The tower is dark when Tony arrives back. There’s a quinjet on the landing platform, the sunlight is shining brightly onto his skin – a stark contrast in comparison to the cold he felt back in Siberia – and the inside of the penthouse is clearly darkened.
That makes Tony frown; he thought Peter was here? Or does that mean that he’s still asleep? Why would he still be sleeping? It’s almost past noon, Peter’s usually awake around nine?
“FRIDAY, light?” he asks, and immediately the daylight passes right back through the windows and Tony can finally see where he’s walking again.
“Welcome back, sir.”
“Where’s Peter?” he asks.
“He’s in the living room, currently asleep on the couch,” FRIDAY tells him. Tony nods, walking through his workshop and quickly checking if everything is still alright here. Then he moves out, takes the elevator up, and walks straight into the living room. So Peter’s on the couch, Tony isn’t going to wake him just yet. There’s a talk they’re going to have here, and Tony knows it’s not going to be a pleasant one. Too much crap has happened – so much that even Tony can’t really think much about it.
(He did, back in the quinjet; he put in the coordinates to New York, and then put FRIDAY on the wheel as he took a moment to have his inner panic attack. It wasn’t pleasant, and it still hurts his chest to think about it – though that could be the shield-shaped bruise he’s gotten onto his torso now.
Coming across a certain Wakandan Prince carrying a bound Helmut Zemo back to his own aircraft, they came to an understanding. Tony would take the quinjet, and T’Challa promised to take Steve and Barnes along with them. At least that way Tony knew that Steve would safely find his way out.)
Heading to the kitchenette, Tony takes all he needs to prepare his hot coco. It’s what his mother made for him whenever he wasn’t feeling well, and he knows Peter isn’t going to feel well after this. The way the kid looks up at Steve, watching him with such adoration. He’s going to take it really hard.
Tony promised to do his best and bring him back here. He failed. He’s the one who pushed him away.
His eyes sting when the memory of a video image comes back into mind, and he shakes his head, holding back a sob. No, not now. Not here. He needs to hold it together, at least until he’s told his story to Peter.
On his way to the kitchenette, he comes across Peter’s phone on the counter. It’s vibrating, a vaguely familiar tune indicating that he’s getting a phone call. Tony takes the phone into his hand, but doesn’t pick up.
Steve’s name is written on the screen. Tony shivers, shaking his head. Of course Steve would try and call up Peter to tell him he’s not coming back. It’s the least he can do.
The phone call stops, and all Tony can then see is a picture he’s only seen shortly in passing. Peter never really likes to show it, uneasy to talk about it. And even now it feels slightly like he’s invading his privacy, but Tony still finds himself staring at the picture in the background.
It’s Peter and Gwen. It must have been winter, since they’re both wearing bonnets. Peter is smiling at the camera, without the ghosts in his eyes. Without the trouble Tony keeps on seeing in him when he looks at him. Peter is happy, with Gwen’s hand on his one cheek and her lips against his other.
She was so young… poor girl, Tony thinks to himself. They had been dealing with Ultron back when it happened, so they weren’t in New York. To imagine, had Tony not created such a mess, they might have been able to save her.
Then, taking another quick look at the picture, Tony is reminded of a lazy Sunday morning a few weeks back. Steve slept in for once, and it came to the rare point where Tony was awake before him. Tony had pulled out his cellphone and woke Steve up by kissing him on the cheek, exactly at the same time that he took a picture. It had been a good one, and it’s still, currently, saved onto his phone.
Best to just put the phone down, he realizes. Peter is not going to like him going through his stuff. Tony sighs and lets it go, finally heading to the kitchenette and preparing the hot Coco.
Once it’s finished, he takes the two mugs and makes his way to the couches.
“Peter, are you awake?” he asks. “Listen, I made some hot coco. There’s something we need to talk about.”
Once Peter comes into view, Tony frowns. There he lies, his son, deeply asleep on the couch. The one thing standing out immediately being the massive black eye he’s sporting. Only then does Tony notice the bruises on Peter’s arms, the paleness in his face. The mess that his hair has become.
“PETER PARKER?” he almost shouts, mostly trying to just wake Peter up. It works; the teenager startles and drops out of the couch, tangled into the blanket.
“Dad? You’re back already?!” Peter calls back, trying to get out from his own trap on the ground. Tony just stands there, holding the two mugs into his hands and frowning down at his son, who is looking like somebody has been using him as a personal punching bag.
“Peter Parker, why are you bruised all over?” he asks, using his serious tone. Peter swallows nervously, standing up at last. Wearing only a t-shirt, he fails at trying to hide the bruises on his arms away.
“It’s, uh- I was- uh…” but then Peter’s eyes go wide, quickly looking around Tony in search for something. “Dad, where’s Steve?”
Tony doesn’t answer. Instead, he puts his brains to work. Thinking back of Peter’s phone, the familiar tune of his ringtone. He was sure that he heard it before, and now he remembers. On the plane. On their way to Berlin.
“FRIDAY, where’s the Spider-Man suit currently located?” Tony asks, ignoring Peter’s question.
“The suit is currently underneath the couch Master Parker had been utilizing,” FRIDAY answers.
“Dad, tell me, please!”
Tony ignores him. He drops the mugs down on the coffee table and kneels down on the ground. Ignoring the pain in his left shoulder as he leans on it, he reaches underneath the couch and finds there the familiar fabric of the suit he’s been working on with Peter.
“Peter, why do you have the suit?” he asks but another part of him knows the answer. It’s so obvious. The way the kid’s voice seemed to sound familiar, no matter how much he tries to shield it away. The way they’re the same height, age, have the same sense of humor. The fact that Peter was there when Gwen Stacy died. The web-shooters…
The way it was obvious for Tony that the kid didn’t want to fight Steve. Because Peter wouldn’t want to do it, yet he still did it because Tony asked…
The ringtone…
“Dad, where’s Steve?” Peter keeps on begging, tears clear in his eyes. But all Tony can see is red from anger; how could he not have seen this before? Had he known, he would never have pulled Peter into this. This whole fight; it shouldn’t have been with Peter. The fact that he just asked his son to practically fight against his other idol – his other father-figure…
What does that make of him?
“Why do you have the suit?!” he bites at Peter, but then he sees Peter’s face again as if for the first time. Eyes red from the tears, Peter stands there, bruised and broken, begging Tony for an answer. He wants to know where Steve is, he’s begging here, and all Tony can do is snap at him. All he can do is being a horrible father; again.
And Peter flinches a bit when Tony stands up, dropping the suit back onto the ground. Then, after a few seconds, Tony opens up his arms and immediately, Peter practically jumps into them. With his face pressed against Tony’s shoulder, he sobs it out, letting go of the tears and the uncertainty.
Of course, this causes for Tony to let out his own tears, as well.
“I’m so sorry, Peter. Steve… it was all my fault,” Tony admits. Peter doesn’t answer. But what can he say?
Putting his hand behind Peter’s head, he pulls him even closer.
“But we’re going to be fine; it’s going to be okay,” Tony assures him, even though he doesn’t really believe it himself. The idea of having to go on without Steve grounding him just feels like agony.
But he supposes that’s what it’s like, being a dad. It’s all about pretending to think everything will sort itself out. And maybe, if he thinks it for long enough, he might even believe it.
I made this comic ages ago and decided to give it a color up. I wasn’t good at backgrounds then, and I’m still not good at it now, so obviously I gave up with it halfway. This was made even before I wrote out the chapter, so there are some differences between the two.
In Being a Stark, Peter finds out that Tony Stark is his biological father and he tries to get to know him better. This particular scene is from chapter 26 of the story, right after Civil War where Tony has just returned from Siberia, still hearbroken about Steve’s betrayal, only to find a surprise about Peter back at home.
The story has superhusbands, and is thus Superfamily, and has a happy end despite the many heartbreaks I’ve put these characters through.
I’m not a comic book artist. It’s not perfect, I didn’t have a definite drawing style, back then so it kind of looks like shit sometimes, but I remember that I put a lot of time in it back then, so it’s still kind of precious to me.
Another addition to my collection of homey/domestic!Steve Rogers fics! Thanks so much to the anon who requested this! I had a lot of fun imagining it lol. Hope it lives up to your concept!!! <3
(Not my gif, creds to the original creator!)
“And 1, 2, 3, 4...” the instructor commanded, tapping her feet on the smooth wooden floor to keep the tempo. A group of small kids immediately all tried to place their arms in the air in the same poses their teacher was showing them, small giggles and wriggling bodies coming from the majority of them.
Steve couldn’t help but smile seeing Sarah’s ‘concentrated’ face. There were some days when she really looked like (Y/N), others when Steve could swear he actually saw his mother in her. Today, with that furrow of the brow and tight lipped mouth, Steve knew he saw himself.
The supersoldier loved sitting on this somewhat uncomfortable bench while halfheartedly listening to the gossip that the moms were spilling to each other. Every Tuesday, every week, he was here. Always early by half an hour, because it took Sarah a while to get ready, and always with his eyes glued on his little ray of sunshine.
Steve did everything in his power to avoid missing one of Sarah’s dance practices. He loved seeing her learn to perfect moves and couldn’t imagine what it would be like if he had to go through the rest of his week without seeing that beaming smile on her face. It took a lot of time-organizing though. In order to be available on Tuesday evenings, it meant that Steve had to stay late at the complex on Thursday and Friday nights, even dragging into the weekend sometimes, so he could work with the team. This meant he missed out on seeing Sarah learn how to swim at the local pool, but (Y/N) and Sarah were all too happy to know that he was eager to watch her dance.
As Sarah’s practice ended today though, he strained to hear the news the teacher was announcing that made all the kids scream with excitement, bouncing up and down in their large studio. He raised an eyebrow as the class was dismissed, Sarah sprinting over to her father with the widest smile he’d ever seen.
Although Sarah knew very well that her father was the one who brought her to her dance classes and was always there to pick her up, she always seemed very excited to find him still seated there waiting for her.
“Daddy daddy! Did you see me?” Sarah squealed, jumping into his outstretched arms. He chuckled as he saw that same excited glint in her eyes that he had seen in (Y/N)’s eyes. His fingers moved to brush some of her baby hairs away from her eyes.
“I did, little bean,” Steve grinned, kissing the top of her head. “Did you listen well?” He asked her teasingly.
Sarah nodded firmly, tugging on his shirt.
“Did Ms. Ana tell you something? You’re more excited than usual,” Steve pointed out, surprised that she hadn’t just burst out into whatever the news was.
Sarah nodded again, bouncing eagerly, “Ms. Ana says that we’re going to have a recital showcase next month! We have to go get the pamphlet from her at the front! You and Mommy can get tickets! We can invite Uncle Bunny and Uncle Sam and Auntie Nat and Auntie Wanda and Uncle Tony and Auntie Pepper and Morgan and Uncle Thor and-”
Steve smirked a little at just how she went on and on about the Avengers. He noted how attentively the other moms were listening, hearing all the names that Sarah so clearly wanted to invite. Steve quickly picked up the pamphlet from the dance instructed, gave her a smile and a wave as a thanks, and listened more as Sarah babbled on and on about how excited she was for the showcase, even while she ate the small ice cream Steve bought for her on the way home.
“You’ll come see me, right daddy?” Sarah finally asked and Steve’s heart strings tugged. He looked at her through the rear view mirror of the car and bit his lip. Her eyes were wide in expectation, her bottom lip sticking out and her two tiny hands grasped in a plead around her ice cream cone.
“Of course, bean, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“You told her you’d go?” (Y/N) asked, surprised, as the two of them got ready for bed later that evening.
Steve huffed as he slunk into bed, staring at the ceiling, “She just... she had that look like if I said no, she’d cry.”
(Y/N) giggled, pulling the covers over her shoulder as she slid into bed next to her husband, “I know, you’re a sucker for puppy dog eyes. But are you even sure you’ll be in the country next month? What about that HYDRA raid?”
Steve sighed, letting out a small whine. Sometimes he hated his job.
T-minus 32 minutes, Steve reminded himself, glaring at his watch as if it would bring him more time.
He was an absolute mess, his stealth suit covered in all kinds of filth. But there he was, Captain America with his battered up body and shield, standing in line at a shop.
The lady at the counter was surprised to find Steve next in line, “How can I help you today, Sir?”
Steve stammered out some noises, finally deciding on a purchase and quickly paying for them. The rest of the customers and workers stared as Steve frantically grabbed the gift from her hands, quickly paid for it, and shouted a thank you over his shoulder as he started to run.
Traffic was bad today and he knew he’d never get there in time if he took the car.
So he ran.
T-minus 21 minutes. Steve Rogers was running down roads, quickly yelping apologies to anyone he almost smashed into. His hands held the wrapped gift close to his body and under his shield so as to not ruin them, hopping and skipping every little corner he could.
T-minus 10 minutes. Steve impatiently waited for the light across from the dance hall to change. He groaned as he stared at the clock on his phone, knowing he still had to make it up the stairs of the hall and through different hallways to get to the seating area.
His phone rang as he tapped his foot. He only picked it up because Bucky was on the other end,
“Where the hell are you?” Bucky’s voice hissed.
“Almost there!” Steve yelled into his phone, sprinting across the road and sending an apologetic look to the car who had to break quickly to avoid hitting him. “Running up the steps now!”
“Well hurry the hell up, everyone’s already here!” And with that, Bucky hung up.
T-minus 2 minutes and Steve was rushing through the already crowded seats. His eyes whipped around frantically, searching for the faces he was looking for.
“Steve!”
(Y/N) laughed when she saw him, completely head to toe a mess and out of breath. “The hell are you doing here?” She asked, shaking her head at the sight. She shot a playful glare at the rest of the Avengers who were all seated around her, giving her innocent smiles as if they hadn’t known that Steve was going to try his best to make it tonight.
Steve panted for a few moments more before slumping into the chair next to her.
They were a few rows back from the stage, brilliant seats to see the show from.
“I told her I’d come,” Steve insisted with a weak smile. “I’d hug you, but you look so pretty in that dress I don’t wanna mess it up.”
(Y/N) had never been so attracted to the man. She quickly pulled him closer to her, kissing him eagerly like she had wanted to do so for the past few weeks.
“Yuck, guys, you know this is a kids show right?” Sam kicked at their seat from behind them.
Bucky joined in, tapping his foot against (Y/N)’s seat, “Yeah, sheesh, we don’t need another baby running around. We can barely manage to babysit just her.”
“That’s your own fault for being so impossibly bad at babysitting,” (Y/N) shot back with a laugh.
The event was definitely supposed to be a bit more formal and Steve was a little embarrassed as he settled in, knowing people were staring at him for a) showing up in his Captain America uniform and b) making a complete fool of himself running in here. Even the rest of the Avengers were all dressed, including Morgan who bounced up and down excitedly on Tony’s lap, wearing a bright pink tutu.
“I wanted to match Sarah!” Morgan told Steve with a smile, showing him how her tutu swirled around her.
Steve gave her a high five, “You definitely get your style from your mom,” he teased.
Tony looked shocked, “How dare you,” he huffed.
“It’s okay, Mommy says the same thing,” Morgan nodded with a smile.
Soon the lights were dimmed and spotlights on the stage beamed bright. Steve moved to put the shield at his field, leaving his gift hidden behind it. (Y/N) intertwined her fingers into his as they shared a smile before the music started to play.
There was nothing more that Steve wanted in that moment. His little girl was dancing to music he had heard a thousand times before, doing the same dance he had seen her practicing at home, and yet he wanted nothing more for it to keep going and never end.
Sarah was full of giggles as the lights came back on. The kids were all bowing and of course, parents and friends were giving them the standing applause they deserved. It was an adorable and funny show, as it should be. Steve wanted to run over and envelop his daughter in a hug but (Y/N) quickly pointed out that they were taking group photos.
When it was finally time for the parents to get their kids from off the stage, Steve bolted with his gift in hand. (Y/N) rolled her eyes playfully, knowing Steve had always had this same amount of eagerness since they had started dating.
“Daddy!!!” Sarah screeched, her scream lost in the large wave of kids yelling to their parents. But Steve heard her. He grinned as she jumped into his arms (ruining her costume with dirt and filth) hugging him tightly. “You came! You came! I knew you’d come! Uncle Bunny said you would!”
Steve held her for just a moment longer, taking a breath and forgetting what had happened the few days prior. “I told you, bean, I wouldn’t miss it for the world. You were incredible, hm?” He grinned.
Sarah beamed happily, squealing as she saw her mom and all the Avengers come over.
“Our little girl is a professional dancer huh?” (Y/N) giggled, kissing her daughter’s cheek. “Did you have fun, peanut?”
Sarah nodded happily, “I didn’t forget anything!!” She said excitedly.
“Well in that case, we’ll have to ask your teacher for the recording huh?” Bucky grinned and Sarah reached out to him for a hug. Bucky happily took her out of Steve’s arms, brushing some of the dirt off her outfit and setting her on his hip.
“Daddy got something for you, peanut,” (Y/N) smiled.
Sarah’s eyes widened as Steve held out to her a small bouquet of pink roses.
“They match my dress!” Sarah screeched, holding them excitedly. “Daddy, this one is red!” She pointed out.
Steve grinned and patted her head gently, pulling the red out one. “That’s cause it’s for mommy,” he turned to his wife, who rolled her eyes playfully.
“Steve,” she protested with a laugh.
“Ew,” Bucky whispered to Sarah, making her giggle while she watched her parents.
Steve just grinned and shook his head, leaning down to kiss (Y/N)’s nose, “You didn’t think I’d forget about my first favourite girl did you?” He whispered playfully.
“Maybe not, but you know what you did forget?” (Y/N) giggled.
Steve’s eyebrows furrowed quickly, reminding himself that this month was neither their anniversary or her birthday. “What?”
“Your shield,” snickered (Y/N) making Steve groan. He quickly excused himself from his daughter and wife, and the rest of the Avengers, apologizing quickly to the stage managers who had found his shield on the floor and gave him a stern talking to about bringing weapons into the theatre.
(Y/N) and Sarah both laughed at how guilty Steve looked, but it was alright in the end as Steve told them that next time he would leave it at the checked coat counter.
“I swear to God, Rogers, if you lose that shield one more time!” Tony shrieked, Morgan and Sarah going into fits of giggles.
Every dance recital after that, if Steve couldn’t wiggle himself away from a mission or manage to be home by then, there would always be a bouquet of pink roses on the porch waiting for Sarah to come home.
A bouquet of pink, and (at least) one lovely red rose for his wife.
** ** ** ** ** ** **
Hope you guys enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!!!!! I really do have a soft spot for the idea of Steve Rogers having a family and literally doing everything he can for his little girl <3 wholesomeeeee.
Summary: You had a rocky relationship with Bucky. This fight ended badly.
Warnings: Extreme angst (a couple illusions to smut)
A/N: You guys showed a lot of love to my last angsty-song fic, so I wrote another to rip your heart out! This song is called “Good Stuff” by Griff. It’s amazing and I put my own twist on it at the end. Sorry in advance, this one killed me too.
...
The beginning was pure bliss.
Laying in bed with him, cooking with him, laughing with him. You wish that you could go back and wrap that all in a box with a pretty bow on top to save for a rainy day – you wish you could feel that feeling again.
You’d never felt so free. Those moments where the only thing you had to do was look into his blue eyes, sparkling with life, crinkles forming around the corner of his eyes as he laughed hard. It was a genuine laugh; you’d been with him long enough to know that from a polite chuckle. You’d only seen him laugh like that around you – only you. Not when it was his friends, not when it was a group of all of you; it was reserved for those moments with you, laying in bed with the sunlight bouncing off his golden skin.
Oh, I try to rewind
Every scene in my mind
And for you, I’ve got tunnel vision
And I’ve blocked out every collision
Even the little stuff felt like the world could stop right there and you’d be satisfied. Like you could just live the rest of your life in his arms and forget about everything else in the world. Oh, you wished.
One night you two baked a cake. “Come on, “(Y/N),” he laughed, grabbing the spatula out of your hand, stirring the contents of the bowl rapidly. “There’s no way this is enough frosting.”
You swatted his arm, laughing softly. “How much frosting do you really need, it’s one small cake.” He rolled his eyes and lifted the spatula out of the bowl, licking it clean. “Save some for the cake!”
He dropped the utensil in the sink, grabbing you with both hands and hoisting you up on the counter. “It’s sweet. I like it.” He pressed a kiss to your lips; he tasted like chocolate buttercream. “Sweet like you.”
You rolled your eyes this time, laughing at his sappy remark. You stick a finger in the bowl, tasting it off your finger. “It is pretty good, not to pat myself on the back,” you hummed.
Bucky swiped his finger in the frosting a laid a fat blob on the tip of your nose. You gasped, swatting his hands away. “Aww,” he cooed, grinning widely. “You look so cute like that.”
You tilted your head to the side, returning his grin, coating your fingers in frosting that you ran down his cheek. You took him by surprise, Bucky’s mouth falling open with laughter as he suddenly grabbed your face and licked the tip of your nose.
One afternoon you two went on a walk. The first official day of spring and it wasn’t raining. You warmly welcomed it, the first day in a week that it hadn’t stormed. You pulled Bucky out of bed that Sunday morning, slipping on your shoes, and dragging him out the door. He didn’t protest at all on the way, seeing you so excited to enjoy the spring weather was better than sleeping-in. He’d choose you any day over sleeping.
You two walked hand-in-hand down the path in Central Park, sipping on the coffee you got from Starbucks on the way. You walked around in silence, maybe pointing out the blooming flowers on the side of the path or the budding trees.
He had spent most of the morning looking at you, a smile pulling at his lips as you stopped to stare at everything on the way. He told you he thought it was the first time you’d seen a flower with how excited you were. You’d blushed when he told you that, smiling, but muttering a soft “sorry.” And he grabbed your cheeks in both hands and smooshed his lips against yours.
“Don’t ever be sorry.”
One morning you woke up to him kissing a line down your chest. Your hand found the top of his head, running your fingers through his hair, tugging lightly at the chestnut strands. “Good morning, baby,” you giggled, his lips now pressing the underside of your breast, continuing downwards.
He hummed into your skin, letting his tongue drag against the soft skin of your stomach, pressing a final kiss to your hip bones. “’Morning,” he murmured, taking a hand between your thighs, spreading them open with ease – as if you’d ever stop him.
He nuzzled his face between your legs, his stubble scratching at your inner thighs. You moaned at that feeling and let out a long breath as he pressed an open-mouthed kiss to your core.
And that’s the good stuff. The stuff you’d die for. You tried to think about that stuff often: the memories for which neither of you had a care in the world. It was just the two of you in love. You spent your nights reliving those memories, only the good memories. And it made you laugh, thinking about them, because you then remember all the fights you’d have, too. At that point, they were stupid – revolving around minuscule things, to which the entire subject would be forgotten within an hour. And if you were able to relive even just one happy memory with him, you’d never fight with him again.
We were fighting fires every night when you met me
And it’s not fair at all
So after everything
Why’d you leave me with the good stuff, babe
And forget about the mess we made?
It was easy to say that now, hindsight obviously having the benefit of the doubt. You were so deeply in love. He loved you, too – you knew it, you could feel it. But with love, comes hate. With love, comes jealousy.
It happened when he flirted with the waitress. He insisted that he wasn’t flirting; and maybe he wasn’t technically flirting, but the lighthearted comments and witty banter felt different. You didn’t know particularly why it made your blood boil at the time, but it just did. You’d glared at him for the rest of dinner, arms crossed over your chest, leaning back against your chair. He glared right back, obviously aware you were pissed, but rolling his eyes when you told him why.
“I wasn’t flirting with her,” he almost laughed. He couldn’t believe that was the reason you were mad.
Not having a valid argument, you stayed silent, biting the inside of your cheek, mumbling a “whatever.” Maybe it was that fact that he was joking with her so easily. Not only did it take him years to get out of his shell, it took him so damn long to open up to you. The awkward phase lasted almost two months. The two of you barely flirted in the beginning of your relationship. It took work to get him to return to the charismatic, charming boy he was before the war. It was work that you put in. And now he’s going to throw it back in your face by showing it off to some girl.
It happened when someone looked at you too long. It was at the bar; you’d gone along on a double date with Sam and the girl he was seeing. The four of you had lovely banter, and everyone thought the night had gone well until the man at the bar stood three feet away from you. You’d barely paid him any attention, instead joking around with Sam and his girlfriend.
Bucky wasn’t paying attention to the group anymore, instead glaring at the man beside you, staring you up and down. You turned to Bucky to see him staring at the man. And as soon as you turned your head towards the stranger, he met your eyes and flashed a smile at him. You pressed your lips into a tight line, sending him the good ol’ fashioned white person smile (look it up). You felt Bucky’s arm snake around your waist, dropping his hand to rest directly on your ass.
It was nights like those that ended up in arguments on the drive home. The logic didn’t make much sense, it was more of just a yelling match: who could scream the loudest. It was you and him picking pointless arguments about nothing, hollering things at each other that you’d regret in the morning.
Those fights ended up with the slam of the front door, Bucky following you up to your shared bedroom, jutting a hand in the door frame before you could lock him out. He strutted towards you murderously, such that you were backed up against the wall. His hand snaked up to your jaw, firmly tilting it such that you had no choice but to look up at him. “You don’t hate me,” he practically growled after you spat those words to him. You didn’t have anything to say to that. Instead, you dropped your eyes from his straight ahead of you, meeting eye level at his chest. You huffed air through your nose, slightly tilting your jaw, testing his grip. There was no way you could move any muscle in your body. “I’ll show you,” he grunted, pinning your hips to the wall with his.
He lurched your jaw up forward, your neck viciously stretching, not having any more height in you. He met your mouth with a hot, wet kiss, all tongue and teeth. Your hands flew up to his chest, gripping fistfuls of his shirt and pulling his chest somehow closer to yours. His hands raked down your back, grabbing your ass harshly, before hoisting you up off the ground. Before you could even wrap your legs around his waist, he threw you down onto the bed, which felt like it was three stories below you.
You both were quick to undress yourselves as he crawled on top of you, holding your neck firmly as he met your lips for another messy kiss.
Every morning after a round of heated hate-sex, all the emotions from the night before had faded away. The two of you woke up with sorrow filled eyes, purple and red marks littering necks, chest, and thighs. He would reach his hand up to stroke your tangled hair, thumb brushing over your cheekbone as you frowned. “I love you,” you clarified, wishing you could take back your words from last night. As much as you regretted telling him you hated him mid-argument, nothing stopped you. Every single time, nothing stopped you.
“I know, baby, forget about it.”
When we lost one another
That’s when I rediscovered
My memories in the clouds
But no feet on the ground
Cause I know I should forget you
Why can’t I just regret you?
Oh, wish that my mouth didn’t smile when I think of you
“(Y/N),” your sister coos warmly, sitting on the edge of your half empty bed. “You need to get up.”
You didn’t have anything to say. There was nothing to say. In fact, you’d said too much. If you never told her that Bucky was gone, you wouldn’t have to be sitting here, listening to her drone on about this for the millionth weekend in a row. “I’m not going,” you mumble, voice muffled by the pillow your head was currently stuffed in.
She sighed, standing and slapping her legs against her thighs, startling you. “You need to get out of bed and meet this guy. I already told him I’d bring you for lunch.”
You scoffed. “Well maybe you can just tell him I died or something,” you sigh, rolling on your back and letting your arms and legs starfish onto the bed.
“Don’t say that.” Not like you cared, you hoped that you actually had jinxed yourself. Maybe death would be better than lying in your once shared bed alone. It’s been a year since the last time you saw Bucky – over a year: one year, one month, and sixteen days. You still don’t know what happened. One year, one month, and sixteen days later, and you were still wondering.
That’s probably the worst part. Just because you never got any closure. All in all, you didn’t think you wanted closure. If you’d gotten closure, you’d be over him. You wouldn’t be reliving all the good stuff like you still do every day. Hell, even the bad stuff became good stuff. As much as the jealously sex hurt (hurt emotionally, in a bad way; hurt physically, in a good way), you still couldn’t help but miss it and bite your lip every time you thought about it.
“He’s never coming back to you,” she whispered, probably not intending for it to pierce your heart with the pain of a thousand knives the way that it did. But she was your sister, that’s what she was here for. “You need to move on.”
You still didn’t move. There was no moving on to do. Nobody could make you feel such a rush of emotions as he did. You hated it, the rollercoaster: love to hate to love. You wished that it was all love. But that’s not the way life works.
Maybe it would’ve been easier if you’d never met at all. He made it clear that he would be hard to love. How could he say that, and then love you with such vigor? Its like he said it just to hurt you. But he’d never hurt you – until now. Until he vanished from your life forever; it was an Avengers thing. You could almost roll your eyes thinking about it.
Your mother came over later that week to hit you with the tough love. “What are you going to do, (Y/N), seriously?” You simply ignored her question and continued mixing the sauce you were making for dinner later. “You’re just going to be alone forever?”
You dropped the spoon and turned around to face her, holding your arms out in defeat. “What do you want me to do, mom? Go out and marry some fucking loser just so I’m not alone?” She stared at you with a scowl. “Every day wish that I loved him?”
“You’re so dramatic,” she scoffed. “You don’t know whose out there if you don’t try.”
“Mom, I don’t want to try! Do you understand that?” You were screaming, hopelessly yelling, pleading for her to grasp this concept. As soon as you realized you were yelling, you shut up. God, is this how you sounded when you yelled at Bucky? At least he yelled at you back – your mom just sat there judging you. “Listen,” you huffed, your voice now fifty decibels lower. “I just can’t.”
Oh, I wish that my mouth didn’t smile when I think of you
But you left me with the good stuff, babe
And I know that it’s a crying shame
It’s a million times harder when I don’t hate you
When I don’t hate you
“Would you just shut the fuck up!” You yelled at him, shutting the front door behind you. “I wasn’t even looking at the guy.”
“Yeah, right,” he scoffed, before getting heated again. “You were basically eye-fucking him across the room.”
And that’s how it started that fateful night one year, one month, and sixteen days ago. You and Bucky went out for date night, a new restaurant/club uptown. It was swanky, you thought you’d enjoy a fun dinner; maybe drink a little bit, let loose. You’d always loved it when Bucky would put his hands on you in the club; his metal hand would travel up and down your side, while his flesh hand traced along your hip bones and grab your ass. Bucky never had fun like that. He grew up in a time that dancing meant face to face, bodies six inches apart. He wouldn’t dare to drop his hand to a girls backside, let alone grab her ass in the middle of the dancefloor.
Maybe it was the new Bucky – the twenty-first century Bucky, that was a bit of an exhibitionist and voyeur. The two of you didn’t go out a lot, but you knew that this was something he enjoyed every once and a while, and you were more than happy to let him run his hands all over you. He loved that scene, but as soon as anyone else so much as glanced at you, he lost it.
You let out an exaggeratedly loud groan. “Shut up! I barely even looked at him!” You were met with an eyeroll from him. “Even if he was looking at me all night, I can’t help it! What did you want me to do about it? Be like you and beat the shit out of him in the middle of the club?”
That’s what got the two of you kicked out of the club. He dropped his hands off of you, clenching his fists at his sides, and sauntered over to the man. Before the man could say anything – or hold his hands up in defense, even – Bucky nearly broke his jaw. One swift fist to the face and the man was on the floor. You ran over, yanking Bucky’s arm before he could go in for another punch. When the bouncer stepped over, you had no choice but to quietly apologize and leave, dragging a fuming Bucky behind you.
“You say that as if you didn’t enjoy the show.” You swallowed hard and bit your lip. You couldn’t technically lie to him – he knew you’d thought it was hot. Obviously, you could admit you did find it a bit arousing. And you knew Bucky could smell it on you.
“You didn’t have to break his fucking face; you’re the one who wanted to go to the club in the first place.”
“Sure, (Y/N). I don’t even know why you’re defending him, anyway. He was staring at you with his fucking disgusting eyes. If I knew you liked being watched so much, I would’ve suggested we go to the strip club so you could hop on stage.” His deep voice echoed throughout the living room.
“Shut the fuck up, James. I hate you.” With that, you crossed your arms over your chest and stomped your way to the bedroom. You slammed the door, and not a second later, you heard the front door slam the floor below you. That sounds about right. This had been a recent development. Sometimes when you fought, you’d have angry, jealous sex afterwards – it was passionate, painful, and a burning reminder that the two of you belonged together. Other times, when you two said particularly vile things to each other, he left. He stepped out to clear his head. He’d come back in the early hours of the morning (after spending a sleepless few hours in his bed at the Avengers Complex) and spend the rest of the morning having make-up sex, filled with breathy I’m sorry’s and I love you’s; bodies molded together, sharing space, time, and air.
You sat awake in bed, more pissed off than anything else. It wasn’t the worst he’s ever said, to be honest. You knew he was buzzed and pissed off. You’d said worse than that to him, too. But it was routine: fighting, yelling; making up and making love. It was simply what you did.
Not thinking too much more about it, you laid in bed, completely exhausted after the evening you’d just had. This is exactly what happened every time. You shut your eyes for the night.
Bucky didn’t come home the next morning. You woke up to the sun shining in your eyes and the other side of the bed empty. He didn’t come home that afternoon, nor that night. Not the following day, or the day after.
I hate you.
The last thing you said to him.
But I don’t hate you.
And in another life, yeah
Do me a favor and try
To leave me broken and bitter
So moving on’s a little quicker
You shivered from the cool breeze; it was getting late. The sky was darkening, the sun shining on your skin now gone, replaced with cold goosebumps. You picked at the grass blades in front of you, as you sat cross-legged on the frigid, hard ground in silence. It was the first official day of spring, and man, it was unseasonably brisk. You would have to get going soon, they closed at dusk.
You made a pile of pulled up grass in front of you. It had now been officially two years since you last saw Bucky. Since you’d thrown around those nasty words like they were nothing; as if they’d held no weight in the world – that couldn’t be farther from the truth.
You regretted that night everyday for the last seven hundred and thirty days. You felt bad – so bad. It weighed on your heart every second of the day. So much so that you’d grown to hate yourself recently. That’s the only person you should’ve ever hated anyway (or at least said it out loud). You never actually hated him, and you know that he knew that. There was no way he couldn’t know you were just saying it. Saying it with no meaning behind the words.
But you couldn’t change it. You kept thinking about the pain it must have caused him after he left. Maybe you should’ve reached out. It was always you waiting for him to come home. But then again, it was he who decided to leave in the first place.
Since that night, you stayed quiet. You didn’t want to meet anyone new, didn’t want to give your heart to anyone else. Talking to others felt like a chore. It just didn’t have any worth anymore. There was no point in finding someone else because he wouldn’t – couldn’t – be Bucky. After all, there was no one who could rile you up like he did.
You picked up the pile of loose grass and threw it up in the air, watching as the breeze took it away. Just like Bucky – taken away. Right from the tips of your fingers.
You sighed, standing up and wiping the dirt off the back of your jeans. “Hey, Buck,” you whispered, patting the top of his gravestone. “If you can’t love me for forever in our next life, don’t bother. I can’t go through this twice.”
Caregiver(s): Tony Stark, Bruce Banner, Clint Barton
Mistaken
PenPatronus
A frustrated Tony Stark, after having used everything in his Iron Man arsenal short of a missile, finally loosened the vibranium door and tossed it down the hallway like a frisbee. “Oh, God,” he whispered when he entered the half-lit HYDRA lab.
Lying down in a cryostasis tube, unmoving and blue-skinned, was an unconscious Captain America. Tony’s mask retracted back into the bulk of the suit and he examined the dozens of buttons on the machine. “Hang on,” he told his unconscious friend. “Coming for you.” Stark’s million-miles-a-minute mind and flying fingers hacked in and the cradle lid popped open. Freezing air blasted him in the face and Tony had to step back.
“JARVIS, on the floor,” Tony ordered. The suit immediately released him and laid itself on the floor, spread open. Ignoring the pain of the cold, Tony slid one arm under Cap’s knees and the other under his spine. He bent his knees and, growling, lifted Steve up out of the chamber and, as gently as possible, lowered him into the suit. “JARVIS, warm him up,” said Tony, “slowly.” Fans whirled and warm air exited tiny vents.
A breathless Clint Barton appeared at the door. “Tony?” Barton dropped his bow and slid on his knees to Cap’s side. “It you say ‘Capsicle’ at any point, Stark, your face will meet my fist.” Tony, who was about to make that very same joke, pouted wordlessly. Barton picked up Steve’s right hand and started massaging his frozen fingers.
An equally breathless Bruce Banner appeared at the door. “Tony? Clint? Geeze, is this where he’s been this whole time?”
“Not the whole time,” Stark diagnosed. “That machine was only at 20%. The cryo cycle only started about an hour ago.”
“Which means there could still be agents around here.” Bruce, who had yet to Hulk-out, reached for a door to close and, finding none there, shrugged and sat Indian-style at Steve’s head. The second that Bruce placed a hand across Cap’s nostrils to make sure he was breathing, the super soldier woke up with a start.
“Sorry!” Steve gasped. Warm tears suddenly cascaded down his cheeks, leaving slight steam behind. “Sorry, please don’t.”
Tony, Clint, and Bruce looked at each other, each wanting the other to speak. That’s why all three of them said “Steve?” at the same time, which must have sounded like a yell to Cap’s ears. He flinched, and squirmed, and the three Avengers had to add their weight to him to keep him from rolling right out of the warm Iron Man suit.
“Please don’t tell her…” Steve’s eyes locked on Tony’s and he begged, “Don’t tell her I’m sick, Buck.”
Tony looked at Bruce for help. “He’s delirious. Go with it,” Banner recommended. “Anything to keep him calm. He’s not out of the woods.”
Tony cleared his throat. “Don’t tell who, Cap—I mean, Steve?”
“Mother. Don’t tell Mother, Bucky. She’ll buy medicine and we can’t afford it.”
“Uh,” Stark stammered. “I—I promise. I promise I won’t tell her, all right?”
“Swear it.”
“I swear.” Tony looked at Bruce for more help, but it was Clint who encouraged him to keep Steve talking. “It’ll keep him conscious,” he whispered. And Tony did while they all sat there, while Steve was taken to the jet, while they traveled back to the Tower, until Steve recovered enough to ask Tony what the hell he was doing…
The End
***Check out my Avengers stories on FanFiction.net (PenPatronus) or Archive Of Our Own (PenPatronusAooO)***
CAN WE ALL JUST TAKE A MOMENT TO APPRECIATE THAT CHRIS EVANS JUST CONFIRMED THAT STEVE ROGERS, CAPTAIN FUCKING AMERICA, VALUES HIS RELATIONSHIP WITH TONY STARK, IRON MAN, AND THAT HE MISSES HIM AND THAT “THAT LOSS TOOK ITS TOLL ON HIM”??!?!?!?!
And also let’s all gush over Evans’ huge man crush on RDJ, gushing about him being irreplaceable and making the cast a family.
Bucky doesn't become the winter soldier because he never fell from the train? When Steve “dies” in the crash he and Peggy turn to each other for comfort. Imagine when Steve is found sooner rather than later to find his best friend and his best girl married.
A commission I was hired to do for The Comics Place in Bellingham.
I gotta gush real quick, the folks at Comics Place are some of the friendliest, most neighborly people you will ever meet. As a young socio-awkward goon in a new town, it was really helpful to have a place where I could go and just chat with some nice people about comics and feel welcome and at home. And once Django (the owner) found out that I am an aspiring comics creator myself, he has done literally anything he can to help promote my art and get my foot in the door. They’re more than just a local business, they’re a staple of the spirit of Bellingham. If you’re ever in the area, stop by CP or Django’s other store Moon Base Games and Comics in Fairhaven. You will undoubtedly be welcomed with a warm smile and a great recommendation for some magical stuff to read.
Anyways, pictured above was a graphic I did for them. If you look closely, you can spot all kinds of lil buddies supporting the local comic shop.
