âOh no, you were already thinkinâ of something.â
âBut what if that wasnât the happiest?â you whine, an attempt to deflect.
Bucky doesnât let you. âItâs the first one you thought of, it should be. Come on. What is it?â
You donât think twice as you pick up your glass and take a swig. A big gulp, actually. The wine slides with a slight burn down your throat, acidity melting on your tongue. You wince.
âReally? Youâre drinkinâ to that?â
âMy choice,â you huff, ânext question.â
You reach for a card and turn it over.
âHas a stranger ever changed your life?â
Bucky hesitates, eyes flicking over to you briefly. He looks deep in thought, you can almost see the gears in his mind turning as he calculates the risk between a dare from you and being honest here. He likely makes the right call when he simply says:
âYes.â
You wait for him to elaborate.
He doesnât.
âOh, come on. Donât be a spoil sport. Tell me.â
âItâs not a big deal! I answered the question, didnât I?â
You cross your arms over your chest. A few more voluntary sips of your wine have made you bolder in the face of Bucky Barnes. âYou know, for someone who can talk nonstop during missions and debriefs, you sure keep yourself pretty tight-lipped about personal things.â
âSuch a brat,â Bucky mutters, low enough that he thinks you donât hear him.
But you hear everything.
You gasp, a smile on the cusp of breaking across your face. âExcuse me?â
Instead of addressing it, he continues, âIt was during my first month here. First few weeks and I could barely sleep. The nightmares wereâ they were still rough. I kept waking up. One of those nights, I got a phone call.â You perk up. âJust happened to be awake so I picked up. Someone I considered a stranger then was babbling to me, drunk, about my schedule the next day.â
For some reason, his words trigger a blurry image. You with your friends. The first night you have off on a Friday. You blink and the image is gone.
âThat, um, doesnât really sound like a stranger. I donât know if that counts.â You crinkle your nose. âAlso, how does someone calling you drunk change your life?â
âWell, they were a stranger to me then,â Bucky smiles, a touch of smugness in the curl of his lips, âand they told me to stop listening to all the noise. Focus on the present. There was a lot of press during that time about me joining the team, a lot of very displeased people, particularly politicians. And â I donât know â somehow, after that call, it was just⊠quiet. I didnât think about it too much. Like they said, focus on the here and now and, eventually, all that noise just disappeared.â
Your heart melts, tinged slightly with guilt. Thereâs a contented look on Buckyâs face, a peace that you didnât know existed amidst the constant onslaught of war. You remember how brutal the press was during that time, article after article with his face splashed across the front page, accusations of his involvement with the Russians and the assassinations over the years.
You cannot count the number of times youâve collected all the newspapers in the building to feed them to the furnace in the basement. At least those tabloids should serve some purpose after destroying forests to print absolute garbage.
âSo, yeah, it wasnât this seismic change that shifted the trajectory of my life but, at the time, it helped.â
âIâm sorry, I didnât mean toââ
âDonât apologize,â Bucky chuckles, hand reaching out to squeeze your shoulder. âIâd ask the exact same question in your shoes.â
You press your lips together into a thin line. Reluctance tugging at your heartstrings. âIâm glad that they called you and told you that, because itâs true. Itâs all stupid anyway. We know who you are. Thatâs all that matters.â
Bucky softens. âThanks.â
âAlso, a stranger saying that to you? Cool, but bold. Very bold. How do they even have your phone number?â
His lips quirk up with the ghost of a smile again. âI wonder.â
He reaches for another question.
âWhat questions are you trying to answer most in your life right now?â
You let out a little huh and lean back, taking yet another sip of your wine. The buzz is helping with the proximity. Being this close to Bucky, getting a whiff of his clean scent, isnât great for your fragile heart.
âThinking about my career,â you murmur. Buckyâs eyes flit up to meet yours at that. You look away.
âWhat about your career?â
âI donât really know where I want to take it next. Iâm enjoying being here, Iâve learned a lot, but I canât help but think that maybe I should try something else.â
Bucky is quiet for a moment, a pensive look in his eyes as he stares at the flickering flames. âYou thinkinâ about leaving?â He asks, quieter.
A sigh heaves from your chest. âI donât know yet. Keep thinking thereâs more to explore out there. I love being part of the team though, it wonât be easy.â
His arm on the couch extends a little further, enough to brush over your shoulder. The gentlest of touches. You might not have felt it if it werenât Bucky, if you werenât so hyperaware of him. âIââ he stops, âwe all love having you here. Youâre one of us. It would be a real shame. Anything I can do to convince you to stay?â
The words catch in your throat, letters tumbling into the void as your lungs constrict. Buckyâs fingers ghost over your shoulder again, the cotton of your shirt is a flimsy barrier against the warmth of his touch.
âI, uhmââ you try but stop again, âIâm not leaving yet.â A nervous laugh. âI donât know. Iâll have to think about it a bit more.â
Bucky hums, his hand reaching a little more to brush the hair off your shoulders, the barest of a graze along your neck. âWell, if thereâs anythinâ I can do, Iâm here. You can always come to me, yeah?â
You nod shyly. âYeah, thanks, Buck.â
Clearing his throat, Bucky draws his hand back almost reluctantly. He pauses for a second, like heâs about to say something else.
But the words never come.
So you pick up the next question for him.
âWhat has been your earliest recollection of happiness?â
At first, you think the question is sweet. Nostalgic in a way that makes your heart ache. But then you remember who youâre talking to and how Bucky has been through countless rounds of his memories, his happiness, being washed away again and again.
âYou donât have to answer this one,â you say gently.
âNo, I like this question,â Bucky hums, leaning back and looking out to the fireplace again. âMakes me think a little harder.â
You can only nod in agreement.
âProbably me and Stevie. First time we went to the movies. It took us some time to get enough money to afford a couple of tickets but we splurged on snacks and the latest Hollywood production. It was⊠simpler back then. Steve got beat up in the alley afterwards because he picked yet another fight against some asshole with a loud mouth. I had to beat up the other guy. Mom was none too pleased about two young adults coming home, one with a split lip and the other with split knuckles.â
Bucky looks fond, the usual frown lines on his face dissolving into wistfulness.
âSounds like a good time,â you whisper, âwhat movie did you watch?â
âDonât remember. Some western comedy thing. It was a popular name and we thought it would give us conversation starters with the ladies.â
You giggle, âLadiesâ man Barnes. Steve did mention you were a bit of a player back then.â
âStevieâs exaggerating.â
âYouâre handsome, so thereâs no surprise there.â
The amusement slips away from his face, freeing his lips to form a circle in surprise.
Heat immediately floods your cheeks. How could you be so careless? Flirting â or at least trying to flirt â with your boss? A colleague? Bucky? You must be out of your mind.
âYou think Iâm handsome?â
The teasing lilt in his voice has your blood freezing. âIââ
The corners of his lips lift a little higher.
âI think we should read the next question,â you declare and launch for the card first.
This has to be some sort of sick joke.
When you take too long, Bucky slips the card from your fingers and reads it out loud.
âAre you lying to yourself about anything?â
You immediately lift your wine to your lips, Buckyâs hand darts out to wrap around yours.
âAlready? Seems like a simple enough question.â He cocks an eyebrow.
âMy choice, right?â
Buckyâs lips twitch. âWhat are you lyinâ to yourself about, sweetheart?â
Oh. Oh. He plays dirty. How could he use such a heart-wrenching nickname with you? How dare he make your heart flutter with one simple word?
Sometimes, you tell yourself that youâre not in love with Bucky. Because youâre not. Heâs a friend. Heâs part of the team. Heâs a colleague. Thatâs all.
You tell yourself this enough times, maybe one day youâll believe it.
âYou keepinâ secrets from me?â Bucky smiles.
âNo,â you answer too quickly and his lips tug wider.
You take another sip of your wine.
Level 3
Perhaps you shouldnât have been so generous with the wine for yourself, because now youâre swaying a little bit going into the final level. Your body is alert, but your mind feels a bit hazy. Like youâre floating on a cloud. A very fluffy cloud.
âYouâre drunk.â
âNo,â you deny with a huff, then laugh, âjust a little tipsy.â
âLetâs get you to bed.â
âToo good to be true,â you mutter under your breath, low enough that Bucky misses it and raises an eyebrow at you. âLetâs finish the game first. Letâs do a few more of the Level 3âs. This is where it gets real serious, Buck.â
Bucky shakes his head but the fondness in his expression is undeniable as he regards you carefully, measuring whether this is truly a good idea. You donât give him time to doubt you further, instead asking your first question.
âWhat insecurity of yours holds you back the most?â
A choked laugh spills from his lips. âWeâre going straight into it, huh?â
âLevel 3 ainât no joke, bucko.â
âBuckoââ Bucky repeats in a choked laugh. âAlright. Clearly.â
âWell, answer the question,â you widen your eyes, wiggling the card before him.
This time, he only gives you a wry look. Not a word. Just a look. The Bucky look.
You frown at him. âWhat?â
âDo I really need to say this one out loud?â
Your brain may be functioning at half the speed it usually does, but youâre still at a loss with the way heâs staring at you â like the answer is right under your nose and you canât even smell it. âIâm⊠confused,â you drawl out.
âReally?â
âIâ is it supposed to be obvious? You have insecurities?â The two of you are sharing matching expressions of disbelief, both for entirely different reasons. âThat justâ that feels unbelievable for you, Buck. Come on. Youâre Bucky Barnes. Youâre the Bucky Barnes. An Avenger. A superhero. You take down bad guys with one arm. You jump out of planes. You somehow keep Captain America, of all people, together. Plus, you make a killer sourdough loaf â oh yeah, buddy, I know itâs your starter thatâs sitting on the counter. I can smell when you bake at night.â
Color rises on his cheeks again at the accusation, but he doesnât deny it. Not the last part at least. He opens his mouth then promptly clamps it shut again.
âSo tell me, Buck, what insecurities do you have?â
âNothing,â he flushes, ânext question.â
âThatâs what I thought.â
Bucky reads the next one, âHow does one earn your vulnerability?â You pinch your lips, thinking. âThis, Iâd like to know as well.â
âIâm vulnerable with you!â
âAre you? Or do you deflect with compliments about other people to avoid shining light on yourself?â
You gape. Well, you do do that. Sometimes. Not all the time though. Scowling, you grunt, âI donât like this game anymore.â
Bucky laughs again and the sound is delightful. âAnswer the question. Donât drink. Youâve had enough.â
âOkay, Dad,â you roll your eyes. You see his lips and fingers twitch. âVulnerability,â you hum to yourself, âI feel like Iâm plenty vulnerable.â
âYeah? You trust me? Enough to be vulnerable?â
âIâd think so.â
âThen what are you lying to yourself about?â
Your jaw drops. âThatâs not fair. I drank to that!â
âI know you did.â
Pursing your lips together, you squint at him. âI think⊠Iâm quite vulnerable with people I consider friends. If we talk enough and I sense that you can trust me, I can trust you back with my heart.â
Buckyâs silent to that. His blue eyes are warm as they assess you, assess your words. Thereâs a weight in the air, a thickness that constricts your lungs. Itâs the way he looks at you, carefully. Thoughtfully. You try to force yourself to look away, but you canât.
âDo you trust me?â
ââCourse I do.â
âIn a way a friend would?â
More than that. Iâd trust you with my life.
âLet me ask you this, do you think I trust you?â
Your lips part, a yes on the tip of your tongue, but then thereâs that niggling skepticism that questions why on earth would Bucky Barnes trust you? You of all people. Then you swallow. âI donât know, do you?â
âI do.â
Simple. Fast. Your heart beats a fraction faster. âWhy?â
âBecause youâre you and I donât think Iâve ever trusted anyone as fast.â
âThatâs not an answer.â
âIt is to me,â he shrugs. âCanât tell you why exactly, but something about you makes it really easy to trust you. Ask anyone in this place. Theyâd give you the exact same answer.â
Your chest tightens with an unnamed feeling. Awe? Surprise? Fear? Youâre grateful most of all.
âSo, Iâd like it if you could trust me a little bit more with your feelings too. I want to be here for you, the same way you are for me.â
Maybe itâs the wine, or maybe itâs the fact that Buckyâs looking at you with such sincerity, but tears prick your eyes and youâre quick to swipe them away with a cough. âI appreciate that,â you whisper.
Your next question has him grinning.
âHow would you describe me to a stranger?â
âCute.â
He stops there and you quirk an eyebrow. âWell, how would you describe me?â
âI answered. Cute.â
âOh,â you stiffen. âWhy am I cute?â
âItâs self-explanatory.â
âNu-uh, I donât think so.â
Bucky chuckles, âYou just want me to compliment you.â Your responding grin has him rolling his eyes in amusement. âIâd tell them that youâre one of the most considerate people I know. I donât think anyone knows this team better than you do. You keep things running. Youâre the only one who can keep up with Tonyâs crazy, who can make Natasha laugh until she spits water, who can ground Steve to the earth and realign his moral compass â and even after all that, you still manage to make room for me.â
Your heart seizes.
âIâd tell them youâre perfect.â
A laugh bursts from your lips. Buckyâs not doing the same. Heâs serious. âBuck, you canât be serious. Iâm far from perfect.â
âWell, you are to me,â he mutters then quickly grabs the next question. His ears are stained pink. You donât comment. âWhat would be the perfect gift for me?â
Your lips stretch into a smug smile. âThis is easy. A day off. You and your bike, full tank. Youâ youâd want to go somewhere quiet. Away from the city, or at least Manhattan. Iâd think youâd go down to Brooklyn but you think that boroughâs too gentrified unless you go all the way down. You probably want more nature instead, so youâd go upstate. Rent a cabin for yourself for the week. Ideally, all comms would be off but your strong sense of responsibility means youâll never leave this team stranded, so you would⊠keep it on you at all times.â
Thereâs pin-drop silence for a few heartbeats. As time passes, the more silent Bucky is, the less confident you become. Worry that youâve gotten it completely wrong has you opening your mouth.
But Bucky beats you to it â âThatâ does actually sound perfect.â
Your heart skips a beat, a quick pulse that youâre not sure Bucky can hear.
âReally?â
âYeah,â he laughs, surprised, âI think you should suggest that to Tony for my birthday.â
âPutting that down on my list.â Youâre onto the next. âBased on what youâve learned about me, does my social media portray me accurately?â You set the card down and nearly reach for another.
Bucky stops you. âWait, why arenât you letting me answer that?â
âYou do not use social media. You rarely even check the group chat.â
âThatâs because Thor spams it with those images with words. Itâs too much.â
Memes. He means memes.
âBut I check sometimes. Your Instagram.â
That surprises you. âOh, you do?â
He nods, smiling as he leans back. In the time the two of you have chatted, his fingers have drifted along the back of the couch again. Once again gentle over your shoulder, like heâs simply trying to remind you heâs there â as if you can forget.
ââS cute. I like seeing your life outside of here.â
âI barely have a life outside of here,â you point out.
âLike how you take your coffee in the morning, milk with lots of sugar. Or how you refuse to fold the pages on a book so you carry around ten different bookmarks with you at all times. How youâre secretly competitive but never boastful, even when Thor posts about how he wins one time against your five times. Little things.â
Heat kisses your skin. âI⊠didnât realize you noticed.â
âMore than you think,â Bucky smiles.
For a brief moment in time, the two of you are simply coexisting. Sitting together as if Bucky isnât a superhero constantly saving the world and you arenât part of the team that sits behind the scenes. Playing a game like youâre two friends who met under more normal circumstances. Itâs a feeling that sits heavy in your chest. A good kind of weight.
He flips open a card and grins. âWhat would make you the happiest right now?â
Oh.
Oh.
Thereâs one answer that comes to mind. And you shouldnât say it out loud because your judgment is partially impaired by the wine and youâre really just feeling warm and fuzzy from the fireplace and the smell of Buckyâs detergent. And this could risk everything but you donât think about that right now because all you want to be is honest.
Vulnerable.
So the words leave your lips before you can think twice.
âIf you kissed me.â
You watch in real time as Buckyâs entire body tenses. His face morphs into a wince.
You feel in real time how your heart plummets to the floor, the small smile wiped clean in dismay.
âSweetheart, Iâ we shouldnât. I canât do that.â
Heâs pulling away, curling into himself. He clasps his hands together, fingers digging into the back of them so tight, you can see the way his skin pales.
No, no, no. You were making such good progress. You were friends. Now youâve gone ahead and ruined it all. Ruined this perfectly good friendship. All because you were too selfish to keep your own desires at bay.
Shit.
âNo, of course not,â you immediately sputter, embarrassed. Your heart is falling and itâs falling fast and you can practically feel it in your gut. You feel nauseous, stomach churning with guilt and regret as you shuffle your feet closer together, facing the fireplace instead. âSorry, that was stupid I shouldnât haveââ
You can almost hear him flinch. Heâs trying to be kind. Heâs always trying to be kind with you. âItâs not stupid. Itâs not.â
âIâm going to go, um, to bed. Iâm pretty tired,â you rise to your feet, the sudden height making you dizzy and you almost tumble back down.
Bucky moves faster, hand latching onto your elbow to steady you. âYouâre drunk. Let me walk you.â
âNo, no, Iâm okay. I promise. I justâ Iâm gonna go.â Mortification is rooted deep in your skin. Your feet are weighing you down as you force yourself away from Bucky. You canât even look at him again. âGoodnight, Bucky.â
Without another word, without another glance, you leave.
Level 0
Sleep evades you for the remainder of the night. Twisting and turning in bed for hours on end do nothing to distract your mind from the absolute humiliation of what had happened with Bucky. As if it canât get any worse, your mind pulses with the aftermath of your terrible consumption habits as you go into briefing the next day.Â
The team is supposed to go on a mission tonight and youâre there to support with anything they may need prior.Â
The team includes Bucky which means he is also one of the first faces you see when you arrive at the conference room.Â
One of the first faces means you and him literally arrive at the exact same time. Bucky freezes, so do you.Â
âUm, morning,â you croak, wincing.Â
Bucky frowns then looks away. âMorning,â he coughs, âhow are you feeling?â
âMiserable, but I deserve it,â you laugh and it sounds bitter.Â
âMaybe we can get you some Advil, I think there should beââ
âNo, donât worry about me. Iâll be fine,â you smile weakly up at him.Â
Bucky stiffens, gaze dropping to your mouth before flying to the door. âOkay, let me know.â
How can he still be so nice to you after the absolute humiliation ritual you put yourself through last night? Youâre a fool to think that just because Buckyâs nice to you that he likes you â likes you enough to kiss you.Â
As youâre handing out the briefings, you reach Bucky with your heart beating against your ribs. You hope he canât hear the rattling inside your body as you pass the pages over to him. Bucky tenses again when your fingers brush, eyes quickly shifting away from you.
Your soul slams into the ground.Â
Heâs uncomfortable. Youâve made him uncomfortable around you.Â
It feels as if someone tore your heart from your chest and twisted your insides with something ugly. You try not to let your trembling fingers show as you complete the rest of the distribution, tucking yourself into a corner for the rest of the meeting.
Buckyâs eyes wander to you a handful of times throughout the meeting. You donât have to look up to see it, you could feel the weight of it burning into your core. But you refuse to return the gaze, fearing that you would be upset by what you see. After your fumble last night, you wouldnât be surprised if he looked at you with disappointment or worry.
Or worse, disgust.
You donât want to remember Bucky that way, you donât want to think of him being repulsed by you. Ignorance is bliss.
When the meeting concludes, youâre immediately dashing out of the room. You make a beeline for literally any deserted hallway that you can hide in. Bucky calls out your name, you pretend not to hear it.
Itâs stupid and childish, but youâve never claimed to be anything other than. When youâre ready to face Bucky, you will.
In ten, twenty years. Maybe.
Avoiding him is easier than you expected. You donât live on campus and you busy yourself with tasks that do not involve him. Heâs gone for a few days on a mission anyway. He texts you, asking if the two of you could meet before he leaves, but you miss the message in your attempt to keep your hands occupied.
Bucky goes near radio silent in his absence. However, he never fails to check in at the end of the night.
Back at base.
Arrived safely. No injuries.
Steve says hi.
Itâs not out of the blue that he sends you these messages. The first time they went on a mission and went completely AWOL, you were a nervous wreck. Your team tells you that this is normal and you had asked them how is that possible? You donât even know if theyâre alive!
Someone told Bucky afterwards, how you had been restlessly pacing, wearing out the carpets until the day they all returned. Since then, heâs never missed an evening text just to check in.
Your jittery heart only calms when you see the text from him.
Itâs cordial, like he always is when he sends these. You donât give it much thought. The last one did get an eyebrow raise but you suppose heâs simply being kind. An olive branch to return things to normal.
You can be normal.
When he comes back, you can be normal.
Except, youâre a lying liar because when he comes back, you avoid him like the plague again. Your phone is constantly on do not disturb to avoid temptation of checking his messages throughout the day. Every time he comes to find you at your cubicle, youâre off doing field work; things that arenât usually part of your dailiy routine.
Again, immature, but itâs better than the alternative.
Bucky telling you that heâs uncomfortable around you.
Bucky telling you that he needs distance.
Bucky telling you that he can no longer be your friend.
You had seen the way he stiffened, how he couldnât even look you in the eyes. Whoever said it would be worth it to ruin the friendship has never risked it themselves.
Steve runs into you once, seeming surprised that he even catches you in person. You havenât been to the team outings in a while. The Avengers are Buckyâs friends first; youâre just another staff member supporting the team.
âHey!â He beams, âHavenât seen you in a while. How are you doing?â
Your lips tilt in a wry smile. âHey, Steve. Good. Busy. You?â
âYeah, good. Are you taking care of yourself? Do you need anything? Are they working you too hard?â
You blink at him in surprise. Sure, youâve made conversation with Steve but heâs usually too busy to be peppering you with inane questions about you. Itâs a strange feeling you canât shake. âUhm, itâs fine. Iâm okay.â
âAre you sure? We missed you on game night.â
Wincing, you shake your head. âSorry about that, duty calls.â
Steve hesitates, like thereâs more he wants to say but he stops himself. âIf you ever need anything, let me know. Or Bucky â you know heâsââ Steveâs words die out when he sees you stiffen at the mention of him, ânevermind. Justâ we miss you. Come hang out with us again.â
âI will,â you smile weakly. You donât say when.
When all is said and done, the Avengers are his family and you â youâve got your own life. And maybe thatâs okay.
Even if you miss him. Even if you really fucking miss him.
Level 10000000
Your evasion attempts last a couple more days before it all comes to a climax. Youâre getting yourself ready for a potential night out. Youâre not in the mood for it, you would rather sulk alone at home in your feelings, but your friend refuses to let you drown. The makeup does its job of hiding the weariness behind your eyes and the dress you slide on has you feeling put together for the first time in a bit.
You always dress up for work, but itâs different when youâre dressing for yourself.
Youâre halfway through putting on your earrings when the doorbell rings. Frowning, you glance at the clock to find your friend a whole hour early. Sheâs never early.
The door swings open.
Itâs not your friend.
Well, not the one youâre expecting at least.
Bucky stands on the other side of this threshold. You havenât seen him in quite some time and the sight of him leaves your heart aching. There are shadows under his eyes that youâve never seen before, rimmed slightly red from what seems to be exhaustion. A slump to his usually straight shoulders.
âBucky? What are you doing here?â
Some light returns to his eyes when he sees you. It goes out just as fast when he finally takes a good look at you.
Damn, that bad?
âAre you going out?â
âUm, just with a couple of friends.â
Bucky presses his lips together, gaze shifting behind you then back to you. âNot on a date?â
A snort leaves your lips. âNo, definitely not.â
His shoulders sink a little lower.
Was he hoping that you were? Maybe he was hoping that you got over your crush on him. Maybe he was hoping that you would move on so that things could go back to normal. So youâd stop making things so damn awkward for everyone else.
âBut Iâm back on the apps so maybe soon!â You try. Itâs a lie. You havenât touched dating apps in years. Not since you met Bucky. Everyone else paled in comparison.
Buckyâs lips part before they twist again. Irritated. He looks irritated.
âSo what are you doing here?â
âYouâve been avoiding me.â
âBuckyââ
âYou have.â
You lick your lips, the strawberry gloss now tasting sour for some reason. âI have.â
âWhy?â
âBucky,â you sigh, âitâs really not a big deal.â
âDo we need to play that game again for you to be honest with me?â
Oof.
âFine, then ask me one of those questions.â
âWhat? Why?â You frown.
âJust do it.â
You sputter, panic clawing at your chest. Youâve never been that good at being put on the spot. âI donât know! What are you most scared of?â
âCanât answer that.â
Now, youâre the one exasperated. âThen whyâd you make me ask you?â You huff.
âIâm not answering,â he says resolutely, âso dare me. Anything. Anything at all.â
âBucky, what the hell are you going on about?â
Itâs his turn again to apparently be peeved with you. Why? You have no clue. âIf I donât answer, you give me a dare, right? So dare me. Anything you want. Anything your heart desires.â
You hold your hands up. âIâm actually very lost right now.â
âDare me to kiss you,â Bucky blurts out then goes taut. âActually, no, shit. I donât need you to dare me. If thatâs what you want, Iâll do it.â
For a moment, youâre stood still. Frozen in time. Then your blood boils over because what the fuck? Is this some kind of sick joke? âI donât need a pity kiss, Bucky,â you spit out, âIâm a grown woman, okay. I was tipsy and stupid. You donât have to feel bad for rejecting me.â
âI didnâtâ I mean, I didnât want toââ
âYes, I know!â
âNo, I mean I didnât want to not kiss you! I wanted to. I still want to. Desperately. Iâve wanted to kiss you for so long.â
âWhat?â You balk, disbelief coloring your features. âYou literally saidââ
âYou were drunk. I wanted you to be sure. I wanted to make sure you werenât just asking me to kiss you because â I donât know â I was convenient?â
âYou think Iâd ask you to kiss me just because I thought you were convenient?â
Bucky pales, âIâm going about this all wrong. Iâm stupid. Iâm sorry. The point is, I wanted you to be really sure that thatâs what you wanted. I was going to talk to you about it the next day but you were pulling away from me and I didnât want you to be uncomfortable.â
âMe? You looked uncomfortable! You tensed up whenever I got close. You wouldnât even look at me.â
His hand flies to his face, rubbing in frustration as he lets out a groan. âYouâ every time I saw you, I had to stop myself from looking at your lips. I couldnât stop thinking aboutâ all I wanted to do was kiss you. I didnât know how to approach you. I shouldâve kissed you that night but I wanted you to be a hundred percent sure because if I kissed you, I wasnât going to let you go.â
You falter, knees weak.
Thereâs barely any distance between the two of you but you still feel miles apart.
âAnd then you were calling me Bucky.â
âThatâs your name.â
âIâm always Buck. Iâve always been Buck to you.â
Your lips part. You hadnât even realized you had shifted.
âIf I havenât completely fucked up this situation, Iâm hoping you could give me one more chance. Just one more to make things right. Iâll do it right this time. I canât promise you Iâll be perfect, because Iâm far from it, but I can promise you that Iâll do my damndest to do right by you. To make you happy. With me.â
âBuck,â you whisper.
He takes a step forward, hands sliding up to cradle your face. His thumbs brush the apples of your cheeks, warm and certain and present. âCan I kiss you now?â
You nod, barely trusting your voice.
And he finally, finally closes the distance between you.
The kiss is soft, almost like a dream thatâs long been out of reach. Then he deepens it, apprehension melting away into conviction. Suddenly, your hands are in the clouds and youâre floating. He tastes like every desire youâve never had the courage to say out loud. He tastes like sunlight and hope and promises of forever. His lips move with yours in perfect rhythm, heartbeats syncing as one.
When he pulls back, itâs brief, barely a whisper of a distance, and itâs only enough for him to rest his forehead against yours. His breath mingles with yours as he murmurs vows â of you and him, of the rest of your lives.
And the thought doesnât terrify you the way it should â grand desires when youâve barely had a day â but you believe him and you trust him.
summary: in which aaron is being a clingy sleepy boyfriend.
pairing: - aaron hotchner x fem!reader
warnings/info: fluff | cuddles | aaron being clingy | no use of y/n | no pov I use of she/her pronouns
a/n: hey everyone hope you like this short piece, i love this kind of plot bc i love the idea of a clingy aaron hotchner as my boyfriend like ugh the dream really.
It was a lazy Saturday evening, mid-February. The last of the winter weather was causing a cold, blustery wind through the small cracks in their windows.
The heat was on low, and the old decorations they bought a while ago, slowly started leaving the living room shelves. Creating a homey, cozy feeling once the spring weather started to come through.
He slowly walked over to her as he woke from a nap. He went to the gym this morning and did some shopping. When he got back, he showered and fell asleep on the couch in his home office.
Obviously working on files he brought home from the BAU.
His bigger sock-covered feet patted across the hardwood floors over to the couch where she was. She looked up immediately, a smile forming on her soft lips.
âYouâre awake.â She stated. She was wrapped up in a soft cream colored plush blanket, in sweat pants, one of his hoodies, fuzzy socks, and her computer playing a old movie.
âMhmâŠâ He rasped. He fell on top of her making her laugh and attempt to push him off. âYouâre so soft. Smell so good.â He mumbled into her hoodie.
âYouâre so heavy.â She whined playfully.
âShut up and love me.â He replied. His voice mumbled against the hoodie.
She could hear the smile in his voice. It made butterflies crawl over her body. She wrapped her arms around him as he rested his head on her chest.
âMissed you.â She muttered into his messy hair.
âMissed you too sweet girl.â He responded.
Soon enough he fell back into a soft slumber on top of her chest with her fingers massaging his scalp.
A half hour later with her following right after him, the only noise that came from their home were soft snores and the old movie coming to an end.
Slow Burn Stucky x reader fic that is a little angsty at the end. It feels a little nostalgic to write an Avenger's Tower fic after nearly a decade out of the game. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it <3
Chapter 10: Have a sleepy, morning session with your boys as a celebration of ten chapters published in this series. You know, my original plan for this fic was only ten chapters long đ Whoops.
Anyways CW: 18+, oral (m!rec), pnv, rawđ(wrap it up ladies!)... uhhhh I can't think of anymore. Hair pulling? Bucky is mean for like two seconds, oh! and restraints! Okay that's it.
Word count: 5,920
Early sunlight spills sideways across the sheets, across the tangle of limbs and rumpled blankets and warm skin. It skims over your bare shoulder, turns your eyelids red, and you groan, throwing an arm over your face before rolling over in protest.
Bucky is there.
Already awake. Already watching you with that soft, sleepy attention that always makes your heart trip over itself. A quiet little chuckle presses into your shoulder when you bury your face deeper into the pillow.
âMorninâ, sweetheartâŠâ His voice is rough with sleep, low and warm in a way that feels unfair this early.
You groan again, more dramatically this time, and reach for him blindly. Your hands find his shoulders, then slide up, wrapping snug around his neck as you tug yourself into him.
Behind you, Steve stirs.
The mattress shifts under the heavy drag of him waking, then the familiar warmth of his body pressing up along your back. He folds himself into the shape of you with a sleepy little sigh, his broad chest pressed warmly against your back.
The three of you just lie there, half-awake and tangled together, breathing each otherâs air while the morning settles softly over the room. Sunlight and warm sheets.
Then Buckyâs mouth finds your neck.
At first itâs just the brush of stubble and a lazy kiss pressed into the sensitive skin below your ear. Then another. His nose skimming the line of your jaw, breathing your scent in. Butterflies erupt in your chest, overflowing, spilling lower as his kisses light you up.
A small gasp slips out of you before you can stop it, and Bucky makes a pleased little sound against your skin, like the noise rewards him.
His kisses turn sloppier after that, open-mouthed and unhurried, leaving warm, damp trails that cool in the morning air.
âBuckyâŠâ His name leaves you far more pitifully than intended.
You were supposed to sound stern. Or at least vaguely in control.
Instead, it comes out breathy and soft, and Bucky immediately knows it.
A grin brushes your throat.
âHmmm?â He mutters against your skin, refusing to stop his assault on your neck.
âYou need to calm downâahââ The protest splinters the moment his mouth finds the quick flutter of your pulse. He presses his tongue to the tender spot there, drawing a hot, unhurried stripe up the line of your neck toward your ear.
A shudder runs straight through you.
Your fingers tighten uselessly against his shoulders. His breath is warm and rough where it spills over your skin. A soft, helpless little moan slips out before you can swallow it down.
You hate how easily he does this to you.
Hate it, and love it, and feel yourself melting away under him.
âBuck,â you try again, but thereâs no real bite in itâjust a trembling plea. You force yourself to pull in a breath, trying to think past the dizzy warmth heâs wrapping around you. Trying to snap out of whatever spell heâs weaving with his mouth and drag him back to his senses before he forgets every instruction the doctor gave him.
Bucky makes a low, ruined sound.
Every little reaction you give him seems to shoot straight through himâthe tiny gasps, the way you squirm when he finds a sensitive spot, the breathless way his name keeps slipping out of you. He drinks it all in, his favorite thing in the world.
You feel it when he ruts into you, unable to help himself. Hes painfully, massively hard. You feel the heat of him through his sweats, a burning rod meant to brand you. âN-no strenuous activity⊠the doctor says you shouldnâtââ Bucky growls, swallowing the rest of your warning in a kiss.
He pulls away a moment later, gasping for air, âYou call this strenuous? Look at me baby, Iâm not breaking a sweat.â He pushes himself up to hover over you, just to look for a moment, he canât help it.
Youâre so pretty in the morning. Rumpled and warm and cozy, now flushed pink and breathing heavily just from a few kisses.
He dives down again, laying his weight on top you as his mouth trails lower. He greedily yanks your sleep shirt up to reveal your glorious tits, and his mouth waters at the sight of them heaving as you try to catch your breath.
Your mind is going foggy under the burning heat of his mouth as he latches on you, swirling his tongue around your pebbled nipple.
A sweet, sleepy chuckle rumbles next your ear.
âLooks like youâre strugglinâ there, sweetheart.â
Steveâs sleepy voice purrs against your ear, his breath warming the side of your face. The sound of it sends a fresh shiver through you.
âWant some help with him?â
âObviously,â you grit out, squirming helplessly beneath Buckyâs weight.
Steve chucklesâlow, amusedâand nudges his nose against your ear before throwing off the blankets in one swift motion.
What happens next is so abrupt it knocks a startled gasp out of you.
One second Bucky is sprawled over you, warm and impossible to reason with. The next, Steve has him hauled clean off you with startling speed, all sleepy softness gone the moment he decides to intervene.
The bed jolts with the force of it.
âJesusââ you yelp, scrambling upright as the mattress lurches beneath all three of you.
Bucky twists immediately, more offended than alarmed, and Steve catches him against his chest with one arm hooked across his middle. His other hand corrals Buckyâs wrist behind his back, firm enough to stop him from lunging right back to you.
The sight of it sends a sharp, traitorous pulse of heat straight through your stomach.
Buckyâpinned in Steveâs grip, all tousled hair and straining muscle and rough irritationâlooks frankly obscene, straining against Steveâs iron grip with a dangerous glint in his eye.
And Steveâbreathing a little harder now, one knee braced deep in the mattress, mouth tipped in the faintest smug curveâlooks far too pleased with himself.
âGood lord,â you blurt, trying to grab at both of them before this gets completely out of hand. âDonât tear his staples, Steve!â
That at least gets Steve to adjust. His hold shifts instantlyâstill firm, but more careful now, more mindful of Buckyâs shoulder and the healing line.
âThere,â Steve pants, glancing at you over Buckyâs shoulder. His eyes are dark with heat, but still bright in the slanting morning light. âBetter?â
Bucky jerks again, testing the restraint, and Steveâs arm tightens just enough to keep him in place.
âYouâve got to the count of three to let me go,â Bucky growls, voice low and rough.
Steveâs smile only deepens. âOh, do I?â
Bucky squirms, his back bowing away from Steve before Steve reins him back in with maddening ease. The bed shifts beneath them, sheets dragged half off in the struggle, and the whole sight of it sends a fresh rush of warmth through youâBucky caged and straining, Steve calm and insufferably in control.
âWhy donât you help him out, sweetheart?â Steve asks, dangerously smug.
Your breath catches. His gaze dips meaningfully, and you follow it to the tent in Buckyâs sweatpants, your blush deepening.
âButââ you start, ready to argue about Buckyâs shoulder, about his staples, about the pain meds still making him a little loopy.
Steve cuts in before you can build the case.
âHe wonât hurt anything as long as I hold him steady,â he says, voice lower now, warm and commanding and wicked with confidence. Then, without looking away from you: âRight, Buck?â
All the fight goes out of Bucky in a slow, visible exhale.
His chest rises as he drags in a breath, and when he looks at you, something in his eyes shiftsâless challenge, more plea. The kind of look that jolts straight to your core and melts whatever argument youâd been trying to make on his behalf.
You hesitate for only a second.
Then you crawl closer on your hands and knees.
âAlright⊠Iâll take care of you, baby.â you coo, cupping his jaw between your warm palms. Your thumbs sweep gently along his cheekbones. âBut you have to promise to behave today. Can you do that?â
He shudders at the softness in your voice, knowing exactly whatâs lurking beneath your pretty words.
âYes,â he whispers, breath catching, already trembling with anticipation.
âGood boy,â you purrâquiet and pleasedâthen flick your gaze up to Steve like youâre asking for permission.
Steve nods once, eyes twinkling.
When your hands slip from Buckyâs face, he sags forward immediately, tugging against Steveâs hold just to get back to you.
You answer him at once, leaning in to press a slow trail of kisses along the racing line of his pulse. Dragging your tongue over the sharp lines of his collarbones, dipping into his clavicle
âWanna know how to really get him going, sweetheart?â Steve murmurs, his eyes gleaming with wicked amusement.
He shifts his hold just enough to keep Bucky steady, then lets one hand drift higher, his strong calloused fingers brushing delicately over buckyâs nipple. The reaction was immediate, the cords in Buckyâs neck pulled tight as his throat worked to swallow down a moan.
âGoodness, you like that, donât you?â You cooed, dragging your finger down to the pretty, puffy flesh of his other nipple, circling around the border. His hips jerked, pressing his erection into the soft flesh of your stomach.
His breath devolved quickly into rhythmic little pants that dampened the air around you as you teased and tormented him. Taking his nipple into your mouth, your hot tongue searing him as it swirled around the sensitive bud.
âEasy Buck.â Steve would coo as he whined and squirmed under your ministrations. You could stay here all day worshiping his body like this. Lick and taste him until your tongue went raw, until he snapped and came untouched in his pants. But you worried about his staples and the strain on his body while it was still healing.
So you had a little mercy on him.
Finally, your hands drifted lower, eased the waistband of his sweatpants down, setting him free at last.
Youâre always a little awe struck every time you get to see Bucky at full capacity like this.
His tip is swollen and dribbling as his cock strains against his stomach, flushed an angry shade of red.
âPoor babyâŠâ You coo, running your finger along his length, smiling a little cruelly as it jumps under your touch.
âPleaseâŠIâI need you to touch meâŠâ He whines while his back arches against Steveâs hold before he sags again, another shudder wracking through him hard enough to leave him breathless.
âGet him comfy for me, Stevie,â you purr.
Steve follows the request with smooth, practiced ease, guiding both himself and Bucky back against the headboard until they settle into a more supported sprawl. He keeps one arm firm around Buckyâs middle, steadying him without jostling him, while the other hand holds his lightly.
Bucky ends up draped in Steveâs lap, all loose-limbed and beautifully disheveled, breath still coming fast. The sight of him thereâheld tight, flushed, half-spent already just from your teasingâmakes a fresh thrill curl low in your stomach.
A deep red flush spreads across Buckyâs chest and neck in uneven blotches, vivid against his skin. He looks absolutely wrecked.
You crawl closer, letting your gaze drag over him with open appreciation.
âThatâs better,â you murmur, soft and pleased.
Buckyâs eyes lift to you at once, dark and heavy-lidded, dangerously affectionate as they plead for your touch.
You crawl between his legs in a slow feline way, making sure to sway your perfect hips for him, stopping just above his throbbing tip. You glance up at him through your lashes, blowing a cold little puff of air against his leaking slit.
A rough groan tears out of him, his head tipping forward, his whole body pulling tight around the sensation before he sags againâhelpless, breathless, completely at your mercy.
A small, delighted laugh slips out of you before you finally give in and grant him a little of what heâs begging for. Your tongue flicks out with delicate little kitten licks to his slit, lapping up the dribbles of pre-cum oozing from there before spitting it back onto his cock.
Bucky nearly chokes on his own tongue, bucking his hips up mindlessly as you swirl your tongue in lazy circles, closing your lips around his head and pulling off with wet little pops.
âShitâŠâ Steve whispers through clenched teeth. âSheâs a hell of a tease, isnât she Buck?â Steve murmurs in his ear, kissing the ticklish skin there, rubbing his free hand over Buckyâs poor abused chest, pinching his pretty pink nipples while you lavished him with your tongue.
He floods your senses as you finally close down on him in earnest. Tears prick the corners of your eyes. His thick cock stretches your lips, your throat, as you try to swallow him down. Heâs just too big to fit all the way. Itâs such a shame, you think as you gag around him, a sharp salty tang hitting the back of your throat.
All the while Bucky is stringing intricate profanities together as he fights against Steveâs grip, his hips bucking while your bobbing up and down on him. He whinesâsoft, wreckedâbecause he knows fighting is pointless. Steveâs hold is unbreakable.
Desperation turns him feral. Every nerve in his body feels lit, buzzing with hot, relentless need. He strains toward you, chasing what he canât have yet, breath catching in short, uneven pulls as he teeters on the edge of sanity in Steveâs grasp.
âPlease, SteveâŠâ he whimpers at last, âI just wanna touch her⊠taste her a littleâŠâ
The plea hangs in the warm air, wrecked and honest.
You finally ease off of him with a wet little âpopâ, lifting your head just enough to look at him properly. You swipe your thumb over your mouth, wiping the string of saliva away thatâs still connecting you to him.
âYou want a taste, my love?â you whisper, rising onto your knees until youâre hovering just in front of his mouth.
The space between you is almost cruelâclose enough for him to feel your breath, close enough to know exactly what youâre offering, but not yet close enough to have it.
Bucky looks up at you, the blue of his eyes is nearly gone, swallowed by the dark, restless want thatâs taken over them. Thereâs something almost indignant in the way he staresâlike he canât believe youâd dangle yourself there so sweetly and then make him wait another second for it.
His mouth parts on a breath, jaw muscles ticking, every line of him pulled toward you.
You smile, fleeting and soft, taking one last second to admire how beautiful he is like thisâflushed, breathless, already lost to you.
Then you kiss him, swallow him into it like the sea swallows the shoreâopen-mouthed with crashing force. Your mouth moves over his like a storm tide, one wave after another, giving him no chance to find his footing before the next one hits. Buckyâs groan breaks against your lips and vibrates through you, deep enough to rattle your bones.
He tries to breathe, tries to keep up, but you kiss him deeper insteadâuntil heâs drowning in you. Every gasp he steals feels dragged from him, every sound he makes swallowed back down as you pull him under again.
Steve meanwhile has taken your hips in his strong hands, hooking your panties to the side and guiding you while you burn up under Buckyâs mouth. You only notice what heâs up to when when the fat head of Buckyâs cock presses hotly against your entrance.
âLetâs not torture him anymore, sweety. Heâs been so patient.â Steve murmurs, eyes dark as he watches.
Your eyes fly open, a little gasp tumbling from your swollen lips as Steve eases you down. You couldnât squirm away from the slow, burning sting even if you had wanted to, his grip was an iron vice as he stretched you around Bucky.
Suddenly your wicked attitude evaporates, your head falling back as you moan a little pathetically, gasping as Bucky fully sheathes himself in your dripping heat.
âFuck!â Bucky nearly spits through his teeth, the way your pretty pussy is sucking him in has him gasping for air already.
With his arm finally free Bucky wasted no time pulling you into his chest with suffocating force while he rutted his hips into your dripping pussy, the brutal pace filling your shared room with obscene, wet noises.
âAhâfuck!â you cry out, voice keening. âBuck, slow down! Youâre not supposed toâah!â A sharp tug stings through your scalp, heâs grabbed a fistful of your hair. You can feel his hot breath huffing against your ear,
âIf you think Iâm lettinâ you and Steve get away with that little stint, Iâve got news for you,â he punctuates his words with his dick, slamming into your squelching pussy. âIâm gonna fucking wreck youâŠâ You whimper as he forces your face up with a sharp yank of his fist.
Despite the mean promise and his rough grip, his eyes glow tenderly while staring down at you. Admiring your pretty doe-eyed stare, lit up and nervous. Your dark, swollen lips, still shiny and wet.
He plunges his mouth into your neck while driving his hips up, his girth splitting you in half.
You cry out, feeling like you might burst.
His teeth nip mean, red marks into the thin flesh of your throat, licking and sucking over them as he went, never breaking his brutal pace. You cried out weakly to Steve, thinking maybe heâd save you both from the disastrous consequences of this. You could faintly hear him chuckle and murmur something in Buckyâs ear.
Bucky groaned in response, his hips stuttered, then bucked up into you, bouncing you while you cried out, moaning his name deliciously.
He pulls you in by his grip on your hair, leaning into your ear, but youâre too far gone out of your senses to hear what heâs murmuring.
You only know the searing heat of your skin, the hot syrupy haze swirling in your loins, the flame of your arousal slithering through your pussy, coiling up around Buckyâs cock.
âAw Buck, you broke herâŠâ Steve tsked, âShe doesnât even know her own name right nowâŠâ Bucky can only groan, too lost his own haze for a smart remark. Steve smiles a little cruelly as he reaches between you and Bucky, dipping his thumb between your folds to torture that little button.
You scream, vision whiting out for a moment while your lower half exploded on Bucky.
Bucky grit his teeth against the onslaught of your velvety pussy clamping down on him, his hips stuttering until he surrendered.
You felt him jump inside your walls, followed by pulses of hot sticky spend swirling and pooling deep inside you. A broken little moan escaped you as you looked down between your bodies, where he was still buried and slightly bulging through your stomach.
Bucky is trembling, clinging to you for dear life. His face is tucked in your shoulder while he pants for air. The room barely has time to settle around the three of you before Steve is on the move.
He sighs contentedly behind you,
âHell of a way to start a dayâŠâ He sounds entirely too chipper in this moment, you raise an exhausted eyebrow at him.
âYou look ready for a shower.â He smiles sweetly as he moves Buck gently aside, revealing his own massive erection straining against his sweats.
âW-what about you?â You stammer a little as you crawl off of Bucky, wincing as he slides out of you with a wet little noise, his spend running down your thighs immediately.
âYou can take care of that in the showerâŠâ Steve says matter-of-factly, throwing a wink at you as he gathered a few towels from the linen closet like heâs discussing something perfectly ordinary.
Bucky lets out a low, dark little chuckle beside you.
âThereâs no way Iâm missing that,â he murmurs into your ear, gently sweeping your hair back from your face when a soft whimper slips out of you.
Youâre so tired, your body warm and boneless.
Down the hall, the shower hisses to life.
The sound pulls your gaze that way. When you look back at Bucky thereâs something spent and vulnerable in your face that makes his expression shift instantly. The teasing in him vanishes. His eyes go warm.
âAww,â he murmurs, voice low. âDonât worry, baby.â
He leans in and presses a kiss to your temple while his hand cups the back of your neck, steady and warm.
âIâll take care of Stevie,â he addsâhalf reassurance, half fond amusement.
A weak groan slips out of you.
âYouâre supposed to be resting, BuckâŠâ you mutter, trying to make your wobbly legs cooperate and failing almost immediately.
Buckyâs mouth twitches like heâs fighting a grin.
And before you can argue, he scoops you clean off the bed with his one arm like youâre a giant, over-sized toddler.
A tiny gasp catches in your throat. Your arms fly around his neck on instinct, and your knees clamp around his waist to keep yourself steady.
âBuckyâŠâ you groan, dropping your head into his neck, cheeks burning with equal parts embarrassment and helpless affection. âYou promised me you were gonna behave todayâŠâ
He lets out a long-suffering sigh thatâs almost theatrical.
âI know, sweetheart,â he says, and at least he has the decency to sound a little sorryâeven as he adjusts his grip.
He presses a quick kiss into your hairline, gentler than his grin suggests.
By the time you make it out of the shower, the whole world feels slow and heavy.
Steam follows you into the hallway in a warm cloud, clinging to your skin and hair and the edges of your sweatshirt. Everything is made of jellyâyour limbs, your thoughtsâyour poor, angry pussy.
Bucky shuffles into the kitchen first, hair damp and curling at the ends, bare feet padding softly over the tile, whistling some cheerful little tune like he hasnât just spent the whole morning wearing you both out. Heâs in sweats and one of Steveâs old shirts, the collar stretched and familiar, the sleeves rumpled at his wrists.
Steve follows behind him with a towel still looped around his neck, cheeks faintly pink with leftover heat. He pulls three mugs from the cabinet without even thinking about it, moving around Bucky with that easy, practiced rhythm theyâve built over years of sharing small spaces.
You make it as far as the living room.
Then you wobble straight to the couch and collapse face-first into the cushions.
âCoffee,â you mumble, voice rough and muffled.
Steve points toward the kitchen without even looking back. âYou got it, sweetheart.â
Still annoyingly chipper.
The kitchen becomes soft and comforting background noiseâthe clink of pans, the soft thud of cabinet doors, the rich dark smell of coffee blooming through the apartment. Steve cracking eggs with the efficiency of a man on a mission.
A minute later, Steve appears beside the couch with your mug in hand. He nudges you upright with gentle insistence, one warm hand sliding behind your neck to help you sit before he leans down and presses a sweet, lingering kiss to your mouth, then another on your nose before placing the warm mug in your hands.
You hum the second it hits your tongue, eyes fluttering shut in relief. Steve always makes it exactly the way you like it.
By the time you haul yourself up and walk over to the kitchen, breakfast has come together in a neat little pile: scrambled eggs, toast, fruit you barely remember buying, and a plate of bacon that keeps mysteriously shrinking every time Steve looks away.
You end up at the kitchen islandâSteve leaning against the counter, Bucky perched on a stool with one knee pressed to yours, you tucked between them with your coffee cupped in both hands while your brain fights to come online again.
You end up at the kitchen islandâSteve leaning against the counter, Bucky perched on a stool with one knee pressed to yours, you tucked between them with your coffee cupped in both hands while your brain fights to come online again.
For a while, no one says much. You donât think youâve ever seen the boys so quiet and content.
Thereâs just the soft clink of forks, the occasional sigh, the quiet sound of swallowing. Morning sunlight spills across the counter in pale gold stripes, warming the edge of Steveâs wrist, catching in Buckyâs damp hair. Time stretches lazily, loose and golden, the kind that makes you think maybe the day will stay soft if you donât move too fast.
Then your damn tablet dings from inside your purse and shatters the spell.
Both men look up immediately.
You give them a look and huff as you push off the stool to go fish it out.
âJust leave it,â Bucky says flatly, already offended on your behalf.
Steveâs mouth twitches, scolding him with a look. âCould be important, Buck.â
âItâs nine in the morning,â you mutter, digging through your bag with one hand while still clutching your coffee in the other. âNothing is important at nine in the morning.â
You finally find the tablet and tap the screen awake.
A message from Tony.
Of course.
You stare at it, then read it aloud with all the enthusiasm of someone announcing their own execution.
âMeeting at noon?â you mumble.
Silence.
Steve sets his fork down. âWhatâs it about?â
You squint at the screen, then read the words under the notification, voice dry.
âYouâll be scanned for weapons at the door. Kidding. Mostly. See me at Noon.â
Bucky actually barks a laugh at that.
You stare at the message a beat longer, dread settling in your stomach. Youâre guessing the consequences of your actions yesterday are finally catching up to you.
You stare at the message a beat longer, dread settling low in your stomach. Youâre sure the consequences of yesterday are finally catching up to you.
Turns out, itâs just a meeting to update you on protocol.
Tony walks you through the new mission protocols heâs put in place after Riga, and to his credit, theyâre pretty solidâpractical, thorough, and clearly built from hard lessons learned. Stricter regroup procedures. Better contingency planning when enhanced unknowns are involved, stronger equipment, ect.
He presents it all with his usual flippant edge, but underneath you can tell heâs taking it seriously.
âSo,â he says, flicking to the next screen on his tablet, âin the future, when everything starts going to hell, we now have a much more sophisticated plan..â
âThese are good,â you admit quietly.
Tony leans back in his chair like he hates being sincere for more than three consecutive seconds.
âI know. Itâs exhausting. Always being right and helpful.â
You let out a long-suffering sigh and gather the last ragged strands of your pride.
âI shouldnât have tried to take your head off with a mug,â you say flatly.
Tony points at you immediately. âIâll take that as your apology.â
You roll your eyes, but the tension in the room has already started to loosen.
âIâm serious,â you add, quieter now. âI was angry. But⊠I shouldnât have come at you like that.â
Tonyâs expression shifts, losing some of its performative edge.
âYeah, wellâŠâ he says after a beat. âI shouldnât have said what I said either.â He grimaces like the admission physically pains him. âKind of a cheap shot.â
For a second, neither of you says anything.
You just blink at him, caught off guard by the honesty of it. A tiny smile tugs at the corner of your mouth before you can stop it.
Tony catches it immediately and squints at you like he sees danger.
âDonât make a big thing out of it, Iâm annoyed enough that I said it.â
You roll your eyes, but the moment has gone soft.
You gather your things and push back from the table, standing like youâre about to leave. Tony rises too, tablet tucked under his arm, ready to escort you out.
He makes it all of two steps beside you before you pivot.
Tony barely has time to register the movement before you hook an arm around his shoulder and pull him into a quick, awkward side hug.
He immediately braces.
âThank you, Tony,â you sayâterribly sincere, and entirely too close for his comfort.
Tony flinches, face pinching in immediate horror.
You let him go just as quickly.
He immediately straightens up, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from his sleeve.
âEw,â he says flatly.
You laugh in earnest as you turn to leave, happy to have that weight off of your shoulders.
Bucky and Steve were still gone by the time you made it back to the apartment.
Theyâd had a fitting at one for Buckyâs temporary prosthetic, followed by PT after, and once you realized you were already dressed and out in the world, you decided you might as well make yourself useful.
Groceries could technically be ordered through FRIDAY, but the thought of wandering the store at your own pace sounded too nice to pass up.
Unfortunately for your organized time-frame, a cute little bookstore had opened up along your route, and there was really no helping that.
You told yourself youâd only step in for a minute.
A minute turned into four skimmed chapters, two paperbacks tucked under your arm, and a candle you absolutely did not need but bought anyway because it smelled like old books. After that, a food stall on the corner lured you in with Korean- style corn dogs, and after that all structure was gone. You stood there on the sidewalk in the afternoon sun, eating hot, crispy batter while reading your new paperback.
By the time you finally made it to the grocery store, you were in no rush at all.
You wandered every aisle on purpose, dragging the cart slowly behind you, picking up all the little things the boys liked without having to think about it. The specific coffee Steve preferred. Buckyâs favorite cereal. A box of cookies you knew would be gone by tomorrow. You let yourself linger, reading corny greeting cards, perusing the live plant section.
The city skyline had softened by the time you started the walk back.
The sun was lower, casting everything in that late-afternoon gold. Your bags tugged at your arms, heavier than youâd meant them to be, and by the time the Tower came into view again, the sky had started to edge toward evening.
It was almost six.
The boys were already home when you burst through the door, cheeks pink from the cold and exertion, hair windblown, arms straining with far too many grocery bags cutting into them.
The second they hear you, both Steve and Bucky move.
Steve is there first, crossing the room in three quick strides, Bucky only a step behind him. Between them, the bags are lifted from your hands immediately.
âWelcome home, honey,â Steve says, half amused, half concerned, already taking the heaviest ones from your grip.
Bucky shoulders the rest with practiced ease, hauling them toward the kitchen counter. âSo this is where youâve been all day?â he teases over his shoulder. âGrocery shopping?â
You laugh, breathless, rubbing at the red marks the handles left in your arms.
âI may have gotten a little carried away,â you admit, giggling as you toe the door shut behind you. âSorry. I didnât mean to be out so long.â
Steve leans in and kisses your cheek, warm and affectionate.
âDonât worry about that, sweetheart,â he murmurs. âJust glad youâre home now.â
The apartment fills with the soft chaos of unpackingâplastic bags rustling, cabinets opening and closing, Bucky trying to quietly open the cookieâs before putting them away.
âYou know⊠the team is having game night tonight.â Steve mentions while putting things away, trying very hard to sound casual.
âOkay?â you reply around the chip Bucky just handed you.
âWe should go,â Steve says, still facing the cabinet like the pasta shelf is suddenly fascinating. âWanda will be there. Itâd be nice to make her feel welcome.â
You nod in that vague, noncommittal way that means absolutely nothing.
âSounds great,â you say brightly. âYou guys have fun.â
You give him a lazy little salute and start drifting toward the bedroom, already fully committed to the thought of soft pants, fresh sheets, and not wearing a bra.
âHold on now,â Steve grunts.
Before you can get more than a few steps, he catches you clean around the waist and hauls you right up off your feet.
You squeal, startled laughter bursting out of you as your arms fly around his. Steve only looks more pleased with himself for it, tucking you snug against his chest and burying his face in your neck.
âItâll be good for you,â he murmurs, warm breath fanning over the sensitive skin there.
His mouth follows the words with a trail of affectionate little kisses, and you immediately start kicking your feet in protestâutterly useless, considering the man holding you can curl a literal helicopter in mid take-off..
âSteve!â you yelp, half laughing, half scandalized. âPut me down!â
âNope.â
Bucky, still by the counter, watches the whole thing unfold with open delight.
âManâs got a point,â he says, leaning back against the island like this is the best show heâs seen all week.
Steve keeps kissing your neck with maddening calm, like physically restraining you is a totally reasonable way to win an argument.
âYou like the them and you know it,â he reminds you softly.
âI like this couch,â you shoot back, squirming again. âAnd our bed.â
For a second, Steve looks like heâs about to keep teasing you into submission.
Then he changes tactics entirely.
âPlease, sweetie?â
He sets you down at last, but before you can make your escape, he catches you by the waist and spins you gently to face him. The playful confidence slips just enough for you to see itâthat tiny, earnest plea in his eyes, the one he rarely uses because he knows exactly how unfair it is.
It knocks the fight right out of you.
âOh, come on,â you groan, even as your voice starts softening. âThat is dirty.â
Steveâs mouth twitches. âIâm a little desperate, here.â
Behind him, Bucky makes a low, delighted sound, clearly enjoying the fact that Steve has shamelessly resorted to begging.
Steveâs hands slide slowly up and down your arms, gentle and coaxing.
âItâll only be a couple hours,â he says quietly. âYou donât even have to play if you donât want to.â
You roll your eyes and let out a dramatic sigh, but the truth has already settled.
Yes, the thought of crawling into bed in your soft pants and disappearing into the sheets for the rest of the evening is wildly appealing.
But the thought of saying no to themâof watching Steveâs hopeful little plea fall flatâtips the scale for them.
âFineâŠâ you mutter at last, already bracing yourself for the social effort and your imminent embarrassment.
âč àŁȘ Ë ÉąáŽÉŽáŽ áŽáŽáŽ ÊáŽÉŽÉą
áŽáŽÉŽáŽáŽÉŽáŽ ᎥáŽÊÉŽÉȘÉŽÉąê± âș fluff, established relationship, clingy reader, kissing, happy & sad tears, comforting bucky, loverboy bucky, semi long distance, a mini drop of angst, but all is well in the end.
áŽáŽáŽÊáŽÊê± ÉŽáŽáŽáŽ âș its #missingbuckuhours so i blabbed this out bc I MISS HIM AND I WANT HIM TO COME HOME
Bucky always knows you hate it when he leaves.
The little pout on your face and sad glint of your eyes as you cling to his waist, face buried into his chest like if you tried hard enough you could just stick to him like glue and never let go.
He wouldn't mind that, he thinks. Carrying you around next to him everywhere he went. It'd be better than this.
Anything would be better than this.
He puts on a strong face for you but deep down inside he's just as miserable about leaving as you are, maybe even more. You spend the whole day together, no farther than arms length away, always touching each other in one way or another. His hand at the small of your back, your fingers brushing between his shoulder blades, legs tangled up together under the bedsheets, skin pressed against skin as you try to remember what it's like to have a normal heart rhythm.
"Do you really have to go?" You ask, while you already know the answer something aches in you to ask again, in hopes that there's a different outcome.
He hums a confirmation into your neck, hands running up and down the sides of your waist and hips, mapping out every inch of skin until the swirls of his fingerprints have memorized every cell of your skin.
"How long will you be gone?"
"Coupla' days, three at the least, maybe five most."
You let out a pitiful whine, wrapping a leg around his waist and pulling him flush against you.
"I know baby," he murmurs into the soft spot under your ear, teeth lightly grazing the edge of your lobe. "I'll be back before you know it."
"No, you won't," you mutter, disdain laced through your words. Not for him. Never for him, just for the powers that be that take him away from you.
He doesn't answer, just kisses spot under your ear and pulls in a deep breath. He knows it just as well as you do, feels it just as much. Fear wells up in the back of your ribcage, swelling in your throat until its formed itself into a lump you can't swallow. If anything, this is part you hate the most.
The fear.
The worry.
The thought that this could be the last time you see him. It's irrational, you know that, but it doesn't stop the tears from pricking at the corners of your eyes.
Bucky feels the change instantly, his grip going vice around you as he holds you impossibly closer.
"Don't," he whispers. "Don't even think about it. You know I'll always come back."
You let out a shaky breath that trembles against his collarbone.
âThatâs not something you can promise,â you murmur, and you hate how small your voice sounds. You hate that fear has teeth, that it sinks in and refuses to let go.
His hand slides up your spine, warm and steady, metal fingers splayed at the small of your back like heâs anchoring you there. Like if he holds tight enough, nothing in the world can pull you apart.
âI can promise Iâll try,â he says quietly. âEvery time. For you.â
Thatâs the problem.
He always tries. He always throws himself headfirst into the line of fire. Youâve seen it â the recklessness disguised as bravery, the way he puts himself between danger and everyone else without a second thought. As if he doesnât count.
As if losing him wouldnât split you clean in two.
You pull back just enough to look at him. His forehead drops to yours automatically, noses brushing, breath shared. His blue eyes search your face like heâs memorizing it, the slope of your cheek, the way your lashes clump with unshed tears.
âYou donât get to talk like youâre disposable,â you whisper. âYou donât get to decide that everyone else is worth saving more than you.â
Something flickers across his face something close to guilt, maybe. Or understanding.
His flesh hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing beneath your eye before the tear can fall. âIâm not disposable,â he says, softer now. âNot to you.â
âNot to anyone,â you correct, because he needs to hear it.
A breath passes between you.
The fear is still there. It always will be. Loving someone who walks into gunfire for a living means making peace with that kind of terror, means swallowing it down and smiling anyway.
But right now, in the quiet hum of the room, with his heartbeat steady under your palm, you let yourself be selfish.
âCome back to me,â you whisper.
His lips press to yoursânot rushed, not desperate. Slow. Certain. Like sealing a vow without speaking it aloud.
âI always do,â he murmurs against your mouth.
And when he pulls you back into his chest, you hold on like youâre trying to memorize the shape of him the weight, the warmth, the way he fits.
Just in case.
Just in case.
The phone buzzes against your nightstand just as youâre reaching to turn the lamp off.
You donât even look at the screen before answering.
âHey,â you breathe.
On the other end, thereâs a pause filled with the faint hum of bad reception, distant city noise, something metallic clinking softly, and then his voice.
âHey, doll.â
Every inch of you loosens.
You sink back against your pillows, dragging the phone closer to your ear like you can pull him through it. âYou okay?â
âYeah.â A beat. Softer. âYeah. Iâm at the safehouse.â
The word safe settles in your chest, even if you know itâs temporary. Even if you know âsafeâ for him usually just means four walls and a locked door.
You glance at the clock.
Itâs late. Later than you told yourself youâd stay up.
âYou should be asleep,â Bucky says, like he can see the time glowing red across your ceiling. âItâs past midnight.â
âI was about to,â you lie, though youâve been staring at your phone for the last twenty minutes.
Thereâs a quiet huff of amusement. âYou werenât.â
âNo,â you admit. âI wasnât.â
You hear him move aroundâfabric rustling, the dull thud of boots being kicked off. He exhales, long and tired, and you can picture it perfectly: shoulders slumped, jaw shadowed with stubble, hair mussed from running his hand through it one too many times.
âYou should get some sleep,â he says again, gentler this time. âLong day tomorrow.â
You roll onto your side, tucking the phone beneath your cheek. âNot yet.â
A pause.
âWhy?â
Because the fear hasnât quite left your bones yet. Because you need proof heâs still here. Because his voice is the only thing that makes the distance feel survivable.
Instead, you say softly, âI just like hearing you.â
It goes quiet on his end.
Not bad quiet.
Just⊠full.
âWhat should I say?â he asks after a moment, a little unsure, like heâs not used to being wanted for something so simple.
You smile into your pillow. âAnything. I just like the sound of it.â
You hear him shift again, probably sitting down now. Maybe at a small kitchen table. Maybe on the edge of a narrow bed in a room that doesnât feel like his.
âAlright,â he says. âWell. Mission was simple.â
You hum, eyes already growing heavier.
âIn and out. Recon first. Couple of guys on the perimeter. Nothing special.â His voice lowers a fraction, instinctively keeping details vague even over a secure line. âTraining paid off. Sam wouldâve been insufferable about it.â
You can hear the ghost of a smile.
âThere was a shootout,â he continues, almost casually. âNot bad. Short. They werenât as organized as they thought they were.â
Your fingers curl tighter around the phone.
âYouâre okay?â you murmur.
âIâm okay.â Firmer. For you.
He clears his throat, and his voice softens again. âFound something, though.â
âYeah?â Your words are slower now.
âYeah. Thereâs this little market down the block from the safehouse. Closed when I passed it, but they had a table set up outside. Stones and little carved things. Probably for tourists.â
You picture him stopping. Brows furrowed. Hands in his pockets. Pretending heâs not interested.
âThere was this smooth one,â he says. âFlat. Fits right in your palm. Kinda gray with a streak of blue through it.â
You smile sleepily. âYou bought me a rock?â
He chuckles under his breath, low and warm. âYeah. I bought you a rock.â
Silence stretches, comfortable.
âThought you could keep it on the windowsill,â he goes on. âYou know. With the plants. So when the sun hits it, that blue part might catch the light.â
Your heart does that quiet, aching thing it only ever does for him.
âI love it,â you whisper, even though you havenât seen it yet.
âIâll bring it home,â he says.
Home.
The word settles into you like a lullaby.
He keeps talking. About the safehouse creaky pipes. About the terrible coffee he tried to make. About how the mattress is too firm and the sheets smell like industrial detergent. About how he canât wait to sleep in your bed instead.
Your responses get softer, and slower. Eventually just small hums of acknowledgment. On the other end, Bucky notices your breathing evens out.
Thereâs no more hum. No more whispered reply, just the faint, steady rhythm of you asleep. He doesnât hang up, just lowers his voice instead.
âIâm coming home,â he murmurs, even though you wonât hear it. âGet some sleep, sweetheart.â
Itâs hours later when the apartment door opens quietly.
Bucky steps inside like a shadow, duffel slung over his shoulder, movements automatic and careful. The place is dark except for the dim lamp you mustâve forgotten to switch off completely.
He finds you in the bedroom.
Still curled on your side.
Still holding the phone.
His chest tightens. You didnât even make it under the blankets properly. One arm is tucked beneath your pillow, the other loosely cradling the phone against your cheek like itâs him.
He sets his bag down silently and kneels beside the bed. Carefully, he eases the phone from your hand and places it on the nightstand. You stir faintly, brows knitting for a second, until his fingers brush your hair back from your face.
âItâs me,â he whispers.
Your expression smooths instantly. He leans down and presses a soft kiss to your lips. Then another to your forehead. The spot just under your ear, the same place he kissed you before he left.
You sigh in your sleep.
He strips down to his t-shirt and sweats, sliding into bed behind you. The mattress dips with his weight, warm and solid and real. His arm wraps around your waist and pulls you close, exactly like he did before he left.
You instinctively scoot back into him, fitting perfectly against his chest. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt without waking.
"An Oscar-worthy performance" - Aaron Hotchner x Reader
SUMMARY: Your best bet to get the unsub talking is to play right into his fantasy. As much as Hotch detests the idea of sitting you in front of that murderer, he knows the team is out of options. While you're playing the role of a scared little thing, Hotch needs to do everything in his power to hold himself back. Even if he knows you're faking it.
WORDCOUNT: ~ 7k
WARNING: this text includes descriptions of sexual harassment, vulgar language and self-harm. Read at your own discretion.
Aaron Hotchner knows that looks deceive. In a way, itâs his job to see past the first impressions. His expertise in seeing more than meets the eye is unparalleled. Although reading between the lines is a rare and precious talent, sometimes it isnât enough. If the author refuses to acknowledge subtext or implications, whoâs to say they even exist? How can a writer be convinced to give up what they deliberately refuse to put into words?
Rossi looks over his shoulder, hearing you come in. He notices the coffee cups in your hands but doesnât say anything about them. Your allergy to sitting idly is a well-known fact among the team members. No one would bat an eye if you started to sweep floors just so you donât sit still, waiting for something to happen.
You set the coffee on a nearby table before coming closer to the two-way mirror. Rossi glances at you, his hands hidden in his pockets. Even in the darkness of the room, he can see the way youâre nervously chewing the inside of your cheek. With a small sigh, his gaze returns to the scene inside the interrogation room: Hotch confronting the man responsible for ten deaths.
âHowâs it going?â you ask, quietly.
âSlow and painful,â Rossi answers. A tone of defeat rings in his voice. âAt least for us. He seems to be having fun.â
âHotch seems frustrated.â
The older man glances at you again. Hotchner is facing the criminal sitting opposite him, so you canât see his face. Even so, through the way his body stiffens, you can easily tell his mood. âTo be loved is to be known,â as some would say.
âWho wouldnât?â Rossiâs eyes focus on the scruffy men handcuffed to the table. His hands clench into fists inside his pockets when he recalls the macabre fate of the victims.
Hotch suddenly yells accusations at the man in front of him, hands slamming the table separating them. The murderer, however, continues to be still. Completely unaffected, except for a small, sly smile appearing on his lips. He looks insidious.
âMaybe thatâs the point?â you think aloud. âHeâs enjoying the fact that weâre banging our heads against the wall.â
âWell, if we stop banging, we will never know what happened to Jane Roberts.â
A nervous silence falls between the two of you. Anxiety and helplessness crawl up your spine, eating at your every coherent thought. Your fingers fidget, desperately looking for a way to relieve the unbearable, growing tension.
Hotch continues his aggressive, yet largely ineffective, interrogation. Itâs been two hours and heâs no closer than he was before making the arrest. Your frustrated mind begins searching for new ideas: there has to be a better way to get him to talk. This canât be it. No, the word âimpasseâ doesnât exist in your vocabulary. Youâve always made sure of that.
âYou know, back at the Academy, I roomed with a girl who worked park-time as a call girl,â you begin, remembering something that might yet be of help. âNot the paid sex kind, it was more of a paid girlfriend experience.â
Rossi furrows eyebrows in confusion. He may have a less-than-ideal relationship history but heâs never sunk that low. âGuys would pay her to go on a date with them?â
An airy chuckle leaves your lips upon seeing his reaction. Truth be told, you were just as surprised when you learnt about that.
âAs crazy as it sounds, the money was really good,â you say. âSheâd always pick up the check when we went out. Sometimes I asked her for dating advice but she always said that sheâs an expert at making men think theyâre dating her, not actually dating them.â
Hotch yells again, making the scruffy man in front of him laugh.
âAny wise words that might help us here?â
Lonely businessmen might not have a lot in common with serial killers but theyâre all men - there must be something connecting them at a basic level.
âShe told me once that most men are identical, deep down,â you recall. âThey all want to feel powerful, admired and accomplished. Their sense of power lies either in violence or sexual prowess, although most of the time, those are enmeshed. A vulnerable woman plays into their needs and fantasies, whether they know it or not. The difference is some will help her change the tyre, while others will kill her with a tyre iron.â
âBut at the end of the day, it all comes down to the same need,â Rossi sums up, clearly pondering your words.
âIt doesnât always work, obviously.â You shake your head slightly. âSpencer would probably do neither and start talking about manufacturing tyres or the dangers of having the wrong pressure inside them.â
Rossi chuckles in agreement. If there is one person who can be used as an exception to a rule, itâs the boy wonder currently looking at maps of the local area.
âWhat do you make of these two?â Rossi asks, vaguely pointing at the tense scene playing out behind the pane.
âNormally, Iâd say that Hotch is the type to change the tyre but right now?â You rub your hands together in slight discomfort. This is the first time youâve ever seen Aaron acting like this. How much of it is an act, how much truth? âHe looks like heâs about to kill someone with a tyre iron.â
âThe problem is our unsub has more experience in that.â
Rossiâs defeated comment gives you an idea. Not a great one, definitely not an exciting one, but an idea that might yet be a checkmate. If the mountain doesnât come to Muhammed, Muhammed must go to the mountain. Or, in this case, if the head stops banging against the wall, maybe the wall will come to the head.
âIf heâs comfortable being the killing kind and not the helpful kind, we should probably use that,â you state. âForce his guard down. With Hotch descending on him, heâs focused on keeping his cards close. Maybe weâll get him talking if he thinks we donât know heâs holding that tyre iron.â
Rossi shakes his head. âItâs too late for that. He knows weâre unto him.â
âNo, he knows youâre onto him,â you point out, making Rossi stare at you with squinted eyes. Reading between the lines. âYou and Hotch. He hasnât seen me yet.â
Intrigued as he is concerned, Rossi turns to rest his shoulder against the pane. Not watching Hotchâs futile attempts, his attention is now focused solely on you.
âBe straight with me, kid,â he orders.
The realisation dawns on you at that moment. Should he agree to your proposal, you will have to go through with it. Sit in front of a man who eats girls like you for breakfast. Even if Rossi dismissed your suggestion, you canât take your words back. He will know how far youâre willing to go to succeed. For now, youâre unsure whether thatâs good or bad.
âIâm gonna go in there, pretending to have no knowledge of his crimes or his victims,â you say. If he can see through your false confidence, he doesnât let on. âIâll play right into his little power fantasy and when he lets his guard down, Iâll nudge him into giving up Janeâs whereabouts.â
Rossi stares at you in silence. The longer he goes without saying a word, the more youâre convinced heâs in agreement. Heâs probably gauging Hotchnerâs reaction or his own thoughts about the possible consequences: will he be able to live with himself if you do go inside and things go sideways?
Finally, Rossi opens the door to the interrogation room. Hotch looks at him with a confused expression, but follows the man anyway. David wouldnât barge in without a good reason.
Hotch stares between you and Rossi. Although he appears collected, thereâs a sense of impatience in the way his eyes flicker. He doesnât want to waste what little time you have.
âShe wants to do it,â Rossi says, painting at you.
Hotch gives you a suspicious look before turning his attention back to the other man. âDo what?â
âTell him, kid. Itâs your idea.â
Rossi walks away from the conversation. He reaches for the now lukewarm coffee and stares at the unsub on the other side of the two-way mirror.
âI know weâre all doing our best here,â you begin, slowly crumbling under Aaronâs watchful gaze, âbut this is getting nowhere. Clearly, that twisted cockroach of a person is having fun, while weâre ripping our hair out. Instead of putting up a fight, I think we should coerce him. Play into his fantasy.â
An almost imperceptible twitch of his facial muscles tells you everything you need to know - heâs already got a pretty good guess what youâre about to say. Still, he wants to hear you put it into words. Maybe thereâs even a semblance of naive hope inside him, that you turn out to be more reasonable than he assumes.
âWhat are you suggesting?â he asks.
âIâll go in there,â you state. The darkness of the room makes you almost miss the way his expression hardens. Defiance. âIf he thinks Iâm all pliant and vulnerable, he will put his guard down. Treat me like one of his victims. Then, when he doesnât know heâs being played, Iâll get him to talk.â
Hotch doesnât answer right away. Just like Rossi did, heâs pondering the consequences. In Aaronâs case, the situation might be even more complicated. How can he send the woman he loves into a room with a man who knows no fear or morality? After always making sure youâre safe, risking his own life to save yours, heâs being asked to leave you unprotected. Exposed.
In a way that defies all logic and natural laws, he nods quietly.
âI donât like this,â he says after a while.
âNone of us do,â Rossi chimes in. âBut sheâs right. Weâre getting nowhere. For all we know, Jane Roberts might already be dead.â
Aaron clenches his jaw tightly. Two aspects of his life clash, leaving chaos and indecisiveness in their wake. Perhaps love and logic exist on one spectrum, always tugging and pulling in their own directions. The closer he steps to one of the ends, the more enticing its opposite seems.
Hotch exhales loudly, signalling a choice has been made.
âAre you sure about this?â he asks. What may sound like the stern voice of a leader hides a heartfelt tremble between words. Whether heâs putting up a front for you or himself, no one can really know.
âIâm sure weâre out of options and Jane is running out of time,â you answer.
Aaronâs gaze meets yours in a silent confrontation. A wordless probing, an attempt at seeing beyond what heâs shown. The look in his brown eyes softens, appearing somewhat sad, if not apologetic.
âHeâs handcuffed to the table, he canât hurt you,â he reassures. You think the words are more of a reminder for himself, rather than for you. Itâs Aaron who needs to justify this decision to his own conscience.
Aaron Hotchner, however, isnât the only person capable of reading between the lines, hearing conversations in silent rooms. In the confines of his home, youâve learnt to see what lies behind the mask of an FBI Unit Chief.
âEven if he could, I know youâd stop him in time,â you answer, pertaining to all the things heâs too afraid to say outside the comfort of his bedroom.
Itâs a split second but it happens nonetheless - a flicker of a smile appears on his face. Yes, to be loved is to be known. Right now, Aaron Hotchner is eternally grateful that the woman in front of him knows him almost better than he knows himself. Anybody else might crumble underneath the plight he carries within but not you. No, you treat old bruises and unhealed wounds like stars aligned in a yet unknown constellation. Only for you do they make sense and dear God, is it beautiful.
âYou can end this whenever you want,â he continues. âEven if he doesnât tell us the location of the body, I wonât be angry with you.â
âI know.â The tone of your voice sounds a bit too casual for the task awaiting you. âYou like me too much to be angry.â
His lips stretch into a small, hel-back smile. âI will be here all the time.â
âHey, Rossi!â You call out to the other man, who until now has been pretending to not hear a sliver of your conversation with Aaron. âMake sure Agent Hotchner doesnât lose it, alright?â
âIâll see what I can do but no promises,â he answers with apparent amusement. âI still have a few things I want to do in life.â
âWatch and learn, honey,â you whisper to Aaron before entering the interrogation room.
The door closes behind you with a fateful click. Like a ringing bell in a theatre, the curtains open and you must convince the audience that your act is genuine. Hopefully, your middle school drama teacher was right and you do have a talent for dramatics.
The man sitting at the table watches you like a predator. His eyes notice every small detail - the flow of your hair, the creases in your clothes, the slight glimmer of jewellery. Even the adorable way you nervously bite the inside of your cheek. He waits for you to sit down before he speaks:
âWell, hello there, little lady.â
In any other circumstance, you would bite back with a positively âunladylikeâ response. Feeling Aaronâs stare on the back of your head, you give the murderer in front of you a coy smile.
âGood morning, mister Beckett,â you greet him.Â
âI ainât no mister, love.â The confident tone assures you that youâre neither the first nor last woman heâs spoken to this way. âJust Neil.â
âOf course, Neil.â
The man leans back in his chair. Lips turn into a sinister grin.
âSay it again,â he demands in a low voice.
âNeil,â you repeat, pretending that you donât know why heâd ask you to do so.
Beckettâs sly smirk only widens, a wild look shines in his eyes. He makes you think of a nature documentary youâve seen a long time ago. In there, a slowed-down footage showed a tiger at the zoo, attempting to pounce on one of the visitors when they turned their back to the animal. The only thing that saved them was a thick pane of plexiglass. Whether a beast is caged or not doesnât change the fact that it remains a beast. No matter what we tell ourselves.
Hotch lets out a long exhale. If the breathing exercise is meant to help, itâs doing a poor job. Rossi tells him a reassuring âsheâs okayâ but it does little to curb Aaronâs anger. He knows all too well what Neil Beckett felt the moment you said his name. Hotch feels that same primitive want and possessiveness every night, when your desperate gasps of pleasure fill what little space is left between your bodies. No other man should ever hear those sweet sounds. They wouldnât know how to care for such a gift.
âWhat can I do for you, love?â asks Neil. Heâs eyeing your silhouette with little, if any, reluctance. You take that as a good sign. After all, you are putting on a show just for him.
âActually, I should be the one asking you this,â you answer, still as innocent as he wants you to be. âThe FBI agents had to leave for a while. Iâm here to make sure youâre comfortable and cared for.â
Neil Beckett leans forward. The low-hanging lamp is directly above his head, covering half of his face in a shadow. Whoever said that the devil has horns and hooves was deeply mistaken. Instead of looking like a goat, he resembles an average man living in the country: hay-coloured fine hair, a torn plaid shirt, sunburnt neck. A smell of motor oil and freshly cut wood surrounds him like an ominous miasma.
âSo itâs just the two of us?â he asks, thrill peeking out from between his words.
âYes, mis-...â you hang your voice, offering a smile. âNeil,â you correct yourself. âThereâs just you and me, Neil.â
The answer seems to satisfy him. Restless, he begins to bounce his leg. His eyes flicker down your blouse, then at the two-way mirror behind you. Little does he know that Aaron meets his gaze. Hotch recognises the sexual, sadistic frenzy in Neilâs eyes. Aaron forcefully unclenches his hands, feeling how the tight grip is shooting pain through his joints.
âTurns out her friend was right,â Rossi says without looking at Hotch. âSome men canât tell between lust and violence.â
âMaybe someone should teach him,â Hotch answers under his breath.
Rossi gives him an amused look that quickly turns into a sign of concern. Nothing about Hotchnerâs stern expression suggests the comment is a joke. In fact, it seems like a promise or a resolution.
âHeâll get some good teaching in prison,â David says. Considering the ages of the victims and what Beckett has done to them, the lesson learnt behind bars will be fatal.
The thought of Neil dying after the first prison beating doesnât satisfy Hotch. If anything, it fuels his anger. Still, Aaron tells himself that heâs not a sadist. Exercising justice is much, much different from vengeance or pleasure from violence.
Neil Beckett sharply tugs at his handcuffs. The table loudly drags against the floor. Your heart skips a beat, adrenaline tickles the tips of your fingers but you do your best to keep a coy, warm expression. Men bigger than Neil couldnât free themselves; thereâs nothing to worry about. Even if he did, Aaron is a few meters away.
Thereâs nothing to worry about.
Facing a definite defeat, Neil leans even closer to you. His face is no more than a handâs length away from yours. As a last-resort defence, you could, of course, spit on him. Not that it would do much.
âI could make us both more comfortable and cared for,â he drones through clenched teeth, âif you took off these handcuffs.â
As befits this type of killer, his resolve is almost non-existent. Whatever he wants, he must get immediately. Growing frustration is the key to making him talk about Jane Roberts but not yet. First, you must make him believe that he has you all pliant and coerced.
You give him a sad, almost pitiful, smile. âIâm afraid Agent Hotchner left with the key.â
Now both of his legs are bouncing erratically. Is this what the tiger felt before pouncing on the tourist behind the plexiglass?
âNo need to be afraid, doll,â he says. His tailored appearance is steadily slipping, revealing another piece of the true horrors churning inside him. It wonât be long before you see exactly what Jane Roberts did. âItâs just you and me⊠You and me,â he repeats, more to himself than to you.
âIs there anything else I can do for you, Neil?â you ask.
Itâs for the better that Aaron canât see your face. If he did, heâd see the same big eyes you give him in the mornings, begging for just another five minutes before starting the day. So far, he has yielded each time. Had Hotchner seen the way youâre looking at Neil Beckett, his iron resolve would crumble immediately. Those pleading, glistening eyes are only for him. Other men might find them too inviting.
âWe could talk,â Neil answers. âThe other guy only knows how to yell. He better not be yellinâ at you, doll. Iâd have to sort him out.â
When you giggle at the thinly veiled threat, Aaron clenches his hands into fists again. He knows you donât mean it - nothing about Neilâs thinly veiled threat is amusing or heartwarming to you. Even so, Hotch canât quite hold back the putrid feelings stewing inside him. Heâs never considered himself a jealous man but a principled one. Standing in that dark room, watching you play coy with a criminal who only sees you as prey, he finally makes that admission to himself. He, Aaron Hotchner, is jealous that another man is hearing all your sweet sounds committed to his memory. While he realises his possessiveness is infantile at best, a semblance of pride justifies his anger. After all, wouldnât any man in his place feel just as bitter? In fact, Hotch is doing much better than what would be expected of him in this moment - he stalls, trusting your judgement and skills. He could barge in and tell Neil Beckett exactly what he thinks about his disgusting attitude but he chooses not to. The poise of a saint, truly.
âLucky guy waiting for you back home?â Neil continues his inquiry. Aside from his bouncing legs, you can hear the quiet, rhythmic clicking of the handcuffs. It sounds like heâs tapping his fingers against the table, recreating a racing heartbeat.
Neil Beckett wants to dominate, to conquer. That includes things he perceives as belonging to other men. However, if you seem too involved with a theoretical partner, Neil might lose his interest in you.Â
âThere is someone butâŠâ You hang your voice, counting on the possibility of Beckett not pushing the matter further. Give him only as much as he wants to hear.
âHe treatinâ you right, doll?â The tone of his voice comes off almost paternal.
Putting on a timid, abashed expression, you look at your fidgeting fingers, expertly coming off as embarrassed.Â
âHeâs trying his best,â you say.
The answer seems to be just right. Neil gives you a practised sympathetic look that does little to hide the frenzy in his eyes. If he felt the range of emotions an average person does, heâd make quite a good actor.Â
âThat ainât enough,â he says in a low, hoarse voice. âFor a girl like you, he should be doing more than his best. Men nowadays donât know what a sweet girl needs.â
You look up at him, just as shy and hopeful as Jane Roberts was two days ago. âDo you?â
âSure do.â Neil chuckles quietly. âI could tell you all about it.â
âReally?â
âCross my heart and hope to die, doll.â Beckett suddenly leans back in his chair, pulling away after a period of pushing. Abusive partners tend to do that, you notice. âBut first, I need you to do something for me.â
âYes?â
âI donât want that little agent back there freeloadinâ. Turn that camera off and weâll talk.â
You find it hilarious that Neil Beckett thinks that Aaron Hotchner would pick up a thing or two about flirting from him. As ridiculous as his claim is, you donât let your composure slip. After this little lark is done, you can laugh all the way back home and into Aaronâs bed.
âOh, I-Iâm not sure if I can,â you stutter out.
âCome on, sweet thing,â he beckons in a condescending voice. âHe ainât your daddy, you donât have to listen to him.â
Oh, Neil Beckett. If only you were at least as smart as you are pervertedâŠ
Pliant and gullible in all the right ways, you get up from the chair. You donât have to turn around to know that Neilâs eyes are glued to your hips as youâre walking to the camera in the corner of the room. Turning the device off, you glance quickly at the two-way mirror in front of you. Thereâs no way for you to know if Aaron is facing you. You wish you could give him a signal that everythingâs fine but considering Neilâs attention on you, it would be too risky. Beckett might start suspecting something.
As you sit down again in front of Neil, you realise that this is the most important part of the meeting. Every little smile and giggle lead you to this moment - Neil Beckett is convinced that youâre the only witness to this conversation. There can be no guesswork, only covert interrogation.
âCan you tell me now?â you ask him shyly, batting your eyelashes the same way you would at Aaron.
âCome closer, doll,â he demands, voice raspy and trembling. Heâs reaching his limit.
You set your arms on the table, leaning in to the man. With a satisfied, sly grin plastered on his face, Neil leans forward as well. Again, your faces are no more than a handâs length apart.
âNah, a little closer.â
Anxiety clenches your stomach and chest. Your throat tightens around a lump inside it. As you fix your thoughts on Aaron standing guard on the other side of the mirror, you manage to swallow your fear, turning terror into an admirable show of juvenile bashfulness.
Then, you stop thinking about Aaron and begin wondering about Jane Roberts. Sheâs somewhere out there, helpless and hopeless. Now, youâre the only person she has, even if she doesnât know it.
You lean in farther, feeling Neilâs breath fan against your face with each exhale. The tips of your noses are barely an inch apart. âIs this enough?â you whisper.
âItâs perfect, sweetheart,â he answers, voice equally low. His eyes study your features in detail. It seems as though heâs trying to remember the way you look or heâs imagining what youâre going to look like after heâs, well, done with you.
Aaron Hotchner is so beside himself, he might as well step out of his body and enter a new plane of existence. Focused on the scene behind the two-way mirror, he doesnât even notice that Rossi has been observing him for quite some time now. David is worried about your well-being, thatâs understandable. What concerns him more, however, is the impending possibility of Hotch doing something less than reasonable. He recalls what you have said at the beginning, that most men are identical in some ways. Staring at Aaronâs stiff shoulders and clenched jaw, heâs inclined to agree. Hotch, just like Neil Beckett, is a ticking time bomb. Thereâs no way to tell when either of them will give in to their needs.
The tension temporarily subsides when Spencer enters the dark room. He opens his mouth but before he can share the news, he freezes suddenly, seeing you leaning in so close to Neil Beckett. Rossi, all too aware of Aaronâs agitation, doesnât let Spencer address the very obvious elephant:
âWhat is it, Reid?â
Spencer furrows his eyebrows as he stares between the two men, silently gauging all that they refuse to say. Judging by Hotchnerâs expression, the unsaid words are not good. Spencer has seen Aaron angry but never as disturbed as now. Fury appears only secondary to something deeper, more primitive.
âThe medical examiner finished the last report,â he says, voice revealing suspicion of the strange arrangement before him. âHannah was missing a chunk of her ear. Judging by the ridges and circular shape, it was bitten off.â
Rossiâs face twists into a grimace. âNeil Beckett bit her ear off?â
âPart of the lobe,â Spencer corrects, ânot the whole ear.â
Hotch turns on his heel. âIâm ending this.â
âWait!â Rossi manages to grab Aaronâs arm before the man can reach the doorknob.Â
While Hotchner doesnât free himself immediately, the cold stare he gives David makes the older man let go. He leans backwards, silently moving away from the raging man. A falling knife has no handle and furious Aaron has, for lack of a better phrase, no handle.
âThis may be our only chance,â Rossi argues. Heâs clinging to remnants of Hotchnerâs restraint. âJaneâs only chance.â
Aaron gives him a confused look. âDave, Iâm not about to let that man bite her ear off,â he retorts, voice trembling with barely controlled emotions.
âI know, just-â Rossi sighs, realising that Hotchner is past reasonable arguments. âLetâs just wait a little bit longer. Heâs about to break.â
âNot just him,â Aaron mumbles under his breath.
Against his better judgment and itching hands, Hotchner chooses not to make a decision. He allows the situation to unravel naturally, with you leading the grand finale. Curiosity gets the better of Spencer and he stays in the room, intrigued by the upcoming unravelling. Besides, Rossi might need a little help in preventing an aggravated assault.
You swallow nervously. No matter how much saliva your mouth produces, your throat is still dry and painfully tight. Even if you wanted to scream, you donât think you could.
Neilâs breath fans against your skin with each exhale. Stray strands of your hair dance sway on the gusts. It will take a few tries to wash out the smell of motor oil and freshly-cut lumber. His eyes continue to study your features, unblinking, as though he doesnât want to idly waste time.
Beckett dives in towards your neck. His nose brushes against your jaw as he takes a deep breath. Whatever he smells on you, it makes him grunt with satisfaction. Under the table, youâre digging your nails into the flesh of your hand. The sharp pain temporarily distracts you from the unwanted close proximity. Neil has barely touched you but his sole presence feels intrusive. Like an invader outside the castle gates, he doesnât need to attack for you to gauge the power of his army. All it takes is an attentive eye and a little bit of imagination.
âYouâre all sweet and buttery,â he whispers. âDo you know what that means?â
âN-no,â you answer. âIs that good?â
âItâs perfect, doll. Just right.â Neil takes another inhale of your smell. His grunting sounds now more sexual than just satisfactory. It makes your skin crawl. âThe lovely aroma of a ripe cunt.â
A sinking feeling in your stomach makes you sick to the point of throwing up. Digging your nails further into your hand, you try to think about Aaron. Heâs on the other side of the mirror, keeping watch. Before you entered the interrogation room, he made a promise to keep you safe. Thereâs no reason for you to start doubting him now.
Neil has begun to talk about his victims, which is a green light for you. The whereabouts of Jane Roberts are within your grasp. He just needs the last nudge. What would a pliant, scared girl do in your shoes?
âThe⊠others?â you choke out, tears falling down your face. You never thought the talent of crying on demand would come in handy after growing out of Barbie dolls and stuffed ponies.
To your horror, Neil licks a few tears off your cheek.
âEven your tears taste sweet, doll,â he murmurs. âWhere have you been all my life? I could have your scent all over me.â Neil rubs his nose against your cheek, a pleased hum rumbles inside his chest. âI would get drunk on it. Bathe in it. Or better yet, drown your little man in it.â
His repetitive mentions of water make something click in your mind. All of his victims had pruned skin and water in their lungs but no algae. A body of water that is safe for drinking, deep enough to bathe or drown and isnât naturalâŠ
Tears stop falling. You lean away from Neil, keen eyes focused on his face. The sudden change of your demeanour stumps him. The frenzy inside him subsides for a moment as he tries to make sense of the situation.
A sly grin spreads across your face.
"Oh, you little scoundrel,â you say, tone as amused as it is condescending. âYou threw her body into the water tower, didn't you?"
What follows happens so quickly you barely register it:
Nostrils flared and eyes glazed with fury, Neil dives at you. Before you have the chance to get away, Aaron pushes Beckett away. The force of the shove makes the table drag along with the man as he almost falls off the chair.
Neilâs eyes remain on you. Again, you think back to that documentary. Strangely enough, that tiger in the zoo looked more human than Beckett does right now. After all, the tiger kills for understandable reasons: fear, hunger, protecting its cubs. Neil Beckett, however, murdered ten women for reasons you will never fully understand. Doesnât that make him more animal than a tiger?
âYou-â
Aaron stops Neils from speaking when he slams his fist on the table. You canât see his eyes but youâre quite sure they have the same terrifying look as Beckettâs.
âOne more word and I will gladly tell the DA how you assaulted a federal agent. Might add a few details of my own, for good measure.â
His newfound lack of respect for law and order actually makes Neil Beckett silent. The murderer seems unaware that a new charge wouldnât change his outcome - heâs never going to see the light of day again.
Hotchner unchains the handcuffs from the table and forcefully pulls up Neil by his arm. Beckett winces for a second. Any more strength to that pull and he would have a dislocated shoulder. You have a burning suspicion that this was perfectly calculated by Aaron - enough to hurt, not enough to leave a mark.
After Neil Beckett is dragged out of the room, Rossi offers you a helping hand. You dismiss him, deciding to stand up on your own. That isnât a smart decision, as your knees buckle under the weight of your body. David is quick to catch you, keeping a protective hold on your arm. He could ask how youâre feeling but he finds it obsolete. Legs tend to give out when people are definitely not alright.
âReid ran to call the dispatch,â he says. You werenât even aware that Spencer had witnessed the interrogation. âIn an hour, Jane Roberts will be back with her parents.â
âYeah and then itâs just the rest of her life,â you answer quietly.
Rossi gives you a look of confusion and disbelief. âYou saved her, kid. In my books, thatâs a good thing.â
âI know, itâs justâŠâ Your voice trails off. You look at the other side of the table, where Neil Beckett was sitting just a moment ago. âI donât think sheâs going to share your opinion once PTSD sets in.â
âThatâs between her and the therapist.â
You donât respond, even though you know heâs right. When Jane Roberts is retrieved, your job ends and hers begins. The only thing you can do is pray that sheâs equipped for it.
To your dismay, Aaron disappears until Jane Roberts is safe and sound at the hospital, her parents standing guard over their daughter. You keep telling yourself that he also needs to calm down but it doesnât make his absence any less disturbing. As supportive as the rest of the team is, thereâs only one person whose comfort you desperately need.
Hotch finds you in the conference room, alone. Everyone else left to give you some space, although in their minds, that means theyâre still staring at you, worried sick, just on the other side of the door. Aaron doesnât ask anyone about how youâve been doing while he wasnât there. That would be a waste of time. He needs to find out for himself
Hearing the door open and close, you turn around. Gone is the cold, professional demeanour. The man in front of you seems small, afraid. With his anger dissipated, Aaron looks strangely deflated as if he came home after a terribly long day of hard work.
âHow are you feeling?â he asks.
Itâs expected of lovers to worry about one another. You know that. Even so, youâre reluctant to let Aaron know whatâs really going on inside you. Heâs got enough on his plate as is.
You giggle quietly, attempting to soothe his nerves. âWould it be very inappropriate right now if I said Iâm hungry?â
He smiles at you but the expression isnât happy at all. Thereâs something profoundly sad about the way heâs staring at you. âNot unless youâre planning to bite someoneâs ear off.â Aaron vaguely points to the picture included in the medical examinerâs report that Spencer brought earlier.
A slight grimace appears on your face. âEw,â you whine. Despite apparent disgust, you still lean closer to study the picture. âYou know whatâs worse?â you ask, making Aaron quirk his eyebrow in curiosity. âThat didnât kill my appetite.â
The two of you laugh dryly. Youâre too loved, too known, by each other to believe faux nonchalance.
âHow are you really, honey?â Aaron asks after a minute of silence.
What a strange dilemma it is - whether youâre honest or not, heâs going to be upset either way, just for a different reason. You want to spare him your grim thoughts but the way heâs looking at you makes you reconsider. A sense of understanding glimmers in his eyes. Whatever baggage you carry, no matter how large the piece of heaven on your shoulders, he wishes to know all of it. Thereâs no piece of you too unsightly that he couldnât hold dear.
âFeeling a lot of mixed emotions,â you answer. As you exhale, you can feel poisonous tension leaving your body. With it gone, you can finally think clearly again. âOn one hand, Iâm kinda proud of what I did back there but at the same time, Iâm disgusted with myself.â Unable to meet his adoring gaze, you look at your own shoes. âPlaying into his game felt⊠wrong. Sordid. Even though I knew I was doing it for the right reasons.â
Feeling Aaronâs warm hand holding yours, you look up at him. His attentive eyes study you for a moment as he decides which one of the million things in his head he should say.
âYou did what no one else could.â His voice is quiet, comforting. âWithout you, we never would have found Jane Roberts.â
Hotchner sighs when he sees you shaking your head. Maybe the worst offender is that voice of doubt in the back fo your head. If only he could pluck it out.
âThat hardly makes me feel better. Itâs justâŠâ Your gaze leaves his face again. Tears, honest this time around, gather along your lashline. All the bleach in the world wonât be able to make you feel clean again. âI know he was thinking about doing to me what he did to those women. And I indulged him.â
Aaron prefers to forgo considering that. Even a second of pondering that fact would make him go back to Neil Beckett and make sure that man canât do much thinking for the rest of his short life. Itâs better for everyone if Hotchner simply pretends that never happened.
Gently, he grabs your chin between two fingers. A tender, yet firm, pull forces you to look him in the eye. Seeing you cry, his own eyes glisten with tears. Somehow, he manages to push them back whence they came from.
âYou beat him at his own game.â The confidence in his voice makes the statement sound lik a fact of nature and not just reassurance. âNot everyone would be smart enough or brave enough to pull that off. No matter what he said, you didnât let fear get to you. Itâs admirable.â
Thereâs nothing admirable about what youâve done. In fact, that deplorable level of manipulation should be kept secret. Itâs not good etiquette to let everyone know just how awful you can be.
âYou donât have to sweet-talk me, Aaron.â As you say his name, something about the look in his eyes changes. It softens. âIâm already wrapped around your finger.â
âIs that so?â he muses, a smile spreading across his face. âRossi might have a different opinion. He had to stop me from coming in and giving Neil Beckett a stern talking to.â
The thought of Aaron barging into the interrogation room and re-enacting a scene from Rambo on a criminal makes you laugh. Not that it would be impossible, just improbable in given circumstances. Itâs not like Neil actually hurt you or threatened you. He was just a deranged hick.
That little moment of humour goes a long way in lifting your spirits. No one is disgusted with you for playing into Beckettâs fantasy. Even more, they are impressed with your success. Their concern lies only with you being exposed to someone as vile as Neil Beckett. Whether he would have given up the location or not, the team would be just as worried about you.
Putting on a coy expression, you lift Aaronâs hand, playing with his fingers. A suspicious and amused look adorns his face.
âThe dashing FBI agent has only one weakness,â you say in a theatrical voice, âa hardened criminal chatting up his girl.â
Hotch chuckles. His fingers move from your chin to your jaw, tracing it gently.
âI donât like my girl,â he fondly stresses the title, âshowing that side of her to other men, criminal or not.â While Aaron is willing to admit to himself that he gets jealous, heâs not about to indulge you. Knowing your antics, you would have a bit too much fun with that information.
âWhat side?â you ask, insidiously innocent as ever.
âThe one thatâs for my eyes only,â he whispers before kissing you softly. His lips move slowly, with purpose. He wants to feel everything about you, commit this very moment to memory. Itâs a matter of principles, not jealousy, when a man stakes a claim on the woman he loves and enjoys every second of that belonging.
Or so he tells himself.
âYou know, next time-â
âThere wonât be a next time,â he cuts you off.
As heâs kissing you in the conference room, in full view of the rest of the team, you think it might be a good decision. Unprofessional conduct, demoralising federal agents, etcetera.
STUCKY LOVER @spookyparadisesheep - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
