summary: The only thing Bucky can think about while captured in Azzano is that he should've kissed you before being shipped off. Now that he's back home he's not going to waste his second chance, that is until he finds out you're engaged.
word count: 17.4k+
pairing: 40s!bucky barnes x fem!reader
notes: thank you to taylor swift for giving me the idea for this fic. i love 40s bucky and i haven't written for him much which is a crime because i want to squish his cheeks and kiss his face. anyways, here it is!
also let's ignore the fact that i would not be legally allowed to marry bucky in the 40s since i am in fact a colored woman... this is fanfiction for a reason!
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, 40s!bucky, bucky and steve survive, implied torture (but nothing graphic), reader is engaged, implied that bucky has ptsd/trauma from hydra, slow burn, yearning!bucky, soft!bucky, steve is kinda a third wheel (sorry steve), fluff, angst... like angst that hurts your heart, mentions of smoking/cigarettes, happy ending
Brooklyn, Winter 1943
The diner on the corner of 39th and Flatbush is nearly empty, save for the three of you crammed into a booth by the frosted window. The radiator’s been clanking all morning, groaning like it’s got a personal grudge against the cold, but the coffee’s hot, and the jukebox hums something slow and sweet in the background. Outside, the street’s blanketed in slush, but inside, it smells like syrup and bacon grease—the kind of comfort that never quite leaves you, no matter how many things the world decides to take away.
Bucky sits across from you, one arm slung over the back of the booth, his uniform jacket half-unbuttoned despite the cold. He’s been officially shipped out for months now, just home on a short break before heading back overseas. The dog tags around his neck clink every time he shifts, a tiny metallic reminder that you’re counting down borrowed time.
“You gonna finish that?” he asks, nodding at the untouched half of your pancake stack. His grin is easy, practiced—that same grin he used to use on every girl who batted her lashes at him on the boardwalk. Except with you, it’s softer somehow, the kind that makes your chest feel uncomfortably tight.
“You’ve already had three,” you reply, nudging your plate toward him anyway. “You planning to eat the table too?”
“Don’t tempt me,” he says, grabbing your fork before you can change your mind.
Across the booth, Steve snorts into his coffee, the sound half amusement, half warning. “One day she’s gonna stop letting you steal her food, Buck.”
“One day,” Bucky agrees around a mouthful, “but not today.”
You roll your eyes, trying to ignore how familiar this feels—how safe. The three of you have been orbiting each other for over a decade now, since back when Bucky used to yank Steve out of street fights and you used to bandage them both with whatever scraps of cloth you could find. Somehow, even after all the years, all the growing up, the rhythm never changed. Steve’s the cautious one, always watching out for everyone. Bucky’s the charmer, always grinning through the chaos. And you—you’re the one trying not to think about how the table feels emptier every time one of them leaves.
“You hear about that new Stark show next month?” Steve asks, leaning his elbow against the table. “Supposed to be even bigger than the last one.”
“Yeah,” Bucky says, swallowing the last bite of your pancake. “They’re doing some big fireworks display, I think. You should come, doll.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Me?”
“Who else?” His voice is light, teasing, but his gaze lingers. There’s something behind it—something that’s been hovering there for weeks now, maybe months. You don’t let yourself name it.
“Maybe,” you say, pretending to think it over. “If you ask nicely.”
Steve hides a smirk behind his mug. “Careful, Buck. Sounds like she wants you to grovel.”
“I can manage that,” Bucky says, leaning forward, his smile all mock sincerity. “Please, sweetheart, grace me with your presence at the Stark Expo.”
You try to roll your eyes again, but the way he says sweetheart knocks the air out of you just a little. You tell yourself it’s the coffee—too hot, too strong. “You’re impossible,” you say.
“Yeah,” Steve mutters, “but he’s charming, and he knows it.”
That makes Bucky grin wider. “Exactly. I’m a catch.”
You want to laugh, but instead you find yourself studying him—the crease of his smile, the faint scar above his brow, the way his hair keeps falling into his eyes. He looks older than he did last year, the war having carved faint shadows beneath the jokes. It’s subtle, but you see it—the flicker of something unspoken that sits behind the bravado.
When he catches you looking, he smirks. “What? I got syrup on my face or something?”
“No,” you say quickly, heat creeping into your cheeks. “You just—never mind.”
He tilts his head, amused. “Just what?”
“Just... look like you’ve been through a lot lately,” you finish softly.
For a moment, he doesn’t answer. His grin falters, just slightly. Then he shrugs, eyes dropping to the chipped edge of his coffee cup. “Yeah, well. Guess we all have.”
There’s a beat of quiet. The jukebox flips to another slow tune, and you can feel the weight of the world creeping in—the draft, the headlines, the growing ache of goodbye that none of you want to talk about. Then Steve, ever the peacekeeper, breaks the silence. “You know,” he says, pushing his cup aside, “when all this is over, we’re gonna go dancing again. Like we used to. Whole gang back together.”
Bucky glances at him, a spark of his old grin returning. “You promising that, punk?”
“Yeah,” Steve says. “I am.”
“Then it’s a date,” Bucky says, and his eyes flick back to you when he says it.
Your stomach twists. He doesn’t mean it like that—not really—but the words settle somewhere deep anyway. “Alright, soldier,” you say, trying for levity. “But you better not step on my toes this time.”
He leans closer, that familiar mischief in his eyes. “I never do, doll. You just get nervous.”
You scoff, pretending you don’t hear the double meaning in his voice. Outside, snow begins to fall again—soft, fleeting, like the moments you’ll soon lose.
---
The Stark Expo glows like it’s been dipped in starlight. The air hums with the crackle of machinery and laughter, and somewhere in the distance, a brass band blares out a tune half-swallowed by the roar of the crowd. You can smell popcorn and oil and the faint sweetness of hot sugar in the air. Brooklyn’s never felt so alive.
You walk between Bucky and Steve, both of them looking like they’ve stepped out of two different worlds—Bucky polished and confident in his pressed uniform, Steve still small, shoulders drawn tight in his oversized coat, his eyes bright with determination. They keep pace with you through the sea of people, shoulders brushing now and then.
Bucky keeps stealing glances down at you. It’s not subtle—it never has been—but tonight, there’s something heavier in the air between you. The way the light hits him makes his hair shine like warm bronze; there’s a smear of oil on his sleeve from helping a mechanic earlier, and the sight of it, ordinary and real, does something strange to your chest.
The announcer’s voice booms over the speakers, crisp and clear, “welcome to the Modern Marvels Pavilion and the World of Tomorrow! A greater world. A better world.” You tip your head back, watching the lights dance off glass and chrome. The future looks dazzling and impossible, and for a moment, you forget about the war creeping closer every day.
Bucky nudges you with his elbow, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You think Stark’s gonna make one of those flying cars work this time?”
“I think he’ll pretend it does,” you reply, smiling. “And half the crowd’ll believe him.”
“That’s optimism,” he teases.
“That’s experience,” you shoot back, and he laughs—that easy, golden sound that’s always been your undoing.
When Howard Stark strides onto the stage, the crowd cheers, and Bucky’s boyish excitement sparks. He’s leaning forward beside you, eyes shining, jaw slack like a kid seeing fireworks for the first time. “Holy cow,” he breathes as Stark gestures toward his levitating car.
You glance up at him—because of course he’d be more interested in the machinery than the spectacle—and for a moment, you just watch him. His expression is so open, so full of wonder, that it squeezes at something deep in your chest. The car sputters and drops with a metallic clank. Laughter ripples through the crowd. Bucky shakes his head, still grinning. “Guess it’s not ready for takeoff.”
You start to reply, but when you turn to Steve, he’s gone. “Steve?” you call, rising on your toes to scan the crowd.
Bucky curses softly. “Of course he—” He sighs, eyes already darting toward the nearest exit. “I’ll bet he went to the enlistment tent.”
You look at him. “Again?”
He runs a hand through his hair, frustration simmering under his calm. “He’s nothing if not stubborn.”
“Sounds familiar,” you murmur.
That earns you a look—half amused, half warning—and then he’s threading his way through the crowd, motioning for you to follow. You find Steve exactly where you expected—standing in line for enlistment, jaw set, chin high, ready to argue his way into a war he has no business fighting. Bucky reaches him first, the argument spilling out just like it always does, Steve insisting, Bucky trying to talk him down, the air between them thick with worry and loyalty and love.
You hang back a little, watching the two of them. You’ve seen this scene play out before—Steve’s fire meeting Bucky’s steadiness. You know how it ends, Bucky hugs him, the two trade barbs about stupidity and bravery, and Steve stays behind while Bucky walks toward the future with a rifle on his shoulder.
Except this time, you’re part of it.
When Bucky pulls away from Steve, you’re standing just beyond the gate, arms wrapped tight around yourself, trying not to think about how little time there is left. He spots you and the teasing grin he wore a second ago softens into something almost shy. “Hey,” he says, stepping closer. “Sorry about that. He’ll be alright.”
You nod, though the words feel stuck in your throat. “He always is.”
You fall into step beside him as the crowd begins to thin, the noise of the fair fading behind you. The night air is cool and damp, the city skyline a jagged cut of shadow against the sky. For a long moment, neither of you speak. The silence isn’t awkward—it’s familiar, like a melody you’ve both known for years. Then Bucky breaks it. “You know,” he says quietly, “I thought about asking you to dance back there.”
You glance at him. “Why didn’t you?”
He kicks at a loose bit of gravel, shrugs. “Didn’t want to make a fool of myself before I ship out. Gotta let you remember me as dashing and graceful.”
You laugh, soft and a little sad. “Oh, I think that reputation’s already in pieces.”
He grins, the sound of your laughter tugging one from him in return. “Guess so.”
The two of you reach the corner where you’ll part ways—your apartment’s only a few blocks down, his barracks in the opposite direction. You stop under a flickering streetlamp, its glow painting the edges of his face gold. He shifts, hands shoved deep in his pockets, and suddenly the air between you changes. The world narrows to just the sound of the wind, the buzz of the light, and the pounding in your chest. “You’ll write?” you ask, your voice small.
He nods. “You bet I will. And when I come back, you and me—we’re going dancing. For real this time.”
You smile, though your eyes sting. “You’d better keep that promise.”
He steps a little closer—close enough that you can see the pulse in his throat, the faint line of worry between his brows. “I always do.” For a second, neither of you move. His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t quite dare. The silence stretches, thick with everything you’ve never said. Then he exhales, low and rough. “You know, doll… if things were different—”
“Don’t,” you whisper, even though part of you needs to hear it.
He swallows hard, searching your face. His voice drops to a rasp. “I just—I don’t wanna go off thinkin’ you don’t know how much you mean to me.”
Your heart stutters. “I know, Buck.”
But that’s the lie you both settle for.
He leans in just enough that his breath brushes your cheek. You can smell the faint traces of smoke and coffee on him, familiar and grounding. For one suspended heartbeat, you think he’s going to kiss you. But then he steps back. “I’ll see you when I get back,” he says, his smile small, almost fragile.
You manage a nod, even as your throat closes. Your hand grips his arm for just a second before letting go. “Be careful.”
He salutes you with two fingers, that old playful gesture that’s always been yours, and then he turns away, his figure swallowed by the night.
You stand there under the streetlamp long after he’s gone, the world around you humming with the distant echo of laughter and music, the ghost of what might have been lingering like the last note of a song that never quite finished.
---
The stench of iron and smoke clings to the air. The sound of metal striking metal echoes through the cavernous facility—steady, relentless, like a heartbeat that refuses to die. Bucky’s palms are raw. The skin at the base of his fingers is split and burned from gripping tools that sear hotter than they should.
He’s been here long enough that time doesn’t make sense anymore. Days and nights blur together under the artificial light. There’s no sky, no wind—just the crackle of electricity and the cold bark of orders in German. The name Hydra carries through the hallways like a curse.
“Keep your head down,” Dugan mutters from beside him, his voice low, roughened by exhaustion. “Don’t give ‘em a reason.”
Bucky doesn’t answer. He’s too busy forcing his hands to keep working—tightening bolts, fitting metal plates, assembling pieces of a machine he doesn’t want to understand. He knows it’s a weapon. Everything here is.
He’s lost count of the days since they were captured. The tank had come out of nowhere, cutting down their unit, and then there was the flash, the fire, and the smell of burning oil. They’d run, ducked behind the wreckage, but the ground had shaken beneath their feet. And then—capture. The moment his wrists were bound in cold metal cuffs, he’d known that whatever this place was, it was worse than death.
Now, he works. Because working means living a little longer.
There’s a guard—Lohmer—who seems to have made it his personal mission to break him. The man’s boots are always somewhere nearby, pacing, stopping, waiting for a mistake. The first time Bucky faltered, Lohmer’s fist drove into his ribs hard enough to make him choke. The second time, it was a rifle butt to the jaw.
Tonight, the bruises have gone purple, deepening like shadows.
When the shift ends, they’re herded into a cramped barracks room with cracked concrete floors and rows of cots that smell of sweat and rust. The guards shove the last of them through the door and lock it behind them. The clang of the bolt echoes.
Bucky sits, breath ragged. He stares down at his hands, still trembling from the cold and the strain. Across from him, Jacques murmurs something in French that he doesn’t catch. Falsworth coughs into his sleeve.
“You alright, Sergeant?” Dugan asks, voice quiet.
“Yeah,” Bucky says automatically. “Peachy.”
He’s not. He hasn’t been for weeks.
When the others drift into uneasy sleep, he stays awake. There’s a small window high up on the wall—just a slit of glass—and through it he can see a sliver of sky, faint and pale. He stares at it until his eyes burn.
That’s when he thinks of you.
The memory of the Stark Expo hits him hard, sudden and vivid. The lights, the music, the way your laugh had rung out above the noise. You, standing under the streetlamp, looking at him like maybe you saw something worth waiting for. He can still see the way your breath had fogged in the cold air, the way his fingers had twitched with the urge to touch your face.
He should’ve kissed you.
God, he should’ve kissed you.
He presses the heel of his hand to his eyes, jaw tightening. The air smells of sweat and rust, but in his mind, he can still smell the faint sweetness of your perfume—that soft, lilac scent that clung to his uniform after you parted ways. He remembers the weight of your hand on his arm, the tremor in your voice when you told him to be careful.
He’d laughed. Told you not to worry. Told you he always kept his promises. Now he’s not sure if he’ll ever see you again.
He thinks about how you’d smiled that night, the corners of your mouth trembling just a little. He wonders if you’ve been reading the papers, if you know where the 107th was sent, if you flinch every time another list of casualties gets printed. He imagines you sitting by the radio, he imagines you crying. And it guts him.
Somewhere down the hall, a guard shouts. A man screams—short, sharp, cut off too soon. Bucky stiffens, every muscle coiled tight. He knows that sound. He’s heard it too many times. A moment later, the door to their barracks bangs open. Lohmer strides in, baton swinging against his thigh. His smile is all teeth. “Barnes,” he says, pointing. “You. Up.”
Bucky rises slowly, every bone in his body protesting. Dugan starts to say something, but one look from Bucky silences him. He’s learned there’s no point in fighting unless you can win—and tonight, he can’t. Lohmer drags him into the corridor, past other cells, past the smell of ozone and blood. When they stop, it’s in front of a steel table lined with restraints.
Zola stands on the other side, adjusting his glasses, his face unreadable. “The Sergeant has shown… resilience,” he says mildly. “Let’s see what makes him special.”
Bucky’s breath catches. “I’m not—”
Lohmer hits him before he can finish. When the pain comes, it’s all-consuming—white-hot, blinding, tearing through his veins like fire. He tries to hold onto something, anything, but his mind scrambles for an anchor and finds only you.
He sees you in the crowd at the Expo, face glowing in the electric light. He hears your voice—soft, teasing, alive. He remembers the way you’d said his name, how it had sounded like a promise.
If he lives through this, he swears, he’ll tell you. He’ll find you. He’ll ruin whatever’s left of that friendship if it means feeling your hands on his face just once. Then the pain swells until he can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t remember anything except your smile as the world fades to white.
---
The rain comes down hard over London, steady and cold, washing the last of the Austrian mud from the tanks that line the courtyard. The SSR base is alive again—shouting soldiers, whirring engines, the metallic clang of repairs echoing through the night. For the first time in months, there’s warmth. Food. Beds. Music crackling faintly from a radio in some nearby tent.
Bucky sits on the edge of his cot, staring down at his hands. They still shake, sometimes. Not from cold—not anymore. From something else. The serum that Hydra forced into his veins still burns beneath his skin, a restless thrum he can’t quite quiet. The medics said it was a miracle he survived. They don’t know the half of it.
He’s alive. But it doesn’t feel like it.
He runs his thumb along the edge of his dog tag, tracing the worn letters. Barnes, James Buchanan. He’d stared at it every night since Steve pulled him out of that facility, just to remind himself that he was still him. That he hadn’t been erased and rebuilt into something else.
Outside the tent, he hears laughter—Dugan’s booming voice, Steve’s steadier one, Peggy’s dry humor cutting through the rain. It’s comforting and sharp all at once. They’re celebrating a victory, the kind of moment that should feel like redemption. But all Bucky feels is distance.
He hasn’t slept more than an hour at a time since Austria. Every time he closes his eyes, he’s back there—the flicker of the lab lights, Zola’s voice, the metal biting into his wrists. And always, always, your face, like a ghost that won’t leave him alone.
He remembers how you looked the night he shipped out—the streetlight catching on your skin, the tremor in your smile. He remembers the promise he didn’t make. The kiss he didn’t take. He’d thought about you every day since.
When the war ended in the papers, you were supposed to be the reason to come home. But now, home feels like a foreign word. He hears footsteps crunch outside and doesn’t need to look up to know who it is. Steve’s gait hasn’t changed—measured, steady, and too big for the narrow tent aisles. “You look like hell,” Steve says lightly, brushing rain from his jacket as he steps inside.
Bucky huffs a laugh. “You’re one to talk, punk.”
“Fair,” Steve admits. “Peggy says we’re supposed to be wheels up for London command in an hour. You ready?”
Bucky shrugs. “As I’ll ever be.”
Steve’s quiet for a beat, watching him. “You been sleeping?”
“Define sleeping,” Bucky mutters, rubbing at the back of his neck.
Steve doesn’t push, just nods. That’s the thing about him—he never pries, but he always knows. “We’ll be home soon,” he says. “Brooklyn, maybe. You can see her again.”
Bucky’s stomach tightens. Her. You. The word itself feels like a wound. “Yeah,” he says softly. “If she even remembers me.”
“She will,” Steve says, firm but gentle. “You’re hard to forget, Buck.”
He smiles at that, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He doesn’t say what he’s really thinking—that the man who left Brooklyn isn’t the one who’ll be coming back. That you deserve better than someone who can’t close his eyes without hearing screaming.
When they reach London, the city is gray and alive, a strange mix of celebration and mourning. The SSR sets up in a refurbished government building near Piccadilly. There are briefings, missions, late nights in smoky war rooms. But there’s also laughter again. Steve’s grin. Peggy’s dry wit. The sound of rain on the windows.
And every night, when the noise fades, there’s you.
He catches himself imagining it—walking through your neighborhood again, knocking on your door, seeing your face when you realize he made it home. He imagines you laughing, hugging him, maybe calling him “idiot” for scaring you half to death. He imagines you still wearing your hair the same way, still smelling like lilacs. He imagines kissing you this time—no almosts, no stopping himself.
But every time he lets the thought take shape, something else follows, the look on your face when you see what’s left of him. The scar at his temple. The thinness from weeks of starvation. The tremor in his hands when he tries to button his uniform.
What if you flinch?
What if you smile, but it’s pity?
What if you’ve moved on?
He thinks about writing—just a letter, something to tell you he’s alive. But every time he picks up a pen, he can’t find the words. What do you write to the person who used to feel like home when you don’t know if you’re still the man she’s waiting for?
So he doesn’t.
He fights, he follows orders, he cracks jokes with the others when he can. But when night falls, when the rain starts again, he lies awake staring at the ceiling and whispers your name into the dark like a prayer he doesn’t deserve to have answered.
It’s nearly dawn when Steve finds him again, sitting alone on the edge of a cot, cigarette burning low between his fingers. “Couldn’t sleep?” Steve asks. Bucky shakes his head. Steve hesitates, then says quietly, “you know… when we get back home, she’s gonna be real glad to see you.”
Bucky doesn’t look at him. The smoke curls between them, soft and ghostlike. “Yeah,” he says finally. “I just hope I don’t scare her off first.”
Steve frowns, but before he can answer, the radio crackles with new orders, and the moment passes like everything else in war—half-lived, half-lost.
---
The train screeches into the station under a bright, brittle Brooklyn sun. The platform is overflowing—mothers, wives, siblings, children—all craning their necks for a glimpse of someone they prayed would come home. Flags wave, whistles blow, and through the chaos, the air thrums with a kind of happiness that feels almost unreal.
You stand near the edge of the platform, hands twisting in the fabric of your coat. You’ve been here since dawn, unable to sit still, unable to breathe properly since the radio announced that the 107th—the Howling Commandos—were finally returning home.
You’d heard the stories, of course. Whispers in the papers. The rescue at the Hydra base. The new Captain America leading impossible missions. It sounded like something out of a comic book—Steve, the sickly boy from Brooklyn, a hero now. And Bucky…
Bucky, who’d been captured. Tortured. Presumed dead.
The first time you saw his name in the paper, you’d gone still, coffee spilling down your wrist, the world narrowing to a single line of print. Then came the silence. No letters, no news. You’d mourned him quietly, privately—because no one had told you to stop hoping.
And now—now he’s on that train. Alive.
You spot them before anyone else does—the tall figure in the blue uniform, unmistakably Steve, waving off the applause, and beside him, a man in an olive coat, his cap pulled low. For a moment, you think your eyes are playing tricks. He looks older, thinner, his face marked by shadows you don’t recognize. But then he lifts his head, and you see it—the same crooked smile, the same soft blue eyes.
Your heart breaks and heals in the same instant. “Bucky!”
You don’t remember moving. One second you’re frozen, the next you’re running—pushing past the crowd, calling his name again, louder this time. He looks up, startled, and when he sees you, something inside him cracks open.
He steps off the train just as you reach him, and before he can say a word, you throw your arms around him. It’s not graceful. You hit his chest hard enough that it knocks the air out of both of you, but his arms come around you immediately, strong and sure, holding you like you’re something he’s dreamed of and never expected to touch again.
“Jesus, doll,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “You’re really here.”
You laugh through the tears you didn’t realize were falling. “You’re—you’re alive.”
He chuckles softly, the sound trembling. “Guess I am.”
You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands still fisted in his coat. There are scars at his temple now, faint lines etched around his mouth that weren’t there before. He looks like a man who’s seen too much and survived it anyway. “You look—” you start, then falter.
“Terrible?” he offers with a wry grin.
“Different,” you whisper. “Older.”
His gaze softens. “So do you.”
Behind you, Steve clears his throat, smiling that earnest, boyish smile that doesn’t quite match his broad new shoulders. “You gonna share, Buck, or is this a private reunion?”
You laugh again, turning to hug him next, and Steve wraps you up like the brother you never had. “You did it,” you say against his shoulder. “Both of you. You came home.”
“Told you we would,” he says. “Didn’t I?”
“You said a lot of things,” you tease weakly, pulling back to look between them. “Not all of them true.”
Bucky chuckles. “She’s got you there, pal.”
The three of you stand there for a while, letting the noise of the station swell and fade around you. For a few blessed minutes, it’s almost like before—three kids from Brooklyn again, laughing about nothing, forgetting the rest of the world exists.
When you finally leave the platform, Bucky keeps close. He walks beside you and Steve through the busy streets, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, smiling politely at the strangers who nod or wave. But every now and then, you catch him looking at you—quick, quiet glances that hit like a pulse beneath the skin.
It’s like he can’t quite believe you’re real.
You lead them to the corner diner, the same one you used to haunt before the war. It’s changed a little—new paint, new jukebox—but the smell of coffee and bacon grease is the same. The waitress recognizes Steve immediately, gushes about the newspapers, and sets you up in your old booth by the window.
When the coffee arrives, Bucky’s hand lingers on the cup for a long time before he drinks, as if relearning the taste of ordinary life.
“So,” you say, trying to fill the silence. “What happens now? You two back for good?”
Steve nods. “That’s the plan. The SSR’s wrapping things up here in the States. They’ll probably find something else for us to do, but—”
“Home’s home,” Bucky finishes for him, voice low.
You smile. “Good. I missed this.”
Steve grins, leaning back. “What, me and Buck bickering over pancakes?”
“Among other things.”
For a moment, it really does feel like nothing’s changed. You catch Bucky’s eye over the rim of your cup and he smiles—small, private. You feel warmth bloom in your chest, unfamiliar and dangerous. Then the bell above the diner door rings. You glance up, and the world shifts again.
Andrew steps inside—tall, clean-cut, still in his office clothes. His eyes find you immediately, and he smiles. The engagement ring on your finger feels suddenly, painfully heavy. “There you are,” he says, crossing the diner. “I stopped by your place—they said you’d come down here. I thought I’d find you with—” He stops mid-sentence when he sees the men at your booth. Recognition flickers in his eyes. “Captain Rogers,” he says, extending a hand. “An honor.”
Steve stands, polite as ever, shaking it firmly. “Just Steve, please.”
Then Andrew turns to Bucky. “And you must be Sergeant Barnes. She’s told me about you.”
Bucky rises slowly, every trace of warmth gone from his face. He takes Andrew’s hand, grip measured, voice smooth. “All good things, I hope.”
“Of course,” Andrew says with a tight smile.
You can feel the tension rolling between them—two different kinds of manhood colliding. Bucky’s eyes flick to your ring before he looks away, and something in your chest twists painfully.
Andrew drapes an arm around your shoulders, casual and proprietary, and presses a kiss to your temple. “We should get going,” he says softly. “Dinner at my parents’ tonight.”
You nod, but your throat feels tight. You turn back to the table. “I’ll see you both soon, alright?”
Steve smiles, warm and oblivious. “You better.”
Bucky doesn’t say anything. He just gives a small nod, eyes unreadable.
When you step outside, the air feels colder. Andrew’s talking—something about promotions, a friend’s engagement party—but his voice fades into a blur. You glance back through the diner window. Bucky’s still watching you. For a heartbeat, you meet his eyes—the same blue that once promised laughter and mischief and safety. Now they’re tired, sad, full of things you’ll never be able to say.
Then Steve says something, Bucky looks away, and the moment breaks.
You turn, forcing a smile for the man at your side, and walk away—the ring cold on your finger, the ache in your chest sharp and familiar. Behind you, in the glow of the diner window, Bucky’s still there, his coffee untouched, and tells himself he’s happy just to see you again.
---
The weeks that follow are an echo of a life you all once knew—familiar rhythms layered over a city trying to remember how to breathe again. The war is over, but Brooklyn still hums like it’s waiting for the next siren. Windows are patched with new glass, ration posters fade on the walls, and people fill the streets again with laughter that still sounds uncertain.
For the three of you—you, Steve, and Bucky—it’s as if the world has been rewound, though the edges don’t quite line up anymore. The diner booth is still yours, the coffee’s still weak, the jukebox still sputters out old love songs. But Bucky doesn’t joke as much now, and Steve sits taller, his shoulders too broad for the space. You try to ignore the differences—or maybe you just pretend not to notice them.
It starts small. You thread your arm through Bucky’s as you always did when you walk down 39th. He still lets you, though now his body goes a little stiff at first, then softens as if he remembers he’s supposed to. Sometimes you’ll reach for him without thinking—to tug him across a street or to steady him when he’s distracted—and the jolt that runs through him is subtle but real.
He hides it well. He always did.
What gets him most isn’t how you’ve changed, but how you haven’t. You still hum under your breath when you’re nervous. Still tap your nails against your cup while you talk. You laugh easily, throw your head back the same way you did when he’d tease you before the war. You still look at him with that same open warmth that once made him feel like the luckiest man alive, and now it just makes him ache.
He doesn’t know how to fit himself into this version of Brooklyn—this version of you.
You’re engaged now. He reminds himself of it every time he sees the ring on your hand. Sometimes it catches the light and glitters against your coffee cup, a tiny cruel flash that digs under his ribs. Andrew is polite enough, decent enough, the sort of man who never raises his voice and always says please and thank you. He brings you flowers, takes you to dinner, shakes Bucky’s hand and calls him “pal.” Bucky shakes back, every muscle in his jaw tight.
He tries to be happy for you—really tries. You deserve safety, something whole. Not a man who wakes up drenched in sweat, fists clenched around ghosts. He tells himself that every time he sees you laughing at something Andrew says. It doesn’t make it hurt less.
There’s a night in late August when the three of you go out for drinks, the kind of night that used to belong to another lifetime—before uniforms, before blood and cold and loss. The bar’s crowded, cigarette smoke curling in the air, the jazz band so loud you have to lean close to be heard.
Steve’s grinning, shouting over the music about some newspaper interview he’s been roped into, Peggy’s name slipping into the conversation now and then, unguarded. You tease him mercilessly, and he blushes red as ever.
Bucky watches, smiling, sipping his whiskey too slowly. When you lean against him to whisper something—a joke, a memory—your hand finds his arm like it used to, fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeve. It’s innocent. It always is. You don’t see the way he freezes for a half-second, the way his breath catches before he forces a smirk in return. “You always were the funny one,” he says softly, almost lost beneath the brass.
“Only because you two were hopeless,” you tease back, and he grins—that old, dangerous grin that used to get him out of trouble and into more of it.
The moment stretches a little too long. Then Steve says something that makes you laugh again, and Bucky looks away. Later, when you all spill out into the street, the night air cool and damp against your skin, you loop your arm through his again without thinking. “Will you walk me home?” you ask, same as you always did.
He wants to say no. He wants to say he shouldn’t. But he just nods. “’Course.”
Steve peels off in the other direction, calling something about meeting tomorrow, and then it’s just the two of you.
You walk in silence for a while, your heels clicking softly against the pavement, your hand light on his arm. The city hums around you—car horns, laughter, music drifting from open windows. Everything feels the same, except it isn’t. “You seem quiet tonight,” you say finally, glancing up at him.
He shrugs. “Guess I’m still getting used to being back. Feels strange.”
“I can imagine.” You hesitate, then smile. “But it’s good. Having you home. I missed this.”
He swallows. “Yeah. Me too.”
You stop at a crosswalk, the streetlight painting your face in amber and shadow. For a moment, he forgets how to breathe. You’re looking up at him like you used to—the same soft tilt of your head, the same easy trust in your eyes.
And then he sees the ring glint again and feels the ground tilt beneath him. He forces a smile. “Your fiancé treating you right?”
You blink, surprised by the question. “Of course. Why?”
He shakes his head quickly. “No reason. Just—you deserve good things, is all.”
You smile faintly, a little shy. “He’s kind. Steady. My family likes him.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Sounds perfect.”
He means it to sound light, teasing even, but it lands heavier than either of you expect. You both fall silent. The only sound is the rumble of an approaching trolley and the faint hum of music from somewhere down the block.
When you reach your door, you turn to face him, still holding onto his arm. “You’ll come by again soon, won’t you? For dinner maybe? Andrew’s been wanting to cook for everyone.”
He almost laughs. Andrew’s cooking? The thought alone feels wrong—some man he doesn’t know standing where he used to, in your kitchen, touching the things that used to belong to the three of you. But he just nods. “Sure, doll. Whatever you want.”
You smile, squeeze his arm, and then, as if you don’t know what you’re doing to him, you step close and kiss his cheek. “Goodnight, Buck.”
His breath catches. It’s so quick, so ordinary, but it burns straight through him. He watches you disappear behind the door, the soft click of the latch echoing louder than it should. He stands there for a long time afterward, hands in his pockets, staring at the space you left behind.
When he finally turns away, the night feels colder. He tells himself that this is fine. That this—your friendship, your laughter, the arm he’s still sure he can feel linked through his—is enough.
But as he walks back down the quiet street, he knows it isn’t. Not anymore.
---
There’s another night in September, one of those in-between evenings when summer hasn’t quite let go. You, Steve, and Bucky are back at the diner—your diner—sharing a plate of fries while the jukebox hums some slow swing tune. The booths are full, the air smells like coffee and salt, and for a while, it almost feels like before.
You’ve kicked off your heels under the table, your feet brushing Bucky’s every now and then. You don’t even notice, but he does. Every time.
Steve’s talking about some meeting with the SSR, something about military reorganization and “civilian roles.” You’re listening with a faint smile, chin propped on your hand, your other hand absently tugging at the sleeve of Bucky’s jacket, straightening it like you always did when he wore his old coat crooked.
He watches your fingers instead of listening. The sight of your hand on his arm—small, certain, unthinking—stirs something both grounding and unbearable in him. When you glance up and catch him staring, you give him that same teasing grin you always used to. “What?”
“Nothing,” he says, voice rougher than he means. “Just… forgot how much you talk.”
You laugh, a quick, bright sound that draws a few curious looks from other tables. “That’s a lie and you know it.”
Steve rolls his eyes. “You two sound exactly like you did when we were fifteen.”
“Means we haven’t aged a day,” Bucky says with a smirk, though the weight in his chest says otherwise.
You smile at that, soft and fond. Then your gaze flicks toward the window, and you sigh. “Andrew’s picking me up soon.”
Bucky’s smirk falters. “Right. Of course.”
“Don’t sound so thrilled,” you tease, nudging his shoulder.
“Just jealous the guy gets to drive that fancy car of his while I’m stuck on the trolley,” he says easily. But the joke doesn’t land the way it used to.
A silence settles—not awkward, but charged. You look like you might say something, but then the bell above the door rings, and Andrew walks in. He’s polite as always, all charm and pressed shirts, waving to Steve and offering a quick handshake to Bucky. “Evening, fellas.”
“Andrew,” Bucky says evenly. “How’s work?”
“Busy. But I can’t complain.” He smiles at you then, and the way you light up—not as bright as you used to, maybe, but still real—is enough to make Bucky’s chest ache. “Ready to go, sweetheart?” Andrew asks.
“Yeah,” you say softly, standing and slipping on your coat.
Bucky stands too out of habit, like the gentleman he used to be. “See you around, doll.”
You glance back at him over your shoulder and smile. “You will.”
When the door closes behind you, the air feels heavier. Steve looks at him, knowing but kind. “You alright, Buck?”
Bucky exhales through his nose. “Never better.”
After that, he starts seeing you less. Not because you’ve changed anything—you still invite him for coffee, for dinners, for quiet evenings where you, Steve, and Andrew talk about nothing at all. But Bucky starts finding reasons to miss them. He tells you he’s got work, or errands, or that he’s tired.
The truth is, every time he sees you with Andrew, it kills him a little. The way Andrew’s hand rests casually on your back when you walk through a door. The way you lean toward him when you laugh. The way you still look at Bucky like you’re waiting for him to say something that he never will.
He spends more time at the docks now, helping unload cargo. The physical work keeps him grounded. He doesn’t talk much to the other men—they all recognize him as the war hero from the papers, whispering his name like it belongs to someone else. Maybe it does.
Sometimes, late at night, he takes the long way home past your street. The windows are lit warm and soft, and he can almost hear your voice drifting out through the open glass. It’s masochism, maybe, but it’s the only thing that makes him feel real.
A week later, Steve finds him on a park bench overlooking the river. “You’re torturing yourself,” Steve says, sitting beside him.
Bucky doesn’t look at him. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, you do.”
The water glints silver under the moonlight. Bucky flicks his cigarette into it, watching the ember vanish. “She’s happy,” he says finally. “That’s all that matters.”
Steve’s quiet for a moment. “You sure about that?” Bucky glances at him then, brow furrowed. “I see the way she looks at you, Buck,” Steve says. “The way she lights up when you’re around. You really think it’s just friendship?”
Bucky’s throat tightens. He wants to deny it. Wants to say it’s all in Steve’s head. But the truth sits heavy in his chest, undeniable. “It doesn’t matter,” he says at last. “She made her choice.”
Steve studies him, sympathy in his eyes. “Maybe. But maybe she’s waiting for you to give her a reason to make a different one.”
Bucky laughs softly, humorless. “Yeah? And what then? I ruin what’s left of the only good thing I got?”
“Maybe you fix it instead,” Steve says quietly.
They sit in silence after that, the wind carrying the smell of salt and the faint sound of distant laughter. Bucky doesn’t answer, but Steve doesn’t press.
That night, Bucky dreams of you again. Not the war, not the pain—just you. Standing under that streetlamp, same as before, smiling up at him with eyes that look like home. He wakes before you can speak, the ghost of your touch still burning on his skin.
He sits up, heart pounding, and realizes that whatever he’s been trying to bury all these months—all these years—isn’t going anywhere. The war might be over, but he’s still fighting the same battle. And this time, the only thing he’s in danger of losing is you.
---
Late autumn settles over Brooklyn like a sigh. The air has that crisp edge that smells faintly of rain and coal smoke, and the trees along the sidewalks have begun to let go of what’s left of their color. Every street corner feels familiar, but quieter—like the city itself is still learning how to live again after the war.
You’ve spent the last few weeks tucked into wedding plans, your days filled with appointment books, fabric samples, and letters from relatives who suddenly remember your existence. The apartment smells faintly of starch and lavender, and the table is perpetually buried under swatches of ivory silk and lace.
Andrew’s handwriting covers half the notes in a neat, efficient scrawl: dates, times, addresses. You fill in the margins with doodles—vines, petals, tiny hearts—absent-minded things you used to sketch when you were supposed to be paying attention to something else.
And when you’re not working on the wedding, you’re with Steve and Bucky. The three of you still orbit each other, even if the rhythm has changed. Steve helps where he can—moving furniture, offering his larger-than-life charm to shopkeepers who’d otherwise ignore you in crowded stores. Bucky tags along sometimes, quieter now, his smile a little tighter around the edges.
He doesn’t say much these days, but you still feel him—the weight of his gaze when you laugh at something Steve says, the way he steps instinctively closer when you’re walking down a busy street, like his body’s still wired to protect you even when there’s nothing left to fight. You notice, though you don’t let yourself linger on it. You can’t.
It’s one of those chilly afternoons when the three of you end up downtown, balancing boxes full of wedding supplies between you. You’re moving through the narrow aisles of a florist’s shop, the air thick with the scent of roses and damp earth. “I don’t know,” you murmur, studying the bouquet in your hands. “These seem too stiff, don’t they? I want something softer, more natural.”
Steve, ever practical, squints at the arrangement like he’s inspecting troop formations. “Looks fine to me.”
You laugh. “You said that about the last three, too.”
“Well, they all look fine,” he says, a little helplessly.
Bucky smirks faintly, leaning against the counter, sleeves rolled up, hands tucked into his pockets. “You’re askin’ the wrong audience, doll. Between the two of us, I don’t think we’ve bought flowers that weren’t apologies.”
You glance up at him, caught off guard by the flicker of humor—the first real one you’ve seen from him all day. “Is that right?”
He shrugs, but his smile lingers. “Pretty sure every girl I ever gave flowers to had just finished tellin’ me off.”
“That’s because you deserved it,” Steve mutters.
Bucky grins. “Yeah, maybe.”
The sound of your laughter fills the small shop, and for a moment, it’s like time folds back on itself—the three of you as you were before the war, teasing and bright, untouched by the years between.
But then the florist asks about delivery dates, and the spell breaks. You glance down at your notes again, biting your lip as you try to recall the schedule. Bucky watches the motion, the way your teeth catch the soft skin, and something unravels inside him.
It’s the same nervous habit you had when you were sixteen, sitting at that diner booth and worrying about school, or the future, or whatever small storm was brewing in your head. You’d always do that—chew your lip until it was raw—and he’d tease you, reaching out to nudge your chin lightly with his thumb until you stopped.
He used to know everything about you. The songs you hummed when you cooked. The way you liked your coffee. The sound you made when you were trying not to laugh. Now he stands three feet away and feels like a stranger.
Later, after you’ve settled on a bouquet and paid the deposit, the three of you step outside. The cold air hits hard, sharp with the smell of rain. You draw your coat tighter around yourself and glance up at the sky, half-expecting snow. “Thanks for coming,” you say, glancing between them. “I know this stuff isn’t exactly your idea of a good time.”
Steve smiles. “You kidding? Beats punching Nazis.”
Bucky gives a quiet snort of amusement but says nothing. He shoves his hands deeper into his coat pockets and looks down the street instead. “You sure you don’t mind helping with deliveries next week?” you ask. “The caterer’s sending samples, and the venue wants us to test the layout.”
“Course not,” Bucky says, still not meeting your eyes. “Just tell me when and where.”
Something about his tone makes you pause. “You don’t have to, you know. I don’t want to take up your time.”
He glances at you then, his eyes soft, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry about it, doll. I got nothin’ but time.”
You try to return the smile, but it falters. There’s something behind his words you can’t quite name—a tiredness that doesn’t belong to a man his age. You want to ask him what’s wrong, but Steve’s already talking about dinner plans, and Bucky’s gaze has shifted back to the street.
That night, you’re sitting at your kitchen table, flipping through your notebook. The apartment is quiet—Andrew’s out late again, working—and you find yourself staring at your lists without reading them. The flowers, the venue, the dress… it’s all supposed to be exciting, but it feels like you’re building something in the wrong shape.
You think about Bucky—the way he’d smiled today, the way he’d looked at you when you laughed. The way he’d gone quiet again afterward. You shake the thought away, turning another page, but your pen hesitates above the paper.
You still write his name sometimes. Just his initials, tucked into corners, the way you used to when you were a teenager doodling in the margins of your homework. You tell yourself it’s habit. Nostalgia. But it feels like something more—something fragile, dangerous, and alive.
Across town, Bucky’s sitting on his narrow bed in the boarding house, the lamp beside him casting a weak yellow glow. He’s got an envelope in his lap—an invitation to your wedding, embossed and perfect, the edges faintly smudged from where you must have handled it.
He turns it over in his hands for a long time, his jaw tight. Then he sets it on the nightstand and leans back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. It should make him happy, seeing you getting everything you’ve ever wanted. It should feel like closure.
But instead, it feels like the world is slowly erasing him —like he’s watching the one thing that tethered him to his old life slip quietly out of reach. He closes his eyes and tells himself he’ll keep helping. He’ll keep smiling. He’ll be your friend. He’ll do all the right things.
Even if it kills him.
---
The following week arrives gray and drizzly, the kind of November day where the streets shine wet and the light never quite breaks through the clouds. The city hums quietly—horns in the distance, footsteps on slick pavement, the smell of roasted chestnuts from the corner cart.
You’ve invited Steve, Bucky, and Andrew to your apartment for a small “planning dinner.” Nothing formal—just a way to go over some details before your mother and Andrew’s parents join for the final tastings next weekend.
The dining table, usually cluttered with fabric swatches and half-burned candles, is covered now with plates and notebooks. You’ve spent the whole day rearranging, making sure everything looks right. There’s a neat little spread of sandwiches, cookies, and tea laid out, and your engagement ring glints whenever you reach for a cup.
Bucky’s the last to arrive. He hesitates on the landing before knocking, half tempted to turn back. But then he hears your voice through the door—that light, hurried tone he’s heard a thousand times—and he knocks once before he can talk himself out of it.
You open the door with a smudge of flour on your wrist. The smell of something warm and buttery drifts out from the kitchen. “Buck!” you say, smiling. “You made it.”
He grins back, awkward and genuine all at once. “Wouldn’t miss it, doll.”
You let him in, taking his coat and hanging it carefully beside Andrew’s. The apartment feels cozy—too small for four people, maybe, but bright and alive with the hum of conversation. Steve’s sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea, papers spread over his knees. Andrew’s standing by the table, sleeves rolled up, carefully arranging sandwiches on a platter. “Glad you could join us,” Andrew says pleasantly, looking up. “We were just about to talk food.”
“Dangerous subject,” Bucky says, pulling out a chair. “You sure you want my opinion?”
“Only if it’s good,” Andrew jokes.
You laugh, and the tension eases for a moment. They spend the first twenty minutes talking about seating charts and table settings, Steve occasionally chiming in with comments that make you laugh and roll your eyes. Bucky mostly listens, offering a word here or there when you ask him to weigh in.
He watches the way you move, the way your fingers hover over the list as you read it aloud, how you press your lips together when you’re thinking. Every detail feels sharper than it should, like his mind’s cataloging every part of you to hold onto later.
Then Andrew says, “Oh—speaking of food, I talked to my mother today about the luncheon menu.”
You glance up, smiling. “Oh? What did she say?”
“She’d love to prepare some of the dishes herself. Thought it’d be a nice personal touch,” Andrew explains, flipping through his notes. “You know, her cucumber sandwiches, that salad she makes with the dill dressing—your favorite.”
Bucky’s fork stops halfway to his mouth. He doesn’t say a word, but something in his chest goes still. Your expression flickers—not enough for Andrew to notice, but Bucky sees it. A tiny hesitation. A half-second of polite confusion. Then your smile smooths back into place. “Right,” you say gently. “That’s lovely.”
Andrew beams. “I told her you’d be thrilled. She’ll start prepping this week.”
Steve nods approvingly. “Sounds fancy. I’ve never had cucumber sandwiches before.”
“Oh, they’re very refreshing,” Andrew says cheerfully. “Perfect with tea.”
“Sure they are,” Bucky mutters under his breath, his tone too quiet for anyone but you to catch.
You shoot him a look, small but sharp, as if to say don’t. He gives a slight shrug, leaning back in his chair. The rest of the conversation moves on—table linens, music, who will walk you down the aisle—but the air feels different. Bucky can’t stop hearing Andrew’s voice echoing that one word, favorite.
He remembers the real story. The diner, years ago. You’d ordered a sandwich with cucumbers and took one bite before making the most disgusted face he’d ever seen. He’d teased you for it, and you’d shoved your plate at him, muttering something about “texture” and “godawful smell.” He’d laughed until you threw a napkin at his head.
It was such a small thing—ordinary and stupid—but somehow, it feels enormous now. Because Andrew doesn’t know. He doesn’t know the girl who once snuck a stray cat into her parents’ kitchen, who carried three pairs of gloves every winter because you always lost one. He doesn’t know that you used to hum Gershwin when you cooked or that you hated thunderstorms but loved the smell of rain after.
He doesn’t know you. And Bucky realizes, with a quiet ache that steals the breath from his lungs, that he’s the only one left who does.
After dinner, Steve leaves first, promising to help you haul boxes to the venue next weekend. Andrew lingers a few minutes longer, kissing your cheek before heading home. You see him off at the door, murmuring soft goodnights, and when you turn back, Bucky’s still sitting at the table, arms folded, eyes fixed on the empty plate in front of him. “Thanks for helping tonight,” you say, voice careful. “I know it’s not the most exciting thing in the world.”
He looks up slowly, a faint, wry smile on his lips. “Exciting’s overrated.”
You roll your eyes affectionately and start gathering the dishes. He stands to help, wordlessly taking a stack from your hands. The quiet between you feels different now—heavier, but not uncomfortable. Familiar, almost. You wash, he dries. It’s easy, practiced, like slipping back into an old song you both know by heart. When the last plate’s done, you lean against the counter, exhaling. “Andrew’s mother’s really going all out. It’s sweet of her.”
“Yeah,” Bucky says lightly, though something sharp threads through his tone. “Sweet.”
You glance over at him. “What?”
He shakes his head. “Nothin’.”
“Bucky,” you press, arms folding. “Don’t do that. What?”
He hesitates, then shrugs. “Just funny, s’all. You always hated cucumbers.”
You blink. “What?”
“Cucumbers,” he says again, half-smiling. “You used to pick ’em off your sandwiches and dump ’em on my plate. Said they tasted like cold soap.”
You stare at him for a second, caught off guard. The memory is so vivid it startles you—the diner, the cheap plates, his teasing grin. “I… guess I did.”
“Guess you forgot,” he says quietly. You open your mouth to answer, but the words stick. The kitchen feels smaller suddenly, too quiet. His eyes are on you, steady and sad, like he’s seeing something you’re only just starting to remember. He clears his throat, looks away, and grabs his coat. “Anyway, I should go. Long day tomorrow.”
You nod slowly. “Right. Of course.”
At the door, he pauses. “Goodnight, doll.”
“Goodnight, Bucky.”
When the door closes, you stand there for a long time, your back to it, the faint smell of soap and tea still clinging to the air. You don’t know why the stupid detail bothers you so much—why it leaves your chest tight and your eyes stinging. But you can’t shake it.
Because he’s right. You do hate cucumbers.
And you can’t quite remember when you started pretending otherwise.
---
It starts as something small, almost imperceptible—a ripple under the surface of a life you’ve been trying to convince yourself is whole. After the night of the cucumber remark, everything feels… tilted. The moment itself had been nothing, really. A few harmless words in a quiet kitchen. But they’d cracked something open that you’d spent months keeping tightly sealed.
Now, the smallest things catch at you. Andrew’s laughter, too practiced. His kisses, always polite and brief. The way he talks about the future in tidy, well-planned sentences—his job, the house you’ll have, the way “Mrs. Reid” rolls so easily off his tongue.
You smile when he says it. You always smile. But inside, there’s this quiet voice that keeps asking, when did you stop belonging to yourself?
You start noticing how often you nod when you don’t agree. How many times you laugh even when something doesn’t strike you as funny. How you smooth over the rough edges of who you are to fit the life that’s being built around you.
It isn’t bad, you tell yourself. Andrew is a good man. Gentle, thoughtful. He works hard, treats you well, makes sure you never walk home alone. He listens when you talk—or at least, he listens enough to respond in all the right ways.
But sometimes, when he looks at you across a dinner table or from the driver’s seat of his neat little car, you get the sense that he’s seeing a version of you that isn’t real. A woman built from good manners and careful words. A woman who never picks fights, never rolls her eyes, never swears when she drops something heavy.
And every time, you think of Bucky. Of the way he’d grin when you cursed, teasing you just to see if he could make you do it again. Of how he never flinched when you disagreed with him, never made you feel smaller for it. Of how, somehow, he could read your silences better than most people could read your words.
You try not to think of it, but the thought follows you like a shadow.
You see Bucky again a week later, almost by accident. You’re on your way back from the tailor with your arms full of packages—bolts of fabric, invitations, a box of new gloves. The wind’s sharp and biting, tearing at your hat, and you’re juggling everything when a voice behind you says, “you always did try to carry the world by yourself.”
You turn, startled—and there he is. Bucky stands a few feet away, collar turned up against the cold, hair mussed by the wind. He looks better than he did last week, or maybe it’s just that he’s smiling, a little shyly, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to.
“Buck,” you breathe, shifting the packages. “What are you—”
“Was passin’ by,” he says easily, stepping closer. “Figured you could use a hand.” You start to protest, but one of the boxes slips, and he catches it before it hits the ground. He looks at you with that same half-smirk he’s always had—the one that makes your heart stutter for reasons you don’t want to name. “Still stubborn as ever,” he murmurs.
“Still nosy,” you shoot back automatically, though the words come out softer than you intend.
He grins, just a little, and takes the rest of the boxes from you before you can argue. “C’mon, doll. I’ll walk you home.”
The walk is quiet at first. The city hums around you—the whistle of a streetcar, the chatter from shop doors, the faint smell of roasted nuts from a vendor down the block. The two of you move in step like you used to, your gloved hand brushing against his sleeve every so often.
It feels almost normal. Almost easy. He asks about the wedding, and you tell him bits and pieces—the dress, the flowers, the venue—but even to your own ears, it sounds rehearsed, like you’re reading from someone else’s script. When you trail off, Bucky glances at you sideways. “You happy?”
The question lands like a pebble in a pond—small, but the ripples keep spreading. You blink, caught off guard. “What kind of question is that?”
He shrugs, eyes on the pavement. “Just seems like a thing a guy oughta ask his friend before she gets married.”
You laugh, but it doesn’t sound right. “Of course I’m happy. Why wouldn’t I be?” He doesn’t answer, just nods slightly. The silence stretches between you until you add, “Andrew’s good to me. You’ve seen that.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I’ve seen it.”
Something in his tone makes your stomach twist. The rest of the walk is quieter. You talk about safe things—the weather, Steve’s latest SSR gossip, a new bakery opening down the street. When you reach your building, you pause at the steps, clutching your packages tighter than necessary. “Thanks for helping,” you say.
“Anytime,” he replies.
You linger a moment longer, the wind tugging at your coat. “You should come by Sunday. We’re having dinner with Steve. Just the three of us, like old times.”
He hesitates, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “You sure that’s a good idea?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Then, finally, “alright. Sunday.”
You smile, relieved. “Good.” When you go inside, you can feel his gaze following you up the stairs. You don’t look back.
Sunday comes, and with it, a quiet warmth you didn’t know you’d been missing. The three of you sit around your little kitchen table, laughing about nothing—the way Steve still can’t cook, the way Bucky still eats like a man starved. For a few hours, it’s as if the years between you’ve been peeled away.
You pour coffee while Bucky leans back in his chair, sleeves rolled up, telling a story about one of the guys from the docks. His voice is rich and low, easy with laughter. You’ve missed that sound more than you realized.
When the story ends, Steve gets up to wash dishes, leaving you and Bucky alone for a moment. You watch him quietly. The curve of his jaw. The scar by his temple. The way his eyes crinkle when he smiles. You shouldn’t look at him like that, but you do anyway.
He catches your gaze and holds it. Something flickers between you—familiar, dangerous. You open your mouth to say something, anything, but Steve comes back, clattering dishes, and the spell breaks. Later, after the dishes are done and the laughter’s faded, Bucky lingers at the door. You walk him down to the stoop, saying goodnight like always. The street’s quiet, washed silver by the lamplight. “You really are happy?” he asks again, voice almost lost to the wind.
You hesitate. “I’m supposed to be.”
He studies you for a long moment, then nods, as if that’s answer enough. “Take care of yourself, doll.”
He starts to turn away, but you reach out, catching his sleeve. The fabric is rough and warm under your fingers. “Bucky.” He looks back, and for a heartbeat, everything stops—the air, the sounds, even your own pulse. You want to say something. To tell him that you don’t know how to do this—how to want two different lives, how to stop pretending. But the words won’t come. So you just let go. “Goodnight.”
He hesitates, then tips his head slightly. “Goodnight.”
When he walks away, you stay there for a long time, the cold biting through your coat, your heart pounding like it’s trying to tell you something you already know. And somewhere down the street, Bucky doesn’t look back—because he’s afraid that if he does, he won’t be able to keep walking.
---
The afternoon is one of those deceptive early-winter days—bright sun, brittle cold, wind that nips at your cheeks but never quite steals the warmth from the light. The four of you—you, Andrew, his mother, and Steve—have spent the better part of the day at the reception hall, finalizing decorations and seating arrangements. Bucky had tagged along under the excuse of “lifting heavy things,” but truthfully, he just couldn’t stay away.
The hall itself is beautiful in that sterile, echoing way—pale walls, high ceilings, windows that catch every bit of sunlight and spill it onto the polished floors. There are samples of floral arrangements along one wall, stacks of folded linens, a small buffet table with coffee and pastries that have long gone cold.
You’ve been moving nonstop for an hour—bending, rearranging, lifting centerpieces, trying to visualize how it’ll all come together. You’re tired, your hands ache, and the hem of your skirt keeps catching on your heels.
Bucky watches from the side, sleeves rolled up, arms crossed. Steve’s beside him, dutifully holding a roll of seating charts while Andrew and his mother discuss silverware with the event planner. “Careful, sweetheart,” Andrew calls as you lean over to move a stack of chairs. “You don’t have to do that yourself.”
You smile, trying not to sound as breathless as you feel. “I’m fine. Just making sure the space works.” It’s right about then that your purse slips off the chair where you’d set it—and the entire contents scatter dramatically across the floor. Lipstick, coins, a small notebook, a handful of folded receipts. You let out a startled sound, bend to grab it—and promptly hit your knee on the edge of the table. The pain is immediate and sharp enough that the word slips out before you can stop it. “Goddammit.”
The sound echoes, far too loud in the open space. For a second, the entire room freezes. Andrew’s head snaps up from where he’s been talking with his mother. She blinks, the faintest twitch of disapproval crossing her expression—not much, just the tightening around her mouth, a small flicker of polite discomfort that might have gone unnoticed if Bucky hadn’t been watching her.
Steve looks like he’s about to laugh, then catches himself. Bucky turns away, biting down on the grin that’s already threatening to break loose.
You flush hot, half from embarrassment, half from frustration. “I—sorry. Table jumped out at me.”
Andrew recovers quickly, his voice smooth, reassuring. “It’s alright, darling. Maybe watch where you’re stepping next time.”
You nod, forcing a small laugh, and crouch to gather your things. You can feel your face burning. Bucky moves forward before you can stop him, crouching beside you. “Here,” he murmurs, low enough that only you hear it. His gloved hand brushes yours briefly as he hands you your lipstick. “You kiss your fiancé with that mouth?”
You shoot him a look, half scandalized, half amused despite yourself. “Don’t start.”
He smirks. “Couldn’t help it. Been too long since I heard you swear.”
“Should I be flattered that you missed it?”
He shrugs, sliding a coin toward you with one finger. “Maybe I just missed you.”
The words hang in the air a moment too long. You swallow, eyes flicking to his, but before you can respond, Andrew’s voice cuts across the room, “everything alright?”
You stand quickly, clutching your things to your chest. “Yes. All fine.” Bucky rises slower, expression carefully neutral, though you catch the flicker of amusement still dancing in his eyes.
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of polite conversation and half-hearted planning. Andrew’s mother offers notes on napkin folds, Steve provides the occasional grunt of agreement, and you smile so much your cheeks hurt.
But you feel Bucky’s gaze every time you speak. Every time you laugh too softly or fidget with your gloves. When you finally leave the venue, the daylight’s already fading into that soft gold that makes everything look warmer than it is. Steve walks ahead with Andrew and his mother, deep in conversation, while you and Bucky lag behind, the cold air frosting your breath. He glances sideways at you. “You okay?”
You exhale a laugh. “Just humiliated myself in front of my future mother-in-law. Totally fine.”
“She’s gonna live,” he says with a grin. “Hell, I think it was worth it just to see her face.”
You groan. “She looked like I’d cursed out a priest.”
“She kinda did,” he teases. “Never thought I’d say this, but I missed hearin’ you swear.”
You glance at him, smiling despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”
“Maybe. But you used to call me worse than that.”
You roll your eyes. “When you deserved it.”
He laughs, genuine this time—the sound so warm and familiar it hits something deep inside you. “You got a mouth on you when you’re mad, sweetheart. Don’t pretend otherwise.”
“I was sixteen,” you protest, shoving your hands in your coat pockets. “Everyone had a mouth at sixteen.”
“Yeah,” he says softly, looking ahead. “But you had fire.” That quiet tone—low, almost reverent—steals the humor right out of the air. You look up at him, but he’s not smiling anymore. His eyes are distant, thoughtful. You walk the rest of the way in silence. Not uncomfortable, just… heavy. The kind of silence that carries too many words neither of you can afford to say.
When you reach the corner where you’ll part ways, you stop. “You’re walking the wrong direction again.”
He smirks faintly. “Never said I was goin’ anywhere in particular.”
You hesitate. “You didn’t have to come today, you know. I know it’s not exactly your kind of thing.”
“I didn’t mind,” he says simply. Then, after a beat, “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine,” you lie automatically.
He studies you for a moment, then tilts his head slightly. “You’re allowed to be more than ‘fine,’ you know.” You open your mouth, but no answer comes. He gives you a small, tired smile. “See you soon, doll.” You watch him walk away, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his figure fading into the crowd until he’s gone.
That night, Andrew calls—his voice smooth, polite, talking about dinner with his parents and the guest list. You listen, answering when you need to, but your mind drifts elsewhere. You think of the way Bucky had knelt beside you without hesitation. The quiet teasing. The memory of your younger selves flashing between you for one breathless second. You think of how Andrew had said, “watch where you’re stepping,” and how it had sounded less like concern and more like correction.
You hang up the phone with a headache and a hollow ache in your chest. When you turn off the light, you whisper into the dark—a soft, frustrated word that you’d never say out loud. Bucky would have laughed. And for the first time in a long while, you do too—quietly, bitterly, but real.
---
The night of the dance comes almost by accident—one of those things Steve insists on, claiming it’ll “do everyone good to get out.” He’s been helping with a fundraiser for returning veterans, something organized at a converted ballroom downtown. There’ll be live music, dancing, food, and a chance, he says, to feel normal again.
You’d refused at first. Between fittings, dinner invitations, and endless lists from your mother and Andrew’s family, your days already feel like borrowed time. But Steve is relentless—and Bucky, of course, is going. So you give in.
The evening is cold enough that your breath ghosts in the air as you step from the cab. The building glows warm through tall windows, laughter spilling onto the street in bursts as couples sweep in through the doors. Music drifts faintly out—brass and strings, something upbeat and elegant.
You smooth your gloves, nerves prickling under your skin. Andrew couldn’t come; a late dinner with a client, he said, promising to make it up to you over the weekend. He’d kissed your cheek on the way out the door, already thinking about something else.
Now, standing under the soft halo of the marquee lights, you almost turn back—until you hear a familiar voice. “Hey, doll.” Bucky’s leaning against the doorframe, coat open, tie slightly undone. He’s smiling—that lazy, easy grin that used to make your stomach do strange things when you were younger.
You exhale. “You look—”
“Don’t say it,” he warns playfully. “I already know.”
You grin despite yourself. “You were going to say it anyway.”
“Maybe,” he admits, pushing off the wall. “You look beautiful, by the way.”
It’s simple, unembellished, and it lands harder than it should. You nod, trying to keep your voice steady. “Thank you.”
He offers his arm with a flourish. “Shall we?” You take it before you can think better of it. The hall inside is alive—bright lights glinting off polished floors, the air full of warmth and perfume and brass. A small band plays near the stage, their instruments gleaming under the glow. Couples swirl across the floor, the sound of laughter weaving with the rhythm of the music.
Steve finds you both near the entrance, already grinning, already holding two glasses of champagne. “You made it!”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” you say, smiling.
Bucky raises a brow at the glasses. “Since when do you drink the fancy stuff?”
Steve shrugs. “Figured I’d start celebrating before anyone gets sentimental.”
“You’re the sentimental one,” Bucky teases. “You cried when you saw that puppy in the paper last week.”
“Yeah, and you didn’t?”
You laugh, shaking your head. “You two haven’t changed a bit.”
For the first hour, everything feels easy. You sit together at a table near the floor, watching dancers spin, the band switching between swing and slower numbers. Steve gets dragged onto the dance floor by a brunette in a red dress, who you’re pretty sure is Peggy, leaving you and Bucky to nurse drinks and trade quiet jokes.
But as the night wears on, something shifts. The music slows. The lights dim slightly, turning everything gold and soft. Couples begin to drift together, the chatter thinning into quiet laughter. You’re fiddling with your glass when Bucky stands. “Come on.”
You blink up at him. “What?”
He nods toward the floor. “Dance with me.”
“Bucky, I don’t think—”
He extends his hand, palm up, eyes steady. “It’s just a dance.”
Your heart stutters, but you take it. His hand is warm around yours, solid. The other settles lightly at your waist as he guides you into the rhythm. It’s slow, easy—the kind of song that sways more than moves, leaving space for breath between every step.
You haven’t danced together since before the war. Back then, it had been all laughter and clumsy steps—your heels on his boots, his grin bright enough to fill the room. This feels different. Older. Heavier. You can feel the weight of his gaze on you, even as you try to keep your eyes anywhere else. “So,” he says quietly, his voice just audible over the band. “Big day’s coming soon.”
You nod. “Two months.”
“You nervous?”
You laugh softly, though it sounds a little hollow. “Should I be?”
He shrugs, eyes flicking down to yours. “Guess that depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you’re happy.”
You swallow. “You’re starting to sound like a broken record.”
“Maybe,” he says, smiling faintly. “But you still haven’t given me an answer.”
You look away, focusing on a couple nearby, the woman’s patterned dress catching the light as she spins. “It’s not that simple, Bucky.”
“Doesn’t have to be.”
The music slows further, the last few bars stretching out. His thumb traces an idle circle at your waist—so small you almost think you imagined it. You glance up at him. “You’re staring.”
“Can’t help it,” he murmurs. “I’ve spent half my life lookin’ out for you, and the other half trying not to.”
Your breath catches. “Bucky—”
He shakes his head slightly, cutting you off before you can say more. “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna ruin your night.” The song ends, but neither of you move right away. You’re still caught in the slow sway of it, the warmth of his hand, the nearness of him. Finally, he steps back, the loss of his touch like stepping into cold air. “Thanks for the dance, doll.”
You nod, voice soft. “Anytime.”
He smiles—that quiet, sad smile that doesn’t reach his eyes—and turns away before you can say more. You stand there, trying to steady your breathing, watching him move toward the bar. The crowd shifts around you, but everything feels strangely far away—the music, the laughter, the shimmering gold of the lights.
When Steve returns, flushed and grinning, you force yourself to smile. You make small talk, you drink another glass of champagne, you laugh in all the right places.
But every time you glance across the room, Bucky’s already looking at you. And when the band starts another song—something slow and aching—you can feel the pulse of it in your bones, the echo of his hand still at your waist. You know, with sudden terrible clarity, that the world you’ve built is about to crack.
The cold hits like a slap when you step outside the ballroom, the sudden quiet almost deafening after the swell of brass and laughter. The sky is a heavy gray-black, the kind of night that promises snow. Streetlights cast soft circles on the pavement, and the air smells faintly of salt and smoke.
You pull your shawl tighter around your shoulders and exhale, trying to steady yourself. Inside, the party is still going strong—laughter, footsteps, clinking glasses. You can still hear the echo of the band through the doors. The sound feels far away, like it belongs to someone else’s life.
You hadn’t meant to come out here. You just needed air. Space to breathe. You’re halfway down the steps when the door swings open behind you. “Figured I’d find you out here.” You turn. Bucky stands in the doorway, coat over one arm, his expression unreadable. His hair’s a little messy from the heat inside, his tie loose. He looks nothing like the man who’d smiled and danced with you an hour ago. He looks like someone who’s come to do something he can’t take back.
“Hey,” you manage, your voice thinner than you’d like. “Needed a minute.”
“Yeah,” he says, stepping down beside you. “Me too.”
The silence stretches, filled with the low hum of the city and the distant sound of a passing car. You look out toward the street. “It’s getting late. I should—”
“Don’t go yet.” It comes out sharper than he means, and he runs a hand through his hair, sighing. “Sorry. Just—just wait a minute.”
You hesitate, then nod. He steps in front of you, close enough that you have to tilt your head to meet his eyes. The lamplight catches the faint scar at his temple, the sharp line of his jaw. You can see the muscle in his throat move when he swallows. “You can’t marry him,” he says quietly.
The words hit like a physical thing—not shouted, not dramatic, just certain. You stare at him, the wind tugging at your shawl. “What?”
He exhales hard, almost laughing, not because it’s funny, but because he’s run out of ways to hold it in. “You heard me.”
“Bucky—”
“Don’t.” His voice cracks slightly, the word raw. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talkin’ about. You’ve been pretending long enough.”
You step back, shaking your head. “You don’t get to say that.”
“The hell I don’t.”
“You don’t,” you repeat, louder this time, the tremor in your voice betraying you. “You had years, Bucky. Years to say something, and you didn’t. You went off to war, and you didn’t write, you didn’t—”
“I thought I was dead!” he shouts, then lowers his voice quickly, the sound cracking in the cold air. “I thought I was dead, and when I wasn’t, I didn’t know how to come back. You think I wanted to ruin what we had?”
“You already have,” you whisper.
He laughs—quiet and bitter. “Yeah. Guess I did.” You turn away, hugging your arms around yourself, staring out at the blur of passing headlights. Your breath clouds the air, your chest tight. He steps closer, voice low again. “I’m not tryin’ to hurt you, doll. I just—” He stops, searching for the words. “Every time I see you with him, it feels like I’m watching somebody else live your life. And I can’t keep doin’ it.”
Your throat tightens. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I do.”
He reaches out, hesitates, then lets his hand drop. “You think I don’t see it? The way you look when you’re with him—polite, careful. Like you’re walkin’ on glass. You used to laugh with your whole body, you know that? You’d throw your head back and snort like it was the funniest thing you ever heard. You don’t laugh like that anymore.”
You blink, and your vision goes blurry. “That’s not fair.”
“It’s true.”
You shake your head, half laughing, half crying. “God, you think you can just come back and tell me I’m unhappy? You think you can just say that and everything changes?”
He takes a step forward, closing the space between you. His voice drops, rough and steady. “No. I think I can tell you the truth. I love you, and I have since before I even knew what that meant.” The words hang there, suspended in the cold air, heavy enough to change the shape of the night. You stare at him, heart pounding, your mouth open but no words coming out. He laughs again, softer now, broken. “I know. I know I’m too late. But I’d rather ruin what’s left than spend another day pretendin’ I don’t still feel this way.”
You whisper, “Bucky, stop.”
He shakes his head. “I can’t. Not this time.”
“Don’t do this to me.”
“I’m not doin’ anything to you,” he says quietly. “I’m tryin’ to be honest. For once.”
You step closer without realizing it, until you’re only a breath apart. The air between you feels electric, sharp, full of everything you’ve both been avoiding. “You don’t get to tell me you love me now,” you say, voice shaking. “Not after all this time.”
He swallows. “I know.”
You look up at him—his eyes, his face, the way he’s looking at you like you’re something precious and painful all at once. “Then why are you saying it?”
“Because I’d rather you hate me for it than never know.”
He reaches out, fingers brushing your jaw. You should pull away. You don’t. The touch is so light it barely registers, but it’s enough to make your heart lurch. You realize you’ve been waiting for it—for years, maybe.
And then he kisses you.
It isn’t careful. It isn’t perfect. It’s desperate, aching, years of silence collapsing into one impossible moment. His hand finds your face, yours fists in the front of his coat. He tastes like smoke and whiskey and regret.
For a second, you let yourself fall into it—the familiarity, the warmth, the terrible rightness of it. Then reality slams back. You break away, breathless, trembling. “Don’t,” you whisper. “Please.”
He takes a step back immediately, hands raised like surrender. “I’m sorry.”
You shake your head, voice thin. “No, you’re not.”
He opens his mouth, closes it again. “You’re right. I’m not.”
You stand there in the cold, neither of you moving, the echo of the kiss still pulsing in the space between you. Finally, you turn. “I have to go.”
He doesn’t stop you this time. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”
You walk away, your heels striking the pavement, each step harder than the last. You don’t look back, because if you do, you’ll break. Behind you, Bucky stays where he is, the wind tugging at his coat, the sound of the music from inside drifting faintly through the doors. He runs a hand over his mouth, as if he can still taste you, and lets out a shaky breath that turns white in the cold air.
When Steve finds him later, still standing outside under the lamplight, he doesn’t ask what happened. He doesn’t need to. “Guess she went home,” Steve says quietly.
Bucky nods, staring down at the street. “Yeah.”
“You okay?”
Bucky laughs once, soft and bitter. “Not even close.”
Steve doesn’t say anything after that. Just claps a hand to his shoulder, solid and wordless, before leading him toward home.
That night, you sit on your bed in the dark, your shawl still around your shoulders, your hair still styled from the dance. The mirror across from you reflects a version of yourself you don’t recognize—flushed cheeks, tear-stained eyes, a ring on your finger that feels heavier than gold.
You press your fingers to your lips and close your eyes. The ghost of him is still there—the warmth of his hand, the tremor in his voice when he said your name. You tell yourself it was a mistake. That it won’t happen again. That it doesn’t change anything. But deep down, in the place where you’ve hidden everything that still feels alive, you already know it does. Because no matter what happens next—no matter how much you tell yourself otherwise—that kiss didn’t feel like the end of something.
It felt like the start.
---
The morning after the dance dawns gray and breathless, the kind of quiet that feels like the city itself is holding still. You wake long before your alarm, eyes open to the dim light filtering through the curtains. The bedsheets are cold beside you—Andrew had stayed at his parents’ house last night after the dinner he mentioned, something about convenience, early meetings. You’d told him it was fine. You’d meant it.
But now, the silence in the apartment feels unbearable.
Your shawl is draped over the chair where you tossed it last night. One glove sits on the floor, half under the bed. Your lipstick is still smudged faintly around the corners of your mouth. You stare at your reflection in the vanity mirror for a long time—your eyes red-rimmed, your hair a little messed up from sleep.
You look like a woman who hasn’t slept. You look like a woman who’s done something unforgivable. You press your palms flat on the table, forcing a breath through your lungs. You should feel guilty. You do feel guilty—but not in the way you expected. The shame sits alongside something else, something more dangerous. You feel awake.
You make it through breakfast without tasting a thing. The paper sits unread beside your plate, the coffee untouched. Every tick of the clock seems louder than the last. You keep hearing his voice, low and rough.
You can’t marry him.
You used to laugh with your whole body.
I’d rather you hate me for it than never know.
You try to drown it out with reason. Andrew is good. Steady. The kind of man your parents dreamed you’d marry. He’s kind to you, even if his kindness sometimes feels more like careful politeness than love. You’ll have a warm home, safety, a life without turbulence.
Bucky is none of those things.
He’s reckless, restless, full of jagged edges and ghosts that won’t leave him. His hands still tremble when he doesn’t sleep. He disappears for hours to “walk,” though you suspect he’s not walking so much as running from his own mind.
But when he’d kissed you—God, when he’d kissed you—there had been no distance, no pretending. Just truth. Raw, terrible, beautiful truth. And now you can’t un-feel it.
You find yourself outside his building before you realize you’ve even left home. The cold gnaws at your fingers; your breath fogs the air. You’re in your best coat, a hat tugged low, gloves clasped tight as if they’re the only thing keeping you from shaking apart.
You stand there for a long moment, staring at the door. Every part of you is screaming not to go inside—but your feet move anyway. The hallway smells faintly of tobacco and cheap soap. The floorboards creak underfoot. You reach his door, heart hammering, and knock before you can talk yourself out of it.
It takes a moment. Then footsteps. Then the latch.
When the door opens, he looks… wrecked. Bucky’s hair is rumpled, his shirt half-buttoned, his eyes red-rimmed like yours. He blinks when he sees you, caught between surprise and something softer—something like disbelief. “Doll.”
“Can I come in?”
He steps aside wordlessly. The apartment is small—one room with a narrow kitchen, a half-drawn curtain separating the bed from the rest. There’s a record player on a crate, a mug on the windowsill gone cold. Everything smells faintly of metal polish and smoke.
You take off your gloves, set them down on the table, and stand there, unsure what to do with your hands. He’s watching you carefully, like he’s afraid if he blinks you’ll disappear. “I shouldn’t be here,” you say first.
He nods once. “Probably not.”
Neither of you move. The silence stretches. Finally, you force the words out, “what happened last night can’t—”
“—be undone,” he finishes for you. His voice is steady, quiet. “I know.”
You swallow. “Andrew—”
“Doesn’t love you the way you deserve,” he says, too quickly.
“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t make him the villain. He’s good to me.”
“I know he is,” Bucky says softly. “But he doesn’t see you.”
You turn away, pacing to the window. “You keep saying that. That he doesn’t see me. What does that even mean?”
He moves closer, not touching you yet. “It means he doesn’t know the way your hands shake when you’re excited. Or how you hum when you cook. Or how you hate cucumbers but love the smell of mint. He doesn’t know how you look when you’re mad and trying not to cry. He doesn’t know you fall asleep reading, or that you talk in your sleep sometimes.” You close your eyes. “He doesn’t know you,” Bucky finishes, voice low. “Not the way I do.”
“That’s not fair,” you whisper. “People change, Bucky. I’m not who I was before the war. Neither are you.”
“Maybe not,” he says, and now he’s close enough that you can feel the warmth of him at your back. “But you’re still you. The real you. And I’m still the fool who fell for you before either of us knew what love was.”
You turn around, ready to tell him to stop—but he’s looking at you with that same quiet honesty that’s always undone you. No pleading. No bravado. Just truth. Something in you breaks. “You think this is easy for me?” you snap, tears stinging your eyes. “You think I haven’t spent every night trying to make myself believe that I can do this—that I can marry him, smile, build a life that’s good, even if it’s not…” You trail off, breathing hard.
“Not what?” he asks softly.
“Not you.” The words hang there like a confession torn from your chest.
Bucky exhales slowly, eyes darkening. “Say that again.”
You shake your head, tears slipping free. “Don’t make me.”
He takes a step closer. “Say it.”
You look up at him, voice trembling. “It’s not you.”
He doesn’t move for a long moment, just studies your face—every tear, every tremor. Then, so quietly you almost miss it, “then don’t marry him.”
You let out a shaky breath. “Bucky—”
“Don’t marry him,” he repeats, firmer now. “Don’t spend the rest of your life pretending this never happened. Pretending you don’t feel it too.”
Your throat closes. “You’re asking me to destroy everything.”
“I’m asking you to be honest,” he says. “For once. Just with yourself.”
The silence that follows feels like standing on a precipice. You can hear the tick of a clock somewhere, the distant sound of a car outside. Finally, you whisper, “if I walk away from him, there’s no going back.”
“I know,” Bucky says. “But maybe that’s the point.”
You meet his eyes, and for the first time in months—maybe years—you feel something that isn’t fear. You feel clarity. You leave his apartment an hour later, the sun beginning to rise pale and pink over the rooftops. The streets are still quiet, the city half-asleep. You walk the whole way home.
By the time you reach your door, your fingers are numb, your heart raw. You set your ring on the table—gold glinting in the soft morning light—and sit beside it, staring until the sun burns through the window. When the phone rings, you don’t answer. Not yet. You don’t know what you’ll say to Andrew, not really. You just know it has to be true. And for the first time in a long, long while, that feels like enough.
That afternoon, Bucky finds Steve at the diner, coat unbuttoned, eyes still tired but different now—lighter somehow. Steve raises a brow when he slides into the booth. “You look like you haven’t slept.”
Bucky huffs a laugh. “I didn’t.”
“She come by?”
He hesitates, then nods. “Yeah.”
Steve studies him for a moment. “You tell her?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
Bucky looks out the window, where sunlight spills across the street, turning everything gold. “I don’t know yet,” he says. “But for the first time since I came home… it feels like maybe things might be right again.”
Steve smiles faintly. “That’s something.”
“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs, fingers curling around his coffee mug. “It is.”
Outside, the city hums to life again—the promise of something new on the horizon. And somewhere across town, you sit by the window, your ringless hand resting over your heart, breathing in the quiet morning air. You don’t know what comes next.
But you know who you want to face it with.
---
It happens on a Sunday. The kind of pale, overcast morning that seems to hum with quiet finality—the sort of day that feels like the closing of a chapter, even before anything has ended. Your hands tremble only once when you lace your gloves. Then again when you look in the mirror and see the faint indentation where your ring used to sit. It’s strange how something so small could leave a mark so deep.
Andrew had called three times since last night. You’d answered none of them. You’d written him a letter—neat, careful handwriting, the kind of letter that doesn’t waste words. You apologized, you explained just enough, you didn’t say Bucky’s name. You thanked him for being kind. For being safe. For giving you a life you could have loved, if your heart hadn’t been somewhere else.
When you finished, you folded it, sealed it, and set it gently in his mailbox before you lost your nerve. Then you walked. The city feels softer than usual—washed clean from an early morning drizzle, streets gleaming faintly under the muted sun. People bustle past you in coats and scarves, voices muffled, the world continuing as if nothing monumental has shifted. But for you, everything has.
Bucky doesn’t hear the knock at first. He’s just come back from the docks, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp from the mist. There’s a record playing—something scratchy and old, the kind of jazz you used to hum when you worked beside him at the old diner near Flatbush.
He’s been trying not to think about you; he’s failing. So when the knock comes, soft but steady, he almost doesn’t answer. Some part of him is terrified to open that door, afraid that seeing you—or not seeing you—will finally undo him for good.
But he does. And there you are. Your coat’s damp at the hem, your cheeks stinging from the cold. There’s no ring on your hand, and your eyes—God, your eyes—look clearer than he’s ever seen them. “Hey,” you say, voice small but sure.
He blinks, then steps aside automatically. “You came.”
You nod, stepping inside. “I did.” The air in the room feels charged, the same way it did that morning in his apartment. But this time, there’s no hesitation between you. No guilt. Just a quiet certainty settling in your bones. “I ended it,” you say.
Bucky freezes. “You what?”
You meet his gaze. “With Andrew.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it again, struggling to find breath. “You sure?”
You nod once. “I told him the truth.”
For a moment, neither of you move. Then Bucky lets out a slow, unsteady breath and takes a step forward—one, then another, until you’re standing close enough to feel the warmth of him through your coat. “What did you tell him?” he asks softly.
“That I couldn’t marry someone I didn’t love,” you whisper.
He searches your face, voice barely a murmur. “And who do you love?”
You don’t look away this time. “You.”
The silence that follows isn’t empty—it’s full. Alive. Like the first inhale after years of holding your breath.
And then he’s kissing you.
It isn’t desperate this time. It’s steady. Sure. The kind of kiss that feels like coming home after too long away. His hand slides up to cradle your jaw, his thumb brushing the tear that slips free. You don’t even realize you’re crying until he murmurs against your lips, “hey, hey. Don’t.”
You laugh, half-sobbing, pressing your forehead against his. “I’m okay.”
“You sure?”
You nod, smiling through the tears. “Yeah. I think I am.”
He exhales shakily, relief breaking over him like sunlight. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear that.”
“Maybe I do,” you tease gently, your hand resting over his heart. He covers it with his own, fingers threading through yours. His pulse beats strong under your palm. You stay like that for a long time—standing in the quiet of his apartment, the city noise drifting faintly through the window. It feels fragile, this peace, but also real. Earned.
Eventually, he guides you to the small kitchen table, sets a kettle on the stove, and makes tea—the way he used to when you were kids, strong and too sweet. You sit across from him, elbows on the scarred wood, steam curling between you. He watches you for a moment, eyes soft. “You sure you’re okay?”
You smile. “You’ve asked me that three times.”
“Can’t help it.”
“I know.”
You reach across the table, covering his hand with yours. “I think I’ll be okay, Buck. For the first time in a long while.”
He nods slowly, thumb tracing circles against your wrist. “You know this won’t be easy.”
“I know,” you say. “But at least it’ll be real.”
He looks at you then—really looks—and you see the weight lift from him. The guilt, the fear, the quiet ache that’s been hiding behind his smile since the war. “Real sounds good,” he murmurs.
The weeks that follow aren’t simple. There are whispers, of course. Muted condolences from neighbors who think you’ve been jilted. Polite confusion from Andrew’s family. Your mother’s disappointment—quiet, tight-lipped, the kind that cuts deeper than yelling.
But there’s also laughter again. You and Bucky and Steve falling back into a rhythm that feels like the world before it went to hell—coffee at the diner, evenings spent walking home through the city, warmth slowly replacing what had been hollow.
Sometimes, it’s quiet—hands brushing on park benches, shared cigarettes in the cold, Bucky’s coat around your shoulders. Sometimes, it’s loud—dancing in his room to bad jazz, arguing about who cheats at cards, Steve rolling his eyes fondly from the doorway. And every now and then, when you least expect it, he’ll reach for your hand—just a touch, light and unassuming—and it’ll still take your breath away.
It’s early spring when you wake in his bed for the first time with sunlight spilling through the window, his arm slung across your waist. The city hums faintly outside—car horns, laughter, the world moving on.
You turn your head, watching him sleep. He looks younger like this. Peaceful, almost. You reach up, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone. His eyes open slowly, blue and soft, and he smiles—that same crooked grin that’s undone you a hundred times over. “Mornin’, doll.”
You grin back. “Morning.”
He leans in and kisses you, slow and easy, the kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything except the promise that you’re both still here. When he pulls back, he murmurs, “you know, I still think about that night at the Expo sometimes.”
You laugh, low. “When you vanished to find Steve?”
“Yeah,” he says, smile widening. “Should’ve kissed you then.”
You tilt your head, teasing. “You made up for it.”
He hums, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “Not done makin’ up for it.”
You smile against his skin. “Good.”
Outside, the city keeps moving—trains and laughter and sunlight spilling over everything. The world isn’t perfect. It never will be. But for the first time, it feels like yours again. And when Bucky pulls you close, his voice low against your ear, you know with absolute certainty that you did the right thing.
extra notes: this fic has been done for months, probably since tloas came out in october. i still think months later it's one of my favorites so i hope y'all liked it as much as i do <3
< chapter 1
Summary: At the soldiers' bonfire, you share a close dance with Sergeant Barnes as he shares a piece of his heart with you.
Pairing: 40s!Bucky Barnes x Female Nurse!Reader
Warnings/tags: slow burn romance (kinda); mild jealousy; emotional tension; some angst (truly barely there); pining; yearning; no use of Y/N
Word count: 3.9k words
Notes: and here we are for the second part of this series! as i mentioned in the previous part, both chapter 1 and chapter 2 (this one) were already posted in june 2025, but i have decided to reupload so i can continue this series. this means that the next part will be a completely new chapter, which you haven't read yet. i am so happy to finally be able to continue the story of these two silly birds. and thank you to everyone who has taken the time to comment or send me a message about this series. i love every single one of you 🩵
It’s a clear night in the middle of July. The sky is peppered with stars, the moon looks bright and full, illuminating the camp. If you were back home, this would be the kind of night when you would dress in your prettiest clothes, invite two friends to a fair, eat some cotton candy while you laughed loudly about the latest gossip and danced the night away. Instead, you are all the way across the ocean, away from the friends you grew up with, putting on some plush red lipstick on your lips while you get ready to attend the soldiers hangout. The weather is warm, and your skin is glistening with faint sweat, but you clean it off with a soft rag.
Your eyes meet your reflection in the mirror, unwavering. Tonight, you're going dancing. It should feel like a normal night at home, but it could never, not in the middle of war. Your fingers fidget with the cap of the lipstick and for a second, you look at down at the tube, sad to see your favorite shade is mostly gone. No resupplies of makeup in camp. Maybe if you get some deserved R&R you’ll go shopping in London for a brand new lipstick. Something pretty, European, fancy.
A few other nurses are finishing getting ready around you. There's no real privacy at camp, not really; you all sleep together in a tent, while the soldiers sleep in another. The other nurses are your family and they see your body and your soul every day. Firm fingers smooth over the edges of your dress. Blue, falling slightly below the knee, hugging your waist and with slightly pointy shoulders. The cut is expertly made and it's very obvious, especially to other nurses, who are familiar with fashion, that you come from money.
You’re not trying to impress or flaunt. Wearing this made you feel pretty, and you liked to feel pretty. Maybe you even expected a certain Sergeant to pay you a compliment or two.
Finally, you walk out of your tent, standing straight and looking shy, your movements careful. A group of nurses is already making conversation with a few soldiers around the campfire, and they seem to be joyful, laughing, telling some stupid jokes that would make the rounds back home. You approach cautiously, not because you’re particularly interested in making conversation, but because it would look worse to stand in a corner all alone.
“Nurse! So kind of you to join us lowly soldiers today! I never see you in our hangouts,” one of the soldiers says with a warm smile. He’s laughing but not mocking - just trying to make light conversation.
“We lost a lot of good men these weeks, soldier. I thought the ones alive deserved to be celebrated,” you answer. That seems to get his attention in a good way.
“Of course. We appreciate your presence, as always.” The man smiles, and another one of the soldiers approach. You recognize him as Corporal Johnson, the man you almost treated in the infirmary yesterday, before Sergeant Barnes barged in asking for your hands only.
“We do, indeed. You and the nurses who work here do the Lord's work,” Corporal Johnson says, with a kind smile, and gives you a once-over. “You look great in that dress, by the way.”
The compliment isn’t unexpected, but you blush anyway. Not because you particularly enjoy it, but because you’re not used to compliments. You didn’t date before the war. There was a guy, once —a boy, really, not a man— and you dated long enough for you to realize you never wanted anyone like him in your life ever again. After that, there was no one else. You didn’t look. Didn’t make yourself approachable.
“Thank you, Corporal,” you answer, still kind, despite the discomfort. Around you, there’s no sight of Bucky yet. You try to pretend that that doesn’t affect you. That it doesn’t slightly burn in your gut to not see him here, after he asked you to be here. Did he... forget? Did he decide not to come, instead?
Corporal Johnson’s voice cuts through the silence that had settled.
“It’s a beautiful night out. No clouds, so you can see every single star in the sky,” he comments, looking out towards the sky, watching the full moon. “Are you looking for someone, by chance, ma'am?”
You are. But there is absolutely no chance you are about to admit that you’re only here tonight because Sergeant Barnes invited you. You are barely able to admit it to yourself, let alone anyone else in camp.
“Are you not going to invite the nurses to dance?”, you ask, as if trying to swerve the conversation into another direction. The solder chuckles and puts a hand on your shoulder.
“Don't worry, darlin'. When we're done a couple of shots we'll start to dance, and all the girls will be asked to the makeshift dance floor. You'll have fun.”
There’s a quiet discomfort when Corporal Johnson places his hand on your shoulder. He’s not trying to be disrespectful, you know that, but you are so far from being interested in whatever he’s trying to get out of you that it’s almost laughable. You really don’t do well in these situations. The man smiles kindly, unaware of your discomfort, and continues.
“What kind of music do you like to dance to?” He asks, making conversation. “I'd love to dance with you when the time comes.”
“Thank you, Corporal.” You answer the man, but the smile is gone from your lips. You remain kind, but you're really not interested. “I'm sure you wouldn't like that, I have two left feet.” A lie to try and get you out of this, but he doesn’t seem to believe it very much.
“Maybe you could give me an opportunity to find out, huh?” The man grins, and he rubs his hand on your shoulder again, this time the contact lasting a little longer. Then you hear it. Him. His voice, a little boyish, but not sweet like he usually talks to you. No, he sounds a little rougher, exactly as you would expect to hear him speak to another soldier.
“Johnson, I don’t think she wants to dance with you. Maybe find another nurse to pester?” Sergeant Barnes says, approaching slowly from behind you. You don’t really look at him when he stands to your side, instead you pretend to look around you, anywhere but at him. Corporal Johnson looks like he’s about to say something else, but he takes one look at you and seems to finally understand you’re not interested, so he moves along quickly.
Bucky steps in front of you, replacing the spot where Johnson had stood just seconds ago, and he’s smiling, wide and pretty, giving you his best look as he holds his hands behind his back. Your name rolls of his lips slow and steady, and it almost doesn’t sound like he’s calling you; it just sounds like he’s saying it because it’s his favorite word. Your cheeks turn a soft pink shade, but it’s nighttime and likely not very noticeable.
“Sit with me,” Bucky asks, pointing towards two chairs by the bonfire. He sits first, resting his arms on the sides of the chair, and you follow suit after a second. Still, you don’t really look at him. Just stare at the fire, blinking slowly. Like you’re suddenly unaware of how to make conversation outside the infirmary.
You bite your lip and hold it between your teeth for a minute, trying to pick a topic to start a conversation, choosing careful words that could be seen as nonchalant. Trying not to give him the wrong idea.
“It's a pretty night,” you say. God. Somehow that was the stupidest thing you could have said, but nothing else would come out.
Bucky doesn't want to laugh, but a small chuckle escapes his lips. He looks at you and you're biting your lip, and he can tell that you're a little nervous. You don’t know that he is, too. He wants to say something dumb, cheesy, like it's even prettier now that you're here, but he doesn't, instead nodding at your words.
“That it is,” is all he ends up saying. And now Bucky Barnes is the one feeling like an idiot. Why won’t he say anything else when he was the one who asked you to come?
A phonograph strategically placed outside starts playing a soft song, something happy and sweet, nice enough to dance to. It’s a silent invitation for everyone to gather round and start having fun. A couple of soldiers already have their hands on nurses, pulling them to their feet as they start dancing together. Neither you or Bucky move.
“I like this song,” you say, quietly. Are those words an invitation, too? You would never ask Bucky to dance. You’re a girl, after all, isn’t that his job? But you’re not against dropping a hint here and there.
Bucky’s heart thumps with anticipation, and he looks at you with almost an innocent, confused expression. The usual confidence in him is faltering just a little.
“Yeah?” He asks, his words almost a whisper.
“It's a good song to dance to,” you reply.
Bucky's starting to get the hint, but he's scared he's misinterpreting things. You look so damn pretty next to the fire, and he wants to be close to you now, so very badly—
Bucky finally dares to speak, his voice soft and nervous. “Do you wanna dance?”
You don’t really ponder for an answer. You nod and mouth a soft yes, and the next instant Bucky is offering you his hand, getting up from his chair and giving you a small bow. The moment your hand rests on top of his, you think you can feel it. The spark. You’ve touched him before. A thousand times, every time he came to the infirmary to get himself patched up. But not like this - this is something else, it’s a little intimate, hands joined, feet walking side by side as he moves with you towards the center where everyone else is already dancing. One hand stays clasped to yours and the other rests on the small of your back, low enough to show you’re not just any girl but high enough to keep it respectful. Bucky knows the boundaries of a girl like you. Pretty, soft, intelligent, with money. Even if most of that doesn’t matter in a war.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he finally says as he starts swinging with you to the sound of the song playing. You’re not surprised to find Bucky is actually a very decent dancer. You can imagine he’d make a show of taking girls dancing back home. “You always do. But even more tonight. Did you dress up like that just for me?”
There’s no denying it; it’s a little annoying how fast he goes from a soft gentleman, almost a little vulnerable, to a flirting tease. And by annoying, you mean you hate how much you like it that he shows both sides of him so easily to you when you barely know each other. When all you know about him is the exact placement of every scar and mark on his body because you’ve seen him undressed too many times to count.
“Don’t push it, Sergeant Barnes,” you answer, trying to downplay his words, but it’s probably way too obvious at this point that you did dress up for him. Because he asked you to come, and you did, and now you’re here, in your pretty dress and red lipstick. His blue eyes catch yours for a moment, the soft night breeze not nearly cold enough to soothe the sudden warmth that spreads over your body when he looks at you like that.
“I really wish you’d stop calling me that,” he huffs, and his voice does sound momentarily disappointed. There’s a reason why you mostly avoid calling him by his nickname, despite his insistence; because a nickname would mean proximity. Closeness. Calling him Bucky would let the door with a slight open crack where intimacy could seep through. Would invite him to come closer, press deeper.
“It’s your rank. I’m just being respectful,” you murmur and you can swear you feel his hand tightening around yours, eyes flickering with something you don’t immediately identify.
“I think I’d like you to disrespect me a little,” he answers and you almost choke on air, the way he says that so casually almost throwing you off balance as you sway in his arms. “You said it yourself yesterday—you’re not a soldier. You don’t answer to my rank. That means you don’t have to call me it, either.”
He’s right, and you know it. You stew on those words for a moment, looking to his side and ahead of you to avoid his gaze.
“Will you stop being a pain if I start calling you Bucky?” You ask, unimpressed. Even though you’re not looking at him, you can see him smiling from the corner of your eye.
“No. I'll be even more unbearable, thinking you're finally giving me a crumble of attention.” At least he admits that. Then there's a moment of silence, and you feel Bucky's body stiffening even as he dances with you and keeps a steady rhythm. Like he's standing on words he can't afford to say, but wants to say them nonetheless. And he says them. “Can't stop thinking about you. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”
The words make you blush, even though there's an attempt at denying any affect they have on you. He's always been smooth with his flirting, but this feels so intimate, even as you dance together in the middle of soldiers and nurses. Like the world has stopped spinning for a bit.
“I want to steal the most breathtaking kiss of your life so you can’t stop thinking about me either,” he continues, like he's incapable of stopping now that he's let the floodgates open.
And you’re only a woman. As much as you can pretend to not be affected by him, by the words he says, the way he looks at you, you feel the intensity of that sentence in every molecule of your body. Your heart is hammering in your chest, beating so loudly maybe everyone in this camp could hear it if they were silent long enough.
“Bucky…” you start, and already is face is lighting up, warming up to the way you say his name. He thinks it sounds good on your lips, the way you say it, a little scolding, but careful, with a certain warmth behind it. You don’t say his name like you say other soldiers’. He notices it before you do. “You’re sweet and I appreciate your compliments, but you shouldn’t be saying those things.”
Bucky swirls you around to the rhythm of the song before pulling you back into his embrace and somehow, you feel like you’re even closer than you were before, like he’s holding you tighter against his body. You can feel the hardness of his chest through his uniform and your eyes are momentarily locked on his when he lets go of your hand and instead hooks his fingers under your chin, gentle, making you look at him.
“You think I’m sweet?” Bucky says, a clear teasing tone in his voice. “Do you not want me to say those things because they make you uncomfortable or because you like hearing them?”
You blink at him, slow, a little dumbfounded, because he’s catching you off guard with that question. The answer should be easy. It makes you uncomfortable to have him always trying to flirt with you in the infirmary, and now here, in front of everyone else. You want him to stop. But the truth runs deeper in your veins, threatening to come to light every second now. The way you’ve memorized every detail of his face and sometimes you see it when you close your eyes at night.
“Don’t do that,” you ask, and this time, you’re the one who sounds slightly vulnerable, like you’re touching an open wound. “Whatever you want from me, Bucky, I’m not looking for it in this camp.”
Bucky loses some of his confidence when those words reach him, but his expression remains mostly unfaltered. He can take hits to his ego, he just wishes he didn’t have to. Every night, he’s been dreaming of you, the only good thing in this God forsaken place. But he doesn’t dare admit that, not to you, or anyone else.
“I was hoping you’d change your mind for a handsome Sergeant,” he says after a second too long, and it’s enough for you to notice that your words hit like a blow. His hand moves from your chin and back to intertwine with yours, dancing with you like this conversation didn’t mean anything, like you were just a soldier and a nurse dancing the night away until either of you got too bored or too tired.
For the next week, there’s a slight shift between you and Bucky.
He’s come in to the infirmary once every day to get his wound cleaned and checked by you. As usual, he doesn’t let other nurses touch him, only ever asks for you, but when you tend to him, he doesn’t say much. A quiet hello, a few soft words and then he’s gone, disappearing into the crowd of soldiers. And you feel stupid, because you miss the bantering. The flirting. The way his eyes looked at you with soft promises and stolen glances when he thought you weren’t looking. He’s distant, now, like he’s trying to respect the space you seem to want.
You said you weren’t looking for anything. You weren’t. But you seemed to have found it, and now that it’s lost, you feel a little empty.
Today, you’re taking a small break to eat a hardtack cracker outside the infirmary when you see him. Sitting by a tree, a bit removed from the tents in camp, fiddling with a sniper riffle, putting it apart and back together and seemingly cleaning its parts. You think about approaching, then you think about leaving him be, and your feet are glued to the floor for half a minute while you try to decide what would be the best course of action.
You decide on the first. Slow, you walk over to him, and he hears your footsteps before you speak, but doesn’t say a word.
“Mind if I sit?” you ask, sweet. Bucky points at the empty place next to him with the sniper.
“Go ahead.”
You do. Sit next to him, back against the large tree that offers shade to both of you, legs raised and pressed to your chest as you rest your head on top of your knees. You give him a look as he continues cleaning his weapon, barely giving you any attention.
“Are you okay?” you ask, after a minute of just watching him. He shrugs.
“The wound is almost healed, so yeah.”
“I didn’t mean the gunshot wound. I meant…” A pause. How do you tell him ‘I miss your flirting’ after you made it clear you didn’t want him to do that? You’ll look stupid, or worse, childish. Just a rich girl who doesn’t know how to deal with being rejected. “You’ve been a little off, is all.”
That seems to get his attention. He looks up from his weapon, and his eyes meet yours. Bucky looks tired, more tired than usual, but there’s a softness to his blue eyes still. And despite it all, he smiles at you. Not the usual flirting type, the teasing, just a smile.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” he answers, but it sounds so fragile in his usual confident frame that it sounds like a lie.
“I worry about all my soldiers. It’s my job as a nurse,” you say with a soft smile. But then something flickers in your eyes. “Especially my favorite patient.”
He actually chuckles at that. “Thought you couldn’t have favorites.”
“I can make an exception.”
His eyes are on yours, and you feel like you might drown in that blue for a moment, because he’s just staring, like he’s trying to find the answer to a question he hasn’t asked you yet. He blinks once, and his eyes seem to dart to your lips for just a moment before he’s looking back up to your eyes.
“You pushed me away when we danced,” he says, matter-of-fact. You did. Not physically, no, because you both danced until there was no more music to dance to, but he’d tried to be clear about his intentions and all you had to say was you weren’t interested.
“Nothing’s changed.” And that’s a lie, because everything did. “I’m still not looking for anything here.”
“You know—”, Bucky starts like he’s about to discard whatever you’ve just said. “If you want me to go back to courting you, all you have to do is ask. I’ve stepped back because, contrary to what you might think about me, I actually care and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
Those words make your heart flutter, and your mouth almost hangs open before you catch yourself and press your lips into a thin line. You feel your cheeks heating up, hands a little shaky as you hold a sad piece of cracker in one of them. You’re not even hungry anymore.
“Is that what you were doing? Courting me?” Bucky’s raising an eyebrow at you as soon as the question slips past your lips.
“Did it not look like I was courting you?”
“Can’t say I’ve had many men doing that. It’s a little hard for me to tell,” you admit, a little too quickly. Maybe that’s a piece of information Bucky didn’t need, maybe you didn’t have to tell him right away that you’re pretty inexperienced when it comes to men and their antics, but he doesn’t seem taken aback.
“Well, darlin’,” The pet name slips past his lips easy, and it does something to you. Why do you want to hear him call you that again? “I don’t mind being the one to show you how a man really impresses a woman. Even in times of war.”
And that’s a promise coming out of Bucky Barnes’ mouth.
chapter 2 >
Summary: Sergeant Bucky Barnes from the 107th gets injured a lot. And when he does, there's only one pair of hands he allows near him.
Pairing: 40s!Bucky Barnes x Female Nurse!Reader
Warnings/tags: Bucky is injured (shoulder gunshot, not heavily detailed); slow burn romance (kinda); pining; unrequited crush (for now and only if you kinda squint); banter; sexual tension; a bit of a sexual innuendo; soft!Bucky; no use of Y/N
Word count: 2.5k words
Notes: so! somewhere around june 2025 i got back into the Bucky fandom after years of not writing a single word and i had this idea for a 40s Bucky series...... which came to be this. i wrote and posted the first two chapters and then lost inspiration. now, almost a year later, i desperately want to go back to this series. i decided to archive the original posts and repost these chapters with new aesthetics. this is the first chapter. i have not changed any of the writing, so if you read it originally, it is literally the same (cough i wanted to but @phoenix-in-writing convinced me to not change the original texts cough). the idea is to finally continue this series, although the new chapters will be a little different because my writing has changed a lot in the last year. but the storyline is the same one i imagine a year ago, just with better writing 🥹 anyway, sorry for rambling. hope you enjoy if you've never read it before!
War breeds misery. You are of the opinion that it could never bring anything good; it won't even bring peace, not a real one. War breeds misery and soldiers, who go back home broken and bruised, not just physically. Many of them don’t even return home. Those who do, leave a part of them behind.
But you’re a just a silly girl, and you had read once in a book that the best thing a girl could be in this world was a beautiful little fool. So you spoke to no one about your disdain for war. No one would want to hear a pretty woman talk about it, anyway. And you did your part, as everyone else in the country did.
You had been a nurse back home. Lived to see too many people die on your hands, many of them from stupid, small things. When the war comes, you tell your family goodbye and you’re sent off to England. Things are worse, there. Your knowledge doesn’t feel enough. Every week, more people die than you could have ever saved in a lifetime working at the local hospital.
Today, however, there has yet to be death on your hands. You're tending to a wounded soldier who's not going to die from his injury. Some shrapnel lodged in his arm, but by the time you finish disinfecting it, he'll be good to go and fight some more. Probably die another day, from another injury. Maybe in your hands, maybe in another nurse’s.
You’re chatting casually with the soldier while you clean his wound when you recognize a very familiar, particularly loud voice in the tent.
“No one's gonna have a look at it unless it's her,” the voice hisses through clenched teeth, and it couldn't sound more annoyed while, simultaneously, annoying.
Sergeant Barnes has been a difficult pain in your side at camp. Whenever he's wounded, he'll come crawling to you. Says you're the most capable nurse in camp, won't let anyhone else tend to his wounds, yet you know he's being impossible on purpose.
The first time Sergeant Barnes was brought to the field station, he had been near a loud explosion and lost part of his hearing for a few hours. He was terrified it would be permanent. He landed on your hands and you watched over him, did some tests, didn’t find anything particularly wrong that would dictate permanent damage.
Next time, a blast injury to the leg. Jessica, another nurse, was supposed to tend to him. He asked for you. You weren’t busy with any other soldier, so you obliged.
From the third time on, it was like clockwork. No other nurse could touch him; it was either you, or no one, to the point the Captain once walked into the tent already yelling your name. “Nurse, check on Barnes immediately!”
It doesn’t take a lot of brains to figure Sergeant Barnes out. He thinks you’re pretty, and this is his attempt at flirting his way into your path. And you’re not blind, he is a handsome man. But you’re not looking to find romance in the middle of war, where he could leave tomorrow and never return. No, you wouldn’t go down that path.
Back to the present, you excuse yourself from the soldier you're taking care of, and you walk in the direction of the Sergeant's voice. Barnes is half-sitting on a chair, shirt covered in blood around the right shoulder area, and Nurse Beth is giving him an exasperated look as she tries to convince him she is just as capable as anyone else in here. “Sergeant Barnes, you were shot, I need to take a look at—”
“No.” He interrupts immediately, his voice stern. Then, he sees you and his expression lightens up almost in a second, a boyish grin settling on his lips.
“Beth,” you say softly. “Could you please finish tending to Corporal Johnson? It’s a simple injury. I’ll care for Sergeant Barnes.”
Beth seems happy to run from this hell-given situation, and she leaves without making a fuss. You approach Barnes with a stern look. “Sergeant. You cannot keep doing this. All nurses at camp are perfectly capable of tending to all your wounds.”
“None have your hands,” he says with a stupid grin. “And I thought we agreed you'd call me Bucky.”
You raise an eyebrow while you find the necessary tools for treating his wound on a nearby cart. “We didn't agree to anything. You made a request, and I ignored it.”
“Shouldn't be ignoring Sergeant's orders,” Barnes says, and he sounds way too smug for his own good. You'd like to slap him out of it, but that wouldn't be much of a good idea.
“Thankfully I'm not a soldier, so I'm not under your orders,” you reply, and that seems to throw him off balance for a minute before he regains his composure and is smirking again. You wish that smirk didn’t mess you up as much as it did. It would make this easier if you were a little more impermeable to his obvious flirting.
“Lord, I missed your quick wit. Had to get myself shot to find an excuse to come talk to you again,” he answers, and something about his tone really feels like he's being way too honest.
You ignore that specific remark.
“Relax, Sergeant. Let me take a look at your wound.” You put on a pair of gloves before you slowly move his shirt down. On his shoulder, there's a small bullet wound, the skin slightly pushed in with a ring of red around it and some gunpowder staining the skin. On his back, there's an exit wound; bigger, tissue pushed out, an irregular shape. You hum in quiet approval, like the sight isn’t as bad as all the blood on his shirt would have led you to believe. “Good news, the bullet came out and it didn't leave fragments behind. We just have to disinfect the wound and patch you up, and you'll be ready to go.”
“So I won't have to stay overnight for observation?” Barnes almost sounds hopeful, but you shake your head no with a chuckle. “I really need to learn to get shot in more dangerous places. What could get me killed? Femoral artery?”
“Sergeant Barnes,” you call out, and there's a clear hint of scolding in your tone. “Don't joke about things like that. I deal with a lot of serious injuries every day. They're ugly and nasty, and worst of all , they really do get you killed.”
“You could stop me from being reckless if you just told me I am your favorite patient,” he answers, smug again, like he's just downplaying your scolding. “And do I have to beg to get you to call me Bucky? I'll do it, I'm not against the prospect of getting on my knees for you.” The double entendre in his last sentence isn't lost on you, but you ignore it. Mostly. Your body does not, because your cheeks turn a light shade of red, and Bucky absolutely catches on to it.
Oh, he notices. Bastard even sits a little more upright on his chair, eyes trailing over your face.
“I can't have favorite patients,” you say, and then you add, like something in you has cracked a little, “—Bucky.”
That seems to take a hit at his smug exterior, too. Like, somehow, he wasn’t truly expecting you to actually follow suit and call him by his preferred nickname. Now he thinks that name will never sound as pretty in anyone else’s mouth.
“I won't tell if you won't,” he murmurs to you, and it sounds a little too sinful to be appropriate. You ignore it. Lord, you're doing a whole lot of ignoring when Bucky is around.
“Lean back. I'll take care of that wound now,” you say, trying to sound as calm and professional as you can. Your fingers work masterfully over the wound, careful, disinfecting with alcohol and cleaning the blood with a white, soft rag before you give him a pitiful look. “The stitches will sting a bit, Sergeant Barnes.”
He gives you a mischievous grin. “Glad I have your pretty face to keep me distracted, then.”
There's a certain soft touch in the way your hands work on stitching his skin, a softer touch than you would normally use with the other soldiers. Of course, you couldn’t admit that Bucky was your favorite patient, but you can't help but have a certain tenderness in the way you take care of him. You're not sure he realizes it. But you also have a very specific sense of humor, and you don't even try to hide that you pinch his skin a little harder on purpose the first time the needle goes through the skin.
Bucky doesn't make a full noise, but he hisses through his teeth. “I thought my pretty face was distracting you,” you comment, clearly amused. He squints his eyes at you, like he's realizing you did it on purpose.
“Didn’t think you had a mean streak in you.” He says back, but after a moment of slight sting in his body, he’s grinning at you. Again. “I like it.” Is all he says before he goes quiet, watching you work.
You finish the stitches relatively fast, and then you cover them with some gauze, protecting them from possible infection.
“You’re all done, Sergeant.” You say, patting him on his good shoulder. He doesn’t seem to appreciate how you’re back to calling him that instead of Bucky. You open the medicine cabinet and grab a bottle of pain killers before handing them to him. “These will help you manage the pain. In a normal situation, I would give you some antibiotics, but we are trying to ration those for more serious situations. I think you’ll heal just fine. In any case…” A deliberate pause, because you know the next part is going to elicit a reaction from him. “…I would recommend you come in every day to change the bandage, so we can keep it clean and lower the risk of infection. At least for the first week.”
And you were right about the reaction, because Bucky is smiling, ear to ear, as he grabs the bottle from your hand. His fingers brush against yours when he does, touch a little rough, and they linger on your skin for a little longer than necessary.
“So I will have an excuse to come see you every day.” He says, like he’s suddenly a kid who has been offered the biggest piece of candy in the store.
“It’s not an excuse. You do need to come in every day to change the bandage. I would prefer if you let any nurse take care of you, though.”
“No.” He answers way too quickly, and his expression is not hard, but there’s an uncomfortable shift to it. It’s quieter when he speaks again. “Just you. If that’s okay.”
If that’s okay.
Well. It’s not like you mind it. You find it strangely affectionate that since June, the first time Sergeant Barnes stepped foot in this camp, there is a sense of routine and normalcy to your life. Soldiers come and go, almost too many different faces to remember. And then, a few days every week, in comes Sergeant Barnes. The one face that is always the same in the mess. His ocean blue eyes, staring at you like you’re God sent in this hell of a place. Hands that sometimes try to reach half-way and see if your own cross the rest of the way. They never did. Even though a part of you wanted them to.
“Okay.” You say, after a moment of silence that definitely stretched too long. “Let whoever greets you know that I gave you the okay to ask for me specifically.”
He seems content with that answer. Slowly, he stands up from his chair and dresses the half-destroyed shirt over his torso again, the blood dry and brown staining his right shoulder. He slides the bottle of pills inside the back pocket of his pants and, for half a second, there’s a look in his eyes. A shift, something softer than the usual flirting. Inquiring. There’s a question behind his eyes.
“We are having a get together tomorrow night.” He finally says when he figures he is tired of holding it back. “Bonfire, stupid music, the whole lot. A part of the unit is returning to camp and we like to welcome back the survivors with some good times.” It takes him a second to continue, and it feels like he’s reaching for the right words. You feel slightly uncomfortable, but you don’t make anything of it. “You should join us.”
Of course you know what he’s talking about. It isn’t the first time, and surely won’t be the last, that the soldiers do this. It’s good for morale, they say, and you think you believe them. Anytime soldiers come back, a lot of dead come with them. But the living are there by their side, dreading, seeing their future laying in a gurney next to them. They need to be reminded of a little happiness, even if fleeting.
Nurses will usually be in attendance, too; they look pretty while they sit on soldier’s laps, singing some happy songs about better times. They dance together, make them happy for a night. Some of them will disappear into the nearby woods for an hour or two. Come back with their hair disheveled and their clothes messed up.
You don’t usually go. Not because you’re not invited—in fact, you didn’t need the Sergeant’s invitation, and you know his words mean something closer to ‘I’d like to see you there’—but because fleeting happiness didn’t particularly work for you. Never in your life did you feel as hollow as you do these days, working to save people who could be killed tomorrow, or the day after, in an instant. It feels pointless and stupid to sing along to pretty little tunes while people are dying for things you don’t defend.
Sergeant Barnes says your name and you’re brought back to your senses, realizing you are a little lost in thought.
“Sergeant Barnes…” You begin, and in a second, his hand wrapping around one of your wrists. It’s soft and quick and you are a little startled because he’s never been this direct. Of course you have noticed him staring, of course you’ve heard his thousand different ways of flirting and saying you have a pretty face, but the touch was new. He never touched you before.
“Bucky. Please. I mean it.” Your stomach does a flip at the way he speaks, because does Sergeant Barnes —or, Bucky—sound… vulnerable? “You don’t have to say yes right now, but, maybe, don’t say no yet?” Hopeful. Vulnerable and hopeful.
“Bucky,” you start, finally giving into his request fully. He smiles at that. “I will think about it.”
And you do. Tonight, when you go back to the sleeping tent and you lay on the hard mattress, under the cold sheets, you think about sitting by the bonfire with Bucky by your side.
could you do some drunk Eddie blurbs or oneshots? Thanks! I love your stuff btw
✶ ┄ DRUNK IN LOVE !
summary: "you're drunk, eds" / "yeah, super drunk. and in the morning, when i'm sober, you’ll still be beautiful… i’m just gonna be too chicken shit to tell you."
pairing: best friend!eddie munson / f!reader
word count: 3.8k
warnings: talks of alcohol, getting drunk, and taking care of a super drunk eddie! barely proofread so pretend any typos are nonexistent <3
a/n: i'm learning it's next impossible for me to write blurbs. i get an idea for one and boom. it's nearly 4k words. thanks for the request, anon! hope you like it xoxo
( MASTERLIST )
Eddie didn’t realize until he was halfway through his fifth beer, that he probably should’ve stopped at his fourth.
He’d stumbled upon that finicky little fork in the road at the crux both drinks, a line he was toeing all night between blissfully tipsy and borderline obliterated. You can only really maneuver it if you’re smart about it, and in true Munson fashion, Eddie opted for the exact wrong decision.
It wasn’t like he’d ever prided himself on being a man of self-control. He was gluttonous to a fault, green and greedy at times, especially when there was free alcohol involved.
Eddie had been a grumpy little stick in the mud when you and him first got to Steve’s place. He didn’t feel like partying that night or sharing you with people he could barely stand. They were your friends, after all, not his. He only tolerated the bunch of them because you did. He spent the entire drive lamenting about how illegal it was — to be his best friend and have other people in your life you cared about the same way you cared about him.
“That’s obviously against the rules,” he joked.
You only scoffed in response. “Obviously.”
Undeterred by his complaints, you drug him halfway across Hawkins with you like a storm cloud on a leash.
When you arrived, he found that it wasn’t a party at all. It was just Steve and Robin drinking together on the couch while Nancy and Jonathan stirred around in the kitchen and scolded Argyle for rifling through all the cabinets.
Music spilled lowly from the radio, a platter of snacks were laid out on the coffee table, and everyone smiled at you when you walked in. It wasn’t nearly as loud or as overwhelming as he’d dreaded it might be on the drive over.
Didn’t mean he was any happier about it, though.
“I don’t know about this,” he cautioned in your ear from where he stood behind your shoulder, seeking a familiar refuge in you once all the greetings were done. “We talked to everyone, can’t we just, like… go? I don’t think I’m gonna have a good time here, babe.”
Babe, he calls you, a nickname that’s left half of Hawkins believing the two of you were really dating. You stopped blushing about it some years ago, when the novelty of it wore off and it ultimately replaced your actual name.
You shrugged, grasping for a reason to make him stay. “Steve said he had a keg.”
The big silver thing next to the kitchen island didn’t catch his eye until then. You peered up at him, finding a sudden sparkle in his gaze. His bushy brows bounced and his pink mouth fell soft agape at the sight of it. Something swelled in his heart then, a distant and boyish happiness.
“…I’m gonna try.”
He was pretty much a goner after that.
The beer was pretty stellar, but more than anything, the keg kept it cold. Eddie could barely drag himself away from the damn thing — the red solo cup hadn’t left his right hand all night. And when Steve let him handle the music, that was even better… Well, technically, he let you handle the music, but you sifted through his tapes and picked only what you knew Eddie would like — just like you always did.
Any other time, Eddie might’ve asked what the hell King Steve was doing with so many KISS cassettes, but he was already too drunk to think logically about anything by the time “Detroit Rock City” started playing. He stopped caring and let all the beer and music coursing through his system do all the work for him.
And while stumbling for his sixth refill with Robin, he concludes that he is, in fact, completely and utterly and unabashedly drunk. He’s still sober yet, enough to make such an admission to himself, but too far gone now to stop drinking.
He crouches slightly to bring the nozzle to the rim of his cup without much resistance. His tongue pokes through his tingling lips as he pours all of his concentration into aiming the beer into his plastic chalice and not completely toppling over onto the kitchen floor below him.
That’s when he spots you and Steve sitting on the couch, a little too close for his liking.
The brunette boy has his arms sprawled over the back of the sofa like he owns the place (Eddie’s too drink to remember he does, in fact, own the place) and your legs are delicately crossed and turned towards him, too enraptured in whatever conversation you were having to notice that your best friend had run off (you’d been trying to look after him all night, it wasn’t your fault he kept dodging you).
And it wasn’t his place to be jealous, he knew that. You didn’t belong to him. You could do whatever the hell you wanted to.
If he wasn’t so sloshed, he might’ve been able to recall that you don’t have a thing for Steve — that you’ve never had a thing for Steve, because you’ve spent your entire life in love with your best friend.
But you were too chicken shit to tell Eddie and Eddie was too oblivious to see any of it and it left the both of you in a permanent limbo of unsaid feelings.
So much so, that he once encouraged you to conquer the feat of King Steve one night, many moons ago. He thought he’d noticed the two of you being overtly touchy in the back of a dimly lit club.
Eddie was sober enough then to make fun of it all while still feeling every ounce of his misplaced jealousy as he playfully promised you that “you had his blessing to screw Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington.”
You should’ve known you were screwed when you told him that you didn’t want to screw Steve because “you had your eyes on someone else,” and he completely missed the brave, longing look you shot his way.
Eddie spent the rest of the night pestering you endlessly about your crush, while you just sat there, red hot and embarrassed about the whole thing.
Now he’s the one feeling like a fool, watching his best friend make nice with the dowager king of Hawkins.
Being without you makes the distance feel somehow wider from where stands across the too big house, feeling like a stray puppy everyone adores but never actually choses.
Robin taps him on the shoulder to bring him from his stupor before he can waste the foaming beer rapidly filling his cup, though there was no stopping the drunken war path he goes on after.
You and Steve giggle to yourselves as you watch Nancy twirl drunkenly to the tune of the Joan Jett, louder when Jonathan fights to keep her from stumbling over herself. The boy leans over to you, whispering a joke only you can hear, and smiling when it makes you laugh.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Eddie scolds when he stumbles up to the couch. “What’re you two love birds whisperin’ ‘bout over here, huh?”
The two of you blink up at the boy, surprised by his sudden visit and how much drunker he’d gotten since you spoke to him last.
He’s all flushed out, cheeks glowing red with the alcohol in his system, and slurring something fierce — the kind of drawled out garbles that only sound clear to the one that’s speaking.
“We were talking about you, Eds,” you smile without missing a beat. “Been missin’ you over here.”
Steve nods with a dumb, tight-lipped grin. “Yeah. You’ve been making friends with that keg instead of the rest of us, man—”
“Yeah, right,” the boy scoffs out a laugh with a bitter nod. He less than gracefully squeezes between your legs and the coffee table. “Scooch over, Harrington. Make some room. ’S too damn cuddly over here.”
With no choice but to comply, the two of you part.
“Scooch?” you hear Steve mutter under his breath with a faint laugh that has you giggling too. Eddie’s not drunk enough to miss the glance that both of you share, seemingly having some sort of silent conversation that’s left him, yet again, out of the loop.
He’s got a full on pout on his numbing face when he settles between you and Steve, losing his balance briefly before landing in a clumsy pile between the both of you. The beer in his freshly filled up cup sloshes over the rim and splashes into your lap. The alcohol stains the belly of your t-shirt, leaving it cold and clinging to your skin.
And it’s not as dramatic as the movies make it seem, where a guy spills a drink on a girl and something terribly melodramatic ensues. You weren’t trying to impress anybody, least of all with your outfit — hell, you’d probably stolen it from Eddie himself a lifetime or more ago. You don’t get angry or rush out of the room for a good cry.
Actually, you smile sweetly at him, with the realization that it was time for you and your way-too-drunk-to-function best friend to head home.
Eddie gets all sad about it anyway, though, because to him it really does feel all that dramatic. His face screws up like he’s just done something irreversible. His umber eyes glimmer at you with a particular sadness only a drunk person could possess.
“Shit, babe… I’m so fucking sorry.”
“It’s okay, Eds—”
“No, it’s not okay. I’m sorry,” he slurs with the sloppy shake of his head. “Please don’t be mad at me, babe. I didn’t mean to.”
“No one’s mad at you, Eddie,” you affirm with a soft laugh, dabbing at the wet spot of your shirt with the bunch of napkins Jonathan (the only other half-sober person aside from you and Steve) haphazardly hands to you.
“I can give you another shirt, if you want,” Steve offers, already standing to retrieve it for you. “Might be too big but it’s—”
Eddie’s head snaps away from you and to the brunette boy. A cartoon-like anger coats his buzzing features. “Like hell you will, Harrington,” he tries to threaten, though the words come out half-jumbled together. “Won’t have my girl wearin’ your shit, Steven—”
You burn red hot at the new nickname, equal parts embarrassed and delighted as you stand from your position on the sofa. Suddenly eager to escape the situation, you reach for Eddie’s hand. “Alright, Eds. Let’s go.”
He accepts your touch without question, rising on swaying feet and forcing you to keep an arm around his waist to keep him steady.
He’s already forgotten what he just said. He has no idea that your heart’s just done a billion backflips for him. He focuses, instead, on the thought of a new adventure with you. “Ooh. Where we goin’ now?”
“I’m taking you back to the trailer, okay?”
Eddie rolls his eyes, suddenly displeased again. “Yeah, whatever… You wanna spend more time with King Steve, I see what you’re doin’—”
“I’m coming with you, Eds,” you laugh.
It’s like the switch flipped and he’s grinning all sloppy and stupid at you again. He tosses the smug look to the boy standing at his other side. “Suck it, Stevie—”
“Eddie!” you scold.
“You guys can just take the spare bedroom,” Steve offers despite Eddie’s teasing. “I don’t want you driving like this.”
“Oh, how fucking chivalrous,” your best friend grumbles under his breath.
“Are you sure it’s okay?” you press with brows furrowed in concern. “I don’t want to, you know, intrude or whatever. I’m good to drive—”
“No, it’s fine. Really. He should probably lie down anyway.”
“Yeah… Okay.”
“You know where it is, right?” he asks you and you nod
Eddie takes great offense to your affirmative answer.
“Wait, why do you know where it is?” he pouts down at you, figuring there’s something dirty hidden in the fact you’ve slept in your friend’s guest bedroom before. You shake your head and opt not to answer as you help him towards the stairs. “Why do you know where it is?”
“—Go upstairs, okay?” you shout over him, trying your best to stay patient. “I’ll check on you in a second.”
He lingers on the first stair and juts out his lip. His pointer fingers trails the intricate carvings in the wood of the banister while his glassy puppy dog eyes glimmer down at you. “…Promise?”
“Yes, Eddie. I promise.”
With that, he makes careful work climbing the stairs, hanging onto the railing for dear life as he goes. You watch attentively, prepared to rush to him if he stumbles, and able to breathe out a sigh of relief when he makes it to the top step.
You turn away from the hallway of the staircase and back to your friends, who — save for Steve and maybe Jonathan — haven’t yet bothered to acknowledge the situation.
Robin is rifling through Steve’s cabinets for food, Argyle’s at the keg pouring beer into his mouth straight from the nozzle, and Nancy hasn’t stopped dancing the entire time. You’re not even sure if she knows the song.
“I didn’t know you guys were dating,” Stevie remarks with a smile. “No wonder he was being so… like that.”
You shake your head and duck your gaze. “We’re not. Dating, I mean— he’s just, like, super drunk.”
“…Really?”
“Really,” you breathe out a laugh at the way your admission make this face twist in confusion.
“I’ve just— I’ve never heard a drunk person talk that way about someone they didn’t, you know… like.”
A part of you so desperately wants that to be true.
Eddie’s never been particularly shy about calling you babe or sweetheart or honey in front of people — sometimes he did it just to throw them off. But something about him getting jealous over a guy you’ve never liked, calling you his girl to bat the believed ‘affections’ away, has a foreign feeling swirling in your belly.
You force yourself to swallow your hopes down.
“Well, you’ve never met drunk Eddie,” you tell him with a shrug. “The freak’ll say just about anything.”
You make your way up to the guest bedroom and find Eddie slouched at the top step. He looks terribly sad, pouting with his elbows propped up on his knees and his hands on his chin. But he lights up like a christmas tree all over again at the sight of you.
“What are you doing, Eddie? You were supposed to be laying down,” you scold softly.
“I missed you,” he whines, gazing up at you with twinkling, red-rimmed eyes. “And I got lost… And then I forgot how to walk.”
You try your best to keep a straight face as you help him up again, trying to ignore the way your heart thrums like a hummingbird when he leans completely into your side.
You walk the staggering boy the short distance to Steve’s guest bedroom.
It’s as extravagant as the rest of the house, complete with large windows and expensive furniture and a thousand throw pillows on the freshly made bed. The entire room practically sparkles, there’s not a single crease in the bedsheets; it probably hasn’t been touched since the last time one of you spent the night there.
Eddie flops onto the bed when you urge him to sit down. He makes himself comfortable with ease, legs still hanging over the side as he throws his arms out, melting easily into the newly laundered blankets.
You navigate through the darkness, illuminated only by a subtle moonlight, to the seating area across the room. The newly granted privacy of the guest bedroom allows you to strip off your damp shirt. The wet spot sticks to your skin when you peel it off of you. The feeling makes you grimace.
You don’t think twice about being in your bra in front of Eddie — he’s not even looking at you now — and besides, he’s seen you in less. You’ve been friends for far too long to care. Being naked in front of each other stops meaning so much after accidentally catching each other changing a half a billion times.
Leaving your shirt in a crumpled pile on the arm of the couch, you make the silent decision to sleep there for the night. Many a bed has been shared between you and Eddie, but he’s going to need all the comfort he can get tonight — the hangover he’ll have tomorrow will feel like hell, no doubt.
You look across the dark room at Eddie and find he hasn’t moved an inch. “Take off your clothes, Eds. You’re not gonna be comfortable sleeping in jeans.”
“Mm,” he groans in the darkness, as though in protest, already half-asleep.
“You’re already gonna feel like shit in the morning, especially if you’re sleeping like that,” you advise with a soft laugh. “Come on, Eds. At least take off your shoes.”
“…Don’t know how,” he murmurs.
You roll your eyes at him, even though he can’t see you, even though you do it all for him anyway. It was second nature to you, taking care of Eddie, and you do it with an ease that makes his drunken little heart swell.
You start with his shoes, not having to untie them because they’re so loose on his feet. His jeans come next, a far bigger struggle because you do it with little help from the boy in the bed. His belt is strangely tricky and he claims his body feels too heavy to lift his hips for you.
But what he lacks in assistance, he makes up for in cheeky one-liners — “At least, take me out to dinner first, babe” and “If you wanted to see me naked so bad, you coulda just said" to name a few.
Once he’s clad in nothing but his Hellfire t-shirt, R2D2 patterned underwear, and hand-me-down socks that barely fit him, you maneuver him so he’s lying properly in bed.
You toss away all the pillows that are more for decoration than anything else, pull the covers down and over his body, and Eddie doesn’t do a single damn thing but watch.
He couldn’t do anything even if he wanted to because his heart is so far in his throat he can’t breathe.
You’re so unfamiliarly soft with him — sweet in your way than anyone will ever be to him in his lifetime, than anyone will ever be to anyone else.
The love you bathe him in half-sobers him and tosses him into a spiral of self-hatred. Why did it take getting drunk at Steve’s place to realize he’s been so head over heels for you he hasn’t stood up straight in years?
Drunken words sit impatiently on his tongue. He lacks the self-control to keep the hidden.
“You’re so beautiful,” he mumbles tiredly.
Your hands almost immediately still where they bunch the covers up at his chest. Your eyes dart to his face and it takes everything in you not to duck away all over again, when you see the way he’s looking at you.
Eddie looks so soft, basked in a soft moonlight streaming in through parted sheer curtains.
His brown eyes twinkle with stars of their own. He gazes up at you like you put them there.
He doesn’t miss the shock that coats your features. Your eyes widen in surprise of his words at first, before your brows furrow and you shake your head to yourself in denial — like you’re not deserving of them. Like you’re not standing over him in your baggy jeans and five-year-old cotton bra after he spilt his beer all over you, taking care of him because he’s too drunk to take care of himself, doting on him like it’s second nature to you.
As far as Eddie’s concerned, there’s never been a sight more beautiful than this one.
“Stop,” you manage a laugh, still swallowing down that glimmer of hope that lingers on the back of your tongue. “You’re drunk, Eds.”
“Yeah. Super drunk,” he nods unabashedly. A distant smile hints at the corner of his lips as he gazes up at you like he’s trying to commit your features to memory — the angle of your nose, the shape of your jaw, the softness of your lips, and the way you’re looking down at him like you’re wondering if he’s real or not. “And in the morning, when I’m sober, you’ll still be beautiful… I’m just gonna be too chicken shit to tell you.”
You never thought Eddie would say something like this — not something so profound it makes your heart stop and especially not to you. You always dreamed that he might. And you had nightmares that it wouldn’t. That he would utter them to someone who wasn’t you.
But here he is now, loving on you and calling you pretty and hating himself for not being able to tell you that, and you don’t know what to do.
“…Okay,” is all you can say in response, nodding your head like an idiot. You force yourself to move on quickly, focusing instead on tucking him further into the unfamiliar bed.
It’s easier than concentrating on your racing heart that ticks like a time bomb seconds away from going off.
“Thanks for taking care of me, babe,” he murmurs quietly, blinking slow and heavy up at you. “I’m sorry… I know I don’t deserve it—”
“I’ll take care of you forever, Eds. You know that,” you interject without thinking. “And you don’t ever have to apologize to me.”
Eddie lets your words settle over him like the cozy blanket you cover him with. They bathe him like warm water, prickle his skin like they’re cleansing him.
The intent behind them means more than he could ever comprehend, half-drunk or sober still.
He rises abruptly, disrupting the cocoon you’d just tucked him into, as he works with disoriented hands to peel off his shirt. “What are you doing, Eds?” he hears you laugh when his head and arms get caught in the fabric.
You help him out of it anyway, tugging the cotton over him and gaping at him when he hands the bunched up t-shirt over to you.
“Here,” he offers like you’re supposed to know what to do with it.
“…What?”
“Want you to wear it… And to go downstairs so Steve will see you in it.”
You roll your eyes though a smile plasters itself on your mouth. You slip the thing over your head and pretend it's just to appease him. It isn’t the first time you’ve worn something of his, but this time feels so much different.
“Better?” you tease.
Eddie nods with a childlike happiness.
You’ve always been his, in your own special way, but wearing his shirt? It’s like you’re waving a big, brightly-colored flag — a lit up I’m with stupid sign with a flashing arrow pointed right at him. It makes him grin like an idiot.
“Now, go to sleep, alright? We’ll talk in the morning. When you’re so hungover you wanna die,” you joke, still perched at his bedside.
Before you rise, you lean over and press a quick peck to the tip of his warm nose.
You want to do more than that, so much more than that, but you know that he’s still half-drunk — and that he might not mean a single word of this come sunrise.
You’ll revel in this softness now, either way it goes.
“And, for what it’s worth, I think you’re beautiful too.”
summary: eddie and his cynical eyes have a confession to make
pairing: eddie munson / f!reader
word count: 0.7k a short and sweet lil thing
warnings: just tooth rotting fluff <3
a/n: i need this man like i need to breathe at this point ..
( MASTERLIST )
“I like your face,” Eddie confesses in the faintest, gentlest murmur a loudmouth like him can muster.
It hangs in the humid air of both your breaths and lingers beneath the thin sheet looming over the two of you. He smells faintly of beer and weed and the mint gum he chewed in attempts to get rid of it all, and you of the chocolate chip cookies you scavenged from his pantry like a person starved.
It’s getting hot and harder to breathe beneath the covers, in this impenetrable fortress you’d made out of blankets as old as the both of you. From where your legs are twisted together like pretzels, you can feel skin going sticky with a fine sheen of sweat. But neither of you are eager to leave; to pierce the bubble of peace surrounding his stained mattress like a summer cloud, with the both of you upon it.
You want this moment to last as long as the universe will allow it to.
You grow somehow warmer at the compliment. You tuck your face into the pillow beneath your head in a fruitless attempt to run away from his words.
Eddie’s hand rises from where it was twisted in the thin cotton of your t-shirt — an oversized piece of Blondie merch from a few years back he picked up for you at a thrift store; “Made me think of you,” he shrugged like it was normal for him to exist and see bits of you all around him.
His fingers crawl into your hair and settle at the roots, resting between the strands like they were made to do it. It sends a soft tingle down your spine.
You fear if you close your eyes for too long, you’ll fall asleep. That frightens you. It means, when you wake up, that this nirvana will be a memory.
You shift your head on the cushion to peek one eye over at him, all shy and cheeks pink with it.
“Do you think I’m pretty?” you wonder aloud. It sounds more pathetic leaving your mouth that it did jumbling around in your head.
You can’t help it, though. You need to hear it more than you need to breathe. Of course, I do. You’re the prettiest thing these cynical eyes have ever seen.
Eddie doesn’t say that. Not any of it. Not even close.
He only shrugs and juts his lip out like he’d never thought about it once. “I guess so,” he concludes. “If you want me to.”
Maybe he feels you stiffen from next to him. Or maybe he hears the way your breath catches in your throat. Perhaps it’s all of those things and the flash of hurt that strikes across your features like lightning. Because Eddie goes lax with a sigh, realizing how it sounded coming out of his mouth — more pathetic than yours.
He was never a wiz with words. That’s probably why he can’t seem to pass Ms. O’Donnell’s. Give him a D&D board, a beat up journal, and a campaign idea and he’s golden. But put a pretty girl in front of him and a heart so full he’s scared it might burst and he’s done for.
“It’s more than that, though,” he whispers. The breath of his admission brushes featherlight across your cheek. “It’s more than beauty... There’s a— I don’t know— like, a kindness to your face, you know? You look at me so soft sometimes, and no one’s… No one’s ever looked at me that way before. 'S nice.”
You feel your throat run dry like a barren creek at his honesty.
You’re not sure how he can say any of this with the way he’s looking at you.
His got this lopsided smile on his lips, pink and wet from where his tongue darted out to wet the chapped skin. His cheeks are splotched with red from the heat of the trailer and the blanket that nurses the two of you into the warmth of its velvet arms. Bathed in an amber light that seeps from his lamp and through the thin sheets, his gaze twinkles like that of a glimmering moon.
The entire universe swims in his eyes, and he’s looking at you with them. You're grateful for the chance to float in their infinity.
A kind face, you think to yourself. Hmm.
You’d never thought about it like that before. Albeit, you were never the kindest to yourself. That’s why you so often sought affirmation from the boy beside you, who held all his love in his hands and so-called cynical eyes.
Sometimes you didn’t think you were pretty, let alone beautiful. But kind? Soft? That’s so much better.
summary: In typical Malcolm fashion, he refuses to take responsibility for his own actions and does what he knows best; drag someone down with him by any means. After being banned from seeing Nicki for a full month, he sets out to get payback on the culprit. Totally failing in the process.
A/N; I haven't written any kind of fiction since 6th grade so please bare with me and give feedback! I will also warn you there is a 75% chance there's some messed up/inconsistent grammar in here so just beware!
graphic credits: @pixopix @uzmacchiato
Warnings/tags: Suggestive jokes, mentions of sex, minimal swearing (f*** is used like once). Season 6-7 Reese (jajajaja) so reader is also 18!!
Malcolm frantically searches his shared bedroom for dirt to use against Reese. Literally anything will suffice but let's be honest, it's Reese. It won't be hard to find something.
Reese had made it nearly impossible for him to see his girlfriend (if that’s what you’d call it).
So if he can’t see his, neither can Reese.
He rummages through everything on Reese’s side until he decides to look under his bed.
Under Reese’s bed is a medium sized wooden box tucked far back—almost out of reach.
When he opens the box, he finds polaroids/photo booth pictures of you and Reese, cheesy love letters, poems, dried flower petals, blah blah blah blah blah and-
“Holy shit.”
A comically large amount of empty condom wrappers.
To make it even better for him the box of condoms are directly next to it and gives him the context that there was originally 20 in there.
“Can’t wait for mom to see this!”
Malcolm jumps up knowing there’s no way Reese can get out of this!
Reese frowns in your direction.
"I promise I’ll do all the problems later but can we please take a break. I think the numbers are starting to blend together for me, I swear!”
You walked home with the three boys per usual but decided to stay for a bit to have more time with Reese.
“Reese you have all the answers to yourself, you just have to apply them.”
Without looking up from the book you’re annotating, you can tell Reese is preparing to say something stupid, you can hear it in his voice.
“If I finish these last few problems can I at least get some tongue action after.”
Scoffing to yourself, you stop writing for a second and look up to see him wiggling his eyebrows at you.
“Why do you have to make everything so fuckin’ weird.”
Reese playfully drops his smile.
“Fine, suit yourself. didn’t need your encouragement anyway.”
You sigh and roll your eyes.
Closing the notebook and tossing it towards his chest, leaving him enough time to catch it.
You look at Reese over your shoulder.
“Do it yourself, perv.”
You enter the kitchen to help yourself to the drinks in the Wilkerson fridge.
Malcolm clears his throat to get the attention of you and Reese
There’s a moment of silence between everyone
Reese is the first to break it.
“Are you just gonna stand there or..?”
Malcolm steps forwards.
“Reese, do you recall about two weeks ago when you completely ratted me out to mom with the fact that I snuck out to see Nicki.”
Reese snorts to himself.
“Yeah. Yeah I do and personally I thought it was hilarious.”
“Well I hope you’re satisfied because I can’t see her for another month.”
“Yes, In fact I am very satisfied. Sounds like a Malcolm problem not a Reese problem and those two don’t sound similar at all do they?”
He gives Malcolm a sarcastic smile.
"Is it still hilarious if I do THIS?!”
Malcolm opens the box and shakes everything out over the dining room table.
You look at what's set in front of you. You snort to yourself as you look down at the contents of the table.
“Your big reveal was-“
You laugh to yourself as you try to get the words out without losing it in his face.
“Your big reveal was empty condom wrappers? there’s no way you’re the genius of the family and couldn't come up with literally anything better.”
His face contorts in a mix of confusion and embarrassment.
“Well- yeah. Yeah I thought you’d react differently.”
“Malcolm they’re condoms. I know this is probably your first time seeing one so close up since ya'know, you get no play, but come on keep up.”
You continue to grab yourself a cup and turn around to add on to your statement.
“— and why does it matter! that’s a good thing that we’re using them. Nobody wants any little reese-lings running around here this early on.”
“Okay fine. That’s whatever, but 18 of them already being gone is insane, is it not?”
“Not for a week’s use, no.”
“A WEEK? It’s thursday!”
You shrug.
Reese pats Malcolm’s shoulder as he walks by.
“What can I say, i’m a busy man.”
“Besides-“
Malcolm turns his attention back to you.
“Why is sexual pleasure such a taboo topic? That’s how we all got here, right?”
Malcolm slowly nods his head.
“Yeah that- that makes sense.”
You continue on, “..Then it should be something that’s normalized to talk about. Two consenting adults that are attracted to each other. There’s no problem here.”
After knowing each other for years and growing up together, they know how important societal norms as a topic is to you so they listen as you go on.
“I’m just saying, It’s plain stupid that guys are allowed to talk about the girls they’ve been with in such a raunchy way but we have to walk on eggshells when talking about sex, self or solo sexuality, sometimes even just our natural bodily functions”
Malcolm sighs.
“Yeah, you’re right. It’s stupid and I shouldn’t have been all weird about it.”
"Thank You."
Clearly satisfied with yourself, you flash him a smile.
There’s a pause in between Malcolm's words.
He mumbles halfway to himself.
“I always feel like a complete ass when I leave these conversations with her."
His face a light shade of red from embarrassment, Malcolm silently picks up everything he dumped on the table so he can return the box to Reese.
Before you walk away you stop in your tracks and turn around to do something.
You smile to yourself as you flick the back of his neck with your pointer finger and thumb. Continuing on.
“Ow! what the hell was that for?”
Without even turning around or skipping a beat.
“Reparations.”
A/N; How we feeling..? I really hope the way I wrote Malcolm & Reese sounded natural! One of my biggest pet peeves with mitm fics is when they make Reese this little sweetie pie ray of sunshine. Even with a partner I still think he'd be the way he is but with playful banter. (now of course, when it's just him and his partner, he probably lets his guard down) Which is why I wrote the reader as someone who can keep up with his jokes and attitude.
Also even though I didn't get the idea from them I still have to give credit to @angelina-urmom because I lowkey reheated their nachos.. 🫰🏾
one more thing I wanna add is that the reese-lings part is actually a reference to this picture because I felt like I was obligated to! 😭
P.S. would you guys be interested in character playlists and headcanons?
𝜗𝜚 Summary: You've liked Reese ever since the day you met him. After failing to confess, you settled to being his best friend instead: watching him fall for other people, standing by his side no matter what. But he always came back to you for comfort—and despite knowing better, you let him. That was, until a fight changes everything.
𝜗𝜚 Pairing: Reese Wilkerson x self insert! reader (fem reader in mind when writing but no mention I think- there's mention of lip gloss though 🙂↕️)
𝜗𝜚 Genre/ warnings: happens around season 4-6, mainly centers around Reese being in the military, angst, fluff, pining! reader, mentions of Reese being dumb, fluff, makeout scene, reader being Reese's only friend, Alison, Beth appearance, I love Alison sm
𝜗𝜚 Word count: 5.2k
𝜗𝜚 Genre/ warnings: I LOVE REESE WILKERSON RAHHHHHh I need exams to finish ASAP I'm so tired of studying 😢 my next fic might take a while bc of them sob. But don't worry everyone I've got so many drafts rn - the Reese Wilkerson tag will not be dying anytime soon!! Anyways, please do tell me if there are any mistakes as English isn't my first language and my grammar is still all over the place :(
Liking Reese Wilkerson was a whole emotional rollercoaster.
In the sense that he was the most oblivious person you have ever met. You could tell by the fact that he hadn’t picked up on your attempts to ask him out ever since you joined in junior year, no matter how painfully obvious you made it.
Several times, all ending horribly wrong from what you had planned. Let's just say you would never ask anyone out during a game of dodgeball ever again.
Ironically, the second you stopped trying to be something more was the moment you became the closest person to him—his best friend. After seeing Malcolm humiliate him in front of your peers, you pitched Reese some ideas to get back at him, and the rest was history.
Your hangouts would vary, sometimes with you cleaning up his wounds after his endless list of shenanigans, to both of you sneaking to the open field near your house in the middle of the night, where you would lie on the ground and whisper embarrassing secrets you've never told anyone to each other.
Most times, it ends with him drifting off. And each time, warmth settles in your chest knowing he felt safe enough to sleep beside you.
You've seen the chaos he's capable of, and yet you still stayed by his side, sometimes even offering him unhinged ideas to act upon on when he was bored.
One day, you always said to yourself. One day in the future I will tell him, and if he rejects me I will eat three whole tubs of ice cream in one go and cry myself to sleep.
But of course, that day never came, because he had asked Alison out.
It was completely out of the blue; you still remember how your heart had soared when he came to you for advice, thinking that he finally opened his eyes and decided it was you he wanted to ask out.
How very naive of you.
"Please, you have to teach me how to do it! How would you like to be asked out and confessed to?" He pouted as he faced you, both of you sat on the flat rim of the water fountain at the local mall.
"I-uh," You began, immediately thinking about all the times you've brainstormed ideas to ask Reese out before you befriended him. Maybe it was time you should lay off those rom-coms.
You listed the criteria you had in mind. "Definitely get flowers when you pick her up, then invite her to a movie-preferably something from the romance genre, get only one bucket of popco-"
"You've really thought this through, haven't you? It's like you've been fantasizing about someone asking you out. Was this another one of your shower thoughts?" Reese smirked, a ribbing glint in his eyes as he stuck out his arm and reached into the bottom of the water fountain.
You responded by chuckling weakly.
"Heh, as if."
He fished out his hand and opened it, seeing a quarter and a small goldfish. He handed the quarter to you.
The fish sputtered water out and flopped sideways helplessly on his palm.
"Score! Dewey's gonna freak out—Oh, shit."
You looked up to see what startled him. The mall's security guard, whom Reese had, ahem, quite some history with, glared at him and scowled when his gaze drifted to the poor struggling fish in Reese's hand.
He sighed and shoved the fish in his pocket.
"Anyways, Thanks for the advice. I'll try and ask Alison out tomorrow and hope for the best. See you tomorrow! "
You didn't even have time to respond before he darted away whilst you stilled, staring at the exit where he'd just run out of.
Alison.
Reese clearly still didn't reciprocate your feelings.
Or detect it, as a matter of fact.
You felt like the fish that was desperate to grasp for water in Reese's pocket.
They did suit each other, even though you'd hate to admit it.
They were cute when they finished each other nonsensical sentences. And when Alison would show up to your bench at lunch hand clasped together with Reese's, snugly fit in his oversized hoodie, you could feel a pang of annoyance shoot through you, a constant reminder of your loss.
You were undoubtedly jealous, but what could you do about it other than swallow the tight feeling you have in your throat and masking your heartbreak with a grimace on your face?
What was worse was, as his best friend, you had to distance yourself from him during the course of their relationship.
You didn't want your friendship with him to end in any way, shape or form, but you knew there were boundaries you had to respect. Late night meetings ceased as he would spend the night over at hers instead.
Lunchtimes were accompanied by the sickly display of affection they had for each other that you had to bear through.
Might as well take your heart and stab through it a million times each time you watched them gaze into each other's eyes in their own secret world, giggling and holding hands.
And it wasn't like you didn't get your own choice: you had been asked out plenty of times, but you knew it wasn't fair to your pursuers that you were hung up on someone else. So you just sent them off with an apologetic rejection.
Then came what you were dreading: the school dance.
Reese had let you in on his plan on how he was planning on skipping it so he could save money. You immediately chastised him about how it was every girl's dream, and how he owed Alison that much as her boyfriend.
He was in this perfect relationship—he shouldn't be throwing it away over something trivial.
You attended the dance with a bunch of your other friends, but it just wasn't the same. If it were just you and Reese, one of you would be spiking the punch bowl whilst the other would keep watch.
But instead, he was with Alison, probably blending in with the other couples on the slow dance floor, hands all over and making out with each other.
Between small talks with friends, you tried to spot them in the dance floor expecting a sight that was worthy to cry over, when you took in Reese's slumped posture and red rimmed eyes. Alison had her arms wrapped around his neck, happily muttering about something whilst he just nodded occasionally.
Huh, that's weird, you mused. You were about to excuse yourself from the conversation, when Mr Brightside began playing on the speakers, and your friend practically dragged you into the dance floor. You followed suit, the rest of the night fading away as you enjoyed yourself.
Reese phoned you the day after the dance, sobbing and explained that Alison broke up with him after the failed plan of trying to get out of the dance.
You felt a wave of regret wash over you at the small sense of joy you felt from the news. It was so wrong to feel this way; Alison wasn't your enemy.
Throughout their relationship she had always treated you with respect and kindness. The thing was, you couldn't hate Alison no matter how hard you tried to. She was an angel, and you would feel awful if you hurt her with the sole reason that you wanted Reese for yourself.
You weren't sure whether you should distance yourself from him further to give him space, or rekindle your friendship to what it was like before he started dating Alison.
And all it took was one question over the phone for him to shatter all your initial hesitation.
"I don't want to be alone right now, will you meet me at the field?"
Damn your fragile resolve. So you agreed, and that night you lay on the grass next to him.
Fireflies flickered around you, their gentle glow weaving through the night and blending seamlessly with the stars above. The silent night was interrupted by chirping crickets and the occasional sniffles from a heartbroken Reese.
"I'm sorry about Alison," You started softly, trying to sound as genuine as possible. "You were cute together."
"Thanks." He blew into his tissue.
"I just- maybe, if I'd been a better boyfriend- and didn't try to screw up this dance…" He managed out the best he could with a blocked nose.
You turned your head to look at him. Tears were flowing down from the corner of his eyes as he looked up at the sky that were in hues of dark blue.
His cheeks and nose were pink from the cool night air, hair all messed up and eyes sparkling with tears.
He looked heartbroken.
And really, really gorgeous.
You wished you had a camera to capture this sight, and your heart lurched painfully at the thought that he wasn't yours.
You spent the next few weeks consoling him and soon enough, everything returned to how they used to be— you being the mastermind of his pranks, and tending to his injuries after.
This was perfect, and you fell even harder for him.
Your own fault, really.
Some time had passed by since he dated Alison, and you stayed by his side through all the events that occurred in the Wilkerson household.
You were there when Reese was devastated as Dewey ignored him for a few days until his Grandma's failed wedding.
You were there when Lois and Hal kicked him out, visiting his temporary apartment as much as you could, just so he would have company.
You were there to console him when he cried under the bleachers after Cheryl, the girl he had a crush on, didn't know his name when he asked her out with that confession letter you had helped him write.
"You're the best friend anyone could ask for." He hiccuped through sobs each time you soothed him. Other people might find this scene amusing, but all you could focus on at the time was the two words 'best friend'.
That's all you think you'll ever be. But you didn't mind. If he didn't want you, you would never force him to.
As long as he was a part of your life, you were content. Even if lately every second you spent with him left a hollow longing in your heart that was unexplainable.
You'd just have to get over it, eventually.
At the beginning of summer, he started dating Beth. You distanced yourself once again, both of you acting like your previous friendship was non existent, as the once frequent phone calls and meetups stopped entirely again.
You often spent your time staring blankly at your room's walls listening to heartbreak related songs on your Walkman, and the incomprehensible feeling did not fade fading as days passed.
The loneliness you felt disappeared in an instant when the phone rang, and Reese's voice echoed out in the speaker inviting you over for a favor.
Fifteen minutes later, you were in his room with him looking at you with those puppy eyes and adorable pout you could never resist.
"I'm gonna tell her I love her tonight. Do you want to help me set up?"
Love.
It was like time slowed. Your mind latched onto that single word, replaying it over and over.
You blinked quickly, trying to process his words.
Suddenly, it was like a veil had lifted in front of you.
The realization settled heavily in your chest.
The mysterious feeling you had was love.
You were in love with him.
And he was in love with someone else.
"Listen, I've got such a great plan— you good?" He tilted his head at your strange reaction.
"Y-yeah, I'm go fine." You coughed into your fist to try and clear your throat that felt tightened. "What's the plan?"
His concerned frown shifted to wide excited eyes as he explained to you how you were going to help him acquire a horse, doves, and a street performer who played the violin.
Anything to keep that smile on his face.
That night, you did as told and prepared everything Reese asked for. You stayed below Beth's window, keeping watch and holding the ladder as well as the horse in place in case anything went wrong.
You watched as he jumped into her room and spoke his small rehearsed speech, flinching with each word.
The street performer squinted at you from the ground, where he sat cross legged.
"You love him."
You bitterly grinned, longingly looking at the open window whilst stroking the horse's mane.
"Even you can see it, huh?"
He just brushed you off and picked up the violin, playing a different song than what was planned. It was a melancholic melody with a few notes that were out of tune, perfectly reflecting what you were feeling at the moment.
You could see Reese waving his hand out, a signal for you to release the doves.
"Be free." You murmured dramatically as you opened the cage door, "Live your tiny little bird lives and don't be a coward like me."
A few minutes passed and you picked up the sound of commotion, followed by Reese descending from the ladder, head hung low.
"Reese, what ha-?"
Without letting you finish your sentence, he had taken the horse's reins from your hands, mounted it clumsily and rode away.
You stood there, confounded.
"Well, my job here is done," The street performer groaned and stood up, packing his violin back into the case.
He took off, leaving you alone.
You were tired, and you stunk of bird poop and hay. You were going to go home and take a well deserved bath.
Your parents were away at a business trip, so you didn't have to worry about getting told off for breaking curfew rules. By the time you got back, it was practically early morning.
You turned off the tap as the tub filled, and you went downstairs to the storage room to find a preferable bath bomb.
A knock on your front door echoed, breaking the deafening silence of your house.
Your eyes widened and picked up the closest thing you could use to use as self defense, a packet of goldfish biscuits.
You looked through the peephole and breathed a sigh of relief when you saw Reese. You hurriedly opened the door, and was met with the sight of him with a tear stricken face, two full duffel bags in each hand.
"What's going on?" You gestured to the two bags he was holding. The dim yellow porch light flickered behind him as he stumbled his way in, standing in the door frame.
What you heard next was something you've never expected him to say.
"I'm going to join the army." He announced sullenly. "It turns out that Beth was cheating on me with Malcolm. Can you believe it? My own brother!" his voice was thick with anger, and his eyebrows were pulled together in a scowl.
"What." You uttered out, throat dry.
"I just want to get away from all this for a while."
He tone turned timid as he waited for you to answer, only to be met with silence.
"Just thought I'd tell you first." He added.
You stood there, trying to register what he had just said, before words began uncontrollably rushing out.
"What is your problem? You're not even 18 yet, for god's sake! You could die! Do you care about anyone other than yourself?" Panic was evident in your voice.
You couldn't lose him. Military would mean no contact except for the occasional letters. And it definitely wasn't going to be a while— you've read somewhere that it four years at the least.
“I care about you.” He said softly. "That's why I'm only telling you this. My family doesn't know," He flinched. "Well, yet."
“This isn’t fair! You don't just get to say goodbye randomly!” You could feel tears begin to well up as your vision blurred. You didn't want him to leave, especially not to a dangerous place that could lead to losing him.
"Hey- hey, don't cry. Please don't cry." Seeing your tears clearly caught him off guard. He reached his hand hesitantly out to wipe the tears rapidly that were now uncontrollably streaming down your cheeks.
This was the first time he had ever seen you cry, you realized. Usually it was the opposite way around, you reassuring him after every situation he got himself stuck in.
"I'm sorry. I did some thinking and came to the conclusion that this would be the best thing for me- to make something of myself."
Just tell him that you love him.
"Why did you even come here? To rub it in my face that my best friend is leaving me for god knows how long? Do you ever think about anyone other than yourself? God you're so stupid!" Was what came out instead.
The instant those words left your mouth you regretted it.
You're an idiot.
"You were the only one who didn't call me that," He croaked out, voice full of hurt and he took a step back like your words physically pained him. "You told me to ignore everyone who called me dumb and now you're acting just like them. My own best friend, of all people."
His words sent a painful jolt to your heart. It felt like you've betrayed him and he was straying further away from your grasp with every sentence leaving your mouth.
"You know what? You've made your choice of leaving, and I can't force you to stay no matter what I say anyway." You trembled out, staring at his blurry figure in the low light.
"Whatever. I just wanted to give my only friend a warning that I was going to be leaving. Was hoping to get a few comforting words, too." he spat out angrily, hastily picking up his bags and headed back outside to your porch.
You could make out that his own eyes were glistening, and your chest tightened with guilt.
The guilt quickly gave way to the anger and resentment you'd been burying for years when you dissected his sentence. This was so unfair of him. Coming to you every time something went wrong because he was counting for you to be there. Like your only role in his life was to reassure him and help him get out of tricky situations.
“You don't get to do this. I've always been here and the one time I need you, you turn this back on me?" Your voice cracked halfway through your sentence.
"I'm sick and tired of always being the person who picks up the pieces of the aftermath. Goodbye, Reese.” You gave his shoulder a firm shove and forcefully slammed your front door, shutting him outside. But not before you caught a shadow of disappointment and devastation flashing across his features.
You crumpled to the floor, pressing your palms to your eyes as if that could somehow stop the tears. That could've possibly been the last time you ever spoke to him. What if he got sent to an active war zone and got killed? Dozens of scenarios regarding Reese possibly dying clouded your mind.
You wanted to say you didn't care, but you did. You cared too much.
For the next few weeks of summer vacation, you threw yourself into different, random hobbies. Every time Reese crossed your mind, worry would begin to coil in your stomach. And so, you tried your best to push any thoughts of your previous best friend to the back of your mind.
Even after surrounding yourself with distractions, you still occasionally felt the dull ache of something-
no, someone missing.
You were stuck at home, only occasionally leaving your room to face your parents who came home late every night due to their jobs. The Wilkerson household was where you would usually be spending time before he dated Beth, but you've been avoiding his family like the plague since the day Reese left.
You knew they needed all the help they could get when you heard that Hal had been put on house arrest. But you just couldn't face them right now, harboring guilt about being the final straw of driving Reese away to the military when you could've stopped him that day. It didn’t help that you were livid at what Malcolm had done to push Reese into this situation in the first place
Summer was almost over, and all you've done was wallow in self-pity, whereas everyone your age was on a beach or at least had done something more interesting than you.
The night was quiet as you sat in the midst of the quiet of you and Reese's usual meetup place on the field. The spot around it was full of tall grass, making the space look especially cozy and secretive.
You laid down on the slightly damp ground, slipped one of your earbuds in and gazed at the sky above, thinking about him. He could be staring at the sky right now, sharing the same view in a completely different country.
Your heart sank, weighed down by how much you missed him.
You heard footsteps echo near you and you perked up.
This was strange.
No one else knew about this place, and the only person you've led here was-
“Of course you're here.”
The familiar, snarky tone that you adored.
Oh how you've missed it.
You sat up and whipped your head around to be met with Reese standing there, in a plain dark blue t-shirt, smirking like he hadn't been gone for two months at all. His usually spiked hair was flattened, probably from a shower before he came to find you.
You stared at him, blinking and unable to move a single muscle. Looking at him more properly, you've noticed that he's lost quite a bit of weight since you last saw him.
"Wh-" You interrupted him by flinging yourself onto him with a crushing hug.
He let out a yelp of surprise as your arms flew around his neck and he stumbles back, trying to balance but failing. The two of you fell to the soft grass together, and you ended up lying on top of him as you refused to let go. His arms lifted hesitantly, then wrapped around your waist in a gentle manner, and your heart skipped a beat.
The most you've come in contact with him previously were joking punches and the occasional head on each other's shoulder during vulnerable conversations, so this was certainly new.
"Great to see you too."
His tone was sarcastic, but you could hear a hidden layer of affection in his tone. A hint of softness that you've never seen directed at you.
Huh.
"Shut up, jerk." You mumbled into his chest before looking up at him shyly. He smelled like cheap dove soap, his usual scent.
"Great," He playfully sighed. "You got my favorite shirt dirty. I can feel the dirt and grass sticking to the back of my shirt. "
You rolled your eyes, a wide grin stretched across your face that didn’t seem like it had any intention of fading. You've missed him so much.
"Your hair's shorter." You noted. You liked his hair back when it was frosted, but you had to admit, he looked more mature and handsome once he stopped dyeing it.
"They forced me to shave it." He pouted and shuddered. "I'm so glad you didn't see it. I was hoping that it would be salvageable."
"Did you at least have fun? Make new friends? How are you here now? I mean, I thought basic training was like three months?"
Questions poured from you endlessly, eager for any excuse to hear the voice you had missed for far too long.
"Whoa, slow down. We've got time. I'll tell you later." He chuckled and his hand came up to ruffle your hair affectionately.
You were about to retort back when you felt something underneath his t-shirt nudge the bottom of your chin. You frowned and traced your finger over the unexpected nudge that lead to a chain on his neck.
"What's this? A necklace?"
"Please, you'll never catch me wearing one of those. This is a dog tag. It's for identification for when soldiers get deployed, just in case we-"
"Don't finish that sentence," You warned as memories of nightmares from the previous few weeks washed over you. You fished the dog tag out from the t shirt's neckline, fingers tracing the ridges of the engraved words.
Jetson, it read.
You rose an eyebrow and looked at him in mock disappointment "Jetson. Are you actually just a Reese doppelgänger?"
His cheeks reddened. "I used the name from my fake driver's license. The army was surprisingly bad at detecting these things."
You shook your head amusedly, dropping the chain as an uncomfortable silence took over, a reminder of the fight from when he departed.
You knew you would have to talk about it eventually. It would be better to rip the band-aid off quickly, and there was no time like now. You carefully moved off his chest and rolled onto your side, propping on one elbow. He adjusted as well, matching your position until you were lying face-to-face in the quiet.
"Reese, I'm so sorry about the fight from when you left- I didn't actually mean what I said." You apologized.
His eyes softened.
"Don't worry, I get it. I know why you were acting like that."
You froze. "You do?"
"Yeah, I mean, I would be mad too if you always came to me for comfort constantly. Looking back, I realized how it was always you who end up caring for me at my worst times. I'm sorry I haven't paid enough attention to you whenever I started dating someone new. I really am stupid, aren't I." He chuckled bitterly and avoided eye contact with you.
Oh. So he didn't actually know.
"Reese, there's another reason." You sucked in a deep breath and his gaze snapped back to you.
"I'd rather get it out now in one go so if you get too weirded out and decided not to keep me in your life, I completely understand." You stared at him, trying to detect any hint of his reaction to your ranmbling.
"I have liked you since the first day we met." You finally admitted, your fingers pulled on the grass beneath it nervously.
"Liked? as in, past tense?" He asked after a second passed.
"I think it turned to love by the time you decided to leave." You corrected him with a timid smile. "I know, I know, it's not something people would say first, especially not when we're still so young- I'm sorry I'm making things awkward-"
"-You know, after I deserted my post and got stranded in Afghanistan , the only person that was constantly on my mind was you." He gently cut you off before you could finish, his words pulling your attention back to him.
"How I was going to come back to you intact after our argument. I knew I couldn't leave you alone without sorting things out between us. You were probably the reason why survived long enough when I got lost in the desert ," He joked. "Mr Waffles was just a bonus."
"And from all that time I spent alone, it dawned on me." The lightheartedness left his face, replaced by a solemn expression.
It was your turn to gaze back at him intently.
"I think I love you too." He breathed out.
"What?"
"I don't even know how, or why, maybe it was because we have been apart for so long- I was probably overthinking—mmph!"
Boldly, you yanked on the dangling dog tag lightly and pressed your mouth against his. His lips were how exactly you've imagined them to be, warm and soft and pillowy against yours. They began moving gently, and you felt his hand cup your cheek as you lost yourself in his breath that tasted like- was it mint?
It wasn't anything like the passionate first kisses from the movies, but it was perfect to you.
You could feel your heart pounding in your ears as you parted reluctantly. He was breathing heavily, pupils dilated as histongue flicked out to lick his lips.
You breathed out. "Is that mint I taste?"
He sat up, eyes never leaving your face, and shrugged.
"I guess I swallowed a few mints before I came here. Had a vision this was g'na happen." He muttered in a dazed state.
"Oh, really?" A teasing smile tugged at the corner of your lips.
You leaned up towards him. His eyes flickered down to your lips and back up, and your stomach fluttered wildly.
"I'll let you taste again if you don't believe me." He offered, need obvious in his eyes.
Your response never came, because your back was pushed onto the ground as Reese pinned you down, one of his warm hands cupping your cheek firmly. His lips was on yours once again, this time the kiss more heated than your first.
He nipped at your bottom lip, as if asking for permission. Your mouth parted in return, and he took the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth. Your tongues swirled against each other with gentle pressure, and you swore you heard a tiny whimper escape him.
His t-shirt rode up from the front as you slid your left hand beneath his shirt, brushing over his surprisingly muscular back, palm tingling from where you came in contact with the feverish bare skin. Your other hand tenderly gripped the back of his neck, before sliding to ruffle through the damp hair.
You squeezed your eyes shut and focused on his uneven, ragged breath as you sucked and kissed each others mouths. The feeling of his other hand on the back of your head acting as a cushion sent a thrill of pleasure down your spine. He was acting gentlemanly, and you were finally at the receiving end of it after a year of hopelessly pining.
You whined when you parted for air eventually, staring at each others flushed face and reddened lips. The tinted lip gloss you applied when you left the house left a pink stain on the side of his lips and it looked like he had just fought someone. Combined with his disheveled hair, the sight before you was downright sinful, and it took everything in you to restrain yourself from pouncing on him like a starved animal.
"Yep. It has to be mint." You managed to mumble out. You felt lightheaded, but it wasn't from the lack of oxygen of the kiss.
Or was it? You couldn't tell. The entire situation felt like a fever dream that you never wanted to end.
Shortly afterwards, You both sat the way you always used to in the nights out before he left for the army—legs extended and leaning back on your arms, except now Reese had his arm around your waist and your head settled comfortably on his shoulder, having conversations on topics that you've never discussed before.
"Do you remember when I tripped in the cafeteria? When that beaker exploded on me in chemistry? And when you had to go to the nurse after that dodgeball incident?" You questioned, listing out all the times you've tried to ask him out and failed.
"So you were trying to ask me out? I can't believe I couldn't see what was in front of me. You should've punched me or something." He nodded, eyes widening as realization set in.
"I was so stupid, forgive me?" He then proceeded to plead jokingly as he gripped your waist tighter, eliciting giggles from you.
"You know what, maybe we're both stupid. In this whole feelings thing. But we've got time to explore." You suggested coyly.
He responded by pressing a soft kiss to the side of your temple, beaming smiles on both of your faces.
( hi guys everyone was so sweet when i posted the first one i appreciate so so much u guys r the best!!)
Reese knew you were coming over. Of course his parents told him before you got there. Ever since the two of you were little, he always saw you as the annoying uptight brat.
He hated how wealthy and rich your family was compared to his. You were spoiled. Endless offers of vacations and tours to other countries and concert tickets. Even when you were younger you still wore luxury brands.
He almost lost it when he found out you had a month-long vacation in Mexico. You lived the life and he was jealous of that. His family was never that sturdy financially.
Not to help, but he did not find you cute either. You had a speech impediment and braces and big boxy glasses and the worst acne ever.
In third grade, he used to stick wads of gum in your hair. Not just him but a lot of kids. Basically you were a loser. You were everything he wasn’t. A rich nerd.
When he saw you, you were unrecognizable. You were a few inches taller. He could see your face a lot closer now.
You were more feminine. You started doing your lashes. You must’ve had a skin routine because your skin was clear, soft looking. You stopped wearing glasses and your acne was completely cleared up. No more speech impediment either.
You were a completely different person. At least physically. He never got to know you personally. He never really bothered to talk to you unless he was bullying you.
He knew deep down inside that he only was interested in you now because you were pretty. He’d completely blow you off if you weren’t. But maybe he could do something about it. Last night he had a lot of thinking to do in bed. He thought about you and the kind of person you were. He shouldn’t just like you because you’re pretty. He decided to had to get to know you.
The next morning he made up his mind. He was gonna make a better impression than yesterday. He immediately changed and started doing his hair.
He had just taken a shower, so it was really frizzy. He brushed through the knots locked in his hair top to bottom. His cologne stunk.
Malcolm could be heard coughing from the other room. But he digressed continuing to try to look as sexy as possible.
He wore jeans and a T-shirt, nothing too fancy. He knew it can’t look like he’s trying too hard. He scrubbed deodorant all over his armpits. He couldn’t smell bad. Not today.
Once he was finally done changing, he went back to his bedroom. Malcolm was reading a book, obviously annoyed.
“Dude how much cologne did you put on?” he gasped for air, putting his book to the side. The entire room was filled with cologne.
“I can’t smell bad in front of her.” he sprayed more all around his neck and face.
“For who?”
“Y/n.”
Malcolm stopped and looked back at his brother. He wasn’t this much of an idiot was he?
“You do realize mom would kill you if you went anywhere near her.” he said dead seriously.
Reese had already thought of that. But she wouldn’t be home for the next three days so he wasn’t too worried. That moment you were the only one on his mind. He was so whipped. And you didn’t even know it yet. 
“She’s not gonna be home for the next three days. And honestly, I think it would be kind of fun if she never found out.” He gave his brother puppy eyes, begging him to not tell there mom. He couldn’t let anyone mess this up for him. 
“What’s in it for me?” he asked in casual Malcolm style.  Are favors illegal in the Wilkerson household?
Reese thought for a moment. He’s been doing a lot more of that since you got there. He do anything just to get a chance to get to know you.
He had an idea. “Next time you get in trouble with Mom you can blame it on me. But she never needs to know about Y/n. Do we have a deal?” he smiled with full teeth, hoping Malcolm would accept.
But all he could ask was - “Why are doing all of this for her?”
And Reese couldn’t give him a good answer. Because he didn’t know. “I don’t know.”
Malcolm didn’t respond to that. But he did agree.
“You’ve got a deal.”
¸¸♬·¯·♩¸¸♪·¯·♫¸¸¸♬·¯·♩¸¸♪·¯·♫¸¸
Reese peaked his head over the corner. You were laying down on the couch. Your head rested on one of the soft pillows. He saw your chest rise up and down. You looked so peacefully sleeping and there’s no way he could disturb you.
He turned to his right making his way towards the kitchen. Then opened the fridge and pulled out a carton of eggs and milk. Several cabinets were left open as he searched for silverware and a bowl.
He gently cracked the egg against the bowl, pouring the yolk out. He poured a cup of milk into the bowl to mix with the eggs. This was his element. The relaxation he got from cooking. He whisked the eggs and the milk together. It felt quiet and peaceful.
He continued cooking until he heard you’re sleeping figure arise. You’re wearing a silk nightgown.
It accentuated your features and showed off your natural curves. It wasn’t essentially a sexy thing to wear. But you made it look good. Barefoot, you walk to the kitchen.
“It smells good in here.” you say leaning against the door.
“What are you making?” you asked, curious.
“He stopped what he was doing, and gave his full attention to you. But he couldn’t be noticeable about it.
“Just makin some scrambled eggs.”
You walked closer towards him entering the kitchen.
“Mhmm..”
Then you walked closer until you were right behind him. You appeared over his shoulder and he felt your breath against his neck. He stiffened. You were so close to him.
He urged to touch you or stroke your hair. He wanted to see if your skin was as soft as it looked. You were a special kind of beautiful.
“Am I too close?” You ask softly, not wanting him too feel uncomfortable or anything. He wished so badly that he could ask you to come closer but he wasn’t a smooth talker.
“No, your okay.”
“Do you need help with the eggs?”
he didn’t need help at all. He loved cooking. It was his passion and he was the best at it. But for you, he was the worst cook.
“Yeah. There’s still chunks of egg. I totally suck.” There was not. You were making him a liar. But he didn’t care. He liked what you did to him.
You leaned over him again. “This looks so good.” it smelled delicious. “Can I help you out now sir?”
“Of course you may madame.”
✼ •• ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ •• ✼
He hoped he made a better impression. He definitely had a feeling he did. You were laughing a lot. Not at him but with him. He was so used to being made fun of for being stupid. But you never made fun of him.
You never called him dumb or stupid. You barely even insulted him. He’s never had a healthy friendship before. He didn’t have someone to rely on.
But maybe now he had a chance. This is an opportunity to have an actual friend. He noticed that when he was around you he wasn’t exactly as bubbly. Not in a bad way, but he felt more calm. And he liked it a lot more.
╞═════𖠁𐂃𖠁═════╡
The next day it was around six thirty in the and ever since you arrived everyone seemed to be awake a lot early. Reese used to wake up at twelve but since you woke up at six he did too. He actually found out that you had a lot in common. You both like the same music like the Red Hot Chili Peppers. And other bands, like Nirvana.
He didn’t expect you to have an edgy music test but he digged it. The night before you stayed up with him listening to music. He was already so close to you. It never felt like this before. Now he was actually getting to know you. And he liked you.
Not just because you were pretty but because you were good to him. You cared about what he had to say and his opinions even they were crazy. He felt on top of the world.
He debated rubbing it in Malcolm‘s face. That a hot girl seem to be into him or could at least have the possibility of being in to him. But he didn’t. He wanted to keep you to himself and he didn’t want Malcolm to get in the way of that.
That morning, after staying for two days you woke and to Reese next to him on the couch. You both must’ve passed out together. You weren’t particularly close to him. You were on the other side of the couch. It was too early to snuggle up to him yet and he felt the same way. But you were still cute wrapped around the blankets.
You woke up before him unlike yesterday. Unraveling yourself from the blankets. You stretched and yawned. Last night wasn’t comfortable at all.
Reese was still sleeping. His head was rolled back and he was definitely a snorer.
You slowly and carefully got closer to him, trying not to wake him up. You poked his nose. His eyes didn’t immediately open but once they did they opened large when he saw you leaning over him.
“Did I scare you?” You asked genuinely, excited to see if you did.
He laughed. “No way. You’re not as sneaky as you think you are. Your no way near the master of sneakiness.” He pointed his thumbs to himself. He was cute.
hi guys this is the end of part two!!! I love you all!! if u have any requests or questions feel free to ask chat.
hi this is rlly bad and ive been trying to re - read it sm. this is my first post on this acc so i kinda hope this doesn’t flop and im trying to keep this tag alive!!! this is def a part 1!!!! so knew chapters soon to come
───✱*︎.｡:｡✱*︎.:｡✧*︎.｡✰*︎.:｡✧*︎.｡:｡*︎.｡✱ ───
you knew reese since before grade school. back when he had over glossy spiked up hair and was around three inches shorter than you.
he wore dirty old hand me downs and choked out anyone who even dared to look at him the wrong way. even after all this time of knowing him as your neighbor he’s never changed.
him and his crazy family were known by the entire neighbor and let’s just say they weren’t exactly “popular.” to you he’s always been the bully down the street. the stupid kid who never once bothered to show up to class. that’s why you never tried to make contact with him. also you didn’t have any suicidal tendencies.
your father was the only person in the neighborhood who introduced himself and his daughter (you) to greet the wilkersons.
despite being busy with work, your father was close with the family. he was a well known doctor so if they had any issues concerning health he would be willing to help the wilkersons any day of the week. (they most definitely did). lois and hal had dinner with your father every month. that’s how close both your family’s were.
even with how close both your parents were you couldn’t find yourself to like reese. or malcolm.
malcolm was egotistical and arrogant. you shared a math class with him in sixth grade and he was so annoying you considered reporting him just for how annoying he was.
and reese was a complete moron. you could never find yourself ever liking reese.
that’s why it was a little terrifying finding out you’d have to babysit his younger brother jamie and him for the next three days.
apparently hal and lois had to attend a family members wedding. you didn’t pry to ask whose but you knew the two were going to be gone a couple days.
the cute brunette toddler was adorable and you would never pass down watching him. you also had a lot of respect for lois. she was raising five boys and the thought of that made you sweat. it was hard to understand how she did it. however jamie wasn’t the issue. the other wilkerson brothers were the problem.
even after begging your dad arguing that francis (the eldest of the brothers) could just watch the boys. because you have the absolute worst luck, francis had gone on vacation with his wife. awesome.
and even though you and reese are around the same age range, lois did not trust him after he got suspended for trying to make weed brownies in our schools chem lab. so in the end you knew that you’d just have to suck it up.
•❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅•
your heart raced as you knocked on the family’s door. you could hear faint yelling and arguing coming from inside. the realization of having to babysit four boys for three days hurt your soul. you’d rather take four years of probation.
then you heard the door slam open with a thud. lois stood in a pretty lavender dress, not the type you’d expect her to wear. her short brown hair was curled at the tips, silver jewelry glowing on her wrists and neck. as elegant as she looked she still kept her usual frustrated expression.
her head was turnt to the side yelling at malcolm or dewey or whoever was annoying her to start washing the dishes. once she noticed you her expression calmed.
“we’re in a rush. curfew is ten and don’t get the police involved. we’ll call at nine. have fun!”
and before you could get a single word out they scrambled out the door, carrying there luggage.
immediately you are then met with a familiar voice.
“oh hi.”
you looked behind you to find malcolm in his pijamas, a confused look on his face. you bit down your lip at the weird interaction. it was kinda awkward since you weren’t that close and to describe your friendship as “family friends” was a bit of a stretch.
“hi. did your mom tell you i was dropping by to hang out? sorry if i caught you at a bad time.”
he scoffed and headed to the kitchen. he had definitely just waken up with the large eye bags he had. he opened a taller cabinet reaching for a box of cereal. he barely managed to grab it.
“you don’t need to say ‘hang out’. we know our mom asked you to ‘babysit’ us. you don’t have to be nice about it.”
your face cringes up. he couldn’t go a day without complaining. it was a constant buzz kill with this kid. you reminded yourself to just suck it up and deal with his nonsense for your fathers sake.
“okay. well then i’m here to babysit you. do you need help pouring your milk and buttering your toast?”
he shot you a dirty look, reaching into the fridge to grab the milk.
“no thanks. i’m good.” he aggressively ate faster. ( am i shakespeare?)
“just wanted to make sure.”
“you could always just ditch us. you won’t have to deal with us and we won’t have to deal with you.”
you pondered the thought. “you’re lucky i care about your adorable younger brother.”
—
you could hear one of doors behind you open. the sound of the doors creak was deafening. you flinched at the loud thud of the door and turned your head around.
reese stood wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants, with his younger brother trailing behind him. his hair was now black without his famous blonde tips and you couldn’t believe how tall he was.
it had been awhile since you had seen him last in person due to all of the vacations your father took you on. school and friends began occupying your time so you didn’t really think about the wilkerson family as much as you did before.
he held a torn up shirt in his hands. his younger brother held his hands out, trying to grip onto the fabric as the two scrambled around the hall.
“i know it was you. no one else is small enough to fit in the washing machine so give it up dewey.” his voice was a-lot more deeper than you remember.
“are you stupid? you think i purposely went into the washing machine to ruin your shirt.”
“dewey who else would due that that? and don’t blame the washing machine.”
“im not blaming the washing machine. im blaming you stupid.” dewey and him argued wrestling each other. they both just woke up. how were they already at each others throats?
as the situation escalated from insults to physical violence, you decided to step in.
“hi guys. how are you?” you were extremely threatening.
they both just stared at you, strangely quiet. again the awkwardness increased. reese was the first to speak up out of the two.
“who the hell are you?”
“what?” you had known him for years. honestly you were expecting a different reaction.
he stared at you again, then turned to his brother. dewey shrugged. they both didn’t seem to remember you. of course. you told yourself it was because you barely knew them anyway.
malcolm still eating his cereal, decided to join in.
“that’s y/n.”
reese stared back. then his eyes went wide.
“no way. you look completely different. you’re not y/n.” he shook his head.
“hate to break it to you but it is in-fact y/n.”
he took more time to take in you’re appearance. his eyes scanning you’re figure. you couldn’t decide if it was perverted or creepy. you settled on both.
“jeez. i never would of thought. it’s weird. you’ve changed a-lot.”
you huffed. now what the hell was that supposed to mean? was he implying you were ugly or something? what an odd thing to say..
“well it’s nice to see you again.”
“yeah. nice to see you.” he turned his head to malcolm. he glanced at you then glanced back to malcolm. it was obvious they knew something you didn’t.
“hi y/n.” dewey broke the silence, he was a couple inches taller than before but still sweet as always.
“hi dewey.” you couldn’t help but love him. he was a nice kid and his siblings set the bar very low.
reese spoke up. “hey so me and malcolm need to go to the bathroom.” he nervously chuckled.
“you have to go together?”
“what are you my math teacher? yes together.”
“that’s pretty weird reese. even for you.”
“the toilet is broken and me and malcolm need to fix it. please excuse us for a moment madam.” he winked.
“okay.”
dewey and you both shrugged. this was pretty normal. casual scheming. you felt bad for the torture dewey had to endure from them.
◤─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────◥
“okay dude what the hell.” reese whispered. “what the hell happened?”
“everyone goes through puberty reese.”
“well thank god for puberty.” he smiled looking up into the sky. like an angel came down from above.
“you probably shouldn’t do what i think you wanna do.”
“and what do you think i want to do?”
okay we’re done guys!!!! it’s pretty bad but yknow yknow. there WILL be a part two but idk maybe im bipolar
Younger writers. Please, just know that you could not skip to different songs on a cassette tape, that’s CDs. With tapes you pressed fast forward or rewind and prayed.
Also, VHS tapes did not have menu screens. Your only options were play, fast forward, rewind, pause, stop, or eject.
Y’all are making me feel like the crypt keeper here, I’m begging you 😭
vaporwave
prguitarman
areudirty
amandla
discoholicmusic
pixelskylines
