Wishlist
Pairing Bucky x Reader
Synopsis Spring in New York. A quiet love growing louder. One gift from the wishlist at a time. Featuring a soldier who’d fight the world to make you smile.
“Wishlist” by TXT (Tomorrow X Together) inspired
Word count 7k
Themes + Warnings slow burn , friends to lovers , fluff , avengers tower chaos , soft masculinity / vulnerability , everyday intimacy , wishlist as a metaphor for love , GRUMPY X SUNSHINE !!!! , Heavy pining / internal angst , soft!bucky (you’ll love it)
— Wishlist “Please tell me now! Time's up, give me your wishlist ” - TXT
M. list | Request (open) | stream ‘Wishlist’
Spring has finally started to settle into New York.
The city feels warmer, softer. Like it’s healing from something. Pink flower petals drift along the sidewalks. Vendors sell tulips from little carts. Couples sit on stoops with melting ice cream cones and matching smiles. It’s the kind of weather that makes people believe again.
And inside the Avengers compound, it’s doing something to you, too.
You hum when you walk. You leave your window open at night. You wear that sparkly lip gloss again — the one that glints like magic when you smile. Bucky notices every time.
He notices everything.
You’re out in the city with the team that afternoon — no mission, no briefing, just a group day off. Steve claims it’s for “team bonding.” Sam claims it’s because he caught Bucky almost growling at the coffee machine again. Either way, you’re all downtown, weaving through the streets in civilian clothes like it’s normal. Like you’re not the most recognizable team on the planet.
You keep stopping to take photos on your phone — old buildings, neon signs, pigeons fighting over a muffin.
“What do you even do with those?” Kate asks, sipping her iced latte.
“Nothing,” you shrug. “I just like remembering things. Little stuff.”
You snap a picture of a LEGO flower set in a toy store window. Your eyes light up.
Bucky lingers near the back of the group, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, watching. Not in a creepy way. Just like you’re something rare. Like he’s scared the wind will carry you off.
You don’t see the way Sam glances over at him. Or the smirk Steve’s fighting off.
Spring in New York is a love letter Bucky never expected to read again.
The wind is soft, the kind that tugs at coat hems and hair strands like a gentle tease. The streets are still loud, still fast, but the air smells like wet sidewalks and blooming lilacs. It’s the kind of weather that makes you believe in things again.
And he thinks — maybe that’s why you like it so much.
You’re sitting across from him at a table outside your favorite café multiple chairs pulled out for the rest who are off in line for more pastries. The one with the chipped pink chairs and floral tea cups that don’t match. You’re wearing lip gloss again — that shiny, sparkly one — and every time you laugh, he swears the light hits it just right to make you glow.
You’re talking about some movie you saw, animated, something about stars and soulmates and missed chances. You wave your hands while you talk, wide gestures like you’re trying to physically throw your love for it into the air.
“There’s this one line,” you say, sipping your lavender matcha, “where they say ‘people are like stars, they just need time to burn bright again.’ I don’t know, it just stuck with me.”
Bucky doesn’t say much. He’s never been great with words. But he watches. He listens.
Later that night, the compound is quieter. Dim lights. Everyone winding down.
You’ve long since retreated to your room — third floor, two doors down from his.
And Bucky’s sitting on the floor by his bed, cross-legged, the little notebook open in his lap. It’s not fancy. Just a black journal Peter gave him for Christmas with a note that said, “For your brain spaghetti.”
On a fresh page, he writes:
✦ likes stars / scared of bees, spiders, wasps
✦ hates tea too hot — “tastes like regret”
✦ wants that honey-vanilla-amber perfume — didn’t buy it, said “too indulgent”
✦ LEGO flower bouquet — “they don’t die. that’s sweet.”
✦ gold & silver earrings — expensive. keep an eye on that boutique.
✦ Sony CyberShot digital camera — black preferred. she’s been scammed. check eBay reviews.
✦ bracelet?? something personal. something hers.
✦ red star?
And, tucked in the margin:
✦ her voice softens when she says his name.
✦ he’s not sure he’ll survive hearing her say it in bedhead and morning breath.
Then, at the very bottom — written small, like it might disappear:
✦ you’re the best thing I’ve never been brave enough to ask for.
✦ I think I’m falling. No.
✦ I’ve already fallen.
The next morning the chaos is immediate.
Tony’s complaining about someone messing with the thermostat (“Why is it 72? Are we running a sauna??”), and Yelena is loudly trying to microwave four different types of Trader Joe’s frozen pasta in the common kitchen.
you find the first gift.
Wrapped in brown paper. Twine bow. Sitting neatly on your bed.
No tag. No note. Just… sitting there. Like it’s been waiting
But the second you unwrap it, the scent hits you — warm, honeyed vanilla with that soft amber undertone. that perfume. Warm honey, vanilla, a hint of amber. The one you stood outside the shop window staring at for two whole minutes last week. The one you said was “too pretty” and “too much” and walked away from like it hadn’t already lived in your mind for days.
You glance out into the hallway.
His door is open. He’s not there.
You touch the bottle like it might shatter. Like it might vanish if you admit how it makes you feel.
And there it is — You look around, heart ticking. Did someone hear you say that? Did someone remember?
Outside in the hallway, you spot Peter.
“Hey,” you ask, holding up the box. “This yours?”
He peers inside. “Oh no. That’s fancy. You’ve got a secret admirer.”
You roll your eyes, but when you walk downstairs, the teasing is already in full swing.
“Ooooh, mystery gift #1,” Kate sings, waggling her eyebrows.
“It’s always the quiet ones,” Natasha smirks, sipping her tea. “Bet it’s someone on the team.”
“Bet it’s the barista from that café near Bryant Park,” Yelena says. “She always gives you extra foam.”
You shake your head, laughing as you try to escape the room.
“Just admit you’re in your rom-com era!” Wanda calls after you.
That night, when the compound settles down, two people don’t sleep.
One of them is you — lying in bed, twisting the perfume bottle between your fingers, heart warm and unsure.
The other is Bucky — two floors up, sitting cross-legged in his room, face covered in a sheet mask you gave him as a joke (“good for stress lines, Buck”), laptop open in front of him.
Sam and Steve knock once and barge in anyway.
“Bro,” Sam deadpans, squinting. “Are you Googling digital cameras in a moisturizing mask?”
“And LEGO flowers,” Steve adds. “Don’t think we didn’t see that tab.”
Bucky doesn’t look up. “Shut up.”
“You’re so in love, it’s disgusting,” Sam mutters.
“Disgusting,” Steve agrees.
They flop on his bed like big brothers who definitely aren’t leaving anytime soon.
“You should just tell her,” Sam says after a beat.
“She’s not ready,” Bucky mutters.
“No, you’re not,” Steve says gently.
Bucky goes quiet.
He highlights a camera listing. Reads the reviews. Double-checks the seller location.
“She’s been scammed before,” he murmurs.
Steve and Sam exchange a glance — part pity, part this man is down BAD.
You wake up to birdsong.
And a note slipped under your door.
Not signed.
Just two words, scribbled in tight handwriting:
“For spring.”
You pick it up, press it to your chest, and wonder how long someone’s been watching you this closely. How long they’ve been loving you like this.
“How about romantic?
The feeling can’t be caught…”
— TXT, “Wishlist”
—
It starts with breakfast.
You walk into the compound kitchen with a dreamy little smile, still wearing your sleep shirt and fuzzy socks, hair wild from the night. Everyone’s half-awake, nursing mugs of coffee — Wanda curled up on the couch, Kate upside-down in a chair with a pastry on her stomach, and Tony flipping through some tech blueprint that might actually be a takeout menu.
“Morning,” you say brightly, heading to the fridge.
“Someone’s in a good mood,” Peter mutters, buried in a bowl of cereal he clearly doesn’t want to share.
You glance at the couch, cheeks warm. “I just… someone left me perfume yesterday.”
A pause.
You hold it up — you’d brought it down to show Wanda — and the scent drifts sweet and warm into the room like a memory. “It’s the exact one I wanted. The exact one.”
“Damn,” Kate says, biting into a croissant. “Whoever it is? They listen.”
From behind you, Bucky yawns.
You glance back and—
He’s standing in the doorway, leaning one shoulder against the frame, still in his sleep shirt, hair pushed back, expression… soft.
There’s no other word for it.
He looks warm and full and lit from the inside, like someone cracked his chest open and sunshine poured out.
You blink.
“Did you use that face mask I gave you?” you ask, stepping closer, chin tilted.
“No,” he says immediately. Too quickly.
“Liar,” Sam mutters behind his mug.
“He absolutely did,” Steve adds. “Twice.”
“We have photos,” Sam grins. “I added sparkles to one.”
Bucky groans, dragging a hand over his face. “I hate all of you.”
You catch the faintest pink in his cheeks. The kind of glow you don’t get from sheet masks.
You smile. “It looked good on you.”
His eyes flicker to yours.
“Thanks,” he says, voice just above a whisper.
And you wonder — not for the first time — what it would feel like to be the reason someone softens.
Peter looks up from his cereal like he just remembered something vital. “Wait. Did you check your laundry yet?”
You freeze mid-step.
“Why would I check my laundry, Parker?”
He shrugs, way too casual. “No reason.”
“You’re being weird.”
“I’m never weird.”
“You literally wore Crocs into battle last week.”
“It was a stealth op!”
“You wore banana yellow Crocs.”
Peter waves a hand. “You’re avoiding the topic.”
Your voice gets flatter. “What topic.”
“The topic of how you’re clearly someone’s favorite person in the known universe.”
You turn away just as your cheeks flush. The perfume still sits on your desk upstairs. You’ve reapplied it three times since waking up. You keep smelling your wrist like you’re trying to memorize what love feels like.
“Don’t know what you mean,” you mutter.
Peter snorts into his bowl. “Yeah, okay, denial. Got it.”
Later, after you do check your laundry and nearly collapse over a tiny black box containing earrings too beautiful to be real, the teasing intensifies.
Peter finds you again before movie night and dramatically gasps when he spots the hoops dangling from your ears.
“OHHH it’s you,” he hisses. “You’re the main character.”
You roll your eyes. “Shut up.”
“No, no. You don’t understand. You’re in a cinematic universe of longing and secret gift drops. This is bigger than Endgame.”
“Peter.”
“There are probably sparkles following you when you walk. I swear I saw slow motion just now.”
“Goodbye.”
—
The team is sprawled across the common room couch and floor cushions when Tony walks in mid-movie.
“Alright, who finished my La Croix and left the can on top of the fridge like some sort of raccoon—”
He pauses mid-rant, eyes catching on your earrings.
“Huh,” he says, stepping closer. “These are… nice.”
“Thanks?” you blink.
“No, seriously. Good metal. Hand-hammered work, maybe local. Possibly vintage.” He squints. “Who’s your dealer?”
You open your mouth. Close it.
Peter doesn’t help.
“Mystery gifter,” he stage-whispers.
Tony pauses. Raises an eyebrow. Looks at you. Then —
He looks directly at Bucky, who is sitting stiffly in the corner of the couch pretending to be very invested in the movie credits.
Tony’s eyes narrow. His head tilts. The pieces click.
“Interesting,” he says slowly, like he’s discovered a secret engine blueprint.
But — to his credit — he doesn’t say anything else. Just pats you on the shoulder and walks away humming.
Bucky exhales only after the door slides shut.
After movie night ends, the chaos begins again.
You escape upstairs with Wanda and Kate, trying to downplay your smile the whole time. (Failing, for the record.)
Meanwhile, in Bucky’s room:
“Soooo,” Sam says, flopping backwards onto the bed, “jewelry now?”
“It’s not—”
“Yeah,” Steve cuts in, “because hand-selected artisan earrings placed on top of her laundry is totally something a stranger would do.”
Bucky groans and rubs his face.
“How do you even know she liked them?” Sam presses.
“She wore them,” Bucky mutters.
That’s all it takes.
Steve and Sam exchange twin looks of ohhh, he’s in it deep.
Then Nat leans into the doorway like she’s been waiting for her cue.
“So. Jewelry,” she deadpans, arms crossed.
“Not you too.”
“Come on, Barnes. You’re glowing.”
“I’m not glowing.”
“You literally are glowing. That’s a dewy finish.”
Sam snorts. “We told him. Sheet masks change lives.”
“Sam.”
“Bro. You spent twenty minutes tying that bow.”
“…shut up.”
Bucky sighs and sinks deeper into his hoodie.
“You’re all unbearable.”
“You’re the one playing secret admirer,” Nat teases. “At this point, you might as well start leaving riddles and roses.”
Steve laughs. “Oh god. Don’t give him ideas.”
Much later, after the teasing fades and the others clear out, Bucky is alone with his thoughts and the blue notebook in his lap.
He opens it, flips past the page with your tea preferences and your fear of bees, and adds:
✦ Earrings. Looked at them like they were magic. Like they made her feel known.
Then, underneath it:
✦ She asked about the mask again. Said it looked good.
✦ wears the gifts like armor. like hope.
✦ I think it’s just her. She makes everything look better.
✦ looks so happy in them. I’d do it all over again.
And on your end — when the compound is quiet and the lights are low — you sit cross-legged on your bed and stare down at the earrings in your hands.
You don’t say anything. Don’t need to.
But your heart is a little louder tonight. Beating with the rhythm of something growing.
And maybe, just maybe, you’re starting to wonder what it would feel like if the gifts stopped being anonymous.
What it would feel like if the next one wasn’t a surprise.
But a confession.
“A cellphone filled with a wishlist…”
— TXT, Wishlist
—
You wake to birdsong and golden light filtering through the curtain slats.
It’s a peaceful morning — until you notice it.
Something on your windowsill.
You blink blearily, shuffle closer, and see a box. Pink paper. Slightly messy tape job. But the bow is soft, tied by hand.
Your heart skips.
You open it slowly. Inside: a LEGO flower bouquet.
You gasp — an actual, full bouquet of tiny LEGO flowers. Sunflowers. Roses. Poppies. Snapdragons.
Flowers that don’t die.
And then you see the note, folded underneath the stems. No name.
Just:
For your spring.
(with a tiny red star drawn next to it.)
You sit down hard on the edge of your bed.
Your fingers hover over the bouquet. Your lips tug into a smile so soft it makes your own chest ache.
He remembered.
Two weeks ago – Downtown Brooklyn
The sidewalk buzzed with warm spring life. Outdoor cafés. Bikers whizzing past. You, Bucky, and the others meandering through after grabbing pastries. You stopped in front of a toy shop window.
Inside: a LEGO flower bouquet display.
“Oh my god,” you whispered, hand pressed to the glass. “Look at these!”
“They’re plastic flowers,” Bucky had said, puzzled but curious.
“Exactly. They don’t die. And they’re beautiful.”
You looked back over your shoulder, smiling.
“Permanent hope,” you added quietly.
He had barely blinked at the words. You didn’t notice the way he looked at you afterward. Not then.
But now?
You’re holding the proof that he did.
You FaceTime Peter.
“What.”
“He left me LEGO flowers.”
“Oh my GOD.”
“And a note!”
“Was it a poem?!”
“No, but it said ‘For your spring’ and it had a red star!”
Peter literally puts a pillow over his face and screams into it.
“Parker.”
“HE’S FLIRTING IN SYMBOLISM.”
“It’s not flirting.”
“It’s a declaration of seasonal affection. It’s romantic. It’s war.”
“You are so dramatic—”
“You’re wearing soft pink pajamas and holding hand-built plastic flowers like they’re treasure—you’re dramatic.”
You can’t stop smiling. You bury your face into your hands.
Peter’s voice softens through the phone.
“…you like him, huh?”
“I don’t know,” you whisper. “But I think I’m starting to realize I’ve liked him for a while.”
Downstairs, Bucky is nursing a mug of coffee like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His hoodie’s rumpled. His hair’s still damp. He hasn’t slept.
Because he spent three hours the night before building that bouquet with his metal hand — slowly, carefully, making sure none of the pieces were crooked. Then taping the box shut with shivering fingers and signing it with the tiniest, stupidest star.
He keeps replaying it all in his head like it’s a mission gone wrong.
“You look like you murdered someone,” Sam says, sliding into the seat across from him.
“I left a note.”
“You what.”
“She’s gonna know.”
“You signed it?”
“…with a star.”
Sam slaps the table.
“HE SIGNED IT WITH A STAR, STEVE.”
Steve walks in holding his protein shake like a weary parent.
“It’s fine. You’re doing fine.”
“I’m losing my mind.”
“You’ve already lost it.”
“It was supposed to be anonymous!”
“You built her LEGO flowers.”
“So?”
“So,” Nat says, appearing from literally nowhere like a shadow with good cheekbones, “you are so screwed.”
Bucky groans into his hands.
“I hate all of you.”
“Not as much as you love her,” Sam mutters with a grin.
That afternoon, you find a quiet moment to sneak away — rooftop, warm breeze, the LEGO bouquet in your hands.
You sit on the edge, legs dangling, camera in your lap, bouquet beside you. The city stretches wide beneath your feet. Spring in full bloom. A little golden, a little messy.
Just like the person you suspect built this bouquet for you.
You pull out your film camera — the one Bucky helped you fix last month when you jammed the shutter. You snap a photo of the bouquet with the skyline in the background. Then one of your hand holding a tiny flower piece.
You don’t even realize he’s watching.
From one level below — balcony shadows — Bucky watches you from a sliver in the curtains. You, sitting in the sun, smiling at something he gave you. The wind catching your hair.
And for a moment, he doesn’t feel like a weapon.
He feels like someone who could give joy.
Someone who does.
That night, he almost throws out the notebook.
Almost rips the “for your spring” page out and burns it in the sink.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he writes underneath it.
She smiled.
She sat with them for a whole hour.
She called them “hope.”
She’s never looked more like spring than she does now.
Later, as you head back to your room, Nat passes you in the hall and raises an eyebrow at the bouquet in your hands.
“Secret admirer still going hard?”
You smile. “Looks like it.”
“Mmm. You know, when Barnes was Hydra’s weapon, he never did romantic flower drops.”
You blink.
“…what?”
“Nothing,” she says, walking off. “Enjoy your LEGO love story.”
And maybe, as you fall asleep that night — the bouquet on your nightstand, note tucked in your pillowcase — you whisper into the dark:
“If it’s you… I think I already knew.”
“How about romantic? (Yeah)
The feeling can’t be caught (What’s the best present?)”
— TXT, Wishlist
—
It’s a rare quiet morning at the compound.
You shuffle into the common room, tea in hand, eyes still sleepy, hoodie halfway zipped. The sun is spilling across the hardwood floors like honey. May in New York has that soft buzz of warmth—the kind that makes you believe good things are waiting.
You almost don’t notice it at first.
Just a small matte black box on the couch. Unassuming. A soft breeze from the balcony flutters the Post-It on top.
Your name. Written in a slanted, unmistakably careful script.
Your heart skips.
You set the mug down slowly and kneel on the couch. You unwrap the box with almost trembling fingers.
Inside:
A Sony Cybershot DSC. Matte black. Brand new.
You gasp.
“No way—”
You blink down at it, barely breathing. Your throat is already getting tight. You know this model. It’s the model. The one you told Peter about. The one you tried to win off an auction site. The one you swore off because it kept getting stolen out of your shopping cart or from sketchy sellers.
And now it’s here. In your hands. Fully yours.
You power it on with shaking hands. The screen blinks awake.
Gallery: 10 photos.
You hesitate. Click in.
Photo 1: A side profile of you — nose scrunched, talking animatedly. Must’ve been dinner at the compound.
Photo 2: You and Peter, sitting on the balcony with empty bubble tea cups and a shared bag of chips, sun blazing behind you. You’re laughing, hair messy. It’s candid. The kind of shot you didn’t know anyone could capture so perfectly. The light makes you look soft. Like someone’s muse.
Photo 3: A book on your windowsill. Your annotated copy of The Secret History next to your favorite mug. A quiet detail only someone paying attention would know.
Photo 4: Your shadow and his. Leaning together on the balcony during sunset. You didn’t know he was there.
Photo 5: The LEGO bouquet—framed like fine art. On your shelf. On your shelf. Taken before you ever found it.
You feel your chest clench. Your fingers tighten on the camera. You sniff once, barely holding it back.
Photo 6: You asleep in the rec room. Hoodie half-off your shoulder. Your lips parted. A blanket tucked gently over you. Not yours.
Photo 7: A shot of your reflection in the café window. Your gaze distant. Your hand cupping your cheek. You look like a dream. His dream.
Photo 8: You again. Reading. A pencil tucked behind your ear. You’re chewing your lip in thought.
Photo 9: A close-up of your hands lacing Peter’s sneakers into a triple knot. He’s mid-whine. You’re grinning.
Photo 10: The note he left. The tiny “Your name” written in all caps. Sitting next to the camera box. The present before the reveal.
“Holy shit,” you whisper. “He’s in love with me.”
Then you scream.
A real scream.
Out of nowhere. Just emotion and surprise and disbelief colliding in your chest and bursting out of your lungs.
And exactly 1.2 seconds later—
CRASH.
“GET DOWN—!”
Webbing flies. A taser baton nearly clips your bookshelf.
Yelena and Peter burst in from opposite doors—combat mode activated, full chaos.
“WHO’S ATTACKING—?!”
“DID YOU TRIP THE SECURITY—?!”
“ARE YOU POSSESSED?!”
You’re still on the floor, gripping the camera like a lifeline, face damp with fresh, stunned tears.
“Oh my god,” you wheeze. “I’m fine!”
Peter looks around wildly. “You screamed!”
“It was a happy scream!”
Yelena’s brow furrows. “What the hell is a happy scream?!”
“Look!” you cry, holding up the camera. “He got it for me! He—he remembered!”
Peter walks closer and sees the display. His brows lift. “Whoa…”
Yelena peers over his shoulder.
“These are all photos of you.”
“You guys, they’re like—beautiful. Like… heartbreakingly beautiful.”
“Okay, now I believe he’s in love with you,” Peter adds. “This one literally looks like an indie movie poster.”
You sniff again, laugh-shaking. “I think I’m gonna die.”
Yelena: “You better not. I have money on when he confesses.”
Peter: “Wait, I do too.”
You glare through watery eyes. “How many of you are betting on my love life?”
Peter: “Everyone except Bruce and Thor. They’re too scared to jinx it.”
Meanwhile…
Across the World – Mid-Mission
Gunfire echoes in an abandoned warehouse.
Bucky, Sam, Steve, and Natasha are mid-fight. Punches flying. Adrenaline high.
And suddenly—
And Steve yells over the comms:
“Hey Bucky?”
“What?!”
“Y/N got the camera!”
“—What?!”
Sam, dodging a blast: “She screamed so loud Peter and Yelena kicked in a door.”
“She screamed?! Is she okay?!”
Nat, voice smug over the line: “She cried.”
Bucky freezes for half a second. A beat too long.
“Was it—was it a bad cry or a good cry—?”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Nat says, “it was a ‘he’s the love of my life’ kind of cry.”
Sam: “You are so done, man.”
Steve: “She’s gonna kiss you into next week.”
Bucky hides his face behind his metal hand.
“I’m gonna throw myself into the Atlantic.”
Steve’s already grinning. “Peter said she screamed. Yelena thought she was under attack.”
“Is she okay?!”
Sam: “Oh, she’s great. Peter said she’s crying and smiling like she’s in a drama.”
Bucky ducks behind a crate and groans, face in his hands.
“She saw the photos?”
Nat: “All of them.”
Steve: “You took ten, man. That’s not ‘casual.’ That’s ‘wedding montage.’”
Sam: “You put in one of her asleep?! Bro. You’re gone.”
“I’m not gone,” Bucky mutters.
Nat: “You named the file folder ‘For Her Eyes Only.’”
“Okay, maybe I’m a little gone.”
Steve, grinning, lands a knockout punch. “She’s gonna kiss you so hard you forget your name.”
Bucky: “I’m never showing my face again.”
Sam: “Jokes on you—we got the whole thing on camera.”
Steve: “And guess what? When you get back—bracelet time.”
“Oh god.”
Nat: “You’re doing great, sweetheart.”
Later that night, Bucky stares out the Quinjet window as New York lights come back into view.
In his jacket pocket is the charm bracelet. With the red star.
He’s one gift away.
One breath from finally saying it.
From finally being the sixth wish.
Bucky had pulled out his notebook and add:
Camera went well. She smiled. She cried. I didn’t die from it. Progress.
She deserves better than my silence.
But god, she’s beautiful. I want to be the person who sees her like that every day.
And you—back at the Compound—are curled in bed with a camera against your chest, smiling like you already know.
“A cellphone filled with a wishlist…”
“Please tell me your secret.”
— TXT, Wishlist
—
You hear the front doors of the compound open late that night. It’s almost midnight.
Bucky’s back.
And somehow… you don’t go to him. Not yet. You’re still trying to stop the trembling in your hands from the gift he hasn’t given you.
Because the camera? The LEGO flowers? The perfume? The earrings?
Each one made your heart flutter.
But the bracelet?
The little box that you found on your bed after you returned from a late training session — simple and velvet, tied with a red ribbon — that one left you breathless.
You open it again.
The bracelet is delicate and silver, lightweight on your wrist. Five small charms already dangle on it — each one unmistakably chosen by him:
A tiny LEGO flower.
A glinting gold hoop earring.
A miniscule Sony camera.
A teacup — with steam etched into the metal.
And a bright red star.
He is the sixth wish. And he gave you the star from his heart before he gave you himself.
You press the heel of your hand to your chest and exhale shakily. You almost miss the thin piece of paper beneath the satin lining. A note. Folded three times.
It’s his handwriting.
Y/N,
I don’t know if you’ll understand how long I’ve been working on this. Not the bracelet.
Not the camera.
But this —
Remembering the small things. Noticing the details. It’s the only way I’ve known how to say:
You matter to me.
You’ve always mattered.
I’ve spent more of my life losing people than learning them. But you… you made me want to learn again.
I don’t have the words yet. But maybe these will help.
— Bucky
Tears slip down your cheeks before you can stop them.
You don’t sob.
You don’t scream.
You just… sit in the quiet, overwhelmed, your heart trying to make space for a love that’s been there all along.
And then you see the notebook.
It’s half-tucked under the edge of your bed. A black journal with frayed corners. You know this cover.
This is Bucky’s.
He never leaves it out.
You hesitate, fingers trembling, then slowly open it to the first page.
Page One:
Y/N’s List — Important Things to Remember
• Hates tea too hot. Says it tastes like “regret.”
• Loves cherry lip gloss. Will fight Sam over the last one.
• Once said “I like stars because they remind me to breathe.”
• Scared of bees but will run straight into a fight with a HYDRA tank???
• Favorite matcha: the kind with oat milk, vanilla, and an extra scoop.
• Once fell asleep reading her book to the plants on the balcony.
• Asked Peter if ghosts can feel lonely.
• Laughed so hard once, she snorted tea out her nose. I haven’t stopped thinking about that sound.
You flip to a later page.
Page Thirteen:
*She was talking about earrings. Gold and silver mixed ones. Said they reminded her of sunlight and moonlight.
I’ve never seen someone so in love with things that sparkle. I hope she never finds out that nothing glows the way she does when she talks about things she loves.*
Another page.
Page Twenty-Two:
*I don’t know how to say it.
But I would give anything — anything — to be the reason she smiles after a long day.
I want to be her camera. Her flower bouquet. Her favorite song.
But mostly, I just want to be the thing she doesn’t give back.*
And there, tucked at the back of the notebook—
Final Entry:
*Red star. For the sixth wish.
She doesn’t know it yet.
But it’s me.*
BUCKY.
The moment the gift is dropped off, he panics.
He’s back in his room freshly showered, pacing, heart pounding like he’s under fire. His hands are shaking — not from fear, but from something far more dangerous.
Hope.
What the hell did he just do?
He gave her the bracelet.
The bracelet.
The final gift before he either loses his mind or tells her the truth.
He didn’t even stay to watch her open it. Coward.
But what if she hates it? What if it’s too much?
What if—
What if she doesn’t want me?
The thought guts him.
Bucky stares at the desk in his room — the wrapping paper scraps, the ink-stained fingers, the red ribbon he accidentally got tangled around his wrist earlier like some goddamn poetic joke.
He glances at his laptop, still open to the jewelry store’s confirmation page. A hundred tabs open. His Amazon cart is basically a shrine to her at this point. His notes are scattered like breadcrumbs.
And that journal — he left it in her room. He left the fucking journal.
He slams his hand on the desk, breath coming fast.
She’s going to read it.
She’s going to know.
She’s going to know everything.
And it’s not like a mission, where he knows what to do when the danger starts.
No.
This? This is scarier.
Because he doesn’t have a plan for heartbreak.
Because he’s in love with you.
He has been for months. Maybe longer. And he doesn’t even remember when it started — just that it never really ended. It grew quiet and steady. Like spring.
He learned the way you take your tea.
The lip gloss that leaves shimmer behind when you smile.
The look in your eyes when you talk about constellations and ghosts like they’re just neighbors.
How you make the compound feel like home just by walking into a room.
And now he might’ve ruined it. Over a bracelet.
Over a goddamn red star.
YOU.
You’re already on your feet before your brain catches up.
The notebook still in your hand. The bracelet clinks on your wrist with every step. The journal clutched in your hands.
You don’t think. You just go.
It’s late, the halls dim, but you don’t care.
You walk, no — run — toward the hallway. Past the common room. Past Peter and Yelena, who do a double take and high-five behind you.
When you see the soft kitchen light and the shadow moving inside, your heart leaps.
And there — in the kitchen — you find him.
You whisper, “Bucky?” and it’s not a question. It’s a confirmation. He’s here.
Bucky Barnes.
He turns at the sound of your voice.
He freezes.
Your eyes are glassy with tears — but you’re smiling. Glowing. And you’re wearing that damn lip gloss again, the one that catches the light when you laugh.
He barely hears himself whisper, “Shit,” before you crash into him like a comet of joy.
His hands catch you instinctively, arms around your waist as you bury your face in his shoulder. The journal thuds softly to the floor between you.
“Wait, wait—” he tries, but you’re already cupping his face, pulling back just enough to look him in the eye.
Hair still damp from a shower. Hoodie half-zipped. Barefoot. Soft. Startled when you crash into him.
“Whoa—Y/N?”
You’re crying. Laughing. Clutching his journal to your chest.
He looks like he’s about to pass out.
You don’t even give him a chance to speak.
You take his face in your hands. Tilt your forehead to his. Your voice barely a whisper:
“I found the star.”
He swears the earth tilts.
“What?”
You nod. “The sixth wish. It was you.”
Bucky swallows hard, blinking rapidly. “I was gonna… I had this whole—”
His voice breaks.
You kiss him.
It’s warm and unhurried. A promise, not a question. You taste like tears and flavored lip gloss — like honey.
And he’s gone.
He’s absolutely ruined now.
Because no serum, no war, no past life, has ever made him feel like this.
You pull back just a breath and whisper:
“I might as well confess… I like you.”
His whole face crumbles. Relief. Joy. Love.
He exhales like he hasn’t in months. Years, maybe.
His forehead rests against yours. He closes his eyes.
“Fuck,” he mutters, shaking his head. “You’re serious?”
You nod.
“I thought—” he laughs, but it cracks in the middle. “I thought I messed everything up.”
You shake your head quickly. “No. Bucky, this—this was everything. Every gift. Every note. That bracelet—”
“Has a red star,” he says quietly, like he’s giving you the truth for the first time. “Because you’re the only thing I ever really wanted to protect. The one thing I never wanted to lose.”
He says your name like it’s the first time he’s allowed to breathe it.
And then he kisses you again. And again.
The sixth wish.
Is him.
It’s always been him.
And now… you get to keep him.
FROM A DISTANCE…
Peter and Yelena peek into the kitchen from around the corner.
Peter whispers, “Do we… tell Sam?”
Yelena grins. “Oh, Sam already owes me fifty bucks.”
MEANWHILE…
Mission comms channel – earlier that night:
Sam: “Okay, so camera drop — successful?”
Nat: “Yeah, but he looked like he was gonna bolt to Wakanda.”
Steve: “Honestly, if she doesn’t kiss him tonight, I will.”
Sam: “Cap—”
Steve: “I’m just saying. Man’s been in love like it’s a classified operation.”
Nat: “Operation: Simp Soldier.”
Bucky (grumbling): “I can hear you.”
Steve: “And?”
Sam: “We hope you hear us.”
Nat: “By the way, you owe us a mission update and emotional clarity when you get home.”
Bucky: “I’m hanging up.”
Steve: “No, you’re not. We’re invested.”
Back in the compound, Bucky finally speaks, still holding you.
“I read once that the best kind of gift is something you never expected to want but suddenly can’t live without.”
You tilt your head, curious.
He lifts your hand, presses a kiss to the bracelet.
“That’s what you are. To me.”
You lean into him. “You should’ve just told me.”
He smirks faintly. “I was trying. With… flowers and jewelry and… LEGO bricks.”
You laugh — bright and startled.
And he kisses you again. Because now, he finally can.
“Please tell me now, Time's up, give me your wishlist ”
— TXT, Wishlist
—
Bucky Barnes has survived wars, brainwashing, and decades of solitude.
But none of it compared to the sheer hurricane that hit the Avengers Compound the morning after you kissed him.
You and Bucky are curled up on the kitchen couch, your legs over his lap, still in sleep clothes. He’s half-asleep with his arm around your waist, and you’ve got the charm bracelet glinting on your wrist as you sip your tea (not too hot, obviously).
Your head is resting on his shoulder. You haven’t stopped smiling since last night.
Then—
SLAM.
The kitchen door bursts open.
“WE TOLD YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!”
Sam, Steve, Peter, Nat, Yelena, all in full-blown chaos mode, cheering like you just won the Super Bowl.
Bucky literally flinches like he’s under attack.
“Why—why are you all awake right now?” he groans into your shoulder.
“Because we knew this was gonna happen!” Peter shouts. “I knew it! I said it! Sam said it. Natasha knew before anyone—”
“I told you he was pining,” Nat says smugly. “Called it six months ago.”
“I said three,” Sam argues.
“You said three because you wanted to win the pool,” Yelena smirks. “Speaking of—Tony? Pay up.”
Tony strolls in, coffee in hand, Pepper behind him. He glances at Bucky, who is flushed, lips bitten pink from where you kissed him thirty seconds ago.
“You cry yet, Barnes?” Tony asks with a smirk. “Fifty bucks says you’re the first to tear up.”
“He already did last night,” Steve says casually, eating a protein bar. “I was on the comms. There was sniffing.”
“I was not crying,” Bucky mutters, clearly lying.
Pepper leans against the counter, arms crossed. “This is what I wake up to?”
“This is what we’ve all been waking up to for the past year,” Wanda chimes in from the hallway. “This painfully slow descent into domestic longing.”
—
You pull out your little black digital camera — the one Bucky got you — and before he can protest, you snap a photo of the two of you right there.
“Wait—did I look okay?” he asks instantly.
You flip the screen toward him.
And he goes silent.
It’s… perfect. You’re both a little messy, sleepy, wrapped in morning light — and love.
You grin and say, “Lockscreen-worthy?”
He just nods, heart visibly softening.
You make it your lockscreen right there. And he literally melts.
That afternoon, after the chaos dies down (barely), you and Bucky sit on the floor of your shared living space at the compound with the LEGO bouquet spread out between you.
It’s quiet now. Just the two of you.
“You’re serious about this?” Bucky asks, turning the instruction booklet sideways.
“Dead serious,” you whisper, nudging his knee.
It’s slow and beautiful, both of you focused and laughing as you build. He fumbles the small pieces. You steal the yellow rose and claim it’s “your flower.”
And when it’s finally done, he sits back on his heels.
“I like the idea,” he murmurs. “Flowers that never die.”
You smile. “Like this feeling.”
You pull out your shared notebook — the one you once wrote your wishlist in.
Bucky taps his pen against the blank page.
You start writing in your messy, lovely scrawl:
“Things We Want To Do Together (Now That We Know)”
Bucky’s additions:
Go to that bookstore in the Village she always talks about
Make her favorite brownies from scratch
Stargaze on the roof without telling the others
Surprise trip to Coney Island
Let her kiss me every morning, just because
Write our own story
You add:
Keep wearing the earrings, perfume, bracelet
Let him keep taking pictures of me
Take pictures of him too
Let him hold my hand in front of everyone
Be the safe place he never had
Say “I love you” when I’m ready
Hear it from him first
You glance up at him.
He meets your eyes.
—
“You know,” Bucky says, his voice soft, fingers brushing your jaw, “that lip gloss you always wear? The sparkly one?”
You nod, surprised.
“I didn’t know it was flavored until you kissed me,” he admits, flushing. “Honey.”
You blink.
“I haven’t stopped thinking about it. It’s—you. Sweet and bright and familiar. And now when I smell honey, it’s you. When I taste it, it’s you.”
You don’t speak. You just lean forward and kiss him again.
This time it’s slow. Long. Perfect.
Later that night…
Peter corners Bucky by the fridge.
“Okay, listen, I’m cool with it. You’re cool. She’s cool. It’s cool.”
Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Thanks?”
“But if you hurt her—like even accidentally—I will get May to give me permission to emotionally destroy you.”
Bucky smirks. “You’d have to get through Yelena and Natasha first.”
Peter thinks. “Okay fair, but I’d still try.”
Bucky claps him on the shoulder. “Noted.”
—
You crawl into bed beside him that night — soft sheets, his arm already reaching for you. Your charm bracelet jingles faintly as you settle in. The earrings glimmer in the moonlight.
“Hey,” you whisper, voice against his collarbone.
“Yeah?”
You lift your head to look him in the eyes.
“I love you.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
“I love you, too.”
And outside the door?
Tony hands Yelena another fifty.
Sam high-fives Peter.
Nat records Bucky’s second happy cry of the week.
Steve just smiles.
Mission complete.
“A jewelry box with a star called you,
My heart overflows again…
I might as well confess… I like you.”
— Wishlist, Tomorrow X Together
(You’ve got mail!) WHAT DO YALL KNOW ABOUT THIS SONGGYGY. THIS IS MY SONG LIKE MY SONGGG MY SONG MY SONGGG. LIKE OUUUHHH THIS SONG HAS ME IN SUCH FEEELLLLSSSSSS. I’ve written tm angst Bucky and I feel like we need some happy slice of life soft solider James Buchanan Bucky Barnes. God that one txt oneshot popped off now here I am with my new improve TXT x Bucky Barnes branded one shots!!! YUP I LOVE THIS. I was geeking and gawking so badly when I was making this you don’t understand lmfaoooo.
Tag List (For Mr. James Buchanan Barnes is open!)
@bbsbrina @herejustforbuckybarnes @barnesandbouquets @winchestert101 @theycallmeanxiety @lovinqbella @starstruckfirecat
