✦ Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader
✦ Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Slow Burn to Softness
✦ Word Count: 2,527
✦ Summary: Bucky hasn't touched pierogi since his mother died not from a lack of offers, but because no one ever got it right. He always refused. Always turned cold. Until you made them one night in the tower kitchen without knowing the weight they carried. And somehow, Bucky didn’t flinch. He ate. And every Avenger was left speechless.
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“Don’t.”
Sam paused, hand hovering over the covered plate in the fridge. “What’s this, man? Homemade pierogi?”
“Throw it out,” Bucky muttered, not even looking up from where he was oiling a knife.
Sam frowned. “Damn, okay”
“I said throw it out.”
He didn’t yell. But the bite in Bucky’s voice had the whole kitchen freeze. Nat arched a brow. Steve sighed, quiet and knowing. Wanda gently nudged the plate away from Sam with her powers.
Bucky stood and left without another word. He never ate pierogi.
Not on Polish holidays. Not at Wanda’s request. Not even when Steve once found an old photo of the Barnes family, his ma in an apron, flour on her cheek, arms wrapped around little James like he was her whole world.
No one pushed him after that.
Every time someone tried “Just a bite, Buck,” or “I followed an old Brooklyn recipe!” he went quiet. Shut down. Sometimes he pushed the plate away. Once, he dropped it in the trash without blinking.
It wasn’t cruelty. It was grief. That food belonged to someone who was gone. And if it didn’t taste like hers? It didn’t belong at all.
You found that out much later.
It started on a quiet Sunday morning one of those rare Tower days where no one was saving the world, getting blown up, or debating who left dishes in the sink.
You’d wandered into the kitchen in Bucky’s hoodie, hair messy, socks mismatched, humming some old tune you didn’t even realize he’d once loved.
And you cooked. No recipe. Just vibes. And memory.
Your grandmother used to make pierogi on slow days like this. The smell of sautéed onions, the dough soft between your palms. You’d learned by watching. Folding. Trying. Failing. Trying again.
You missed her. So you cooked.
Bucky walked in halfway through, towel slung over his shoulder from a morning workout. He stopped short.
You looked over your shoulder with a smile “Morning! You want some? It’s nothing fancy just pierogi, cheese and potato style.”
He froze.
Your smile faltered. “Too early for carbs?”
He didn’t answer. Didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on the pan.
When he finally spoke, it was quiet “Where’d you learn to make that?”
“My grandma,” you said, gently, sensing something shift. “She used to hum while she folded them. I can’t do them nearly as good, but I try.”
He sat at the island stool slowly, like the weight of the air had changed.
You plated a few for yourself. Then paused “Want one?”
Bucky looked at you. Really looked.
And something in his face broke. Just for a second. He nodded.
You handed him the plate. No expectations. No teasing.
Just… kindness.
He took it with a tremble in his fingers. Watched the steam curl in the sunlight.
Lifted the fork. Took a bite. You didn’t speak. Didn’t even blink.
And when he exhaled like he hadn’t breathed in years you smiled softly and turned back to your coffee.
He finished every bite. The silence was warm. No one else walked in.
The universe held its breath. When he was done, he set the plate down with gentle hands.
“She used to hum that song too,” he said quietly. “While she cooked.”
You blinked. “Your mom?”
He nodded. “I haven’t eaten these since she died.”
You swallowed hard “Did I… was it okay?”
Bucky looked at you then. Like you’d done the impossible “You made it like hers.”
🫶 Later That Day…
The team found out at dinner. Sam screamed “You ATE THE PIEROGI?”
Nat actually dropped her fork. “Wait—he ate them?!”
Steve looked like he’d seen a ghost “He hasn’t touched them since 1943”
Wanda’s eyes went wide. “Did you make them exactly like his mom?”
“Nope,” you said simply, grinning at Bucky. “I made them like mine.”
He didn’t say anything. Just reached for your hand under the table. And held it like it was something sacred.
bucky x reader based on “drag path” by twenty one pilots… maybe bucky lost reader during the blip but she comes back and bucky downplays how hard those years were for him, until reader sees a drag path to the makeshift grave that the remaining avengers erected for her, because bucky has been going to her grave every single day
Drag Path
Thank you anon for my first ask!! Enjoy <3
"A current travels down my spine."
The world doesn't return all at once. It seeps back in through your senses like water through cracked stone. Sound arrives first, a distant roar of voices layered with something that might be sirens or wind. Then light, too bright, stabbing through eyes that haven't existed in five years. The ground under your palms is warm, gritty, real in a way that feels almost offensive after so much of nothing. Your lungs drag in air that tastes like smoke, dust, and spring. Somewhere nearby, people are sobbing. Somewhere else, someone is laughing hysterically, the kind of laugh that comes apart at the seams. Your heart is racing like it's trying to make up for lost time, each beat sending a shock down your spine that makes your fingers tremble against the earth.
Memory crashes back next, sharp and merciless. The battlefield, the sky tearing open. Fear so large it swallowed language. And then... absence. No pain, no darkness, just the sensation of being unstitched from reality thread by thread. You sit up too fast, dizzy, hands searching your own arms, face, and chest as if you expect to find damage. There is none. You're whole, you're breathing, you're here.
The compound looks older. That's the first thing you notice once your vision steadies. It looks worn. Paint faded by the seasons you didn't live through. Grass grew wild at the edges before being cut back unevenly, as if maintenance became something people remembered to do only when they had energy. New structures sit where empty space used to be, temporary buildings that somehow became permanent. The air holds a quiet heaviness, like a house after a funeral where no one has opened the windows.
Voices call your name. Hands reach for you. You're pulled into embraces that feel desperate, disbelieving, grateful. You cling back because the alternative is floating away again. Questions fly, overlapping, impossible to answer. Are you okay? Do you remember? Can you stand? You nod even when you don't know if it's true. Tears blur faces into watercolor shapes. You recognize them by their voices more than their features, older versions of people you left mid-sentence. And then you see him.
Bucky stands a few yards away, perfectly still in the chaos, like the eye of the storm that forgot how to move. For a heartbeat, you think he might not have come closer because he didn't recognize you. Five years is a long time. Maybe you're a ghost to him now, something that looks right but can't possibly be real. His hair is longer, brushing his shoulders, streaked with threads of silver that weren't there before. His face is sharper, carved down by time and something heavier than time. There are lines at the corners of his eyes that don't look like they came from smiling.
When he finally steps forward, he doesn't look excited. It's slow, deliberate, as if sudden movement might shatter whatever fragile miracle is happening right in front of him. His metal hand flexes once at his side, opening and closing, a small mechanical twitch that betrays the nerves he otherwise refuses to show. His gaze never leaves you. Not your face, not your hands, not the rise and fall of your chest. He's watching for proof, for breath, for solidarity.
He steps close enough that you can see the faint stubble along his jaw, the tiny scar at his brow, the way his eyes have changed color in the sunlight, more gray than blue now. He doesn't touch you for a moment. His flesh hand lifts halfway, hesitates, drops, lifts again like he's forgotten the choreography of something as simple as reaching out. The space between you hums with all the things you're not saying to each other.
"Hey," he says quietly, voice rough, almost unused.
It's such an ordinary word. It lands between you like something fragile and sacred.
You move first. Your arms wrap around him, and for one terrifying second, he doesn't react at all. Then he's crushing you against his chest with a force that knocks the air from your lungs, metal arm braced across your back, his other hand gripping your shoulder like he's anchoring himself to the planet that is you. His face presses into your hair, breath shuddering out of him in a way that sounds dangerously close to breaking. You can feel his heartbeat through layers of fabric, fast and uneven, like it doesn't trust this moment either.
He smells like gun oil, soap, and something earthy, like cold air and soil. It's unfamiliar and achingly familiar at the same time. You cling tighter, fingers bunching in the back of his jacket just to prove he's solid, that he won't dissolve if you loosen your grip.
"I've got you," he murmurs, so quietly you almost miss it.
You don't know if he's reassuring you or himself.
When he finally pulls back, his hands linger on your arms as if he needs the continued contact to keep you from vanishing. His eyes search your face with an intensity that feels like being cataloged, memorized, save somewhere permanent. There's relief there, but buried under layers is something much heavier. Exhaustion. Disbelief. A grief that hasn't realized it's allowed to stop.
"You're okay," he says, more statement than question. "You're finally here."
You nod, throat too tight for words. He swallows hard, jaw flexing, composure snapping back into place like armor being sealed. Anyone else might miss the transition. One second, he looks like a man standing on the edge of something bottomless. Next, he looks like the Winter Soldier who learned how to pretend he isn't drowning.
"Knew you'd come back," he adds, almost casually, as if the past five years were a delayed flight instead of an extinction event.
But his hands don't let go of you, not even for a second.
"When I see the devil's eyes, I'll look away and smile wide."
In the days that follow, the world insists on moving forward as if nothing extraordinary has happened. Schedules resume, briefings continue, meals appear at regular hours. You drift through it all in a fog of reacclimation, learning how to exist in a timeline that advanced without you. People keep touching your arm as they pass, as if to check that you're still solid. No one strays too far from you, and nobody says the word blip.
Bucky becomes a constant presence in a way that is both comforting and strange. He isn't always beside you, but he's always close by. At the end of the table during meals, leaning against the wall closest to you during meetings, standing in the doorway like a quiet sentry who forgot he was off duty. Every time you glance up, his eyes are already on you. He never startles when you look back, never pretends he wasn't watching. He just gives a small nod, the ghost of a smile, as if confirming something only he can see.
He doesn't ask questions about what you remember. When you bring it up, he listens with a careful stillness, head slightly tilted, hands clasped loosely between his knees like he's afraid to interrupt. If you falter, he fills the silence with gentle reassurances. You're safe now, and it's over. You don't have to think about it if you don't want to. His voice is always even, almost soothing, but there's a tightness underneath.
When you ask about his five years, he shrugs. "Nothing exciting. Just work and training."
Same stuff. As if the world hadn't collapsed. As if half the population hadn't turned to dust in front of him. As if you hadn't vanished from his arms like smoke.
He smiles when he says it, a small, practiced curve of his mouth that doesn't quite reach his eyes. The expression looks correct from a distance, but up close it feels... fake.
At night, the illusion thins. Your room has been restored with uncanny precision. Left exactly how you remember, right down to the books on the nightstand and the sweater you left draped over the chair. It smells stale, like a place sealed too long. You lie awake listening to the unfamiliar silence of a world no longer in crisis mode, waiting for sleep that refuses to come.
Sometimes you hear footsteps in the hallway outside your door. Passing by, then stopping, then continuing. The first time, you assume it's a patrol. The second time, you open the door a crack just as the sound fades at the end of the hallway. You don't see anyone there. The third night, you open it more quickly.
Bucky stands halfway down the hall, back to you, shoulders rigid as if he's been caught doing something he shouldn't. He turns at the faint click, expression smoothing into neutrality before you can read what was there before.
"Sorry," he says immediately. "Didn't mean to wake you."
"You didn't."
A pause stretches between you, soft and awkward. The overhead lights paint his face in a pale gold, deepening the shadows beneath his eyes. Up close, the exhaustion is impossible to miss. Not the pleasant tiredness of a long day. The bone-deep kind that sleep alone can't fix.
"Everything okay?"
He nods too quickly. "Yep. Just can't sleep."
"Nightmares?"
Another quick shake of his head, a little too emphatic. "I'm good."
The lie isn't cruel, but it's protective. He's trying to spare you something heavy you didn't ask to carry after all you'd been through.
He gestures toward the stairwell. "Gettin' some air."
You glance at the dark windows lining the corridor. Outside, the grounds are silvered by moonlight, still and empty. Not exactly inviting for a midnight stroll.
"Want some company?" you offer.
For a fraction of a second, something raw flashes across his face. Want, sharp and unguarded. Then it's gone, replaced by that same careful smile.
“You should rest,” he says gently. “You’ve been through a lot.”
The words sound kind and final.
You hesitate, unsure why disappointment prickles under your ribs. “Okay.”
He gives a small nod, relief and regret tangled together in the motion. “Night.”
“Night, Buck.”
You close the door, leaning your forehead briefly against the cool wood. When you peek through the crack again a few seconds later, the hallway is empty. No retreating footsteps. No sound at all. Just the lingering feeling that he stood there longer than he admitted, hovering at the edge of your orbit without quite stepping back into it.
In the mornings, he looks freshly composed, hair tied back, clothes immaculate, expression calm. If he didn’t have shadows carved beneath his eyes like bruises, you might believe he slept. Neither of you mentions the hallway.
During training, he positions himself so he can see you without being obvious. If you stumble, he’s there before anyone else, steadying your elbow with a light touch that disappears the moment you’re balanced again. If someone raises their voice too sharply, his posture shifts, attention sharpening in a way that feels almost predatory. Not aggressive, but protective, like a guard dog pretending to nap.
“Still got it,” he tells you after you disarm him during a sparring session, offering that same restrained smile. Pride flickers in his eyes, bright and fleeting as sunlight on water.
You laugh, breathless. “You went easy on me.”
“Did not.”
“Did too.”
He lifts one shoulder in a half shrug, conceding nothing, but the corner of his mouth ticks upward just a little more. For a moment, he looks almost like the man you remember, lighter, younger, less haunted.
Then someone drops a metal weight across the gym, the sharp clang ricocheting through the room like a gunshot. Bucky freezes. Just a brief, total stillness, every muscle locked, eyes unfocused as if he’s somewhere else entirely. It lasts less than a second before he blinks and exhales, shoulders loosening.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, though you didn’t say anything.
“It’s okay,” you reply softly.
He nods, gaze sliding away from yours. “I’m good.”
He says it again. And again. A mantra. A shield. A wall built brick by brick out of two simple words. I’m good. You start to notice how often he says it, and how rarely it sounds true.
"I dug my heels into the gravel."
It happens on a morning so gentle it feels almost apologetic. The sky is pale blue, washed clean by a rain that passed in the night, leaving the air cool and sharp with the scent of wet earth. The compound hums with low, ordinary activity. Distant voices, the whir of machinery, the faint clatter of dishes from the kitchen wing. Life, steady and functional, continues its careful march forward.
You wake before anyone comes looking for you, sleep having dissolved into that thin, restless half-state where your body is tired but your mind refuses to settle. The room feels too still, too preserved, like a museum exhibit of a life paused mid-breath. You dress quietly and slip out, drawn by a need you can’t quite name. You're not searching for escape. Maybe curiosity is dragging you somewhere. Or something softer and more instinctive, like a plant bending toward light it can’t see yet.
Outside, the grounds stretch wide and glistening, grass jeweled with droplets that soak the cuffs of your pants as you wander without direction. The usual training fields sit empty at this hour, equipment dark with moisture, footprints from yesterday softened into vague impressions. The air tastes clean, almost sweet, carrying the distant murmur of the river beyond the tree line.
You follow the perimeter path at first, the one meant for patrols and casual walks. It curves gently, predictable, bordered by low fencing and discreet security posts. Everything about it is orderly, intentional, and designed. After a while, though, you drift away from it, stepping through a gap where the grass grows taller and less disciplined. No alarms sound. No one calls after you. It feels strangely easy to slip off the map.
The ground changes under your feet, soft soil giving way to patches of gravel and packed dirt left over from old construction. Small stones crunch faintly with each step, the sound loud in the morning quiet. You slow, noticing how the landscape here looks less maintained, less curated for comfort. Wildflowers tangle with weeds. Young trees lean at odd angles, competing for space and sunlight. It’s not abandoned, exactly, just… forgotten.
A breeze stirs, cool against your skin, carrying the smell of damp leaves and something deeper, earthier. You wrap your arms loosely around yourself, cold and aware of how alone you are out here. The compound feels distant now, its sounds reduced to a faint background murmur, like a memory of noise rather than noise itself.
You notice the ground. At first, it doesn’t register as anything unusual. Just a strip where the grass looks thinner, paler, as if the rain didn’t quite revive it the way it did everything else. You step over it without thinking, continue a few paces, then stop. Something about it tugs at your attention, subtle but insistent, like a word on the tip of your tongue.
You turn back. Up close, the difference is unmistakable. The grass isn’t just thin. It’s flattened, pressed in a narrow line that cuts through the taller growth on either side. In places, the blades are bent permanently sideways, their stems pale where they’ve been denied sunlight. In others, the soil shows through, dark and compacted, with small stones embedded so tightly they look glued in place.
It isn’t wide enough for a vehicle. Not random enough for animal tracks. Too straight to be natural. You crouch, fingers brushing the surface. The ground feels hard, almost polished, the way dirt becomes after being walked on again and again until it loses all softness. Moisture beads on your skin from the damp grass, but the path itself is nearly dry, as if water never quite sinks in. Someone choosing the exact same route so many times that the earth has no choice but to remember.
Your pulse picks up, though you don’t know why. You straighten slowly, eyes following the line as it threads away from you, disappearing into a cluster of trees at the far edge of the grounds. From a distance, it looks almost like a scar, a pale seam stitched across the green. Not obvious enough to draw attention from afar, but impossible to ignore once seen.
No official walkway leads there. No signage. No lights. Just that quiet, deliberate trail.
For a long moment, you consider turning back. This feels private, somehow. Not really dangerous, but not meant for wandering curiosity. Like stumbling across a diary left open on a table. The breeze lifts again, rustling the leaves ahead with a soft whispering sound. The path doesn’t move, doesn’t beckon, doesn’t change at all. It simply exists, patient and undeniable.
You step onto it. The sensation underfoot is immediate. Firmer than the surrounding ground, smoother, almost worn down to a subtle trough where countless footsteps have pressed the center lower than the edges. Your boots leave only the faintest impression before the soil springs back, resistant, accustomed to weight. You take another step. Then another.
The compound disappears behind you, swallowed by trees and distance. Shadows deepen as branches knit overhead, filtering the sunlight into thin, wavering ribbons that stripe the ground. The air grows cooler, quieter, and the sounds of the world outside are dampened to a distant hush.
Somewhere ahead, a bird startles into flight, wings beating hard against the stillness before fading into silence again. You become acutely aware of your own breathing. Of your heartbeat. Of the soft thud of each step landing exactly where someone else’s once did. This wasn’t made by wandering. It was made by returning.
The path curves gently around a stand of older trees, their trunks thick and deeply ridged, roots pushing up through the soil like knuckles. Beyond them, the ground opens into a small clearing where the grass grows shorter, thinner, as if even sunlight hesitates to linger there.
You slow, an uneasy feeling pooling low in your stomach, heavy and cold. Something waits at the center of that clearing. You can’t see what it is yet. Only a shape, vertical and still, silhouetted against the pale morning light. Your steps falter, then continue, drawn forward by a gravity you don’t understand.
"A sad sap laying on the surface."
The clearing feels wrong in a way that has nothing to do with danger. No broken branches. No disturbed soil from a struggle. Just an absence, as if the land itself decided not to grow here anymore. Grass clings in thin, patchy strands, pale and brittle despite the recent rain, exposing wide swaths of bare earth the color of old coffee. The air is still, heavy, carrying a faint mineral smell like damp stone.
You stop at the edge, suddenly reluctant to step fully inside, as though crossing some invisible boundary might confirm something you don’t want confirmed. The shape at the center resolves slowly, details sharpening as your eyes adjust.
It isn’t large. Just a simple marker planted upright in the ground, weathered wood gone gray with exposure. No polished stone, no engraved marble, nothing official or ceremonial. Something made quickly, by hand, from whatever was available when there wasn’t time or energy for more.
Your stomach drops. You force your feet forward, each step sinking slightly into the softer soil of the clearing, leaving impressions that feel too loud, too intrusive. The path feeds directly into this space, ending not in a loop or a crossroads but in a single straight line that stops at the marker like an arrow hitting its target.
Up close, you can see the grain of the wood split by sun and frost, tiny cracks running through it like dried riverbeds. The top edge is uneven, as if it were cut with a tool that wasn’t meant for precision. Someone sanded the front smooth enough to carve into, though the edges remain rough, splintered in places. Carved. Not painted. Not etched by machine. Carved by a hand that pressed too hard, lines deep and imperfect, letters slightly uneven in height as though the person doing it didn’t trust themselves to keep their hands steady.
Your name stares back at you.
For a long moment, your mind refuses to accept it as language. The shapes register only as grooves in wood, meaningless patterns. Then the letters snap into place, and the world tilts. Below your name is a date. The day you vanished. Not an end date. Just the beginning of your absence, frozen in time because no one knew how to mark anything beyond it.
Your knees feel weak, though you don’t remember bending them. Suddenly, you're closer to the ground, the hem of your pants darkening as it soaks up moisture from the soil. Your fingers hover inches from the wood, trembling, unable to decide whether touching it will make this more real or less.
A grave. A grave for you.
The thought arrives fully formed, heavy as a stone. There is no body beneath it. You know that. You have to know that. And yet the space carries the same quiet gravity as any cemetery, the sense of something concluded, sealed away. The ground around the base is slightly sunken, rainwater having settled there over seasons, then dried, then settled again. Time has passed here. A lot of it. Five whole years of time.
Small objects rest at the foot of the marker, arranged with a care that feels almost reverent. Smooth river stones, their surfaces dulled by weather. A strip of faded fabric tied loosely around the base, color leached to something indistinct. The brittle remains of flowers long since dried, stems fragile as paper, petals curled inward like they’re trying to protect whatever beauty they once held.
None of it looks abandoned. Old and weathered, as expected. But tucked among the faded offerings are newer ones. Fresh stones, still damp. A small sprig of greenery not yet wilted. A metal trinket half buried in the soil, polished bright where fingers must have turned it over and over again. Someone comes here often.
Your gaze drifts back to the path behind you, the narrow strip of flattened earth cutting through the trees like a lifeline. From this angle, its purpose is undeniable. It doesn’t wander. It doesn’t branch. It leads directly here and nowhere else. A route worn by grief into permanence.
Your chest tightens, breath coming shallow and uneven. Memories flicker through your mind with painful clarity. The dust on Bucky’s boots that never quite brushed off. The faint smell of soil clinging to him even indoors. The way he sometimes disappeared early in the morning before anyone else was awake. The way he always seemed to come from outside, never from the direction of the gym or the briefing rooms. The pieces slide together with terrible precision.
“Oh,” you whisper, the sound barely audible even to yourself.
You imagine him here in every kind of weather. Standing in summer heat with sweat darkening his collar. In autumn wind scattering leaves across the clearing. In winter cold, breath fogging the air, snow packing into the same narrow footprints day after day until even the drifts learned the shape of his presence. In rain that soaked him through, turning the ground to mud that clung to his boots and dragged at each step, and still he came.
Your hand finally moves, fingertips brushing the carved letters of your name. The grooves are rough, edges softened slightly by time, but still deep enough to catch on your skin. You trace them slowly, feeling the uneven pressure where the blade must have bitten too hard, slipped, and corrected. The work of someone who needed this to exist and didn’t care how imperfect it looked as long as it was real.
The wood is cool beneath your touch. Solid. Patient. It waited for you longer than you knew.
Your vision blurs, tears gathering without the sharp sting you expect. They slide down quietly, absorbed by the collar of your shirt, by the air, by the earth itself. There is no dramatic sob, no collapse. Just a deep, aching fullness in your chest, too large to express through sound. You weren’t here to see it built. You weren’t here to see the first offering placed, the first step taken down that path. All of that happened in a version of the world you never experienced, a chapter written without you in it. And yet the evidence surrounds you. Proof that you were not forgotten. Proof that someone refused to let you disappear completely.
Your fingers tighten against the marker, forehead dipping forward until it nearly rests against the weathered wood. The scent of damp earth fills your lungs, grounding and raw and painfully alive. Behind you, the clearing remains silent, the trees standing still as witnesses. Deep in your bones, you know with absolute certainty who built this.
"You found me."
You don't hear Bucky. The clearing swallows sound strange, as if the air itself has thickened over years of quiet visits. Leaves don't cunch, branches don't snap. The world remains suspended in that heavy stillness while you kneel in front of your own name, fingertips resting against the carved grooves as if they might shift under your touch and resolve into something else.
It’s the feeling that reaches you before any noise does. A subtle shift, like the pressure in a room changing when someone opens a door. The faint prickle along the back of your neck, instinct older than thought. You go very still, breath caught halfway in your chest, listening without knowing what you’re listening for. Then, behind you, a single step. The sound of weight settling onto compacted soil that has learned the shape of one particular pair of boots.
Your heart stutters. You don’t turn immediately. Part of you is afraid that if you move too fast, whoever stands there might vanish the way everything else did five years ago. Another part is suddenly, painfully certain you already know who it is.
The silence stretches. Slowly, you rise to your feet. When you turn, Bucky stands at the edge of the clearing where the path spills out from the trees, one hand still half lifted as if he forgot what he meant to do with it. For a moment, he looks almost unrecognizable, stripped of the careful composure he’s worn since your return. His eyes are wide, fixed on you with a raw, disbelieving intensity that borders on fear. He looks like a man who just walked into a ghost.
His gaze flicks past you to the marker, then back to your face, then back again, as if his brain can’t reconcile the two images existing in the same frame. Color drains from his skin, leaving him pale beneath the morning light. Even from several yards away, you can see the tight flex of his jaw, the shallow rise and fall of his chest.
“Buck,” you say softly.
Your voice breaks the spell. He inhales sharply, the sound rough, almost painful, like air scraping past something lodged in his throat. For a heartbeat, he looks like he might turn around and leave, retreat the way wounded animals do when they’re caught in the open. His shoulders shift, weight rocking back on his heel.
Instead, he takes one step forward. Then another. Each one slow, deliberate, as if the ground might give way beneath him. His boots land in the shallow trough worn into the earth, perfectly aligned with the countless steps that came before. The path doesn’t just lead him here. It guides him, carrying him forward even when the rest of him seems frozen.
When he stops a few feet away, his hands hang uselessly at his sides, fingers flexing once, twice, metal joints clicking faintly in the silence. He doesn’t look at the grave now. He can’t seem to look at anything but you, as though if he glances away, you might be gone when he looks back.
“I didn’t...” His voice falters, rough and low. He clears his throat, tries again. “I didn’t think anyone would come out here.”
“I was walking,” you reply, though the explanation feels small, inadequate for the enormity of what stands between you.
His gaze drops briefly to your boots, noting the damp grass clinging to them, the faint dust from the path. Evidence. Proof. Then it lifts again, searching your face with an almost desperate intensity, cataloging every feature as if committing you to memory in real time.
“You shouldn’t have to see this,” he says quietly.
There’s no anger in it, just regret. And something that sounds dangerously close to shame. A breeze stirs at last, threading through the clearing and lifting the ends of his hair, carrying the scent of earth and metal and clean soap. He smells exactly the way he did when he held you in the courtyard, familiar and heartbreakingly new at the same time.
Your eyes flick to the path behind him, then back to his face. “You made it.”
His throat works, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. For a second, he says nothing, as if denial is still an option he’s considering. Then his shoulders slump a fraction, tension bleeding out of him in a slow, defeated exhale.
“Yeah,” he admits.
He shifts his weight, gaze drifting past you at last to the marker. The moment he looks at it, something inside him seems to collapse inward. His posture folds slightly, not enough to be obvious unless you’re watching closely, but enough to reveal how much effort it takes for him to remain upright.
“I just…” He stops, jaw tightening. The rest of the sentence never makes it out.
You follow his line of sight, looking back at the carved letters, the offerings, the worn earth. Seeing it now with him here makes it feel different, heavier, like stepping into a room where grief still lingers in the air.
“You came here,” you say slowly, “every day.”
His eyes close. For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. His lashes cast thin shadows across his cheeks, hiding whatever expression lies underneath. When he opens them again, the composure is gone, stripped away to reveal something raw and unguarded, an emotion too complex to name cleanly. Loss, relief, fear, love, exhaustion, all tangled together like wires in a storm.
“Yeah,” he repeats, softer this time. The word sounds like it weighs a hundred pounds.
Neither of you moves. The distance between you feels enormous despite being only a few steps, charged with everything he never said, everything you never knew to ask. The path stretches away behind him, a silent testimony to years of mornings and evenings spent walking the same lonely route. Proof etched into the surface of the world that he never stopped coming.
His gaze lifts to yours again, searching, uncertain now in a way you’ve never seen before. The legendary steadiness, the soldier’s certainty, all of it stripped back to something achingly human.
“You weren’t supposed to…” He trails off, voice thinning. “I mean, I didn’t think…”
Didn’t think you’d come back. Didn’t think you’d see. Didn’t think he would have to explain why he kept loving someone who might never return.
The words hang unfinished between you, too heavy to force into shape. And in the silence that follows, the truth settles fully into place. He didn’t build this to let you go. He built it so you would still have somewhere to come back to.
"Can you find me?"
For a while, neither of you speaks. The clearing hums with a soft, living quiet. Leaves whisper overhead. Somewhere far off, a bird calls once and then thinks better of it. The world continues as if this moment isn’t splitting open at the center.
Bucky’s gaze drifts past you again, not quite able to hold your eyes for long. It settles on the marker, on the offerings at its base, on the earth worn bare by his own footsteps. His expression goes distant, not unfocused exactly, just pulled inward, like he’s looking at a version of this place layered over the present one. Five years of memories superimposed on a morning that suddenly contains you alive inside it.
“I talked to you,” he says quietly.
The words are so soft you almost think you imagined them. His mouth tightens, as if he regrets saying it out loud, but he doesn’t take it back. His eyes remain fixed on the wood, on your name carved there in imperfect lines.
“Not... not every time,” he adds after a moment, voice rough. “Sometimes I just stood here.”
You don’t interrupt. The confession feels delicate, like a thread that will snap if pulled too quickly.
“I didn’t know if you could hear,” he continues, a faint shake creeping into his voice. He presses his hands flat against his thighs as if trying to still them. “Probably not. I knew that. But...” He exhales, shoulders rising and falling in a slow, uneven motion. “Didn’t matter.”
His jaw works, teeth catching briefly on his lower lip, a habit you remember from moments when he’s trying to contain something too big to swallow.
“After a while, I couldn’t remember your voice,” he says.
The words land heavy, final, like something he’s been holding behind his teeth for years and finally let slip. His eyes squeeze shut for a heartbeat, lashes trembling, as if even admitting it hurts more than he expected.
“I could remember what you said,” he goes on, forcing the words out one at a time. “Stuff you used to say. Jokes. Stories. But the sound of it...” His throat bobs. “It started getting fuzzy.”
Your chest tightens painfully, breath catching.
“I forgot what your eyes looked like,” he whispers. “It scared me. Just... losing that.”
His metal hand lifts slightly, then drops again, fingers curling into the fabric of his pants as if anchoring himself.
“So I started coming here more,” he says. “Every day. Sometimes twice.” A humorless breath escapes him, not quite a laugh. “Figured if I kept talking, maybe my brain wouldn’t let it disappear.”
He finally looks at you then, really looks, eyes bright in a way that has nothing to do with sunlight.
“I didn’t want you to be alone,” he says.
The simplicity of it is devastating.
“You were just gone.” His voice fractures on the word, splintering into something raw. “No body. No place to... to put you." He swallows hard, fighting for control he’s clearly losing. “I couldn’t stand the idea of you just... nowhere.”
“So I made somewhere,” he finishes, barely audible.
A breeze moves through the clearing, stirring the faded ribbon tied around the marker, making it flutter weakly against the wood. The motion draws his eyes, and something in his face softens and crumples all at once.
“I kept waiting,” he admits.
“For what?” you ask gently.
He doesn’t answer immediately. His expression goes distant again, haunted.
“For something impossible,” he says at last. “A sign. A miracle. I don’t know.” He shakes his head faintly. “Every time I walked up here, I thought... maybe today the ground would be different. Maybe the marker would be gone. Maybe...” His voice thins to almost nothing. “Maybe you’d be standing here.”
The words unravel him. His composure collapses inward, not explosively, not dramatically, just a quiet implosion. His shoulders cave slightly, breath hitching in a way he can’t quite hide. He drags a hand across his face, rough and quick, as if wiping away sweat instead of tears he refuses to acknowledge.
“I knew it was stupid,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “Didn’t matter.”
You step closer without thinking, drawn by the fragile gravity of his grief. The space between you shrinks to almost nothing.
“Buck,” you whisper.
At the sound of your voice up close, his head lifts sharply, eyes locking onto yours with a startled intensity, like he forgot you were actually here, not just a memory wearing your shape.
“I tried to be okay,” he says, the words tumbling out now, unsteady, stripped of the careful control he’s maintained since your return. “Everyone else was hurting too. Didn’t want to make it worse. Didn’t want...” He falters, jaw tightening. “Didn’t want them looking at me like I was broken again.”
You can see it then, plain as daylight. The terror not just of losing you, but of losing himself, of sliding back into that hollow place he fought so hard to escape.
“So I just kept going,” he finishes weakly. “Training. Missions. Whatever they needed.” His mouth twists into something that might be a bitter smile if it had any warmth in it. “And then I’d come here.”
His eyes flick to the path behind him, that narrow scar through the trees.
“Only place it felt quiet,” he says. “Only place it felt like you were still part of the world somehow.”
His voice breaks completely on the last word. Silence rushes in to fill the space, thick and trembling. He stands there, exposed in a way he usually doesn't allow, chest rising and falling unevenly, eyes bright and unguarded. A man who loved someone so much he carved a road through the earth to keep from losing them entirely.
Softly, almost disbelieving, he adds, “And now you’re here.”
"Then I know you're also there."
You don’t remember deciding to move. One moment you’re standing a breath away from him, watching the tremor in his hands, the fragile way he holds himself together as if one wrong shift will send everything spilling out. Next, your arms are around him, closing the last fragile distance that grief built between you. He goes rigid in shock, muscles locking under your touch. For a single, suspended heartbeat, he doesn’t respond at all.
Then he breaks. His face buries into the crook of your neck, breath shuddering out of him in uneven bursts that warm your skin through the fabric of your shirt. His arms come up fast to hold you against him. You feel it when the first crack finally gives way. A violent tremor runs through his entire body, a shudder he can’t suppress because there’s nothing left to hold it in. His fingers tighten convulsively, pulling you closer, closer, as if proximity alone can guarantee permanence.
“I’ve got you,” you murmur instinctively, the same words he offered you when you returned, soft and steady and meant for both of you.
His grip tightens further at that, almost painfully so, like the reassurance hurts as much as it heals.
For a long time, he doesn’t speak. He just holds on, forehead pressed against your shoulder, breath hitching and stuttering as if he’s relearning how to breathe around something lodged deep in his chest. You can feel the damp heat of tears seeping through the fabric, soaking into your skin. He makes no attempt to hide it.
Gradually, the tension in his body shifts. Not disappearing, not fully relaxing, just changing from brittle to exhausted, like a structure that has finally stopped bracing for impact. His weight settles more heavily against you, trust replacing panic, grief draining out in slow, unstoppable currents.
“You’re warm,” he says hoarsely, voice muffled against your shoulder.
It’s such a strange thing to say that it takes a second to understand what he means. Not temperature. Alive.
You slide one hand up to cradle the back of his head, fingers threading gently through his hair, grounding him with the simple, undeniable reality of touch. “So are you.”
He lets out a shaky breath that might almost be a laugh if it weren’t so fragile. His hold on you loosens just enough for him to lean back, hands sliding to your arms but not letting go entirely. His eyes search your face again, slower this time, not frantic cataloging but quiet confirmation.
“You’re not...” He stops, jaw tightening as he tries to find words that won’t betray how terrified he still is. “You’re not going anywhere, right?”
The question lands with the weight of a child asking if the light will stay on. Your chest aches for him.
“I’m here,” you say gently. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Something in his expression softens, a tension unwinding that you didn’t even realize was there. His breathing eases, eyes closing briefly as if he needs to feel the truth of your words settle inside him. When he opens them again, they’re still red-rimmed, still raw, but clearer. Behind him, the marker stands quiet and unchanged, the offerings at its base stirring faintly in the breeze. The path leading to it looks different now, less like a wound and more like a thread connecting past to present, grief to survival.
You glance at it, then back at him. “You don’t have to come here alone anymore.”
His gaze follows yours, landing on the carved letters. For a moment, uncertainty flickers across his face, as if he isn’t sure what this place is supposed to be now that you’re standing beside him instead of beneath the earth it marks.
“Didn’t know what else to do,” he admits quietly.
He looks back at you, something steadier taking root behind the lingering sorrow. Not joy, not yet. Just the beginning of peace, tentative as new growth pushing through frost.
“Guess I don’t have to talk to a piece of wood anymore,” he adds, a faint, crooked hint of humor threading through the words.
“You can if you want,” you say softly. “But I’d prefer you talk to me.”
That almost-smile deepens, fragile but real. He reaches out, brushing his thumb lightly across your cheek as if confirming you’re still solid, still warm, still here. The touch is careful, reverent, like handling something irreplaceable.
You turn together toward the path, moving when you’re ready. His hand finds yours without hesitation, fingers threading through with a firm, grounding pressure. This time, the contact feels different. As you step onto the worn earth, your footprints fall beside his, widening the narrow trail by a fraction. Grass bends under the new pattern, the old groove no longer the only one guiding the way.
Halfway to the trees, he glances back. The marker stands alone in the clearing, small and weathered, no longer the final destination of a solitary pilgrimage but a quiet monument to a chapter that has already begun to close. Sunlight filters through the branches above it, painting the wood in soft gold.
He exhales, long and deep, a breath that sounds like setting something down after carrying it too far. Then he faces forward again, tightening his hold on your hand.
Behind you, the path remains etched into the surface of the world, proof of love that refused to disappear even when hope did. Ahead, the trees part to reveal the distant outline of the compound, alive with sound and motion and all the messy brightness of people who survived.
-----
Thanks for reading<3 Just a reminder that my requests are open! I’d love to hear from you!
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader
Summary: Right after the funeral, Bucky disappears without a word. You set everything to find him, clueless why he left.
Wordcount: 1k
Warnings: hurt/comfort. angst!. tears. guilt.
___________
He disappeared for several days.
Everyone on the team was very worried about Bucky after he got out of the dust in one night and fog action. Without saying goodbye. Each of your breaths felt like your last, it hurt so much not to know where he was.
After the rest of humanity had returned out of nowhere and the world was spinning at an indefinable pace, nothing was the same.
After Tony had given his life for us, nothing was like before.
The grief had burned into the bones of all of us, paralyzing us and making it almost impossible to look forward.
"Have you heard anything new?"
Sam crossed his arms in front of his chest and looked at you shaking his head. “I'm really sorry, kiddo. He seems to have been swallowed by the ground. Not even Friday could track him down.”
Cursed Winter Soldier experience. If anyone knew how to leave no trace, it was James Buchanan Barnes.
Steve entered the room and let his worried gaze wander over the flickering screens. Data from surveillance cameras was compared on each individual. Facial recognition. Everyone is looking for Bucky. All programmed by you.
"When was the last time you slept?"
You sigh in annoyance. “I can do that when I find him. Until then, I won't be a blind eye anyway.”
“I understand how you feel. We're all worried about him. But it's no use looking for him this way. He will show up when he's ready.” Steve put a hand on your shoulder and squeezed it to signal you that you were not alone with your fear for Bucky.
"Why did he disappear in the first place?" Your voice sounded small and broken.
You feel the tears gather in your eyes, try in vain to blink them away and look back at Steve and Sam. They gave each other a telling look.
"What? What do you know?”
Sam cleared his throat and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "I only have the assumption that he has his reasons for it. As annoying as this old man may be, he does nothing about the affect.
“I know Buck. Even then, he always dealt with his problems with himself. However, disappearing is also new to me. Especially because he disappeared right after the funeral," Steve added.
"Do you think it would be possible ...?" You didn't need to finish the sentence to know that your train of thought would be confirmed by them.
Just thinking about it made you sick.
Even if it took a lot of persuasion from Steve and Sam, you finally agree to give yourself a break from the search. To eat something - or rather to stare at the lovingly prepared casserole of May Parker and finally to throw it away.
You slip into your room, close the door quietly behind you and let yourself slide down it with your eyes closed. Your heart cramped painfully in your chest. Tightened your breath and made you feel like you were dying a little bit.
Where is he? Why did he leave without saying anything? Was he okay?
The lump in your throat got bigger with every second. You open your eyes and drive together in fright. There was someone sitting on your bed. You could only distinguish a silhouette in the darkness that remained motionless on the edge of the bed.
You would recognize the shadow everywhere. "Bucky?"
He didn't answer, didn't raise his head to look at you. His elbows were supported on his knees and he continued to stare at the ground between his feet.
You get up, sway briefly and run to him. You sink to your knees in front of him, the tears now flowed uncontrollably down your cheeks and left wet marks on your skin.
“Are you hurt? Bucky, what happened?” The words just bubbled out of you. You touch his hands and notice that they were wet. Strictly speaking, his whole body was dripping. He was wearing a suit. Still the suit he wore at the funeral. Bucky smelled of rain and he was completely soaked.
"I'm fine," he murmured.
You bend your head to catch his gaze, which was still fixed on the ground. You gently put your hands on his cheeks, he allowed it.
"That's not true."
He smiled sadly. "I know." Bucky looked at you and you realized how red his eyes were. He must have cried for hours to look so carried away.
"What happened?" you repeat your question, quieter this time.
Bucky hesitated. You could feel his jaw tense under your fingers. His cloudy, blue eyes tried to escape your gaze, but always found their way back to you.
Finally, he raised his right hand and wiped a tear from your cheek. “I didn't know what else to do. For me it was always just fight or flight. I couldn't fight, so I fled.”
"You ran away because you couldn't apologize anymore. Am I right?” you whisper.
Bucky stiffened and looked at you as if moved by thunder. "Where - how do you know that?"
“Steve and Sam made me think. I was too busy looking for you that I didn't ask myself why.” You put your hands flat on his chest and then slowly let them wander up to his shirt collar. "But it makes sense."
He nodded silently. "I'm sorry to give you such worries, doll. I wanted to keep you out of my mess.”
"Don't say that." You move closer to him, so that you now kneel between his bent legs. "Bucky, your mess is my mess. I'm here for you. Always. I'm sorry you felt like you had to run away.”
His Adam's apple jumped as if he had to swallow a lump in his throat. "It's just... I wanted to apologize to him. Tony. For that I took - that I took his parents.“ His voice sounded rough and quite scratchy from emerging tears. "I wanted to make up for it."
„Bucky-…“
No more words were needed. You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him to you. Bucky didn't hesitate and returned the hug.
Hard.
The pressure with which he held on to you almost took the air to breathe, but you allow it. He buried his face in the crook of your neck and began to sob.
With steady movements, your fingers ran through his hair and you pressed your lips gently to his trembling shoulders. So you stay for some time. You let him find comfort with you and he let you hold him. A silent contract between two hearts.
As he slowly detached himself from you, he took your face in his hands and looked at you extensively. "When was the last time you slept, doll?"
Without a doubt, you gave off a miserable appearance with dark circles under your eyes. You brush a strand of hair from his forehead. “I could ask you the same.”
Without a word, you rise. Bucky got rid of the soaked suit and you wiped off your clothes. You crawl under the duvet, snuggled together and let the darkness envelop you like a protective bubble.
Bucky held you as if you were his anchor and you clung to him. Your leg snaked over his hip and your fingers drew soothing circles on his bare back. After a while, you feel how his breathing calms down and became more and more even.
Only when Bucky had fallen asleep, you also allow yourself to find peace.
_________________
Thank you so much for reading! All interactions are highly appreciated (but please don't copy my work)
Pairings - Roommate!tfatws!Bucky x Fem!Roommate!Reader
Summary - You've been stood up twice in a row now. Bucky is tired of seeing you disappointed. So he takes you on a date.
Warnings - angst, being stood up, angry/annoyed bucky
Notes - I'm horrible at summaries, I know!! This happened to me a couple days ago, wishing I had a Bucky to take me on a date in Brooklyn right about now! Not proofread so lmk if there are any mistakes! Thank you for reading loves!!
WC - 1,750
masterlist
"Whatcha gettin' ready for, doll?" Bucky leaned on your bedroom doorframe, watching you straighten your hair in the mirror on top of your dresser.
"I have a date." You smiled, not noticing the slight drop in Bucky's smile.
"Oh, with anyone I know?"
You shook your head. "His name's Nash. Someone Sam set me up with," You explained. "He's supposed to pick me up in twenty minutes."
Bucky internally rolled his eyes. The guys Sam hung around with were nice, yes. However, he never got the guts to take you out on the date you deserved. A date with him.
"Are you sure you want him picking you up?" Bucky asked, making you look back in confusion. "I mean you don't know him that well... You could meet him there or uh, I'll drop you off."
You let out a small laugh, "Yeah Buck, I'll just have my male roommate drop me off at a date, that'll go over well."
Bucky shrugged. He walked away from your bedroom to grab a beer from the fridge before sitting on the couch. He turned on whatever channel didn't require him to use the remote too much before slouching into the cushions.
Twenty minutes passed by when you slipped out of your bedroom, shutting the door behind you.
You grinned, looking down at your outfit. It was basic but it was the most comfortable yet fashionable outfit you had. Black flared leggings with a sage green sweater and some white sneakers. It was simple yet appropriate for a late-night-diner date.
And to top it all off your makeup had cooperated for once. Both eyebrows looked like twins and not sisters. Your highlight was perfect, shimmering, but not too much. And you had the perfect lipgloss that made your lips look sunkissed. Perfect.
"He should be here any minute!" You sprayed some perfume, your favorite vanilla scent, and went to sit in the armchair across from the couch.
Bucky hummed, keeping his eyes on the Tv, taking another sip of beer.
However, twenty more minutes went by and Nash hadn't texted you, hadn't called, and hadn't shown up. Bucky was starting to feel bad and you could tell by the pity looks he kept throwing your way.
"He uhm," Bucky cleared his throat, "Maybe he hit traffic. You know, with it being New York and everything." You nodded, trying to hold onto at least a small bit of hope. "Yeah, traffic."
But then another forty minutes went by and he still hadn't even texted.
And then another hour.
And another hour.
By the time Bucky finally turned off the Tv it was three and a half hours since the time Nash was supposed to come pick you up.
You were still sitting in the armchair, having dozed off with a couple tears streaked down your face. Ruining your once-perfect makeup.
Bucky sighed, silently cursing Sam even though he knew it wasn't his fault.
"Alright, doll," Bucky whispered, placing his metal arm behind your back, and lifting your legs with his right. You groaned awake, holding your phone in your palm as you wiped your cheek. "What time is it?" Your eyes shoot open, "Did he show up?"
Bucky placed you in your bed, handing you one of his t-shirts you had stolen a while ago. "No, doll. I'm sorry." You stripped your shirt off to change as Bucky went into your bathroom, grabbing a couple of makeup wipes.
"Here." He softly spoke, hating your distraught and disappointed expression.
You wiped your makeup off, shedding a couple more tears in the process. The tears dripped from your cheek to the grey henley Bucky had given you. "It's okay. Maybe he was just busy."
Bucky wanted to roll his eyes. He wanted to tell you that any respectful man, any gentleman wouldn't have done what Nash did to you. But he kept his mouth shut, opting to hum in your favor, and threw the makeup wipes in the trash when your face was completely bare.
"Goodnight, Doll." He placed a kiss on the crown of your head as you hummed in response. "Goodnight, Buck."
---
A couple days later, you finally got a text back from Nash.
"Bucky I was right!!"
You came sliding into the kitchen, your socks making it easy to ice-skate on the smooth wood floor.
Bucky chuckled at your ability to skid so gracefully without falling. He had tried it once but vowed to never do it again after he slid into the dining room table. You would never let him live it down.
"Right about what, doll?" Bucky flipped the pancake, adding some vanilla to the dough.
"About Nash! He actually was busy!"
Bucky quirked an eyebrow. Wondering why he had waited this long to text you back. Six days to be exact. "Did he say with what?"
Bucky turned back to making breakfast.
"He said he got busy with work, and that something at work pissed him off so he didn't wanna see me while he was upset." You explained what Nash had told you.
Bucky had never wanted to hit someone in the face so hard.
Well, actually that wasn't true. But he did want to sock Nash in the face for standing you up and giving you a half-ass excuse days later.
"I mean that explains things, yeah..." Your brows furrowed at Bucky's flat tone. "Do you not believe it?"
Bucky sighed, pulling the milk and eggs from the fridge as you sat on the countertop. "It's not that I don't believe it, it's just that it kinda seems like he forgot and or didn't wanna see you so he made up an excuse a little less than a week later to not seem like a dick."
You nodded, taking in the information. Bucky couldn't sense your reaction quite yet, seeing how you were just staring at the ground with your hands in your lap, swinging your legs in the air.
"I mean, I'm seeing him tonight. If everything goes well after then I'll know it really was true."
"You're seeing him again?"
You nod, "But this time I'm meeting him at the fourth corner Bakery. And I'm meeting him earlier this time, around noon."
Bucky looked over at the clock, seeing it was already 10:45. "Well you better go get ready," He said almost reluctantly, "Breakfast will be done before you need to leave."
You smiled, hopping off the countertop as you gave Bucky a quick kiss on the cheek. "Thanks, Buck. You're the best!"
He smiled, but then remembered he's only making you breakfast before you go on a date with a guy who's already stood you up once. Rolling his eyes, he scrambled the eyes, listening to your music in the other room.
---
You had already left for your date three hours ago when Bucky decided to go over to see Sam. His excuse was wanting to discuss the next mission they were due to go on in a week. But he just didn't want to sit at home all day, thinking about how you were on a date with another guy.
However, before he could reach Sam's he had to pass by the bakery where you were meeting Nash.
Yet when he looked through the window, there you were, sitting all alone at a table for two, eating a piece of cheesecake. No Nash in sight.
An internal war started in Bucky's mind. Should he go in and see if you were okay? Or should he believe Nash was in the bathroom and you were just sitting by yourself for a minute or two?
But then he noticed the solemn look on your face. The way your fork poked at the half-eaten cake. And that was your favorite kind. Bucky mumbled a soft curse, opening the door to the bakery and making his way over to you.
Without words, he sat down, his gloved hand resting on the table in front of your plate. You kept your head down, not quite looking at Bucky but knowing he was there.
"He didn't show, again." You mumbled. If Bucky didn't have super soldier hearing he doubted he could've heard what you had said.
"I know, doll. I'm sorry." You finally looked up, tears in your eyes which made Bucky's heart clench. "Why me, Buck? Why am I the one who's alone?" Bucky stayed silent, knowing you needed to vent.
"Am I unlovable? Is that what it is? Why does every single one of my friends get to find the one? Get to fall in love, get married, and have kids and I'm the one without someone?!" Your outburst made some other customers look over in concern.
You groaned, resting your head on your hand and hiding your face from the rest of the bakery. "I- uh, I'm not sure, doll. But I know one thing.. you're not unlovable. You just haven't found the one who wants to take the effort to show you how effortless you are to love."
You looked up at Bucky, fresh tears gleaming in your eyes. You had never seen him look so vulnerable before. He usually grumped his way through emotions. But not with you, not anymore.
He gave you a sad smile, clearing his throat before he stood, "Y'know what, doll. Let's go." He held out his hand. You looked around, "Where are we going?"
Bucky took your palm in his gloved hand, "It's a surprise." You laughed, before standing and throwing the rest of your soggy cheesecake away. "You know how I feel about surprises."
"Okay, I'll give you a hint." Bucky opened the door for you, making sure to walk on the side of the road with the bustling cars and traffic. Bucky called a taxi, opening the door for you. "You're about to have the best date of your life."
You stared at him in awe before laughing and climbing in the taxi. Bucky's knees barely fit as he scooted in next to you. The driver asked where to go as Bucky licked his lips, "Brooklyn, please."
You smiled, "Brooklyn?"
Bucky nodded, throwing an arm around your shoulder. "I may be old but I still know some good spots to take my best girl on a date."
A blush rose to your cheeks as you looked over to him. "Your best girl?"
Bucky nodded, picking up your hand with his metal one before leaving a soft kiss on your knuckles. "Always and forever, doll."
A/N: I think I might make a part 2 to this... if you guys would want that lmk!
Summary: After a mission gone wrong, Bucky shuts you out. (Based on Tolerate It by Taylor Swift)
Warnings: sad, Bucky is kind of an ass, angst,
It started a few months ago when a mission went wrong. You watched helplessly as the Winter Soldier trigger words were spoken in Bucky’s ear. You screamed and cried, begging and hoping that the deprogramming he had gone through had really stuck. You saw him shift for only a minute before he regained control. But you saw it. That cold emptiness in his eyes was terrifying.
You tried to comfort him as best you could afterwards. You cooked him all of his favorite meals, decorating the table with flowers and the nicest plates you owned, hoping that maybe it would bring just a tiny bit of excitement back to his life. You tried to make everything as easy as possible for him, washing every single dish in the sink, doing his laundry, you just wanted him to focus on feeling better. But the things that happened on that mission had shaken him and it wasn’t something that your affection could fix.
Every time though, he would notice the meal on the table and walk right by you without even saying a word. He saw his laundry, clean and folded in the drawers, and would only respond by giving you an empty look. You knew he was going through a hard time but eventually, you started to believe that it was your fault. He didn’t love you anymore. He just tolerated you.
You gave him space, hoping and praying that eventually he’d be okay. That the light inside of him would turn back on and he would go back to the man you had given your heart to. But life doesn't work like that.
Nothing had returned to normal, even now. Bucky was functioning again, going on missions, hanging out with Steve and Sam, but with you, he was different. Gone was the loving man who would tear down buildings for you. You barely even saw him. He’d leave in the morning before you were awake and come back long after you went to sleep, stumbling in drunk and passing out on the couch. The two of you hadn’t exchanged more than a few words a day for months. And it was breaking you apart.
You couldn’t take it anymore. Being in this limbo where you were his yet you weren’t. Part of you wished he’d just break up with you so that you could try to move on. You’d never have the heart to leave him.
It was 3am. You were wide awake and based on the sound of the TV out in the living room, you knew he was, too. You got out of bed and wrapped your blanket around yourself before making your way out to the living room. Bucky was seated on the couch, eyes on the TV screen but not really watching it.
You tentatively sat down, waiting for his mouth to open to tell you to go away. “Buck,” you said quietly, reaching your hand out to take his. He flinched when he felt your flesh graze his, quickly pulling away. “Bucky, please,” you pleaded. You wanted to hug him so badly. You needed to feel him and hold him and tell him that everything was going to be okay.
But he didn’t respond to you. He just continued to stare ahead. You sat with him for a while, just relieved that he wasn’t telling you to leave. That counted for something, right?
“You should get some sleep,” he eventually said. He didn’t actually care about how much sleep you got. He just wanted you to go away.
Wordlessly, you got up and left, crying yourself to sleep alone once again. You couldn’t help but blame yourself. Bucky could talk to Steve and Sam and all of the other Avengers but he didn’t wanna talk to you. You were too overbearing. You talked too much. You were too young for him. Never smart enough. You’d never make him happy. But you couldn’t let him go.
The next day, Bucky was working in his office, the door shut and locked. You knocked softly, afraid to disturb him, but you couldn’t do this anymore. You constantly felt like you were drowning, unable to get a full breath of air in. “Bucky? P-please, can you let me in?”
You heard a sigh and footsteps as he approached, opening the door. He looked at you, eyes full of that same coldness that you had grown accustomed to. “What?”
You took a deep breath and tried to steady your shaking hands. You missed how things used to be when at the slightest sign of your anxiety he would scoop you into his arms, hugging you tight and telling you that everything would be okay. But now, he stared at your trembling body and did nothing. “I-I can’t keep doing this anymore. I need you to let me in. I need you to talk to me.” Tears fell from your eyes as soon as you started speaking. You really didn’t wanna cry but you couldn’t help it. Every time he looked at you with that empty stare, you felt like your whole body was ripping into a thousand pieces.
“I don’t wanna talk to you,” he said, emotionless.
“Did I do something? I- I just-”
“Y/N, just stop it, okay? I said I don’t wanna talk to you!” He yelled.
You were taken aback. Half of you was expecting him to hug you, telling you how sorry he was for yelling. But he didn’t. He just stood, chest heaving and anger on his face. “You don’t mean that,” you said through gritted teeth.
“Yes, I do. I don’t wanna talk to you and I don’t wanna see you,” he answered before slamming the door in your face.
And you broke. You slid down the wall, unable to keep yourself up any longer. You knew for a fact that he could hear your sobs from the other side of the door but he didn’t come to comfort you. This man, the man that you loved, the man who you thought loved you, was letting you cry alone. Was letting you cry because of him. And he didn’t even care.
Eventually, you picked yourself up and made your way to your room. You crawled into his side of the bed, trying to take in the faint remnants of his comforting scent. You sobbed for hours until you fell asleep.
You were awoken by the rustling of clothes. “Bucky?” you said groggily, seeing the outline of his figure moving through the room.
“I’m going to Steve’s. I’ll come get the rest of my stuff later this week.” Each word punctured a hole in your chest. Why couldn’t you have just been enough?
“Bucky, please don’t do this,” you whispered, fighting your hardest to not cry again. But even if you did, he wouldn’t care, “Please, just talk to me.”
“Y/N, stop it.” His words were so robotic. “Just stop it. It’s done. We’re done.”
You wanted to hole up in your bed forever. You wanted to sleep away the pain and wake up years later when maybe the ache of him missing in your chest had shrunk. But you couldn’t. Because you were a superhero. And people’s lives didn’t stop needing saving because you felt like you were dying.
So you pulled yourself out of bed. Forced yourself to head to the tower a week later when Steve called for an emergency meeting. You hadn’t slept or eaten, weight loss and dark circles giving you the illusion of a zombie. You didn’t have the energy to put on real clothes. You stayed in what had become your uniform: sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt.
As if the world was playing a cruel joke on you, the second you got off the elevator, you were face to face with Bucky. You swallowed hard, waiting for him to say something. Anything. But he didn’t. He just looked at you, taking in how unwell you looked. How even in the week since he’d been gone, your frame had shrunk. He saw it. He noticed it. He just didn’t care.
“Why don’t we go undercover?” You suggested as a strategy for the mission that Steve was briefing you all for.
Bucky scoffed at your comment. “That’s like asking to get killed. God, do you ever use your brain?”
His comment hit you hard. But instead of only the blinding pain you had been feeling since he left, you also felt angry. How could this man who claimed to love you for so long speak to you that way?
You glared up at him. Even if you did die on this mission, would he even care? “I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Steve shot you a look. “Y/N, come on. Not now.”
“What, Steve? I’m just saying what he’s thinking!” You were almost laughing as you spoke, the emotions of the situation becoming too much to handle.
Bucky stood up from his seat. “I can’t do this. Steve, just fill me in later.” He slammed the door as he left.
The meeting ended but you couldn’t find the strength to move. You just sat in your chair staring mindlessly at the ground.
“Y/N,” Steve said, calmly approaching you. “I know going through a break-up is hard.”
Is that really all that he thought this was? Just a break-up? Sure, you were experiencing the gut-wrenching heartbreak of no longer being Bucky’s girlfriend but you were also filled with so much self-loathing. You felt completely unlovable. You genuinely thought that if you disappeared from the face of the earth, not a single person would miss you.
“Steve, what did Bucky tell you?” You asked. You knew Steve well enough to know that he wouldn’t dismiss the way you felt if he knew everything that was really going on.
“What do you mean? He told me what happened. He said you guys got into a fight and you ended it.”
His words shocked you. Bucky was trying to blame you? He didn’t even give a fuck about what everyone else thought of you and your character? You couldn’t help but laugh. “Is that what he fucking told you? That I ended it? That we broke up in one night after one fight?”
Steve stared at you, confused. He didn’t know that there was a whole other side to the story. Your side. The truth. “Y/N, is that not what happened?”
“No, that’s not what fucking happened, Steve!” You were losing it, both crying and laughing at the same time. “He hasn’t talked to me for months! Not since that mission where they used the trigger words. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t speak to me… he was sleeping on the couch! I gave him his space. And when I tried to talk to him again, he left. He fucking left. So no, Steve, that is not what happened.”
He stared in your direction and you thought he was looking at you but really, he was looking at the door where Bucky stood. “Thought you could fill me in on what I missed,” he said, not even looking at you or acknowledging what he had just overheard.
Steve was speechless for a second, not knowing what to do. “Um, yeah,” he finally spoke. “Let’s go.” Him and Bucky left the room leaving you once again, alone.
You cried alone in the boardroom for a while. As you were leaving the tower, you heard voices from down the hallway, yelling.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Captain America’s frustrated voice echoed down the hall to your ears. “She did nothing wrong, Buck. Why would you do that to her?”
“Steve, you don’t understand, okay?” Bucky responded. His voice sounded like…no. It couldn’t be possible. He couldn’t be crying.
“Then make me understand! Did you see her? Did you see how broken she looked? Do you not even care? I don’t get it, Buck. A week before that mission you were browsing engagement rings. And then you just…” he sighed. “Bucky that girl loves you more than anyone ever will.”
“I know, Steve,” Bucky said sternly.
“She would do anything for you. She would-”
“Steve, I said I know!” Bucky’s voice rang out. Your heart raced as you listened. “I know she would. And I would do the same for her. That’s why-” his voice broke. “That’s why I had to do this.”
Your head was spinning. He had abandoned you, froze you out, made you feel like absolute shit because he loved you?
There was a minute of silence before Bucky continued speaking. “What if I hurt her, Steve?” His voice sounded so soft. It was a tone you hadn’t heard from him in months. It made your heart ache. “The trigger words…they worked, you know. Only for a minute but…they worked.”
“That’s why you did this?” You said, stepping out from your hiding place and making your presence known.
Bucky’s face went white as he saw you. He wanted nothing more than to run to you, to take you in his arms. It was all he had wanted for months but he couldn’t do it. He had to protect you from himself. “You weren’t supposed to hear that,” he said, his tone still soft.
“Too fucking bad, Bucky. I did hear it,” you retorted.
“I’m gonna give you guys some privacy…” Steve said, walking out of the room and leaving you alone with the man who had ripped your heart to shreds over the past few months.
“Y/N, I had to protect you,” Bucky said.
You scoffed. You didn’t know how to feel in this moment. You were devastated by the way you had been treated. You were angry at him for putting you through this. But you also just wanted him back. Your Bucky. The way he was speaking to you, looking at you, it reminded you of before everything had been blown to bits. “I don’t need your protection. But I did need you! Bucky, do you know how horrible you made me feel? I felt like you never loved me! That I would never be good enough! I felt like a placeholder until you found someone better! You did that. You did this to me.”
Tears fell from his eyes as he listened. “When they used those trigger words…I wanted to kill you. The Winter Soldier wanted to kill you. Do you understand that? I wasn’t in control. I didn’t know that it was you, the love of my life, standing in front of me. All I knew was that you were a mission. And I wouldn’t have hesitated to kill you.”
“So you decided to treat me like fucking garbage? Bucky, do you know how many nights I spent alone in our bed, crying myself to sleep because my boyfriend made me feel worthless?”
“I know, I know,” he wiped his tears. “I heard you every time. And God, Y/N, it broke my heart. I was crying with you. I wanted nothing more than to get into bed and wrap my arms around you.”
“So why didn’t you?” You said, hot tears streaming down your cheeks now.
“I thought that you’d eventually realize I wasn’t good enough for you. I was waiting for you to end it. To give up on me like so many other people have. But you never did and I-I couldn’t keep living every second terrified that I would hurt you.”
You shook your head. “I would never give up on you. I was never going to give up on you.”
“Please forgive me. I miss you so much, I don’t know what to do. I fucked it all up.”
You were at a crossroads. You wanted so badly to forgive him. To say that you understood. And part of you did, but you also couldn’t forget the way he had made you feel for so long. So isolated and lonely.
“I need some time, Bucky,” you said before walking out of the room, leaving the love of your life crying on the sofa.
‘The air could not be filled with Winters vocals, but his ears worked better than fine, and instead of hearing someone he could not remember the name of beg in his skull, he listened to you.’
Summary: In which Bucky walks the path of regaining his memories, and he has to figure out wether you are real or just an apparition of hope his own mind conjured up to help him push through the hard ways of Winter.
Warnings: Ptsd, blood, violence, guns, swearing, murder, sad Bucky
A/N: first time posting my writing on tumblr kinda nervous.
English is not my first language!:)
This’ll be a short fic because I honestly started this without even really thinking every thing through. I only really wrote it for real to satisfy my own melancholia. As its stated in the summary, this story mainly revolves around the time Bucky was still the Winter Soldier and how he found a sliver of peace inside your presence.
Summary: After the Flag Smashers, Bucky Barnes stayed in Brooklyn with his sister, Rebecca Barnes Proctor, to make up for all the years they were separated. With his dock job, and both their pensions, they barely make ends meet and he’s lonely. A public health nurse, sent to check on Rebecca’s well being, changes everything.
Length: 28 chapters, updated twice a week.
Characters: Bucky Barnes, Rebecca Barnes Proctor, named OFC, other named OCs, assorted Avengers.
Warnings: Minors DNI - contains sexual content which may be unsuitable for readers under the age of 18. Angst, feelings of unworthiness, description of past abuse, suppression of civil rights, attempted abduction, death.
Author notes: All MCU characters are the property of Marvel / Disney. Original characters and the plot are the property of the author and all rights to those aspects are claimed by her. I DO NOT give permission to copying and pasting of any portion of this story into any other app or platform. This story is already published in its entirety on Wattpad, AO3 and FanFiction.net under the author’s username, SJSmith56. Chapters listed under the break.
