summary: missions with the thunderbolts are chaotic enough, but bucky starts noticing things about you that don’t add up. when the truth finally slips—magic, secrets, and all—what hurts isn’t what you are, but that you didn’t trust him to know.
warnings: canon-typical violence, light blood/injury, secrecy/lying between partners, angst with eventual comfort, witchcraft/use of magic, mentions of valentina manipulation, team banter, john walker, swearing.
wc: 1.3k
a/n: spooky season is here! so very excited to contribute and be a part of the stan-o-ween collab with my lovely mutuals! dividers by @strangergraphics
masterlist
The mission starts the way they always do now—Valentina’s voice crackling through comms like static you can’t quite get rid of, orders phrased like suggestions but with that edge that says you’d better not screw them up. Everyone else piles into the quinjet, half listening, half ignoring. Walker’s bragging about something nobody asked about, Yelena’s already sharpening the ends of her words to throw at him, and Ava looks like she’s contemplating phasing through the walls just to escape the noise.
You’re pressed up beside Bucky, tablet in hand, running over the schematics he’ll need later, and he leans down just a little, low voice rumbling so only you hear. “This whole team needs duct tape.”
It makes you laugh—short, quiet—but it’s enough to earn a glance from him. His eyes soften just a fraction before he turns his attention back to the bickering circus.
The building you’re headed to is supposed to be abandoned, but of course it isn’t. These places never are. Inside it smells like mold and metal, corridors winding like a funhouse, doors locked where they shouldn’t be.
That’s where it starts—little things.
A lock that should’ve taken Bucky a minute to break just clicks open under your fingers. He frowns, but doesn’t say anything. Later, when Yelena almost gets cornered, the guard she swears was right on her tail slips and crashes face-first into the ground before anyone can reach him. No one sees you mutter under your breath, fingers twitching quick at your side. They’re too busy laughing at Yelena’s running commentary.
But Bucky notices.
Not outright. Not at first. He just tilts his head a little more every time. The corners of his mouth flatten. He lingers.
By the time you’re back at the tower, the energy is at full throttle—Walker insisting he was the one who “saved the mission,” Yelena swearing she’s going to poison his food, Alexei booming with laughter like this is all some grand play. Everyone’s noisy, sharp, messy. And Bucky is quiet. Watching.
The days bleed together. More missions, more little slips. A hallway you shouldn’t know the way through, but somehow you do. The way fire seems to die out before it touches you. That one time the comms cut, and when they came back, you had information no one should’ve had access to.
You’ve always been good at pretending. Brushing things off with a joke, a shrug, something teasing enough to steer the suspicion off course. But Bucky—he doesn’t let go once he’s caught hold of something. He’s spent too many years with shadows breathing down his neck to ignore what feels off.
And it gets harder to dodge when he starts pulling away. At first it’s small. A hand that doesn’t quite reach for yours when it usually would. A night where he doesn’t sit close on the couch. Then it’s sharper—short answers, tension in his jaw. You can feel the distance widening, and you can’t fix it without telling him the one thing you’ve been terrified to.
It all breaks on a mission just the two of you’ve been assigned on. Chaos is everywhere—shouting, smoke, gunfire. You’re too focused on Bucky to remember yourself. He almost takes a hit that would’ve been worse if you hadn’t whispered quick, palm out, power thrumming through the air. The bullets slow like they’re dragging through water, just enough for him to react. Just enough to save him.
And he sees it. Clear as day.
The fight ends fast after that, but it’s not relief you feel—it’s the weight of his stare, heavy, sharp. The ride back is silent. His knee bounces once, then stills. He doesn’t touch you.
Later, in the quiet of your shared room, he finally says it.
“I need you to tell me the truth.”
Your stomach drops. There’s no point pretending anymore. You nod, words sticking in your throat before you manage to push them out. “You saw.”
He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. Just waits.
“Yes,” you say finally. “I’m… it’s magic. I’m a witch.”
It’s out. The thing you’ve hidden, the thing Valentina wrung out of you in some sterile lab months ago, the thing she uses like a leash. You wait for him to laugh, to scoff, to walk out. But what you get is worse.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice is low, not angry but wounded, like he’s been punched.
You scramble, heart racing. “Because people don’t react well to it. Because Valentina already knows and uses me for it and I didn’t want you to look at me like—like I’m another asset. Like I’m not me anymore.”
His jaw tightens, and he runs a hand down his face, through his hair. He looks older like this, lines deeper, eyes heavy. “You trusted her with it, but not me?”
“That wasn’t trust,” you snap, voice breaking on the edge of it. “She found out. I didn’t have a choice.”
He swallows hard, silence stretching between you like something alive. Then, quieter: “I just… I thought we told each other everything. After all the shit I laid out for you, all the pieces I’ve been ashamed of, I thought—you didn’t think I could handle this?”
You step forward, reaching, but he backs up a fraction.
Enough to sting.
“Bucky, I was scared—”
“I need some time to process this.”
The words cut sharper than if he’d shouted. He doesn’t slam the door when he leaves, but the sound of it shutting still feels like a gunshot.
For days, it hangs there. The tension, the space. You go through the motions of missions, of meetings, of team banter that sounds hollow now. Walker makes some ridiculous comment about his “leadership skills,” everyone drags him for it, and you laugh at the right time—but your chest aches.
When it finally breaks, it’s not dramatic. You’re alone, sitting cross-legged on the couch, a small spell sparking in your hand just to keep your fingers busy. He comes in, quiet, pauses like he’s deciding if he should even stay. Then he sits.
“I wasn’t mad at what you are,” he says finally. His voice is careful, heavy. “I was mad because you thought I couldn’t be trusted with it. That’s what hurt.”
You bite your lip hard, swallowing down the knot in your throat. “I know. I’m sorry. I should’ve told you, I just—every time I thought about it, I saw you looking at me different, and I couldn’t stand it.”
He shakes his head, staring at the floor. “I’ve done terrible things. I’ve been terrible things. And you never once looked at me different. You never flinched. I should’ve been the same for you. And I would’ve been. If you’d given me the chance.”
It breaks something in you. The tears come sharp and fast, but so does relief, because he stays when you lean against him, arms wrapping around you tight. He smells like leather and soap and the faint trace of gunpowder, familiar and grounding.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper.
“I’m sorry too,” he murmurs into your hair. “Just… no more secrets. Alright?”
“Alright.”
And when you finally pull back, his eyes are softer again, the way they used to be, and you know you’re not back to perfect, but you’re back to something real.
Later, when the team gathers for yet another debrief, Walker tries to claim the victory again, and Yelena mutters something about shoving him into a pumpkin. You can’t help it—you flick your fingers under the table, just enough to light up the jack-o-lantern centerpiece with a mischievous grin.
Bucky sees it, of course. He just shakes his head, lips twitching at the corner. And for the first time in days, you feel the tension lift.
Part of the Stan-o-ween collab with the wonderful @stantastic-association
☆ Bucky x f!reader
☆ Tags/warnings: supernatural elements, fluff, use of doll, written in 3rd person from Bucky’s P.O.V
☆ Not beta'd. I do not give permission for my work to be reposted, copied, translated or put through an AI machine. all my work is 18+. Header made in Canva with pics from Pinterest (credit to OG creators). Dividers by @/huraxy-dividers
Summary: Bucky Barnes does not believe in ghosts.... Until he meets one with impeccable music taste.
Bucky's sleep schedule was nothing short of erratic: the serum that had latched itself to his DNA ensured that he needed less sleep than the average man, however, when he didsleep he was often plagued by nightmares that kept him awake for fear of slipping into darkness he couldn't control.
When he moved into his apartment, he'd been told by one of his neighbours that the complex was haunted. He'd given a polite smile but had brushed off the comment entirely. After all, when you've fought aliens, androids, and supersoldiers - was a spectre even an issue?
Bucky didn't believe in ghosts. If they were real, he was sure that he'd be haunted by many, and even if he did believe in them, he didn't need the additional Stress of waiting to be haunted literally by his past. Floorboards creaked because of pipes. Walls groaned because the building was old. Everything had an explanation, and during his sleepless nights, Bucky had never once encountered anything remotely supernatural, thus proving that the existence of ghosts was null.
That was, until, he bought an old phonograph.
It had been a steal at an antique store. Apparently "broken" - which, to Bucky's luck was actually a quick fix - the phonograph sat proudly next to his armchair in the corner of his living room. The muddled gold petals of the speaker shone with a dull shine in the light of day but were rustically serene at night when he sat in his Chair, whisky dram in hand, playing his 30's and 40's records Sam had secured him on the website called eBay.
One night, he managed to fall asleep in his chair for two hours and when he awoke he caught a glimpse of what looked like a white Shirt darting around the corner towards his bedroom. He took the spike off the track and placed it into its holder, silently creeping through his own apartment to see if he could catch the possible intruder. But when he got to his bedroom, he could not see nor hear anyone besides himself. He did a quick search to make sure, going so far as to check he'd locked his front door. However, After checking and finding nobody but himself in his apartment, he chalked up what he'd seen to a trick of the light and an old soldier's paranoia.
A few nights later he lay awake in bed after waning from a sweet dream for once. He'd dreamt of his life before; dancing with dames in dance halls for entire nights with steve by his side. When he woke, yet again, the music he had heard in his dream was still playing. He got out of bed hurriedly and rushed into the livingroom where the phonograph he knows he definitely didn't play that night echoed crackled music through the speaker. A sense of unease trickled down Bucky's back as he moved the Spike away from the record. He definitely did not play it and, unless he suddenly developed the ability to sleepwalk, someone was in his apartment - Someone who he could not hear nor see with his supersoldier DNA and training.
A ghost.
He pushes the thought away with the click of his tongue and pads back to his bed, deciding to attempt to go back to sleep.
Many stranger things continue to happen in Bucky's apartment. The phonograph issue is a regular occurrence, Alpine Meows ar random invisible spaces and now his old history books have started moving around the shelves. Bucky opts to ignore all of these things. The music helps him sleep, Alpine isn't stressed - oddly, she seems to purr and weave herself in circles around nothing, and the books aren't being damaged.
"Man, you don't think that's weird?" Sam asks shivering as he drinks his coffee. "Like at all?"
Bucky shrugs. “ If I'm being haunted it's by the politest ghost ever."
"Ah!" Sam grins widely. "So you admit it's a ghost?"
"No." Bucky frowns, sipping his own mug. "I said 'if'."
"It's totally a ghost." Sam says smugly. "Only you could make friends with a ghost."
Bucky rolls his eyes but doesn't take the bait. If it was a ghost, and only if, how could he know for sure? He May have googled one or two methods of potential communication with People from beyond the grave but felt so incredibly idiotic for even researching it, he had deleted the search history.
But that night, when the music began to play, Bucky snuck quietly to the livingroom and peeked around the corner. Twirling in the centre of the room, sepia skirt flowing outward before wrapping around her body was a woman with almost-transparent skin.
She looked like an old photograph come to life; her lips dark like they should have been red and perfectly curled hair that had been sprayed and pinned into place. She danced alone in the centre of the room to the music, sometimes disappearing entirely before reappearing in a different space, floorboards creaking as she moved.
Bucky Barnes had never believed in ghosts until tonight. It was hard enough to wrap his head around what he was seeing but when he saw that Alpine was also watching, he felt marginally better.
Stepping out from behind the corner as her back was turned, Bucky crept closer. She was ethereal and beautiful all at once, and was the picture perfect rendition of the women he used to take to the dance halls.
"Hi-" he begins and the ghost-woman startles, turning around with wide eyes and disappearing entirely. Bucky panics. "Hey, no, wait doll - I was gonna ask for a dance!"
The room is silent. He sighs and moves to the phonograph, flipping the record and placing the spike so the second track could begin. Why did he think that would work? And, more importantly, how does one dance with a ghost?
"You mean that?" A voice, light and distant, says behind him. Bucky turns slowly and the woman is stood not two feet away, watching curiously. "You're the first person in a long time whose asked me to dance with them."
Bucky smiles. "And vice versa."
The apparition smiles softly back and offers him her hands. He takes them, and although they half vanish into his hands and feel cold to his organic hand, he doesn't flinch away. He holds them like she's made of fine paper, and moves to the music. After a few stumbles the skill returns, muscle memory takes over. There's laughter and sweet giggles over the music, echoes from the past that makes Bucky grin cheekily and Alpine chirp happily.
They dance in the dark until sunrise, when the morning sun trickles through the curtains and illuminates the living room in burnt orange hues, allowing Bucky to see dust particles trickle through his dance partner's frame.
"I'm Bucky." He says to her and she gives him her name in response.
"Thank you for the dances." She says with a sad smile. "I've missed dancing like that."
"So have I." Bucky admits, earning him a confused look.
"You're young." The ghost says, earning a wry smile from Bucky.
"Not exactly." Bucky shrugs, watching parts of her body begin to disappear. "I'm older than I look."
"So am I." She says and looks out the window as the sun begins to crest over the city. "Everything has changed."
"It has. For the better, I'd like to hope." He pauses for a moment before continuing. "The last time I was in New York I… was being drafted to fight the Nazis."
The woman's eyebrows raise, the rest of her body gone apart from her head and neck in the sunlight.
"No wonder you have such good taste in music." She jokes and then looks downcast. "I don't think I want to ask what happened for you to live so long."
Bucky, sensing that he had a limited amount of time left to speak with the spectre hurriedly said, "I'll tell you. Tonight. If you'll give me another dance?"
The woman laughs, her voice becoming more distant as she disappears into the dust. "Sure thing, handsome. It's a date."
END
A/N: You know damn well there will be a part 2. I can't deny it. I loved this idea and it ran away from me. I just wanted a damn one shot. Oh well. Cest la vie.
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