18+ Minors dni. Buckys innocent neighbor who bakes him cookies and muffins just cause. The girl next door who has the coziest apartment he's ever been in. Shelves filled with books along with plenty of comfy blankets decorating the couches. Bucky has his own place right across but home is with her (even if she doesn't know it yet).
She's the type of girl he's going to take his time with, asking her out on a date, just coffee and a walk in the park. Nothing more than a kiss on her cheek at the end of the night. Another date. Dinner. Another kiss to her other cheek. He wouldn't dare rush anything, especially not someone as soft and sweet as her.
He feels like such a dirty little pervert when he thinks about her afterwards when he's alone in bed, all the blood in his body rushing south, and fuck he's so hard. He tries to ignore it, he didn't want to do something so debauched by thinking of her like that, he even tries to think about his grocery list, laundry, he'd probably wash his arm later, it would probably be fine in the dishwasher-
Nothing worked.
He groans, shuffling and kicking his sweats off, hissing when his hand goes down to tug at his aching cock, relief flooding his veins at the sensation. He lets his mind wander to how adorable she'd be, the way he'd take her apart in the most gentle way. Lay her against the pillows while he holds those soft thighs apart, giving her the most feather light suckles on that perfect clit, basking in all the sounds she'd make. He strokes himself faster thinking about the way he'd get her ready to take all of him. How he'd make it so good for her-shit he was going to blow-maybe if he was lucky, one day she'd let him put his cock in her mou-
"Fuck!!" Bucky threw his head back, spurts of cum shooting from his sensitive head, his post orgasm haze leaving him feeling like a filthy old man. She were here making him baked treats and he was jerking his dick off like a sick fuck.
Then the night finally comes. Bucky is ready to cuddle and nothing else but he's thrown off because never in his wildest fantasies did he expect this.
She is the girl who sends him reeling the first time he takes her clothes off one by one revealing dark ink on her back and hips. He has to suppress a growl, his eyes growing wide at the scantily clad lace that covers her body.
"Like what you see, Sergeant?" she practically purrs in his ear while he lets his han ghost over her bare skin, his chest heaving when his eyes fall to her perfect breasts, hints of silver peeking from under her lingerie, there was no way-
"Can I?" He asks breathlessly, his hand reaching behind to unclasp the bra, those pretty pierced nipples begging to be sucked.
Bucky who turns into a fucking menace, his entire world flipping upside down when she grinds down on his crotch not hiding exactly what she needs from him. He doesn't even have the ability to hide how feral he is, letting all his inhibitions slip.
-
"My little bunny's a slut, fuck, c'mere" He grabs you and tosses you over his shoulder, hauling you over to his bedroom like an untamed beast, tossing you onto his bed with no remorse. You're in nothing but your panties which he rips right off, your thighs squeezing together at the way he stalks over to you, his hungry eyes raking up and down your body without an ounce of shame. He tugs his sweats down to reveal his leaky cock, stroking it at the edge of his bed after tossing his shirt off.
"See this baby? Been fuckin' stroking and touching myself like a fuckin' teenager because of you-" He throws off his pants before climbing onto the bed and kneeling between your thighs, spreading them apart with his knees, "-and you've been here lookin' like God damn sin under those cute little sweaters"
He flicks his cockhead against your clit, humming at the clear beads of his arousal that drip onto your cunt.
"Fuck James, need more, pl-"
"Nuh uh, what was that you called me earlier, sweets?" He lets out a dark chuckle, the veins in his cock throbbing as he tightly holds the base, waiting to hear it again.
"Sergeant" you whine with mischief in your eyes and Bucky is a goner. He'll taste you later and most definitely feed you his cock another day but right now he wants to be nowhere else other than your pussy. He wants to watch you take every bit of him, rolling over to lay on his back while you straddle him, his length slotted against your cunt. He holds it up for you with a cocky look on his face, moaning when his tip breeches your tight pussy, your walls gripping his swollen, pink head.
"That's just the tip baby, c'mon, sit on it, wanna put all of my dick in you, that's it, good girl-shittt"
"Oh fuccckk,s'big" You moan feeling the stretch as you sink all the way down, panting and staying still while you adjust to his size.
"That's it bunny, that's it, ride me, ride your Sergeant" He grabs you by the hips, guiding you to grind down on him, making you feel his entire cock in your stomach. "You're a slut for big dick aren't you baby, acting all cute and shy when all you really wanted was the winter soldier's cock"
Bucky wasn't even sure where all the filth spewing from his mouth was even coming from but he couldn't stop.
"S'that it bunny? Say it baby, tell me how much you wanted my fat cock in you"
"Wanted it! F-cuk Sergeant, wanted your cock s-o-so bad!!"
"Fuck yes!!" His feet plant to meet your bounces, his hips thrusting up, slamming his entire length into you. "M'close, fuck bunny, gonna cum already, I can't hold it-
He doesn't have time to be embarrassed. You feel to good. He rubs your clit needing you to cum all over him so he can let go.
"Please, cum all over Sergeants cock baby, give it to me, be a good girl n'cum, c'mon, cum on my dick, yes, oh fuck yes I can feel it-milk it, shit touch my balls-"
You nearly collapse as your orgasm starts to wash over you, his sponge head hitting the most sensitive parts against your walls while he toys with your clit. His voice is muffled as you start to feel waves of pleasure consume you but you head just enough to reach behind, rubbing his heavy, so full of cum ba-
"FUUUCCCCKKK" He grabs you and wraps his arms around your body while he relentlessly thrusts up, biting down on your shoulder while he lets out the sluttiest, loudest moan with 0 remorse. It feels too good and he's sure the neighbors can hear but honestly, everyone should know how amazing it feels.
-
"I got you pretty baby" Bucky coos as you nuzzle into the crook of his neck, a shiver running through you while you float in bliss. Bucky pulls the covers up, deciding to cuddle up with you for a bit before running a shower, his previous demeanor replaced with the far less debauched version of him.
$ log - bucky barnes has been lurking in tower doorways for three weeks trying to figure out how to talk to people. you come back from a mission hurt. he stops thinking about it and helps!
$ warn --sfw --gn!reader --avengers!reader --soft!bucky --awkward!bucky --steve-and-sam-are-proud-parents
$ wc -w 2.6k
$ cd masterlist
$ echo “account's js going to be quiet during the day bc im busy interning, but posts will be scheduled still, maybs” > authors-note.txt
$ vi eyes-on-you first-deployment (related fics)
The debrief runs long enough that by the time you get back to your floor, the common room has thinned out. You can hear the TV distantly — someone left it on, low volume, a laugh track going off for no one. You've got your kit on the bathroom counter and your shirt off. You're already regretting not asking someone to do this before they all dispersed.
The problem with cuts on your back is geometry. Simple, stupid geometry.
You manage the lower ones fine. The upper left (the one that actually needs a stitch or two) is the problem. You can feel it pulling when you reach, and you keep having to re-angle the mirror. So annoying — the gauze keeps slipping since you're contorting your arm in a direction it wasn't designed to go.
This is fine, you think, pressing the cloth to it at the wrong angle. This is completely fine and very normal and you are a trained operative.
The gauze slips again.
You don't hear him in the doorway. You just — become aware of him. It’s similar to the way you become aware of a change in air pressure, and when you clock the reflection in the mirror your first instinct is to go for the knife on the counter before your brain catches up:
Barnes. It's Barnes.
He's leaning in the frame, arms crossed, watching you with the particular expression he seems to wear as a default. Not unfriendly, exactly, just very still. It’s like he's turned most of himself down to a frequency you can't quite tune into.
You'd noticed him around the tower; it’s hard not to. He had this way of hovering near the edges of rooms — near enough to be present, far enough to have an exit, watching conversations like he was studying for a test on how to be a person again.
You'd clocked him lingering near the kitchen while Sam told a story, near the TV while Nat and Clint argued about something. Or near the window during debrief like a curious, brooding version of Thor.
You'd wanted to say something to him about a dozen times and each time you'd talked yourself out of it because you genuinely could not figure out what the opening line was. Hey, you seem lonely felt presumptuous. Good job not being a sleeper agent felt worse.
So you'd just decided not to..
And apparently he'd been doing the same math, which had resulted in him standing in your bathroom doorway at eleven at night watching you fail at first aid.
"Hey," you say, because something has to be said.
He nods, and you turn back to the mirror. "I've got it."
You don't have it. The gauze slips again, proof positive, and you watch his reflection push off the doorframe and cross the room and then his hand — the left one, the metal one, cool even through the cloth — covers yours and just takes it. Bucky wasn’t rough with it nor hesitant, just with the quiet certainty of someone who has decided a thing and is doing it.
You go still. "What are you doing?"
"Helping."
He says it like it's the most obvious thing — like you'd asked him what two plus two was. He's already repositioning, tilting the light, assessing. The efficiency of it catches you off guard, the way he moves through like a checklist: clean, irrigate, and assess depth. You can feel him deciding about the stitch before he says anything.
"This needs two," he says.
"I know."
"You were going to do it yourself."
"I was going to, yes."
He makes a sound, something not quite a laugh — something shorter, quieter. But it's there.
Bucky works without narrating it, which you appreciate. Some people talk through medical stuff to be reassuring and it always has the opposite effect. He just does it, and so the stitches are neat. Tighter than you'd have managed at this angle, if you'd managed at all.
You're watching his reflection without meaning to. He's focused — entirely, completely focused, the same way you'd clocked him watching the sparring sessions from the mezzanine last week. It’s like the thing in front of him is the only thing that exists.
"You had good angles tonight," he says.
You blink. "Sorry?"
"On the entry. The building." He ties off the stitch, reaches for the gauze. "Most people come in high. You came in low and right, cut off the exit before they registered you were there."
You process that for a second.
"You were watching."
"Everyone was watching. You were the interesting part."
It's delivered completely flatly; just a fact he's reporting.
"...thanks," you say.
He tapes the gauze down, smooth and precise, with no wasted movement. "The one by the stairwell. Your second engagement. You knew he was going to draw left."
"He was guarding his right side the whole time. Led with it."
Barnes nods like you've confirmed something. "He'd been hit there before, old injury. You read it in about four seconds."
"Three," you say, and then feel slightly stupid.
The corner of his mouth moves. Not a smile, exactly, but the shape of one. "Three," he allows.
He steps back, checking his work with the same assessing look. You pull your shirt back on and turn around, leaning against the counter. He's already moving to wash his hands, unhurried.
"I've been trying to figure out how to talk to you for like three weeks," you say.
He looks at you in the mirror.
"You're very — " you gesture vaguely, " — a lot to approach. You've got a whole thing going on. Very brooding-corner-of-the-room energy."
He's quiet for a moment, drying his hands. "I didn't know what to say."
"Yeah, me neither."
"So I didn't say anything."
"Same."
He turns off the tap and sets the towel down. Bucky looks at you with that low, even look, and you get the sense he's filing something away — cataloguing this. Perhaps in the way he catalogued your entry angle and the guard's weak side and the two stitches. Just simply noting it.
"Your form on the last guy," he says. "The big one by the door."
"What about it?"
"It was reckless."
You stare at him.
"You had three cleaner options."
"I had him."
"You had him that time." He crosses his arms. "Different footing, you're on the floor."
You open your mouth, close it. "Are you critiquing me right now? You just stitched me up and now you're critiquing me?"
"The two things aren't unrelated."
You look at him, and he just stares back. Somewhere down the hall the laugh track goes off again, tinny and distant.
"Okay," you say. "Fine. What were the three cleaner options?"
And he tells you. Quiet and precise, standing in your bathroom at eleven-fifteen at night, talking about leverage and sightlines and weight distribution like he's narrating a documentary only he can see.
You find yourself arguing back. Though, not defensively, just because you have a different read. He seems like the kind of person who wants you to push back, actually, who comes alive slightly when you do, the stillness shifting into something more alert.
The laugh track goes off again and you both ignore it.
You're still leaning against the counter. He hasn't moved toward the door yet. There's something in the quality of the silence that doesn't feel like an ending, so you don't treat it like one.
"Can I ask you something?"
He looks at you.
"The — " you gesture vaguely in the direction of the rest of the tower, " — social stuff. Is it hard? Like, actually hard, or is that a stupid question?"
A pause. He seems to be deciding something.
"It's loud," he says finally.
"The tower?"
"Rooms. When everyone's — " he stops, and tries again. "When people already know how to talk to each other. There's a frequency. I can't find it."
He says it the way he said three — like a correction. It’s as if he's been carrying the precise language for it and hasn't had anywhere to put it. "I stand there and I know what a normal response would look like but by the time I've worked out how to enter it the moment's already gone."
Letting the conversation sit, you stay silent.
"Steve tries," he adds. "He's — he tries very hard. So does Sam. It's worse when people try."
"Because then you know they're watching to see if it works."
He looks at you; something shifts slightly. "Yeah."
"I noticed you," you say. "Around, for weeks. I kept almost saying something."
"Why didn't you?"
"Couldn't really figure out the opening line. You've got a very — " you make the same vague gesture from before, " — don't approach energy."
"Hm." He considers this without apparent offense. "What changed?"
"You walked into my bathroom and took the gauze out of my hand."
The shape-of-a-smile thing happens again. Brief and almost involuntary.
"I didn't think about it," he says. "I just — did it."
"Yeah." You pause. "That's usually how it works, actually. The thinking is the problem."
He's quiet for a moment. Then, like he's noting something: "You patch yourself up alone."
"I had it."
"You didn't."
"I almost had it."
He tips his head slightly, but not agreeing. "You came back from a mission with a laceration that needed two stitches and you didn't ask anyone."
"I didn't want to bother anyone."
He looks at you with an expression that is very flat and very pointed and somehow manages to make you feel slightly called out without him saying a single word.
"That's different," you say.
"Is it?"
"I'm not — " you stop and start again. "That's just not wanting to be annoying. That's not the same thing as not being able to read a room."
"You were alone in a bathroom at midnight with a needle."
"Barnes."
"I'm just noting it."
"You're critiquing me again."
"The two things," he says, deadpan, "aren't unrelated."
You stare at him, and he does the same. The laugh track plays. You both continue to ignore it.
"Okay," you say. "Fine. We're both bad at it."
He considers this for a moment, like he's checking it for accuracy. Then, quietly: "Yeah."
It's not a big admission, as he doesn't really make it one. But you get the sense it's the kind of thing he doesn't say out loud very often — the small ordinary version of the truth, without the armor around it.
He's still here, you think, and that's the thing. He walked in and he stayed and he answered. He's still here, which for Bucky at this particular point in his grand life is probably the whole sentence.
"We should spar sometime," you say. "You could show me. The three options."
He goes quiet.
Though not the closed-off quiet from before — something different. Smaller, like a door opening somewhere very far inside, in a room that hadn't been unlocked in a long time. Something that, if you knew him better, if you'd known him before — back when he had a whole laugh and an easy grin and twenty-five cents in his pocket for the Coney Island ferris wheel — you might have recognised it as the very beginning of giddy.
He doesn't let it reach his face, but it's there.
"Yeah," he says. A pause. "That sounds good."
It's four words, but it shouldn't land the way it does.
He leaves, and you're standing in your bathroom, alone again. The laugh track plays one more time.
Huh, you think. Okay then.
He finds Steve and Sam in the kitchen at half past midnight. They're doing nothing in particular.
Sam has a bowl of cereal he's clearly eating out of boredom, Steve has a book open that he hasn't looked at in a while. They both clock Bucky in the doorway and do the thing they always do, which is very carefully not make it a big deal that he's there.
"Hey," Sam says. "You eat yet?"
Bucky doesn't answer that. He comes into the kitchen and stops a few feet from the counter — hands at his sides, shoulders back, the posture of a man delivering a report to people with the appropriate clearance level — and says: "I talked to Y/N tonight."
Steve closes his book.
"Yeah?" Sam says, neutral, cereal spoon frozen.
"They came back from the mission with a laceration on their upper back. I assisted with the stitching." A pause. "Then we talked about the mission. Their tactical instincts are good. They read injury patterns. They noticed I'd been — " a very brief stop, " — around. They said I had brooding-corner-of-the-room energy."
Sam's mouth twitches. "They’re not wrong."
"We talked about the social stuff. I told them about the frequency thing." He says it plainly, no preamble, the way he'd report a weather condition. "They didn't make it weird."
Steve's expression does something complicated and tender that he is trying very hard to keep off his face and completely failing at.
"They patch themself up alone," Bucky continues, with the faint air of someone filing a complaint. "They came back with a two-stitch laceration and didn't ask anyone. Y/N said they didn't want to bother people."
"That does sound like them," Sam says carefully.
"It's the same thing. What I do. They just don't see it that way." He pauses. "I told them the two things weren't unrelated."
Sam sets his spoon down very slowly.
"We're sparring next week," Bucky says. "So I can demonstrate the three alternative approaches they should have taken in the final engagement. Their form on the last target was reckless."
Silence.
Steve is gripping his book, but his jaw is doing something. His eyes are doing something considerably worse. He has the look of a man watching a sunrise he'd been told might never come and trying very hard not to ruin it by crying about it in a kitchen at midnight.
"That's — " his voice comes out slightly higher than intended. He clears his throat. "That's really good, Buck."
"They’re good," Bucky says, with a faint defensive edge that no one asked for. "Technically. Their entry angles are efficient. And they process fast. They even asked me a question and then actually waited for the answer."
"Mmhm," Sam says, nodding. Neutral and completely fine. Absolutely not affected by any of this.
"I'm just saying. As context."
"Useful context," Sam says. "Very useful."
Bucky looks between them, and they look back. Sam with a careful, nonchalant stillance. Steve with the barely-contained energy of a man who is sitting, technically, but only just.
"What?" Bucky says.
"Nothing," Steve says immediately.
"Nothing at all," Sam agrees.
A beat.
"I'm going to bed," Bucky announces.
"Good night," Sam says smoothly.
"Night," Steve manages.
Bucky leaves; his footsteps go down the hall, then a door closes.
Steve and Sam look at each other.
"He made a friend," Steve says, at a volume that is too loud for midnight.
"Steve — "
"Sam. He made a friend."
"I know, I was there — "
"They waited for the answer — "
"Steve — "
"They just waited — "
"I will pour this milk directly onto you," Sam says. "Look at me. I mean it."
Steve presses both hands over his face. His shoulders are shaking. It takes Sam a second to clock that it isn't distress — it's laughter, the silent kind. The one that gets away from you when you've been holding something careful for a very long time and something small and good finally tips it over.
Sam looks at the ceiling, picking up his spoon and takes a bite of cereal.
"...they sound good," he says, after a moment. Quietly. "The frequency thing. That they just — let it sit."
"They’re going to be so good for him," Steve says, into his hands.
"We don't know that yet."
"Sam."
Sam takes another bite and looks at the ceiling again. "...yeah," he says. "Probably."
$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @froggibus
summary: as the due date grows closer, so do your insecurities. but lucky for you, you've got the best husband ever to show you just how much you mean to him.
warnings: tooth rotting fluff, hurt/comfort, heavily pregnant!reader (around 39 weeks), whipped!bucky, insecure!reader, clingy!reader, reader's thoughts are in blue and italics, size difference (i love beefy men) reader has medium/long hair, mentions of the unborn child being a girl (girldad!bucky supremacy), kissing, cuddles, moodboard doesn't represent the reader, nth else.
word count: around 1.2k
note: i was working on smtg else but since that's taking me ages to finish, thought I'd speedrun a lil drabble for now 😢
The night was a cold and gloomy one. Colder than it had been in weeks.
You stepped out of the shower, feeling the cool air brush over your skin. A soft towel was wrapped around your shampooed hair, absorbing the moisture while your hands glided over your biceps in a weak attempt to warm yourself up. The friction wasn't strong enough to generate any significant warmth, but it still brought a sliver of comfort amidst the biting cold.
You caught the sight of your reflection in the vanity mirror and immediately looked away. You could barely look at yourself in mirrors anymore. You looked... different. There were stretch marks on your thighs and hips you could've sworn weren't there last month, your ankles were swollen, your face looked tired. Even in the dimly lit room your exhaustion was clear, and you really were tired these days. The uncomfortable, sleepless nights were catching up to you but seeing it reflected back at you made a dull ache spread through your chest.
You didn't even recognise yourself anymore.
I can't even take care of myself, how will I ever raise a whole damn child?
As you stood there in silence, ugly, nagging thoughts plagued you one after another like they did several times a day now. You knew you had nothing to worry about, but the insecurities always won over your conscience. They were manageable at first, but they'd gotten so much worse over third trimester.
What if I'm not ready yet?
What if the baby hates me?
What if I mess up?
You didn't hear Bucky come in. You rarely ever did. For someone as big as him, he moved like he was light as a feather. But you could still sense his presence by the gentle warmth that trailed around him. The warmth that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with a man learning to be gentle again after being feared for ages for the family he never thought he deserved.
His arms encircled you from behind, both of them, the left one which ran a little cooler against your damp skin and the slightly warmer right one. His hands laced together under the swell of your stomach, cradling the bump with a gentleness he didn't know he possessed until a few months ago after you'd learnt about your pregnancy.
As if sensing your discomfort, he peppered your neck and jaw with gentle kisses, holding you against his chest. You knew it was his way of telling you that he was there for you, every step of the way.
You sighed in contentment as his hands unraveled the towel around your hair, gently patting them dry.
"Let's get you warmed up, sweets, yeah?" he cooed softly, kissing your cheek. Bucky guided you to the bed and sat down behind you. His hands held the towel around your hair and dried them off, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.
You giggled softly at his affection, happily leaning into his touch. The pregnancy was making you even clingier than usual. Even the slightest touch from Bucky had you melting these days.
"You okay?" he asked, his voice filled with concern as he propped his chin up on your shoulders, his arms coming to rest over your bump once again.
"Yeah? Yeah. I'm fine."
The answer was a little too quick, a little too high pitched to even be somewhat convincing. You knew you could never hide anything from Bucky. He knew you way too well.
His grip on you grew a little tighter, a clear gesture of worry from him. You cursed under your breath, fidgeting with the hem of your maternity shirt.
"Honey, talk to me," he whispered, his arms letting go of you for a moment to retrieve the hairbrush from the side table.
You sighed, knowing he was not letting it go until you told him exactly what was wrong. Tears welled up in your eyes and you knew Bucky saw them, but he didn't say anything. He just ran the hairbrush through your hair, giving you a moment to collect your thoughts. A soft wince escaped you when he untangled a particularly stubborn knot from your hair, the sting spreading through your scalp.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart," Bucky cooed softly, pressing a kiss to your head. You mumbled a soft it's okay and wiped away a few stray tears off your face, finally deciding to speak up. You took in a sharp breath and organised your thoughts.
You reassured yourself that this was your Bucky and he was safe, he wouldn't ever judge you, he wouldn't give you unneeded advice or tell you that it was just your hormones. He will just sit there, patient and attentive, he'll listen to you, he'll hold you, he'll give you more of that quiet love that still holds a lot of weight.
"Bucky, I'm scared," you finally admitted but he didn't utter a single word, not even a hum. He just let you vent out your thoughts at your own pace.
"I don't know what's wrong with me but I'm so terrified these days," you began and your fingers dug into the skin on your knees, leaving small and irritated crescents behind. Bucky sectioned your hair in three like he'd learnt in all of those braiding tutorials.
"I don't know if I can be a good mom, Bucky," you whispered softly, a tear spilling down your cheek. His face fell at your words and he immediately let go of your hair, gently turning you to face him.
"Hey, now, none of that," he whispered, wrapping his arms around you. You finally snapped and burst into tears. He held you through it, his metal arm wrapped around your waist while the other one stroked your hair.
"I'm just so scared, baby. What if the baby hates me? We're a week away and I don't even have a name for her yet. I'm such an irresponsible mother," you said in between sobs, your tears dampening his shirt.
"I don't even feel like myself anymore. Everything just feels... wrong."
"I don't think I can do it, Bucky."
Bucky held you tighter, gently rocking you in his arms.
"We're in this together, sweetheart and we're always going to be." he whispered against your skin, his lips pressing against your forehead.
You couldn't help but fall for him even harder. He always knew exactly what you needed, what would make you feel better.
"Shh... you're alright, I'm here, okay? We'll figure it out," he cooed, pulling you down on the bed with him. He laid on his side to face you while his arms were still wrapped around you. Your face was buried in his chest and your body shook with sobs. Bucky hated seeing you like this, but he also knew that you had to let it out.
He whispered comforting words against your hair and pulled you closer. The comfort of his embrace calmed you down and your sobs gradually subsided.
You pulled yourself away from his chest and looked up at him. Bucky cupped your face, pulling you into a gentle kiss.
He grinned down at you as the two of you broke the kiss, his cerulean eyes overflowing with love.
"You're everything to me, honey, you're perfect. I love you,"
"I love you too, Bucky,"
Sleep consumed you as the two of you laid together, your limbs tangled with one another. When Bucky was with you, he slept better, he felt safer. You were the key to his heart and you always would be.
note: I hope you enjoyed this! I've written smtg after sooo long so forgive me if my writing's rusty. semi proofread so please ignore any mistakes lol. stay tuned for the next one tho, I'll try to post in a week but no promises!!
Warnings: Injured reader, fluff, angst, kissing, and mentions of blood, broken bones, surgery, and the Blip
Summary: Y/N is an analyst at the compound, but there’s something about her that Bucky can’t quite place. After an attack, he finds out that her secret involves more than just herself.
A/N: This takes place after Endgame, but everybody lives! This fic is probably a little more niche, but I hope you all enjoy it anyway. As always, thank you for reading and supporting me in all the ways you do. Dividers by @firefly-graphics
His new therapist has instilled it in him to look for constants to ground himself, things in his life that he can always count on, though Bucky is fairly certain that that instinct has been there long before the doctor put words to it. He’s always thrived on consistency, even before the war.
By far, his favorite constant is the playlist that Y/N plays every night as she readies for bed. Their bedrooms share a wall. He can vaguely place the instrument as a violin, or maybe a cello, but he’s never had the nerve to ask her which. He hadn’t been allowed to listen to music during his imprisonment, and before he fell off the train, he was always more focused on the company than the background music. He didn’t—and still doesn’t—go to a lot of concerts, either, which leaves him in the lurch when it comes to identifying instruments.
The faint strains wind their way from the speaker in her room to Bucky’s apartment. Every night he listens for it. When the music finally arrives, he closes his eyes and lets it carry him to sleep. On the nights when the nightmares plague him and keep him from fully drifting off, Bucky listens all the way through her playlist. Though he doesn’t know any of their names, he can recognize most of the songs by now, even when she stops them partway through or listens to the same few sections over and over again. The constant rewinding is an odd habit, that much he could admit, but her music has become a source of comfort for him. She rarely adds new songs, too, which he appreciates.
Bucky never mentions to anyone how much he enjoys listening to Y/N’s music. His interactions with her are few and far between, and he knows the team would give him hell if he admitted any kind of link with her. She’d joined the team as an analyst during the last year of the Blip, and she’d moved into the compound when it became clear that she could do her job more efficiently if she was nearby. Originally, she’d had the whole hallway to herself, but once Bucky and the rest of the population returned and the compound had been rebuilt, Bucky took an apartment next door to hers. He hadn’t initially wanted to have a direct neighbor, but Fury had insisted that the units be given out sequentially, and Bucky hadn’t wanted to start a fight. Either way, that part of the residential wing now holds two occupants, both of which keep to themselves. He’s perfectly happy with the arrangement.
“You were up late last night,” Sam says, and Bucky grunts as he pours himself a cup of coffee. It’s thick and dark, which means that he’ll have to add more sugar than usual. Whoever made the pot clearly doesn’t know the value of good coffee in the morning, or maybe they just don’t care.
“Aren’t you gonna ask me how I know that?” Sam presses after a few moments.
Bucky can feel him staring and he sighs, reaching for the glass sugar container pushed up against the wall. Sam takes a sip of his own coffee.
“Did you get your little bird to follow me around?”
Sam scowls, almost a perfect mirror of Bucky’s own expression. “His name is Redwing, and no. I was in Y/N’s room last night. It was pretty late when I left and I could hear you moving around in your room.”
“Oh, that’s not creepy at all,” Bucky remarks. Sam narrows his eyes, which Bucky ignores as he spoons sugar into his mug and then pushes the container back into place. “I didn’t know you and Y/N were friends.”
Shrugging, Sam shifts his mug to the other hand and grabs one of the muffins Wanda had left out for the team. She’s been on a baking kick lately, not that Bucky’s complaining.
“We’re friendly enough. Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Friends with Y/N,” Sam replies.
Bucky glances over at him, suspicious. “No. We only talk when she’s helping on missions. Why?”
Sam only hums in response and takes a bite of the muffin. He’s being obnoxious on purpose, but Bucky doesn’t have the energy to take the bait and fight back. He had been up late the night before. Y/N’s music hadn’t helped like it normally did, so Bucky had worked out on the floor, forced himself to journal for his therapy appointment, and paced the perimeter of his room. By the time he finally wore himself out, the sun was about to rise. He’d only slept maybe an hour before his alarm had gone off.
“She plays louder for you, you know,” Sam says, shouting after Bucky as he leaves the kitchen.
The hallways of the compound are blissfully empty, which allows Bucky to relax a little as he walks back to his room. His temple throbs and he ignores it, taking a sip from his mug. The coffee scalds his throat on the way down. It doesn’t matter—the serum never lets his tongue or fingers be burned any longer than an hour unless it’s major.
Turning down the hallway of his apartment, Bucky pauses for a split-second at the sight of Y/N backing out of her room.
“Good morning, Sergeant Barnes,” she says, shooting him a quick smile.
He returns it, though from the worried look she gives him in response, he can only assume that his expression held more of a grimace than anything.
Y/N turns her attention back to her doorway as Bucky passes by, and he catches a glimpse of a black wheeled case. It just barely fits through the door. She pulls it out of her room and steadies it with one hand when it rocks as it rolls over the vinyl divider separating her apartment carpet from the concrete hallway.
“I’ll see you around!” she calls after him.
Bucky glances back over his shoulder, surprised that she even thought to say goodbye after his initial response, and he lifts his mug in farewell. Y/N smiles again—a warm, devastatingly genuine smile that makes Bucky’s stomach flip and his throat tighten—then turns forward and keeps walking.
Her black case trails steadily behind her. Bucky stares after her for a moment, watching as she turns the corner towards the elevators. He feels like he should know what’s inside of it, but he can’t quite put his finger on whatever it is. The case definitely doesn’t hold weapons, at least not any that he’s seen before, though it’s very possible Stark created new tech without telling him. Then again, Y/N isn't the person to be testing new tech anyway. She has minimal field training; all employees in the compound have to master a list of basic defense skills and she’s no exception. Bucky’s seen her in action. She can hold her own, but she isn’t one to go out of the way to try a new tactic or do something fancy. That means it probably isn't new tech, and that irritates him more. His temple throbs again.
Why can’t I figure this out? What the hell is it?
Shaking his head, Bucky keeps walking and heads into his apartment. The door slams behind him, muffling FRIDAY’s automatic greeting.
“Dim the lights,” Bucky grumbles, and the room immediately gets darker. “Mission status report?”
“Captain Rogers and Agent Romanoff are scheduled to return at 0800 hours. The mission was successful and there were no injuries. Would you like me to contact them?”
Bucky lets out a sigh of relief. “No, thank you.” He pauses, sipping his coffee and staring out at the forest that lines the property. Sam is headed across the lawn towards the tree line, no doubt to test the new Redwing tech he’s been working on with Torres. The soldier had been here earlier in the week. Bucky had hid in his apartment.
“Do I have anything I have to go to today?”
“Your schedule is clear, Sergeant Barnes. Would you like me to add something?” FRIDAY asks.
“No,” he answers, maybe a little too quickly. Then again, FRIDAY won’t judge him, at least not to his face.
The carved wooden coaster Y/N had bought him on the only vacation she’d taken since before the Blip has gotten lost somewhere under the bed. He’d probably knocked it down during a nightmare. Silently, he takes another sip from his mug and then sets it down in the bare spot on the nightstand where the coaster should be before dropping himself onto the edge of the bed. He can feel bad about the water rings on the wood later.
“Is Y/N scheduled to work on any missions this afternoon?” The question escapes before Bucky can even process what he’s thinking, let alone saying.
“Today is Miss Y/L/N’s day off,” FRIDAY reports.
Is it Tuesday already?
Rubbing his eyes with his right hand, Bucky tries to focus. He’s gotten by on less sleep than this before. What’s gotten into him? Why did seeing her in the hallway leave him so rattled?
His phone chimes with a text alert and he drops his hand back down, sighing, then reaches for the device. It’s Steve—they’re on their way back and he’s sent a special report back to Y/N. Though it’s her day off, it’s urgent. Steve asks if Bucky can check in with her to make sure she’s gotten it.
“Why’re you always asking me to ask her this stuff, punk?” Bucky grumbles. He texts that to Steve, then sends another message affirming that he’ll check in with Y/N, regardless of whose job it should be. Steve doesn’t answer.
"FRIDAY, has Y/N left yet?”
“Miss Y/L/N just got off the elevator on the second floor.”
With a groan, Bucky pushes himself up from the mattress and downs the rest of his coffee. He leaves the mug on the nightstand to be cleaned up later, then heads out of his room toward the elevator.
The analysts’ room is only one floor down, but it’s secure and requires a retinal scan or an intense series of passwords. It takes up most of the level, with the exception of a meeting room, the break room, and a small lab where Tony tests his non-lethal designs. There are no windows, mostly due to the confidential nature of the missions, but there is a small one in the break room that Y/N had outfitted with a Roman shade shortly after the new compound had opened. She’d added plants too, claiming that looking at greenery when you’re stressed will help to calm you down. Bucky isn’t sure if he believes her, but when he stays back to help with longer missions, he takes advantage of the window in the break room if the analysts’ room starts to feel claustrophobic.
Y/N’s desk sits against the largest wall of the room so she can have plenty of room for screens, and there’s a glass wall separating her set up from the others. It turns opaque and soundproof at the touch of the button, providing even more confidentiality for important missions. Since joining the team, she’s quickly proven herself to be a vital asset and a good friend to the group. Bucky can easily admit that his job would be a lot harder without her, as would his life. Every mission that she works goes smoother, leaving him with less stress before and after. Between that and the music, life is infinitely better with Y/N as part of the team. Not that he’ll admit it aloud to anyone.
Y/N is now the main analyst at the compound, hence Steve pulling her in on her day off. She won’t complain. She never does. It’s part of what sets her apart from the rest; she, like Steve, never takes a break.
When the elevator doors open, Bucky’s first thought is that the lights shouldn’t be off. Even the emergency panels are dark. His stomach twists in warning, he wishes he’d brought a gun. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Something is definitely wrong. His second thought is that Y/N can’t be here like FRIDAY had told him. If she had come down to the analysts’ room, she would’ve told someone about the lights being off right away.
“Hello? Is somebody there? I need help!”
Y/N’s voice echoes through the dark hallways and spurs him to action. Bucky draws back his left fist and smashes the glass protecting the fire emergency kit built into the wall. He grabs the ax and stalks down the hall on high alert. There are no signs of an intruder, but he grips the handle in his right hand and clenches his other into a fist.
“Y/N?” he calls. “Where are you?”
The relief in her voice makes Bucky’s heart clench. “Bucky! I’m at my desk! I’m— I’m stuck, I can’t get out!”
He practically runs to her desk. The serum sharpens his vision enough that he’s able to see the damaged desks strewn in his path despite the blackout, and he climbs over them or pushes them out of the way with ease.
When he gets to her, Bucky sets the ax within arm’s reach and crouches beside Y/N. His brain quickly catalogues the scene, creating a mental list of all the hazards and threats. With no imminent danger from an assailant, the only threat is to Y/N’s health.
The desk has been flipped and she’s pinned underneath it. Most of the weight is on her limbs, but she’s laying on her back and a spike of panic goes through him when he realizes that she could have spinal damage or internal bleeding.
Several of the screens have fallen from the wall onto one of her legs, and shattered glass litters the floor. The glass wall between her desk and the others has been completely destroyed as well. A loose wire lays nearby and the sharp smell of gasoline burns his nostrils the longer he stays beside her.
“FRIDAY?” Bucky called. When there’s no response, he pulls out his phone and orders it to call Tony. He puts the phone on speaker, sets it in a relatively clear spot on the floor, and turns on the flashlight while the call connects.
“Tony, the second floor’s been compromised. Y/N’s trapped and I’m getting her out now. Have Cho prep the medbay for her.”
Tony’s response is just as urgent as he predicted it would be, and almost immediately, Bucky hears the alarms going off on the other floors. No doubt Sam is running in from the forest now, and Steve and Natasha will be alerted that the compound's been compromised. The call ends and he turns his attention back to Y/N.
She shifts slightly, then lets out a sharp cry of pain and a sob. It rips his heart in two.
Focus, he reminds himself. The longer she’s stuck, the greater the damage could be.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart, I’ve got you,” Bucky soothes. “Stay still for me, okay?"
She inhales sharply and nods. “I’m sorry, Sergeant Barnes.”
“It’s not your fault. I need you to stay still so I can get this off of you, alright?”
She nods again, and Bucky gets to work inspecting the desk and screens. Once he’s sure that moving them won’t endanger her any further, he carefully lifts them up, then away. He moves everything closer to where it belongs and then comes back to where she’s still laying on the floor. She hasn’t attempt to move, though he’s not sure if that’s due to her training or if she’s simply unable to.
“Okay, Y/N. You think you can move?” he asks. “Start small.”
“I think so,” she says, though her voice sounds less than confident. She starts to roll over onto her side, but she jerks back in pain and lets out a shout as soon as she puts weight on her arm. The sound of her crying will echo forever in Bucky’s head, he’s sure of it.
“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “Hold still.”
He looks her over, searching for blood or exposed bones. There’s nothing that seems extremely dangerous for her, though she’s clearly broken at least one bone in her arm and her pants are dotted with splotches of blood from where the glass has cut through the fabric.
Bucky sits up and looks back toward the elevator, listening for any sign that Stark or the others are on their way. All he can hear is the wail of the sirens reverberating down the elevator shaft. He clenches his teeth.
If they don’t get here soon…
Her voices breaks when she pleads, “Stay.”
Y/N shivers as shock sets in, and he can tell after only a few seconds that she’s clinging to consciousness. Her eyes are unfocused, though her gaze is directed toward him. After a moment more, he resolves himself to get her to the medbay on his own.
“I’m stayin',” he promises. With great care, and slower than he’d like given that he isn’t sure where the intruders went, Bucky shifts her legs so that he can slip his arm underneath the backs of her knees. He wants to adjust her hands so that her wrists are crossed over her chest, but his hands hover over her long enough that she realizes his intentions.
“My wrists…. Bucky…”
She’s never called him solely by his first name. His heart squeezes inside his chest, and for a second he thinks he’s having a heart attack. “I know, sweetheart, I know. I’m gonna get you out of here. I’m gonna carry you up to medbay.”
“What?” Panic fills her expression. His breath catches in his throat. “What? No, Bucky, it hurts! Please don’t—”
She lets out a shout when Bucky lifts her up, cradling her against his chest with his right arm behind her knees and the vibranium one supporting her back. Her wrists rest loosely over her abdomen. Y/N continues to shake, both from the shock and the pain, but also from her continued sobs. Her throat sounds raw and Bucky grits his teeth, his own eyes filling with tears.
As he climbs back over the rubble of the analysts’ room, Bucky tries to keep from jostling her as much as possible, but by the time they reach the elevator, she’s passed out with her head slumped against his chest.
He bends at the knees, squatting down just enough to press the button to call the elevator with one finger. When it doesn't light up, he mutters a curse and turns towards the stairwell door behind him. There’s a noise from the other side of the door, and then it flies off the hinges and he finds himself staring into Tony’s palm. It’s already alight with bright white energy and Bucky instinctively backs away.
“Well, don’t stand in front of doors if you don’t want ‘em shoved open! What do we got?” Tony replies. He drops his hand back down to his side, his head turning as he scans the dark analysts’ room behind Bucky for signs of danger or an intruder.
“Power’s out, including FRIDAY and the elevator. I haven’t seen or heard anything since I got down here, but everything’s destroyed and it smells like gas. Not sure if it’s a leak or if they tried to light the place before I got here, but she seems to be breathing fine.”
Tony steps closer. His mask lifts, revealing his face. Bucky doesn’t need any light to see the concern and fear in Stark’s eyes. He’s clearly not the only one affected by Y/N’s state.
“What happened?” Tony asks, glancing down at Y/N.
“I don’t know if they attacked her or if she was trying to keep the information on the computer safe, but I found her pinned underneath her desk. The screens fell, too, but mostly on her legs.”
Tony nods. “Sam’s checking the other floors, but we haven’t found anything. We’ll take it from here. You get her up to see Cho.”
Nodding, Bucky climbs the three flights of stairs to the fifth floor, leaving Tony to search the analysts’ floor for any information on the intruders and their motives.
The medbay is tucked in between the two main labs, where the different researchers have easy access to doctors. They need them more often than they’d like to admit, but thankfully, any researchers in the vicinity evacuated when the alarms went off, leaving the medley clear and the staff free to take care of Y/N.
As soon as the stairwell door opens, Helen is waiting for him. Tony must have relayed that he was on his way up with Y/N, because even when the medical team is ready to stitch people up after missions, they only come running if they knew there’s an emergency. Two medical assistants rush over with a gurney.
“What happened?” Helen asks.
Bucky follows their lead and carefully lays Y/N on the bed as he replies, “She was trapped underneath two smashed screens and a desk. I don’t know what else happened, but she’s definitely injured her arms, wrists, or hands. The cuts on her legs are from the shattered glass. She passed out about two minutes ago, most likely from the pain.”
Helen nods and starts walking behind the gurney as they wheel her away. “We’ll take it from here, Sergeant. We’ll let the team know if there are any significant updates.”
Though he should be relieved that Y/N is in good hands, Bucky’s stomach still twists as he watches the medical team disappear through the double doors and into the medbay. He’s frozen in place as he watches the access light beside the doors turn red, locking out any unwelcome visitors.
A hand on his arm makes him flinch, and he turns, already pushing the person away. Steve immediately backs up to give him space, both hands in the air.
“Whoa, hey. It’s just me, man,” he soothes. “Is Y/N in there?” He nods at the medbay doors, still keeping his distance. He slowly lowers his hands. “Tony told me what happened.”
“The whole floor was destroyed, Steve.”
“Did they hurt her?” Steve asks, a hint of iron in his voice. He clearly doesn’t like the thought of Y/N facing danger alone, either. The entire team loves her. If someone hurt her, they’d pay.
I’d make them pay, Bucky thinks.
“I don’t know.” He clenches his jaw and his fists follow suit. “She was trapped under her desk and two screens, but I swear, if we find out they did something—”
Steve places a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll find them, Buck. Don’t worry.”
Bucky shrugs him off and goes to stare out the windows. As much as he hates to admit it, the sight of all the greenery surrounding the compound helps calm his racing heart, just like Y/N always says it will. For a second, his mind wanders, wondering if he should get a plant for his apartment.
Does she have plants? As soon as the thought crosses his mind, he frowns at himself. Don’t be a creep.
The elevator down the hall chimes, and Bucky doesn’t have to look away from the windows to know that Tony has arrived, along with Sam and Natasha.
“How is she?” Nat asks. Steve answers, and Bucky tunes them out, focusing instead on the tree line and the tangled thread of thoughts going through his head over and over again.
If I’d only gotten there sooner, this wouldn’t have happened.
If I hadn’t gone back to my room to avoid Sam, maybe I would’ve been able to stop whoever it was.
If I’d stopped to ask what was in her case—
Bucky straightens. It’s as if someone has poured ice water over his head. Y/N’s case, he remembers. The strangely shaped black case hadn’t been anywhere near her desk, at least not that he’d seen, but he hadn’t been looking for it at the time. He’d been so focused on helping her that he’d forgotten all about it. If the case holds weapons or Stark tech of some kind, he needs to find it.
“I’ll be back,” Bucky says, already marching past the rest of the group towards the stairwell. “Is the power back on the second floor?”
“Yes, but—”
He ignores the rest of Steve’s response, already flinging open the door and taking the stairs in twos. It only takes him forty-five seconds to get back to the analysts’ room.
With the power back on, Bucky can truly see the damage, and he has to stop in the doorway to catch his breath. There isn’t a single desk, chair, or computer setup in the room that hasn’t been destroyed. From the doorway, he can even see that the lab has been raided, and several people have already begun the clean-up process on that end of the floor. His train of thought sticks for a second, providing him image after image of the horrible things that could have happened to Y/N if he hadn’t gotten there in time or if the assailants hadn’t fled. He pushes them away, focusing on the task at hand.
It takes almost a half hour of searching, but Bucky finally find Y/N’s discarded case wedged upright against a wall by a desk strewn lengthwise on its side. He tips the desk off the case, then lowers it back to the floor with his left hand while he holds the case against the wall with the other.
Unsure of what he’ll find, Bucky lowers the case to the floor and exhales sharply. He kneels down beside it. His hands hover over the strange, curved top for a second while his heart pounds in his chest. If this is a weapon, there’s no telling what might happen when he opens it up. He still has the strange feeling that he should know what’s inside of it, but it’s like his brain won’t focus. He’s used to missing pieces of his memory, especially things he would’ve known before HYDRA. His therapist would be telling him to talk it out and try to make connections between what he knows now and his memories from back then, but there’s no time for that. The only logical thing a case like this could be in the Avengers compound is a weapon, and if it’s been damaged or armed, he can’t risk it.
He pulls out his phone and dials on autopilot. The line connects almost immediately.
“Where did you go?” Steve asks.
“Second floor. Listen, Y/N had some kind of case with her when she was attacked. I’m not sure what’s in it, and if whoever trashed the place tampered with it—”
There’s no cordiality in Steve’s voice when he answers, “I’m on my way.” The call ends a second later.
Steve appears within a minute, walking with purpose across the room. He’s still in his gear from the mission. Behind him, Sam enters in full gear as well, his shoulders tense and his vision focused forward.
“What do we know about the case?” Steve asks as he approaches.
“Nothing, but I feel like I should. Maybe it’s one of those weapons that Stark was talking about last week in the conference room?” Bucky never pays attention during the bi-weekly and post-mission debriefs, and everyone knows. Nobody dares correct him.
Once the two men are close enough to see the case laid out on the floor, Sam lets out a relieved chuckle. “Oh, man,” he says, and he stops a dozen feet away.
Steve stops too, his hands on his hips as he sighs and tilts his head back, closing his eyes. He turns to the side after a second, just enough that Bucky can’t tell his expression, but his posture is infinitely more relaxed.
“What?” Bucky asks, sitting up a little straighter. He hates feeling like everyone knows something that he doesn’t, especially when he already feels like he should. “What is it?”
Sam grins down at him. Bucky has the sudden urge to deck him.
“That’s her cello,” Sam explains, continuing when he narrows his eyes at him, “She must’ve been on the way to her lesson.”
Bucky blinks, and suddenly, everything makes sense. It’s like he’s walked into a brick wall that knocked something into place, and now all the pieces of the story are connecting, one by one. The instrumental music, the way it repeats over and over again, the way the case looks oddly familiar… Everything makes sense.
“She plays the cello,” Bucky murmurs. He stares at the rubble around them, his mind spinning as he uses that information to make sense of so many other interactions he’s had with Y/N, including the one from this morning.
Steve drops his hands back down to his sides. “You didn’t know?”
“No, I—” Bucky clears his throat and glances up at him, then looks away. He turns back to the case on the floor and hastily unzips it. Inside, laying carefully cushioned by black velvet, is a cello. The overhead light reflects off the red wood, showing off the grain, and though a small part of Bucky desperately wants to run his fingers over it—his real fingers, so he can feel the smoothness of the wood and the tension in the strings—he restrains himself. He knows better than that.
“I knew,” he says, quieter than before.
The room falls silent for a few moments before Steve rests his fingertips on Bucky’s shoulder, just for a second, then walks away. Sam follows him, but Bucky doesn’t turn to watch them leave. He sits on the floor beside the cello, just looking at it. He listens to the chatter and the noise coming from the lab clean-up, but mostly, he looks at Y/N’s cello. It’s beautiful, and well taken care of. It’s a miracle that the case protected it from the attack. The case itself doesn’t even look scuffed.
Sam had said she was on her way to a lesson. Bucky hadn’t even known that she played the cello, let alone that she took lessons, though in retrospect, he should’ve figured it out. She’s been playing for him every night for months now. How had he been so blind?
Finally, after the stairwell door slams again and several more moments have passed, he zips up the case. Then, carefully, he lifts it up by the handle at the top, tilting it so the wheels stay solidly on the floor. It takes some maneuvering to get it through the analysts’ room to the now-working elevator. He has to keep stopping to move desks, screens, and toppled chairs out of the way, and each time, Bucky stands the cello case upright, gently supporting it with both hands until he’s sure it’s stable.
After what Y/N’s been through, he tells himself, she doesn’t deserve to have something so important to her destroyed.
He makes it to the elevator and heaves a sigh, but he keeps the cello close until he’s back outside his apartment. He only lets go of it just long enough to get the door open. Bucky stores it on the floor of his empty closet, where he can lay it down with nothing around it. His clothes are all in the dresser anyway, and he promises himself it will only be there until Y/N is safely back in her room, rather than in the medbay.
“Sergeant Barnes,” FRIDAY says, and Bucky flinches. He closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath.
“What?”
“Captain Rogers is requesting your presence in the medbay. He says to tell you that it’s urgent, but that Y/N is fine.”
It feels as if all the tension in Bucky’s body has drained been out through his feet. He hangs his head, his hand on the wall beside the closet door, and nods.
“Okay.” Sighing, he runs a hand over his face and inhales deeply, then closes the door the rest of the way. “Okay. Tell him I’ll be right there.”
FRIDAY doesn’t answer, as usual, so Bucky heads up one floor to the medbay. The rest of the team has dispersed, but Steve remains standing outside the double doors. The light beside them is green. He looks up when the elevator chimes. He still hasn’t changed out of his gear.
“She’s okay,” Steve reassures.
Bucky nods. “I got your message.” He doesn’t have to say it, but they both know that he’s grateful Steve repeated it anyway.
“The doctor says she’ll make a full recovery.”
“Why does it sound like there’s something more?” Bucky asks. Sighing, Steve glances back at the doors.
“Her right wrist is broken and she’s got three broken fingers on her left hand.”
“So she’s out of commission for a while.”
“At least twelve weeks, maybe more, depending on how the recovery goes. She had to have surgery.”
“We’ll have to find someone to help out on missions when she can’t,” Bucky says. “I’m sure that Fury has some kind of hierarchy we can use.”
Steve shakes his head. “Buck, she won’t be able to play cello that whole time. That’s— That’s gonna feel like a death sentence to her. To you.”
Bucky turns and stares out the windows again. A crow flies by, cawing loud enough that he can hear it through the glass.
After a moment, he asks, “Did everyone know that she played cello except me?”
“It was never a secret. It’s in her personnel file,” Steve tells him.
Bucky sighs again. He’s never read anyone’s files. It feels like an invasion of privacy. He’s gone most of his life without privacy, and he hates the fact that anyone can know whatever they want about people in the compound. He refuses to betray anyone else that way if he can help it.
“Listen,” Steve begins, and Bucky turns to face him. “She asked for you.”
“Me?”
He smiles a little, clearly amused, though there are bags under his eyes. He still hasn’t slept since returning from his two-week mission somewhere in the Arctic. “You rescued her.”
As much as Bucky wants to scoff at his friend’s expression, he can’t argue when it comes to Y/N. He just can’t. “Right.”
“Just… Get in there. Tell her to let us know if she needs anything.”
“Will do, pal.” Bucky stays put until the elevator doors close behind Steve and the numbers above them start to descend. He goes into the medbay then, quietly, just in case Y/N is asleep.
“Sergeant Barnes.”
Helen steps into view with a tablet in hand and Bucky straightens. Her presence always sets him on edge, though he knows she’s part of the team.
“Doctor. How’s she doing?”
She gives him a tight, polite smile. “She’s recovering. She’s already awake, and she’s asking for you. I assume that’s why you’re here?”
Bucky nods, then hesitates. “With her injuries… She plays the cello.”
The polite smile turns into a pitying grimace. “It’ll be quite the recovery for her, but Tony has already told us he’s on the lookout for the best physical therapist he can find.”
Already nodding again, Bucky turns towards the doors to the surgical recovery room. He’s been here before, once for himself and once for Steve, and he knows the layout like the back of his hand. He doesn’t need to, however, because Y/N is blinking at him from her bed, her expression soft and sleep-addled.
“Bucky,” she murmurs, and she squints a little. Her speech isn’t quite slurred, but she’s less clear than normal. It makes his heart clench to see her like this. “The light’s are bright.”
“I’ve got it.” He dims them with the switch on the wall before taking the chair beside her bed.
She’s laying on her back with her right wrist on the bed beside her. It’s heavily bandaged. Her left hand is on top of her stomach, also wrapped in clean bandages.
“Thank you.” She closes her eyes and he wonders after a minute if she’s gone to sleep, but then opens them and looks at him intensely.
“You should rest,” Bucky says, and she hums in response.
“Probably. Thank you for saving me. If you hadn’t shown up…” He shakes his head and scoots forward in his seat, putting a hand on her shoulder.
“Someone would have found you if I hadn’t.”
Y/N shakes her head back at him, frowning. He can see the panic forming, an after-thought clouded by the pain medication. “My cello…”
“I’ve got it. It’s in my room.”
“Your room?” She scrunches up her nose at him. “Why?”
He can’t help but chuckle at her. Bucky knows it’s the anesthesia and the drugs, but her expression is far from the ordinary.
“I can’t access your room, Y/N.”
“Oh.”
The recovery room lapses into silence, except for the monitors beside him, but then Y/N says, “I’m sorry I won’t be able to play for a while.”
“You don’t need to apologize. This isn’t your fault.”
“I know. I’m still sorry.”
He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to make her feel better, so he stays silent. She watches him from the bed, her eyes closing further and further between each blink until finally, she just keeps them closed.
Bucky sighs and sits back in the chair. He pulls his hand away when he realizes it’s still touching her shoulder. The sliding doors open behind him.
“She needs to rest,” Helen says. It’s not a statement; it’s an order, and Bucky’s heard enough of those to know which ones are worth following. He stands and nods politely at her, then leaves without another word.
Two weeks later, FRIDAY alerts Bucky to Y/N’s presence at his door. He opens it to find her standing there, her tablet held against her chest with her good wrist.
“Bucky,” she greets, though she’s not smiling.
The fact that she’s still calling him by his first name still makes his breath catch in his throat. “Everything okay?”
“Can you help me with something?”
He nods and steps aside, making space for her in the doorway. She steps inside his apartment, silently taking it in before she takes a seat on one end of his couch. She pulls her arm away from her chest and allows the tablet to clumsily fall to her lap.
“I’m making a playlist,” she explains, “of all the music I normally play.”
“I’m not sure how I can help with that,” Bucky replies, closing the door. He stands near the wall until she glances at the empty end of the couch and gestures with her bandaged hand.
“FRIDAY is great, but sometimes things need a human touch, you know?”
He can’t argue with that, so he nods and sits opposite her. He’s very aware that they’re alone in his apartment for the first time.
How is she so casual about this?
She’s talking to her tablet and he realizes that he’s zoned out on her. Embarrassed, he gets up from the couch and takes the few steps to his bedside, where he’d set down his morning cup of coffee. It’s room temperature now, but the bitter taste is sharp in his mouth and makes him focus on the present.
“See? I really just need help putting them in order,” she’s saying. “FRIDAY put them all on the playlist, but no matter how I phrase it, I can’t get her to put them in the order I want.”
“You’ll have to show me how to do it.”
Y/N looks up at him, as if she’s surprised he’s responded to her. “Really? You’ll help?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
I’d do anything for you.
Seemingly at a loss for words, she shrugs and glances back down at the tablet, then at him again. Then, she says, “It’s easy. Come sit with me and I’ll show you.”
The invitation is simple, and he’s helpless. He sits beside her, closer this time, and takes the tablet from her lap. She explains how to move the tracks around on the playlist—he understands after only a few seconds that she needs help because she physically can’t move them around without the use of her fingers—and he obediently moves them around. Sometimes she stops to ask his opinion on where to place something on the playlist. She hums the main melody when she can, or she’ll have him play part of the track until he recognizes the tune. Much to his surprise, Bucky recognizes all of them.
“I think that’s good,” Y/N finally says, and he locks the screen. It goes dark in his lap. “Thank you. I feel like anyone else would’ve thought this was stupid and tedious, but I like them in a certain order, you know?”
Bucky nods. “I do.” He hesitates, then asks, “Did Helen tell you when you’ll be able to play again?”
She shakes her head and the light in her eyes dims. “No. It’ll be a couple months at least, I’m sure.”
“Oh.”
What am I supposed to say to that?
“I’m sorry,” he tries again.
Y/N forces a closed-lipped smile. It’s half-hearted and she looks down at her lap, where her bandaged hands are resting.
“It’s strange, you know?” she asks after a moment, still not looking at him. He doesn’t respond, hoping she’ll clarify. “Not playing, I mean.”
“You usually play every day.”
“I have for years. The only time I didn’t was right after the—” She falls silent again, and he knows what she means.
The Blip.
“You didn’t disappear.”
“No. But I wished I had.”
“Where were you?”
She inhales deeply, sitting up taller. Nobody likes reliving painful memories, Bucky knows this from experience, but he couldn’t help but ask.
“Playing. I was the principal cellist at the New York Philharmonic. We were in the middle of a concerto, and I was playing the solo when my stand partner just… dissolved. Sometimes I can still feel her ashes on my hands.” Y/N’s voice trembles, but she continues, “There was screaming. My friends and co-workers were disappearing all around me, and even our conductor… He was there one moment and gone the next. I could hear the audience screaming, instruments hitting the floor…”
Bucky wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in close as she begins to cry. He hates himself for dredging up such a painful memory for her.
Idiot, he thinks, as he soothes her with soft noises and murmurs of reassurance. Why didn’t you stop her?
After several minutes, she sits up and he pulls his arm back. Y/N reaches for a box of tissues on the small table beside the couch, but when she’s unable to pull one out without the box sliding out of reach, Bucky stands to get it for her. He holds onto the box and stands off to the side in case she needs another.
“I’m sorry,” Y/N finally says, pinching the tissue with the fingers on her right hand. “I’m a mess.”
“I’m the one that brought it up, I should be the one apologizing to you.”
She shakes her head and looks up at him, her eyes puffy and red from crying. “You have nothing to apologize for, Bucky.”
He nods and sits back down beside her. They sit in silence for several moments before he asks, “Why did you become an analyst? A lot of orchestras kept going.”
Y/N sighs and leans back against the couch. He turns so he can see her better. Her fingers fidget with a hole in her jeans. The tissue she’d used has fallen onto the floor beside her feet.
“It was too hard to be on the stage after what happened, and I didn’t feel… useful.” She lets out a rueful laugh. “It feels awful to say that aloud. I’m a big proponent that music is one of the few things in life that doesn’t need a “use”. It does so much for people, even stuff that we don’t realize.”
“So you went back to school?”
She looks over at him, curious. “I have two degrees. You didn’t know that?”
Bucky shakes his head. “I’ve never read your file.”
“Oh.” Y/N pauses. “I haven’t read yours either, for what it’s worth.”
He’s filled with a sudden gratitude for that and his shoulders drop a little. He hadn’t even realized they’d been tense.
“Anyway, I found any entry level position and then got promoted a few times. I didn’t play for over a year, and then when I finally decided I could handle it, it became more of an escape than anything. I tried to audition for a few things on the side, but every time I felt any kind of pressure to perform, I’d totally break down. It was awful. There was one time that I had a flashback as I was playing. When I finally calmed down, one of the panelists told me that I’d only played two notes before I started hyperventilating. She said I played the whole piece in its entirety before I passed out.”
“I’m sorry.”
Y/N shrugs and glances at him. “It is what it is. I stopped auditioning after that, and it honestly didn’t feel like my life was lacking anything. I was still playing, just in a different capacity. And when Fury hired me and I got to move here, I had more time to play. I wasn’t commuting an hour to my job every day, which was nice. Fury made sure I had access to whatever sheet music I want, and Tony’s continued that.” She smiles a little.
Bucky hesitates for a moment before asking, “Why did you stop calling me Sergeant Barnes?” He’s been wondering for so long that it feels like he might never figure it out if he doesn’t ask.
Why did you say it like that? Idiot, she’s going to think that you don’t want her to call you that!
Her smile falters at the sudden change in conversation. “What?”
“You started calling me Bucky after the attack. You didn’t before.”
“Do you not want me to call you that?” She stands, frowning at him.
Frantically, Bucky stands and scrambles to fix things. It feels like his stomach is eating itself from the inside out. “No, it’s fine.” It’s more than fine. “You just used to be so formal.” I hated it. “And now you’re more…”
“Informal,” she concludes. He nods and she glances at his half-made bed. He’d been in the middle of making it when she came to the door. “Well… you called me sweetheart.”
“I did?” Bucky frowns, his eyebrows furrowing as he wracks his brain for a memory of the phrase. “When?”
“When you were digging me out of my office.”
“I don’t… remember that. I’m sorry,” he offers. He’s always been so careful not to cross any boundaries. Her formality had always been a boundary he’s assumed was purposeful on her part. He’d respected it at every turn, but if he was the one to cross it first, without her permission…
She shakes her head with a small, surprisingly shy smile. “Don’t be. I don’t mind.”
Bucky’s heart skips a beat. His stomach pauses mid-twist. “You don’t?”
“No.” She pauses. “I’ve wanted to call you Bucky for a long time. It felt strange calling you Sergeant Barnes when everyone else just called you by your nickname. Especially since…” Y/N trails off, then reaches down to gather up her tablet. “I should get going. Thanks for your help with the playlist.”
“Since what?”
“Never mind.” She goes to step around him and Bucky panics. He reaches out and grabs her arm, just above her elbow. Y/N pauses and looks up at him. Her jerks his hand away as if it’s been scalded, despite the fact that it’s his vibranium one.
“I’m sorry.”
“I play for you,” says Y/N, plainly. She pauses, then corrects, “I used to play for you.”
“What?” The floor might as well have dropped out from beneath his feet. He can’t quite catches breath. “When?”
“Every night, when you weren’t out on missions. I have since the compound was rebuilt, for months now.”
Y/N steps back over to the couch and bends down so she can gently drop the tablet onto the cushion. She straightens up and looks at him. In the hallway, Bucky hears two of the maintenance personnel walk past, talking to each other softly. He doesn’t place the language, which is a first for him. He’s so used to listening in on other’s conversations, scrambling for every piece of intel he can get about his surroundings, but suddenly, all he can think about is her. It’s the same feeling he’d had when he found her pinned to the floor by the desk, but with less terror involved. His mind is singularly focused on her.
She plays louder for you, you know. Sam’s words from the morning of the attack ring in Bucky’s ears.
“Why?” His voice feels stuck in his throat and he swallows. “Why would you do that?”
Moving closer to him, Y/N reaches up with her right hand. The neon cast has been signed by the rest of the team. Someone’s even drawn a cello near the top, albeit a poor attempt at one. She hovers near his arm before gently placing her hand there. He doesn’t pull away, though he knows she’s moving slow enough so that he has plenty of time to.
She’s smiling. “Because you appreciate it, Bucky. From what I can tell, you love it, for some of the same reasons that I do. When I play…” Y/N inhales deeply and then shakes her head. “It’s peaceful. It helps me calm down when I’m stressed. It reminds me that there’s beautiful things in the world. After some of the missions we’ve done—”
“—it’s hard to remember that not everything’s bad,” Bucky finishes.
“Exactly.” She shifts her hand, moving it up his arm and onto his shoulder. Her cast is bulky and the hardened fiberglass is rough even through his shirt.
“I like you a lot,” she murmurs. “I’ve been scared to tell you until now. Hell, I’m still scared. I think… I think that every time I played for you, I was trying to tell you, but I just didn’t know how to put it into words.”
“I like you too,” he says. The tightness in his chest loosens at the confession. “Will you still play for me when you’re able? Now that I know it’s you and not just a recording?”
She nods, her face breaking into a full, bright smile. “I’ll play for you especially now that you know."
Months later, Bucky finds himself outside Y/N’s door. He fidgets for a second with the flowers in his hands, wondering if he should’ve even brought them in the first place. He takes a step back with the intent to head back to his apartment and leave them there before coming back, but he freezes when the door opens and Y/N meets his eyes.
She’s changed since dinner. Instead of her normal work clothes—black pants and an Avengers-branded shirt—she’s wearing sweatpants and a shirt with the letters “NEC” emblazoned on the front.
Y/N smiles at him, and then her eyes fall to the flowers in his hands and she smiles wider. “Are those for me?” she asks.
“Yeah. I don’t”—Bucky clears his throat—“I don’t know if it’s still the tradition to bring flowers to someone’s performance…”
She reaches out and takes them. She brushes her fingers over the petals and Bucky watches in silence. The scars from the pins in her fingers have healed, though he knows that her hands and her wrist ache when the weather changes, just like his shoulder.
“They’re beautiful. Thank you. But this isn’t a performance, not really. It’s just for you.”
His heart thumps in his chest when she steps out of the way to allow him into her apartment. He’s been here a few times, but not at night. His nightly routine has never included her, not until now.
Her apartment didn’t look much different in the evening than it did during the day. The sun hasn’t set yet, but her blinds are closed, letting in only a little bit of light. The overhead lighting is dimmer as well, and Bucky notices that in the corner where her cello normally sits on its stand, a light has been clipped onto the music stand and the cello is laying on its side beside the chair.
Though he also has a studio, hers is larger, presumably because she’d moved into the compound first. Her bed takes up most of one side, and plants mark every foot or so across the long windowsill. A large one with dinner plate-sized leaves stands guard in the far corner of the room, opposite her cello. The TV on the wall facing the bed is playing something on mute and she grabs the remote from the dresser as she passes by. Y/N turns off the show and tosses the remote onto the bed.
“These really are beautiful,” she says as she grabs a water glass from her bedside table. It’s only half full of water, but she carefully fits the ends of the bouquet into the glass and leans it precariously against the wall. “Where did you even get them? You’ve been here all day.”
“Do you want me to get you a vase? Pepper probably has one somewhere…”
She shakes her head, smiling as she walks back to him. “No. I want you to sit so I can play for you.”
Y/N holds out a hand and Bucky meets her halfway. She grabs his vibranium hand and then leads him to the end of the bed, where he obediently sits. Still smiling, she sits in the chair behind her music stand and picks up the cello.
His breath catches in his throat as he watches her adjust her posture. The bow hovers above the strings for just a moment before she moves it smoothly from one side of her body to the other. The sound is much louder than when he’s listened to her play through the walls and tears well up his eyes immediately.
“What do you want to hear?” she asks, looking up at him.
Bucky can’t tear his eyes away from her cello. He shakes his head, swallowing thickly. “Whatever— Whatever you want to play. I want to hear it all, darling.”
Her smile softens before she closes her eyes and touches the bow to the string. She plays piece after piece, song after song, until Bucky has tears running down his cheeks. He wipes them away so he can watch her clearly.
Y/N sways as she plays, moving with the music in a way that makes him never want to look away from her. She smiles too, and when it turns sad, she frowns a little, her eyebrows furrowing as she attunes her whole body to the music.
The room is barely lit by the time she finishes. He knows it’s late. The rest of the team will have gone to bed already, making him and Y/N the only two still awake. The sky outside Y/N’s windows are dark.
“Bucky?” She sets her bow down and meets his eyes. Her expression flickers when she sees the dried tear tracks on his face. “Are you alright?”
He nods. “Yeah. I’m alright.”
She carefully shifts the cello back onto its side beside the chair, then comes over to sit beside him on the bed. She slips her hand into his. “Whatcha thinking about?”
He looks down at where their joined hands sit between them on the mattress. “I don’t know what to say. It’s even more beautiful now that I know it’s you. Now that I can see you playing. You’re amazing, sweetheart.”
“Thank you,” she says, and he can tell even without looking up right away that she’s a little flustered by the compliment.
“I mean it.” Bucky looks up at her, then takes his free hand and reaches over to curl a finger underneath her chin. He holds her gaze for a moment. “You played beautifully, baby.”
She ducks her head, smiling wide. It’s pure joy, radiating out of her, and it makes Bucky’s chest feel tight.
No longer able to stop himself, he guides her face back to his. When he leans in and kisses her, and she practically melts into him. The mattress dips when she moves toward him, making her slide even further until their hips touch and he’s forced to let go of her hand.
“Stay the night,” she murmurs. She brushes her fingers over his face, trailing them from his temple to his jaw, and he shivers. Her breath is warm and he closes his eyes, just breathing her in.
“I shouldn’t.”
What if I have a nightmare?
The words are unspoken, he’s sure of it, but then she says, “I’ll play for you again if you wake up, if you can’t fall asleep. I’ll play all night for you if I have to, James Buchanan Barnes, I just want you to stay.”
He shudders under the weight of her words. He wraps his arms around her, pulling her into his lap and holding her close, and he buries his face against her shoulder.
“Y/N…”
"Stay.”
“Okay.” He kisses the place where her shirt ends and her skin begins. She brings a hand up to caress his spine in long, smooth motions.
“I’ll stay,” he tells her, and he says it like a promise, one that he intends to keep.
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tags: fluff and humour, established relationship (marriage), parenthood, girl dad bucky, the new avengers (post thunderbolts*), auntie yelena, alexei shenanigans… and bob is an ipad kid.
summary: yours and bucky’s toddler daughter visits avengers tower for the first time and immediately becomes everyone’s favorite. alexei is obsessed. yelena is chaotic aunt. bob is shy. bucky comes back from a mission and goes full soft dad mode. chaos and fluff ensue!!
word count: 2275
A/N: kinda inspired by this fic written by @buckysleftbicep (absolutely loved it) so everyone go check it out right now!! Posting fluff in celebration of reaching 1k followers!
The moment you step into Avengers Tower, your daughter’s tiny hand wrapped in yours and her beloved deer plush tucked under her arm, you brace yourself.
Not for an attack. Not for a mission.
But for them.
Yelena’s the first to spot you from across the lounge, sitting cross-legged on the couch with her boots on the coffee table, casually eating pickles out of the jar like it’s an Olympic sport. Her eyes light up instantly.
“You brought the gremlin,” she says, hopping over the back of the couch like it owes her money. “Finally.”
Your daughter perks up at the voice and lets go of your hand, wobble-running straight into Yelena’s legs. “Lena!”
Yelena scoops her up with practiced ease, already spinning her like a pizza. “You’re taller than last time. What are they feeding you, huh? Dinosaur nuggets? Uncrustables?”
You smile, brushing hair from your face. “Babysitter called in sick. Bucky’s off running recon with Ava and John. It was either bring her with me or let Alpine babysit.”
Yelena shrugs. “Cat would’ve done a decent job.”
But before you can respond, a voice bellows from across the room like thunder cracking through a storm.
“OH MY GOD.”
You freeze.
“THERE IS A CHILD.”
Alexei appears like a bear-sized ghost from around the corner, eyes wide, beard fluffed, hands halfway to the sky in pure dramatics.
“She is real! You made her!” he gasps, pointing between you and your daughter like he’s just discovered human biology. “You and Barnes! You spawned!”
Your daughter clutches tighter to Yelena’s neck, blinking slowly. “…Who’s that?”
“That’s Uncle Alexei, baby,” Yelena mutters, clearly second-guessing every life choice.
“Uncle?” Alexei gasps, one hand pressed to his heart. “She called me uncle? Did you hear that? She has taste.”
“She didn’t call you anything, actually,” you say dryly.
He ignores you, kneeling down like he’s approaching a skittish woodland creature. “Little one. What is your name?”
Your daughter snuggles further into Yelena’s shoulder, unsure.
Yelena whispers it to him.
Alexei lights up. “Beautiful. Like tiny ballerina-slash-assassin.”
Then he spots the plushie.
His jaw drops. “Is that… a deer?!”
She nods.
He gasps. “A baby deer,” he glances directly at you. “You brought Bambi to the Tower. Look at this! I will call her Bambi forever now. This is perfect.”
You groan. “Her name is not Bambi.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Alexei says with utter seriousness. “Her superhero name is Bambi now.” He looks at the plush deer again, as if he needs confirmation. “This is Bambi. Your child… she is Bambi.”
“Why are you like this?”
The elevator dings softly behind you. Bob steps out, hugging a datapad to his chest, eyes flicking up—and stopping cold at the sight of a tiny human standing in the middle of the room surrounded by chaos.
He freezes like he just walked into the wrong universe.
“Oh,” he says, voice soft. “Oh. Um. Hi.”
Alexei scoops your daughter’s plush out of her hands (gently, somehow) and holds it up like a prize. “The deer has arrived.”
Your daughter lets out a tiny, distressed “Nooo!” and Yelena sighs, prying it back and handing it to her. She immediately clutches it to her chest, pouting.
Alexei melts. “She loves it. Look at the loyalty. I respect it. She will be a warrior.”
“She’s three,” you say.
“And already wiser than John,” Bob mutters, sliding onto the couch and giving your daughter a gentle wave. “Hi… I’m Bob.”
Bob offers a cautious smile from his corner of the couch, clearly doing mental math on how to interact with a three-year-old while holding a fragile datapad full of intel. “Is that your deer?” he asks gently.
Your daughter nods, eyes wide but curious.
“What’s your name?”
She hesitates, glances at you, then whispers, “Bambi.”
You sigh. Yelena smirks. Alexei fist-pumps like his soul just ascended.
“Haha! See?! Bambi!”
“She only said that because you pressured her!” you argue.
Alexei ignores you completely, now crouching beside Bob like they’re co-conspirators. “This changes everything. We must get her a cape.”
Bob blinks. “Wait, for the deer or…?”
“Yes.”
Before you can intervene, your daughter climbs out of Yelena’s lap and toddles unsteadily across the rug, her tiny socks making her slide a little on the hardwood. She waddles straight up to Bob and shyly offers him the plush deer for inspection.
Bob stares, caught completely off-guard. Slowly, reverently, he reaches out and pokes it once, like he’s been offered something sacred.
“She trusts you,” Yelena says with a smirk. “You’ve been chosen.”
Alexei claps him on the back. “Welcome to the Uncle Club.”
Bob pales. “I—I didn’t sign up for that—”
“Too late,” Yelena and Alexei say in unison.
You step in before your daughter hands over her entire soul to the team. “Alright, Bambi’s gotta go with me to the debriefing room for a bit. She’s quiet during meetings, I swear.”
“Wait, she’s sitting in?” Bob asks, blinking.
“She can’t stay here,” you whisper. “He’s already planning her costume reveal.” You point at Alexei as you roll your eyes.
Alexei winks. “Tiny leather jacket. I know a guy.”
You hoist your daughter up, her head instantly finding your shoulder, deer tucked between you. She’s calm now, observing the chaos like she’s already used to it—which, to be fair, she probably is.
Yelena holds the elevator door open for you. “Want me to come with?”
You smile gratefully. “Please.”
Bob waves. “Bye, Bambi.”
Alexei bows. “We will train in the art of war when you return.”
As the elevator doors slide shut, you glance down at the sleepy toddler in your arms and murmur, “She kind of is ruling the tower right now.”
Yelena chuckles beside you, hands in her pockets. “Please. Alexei is probably already imagining her leading The New New Avengers.”
———
The common room is unusually quiet.
Which, considering who lives here, means there are only three simultaneous conversations instead of seven, and no one’s actively throwing knives at the wall.
You’re curled up on the far couch with a warm mug of coffee tucked in your hands, your legs folded under you, eyes tracking the scene in front of you with the kind of resigned affection that only comes from parenting amidst chaos.
Your daughter is sitting cross-legged on the rug, her beloved deer plush nestled in her lap, while Bob sits beside her like he’s attending a high-stakes diplomatic summit. His tablet is open, and he’s very seriously showing her a game where she gets to decorate cupcakes.
“Okay,” Bob says, voice calm and precise, “this one has rainbow sprinkles. That means it’s the most powerful one.”
Your daughter giggles, pointing at the screen. “That one’s Bucky’s!”
Bob raises an eyebrow, impressed. “Excellent choice. Very dangerous cupcake.”
Across the room, Alexei is sitting backward in an armchair—knees up, arms draped over the backrest like a golden retriever in a human body—just watching the entire interaction with rapt fascination.
“Look at her. Tactical decisions. Cupcake strategy. She is genius,” he murmurs, eyes wide. “You see this? She will rule us all.”
“Alexei, she decorates cupcakes,” you say tiredly.
“Exactly!” he says, like you’ve proved his point. “That is unpredictable. That is art.”
Bob glances up, sheepish but undeniably soft. “She’s really good at this. Like… scary good. She beat my high score.”
“She’s three,” you repeat for what feels like the hundredth time today.
“Exactly,” Bob echoes, completely serious.
Your daughter turns and beams at you, holding the tablet up in victory. “I made a cat cupcake!”
“You’re a creative genius, sweetheart,” you say with a smile, setting your mug down. “Now let Bob breathe before he has a full-blown cupcake identity crisis.”
“She beat me twice,” Bob mutters, looking at the screen with quiet betrayal.
Alexei grins. “You have been defeated. Welcome to the Bambi Era.”
That makes your daughter puff up with pride, hugging her deer closer. “I’m Bambi.”
You blink at her.
“Okay, okay. You’re Bambi.” you murmur, already accepting defeat.
Alexei makes a dramatic gasp and holds his hand to his heart. “The prophecy is fulfilled.”
And that’s when the elevator dings. The doors slide open with a mechanical hum, and your husband, Bucky steps out—followed closely by Ava, already pulling off her gloves, and John, still mid-complaint about something Ava definitely tuned out five floors ago.
All three look a little winded, mission dust still clinging to them, that sharp post-field energy still buzzing in their shoulders.
Bucky’s the first to clock you.
Then—his eyes land on the small deer-plush-carrying toddler sitting in the middle of the Avengers’ common room rug like she owns the place.
He stops cold.
“What is she doing here?” he asks, blinking like he’s not sure if he’s hallucinating from exhaustion.
Your daughter hears his voice—and immediately bolts to her feet, deer plush bouncing from her arms as she runs.
“Daddy!”
And just like that—everything about Bucky shifts.
The steel in his posture melts in real time. That hard edge in his jaw softens. His arms open like it’s instinct, like they were made just for this exact moment.
He drops his bag without looking. Drops everything.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he breathes, catching her in a sweeping hug and lifting her off the ground like she weighs nothing. “Hi, my girl. Did you miss me?”
She nods furiously, burying her face in his neck. “You were so gone.”
Bucky presses a kiss to her hair, eyes fluttering shut for a second, like the entire day fades away the second she touches him. “I’m here now, baby. I’m here.”
There’s a stunned silence behind him.
John looks like someone just hit him with a frying pan. Ava raises an eyebrow and mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like “holy shit.”
Yelena grins, arms crossed. “Aww. The Winter Soldier has emotions. Someone write that down.”
Alexei is squinting, hand raised like he’s observing wildlife through binoculars.
“She called him Daddy and he went from Terminator to teddy bear in 0.2 seconds,” Bob whispers, genuinely fascinated.
You’re already walking over, arms crossed and smile threatening the edges of your mouth. “Glad to see she’s got you wrapped around her finger, too.”
“She owns me,” Bucky says simply, pressing one more kiss to her cheek. “You should know that by now.”
You snort. “Yeah, well, the rest of the team just found out.”
Bucky turns slightly, finally looking over at the stunned group of adult superheroes who just watched him transform into Dad of the Year.
“She get into any trouble while I was gone?”
“She beat me at tablet games and claimed her superhero name is Bambi,” Bob says numbly.
“She made Alexei cry,” Yelena adds.
“I did not cry,” Alexei huffs, wiping suspicious moisture from his eye. “I was emotionally impacted.”
Your daughter leans back in Bucky’s arms and holds up her deer plush proudly.
“Did you bring me a snack?”
“Your priorities are incredible,” Bucky mutters fondly, already walking toward the kitchen with her still on his hip. “Let’s go find you something good, huh, Bambi?”
She gasps. “You called me Bambi!”
You sigh.
———
Later that evening, the common room has finally quieted. Most of the team has dispersed, save for the ones still floating nearby with post-mission snacks or paperwork. The lights are dimmed, your coffee’s been reheated twice, and you’re curled up in one of the oversized armchairs, finally off your feet.
Across the room, Bucky is sitting on the couch with your daughter perched on his lap, her deer plush tucked snugly under one arm, the other animatedly waving in the air as she recounts—in painstaking detail—every single moment of her day.
“And then Lena spun me so fast, and Uncle Lexi said I was a ballerina, and Bob showed me a cupcake game but I BEAT HIM, and there were pickles but I didn’t want any ’cause they smell bad—Daddy, are you listening?”
She nods proudly. “And the couch is really squishy but not as squishy as ours. But this place has better snacks. And Lena let me jump on the beanbag on purpose. Can I come here always? Please?”
Bucky leans in, brushing a kiss to her temple. “I’ll talk to Mama about it. Maybe not always. But often? I think we can arrange that.”
She beams. “Okay. Also I drew a picture of Bob. He looks like a jellybean.”
You stifle a laugh into your mug.
Yelena slides into the chair beside yours with a quiet flop, arms crossed and an amused glint in her eye as she watches your daughter still rattling off to Bucky like it’s a press conference.
“She is so her father’s daughter,” Yelena says.
You sigh, but you’re smiling. “Yup.”
“Talks like him. Bossy like him. Stubborn as hell.”
You raise your mug. “And weirdly good at knives for a toddler. We’re doomed.”
Yelena snorts. “And you love it.”
You look over at Bucky again—his eyes soft, his fingers gently braiding a bit of your daughter’s hair as she chatters on about Alexei’s beard and how “Lena said I could have a jet one day.”
Your chest swells with something warm and weightless. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “I really, really do.”
⋆⁺₊✧ MASTERLIST
tags: @iamthatonefangirl (dm or comment If you wanna be added to my tag list)
➤ main masterlist (1st part of a series, but can be read as a standalone even though there isn't much peter parker mentioned)
𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗐 yn stark is quite the nepo baby. a party or two never hurt anyone, especially her. when she notices a boy from school at the club, her boldness only intensifies. only starks have that noticeable snarky remark.
𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 ~3k
𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 in this au, the fantastic 4 are still superheroes but still a normal family, valeria is same age as reader, franklin is around five years older, kate bishop is also same age as reader, the main 3 are all nepo babies and disgustingly rich, tony is single, reader doesn't have a mother, reader lives in the tower with the rest of the avengers, underage drinking mentioned, lmk if i should add anything to clarify!
The lounge in the tower smelled of fresh linen and strawberry frosting (definitely from Pop-Tarts), because God forbid Thor eat anything else. I was sprawled across the leather couch as if I owned the place, which I technically did, legs stretched up on the glass coffee table, scrolling through my feed.
The thick steps of leather dress shoes against marble broke through my haze. Then, I heard fabric, a tie specifically, being adjusted for the third time.
“Are you planning to lie there all evening?” A voice came through.
For a second, I didn’t even look up. I rolled my eyes and shut off my phone, placing it on top of a plush pillow. I pushed myself up from my comfortable position and dragged my feet to my father’s side.
“Where are you going, looking like that?” I eyed his suit, pressed to near perfection.
”I didn’t tell you? Swore I did.”
”No, you did not.” I flatly said, crossing my arms. “Definitely did not.”
Dad smoothed his blazer and offered his arm to pull me in a hug. I faceplanted into his breast pocket, squishing my cheek against it. I took in the familiar clean scent. It was somehow expensive, but just him.
“I’m going out on a date,” he proudly announced.
I pulled back and lifted my face to give him a puzzled look. “With who?”
“You’ll know soon.”
“Ah, secretive as always.” I stepped back to look over him again. “Well, I’d suggest putting on some cologne if you wish for her to stay for dessert.”
“And that,” he said, pointing at me as he started to walk towards his room, “is exactly why I came to you, my smartest daughter.”
I rolled my eyes at his corny joke. “Only daughter,” I corrected.
I turned my heel and headed towards his room. The lights were extra bright today for some reason (or the fact that I was still mildly hungover from last night).
“Dad, kill the lights, would you?” I rubbed my eyes with my forearm.
He stopped in his tracks mid-step and turned around, facepalm as clear as day. He flipped a couple of switches, the bulbs now dimming. “Of course. Can’t have my princess going blind, can I?”
I chuckled at his facetious remark before following him once more. “Nope, I’m already expensive enough to maintain.”
“I was thinking Dior, but I wear it too often.” He mumbled, rubbing his chin in thought.
“Yeah, but that attracts more men than women, Dad.”
Dad gave me a stifled laugh as I reached for a bottle in the back of the rack. “How about Viktor & Rolf?”
I gave a spritz on my wrist and wafted it towards me. My sense of smell was analyzing it carefully before I ordered, “Hold still.”
“You’re quite bossy today.”
“And you’d be lost without me.”
No snarky remark came from him this time, because he knew it was true.
“You’re all ready. I will be very disappointed if I see you again tonight.” I smirked to myself.
“Now, why’s that?”
“Because that means she didn’t like you enough.”
Before Dad could respond, I was already halfway through the door.
⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔⎊᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔
“And you’re sure you’ll be alright? No need for a nanny?”
I was back in the same position I was before I was called for my olfactory sense. “I have five nannies right here in this tower. Go. Get turnt.”
He approached me on the couch anyway and kissed me on my forehead before saying, “Dinner is in the fridge, or ask Clint. Or order some crazy takeout. See you, honey.”
“Bye, Dad.”
As I heard the elevator ding, I nearly flew to my room. I shut the door gently and clicked the lock shut before calling my two best friends, Kate and Valeria.
“Y/n! Is your dad around?” Kate asked, curling her thick hair.
“No, actually, he just left for a date,” I said, pulling out my drawers filled with makeup. “Are you guys ready?”
“Yep, almost!” Val said. “Hold on, your dad is getting back out there?”
“I guess so?” I shrugged, setting my phone down before beginning to blend. “Took him long enough.”
“You're not mad?” Kate asked, a brow raised.
“Not really,” I had honestly said. “He had to move on eventually; it’s been almost 18 years.”
My mother was never present, mainly because my dad didn’t allow it. He said she wasn’t ready for a child, not even mentioning a healthy family. He chose me, though, and I thank him for it silently every day.
“I get it. Are you changing right now? Both Kate and I are nearly ready.”
“Yeah. What are you guys wearing?”
“Mini skirt and a tank,” Val said, bronzing her face one last time.
“The dress from the boutique we went to last time.”
“Alright, I’ll be dressed in 10. Meet you guys at the bodega.”
“Bye!” They both squealed.
I quickly slipped into the tiniest miniskirt I bought when I was with Nat and into a top that Val gifted me a couple of months ago before zipping up my knee-high boots.
I opened the door as quietly as I possibly could, peaking out to see if any of the Avengers were sneaking around.
Sneaking out of the tower wasn’t that hard, but it definitely was a pain in the arse.
Once I saw it was clear, I sneaked to the elevator, pressing the bottom floor. When I arrived at the bottom, I went to the back door and slipped out. I’m sure all of Dad’s employees were home by now.
I walked with haste to the bodega two blocks down from the tower, the usual spot where I met up with the girls.
I turned the corner and saw two familiar figures, dressed appropriately for the club.
I ran up to them and gave them a tight hug, happy to see them without the sick school air.
“You both look hot!” I complimented, smiling at the two.
“Look at you! Come on,” Kate said.
As we got in line for the club, it moved progressively. The bouncer let us in almost immediately, too worried about stopping the two guys behind us who were not ready to call it a night just yet.
We already felt the bass in our hearts and stomachs, bumping just as heavy as the A-listers and nepo babies were on something else.
“Drinks are on me,” I said, pulling out my phone immediately. “Daddy transferred money into my account yesterday.”
“I love your dad,” Kate thanked.
“Thanks, love!” Val said, already beaming.
“I know. Everyone does.”
⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔⎊᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔
After a couple of drinks, lots of dancing, and a couple of guys hitting on us, we decided it was time to take some photos on Kate’s digital camera.
“The balcony is outside,” Kate said. “I’ll ask someone to take some of all three of us.”
As we walked, or more so stumbled, to the balcony, the music got a bit softer. The crisp air of New York gave a slight chill to my smooth legs and volume to my hair.
Kate, Val, and I looked amongst the people around the balcony. Most were older adults, people too incapacitated to even hold the camera, or who wouldn’t even look twice at us.
However, I saw two boys who looked our age. One had tan skin and a dorky middle part. The other was a pasty brunette, who sorta looked familiar. They were both sitting at one of the few tables on the balcony.
As Val and Kate were still looking around, I tapped them both, giving a nod in the direction of the two boys.
“Don’t they go to our school?”
“How’d they get in here without fakes?” Val genuinely asked, her lip quirked in confusion.
“Not a clue, but I’m gonna ask.”
I propped myself off the railing and made my way to the two; both looked very deep in whatever they were conversing about.
The one with the awful haircut looked up at me first, in near disbelief that I was in front of him.
“Hi.”
‘H-Hello,” he said. “Hi, Y/n.”
“Hi uh.. Remind me of your name again, please?”
In truth, I did not remember either of their names, and I felt really bad about it, truly. I saw them in the halls sometimes with some people from my math class. However, they just weren’t the usual crowd I hung out with.
“Really?” He sighed. “I’m Ned, and this is Peter.”
I looked at the other boy, and he gave a tight-lipped smile and a short wave.
“Ned, Peter,” I repeated their names. “Would either of you two be a doll and take a photo of my friends and me?”
Ned looked at Peter, then back at me. “Peter got it!” He volunteered his friend.
“What?” Peter squealed.
“Yeah!” he doubled down. Ned turned to me then said, “Peter takes AP Photography, so he’s very good at this stuff.”
Pasty Peter now turned into a warm shade of red from his friend’s boasting. “I’ll try my best.”
“Yay! Thanks, Peter.”
As Peter rose, he shot Ned a grumpy face before he turned it into a smile at me.
He trailed behind me before I told my friends, “This is Peter. Peter, this is Kate and Val,” I pointed to the girls respectively. “He’s in AP Photo, so our photos will be great.”
“We are really overestimating my photography abilities here,” Peter chuckled.
“Just don’t break the camera, yeah?” Kate said as she tossed him the small purple digital.
The girls and I got together and posed as shutters emerge from the tiny thing.
Once he was finished, he went through the history to ensure all wasn't blurry.
Before he could give the camera back, I ran behind him and nudged my head in the crook of his neck to look over his shoulder. “Look good?”
He stiffened up, and I acted as if I didn’t know what I was doing.
“Great. Here you go, Kate.” Peter said as he made his way back to Ned.
Kate grabbed the digital and started examining every pixel with Val, as I told them, “Be right back!”
I caught up with Peter and pulled his arm gently enough to get his attention.
“Hi again!” I gleamed, curious about the boy.
“Hey, did you need more pictures?”
“No, I was actually wondering if you’d dance with me,” I quipped boldly.
“M-Me?” Peter asked in doubt.
“Yes, you. Come on,”
I dragged him back inside to the main deck, the bass and beats pumping back into my system.
I yelled, “Have you drunk anything yet?”
“No, I don’t drink!” He replied nervously.
“Then why are you at a club?”
“Ned dragged me here!”
“Oh well!” I shrugged, dancing to the set.
“Do you know who that is?” I pointed to the DJ booth.
“Uh, no, do you?”
“Yep, that’s Charli. Quite famous, actually. Get a picture of me with her?”
“O-okay!” he yelped as I dragged him towards the elevated booth.
“I don’t have your friend’s camera, though.”
“Use your phone!”
I tapped on the artist’s shoulder before she turned and smiled, already posing for the photo. Once I thanked her, I kept moving to the beat she made on the spot.
⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔⎊᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔
After a bit of dancing and Peter trying to keep up, my body was feeling the impact. I wrapped my arm around Peter’s shoulder, feeling him shiver from my touch. “Hey, can you send me that photo? I think I’m going to call it a night.”
“Yeah, just uh.. I don’t have your number.”
“Oh, yeah, sorry! It's..”
As I read the phone number out, I searched around for my friends.
I saw familiar purple and blue couture before I waved my free arm up, signalling them over.
“I’m ready to head out. You guys coming?” I asked, still wrapped around Peter.
“Yep, I’ve already called an Uber,” Val said. “They’ll be here in four.”
“Peter, what about you?”
“Ned and I are fine, just get home safe. Please,” His tone was soft and genuine.
“We’ll be good. See you at school?”
I then held Val’s arm, walking out.
“Yeah, see you at school.” He finally answered.
⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔⎊᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔
When the Uber came, we all quickly hopped in, the cold air biting worse than before.
“Hurry, come on!” Kate tugged me in.
I was giggling from the adrenaline, as was Kate, and Val was already buckled and four seconds away from emptying half the tab on the leather console.
Once the driver saw all three of us in, she started driving us back home.
I was the last to be dropped off, thankful that I saw the other two make it home safe. Hopefully, Franklin let Val in. Kate probably went in through the window.
I thanked the driver before getting out, going in through the same door I came out from. I took the elevator to the main floor before rushing up the stairs, just in case. I saw the package that I left on the counter was still there, so I knew Dad wasn’t home.
I slipped into my room as silently as I could, locking the door and immediately falling backwards on my bed. I felt my clothes clinging to me, bound by sweat. I unzipped my skirt and let it fall to the floor, tossing it in my hamper to worry about later. Just as I was about to lift my tank off, my phone buzzed.
An unsaved number had sent me an image. Peter, of course.
“Here’s the picture. I think she asked you to send it to her, too.”
“Thanks, Peter! Will do.”
I sent the photo to Charli before heading to the bathroom to finish my nightly routine.
⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔⎊᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔
My blinds were doing a poor job of what they were made to do, the amber sun glossing over my large room. I gave up on trying to get more rest, pushing myself up to get ready for the day.
I grabbed a hoodie from my ottoman and struggled to get it on, my eyes still adjusting to the brightness.
I made my way to the kitchen, still yawning. There sat my Dad, Nat, and Steve.
Nat and Steve looked at the ground, avoiding eye contact with me. My father, however, looked straight at me, arms crossed.
“Good morning,” I greeted as I reached for a muffin on the counter.
“Anything to tell me?”
“No, why?” I asked, mouth full of blueberry and brown sugar.
Dad slid me his phone, his eyes still on me.
I hesitantly reached for the phone, still chewing on the warm pastry.
When I fully analyzed the photos and headline, I nearly choked.
───────────────────────
E! News - 7h ago
“Nepo Baby Y/n Stark found at New York City’s biggest bar with friends and DJ Charli XCX - Father Tony Stark is nowhere to be found?”
E! News Last night, Yn Stark, 18, was seen at a club, partying with her fellow A-listers and nepo baby friends. Although pictured with few, some familiar faces like Charli XCX, Kate Bishop, and Valeria Richards were seen with the teen. Many are asking where the girl's billionaire father is.
user0 her dad couldn't rent out the club for her?
user1 shes litch just a girl btw
user2 ok but look at her, val, and kate's outfits
user3 irresponsible, just like their parents!
user4 looks the fantastic 4 4got their kid again lol
user5 charli xcx sneak
user6 why are we acting like they just slaughtered a family of 5 LMFAOO
───────────────────────
“See anything wrong?”
I swallowed, “Yeah! They called me a nepo baby. I have a personality. That should count for something–”
“Y/n. What were you thinking? You got the paparazzi and news thinking I can’t take care of a teenager?”
“Dad, it is not my fault they don’t allow anyone under 21 at bars.”
My dad looked at Steve and Natasha, waiting for them to chime in.
“Well,” Steve started. “It is pretty serious, N/n. You’re lucky you're not in trouble with the law for the drinking.”
I sighed, dropping my attitude a tad. “Okay, fine, maybe I went out.”
Dad only pinched the bridge of his nose harder, “And don’t even bother saving Kate or Valeria. I’ve already notified Reed, Sue, and Eleanor.”
“Dad! Seriously? Why bring them into it?” I whined, more upset that my friends are going down with me.
Nat finally spoke, “You three were being irresponsible.”
“I don’t see the major issue. We didn’t drink and drive, we didn’t go home with any randoms, and we were back before sunrise.”
“You not seeing the larger issue has me a little concerned,” Steve remarked.
“Deeply concerned.” Dad corrected Steve. “You’re grounded, young lady.”
“What would you like me to do now, hm? Because I can’t turn back time. And I know you won’t lock me in this damn tower.” I snapped.
“That’s another week without an allowance. And on top of that, you’re not doing anything for the long weekend.”
“Come on, Tony,” Steve tries to reason. “What’s she going to do for five days?”
“You gotta be a little fair, Stark,” Nat said as she ran her hand through her hair.
“Alright, Alright. I have a better punishment.”
I raised my eyebrows, already imagining what Dad was gonna do. No shopping trips for the month? No Cabo during spring break? Oh no, what about making me help him find a different date?
“You’re coming with me to Japan.”
“Really? Oh my gosh, can we-”
“..For a business convention.”
“I’d rather stay locked in the tower.”
“You can’t be kidding!” Dad laughs out of shock. “You don’t even have to be with me the entire time. It’d be nice to show your face in public with me sometimes, y’know. Make the people know I’m not just the best businessman in the entire world, but also a father,” he shrugged with a smirk.
I groaned dramatically, taking my muffin back to my room, but not without dragging out my groan.
“Better get started packing, young lady!”
⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔⎊᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔
aaa i tried a new formatting! i hope u guys like it heh also again, lmk if u have questions or anything i should rewrite for clarification, i havent watched hawkeye so apologies for anything wrong</3
synopsis – bucky shows up for family friday day for your daughter.
fluff
she was ecstatic.
you could see how her tiny legs swung eagerly from the edge of the chair as she kicked back and forth. her hair was pulled into two pigtails that bounced with every excited shift in her chair. she kept looking at the door, eyes wide, for the moment she'd been waiting for all week.
today was her day to bring her dad to class, and saying she loved her dad was an understatement. she adored bucky.
you tried to keep the lesson moving, but the other kids were also whispering and giggling, feeding off her energy.
outside the classroom, bucky stood, adjusting the cuffs of his suit. he'd fought hydra operatives, aliens, and androids, he'd stood in congress facing the most ruthless critiques, but none of that had made him sweat like this. he was trained to face enemies, not five-year-olds in circle time. today wasn't about politics or missions, it was about being a good dad, the kind who shows up on time, brings the juice boxes, and knows the names of at least three cartoon characters.
—alright, everyone! —you announced, clapping your hands once to pull the kids' attention back to you. —it's time for family friday! —she sat up straighter than you'd ever seen her, eyes moving fast from the door to you and back to the door. —whose parent is coming today?
a chorus of voices answered all at one, —rebecca's!
—can i please go get him? please? pleasepleaseplease?
you laughed, —of course, go ahead.
and she was out of her seat like a rocket, pigtails bouncing, sneakers squeaking across the classroom as she threw the door open and there he was, just where he said he'd be. bucky's eyes met hers and everything felt lighter, the tight lines around his mouth eased, his lips curved into a smile.
she threw her arms around his waist. the kids inside the classroom leaned across their desks, trying to catch a glimpse of the man they'd heard so much about. bucky gently placed one of his hands in the back of her head, steadying himself more than her.
—hey, little one.
—guys? why don't you come in with all of us? —you asked.
—come on, —rebecca murmured. she grabbed his metal hand without hesitation and led him inside the classroom with all the confidence in the world. it didn't occur to her, not even for a second, that bucky might be nervous because to her, he was the bravest person alive.
as they walked in together, the class went silent except for some surprised gasp and quiet murmur. they both stood in the front of the classroom. your daughter's small hand still gripped his metal fingers. you watched them as bucky said good morning to the class and the kids responded with a chorus of greetings. you and bucky shared a quick look and you showed him a soft smile that you hoped it'd let him know how proud you were of him.
—thank you, mr. barnes, for being here with us today.
—thank you for having me.
the exchange was so formal it felt funny, like you were both playing roles. —okay, rebecca, —you said, the smile still on your lips. you had to remind professional but they were so cute together. your daughter looked at you and let go bucky's hand to approach her desk. she grabbed the piece of paper she'd been writing all week. she hurried back to bucky's side, —why don't you introduce your dad to us?
she nodded and looked up at bucky, her eyes sparkling with pride. then her eyes focused on her uneven handwriting on the paper. bucky watched her with a curious tilt of his head, eyebrows raised. he didn't know there would be a paper, something she'd made just for him. you didn't tell him about it, even though you'd watched her all week in class draft and redraft the paper, brows furrowed in that serious way she got that was just like his.
—this is my dad, —she started, voice weak at first thanks to the mix of nervous and excitement. —his name is james, but everyone calls him bucky, and he's a 108 years old.
a few of the kids exchanged wide-eyed glances, unsure if they'd heard that correctly. bucky gave a subtle glance in your direction and you couldn't help but let out a chuckle.
—he works in congress. he helps making laws and he has to wear a suit. this suit, —she pointed at bucky's clothes, making sure everyone saw him clearly. the suit was deep blue, the american flag pinned on the lapel. he was so handsome, especially today, with that sparkle in his eyes that only came when he looked at his little girl. —he's also a superhero like my uncle sam and he has fought a lot of bad people with him.
the kids recognized the name sam because if your daughter didn't brag about who his favorite uncle was at least twice a week, it meant she was probably home sick. bucky let out a quiet laugh and shook his head. he always felt like the word superhero was too big for him, like it belonged to the people who hadn't made the mistakes he had. but coming from her, it felt right-sized, even some quiet earned.
—but a long time ago he used to be a soldier and he had to wear this, —she reached under her t shirt, pulling out his dog tags. they dangled from the chain, too long for her tiny frame and almost reached her belly button as she held them up for everyone to see.
—my favorite memory with him is when this summer we traveled with mom to wakanda. i got to see shuri and she showed me a lot of cool things. wakanda is so beautiful, i like it there, —she cleared her throat. she sounded a little robotic reading, trying hard to read each word exactly as she wrote it, which only made her cuter. —i like when he's home. i like when he plays with me and alpine. i like when his hair is long because i can make him pigtails like mine, —she pointed at her own pigtails. the kids in the classroom giggled and so you did.
—i think he's the bravest dad and the funniest and the best one, and he's also my favorite superhero, —she put down the paper when she finished and everyone in the class started clapping for her, even bucky who was trying to hold it together and had to swallow the lump in his throat.
bucky knelt down and she quickly wrapped her arms around his neck. —you did amazing, bug, thank you, —he whispered. her arms tightened around him.
—it was great, rebecca, thank you, —you said, trying to hide that you've got a little emotional too. —so now, —you clapped, getting everyone's attention. —who has a question for rebecca's dad?
a dozen small hands raised, waving in the air with urgency. some kids even half-stood in their chairs, calling you ms. barnes! ms. barnes! bucky tried not to smile, it felt strange and right at the same time.
—is your dad a robot, 'becca?
your daughter blinked, caught of guard. —he's not a robot, he's my dad, —she looked at you confused. a robot? you smiled to ease her nerves. you knew why the kid was asking, kids notice everything.
—why do you think mr. barnes is a robot?
the kid pointed at bucky's left hand and your daughter's eyes followed his finger. —that's his arm, —she said plainly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. it was so normal to her that she forgot to mention it on her paper, it was like saying he had brown hair.
—it's metal, —bucky finally spoke, his voice gentle, raising his left arm so the class could get a good look. he slowly opened and closed his fingers, the soft, mechanical sound leaving the kids speechless. —made by really smart people. they built it after i lost my real arm so i could still do everything i used to do.
—and it's so strong and cool, and he can still do everything, like throw me really high in the air and catch me, and also this! —rebecca looked at bucky and he extended his metal arm straight out in front of him, wrist locked. rebecca jumped and wrapped her hands around his forearm, legs swinging beneath her like a tiny acrobat.
a chorus of whoa and giggles filled the room. they asked him a lot of question about his arm: can it break a door? (only if the door really deserves it) can you use it to open pickle jars? (yes) does it hurt, mr. barnes? (not anymore) can it fall off?
—it's not like legos! it's part of him! can your arm fall off? —you daughter said, defensively.
—okay, you can sit now rebecca, thank you, —you jumped gently in before it turned into a debate. she looked at her dad one last time before moving to her desk, —next respectful question for mr. barnes? not about his arm, please, —some kids lowered their hands. —what about if we ask him about his job? —a hand in the back shot up. —yes?
—do you have to do homework in congress?
bucky chuckled, then gave a kid a serious nod. —oh yeah. lots of homework. i have to read really long reports, like this long, —he held his hands apart. —sometimes more. and then i have to write notes and be ready to talk about them in front of a bunch of people.
you bit your lip, fighting the urge to laugh. he did not read a single one of those reports. you shot him a quick, teasing look and he just smiled back at you, as if to say, don't spoil my fun.
—do you live in the white house?
rebecca looked from her sit right, then left, eyebrows raised like she was trying to figure out if the question was a joke. —no! he lives in our house. with me and mom and alpine.
bucky pressed his lips together and nodded, —she's right.
you watched as the questions kept coming, one after another, each more curious than the last. no other dad or mom who had attended to friday family had ever received so many questions. the kids were absolutely fascinated by bucky. and he was handling perfectly, laughing with them, answering to every question kindly, never rushing, making sure each child got their turn, even one of your shyest kids asked him if he could shook his metal hand. bucky looked at you for a quiet okay, then rolled up his sleeve just a little, offering his hand to the kid.
he was doing great and your daughter seemed to know it. she sat up a bit taller, legs still swinging from her chair. while bucky was talking, you caught her sneaking glances at her classmates like saying, see? that's my dad. and the look of pride in rebecca's face as she looked at him calmed every nerve in bucky's body. of course, rebecca didn't know about this but last night, after he tucked her in bed, bucky came into your room, worried about today. what if rebecca realized he wasn't as cool as the other dads? what if she ended up embarrassed by him?
you managed to reassure him enough to get him to sleep but nothing you said compared to the reassurance he felt now, because as he stood there in front of the classroom, surrounded by eager little faces, rebecca's blue eyes, like his, were shining. she wasn't just smiling. she was beaming, like bucky was the best part of her world.
and in the middle of this precious moment, you couldn't help but notice the couple of seats empty at the back of the class.
some parents decided not to bring theirs kids to school that day. when you sent that email to them, announcing that rebecca's dad was next in line for family friday, the last thing you expected was to called into the principal's office the next morning, where you found a handful of moms and dad already seated. are you sure that's appropiate? with his past? some of us are uncomfortable. we don't want our children near him.
you sat through the meeting, jaw tight. be careful, that's my husband you're talking about. you said to one of the moms who was getting to comfortable talking about bucky, tossing around words like unstable and dangerous. you explained that he was pardoned, publicly and legally, so there was no reason to question him. and you said enough, there was no reason you needed to list the therapy appointments, the years of community word, the fact that he woke up every morning wondering if today would be the day everyone finally saw him for who he is, not who he was, all of that for people like them.
and the principal had to side with you. there was no reason for him to stay out of family friday and even though bucky didn't know why those kids weren't here today, and if he asked you wouldn't tell him the truth, you couldn't help but feel bad for him. because he showed up here today just as a dad, doing what be knew best, being there for his daughter.
he stayed during the break and the kids wasted no time. a small group, leaded by rebecca, rushed to him. come on, mr. barnes, we'll show you the reading corner. bucky looked slightly overwhelmed but the smile never left his lips. you moved with them, pointing out little projects hanging on the wall and bucky nodding, paying attention. when the kids huddled up in a corner, discussing which drawings he absolutely had to see first, bucky reached out, his arm slid around your waist as he pulled you closed and you let yourself lean into him.
—you're doing great, —you whispered.
about the drawings, he had already found the one he was most interested in. stuck to the wall, it was almost everything green with colorful flowers and a big lake so he guessed it was meant to be wakanda. in the center were three figures one with your name, next to you it was written me ('becca) and dad (bucky). alpine was there too, a little white cat in the corner, she didn't travel to wakanda but that didn't matter to rebecca, she needed to be included in the drawing.
he pressed a kiss to your temple. you looked at the clock on the wall, —okay, guys, mr. barnes needs to leave now, —you could hear a collective complain, —let's give him a big thank you for coming today.
a chorus of thank you, mr. barnes rang out from the kids, some of them waving excitedly, others wanted one last fist bump from bucky as they called his name, even one, the quietest of your kids, moved toward him and he pressed a golden sticker star onto the vibranium of bucky's hand. —thank you, buddy, —the kid hurried to his place.
rebecca ran to his dad and bucky was quick to catch her in a hug.
—can you stay a bit longer?
—i wish i could, bug, —he pulled back enough to see her face, brushing some dark brown locks like his out of her eyes. —i have to go back to work, but thank you for sharing your class with me, i had so much fun, —rebecca's face scrunched in disappointment, only focusing on the fact that bucky needed to leave. —i'll see you later at home.
—before dinner?
he nodded and she threw her arms around his neck again, tighter this time, hiding her face in the curve of his shoulder. when she finally loosened her grip, bucky gently set her back down on the floor. you walked with him to the door, some kids calling his name one last time. he let out the biggest breath when the door of the class closed behind you, like he'd been holding it in the whole time.
—how was i? i think she was happy, wasn't she? she seemed happy.
you nodded, smiling. —you were amazing, buck, —you tucked in the lapels of his suit jacket, running your thumb over his u.s. flag pin.
—i kept thinking i'd say the wrong thing or that i'd embarrass her.
you shook your head as he spoke. —you didn't. you were patient and funny. she kept looking at you like you hung the moon, —bucky rubbed the back of his neck, you asked, —did you hear what she wrote about you?
bucky's heart shrunk remembering it, her daughter's tiny voice reading out, all proud, and let's said, a bit cocky, like she already knew her dad was the best one. —i want that paper. i'm gonna frame it and put it up in my office.
you laughed and tugged at the lapels of his suit jacket, pulling him down to you and pressed a kiss to his lips. he hummed into it, like he'd been craving that exact moment since he slipped out of bed in the early morning. once you pulled back, he placed another quick kiss to your lips.
—i'll see you at home. i cannot wait, i want to hear everything she said about me again, every word.
you playfully slapped his chest, —do not let it get to your head, mr. barnes.
authors note: Okay, so this idea is so silly and stupid, but I like it okay?! So, yes, I decided to write a secret Tumblr user Bucky fangirling over their teammate. And because I wanted to add some comedic elements, I made Bucky not even create an alter ego, his love for his teammate might as well be plastered across a billboard if his account ever reached popularity (I envision his blog having less than 200 followers.) Anyways, I hope you guys like this turned out!
synopsis: Bucky being aloof was nothing new. It was his thing, okay? But would you believe it if he was secretly the account owner of a blog dedicated to you? Fanart, fan fiction, thirst posts, you name it. Discovering the page while scrolling through Tumblr, you couldn't help but be amused by the whole thing.
The mission had been a nightmare. Three days of tracking, two of fighting, and now you were finally back at the Avengers compound, nursing a bruised rib and slight limp. Bucky had been your assigned partner for the mission, as per Steve's strategic pairing.
You'd always thought Bucky was a bit aloof around you. Not rude, just reserved. He'd nod in acknowledgment, offer tactical advice when needed, but rarely engaged in the casual banter you shared with other team members. Steve had assured you it was just Bucky's way, that he'd warm up eventually.
"I'm heading to the debrief room," you told Bucky as you passed him in the hallway. "Steve wants us to go over the mission report."
He gave that slight nod you'd become accustomed to. "I'll be there in five."
As you walked away, you didn't notice the way Bucky's shoulders relaxed, nor did you hear the soft sigh of relief he exhaled once you were out of sight. He pulled out his phone, opened Tumblr, and began typing furiously.
For the past eighteen months, Bucky had maintained a secret identity online. WinterShield, a fan account dedicated entirely to you. His blog was a collage of mission photos (some official, some surreptitiously taken), analyses of your fighting techniques, and, most embarrassingly, fan fiction he'd written about you.
Thinking that the account would never see the light of day, Bucky didn't see the point of keeping his identity a secret. After all, who in their right mind would think that the official Bucky Barnes would be on Tumblr and not some role player? Opening the draft section, Bucky's latest post was already taking shape.
THEY DID THE THING AGAIN. That move where they disarm three guys in like 2.5 seconds? I'M SCREAMING. And then they looked at me, AT ME, and asked if I was okay. ME. The former assassin who definitely was not having heart palpitations because their teammate looked at them with concerned eyes. NOPE. Totally cool over here. Just casually internally combusting.
Afterward, in the quinjet, they kept adjusting their tactical gear, specifically the left shoulder strap where it was rubbing against their bruised ribs. I wanted to offer medical assistance but instead I just sat there like a malfunctioning robot, probably looking constipated. WHY AM I LIKE THIS?
Bucky hit post. This was his release valve, his way of processing emotions that still felt too big and too complicated for his post Hydra brain. The anonymity (or lack thereof) of the internet allowed him to express what he couldn't in person. That he was completely, utterly smitten with his teammate.
A week later, you were browsing Tumblr during some downtime, scrolling through fan theories about recent Avengers missions and liking fanart. However, one particular post caught your eye. As you began reading, a strange feeling washed over you.
The details were uncannily specific. The way you'd hidden your injury during the last mission, the exact sequence of moves you'd used against the final opponent. But that was public knowledge, right? Anyone could have pieced that together from mission reports.
You decided to keep reading.
Afterward, in the quinjet, they kept adjusting their tactical gear, specifically the left shoulder strap where it was rubbing against their bruised ribs. I wanted to offer medical assistance but instead I just sat there like a malfunctioning robot, probably looking constipated. WHY AM I LIKE THIS?
Your hand flew to your mouth. That specific detail, about your left shoulder strap, was something only someone on the quinjet would have known. Something you hadn't even gone to the medic bay to get fixed.
Frantically, you scrolled through WinterShield's blog. Post after post, detail after detail that was too precise to be coincidence. Photos taken from angles only a teammate could achieve. Descriptions of your habits, your expressions, your mannerisms.
And then you found it, a post from six months ago titled "Coffee and Kindness":
TODAY THEY BROUGHT ME COFFEE AND I'M PRETTY SURE I STOPPED BREATHING FOR A SOLID MINUTE. They remembered how I take it. Extra sugar, black otherwise. HOW? Is their superpower mind reading? Do they have a secret file on everyone's beverage preferences? I'm not even mad, I'm impressed. And also maybe a little aroused. OKAY A LOT AROUSED. SEND HELP.
You couldn't help but laugh at the all caps enthusiasm. This wasn't just a fan. This was a full on stan, and based on the details, there was really only one person it could be.
"Steve?" you called out, your voice shaky with laughter as you found him in the common area. "You need to see this."
As Steve read through the blog, his expression shifted from confusion to shock to concern. "This is detailed and very enthusiastic."
"You don't think…" you couldn't finish the thought, giggling now.
Steve's eyes met yours, full of dawning realization. "The all caps posts about tactical gear, the detailed analysis of your fighting style...there's only one person who could have written this."
You decided not to confront Bucky immediately. This was too entertaining to end so quickly. Instead, you decided to conduct a little experiment. The next morning at breakfast, you made sure to sit across from Bucky.
"Morning, Barnes," you said with your brightest smile. "Sleep well?"
He nearly choked on a piece of pancake. "Fine. You?"
"Couldn't sleep," you replied, leaning forward slightly. "Too busy thinking about that mission debrief we have today. I'm really looking forward to working closely with you again."
Bucky's fork froze halfway to his mouth. "We…we have a debrief?"
"Yep," you said, popping the 'p'. "All day. Just the two of us. In a small room. With lots of paperwork."
Later that day, you checked WinterShield's blog. Sure enough, a new post was up:
THEY SIT ACROSS FROM ME AT BREAKFAST AND ASK IF I SLEPT WELL. I DON'T SLEEP. I HAVEN'T SLEPT PROPERLY SINCE 1945. BUT TODAY I ESPECIALLY DIDN'T SLEEP BECAUSE THEY LEANED FORWARD AND SAID "LOOKING FORWARD TO WORKING CLOSELY WITH YOU." I think I short circuited. Sam had to check if I was still breathing. I wasn't. I'm writing this from the afterlife where I will spend eternity replaying that moment in my head.
You were practically crying with laughter. This was your new favorite hobby.
The next day, you upped the ante. During training, you "accidentally" brushed against Bucky more times than strictly necessary.
"Oops, sorry," you'd say with a wink each time. "Guess I'm just clumsy around you."
By the end of the session, Bucky was a flustered mess, barely able to complete his training routines. That night's blog post was a masterpiece of keyboard smashing:
ajskdhfaskdjhfg THEY KEEP TOUCHING ME. "ACCIDENTALLY." THEIR HAND BRUSHED MINE SEVEN TIMES. SEVEN. I COUNTED. I'M NOT EVEN SURE MY NAME IS JAMES ANYMORE. IT MIGHT BE "THE PERSON WHOSE TEAMMATE KEEPS 'ACCIDENTALLY' TOUCHING THEM." I WOULD ACCEPT THIS NEW IDENTITY. GLADLY.
You decided it was time to put Bucky out of his misery. During movie night, you strategically positioned yourself next to him on the couch, "accidentally" falling asleep and resting your head on his shoulder. You weren't actually asleep, of course. You were listening to his increasingly panicked breathing.
When the movie ended, you "woke up" with a stretch.
"Oh, sorry about that," you said, pretending to be embarrassed. "Guess I was more tired than I thought."
"No problem." Bucky said, but his voice was an octave higher than usual.
"You know," you said casually, pulling out your phone, "I was reading this really interesting fan blog earlier. WinterShield? Have you heard of it?"
Bucky went rigid. "I don't really follow fan content."
"Really? You should," you said, turning your phone to show him the blog. "They have some interesting perspectives. Like this post about how I 'accidentally' touched them during training. But the strangest thing is that instead of the reader being faceless, it has you being the recipient. Every single post."
Bucky's eyes widened in horror as he stared at the screen, then at you, then back at the screen. His mouth opened and closed a few times, but no sound came out. The blush that had been creeping up his neck suddenly exploded across his face, turning him a shade of red you'd previously only seen on the team's warning alerts.
"That's…that's just a coincidence," he finally managed to squeak out, his voice cracking. "Lots of people look like me."
"Bucky," you said, your tone softening slightly despite your amusement. "The post includes detailed descriptions of your tactical gear. Unless there's another one of those running around, I'm pretty sure it's you."
He slumped against the couch cushions, looking utterly defeated. "How long have you known?"
"About a week," you admitted, unable to keep the grin off your face. "I have to say, your all caps posts about my 'combat hair' and 'mission face' are my personal favorites. Very passionate analysis."
Bucky buried his face in his hands. "I'm never using the internet again."
"Oh, don't say that," you replied, nudging his shoulder playfully. "Where else would I get such detailed compliments about my 'strategic genius' and 'battle ready physique'?"
He stared at you, completely dumbfounded. "You…you read them all?"
"Every word," you confirmed. "Including the one where you described my 'eyes like molten chocolate' and 'smile that could stop traffic.' Though I think you might have been exaggerating a bit there."
Bucky's blush returned with a vengeance. "I…I was…it's called creative license."
"Well, Mr. Creative License," you said, reaching out to trace a line down his metal arm. "I was wondering if you'd like to get some coffee sometime? No audience, no blog posts. Just you and me."
He looked like he might actually faint. "You…you want to get coffee...with me?"
"I do," you said firmly. "Unless you'd rather write about me from afar?"
"No!" he said quickly, then cleared his throat. "I mean…yes. To the coffee. Not to the writing from afar."
"Good because I'd much rather have the real thing than read about it."
Bucky's eyes widened at your implication, but he managed a nod. "Friday? Seven o'clock?"
"It's a date." you confirmed, giving him one last wink before walking away. That night's WinterShield post was short but sweet:
I HAVE A DATE WITH THEM. AN ACTUAL DATE. I'M PRETTY SURE THIS IS A DREAM AND I'M GOING TO WAKE UP ANY SECOND. IF THIS IS REAL, I MIGHT ACTUALLY EXPLODE FROM HAPPINESS. SOMEONE PUNCH ME, BUT NOT TOO HARD BECAUSE I NEED TO LOOK GOOD FOR FRIDAY.
