Just watched Adam Conover (of Adam Ruins Everything) make such a solid point that I think we should spread far and wide. Yes, having AI write your emails is lazy, sure, but people love being lazy. We need to really emphasize that sending AI emails (or using AI responses on social media, or publishing AI flyers, or or or) is rude.
It's rude. You're making someone take their time to read something you couldn't bother to write. You're telling them they were so unimportant you couldn't be bothered to actually take the time to say something yourself. And frankly, you're lying about it while you're at it.
when I was in high school I had a literature teacher who had a policy of unlimited extra credit. All you had to do was read a book by a notable author (his discretion) and have a little chat with him after school to prove that you read it. No limits, no need for variety (one month I decided I really loved Kurt Vonnegut and just read everything of his I could get my hands on).
Yes, I was tearing through books constantly, and talking to this teacher at least weekly. Because even though I always loved reading as a kid, literature was always a very weak subject for me in terms of a teaching-to-standardized-test school setting (I just do awful on "what color were the curtains" type multiple choice questions. Those details don't stick in my memory THEY JUST DON'T). But that didn't matter for this class. I could just read my way out of any bad test score. I have always had fond memories of how I "fudged" my way through that class and "abused' the extra credit policy.
I was thinking about it again today, and only just now realized that he absolutely tricked me into being well-read, while my teenage self thought I was totally getting away with something. THAT MOTHERFUCKER. I hope he's doing well.
Went to the beach today, because no electricity+sweltering heat means we gotta cool down somehow, so we are getting Simon Riley beach snippet
Simon doesn’t usually stare at people like that, he knows better than bother anyone on his own leave. No need to look for trouble when he’s trying to enjoy some bloody peace and quiet.
But you take him to the beach because you don’t wanna go alone, because ‘watch my bag while I swim, please’ because Simon Riley and his scarred mug are enough to deter anyone from bothering you when you too want to enjoy some peace and quiet.
Peace, Simon thinks, eyes trailing over your wet hair sticking to your nape, there is none for him given the swimsuit you are wearing.
Perfectly fitting and very much wet, it leaves just a bit to imagination when you walk out of the water back to the towel he’s sitting on in the shade — eyes dark and hazy.
“Are you bored? I’m hoping it isn’t too uneventful for you here, l.t.” You start, taking a deep breath in and Simon would love to say that his eyes did not dip to your chest when it expanded. Only that would be a lie and he isn’t good at it.
“I’m fine. Don’t worry ‘bout that.” Simon just tilts his head from side to side, stretching out, sweat shimmering on his shoulders and Lord knows he did not lie when he said that he can get an impeccable bronze when tanning.
“You sure? Cause we can leave in a few.” You offer just in case, but he shakes his head, glancing up at you from under the heavy hover of his brows. Enjoys the view maybe more than he should.
Definitely more than he should.
“No need. I like it here.” And that was as honest as he can get without going into detail because by God he does really like it here. “You up for another swim?” Is a little bit of a goading but you like swimming, right? And Simon likes watching the stretchy fabric of your swimsuit sticking to your skin — his throat working when you nod and turn back to the sea. His eyes dipping down your back and Lord, have mercy.
You are flushed with heat of the sun and grinning from ear to ear when give him a big wave, already waist deep in the water, stretching out a hand above your head so he doesn’t miss you and Simon simply raises his to give you one back.
He ain’t missing you for the world, definitely not today.
Simon doesn’t have as much discipline as people usually assume, mostly because he has bigger appetite than most expect.
Because you plop down next to him and he has to swallow the urge to lean down and lick a stripe up your neck. Ignores the impulse to burrow his nose between your tits, cooling his burning face with the perfectly wet skin there.
He isn’t much of a poet, but maybe that’s exactly how it would feel to kiss the sea itself when he can taste your heartbeat and salt on his tongue, soft flesh inviting to bite.
Simon doesn’t think much when he offers to help you with the sunscreen, because at this point his head is so empty that you could ring a church bell inside of it and the sound would echo.
It’s just a small favour, nothing…inappropriate, he’d say if he was a fucking liar because you sit between his thighs, back to him and when he rubs the sunscreen on your shoulders, his fingers slip under the strings holding the upper part of your swimsuit.
Strokes the skin under, massages the imprint left on your shoulders because heavy is the weight or whatever the fuck they say. Simon’s fingers squeeze and knead your shoulder till you are soft and pliant.
A little too quiet compared to usual routine, but that’s okay. Been hot out here today, yeah?
You are tired, he gets it. That’s why Simon even offered help, you know? he hums above your ear, thumb rubbing you nape so you’d hang your head lower — pulse thudding in your ears. Lieutenant is good with his hands, knows exactly where to press down or rub, learning what you like better as he goes.
Catches your shuddering intake of breath when his fingers catch onto the bow on your back and tug on it. Just getting everything covered, he’ll tie it back later, he promises. No one’s looking anyway.
There is something incredibly thrilling about massaging your bare back just like that, your heart just below his palm when he feels it thumping. You cross your hands over the chest, trying to keep your upper part of bikini in place while he does his work on your back.
You do your best not thinking about his fingers slipping to your lower back to massage all around it, about his wide palms stroking your love handles and belly so close to where he can’t touch that it feels embarrassing getting that excited.
He’s just being helpful. You can’t know if he’s even interested. He’s not like that.
Simon is exactly like that when he leans closer and presses his chest to your back — sticky with sunscreen and divine to the touch when he softly squeezes your belly. Rubs the sunscreen in, humming to himself as he goes.
“Arms down.” Simon says and doesn’t ask, knowing that the habit of obeying runs deeper than surface level embarrassment about the possibility of your top fucking slipping off of your tits. “Gotta be diligent about it, yeah? Don’t want you to get sunburned.”
You feel like you already has been with the way he just works his way from your shoulders down your hands — massages the softer flesh around your bicep, slides down to the forearm and then counts bones in your wrist and palm with his fingers. Leaves you slippery and smelling like coconut, breath fanning over your ear with “quit twitchin’.” when you try to look at him over your shoulder.
Simon’s palms finish each hand before he returns to your neck, curls a palm around it casually while covering it with sunscreen too. Taps your chin to tilt your head up when his other hand slides under the untied bikini and gives your left tit a thorough squeeze, massaging the sunscreen in.
Makes a disapproving sound when you open your mouth to say something and pinches your nipple. Tugs on it a little, rubs in the sunscreen at the tip of it too, clearly teasing.
Has the gall to murmur ‘Feels good?’ right in your ear, smile audible, because you are an open book, because you do exactly as he asks, because you let your lieutenant touch you out in the open.
“Good.” Ghost breathes out, his other hand leaving your chin and sliding down to get a hold of your right breast too.
He rubs and massages, pulls out the smallest sounds out of your throat — rubs his stubbled cheek against it, enjoying himself more than he perhaps should.
Simon shameless with his hunger, he toys with your nipples and takes a hand away only to return with more sunscreen, his smile almost unnerving when you hiccup at the cool feel of it.
Sensitive.
“Got the lower half to do too.” He shares conversationally in your ear, voice almost giddy when your throat works audibly, but you make no move to stop him. “Could get it later.” Simon offers, tugging on your right nipple now. Rolls it between fingers, almost absentmindedly.
Big and scorching hot, he wraps his whole body around your back, thick thighs bracketing you between his legs.
“Heard that beach’s emptier in the evening.” He adds and you are not proud of a shiver that runs through you, because you know he absolutely did feel it too. “Could also come back tomorrow early in the morning, get a head start.”
You are even less proud of yourself when you tilt your head back to look at him and your eyes almost close at his hands playing with your tits.
“Could do both.” You say, voice hoarse and barely above whisper, but his eyes crinkle and you can feel that the bottom of your bikini is sticky right between your legs. “If your schedule’s open, sir.”
Simon smiles, every inch of a Ghost and squeezes your tits one more time before withdrawing his hands from under your top entirely. Ties a neat little bow on your back, coarse-padded thumb stroking the line of your spine to get himself another shiver.
“I’m all yours. Got schedule open till we have to return back for another op.” He says, your stomach drawing hot and tight.
That’s two more weeks until you two have return to duty.
“Sounds good to me.” You say, voice cracking and turn your head to nose under his jaw. Mouth at the stubble there, lightheaded with hunger he stoked from ember to full blown bone fire. “My schedule’s all open too, sir.” You add, teeth grazing his jugular.
Getting the absolute satisfaction of feeling his own throat work under your lips.
There we fucking go.
“Was thinking, sir.” You start and Simon makes a low questioning sound, tilts his head to give you more access. “Can’t be the only one covered in sunscreen. We wouldn’t want you to get sunburned, yeah?” You paraphrase his own words to him and when you look up in his eyes again, Ghost is heavy-lidded and starved, lips wet from when he licked them.
“Yeah.” He says, voice sending a shiver down your spine because he squeezes you with his thighs, pressing you closer to his back and you can feel the thick outline of him against your lower back. Oh God. “We definitely wouldn’t want that, luv.”
#Helios was declawed by his former owners so he doesn't just slap things he dislikes like most cats#he really only feels confident in hissing at them#Especially because a lot of the thing he doesn't like are bugs and those are sharp sometimes :(#Selene has figured this out and now when she hears him hiss she sprints over the kill the fuck out of the bug#Helios has learned she will do this so he'll hiss at stuff louder and louder until she hears him#A nervous old man and his emotional support homicidal maniac
tags by @gallusrostromegalus
I couldn't reblog without the tags because the context is hilarious
A Nervous Old Man (right) and his Emotional Support Violence Machine (Left)
Yes, he is more than twice her size.
Yes, he is five times her age.
Yes, he cries like a big baby until she kills Unacceptable Scary Things (earwigs) for him.
Summary: Pressed by a worried Sam, Bucky reluctantly agrees to try an alternative -and, if you ask him, weird- therapy program: rent-a-mom. What starts as an obligation soon turns into something far more meaningful than he ever expected.
Word Count: 20k.
After everything he'd been through -Hydra, Zemo, Thanos, Steve's departure, and now therapy with Dr. Raynor- Bucky still couldn't seem to find peace. The nightmares remained, the guilt festered, and every glance he received on the street reminded him of who he used to be, not who he was trying to become. Trusting people felt impossible, and he'd built his defenses like steel walls.
Sam, however, refused to let him slip further into isolation. Over the past few months, he'd watched him struggle silently, shrugging off every attempt to help him open up. But The Falcon wasn't one to give up easily.
One evening, while they were returning from a brief mission on a plane, he finally brought it up again.
"You ever thought about alternative therapy?" he asked casually, pressing a cooling bag over his shoulder.
Bucky didn't even look up from where he was unlacing his boots. "What, like yoga?" He sounded flat and unimpressed. "I don't bend that way."
"No, not yoga." Sam kept his tone patient, like he was explaining something to a stubborn child. "It's something some veterans are trying. Heard about it from a guy at the VA."
"Right." Bucky snorted. "Modern mumbo jumbo. What is it? Journaling? Crystals? Hugging trees?"
Sam rolled his eyes. "It's called rent-a-mom."
That got Bucky's attention. He snapped his head up, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion. "Rent-a-what?"
"Rent-a-mom," Sam repeated, biting back a grin at Bucky's incredulous expression. "It's this service where someone -usually a nice, older lady- comes to your place for a couple of hours a week. She cooks, chats, and keeps you company. Some guys use it to feel normal again, you know? A little comfort or emotional support, whatever you need, with no judgment."
Bucky stared at him for a beat before deadpanning, "So you're telling me to hire a prostitute."
Sam threw his hands up in exasperation. "What is wrong with you, man? No! That's not what this is."
"You sure? Because 'whatever I need, with no judgment' sounds like you're telling me to hire someone to-"
"Stop!" Sam cut him off, pointing a finger at him. "It's not like that, okay? She works with vets all the time. You know, people like you who don't trust anyone and think the world's out to get them."
Bucky crossed his arms, leaning back in his seat. "Sounds like a scam."
"It's not a scam. I know a guy who uses her services. He says it's the only thing that keeps him grounded some weeks. And it's not just him. A lot of vets in the program swear by it."
Bucky grumbled under his breath, something about "modern nonsense" and "people these days."
Sam sighed, leaning forward. "Look, man, I'm not saying it's gonna fix all your problems. But what's the harm in trying? One session. Worst-case scenario, you don't like it, and you never call her again."
Bucky shook his head. "I don't need some stranger poking around in my life."
"She's not gonna poke," Sam insisted. "She's just there to help. And let's be real, you could use it. You've been holed up in that apartment for weeks. When's the last time you had a real conversation with someone who wasn't me or that Raynor bitch?"
Bucky didn't answer, just clenched his jaw.
"Exactly," Sam said, leaning back with a smirk. "Plus, you owe me for Redwing. That little stunt you pulled last week? Yeah, I'm still mad about that."
"Cheap shot," Bucky muttered, glaring at the floor.
"Call it whatever you want. You're doing this."
After a long, heavy pause, Bucky sighed. "Fine. One session. But if this is a waste of my time, I'm blaming you."
Sam grinned, already pulling out his phone. "You're gonna thank me when it works. Just wait."
----
Bucky sat on the edge of his couch, glaring at his phone like it had personally wronged him. Sam had texted him the woman's contact information a few hours ago, with an obnoxious winky face at the end. He couldn't tell if it was supposed to be reassuring or not, but either way, it made his skin crawl.
"Just one session," he muttered, running his hand down his face. Sam's words echoed in his head: "It's not what you think, man. She's just… good at what she does. People trust her." Trust. Bucky scoffed. That wasn't something he handed out easily anymore, but after the Redwing incident, Sam wasn't going to let him live it down unless he followed through. Grimacing, he tapped out a message.
Hi. This is James Barnes. Sam Wilson gave me your contact information. He said you ‘help’ people. I'm interested in setting up a session. Let me know if you're available.
He stared at the screen for a good minute before hitting send. The second the message left his phone, he regretted it.
What the hell was he doing?
A response interrupted his internal spiral. That was fast.
Hi, James! Thanks for reaching out. I'd be happy to help. How does Tuesday at 5 PM sound?
He frowned. No small talk? No questions? Just… straight to the point. It wasn't what he'd expected, but he appreciated it.
Fine, he replied, then immediately felt like a jerk. He added a Thanks.
----
Thursday came too quickly. Bucky paced his apartment, tidying up out of sheer nervous energy. He wasn't sure what to expect. What was this woman going to do? Make him tea? Lecture him on proper nutrition? Sam had called her a "mom-for-hire," but the idea still sounded absurd.
At exactly 5 PM, there was a knock at the door. Bucky froze. For a split second, he considered pretending he wasn't home. But he sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and opened the door, noticing two things:
First, this Mom was not an older lady. Either Sam had left out that critical detail, or she was some kind of evil witch who sucked the life force out of her victims to stay young.
Second, she was… nice to look at. He quickly chastised himself for the thought.
"Hi," she said, warm but professional, like she'd done this a hundred times before. There was no hesitation in her posture, no uncertainty in her eyes. She shifted the bag on her shoulder and offered a small smile. "You must be James."
"Bucky," he corrected gruffly, crossing his arms and leaning slightly against the doorframe. "You're not what I expected."
Her smile didn't falter. "Let me guess. You were expecting someone older? Maybe with glasses and a knitting basket?"
Bucky raised an eyebrow, not confirming but not denying either.
She let out a soft laugh. "I get that a lot."
The silence stretched between them, and then he realized he was just standing there, blocking the doorway like an idiot. He stepped aside, muttering a "Come in."
She entered the apartment, glancing around the living room as she set her bag down, taking in the stark, utilitarian setup. A couch, a small TV on a stand, and little else. The dining table was non-existent, replaced by a counter with two barstools. "This is… cozy," she said diplomatically, gesturing at the space.
Bucky's lips twitched in a faint smirk. "It works."
She hummed in response, her gaze falling to the small stack of books on the coffee table. A couple of dog-eared crime novels sat next to a remote. There wasn't much else to indicate anyone truly lived here. No photos, no clutter, just the bare essentials.
He folded his arms again, hovering near the door as if he wasn't sure whether to close it or bolt. "Look, I don't need the whole... whatever it is you do. Sam talked me into this, so don't feel like you have to stick around for too long."
She didn't seem fazed by his brusqueness. Instead, she just nodded and set the bag down on his counter. She began unpacking a few items. Ingredients, it looked like.
"So," she said, turning to him with an easy smile. "What's on the agenda for today? You tell me what you need, and we'll go from there."
What he needed? Hell if he knew.
"Uh-" He shifted uncomfortably. "I don't… really know how this works."
"That's okay," she reassured him, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. "We can start small. How about I make us something warm to eat while we talk?"
Talk. Right. He could handle that. Probably. And the food didn't sound half bad either.
"Sure," he said, his tone softer now. He hesitated before adding, "Thanks."
She smiled at him again and reached into her bag, pulling out a neatly folded apron. Without hesitation, she slipped it over her summer dress, tying the strings behind her back. The casual way she moved threw him off; she already seemed at ease in his space, which was more than he could say for himself.
"Is there anything you don't like to eat?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder as she headed toward the kitchen.
Bucky blinked at her like she'd just asked him if he believed in unicorns. "Anything I don't like?" He lifted his eyebrows, clearly baffled by the concept.
"Yes," she replied with a small laugh, looking back at him as if to say she was serious.
He gave a short huff, leaning against the counter, his lips twitching with faint amusement. "Doll, I grew up in the Depression. You ate what you got and licked the plate clean."
She froze mid-step, moving her hands to her hips as she turned to face him fully. "Okay, first of all, you don't 'doll' your mother," she said, firm but with a playful edge. "So let's make it clear: that won't be a thing between us."
He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes slightly in mild surprise at her sudden, slightly commanding tone.
"And second," she continued, crossing her arms as if daring him to argue, "we're not in the Depression anymore. So, humor me and tell me if there's anything you don't like."
The corner of his mouth twitched, the smallest hint of a smirk appearing as he quirked an eyebrow at her. She wasn't what he'd expected. Not even close.
"Guess I'll have to think about it," he muttered with the faintest trace of amusement.
She rolled her eyes, tying the apron snugly around her waist. "Well, then tell me what you do like, so I can see if I can pull it off with what we've got."
He hesitated, darting his gaze away as if the question required more thought than it should. Finally, he mumbled, "Potatoes?"
Her lips twitched with amusement. "Lucky for you, I brought some with me." She nodded toward another bag she'd left near the door.
Bucky watched as she moved around his kitchen, opening cabinets and peeking into drawers. It was strange seeing someone else handle his things like they belonged there.
She moved to his fridge next, tugging it open, and froze. For a long moment, she just stared, tilting her head slightly. "Huh."
Bucky frowned, leaning to the side to see what had caught her attention. "What?"
She stepped back, gesturing inside with a wooden spoon she'd plucked from the counter. "The two plums are fine, but that sad, dried-out lemon is holding on by a thread, and…" She wrinkled her nose as she peered at a container shoved in the back. "I don't even want to guess what's in that tupperware."
He shifted, crossing his arms over his chest. "It's probably still good."
"Bucky." She turned to him, arching one brow, matter-of-fact. "We're going to have to make a shopping list if these visits are going to continue. Unless you're planning to survive off potatoes and mystery leftovers?"
His lips twitched again, but he didn't say anything, just shrugged.
"I'll take that as agreement," she said, grabbing the potatoes she'd brought with her and setting them on the counter. "For now, I'll work some magic with these and whatever's actually edible in here."
He smirked faintly, leaning against the counter as he watched her sort through his kitchen again with an air of efficiency, like she'd done this a thousand times before.
At some point, she straightened up and caught his gaze. "You didn't say anything yet," she said, leaning a little on the counter, "but I assume you have questions about what I do?"
He shifted uncomfortably, scratching the back of his neck as if buying time. "Sam told me something… about cooking and talking," he muttered hesitantly. Then he glanced away, subtly implying that he didn't expect much beyond that.
She didn't rush him, waiting patiently for him to finish. When he fell silent, she let out a soft chuckle and grabbed a cutting board from the counter. "I have a proper job, you know," she said, glancing over her shoulder at him. "At a bookstore. This…" she continued, gesturing vaguely toward the room, "is just something I've been doing for a couple of years now. It started when a lady from the program came into the shop looking for books to read to her son before nap time." She paused, her lips curving in a small, amused smile. "The thing is, this lady was, well… let's just say she was quite old to have a little kid. She must have seen the look on my face because she told me about this initiative she was part of."
Bucky tilted his head, curiosity tugging at his otherwise guarded expression. "And you signed up?"
"Eventually," she admitted, peeling one of the potatoes with practiced ease. "I kept running into her, and she'd stop by the store to chat about how the reading sessions were going, how much her 'kid' enjoyed them." She made air quotes with her fingers, smirking. "Turned out, her kid was a Vietnam vet. He was struggling with some things, and she was helping him feel more grounded."
Bucky arched his brows.
"Exactly," she said, laughing softly. "I thought it was strange at first, too, but the more I learned, the more I realized how much of a difference it can make for some people." She paused, setting the peeler down and turning to fully face him, her expression softer now. "There's something about the kind of comfort a mother gives, something other roles just… don't quite reach."
Bucky tilted his head slightly, furrowing his brow.
"You've probably seen it," she continued. "Soldiers in their last moments, calling for their moms. Or when they're delirious with fever or pain, their minds go back to a time when they felt safe, protected, and cared for. It's not about the specific person, it's the feeling. That deep-rooted need to know someone's there for you, no matter what."
He tightened his jaw, and his gaze dropped to the floor for a moment before flicking back to her. She didn't miss the shift in his expression, a flicker of recognition, a shadow of memory.
"I'm not saying I'm trying to be anyone's mother," she added quickly, offering him a gentle smile to lighten the mood. "But sometimes people just need a little bit of that energy in their life, you know? A chance to feel… safe."
Bucky pressed his mouth into a thin line, stiffening briefly before he exhaled, relaxing his shoulders just a fraction. He didn't say anything, but the weight of her words lingered in the air between them.
He had to admit it sounded... nice. Having someone to turn to when things got… when you couldn't breathe. When the world felt too heavy and every corner of your mind was filled with noise you couldn't escape. When even your best friend ditched you for a skirt. But just as that thought settled in, his defenses kicked in, sharp and automatic.
He scoffed, the sound coming out a little too rough, a little too biting. "And then what? You cuddle on the couch, singing a lullaby?"
She stilled her hands and turned to look at him, meeting his gaze. There was no annoyance in her expression, no judgment. Just a calmness that made him feel even more off-balance.
"If that's what you need," she said simply, "then yes."
For a moment, he was stunned into silence, caught off guard. There was no sarcasm, no condescension, just a sincerity that felt almost disarming.
He darted his eyes away as he shifted his weight, the corners of his mouth twitching in an effort to form a response. But for once, words failed him, leaving only the quiet sounds of the kitchen and the soft clatter of her returning to the potatoes.
"There are some info sheets and forms in the bag," she said, nodding toward her tote. "If you want to read and complete them while I do this." She gestured as she resumed working on the potatoes.
Bucky hesitated, flicking his gaze between her and the bag. "What's the payment?" he asked gruffly, trying to keep his voice casual. "In case… in case I might be interested."
She paused for a beat, then glanced over her shoulder with a small smile. "I don't charge veterans," she said simply.
He blinked, clearly taken aback. His lips parted slightly, but no words came out. Finally, he managed, "Sam didn't… didn't tell me that."
"Well," she said, setting the knife down for a moment and turning fully to face him, "to be fair, Sam told me a little about you."
At the slight stiffness that crept into his expression, she quickly added, "Just… basic things." She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm already working with someone who's… retired now, and I wasn't sure about having two 'sons' in the same department, so to speak."
She hesitated, studying his face for a moment before continuing. "But when he told me who you were… I didn't doubt it for a second. You're a hero, you know?"
He seemed surprised by the statement, knitting his brows together as if trying to make sense of her words. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, a faint pink dusting his cheeks. Finally, he grumbled, "Don't know about that, but thanks."
She smiled softly. "Don't thank me, sweetheart. I'm just stating the obvious."
The word hit him like a blow he wasn't ready for. Sweetheart. He couldn't remember the last time someone had called him that. Couldn't remember if anyone ever had, except maybe- His mind flickered to a hazy memory, warm hands and a soft voice, but it slipped away before he could grasp it.
With that, she turned back to the cooking, leaving Bucky standing there, uncomfortably aware of the unexpected swell of gratitude threatening to creep past his defenses.
He opened the tote bag and pulled out a neatly organized folder. Inside, there were several documents, each clipped together in its own section. He skimmed over the first page, a set of "basic rules" clearly outlined at the top.
He furrowed his brow slightly as he read. Boundaries: He would only call her "Mama" or some other variant, never her name; an instruction that immediately made his stomach twist with both unease and an odd sense of reassurance. The point was clear: this wasn't a friendship or anything else ambiguous. It was meant to define their dynamic firmly.
Further down, he saw a list of do's and don'ts regarding acceptable forms of touching. The wording was straightforward but gentle, ensuring the rules were understood without feeling restrictive. A clause about privacy caught his attention: Everything discussed during their sessions would remain strictly confidential. Nothing said between them would be disclosed, ever.
He sighed and leaned against the counter, flipping to the next section. The forms included a series of questions: What would you expect from these sessions? What would you prefer not to happen? What are your favorite comforts? Least favorite?
The questions made him uncomfortable. What did he expect? Hell if he knew. What would he even put down for "favorite comforts"? He tapped the pen against the counter, unsure where to start.
When he finally glanced back at her, she was chopping the potatoes with practiced ease. "And what happens after I fill this out?" he asked, trying to sound neutral.
"Once the forms are completed and signed," she said without turning around, "I'll be in charge of the dynamic." She paused, glancing at him over her shoulder with a small smile. "After all, Mama knows best."
Her tone was light, teasing, but the words landed heavier than she might have realized. Bucky stared at the form again, feeling the faintest flicker of something he hadn't felt in a long time. Maybe trust. Maybe just exhaustion. Either way, the weight of his pen didn't feel as heavy anymore.
"You don't have to sign it right now," she said, washing her hands and wiping them on a towel. Turning back to him, she added, "Maybe wait and see how this goes first?" Then, she walked toward the living room and perched on the edge of the couch, patting the spot next to her. "Sit. You can tell me about your week while the potatoes cook… if you want."
Bucky hesitated for a moment, glancing toward the couch like it might be a trap. Finally, he crossed the room, lowering himself onto the seat beside her. The couch dipped under his weight, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he rubbed a hand over his face. The silence hung between them, save for the faint sound of traffic through the window. After a moment, he started to bounce his knee.
She noticed the motion and glanced at him, her gaze drifting lower. That's when it hit her: the long-sleeved henley and the glove on his hand. The room wasn't exactly cold. In fact, with the oven going and the potatoes roasting, it was comfortably warm.
She knitted her brows together. "Bucky," she started carefully, keeping her tone light, "you know by now that I knew who you were before I knocked on your door, right?"
He turned his head slightly, not quite meeting her eyes but acknowledging her words with a small grunt.
"So… don't you want to change into something less... suffocating?" She gestured loosely at his clothing. "I mean, it's hot in here."
His knee stopped bouncing. He straightened slightly but didn't respond right away. She could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he worked his jaw like he was weighing his next move.
"It's fine," he muttered, gruff. He didn't sound angry, just… uncertain.
"It's not fine," she countered gently. "Besides, I thought we were working on trust here. That's kind of the point, right?"
Her words hung in the air, and for a long moment, he didn't move. Then, with a deep breath, Bucky pushed himself to his feet, heading toward the hallway. He muttered something under his breath that she didn't catch, but the slight hunch of his shoulders told her he was uncomfortable. Still, he disappeared into the bedroom, and she heard the sound of a drawer opening.
When he returned a few minutes later, he was wearing a soft, dark gray T-shirt. He paused in the doorway, flicking his eyes to her briefly before he sat back down, this time leaning into the couch instead of perching on the edge.
"Better?" he asked, dry but not harsh.
"Much better," she replied, a smile tugging at her lips.
Bucky didn't say anything, but his shoulders seemed to relax just a fraction. The oven timer went off in the kitchen, breaking the moment, and she stood, giving him a reassuring pat on the knee as she passed by.
As she checked the food with her back turned to him, she spoke casually, "Sam said you've been having a rough time lately."
Bucky frowned, pressing his lips into a thin line. "Sam talks too much."
Her lips quirked in a small smile, though she didn't turn around. "He's worried about you."
"He doesn't need to be," Bucky muttered.
"Maybe not. But he is. And from what I can tell, he's the kind of person who acts on that worry." She glanced over her shoulder at him. "You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to. I'm not here to pry."
Bucky's shoulders tensed slightly, and he clenched his jaw.
"Then why are you here?" The question came out sharper than he intended, low and clipped, but she didn't flinch.
Instead, she turned off the stove, wiped her hands on a towel, and finally faced him.
"Why am I here?" she echoed, keeping her tone calm. "One, because you texted. And two…" She crossed the room slowly, stopping a few feet from the couch. Her gaze softened as she tilted her head slightly. "Sometimes, it helps to have someone around. Someone who's not a therapist or a friend who knows too much. Just… someone."
For a moment, he didn't respond. His expression was unreadable, but she could see the gears turning in his head. She approached the couch and sat down beside him, leaving just enough space to avoid crowding him but close enough to offer her quiet support.
Bucky shifted slightly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, lacing his fingers together tightly. The silence between them stretched, but it didn't feel heavy. It felt like an invitation for him to speak if he wanted to, no pressure, no expectations.
"I didn't mean to snap at you," he said finally, almost in a grumble.
"I know." Her reply was soft, almost instinctive. "It's okay."
His shoulders relaxed just a fraction, and for the first time that evening, he glanced at her directly. There was a hint of something vulnerable in his expression. Hesitation, perhaps.
"It's just…" he started, trailing off as he rubbed the back of his neck. "It's been a lot lately. I don't even know where to start."
"Just where you feel like it. I'll be here to listen. And if you don't want to talk, that's fine too. One doesn't tell everything to their mom, hm?" she assured him gently.
The timer beeped from the kitchen again, cutting through the moment. She reached over, giving his forearm a brief, reassuring squeeze before standing. "Let me get that before the potatoes burn." As she moved toward the kitchen, she glanced back at him with a small smile. "Think about it, Bucky. No rush."
He watched her retreat, his chest feeling a little lighter, though he couldn't quite explain why.
When she called from the kitchen, cheerfully announcing that dinner was almost ready, he found himself answering without thinking. "Smells good."
It wasn't much, but it was a start.
He pushed himself off the couch with a grunt and crossed the short distance to the kitchen in a few long strides. Without a word, he started opening cabinets and drawers, pulling out a couple of plates and utensils to set up at the counter.
"Oh, such a good boy!" she teased warmly.
He paused, shooting her a look over his shoulder, caught somewhere between surprise and embarrassment. "It's just the right thing to do," he muttered gruffly, his ears tinged faintly pink.
She bit back a smile as she pulled the tray of potatoes from the oven, the aroma filling the small kitchen. As she set the tray down, she reached for the fridge and produced a small bowl of creamy dip, placing it on the counter beside the potatoes.
Bucky quirked a brow, evidently curious.
"What?" she asked playfully. "These aren't your Depression potatoes. They've got a little twist."
He snorted softly, shaking his head. "A twist, huh?"
"Just a little sour cream, and the spices are courtesy of your kitchen," she said, ladling the potatoes onto a serving dish with practiced ease. "Trust me, they'll still taste like home. Just… a little fancier."
Bucky glanced at the bowl again, his lips twitching in faint amusement. "Fancy potatoes," he murmured, almost to himself.
"Hey," she countered, setting the dish in the middle of the counter with a flourish. "Even tough guys like you deserve something nice now and then."
He didn't respond right away, but as he pulled out a stool at the counter and sat, there was a flicker of something lighter in his eyes. "Guess we'll see if they live up to the hype."
She handed him a fork, widening her smile. "Challenge accepted."
For the first time that evening, the atmosphere in the room felt less heavy. The clinking of utensils and the scent of roasted potatoes mingled with the faintest thread of unspoken understanding.
"Not bad," Bucky admitted after his first bite, begrudging but carrying a hint of approval.
"Not bad?" she echoed, raising a brow. "I'll take that as high praise."
The corners of his mouth twitched upward, and for a fleeting moment, it almost looked like he might smile.
They made small talk while they ate, keeping the conversation light. She asked about the crime novels on his side table, and he asked -grudgingly- what kind of twist she had planned for the next meal, implying she might want to poison him. Despite himself, Bucky found the interaction strangely… normal. He wasn't used to normal, but he didn't hate it.
When they finished, he stood and began gathering the dishes. She protested at first, but he waved her off. "It's what my Ma would have expected anyway," he said matter-of-factly.
He'd just started scrubbing the first plate when her phone buzzed on the counter. She glanced at the screen, then at the clock, letting out a soft sigh. "Well, Buck, it seems our two hours are up."
Bucky froze, gripping the plate under the warm water. Then he nodded once. "I see…"
She leaned against the counter next to him, watching him carefully. "So, um… what do you want to do? Will you read the forms and consider starting this little journey together, or would you rather not see my face again?" She smiled softly. "Which I'd totally understand if that's the case."
He didn't respond immediately, focusing instead on rinsing the plate and setting it on the drying rack. For a moment, the only sound was the rush of water and the faint sound of the fridge. It was as if he was battling with himself, his tension visible in the way he hunched his shoulders and clenched his jaw. Finally, he let out a long breath and turned to face her. He raked his hand through his hair.
"I... I want this, I think," he stated. Then, almost immediately, he added, "I can step out whenever I want, right?"
Her smile softened as she reached for his vibranium hand, resting her fingers lightly against the cool metal. "Yes, Bucky. You can step out whenever you want. No pressure, no expectations. This is for you, on your terms."
He nodded slightly, flicking his eyes down to where her hand rested on his before shifting back to meet her gaze.
"Just take your time filling out the questionnaire, think the answers through carefully," she continued, warm but matter-of-fact, "and, whenever you're ready, snap a picture and send it to me. No rush."
"Okay," he murmured, almost to himself.
"Also…" She tilted her head. "How many days a week do you want me here?"
Bucky blinked, clearly caught off guard by the question. He shifted slightly, glancing away as if considering his answer. "Uh… two, I guess?"
"Two it is," she said with a small nod, releasing his hand and grabbing her bag from the counter. "You're calling the shots, Buck. You just let me know if that changes."
He didn't respond right away, but as she slung her bag over her shoulder and made her way toward the door, he called out, low. "Thanks."
She paused, glancing back at him with a smile. "Anytime."
As the door closed behind her, Bucky stood there for a moment, staring at the now-empty space she'd left behind.
Almost three minutes after she left, his phone buzzed on the counter, the screen lighting up with a notification. He didn't have to check to know who it was. Sure enough, the preview of the text confirmed it: Sam. The string of emojis accompanying the message made Bucky's scowl deepen as he stared at the screen.
🤔💪👍👵🍲
"What the hell does that even mean?" he muttered to himself, swiping the phone off the counter and locking it without reading the full message. The last thing he needed was Sam's smug commentary right now.
He set the phone down a little harder than necessary and decided to distract himself the only way he knew how: by scrubbing himself clean. Grabbing a towel, he headed to the bathroom, peeling off his T-shirt on the way. The promise of a hot shower sounded like the closest thing to clarity he might find tonight.
But as the water beat down on his skin, his thoughts drifted back to the folder she'd left behind. The questionnaire seemed simple on the surface, but for a man like him, answering those kinds of questions wasn't easy.
What comforts you?
The question alone made him bristle. Comfort wasn't something he'd thought about in decades. Comfort was… a luxury, a distraction, a weakness. At least, that's what they'd always told him, and he still couldn't shake that feeling.
The thought of filling out that damn paper felt heavier than any mission he'd been assigned. He'd rather face a bullet in his leg than sit down and figure out what he wanted.
He leaned his head against the shower tiles, the warmth of the water doing little to ease the tension coiling in his chest. Maybe he'd give himself a day. Or two. Hell, maybe a week. She'd said no rush, after all.
And if he didn't send it? Well, it wasn't like she'd show up uninvited. He could still back out.
He turned off the water with a sharp twist, the sudden silence leaving him alone with his thoughts. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he stepped out, glancing toward the closed door of his bedroom where the folder waited.
----
It had taken Bucky two weeks to fill out the forms. Two long, painstaking weeks of sitting on his couch, pen in hand, staring at questions that felt more like traps than prompts. He'd forced himself to be thorough, thinking carefully about each subject.
What makes you feel safe? What comforts you? What do you need from me?
How do you want to be called as an endearment?
He'd tried to approach it with an open mind, though the process made him cringe more than once. Admitting what he needed -or even what he was willing to permit- felt like baring himself in a way that left him raw.
But he finished. He signed the papers, scanned them with his phone, and sent the file off with an unceremonious text:
Here. Let me know if it's fine.
Her reply had been immediate and cheerful: Got it! Looks perfect. See you Tuesday.
----
When Tuesday came, she arrived at his building, juggling a tote bag filled with what she liked to call her "comfort supplies." A neighbor leaving the building had held the door open for her, just like the first time she came. A kind but overly trusting gesture.
Not a very safe thing to do, she thought as she stepped inside. But she was not going to complain.
She reached his door, rapping her knuckles lightly against it. "Bucky? It's me."
No answer.
She frowned and knocked again, a little louder this time. "Bucky, you there?"
Still nothing.
She pulled out her phone and sent him a quick message: Hey, I'm here! A moment later, her phone bipped with the dreaded notification: Message failed to deliver.
She frowned deeper. She tried calling, but the call went straight to voicemail. A sinking feeling settled in her chest as she pressed her ear to the door, listening intently.
Nothing. No footsteps. No muffled noises. Just silence.
She sighed, leaning back against the wall. Maybe something had come up. Maybe he'd changed his mind and didn't know how to tell her.
She checked her watch. Twenty minutes had passed, and she still hadn't heard a peep from him. With a reluctant shake of her head, she turned and walked toward the elevator, her footsteps echoing faintly in the quiet hallway.
----
A couple of hours later, Bucky dragged his feet through the corridor. His nose throbbed painfully, a reminder of the last few days he'd spent dealing -again- with enhanced assholes who seemed to have gotten their hands on some variant of the serum.
The faint metallic scent of dried blood clung to him, mingling with the sweat and grime of too many hours spent in the open. He furrowed his brows, eyes heavy-lidded as he scanned the hallway out of habit. That's when he spotted it, a small bag made of cloth sitting neatly at his doorstep.
He paused, taking a moment to connect the dots through the haze of exhaustion.
Fuck.
He let out a slow, frustrated exhale, running a hand over his face and wincing as the dried cut on his cheek tugged painfully. Of course, this would happen. Of course, he'd mess this up right out of the gate.
Bending down, he picked up the bag, holding it gingerly in his hands like it might scold him. The fabric was soft and patterned with small flowers, something that felt almost absurdly out of place against his bloodstained hands and the concrete walls of the hallway.
He peeked inside, and his chest tightened. A handful of sugar babies packages came into view, the bright yellow a jarring contrast to the dull exhaustion weighing him down.
What were your favorite sweets as a child?
The questionnaire echoed in his head, and his stomach twisted. He hadn't even realized he'd written those down until now.
Straightening up, he glanced down the hallway toward the elevator, tightening his grip on the bag. What kind of impression was this supposed to leave? Forgetting the session entirely, not answering the door, not even leaving a message…
He groaned, leaning back against his door and glaring down at the bag like it held all the answers to his failures.
After a long moment, he nestled the bag into the crook of his arm, fumbled with his keys, and let himself into the apartment.
The silence inside was deafening. He placed the bag of candies on the counter and reached for his phone: dead, as expected. He plugged it into the charger with a sigh, running a hand through his hair before peeling off his ruined clothes. The bloodstained shirt landed in a heap on the floor as he pulled his knives and gun from their holsters and set them down on the counter next to the flower-patterned bag.
The juxtaposition was almost laughable. The hard edges of his weapons, worn and familiar, sat starkly against the soft, cheerful fabric of the bag.
It didn't feel right to see them in the same space.
But he was too tired to care for the moment.
With a heavy sigh, Bucky leaned against the counter, letting his gaze linger on the bag of candies. He reached inside and pulled out one of the packages, turning it over in his fingers like it was something fragile. For a moment, he just stood there as the weight of the past days pressed down on him.
Finally, he tore the wrapper open, popped one caramel into his mouth, and let the sugary sweetness dissolve on his tongue. It wasn't much. But somehow, it tasted like a small piece of something he'd forgotten he needed.
----
It was late afternoon when her phone blipped with a message. She picked it up from the table, brushing across the screen to read it.
Just one word: Sorry.
She stared at the message for a moment, tightening her grip on the device. Well, at least it didn't seem like he'd changed his mind entirely. That was something.
Are you okay?
The reply didn't come right away. The minutes stretched, and she found herself glancing at the screen every few moments. Finally, the phone blipped again, and she read his response:
I don't know.
Her chest ached at the honesty of those three words. Biting her lip, she typed her reply carefully.
Do you want me to come over?
The dots indicating he was typing blinked, disappeared, and then reappeared. His answer came back after what felt like an eternity.
You don't have to.
She frowned. Her thumbs flew across the keyboard.
That's not what I asked, Bucky.
Another pause. This one was longer. The late afternoon sun painted her walls in streaks of orange and gold, but she barely noticed, her attention fixed on the phone in her hands.
Finally, he replied.
Yes.
She relaxed her shoulders as she exhaled. Without hesitation, she grabbed her bag, slid her phone into her pocket, and headed for the door.
----
She widened her gaze when she saw his face as he opened the door. A nasty cut marred the already purpled skin of his cheek, his nose looked bruised, his lower lip was split, and scrapes littered his flesh arm. His expression and the slump of his shoulders only added to the picture of someone who'd been through a lot.
He must have noticed her stare because the first thing out of his mouth was, "You should see the other guys."
She clicked her tongue in exasperation, motioning her hand firmly toward him. "Move. Let me in."
Bucky stepped aside, hovering somewhere between guilt and defiance. She entered without waiting for another invitation, her sharp eyes already scanning the room. "Did you clean the wounds?"
He shrugged nonchalantly as if it weren't worth mentioning. "I took a shower…"
She pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out a long, deliberate sigh. "That's not- no. That doesn't count. Where is your first aid kit?"
He looked at her like she'd grown another head. "Doll, all this is going away in three days, tops. Courtesy of the serum."
She snapped her gaze to his, sharp enough to freeze hell over. "Where. Is. It. And how did you just call me?"
Bucky's mouth opened, then shut, and he swallowed audibly. "M-ma," he mumbled, darting his eyes to the floor like a chastised child.
"That's what I thought." She folded her arms, brooking no argument. "I assume you have that thing in the bathroom."
"I told you, it's not neces-"
That look again. He stopped mid-sentence, slumping his shoulders as he relented. "Yes."
"Good," she said briskly, already heading toward the bathroom without waiting for further direction. "Stay put. I'll handle this."
Bucky stared after her, his mouth twitching as if he wanted to argue but thought better of it. With a quiet groan, he leaned against the counter, muttering under his breath, "You should really see the other guys…"
But even as he said it, he found himself oddly relieved that she was there.
"Sit on the chair so I can see you better." Her voice came calm but firm from his side as she gestured to the single chair against the wall.
Bucky hesitated for half a second before complying, dragging the chair forward slightly and lowering himself onto it.
She knelt slightly in front of him, brushing her fingers lightly over the bruised and battered skin of his face. "This surely must hurt," she said softly. "You don't have to act all rough with me."
He didn't answer, clenching his jaw ever so slightly. Not to brush off the pain, not to admit that it hurt. He just stayed silent, fixing his gaze somewhere beyond her shoulder.
With gentle care, she dabbed at his cheek with a cotton ball soaked in antiseptic. The sharp, chemical smell hit the air immediately, and Bucky flinched, pressing his lips into a thin line.
She paused, knitting her brows in concern. "What's wrong?"
"It's nothing," he muttered, but the tightness in his voice betrayed him.
She kept her gaze patient but unyielding. "Bucky."
He exhaled sharply through his nose, flicking his eyes away from hers before returning. "I don't like the smell," he admitted, almost in a whisper.
She stilled, hovering her hand in midair. "Why?"
For a moment, he didn't respond. His gaze grew distant, and his expression clouded as if he were somewhere else entirely. When he finally spoke, his voice was even quieter, tinged with something raw and broken.
"Spent a lot of years smelling that shit," he said, his words carrying too much weight. "Couldn't drink a glass of water without a command. Couldn't... do anything. And that smell... it was always there. Always."
Her heart ached at the admission, but she didn't let it show on her face. Instead, she lowered the cotton ball, letting him see her move it out of the way. "Okay," she said softly. "We'll rinse the cuts with water instead. No more of this stuff."
He blinked, furrowing his brows slightly as he looked at her. "You don't have to-"
"I know I don't," she interrupted gently. "But I'm here to help you, honey, not to make things harder."
He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing as he nodded. He didn't say anything else, but the tension in his shoulders eased just a little.
By the time she finished tending to his wounds, Bucky was leaning heavily against the chair, drooping eyelids. The tension in his frame had loosened ever so slightly; his exhaustion was clear in the way he blinked sluggishly at the floor.
She stood and began gathering the supplies, placing them neatly back into his first aid kit. "I'm going to make you something to eat," she said firmly, already planning a quick meal to get something nutritious in him.
"Not now," he murmured, barely lifting his head.
She turned toward him, frowning. "Bucky, you've probably gone days without eating anything that isn't complete garbage. You need-"
"I just..." He forced the words out with difficulty, like they were being dragged out of him. He rubbed his flesh hand over his face. "I just want you close." His voice was quieter now, almost pleading.
Her expression softened instantly. Nodding, she stepped closer, reaching for his vibranium hand. She wrapped her fingers around the cool metal and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "Come on. Let's sit on the couch."
She guided him the short distance toward the living room, and he followed with slow, dragging steps. Once they reached the couch, she looked at him with patience. "What do you need?"
Bucky hesitated, his throat working as if he were trying to swallow his pride. He flicked his eyes to her, then away again, his mouth opening and closing like he was fighting himself. Finally, he let out a soft, almost defeated sigh.
"I... I want to lean my head on your lap, Mama," he admitted, almost shaky.
She smiled softly, not saying anything that might make him feel more self-conscious. The request had caught her off guard. She knew physical closeness would come eventually, but she hadn't expected it so soon. Not from someone like Bucky, with his past. Years of being touched without consent, manipulated, controlled. That he was asking for this now, trusting her with this, meant more than he probably realized.
She just nodded and sat at one end of the couch, patting her thighs gently to indicate he should lie down.
Bucky followed, his movements stiff and hesitant as he eased himself onto the couch. He stretched out his long torso, resting his head tentatively on her lap. He stayed tense for a moment, as if bracing for something, though even he wasn't sure what.
She started running her fingers through his short hair, brushing the strands back in slow, rhythmic motions. "It's okay," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "You're okay."
The tension in his shoulders began to melt, and his breathing slowed as her fingers worked through his hair with careful, deliberate strokes. He closed his eyes, letting out a quiet sigh as his body finally surrendered to a comfort he hadn't let himself feel in years.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, barely audible.
She paused briefly, tilting her head to look down at him. "For what, honey?"
"For not being there when you came," he said, his voice rough with exhaustion and guilt.
She stopped the gentle motions in his hair, bringing her thumb to brush softly over the cut on his cheek. "You had a reason to," she said simply, her tone leaving no room for argument.
Then she resumed running her fingers through his hair, the soothing rhythm returning.
Bucky knew, objectively, that she was right. But hearing it from her lips, to have her absolution without hesitation, made him finally feel better about it.
----
After two months of visits, she was surprised one day to find an old oak dining table in Bucky's apartment. It was small but sturdy, with matching chairs tucked neatly under it. The single chair he'd once had was nowhere in sight.
She stepped closer, running her hand along the smooth wood. "This is lovely," she said, genuinely appreciative.
Bucky stood nearby, hands in his pockets, shifting his weight slightly. He glanced at her, then at the table, mumbling, "It was time for me to have one."
She turned to him with a smile. "Well, it makes the place look more like a home now. You know," she added thoughtfully, "I have a tablecloth about this size at home that I don't use. I could bring it next time, if you'd like."
Bucky hesitated, furrowing his brows slightly as if considering her offer. "About that…" he started, a little unsure.
She waited patiently, giving him time to express what he wanted to say.
"I want to start-" He paused, searching for the right words. "Making this place more... like someone is living here."
"Like a home?" she prompted gently.
"Y-yeah." He looked down, scratching at the back of his neck. "Besides that hut in Wakanda… it's been a lifetime since I had a place to… a… a home."
Her heart ached at his admission, but she didn't push. Instead, she stepped closer and gently rested her hand on his arm. "That sounds very hard, sweetheart."
Bucky didn't deny or confirm her statement, just gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
"I was wondering…" he began, steadier now. "If next time, we could schedule an earlier time to see each other. And maybe-" He hesitated, glancing at her as if bracing for her reaction. "Maybe you could come with me to help me buy some things?"
She widened her smile, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze. "That sounds great, honey." Then, she added warmly but firmly, "Just remember, this is your home. You have to choose what you think suits you."
Her words were a reminder of the boundaries they'd set, of the balance they were working toward. Still, they carried enough warmth to let him know she'd be there for him.
After discussing the table and his plans to make the apartment feel more like a home, she glanced around the space and tilted her head thoughtfully. "You know," she said lightly, "a good table deserves a little cleanup around it. How about we tidy up a bit?"
Bucky frowned, sweeping his gaze over the room. "It's not that bad."
She gave him a pointed look, walking toward a pile of mail and random odds and ends stacked on the counter. "It's not terrible, but a little organizing wouldn't hurt. Come on, help me out."
He followed her reluctantly, muttering something under his breath about bossy moms.
She smirked but didn't rise to the bait, handing him a small stack of papers. "Sort these. Bills, junk, whatever doesn't need to be here," she instructed, already reaching for a rag to wipe down the counter.
As they worked, the task settled into an easy rhythm. She asked him about the books he'd been reading, and he surprised her by asking if she had any recommendations. It was small talk, but it felt comfortable and natural, like it had been almost since the beginning.
After the living room and kitchen looked noticeably tidier, she wiped her hands on her jeans and glanced toward the hallway leading to his bedroom. Motioning toward the door, she said, "Alright, let's check out the bedroom next."
Bucky froze, tightening his shoulders visibly. "Bedroom's fine," he said quickly, the edge of reluctance in his voice unmistakable.
She turned to him, raising an eyebrow. "I'm already on a roll, Buck. Might as well see the whole place."
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he reluctantly trailed behind her. "It's not much to look at," he muttered, more resigned than defiant.
"Then it won't take long," she quipped, throwing him a reassuring smile before disappearing through the doorway. She furrowed her brows at the sight before her. The bed was buried under a haphazard pile of boxes, and scattered clothes dotted the floor. The mattress didn't even have sheets on it, and the faint layer of dust on the headboard told her it hadn't been used in a while.
She turned to him, crossing her arms. "What's going on here? Where do these boxes go?"
Bucky shifted awkwardly in the doorway, avoiding her gaze. "They're fine where they are."
"Bucky…" She softened her voice, concern creeping into her tone. "Where are you sleeping?"
He clenched his jaw, and after a long pause, he mumbled, "On the floor. In the living room."
She widened her eyes. "The floor?"
He nodded, fixing his gaze somewhere over her shoulder.
She stepped closer, keeping her voice calm but firm. "Why?"
He pressed his lips into a thin line before he sighed, running a hand through his hair. "The bed's too… soft." He paused, struggling with the words. "It doesn't feel safe," he continued, lowering his voice. "When I'm on the floor, I can feel the room. Hear things better. I… know what's going on and can act in case something happens." He dropped his gaze to the pile of boxes on the bed. "And the bed… it's just not right. Too soft, too confining. It feels like a trap."
She nodded slowly, her expression a mix of understanding and quiet sadness. "That makes sense," she said gently. "But, honey, that's no way to live. I get why you feel that way, but you deserve to rest somewhere that doesn't hurt your back."
He gave her a faint shrug, pulling the corner of his mouth downward. "I've been doing this for a while. I'm used to it."
"That doesn't mean it's good for you," she replied, stepping closer and resting a hand lightly on his arm. "How about we start small? Let's clear off the bed today. No pressure to use it yet, but maybe we can make it feel a little less… wrong. Less like a trap."
He didn't answer immediately, flicking his eyes back toward the cluttered bed. She could see the hesitation in his face, the way he flexed his fingers at his sides like he was fighting an internal battle.
Finally, he nodded once, almost imperceptibly. "Alright."
She curved her lips into a gentle smile. "Good. So, where do these boxes go?"
"Closet," he muttered, stepping forward to help her.
Together, they cleared the bed, tucking the boxes away and folding the stray clothes. She didn't push or prod, keeping the conversation light as they worked. She mentioned ideas for making the bed more comfortable, maybe firmer pillows or a thinner mattress topper to make it feel less suffocating.
By the time they were done, the room already looked less like a storage space and more like a place where someone could rest.
"There," she said, dusting her hands off and turning to him. "A step in the right direction."
Bucky stood at the edge of the bed, staring at it like it was something foreign. "Yeah," he murmured. "I guess so."
"You don't have to use it right away," she said gently. "But when you're ready, it'll be here for you."
He nodded again, loosening his shoulders slightly.
As they returned to the main area, she expected Bucky to suggest starting dinner, but instead, he cleared his throat awkwardly.
"Can we… sit for a bit? On the couch?"
"Of course," she said with an easy smile, leading the way. She settled into her usual spot at one end, patting her thighs lightly.
Bucky sat and shifted, lying down until his head rested on her lap. When her fingers began threading gently through his hair, he let out a quiet exhale. They stayed like that for a while, the stillness of the apartment punctuated only by the soft rhythm of her fingers against his scalp and the occasional noise of traffic outside.
"Anything you want to talk about?" she asked softly, not wanting to break the moment but leaving the door open for him.
Bucky closed his eyes, lowering his voice and sounding drowsy. "Not yet. Just this. This is… enough."
After a while of lying on the couch, his body had grown heavier against her lap. His breathing became slower, and he sounded groggy when he finally spoke. "Hey… can we go shopping on Saturday instead of Friday?"
She stilled her fingers briefly in his hair before resuming their soothing rhythm. "Saturday?"
"Yeah…" He trailed off, blinking sluggishly up at the ceiling. "I've got some stuff to deal with on Friday. Nothing big. Just easier if it's Saturday."
She hummed thoughtfully, glancing down at him. "I can't," she said gently.
"Why not?" he asked, tilting his head slightly to meet her gaze.
"I have a date."
The weight in the room shifted immediately, and he stiffened under her touch. "Like… with your other 'son'?" he asked, the words tumbling out awkwardly before he could stop himself.
She blinked, then laughed softly. "No, Bucky. Like with a man. A real date."
She resumed her fingers' lazy rhythm through his hair, but she could feel the way he tensed his shoulders further and clenched his jaw. He didn't respond right away, pressing his lips into a thin line.
Sensing his unease, she chuckled. "Don't worry. You won't meet him, and you definitely won't have to call him Dad."
Bucky let out a faint huff, something caught between a snort and a sigh, but he didn't relax. "Didn't say I was worried," he muttered, though his tone lacked conviction.
She smiled, brushing her fingers through his hair again with deliberate care. He closed his eyes again, letting her touch ground him as the weight of the day slowly ebbed away.
After a moment of silence, Bucky shifted slightly against her lap. He pressed his lips together like he was trying to hold something back, but finally, the question slipped out. "Where… where did you meet this guy?"
She paused her fingers briefly in his hair before resuming their soothing rhythm. "At the bookstore," she said lightly. "He comes in pretty often. We've had a few nice conversations over the past couple of months."
Bucky frowned, knitting his brows together as he stared at the ceiling. "You've gone out with him before?"
She shook her head, smiling softly. "No, this will be the first time."
He mulled that over, flickering his gaze with something unreadable before he glanced up at her. "So… what do you like about him?"
The question came out gruff, almost begrudging, but there was a flicker of genuine curiosity -or maybe hesitation- in his voice.
She twitched her lips with amusement as she considered the question. "Well," she began, "he's polite, for once. Always says hello and takes the time to ask how my day is going."
Bucky huffed lightly, a soft sound of dismissal.
"And he's thoughtful," she continued. "One time, he brought me coffee because he noticed I was swamped with a shipment of books. Didn't even stay to chat, just handed it to me and said he thought I might need it."
"Sounds like a Boy Scout," Bucky muttered, lacing his tone with faint skepticism.
She chuckled softly, brushing her fingers lightly over his temple. "Maybe. But I like that he pays attention. He's kind without expecting anything in return."
Bucky stayed silent for a moment, fixing his gaze on some invisible point far away. Finally, he murmured, "So, you're serious about him?"
She tilted her head slightly, studying him. "It's just one date, Buck," she said gently. "I'm not planning a wedding." Her voice carried a reassuring warmth, softening the weight of his question. "I don't even know if there's anything there yet."
"Yeah," he said after a beat, softer now, though the small frown on his face lingered. "Guess you'll find out."
"I guess I will," she replied. After a pause, she added with a playful glint in her eyes, "But no matter what happens, it won't change anything between us. You're stuck with me, remember?"
Bucky's lips twitched faintly, the ghost of a smile breaking through his lingering tension. "Yeah… I remember."
She slid her fingers through his hair again with deliberate care, and the corners of his mouth relaxed, even if his eyes remained shadowed. Whatever the storm in his mind, her presence was enough to keep it at bay for now.
"Speaking of dates," she said, light but curious, "you didn't tell me how your date went with the woman from the grocery store. The one you told me about the last time we saw each other."
Bucky shifted against her lap, suddenly looking a lot less relaxed. "I… kind of left in the middle of it," he admitted, uncomfortable.
"Oh, you didn't." She lifted her eyebrows in mock reproach as she tugged softly at his hair as a playful reprimand.
He huffed, pressing his lips into a thin line. "She was… noisy," he started, tinged with frustration as he struggled to explain. "Talked too much, and it wasn't even about anything interesting. Kept asking questions, but…" He hesitated, searching for the right words. "She didn't actually care about the answers. Just wanted to fill the silence."
She paused her fingers briefly, then resumed their soothing rhythm through his hair. "That sounds exhausting," she said softly, full of understanding. "But that's not the whole reason, is it?"
Bucky swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing as he looked away. "She was touchy," he said finally. "Kept leaning in, grabbing my arm, laughing like… like it was supposed to make me feel good or something."
"Did it?" she asked gently.
"No." His response was firm, and he flexed his hands at his sides as though the memory left him uneasy. "I wasn't comfortable with her being so close. I don't even think she noticed. Or cared."
She sighed softly, keeping her touch steady as she brushed her fingers through his hair again. "You'll find someone who gets you. Someone who'll respect your pace and what you need."
His lips twitched faintly, like he wanted to smile but wasn't quite sure how. "What if there's not?" he muttered, so quiet she almost didn't catch it.
"There will be," she reassured him. "You just have to be patient. And picky. Nothing wrong with that."
For a moment, he was silent, the tension in his body softening just a little under her touch. Then, almost shyly, he murmured, "Thanks… Mama."
She smiled warmly, leaning back into the couch as her hand continued to comb gently through his hair. "Anytime, honey."
----
Time had a way of slipping by, and before he knew it, Bucky found himself sitting across from another date. This one wasn't noisy or overly touchy, and the small brewery they'd chosen wasn't bad, either. He nursed a beer in one hand, his vibranium arm hidden beneath the sleeve of his Henley, as the woman across from him laughed at something he'd said. A low, cautious laugh, but a laugh nonetheless.
Her eyes drifted to his wrist, where the dark leather bracelet he always wore peeked out from his sleeve. "I like that," she said, nodding toward it. "The bracelet. It's nice."
He glanced at it, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Thanks. My mom gave it to me."
Her expression faltered slightly, growing a bit stiff. "Oh, that's… sweet," she said, tilting her head. "Do you, uh, live with your mom?"
Bucky furrowed his brows, looking at her like she'd just asked if the sky was purple. "No. Why?"
She shifted in her seat, toying with the edge of her glass. "Well, then you must be very… close to her. Are you the youngest son?"
"No." He was sharper now, though he didn't mean it to be. "Why?"
The woman hesitated, clenching her fingers slightly around her drink. Finally, she gestured vaguely toward him, dropping her voice as though she were trying to be delicate. "Well… you've brought her up a lot. And, no offense, but it's kind of… weird for a man your age. On a date, I mean."
Bucky froze, his beer halfway to his lips. For a moment, he said nothing, narrowing his gaze slightly as he processed what she'd just said. Then, slowly, he set the bottle down, tightening his fingers slightly around the glass. A familiar sense of unease churned in his chest, accompanied by the ache of frustration.
"Right," he said finally, even, though there was a subtle edge to it. "I guess that is weird."
The woman shifted uncomfortably, her awkward smile faltering completely. "I didn't mean-"
"No, it's fine," he interrupted, leaning back in his chair. His expression was blank, cool, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. "Thanks for pointing that out."
For the rest of the date, the conversation limped along, each attempt at salvaging it falling flat. Bucky found himself withdrawing, offering short, polite responses but little else. The spark of curiosity or connection -if there had ever been one- had fizzled out entirely.
When the check came, he paid for their drinks, refusing her offer to split it with a quiet but firm "Don't worry about it."
As they stepped outside, he offered a polite goodbye, but his tone was distant, and he didn't wait for her to respond before walking off into the night.
He didn't bring her up that much, did he? The thought came gruffly as he trudged up the stairs to his apartment, but deep down, he already knew the answer. Should've just stayed home.
His gaze fell to the leather bracelet again, and he sighed, slowing his footsteps.
'Mom' wouldn't have made him feel like that.
He shook his head as he entered, the faint metallic clink of keys landing in the small ceramic bowl echoed through the quiet space. He pressed his lips into a thin line as his gaze lingered on it. The damn bowl she picked because he couldn't decide. He let out a low, frustrated growl, kicking off his boots near the door and running a hand through his hair.
He wrinkled his nose as a faint scent clung to him, cigarettes, from his date. She must have smoked earlier, and now it lingered in his jacket, his shirt, even his hair. He furrowed his brows. He didn't like it. The realization was sharp, irritating, and only added to his foul mood as he stripped off his clothes while walking toward the bathroom.
The shower hissed to life, steam filling the room as he stepped under the hot spray, letting the water cascade over his shoulders. He rested his palms against the tile wall, hanging his head forward, dampening his hair.
The date replayed in his head in vivid detail: her awkward comments, the tight smile when she'd tried to backpedal, the judgment laced in her words. Weird for a man your age. He gritted his teeth, whitening his knuckles against the slick tiles.
She wasn't wrong, he did bring up Mama more than he realized. But was that a crime? She was one of the few constants in his life that didn't feel… hollow.
The thought only made the pit in his stomach grow heavier. The way she'd looked at him like he was some awkward, broken thing who couldn't function properly… it stung.
Before he knew it, his thoughts wandered to her instead. Not the woman from the date, but the one helping him put his life back together piece by piece. The one who'd picked out that damn bowl. The one who had sat on his couch, combing her fingers through his hair when he'd been too exhausted to speak.
His breathing hitched slightly as he remembered her touch, soft and unhurried, calming him in a way no one else ever had. He could almost feel the ghost of her fingers brushing through his hair, skimming over his temple with a care he didn't deserve.
He slid his hand down his chest, trailing over the wet planes of his torso, and he exhaled shakily, furrowing his brow. He shouldn't be thinking about her like this. It was wrong -so wrong- but his body didn't seem to care.
He tightened his grip on his cock, and his head thunked lightly against the tile as a groan slipped past his lips. The hot water beat against his back, but it couldn't drown out the traitorous images flooding his mind. Her smile, the warmth of her voice, the way she'd called him "honey" like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, his strokes becoming sharper, more desperate, as if he could exorcise the feelings clawing their way to the surface. He shouldn't be doing this, he admonished himself again. Not with Mama. Not the one person who made him feel safe.
And yet, the warmth of her imagined touch, the thought of her fingers tracing the scars on his skin or resting lightly against his jaw, was enough to push him over the edge. His release came with a choked groan, pressing his forehead harder against the tile as his body shuddered.
For a moment, the only sound was the steady rhythm of the water and his ragged breathing.
And then the guilt hit him.
He closed his hands into fists as his chest tightened. "What the fuck is wrong with me?" he whispered harshly, cracking under the weight of his self-reproach.
He braced himself against the wall, shaking his head slightly. He felt disgusting; his stomach twisted as shame crept into his mind. She trusted him -cared for him- and this was how he repaid that?
With a low, bitter laugh, he reached for the soap, scrubbing furiously at his skin as if he could wash away the evidence of what he'd just done. But no amount of scrubbing could cleanse the storm of emotions raging inside him.
It was wrong. He was wrong. And yet, deep down, a part of him couldn't stop wanting.
Goddammit.
----
When Sam hinted that week about needing him for a little thing in Kuala Lumpur, Bucky didn't hesitate. It didn't seem like something Birdbrain could handle solo, and besides, a mission was the perfect way to blow off some steam. Anything to quiet the thoughts that had been clawing at the back of his mind since the date -and especially- since that shower.
He sent a quick text to Mama, keeping it short and simple, their usual code for missions.
Taking a vacation this week. Won't make Friday.
Her reply came quickly: Take care of yourself. Don't engage in crazy fun.
Bucky huffed softly, shaking his head as he stared at the screen. Ok, Mom, he typed back, twitching his lips faintly despite himself.
Her response came almost immediately: I mean it, Jamie.
Fuck. He tightened his jaw and locked the phone without answering. She always had a way of cutting through him, even with a couple of words. He shoved the phone into his pocket and headed to pack, grumbling under his breath.
When Sam picked him up a day later, Bucky was already in mission mode: focused, stoic, and bracing himself for whatever chaos Sam was about to drag him into. But despite his best efforts to push her words aside, they echoed faintly in his mind.
Take care of yourself.
He'd try. For her.
----
Things went slightly fine the first day, if you ignored the shooting, falling from a 15-story building into a trash container, and the broken shower in the safehouse. Bucky stood shirtless in front of the cracked bathroom mirror, grimacing as he splashed cold water over his chest and shoulders. The sink barely worked, sputtering like it might give up entirely, and the dingy tiles on the walls didn't do much to make him feel clean.
"Man, this place is a dump," Sam said, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed.
"Better than the street," Bucky grunted, grabbing a threadbare towel to dry off.
Sam hummed noncommittally, watching as Bucky fumbled with the faucet. "So, how's it going with her?"
Bucky froze briefly before answering. "Things are good."
"Glad you finally listened to me." Sam's voice carried just a hint of smugness. "I mean, you're still a pain in the ass, but at least your mood's improved a lot these past months."
Bucky rolled his eyes, tossing the towel over his shoulder. "Yeah, yeah. You want me to thank you or something?"
"Nah," Sam replied, grinning. "But I'll take it as a win anyway."
Bucky muttered something unintelligible under his breath and pushed past him, heading to the small, creaky bed in the corner of the cramped space.
That night, like most nights, sleep evaded him. He lay on his back, staring at the water-stained ceiling of the safehouse, while his mind spun with too many thoughts. Missions were supposed to clear his head, burn off the restlessness that kept him awake. But tonight, even exhaustion didn't help.
With a frustrated sigh, he sat up and grabbed the disposable phone Sam had handed him earlier. He knew it was a bad idea, knew he should just put it away and try to rest, but his fingers moved on their own, pulling up her profile.
Her social media was usually quiet: cozy book displays from her job, pictures of the plants she was trying to keep alive, and the occasional funny meme. It was soothing, like a peek into a normal life that he could never fully touch.
But tonight, it wasn't soothing.
He stared at the most recent photo, uploaded just a few hours ago, and his stomach dropped. It was a close-up of two hands holding Sharpies, coloring a detailed mandala. One of the hands was hers, he recognized the delicate curve of her fingers and the faint scar near her thumb. The other one was clearly male, broader and rougher.
The tags hit him like a punch to the gut:
#SoProudOfYou #AlmostAllByYourself
Bucky stared at the screen, tightening his chest as the meaning sank into his brain.
Her other son.
It had to be him. The other veteran she worked with, the one she'd mentioned months ago. The one responsible for her being "unsure" about taking him in when Sam first approached her.
For a moment, he just sat there, staring at the floor. He could still picture the hands, the caption, the pride in her words. And it twisted in his chest, an uncomfortable, raw feeling he couldn't shake.
He rubbed his hand over his face, groaning softly. "What the hell is wrong with me?"
It shouldn't matter. She wasn't his. She'd never been his, not in that way. He told himself that over and over, but the ache in his chest didn't care. The idea of her giving someone else that same care, that same warmth, felt like a betrayal, even though he had no right to feel that way.
With a frustrated growl, Bucky tossed the phone onto the nightstand and dropped his head into his hands. For all the chaos of the mission, for all the bullets and explosions and pain, nothing had hit him harder than that damn photo.
And he hated himself for how much it hurt.
----
The mission wrapped up in a flurry of controlled chaos. The intel had been secured, the enhanced assholes neutralized, and while Sam emerged with only a few scratches, Bucky sported a fresh bruise on his jaw and a deep gash on his forearm. Not that he cared.
The flight back was quiet, the hum of the jet's engines filling the cabin as Bucky sat slumped in one of the seats, staring at a blank point in front of him. He tapped his vibranium fingers rhythmically against the armrest, the only outward sign of the storm brewing in his head.
Across the aisle, Sam noticed. He always noticed.
At first, he let it be, figuring Bucky's mood would even out once they hit the ground. But as the hours dragged on and the Winter Sulker stayed silent, Sam couldn't help himself.
"You're quiet," Sam said, leaning back in his seat.
Bucky didn't respond, keeping his gaze fixed on the clouds outside.
Sam tried again, sharper this time. "You gonna sit there brooding the whole way, or are you gonna tell me what's eating you?"
Still, nothing.
Sam let out a sigh, shaking his head. "Alright, fine. But let me guess: You're pissed off because someone scratched your arm? Or wait, maybe you're mad because someone didn't say 'thank you sir' after you saved their life?"
Bucky's fingers stilled on the armrest, tightening his jaw.
That was all the opening Sam needed. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Look, man, I'm not blind. You've been sulking since day one of this mission. You want to talk about it, or do I have to guess some more?"
Bucky snapped his head toward him, narrowing his eyes. "Just drop it, Wilson."
"See, now you've got me curious," Sam said, grinning in a way that only made Bucky's irritation spike. "What's got the great James Buchanan Barnes in such a mood? Did Mama scold you over text?"
That did it. Bucky shot out of his seat, towering over Sam with a scowl. "I said drop it!" he barked, his voice echoing in the small cabin.
Sam didn't flinch, didn't move. He just stared up at Bucky. "So it is about her."
Bucky froze, clenching his fists at his sides.
"Man, you've been walking around like someone kicked your dog," Sam continued, softening his tone. "And I don't know what's going on, but whatever it is, you've got to get it out before it eats you alive."
Bucky exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before sitting back down with a heavy thud. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and muttered, "It's nothing."
"Doesn't look like nothing," Sam pointed out.
"It's fine," Bucky snapped, tired.
Sam watched him for a moment before sighing and leaning back. "Alright. Keep it to yourself if you want. But I'm telling you now, whatever's got you in this mood, you better work it out before it gets worse."
Bucky didn't answer, turning his gaze back to the blank point. The rest of the flight passed in tense silence as the weight of Sam's words pressed down on him more than he wanted to admit.
----
He entered his apartment, dragging his feet like every step took more effort than it should. The mission had taken more out of him than he cared to admit, though it wasn't the physical strain: it was the weight in his chest that seemed to grow heavier every time he returned to this quiet, empty space.
He grabbed his dead phone from the counter and plugged it into the charger, barely glancing at the notifications, and made his way to the bed. The mattress was thin, and the pillows hard, as she'd suggested. "A good way to transition from the floor," she'd said, and damned if she hadn't been right. He'd hated it at first, but now… now it felt like his.
He dropped onto it without bothering to change, closing his eyes almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. He was so tired. So fucking tired.
That night, the nightmares came back.
And the next night.
And the next.
----
Several days later, she was pacing her living room, phone in hand, staring at the screen with her thumb hesitating over the keyboard. Whatever Bucky was into, it must have been over by now. She was sure of it, or at least, she hoped so. The radio silence was starting to worry her.
He wasn't one to check in often -God knew that- but after all these months, she'd learned his rhythms. This wasn't like him, not entirely. Not answering her, staying quiet this long? That wasn't just distance. That was something else.
Finally, she typed a quick, casual message:
Still at the resort, hun?
His reply came faster than she'd expected, but it was curt.
No.
She furrowed her brows. Oh, okay, she thought, frowning at the screen. Something felt off. She typed again.
Everything alright? Did you have more fun than intended?
The dots in the chat appeared, blinked, and then disappeared.
Okay, she thought, waiting. Then they blinked again. And disappeared.
Bucky, are you hurt? she finally wrote, concerned.
This time, the message was read almost instantly, but no reply came.
She sighed, deepening her frown. She knew this pattern all too well. When Bucky didn't answer, it wasn't because he didn't want to, it was because he didn't know how.
"Alright, Buck," she muttered to herself, grabbing her bag. "Time for a visit."
This wasn't the first time she'd done this, dropping everything to pull him out of whatever dark place he'd retreated to. He'd let her in, little by little, trusting her with parts of himself no one else saw. She'd told herself it was about helping him, being there for him in the way he needed.
But it was more than that.
The truth, the one she kept swallowing down, was that her care for him didn't fit neatly into the boundaries of their arrangement. It wasn't maternal, not entirely. It was something more, something deeper. She shoved the thought aside, tightening her grip on her bag. Principles, she reminded herself firmly. Getting involved with him like that would be wrong. He deserved better than this.
But she couldn't stop herself from caring.
She grabbed the key off the hook by her door and headed out. Not answering the door wasn't going to be an option this time.
Not for her.
----
As expected, her knocks were met with silence. She sighed with resignation and slipped the key into the lock.
The door creaked open, and she wrinkled her nose as the stale, charged air of the apartment hit her. It wasn't the worst she'd seen it, but it was far from the neat, semi-organized space they'd worked on together. She swept her gaze over the room, taking in the scattered clothes on the floor and a small pile of takeout containers on the counter.
At least he's been eating, she thought, a small relief in the face of the mess.
The faint sound of water running led her to the source: the bathroom. The shower.
She turned her focus back to the living room, pressing her lips into a line as she slid the window open to let in some fresh air. The cool breeze offered a small reprieve from the heaviness of the space.
Spotting a roll of garbage bags near the counter, she grabbed one and started tidying up. The crumpled clothes went into a hamper, the empty takeout boxes into the bag. She wiped at the counter absently, her mind drifting to the last time he'd gone radio silent like this.
Whatever this is, we'll get through it, she told herself.
She was so focused on her task that she didn't notice when the sound of the shower stopped, or when Bucky emerged from the hallway.
He stood there, quiet and guarded, with a towel slung low around his hips. Droplets of water clung to his skin, rolling down the faint scars on his flesh arm and chest. He stared at her, intense and unreadable, as he watched her move around his apartment as if she belonged there.
"What are you doing here?"
His voice startled her, low and edged with exhaustion. She turned sharply, the garbage bag crinkling in her hands as her eyes met his.
"Oh," she said, recovering quickly. Her gaze flicked briefly over him before landing firmly on his face. "I knocked. You didn't answer." She gestured toward the bag in her hands. "Figured I'd help you out a little."
Bucky pressed his lips into a thin line, narrowing his eyes slightly. "I didn't ask you to."
"No," she replied evenly, setting the bag down and crossing her arms. "But I wasn't about to leave you stewing in here like this."
He worked his jaw as he shifted his weight. "I'm fine."
She raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Yeah? Because this," she gestured to the room, "doesn't exactly scream 'fine,' Buck."
He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his damp hair. "I didn't ask for a lecture."
"Good," she shot back, soft but firm. "Because I'm not giving you one. I'm here because I care about you, and you clearly need someone right now. Whether you want to admit it or not."
For a moment, he just stared at her, and his guarded expression wavered slightly. Then, with a tired sigh, he stepped further into the room, slumping his shoulders. "You shouldn't have come."
"Maybe not," she admitted, softening her gaze. "But I'm here now. So let me help."
He didn't respond, but the fight seemed to drain out of him. He loosened his shoulders and dropped into a chair near the counter, fixing his gaze somewhere on the floor.
She picked up the garbage bag again, resuming her quiet cleanup. This wasn't the first time she'd had to coax him out of his own head, and she suspected it wouldn't be the last. But as she moved around the room, she noticed the faintest crack in his armor, proof that he was letting her in, even if he didn't have the words to say it yet.
"So… what's going on?" she asked as she picked up a wrinkled pair of boxers from one of the chairs.
Bucky flicked his gaze to the offending garment, then back to her face. He sighed heavily, running a hand through his damp hair. He was tired. Tired of pretending, tired of holding back.
"I'm… jealous," he admitted reluctantly.
She paused, tightening her fingers around the fabric before dropping it into the laundry pile. "Jealous?" she echoed, furrowing her brows. "Of who?"
He tensed his jaw, darting his gaze away before he muttered, "I saw it. The Sharpies picture."
She parted her lips slightly in understanding. "Oh," she said softly. "And?"
"And…" He sighed again, the frustration etched into every line of his face. "You never did that with me."
"Coloring?" she asked, tilting her head. "I didn't think you'd be into it, babe."
"Not coloring," he said sharply, running a hand through his damp hair again. Then he softened his voice, but his words carried a heavy weight. "The… the picture."
Oh.
"Well," she started gently, "you're not exactly a fan of social media. And you always grump when I try to take one of us."
"It's not that," he said, shaking his head. He finally met her eyes, raw and vulnerable in a way that made her chest tighten. "It's… I forget sometimes that I'm not your only son."
Oh.
He leaned back in the chair, running his hand over his face as if to hide the emotions flickering across it. "I don't like the idea of sharing you," he admitted, low, almost bitter.
She swallowed hard. "Well, it happens all the time," she said cautiously, trying to keep her tone light. "Brothers usually don't like-"
"He's not my brother," Bucky interrupted firmly, snapping his gaze to hers.
The air in the room shifted. His next words came softer, but they hit like a thunderclap.
"And you… you're not my ma."
The room seemed to still, the only sound the faint hum of the fridge in the background.
She stared at him, her pulse thrumming in her ears. "Bucky…"
"I hate it," he said, dropping his hands to his lap as he looked at her with a mix of anger and desperation. "I hate that I look forward to seeing you more than I've looked forward to anything in years. I hate that I can't stand the thought of anyone else getting what I get. And I hate that I don't know what the hell to do about it."
She felt like her heart was being squeezed as she searched for the right words. "Bucky," she said softly, leaning toward him, "this… this doesn't have to be something you hate."
"I know," he said, raw and strained. "But I can't manage my feelings toward you."
Her breath caught, and her heart twisted painfully as she absorbed the weight of his confession. She leaned back slightly, clenching her hands together in her lap, and sighed.
"Bucky," she started softly, "this bond we've built… it's compromised. It's not what it's supposed to be anymore. It wouldn't be ethical for me to continue mothering you."
He snapped his head up, his eyes wide and glassy with panic. The look on his face made her chest ache. He looked utterly wrecked, parting his lips as if to argue, but no words came at first.
"No," he finally stammered, shaky and uneven. "No, please. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have- I'll stop. I'll never bring it up again, I swear." His breath hitched, and he shook his head as if trying to find the right words. "Just… don't leave me, Mama."
He reached for her hand, firm but also trembling. His vibranium fingers brushed against her wrist, the cool metal a sharp contrast to the warmth of his touch. "I need you," he said, breaking.
Her heart shattered at the sheer desperation in his voice, in the way his thumb nervously rubbed over the back of her hand like he was afraid she might disappear if he let go.
With her free hand, she reached up and cupped his stubbled cheek, softly brushing her thumb over a scar near his jawline. His breath hitched again and fluttered his eyes shut momentarily, as though her touch was calming him.
"This ordeal isn't right, sweetheart," she murmured. "It's not fair to you. Or to me."
"But-" He tightened his hand around hers, leaning his body closer to her as though proximity alone could keep her from slipping away. His other hand came up to grip her wrist, holding on like she was the only thing keeping him anchored. "I'll do better. I'll keep it together. Just… please, don't go. Don't give up on me." His voice cracked on the last words, raw and pleading.
"Bucky," she whispered, tracing soothing circles on his cheek. "It's not about giving up on you. It's about what's right. What's healthy."
"I don't care about right," he choked out, trembling. His fingers dug in just slightly, not enough to hurt but enough to convey his desperation. "I just… I can't lose you too. I can't-" He broke off, shaking his head frantically. "Everyone leaves. Everyone. Steve, my family, everyone I've ever-" His voice fractured completely. "Please. Please don't be another person I lose."
Her hand trembled slightly against his cheek, but she steadied herself with a deep breath.
"Bucky," she began softly, tentative but growing steadier as she continued, "I also have feelings for you. I've been having them for a while now."
His breath hitched, searching her eyes desperately with his wide gaze, but before he could speak, she pushed forward.
"I was never going to act on it," she said firmly. "Because it would mean taking advantage of you."
He furrowed his brows deeply and shook his head, rising with frustration and disbelief. "I'm a grown man. You can't take advantage of me."
"You know that's not true," she countered gently but unyieldingly. "You trust me, Bucky. You let me in, more than anyone else. And that's why we can't do this dynamic anymore."
Her words hit him like a physical blow. He tightened his grip on her hand, hunching his shoulders as his head dipped forward slightly. For a moment, he was silent, breathing heavily as he tried to process her words.
"No," he murmured, shaking his head, breaking as he looked back up at her with unshed tears brightening his eyes. "No… Ma… you can't just-"
"Bucky," she said softly, cutting him off with a tenderness that nearly undid him. She brushed her fingers against his cheek again, tracing soothing circles as her heart ached at the devastation written across his face. "The contract we made, the boundaries we agreed on, it doesn't fit us anymore. I can't keep pretending to be something I'm not."
His breath hitched, tightening the knot in his throat as he struggled to find words. "But you're not-" he started, trembling.
She shook her head gently, stopping him again. "I'm not your mom, Bucky. You said it yourself." Her voice wavered just enough to betray the conflict she felt.
His lips parted, but no sound came as he searched her face, desperate for something -anything- that might keep her close.
"That being said…" she murmured after a beat, still brushing her thumb gently against his cheek. Her eyes softened as they searched his. "We can try… dating. To see how and where this might go, because that's something completely different."
His mind blanked for a moment as her words hit him. Dating?
The word echoed in his head, feeling too big and too small all at once. He blinked, opening his mouth slightly as he struggled to process what she'd just said.
Dating… her?
His heart twisted, caught in the crossfire of disbelief and a yearning he'd buried for so long it felt foreign. She wasn't pulling back. She wasn't brushing this off or deflecting like he'd feared. Instead, she was offering something he hadn't dared to hope for.
Does she mean it?
For so long, he'd kept his feelings locked away, hidden in the shadows of his mind where they couldn't hurt him, or anyone else. But now, here she was, standing in front of him, dragging those feelings into the light with words that felt both terrifying and exhilarating.
"…What?" he finally managed, the word slipping out before he could stop it. Rough, strained, tangled somewhere between confusion and desperation.
Her expression didn't falter, but there was a faint glimmer of vulnerability in her eyes, just enough to make his chest ache. "Dating, Bucky," she repeated. "Not as your mom. Not as anyone else. Just… as us."
Us.
His throat tightened, and he flexed his hands against hers. The knot in his chest twisted painfully, caught between fear and something that felt dangerously close to relief.
Could there even be an us?
"Bucky, you're doing the staring thing," she said softly, tinged with amusement, though her eyes remained serious as if willing him to believe her.
The corner of his mouth twitched, a faint huff of air escaping his nose as he ducked his head slightly. "Sorry," he murmured. "I thought it was just me. You're… sure about me?"
She brushed her thumb gently along his jaw, and a small, reassuring smile tugged at her lips. "I wouldn't be here saying this if I wasn't sure, Buck."
He glanced at her lips, the desire to close the space between them almost overwhelming, but he hesitated. "You're not… scared?"
"Of you?" she asked, tilting her head slightly. "Never." She grew her smile just a bit as she added, "You're not as intimidating as you think, you know."
That earned a faint chuckle, though it was weighed down by the uncertainty still lingering in his chest. "I just… I'm not exactly easy, you know," he murmured, barely above a whisper. "I'm complicated. Messed up."
She shook her head, squeezing his hand gently. "Bucky, all these months I've been coming here to be with you, you've opened up to me in ways I don't think you've done with anyone else. You've trusted me with parts of yourself that I know aren't easy to share."
Her voice softened, brushing her thumb gently over his knuckles. "I know what I'm dealing with. And I can promise you, you're not a mess. Not to me."
His chest tightened at her words. He exhaled slowly, flicking his eyes between hers as if searching for any trace of doubt, but all he saw was warmth. "Then," he began, low but going higher as he steadied himself, "let's- let's go. On a date."
She twitched her lips and glanced down briefly, a playful glint dancing in her eyes. "Well, to go right now, you should probably put some clothes on first, don't you think?"
For a moment, he blinked, caught off guard by the shift, until her words sank in. He darted his gaze down to the towel wrapped loosely around his hips, and the faintest flush crept up his neck.
"I didn't mean right now, Ma-" He caught himself, jaw clenching as he quickly corrected, "Doll." The word came out gruff, almost embarrassed, as he scratched the back of his neck, flicking his eyes away for a second.
She arched her brow at the slip, but she didn't comment, though the faint smile tugging at her lips didn't go unnoticed.
Bucky shifted slightly, rolling his shoulders, and for once, the knowledge that she wanted this too -wanted him- settled something inside him. The usual discomfort of being caught off guard wasn't there. Instead, he felt a spark of confidence, small but growing.
She leaned back in her chair, deciding to give him the space to take the lead. Considering his old-fashioned upbringing, it felt right to let him set the tone, not just to give him control, but to help him feel steady.
"So," she said lightly, playful but encouraging, "pick a place and a time, and we'll see."
He nodded slowly, flexing his fingers against his knee before leaning back slightly in his seat. The movement shifted the towel around his hips just enough to make her painfully aware of the fact that he was still half-naked.
Her eyes traced the line of his shoulders and the slight curve of his jaw as he glanced down in thought. Then her wandering gaze dipped against her better judgment, tracing the line of his chest, the faint curve of muscle at his stomach, and the scars she'd never quite let herself linger on before.
When her eyes came back up to his face, his sharp gaze was already on her, a flicker of amusement sparking in his expression. He twitched his lips into a faint smirk. "Okay," he said, more confident now. "I'll… figure it out."
Her cheeks warmed faintly, and she quickly forced a smile, hoping it would cover her flustering. "Take your time, Bucky. Just not too long."
He tipped his head slightly, deepening his smirk with an easy confidence in his posture that was now unmistakable. "Don't worry. I won't."
----
True to his word, her phone buzzed with a message a couple of days later.
Dinner? Friday at 7. That place you mentioned once, Marcellino's.
She blinked at the screen, parting her lips in surprise. Marcellino's? The Italian place she'd mentioned months ago, almost offhandedly, as a "bucket list" spot she'd love to visit someday? How had he even remembered?
Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard before she typed back.
Seriously? I've been dying to go there. How'd you manage reservations so fast?
On the other side of town, Bucky stared at her message, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he reclined on his couch. It had been a pain finding a reservation on such short notice; apparently, Marcellino's had been booked solid for weeks. But hacking into their system had been child's play: a few keystrokes, some backdoor access, and voilà: table for two, Friday at 7.
She would never know, of course.
He typed back simply.
I've got my ways.
Her reply came quickly, punctuated with a laughing emoji.
Mysterious, huh? Alright, Bucky. I'll see you on Friday.
Bucky exhaled slowly, setting his phone down and leaning back against the couch. A small, quiet sense of satisfaction settled in his chest. It wasn't just the date, it was the effort, the planning, and the decision to put himself out there in a way he hadn't in decades.
Friday couldn't come fast enough.
----
When the cab pulled up to the curb, she spotted him immediately. He was standing just outside the restaurant, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark suit pants. His posture was relaxed, but his gaze was distracted, fixed on something across the street.
She rarely saw him out of his usual Henleys and jeans, but God, he cleaned up well. The suit was perfectly tailored, the dark fabric accentuating his broad shoulders and tapering at his waist. His hair, usually left to its own devices, was slicked back neatly, the sharp lines of his jawline even more striking under the glow of the streetlights.
For a second, she forgot how to breathe.
Bucky, oblivious to her arrival, shifted his weight slightly, flexing his vibranium fingers in his pocket as his flesh hand adjusted his tie. She smiled to herself, taking the opportunity to appreciate him while his guard was down. He was so effortlessly striking, yet she knew he'd put thought into it. He really wanted this to go right.
Finally, she stepped out of the cab, her heels clicking softly against the pavement. "Hey, handsome," she called out.
He snapped his head toward her, melting his distracted expression into something softer. His lips parted slightly, raking his gaze over her from head to toe. "Wow," he murmured, low and rough. "You look…" He trailed off, twitching his mouth like he couldn't find the right word.
"Good?" she offered with a smirk, stepping closer.
"Better than good," he corrected. "Way better."
Her cheeks warmed under his gaze, but she managed to keep her tone casual. "You're not looking so bad yourself, Buck. If I didn't know better, I'd think you do this sort of thing all the time."
He huffed a small laugh, scratching the back of his neck, though the faint pink dusting his ears didn't go unnoticed. "Guess I clean up okay."
"Okay?" she teased, raising an eyebrow. "Try amazing."
He ducked his head slightly, a rare but genuine smile tugging at his lips. "Thanks," he muttered, holding out his arm. "You ready?"
She looped her hand through his, letting him lead her toward the entrance. As they stepped inside, she couldn't help but think this was already shaping up to be the best first date she'd ever had.
The table was in a prime spot near a window overlooking the city lights. Bucky pulled out her chair smoothly, motioning for her to sit confidently, making her heart flutter.
He settled across from her with fluid movements. Despite the nerves buzzing in his chest, they were the good kind of nerves, normal ones. The kind that came with wanting to impress someone without feeling like he had to prove his worth.
He already knew her.
That made everything easier. There was no need to rack his brain for icebreakers, no awkward pauses to fill, no second-guessing every little thing he said. Instead, he could focus entirely on her: the soft curve of her smile, the way her eyes sparkled in the candlelight, the way she twisted her hands together on the table when she thought he wasn't looking.
And, maybe, on seducing her. Not aggressively, but in the easy, intentional way he remembered from a lifetime ago. A brush of his fingers here, a lingering glance there, the kind of thing that built tension without needing words.
If he was rusty, it didn't show.
She, on the other hand, was a wreck.
Her posture was perfect, her smile warm, but underneath the table, her knees bounced faintly, betraying the swirl of emotions coursing through her. This was, and wasn't, her Bucky.
The man sitting across from her wasn't the grumpy, guarded man she'd coaxed out of his shell with patience and care. This Bucky was confident, deliberate. The way he let his piercing gaze linger just a second too long, the faint smirk tugging at his lips when he caught her fidgeting. He wasn't shy about letting her know she had his full attention.
And it was overwhelming. Not in a bad way -it was thrilling- but it left her feeling completely off balance.
She wasn't in charge anymore.
The realization sent a wave of warmth through her body, leaving her acutely aware of every little detail: the way he leaned forward slightly when she spoke, the way his hand rested on the table, close enough to brush hers if she dared to reach out.
God help her, she thought faintly, swallowing hard. If this was Bucky now, she couldn't imagine what Sergeant Barnes of the 1940s must have been like. A menace, no doubt. A walking, talking heartbreaker wrapped in charm and good manners.
She flicked her eyes up to meet his again, and he gave her a slow, knowing smile, one that sent her pulse skittering.
She tightened her grip on the edge of her napkin, trying to will herself to relax. This was Bucky. And yet, sitting across from him like this, with the weight of his attention focused entirely on her, it felt like seeing him for the first time all over again.
When the food arrived, Bucky's face was a masterclass of self-control. His expression remained completely neutral as the waiter arranged the plates with what could only be described as an air of reverence. He nodded politely when the man finished, even offering a quiet "thank you," though inside he was already questioning his life choices.
Once the waiter walked away, he let his eyes shift to her, raising a brow to see if she was thinking the same thing he was.
She twitched her lips, struggling to suppress a laugh as she glanced down at her plate. The elegant presentation might have fooled someone else, but all she could see was what appeared to be a tiny portion of gnocchi, barely enough to feed a toddler.
Bucky's plate wasn't much better: three perfectly arranged sorrentinos, sitting proudly in the center of an artfully swirled sauce. It was the most stylish and inviting minimalist plate he'd ever seen.
He glanced back up at her, twitching his lips as her shoulders shook with silent laughter.
"This…" she started, covering her mouth with her hand to muffle a giggle, "…this is it?"
Bucky huffed, leaning back in his chair as he gave his plate a long, scrutinizing look. "Guess we're supposed to savor it," he said dryly.
She bit her lip, trying and failing to stifle another laugh. "It seems they're encouraging portion control."
He scowled. "Didn't know I'd be eating an appetizer disguised as dinner, goddammit."
"I'm… I'm sorry! I didn't know… they have such great feedback!" she groaned, still chuckling.
"It's my fault," he muttered, spearing one of the sorrentinos with his fork and eyeing it as if it had personally insulted him. "For not checking the place out better."
He couldn't believe he'd hacked their system for this. He'd spent nearly an hour working around firewalls and reservations, all to secure a table at this supposedly renowned spot. It hadn't even occurred to him to scout the menu or check the portion sizes.
This wouldn't have happened to the old me, he thought bitterly, chewing slowly on his second overpriced sorrentino. He clenched his jaw as the familiar ache of inadequacy crept into his chest.
She must have noticed the subtle shift in his expression because, without a word, she reached across the table and rested her hand over his.
"Bucky," she said softly, lacing her voice with gentle authority. "Don't you dare take a ride on the self-deprecation train."
He flicked his eyes up to meet hers with surprise before relaxing his features.
"This," she continued, squeezing his hand lightly, "is just an anecdote. Something to laugh about later, hm? It doesn't mean anything except that we picked a fancy place with tiny portions. That's it."
For a moment, he just stared at her, flexing his fingers slightly under hers. Then, reluctantly, he twitched his lips into a faint smirk. "An anecdote, huh?"
"Yeah," she said, smiling now, brushing her thumb lightly over his knuckles. "Something to tell people one day, how you bravely faced off against a plate of minimalist pasta. Now finish your last bite so we can leave and find something less fancy but more substantial," she stated with amusement.
Bucky poked at the last piece of pasta with his fork, letting out an exaggerated sigh. "Even the breadbasket was sad," he grumbled as he signaled for the waiter to bring the bill.
The waiter approached with a politely confused expression and noted their early departure. "Would you like to see the dessert menu, perhaps?" he offered, gracious but hoping to redeem the situation.
"No, thank you," Bucky replied smoothly, polite but final. He slid his card across the table before she could even think about reaching for her wallet.
"Bucky-" she started, but he cut her off with a quick shake of his head.
"Don't even try," he said, firm but light enough to soften the refusal.
She huffed but didn't argue further, leaning back in her chair as he settled the bill. Once it was taken care of, Bucky stood and offered her his hand, helping her up with ease.
As they made their way toward the exit, he placed a gentle hand on the small of her back, guiding her toward the door he opened for her.
"Such a gentleman," she teased as she stepped outside into the cool night air.
"Only for you, doll," he murmured, twitching his lips into the faintest smirk as he shifted slightly to shield her from a passing breeze.
She stepped beside him, automatically taking the inner spot on the sidewalk as he steered her toward it and slipped her hand easily onto his offered arm.
"So," he said after a moment, "any ideas where we're finding this substantial food? Or am I winging it?"
She laughed softly, squeezing his arm. "Let's see what's nearby. Maybe we'll find a place with a breadbasket that doesn't make you sad."
"That's a low bar," he muttered, earning another laugh that made his chest feel lighter than it had all night.
They ended up at a small, no-frills pizza place tucked into the corner of a quiet street. The neon sign in the window flickered faintly, and the smell of melted cheese and fresh dough hit them the moment they stepped inside.
Sliding onto the high bar stools at a tiny plastic table, they both seemed keenly aware of how out of place they looked. Her dress shimmered faintly under the fluorescent lights, and his perfectly tailored suit drew more than a few curious glances from the other patrons, who were clad in hoodies and jeans.
Bucky sat a little stiffly at first, glancing around. The contrast between this place and the upscale restaurant they'd just left wasn't lost on him, but the casual atmosphere somehow felt more... right. Still, the attention made him uneasy, and he shifted slightly, brushing his vibranium hand on the edge of the table.
But then he looked at her.
She had a slice in her hand, the cheese stretching almost comically as she took a bite. She relaxed her shoulders as she chewed, and then she closed her eyes, and a soft, involuntary moan escaped her lips.
He lifted his brows slightly, locking his gaze on her as a faint flush crept up his neck. He watched her savor the bite, her fingers tapping lightly on the table to emphasize her approval.
In that moment, every awkward glance from the other patrons, every thought about his appearance or how ridiculous they looked, melted away.
All he could think about was her.
"Good?" he asked, unable to stop staring.
She opened her eyes, blinking like she'd momentarily forgotten where she was. "So good," she said, curling her lips into a satisfied smile. "I needed this."
"Glad I could deliver," he teased, taking a bite of his slice after winking at her.
She shook her head with a small laugh, wiping her fingers on a napkin. "You know… I don't get it. How did all your last dates go so bad, Bucky?"
He paused mid-bite, chewing slower as the thought crossed his mind. Maybe because I couldn't stop bringing up my 'mom' in conversations like some kind of creep.
"Because they weren't you."
The answer came easily, effortlessly, but the way her eyes widened told him she hadn't expected it.
Her lips parted slightly, caught off guard by the raw sincerity in his voice. For once, she was the one scrambling for words, the usual balance between them tipping in a way that made her pulse quicken. "Bucky…"
He held her gaze. "I mean it."
She blinked, the teasing light in her eyes dimming as something warmer and softer replaced it. Slowly, she curved her lips into a small, almost shy smile, fiddling her fingers with the edge of her napkin as she tried to gather herself.
"Well," she murmured playfully, "I guess they didn't stand a chance, huh?"
"Not even close," he agreed, a playful smirk tugging at his lips as he leaned back slightly on the barstool.
The suit jacket he wore pulled just enough to highlight the sharp lines of his shoulders, and for a brief moment, she found herself really looking at him. The paper napkin in his hand felt absurdly out of place against the polished, confident image he presented, but somehow, it only made him more endearing.
She reached for another slice of pizza as if that would help her steady herself. She didn't say anything, couldn't, because what could she possibly say to that? Instead, she glanced down quickly, busying herself with her plate and hoping he didn't notice the sudden warmth in her cheeks.
When she flicked her eyes back up, he was still watching her, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. It wasn't teasing or overconfident, just… him.
As they finished their meal, the noise of the restaurant began to fade into the background, leaving just the two of them in their little corner of the world.
Bucky leaned back, draining the last of his drink before standing and adjusting his jacket. He offered her his hand, his vibranium fingers catching the soft light. "Come on," he said, inviting.
"Where?" she asked, slipping her hand into his.
"Just… a walk," he replied, almost tentative. "Unless you're in a hurry to call it a night."
"Not at all." She promptly answered as she rose to meet him.
They wandered down the sidewalk unhurriedly as the night wrapped around them. The streetlights cast long shadows, and their conversation flowed easily, punctuated by the occasional laugh or lingering glance. For a while, neither seemed to notice the passing of time. But then a cool breeze rolled in, and he felt her shiver slightly beside him.
He stopped, pressing his lips into a thin line. "Alright," he murmured reluctantly, "I'm calling you a cab."
She blinked, furrowing her brow. "What? Why?"
"You're cold," he said simply, firm despite the regret in his eyes.
"I'm fine," she argued, but the slight tremor in her voice betrayed her words.
"Doll," he said, shaking his head with a faint smile, "you're shivering. I'm not letting you walk around all night freezing."
She curved her lips into a teasing smirk. "You could just lend me your jacket, you know. Like they do in the movies. Then I'd nuzzle into it because it smells like you, the usual cliché."
He quirked an eyebrow, widening his smirk into something distinctly playful. "You know, if you want to smell me, you can do it whenever you want."
She fell her mouth open slightly, her cheeks burning as her witty comeback disappeared from her brain.
He chuckled, clearly pleased with her reaction, but he softened his expression as he continued. "You're shivering," he repeated. "I'm not about to let you freeze out here."
She folded her arms, attempting to regain her composure. "I'm really fine."
"Trust me," he said, pulling out his phone, "if I gave you my jacket, I'd have to carry you home. You'd drown in it."
She let out a small huff, quirking her lips into a reluctant smile. "Fine," she relented. "But only because I don't want you giving me that sad, guilty look all night."
"Guilty?" he repeated, quirking an eyebrow as he tapped at his screen.
"Yeah," she teased, nudging him lightly. "Like you're already blaming yourself for the weather."
He chuckled, shaking his head as he finished ordering the cab. "Maybe a little," he admitted, slipping his phone back into his pocket.
----
As they waited, he guided her toward the side of the building, resting his hand instinctively on her lower back as he steered her out of the breeze.
"Thanks for tonight, Bucky," she said softly, leaning slightly into him, guided by the warmth of his hand.
Bucky froze for half a second as the closeness of her body sent his heart into overdrive. She tilted her head to look up at him and smiled, not quite shy but not entirely bold either.
For a moment, he struggled. His old-fashioned nature tugged at him, warning him to hold back, to wait. He wasn't sure how these things worked anymore, not when it came to her. Did he ask? Did he wait for her to make the first move?
But then her gaze dipped just for a second, to his lips.
Slowly, carefully, he leaned down, giving her time to pull away.
She didn't, parting her lips ever so slightly, and it was all the reassurance he needed.
Their lips met, and the world seemed to still. The kiss was soft, tentative, but filled with all the emotions he hadn't known how to put into words. He slid his vibranium hand gently up her upper back, steadying her, while his flesh fingers brushed the curve of her jaw.
She leaned into him, resting her hands lightly on the lapels of his suit jacket, and the kiss deepened, just enough to send a pleasant warmth humming through them both before they slowly pulled back.
Her eyes fluttered open, and a small smile played at her lips as she whispered, "Took you long enough."
He huffed out a low laugh, lingering his hand at her back. "Guess I'm a little rusty."
"Not bad for rusty," she teased, curling her fingers slightly against his jacket.
He sighed as he raked a hand through his hair. "You're good for me, you know that?"
Her smile widened as she nudged him gently. "I try."
He bit his lip, glancing down briefly before meeting her gaze again. "Even without trying, these past months, they've been…" He paused, the words catching in his throat as he searched for the right way to say it.
"Good… in a way I haven't felt in a long time. Because of you." He managed to finish the best he could.
Her heart swelled at the honesty in his voice. She leaned closer, brushing her hand lightly against his chest. "You've done a lot of that yourself, you know," she said softly. "You're not giving yourself enough credit."
"Maybe," he said, twitching his lips into a faint, almost shy smile. "But you were there. That made all the difference."
She smiled, brushing her thumb over the lapel of his jacket. "Well, lucky for you, I'm not going anywhere."
"Good," he murmured. "Because I'm not letting you."
They just stood there, the noise of the city fading into the background. The night was cool, but the warmth between them was enough to keep the chill at bay. Finally, he tilted his head. "Ready to go?"
"No," she pouted softly, looping her arm through his with a playful glint in her eyes.
Bucky hesitated for a fraction of a second, dipping his gaze to her lips again before he acted on impulse. He slid his hand around her waist, gently pulling her closer as he leaned in.
This kiss was different. More sure, deliberate. He pressed his lips against hers with a tenderness that made her knees feel weak, and she melted into him without hesitation.
When he finally pulled back, he let his lips brush against her cheek, trailing softly upward until they rested near her temple.
"Don't make it difficult, Ma," he teased lowly against her skin.
She let out a soft, breathy laugh, leaning into him. "Not my fault you're irresistible, sweetheart."
He curved his lips into a small, lopsided smile against her temple before he sighed softly, resting his hand lightly on her lower back. With an easy motion, he guided her toward the waiting cab at the curb.
When they reached it, he opened the door for her without a word. She stepped in, pausing briefly to glance back at him. She still curved her lips, and her warm smile made his chest ache in the best way.
"Goodnight, Bucky," she said softly.
"Goodnight," he murmured. His gaze lingered on her as he flexed his fingers slightly, reluctant to let go of the door. Finally, he shut it gently, stepping back as the cab pulled away.
For a long moment, he stood there with his hands inside his pockets, watching as the car merged into the traffic and disappeared into the city lights. Finally, he turned slowly, heading home, the faintest trace of a smile still tugging at his lips. For once, the night didn't weigh so heavily on him as he carried the lingering warmth of her smile and the memory of her kiss.
୨୧price loves to see his cum on your freshly manicured nails
price is a nasty old man. as much as he tries to hide it from the public, you, his sweet little girlfriend, have seen all of his worst moments.
a particularly bad one is any and all times you get your nails done. he'll drive you to the salon, pay for the entire set, (even though you got a mani pedi instead of just a pedi) help you find inspo, even talk with your nail tech. he's a fan favorite at the hole in the wall shop you go to.
on the drive home, his eyes are glued to your hands; not a cuticle, botched shape or scratch in sight. his favorite part?
the huge, glittery 'j.p.' on each of your ring fingers. other drivers flip him off because he's nearly caused 3 accidents already. not like he notices, or cares. you encourage staring, flipping your hands like crazy.
your insta story is blasted with pics of your nails, but not without mention of your spoiling boyfriend. "new set new me! and ofc my man paid for them<3"
what instagram doesn't see is those same nails gliding down his dick, sting of the acrylic hurting so good.
"fuck, just like that, darling," he groans, air thick with the scent of sex. looking down, he's met with your teary eyes and drooly mouth, trying to shove his whole length down in one go.
"shit-be careful. inch by inch, it'll get in. i know it will." he watches in amusement as you stop choking yourself, smile cracking on your sweet, lipgloss and cum stained lips. you take your mouth off with a pop, going for stroking his hard shaft instead.
deep down, you and him know 'slowing down' is mainly just an act. in times like these, when he could barely walk out a store without his hard on showing, there's no such thing as slowing down. only intention. delicious, careful intention.
within minutes, price's ears are filled with sounds of your gagging, tight throat barely taking him in. every bob is a new sensation, another opportunity for him to cum like he never has before.
"m mouth ish hurtin,'" you whine, slobber connecting your mouth to the base. his eyes roll up in ecstasy. "take a little more f' me, i know you can do it."
his big, meaty hands are pushing your head down, cutting off your airflow with a loud groan. instinctively, your throat clamps down, another wave of pleasure taking the man by surprise.
braced against his thighs, your saliva covered hands are bracing themselves, nails digging into the thick flesh. it's hard not to gag when your nose is grazing his stomach, inhaling his faint musk.
by the way he's groaning, curses flowing out his mouth, he's sure to be unraveling soon. balls raising, teeth clenching, he tugs your heavenly mouth off.
"please, use your hands." tables flipping, he begs you to finish him off. with a wide grin on your face, you stroke up and down his dick, thumbs circling his tip at an agonizing pace.
head thrown back, his hair glistens under the low light of the lamp. your simple motions have turned the mighty captain into a crumbling mess. the shining floor squeaks under his shoes as he braces them against it.
"fuck, i'm cumming-" teeth grinding, he can barely stop himself from shouting. white hot heat floods his stomach, coil snapping in seconds.
thick, salty ropes paint your hands, cum stringing your delicate fingers together. no matter how loud he groans, you don't stop.
he's shooting blanks by time you stop stroking, blue eyes crossed and piercing. mouth hung open, silent moan choking out, he's the perfect picture of pleasure. "oh my god," he finally breathes.
with a wince, he looks back down. his gorgeous girlfriend smiling, baby pink nails covered in so much cum they're barely recognizable. despite his orgasm painting your nails, his intials, glitzing like diamonds are still visible.
silence hangs in the air for a while, excluding the sound of his cum dripping onto the floor. finally, he speaks up. "you're going to be the death of me, sweets."
"that's why you love me, isn't it?" your head rests on his cheek, lovingly looking into his still blown out eyes. "unfortunately, yes." that earns him a slap.
big, ruthless, mute knight, who, your guardian–the queen–orders to watch over you after word of an assassination attempt against the ruler of an allying kingdom spreads, and literally does not make a sound except for when you're fucking him
the guards outside your chambers have been instructed to escort your servants to their quarters so your knight can watch you in the low sounds of sloshing water and your shiny skin. whenever you ask him to join, the most he'll do is step up to the edge of the tub to fiddle with your nipples. blinking at the way your chest jumps with gasps at the rough-fingered touch.
"join me, please."
the knight sniffs. no.
"you're no fun," you pout, grabbing his hand to lace his digits with yours. another silence lingers. he can tell you don't want to leave the warmth of the water. "we should go riding before tomorrow's ceremonies. the horses seem antsy."
a squeeze around your hand is his reply. whatever you want.
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