#fictive february

[beckzorz]

Sugarplum (one-shot)

Pairing: Bucky x Reader Words: 1883 Prompt: “Having a crush on Bucky and leaving him a sugar plum Danish at his door every morning until he catches you.” A/N: Thank you so much to @jewelofwinter for the prompt and to @kat-lives for doing a read-through for me before I published! Hope you enjoy!

“And all I was doing was buying some plums,” Bucky finishes. He sighs and flashes Steve a sideways smile. His blue eyes are bright with a mix of amusement and melancholy. “Teach me not to go to farmer’s markets.”

You gaze up at Bucky from your spot on the floor, your breath catching at that bittersweet smile. Every time you look at Bucky, you can’t help but stare. No matter what he’s doing, smiling, frowning, whatever, there’s something about him that draws you in. Maybe it’s the gentle slope of his brow, or the dimple in his scruffy chin, or his perfect mouth, or his perfect body, or his perfect—

Wanda nudges you. You tear your eyes from Bucky and frown at her.

“What?” your mutter.

Wanda just raises her eyebrows with a gentle smirk, her eyes flicking towards the couch. Your cheeks flare with heat; dread pools in the pit of your stomach. Did he notice? You lay your head on Wanda’s shoulder and close your eyes, hoping not.

No such luck.

“You okay?” Bucky asks.

You crack and eye open and force a smile. “Just tired.”

“It is late,” Wanda says, taking pity. “And you’re still getting over that last mission.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.” You force yourself to your feet, wincing—you’d sprained your ankle avoiding a mine three days back, and it hadn’t fully healed.

Bucky stands quickly and grabs your elbow. His eyes dance along your face, brow pinched in concern. Your cheeks burn hotter than ever at his close scrutiny.

“You sure you’re alright?” he asks, voice low.

You bite your lip and nod, not daring to meet his eye. Instead, you stare at his perfect mouth with its full lips and its cupid’s bow and its pink hue.

“Alright,” he says. He drops his hand from your arm, and you flee.

All your dreams that night are of Bucky.

—

The next morning, you lie in bed and stare up at the ceiling.

Yes, you’ve got it bad. Bucky’s invaded your thoughts, your dreams; there’s no escape. Wanda has told you a dozen times to just tell him, but you can’t. Shyness bites your tongue, fear stops your mouth. No matter how tempting Bucky is, you’re too afraid of rejection.

Once bitten, twice shy, or so the saying goes, and you’ve had more than your fair share of rejection. Middle school, high school, college… Even that one fellow trainee during your first month at SHIELD. All of them said no.

And none of them can hold a candle to Bucky.

Bucky, Bucky, Bucky. Confessing is impossible, but you itch to do something for him. Something secret to make him smile with more genuine delight than he’d shown last night, what with his lingering sadness about his traumatic return to the real world.

You chew your lip, hands linked behind your head. What could you do for him? He was capable of whatever he wanted. He had the money, connections, and looks to get whatever he wanted. What could you, a fresh face on the team with nothing but your resume to your name, have to offer? Certainly nothing fancy—no new upgrades for his arm, no fancy guns, no expensive gloves.

What did he want that you could get?

You roll out your ankle, and as you wince it hits you.

Plums.

Bucky likes plums.

—

Every morning, Bucky goes running with Steve. Steve had insisted at first—something, anything, to get Bucky out of the safety of home and acclimate him into the world again.

“The more people see evidence of you being normal,” Steve had said, “the faster things’ll clear up.”

So off they go to Central Park every morning, bright and early. Or dark and early, in the winter months.

By now, it’s a habit. People don’t run away from him anymore, mostly, and running with Steve is better than running alone. Steve’s the only one who can really keep up with him, at least of the folks at the tower. Thor can keep up, but he’s only around sporadically these days. The best days are when they can bully Sam into coming along, and then Bucky and Steve can be assholes together the whole time.

It’s nice.

The other nice part of running with Steve is that there’s always a sugar plum danish waiting for him when he gets back. Bucky doesn’t know how Steve does it, especially since he doesn’t go every day, but he’s looking forward to it today. After two weeks in southeastern Russia, he’s craving his danish something fierce. If he runs faster than usual, Steve doesn’t say anything.

If anything, Steve smirks and pushes him harder.

Punk.

They make it back to the tower almost half an hour early. Bucky’s sweating hard, desperate for a shower and his danish.

But there’s no danish at his door. Bucky skids to a halt.

“Steve,” he says accusingly, “where’s my danish?”

Steve blinks and wipes some sweat from his brow. “How should I know?”

“Steve.”

“What?”

Bucky jabs a finger Steve’s way. “Your danish. You get me a danish.”

“No I don’t,” Steve says.

“Yes you do,” Bucky argues. “That first time we went, I thanked you for it!”

“Well, it wasn’t me.” Steve walks backwards away from Bucky, smirking, and adds, “Maybe you’ve got a secret admirer, Buck.”

Bucky scowls, but Steve ducks into his suite before Bucky can retort. Bucky barrels inside his own suite, fuming.

Who would like him, with all his baggage? He can’t think of anyone on the team who’s stupid enough to put themselves in such a position. Well, he can think of some idiots, but there’s no reason to suspect any romantic inclinations from any of them. Scott’s busy with Hope, and Stark is Stark. The rest…

Bucky peels off his sweaty shirt and chucks it in the laundry bin. He bites his tongue as his thoughts turn to you. He’s seen you watching him closely sometimes, but he’s certain there’s nothing to it. You’re smart, sensible—too sensible to get caught up with him.

His scowl comes back in full force as he peels off his running shorts. No, you’ve got better things to do than think about a hundred-year old morally repugnant assassin.

Bucky grabs his towel and stalks to take his shower. He’s got no secret admirer. All he’s got are some unsatisfied cravings and a conniving best friend.

—

You lean heavily against the elevator wall, panting, bakery box in hand. “JARVIS, did I make it in time?”

“No, Agent, I regret to say. Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes returned to their suites two minutes ago.”

“Shit.” You run your free hand down your neck and kick your heel against the wall. The line at the bakery around the corner was long today, and apparently Bucky and Steve had run faster than usual. On any other day, you’d still have fifteen minutes, easy.

You stare down at the little bakery box with its cellophane-covered window. The sugar plum danish inside looks just like every other you’ve bought: flaky pastry, glistening filling, vanilla frosting drizzle. It’s pretty.

Bucky likes them. Or at least, he’s eaten all the ones you’ve left for him over the past six weeks. You haven’t seen him eating them, but you can imagine him licking fruity glaze off his fingers. The thought is… tempting.

Far more tempting than the danish in your hand, no matter how good it looks. If you weren’t allergic to plums, you’d just eat it yourself.

If you weren’t allergic to rejection, you’d just eat Bucky up.

You groan aloud as the elevator slows to a stop at the residential floor. The doors don’t open right away. Instead, JARVIS’s voice chimes, “If you please, Agent, Sergeant Barnes is in the shower. You may have time if—”

“Well open the door!” you exclaim.

The second the doors open, you squeeze through and dash through the halls. Bucky’s suite is at the far end by Steve’s; it’s never seemed so far from the elevator. You hold the bakery box gingerly, hoping the danish doesn’t get banged out of shape.

But the second you turn the corner, you yank yourself back out of sight. You press yourself against the hallway wall, eyes wide and face burning. Bucky’s door is open, and in the split second it was in view, Bucky was standing there, staring at the clear floor at his feet.

Dressed only in a pair of jeans.

You pray he didn’t see you, but you know full well you weren’t running with light feet the way Natasha taught you. No, you’d stupidly been crashing along, heavy breathing and all. You cock an ear; Bucky hasn’t shut his door. Your heart races. Is he coming to investigate? If you leave the danish where you are, will he find it?

You bend to set the danish down, but before you let go, someone clears their throat.

Your heart stops.

Slowly, you stand up, hands trembling, leaving the danish on the floor. Only once you’re fully upright do you drag your eyes up.

Bucky is leaning around the corner, just his head and bare right shoulder visible. His hair is black with water, a few strands clinging to his cheek. His blue eyes are narrowed at the bakery box, but then he looks up and frowns at you.

“Did Steve put you up to this?” he asks.

You blanch. “No! Of course not!” You wring your hands and look away. Can he tell how hot your face is? “I’m sorry, I—”

“So you’ve just been doing this on your own?”

You nod. If you’re not emitting smoke, you should be. You push the danish towards him with the toe of your shoe.

“Why?” he asks.

“Um…” You swallow. “You like plums,” you say weakly.

“So?”

You twist your fingers together in front of your stomach, your eyes still on the floor. “I wanted to do something nice,” you whisper.

Bucky steps into your field of vision. Your eyes lift from his bare feet up past his abs and chest to settle on the dimple in his chin. You can’t bring yourself to look any higher, afraid of the frown you’re certain lingers in his expression.

But when he lifts your chin with a cool metal finger, you have no choice but to meet his eyes. You swallow at the softness in his gaze, sudden hope flaring in your chest. Could he really be glad?

“All that just for me?” His voice is soft, husky; your knees go weak.

“Yes,” you answer. You lick your lips. “You deserve nice things.”

“Ain’t you sweet as sugar,” he murmurs, his blue eyes bright. “Does that mean I deserve you?”

You take his hand and kiss the shining knuckles, your lips leaving their mark on the metal and your eyes never leaving his. Bucky slides his other hand around your waist and tugs you close. The danish box gets caught between your feet, but neither of you notice.

“I don’t know about deserve, and I don’t know how sweet I am,” you say shyly. You steel yourself with a hand on his abs. “But I do like you.”

Bucky’s smile is as blinding as the sun. “You know, sugarplum,” he says, “I like you too.”

[beckzorz]

The Sound of You (one-shot)

Pairing: Bucky x Reader Words: 2677 Summary: After a mission gone wrong, you need to let out some steam. Tags/Warnings: Hurt/comfort, SMUT, NSFW, 18+!!! A/N: This is the final post for Fictive February, which has been a wild ride. Thanks for coming. <3 Thank you so much to @moonbeambucky​ for the prompt (Bucky catches reader singing and she’s embarrassed ☺️), which maybe I didn’t stick entirely to, but OH WELL! Thank you so much also to @goodusernamesarealwaystaken for swooping to the rescue and beta reading! And uh... this is my first attempt at full-on smut so... go easy on me XD

Thwack.

The punching bag shudders from your first punch. Tears prick at your eyes, and you growl and swipe them away.

Thwack.

Twenty-three hours, and all you can think about is your stunning failure in Belarus. One missed shot had cost four civilian lives, one of them a toddler, two others under thirty. Tomorrow there will be hell to pay and reports to write, but Steve had sent everyone off for the night after the midnight landing at the compound.

As soon as the bay doors open, you’d stalked off to the gym. There’s no way you can sleep the way you are, and at midnight after a grueling mission, you can be sure of having the gym to yourself.

You can scream in peace.

Thwack.

You catch the bag against your body, letting the impact shake you to the core. The tremor echoes through you, just like the tremor of the explosion in Mazyr.

You slide to the floor against the heavy bag. Hot tears roll down your cheeks; you bang your forehead against the rough polyester with a whimper.

Thwack.

You’re all alone, and you can cry in peace.

You don’t know how long you sob into the punching bag, but by the time you’re done, the bag is stained with the tracks of your tears. Your muscles are still sore from the mission. You’d been too tense to stretch properly on the flight home; all you’d done was sit stiffly in a window seat, your headphones and scowl the perfect deterrents to anyone who might have wanted to approach.

At this point, you’re too tired to even try stretching. All you want to do is wash off the grime of failure.

You groan as you peel off your uniform in the privacy of one of the shower stalls. The fabric clings unpleasantly to your skin. By the time you’re bare, you’re sniffling again.

The hot water is just the sting you need. The steam caresses your face. It’s the closest you can get to comfort; it’s the closest you’ll let yourself get to comfort.

After your failure, after what you caused—

The memory of the splintered bricks and bodies flashes in your mind. You shake your head.

You don’t deserve the comfort of your friends and their words. You don’t deserve the comfort of your lover and his touch. Either would soothe you. Natasha, Rhodey, Sam—any of them would know just what to say. Bucky…

You press the heels of your hands against your eyes, hard enough to hurt. No. You don’t deserve any of it.

All you’ll permit yourself is a hot shower and the quiet refrain of the one song that always soothes you. It’s just a temporary reprieve; you’ll remind yourself of what you’ve done later.

In bed, when you crave sleep, no doubt.

Your voice echoes off the tile walls, small in the wide space. Gentle words, words you learned from your grandmother so many years ago. When you sing it, you can see her face.

In your mind’s eye, she’s smiling at you, her gaze heavy with love. Heavy with forgiveness.

Fresh tears leak from your closed eyes. You can hear the tremor in your voice, but you carry on through it. Here, alone, you can find some modicum of relief.

The final echo fades. You hold yourself tight and try to clear your head. If Steve sees you’ve been crying, in person or on the surveillance cameras…

You don’t want to be benched. You don’t deserve to be benched. The best punishment is out there, in the field, where you can be hurt—

“I didn’t know you could sing.”

You gasp and spin, sliding on the wet tiles. You throw out your hands to steady yourself, but Bucky catches you in his solid hold. He’s as naked as you are, but his body, cool to the touch, is no distraction after the shock of his arrival.

Dread coils in the pit of your stomach. He heard you? You’ve always kept that secret for yourself, after so many others were forced out of you thanks to the job. Every slice of yourself has been examined. This one thing is your own. To have it discovered?

It hurts.

Your face burns as you extricate yourself from Bucky’s hold and shuffle back under the water, turning aside and folding your arms over your chest. His soft gaze is too much; how can he look at you that way after what you’ve done? You can’t bear his eyes on you. Not now. You can’t bear to look at him. Who are you to drink him in?

“What are you doing here?” you ask.

“You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

Bucky steps under the water; you step back. The faucet digs into your side. You let it. The discomfort is what you deserve.

But Bucky gently pulls you against him. You stiffen automatically and try to push him away. He doesn’t let go.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. He strokes your hair and presses a kiss to your temple. “It’s okay.”

However much you resist, Bucky’s destined to wear you down. He always does. What’s the point of fighting?

You close your eyes, let your tension seep away, and focus on his body against yours. His metal arm warms quickly under the hot water. The rest of him does too. You bury your face in the crook of his neck. With every breath, his heady scent fills your head, leaving you hazy. Your hands creep around his waist and press flat against the planes of his back.

How did he know to find you? You haven’t been sleeping together long—hell, you’ve only been attached to the team for a couple of months. You know Natasha from her SHIELD days, and Sam and Rhodey are friendly as anything, but Bucky was a hard nut to crack. Yet within weeks, he’d sought you out in solitary moments, his hands always finding their way to you.

Like you’re a homing beacon.

And now, it’s just the same. But he hadn’t approached you with lust in his eyes. No, his look had been all soft, all concern, all care. None of the desperate desire that you’d come to expect. Just gentleness and a warm embrace.

How did he know this was just what you needed? The guilt and the grief were gone.

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes. He’s tall enough that his face isn’t in the shower spray; his eyes are still soft. He flashes a tiny smile and pushes your wet hair back from your forehead.

“Better?” he asks.

You nod and lean back into him. This time, you let your hands slide down to the small of his back, then a little lower. You’re not so tired now.

Bucky hums in the back of his throat, questioning. You press tighter against him, the slick friction on your front sending sparks through you. Heat pools in your belly, your breasts, tight and wanting.

The shower is steamy in a whole new way.

You press kisses along his shoulder until your lips find the pulse point at his neck. You suck a mark into his skin. It’ll be gone by morning, but for now there’s no hiding your imprint.

With a growl, Bucky hooks his metal hand around the top of your thigh and hoists you up against the wall. The breath is knocked out of you. Bucky’s eyes are dark and wild, nothing like the softness of minutes before.

You wrap your legs around his waist. Bucky shoves his other hand between your legs, teasing your clit. Sparks dance through you.

“Bucky,” you moan.

You tangle your fingers in his wet hair, anything to ground yourself against the euphoria building in your core.

When his fingers curl inside you, you cry out and rock down into his touch. He’s hard between your legs, faster than you would have thought possible if you hadn’t done this all before. But like every other time, he’s as eager as you.

You force your eyes open and stare at him, panting. His breathing is as ragged as yours, though you’ve barely begun. With every thrust and curl of his fingers, you lose a little more of yourself in his eyes.

When he pulls his hand away, you mewl in discontent.

Bucky chuckles. “Not yet, doll.” He pushes his wet fingers into your mouth, his eyes fixed on your lips. You suck hard and swirl your tongue around his fingertips, mimicking what you’ve done a dozen times to his cock.

And he knows it.

Bucky slams his hand onto the wall by your head and thrusts into you with his usual precision. His bruising kiss eats up your desperate cry. Your eyes flutter shut as you match his hunger with your own, teeth clicking as he snaps his hips into yours.

Your muscles burn anew as Bucky sets a grueling pace. With every thrust, he grunts; his groin grinds against your clit. His metal hand digs into the tender flesh of your thigh. The tiles catch on your spine as you slip up and down the wall. You barely notice. All you can think of is Bucky inside you, Bucky at your lips, Bucky in your hands.

He pulls back from the kiss, but he doesn’t let up his pace. With the little distance between you, your breasts bounce in time with his thrusts. He grabs one and tweaks the nipple, pulling a whimper from you.

His eyes smolder when you finally open your eyes again. “Sing for me,” he rasps.

Your breath catches.

Sing for him?

Unbidden, you tense. Bucky slows to a stop with his cock buried inside you. He reaches out and shuts off the shower. Then he lifts you off of him and sets you on the floor.

Your knees buckle—did he seriously expect you to stand?—and you catch yourself against the wall. The sudden emptiness leaves you aching, and not just physically.

You slide to the floor and look up at Bucky. He’s still hard, his cock red and glistening. But he drops to his knees in front of you, blinking away the animalistic expression.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“I—” You clear your throat. Does he really need to talk now? You fight the urge to touch him, or yourself. “I don’t sing.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows. “You were singing before.”

You scrub your hands down your face. “I don’t—I only sing for myself. You weren’t supposed to… It’s not for…” You slap the floor and glare at him, angry at him for your incoherence. “It’s all I have left. You can’t have it.”

“But I want—” Bucky stops himself when you look away. He scoots closer and cradles your face; you look back at him. There’s a sadness there, one you weren’t expecting. “Okay. No singing.”

You open your mouth to question him, but he quiets you with a kiss. Unlike before, he’s all gentleness. His lips soft as they tease your mouth open.

He breathes life back into you.

In heartbeats, you’re as desperate as before. You push Bucky until he falls back. He grips your hips as you crawl over him. You slide your fingers through your folds and along your clit—yes, you’re still ready—before aligning yourself with his cock. For a moment, you just rub the head against your entrance, teasing. When Bucky growls, his eyes dark with warning, you laugh breathlessly and sink down in a single movement.

Your laugh short-circuits into a loud moan.

“God, so good,” Bucky groans. His metal hand cups your right breast; his other hand is digging finger-shaped bruises into your hip, but you couldn’t care less. You rock down on him, barely moving, but it’s enough to stutter your breathing. When you finally start to ride on him, you plant your hands on his chest and gaze hungrily into his eyes as you moan. He snaps his hips up to meet yours, teeth bared.

“Shit,” you gasp, arching your back. Every slam of his hips sends a jolt of fire straight through your clit. His cock hits every sensitive spot inside you. “Yes, god, yes, Bucky…”

Your face screws up. Shockwaves build in you as you fuck him faster. You press your forehead against Bucky’s shoulder and drag your teeth along his collarbone.

Bucky slows, the disjointed rhythm an unwelcome change. “Let me—fuck—let me look at you,” he begs. He kisses your temple, squeezes your breasts, pushes you up off of him. You still yourself and pout. He groans, eyes bright with—tears? “Please, fuck, fuck me, c’mon, don’t hide from me, doll.”

A rush of heat floods you as you stare down at him, panting. Bucky’s never been this needy before. Desperate for your body, sure, but begging to look at your face?

That’s new. And god help you, but you’re ruined by it.

Slowly, you start to rock back on him. Your nails dig indents into his chest. There’s something different in the air, something charged. Bucky starts thrusting up into you, his right hand slipping down your front to circle your clit.

“Yesss,” you moan. Your eyes almost slide shut, but you snap them back open at the last second. Fire lances through you with every thrust. Every gasping breath is an effort. All you want to do is cum with him. You cup his hand at your clit and push his hand harder against you.

Bucky’s eyes are black and his jaw is clenched tight. His eyelids are fluttering as much as yours, but he keeps them forced open. He keeps his eyes on you.

“Don’t—look—away,” he growls. He pinches your clit and your nipple at the same time and speeds his upward thrusts.

You clench your teeth, vision spotting and your walls clenching hard around him. You can’t move anymore; all you can do is hold yourself up and let him destroy you from the inside out.

Bucky’s thrusts grow sloppy. His hips snap into yours one final time before his cock twitches, warmth blossoming in you as his pulsing pushes you over the edge. You collapse against him with a scream, stars blinding you as you dissolve into pleasure.

You come back to yourself slowly. Bucky’s arms are around you, his softening cock still inside you. His shaky breaths fan your temple. All of your muscles are lax. The wet tiles are cool against your knees; you hook your legs over Bucky’s warmer ones.

The thought of leaving your spot makes you grimace. You burrow further into Bucky’s shoulder. He strokes your hair, and his lips curve into a smile against your temple.

You prop yourself up with an elbow on his chest and gaze at him. His smile dims under your scrutiny.

“What?” he asks, metal hand cupping your cheek.

You shake your head and drop back down. “Nothing, Bucky.” His name is strange in your mouth.

Bucky makes a noise. It’s clear he doesn’t believe you, but he doesn’t press. All he does is hold you closer. He’s always like this, for some time after, but today it feels strange.

Too much today has gone wrong. You push away the memories of the mission and focus on Bucky. You haven’t forgotten what he said. He wants something from you, but he’d stopped himself.

You’d always thought you were equally satisfied with the strings-free sex—he’s your lover, not your boyfriend, after all—but between that aborted sentence and the begging to watch you…

It’s not safe to discuss while you’re still half-dazed.

Eventually, you disentangle from each other. Bucky helps you to your feet, and you dry yourselves off without touching. Bucky’s eyes linger on you; you look away. Watching him, half-naked as he is, is too tempting right now. It’s not safe. You pull on the spare set of clothes in your locker, muscles burning with every movement.

“Later, Bucky.”

You leave him alone in the showers, not daring to look back.

His name is strange in your mouth. Tomorrow, maybe, you’ll find out why.

[beckzorz]

There’s a breathing blanket on the floor.

Well, the blanket’s not breathing, but underneath it…

You swallow, throat tight, and approach slowly, footsteps solid enough to let him know you’re coming. By the time you sink to your knees and place your hand against Bucky’s covered back, he’s so still you hold your breath and wait to see if he starts breathing again.

After a few seconds he does, with a shudder. The blanket shifts as he moved a hand beneath it to find yours. Even with the blanket separating you, you know it’s his metal hand.

“Hi, Bucky,” you murmur. You press a kiss to his covered hand. “What’s your status?”

“Cold.”

You can’t help but snort—gently. “Well, this is technically a summer blanket. Want me to get you a warmer one?”

He nods, a jerky movement you nearly miss. You push yourself to your feet, heart wrenching as you leave him, even if only for a minute.

The queen-size comforter drags on the floor until you drape it over Bucky. You bite your lip, then crawl under it as well, keeping the summer blanket over Bucky alone. You know better than to force yourself too close when he’s in a rough spot. Your eyes slide shut as you lie on the floor; you weren’t in the army, and you hate how cold the wood is against your cheek. You clench your fists to contain your shivers.

Bucky’s right hand worms free from the blanket and finds your face. His fingers brush your forehead, then bump your nose before finally settling over your lips. You brush a kiss against his fingertips, eyes pricking with grateful tears. He’s still in pain, you know it, but even so he still thinks of you.

“Love you,” he says, his muffled voice hoarse.

You gently press his hand with your own, fully expecting him to retreat away from you.

But Bucky grabs your hand, and holds on tight.

[beckzorz]

A 12% Chance (one-shot)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Reader Words: 903 Prompt: “I love you” over a beer bottle Summary: You’ve played spin the bottle before. The stakes have never been this high. A/N: Soooo I’m trying to post something every day in February! Here’s day 4 :3 Hope you enjoy!

Natasha is an excellent kisser.

She lets go of your face only when you’re nearly out of breath and the others are cheering at the way she’d pulled you half into her lap.

You blink in awe, then dissolve into giggles. “Girl, you can get it!”

Natasha preens. “There’s benefits to practicing,” she declares.

“Hey, why didn’t I get a kiss like that?” Sam asks.

“I like her better,” Natasha teases, squeezing your shoulder fondly. “And you, Wilson, are definitely too sober to not let the memory ruin you for life.”

Sam falls back onto the floor, hand over his heart. “You’re a monster, Nat. An absolute monster.”

“Speak for yourself,” you say.

“Besides,” Natasha says, “I know she doesn’t go for redheads. No harm, no foul.”

Everyone else turns to look at you with interest, sparking a blush.

“What can I say? That one asshole in second grade is the only thing keeping me from declaring my love, Nat.”

“Heartbreak is real,” Natasha drones.

The others laugh. It’s your turn now, and truth be told you’re hesitant as you lean forward and grab the empty bottle. Who would you least mind kissing?

“Hey, Bucky!”

You freeze as Steve pops to his feet with a grin. Bucky Barnes is standing in the hallway.

“What are you doing?” Bucky asks.

You scooch back to your seat, heart racing. Of all the—!

“Spin the bottle, of course.” Rhodey grins. “After your time, maybe?”

Bucky rolls his eyes and ambles over, plopping down between Steve and Sam. “I played plenty back then. Haven’t since.” Steve offers him the Asgardian mead, and he takes a swig straight out of the bottle. His eyes roam the circle, but before he can meet your eyes you take another long sip of your drink. “Whose turn is it?” he asks.

You swallow and stick your hand up. Is it shaking?

Oh god.

You make a quick count of the people in the circle—four, six, Wanda and Vision make eight, and Scott staring at his phone makes nine.

What are the odds you’ll get Bucky? One in eight? You can live with one in eight. That’s practically never. Only twelve percent of the time.

If you bow out now, everyone will wonder. Better to take the slim chance, and try and contain yourself if you get the unthinkable.

You scoot forward and spin the bottle, holding your breath. It slows to a lopsided stop facing—

Twelve percent.

You’re never taking a risk again.

“Alright Barnes!” Sam slaps Bucky on the back.

Bucky takes another swig of the mead and fixes his blue eyes on yours.

You swallow. The alcohol burns in your blood. No, not the alcohol—just you, your body, your mind, all focused on Bucky like he’s the center of the universe.

Which he secretly is.

You walk on your knees over to Bucky, losing your balance at the last second as the beer bottle gets tangled in your legs. He catches you with his hands on your hips. His lips curl into a light smirk. You catch your breath; he’s so close. He’s so gorgeous. He’s so…

Everything.

“Careful, doll, if you fall I can’t sweep you off your feet.”

Your face, already warm, burns as hot as your blood. Since when did Bucky flirt? You’ve never heard him put on the charm like this. Is it the booze? The game?

It’s certainly not you.

“You’re sitting down, Buck,” Steve points out. “How you gonna sweep anything like that?”

“Bucky’s flexible,” Natasha says. “If I can do it, so can he.”

“I don’t do half measures, Romanoff.” Bucky tugs you to your feet as he stands, still smirking. He loops his arm around you. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears as you stare at his perfect mouth. All you have to do is let him kiss you. You can close your eyes, enjoy it while it lasts, and then—

Before he can pull you any closer, you slam a hand onto his chest.

“I can’t,” you blurt.

Bucky blinks. His smirk falls. He looks—hurt?

Oh, you didn’t mean to hurt him…

“Why not?” His voice is low, perturbed. “It’s just a game.”

You look down. The beer bottle is flush against your shoe and his. “I—I know. It’s just…” You swallow yet again.

Bucky lets go of you and steps back, face dark. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“Oh—”

He nods at Steve, turns on his heel to leave—

“I love you.” The words tumble out of your mouth. Bucky freezes; you can hear a myriad of surprised reactions from the others still sitting on the floor.

Bucky whirls around to stare. “You’re drunk.”

“I am not,” you argue. “Tipsy, maybe.”

“She’s not in love with me and I kissed the daylights out of her,” Natasha throws in.

Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up. “What are you going around kissing other people for if you like me?”

You look down and scuff your toe against the floor. “It’s just a game,” you mutter. Your gut twists in embarrassment. How hard is everyone staring?

“Screw that,” Bucky says. He holds out his hand; your eyes snap to his, hope flaring in your chest at his sweet smile. It’s totally different from the smirk he’d had on earlier.

You slide your hand into his. That smile? That smile is real.

“Let’s leave these suckers to their game. I’m taking you out.”

[beckzorz]

Locked Out

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Words: 1391 Prompt: 'I locked the keys in the car' + 'you're satan' with anyone you want ❤ Summary: You lock your keys in the car, and your ice cream is going to melt. Who can you call but Bucky? A/N: Happy weekend! Thanks to an anon for the prompt—hope you enjoy :3

“—and he’s always so damn buried in reading up on what happened that he keeps missing what’s going on now. I mean, he barely even knows who Beyoncé is.” You sigh and adjust your bag of groceries. “I did get him to finally listen to Lemonade, at least. But that’s about it,” you finish. You switch your phone to the other side and hold it to your ear with your shoulder as you dig in your pockets for your keys.

“So he still hasn’t gotten the memo?” Sharon asks.

“What memo?”

“That you want to jump his bones, silly.”

“Oh my god, Sharon, shut up!” You can’t help but laugh, despite the fact that you still haven’t found your keys. You bend to put down your grocery bag, but a reflection from inside your car gives you pause. “Oh shit. I locked the keys in the car.”

Sharon is quiet for a moment. “Where are you?”

“A couple blocks from my apartment. Why?”

“Your neighborhood isn’t exactly in the top ten best places to raise a kid in New York,” she says. “And it’s almost eleven.”

“Calm down, Sharon.” You roll your eyes and tighten your scarf around your neck. “The real problem is that it’s only thirty-four degrees out, and I bought ice cream. Let me think for a second.” You set your bag of groceries down and drum your mittened fingers on the roof of your car. The side street is quiet, with no one else in sight. A light breeze sends a dry leaf dancing along the grimy sidewalk.

“You know,” Sharon says, casually, “Bucky lives only like ten blocks away.”

“I know that,” you snap. You kick at the tire, annoyed. You’re well aware that Bucky lives closeby. More than that, you know he’s home. He’d messaged you earlier, asking for a restaurant recommendation. But you’re colleagues, not friends. Just because his best friend is dating Sharon doesn’t mean you’re ready to call him in the middle of the night.

Even if you’re well aware he won’t be sleeping.

“You can’t just stand outside forever,” Sharon says. “Besides, he can break into your car for you.”

“Fuck. I really regret not taking that crash course last month…”

“Just call Bucky,” Sharon says, laughing. “Anyway, Steve’s giving me the eye; I’m gonna go. Bye!”

She hangs up. You groan, and then you notice the trio of bulky strangers headed your way.

Oh, to hell with it. You pull up Bucky’s number, bite your lip, and press call. As you wait for him to pick up—do you even want him to pick up? You’re not sure—you shift your weight back and forth, trying to keep your blood flowing and your knees from shaking.

Sharon’s not wrong exactly, but ‘want to jump his bones’ doesn’t cover the depths of how you think about Bucky Barnes. Yes, he’s gorgeous, with perfect lips and eyes and hair and body, but he’s also whip-smart and clever, funny when he needs to be, and above all that kind. Even when you were essentially strangers, he’d offered to help carry a box, decipher a puzzling code, surprise Sharon on her birthday. And he’d gotten you a birthday gift last year too.

Bucky picks up on the third ring.

“Hello?” His voice is low, confused.

“Bucky!” You quickly cough to conceal your delight at the sound of his voice. “Sorry to call so late, but… I locked my keys in my car. I totally get if you’re busy, but—”

“Where are you?”

“Around the corner from my place.”

“Be there in five.”

Click.

You gape at your phone. Five? Five minutes? Impossible. You set a timer and settle in to wait.

Nope—with three seconds left, Bucky skids to a stop in front of you. You’ve never seen someone look better in just a hoodie and jeans, but that’s Bucky for you.

“Hey,” he says. “I—”

Your phone beeps.

“Oh shit, sorry,” you say, blushing as you turn off your timer. “I was timing—well, nevermind. Thank you so much for coming, Bucky. I, um…”

“What, didn’t think I could make it in time?” He slants a grin your way as he peers inside your car, spotting your keys in a flash. “Huh.” He tries the car door handle. “Well, they are in fact locked in.”

You stare at him. “I told you that.”

“Well, you should call a locksmith in the morning.”

“What?” The wind picks up; you shiver and stuff your hands under your armpits. “I thought you were going to help me break into my car!”

“I mean, I could, but then the security system would be shot to hell.” He scratches the back of his head. “Besides, it’s practically freezing, and that takes time. I came to walk you back to my place. You, um, you can crash with me.”

Back to his place? You’ve never been…

Bucky’s watching you closely. There’s some pink in his cheeks that wasn’t there before.

To hell with it.

“Alright, then.” You grab your groceries, but before you can sling them over your shoulder Bucky pulls them out of your hands. “Hey!”

He sneaks a peek in your reusable bag as he hefts it over his own shoulder. “What, you think I was gonna let you carry this? What am I, a monster?” His smirk has a touch of sadness to it.

Unacceptable.

“No, you’re Satan,” you say sarcastically. “How dare you come down here, rescue me from myself, and carry my groceries? And what will the world say when I tell them I’m going to share my ice cream with you after all that?”

Bucky chuckles and bumps his shoulder against yours—lightly, thank goodness. “What flavor did you get?”

“It’s a surprise.” You smile at the sidewalk as you walk beside him, light dimming and brightening as you pass under street lamps. The quiet that falls between you is natural, not awkward like all the stony silences you’ve experienced in your years. The few times you’re bold enough to glance at Bucky, he catches on almost too quick for you to look away.

If he does catch you looking, he doesn’t mention it.

When you finally reach his apartment building, he lets you go in first. As you wait for the elevator to reach the top floor, you smile shyly his way. He smiles back, eyes crinkling. The elevator dings; the doors open.

“Thank you, Bucky. I appreciate all of this.”

“Anything for you, sweetheart.”

He holds the elevator open, but you’re frozen in place.

“Sweetheart?” you breathe.

Bucky’s face floods with color, and his eyes are anywhere but on you. “Uh—”

You rush at him, grab his face, and pull his mouth to yours. The groceries clatter to the floor. Bucky’s lips are soft; the hands suddenly gripping your waist are large and solid. A surge of desire shoots through you as he pulls you flush against him.

Then the elevator shuts with a ding.

You pull back in surprise, eyes popping open as you realize just what you’ve done. Bucky hasn’t moved; his eyes are still closed. Is he mad? Glad? Your heart hammers in your chest.

Bucky’s eyes open slowly. He bites his lower lip, his gaze flitting between your eyes and mouth. Tentatively, you smile.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

Your smile deepens, and you take his outstretched hand. “Hi.”

The elevator starts to go down. You lean against Bucky and laugh; he presses the button for his floor again, but the elevator is already on its course. Oh well. You wind your arms around Bucky’s waist and breathe him in. His back is more sculpted than Michelangelo’s David. You can’t wait to get your hands on the rest of him.

… Okay, so maybe you do want to jump his bones. Your cheeks flare with heat.

“What?” Bucky asks, voice low and eyes sparkling.

“To quote Sharon, I want to jump your bones,” you tell him.

“Well,” Bucky says. He licks his lips and lowers his mouth to beside your ear as the elevator stops back at the ground floor. His voice is low and delicious and just for you. “That can be arranged.”

There’s no one waiting to get on at the lobby. When the doors close again and the elevator starts to ascend, you let Bucky take you straight up to heaven.

[beckzorz]

Locked Out, Again

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Words: 1006 Prompt: You're locked out of your place in your underwear bc you were doing laundry and forgot your keys Summary: You lock your keys in the basement after throwing your soda-soaked dress in the wash. Who can you call but Bucky? A/N: Thanks to an anon for the prompt for a follow-up to Locked Out! XD Hope you enjoy :3

“Wanna come to the laundry with me?”

Bucky rolls his eyes and settles back on the couch. “No. And you wouldn’t have to keep going out to the basement if you just did your stuff at my place.”

“Well,” you say, hoisting your laundry basket higher on your hip, “that would involve lugging my laundry ten blocks.”

“You know you have a car, right?”

You stick your tongue out at him as you pull the door shut. Of course you remember your car. It was the car that finally got you together.

You worry your lip as you head downstairs. Bucky’s often offered his machine, but aside from a few, ahem, emergencies on nights you stayed over, you have yet to take him up on it.

Yes, you have a car; yes, the machine in Bucky’s apartment is free. But you haven’t given in.

Not yet.

You’ve done your own laundry since you were a kid. Doing it at Bucky’s place… It would be a level of intimacy you haven’t yet reached. It’s only been a couple of months since you’d started dating, and there’s a depth to your relationship you’ve never experienced before.

Frankly?

It’s terrifying.

Bucky is amazing: gorgeous, kind, smart, and with a wicked streak that’s driven you mad in half a dozen ways, most of them good. Very good. But you know full well that the honeymoon phase doesn’t last.

And god, you are so fucking scared of losing him.

You push open the door to the back of the building and walk straight into your neighbor Shawn.

Who’s holding a cup of soda.

You yank your hamper aside, but it’s too late; her McDonald’s cup is crushed, splashing a wave of black soda over both of your clothes.

“Oh shit!”

“Fuck!”

You’re both frozen for a moment, then you can’t help but laugh.

“Oh man, I’m so sorry,” you tell him.

“Eh, it’s alright,” Shawn says. “Tomorrow’s laundry day. It’ll keep til then.” He eyes your basket, which has escaped the tide. “You’ve got good timing, at least.”

“Apparently,” you say.

Shawn goes in, and you head to unlock the basement door. You take the narrow stairs carefully. There’s an empty washing machine, thank goodness, and you stuff your clothes in along with detergent and an obscene number of quarters.

You pluck at your wet dress. It’s covered, that’s for sure.

After a moment of thought, you pull your phone and keys from your dress pockets and set them on top of the machine. You’re wearing a slip, and for the two steps in the back of the building you should be fine. Any neighbors can handle a little satin and lace, right?

Sure. Right.

You yank your dress over your head and stuff it in with the rest of your dirty clothes. Your slip is clean still, or at least it’s not awash in coke.

Once the machine is going, you grab your phone, set a timer, and run back upstairs and outside.

No one is there. You relax a tiny bit; it’s one thing to run into people in the apartment building while only in boots and a slip, quite another outside in March. You shiver and reach for your keys.

Your keys.

Your keys?!

“Fuck fuck fuck!

You yank at the back door, eyes smarting. Are you serious? You scurry back to the basement door, but that’s locked too. You turn in place, panic seizing you by the throat.

The sounds of the street pound in your ears. You’re alone, shivering, locked out; you wrap your arms around yourself—

Oh.

Right.

Phone.

Bucky. You can call Bucky.

Your shoulders lighten as you wait for him to pick up. The details may be different, but this is just what happened the night you got together. The first night he called you sweetheart.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Bucky!” You're grinning now. “You’ll never guess what happened.”

There’s a pause, but then Bucky starts to laugh.

“You locked yourself out again?” He tsks, but you can still feel his laughter. “What am I gonna do with you?”

You giggle, barely bothered by the cold now that you’ve got Bucky’s voice in your ear. “We’ll have to find out, I guess.”

“Well, I’m coming down now. Stay on the line, wouldja?”

You melt at the worry in his voice. Your neighborhood isn’t exactly the safest around, and even though you’re perfectly capable of breaking any assailants’ noses, his protectiveness is comforting. “Of course, Bucky.”

His breathing gets heavier as he bounds down the four flights of stairs. When he makes it to the back hallway, it evens back out. You tap your hip impatiently. So close…

“You know, this wouldn’t have happened at my place,” he tells you.

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

“I’ll get you one day,” Bucky promises, and then he opens the door.

His mouth falls open as he takes you in. You bite your lip as his eyes rove over you. He swallows.

“What happened to your clothes?”

“Bumped into my neighbor,” you tell him. “Can I come in yet?”

Bucky shakes his head—in awe? disbelief?? who knows—and steps aside. You squeeze past him and sigh in relief at the warmth of the hallway.

The second the door shuts, Bucky’s hands are on your waist and his mouth catches yours. You hum happily and slide your hands up under his shirt.

Bucky yelps and jumps back. “Cold hands!”

“That’s what happens when you’re stuck outside waiting for your heroic boyfriend to come to the rescue.” You wrap your arms around his waist, this time safely over his shirt, and flutter your eyelashes at him. “Now how are you gonna warm me up? I’ve got twenty-eight minutes and nothing to do.”

Bucky’s low chuckle and darkening eyes are all the answer you need.

Later, when you’re wrapped in his arms, the cold all but forgotten and his eyes so tenderly fixed on yours, you think that maybe, maybe, you can see yourself doing laundry at his place next time.

[beckzorz]

Cold Comfort

Pairing: Bucky Barnes & Avenger!Reader Words: 877 Summary: You'd tell the team about your holiday plans, if they'd only ask. Hurt/comfort.

Holidays are for other people.

That’s what you tell yourself, anyway.

And what you would have told the rest of the team, if they’d asked what your plans were. But you’re still the odd one out, and somehow inserting yourself into their conversations is more terrifying than flinging yourself into the middle of a gunfight. So when they were sitting around in the rec room, talking about the holidays and not bothering to ask you what your plans were…

Well.

You excuse yourself.

You’re lying flat on your back in the in the seven inches of snow on the roof, listening to music and staring up at the wheeling stars. There’s Orion; there’s Canis Major and the dog star. The compound doesn’t have the light pollution of your hometown. Who needs lights when you’ve got Stark tech to catch any stray intruders? The good news is that it means you can lose yourself in the sky.

The bad news is that it’s freezing. Your sweatshirt is a terrible insulator, but you hadn’t thought to grab your coat. And the concrete is unfriendly against your back even with the snow as a cushion.

Well, maybe if you get sick, it won’t matter what your holiday plans are. Or aren’t.

Light spills out from the stairwell opening onto the roof.

Uh oh.

You sit up automatically and yank out your earphones, blood pounding in your ears. There’s no sound of footsteps, but that doesn’t mean a thing when you’re in the Avengers compound. Half the team can out-sneak a shadow.

“What are you doing out here?”

It’s Bucky. Now that he’s closer, you can hear his boots crunching through the snow as he comes your way.

You wince. So much for your solitary moping. You fall back into the snow. “Oh, don’t mind me,” you say. You jab your finger up towards the starry sky.

Bucky’s face bobs into your field of vision as he leans over you. He frowns down at you, then plops down to your left. Snow immediately clings to the creases in his jeans as he hooks his arms around his knees. “Aren’t you cold?”

“A bit.” You hook your earphone cord around your neck and sit up reluctantly. You press your cheek against your knee and watch Bucky stargaze.

Bucky has never spent any time alone with you before. You hadn’t been with the team for long, and you weren’t particularly good at dealing with strangers. Still, he’s always been polite. And he’s one of the quiet ones too. His eyes are fixed on the heavens, his breath misting same as yours. After a minute, you turn your eyes upwards as well.

Eventually, Bucky clears his throat. You sigh and look back at him.

“So what are your holiday plans?” he asks.

“Oh, I dunno,” you say, gut twisting. “My mom wants me to go home.”

Bucky gives you a lookover. “Your mom? I didn’t even know you had parents,” he jokes.

“Of course I have parents.” You frown and think about the parental track record of the rest of the team. “Well—maybe not of course. But I do.”

He chuckles. “Sure. What else don’t I know about you?”

“Plenty, I imagine.”

You don’t elaborate. What’s the point? He’s teasing; you can tell by the tone of his voice, the brightness of his eyes. You’re sure he means well, but you don’t have the energy to go into your life story while you’re losing sensation in your limbs.

Your burning eyes slide shut. It’s not that cold anymore, not really.

“Hey,” Bucky says, alarmed, “what’s the matter?”

You shrug, a tiny motion. Tears start to leak out of the corners of your eyes, hot against your skin.

A hand brushes your cheek, wiping your tears away.

“You should go inside before you get frostbite,” Bucky says.

“Frostbite’s better than going inside,” you mumble.

“What? Why?”

You crack open your eyes at the feel of Bucky’s hand settling on your shoulder. Tears cling to your eyelashes. You can feel the warmth of his skin through your sweatshirt. The concern on his face seems real…

“If you got sick, we’d all be worried,” he says gently. “And I’d feel awful. Heck, I spent like fifteen minutes looking for you after you left.”

A fresh tear rolls down your cheek. Of course his concern real. You sniff and look away. All your self-pity had poisoned your faith in your teammates. Bucky doesn’t deserve that. No one does.

Maybe inside would be better.

“I didn’t mean it,” you tell him. “I’m sorry.” You try to stand, but your knees buckle, and you fall back on your butt with a grunt. There’s no feeling in your feet, and you start to shudder. “I can’t—”

Bucky wraps an arm around your back and tucks the other under your bent knees. He hoists you off the ground with a light huff of effort and settles you against his chest. You blink at him. His face is very close. From here, you can see every light line in his skin, every eyelash, every burst of blue in his eyes. His smile is as soft as silk. Your sudden breathlessness has nothing to do with the cold.

“C’mon,” he says, “let’s go in.”

[beckzorz]

Running from then (one-shot)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes & Reader Words: 990 Warnings: Mentions of violence, trauma, an overload of sadness... you know the drill, this is me after all Prompt: “You still need your baby blanket?” Summary: Your latest hiding spot from HYDRA and the Red Room has been compromised. But Natalia is busy. She sends a ghost from your past in her place. A/N: I’ve never written anything remotely about the Red Room before, so hopefully this holds up! Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy <3

Okay.

Deep breath in, deep breath out. In, out. Fold another shirt, roll a spare pair of pants, zip up the toiletries…

You’ve done all of this before. So why is it so much harder today?

An easy answer, for once. It’s harder today because it’s been too long. It’s harder today because you’ve gotten used to this place, these people, this life.

But HYDRA finds you every time, no matter what. Natalia’s spare time to help had run out ages ago, and after four months with no word, the security measures had frayed. You never were as good as her. Now, as then, you’re suffering for it.

You sit heavily on the bed and run your hands over the floral comforter. It’s a pretty room. You’ve added very little, but it’s still got the feel of home.

Or it did, until an hour ago, when the past showed up at the door.

“Hey.”

You glance up, alarmed as always by the first sight of the man blocking your doorway. It’s the soldat—no. No You correct yourself. It’s James. Bucky. Whatever he wants to call himself. Natalia calls his both, depending on the day, or maybe her mood.

But to you, he’ll always be the soldat. That’s what he was, back then.

You wonder what he sees when he looks at you.

“Almost ready?” he asks.

You nod and finish filling the suitcase. A week’s worth of clothes and toiletries—the rest you can leave to be burned with the house—along with your meds. A single thick folder of documents goes into the backpack with your laptop and a small purse. You zip the suitcase and the backpack and stand back, looking over what remains in the room. Stock landscape photos in cheap frames, a blue lamp, and a short stack of books on the nightstand. You add the top book to your backpack; the others you haven’t started, but this one’s halfway done. If nothing else, you’ll need something to read on the journey to somewhere.

The soldat brushes past you; you flinch aside. He sighs. He picks the suitcase and backpack off the bed.

“Time to go,” he says.

But there’s one more thing. You let him leave the room, then you fall to your knees by the bed and reach between the mattress and boxspring. You pull out a small, frayed blanket, light blue and worn to almost nothing in spots.

You hold it to your face and breathe in.

“What’s that?”

“N-nothing,” you stammer. You climb to your feet and clutch the blanket to your chest; it’s folded up almost small enough that he shouldn’t be able to see. But he does see. Of course he does.

His blue eyes soften. On someone else, it would have been sweet; on him, it looks unnatural. If only Natalia could have come instead!

“You still need your baby blanket?” he teases.

You stiffen. “It’s not mine, soldat.”

His brows draw low. You look away.

“My name is Bucky.”

You don’t answer. After a moment, the soldat—Bucky—turns on his heel and leads the way out of the ranch house. There’s a car waiting. He loads up the trunk and grabs a plastic can of oil and a cigarette. In the moment you look before he disappears back inside, the lit cigarette is dangling from his full lips, a burst of smoke obscuring his eyes.

In five minutes, you’re on the winding road, a line of smoke curling over the trees in the rearview mirror. The car’s reflective panels make it vanish once you make it to the first turn; anyone watching won’t know which way you’ve gone.

Bucky’s driving. The car is a little snug for him; you can tell even without looking his way by the sounds of him shifting ever back into his seat.

You spread the folded blue blanket across one of your thighs. Your fingers trace the faded pattern, the one spot in a corner yellowed from a stain. He says nothing, but you can feel the sold—Bucky’s eyes on you.

The heavy silence lingers until you break it with a sigh.

“This was not mine,” you murmur. “It was my brother’s. Natalia got it for me, after she got me out.”

Bucky adjusts his grip on the wheel. “What happened to him?”

“They killed him and my parents when they took me. Drove the car into the Volga and harvested my parents for parts. They sold my brother to a politician whose son had died, but my brother died too.”

“The blanket?”

“My grandparents had a summer house. Natalia found it there.” You stare at Bucky’s profile and wait for him to ask about your grandparents. But he doesn’t. He only drives. You look back at the blanket in your lap. You’ve never told this to anyone, but now that you’ve begun it’s impossible to stop. “She found their bodies too,” you add. “Apparently they didn’t believe the police report about how we died, and after Natalia got me out, HYDRA went for them so I couldn’t. Before that it didn’t matter, I suppose.”

Bucky puts his hand on the center console, palm up. You stare down at it, confused.

“What?”

He takes his hand away.

“Never mind.” He swallows. “How old were you? When they took you.”

You almost laugh. “Don’t you remember?”

Bucky closes his eyes; the road is mostly straight, but still you’re tense until he opens them again. They shine now, tired and teary. You’ve never seen him like this before. It’s strange. A hollow spot in your chest tightens—for you? For him? You don’t know.

“Yes,” he says, voice hoarse. “You were four.”

“Yes,” you repeat. “I was four.” You turn aside and watch the trees go by in a blur. After a minute, you realize your eyes are blurring too. You reach up and stare at your wet fingertips. You can’t remember the last time you cried.

Bucky puts his hand back on the center console. This time, you take it.